On Dangerous Ground

If you care about me, you’ll let me go.

The memory of the words she’d spoken that night six months ago assaulted him like sniper fire. She had taught him what it was like to want. To feel helpless. To hurt. He stabbed his fingers through his hair. He didn’t need this. He had let her go. He was over her. Why the hell was he even allowing her presence to bother him?

“All right,” he said, forcing his mind back to the problem at hand. “Whitebear’s DNA was on Benjamin’s dress. Because of that, I doubt Griffin thought his client’s protests of innocence held any weight. But then, we’ll never know since the esteemed public defender died in a car wreck a month after Whitebear got shipped to the pen.”

Grant settled back in his chair and forced mental chess pieces to move in his Scotch-soaked brain. “There’s another angle we haven’t talked about,” he said after a moment. “Ellis killed Mavis Benjamin. His twin killed Carmen Peña. It’s a stretch, but anything’s possible at this point.”

Sky nodded slowly. “You’re right.”

Just then, a grizzled, retired detective with a gray beard stopped by the table. He nodded, then spent a few minutes reminiscing about the time he and Sam cornered a do-wrong inside Uncle Willie’s Donut Shop.

When the detective moved off, Grant felt the now-familiar drag of grief over his partner’s death. “Dammit, Sam.”

He wasn’t aware he’d spoken the words until he saw Sky’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, Grant. I know you’re upset about Sam. The last thing you need right now is a mess like this. But both of these cases were yours and Sam’s…yours now. I couldn’t put off coming to you any longer.”

“Yeah.” Because he was tempted to reach out and smooth his fingers across the strain at the corners of her eyes, Grant balled his hands on the table. She had drawn Whitebear’s blood from the man’s arm, performed tests, testified in court to her findings. Her word had helped put Whitebear on death row. It was now possible a different man should be in that cell, and Carmen Peña was dead because he wasn’t.

If that was true, the press would have a field day with mistaken-identity stories. Not to mention make chopped liver out of both his and Sky’s careers along the way. For his part, the idea of getting shipped to Larceny to investigate lawnmower thefts held little appeal.

Grant heard the clatter of more coins going down the jukebox’s slot. A heartbeat later, a low, weepy love song drifted on the air and the dance floor filled.

As he watched couples glide together in the shadowed light, it hit him that the need to hold Sky in his arms was just as sharp now as it had been six months ago. His jaw locked when he realized he was actually sitting there, thinking about asking her to dance. Damning himself for being the biggest kind of idiot, he tightened his grip on control and shifted his thoughts squarely back to business.

“What’s your next step on the blood?”

She met his gaze. “The first thing I need to do is have the suspect samples from both crime scenes checked at another lab,” she said, her voice void of emotion. “I’ll package them in the morning and take them to the OSBI,” she said, referring to the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation.

“Do you have to tell them what’s going on?”

“No. We always use code numbers on the evidence that refers to the case, not the suspect’s name. All the OSBI chemist will know is that we need DNA profiles on both samples.”

“How long will it take to get the results?”

“Three to four days. Five, max.”

Grant looked at the Scotch bottle, acknowledging that his mind was too fogged to develop a game plan right now. With an inward sigh, he swept his gaze upward. “Sorry, Sam, the wake’s over.” He pulled his money clip out of his pocket, peeled off a couple of bills, then tossed them on the table.

“I need to sort this out,” he said, meeting Sky’s waiting gaze. “I’m going home to hot coffee and a cold shower.” And an empty bed. Biting back a swell of frustration, he conceded that what he most needed was to get the hell away from her.

He shoved back his chair, rose and instantly felt the room spin. “Holy hell.” He slapped a palm against the table to keep his balance and waved his other hand toward the bottle. “Stuff’s as bad as swamp muck.”

“Worse, I’d say,” Sky countered. “I don’t think swamp muck makes your eyes cross like that.” Rising, she folded his suit coat over her arm while giving him an appraising inspection. “You’re plowed, Pierce.”

“That was my objective.”

“And in no shape to drive.”

He grinned. “Next thing you know, Milano, they’ll be giving you an award for observation.” Dragging in a deep breath, he waited until the room righted itself. It did…barely. “I’ll call a cab.”

