CONFIDENTIAL MEMO

Badge No. 0407—Bran McCall

Rank: Lieutenant

Skill/Expertise: Adept decision maker, able to quickly assess a situation and act on it. Well respected and cool under fire.

Reason Chosen for Assignment: As the arresting officer of the escapee, McCall has rank in the case, and intimate knowledge of the suspect’s prime target—his estranged wife. Protecting her will be easy; ignoring the temptation to kiss her senseless may be harder.

Subject: Victoria Dewitt McCall

Profession: Private Investigator

Skill/Expertise: Tough, stubbornly independent, able to bluff her way out of risky situations.

Reason Chosen for Assignment: Her talent for undercover work makes her the perfect partner for her husband on this case. But can she resist the heat that flares between them in close quarters?

Shattered Vows
Maggie Price

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MAGGIE PRICE

is no stranger to law enforcement. While on the job as a civilian crime analyst for the Oklahoma City Police Department, she analyzed robberies and sex crimes, and snagged numerous special assignments to homicide task-forces.

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 is also the recipient of Romantic Times magazine’s Career Achievement Award in series romantic suspense.

Maggie invites her readers to contact her at 416 N.W. 8th St., Oklahoma City, OK 73102-2604, or on the Web at www.maggieprice.net.

For my editor, Susan Litman, who knows what a good story is all about.

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 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 1

Coming up empty-handed after spending hours searching for her brother who’d commandeered her car didn’t make Victoria Dewitt McCall feel like an ace private investigator.

Instead, she felt like a volcano waiting to blow.

Now, minutes after a fellow P.I. had dropped her off, Tory stalked upstairs to her bedroom. She tossed her purse on the upholstered chair near the floor-to-ceiling window, stripped off her black leather jacket, then shoved back one side of the heavy drapes. Mouth set, she stared out the frosted pane, her thoughts as dark as the January night.

The eighteen-year-old brother she’d raised had clearly been in the popcorn line when common sense got handed out. Danny was out on bail, his license suspended over unpaid parking tickets. If he got stopped by a cop while driving, he’d be back in a cell for failure to pay those tickets.

And her car would wind up in the police impound lot—a complication she didn’t need.

Tory huffed out a breath, leaving a small foggy circle against the window. In truth, it wasn’t just Danny’s latest stunt that had her grinding her teeth.

Life sucked. Her life, specifically.

She hadn’t turned on the bedroom light, so when she glanced across her shoulder, the bed, bureau and chest of drawers crouched like shadowy forms in the weak light spilling from the hallway. The heavy, dark wood furniture wasn’t to her liking, but then, little in the house was. It wasn’t her house, after all.

It belonged to her husband.

Estranged husband, Tory corrected. Her own common sense had taken leave one evening nearly a year ago. That’s when Lieutenant Bran McCall gave Danny a break and hauled him to her doorstep instead of booking him into juvie hall for illegal gambling. With a hand clenched on Danny’s upper arm, Bran had sent her a slow, reckless grin which she’d instantly decided was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. Two nights later she and the cop were in bed.

Even now, those first heady weeks she’d spent with the rugged widower were a blur of searing lust and hot sex. As was the weekend she and Bran both lost their minds and eloped.

Huge mistake. Huge. No way could a union based primarily on physical attraction and set-your-hair-on-fire sex survive long. Not when the parties involved were both independent, take-charge and used to running the show. Bran’s walking out three months ago proved that he, too, believed they’d made one hell of a mistake.

A sudden shift in the shadows at the far side of the front lawn snapped Tory’s senses to alert mode. Narrowing her eyes, she leaned closer to the window. With the quarter moon ghosting through fat gray clouds, it was possible the movement had been nothing more than wind rustling the thick copse of evergreens.

Seconds later the shadow oozed fully out of the trees. An alarm shrilled in her head.

In full P.I. mode now, she assessed the figure clad entirely in black, including a baseball cap pulled down low. A man, she determined, watching him move. Tall, judging by the way he dwarfed the spiky hydrangea bush he crept past.

Adrenaline jolting her system, Tory jerked on her leather jacket while watching the man skulk toward the east side of the house. Her pride might have taken a hit with Danny eluding her, but she could still deliver any number of well-placed kicks that would take down some sneaky prowler.

And if her varied self-defense skills didn’t do the trick, she had backup. She stabbed a hand in her purse, pulled out her trusty Sig-Sauer P226.

Leaving the lights off, she pounded downstairs. It took only seconds to cut through the dark living room and cross the expansive kitchen. At the back door her finger flipped off the Sig’s safety, then floated to the trigger. Twisting open the deadbolt, she eased outside. A slap of freezing air hit her face.

Her mind had already settled on a plan. She wanted the advantage of surprise, so she would approach the man from behind.

The Sig hidden against her thigh, she veered west, moving soundlessly in the dark across the winter-dry grass.

Bolting around the house into the backyard, Bran McCall had no presentiment, no intuition, no flash of cop instinct warning him of another presence. He never even sensed the black-clad figure until he plowed over it, toppling it backward as he lost his footing and stumbled forward.

Bran landed with a jarring smack on top of the figure. In the glow of a neighbor’s backyard light he caught a glint as something metallic flew through the air. Gun.

There was no way he could draw his own weapon, not with whoever was beneath him flailing and twisting violently while trying to knee him in the groin. Fists punched the sides of his head; the curses spewing against his parka were so muffled he wasn’t sure if they came from a male, a female or a plague of angry wasps.

Even as he clamped a hand around one thrashing wrist, then another, a scent as subtle and alluring as moonlight hit him—Tory’s scent—and he knew his wife was the kicking, spitting demon trapped beneath him.

“Tory, it’s me.”

When he felt her hesitate, he braced his forearms on either side of her shoulders. He eased his chest off hers. The next instant she pried one booted foot out from beneath his leg and delivered a stunning kick to the side of his shin that had stars springing into his head.

“Get off me, you jerk!”

Expelling an explicit curse, he locked his leg back over hers. “Dammit, woman, it’s me.”

“I heard you the first time,” she hissed.

As if accepting she was outweighed and out-muscled, she stopped squirming. Rays from the far-off streetlight slanted across her face, picking up the flashing anger in her green eyes as she glared up at him.

“I looked out the bedroom window and saw some prowler skulking in the dark. I thought you were on the other side of the house.”

“I doubled back. Decided to look through the garage window for your car.”

“You ought to know better than to prowl around at night. I came out prepared to take you down.” She jerked her chin in the direction the Sig had flown when she crashed to the ground. “Shoot you, if I had to.”

Bran set his jaw. Her reaction was typical Tory—grab a situation by the throat and deal with it. In contrast, his first wife would have stayed safely indoors, phoned the police and reported the prowler. But Patience was long dead, and at this instant the woman squirming beneath him was the primary concern of both his mind and his body.

His hands tightened around her wrists. “When you spotted me, you should have called the cops. Let them take care of things.”

“No self-respecting private investigator needs a cop’s help to take down a measly prowler.”

He hooked a brow. “This coming from the P.I. presently smashed beneath said measly prowler.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Bran?”

“If you’d returned one of my phone calls you wouldn’t have to ask.”

He stared down at her for the first time in three months, inspecting her with intensity. Her thick blond hair was still long, looking like polished gold in the faint light as it flared across the dry grass. He didn’t have to wonder how it would feel to stroke that soft cheek or settle his mouth on those lush lips. Despite his parka’s thickness, he was aware of the long, lean lines of her warm, supple body. The sparks they’d forever generated in bed had made for register-on-the-Richter-Scale sex. Problem was, they always had to come up for air and that was when their clashing personalities and opposing needs sent everything to hell.

The heat swarming into his blood had him clenching his teeth. Dammit, he hadn’t come here to sate his physical needs. Not when an escaped killer had threatened revenge against him and three other cops.

Bran thought back to the panic that had hit him when he’d glanced through the garage window and seen that Tory’s car was gone, which was unusual this late at night. Fearing that bad-ass Vic Heath had beat him here, then left in Tory’s car, he’d bolted around the side of the house, intending to use his key to get in the back door and check her welfare.

Instead, he’d collided with her.

Relief that Heath hadn’t gotten his hands on her seeped into him like water soaking into sand. “Where’s your car?”

“Being worked on.” She squirmed. “Dammit, Bran, let me up.”

He nearly groaned when he felt himself stir. “All right.” He pushed to his feet. “Look, I’d like to come inside. We need to talk.”

She sat up, flicked a look at the hand he offered, then rose without his help. “About?”

