Dylan’s kiss had heightened her desire, fueled her passion, until she thought she might spontaneously combust.

Natalie couldn’t remember ever feeling so overwhelmed, so out of control. But she was embarrassed, and terrified by how close she’d come to forgetting the difficult lessons of her past. She owed Dylan an explanation but wasn’t sure she had one to give. “I’m sorry for letting things get out of hand. We have to work together, Lieutenant.”

Dylan held her gaze. “Is that really what’s holding you back?”

“No.” She smiled wryly. “I don’t like to make mistakes.”

“What makes you so sure we’d be a mistake?”

“Because I like you, Lieutenant, and I have notoriously bad taste in men.”

Bulletproof Hearts
Brenda Harlen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRENDA HARLEN

grew up in a small town surrounded by books and imaginary friends. Although she always dreamed of being a writer, she chose to follow a more traditional career path first. After two years of practicing as an attorney (including an appearance in front of the Supreme Court of Canada), she gave up her “real” job to be a mom and to try her hand at writing books. Three years, five manuscripts and another baby later, she sold her first book—an RWA Golden Heart Winner—to Silhouette.

Brenda lives in southern Ontario with her real-life husband/hero, two heroes-in-training and two neurotic dogs. She is still surrounded by books (“too many books,” according to her children) and imaginary friends, but she also enjoys communicating with “real” people. Readers can contact Brenda by e-mail at brendaharlen@yahoo.com or by snail mail c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

To Stephanie Currie, thanks for sharing your expertise on martinis and medical matters—both of which played an important role in the creation of this story.

To Kevin McCarragher, an artist of a different genre, thanks for your continued encouragement and support over the years.

This book is dedicated to both of you with love and fondest wishes for your very own happily-ever-after.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

A cop shouldn’t have dimples.

That was assistant district attorney Natalie Vaughn’s first thought when she set eyes on Lieutenant Dylan Creighton in the reception area. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t the more than six feet of trim, hard muscle towering over Molly’s desk.

Older, she thought inanely. She’d definitely expected someone older. A grizzled, potbellied cop whose years on the job had made him hard and cynical. It was ridiculous, of course, to make assumptions about anyone. She’d learned long ago that people were rarely who or what they appeared to be.

Dylan Creighton was neither grizzled nor potbellied. And when he smiled at Molly, the D.A.’s secretary, dimples flashed.

Natalie had never been particularly susceptible to dimples. She’d always thought they were boyish, a likely sign of immaturity. But on Lieutenant Creighton, as part of a whole package that could be described as nothing less than mouth-watering, those dimples were devastating.

Thankfully, she wasn’t susceptible to dimples or men. Not anymore. She’d made enough mistakes in her life as far as the male gender was concerned, and she’d learned her lessons the hard way. She wouldn’t forget them just because this man’s mere appearance sent her hormones into overdrive.

Still, she’d been so caught up in her perusal she jolted when the phone on her desk buzzed. She forced herself to take a deep calming breath before she picked up the receiver.

“Lieutenant Creighton’s here to see you,” Molly said.

“Send him in.” Natalie was pleased that her voice sounded level, coolly professional. She had no intention of letting the man—or anyone else—know that she was flustered.

She replaced the receiver in the cradle and turned to dig the Merrick file out of the neat stack on the corner of her desk.

The sharp rap of knuckles on glass preceded his entry into her office. Natalie glanced up, a cool but pleasant smile on her lips as she prepared to greet him. She opened her mouth to speak, but her breath caught in her throat.

He filled the small space, his presence overwhelming her. The clean lines of his dark suit couldn’t disguise the raw power of his broad shoulders, wide chest and long, lean legs. Mid- to late-thirties, she estimated, with dark—almost black—hair, cut short. His nose was straight, his chin square, his cheekbones chiseled. A real man’s man, and every female part of Natalie instinctively responded.

“Dylan Creighton,” he said, offering his hand across the scarred wooden desktop.

For a moment, she was too mesmerized by his eyes to respond. She had never before seen such an incredible shade of blue—so deep and dark any woman would gladly drown in them.

Any other woman, she amended, and accepted his proffered hand. “Natalie Vaughn.”

Still, she could tell that he’d sensed her hesitation. “I’m here to brief you on the Merrick case. I thought you were expecting me.”

“Yes. Of course. I just—” wasn’t expecting so much of you. “I was working on another file. Preparing for court tomorrow.”

“Shouldn’t Merrick be your priority?” He was frowning as he folded his arms over his chest. The flex of his biceps—impressive, she had to admit—was evident in the way the material of his jacket stretched tautly over the muscles.

Natalie pushed her hair away from her face and met his gaze evenly. She refused to be intimidated, but she couldn’t deny that her heart had skipped a beat. Not because she was afraid, but because she’d wondered—for just half a second—how it might feel to have those arms wrapped around her. And the pang of longing that accompanied the fleeting thought annoyed as much as it surprised her.

“Thanks for your interest in my workload,” she said coolly. “But I have four trials next week and Merrick isn’t one of them. We don’t even pick the jury for his trial until the end of the month.”

“If you don’t plan on giving this case the attention it deserves, I’m wasting my time here.”

“My time’s as valuable as yours, Lieutenant, and if you want Mr. Merrick put behind bars—where I fully intend to put him—you’ll sit down so we can discuss the case.”

Creighton sat, but the scowl on his face only darkened. No sign of those dimples anywhere.

Natalie wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said stiffly. “But the last time we nabbed Merrick, your boss let him walk on a technicality. I don’t want to see that happen again.”

His criticism put her back up. “I’m aware of the situation, Lieutenant. I’m also aware that there was some question regarding the chain of evidence, which resulted in the charges being dropped.

“Prosecutors are only able to work with the evidence they’re given,” she reminded him. “As long as the evidence is there, we’ll put Roger Merrick away.”

“It’s Conroy I want,” he told her.

The statement, as much as his passionate delivery of it, made her pause. “Conroy?”

He shook his head, as if exasperated by her obvious lack of understanding. “Zane Conroy.”

“I know the name,” she said icily. “I just don’t know why you think this case has anything to do with him.”

“Because I know Conroy.”

Natalie’s smile was as cool as her tone. “And if your apparent familiarity with the man in question was admissible evidence, he would no doubt have been indicted on numerous charges already.”

He seemed taken aback by her response at first, then he chuckled. The deep, rich sound of his laughter was both unexpected and unexpectedly warm, and it defused some of the tension that had built between them.

“Okay, I guess I deserved that.” He smiled, subjecting her to the full impact of those dimples. “And you deserve an apology.”

She sat back, waited.

“I am sorry. This case is important to me, and I was annoyed to hear that Beckett had delegated it to…”

“Me?” she supplied.

He smiled again. “Not you personally, but to the newest employee in the office.”

“Which would be me.”

“I thought he would want to handle the case himself.”

“Apparently not,” she said.

“How old are you, anyway?”

Natalie frowned. “What does my age have to do with anything?”

“How old?” he asked again.

He had no right to ask and she had no obligation to answer. But she understood the importance of picking her battles, and she sensed there could be many of those with Lieutenant Creighton. “Thirty-one.”

“You look younger.”

“I still don’t see the relevance of this.”

“It’s relevant because I’m trying to figure out why John Beckett would assign a case with such potentially explosive consequences to an attorney who’s still wet behind the ears.” Then he took the sting out of his words with another of those mind-numbing smiles. “Although they’re very cute ears.”

Natalie swallowed, unnerved by the unexpected comment. Was the sexier-than-a-GQ-cover-model lieutenant actually flirting with her? If so, she was sure it was nothing personal. He was probably just one of those guys who didn’t know how to turn off the charm. That didn’t mean she had to succumb to it. Especially not when he’d just questioned her professional competency, albeit in somewhat complimentary terms.

