When Night Falls (4 page)

“I suppose he thinks I’m responsible for Emmie’s disappearance.”

“What he thinks doesn’t matter, not unless we find corroborating evidence.”

Armstrong clenched his hands into tight fists. “That man would give his firstborn to prove me guilty of something. He had his little girl’s cozy life all planned, even who she was going to marry. A nobody with a small bank account and big dreams wasn’t included. For all I know, he took Emily himself, just to pay me back for his daughter. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

No, it wouldn’t. Twice before Emily’s grandfather had picked her up from school without permission. Once, they’d been halfway to Mexico before Armstrong had caught up with them.

“Kirby and I swung by Manning’s house earlier. It’s clean now, but we’ll keep him under surveillance. If Emily’s with him, we’ll get her back.” Jess opened her satchel and pulled out a notebook and pen. “I’ll be talking with her friends shortly, seeing what they know, but I wanted to see if you’ve thought of anything else.”

“Information that might help find my daughter, but I didn’t tell you?”

She bit back a sigh of frustration. “Mr. Armstrong—”

“Liam.”

“Why do you insist upon making this so difficult?”

His cobalt eyes took on a peculiar glint. “Is there any other way?” he asked grimly. “My child is missing, and to get her back, I have to rely on the daughter of the man who made locking me behind bars his lifelong mission. I don’t see how this can be a walk in the park for any of us.”

The truth of his words hung between them. “I know you don’t have any reason to trust me,” she acknowledged, and again, regret nicked at her. “But you’re a smart man. You have to realize every second you waste arguing with me is a second I’m not looking for your daughter. I’m not the enemy. How can I make that any more clear?”

“Find my daughter. That’ll be clear enough for me.”

In the end, Jess figured, it really was as simple as that. “Okay,” she said, opening her notebook and readying her pen. “What more can you tell me about this boyfriend—”

“Ex-boyfriend.”

“He never returned home last night. Do you know where else he might be?”

“The Braxton boy?” The woman in the blue suit gasped, rushing toward Liam. She’d been silent since Liam had hushed her with a hard look. “I knew he was trouble the minute Emmie brought him home. Emmie did, too, you know. That was part of his appeal.”

Jess noted the way Liam stepped away from the woman’s touch. “Can you elaborate, please, Ms.—”

“Dane. Marlena Dane. I’m Liam’s—”

“Friend,” he finished for her, “and there’s nothing to elaborate on. Braxton wrote a song for Emily, and like most young girls would, she fell hard. It’s as simple as that.”

“Oh, Liam.” Disappointment riddled Marlena’s expression as she again laid a hand on his arm.

He jerked from the possessive gesture, forcing Jess to wonder about the nature of their relationship. Clearly some type of familiarity existed between them, but rather than intimate, it seemed strained.

Jess made a note to follow up with Ms. Dane, find out what Liam didn’t want her to say. “I take it you didn’t approve of your daughter’s association with Mr. Braxton?”

Liam frowned. “Emmie’s not the first smart girl who got involved with the wrong guy. There were no ulterior motives,” he said, moving toward Jess. “She was just starstruck. His band plays the local club scene.”

That Jess had already learned. Braxton’s band frequented the renovated warehouse district adjacent to downtown Dallas. “Detective Long’s headed to Deep Ellum this afternoon.”

“If that punk has laid one hand on her—”

“We’ll take care of it,” Jessica said levelly. The ex-boyfriend topped the list of acquaintances she and Kirby still needed to talk with. “We’ll find Adam Braxton. If your daughter is with him, we’ll bring her home. If she’s not, we’ll keep looking.” She flipped her notebook closed. “You have my word on that.”

He moved closer, stopping mere inches from where she stood. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m not responsible for how you feel, only finding Emily.”

“You’re asking me to trust Wallace Clark’s daughter.”

It was a two-sided coin. “I’m asking you to cooperate,” she corrected, ready to find the leads that would bring his daughter home. “I’m asking you to let me do my job.”

“Counting on others doesn’t come naturally
to
me.”

She heard what he didn’t say. Not just counting on others, but counting on cops. “I understand, but you don’t have a choice this time. You have to trust me to do my job. I’m good at it. I won’t let you down.”

His eyes took on a heated glitter. “And if I hold you to that?”

“Then
you’re as smart as my father said you were.”
Because there was nothing
else to say, she slid her notebook
into her satchel. “Now,
if we’re done playing cat and mouse, I’d like to head over to the high school.”

He nodded. “You do that.”

