poured another shot, held his breath and tossed back the cheap Scotch. It hadn’t been one of the hundreds of bad guys whom Sam had come face-to-face with that had ended his life. He’d gone fishing over the weekend, and keeled over in his bass boat in the middle of the lake.
“Dammit, Sam,” Grant muttered, feeling the sharp blade of regret pierce through him. He knew his partner’s preference for thick cigars, fast food and an abhorrence for exercise had put the older man on the fast track to a heart attack. Not to mention the stress that went arm in arm with working homicides.
Like the one case they had open now. The Peña rape/murder. It was a real mystery, a stranger-to-stranger killing, the kind that almost never got solved. Grant refilled his glass while vowing to Sam that he would nail the vicious bastard who did it, and keep his partner’s enviable clearance record intact.
A bark of laughter sounded from the other side of the club. Turning his head, Grant stared idly through the smoky air. The usual off-duty cops who appeared at the club almost every night were huddled on tall stools at one end of the bar. The mirror behind the bar reflected the bartender’s scurrying movements as he shoveled ice into glasses, poured the beer on tap, made change. Few of the tables that bordered the dance floor were occupied, but it was only seven o’clock—still too early for a good crowd on a Thursday night. The sound of coins clattering down the slot of the jukebox registered in Grant’s brain. Glancing over, he saw C. O. Jones, a curvy patrol cop, punching in a selection. Seconds later, a throaty-voiced singer chided her lover to don’t be stupid.
Once the club started filling, Grant planned to move on. He had spent the past couple of days at the side of Sam’s widow, listening to an unending stream of mourners lament her loss. Grant wasn’t up to hearing any more gut-wrenching stories about the man he’d idolized. All he wanted was the bottle of demonic Scotch, and solitude.
With fatigue seeping through him, he tugged on the knot of his tie, flicked open his starched shirt’s top button, then refilled his glass. He didn’t care about the hangover he knew he would have to deal with the following morning. Didn’t care if he had to leave his Porsche in the club’s parking lot, stumble across the street and check in at the less-than-spectacular motel that had seen its share of drunk cops. Didn’t care about much of anything at this point, except numbing the ache inside him.
Across the bar’s dim expanse, the bubble light that had once done duty on the roof of a black-and-white, and now hung upside down from the ceiling, began its red rotating flash. That was the signal someone had opened the building’s outer door, concealed from view by a small alcove. Right about now, that someone was standing in the alcove, face-to-face with a poster of Clint Eastwood doing his sternest Dirty Harry impersonation, Smith & Wesson .44 magnum clutched in his iron grip.
Seconds later, Sky Milano stepped into view, sending a fist of emotion slamming into Grant’s chest. His already-rotten day had suddenly gotten a whole lot worse.
“Hell,” he muttered, his gut tightening while he measured the graceful economy of motion that took her toward the bar. Her dark hair was pulled back in its usual tight bun at her nape. Sometime over the past months she’d replaced her tortoiseshell glasses with the trendy wire-rims that now perched high on her nose. As he studied her, his eyebrows knit. Except for the quick glimpse he’d caught of her earlier at the cemetery, it had been months since he’d seen her without the obscuring white lab coat she habitually wore over her clothes. Now he took in the trim black suit that belted at her waist. The suit’s soft folds couldn’t quite camouflage the weight she’d lost. Weight she hadn’t needed to lose. Ten pounds, he figured. Maybe more. Feeling his mood darkening, Grant downed his drink and poured another.
He kept his gaze locked on her.
When Sky reached the bar, she smiled while exchanging a few words with a couple of the regulars. A scruffy vice cop with a ponytail and diamond ear stud moved in, settling his palm at the small of her back while he leaned and whispered in her ear. Grant tightened his fingers on his glass and waited. It took her only seconds to ease back just far enough to break the contact.
He looked away, trying to ignore the muscle in his jaw that worked double time. It had taken him twice, maybe three times to figure out that Sky Milano was gun-shy around a man’s touch. It had taken him a little longer to realize she didn’t want to be touched. Not the way he’d wanted to touch her.
Sipping his Scotch, he shifted his gaze back and studied the compelling curves and angles of her profile. Except for a few encounters in the hallway and one in a courtroom, he’d managed to avoid Oklahoma City PD’s head forensic chemist since she ended their relationship before it ever really got started. After that, he hadn’t wanted to see her. Hadn’t wanted to think about how she’d turned down his offer of support after she’d told him about the nightmarish part of her past. He sure as hell didn’t want to relive the pain that had accompanied her refusal to see him. It had taken time, but a headlong plunge into his work had muffled the hurt. No way did he intend to ever open that door again.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the vice cop point in his direction, then Sky turned and looked directly at him. Grant refilled his glass while her smooth stride brought her across the dance floor. Despite the fiery knots that had settled into his shoulders, his hand remained steady.
“I’m sorry about Sam.”
He heard the hint of nerves in her voice. He’d heard that tone before—the night she told him goodbye.
He sipped his drink, studying her over the rim of his glass. “You come here just to tell me that?”
Her fingers played with the purse strap looped over her shoulder. “I wanted to tell you at the cemetery, but you left before I had a chance.”
He’d seen her standing in a pool of sunlight a few feet from Sam’s grave. In a moment of weakness he’d caught himself thinking about approaching her. Common sense stopped him, and he’d simply turned and walked away.
“Now you’ve told me,” he said, his voice a level slide. “No offense, Milano, but I’ve had a tough couple of days, and this wake is private.”
“I need to talk to you.” Despite the dim light, he saw the smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes, the small lines of stress at the corners of her mouth. “Grant, it’s important.”
He stretched out his long legs and raised his glass. “Well, darlin’, so is this,” he drawled, then poured the Scotch down his throat. “If you want to talk, catch me at the office tomorrow.” He squinted at his empty glass while he fuzzily calculated the number of shots he’d already poured into his empty stomach. “Better make that the day after.”
Behind the lenses of her glasses, irritation flashed in the stunning blue eyes that had robbed him of uncountable hours of sleep. “This can’t wait.”
He angled his head. “How’d you find me?”
“Someone at the cemetery heard you mention coming here to toast Sam.” She settled a palm on his black suit coat that lay across the top of the chair opposite him. “Mind if I sit while we talk?”
He studied her through hooded eyes. He wanted to curse the hard knot her presence had lodged in his throat. Didn’t want to acknowledge the roiling in his stomach that had nothing to do with rotgut Scotch. He had cared about Sky Milano too much. He, who had always made it a point to avoid strings in his relationships with women, had stunned himself by wanting to create some with her. Too late, he learned she hadn’t trusted him enough to let him be a part of her life.
The thought had him expelling a controlled breath.