“You’re the only one who believes this case is anything more than the routine prosecution of a small-time drug dealer,” she told him. “And for your information, I graduated summa cum laude from the University of Chicago Law School five years ago.”

“And you’ve been working as a public defender out of a west-end legal clinic in that city ever since.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised by his reference to her previous work. It was hardly a secret. But something in his tone, or maybe it was the intense scrutiny of those eyes, made her uneasy. Which only made her all the more determined not to show it.

“What brought you to Fairweather?” he asked.

“I was looking for a change and this job was available.”

“You just suddenly decided you’d rather prosecute than defend society’s criminal element?”

Despite the casual tone of the question, Natalie got the impression his interest in her response was anything but casual. “Alleged criminal element,” she said pointedly. “Everyone’s innocent until proven guilty.”

He laughed again, and Natalie was grateful she was already sitting down, because there was something about that warm chuckle that made her knees weak.

“Somehow I doubt you spouted that line during your interview with the district attorney,” he said.

“John Beckett is aware of the work I did in Chicago. In fact, he thought my previous experience made me ideally suited for this position. Who better to anticipate the arguments of a defense attorney than someone who used to be one?”

“I’ll reserve judgment on that,” Creighton allowed.

“Fine,” she said. “In the meantime, maybe you could tell me why you think Roger Merrick will lead you to Zane Conroy.”

“What do you know about Conroy?”

“Not a lot,” she admitted. And she didn’t know if what she’d heard about him was mostly fact or fiction, but his name had been spoken with a reverence usually reserved for the most powerful and dangerous of men.

“Let me enlighten you,” Creighton said. “On the surface, he’s a respected and respectable businessman. He has several apparently legitimate companies, including a local restaurant and a printing company, but his most successful business is sales.”

“Drugs?”

“Mostly. He also deals in weapons and women, and anything else, so long as the price is right. His interests extend from Fairweather to Atlantic City down to Miami and all points in between. With a network like that, there has to be a weak link somewhere.”

“And you think it’s Merrick.”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“Because he’s a junkie who deals to support his own habit, and he’s terrified by the possibility of spending any amount of time in jail—away from his supply. If we get a conviction on this, he’ll give us Conroy.”

“Maybe,” she allowed. “If he can.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“If Conroy’s influence is as extensive as you believe, he must inspire a great deal of loyalty—or fear.”

“Both,” he agreed.

“And it seems unlikely that someone like Merrick—a small-time local dealer—would even have met the man.”

“Unlikely,” he agreed. “Except that Conroy’s younger sister dated Merrick a few years back—a fact which didn’t make Conroy any too happy.”

“Why did he allow Merrick to continue working for him?”

Creighton shrugged. “Some men will go to extreme lengths to please the women in their lives.”

“Are you speaking from experience, Lieutenant?” It was a personal question and certainly not one she’d planned to ask, but it seemed his presence was interfering with the normal functioning of her brain as well as her hormones.

He only smiled again. “I was talking about Conroy—he and his sister are supposedly very close,” he explained. “But this is Merrick’s second arrest in less than a year, and Conroy has little tolerance for mistakes in his organization. That’s why I believe Merrick is the key to bringing him down.”

“Then let’s get started.” Natalie opened the file, eager to focus on something other than the lieutenant’s broad shoulders, too-blue eyes and killer smile.

Even if she wasn’t susceptible, there was no point in tempting fate.

When Dylan finally left Natalie’s office more than an hour later, it was with a grudging respect for the young prosecutor. And she was young. Thirty-one years old with five years’ experience was too young, too inexperienced, for the job she had to do. Obviously John Beckett thought otherwise, but Dylan wasn’t convinced. There was something about her youthful innocence, her freshness and naïveté, that bothered him. Or maybe it was just the woman herself who bothered him.

It had been so long since he’d had any feelings about anything other than the job, he might have laughed at the notion. Except that he couldn’t deny the spark of attraction he’d felt—a spark that was as unwelcome and unfamiliar as the heat it kindled inside him. It was more than interest, stronger than attraction. It was desire—pure and simple, and the quick and unexpected punch of it both intrigued and terrified him.

It intrigued him simply because it had been so long since he’d felt such an elemental attraction. And it terrified him for exactly the same reason. More than four years had passed since Beth had been taken from his life, and each day since had stretched like an eternity without her. But now, those four years seemed much too short. He wasn’t ready to forget about her, and acknowledging even the stirring of an attraction to another woman seemed like a betrayal of everything they’d shared.

All things considered, it would be best if he could pretend he’d never met Natalie Vaughn. Unfortunately, the nature of their respective jobs necessitated that they’d cross paths and demanded cooperation when they did so.

Which left him trapped in the awkward position between duty and desire. His only hope was to focus on the former and forget the latter. After one meeting with the new A.D.A., he sensed that would be easier said than done.

But Dylan was determined. Since Beth’s death, he’d channeled his focus and his passion into his work. He had one reason for getting out of bed every morning: to put Beth’s killer behind bars. He didn’t intend to let anything—or anyone—interfere with that goal.

In his gut, he knew that the arrest of Roger Merrick was the break he’d been waiting for. Rumors on the street suggested that Merrick had connections that went all the way to the top; connections that could topple Conroy’s entire syndicate.

So that would be the focus of his attention, Dylan promised himself as he crossed the parking lot that separated the D.A.’s office from the police station. The very last thing he needed right now was the distraction of a woman, and Natalie Vaughn had “distraction” written all over her in capital letters.

The bullpen was loud, as it always was, the cacophony of sounds both comfortable and familiar. The air was thick with tension and tinged with the scent of bitter coffee. Dylan made his way through the maze of battered desks and ringing telephones to his office. He’d just settled into his chair when Ben Tierney rapped his knuckles against the open door and stepped inside.

“How’d the meeting with the new A.D.A. go?”

“All right.” Dylan didn’t bother to look up from the report he’d opened, feigning a profound interest in the psychological profile of a serial rapist. He was certainly more interested in the report than in anything the detective had to say.

He’d been partnered with Ben, briefly, several years earlier. Although they’d worked well together, they’d never become friends. When Dylan had been promoted to lieutenant, the other detective hadn’t bothered to hide his resentment over his partner being given the job he believed should have been his.

Ben dropped into one of the vacant chairs across from his boss’s desk and propped his feet up on the arm of the other. “What did you think of her?”

Dylan bit back a weary sigh and resigned himself to participating in what was sure to be a meaningless conversation. “She seems competent.”

“Competent.” Ben snorted with laughter. “You’re a real piece of work, Creighton. I can think of a lot of words to describe the lovely Ms. Vaughn, and competent isn’t even one of the top ten.”

He shrugged, but he was helpless to banish the image that lingered in his mind. Natalie was an attractive woman. Not beautiful in any traditional sense of the word, but there was something about her that defied description, something that compelled a man to keep looking.

Her hair was a cross between copper and gold, and soft curls of it framed her delicate face and skimmed her shoulders. It wasn’t sleekly styled, but sexily disheveled. And she had a habit, he’d realized over the past hour he’d spent with her, of pushing it back off her forehead or tucking it behind an ear when she was concentrating on something.

Her eyes were another mystery—not quite blue, not quite green, but an intriguing blend of the two colors and fringed by long, thick lashes. Her skin was as pale as cream and flawless, save a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her mouth was wide, but balanced somehow by the fullness of her lips. It was an infinitely kissable mouth, and the fact that his mind had made such an assessment only annoyed him further.

“I’m only interested in how well she does her job,” Dylan told Ben, wishing it was true. “If we put Merrick behind bars, he’ll give us Conroy.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Ben said. “Anyone who crosses—or even thinks about crossing—Conroy has a habit of turning up dead.”