“Call me
if you think of anything else.” She
hesitated,
fascinated by his oddly seeking gaze. It was almost as though he didn’t want her to go.

But that was crazy, and she knew it, so with a tight smile she turned and headed out the door.

Liam watched her go. The weight room seemed ominously quiet without her, as though she’d taken his energy with her. For the few minutes she’d been there, her huskily spoken words and courageous amber eyes had kicked his adrenaline into high gear. Damn, but she made him feel alive.

That reality stung worse than an army of hornets.

He had every reason in the world to distrust the statuesque detective—not just a cop, but Wallace Clark’s daughter—but Liam couldn’t squelch the uncanny notion that if anyone could find his daughter, it would be Detective Jessica Clark.

“You should head on out, too, Marlena.”

His former lover frowned. “You never learn, do you, Liam? I just hope this time the price isn’t too high.” That said, eyes glittering, she made her typical overdone exit.

Hours passed before Liam realized his mistake. That afternoon, he looked up from the report Vega had faxed him and felt a bitter disappointment churning in his gut. “Son of a bitch,” he swore.

He’d let an attractive, gutsy facade blind him to a truth he should have realized all along. Counting on Wallace Clark’s daughter to find Emily was like a fugitive turning to a bounty hunter for sanctuary.

The beauty with a badge harbored a past as questionable as his own.

* * *

Jess dragged a hand through her hair. Her body ached. Her stomach growled. Too many hours had passed since she’d slept or eaten, but she couldn’t pull herself away from the kitchen table. She sat in the darkness, only a single lamp burning, trying to make sense of all she’d learned.

A young girl was missing. Emily Armstrong could have left of her own will, but instinct warned something else was at play. Something sinister. The possibilities chilled Jess, increasing her resolve to crack the case before time ran out.

Thoughts of the girl’s father crept into her mind. The isolated man was dangerous to Jess in ways that extended far beyond his haunted eyes and curt words. She knew his type too well. Driven and domineering, singularly focused, men like him wreaked havoc on the lives of anyone who crossed their paths. Her father had taught her that.

No matter how deeply William Armstrong intrigued her, affected her, she absolutely could not let herself think of him as a man, or even a bereaved father. That made him too human.

She could only think of him as a case.

Across the room, the lamp in her aquarium revealed a small school of angelfish flitting through the greenery she’d added a few days before. The sight normally relaxed her, but tonight even the graceful fish didn’t work.

Jess pushed the hair from her face and picked up her tape recorder. She’d managed to talk to three of Emily’s friends today, and from them, she’d learned a wealth of information. To their young, impressionable minds, Armstrong ranked right up there with Tom Cruise and George Clooney.

Pencil in hand, Jess began reviewing the interviews. Close to an hour passed before the telephone jarred her from her introspection. She stood, finding her foot asleep, and hobbled to the phone. “Detective Clark.”

“Did you find him?” barked a gruff masculine voice.

“Who is this?”

“You have to ask?”

No, she didn’t. The commanding tone struck a chord of familiarity, even though she’d known its owner less than twenty-four hours. “How did you get my number?”

“That’s not important.”

“It is to me.” She shot the words back. “I’m unlisted for a reason.”

“I called the station, but you weren’t there. I wanted to know if you found Adam Braxton.”

Earlier in the day she’d thought she and Armstrong had called a truce. Now she realized white flags were hardly his stock-in-trade. “I don’t give play-by-plays of my investigations.”

Armstrong muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “You just turn in when you get tired, is that it?”

“And you just attack.”

“It’s a simple question, Detective. Can’t you give me a simple answer in return?”

Jess reined in her illogical response to the man. He wasn’t talking to her as a woman, but as a cop. He wasn’t her friend or lover. He was a man whose daughter was missing. A man her father thought capable of murder.

“I talked to several of Emily’s friends,” she told him, knowing it was only right to update him, even if he was deliberately trying to goad her. “But I didn’t find Braxton.”

She carried the phone into her living room, but didn’t sit. That was too casual. Just talking to the man while wearing pajamas felt oddly intimate. Too easily she remembered the sight of him more nude than dressed. Those clingy gray shorts had cupped in all the wrong places, revealed a physique more impressive than she could have imagined.

Jess had a vivid imagination.

“I plan to follow up a few leads first thing in the morning,” she told him.

“That’s what I thought.”

The disappointment in his voice hit like a rock. “What?”

“Nothing. Good night, Detective. Dream well.”

