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Chapter Two
Dana licked dry lips as she peeled fabric away from Cody’s skin. It didn’t matter if he’d been shot three times or thirty. It was too many. The last time had been a head wound. Then the blood had streaked his forehead and his cheek and had run down his neck to soak the collar of his shirt.
“And how many times did you go to the doctor? Once. And that wasn’t even your idea. You were unconscious, for God’s sake!”
She hadn’t ever wanted to see his blood again. That was why she’d left him. It was the reason that, no matter how much she loved him, no matter how much it had hurt her, she’d had to leave. His job had always come first. Always had and always would.
“Dana, could you shut up and get on with it, please?”
She pushed the memories to the back of her mind and concentrated on getting the sweatshirt off without tearing open his wound. “Oh, Cody,” she moaned.
His beautiful golden skin was torn and bloody. The holes in the sweatshirt matched the holes in his arm, right through the meaty part of his bicep. Blood oozed out of both wounds.
Dana stared in fascination as the present and the past rushed toward each other like runaway trains. She had to concentrate to keep them from colliding in her brain.
Cody. Wonderful, dangerous Cody. The only man she’d ever loved. Once she hadn’t been able to imagine life without him.
Then, as she began to realize just what being the wife of a cop meant, the possibility of life without Cody became all too real. She’d already had more experience than she ever wanted of waiting at home for someone who never came back. She couldn’t face that again, not even for Cody.
So she’d divorced him. He wasn’t her problem anymore, hadn’t been for four years.
She kept on talking, more in an effort to ground herself in the present than because she actually had anything to say. “How many times can it happen, Cody? How are you always in the middle of the danger? Why does it always have to be you?”
He didn’t answer, just lay there, his sweat staining her new pillowcases, his eyes squeezed shut and a grimace of pain marring his even features.
She pressed her lips together and stood, holding out her bloodstained hands like a surgeon as she backed out of the room. “I think I still have some gauze pads and peroxide from the last time,” she muttered as she walked into the bathroom, reached for the faucets and ran cold, clean water over her hands, watching in bitter fascination as Cody’s blood ran down the drain.
She dug around in the bathroom cabinet until she found the supplies, and brought them and a wet washcloth back into the bedroom.
Even in the middle of this latest crisis with Cody, the sight of him lying on her bed caught her off guard. She stopped dead still in the doorway. For a split second, the years vanished, and she and Cody were together and in love. Dana was shocked at the spear of desire that streaked through her. She winced and shut her eyes briefly.
Cody opened his eyes to a slit and gazed suspiciously at the bottle of peroxide. “You brought that stuff with you when you moved out? That means it’s four years old? You sure it’s still good?”
Dana straightened. His words reminded her of why he was here. “I’m sure it’s okay. I’ve kept it capped. Remember, the hospital gave it to me when I brought you home.”
“I remember.”
The bitterness in his voice surprised her. She glanced at his face, but he’d closed his eyes and his breathing was ragged. She sat down beside him on the bed.
“We were married two years and you were shot two times. It’s like you’re some kind of a bullet magnet.”
Cody lay on his side, his mouth set, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out. There were lines around his eyes, deep lines, lines that hadn’t been there four years ago. Her fingers twitched to smooth them out. A strange regret raised a lump in her throat.
He licked his lips. “I’ll tell them to quit picking on me, okay? To shoot somebody else for a change,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll tell them you said so. But could you shut up for a minute and give me some water and maybe an aspirin?” Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead and ran down his face. “I’m hurting a little.”
The lump in her throat swelled and tears stung her eyes. Damn it, Cody. Don’t make me feel sorry for you. I will not cry for you!
She tried to steel herself against his pain. It had always scared her to death how vulnerable, how fragile he looked when he was hurt. Usually he was so strong, so competent, so capable. He’d always been bigger than life to her. His tall, lean body had always seemed invulnerable.
She’d trusted him, admired him, loved him with all her heart. She’d always loved to watch him move. He moved so fast, so gracefully for a tall man, handling himself like a dancer or a predatory cat, his energy and strength barely constrained inside his golden skin. But when he was hurt, like now, he looked smaller, human, breakable.
