Conor

4

CONOR CIRCLED the block once just to make sure the house wasn’t being watched. He didn’t expect any surveillance at the landlady’s place, though it never hurt to be certain. But he wanted the chance to check out Olivia’s flat as well. He noticed a nondescript sedan with tinted windows nearby and made a note to call Danny and have him check it out.

He parked Dylan’s Mustang a block away, then kept to the shadows of the houses. He took one last look over his shoulder before he climbed the front steps and rang the bell. Like so many other homes on St. Botolph Street, the spacious redbrick townhouse, once inhabited by a single family, was now divided into several apartments.

The lace curtain over the window fluttered and then the door flew open. He found himself face-to-face with an elderly woman, her gray hair askew and her faded housedress wrinkled. “It’s about time,” she muttered.

“Are you Mrs. Callahan?”

The woman nodded, her thin lips pursed.

“I’m here to pick up Tommy,” Conor said.

She motioned him inside, then slammed the front door behind him. They were both crammed into a tiny little foyer and he pressed himself back against the wall as she moved around him, her ample body brushing up against his. “I’m damn glad to be rid of him,” she said. “He’s nothin’ but trouble. Stays up all night long, sleeps all day, never stops eating. And the noise is about driving me to drink.”

Olivia must have been in a desperate state to leave her son with such a harridan, Conor mused. He was glad that he’d be responsible for reuniting mother and son. And though protecting the two of them would be more work, at least there’d be a buffer between them, a reason to keep from touching her at every whim. “Where is he?” he asked, holding his arms up above his head to avoid touching the woman.

“He’s on the bed in my bedroom.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d gather his things. I don’t have much time.”

Mrs. Callahan muttered a curse. “I should make you get him. He’s got a wicked temper, that one. He’ll scratch your eyes out.” She sniffed disdainfully, gave Conor the once-over, then opened the inside door. “Wait here,” she ordered.

As Conor waited, he peered out the lace curtains onto the street, puzzling over her words. He’d rather not give the neighbors anything to talk about, he mused. If he could get the kid to his car without being seen, then all the better.

A few moments later, he heard shouting from inside the house, then an ungodly howl that sounded more like an animal than a human being. He reached for the doorknob, but the door swung open in front of him. Mrs. Callahan shoved a cardboard box into his arms. “Good riddance,” she said and moved to shut the door in his face.

Conor jammed his foot against the bottom of the door. “Wait a second. Where’s Tommy?”

“He’s in the box,” the landlady said.

“In the box?” Conor carefully set the box on the hardwood floor, then peered beneath one of the flaps. A low growl emanated from the interior, and before he could pull his hand away, a paw snaked out and scratched him. Conor gasped, shaking his hand with the pain. “Tommy is a cat?”

“Yeah,” Mrs. Callahan said. “What’d you think he was, one of them fancy French poodles?”

Conor didn’t care to illuminate the old lady on his expectations. Right now he was having enough trouble keeping his temper in check. Of all the scheming, low-down, ridiculous- He ground his teeth, reserving his anger for the confrontation he planned to have with Olivia Farrell. “Does he have things? I mean, cat toys, food, stuff like that?”

“It’s all in the box.” She nodded, then smiled disdainfully. “Just don’t touch his tail or you’ll be scraping pieces of your hand off the ceiling.” With that, she shut the door, leaving Conor cramped inside the little foyer with just a thin layer of cardboard separating his manhood from a spitting and hissing hellcat. He turned and opened the door, then hefted the box up into his arms. “You’re going to pay for this, Olivia Farrell,” he muttered.

As he walked down the sidewalk with Tommy the cat, the animal made a valiant attempt at escape. Though Conor was tempted to open the top of the box himself, after all the trouble he’d gone through to get the cat, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let him go. After all, the cat was evidence. He was proof that Olivia Farrell had deliberately lied to him, had sent him on a fool’s errand, and had put his life in danger in the process.

One of Keenan’s men could have recognized him and taken a shot. Or he could be followed back to the motel where Keenan would take care of Olivia as well. Conor checked the street again as he put the box on the passenger seat of the Mustang. Then he jogged around to the other side of the car and hopped in.

