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  Gary was drinking. With her awareness focused on Matt, it took Clare a while to notice that wine made her escort amorously attentive. He began to emphasize his conversation with little pats on her forearm, her shoulder, her knee. Clare was more amused than annoyed. She could handle it. She could handle him. She’d dealt with much more aggressive attempts on the lot.

  Redirecting his wandering hands, she returned her attention to the dais, where the after-dinner speakers were being introduced. After a brief, convincing speech about the importance of community involvement in law enforcement, Matt sat down to enthusiastic applause.

  She knew the attention made him uncomfortable. She knew he wanted nothing more than to return to the detective division. His ability to set aside his own preference for the good of his department and her neighborhood made her chest swell with peculiar pride.

  He glanced over at their table, his dark eyes seeking. Their eyes met and held. She nodded once, in reassurance and acknowledgment, and he responded with a flickering smile of surprising sweetness. Her heart stumbled.

  “You didn’t tell me you knew Supercop,” Gary complained.

  Clare shushed him.

  She looked for Matt after the program, but he had disappeared. Retrieving her coat from the check room, she braved the flow of guests spilling through the hotel foyer. When Gary caught up with her, fumbling for his key ring, she could smell the wine on his breath.

  That settled it, she thought. She couldn’t let him drive.

  As he bumped through the departing guests toward the valet parking, she pulled gently at his arm. “Gary, why don’t I drive us home?”

  “Drive the Lexus? I don’t think so.”

  She knew better than to argue with a drunk. “Well, then, why don’t we take a cab?”

  “Don’t want to take a cab. Don’t need to take a cab.”

  “Oh, yes, we do.”

  “No, we—” Comprehension gleamed in his swimmy eyes. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, we do. Don’t want the car parked out front all night, do we?”

  She certainly did not. But not in the way she suspected he meant. She steered him toward the cab line.

  “That’s right,” she agreed smoothly. “Over here, Gary. Put your keys away.”

  She gave the driver a twenty and directions to her house. Gary slumped in the back seat, fingering the neck of her gown.

  “Like your dress,” he said. “You know, I always thought you could be attractive.”

  Capturing his roving hands, Clare nudged him into his own corner. “Gee, thanks.”

  “I mean it,” he insisted. “Of course, you were always so quiet in those days. Cool, quiet Clare. If I’d figured you were so hot, I would have made my move years ago.”

  Clare stared, torn between laughter and the desire to push him from the car. “If we hadn’t both been married to other people at the time.”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

  They rode a while in silence. She shrugged off his hand, which kept returning to her shoulder. To divert him she asked, “How is Janie these days, anyway?”

  He blinked, apparently trying to focus. “Fine. Just fine. I hear she’s got a little thing going with her trainer.”

  “Really?” Clare asked. Surely they were almost to her place by now?

  Janie’s former husband nodded solemnly. “’S all right. I understand. A woman’s got needs. A man’s gotta understand that.”

  “That’s very—” words failed her “—understanding of you, Gary.”

  The cab turned onto her street and pulled up in front of the house. Meeting the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, Clare collected her coat and her purse and got out.

  “Needs,” Gary repeated firmly. “I’ll see you to your door.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “You want me to wait, ma’am?” asked the cab driver.

  Clare drew a deep breath. “Yes. Please.”

  Gary threw his arm around her shoulders as they went up the walk. She would have thrown it off if she hadn’t feared he would fall without her support. The porch was dark. Damn. She must have forgotten to turn on the light. She really wasn’t used to the dating game.

  “How about a nightcap?” Gary said at her door.

  But she knew enough to guess where that might lead. “I don’t think so, Gary. Good night.”

  He made a face, more guessed at than seen in the dark. “Coffee?”

  It was late, and she was tired. She no longer found the blond lawyer attractive or even slightly amusing. She might have asked him out, but her sense of what she owed him didn’t extend past her front door.

  She bent her head to dig for her keys. “We don’t want to keep your cab waiting.”

