In the Teeth of the Wind
By
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
© copyright May 2007, Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Published by New Concepts Publishing
Smashwords Edition
Cover art by Jenny Dixon and Dan Skinner, © copyright May 2007
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Prologue
The thirty-seven-year-old officer had been with the Florida Drug Enforcement Agency only two years when his life was drastically altered one cold, rainy November night. The last thing he remembered before his ordeal began was hearing someone call his name while he was getting into his car outside the apartment complex in which he lived. He stopped, car keys in his hand, as footsteps came toward him out of the drizzling night.
“Hey, pig!” someone else snarled.
He turned and an ultra white light was thrust into his face, blinding him. He threw up an arm to ward off the painful brightness.
Someone grabbed him from behind, another from the front. A sharp, stinging pain jabbed into the flesh of his upper right arm, causing him to yelp in surprise. His world slowed.
He was vaguely aware of hands holding him, dragging him; the sound of a van’s door sliding back on its runners; other hands taking him, pulling him inside. The drug washed over him with such debilitating force all he could do was blink up at the men whose faces were hidden behind black ski masks.
“Gonna take you on a nice, long ride, pal.” The voice was chilling, deadly, full of threat, and he wondered who had ordered his death. The face of Kiki Camareno, a friend and fellow DEA agent, now dead and gone, slithered across his foggy mind.
They cuffed his arms behind him, tied his ankles together. One man leaned over him and taped his eyes and mouth shut. An overpowering smell of duct tape--sourly-plastic and musky--drifted under his nostrils.
They took him to a hot and musty place filled with a cloying stench. When the tape was ripped from his eyes, they watered profusely. The air reeked of fertilizer and burned his nose.
Four assailants dragged him across a dirt floor, his legs useless against the numbness invading his system. Hard hands gripped his upper arms, supported him as he hung helplessly between two of his captors. One man gripped his chin in a cruel pinch and his head tilted upward so that he stared wide-eyed at the masked face pressing in close to his own. “You wanna have a good time, pig?” asked the man, his accent unmistakably Colombian.
“He’s going to whether he wants it or not!” another man chortled.
His handcuffs were removed but he had little strength to free himself. He struggled--uselessly and ineffectually--before they pushed him onto his back and dragged his arms over his head. They snapped another cuff into place around his free wrist then he heard the rattle of metal against metal, the clink of the cuff locking as his wrist was secured to the top of the cot. His left wrist was jerked upward and chained to the cot, as well.
He whimpered as they removed his jeans and shackled his ankles to the foot of the cot.
The DEA agent cringed as the Colombian moved over him, putting out a hand to touch him.
“Nice,” the Colombian whispered, running his palm over the thick muscle of the agent’s thigh. He slid his hand between the agent’s legs, to the inside of a tense thigh, probing for just the right place. “Very nice.”
The agent thought he knew what was coming.
Thought he knew what they were going to do to him before they killed him.
As his torture began, he believed he would die before the night was over. He began to pray in earnest: “Hail Mary, full of Grace….”
He wondered if Kiki had done the same thing.
Long into the next few days, the agent lay where they’d chained him, wishing they’d kill him. He wanted them to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger or put a blade to his throat and, with one quick slice, end his torment. He hadn’t expected to live through the ordeal. He hadn’t wanted to. But he had. And he would later wish with all his heart that he had not.
Part One
Chapter One
Loud, tooth-jarring music bombarded Conor Nolan and Joe Cortesio as they pushed through the double-oak doors into the interior of the dimly lit and crowded roadhouse. The cacophony of whining guitars, piercing trill of a keyboard, and heavy thump of drums was deafening. The feedback from the band’s four huge speakers crashed through the over heated room like the blast-off from a lunar shuttle.
Overhead a dense blue haze of cigarette smoke hung suspended from the exposed beams of metal roof supports. The overpowering smell of spent tobacco attached itself to the men’s clothing. Accompanying the stench was the odor of sweat-slick bodies and sick-sweet marijuana. The combination awakened a nest of butterflies in Conor Nolan’s stomach.
Clustered around the dance floor at the north end of the cavernous room, four to six vinyl-covered swivel chairs were pulled up to each of the twenty-odd, cluttered, sticky, chrome-and-laminate tables. Nolan noted that every seat was full, some with more than one occupant.
The two men walked toward the East end of the room to a shadowed semi-circular nook with ten booths set on a raised platform. Each booth was separated from its neighbor by a five feet high fieldstone partition. Flickering light from electric torches looked like burning rushes.
Harried bartenders worked at feverish speed to fill drink orders. A dozen waitresses, dressed in short black mini-skirts, circulated among the tables and booths.
At the long bar, crowded two people deep, a twenty-something blonde woman observed the dancers. Watching intently, she swiveled from side to side on the barstool, sipping occasionally from a tall frosted glass, ignoring the come-ons that now and again obstructed her view. A faint smile stretched her full lips as her bored green gaze fell on Nolan’s tall frame and held.
“Are they up there?” Joe Cortesio shouted over the din. He blinked against the intrusion of heavy smoke.
“I can’t see a damned thing!” answered Conor Nolan. The flash of a strobe, emanating from the hard rock band light show, underscored his night blindness. The jerky movements and blue-white appearance of the people in the room made his stomach roil.
Cortesio stumbled as a drunk swerved off course and collided with him. He ignored the slurred apology and shoved the offender away, grimacing with distaste at the stench of vomit that assailed his nostrils. He reached behind him, felt for the bulge of his wallet in the pocket of his jeans and was satisfied it hadn’t been lifted in the encounter.
Nolan tapped Cortesio on the shoulder and pointed. Squinting, Cortesio nodded.
They threaded their way through the room, jostled and blocked with every step--disengaging playful arms thrown around them by bold women--the two men finally made it to the platform of booths.
“Where the hell you guys been?” snapped Neville “Trip” Triplett as Cortesio slipped into the booth at one end and Nolan the other.
Nolan glanced at his friend, taking in the thinning dark hair. “What’s with you? Turning forty still got you bummed?”
Trip shifted his six-foot, two-inch frame in the seat and drew a hand across his spreading middle. He fastened Nolan with a dark gray stare but let the good-natured jib drop. “We were beginning to think you guys weren’t coming.” Trip forced his gaze from Conor’s grinning face.
