When Night Falls (6 page)

His finger moved against her lips, and for a moment regret flashed in his gaze. Then it vanished. “But being a good man doesn’t equal being a good father, does it? Was the sainted Wallace Clark both, or is that why his only daughter felt the need to live on the streets for over three months?”

The point-blank question almost knocked her flat. In the space of a heartbeat an unwanted chill replaced the heat of Armstrong’s nearness. Deep inside, she started to shake. He couldn’t know. No one did.

She glanced around, realized he had her completely caged in. She had no choice but to meet his gaze, where the light of a predator glittered in his dangerously dark eyes.

Her heart rate kicked into high gear. William Armstrong was renowned for his ruthlessness; when he felt threatened, he attacked. But she hadn’t expected him to turn on her.

She should have.

“Just what is it you think you know?”

“Everything,
Jessica. I know everything.”

Chapter 5

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H
e saw her eyes widen then blink in denial, the blood drain from her face. Shock, he knew. That cloudy moment when the body shut down while the mind struggled to comprehend. He wanted to take satisfaction in the intensity of her reaction, but found splinters of remorse instead.

Despite what everyone believed about him, William Armstrong wasn’t a man to terrorize a woman.

He knew he should back away, back off, but couldn’t bring himself to move. Not his body, not the fingers at the corner of her swollen mouth. The cool flesh was already turning a nasty shade of purple.

He hated seeing perfection marred.

The dazed detective blinked at him. “What did you say?”

He ignored the way the question puffed out in a breathy cloud of vapor. Even more, he ignored the sudden urge to draw her into his arms and stop the shaking she was trying so valiantly to hide.

He stepped closer. To emphasize his point, he told himself. Not to share his body heat. “I’m a cautious man. I don’t trust easily or blindly. Do you really think I wouldn’t learn everything I could about the woman in charge of finding my daughter?”

“My personal life is none of your business.”

“When it affects me and mine, you better believe your life is my business. I know why you think Emily ran away, Detective. Because that’s exactly what you did. You preferred the streets to Daddy dearest’s roof.”

The light sparked into her whiskey eyes, the defiance and intelligence he’d come to expect. A hint of color brought her cheeks to life. “So this is how you operate?” she asked, and God help him, she almost sounded disappointed. “Crowding? Badgering? Is that how you crushed and gobbled up all your competitors?”

So he wasn’t the only one who’d done his homework.

“For such a smart man—” she pushed on, and he could feel her words against his cheek “—you’re not acting very smart. Even hoodlums know better than trying to press their advantage with an officer of the law.”

Back
off,
he warned himself. Don’t push it. He couldn’t find Emmie if he was behind bars and knew Wallace Clark’s daughter wouldn’t hesitate to put him there.

But he could no more ease up than he could heal the wound at the corner of her mouth with a kiss.

“You going to press assault charges against me?” he asked softly, extending his pinkie to stroke her cheekbone. “I bet that would make Daddy proud.”

Betrayal flashed brilliantly in her eyes. Anger. He readied himself for verbal retaliation, received physical instead. She slapped his hand away and ducked under his arm, gracefully spun out of his reach.

Liam was admiring the athleticism of her move when he saw her sway.

Instinct had him reaching for her; the warning in her gaze stopped him cold.

“I’m not a man who trusts anyone with my life,” he said instead. “Or my daughter’s. Nor am I a man who just stands on the sidelines and waits for results.”

She pushed the tangled hair from her face. “And that’s why you felt the need to have me investigated?”

“A smart man learns all he can about his opponent.”

“That’s what you think I am? Your opponent?”

The thought, the disappointment in her voice, burned. “You think my daughter ran away. I know she didn’t. How would
you
describe our relationship?”

She narrowed her eyes, held his gaze long enough for him to see the debate in hers. Then she sighed and glanced toward the street. Music still blared from the various clubs, laughter and animated conversation still carried on the cold wind. He didn’t know what exactly held her gaze, didn’t want to look away from her to find out.

