“Someone tried to burn you alive. That means you’ve got a roommate until I get my hands on him.”

“A roommate,” she murmured, dropping her gaze.

With one finger, he nudged her chin up until her eyes met his. “I’ll sleep on the couch, Sky. If, and when, that location changes, you’ll be the one making the decision. I’m not doing this to pressure you. I’m doing this to make sure no one has a chance to hurt you again.”

She took a deep breath. “Grant, about us sleeping together. It’s something I want, I’m just…”

Afraid. She didn’t have to say the word, he could see it in her eyes. He cupped her cheek. “You need to understand something, Milano. I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“Oh.” With color flooding her cheeks, she began to lean away.

He slid his palm to the side of her throat, held her still. “I want to seduce you, very slowly, then make love with you.”

Dear Reader,

It’s time to go wild with Intimate Moments. First, welcome historical star Ruth Langan back to contemporary times as she begins her new family-oriented trilogy. The Wildes of Wyoming—Chance is a slam-bang beginning that will leave you eager for the rest of the books in the miniseries. Then look for Wild Ways, the latest in Naomi Horton’s WILD HEARTS miniseries. The first book, Wild Blood, won a Romance Writers of America RITA Award for this talented author, and this book is every bit as terrific.

Stick around for the rest of our fabulous lineup, too. Merline Lovelace continues MEN OF THE BAR H with Mistaken Identity, full of suspense mixed with passion in that special recipe only Merline seems to know. Margaret Watson returns with Family on the Run, the story of a sham marriage that awakens surprisingly real emotions. Maggie Price’s On Dangerous Ground is a MEN IN BLUE title, and this book has a twist that will leave you breathless. Finally, welcome new author Nina Bruhns, whose dream of becoming a writer comes true this month with the publication of her first book, Catch Me If You Can.

You won’t want to miss a single page of excitement as only Intimate Moments can create it. And, of course, be sure to come back next month, when the passion and adventure continue in Silhouette Intimate Moments, where excitement and romance go hand in hand.

Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

On Dangerous Ground
Maggie Price

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my mom, Clarissa Neaves, who passed on her

love of books; to my husband, Bill Price, who gives me the time to

create my own books; and to my critique partners, Debbie Cowan and

Merline Lovelace, who help give those books a firm foundation.

I wish to acknowledge and thank Joyce Gilchrist of the Oklahoma City

Police Department for her invaluable and generous assistance.

All liberties taken in the name of fiction are my own.

MAGGIE PRICE

turned to crime at the age of twenty-two. That’s when she went to work at the Oklahoma City Police Department. As a civilian crime analyst, she evaluated suspects’ methods of operation during the commission of robberies and sex crimes, and developed profiles on those suspects. During her tenure at OCPD, Maggie stood in lineups, snagged special assignments to homicide task forces, established procedures for evidence submittal, even posed as the wife of an undercover officer in the investigation of a fortune-teller.

While at OCPD, Maggie stored up enough tales of intrigue, murder and mayhem to keep her at the keyboard for years. The first of those tales won the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award for Romantic Suspense.

Maggie invites her readers to contact her at 5208 W. Reno, Suite 350, Oklahoma City, OK 73127-6317.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

Three hours ago, Grant Pierce watched his partner’s coffin lower into the sunbaked earth. He figured his day couldn’t get much worse.

Tipping back in a chair that creaked beneath his weight, he raised his glass and downed the first shot of Scotch on the road to getting plastered. Senses jolted; air sucked in through his teeth while the sharp-as-glass whiskey ripped past his lungs, then boiled like molten lava in his gut.

“Damn!” The chair’s front legs thudded against the floor. Blinking hard, he gave a rueful thought to how he’d sullenly told the flirting waitress to bring him the first bottle she grabbed from behind the bar. When he turned the bottle and checked the label, the unfamiliar brand had him raising an eyebrow. Not exactly the twenty-one-year-old blend he kept in his bar at home, but considering his present mood, this near-poison was preferable.

He didn’t want fine-aged Scotch that would ease the pain of Sam’s death into a vague throb. He wanted just what he had—whiskey that had the bite of a ticked-off K-9 and was guaranteed to deaden his misery.

Normally he didn’t drink much, at least not for the sole purpose of getting loaded. But Sam Rogers’s death had hit hard.

Grant forced his gaze to the chair at the other side of the small round table. Sam’s chair. When Grant first arrived, he’d stripped off his black Armani suit coat and tossed it over the chair’s back. He hoped to hell everybody got the message he didn’t want company.

He had considered holding his impromptu wake for Sam at some place where no one knew him. But doing that hadn’t seemed right. What felt right was settling in at the dimly lit bar at the Fraternal Order of Police Lodge. He and his partner had spent uncountable hours hunched over this very table talking through leads, analyzing suspects’ motives, planning strategy. Grant figured the FOP club was the ideal place to toast the man who had taught him that solving a homicide was a lot like a mental chess game. The trick was to use people’s predictability instead of playing pieces. Study someone’s moves, Sam had said, and you could just about figure out where they’d been, and where they were going. Do that, and in no time you’d sniff out the do-wrongs.

Grant poured another shot, held his breath and tossed back the cheap Scotch. It hadn’t been one of the hundreds of bad guys whom Sam had come face-to-face with that had ended his life. He’d gone fishing over the weekend, and keeled over in his bass boat in the middle of the lake.

“Dammit, Sam,” Grant muttered, feeling the sharp blade of regret pierce through him. He knew his partner’s preference for thick cigars, fast food and an abhorrence for exercise had put the older man on the fast track to a heart attack. Not to mention the stress that went arm in arm with working homicides.

Like the one case they had open now. The Peña rape/murder. It was a real mystery, a stranger-to-stranger killing, the kind that almost never got solved. Grant refilled his glass while vowing to Sam that he would nail the vicious bastard who did it, and keep his partner’s enviable clearance record intact.

A bark of laughter sounded from the other side of the club. Turning his head, Grant stared idly through the smoky air. The usual off-duty cops who appeared at the club almost every night were huddled on tall stools at one end of the bar. The mirror behind the bar reflected the bartender’s scurrying movements as he shoveled ice into glasses, poured the beer on tap, made change. Few of the tables that bordered the dance floor were occupied, but it was only seven o’clock—still too early for a good crowd on a Thursday night. The sound of coins clattering down the slot of the jukebox registered in Grant’s brain. Glancing over, he saw C. O. Jones, a curvy patrol cop, punching in a selection. Seconds later, a throaty-voiced singer chided her lover to don’t be stupid.

Once the club started filling, Grant planned to move on. He had spent the past couple of days at the side of Sam’s widow, listening to an unending stream of mourners lament her loss. Grant wasn’t up to hearing any more gut-wrenching stories about the man he’d idolized. All he wanted was the bottle of demonic Scotch, and solitude.

With fatigue seeping through him, he tugged on the knot of his tie, flicked open his starched shirt’s top button, then refilled his glass. He didn’t care about the hangover he knew he would have to deal with the following morning. Didn’t care if he had to leave his Porsche in the club’s parking lot, stumble across the street and check in at the less-than-spectacular motel that had seen its share of drunk cops. Didn’t care about much of anything at this point, except numbing the ache inside him.

