Overkill (21 page)

When that happened, Clay knew he would feel too much.

And as surely as the sun made its daily trek toward the western horizon, he knew he’d regret it.

EIGHTEEN

Marty had never been a fan of hotels. Wound up tight
and pissed off to boot, she liked this one even less. The Executive might be Amarillo’s finest, but twenty minutes after being dropped off by a Deaf Smith County sheriff’s deputy, she was bouncing off the walls.

To make matters worse, the painkiller the doctor had given her for her bruised ribs was starting to fuzz up her head. How the hell was she supposed to think when the pills turned her brain to mush?

She’d given a detailed statement to the sheriff’s office at the scene that included a decent description of the female. She’d gotten a good look at the weapon and was able to narrow down the make of the firearm. She even remembered the shooter’s words.

The woman’s voice echoed in Marty’s head for the hundredth time. She was utterly certain the ambush in the canyon was related to what happened in Chicago. Rurik Ivanov’s sister? Katja? The Russian Mafia was renowned for using female assassins.

Graphic images of the ambush flew at her like bloody shrapnel. Dugan’s staring eyes. The pool of blood, black and shiny on the car seat. The cold determination in the female shooter’s eyes. Death trailing a cold finger down Marty’s spine.

No matter how many times she’d dealt with violence in her years as a police officer, a visit from the grim reaper never failed to scare the hell out of her. Marty could still feel the primal grip of horror when she’d stared down the barrel of the Sig. For the span of several seconds she’d been frozen in place, unaware of anything around her except for the onrush of terror. If the shooter had gone for a head shot instead of a body shot, Marty would be lying on a slab at the morgue.

Upon arriving at the hotel, she’d immediately opened her laptop and begun making notes, hoping that in the next hours she would recall details that might help later. But her concentration was skewed. She couldn’t stop thinking about Dugan. She couldn’t quiet the little voice inside her head telling her she was the one who’d brought violence to this peaceful town.

Marty stopped short of blaming herself for Dugan’s death. She wouldn’t do that to herself. After all, police work was inherently dangerous. She hadn’t murdered him; Katja and Radimir Ivanov had. But the knowledge did little to ease the lead weight of guilt building in her chest.

Cursing, she paced the hotel room, trying not to wince when her bruised ribs protested. The X-ray taken at the clinic had determined none were broken. But her entire body ached. A hot shower had eased some of the achiness. But when she peeled off her uniform shirt, she was shocked to see a bruise the color and consistency of an overripe eggplant just below her right breast.

It irked her that she hadn’t been able to get off a shot. If she’d reacted more quickly, a cop killer would be in custody. Or dead. Caprock Canyon would once again be safe and serene. Rosetti’s murder would be solved. And Marty wouldn’t be stuck in this godforsaken hotel, locked out of the most important case of her career.

“Damn you, Settlemeyer,” she muttered.

Frustration gnawed at her. She despised being penned up like some stupid cow. At her wits’ end, she crossed to the liquor cabinet, swung open the door and peered inside. Two tiny bottles of vodka sat on the shelf. Marty hesitated an instant before snatching up both. She knew better than to mix prescription painkillers with alcohol, but she didn’t let herself think of repercussions as she poured the vodka into a glass and topped it with ice.

She wanted to believe the frustration and anger over being cut from the investigation were what had her tied into little knots. That was black-and-white. Simple. To the point. She could deal with that.

It was those gray areas that got her.

Her feelings for Clay were as murky and unexplored as the depths of some underwater cave. From the very start, Marty had denied her feelings for him, tried to deny the sharp-edged attraction. But she’d failed on all counts. A tough defeat for a woman who liked to win.

She thought about him twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. She dreamed of him at night. Hot, sweaty dreams that left her breathless and aching and wishing for things that could never be. Her heart jumped every time he looked at her. He made her laugh. A laughter that was real and came from a warm place deep inside her. He made her feel good inside. Made her feel good about herself. About who she was.

