His eyes met hers. Even under the cover of darkness, she felt exposed beneath that heady gaze. She wanted to tell him that disabled children could ride horses with the help of special equipment and adult spotters, but something told her now wasn't the time. His emotions were too close to the surface, and she knew he didn't want them prodded.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Erin gave him that time, knowing he needed it, not sure how she would react if the strong man she'd come to respect broke down. She wasn't sure she could trust herself to do the right thing if he did. The urge to touch him was too powerful, and at the moment she was feeling downright weak.
"Is there a possibility she could walk at some point in the future?" she asked.
"She's had two operations already. Her neurosurgeon seems optimistic."
"What about pain?"
"Thank God it's minor and can be controlled with anti-inflammatory drugs, for the most part," he said. "She has some feeling and a little strength in her left leg. But in the last six months, she's developed a rare post-traumatic condition called syringomyelia."
"One of the kids I worked with up in Chicago had the same condition. It's where a tumor forms at an injury site or surgical site, right?"
His gaze sharpened, and Erin knew he hadn't expected her to be familiar with the condition. "Most people haven't even heard of it."
"There's an operation—"
"Laminectomy and duraplasty." Nick grimaced. "The procedure's untested. Risky."
"What kind of risks?"
His mouth curved into that half smile again. "Ah, McNeal, you're getting really predictable."
"Best case scenario," she pressed.
"Best case, Stephanie would regain feeling in her legs and be able to start physical therapy immediately. Worst-case scenario is that the formation of scar tissue or further spinal cord damage could cause further paralysis. It could significantly lower her quality of life, possibly even her life expectancy. If we leave it be, she might eventually regain enough feeling to use a walker one day."
Erin absorbed the words, wondering what she would do if faced with the same devastating dilemma. "You're willing to settle for that?"
"I nearly lost her once." Nick looked across the driveway to where Bandito grazed next to the fence. "I won't risk losing her again."
* * *
Nick wasn't sure why he'd opened up to Erin. Maybe because he sensed she somehow understood, when most people couldn't. Maybe it was the fact that she, too, was no stranger to tragedy. Maybe that kinship was what kept bringing them together.
It had been a long time since he'd spoken to anyone about the accident that had turned his life—and his daughter's life—upside down. He didn't like to talk about the dark months that followed, preferring to keep that era of his life buried. He'd spent months grieving. The kind of black grief that came with the loss of a soul mate. Grief he'd kept bottled because he couldn't stand the thought of the poison inside him leaching out and affecting Stephanie.
Shoving thoughts of the past aside, Nick gazed at Erin. She leaned against the car, staring out across the lawn toward the pasture, where he could hear Bandito nipping the grass.
"I'm sorry I came down on you so hard," he said. "That was uncalled for."
"You know, Chief, I'm starting to get used to you yelling at me."
She elbowed him lightly, and he knew she was trying to dispel the high emotion of just a few minutes earlier. For that, he found himself unduly grateful.
"I didn't know you had worked with disabled kids," he said after a moment. "That's commendable."
"The Quest Foundation works with all types of disabled children. Head injuries. Spinal injuries. Down's syndrome. Muscular dystrophy. A few months after the shooting, I volunteered and spent a couple of months coaching wheelchair basketball. Teenagers mostly. A couple of times I went out to the equestrian center and spotted young riders. To say the experience was eye-opening would be an understatement."
"I'll bet."
"Nick, those kids loved the horses! I guess it's the same concept as bringing dogs into cancer wards and retirement homes. Like dogs, horses have an incredibly positive effect on kids."
"You coached wheelchair basketball and yet the sight of Steph's wheelchair still affected you when you first saw her."
"It wasn't the wheelchair."
"What was it, then?"
Her teeth scraped over her lower lip. "Seeing the wheelchair made me … remember. The shooting. And Danny."
"Flashbacks?"
Blowing out a sigh, she nodded.
"Ah, McNeal." Lowering his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Post-traumatic stress?" he asked after a moment.
"Survivor's guilt is what the department psychiatrist called it. I had nightmares, sleeplessness. A lot of guilt that just wouldn't leave me alone."
"That's why you volunteered."
She smiled, but there was no humor in it. "After living through something like that, I needed to give something back. The psychiatrist recommended this agency."
"Did it help?"
"It got me through some tough months. For a while, I even made a difference. I made some of those kids smile. You know, Chief, I can be quite a clown when I put my mind to it."
The thought elicited a smile from him. "I'll bet."
"But it didn't take long for me to realize I couldn't hack it. It just sucked too much energy out of me, and brought on too many flashbacks of the shooting. I know that sounds selfish, but after a while I just couldn't do it anymore. Those beautiful children who'd been hurt so terribly, facing so much difficulty…"
"You weren't selfish. Human, maybe. But the bottom line is you did it. You made a difference. That's what's important."
Hearing a sigh shudder out of her, Nick studied her silhouette. His throat constricted when he saw the glimmer of tears on her cheeks. Had he caused that?
Ignoring the swirl of panic in his gut, he stepped away from the car and turned to her. Putting his finger under her chin, he forced her gaze to his. "What's with the tears, McNeal?"
