When Night Falls (5 page)

He needed to remember his investigator’s report, the cutting sense of reality. He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to believe her claim to be on his side until he learned she wasn’t. That she couldn’t be. That she was no different than anyone else.

She glanced toward the dance floor, where people of all ages gyrated to the sounds of classic rock.

“Where’s Braxton?” she asked. “I need to question him.”

He kept a hand at the small of her back, kept her close. So she could hear him above the blaring music, he told himself. That was all. “That coward doesn’t have her.”

“How do you know?”

“Father’s intuition. Something I saw in his eyes. The enjoyment, but not the guilt. Not the fear.”

The question slipped from her gaze, replaced by something dangerously close to compassion. “I’m sorry, Liam.”

“So am I.”

She held his gaze a moment longer, then started pushing her way toward the door. “Let’s go look for him.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or lecture her. He doubted either would do any good. “I don’t think you’re in any shape to go after anybody,” he said as he caught her arm.

She tossed a cocksure glance over her shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Liam stepped in front of her and parted the matted hair
concealing her wound. He touched it lightly. “This
hurt?”

“Yes, but—” When his fingers left her hair and found her mouth, she stiffened. “W-what are you doing?”

“Either you’re concussed after all, Detective, or you don’t have the sense God gave a goose.”

She stepped back from his touch. “Trust me, I don’t
have a concussion.”

“Then apparently you don’t have any common sense,
either. What—” He took her arm and pulled her toward him before a lumbering giant spilled his beer all over her. “What were you trying to prove back there, anyway? Don’t they teach you better than that at the academy?”

She squared her shoulders. “I’m a cop. I was doing my job.”

“But you’re also a woman, and you inserted that lush body of yours between two angry men.” The memory of her fearlessness made his blood run cold. “Didn’t you realize what could happen?”

She cut him an overly sweet smile. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“My concern has nothing to do with me caring.” He bit the words out quickly. Too quickly. “You’re a cop, you’re hurt. I have no desire to be charged with assaulting an officer because you don’t know when to back off.”

He didn’t know where the blunt accusation came f
rom,
but for the first time since she’d broken in on him and Braxton, he stood on familiar territory.

She looked at him like he was stark raving mad. “Why would I levy charges against you?”

“You’re Wallace Clark’s daughter, aren’t you?”

From her, even aggravation sounded sexy. “You have to quit dwelling in the past. I’m my own woman. I was simply doing my job. If I bring charges against anyone, it’s Adam Braxton, not you.” Without giving him a chance to respond, she pulled away and vanished into the throng of partygoers.

Liam suppressed a growl and took off after her.

Wallace Clark was going to have his revenge yet.

* * *

The cold bit into Jess the second she walked outside. She lifted her chin and turned down the sidewalk, appreciative of the revitalization of her senses. She needed to be sharp like the wind. She needed air. She needed space.

She needed away from the swarming crowd pressing her against Armstrong’s hard body.

Irritation flashed through her. Her head pounded and her stomach roiled, but through the haze, she remembered a low masculine roar as she hit the ground, the sight of Armstrong dropping to her side, the feel of him cradling her in his lap.

For such a hard man, he had unbearably gentle hands.

The memory burned.

The lethargic way his touch made her feel burned even more.

She was a cop, damn it. Hard, focused, objective. He was a man whose daughter was missing, a man her father went to his grave believing belonged behind bars.

Jess knew the danger of thinking of him in any other light. She wished she hadn’t seen him this afternoon in nothing but ratty gym shorts. She wished he hadn’t forfeited his chance of going after Braxton in favor of tending to her. She wished he hadn’t touched her, showed her a seductive glimpse of a compassionate man behind the hardened exterior.

God help her, she wished she’d stayed in bed.

“Running from me, Detective?”

The rough-hewn masculine voice revved through her like a bolt of raw electricity. She kept her stride brisk, her gaze focused on the antics of three young men at the end of the street. “Don’t flatter yourself, Armstrong.”

He surprised her by laughing.
“Ah, there she is,” he mocked, settling his hand at the small of her back. “Welcome back, Jessica.”

She flinched at his touch, the use of her first name. Picking up her pace, she glared at him. “What are you doing?”

An
overly gallant smile touched his mouth. “Making
sure you don’t take another tumble.”

“I’m fine,” she said, this time with more conviction. Damn it, where was the stone man from the night before?

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Jess drew a deep breath, enjoying the
affirming sting of the cold air. She eased it out, noting the cloud of vapor. Below freezing, she guessed, despite how warm she felt.

Armstrong fell into step beside her. He still wore the knit cap, still sported the diamond earring, a dark trench coat still covered his body. Odd that he could appear bohemian and dangerous at the same time.

She tried not to look at him, didn’t want to see his profile, but the cop in her couldn’t stop assessing. In William Armstrong’s penetrating blue eyes she saw intelligence. In the set of his jaw and hard line of his mouth, she recognized determination. In the broad expanse of his shoulders, she found strength.

What must he be going through? she wondered, then berated herself for doing so. He was a case; that was all.

Emotions didn’t enter the equation.

She turned abruptly down an alley between two nightclubs. The sudden movement sent her head reeling, but she blocked the reaction, not wanting him to spring to her aid once again.

Too late. “Jessica?” he asked, reaching out to steady her.

She ignored the feel of his hand on her shoulder, the question in his gaze. Instead she imagined herself in an interrogation room. She saw herself standing before a table, leaning forward with her palms down. She pictured Armstrong seated before her, a single lightbulb glaring down on him.

