Overkill (12 page)

She was shaking when she hung up the phone. The coffee had turned sour in her stomach. Before even realizing what she was going to do, she found herself at the kitchen table, wishing for a bottle. Just a splash in your coffee, a little voice taunted. Just enough to get you over this rough spot.

But Marty knew alcohol would only make everything worse. Feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to bring Rosetti back. It wasn’t going to help the cops in Chicago find his killer. It sure as hell wasn’t going to get her through the day.

Furious with herself, with fate, she hurled her coffee cup across the kitchen. The glass shattered and left a satisfying nick in the wallpaper. Frustrated and hurting so keenly she couldn’t stand to be in her own skin, she left the kitchen and headed for the bedroom, where she threw on her sneakers and sweatpants.

Two minutes later, she was out the front door. She took the first half mile at a too-fast pace, working off the anger. She welcomed the aching muscles and burning lungs; anything was better than the horror of knowing what Rosetti had gone through in his last hours.

Marty channeled her anger, used it to fuel her. She ran hard, her sneakers pounding asphalt, her arms pumping, her breaths keeping perfect time with her heart.

A mile from town, a dirt road intersected Cactus Street. Wanting to be alone, she took the ranch road at an all-out sprint. She knew she’d pay tomorrow for overtaxing muscles that hadn’t been used this way for six months. But it felt good to hurt in a way that didn’t have anything to do with Rosetti or her career.

The open plain with its swaying grass rolled out before her. The yellow landscape became vivid, as if a dark cloud had given way to sunshine and she was seeing it for the first time. To her right she could see the northernmost finger of Palo Duro Canyon. To her left the land sloped to the Canadian River basin. Ahead, the road snaked through the yellow plain like the slash of an artist’s brush on canvas.

Marty headed toward the canyon, where the rough terrain offered a more challenging run. By the time she reached the floor, her body was spent. Six months ago, she’d been able to run five miles with ease. Not the case today.

At the foot of the narrow finger of the canyon, Marty stopped. Bending, she gripped her knees and sucked in mouthfuls of air, trying to catch her breath. She could feel her legs trembling from exertion. Her quadriceps cramped. Nausea seesawed in her gut. But the physical pain was exactly what she’d needed to clear her head.

“Get with the program,” she panted.

Straightening, she looked around. The wind had kicked up, rustling the branches of the mesquite and chinaberry trees. Somewhere nearby a meadowlark called to its mate. She’d lived in Caprock Canyon for almost two weeks, but she’d taken little time to fully appreciate the stark and hostile beauty of the land.

Looking across the canyon floor, she wished for binoculars. She knew Clay, a few of his officers, and the Deaf Smith County Sheriff’s Office were in the main section a few miles to the south and east, looking for casings from last night’s “alleged” shooting. She wondered if they’d find anything. Or if she’d spend the rest of her time here in Caprock Canyon without credibility.

“Alleged my ass,” she muttered, kicking at the dirt with the toe of her running shoe.

Clay thought she’d mistaken a hunter’s stray bullet for a sniper’s. He’d all but accused her of having post-traumatic stress disorder. Initially, she’d scoffed at the assertion. But while he was wrong about the shooter, was there a possibility he was right about the PTSD?

Marty didn’t like the answers that came to mind. The flashbacks. The nightmares. The sights or sounds or smells that took her back to the day of the high-speed chase. The day she’d seen the little girl shot dead at point-blank range. Had she been so preoccupied with other things in her life that she’d missed the signs? Or maybe deep inside a small part of her thought she didn’t deserve any help.

Marty didn’t have much faith in psychiatrists, even less in the medications they doled out like Halloween candy. But maybe she’d call the guy Clay had recommended. What would it hurt to talk to him? Hell, it might even do her some good to get some of this baggage off her chest.

The sound of a car engine spun her around. Surprise rippled through her at the sight of the cruiser coming up behind her. She squinted and realized it was Dugan behind the wheel. Probably going into town for a food run. She raised her hand and waved. He waved back, but didn’t stop.

She ignored the pang of hurt in her gut. Her coworkers didn’t trust her. That was all right. Marty didn’t have anything to prove to them or anyone else. But it hurt that he hadn’t stopped just to shoot the breeze or maybe give her an update on what they had or hadn’t found.

Cops could be such jerks.

