She said nothing. She didn’t have to; he could read the comprehension in her gaze. This bombing was no mistake, no random attack. She was the target and she could no longer deny it.
“We’re chasing down every lead we have,” he said. “Yeats is going to question Daniella again, but I think that’s a dead end. We did get a partial fingerprint off the warehouse bomb, and we’re waiting for an ID. Until then, we’ve just got to keep you alive. And that means you have to cooperate. Do exactly what I tell you to do.” He gave an exasperated sigh and clutched the steering wheel tighter. “That was not smart, Nina. What you did today.”
“I was angry. I needed to get away from all you cops.”
“So you storm out of headquarters? Without telling me where you’re going?”
“You threw me to the wolves, Sam. I expected Yeats to clap the handcuffs on me. And you delivered me to him.”
“I had no choice. One way or the other, he was going to question you.”
“Yeats thinks I’m guilty. And since he was so sure of it, I thought…I thought you must have your doubts as well.”
“I have no doubts,” he said, his voice absolutely steady. “Not about you. And after this latest bomb, I don’t think Yeats’ll have any doubts either. You’re the target.”
The turnoff to Route 95—the Interstate—was just ahead. Sam took it.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I’m getting you out of town. Portland isn’t a safe place for you. So I have another spot in mind. A fishing camp on Coleman Pond. I’ve had it for a few years. You’ll be roughing it there, but you can stay as long as you need to.”
“You won’t be staying with me?”
“I have a job to do, Nina. It’s the only way we’ll get the answers. If I do my job.”
“Of course, you’re right.” And she looked straight ahead at the road. “I forget sometimes,” she said softly, “that you’re a cop.”
* * *
ACROSS THE STREET from the police line, he stood in the thick of the crowd, watching the bomb investigators scurry about with their evidence bags and their notebooks. Judging by the shattered glass, the debris in the street, the blast had been quite impressive. But of course he’d planned it that way.
Too bad Nina Cormier was still alive.
He’d spotted her just moments before, being escorted through the crowd by Detective Sam Navarro. He’d recognized Navarro at once. For years he’d followed the man’s career, had read every news article ever written about the Bomb Squad. He knew about Gordon Gillis and Ernie Takeda as well. It was his business to know. They were the enemy, and a good soldier must know his enemy.
Navarro helped the woman into a car. He seemed unusually protective—not like Navarro at all, to be succumbing to romance on the job. Cops like him were supposed to be professionals. What had happened to the quality of civil servants these days?
Navarro and the woman drove away.
There was no point trying to follow them; another opportunity would arise.
Right now he had a job to do. And only two days in which to finish it.
He gave his gloves a little tug. And he walked away, unnoticed, through the crowd.
* * *
BILLY “THE SHOWMAN” Binford was happy today. He was even grinning at his attorney, seated on the other side of the Plexiglas barrier.
“It’s gonna be all right, Darien,” said Billy. “I got everything taken care of. You just get ready to negotiate that plea bargain. And get me out of here, quick.”
Darien shook his head. “I told you, Liddell’s not in a mood to cut any deals. He’s out to score big with your conviction.”
“Darien, Darien. You got no faith.”
“What I got is a good grip on reality. Liddell’s aiming for a higher office. For that, he’s got to put you away.”
“He won’t be putting anyone away. Not after Saturday.”
“What?”
“You didn’t hear me say nothing, okay? I didn’t say nothing. Just believe me, Liddell won’t be a problem.”
“I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me about it.”
Billy regarded his attorney with a look of both pity and amusement. “You know what? You’re like that monkey with his paws over his ears. Hear no evil. That’s you.”
“Yeah,” Darien agreed. And he nodded miserably. “That’s me exactly.”
* * *
A FIRE CRACKLED in the hearth, but Nina felt chilled to the bone. Outside, dusk had deepened, and the last light was fading behind the dense silhouettes of pine trees. The cry of a loon echoed, ghostlike, across the lake. She’d never been afraid of the woods, or the darkness, or of being alone. Tonight, though, she was afraid, and she didn’t want Sam to leave.
She also knew he had to.
He came tramping back into the cottage, carrying an armload of firewood, and began to stack it by the hearth. “This should do you for a few days,” he said. “I just spoke to Henry Pearl and his wife. Their camp’s up the road. They said they’d check up on you a few times a day. I’ve known them for years, so I know you can count on them. If you need anything at all, just knock on their door.”
He finished stacking the wood and clapped the dirt from his hands. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and sawdust clinging to his trousers, he looked more like a woodsman than a city cop. He threw another birch log on the fire and the flames shot up in a crackle of sparks. He turned to look at her, his expression hidden against the backlight of fire.
“You’ll be safe here, Nina. I wouldn’t leave you alone if I had even the slightest doubt.”
She nodded. And smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
“There’s a fishing pole and tackle box in the kitchen, if you feel like wrestling with a trout. And feel free to wear anything you find in the closet. None of it’ll fit, but at least you’ll be warm. Henry’s wife’ll drop by some, uh, women’s wear tomorrow.” He paused and laughed. “Those probably won’t fit either. Since she’s twice my size.”
