Night Shift (11 page)

Since no response she could think of seemed safe, she gave none. Instead, she retrieved his coat and her own from the closet. She set his aside and waited while he slipped into his shoulder holster. Watching him give his weapon a quick, routine check brought back memories she wanted to avoid, so she looked away. Pulling open the door, she stepped into the sunlight and left him to follow when he was ready.

He made no comment when he joined her.

“Do you mind if I tune the station in?” she asked as they settled into his car.

“It’s on memory. Number three.”

Pleased, she turned it on. The morning team was chattering away, punctuating their jokes with sound effects. They plugged an upcoming concert, promised to give another pair of tickets away during the next hour, then invited the listening audience to the mall to see Cilla O’Roarke live and in person.

“She’ll be giving away albums, T-shirts and concert tickets,” Frantic Fred announced.

“Come on, Fred,” his partner broke in. “You know those guys out there don’t care about a couple of T-shirts. They want to”—he made loud, panting noises—“see Cilla.” There was a chorus of wolf whistles, growls and groans.

“Cute,” Boyd muttered, but Cilla only chuckled.

“They’re supposed to be obnoxious,” she pointed out. “People like absurdity in the morning when they’re dragging themselves out of bed or fighting traffic. Last quarter’s Arbitron ratings showed them taking over twenty-four percent of the target audience.”

“I guess you get a kick out of hearing some guy pant over you.”

“Hey, I live for it.” Too amused to be offended, she settled back. He certainly had a nice car for a cop. Some sporty foreign job that still smelled new. She was never any good with makes and models. “Come on, Slick, it’s part of the act.”

He caught himself before he could speak again. He was making a fool of himself. His own investigation had verified that both morning men were married, with tidy homes in the suburbs. Frantic Fred and his wife were expecting their first child. Both men had been with KHIP for nearly three years,
and he’d found no cross-reference between their pasts and Cilla’s.

Relaxing as the music began, Cilla gazed out the window. The day promised to be warm and sunny. Perhaps this would be the first hint of spring. And her first spring in Colorado. She had a weakness for the season, for watching the leaves bud and grow, the flowers bloom.

Yet in spring she would always think of Georgia. The magnolias, the camellias, the wisterias. All those heady scents.

She remembered a spring when she’d been five or six. Planting peonies with her father on a warm Saturday morning while the radio counted down the Top 40 hits of the week. Hearing the birds without really listening, feeling the damp earth under her hands. He’d told her they would bloom spring after spring and that she would be able to see them from her window.

She wondered if they were still there—if whoever lived in that house cared for them.

“Cilla?”

She snapped back. “What?”

“Are you all right?”

“Sure, I’m fine.” She focused on her surroundings. There were big trees that would shade in the summer, trimmed hedges for privacy. A long, gently sloping hill led to a graceful three-story house fashioned from stone and wood. Dozens of tall, slender windows winked in the sunlight. “Where are we?”

“My house. I’ve got to change, remember?”

“Your house?” she repeated.

“Right. Everyone has to live somewhere.”

True enough, she thought as she pushed the door open. But none of the cops she had ever known had lived so well. A long look around showed her that the neighborhood was old, established and wealthy. A country-club neighborhood.

Disconcerted, she followed Boyd up a stone path to an arched door outlined in etched glass.

Inside, the foyer was wide, the floors a gleaming cherry, the ceilings vaulted. On the walls were paintings by prominent twentieth-century artists. A sweep of stairway curved up to the second floor.

“Well,” she said. “And I thought you were an honest cop.”

“I am.” He slipped the coat from her shoulders to toss it over the railing.

She had no doubts as to his honesty, but the house and all it represented made her nervous. “And I suppose you inherited all this from a rich uncle.”

“Grandmother.” Taking her arm, he led her through a towering arch. The living room was dominated by a stone fireplace topped with a heavy carved mantel. But the theme of the room was light, with a trio of windows set in each outside wall.

There was a scattering of antiques offset by modern sculpture. She could see what she thought was a dining room through another arch.