She started toward town at a slow jog. She’d only gone a few yards when she heard a second vehicle behind her. Her heart did a little jig in her chest when she thought it might be Clay. Maybe they’d found casings and were heading back to town to send them to some lab for analysis. She turned. Surprise rippled through her when she saw the white Lexus climbing out of the canyon.

It was unusual to see non-farm or -ranch vehicles in this area. On impulse, she raised her hand and waved as it passed. The young couple inside stared, but they didn’t wave back. Marty noticed the New York plates and wondered if they’d ventured off the interstate and gotten lost.

“Weird,” she said.

Taking a final look in the direction of the canyon, she started toward town at an easy jog, wondering if she could make it all the way back without stopping.

 
Turning in the front seat of the Lexus, Katja raised the
field glasses to her eyes. “We could have had her.”

“Maybe.”

She scowled at her brother. “Why didn’t we?”

“The other cop is too close.”

“The risk is half the fun.”

Radimir didn’t think so, but he didn’t disagree. When it came to his sister, he’d learned to choose his battles. “We ambush her at the house. During the night, while she’s sleeping. We have privacy. There will be less noise. She won’t be missed until morning. They won’t begin looking for her until afternoon.” He shrugged. “You’ll have more time with her.”

“If we take her back to our rental place, no one will be able to hear her scream.”

He thought of the cardboard box containing his sister’s equipment. Syringes. Sulfuric acid. Propane torch. Roofing nails. Handcuffs. Extra rope. Despite his resolve to avenge Rurik and maybe elevate his own reputation in the process, Radimir shivered. “You’ll have five or six hours. Then we drive.”

Katja raised the glasses to her eyes and licked her lips. “Tonight then,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Radimir said. “Tonight.”

TEN

Clay knocked, then stood back and waited, trying to ig
nore the fact that his heart was beating too fast. He would have liked to blame it on the conversation he was about to have with Marty. But he was honest enough with himself to know it had more to do with the woman than anything he was about to say.

Needing to move, he strolled the porch, taking note of the clay pot of geraniums on the steps and the old-fashioned rocking chair on the opposite end.

The door swung open. Clay spun to see Marty standing just inside, a fluffy white towel wrapped turban style on her head. Before he could stop himself, his eyes made a quick sweep of her. She wore a denim shirt over ragtag denim shorts. No shoes. No makeup. His gaze lingered on slender, well-muscled legs. Damp tendrils curled from within the towel, and he got the impression he’d interrupted a shower.

“Bad time?”

“Not if you’re going to tell me what you found today.” She swung open the door.

Clay stepped inside. The house smelled of eucalyptus and lemon oil. He wasn’t sure why, but it pleased him to see she’d been cleaning. That she was trying to spiffy the place up. Making herself at home.

“Sorry about the towel. I went running and just got out of the shower.”

“No problem.” He cleared his throat, trying not to stare at the little drop of water glittering on the slender column of her throat.

“You want some coffee?” Not waiting for an answer, she started for the kitchen.

Clay’s eyes dropped to the denim stretched over her round ass. He should have known she was a runner. There wasn’t much to her, but she had some muscle definition. He’d always liked that in a woman. Substance. Firm flesh. He wondered what she looked like beneath those baggy clothes . . .

“I actually made it to the grocery today.”

He trailed her as far as the doorway, trying hard not to acknowledge the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. The shirt she wore was two sizes too big, but if he looked closely, he could just make out the faint outline of her nipples . . .

Get the hell off it, Settlemeyer,
a little voice warned.

“I like the flowers,” he said in a tight voice.

“How about that rocking chair?”

“You’re not going all domestic on me, are you?”

“Not a chance.” Grinning, she crossed to him and shoved a cup of steaming coffee into his hand. “So what did you find?”

Not wanting the banter to end, he grimaced. “The only casings we found were yours.”

Disbelief flashed in her eyes. “No way.”

“There were eight of us, Hogan. We spent four hours in the sun and the wind, looking exactly where you told us to look.”

“Then someone missed something.” Turning away from him, she set her coffee on the table and began to pace. “Maybe the location I gave you wasn’t quite right.”

Clay wanted to believe her. He wanted to have faith in her. He didn’t want to believe the PTSD had affected her judgment. “Are you absolutely certain what happened out there wasn’t a stray shot from a hunter?”

She spun on him. “I’m sure, damn it.”

“Why would someone shoot at you?”

“I don’t know! Maybe it was random. An idiot with a gun. It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe—”

“Maybe you made a mistake,” he said. “For God’s sake, Hogan, you’re human. It happens.”