Across the bar’s dim expanse, the bubble light that had once done duty on the roof of a black-and-white, and now hung upside down from the ceiling, began its red rotating flash. That was the signal someone had opened the building’s outer door, concealed from view by a small alcove. Right about now, that someone was standing in the alcove, face-to-face with a poster of Clint Eastwood doing his sternest Dirty Harry impersonation, Smith & Wesson .44 magnum clutched in his iron grip.

Seconds later, Sky Milano stepped into view, sending a fist of emotion slamming into Grant’s chest. His already-rotten day had suddenly gotten a whole lot worse.

“Hell,” he muttered, his gut tightening while he measured the graceful economy of motion that took her toward the bar. Her dark hair was pulled back in its usual tight bun at her nape. Sometime over the past months she’d replaced her tortoiseshell glasses with the trendy wire-rims that now perched high on her nose. As he studied her, his eyebrows knit. Except for the quick glimpse he’d caught of her earlier at the cemetery, it had been months since he’d seen her without the obscuring white lab coat she habitually wore over her clothes. Now he took in the trim black suit that belted at her waist. The suit’s soft folds couldn’t quite camouflage the weight she’d lost. Weight she hadn’t needed to lose. Ten pounds, he figured. Maybe more. Feeling his mood darkening, Grant downed his drink and poured another.

He kept his gaze locked on her.

When Sky reached the bar, she smiled while exchanging a few words with a couple of the regulars. A scruffy vice cop with a ponytail and diamond ear stud moved in, settling his palm at the small of her back while he leaned and whispered in her ear. Grant tightened his fingers on his glass and waited. It took her only seconds to ease back just far enough to break the contact.

He looked away, trying to ignore the muscle in his jaw that worked double time. It had taken him twice, maybe three times to figure out that Sky Milano was gun-shy around a man’s touch. It had taken him a little longer to realize she didn’t want to be touched. Not the way he’d wanted to touch her.

Sipping his Scotch, he shifted his gaze back and studied the compelling curves and angles of her profile. Except for a few encounters in the hallway and one in a courtroom, he’d managed to avoid Oklahoma City PD’s head forensic chemist since she ended their relationship before it ever really got started. After that, he hadn’t wanted to see her. Hadn’t wanted to think about how she’d turned down his offer of support after she’d told him about the nightmarish part of her past. He sure as hell didn’t want to relive the pain that had accompanied her refusal to see him. It had taken time, but a headlong plunge into his work had muffled the hurt. No way did he intend to ever open that door again.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the vice cop point in his direction, then Sky turned and looked directly at him. Grant refilled his glass while her smooth stride brought her across the dance floor. Despite the fiery knots that had settled into his shoulders, his hand remained steady.

“I’m sorry about Sam.”

He heard the hint of nerves in her voice. He’d heard that tone before—the night she told him goodbye.

He sipped his drink, studying her over the rim of his glass. “You come here just to tell me that?”

Her fingers played with the purse strap looped over her shoulder. “I wanted to tell you at the cemetery, but you left before I had a chance.”

He’d seen her standing in a pool of sunlight a few feet from Sam’s grave. In a moment of weakness he’d caught himself thinking about approaching her. Common sense stopped him, and he’d simply turned and walked away.

“Now you’ve told me,” he said, his voice a level slide. “No offense, Milano, but I’ve had a tough couple of days, and this wake is private.”

“I need to talk to you.” Despite the dim light, he saw the smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes, the small lines of stress at the corners of her mouth. “Grant, it’s important.”

He stretched out his long legs and raised his glass. “Well, darlin’, so is this,” he drawled, then poured the Scotch down his throat. “If you want to talk, catch me at the office tomorrow.” He squinted at his empty glass while he fuzzily calculated the number of shots he’d already poured into his empty stomach. “Better make that the day after.”

Behind the lenses of her glasses, irritation flashed in the stunning blue eyes that had robbed him of uncountable hours of sleep. “This can’t wait.”

He angled his head. “How’d you find me?”

“Someone at the cemetery heard you mention coming here to toast Sam.” She settled a palm on his black suit coat that lay across the top of the chair opposite him. “Mind if I sit while we talk?”

He studied her through hooded eyes. He wanted to curse the hard knot her presence had lodged in his throat. Didn’t want to acknowledge the roiling in his stomach that had nothing to do with rotgut Scotch. He had cared about Sky Milano too much. He, who had always made it a point to avoid strings in his relationships with women, had stunned himself by wanting to create some with her. Too late, he learned she hadn’t trusted him enough to let him be a part of her life.

The thought had him expelling a controlled breath. His surly mood wasn’t going to run her off; he could see that by the upward tilt of her chin and the glint of determination that had settled in her eyes. No one had to tell him about the slender core of pure steel that ran through the woman. He had plowed headlong into it himself and knew it was unbendable. She would stand by the table all night if that was what it took to get him to hear her out.

He rubbed a hand over his gritty eyes. All right, he would listen to whatever she’d come to say. Then he would grab the bottle of Scotch, check into the motel across the street and get commode-hugging drunk in Sam’s honor.

“Take a load off,” he said, using a Gucci-shod foot to ease the empty chair back. The minute she sat, her tantalizing scent slid silkily across the table and into his lungs. He felt a quick, sharp pull of want, and instantly steeled his senses against the emotion. Dammit, why did she have to wear the same perfume after all these months?

She laid her practical black leather purse on top of the table, then wrapped one ringless hand around the other in a gesture that he recognized as all nerves. Now that she was closer, he saw pure exhaustion in her eyes.

“Nice glasses.”

She blinked. “Thanks.”

Just then, the waitress sauntered over and directed her kohl-lined eyes in Sky’s direction. “Get you something?”

“Tonic water with a lemon twist,” Grant said in reflex.

Sky looked at him, clearly startled that he’d remembered what she habitually ordered. “That’s fine,” she said to the waitress.

The woman shifted her attention to Grant, her red-glossed mouth curving as she settled her palm on his shoulder. “How’s the Scotch, handsome?”

“It’ll do.”

When she leaned to check the level in the bottle, her breast brushed his arm. “You going to want more later?” she asked softly.

“Only if I decide it will be a good night to die.”

She laughed, low and throaty. “I’m off at midnight. I’ll be happy to have a drink, or whatever else, with you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He remained silent until the woman moved out of hearing range, then slid his gaze back to Sky. “I’m listening.”

She wetted her lips. “I need to talk to you about the Benjamin case.”

“Closed,” Grant shot back, even as he felt the first pinging of an alarm in his head. Whatever was going on, it had to be serious for Sky to seek him out regarding a murder he and Sam had worked—and cleared—two years ago. “In case you’ve forgotten, Ellis Whitebear slit Mavis Benjamin’s throat. He’s sitting on death row. Your testimony helped put him there. End of story.”

“Maybe not.”

Deciding he didn’t need to fog his brain further at the moment, Grant shoved the bottle aside and leaned in. “You want to tell me exactly what that means?”

“Two days ago, I got the results from the blood off the bandage we believe the suspect lost at the Peña scene.”

“The Peña scene?” Grant narrowed his eyes at her mention of the brutal rape/murder that had stumped Sam and himself. “Did you just change the subject, or are we still talking about the Benjamin case?”

“Both cases…” Sky’s voice trailed off, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Grant, you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“You’re sending that message loud and clear.”

The waitress returned with Sky’s drink, an oversize lemon wedge hooked precariously on the rim of the glass.

Ignoring the woman’s intimate wink, Grant waited until she turned her attention to four cops with empty beer mugs at a nearby table, then he shifted his gaze to Sky’s hands. They were still wrapped one around the other, and her knuckles had turned as white as one of her lab coats.