“I’ll manage, Sam. Don’t worry about me.”
There was a long silence. They both knew there was nothing more to say, but he didn’t move. He glanced around the room, as though reluctant to leave. Almost as reluctant as she was to see him go.
“It’s a long drive back to the city,” she said. “You should eat before you go. Can I interest you in dinner? Say, a gourmet repast of macaroni and cheese?”
He grinned. “Make it anything else and I’ll say yes.”
In the kitchen, they rummaged through the groceries they’d bought at a supermarket on the way. Mushroom omelets, a loaf of French bread and a bottle of wine soon graced the tiny camp table. Electricity had not yet made it to this part of the lake, so they ate by the light of a hurricane lamp. Outside, dusk gave way to a darkness alive with the chirp of crickets.
She gazed across the table at him, watching the way his face gleamed in the lantern light. She kept focusing on that bruise on his cheek, thinking about how close he’d come to dying that afternoon. But that was exactly the sort of work he did, the sort of risk he took all the time. Bombs. Death. It was insane, and she didn’t know why any man in his right mind would take those risks. Crazy cop, she thought. And I must be just as insane, because I think I’m falling for this guy.
She took a sip of wine, the whole time intensely, almost painfully aware of his presence. And of her attraction toward him, an attraction so strong she was having trouble remembering to eat.
She had to remind herself that he was just doing his job, that to him, she was nothing more than a piece of the puzzle he was trying to solve, but she couldn’t help picturing other meals, other nights they might spend together. Here, on the lake. Candlelight, laughter. Children. She thought he’d be good with children. He’d be patient and kind, just as he was with her.
How would I know that? I’m dreaming. Fantasizing again.
She reached across to pour him more wine.
He put his hand over the glass. “I have to
be driving back.”
“Oh. Of course.” Nervously she set the bottle down again. She folded and refolded her napkin. For a whole minute they didn’t speak, didn’t look at each other. At least, she didn’t look at him.
But when she finally raised her eyes, she saw that he was watching her. Not the way a cop looks at a witness, at a piece of a puzzle.
He was watching her the way a man watches a woman he wants.
He said, quickly, “I should leave now—”
“I know.”
“—before it gets too late.”
“It’s still early.”
“They’ll need me, back in the city.”
She bit her lip and said nothing. Of course he was right. The city did need him. Everyone needed him. She was just one detail that required attending to. Now she was safely tucked away and he could go back to his real business, his real concerns.
But he didn’t seem at all eager to leave. He hadn’t moved from the chair, hadn’t broken eye contact. She was the one who looked away, who nervously snatched up her wineglass.
She was startled when he reached over and gently caught her hand. Without a word he took the glass and set it down. He raised her hand, palm side up, and pressed a kiss, ever so light, to her wrist. The lingering of lips, the tickle of his breath, was the sweetest torture. If he could wreak such havoc kissing that one square inch of skin, what could he do with the rest of her?
She closed her eyes and gave a small, soft moan. “I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered.
“It’s a bad idea. For me to stay.”
“Why?”
“Because of this.” He kissed her wrist again. “And this.” His lips skimmed up her arm, his beard delightfully rough against her sensitive skin. “It’s a mistake. You know it. I know it.”
“I make mistakes all the time,” she replied. “I don’t always regret them.”
His gaze lifted to hers. He saw both her fear and her fearlessness. She was hiding nothing now, letting him read all. Her hunger was too powerful to hide.
He rose from the table. So did she.
He pulled her toward him, cupped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss, sweet with the taste of wine and desire, left her legs unsteady. She swayed against him, her arms reaching up to clutch his shoulders. Before she could catch her breath, he was kissing her again, deeper. As their mouths joined, so did their bodies. His hands slid down her waist, to her hips. He didn’t need to pull her against him; she could already feel him, hard and aroused. And that excited her even more.
“If we’re going to stop,” he breathed, “it had better be now….”
She responded with a kiss that drowned out any more words between them. Their bodies did all the talking, all the communicating.
They were tugging at each other’s clothes, feverish for the touch of bare skin. First her sweater came off, then his shirt. They kissed their way into the next room, where the fire had quieted to a warm glow. Still kissing her, he pulled the afghan off the couch and let it fall onto the floor by the hearth.
Facing each other, they knelt before the dying fire. His bare shoulders gleamed in the flickering light. She was eager, starved for his touch, but he moved slowly, savoring every moment, every new experience of her. He watched with longing as she unhooked her bra and shrugged the straps off her shoulders. When he reached out to cup her breast, to tug at her nipple, she let her head sag back with a moan. His touch was ever so gentle, yet it left her feeling weak. Conquered. He tipped her back and lowered her onto the afghan.
Her body was pure liquid now, melting under his touch. He unzipped her jeans, eased them off her hips. Her underwear slid off with the hiss of silk. She lay unshielded to his gaze now, her skin rosy in the firelight.
“I’ve had so many dreams about you,” he whispered as his hand slid exploringly down her belly, toward the dark triangle of hair. “Last night, when you were in my house, I dreamed of holding you. Touching you just the way I am now. But when I woke up, I told myself it could never happen. That it was all fantasy. All longing. And here we are…” He bent forward, his kiss tender on her lips. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I want you to. I want us to.”
