* * *
THREE days later, she wasn’t handling it quite so well.
Especially not after what he had just told her.
“I’m
what
?” she demanded.
“On leave. The next three months.”
“Oh, hell, no, I am not.”
Taylor barely glanced at her. “Yes, you are. You took a nearly fatal injury and—”
“Oh, kiss my ass, Jones. This is not about my injury,” she snarled. She had the presence of mind, just, to slam the door shut behind her before storming over to his desk. Leaning over it, she glared at him. “This is because of what happened. Be enough of a man to admit that.”
“All right.” Taylor leaned back and folded his hands over his belly.
It was hard, she realized, harder to look at those hands without thinking about how they had felt on her body.
“I’ll admit it. I will not deny a strong attraction on my part, and it was unwise for me to act on it.”
“Unwise,” she mimicked.
“Unwise, foolish, unethical. Take your pick.”
It hurt. Unethical, yeah, she’d give him that. It had been unethical. But unwise? Foolish? No. Not for her. Hearing him describe it that way was like having him jab little needles into her heart. “And your solution is kicking me out.”
“I’m not kicking you out. You
do
need time off to fully recuperate.” Then the mask fell away and for a brief moment she caught a glimpse of the man who’d so desperately made love to her.
The man who had held her like she mattered. That was what hurt the most, she realized. He’d made her feel like she mattered…mattered to
him
, almost the way he mattered to her.
Dez had never mattered to anybody before. Not personally, at least, not really. And now she was being reminded, again, of just how little she did matter. That it was Taylor delivering her that message was a double blow and it was painful enough to leave her breathless.
“I can’t do my job when I’ve got you on my mind, Desiree. I just can’t.” He said it in that flat, cool voice and every word was a slap.
“So this is
my
fault.” She didn’t blink, didn’t let him see how much this hurt. It wouldn’t do any good, and damn it, she had her pride. Some of it, anyway. What little she could scrape up off the floor.
“No. It’s mine. But I can’t head the unit if I’m on leave.” He continued to stare at her, and once more, his blue eyes were blank and cool. Emotionless. “Can you think of a suitable replacement?”
She glared at him. No. She couldn’t. Without Taylor there, walking the razor’s edge that kept this unit going, they’d go under. They were too damned important and she knew it, but too many others outside the unit just didn’t
get
it.
“So I get the short end,” she murmured, her voice hoarse and ragged. She wasn’t going to cry, damn it. She wasn’t.
“Would you just
think
for a minute?” he snarled. “It’s not like you don’t need the time off.”
“But three
months
?” Her voice broke. She couldn’t…three months. The voices…no. The ghosts that haunted her all too often. They pulled her from her sleep if she didn’t seek them out. She couldn’t go three months—even thinking about it was enough to make her head threaten to split, that darkness edging up on her. It was hard enough to get through a week without following those whispers. As long as she answered them, she could stay sane. But if she didn’t…
Now he wanted her to take three months away from it?
And three months without seeing him?
He doesn’t want to see you anyway
.
Yeah, she was getting that picture.
“You need to take the time off,” he said flatly. “And you need to rest. And we…need time to get our heads on straight.” Something she couldn’t quite read moved through his eyes as he studied her face.
She couldn’t read it, but it hurt—left her heart aching and empty.
Get our heads on straight
.
In other words, he wouldn’t change his mind, wouldn’t try to find a way to make things work—even though she knew, without a doubt, he had feelings for her.
“What’s the purpose of getting our heads on straight? Tell me that.” Oh, hell. Even
she
could hear the catch in her voice now.
“We have to get back on even footing.”
“Or…?”
He didn’t answer.
Dez swallowed. “Shove your three months, Taylor. I quit.”
I quit—
Taylor jerked his head back as she said that. Then he shook his head. She couldn’t. He knew Dez, knew how she needed…
fuck
. Yes, he knew how she needed what she did. It
wasn’t
a job for her—it was a need.
“You can’t quit,” he said quietly. “You and I both know how much you need your work—we know what it does to you when you don’t work.”
Dez’s mouth twisted in a bitter, ugly smile. “Obviously
we
don’t or you wouldn’t be pushing me out for three months because
you
can’t deal.”
Alarm screamed in his head as she reached down, pulled out her ID, her weapon.
Fuck
—
“Desiree, be reasonable.”
Lashes swooped low over her eyes and she murmured, “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m not taking three months—double the time the doctor said I needed—and hell, I can talk to ghosts just fine without hurting my neck. I don’t even need
six
weeks. I’ll go insane if I spend three months away from what I need to do. Since you won’t let me do it here, I’ll do it on my own.”
She slammed her shield, her ID, her weapon on his desk.