Not us, he thought, feeling the same wariness he saw in her eyes after she scooped up her Sig and turned to face him.

“A cop got killed this afternoon.”

“Not someone in the family, right?” Her free hand flew to her mouth in shock, then dropped. “Bran, tell me it’s not—”

“It’s not.” His grandfather and dad had retired from the Oklahoma City Police Department. He had two brothers, three sisters and several soon-to-be brothers-in-law currently serving on the department. Whenever word of a cop getting hurt came down, the entire McCall clan held its collective breath.

Reaching out, Bran brushed a blond wave off her cheek. “We’re all fine.” He had never questioned her love for his family. Her feelings for him were a different matter.

As if to prove that, she took an instant step back, forcing him to drop his hand. “Good. Okay.”

He looked across his shoulder past the shadow-laden side of the house toward the front yard. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. Felt nothing.

“Is someone out there?” Tory’s voice was a whisper on the freezing air.

“My gut tells me no,” he said, keeping his gaze trained on the sliver of front yard he could see. “But there’s a bad guy loose who’d like to ambush some cops. Which is why I parked a couple of blocks over and walked here. Skulked, as you call it,” he added, looking back at her.

He’d never thought of Tory Dewitt as easy on the eyes. There simply wasn’t anything easy about her. She was tall—nearly his height—model-thin, with a face as angular as her body. A pointed chin, sharp cheekbones and sensual mouth combined to create a tough, stubborn, sexy face. At the moment, though, she looked more dangerous than sexy, standing inches away in her black jeans and worn leather jacket, one hand gripping the Sig while her breath made quick puffs of steam in the frigid air.

He dipped his head. “The dead cop was a corrections officer. You didn’t know him, but there’s a chance the bastards who killed him might come after me. They could show up here. You need to know what’s going on.”

Her mouth thinned, and he sensed her fingers tightening on the Sig. “All right.”

She led the way along the shadowy cobblestone walk that Bran and his brother-in-law had laid during a sweltering summer five years ago. Now, Ryan Fox was dead, the only cop in the McCall clan who’d died in the line of duty. Bran hoped to hell there would never be another.

He followed Tory inside, closed the door and set the deadbolt. He realized the house had looked uninhabited from the front because the only light came from the one she flicked on when she walked through the door.

He missed this house, Bran thought as he glanced around the homey kitchen, its soft yellow paint setting off deep blue counters. When he and Patience had bought the place, they’d done so with a sense of permanence, of putting down roots, building a life together and raising a family. Growing old together. That dream had ended three years ago on the day his high-school sweetheart went off to play tennis. She’d suffered a brain aneurysm on the court, and she’d come home in a coffin.

Bran closed his eyes, opened them. He was keenly aware that the air in the kitchen held no lingering aroma of delicacies fresh from the oven. Unlike Patience, who’d nearly lived in the kitchen, Tory didn’t cook. Other than the refrigerator, the only appliance that got more than a passing glance was the espresso maker he’d bought her to brew the lattes she seemed to exist on. He’d surprised her with the espresso maker last Valentine’s Day, right after they’d eloped.

Now, eleven months later, their marriage was circling the drain. Bran walked to the long bank of windows on his right and began closing blinds, thinking he and Tory sure as hell wouldn’t be spending the holiday made for lovers together this year.

“Want a latte?” she asked.

He turned, shrugged out of his parka. “Sounds good.”

He studied his wife as she abandoned the Sig on the nearest counter, then peeled off her scarred leather jacket. Her jeans, ripped at one knee, hugged her narrow hips and endless legs. The long-sleeved T-shirt tucked into the jeans was plain white cotton, and her unhampered breasts pressed nicely against the soft fabric.

The sudden image of himself greedily feeding on those breasts while she writhed beneath him speared heat through his system. But it was loss that hollowed his chest as he draped his parka over a chair at the small wooden table near the windows.

He glanced up to find Tory studying him with cool, measuring eyes as she poured milk into a metal pitcher. “When I saw you out the window, I didn’t recognize the parka.”

“Got it for Christmas.” He pulled out a chair and settled at the table. “From Grace.” Bran relaxed enough to smile. “Speaking of Grace, an FBI agent she once had a thing with is back in the picture. Name’s Mark Santini. He’s working out of the Bureau’s local office. It’s looking like they’re together for good this time.”

“He was all Grace talked about when I met her and Carrie for the first fitting on our bridesmaid dresses.” Smiling, Tory carried the metal pitcher to the espresso maker. “Grace is crazy in love with Santini.”

“Yeah,” Bran agreed, thinking how quickly Tory had bonded with his three sisters. That the youngest, Morgan, had asked Tory to be a bridesmaid after the split underlined just how deep that bond went.

He pulled off his baseball cap, shoved his fingers through his hair. It suddenly hit him that his baby sister’s wedding to Sergeant Alex Blade was on Valentine’s Day. Dandy, Bran thought. He and his estranged wife would spend a portion of that made-for-lovers holiday together after all.

The sound of beans grinding filled the kitchen. A few minutes later, the espresso machine began spewing steam, sounding like an angry, hissing snake.

“Tell me about the corrections officer,” Tory said a minute later, carrying two oversize white ceramic mugs to the table. “And why whoever murdered him might show up here looking for you.”

While she settled into the chair opposite his, Bran sipped his latte. A welcome zing of caffeine shot into his system.

“Did one of my sisters mention the shootout I was involved in a little over a week ago? What happened today ties to that.”

“Your mother called to let me know you were okay. Roma didn’t want me getting upset when I saw your name in the newspaper the next day.” Tory met his gaze over the rim of her mug. “Tell me about it.”

“Dispatch put out a silent alarm at a credit union,” he began. “I arrived first, three other patrol cars pulled up behind me. We heard a shot inside the building, then the front doors flew open and two guys wearing ski masks rushed out. I ordered them to drop their weapons. Instead, they started firing. Five seconds later, they were dead.”

“Sounds like they asked for it.”

“They did.” He shrugged. “We figured they chose to go out in a blaze of glory because they’d murdered one of the credit union clerks. Tox tests showed both had been flying on meth, so that screwed their judgment.”

“What do the dead robbers have to do with the corrections officer who got killed today?”

“The cop died because of them.” Bran set his mug aside. “Andy and Kyle Heath were the do-wrongs who hijacked the credit union.”

“Brothers?”

“Cousins. Andy has an older brother named Vic. He’s spent the past three years in prison for conspiracy to distribute methamphetamine. Turns out I’m the cop who nailed Vic on those charges.”

“Small world, that you wound up on the call at the credit union.”

“I doubt Vic has missed the irony in that.” Bran frowned. “He’s been a model prisoner, a real poster boy for scumbag good behavior. Because of that, his request to attend his brother’s and cousin’s joint funeral was approved. This afternoon he was put in leg irons and cuffs and driven to a Tulsa funeral home by a corrections officer named Perry Paulson.”

“Is he the cop who got killed?”

“Yes. When Heath got there he asked to view the bodies. The funeral director showed him and Paulson into the room where the caskets were, then left. When he came back about fifteen minutes later, Paulson was dead. His wrists and ankles were duct taped together and his throat cut. Tulsa cops did a ground search and house-to-house check for Heath, but came up empty.”

“Handcuffed and shackled, he would have had a tough time doing that on his own without someone hearing the struggle,” Tory pointed out. “Where’d the duct tape come from?”

“It wasn’t the funeral home’s. Neither was the knife that killed Paulson.” Bran leaned in. “The theory is that Heath had at least one accomplice.”

“Any idea who?”

“Not yet. Our vice guys are talking to snitches to see if they can get names of Heath’s associates.”

“You said he might show up here. I take it you think Heath wants revenge for you arresting him? And for your part in killing his brother and cousin at the credit union?”

“Right.”

“Is that cop instinct or did Heath make that threat?”

“A threat was made, but not by Vic,” Bran answered. “His mother was at the funeral. She spouted off about how ‘her Vic’ was going to get back at the cops who killed their kin. One of the Tulsa cops overheard her and called OCPD. Since I was ranking officer at the credit union, the chief okayed our chopper to fly me to Tulsa this afternoon.”

“Did you talk to the mother?”

“You bet.” Bran shook his head at the memory of the hard-faced woman with skin the color of cold oatmeal. “Mamma Heath is a foulmouthed old crone with mean eyes. She took pleasure in telling me that Vic’s coming after all the cops who’d been at the credit union. That Vic’s going to eat our hearts out.”