“You’ve got my full attention,” he said quietly.

“The blood found on Mavis Benjamin’s clothing matches the suspect’s blood from the Peña crime scene.”

“You mean,” Grant began carefully, “the suspects in homicides that occurred two years apart have the same weird blood type?”

“I mean they have the same DNA.”

Grant felt sweat gather at his lower back. “Identical?”

“Yes.”

A double-fisted punch to the gut would have been easier to take, he thought as he stared across the table. “Ellis Whitebear is sitting in a cell on death row at the state pen. I doubt they issued him a pass so he could go out and cut the Peña woman’s throat, then rape her for good measure. That means he’s got a hell of an alibi.”

Sky kept her eyes locked with his. “I know.”

“What else do you know?”

“That my test results are accurate.”

“On which case?”

“Both.”

Grant uttered a ripe curse. “How the hell could both be right? We’ve got two murders. There’s no way the man who killed the first woman killed the second. So how could your tests show the same suspect DNA at both crime scenes?”

When Sky shifted in her chair, light from the nearby jukebox touched her sculpted cheek with gold. “The only way I know for two people to have the same DNA is if they’re identical twins.”

“You’re sure about all of this?”

She arched an eyebrow. “About identical twins?”

“About the results from the Benjamin and Peña crime scenes.”

“Yes. I couldn’t believe it when the computer got a hit on both cases. I went to the evidence bay and pulled Benjamin’s clothing. I did another DNA profile on the suspect’s blood found on her dress. The latest result didn’t vary from the first one. The DNA is Whitebear’s. I did the same thing with the evidence from the Peña scene. I’ve spent the past three days…and nights double-checking my work. Grant, I’m positive. One man, or two with identical DNA, killed both women.”

This time, Grant’s curse brittled the air. The bartender glanced their way. A scathing look from Grant had the man quickly returning to his business. Grant tightened his jaw. He could almost picture Sam sitting across from him, one of his thick cigars clenched in the side of his mouth, thumbs under the suspenders he habitually wore, as he smiled and said, “Well, pretty boy, sounds like you’ve got one hell of a mess to clean up.” Grant rubbed at the knot that had edged up his shoulders and settled in the back of his neck. Sam was gone, and he was the one who had to negotiate some damn mental chessboard.

He refilled his glass, nudged it across the table toward Sky. “Forget the tonic water. You could probably use this about now.”

She glanced at the glass, then her glossed lips curved into a slight smile that only reminded him of how it had felt to kiss that warm, lush mouth.

“If I thought it would help, I’d drink the whole bottle.”

“You might just have to fight me for it.”

She massaged her right temple as if pain had lodged there. “I don’t remember all the details of the Benjamin case, just the work I did. Was there ever any doubt in your mind that Whitebear did it?”

“No, though he kept claiming he was innocent.” As he spoke, Grant felt the numbing effects of the Scotch, fought against it. “Most of the evidence against Whitebear was circumstantial, but compelling. The victim was the manager at the apartment complex where he did the maintenance and yard work in exchange for an apartment. It was well-known that the victim and suspect didn’t get along—tenants often heard them yelling at each other. We had two credible witnesses who swore that, hours before the homicide, Mavis Benjamin threatened to fire Whitebear and toss him out on the street.”

“She was killed in the communal laundry room right off her office at the complex,” Sky said, adding the details with which she was most familiar. “Hundreds of hairs and fibers from people’s dirty laundry contaminated the scene. The only evidence I found on the victim’s person that linked to the suspect was one drop of his blood.”

“Sam and I figured he’d been injured while they struggled—a nosebleed, or something like that,” Grant said. “You took blood samples from all the male workers at the apartment complex and got a match to Whitebear’s. That made the case.” Grant settled a forearm on the table and leaned closer, forcing himself to ignore Sky’s punch-in-the-gut scent. “You’re sure it was Whitebear’s blood on Mavis Benjamin’s sleeve?”

“Yes.” Her brow furrowed. “His, or his identical twin’s, if he has one.”

“If? Whitebear’s in a cell, and I’m pretty sure he’s not Houdini reincarnated. You think there’s some way to explain the suspect blood from the Peña scene if Whitebear doesn’t have a twin?”

“Not that I know of.” She picked up her glass, then set it down without drinking. “If he is innocent, and there’s a twin brother out there murdering people, why didn’t Whitebear mention him?”

Grant raised a shoulder. “The guy’s got a room-temperature IQ. He dropped out of grade school. To him, DNA is probably just three letters.”

“His attorney, then. Surely Griffin found out about Whitebear’s family. He would have zeroed in on a twin if he knew his client had one.”

“Ellis Whitebear’s DNA, or what we believe to be his, was found on the first victim—”

“It is his DNA,” Sky said, the tiny lines around her mouth deepening. “I know what I’m doing in my lab, Pierce.”

“Dammit, Milano, I’m not questioning your ability,” Grant shot back, then set his jaw. It had been that same confidence and determination that had attracted him to her in the first place. Where her job was concerned, Sky had no equal. She didn’t waver. She was in control. It was her personal life that had splintered into hundreds of pieces, and driven her from him.

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.”

“Nothing wrong with your hearing, Sergeant.”

The woman’s steely tone told Grant he’d better crank out some charm if he was going to get anywhere.

“Look, I’m a civil servant, too.” He added a soft chuckle for effect. “I know all about red tape. God knows we’re drowning in it here in Oklahoma City. But you and I can get around all that. I’ll skip asking you the names of Whitebear’s parents, if you’ll check his file and tell me what it says about any natural siblings. Specifically a twin brother. Yes, he exists. No, he doesn’t. That’s all the information I need from you.”

“Sergeant, here in Texas, sealed means sealed. No one has access to that file. Not even me.”

Grant scraped his fingers through his hair and held on to control. “What sort of paperwork does the great state of Texas require for me to get access?”

“You have to appear before the presiding judge in this county and show cause why the court should make that information available to you.”

“I have to appear?”

“Yes. I can fax you the judge’s information so you can contact his clerk.”

“Great,” Grant said, then rambled off his fax number before hanging up. He propped his elbows on his desk and rubbed at the knot of tension in his neck.

This late in the afternoon, the Homicide squad room was filled with detectives sitting behind ancient metal desks. Several talked on the phone, one pounded thick fingers against a computer keyboard, still another leafed through a stack of crime scene photos from this morning’s whodunit. Across the room, Jake Ford sat at his desk, taking information from a tall redhead wearing half a dress who’d walked in off the street claiming to have information about a homicide that occurred ten years ago. Thank God it wasn’t one of Sam’s cases, Grant thought as he idly watched the redhead sweep her hand through the air to make some point. If it had been, he’d be the one sitting there with his eyes crossed, instead of Ford.

Grant caught movement at the door, turned his head in time to see Julia Remington breeze in. She was slim, beautiful and had an enviable homicide clearance rate. The printout draped over her arm was thick enough for Grant to know he’d be working some heavy duty overtime. “You owe me big bucks for this, Pierce,” she said, then plopped the printout onto the clutter in the center of his desk. “Pay up.”

“Pay up? You’re married to the CEO of Remington Aerospace, and you’re trying to extort money from me?”

She smirked. “This coming from the guy who lives on his family’s estate, wears Armani suits and Gucci.”