He shrugged, an acknowledgement of the fact. “He’s still our best hope of nailing the big guy.”

“Speaking of nailing,” Ben continued, waggling his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t mind doing some of that with the A.D.A.”

Dylan didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “Do you ever think of anything but sex?”

Ben grinned. “Not if I can help it.”

He shook his head, refusing to admit that he’d had some similar thoughts of his own. At least he had more class than to voice them. Or maybe it was simply unwillingness to admit a resurgence of feelings that had seemed dead for so long.

Besides, he had to work with the A.D.A. on this case, and he had no intention of jeopardizing the prosecution because of his hormones. Of course, if John Beckett was still on the case, he wouldn’t need to worry about such things.

“You might try thinking about it sometime,” Ben said, pushing away from Dylan’s desk. “It might improve your disposition.”

“I think I can live with my disposition.”

“Maybe you can. But our fair city’s newest civil servant might appreciate someone with a little more charm. I think I’ll stop by her office and see if she wants some company for dinner.” He grinned. “And breakfast.”

“Good luck,” Dylan said, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. But for some inexplicable reason, the thought of Natalie Vaughn with Ben Tierney didn’t sit well with him.

Only because he didn’t want her attention diverted from the job at hand, he assured himself. He wanted Roger Merrick and Zane Conroy behind bars for a very long time. He wanted them to pay for what they’d done—for destroying his family.

The ringing of the telephone roused Natalie from her slumber. She’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, the Merrick folder still open on the bed. She blinked, focused bleary eyes on the glowing numbers of the alarm clock beside her.

Twelve-twenty.

She came awake instantly. There was only one reason her phone would be shrilling at this hour: Jack.

Heart in her throat, she scrambled for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Is this the lady from the D.A.’s office?”

It wasn’t about her son, then. Natalie breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Yes. Who’s this?”

“I’ve got some information for ya.” The voice was masculine, although somewhat high-pitched. Young, she guessed, and nervous. He was talking too fast, his words almost tripping over one another.

“Information about what?” she asked cautiously.

There was a long pause. “I can’t talk ’bout it on the phone.”

“Talk about what?”

“If ya wanna know, ya hafta meet me.”

“I’m not going to meet someone I don’t know to discuss something I know nothing about,” Natalie said reasonably.

There was a brief hesitation, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped—as if he was afraid someone might overhear him. “I wanna make a deal. Yer the one I need ta deal with.”

Roger Merrick, she guessed, glancing at the mug shot stapled to the inside of the file folder. “Roger?”

She heard him suck in a breath, but he neither admitted nor denied his identity. “Do ya wanna deal, or what?”

“If you have information that you think the District Attorney’s Office would be interested in, you should discuss it with your lawyer.”

His laugh was short, nervous. “Hawkins won’t help me.”

Natalie frowned, but his response at least confirmed her caller’s identity. “I really can’t discuss your case without your lawyer present.”

“If ya wanna know ’bout Conroy, ya’ll meet me.”

Natalie felt her blood chill, coursing icily through her veins. She shivered. “Conroy?”

“That’s all I gots ta say. If ya want more, come to three-fifty West Fifth Street. Apartment 1D. Come now and come alone.”

Then he hung up and Natalie was left staring at the phone, considering the information she’d been given. She knew it wasn’t information so much as bait, and she was understandably wary. If Merrick had anything on Conroy, it made sense that he’d discuss it with Hawkins.

But he was hardly the first defendant to refuse to deal through his lawyer. She knew from experience that clients often disregarded explicit instructions given by their lawyers, most often to their detriment. Although she wasn’t comfortable with the clandestine meeting, she was even less comfortable with the thought of passing on the opportunity that had been presented to her.

She combed her fingers through her hair, straightened her skirt and reached for her briefcase. And saw the lieutenant’s card on top of it.

If Merrick so much as breathes Conroy’s name, I want to hear about it.

She hesitated. She didn’t want to involve Creighton in this situation. She didn’t believe there was any reason to. But the echo of his words in the back of her mind made her pause.

She was under no obligation to apprise him of Merrick’s phone call, but she knew he’d be furious if she disregarded his explicit instructions. Reluctantly she picked up the phone and dialed.

She felt a quick tingle of something she chose not to define when she heard his voice on the other end of the line, followed quickly by a pang of disappointment when she realized it wasn’t the lieutenant himself but his voice mail message. After a brief hesitation, she left the address given to her.

She doubted that Merrick had any incriminating evidence on Conroy, but she couldn’t risk not meeting with him. She couldn’t pass on the opportunity—unlikely though it seemed—to play a part in bringing the notorious Zane Conroy to justice. This could be her chance to prove herself, to prove to John Beckett that he hadn’t made a mistake in hiring her, to prove to Lieutenant Creighton that she was more than capable of handling this assignment.

She drove across town with her doors locked, circled the apartment building at the corner of West Fifth Street three times before finally pulling into a vacant parking spot on the street. Other than the music blaring from an open window several stories up, the street was quiet, deserted and dark.

Three weeks working in the prosecutor’s office had opened her eyes to the realities of life in Fairweather. As picturesque as the town was, it wasn’t immune to criminal activity, and she had an uneasy sense that she was closer to the hub of it than she wanted to be.

She dialed Lieutenant Creighton’s number again, but didn’t bother to leave another message when his voice mail picked up.

Her heart was hammering heavily against her ribs. The streetlight at the corner flickered, then plunged into darkness. Natalie fumbled in her glove compartment for a flashlight. She slid the button to the on position and breathed a sigh of relief when light dispersed from the narrow dome.

Wielding her briefcase in one hand and flashlight in the other, she made her way along the cracked sidewalk with only the meager beam to guide her way. The security door on the rundown building was propped open by a brick, the entrance vestibule smelled of rotting garbage and urine, but a bare hanging bulb provided some illumination.

She tucked her flashlight in her jacket pocket and shifted her case from one clammy hand to the other. Her steps were silent on the threadbare carpet as she made her way down the narrow hall.

Apartment 1D was at the far end, the door slightly ajar. Obviously Roger Merrick was waiting for her.

The muscles in her stomach cramped, her skin tingled with nervous anticipation.

She hesitated outside the door.

This was a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

She started to turn away, chided herself. Maybe it had been a bad idea to come, but she was here now. It would be both stupid and cowardly to leave without at least talking to the man.

She took a deep breath to shore up her courage, and immediately wished she hadn’t when a strong, coppery scent invaded her nostrils.

She tapped her knuckles against the door. No response.

She tapped harder, and the door swung back a few more inches. She could hear voices from inside, then canned laughter, and realized it was the television.

“Mr. Merrick?”

Still no response.

He probably couldn’t hear her over the sitcom he was watching. Natalie pushed open the door, stepped inside…

And screamed.

Chapter 2

When the shrill beep of his pager sounded, Dylan was watching television—or pretending to, anyway. His feet were propped on the coffee table, a half-empty, forgotten bottle of beer was at his elbow, and his eyes followed the action on the screen while his mind continued to be preoccupied with thoughts of a certain assistant district attorney.

It was a preoccupation that baffled him. Natalie Vaughn wasn’t even his type. Not that he had a type, really. He and Beth had started dating when they were teenagers, their friendship developing naturally and comfortably into a love they’d both believed would last forever. Then Beth had died, and Dylan had been alone.

There had been other women since, but none who had ever meant anything more than a way to satisfy his most basic needs. He wasn’t proud of that fact, but he was always careful to ensure that those women wanted the same thing he did: simple, no-strings sex.

There was nothing simple about Natalie Vaughn. And after a single encounter in her office, she was haunting his thoughts. The sound of his pager was a welcome interruption of those thoughts.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up behind the black and white parked in front of Merrick’s apartment building. He nodded to the uniformed officer guarding the door and stepped into the apartment.

