B007S2Z1KC EBOK Read online

  “But you don’t want it.”

  He looked away, uncomfortable under the weight of that calm, intelligent gaze, unwilling to disappoint her. “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  The words dumped out of his mouth before he could catch them. “Clare, I’m a cop. I serve the community. I can’t be part of it.” He tried to explain. “Depersonalization is one of the first things you learn as a recruit. One of the things you can never forget. You’ve got to accept that when other people look at you, they don’t see you. They see the uniform. You are the uniform. You’ve got to be objective, you’ve got to be impartial, you’ve got to uphold the law no matter what your personal feelings are.”

  “And can’t you do that working as a community policeman?”

  “Maybe. I’ve got a couple of weeks to decide. But you’ve got to know, I like being a detective. There’s no confusion. No pretense. Somebody commits a crime, I collect the evidence and arrest him. It’s Us versus Them. It’s easier to hold myself separate.”

  Quietly, she asked, “Hold yourself separate from them? Or from me?”

  He clenched his jaw, unwilling, unable to answer her.

  She touched his face. Her fingers trembled. “Why,” she whispered, “do you need to hold yourself separate from me?”

  Her voice evoked old memories, old arguments, half understood from his childhood. He had a sudden picture of his father coming home tense and tired in the middle of a grueling investigation. He remembered him sitting cross and uncommunicative at the kitchen table after a gory crime scene and his mother, hovering, her “brave face on things” gradually growing cold and strained. And yet his parents had, by many standards, a good marriage.

  “I have to,” he said. “I’m a cop.”

  Clare’s hand returned to her lap. She stared out the windshield. He would have died rather than hurt her. God. He’d hurt her already.

  “Clare.”

  Her chin raised in acknowledgment, but she didn’t turn.

  “This love business...” Her silence dragged the words from him. “I don’t know.”

  She waited.

  He rubbed the back of his neck where the muscles were tight as wet rope. “You say you love me.”

  She hesitated. Nodded.

  His pulse pounded. “You shouldn’t. I’m a lousy risk, you know that.”

  “I’ll try to remember.” Her voice was dry.

  And it was that, that note of tough humor even as her hands clenched the soft folds of her flowered skirt, that allowed him to continue.

  “I can’t be what you need,” he said roughly. “Even if I wanted to, even if I tried, this job would tear you apart. Could you deal with me coming home preoccupied and edgy? Or late? Or not at all? Could you live with it if I got shot again?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, giving his own words back to him. Her eyes were steady, her face, pale. She was, quite simply, the bravest and most beautiful sight of his life. “But how can I find out unless you give me a chance?”

  She went to his heart like a knife.

  Abruptly, he reached for her. Sliding along the bench seat, she went into his arms as if she belonged there. Her head rested on his shoulder. He stroked her hair, the smooth, shiny strands clinging to his fingers, and spoke into the silence above her head.

  “When my dad was working on a real bad case...” He stopped. The scent of her hair and the strength of her arms surrounded him, supported him. He didn’t like talking. But it was the silence, more than the fights, that had echoed late at night in the kitchen of his parents’ house. And this was Clare, who could be trusted not to quiver under the weight of confession.

  Matt cleared his throat. “Anyway, my mom used to try to make these special dinners. Most of the time Dad would get home late, and dinner would be ruined.” He remembered the smell of scorching food, the bad taste in his mouth and the churning in his stomach that he’d never been able to attribute wholly to the meal. “Dad would apologize, of course, and she would say it was okay. But in the kitchen, cleaning up, I could see her face, and it wasn’t okay. It was never okay.”

  Clare’s hands tightened briefly on his back. He didn’t want her pity. But he needed her understanding.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Clare, and I can’t kid myself. There have been women in my past. Nice women I’ve cared about. And sooner or later, every one of them got tired of putting burned meals on the table.”

  “You’re forgetting something, cowboy.” He lifted his chin from her hair to peer into her face. She smiled wryly. “I can’t cook. I expect to burn dinner. All I need from you is the sense that, if you could, you’d be there to eat with me.” She took a deep breath. “And some conversation over coffee, when you do get home.”