“That must have been some grandmother.”

“She was something. She ran Fletcher Industries until she hit seventy.”

“And what is Fletcher Industries?”

He shrugged. “Family business. Real estate, cattle, mining.”

“Mining.” She blew out a breath. “Like gold?”

“Among other things.”

She linked her fingers together to keep from biting her nails. “So why aren’t you counting your gold instead of being a cop?”

“I like being a cop.” He took her restless hand in his. “Something wrong?”

“No. You’d better change. I have to be there early to prep.”

“I won’t be long.”

She waited until he had gone before she sank onto one of the twin sofas. Fletcher Industries, she thought. It sounded important. Even prominent. After digging in her bag for a cigarette, she studied the room again.

Elegant, tasteful, easily rich. And way out of her league.

It had been difficult enough when she’d believed they were on fairly equal terms. She didn’t like to admit it, but the thought had been there, in the back of her mind, that maybe, just maybe, there could be a relationship between them. No, a friendship. She could never be seriously involved with someone in law enforcement.

But he wasn’t just a cop now. He was a rich cop. His name was probably listed on some social register. People who lived in houses like this usually had roman numerals after their names.

Boyd Fletcher III.

She was just Priscilla Alice O’Roarke, formerly from a backwater town in Georgia that wasn’t even a smudge on the map. True, she had made something of herself, by herself. But you never really pulled out your roots.

Rising, she walked over to toss her cigarette in the fireplace.

She wished he would hurry. She wanted to get out of this house, get back to work. She wanted to forget about the mess her life was suddenly in.

She had to think about herself. Where she was going. How she was going to get through the long days and longer nights until her life was settled again. She didn’t have the time, she couldn’t afford the luxury of exploring her feelings for Boyd. Whatever she had felt, or thought she was feeling, was best ignored.

If ever there were two people more mismatched, she couldn’t imagine them. Perhaps he had stirred something in her, touched something she’d thought could never be touched again. It meant nothing. It only proved that she was alive, still functioning as a human being. As a woman.

It would begin and end there.

The minute whoever was threatening her was caught, they would go their separate ways, back to their separate lives. Whatever closeness they had now was born of necessity. When the necessity passed, they would move apart and forget. Nothing, she reminded herself, lasted forever.

She was standing by the windows when he came back. The light was in her hair, on her face. He had never imagined her there, but somehow, when he looked, when he saw her, he knew he’d wanted her there.

It left him shaken, it left him aching to see how perfectly she fit into his home. Into his life. Into his dreams.

She would argue about that, he thought. She would struggle and fight and run like hell if he gave her the chance. He smiled as he crossed to her. He just wouldn’t give her the chance.

“Cilla.”

Startled, she whirled around. “Oh. I didn’t hear you. I was—”

The words were swallowed by a gasp as he yanked her against him and imprisoned her mouth.

Earthquakes, floods, wild winds. How could she have known that a kiss could be grouped with such devastating natural disasters?

She didn’t want this. She wanted it more than she wanted to breathe. She had to push him away. She pulled him closer. It was wrong, it was madness. It was right, it was beautifully mad.

As she pressed against him, as her mouth answered each frenzied demand, she knew that
everything she had tried to convince herself of only moments before was a lie. What need was there to explore her feelings when they were all swimming to the surface?

She needed him. However much that might terrify her, for now the knowledge and the acceptance flowed through her like wine. It seemed she had waited a lifetime to need like this. To feel like this. Trembling and strong, dazed and clear-eyed, pliant and taut as a wire.

His hands whispered over the leather as he molded her against him. Couldn’t she see how perfectly they fitted? He wanted to hear her say it, to hear her moan it, that she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her.

She did moan as he drew her head back to let his lips race down her throat. The thudding of her pulse heated the fragrance she’d dabbed there. Groaning as it tangled in his senses, he dragged at the snaps of her jacket. Beneath he found nothing but Cilla.