Roger Merrick, or what was left of him, was slumped in a chair facing the television. His eyes were open, wide; his chest open even wider. At least three, probably four, shots at fairly close range. A .45 caliber, he guessed, surveying the extent of the damage to the body.

He needn’t have worried about rushing over. There was no doubt about it—Merrick was dead. And so was any hope of getting to Conroy through him. He swore under his breath.

It was possible, of course, that Merrick’s brutal and untimely end was merely a hazard of his occupation. But in his gut, he knew different. Merrick had possessed information that could have taken down Conroy, and that information was the reason for his murder. Dammit.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. Regardless of what the man had done, he hadn’t asked to die like this, and now it was Dylan’s job to find his killer.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be done until the evidence techs had finished with the scene and the ME had examined the body. Detectives Morin and Shepard were already canvassing the neighbors, although in this building, he knew it was unlikely that anyone had seen—or would admit to having seen—anything.

Shaking his head, he turned away from the body.

And saw her.

Fury joined with the frustration pumping through his veins, and he bridged the short distance between the living room and the kitchen in a few quick strides. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Natalie jolted at his question. Her eyes, when they met his, were wide, terrified. Her face was pale, almost white. She blinked, but didn’t say anything.

He turned his attention to the techs in the room. “Does the phrase ‘secure the premises’ mean anything to you people? What the hell is she doing here—other than contaminating a crime scene?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natalie rise, not quite steadily, to her feet. “I—I called 9-1-1. I f-found him.” Her gaze darted back to the body, then quickly away.

Dylan scrubbed his hands over his face again. The absolute last thing he needed right now was the complication of this woman who’d walked out of his unwilling fantasies and into his crime scene. “And how did you happen to find him?”

Her fingers clutched the handle of her briefcase so tightly her knuckles were white. “He c-called me. W-wanted to t-talk. Asked m-me to m-meet him. Here.”

He wasn’t sure if it was shock or nerves that were causing her to stutter, but obviously she was shaken. Not that he could blame her. He’d seen more than a few nasty scenes in his years with the Fairweather P.D., and this was one ranked right up there with the worst of them. One bullet would have been enough to end Merrick’s life. Whoever had pumped those shots into his body hadn’t been satisfied with murder, he’d been sending a message.

Dylan filed those thoughts away and forced his attention back to the woman in front of him. She was still dressed in the fancy suit she’d worn at the office earlier—yesterday, he amended. The shadows under her eyes were dark against the paleness of her skin, and she looked as if she was going to topple over in the thin heels she wore.

He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the apartment. The air in the hall, although not exactly fresh, at least didn’t carry the stench of violent death. The light was dim, but it seemed that some of the color was slowly returning to her cheeks. “I can’t figure out if you’re incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. What the hell were you thinking, coming here?”

She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. Her eyes were focused now, and stormy. “I was doing my job.”

Dylan just shook his head. “How long have you been in town?”

“Three weeks,” she admitted.

“Well, let me tell you something about Fairweather,” he offered. “We don’t have a lot of crime, but what we do have mostly originates in this corner of the city.”

“I didn’t pick the location of the meeting,” she snapped back at him.

“But you agreed to meet with him!” He knew he was yelling; he didn’t care. He was angry. Furious that his chance to nail Conroy was as dead as the man inside apartment 1D. Even more furious that Natalie had willingly put herself in danger by coming here.

It was a personal reaction rather than a professional one, a natural protective instinct born of growing up with three younger sisters. Three very independent younger sisters who had never appreciated his protectiveness or concern—an experience that should have prepared him for this woman’s response to his outburst.

Natalie’s own temper worked its way through the numbness of shock that had blanketed her emotions.

“What was I supposed to do?” she challenged. “You’re the one who told me that Merrick was the key to getting Conroy. I couldn’t ignore his call.”

“You should have called me.”

“I did,” she snapped back.

But Creighton gave no indication of having heard her. “If I’d known he was meeting with you, I would have known he was in danger.”

She flinched at the coolly delivered statement, at this confirmation of something she hadn’t wanted to consider. She’d had no idea that her brief conversation with Roger Merrick was his death sentence. How could she have known?

But as she’d stood in that room waiting for the police to arrive, staring blindly at his mutilated remains, she’d realized it was something she should have considered. She should have found some way to protect him.

“What did he tell you?” Creighton demanded. “What did he say to get you over here? What information did he have that was worth dying for?”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” she admitted, some of her anger deflating. She was too tired to stay angry, the situation too futile. “He refused to discuss anything over the phone, insisted that I meet him.”

“Someone else was equally insistent that the meeting not take place.”

She couldn’t respond. There was nothing she could say or do to change what had happened tonight. A man had died—murdered in cold blood—and she couldn’t help but feel responsible.

She’d worked murder trials before, from the defense table. She’d detached herself, forced herself to focus on the law rather than the victim, manipulated the facts to her client’s advantage. She’d never let herself think about the loss of life, the brutality of the crime. After seeing what had been done to Roger Merrick, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to think about anything else.

“Was this your first murder vic?” he asked, a little more gently.

“I’ve worked homicide cases before,” she said defensively.

“So you’ve read reports and seen photographs,” he guessed.

There was no censure in his tone, just compassion and understanding. “Nothing that prepared me for…” She didn’t know how to describe the sense of horror that had overwhelmed her when she’d walked into Roger Merrick’s apartment and saw what had been done to him.

“Nothing can,” he told her.

Natalie nodded.

“Is it safe to assume you’ve seen more than enough here?”

She could only nod again.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Her already unsettled stomach pitched precariously. “Thanks, but I try not to drink coffee at 2:00 a.m.—it keeps me awake.”

Creighton smiled at her lame attempt at humor, and—for the second that those dimples flashed—she forgot about the gruesome scene in apartment 1D.

“You were just up close and personal with a dead guy,” he reminded her. “I don’t think you’ll be getting any more sleep tonight.”

He was right, of course. But almost as unnerving as the view of what a bullet could do to the human body was Lieutenant Creighton’s sudden hint of compassion. “Don’t you have to collect evidence or something?”

“The CSU is taking care of that,” he told her. “And the ME is ready to take possession of the body.”

“Merrick,” she said, hating the cold formalities of death that reduced the individual to a designation.

It didn’t matter to her that the victim had been an accused drug dealer with a record of arrests longer than her arm, he’d been a person. An hour or so earlier, she’d spoken to him on the phone. He’d been scared when he’d called her. She’d recognized the fear, the apprehension in his voice. Had he known, even then, that his time was running out?

She couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if she hadn’t vacillated over her decision to meet with him. “If I’d come right away—”

“You might have ended up like Merrick,” Creighton interrupted before she could complete the thought. “Whoever did this to him wouldn’t have thought twice about taking out any potential witnesses.”

Natalie shuddered. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider that possibility, hadn’t wanted to admit—even to herself—how foolhardy her actions had been in coming here tonight.

“Coffee?” he offered again.

This time, she drew a deep breath and nodded.

The sign in the window of Sam’s Diner advertised breakfast twenty-four hours a day. It was one of the reasons it was such a popular establishment with the local cops.

“Are you hungry?” Dylan asked, sliding into the vinyl booth across from the A.D.A.

Natalie started to shake her head, paused. “I shouldn’t be. But I missed dinner, and something smells really good.”

“They do a great ham-and-cheese omelet.”

“Maybe I’ll try it,” she agreed, turning over her cup as the waitress approached their table with a pot of coffee in hand.

“Good morning, Sylvia.” He greeted the waitress who was already filling their cups.

“Morning, Lieutenant. Ma’am.”

Natalie frowned; Dylan grinned. “This is Natalie Vaughn—our newest assistant district attorney,” he said.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Will you be wanting breakfast or just coffee this morning?”