“You don’t need to. I can give you a lift.”

He stared down at her, surprised she’d offered. They’d been at his house that last time they were together. Grant knew if he slid into a car beside her, the minute they pulled into the gated drive that led to his family’s estate he would remember how her kisses tasted, how soft her cheek felt against his cupped hand. Remember, too, the panic that had shot into her eyes when his arms had tightened around her. The absolute paleness that had settled in her skin. The choked sound of her voice when she’d told him goodbye.

If you care about me, you’ll let me go.

Dammit, he had done both.

Keeping his eyes locked with hers, he took a step forward. “Do you really think your taking me home is a good idea?”

“I don’t know.” She raised a hand as if to press her palm against his arm. He saw the hesitation in her eyes, then her fingers slowly curled and she lowered her arm. “Grant, I think we should at least try to be friends.”

“We already made a stab at that,” he said, frustration hardening his voice. She couldn’t even bring herself to touch him. How the hell had he ever expected her to give herself to him? “It didn’t work.”

“We tried being more than friends.”

Without thinking, he raised his hand, traced his fingertip along the soft curve of her jaw. Staring into the depths of those blue eyes, he found himself stupidly pleased when she didn’t shrink from his touch.

“Sweetheart, there’s not a chance I’ll forget what we tried,” he said softly. He saw the instant flush that rose in her cheeks, caught the jump of the pulse in her throat, felt his own pulse respond in kind. He damned himself for giving her the power to shoot such searing need into his system.

As he lifted his suit coat off her arm, he looked over his shoulder at the bartender. “Mind calling me a cab?”

“Sure thing.”

Grant turned back. Sky’s expression was now controlled, emotionless. Her chemist’s face. “I’ll call when I get the results from the OSBI,” she said quietly.

“Fine.”

He watched her turn, watched her sleek gait take her around the dance floor and into the alcove. Then she was gone.

Standing beneath the rotating red beacon of the overhead bubble light, Grant ruthlessly kept control in place to keep from going after her. She was the first woman he had thought about a future with, the first woman who had really mattered. The first to reject him. Pride was as strong as the hurt he’d endured when she walked away six months ago. Pride had kept him from seeking her out. Kept him from begging for whatever scraps of her life she would agree to give him.

He jerked on his suit coat, then shoved his fists into his pockets. Damn if he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.

Chapter 2

Hand unsteady, Sky rang the doorbell on the elegant Tudor brick house that sat bathed in silver moonlight. She was barely aware of the white roses that tumbled out of a massive planter near the door, paid no attention to their sweet scent that hung in the warm summer air. Two hours had passed since she’d walked out of the FOP club—away from Grant—and every nerve in her body was still scrambled.

So much for well-laid plans. Facing him had been hard. More difficult than she thought it could ever be. She had rehearsed everything in her mind before she walked into the club. Knew exactly what to say about the results of the DNA profiles. Had fought to keep her voice steady.

Nothing inside her had stayed steady, she conceded while she waited in the overlapping puddles of light from the carriage lamps bordering the house’s massive front door. She closed her eyes, picturing again the sight of Grant nursing his drink in a dim corner of the club. His thick, sandy hair had been rumpled, his broad shoulders bent as if they carried the weight of the world. His chiseled features had been set, remote. Yet, when he’d raised his head to meet her gaze, his eyes had been full of the pain of his partner’s death.

Just one look and he had shaken her off balance.

She thought she had grown stronger over the past six months. Maybe she had in other areas, but she still had few defenses where Grant Pierce was concerned. She needed those defenses. God, did she need them.

From somewhere behind her, a sharp, metallic click sounded on the still night air. Sky’s scalp prickled, followed by a jolt of sheer terror. Years of self-defense training kicked in; she raised her arms and whirled. The screech that followed could have doubled for the tornado warning siren.

“Good grief, Sigmund!” Sky stared down at twelve pounds of gray, outraged tomcat whose fur and tail were standing straight on end. “Sorry I stepped on your tail,” she muttered after her heart unfroze in her chest. How did you explain to a cat that she’d mistaken the metallic click of its tags with the snick of a switchblade shooting out of a hilt? The all-too-real memory of that sound echoed in her head, had her swallowing back bile.

