Chapter 4

“I know you don’t want to be here. None of you ever do.”

“I don’t need a shrink. But the captain gave me no choice.”

“Calling me a shrink is derogatory, Sergeant MacDermot. I don’t shrink minds. Technically, I am a licensed psychoanalyst and therapist. I have a PhD in clinical psychology.”

Rory shrugged. “Fine. I don’t need whatever the hell you are. I’m not one of your test subjects. You want me to spill my guts. Get in touch with my feelings. I am in touch with them. I’ve been debriefed. We’re done. Sign the release and I’m outta here.”

This was the first time he’d seen Dr. Delaney Burns since the incident at the strip mall. She wanted information about the other situation. The one he didn’t want to talk about. All of her questions circled back to it. He’d been debriefed on that one, too. The whole team had. Together. Like they should be.

The doc leaned back in her chair, her head tilted slightly to the left like a curious bird. She watched him without replying. The mass of gold, silver, and copper bracelets on her wrist slithered together with a metallic whisper as she reached for the pad on her desk. The sound reminded him of a bullet sliding home in his sniper rifle. He managed to stifle the shudder the sound created.

“You don’t sleep.”

As it wasn’t a question, he remained silent.

“Nightmares?”

He shook his head at her question. “No.” He maintained a noncommittal tone in his voice.

“I know you think about it.”

He blinked at her. “Well, d’uh. What was your first clue, Sherlock?” Sarcasm wrapped around his voice like a winter muffler. “I was the sniper for Team Alpha. I had the target acquisition. I didn’t hesitate when I got the go order.”

“What went wrong?”

“The hostage moved.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Doesn’t matter whose fault it was. The hostage is still a vegetable. She didn’t go home to her family. She didn’t get to finish her lunch. She didn’t get shit but an existence hooked up to tubes and machines.”

His voice rang bitter in his own ears. He glanced at the doctor. She stared back at him, meeting his gaze squarely. And she did him the favor of not smiling in triumph.

“Yes. The hostage is all but dead. The bad guy is dead. Do you even regret taking his life?”

He jerked like she’d landed a left hook on his jaw. Royally pissed now, he pushed out of his chair and headed for the door.

“We aren’t done yet, sergeant.”

“Oh yeah we are.” He twisted the door handle viciously.

“You need my signature on this release. I haven’t signed it, and I’m not going to until you answer my questions.”

Rory froze. He pivoted in place and pinned her to her chair with his gaze. “Is that a threat, Dr. Burns?” The words cut like ground glass as he spit them out.

“I don’t make threats, Rory.”

One part of his brain registered the fact that she was a gutsy broad. According to everyone who knew him, he was a scary-ass dude when he was pissed off. And he was. At that moment in time, he could put his hand through the door or… He continued to stare at her. His mouth curled into a cocky grin though he knew the expression in his eyes never changed. He didn’t have to glimpse his reflection in a mirror to know he had the eyes of a killer. In three strides he was back to her desk. He leaned over it, wrapped one hand in her shirt—silky and cool beneath his hot skin—and pulled her forward. Nose-to-nose, he watched her, unblinking, barely breathing. If he inhaled, her scent would fill his lungs and he’d have a whole different set of reactions.

“We’re done. At least for now.” He let the implication hang between them for a couple of heartbeats before he leaned closer—just close enough his lips could brush across hers. With infinite regret, he loosened his grip and straightened. Oh yeah. He’d made a lasting impression. Her eyelids drooped and a surprised smile touched the corners of her mouth. Her breathing quickened and the thrum of her pulse beat a tattoo under the soft skin where her throat met her jaw.

He reached the door, had it open and was about to make his escape when her voice cut him off.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at one, Sergeant MacDermot.”

****

Delaney watched Rory stiffen and his free hand fisted at his side, but he didn’t turn around, didn’t argue with her. He simply walked through the door, leaving it open in his wake. Thirty seconds later, Bronwyn Allen, her best friend breezed in.

“Oh, honey, who the heck was that? Please tell me he’s single. And then tell me he’s not nuts.” Bronwyn plopped in the chair Rory had so recently vacated.

She smoothed her blouse and glared, hiding her reaction to Rory’s behavior behind the expression she directed at Bronwyn. “Nuts is not a medical term.”

“Is he a patient?”

Delaney stared pointedly.

“Okay, okay. Confidentiality. I get it. But dang, girl. He is sexy.” Bronwyn drew out the last word, adding several syllables as she emphasized her point.

Still amused, she arched one brow. “Oh? Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, right. And snowflakes dance the Nutcracker in hell. I’m hungry. Let’s do lunch and you can tell me all the non-patiently things about that guy. Like his phone number and whether I’ll have to kill his girlfriend or wife so I can go out with him.”

Delaney laughed and grabbed her purse from her bottom drawer. Bronnie was the perfect antidote for Rory’s dark, brooding presence. “Like that’s going to happen.”