“Breakfast,” he answered. “Two ham-and-cheese omelets.”

“Can you make mine with egg whites only?” Natalie asked, emptying a creamer into her cup. “And whole-wheat toast, please. No butter.”

Sylvia nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Dylan shook his head.

“What?” Natalie demanded.

“It’s a greasy spoon. You want to eat healthy, you should go to one of those yuppie delis that serve alfalfa sprouts on everything.”

“I like alfalfa sprouts,” she told him, sounding just a bit defensive.

“I could have guessed.”

“That must be why you’re carrying the badge.”

He laughed, pleasantly surprised by her bland touch of humor. He’d invited her for coffee because he’d wanted to get her away from Merrick’s apartment. He wasn’t happy that she’d been at the scene; he was even more unhappy about his fading prospects of apprehending Conroy.

But there was no point in remaining angry with Natalie when Merrick was dead, and nothing to be gained from yelling at her anymore when she looked as if she was beating herself up enough for the both of them. And he had to admire the way she’d held herself together at the scene. He’d have expected her to be crying or throwing up, at the very least cowering.

She’d been shaken, there was no doubt about that. But she’d held her ground and she’d answered his questions, and she’d proven—at least on this matter—that he’d underestimated her.

“Other than tonight, how are you enjoying the new job?” he asked.

The cup Natalie had picked up trembled slightly in her hand. “It hasn’t been boring.”

“I’ll bet you thought you were getting away from the problems of the big city by coming to Fairweather.”

“I did,” she admitted.

“If it makes you feel any better, this town doesn’t have a high rate of violent crime.”

“Except in the neighborhood I walked into tonight,” she reminded him.

“But still relatively low compared to the bigger cities.”

“I’m sure that will help me sleep,” she said dryly.

The simple offhand comment brought to mind images of Natalie in bed. In his bed. Her sexily tousled hair spread over his pillowcase, her stormy eyes heavy with desire, her lips erotically swollen from his kisses. The image was startlingly vivid, the longing achingly real. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, maybe I could help.”

Her cup clattered in the saucer as she set it back down, and her eyes were wide and wary as they met his. Obviously his offer had surprised her. No more than it had surprised him.

She cleared her throat. “Are you propositioning me, Lieutenant?”

Was he? If so, that scene in Merrick’s apartment must have shaken him more than he realized. He hadn’t shared his bed with anyone since Beth died, nor had he wanted to do so. “No.” He considered. “Maybe.”

Natalie chuckled. The soft sexy sound suited her, he thought. It was as unconsciously seductive as everything else about her.

Sylvia returned from the kitchen with two plates, set them down on the table.

Dylan waited until the waitress was out of earshot before continuing. “What would you say if I were propositioning you?”

“No.” Her response was quick and unequivocal.

“Ouch.” But he was more relieved than insulted.

She smiled as she toyed with the fried potatoes on her plate. “It’s nothing personal. I’m just not in the habit of going to bed with men I’ve known less than twenty-four hours.”

Nor was he in the habit of propositioning women he’d known less than twenty-four hours, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. Acknowledging the uncharacteristic reaction would be too close to acknowledging his feelings—and he wasn’t even sure what those feelings were.

Instead, he played it casual. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll get back to you later, then.”

“Don’t bother. I’m also not in the habit of getting involved with people I work with.”

“There are always exceptions to a rule.”

“Not this one,” she said firmly, digging in to her omelet.

He knew she was right. In fact, he’d come to the same conclusion himself—and had promptly forgotten his own resolution the minute she’d sat down across from him.

“Besides,” she said, “I find your sudden interest more than a little suspicious when you’ve made no secret of the fact that you don’t approve of my being hired to fill the vacancy in the D.A.’s office.”

“It doesn’t matter if I approve or disapprove, and I distinctly remember telling you that I was reserving judgment.”

“You were quick enough to pass judgment when you found me in Merrick’s apartment.”

“And I’m not going to apologize for that,” he told her. “You shouldn’t have been there. However valid your reasons for agreeing to meet with him, you should never have ventured into that neighborhood on your own without telling anyone where you were going.”

“I called you,” she admitted.

That surprised him. “You did?”

She bit into a piece of toast. Frowned. “It’s buttered.”

“I’m sure your arteries will survive.” He slathered jam onto his own bread. “When did you call me?”

“Before I left to meet with Merrick. I left a message on your voice mail.”

“Oh.” He usually left his cell phone in the car when he was home. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”

She smiled wryly, drawing his attention to the fullness of her soft pink lips. Kissable lips, he thought again. And glistening now with traces of butter. He tore his gaze away, gulped down a mouthful of bitter coffee.

“I tried,” she said. “You weren’t listening. You just steamrolled past without giving me a chance to explain.”

Well, he was paying complete attention to her now, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the feelings she stirred inside him. Feelings he hadn’t been aware of since Beth’s death. Feelings he hadn’t thought he’d ever experience again. Not with another woman. Grief, guilt and regrets assailed him, not just because of Beth and everything they’d lost, but because he’d treated Natalie unfairly. He hadn’t expected the instantaneous attraction, and he’d immediately taken an adversarial stance with her to avoid examining his feelings.

“I guess I should apologize,” he said, although she wouldn’t know he was referring to more than just his behavior at Merrick’s apartment.

She shook her head. “I just want to forget everything that’s happened in the past few hours.”

“That’s not likely. Not once the press starts sniffing around.”

She groaned. “I’ve stepped in it up to my knees, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, but you’re wearing nice shoes.” He’d noticed those immediately. Expensive designer shoes like the ones his sister Hannah favored. With skinny heels that added at least two inches to her height and emphasized her slender ankles and shapely calves. There wasn’t much about Natalie Vaughn he hadn’t noticed.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m glad you find this amusing.”

“In my job, if you don’t learn to find the humor in things, you don’t last very long.”

She pushed her plate aside. “How long have you been a cop?”

“Almost fifteen years.” He dumped salt on the potatoes left on her plate, then scooped up a forkful and brought them to his lips.

“You keep eating like that, you won’t last another fifteen,” she warned him.

He grinned. “It’s nice to know that you’re worried about me.”

“I just hate to think of the loss to the Fairweather P.D. if you die of heart disease.”

“Yeah.” He put his fork down. “Tierney might get my job.”

“I met him yesterday, at the courthouse.” She picked up her coffee cup, sipped.

“Then he stopped by your office this afternoon and invited you to dinner.”

She frowned. “How did you know that?”

“He told me he was going to.”

“Oh.”

“Obviously you turned him down.”

“I’m working sixteen hours a day, just trying to get up to speed on my files.”

“Is that the only reason you declined his invitation?”

“I don’t mix business and pleasure,” she reminded him. “And even if I wanted to, I don’t have time for complications in my life right now.”

Dylan didn’t think Ben wanted anything more complicated than sex from Natalie, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Not when he had to admit his own thoughts had gone down that same road. “Complications are what make life interesting,” he said instead.

“I’ll keep that in mind. But I’m a little too tired for a philosophical discussion right now.” She pushed her cup aside. “And I should try to catch an hour of sleep before I have to get ready for work.”

He nodded. “I’ll keep you posted on the Merrick investigation.”

“Thanks.” She slid out of the booth. “Do me another favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell Detective Tierney I had breakfast with you.”

He grinned. It was a tempting thought. “I think I can restrain myself.”

“Thanks,” she said again.

He watched her walk away, enjoying the subtle sway of her hips in the slim skirt and the flex of finely toned muscles in her calves.

Then he paid the tab and headed out of the diner to return to the scene of the crime.

