Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower: Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower. Tess Gerritsen
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against her.
She had not meant for this to happen, had not expected this to happen. But as their kiss deepened, as his hand slid hungrily down the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, she knew that this had been inevitable. That for all his cool, unreadable looks, Sam Navarro harbored more passion than any man she’d ever known.
He regained control first. Without warning, he broke off the kiss. She heard his breathing, harsh and rapid, in the darkness.
“Sam?” she whispered.
He pulled away from her and sat up on the side of the bed. She watched his silhouette in the darkness, running his hands through his hair. “God,” he murmured. “What am I doing?”
She reached out toward the dark expanse of his back. As her fingers brushed his skin, she felt his shudder of pleasure. He wanted her—that much she was certain of. But he was right, this was a mistake, and they both knew it. She’d been afraid and in need of a protector. He was a man alone, in need of no one, but still a man with needs. It was natural they’d seek each other’s arms for comfort, however temporary it might be.
Staring at him now, at the shadow huddled at the side of the bed, she knew she still wanted him. The longing was so intense it was a physical ache.
She said, “It’s not so awful, is it? What just happened between us?”
“I’m not getting sucked into this again. I can’t.”
“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Sam. Not if you don’t want it to.”
“Is that how you see it? Quick and meaningless?”
“No. No, that’s not at all what I said.”
“But that’s how it’d end up.” He gave a snort of self-disgust. “This is the classic trap, you know. I want to keep you safe. You want a white knight. It’s good only as long as that lasts. And then it falls apart.” He rose from the bed and moved to the door. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He left the room.
She lay alone in his bed, trying to sort out the confusing whirl of emotions. Nothing made sense to her. Nothing was under her control. She tried to remember a time when her life was in perfect order. It was before Robert. Before she’d let herself get caught up in those fantasies of the perfect marriage. That was where she’d gone wrong. Believing in fantasies.
Her reality was growing up in a broken home, living with a succession of faceless stepparents, having a mother and father who despised each other. Until she’d met Robert, she hadn’t expected to marry at all. She’d been content enough with her life, her job. That’s what had always sustained her: her work.
She could go back to that. She would go back to that.
That dream of a happy marriage, that fantasy, was dead.
SAM WAS UP AT DAWN. The couch had been even more uncomfortable than he’d expected. His sleep had been fitful, his shoulder ached, and at 7:00 a.m., he was unfit for human companionship. So when the phone rang, he was hard-pressed to answer with a civil “Hello.”
“Navarro, you’ve got some explaining to do,” said Abe Coopersmith.
Sam sighed. “Good morning, Chief.”
“I just got an earful from Yeats in Homicide. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, Sam. Back off the Cormier woman.”
“You’re right. You shouldn’t have to tell me. But you did.”
“Anything going on between you two?”
“I felt she was in danger. So I stepped in.”
“Where is she right now?”
Sam paused. He couldn’t avoid this question; he had to answer it. “She’s here,” he admitted. “My house.”
“Damn.”
“Someone was following us last night. I didn’t think it was prudent to leave her alone. Or unprotected.”
“So you brought her to your house? Where, exactly, did you happen to park your common sense?”
I don’t know, thought Sam. I lost track of it when I looked into Nina Cormier’s big brown eyes.
“Don’t tell me you two are involved. Please don’t tell me that,” said Coopersmith.
“We’re not involved.”
“I hope to God you’re not. Because Yeats wants her in here for questioning.”
“For Robert Bledsoe’s murder? Yeats is fishing. She doesn’t know anything about it.”
“He wants to question her. Bring her in. One hour.”
“She has an airtight alibi—”
“Bring her in, Navarro.” Coopersmith hung up.
There was no way around this. Much as he hated to do it, he’d have to hand Nina over to the boys in Homicide. Their questioning might be brutal, but they had their job to do. As a cop, he could hardly stand in their way.
He went up the hall to the bedroom door and knocked. When she didn’t answer, he cautiously cracked open the door and peeked inside.
She was sound asleep, her hair spread across the pillow in a luxurious fan of black. Just the sight of her, lying so peacefully in his bed, in his house, sent a rush of yearning through him. It was so intense he had to grip the doorknob just to steady himself. Only when it had passed, when he had ruthlessly suppressed it, did he dare enter the room.
She awakened with one gentle shake of the shoulder. Dazed by sleep, she looked at him with an expression of utter vulnerability, and he cleared his throat just to keep his voice steady.
“You’ll have to get up,” he told her. “The detectives in Homicide want to see you downtown.”
“When?”
“One hour. You have time to take a shower. I’ve already got coffee made.”
She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him with an expression of bewilderment. And no wonder. Last night they had held each other like lovers.
This morning, he was behaving like a stranger.
This was a mistake, coming into her room. Approaching the bed. At once he put distance between them and went to the door. “I’m sure it’ll just be routine questions,” he said. “But if you feel you need a lawyer—”
“Why should I need a lawyer?”
“It’s not a bad idea.”
“I don’t need one. I didn’t do anything.” Her gaze was direct and defiant. He’d only been trying to protect her rights, but she had taken his suggestion the wrong way, had interpreted it as an accusation.
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