Just then, the front door swung open and she jolted.

“Sky, what a pleasant surprise,” Dr. Judith Mirren commented in a soft voice that carried the faintest hint of her native Louisiana. Her searching gaze swept past Sky’s shoulder. “Please tell me it wasn’t you who just howled like a banshee.”

Sky pushed away the chilling memories that had surged from her past. “Sigmund snuck up on me and I stepped on his tail.” She motioned toward the shadowy porch rail where the cat now sat staring with regal feline disdain, tail twitching as if it had electrodes attached.

“No harm done, I’m sure,” Dr. Mirren said, pulling the door open wider. “Come in.”

The woman’s brown eyes were kind—and sharp. At sixty, she had settled comfortably into middle age, the lines on her face revealing a quiet intelligence that came only with experiencing life. Her hair was a mix of honey-brown and gray, scooped up in a loose topknot. She wore trim black slacks and a chic linen blouse the color of storm clouds.

Sky gave an apologetic smile. “I should have called first.”

“Nonsense. This evening’s group left about ten minutes ago,” the doctor said as she stepped back to let Sky in. “I was considering making myself a latte, but Richard’s out of town and I didn’t want to drink one alone. Now I don’t have to.”

“I didn’t plan on dropping by,” Sky explained as she entered the large wood-paneled foyer with glossy pine floors. “I went for a drive and somehow wound up here.”

Dr. Mirren arched an eyebrow. Wordlessly she shut the door and nodded toward a wide doorway. “Make yourself comfortable in the study. I’ll be back with our lattes.”

“Need some help?”

“Thank you, no. I’ll just be a minute.”

Sky walked across the entry and into the room where she had spent every Monday evening for the past six months. The study was warm and vibrant with thick rugs, polished brasses and solidly constructed furniture. Faint wisps of lavender haunted the air. Always before, the mood of the room soothed, but tonight Sky was as taut as a coiled spring and the feeling had nothing to do with her close encounter with Sigmund.

Her fingertips grazed the top of the inviting tobacco-brown rolled-arm sofa. She’d sat here and told people she barely knew about the terrifying event that had altered the course of her life. Related intimate details she could not share with Grant, not after the way she’d humiliated herself that last time they were together.

Getting involved with him had been wrong, so unfair. She had hurt him—not intentionally, but she’d hurt him all the same. Now he would rather take a cab than climb into a car with her. The knowledge made her want to weep.

“Here we are,” Dr. Mirren said as she swept through the arched entrance, bringing with her two oversize cups and the heady scent of rich coffee.

“It smells wonderful,” Sky said, accepting the cup the doctor offered.

“Let’s hope it tastes that way. I’ve only had the espresso maker a week, so I’m still practicing.” Smiling, she sat in a leather wing chair on the opposite side of the rug that spread a soft pattern along the wood floor. She blew across the rim of her cup, then sipped. “Not bad.”

Sky settled on the sofa. “It’s perfect,” she said, savoring the creamy heat that slid down her throat.

“You mentioned you went for a drive and somehow wound up here.” As usual, the psychiatrist took little time getting to the heart of a matter. “Did something happen tonight?”

“I saw Grant.”

“A date?”

“Hardly. I had to tell him about the results of a comparison on DNA found at two of his homicide cases.”

“Did you go to his home to tell him?”

“No.” Although she’d made only a few vague references about her relationship with Grant to the Monday-night group, she had told Dr. Mirren all the details during their private sessions. “I wouldn’t have the nerve to just show up and knock on the door. Grant’s partner died of a heart attack, and the funeral was this afternoon. I knew he’d gone to the FOP club, so I went there.” She lifted a shoulder. “A mistake.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s a social setting. We don’t have that kind of relationship anymore. Never will have again.”

“Could you have waited until tomorrow to tell him about the DNA results?” Dr. Mirren asked, her eyes meeting Sky’s over the rim of her cup.

“I suppose. He needed to know, though.”

“I’m sure,” the doctor said agreeably, as if they were discussing the weather. “Could you have put this information in a memo?”

Sky tightened her grip on the cup’s ceramic handle. “I have to do that, too.”

