Deputy Sheriff Luis Enriqué Spinoza groped for his phone in the dark. His fingers finally closed around it and he managed to punch the On button. "Yeah?"
"Riqué?"
The rasping voice in his ear made him squint at the number on the phone's Caller ID. His sleepy brain struggled to separate dream from reality.
The phone confirmed it. This was no dream. It really was Shannon. Nobody but her and his sister had ever called him Riqué without consequence.
"Azulita?" It slipped out. The nickname he'd given her when they were in love. "Little blue" because of her eyes. He cleared his throat and plowed his fingers through his hair, working on waking up. "Shannon?"
"Riqué, you've got to help me. I can't—"
He kicked the sheets away from his bare legs and planted his feet on the floor. "Shannon? What is it?" Her voice sounded strange—terrified. Another glance at his phone told him it was 4:30 in the morning. "Where are you?"
She sobbed quietly. "Please, Riqué. Please get here. I don't know what to do." Her voice was shrill. She was quickly escalating toward hysteria.
"Shannon!" he snapped. He didn't know what had happened, but he knew for damn sure she was about to lose control. "Shannon, listen to me. Take a deep breath."
He propped the phone precariously between his shoulder and ear as he pulled on his jeans. Just as he got them up over his butt he dropped the phone. He grabbed it in time to hear her shaky sigh.
"Okay now," he said soothingly. "Tell me what's wrong." He tried zipping up his jeans with one hand, but he couldn't move the zipper more than a couple of inches.
"Riqué, I swear I didn't do it. Please hurry."
A chill slid like an ice cube down his spine. "Didn't do what?"
He heard another sob and then a silence that went on a beat too long. This was bad.
"I didn't kill him."
It took Luis exactly forty-three minutes to get to Garland, Texas, from his rental house in Justice. He'd spent about twenty of those minutes on his cell with Shannon, forcing her to concentrate on mundane things like telling him the directions to her house, and trying to understand why she refused to call the police. He tried not to think about how much trouble he was going to be in by the time the sun came up.
He'd walked out on Sheriff Matheson in the middle of a murder investigation. And he'd done it by leaving a voice mail message, rather than talking with her in person.
She and Texas Ranger Sloan McKinney were well on their way to solving the murder of Sarah Wallace. He told himself they wouldn't need him, knowing that was just a lame excuse, knowing that anybody who put personal issues above the job should look for a new career. And for him, Shannon St. John definitely qualified as a personal issue.
What would Zane McKinney think if he saw him now? The Ranger Lieutenant had written him a commendation based on his performance in the initial phase of the Sarah Wallace murder investigation.
As he whipped into the entrance of Shannon's apartment complex, he couldn't miss the touches that screamed money. The twin fountains at the front gate. The impeccable landscaping. She'd come a long way from the modest house next door to his folks where she and her brother Dave had grown up.
Luis had always thought he'd done very well for himself. The son of an illegal immigrant had become deputy sheriff in Justice, Texas, a town that put a lot of value on ancestry and family.
But judging by where she lived, Shannon gave a new definition to the words "done well."
He shook his head and uttered a sharp little laugh as he pulled his Mustang Cobra into the turnaround in front of her apartment building. Her parents had known what they were doing when they'd talked her out of marrying him.
The last time he'd seen her was two years ago, at a benefit concert to raise money for women's shelters in Garland. She'd been dressed to the nines and on the arm of an arrogant prick who hadn't even bothered to shake Luis's hand.
Enough with the trip down memory lane.
He studied the layout of the apartments. How should he approach the crime scene? The building had three floors. Each floor had a breezeway that divided four apartments, two on each side. Judging by the layout and Shannon's apartment number, hers was at the rear, on the ground floor.
He didn't want to be seen entering her apartment, and for all he knew she had someone with her. So he turned around and left.
A few minutes later he'd parked his car in a wooded area behind the complex and had approached Shannon's apartment from the back. He checked his weapon and secured it in his paddle holster, then he slipped along the outer wall of her apartment to a small window, presumably the bathroom. It was unlocked.
He raised the window silently. Then he grabbed the inside top frame and slipped through feet first.
As soon as his boots landed on the floor he froze, listening. Nada. Good. A deep breath filled his head with the scent of gardenias. Shannon's favorite scent. A kaleidoscope of memories fluttered through his brain like butterflies. Some good—some not.
The bathroom was dark and so was the hall. Dim light filtered out from the kitchen. He drew his weapon and slid along the wall, alert for anything that looked or sounded unusual.
As he approached the kitchen, he stayed in the shadows as much as he could. If Shannon had been forced to call him, to lure him here, he wanted to be ready.
Even after twelve years, there might still be a few guys in Garland who'd just as soon shoot him as wave at him. He'd held his own against the gang element in his old neighborhood back then, which labeled him as a "coconut"—a slur that meant Mexican (brown) on the outside and white on the inside.
And the timing was right. His name had been mentioned in the press as one of the deputy sheriffs involved in the Sarah Wallace murder investigation in Justice.
A sudden noise and his reflexes flattened him against the wall. Cautiously, he sidled a little closer. Someone was in the kitchen. Was it Shannon, and was she alone? He drew his weapon.
Shannon stood in the kitchen, waiting for Riqué, forcing herself to stay still. She wanted more than anything to run—to just keep running and never look back.
She looked down at her hands. The stains were black in the dim glow of the light over the stove. She held them out in front of her and shivered.
So much blood.
The panic crawled up her throat again. She swallowed and lowered her hands to her sides. She didn't want to look at her discolored hands or blouse. So she stared out the kitchen window and prayed that Riqué would hurry.
She heard a soft rustling behind her. She stiffened, but before she could react, strong hands grabbed her and pinned her against a rock-hard body.
Her panicked brain could only think of one thing.
The dead man in her bed had come to life.
Shannon tried to scream, tried to throw herself to one side, away from the man's punishing grip, but a leather glove clamped over her mouth. Terror overtook her brain.
She fought for her life—kicking, wriggling, until her attacker jerked her up and sandwiched her between his granite-hard body and the refrigerator door.
"Shannon," a familiar voice growled. "Stop it. It's me."
Riqué.
All the adrenaline that had surged through her veins drained out of her. Riqué was here. Everything would be all right now. She collapsed against him, trusting him to hold her.
His arms tightened and she smelled the familiar, comforting scent of leather. His old leather jacket, the one he'd always worn back in college. She hadn't cried yet, but the feel of him, the knowledge that he'd come to her without question, brought stinging tears to her eyes.
"Oh, Riqué," she whispered.
Then he pushed her away. She had to catch herself to keep from falling. His face was set, his black eyes narrowed as he looked her over. In his right hand was a big, menacing gun.
This wasn't the Riqué she remembered. This man was big, authoritative, all business. He filled up the room. "Riqué—?"
He lifted a hand. "Shh."
"How did you get in?"
"Through the bathroom window."
"Through— Why?"
"I didn't want anybody to see me," he said. His tone was irritated. "Where is it?"
She felt like she was in a fog. Where was it? Then she realized he meant the dead body.
"In the—in the bedroom."
His narrow gaze grew darker. He glanced around. "You have a room without windows?"
She gestured behind her. "The living room curtains are drawn."
