Breaking Protocol (Firehouse Fourteen Book 3) (3 page)

"Why are you here? And don't tell me it was to return my wallet."

She shrugged and put the glass down. "You intrigued me."

"Intrigued? I intrigued you? So you show up at my house and try—" He waved his hand between them again. For some reason, his discomfort and confusion amused her and she laughed. His eyes narrowed and he stepped away, reaching down to adjust himself. She didn't even think he realized he did it, which only made her smile more.

"And what the hell would you have done if I hadn't stopped?"

She lowered her gaze pointedly, then looked back up and met his eyes. "Well. I'm hoping I would have enjoyed it. A lot."

He groaned, a sound of frustration, then muttered under his breath before exhaling. "You need to leave. Please."

CC let her eyes wander the length of his body once more before sliding off the stool with a smile. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small card, then moved to stand to next to him. She ran the edge of the card down his chest, smiling when his breath hitched. Her other hand reached down and pulled out the waistband of his shorts, just enough so she could slide the card inside. She snapped his waistband back into place, patted it with her hand, then stepped away.

"Give me a call later if you want." She smiled again, then turned and made her way to the front door. She didn't have to look to know that his eyes were following her progress, because the heat of his gaze was burning the center of her back.

She smiled again as she pulled the door closed behind her, wondering how long it would take the serious man to unbend long enough to call her.

If he'd call her at all.

Dave stared at the closed door for long minutes, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Jesus Christ."

What the hell had just happened? His side burned, seared from the touch of her small hand. Hell, his entire body still burned from the feel of her body pressed tight against him. The kiss replayed in his mind, hot, relentless.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to force the image of the woman from his mind, trying to erase the phantom feel of her touch from memory. He reached down and pulled the card from the waistband of his shorts and looked down at it.

Trooper First Class C. Covey

Flight Medic

Below that was the name of the barracks, address, and contact information.

And on the back, written in a tiny neat hand, was a cell phone number.

Dave stared at the business card for a long minute, then tossed it on the coffee table and turned toward the stairs. He had no time for even thinking of something as brief as an affair, no matter how exciting he was sure it would be.

Jesus.

So why was he still thinking about it?

Jesus.

He paused outside Angie's old room, the walls still decorated with the few things she hadn't taken when she moved out a few months ago, but otherwise empty. He knew his sister was doing fine, knew because he saw her damned boyfriend each day at work.

Just one more thing he didn't want to think about right now, the rift between his sister and him.

Because he had been acting like an ass for the past eight months.

He turned into the spare bedroom, seeking an outlet for the frustration running through him. Frustration from work, frustration from his estrangement with Angie.

And now, the sexual frustration from CC's brief visit.

He spent two hours with the weights, working until sweat poured from his body and each muscle ached with fatigue. Yet the frustration stuck with him, unrelenting. Frustration, and something else.

Stress. Worry.

He sat on the bench, his head in his hands, his breath coming in short gasps. His phone beeped, a set of three shrill chirps, and he stood up to retrieve it from the side table.

He looked down at the text message and his gut twisted with guilt and rage.

I know what you did.

In a sudden fit of temper, he threw the phone against the wall, where it hit then shot back, sliding across the hardwood floor. The screen shattered and bits of the plastic case broke off, bouncing up to hit him. A stinging sensation bit his chest and he looked down. A trickle of blood oozed from his left chest, the deep red marring the ink of the tattoo.

My Brother's Keeper.

Dammit.

It had been nearly four months since he had last received one of the cryptic messages, just days after Angie moved out. Four months of silence, of freedom, of thinking that whoever was behind the harassment had moved on.

Until last week, when they started again.

Cryptic, anonymous. Harassing and vaguely threatening. The messages all carried the same underlying meaning, the sender accusing Dave of something.

And he had no idea what they meant.

He had changed his number twice already, thinking that would help. But the messages still came.

I know what you did.

How do live with yourself?

You'll pay.

Your family will pay like mine paid.