She arched back, her breath catching in her throat as he captured her breasts. At his touch it seemed they filled with some hot, heavy liquid. When her knees buckled, she gripped his shoulders for balance, shuddering as his thumbs teased her nipples into hard, aching peaks.

Mindlessly she reached for him, diving into a deep, intimate kiss that had each of them swaying. She tugged at his jacket, desperate to touch him as he touched her. Her hand slid over the leather of his holster and found his weapon.

It was like a slap, like a splash of ice water. As if burned, she snatched her hand away and jerked back. Unsteady, she pressed the palm of her hand against a table and shook her head.

“This is a mistake.” She paced her words slowly, as if she were drunk. “I don’t want to get involved.”

“Too late.” He felt as if he’d slammed full tilt into a wall.

“No.” With deliberate care, she snapped her jacket again. “It’s not too late. I have a lot on my mind. So do you.”

He struggled for the patience that had always been part of his nature. For the first time in days he actively craved a cigarette. “And?”

“And nothing. I think we should go.”

He didn’t move toward her or away, but simply held up a hand. “Before we do, are you going to tell me you don’t feel anything?”

She made herself look at him. “It would be stupid to pretend I’m not attracted to you. You already know you affect me.”

“I want to bring you back here tonight.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t afford, even for an instant, to imagine what it would be like to be with him. “I can’t. There are reasons.”

“You’ve already told me there isn’t anyone else.” He stepped toward her now, but he didn’t touch her. “If there was, I wouldn’t give a damn.”

“This has nothing to do with other men. It has to do with me.”

“Exactly. Why don’t you tell me what you’re afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of picking up the phone.” It was true, but it wasn’t the reason. “I’m afraid of going to sleep, and I’m afraid of waking up.”

He touched her then, just a fingertip to her cheek. “I know what you’re going through, and believe me, I’d do anything to make it go away. But we both know that’s not the reason you’re backing away from me.”

“I have others.”

“Give me one.”

Annoyed, she walked over to grab her purse. “You’re a cop.”

“And?”

She tossed her head up. “So was my mother.” Before he could speak, she was striding back into the foyer to get her coat.

“Cilla—”

“Just back off, Boyd. I mean it.” She shoved her arms into her coat. “I can’t afford to get churned up like this before a show. For God’s sake, my life’s screwed up enough right now without this. If you can’t let it alone, I’ll call your captain and tell him I want someone else assigned. Now you can take me to the mall or I can call a cab.”

One more push and she’d be over the edge, he thought. This wasn’t the time for her to take that tumble. “I’ll take you,” he said. “And I’ll back off. For now.”

He was a man of his word, Cilla decided. For the rest of that day, and all of the next, they discussed nothing that didn’t relate directly to the case.

He wasn’t distant. Far from it. He stuck with her throughout her remote at the mall, subtly screening all the fans who approached her for a word or an autograph, all the winners who accepted their T-shirts or their albums.

It even seemed to Cilla that he enjoyed himself. He browsed through the record racks, buying from the classical, pop and jazz sections, chatted with the engineer about baseball and kept her supplied with a steady supply of cold soft drinks in paper cups.

He talked, but she noted that he didn’t talk
to
her, not the way she’d become accustomed to. They certainly had conversations, polite and impersonal conversations. And not once, not even in the most casual of ways, did he touch her.

In short, he treated her exactly the way she’d thought she wanted to be treated. As an assignment, and nothing more.

While he seemed to take the afternoon in stride, even offering to buy her a burger between the end of the remote and the time she was expected back in the studio, she was certain she’d never spent a more miserable afternoon in her life.

It was Althea who sat with her in the booth over her next two shifts, and it was Althea who monitored the calls. Why Boyd’s silence, and his absence, made it that much more difficult for her to concentrate, Cilla couldn’t have said.

It was probably some new strategy, she decided as she worked. He was ignoring her so that she would break down and make the first move. Well, she wouldn’t. She hit her audience with Bob Seger’s latest gritty rock single and stewed.

She’d wanted their relationship to be strictly professional, and he was accommodating her. But he didn’t have to make it seem so damned easy.