And then there was the lust.

Marty had never been prone to sexual infatuations. Her barely existent sex drive had kept her out of trouble most of her adult life. Up until now she could take it or leave it. Most often, she’d rather work than go through the rigmarole of the dating scene.

Then along came Clay, and everything she’d ever believed about herself went out the window. She felt like a sixteen-year-old in the throes of her first puppy love. It was an obsessive feeling that threatened her control, and she didn’t like it one bit. The question was, what the hell was she going to do about it?

“Nothing,” she muttered.

She’d just taken that first dangerous sip of vodka when a knock sounded on the door. She spun, her hand going automatically to where her pistol would have been strapped to her hip. But she’d taken it off with her uniform when she’d showered. Crossing quickly to the night table, she set down the glass, picked up the weapon and thumbed off the safety. All the while her mind spun with images of thugs from the Russian mob bursting into the room, taking her to their lair, where they would spend hours gleefully torturing her the way they had Rosetti . . .

Her heart was pounding when she walked to the door and put her eye to the peephole. A different kind of tension gripped her when she saw Clay standing in the hall, alone and stone-faced. For the span of several heartbeats, Marty just stood there, looking at him, wondering why he was there and what she was going to do about it.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Clay’s eyes met hers, then swept to the weapon in her hand. He said nothing, but she saw the approval in his gaze.

“Did you get the shooter?” Marty stepped aside and motioned him in.

Clay shook his head and entered. “No.”

“It’s them,” she said. “The Red Mafia. The sister, at least. Gotta be.”

“Maybe.”

His voice was soft and low, but something edgy simmered just beneath the quiet facade. She knew him well enough to realize he was the one who’d broken the news of Dugan’s murder to his wife, and her heart went out to him. It was a terrible thing for any cop. But she knew the death of one of his officers would be particularly hard for a man like Clay. Not only did he hurt for the man he’d lost, but he blamed himself.

“You okay?” she asked.

He looked at her for a long time, his expression inscrutable, his mouth pulled into a taut, unhappy line. “No.”

“You talked to Dugan’s wife?”

“Yeah.”

“That must have been tough. I’m sorry.”

“How about you?” He looked around the room. “You okay?”

“I’d be a lot better if I could get out there and work this case.”

“You know I can’t let you do that.”

“I know you need all the manpower you can get.”

“You’re the target.”

“You think I’m going to let them get their hands on me?”

“I think there could be a situation where you don’t have a choice.”

“Oh, come on! I’m not stupid. I’m not vulnerable. I’m a trained police officer.”

He spotted the glass on the night table, picked it up, sniffed and frowned. “Jesus, Hogan.”

“I’m going crazy sitting here doing nothing.”

He turned to her, his eyes narrowing. “So you mix booze and pills? Like that’s going to solve all your problems.”

Anger drilled through her chest with such force that for a moment she couldn’t draw a breath. “Someone tried to kill me today. They got one of your other officers. So what do you do? You lock me in this goddamn hotel room like some kind of pet dog that gets in the way.”

“You’re here for your own safety.”

“I’m here so you can feel good about yourself.”

The instant the words were out she knew they were a mistake. She’d pushed the wrong button too hard and at just the wrong moment. For a crazy moment, she imagined him slapping her. But if Marty had ever known anything for certain in her life, it was that Clay Settlemeyer was not a violent man.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t have a temper. His lips peeled back from straight white teeth. Marty wasn’t easily frightened, but for an instant, she wanted to turn and run. Of course, she didn’t.

The next thing she knew his hands were on her shoulders, pushing her back. Her spine hit the wall hard enough to make her wince. “You’re here because I care about you, god damn it! I don’t want anything to happen to you. Why is that so damn hard for you to get through that stubborn brain of yours?”

Her breaths were coming so short and fast that for a moment she couldn’t speak. It was as if every emotion that burst forth stuck in her throat and clogged her voice. “Everything that’s happened is my fault. I need to fix it, but you won’t let me.”

