B007S2Z1KC EBOK Page 18

  He breathed in her ear. “How about ‘healthy’?”

  She laughed, already reaching for him.

  The phone rang. Matt swore at the interruption.

  “It’s all right,” Clare soothed. “They can call back. It’s not important.”

  “Nobody calls at ten-thirty at night unless it’s important,” Matt said as the phone continued to ring. “You better take it. It could be Alma or somebody from the hospital.”

  He hadn’t lost track of the time, Clare noted, sitting up. She refused to let that bother her. She stretched one arm out for the receiver, making a grab with the other hand for the sheet as it fell away from her naked breasts.

  “Miz Harmon, this is Officer Stewart. Is Sergeant Dunn with you, ma’am?”

  Her heart jumped to her throat. She coughed to clear it. Matt, sprawled against the white linens of her bed, looked up in query.

  “It’s for you.”

  Frowning, he took the phone.

  Her hands were icy again. Hiking up the sheet, she tried to warm them under her armpits while she listened to his one sided phone conversation.

  “Uh huh...okay.” Very sharply, “You’re sure?” A longer pause while tension tightened his upper body and his face slowly blanked to a mask of professionalism. “Okay. No, I’ll tell her.... Thanks, Stewart. I owe you one.”

  He hung up, his knuckles gleaming white on the receiver before he deliberately relaxed his grip.

  Clare’s stomach clenched with foreboding. “Is it Reverend Ray? Is he all right?”

  “Yeah, fine. As far as I know. They picked up the guy who shot him.”

  His reaction puzzled her. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Did he confess?”

  “Sort of. Turns out he wasn’t aiming at the preacher.”

  Clare closed her eyes. So that was the problem. It was everything she hadn’t wanted to see, everything she feared. She had just given herself, body and soul, to a man whose job, whose very identity, made him a target for violence. The fragile partnership they’d forged was already at risk. She forced herself to ask anyway, with no real hope of a positive response. “An accident?”

  He seemed as reluctant as she was to admit it. “No.”

  She picked at it like a child with a scab, knowing it would hurt. “Who, then? Who was the shooter aiming at?”

  He turned his head. The soft gray light through the gauzy curtains illuminated his dark eyes, his grim mouth.

  “You, Clare. He was gunning for you.”

  Chapter 12

  “But why?” Clare asked.

  They were sitting at her kitchen table, fully dressed. Matt had used her shower and borrowed an oversized T-shirt she sometimes slept in. In spite of the wet comb tracks in his hair and the wrinkled fabric pulling over his shoulders, he looked wired and ready for action. Clare half expected him to whip out a notebook and pencil and start asking questions. She braced herself for a brush off.

  But he answered her, after a pause, as if he had to sort out first what to tell her. “Your project’s encroaching on Vipers’ turf. Sidewinder said he was trying to...discourage your expansion.”

  “Shoot me, you mean,” she said bluntly.

  Her frankness surprised him. There was a gleam in his dark eyes, of admiration or maybe amusement. “Shoot at you,” he corrected. “We’ve got aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, but he’s not admitting to malice aforethought. He wanted to scare you, he says.”

  “Well, he succeeded.” She got up to pour them both more coffee.

  “Clare...”

  She pretended not to see his outstretched hand, though she felt the pull deep inside as she swerved past him on her way to the coffeemaker. If he touched her, she wasn’t sure what she would do. Whimper, maybe, or cry, or some other disgraceful, vulnerable thing. She wouldn’t do that to him. He had enough to deal with.

  He was hurt because of her. Not because of his job, not because of random violence, but simply because he had tried to protect her. He was lucky only his thigh had been strained in that tackle on the lot today. He might have taken the bullet meant for her. Reverend Ray had been shot simply for standing behind her.

  Clare didn’t want that responsibility. She couldn’t take the guilt. For three years she’d sheltered behind the barriers of her heart, and the first man to breach her defenses could have been killed for her sake.

  The threat to her own life worried her. Well, all right, she admitted, it scared her silly. But she’d accepted some degree of danger when she’d moved to this neighborhood. It was the price she paid for taking on Eddie Boothe. It was a penance, of sorts, for never really sharing her husband’s goals or understanding his job while he was alive. She figured her increased self respect was worth the risk.

  She had never bargained on the cost to others.

  For Matt’s safety, for her own peace of mind, she had to rebuild the wall between them.

  Keeping her back to him, she added milk to her cup. “It wasn’t even a lot on my own project,” she muttered.

  “No,” he agreed bleakly. “It was mine. The playground was my idea.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. Turning to face him, she read the burden of his highly developed sense of duty in his eyes and the grim set of his mouth. The very qualities that made him so hard on himself made her go soft inside.

  She wanted to protest his unforgiving commitment to the task he’d set himself, to ignite the laughter in his eyes and tease his mouth with kisses. But the sooner she restored some distance between them the better off they’d both be. She settled for taking the chair opposite his, sliding his coffee mug across the table.

  “That was just a coincidence. It could have happened anytime, anywhere.”

  One corner of his mouth twitched, as if he considered smiling. “That shouldn’t make either one of us feel better, sugar. Do you have someplace you could stay for a while?”