  There was nowhere he’d rather be than with Clare. Still, he raised an eyebrow. “Tough little cookie, aren’t you?”

  Her gaze was steady. “I’ve had to be.”

  Tough enough to survive loss, Matt thought. Gutsy enough to challenge his preconceptions. Maybe even strong enough to change them.

  He bent his head and, parked right there in front of the Buchanan municipal building, he kissed her.

  Chapter 14

  It was still light out when Clare pulled Matt’s truck into the drive. The sun slanted through the greening trees, its heat lingering in the ground, releasing the scent of fertile soil. Stepping out onto the gravel, Clare felt the same warmth suffuse her soul.

  Last night’s rain had coaxed a thin edge of color along the closed buds of her azaleas. The pansies she’d planted in autumn rioted in abundant bloom beside the front door. Overnight, it seemed, the sticks of hosta had unfurled brave green flags. Only a month ago her garden had appeared dry and brown and desiccated. Dead. And all along it had only been sleeping, gaining strength in the cold earth, waiting for the right season and the right touch to waken it.

  Waiting, just like her.

  The passenger door slammed as Matt got out. Stiff-legged, cautious, he prowled around the front of the truck, his hands motionless at his sides and his eyes busy. On the other side of the chain link fence, Trigger lurched to all fours, tail wagging in anxious greeting.

  Matt ignored the dog. “Where’s your day care contingent? Shouldn’t they still be around?”

  Pure affection filled Clare at his rapid return to professional watchfulness. “No. Alma’s at the hospital with Reverend Ray. The kids and their teachers stayed at the school today.”

  He nodded. “Where’s the crew?”

  Patiently, she answered. “They finished at two. Isaac’s gone, remember?”

  “So you’re alone?”

  She grinned at him. “Not exactly. I’ve got this big, bad police sergeant staying with me.”

  “Very funny. Wait here.”

  After checking the lock, he eased the front door open, glancing back over his shoulder. In spite of his caution, Clare didn’t really believe he would find intruders in her home. She propped against the cab of the truck, crossing her arms.

  “I’m all right,” she called teasingly. “Your dog will protect me.”

  Trigger whined as Matt melted inside. He reappeared a minute later, his hand slipping out from under his jacket.

  Returning his gun, Clare thought with a jolt, to its holster.

  The grim reminder of who he was and what he did shivered through her. She hugged her elbows tighter. The same qualities that made him a cop also made him the man she had chosen to love. Her alternatives were painfully plain.

  Can you deal with it? Could you live with it if I got shot again?

  He limped down the steps toward her, the sun gleaming on his dark, soft hair, and all her expectations for a safe, comfortable life lodged like a lump in her throat.

  “All clear. You want me to start dinner while you change?”

  She swallowed. “Thanks. That would be nice. There’s soup in the pantry, I think.”

  He hesitated, as if he could see her turmoil on her face. But appa
rently he decided not to push it, because after a moment he nodded and proceeded up the walk.

  “Soup it is.”

  "Matt,” she said suddenly, urgently.

  He turned back, hands in his pockets. “Yeah?”

  “I...Nothing.”

  With swift, uneven strides, he returned, swooping to press a brief, hard kiss on her mouth. His breath was warm and scented with coffee. Her fingers curled into his jacket.

  “It’ll be all right,” he promised. “I’ll take care of you.”

  He thought she was afraid. She was, but not for the reasons he imagined. “Just take care of yourself, cowboy.”

  He gave her a look, dark and unreadable.

  And Clare realized then that she’d asked him for the one assurance he could not give her.

  ***

  From the tantalizing aroma that drifted up the stairs, Clare concluded Matt had found the soup. Beef vegetable, she guessed. If her nose was any judge, he was grilling cheese sandwiches to go with it. She smiled as she kicked her shoes into the closet. It was nice to rely on someone else’s cooking for a change. It was nice to live with a man again.