  Rummaging in her purse, she just never saw his next move coming.

  He grabbed her shoulders. Trapped by her evening bag, her hands were squashed between their two bodies. A blast of alcohol assaulted her face as his mouth, wet and hungry, sought hers.

  “Oh, Clare,” he moaned. “Beautiful Clare.”

  Oh, hell, Clare thought.

  She wasn’t frightened, not really, even when he ignored her efforts to turn her head and his hands got rough. The cab was parked at the curb ten yards away. If she screamed, the driver would hear her. But she was reluctant to expose either of them to the resultant embarrassment and explanations. Surely she could handle this? Wriggling, she tried to push Gary away as his tongue stabbed her mouth. She stepped on his foot. He slobbered on her neck.

  A beam of light swept across her eyes, blinding her. Gary swore and released her as the light swirled and steadied on his face.

  A voice came out of the darkness beyond the porch. An official voice. A voice she knew.

  Matt’s voice.

  “Ma’am? Is everything all right?”

  Chapter 9

  Clare’s initial surge of relief was followed by a spurt of annoyance. Squinting over the flashlight’s bright beam, she could make out Matt’s broad shoulders and the sharp silhouette of his policeman’s hat. What was he doing in uniform?

  “Yes, officer. Thank you. Mr. Shepard was just leaving.”

  Matt approached the porch. “Come on, sir. I’ll help you to your cab.”

  Gary made an effort to straighten up. Befuddled by alcohol and fooled by the change of clothes, he apparently didn’t recognize Matt in the dark.

  “’S all right, officer. Just seeing Miz Harmon to her door.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said in heavy disbelief. “This way.”

  Gary shrugged petulantly, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “I’ll call you,” he told Clare.

  She watched as Matt escorted him down the darkened walk and into the waiting cab. The car door slammed. The headlights arced as the taxi pulled away from the curb and accelerated up the street. Unlocking the door, Clare leaned against it as Matt clicked off the light and paced silently back.

  She had this funny, shaky feeling under her rib cage, an unstable compound of embarrassment, anticipation and fear. She crossed her arms under her breasts to hold it in.

  “Tell me you just happened to be walking by—in your uniform—the exact moment we got home.”

  He stopped one stride shy of the porch. She still couldn’t see his face. “Is that what you want to hear?”

  “I don’t know. Is it true?”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  Reluctantly, she laughed. “No, you just won’t say.” With unexpected bitterness, she added, “I should be used to that.”

  He stepped up, closed in. She refused to look away, to acknowledge how his nearness affected her.

  “I got home about half an hour ago,” he volunteered abruptly. “Went on patrol, like I usually do. Put on the uniform, like I usually don’t, and kept your porch in sight. I didn’t trust that joker you were with. He was tossing back wine like Cherry Coke all through dinner. Okay?”

  Her throat closed with appreciation. He’d kept tabs on her, watched out for her. She nodded, forgetting he couldn’t se
e her in the dark.

  “You all right?” he asked again, a deeper, personal note in his voice.

  Again, she nodded. But annoying tremors shook her arms and shoulders. The various strains of the evening had finally taken their toll.

  With a stifled exclamation, he pulled her to him.

  Clare wasn’t sure what she expected. Not a reprise of Gary’s greedy fumbling, perhaps, but some form of masculine demand.

  Instead, he held her. Just held her. For quiet, for closeness, for warmth. His arms were strong and comforting. Her palms slid up the long, strong planes of his back as her body unthinkingly aligned itself with his, seeking the solace of a man’s warm, living body.

  “He said he wanted to come in for a nightcap,” she mumbled defensively. “And you were the chaser?”

  Secure in his arms, she shrugged. She listened to the steady thump of his heart as the tension bled slowly from her muscles. Her neck relaxed.

  He probably thought she was an idiot. She never should have let her hurt and frustration spook her into asking out a man she had no real knowledge of or interest in. She didn’t want Gary Shepard. But how could she have guessed he would show so little restraint?

