“It’s good to see you, Chili,” he said.

Yeah, right, I thought. Lie number one. “Can’t say I feel the same way,” I said.

He ignored my dig. “I’m glad they found you. I was worried when I heard you were out trying to find some poor sucker who took a wrong turn.”

Lie number two. Jack O’Brien never worried about anything other than himself. “You’re not welcome here, O’Brien. Do us both a favor and leave.”

I’d hoped to see a flicker of hurt in those beautiful eyes, but none appeared. He stared back at me with the gaze that used to make my body hum with an all-consuming need.

“I simply came by to check up on Charlie.”

“So you checked. Time to leave.”

He raised a single dark eyebrow, but didn’t move. “You look good. Mountain air seems to agree with you,” he said, as if we exchanged such pleasantries every day. “Things going okay for you?”

“Just fine. Thanks ever so much for asking.”

He waited, the stillness of his body putting me even more on edge. I didn’t bother asking him how he’d been. There wasn’t any need. No one asked about the condition of perfection.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

This July, Intrigue brings you six sizzling summer reads. They’re the perfect beach accessory.

* We have three fantastic miniseries for you. Film at Eleven continues THE LANDRY BROTHERS by Kelsey Roberts. Gayle Wilson is back with the PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD in Take No Prisoners. And B.J. Daniels finishes up her MCCALLS’ MONTANA series with Shotgun Surrender.

* Susan Peterson brings you Hard Evidence, the final installment in our LIPSTICK LTD. promotion featuring stealthy sleuths. And, of course, we have a spine-tingling ECLIPSE title. This month’s is Patricia Rosemoor’s Ghost Horse.

* Don’t miss Dana Marton’s sexy stand-alone title, The Sheik’s Safety. When an American soldier is caught behind enemy lines, she’ll fake amnesia to guard her safety, but there’s no stopping the sheik determined on winning her heart.

Enjoy our stellar lineup this month and every month!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Hard Evidence
Susan Peterson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For my brother, Sam, who has lived through adversity and pain and come through it with his honor and integrity intact.

May you find the peace, love and understanding you seek in this rough journey through life.

A special thanks to Christine Wenger for all her help with the “ins and outs” of Syracuse, New York. Any mistakes are purely the fault of the author’s.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A devoted Star Trek fan, Susan Peterson wrote her first science fiction novel at the age of thirteen. But as a hopeless romantic, Susan had to figure out a way to combine falling in love with a lifetime pursuit of total logic. After pursuing careers in intensive-care nursing and school psychology, Susan finally found the time to pursue a career in writing. An ardent fan of psychological thrillers and suspense, Susan combined her love of romance and suspense into several manuscripts targeted to the Harlequin Intrigue line. Getting the go-ahead to write for this line was a dream come true for her.

Susan lives in a small town in northern New York with her son, Kevin, her nutball dog, Ozzie, Phoenix the cat and Lex the six-toed menace (a new kitten). Susan loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at SusanPetersonHI@aol.com or visit her Web site at www.susanpeterson.net.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Jack O’Brien—An ex-cop turned paramedic, Jack harbors serious guilt about his testimony against his foster father on charges of bribery.

Killian “Chili Pepper” Cray—Shocked when her former flame Jack O’Brien testified against their beloved foster father, Killian left Syracuse and vowed never to return.

Charlie Orzinski—Beloved foster dad to troubled teens for much of his life, he is now in a deep coma following a suspicious hit-and-run accident.

Handler Ortega—Local crime boss who’ll do whatever it takes to get back vital information stolen from him regarding his criminal dealings.

Jeannette Renault—Former lover of Handler Ortega, and now married to a wealthy cardiac surgeon. Does this seemingly innocent suburbanite know more than she’s willing to tell?

Craig Gibson—Charlie’s lawyer, a man found murdered in Charlie’s apartment.

Caroline Pratt—Gibson’s law partner and known to represent Handler Ortega in a variety of shady legal matters.

Sweetie Pie—Charlie’s nasty, mangy Maine Coon cat. Now Killian’s responsibility.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

If there was one thing I never expected to have to do in this lifetime, it was to stand over Charlie Orzinski and worry about whether he was going to live or die. Mainly because I’ve always believed Charlie was indestructible, the ultimate Man of Steel.

But the fact that he was in the I.C.U. of Crouse Hospital in Syracuse, N.Y., unconscious and hooked up to every machine known to modern man, showed me just how wrong I was. The trauma docs had given him less than a sixty-percent chance of survival.

Personally, I was betting Charlie had an ace or two up his sleeve, but something about the gray pallor of his craggy face told me death was a real possibility. And that was a possibility I wasn’t prepared for. One I’d never be prepared for.

I reached down and slid my hand into his. His stillness frightened me more than the machines clustered around the bed. They seemed to diminish him, making his massive body, with its bull neck and linebacker shoulders, look small and insignificant beneath the stark white of the hospital sheets.

According to the nurses, he hadn’t moved in three days. Not for the day it took the hospital staff and police to identify him and not the following two days it took them to contact the only people alive who truly loved him, a ragtag pack of former foster kids Charlie and his wife Claire had raised over the years.

I was the last of the kids to get word, mainly because they had to send someone into the backwoods of the Adirondack Mountains to reach me. As a deputy sheriff from Essex County, N.Y., I’d been out traipsing through the wilds of the Adirondacks, trying to locate some NYC hump who had escaped from Ray Brook Minimum Security Prison.

Most of us had figured the idiot had counted on heading back to the city and his woman, but somewhere along the line, he’d taken a wrong turn. A dangerous wrong turn. He’d ended up stumbling deeper and deeper into the remotest mountainous areas of the Upper Adirondacks.

Winter had hit the north country early and I had figured we’d find the poor SOB frozen to some tree, solid as a Good Humor Popsicle. He probably wouldn’t be worrying about how much time he had to serve back at the Ray Brook Country Club.

Shortly after the park ranger found me and informed me of my foster dad’s condition, I stumbled out of the woods, jumped into my tiny electric-blue Neon and headed for Syracuse, fighting a healthy dose of fear and guilt deep in the pit of my belly.

Guilt because I’d told Charlie I’d never return to the city, that I had written it out of my heart the day he’d been sentenced to eight years at Ray Brook Federal Prison in Ray Brook, New York, for selling information and taking bribes.

To my way of thinking, the city and the Syracuse Police Department had ruined his life, broken his heart and killed his beloved Claire. But Charlie, the only dad I’d ever really known, had always told me, Never say never because that word will come back to bite you on the ass. As usual, Charlie was right.

I laced my fingers through his and pressed my palm to his. I could feel the coolness of his skin beneath my own. I desperately wanted him to open his eyes, smile up at me and ask, “Where the hell ya been, Chili?”

But Charlie didn’t move, and the heart monitor and other assorted machinery littering the Intensive Care cubicle continued to beep and click with maddening, mind-numbing regularity.

I moved closer to the bed and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Come on, Pop, don’t play possum. Wake up.”

The respirator chugged on and the heart monitor beat out a steady pattern of life, but his eyelids didn’t flicker.

“Could you tell me if there’s been any change in Mr. Orzinski’s condition?” a voice asked out at the nurse’s desk.

I stiffened. It was a familiar voice. So familiar that it shot a charge of something sharp and unpleasant up the center of my spine, spreading out along the length of my shoulders and heating the back of my neck with black pepper anger.

I knew that voice almost better than Charlie’s. But the difference was, this was one voice I had no desire to hear. Not now, not ever!

Still hanging on to Charlie’s hand, I turned and peeked around the curtain. Jack O’Brien stood in front of the nurse’s station, his upper body leaning casually on the counter top as he schmoozed the ward clerk sitting behind the desk.

One elbow was propped under his chin, and his powerful shoulders were hunched beneath a battered leather jacket, a jacket I’d bought him the first Christmas we’d dated.

I knew without seeing his face that his dark blue eyes, shaded by the longest, thickest eyelashes a man had the audacity to own, would be sending interesting chills down the pretty clerk’s arms.

Sure enough, a flush of pink infused her cheeks and she smiled up at him with more wattage than was usually seen in a depressing place like the I.C.U. The Jack O’Brien I remembered liked using his charm to make women flutter. Obviously, he hadn’t changed much in the nine years since I’d last seen him. And for more than one reason, that fact irritated the hell out of me.

To say that I harbored a deep-seated desire to return to the city and find Jack fat, or at least with a substantial beer gut, was an understatement. Unfortunately, he had developed neither.

His black hair, thick and longish with a familiar poetic curl to the ends, hugged the back of his neck and caressed the collar of his battered leather jacket, eliciting unwanted memories of my fingers shifting through those vibrant strands. Impatient, I pushed the thought aside.