Her mouth tightened. “I didn’t make a mistake. Damn it, I had to take cover.”

Setting his cup beside hers, he raised his hands. “Look, I’m not the bad guy here. I’m telling you what we found.”

“You think I have PTSD. You think that’s affected my judgment.”

“Tell me you don’t think about that kid,” he snapped. “Tell me a sound or a smell or the color of the shirt she wore that day doesn’t bring it back.”

“Maybe it does!” she shouted. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t realize it when I’m under fire!”

She started to turn away. Clay wasn’t finished with this. He didn’t want it to end on a bad note. Before he could stop himself, he reached for her. His fingers closed around her biceps. But evidently she wasn’t ready to calm down. Snarling under her breath, she tried to twist away.

“Cut it out,” he growled.

“You think I’m . . . delusional or something, and that pisses me off.”

“I do not think you’re delusional.”

He could see her gritting her teeth, her arm trembling beneath his hand. All he could think was that he wanted to make her stop shaking. Make her stop hurting. And for a moment, she wasn’t a cop to him, but a woman who’d been hurt in a thousand ways and beaten down by a system that wasn’t always fair. Before he could heed the warning blaring in his head, he pulled her close and crushed his mouth to hers.

 
Marty had to hand it to him; Clay Settlemeyer definitely
knew how to distract a girl. Of all the things he could have done to mollify her anger, kissing her was probably the most effective. Of course, it was also the most dangerous. But then she’d always been drawn to danger.

She responded the way any reckless woman would, and kissed him back. She matched the power of his passion with the power of her own. When he wasn’t close enough, she moved against him. When he didn’t groan with wanting her, she edged closer until he did.

Every thought that didn’t have to do with Clay or kissing left her head. Chicago. The shooting in the canyon. Rosetti. The possibility that she could be suffering from PTSD. Marty was no longer a cop. She was a woman with a woman’s needs, and at the moment those needs were spiraling out of control.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been with a man. Probably some disastrous date where she’d tried to pretend she wasn’t a cop. That she didn’t drink or cuss or occasionally partake in bad behavior. There were no pretenses with Clay. He’d seen her at her worst. He’d seen her furious. Crushed with grief. Drunk. And now this. Whatever
this
was.

Need churned inside her with every erratic beat of her heart. An edgy, unbearable need that burned inside her like red-hot coals. She writhed against him. He moaned and kissed her harder. Her every sense focused on the point between them where their bodies touched. The blood rushed in her ears like a white-water rapid down the side of a mountain.

He raised his hands. His palms were hot and rough on either side of her face. When he used his tongue, Marty opened to him. She could feel her control slipping away, but she didn’t care. She didn’t let herself think about repercussions.

A cry escaped her when he slid his hands to her breasts. She arched when he rubbed his fingertips over her sensitized nipples. Even through the fabric of the shirt, the sensations went through her like an earthquake. She felt her panties go wet.

The next thing she knew he put his arms around her and swung her around to the kitchen table. Lifting her, he sat her down. The towel slipped from her head and hit the table. A chair clattered to the floor when he opened her knees. She gasped when he stepped between them. Not a gasp of shock, but a sound of pleasure.

His hands went to the buttons of her shirt. She felt the long, hard length of him against her cleft, moving, driving her crazy. Her shirt fell open. Her body arched involuntarily when he kneaded her breasts. The pleasure sucked her last breath from her lungs. Extinguished every last shred of logic from her brain.

Their clothes were the only things keeping them from making a very big mistake. A mistake that would complicate things for both of them. Maybe even threaten their jobs. Marty knew better than to partake in a fling with her boss.
He
knew better than to sleep with a subordinate. But the high-wire sexual tension between them whenever they were within shouting distance of each other was quite simply like nothing she’d ever experienced.

Bending, he kissed her hard and deep. She nearly came off the table when he moved against her. All she could think of was removing the barriers between them to ease the unbearable need knifing through the center of her body.

Vaguely, she was aware of their labored breaths, her heart pounding so hard she heard it echoing throughout the house.

“The door.” Straightening, Clay panted out the words.

Only then did Marty realize the pounding wasn’t inside her head, but at the front door. Clay stepped away. She clutched her shirt together with hands that were far from steady.

“Expecting company?” he asked.

“I don’t exactly know anyone in this town,” she said, surprised by the breathlessness of her voice.

“You’d better get it.” He reached for her, kissed her hard on the mouth.