Yeah, right.
Long after she hung up the phone, the hollow words lingered. They crawled into bed with her, tossed and turned, accompanied her into a fitful sleep.

Bone-tired, she fell into a trap she avoided while awake and alert. She did just as William Armstrong commanded. She dreamed.

The images were hazy, the sensations acute. Heat and urgency, need, recklessness, bliss. A lover’s arms holding her against his chest, the steady strum of his heart. Sensual words of pleasure and fierce promises of forever. Strength and warmth, intensity. A touch that ignited a fire deep within her. A seductive tangle of fulfillment and hunger.

She awoke abruptly to the cold. Alone.

Jess pulled the covers closer. “Stop it,” she admonished the darkness. Around her, the familiar sounds of the night tried to work their magic. The rhythmic ticktock of her bedside clock, her neighbor’s two Australian shepherds who thought they’d been born to serenade the moon, the steady January wind blowing through the shivering branches of a red oak. But they weren’t enough to steady her choppy breathing.

Resigned, she accepted the truth. Sleep would not return. She rolled out of bed, taking the covers with her, and moved to stand before the window. Despite the thick comforter, the bone-deep cold radiating from the glass pane cut right through her. The temperature had to be well into the teens. No wonder Thelma and Louise wouldn’t stop barking. The mutts had to be freezing. She understood.

Demons crept out of the shadows to jeer at her. Strong Jessica Clark. Daddy’s fierce little warrior princess. Independent. Capable. Brave. Didn’t need anyone.

The words had been intended to rally, and rally they had. But like many calls to arms, they also lingered. And wounded.

What was it about the cover of night, she wondered, that left her raw and exposed, vulnerable to daggers she could avoid during the light of day?

“Damn it,” she growled, then headed downstairs. She was adding cocoa to warm milk when the phone rang. “Detective Clark,” she answered.

“Jessie, it’s Margo.”

Her heart beat a little faster. A patrol cop didn’t call late at night, not unless something had gone down.
Emily.

“What’s happened?” she bit out.

Margo laughed. “Nothing yet, but I’m betting that’s going to change.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your man. He’s down here, looks like a panther on the prowl, too.”

“My man?”

“William Armstrong,” Margo clarified. “You’d better come get him, hon, before someone else does.”

Chapter 4

«
^
»

”
H
ang on there, lady.”

Already scanning the crowded nightclub, Jess glanced at the burly young man barreling toward her. “Excuse me?”

“Need your ID,” the bouncer said.

Jess gritted her teeth, tempted to flash her badge instead. The punk looked so proud of himself; little did he know she could take him out in less than a minute.

With an overly sweet smile, she obliged his request and handed over her driver’s license.

He shone a flashlight on the small plastic card, then on her, from her face down the length of her body. Her long leather coat hid her figure, but it didn’t stop the gleam suddenly radiating in his eyes.

Again, she indulged the fantasy of showing the cad one or two of the lessons she’d learned in the academy.

“Sorry, but you’re a bit young for my tastes,” she drawled. “I prefer a man who knows what he’s doing.”

She enjoyed the flare of his eyes, then turned and wove
her way deeper into the chaos. Laughter and music mixed. Alcohol flowed like honey. She’d always heard the best place to hide was in a crowd, and this club definitely verified the old adage.

But she had an ace.

Find Adam Braxton, find William Armstrong.

A stage occupied the far wall, but no band played there. Dancers contorted their bodies to the sound of recorded music.

Grateful for her height, Jess was surveying the crowd when she heard a collective gasp. She spun around, then fought her way through the cluster of tables and stools toward the ruckus. A circle began
to
form near the far corner of the darkened bar.

“Where is she?” a masculine voice demanded, and her heart kicked harder.

She broke through the crowd like a runner bursting through tape at the finish line, then stopped dead in her tracks.

Near the far wall, two figures stood squared
off like boxers.
The dim lighting stole detail but didn’t hide the hostility in their stances, the tension radiating
off them in hot, suffocating waves.

Jess eased closer. The aggressor towered over the second man, a bear ready
to
attack. He stood at an angle
to her,
allowing only a glimpse of the black knit cap hiding his hair. Whiskers darkened his jaw. A leather jacket and dark jeans covered his powerful body. He looked like he belonged in a back alley
or seedy port—she almost expected
him to pull a switchblade, toss it from hand
to hand.

Then she heard his voice.

“So help me God, you lowlife. You give her back to me or you’re a dead man. Is that clear?”

