Never Say Never Again

She skimmed the news story. These guys really should get themselves some new sources. Most of the time they were so far off the mark—

Her eye caught on something and she traced her finger back up to the top of the section.

“This afternoon Senior U.S. Attorney Bernard Leighton has named junior attorney D.C. Dennis Burns to head up the investigation…”

Bronte leapt up so quickly, she nearly knocked over her chair.

No…it couldn’t be. Pryka was her case. She’d been the one Robbins had come to wanting to testify against her Serbian-by-birth ex-boyfriend for myriad criminal activities, not limited to but including the smuggling of illegal explosives into the country, purportedly for a third-party terrorist organization. She’d been the one who had nervously made her case before the attorney general to get Robbins accepted into the witness protection program. She had even begun doing some fancy footwork on how best to shore up the hole left by Melissa Robbins’s death—first and foremost, by putting a call into the FBI agents who had been working the case much longer than she had, trying to finger Pryka as being behind the murder of his ex-girlfriend, if not directly, then indirectly.

Of course, she’d have never guessed in a million years that Connor McCoy would be the one ultimately under suspicion.

Still wearing her gray skirt suit and hose, she padded to the front of the town house and yanked open the door. On the step lay the last of the day’s print news offerings. She snatched the paper up and quickly turned to the section on the case. There, in black and white, the information from the other piece was confirmed. According to two sources, Burns had succeeded in taking the case from her.

“Why that no good, scheming, conniving little son-of-a-bitch,” she murmured under her breath.

The sound of a passing car caught her attention. She looked up and distantly followed its passage. For a moment, she forgot that it was after eight o’clock. The deep shadows confirmed that it, indeed, was. Policewoman-to-the-core Kelli had once warned her that she should be a little more careful when opening her front door. That her daily routines were anal and predictable and, thus, made her more of a target for crime. Bronte told her friend that the only concession she would make was she’d vary the times she picked up her much-loved newspapers by five minutes.

She shook her head then turned to go back inside.

“Wait.”

Bronte nearly jumped clear out of her hose. She swiveled at the sound of the masculine voice coming from over the stoop, then continued toward her now more urgent goal to go back inside the house.

“For God’s sake, Bronte, it’s me.”

Her heart hammering against her rib cage, she stopped herself from closing the door all the way. She craned her head through the opening. “Connor?”

The instant she said the name, she wanted to kick herself. Admitting that she recognized his voice from the darkness and with very little to go on was far too telling in her book—both to him and to herself.

“Are you alone?”

She considered telling him no, then thought better of it. He probably already knew if she was alone or not and lying would only make her look sorrier than she already was. “Yes.”

All too quickly, he stood just on the other side of the door. She had to look up to see into his face. An involuntary shiver skittered down her spine—a shiver that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the man eyeing her in much the same way she was him.

“So are you going to invite me in or what?”

Bronte tightened her fingers on the door. “After the scare you just gave me, I’m more in the ‘or what’ frame of mind.”

She made out his frown in the porch light from a neighboring town house.

“Oh, all right,” she said and swung the door inward.

As soon as he was inside, she peeked back out, making sure no one had seen him come in. Though why she was so concerned, she couldn’t say. Maybe because this was Georgetown. And for some reason it mattered to her that her neighbors not think she was in cahoots with the person whose face was splattered all over the front page of the very newspaper she still clutched to her chest.

She closed the door and turned to face him. “An apology for scaring me out of my wits would be nice.”

“Sorry.”

“Gee, Connor, somehow that one just didn’t hit the mark.” Despite, or perhaps because of, the shiver that continued to skitter across her skin, she branded her wise-cracking for exactly what it was: her need to cover her thrill at seeing him again.

But that didn’t change that she was minus one lead witness, or that the man in front of her was accused of subtracting her.

She eyed him closely. “What are you doing here, Connor?”

He stood still as stone for several heartbeats. When he finally did shrug, he looked anything but casual. “Would you believe me if I said I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop in for a visit?”

She found herself smiling at him. “Not a chance.”

“Okay, then. How about I say I wanted to talk to you.”

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, trying not to notice the fresh, crisp smell of his leather jacket, or the way the snug black T-shirt she could see between the flaps hugged his abdomen to perfection. “I’d buy that.”

“Good,” he said, grinning. “Then I want to talk to you.”