"I'm sure you'll have a hard time believing this, but I never cry."
"I'm sorry I seem to be so good at making you." The urge to comfort was surprisingly strong, his resistance damnably weak. He was standing so close he could smell the familiar scent of her hair mingling with the sweetness of her breath. The light from a three-quarter moon illuminated her features just enough to let him see the caution in her eyes and the shape of her mouth. Sweet mercy, he wanted to kiss her.
Nick brushed his thumb over her cheek, catching a tear. He knew touching her was a mistake. Just as he knew holding her now would be a mistake that would lead to certain disaster. Everything inside him screamed for him to turn around and walk away. If he got involved with her in any way, she would wreak havoc on his life. But there was no way he could stand back and watch her cry while he did nothing.
Something powerful and fundamental stirred low in his gut. He didn't even bother to fight it. He didn't dare name it. He was tired of fighting when it came to this woman, tired of resisting what was quickly getting the best of him. She'd stripped him bare tonight, and he'd allowed it. What was one comforting embrace? One kiss between friends?
Nick figured he was getting pretty good at rationalizing.
"Come here," he whispered.
Her startled gaze met his. "You know what happened the last time we tried this."
"Yeah, and if I remember correctly, it was pretty damn good."
He didn't wait for her. Stepping closer, he cupped her face with his hands. He felt softness and tears. Smelled the enticing scent he'd dreamed about too many times in the last few days.
Shock registered on her face, but he didn't care. She wasn't the only one he'd shocked. He was most certainly shocking himself, but he wasn't going to let that stop him, either.
Backing her against the car, Nick drew her mouth to his with slow deliberation. She didn't close her eyes, and he saw them widen, heard her qu
ick intake of breath, felt his own catch in his throat.
One moment she was as rigid as a board, the next like melted honey in his arms. Nick felt her go fluid as he coaxed her lips into submission. He opened his mouth and used his tongue, daring her to accept him. With a small sound deep in her throat, she parted her lips and welcomed him in.
Something hot and urgent broke open inside him, unleashing a part of him he'd kept bottled up for so long. Need and lust and something else he didn't want to name sprang free.
He deepened the kiss, using his tongue, tasting the farthest reaches of her mouth. Her body felt lush and soft against his. Frustration burned in his groin as he pressed against her, but the contact only made him want more.
He heard a sound, realized he'd growled low in his throat. She shifted closer and another jab of lust arrowed through him. His hands slipped from her face, grazing her shoulders, stopping at her breasts. Her gasp ended in a groan when he cupped her through her uniform shirt. She arched into him, and Nick's control teetered. His fingers went to the buttons. He fumbled, cursing silently when he realized his hands were trembling. One button sprang free. His overzealous fingers popped the next two. Then his hands were inside her shirt, seeking flesh, touching lace and softness and woman.
Her breasts were firm and round and high. Nick cupped her through her bra, marveling at her softness. He brushed his thumbs over the hardened peaks of her nipples. She shivered. He wanted to feel her flesh, warm and supple beneath his hands. He wanted to put his mouth on her.
Two more buttons went by the wayside. He struggled to find her bra clasp. Not in front. He slipped his arms around her. No rear closure. Frustration and a tinge of embarrassment pounded through him. "What kind of bra is this?" he whispered.
"Uh, athletic…"
Nick didn't hear the rest of her response. Tugging the bra up over her breasts, he leaned forward and took her nipple into his mouth. Erin cried out, arching, giving him full access. Her response splintered the remainder of his restraint. Caution shattered. He knew he was out of control, but she was so exquisite, so responsive, he gladly relinquished it, refusing to think of the consequences, of what he might be risking.
He didn't remember closing his eyes. All his brain registered was that she was against him, and he was hard and pulsing and so ready he thought he might end it all right then and there. The realization stunned him, thrilled him. For the first time in years, he felt alive. Whole. On fire and burning out of control—
"Chief?"
The voice reached him as if through a fog. An instant later, recognition exploded in his brain. Stephanie's nanny, for Pete's sake! Nick scrambled back. Erin turned away in an attempt to conceal her state of undress. Shaken, dangerously aroused and more embarrassed than he'd been since the time in his teens when he got caught making out in the back seat of his mother's car, he faced Mrs. Thornsberry.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
"What is it, Em?" Nick winced at the sound of his voice. Hoarse, breathless, it sounded as if he'd swallowed a chunk of concrete.
The older woman stood twenty feet away, her hands on her hips, looking at him as if he'd just landed his spaceship at the end of the driveway. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she said primly.
Nick didn't move. He couldn't get any closer, not without her noticing his state of arousal. "You didn't interrupt anything," he said.
"Uh-huh."
Uncomfortable, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "McNeal and I were just talking."
"I figured it was something like that." Mrs. Thornsberry clucked her tongue. "Steph asked for you."
Concern and a hefty jab of guilt stabbed through him. His daughter had been upset. She needed him. And here he was making out with one of his deputies in the driveway.
"Is she all right?" he asked quickly.
"She's fine. She's waiting for you out by the garage."
"By the garage?" It was nearly her bedtime. What was she doing out by the garage?
