Читать книгу Slow Burn - Heather Pozzessere Graham, Heather Graham Pozzessere - Страница 4

“Wait!”

Danny Huntington paused at the foot of the stairway, looking back.

Spencer was standing on the marble landing, both hands gripping the mahogany banister. She was wearing a cobalt silk nightshirt, and her hair was sleep-tousled and wild and spilling all around her face. She had an exotic look about her, as if she belonged in one of her own promo pieces, beauty against a backdrop of elegance. Behind her in the hallway was the Victorian love seat, above it the handsomely carved mirror. A maroon runner, picking up the shades in the brocade tapestry on the love seat, ran beneath Spencer’s bare feet and manicured toenails. It drew attention to the length of her legs. In the old Mediterranean house Spencer had salvaged and brought back to glory, Spencer herself looked like a million bucks. Sometimes Danny thought that she’d been born perfect. She had crystal blue eyes, corn blond hair and classical, delicate, stunning features. He’d known her most of his life and been in love with her for half of it. It probably hadn’t been much of a surprise to others when she married him, but it had been a shock to Danny. And not only had she married him, but she’d understood him, his need to be something other than what was expected of him, to join the police force instead of the family business. And when the chips were down—or at least scattered all over—she had come to the fore with a smile and a laugh, and done everything in the world to make sure that he didn’t feel the least bit badly about anything. Sometimes, when he thought of all Spencer had been willing to go through for him, he felt a sweat break out on his palms and he shook a little bit inside just to think about how much he loved her, and how good she had made his life.

“Danny, I’m blue!” she said the words with tremendous excitement.

“What?” He arched a brow, looking at her with confusion.

“The test, Danny, the little line on the ovulation predictor test turned blue!” she said, smiling at his confusion.

“Oh. Blue!” he repeated.

Then he stared at her blankly for a moment. He was due at David Delgado’s house. They were going to jog together before combining their information on the Vichy case. But if Spencer was blue…

He was the one who wanted children so badly. He and Spencer had been only children themselves, both born to wealthy parents, what they called old money families, though, frankly, some of the money on his side wasn’t all that old. But enough years had passed for the world to forget that it had originally been made in heavy-duty bootlegging. They’d both grown up in Miami, as well, down in Coconut Grove, where what there was of old-time Southern gentility and Northern snowbird affluence sat side by side with poverty and the ghetto. He’d always had the best of everything, and gone to the best schools. What he’d lacked was people to love, and as he’d watched friends with their sisters and brothers, he’d realized from a very early age that happiness wasn’t something that could be purchased from a store. He’d promised himself then that his own children would never be lonely—he would have a dozen if he could. He’d gotten over the concept of having a dozen, but he still wanted a family, two to four children, whatever Spencer thought best.

They’d started out the marriage trying, but after two years, when they still hadn’t become parents, Spencer had suggested they start testing. She had quietly gone about getting every test possible, and she hadn’t cared that a few were painful and humiliating. He’d sat in a little cubicle himself, chagrined to discover that the setting made his penis as limp as overcooked fettucini, but he’d needed to be tested, so he’d endured whatever procedures the doctor ordered. The only good thing about it all was that, in the end, he had been told they were both normal—the doctor’s suggestion had been that they were just too busy, too tense. Since her grandfather, Sly had semiretired, Spencer was all but running Montgomery Enterprises herself; and his schedule was worse than hers. They just might be missing the right time to try for children, and that could well be all there was to it.

“Can you take the day off?” he asked her.

“You bet,” she told him. “What about you?” She hesitated just a moment. “I thought you had set up a meeting with David Delgado?”

“I had,” Danny told her. “I’ll get out of it.”

“Can you?”

Danny grinned at her good-naturedly. “I’ll just tell him the truth. That you and I are trying to be fruitful and multiply.”

“Danny—”

“Spencer, I’m kidding. I’ll find a way to reschedule. Don’t worry about it.” He wished she hadn’t turned quite so dark a shade of crimson, but, in truth, he was more amused than anything else. Once upon a time his wife and his best friend had been one of the hottest things going—but hell, that had been all the way back in high school, for Christ’s sake! Spencer wouldn’t talk about it on pain of death, and David Delgado was just as much of a clam about the whole thing. Until recently, David and Danny had been partners on the force as well as longtime best friends. But then David had quit being a cop because he had saved up enough money to open his own security business, and so far, with his experience, he had done very well. They still saw each other frequently on a professional basis, though, because David sometimes did work for the city, and then they needed each other’s files—and opinions.