Jack had always sported a dark, brooding look when it met his needs. It was his trademark. But even he knew his real charm was his charisma. It drew women and men to him like bees to honey—women to his dark beauty and men to his easy nature and laid-back attitude.

When he had been younger and gotten into mischief, which, according to Claire, had been way too often, she’d tell him that he had the looks and temperament of one of God’s dark angels—the ones who had fallen from grace. But no matter what he did, Jackie knew how to charm his way out of any kind of trouble. Even trouble with Claire.

She had been a pretty religious woman, but according to Charlie, Jack would just laugh and buzz Claire’s cheek with those magnificent lips of his, pick her up and swing her around, and before he’d set her down, she would be all flustered and red. She’d swat at him and forgive him within seconds. Like everyone else in his life, she’d been unable to stay mad at him.

No one could stay mad at Jack. No one except me, that is.

As far as I could tell, the only clue that he was closing in on thirty-five were a few gray hairs mixed in with the dark strands along the sides of his head. The fact that they only made him look sexier set my teeth on edge. If there was one thing O’Brien didn’t need, it was something that made him look sexier.

He leaned forward, his muscular legs, long and lean, spread slightly apart, showcasing a tight ass in worn jeans. Angry, I pulled my gaze up above his waist. No way did I want him turning around and finding my eyes glued to his ass. The Jack I knew would take too much delight in that particular scenario.

We had a history together, Jack and me. A very intimate history. But the last thing I wanted was for him to think I regretted walking out on him nine years ago when he testified against Charlie. It was his testimony that had put the final nail in Charlie’s career coffin, information that guaranteed that he was stripped of his badge, gun and thirty years of retirement benefits with the police department.

The clerk behind the desk said something and nodded her head in my direction. I could see Jack shift his powerful body, and I ducked behind the curtain, breathing deep in an attempt to keep from passing out. Please let him have the decency to leave when he realizes I’m in the room.

I held my breath and waited.

A few moments passed and then, “Hello, Chili.”

The voice was deep and gravel-rough around the edges. It was a sound so familiar that my traitorous nerve endings flared with a deep buried swoon of delight. I squashed the feeling with a viciousness that would have surprised even Attila the Hun.

“The name’s Killian. Use it.”

Chili Pepper had been my street name. We won’t get into why; it’s too embarrassing. But the nickname had stuck even after I went to live with Charlie and Claire.

Charlie had used the nickname affectionately, a clever, nurturing man’s attempt to make the scrappy, defiant teen who had invaded his household with swagger, a vulgar mouth and piping hot anger, relax and realize her identity wasn’t about to suddenly disappear simply because she’d ended up in the foster-care system. No one but Charlie had the right to call me by that name…. Okay, maybe Jack used to have that right, but not anymore.

My fingers tightened on Charlie’s hand. Wake up, Pop. Please wake up and rescue me before I make a fool of myself. But Charlie slept on, oblivious to the fact that I needed him more than ever.

I lifted my head and met Jack’s steady gaze. Air cramped in the back of my throat, squeezing it shut, hurting bad. I had to remind myself to breathe. His eyes were so dark, so deep and soulful blue that they seemed to sear right through me.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

Yeah, right, I thought. Lie number one. Keep ’em coming Jackie boy. It’ll just make it easier for me to keep my hate on.

“Can’t say I feel the same way,” I said.

He ignored the dig. “I’m glad they found you. I was worried when I heard you were out tramping around in the woods chasing down some poor sucker who took a wrong turn.”

Lie number two. Jack O’Brien never worried about anyone or anything other than himself. I’d learned that fact nine years ago. “You’re not welcome here, O’Brien. Do us both a favor and shove off.”

I’d hoped to see a flicker of hurt in those beautiful eyes, but none appeared. He stared back at me with that familiar steady gaze, the one that used to make my knees melt and my body hum with a need so hungry and all consuming that I used to think I’d die if he didn’t satisfy it.

“I simply came by to check up on Charlie.”

“So, you checked. Time to leave.”

He raised a single dark eyebrow, but didn’t move. I gripped the metal bed rail and hung on for dear life. He’ll leave soon. Just hang on, Killian.

“You look good. Mountain air seems to agree with you,” he said as if we exchanged such pleasantries every day. “Things going okay for you?”

“Just fine. Thanks ever so much for asking.”

He waited, the stillness of his body putting me even more on edge. I didn’t bother asking him how he’d been. There wasn’t any need. No one asked about the condition of perfection.

“How’d this happen?” I finally asked.

“I don’t really know all the specifics. But they’re calling it a hit-and-run.”

“What’s the matter, you aren’t in the loop anymore down at the station?”

His eyes stared into mine, and a flicker of something close to pain or regret flashed through them. But it was hard for me to tell because the emotion disappeared so quickly.

“I’m not on the force anymore, Killian,” he said. “I quit a few weeks after Pop was sentenced.”

I swallowed hard. Now that was a surprise. Jack loved the force almost as much as Pop, maybe more. I wanted to ask what he was doing with himself, but that meant admitting I might actually be interested.

“I joined the fire department. I’m working as a paramedic.”

“Interesting choice. Must be all that compassion and gentle caring you’ve got stored up, huh?”

Jack ignored my sarcastic dig. “I might not be part of the force anymore, but I know the guys will all be working hard to find out what happened. None of them will let it drop until they find the SOB.”

“Yeah, right. Just like all you guys worked your tails off to clear his name nine years ago.” I smacked my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Oh, wait, I’m getting that confused, aren’t I? It’s you who trashed Pop’s name and got him sent to prison in the first place, wasn’t it?”

“I gather from your tone that you’re still having a hard time getting over that, huh?”

I met his gaze dead-on. “I’d strongly advise against holding your breath if you’re waiting for any words of forgiveness from me, O’Brien. It ain’t gonna happen.” I glanced down at Charlie, my heart torn that he was the one getting the shaft again. “If you want to know the truth, I dream every night of you getting what you deserve.”

“And what exactly is it that you think I deserve?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know. Now get out of here.”

I fiercely willed him to go away, but he wasn’t on my wavelength anymore. Once, not too long ago, people used to accuse us of being inside of each other’s heads, finishing each other’s sentences and laughing at jokes only the two of us heard. But Jack broke that thread when he’d incriminated Charlie to save his own skin.

“I talked with Elliot over at the Two-Four. You remember Elliot Standish, right?”

I nodded abruptly, concentrating on the rise and fall of Charlie’s chest as the respirator blew air into his lungs, breathing for him, keeping him alive.

“Elliot says that they have two eyewitnesses. They’re working from a sketch of the guy and a partial plate number.” He shifted a little to the right, as if trying to catch my eye, but I avoided eye contact. I had to avoid eye contact. Jack’s eyes had the power to reduce me to a puddle of emotion. I wasn’t taking any chances, not now. Not when I was already an emotional wreck. I needed my wits about me. I needed to figure out what had happened to Pop and who had hurt him.

“Give them a few more days and they’ll have something,” he said.

I smoothed a wrinkle in the sheet over Charlie’s chest, the starched fabric stiff and crisp beneath my fingers.

“Killian—?”

I glanced up. The angular planes of Jack’s face had arranged themselves into an expression of concern, but I wasn’t fooled.

Lie number three. Jack O’Brien was an expert at appearing concerned. It was another thing I had learned at Charlie’s trial.

“What?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed a little as he studied my face. The dark midnight blue of his eyes in the dim light of the room seemed to slice through the space between us, lasering into me and cutting a clean precise incision directly through the center of my heart.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He moved around the end of the bed, getting closer. It felt as though his powerful body was sucking up all the air around us, and I steeled myself against its influence. Closeness was not good. I needed to escape, get outside his circle of influence. But he didn’t move, and I was frozen.

“Where are you staying while you’re here?” he asked.

My fingers tightened on the rail of the bed, and bitterness rose in the back of my throat. “Pop’s apartment, if you can even call it that. It’s a certifiable hellhole.”

I shot him a look that let him know exactly who I thought was responsible for the fact that our dad was sleeping in a one-bedroom rooming house with a rat problem that would keep the entire pest control industry in Syracuse busy for the next five years.

Charlie had lost the family home at some point during his trial. A house that had been in his family for several generations. The money had gone to pay for his defense.

“I thought about getting a hotel room, but Sweetie Pie needs someone to take care of him.”

Sweetie Pie was the family pet, a fifteen-year-old Maine coon cat, half-blind, totally deaf and ornerier than a polecat trapped in a burlap bag while in fierce heat.

“You should have called. You could have stayed at my place.”

I stiffened. Was he really that clueless? Did he actually believe that I’d take the freight elevator up to his loft apartment ever again? Or was he simply demonstrating his total insensitivity to what had happened to us in the past?