Chapter 3

Natalie jolted at the quick knock at the door. She’d been jittery all day, unable to banish from her mind the sight of Roger Merrick’s bloodied body. Unable to stop thinking about Lieutenant Creighton’s reminder that she might easily have met the same fate on her nocturnal adventure.

“I heard you had some excitement last night.”

There was no sympathy in John Beckett’s clipped tone, nor had she expected any. She’d known this confrontation was inevitable, but her boss had been tied up with jury selection for a conspiracy trial all morning, thus allowing a brief reprieve.

“More than I wanted,” she acknowledged, careful to keep her tone light.

“Not even a month on the job and you stumble into the middle of a murder scene. The press is going to have a field day with this,” he grumbled.

“It’s not like I went out looking to find a dead body,” she pointed out.

“You went looking for trouble,” he insisted.

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Then your being in Roger Merrick’s apartment building at 1:00 a.m. was just an unfortunate coincidence?”

“You hired me to do a job,” she said. “That’s what I was doing.”

“Well, you made a mess of it, and you’re going to clean it up.”

“How?” she asked wearily.

“You can start with the press.” He dropped a fistful of pink message slips on her desk.

Natalie swallowed. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Molly is typing up your statement now.” He turned toward the door, pausing only long enough to offer a parting shot over his shoulder. “Remember—your position in this office is still a probationary one.”

She didn’t need the reminder—she was all too aware of how precarious her situation was, how easily her new life could come crashing down around her. Moving to Fairweather had been a big step, one she hadn’t taken without careful thought. As much as she’d been desperate to get her son out of the low-income, high-crime neighborhood in which they’d lived, she’d been wary of the offer.

You don’t get something for nothing, Shannon had warned.

Her sister was always spouting clichés. “Look before you leap” was another of her favorites.

But in this case, Natalie believed the trade-off was worth it. Getting Jack out of Chicago would be the best thing for him. She’d agreed to let him stay with Shannon until he’d finished out the school year, and to give Natalie a chance to find a home for them. It was all she really wanted—a place where they could both feel settled. And that would happen only if she managed to keep this job.

She shoved the stack of messages aside and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t blame her boss for being annoyed. She had overstepped her bounds. Her decision to meet with Roger Merrick had been impulsive and clearly—in retrospect, anyway—unwise. But Beckett had given her the case, and complete discretion to handle it. In fact, he’d seemed more than pleased to get the file off his own desk. If he hadn’t thought she was capable of doing the job, why had he given her the case? Why had he ever hired her?

She hadn’t gotten any further than these questions when an unfamiliar figure stormed into her office. Natalie hadn’t yet had the dubious honor of being introduced to Randolph Hawkins, but she had no doubt that the immaculately dressed man with silver strands woven through dark hair and cold blue eyes glaring angrily across her desk was the infamous defense attorney.

No, angrily wasn’t an accurate description, she realized. Dangerously was much more appropriate.

“You stepped over the line, lady.” The words were as sharp and cold as broken glass.

“My name is Natalie. Natalie Vaughn,” she told him. “And I’m guessing you’re Mr. Hawkins.”

“Then you’re not a complete imbecile, after all,” Hawkins retorted.

Her back stiffened. Regardless of what had happened, he didn’t have any cause to treat her with such blatant disrespect. “I understand that you’re upset about your client, Mr. Hawkins, but—”

“You knew Roger Merrick was my client?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then why did you attempt to meet with him without my presence?”

“I didn’t request the meeting,” she said coolly. “Mr. Merrick did. I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” he snapped. “You should be a damn sight more than sorry. You killed him.”

“Now, Randolph,” a cool, almost amused voice chided from the doorway. “You know very well that Ms. Vaughn didn’t pump those bullets into Merrick’s body.”

Natalie’s gaze flew to the lieutenant leaning casually against the open door. Creighton had been the first in line to chastise her for her actions of the previous evening, so although she was skeptical about his apparent defense she was also grateful for the interruption.

“She signed his death warrant when she agreed to meet with him.” Hawkins practically spat the words at Dylan.

“I didn’t know he was in danger,” Natalie protested.

Hawkins turned back, directing the full force of his anger at her. “Were you also unaware that meeting with a defendant in the absence of his counsel is a violation of both his rights and professional ethics?”

“I told Roger Merrick that I couldn’t meet with him without his lawyer,” she said.

“And yet you did.”

“He was the one who insisted on not contacting you.”

A brief moment of silence followed her announcement.

“Why was that, do you suppose?” Creighton wondered aloud, pushing away from the door and moving into the room.

“This is none of your damn business, Creighton.”

“But it is,” the lieutenant assured him. “Murder is very much my business.”

Hawkins chose to ignore him. “It doesn’t matter what you claim my client said,” he told Natalie. “You knew he had counsel, and you had an ethical duty to talk to him through me.”

She flinched, because she knew he was right and because it was her determination to prove herself and her eagerness to hear about Conroy that had caused her to overlook that obligation.

But again the lieutenant came unexpectedly to her defense. “You’re a fine one to talk about ethics when Zane Conroy has you on retainer.”

“Mr. Conroy is a pillar of this community.”

Creighton laughed. “If he’s the pillar, we’re all in trouble.”

“In any event,” Hawkins continued, “I came here to discuss Roger Merrick, not Mr. Conroy.”

He turned his attention back to Natalie. “I’m considering filing a complaint with the state bar association. I’ll definitely be making my displeasure known to your boss.”

She groaned inwardly, Beckett’s reminder of her probationary status fresh in her mind. She’d been on the job only three weeks and she was already in danger of losing it and all her hopes for her and Jack’s future along with it. But before she could respond to Hawkins’s threat, somehow plead her case, he’d stomped out of her office, the glass rattling in the door as he slammed it behind him.

She sank back into her chair and buried her face in her hands.

“You’d have been prepared for the theatrics if you’d ever seen him in court.”

Natalie pushed her hair away from her forehead and forced a smile. “I probably won’t be here long enough to have that privilege.”

The lieutenant dropped into the chair across from her desk. “He was bluffing.”

“Do you think so?” She hoped he was right; she didn’t want to start job hunting again.

“Hawkins likes to intimidate.”

“He’s good at it.”

Creighton grinned, flashing those killer dimples and making her forget—at least for a second—about her more immediate concerns.

“He won’t make any formal complaint about your secret meeting with his client,” he assured her. “If he does, it’s bound to come out that Merrick was the one who requested the meeting and the secrecy. It will raise questions about his client’s unwillingness to have counsel present. Which, by the way, is something you neglected to mention last night.”

“I didn’t even think about it.” She rubbed her fingers over her forehead, trying to assuage the throbbing ache that had settled there. “I was thinking about Roger Merrick, not legal ethics.”

“Is there anything else you forgot to mention?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She pushed her hair back again. “I don’t remember what I told you.”

“We’ll go over it all again some other time. You look exhausted.”

She stifled a yawn. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.” She shuddered, the image of Merrick’s corpse still too vivid in her mind. “I’m not sure I’ll get any more tonight. And I know you have more questions you need to ask.”

“They can wait.”

“Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?”

“I didn’t think it was all of a sudden.”

She recognized the attempted diversion, but she wouldn’t be diverted. “I’ve faced a barrage of accusations since my late-night phone call—the first of them from you. And now you’re the only one who’s standing by me.”

He shrugged. “You already know how I feel about your visit to Merrick’s apartment. There’s no point in rehashing that.”

True, but Natalie sensed there was more to it.

“And last night brought back memories,” he admitted. “I’ve been on the job a long time. So long I’d almost become immune to the horrors of it.”

He shook his head. “Not immune, really. I don’t think anyone could ever get used to seeing some of the things I’ve seen. But as a cop, you learn to shut down a little. You have to close off your emotions in order to get the job done.”

