“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