Sweet, painful memories of those late-night elevator rides flooded my senses, making me slightly woozy. Nights when we’d barely make it onto the elevator, let alone into his apartment before we were tearing at each other’s clothes.

The elevator would chug upward, its gears and chains grinding and churning, as he’d press me up against the metal gate with his hardened body. His lips would travel over the pounding pulse in my neck and his clever hands would tear at my shirt buttons. My own hands frantically pulled and tugged at the waistband of his worn jeans.

We’d get to the top, push open the gate and stumble out, hobbling and hopping across the bare plank floor of his apartment, hanging on to each other and hampered by our clothing dragging down around our ankles.

Finally, we’d collapse onto the king-size mattress lying on the floor in the center of the loft. Jack didn’t have a lot of furniture in those days. Besides, a bed seemed to serve any and all purpose in his life at the time. Knowing him, it probably still did.

Even with that bitter thought, my mind drifted back to those crazy, hot, passionate nights. I’d lie on my back and suck in great gulps of air from the open skylight above, while his clever hands did wild and wonderful things to my body. And we’d lie there for hours, his powerful limbs entwined with mine, his lips whispering secret words in my ear as I screamed for a release I wanted so badly I could taste it even now.

My hands shook as I roughly pushed the thoughts aside, fighting to keep the emotions from ripping at my insides and showing on my face.

I met his gaze, and my anger heated to white when I saw the touch of sympathy sitting in the depths of those exquisite eyes. If there was one thing I didn’t want, it was to have Jack feeling sorry for me. I wanted him on his knees hurting worse than me.

“Sorry, that wasn’t very diplomatic of me, was it?” he said.

“Gee, you think?”

“Come on, Killian, cut me some slack. I said I was sorry. Can we call a truce?”

“Not in this lifetime.” I tore my eyes away from his.

For a moment, I questioned if I was being unreasonable. But then rage pulled at me again. He didn’t have any rights, in my book.

He had destroyed Pop with his testimony, telling the jury and the rest of the world that Charlie had sold important police information to the local crime boss, taking huge kickbacks in return.

He’d come to Claire’s funeral when she died of cancer a week into Charlie’s trial, but he stayed in the back, aware that he was no longer welcome inside the magic circle of young adults who clustered around Charlie in a show of support and infinite sorrow.

At one point, Charlie had reached out to him, but Jack was quick enough to catch the warning glares from the rest of us. He disappeared a short time later, never making it to the graveside service.

“None of the others have mentioned you lately. Have you talked to them?” I was referring to our five foster siblings.

“The reason he hasn’t mentioned us is that we never see him,” a new voice piped in.

I turned to see Shawna, one of our former foster sisters, watching us from the doorway. She stood with both hands planted firmly on her narrow hips, a fierce expression of protectiveness stiffening the dark mahogany planes of her proud face. The thick gold ring punched through the center of her lower lip glittered in the muted lights of the room as she glared in Jack’s direction.

“Jack knows he isn’t welcome around here.”

“Good to see you too, Shawna.” Jack’s expression showed no reaction to her bristly greeting. “As disagreeable as ever, I see.”

“You ain’t even seen disagreeable, big brother.” She turned away from him and concentrated on me. “Brian told me you’d arrived. I came down right after work. Couldn’t get away earlier. Another supervisor retired, and I’ve been picking up the slack. Damn hiring freeze.”

She scowled and then moved over to stand next to me. “How’s he doing?”

“No change,” I said, leaning down to hug her. She clung to me for a few seconds, her head nestled against my shoulder as if trying to soak in some of my strength. I’d always envied Shawna her petiteness. Without meaning to, she had always managed to make me feel like an Amazon.

“The docs been in today?” she asked finally, stepping back.

“Earlier. They didn’t have anything to say. The usual grunts and nods. Which seem to be the typical way of imparting information around this place.”

Shawna nodded and rearranged the sheet lying across Charlie’s chest. Her nails, long and meticulously painted, showed bloodred against the white linen. “Drake and I are taking the night shift. He told me to tell you to go home and get some sleep. You and Courtney have day duty.”

I sighed. Did they really think I was going to leave Charlie’s bedside? “I’m fine right here.” I nodded toward the cushioned high-backed chair in one corner of the room. “I’ll catch some Z’s right over there if I get too tired.”

Shawna shook her head. “They only allow two of us in the room at a time.”

“Then I’ll sleep out in the waiting room.”

“You’re not going to do Charlie any good if you’re dead on your feet,” Jack said quietly from the end of the bed.

I bristled. “No one asked for your input.”

It was Shawna’s turn to sigh. “Look, as much as I hate to admit it, Jack’s right. You need to keep strong.”

Jack moved toward the door. “When Pop wakes up, will you at least give me a call?”

“Sure,” Shawna said.

I let her do the talking. If I had my way, he’d be the last person I called to tell the good news, but in this case I bowed to Shawna’s diplomatic skills.

He zipped his jacket, pulling up the collar in preparation for heading outside. His gaze shifted to me. I stiffened.

“Take care of yourself, Killian.” His tone had a certain softness to it, as if he were trying to connect with me. To reach out and touch the part of me that had once loved him.

“You, too,” I said curtly.

He walked out and Shawna shot me a quick look. “Still haven’t gotten over him, have you?”

I stiffened. “What makes you say that?”

“The fact that your hostility has an undeniably passionate edge to it.”

She looked me up and down and shook her head knowingly. “No doubt about it, sistah, you’re still holding a torch for that one.”

“Boy, are you living in a dream world.”

I glanced away so she couldn’t read any more of the raw emotions flickering across my face. Shawna was only three years older than me, but she had a tendency to take on the role of the all-knowing older sister, a trait that never ceased to annoy me. Basically, I hated her uncanny ability to read me.

“Well, he’s gone and that’s all that matters for now.” She picked up a small package on the bedside table and slipped out a premoistened swab. She leaned over the rail to moisten Charlie’s chapped lips around the adhesive tape securing the breathing tube in his mouth.

“Jack’s been pretty decent about staying out of our way these past few years. I can’t really fault him for wanting to stop by and see Pop now.” She glanced up, her dark eyes wistful. “Pop never hated anyone in his entire life. He didn’t even fault Jack for testifying against him in court. He forgave him—told all of us to forgive him, too.”

“Guess I’m not as kindhearted as Pop,” I said. “But then, he’s always been soft when it came to dealing with Jack. In fact, he was too kindhearted toward all of us. None of us deserved him. Or Claire.”

Shawna reached up and touched my shoulder. “Save it, sweetie. He’s gonna pull through this. He’s too strong to give up.” She swallowed her own obvious pain. “Craig Gibson, Pop’s lawyer, stopped by yesterday. Charlie has a health proxy and a will. He appointed you as the executor of his estate and gave you power of attorney.”

I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Me? Why me?”

Shawna shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that the suit who stopped by here said for you to get in touch with him as soon as you arrived.”

She glanced over at the clock hanging over the head of Charlie’s bed. “Too late now, but he wants to see you in his office tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. sharp. Something to do with Charlie’s will.” She patted my arm. “Now get some rest. You need to be fresh for Pop in the morning.”

I nodded, shrugged into my oversize down jacket, zipped it up and headed for the door.

“Oh, wait,” Shawna said.

I turned back.

Her face had that worried, indecisive look she got when she wasn’t sure she wanted to share her information. Big sister syndrome—what degree of truth do you tell the little ones?

“Just say it,” I said.

“Some weird stuff has been going on.”

“Weird how?”

“People showing up in Pop’s room who no one knows. And it’s always when one of us isn’t right here in the room.”

I walked back over to the bed. “You’re talking about people who aren’t hospital staff, right?”

Shawna nodded. “One time, I came back in after going down the hall for ice and the hose from his respirator was off—just laying on his chest. He couldn’t breathe. His lips were blue.”

Fear tightened in my belly. “What did the nurses say?”

“They said the hose pops off like that sometimes. But an alarm is supposed to go off. For some reason, it didn’t happen that time.” She paused for a moment and then continued, “When I asked if anyone had been in the room, they said some guy stopped in for a quick visit. No one knew his name and by the description, it didn’t sound like anyone Pop knows.”

From her expression I could tell there was more. “Tell me the rest.”

“Well, when I came in last night, Craig was on the phone in the hall and when I walked in the room, some guy was leaning over the bed fiddling with Pop’s IV tube. Soon as I walked in he dropped it and said something about it looking fine and hightailed it out of here. None of the nurses knew who he was.”

“Have you told the police all of this?”

Shawna nodded. “They told me I was overreacting. They won’t put a guard on him no matter what any of us say.”