He continued to watch his rearview mirror for signs of a tail and made a series of illogical turns through the South End neighborhood until he was certain he wasn’t being followed. Then he headed for the interstate, his mind carefully reviewing the conversation he was about to have with Olivia.

Though he wanted to rail at her, to scold her until he extracted both a confession and an apology, Conor was secretly relieved. She didn’t have a child. And without a child, there’d be nothing standing between them. He hadn’t been sure what to think when she first mentioned Tommy, only that he felt an unbidden flicker of envy that her heart might belong to someone else.

Why feel envy, though? He’d tried to convince himself that his feelings for her were purely professional. After all, protecting people was what he did best. From the time he was a kid, he’d taken more than his share of responsibility. Still, he couldn’t ignore the attraction between them, the sudden impulses to touch her and kiss her.

Hell, he’d heard about cops falling for the women they were assigned to protect and he’d always thought a guy had to be crazy to risk his career for a woman. But now he knew how it happened. She was just so frightened and needy, and his immediate instinct was to protect and to soothe. And sometimes nothing showed concern better than a kiss or a gentle caress.

Conor drew a sharp breath. He knew the rules, and the penalties for getting involved with a witness. If anyone found out, it could be the end of his career. He’d be back to walking a beat or, worse, be off the force altogether. And all for the pleasures of a woman! His father’s warnings rang in his mind. The only thing that could bring down a Mighty Quinn was a woman. “So just keep your damn distance,” he muttered.

As he drove south toward Quincy, he couldn’t help but wonder if Olivia Farrell was worth the risk. The surge of desire he felt when he touched her, or the warm sensation of her lips on his, always seemed to thwart his common sense. Maybe it was because she was different from the girls he usually dated, girls he met in his father’s pub, girls determined to tame a Quinn. Olivia was sophisticated and refined, elegant, the kind of woman who seemed…unattainable.

There’d been only one other woman in his life that had eluded his grasp. He’d been devastated when his mother had walked out, yet he still held her up as a paragon of womanhood. She was a lot like Olivia-beautiful, delicate, poised. Even though they’d been poor, she’d always set a proper table and taken special pains with her appearance and made sure her sons combed their hair before leaving the house.

As he had watched his parents’ marriage fall apart before his eyes, Conor wondered why Fiona McClain had married Seamus Quinn in the first place. They were like caviar and sardines, from the same place yet worlds apart. His mind drifted back to memories of happier times. But laced within those images were thoughts of Olivia. This time, he didn’t brush them aside. Instead, like the rain pelting against the windshield, he let them wash over him. From now on that would be all he’d allow himself when it came to Olivia-an occasional impure thought.

By the time he pulled off the highway near Quincy, all the anger and resentment had faded. He stopped at a red light just a few miles from the motel, his mind focusing on Olivia. But the soft swish of the wipers was interrupted by a sudden flurry of noise. Conor glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see a shadow pass behind him. His first instinct was to duck, waiting for the sound of gunfire. But then he realized the ruckus wasn’t coming from outside the car, but from inside!

He glanced over at the box on the front seat. The top was open and it was empty. “Damn,” he muttered. It was like a cyclone had been let loose. Fur swirled in the air as Tommy raced around in circles, leaping over the front seat, bouncing off the back window, tearing across the dashboard, and whizzing past Conor’s head. Conor tried to grab him, but the cat was too fast and his claws too sharp. He nicked Conor’s chin and cheek on one lap around the interior and got him in the hand on another.

“All right!” Conor shouted. “I’ve had enough of this!” He yanked the steering wheel to the right and pulled over to the curb, ready to face the devil. Either he caught the cat and resumed control of the situation-or he turned the car keys over to Tommy. “I’m not handing the pink slip to this car over to a damn cat.”

On Tommy’s next pass, Conor gritted his teeth and grabbed at the blurry ball of fur. He caught hold of a leg and wrestled the cat back into the box, but not before suffering another round of injuries. “I should have just opened the window,” he muttered as he threw the car back into gear, keeping an eye on the box.