Grant raised a shoulder. He was independently wealthy, having inherited a nice little enterprise called Pierce Oil, the company left to him and his older brother years ago when their parents died in a plane crash. The only thing Grant had ever wanted to be was a cop, so he gladly left the running of the company to his brother. But he didn’t try to hide the fact that he lived beyond his city salary.

“Give me a break, Julia. I live in the guest house. I haven’t bought a new suit in months, and the Gucci shoes are two years old.” He gave her a caustic grin. “How come you’re so prickly? You chip a nail when you went to Communications to pick up the printout for me?”

“Stuff it, Pierce.” She slid a hip onto the edge of the desk and swept her hand toward the pages. “The names are in alphabetical order. The only Whitebear that NCIC lists is your buddy Ellis.”

“Great.”

There had to be a missing twin, Grant thought. He’d hoped the ghost search he’d run through the National Crime Information Center for all Native American males with the same date of birth as Ellis Whitebear would bring up the man’s brother. Maybe it had, Grant mused as he thumbed through the printout’s pages. If a different family had adopted Ellis’s twin, then he’d probably be using that family’s surname. And maybe a different date of birth, if that date had been unclear when their mother handed her two-month-old sons over to the state of Texas. Or, maybe the twin hadn’t ever been arrested, never did military service, had no mental health commitments or contracts with law enforcement. If so, he wouldn’t show up in NCIC’s database.

“Dammit, Sam and I closed this case. It’s not supposed to jump up two years down the road and bite me on the rear.”

Julia skimmed her gaze to the desk that butted up to the front of Grant’s. “Any idea how long it will be until they bring in someone new?”

“No.”

“Whoever it is will be your partner. The lieutenant will ask for your input.”

Grant kept his eyes off Sam’s desk. The day before, he’d finally boxed up the photo of his partner’s wife and kids and the Mickey Mantel-autographed baseball Sam had displayed on one corner of the desk. After adding the cache of cigars and personal papers he’d dug out of the drawers, Grant had taken the box to Sam’s widow. He wondered how long just looking at the now-bare desk would put a knot in his gut. He couldn’t even think about anyone else taking up residence there. “If Ryan asks, I’ll tell him to take his time.”

Julia nodded as she thumbed through a stack of messages she’d picked up from the secretary’s desk on her way in. “Meanwhile, let me know if you need any help. Halliday and I just cleared our last open case.”

“Lucky you.”

She hesitated. “I almost forgot. Lonnie asked me to tell you Sky phoned while you were on your last call.”

“Thanks.” Grant set his jaw against the instant zing that shot through his blood. For six months, he and Sky had avoided each other. He knew she was probably calling to tell him she’d gotten the results from the blood samples she’d sent to the OSBI. Nothing between them had changed, he reminded himself. If it wasn’t for work, they still wouldn’t have anything to say to each other.

“Don’t bother calling the lab,” Julia said when he reached for his phone. “Lonnie said Sky is at the Training Center teaching recruit school this afternoon. She’ll call you back when the session’s over.”

“Yo, Remington,” one detective bellowed from across the room, the cord on his phone dangling from his fingers. “Your old man’s on line three.”

Sighing, Julia slid off the desk. “Sloan would love hearing himself called that.”

After Julia moved off, Grant retrieved the printout she’d left, intending to start scanning the names. Ten minutes later, his forehead creased when he found himself still staring at the first page. His mind ought to be centered on the computer-generated names, not on Sky Milano’s take-you-to-heaven blue eyes.

“Get a grip, Pierce.” It annoyed him that he hadn’t been able to completely forget her over the past six months—more, that he’d been unable to lock her out of his head since she’d walked into the FOP club five nights ago. One of his cases had turned to hell, and that was what he should be focused on. Only that. Instead, he felt himself being pulled by a woman who had made it clear she didn’t trust him, and had forced him out of her life.

He was achingly aware that he wanted to see her, not talk to her on the phone.

Cursing himself for a fool, he rose, jerked his suit coat off the back of his chair and stalked toward the door.

The white-haired, bespectacled secretary glanced up from behind a desk piled high with files. “Where’re you headed, Pierce?”

“Recruit school,” he muttered.

Thirty minutes later, an OCPD academy instructor pointed Grant toward the gym. He went through the high double doors and froze. He blinked as if to clear his vision, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. It was his heart that had stopped at the sight of Sky lying flat on her back, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as her hand rose silkily upward and slid around the neck of the man straddling her.

“What the hell?” A mix of anger and fang-infested jealousy consumed Grant. Then he saw red.

Fists clenched, he’d made it halfway across the gym’s waxed floor when the man’s head jerked up. A second later, the triumph in the bastard’s eyes shot to wariness, then his body jerked and flew sideways. Air escaped his lungs with a muffled “Oof” when he landed hard on the padded mat that covered a section of the wood floor.

Grant skidded to a halt just as Sky bounded to her feet, clearly unaware of his presence. “Okay, recruit, you wanted to know how to get up when somebody has you down. That’s how.”

Face flushed, lungs heaving, the man looked up and shook his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop saying Yes, ma’am, and get up!” Sky commanded. “If you stay down, Johansen, you’re a target.”

He got up…slowly.

“Fast. Get up fast. You’re vulnerable when you’re down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Through hooded eyes, Grant watched the recruit. He was young, tall and good-looking. His gray police academy T-shirt and gym shorts molded to the strong, toned body of an athlete.

“Rush me,” Sky said. It didn’t seem to matter that the top of her head came just to the hulk’s shoulders.

Where her opponent had bulk and power, she had grace and speed. She sidestepped his rush, kicked his legs out from under him and had the sole of her tennis shoe against his throat the instant he hit the mat. “You’re dead. I just crushed your windpipe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the hulk croaked.

Grant felt a stiff tic of pride at how effortlessly she’d toppled the mountain.

She stepped back from her prey. “Don’t stiffen when you fall. You have to be boneless, Johansen. Boneless. When you hit, roll and get back up on your feet in one fluid move. You might wind up dead if you don’t.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Practice with the other recruits.” Slicking the back of her hand across her forehead, Sky leaned and retrieved a hair clip off the edge of the mat. “If you need more help, you can reach me at the lab,” she added, then turned and nearly collided with Grant.

“Having fun with the cavewoman routine, Milano?”

Her eyes widened and went dark. “Maybe.”

Her glossy black hair was a gorgeous mess, her cheeks were flushed, her flesh slicked with sweat. Her breathing came fast and hard; her breasts moved rapidly up and down against the baggy T-shirt marked Academy Instructor that she’d tucked into a pair of loose-fitting gym shorts. The smell of woman and heat pulsed off her in little waves. Grant wanted to pummel the hulk into the mat just because he’d touched her.

“Get lost, recruit,” Grant said, keeping his eyes locked with hers.

“Yes, sir.” Johansen jogged across the gym, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking against the shiny waxed floor.

“No need to be rude,” Sky said as her student shoved through the swinging door that led to the locker rooms.

“You have to be rude to recruits. It’s the law.”

She arched an eyebrow. “That one must have gotten by me.”

“I came in upstairs by the classrooms.” The mugginess in the air had Grant slipping out of his suit coat and hooking it on a finger over one shoulder. “One of the instructors pointed me in this direction. I thought you were teaching recruit school this afternoon about the exciting world of the forensic lab.”

