Bulletproof Hearts

“Do you?” she asked. “Learn to live with them, I mean?”

“There’s nothing else you can do,” he told her. What he wanted to do was to offer comfort and understanding. He knew how hard it was to face the darkness alone, and he wished he could spare her that.

Objectivity, he reminded himself, and took a mental step back.

“All right. Let’s get through your questions.”

He pulled the chair from behind the desk and straddled it, facing her. “What time did you receive the phone call?”

“Twelve-twenty.”

“You’re sure about that?”

She nodded. “I’d fallen asleep. The first thing I did when I heard the phone ringing was look at the clock.”

“Did the caller identify himself?”

“Didn’t we cover all this already?”

“I want to go over it again, to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

She sighed.

“Did the caller identify himself?” he asked again.

“Not right away.”

“But he did give you his name?” Dylan prompted.

She paused, frowning. “No.”

“Then why did you assume it was Roger Merrick?”

“Because he talked about making a deal, and when I said he should talk to his lawyer, he said Hawkins couldn’t help him. I guessed his identity, and when I called him by name, he didn’t deny it.”

“But he didn’t confirm it, either.”

Her frown deepened. “No.”

“How did you know where to find him?”

“He gave me the address and I scribbled it down while I was on the phone with him.” She rose and moved toward the desk, her knee brushing against his thigh. Silk against denim, yet the brief contact sparked like flint on steel.

She froze, her wary gaze locking with his for just a second. But in that brief moment of connection, he saw it in her eyes: awareness, attraction. Then she turned away, rustled through her briefcase.

Dylan had to remind himself to breathe, to remember the purpose for his visit. He was here to do his job—it was his only hope of getting justice for Beth.

She handed him a single page with the hotel insignia at the top. He gave it only a cursory glance.

“That’s the address he gave me,” she told him.

“The address the caller gave you,” he amended.

“That’s what I said.” She picked up her glass again, her fingers trembling slightly. Was she shaken by their brief contact—or was her nervousness a result of the topic of their conversation?

It didn’t matter—he was here to investigate Merrick, not the A.D.A. The reminder didn’t cool his hormones, but it at least focused his thoughts. “What if I told you that Roger Merrick didn’t make that phone call?”

“But—but I spoke to him.”

“Had you ever spoken to him before?”

Natalie shook her head. “Why would I?”

He ignored her question to ask another of his own. “How long did it take you to get to Merrick’s apartment after you left here?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t remember.”

“Approximately?”

She shrugged. “Twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour.”

He’d followed the route earlier that evening. It had taken twenty-two minutes to drive from the hotel parking lot to the front door of Merrick’s apartment building.

“Did you leave your room as soon as you got off the phone?”

“No.” She studied the contents of her glass rather than meeting his gaze. “I tried calling you first. And when I didn’t get an answer…”

She hesitated, and he thought he saw a touch of color rise in her cheeks.

“When I stopped to think about it, I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of driving across town at that time of night on my own,” she admitted. “It took me a few minutes to talk myself into it.”

The embarrassment, the hint of vulnerability, made him want to reach out to her, to offer comfort and reassurance. But he wasn’t her friend, he was a cop—and he needed to act like a cop. “A few minutes—five? Ten?”

“Maybe ten.”

“Which would put you at his apartment by one o’clock?”

“I guess so.”

He nodded. He’d been paged about fifteen minutes later, which corroborated her version of events. Almost.

He folded his arms over the back of the chair, his eyes locked on her. “I just don’t understand why Merrick would ask you to meet him on the other side of town if he was already here.”

Natalie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We checked the hotel’s phone records,” he told her.

“And?”

“The call that came into this room was made from one of the courtesy phones in the lobby.”

Chapter 4

Natalie shook her head, refused to believe it.

“Not only that,” Creighton continued, oblivious to the effect his words had on her. “But preliminary reports from the ME indicate that Merrick was killed sometime between 10:00 and 11:00 p.m. In any event, he was dead before you received that call.”

“Th-that’s not possible.”

“Science doesn’t lie,” he said.

It took a minute for the implications of what he was saying to sink in. She drew in a deep breath, determined not to reveal the hurt. “And if science doesn’t lie, you think I am.”

“I don’t disregard any possibility.”

She pushed her hair away from her face and realized her hand was trembling. She curled her fingers into a fist to hide this evidence of weakness. She was not weak. She was upset and tired, and she’d been ambushed in her own hotel room. But the mental reassurance did little to calm her quivering nerves.

If what he said was true, who had made that phone call? Why? And why did he think she was lying?

“What possible reason could I have to lie about this?”

He shrugged. “People lie to the police all the time.”

“I’m not ‘people,’” she said coolly. “I’m an assistant district attorney. We’re on the same side.”