By the time he pulled into the parking lot of the Happy Patriot Motor Lodge, he was bleeding from most of his wounds. But his pride had suffered the most. Hell, he’d brought down career criminals, ruthless men who wouldn’t think twice before putting a bullet through his heart, and had come away without a scratch. It was embarrassing to be bested by a cat.

Conor grabbed the box from the front seat, then stalked toward the door. “She’d better be grateful,” he muttered. “She’d better be damn grateful.” He’d be satisfied with nothing less than a kiss-a long kiss, deep and wet. Brendan appeared out of the shadows and gave him a wave.

“Where’s the kid?” he asked. He squinted in the low light. “And what happened to you?”

“There was no kid.” Conor reached up to his cheek and came away with blood.

Brendan’s eyes went wide. “You mean they got to him?”

Conor smiled and shook his head. “Tommy is a cat.” He held out the box. “Take a peek. He’s a fine little beast.”

Brendan stuck a finger under the cardboard flap and was rewarded with a nasty howl and a vicious scratch. “Geez, what’d you do to the poor thing?”

“What did I do to him? Look what he did to me!”

With a slow chuckle, Brendan patted Conor on the back. “First a beautiful woman and then a cat. I knew when you finally fell, Con, you’d fall hard. Good luck to you. I expect you’ll need it.”

Conor stood in the rain for a long moment as he watched Brendan stride off into the darkness. Then he drew a deep breath and fished the room key out of his pocket. “Hold your temper, boyo,” he muttered. “And watch your tongue. You have another ten days with this woman and you’d best make it easy on yourself.”

When he entered the room, he found it empty. Fear stabbed at his gut, sapping the breath from his lungs. He tossed the box on the bed, ignoring the protests from inside. Had Keenan somehow gotten past Brendan? Or had Olivia slipped out without being noticed? He checked the window, but then heard the sound of the shower running.

With a soft oath, Conor crossed to the bathroom door and pressed his ear against the scarred paint. At first, he was tempted to open the door and make sure she was all right. But then he heard Olivia singing and he decided to bide his time until she emerged on her own.

He sat down on the bed next to the box to wait. Inside the cardboard cage he heard a low growl and then silence. Conor patted the top of the box. “Let’s you and me get something straight,” he murmured. “I’m the one in charge here. Either you listen to me or you’ll be eating fish guts out of a Dumpster down by the waterfront.” He paused. “Are we clear?” He turned and looked through a small seam in the cardboard. An orange nose appeared and he was tempted to give it a poke. But he’d learned to be wary of both Tommy the cat and his mistress.

A few minutes later, Olivia emerged from the bathroom, a towel draped over her head, covering her eyes. Another towel was wrapped around her slender body and tucked between her breasts. Conor held his breath, not sure what to do. Propriety would dictate that he announce his presence, before she accidentally tossed aside both towels. Or maybe he should just make a quick exit and come in all over again. Or he could just turn and face the wall and-

The time to make a decision passed as soon as she wrapped the second towel around her damp hair and threw her head back. When she saw him sitting on the end of the bed, her eyes went wide. He waited, wondering just how offended she’d be. After all, she was naked under the towel and their relationship didn’t really stretch that far-at least not yet. He slowly stood, his gaze never wavering from hers.

But instead of the expected indignation, relief suffused her flushed face. She let out a tiny scream, then launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him fiercely. At first, Conor wasn’t sure what to do. And then he did the only thing he could think of doing. He wrapped his arms around Olivia Farrell’s waist and he kissed her.

SHE’D BEEN SO overcome by her relief, Olivia didn’t bother to consider the consequences of kissing Conor Quinn. Throwing herself into his arms seemed like the most natural thing in the world. He was alive, he’d come back safe, and any guilt she had over sending him after her cat could now be forgotten.

Olivia wasn’t sure who ended the kiss, although neither one of them seemed very anxious to pull away. But when she finally looked up into his eyes, she found them clouded with desire. Her gaze flitted over his handsome face and she noticed a trickle of blood on his cheek.