The fierce growl struck an all-too-familiar chord. Before she could react, Armstrong charged, throwing Braxton against the wall. The younger man struggled but was no match for him. Armstrong grabbed his T-shirt and twisted, got right up in his face. “Start talking.”

“She’s not with me,” Braxton seethed. He stood a few inches shorter than Armstrong, his body more wiry. His dark hair was long, his moody eyes narrow and filled with contempt.

“She tells you to hit the road, then vanishes herself?” Armstrong countered. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“You don’t believe in anything, Slick, but cold hard cash.”

Jess saw Armstrong’s body gather force, knew Emily’s father was about to make a huge mistake. Knew she had to stop him. She broke through the crowd and rushed forward. “William, stop!”

He stiffened, spun toward her, flat-out stole her breath.

Rarely had she seen a man look so capable of violence. She barely recognized him as Emily’s father. The black knit cap completely changed his appearance, made him look like a street fighter rather than a corporate executive. The bohemian look accentuated the intensity of his blue eyes, the whiskers on his jaw, the hard line of his wide mouth.

And the earring. She hadn’t noticed the diamond stud before, but now it winked like a beacon.

For some inane reason, her heart took on a rhythm as hard and sensuous as the rock music blaring through the bar. His look may have done a one-eighty, but William Armstrong still emitted power and authority, this time of a sexual variety, pure male animal.

She fought his impact on her, stepped closer. “You don’t need to do this,” she said steadily.

Hope lit his eyes. “Have you found her? Is she safe?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Braxton snarled. “I’m betting Daddy never sees his little girl again.”

Armstrong swung toward the punk. “Shut the—”

Jess rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “This isn’t the answer, Liam.”

“Leave me alone, Detective.”

“You don’t want to do this,” she warned.

“I want my daughter back, damn it!”

“That’s what
I’m
for.”

Braxton laughed. “Well, hot damn,
Slick. Looks like
you’re
in
business. You get a new babe as fast as you run ‘em off. How long till you lose this one, too?”

Jess stiffened, but Armstrong ignored the taunt. “Last I
knew, you were crawling into bed, Detective. How is that
going to bring my daughter home?”

She tightened her grip on his leather-clad arm. “You’ve got to stop undermining—”

Adam Braxton sprang to life. He took advantage of Armstrong’s turned head to break free and throw a mean punch to the man’s cheek. Armstrong staggered but quickly righted himself and swung toward Braxton. Egging him on, Emily’s ex deflected a nasty hook and launched one of his own.

Armstrong ducked out of the way.

Jess did not. She didn’t have time to. The blow caught her in the jaw and sent her slamming to the concrete floor.

“Jessica!”

She fell hard, her head bouncing off the leg of a bar stool. Shards of pain shot through her. Splotches of white clouded her vision. The room blurred. She heard a man swearing savagely, heard the crowd erupting.

She thought she saw a man lunging toward her, but then the world went dark, and she saw nothing at all.

* * *

Liam saw black. The crowd erupted and surged, but he could discern nothing but the woman out cold
at his
feet.

He dropped to his knees and reached for her. “Jessica?”

The fearless detective didn’t move, didn’t make a sound.
She lay crumpled on the dirty concrete floor, still and unmoving, all that gorgeous red hair spilled out around her. A knocked-over bar stool lay by her side.

He crawled closer, saw the blood.

Rage pulsed through him. The bastard had hit her. In the mouth. “Get me a damp rag!” he called to no one in particular, then glanced at the woman lying next to him. “Jessica? Can you hear me?”

A moan this time, soft, groggy.

He reached for her, touched a finger to the corner of her wound. The flesh there was already turning darker. He hated thinking of the bruise that would mar her lush mouth. “Jessica?”

“She all right, Mister?” someone asked from his left.

“If you’d like someone to kiss that mouth and make her feel better,” asked another, this one drunk and amused, “I’m game.”

Liam caged the urge to surge to his full height and teach the loser about respect and decency.

“Give us some room!” he shouted. The whisperings and laughter, the raucous music, fueled his temper. This woman was hurt, and everyone just zipped along with their lives, paying attention only out of mild curiosity, for the drama, the spectacle, like gawkers at a freak show.

Liam wanted to gather Jessica close, scoop her into his lap and shield her with his body, keep her away from the prying eyes of the crowd. Instead, he ran his hands through her thick hair and along her scalp, checking for injuries. He felt the small knot immediately, the stickiness, and pulled his hand back to discover blood.

“Where’s that damn rag?”