“Hell, Triplett,” said Cortesio, “we weren’t even breathing hard.”
Nolan leaned over to kiss the only woman in the booth. “How’s it going, pretty lady?”
Rhianna Marek was, indeed, a pretty lady. With her soft, dewy brown eyes and long, straight sable hair, she could pass for a teenager, and had when the New Gregory police force needed an insider at the local high school. Her soft Georgia accent further belied her age. She would be thirty-two on the next Summer Solstice.
“You’re late,” Rhianna complained, dark eyes glowing. She returned his quick kiss and laid her hand on his thigh as he put his arm around her and drew her close.
“Traffic was a bitch,” said Nolan. He glanced up at the skimpily clad waitress who placed two new napkins on the table. “How you doing tonight, Myra?”
“Okay. What’ll it be, Irish?”
“What’s cooking, Myra?”
“Same old, same old,” she shrugged. “How’s it hanging?”
“Eight inches and growing!” The Italian chuckled and waited for the collective groans of his friends to subside before reaching down to rub his crotch. “Make that nine.”
“Pervert,” pronounced Trip. Dave Donne, the man sitting between Trip and Cortesio, opened his mouth, stuck his finger in, and pretended to gag.
“How do you put up with him?” Rhianna asked Conor, shaking her head at Cortesio’s antics. “He’s as randy as a teenager.” She exchanged a taut smile with Trip. He knew how worried she was by some of the outrageous things Joey had been doing of late. Her main concern was Joey’s wife finding out about his indiscretions and putting an end to their fifteen-year marriage.
Nolan grinned. “I just never bend over when he’s close around.”
“When are you and me gonna get married, Myra?” Donne asked, reaching over to stroke the waitress’ arm.
“Why buy the beef when I already get the bull for free?” At his hoot of laughter, she picked up her tray, letting her hand brush Nolan’s, but when he pretended not to notice, she left with a sigh.
“She keeps trying to get your attention, Irish,” Trip laughed. “The least you can do is pat her on the ass.”
“Not if he wants to keep his hand,” said Rhianna. She didn’t like the waitress and knew Conor had slept with her more than once. Hell, she thought, as she took a long pull on her drink, probably every man within a hundred-mile radius had humped the sleazy bitch.
Nolan bent toward Rhianna and nuzzled her neck. “The only ass I wanna pat is yours,” he whispered.
“Knock it off.” Rhianna dug her elbow into his ribs. When he moved away from her, grinning wickedly, she stuck her tongue out at him.
Myra squeezed her way through the barrier of customers lined up at the bar. She put her tray on the counter and leaned toward the bartender, shouting to be heard over the raucous music. She gave him the order, straightened up, and glanced down the length of the bar, waving at a few steady customers. Her attention encountered the blonde sitting a few stools away. Myra smiled nervously and was about to turn around when the blonde crooked a finger toward her. Myra’s smile twitched as she moved toward the woman. “Yes, Ma’am?”
“Who is the man in the black denim jacket?”
The waitress’ forehead puckered for a moment, then smoothed. She risked a glance toward the Irishman. “Nolan,” she answered. “Conor Nolan. His friends call him Irish. He’s a cop.”
“Conor Nolan,” the blonde repeated. Myra heard the satisfaction in the slightly-accented voice. “Who’s the chippy with him?”
The waitress’ mouth tightened into a fine line of dislike. “She’s a cop, too. They all are over there at number eight.” She saw the blonde’s gaze shift to the platform of booths before re-settling on Myra.
“What is she to him?”
Myra shrugged. “As far as I know they just work together. They all come in here every Monday night. Sometimes there’s a black guy who comes with them, too.”
The blonde nodded then turned to give the bartender a long, steady look. “Thank you, Myra,” she said. “That’ll be all.”
“About Irish, I...”
The blonde put a silencing finger to her lips.
“Don’t worry about it, Myra.” The blonde returned her green-eyed gaze to the bartender, dismissing Myra.
Myra turned and headed back down the bar. The bartender gave her a stern look as she retrieved her drink tray. “It don’t concern you,” he told her, reaching into his shirt pocket and taking out something. She frowned as he moved his hand over Nolan’s glass. Her gaze followed the descent of a small white tablet through the Canadian Club and Seven-Up.
“Stay out of it.” A silent warning flashed in the bartender’s dark eyes.
“Ain’t nothin’ to me.” Myra picked up the tray of drinks and turned.
Trip tapped Nolan on the arm. “How was your day, homeboy?” He had an eager look in his eye. “Productive, I hope?”
Nolan held the man’s gaze for a moment. While Rhianna and Joe Cortesio were talking across the table, Nolan hooked a hand inside his denim jacket. Withdrawing a small white plastic packet, he laid it on the table and covered it with his fingers. Trip bent forward, coming between Rhianna and the Italian, forcing them to lean backward to finish their conversation. Nolan slid the packet across to Triplett.
Dave Donne clenched his teeth and looked the other way as the transaction took place. It never failed to amaze him how bold Conor Nolan could be or how stupid Trip had become, but he figured cocaine did that to a man.
Triplett’s tongue flicked out and he licked dry, chapped lips as he pocketed the packet. His glance shifted past Nolan, swiveled about table--avoiding Dave Donne’s tight face--then jerked back to Nolan. He nodded his thanks then leaned back in the booth with a long, relieved sigh.
Nolan put his face close to Rhianna’s ear. “Wanna dance, pretty lady?” he asked just as Myra brought their drinks.
“Sure,” she answered, then looked up at the waitress.
“Which of you bozos is gonna pay for it this time?” Myra challenged, her disdainful gaze sweeping the four men.
“I will,” Nolan said. He shot out one long leg, dug his hand into his jeans and drew out a roll of money. Peeling off a five, he pitched it on the table. “Keep the change, sweetheart.” The Irishman took a long swallow of his drink, then held out his hand to Rhianna as she slid toward him.
“Jeez, now I can have that heart transplant,” Myra scoffed. Her eyes slid hungrily over Conor Nolan as he stood up.
“How ‘bout another round, darling?” Triplett asked the waitress. “On me.”