“You’re wounded,” she said, reaching up to touch him.

Conor grabbed her hand and gently drew it away. “It’s nothing.” He bent closer, as if to kiss her again, but Olivia wriggled out of his arms, her concern for his injuries taking precedence over her desire to feel his mouth on hers.

“Sit,” she said, pushing him down on the edge of the bed. Olivia hurried to the bathroom and returned with a damp washcloth. She knelt on the bed next to him and examined his injuries. This served her right! She’d sent him off to retrieve her cat and he’d been grazed by a bullet. He could have been killed and all just to satisfy a silly whim, to give her a sense of control in this game they were playing. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I was selfish. I knew you thought Tommy was a child. Since you left, I’ve been feeling so guilty. I never meant for this to happen. Was it Keenan?”

“Not exactly,” Conor said, his gazed fixed on her mouth as she tended to his wounds.

“Then one of his men?”

“No,” Conor replied. “It was…your cat.”

Olivia sat back on her heels. “Tommy did this to you?”

“Yes. And if you ever repeat that story, I’ll fit you for a pair of cement overshoes and toss you in the Boston harbor myself.”

Her eyes went wide then she saw the teasing glint in his eyes. “Do you forgive me?”

Conor shrugged. “You should have told me Tommy was your cat. I could have been better prepared. As it was, he tore up the leather upholstery in Dylan’s ’68 Mustang. I think he might have barfed on the floor. And I breathed in so much fur I should be coughing up a furball in an hour or two.” Conor gave her a reluctant smile, then took the washcloth from her hand. “If you plan to let that cat out of the box, you’d better keep him away from me.”

With a giggle, she scrambled over the bed to the box and called a soft “kitty-kitty.” A “meow” sounded from inside the box and Olivia pulled back the flaps. Like a shot, a huge orange tabby leapt out of the box and onto the bed. She scooped him up in her arms and pressed her face into his fur, surprised at how happy she was to see him. “Were you a bad boy for Uncle Conor?” she cooed.

“I should charge him with assault on a police officer,” he muttered.

Olivia set the cat down, then gave him a long scratch on the tummy before she turned back to Conor. A shiver skittered down her spine as she caught him staring. She didn’t have to worry about his anger anymore, but there was something much more dangerous pulsing between them. She grabbed the washcloth from his hand and then she rummaged through her purse and found a small bottle of astringent she kept in her makeup bag.

“I expected you to take my head off,” Olivia said as she poured a bit of the astringent on the washcloth.

“Believe me, I considered it.”

He winced as she dabbed the astringent on his cheek. Olivia leaned closer and blew on his cheek to cool the sting. “There,” she murmured. “That’s better.”

Conor slowly turned to face her. Their gazes locked and, for a long moment, Olivia couldn’t breathe. She was suddenly aware that she was dressed only in a towel…a very thin towel. And that towel could be dispensed with by a mere flick of Conor’s finger between her breasts. Another shiver skittered over her skin, raising goose bumps, and her eyes fell to his lips, hard and chiseled.

Her gaze was like a silent invitation and he accepted. He bent forward and touched his lips to hers. But this was the first time he’d kissed her merely to kiss her. Until now, their actions had been driven by impulse. This kiss was slow and measured and deliberate and Conor took his time with her, tasting and teasing until she tentatively opened for him.

As her lips parted, any attempt at resistance dissolved. Olivia knew it wasn’t right, at least not by the policeman’s handbook or her own set of relationship rules. He was a cop and she was a witness. They’d only known each other a few days. And although the kiss wouldn’t cost her any more than breathless desire, it could cost Conor Quinn his job.

But she couldn’t think of that now. Conor slowly pushed her back onto the bed, his mouth drifting down to the curve of her neck and tracing a warm path to her shoulder. Olivia closed her eyes and sighed, the sensations his mouth created sending tingles to her fingertips and toes.

