CHAPTER FIVE

      RYAN GOT UP in time to make it to the meeting with Scott Markovich. The kid, fearing that his stepfather would hurt his mother if he was in detention and not there to protect her, admitted that the woman had been home the afternoon the bastard had come after Scott in a way a man should never come at a boy.

      She’d been drinking since early morning and had been plastered enough that her husband thought he could get away with a little on the side with her son.

      He’d miscalculated Scott’s determination never to be touched that way again.

      He’d also overestimated his wife’s stupor. She’d come into the room soon enough to keep Scott from killing the son of a bitch.

      And she’d promised him that from that moment forward she would never, ever let another drop of alcohol pass her lips.

      Scott believed her.

      Ryan didn’t. As much as Scott wasn’t going to like it at first, being separated from his mother was the best thing that could happen to the boy. There was a relative, an aunt on his father’s side, who desperately wanted him.

      None of that was Ryan’s business, however. His business here was almost done. A report to the prosecutor and he was out.

      Another job done. A successful outcome this time.

      Not something he ever took for granted.

      Just as he didn’t take for granted the woman who, on Saturday night, he was once again holding in his arms.

      Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. His sudden need for Audrey was not something he was comfortable with. It didn’t fit at all with his life plan. With his self-concept.

      But one thing he’d learned in life—sometimes the things least understood were the most important.

      “Thank you,” she said now, her voice sleepy.

      “For what?” They’d been talking for more than an hour, lying there naked in his bed, the covers up around their waists.

      They’d been in bed almost three hours.

      “For Scott.”

      He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

      “Maybe.”

      There was no maybe about it.

      “But there’s something different about you. Something that makes you, I don’t know, more accessible. I don’t think Scott would have talked to anyone else. He’s not very trusting of cops. As a rule, every time they’ve come around, his life has been painfully disrupted.”

      Because of his mother’s drinking. And because when he’d reported his stepfather’s earlier abuse, there hadn’t been enough solid evidence to charge the man with anything. And now, when Scott had been defending himself from a horror that must have seemed worse than death to him, he’d been arrested and detained on charges of manslaughter.

      They were all doing their jobs. Enforcing laws that were in place to protect society, the people. So why was it so often that the victims were the ones who had the fewest rights?

      With a brief flash of his birth mother, and a briefer one of his birth father—a man Ryan still struggled to accept for so many reasons on so many levels—Ryan said, “I think maybe my age helped us out this time. Most times it’s the other way around.”

      He could say this here, to her. She’d understand. Audrey must have to fight many of the same battles he did, having so much responsibility, being capable of a maturity that was uncommon at such a young age.

      Being forced into it by life’s lessons.

      Maybe someday, he’d even be able to tell her about the circumstances surrounding his conception.

      Maybe someday. Not today. Other than a few brief conversations with the parents who’d raised him, Ryan hadn’t talked about that particular case since they’d solved it the year before. Not even to the biological grandfather who was a law-enforcement icon in this state.

      “How would your age have had anything to do with Scott’s ability to trust you?” She turned onto her back, her head in the crook of his shoulder, pulling his hands around her to rest across the flatness of her belly.

      “Maybe it doesn’t. I just figured I’m probably closer to his age than any other detective he’s had to deal with. I figured that might have helped him relate to me a little bit.”

      Her skull dug into his flesh as she turned to look up at him, grinning. “What, they give out some kind of memo at the office listing detectives’ exact ages?” she asked.

      “No.” Suddenly Ryan wasn’t feeling so good. Surely she knew…he just assumed she knew. Everyone seemed to.

      Shit. What if she didn’t know? His skin grew cold. Clammy. Worse than when he’d been facing that freaked-out druggie with the sawed-off shotgun the previous month.

      “Then why would you say that?” she asked again. He could tell, from the frown marring her brow, the confusion in her gaze, that she was catching on to something.

      And had no idea what.

      Disentangling himself as gently, but as quickly, as possible, Ryan stood, skipping underwear as he pulled on his jeans and zipped them.

      Surely this wouldn’t be a big deal. She’d only be what, two, maybe three years older than he was, assuming she went straight from college to law school?

      Suddenly the budding relationship he’d been fighting against became something he had to have. No matter what. And another one of life’s little lessons became personal. Only by losing something—or facing its possible loss—did you realize its worth to you.

      “You haven’t heard them telling the jokes about the detective in diapers?” he asked, scrambling for words.

      “Nooo.” She drew the word out, sitting up and pulling the covers to her chin. “Exactly how old are you, Ryan?”

      “How old do you think I am?” Now that was a mature reply. Fresh out of junior high.

      “I don’t know. I thought early thirties. So…what…you’re twenty-eight, twenty-nine? That’s young for a full detective. And I guess it could make you seem more accessible to a kid Scott’s age.”

      Ryan didn’t lie. Or prevaricate. Or play games. He lived life by the rules. All of them.

      If you didn’t, people got hurt.

      He was also a risk taker. Came with the cop territory.

      He’d just never known such stark fear before when taking one.

      “I’m twenty-two.”

      He faced her, an unarmed firing squad of one, and knew by the look on her face as soon as he said the words that he’d risked as much as he’d feared—and lost.

      AT FIRST AUDREY THOUGHT he was joking. He had to be. She was not spending the weekend in bed with a twenty-two-year-old boy. Someone had paid him to say that. Except that Ryan wasn’t the type to play mean games—not even for money. Especially not for money. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that Ryan Mercedes