Spencer and David were always polite when they met. He knew they both worried about his feelings regarding the past, so they avoided each other as much as they could. And when they did meet, they were civil and cool, and managed to make him feel like hell over their damned determination to be honorable.

They were honorable; he knew that. And he loved them both all the more for it. But every once in a while, when they had no choice but to meet, the tension in the air was as hot and heavy as the August humidity in this searing place they all called home, and he had to admit that he was afraid—just in a little tiny corner of his heart—that if the two of them weren’t so damned moral, they would be naked, in the heat and crawling all over one another, and it wouldn’t matter one bit that they didn’t have a thing to say to each other anymore, that they’d broken up explosively all those years ago, and that even back then they’d been as different as night and day, Spencer so fair, David so dark, Spencer the height of society, with ancestors who had all but stepped off the Mayflower, and David the child of an immigrant and a refugee. But if twelfth-grade rumor had been true…

He’d been in twelfth grade with them, known them both all his life. And now Spencer was his wife, David was still his best friend, and one day he would manage to turn the two of them back into good friends, too. Maybe if he and Spencer could actually get this parenthood thing going…

He was already in his jogging shorts, T-shirt and sneakers. He’d been eager to get all the help he could from David on the Vichy case, but nothing in the world was more important that sharing this morning with Spencer. “I’m supposed to meet David right out on Main Street. We were going to jog over to his place and then go through the files over breakfast. I’ll meet him on the street like we planned and give him some excuse. It won’t matter what—he won’t press me. I’ll be gone about twenty-five minutes, then I’ll be home. How about it?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Spencer promised solemnly.

He grinned, gave her a thumbs-up sign, then started walking to the door. He was jogging before he reached it.

Twenty-five minutes! Spencer pushed herself away from the staircase and tore into their bedroom. In seconds flat she arranged the covers and pillows invitingly on the bed. Then she spun around and headed into the shower. This was going to be Danny’s day, and she was going to make it the best one he had ever lived.

Work! She raced for the phone.

She told her secretary she had a touch of flu, but would be in the next morning. She felt a blush touch her cheeks as her secretary sympathized and told her that she hoped Spencer would feel better. How strange! She was married—not to mention the president of Montgomery Enterprises—and Audrey was a good friend, but she still couldn’t quite manage the truth. You see, we’re trying to procreate here, but our schedules are so screwed up that Danny’s at work on the nights that count, and I’m usually in another city when it matters most. I’m staying home just to spend the entire day screwing around.

“Do you need anything, Spencer? Can I bring you something?” Audrey asked with concern.

“No, no, Danny will be back after he’s done jogging. I’ll be fine, thanks,” she said firmly, a touch of guilt stirring within her again. She was the boss! she reminded herself. She worked long, hard hours, and she deserved a day off with her husband.

“Stay in bed now,” Audrey warned her.

“I, ah—yes, I will,” Spencer said, stared at the receiver, then set it down.

So what was Danny telling David?

A hot flush crept over her body; she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think about David. She tried so damned hard not to think about David most of the time.

She turned on the water full blast.

“I love Danny Huntington!” she said fiercely out loud. And it was true. She did. Very much. There just seemed to be so many levels of love. Sly had told her that once. And it was true.

“I love Danny!”

She loved him; their life was good. They laughed together; they talked together. Danny was kind, concerned, wonderful, gentle. She was lucky, so lucky. She stepped into the shower. Danny wanted a baby. This time they were going to do it the right way—and at the right time!—to have one.

The water rushed down on her.

Danny left his house behind and inhaled the clear morning air. The day was going to be a scorcher, but it wasn’t dead hot yet. He loved the early morning and the late night, when the sun hadn’t gotten its grip on the city yet. He loved to run when even the early birds weren’t out, when dew still touched the grass and the leaves of the gnarled trees that lined the road.

He smiled. Just what the hell was he going to tell David? The truth would be best, but he had told Spencer he would think of something else. How the hell was he going to manage when he was grinning from ear to ear, anticipating the day? They hadn’t had a chance to do anything like this since their honeymoon. Since that day in Paris when they had watched the sun rise over the gargoyles, gilding the City of Lights. He quickened his pace, anxious to get back home.