“Lovely family,” Tory murmured. “Do you believe her?”

“I believe in not taking chances. The address and phone numbers for cops are unlisted, but if you’ve got a computer, some skill and enough time, you can find anybody. It’s been over a week since the shootout and we don’t know what information Heath has, if any. If the threat is real and he finds the addresses of the cops who were at the credit union, the logical place for him to start looking for us is at home. Which is why I’m here. And the reason I tried to call you for hours. And sent my brothers by here, too,” he added.

“I’ve been out.” Bran almost missed the elusive shadow that flickered across her eyes. Almost. “I got home about fifteen minutes ago.”

He waited a beat, watching her. “Where’s your car?”

“In the shop, remember? Sheila Sanford picked me up,” Tory said, referring to a P.I. she often teamed with on jobs.

Bran felt his frustration surface; he’d spent hours trying to contact her and getting no results. Worrying about her.

“What about your cell? In addition to the machine here, I left messages on your voice mail. Said they were urgent.” He leaned in. “I realize we haven’t spoken to each other for three months. We’ve got issues to deal with. But when I call and say it’s important that you get back to me, I’m not playing games.”

Her chin came up. “I left my phone in the car.” She shoved back her chair, walked to the V in the counter where the answering machine sat. “It doesn’t show any messages waiting,” she said, turning back to face him.

“Well, darlin’,” he drawled, “I sure as hell left one. And I’ll make a wild stab at what happened. While you were gone, Danny dropped by and checked to see if any of his pals left him a message. Brother dear just couldn’t go to the trouble of leaving you a note to call me. Sound familiar?”

Thinking of his reprobate brother-in-law put knots in Bran’s gut. He couldn’t blame the breakdown of his marriage on Danny. But the way Tory had dealt with the kid’s screw-ups had magnified the problems in their marriage and ignited the final blowup that prompted him to pack his bags.

Tory’s chin went up another notch as she gripped her hands on the counter behind her. Her breast-skimming blond hair was still tousled from their rolling around on the ground and his comment about her brother had color rising over her cheekbones. Watching her, Bran felt his chest tighten. How many times had he seen her look much the same after a long, searing bout of sex?

Standing there, just standing there she was getting to him, filling him with need he didn’t want to feel, stirring up images of her that he’d spent days, weeks, months trying not to think about.

“We aren’t going to talk about Danny,” she said in a voice that had gone very low and very cold. “Ever again.”

“Seems to me we have to,” he countered, feeling his own face heat as three months of pent-up anger kindled bright and hot. “Because your story doesn’t add up, and I figure it’s because of Danny. You depend on your cell phone for your business. If you had forgotten and left it in your car while it was being worked on, you’d have gone back and picked it up. Of course, that’d be a little hard to do if you didn’t know the whereabouts of your car.” He narrowed his eyes. “Danny took it and disappeared. That’s where you and Sheila have been, right? Cruising around looking for your brother and your car? Think maybe I ought to track him down? Remind him his license got suspended when he chose not to pay all those traffic tickets he’d racked up? Remind him of what happened to him after he got tossed in jail?”

“I doubt Danny needs a reminder of that. Any more than I need one about the questionable choices I’ve made.” She used her hand to make a sweeping gesture of the kitchen. “Not when they’re all around me,” she added in a voice that sounded like chipped glass.

“You don’t like the house, you can always move out.”

“I plan to, as soon as you sign the divorce papers my lawyer sent you.”

“Sent me? Your slick attorney didn’t just send them. He had a process server track me down at the briefing station and slap the damn papers in my hand.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Every cop on the shift knew what was going on.”

“I didn’t know.” The flicker of surprise in her eyes verified that. “I had no idea my attorney planned to serve you that way.”

“Well, now you know.”

“I talked to him yesterday. He said he hasn’t received them back from you. Why haven’t you signed them?”

Bran curled his hands into fists. He’d sat in his ratty apartment, staring at the document for hours, telling himself to just sign the damn thing and be done with it. The fact he had no clue why he hadn’t was like a splash of alcohol on his rekindled anger. And, hell, maybe he was ticked because she’d beat him to the punch and served him first!

“I’ll let you know when I sign them.”

“Why wait?”

Rising, he sent her a caustic look. “Why hurry?”

She lifted a palm, dropped it. “Look, we made a mistake. We ran off and got married when the only thing we knew about each other was how good we were together in bed. If we’d just stayed there, we would have been much better off. Instead, we’ve spent the past eleven months trying to force each other into molds in which we’ll never fit.”

She stabbed a hand through her hair, closed her eyes. When she reopened them, an aura of weariness had replaced the agitation.

“You left, Bran. You walked out. You belong in this house, I don’t. I’ve found a condo I want to buy. Legally, it’ll be a lot easier to do that after our divorce is final. Why won’t you do both of us a favor and sign the papers?”

He damn well wished he had an answer for that. Since he didn’t, he flipped the topic. “Let’s get back to the reason I’m here,” he said, closing the space between them. “Vic Heath.”

“Fine.” She thrust her tumbled hair behind her ears. “Fine.”

“His mother might be right about Vic being in eye-for-an-eye mode. And my having put him in prison gives him even more reason to come after me. If he shows up here, I don’t want him to find you. You can bunk with Morgan, Carrie and Grace until he’s picked up.”

“You’re the one who should stay at your sisters’ place. Heath’s after you, not me.”

“True. But if he can’t find me, he might settle for my wife. I don’t want you hurt, Tory.”

“I don’t want you hurt, either,” she said quietly.

“Well, that’s something we agree on. You can pack a bag now. I’ll drive you over to my sisters’ place.”

“Has Heath been spotted since he left the funeral home in Tulsa? Does anyone even know if he’s still in Oklahoma?”

“No, to both questions.”

“If the threat was to me, I’d go.”

Bran caught her chin in his hand as she started to move away. “Victoria Lynn, this is serious. Life and death.”

Beneath his fingers he felt her soften. Something like regret, only more complex, flickered in her green eyes. He eased out a breath. When it came to standing on her own the woman never gave an inch. “No one’s going to view you as dependent if you bunk at my sisters’ house for a few days.”

“I carry a gun for a living, too,” she said, shaking off his touch. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“The corrections cop probably thought the same thing. We’ll never know since he’s on a slab at the morgue.”

“I appreciate you letting me know about Heath.” As she moved to slip past him, her shoulder brushed his. He felt the instant connection. The pull. She was right, he thought dourly. They should have just stayed in bed having mind-blowing sex and bypassed the wedding.

When she reached the counter opposite him, she turned. “I’ve got three active cases going right now. All have surveillance involved, which means I won’t be spending a lot of time here over the next week or so. When I am here, I’ll activate the security system. Keep my guard up.” She patted the Sig she’d left beside her leather jacket. “I’ll keep my eyes open. If you have a picture of Heath, that would help.”

“His picture’s all over the television by now.”

“I’ll turn it on. Memorize his face. You’ll let me know when you find out who helped Heath escape?”

“The minute I know, you’ll know.”

He gave her a considering look. As long as she chose to stay here alone, there wasn’t much he could do about it. And, he conceded, when she’d gone with him to the police pistol range she’d proven she was his equal with a gun. She also held her own in hand-to-hand combat—he might have had her on the ground outside, but the way she’d moved had kept him from going for his weapon. Yet knowing all that, he still wasn’t satisfied.

“I’ve arranged for extra patrols of the neighborhood by both uniformed cops and plainclothes,” he said.

She slanted him a look. “Is one of those extra patrols going to be you?”

“Not officially. Everyone involved in the shootout is on desk duty until the review board completes its report.” He lifted a shoulder. “That doesn’t mean I can’t drive by, simply as a concerned citizen checking the safety of a neighborhood.”

“I’ll be careful. You don’t need to worry about me.”

A vicious case of frustration had his head pounding. He wished to hell he had even an ounce of control over the situation. Over her.

“If something happens, call my cell. Even if you get a bad sense about something, I want to hear it. That goes for everyone in the family. You need us, we’ll be here for you. You know that.”

“I know.” Her eyes softened. “It’s nice to have dependable backup who all carry badges.”

“Yeah.”

She wouldn’t call him, Bran would stake his life on that. She’d spent the entire time they’d been married showing him how independent and take-charge she could be. It was ironic, he thought, that his innate nature was to protect, comfort and soothe and he’d married a woman who wanted no part of that.

Patience had. She had always considered him her protector.

Turning, he walked back to the table. He jerked on his parka, wincing when the age-old injury to his right shoulder kicked in.