“I teach that block of classes next month.” She took a few steps and retrieved a white hand towel off a metal stand that held a row of basketballs. “When this academy started, I signed on to help teach self-defense to the female recruits. That’s what I did this afternoon.”

“Female recruits?” Grant gave her a cynical smile. “Your most recent student was a few quarts over the legal testosterone level.”

“Johansen asked for some extra help, so I stayed.”

“The guy could bench-press the entire SWAT team. You really think he needs tips on self-defense?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not if he stays on his feet.” She blotted the towel across her forehead, then slowly down the seductive arch of her throat.

Grant felt heat streak straight to his loins.

“Johansen’s big and strong, like an ox,” Sky continued, apparently oblivious to what her ministrations were doing to him. “That’s to his detriment if some scumbag manages to knock him off his feet. When he’s down, Johansen lumbers around trying to get back up. Meanwhile he could get shot. Or stabbed.” Her eyes closed briefly. “He recognizes his limits, and he asked for my help.”

Grant knew there was sense in that, but at the moment he didn’t want logic. He wanted to touch that tanned, moist flesh so bad he could taste it. Taste her.

Drawing in a slow breath, he took a casual step forward. “Want to go a few rounds with me, Milano?”

The hand gripping the towel froze against her throat. Her gaze skittered to his mouth, then to his eyes, then settled back to his mouth. She swallowed hard. “No.”

“It’s one thing to take on a goo-goo-eyed recruit who’s afraid to toss the instructor—”

“I didn’t give him the chance to toss me.”

“Really?” The defensive thread in her voice had Grant fighting a smile. When they’d first met, he’d savored the verbal sparring they’d engaged in. Then their relationship got personal and everything changed. And ended. Somehow, after months of silence, they’d all of a sudden slid back into sparring mode. Standing there, in the expansive gym that smelled vaguely of hard workouts, Grant knew there was no way they’d wind up rolling around together on the mat. He knew Sky knew that, too. But, dammit, he was enjoying just being with her after so long and he wanted to prolong the pleasure of the moment.

“When I walked in here, Milano, your student had you flat on your back.”

Her chin rose. “I let Johansen put me there. He wanted to know how to recover when someone knocked him down. I showed him.”

“Hmm.” Grant took another step forward and leaned in. The sweet, compelling scent of her hair drew him, and without thinking, he turned his head, inhaled. And savored. “He had you flat on your back,” he whispered against her cheek.

She took a jerky step sideways. “I had control of the situation.” Her fingers clenched and unclenched on the towel. “Total control.”

“He had you pinned—”

“Not even close. I had full use of my legs. He hadn’t even managed to restrain my arms. I could have disabled him with one palm strike to the nose.”

“You could have killed him with a palm strike to the nose.”

“My point, exactly.”

From behind Grant, the echo of voices filled the air; he turned in time to see two brawny patrol officers clad in gym shorts and muscle shirts push through the door. They acknowledged his presence with a nod. The taller of the two men snared a basketball off the metal stand and lobbed it to his partner, then grabbed another ball and dribbled off toward the hoop.

Grant turned back, his eyes locking with Sky’s. He had never seen her with her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Never gazed into the stark blueness of her eyes without looking through the lenses of her glasses. Never glimpsed her in shorts with her bare legs long and tanned and soft. It hit him then, that if he could get his hands on that barrier she’d put between them months ago, he’d rip it apart.

He let out a slow breath against the realization. Barrier or no barrier, he wasn’t ready to let her go—not yet.

“Come on, Milano. Some scumbag might knock me on my butt someday. Maybe if you gave me some pointers—”

“You’re not a recruit. You’re trained, and you’ve worked the street. You know how to move.”

“True. But I might be rusty.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have a rusty move in your body, Pierce.” She glanced in the direction of the clock bolted high on the wall, then looped the towel around her neck. “I’ve got two minutes to turn in my class-evaluation sheets before the office closes.”

Lips pursed, Grant studied the graceful swing of her hips as she turned and walked away. When he heard an appreciative grunt, he shifted his gaze. Both patrol cops were dribbling their basketballs in place, their gazes plastered on Sky’s trim bottom. The familiar tightness that settled deep inside Grant had him acknowledging that his desire for her was unchanged, as sharp as ever. Maybe sharper.

“Great,” he muttered, shoving his fingers through his hair. Offhand, he could think of about six women who’d be happy to spend time in his company. What the hell kind of idiot was he, trying to steal a few extra minutes with a woman who had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him? He turned to go, then remembered what had brought him to the Training Center in the first place: Sky’s phone call.

She’d just cleared the opposite side of the mat when he jogged up behind her. Reaching, he snagged her shoulder. “What did you call—”

Before he could even react, she’d jerked his arm almost out of the socket and flipped him. For a breathless second, Grant had the sensation of flying. Then he landed hard, flat on his back.

The catcalls and whistles from the two patrol cops echoed off the gym’s cement block walls and high ceiling.

“Oh, God.” Sky crouched, patting his cheek with her fingertips. “Grant, are you okay?”

He shoved up on his elbows and blinked away stars. “Damn, Milano.”

“I’m sorry.” She leaned closer, her eyes anxious as she peered at his face. Her dark hair swept forward, bringing her maddening soft scent into his lungs. “It was reflex, Grant. I just reacted to your touch, that’s all.”

He gave her a dark look. “Yeah. Thanks for saying that. I feel a whole lot better now.”

Chapter 3

“I’m sorry I flipped you,” Sky said again as she and Grant walked out of the gym into air that sat still and gauzy and full of early-evening humidity.

“Yeah.”

As they walked along the sidewalk toward the Training Center’s parking lot, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. He looked irritated, and he carried his suit coat gripped so tight in one fist that it would take a heavy steaming to get the wrinkles out. She knew his present mood wasn’t a result of her having tossed him on his butt in front of the two patrol cops. What she’d said after she’d flipped him had been the thing that had turned his gray eyes the color of rolling storm clouds.

I just reacted to your touch, that’s all.

Sky stifled a groan. How could she have been so insensitive? Beneath her baggy T-shirt, dampness pooled between her breasts; nerves had her switching her gym bag from one hand to the other. After Grant had regained his feet, he’d informed her in a voice void of emotion that he’d come there because she’d called him. They obviously had business to discuss. Would she please give him a few minutes so they could just get their damn business out of the way?

Business. No way did business have anything to do with the fact that his presence in the gym had unsettled her far more than she’d cared to admit. Or, that when he’d slid off his suit coat, the sight of his formidable shoulders and chest beneath his starched white shirt had stirred something dark and dangerous low in her belly. There had been no way—no way—she would have accepted his challenge of going one-on-one and possibly winding up rolling around with him on the padded mat, their legs and arms locked in an intimate tangle. The image of them doing just that rose up with erotic insistence, and for a moment she couldn’t quite remember how to breathe.

Business, she reminded herself, forcing away the image. She had the DNA results from the OSBI, and she and Grant had business to discuss. That was what they’d do, then they’d both go back to their own lives, just as they had for the past six months.

The knot in her chest tightened at the thought. Fine, they’d go their separate ways, but first she had to make amends for tossing him to the ground. She had hurt much more than Grant’s pride, and she needed to make him understand why.

His long strides took him around a corner of the building, and she had to double-step to keep up. Just ahead, their cars sat side by side; his sleek red Porsche with its convertible top down made her gray Blazer look like a hulking mammoth. It reminded her of the recruit Johansen.

