Cops And...Lovers? (6 page)

Her wince was almost imperceptible, but Nick saw it and knew he'd hit a nerve. His temper wouldn't let him back off. "I won't have you taking risks and endangering yourself and everyone else because you have something to prove."

"Maybe you'd rather
Steph
lost her other parent in there!"

The words struck him dead center. Nick felt himself recoil. Emotionally. Physically. He tried to squelch the reaction. He didn't want her to know she'd struck a geyser of guilt than ran a mile deep in his heart. He didn't want her to know he felt the depth of that guilt every time he looked at his daughter and saw that wheelchair.

"Don't push me, McNeal," he warned. "You'll lose."

She blinked, as if her own words had shocked her. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for—"

"Frank warned me about that killer instinct of yours."

"I didn't mean—"

"Sure you did. Don't lessen the impact by trying to take it back now. Go for the jugular. That's your style, isn't it?"

"You don't have a clue what my style is."

He tried to curb the anger building in his chest, but it had already gotten away from him. He knew he was overreacting, but this woman had a way of pushing all the wrong buttons. "You like stepping a little too close to the edge, don't you, McNeal?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You got a death wish or something?" he asked.

"That's a ridiculous question."

"Maybe you're trying to make up for something you did or didn't do in that warehouse six months ago."

Her entire body jolted. "Go to hell."

Before he realized he was going to touch her, Nick took her arm and guided her to the truck, away from the curious eyes of his deputies and the crowd that had gathered in front of the bar. "You weren't straight with me."

"I never lied to you."

"Don't spew semantics at me. Your head being screwed up over that shooting was bad enough. But your little penchant for taking risks is a disaster waiting to happen."

"You're overreacting—"

"I always overreact when someone lies to me. It ticks me off!"

"I reacted like a cop, Nick. I did what I thought was right."

"Did you even bother to think that we didn't have backup? That you didn't have cuffs? That the suspect could have had another weapon in his freaking sock? That a civilian could have been shot in that scuffle?"

"Of course I did! I considered all those things."

Nick stopped when they reached the truck. "When I tell you to do something, you'd better do it. And I mean down to the letter. You got that?"

"I disarmed two dangerous suspects. I backed you up."

"You walked into a dangerous situation half-cocked. If we're going to work together, I've got to be able to trust you, McNeal. As it is now, I don't. I sure as hell don't trust your judgment."

"My judgment bagged two suspects—"

"You're not ready to return to the field!" Nick's hands shook with rage. He was unreasonably angry. He saw it clearly, but couldn't stop. He didn't want to analyze the reaction she'd unleashed inside him. He didn't want to name its source. But it hit close to home, and he felt it like a bad piece of meat stuck in his gullet, rotting him from the inside out.

He stared at her, the only sounds coming from their labored breathing and the traffic on
Commerce Street
. The realization of what she was struck him like a blow.
Erin
was a risk taker. An adrenaline junkie. After the way she'd put herself on the line just now, he wouldn't be far off the mark if he called her reckless. Nick couldn't deal with recklessness. Not after Rita. Not after the havoc her death had wreaked on his life and the life of his little girl.

Releasing
Erin
abruptly, he stepped back, stunned by the depth of his rage. "I want a full report on my desk,
then
I want you to clean out your locker."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're a smart woman. You figure it out."

Incredulity filled her gaze. "You can't fire me."

"I just did."

She stared at him, her breasts rising and falling beneath her uniform as she sucked in oxygen.

"If you want to get yourself killed, do it on someone else's time, because I won't have any part in it. I don't care whose niece you are." Without giving her time to respond, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

* * *

Erin
was still shaking when she opened the door to her apartment and let herself in. She told herself she wasn't upset. That Nick's harsh words hadn't shaken her. That she didn't need this job. She sure didn't need Nick Ryan.

She couldn't believe he'd fired her!

He'd overreacted, she assured herself. He couldn't handle the reality of a woman in a dangerous job. Just like Assistant District Attorney Warren Prentice all those years ago—a man Erin had given her heart to, only to have him hand it back to her in shreds because he couldn't accept her being a cop. The parallel left a rank taste in her mouth.

Nick had no right to come down on her so hard just because she'd taken a calculated risk. But deep down inside
Erin
wondered if there was a kernel of truth behind his accusations. If the underlying guilt she'd been fighting for months had compelled her to act recklessly.

I won't have you taking risks and endangering yourself and everyone else because you have something to prove.

His words rang uncomfortably in her ears as she stepped into the foyer and shut the door behind her. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the jamb and told herself he was wrong. She didn't have anything to prove. She didn't have anything to feel guilty about. Damn Nick Ryan and his Freudian cop psychology, anyway.

Shoving away from the door, she walked into the living room, trying not to notice the empty moving boxes, or the aches that had crept into her bones since her scuffle with the suspect an hour ago. He hadn't looked that big, but he'd hit her solidly. Not hard enough to cause serious injury, but hard enough to hurt, and she was feeling every single bruise.

Packing could wait, she decided. A handful of aspirin and a hot bath couldn't. If she didn't soak now, by morning she'd be too stiff to move. And she definitely needed to be able to move, since she'd be lugging boxes to her car and driving back to
Chicago
.

Gingerly, she unbuckled her holster and dropped it on the coffee table, then toed off her boots. Lowering herself onto the sofa, she eased off her uniform shirt and checked the scrape that ran from her elbow to the top of her shoulder. The abrasion was shallow, but deep enough to ooze blood and burn like the dickens.

