In the Teeth of the Wind (3 page)

virile name. It means 'Lord' in Gaelic and Lord, are you an eyeful!"

A hot rush of blood flooded Conor Nolan's face and scorched his cheeks. His embarrassment made

him duck his head and, at that moment of breaking eye contact with Felicity Rogers, he was able to

regain some of the composure he'd lost. "I gotta go," he said, feeling bereft and cold now that he was no

longer held prisoner by her seductive gaze.

"I guess you do," she answered and slipped her hand from his. Her smile was fleeting, just a slight pout

of glistening red lips. She moved away, the cut of her expensive gown out of place among the

grunge-dressed patrons squirming and writhing on the dance floor. In a moment, she was hidden from

view.

"Earth to the Celtic warrior!" Rhianna called, waving a hand in front of Nolan's face. The others at the

table howled with laughter. "You can come up for air, now!" She grinned as Nolan scowled down at her.

"Up yours, Marek," Nolan grated through clenched teeth.

"In your dreams," Rhianna shot back. She knew damned well her dreams tonight would be of Nolan

and the fire he'd ignited in her body.

From her place in the arch of the hallway, leading to the restrooms, Myra Willingham watched Conor

Nolan leave. She wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to keep warm. She chewed on her lower

lip, her teeth worrying a small gash in the thin flesh without her being aware of it. Her nervous gaze

twitched about the room.

She surveyed the room for a few moments longer then made up her mind. Turning, she thrust her hand

into the pocket of her mini-skirt, took out a quarter, and dropped it into the chrome slot in the telephone.

"I owe him," she said in a bitter voice as she punched in the number. Myra's right palm was so slick

with moisture as she gripped the receiver, pressing it almost painfully against her ear, that she had to shift

hands and run her wet palm down her skirt while she waited for the call to go through. The insistent

ringing began at the other end and she swallowed convulsively, already regretting having made the call. "I

owe him," she repeated, clenching her jaw as the recorder answered, and the hollow sound stabbed her

ear.

"This is Nolan. Leave a message." She heard a loud trill, then hazy static.

"Look, Irish," Myra began, knowing it wasn't necessary to identify herself. "I just wanted to warn you.

You've always done right by me and I owe you." She nodded to herself as though to firm up the words in

her own mind. "Don't let her in, you hear? You know that blonde woman from the bar? Don't let her in

your place, okay? She's bad trouble, Nolan. Fucking bad trouble!"

She paused, wondered if she should say more, decided she shouldn't, then hung up the receiver.

Glancing around, she hurried out of the hallway, pushed through the crowds, and made her way back to

the bar.

*Chapter Two*

The drive home was treacherous. Several cars had skidded into the median and down the interstate

embankments to land, hopelessly mired, in the drifts. Tow trucks - amber lights cutting swaths through

the sheets of snow - were out in force.

Conor drove carefully, defensively, watching out for the idiot drivers who passed him as though the

roads weren't slick and the snow wasn't spilling across the surfaces to hide icy patches. His wiper blades

were going full tilt, scraping away the rime of frost that threatened to form against the cold glass.

By the time he got home, he was exhausted and his headache had become a throbbing torment from

hell. The two drinks at the Brew seemed to have given him more of a buzz than normal and the only way

he knew how to handle that was with a long hot shower and an Alka-Seltzer.

He kicked off his snow-encrusted boots, then peeled off his sheepskin-lined denim jacket and draped

it across a tall rocker on the front porch. The smell of cigarette smoke was sickening and he knew he

wouldn't wear the thing again until the stench was gone; likewise, he couldn't wait to rid his hair of the

same horrible odor.

When he was through bathing, he braced his hands to either side of the shower head, leaned forward,

and let the water beat down on tired shoulders. Water cascaded on his head and ran along his nose and

chin. He stared, mesmerized, at the circular motion as it disappeared below the drain's grating.

Conor sighed. The heat, combined with the delicious feel of the water and cleansing steam, enticed him

to remain, but his headache was no better and a slight discomfort in his gut warned of an impending

hangover.

As he turned off the water, he heard the phone ring and cursed. He threw back the curtain and

hooked a towel from the wicker shelf unit over the commode. Wrapping the towel around him, he went

into the living room just as his answering machine clicked off. Obviously the caller did not leave a

message for the number 2 was still in the display window. He hit the rewind button and listened.

The first message was from his sister, Caitlin, in Dubuque, calling to remind him to send their mother a

birthday card. "Don't screw up again, okay, Conor?" she hissed before hanging up. "You have a way of

doing that."

"Sanctimonious bitch." Conor let out a long, irritated sigh. He only heard from his sister three times a

year: Mother's Day, their mother's birthday, and Christmas. Each time was only to remind him to send a

greeting card as though he didn't have sense enough to do it on his own. He resented it more and more

every year.

The second call was from Myra Willingham out at the Witch's Brew Roadhouse. Static sizzled on the

line, hard rock music blared in the background. "Look, Irish," the message began. "I just wanted to warn

you." Here, the words faded a little, but Conor understood them well enough. "You've always done right

by me and I owe you." A prolonged hiss of static, then a high-pitched whine almost obscured the last

words: "Don't let her…"

The tape unwound into more static, then beeped, message ended.

Conor stared at the machine in confusion. _What the hell was that all about?_ Once, he and Myra had

spent a wild weekend together in St. Louis and another couple of days in Chicago. After that, he'd

passed her on to Triplett, who, in turn, passed her down to Donne, who passed her on to Corbettson.

The only right thing Nolan had ever done for her was to loan her the money to get an abortion. The

father's identity was anyone's guess.