Bronte nearly took a step back. Boy, when he grinned, he was devastating. She’d have to remember not to make him grin.

“So…let’s talk.”

She led the way back into the kitchen, the only room downstairs that still showed significant signs that someone lived there. She plopped the paper down on top of the others, then moved to close the curtains on the back door and the window. For good measure, she switched off the television as well.

When she faced Connor once again, she found his leather jacket hanging on the back of a chair, and him standing with his arms crossed over his cotton-clad chest, his expression as dark as the one she’d seen in the picture. Only now the smart-ass description refused to spring forth. Rather words like competent, sharp and irresistibly sexy came to mind.

“What’s with the clandestine stuff?” he asked, cocking a brow.

She made a face at him. “You tell me. You’re the one hiding out in my bushes and scaring the bejesus out of me.” You’re the one suspected of murder.

He openly eyed the small stack of papers on her table. Right next to her half-eaten sorry excuse for dinner and the designing schemes she’d been considering. His expression darkened. She looked to find him staring at the picture of the nursery.

She rushed to clean up the place. “A little late for a casual drop-in visit, wouldn’t you say?”

He didn’t say.

“You could have called first. You know, given me fair warning so I could tidy up.”

“I didn’t have your number.”

No, he wouldn’t have. With Kelli away, there was no other way he could get it. Given her high-profile career, it wasn’t wise for her to list her number in the book. And any unofficial channels he might have employed were no longer accessible to him. It was normal operating procedure that a government employee be indefinitely suspended when suspected of a serious crime, especially when said crime didn’t reflect well on same government.

She slowly wiped her hands on a tea towel, thinking Connor had to possess a good memory to have remembered her address. It must have been at least two months ago when Kelli and David dropped her off at home after a quick dinner, Connor a silent presence in the back of the car as they did so. “I’m sorry to hear about your suspension.”

Oh, but that was obtuse. Why not just come out and ask if he did the evil deed, Bronte?

“You got some coffee?”

She stared at him, surprised. “Um…as a matter of fact, no. I don’t drink coffee. I have tea.”

His grimace served as his answer.

She tossed the towel to the counter then opened the refrigerator. “Sorry, I drank the last beer last night. I have some vodka in the freezer.”

“Do you have orange juice?”

She tossed another surprised glance over her shoulder. “Sure. With or without the vodka?”

“Without.”

She grabbed the juice container, then retrieved a glass from one of the cupboards. She noticed the slight trembling of her hands as she poured the liquid and wondered just what he was doing there. And what, exactly, his overtly sexual presence in her last sanctuary would mean to her vow to stay away from him.

THE JUICE WAS ALMOST GONE

Connor’s fingers tensed against the cool glass. He slid a glance toward where Bronte sat at the table across from him, her gaze probing, her stance curiously standoffish.

He didn’t quite know what he’d expected when he decided to show up on her doorstep to ask for help, but it certainly wasn’t the blouse-buttoned-up-to-her-chin, suit-clad, tight-lipped woman across from him.

She got up for the third time in as many minutes. He watched her move to get something out from under the counter, the gray material of her skirt pulling nicely across her rounded bottom. He swallowed hard and purposely forced himself to look around the kitchen. He hadn’t seen much of the rest of the shadowy town house, but this room was nice. Airy. The rough-hewn pine table was obviously the centerpiece. It was easy to picture ten people seated around it, chatting after a large meal.

“I was just about to fix myself some dinner. Have you eaten?”

Connor’s gaze snapped to where she was angling a huge pot out, then putting it on the stove. He could have sworn he spotted one of those TV type dinners on the table when he came in. He knew them all too well. “No. But I’m not hungry.”

She turned and leaned against the stove, jumping when a burner switch must have goosed her. She moved over to lean against the counter instead. She crossed her arms under her breasts, bringing them into prominent relief despite the severe cut of her jacket. “Look, Connor, I don’t know what you had in mind, but you’d better be out with it pretty quick. You say you came here to talk, but you’re not talking. And I know you’re not here for orange juice. And since you’re not hungry, you didn’t come all this way hoping to mooch a meal.”

“I only live a few blocks away.”

“Oh.” She uncrossed her arms, then toyed with the spiky red bangs brushing her brows. “Then tell me, what are you doing here?”