He grabbed her elbow and led her out of the kitchen. "Where are the lights?" he growled.
She turned on a lamp, then met his gaze.
"My God, Shannon!" He stared at her, his eyes wide, his dark slashes of brows raised. His gaze swept over her, from the top of her head down her bloodstained blouse. He grabbed her wrists and turned her hands over. "Are you hurt?"
Her head felt like a balloon, her vision went black around the edges. "It's not my blood," she muttered as the room began to tilt. She grasped at his forearms.
Luis sat her down in a chair. "Stay there."
"Riqué, I didn't—"
"Stop talking." He shot her a narrow glance, and then turned on his heel.
Shannon clasped her hands together in her lap, idly noticing that streaks of blood were rubbing off on her new silk skirt. It didn't matter. The blood was everywhere else. Why should her skirt be spared?
She looked up as Riqué's broad back disappeared through the door into the short hallway.
She stood, clinging to the back of the chair until her vision cleared, and then followed him. She steeled herself against his reaction. She knew what he was about to see. She'd already seen it.
Seen it, hah! She'd woken up next to it, with the knife—her knife—clutched in her hands. Riqué would believe her. He had to. Because if he didn't, she would go to prison for murder.
The sight that greeted Luis when he stepped through the door to Shannon's bedroom nearly caused him to gag.
The man sprawled on the bed was dressed in a custom-fitted tuxedo with the bowtie askew and the shirt partially unbuttoned. And he was dead. His eyes stared sightlessly upward. His mouth was open in a silent scream. A second bloody mouth yawed under the first where his throat had been slit from ear to ear. Blood was everywhere, its metallic scent filling the air.
"¡Madre de Dios!" he whispered, absently crossing himself. "Oh Azulita, what did you do?"
A small moan behind him told him she'd heard him. He immediately drew upon his law enforcement training. No emotion. Just the facts.
He held up a hand without looking at her. He didn't want her anywhere close until he'd examined the scene. "Go back into the living room and wait for me."
She didn't move. He dragged his gaze away from the man's distorted face and rounded on her.
"Why didn't you call the police?" He heard the unchecked anger in his voice and saw her recoil, but he couldn't afford to care about hurting her feelings right now. Right now she had a dead man in her bed, and to his everlasting regret, she'd involved him.
Even after all these years, he still hadn't grown the cojones to stop running each time she called? "Well?" he prodded.
"I couldn't. Look at me. Look at him. Who would believe that I didn't kill him?"
She was right. She was covered with his blood. Her blouse was unbuttoned almost to the waist, and her breasts were spilling out of the little bra she had on. Her curly hair was wild.
"Right now I can't think of a soul," he said. "But that doesn't answer my question. Whether you killed him or not isn't the issue. The issue is how you're going to explain waiting—" he glanced at his watch "—over an hour before calling the police."
"Riqué, you don't understand—"
"You bet your life I don't."
"Look." She started toward the bed but he grabbed her arm.
"Don't go near that bed. You've already contaminated the crime scene. I don't want more of your prints all over it."
Her blue eyes glinted and she jerked her arm out of his grip. "This is important, Riqué."
He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Fine. Be my guest. Frankly, I'm not sure how much more damage you can do."
He watched with a mixture of anger and curiosity as she picked up the corner of a blood-smeared sheet and flung it back. Then she turned and looked at him, her face pale, her mouth tight.
Lying on the sheet next to the dead man was a blood-covered knife. Crap! How much worse could this get? "Is it yours?"
She nodded.
Luis's heart felt like it hit the floor. His last hope that this could somehow be explained faded. He had no doubt that he was looking at the knife that had killed—
"Shannon, who is he?"
She hadn't taken her eyes off him. Even when he gestured toward the dead man, she didn't look back at her bed. "You've met him. He was with me at that benefit concert, remember?"
Anger ratcheted up inside him. "I didn't get his name," he said shortly.
"It's Brendan Lockhart."
"Lockhart? Not campaign-manager-for-Senator-Mosby Lockhart?"
She nodded miserably.
He cursed. "What was he doing here?"
"Riqué, I swear—"
"Save it Shannon. Just answer the question. And do me a favor. Don't call me Riqué. I'm Deputy Sheriff Luis Spinoza—at least until Sheriff Matheson gets my voice mail message and fires me. Riqué doesn't exist—not anymore. I grew up." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"I don't know how he got here."
He studied her. He'd always been able to tell when she was lying. Like when she'd told him that it was her parents who didn't think they should get married. It was in her eyes. Her azul eyes.
Shannon clasped her hands together and held Riqué's gaze.
Okay, so she wasn't lying about this. "What happened?"
"I just…he just…"
"Come on, Azulita. I watch you on the news. You have no trouble talking when it's propaganda about your candidate. Pretend I'm the news."
She glared at him, but her lower lip trembled. She took a deep breath. "I went to a campaign dinner this evening—last night. I didn't want to go, but as Brendan's assistant and a paid staffer for Senator Mosby's campaign, I had no choice."
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and her eyes glimmered with unshed tears.
It was all Luis could do to stop himself from pulling her close and promising her everything would be all right. But he knew as well as she did that nothing about this was going to be all right for a long time, maybe never. He crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the dresser.
She swallowed, then continued. "I had a couple of drinks during Mosby's speech. Maybe three, counting the champagne. But they hit me hard. The bartender must have been mixing them really strong. I got drowsy and queasy. The last thing I remember I was walking down the hall toward the ladies' room. I felt like I was going to throw up."
"You woke up in your bed?"
"In Brendan's car."
"Brendan. So Brendan drove you home?"
She nodded. "I guess. I don't remember much."
"You two were dating?"
Shannon's face turned pink. "No!" she snapped. "I mean, we'd go to official events together. It looks good for the campaign."
"Right," Luis said tightly. He shook his head. What Shannon did or who she dated was none of his business. "So you woke up in your bed, fully clothed, and found Lockhart like this?"
"You don't believe me."
"Oh, I believe you believe what you're saying. I'd think it would be hard to forget who brought you home and put you to bed, not to mention who slit your boyfriend's throat."
"He's not my boyfriend."
He felt like time was getting away from him. He looked at his watch. Had he only been here five minutes? "Who did you call before you called me?"
"Nobody."
"Nobody? You didn't call your brother?"
"They're expecting a baby any day now. Anyhow, you were the first person I thought of."
The first person she thought of/ Luis wished that was the reason Shannon had called him. But he knew better. It was a lot more likely that she figured that he'd be her best bet to help her out of this predicament. He wished to God she was wrong.
"Okay. Let's assume you didn't kill Lockhart--"
"Assume? Assume?" Her voice rose nearly an octave.
"Come on, Shannon. I'm just trying to understand what happened here. Where is your car? You said Lockhart drove you home?"
Her eyes widened. "I think it's outside. I think he was driving my car."
Just as she spoke, a loud banging thundered through the apartment. Someone was at the door.
Shannon grabbed his arm. "Riqué," she whispered desperately.
He looked at her, gauging the terror in her eyes. Then he looked toward the front door. In a split-second he made up his mind.
His career was toast the moment he'd answered the phone. He should have insisted she call 911. He should have called them instead of rushing over here like a knight to her rescue. He should have, but he hadn't.