It was that last message that had nearly pushed him over the edge, making him want to shelter and protect his kid sister. Making him push too hard and too far, so far she had actually moved out.

But she was safe, he knew. Safe and happy.

Please God, let her be safe.

He had ignored the messages at first, thinking someone was playing jokes. But as their frequency increased, so did his worry. His first thought was that they were from some nameless family member of a patient who may have died on one of their many calls. He had asked one of his cop friends to look into it quietly, but to no avail. The messages were sent anonymously, through a pay-as-you-go phone service from a disposable phone.

Virtually untraceable.

So he had changed his number and looked into every call he had been on, going back more than six months. Hundreds of calls, hundreds of patients.

And nothing stood out, nothing that could possibly prompt someone to send the threatening messages.

And then, four months ago, he received another one. Two words that froze the blood in his veins.

Helmand Province.

More than two years had gone by since he returned from his deployment. More than half of his eighteen months had been spent in that hell hole, and his time there as a medic in the Reserves still woke him up in the middle of some nights.

My Brother's Keeper.

He glanced down at the tattoo, frowning at the dried blood covering it. He had tried. They had all tried. Saved as many as they could, patched them up and got them out as fast as they could, hoping it would be enough.

Knowing that many times it wasn't.

And he lost a piece of himself with each soldier, with each Marine, that didn't make it.

My Brother's Keeper.

He wanted to believe it. But even he knew that sometimes, not even his best was good enough.

And somebody else knew it, too.

A chill swept over him, causing the skin of his arms and chest to raise in bumps as a prickle crept down his spine. He told himself there was nothing he could do, not now, not anymore.

And there was nothing the police could do.

The only thing he could do right now was get a new phone and change his number. Again. Hope that whoever was behind the messages would just give up. Then try to move on with his life, like everyone else that had been over there.

That was still over there.

He stepped over the shattered phone on his way to the shower, thinking he hadn't done a very good job of living in the last eight months.

The sight of clear hazel eyes and the sound of crystal laughter suddenly came to mind, unbidden. Carolann Covey, who hadn't been raised a stripper.

The corner of his mouth tilted in something that might vaguely resemble a smile, if anyone had been there to see it. He didn't want to think about the spitfire he had just met, didn't want to relive her visit this morning.

But now that her image was firmly in his mind, he couldn't get rid of it. And he knew, unequivocally and intuitively, that there was a woman who knew how to grab life by the throat and live it.

**

CC was dying.

The bubble rose past her face, distorted in the sun-dappled green water. It tickled her nose and her eyes as she watched its slow rise to the surface, expanding as it went higher, higher.

Another bubble burst from her lips, following the first one. And again she watched it, counting as the pressure grew in her lungs, burning, until she wanted to do nothing more than open her mouth and breathe in heaving gulps of air.

Which would be kind of a stupid thing to do, considering she was at the bottom of the cove, about fifteen feet from the surface. She dug her fingers deeper into her left calf, pressing harder, digging and digging, until the cramp finally released its death grip on what was left of the muscle.

Lights blinked behind her eyes, the colored starbursts looking like fireworks. She shook her head.

Easy, CC. Easy.

She pushed off with her right foot and shot to the surface, her lungs exploding, her mouth opening and sucking in huge gulps of air. She brushed the hair from her face, treading water as she turned her head, looking for the pier. One more deep breath then she turned to her side and kicked, her strong arms slicing through the water, dragging her useless left leg behind her.

Her hands closed around the rungs of the ladder and she pulled herself up, one hand over the other, bracing her weight with her right leg. She reached the sun-warmed planks of the pier and rolled over onto her back, her legs hanging off the edge as her chest rose and fell with each gasping breath.

One of these days, she was going to end up killing herself.

She pushed herself away from the edge and closed her eyes. The late afternoon sun was warm against her skin, drying the last of the water from her flesh. The cool September breeze brushed over her, its chill a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the sun.