He had always figured he and Tory would get around to dealing with their unfinished business. After tonight, he wondered if the smart thing to do was just to let things go. Make the break before they heaped more emotional debris on what they’d once had.

He crammed his black ball cap low on his head. Maybe when he got to his apartment, he would sign the damn divorce papers and be done with it.

That would be the smart thing.

Chapter 2

“It’s just a ding,” Danny Dewitt said after he returned Tory’s four-door Taurus to her garage the following morning.

Her gaze razored from the vehicle’s right rear to her brother. He was tall and lean with a lopsided smile and black hair worn in a stubby ponytail. His face was angular, and his eyes a dreamy shade of green. His looks, combined with a glib tongue and the cocky sense of self-confidence that accompanied youth, often had females falling over their own feet.

Females other than his sister.

“It’s a dent, Danny,” Tory pointed out. “The size of a dinner plate.”

He gave the Taurus another look. “A small dinner plate.”

She pressed her lips together. “You took my car without permission. All of my equipment is in there. My cell phone.”

“I didn’t mean any harm.” He shrugged. “A friend dropped me off here yesterday afternoon. You weren’t around—”

“I was helping Sheila on a case. It’s called working.”

“Figured you were doing something like that,” he said, ignoring her jibe. “I came out here and saw your car. I decided the least I could do was buy you gas, a wash and an oil change.”

“Gas, wash and an oil change take about an hour. Tops.” She wrapped her arms around her, gathering Bran’s Oklahoma Sooners red-and-white football jersey closer to ward off the cold. The jersey still carried the musky scent of his cologne and made her feel even more unsettled. Hollow. “If I had intended to let you drive my car, I’d have given you a key.”

Danny grinned. “You keep an extra set in one of those magnet things under the front bumper.”

“Not anymore.” She wiggled her fingers. “My keys.”

He handed them over with an amiable shrug. “When I got to the gas station I ran into Rocco,” Danny explained. “He had a line on a poker game, so I left your car at the fast lube. Jewell was at work, and I planned to hang at the game until time for her to get off, then pick up your car and bring it back. But I started winning and couldn’t leave. This morning, Rocco took me to get your car. The manager at the lube place said it got hit in their lot. Their insurance’ll cover it. He gave me a form to fill out. In triplicate. It’s over the visor.”

“Don’t take my car again. Ever.”

“Sorry, Tor. I was trying to make things easier on you.”

How many times over the years had she heard that? And always, Danny’s good intentions took a left turn, leaving a mess for her to clean up. In triplicate.

“Want to hear how I spent last night?” she asked. “After I wasted hours looking for you and my car, Bran dropped by.”

“Bran?” A hopeful look sprang into Danny’s eyes. “Are you guys talking again?”

“Oh, we talked,” she confirmed. “First about an escaped killer who might be gunning for Bran. Then about the messages he left on my answering machine and cell. Messages I never got.”

Danny winced. “Yeah, I checked the machine. I meant to write you a note about Bran’s message, but forgot.”

“Too bad. That lapse of memory just got you barred from the house when I’m not here.” She held out her hand. “House key.”

“Geez, Tor, you’re being kind of hard, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have to be if you’d act like a responsible eighteen-year-old.”

After Danny handed her the key, she continued. “Bran and I also discussed your driving my car.” Her stomach knotted at the memory of how their tempers had flared. “You went to jail because you racked up so many tickets and didn’t bother to pay them. The judge who granted your bail suspended your license. If a cop had pulled you over last night, you’d be in a cell right now. Did that beating you got in jail teach you nothing?”

He arched his dark brows. “Taught me I don’t want to go back there a second time.”

“Then why take my car? You’ve got one week left until your license gets reinstated. Why chance driving now?”

“I didn’t think. But at least I won playing poker.” He grinned. “How could I not when I had the best teacher in the world?”

“I taught you to play when you were ten years old. We used toothpicks, not chips. I never intended poker to become your main source of funds.”

He pulled a layer of bills from the wad in the pocket of his jean jacket and handed it to her. “Here’s the first installment on the bail money you and Bran fronted me.”

Tory glanced at the bills. The bail had not come with Bran’s blessing. She’d told him after the fact she’d used a thousand dollars of their savings. In her mind, her doing so without telling Bran first had been justified—she’d had to bail Danny out of the jail’s infirmary. He’d been beaten so badly she was afraid he would be permanently scarred without good, fast medical care.

Even now she could still feel the heat of Bran’s anger over what she’d done. Still hear the harsh words they’d exchanged. Still see the grim look on his face as he packed his bags.

Water under the bridge, she thought. Right now she had Danny to deal with. She jammed the bills into the front pocket of her jeans then leaned a hip against Bran’s workbench.

“Listen up, pal. If you get arrested again, the money I used for your bail goes down the drain. That happens, it won’t be Bran who comes after you, but me.”

Danny looked at her car. “I guess you’re plenty steamed right now.”

When she didn’t answer, he rocked back on the heels of his scuffed running shoes. “I was hoping you’d give me a ride to Jewell’s apartment. She’s probably mad, too, over me being out all night.”

“You think?” Tory asked. All she knew about the woman Danny had moved in with was that she danced at some bar under the billing “exotic performer.” Stripper was more like it, Tory suspected. “You want a ride, call your pal Rocco.”

“Yeah.” Danny moved to the door that led into the kitchen, then paused. “Tor, I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“You never do.”

She fisted her hands as he stepped into the house. Considering the way he’d been raised, she couldn’t totally fault Danny for assuming he could forever shirk responsibility.

Their mother had been brought up by overindulgent parents who had never seen the need for their only child to learn to deal with whatever complications life tossed at her. They’d just handled them all for her. And unwittingly raised a daughter who was codependent in every aspect.

Tory had no trouble picturing their mother clinging to their father, the air of helplessness hanging around the woman almost palpable in the air. Just as easily she could see her father’s face, transforming over the years until the only thing left was unbridled disgust for his wife’s pathetic weakness. He hadn’t even stayed around long enough to see his son born.

Tory had been nine years old when her father walked out, a young girl to whom her mother transferred as many burdens as possible. It was Tory who’d been saddled with making decisions about everything from finances to meal planning. Tory who’d learned everything there was to know about responsibility while their mother raised Danny into the mirror image of herself.

Then, when Tory was eighteen, their mother had died in a car wreck. Their father had passed away several years before. Since they had no blood relatives to turn to, Tory had stepped in to raise her then nine-year-old brother. That’s who she also saw when she looked at Danny: the grief-stricken boy who’d clung to her while sobbing over their mother’s grave. The boy who’d collected and recycled tin cans and bottles to help earn enough money to buy a stone to mark that grave.

No one had questioned Tory’s ability to raise her brother. After all, she’d been shouldering responsibility for years and had grown into an independent young woman. A woman who’d vowed never to make herself the kind of burden her mother had been. Growing up, it had taken all her energy to deal with the people who needed her, so she’d never let herself need anyone. Not even the man she’d run off and married.

How ironic that she’d lost her head over a cop for whom it was run-of-the-mill to deal with other people’s problems. A broad-shouldered, gorgeous man very willing to let her shift her burdens onto those impressive shoulders. A dream made in heaven for most women, Tory conceded, but not her. Never her.

And that was the crux of her and Bran’s problem. According to his youngest sister, his first wife had been a slim, shy brunette who’d welcomed having a husband who shielded and protected her. She’d been happy to have him manage the problems life had to offer. From all accounts, Patience McCall had lived contentedly in Bran’s shadow, quiet, deferring to him without conscious thought.

A visceral little pang of envy for the happiness Bran had shared with another woman tightened Tory’s heart. As did the knowledge that Bran had spent the entire time they’d lived together comparing her to his first wife. Oh, he’d done so in silence, but Tory was well-versed at reading people, and she had seen the comparison being made in Bran’s face often enough. Just as she’d seen it last night in the kitchen when his expression went distant with what she knew had been memories of another time, another woman.

A happier time with a woman who’d shown him in every way how much she needed him.

A woman whom Tory knew she could never come close to emulating. She just didn’t have it in her to allow herself to lean on a man. On anyone, for that matter. Not when just the thought of her mother’s clinging neediness put a sick feeling in her stomach.

Her gaze settled again on the workbench, sweeping over the tools that had gone untouched for months. Before she could block it, her mind flashed a picture of Bran standing there, his hands and muscled arms covered with a fine mist of sawdust, a lock of sandy hair falling over his forehead as he worked with the tools.

