Cavanaugh or Death (17 page)

Davis laughed shortly. He'd never had that problem himself.

“There's a solution to that,” he told her. “You didn't have to come in.”

“Sure, I did,” she contradicted. “I had to come get you.”

They were on opposite sides of that argument, as well, Davis thought. Nothing good could come of this.

“Why is it so important to you that I attend this thing?” he asked. “I've never been to a Cavanaugh gathering before.”

And there had been opportunities. On occasion, he'd seen postings on bulletin boards throughout the precinct, inviting anyone who wanted to join in to attend. It seemed to him that the Cavanaughs were always finding a reason to have a party.

Maybe the Cavanaugh women drove them to drink, he speculated. Moira was having that kind of effect on him.

“It just is,” she told him quietly, answering his question as best she could. She didn't want to get into an argument about it, not when she was so close to getting him out the door. So she changed the subject. “Where's your jacket?” she asked.

That stopped him in his tracks. “I have to wear a jacket?”

She heard the protest building in his voice and quickly offered a compromise. “Just to the church. This is kind of a formal thing.”

Davis mumbled under his breath as he doubled back to his bedroom. He got a matching jacket out of his closet. Yanking it out, the hanger fell to the floor. He left it there.

“I'm not wearing a tie,” he informed her. There was absolutely no room for argument in his voice.

“I'm not asking you to,” Moira replied. Stepping back to take a look at the total package, she pronounced, “You look lovely.” Picking up the clutch purse she'd brought with her, she said, “Let's go.”

Davis followed her out, pausing only to lock his door. “Men are not ‘lovely,'” he told her.

Waiting for him to pocket his key, she turned toward guest parking and led the way to her car. “Right. Sorry. Virile...handsome.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “How's that?”

Davis made no answer, not trusting himself to say anything right about now. He just grunted.

Her hips swayed ever so slightly—and provocatively—beneath the light blue sleeveless sheath she was wearing as she walked to the parking space where she had left her car.

Against his will, Davis caught himself thinking that the term she had first used for him—“lovely”—best described her.

It took him more than a minute to dismiss the thought from his brain.

Chapter 16

“W
ait a minute,” Davis said.

Against all odds, Moira had happily managed to find a parking spot that wasn't too far from the church where the newest member of the Cavanaugh was to be christened.

The moment she had put the parking brake on, Davis had suddenly spoken up like a man who had just had a revelation.

Moira turned off the engine and faced her less-than-willing passenger.

“Making a last-ditch attempt to get out of attending this?” she asked. “I give you points for never giving up, but I'd also advise you to save your breath.”

“I can't go,” Davis insisted.

“Okay, I'll bite,” she said patiently. This was going to be good. “Why not?”

“Because aren't guests supposed to bring gifts? I don't have a gift,” he pointed out. “That means I can't—and shouldn't—go.”

The amused expression on Moira's face told him that it was a given that she hadn't expected him to remember to bring one.

“Not to worry,” she told him. “I've got you covered. I brought a gift.”

“
You
did,” he noted. “But I didn't.”

“It's from both of us,” she went on as if he hadn't said anything.

Was that an intentional reference to some kind of a romantic link between them? Davis wondered suddenly. Just where had that come from? He'd never given her any indication that there was something between them. Okay, so he'd kissed her, but that didn't mean he was plighting his troth to her.

“There is no ‘us,'” he told her firmly.

The look on her face was nothing if not patient, like a teacher trying to get a lesson across to an exceptionally slow child. “We're partners, there's an ‘us,'” Moira assured him.

“We've had this discussion before. We're not partners,” he insisted.

Weary, Moira closed her eyes and sighed. “And I thought women were supposed to be high maintenance.” She tried to approach the definition of “partner” from a different, neutral direction. “We're two people riding around in a car together who, for the time being, are occupying the same circle of space. Okay?”

No, it wasn't okay. He didn't want to be here. Didn't want to be pulled, however temporarily, into a domestic scene that even remotely approximated family harmony. It would only remind him of what he'd once had—and what he'd lost. He wanted to forget about everything that had hurt, not relive it.

He was about to tell her that this was a mistake, that she could go into the church alone and he would just call a cab to take him back to his apartment. But the next second his quickly conceived plan withered and died before it had a real chance to unfold.

Someone was breaking into the moment, knocking on the window on his side of the vehicle.

As he turned to see who it was, Moira pressed one of the buttons on the driver's armrest and the window on his side rolled down, leaving no barriers between Davis and whoever was trying to get his attention.

The man outside the car had liquid green eyes, dark hair and an infectious grin.