Conor was torn between trying to call Myra back or just letting it slide until morning. He stood there,

chewing the cuticle on his right thumb for a moment - a habit he had when he was thinking - then

shrugged. Finally, he decided he was more tired than curious and turned to go back into the bedroom

just as the doorbell rang.

"Ah, shit! Who the hell is that?" He glanced down at the towel wrapped around his hips.

The bell chimed again.

With a snarl more of annoyance than anger, Nolan went to the door and pulled back the sheer curtain

that covered the side panel.

She was standing on his porch, looking at him through the glass. Her lips parted in a smile and she

arched one thick golden brow. "Hello, there."

"How did you…" He stared at her unable to believe the gorgeous woman from the bar was standing

on his porch. Just for a moment, he became acutely aware of his nakedness and moved away from the

glass.

"You aren't decent," she said, her words a soft accusation. Brazenly, her gaze moved over his face.

"But then again, I was hoping you wouldn't be."

The invitation was in her smoky voice. He heard it. He read it in her eyes and recognized it in the way

she stood there huddled in her expensive sable.

He found his voice. "You followed me home."

She smiled. "Yes, I did."

Although every fiber of his manhood screamed at him to open the door, his instincts warned him

against it. "Why?"

She hunched her shoulders beneath the sleek pelts of fur. "I liked the way your body felt against mine

when we bumped into one another," she answered. "I'd like to feel it again. Without the restriction of

clothing."

_You can't get more specific than that, Nolan!_ She was looking at him as though he were the main

course of her meal. It embarrassed him and made him acutely uncomfortable.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" She ran her fingers along the door lintel as if caressing him.

Bewildered, he shook his head, then smiled to take the sting from his decision. "I'm bushed."

Felicity Rogers, he remembered her name now, only looked at him with a gaze as hot as the core of a

smelting pot. "I'm very good at total body massage. I'm told my strokes are very relaxing."

His shaft leaped at her words, but he resolutely ignored it. "It's been a long day," he confessed. "I was

just going to bed."

"Alone?" she whispered, yet he heard it as clearly as though she'd been standing right beside him, her

lips to his ear.

The question slithered into his head and coiled there, a suggestion more than an inquiry. It set his blood

to racing. The tight knot, which had formed in his throat, was slowly choking him. Foreboding clenched

his stomach.

"Yeah."

"You don't have to. I'd be more than willing to keep you warm tonight, Conor."

He shook his head again. "I'm warm enough already. If anything, I'm too warm, now."

He saw a flare of irritation in her emerald eyes, a tightening of her mouth, stiffening of her round

shoulders beneath the sable, but then the luscious red lips eased into a disappointed pout.

"Can't say I didn't try, can you, Conor Nolan?" She pulled the warmth of the fur closer around her,

almost as though she were wrapping his arms around her body. "But I warn you, I don't give up easily.

Some other time, then?"

All he could do was nod. Blood and juices pulsed through him, sang along his nerve endings, making

his head pound. His hand trembled as she arched one brow as if to ask: _Are you sure?_ Once more he

shook his head and she tilted hers in acknowledgment of his decision. Without a backward glance, she

walked off the porch and into the snowy night.

"Sweet Merciful Mary," he breathed as he let the sheer fall across the side panel.

His heart thudded in his chest as though he'd been running the mile flat out. His hands were clammy,

his mouth dry, and his shaft throbbed to the quick pulse of his heartbeat. Not since he was a randy

sixteen-year-old had he felt such unbridled passion flow through his body.

_Not something a worldly-wise thirty-seven-year-old should be feeling_. He moved away from the

door.

Conor switched off the living room light and padded to his bedroom.

"They're out there for the grabbing, Irish," Cortesio had once told him. "Women love to make it with

cops, you know? It's the danger, man. The danger!"

Yeah, he thought as he plowed a shaky hand through his hair. There'd been women who'd extended

open invitations to feel free to use them, but nothing like the soul-searing availability Felicity had issued

tonight. And none had ever followed him home or, to his knowledge, even driven by to see where he

lived. He wasn't sure he liked what the Rogers woman had done. He preferred to do the chasing and

didn't feel comfortable as the quarry.

"Sonofabitch," he whispered.

Shaking his head at the encounter, he couldn't believe it had actually happened. He worried over it,

wondering how Felicity Rogers had found him. Finally, with an angry snort of self-derision, he flipped off

the bedroom light, dropped the towel from his hips and climbed naked into the bed, flinging the covers

over him with a snarl.

For a long, long time he lay there, hands beneath his damp hair, staring blindly at the ceiling. His body

had not calmed down; his blood and juices still raced through him. He ached as though he'd been celibate

for months when, in truth, it had only been a day or two since he'd last buried himself in the tender flesh

of a woman's willing body.

Frustrated with his lingering lust, he turned over and buried his face in the pillow.

*Chapter Three*

Although most of the cops at the precinct flirted with Detective Rhianna Marek, only a handful had

ever dared to ask the petite sable-haired beauty for a date. She was considered to be Conor Nolan's

woman. Despite what the guys in the precinct thought, the Irishman and Marek had a platonic alliance

and both seemed happy to keep it that way. Their association had become comfortable for the both of

them. Neither had to worry about being chased at work. Neither had to worry about the complexities of

an on-going male/female relationship that would eventually go sour because of the nature of their work.

Neither had to worry about not having a date when they wanted to go out. They were content with the

way things were and rarely fought. Each was the other's confidante and sounding board. And when

Conor felt the urge to wander off in search of a bed partner, as he did on occasion, Rhianna always

welcomed him back without a single word of recrimination.

Sitting at her desk, listening to Triplett describe his latest encounter with the Culinary Arts of

Seduction, she smiled and nodded, made the appropriate 'ah' when Trip described how his meringue had

come out to perfection.

Her dazed attention shifted across the room to where Nolan sat and she wondered why he looked so