His Partner's Wife (13 page)

"We're friends."

"I hear tell that you can be friends and lovers
both."

Hugh was shaking his head before Connor got halfway through
the sentence. "Men and women can't be friends. Sex gets in the way."

They had an amiable argument on the subject that got them
past the rocky moment. Connor finally directed them back to the beginning.

"This Floyd. You find out anything?"

"Damned little." John told them what he'd done so
far and what he'd learned. "With everything I know about this guy, I'd
have bet he'd go straight back to dealing." He gestured with the hand that
held the beer can. "So he got arrested. Them's the breaks. He knows that.
He also knows that if he can avoid making an enemy who'll tip us off, chances
are good he'll never see the booking room again. Moving drugs through Port Dare
isn't all that hard."

Hugh crushed his empty can with his hands. "Your
point?"

Connor's thoughtful gaze didn't leave John. "Come on,
boy. His point is, what the hell is a drug dealer doing in Natalie Reed's
house?"

Hugh of the dark hair and icy eyes said offhandedly,
"Looking for drugs. What else?"

In unison, his older brothers turned their heads to stare at
him.

He shrugged. "You know the rumors that a P.D. cop
waltzed off with a huge shipment of heroin. What was it, a year and a half, two
years ago they started? Okay, so nobody has turned in his badge to move to Minnesota or suddenly inherited a million bucks from a great-aunt once removed. Doesn't
stop the rumors. Must've happened, right? What if Floyd thinks he knows
something? Why couldn't Stuart Reed have been the man?"

"Because he was my partner. Because I knew him."
John was uncomfortably aware that his voice didn't hold the force he'd meant to
inject into it. Once in a while, he'd wondered about Reed's ethics. But their
arguments had been over a pocketed "tip," not stealing a shipment of
heroin.

Connor made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat.
"There's always worthless gossip like that. You don't take it seriously,
do you?"

Hugh laid his head back on the couch, set his feet on the
coffee table and tossed the crushed beer can into the air, caught it and tossed
it again. "Nah. Which isn't to say that somebody else doesn't."

John surprised himself by saying, "Any way you two can
try to track down this rumor? If I start asking, people will know why."

Connor nodded his understanding. "And you don't want
Natalie to hear you're even considering the possibility her husband went
rotten."

John sidestepped that one. "Hugh especially might get
further asking questions on the street."

"Don't mind trying."

Connor shrugged. "I'll do my best."

Silence settled, all of them slouched comfortably, Hugh
still throwing pop-ups and catching them.

"I should get home," he said finally. "What
time is it?"

John turned his head. "Midnight."

"Thought you had Saturdays off," Connor remarked.

"Big plans tomorrow." Hugh sounded satisfied.
"I'm going sailing with a pretty lady. John's rumors will have to
wait."

"Hell, it's not like I'm racing toward an arrest."

Conversation continued in a desultory manner, nobody eager
to hit a lonely bed. John was starting to suspect he was going to be sorry
tomorrow morning about seven o'clock—if he was lucky—when Evan unfailingly
started his day. Maddie was old enough to sit her brother down in front of
Saturday cartoons and even pour them both bowls of cereal. He'd hope they had a
rare hour or two of harmony, with no noisy squabbles only he could settle.
Having children killed any desire for a nightlife, and not just because you had
to pay baby-sitters damn near minimum wage these days.

Hugh decided first that he had to go, with Connor groaning
and levering himself off the couch to follow at his heels. John was seeing them
to the door when the phone rang. His brothers stopped and turned with him. No
good news came at—he shot a glance at the grandfather clock in the front hall—12:54 a.m.

One of the four phones in the house—lazy Americans—hung in
an alcove under the stairs. He snatched it up. "McLean here."

"Detective, this is Isabelle Simon in Dispatch. You
asked us to let you know if there was a call from 2308 Meadow Drive."

Adrenaline shot through him. The phone creaked when his grip
tightened. "What is it?"

"Possible intruder in the house. A unit is en
route."

"So am I," he snapped, and tossed the phone onto
the table. He went straight to the small safe he'd had installed. Grimly he
said, "That was dispatch. Natalie thinks there's someone in her
house."

His brothers swore and turned toward the door.

John, who'd paused only long enough to grab his piece and a
backup, brushed past. "Somebody stay with the kids."

"I will," Connor said quietly. "You go with
him."

Hugh leaped in on the passenger side an instant before John
rocketed his car out of the driveway. Steering with one hand, he slapped the light
on the roof. The streets in Old Town were empty and dark; the few cars he
encountered on the highway made way for the flashing red and blue.

In a remote, cold part of his brain, he knew he was driving
faster than was safe or justified. He didn't give a flying you-know-what. Hugh
was smart enough not to say a word, only picking up the pistol John had tossed
onto the seat. Discarding the holster, he shoved the gun inside the waistband
of his jeans.

The radio crackled; a patrol unit reported having arrived. A
moment later an officer murmured that a window was broken and asked for backup.

Hugh got on the horn and gave their position and ETA. Patrol
and dispatch both acknowledged. John slowed briefly when a light turned red,
then sped across the intersection once oncoming traffic stopped. His gut was
clenched with naked terror.

