An Eye for Danger (11 page)

"Medics trained me to do this," I replied.

Never mind how long ago, or who taught me in which backwoods hospital in which third-world country. Straddling his leg, I reached around his back for the first layer. A few bites of food and a glass of water were all I could swallow, but they'd proved enough to calm my nerves and keep my hands steady.

"Press here." I offered the edge of the bandage between the squared muscles of his pecs, where the 'T' of his chest hair tickled my skin. "No. Look where my fingers are. Look."

When he finally slid his fingers between mine to hold the cotton in place, I looped the bandage around his back, crossed it over his fingers, and looped again before I let him release. When I tugged the material, he moaned, flexing every muscle till his whole body was rigid. "Relax, tough guy."

"If this gets it out of your system, I'm all about justice."

I stopped. "I'm not trying to hurt you. It's just unavoidable at this point."

"Blond hair, brown eyes. One recessive trait, one dominant. Soft but tough."

"Must you speak?"

"Kind but cruel," he added, his grin tempting reprisal.

 "Take a breath. I'll be as kind as I can be."

Widening his feet, he parted the robe. "Whoops," he said, shoving a hand in his lap. His underwear had gone the way of the shredded sweater: into the garbage.

I lifted my eyes to the ceiling. "You alright, Bashful, your pride intact?"

"Lady, I am in all ways intact. Trust me."

Rolling my eyes, I got back to work, circling his ribcage as fast as my hands could manage, moving up and down by inches, my slightest touch making his muscles twinge. There was more material than I'd assumed, and he had less tolerance than I'd predicted.

"Tough guy like you can take a little pain. You'll get a good story for the guys, slam back a few beers, laugh about it later."

"Hurry," he whispered. His brows furrowed as he clutched my sleeve. He was sinking off the edge of the bed, so I gripped his leg with my thighs to keep him from sliding into third base.

I hesitated, conscious of the pain I was about to inflict and wishing for the stiff peacoat or the scratchy sweater or the sweaty T-shirt—anything easier to detest than his banked muscles and rosemary aroma and glossy smooth cheeks. "Almost there."

Sam nodded, lids heavy, so I made the final pass and pulled to tie it off. His face blanched.

"Done," I said.

 A slow hand reached for the headboard. "Can't breathe," Sam whispered.

"Just lie down. You'll get used to it."

He pulled himself to a stand, holding to the headboard for dear life, then flung off the robe and made a staggering dash for the bathroom. Stunned, I watched from behind as he reached for the soapy shears, which slipped and clanked onto the floor. I grabbed the robe and followed.

"Cut it off." His face wrenched in the mirror as he gripped the basin with both hands like he'd rip it from the wall if I didn't hurry up.

Sure, I love wasting my time—

"Now!" He wheezed for air.

I snatched up the shears, pulled the bandage enough to create an opening, and began slicing. His hand slapped at the wall as the material gave, his back expanded like wings when he drew in more air, sending shallow waves down his lateral muscles.

I stood back to give him space, my eyes mapping the black, yellow, and blue swirls curling over his left hip. More old bruises. Below his ribs, the thug's boot had freshly imprinted in red and black, inviting doubt as to the health of Sam's left kidney. Otherwise, his wide, leathery back testified to strenuous lifting and good genes, while his sculpted alabaster ass provided stark contrast to my photographer eyes, like a David posing for the artist.

My gaze shot north, catching his reflection watching me. We were both huffing, but I wasn't sure which concerned me more: the potential color of blood in his urine, or the flush of blood at my cheeks. "You need a doctor, Sam. You're a mess."

He shook his head, leaned into the mirror. "Enough doctoring," he said between breaths. "You done good today. Kept your head. Helped the good guys. Consider yourself off duty."

I crossed my arms against his condescension. "This doesn't make us friends."

He met my stare in the mirror, placarded a phony smile over his lips. "Lady, I ain't had a friend in two years. Wouldn't know how to spell the word."

Then the corners of his mouth turned down, as did his gaze. The same look in the park. A hard-as-steel cop, an undercover rat accustomed to abuse and isolation—he'd as soon confess to killing that man than admit loneliness. How similar were our worlds, I realized. Our occupations required invisibility, our safety demanded concealment. Distance felt natural. Because getting too close to people got them killed.