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and punched in a number. “Then we’ll get our own. Dickie Petrova from the old neighborhood opened his own security business. We’ll use him.”

“That’s going to cost us a mint, Killian.”

I shrugged. “I’ll pay for it.”

Dreams of upgrading my cabin in the woods on my tiny piece of heaven right outside Keene Valley flew out the window like a puff of wood smoke escaping from a cast-iron stove, but I didn’t care. Pop’s safety was more important, and he would have done it for me, for any of the kids. That and more.

Until I found out what was going on, Pop was getting twenty-four-hour protection. And his lawyer was going to have a lot of questions to answer tomorrow when I arrived at his office. Something was going on and it didn’t add up to a simple hit-and-run case.

Chapter Two

The front doors of the hospital slid open and a frigid wind whipped up Crouse Street, stirring up scraps of trash lining the sidewalk and spraying my face with small, gritty grains of dirt-encrusted snow. I reached up and brushed a hunk of hair out of my eyes.

A sense of disorientation hit me for a moment as I stood on the front walkway. I’d grown up in Syracuse, on the west side. A part of the city not many people visited. When I’d been sent to live with Charlie and Claire, I’d discovered a whole new Syracuse, one I hadn’t really known had existed—the world of suburbia.

Suburbia had been a place with elegant Tudor-style homes, tiny, manicured front lawns and neat wooden porches with wide, comfortable porch swings. Fussy potted plants and starched white lace curtains sat in the front windows, and antique boards painted with cute little sayings about angels and sunflowers hung on the front double doors. Claire had worked hard to keep up with the neighbors. No one had outdone Claire when it came to decorating.

I breathed in the familiar grime and reminded myself that living in a city needed some getting used to. It wasn’t suburbia and it sure wasn’t the Adirondacks.

Even though it was early evening, the temperature had already dropped down into the low teens. A frigid night in Syracuse. Now there was a big surprise.

I found myself wishing I was back on Giant Mountain, sitting under a canopy of stars, next to a roaring campfire and listening to the cold north wind rustling the pines.

It took a minute to get my bearings, but finally I turned right and headed across the street toward the parking garage. Snow crunched under my hiking boots.

My head was a little woozy, no doubt from the stuffiness of Charlie’s hospital room and then the sudden exit into carbon-monoxide-polluted air. Breathing crisp mountain air for the past few years had its advantages.

Of course, the fact that I was still recovering from sharing the same breathing space as Jack O’Brien might have something to do with my current respiratory difficulties. I’d gotten out of his breathing space just in time.

Unfortunately, I had spoken too soon. The deep rumble of an idling Harley sounded from the left and a second later, the front tire of the powerful machine nudged my left toe.

Steeling myself, I glanced over. Sure enough, Jack sat in the saddle, his legs spread wide to balance himself, his helmet sitting between his legs. The expectant expression on his face told me he’d been waiting for me.

“Most sane people know when to put their cycle away for the winter, O’Brien,” I said, stepping around the front of the bike, determined to get to the garage and my car.

He laughed agreeably. “Gets harder and harder for me to do every year.”

“Yeah, arrested development can do that to a guy.” I shot the comment over one shoulder as I tried to push past him.

“Killian, wait.” He caught my elbow and whipped me around easily.

I shrugged his hand off. “We said what we needed to say to each other inside.”

“I just wanted to try and get you to reconsider your plans to stay at Pop’s place.”

“Where I stay isn’t any of your concern.”

I started to turn away again, but he reached out again, stopping me.

I folded my arms, hopeful that it would provide protection against the flush of awareness that shot through me when those long fingers clamped on my forearm.

Damn, I hated my body and its immediate reaction to his touch. It was like a memory of him, of his hands on my body, had been scorched into every cell and nerve ending of my being.

“I’m willing to sacrifice my couch in your honor. You know the west side isn’t a place for you to be hanging out.”

I almost laughed at that. Yeah, right, I had only cut my razor-sharp baby teeth on the goings-on over on the west side. Jack knew that only too well.

I’d lived on West Belden Avenue most of my life. Until Social Services stepped in, anyway, yanking me out of my heroin-addicted, straight-vodka-swigging mother’s custody and plunking me down on the porch steps of Charlie and Claire’s rambling, historic house. For me, it had been like landing on Mars.

Thirteen years old, ornery and disagreeable, smelling like pot plant, dog slobber and dirty laundry. But Claire hadn’t blinked an eye. She’d simply opened her door wide and welcomed me into that huge, rambling house of theirs.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Speaking of which, did you know that Shawna and the others suspect that someone has been coming into Pop’s room uninvited, possibly fooling around with his life support equipment?”

“One of the nurses mentioned that they made a complaint.”

Yeah, when you were flirting with her, no doubt. I gritted my teeth. “Well, I believe Shawna and respect her concern. I’ve hired on Dickie Petrova for added security.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Ah, jeez, Killian, Dickie Petrova? You know he can’t find his way out of a paper bag. Would you please let me take care of things?”

I moved past Jack. “You had your chance and you blew it. I’m taking care of things now.”

I crossed the street to the parking garage and Jack didn’t follow. I didn’t even bother to glance over my shoulder as I stepped onto the elevator.

Jack seemed to get the message that I didn’t want his help, and he made no attempt to follow. For that I was thankful. Thankful, that is, until I stepped off the elevator onto the third floor of the parking garage.

Damn! The lights were out on this end of the garage. A sprinkling of glass shards among a few rocks laying beneath three of the closest light poles told me that some punk, bored with having to wait around for his family, had taken a couple of pot shots at the overhead lights.

I looked around. The inside of the garage was murky and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. My training kicked in, making me instantly cautious.

I walked down two rows and found my grime-encrusted car tucked in between a silver Lexus and a black Cadillac Escalade SUV. My sturdy little electric-blue Neon looked pretty lonely among all that luxury.

I pulled my key out but before I had it in the lock, I felt, rather than heard, someone come up behind me. I stiffened.

“Don’t scream and don’t turn around,” a voice whispered in my ear.

I tightened my hand on the key. At this point, it was my only weapon. I shrugged and allowed my purse to slide off my shoulder. I shoved the purse back toward the disembodied voice. “Here,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of cash, but whatever’s there is yours. And you’re welcome to the credit cards, too.”

I didn’t mention that the cards were almost maxed out. Let the jerk find that out for himself.

A hand grabbed the purse but immediately heaved it onto the pavement. Concern shot through me. When a robber didn’t want your purse, that was not a good sign. If he wasn’t looking for cash, then there was only one other thing he’d want from a single woman in a dark parking garage. I wasn’t about to give that particular item up without a fight.

As inconspicuously as possible, I shifted my weight onto my toes. But the guy seemed to anticipate the move and he hit me hard between my shoulder blades, sending me stumbling forward against the hood of the car.

I used my hands to keep myself from hitting face-first. He pressed against me with his bulky body, pushing my head down until my cheek rested against the cool metal.

“Don’t even think about running,” he said.

“I wasn’t,” I lied.

My heart pounded against my rib cage and fear thickened in the back of my throat. The guy wasn’t going to make this easy. He was a pro, someone who had done this before. He knew what to look for.

“What do you want?” I asked, desperately trying to keep myself from panicking.

“We want what belongs to us.” His hand held me tight against the car. I couldn’t move.

“Tell me what it is and if I have it, I’ll give it to you. I’m not looking for trouble.”

“We want the key and the package.”

I shoved my key chain in his direction. “Here, take them. Take the car. Just leave me alone.”

He took my keys but I heard them hit the pavement alongside my purse. “These aren’t the key or the package we’re looking for.”

“Well, they’re the only ones I’ve got,” I said.

He snorted in exasperation and grabbed my collar, hauling me to my feet. Reaching around me, he yanked open the door of the Escalade. “Get in and push over behind the wheel.”

I locked my knees, digging my heels into the pavement. Don’t ever let an abductor take you to a new location. I’d heard that particular warning more than a few times from Charlie, Jack and every other police officer I’d ever worked or trained under.

“Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you,” I stalled.

He didn’t answer, but instead crowded in behind me, using his thickly muscled body to nudge me into the car. “I said to get in and get behind the wheel.” He shoved me between my shoulder blades, sending me stumbling against the open car door.

I stepped up and bumped my head on the door frame. A stinging pain shot across the top of my scalp. I swallowed against the tears that sprang to the corners of my eyes and slid across the seat.

I reached for the opposite door handle, but before I could grab it and jump out, a hand reached across the front seat and clamped down on my shoulder, anchoring me firmly to the seat.

I jumped, and my fear hit a new high. My abductor had an accomplice. My chances of escape had just taken a rather significant nosedive.