He came out of his private road and rounded the corner. To his amazement, he saw a familiar figure jogging toward him. Curious. Talk about someone he’d never expected to see here…

David Delgado ran in place by the street sign, then looped around a few times on the jogging trail that ran alongside the road. Six foot two, black-haired, and with eyes so dark a blue that they appeared black at times, he was an arresting figure. But then, in Coconut Grove runners came in all kinds, the squat and the lean, the muscled and the nearly anorectic. But even amidst the healthy, muscled, tanned and sometimes very young and almost bare bodies that jogged through this old but still-trendy section of Miami, David was a striking man. The best of a strange mixture of genes had combined to make him as tall and broad shouldered as the Highlanders of his mother’s Scottish kin, while his raven dark hair and clean-lined, classical features had come from his father’s side, Spain by way of Cuba. Thanks to his Hispanic heritage, he was a natural in the sun, bronzing quickly, and since he had spent most of his life in that sun, he didn’t notice the heat too badly while he jogged around in another circle, glanced at his watch and considered heading to the house and giving Danny a call. It wasn’t like him to be late. Especially when he didn’t have far to come to meet David. David’s house didn’t compare to the old Twenties manor Spencer and Danny had bought and fixed up. Though he was doing well at his new business—so well, in fact, that it almost scared him at times—he didn’t have the kind of income to purchase such a place, not to mention keeping it up. He had to hand it to the pair of them, though. There was nothing ostentatious about their home. It was in a quietly affluent neighborhood, and it had lots more character than it did dazzle. It was a warm house to walk into, with a good feeling about it, it just felt a little bit too much like Spencer Anne Montgomery—Spencer Anne Huntington, he reminded himself. But there hadn’t been anything between him and Spencer in well over a decade, and Danny was one of his best friends. It was still amazing to him that someone who had been born with a silver spoon—hell, a silver knife and fork, as well—in his mouth could have grown up to become such a decent human being. But Danny had always been good, ever since they had first met, and Spencer was as cold as ice to him now. Hell, it was ancient history. They were long past whatever feelings they’d shared, and they’d both built their own lives. It was something they could all laugh about. Except that they never did. Maybe, David thought, it was because there had been something vulnerable about all of them way back then. As kids, they had all learned each other’s weaknesses, and maybe some of those weaknesses hadn’t gone away. He and Spencer were still, after all these years, wary of one another, though they both tried, for Danny’s sake, to be civil.

Just as he tried like hell not to let his best friend know how much he remembered about Spencer Anne Montgomery.

Spencer Anne Huntington.

He jogged around the loop again, looking down the street. Things hadn’t changed much here since he’d been a kid. The foliage still grew right up to the edge of the winding road, and the old houses still stood almost on top of it, except where long drives led to mansions unseen by the general public. From the time he’d come here as a kid not quite four years old, he’d loved the Grove, even if life there hadn’t always been easy. Back then, in the early sixties, it had been a laid-back place, not at all ready for the boom that was about to seize Miami and erase its small-southern-town status forever, turning it into a huge metropolis with an international flavor. Back then, they’d had lots of snowbirds, Northerners down just for the winter. They still came, but now they mostly went over to Naples, up to Palm Beach, down to the Keys, or to the dead center of the state, to Disney. But Miami still thrived, and the Grove had grown right along with it. In the late sixties and early seventies, the Grove had gone right along with the hippie movement. The shops had sold Nehru jackets and incense and black lights. Artists had thrived, smoking pot in back rooms, and psychedelic music had filled the air. But then things had moved upscale; the yuppies had moved in, and now the trendy shops sold high-priced jewelry and expensive collectibles, while the restaurants offered the height of nouvelle cuisine. He thought rather affectionately of his home as a very bright whore—Coconut Grove twisted whichever way the money came and the wind blew, doing whatever it needed to do to survive. It was one of the oldest sections of Miami, right on the bay, and there were still a few old-timers around to tell him what it had been like in the early days. Spencer’s grandfather, Sly, could talk about the old days with the ability of a born storyteller, and there were still times when David missed the hours he had spent with the old man almost as much as he missed Spencer.

He swore at himself. He didn’t miss Spencer. How could you miss someone who had been out of your life for most of it? He just missed the feelings he remembered. She was part of all the other nostalgia about growing up, certain music, the sight of bougainvillea, the salt scent of the sea on a balmy day. It was just his bad luck that they’d all been friends forever.