She felt the ache of loss through every bone and muscle. She’d felt that same sense of loss last night, lying crushed beneath his weight while everything that was female in her responded to the feel of his corded biceps, his hard chest against her breasts, the scent of his musky cologne. The damn chemical signals that sizzled through her whenever Bran got near had started nerves and needs pulsing through her in fast, greedy waves.

For the first time she allowed herself to open the door in her mind that she’d locked tight when Bran walked out. Even at the beginning there had been more between them than just that basic attraction. That physical pull. There’d been a shared affection, and what she thought had been love. All those feelings had gotten swept into the background by the conflict that had so quickly developed between them.

A bright, swift pain twisted in her heart, and the mental door she’d opened slammed shut. It hurt too much to think about how swiftly their marriage had crumbled. It was over. They were over.

Outside, the muffled honk of a horn sounded, and she figured Rocco was there to pick up Danny. Seconds later, the front door slammed.

Shoving away the memories, she glanced at her watch. She had paperwork to deal with and equipment to check before starting what would probably be a week of nighttime surveillance on one of her new cases.

While out tonight, she also planned to connect with some of her street contacts. Most of the individuals she knew who fell into that category would rather eat dirt than talk to a cop. It was possible one of her contacts had heard something about the killer who might possibly come gunning for Bran.

The thought of that happening sent a twinge of icy premonition drifting through her. Just the thought of Bran getting hurt made her throat go dry. So, while he watched her back, she intended to watch his.

One week later, Bran steered his patrol car into the driveway of the house he’d shared with two very diverse women. One calm, serene and elegantly quiet. The other wouldn’t know calm, serene and quiet if they kicked her in the head.

It was that woman he’d come to see. The fact he wasn’t sure why had him scowling.

Sure, he needed to update Tory on what the cops had found regarding Vic Heath’s associates. It was vital she have the latest info in case the escaped killer sent a pal by to exact his revenge. But Bran had already e-mailed her some of that information. And he could have driven by and slid the paperwork he’d put together last night into the mail slot. Instead, he’d called to make sure Tory was home.

So, why was he here? he wondered as he sat in the idling black and white, staring at the two-story Victorian white frame house with green shutters and a wraparound porch. After he’d walked out, he and Tory had gone three months without any contact. He hadn’t even called her on Christmas Day when thoughts of her were weighing heavily on his mind.

Their latest encounter had changed things, he conceded. It wasn’t the dismal state of their marriage that had clung like a burr in his brain over the past week. It was how it had felt to have her lying under him again. Granted, his plowing her over in the dark and her winding up beneath him had been an accident, still, it had reignited a fire inside him he had thought dead. Had wanted dead.

He dreamed about her now. Every night since then, he’d dreamed of her. Smoky, erotic visions in which he felt her soft skin and slim body under his. Saw her desire-filled green eyes gazing up into his. Felt her shudder while their sweat-slicked bodies mated and they took each other over the edge to heaven.

Those nightly carnal fantasies had left him itchy and unsettled and irritated. Like a drug, he could feel Tory seeping into his system again, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with that.

Wasn’t sure if he even wanted to. Dammit, why the hell did the woman have to be such an exact match for him in bed, and so unsuited for him in every other way?

The thought of how she had never hesitated to debate him when their discussions turned to music, politics, TV shows or even at what restaurant they should eat dinner had him shaking his head.

That wasn’t why he’d left, though. In truth, he admired the way she could hold her ground and take him to the wall in a debate. What he couldn’t handle was a wife who would rather choke on her stubborn independence before she turned to him for anything. A wife who’d totally shut him out when it came to handling problems about her brother, leaving Bran battling feelings of impotence and hot fury. Their final confrontation over her bailing Danny out of jail without giving one thought to calling her husband—a cop—had led to the type of verbal argument that could be broken up only with a fire hose.

Dammit, her concern over her reprobate brother hadn’t been the issue. He had understood her need to get Danny out of jail fast—in the holding cell, the kid had gotten on the wrong side of a skank drug addict and gotten the fire beat out of him. Bran would have done whatever it took to get his own brothers or sisters out of there and into the hands of a doctor. What he’d no longer been able to swallow was that he had a wife who refused to turn to him. To need him. So he’d walked.

That had been three months ago, but the thought of what had transpired between him and Tory still stirred his temper.

As he had so often in the past, he gritted his teeth against those stirrings. No matter how he felt about what had happened between them, she was still his wife. Because of that she could wind up an unintentional target of Heath’s vengeance.

So, here he was, Bran thought as he climbed out of the patrol car into the cold bite of the January day, coming to see the woman he’d married in a sexual haze, then months later walked out on.

And still tugging at his mind were those damn divorce papers, sitting on the coffee table in his shabby apartment. Maybe the fact he had yet to sign them wouldn’t be such a constant irritant if he could explain why the hell that was.

His breath cloudy on the freezing air, he hunched his shoulders beneath his insulated uniform jacket and took the steps up to the porch two at a time.

He bypassed ringing the doorbell and slid his key into the lock. When he’d called earlier, Tory had told him she’d likely be in the garage checking her surveillance equipment and for him to use his key to get in.

He strode down the hallway, its dark oak floor scattered with colorful rugs. Veering right, he moved through a living room that resembled a comfortable, cluttered English study. He and Patience had picked out the leather furniture, the thick wooden tables, the brass accessories, the artwork. Sweeping his gaze around the room, Bran determined that Tory hadn’t changed a picture or moved a chair.

He was glad of that, he conceded. Although he’d clung to his grief, it had faded under the demands of everyday living and the passage of time. Memories of Patience now brought more pleasure than pain and he found comfort in having a visual reminder of the wife he’d planned to grow old with.

His spit-shined black uniform boots sounded like gunshots against the kitchen’s ceramic-tiled floor. As he neared the door leading to the garage, the air began to pulsate with music. Or with what Tory termed music. To him, the stuff she blasted out of speakers was nothing but unintelligible noise that slammed the eardrums.

Blowing out a breath, he tossed his hat and leather gloves on the nearest counter. He pulled open the door to the garage, wincing against the blast of head-pumping rock and roll.

When his gaze landed on Tory, he froze midstep. His last cognizant thought before the blood totally drained from his brain was that he had never seen a more erotic sight than the leggy blonde leaning under the open hood of her car, her jeans-clad hips performing a bump and grind to the pulsing beat.

When the music swirled into a crescendo and her bottom did a quick, snappy twitch, his mouth went dry. His gut clenched. And instantly he was swept back into the erotic dreams that had plagued him over the past week.

Dammit, he wanted to touch her so badly that the ache in his body spread all the way to his fingers. Fingers that wanted to shove into that long blond hair so he could tug her head back and feed on the mouth that had taken him to heaven more times than he could count. Yet he held himself back. He’d had good, sound reasons for walking out on their marriage. Too bad those logical reasons couldn’t stop him from wanting the woman worse than he wanted to breathe.

At first, Tory thought it was the hot, pulsating sound-track that had shifted her nerve endings into vibrate mode as she attacked the corrosion on her car’s battery cables with a wire brush. Seconds later, a flash of awareness hit her. With her instincts blaring the warning she was no longer alone, she jerked her head up hard enough to thud against the hood of her car.

“Easy!”

She heard the shout at the same time she whirled, the wire brush raised like a weapon. Her heartbeat faltered when she saw Bran. She’d known he was coming by. But for the past week she’d schooled her thoughts toward the possibility of Heath or one of his pals showing up. Going into defense mode with the wire brush had been knee-jerk reflex.

She swallowed hard. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Bran cuffed one hand behind an ear. “What?”

Turning, she leaned across the span of the car’s engine toward the portable CD player propped on the fender. When she flipped the switch, silence dropped on the garage like a stone.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she repeated.

“Go figure.” Unzipping his insulated jacket, he hooked a brow at the wire brush she still held defensively. “You planning on making a run at me with that thing?”

In his sharp-pressed uniform, he looked much the same as he had on the night he’d stepped into her life, hauling Danny home from a shadily-run poker game. Whipcord-lean and ramrod-straight, chiseled jaw and thick, sandy hair, Bran McCall had quite literally made her mouth water. Now, without warning, a lot of complex sensations surged up out of the past, washing over her in waves.

“You’re a good guy, so you’re safe,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded cool and calm. “But this wire brush would do a wicked job on some bad guy’s face.”

“True.”