He caught her wrist. “Don’t do this, damn it.” She couldn’t leave…even as he thought maybe it was for the best—for him. Yeah, it might be better for him, but it would be hell for her. She needed this. Shit. What had he done? She couldn’t leave.
“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.” Her eyes, dark and soft, bore into his, challenging.
Something hovered on the tip of his tongue. But instead of exploring that, he gritted out, “Because you’ll regret walking away from your job.”
Dez shook her head. “I didn’t
walk
. You shut me out.” Her eyes lingered on his face, and then she reached up, touched his cheek.
His heart slammed against his ribs and he had to fight the urge not to nuzzle that hand, not to grab her, beg her not to leave. Fuck—not seeing her? Then, even that paled.
Away from here, how would she get what she needed? How would she get
enough
? The voices, her ghosts, they’d drive her mad.
As she turned away from him and started toward the door, he came out from behind the desk. “You can’t walk away from this team, Dez. I won’t allow it,” he said, forcing his voice to be flat and cold—no emotion, damn it, because letting something
other
than his head speak was what had caused this. No emotion—nothing but logic. Nothing.
Dez paused at the door and looked back at him. She lifted a brow at him. “You won’t allow it,” she murmured, cocking her head. Then she sighed and opened the door. “Sugar, you just don’t seem to get the picture here. You don’t have a choice.”
Their eyes met, held, steely blue on darkest brown. She was the one to look away first.
“Good-bye.”
As she closed the door behind her, he could have sworn he heard something crack.
But it wasn’t his heart—he wasn’t so fucking stupid that he’d allow himself to fall for a woman he couldn’t have. And even if he
was
that stupid, surely he wouldn’t compound it by chasing her away.
Except Taylor knew that was exactly what he’d done.
Shaken, he slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out that slender gold chain. The one he still hadn’t returned to her. The delicate gold cross hung there, swinging back and forth.
Fourteen months later
M Y angel. It’s almost time. Fall.
The pen paused over the paper while the hand holding it trembled.
I think about you every day but this time of year is always so hard. My angel. My pretty, precious angel. My one and only.
Tears came. Blurring the words on the paper. But still, the pen moved. Still the words flowed.
* * *
IT was late.
Few people remained in the office. But Taylor Jones wasn’t surprised when his administrative assistant appeared in the doorway just as he clicked his briefcase closed.
“I assume you’ll keep things under control while I’m gone?” he said, giving Gina Berkle a quick look.
She didn’t smirk, but she might as well have. The look in her hazel eyes accomplished the same thing. “Yes. Don’t worry. The place won’t fall apart because you’re taking a few weeks off. I held it together last year; I’ll do the same this year.”
He nodded, his mind already on his trip. It wasn’t anticipation that flooded his mind, or excitement. It was, plain and simple, dread. This was a duty, something he had to do, something he needed to do, something he did every year.
And it hadn’t gotten easier over the years, either.
Not that he expected it to.
“May I ask you a question?”
Taylor looked up, frowning. He’d forgotten about Gina. She was watching him, an odd look in her eyes. “You can ask. Whether I’ll answer depends on the question.”
But it wasn’t the question he’d expected.
“You
are
coming back, right?”
Taylor stared at her, perplexed. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Gina came farther into his office and sat down, smoothing her skirt down. “Hell, I’ve said this much,” she muttered, absently rubbing her hands together, staring down at them. Then she looked back at him. “You don’t see what we see every day.”
“And that is…?”
“Yourself. The look in your eyes.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I imagine you’ve read my personnel file, right? I mean, this is the FBI. And you’re a paranoid bastard anyway. You probably know my shoe size.”
“Actually, no. Your shoe size has nothing to do with your job.” But he knew where she was going with this. “And relax, Gina. I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
“I said I was.” He resisted the urge to snap at her—oddly touched that she cared enough to say anything. Just about everybody else would have ignored it, assuming they even noticed anything was wrong. Shit, most of them would probably lift a glass in celebration if he decided to put a bullet through his brain. “Stop worrying.”
“I can’t.” She shrugged and gave him a weak smile. “You haven’t been fine since Dez Lincoln was injured on the job.”
You haven’t been fine since Dez Lincoln was injured…
No. He hadn’t. Shit. Closing his eyes, he took a deep, slow breath and then looked up, stared at Gina. “That’s enough,” he said softly.
She fell silent and looked away as he filed a few more documents and shut down his computer.
He ignored the roaring in his ears, ignored the pounding of his heart. He just had to get out of here—and maybe buy a big-ass bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the way home. Good ol’ Jack. His dad had always liked his Jack from time to time. He could lift a glass in his dad’s memory, even. At least one memory that wasn’t too fucking painful.