"I'll go to prison," she said. "That's my knife. When I woke up I was holding it."
The banging got louder. "Police! Open the door now!"
Luis grabbed Shannon's hand. "Come on." He pushed her ahead of him into the bathroom and locked the door behind them. After a quick glance out the window, he gestured to her.
"Grab the window sill," he commanded. "I'll lift you out."
"What about you?"
"Right behind you." He heard a thud echo through the apartment. The police were breaking down the front door. "Move it!" he growled, putting his hands around her waist and lifting her out the window.
As she gained purchase, he shifted his hands and pushed on her bottom, telling himself how dumb he was to notice her firm butt and thighs when they could be stopped by the police at any second.
A crash and the sound of wood splintering sent his flight-or-fight response into high gear. He shoved her through the window and propelled himself up and out. He landed on the hard-packed ground and rolled to his feet just inches from her as she huffed and scooted out of the way.
"Run!" He grabbed her hand and yanked her up. "That way." He sprinted for the copse of trees where he'd parked his car.
Behind them he heard shouts. A glance back revealed flashlight beams cutting through the pre-dawn, scanning the empty lot they'd just sprinted across. The back of his neck prickled, as if he could feel the circles of light.
He heard someone shout "went out the window" just as he and Shannon crashed through the trees. Throwing open his car door he dove in, sinking the key into the starter and turning it in one smooth motion. The engine rumbled quietly. Shannon opened the passenger door and dove inside.
As he backed out and peeled off, sirens broke through the early morning quiet. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his hands cramped. Shannon fastened her seat belt, then turned to look through the rear window.
"Do you think they saw us?"
Luis didn't answer. He was too busy checking the rear view mirror as he pulled out onto the highway, driving north. He had no idea where he was going. He just knew he had to get them as far away from Shannon's apartment as possible. There was something weirdly wrong about this whole situation.
He glanced over at Shannon, whose face was white as a sheet and whose blood-stained right hand was clenched around the safety bar.
"Who the hell called the cops?"
"I don't know. I don't know anything." Shannon put her hands to her chilled, clammy cheeks. "I feel like I'm in a nightmare."
"Welcome to my world," Luis said wryly.
"Maybe someone saw you climb in the bathroom window?"
He shook his head. "There would have been an officer waiting for us when we climbed out." He paused to make a turn. "Nope. Somebody called them about Lockhart. Somebody wanted the police to find you there with the body."
For an instant, his words didn't make any sense. Then finally it sunk in. "Someone's trying to frame me?"
"Question is who? Who wanted you and Lockhart out of the way?"
"Nobody."
"It's got to be someone. You didn't call anyone but me, right?"
"Oh my God Riqué. I forced you to run from the police. You'll lose your job won't you?"
He shook his head. "You didn't force me."
She noticed he didn't answer her question about his job. "Riqué, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you."
"Quiet. I need to think."
Chastised by his tone, Shannon sat quietly, watching him.
Riqué. Luis. No. He could never be Luis to her. He'd been Riqué ever since she could remember. He and Dave had complained about her hanging around them when they were kids. Two years younger than her brother, she'd been afflicted with hero worship for him and Riqué. But Riqué had never noticed her, except as Dave's annoying little sister.
Until the day he'd swept in from college and escorted her to her senior prom. He'd saved her life that night and made her the envy of all the senior girls. It wasn't until later that she found out her brother Dave had arranged it. But by then it was too late. She was smitten.
A high-pitched wail rang in her ears. Sirens. Riqué's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel and he kept glancing in the rear view mirror.
"Are they after us?"
He shrugged. "Who knows…?" He yanked the steering wheel to the right, so hard she'd have been in his lap if not for her seat belt. Straightening, he sped through several lights. The last one was red when they passed under it. After another turn, he pulled up to the office of a seedy motel.
He jumped out of the car and rounded the front of it without looking at her. In no time he was back, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket and dangling a key from his index finger.
Shannon didn't say a word as he drove around to the rear of the motel and parked. He got out and unlocked the door to a ground floor room. Then he opened the passenger door for her.
"Come on. Quick. I don't want anybody to see the bloodstains on your clothes." He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, leaning down as if whispering to her or kissing her ear while he guided her into the room.
He threw the night latch and the deadbolt, and made sure the light-blocking curtains didn't even let in a glow.
Then he turned those dark eyes on her. "Time to spill it, Shannon. I need to know everything."
She swallowed. "I need to wash up—"
"Everything. Now."
Riqué wanted to know everything, and he deserved to. But Shannon didn't dare tell him everything. He'd be furious. Worse, he'd find out what a pathetic wimp she still was.
She glanced around the motel room. The feeble light from the lamp drew eerie shadows on the walls. The corners were dark as pitch, yet at the same time they seemed alive and teeming. There was a smell of stale cigarettes and whisky in the air.
She turned and met Riqué's dark gaze. "I don't know where to start…what to say."
"Start at the beginning. What's your relationship with Lockhart?" Riqué crossed his arms. He propped a shoulder against the wall. His leather jacket, white T-shirt and faded jeans made him look dangerous and sexy, reminding her of the boy she'd known ten years ago. Only now his face held character and his eyes glinted with a worldly knowledge he hadn't had back then.
"I met Brendan when I went to work for Senator Mosby three years ago." She looked at her hands, rubbing at the streaks of Brendan's blood, trying to flake it off. "We went out a couple of times, but…" She shrugged.
"Were you sleeping with him?" His voice was harsh, clipped.
Did it bother him that she might have slept with Brendan? She shook her head without looking up. "He wanted to. He got very insistent—scary—the last time. I had to tell him to leave. He was pissed. He called me a…you know…a tease."
"When did that happen?"
She looked up and met his lethal gaze, but she couldn't hold it. His eyes bored into her, burning like a black laser.
"Tonight," she whispered.
"What?"
"Tonight. It happened tonight."
"So now you remember?" Riqué straightened and shrugged out of his jacket. He tossed it across the foot of the bed.
"Riqué, I'm not lying to you. I just now remembered our argument. I woke up in the passenger seat of my car and he was driving. He helped me inside and tried—"
She paused, not daring to look at him as she went on. "He pushed me down on my bed and tried to undress me."
Anger, hot and immediate, flashed through him. The SOB had attacked her. If he weren't already dead, Luis could kill him himself.
"I was so sleepy, I almost felt like I was drugged. It was so hard to stop him. He just kept pushing my hands away." She clutched at the gaping front of her blouse.
Drugged. "God, Azulita, did he hurt you?"
She held up her hands in a defensive gesture. "I finally pushed him off me. I think I told him to get his clammy doughy hands off me."
"Good for you."
"The last thing I remember was the front door slamming."
So Lockhart slammed out of her apartment, or did someone else force their way in? The idea of her being left there, helpless, maybe even drugged, sent icy fear and hot fury through his veins.
"You're telling me you went to sleep and left your front door unlocked?"
Shannon's body trembled. In the past couple of minutes her face had drained of color. She continued to rub at her fingers and palms as if the most important thing in her world was getting rid of the last specks of blood that clung to them.
"I was just so relieved that he was gone. The door slamming was the last thing I remember."
"That's an improvement," Luis drawled, feeling mean. "Earlier the last thing you remembered was heading toward the bathroom at the convention center."
