His eyes looked wide and welcoming, as open as they'd been in the park, when his words sent me running though his face begged for help. And I'd understood that call, answered it like one wounded soldier offering solace to another.
Grabbing the glass, I spilled some of the oily liquid between my fingers. My hand couldn't stop shaking. The lime wedge clung to the glass rim, as waves of gin and ice cubes tried to break the fruit free.
A sad grin tickled Sam's face. "On three?" He sat up, raising his glass.
"Three." I sucked down a mouthful, my cheeks puckering in refute. Not having made a G&T in years, I'd poured the gin in barfly proportions.
"Good, yeah?" He gulped and then coughed, floating a hand over his ribcage, as if that would stop the swell of pain that even two Oxycodones couldn't numb.
"Thought you could handle rotgut."
"Always," he said, sucking his teeth. "Just don't put so much lime in it next time." He raised his glass again. "And next time you want to throw a fit over the music, liquor me up first."
I waved off the remark, took another drink and watched Max lap the floor where I'd spilt. "That stunt of yours," I said, smoothing back Max's ears. "In the kitchen, playing dead."
Sam tucked his chin. "Yeah, that."
I stared out the window, taking counsel from the neighborhood as I'd done so many useless nights. This game was burning us both, these masks growing heavier by the minute.
"Just seemed a little cruel, that's all," I whispered, my voice cracking against my will.
"Yeah, I see that now."
I cleared my throat, steadied my voice. "No more games."
"No more games," he said, offering his palm.
Though unsure of his sincerity, I honored his intention and took his hand. Ours was a firm shake but a shaky truce. Sam was, after all, a practiced manipulator. And I, a honed loner. Mostly I felt grateful for his warmth, the firm clasp, the solidity of Sam after the series of earthquakes. Not all of them his creation.
"You said you were testing the waters." I swallowed. "You meant you were testing me."
Sam released my hand. Cool air hit my skin where his bones had imprinted. "Needed to know what kind of person you were," he said, looking to the window. "Which direction you lean. Whether your first instinct is to help me, or run back to that prick." He looked back at me and his pupils dilated with the sudden change of light. "Lotta phony people in my world, Jules. It's not easy for me to trust just anyone. And this ain't a safe house if I ain't safe, understand? You're my lifeline now."
Of course I understood. We were in the same sinking boat, thanks to his damned world, and I was barely keeping us afloat.
"I could have come through that door with Stone," I said.
He tilted his head, examining me. "No, I don't think so."
"Or your thug buddy, Troy," I said. Sam may have been convinced of my loyalties, but I wasn't so sure of his. "You weren't too concerned about him finding me when I left."
"Nope. I know where he's headed the next few days, and it ain't Manhattan. Then there's that unmarked cop car parked at the corner." He scoffed when I jumped toward the window. "The Prick's keeping tabs on you."
Holding open the curtain, I spotted a car below with a man watching my window. With binoculars.
"Lack of reporters, that's what's odd," Sam added. "Phone should be ringing itself mad."
I drew the curtains, tugging them tightly closed. "Everything's in my aunt's name. I'm invisible as far as the world is concerned."
"Anyone can find where you live. Eventually. Even Troy, if he wants to bad enough. And trust me, he wants to. That cop won't stay there forever."
A shiver curled up my spine and my shoulders drew inward. Despite my work in the public domain, I'd steered clear of the spotlight. Magazine interviews, gallery openings, even corporate sponsored dinners for my publisher: I declined them all. Yet in one day, Sam had exposed me to the world. I wanted to scream for him to get the hell out of my bed, my home, my life. I wanted the sight of him to make me sick.
"You seem to enjoy frightening me, Detective."
"No." Lines creased his forehead and he sat forward. "No, I don't."
Max barked and ran to the kitchen. A knock came next. Max kept barking, which helped maintain the illusion that I wasn't home, as Sam fumbled for the nightstand, but I cupped his arm and quietly slid open the drawer. Sam withdrew the Glock and nodded to the bathroom for me to hide. I shook my head. He mouthed 'go,' but I sat on the edge of the bed, ready to wait out the intruder at my patient's side.
"Julie?" Stone's voice made me flinch. "I just want to make sure you're okay."
Sam's brows furrowed. I followed his gaze to find my fist twisting the bedspread. "Thought he only had that affect on rookies," Sam whispered. "Go ahead, get rid of him."