“Grant, I want to tell you why I reacted—”

“Dammit, I know why.”

Eyes blazing, he wheeled on her so fast, she collided into his chest. For a split second she had the sensation of crashing against steel. Her gym bag slid from her hand, landed with a soft plop on the toe of her tennis shoe. “Some recruit off the street can touch you, but I can’t.” He made no move to steady her as she shook the gym bag off her foot and took an uneven backward step. “For you, my touch is poison.”

“It had nothing to do with you.” She knew he was talking about more than what had just happened in the gym. He was also addressing the night she’d literally fallen apart in his arms, but she didn’t trust herself right now to discuss how she’d reacted then.

“Nothing to do with me?” He lobbed his suit coat into the Porsche’s passenger seat. When he turned back, his expression had settled into cop mode, slightly remote, definitely cynical. “I didn’t notice anybody else around, Milano.”

“Not you specifically,” she amended. “I’d have reacted the same with anyone who came up from behind me like that.”

He jerked at his tie, flicked open the top button on his shirt. “You knew I was behind you.”

“Not that close. I’d walked away. I didn’t know you’d followed. The patrol cops were dribbling basketballs. I didn’t hear you. Didn’t know you’d gotten close enough to…” She closed her eyes. The heat seeping beneath her skin had nothing to do with the evening’s thick humidity. “The night I was raped, that’s how he got me. From behind.”

“Damn,” Grant said quietly as regret slid into his eyes. “Sky—”

“I didn’t know any self-defense then,” she hurried on, afraid if she stopped she’d be unable to get out what she needed to say. “He was tall and powerful and he had a knife. I couldn’t…get away.” Her voice wavered, and she dragged in steamy air that cloyed in her lungs. Her hands trembled and she jammed them into the pockets of her shorts. Six months ago—before she’d found the Monday night group and Dr. Mirren—telling Grant even that much had been impossible for her. Now it was just simple agony. “He came from behind and grabbed me. He…knew how to rape….”

“Sky.” Eyes eloquent, Grant reached a hand toward her cheek, then stopped. His mouth tightened; she saw a muscle tic in his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said, and let his hand drop. “So sorry.”

The thought of what she had just lost in that unfinished gesture tightened the fist around her heart. “No, Grant, I’m the one who’s sorry. You had no way of knowing what happened to me. I overreacted. Big-time. You and I were in the police gym, for heaven’s sake. A relatively safe place.”

“Unless there’s some jerk cop in your face, wanting to roll around on the floor with you.”

Again, the image of their sweat-slicked bodies locked in an intimate clench flashed in her brain. She moistened her dry-as-dust lips and forced a smile. “There is that.”

A breeze stirred, picking up the ends of her long hair that in all the turmoil she hadn’t bothered to clip back. As if in reflex, Grant reached, caught a few strands and toyed with them. “I confess to being selfish,” he said, his voice as soft as the breeze itself. “I wanted to spend some time with you. Just spend time.”

He was standing close. Close enough that, even in the waning sunlight, she saw the individual crimson threads in his silk tie. The faint lines on either side of his mouth. The tiny specks of granite in the smoky gray eyes that gazed down into hers.

The breeze picked up. She smelled the salty tang of his skin mixed with the overtly male scent of expensive cologne. The heady mix made her knees weak. In another lifetime, she would have closed the distance between them and dissolved into a puddle right there in his arms. She held back a sigh. This wasn’t another lifetime. It was the same one in which she’d proven she could melt into his arms, but that melting had nothing to do with desire, and everything to do with sheer panic followed by desperate humiliation. She would not—could not—do that again to Grant or herself.

When she stepped back, the strands of her hair slid through his fingers. His closed his eyes for the space of a heartbeat.

“I need to tell you about the report I got from the OSBI,” she said, snagging her gym bag off the ground.

Grant looked toward the street where traffic hummed. The hand he’d had in her hair seconds ago curved slowly against his thigh. “And I need to bring you up-to-date on the search for Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother,” he said after a moment. Looking back, he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and began rolling his sleeves up to reveal tanned, muscled forearms. “Look, I’m not feeling too fresh in all this heat.” His gaze slid over her baggy T-shirt and loose-fitting shorts. “You probably aren’t, either.”

Sky raised an eyebrow. She’d taught two hours of strenuous self-defense to the academy’s female recruits. Then worked up a sweat with Johansen. She’d put off taking a shower so she could talk to Grant before he left the Training Center. Now, her skin was moist from the heat. He was right—she definitely didn’t feel fresh.

“We need to compare notes, I missed lunch and I’m hungry as hell,” he stated, pulling a small ring of keys out of his pocket. “There’s a hole-in-the-wall drive-in two blocks over that serves killer chili dogs, fries and shakes that come in giant gulp size.” He swept his hand toward the Porsche. “They’ve got a couple of ceiling fans hanging from the metal awning. If we leave the top down, it’ll be cool enough to eat in the car.”

Sky blew a slow breath between her lips. She had spent the past six months avoiding Grant Pierce. She knew she should turn down his dinner offer, climb inside her Blazer and drive home. She needed to take a shower. She had a briefcase bulging with lab reports to review. It made sense to ask Grant to call her later so they could compare notes over the phone. That would be the smart thing to do.

Her gaze took in the man who stood inches away, his thick, blond hair rustling in the breeze, his starched shirt stretched appealingly across his broad shoulders, his handsome face an alluring arrangement of planes and shadows. God help her, this was one instant she didn’t want to be smart. She didn’t want to avoid Grant; she wanted to be with him. They would go their separate ways soon enough.

She tilted her head. “You’re sure that hole-in-the-wall has giant gulp shakes?”

Amusement slid into his eyes. “Positive.” He bounced his key ring in his palm. “If you talk nice, I’ll spring for double chocolate.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Does that lame line usually get women into your car, copper?”

The grin he shot her was pure male. “Works every time, Milano.”

“So, the OSBI chemist confirmed your findings.” Grant selected a French fry from the cardboard carrier wedged on the Porsche’s console, then looked over at Sky. He fought a smile when he saw that her eyes were barely visible over the rim of the cup that held her double-chocolate giant gulp shake. Silently he calculated the calories in the chili dog, fries and shake, and figured they might help add back some weight to her too-thin frame.

“Right,” she said, sliding her straw up and down in the creamy drink. “The DNA from the suspect blood found at the Benjamin and Peña crime scenes is identical. You can take that to the bank.”

“Since I checked and made sure Ellis Whitebear is still in his cell on death row, we can also take it to the bank that he has an identical twin brother.”

Sky pursed her lips while gathering up napkins and unused salt packages. “Unless that was actually Ellis’s blood on the bandage found under Carmen Peña’s body,” she mused as she dumped the trash into the paper sack the food had come in.

Grant set his shake aside. He’d thought of that angle, then discarded it for being too far-fetched. He had also worked Homicide long enough to know you never completely wrote off any scenario until you had cuffs on the suspect and a full confession. And sometimes even then you held your breath.

“You really think a man on death row would give a bandage with his blood on it to some other guy to leave at a crime scene?”

“If the man in prison wanted to make it look like he was innocent of the first murder. No way he could have killed the second woman while he was locked in his cell. So, logically, the cops might start to question if he’d actually committed the first crime.”

