The Promise He Made Her (18 page)

And it still failed.

“The thing is, it wasn't her eyes that had been closed. It had been my own. Because the life of a cop—it's not just dangerous—it's all-consuming. There are just times when the job has to come first. When saving someone's life is more important than a birthday party. Even if it's your wife's. Or your own.”

“Parties can happen even if they aren't on time.”

He looked at her. And didn't say anything for so long she thought they were done.

“I was on patrol with my sergeant.”

Bloom laid a hand on Lucy.

“A call came in about two guys holding up a convenience store out by the highway. There was an old man and a young girl inside, and employees whose lives were at risk. I responded to the call per my sergeant's orders as he drove. We were first on the scene. Went inside. He had me take the long way around the shelves to come up from the back of the store while he took the front. As soon as the first perp saw his gun, he put his hands up. My sergeant was already cuffing him as I came up behind the other one—the guy we thought was the leader. I had him on the ground and cuffed without incident.”

Bloom's stomach churned. Something went wrong. He wouldn't be telling her this otherwise.

She'd said she'd need to know the circumstances behind his father's death and sensed that she was getting them.

Wanting that man on the floor in cuffs to stay right there until backup arrived and Sam was safe, Bloom held her breath. Had his father heard the call, too? Maybe he died in a car accident on the way to what turned out to be a routine call for his only son?

“My father had heard the call come in. He and his partner were close by...”

It was like he'd read her mind. Or she'd read his...

His next words, “They were second on the scene,” brought dread to her heart.

“His partner covered the back of the building while my father came inside to see if we needed any help. That was when a third guy came out of the bathroom. My sergeant was dead on the floor before I knew we had company. I'd have been next except that my father tackled me.”

Sam swallowed. His chin quivered as he swallowed again. “He knocked me out of the way of the bullet.”

And took the bullet himself.

Bloom didn't need Sam to tell her. She could feel what had happened.

And knew why Sam made all of his personal life choices based on guilt. He was drowning in it.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

B
LOOM
TURNED
HER
HEAD
. If she hadn't done that he might have saved himself from another case of the guilts. But she did. And he didn't.

She turned back toward him, her brown eyes filled not only with the compassion and understanding that came with her job, but with...acceptance. She wasn't appalled by the mess he was.

“I want to kiss you.”
WTF?
A guy didn't announce that.

“I've been thinking about it, too.”

He nodded. Looked at her lips. “You been thinking about it a lot?”

The way she focused completely on him, existed right there in that moment with only him, made him hot. Sexually hot. Uncomfortably hot.

“Yeah.” She wasn't acting at all shy about it, either.

His penis was letting him know it wasn't going to lie low for long.

“Yeah, me, too,” he said. But he didn't touch her.

He couldn't. For her sake. He'd already broken one promise to her. He couldn't risk breaking another.

“A kiss isn't a promise,” he said out loud.

“That's right.”

He still didn't kiss her. Regardless of how strong Bloom was, she was also vulnerable. He was her safety net.

She was afraid. He was her protector.

He wouldn't stop at a kiss. And Bloom would want more than just sex. It was that more that stopped him.

He couldn't give anything more. Not again. His father had made the mistake once. And so had he, thinking he could learn from the old man and do it better.

He hadn't. Because he couldn't.

He stood and held out his hand to her. “We should get some rest,” he said and, as he had once before, walked her down the hall to her room.

She didn't go in immediately, as she had before. He opened the door for her. Stood there waiting for her to close it in his face. Needed her to do so.

Had to have the finality so he could get to bed. So he'd be sharp for whatever the next day brought.

“Is it because I'm a victim in one of your cases?” she asked.

Why he wouldn't take things any further between them? He knew what she was asking. And was tempted to let her down easy.

He'd already made a false promise to her. What would one more hurt?

“No.” The truth hurt, too.

She reached up, touched her lips to his. And he kissed her. His mouth was open, with his tongue searching. Trembling beneath her soft touch. Drowning in her taste. Weak at the knees, he barely withstood the onslaught.

And then she was gone.

Leaving him wanting more. So much more.