Connor stared at the little that remained in his glass, then slowly drank it. Coming here was one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do in his life. And now that he was here, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to take the next step. He had to know what the U.S. attorney’s office had on him, or else he wouldn’t be going anywhere, period.

Every muscle in his body grew taut, his reaction having just as much to do with the physical tension that infused the room than his reason for being there. But he hadn’t come for the physical part, no matter how enticing she looked and how much he’d like to sample that tart mouth of hers, to see if it tasted as good as he remembered.

Hell, he was the one who was supposed to help people. It was a role he had played well almost his entire life. First, when his mother died and Pops had disappeared into a whiskey bottle. Then, as a U.S. marshall in WitSec, where witnesses depended on him to see them to safety and make sure they stayed safe.

It was so foreign to now be in a position of asking for help, especially from Bronte O’Brien.

“I…um…”

“Wait a minute here.” She held up her hands to halt him. He stared at her unblinkingly. “If you’re here for the reason I think you are, you can just forget it, Connor. I mean, I enjoyed the other night as much as you did. But the other night was the other night. And today is today. You get my drift?”

He squinted at her. “What are you talking about?”

She gestured with her hands. “I’m talking about my just coming off a really bad relationship and not needing to get involved in another.”

He got quickly to his feet. “Relationship?”

Her frown would have been amusing had the situation not been so serious. “Oh, wait. I get it. You’re not interested in a relationship, are you?” She slapped her forehead then stared at the ceiling. “No. Of course, you’re not. You were alone. I was alone. And you thought that maybe we could be alone together.”

He widened his stance and planted his hands on his hips. “Are you done yet?”

She looked at him. “Yes. I think I pretty much got my point across.”

“Good.” He began to shake his head, then dragged his hand over his face instead. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re an attractive woman. Any man in his right mind would want to do…well, what you’re implying I came here for.”

Her eyes narrowed and she chewed on her bottom lip, making her upper lip look all the more plump…and kissable.

“I’m not here to sleep with you, Bronte.”

Her eyes narrowed even further. “Oh.” Suddenly they opened wide. “Oh!” She turned, fussed with the pot some more, then quickly faced him again. “Then why are you here?”

Say it, McCoy. Just open your damn mouth and ask her. “Because I need your help, Bronte. I need you to help me figure out how to get out of the mess I’m in.”

4

CONNOR MCCOY NEEDED HER HELP.

Incredible. Impossible. As unlikely as her waking to find the sun rising from the west. Bronte chewed on the information. Then chewed some more, not quite ready to accept it as edible. She stared at him. Stared at where the glass in his hand might shatter at any moment given his own apparent uneasiness with the admission.

Obviously, this wasn’t easy for him.

Obviously, it wouldn’t be easy for her, either.

What he was asking her to do was illegal—forget bad business. She’d never shared information with anyone. Not as a favor. Not even when she’d been in the middle of her rotation in the gang division and had been threatened by a Jamaican drug lord outside the district courthouse. And then she’d had a knife held to her neck.

She caught herself absently rubbing at the spot in question. “I see,” she said quietly.

But did she really?

“Actually, no. I don’t see. Just, um, how, exactly am I supposed to help you?”

Connor drew the tip of his index finger along the length of his brow, then sighed and dropped his hand to his side. A large hand. A nicely shaped, well-muscled, fascinating hand it was impossible to look away from. Somewhere in the back of her mind Bronte remembered the saying that a man’s…intimate parts were made in proportion to his hands. She shook her head—in denial of the ridiculous notion that big, tough Connor McCoy needed her help…and to dislodge the very private images sliding through her mind. She remembered the other night in the park all too clearly. Standing under the cool shade of the cherry tree. The bark nipping at her back. Connor’s heat at her front. Her hand slipping between them on a hunting expedition all its own.

She chewed on the scorched bit of flesh that was her bottom lip. “Sorry…I didn’t hear you?”

“That’s because I didn’t answer.”

She nodded. That would explain it. He hadn’t said anything.

“So will you do it?”

Bronte budged her gaze back up to his face rather than his hands. “Do what?”

“You know. Help me.”

Facing him wasn’t helping her. The neck of her blouse seemed abruptly too tight, her skirt too short, the beat of her pulse far too rapid. She turned around and made herself busy. “You’re talking about the Robbins murder.”

“Yes.”

She thrust her own hands into the sink as if the glass and fork in it were the remainders of a feast. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

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