"I'm sorry. It's coming back to me in pieces."
"Think, Shannon. Did you hear anything that might suggest a third person in the room?"
"I heard something—he said something—" She pressed her lips together until they were white at the corners. "Riqué, I think I'm going to—" She jumped up, her hand over her mouth.
He stepped out of her way as she made a beeline for the bathroom. He heard her retching and coughing. Once the worst of it was over, he peeked in. She was on her knees in front of the toilet, her head bent, her forehead resting against the rim.
He grabbed a washcloth and wet it in the sink. "Hey," he said softly. "Azulita, let me help you up. You shouldn't be down there."
She coughed as she took the cloth. She pressed it against her face as he caught her under the arms and lifted her. His fingers pressed against the firm softness of the sides of her breasts. His whole body tightened and an unexpected heat in his groin told him that in about five seconds he was going to have a hard-on.
He clenched his teeth and reminded himself that she'd just puked. Unfortunately, his body didn't care. "You okay?" He heard the tight control in his voice.
She nodded. "Give me a minute," she rasped.
He got out of the bathroom, lecturing himself.
She's a murder suspect who's covered with blood and just puked her guts out. And she didn't care enough ten years ago to defy her parents and marry you. For all you know she killed Lockhart and is setting you up to give her an alibi or take the fall for murder. This is not sexy.
His body pointed out that no matter what she'd done, she'd always been and would always be sexy to him.
"Riqué?" Her voice was hoarse.
"Yeah?" He wished to hell she wouldn't call him that. And he wished he could stop thinking of her as his azulita. "Little Blue" might have been appropriate years ago, when she was eighteen and he was twenty and they were in the oblivious blush of young love. But now she was a member of Senator Mosby's campaign, assistant to the campaign manager, with her own staff and the promise of a prestigious position after the election—if she didn't get convicted of her boss's murder.
Speaking of murder… He looked at the ancient television on the dresser. He didn't see a remote, so he pressed the On switch. A light flashed, then the screen went black.
Riqué cursed in Spanish. He wanted to see what the local news was saying about the Lockhart's murder. He was sure someone was providing sound bites and condolences for the Lockhart family. He clicked the TV again, but nothing happened.
Shannon stepped out of the bathroom, showing him her hands. "I have to take a shower. I've got Brendan's blood all over me."
He frowned. There was no way to preserve the evidence on her hands. He pulled his T-shirt off over his head and tossed it to her. "Here. Wear this and leave your clothes outside the door. Evidence. I'm going out. I'll find you something to wear."
Shannon clutched the washcloth in one hand and Riqué's T-shirt in the other. Her stomach turned upside down. "You're leaving me here? Alone? Can't I go with you?"
Riqué shook his head. "I won't be gone long. The TV doesn't work. I want to listen to the police scanner, see what they're saying about Lockhart and you. And we need something to eat. We're probably going to have to stay here all day."
He reached for his jacket and shrugged it on over his naked shoulders. Shoulders she'd touched and kissed years ago, in another lifetime. His skin gleamed like old gold against the scarred leather.
She squeezed his T-shirt as he grabbed his keys. "Lock the deadbolt and throw the night latch. If anything happens—anything—call my cell. I'll be back in an hour. Take a nap." He sent her a half-smile as he slipped out the door.
"Lock it, Azulita." His soft voice carried through the door. "I'll be back soon."
Shannon took a shaky breath as she threw the deadbolt and the night latch.
She heard his car start up. Then she sank onto the bed and brought his T-shirt to her nose. The scent of soap and bleach and a hint of leather made her pulse race. Riqué's T-shirts had always smelled warm and clean. To her, it smelled like love.
Luis turned up the volume on the police scanner. Most of the chatter was banter, with a call here and there for a domestic dispute or a drive-off at a gas station. He glanced at his watch. After six. Not even two hours since Shannon had called him.
He cruised down Main Street, looking for a fast food place that didn't specialize in grease or stale taco shells, while keeping an eye out for a police vehicle. There wasn't much chance of finding designer clothes in this part of Garland. Newsstands, bodegas and old buildings with boarded up windows.
He pulled into a drug store parking lot. Hadn't he seen T-shirts in drug stores? With any luck, he could find something for Shannon to wear and something they could eat.
A quick trek down the aisles yielded a rack of T-shirts with rude sayings on them in Spanish. He passed up ones that read Mí No Puta, Pero Mí Fácil, and Tráteme Labios. Finally he found a little hot-pink one that read Chica Muy Caliente!
He figured "Very Hot Chick!" would go over better than "I'm No Slut, But I Am Easy" or "Try These Lips." That took care of her top, but what was he going to do about her bott—the rest of her. He forced himself not to acknowledge the image that popped into his head. He'd thought he'd banished it forever. It wasn't cool for a thirty-year-old guy to still have dreams about his first love.
On the way to the checkout stand, he grabbed some drinks and some chips and cookies. When he asked the girl at the counter if the store carried any clothes, she pointed to a table piled high with flowery fabric. "Those are beach shorts." She shrugged. "I told him they wouldn't sell. Not around here."
Luis dug through until he found a pair of pink and orange shorts he thought would fit Shannon. Hoping to hell that she didn't need underwear, he paid the clerk and hurried back to his car. He'd been gone too long. She'd be scared.
When he started the car and turned on the scanner, the first thing he heard was a broadcast about Lockhart's murder.
"Be on the lookout for a red Mustang—"
Crap. Somebody'd spotted his car.
"—seen leaving the area of the building where Lockhart's body was found. No info on model or license plate. Unknown whether the suspect is in the car. Units 3 and 9, widen the area of roadblocks. All units, stop any red Ford Mustang. Use necessary force."
Luis slammed his palm on the steering wheel and cursed. He glanced up and down the street. In a few minutes, the streets would be teeming with black-and-whites.
He didn't have a prayer of making it back to the motel without being stopped. His red Cobra was like a big red flashing sign saying Here we are. Arrest us.
Luis had to ditch the car before the police caught up to him. Keeping an eye on the street and an ear tuned to the police scanner, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed a preset number.
After two rings, his sister picked up.
"Mariçel. Que pasa?" Her condo was only minutes from the drug store.
"Riqué. It's not even seven in the morning. What are you doing up so early? Is something wrong?"
"No. Well, yeah. I need a favor."
"What kind of favor?" His little sister sounded a little cautious. "If you want to stay here, remember that the baby is in her poopy stage." She chuckled.
"That's not it. Chica, I don't have time to explain, but I need to hide the Mustang. Can I put it in your garage and use your car?"
"You want me to drive the Mustang? I've never driven a stick."
"No! You can't drive it." Luis rubbed his forehead. "The police are looking for it."
"Luis Enriqué Spinoza! ¿Qué ha hecho usted? What kind of trouble are you in?"
"It's better if you don't know. What do you say? ¿Por favor?"
She sighed. "Riqué, my brother, please tell me you're not bringing trouble down on my home. "
Shannon tugged at the bottom of Riqué's T-shirt, but it still only came to mid-thigh.
At least she had on underwear. She'd rinsed out her panties and dried them with the ancient hair dryer that was bolted to the wall.