And knowing she'd done the right thing.

* * *

A
FTER
A
WEEKEND
of running searches and putting out enquiries, Monday morning brought some answers. All three of the men he'd liked the previous week, including the two with sisters who fit the description of his impersonated guard, had alibis for Saturday night.

The in-laws who were now first on his list of suspects still had not been located, but he figured they'd show up soon. Based on his rough profile of them, they weren't going to let their grandson get away from them.

And it looked like he might have a positive hit in Jean Cordoba, a student in Professor Ken Freelander's Effective Thinking class two years before. It appeared that Jean could be related to someone with significant standing in one of LA's eastside gangs.

While it wasn't immediately clear to him whether Jean was male or female, or whether or not the gang leader's relative named Jean was the same one who'd been enrolled at the university, what was clear was that this mysterious Jean appeared to have dropped out of circulation at the same time that Kenneth Freelander was convicted.

And the gang in which the elder Cordoba had so much influence was the same one that had been linked to Freelander in prison.

He might not have his suspect in Santa Raquel nailed yet, but he was closing in on Freelander's drug charge. He could just feel it. So much so that he changed into jeans, a T-shirt and hiking boots. Mussed up his hair so that the too-long strands were messier than usual. Strapped on his off-duty weapon and took a drive to LA late that morning. He didn't find either Jean or Juan Cordoba. But he found a couple of younger gang members.

Ones who didn't make him for a cop.

Ones who didn't know Jean. But they knew Juan. They didn't know where he was, though.

Last they knew he was meeting some rich white dude. A teacher just out of jail. The one kid heard his older brother talking about it.

“You him?” the kid asked, and Sam just shrugged and thanked them for their time.

He walked the few blocks back to the bowling alley where he'd left his car parked.

Freelander had just been handed to him by a kid who couldn't have been more than ten.

* * *

B
LOOM
DIDN
'
T
GET
home until almost nine on Monday night. She'd stayed late to meet with The Lemonade Stand clients who weren't scheduled for regular appointments that day. Over and over she listened to them talk about how the violence against Bloom and the Stand was affecting them. Some were angry. Some weakened, thinking they should just give in and go home. Guilt filled the room. And every single one of them was scared.

Over and over she told them what her mind knew. That it wasn't their fault. That whoever was behind the attacks was bullying them. That she and Lila and the people at the Stand were not going to give in. That giving in was the worst thing they could do.

That they were up against one of those times when they had to make a choice. Take control of a life, or give that control up to another.

Not everyone had a good session. But she didn't think she'd lost any of them.

Chantel had called to say that, due to the lateness of the hour, Sam would be meeting her after work to follow her home.

In spite of the way the evening had ended the night before, she was looking forward to seeing him.

And was nervous, too.

* * *

S
AM
DEBATED
WITH
himself about how much he was going to tell Bloom about Freelander. He'd already shared far more with her than he normally did with victims in his ongoing investigations.

But then he wasn't normally sleeping under the same roof with his victims.

Or trying to make good on a promise he'd made.

Most of his victims weren't geniuses with minds that figured things out whether he told them or not, either.

But, like most of his victims, Bloom was emotionally vulnerable.

Unlike the rest, she didn't seem to know that.

He'd already been home, fed Lucy, had let her out and changed back into his pants, shirt and tie, and jacket. He'd combed his hair. He didn't want his LA street attire to raise questions in the event he opted not to talk about his day.

He didn't want to say anything until he knew for sure. He'd already let her down once, after all.

On the other hand, he wanted her to know that that part of her nightmare—which he was pretty sure was the biggest part to her—was almost over.

There'd still been no sign of the in-laws he was after. But no further appearances by their mysterious female guard imposter, either.

Chantel had shown the photo they had of the guard to the young woman at the Stand whose in-laws wanted her son. She said that with makeup and her hair pulled back it could be her mother-in-law. Maybe. The hair color and size was right. She'd never seen the woman without her hair in her face. Had never seen her with makeup, either. In the end she'd admitted that she'd only ever met her in-laws one time.

She'd been pregnant before they'd ever even known she existed. And they blamed her for ruining their son's life. Even before he'd ended it.