I curled the robe over his shoulders. "Come with me. Rest now."

***

"Quick in, quick out. They'll never see me." Sam's voice was as thick with sleep as his lopsided stride.

I was marching him backwards through the kitchen faster than his feet could manage. "With those ribs, you won't make it down three flights of stairs, let alone ten city blocks."

Leftover lasagna and a sixteen-hour nap that rolled into the next day didn't count much toward a physical recovery, and his stumbling through the kitchen in my Cal boxer shorts looked even sillier than his plan to return to the arson site sounded. Not that I'd minded the vision of pure masculinity stomping around my apartment. I was reserved, not dead.

His fingers hooked the door frame of the front room, halting his retreat. "I'll catch a cab."

"You don't have any money on you."

"I'll hitchhike." He nodded, thinking he'd gotten the upper hand.

"Your thug buddy will be expecting you."

"Not at a crime scene crawling with cops." Sam's boyish grin shot down my fury.

"Then the cops will find you and blow your cover. You're not exactly inconspicuous with that hunch. Or stumbling around in your underwear."

Sam looked down, like he'd forgotten he was half-naked. The grin faded.

"Wherever and whatever you hid, Sam, it can wait."

"Not exactly." He rubbed his forehead. God only knew what type of evidence he'd risk his life for, but that impish grin told me I didn't want the details. "Hidden, yes. In a dumpster. The cops will search them all eventually. Or worse."

"Worse, as in your buddy gets there first."

"Worse." He squinted."As in no one gets there in time."

Then it dawned on me: dumpster, as in waste management.

"Collection day? Jesus, Sam."

"Hey, I was in a hurry not to get shot. And I didn't expect to sleep for two days."

"So let the cops find the evidence. I'll call in an anonymous tip."

"They get this, and we're all cooked." He bit his lip before elaborating about what I desperately wanted to know: why he trusted cops even less than I did. "Look, my partner's waiting for the handoff."

"So send your partner to do the pickup instead." By now I'd backed him up as far as the bed, and he'd pulled his gun from the nightstand drawer.

"Can't, we've gone dark." Checking the chamber seemed habitual for Sam, and he repeated the act twice while we talked. "That means—"

"I know what it means. Radio silence, no communications, no contact. My answer's still no." As if he needed
my
permission. "Walk out that door and you'll get yourself killed. And completely blow your case."

"Nothing like the threat of death to wake you up in the morning." He gathered the oversize Cal sweats I'd donated to the cause. "Anyway, doesn't matter what happens to me. They'll dump my body in a river. Or in a dumpster for irony. Nobody'll ever know."

I yanked the sweats from his hand. "
I'll
know."

Sam looked me in the eye for a lengthy moment.

Max barked and gave a play bow, as if Sam and I were playing tug of war.

"Not now," I snapped at my dog.

Sam glared at me on Max's behalf, and I slumped on the bed, guilt and frustration washing over me.

"It's just me now, Jules. This is my job. The fires won't stop. And a lot of folks will get killed if I don't go. One of me versus a hundred innocents. That's a no-brainer. And, frankly," he said, looking down at Max, "this job's all I got."

Great. Nothing spelled hopeless like a man with no one to live for.

I released the sweats to him. Sam finished dressing, zipping the hoodie in a prolonged slide, as I leaned onto my knees. God, what a coward I was. He'd dare ten blocks with broken ribs to save people he didn't know, when I couldn't dare five.

"I'll go." The words flew out my mouth so fast I hadn't time to consider their consequences. Yet what came to mind was not Bear Man attacking me, but that I'd just volunteered to roll around in a trash bin after two showers to remove yesterday's stench. "Nobody knows me. I can be inconspicuous."

"Absolutely not." With effort he pushed off the bed and hobbled to the kitchen. The meds had softened the pain, but he still grabbed for his ribs when he inhaled deeply.

"Easy in, easy out," I echoed.

"Nope and nope. Should've never gotten you involved in the first place."

"Your partner's still out there counting on you, Sam. Going solo you'll never make it to the scene, let alone back to safety." I ran to slip between Sam's hunched frame and the front door where he'd leaned, waiting for his lungs to catch up. "Look at it this way. Digging through the trash will be the least dangerous thing I've done all week."

