42

Rhonda’s apartment had always been her refuge, but it didn’t feel like a haven tonight.

It felt empty. And even though a gas fire burned in the fireplace, it felt cold.

It had been three days since Marjorie Reynolds had committed suicide by cop. There’d been no doubt that she’d wanted to die. And there’d been no question that the world was a better, safer place without her.

And Rhonda had felt it was finally time to read her file.

Sitting on her sofa, an untouched glass of wine on the table beside her, she held the file she’d just read. She’d wanted hard copy, something tangible to hold on to. Something more personal than a scrolling screen that disappeared when you were done.

Marjorie Reynolds’s story was excruciatingly sad. It read like a tutorial on how to make a killer. Abandonment, sexual and physical abuse, drugs, and alcohol. Petty theft that paved the way to stealing a gun—and to killing the man who’d been entrusted to give a child a loving home but had violated her in the most heinous ways possible.

But although the events of Marjorie’s life had influenced how she’d lived, it was the decisions, the choices she’d made, that led to her evolution into a monster.

After reading the file, Rhonda had realized that she’d let herself become a product of her environment, too. And she couldn’t stop wondering if she’d also made poor choices. Although she wasn’t a monster, she’d felt like one the last time she’d seen Cooper.

“So what you’re saying is that I’m not worth it.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. That’s not what I said.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

She’d seen the look on his face, had known she was hurting him, but didn’t try to stop. And look where it had gotten her.

She was determined not to risk love, to protect herself from pain. Yet here she was, tears blurring her eyes every time she thought of going through life without Jamie Cooper.

She swiped a tear angrily from her cheek. She didn’t cry.

But she was crying now. And didn’t seem able to stop. Grabbing a sofa pillow, she buried her face against it and finally wept.

She wept for the first time since she’d accepted that Dan was going to die. Since she’d discovered that the trust she’d given so freely had been violated not only by him but also by her best friend.

But tonight she wept because she would miss Cooper. Because she had hurt him and because her plan to save herself this kind of pain was as stupid as pretending she didn’t love him.

An hour later, she’d cried herself out. Her nose was red, her eyes were swollen, and her head pounded. She was a total mess. And she couldn’t do this anymore.

•    •    •

He’d blown it.

Coop lay on his sofa in the dark staring at the ceiling. He’d blown it big-time. He’d rushed her, and Rhonda Burns wasn’t a woman who could be rushed.

He should have left her alone for a while longer. He shouldn’t have pushed. He’d known she needed space and time to think and remember and digest everything that had happened between them.

So what had he done? Trapped her in her office like a cornered animal. Forced her to deal with both a current and a past trauma, when she’d just been through a life-or-death experience.

What a dumbass. Even without all the outside factors to push her to the edge, he’d known she couldn’t be manipulated into like-minded thinking. He didn’t know why he’d thought he could convince her of something she wasn’t sure of. Something she was afraid of.

Temporary insanity was his best guess.

And now he didn’t know how to fix things.

He hadn’t seen Rhonda since the day they’d taken down Marjorie Reynolds.

“Leave of absence,” Mike had told him when he’d asked where Rhonda was. “She’s been through a helluva trial by fire, and I’d have been concerned if she hadn’t asked for some time off. Glad she’s taking care of herself. Speaking of which, you are officially on the DL. No arguments; take the rest of the week off. And consider yourself lucky I didn’t fire your ass for being an idiot in the briefing room that day.”

So he’d gone home. And there he’d stayed.

Brooding.

Accepting that for the first time in his life, he was in love and, because of his own stupidity, as alone as a lighthouse keeper at the North Pole.

“Pity party, your table is ready,” he muttered.

When his doorbell rang, he almost didn’t answer it. Probably Taggart, bent on harassing him—the big guy’s method of showing a little love.

Fine. Maybe he could use some company. He turned on the end table light, then shuffled to the door on bare feet and opened it—and there stood Rhonda.

She didn’t say a word.

He didn’t do much better. “Um . . .”

“Can I come in?”

Like he was going to say no?

He stood back, and she stepped inside. That’s when he noticed that her eyes were puffy and her nose was swollen and red. Even her lips looked sore.

“What—”

She held up her hand, cutting him off. “I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to figure out how to deal with this, because I can’t pretend anymore that I don’t love you. But I swear to God, Jamie Cooper, if you let me down, I will seriously hurt you.”

It took several nanoseconds for her announcement to kick in. “Seriously?”

“No. Of course, I could never hurt you.” A tear trickled down her cheek. She swore and brushed it away. She was crying. And he was suddenly the happiest man on earth.

“So . . . just for clarification . . . was that a proposal, Buttercup?”

Tears matted her gorgeous lashes when she looked at him. “Do you want it to be?”

He pulled her against him with his good arm. “Oh, yeah.”

“Then don’t ever call me Buttercup again.”

He kissed her. Then kissed her again. “Not even when I do that little thing that makes you scream?”

She finally gave him a watery smile.

•    •    •

“What brought about this change of heart?” he asked when they were naked and wrapped around each other in bed.

“With age comes wisdom,” she said, nuzzling his neck.

“You’ve aged since Monday? Is that what you’re saying?”

She touched her fingers to his cheek. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I was fighting for my life. At least, it felt like I was.”

“So what happened? What changed your mind?”

She looked into his eyes. “Have you read the file on Marjorie Reynolds?”

That was the last thing he’d expected. “No. Should I?”

She nodded gravely.

“Any specific part?” he asked, still mystified.

“I’d say the part about humanity—but you won’t find any in that file. All you’ll find is abuse and betrayal and pain. Circumstances and bad choices made her into an emotionless monster. A shell of what she could have been.”

“If you’re trying to make some parallel between her and you—”

“No.” She shook her head, the silk of her hair tickling his chin. “I’m trying to say that all of us get a raw deal at some time or another. Marjorie Reynolds got more than her share. She could have used those experiences to help others who suffered the kind of abuse she had. Instead, she chose to be a killer. Alone, most likely afraid, and an outcast.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be alone and afraid and an outcast.”

“Aw, baby,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “You could never be that. Never.”

“But I almost was. I let myself get mired in a decision that I’d carved in stone years ago. A decision that had nothing to do with now. Nothing to do with us. And not believing in us would have been the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Do you honestly think that I was going to let you brush me off like that?”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“My mother didn’t raise a fool. I was so not through working on you.”

She laughed and kissed him sweetly, deeply, and then slid her hand down between their bodies. “What about tonight? Are you through working on me tonight?”

He groaned when she touched him, tangled a hand in her hair, and brought her mouth down to his. “Trust me—I’ve barely gotten started.”