  Oh, no, she thought, carefully hanging up her linen jacket. She was not living with Matt. She was...sleeping with him, possibly. In love with him, probably.

  In trouble, for sure.

  She jerked a clean T-shirt out of the drawer and over her head. The cloth caught on something. Blindly, she turned. Her hip banged the open drawer, and Paul’s picture clattered on the dresser top and fell to the floor.

  With a soft cry, she dropped the shirt and reached for the pewter frame. Stooping, she ran her fingers over the glass, checking for damage.

  The door burst open. Clare yelped and straightened hastily. Matt stood just outside the frame, gun drawn and shoulder level.

  Embarrassment and fright held her rigid. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I heard you scream.”

  “I did not—” She stopped, remembering her exclamation of distress. “Oh.”

  “I thought somebody got in the house.”

  “No.” She restored Paul’s picture to its place on the bureau. “I dropped something, that’s all.”

  Matt strolled forward, smoothly holstering his gun. “That your husband?”

  “Paul. Yes.”

  He started to take it and then drew back. “Can I see?”

  She put the picture into his hand, as nervous as if she were introducing them in real life. Matt studied the photo through the glass. She looked from the image of thin, witty, eloquent Paul to the reality of tough, terse, pragmatic Matt. Alike in their sense of honor and their basic decency, no two men could appear more different.

  But then, she was different, too, Clare reflected, from the girl who had married Paul. Older, stronger and more resilient. She hoped.

  “Looks like a nice guy,” Matt said at last.

  Something eased inside her. “He was.”

  “He the attorney that prosecuted Eddie Boothe?”

  She nodded. “Paul thought he could change the neighborhood by defeating drug dealers like Eddie.”

  “And you figure you can defeat Eddie by changing his neighborhood.”

  His perception startled her. “Yes.”

  “Why, Clare?”

  “I told you. I was frustrated when the police couldn’t tie the shooting to the Vipers. Boothe wasn’t even charged. Someone had to do something to strike back.”

  “But why you?”

  “Why not me?” she demanded.

  “You’re hardly trained in juvenile crime.”

  “I worked with teens. I was a teacher at Douglas Middle School.”

  “Douglas, huh?” His thumb scratched his jaw. She heard what he did not say. There was a big difference between wealthy, suburban Douglas and the southeast side. “Nice school. Why give that up to come down here?”

  She looked away, ashamed. But her innate honesty demanded the truth. “Guilt, I suppose.”

  “Guilt? You think you could have stopped your husband from going after Eddie?”

  She’d asked herself the same question a thousand times. “Maybe not. But I should at least have known the risks he was running. I could have urged him to be more careful.”

  “Sugar, all the warnings in the world can’t stop a man from doing his job.”

  Their eyes met. “Or keep him safe?” Clare asked bleakly.

  Awareness darkened his eyes. “Or keep him safe,” Matt agreed steadily.

  “I think I would have felt better if I’d been prepared somehow,” Clare confessed over the thrumming of her heart. “Paul didn’t like to discuss his work.”

  “Yeah? How old were you when you got married?”

  “Young. Twenty.”

  “God.” She’d startled him. “I thought girls like you waited.”

  Did he need to make her sound like some convent-bred virgin abstaining from sex? She lifted her brows. “Waited for what?”

  He waved his hand. “To finish college. Start a career. Travel to Europe. Twenty’s a little young to take on a husband and tackle the world, sugar.”

  His words lightened the burden on her heart, but she refused to accept his absolution. “Age is no excuse. I should have insisted that he talk to me.”

  Matt moved his shoulders uncomfortably. “Maybe he didn’t feel he had the right to lay all that on you.”

  “Of course he had the right. He was my husband.”

  “So maybe he felt he should take care of you. How old was he?”

  Confused, she asked, “When we married? Twenty-eight.”

  “Eight years is a big spread between partners. I’ve had rookies assigned to me that were closer in age than that. He probably figured he was protecting you, keeping quiet.”

