Night Shield (7 page)

“They got a bigger slice of pie from the new place.”

“Blackhawk’s is reliable. Once I spend a few nights under, I’ll start recognizing faces there. I’ll pin him, Dad.”

“I believe it.” He bent down to kiss her cheek. “And I’ll handle the mayor.”

“I believe it.” She slid behind the wheel. “Question.”

“Ask it.”

“You’ve known Jonah Blackhawk for, what, like fifteen years?”

“Seventeen.”

“How come you never had him over to the house? You know, for dinner or football afternoons or one of your world-famous cookouts?”

“He wouldn’t come. Always acknowledged the invitation, thanked me and said he was busy.”

“Seventeen years.” Idly she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “That’s a lot of busy. Well, some people don’t like socializing with cops.”

“Some people,” Boyd told her, “draw lines and never believe they have the right to cross them. He’d meet me at the station house.” The memory made Boyd grin. “He didn’t like it, but he’d do it. He’d meet me for coffee or a beer, at the gym. But he’d never come to my home. He’d consider that crossing the line. I’ve never convinced him otherwise.”

“Funny, he strikes me as being a man who considers himself good enough for anything, or anyone.”

“There are a lot of twists and pockets in Jonah. And very little about him that’s simple.”

She called ahead and had to admit she was surprised when Jonah answered the phone in his office.

“It’s Fletcher. I didn’t think you were much on daylight hours.”

“I’m not. Some days are exceptions. What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You can come downstairs and let me in. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He waited a beat. “So, what are you wearing?”

She hated herself for laughing and hoped she managed to smother most of it. “My badge,” she told him and flicked the phone off.

Jonah hung up, sat back and entertained himself by imagining Allison Fletcher wearing her badge, and nothing else. The image came through, entirely too clear, entirely too appealing, and had him shoving back from the desk.

He had no business imagining Boyd’s daughter naked. No business, he reminded himself, fantasizing about Boyd’s daughter in any way whatsoever. Or wondering how her mouth would taste. Or what scent he’d find on the flesh just under the line of that very stubborn jaw.

God, he wanted to sink his teeth there, right there. Just once.

Forbidden fruit, he told himself and paced since there was no one to see. She was forbidden fruit and therefore all the more alluring. She wasn’t even his type. Maybe he liked leggy blondes. Maybe he liked leggy blondes with brains and a strong backbone. But he preferred friendlier women.

Friendlier, unarmed women, he thought, amusing himself.

He hadn’t been able to get her out of his head, and the clearest, most compelling picture had been the yielding and temporary, he was certain, fragility of her when she’d fallen asleep in his car.

Well, he’d always been a sucker for the needy, he reminded himself as he pulled up the blinds on his office window. Which should solve his problem over Allison. Despite that short interlude of vulnerability early that morning, needy was one thing the gorgeous detective wasn’t.

She had a use for him, again temporary. And when the job was done, they’d both go back to their separate corners in their separate worlds. And that would be the end of that.

He saw her pull up in front of the club. At least she’d had the sense to drive, he noted, and wasn’t hiking all over Denver today.

He took his time going down to let her in.

“Good morning, Detective.” He looked around her, studied the flashy lines of the classic red-and-white Stingray. “Nice car. Is that the new police issue? Oh wait, what was I thinking? Your daddy’s loaded.”

“If you think you can razz me over a car, you’re going to be disappointed. Nobody razzes like a precinct full of cops.”

“I’ll practice. Nice threads,” he commented and rubbed the lapel of her subtly patterned brown jacket between his thumb and forefinger. “Very nice.”

“So we both like Italian designers. We can compare wardrobes later.”

Because he knew it would irritate her, because he enjoyed the way the gold highlighted her eyes
when he irritated her, he shifted, blocking her before she could step inside. “Let me see the badge.”

“Come off it, Blackhawk.”

“No. Let’s see it.”

Eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses, she pulled her badge out of her pocket, pushed it close to his face. “See it?”

“Yes. Badge number 31628. I’ll buy myself a lottery ticket and play your numbers.”

“Here’s something else you might want to look at.” She took out the warrant, held it up.