“Hi, I'm Malloy,” he said to Davis. “And, unfortunately, I'm related to the woman sitting next to you. You two better get a move on. The ceremony's about to start,” Malloy informed them in a slightly more serious voice. “You don't want to be late.”

“Davis, this is my annoying brother, Malloy. Malloy, this is my work associate,” she said, coming up with a last-minute substitute for the word “partner.”

“Davis Gilroy.”

Malloy extended his hand into the car, shaking Davis's hand. “You have my condolences, Davis,” Moira's brother told him. “See you inside,” he added just before he withdrew.

“He seems nice,” Davis murmured for lack of anything better to say.

“Emphasis on ‘seems,'” Moira responded. And then she grinned. “Oh, he's okay I guess—as far as annoying people go.”

“Runs in the family, does it?” he asked, finally getting out of the car.

“Get a move on,” Moira instructed. “Before we really
are
late.” She looked at Davis expectantly, her intimation being that she wasn't about to take a step toward the church until she was certain he was coming with her, as well.

Davis banked another sigh and fell into place beside her.

He was here, he might as well attend, he told himself, picking up his pace. Ultimately, going along with this would probably keep things running a little smoother while they were still working the case. He had no doubts that the petite blonde with the king-size family could make life a living hell for him if she set her mind to it.

The church they were heading toward was named after St. Elizabeth Anne Seton, California's first canonized saint. Structurally, it was a fairly large church as far as churches went—and the first thing Davis noticed was that it was totally packed. Every pew was filled and there were people of varying ages lining the inside perimeter of the church on both sides. There really was standing room only.

“Told you we should have gotten here earlier,” Moira whispered to him, guessing at what the man beside her was thinking.

Davis appeared unfazed and he shrugged his shoulders. “I don't mind standing.”

Moira pressed her lips together, as if to bite back a few choice words. “Good.”

Davis didn't mind standing, but he suddenly realized that she'd said she was wearing new shoes. By the end of the ceremony he figured her feet were going to be aching. Davis caught himself feeling guilty about that and the fact that he did surprised him.

He was also surprised that he had noticed earlier that Moira and her older brother seemed to share the same grin.

This wasn't right.

He was noticing and taking in far too many details about the woman who was making his life miserable.

After that, he just stopped thinking and concentrated on listening to what the priest at the front of the altar was saying. Thinking was definitely not something he recommended for himself at this particular moment.

* * *

He had—briefly—hoped that attending the actual church ceremony might somehow appease Moira, but this was a baseless fantasy on his part. In the short time they had been together, he had learned that Moira always meant what she said. And in this particular case, that meant that he was stuck attending the postchristening party.

He consoled himself with the thought that it would undoubtedly be crowded there, as well, and because it would be, no one would pay attention to him or require him to engage in conversation. He was, after all, the outsider.

But that was where Davis quickly found out he was wrong.

To begin with, Andrew Cavanaugh's two-story house was not what he had expected. Its exterior was neither showy nor impressive. But it wasn't ordinary, either, because it exuded a kind of infectious warmth even before Davis had a chance to enter the house.

The very walls seemed welcoming and the impression only grew more so once the front door was opened and he walked inside.

Davis experienced the uncanny notion that he was being hugged—which was, he told himself, a completely impossible phenomenon—and yet he couldn't shake it.

The second Davis stepped inside the foyer, someone was standing there to greet him—presumably “them,” he thought since he was fairly certain no one inside the house knew who he was.

But the tall, distinguished-looking, silver-haired man focused his attention on him rather than on Moira.

“Thank you for coming.” The deep baritone voice rumbled sincerely as the man took his hand and shook it heartily. “I'm Andrew Cavanaugh,” the man identified himself. “And we haven't formally met yet.”

Davis almost said that they hadn't met informally, either, but a gut instinct prevented him from saying so out loud. He had the impression that the official family patriarch made a point of knowing everyone who was part of the Aurora police force, despite the fact that he hadn't been the chief of police there for years.

“Police chiefs don't retire or die,” Moira whispered into Davis's ear. “They just continue into forever.”

The completely unexpected close contact sent a hot, sizzling arrow zipping down his spine, although Davis did his best not to react in any manner.

Instead he focused exclusively on Andrew, returning the man's handshake and telling him, “It's an honor to meet you, sir.”

Andrew laughed. “I don't know about ‘honor,' son,” he replied, “but it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm very glad that Moira managed to talk you into coming. There are only two rules here,” Andrew went on to tell his first-time guest. “Eat and enjoy yourself. Moira,” he said, turning to his grandniece, “I leave him in your very capable hands. Oh, and as far as the food goes,” he said, addressing Davis one last time before he went on to his other guests, “if you don't see what you like—ask.” He smiled encouragingly.