“If that’s the case, whoever planted the bloody bandage would have made sure the MO’s on both murders matched. That’d give us more reason to think the same person killed both women, and that the real killer had been running around free the whole time. We don’t have identical MO’s. Benjamin died in the communal laundry room off her office at the apartment complex. The suspect stayed around just long enough to cut her throat. Carmen Peña’s killer kidnapped her from her job at the convenience store. Took her to an abandoned house. He probably spent hours with her. Granted, he cut her throat, but he raped her, too. Repeatedly. The only real thing that links the crimes is the identical suspect DNA.”

“That takes us back to the twin brother theory,” Sky said, sliding her empty cup into the sack.

Grant nodded. “I doubt the brother even knows he left the bloody bandage at the house where he took Peña, not when he was so careful about everything else,” Grant continued. “He didn’t leave any prints. No semen, which means he either wore a condom or used a foreign object to rape her. You found no stray hairs on her body.”

“He probably wore a knit watch cap,” Sky stated. “Had it rolled down to cover his hair.”

“No footprints, no fibers from his clothing,” Grant added. “Nothing but the bloody bandage.” He tapped his fingertips against the steering wheel. “The guy was too careful. I put my money on the fact that the bandage was on his neck or face when he kidnapped Peña. The bandage is small, the size a man would use if he got a deep nick shaving. He put it on, and forgot about it. The defense wounds on the victim’s hands and arms suggest she put up a fight. The bandage probably came off in the struggle and wound up under her body. I doubt the guy knows he lost it there.”

“Or maybe he didn’t figure out until later what happened to the bandage.”

Grant thought for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “The body wasn’t discovered until at least two days after she died. He had plenty of time to return to the scene and look for the bandage.”

A car with a spitting muffler sped by on the dimly lit street. Grant flicked a look sideways, then let his gaze rise. A full moon had just broken through a group of oaks on the vacant lot across from the drive-in. “Ellis has to have a twin, and he’s out there somewhere. It’s my bet he doesn’t know we found his blood at the Peña scene.”

“Sounds logical.”

He looked back at Sky. The casual observer might think she looked totally relaxed sitting there, her back against the passenger door, her dark hair shifting softly in the breeze from the overhead fans. But Grant’s observation wasn’t casual, and he saw clearly the remnants of the haunted look that had filled her eyes earlier.

He tightened his hand on the steering wheel. The thought of how some gutter-scum rapist had come up from behind and grabbed her had anger stirring just below the surface of his control. The emotion grew hotter when he thought about how he’d done the same thing. True, he hadn’t known any details of what her attacker had done, but he’d known she’d survived a rape. He’d been careless to even lightly taunt her at the gym the way he had. That was one mistake he wouldn’t make again.

The one positive thing that had come from the incident was that she’d opened up to him. Minutely, he acknowledged, but at least the barrier had shifted. Considering they’d had zero communication during the past six months, he would take what he could get and be satisfied.

He glanced at the ceiling fan that spun lazily overhead, then shifted his gaze to the drive-in’s paint-chipped building with the faded handmade sign in the window that advertised Giant Gulp Shakes. Sam had insisted they eat lunch here at least once a week, and on those days Grant had opted for iced tea and left the cholesterol to his partner.

Now that Sam was dead, Grant hadn’t imagined he’d ever show his face again at this hole-in-the-wall. He’d been wrong. He was here now because there was no way he would have left Sky after she’d opened up to him. Standing there in the parking lot of the Training Center with her face pale and her hands jammed into the pockets of her shorts, she’d looked vulnerable and exposed, as if she might break into a thousand pieces if he touched her.

It had undone him to see her like that. He’d wanted to gather her close, swear he’d never let anybody hurt her again. Instinct had told him her nerves were too raw for her to welcome the gesture. Told him, too, the last thing he should do was try to get her into the closed confines of his not-so-spacious Porsche. So when the idea of this far-from-elegant drive-in popped into his head, he went with it.

He pursed his lips, mulling. If he thought Sky would make a habit of coming with him, he’d eat here every day and say to hell with the cholesterol. But she wouldn’t come, he reminded himself. He’d been lucky tonight. She hadn’t meant to walk back into his life for even a few hours, but here she was. The realization came slowly, stunningly that he had no intention of letting her walk out again. She was the only woman he was compelled to be with. The only woman he’d ever considered the possibility of a future with. The only one he’d spent uncountable nights with her face lodged in his dreams. The only one whose loss he’d grieved. He would not—could not—let her leave again.

“Your next step is to go to Austin?”

Her soft voice jolted him out of his thoughts. “Right,” he said, and paused until the emotion that had flooded into his chest eased. “There’s no guarantee the judge will let me have a look at Whitebear’s adoption records, but I’ve run into a brick wall trying to get a line on his twin.” As he spoke, Grant scooped up the sack with the remnants of their meal and tossed it into a nearby trash container. “I called our state pen. Other than the indigent defense fund lawyer assigned to Whitebear, the only person who’s visited him since he’s been there is his son. The twin brother hasn’t shown his face.”

“Maybe he writes to Ellis,” Sky ventured.

“I checked. The whole time he’s been in slam, he hasn’t received one piece of mail. Hasn’t sent any that the guard knows about. Of course, it’s possible his son, or some other inmate, helps Ellis communicate with his twin.”

“Are you going to question Whitebear or his son about the twin brother?”

“Not unless I have to. I don’t want to tip my hand at this point and let them know I’m on to them.” Grant turned the key in the ignition; the Porsche’s engine purred to life. “I need to run everything down to the lieutenant in the morning. As soon as Ryan approves my going to Austin, I’ll hit the road.”

They made the trip back to the Training Center in less than five minutes. Grant nosed the Porsche into the space beside Sky’s Blazer and left the engine running. He didn’t want to spook her, didn’t want to make her think he was going to try anything. What he wanted was her trust.

She smiled. “Thanks for dinner. The shake was awesome.” In the glow of the parking lot’s lights, her face was all intriguing angles and planes.

“You’re welcome.”

“Drive careful.”

“I will.”

She climbed out and shut the door.

“Sky,” he said softly, then waited for her to turn back and meet his gaze.

“Yes?”

“I appreciate you telling me why you reacted the way you did in the gym.”

Emotion flickered in her eyes. “I owed you an explanation.”

“You can trust me. I’ll never hurt you.”

Her lips parted. He sensed her hesitation. Finally she nodded. “I know.” She turned, unlocked the Blazer and climbed inside.

A minute later, Grant watched the taillights of her vehicle disappear into the night. “You know,” he said quietly, “but you still don’t trust me, not enough to let me into your life.”

A blade, long and sharp and deadly flashed before Sky’s eyes. The thick fist slammed into her from behind, exploding air out of her lungs. She went down hard and fast, and before she could scramble up, he was on her. Pain, blinding, numbing, mixed with her terror; a scream tore from her throat in the same instant her eyes flew open.

“Oh, God. Oh, God.” She scrambled onto her knees, her legs tangling in the sheets as she dragged in quick gulps of air.

Lungs heaving, pulse pounding, she flailed for the lamp on her nightstand. Squinting against the light, her eyes swept the room. Her ivory robe was where she’d left it, looking like a shimmering ghost draped on the arm of her grandmother’s wooden rocking chair. The neat stack of scientific journals she needed to scan sat undisturbed on the antique desk angled in one corner. On the nightstand, her glasses still lay on top of the thick paperback she’d used to lull herself toward sleep only hours ago. Everything in the room was as it should be.