“You can’t fix it. You’re a target, for God’s sake. I’m not going to lose another cop. You got that?”

His words drained some of the anger and frustration from her. “I got it.”

For a moment he stood there, holding her against the wall, his breaths rushing between clenched teeth. “This isn’t just about you.”

Looking into his eyes, Marty saw the extent of his pain. And she realized fully how awful it must have been for him to walk into Dugan’s house and tell his wife her husband would never be coming home.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“All I’m asking is for you to lay low until this is over.” His voice came low and rough. The voice of a man on the edge of some emotional precipice and poised to jump.

“You can’t blame yourself for what happened to Dugan,” she said.

“I’m the chief of police. Who else is going to take responsibility?”

“The bitch who shot him.”

Clay’s expression softened. His grip on her shoulders relaxed. Some of the tension leached from his body. “Thanks for saying that. I needed to hear it.”

He fell silent, but he didn’t move away from her. Marty sensed he wanted to say more, but the silence stretched into something unwieldy and awkward. When Marty could bear it no longer, she started to pull away.

Clay stopped her by shifting closer and looking into her eyes. “I told myself I came here to see if you’d remembered anything else about the ambush.” His gaze searched hers. “It was a lie. I came here because I needed to see you. I needed to be with you. Like this.”

He didn’t warn her, and Marty was so caught up in his words, she didn’t see it coming. One moment she was listening, watching him hurt, hurting
for
him, and the next he was crushing his mouth to hers.

The shock of pleasure clashed with the pain and jolted her all the way to her toes. For an instant, all she could do was absorb the kiss. As the essence of him sank into her, she opened to him and kissed him back with equal ferocity.

It was as if she’d tossed gasoline onto a fire. His hands went to the sides of her face. Vaguely, she was aware of his calloused palms scraping her cheeks. The need streaking hot and out of control through her body. Her intellect cried out for her to stop before they reached the flashpoint.

But Marty knew they’d reached that summit the instant Clay walked into the room. The instant she looked at him and saw the pain and guilt etched into his every feature.

Pulling back, he made eye contact with her. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the hem of her sweatshirt and drew it over her head. Marty wasn’t wearing a bra, and a shiver swept through her as the cool air met the heated flesh of her breasts. Her nipples hardened and ached. She could feel that same ache flutter low in her pelvis.

“Aw, Marty, you’re bruised.” Grimacing at the bruises on her rib cage, Clay drew back. “I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t stop.” The words were out before she could think them through. She knew if she had, she would have ended this. But Marty needed this with a desperation she’d never before experienced. A desperation that was part physical, part emotional and part so soul-deep it frightened her.

His gaze held hers an instant longer, then he reached out and ran his fingers over the bruised flesh. His touch was feather light, but the contact sent a shiver barreling through her. “This is where you were hit?”

She nodded.

“Hurt?”

“I’m tougher than you think.”

“You don’t look very tough right now.”

“Yeah, well, you should see me break bricks over my head.”

He smiled. “I should be working, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what happened. About what might have happened. If I’d lost you . . . that way . . .” Breaking off, he shook his head. “It would have done me in.”

His eyes darkened with an emotion she couldn’t quite read. Fear of what might have been. The reality that life wasn’t always fair. That death could be an indiscriminate son of a bitch.

“I had to see you,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He leaned close and brushed a kiss across her mouth. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the day I talked to you on the phone.” He kissed her a second time. “I want you like this. Beneath me. I want to be inside you.”

Marty’s mind reeled with the devastating effects of the kiss, his words and the flurry of emotions that followed. All she could think was that she hadn’t known. She’d never seen Clay like this. He was a private man, and as closed off emotionally as a person could be. He kept his thoughts to himself; held his feelings close to his chest.

Her body joined the chorus when he deepened the kiss. Lust vibrated from bone to muscle to sizzle just beneath her skin. She could feel herself melting, going wet between her legs.