Dana forced herself to stop thinking and just act. She inspected his wounds and saw that blood still oozed down onto the remains of the sweatshirt. She poured peroxide onto the raw flesh. The liquid foamed and sizzled and Cody sucked in a long, hissing breath.
“Hey…” he groaned raggedly.
“I’ve got to clean it.” Her voice sounded harsher than she’d intended, but she had to do something to stop the memories. She didn’t want to be here doing this for this man who lived his life so close to death it had almost driven her insane. It had driven her away. Why couldn’t you love me enough to stay safe?
Cody opened his eyes and looked at her. “I know. Sorry,” he said, and smiled.
Oh, Cody. His smile stole her breath. It was still as angelic as it had always been. Her heart hurt to see him so pale and gaunt, smiling at her and apologizing.
The intervening years hadn’t really made that much difference in him physically. He’d gotten harder, if that was possible, maybe leaner. Where before he’d been a handsome, cocky young man, now he was more mature, more solidly male, and even more handsome. The lines in his face added character.
His hair, damp and matted, was still honey-brown and soft as a baby’s. His face was streaked with sweat, the skin drawn tight over the bones, but his eyes were the same electric blue, with thick brown lashes that were obscene on a man. Right now, the blue eyes seemed filled with pain and regret and something else she couldn’t identify.
His gaze slid downward, and she felt it, like fingers, touching her neck, her collarbone, the hastily pulled-together edges of her bathrobe.
“Sorry I interrupted your bath,” he whispered. “You always hated that.”
“Ha,” she sniffed. “I never got to finish a bath the whole time we were married.” As soon as she said the words, she regretted them.
His eyes lit with amusement, and Dana knew with the intimate knowledge of two years of marriage what he was thinking. The same thing she was. They both remembered how many of her baths had ended with damp, tangled sheets and shared laughter. Dana felt the liquid heat that had always burned through her at his touch. She saw the spark of it in his eyes.
Embarrassed by her thoughts and the knowledge that he was reading them, she mangled a strip of tape as she applied it, then impatiently ripped it off. He jerked and grimaced. “Ouch. What are you trying to do, kill me?”
“I don’t have to. You’re doing a fine job of it by yourself,” she retorted. “Now, shut up.” Her mouth tight, she finished taping up his wounds. She cut the ruined sweatshirt off and slid his jacket out from under him, working doggedly, trying to ignore his labored breaths and the occasional quiet grunts when she hurt him.
“How did you get shot this time?” she asked in spite of herself. If she could take back the question, she would have. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to own the knowledge of this latest proof of Cody’s mortality.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said softly, his words slurring.
She breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring the tiny inner voice that speculated on how bad the answer must be if he didn’t want her to know. She didn’t need another life-size image for her mental scrapbook—Cody being shot, Cody falling, Cody lying still and pale on the ground.
She finally finished dressing his wounds, thankful when his torn flesh was covered. It scared her to realize how fragile he was, merely human under his skin, no matter how invulnerable he appeared. Biting her lower lip, she pushed the thoughts out of her head. It wasn’t her problem anymore if he got himself shot once a year or once a month.
“Dana?” he whispered.
“What, Cody?” she asked curtly as she gathered up the towels and washcloths and his jacket. She turned back toward the bed. “Well?”
“Thanks.”
The word cut through her like a knife. Her suddenly nerveless fingers almost lost their grip on his clothes. “Don’t thank me. Don’t try to play on my sympathy. Why did you come here? Why would you think I’d want to help you? Damn it, Cody, why?”
His eyes opened and he looked up at her, a small smile quirking his mouth. “I told you. I didn’t think you were here. My apartment wasn’t—safe. Besides, you’re the one person I know I can trust, no matter what.”
“No!” she shouted, throwing the clothes toward the bathroom. “Don’t say that, Cody. Don’t try to make me responsible. You’ve got the entire New Orleans Police Department to watch out for you. You didn’t have to come running to me. I am not going to patch you up and send you back out there. I can’t do it. I’m where I want to be. I’m finally over…everything, and I won’t let you turn my life all upside down again.”
A flicker of darkness clouded his eyes, but his voice was light, if a bit hollow, when he replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of here tomorrow, okay?” He closed his eyes, his lashes resting like fuzzy caterpillars on his scratched cheek. He’d fallen asleep or passed out.