It had been so long since a man had touched her that she couldn’t bear to put an end to it. Nor could she deny the attraction she felt for Conor. Maybe it was a typical reaction, the vulnerable witness and the protective cop. It was almost a cliché, but then clichés always had a basis in reality-and her need was definitely real.

Conor was unlike any man she’d ever known and, in a secret corner of her soul, she wanted to know him more intimately. He was brave and volatile, funny and vulnerable, silent and strong, all qualities that had become pieces of a fascinating puzzle. What made this man tick? What piqued his desire? What was beneath that steely exterior? A man with such passion for his job must have other passions as intense. They’d spend the next ten days together and Olivia knew it would be impossible to deny her curiosity-or her desire.

“Why are you so soft?” he murmured, his lips pressed against her collarbone.

She furrowed her fingers through his hair as he moved to a spot just above her breast. “Why are you so tough?”

He glanced up at her and she saw it in his eyes, as if the sound of her voice had triggered a realization of what they were about to do. His jaw tightened and then he cursed softly and rolled off of her. Levering up, Conor swung his legs off the side of the bed. “You should probably get dressed,” he muttered.

The regret was thick in his voice. But was it for what they’d already done or for what they couldn’t do? Olivia readjusted the towel then sat up beside him, trying to maintain her composure. The towel suddenly seemed too small and too thin. “I guess we probably shouldn’t do that again,” she said, forcing a smile.

Conor shook his head. “It wouldn’t be recommended. It’s against almost every department rule.”

“And if there weren’t any rules?” she asked.

“I’m a cop and I deal with facts, not hypotheticals,” he replied, the hard edge returning to his voice. He rose and then rubbed his hands together. “Why don’t I go find us something to eat. You can finish…whatever it is you have to finish.”

Olivia nodded, then hurried to the bathroom, anxious to escape his dark mood. She closed the door behind her, then leaned back against it. Her pulse still hadn’t slowed and, though she wore only damp terry cloth, a flush had warmed her skin until it prickled with embarrassment. She turned and stared into the mirror, then sighed.

What stroke of luck-or misfortune-was responsible for all this? Why had she chosen to go into business with Kevin Ford? And why had she walked into the office at that very moment that her partner was meeting with Red Keenan? And why did the detective assigned to protect her have to be Conor Quinn?

“You used to be a lucky girl,” Olivia said to her reflection. “Now you’re plagued with misfortune.”

She tossed aside the towel and gathered her clothes from the floor. But she was loathe to put them back on again. She’d been wearing the same clothes since they’d run out of the cottage on Cape Cod, a pair of jeans, a sweater, a camisole and silk panties. “I don’t even have a change of underwear.”

Olivia pulled on the jeans without underwear, then slipped into the camisole and the sweater. After the Tommy incident, she wasn’t sure how much credibility she had with Conor. A sob story about clean underwear probably wouldn’t go over very well.

She combed her damp hair and considered the best tactic to use, then remembered Tommy. He’d need food and litter and a litter box, maybe a few cat toys. A visit to the nearest discount store would take care of that, along with fresh clothes, underwear and a whole list of luxury items for her, like toothpaste and hand lotion and deodorant.

Olivia slowly opened the bathroom door, but the sound of Conor’s voice stopped her. At first she thought he might be talking to Tommy. Then she wondered if one of his brothers had stopped by. But as she continued to listen, she realized he was on the phone with his station house.

“She’s fine,” he said. “What the hell happened to the officer at the cottage on the Cape? He was supposed to be watching the road and then he was gone.” Conor paused. “He went for coffee and donuts? Listen, I want Carlyle or Sampson assigned to this case. In fact, send both of them. And don’t go through regular channels; I still think Keenan might have someone inside the department.” He paused again. “I can’t. No, it won’t work. It’s…difficult. She’s developed feelings for me. Yeah. You know how that goes. I just can’t deal with her. All right. A half hour. Good.”

Olivia slowly closed the door then sat down on the edge of the tub. He was leaving her to someone else? Just like that? She bit her bottom lip as a tremor of apprehension rocked her body. She trusted Conor. He was the only one who could protect her from Red Keenan. And she didn’t want him to leave!