Despite the alarm and embarrassment zinging through her, she kissed him back, nearly lost herself in the edgy pleasure of his mouth. But the knocking sounded again.

“We’re going to have to talk about this,” he said.

“I know.”

Quickly, Marty slid from the table and buttoned her shirt. She swept her fingers through her damp hair as she walked quickly to the front door. Clay headed for the hall, where he could hear, but not be seen. She looked through the peephole and her heart sank.

“It’s Smitty.” She spun to see Clay enter the living room, his face concerned.

He glanced down at the obvious bulge of his erection against his fly. “Well, this is going to be awkward.”

Marty choked out a laugh that sounded a little hysterical. “What do we do?”

“My vehicle’s out front. You have to answer.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she partially opened the door. “Hey, Smitty.”

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, his gaze moving past her toward the living room. “Is the chief here?”

“He was just filling me in on the search today.”

“I bet.”

Coming up behind her, Clay opened the door the rest of the way. “What’s up, Smitty?”

Marty saw knowledge in the man’s eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Clay. Smitty’s expression was smug and knowing. She could only imagine the guilty truth etched on their faces.

“Dick Crowley’s got livestock on the road again,” Smitty said. “Several dozen this time. One’s been hit. Car spun out. I was on my way out there and saw your vehicle.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I tried reaching you on the radio.”

“Anyone hurt?” Clay was already reaching for his keys.

“No.”

“I’ll meet you out there. Is anyone on the scene?”

“Not yet.”

“Set up flares and cones. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Smitty’s gaze went once more to Marty, then he touched the brim of his hat. “Thanks, Chief.”

Marty watched Smitty jog down the sidewalk toward his vehicle. Next to her, Clay closed the door and turned to her, his expression grim. “That wasn’t good,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I thought you covered pretty well.”

“Smitty’s no dummy.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .” Because she didn’t know how to finish the sentence, she let the words hang.

“Me, too.”

“Do you think he’ll—”

“Maybe.” He sighed. “I take full responsibility for this, Hogan.”

“It takes two to tango.”

“I’m your superior.”

Marty could tell he was angry with himself. Frustrated with the situation. With her. But his erection hadn’t diminished, and even now she still felt the edgy pull to him.

His gaze burned into hers. “This can’t happen again.”

“I know.”

“I have to go.”

But he didn’t move, and for a crazy instant, Marty thought he was going to kiss her again. His eyes flicked to her mouth. She still tingled where he’d kissed her earlier, where he’d touched her.

“Good luck with those cows,” she managed.

Clay walked out the door without responding.

It was 10 P.M. by the time Clay made it back to the sta
tion. He was bone tired, hungry and enormously troubled by what had happened between him and Marty. What the hell was he thinking?

But Clay knew what he was thinking. What his body was thinking, anyway. He wanted to have sex with her. The need was like a bamboo sliver beneath his skin, all edgy and painful and refusing to be ignored.

For as long as he could remember, he’d been cursed with a propensity for wanting what he couldn’t have. As a younger man he’d wanted out of Caprock Canyon so badly he could feel the need eating away at him. Then along came beautiful, sultry Eve Sutherland and that goal had transformed to a vicious need that had overridden everything else in his life. When she got pregnant, the military became his ticket out. Clay had the forethought to see the big picture and gave them four years.

When he came back and Eve announced she wanted a divorce, all Clay could think was that he wanted to keep Erica. He’d been unduly relieved when Eve didn’t want her . . .

Clay wasn’t sure why he was rehashing his life. There was a big part of him that believed the key to leading a happy life was settling for less and learning to be satisfied with it. He was, for the most part. But now Marty Hogan with her take-no-prisoners attitude and understated loveliness threatened to turn his even-keeled world on its head.

Clay couldn’t let that happen. He’d worked hard to get where he was. He was too smart to let an illicit affair with a subordinate threaten his position or reputation. People talked in small towns; he didn’t want Erica hearing about her father’s sexual adventures from some fifth-grade big mouth repeating what he’d heard from his parents.

But he could no longer deny his attraction to Marty. It was keen and cutting him deeper every time he laid eyes on her. When he wasn’t with her, he thought of her. He relived the moments when they were together. He could conjure the sound of her laughter. The emotion in her eyes that be-lied the tough facade she put on for the world to see. Worse, he dreamed about her at night. Hot dreams that left him sweating and disturbed and feeling more alone than he’d ever felt in his life. He wanted to believe his infatuation with her was a phase. That it was something a sexual encounter with any willing female would cure.