rolled the cigarette on autopilot, eyes trained on the town house, and wondered idly who had called. Only three people had the number: his friend Seth, and his two brothers, Sean and Davy. Seth for sure had better things to do on a Saturday afternoon than call him. The guy was neck-deep in honeymoon bliss with Raine. Probably writhing in bed right now, engaged in sex acts that were still against the law somewhere in the southern states. Lucky bastard.
Connor’s mouth twisted in self-disgust. Seth had suffered, too, from all the shit that had come down in the past few months. He was a good guy, and a true friend, if a difficult one. He deserved the happiness he’d found with Raine. It was unworthy of Connor to be envious, but Jesus. Watching those two, glowing like neon, joined at the hip, sucking on each other’s faces, well…it didn’t help.
Connor wrenched his mind away from that dead-end track and stared at the cell phone. Couldn’t be Seth. He checked his watch. His younger brother Sean was at the dojo at this hour, teaching an afternoon kickboxing class. That left his older brother, Davy.
Boredom tricked him into picking up the cell phone to check the number, and as if the goddamn thing had been lying in wait for him, it buzzed right in his hand, making him jump and curse. Telepathic bastard. Davy’s instincts and timing were legendary.
He gave in and pushed the talk button with a grunt of disgust. “What?”
“Nick called.” Davy’s deep voice was brusque and businesslike.
“So?”
“What do you mean, so? The guy’s your friend. You need your friends, Con. You worked with him for years, and he—”
“I’m not working with him,” Connor said flatly. “I’m not working with any of them now.”
Davy made an inarticulate, frustrated sound. “I know I promised not to give out this number, but it was a mistake. Call him, or I’ll—”
“Don’t do it,” Connor warned.
“Don’t make me,” Davy said.
“So I’ll throw the phone into the nearest Dumpster,” Connor said, his voice casual. “I don’t give a flying fuck.”
He could almost hear his older brother’s teeth grinding. “You know, your attitude sucks,” Davy said.
“Stop trying to shove me around, and it won’t bother you so much,” Connor suggested.
Davy treated him to a long pause, calculated to make Connor feel guilty and flustered. It didn’t work. He just waited right back.
“He wants to talk to you,” Davy finally said. His voice was carefully neutral. “Says it’s important.”
The light in the town house bedroom went off. Connor lifted the camera to the ready. “Don’t even want to know,” he said.
Davy grunted in disgust. “Got Tiff’s latest adventure on film yet?”
“Any minute now. She’s just finishing up.”
“Got plans after?”
Connor hesitated. “Uh…”
“I’ve got steaks in the fridge,” Davy wheedled. “And a case of Anchor Steam.”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“I know. You haven’t been hungry for the past year and a half. That’s why you’ve lost twenty-five goddamn pounds. Get the pictures, and then get your ass over here. You need to eat.”
Connor sighed. His brother knew how useless his blustering orders were, but he refused to get a clue. His stubborn skull was harder than concrete. “Hey, Davy. It’s not that I don’t like your cooking—”
“Nick’s got some news that might interest you about Novak.”
Connor shot bolt upright in his seat, the heavy camera bouncing painfully off his scarred leg. “Novak? What about Novak?”
“That’s it. That’s all he said.”
“That filthy fuck is rotting in a maximum security prison cell. What news could there possibly be about him?”
“Guess you better call and find out, huh? Then hightail it over here. I’ll mix up the marinade. Later, bro.”
Connor stared at the phone in his hand, too rattled to be annoyed at Davy’s casual bullying. His hand was shaking. Whoa. He wouldn’t have thought there was still that much adrenaline left in the tank.
Kurt Novak, who had set in motion a chain of events that effectively ruined Connor’s life. Or so he saw it on his self-pitying days, which were happening way too often lately. Kurt Novak, who had murdered Connor’s partner, Jesse. Who was responsible for the coma, the scars, the limp. Who had blackmailed and corrupted Connor’s colleague Ed Riggs.
Novak, who had almost gotten his vicious, filthy claws into Erin, Ed’s daughter. Her incredibly narrow escape had given him nightmares for months. Oh, yeah. If there was one magic word on earth that could jolt him awake and make him give a shit, it was Novak.
Erin. He rubbed his face and tried not to think of the last time he’d seen Erin’s beautiful face, but the image was burned indelibly into his mind. She’d been wrapped in a blanket in the back of the patrol car. Dazed with shock. Her eyes had been huge with horror and betrayal.
He had put that look in her eyes.
He gritted his teeth against the twisting ache of helpless anger that went along with that memory, and the explosion of sensual images. They made him feel guilty and sick, but they wouldn’t leave him alone. Every detail his brain had recorded about Erin was erotically charged, right down to the way her dark hair swirled into an elfin, downward-pointing whorl at the nape of her neck when she pulled it up. The way she had of looking at the world with those big, thoughtful eyes. Self-possessed and quiet, drawing her own mysterious conclusions. Making him ache and burn to know what she was thinking.
And then bam, her shy, sweet smile flashing out unexpectedly. Like a bolt of lightning that melted down his brain.
A flash of movement caught his eye, and he yanked the camera up to the ready. Tiff had already scuttled halfway down the steps before he got in a series of rapid-fire shots. She shot a furtive glance to the right, then to the left, dark hair swishing over her beige raincoat. The guy followed her down the steps. Tall, fortyish, balding. Neither of them looked particularly relaxed or fulfilled. The guy tried to kiss her. Tiff turned away so the kiss landed on her ear. He got it all on film.
Tiff got into her car. It roared to life, and she pulled away, faster than she needed to on the rainy, deserted street. The guy stared after her, bewildered. Clueless bastard. He had no idea what a snake pit he was sliding into. Nobody ever did, until it was too late.
Connor let the camera drop. The guy climbed his steps and went back inside, shoulders slumped. Those pictures ought to be enough for Phil Kurtz, Tiff’s scheming dickhead of a husband. Ironically, Phil was cheating on Tiff, too. He just wanted to make sure that Tiff wouldn’t be able to screw him over in the inevitable acrimonious divorce.
It made him nauseous. Not that he cared who Tiff Kurtz was