Riqué had told her to take a nap, but there was no chance in hell she could close her eyes. She was too keyed up—too scared. Still, she couldn't just stand in the middle of the room and wring her hands. So she turned down the covers and climbed in between the sheets. They felt crisp and clean, thank goodness.
She could use a little rest. She turned off the lamp, throwing the room into dusky shadows. Then she eased her head back onto the pillows and closed her eyes.
Immediately, Lockhart's slack face flashed like a giant movie screen before her eyes, his neck split open and blood covering his shirt.
Her eyes flew open. Blood? His shirt? Her pulse thundered in her ears. She looked at her hands, trying to remember where the blood had been. Scrambling up, she hurried over to where she'd tossed her skirt and blouse.
Just as she picked up the blouse, she heard metal scraping against metal.
Riqué! She ran to the door and reached for the night latch. At the last second, she stopped. What if it wasn't him?
"Riqué?" she said softly.
"Azulita, open up. It's me."
Letting out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, she threw the latch and unlocked the deadbolt.
He slipped in and closed the door behind him. He tossed a big shopping bag onto the dresser. Then he unzipped his jacket and tossed it on top of the bag.
"It's hot," he said. Then he looked at her and grinned. "I see you had your shower." He nodded toward the bed. "Did you get a nap?"
His black eyes twinkled and his white teeth shone brightly against his golden skin. Shannon looked up at him and to her chagrin, her throat closed up and her eyes stung with tears.
"Hey, what's the matter? We're okay for now."
"That's not—" She interrupted herself with a sob.
"Come on, Azulita, you're exhausted. I want you to sleep for a couple of hours, and then we'll figure out how we're going to go to the police."
She nodded miserably, and didn't protest when he led her to the bed and pulled the sheet back. She climbed in, aware that his T-shirt had ridden up her thighs.
He'd noticed it, too, because he quickly pulled the sheet up. "There you go. You want something to drink or eat?"
She shook her head. "Riqué, I'm so sorry—"
"Don't worry about it. We'll figure out how to explain it all to the police." He leaned down and kissed her forehead, sliding his hand around the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, wanting to cry at the soft touch of his lips and the hot pressure of his hand. Then his thumb slid across her ear lobe and a sweet, sharp yearning speared through her.
She lifted her head.
He pulled back.
She opened her eyes and met his gaze, knowing she was treading dangerous waters, but it had been so long and she'd missed him so much.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against hers. "Azulita, don't do this. I don't want to have to forget you again."
His words sliced through her heart like a razor blade. "You forgot me?"
Riquࢹ shook his head and lowered his mouth to hers. She wrapped both hands around his neck and lifted herself, arching toward him as his lips moved over hers in the exquisitely erotic way she remembered.
He gripped her shoulders and growled deep in his throat. "Azulita, you're just upset." He set her back against the pillows and sat down at her feet. She drew her knees up.
"Trust me. This is a bad idea." He pushed shaky fingers through his hair.
He was wrong. Letting her parents convince her that she didn't want to marry a Mexican-American had been a bad idea. She'd loved Riqué since she was six years old and he was eight.
He raised his dark gaze to hers. His mouth was compressed in a flat line, but his cheeks were pink. He spread his fingers on his thighs as he visibly tried to control his breathing. His chest and ridged belly rose and sank rapidly. And even the thick denim of his pants couldn't disguise how much he was turned on by their kiss.
Shannon pushed the sheet away from her legs and sat up on her heels. She ran a hand up his arm to his shoulder. His golden skin was so smooth, so warm. She loved everything about him. His classic Castilian features, with the high cheekbones, lean cheeks and strong jaw. His lean yet muscular body. The dark hair that grew sparsely on his chest and into a vee at the top of his low-slung jeans.
She kissed him again.
"Azulita—" It was a plea and an admission of defeat. With a groan, he turned and wrapped his arms around her and pushed her down onto the bed, following her, molding his body against hers.
Luis felt himself grow painfully hard against the front seam of his jeans. He kissed Shannon's sexy lips, ran his mouth and tongue down her jaw line and the delicate skin under her chin.
He slid his hands up under the T-shirt to cup her firm, soft breasts. They fit perfectly in his hands. Just like they always had.
She gasped as the points of her breasts tightened and distended. His mouth watered to taste them. It was a taste he'd missed. A taste that haunted his dreams. The taste of the only woman he'd every truly loved.
He pushed the T-shirt up and over her head, exposing her perfect, creamy breasts with their distended nipples.
He bent his head until his mouth was only millimeters from the tip of one breast. He sighed and she moaned and arched her back. "Riqué—"
Just before he took the beaded peak into his mouth, he whispered, "This is a very bad idea."
Shannon woke up slowly, and snuggled closer to Riqué's side. She felt the relaxation and contentment that only comes after total sexual satisfaction. Nobody had ever told her how achingly sexy a man's body felt. Much less how special it felt to be in love, to have a guy who'd rather be with her than with anyone else in the whole world.
Riqué slid his arm from under her and turned over. Shannon opened her eyes. His back was as sexy as his front. But something was different. He seemed bigger, harder.
She reached up to run her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and froze. Where was the long hair her parents were always complaining about?
She frowned and looked around the shadowy room, her heart racing. This was not her dorm room.
Suddenly, the memories flooded her brain. Lockhart. The blood. The terrified confusion.
"Oh, God," she muttered, sitting up.
Riqué sprang up like a cat, and whirled, a gun appearing in his hand.
"No! Wait-—Riqué!"
"Shannon! What the hell?" His face was pale and his gun hand shook.
"When I woke up I thought we were…you know…back in college."
His jaw muscle twitched and hot anger burned in his eyes in the instant before he turned his back and set the gun down on the dresser.
He was naked. In the midst of all the panic and fear, her brain registered the differences she'd felt earlier. The differences ten years had made in his body—in his lovemaking. He wasn't the skinny teenager she'd fallen in love with. The curve of his back, the lean hips and that sexy backside were familiar, but he was bulkier, more muscled.
Her cheeks burned. His hands and mouth were more practiced, more confident. And he knew a lot more about pleasing a woman than he had back then. A whole lot more.
Shannon knew more about love and sex than she had back when they were in college, too—a little more. But the spark—the undeniable magical thread that bound them was still there. Riqué still loved her like no one else ever had or ever could.
He pulled his jeans up over the swell of his buttocks, his back muscles undulating as he zipped and buttoned them.
When he turned back around and his gaze raked her, Shannon remembered that she was naked, too. She uttered a little cry of embarrassment and fled to the bathroom.
While she was washing up, Riqué knocked on the door.
"Here are the clothes I got you. They're all I could find."
She held a towel in front of her as she opened the door a crack. "Th-thanks," she stammered.
The little T-shirt fit snugly and barely came to her waist. The beach shorts had a drawstring waist and reached below the middle of her thighs. He'd even bought her flip-flops. She assessed herself in the dingy mirror. She looked like the first five minutes of a Girls Gone Wild video, but anything was better than the bloody clothes she'd woken up in.
When she came out of the bathroom, Riqué was downing an energy drink and working on a bag of chips. His eyebrows rose when he first saw her, but she glared at him, so he didn't comment on her appearance.
"You'd better eat something." He pushed the bag of chips across the dresser toward her, along with a second drink.
At the sight of the food her stomach growled. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. She popped open the drink and grabbed a handful of chips.