Dave Donne turned to watch Trip scoot out of the booth and head for the men’s room as soon as Nolan and Marek were on the dance floor. He let out a disgusted snort then lifted his beer and drained it before pushing the stein toward Myra. “Make it a boilermaker this time, darling, so long as the asshole’s payin’ for it.”
“Did you get me an address on that broad from last week?” Cortesio demanded, drawing Dave’s attention.
Donne hitched one thin shoulder upward. “Do I look like the City Directory to you, Cortesio?”
“Piss off, then,” the Italian grunted. He turned to watch the dancers and chuckled when his gaze fell on Nolan and Marek. “That fucking Mick can move, can’t he?”
Myra glanced at Nolan as she wove her way around the periphery of the dance floor. God, yes, the man can dance. Her gaze fastened on his ass in the tight confines of faded blue jeans and she stopped, fascinated by the shifting of his body, the grace with which he moved. No matter where he danced, his undulating, mesmerizing body attracted attention, his lean physique attracting every female gaze in the place.
Nolan was thirty-seven or eight. Myra wasn’t exactly sure. His hair was a lustrous deep dark brown that shone beneath the revolving overhead lights. His eyes were amber-brown and he had a way of looking at her that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. Lean in the hip, flat in a belly that rippled like a washboard, broad in the shoulder, and well enough endowed to satisfy any woman’s prurient interests, Conor Nolan was a sexy man.
“She’s watching you, again,” Rhianna said as Nolan brought her close to him, her mouth at his ear.
“Who?” Conor’s hands slid down to her rump and molded her to him, encouraging her to feel the music as he did.
“Your little friend, the barmaid.”
“Let her,” was his negligent reply. He pushed her away from him and spun her beneath the arc of his arm, then snapped her forward into him, enclosing her. He ground against her, dipping his knees and sliding his body along hers like a cat against a scratching post.
“You’re shameless.” Rhianna laughed. She liked dancing with him. The man moved like a jungle cat, but sometimes his lack of inhibitions embarrassed her. Glancing around, she saw other women staring at Conor and knew she was the envy of every female in the room. When he rubbed against her again, she pushed at his shoulder. “Cut it out!” she told him. “You wanna get us thrown outta here?”
“I’m horny.”
“I can tell.” She eased out of his embrace. “Behave yourself, Nolan.”
As badly as she felt he wanted her, and as badly as she wanted him, neither had made an effort to consummate the relationship, but she knew it was only a matter of time. She knew that when it happened, the sparks of their joining would set fire to a passion that would never diminish as long as they lived. And she feared it.
He slid his body down hers once more and she laughed as she shoved him away. “You are an animal!”
The Irishman shrugged. “You wouldn’t like me tame, Marek. I’d be boring as hell.”
The music ended and the gyrations stopped. Nolan threaded his fingers through Rhianna’s and led her to the table as the next jarring, discordant blast of what was supposed to be music rocketed through the roadhouse.
Myra was dispersing the second round of drinks when they returned. The waitress watched Nolan down his drink in three long gulps. “Go easy on that, stud. It ain’t soda pop,” she reminded him in a hard voice.
Surprised, Conor Nolan jerked his head around and looked into the woman’s scowling face. A slow, insulting smile stretched his lips. “Don’t tell me what to do, Myra,” he replied, his smile widening as she stiffened. “I’ll take another C.C. and 7.”
“Why don’t you let that one settle?”
Nolan tightened his jaw. “Why don’t you mind you own business?”
“You drink too much,” Myra said between clenched teeth.
“And you whore around too much,” he shot back. “Do I tell you not to do it?” He stared at her until she spun on her heel and stormed off.
“Asshole!” they heard her say. “Just forget it!”
Triplett chortled, spewing his gin and tonic from twitching lips. He cast Nolan an admiring look. “That’s no way to treat an old girlfriend, Nolan.”
“There you go again spoiling it for the rest of us, you snotty Mick,” complained Cortesio.
“Thanks a lot, Nolan!” snapped Donne. “I can kiss that piece of ass goodbye tonight.”
Nolan’s teeth sparkled in the faint candlelight. He shrugged. “She ain’t that good, Donne.”
“You should know,” said Cortesio. “You Micks will fuck anything that stands still.”
“And some that don’t!” Donne guffawed and chomped down on a chunk of ice. He grinned nastily at the Italian cop. “Least we don’t do it with sheep!”
“Baaaaaaaa!” Triplett laughed as Myra brought Nolan his second drink.
“I hope you choke on it,” the waitress fumed, slamming the glass down. “Two fifty.”
Nolan didn’t even look at her. “Take it outta the tip I gave you.”
Myra didn’t miss a beat. She leaned over, across Nolan, and locked her angry gaze on Rhianna. “I hope he’s better in the sack with you than he was with me.”
Rhianna just smiled, refusing to accept the challenge. It was none of Myra’s business whether or not she’d slept with Conor. It was no one’s business, though most everyone they worked with thought she and Conor were lovers.
“He show you that trick he learned in Mexico?” Myra pressed, trying to get a rise out of the policewoman.
“I don’t discuss my private life, Myra,” replied Rhianna.
“I wouldn’t either if the bastard I was humping couldn’t....”
“Get outta her face and leave her the fuck alone,” Nolan said softly, menace in his deep voice. “I mean it, Myra.”
Myra jerked her glower to the Irishman and when their gazes met, she saw a budding anger in his dark stare that made her straighten up and step back. Without another word, she wheeled, shouting for one of the other waitresses to take the table.
“Ah, shit.” Trip groaned. “Now you’ve gone and done it, Nolan. We’re gonna get Wanda!”
With a disgusted grunt, Joe Cortesio turned his attention to the dancers and nodded in rhythm. “Wanda ain’t half bad if you get her drunk,” he mused.
“Let’s dance, Irish,” Rhianna said, feeling the tension beginning to build in him.
“I’m gonna call it a night,” the Irishman said. Cortesio turned to stare at Conor.
“Already?” asked Rhianna. “After one dance?” She knew how much Conor loved to take his frustrations out on the dance floor.
Nolan looked around, shrugged, then said, “It’s been a long day, pretty lady, and I’ve got a bitch of a headache.”
“That means I gotta go, too,” Cortesio complained with a long, put-upon sigh. “I’m riding with him.”
