Nerves of Steel (26 page)

"I thought your dad was a police officer," Hart continued once she satisfied her appetite.

"He was.  After he died I was going through some of his papers and I found a certificate from the Culinary Institute.  Mom told me he wanted to be a chef, to open up his own place, but she was laid off from the steel mill, and then I came along, so he quit.  The Police Bureau was looking for people, and the pay was decent, the hours not bad and the benefits good, so he became a cop."

"Do you think he regretted it?" she asked as if she spoke of someone important to her rather than a man she'd never laid eyes on.

Drake thought about that.  "No, I don't think he did.  He turned out to be a great cop and he loved the work.  Of course that was before the damned Consent Decree and spectrum of force and all.  He died on the job."

"He was shot?"

"Heart attack.  He was a sergeant, usually rode alone, but that day a supervisor, a woman, was riding with him.  He spotted a mugging, jumped out of the car and went after the guy on foot."

"Isn't that what police do?"

"Only in Hollywood.  Any cop will tell you that four wheels and 300 horsepower are better than two legs for most pursuits.  I think Dad did it to impress the skirt, excuse me, female supervisor.  He wanted to show her that after thirty years on the force he still had what it took."  The memory always brought a curious mix of anger and pride.  Drake took another bite but the eggs had grown cold, their texture rubbery.  "He got his man, though.  Ran him down, cuffed him, then sat back and dropped dead.  Right there on the street in front of the old Woolworths."

"I'm sorry.  When did it happen?"

"Seven years ago, I was still in uniform."

She cupped her chin in her palm and smiled.  "I'll bet your father was very proud of you.  What do you like most about your job?"

"To me being a cop is a lot like painting.  It's having a vision of how the world should be, then creating order out of chaos so that vision has a chance to become clear."

"And is that what you do?"

"On a good day.  Yes."  He took a drink of milk, why was it everything tasted better, cooking for someone else?  Sharing with someone else?  "My turn.  I heard how you went after Jane Doe the other night.  How did you manage that?  Being claustrophobic, I mean."

She flushed and ducked her head in embarrassment.  Then she shrugged and faced him again.  "Not much to it.  Just sit yourself down and strap yourself in."

"Have you always been claustrophobic?"  It was hard to imagine Hart afraid of anything—not after seeing her on that bridge tonight.

"It's not really claustrophobia.  More a bit of panic about loss of control—"

"Like riding in a helicopter?"

"Like riding in a helicopter. I used to love flying.  Ed still gives me extra transport shifts—thinks he's being nice to me."

"When did it start?"

"Around a year ago."  Silence as she pushed the remnants of her eggs around on her plate.  "Please don't tell Ed or anyone in the ER.  They don't know."

A year ago.  When she left Richard King.  Drake scowled at his own plate, his appetite vanished. 

Hart pushed back from the table and took her empty plate and glass over to the sink, taking longer than necessary.   Drake regretted breaking the mood that had been building between them.

Instead of returning to her seat, Hart came up behind Drake, draping her arms over his shoulders.  Her tongue tickled his ear as her fingers caressed their way down his chest.  "I've had enough talking.  How about you?"

Drake pushed his plate away, and she climbed into his lap, straddling him with her legs.  The robe hung open, exposing her naked body. 

"I thought you were going to bed."

"We will," she assured him as her fingers took ownership of his body once more. 

She squirmed on his lap, lifting his shirt over his shoulders.  Drake suddenly understood the attraction of lap dances.  It was tantalizing to have her naked flesh so near while he was still restrained by layers of clothing.  An exquisite pressure began to build within him.  He slid his hands over her thighs, keeping rhythm with the movement of her hips.

Her fingers pressed hard on the sensitive spot at the base of his spine.  He squeezed his eyes shut as heat jolted through him.  Must be something they taught at medical school, some trick of the male anatomy. 

Drake could restrain himself no longer.  His fingers dug into the firm flesh of her buttocks as he lifted her onto the table, stood before her.   She kept her legs entwined around him, squeezing his hips tight against hers, refusing to release him.  He felt his erection grow, constrained within his jeans, painful.