Dana reached out a trembling hand and pushed his silky hair back from his forehead. Without her conscious consent, her thumb traced the faint lines, less prominent now that he was asleep. She deliberately kept her eyes off his naked chest and abdomen, trying not to remember his delicious planes and curves. She tried not to drink in the sight of him, golden and familiar, in her bed. Deliberately, she focused on his shoulder, but that only made her ache with compassion and wince with empathic understanding of how badly he was going to hurt when he woke up.
She gritted her teeth. He didn’t deserve her compassion or her empathy. He was her ex-husband. And the operative part of that word was “ex.”
She’d filed for divorce because she hadn’t had the strength to patch up his wounds again. His or her own. He’d loved her, she’d never doubted that. Just not enough. He’d loved the danger more. She’d thought she could handle being a cop’s wife. But Cody could never be just a cop. He had to go for the dangerous cases. He craved the excitement. And it was going to get him killed. It had already left its scars on both of them.
He had physical, external scars. But her scars were just as deep, just as permanent. On that awful night four years ago, while she’d waited to hear whether her husband would live or die, she had miscarried the baby they’d both wanted so badly. It had been the last link that had bound her to him. So as soon as she was sure he would be okay, she’d filed for divorce, because she couldn’t bear losing anyone else.
“I just couldn’t do it,” she whispered, her fingers still lingering on the tightly drawn skin over his cheekbones. “I couldn’t face years of that. Not again. Sitting at home, afraid that this might be the night you didn’t make it.” Just like my father.
She touched his mouth, the little lines that laughter had put there. “But, oh God, it was hard. You’ll never know how hard it was to leave you. I miss your laughter.” She shook her head. She must really be upset, to be talking to herself like this. She didn’t miss the danger, she reminded herself sternly, looking down at her terry-cloth robe, where the blood was already drying. The danger more than canceled out the fun.
She was content now…she was safe. She was no longer in love with Cody…not at all. She certainly was not responsible for him anymore. She’d shed that responsibility along with her wedding ring four years ago.
Sighing, she lay down next to him, her eyes still tracing his beloved features, trying not to notice the paleness in his face, trying not to hear his ragged breathing, trying desperately and without success not to care what happened to him.
When he woke up, he’d have to leave.
FONTENOT SAT UP into the night, soldering, wiring, testing, until he was satisfied with his latest creation. Finally, he stood, stretching cramped muscles, and walked around it, surveying it critically.
His face creased in a slow smile. Perfect. Naturally. He held up the bottle of spring water, toasting himself, then took a sip. No alcohol, nothing but natural substances went into his body. Chemicals interfered with brain function, and nothing was going to interfere with his perfect plan. His perfect revenge.
Nothing and nobody.
He stared out the window, thinking about the booby trap he’d rigged at Maxwell’s apartment. His lip curled in disdain. Maxwell wasn’t as smart, or as quick, as he’d given him credit for being.
He’d heard the sharp retort of the gun, at the very second he’d predicted. Then a few minutes later Maxwell had come rushing out and headed for his car. But Fontenot had overestimated the detective. He’d timed the trigger mechanism perfectly, to a reaction time designed for a man in Maxwell’s physical condition. But the stupid man had been too slow, so the bullet, which should have harmlessly hit the wall behind him, had instead caught him in the shoulder.
He had to give Maxwell credit, though. Even with his shoulder bleeding, and his face pale with pain and fear, he’d still cranked up his car and headed for Metairie, for his ex-wife’s house, just like Fontenot had known he would.
Fontenot chuckled. Just wait, Maxwell. I’m not through with you yet. Before I’m done you’ll suffer for every minute I spent in prison. You’ll wish you were dead.
He finished his water and went back to his creation, considering the best way to set it up for installation. He had to be able to set it up in five minutes, and not one second more.
The sweet throb of anticipation began within him. This would be even better than the booby-trapped gun. He took a long, shuddering breath and went back to work.
Chapter Three
Cody was in hell. He was doing his best to fight his way out, but he wasn’t having much luck, because Satan had his pitchfork rammed through Cody’s shoulder, and he wouldn’t let go. Cody jerked against the devil’s grip.