His flight didn’t leave until 10:20. He could get plastered, something he rarely did, and maybe he could have a peaceful night of unconsciousness.
“Sir?”
Slowly, he looked up and saw that Gina had risen from her chair and stood nervously in front of his desk, her hands twisting at her waist. She stared at him, her eyes miserable as she bit her lip.
“Yes?” he asked, forcing the word out through a tight throat.
“Is it?”
“Is it what, Gina?”
“Is it enough?” She shook her head. “You can be a cold guy to work for, but…well…you’ve always been fair. You’ve never
not
been fair. And…well, like I said, you don’t see what I see every day. I saw my last boss in the days before she decided to kill herself. And too often the look in your eyes looks too much like hers. I didn’t say anything then and now I have to live with wondering if maybe I could have made a difference—I won’t do that again. Not ever. So if this is out of place, I’m sorry, but I’m not living with that on my soul again. I look at you and see something too close to what I saw then. I can’t be quiet this time. I just can’t.”
Taylor closed his eyes. He heard the nervous tremble in her voice, knew why she was so upset. And he understood why she’d made herself say this—forced herself to do it.
Gina had been the one to find her boss dead. But he wasn’t about to off himself. He didn’t deserve that easy of an end.
He made himself look back at her. “I said I’m fine.”
She continued to stare at him and her gaze told him she wasn’t convinced.
“Gina, I’m fine.” No, he wasn’t. But he wasn’t going to put a gun to his head, either. Forcing himself to smile, he added, “I’ve got too much to do to kill myself anyway.”
There was still the mission, after all. If nothing else, he still had that.
Always that.
Gina weakly returned his smile. “Well, I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
“Yes.”
He came out from behind the desk and hesitated. It was weird, he realized, to know that somebody was worried about him. Most people around here wouldn’t give a damn if he died, other than how it might affect their jobs. “Was there anything else?”
“On that topic?” She gave him a wobbly smile. “No. Other stuff? I’m sure it will come up. I know what to call about, what not to call about…except…” She grimaced.
“What is it?”
She glanced past his shoulder, like she didn’t want to look at him as she asked, “What do I do if we get more of
those
calls?”
Now it was Taylor’s turn to grimace. In a gesture that had become automatic, he slid a hand into his pocket, fingered the golden chain. For the first few months, he’d told himself he’d send it to her. Return it. It was hers, after all.
Then he told himself he could drive it out there…once he had time. He could at least look her in the face, perhaps apologize.
But he never did it. And he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t, for some reason. He needed that small connection, that small piece of her. Idly, he rubbed his finger across the chain and then looked at Gina.
“If she calls, call me.” But he hoped it didn’t happen. He was going to have enough to deal with, just getting through the next few weeks.
The last thing he needed was to think about dealing with
those
calls…
* * *
“PLEASE. Take it.”
This was the part of her new life that wasn’t so easy.
Staring at Myra Downey’s wrinkled, tired face, Dez Lincoln gave her a weak smile. “You know, I don’t much like doing this,” she said, accepting the check with a strained smile.
“I’m seeing that…in your eyes. You got a lot of pride, I can see it. Just like I can see that if I hadn’t offered this money, you wouldn’t have asked.” Myra curled Dez’s fingers around the check and shook her head. “What you’ve given me is more valuable than what I’m giving you. And I think you know it. Peace is something I’ve not had in years, not since he disappeared.”
A watery smile curled her lips and she reached down, touched the faded gold band on her left ring finger.
Dez suspected the ring hadn’t ever left her hand for longer than it took to wash her dishes or take a bath. Myra closed her eyes and when she looked back at Dez, there was such peace, such tranquillity in her eyes. “You don’t understand the gift you’ve given me, Ms. Lincoln. The peace I feel. Yes, now I have to grieve all over again, but now I
know
. Now I can have peace…and it’s because of you. Now I know he didn’t just walk away from us.” Her voice broke and tears gleamed in her eyes. “He didn’t just leave.”
“No.” Dez came off the couch and wrapped an arm around the old woman’s shoulders. “Your Jimmy loved you and the kids. With everything he had.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, nodded. “Yes, he did. And because of a couple of fool kids, he’s lost to us. But not forgotten. And now we can put him to rest.”
Myra sighed and looked around her home. “Even without him, we had a good life—I was determined to see to that, determined to show our children a good life. But there wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think of him, not a day that went by that I didn’t miss him, long for him…people told me to move on, you know. Move on, find somebody else—they said I deserved that. But he was all I wanted.” She looked at Dez and whispered, “Does that make me a fool?”
“It makes you a woman who loved her man, I think.” The knot in her throat wasn’t going to fade anytime soon, not sitting here confronted with this woman’s strength—her determination and her unfading, unfailing love. Forty years after her husband’s disappearance and she still loved him.