“Fast work.” He’d expected no less. “Come on up. I’ve been reviewing the tapes. You look rested,” he said as they walked to his elevator.

“I am.”

“Any progress?”

“The investigation is ongoing.”

“Hmm, policy line.” He gestured her into the elevator. “We seem to be spending a lot of time in these. Close quarters.”

“You could do your heart a favor and take the stairs.”

“My heart’s never caused me any problems. How about yours?”

“Whole and healthy, thanks.” She walked out when the doors opened. “Wow, you actually let the sunlight in here. I’m shocked. Let’s have the tapes. I’ll give a receipt.”

She wasn’t wearing perfume today, he noted. Just soap and skin. Odd how erotic that simplicity could be. “In a hurry?”

“Clock’s ticking.”

He strolled into an adjoining room. After a small internal battle, Ally walked over to the doorway. It was a small bedroom. Small, she noted, because it was two-thirds bed. A black pool of bed, unframed and on a raised platform.

Curious, she looked up and was mildly disappointed there wasn’t a mirror on the ceiling.

“It would be too obvious,” Jonah told her when her gaze skimmed back to his.

“The bed’s already a statement. An obvious one.”

“But not vain.”

“Hmm.” To amuse herself she poked around the room. On the walls were a number of framed black-and-white photographs. Arty, interesting and all stark or shadowy night scenes.

She recognized a couple of the artists, pursed her lips. So the man had a good eye for art, and decent taste, she admitted.

“I’ve got this print.” She tapped a finger against a study of an ancient man in a ragged straw hat sleeping on a cracked concrete stoop, a paper bag still clutched in his hand. “Shade Colby. I like his work.”

“So do I. And his wife’s. Bryan Mitchell. That’s one of hers beside it. The old couple holding hands on the bench at the bus stop.”

“Quite a contrast, despair and hope.”

“Life’s full of both.”

“Apparently.”

She wandered. There was a closet, closed, an exit door, securely locked, and what she assumed was a bath or washroom just beyond. She thought of the sex vibes Lydia Carson had referred to. Oh, yeah, this room had plenty of them. It all but smoked with them.

“So, what’s through there?” She jerked a thumb at another door. Instead of answering he gestured, inviting her to see for herself.

She opened the door, let out a long sigh of pleasure. “Now we’re talking.” The fully equipped gym was a great deal more appealing to her than a lake-size bed.

He watched as she trailed her fingers over machines, picked up free weights, doing a few absent curls as she roamed. Very telling, he thought, that she’d given the bed a sneer and was all but dewy-eyed over his Nautilus.

“You got a sauna?” Envy curled inside her as she pressed her nose to a little window in a wooden door and peered into the room beyond.

“Want to try it out?”

She turned her head enough to slide her gaze in his direction. And the sneer was back. “This is pretty elaborate when you could be at a full-service health club in two minutes.”

“Health clubs have members—that’s the first strike. They also have regular hours. Strike two. And I don’t like using someone else’s equipment.”

“Strike three. You’re a very particular man, Blackhawk.”

“That’s right.” He took a bottle of water out of a clear-fronted bar fridge. “Want one?”

“No.” She replaced the free weight, moved back to the doorway. “Well, thanks for the tour. Now, the tapes, Blackhawk.”

“Yeah, clock’s ticking.” He unscrewed the top of the bottle, took a casual sip. “You know what I like about night work, Detective Fletcher?”

She looked deliberately toward the bed, then back at him. “Oh, I think I can figure it out.”

“Well, there’s that, but what I really like about night work is that it’s always whatever time you want it to be. My favorite’s the three o’clock hour. For most people, that’s the hard time. If they don’t sleep through it, that’s the time the mind wakes up and starts worrying about what they did or didn’t do that day, or what they’ll do or not do the next. And the next, and right up until life’s over.”

“And you don’t worry about yesterday or tomorrow.”

“You miss a lot of the now doing that. There’s only so much now to go around.”

“I don’t have a lot of the now to stand around philosophizing with you.”