“Are we?”

She felt her heart sink. After his actions in her office the other day, she’d begun to think he might be an ally. Her mistake. Again. “What are you implying, Lieutenant?”

“I’m not implying anything,” he denied. “I just want to make sure I have all the facts straight in this investigation.”

“Then why are you badgering me instead of investigating?”

“Because you’ve somehow ended up in the middle of this damn case.”

“Not by choice.”

Creighton was silent for a long moment. “Willingly or not,” he finally conceded, “you’ve been drawn into it. Why?”

“How should I know? It’s not like I wanted to walk into that apartment and find a dead body.” She shuddered as the image of that brutalized body flashed in her mind again. Far worse than the sight was the smell that continued to haunt her—the sickly sweet scent of violent death and fresh blood.

“Someone wanted you to,” he said. “That’s the only other reason I can think of for that phone call you received.”

“Or maybe the ME miscalculated. Maybe it really was Roger Merrick who called, and maybe he really wanted to give me information in exchange for a deal.”

“Merrick didn’t make that phone call.”

Natalie stood up, crossed over to the window. It had started to rain, and the heavy drops lashed ferociously against the window, streaking down the cold glass like angry tears. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the inky sky.

She hated storms, always had, but she’d learned the only way to overcome her fears was to face them. She continued to stare into the darkness of the night as the low rumble of thunder sounded somewhere in the distance.

More unnerving even than the threat of the storm were the implications of Creighton’s assertion. She didn’t want to believe him. She didn’t want to consider that anyone other than Merrick had made that phone call, because if she did, she’d have to consider why. And she didn’t like any of the possibilities.

“I don’t even know anyone in this town,” she said softly. “Why me?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he told her.

She nodded. As much as she wanted to stay angry with him—to have a target for the frustration inside her—she knew it wasn’t his fault. She only wished he’d give her the same consideration.

She continued to stare out the window. The rain continued to batter at the glass. She wished Jack was here. She wanted nothing more than to put her arms around him and hold him close. She wanted—needed—the comfort only the presence of her child could give.

But Jack was in Chicago, and she was here, alone. So incredibly alone.

Unbidden, tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked fiercely, determined not to yield to the array of emotions overwhelming her. Shannon had always accused her of being too emotional. Natalie couldn’t deny it was true. Nor could she deny that following her heart had only led to misery. But she’d learned her lesson, and if she couldn’t always control her feelings, at least she’d learned to harness them. She wasn’t going to yield to them now.

Despite this assertion, a single tear slipped free, tracked slowly down her cheek. She brushed it away impatiently.

“Natalie?”

She started. His voice was close, too close, behind her. More startling than his proximity was the realization that this was the first time he’d ever spoken her name. And in that low husky tone, the single word sounded incredibly intimate.

Then he touched her. Just a hand on her shoulder, but the simple gesture of comfort completely obliterated her defenses.

“I didn’t mean to come down on you so hard,” he said gruffly.

She just shrugged, her throat too tight to speak.

“I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

She nodded.

Dissatisfied with this nonverbal response, he settled both his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. She was too close to the edge, too close to losing the control she prized so highly, so she kept her head averted, the fall of hair curtaining her face.

It was a mistake to believe he’d respect such a physical barrier. If she’d learned anything about Lieutenant Creighton in the past couple of days, it was that he could be relentless. She’d forgotten that he could also be considerate, as when he’d taken her for breakfast rather than sending her away from the murder scene alone. And when he’d come to her defense against Randolph Hawkins.

He was both relentless and gentle now, the finger under her chin forcing her head up, the eyes that met hers filled with compassion. “I am sorry.”

Two more tears slid down her cheeks. Very gently, he brushed them away. Natalie blinked, startled by the tenderness of the gesture, alarmed by the undeniable urge to lean into him, to seek shelter in his strength. She didn’t want or need his comfort. She didn’t need anything from any man.

But she couldn’t pull away. The intensity of his gaze held her immobile. She’d never seen eyes so dark, so warm, so achingly blue. He took a step closer. Their bodies weren’t quite touching, but she could feel the heat emanating from him and the awareness that crackled in the air between them.

As impossible as it seemed, his eyes grew even darker. She recognized his desire, it was echoed in her own heart. But she couldn’t acknowledge it, couldn’t respond to it. Giving in to the inexplicable attraction she felt for this man would be more dangerous than walking into the electrical storm outside with a lightning rod.

But the logic of her mind was silenced by the yearning of her heart. When his gaze dropped to her mouth, her lips tingled with wanting. He tilted his head toward her, and she felt her blood pulse slow and heavy through her veins. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She could only want. And she desperately wanted his kiss.