  Her stomach dropped. She stared at him, hoping she’d misunderstood. “What are you talking about?”

  “You should go somewhere safe for a while.”

  “But...it’s over. They caught him, you said.”

  “Clare, there’s a good possibility he wasn’t acting alone. I talked to Stewart. Eddie Boothe is out, and looking to get his old territory back. Until we can tie him to the shooting and pick him up, you’re in danger.”

  Her heart constricted. Matt was shutting her out. Sending her away. Trying, as Paul had tried, to protect her, while he went into danger.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Just for a while. A couple weeks’ vacation. Maybe you could visit your parents?”

  Clare could just imagine her wealthy, sheltered parents’ reaction if she showed up on their doorstep, a fugitive from gang violence.

  She shook her head. “No. If my parents think someone’s gunning for me on the streets of Buchanan, they’ll wrap me up with the wedding crystal and lock me in storage. I can’t abandon my work and my life here and go running home to Mommy and Daddy the minute things get tough.”

  His jaw tightened, revealing how much his mild tone was costing him. “Let’s look at this reasonably. You go, we pursue our investigation, and I’ll call you the instant we make an arrest. You stay, you put yourself and everyone around you in danger.”

  Now, she ordered herself. Tell him now. With forced casualness, she wrung the words out. “So don’t stick around.”

  His stillness weighted the air. Clare focused on the hand curled around his cup. She didn’t want to look in his eyes, to see the hurt reflected there.

  “Not an option,” he said finally, flatly.

  Relief settled in her chest. She ignored it. There had to be something she could say to convince him to go. “It should be. Maybe it would help if you...backed off a while.”

  “Help, how?”

  She glanced away to where the rain trailed down the window, tracing the dark outside with silver streaks. “I never used to have trouble on the lots,” she said slowly. “Not like this. You m
ove in across the street, and suddenly I’m vandalized and shot at.”

  “Are you saying that’s my fault?” he asked steadily.

  She couldn’t say that. Even if she believed it was true, she wouldn’t add to the load of responsibility he shouldered. “No. I’m just pointing out that our association might be threatening to someone.”

  “Good. Let them be threatened. Let them be scared the hell away. But if they’re not, you can’t be here to take the heat until they’re caught. We’ve got a statement, Clare, from a known gang member, that targets you. You need to go.”

  He was right. Of course he was right. She opened her mouth to agree with him and heard herself say, “I have to stay.”

  “Why?” His question cracked like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen.

  How could she defend her decision? How could she explain? If she told him about her frustration after the legal system’s failure to punish her husband’s killer, Matt would hear it as a criticism of the police. If she admitted the private war she waged on the Vipers’ leader, he’d have one more reason to go after Eddie Boothe and get himself shot.

  She shivered, afraid. Pleating her fingers together in her lap, she took refuge in practicalities.

  “The project doesn’t run itself. Who’s going to make the contacts and schedule the crews and pay the bills if I leave? Who’s going to write the paychecks? What do you think will happen to the people who work here if I walk out on them, the way everyone they’ve ever depended on has walked out on them?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Matt said roughly. “What good is it going to do them if you get shot?”

  “None.” He was angry. She didn’t blame him. But she wished he would stop trying to convince her and comfort her instead. She took a sip of coffee, to steady herself. “But I can’t preach to these kids about hard choices and taking responsibility and then shove off the instant I’m threatened.”

  ***

  How could she do it? Matt wondered. How could she sit there, small and indomitable with her quiet, watchful eyes and her calm, reasonable arguments while panic faked his gut and threatened to take control of his voice?

  “You’re making me crazy, you know that?”

  That jolted her, he saw with mean satisfaction. Usually he was the one who ducked the direct discussion of emotion. But her danger pulled it out of him.

  “Some gangbanger is using you for target practice,” he continued, “and I can’t protect you. You’re not stupid. Don’t you understand the risk?”

  “I understand it,” she said, her blond tipped lashes sweeping down to hide her eyes. “I just can’t allow it to matter. I owe my kids and crew my loyalty.”

  Matt curled his fists for control and fought not to punch out a wall in his best intimidate-the-suspect style. He was jealous, he acknowledged. Envious of her dedication to her job, resentful of her devotion to the scruffy street people and sullen teens she employed.

  “They don’t deserve it,” he said.

  She gave him that look of patient disappointment, like Saint Joan reproving Buster the Clown. He didn’t back down.

  “That was no random drive-by this afternoon. The shooter knew exactly when and where to find you. Either he’s a regular reader of your little church bulletin, or someone at the project tipped him off.”

  He saw the doubt that clouded her face, the sickness in her eyes as she realized he was right, and squelched his flash of sympathy. He couldn’t afford to worry about her feelings when her life was at stake.

  But she was ready with a prompt defense.

  “That makes it even more important that I don’t leave right now,” she said in her certain, well-bred way. “I’m not losing all the gains of the past three years because you think someone from the project might be responsible.”

  His open palm hit the table. Frustrated, he roared, “Do you want to get killed?”

  “Of course not. Do you?”

  Afraid he knew where this argument was headed, he glared at her. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nobody asks you to give up your job because of the risks involved,” she argued. “There’s no reason why you should expect me to.”