“So, you chose to face this man.”

“I don’t know why. We’ve had no contact in six months.” That hadn’t stopped a greasy pool of jealousy from churning in her belly when the waitress at the FOP club put the moves on Grant. Sky chewed her lower lip. It had taken everything she had to sit there while the temptation to deck the woman passed.

She set her cup on the thick wood coffee table in front of the sofa. Too unsettled to stay put, she rose and walked to the leaded-glass windows that spanned one wall of the paneled study. Outside, an obviously recovered Sigmund scuttled full speed across the porch after a fluttering moth.

“I think I decided to tell Grant in person because of how he looked at Sam’s funeral,” Sky said after a moment. “So miserable. Alone.”

She’d felt the same way, and it hadn’t had anything to do with Sam’s death. Seeing Grant at the cemetery had sent memories storming through her. Of the stolen lunches they’d managed in the midst of a grueling serial killer task force they’d both been assigned to. His nightly phone calls when his deep, husky voice slid like velvet across her senses. The department’s Christmas dance when she’d first found the courage to step into his arms. The few tentative kisses that had sent need whipping through her. An intimate restaurant where violins stroked as soft as a lover’s touch, then later at his house when he’d pulled her to him and the rich male taste of his mouth swept her teetering toward the edge of control. Seconds later, her stomach had knotted, her lungs refused to work and she’d almost hyperventilated from the feeling of being trapped, with no way out. No way to save herself—though there’d been nothing to save herself from. On the heels of that panicked terror had come the agonizing realization that, no matter how much she wanted to—longed to—give herself to him, she couldn’t.

Now those memories gained strength, slamming into her so hard, so unexpectedly, that Sky found herself blinking back tears. She felt acid in her throat as humiliation pooled inside her.

“I wish…” She paused and steadied her voice. “I wish that night with Grant had never happened.”

“Sky, listen to me.” Dr. Mirren sat forward, her eyes sharp and knowing. “The rape you experienced in college was violent and sadistic, and it cut through the core of your existence. To make matters worse, the therapist the college sent you to was inept. If he hadn’t eventually lost his license, I would personally hunt him down and make a professional eunuch of him.”

Sky stared in silence, surprised by the woman’s candor.

“Because of his incompetence,” Dr. Mirren continued, “you never had a chance to properly deal with the attack. Certainly you healed physically from the knife wound. You became skilled in self-defense so you can now protect yourself if necessary.”

“Right. I can take down most any man,” Sky shot back. “I just can’t let one love me.” She gave her head a frustrated shake. “My hormones were in full swing that night with Grant. I wanted. Oh, God, I wanted…” Her voice trailed off. “I just couldn’t.”

“Because you repressed your feelings about the rape, denied your emotions and blocked the experience so you could function and get on with your life. Everything boiled to the surface while you were with Grant and you reacted very strongly.”

“I almost upchucked on his shoes,” Sky said miserably. “How’s that for impressing a man who wants to make love to you?”

“It makes you human. And memorable.”

“I’ll say.” Sky tried a smile, but it didn’t gel. “Grant mentioned tonight he won’t ever forget that particular experience.”

“Will you?”

“Not a chance.”

“It appears it affected you both equally.”

“Him worse. I hurt him.” As if chilled, Sky wrapped her arms around her waist. “When the panic hit me, I could barely even get out the words to make Grant understand I’d been raped in college. I could hardly breathe, much less give him details about the attack. He asked me to stay with him, just stay with him so he could hold me. All he wanted was to be there for me.” She closed her eyes. “I couldn’t let him. Couldn’t trust myself not to fall apart again. I still can’t,” she added softly.

“Don’t be so sure.” Dr. Mirren set her cup aside. “You’ve done admirably over the past months coming to grips with the trauma of the rape and its aftermath. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve begun to make some small changes in your life.”

“Changes?”

“Your glasses, for instance,” Dr. Mirren said. “Until a few weeks ago, you wore large glasses with tortoiseshell frames.”

Baffled, Sky nodded. She’d chosen the understated wire-rims on impulse during her last visit to the eye doctor. Even ordered a pair of contacts, which she now wore almost as often as her glasses. “My vision changed and I needed a new prescription, that’s all.”