She fought the urge to walk out of the bathroom and tell him exactly what she thought of him! But then his words ran through her mind.

She’s developed feelings…won’t work…can’t deal with her.

“He can’t deal with me?” Olivia groaned softly. She’d thought that everything that happened between them had come from a mutual desire. Had she misread him? Was he only tolerating her until he could pass her off to one of his colleagues? Oh, God, how humiliating. She glanced around the bathroom, her gaze falling on a small window above the shower.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she murmured. “I just can’t face him.” But the window looked too small to crawl through. Maybe if she just locked herself in the bathroom until the other cops came, then she wouldn’t have to talk to him again. But she didn’t want to wait. All she could think about right now was escape!

CONOR STARED at the bathroom door, then glanced at his watch. She’d been in there for over fifteen minutes, long enough for him to run across the road to the convenience store and grab them a couple of sandwiches and a bag of cat litter. How long did it take to get dressed and fix her hair? Had he grown up with women in the house, he’d probably know the answer to that question. All he really knew now was that fifteen minutes should be enough.

He stood and crossed the room to the bathroom, then rapped his knuckles on the door. “Olivia? What’s going on in there? Are you almost finished? I’ve got us something to eat.” He listened carefully, but there were no sounds coming from inside the bathroom. Conor tried the door and found it locked. “Olivia, open the door.” He knocked again, an uneasy feeling growing in his gut. “Damn it, Olivia, open the door or I’ll break it down.”

The threat was met with no reply. Conor cursed softly, then stepped away from the door. “If you’re in there, you’d better step back.” One swift kick right below the knob was all it took to splinter the cheap wood and to send the door crashing open. He hurried inside, expecting to find Olivia cowering in the bathtub. But instead he found a long pair of legs and a shapely backside hanging from a small window above the tub.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked. “You can’t get out that window-it’s too small.” He grabbed for her feet to pull her back inside, but she kicked at him, the heel of her shoe catching him in the nose.

“Leave me alone,” she shouted, her voice muffled from the other side of the window.

Conor rubbed his nose. He’d had his share of bumps and bruises on the job, but this case was killing him! “You’ll never get through there,” he said. “You’re stuck.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she called.

“Then just keep still and I’ll pull you out.” This time he grabbed her legs firmly enough so he wouldn’t get kicked again. “Raise your arms over your head.” She did as she was told, and with one good pull, she fell back into the bathroom-and into his arms.

They both tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Then she scrambled away from him, brushing her hair out of her eyes and tugging her sweater down from where it had bunched beneath her breasts. Conor sighed and leaned back against the wall. “What were you thinking?”

“Obviously, I was thinking I was a lot smaller than I really was,” she shot back. “Remind me to lay off the French fries.”

“Where did you plan to go?”

“Shopping,” she muttered.

“Shopping?”

“Yes! If you must know, I needed some clean underwear. We ran out of that cottage on Cape Cod so fast that I didn’t have time to grab my things. I’ve been wearing the same underwear for two days.”

“Someone is out to kill you and you’re worried about clean underwear?” he asked.

Olivia nodded, refusing to meet his gaze, her jaw set stubbornly, her arms crossed beneath her breasts.

Conor groaned inwardly. This was just another thing he didn’t understand about women. This obsession with underwear. All the lace and the silk and the pretty colors. Underwear was underwear. No one saw it so what was the big deal? “Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Because you don’t care what I want or what I need.”

“I don’t care? Who risked life and limb to get your damn cat?”

She turned to face him, a defiant glint in her eyes. “If you really cared, then why are you leaving me? Why did you call for another cop to come and stay with me?”

Conor paused. So she’d overheard his phone conversation, and she’d obviously overheard the lies he’d told. Suddenly her reasons for climbing out the window became much clearer. He’d hurt her feelings, embarrassed her so completely that she couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. “I’m sorry. It’s just that-”

“I know. I make it difficult for you. You can’t deal with me. You made it sound like I was throwing myself at you. I thought the attraction was mutual.”