Familiarity flowed through her, and she felt a slow smile touch her lips. She flinched at the pull against tender flesh, automatically raising her hand to the corner of her mouth. But she didn’t back down.

“It’s just you and me now, Armstrong.”

He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “That it is,” he said. “What are you going to do about it?” he asked darkly, but there was a hint of amusement as well. “Frisk me again?”

Surprise flickered through her. Not bloody likely, she answered silently. A woman didn’t touch lightning unless she had to.

“I’m going to take supreme advantage,” she said instead, “like any good cop would.”

An enigmatic light glinted in his eyes. “Wallace Clark’s daughter is going to take advantage of big bad William Armstrong? This could be interesting.”

“Not you,” she corrected, irritated with herself for enjoying the game. “The situation. You put on a good front. All that bluster and belligerence, that I-don’t-give-a-damn look in your eyes.” She braced a hand against the cold brick wall. “But tonight you proved you might have a sliver of humanity beneath that tyrannical facade, after all.”

The possibility intrigued more than it should have.

“If you’re approaching a point,” he said softly, dangerously, “feel free to make it.”

“My head hurts like hell, and my vision is blurred. I’m not sure I even remember where I parked my car. You could leave me here, alone, or you can keep playing hero.”

His gaze took on an assessing quality, one reminiscent of a cop on the prowl. But he said nothing. Just stepped closer, using his body to crowd her against the wall.

“Walk away,” she invited, intrigued by his reaction, “and prove to me you’re the heartless bastard you want everyone to think you are.”

Surprise registered in his deep blue eyes, but again, he said nothing. Just watched.

Her heart kicked a little harder. While he had her against a wall literally, she had him against one figuratively, and they both knew it. He could walk away from her and her questions, but in doing so, he’d leave an injured woman alone. If he took her up on her offer, he proved he was as cavalier as he wanted the world to believe.

If he didn’t, he admitted he wasn’t.

“Or stay,” she invited. “And face the music.” Face her. Prove what she was beginning to suspect about the kind of man he was.

Armstrong swore under his breath, triggering a glimmer of satisfaction. She knew he wanted everyone to think him a dark, sinister force, she just didn’t understand why. He’d demonstrated an altogether different side tonight in the bar, and the cop in her wanted to understand the dichotomy.

She refused to think about what the woman in her wanted.

He leaned closer, bracing a hand against the wall near her face. “I didn’t think games were your style, detective.”

“You don’t know me well enough to know my style.”

A low light gleamed in his eyes. “Tell me, then. Tell me what you want.”

The breath backed up in her throat. She was a trained cop. Tough, seasoned, prepared. She’d chased suspects down darkened alleys and up multiple flights of stairs, but she couldn’t recall feeling so winded while standing absolutely still.

“I want to know what you were doing down here in the first place,” she said. Maybe Kirby was right, after all. Maybe playing with William Armstrong was a little like playing with fire. “Deep Ellum hardly strikes me as your scene.”

“Like you said. You don’t know me well enough to know my scene.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, it’s not. But I could ask you the same question, couldn’t I? What are you doing down here? Following me? Last I knew you were calling it a night.”

She’d been in bed, all right. And she’d done as he asked. She’d dreamed. Of a man. Heat, intensity—

Jess broke off the thoughts, tempted to unfasten her leather coat and let some cool air in.

“Tell me something, Detective. If I found Braxton so easily, why didn’t you and your partner? Face it. You don’t want to help me.”

“Detective Long knows what he’s doing.” But damn it, Jess thought. How
had
Kirby missed this? Or had he? “You really think a kidnapper would come down here and play with his band if he’s got Emily tucked away?”

He lifted his free arm to the other side of her face, caging her in. “You’re the detective. You tell me.”

She met his gaze, didn’t shrink or cower like most people would. Power and games were nothing new to her. She’d been raised with them, knew how to recognize and use them herself. What she didn’t understand was the disappointment cutting through her.

Just because his touch was surprisingly gentle, just because he’d forfeited his chance to go after Braxton in favor of helping her, she couldn’t let herself start thinking the man was something other than what he was. Driven, isolated, dangerous. His ministrations to her had nothing to do with the woman she was and everything to do with the fact she was his best chance of bringing his daughter home.

Thinking anything else only invited trouble.

“That’s right. William. I am the detective. It’s my job to find your daughter. You need to let me do it, too, not stir up trouble on your own.”

“Looking for leads is hardly stirring up trouble.”

“But confronting Adam Braxton is.” She pushed the hair from her face. “I know you’re worried, but you have to trust me. I see cases like this all the time. Statistics say in all likelihood, Emily will come back on her own.”

“Statistics?” he growled, and she almost felt remorse. “You think Emily’s disappearance is just a ploy? Her way of teaching me a lesson?”

“Teenage years are a scary time. She could be confused, trying to sort some things out.”

“You don’t know my daughter,” he barked. “Just because you went to extremes to get your daddy’s attention doesn’t mean my daughter has done the same.”

Everything inside her went very still. “Pardon?”

“You heard me. Extremes.” He skimmed his finger along the tender corner of her mouth. “Just because the almighty Wallace Clark didn’t care, didn’t notice, doesn’t mean I don’t.”

She stepped back from his touch, but the cold brick wall of the nightclub halted her retreat. She couldn’t move without touching Armstrong, couldn’t breathe without drawing in the scent of sandalwood and smoke.

She lifted her chin. “My father was a good man.”