When Night Falls (10 page)

No matter how hard he hit the bag, her words stayed with him like a warped soundtrack. She was an enigma he couldn’t afford. He didn’t know how she did it, how she stripped away the layers and bared the raw core he was trying so hard to destroy. Then, rather than attacking, she changed, softened. She applied a balm or a bandage rather than taking the kill when she had it.

The survivor in him warned that he should erase the provocative detective from his life, but every time he saw her, that rare mixture of intelligence and compassion swirling in her amber eyes, he found himself torn between pushing her away and crushing her in his arms.

Liam swore again. The only person he needed to hold was his daughter.

His punishment of the bag grew more frenzied, more violent. That he should feel drawn to anyone at a time like this appalled him. But there it was, and the inappropriateness of it was eating him alive. He couldn’t let Detective Jessica Clark get any closer. He couldn’t let her keep peeling away layer after layer. He couldn’t let her see inside.

He couldn’t let her offer her own blend of healing balm.

But he couldn’t ban her from the case, either. She really was his best chance.

He knew what he had to do.

Breathing hard, he went to pummel the training device that had become his best friend but found himself grabbing it instead. The tough facade crumbled, the fight drained. He was so damn tired of standing alone.

Exhausted, Liam pulled the thick bag to him and slumped against leather. Wrapped his arms around it. Dropped his head. He absolutely refused to let himself imagine holding anything or anyone other than his daughter, certainly not the svelte body of the lady detective charged with bringing her home.

No good could come from Detective Jessica Clark’s arms. Only damnation, a shame greater than any she’d accused him of. There sure as hell wouldn’t be strength or comfort. No ridiculous saving graces.

He wouldn’t let there be. Couldn’t.

* * *

Jess paced the length of her small condo. The night was still and quiet, suffocatingly dark. No moon, no stars, only heavy clouds rolling in from the north. From her aquarium glowed the only light, a bluish hue illuminating an underwater world she found fascinating. Angelfish glided through the fronds of the plants she provided while neon fish milled about a submerged statue that had caught her fancy. No Fishing Allowed.

Jess drew in a deep breath and tried to let the serenity soothe her. She’d tried reading, meditation, but too much energy zinged around inside her. Moving closer to the fifty-gallon tank, she concentrated on the aquatic life, but found not even the graceful movements could supercede thoughts of William Armstrong. She closed her eyes, but the images loomed stronger. Liam and Molly running toward her, those long, powerful strides, man and dog at full throttle. Pushing. Maybe even punishing. The memory pulled at her heart, made her feel things, want things she knew better than to think about.

The sound of shattering glass broke the silence, and Jess immediately dropped to the floor. Instinct kicked into high gear. She rolled across the rug to the coffee table, where she quickly retrieved her .38. She never left it far out of reach.

Through the bluish glow of the aquarium, she surveyed her condo. The door was still secure. She heard no sounds of footsteps or anything other than an old regulator clock. No shadows moved beyond the broken window. She inched toward it, careful to avoid shards of glass, and eased into a standing position with her back against the wall. Her heart pounded so hard she thought if anyone stood on the other side, they would hear. Gun in hand, she peered into the night, standing still until she was sure no danger lurked beyond.

Only then did she turn her attention to the gaping hole in the window. Too big for a bullet. She surveyed the surrounding area, found the culprit. There on the carpet, amidst the broken glass, sat some kind of cloth bundle. Jess knew better than to touch it with her bare hands.

Seconds later, gloves on, she carefully untied the fabric. A rock awaited inside, but a careful inspection turned up nothing significant. Then she glanced at the cloth, and her heart went into her throat. Not a cloth, but a bandanna, aqua in color with a school of colorful fish milling about what looked to be a coral reef. Jess glanced across her room at her aquarium, then had a flash of the comforter she’d seen on Emily Armstrong’s bed. And the bandanna she’d seen on the dog Molly.

Her throat tightened. She looked at the fabric open against her carpet and saw the words written in black.

Ticktock goes the clock.

Ticktock. Ticktock.

* * *

Liam stepped from the shower and grabbed a towel. A few vicious swipes had his body dry enough. In the foggy bathroom mirror he caught sight of the grim lines of his unshaven face, the uncivilized glint to his eyes. He’d never been a soft man, but the hard man staring at him seemed more stranger than ally.

He was going back out there. Tonight. Questions and worry sloshed around inside him, slivers of the dreams he’d had for his daughter. He didn’t care that the hour was past midnight. No way could he just crawl into bed and go to sleep.

Liam lifted the towel and rubbed it over his hair, stilled when he thought he heard something. Lowering the dark terry cloth, he went on full alert. The faint noise grew louder. An engine, he realized. Only someone passing by.

Until the hum stopped just outside.

Emily.

Liam bolted from the bathroom and ran toward the bedroom door. If he hadn’t almost tripped over the jeans he’d left in a heap on the floor, he probably wouldn’t have remembered he was naked. He grabbed them and fought
to
pull them on as he ran through the darkened house. He took the stairs two at a time.

His bare feet hit the cold marble of the foyer at a full run. He reached the front door and pulled it open, charged out into the frigid night.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Surprise flooded her eyes. Uncertainty. She almost looked frightened.

His heart kicked harder. His pulse.

The moment of indecision passed, and she rallied. The caution drained from her features, replaced by determination. An uncharacteristic ferocity. And she started up the walk once again.

The sight of Detective Jessica Clark striding toward him hit like a swift punch to the gut. She didn’t look upset or concerned as she had that afternoon, but furious, like an avenging angel swooping down to exact punishment for some heinous grievance. The wind blowing through the cedar elms whipped loose auburn hair about her face. Moonlight glittered in her eyes.