A cell phone rang. Riqué's.
He dug it out of the pocket of his leather jacket and looked at the display. He muttered something in Spanish as he pressed the talk button.
"¿Hola? Chiquita?" His voice was cautious. "What's the matter?"
His voice and the look on his face told Shannon that the answer was not good.
As Riqué listened to his sister, fear grew and began crawling up his spine.
"Riqué. They banged on the door and pushed it open. They had papers—"
"A warrant? Was it the police?"
"I don't know. They were in regular clothes."
"Mariçel, what did they do?"
"They searched everywhere. They didn't tell me why."
"The garage?"
"Yes."
He cursed. "They saw my car. What did they say?"
"Nothing. They made me show them identification, then they left."
Riqué stomach clenched. "Chica, this is very important. Get the papers they gave you. What do they say at the top?"
"I don't have the papers. The man in charge just showed them to me then put them in his pocket. I didn't get a chance to see them."
"Call Papa to come get you and the girls. Now! Stay with them until I contact you."
"Riqué, what have you done?"
"Not now. Call Papa! Love you." He hit the End button.
When he turned, Shannon's face was as white as a sheet, her green eyes wide and filled with terror.
But Riqué didn't feel like comforting her right now. The people who'd forced their way into his sister's house weren't the police.
"That was Mariçel," he said coldly. "Apparently whoever killed your boyfriend traced me to my sister's house. I left the Mustang there and drove her car."
Shannon pressed her lips together and wrapped her arms around herself. The bright red printing on the pink T-shirt she wore stood out. Chica Muy Caliente!
He gritted his teeth. "How would anyone know that I'm involved with your little problem?"
She dropped her gaze to her folded arms.
"Come on, Shannon. They're looking for Mariçel's car." He crossed the room in two strides and gripped her upper arms, barely restraining himself from shaking her. "You haven't told me everything, have you?"
A grimace of pain crossed her face and he let go of her and took a step back, holding his hands palm up. "That door is going to be kicked in any minute. Talk to me!"
Without moving, without looking up, she spoke. "Brendan is my boss—was—my boss. He was always hounding me to go out with him. Always making suggestive jokes, always hanging around when I worked late." She took a shaky breath. "I didn't dare go to Senator Mosby. He has a reputation for harassing the female campaign workers, too. And I knew he'd rather get rid of me than Brendan. So I told everyone I was engaged. I hoped Brendan wouldn't make a fool of himself in front of everyone by hounding a woman about to be married."
She squeezed her arms so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Riqué stared at her as her words sank in. "Engaged? To who?" Then it dawned on him. "To me?" He laughed bitterly. "You told him you were going to marry me? Why in hell would you do that?"
Her slender shoulders rose in a tiny shrug. "You were the first person I thought of."
There it was again. "Well, I'm flattered that you always think of me in times of crisis, but Lockhart harassed you and now he's dead. Who killed him and why did they try to frame you for it?"
Shannon did her best to blink away the tears she felt forming in her eyes. Her throat was tight with regret and fear. "I never meant to involve you. I didn't think it would hurt to give people your name."
"Obviously. I need answers, Shannon."
"Brendan got really drunk last night. He started telling me things—things he shouldn't have, things I didn't want to know. He said he was going to be a multi-millionaire by the time Senator Mosby got re-elected. He said he knew things nobody knew about the high-and-mighty Mosby."
"He was blackmailing him?"
She nodded. "He said he could ruin him. He wanted Mosby's Chief of Staff position. And I think he wanted Mosby to groom him to take over when Mosby retired."
"He told you this at a campaign dinner?"
"And he wasn't trying to whisper, either. I wanted to get away from him, but we were seated together. Then, Senator Mosby sent over a bottle of champagne."
"You said you felt drugged."
She looked up and met Riqué's gaze. His black eyes snapped with interest.
"The champagne?"
"I'm guessing the bottle was already open by the time it got to your table."
"It was. You think Senator Mosby was behind this? He's one of the most prominent legislators in Washington. Do you really think he drugged me?"
He nodded. "Mosby or one of his handlers heard Lockhart spilling the whole story to you. That's why whoever did this tried to frame you for it. If you told what Lockhart told you, you wouldn't be believed. Everyone would think you were trying to beat a murder rap. "
"But why would anyone think I wanted to kill Lockhart?"
Riqué shrugged his broad shoulders. "It's a perfect setup. Think about it. Both of you were seen at the campaign dinner. Both of you appeared drunk. If Lockhart drove you home then forced himself on you, you could have been defending yourself with the knife. I'm sure by the time Lockhart was killed, Mosby himself was nowhere near your apartment, and he'd set himself up with a solid alibi."
He grabbed her arm. "Now come on. We've got to get out of here. And we can't take Mariçel's car. Whoever tried to frame you is looking for it right now."
Twenty minutes after they'd left the motel, Shannon scrambled out of the cab behind Riqué. "Where are we? This street looks deserted."
"That's the point. This used to be a produce warehouse where my Papa worked. Dave and I would come here and hide and smoke cigarettes and look at girly magazines."
Shannon had to laugh. "When? How old were you?"
He shot a sheepish glance her way. "Maybe twelve."
"And to think I worshiped you." As soon as the words left her mouth she wished she could take them back.
His eyebrows raised as his eyes searched her face. Then he turned back to the building. "Come on, I'll show you how we got in. It's around back, through this alley."
Shannon followed him, winding her way past crumpled paper bags, discarded Styrofoam containers and liquor bottles. Each step ramped up the unmistakable smell of garbage.
"It's right here, under this fire escape ladder."
Shannon looked at the narrow space that must have once been a door. "I hate to point out the obvious, but there's a window by the front door. Why didn't you brave adventurers just climb in through it?"
"Then we wouldn't have been brave adventurers, would we?"
She laughed. "Okay. There's one other problem. I might be able to squeeze through this opening, but you're a long way from twelve years old. How're you going to get in?"
"I'm going to use my manly strength to rip the plywood off the window." He took hold of the edge of the board and yanked. A good-sized chunk of plywood came off in his hands. He tossed it aside and dusted his hands together. "There. Now let's—"
The sound of a car's engine drowned out the rest of his words. The noise was magnified by the wind-tunnel effect of the alley.
Riqué pushed Shannon behind him and whipped out his gun. It could be a local using a shortcut home, or the Garland P.D. on their regular rounds, but he wasn't taking any chances. "Get inside," he whispered. "Now!"
The car's engine rumbled through the alley. Riqué wished they were cops. He'd prefer not to risk Shannon's safety by going head to head with whoever was trying to frame her for murder.
He eased away from the building's wall to try to get a glimpse of the vehicle as it moved slowly past. It was a domestic car, maybe a Ford. But it definitely wasn't the cops. He glanced behind him, making sure the entire alley was deserted, then he took hold of the plywood that still surrounded the opening into the building.
Just as he was about to step inside, he heard the car again. This time it turned into the alley and gunned its engine.
Riqué dove through the opening into the dim interior of the warehouse.
"Riqué are you—?"
"Hush!" He pressed his back against the wall beside the hole and pulled her close. He couldn't see anything except the noonday sun filtering through the hole. Couldn't hear anything except the car's engine bouncing off the buildings.