"Just what you need, McNeal," she muttered. "Another scar." Ignoring the pain, she unclasped her bra and slipped it off, draping it over the arm of the sofa. She should have let Nick take the hit. Maybe he would appreciate her a little more if he knew that tussle had cost her a couple of layers of skin.

Pulling off her belt, she rose and headed toward the bathroom. She turned on the tap, tossed an herbal cube under the spout and stepped out of her uniform trousers. The aroma of lavender filled the air. She breathed in deeply and felt herself begin to relax. Adjusting the water temperature, she stepped into the tub and sank down to her chin. The abrasions protested, the cut on her knee came to life, but her muscles purred. Sighing, she closed her eyes. After surviving the proverbial day from hell, she knew it didn't get any better than this.

She'd just begun to drift when the doorbell blasted.
Erin
opened her eyes and blew out a sigh. Who would be at her door when she didn't know a soul in the entire town aside from Nick and Hector?

The doorbell rang again.

"Just a minute!" Climbing out of the tub, she toweled off quickly, shrugged into her robe and padded barefoot to the front door. She looked through the peephole and felt her heart nose-dive into her stomach. Nick stood on the other side, still in uniform, looking as grim as when she'd left him.

An odd sense of uncertainty jolted her. Turning away, she pressed her hand to her stomach to keep it from jumping. She glanced down at her robe. It was modest enough, but not something she wanted to be seen in by her boss—well, ex-boss in this case—especially since he'd probably stopped by to give her an exit interview she wouldn't soon forget.

"McNeal, I know you're in there," he said through the door. "We need to talk."

Determined to get through this with as much dignity as possible, she put her hand on the knob. She didn't give a hoot if the almighty Nick Ryan saw her in her robe. If he had a problem with that, to hell with him.

She took two deep breaths and yanked open the door.

* * *

Erin McNeal wrapped in a terry cloth robe and smelling like freshly cut flowers was the last thing Nick expected. He stood frozen, shocked speechless by her transformation from cop to woman. All the while his brain floundered to form a coherent thought that didn't have to do with soft skin or curves he knew better than to notice. He may as well have been splitting atoms for all the success he had.

She'd pinned her hair on top of her head, and dark, wet wisps clung to the creamy flesh of her neck. His eyes wanted to roam lower, but he quickly stopped the urge. He preferred not to know this woman had the kind of cleavage that could drive a man slowly insane. He held her gaze, vaguely aware of the color rising in her cheeks, feeling that same heat bum the back of his neck. He refused to think about what the sight of all those curves was doing to the rest of his body.

"I didn't mean to get you out of the tub," he said.

Her throat quivered when she swallowed. "I thought about not answering the door, but figured we ought to get this over with."

"If this is a bad time, I can come back."

She cocked her head. "If the robe bothers you, Chief, I can throw on my jeans. I think the outcome of this meeting will be the same either way."

Nick didn't want to think about her in jeans. Not when she was standing before him with water glistening on her flesh and his body humming with interest. After three years, why did it have to be
this
woman to remind him that he was still a man, with a man's needs?

"I'll make this short, then," he said.

"I'd appreciate that. Do you want to come in?"

"I'd rather not."

"Look, if you came here to finish firing me, the least you can do is come in."

"I didn't come here to fire you."

She narrowed her eyes. "I thought you were under the impression that I was a loose cannon and a threat to the inhabitants of
Logan
Falls
and mankind in general."

Nick couldn't help smiling. He dropped his gaze, only to find himself staring at her toes. Unfortunately, they were every bit as sexy as the rest of her.

He raised his eyes to hers. "You weren't the only one who overreacted today."

"Is that your idea of an apology?"

"Save it, McNeal. I may have overreacted, but you were out of line. I won't tolerate it." Hearing movement behind him, Nick turned to see Mrs. Newman, the town gossip, pause outside the adjacent apartment with a bag of groceries in her arms. She gazed at him for a moment,
then
peered into
Erin
's apartment with unconcealed curiosity. Terrific, he thought, this ought to get the tongues wagging.

Erin
noticed and moved aside. "Do you want to come in?"

"I can't stay." He stepped into her apartment, realizing belatedly it would have been smarter for him to have handled the situation over the phone.

Turning away,
Erin
walked into the living room. Nick followed, struggling not to feel awkward—failing miserably—and trying in vain not to notice the curve of her backside beneath that robe.

The apartment was small, with high windows and gauzy curtains that ushered in ribbons of yellow sunlight. The furniture was outdated, but functional. Nothing frilly for Erin McNeal. No photographs or mementos. It didn't surprise him she wasn't neat. She'd barely unpacked, and already there was a hint of feminine clutter. A towel tossed haphazardly over a box. Her boots lay next to the sofa, where she'd kicked them off. He spotted her holster on the coffee table. Then his gaze stopped on the scrap of lace draped over the sofa arm. Her bra, Nick realized. The same one he'd noticed through her blouse the first time he'd seen her. No, he thought, coming here hadn't been a good idea at all.

"Would you like something to drink?"

He tore his gaze from the bra. For crying out loud, what was the matter with him? He wasn't some sex-starved teenager who went brain dead over a woman's bra. Especially when that particular woman was off-limits for too many reasons to count—let alone that she worked for him.

"No." He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other to accommodate the rush of blood to his groin. "Look,
Erin
, it's not unusual for a cop to lose his or her confidence after they've been involved in a shooting."