He forced a hand between her thigh and his body, reaching for the zipper of his jeans.  The pressure on his spine eased.  Her hand tugged on his, pulled it away.  Her head moved forward to rest on his shoulder. 

"Not yet," she whispered.

Drake felt as if he might burst with the pressure.  His vision danced with red swirls, and his pulse pounded in his ears.  He nipped at her breast. 

"Now," he insisted, breaking her strangle hold on his neck. 

He pulled her into his arms and moved into the bedroom, dumped her onto the bed, the robe flying free.  He yanked at the snap of his jeans.

Hart sat up, her hand darting into the bedside table's drawer and emerging with a condom.  He reached for it, but she moved it away.  She tore it open with her teeth. 

"Allow me," she told him with a wicked grin, then slid to the floor to kneel before him.

"I can't--"  His mouth clamped shut as a wave of burning pleasure shot through him.  She took him inside her mouth, easing the condom over his erection with teasing motions of her lips and tongue. 

"Now," he urged her, his hands gripping her shoulders, trying to lift her back onto the bed.  His pelvis began to rock harder, and he knew he would come soon, wouldn't be able to wait for her.

"No."  She drew her head back and clamped her fingers tight, held him in a visegrip of pain and pleasure.  She lay back on the bed, pulled him down on top of her.  Drake's mind drifted in a crimson haze.  How much longer could he stand this?   Part of him hoped it never ended, wanted to ride this knife-edge of ecstasy forever.

Her legs wrapped around him, and he was inside of her, free to allow his body to release its pent up fury.   Hart's fingers gnawed at the muscles of his back, digging, searching for a handhold.  Drake opened his eyes as the final wave pushed him over the edge, just in time to see her mouth widen in a cry of pleasure.

He slumped on top of her.  Her lips parted in a mischievous smile, and her finger traced the path of a tear that slid down his face.  Drake lifted his head and watched as she licked the salty essence from her finger.

"Did I hurt you?"  Her eyes twinkled in delight at the prospect.

He bowed his head once more.  "My god," he gasped.  "Yes."

"Good," was her reply.

CHAPTER 43

Later they lay together on his bed.   Drake traced his finger along the muscles of her back.  An anatomy lesson in intimacy.  He loved the gentle curve that dipped between her shoulder blades.  His hand continued downward to that succulent basin of flesh at the base of her spine.  Like a flat bowled champagne glass.  Something to drink from, to savor, a celebration.  He leaned down, tasting the sweat pooled there.  Sweet and tangy, spicy musk tinged with honey.  She squirmed, and he smiled, raking his teeth against her skin. 

"That tickles."  She arched her back further to look over her shoulder at him.

Drake stretched out, facing her, his fingers still skimming, feasting.  Touching her, however lightly, sent a tingling through his body, a tantalizing promise.

"You're not going to run away again, are you?" he asked, working to keep his voice light.

"Are you going to watch me go?  Again."

Ouch.  "You saw that, did you?"

"Uh huh."

"I'm sorry.  I was--"

"Scared?"  Her eyes met his with an open honesty.  "Me, too."

"Guess we both have reasons not to be jumping into relationships right now."  Drake stroked the curve of her spine.  Her muscles rippled beneath his touch.  He could do this all night--watching her, touching her, inhaling her--and never tire of it.

"The heart has reasons," she murmured.

"What's that mean?"

She shrugged, cascades of curls brushing against his waiting fingers with the movement.  "Something my grandmother used to say."

"The witch?  Ed Castro told me about her."

Hart flounced over, sat up.  "Ed and Rosa never did get along.  He thinks she put a curse on him because he didn't stop me from marrying Richard."

"A curse?  Like the evil eye?  You're kidding, right?"  He tried and failed to keep the amusement from his voice.  Her face colored.  Reading Hart's face was like learning a new language. This faint tinge of crimson suffusing her cheeks and nose was anger.

"What would Rosa say about us, then?  Is some gnarled old witch gonna come give me a poison apple to eat?"  His chuckle blossomed into a deep belly laugh.  "Or spit between her fingers,
cha, cha
,
and make all my hair fall out?"

"I'm glad you think it's funny."