Damn, that hurt! He tried to turn around and attack but for some reason, he couldn’t move. He took a long breath, preparing to try again, but mingled in with the sulfur and brimstone in the air was the delicate scent of roses.
“Ahh!” Cody jerked awake. His shoulder felt as if it was still in hell, but as he came to consciousness, he remembered where he was. He was at Dana’s. How had he gotten all the way out here to Metairie?
His head cleared slowly, and he remembered the rest of it. The booby trap at his apartment. The pain. The fear that Fontenot had rigged a similar trap for Dana, and his relief when he’d found nothing wrong. Then his surprise when he’d discovered her in the bathtub. She had changed her plans. Dana never changed her plans.
He sniffed the air again. Roses. Without raising his head, he opened his eyes. He was in her bedroom, in her bed, and she was lying next to him. He looked at her across the hills and valleys of white cotton sheets. She was asleep, on top of the covers, still wrapped in the bloodstained terry-cloth robe. Her hands were clenched into fists and curled against her breast.
It was how she’d slept during the last few disastrous months of their marriage, all scrunched up, like she was sleeping as fast and as hard as she could, like sleeping was just another chore, along with taking out the garbage, or paying the bills, or putting up with him.
He frowned. She’d always hated his job. Sometimes he didn’t blame her. Sometimes he hated it, too, like last night when he’d opened his apartment door and realized a split second too late what Fontenot had done.
The quiet click of the hammer should have been enough warning. But it wasn’t. He was lucky the bullet had only torn through the flesh of his upper arm. If he’d been a split second slower, it would have caught him square in the chest. He snorted.
That’s what Dana would say. Four years ago he’d have responded by saying that a split second faster and it would have missed him. But it hadn’t missed him, and Cody knew why. He’d been preoccupied with worry for his ex-wife.
The day the jury returned the verdict that sent Fontenot to prison, the madman had smiled serenely at Cody and promised he’d be back, his gaze resting briefly but meaningfully on Dana.
Cody got the message, and Fontenot knew it.
Now Fontenot was free because of an overcrowded prison system and slick lawyers, and Cody still remembered that smile and his meaningful look. Cody had no doubt that Fontenot would make good on his threat. He had no doubt Dana was in danger.
She stirred and murmured softly, and memories of the two of them crowded thoughts of Fontenot out of Cody’s brain. As he watched, she moved a little closer, and briefly, he saw the young, serious law student he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. She appeared carefree and relaxed, without that tiny double line between her eyebrows, without the ever-so-slightly turned-down mouth that made her look older than she was.
He lay there, ignoring his aching shoulder, and watched her sleep. The faint lines around her eyes smoothed out, and a hint of a smile curved her mouth.
God, she was gorgeous. His mouth turned up. She’d always objected when he said that. She never got over the idea that he was just teasing her. She’d never quite believed how much he loved her olive-green eyes, the dark blond wavy hair she complained about, even the crooked front tooth that made her look impish when she grinned.
With an effort, he moved his injured arm and curled his fingers loosely around hers. The tension in her clenched fist made his chest ache. She’d always been too serious. Always worried about the damnedest things. She obviously hadn’t changed much, he thought wryly.
He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, savored the softness of her skin against his. He loved to touch her. She was like silk over steel, her skin as soft as an angel’s. But it was the steel that fascinated him. He admired her determination, her certainty. She never had doubts, never made mistakes.
Except for him. He was her only mistake, and he knew how much she regretted making it. He’d come into her comfortable little world and dared to disrupt it. She was safety and stability and he was danger.
He’d always wanted to be a cop. Dana knew that before she’d married him. But when it came down to the reality of it, she hadn’t been able to live with the danger and uncertainty that was a part of him.
But while it was good, it was very, very good. He reached to push a hair away from her cheek, forgetting his injured arm.
“Ouch!” he growled, and cursed.
Dana stirred, turning toward him. She opened her eyes, and when her green gaze met his, it was like old times. Her mouth softened and she almost smiled. “Morning, tough guy.”
“Morning, chère,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Her eyes widened and she stiffened, although how she could have gotten any more tense was beyond his comprehension. She’d remembered why he was here, and she wasn’t having any of his New Orleans charm. He knew because the two little frown lines had reappeared in her forehead. She sat up.