His vision was double right now: the street ahead, a
peripheral awareness of other vehicles; and Natalie alone in her bedroom,
dialing 911, cringing with each beep as she depressed a button, whispering her
address as she waited for someone to burst into her bedroom with a length of
pipe swinging at her head.

He swore aloud, harshly. That lock on her bedroom door was
useless. Worse than useless, because it gave a false sense of security. He
could have installed a sliding bolt—but a determined killer could slam through
one of those flimsy, hollow-core bedroom doors whatever the lock on it.

He took the last corner on two wheels and careened to the
curb. While Hugh got flashlights from the trunk, John consulted in low voices
with one of the two patrolmen. Normally the first officer on the scene would
have been lead, but knowing John and whose house this was and seeing the look
on John's face, Wently backed off fast. He and his partner would ride shotgun
tonight.

John and Hugh followed him around the house, moving quickly
past windows, keeping close to the walls.

A back window was wide-open. Somebody had smashed a jagged
hole in the glass just large enough to reach a hand in to the latch. Crouched
to one side of the window, John used the faint light from street lamps a block
over to scan the family room in the daylight basement. The couch was against
the wall, and none of the other pieces of furniture were substantial enough to
offer any real cover. Nodding to Hugh, John went in, dropping five feet to the
carpeted floor. While his knees were still absorbing the shock, he had his gun
extended in both hands and was turning in a quick semicircle.

With a soft thud, Hugh landed beside him. Silently they
crossed to the door, took simultaneous peeks into the hall and, with John's
nod, went through it, each covering one direction. As smoothly as if they'd
worked together for years, they swept the house room by room. Thank God, the
crime scene tape and seal were intact across the door to the garage. It would
have been a nightmare to search. As it was, John was fighting a raging need to
race up the stairs and find Natalie, to hell with procedure.

The brothers took the stairs in a rush, John checking out
the study while Hugh handled the sewing room. The bathroom door stood open; his
flashlight picked out the tub enclosure behind sliding glass.

He and Hugh communicated with a glance. Both took up
position in the hall, away from the bedroom door.

John raised his voice but kept it calm. "Natalie, it's
John. You okay?"

A dense silence answered him. He waited rigidly, counting
the beat of seconds, feeling a muscle jerk in his cheek.

What if they were too late?

No!
he
answered himself fiercely. God damn it, they weren't too late! She was being
cautious. Smart.

"Natalie," he said again, pitching his voice a
little louder. "You there?"

He caught a faint gasp and then, "John? It
is
you?"

Relief rocked him. He braced a fist against the wall to keep
himself from staggering. Somehow he still sounded collected. "Hugh and I
are both here. Are you alone?"

The next sound might have been a muffled sob, followed by a
scramble of feet, a strange scraping and then the click of the flimsy lock.

When she flung open the door, he met her in the opening. Her
bedside lamp was on, and he had a brief glimpse of her, all legs in another
oversize T-shirt, brunette hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyes huge and
dark. The flashlight thudded to the floor. With his free arm, he crushed her
against him. She hugged him, fingers gripping his shirt and biting into his
back, her face burrowing at his chest.

"It's okay. It's okay," he heard himself murmuring
hoarsely, his mouth against her hair. The slam of his heartbeats damn near
deafened him.

After a moment he had the presence of mind to shove the gun
inside his waistband at the small of his back so that he could use both arms to
hold her. He moved his hands over as much of her as he could reach, kneading,
soothing, satisfying himself that she was well and whole.

At long last, but too soon, Natalie gave a hiccuping sob,
then a sniff and lifted her head.

She peeked past John's shoulder. "Hugh?"

His brother's voice came from just behind him. "I'm
here, Natalie."

"Were you … were you the one sent when I called?"

"No, ma'am. I happened to be at John's. Two other
officers are outside. I'd best go relieve their minds."

John felt her shaky breath. "Thank you, Hugh."

"Anytime," his brother said easily. He gave John a
light tap on the back and moved down the hall.

Belatedly John realized how Hugh would read this embrace.
Natalie was still plastered against him, still holding on tight, and he sure as
hell hadn't made a move to ease back. Little brother wasn't going to believe he
was just offering comfort.

John wasn't so sure he believed it himself, not on the heels
of the fear and relief that still had his heart thundering and his knees weak.

How could he believe it, when he was suddenly becoming aware
of the pillowy feel of her breasts flattened against his chest, the curve of
hip just below one of his hands, those glorious, bare thighs against his? He
took a ragged breath, then went completely still in shock and—God help
him—arousal. Was she wearing anything at all beneath the T-shirt that barely
covered her butt? Or, if he moved his hand lower still and gathered the fabric
in his hands, would he find smooth skin and plump flesh?

He swore silently. Damned if he wasn't getting hard. He
couldn't let her notice. She was taking another hiccuping breath and letting
her forehead rest against his chest.

"You came," she whispered. "I wanted you to
come so badly."

If he'd been hoarse before, now his voice was a rasp,
painful to hear. "I asked to be notified night or day if there was a call
to this address."

"Oh."

John felt the instant when some kind of awareness rippled
through her, tightening muscles. As she pulled back, he let her go too hastily,
hoping against hope that she was too preoccupied with fear and gratitude to
have noticed his arousal.