Hoping to jettison her jangling nerves, she turned back to the battery and tackled a small spot of corrosion still left on one terminal. Maybe the sight of Bran in his uniform wouldn’t have had such an effect on her if she hadn’t spent the past week trying to rid her mind of maddening thoughts of how it felt to lie beneath him again, to look up into his face while his body molded against hers, to feel his sure, firm weight while the musky scent of his cologne filled her lungs.

When he stepped beside her and stuck his head under the hood, her belly tightened. Blood warmed. The slouchy red sweater she’d pulled on that morning was suddenly doing too good a job at keeping her body heat contained.

“Did your battery give out?” he asked. “Or are you just making sure it doesn’t?”

“Making sure.” He smelled wonderful, like soap and something musky and male that hinted of sleep and sex. While a rivulet of sweat trickled between her breasts, she continued scrubbing, even though the corrosion was gone. “I’m working a case involving nighttime surveillance at the downtown library learning center. The guy I’m watching is a slime. Last night when I left there, my battery barely kicked in.”

She was babbling, but couldn’t make herself shut up. “It’s supposed to get even colder tonight. Didn’t want to risk the battery giving out. Decided to do some maintenance.”

“Good idea.”

When he leaned in for a closer look at the engine, the knots in her stomach tightened.

He gave a hose a testing squeeze. “This feels a little hard. You might want to replace it.”

“I’ll put it on my to-do list.” She slanted a look at his profile. Hero-perfect with a hint of rugged. Why did just looking at him cause those damned chemical signals to zip through her? Flash red alerts?

A second later he had the oil dipstick out. “Oil’s a little low.”

“I planned to check it.”

Nodding, he replaced the dipstick, then leaned in farther. “How about your power-steering fluid?”

“You know, I really don’t need….” Her voice caught when she turned her head and found they were eye-to-eye and mouth-to-mouth. Her throat tightened when his warm breath skated across her face. If either of them moved in, their mouths would touch. The heat coiling inside her belly streaked up into her cheeks.

She knew that heat had turned to a flush when his Viking-blue eyes darkened. A second later something sharp and reckless slid into those eyes and his gaze dropped to her mouth. The ache in her belly turned into a throb.

“You really don’t need what, Tory?”

“I….” Oh, God. She didn’t need to be thinking about her soon-to-be ex touching her in places that had frozen over during their months apart.

She jerked back. “I don’t need help with my car.”

“Yeah, what the hell was I thinking?”

Watching him, she could feel his withdrawal even before he stepped back.

His mouth thinned. “You’ve always made it clear just how little you need me.” His voice was now about ten degrees colder than the air in the garage.

“Look, I wasn’t trying to make a statement. I just…. Dammit, I don’t need help checking the fluid levels in my car.”

“Or anything else.” He loomed over her, tall and unfathomable, staring at her with those hot blue eyes.

She eased out a breath. He knew about her past. About her mother. Just as she knew all about his. About Patience. He wanted a woman with a fragile side. She wanted a man who didn’t view her take-charge personality as a liability. He had left because he knew their situation was hopeless. Nothing had changed.

Resigned, she laid the wire brush aside. “On the phone, you said you’d found more of Heath’s associates?”

Bran watched her for a long, silent moment, then nodded. “Somewhere along the line in his criminal career, he started a motorcycle club with ties to drug smuggling, pornography and prostitution. The club was called the Crows.”

“Was?”

“It supposedly disbanded.” He pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his heavy coat. “But plenty of the members still live around here. There’s about twenty names of former Crows on this list. I’ve included copies of mug shots and surveillance photos to go with the names. A couple are relatives of Heath’s, others just running buddies. Three on the list made regular visits to Heath while he was in prison. I put checks by those names.”

“Are the cops watching them all?”

“The ones we can find.”

“Do you know yet who helped Heath kill the corrections cop and escape from the funeral home?”

“No.” He laid the envelope on the workbench. “The vice cops say if any of their snitches know, they’re not talking.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“I expect to hear from you if you spot any of them.”

“You will. Bran,” she said when he took a step toward the door. “Since you’re here…”

He turned, said nothing.

She met his steady gaze, uneasiness drifting through her. “There’s one other thing.”

“What?”

“The condo I mentioned the other night? The owners called. They need to know if I want to buy it. I do. Their asking price is reasonable and they’re selling a lot of their furniture, which is the type I like. So, if you could sign the divorce papers, I can tell my Realtor to get the ball rolling.”

“What type?”

“What?”

“The furniture you like. What type?”

“Oh.” She knitted her brow. During their short time together they hadn’t gotten around to discussing furniture preferences. Among other things.

“Sleek. Streamlined. Nothing massive.”

He studied her so long she resisted the urge to squirm. “So, if you could sign the papers?”

“I’ll bring them by tonight.” He zipped up his jacket. “You said you’ll be at the downtown library?”

“Starting at seven. I’ll wrap up this case tonight, so I won’t be there more than a couple of hours. Call my cell and I’ll let you know where in the library to meet me.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” she repeated softly. The ache in her throat dropped to her chest and formed a lump of regret as she watched him disappear into the house.

The desire between them was as sizzlingly hot as ever—the little interlude beneath her car’s hood proved that. But nothing between them had changed. They had no common ground upon which to build anything lasting.

With them, it was all about sex.

As good as they’d been together in bed, that simply wasn’t enough.

Chapter 3

“Been a week since Heath escaped,” Nate McCall pointed out that evening. “Any word on the street about him?”

Sitting across the booth from his brother, Bran shoved aside the plate of dinner-special meatloaf and mashed potatoes he’d barely touched. Around them, the small downtown diner was filled to capacity, the air thick with conversation and the warm, spicy smell of home cooking.

“Zilch,” Bran said. “We’ve got a list of Heath’s associates, most of whom were with him in the Crows gang. But still nothing solid on who helped him kill the corrections cop and escape from the funeral home. The lowlifes we’ve rousted claim they haven’t got a clue where Vic is.” He gave his head a frustrated shake. “Bottom line is, we’ve got nothing.”

“The theory that he and his partner headed for Mexico might be on target,” Nate pointed out. Like Bran, the middle McCall son had inherited their father’s tall, rangy build and wide shoulders. In contrast to Bran’s lighter coloring, Nate had the olive skin, black hair and chocolate-brown eyes prevalent on their mother’s side of the family. Presently on duty and working out of OCPD Homicide, Nate wore a black suit, crisp white shirt and crimson tie. Beside his empty plate, his handheld radio broadcast the usual muted chatter between cops and dispatchers.

“Heath isn’t in Mexico,” Bran said. “He’s here. Close.”

Nate studied his brother over the rim of his coffee mug. “What makes you so sure? None of the cops involved in the credit-union shootout have gotten so much as a hang-up phone call.” Nate’s eyes narrowed. “Unless you have and haven’t told me. If that’s the case, you and I need to step out in the alley so I can beat some sense into you.”

“You’re welcome to try, bro,” Bran drawled as he rolled his right shoulder in an attempt to ease the ache out of it. “I haven’t heard from Heath. But I can feel the bastard, Nate. He’s burrowed underground somewhere close. Waiting.”

Nate set his mug aside. “I’d be the last person to slam cop instinct, since mine has saved my butt a few times. I just hope yours is sending a faulty message in this case.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Bran shoved back the cuff of his sweater and checked his watch. It was nearly eight. He’d gone to his apartment when he got off work, changed out of his uniform, then settled in front of the TV. Soon, his attention veered to the well-worn furniture that had come with the apartment. It ate at him that until that morning he’d had no clue what style of furniture Tory preferred. He’d never even asked. His mind had soon shifted to wondering what else he hadn’t bothered finding out about the smart, stubborn, sexy woman he’d married in a fever. The woman from whom he’d wanted intimacy both in and out of bed. With those thoughts weighing on him like lead he’d called Nate and arranged a dinner meeting. He’d chosen the diner because it was a short drive to the library learning center where Tory was working surveillance.

“Nate, thanks for meeting me, but I need to take off. I have to go by the library.”

Nate angled his chin. “What’s there?”

“Books,” Bran said dryly. “And Tory. She’s working a surveillance.”

Nate snatched up the check and pulled a couple of bills out of his pocket. “So, since you know where she is, you guys must be talking again.” He held up a hand when Bran started to protest his paying the tab. “You buy next time. This is good, right? You seeing Tory?”

“Depends on a person’s point of view. I’ve got the papers she served me in my parka. I’m supposed to sign them and give them to her tonight.”

“Supposed to?” The trained interrogator in Nate pounced on the words. “Since you haven’t signed them, does that mean you’re having second thoughts about the breakup?”