She’d been in practice long enough to understand what he was saying. As a defense attorney, she’d learned to distance herself from the details to maintain objectivity. She’d trained herself to think, not in terms of guilt or innocence, but in the parameters of the law and the defenses available to her client.

Still, nothing she’d seen as a defense attorney had prepared her for the grisly scene in Roger Merrick’s apartment. She shuddered again, unable to prevent the instinctive reaction.

“When I saw you there last night,” Creighton continued, “the shock and horror in your eyes, I remembered my first murder scene. I couldn’t send you away from there on your own.”

“Well, thank you. For understanding. For not making me go back to an empty hotel room in the middle of the night.”

His gaze sharpened. “Hotel?”

“I’ve only been in town a few weeks,” she reminded him. “I haven’t had time to find anything else.”

“What hotel?”

“The Courtland. Why?”

He ignored her question to ask another of his own. “Who knows you’re staying there?”

She frowned. “My sister. My boss. The hotel staff. Why?”

“Roger Merrick.”

She felt the chill crawl over her skin.

“You said he called you,” Creighton reminded her.

“H-he did.”

“At the hotel?”

She swallowed, nodded.

“How did he know you were there?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s not a state secret or anything.” But her flippant response didn’t stop the questions that swirled through her mind. How had he known? Could he have followed her after work one night? She wouldn’t have realized if he had—she’d never set eyes on him before last night. But if he had, why?

“But it’s not common knowledge, is it?” he persisted.

“No,” she agreed hesitantly.

He stood abruptly. “I’m going to check into this.”

She just nodded and watched silently as he moved to the door Hawkins had slammed shut a short while before.

It was late when Dylan finally left the police station that night. Glancing toward the D.A.’s office, he noticed there was a light on in one of the main-floor offices. Natalie’s office.

He paused, car keys in hand. He should go home, cook some dinner, put his feet up on the coffee table, watch a ball game. But his house would be dark, empty.

He glanced toward her office again—watched her silhouette through the window as she pulled her chair away from the desk and sat down. Her hair fell forward to curtain her face as she studied the papers on her desk.

He imagined brushing the hair away from her face, the silky strands sliding through his fingers. He could practically smell the lemony fragrance of her shampoo, the same scent that had brought her image to mind as he’d walked through the produce section of the grocery store earlier.

He turned away from his car and toward the D.A.’s office. If the door was locked, he would go home. He had no reason to interrupt her work.

No reason except that he hadn’t stopped thinking about her all day. Even as he reviewed surveillance reports and witness statements, she was there—lingering in the back of his mind, haunting him. There were secrets buried in the stormy depths of her eyes. And scars. He recognized both—not just because he was a cop, but because he had plenty of his own.

He pulled on the handle of the heavy glass door, and it opened.

He thought again of Beth—of everything they’d once shared, everything they’d lost. Because of him. It was his job to serve and protect, yet he’d failed to protect the woman he loved.

His life had changed with her death. He still went through the motions of working and living, but it was as if he existed in an emotional vacuum. Nothing got past the wall he’d erected around his heart—no one had even come close.

Until now.

Which was just one more reason he should stay far away from Natalie Vaughn. He had no interest in opening up his heart again. And he was terrified by the possibility that he might fail someone else.

As he expected, the outer office was deserted, silent. He heard Natalie’s voice in the distance, followed the sound toward her office. He could see her through the narrow opening of the door, the receiver of the phone tucked beneath her chin as she typed away at the keyboard of her computer.

“I just have too much work to do.” There was an edge of frustration in her voice, as if she’d already made this explanation numerous times. “Please try to understand.”

There was a pause as she listened to the response of whoever was on the other end of the phone. She stopped typing and the corners of her mouth curved upward slightly. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “Me, too. And I’ll see you on Friday, Jack. I promise.”

Dylan stepped back from the door, trying to interpret what he’d overheard of the conversation. Who was Jack? A friend? A lover? Definitely someone she still had ties to. But if she was involved with someone in Chicago, why would she have moved seven hundred miles away?

And why did the possibility that Natalie was involved with someone else fail to diminish the attraction he felt?

He shook his head, annoyed by the irrationality of his own thoughts. He turned away, determined to walk out the door, away from her. But as he turned, he felt something crunch beneath the heel of his shoe. He winced and glanced down at the offensive instrument—a now broken No. 2 pencil.

“Hello?”

He stepped forward, through the door of her office. “It’s just me.”

“Oh.” Natalie frowned, obviously surprised to see him.

“I was leaving the station and saw your light on,” he explained. “What are you still doing here?”

She smiled wryly. “I haven’t been fired yet.”

He chuckled. “I meant, why are you still in your office at seven o’clock on a Tuesday night?”

“Because I have a ton of work to do.” She gestured to the stack of files on her desk, sighed. “Since John Beckett has decided not to fire me—at least, not yet—and since I no longer have the Merrick trial at the end of the month, he’s given me several more cases to deal with.”

“Probably so he could go home early.”

“That’s the whole point in having subordinates, I guess.”

Dylan shook his head. “You know what they say about ‘all work and no play’.”

“Sure. All work and no play means I’ll keep my job another day.”

He smiled. “I really don’t think Beckett will fire you. Other than your ill-fated decision to visit Merrick’s apartment, your work has been exemplary.”

“How would you know?”

“It’s a small town,” he reminded her. “Word travels.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“Besides, that position was vacant for quite a while,” he told her. “If Beckett gets rid of you, he’ll just have to advertise and interview for the position again. I can’t imagine that’s something he’d look forward to.”

“I’d like to think that he’ll keep me on because of my work, not because it would require too much effort to replace me.” She pushed away from the desk and moved to the bookcase to retrieve another text.

She rolled her right shoulder, clearly trying to alleviate the tension. He stepped behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened at the contact, slowly relaxing when his fingers started kneading the tense muscles.

It had been an instinctive gesture, not unlike what he’d have done for one of his sisters. Except that, as soon as he touched her, he realized his mistake. Natalie Vaughn wasn’t his sister, and the way his body was responding to hers wasn’t remotely brotherly.

She moaned softly, almost inaudibly, but the sensual sound tortured his imagination. Would she moan like that while making love? Would she scream with the pleasure of her release? He focused his gaze on the textbooks, concentrated on reading the titles rather than fantasizing about what he couldn’t allow to happen. Objectivity, he reminded himself again.

“I didn’t see Richardson in his office,” Dylan said, referring to the other A.D.A. Conversation, he decided, would stop her from making those sexy little sounds that were driving him insane.

“Greg’s been here longer than I have,” she said. “Besides, he has a wife and family to go home to. There’s nothing waiting for me in my hotel room except the television.”

And a big, wide bed. Which was definitely not something he should be thinking about right now.

“If you’re going to work late, you should lock the door,” he advised. “You never know who could walk in.” And if she’d locked the door, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be touching her, wanting her and torn between longing and guilt.

“I’m waiting for a delivery,” she told him.

“Dinner?”

She nodded, evoking mixed feelings of relief and disappointment when she stepped away from him. “Thanks. That feels a lot better now.”

Maybe for her. He was definitely feeling a little tense. “What are you having?”

“Kung Pao Chicken.”

“Where’d you order from?”

“The Golden Dragon.”

Dylan grimaced.

“Bad choice?”

“Not the best,” he agreed.

Natalie sighed. “It’s one of the things I already miss about Chicago—knowing where to get the best takeout.”

One of the things. Was Jack another? He wasn’t going to speculate; he wasn’t going to ask.

“Don’t you cook?” he asked instead.

“Not if I don’t have to,” she admitted. “Do you?”

“All the time.”

“Really?” She sounded shocked.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes. Are you any good?”

He grinned. “I’ve been told my marinara sauce is to die for.”

“Marinara sauce, hmm?” She sounded interested, almost in spite of herself.