The driver gunned the engine again, then a spray of bullets peppered the side of the building, several of them whizzing past his head through the hole in the wall.
Shannon cried out softly and clutched at his arm.
"Get back, Shannon. There are rows of metal shelves back there. Get behind them. They'll protect you." He risked a glance sideways at her. She stood rigid, her arms folded across her stomach, her eyes wide and glimmering in the dim light cast by the holes in the walls and roof.
He wrapped his fingers around the nape of her neck and pulled her close for an instant. "Go! I don't want to have to worry about you."
He watched her until he saw her honey-brown hair disappear behind a row of industrial shelves. Then he angled around the jagged opening, weapon-first, and took a look out into the alley. The car was at the other end. Its reverse lights were on. He dodged back inside, listening.
He needed to see that license plate. So he stuck his head out again, leading with his gun. As the car began backing up to turn around, he caught a glimpse of the plate. Ducking inside, he repeated the letters and numbers to himself. He'd gotten lucky. It was a vanity plate.
"Shannon," he called quietly, peeling away from the wall and moving toward her. "You know whose license reads GO2GUY-4?"
"Go-to guy?" Her voice had a shrill edge to it. "That's Mosby's campaign slogan. 'Elect Mosby. The Go-To Guy. You Can Count On Him.'"
Riqué took another step toward her. "Your go-to guy has got folks shooting at us. We've got to get out of here. They must have traced Mariçel's car, then followed us in the cab."
Now he had something to tell the police. He dug his phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed 911. When the operator answered he gave her the information. "Deputy Sheriff Luis Spinoza requesting backup. Shots fired at 12233 Canal, off—"
"Riqué—"
He looked up. What he saw sent shock waves along his nerves. A big man had Shannon's arm twisted behind her. His bandaged right hand held a long serrated kitchen knife against her neck. In the dim light, her face was bluish-white, and taut with pain.
"Toss that phone over here," the man said.
Behind him, Riqué heard the car rev its engine again. He met Shannon's terrified gaze, but kept his expression blank. He slid the phone across the dirty concrete floor. It stopped several feet in front of Shannon. Her attacker glanced down.
Riqué raised his weapon. "Let her go," he growled.
The other man's head snapped up, and Shannon grimaced as the knife sank more deeply into the soft flesh under her jawbone.
Riqué couldn't take his eyes off the knife. "I said, let her go."
"Like hell. You two have to die. It'll be sad. But after she murdered her boyfriend, who'd be surprised if she took her own life?" He grinned. "This is another knife from her kitchen."
Riqué filed that information away. The guy was practically confessing to Lockhart's murder. "Let her go or I'll shoot your ugly face off."
The man laughed. "No you won't. You might hit her."
Riqué knew he was right. But what else could he do? Behind him, silence told him the driver was out of the car. That meant at least one other assailant was about to join this Mexican standoff. A grim smile twisted his lips at the appropriateness of the slang term.
He lifted his weapon higher and steadied his right hand with his left. "You keep thinking that. Meanwhile I'll shoot you in the head before your brain can make your fingers work."
"You want to see my fingers work, watch this." The brute's hand tightened. Shannon moaned and wrapped her fingers around the man's thick forearm as the serrated blade sunk into her flesh. Dark beads of blood appeared like rubies along the knife's edge.
God help him. Riqué didn't want to test his aim this way. A noise from behind propelled him into action. He backed away until he could see them and the door at the same time. The faint wail of sirens in the distance gave him hope. Maybe it was the police, headed here.
Riqué turned his full attention back to the man holding Shannon. Her wide azure eyes were on him. He glanced to her left then back at her, wanting her to drop sideways. She hiccuped and a tear slipped from her eye to roll down her cheek.
His heart sank. She was too terrified to understand what he needed her to do.
The sirens were getting louder. The brute tightened his hold on her again and stepped backward. Riqué moved forward, his finger tightening on the trigger. If the bastard retreated another three feet, he and Shannon would be in the darkness—and Shannon would be dead.
Riqué took aim at the man's head. "Last chance," he grated. "Let her go. You're doomed."
The brute laughed. "Look behind you."
There was no way Riqué would take his eyes off the man holding Shannon. His brain raced, considering his options. There was no way the goon was bluffing.
He let the barrel of his gun tilt downward slightly. But as Shannon's eyes grew wider and her throat moved against the sharp blade of the knife, Riqué sent up a silent prayer and did the only thing he could think of to stop the brute from killing Shannon. He took the tough shot—in the guy's knife-arm.
The guy shrieked. The knife clattered to the floor.
Shannon fell sideways, clutching her throat.
From behind him Riqué heard the click of a semi-automatic pistol. He dove, firing toward the door, and hit hard on his right shoulder. Something cracked.
"Get back!" he shouted to Shannon as he rolled and tried to fire. But his hand wouldn't work. He grabbed the gun with his left hand as a dark figure filled the doorway.
Riqué shot one-handed, working to brace his left wrist on his non-functioning right forearm. Bullets whizzed by his head. He ducked. A movement on his left caught his attention. It was the attacker, slithering toward the knife he'd dropped. Riqué shot at the floor in front of the man, who grunted, then started forward again.
That knife was the biggest piece of evidence they had. Riqué couldn't destroy it by kicking it out of the way with a bullet, and he couldn't let the guy get his hands on it.
Riqué vaulted up, diving for the knife. From the doorway, shots zinged all around him. One came too close. He felt the thud when it hit his jacket.
The shriek of sirens filled his ears and blue lights pulsed through the broken doorway. The gunshots stopped.
Riqué turned and pinned Shannon's attacker's face to the concrete floor with his boot. His right arm tingled, his shoulder hurt like hell and something felt funny around his ribs. He tried to grab the knife, but was too weak and toppled to the ground instead.
He heard the scuffling of boots against concrete. He hoped like hell it was the cops, because he didn't think he could lift his gun again.
"Azu…lita?" he croaked, pushing himself up with his left hand. The movement sent pain shrieking through his shoulder, and a sky full of stars splashed before his eyes. He heard a faint movement in the darkness. "Azulita? Are you all right?"
But she didn't answer.
The smell of alcohol and disinfectant burned Riqué's nose. He opened his eyes to a narrow slit. He was in a hospital cubicle. The sounds and the smells were unmistakable. He'd been in the same situation a few times before. Sometimes he was the one on the gurney—more often it was a buddy or a fellow officer.
He tried to sit up, but he was tied down. "Hey!" A sharp pain stabbed his shoulder. He looked down. His right arm was strapped to his side, and a lot of tape and gauze surrounded his midsection.
Memory came flooding back. "Azulita—"
What had happened? Where was she? How'd he ended up here?
"Nurse! Hey! Somebody!" He craned his neck, looking for a call button, but his stomach and head protested all the movement, so he lay back and closed his eyes. Where was Shannon? Had the bastard managed to slit her throat?
Within a few seconds, the curtain around his bed was pushed back and a middle-aged woman with softly waved hair came in. "Deputy Luis Spinoza. So you're awake."
"My name's Riqué." He licked dry lips. Where had that come from? When had he started thinking of himself as Riqué rather than Luis? It was Shannon's fault.
Shannon. "Where's—the woman who was with me?"
"She went to get some coffee. She's been here all night, waiting for you to get out of surgery."