"I'm never home. Not for anyone." Even the restaurant guys knew to leave their deliveries downstairs. Besides, I suspected Stone would push his way inside and discover Sam. The shit would really hit the fan then.
Sam grinned. "Got a prayer to get rid of him?"
I laughed, secretly praying for just that. But Stone kept knocking, and Max kept barking. Their exchange made me want to bury my face in Sam's chest.
"Relax." Sam's thumb glided over the back of my hand in wide sweeps, loosening my grip on the bedspread.
The sound of Stone testing the lock brought my shoulders to attention.
"Shhh. He can't enter without your permission." When I gave Sam a look, he added, "Okay, so I'm undercover. I've got more leeway."
Resting his gun on his chest with one hand, Sam continued stroking my skin with the other, luring me into stasis. Goose bumps flooded my body as his fingers swept under my wrist to more sensitive skin. My breathing changed, deepened as his strokes inched up my arm, as he sanded off the rough edges of my nerves. I knew he was watching me, noting my every twitch.
Max had stopped barking, which meant Stone was truly gone.
"Stop that." I curled my hand into my lap, avoiding Sam's gaze. My shoulders adjusted as I tried to appear unfettered.
Sam set the gun aside and leaned toward me, his hand reaching. I held still as he pulled my ponytail loose, so the strands fell against my neck. His fingers brushed these aside and he stared at my profile, leaning back in silence. My breath shuddered as a shiver ran a course where it shouldn't, and I squeezed my hands between my thighs in defense.
Max leapt onto the bed between us, a manila envelope clenched in his teeth. I welcomed the interruption, but Sam stayed my hand and slipped the package from Max's bite with caution, examining the seal before pinching the metal clasp and prying open the envelope's mouth. I realized he thought the package was booby-trapped.
I eased off the bed, giving warranted distance, as Sam pulled pages from the envelope. The papers the detective had tried forcing into my bag.
"I believe those are for me." I reached, but Sam's long arm kept me at bay.
"Trust me, you don't want to know." When Sam had finished reading, he shook his head. "What a prick."
"I'm not a child, Sam. I can handle whatever he dishes out."
Tearing the papers from his grip, I found a pale photocopy of a
New York Post
article that screamed CAR EXPLODES IN CENTRAL PARK. Below that sat the image of a mangled, steaming car split in half. Firemen shot water into a flaming trunk, as a crowd of neighbors gathered with their coats pulled over pajamas. The scene I'd spent years trying to erase.
Luke's name and age were printed under the photo. Already I'd grown older than him. Just words on paper, Stone called them. My life sentence, I called it. And there, on the last page of the article, was Stone's jaunty handwriting, a flourishing 'S' in his name:
I could find who did this. Yours, Stone.
My eyes were as dry as chalk. I wasn't hurt, I was pissed.
"He's coming back, you know." Sam's warning pierced through my cloud of anger. "You didn't answer the door when he knew you're home. Now he's got cause for a warrant. He'll make up any excuse, storm in, blow my cover. Get us all killed." Sam's head shook despondently. "First the news, now this." He slid his legs off the bed, like he'd somewhere to go.
"So I'll call and get him off my back."
"That's worse. He'll suspect." Sam looked me in the eye. "He's poking you to see if you flinch. But he's got no idea how tough you really are." He raised his glass, but I shook my head. I'd swallowed enough phony camaraderie for one day.
"You never asked what we talked about, Stone and I."
Sam suspended his glass, chewing the inside of his cheek. Finally, he threw back the last swig, seething through gritted teeth as his ice cubes resettled in the glass. "You asked me not to drill you, and I agreed. You'll tell me whatever needs saying. You do the right thing, Jules. That's why he's pestering you. Hell, that's why I pester you."
Taking his empty glass, I handed him my half-full one. My head felt plenty swimmy already.
"Offer still stands," he said. "You want out..."
I scoffed. We both knew I was in too far. Sam's gun stared back at me from the nightstand, and I thought of the opportunities to protect myself that I'd abandoned in order to protect him. He'd saved my life twice, yet the arsons, the murders created a fog of doubt as to his role, his ethics. Even if he was a real cop, he could be dirty, on the take and now on the run—a rogue detective desperate to maintain a cover that protected his crimes.