The sudden and unexpected crack outside the window made her jump. It also snapped the thread of tension that seemed to have woven around the lieutenant and herself, allowing her to breathe once again and to fully appreciate the recklessness of what she’d almost allowed to happen.

“It’s just thunder,” he said soothingly, reaching for her again.

The reasonableness of his tone infuriated her almost as much as the childishness of her own reaction. “I know it’s just thunder,” she snapped back. “I just don’t like storms very much.”

She turned away and wrenched the curtains across the window. If only she could shut away her emotions as easily.

At least the booming intrusion had reminded her of the situation, of her need for self-preservation. She didn’t want to let this cop get close, to resurrect feelings she’d long since buried. Creighton, however, didn’t appear to be giving her any choice in the matter. That realization, more than anything else, fortified her defenses. She wasn’t going to be any man’s pawn.

“I wasn’t making fun of you, Natalie.” His tone was still patient, understanding. “Everyone has fears.”

“Forget it,” she said stiffly. “I’m not usually this thin-skinned—it’s just been a rough couple of days.”

“I’d say that’s an understatement.”

She shrugged again. “I’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

“Maybe,” he acknowledged. “But I don’t think you’ll get it here.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because whoever placed that phone call knows you’re here,” Dylan reminded her.

“You said the call was made from the lobby. Whoever called was in the hotel, not in my room.”

“If he got that far, it’s not a stretch to think he could go farther.”

“This is a reputable hotel with good security. If someone is determined to find me, I don’t see how I’ll be safer anywhere else.”

“You could register at another hotel under a false name.”

“I’m not going into hiding.”

“You could be in danger, Natalie.”

He was doing it again—using her given name, implying a camaraderie she didn’t want, wasn’t willing to acknowledge. “Make up your mind, Lieutenant. One minute you’re practically accusing me of working with the bad guys—the next, you’re suggesting I’m their target.”

“I know you’re not involved—” He broke off abruptly. “Dammit, I don’t know you’re not involved. I don’t know you, or anything about you. And I’ve been a cop long enough to know that prematurely ruling out any possibility is dangerous.”

Well, that clearly set the battle lines again. She felt an uncomfortable sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, a sense of loss she didn’t understand.

Creighton drew a deep breath, raked a hand through his already unruly hair. “But I don’t believe you’re involved. I saw you in Merrick’s apartment. I know how that scene affected you. You wouldn’t have reacted that way if you’d had any part in making it happen.”

She didn’t know why his statement filled her with such relief. It shouldn’t matter to her what he thought, but for some inexplicable reason it did. Determined to ignore her internal response, she tried a wry smile. “Then I should be grateful I have a weak stomach?”

“You should be cautious.”

“I am,” she told him. “And right now I’m tired. Can we table this conversation to a later date so I can get some sleep tonight?”

He hesitated, as if he intended to pursue the topic further, but then he nodded. “All right.” He took a business card out of his pocket and held it toward her.

“You already gave me one,” she reminded him.

“This one has my home number on it. If you can’t get me on my cell, try me there.”

“I don’t think—”

“Use it,” he said, placing the card in her hand. “Anytime.”

But Natalie wouldn’t call, and Dylan knew it.

He knew it when he left her hotel room, and he was even more sure of it the following morning when he selected the dumbbells for his biceps curls. He often started his day with a workout as he found physical exertion usually helped clear his mind. Of course, he usually started his day with more than three hours of sleep. And he usually didn’t have a woman lurking in the back of his mind.

No matter how hard he tried to banish Natalie from his thoughts, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He couldn’t stop wondering why her apparent uninterest bothered him so much.

He dropped the dumbbells back into the rack and moved to the leg press.

Because she wasn’t uninterested, dammit. He’d felt the crackle of awareness between them in that hotel room. He’d seen the flare of desire in the stormy depths of her blue-green eyes as he’d lowered his head to kiss her. And he’d seen, just as visibly, how she’d shut her emotions away and distanced herself from him.

He should be grateful she’d had the sense to back away from a potentially volatile situation. A situation that he’d created despite the knowledge that any kind of personal relationship between them was a bad idea. But he wasn’t feeling grateful, only annoyed and incredibly frustrated.

He adjusted the weight on the machine and began his repetitions with a vengeance.

“Someone’s in a mood this morning.”

Dylan glanced up at Joel Logan, a local private investigator and longtime friend. “I haven’t seen you around here in a while,” he said, opting to ignore Joel’s comment.

“I’m a newlywed,” his friend reminded him. “I’ve found more enjoyable forms of exercise to start my day.”

He deliberately let the weights slam together again.

“Tough case you’re working on?”

“Not really.”

“Then what’s put you in such a mood?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my mood,” Dylan denied.

Joel shrugged and sat down at the rowing machine. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say you don’t want to talk about it.”

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