“Don’t even think about jumping out,” a voice said, the sound low and grating, like granite stones rattling in a metal cage.

How had I missed that there was someone else in the car? I was getting careless. Too many years living in the mountains and not enough time keeping my city radar switched on high.

I grabbed the wheel and peered into the rearview mirror. The shadowy figure in the backseat wore his cap low on his forehead, shading his features. His shoulders were wide and bulked up beneath the expensive leather coat. He used two fingers to flick the back of my skull, sending another flash of pain shooting through my head.

“Keep your eyes front and center,” he ordered.

“What do you want?” I tried to keep the fear out of my voice. “My boyfriend is going to be here any minute.”

Mr. Biceps laughed, and it wasn’t anything light or airy. More like the low rumble of a diesel truck. “You ditched O’Brien down below. Ain’t no one coming to your rescue, little sister.”

He knew Jack. Apparently Jack was still hanging with an interesting crowd.

The shooter slammed the passenger side door closed and shifted around to face me. He had a fleshy nose with a boatload of nasty-looking moles and other assorted blemishes spread out across his cheekbones and neck. The guy was in serious need of a dermatologist.

He wagged the gun in the direction of the ignition. “Start it up. We’ll go somewhere a little less public to conduct our business.”

He glanced over his shoulder at his buddy. “The Bay Street exit, right, boss?”

The figure in the mirror nodded and then settled back, apparently content in his belief that Mole Face had things under control. I let him think that as I leaned forward and started the engine.

“Back it out nice and slow,” Mole Face instructed, settling his own shoulder back against the passenger side door, a small smile puckering his full lips.

“Where are we going?” I put the car in reverse and backed out. The bottom of my foot itched to floor it, but something told me I needed to bide my time, pick my opportunity carefully.

My passengers had the attitude of thugs who’d done this drill before. Something told me that there wouldn’t be any second chances. It was now or never.

Up ahead, I could see the ramp leading to the top of the parking garage. Patrons of the garage had to go up to the roof to start back down again. I eased the SUV into Drive.

“Take the back exit,” Mole Face ordered, resting the butt of the revolver on his right knee. He was feeling pretty confident, sure that I was frightened enough to do what he asked.

I shifted my left leg closer to the door and carefully slid my left hand off the wheel, resting it on my thigh. I nodded my head agreeably. “Whatever it is that you two want, I’ll give it to you as long as you don’t hurt me.” I put a little extra plaintive pleading into my voice, hoping they’d concentrate on that rather than the fact that my left hand was now resting on the door handle.

“Just shut up and drive,” the backseat thug said.

I headed for the ramp, bracing my left foot against the frame of the car as I stamped my right foot down on the accelerator. The car engine roared, and the vehicle jumped as if goosed.

Both men fell back against the seats, and the gun flew out of Mole Face’s hand, hitting the dashboard. With a grunt, he scrambled to reach it. But the revolver slid to the floor, skittering across the floor and settling beneath my feet.

“Slow down!” Mole Face shouted.

“It’s stuck,” I said, pretending to pry at the bottom of the gas pedal with my foot but instead stomping on it harder.

Mole Face bumped up against me as he blindly groped along the floorboards for his gun. I ignored him and jammed the accelerator flat to the floor. The engine screamed and we hit the top of the ramp going sixty-five.

Come on! Come on! I chanted inwardly, my fingers gripping the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grasp. I willed the car to go faster.

The engine roared, building up more speed. Seventy. Eighty.

We raced across the top level of the parking garage, directly toward the opposite end and a line of cars.

I aimed for the tiny red sports car and when the SUV hit the back end, it reared up and over the little car’s trunk. In seconds, we were airborne.

I yanked open the driver’s side door, tucked my chin and threw myself out sideways. Blackness closed in around me as I twirled and spun in midair.

There was a whirlwind of flashing lights and then pain as I struck the pavement with my left shoulder. Lucky for me, my oversize down jacket provided me with some extra protection.

I rolled and then hit something hard but with a little give to it. Pain shot through my entire body and then darkness settled over me.

GROGGY, I blinked and opened my eyes. I was laying up against the rim of a tire. It had broken my fall, probably keeping me from getting seriously hurt.

Cautiously I sat up and looked around. The Escalade had gone over the side. There was nothing left except the smashed sports car with the M.D. plates. Some doc was going to be royally ticked when he came out after a hard night’s work to find his little plaything a total wreck. Guess more than just his malpractice insurance would go up this year.

I pulled myself to my feet, grimacing a bit when I moved my left shoulder. I’d taken my full weight on it when I fell. It was going to be more than a little sore.

Limping slightly, I walked over to the low wall at the end of the garage and looked over. The Cadillac lay on its side, steam rising up from the engine. After experiencing the speed that monster vehicle had mustered in such a short time, I figured I needed to consider buying one when I won the lottery someday. Nice wheels.

No one moved inside the SUV. If Mole Face and Biceps were still alive, they didn’t appear to be in any condition to climb out. Unfortunate for them, but lucky for me. Charlie would be proud. I had managed not to get myself moved to a new location.

A motorcycle’s engine echoed inside the parking garage, tearing upwards toward the top floor. I glanced around, suddenly desperate to disappear. I didn’t want to have to answer any questions, and I didn’t have any doubts as to who was riding the bike.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, Jack skidded to a stop. He yanked off his helmet, jumped off the bike and headed toward me, throwing the helmet over his shoulder. It hit the side of his bike and rolled a few feet away.

He ignored it, his face angry. “What the hell is going on?”

I shrugged. “Someone must have jumped the wall in a misguided attempt to avoid paying their parking fee.” I nodded toward the end wall. “He sailed right off the side.”

Jack walked over to view the mess below. He shot a suspicious glance in my direction. “Something tells me you’re involved. Wanna come clean?”

“The two gentlemen in the car thought they had my permission to take me for a ride. I disagreed.” I shrugged. “So, we parted company on unfriendly terms.”

“What did they want?”

“I’m not really sure. But they were under the impression that I had something they wanted. A key and a package of some sort.”

A few minutes later, the sound of a siren told us the police had arrived. They were crawling all over the SUV below in a matter of minutes.

“You’re going to have to make a statement.”

I shrugged again, ignoring the nagging pain in my shoulder. “Not my fault they took the short ride off the side of the parking garage. They shouldn’t have told me to drive while holding a gun on me.”

Jack shook his head. He wasn’t convinced I’d told him everything, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue about it right at the moment. “You’ll make your statement and then you’ll come with me. No way are you staying alone at Charlie’s.”

I bristled at his commanding, no-nonsense tone. Who the hell was he kidding? His place was not the safest place for me. Not when my traitorous body hummed like a well-oiled machine with every glance from those dark blue eyes of his. Nope, more like his apartment was the most dangerous place on the planet for me.

Before I could open my mouth to argue, he grabbed the extra helmet off the back of his bike and jammed it none too gently on my head. “Don’t be stubborn. Those men weren’t playing around. You need a safe place to stay. I’ll take you over to Pop’s place, we’ll pick up Sweetie Pie and then you can sleep at my place tonight. Tomorrow you can make whatever other arrangements you want.”

His fingers, warm and infinitely more sexy than my own, worked the straps of the helmet, brushing the soft skin at the underside of my chin.

I clenched my back teeth, my toes curling in the bottom of my boots. God, give me strength to ignore the tingle shooting up the center of my spine.

As hard as it was to admit it, I knew was right. I was tired. We could call a truce for tonight. We were both adults. No reason we couldn’t both handle staying in the same apartment for one night. We were strong. Responsible.

Ha! Who was I kidding. It wasn’t Jack I was worried about. I was the one who’d been living in Upstate New York, where every man seemed to live for his rifle, his snowmobile and Genesee Beer. A good woman was usually the last item on his list of life necessities. Right now, even O’Brien was looking too good to pass up, and that thought scared the hell out of me.

A SHORT TIME LATER, my statement having been given to the police, Jack and I were headed down Pine Street on the west side. Overflowing garbage cans lined the streets. One could only hope that the city sanitation department was headed in this direction tomorrow morning, or else the entire west side looked as though it might get buried under a mountain of Glad trash bags and empty pizza boxes.

Charlie’s apartment was in one of the old row houses that lined State Street, one of many elegant old homes that had slowly deteriorated into dilapidated ruins, propped up with plywood and cheap siding.

As financial times had gotten leaner, a lot of the original owners had divided their houses up into multiple dwellings, cramming as many people in as was humanly possible.

Charlie occupied a small one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of one such house. The owners were two elderly Polish ladies, sisters who had probably lived in the neighborhood since its creation. From the age of them, I figured they had both been born in the house.