"Good night, Nick," the nanny said.
Feeling like a kid who'd just ticked off his mom and would have hell to pay in the coming days, he watched her walk away.
"I've got to go."
Nick turned at the sound of Erin's voice. She stood next to her cruiser, her eyes dark and cautious in the moonlight, her lips glistening. He could still feel the pressure of her mouth against his, recall the sweet smell of her breath, the scent of her hair. The memory sent another rush of blood to his groin.
What had he done? Why did he keep making the same mistake over and over when it came to this woman? She wasn't right for him. She wasn't right for Steph. Erin was wild and impulsive and would end up breaking both their hearts. So why couldn't he keep his hands off her?
"Uh…" Nick resisted the urge to rearrange himself. He was still painfully aroused, his body screaming for release. He was going to have to start dating. Take up running. Cold showers. Maybe he'd just shoot himself in the foot. Anything but get involved with Erin McNeal.
"Steph asked for me," he said. "I've got to go."
Without speaking, Erin opened the car door and slipped inside. Nick approached, not sure what he was going to say, knowing he couldn't let what had just happened between them go without explanation. "McNeal."
She slammed the car door, then lowered the window. "Tell Steph I'm sorry about the basketball, will you, Nick?"
"Sure." He leaned down. "Erin…"
"You don't have to say it." She started the engine.
Nick figured he didn't have a choice but to say what needed to be said. "This can't happen again."
"I know. I shouldn't have come here tonight."
He grimaced. "Probably not."
Her flinch was barely perceptible, but Nick saw it, and he hated that she was paying the price for his own lack of control.
"I'm turning the remainder of your training over to Hector," he said. "I think we should steer clear of each other for a while. This isn't fair to either of us." He wasn't exactly sure what "this" was, but knew it was something they shouldn't be partaking in, no matter how good she felt in his arms.
"Of course. I agree." She said the words a little too quickly and with a little too much enthusiasm.
Nick didn't want to debate the issue. His body sure didn't agree, but he let the statement stand. Straightening, he stepped away from the car. Without looking at him, she put the car in gear and drove away.
He watched the taillights disappear, aware that his heart was beating too fast, that his palms were wet with sweat. He refused to believe anything had happened between them that didn't have to do with hormones or three years of celibacy. Nothing happened, he told himself. Not a damn thing.
Starting toward the house, he shut out the annoying little voice in the back of his mind that called him a liar.
He strode toward the front door, intent on spending a few minutes with Steph before bedtime, but the unmistakable sound of a basketball against concrete stopped him. Curious, he skirted the sidewalk and peered around the side of the house, where a spotlight illuminated the portion of the driveway he'd concreted back when she'd first started playing basketball. Stephanie sat in her wheelchair, the bright orange basketball Erin had bought her poised in her hands, her determined gaze glued to the rusty hoop above the garage door. Concentration scrunched her features as she judged the distance between ball and hoop. An instant later, she leaned forward, thrust the ball upward and let it roll off her fingertips in a perfect arc. Nick held his breath. The ball bounced off the rim.
"Oh shoot!" she said, as the ball hit the concrete.
The sight of his little girl shooting baskets shouldn't have moved him so profoundly. But as he watched her push her wheelchair forward to catch the ball, then lean forward and prepare for another shot, his heart convulsed in his chest. The ensuing jab of pain took his breath.
She needs to live her life to the fullest, risks be damned.
Erin's words rang uncomfortably in hi
s ears. She was wrong, Nick assured himself. Stephanie needed protecting. If he'd been there for her the night of the accident she wouldn't be in that wheelchair.
Needing a moment to rein in his emotions, he leaned against the side of the house, telling himself he wasn't overprotective. Steph needed someone to look after her. Someone to keep her safe. Someone to keep her from getting hurt again.
After a moment, Nick approached his daughter. He smiled, but his face felt plastic and he feared she would see straight through him. His little girl had become increasingly perceptive in the last couple of years.
She looked at him from beneath her lashes and grinned. "I missed my shot."
Nick swallowed, terrified the emotion crowding his throat would overtake him. "I saw that."
"I'm sorry I was so mean to Erin."
"Erin's fine. She understands and told me it's okay if you don't want the basketball. She'll get you something else."
Stephanie lifted the ball to him. "I never noticed this when she first gave it to me. Check it out, Dad."
Nick looked down at the orange globe. Pain broke apart and scattered deep in his chest at the sight of his daughter's name scrawled in sweeping black handwriting above the autograph of a popular Chicago Bulls player.
"Well, I'll be," he muttered.
"Pretty cool, huh? How'd Erin know he's my favorite player?"
Nick didn't know what to say. Not to his daughter. Certainly not to Erin, who must have driven more than two hundred miles, plus somehow wrangled a personalized autograph.
Stephanie looked down at the ball in her hands. "I was thinking about what she said."
"What's that?"
"About … you know, wheelchair basketball. I saw these guys playing on TV, but I didn't think I could ever do it."
"You can do anything you want, honeybunch."
"Well, I thought maybe I could, you know, take some lessons or something. I used to be a pretty good player."
"You sure that's a good idea?"