“Oh. I forgot you were…how is your shoulder?” she asked, pushing her hair out of her eyes. The silky blond strands caught around her fingers, and she winced as she disentangled them, scattering pins as the waves tumbled around her face and neck.
Cody didn’t move, partly because it hurt less when he stayed still, and partly because Dana’s robe had come loose and he could see about eighty percent of one delicately veined breast. His pulse sped up as he remembered the feel of her small, perfect breasts under his palms.
Dana frowned and followed his gaze. “Humph. Grow up, Cody.”
“Why?” he muttered. “So I can be as grumpy and stodgy as you?”
She glared at him. “No, so you can get a real job and quit playing cops and robbers.” She pulled her robe together and got up, then looked down at the brown streaks on the terry cloth as if she’d never seen them before. Her face grew white and she clenched her jaw.
She looked up at him, accusation and pain in her olive-green eyes. “Go away, Cody,” she said tonelessly, holding up one hand, palm out. “Just…go away.”
She left the room and Cody turned gingerly onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Nothing had changed. She still blamed him. Of course, he knew how she felt, because he blamed himself.
He’d never had a chance to talk to her after he’d gotten out of the hospital. Not really talk. She’d done an excellent job of avoiding him, even while they were still living together. Then, once he’d recuperated enough to go back to work, she’d moved out, and their communications had been through their lawyers.
He’d tried over and over to tell her how sorry he was. He’d wanted to grab her and hold her and grieve with her over the baby they’d lost. He’d have promised her anything just to wipe the sadness from her eyes. He’d have sworn to her that he’d get out of police work, that he’d sack groceries if she’d just come back to him, but he never got the chance.
She left him.
So he’d thrown himself even deeper into his job. But it was never quite the same out there without her to come home to. He hadn’t realized how much he depended on her to be there, until she was gone.
There was still the satisfaction of putting a criminal behind bars, but without Dana to celebrate with him, it didn’t mean as much. Her admiration for his devotion to his job had been lost somewhere along the way, and with it had gone a lot of his reason for wanting to do a good job.
Slowly, gingerly, he got out of bed and made his way into the kitchen. Dana had changed into jeans and a T-shirt and was drinking coffee from his favorite mug, the one with the chipped rim. He lowered himself carefully into a chair.
“I thought you couldn’t find my mug,” he remarked, faintly accusing. “It disappeared when you moved out.” He was a little surprised that she’d kept it.
Dana’s face burned and her fingers tensed around the rough surface of the pottery mug. “I couldn’t. It was in the bottom of a box.”
“That was my favorite mug.”
“It’s not your mug, it’s my mug. I made it.”
“I know,” he said, smiling. “It never sat evenly. I spilled my coffee at least once a week because it wobbled.”
Dana couldn’t look at him, and she couldn’t unwrap her fingers from the mug. She had made it for him. It was the only thing she made during that whole ceramics class that hadn’t cracked in the kiln. He’d always claimed it was his favorite. Why, she had no idea.
With a supreme effort, she managed to speak. “If you want it, you can take it with you when you leave.”
Cody shook his head and clenched his jaw against the throbbing ache in his shoulder. He hadn’t missed her emphasis on the word leave. “Got any aspirin?”
She nodded without looking at him and stood up. As she got the tablets and a glass of water and a mug of coffee for him, he looked around the kitchen, wondering what Fontenot had done to her apartment while she was out of town.
“Sit down, Dana,” he said as he took the coffee from her unsteady fingers. “We need to talk.”
“There is absolutely nothing to say,” she said, but she sat down and picked up the chipped mug and wrapped her fingers around it again.
Cody watched as she realized what she’d done and put it down abruptly. It wobbled slowly and noisily on the table until he stopped it with his fingers.
It was funny how the oddest things took on meaning between two people. He loved the mug because she’d made it. He let it go. It wobbled again until he stopped it. If it had been perfect, it wouldn’t be nearly as precious.
“I tried to call you Tuesday,” he said, letting his fingers trace the whorls on the mug’s surface. Why had she kept it? he wondered. It hadn’t meant anything to her.
“I know. I picked up my messages.”
“Why did you come back last night? Your answering machine said you’d be gone until today.”
“I couldn’t take Big Daddy and his good old boys talking at me like I was a simpering southern belle.”