Jack parked his bike at the curb, turned the front tire in and took off his helmet. He rested the helmet in front of him, balancing himself on two legs, his expression a bit horrified as he surveyed the garbage littered front yard.

I figured from his expression that this was his first visit to Pop’s new residence. A touch of resentment rumbled in the pit of my stomach, and that little voice in my head reminded me bitterly that it was all his fault Pop lived in such a dump.

I shut the voice off. He and I weren’t going to make it through the night if I had him roasting on a spit before midnight.

I hopped off and jammed my own helmet on the back of the bike. He followed suit and climbed the rickety steps onto the front porch. He glanced over one broad shoulder. “Are you coming? I don’t have a key, so we need yours to get in.”

I followed him into the front hall, the smell of frying sausages, sauerkraut and onions hit me hard and made my stomach rumble. Memories of dinner at the Orzinskis’ house swam into my consciousness—Claire standing over the stove, sautéing onions while Charlie read her sections of the evening paper.

I pushed the thought aside. Obviously the PowerBar earlier hadn’t been enough. Suddenly, I was starving.

A door to the right swung open and a short, squat woman with pure white hair and a bulldog face peered out. “Who are you?” she demanded.

Jack smiled that charming, one-sided dimpled grin of his. “Evenin’, ma’am. We’re here to pick up Charlie’s cat.”

The woman opened the door wider; her expression was suddenly a map of concern. “How is Charlie? Edith and I have been beside ourselves with worry about him. We were going to take a bus down to the hospital to see him, but money has been a little tight this month.”

“Who’s out there, Patty?” another voice called from inside the apartment.

“It’s some friends of Charlie’s here to pick up that insufferable beast of a cat of his. He’s still in the hospital. Gonna be there for a while longer, it seems.” She glanced at us for confirmation and Jack nodded.

There was the sound of something thumping on the floorboards of the hall and a tall, skinny woman with gray hair and a sour expression appeared. She leaned heavily on a thick cane. “You sure they’re legit? Awful lot of people claiming to be Charlie’s friends been popping out of the woodwork lately, asking to get into his apartment.”

Jack reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open to show his badge. “I’m with the Syracuse Fire Department. Charlie’s a real good friend of mine.” He nodded in my direction. “This is Killia—”

“Oh, we’ve met Killian,” the shorter sister said, smiling sweetly in my direction. “Sorry, dear, I didn’t recognize you in the dark hallway.”

She glanced up at the dim bulb. “We keep meaning to get stronger lighting out here, what with all the riffraff hanging around the neighborhood and stumbling into entryways without an invite. But somehow we always forget to tell Charlie to do that for us.”

She sighed. “Charlie’s been very good to us. He was always willing to do a few chores. Help us out when we needed something done.”

“Sounds like he won’t be helping us again any time soon,” Edith grumbled. She turned and thumped back down the hall of her apartment, mumbling under her breath.

The shorter sister smiled apologetically. “You’ll have to excuse Edith. She really does care about what happens to Charlie. She just isn’t the type to show her true feelings.”

I nodded but had a strong feeling that if Edith had the opportunity to get anywhere near Charlie’s bedside, she’d whack the soles of his feet with her cane and tell him to get his lazy ass out of bed. No doubt Charlie would be grateful she hadn’t scrounged up the extra money to take the bus down to the hospital.

Patty shot a quick glance over one shoulder and then shuffled her swollen, slippered feet out into the hall. She pulled the door shut after her. “Sorry for all the questions, but my sister is right. Lots of people been claiming to know Charlie lately. I never knew the man to have so many friends.”

“What did these friends say they wanted?” I asked.

Patty shrugged. “A few asked if he was home. A few of the recent ones wanted me to let them into the apartment.” She reached up and scratched her powder-white ear. “Personally, I can’t figure it out. Charlie doesn’t have two nickels to rub together. He doesn’t have much and I can’t say I can believe they stopped by to feed that ugly, disagreeable cat of his.”

“Did you recognize any of them as visiting here before?” I asked.

Patty’s bulldog forehead wrinkled even more. “Can’t remember anyone specific. One fellow had a bad case of pimples—in serious need of a good scrubbing. And his breath wasn’t any prettier than his face. Charlie might be poor, but he isn’t the type of man to let his personal hygiene go.”

The hair on the back of my neck ruffled. “Did you let him into the apartment?”

Indignation crossed Patty’s face. “Of course not! What kind of rooming house do you think we run around here?” She fluttered her stubby eyelashes in Jack’s direction. “Of course, if the request comes from one of Syracuse’s firemen, heroes that they all are, then that’s an entirely different story.”

I snorted at the description of Jack as a hero, and he shot me a look of exaggerated woundedness. I merely raised an eyebrow and frowned. He might be welcomed eye candy for a little old Polish lady on the west side, but he wasn’t fooling me. He sighed and turned back to Patty.

“Mind if Killian and I take a look around?”

“You go right ahead, sir. Just lock up when you’re all done.” Patty smiled and disappeared back into her apartment.

Jack and I took the worn stairs to the third floor. I could hear muted voices behind the walls of the other apartments we passed and the smell of dinner cooking.

My stomach rumbled loud enough for Jack to shoot me a quick glance. “Hungry?”

“A little.”

“We’ll grab some King David takeout on the way home.”

My heart squeezed with pain. Our favorite meal—Middle Eastern—hummus-and-fried-veggie patties on pita bread. We used to set up a picnic in the middle of the bed and chow down like two wild beasts and then roll over and make ourselves hungry all over again.

“I’m more of a hamburger and French fries type of gal, nowadays,” I said stiffly.

Jack shrugged. “McDonald’s it is, then.”

We reached the third floor and stopped.

Charlie’s apartment door yawned open on its hinges. Apparently whomever the Stanziki sisters had last refused entrance hadn’t accepted no for an answer. They’d simply kicked the flimsy door open and walked right in.

Jack and I stepped around the hanging door into utter chaos. If I’d judged Charlie’s place to be a hellhole earlier in the day, it now looked as though even Satan had deserted the place, but not before he’d had a major temper tantrum.

Every piece of furniture was smashed, slivers of wood and metal littering the threadbare carpet. The tiny twelve-inch black-and-white TV—where Charlie had gotten a real black-and-white TV was beyond me—was now screenless, shards of the glass spread across the carpet. The lamps lay broken on the two cheap end tables among ripped magazines and scraps of newspaper.

Through the archway into the tiny bedroom off the living room, I could see clothes, mostly worn jeans and stained T-shirts, hanging out of the thin plasterboard dresser.

The mattress, stained and sagging in the middle, was ripped up the center, the rusted springs and thin padding bubbling up between the tear like the guts of an eviscerated pancake. I swallowed hard.

Jack lifted his hand, pushed me back against the wall and started to shoulder his way past me. I shoved back, reaching inside my coat and drawing my gun.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go first,” I said, brushing past him.

“Stay here,” I mouthed silently.

He frowned, none too pleased. When I stepped inside, he pulled up close on my heels. I was annoyed that he didn’t listen, but I didn’t take the time to argue. I didn’t want to warn anyone if they were still in the apartment.

I poked my head into the small kitchen to the right of the living room. Actually, it wasn’t a kitchen, but a pathetic notch in the wall that served as a cooking nook.

The few dishes that had been sitting in the sink earlier lay smashed on the counter, every cabinet open and the contents dumped. All the drawers were open, their contents dumped onto the narrow strip of cracked linoleum.

The door on the tiny apartment refrigerator stood open; food and beverages, mostly opened bottles of beer and a pitcher of orange juice, dripped down off the racks. The putrid smell of spoiling food, probably tuna fish meant for Sweetie Pie, filled the tiny area.

“Damn!”

I jumped. The expletive had come from the bedroom. Jack had taken off on his own. I turned and ran in Jack’s direction, a burn of anger at his stupidity eating at the lining of my stomach. He didn’t have a weapon and he could have put himself in a great deal of trouble.

As I rounded the corner to Charlie’s bedroom, I realized fairly quickly that someone other than Jack was the one in deep trouble. The kind of trouble you don’t ever get out of.

Chapter Three

In the center of the cramped bedroom, near the closet, sat a wooden, straight-backed chair. But it was what was tied to the chair that almost made me lose the PowerBar I’d scarfed down earlier that afternoon.

The guy didn’t fit the overall decor of Pop’s apartment. He was too uptown for that. His expensive three-piece suit looked as though it might cost in the range of a two years’ salary for me. Unfortunately, he’d bled out all over the front of the suit.

The multiple stab wounds to his neck and chest looked as if someone had taken their sweet time inflicting them. A puddle of congealed blood pooled at his feet.

I almost gagged, but I held on. I told myself I’d seen worse, and I had. Maybe not murders, but car wrecks in the steep Adirondack Mountains could produce some pretty horrific scenes.