“No, Sherlock. It means I didn’t have a pen handy.”

Nate’s dark brows drew together. “Dammit, Bran, you and Tory haven’t even made it to the one-year mark. Are you positive you can’t work out your problems?”

“No hope there, bro.” Especially not since their problems came down to different inherent needs, Bran added silently. He wanted a woman to turn to him, lean on him. Tory had shown him time and again she was too take-charge to do that. Her getting miffed that morning when he’d tried to help check under her car’s hood proved she hadn’t lightened up.

It had also proven a few other things.

Namely, the hunger he felt for her was as sharp as it had been from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. He hadn’t had to kiss her today to know what she tasted like—he carried her taste inside him. Still, he had damn well wanted his mouth on hers again. On a lot more places than just her mouth.

Picturing her leaning near him under the car’s hood, he had to grit his teeth against the instant tightening in his gut. With their mouths nearly brushing, he had watched her face flush. Saw her green eyes go smoky. Her response during those heat-driven moments had told him her desire equaled his. The white-hot chemistry that had brought them together—and fueled their elopement—was still a churning eddy inside them both. That he’d wanted to dive back into the eddy told him his defenses were not as impenetrable as he’d thought.

That little slice of reality had convinced him it was best to let her go before they tangled themselves up again. He would sign the papers tonight. Then Tory could get on with her own life and he could regain his balance in his.

Nate leaned in. “Look, everyone in the family has been walking on eggshells over the subject of you and Tory. Since you brought it up, I figure that opens the door to me asking you a question.”

“Which is?”

“What the hell is the deal?”

“What deal?”

“Why did you walk out? And don’t tell me you don’t care about her. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Bran had no intention of examining emotions he’d clamped a lid on months ago. “We have certain issues.”

“There’s headline news,” Nate said drolly. “You don’t want to tell me, fine. But you know how good Grace is at zeroing in on relationship stuff, and more than once she’s said—”

“Wait a minute. Have you and Grace been having regular conversations about Tory and me?”

“I wouldn’t call them regular,” Nate said with a shrug.

“What the hell do you call them?”

“Occasional. And we’re not the only ones who’ve been talking. The sisters had a big powwow at Mom and Dad’s. Josh was in on it, too.”

Bran’s eyes slitted. “Little brother sat in on a gossip session about my marriage?”

“To be fair, he was there because he heard Mom was making spaghetti. So he just got dragged into the discussion.”

“Well, great.” Bran jabbed an index finger in Nate’s direction. “How would you like it if the sisters had powwows about your relationships?”

Grinning, Nate winked at a petite, blond waitress who zipped by with a tray loaded with food. “I don’t have relationships, remember? I have encounters. Anyway, Grace thinks you walked because Tory’s so independent. I figure the big problem you’ve got is that she’s so different from Patience.”

Bran’s jaw set. “You don’t think I knew that when I married Tory?”

“Maybe you thought you did. But for a guy used to being totally in charge and calling all the shots, I suspect you didn’t know what hit you.”

Bran’s teeth threatened to grind together. Only to himself would he admit that Nate was right—not until after he and Tory eloped and the sexual haze began to lift had he seen the immense contrast between his late wife and his present one. And he’d also understood that a gap the size of the Grand Canyon separated his and Tory’s basic needs.

Because the idea of pounding on his brother sounded like a good way to work off his frustration, he aimed a feral smile across the booth. “Speaking of getting hit, I’m ready to adjourn to the alley.”

Just then, Nate’s radio crackled to life. A patrol cop’s disembodied voice notified dispatch of a Signal Seven at an address across town. Dead body, Bran’s cop brain automatically translated.

“You’ll have to give me a rain check on the alley,” Nate said, scooping up the radio.

“Too bad,” Bran muttered while Nate advised dispatch that Homicide was en route to the scene. “I suppose everybody will get together for another damn powwow after the divorce is final,” Bran said as he and Nate rose in unison and pulled on their coats.

Nate slapped his shoulder. “Knowing our sisters, it’s inevitable.”

“Yeah.”

The instant they stepped out into the brutally cold night, Bran’s cell phone rang. He snagged it off the waistband of his slacks, flipped it open and frowned when it continued to ring. It took him a second to realize Nate’s cell also had an incoming call.

“McCall,” Bran said into his phone. He and Nate turned slightly away so they could each hear their respective callers.

“This is Captain Everett,” Bran’s boss said, his voice booming.

“Yes, sir—”

“A black and white is at your wife’s house. She’s not home. Do you know where she is?”

Bran froze. “Yes. Why?”

“Garcia’s husband was murdered. Shot.”

Bran’s pulse kicked. Susan Garcia was one of the patrol cops involved in the credit-union shootout. Shifting, he glanced at Nate, saw his brother’s grim expression as he listened to whoever was on the other end of his call. Bran figured Garcia’s husband was the victim at the scene Nate had just been called to.

“What happened?” Bran asked.

“Miguel Garcia sold high-dollar cars,” Everett began. “A guy came into the dealership late this afternoon asking for him and requesting to test drive a Jaguar. Garcia went with him, but never came back. His boss went out looking for him. He just now found Garcia, dead in the Jag.”

Bran swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. “Anybody get a look at the customer?”

“We’ve got a vague description. Could be Heath. Could be a lot of guys.”

“Tory’s at the downtown library. I’m less than five minutes away.”

“Get there fast, McCall. Zelewski’s wife is also missing.”

Zelewski. Bran pictured the patrol cop who’d arrived at the credit union a minute behind him. “His wife sells real estate, right?”

“Yes. We’ve got cops checking all her listings now. Let me know when you locate your wife,” Everett said, then ended the call.

“Looks like Heath hit Garcia’s husband.” Bran barked the words at Nate while punching in Tory’s cell number. “Maybe Zelewski’s wife, too.”

“Going after cops’ families,” Nate added as he and Bran dashed to the diner’s parking lot. “You said Tory’s at the library. Do you know where at the library?”

“No, but I’m damn sure going to find her.”

“We’ll find her.” Nate held up his keys to indicate he would drive. “My partner can get started working the homicide scene.”

Bran climbed into Nate’s car while he listened to Tory’s cell phone ring. Closing his eyes, he sent up a silent prayer that he wasn’t too late.

Her miniature camera tucked back inside her leather tote bag, Tory slipped out of the library learning center into the freezing night. As surveillance jobs went, this one had been a cinch. A professor’s wife suspected her husband was spending his evenings at the library working on more than just a research paper. The wife was right. Over the past four nights, Tory had witnessed the professor and a nubile grad student disappear into a series of cozy study rooms. It was unfortunate for the professor—and a plus for Tory—that the doors on the rooms were equipped with grates through which the small lens of her camera fit.

It was another plus that Oklahoma City’s new downtown library learning center had an espresso bar.

Taking a sip of the steaming mocha café latte she’d purchased on her way out, she headed for her car. To avoid snagging the prof’s attention, she had parked in a different area of the parking lot during each of her visits. Tonight, the biting wind had her wishing she’d found a spot that didn’t require a hike to get there.

By the time she unlocked the Taurus’s door, her nose and cheeks stung from the cold. Not to mention her fingers, since she’d forgotten to snag her leather gloves off the kitchen counter.

Tossing her tote bag onto the passenger seat, she slid behind the wheel. She nearly fumbled her latte when the cell phone she’d switched to silent mode began vibrating like a big insect against her waist.

She pulled the phone off her belt and slid it into the converter installed in the dash so she could converse hands-free. She answered, blinking when Bran shouted, “You still at the library?”

“Yes, in the parking—”

The word ended in a choked scream when something metallic dropped past her face and jerked back against her throat. Before she could react, the cold metal yanked tighter. The bright shock of pain blinded her.

The cup dropped to her lap, spilling steaming coffee across her jeaned thighs.

Choking, gagging, she clawed at the metal while fear stormed through her. Chain her mind registered at the same instant a second loop dropped over her head and circled her neck.

Hysteria bubbled in her blood. She used her feet to push herself up in the seat, trying to ease the pressure on her windpipe. As she dug at the chain her fingernails carved furrows into her throat. Fisting one hand, she swung behind her in a futile attempt to knock her assailant back.

“Bitch, this is from Vic,” a man’s voice hissed near her ear. “Gonna eat your old man’s heart out,” he added before giving the chain a vicious jerk.

Fire roared through her lungs. Her brain begging for air, she fought to remain conscious. Weapon, her senses screamed. Her Sig was in her tote on the passenger seat, far out of reach.