"Of course it's funny."  He controlled his laughter and looked up at her.  "Isn't it?"  He sat up beside her.  "You can't be serious.  You're a doctor for chrissakes--you don't believe in a witch's curses."

Her eyes flashed.  "There's nothing to joke about.  Curses too often return with a vengeance.  And she wasn't a witch.  She was Rosa Costello of the Kalderasha
kumpania
.  She was Rom, a gypsy to you
gaje
," she said the last with disdain. 

"What did you call me?  I didn't like the sound of that." 

He was torn between the desire to calm her indignation and the temptation to further stir her anger.  God, she was beautiful right now, eyes blazing through the dim light of the bedroom, head held high, regal cheekbones lit by a fire within.  He very well believed she was part gypsy.  What had she called it--Rom, part Rom.

"
Gaje
,
outsider," she practically spat it.

"But your grandmother must have married a
gaje
," he stumbled, the word had an unpleasant feel to it.  "Right?"

She sighed, and her look softened.  He missed the blaze of color, but was happy to see her relax once more. 

"Padraic Hart.  He was Irish." 

Drake had the sudden image of whiskey thrown onto a flame--that was Hart.  Fire, passion, all smoldering, barely contained beneath the surface.

"Rosa gave up everything for him, even became
marhime,
unclean.  No Rom would talk to her, look upon her, touch her, she was dead in their eyes.  That's why she and Paddy moved here after the War, to start a new life."

"She was shunned, like the Amish do."

She nodded, her gaze falling away from his.  He reached for her hand, turned it over and stroked the crescent-shaped scar at the base of her thumb.  "Do you think something like that might happen to us?  That I might be shunned by my people, by other cops, because of my involvement with you?"

Cassie closed her eyes for a long moment, savoring his touch, hoping this wouldn't be the last time.  They both knew what was at risk if anyone found out about them.  It would be her fault.  After all, she was the one who had practically jumped him last night, desperate for comfort and damning the consequences.

Reap what you sow
.  Rosa was right, as always.

"Hart, look at me."  The way Drake said her name gave the single syllable a thrill that was sensual, stirring.  He took her by the shoulders, and she met his eyes. "What we have, this is very special, precious.  I wouldn't jeopardize it for the world--"

"I think we already have," she said in a low voice.  "It's not just Commander Miller finding out.  Think of the press, how they would twist this, turn it into something ugly.  You could lose your job and I--I couldn't live with a spotlight trained on me, everyone watching, waiting to ambush us--I couldn't do that."

"I don't think we're going to be on the next Jerry Springer special."  He gave a short, wry chuckle.  "But you're right.  Things could get uncomfortable."  He sighed and encircled her shoulders with his arm, bringing her closer.  "We could go back to Plan A."

"Plan A?"

"Yes.  Take it slow and easy, like you were talking about before.  The patience is a virtue plan."

"After tonight Plan A's going to be a challenge.  Maybe I don't want to take it easy," she said, turning her head so that her mouth nuzzled his ear.  What she wanted was to take everything he had to offer, to devour him in an endless feast of delight.  "There's something you should know about me," she whispered. "I'm not noted for my patience."

"Neither am I."

"So what do we do?"  She straightened, raised her hand to cover his where it rested on her shoulder.  "I'm certain that Miller suspects and Kwon--"

"Don't worry about Janet.  She won't say anything."

"She has a thing for you."

"Who?  Kwon?  No way.  She'd never get involved with anyone she worked with.  You don't know Janet, she's a stickler for rules."

"Which doesn't solve our problem."

"It's no problem.  I'll go to Miller tomorrow and ask to be reassigned.  No big deal."

His face held the same impassive expression it had this morning when he saw her in the pharmacy.  His poker face, she was learning.  She glanced down and saw that his free hand had crushed the sheet into a twisted knot. 

"Who would take over Fran's case?  You said yourself that you were good at what you do--"

"I was only trying to impress a pretty girl," he joked.  "Besides, I can still stay involved, just not officially."

"When this guy's caught, won't his lawyer ask why the lead investigator was reassigned?  Won't people wonder?"

"Let them wonder.  Who cares about people?"

"No.  I don't want to do anything that might jeopardize Fran's case."

"But if I stay on the case--"

"Then we're back to Plan A."