“I wanted to be your friend,” she said, turning to him. “I wanted to help. Has no one wanted that before? Is that the problem? Is that why you hold me at arm’s length rather than letting me in?”

It was his turn to go very still. Her words kept rushing through him, like a sip of exotic wine. Unexpected, jolting, dangerously seductive.

“Sorry, Detective—” he forced himself to speak “—but my daughter is missing. I don’t have time for friends and intimate midnight liaisons.”

Didn’t have time for her to pick him apart, didn’t have time to fight the desire to silence her questions by answering one or two of his own. Just how would that smart mouth of hers taste? How would it feel? Was it possible to kiss a wound and make it all better? To make the hurt go away?

And whose hurt would it be? Hers? Or his.

What would she do if he tried?

Jessica frowned. “Hate to break it to you, tough guy, but chasing you around and making sure you don’t get into more trouble is hardly a good use of my time, either. If you want your daughter back, you need to let me do my job.”

“No one is stopping you from doing your job. I’m just taking out a little insurance.”

“By having me investigated? By picking a fight with Braxton? Sounds to me like you’re wasting that time you value so highly.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Then why don’t you tell me.”

He ignored the provocative sight she made with defiance in her eyes and leather on her body and focused instead on the desperation tearing around inside him. “A smart man learns, Detective. A smart man realizes a brick wall is a brick wall, and no matter how many times he slams against it, nothing changes.”

She angled her chin. “But if you hit it often enough, with enough force, after a while, the mortar crumbles.”

God help him, he laughed. “You really are your father’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Her eyes flared wide. Resentment marched in. “I’m my own woman, Mr. Armstrong. Not my father’s daughter. Not my partner’s partner. I’m on your side. If you’d quit compartmentalizing, if you’d quit drawing lines, maybe you’d realize you don’t have to.”

Liam looked at her standing in the puddle of a lone street lamp, a tall woman wrapped in a long leather coat. The sharp wind whipped her auburn hair about her face, keeping her color high. Her intelligent eyes were narrowed in challenge, her swollen mouth in a mutinous line. Too easily he remembered what the flesh there felt like beneath his fingertips, the soft fullness of her lips.

It was one memory he wished he didn’t have.

“It’s late, detective. Braxton is long gone, and I’d like an early start in the morning. What do you say we postpone round three until tomorrow?”

A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Retreating?”

“Maybe I’m just allowing my forces to regroup.”

She eyed him a moment longer, then sighed. “Very well then.” She stepped toward the street, but when she turned left, Liam again took her arm. “My car is that way,” he said, gesturing to the right.

“But my car’s not.”

He slid his hand from her arm to the small of her back and tried to steer her down the street. “You won’t be needing your car, Detective. I’m taking you home.”

She didn’t budge. “The domineering routine may work with your employees, but it doesn’t work with me. It’s late and I’m tired—”

“And you took a blow meant for me.” After tonight, he vowed to forget all about the sight of her sprawled on the floor, the feel of her in his lap, her lustrous hair between his fingers. “You shouldn’t be driving. I’ll have someone bring your car to you.”

Her smile was a little too quick. A lot too sweet. “I thought rescuing damsels in distress wasn’t your style.”

“Are you in distress?” He fired right back, stepping closer. “Let me know if you are. Maybe I can help, after all.”

She stiffened. “Touch me again, and you won’t have to wonder anymore about whether I’ll press assault charges.”

Liam resisted the cutting urge to laugh. Detective Jessica Clark sure as hell wasn’t the answer to his prayers, but he couldn’t help but admire her style.

Curiosity nudged him closer. “You just lectured me about accepting help, but you’re no more willing than I am.” He turned the tables. “What are
you
so afraid of?”

“Just because I don’t want you to take me home doesn’t make me afraid of accepting help, Mr. Armstrong.”

Mr. Armstrong. Her continued use of his formal name emphasized the barriers she denied. “If it’s not help you’re afraid of, it must be me. Again, my question is why?”

“Afraid of you? Haven’t I just spent the past thirty minutes alone with you in a darkened alley?”

