So, the question was…now that Nate had thrown them together again, did she follow her heart (which had apparently hung on to that long-ago crush as if it were a virus it hadn’t quite shaken off) and those awakened body parts?
Or her head, which was sternly reminding her that any chance of a long-term relationship was slim-to-none?
Fortunately, Lani decided, unless a crime spree needing Detective Donovan Quinn’s attention suddenly broke out in Oregon, the man wasn’t going anywhere right away. And neither was she.
* * *
Although his body felt as if it had just finished a triathlon, and his ankle was throbbing, Donovan took the time to hang up his clothes before taking a shower and shaving. The shave might have been a mistake, since getting rid of the dark stubble revealed a pallor that reminded him of the faces of lifers he’d sent off to the Oregon State Penitentiary.
The bathroom had come equipped with shampoo, body and face soap, along with toothpaste and extra brushes. Making a mental note to pay Lani back for whatever she’d spent on the bath and well-stocked kitchen, he debated taking a nap and knew from experience the buzzing, like a hive of angry wasps, would start up in his brain again, the same way it did whenever he tried to sleep.
Churned up and edgy, he wandered outdoors. Unable to sit down, he stood on the beach and watched the wavelets rolling in to kiss the sand. As the setting sun turned the sky to apricot and the sea to beaten gold, he tried to remember the last time he’d allowed himself to relax and came up blank.
There’d been a helluva lot to deal with the past few years. A divorce, hunting down the Cascades Killer, investigating Tess’s money-laundering case, along with the legal appeal of the Russian mobster she’d been determined to keep in prison, not to mention trying to uncover her stalker. Add in being hit by the driver of that SUV who’d tried to kill him, leaving him with this damn gimpy ankle, and it was no wonder he’d been walking a very thin razor’s edge.
Then, just when he could see a light at the end of the criminal tunnel, he’d shown up at his partner’s apartment with a six-pack and plans to watch the Seahawks-Forty Niners’ game only to find the dull beige wall behind the ratty, thrift store recliner splattered with blood and brains.
Donovan didn’t give a flying f*ck
what his chief, the department shrink, and the chaplain said. Matt Osborne, who, next to Nate, had been the closest thing he’d had to a brother, had been wallowing in a world of pain, and Donovan hadn’t recognized how bad the problem had become.
Whenever he and Matt would talk about the Cascades Killer case, their conversations had revolved around the investigation, then working with the district attorney’s office to prepare a slam-dunk case for trial. They’d never talked about the victims. The fathers, the mothers, and, God help them, those poor innocent kids who hadn’t done anything but gone on a family camping trip. Something his late partner had been deprived of when his ex-wife had returned to her hometown in North Carolina with their children.
Like most police departments, the Portland Police Bureau was populated with men and women who fit into the tough-guy mold that had existed long before Donovan had been born. Cops don’t cry. That was the unspoken code. Which ignored the unsavory fact that as many, if not more, cops died by their own gun as they did in the line of duty.
Although many cities, including his own, were getting better about tackling that outwardly strong, silent culture, the truth remained that suicide had long been the black sheep in the blue police family.
Donovan was back to beating himself up over the fact that despite being a hot shot detective, he hadn’t caught the clues of his own partner’s downward spiral when Lani came around the cove, appearing like something from a fairy tale.
Her hair, gilded by the last rays of the sun and fanned by the soft trade winds, was adorned with a bright yellow blossom. A strapless dress covered with bright tropical flowers bared her sun-kissed shoulders and skimmed her body enticingly, the full skirt billowing around her legs as she walked toward him, a pair of red sandals in her hand.
Revealing he wasn’t quite dead yet himself, a spark of heat inside Donovan flickered. When she reached the bottom of the steps, stopped, and smiled, the flicker flamed up. Which was definitely problematic. Because after months of living like a monk, the female who’d started his juices flowing again was the wrong damn woman. Seducing the sister of his best friend was absolutely against the Bro Code.
Lani didn’t need to be a detective to catch that spark of interest. One he’d quickly and rigidly banked. Too tense, she thought. And too sad. And once again, dressed as grimly as his expression. Granted, he’d changed out of the charcoal-gray business suit, but the tan slacks and black silk T-shirt were still a far cry from appropriate beach attire. As her eyes moved to his feet, she supposed the supple Italian loafers were his attempt at informality and wondered what had happened to those raggedy old Nikes he’d practically lived in while off duty.