  “He knew my husband,” she offered.

  Matt’s voice rumbled over her head. “Your husband probably knew a bunch of jerks. That doesn’t mean you have to date them.”

  She could have been offended. Instead, his blunt assessment made her smile into his starched blue shirt. For the first time since she’d left his arms at the dance, she felt she could relax and be herself. He felt good. Broad, strong, hard. Her body nestled closer in unconscious recognition that this was what she needed. So good.

  “Do you want to come in?” she asked, the words muffled.

  “It’s a little late for coffee.”

  “I’m not offering you coffee.”

  The arms around her tightened and then eased.

  “Beer?” he ventured.

  “Don’t be dense, Detective.”

  ***

  Her implication burst on Matt like gunfire. While his mind wrestled with possible motive, his body concentrated on the feel of hers snug against his front.

  She was lonely, he reminded himself. It was late. She was vulnerable.

  She stood on tiptoe to press warm lips to his chin, and his body won.

  He thrust his fingers into her hair to anchor her head, but she was already raising, angling, opening for him. She tasted as spicy sweet as he remembered, and twice as hot. Twining slim, strong arms around his neck, she pressed close. Blood pounded in his head, surged low in his body.

  An enthusiastic, assenting sound escaped her before his mouth plundered hers again. He filled his hands with her, running them down her supple back over ivory silk to her taut little butt. They rubbed together, belly and thigh, as he swelled with impatient desire.

  “This feels really good,” she gasped. “Is it illegal?”

  He ran his lips along the curve of her jaw and over her ear, delighting in her shiver. “Probably.”

  “Sexual license without a license?” she suggested.

  How could she make him shake with need and quake with laughter at the same time? “Nothing that interesting. Violating public indecency statutes, I think.”

  Her small, competent hands tugged at him. “Is that all? Come inside.”

  The invitation jolted through him. He could follow her into the house, through the shadowed hallway and up the narrow stairs to her empty, scented bed. He could take what she was offering. It was what he was used to.

  A quick, cheap thrill.

  It wasn’t what he wanted any more. Not from her.

  The realization opened a black pit of possibility under his feet. He stepped back from the edge.

  “Clare—”

  “Mm?” Her soft, warm mouth opened on his throat, searing through his resolution.

  He needed to think. He needed to breathe. He struggled not to groan as her lips reached his collarbone and her tongue flicked out to taste him. Damn. He wasn’t Mr. Sensitive, but even he could see they needed to slow things down. Didn’t she realize how vulnerable she was?

  “I don’t want to take advantage,” he said.

  She laughed. “Right.”

  Frustrated beyond belief, determined to make her understand, he captured her hands and held them.

  “I don’t want to sell you short.”

  With regret, Matt watched his words cut through Clare’s sensual fog. She tipped her head back against the door, running a hand through her hair. “What are you talking about?” '

  “Clare, I’m a cop.”

  “You want me to compliment you on your uniform now?” Her brittle mockery flicked him on the raw. After her little adventure with Gary the Human Slug, he must look like a port in the storm to her. He had to make her see his job made him unfit to be any woman’s permanent refuge.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  Too late, Clare thought. Her disappointed body throbbed, her mind was a muddle, and her heart was one big ache. She’d thought with Matt she could break through the walls of her isolation and end her self-imposed celibacy. Obviously, she’d thought wrong.

  She spoke flippantly, to cover her distress. “Big of you.”

  His breath hissed. “That’s one hell of an attitude you’ve got, sugar.”

  “Look who’s talking, cowboy.”

  “Listen, Clare...”

  “No.” She spoke quickly, carefully, picking her way through a quagmire of emotion while confusion dragged at her like mud. “You’re right. We moved too fast.” Painfully, she corrected herself. “I moved too fast. I’m not sure what I want yet, and you’ve made it pretty clear that whatever you want it’s not me. So, we’ll just say good-night now and—and be friends.”

  He pushed up the brim of his hat with one thumb. “Friends?”