“I’ll take you home,” Trip said.
Donne and Cortesio exchanged a look. The Italian shook his head. “Thanks anyway, man. I want to get home alive.”
“I’m going his way,” said Donne. “I’ll take him home, Irish.”
“You’re a prince of a fella, Davey!” said Cortesio.
Nolan knocked back the last of his drink, reached out to squeeze Rhianna’s hand, then looked directly at Dave Donne. “You taking Rhianna home, too?”
“If you trust me not to molest her.” Dave chuckled.
“You know what’ll happen if you do,” said the Irishman. He cocked his head toward Trip. “Take him, too.”
“Ah, hell, Irish,” Trip complained. “I can drive myself.”
“Ah, hell, Trip, no you can’t.” Nolan held out his hand. “Give me your keys.” He waited until Triplett dug into his jacket.
“I ain’t that wasted,” Trip murmured as he handed them into Nolan’s keeping.
Rhianna glanced at her partner and wondered if he was using. She frowned. “Damn it, Triplett,” she growled. “Are you high?”
“Don’t sweat it,” Nolan told her as she turned her eyes to him. “He’s cool.” Bending over, he nuzzled her neck, moved back from her playful slap and got up. Turning from the booth, he collided with a female and had to struggle to keep from falling.
“I’m sorry!” The Irishman reached out a steadying hand to the woman he’d bumped. “Did I hurt you?” He strained to see the woman through the mist of smoke, but her head was down and all he could make out was a golden sheen of long, wavy hair.
“Of course not.” The voice was as intoxicating as the perfume she wore. The hand, pressing against his chest came away with a deliberate slide over his jacket. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“I’m not usually so clumsy,” he said, wishing she’d look up at him. Then she did.
A pale oval face, perfectly formed with a slight point to the delicate chin, took his breath away. Green eyes gazed back at him from a smudge of spiky lashes beneath thick, soaring and precisely arched brows. Full lips, the bottom fuller and more luscious than the upper, were stained a bright scarlet and glistened in the reflected glow of the table’s candlelight. She ran a delicate pink tongue along their expanse. Her cheekbones were high, chiseled, and her nose was slightly tilted at the end with wide, flaring nostrils. The lobe of one shell-shaped ear, adorned with a swinging hoop of intricately-fashioned gold wire, peeked out from a heavy sweep of tawny hair. Unable to keep his eyes from moving down, he found high, rounded breasts barely contained within the bodice of her dress. Her shapely body had a tiny, pinched hourglass waist, pale slender arms and long, tapered legs, one of which could be seen through a slit in the silk dress that hugged her like a second skin. The overall effect was stunning and Nolan found himself tightening in the constriction of his faded jeans.
“Are you hurt?” she asked with a throaty laugh.
He had to mentally shake himself to understand her question. His gaze had returned to her beautiful eyes and he stood there lost, unable to look away. “No,” he finally answered, his body as tense as a hormonal sixteen-year-old’s. “I’m all right.”
Her gaze crawled over him--from the top of his head to the scuffed toes of his black boots--then slowly lifted to settle on his mouth. Her wide smile gave evidence that she liked what she saw. Her attention shifted to his eyes.
“Felicity,” she said to his unasked question. “Felicity Rogers.” She held out her hand.
Cortesio’s brows shot upward as his partner took the proffered hand. Not that he wouldn’t have himself, he thought with a slight niggle of jealousy, but there was something about the woman holding Conor’s hand that sent shivers of unease through the Italian’s short, squat body. He couldn’t understand it and didn’t try to analyze it at that moment, but the guardian angel who’d always ridden Joseph David Cortesio’s shoulder did a short, agitated little hop on that bony protrusion and gained Joey’s attention. “Hey, Conor?” Cortesio shouted. “You going, man, or what?”
“Conor,” the woman said and his name on her lips was a caress that sent a stab of pure lust through Nolan’s belly. “A Celtic warrior’s name.” Her tongue flicked at the right corner of her mouth. “A very virile name. It means ‘Lord’ in Gaelic and Lord, are you an eyeful!”
A hot rush of blood flooded Conor Nolan’s face and scorched his cheeks. His embarrassment made him duck his head and, at that moment of breaking eye contact with Felicity Rogers, he was able to regain some of the composure he’d lost. “I gotta go,” he said, feeling bereft and cold now that he was no longer held prisoner by her seductive gaze.
“I guess you do,” she answered and slipped her hand from his. Her smile was fleeting, just a slight pout of glistening red lips. She moved away, the cut of her expensive gown out of place among the grunge-dressed patrons squirming and writhing on the dance floor. In a moment, she was hidden from view.
“Earth to the Celtic warrior!” Rhianna called, waving a hand in front of Nolan’s face. The others at the table howled with laughter. “You can come up for air, now!” She grinned as Nolan scowled down at her.
“Up yours, Marek,” Nolan grated through clenched teeth.
“In your dreams,” Rhianna shot back. She knew damned well her dreams tonight would be of Nolan and the fire he’d ignited in her body.
From her place in the arch of the hallway, leading to the restrooms, Myra Willingham watched Conor Nolan leave. She wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to keep warm. She chewed on her lower lip, her teeth worrying a small gash in the thin flesh without her being aware of it. Her nervous gaze twitched about the room.
She surveyed the room for a few moments longer then made up her mind. Turning, she thrust her hand into the pocket of her mini-skirt, took out a quarter, and dropped it into the chrome slot in the telephone.
“I owe him,” she said in a bitter voice as she punched in the number. Myra’s right palm was so slick with moisture as she gripped the receiver, pressing it almost painfully against her ear, that she had to shift hands and run her wet palm down her skirt while she waited for the call to go through. The insistent ringing began at the other end and she swallowed convulsively, already regretting having made the call. “I owe him,” she repeated, clenching her jaw as the recorder answered, and the hollow sound stabbed her ear.
“This is Nolan. Leave a message.” She heard a loud trill, then hazy static.
“Look, Irish,” Myra began, knowing it wasn’t necessary to identify herself. “I just wanted to warn you. You’ve always done right by me and I owe you.” She nodded to herself as though to firm up the words in her own mind. “Don’t let her in, you hear? You know that blonde woman from the bar? Don’t let her in your place, okay? She’s bad trouble, Nolan. Fucking bad trouble!”