His relief was tempered by the woman's words. "Surgery?" He tried to flex his bandaged arm and winced. "Damn."
The nurse smiled and adjusted the IV pump. "Your shoulder was dislocated and fractured. This is morphine. Push this button if you're in pain. We'll probably discontinue this as soon as you're fully awake."
"I'm awake now. Get me out of here."
She shook her head. "Not until the doctors say it's okay. Now just call out if you need me. You're in the recovery room." She smiled again and disappeared.
Before Riqué could process all that had happened, Shannon appeared. Her neck was bandaged and she had a bruise on her wrist, but she looked beautiful. She was still dressed in her silly T-shirt and the loud beach shorts, and she held a paper cup of coffee. Her face was pale and drawn. She looked like she hadn't slept in days. The honey-brown curls he loved so much were tangled around her face.
"Hi, Riqué," she said softly. "How're you feeling?" She didn't meet his gaze.
"Good. I'm good. Are you okay?"
What the hell? They were acting like casual acquaintances. He felt groggy and his damn shoulder hurt, but even though he'd forgotten what happened after he'd collapsed, he hadn't forgotten that they'd made love.
He pushed himself upright. "Have you talked to the police?"
She nodded, playing with the tear-off tab on the coffee lid. "They got the car, although the driver got away. They caught my attacker, and took the knife as evidence."
Riqué nodded. "Good. They'll match it with your knives. With any luck, they can link both knives to your attacker. Did you notice his hand was bandaged? He must've cut himself when he slit Lockhart's throat."
She shuddered.
"So was it Mosby who ordered Lockhart killed?" he asked.
"The detective didn't think so. He 's looking at the senator's PR person. It was her car. And my attacker was one of her personal assistants. In any case the senator's political career is probably done for."
Shannon saw the pain etched in Riqué's face. His face was pale. His shoulder was obviously killing him. She set her coffee cup down and stepped over to the side of the bed. "Here's the button for the morphine. Why don't you give yourself an extra dose, and then take a nap?"
"I don't want to take a nap. I want to get out of here, see if I still have a job."
"Oh, that reminds me. A Lieutenant Zane McKinney called to check on you. Apparently the media didn't waste any time getting the story out."
"McKinney?" Riqué tried to push himself up with his good arm. "What did he say."
"He told me not to bother you, but he wants you to call him once you're up and about. He said something about a job."
Riqué's dark eyes widened and a smile lit his weary face for an instant. "No kidding."
She smiled and reached out to touch his hand, but he pulled it away.
"Tell the nurse I'm ready to go."
His rebuff hurt her, even though she knew better. She'd treated him badly years ago. She'd broken his heart. She knew because he'd told her, and because she'd known him too well, she'd seen then how badly she'd hurt him. And she saw his caution now.
What he didn't know was that she'd broken her own heart, too. She had never and would never forgive herself for caving in to her parent's wishes. They'd loved Riqué—as Dave's friend. But not as a husband for their daughter.
Her face burned as she recalled how easily she'd let them convince her that they were right. Among certain people, it was frowned upon to marry a Mexican-American. To her shame, she hadn't trusted their love for each other to be stronger than prejudice.
Riqué kicked at the tangled bedclothes, and pushed himself up awkwardly.
"Riqué, stop it. You can't go anywhere. You're on an IV, you've been sedated. You have to wait until they release you."
He sent her a dark glare. "Get me my clothes." He tried to gesture toward the closet, but the pain in his shoulder stopped him. He groaned under his breath.
She angled her head to one side. "No."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because you're being irrational. If you don't calm down, I'm going to press that button for you."
"You wouldn't dare." His jaw worked. His eyes turned black as deep space.
"Try me."
"Shannon, why don't you go home? Get out of here. I'm tired."
His sudden switch from injured hero to irascible grouch made her heart ache. "Press the button, Riqué. I won't leave until you do."
"Call Mariçel. She'll come."
Shannon looked at the stubborn, handsome idiot she'd fallen in love with ten years ago. Then she stalked over to the morphine IV pump. She reached for the cord with the button at the end of it.
Riqué covered the device with his hand before Shannon could grab it. So she went and sat down in the small chair next to his bed and crossed her arms.
He closed his eyes. "Okay, I pressed the button. You said you'd leave."
"I lied. I'll wait until you go to sleep."
He took a deep breath as if to argue, but instead he laid his head back against the pillow.
It took all Shannon's strength to stay still, to stop herself from reaching over and finger-combing the black hair back from his forehead. Her eyes stung with tears. He'd saved her life. He'd come the instant she'd called him. But he would never open himself up to her—to hurt—again. She'd blown the best thing that ever could have happened to her.
She sat watching him for a long time. His face was drawn, his shoulders drooped. She couldn't tell if he was asleep or not.
"You were the first—"
Her gaze darted to his face. "What? Riqué? Are you hurting?"
He shook his head. His eyes were heavy-lidded from the effects of the morphine. He looked over at her and lifted his left hand a fraction of an inch.
Shannon's heart was full to bursting—with love, with apprehension, with hope. She stood and slipped her hand under his. He grasped it with surprising strength.
"A while ago, when I woke up," he said, licking his lips, "you were the first person I thought of." His eyes drifted shut.
Shannon's pulse sped up. Her breath grew short. "Riqué? Riqué, please tell me you're not asleep."
He opened his eyes slowly. "I'm not asleep. Kiss me and I'll show you."
She leaned forward and touched her lips to his.
"When you told me I was the first person you thought of…" he whispered against her mouth, "…does that happen a lot, or was that the only time?".
She shook her head and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then brushed his hair off his forehead. "It happens all the time."
"What do you think it means?"
She shrugged. "What do you think it means?"
A flash of apprehension glinted in his sleepy eyes. Using his left hand he pushed her away, just enough so that he could look directly into her eyes. "The thing I was afraid of has happened."
"What's that?" she asked, her heart pounding.
"I told you I didn't want to have to forget you again. That wasn't exactly true, because I never forgot you the first time."
"Riqué— I was such an idiot—"
"Shh. I swore I'd never put myself in this position again, but here I am." He clenched his jaw and pushed himself up in bed and raised his sleepy gaze to hers. "Azulita, I will ask you one last time. Will you be my wife until death do we part?"
Shannon swallowed. She felt her heart soar and sink at the same time. "What if I'm indicted for Brendan Lockhart's murder?"
His mouth quirked up. "Then we can have conjugal visits." He reached out with his thumb and caught a tear that was slipping down her cheek.
"I'm serious."
"Me, too. Because if you say yes, I am never letting you out of my sight again. No matter what I have to do. But it does sound like the sheriff is on the right track with Mosby's PR manager."
Shannon nodded.
He lay back against the pillows with a grimace. "So?" His mouth was white and pinched. She could tell he was hurting. But the morphine was working. His eyelids were drooping more and more.
But she could still see the uncertainty in their black depths. Was he really afraid she'd say no?
She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You might not believe it, but I'm not the timid little girl I was back then. And I sure as heck don't need help in deciding what I want to do with the rest of my life."
"Oh yeah?" he whispered. "What's that?"
She put her hand on his cheek and kissed his mouth. "Spend it loving you."
He smiled and drifted off to sleep.
The End