Jack swore and I could see him shoot me a quick assessing glance. He was probably worried that I was going to take a header directly into the middle of the crime scene.

I clenched my teeth and swallowed hard. I nodded my head to let him know that I was okay. No way would I give him the satisfaction of falling apart. I was the cop on the scene, not him.

“Do you know him?” he asked.

I shook my head, going for the casual look. “You?”

“Nope.”

I stepped forward and pulled a rubber glove out of my back pocket. Pop always taught me that a cop was always prepared, on duty or off.

I donned the glove with a quick snap of rubber and then carefully lifted the man’s jacket to extract the victim’s wallet and flipped it open.

“His name is Craig Gibson.” I couldn’t keep a touch of surprise from filtering through my voice.

Jack gave me a sharp glance. “So you do know him?”

I nodded. “Kind of. Shawna said that Pop’s lawyer wanted to meet with me tomorrow. She said his name was Craig Gibson.”

“Guess your meeting won’t be going off as planned.”

I closed the wallet and slid it back into Gibson’s pocket.

Reaching into his pocket, Jack pulled out a cell phone and quickly punched in a number. “Yeah, my name is Jack O’Brien. I’m at 354 Pine St., third-floor apartment. Number 3A. Notify homicide they’ve just caught a new case. And tell ’em to bring the coroner.”

He rattled off a few other details as I backed out of the room. I retreated to the kitchen and leaned over the battered metal sink. Turning on the tap, I splashed cold water on my face.

I’d seen enough gruesome car accidents to typically handle the blood and gore without any real show of emotion, but for some reason seeing that guy tied up and tortured that way affected me more than I’d figured on.

When I came up for air, I found Jack standing next to me, regarding me with that familiar, quietly assessing look of his.

“You okay?” he asked.

A sharp retort hovered on the tip of my tongue to cover up how off-kilter I really felt, but I kept quiet because I knew he’d be able to see right through me. So I simply nodded.

“The locals aren’t really going to let you get involved in this case,” he said. “You wanna wait downstairs with the sisters until they want a statement?”

I thought about the current condition of my stomach and the combined smells of Ben-Gay, sausage and sauerkraut leaking out from beneath the Stanziki sisters’ apartment door. “I’m fine. Just got a little shaky there for a minute due to an empty stomach.”

He shrugged those broad shoulders. “Fine by me. Just don’t touch anything. Homicide gets a bit touchy when people fiddle around with their crime scene.”

“I’m not an idiot, Jack. We do have crime scenes up there in the wilds of northern New York.”

Before he could respond, I turned on my heel and marched out into the drafty hallway. I figured I’d spend some time poking around out there, see if Pop’s guests had left anything interesting.

The window at the end of the hall was open partway and a cold breeze touched the side of my face, sending a chill through me. The Stanziki sisters wouldn’t be too pleased to see that. Precious heat was slipping out beneath the window sash like water over a dam. But it might have been how the perp got into the apartment if there was a fire escape attached to the side of the old house.

I walked over to the window and bent down to take a look. An indignant screech greeted me. Careful not to touch the sill and mess up any fingerprints, I leaned out the window.

A huge beast sat hunched on the railing of the ancient fire escape. Yellow eyes glared accusingly into my own.

“Awww, Sweetie Pie,” I cooed. “We forgot all about you in the ruckus, didn’t we? What are you doing out there in the cold?”

He blinked and then let out another indignant yowl. Obviously, he was royally perturbed. But then, anyone who knew Sweetie Pie knew that was a permanent condition.

I leaned out farther and gathered his mangy, hairy body into my arms and pulled him inside. He latched on to my slick, nylon jacket with his claws, their sharpness shredding the nylon and letting loose a few feathers.

His oversize head, with its mangled, gnawed ears, bumped the bottom of my chin, and he nestled closer, shoving his head up against the hollow of my throat. His fur felt cold in my hands, his body heavy. I couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d been sitting out there waiting for someone to come home and rescue him.

I moved back to my position outside the front door of the apartment, stroking Sweetie Pie’s bulky body as a way of reassuring him that everything was okay. He was pretty tense, his fur standing on end, but after a few minutes I could feel him begin to relax.

I leaned up against the wall again, sliding down to sit on my heels. Some of Syracuse’s finest had arrived and they swaggered into the apartment, a thick wave of testosterone following them in. A few nodded in my direction, but most were focused on what was going on inside Pop’s place.

As I sat cooling my heels in the hall, I itched to get in there and get involved. But I knew police etiquette. I needed an invitation, and none of the guys in there seemed to recognize me. Not that I could expect them to; I’d been gone a long time.

As my tension rose, my hands tightened around Sweetie Pie’s plump body, and he gave me a quick nip on the tip of my thumb as a warning. I concentrated on taking slow calming breaths and slipped a hand beneath his collar to keep him from jumping down and taking off in a huff.

The soft leather of the collar caught my attention and I glanced down. An unexpected lump of hot emotion filled the back of my throat. It was a hand-tooled collar, with clever cat prints lovingly carved into the leather and painted black.

I knew without question that it had been one of Charlie’s creations, a favorite hobby of his—leatherwork. From a metal ring, a tiny pie charm hung off the collar and the name Sweetie Pie and Charlie’s address were engraved on the back.

I fingered the pie charm as if I could reach into Pop’s head and figure out what had happened in his apartment, but it was a useless gesture. Instead, I watched the drama inside the apartment unfold.

For years, I had dreamed—no, prayed—that the brothers on the force would ostracize Jack after his testimony against Pop. I had wanted them to shun his traitorous butt for what he’d done to Pop. And from the cool, studied nonchalant way they greeted him, it was pretty obvious my wish had come true.

Strangely enough, witnessing what I’d prayed for didn’t bring me any great pleasure. I actually found myself feeling sorry for the guy.

Growing up in a cop household had taught me well how important a cop’s fellow officers were, and when Pop had been convicted, I’d watched in dismay as his buddies ostracized him—cut him out of the brotherhood. Now Jack was getting a taste of how it felt, and something told me that he’d been feeling it for quite a while.

The detective in charge snapped a few questions at Jack and then turned in my direction. His smile was warm. Elliot Standish. I hadn’t seen him come in.

He walked over, his hand out in greeting. “Hello, Killian. It’s good to see you. I’m sorry you had to return on such a sad note.” He nodded his head in the direction of Pop’s bedroom. “Not to mention coming to your dad’s house and finding that mess.”

“Not a great homecoming, I agree,” I said, standing up and shaking his hand. Over his shoulder, I could see a touch of resentment flicker across Jack’s face. He hadn’t missed the fact that he’d been pushed aside.

Standish took my arm and lead me back into the apartment. “Give me a rundown of what you observed when you entered the apartment. Don’t leave anything out.”

He and I took a slow, methodical walk through the apartment for the next fifteen minutes, while Jack was left to cool his heels in the hall.

“Any feeling for why Gibson would be here in Charlie’s apartment?”

I shook my head. “I was going to meet the guy for the first time tomorrow. Apparently, he’s handling Pop’s affairs—his health proxy and his will.”

Standish’s right eyebrow, more weathered and gray than I remembered, took a leap upward. “Charlie had the money to hire Craig Gibson?”

“Apparently. You saying the guy charges more than Pop could afford?”

“Let me put it this way—he’s out of my league, your league and Charlie’s league all put together. He and his partner take on only the highest profile cases here in Syracuse and the surrounding areas. Usually, dealers with money to burn.”

I whistled softly through my teeth. “So the question is where would Pop, a guy who is essentially down to his last nickel, get the money to pay for a guy like Gibson? And what would Gibson be doing making a house call?”

“Bingo.” Standish glanced over at the gnome looking guy hunched over the body. “Got any thoughts on how he died, doc?”

“My professional opinion is that he bled to death,” the coroner said dryly.

“No kidding, doc,” Standish said. “Can you get any more specific?”

The coroner pointed to a series of bruises on the dead lawyer’s jawline and upper chest. “They worked him over pretty good. And then they started in on him with the knife. Whoever was wielding the knife knew what he was doing. He made sure the guy didn’t exsanguinate too quickly.” The coroner straightened up, grunting slightly and placing a hand against his lower back.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he said. “Whoever did this wanted information. And he went about getting it in a slow and methodical manner. You want anything more specific than that, you’re going to have to wait until I’m done with the autopsy.”

He nodded his head and two of his staff wheeled a gurney with an open body bag on top into the room.

Standish jerked his head toward the living room. “Let’s get out of their way.”

We moved back out into the living room where a crew of CSI workers swarmed over the area, busy dusting everything for prints.

“You ready to go?”