Darkness loomed at the edges of her vision, a tunnel narrowing. Her hand groped for the console. Her flailing fingertips brushed its lever. The chain tightened. She leaned, straining for the lever, increasing the pressure on her neck. Unconsciousness closed in. When she hit the lever the console’s lid sprang open. Her hand came up, gripping the emergency rescue hammer she habitually kept there.

Terror screaming through her, lungs bursting, her throat crushed beneath the unyielding metal, Tory swung the hammer in a desperate arc behind her. Rippling pain shot up her arm when one of its sharp steel points rammed into a solid mass.

“There’s her Taurus!” Bran shouted when Nate swerved his car into the parking lot amid a squeal of tires and smoking rubber.

Bran bailed out before they rolled to a stop. Glock aimed, blood boiling like a demon possessed, he went in low, advancing toward the car’s rear.

The back window was fogged over, obscuring his view of the interior.

Seconds later, Nate stepped beside him, automatic clenched in his hand. “I’ll take the passenger side,” Nate murmured.

Dread pounded in Bran’s brain. Training battered with the urge to rush to the car, but he held himself back. He wouldn’t be any good to Tory if he got himself shot. Staying low, he crept toward the rear door. Over his cell phone, he had heard her scream. Heard a man’s vicious, “Bitch, this is from Vic.”

Bran gritted his teeth. He would hunt Heath down and kill him with his bare hands. If it took the rest of his life, he would find the bastard.

The car’s side windows were less fogged than the back. Bran raised up enough to peer into the shadow-laden back seat. He saw a man’s booted feet and jeans-clad legs stretched across the seat. His upper body was slumped, face-down in the passenger-side floorboard. Heath? Bran wondered. His pal who helped him escape, maybe?

Nate pulled open the rear door, his automatic trained on the man.

Bran edged to the driver’s door, checked through the window. His throat tightened when he saw the front seat was empty. He pulled open the door. Tory’s tote bag lay on the passenger seat, its contents spilling across the upholstery. Her cell phone was still plugged into the converter in the dash. A paper cup lay in a puddle of coffee on the floorboard.

“She’s not here,” Bran said, and saw in Nate’s grim face that their thoughts were on the same wavelength. There was only one man in the back seat, which meant either Heath or his pal was still out there. Maybe he had Tory. Maybe he was close, waiting to ambush both cops when he got a clear shot.

Nate held his gun steady on the still figure while he pressed his fingers against his throat. “DRT,” he said, using cop shorthand for dead right there. He angled to get a look at the man’s face. “I don’t think its Heath,” he added before keying the mike on his handheld radio.

Staying low, Bran dashed toward the nearest grouping of parked cars. Only minutes had passed since Tory first answered her cell phone. Surely if Heath had grabbed her they couldn’t have gotten far.

Bran had just reached the front of a white SUV when he heard the faint clank of metal against metal. A croaking sob followed.

Gun aimed, he peered around the SUV. Relief surged through him when he spotted Tory. One palm pressed to the pavement, she knelt between the SUV and another car. Her Sig lay near her hand. She’d fled the Taurus, he theorized, fearing another attacker might be nearby.

It took a split second for him to register the jerky movement of her shoulders. Another to realize her free hand was clawing at her throat.

“Tory!” He rushed to her, his pulse spiking when he saw the chain looping her neck. He realized immediately the metal links were tangled in her long hair. The more she struggled, the tighter the chain pressed against her windpipe.

“Stop!” He dropped his weapon, grabbed her hands. “Tory, stop.”

“Get it off!” Her voice was a panicked rasp on the cold air. “Get it off, get it off.”

“Hold on.” His fingers squeezed hers. “Just hold on.”

Lungs heaving, she leaned into him.

Kneeling over her, he tried not to think. About the blood that slicked the metal links. Or the precious seconds lost because his fingers trembled so badly. A lifetime later, the chain slithered to the blacktop with a clank.

While sirens wailed in the distance, he eased her into a sitting position. Barely breathing himself, he watched her body shake as she dragged in short, rusty breaths.

“You’re okay,” he said, for her benefit as much as his. “I’ve got you now. You’re okay.”

He took a few drags of icy air while he watched her. She was one of the toughest women he knew, yet she looked fragile, terrifyingly so. Her face was drawn and impossibly pale; her eyes bright with fear. Bloody furrows marred her throat. Already, a necklace of dark bruises bloomed around the furrows.

“Tory….” His chest tightened. Heath had come after her because of him. She had almost died because of him. Bran wanted to pull her into his arms, hold her, yet she was gasping for air, her body trembling. He settled for placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

As if his touch flipped a switch in her she broke, simply broke. Sobbing, she surged into his arms, her face against his chest, her tears soaking into his sweater.

“Just let it out,” he said, stroking her hair. He had never seen her cry. Never seen her even close to tears. Now, the sound of her raspy sobs, combined with the knowledge of how close she’d come to dying nearly overwhelmed him.

She was down to shuddering breaths when she said, “I thought…I was…going to die.”

“I know.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I know.”

“Did you…get him?”

Bran realized she didn’t know she’d killed her attacker. That news could wait until she was steadier. “Yeah, we got him.”

Still stroking her hair, he glanced across his shoulder when a siren whooped nearby. Four black and whites and a crowd of onlookers now filled the lot. If Heath had been in the vicinity, he was gone.

An ambulance barreled into view. Emergency lights pulsed. Bran settled his hands on her shoulders and inched her gently back. “An ambulance is here. Let’s get you out of the cold.”

She nodded, looking up at him. Her blond lashes were spiky, her eyes swollen from tears.

He settled his hands on either side of her waist, lifted her to her feet. When she swayed against his chest, he tightened his grip.

“Let me carry you.”

She raised a hand, her trembling fingers brushing his cheek. “I…can…walk,” she croaked. “Need to…walk.”

Even now she wouldn’t allow herself to lean on him. For the space of a heartbeat he loosened control on the emotion roiling inside him: the need to protect her, to comfort her, the blind rage against Heath for nearly killing her.

She was alive solely because she was brave and a fighter. She hadn’t needed him to stay alive. Didn’t need him to carry her to the ambulance.

“Okay, you walk.” He pressed his lips against her forehead. “I’m a step away if you need me.”

Keeping one hand locked on her elbow, he swept up his Glock, holstered it. Her Sig went into a pocket on his parka. He was about to retrieve the chain when he felt her shudder.

“Forget walking.” He swept her up gently and headed toward the ambulance. “I’m taking care of you, Tory. No one is going to hurt you again.”

“Thanks…for the lift.” When she trembled convulsively, Bran tightened his arms around her.

Gonna eat your heart out. The threat that Heath’s mother had hissed at the funeral home—and that he’d heard coming over Tory’s cell phone during the attack—replayed with new meaning in Bran’s head. One officer’s husband was dead. Another’s wife was missing. Bran didn’t know yet if Heath had gone after the wife of the fourth cop involved in the credit-union shootout, but he figured he had.

It was clear now that Heath had planned all along to hit the families of the cops who’d killed his brother and cousin, not the cops themselves. What better way to eat someone’s heart out than to target their spouse? It was the ultimate twisting of the blade, a way to deal unending, excruciating, lifelong agony to the cops.

Grim-faced, Nate strode toward them. Bran inclined his head toward the spot where he found Tory. “There’s a chain back there. It needs to go into evidence.”

“A chain?”

“The scum had it wrapped around Tory’s throat.”

Nate nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

A pair of EMTs pulled a gurney into view at the same instant Bran reached the rear of the ambulance. He sat Tory down gently on the stretcher, kept his hands locked on her shoulders. He looked into her eyes, felt the tremors that still shook her. “I’m riding to the hospital with you.”

She rubbed a hand over her mouth, nodded.

He stepped back to give the EMTs room to work.

The pain of seeing her hurt was the equivalent to a razor slashing at his heart. Because that pain threatened to overwhelm, he went with anger.

He hadn’t known what Heath had been planning, but he’d known damn well he would try something. Just as Bran now sensed with cold, hard certainty the bastard would make another attempt on Tory.

“Try it.” The violence bubbling in his blood transformed his voice into a lethal hiss on the cold night air.

He spotted Nate, saw the blood-slicked chain dangling from his brother’s fingers. Bran forced himself to take a long, measured breath. Rage, he knew, clouded the mind. So he would throttle his back. Keep it under control. Do what he had to do.

Bran stepped to the ambulance, swung up into the back.

Tory was still his wife. His to protect. His.

And he had just become her shadow.

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