  “Pack your bag,” he ordered. “There’s a guy in a cell who’s taken one shot at you already, a dozen on the street hot to finish the job and some stooge on your payroll willing to make it easy for them. I’ve got every reason I need to drive you straight to the airport and sling your cute little butt onto the next flight out of here.”

  He’d shaken her, he saw. Good.

  “Maybe every reason,” she conceded. “But you don’t have the right.”

  That stopped him cold.

  No right. Not a husband’s authority. Not even a lover’s influence, apparently, though she’d taken him to her bed earlier this evening with generosity and joy. He’d claimed her with his body, and now she was repudiating his stake with her words.

  Her rejection hurt. He felt it like a blow to the chest. With an instinct as old as Genesis and as powerful as the Flood, he wanted to be the man she turned to for defense and support. He wanted to seek his comfort in those slim, freckled arms and see his future in her whiskey brown eyes.

  Stupid, Matt thought. And irresponsible. As long as he was married to his job, he wasn’t fit or ready for other duty. Hadn’t a string of ex-lovers told him so? Cops made unreliable boyfriends and lousy husbands. Even the good ones, like his dad, bought their domestic happiness at the cost of their wives’ peace. He’d never been able to make up to his mother for his father’s neglect or satisfy the Marcia-Amys. What made him think after Clare’s loss that he was the right man for her?

  I can’t make you promises, he’d told her tonight, and she’d taken him at his word.

  He hadn’t realized the lack of ties could bind him so closely.

  He swore, long and fluently, while she watched with grave, intelligent eyes. The outburst made him feel better, and then silly, like a nine year old mouthing off to shock his mom. “Would you at least go to a hotel?” he asked tightly, already knowing her answer.

  “No. I won’t leave the neighborhood.”

  “Fine. You can move in with me.”

  Real consternation disturbed her calm, resolute face. No wonder. His sudden offer had surprised even him.

  She scrubbed her hands against her thighs. “No. I don’t think we should advertise our...relationship.”

  He’d known all along he didn’t deserve her. He hadn’t known how much it would cut when she reached the same conclusion. He raised an eyebrow, mocking them both. “So, I’m okay for a quick feel-good tumble but not good enough to live with, is that it?”

  “No!”

  Suddenly tired, Matt held up his hand to forestall the compassionate spate of excuses that was all she had to offer him. The pulse in his thigh throbbed violently, the effect of too much exertion and not enough rest. His head pounded in sympathy. And there was an ache in his chest, unrelated to either of these, that he didn’t want to examine too closely. So, she didn’t feel what he felt when they made love. That wasn’t her fault.

  “Fine,” he said wearily. “Get me a blanket. I’ll sleep on the damn couch.”

  She pressed her pretty lips together. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone and unprotected in this house,” he said through his teeth. “Dammit, sugar, you’re in trouble.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “I don’t think you have a clue,” he said brutally, remembering Boothe’s bright, malicious eyes. “Just because you’ve had some success with good guys like Isaac and boys like Richie doesn’t mean you’re a match for somebody like Eddie Boothe. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

  Her face went cold and still. Her eyes glittered.

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “I know exactly what he’s capable of. Eddie Boothe ordered the murder of my husband.”

  As an exit line, Matt figured, it
was near perfect. He sat there like an idiot, slack jawed and sorry, as her slim back faded into the darkness of the hall.

  Isaac had said Clare’s husband was prosecuting Eddie Boothe when he got put away. Frantically, Matt thought back, casting about for details. An assistant D.A. had been shot a few years ago when he’d gone on his own to interview a witness. It hadn’t been Matt’s case, but he recalled the investigating officer’s frustration. They’d never made an arrest.

  And Eddie, Matt remembered now, had plea bargained his original charge of dealing drugs to possession, serving three out of five years. They’d never proved—Matt hadn’t known— the two cases were connected. But obviously the lawyer’s widow thought so.

  Matt listened to Clare’s footsteps going up the stairs. And he’d just told her she had no clue of Eddie Boothe’s evil.

  Nice going, Dunn, he jeered himself. Why don’t you kick the dog while you’re at it?

  The dog. He rubbed his face. Shit. Trigger was still shut up in Clare’s shed, waiting to be fed and walked.

  Matt rubbed the knot of tension at the back of his neck. He couldn’t leave her house unlocked while he took the dog out. But following their bitter exchange, he wasn’t about to go banging on her bedroom door, either, demanding a key. After a quick, professional search, he found an extra key in the most obvious place, on a hook by the back door, where any thief could shatter a pane in the glass and lift it. He’d have a word with Clare about that in the morning, he thought.

  Assuming she was still speaking to him.

  Quietly, he let himself out, seeking relief from his tumbled thoughts in action. The security lights were on in the lot next door. At the crunch of Matt’s footsteps on the gravel, Trigger lumbered up from sleep, head low and hackles raised. Good dog.

  They did a quick tour of the lot and then scouted the perimeter of Clare’s yard, Trigger bouncing ahead and returning often to thrust a big, wet nose in Matt’s hand.

  “Some guard dog you are,” Matt said, amused.