“Take a minute.” He crossed to her, leaning on one jamb as she leaned on the other. “A lot of people who come into my place are night people—or those who want to remember when they were. Most have jobs now, the kind of jobs that pay well and make them responsible citizens.”

She took the water bottle from his hand, drank. “Your job pays well.”

He grinned. That quick jab was just one of the things that attracted him to her. “You saying I’m not a responsible citizen? My lawyers and accountants would disagree. However, my point is that people come in here to forget about their responsibilities for a while. To forget the clock’s ticking and they have to punch in at 9:00 a.m. I give them a place without clocks—at least till last call.”

“And this means?” She passed the bottle back to him.

“Forget about the facts a minute. Look at the shadows. You’re hunting night people.”

And he was one of them, she thought. Very much one of the night people, with his black mane of hair and cool cat’s eyes. “I’m not arguing with that.”

“But are you thinking like them? They’ve picked their prey, and when they move, they move fast. It would be less risky, give them more time to study the lay of the land, if they waited to make the hit during the day. Stake out the mark, learn their patterns—when do they leave for the office, when do they get back? These guys could probably nail it down in a couple of days.”

He lifted the bottle, drank. “That would be more efficient. Why don’t they play it that way?”

“Because they’re arrogant.”

“Yeah, but that’s only the top layer. Go down.”

“They like the kick, the rush.”

“Exactly. They’re hungry, and they like the thrill of working in the dark.”

It irked almost as much as it intrigued her that his thought process so closely followed her own. “You think that hasn’t occurred to me before?”

“I figure it has, but I wonder if you’ve factored in that people who live at night are always more dangerous than people who live during the day.”

“Does that include you?”

“Damn right.”

“So warned.” She started to turn away, then stopped, stared down at the hand he’d shot out to grip her arm. “What’s your problem, Blackhawk?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet. Why didn’t you send a uniform over here to pick up the tapes?”

“Because it’s my case.”

“No.”

“No, it’s not my case?”

“No, that’s not the reason. I’m crowding you.” He edged forward to prove it. “Why haven’t you decked me?”

“I don’t make a habit of punching out civilians.” She angled her chin when he nudged her back against the doorjamb. “But I can make an exception.”

“Your pulse is jumping.”

“It tends to when I’m irritated.” Aroused, she’d nearly said aroused because that was the word that came into her head. That was the sensation sliding through her body. And enough was enough.

She shifted, a smooth move that should have planted her elbow in his gut and moved him aside. But he countered, just as smoothly, and changed his grip so that his fingers wrapped tight around her wrist. Instinctively she pivoted, started to hook her foot behind his to take him down.

He adjusted his weight, used it to plaster her back against the door. She told herself it was annoyance that quickened her breathing, and not the way the lines of his body pressed against the lines of hers.

She bunched the hand at her side into a fist, calculated the wisdom of using it for one short-armed punch to the face and decided sarcasm was a more potent weapon against him.

“Next time, ask me if I want to dance. I’m not in the mood to—” She broke off when she saw something sharp come into his eyes, something reckless that had her already-rapid pulse tripping to a faster rate.

She forgot self-defense, forgot the fist she still held ready. “Damn it, Blackhawk, back off. What do you want from me?”

“The hell with it.” He forgot the rules, forgot the consequences of breaking them. All he could see was her. “The hell with it. Let’s find out.”

He let the bottle drop, and the water that remained in it spilled unnoticed on the bedroom rug. He wanted his hands on her, both his hands, and used them to hold her arms over her head as his mouth came down on hers.

He felt her body jerk against his. Protest or invitation, he didn’t care. One way or the other, he was bound to be damned for this single outrageous act. So he might as well make the most of it.

He used his teeth on her, the way he’d already imagined, scraping them along the long line of her lower lip. Freeing the warmth, the softness of it, to him, then absorbing it. She made some sound, something that seemed to claw up from her throat and was every bit as primitive as the need that raged through him.

The scent of her—cool soap and skin—the flavor of her, such a contrast of ripeness and heat, overwhelmed him, stirred every hunger he’d ever known.

When his hands took her, fingers sliding down, gripping her hips, he was ready to feed those hungers, to take what he craved without a second thought.