She paused, wondered if she should say more, decided she shouldn’t, then hung up the receiver. Glancing around, she hurried out of the hallway, pushed through the crowds, and made her way back to the bar.
Chapter Two
The drive home was treacherous. Several cars had skidded into the median and down the interstate embankments to land, hopelessly mired, in the drifts. Tow trucks--amber lights cutting swaths through the sheets of snow--were out in force.
Conor drove carefully, defensively, watching out for the idiot drivers who passed him as though the roads weren’t slick and the snow wasn’t spilling across the surfaces to hide icy patches. His wiper blades were going full tilt, scraping away the rime of frost that threatened to form against the cold glass.
By the time he got home, he was exhausted and his headache had become a throbbing torment from hell. The two drinks at the Brew seemed to have given him more of a buzz than normal and the only way he knew how to handle that was with a long hot shower and an Alka-Seltzer.
He kicked off his snow-encrusted boots, then peeled off his sheepskin-lined denim jacket and draped it across a tall rocker on the front porch. The smell of cigarette smoke was sickening and he knew he wouldn’t wear the thing again until the stench was gone. Likewise, he couldn’t wait to rid his hair of the same horrible odor.
When he was through bathing, he braced his hands to either side of the shower head, leaned forward, and let the water beat down on tired shoulders. Water cascaded on his head and ran along his nose and chin. He stared, mesmerized, at the circular motion as it disappeared below the drain’s grating.
Conor sighed. The heat, combined with the delicious feel of the water and cleansing steam, enticed him to remain, but his headache was no better and a slight discomfort in his gut warned of an impending hangover.
As he turned off the water, he heard the phone ring and cursed. He threw back the curtain and hooked a towel from the wicker shelf unit over the commode. Wrapping the towel around him, he went into the living room just as his answering machine clicked off. Obviously the caller did not leave a message for the number 2 was still in the display window. He hit the rewind button and listened.
The first message was from his sister, Caitlin, in Dubuque, calling to remind him to send their mother a birthday card. “Don’t screw up again, okay, Conor?” she hissed before hanging up. “You have a way of doing that.”
“Sanctimonious bitch.” Conor let out a long, irritated sigh. He only heard from his sister three times a year: Mother’s Day, their mother’s birthday, and Christmas. Each time was only to remind him to send a greeting card as though he didn’t have sense enough to do it on his own. He resented it more and more every year.
The second call was from Myra Willingham out at the Witch’s Brew Roadhouse. Static sizzled on the line, hard rock music blared in the background. “Look, Irish,” the message began. “I just wanted to warn you.” Here, the words faded a little, but Conor understood them well enough. “You’ve always done right by me and I owe you.” A prolonged hiss of static, then a high-pitched whine almost obscured the last words: “Don’t let her...”
The tape unwound into more static, then beeped, message ended.
Conor stared at the machine in confusion. What the hell was that all about? Once, he and Myra had spent a wild weekend together in St. Louis and another couple of days in Chicago. After that, he’d passed her on to Triplett, who, in turn, passed her down to Donne, who passed her on to Corbettson. The only right thing Nolan had ever done for her was to loan her the money to get an abortion. The father’s identity was anyone’s guess.
Conor was torn between trying to call Myra back or just letting it slide until morning. He stood there, chewing the cuticle on his right thumb for a moment--a habit he had when he was thinking--then shrugged. Finally, he decided he was more tired than curious and turned to go back into the bedroom just as the doorbell rang.
“Ah, shit! Who the hell is that?” He glanced down at the towel wrapped around his hips.
The bell chimed again.
With a snarl more of annoyance than anger, Nolan went to the door and pulled back the sheer curtain that covered the side panel.
She was standing on his porch, looking at him through the glass. Her lips parted in a smile and she arched one thick golden brow. “Hello, there.”
“How did you...” He stared at her, unable to believe the gorgeous woman from the bar was standing on his porch. Just for a moment, he became acutely aware of his nakedness and moved away from the glass.
“You aren’t decent,” she said, her words a soft accusation. Brazenly, her gaze moved over his face. “But then again, I was hoping you wouldn’t be.”
The invitation was in her smoky voice. He heard it. He read it in her eyes and recognized it in the way she stood there huddled in her expensive sable.
He found his voice. “You followed me home.”
She smiled. “Yes, I did.”
Although every fiber of his manhood screamed at him to open the door, his instincts warned him against it. “Why?”
She hunched her shoulders beneath the sleek pelts of fur. “I liked the way your body felt against mine when we bumped into one another,” she answered. “I’d like to feel it again. Without the restriction of clothing.”
You can’t get more specific than that, Nolan! She was looking at him as though he were the main course of her meal. It embarrassed him and made him acutely uncomfortable.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She ran her fingers along the door lintel as if caressing him.
Bewildered, he shook his head, then smiled to take the sting from his decision. “I’m bushed.”
Felicity Rogers, he remembered her name now, only looked at him with a gaze as hot as the core of a smelting pot. “I’m very good at total body massage. I’m told my strokes are very relaxing.”
His shaft leaped at her words, but he resolutely ignored it. “It’s been a long day,” he confessed. “I was just going to bed.”
“Alone?” she whispered, yet he heard it as clearly as though she’d been standing right beside him, her lips to his ear.
The question slithered into his head and coiled there, a suggestion more than an inquiry. It set his blood to racing. The tight knot, which had formed in his throat, was slowly choking him. Foreboding clenched his stomach.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to. I’d be more than willing to keep you warm tonight, Conor.”
He shook his head again. “I’m warm enough already. If anything, I’m too warm, now.”
He saw a flare of irritation in her emerald eyes, a tightening of her mouth, stiffening of her round shoulders beneath the sable, but then the luscious red lips eased into a disappointed pout.
“Can’t say I didn’t try, can you, Conor Nolan?” She pulled the warmth of the fur closer around her, almost as though she were wrapping his arms around her body. “But I warn you, I don’t give up easily. Some other time, then?”
All he could do was nod. Blood and juices pulsed through him, sang along his nerve endings, making his head pound. His hand trembled as she arched one brow as if to ask: Are you sure? Once more he shook his head and she tilted hers in acknowledgment of his decision. Without a backward glance, she walked off the porch and into the snowy night.