  “That’s not what I want,” Clare said firmly. She tilted her head, regarding him. “What’s your excuse? How old are you, cowboy?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  Clare grinned at his defensive tone. “Slow starter?”

  He put back his head and laughed. “No. Maybe I was just waiting for you.”

  The sweetness of his words washed over her. She didn’t know if they were true. But they filled a place in her heart that had been empty a very long time.

  Their eyes locked. Setting down the frame, Matt reached for her. Willingly, Clare went into his arms. Her shirt lay discarded at her feet. With one hand, Matt tugged open his own shirt, pulling her closer, bringing her breasts into contact with his warm, muscled chest.

  Clare had never figured her plain white cotton bra could be erotic. But when Matt held her upper arms, brushing against her, she had to close her eyes at the exquisite sensations he created. Her hips gravitated naturally against his, feeding her arousal, feeling his.

  She might pride herself on her practical underwear, her self reliance and sense, but body to body with Matt she felt small and soft and completely feminine. His torso was broad and hard. She liked the heat of his skin, the tickle of his body hair against the skin of her chest and belly, the scents of soap and sweat and man.

  His afternoon beard brushed the side of her face. His lips followed, smooth and slick. He rubbed them over her mouth, and she welcomed him inside.

  The assurances they could not give each other in words, they bestowed in gentle, generous caresses. Kiss followed kiss. Her skirt sighed to the floor. His large hands roamed, kneading her back and buttocks.

  “The soup?” she managed to ask, tugging at his buckle.

  “I turned off the stove,” he answered, stringing a line of little bites along her collarbone.

  She shuddered, tilting her neck to grant him better access. “That’s one nice thing about being involved with a cop.”

  He lifted his head. “What?”

  She pressed her open mouth against his throat and felt his groan. “You’re very—” it was her turn to sigh as he shifted her, handily dispensing with the front closure on her bra to stroke the hardened tip of her breast “—thorough.”
/>
  “Yeah. They train us not to...” His hand toyed and teased until he was rewarded with her moan “...miss anything.”

  The sun poured through the window, painting them in amber light, veiling them in warmth. He dipped his head to suckle her breast, and the muscles of her womb contracted. His skin was smooth under her hands, his body hair excitingly rough. Her lips parted as her breath quickened.

  He murmured encouragement. “Sweet baby. Pretty Clare. You make me hot, you know it?”

  She knew. She gloried in the knowledge. Together, they ached and moved and trembled. Right before her knees buckled, Matt nudged her to the narrow white bed and followed her down. The soft mattress sank beneath their combined weight. She rolled a little into him. He took delicious advantage, turning on his side, tugging her thigh up and over his so that he pressed firmly against her.

  She gasped.

  “Sore?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “No-o.”

  He chuckled.

  He was gentle with her. They were tender with each other. She admired him with her fingertips, so solid, so male, intricately and marvelously made. Unbelievable that a bullet could stop the strong heart that beat under her palm, the pulse that raced under her lips. Unthinkable.

  And yet after they’d made love, after the slowly built heat melted and consumed her and light splintered the darkness behind her closed lids, she did think about it. The notion terrified her.

  Bodies warm, relaxed, replete, they lay as close, or nearly as close, as two people could get. Her arm sprawled across his chest. His shoulder pillowed her head. Her damp thigh still covered one of his.

  Into the comfort and closeness, her worries crowded like weeds in a flower bed.

  She’d been married before, and widowed, Clare reminded herself. She’d not only experienced love, she knew what it was to lose and feel lost. In the painful weeks and months after Paul’s death, she’d drifted in grief. She’d seized on her vendetta against Boothe, clinging to her project like a spar.

  But it had changed her. As she’d discovered and pursued a new purpose in her life, she had become a different person, with correspondingly deeper feelings. What she felt now with Matt was so intense it frightened her. They were joined in some fundamental way. He was her equal, her other half. If she lost him, she would feel her own flesh tear away.