“Yes, but you’re refusing to let me give you a ride, and you’re shaking.”

She pulled the sash of her long leather coat tighter. “It’s below freezing,” she reminded him. “Why all the questions? Why are you so curious about me? That credo about knowing your enemy as well as you know yourself?”

“I thought you said we weren’t enemies,” he reminded silkily. “Change your mind?”

A hard laugh broke from her throat. “Always the tough guy, aren’t you?”

“Quite the contrary. I’ve been told I’m amazingly tender.”

For the first time since he’d known her, Detective Jessica Clark faltered. Her swollen mouth tumbled open, and color rushed to her cheeks. Disbelief sparked in her always-assessing eyes.

Enjoying her reaction, the fact he’d finally caught her off guard, Liam pressed his advantage and put his hand to her back. “See?” he said as he did so. “Gentle as a lamb.”

She glared at him. “You heard what I said about touching me.” But the long strands of auburn hair blowing across her face softened the strength of her words.

“I heard,” he said, easing the hair from her face. She stiffened but didn’t bat his hands away or step from his touch. “If you want to press charges against me because I don’t want you walking the streets alone, because I don’t like the idea of you driving home in your current state, then go right ahead.”

“I’m a cop. I’ve walked alone more times than I can count.”

Liam frowned. Her words conjured a solitary image he found oddly unsettling. He made note of it, then pointed to the sleek black convertible parked a few feet away. “Fine then, but my car is right here. At least let me drive you to yours. It’s cold outside. No point in you walking more than you need to.” He raised his key chain and depressed a small button. Three answering beeps just barely sounded above the strains of classic rock spilling from a nearby club.

But Detective Jessica Clark didn’t move.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Afraid I’ll bite?”

She lifted her chin. “Maybe I’m afraid you won’t.”

The heat of battle wasn’t the time for laughter, but Liam came dangerously close. “Ah, come now, Detective. You insist that I need to trust you, but you won’t give me the same courtesy? It’s either a two-way street or it’s a dead end.” He opened the passenger door. “Which is it?”

The fiercely independent detective glared at him, and for a moment, he thought she meant to shove him against the car and slap cuffs around his wrists. But then she mumbled something unintelligible and slid into the passenger seat.

The way she eased her body onto the low seat drew his attention to her unbelievably long legs. He wondered what they would look like in a short dress designed to show off her curves, rather than the tailored pants she favored.

Liam couldn’t help it. He had nothing to smile about, but his lips curled anyway. Every little victory, he supposed, counted for something.

Wallace Clark’s daughter would be no different.

* * *

A pair of low headlights stayed with Jess the entire way to her uptown condo. She wove through the high-rise-crowded streets of downtown and accelerated onto the toll road; all the while Armstrong remained right on her tail.

She was tempted to press the pedal to the metal and give him the ride of a lifetime, but in truth, he was right.

Her head throbbed. Her stomach felt like she’d just disembarked from a twisty-turny, deep-dive roller coaster. Her nerves were no better than a frayed rope. She was in no shape for a high-speed chase through the streets of downtown Dallas.

The thought of sitting next to Armstrong in his sleek little sports car had even less appeal. Too intimate, a steadfast voice of caution had warned. Too little distance between them, too much time to fill. Too little to say.

They’d already said it all.

You preferred the streets to Daddy dearest’s roof.

Jess zipped down an exit ramp and blew through a yellow light. No matter how fast she drove, though, Armstrong’s bombshell announcement stayed with her. She had no idea how he’d found out about the three darkest months of her life.

After the way he’d tended to her in the bar, she hadn’t expected him to attack. But she should have. All the research she’d compiled on the man described him as clever and cunning, not one to pussyfoot around. If you weren’t on his side, you were against him, and Armstrong had a reputation for crushing opponents.

Apparently he saw Jess as an opponent.

Why then, she wondered, had he dropped to her side on the cold barroom floor? Why had he chosen to help her rather than go after Braxton? And why had she seen flickers of concern in his eyes as he’d inspected her injuries?