“Sweet Merciful Mary,” he breathed as he let the sheer fall across the side panel.
His heart thudded in his chest as though he’d been running the mile flat out. His hands were clammy, his mouth dry, and his shaft throbbed to the quick pulse of his heartbeat. Not since he was a randy sixteen-year-old had he felt such unbridled passion flow through his body.
Not something a worldly-wise thirty-seven-year-old should be feeling. He moved away from the door.
Conor switched off the living room light and padded to his bedroom.
“They’re out there for the grabbing, Irish,” Cortesio had once told him. “Women love to make it with cops, you know? It’s the danger, man. The danger!”
Yeah, he thought as he plowed a shaky hand through his hair. There’d been women who’d extended open invitations to feel free to use them, but nothing like the soul-searing availability Felicity had issued tonight. And none had ever followed him home or, to his knowledge, even driven by to see where he lived. He wasn’t sure he liked what the Rogers woman had done. He preferred to do the chasing and didn’t feel comfortable as the quarry.
“Sonofabitch,” he whispered.
Shaking his head at the encounter, he couldn’t believe it had actually happened. He worried over it, wondering how Felicity Rogers had found him. Finally, with an angry snort of self-derision, he flipped off the bedroom light, dropped the towel from his hips and climbed naked into the bed, flinging the covers over him with a snarl.
For a long, long time he lay there, hands beneath his damp hair, staring blindly at the ceiling. His body had not calmed down. His blood and juices still raced through him. He ached as though he’d been celibate for months when, in truth, it had only been a day or two since he’d last buried himself in the tender flesh of a woman’s willing body.
Frustrated with his lingering lust, he turned over and buried his face in the pillow.
Chapter Three
Although most of the cops at the precinct flirted with Detective Rhianna Marek, only a handful had ever dared to ask the petite sable-haired beauty for a date. She was considered to be Conor Nolan’s woman. Despite what the guys in the precinct thought, the Irishman and Marek had a platonic alliance and both seemed happy to keep it that way. Their association had become comfortable for the both of them. Neither had to worry about being chased at work. Neither had to worry about the complexities of an on-going male/female relationship that would eventually go sour because of the nature of their work. Neither had to worry about not having a date when they wanted to go out. They were content with the way things were and rarely fought. Each was the other’s confidante and sounding board. And when Conor felt the urge to wander off in search of a bed partner, as he did on occasion, Rhianna always welcomed him back without a single word of recrimination.
Sitting at her desk, listening to Triplett describe his latest encounter with the Culinary Arts of Seduction, she smiled and nodded, made the appropriate ‘ah’ when Trip described how his meringue had come out to perfection.
Her dazed attention shifted across the room to where Nolan sat and she wondered why he looked so ragged.
“And the Wellington was superb!” Trip put his fingers together and kissed the tips. “Magnifique!”
“But did you get any?” asked Brett Samuel. The black detective leaned over Trip’s desk, his expression avid.
Trip grinned. “I always get some with my Beef Wellington, my man! It’s all that rich, salty juice flowing out of the meat, you know?” He wagged his thick black brows.
“Which meat?” Samuel demanded.
Rhianna groaned with disgust and got up from her desk. She swiped up her coffee cup. “You men are sick.”
“Rhianna’s embarrassed!” Samuel taunted in a singsong voice. He turned and yelled across the room to Nolan. “Hey, Conor?” When the Irishman looked around, the black detective grinned. “You must not be giving Marek what she needs, bro.”
“Or not giving it to her often enough!” someone else joked.
The room burst into knowing hoots of laughter. Rhianna’s face turned red and Nolan’s brows drew together in a fierce scowl. Annoyed, he let out a long breath. Rhianna got up and ducked into the break room.
“Why don’t you assholes grow up!” said Nolan as he pushed up from his desk and followed Marek.
Rhianna jumped as Conor’s hand fell on her shoulder and he bumped against her. “Hey, pretty lady,” he whispered in her ear. She tilted her head to the side as he bent to put a quick kiss on her cheek.
“You’d think they’d get tired of harassing me, wouldn’t you?” The moment he’d touched Marek, Conor’s arousal of the night before came rushing back. It stunned him, shocked him to the core of his being with its visceral strength. Her perfume invaded his nostrils to send shivers of lust stabbing through his lower abdomen and his hand tightened on her shoulder. Before he knew what he was doing, he had pressed himself against her. “God, you do things to me, Rhianna,” he breathed into her ear.
“Yeah, right.” Rhianna laughed, thinking he was teasing. She half-turned in his embrace, stopped, her eyes going wide as she felt the steel-like pressure of Nolan’s erection hard against her thigh. A spasm of longing jerked in her uterus and her gaze leaped to Nolan’s face. Hot lust stared back at her and the spasm jerked once more. “Irish?”
His nickname on her sigh was like a red-hot prod and he moved without conscious knowledge that he did. His mouth came down on hers in a pressure that was not his usual friendly, almost brotherly, kiss. His lips slanted across her mouth, claiming, not asking permission. His tongue darted between her lips to ignite an answering fire within.
Rhianna dropped her coffee cup, oblivious to the splatter and the sound of shattering glass. Twining her arms around his broad shoulders, she clung to him, pressing her lower body to the jutting evidence of his passion. She whimpered as his tongue raped her mouth, going deeper, impaling her, branding her as his own. His hands dipped to her buttocks and molded her to him as he ground his erection against her. She felt something near physical agony as his mouth came away from hers, and with a groan of need, he lifted her onto the counter.
“You drive me insane,” he hissed, wedging between her thighs. “Why do you do that?”
“Conor, my God! What’s gotten into you?”
Conor rocked his body against the core of her, spreading her legs wider as he dragged his hands from beneath her rump, then ran his fingers up her body to mold her breasts. He kneaded the soft mounds, cupped their weight, scraped his thumbs over erect, rock hard nipples before his mouth came down to heat the fabric of her pink cotton blouse.
She gasped. “Conor! What the hell are you doing?”
“Ah, excuse me, folks.” Trip said from behind them.