  Repeated in that deep, sexy voice, it sounded ridiculous. It was ridiculous. If he laughed, she would punch him.

  She crossed her arms defensively. The door frame dug into her spine. “Do you like ‘neighbors’ any better?”

  “Well, now, I don’t know.” He leaned closer, pretending to consider. She was mesmerized by his voice, riveted by the quirk of his mouth as his face approached hers. “I guess you could say I feel pretty neighborly where you’re concerned.” His head bent, closing the distance between them. Her heart fluttered in her throat. His breath brushed her lips an instant before he kissed her, soft, considering kisses that tasted, without meaning to, like promise.

  “Even friendly,” he whispered against her open mouth.

  And then he straightened and stepped back, and the night was cold where his body had been.

  “Lock your door when you go in,” he said. “You’re not safe at night.”

  It was a warning.

  For her? Clare wondered. Or to himself?

  ***

  In her dreams, she was there.

  In her dreams, she saw it all, the narrow streets two blocks over from this very house, the sedate blue Camry parked in evening shadow. She stood frozen in imagination as Paul ambled toward his car, jingling his keys in his pocket. Had he been satisfied after speaking to his elusive witness? No one would ever know. Because the police report only recorded that a hooded figure jumped from between two buildings, shouted something—What? the witnesses were unclear—and opened fire. Paul slumped against the car, his dark blood spilling on the curb. The keys clattered from his lax hand onto the street

  In her dream, she screamed, as she hadn’t screamed when the quiet-voiced policewoman came to the pretty little house on Claridge Street with the news. She wept, as she hadn’t wept when the organ played “Now the Green Blade Rises” and she’d sat erect in her pew with numb heart and icy hands.

  She screamed and she wept and she woke up.

  Clare opened her eyes on darkness. The green numerals of her bedside clock blinked: 3:43. She lay still a moment, waiting for her heart to slow.

>   She’d hoped the recurring nightmares, with their burden of helplessness and guilt, were a thing of the past. How long since the last one? Six months? Seven? The strain of seeing Paul’s old colleagues, the confrontation with Gary and her confused reactions to Matt must really have wakened some ghosts.

  Thank God, Matt hadn’t taken advantage of her uncharacteristic moment of weakness on the porch. She must have been out of her mind to risk getting involved again, even on a temporary, physical basis. She was grateful for his restraint.

  Sure she was.

  Sweat dampened her nightshirt. She stumbled out of bed to get a fresh one. From the top of her dresser, Paul’s picture smiled at her with wry understanding. Leaning against the open bureau drawer, she reached with one finger to trace the tiny lines of his crows feet through the glass. When he’d died, her heart had died, too, and her libido had just shut down. She’d concentrated her energy on her work, trying to satisfy her frustrated maternal longings with the kids she hired.

  It was disconcerting to find both heart and body showing signs of life again.

  She lifted her clammy nightgown over her head, dropping it to the floor. Her flesh goose-bumped. Her nipples puckered. It was the cold, she told herself. Of course it was the cold. And slammed the door on the memory of Matt’s hard, warm chest moving with debilitating effect against her breasts.

  She grabbed for another nightshirt, cotton, short sleeved, faded like the rest. It had been ages since she’d bought anything new to wear to bed. What was the point? she demanded with brisk practicality whenever her mother brought the subject up. She was comfortable just the way she was.

  Tugging the sagging hem down over her thighs, Clare climbed back into bed.

  And dreamed of Matt.

  ***

  The Dumpster sat right where Matt had requested it, close by the curb where he’d tied the dog. His turf, Matt thought wryly, dragging a broken chunk of sidewalk through rutted clay. The cleanup of this empty lot at Alston and Magnolia marked the kickoff of his Neighborhood Pride campaign. A crew from city works had come around twice, once to haul rubble and once to grade the lot, but a lot of debris remained to remove by hand. The volunteers started arriving midmorning, more than Matt had expected. His neighbors.