“I want it just as much. More. But I’m afraid we’re going to regret it.”
“Then we’ll regret it later. Tonight, let’s just be you and me. Let’s pretend there’s nothing else, no one else.”
He kissed her again. And this time his hand slipped between her thighs, his finger dipping into her wetness, sliding deep into her warmth. She groaned, helpless with delight. He slid another finger in, and felt her trembling, tightening around him. She was ready, so ready for him, but he wanted to take his time, to make this last.
He withdrew his hand, just long enough to remove the rest of his clothes. As he knelt beside her, she couldn’t help drawing in a sharp breath of admiration. What a beautiful man he was. Not just his body, but his soul. She could see it in his eyes: the caring, the warmth. Before it had been hidden from her, concealed behind that tough-cop mask of his. Now he was hiding nothing. Revealing everything.
As she was revealing everything to him.
She was too lost in pleasure to feel any modesty, any shame. She lay back, whimpering, as his fingers found her again, withdrew, teased, plunged back in. Already she was slick with sweat and desire, her hips arching against him.
“Please,” she murmured. “Oh, Sam. I—”
He kissed her, cutting off any protest. And he continued his torment, his fingers dipping, sliding, until she was wound so tight she thought she’d shatter.
Only then, only as she reached the very edge, did he take away his hand, fit his hips to hers and thrust deep inside her.
She gripped him, crying out as he swept her, and himself, toward climax. And when it came, when she felt herself tumbling into that wondrous free fall, they clung to each other and they tumbled together, to a soft and ever-so-gentle landing.
She fell asleep, warm and safe, in his arms.
It was later, much later, when she awakened in the deepest chill of night.
The fire had died out. Although she was cocooned in the afghan, she found herself shivering.
And alone.
Hugging the afghan to her shoulders, she went into the kitchen and peered out the window. By the light of the moon, she could see that Sam’s car was gone. He had returned to the city.
Already I miss him, she thought. Already his absence was like a deep, dark gulf in her life.
She went into the bedroom, climbed under the blankets, and tried to stop shivering, but she could not. When Sam had left, he had taken with him all the warmth. All the joy.
It scared her, how much she felt his absence. She was not going to fall in love with him; she could not afford to. What they’d experienced tonight was pleasure. The enjoyment of each other’s bodies. As a lover, he was superb.
But as a man to love, he was clearly wrong for her.
No wonder he’d stolen away like a thief in the night. He’d known it was a mistake, just as she did. At this moment, he was probably regretting what they’d done.
She burrowed deeper under the blankets and waited for sleep, for dawn—whichever came first. Anything to ease the ache of Sam’s departure.
But the night, cold and lonely, stretched on.
* * *
IT WAS A MISTAKE. A stupid, crazy mistake.
All the way back to Portland, on the drive down that long, dark highway, Sam kept asking himself how he could have let it happen.
No, he knew how it happened. The attraction between them was just too strong. It had been pulling them together from the first day they’d met. He’d fought it, had never stopped reminding himself that he was a cop, and she was an important element in his investigation. Good cops did not fall into this trap.
He used to think he was a good cop. Now he knew he was far too human, that Nina was a temptation he couldn’t resist and that the whole investiga
tion would probably suffer because he’d lost his sense of objectivity.
All because she’d come to mean too much to him.
Not only would the investigation suffer, he would as well, and he had only himself to blame. Nina was scared and vulnerable; naturally she’d turn to her protector for comfort. He should have kept her at arm’s length, should have kept his own urges in check. Instead he’d succumbed, and now she was all he could think about.
He gripped the steering wheel and forced himself to focus on the road. On the case.
By 1:00 a.m., he was back in the city. By 1:30, he was at his desk, catching up on the preliminary reports from Ernie Takeda. As he’d expected, the bomb in Nina’s apartment was similar to the devices that blew up the church and the warehouse. The difference between the three was in the method of detonation. The warehouse device had had a simple timer. The church device was a package bomb, designed to explode on opening. Nina’s apartment had been wired to blow after the door opened. This bomber was a versatile fellow. He could trigger a blast in any number of ways. He varied his device according to the situation, and that made him both clever and extremely dangerous.
He went home at 5:00 a.m., caught a few hours of sleep and was back at headquarters for an eight o’clock meeting.
With three bombings in two weeks, the pressure was on, and the tension showed in the faces around the conference table. Gillis looked beat, Chief Coopersmith was testy and even the normally unemotional Ernie Takeda was showing flashes of irritation. Part of that irritation was due to the presence of two federal agents from Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Both the men from ATF wore expressions of big-time experts visiting Hicksville.
But the most annoying source of irritation was the presence of their esteemed D.A. and perpetual pain in the neck, Norm Liddell.
Liddell was waving the morning edition of the New York Times. “Look at the headline,” he said. “‘Portland, Maine, the new bombing capital?’ New York’s saying that about us? Us?” He threw the newspaper down on the table. “What the hell is going on in this town? Who is this bomber?”
“We can give you a likely psychological profile,” said one of the ATF agents. “He’s a white male, intelli-gent—”