“You would not believe the size of the man's auxiliary refrigerator,” Moira told him, guiding Davis toward the rear of the house and the half-acre backyard just beyond the French doors. “The first time I saw it, the stainless-steel door threw me. I thought it was the entrance to another room. But that's where he keeps all the extra food he uses for the gatherings, large or small.”

Davis sincerely doubted she was telling him the truth.

And yet, there were all these banquet-style folding tables spread out on either side of the backyard. Every square inch had dishes piled high with all sorts of different foods, prepared in a variety of ways.

“How can the man afford all this food?” Davis asked in disbelief as he took in the overwhelming sight. There were people everywhere, talking, laughing, eating and, above all, having a good time.

It looked like something out of a feel-good movie, Davis thought. Scenes like this didn't exist, and yet, here he was, in the middle of one.

“Everyone contributes,” Moira said matter-of-factly, answering his question. “Sometimes, Uncle Andrew even lets someone else bring an appetizer or a dessert if they really want to.” At least, that was what she had heard. “But for the most part, he prepared everything that you see.”

“Uncle Andrew loves to cook,” said a very attractive blonde who came up behind Davis just then. “It's his passion. Hi, I'm Kelly,” she said. “Moira's older sister. You must be Davis.”

Shaking her hand, Davis slanted a glance at his not-temporary-enough partner. It was easy to see that he was wondering just how his name seemed to be getting around this way.

Moira spread her hands wide in a gesture of pure innocence. “I never said a word to anyone,” she protested.

“She didn't,” Kelly told him, backing up her younger sister. “Word seems to always spread fast at the precinct. But then, you probably already know all about that.”

“No, he doesn't,” Moira told her sister before Davis could respond to her assumption. “He doesn't spend much time talking—on or off the job.”

Kelly gave him a very knowing look. “That's going to have to change if you want to have a prayer of surviving around my sister,” she advised. And then she winked as she added, “Trust me on that.” She paused to look around for a moment. “Well, I'd better go find my other half before he stuffs himself to the point of exploding. Kane,” she confided before disengaging, “can't resist Uncle Andrew's cooking.”

“Nobody can,” Moira added for Davis's benefit. “The man's cooking is just out of this world—certainly the best I've ever tasted. This is
not
the place to start a diet,” she assured him.

This was also not the place, Davis quickly found out, to attempt to be an island and isolate himself in any manner, shape or form. There was no place to go for solitude. He quickly began to feel that there was a sign on his back that said Talk to Me because so many people—people he didn't know by sight when he arrived—did just that.

They engaged him in conversations, sometimes one-on-one, sometimes en masse, asking his opinions on various topics and sharing stories of events that occurred both on and off the job.

No matter where he wandered, throughout the various different rooms in the house or around the backyard, there was always someone who would talk to him. A good deal of the time when they did, they acted as if he were an old friend they had just lost temporarily contact with—and were now making up for lost time.

By the time the cake—an incredibly tall, multitiered French-vanilla-and-strawberry-cream-filled confection with pale pink cream-cheese frosting—was cut, a completely stunned and overwhelmed Davis looked at Moira in abject wonder. He had just been overrun and conquered by a small, independent country—and everyone was so nice, he couldn't find fault with them.

“Something wrong?” she asked as they lined up for a piece of cake. Silently, she braced herself, really surprised that he hadn't been won over by her gregarious family members.

He didn't answer her question with a yes or no. Instead he asked, “Are they always like this?”

“No,” she admitted, doing her best to keep a straight face. “This is probably one of the more subdued parties.”

Ordinarily, he could tell if someone was pulling his leg. But then, up until this morning, he hadn't believed that members of a family could behave in such a personal, warm manner when dealing with a stranger. And yet, he'd witnessed nothing else all day.

Just to be on the safe side, Davis attempted to pin her down. “You're kidding.”

For some reason the grin that flashed across her lips wasn't annoying the way he would have expected it to be. The same was true of the way her eyes seemed to laugh at him.

“Yes, I am,” Moira admitted. “And, yes, they are
always
like this. Sometimes even more so. This is family at its finest,” she told him proudly. She loved each and every member of this family. “Don't get me wrong,” she quickly added, knowing how Davis's mind worked. “They're not syrupy and you won't go into a sugar coma around any of them. They're a tough bunch when they need to be, but they're loyal and loving, and I am so thrilled we found them.”