.38 Caliber Cover-Up. Angi Morgan
ever-lovin’ mind.” He sat straight and tucked her gun into the front of his pants.
Darby had opportunity. So why didn’t she jab her thumb into his side, buck him off her thighs and gain the upper hand? No, she waited for him to threaten her, and God help her, she was curious.
Utterly ridiculous. Where had all her training gone? He didn’t feel threatening? A total unknown was demanding a package while he sat on her. What more did she need to act?
“I can see the wheels turning behind your pretty green eyes.” He winced and slid his shirt up to staunch the dark red trickle with the towels.
A waft of blood hit her nostrils. She covered her mouth, trying not to be sick, but her gag reflex kicked in full force.
“God, you’re seriously turning sour.” He shifted to one side and she scrambled for the bathroom.
She didn’t know how long she hurled. Only that after a while, he was there, holding her annoying curls away from her face while she grabbed her out-of-control stomach and heaved. She hated her newfound aversion to blood. It was more than embarrassing. If her brothers ever found out, they’d tease her relentlessly.
“You okay now, Officer O’Malley?” he asked, grabbing a washcloth from the top of an unpacked box, wetting it like a nursemaid and handing it to her.
“How do you know who I am?”
“I came looking for you, remember?”
She over-exaggerated her movements to lean against the tub. The porcelain cooled her hot skin. Her visitor might as well think she was still ill instead of capable of ramming her head into his stomach and sending him crashing into the laundry room. If all else failed, she could wait until he really passed out from blood loss or exhaustion.
Which wouldn’t be too long from the looks of him.
He swayed, using the doorframe to hold himself upright. Viewed from this angle on the floor, he was especially tall. He continued to hold the dishtowels under his bunched-up shirt with a bloodstained hand.
She gulped down more nausea. “You need a…a doctor.”
The stupid jerk had faked getting sick and grinned from ear to ear, leaving her to stare at perfectly aligned teeth. But that was the only thing perfect about his rugged-looking face and two-toned, brown-and-gold hair. A small trail of blood was smeared across his chin from a busted lower lip. His tanned forehead had road rash, with bits of gravel embedded in the lacerations.
This close she could tell his nose had been broken at least once. His strong, square jaw matched that magnificent chest hidden under his loose shirt. The silver dagger dangling around his neck somehow made him as sexy as a pirate instead of creeping her out. And his eyes… Good grief, it looked as if there were a thousand lifetimes in those whiskey-colored spheres.
“What I really need is whatever Pike left for me.” He drew a deep breath, grimaced and allowed a short moan to escape. “God, O’Malley, Walter Pike was more than a friend to me. You saw the picture. I’m one of the good guys.”
“Who still has my Glock shoved down the front of his pants,” she answered, pointing toward her gun.
“Where it’s going to stay.”
“First things first.” She wanted out of the close quarters of the bathroom. “Just how hurt are you?”
“O’Malley.” He rolled her name around as if he should be talking with an accent, his eyes never losing contact with hers. “I thought you’d be a bit more, well, manly. Pike never mentioned you were a woman. But we don’t have much time.”
“I can hold my own. And Pike never gave me anything.” It wasn’t a lie.
Pike had been shot at the academy and she’d found his body. He managed to say someone would come to her asking for a package, but he died before giving her details. She had no idea what it contained or where it was located. She hated to let her partner down, but she hadn’t had any luck finding what Pike had spoken about. Or any luck finding information that would clear her brother of murder charges.
“Right.” He sank to the floor, sliding his back down the doorjamb. “Then why was I directed to come here?”
“Let me call an ambulance.” Was he acting again or had the adrenaline rush finally worn off?
“No.”
“Then your handler.”
“No one,” he said, fingers on the butt of her gun. “Can’t trust…any of them…right now.”
Threatening or nonthreatening. She didn’t trust herself to choose. For the past several weeks she’d doubted her intuition. Nerves on edge, jumpy, imagining looks from colleagues. And here she was cornered in her bathroom by a thug claiming to work for… Who was he claiming to work for?
“It will complicate my weekend if you die in my hallway.” She tried to be detached and uncaring, but this unusual suspect was fading fast. Or was he?
His eyes closed and he coughed—one of those pathetic “ahem” things that didn’t convince her one way or the other of his weakening. She inched her way toward the door. Informant or not, she couldn’t just wait for him to die.
“I’m undercover DEA.” He looked up through pain-filled eyes. She was sunk. “I need your help, O’Malley. Can I depend on you?”
Can I depend on you? The words echoed in her mind.
Two weeks ago, she would have answered yes in a heartbeat. She had answered yes—too many times to count. But now no one counted on her. How could they? No one really trusted her. She’d failed Michael, and Pike had died in her arms.
“Verify…two one four…five five five…nine six nine six,” he mumbled, fading. “Double-crossed. Don’t tell ’em…anything.”
RHODES OPENED ONE EYE at a time, wondering why he didn’t see swirling stars and birdies. Maybe the tom-toms in his head had scared them all off. Stifling a groan, he inched his way to a sitting position against the door. Every bit of him hurt from his earlier fight, but his side had stopped bleeding and had a bandage.
“Glad to see you’re coming around.” O’Malley stood in front of him—left hand pointing her department-issued pistol at his head and her right holding a cell phone.
Triumphant and gorgeous. She had to be at least five-nine or five-ten. Slender, with a body honed by the rowing machine in the corner of the living room.
“Who are you and how are you involved with Michael?”
“I already told you, O’Malley.”
“Wrong answer.” She pushed a button and held the phone to her ear. “Yes, sixteen forty-nine Mayflower Drive. Male, mid-twenties, he’s passed out and hit his head. I can’t stay on the line, but I’ll let them in.” She clicked the phone off and sported a very satisfied smile. “You have seven minutes. Tops.”
“I’d give us three before the guy sitting on your house busts inside.” Another reason he’d used the back entrance. A guy with “cop” written all over him was watching this house from a traditional dark sedan.
“Real answers or you go to the hospital with the cops.”
“You are the cops, O’Malley.”
“Six minutes and counting.” She leaned against the bare wall—barely out of his reach, curly hair neatly tucked behind her ear, gun firmly in her hand, sounding confident.
But she was vulnerable. He’d seen her throw up.
“I’m sure it’ll be less of a headache to let you become someone else’s problem. Not to mention the paperwork that I detest. So convince me.”
He needed to be back in control. He inched his way up the doorjamb, his strength steadily returning despite every muscle in his body aching. What was