Nolan jerked away from Rhianna as though he were a marionette attached to a puppeteer’s strings. He stumbled, bumped into a table, and stood trembling, his chest heaving with emotion. His body still betrayed him with an erection burning hot and throbbing between his legs. But the intense shame and humiliation in Rhianna’s eyes as she slid down from the counter and turned away was like a bucket of cold water thrown in his face. The intense rigidity of his shaft left him, but the lust remained.
“If you two wanna go at each other like a couple of wild animals,” said Neville Triplett, “at least have the decency to go where no one can see it.”
Rhianna quivered and her breath came in ragged little shudders. She was too embarrassed to turn around and face her partner, still too aroused to meet Nolan’s gaze.
“Get yourself together, Marek,” Trip warned. “I’ll keep everyone out of here until you do.” With a last resentful look toward the Irishmen, Neville Triplett slammed out of the break room.
Nolan’s shoulders slumped. He hung his head for a moment, closed his eyes to still his racing pulse, and opened them to find Rhianna standing by the counter with her face in her hands. He took a long, calming breath, then went to her. “Rhianna,” he said, stunned at the depth of longing he heard in his own voice. He swallowed, put up a hand to touch her shoulder, but thought better of it. He wasn’t so sure that touching her again would be wise, so he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans to take away the temptation. “I apologize, baby.”
“What happened?” He had never touched her like that before or ever kissed her like that before.
Nolan shrugged. “I don’t know.” His gaze moved over her sleek black hair, wandered helplessly down the gentle slope of her back. “I really don’t.”
Rhianna turned around, her eyes wet, and she heard him groan with guilt, but before he could drag his hands from his jeans to enfold her, she stepped back from him. “No,” she begged. “I don’t think you should.”
“Rhianna.” His voice was the merest breath of sound as he stood there staring at her, wanting her with every fiber of his being.
“I’m not one of your whores, Nolan,” she said, as though the words were a rune of protection against the naked hunger she saw emblazoned on his face.
“I know who the hell you are.” He took a step toward her, but she moved back and he stilled. He could feel his cock hardening again and knew if there was no chance of them being intruded upon again, he’d take her right there on the floor of the precinct’s break room.
She seemed to understand and her cheeks glowed with color. “Don’t start something you have no intention of finishing, Nolan.”
“I want you,” he whispered. “Right here.” He pointed at the table beside them. “Right now.”
“Marek, get out here!”
They stared at one another, ignoring Triplett’s bellow of outrage and the accompanying laughter that punctuated it, but they could not ignore the adolescent chants which began to thunder from the squad room: “Marek! Marek! Marek!”
Rhianna’s face flamed. She spun around and ran for the door, but his voice brought her to an abrupt halt.
“Tonight,” Nolan called out to her.
“What?” she managed to ask, looking back at him.
“At your place. Tonight.” He fused his gaze with hers. “I’ll be there at seven.”
Her belly quivered again and she sucked in a quick breath before rushing from the room.
Nolan sagged against the table, staggered into one of the chairs, then crashed down onto the vinyl seat with a nervous expulsion of breath. Reaching up a trembling hand, palm damp, he ran it through his hair and gathered a handful, tugging painfully at his scalp.
“You don’t have to pull your hair out over it, Irish,” Cortesio drawled from the doorway. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.” He laughed at Irish’s grunt of disbelief then pulled a chair out from the nearest table, swung a leg over, and straddled it. Propping his chin on the edge of the high chrome back, he studied Nolan’s flushed face.
Conor Nolan still didn’t understand what had happened to him. He was stunned by his actions, acutely appalled at the way he had behaved, and yet he was still so aroused it was uncomfortable to sit. He couldn’t stand up because his erection was still throbbing in his jeans and Cortesio would hoot with laughter.
“The woman loves you, you know,” Cortesio commented softly and arched one thick dark brow when Nolan’s head snapped up and he looked at his partner in surprise. Cortesio nodded. “It’s true. She does.”
“What am I going to do, Joey?”
“If it were any other woman, I’d say lay her and forget it, but Marek ain’t like other women, now, is she?”
“No,” came the quiet, heartfelt answer.
“Then, as I see it, you’ve got two choices.” Cortesio held up his hand and ticked the choices off on his fingers. “One, you can go over there, talk to her, see how it goes. Tell her things got a little out of hand today and that you’re sorry you humiliated her before the entire precinct.” He clucked away another grunt of despair from his partner. “Maybe things are starting to come to a head and you two can get together. Or ....”
Nolan looked up. “Or what?”
“Or you call her at six-thirty and tell her it was all a big mistake, that you aren’t interested, that you’re a class-act prick, and you’ll see her around.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Of course you can’t.” Cortesio got up and put his chair under the table. “If I need you, I’ll call you at Marek’s.”
Chapter Four
He was stunned to find her waiting for him when he got off work. She was sitting in the deep shadows on his porch, rocking gently in one of the two chairs as though the frigid air did not concern her.
“Where’s your car?” he asked and glanced at the street.
“I took a taxi,” she said on a breathless sigh that made his groin tighten painfully. The rocking chair squeaked as she pushed out of it.
He was mesmerized by the way she moved toward him through the nocturnal glow of early evening. Her body fairly undulated as she walked and the intoxicating aroma of her perfume reached him before she did. He inhaled deeply, struck anew by how stimulating some smells could be to a man’s libido.
“Aren’t you happy to see me?” she whispered as she reached him. She brushed the sleek front of his leather jacket then ran her hands over his shoulders to cup his neck.
“I’ve got a date,” he protested, reaching up to remove her hands.
“Really?” Her hand dipped down to the front of his jeans. She rubbed him. “I don’t care, Nolan.”
Conor gasped in shock and started to move away, but her fingers flexed around him, cupping him between his legs.
“I want you to fuck me, Nolan.” She kneaded his flesh. “I want to feel this inside me.” She tugged at him.
Every instinctual sexual drive, lustful primal craving, and mindless, forbidden impulse he had ever entertained crashed through his psyche with the speed of light and he reached for her, grabbed her to him as though he were a drowning man after a life preserver.
“My, my, my,” she breathed as his arms tightened like steel bands around her body. “I can see we are of the same mind, my strong Celtic warrior.”
He didn’t care that it wasn’t right.
He didn’t care that he had told Rhianna he would see her in less than half an hour.
