Bulletproof Hearts. Brenda Harlen

      Shaking his head, he turned away from the body.

      And saw her.

      Fury joined with the frustration pumping through his veins, and he bridged the short distance between the living room and the kitchen in a few quick strides. “What the hell are you doing here?”

      Natalie jolted at his question. Her eyes, when they met his, were wide, terrified. Her face was pale, almost white. She blinked, but didn’t say anything.

      He turned his attention to the techs in the room. “Does the phrase ‘secure the premises’ mean anything to you people? What the hell is she doing here—other than contaminating a crime scene?”

      Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natalie rise, not quite steadily, to her feet. “I—I called 9-1-1. I f-found him.” Her gaze darted back to the body, then quickly away.

      Dylan scrubbed his hands over his face again. The absolute last thing he needed right now was the complication of this woman who’d walked out of his unwilling fantasies and into his crime scene. “And how did you happen to find him?”

      Her fingers clutched the handle of her briefcase so tightly her knuckles were white. “He c-called me. W-wanted to t-talk. Asked m-me to m-meet him. Here.”

      He wasn’t sure if it was shock or nerves that were causing her to stutter, but obviously she was shaken. Not that he could blame her. He’d seen more than a few nasty scenes in his years with the Fairweather P.D., and this was one ranked right up there with the worst of them. One bullet would have been enough to end Merrick’s life. Whoever had pumped those shots into his body hadn’t been satisfied with murder, he’d been sending a message.

      Dylan filed those thoughts away and forced his attention back to the woman in front of him. She was still dressed in the fancy suit she’d worn at the office earlier—yesterday, he amended. The shadows under her eyes were dark against the paleness of her skin, and she looked as if she was going to topple over in the thin heels she wore.

      He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the apartment. The air in the hall, although not exactly fresh, at least didn’t carry the stench of violent death. The light was dim, but it seemed that some of the color was slowly returning to her cheeks. “I can’t figure out if you’re incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. What the hell were you thinking, coming here?”

      She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. Her eyes were focused now, and stormy. “I was doing my job.”

      Dylan just shook his head. “How long have you been in town?”

      “Three weeks,” she admitted.

      “Well, let me tell you something about Fairweather,” he offered. “We don’t have a lot of crime, but what we do have mostly originates in this corner of the city.”

      “I didn’t pick the location of the meeting,” she snapped back at him.

      “But you agreed to meet with him!” He knew he was yelling; he didn’t care. He was angry. Furious that his chance to nail Conroy was as dead as the man inside apartment 1D. Even more furious that Natalie had willingly put herself in danger by coming here.

      It was a personal reaction rather than a professional one, a natural protective instinct born of growing up with three younger sisters. Three very independent younger sisters who had never appreciated his protectiveness or concern—an experience that should have prepared him for this woman’s response to his outburst.

      Natalie’s own temper worked its way through the numbness of shock that had blanketed her emotions.

      “What was I supposed to do?” she challenged. “You’re the one who told me that Merrick was the key to getting Conroy. I couldn’t ignore his call.”

      “You should have called me.”

      “I did,” she snapped back.

      But Creighton gave no indication of having heard her. “If I’d known he was meeting with you, I would have known he was in danger.”

      She flinched at the coolly delivered statement, at this confirmation of something she hadn’t wanted to consider. She’d had no idea that her brief conversation with Roger Merrick was his death sentence. How could she have known?

      But as she’d stood in that room waiting for the police to arrive, staring blindly at his mutilated remains, she’d realized it was something she should have considered. She should have found some way to protect him.

      “What did he tell you?” Creighton demanded. “What did he say to get you over here? What information did he have that was worth dying for?”

      “He didn’t tell me anything,” she admitted, some of her anger deflating. She was too tired to stay angry, the situation too futile. “He refused to discuss anything over the phone, insisted that I meet him.”

      “Someone else was equally insistent that the meeting not take place.”

      She couldn’t respond. There was nothing she could say or do to change what had happened tonight. A man had died—murdered in cold blood—and she couldn’t help but feel responsible.

      She’d worked murder trials before, from the defense table. She’d detached herself, forced herself to focus on the law rather than the victim, manipulated the facts to her client’s advantage. She’d never let herself think about the loss of life, the brutality of the crime. After seeing what had been done to Roger Merrick, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to think about anything else.

      “Was this your first murder vic?” he asked, a little more gently.

      “I’ve worked homicide cases before,” she said defensively.

      “So you’ve read reports and seen photographs,” he guessed.

      There was no censure in his tone, just compassion and understanding. “Nothing that prepared me for…” She didn’t know how to describe the sense of horror that had overwhelmed her when she’d walked into Roger Merrick’s apartment and saw what had been done to him.

      “Nothing can,” he told her.

      Natalie nodded.

      “Is it safe to assume you’ve seen more than enough here?”

      She could only nod again.

      “Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

      Her already unsettled stomach pitched precariously. “Thanks, but I try not to drink coffee at 2:00 a.m.—it keeps me awake.”

      Creighton smiled at her lame attempt at humor, and—for the second that those dimples flashed—she forgot about the gruesome scene in apartment 1D.

      “You were just up close and personal with a dead guy,” he reminded her. “I don’t think you’ll be getting any more sleep tonight.”

      He was right, of course. But almost as unnerving as the view of what a bullet could do to the human body was Lieutenant Creighton’s sudden hint of compassion. “Don’t you have to collect evidence or something?”

      “The CSU is taking care of that,” he told her. “And the ME is ready to take possession of the body.”

      “Merrick,” she said, hating the cold formalities of death that reduced the individual to a designation.

      It didn’t matter to her that the victim had been an accused drug dealer with a record of arrests longer than her arm, he’d been a person. An hour or so earlier, she’d spoken to him on the phone. He’d been scared when he’d called her. She’d recognized the fear, the apprehension in his voice. Had he known, even then, that his time was running out?

      She couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if she hadn’t vacillated over her decision to meet with him. “If I’d come right away—”

      “You might have ended up like Merrick,” Creighton