Envy

have to take my shirt. I broke yours.”

Closing her eyes, she cursed softly. “I’m sorry.”

“God, what for?”

“I don’t know.”

He believed that. Also knew she was going to figure out just exactly what and how much she was regretting soon enough.

As he stood up from the sofa, he cupped his sex with his hand; no reason for her to see that right now. And no reason for her to think of the evening as anything other than what she’d said it was: a mistake for her.

For him, on the other hand? Thanks to her, he’d had his first home-cooked meal in the twenty-first century, a ride home through the storm, and sex that came damn close to that dumb-ass overused phrase: making love.

Ironic how two people could come away from the same list of events with two totally different takes. Unfortunately, hers was the only one that counted.

In silence, he gathered her clothes one by one and handed them over. Going by the sounds, she drew her pants on, and then her socks and shoes. He assumed the bra went on as well, but that wouldn’t make a lot of noise, would it. Holster was the last thing he gave her, and as she dealt with the leather strapping, he grabbed his pants and held them over his hips.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” he said, when she was finished.

No reason to draw out the awkward stuff. Besides, she’d already gone, anyway.

God, he felt like he’d been shot in the gut, he thought as he went into the front hall.

As Reilly came up to him, he focused over her shoulder. Which unfortunately brought his eyes to the couch.

“I don’t want it to end this way,” she said.

“It is what it is. And it’s not like I don’t get where you’re coming from.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“I can imagine.”

“I don’t want to . . . I really wanted this. But I guess it’s hard to just be another woman in your bed.”

Opening the door, he got slammed with a blast of cold and wet. “I would never take you upstairs. Trust me.”

She blinked. Cleared her throat. “Okay. Ah . . . I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah. Nine a.m.”

As soon as she stepped through, he shut the door and went around to the kitchen to watch her get in her car and drive away through the rain.

“Motherfucker.”

Bracing palms on the counter, he let his head hang for a moment. Then, disgusted with himself, he doubled back and hit the stairs at a jog. In his bedroom, he passed by his bed and thought, Nope, absolutely not. He’d never take Reilly there. That mattress, which he’d brought up with him from Manhattan, was where he’d banged the randoms he’d picked up in bars—some of whom he hadn’t even gotten a name from, much less digits.

All of whom he’d booted out before the sweat was dry.

The woman he’d been lucky enough to be with tonight was not one of that less than august group, and even if she didn’t feel the same way he did, he would never cheapen her by laying her on that soiled place.

Clean sheets didn’t hide the stain of the way he’d been living.

In the bathroom, he snapped off the cold condom and tossed it in the wastepaper basket. As he looked at the shower, he thought about taking one. But in the end, he just threw on a pair of sweats and went down to couch below, her delicate perfume still on him.

Pathetic.

One good thing about having logged three years of working various beats in Caldwell was that Reilly could get home from any neighborhood without thinking about it.

Handy on a night like tonight.

I would never take you upstairs. Trust me.

Yeah, boy, that little ditty was going to be with her for the rest of her natural life.

And of course, she wondered exactly what rarified class of females was welcome in that special space. God, how many women had he had on that couch? And how did you make the cut to get into his bedroom?

But she didn’t blame him for any of the way she felt now. She had wanted exactly what had happened, and she was going to deal with the consequences—which, thanks to safe sex, were just going to be emotional: She’d chosen this outcome. . . . She’d followed him to his door; she’d pushed him into his house; she’d told him to get the wallet. So she was going to damn well be an adult and spend the next ten hours pulling herself together before she had to walk into the office at nine tomorrow morning.

It was what professionals did. And why professionals didn’t let things like tonight happen.

Ten minutes of rain-soaked road later, she eased into her driveway, and hit the garage door opener. As she waited for the panels to up, up, and away, she thought, Oh, crap. Between dinner and what had gone down afterward, she hadn’t checked her phone in hours.

When she took the thing out, she found that she had missed three calls. There was only one voice mail, but she didn’t waste time getting it, considering who had been trying to find her.

She just hit José de la Cruz back.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

Shoot, maybe she’d be waking him. It was late—

His voice cut through the electronic brrrrrring-ing. “I was hoping it would be you.”

“Sorry, I’ve been tied up.” Wince. “What’s going on?”

“I know you wanted to get in there and talk to Kroner, and I think you can and should now. Docs say he’s even better than he was this morning, but the tide could turn, and I believe your doing an interview as a neutral third party will help Veck, both in fact and in the court of public opinion.”

“When can I see him.” Hell, she’d go tonight if she could.

“Tomorrow morning’s probably best. I got an update about an hour ago and he was still resting comfortably. He’s no longer intubated, is off sedation, and actually ate something—but last I heard, he’s conked out.”

Recalling the condition the guy had been in on that forest floor, it was crazy that he was still breathing, much less sucking back hospital food—and she had to think of Sissy Barten. So unfair. That Kroner was alive and that girl . . . well, she probably wasn’t.

“I’ll be there at nine tomorrow.”

“There’s twenty-four/seven security. I’ll make sure they know you’re coming. Hey, how’re you and Veck getting along?”

She closed her eyes and kept a curse to herself. “Fine. Just perfect.”

“Good. Don’t bring him with you.”

“I wasn’t going to.” For more than one reason.

“And check in with me afterward, if you don’t mind.”

“Detective, you’ll be the first person I call.”

After she hit end, she rubbed the back of her neck, easing a strain that she had a feeling was from the session on her partner’s couch.

Releasing the brake, she let the engine’s idle draw her forward into the garage. After she canned the ignition, she got out and—

Reilly stopped in the process of closing the driver’s-side door. “Who’s there,” she called out, ducking her hand under her coat and palming her gun.

The overhead automatic light gave her a clear picture of her stand of rakes in the corner and her trash barrel and the bag of rock salt that she used on her front walk in the winter for the mailman. It also made her a sitting duck for whoever was watching her.

And someone was.

Moving fast, she went around the hood instead of the trunk and had her key ready before she got to the door. With quick, sure moves, she unlocked the dead bolt, shot into her house and hit the garage door at the same time.