He raked his hand through his hair, then slowly shook his head. “It was,” he murmured. “It is. That’s why I have to leave.”

She turned, kneeling on the floor beside him, her expression anxious. “But what if I promise not to kiss you anymore? Would you stay then?”

“It’s not you, Olivia,” Conor said, reaching out to touch her cheek with his fingertips. “It’s me. I can’t promise that I won’t kiss you again-or touch you. And if I can’t promise that, then I’m not a very good choice to guard you. I need to be able to keep my head on the job or we’re both at risk.”

“But I trust you,” Olivia said. “I don’t want anyone else.”

“The two guys they’re sending are good guys. I know them both and I wouldn’t let them stay with you if I wasn’t sure they’d keep you safe. But I want you to promise me that you won’t go climbing out of any windows or sending them after any more pets.”

Olivia’s gaze dropped to her lap. She studied her fingers for a long moment, then drew a ragged breath. “I don’t want you to go,” she repeated.

Conor hooked his finger beneath her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. The vulnerability had returned to her eyes and he fought the urge to kiss her again, to replace her sadness with passion. “Promise me?”

Reluctantly, she nodded. But Conor couldn’t leave it at that. He gave in to the impulse and leaned toward her to brush a soft kiss on her lips. One last kiss. What could it hurt? he mused. But if he thought it would be enough, he was sorely mistaken. The moment her lips opened beneath his, he was lost in the warmth of her mouth. A low groan rumbled in his throat as he pulled her into his arms.

The taste of her was like a drug, so addictive that he’d risk it all to experience it just once more. Women had always been a “take it or leave it” kind of thing for him. He’d never felt the kind of obsessive attraction he had for Olivia, when every thought was consumed with the question of when he might kiss her next and how far that kiss might go. His brain clouded with the fresh scent of her hair and the warm sensations of her tongue teasing his.

It took all his willpower to draw away. He stared down into her beautiful face and watched her eyes flutter open. “I want you to know that I lied on the phone. Kissing you isn’t difficult. It’s not kissing you that’s hard.”

A tremulous smile curved her lips. But her smile faded instantly as a knock sounded on the door of their room. She sent Conor a desperate look and he responded with a smile. “You’ll be all right. I promise.”

Conor stood, then reached out and helped Olivia to her feet. He moved to the door, Olivia’s hand still tucked in his. He wanted to hang on to her for as long as he could. Later tonight, when he was alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling above his bed, he’d want to remember how delicate her fingers felt and how sweet her voice sounded. He’d want to remember every second he had spent with her.

He carefully pulled back the curtain and saw Don Carlyle standing outside. Then he led Olivia to the bed where Tommy had curled up on one of the pillows. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.” Reluctantly, she let go of his hand and watched him walk to the door.

Conor stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He nodded a greeting to Carlyle. “What’s the plan?”

“We’ve got a place for her over in Framingham. Sampson is waiting in the car.” Carlyle cocked his head toward the door. “So what’s her problem? She have a thing for cops or is she just one of those women who’s happy with anything that wears pants?”

The anger was so instant and so intense that Conor didn’t think before he acted. In one swift movement, he brought his arm up and shoved Carlyle against the door, keeping him pinned there. Conor moved to within an inch of Carlyle’s face, then spoke in a low, even tone. “You make one move toward her, even look at her sideways, and I’ll reach down your throat and turn you inside out. Got it?”

Carlyle frowned. “Yeah. I got it. Geez, Quinn, what the hell is wrong with you? You’re the one who wanted out.”

“Just remember what I said.” Conor stepped back and Carlyle rubbed his chest. “She’s a lady. Treat her like one.”

Conor reached out and opened the door and Carlyle followed him inside. Olivia was in the same spot that he’d left her, perched on the edge of the bed, looking sad and vulnerable, hugging Tommy tightly to her chest. He crossed the room and gently took her arm. “Detective Carlyle is going to take you somewhere safe. If you need anything-” Conor smiled and leaned closer “-including underwear, you just ask. All right?”