Now, Myra could put him to rest. Now, she could finally let go and move on.
Looking down, Dez stared at the check she held and nausea churned her gut.
“Stop it, Ms. Lincoln.”
She looked up and saw Myra watching her.
She had a silver brow cocked and was watching her with a knowing smile. “You didn’t ask for it—I offered it, and I do it happily. Now go on. I imagine you’ve got more souls to help rest.”
* * *
THERE was a grim-eyed detective leaning against her car.
“How much did you take her for?”
Dez didn’t flicker a lash. She still hadn’t looked at the check.
“There wasn’t a business arrangement, Detective Morris.”
The blond snorted and drew a cigarette from behind his ear, tucked it between his lips. He didn’t light it. As a matter of fact, Dez was sure she’d seen that same cigarette between his lips the day before. It looked kind of worn and ragged.
“That wasn’t precisely my question, Miz Lincoln,” he drawled. “I asked how much you took her for.”
He waited a beat and then said, “Maybe what I should ask is this: Did she pay you any money?”
“She did.” Dez wasn’t going to lie about it. Standing on the bottom step, hands hanging loose at her sides, she met his blue eyes levelly.
It wasn’t easy to look at him. He bore a disconcerting resemblance to one rat bastard she’d hoped to forget about over the past year or so. Of course, it hadn’t happened.
Tate Morris continued to watch her, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. Finally, he sighed and shifted his attention to the scar on her neck. It wasn’t an ugly scar, not as far as scars went, at least. The surgeon had done a damn neat job, she had to give him that. But it was still a scar, a pale slash against her darker skin, and it stood out.
“How’d you get that scar?”
“Cut myself shaving,” she said without blinking an eye.
He grinned and shook his head. “You’re a smart-ass. If it wasn’t for the psychic bullshit, I’d find you ridiculously appealing, Miz Lincoln.”
“My heart breaks over the fact that you don’t, I assure you.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He shoved away from the car. As he headed toward her, his gait loose and easy, he tugged the unlit cigarette out from between his lips and tucked it behind his ear again. “I’ve done some checking up on you ever since you called in and reported that body. Appears you’ve got a habit of being around bodies, Miz Lincoln. Especially dead ones.”
“I wouldn’t call it a habit. More like an occupational requirement.”
“If you were a coroner or funeral director, even a cop, I could understand that.” He stopped less than two feet away, much too close.
Dez didn’t back away. He was doing it on purpose—trying to throw her off, trying to intimidate her. She’d dealt with far, far worse on a regular basis. She didn’t give a damn. Smirking at him, she asked, “Are you going to ask me my whereabouts on the night he died? Because when it comes back that he
is
Myra’s husband, you’re going to look pretty silly, seeing as how he died before I was born—that’s a pretty good alibi. You know, with me not being
alive
and all.”
“Damn. I really could like you.” He shook his head and sighed again, shooting a look over her shoulder at the house. “But tell me, how come you’re so certain it’s her husband? Hm? Why are you so certain?”
Dez smiled serenely. “Maybe a little birdie told me.” Or a ghost. “Or maybe I’m psychic.”
He snorted. “Don’t start that bullshit with me, angel, okay? I’m not as easy to fool as a lonely old lady.”
Dez was tempted to point out that he obviously didn’t know Myra very well. Myra was nobody’s fool. But before she could, she heard it. A voice on the wind…so faint.
…Help me…
A whisper of cold danced along her spine.
A voice, young and desperate and strong.
Dez swallowed. Not again. Not already. She was so damn tired, worn to the bone, and she was always cold now, so cold she ached with it. Closing her eyes, she shored up her shields, steadied herself. It took less than five seconds. She could do this—she might pay for doing another job right on the tail of this one, but she could handle it.
Looking at Detective Tate Morris, she gave him a brittle smile. “I’m sure you’ve checked me out, from birth on up to now. If there was any way you could think to discredit me, you would. And we both know you didn’t have any luck…don’t we?”
“I guess we do,” he said slowly, nodding.
“Then there’s really nothing left for us to say. You have a good day.” She went to step around him. But then, because curiosity had a grip on her, she reached inside her pocket, tugged out a card. “If you’re so moved, I wouldn’t mind knowing how the investigation turns out.”
He accepted the card but when she tried to go around him, he caught her arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The whisper was already back.
Help…damn it, can’t anybody help…
There was an edge of desperation there. What was this?
“Don’t tell me that,” Morris said, shaking his head. “Five seconds ago you were fine, and then your pupils go all pinpoint—now they are all dilated and your skin’s cold. You don’t look like the pill-popping type, either.”
Dez pulled her arm away. “I have to go.”
Help me…