Deciding that was the part he was going to tell her, Sam unlocked the front door, waited until Lucy bounded forward to greet them, a sign that all was well, and then had Bloom precede him in.

“You want some wine?” he asked. He sure as hell needed a beer.

As good as the day had been—as great as it had been—he still hated that he'd worked over ten-year-old gang members.

Bloom hadn't answered him about the wine. She stood, her purse on the table beside her, saying nothing.

And looking drop-dead gorgeous in a slim red skirt and jacket. That colorful silk scarf tied at her neck made him want to just take it off. Run it over her naked skin.

And his.

The workday was done. And her kiss from the night before clearly was not. He was dismayed at the confirmation.

“I've got some news.” Was he bribing her to sit with him? To have something to drink?

“I want the wine, Sam,” she told him. “I was already planning on it. I was just trying to decide whether to change out of my suit, as I'd intended when I thought I was drinking alone, or keeping it on. If you have news, I'll keep it on.”

“Yes,” he said, heading toward the refrigerator. “Definitely keep it on.”

His mouth was dry. His penis hard.

They were going to have to talk. About more than the investigations.

* * *

W
HEN
S
AM
HANDED
Bloom the small, still-capped bottle of wine, his fingers brushed against hers.

She couldn't do it. Not that night. Not so soon after the kiss that should never have happened. A reaction, not a choice.

Not as tired as she was.

Not after he'd made it obvious that he needed her to stay fully and professionally dressed. As though he didn't trust himself to handle the temptation of Bloom in more comfortable clothes. Looser clothes. Easier to maneuver beneath clothes.

“You know what, Sam? I think I'm going to take this to my room, after all,” she said, looping the strap of her purse over her shoulder. She was making a decision before she could do something stupid like react again.

“We need to talk,” he was saying to her back as she headed toward the hall.

“Call me. You have my number.” She didn't slow her step. Not even when Lucy jumped down and followed her. She went into the bedroom, closed the door in the dog's face and dropped her purse.

She was shaking.

But she'd made it.

* * *

W
ITH
HER
PURSE
on the floor at her feet, Bloom opened her wine. Took a small sip. She stood up straight and took a deep breath. And then, picking up her purse, moved over to the bed. Wineglass on the nightstand, she reached in her purse for her phone. And she waited.

She wasn't changing until he called her.

Five minutes later she'd taken another small sip or two of wine, but that was all. She hadn't moved from the side of the bed.

And she hadn't spoken to Sam.

What was it he'd had to tell her? Something about her case, obviously. She'd been rash. Less than adultlike, running away from him like that.

But if she'd stayed...

She jumped when a knock sounded on her door. She stared at it. At the handle, as though expecting it to move. She knew it wouldn't. He would never invade her privacy that way. But she was fascinated with that old gold handle.

“Bloom?”

She had to answer him. He was supposed to be protecting her. He'd be worried if she didn't answer...

And she was acting like she didn't trust herself. Like she doubted her ability to take care of herself.

After standing, Bloom crossed the carpet and opened the door.

* * *

B
EER
BOTTLE
IN
hand for...false courage, he guessed, Sam forced himself to look at the woman who was driving him nuts. “We need to talk.”

She didn't let go of the door. She held it with both hands. “Okay.”

“If you need me to leave...need to arrange to have Chantel move in...”

“Of course I don't,” she said so quickly he didn't have time to tamp down the pleasure that surged through him. Or the relief.

And their problems were only beginning. “So...I imagined the way you ran from me back there?” He motioned down the hall with his bottle.

“No.” He knew he hadn't. Just as he'd known she'd be honest with him. Bloom was as black-and-white as they came.

A self-honesty, he knew, born from having her faith in herself, in her ability to discern, obliterated by a man who'd used her love for him against her in the cruelest way possible.

He swallowed. He had to be honest with her. More than anything, deception would hurt her.

“I have a burning desire to have sex with you.” For come-on lines it might have worked in a whorehouse. He wasn't sure. He'd only ever been in one to make arrests.

“Okay.” Bloom hadn't even blinked.