“You wouldn’t be pissed off at home?”
“No, I’d be pissed off anywhere. That fat, self-satisfied, cigar-smoking fuckhead figures he can threaten me with my job, and I’ll scare off?”
“The father?”
“Yeah, the father.”
“Can he have you fired?”
“If he can, they can shove the job. I don’t want it if I can’t fucking do it. Not if some overprivileged asshole can do whatever the hell he wants and I’m supposed to look the other way.”
“Money is power,” Abigail said quietly, “but it’s not the only power.”
“I guess we’ll see. I went over to talk to Russ’s parents, and Russ and Seline—his wife—after I dealt with the lawyer. She cried. Mrs. Conroy. This sweet, funny woman who always had peanut butter cookies in the jar, just broke down and cried. I should’ve found a way to put that little bastard away before it went this far.”
“It’s useless to blame yourself for what this person did, or what his father has been able to do, especially when the pattern was set long before you took the position as chief of police. The rational thing to do is arrest him, which you have, and to compile evidence for the prosecutor to assist in getting a guilty verdict at trial. That wasn’t sympathetic,” she realized.
Brooks sat back down, picked up his tea. “Worked pretty well, though. I know the logic of it, Abigail.”
“But your friend and his family have been hurt. It’s emotional as well as financial and physical and criminal. People should pay for their actions. There should be consequences. There should be justice.”
Her hand balled into a fist on the table for a moment before she ordered herself to relax it. “It’s hard not to feel sad and angry and even hopeless when bad things happen, because fear and influence and money often outweigh justice.”
He leaned forward, laid a hand over hers. “Who hurt you?”
She shook her head, said nothing.
“Not yet, then.”
“What will you do tomorrow?”
“I’ve got a seven-thirty meeting with the prosecutor to go over everything again. We’ll have an arraignment, bail hearing. I expect they’ll cut Justin and the others loose until trial. I don’t figure he’ll go for a plea straight off. Maybe, once it gets closer, maybe if the lawyers don’t screw it up. The Conroys are just mad enough to go for a civil suit on top of it. I won’t be discouraging that. It’s time the pressure came from the other side.”
“Then you know what you have to do and how to do it. Are they violent?”
“The kid likes to bust things up.”
“I meant could or would they try to hurt you or your friend’s family? Using violence as intimidation.”
“Can’t say for sure, but I wouldn’t go there. Money’s Blake’s weapon of choice.”
Abigail considered. “I don’t believe they can have you fired.”
“Don’t you?”
“Objectively, your family is a fixture in the community. Liked and respected. You’re also liked and respected in your own right. I assume as a multigenerational business family, with a key property in the community, your friend and his family are also valued. Their property was damaged through reckless and selfish behavior, so sympathy and outrage will be on their side. Those things are also weapons. Extrapolating from what you’ve said tonight, I’d posit that the Blakes are somewhat feared but not well liked. There are likely many people in the community who’d be pleased if the son is punished for his actions.”
“Extrapolating. Now, how can you use words like that and still manage to make me feel a whole hell of a lot better?”
“Did I?”
This time he laid a hand over hers and left it there. “You were right about the sad. I was, and pissed off, and frustrated, and we’ll have to toss in a dash of feeling sorry for myself. Now I’m down to sorry and mad with a whole fat scoop of looking forward to kicking some ass—legally speaking.”
“That’s good?”
“It’s real good.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I should go.”
“I wish you’d stay.”
He turned her hand over so their fingers linked. “Thank God.”
“We should go to bed.”
“Two minds, one thought.”
“It’s late,” she said, as she rose to gather the tea things. “You’re tired. And, I think, still a little sad. Sex releases endorphins, so for the short term you’d feel …” She trailed off when she turned and found him grinning at her.
“I’m half in love with you,” he told her, “and heading fast toward three-quarters.”
Something inside her burst like sunlight before it flooded away on a rise of panic. “Don’t do that.”
“I don’t think it’s something you do or don’t. It’s something that happens or doesn’t.”
“It’s a mixture of sexual and physical attraction, along with novelty and the tension between mutual interests and conflicts of interest. People often mistake hormonal reaction and certain compatibilities for what they think of as love.”
He continued to smile as he got to his feet, but something about the glint in his eyes had her taking a cautious step back as he walked to her.
He put his hands on her shoulders, lowered his head to brush his lips over hers. He said, “Hush,” and kissed her again. “You don’t want to tell me what I feel or don’t, or I might click back up to pissed off. We don’t want that, do we?”
“No, but—”
“Hush,” he repeated, with his lips whispering against hers. “Pretty Abigail, so full of suspicion and intellect. And nerves.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Nerves,” he repeated, skimming his thumbs along the sides of her breasts while his mouth continued to toy with hers. Rubbing, brushing, grazing. “When you’re not quite sure what’s next, when you haven’t worked out all the steps, or there’s a little detour. I like the nerves.”
“Why?”
“And I like the curious why.” He tugged her shirt up and off, watching the surprise—and, yeah, just a few nerves—flicker in her eyes. “I like knowing you haven’t figured it—me, this—all out.” His hands glided up her sides, over her breasts, down. “Action and reaction, right? I like your reactions.”
There were nerves, she admitted. They seemed to slither along her skin, under it, coil in her belly, squeeze around her heart to increase the beat. Everything inside her body felt soft, then sharp, loose then tangled. How could she keep up?
“We should go upstairs.”
She felt his lips curve against her throat, and his fingers trail up her back. “Why?” he murmured, and flicked open the catch of her bra. “I like your kitchen.” He shifted his feet, toeing off his shoes. “It’s warm. And efficient. I love the way you feel under my hands. Abigail.”
She fell into the kiss, headfirst, a breathless tumble that left her dizzy and weak. Seduction. Though she’d never allowed herself to be seduced—it was unnecessary—her mind recognized the sensation. And her body surrendered to it.
Craving the feel of his skin, his muscles, his bones, she shot her hands under his shirt, found the warm, the solid, the smooth. Her breath caught on a gasp when he hitched her up so she sat on her own kitchen counter. Before the shock of that had fully registered, his mouth closed over her breast.
So hot, so wet, so strong, she let out a quick cry of stunned pleasure. Later she would think the orgasm that shot through her was as much a result of the shock as the sensation. But now it caught her unprepared, left her shuddering and defenseless.
“Brooks.” She wanted to tell him to wait, to wait until she steadied herself, but his mouth was on hers again, taking her under so fast, so deep, she could only shudder and yield.
She’d never been taken before, he realized. Not like this, where her surrender was complete, not when she couldn’t separate some small part of herself to reach for control.
And God, he wanted to take her, to destroy that fascinating and innate control.
He yanked down her zipper and, half lifting her, peeled the jeans away. Giving her no time to recover, he closed his mouth over hers again, swallowing her instinctive protest. He stroked her, teasing and gentle. She was already hot, already wet, already balanced on the edge. He wanted her to ride that, hold that sensation until it overwhelmed and overcame.