Long minutes went by and she did nothing but relax, enjoying the feel of the sun and breeze against her skin as her breathing slowed. She took one last deep breath then pushed up on her elbows, squinting against the sun dropping to the horizon. She sat up, then bent at the waist and leaned forward, stretching her hands toward her toes.

The muscles in the backs of her legs stretched and pulled, her left calf burning. She wrapped her hand around the calf and worked the tips of her fingers into the knotted scar tissue, rubbing the mangled flesh until the last twinge of cramp finally disappeared.

She leaned back on her elbows again and watched the sun sink lower, peace filling her. Too many people rushed through each day, never slowing down, never stopping to relax and appreciate the world spinning around them.

She had been like that herself, not too long ago. A smile stretched across her face. Nothing like a life-altering experience to change your outlook.

She pushed to her feet and headed back to the house, the wood of the planks beneath her feet rough yet comforting. The slight rumbling in her stomach told her it was dinner time, and she did a mental rundown of potential menu items.

Maybe she'd grill some chicken and make a nice Caesar salad. Pasta to go with it? No, that would be too much food. A nice white wine.

And to finish it off, something chocolate. It didn't matter what, and she certainly had plenty to choose from. So she'd decide later, surprise herself.

She climbed the steps to the screened-in porch, holding the door so it wouldn't slam behind her, then moved through the other door that led to the back of the house. The cottage was small but comfortable, with two bedrooms, a living room and small dining room, nice kitchen. But it was the back porch she loved the most, and it was the first thing she had renovated and decorated when she bought the place a few years ago.

In fact, besides the waterfront view, the back porch was the other reason she had bought the place. It was her personal escape, filled with overstuffed wicker furniture, bright colors, and lots of green plants—plastic, so she couldn't kill them. The porch was where she spent most of her time when she was home, and what made the purchase worth every penny.

She still didn't know how she had lucked out in finding this place. Finding—and buying. It had to have been meant to be. She had decided to make the leap into home ownership but hadn't really decided where she wanted to live. A week later, someone at work had mentioned this place, located down a narrow road in an isolated area on the eastern side of the county, right on the water. And the price had been just right, actually lower than what she had been willing to spend.

It had been one of the best decisions she had ever made.

She pulled the container of chicken breasts from the refrigerator and pulled one out, then set about preparing it for the grill with a mix of seasonings and olive oil. She grabbed the romaine lettuce and chopped it, tossing it into a bowl with fresh parmesan cheese—straight from a bag, thank you—and salad dressing. She added a few croutons then placed the bowl in the refrigerator to chill.

She hesitated before grabbing the bottle of wine, then filled a glass with some of the sweet Riesling before taking the chicken out to the grill.

The chicken was done by the time she finished the wine, and she was sitting at the wicker table on the back porch with another glass, eating dinner fifteen minutes later.

The sun was nearly below the horizon now, the air just a bit chillier with the hint of fall. She'd take a shower, she decided, then dress in her most comfortable worn-out sweats and indulge in some chocolate brownie ice cream before bed.

Not the most exciting night to some, she was sure, but sometimes staying in was just what she needed.

She cut through her bedroom, stopping to grab her sweats and t-shirt, then headed to the bathroom. She had just reached into the shower, ready to turn on the water, when she heard the faint ring of her cell phone. Should she answer it and risk something interrupting her plans for the rest of the night? Yeah, she probably should. The chance of it being something important, someone important, was slim, but she didn't want to take the chance. Just in case.

Now all she had to do was find it.

She stopped in the middle of the bedroom, her head tilted to the side, listening. The ring sounded like it was coming from in here but the noise was muffled.

Where had she thrown it this time? If she didn't find it soon, she wouldn't have to worry about it because whoever was would just hang up.

Nope, there it was, hidden under a pile of clothes on the lone stuffed chair in the corner. She had no idea how it got there, couldn't even remember tossing it there. She threw the clothes to the side and grabbed it, answering it without looking down at the screen. "'Lo?"