Everything but me, she thought, scrubbing her palms across her sweat-drenched face. “It wasn’t real,” she whispered. “Wasn’t real.”

Trembling beneath her thin nightgown, she waited on the bed only until she felt certain her legs would support her. Then she fumbled for her glasses, shoved them on and fled down the hall, switching on every light as she went.

When she stepped into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, she winced. Her eyes were swollen from lack of sleep, her skin as pale as a corpse’s, her mouth grim.

She splashed icy water on her face, toweled off, then continued to the living room, switching on every lamp. Two nights ago, she had decided Streisand’s was the best music to stay awake by. Fickle, last night she’d changed to the Stones. She clicked on the stereo, engaged the CD player.

Now a graveled-voiced blues singer assured her she could lean on him.

“I’d love to,” she said in a shaky voice. “Come on over.” She closed her eyes and waited for the soothing notes to erase the remnants of the terror that had grabbed her by the throat and squeezed.

“It wasn’t real,” she whispered again. To verify, she looked across her shoulder at the alarm panel beside the front door. A red light glowed, indicating the system she’d activated before going to bed had not been breached.

That knowledge did little to calm her. After all, the monster hadn’t crashed through the door. It had been inside her all the time.

Just the simple gesture of shoving her hair behind her shoulders proved difficult with her hands shaking so badly. Her hands weren’t the only unsteady thing about her. Her legs trembled, her heart stuttered against her ribs and her teeth chattered at intervals.

She was an expert in self-defense, but there was no defense against this internal monster. Like cells gone mad, it had grown and gathered strength, finally forcing itself back into her consciousness after so many years.

Nine, she thought dazedly. It had been nine years since the rape. The horrifying nightmare had started days after, had lasted months. But the monster had faded and eventually gone away. Forever, she had thought. Hoped.

It had returned violently three nights ago. She’d had dinner with Grant, come home, showered, then fallen into bed and slept. Hours later, the terror had slammed into her. She had tried to use logic to shake off the nightmare’s stunning effects, telling herself that by confiding a few details of the attack to Grant, she had stirred everything up.

After the second night of hell, she’d called Dr. Mirren. In her typical soothing manner, the psychiatrist had assured Sky that the nightmare was a result of her recent attempts to come to grips with the rape. After a lengthy discussion, the doctor had offered to prescribe a mild sedative, but Sky had declined. Her problem wasn’t getting to sleep. It was what happened after she got there.

Her flesh had turned to ice; she wished she’d taken the time to put on her robe. She gave a wary glance down the brightly lit hallway. The nightmare was still too real for her to venture back into the bedroom. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her waist and tried to get her breathing under control.

Over the past six months, she had begun to believe she’d made progress. Grown stronger. That maybe the part of her that had shattered would mend—not completely, but enough so that an intimate relationship could be more than just what other people had. No, she realized, she was back where she’d been nine years ago, vulnerable and afraid.

Because she was too shaken to maintain the usual tight control on her thoughts, she found herself suddenly aching for Grant. For the feel of his arms around her. For the soothing sweep of his warm breath as he whispered soft words against her cheek. She pulled in a slow breath. Not only was he not there to do any of those things, she didn’t even know if he was in the state. Two days ago, she’d returned to the lab after a meeting at the M.E.’s office and found a message that he’d called to say he was leaving for Austin. Was he still there, searching for a lead on Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother? If so, for how much longer? Or had he already returned and just hadn’t bothered letting her know?

Biting her lip, she reminded herself that he’d had no obligation to tell her he was leaving, much less contact her when he got back. If you care about me, you’ll let me go. She’d made her feelings clear to him six months ago.

He had let her go.

Now she had a monster to face, and she had to deal with it. Alone.

Her gaze went to the sofa upholstered in pale, muted shades and scattered with earth-tone throw pillows and a wool-soft comforter. She had spent the previous two nights huddled there, fighting sleep. Tonight would be the third.

In what was fast becoming habit, she padded into the kitchen, the sparkling white ceramic tiles cold against her bare feet. The digital clock on the coffeemaker glowed 1:02 a.m. Now that the terror was receding, she could feel fatigue settle in her legs and back. She knew the only way she’d stay awake was with a double kick of caffeine. She dumped an extra scoop of coffee into a filter, filled the pot with water, poured it into the machine, then switched it on.

Just as she reached for a mug, the phone on the counter trilled, nearly sending her out of her skin. “Get a grip. You’re on call,” she muttered, perturbed at her skittishness over the simple ringing of the phone. She grabbed the receiver. No matter how perverse, she welcomed the distraction of working a crime scene.

“Milano.” Sliding automatically into chemist mode, she reached for the pen and pad she habitually kept by the phone.

“It’s Grant. We need to talk about the case.”

Something low in her belly tightened at the sound of his voice. “Are you back in town?”

“Just drove in.”

“Did you find Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother?”

“That’s one subject we need to cover.” His voice came over the phone in a level slide that told her nothing. She furrowed her forehead, trying to remember her schedule. “Tomorrow morning I have a nine o’clock meeting at—”

“Now. We need to talk now.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, thinking about her earlier yearning to step into his arms. “Where do you want me to meet you?”

“Open your front door, Milano. I’m right outside.”

Sky made him wait in the hallway long enough for her to pull on jeans and a shapeless T-shirt, and sweep her hair back with a clip. She punched in the access code to deactivate the alarm, hoping the second barrage of cold water she’d splashed on her face had put some color in her cheeks.

She knew it hadn’t when she swung the door open and Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he stepped inside.

“It’s the middle of the night, Pierce. Give a girl a break.” She couldn’t tell him that the few details she’d given him about the rape had resurrected her nightmare. Even now, the thought of the throat-clenching terror she’d experienced the past three nights nudged her toward panic. She didn’t trust herself to tell him without losing control. She had fallen apart once in front of Grant, and she wasn’t going to put either of them through that again. The fact that the nightmare had returned after nine years, as crippling as ever, cemented the agonizing knowledge that she could offer him nothing.

“I usually don’t try for the runway model look until after the sun’s up,” she added, forcing lightness into her voice.

He didn’t smile, just gave her a long, hard look that made her want to squirm. “I don’t like the runway model look,” he finally said. He turned, scanned the living room where the blues singer crooned that he’d keep her safe and warm in the arms of love. Grant shifted his gaze to the brightly lit hallway that led to her bedroom. “You alone?”

“What?” She stared up at him, incredulous. Did he really think she was entertaining some other man?

He turned, eyed her steadily. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Hard to tell. I was on my way home and didn’t plan to stop. When I saw your apartment lit up like searchlights on a helicopter, I figured you weren’t asleep.”

“Oh.” She’d forgotten she had switched on every light in the place in an attempt to ward off the shadows. Uncomfortable under his assessing gaze, she arched an eyebrow. “You took this route to get home? Since when is my apartment on the way to the snooty part of town?”

This time he did smile. “I went a little out of my way.”

“About five miles.” She flicked a wrist in the direction of the breakfast bar where her briefcase and purse sat. “I’m up because I brought home lab files to review.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. She’d finished going over the files before she’d gone to bed.

“It’s hell when you have to bring work home,” he commented easily, then nodded toward the kitchen. “Do I smell coffee?”

“I just made a pot.” She turned, glad for any excuse to avoid the steely gray eyes that made her feel as if he could see right through her. That was the problem with cops, she thought. They didn’t take anything at face value. “Want some?” she asked as she walked around the counter and into the kitchen.

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