“Instead of frames that conceal a large portion of your face—your looks—you chose an attractive pair that draw attention to you, not away. A man’s attention, perhaps.”

Sky felt her spine stiffen. “I don’t want men to notice me.”

“For years you haven’t. Now that you’ve begun dealing with the rape, your outer self is changing. Your clothes are different, too. You’re wearing black today probably because you attended a funeral, but you wear more colorful clothes than you did when you first started therapy.”

“My wardrobe needed updating.” Sky turned and stared out the window at the glowing ball of the full moon. A month or so ago, she had walked into her closet and found herself grimacing at all of the blacks, browns and grays. On a whim she’d taken a rare day off from the lab, gone to the mall and spent hundreds of dollars on a new, colorful wardrobe. She’d had no idea what prompted the trip, just that all that blandness had suddenly made her feel edgy and unsettled. Restless.

Just like she felt tonight.

She turned. Dr. Mirren had remained in the high-back leather chair, looking her usual calm and serene self. “Okay, so maybe I’m no longer hiding behind big glasses and drab colors,” Sky conceded. “There’s some things I can’t change. And one of those is my relationship with Grant.”

“You faced him tonight.” Eyes filled with ready understanding, Dr. Mirren folded her neat hands in her lap. “You could have sent him a memo about your DNA findings, or even phoned. Instead, you went to him.”

“On business. I had to tell him about the DNA.”

“You don’t have to explain why, Sky. You just need to understand that for years your life has been focused on your work. Now you may be ready to also focus on a relationship. When, and if, you act on that is up to you.”

Massaging her right temple, Sky paced the length of the built-in shelves where antique decoys nested amid leather volumes. The ache that had settled in her head while she’d been at the FOP club had transformed into a throb.

Before she met Grant Pierce, she had felt so in control. So content with her life. So safe.

Her hand slid slowly down her cheek; she pressed her palm against her jaw where his fingertips had skimmed. When he first walked into her life, everything about him—his sinfully handsome face, burnt-whiskey voice and roguish reputation—had tempted her to turn tail and run. Nevertheless, she’d stayed put. Told herself she’d healed completely. Refused to acknowledge the inner wariness that spiked inside her whenever Grant got too close. For the first time since the rape, she had wanted a man.

As much as he’d wanted her.

Too late she learned the monster from her past still had her in its grip.

Now, according to Dr. Mirren, that monster was breathing its last breath.

Sky dragged air into her lungs that should have cleansed, but didn’t. She knew there was no way she could trust that she had truly closed the door on the past. No way to be sure the monster wouldn’t spring back to life.

No way she could risk doing anything about the searing need for Grant that still burned inside her.

Leaning back, feet propped on his desk, Grant listened intently to the party on the other end of the telephone. It had taken him five days to track down this lead that could be a starting point at locating Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother. Finally he was getting somewhere.

The next instant, Grant’s eyes widened. “Are you sure about that?”

“Positive. Ellis Whitebear became a ward of the State of Texas at the age of two months when his mother gave him up for adoption.”

“I need to take a look at those records.”

“They’re sealed. I suggest you direct any questions about his family history to Mr. Whitebear himself.”

Grant muttered a few choice words under his breath. Adopted. Sealed records. Mystery DNA. How much better could this get?

“Did you say something, Sergeant Pierce?”

“Nothing you’d want to hear.” Grant swung his feet onto the floor and started searching for the name he’d jotted on a yellow sticky note. “Look, Mrs….”

“Kanawa.”

“Mrs. Kanawa, Ellis Whitebear is sitting on death row at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. I helped put him there. He’s not likely to schmooze with me about his relatives. Besides, the information he gave to the Department of Corrections doesn’t mention anything about being adopted. Which means Whitebear may not even know about it, much less the details of his birth family.”

“That’s highly possible.”

“More like probable,” Grant added. “Mrs. Kanawa, I called you with what I thought was a routine request for information. I figured you could check Whitebear’s birth certificate and read me his parents’ names. Then I planned to ask if you could check for a birth certificate for his twin brother. Now you’re talking about adoption and sealed files.”