He didn’t care if everyone on his street was watching him by the faint glow of the street light across from his front door. He shoved Felicity Rogers up against the wall, rammed his thigh between her legs and lifted her to straddle him. He tore feverishly at her clothing as he pinned her there, her legs dangling to either side of his rigid thigh. Material ripped, buttons popped off her blouse so his rough hands could thrust under the lacy cups of her bra to grasp silky-smooth mounds of flesh.
“Easy,” he vaguely heard her caution as she threaded her long fingers through his hair and pressed his head to her chest. “I won’t break, but I can be bruised, lover.”
“I need you,” he growled deep in his throat. “I need....”
Felicity threw back her head as he slid her along his upraised thigh, jerking her away from the wall to make her ride the hard length of him from knee to groin. She looked down at him, smiled at the complete enthrallment in his tense face as he stared sightlessly up at her and reveled at the deadly lust that made his eyes glitter with carnal hunger. She flicked out her tongue to drag the pink tip across her scarlet lips and laughed with taunting delight at the animalistic grunt of intent that burst from his throat.
“I know what you need, Irish.”
Conor spun around, fell with her, and crashed them both to the floor. His only thought was to mount her, to thrust the feverish length of his pulsating shaft deeply inside her, to gain relief from the agony that throbbed inside him.
“Not here,” she told him, wiggling beneath his hard body until her own thigh was wedged intimately against the hot, iron-hard junction of his legs. “Take me inside.”
“I’ve got to have you.” His hands squeezed savagely at her now-naked breasts. His head dipped down to the soft valley between and his teeth closed around one turgid nipple.
“Inside” Her hands pushed at his shoulders even as she braced her leg on the floorboards of the porch so their positions were now reversed and he rode her slender thigh. She felt his entire body shudder.
“Oh, God!” He moaned, his tongue flicking at the hard pebble of her nipple. “I’ve got to ....”
Conor was on fire with a bestial need that superseded all else. He lunged after her, gripped her to him with the mindless intention of raping her had she not pushed so quickly to her feet.
“Inside,” she repeated, breaking through the red-hot mist of lust clouding his vision. “Invite me inside.”
He pushed up from the floor, a snarl of mating rage skinning his lips back from his teeth and he reached for her, his hands like claws.
“Inside!” she hissed. “I’ll not be taken like a common whore on the floor of your dirty porch!”
Rage, impotent and devouring, flooded him and he growled like a cornered animal. He could smell her--smell her--that musky, wet heat driving him insane, taunting him as he crouched there, blotting out all rational thought. But even in his excited state, he knew if he could get her into the house, he could have her as he wished. Any way he wished. He could ram himself to the hilt inside her, tear her apart with his lust if he so desired, make her scream with passion.
Cursing beneath his breath, he shoved the key into the lock, burst through the door, expecting her to be right behind him, enraged that she was not. Consummate fury turned his handsome face ugly as he bolted through the door and wrapped one hard hand around her left arm. He jerked her inside--bruising her--and she lashed out at him.
“Don’t manhandle me! Invite me in!”
The vivid red imprint of her hand was tattooed to his sweaty cheek, but he had not feel the savage slap. “I want you!” he shouted at her. When she hesitated, he snarled, “Goddamn you, come in! I need you, bitch!”
Felicity Rogers smiled and stepped across his threshold. “Why didn’t you just say so, warrior?”
Conor Nolan fell on her like a rutting beast and drove his way into hell.
Chapter Five
For the tenth time that evening, Rhianna looked at her watch. It was well past nine o’clock and Conor hadn’t even called to tell her he’d be late. Not that it was anything new. If he were involved in a case, he lost track of time and would call half an hour later to apologize. But as the hands of the clock swept toward nine-thirty, she became concerned and reached for the phone to call him. As she did, it rang, startling her. She snatched the receiver.
“You’d better have a damned good reason for standing me up, Nolan!” There was a pause then Cortesio’s voice came across from the other end. “He ain’t there?”
“Joey?” Disappointment clawed her stomach. “No, he’s not. I haven’t heard from him.”
“Damn.”
“Have you?” She looked up at the ceiling.
“He was wired this morning.” She heard a nervous, embarrassed chuckle. “You wouldn’t want him attacking you the minute he came through the door, would you?”
Rhianna blushed. “Not much chance of that happening, Joey.”
“I don’t know. You shook him up today. I ain’t seen him like that since ....” He stopped, no doubt annoyed by what he’d almost said.
“Hey, look,” Rhianna said with a forced gaiety. “If the man don’t want me, he don’t want me.”
“Marek ... you’ve known Nolan long enough to know he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. Honey, I’m sorry.” His voice hardened. “The man’s retarded, what can I say?”
Rhianna laughed despite her bitterness. “You do wonders for a gal’s ego, you know that, Cortesio?”
“Any man who doesn’t want you has got to be either blind or neutered.”
“You’re sweet.” When the silence played out, she asked, “If I hear from him, do you want me to have him call you?”
“Nah,” he replied. “I was just going out to the roadhouse. If you hear from him, just let him know.”
“You be careful.”
“Yeah. You, too, kiddo.” He hung up, but not before she heard him cursing in his ancestral tongue.
Rhianna stared at the phone for a long, long time before pushing aside her pride and punching in Conor Nolan’s number. Her hand was tense, her palm damp. Almost immediately she had her answer. The line was busy. He was home and talking to someone or ....
“Okay.” She replaced the receiver. “Someone could be calling in, leaving a message. Probably Joey.”
She waited a few minutes and tried again. The line was still busy. She depressed the disconnect button and held it, then tried again. The call went through and she heard Conor’s voice, hollow and crackling, on the answering machine: “This is Nolan. Leave a message.”
Rhianna hesitated after the beep gave her permission to speak. She bit her lip, then once more pushed aside her pride.
“It’s me. Are you there?” She paused, hoping he’d pick up. Her heart sank when he didn’t. She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Look, I guess something came up and you couldn’t come over. That’s okay, you know? I understand. Just give me a call when you get in so I won’t stay up all night and worry about you.”
She waited, praying there would be a breathless ‘hello’ and he’d be on the line, explaining away his cold feet or his disinterest or stumbling through an apology. When that did not happen, she slowly replaced the receiver.