“Here you go.” One of the bouncers handed him a wet cloth. “Braxton’s long gone, you know. You lost your chance.”

“There’ll be other chances,” Liam growled. He wasn’t done with the boy, had a few more lessons to teach, but instinct had taken over the second Jessica hit the barroom floor. No way could he leave her there, hurt and alone, in trouble.

“Detective?” The formal title tasted bitter on its way out, but some hazy part of him recognized the wall he was trying to erect, the barrier. The way he touched the damp cloth to her parted lips was entirely too intimate.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

Her eyelids fluttered, another soft whimper.

“Easy does it.” Blotting away the blood, he resisted lifting her into his lap. He needed to discern the severity of her head injury. Pushing back her hair, he dabbed the cloth to the wound. “You’re okay, Detective. Just open your eyes for me.”

Slowly, she did. Her eyes were as dark and swirling as always, but dazed, unfocused.

He leaned closer, stroking his hand along the side of her face. “How do you feel?”

She winced. “L-like a truck just slammed into me.” Her voice was soft and throaty, gravelly, like she lived on cigarettes and whiskey.

“You took a nasty blow. Can you see me okay?”

“F-fine.”

“How many fingers?”

She squinted at him. “Three.”

“Good. Who am I?”

A weak smile curved her lips. “Sir Lancelot?”

He almost laughed. “Sorry, rescuing damsels in distress is hardly my style.”

“Good,” she whispered, “because I’m hardly a damsel in distress.”

Her flippancy brought a surge of relief. Her mind was clearly connecting the dots. “Do you always try to be so tough, Jessica Clark?”

Her gaze focused. “With men like you, there’s no other way.”

Encouraged she wasn’t suffering a concussion, he eased her into his lap. He wanted her off the cold sticky floor but
found himself unprepared for the feel of her lithe body so close to his. Those smooth curves and long legs, the heat. Just the sight of her watching him with those wide, cautious eyes, of auburn hair spilling over his thighs, was enough to send a weak man running for cover.

Good thing Liam wasn’t a weak man.

He leaned down and fingered the corner of her month.

Her skin was soft, the feel of her breath warm.

“You caught a pretty brutal hook,” he said, “but I don’t think anything’s broken.”

Frowning, she worked her mouth, opening it, shifting her lips
to
the right, then the left. Pain flashed in her eyes.

“Don’t overdo it.”

“No, I’m okay,” she said. “I’ve been through worse.”

The matter-of-fact words stirred something deep inside. Something dark and primitive. Something he didn’t like. He knew the danger being a detective entailed, but when he looked at her in his lap, her flawless skin and provocative eyes, he saw a woman of silk and lace, not a cop.

The reality of her putting her life on the line, of getting hurt in the process, didn’t sit well.

She struggled to pull herself upright, then pushed the hair from her face and cupped her forehead. “Tomorrow won’t be any fun.”

For either of them.

He gently inspected the nasty bump on her head, but the feel of all that luxurious hair, the kind a man liked to twine in his hands, undermined his good intentions. “The bleeding’s stopped.”

“Everything okay here?” asked a voice from his right.

Liam glanced at the club’s manager. “If you call assaulting an officer okay, then I suppose we’re right as goddamn rain.”

The man’s jovial face went ashen. “Assaulting an officer?”

“It’s okay,” Jessica said, trying to stand. When she swayed, she cut Liam a smile. “Okay, anti-Lancelot, here’s your chance to redeem yourself. You going to help me up, or what?”

Liam didn’t understand how easily she made him want to laugh. He’d be a fool to forget what he’d learned about her that afternoon, an even bigger fool to let misplaced chivalry distract his focus. But that didn’t mean he wanted her hurt.

Wallace’s daughter or not, Detective Jessica Clark possessed a core of courage he wasn’t used to seeing.

He stood, took her offered hand and gently helped her to her feet. When she reached her full height, he held her waist to make sure she didn’t sway. “Okay?”

She drew a shaky breath. “Okay.”

Because he didn’t quite believe her, because her smile was too tight, he didn’t release her. “Let’s get you out of here, see if it’s true what they say about fresh air.” He reached out and secured the sash of her long leather coat. Didn’t the woman realize how she looked in the damn thing? Not the least bit like a cop, but chic and mysterious.

Focus, he reminded himself. Just because Detective Jessica Clark took a punch for him didn’t change what he knew about her. Neither did her intelligent but strangely vulnerable eyes, her curves. They only made her more dangerous.