Several minutes later, they settled in a booth at a nearby café—a place more sports bar than restaurant and notorious for attracting local athletes. Incorrigible and much too concerned about Delaney’s love life, Bronwyn often dragged her off on mad escapades to such places. Today’s lunch would be no different evidently. At the moment, her friend was waving madly at someone who just walked through the door.

“Connor! Over here, Connor!”

The man, backlit from the multitude of big screen televisions, remained a dark shadow as he maneuvered toward their booth. Delaney got the impression of height and broad shoulders and figured he was one of Bronwyn’s sports cronies. As he reached them, she could do nothing but gape. Black hair and blue eyes so brilliant she could tell their color even in the bad lighting, and he was dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit and tie. His appearance was completely unexpected—so much so that Bronwyn kicked her under the table reminding her to close her gaping mouth.

“Hi, Connor.” Bronwyn didn’t quite simper but she did bat her eyelashes. “Are you meeting anyone for lunch?”

His easy grin revealed a dimple and Delaney remembered to breathe after he agreed to join them.

“This is my best friend, Delaney. She’s a voodoo doctor.”

She rolled her eyes. That was a sterling endorsement—not. She offered her hand, hoping some semblance of professionalism would cover up her nerves. “Delaney Burns. I’m actually a clinical psychologist. The PhD type doctor.”

His strong fingers wrapped around her palm, and she couldn’t suppress the shiver dancing through her.

“Connor MacDermot. I’m actually an attorney.” His eyes twinkled merrily as he almost winked at her. He continued to hold her hand longer than necessary and seemed almost reluctant to release her.

With a pointed look at the space beside her, he waited for her to scoot over. Which she did with a stunned look. He wanted to sit next to her? She glanced over at Bronwyn, relieved to see her friend grinning madly. She’d been set up. Again. But this time? Just maybe Bronwyn had gotten it right.

Lunch flashed by in a blur. She didn’t remember what she ordered and couldn’t remember actually eating the food the waitress placed in front of her. Every last one of her senses was filled with Connor. Her leg tingled from the heat radiating from his thigh so tantalizingly close. He was a feast for the eyes—his thick, wavy hair almost glinting blue it was so dark. And his eyes! Gazing into his eyes she all but swooned. Dark blue, they flickered like a sapphire ring in bright sunlight. His scent washed over her with each breath, completely blocking the odor of greasy food and beer. When she closed her eyes and inhaled she sensed a big, blue sky stretched in a canopy over open water—fresh, not sea—the wind in her face teasing her with a hint of spice to warm the crystal-cool sensations.

Standing on the hot sidewalk outside the café, she didn’t want to say goodbye. Connor seemed averse to leaving as well.

“Are you doing anything this weekend?” He sounded almost shy as he asked.

Delaney shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

Connor looked relieved as a grin teased the corners of his mouth—his very luscious, kissable mouth. “I’d like to take you to dinner Friday night. At Gatsby’s?”

Gatsby’s was a five star restaurant and she’d been dying to try it, but it was such a date place she didn’t want to go alone. “I’d love to.” She snapped her mouth closed before she started gushing.

“Excellent.” He fished in his breast pocket and pulled out a pen. “Address and phone number?”

Delaney dug through her purse until she found one of her business cards. Taking the pen, she scribbled her home address and cell phone number on the back. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up Friday at six?”

She smiled and nodded. “I’ll see you then.” Holding out her card, she remembered to breathe as his hand caressed hers for just a moment before he took the card from her.

“Right. See you then.” He glanced at Bronwyn and grinned. “I owe you one, darlin’.” He winked, turned, and strode off.

Delaney punched Bronwyn on the arm. “He owes you one? This was a set up, wasn’t it?”

Bronnie did her best to look innocent—for about ten seconds. “Of course it was. Connor is one of the attorneys in the law firm. He’s new in town, and the moment I saw him, I was positive the two of you would be perfect together.”

“Sometimes, it’s a good thing you’re a paralegal, Bronwyn. And no, I will not call you Friday night and dish all the details of my date.” She giggled as the other woman assumed a comically crestfallen expression.

Back in her office, Delaney flipped open Rory’s file. MacDermot. Rory MacDermot. And Connor MacDermot? What were the odds? Were they related? She knit her brow in consternation. Both were tall and well-built though Rory was in much better shape. They were about the same age—late twenties or early thirties. But that’s where the resemblance ended. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, Connor could be a model. Rory reminded her of ginger spice—close-cropped auburn hair, casual, outdoorsy. He’d more likely appear in a sporting good store’s ad than in a fashion magazine. While MacDermot wasn’t that common a name, she doubted they could be related. They just seemed too…different.

After dictating her notes on Rory’s session, Delaney took a few minutes to indulge herself. She had a date. With Connor. To Gatsby’s. Which meant shopping for a new outfit. Panicked, she grabbed the phone and speed-dialed Bronwyn.