Liam wanted to charge down the three steps and take her shoulders in his hands. To demand she—

He didn’t know what he wanted to demand, only that he didn’t trust himself to move. Didn’t want to think about what could happen if he touched her. Obviously he hadn’t succeeded this afternoon in warning her away from him.

The clearly agitated detective marched up the steps and got right up in his face. Then she lifted some sort of bag and dangled it before him. “Recognize this?”

He took the plastic from her hands and used the light spilling from the foyer to inspect the contents.

Everything inside Liam went deadly still. He refused to let his hands shake. “Where did you get this?”

Jessica’s eyes narrowed as she flipped over the bag, revealing dark handwriting scrawled against the cheerful fabric.

Horror numbed Liam to the darkened world around him. The cold wind was nothing compared to the chill freezing his lungs, his heart.

“Where the hell did this come from?” He barely recognized the raw sounds tearing from his throat as his own voice.

Jessica met his gaze head-on. There was no sympathy in her expression, no trace of the compassionate woman who’d laid a hand against his back earlier that afternoon, somehow realizing how badly he’d needed the warmth of human touch. She was all cop now, more reminiscent of her father or partner.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” she said firmly. “Notes like this are typically delivered to the family, not the investigating officer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“For some odd reason, what appears to be the first communication from your daughter’s alleged kidnapper found its way into my condo.”

Shock galvanized him, and he knew his mistake. Beneath the woman’s body that lulled a man into lowering his defense resided a detective’s mind always on the hunt. She was not his ally, not his friend. She was Wallace Clark’s daughter.

“You think I’m responsible?”

“Are you?”

The urge to grab her shoulders was strong, but somehow, he resisted. “Are you trying to push me to the edge?” he asked in a deceptively quiet voice. “Or do you just enjoy acting in the same heartless fashion as your father?”

She glared at him. “Answer my question.”

“You really think I’d do something this passive?”

“Don’t you get it?” She erupted, for the first time showing a flicker of emotion. Except it was more like a bonfire. She snatched the bag from his hands and shoved it into her satchel. “I’m trying
to
do you a favor. I’m trying to keep you from digging yourself a hole you really don’t want to dig. Don’t you know what Detective Long will think when I show him this?”

“I don’t care about your partner,” he growled, “I care about—” He bit back the dangerous word that almost slipped free and stepped closer.
You.
“Tell me what
you
think.”

Her eyes widened. A soft sound of surprise preceded the hoarse sound of her voice. “You’ve been drinking.”

Liam tried not to let the breathy disappointment in her voice sway him. He’d only taken one measly gulp before he dumped the glass of bourbon into a nearby potted palm.

“Can I guess from your attempt to change the subject,” he asked very softly, “that you have no opinion of your own about whether I’m manipulative and underhanded enough to send that note?” The question scraped on the way out. “That you just adopt what other people think and go along with it? Your father, your partner—”

“You want to know what I think?” Her voice was hot and challenging, her eyes full of fire. “Fine. I’ll tell you,” she said, stepping closer. “I think you’re a man who won’t stop until he gets what he wants. I’m not sure there’s a limit to what you would or wouldn’t do, not if you thought it would bring Emily home faster. You’ve made it perfectly clear you’re not a man to play by the rules.”

“Rules?” The word left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he found himself strangely disappointed. He didn’t know why he kept expecting—wanting—her to believe in him. Understand him. Stand by him. But he did.

“My child is missing and you’re talking to me about rules?”

“Someone needs to. Every time I turn around, there’s another William Armstrong stunt I have to deal with—you digging into my past, going after Braxton yourself. You’re working against me more than you’re working with me.”

“You’d rather me sit at home and wait for Lady Justice to save the day?”

She lifted her chin. “Attacking me won’t change anything.”

“Neither will following the rules,” he bit out. “Don’t you think I know that by now? Me, of all people? I followed them before, when Heather left, and look where that got me.” He searched her face, looking for a glimmer of retreat. Instead, the porch light cast shadows across her cheekbones, her parted lips, making her look provocatively soft when she wanted him to believe she was every bit as hard as her father.

“Half this damn town thinks I got away with murder,” he told her, clenching his hands into tight fists. He didn’t trust himself not to touch her, to see if her skin would be as hot as her eyes. “Not again. Not anymore. Not with Emmie’s life on the line.”

“You’re distorting the issue,” she said, and her voice softened. “This isn’t about before. It’s about now, your daughter, bringing her home. How many times do I have to tell you?” She paused, stepped closer. The fervor in her eyes outshone the stars in the night sky. “We want the same thing, Liam.”

Once, he’d insisted she use the casual version of his name. Now, the sound of it on her smoky voice struck him as entirely too intimate. “You want rules,” he corrected, trying to erect the walls he’d let fall into disrepair. “Procedure. You want to make your daddy proud. But you know what? It’s too late for that. What you do doesn’t matter to your father. He’s gone.”

“This has nothing to do with my father.”

“Doesn’t it?”

She shook her head, sending her loose hair swirling. “Not even close. You’re lashing out at me because I’m here, and there’s no one else.”

He winced, hating the hurt in her voice. That wasn’t what he wanted, just distance. Space. Objectivity. “I’ve got a punching bag inside if I just want to lash out blindly. That’s not what this is about. This is about the fact those rules you cling to aren’t going to bring my daughter home.”

She frowned. “Neither will carelessness.”

Frustration tightened through him. She didn’t understand, and he didn’t know how to make her. Didn’t know why it mattered so much that she did.

Silence stretched between them, accentuating the warm air rushing against his back from the open front door, the frigid night air cutting into his chest. He knew what happened when temperature extremes collided.