“I also make a great meat loaf.”

“And you’re still single?”

He felt a pang, sharp and swift, but gone as quickly as it had come. Maybe too quickly. That was something he’d have to think about later. Now he shrugged. “You want to skip the Kung Pao Chicken for a home-cooked meal?”

“It’s tempting,” she told him, “but I’ve already ordered, and I really do have a ton of work still to do.”

“Maybe some other time?”

“Maybe,” she agreed vaguely.

It wasn’t an outright refusal, anyway. He decided to quit while he was ahead. “I’ll let you get back to work,” he said. “Make sure you lock up behind the delivery man.”

Dylan’s instincts had always been good. Of course, fifteen years on the force had taught him a lot about people and helped him to hone his natural intuition. But he was still undecided about the new assistant district attorney.

Were his hormones confusing the issue?

Possibly.

Probably.

He couldn’t deny that he was attracted to her. She was an attractive woman, and he was a fully functioning man with all the normal impulses. But he had no intention of acting on those impulses.

Despite his clumsy overtures, he kept his personal life separate from his job—no exceptions. To cross that line would hamper his objectivity, and without objectivity he couldn’t be a good cop. Dylan had always prided himself on being a very good cop. It was more than his job, it was his identity. And it was all he had left.

So he wasn’t happy that thoughts of Natalie Vaughn occupied an inordinate amount of his time. Of course, it didn’t help that she’d walked into the middle of a murder scene and thus firmly planted herself in one of his cases.

The investigation of which was proving to be surprisingly fruitful in the early stages. A .45 caliber pistol had been found hidden behind a bush outside Merrick’s apartment. Preliminary reports showed no prints on the gun, which wasn’t surprising. But the fact that the serial number on the weapon had been filed down gave him hope. It was unlikely the perp would have bothered with such a task unless the weapon was registered in his name. Or maybe he got the gun from someone else who’d used it for illegal purposes. In either case, once the lab guys retrieved the number, the police would have—if not the killer—at least a starting point in their search for whoever had pulled the trigger.

While awaiting the results from the lab, he had other avenues of investigation to follow—and one of those led him to Natalie’s hotel room.

She answered the door wearing her pajamas.

Silk, he guessed, based on the way the dark green fabric shimmered and molded to her curves. A deep V-neck revealed a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage and a simple gold heart on a delicate chain resting against her creamy skin.

He forced his gaze upward, noted that her eyes were more green than blue tonight, and shadowed with fatigue. Her face was bare of makeup, those full, lush lips unsmiling.

“What are you doing here, Lieutenant?”

“I needed to ask you some more questions about what happened the night of Merrick’s murder.”

She sighed. “I was really hoping to get some sleep tonight.”

“It won’t take long,” he promised.

She stepped away from the door to allow him to enter.

He took a quick survey of the room. The wallpaper was cream-colored with wide gold stripes, the carpet deep and plush, the furniture made of glossy cherry wood. Tasteful, classy. Of course, the Courtland Hotels had a reputation for luxurious accommodations and exceptional service—and a five-star price tag. Obviously the new A.D.A. was being well paid.

The queen-size bed was still made, although the spread was slightly rumpled and there were files and notes scattered on top. The television was on, but the volume was low. A small desk was in front of the window, a battered leather briefcase open on top of it. A single glass of red wine sat on the table beside the bed, half-empty.

“Can I get you a drink?”

He shook his head.

Natalie perched on the edge of the bed, gestured for him to take a seat.

He remained standing.

She picked up her glass, sipped.

“Were you drinking that night?”

“Do you disapprove of my having a glass or two of wine, Lieutenant?”

“I simply asked a question.”

“No, I wasn’t drinking that night,” she told him. “I’m only drinking tonight because I’m hoping that a few drinks might help me forget what I saw in Merrick’s apartments at least long enough to get some sleep.”

“It won’t,” he told her. It was always difficult to face death—violent death was the worst. The scene in Merrick’s apartment would have made a lasting impression on anyone, and he knew it would be a long time before Natalie would sleep without being haunted by dreams of what she’d seen. The realization stirred his compassion. “I wish I could tell you the memory will fade, but some memories never do. You just have to learn to live with them.”

“Do you?” she asked. “Learn to live with them, I mean?”

“There’s nothing else you can do,” he told her. What he wanted to do was to offer comfort and understanding. He knew how hard it was to face the darkness alone, and he wished he could spare her that.

Objectivity, he reminded himself, and took a mental step back.

“All right. Let’s get through your questions.”

He pulled the chair from behind the desk and straddled it, facing her. “What time did you receive the phone call?”

“Twelve-twenty.”

“You’re sure about that?”

She nodded. “I’d fallen asleep. The first thing I did when I heard the phone ringing was look at the clock.”

“Did the caller identify himself?”

“Didn’t we cover all this already?”

“I want to go over it again, to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

She sighed.

“Did the caller identify himself?” he asked again.

“Not right away.”

“But he did give you his name?” Dylan prompted.

She paused, frowning. “No.”

“Then why did you assume it was Roger Merrick?”

“Because he talked about making a deal, and when I said he should talk to his lawyer, he said Hawkins couldn’t help him. I guessed his identity, and when I called him by name, he didn’t deny it.”

“But he didn’t confirm it, either.”

Her frown deepened. “No.”

“How did you know where to find him?”

“He gave me the address and I scribbled it down while I was on the phone with him.” She rose and moved toward the desk, her knee brushing against his thigh. Silk against denim, yet the brief contact sparked like flint on steel.

She froze, her wary gaze locking with his for just a second. But in that brief moment of connection, he saw it in her eyes: awareness, attraction. Then she turned away, rustled through her briefcase.

Dylan had to remind himself to breathe, to remember the purpose for his visit. He was here to do his job—it was his only hope of getting justice for Beth.

She handed him a single page with the hotel insignia at the top. He gave it only a cursory glance.

“That’s the address he gave me,” she told him.

“The address the caller gave you,” he amended.

“That’s what I said.” She picked up her glass again, her fingers trembling slightly. Was she shaken by their brief contact—or was her nervousness a result of the topic of their conversation?

It didn’t matter—he was here to investigate Merrick, not the A.D.A. The reminder didn’t cool his hormones, but it at least focused his thoughts. “What if I told you that Roger Merrick didn’t make that phone call?”

“But—but I spoke to him.”

“Had you ever spoken to him before?”

Natalie shook her head. “Why would I?”

He ignored her question to ask another of his own. “How long did it take you to get to Merrick’s apartment after you left here?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t remember.”

“Approximately?”

She shrugged. “Twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour.”

He’d followed the route earlier that evening. It had taken twenty-two minutes to drive from the hotel parking lot to the front door of Merrick’s apartment building.

“Did you leave your room as soon as you got off the phone?”

“No.” She studied the contents of her glass rather than meeting his gaze. “I tried calling you first. And when I didn’t get an answer…”

She hesitated, and he thought he saw a touch of color rise in her cheeks.

“When I stopped to think about it, I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of driving across town at that time of night on my own,” she admitted. “It took me a few minutes to talk myself into it.”

The embarrassment, the hint of vulnerability, made him want to reach out to her, to offer comfort and reassurance. But he wasn’t her friend, he was a cop—and he needed to act like a cop. “A few minutes—five? Ten?”

“Maybe ten.”

“Which would put you at his apartment by one o’clock?”

“I guess so.”

He nodded. He’d been paged about fifteen minutes later, which corroborated her version of events. Almost.

He folded his arms over the back of the chair, his eyes locked on her. “I just don’t understand why Merrick would ask you to meet him on the other side of town if he was already here.”

Natalie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We checked the hotel’s phone records,” he told her.

“And?”

“The call that came into this room was made from one of the courtesy phones in the lobby.”

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