He grabbed her coat from the bed, then held it out as she slipped into it. Then she gave Tommy a kiss and dropped him in the cardboard box. Carlyle looked at the box, then at Conor. “A cat? We can’t take a cat.”

Olivia’s eyes went wide. “But I-”

“I’ll take him,” Conor said. “He can stay with me and you can pick him up after the trial.” Though he hated the cat, he knew returning Tommy to his owner would give him one more chance to see Olivia, after all this was over and she was no longer a witness and he was no longer the cop assigned to protect her. A few weeks with Tommy the Terror was a small price to pay.

“You’d do that for me?” she asked.

Conor reached down and picked up the box. “Sure. By the time you come for him, we’ll be old friends.”

Olivia pushed up on her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” she murmured. Then she grabbed her purse and walked to the door. Conor followed her, taking one last look around before stepping outside behind her and Carlyle, the box tucked under his arm.

The next thing he knew, the wood from the door splintered next to his head. He looked out into the parking lot and saw another muzzle flash and the plate-glass window of the motel room shattered. Holding tight to the box, he shoved Olivia aside, both of them falling onto the walkway in front of Dylan’s Mustang. “Stay here,” he said, shoving the box into her arms. “And keep your head down.”

Conor pulled his gun and peered around the side of the car. Carlyle was crouched beneath a rusted Pontiac, returning fire. From another spot in the parking lot, Sampson had pulled his gun and was taking aim. Conor crawled back to Olivia, then grabbed the box. “We’re going to get in the car,” he said. “Take the cat out of the box and hold on to him. Tuck him inside your jacket. We’ve got to do this quickly. Just stay low.”

Olivia did as she was told and they both crawled around to the passenger side. He opened the door and she got in, then Conor scrambled around the front of the car. But the driver’s side was in the line of fire and he knew he’d be taking a chance. Drawing a deep breath, he checked the clip in his gun, then shouted to Carlyle for cover fire.

He’d almost made it into the car when he felt a searing heat in his side, like someone had shoved a red hot poker between his ribs. The pain took his breath away and brought a wave of nausea.

Don’t lose it now, his brain screamed. Just get her out of here.

Wincing with the pain, he yanked his door shut and shoved the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life and he threw it into reverse and backed out, pushing Olivia down in the seat with his right arm. Thankfully, Carlyle and Sampson kept Keenan’s men pinned down. They managed to target the tires of the black sedan parked near the entrance to the parking lot so there would be no way for the gunmen to give chase.

When they were well out of range, Conor glanced over at Olivia. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved silently, as if she were praying. Tommy stared up at him with luminous eyes, content to stay clutched in Olivia’s arms.

“We’re good,” he said.

Olivia gradually straightened in her seat, but didn’t loosen her hold on her cat. “How did they find us?” she asked.

“Someone in the department,” he replied. He turned and gave her an encouraging smile. “I guess we’re on our own now.” Another wave of nausea rolled over him and, for a moment, Conor had to fight to stay conscious. After nearly getting killed, the last thing he wanted was to run the car off the road. He pulled over onto the next side street and parked the car, then pressed his hand to his side. In the dim light from a streetlamp near the car, he saw the blood covering his fingers.

“I think you better drive,” Conor murmured, suddenly exhausted by the effort that it took to move. He was going into shock and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep his eyes open.

“Me? But why?”

“Just slide over,” he ordered, pushing open the car door and stepping outside. It took every ounce of his effort to walk around the front of the car without keeling over. His legs felt like rubber and he was suddenly shivering for no reason. When he got back inside the car, he closed his eyes and focused on getting through a spasm of pain.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We need to get back to Hull,” Conor replied, his voice tight. “To Brendan and The Mighty Quinn. Can you remember how to get there?”

Olivia nodded. “I think so. Are you all right? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just get us there.” She reached for the ignition and Conor closed his eyes, confident that she’d get them back to the boat, back to safety. He felt himself growing tired and his eyes fluttered shut. But no matter how hard he tried to open them, the effort was too much. Blackness engulfed him and he finally lost his grip on consciousness.