Cody looked up. “Big Daddy?”
Dana shrugged and her mouth turned up. She reached out and took the mug. “The ultraimportant client I met with in Baton Rouge. You know the type. He owns a chain of hardware stores there. He wants to expand to New Orleans and I was drawing up the contracts. He was insulting, so I walked out.”
Cody laughed. “You walked out? Dana Maxwell walked out on a meeting with clients? I do believe hell has frozen over again. Call Don Henley and tell him to do another album.”
Dana banged the mug down on the table. His easy, intimate humor invaded places inside her she didn’t want exposed. The two of them, sitting together drinking coffee, reminded her of lazy Sunday mornings and kisses flavored with café au lait, of her trying to study, while he….
“I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and have an idle, ordinary conversation with you. We’re not old friends sharing a cup of coffee and memories. I want you out of here,” she groused, lifting her head.
The laughter faded from his eyes and their blue brightness dulled to a gunmetal gray. “Dana, there’s something you need to know. Did you find anything out of place when you got back? Anything unusual?”
She heard a strange note in his voice. The frown on his face intensified her apprehension. Cody was worried about something, and that wasn’t like him. She shook her head. “Nothing except an ex-husband breaking in and bleeding all over everything.”
Cody reached his right hand awkwardly into his left jeans pocket and pulled something out. The movement obviously caused him pain, and she ached to see him hurt. She blinked fiercely, reminding herself his pain was no longer her concern.
But she had trouble dragging her gaze away from his bare chest with its faint dusting of honey-brown hair, and his broad shoulders, still streaked with dried blood.
He held up a small golden disk.
“What’s that? Is that mine?” She reached out and took it from his fingers. It was one of the gold coin earrings he’d given her on their first anniversary. They had cost way too much, but she loved them. She’d worn them almost every day until their divorce. Since then they’d lain in her jewelry box under her bed.
She stared at it. “What are you doing with my earring?”
He covered her hand with his, wrapping her fingers around the disk. “Chère, look at me.”
Reluctantly she raised her head. Something was very wrong. A frisson of fear slithered up her spine.
“This earring was on the seat of my car two mornings ago. I almost didn’t see it.”
She tugged against his grip, but he wouldn’t let go. The post of the earring dug into her palm. “Stop it, Cody. It’s obviously not my earring, then, because mine is in my jewelry box. You’re just trying to scare me.”
“It is yours. Go check.”
“I’m not going to check. If it’s mine then you got it out of my jewelry box this morning. Why are you doing this to me?”
Cody shook his head, his eyes dark and cloudy. She didn’t want to look into them, didn’t want to see the pain and the fear deep in those eyes that had so often sparked with laughter, but she couldn’t pull her gaze away.
“Fontenot is out of prison.”
She froze. “F-Fontenot?”
He nodded grimly.
“The man who shot you,” she said. “How—how can he be out?”
“Good behavior, and good lawyers.”
Dana closed her eyes. “He put a bullet in your head. He almost killed you. They can’t let him out.”
“Dana, listen to me. Fontenot swore he’d make me pay for putting him away. ‘I shot you this time, but there are things that hurt more than a gunshot, Maxwell,’ he said.” Cody’s blue eyes burned into hers.
She jerked her hand away and stood abruptly. “I don’t care, Cody,” she lied. She remembered Fontenot. Too well. She’d been with the public defender’s office, but as the wife of the detective who’d been shot, she was barred from participating in the case.
She’d already filed for divorce by the time Fontenot came to trial, and she’d tried to stay away from the courtroom, but she’d had to hear the verdict with her own ears. She had to be there, to be sure they put that monster away.
“He looked at you when he said it.” Cody stared at her. “And now, he’s back. He got your earring out of this apartment without you even knowing he’d been here.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she countered. “I’d know if anyone had been here.”
Cody shrugged carefully. “Go check.”
She could hardly catch her breath, the growing fear was sitting so heavily on her chest. “Why are you doing this?” she asked again, still unwilling to believe that Fontenot was out of prison and once again a danger to Cody. “I don’t want to be in the middle of your blood feud with that madman.”
“You don’t have a choice. Fontenot isn’t asking your permission. You are in the middle of it.”