I glanced up to see Jack standing next to me. He and Standish glanced at each other, but neither spoke. I had learned from Jack earlier at the hospital that he was actually on speaking terms with Standish, but their current coolness toward each other told me that their friendship was probably on the sly. No doubt Standish didn’t want any of his fellow officers knowing he associated with someone who had actually broken the blue wall.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” I turned to Standish. “You’ll call me as soon as you hear anything?”

Standish nodded and wandered off to talk to a few other officers congregated in the kitchen area.

Jack swung a small cat crate in my direction. “You’re going to have to put the beast in here. We’ll never get him across town otherwise.”

Sweetie Pie’s ears immediately went back and he hissed. I wasn’t sure if it was Jack’s presence or the appearance of the cat crate. Whichever it was, Sweetie Pie wasn’t happy. Jack was smart enough to know that he best not try to hustle Sweetie Pie into the crate. He left that job to me.

As we trooped back down the stairs, I asked, “Why would Pop hire a lawyer known for working for the dregs—drug dealers?”

Jack shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to ask him when he wakes up.”

A few minutes later, we were on his bike, the cat crate sitting snug between us as we headed across town. Sweetie Pie yowled his discontent the entire way.

THE ELEVATOR to Jack’s apartment was different from the one I remembered from nine years ago. Apparently, the loft had become a bit more upscale over the years. Gone was the freight elevator ambience, replaced with a sleek, metallic-looking interior filled with mirrors and recessed lighting.

“Impressive,” I said, shifting the cat crate to my other hand and glancing around.

Jack pressed the button for the fourth floor and then leaned one shoulder against the wall as the elevator started upward. “The place went co-op about five years ago. It was either move out or buy in. So, I bought in.” He grinned. “Kind of strange to be a home owner.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting domesticated.”

He laughed. “Hardly. The place is made up mostly of singles. But we’ve made a lot of improvements to the building over the past couple of years. You haven’t seen the place in a while so it’ll look pretty different.”

Haven’t seen the place in a while? Who was he kidding. I hadn’t stepped foot in his apartment since the day I got word that he’d reported to work and ratted out Charlie.

That single thought sent a flash of guilt rumbling through me. What the hell was I doing here? Hadn’t I sworn this would never happen?

It was hard accepting the fact that I was even standing in the elevator next to him. The rest of the family would probably tar and feather me and ride me out of town on a rail if they knew where I was at this very moment.

The elevator slid to a smooth stop and the door opened.

Jack’s apartment was directly across the hall. He unlocked the heavy door, leaned in and flicked on a switch. Soft light flooded the interior. He stepped aside and motioned for me to go first.

My heart kicked up a few beats as I brushed past him. I was careful to keep my arms close to my sides. I didn’t think I could handle any contact between us after our forced intimacy on the back of his bike.

The feeling had been uncomfortable and incredibly awkward, like having to be the maid of honor to your usher of an ex-boyfriend during your best friend’s wedding. You can’t back out and you can’t let everyone know how stupid you feel.

I forced a bit of a swagger into my step. It was all an act, but what else was I supposed to do—except wonder what the hell I was doing casually walking into O’Brien’s apartment. Apparently, I’d lost connection with my last fully functioning brain cell.

Of course, Jack seemed oblivious. He moved about the cavernous room, turning on lights and talking as he went. “Make yourself at home. I’ll let you take the bed.”

He nodded toward one end of the room that had a large Japanese-style screen set up to partition off the bedroom area. “I’ve been sleeping on the couch lately, anyway.”

A glimmer of self-amusement touched one corner of those exquisite lips and my heart tumbled just a little. I pushed the feeling deeper and concentrated on what he was saying.

“I’m on call. I could get beeped at any time. It’s just easier this way.” He ran a restless hand through his thick black hair. “I haven’t been sleeping too well lately and will just end up keeping you awake. I’ve got a touch of insomnia.” He gazed at me, his eyes telling me he knew I’d understand.

I nodded noncommitedly, not wanting to let on that I knew exactly what he meant. But there was no denying that I knew. Hard, fast memories flooded my brain with the force of a dam breaking. Memories of sleeping next to Jack, my butt pressed tight against his hard belly, his strong arm wrapped securely around my chest, resting directly below my breasts.

He’d always been a light sleeper, a person who prowled the apartment at all hours of the night. When we’d slept together, I used to hear him get up and leave the bed, and sometimes I’d go in search of him, finding him slouched in a chair or standing in front of one of the huge windows overlooking the dark street below. The soft light filtering in from the street lamps would caress the hard, muscular lines of his body, and the beauty of him would always take my breath away, leaving me with a painful ache of need deep inside me.

Just the thought of those times made the ache creep into my belly, catching me off guard. I blinked, trying to regain my equilibrium, but the memories continued to wash over me.

Jack would always chalk his restlessness up to work, thoughts about a case pressing in on him. I used to lean up against him and gently massage his shoulders, molding my body to his and soaking in his warmth and strength.

It never seemed to do much in the way of getting him to relax, but it always seemed to have a nice effect on our love life. At times, his insomnia had meant marathon sessions of wild and wickedly delicious tumbles in the twisted sheets.

Startled, I shook myself. Memories like that were going to have to be off-limits if I planned on staying even one night under the same roof as Jack. They were too dangerous. I needed to stay focused on the here and now—no more trips down memory lane.

“I’m not taking the bed, Jack.” I moved over to the couch and swung my duffel bag and Sweetie Pie’s crate up onto the cushion. “I’ll be fine on the couch.”

“Same old Killian, huh? Incapable of ever doing what someone asks of her?”

I stiffened. Bullheadedness had always been my badge of honor. But it was the one thing that kept me whole and sane in a crazy world that changed at a moment’s notice. Leftover stuff from my early life.

“Apparently not,” I said, leaning down to open my backpack and rummage through the contents. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, I just knew I couldn’t look at him right then.

“There’s no privacy out here in the living room. At least the bedroom is partitioned off.”

He paused for a moment and then added quietly, “I’m asking for my benefit, Killian, not yours. It would just be better if you had some privacy.”

The soft tones, rich and husky, filtered across the space between us and lifted the hair on the nape of my neck as if I’d been touched on the tenderest part of my skin by the calloused tips of his long fingers.

I lifted my head and met his gaze across the length of the room. Those dark blue eyes burned with an intensity capable of opening a hole right through the middle of my chest and stabbing the center of my heart.

I struggled to breathe as he waited.

Finally, I shrugged and swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in the back of my throat. “Fine. You win. I’ll take the bed.”

He smiled that slow, easy smile of his and the intensity of his gaze softened a bit, as if he knew even before I spoke that he’d won. I tightened my fists and pulled my duffel bag closed with a fierce tug.

Damn it, he’d done it to me again, manipulated the hell out of me and he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

I, on the other hand, had a fat bead of sweat rolling merrily down the valley between my breasts, making its way toward my belly button.

I ignored it. No way was I touching any part of my anatomy with Jack O’Brien’s smoldering eyes sparking like heat lightning across the length of the loft.

I knew without him saying anything that he was more than a little aware of my current predicament. Damn his psychic hide. I had thought the little thread of connection between us had died a long time ago. Apparently I was wrong.

I reached down and opened Sweetie Pie’s crate. He slinked out gingerly. I’m sure he wasn’t used to the degree of cleanliness that permeated Jack’s apartment. Charlie appeared to be a bit less of a fastidious housekeeper in his older years.

“He’s going to need a litter box.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

I yanked my bag off the couch and slung it over my shoulder, wincing slightly.

“Shoulder still hurting?”

“I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t appear that you’re fine. You took a pretty bad fall. Better let me take a look at it. If you need to have it X-rayed, we’re going to have to head back over to the hospital.”

“What, you’re a doctor now?”

“No, but in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a paramedic.”

“I’m fine. A hot shower will take care of it. You don’t mind if I use your shower, right?”

“Help yourself. Towels are in the cabinet behind the door. Shampoo and soap are on the shelf in the stall. I’ll check the shoulder after you shower.”

The slight smugness touching one corner of those perfect lips made me clench my back teeth. He turned away, his attention on the expensive-looking stereo equipment lining one side of the wall.

As I entered the bathroom and slammed the door shut with a quick kick of one foot, the smooth, soothing tones of Norah Jones slipped from the speakers and filled the loft.

I groaned aloud and leaned my head against the door of the bathroom, closing my eyes in frustration. Oh, God, was he doing this on purpose? Was he looking to ignite me into a single roaring flame of sexual desire?

I bent over the tub and turned on the cold tap. Forget the hot shower. I was going to need to freeze out the scorching heat coursing through my bloodstream if I intended to go back into the same room as Jack O’Brien and converse like a rational, coherent human being.

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