clenched his jaw as he watched her polished nails skim tantalizingly down the Latino’s lapel. It didn’t please him that the sight of her curved, full lips stirred something dark and elemental inside him.
Something that hadn’t stirred in a long time.
Pulling his gaze away, Jake stared into the glass he clutched. He wished fervently for Scotch instead of the tonic water he’d ordered. But, like a hell of a lot of other things he’d once savored and enjoyed, Scotch was in his past. So were cigarettes. And women.
Especially women.
He closed his eyes. He’d thought he had gotten past the bad dream. Had managed to go a few weeks without waking up in a cold sweat, then staring at the ceiling until dawn, thinking about his wife and daughters. Had actually thought that two months of meeting with the department’s shrink had relegated the claw-infested demon to the murky depths of his subconscious. He’d been wrong. The dream had slammed into him again last night with a double-fisted punch, tormenting him with the haunting memories that had burned into his soul.
He’d lost so much. Too much.
It had been a hell of a lot easier to lock the racking pain deep inside him than it was to face it every day. But after more than a year and a half of drifting through a numb haze, reality had hit him square between the eyes when he’d been charged with the death of a woman he’d been seeing. And seven other murders. After that, he’d had no choice but to finally accept what his life now was.
Accept that his job was all he had left.
Things could be worse, he reminded himself. The insane hours that were a natural part of working Homicide suited him. As long as he was busy wading through blood, gore, paperwork and court appearances, he didn’t have time to think. Time to regret. Time to want what he would never again allow himself to have.
He lifted the glass to his lips, grimaced at the tonic’s sweet tang, then glanced back over his shoulder. He felt a tic of disappointment when he discovered that Nicole Taylor had faded into the crowd and was no longer in sight.
His gaze drifted past the dance floor to a maze of round tables covered in white cloths and topped with centerpieces of velvety red roses. Detectives from OCPD’s Homicide detail had taken over a couple of the tables. Most had brought their spouses or significant others; from all the backslapping going on and the heads thrown back in laughter, it was evident that everyone was having a good time. On any other occasion, Jake would have joined his co-workers, but not tonight. Not at a wedding.
Tonight he preferred solitude.
A bark of nearby laughter caught his attention. The bride and groom, their respective parents, grandparents and siblings had moved a few feet from the bar and now formed a smiling group while a photographer snapped photos. Jake saw the joy that shone in Bill Taylor’s eyes as the assistant D.A. leaned to kiss his bride. Dressed in a slide of pearl-dotted white silk, her auburn hair swept back, Whitney smiled up at her husband, her face a study in joy.
Jake’s mouth curved. Theirs was a perfect match. A solid one. He’d had once-in-a-lifetime happiness like that. A long time ago.
That, he thought, was why he made it a point to avoid weddings. They reminded him of what he’d had…and lost. Still, it hadn’t been a sense of duty that had brought him here tonight. He loved Whitney like a sister, and nothing could have kept him away. But he’d had enough and it was time to go.
Turning back to the bar, he drained his glass. The prospect of climbing on his Harley and running the engine wide open through the still September night eased the tenseness that had settled across his shoulders. Maybe by the time he got home his mind would be void of the memories the evening had stirred.
Maybe the dream would lay dormant tonight.
“Get you another?” the tuxedo-clad bartender asked when Jake sat his empty glass on the bar.
“I’ll pass. One’s my limit when there’s no alcohol involved.”
After stuffing a tip into the snifter on one side of the bar, Jake turned and nearly collided with a sea of white.
“Want to dance, handsome?”
He cocked his head. “Isn’t the bride supposed to hang out with the groom at their wedding?”
“She’s also supposed to dance with her partner,” Whitney stated, her eyes glowing like rich emeralds. “It’s the law.”
“Look, Whit, I’m a little rusty at the social graces. I was about to head—”
“Later.” She snared his hand, tugged him past linen-covered tables loaded with silver trays of sliced meats, breads, fruit and champagne by the bucket. “Dancing is like having sex,” she stated over her shoulder. “You never forget how.”
“Wanna bet?” he muttered, giving thought to the months of self-imposed celibacy he’d endured.
When they reached the dance floor, Whitney turned and gave him a level-eyed look. “Besides, it’s bad luck to make the bride unhappy on her wedding day.”
“Bad luck for whom?”
“You.” She stepped forward, leaving him no choice but to shift into dance position. “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap.”
He smirked as they moved to the slow beat. “You expect me to believe you’re packing heat under that wedding dress?”
“Trust me, Ford, you don’t want to find out.”
“Guess not.”
Whitney exchanged a few words with a couple who danced by, then stated, “Lieutenant Ryan looks happy.”
Jake followed her gaze to the spot on the dance floor where their boss was locked in an embrace with his wife, A.J., head of the department’s Crime Analysis Unit. “Yeah.”
“Weddings have that effect,” Whitney continued, then sighed. “They remind people of good times.”
“I had that same thought.”
Her gaze flew back to his, her eyes sobering. “Annie,” she said softly. “You were thinking about your and Annie’s wedding.” Her hand tightened on his. “Jake, I’m sorry. I know how much you miss her and the girls.”
He wasn’t surprised Whitney had hit the mark. After all, they’d ridden the streets together, risen through the ranks with equal speed and then wound up partners in Homicide. At one time or another, they’d both been through their own private hell. His had begun two years ago when a bomb exploded on a plane over the Gulf of Mexico, killing his wife and infant twin daughters.
“Yeah, I miss them,” he said quietly. “But I’m hanging in there.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
The last thing he wanted was his partner worrying about him on her wedding night, so he opted for a change of subject. “You know, Whit, while you’re lazing on some beach in Cancún, I’ll be clearing the Quintero case,” he said, referring to the drive-by shooting that had ended the life of a seven-year-old boy who’d been on the wrong