"I didn't know, Jules." As if he'd read the doubt on my face. "That wasn't the plan."
CHAPTER 11
"So what else have you concluded about me, Detective?" I asked, propping pillows behind his head. Getting Sam to cool his guns was harder than getting me to stop my shaking. But being near him was even harder with arousal still fresh in my veins.
He looked from under his brows. "You don't want to do this."
I lifted my shoulder. "Like you said, people assume things." I needed to know who I was to him, who he was to me. And why the hell I'd allowed him to stay against good reason.
He patted the mattress. Despite my reluctance, I sat, his empty glass sweating in my hand as his words came slowly.
"Pretty interesting lady." He tucked his good arm behind his head, his bare, bruised chest expanding, and examined my profile with a thoughtful sigh, as if waiting for the right moment to deliver the bad news. "Wish I'd met you on the street, civilian to civilian. But you'd probably look away from a guy like me. Probably look away from most guys now. Five years ago, maybe a guy had a chance. But not today."
I stared at the floor, not sure what to make of his remarks. Freeing his leg from the comforter, Sam rested his knee against my back, and I stiffened. My first thought was to slide away, but I figured he needed a steady prop.
"I know this much," he continued, "you're deeper undercover than I am. And I'm a pro." He bumped his knee against my back. "Been at it longer, too. Old computer, old videos. Even your music's out of date. Your iPod plays only one album, so I figure you don't know how to load it. Then I hear the same album on your stereo, the only album allowed to play. That tells me you're fixated."
He bumped my back again, and my eyes cut to his weasel smile. He cocked his eyebrow like the ace detective he thought himself to be.
"Then there's the books. Too many books. And way too many DVDs. But no food, no pictures. Boxes of toothpaste and soap, when most New Yorkers fight for storage. Pretty well stocked for a woman who lives two blocks from the store." His gaze fell to the floor. "That spells a whole lotta lonely."
My eyes fixed on the nightstand. I couldn't look at him without my stomach twisting.
"I get it, Jules. And I think that's what's got you wound up. More than my gun sitting there. More than even being held hostage. Some part of you got stuck. And now I'm looking in where you don't want anybody meddling. Especially a man."
He caught the tail of my shirt as I stood.
"You asked for this. Let's finish it." Now I understood how his boyish looks could turn to steely ruffian and stare down the scariest of thugs. "Pretty obvious you rarely go out. Dresses you never wear, menus for every night of the week. And with so many television channels, who needs human interaction, right? You certainly don't invite it. Spare bedroom's got more dust than Brooklyn. Yet the rest of the place is immaculate. That tells me you shut off part of your home, part of yourself."
Sam snapped my shirt tight when I shifted. "But you've gotta have something to live on, or to live for. Besides Max. Like a job. And even that's propped up by an assistant, who escorts you to locations you don't care about, to take pictures you can't stand to look at, because by the time they're printed, they're all dead to you."
I looked to Max, my protector, as he stretched lazily across his bed, turning a blind eye.
"Then there's Max," Sam said, pushing himself up and tightening his hold on my shirttail. "The hundred-dollar dog bed, the year's supply of high-end dog food. When your own fridge is empty. He's gotta take a crap sometime, but your dog walker's AWOL, so that's on you now. You're forced to go out. Those pretty white running shoes, new socks, summer shorts in October? You're no jogger. You're way outside your limits. But you'll go. You'll do anything for Max. Even stare down the end of a barrel. And that gets me thinking."
"Enough." I shut my eyes, biting back tears, and held my fists in my lap.
"Maybe she's alone, I tell myself, and Max is all she's got left." He grabbed my arm. "Your face says it all, Jules. You give yourself away easier than you think."
"I said enough."
"Then I come along. Now you're scrambling to control what's left of your routine, your space. Those jeans and that perfect white shirt, your hair in that restrained ponytail. That's your uniform. Everything in its place. Only you're not OCD. You don't spin quite that tight. No, you're as normal as the rest of us, but something turned you upside down, something that makes you jump every time the phone rings or the microwave beeps. I know a PTSD case when I see one. Something got you spinning alright." He leaned in, tilting his head. "Something personal enough to imprint, but unexpected. A loss, I wonder? Not just a friend, no. And not the parents. That's too easy. No, someone closer. Someone who represented an extension of you, as if your own body had died, because that's how you're living. Like you're already dead."