"That's not funny." Dropping his gaze didn't hide the wash of shame on his face. As he unlatched the second deadbolt, I slapped my hand over the next lock.

"Like you said. There'll be cops swarming the place. I'll be safe."

"No, damn it." His fist slammed the wall, not hard, but just a few inches from my head. Interesting tactics. Dominance was a patience game in my experience; outlast your opponent and you win psychologically. So I stared him down. He put on a good show, and if I hadn't spent enough time around real brutes, I wouldn't have seen the difference.

"You're almost cute when you're mad," I said. "Almost."

He rubbed at his bloodshot eyes, a smile coming and going like it was too heavy to maintain. Then his rough voice. "This isn't a college class I'm skipping, Jules. It's my chance to stop these monsters. Lives are at stake. Not just my partner's." He looked for my comprehension. "They'll hunt you down as long as it takes. You've seen what they'll do. That's on me now. Tony's death is on me." Sam strained the tendons along his neck as he swallowed. "I knew we'd been blown as soon as Troy changed plans. But I couldn't stop us. I couldn't stop him. And I'm not letting that happen again. Not to you." The deep grooves in his forehead softened as his eyes canvassed my face.

I found myself losing that dominance footing fast and whipped my head in the other direction. "Troy fits. Big name for a big guy."

"Ah, shit." Sam swiped his mouth, realizing the unintentional reveal.

"You're slipping, Sam. Mentally and physically."

That got his hackles up. Every muscle in his arms and chest went rigid.

"We both know I'm better fit for this job," I continued quickly. "I can move faster, be more discreet, and not pass out. Face it, Detective, you're not fit for duty."

Anger flashed in those pretty green eyes of his. My words had been cruel, yes, but I'd done him a favor. I'd watched battle-hungry men kept off the field not by wounds or medics, but only by a CO handing down an incompetence judgment. No good soldier risks his team.

My hands landed timidly on Sam's shoulders, which didn't give an inch of their rigidity. I stared back into those dilated eyes. Then gave a shove, and he nearly fell on his ass, stumbling toward the stove like a drunk.

Sam steadied himself by latching onto the oven's towel bar. His gaze shot up, landed a hard blow on me. Nice try, I thought, but if I could handle battlefield generals and New York editors, park thugs and prying detectives, I could bear Sam throwing a tantrum.

"You're really nuts, lady."

"To hell with you. You're crippled and still trying to save the world." I glanced to where his hands gripped the towel bar to keep him upright. "Maybe you should take the oven with you."

He chewed the inside of his mouth in lieu of spitting insults, then rose up to his full height. Yeah, I'd seen that move before.
Poor bastard
. I folded my arms at my chest and watched his mental wheels spinning, calculating, conceding: I was his last chance.

A grim smile overtook his face as he shook his head. "You remind me of my partner. Only worse."

"Still one problem. I don't know what I'm looking for."

"Sure you do." Sam caught my questioning gaze. "Every journalist's favorite weapon: digital recorder. I couldn't wear a wire. They transmit a signal, and these guys are sophisticated. They would've picked up that signal day one, then put a bullet in the back of my head. Had to ditch the recorder when I smelled trouble." Sam leaned sideways, produced his gun. "You know how to shoot?"

I shrugged. If you called Coke cans in an Afghani field a shooting range, sure.

He stared at his weapon. No cop surrendered his gun. Not willingly.

"Not my style." I raised my hands to stop him. "Seriously, I'll only come home with one less foot."

"God, what am I thinking," he mumbled and rubbed his forehead.

"Stop worrying. I'm good at avoiding people, and Troy's not hard to spot in a crowd."

As I took up my keys, Sam cuffed my arm. "I hate this," he said. He couldn't meet my eyes, and I didn't want him to.

"Me too. Just promise me this case is worth it."

Promise me you're worth it.

CHAPTER 9

I held my breath, closed my eyes, and tried not to puke in the back seat of the taxi.

When Sam explained that the arson site sat on E. 108th, I'd nearly choked. That was the street that cut through Central Park West, where Luke had dropped me off near Park West Café & Deli for an early edition of the
Times
. He'd driven ahead, to the 110th Street circle, doubled back, and pulled to the curb to wait. With the newspaper under my arm, I'd hurried toward the car because he was blocking traffic. Then the world exploded, and he was gone.