David jogged farther and found himself looking down the street where he’d first lived when he’d come here. God, what an awful year that had been. Spanish had been his first language, and the only thing he could remember being called for years had been “refugee.” Not boy, just refugee. He’d had it better than most, though. His father had been in the Cuban prison where he was destined to die, his mother had passed away soon after Reva’s birth, but his mother’s father, old Michael MacCloud, had managed to swoop down right in the middle of the crisis days to help them. He had taught David and his sister, Reva, English. At least then David had been able to understand the Americanos who looked down their noses at him, though what English he did speak he spoke with the old Scotsman’s accent. His folks gone, thrown into a world that didn’t want the upheaval coming its way, he’d started off fighting. That was when he’d met Danny Huntington. Danny had left his pristine public school to walk over to the yacht club to meet his folks, but he’d been stopped by a group of toughs. David had seen it from the small park where he’d been playing, and there had just been something about Danny that had gotten to him. He’d been a skinny kid, and he’d obviously known he was about to take a beating, but he’d stood his ground. Then David had moved in. He’d taken a black eye himself, but he’d still managed to come out on top. The fight had been one of those “you should see the other fellow” occasions, and when it was over, Danny had just stared at him as if he was some kind of hero.

“Hey, thanks, man!”

David had shrugged, determined that no one was going to see that he was hurting like hell himself. “You’re just a skinny little rich kid. I could see you needed help.”

“Jeez, that’s some shiner!” Danny had told him, taking no offense at his comments. “You’d better come with me and get it taken care of.”

That had been the first time David had entered Danny’s world, and it had been a strange time for him. Bloodied, ragged, he had been drawn into the club with its spotless windows looking out on the bay, its rows and rows of sleek, beautiful boats. Everyone had stared at him. The ladies in their pristine white, the gentlemen in their leisure suits. He hadn’t been able to look at the people, the men and the women talking about how the riffraff and the refugees were bringing down the neighborhood. He’d looked out at the boats, instead, and decided he wanted a boat right then and there—more, even, than he wanted a life where he could eat all the mouth-watering food being served around him, play tennis on the perfect courts or dive into the pool. Just a boat, that would have made him happy.

He hadn’t been too fond of Danny’s parents, but he’d met Sly that day, and though he’d had a few opinions about the rest of the lot at the club, he’d known right off that he liked Sly, just as he’d known that one day he would buy a boat.

Sly knew something about politics. He’d heard of David’s father and even knew his grandfather. He’d bought David a meal, and when he’d seen the boy’s eyes, huge and a little overawed, he’d told him, “America, boy. This is America. Trust me. You reach out and get what you want here. The only difference between you and these folks is that their folks got here and did it for them!” And then he’d winked.

When David left that day, he’d thought he would never see Danny or Sly again. But two weeks later out of the blue, he’d gotten a scholarship to Danny’s prestigious grade school, and Michael MacCloud had insisted he take it. When he’d been on the outs, an object of fun for some of the rich kids, Danny had been there, stuck to him like glue, his best friend. Luckily he’d been a damned good athlete, and it was amazing what that could do for a poor boy. A refugee. Soon after David’s strange scholarship had come through, David’s younger sister, Reva, had received one, as well. And Danny had been just as great to Reva.

Spencer had come…later.

He glanced at his watch again and thought about jogging to Danny’s, then decided to jog home, instead. He would call Danny rather than appear. It would be easier to talk to Spencer on the phone. But maybe Danny would answer himself—still there for some reason—or the housekeeper would be in.

It was a strange situation. Danny, the kid born into a world of wealth, was a cop. A homicide detective. That was where they had met up again, after years of going their separate ways after high school. Danny wanted to be D.A. someday. Actually, he wanted to go much higher, but he wanted to take the long route into politics. He wanted to know how the working stiff on the street managed; then he wanted to buck the system all the way, not just catching the criminals, but managing to put them away. Spencer had been upset at first about Danny going into homicide, but Danny had been quick to tell her that it was all right. “The cases I’m called to are really safe. Spence. What are the victims going to do to me? They’re already dead!”

Spencer had reminded him that they had gotten that way through the ill will of others, but it seemed that Spencer really did love and support her man, because Danny was still working homicide. And sometimes the thought that she was there for someone else, not for him, brought a little twist of bitterness to David’s heart. Maybe he hadn’t been quite fair to Spencer Anne Montgomery all those years ago. Or maybe Spencer had changed; he didn’t know. Anyway, it didn’t matter anymore. She was Danny’s wife, and theirs was a good marriage. She and Danny had come from the same world. They knew how to live in it, and also how to fight it. Everyone had probably expected the two of them to wind up together, just as they had shaken their heads at the thought of Spencer Anne Montgomery winding up with David Delgado.

It was the past. Ancient history. David had his own life. He lived it. But sometimes it seemed that no matter how fast he ran from times gone by, they still caught up with him in the end.

Hell, where was Danny? The sun was beating down mercilessly on his head. He gave a final look around and started jogging to his own house.

A good house. Modern, three bedrooms, on the water, his boat docked in the back. He pushed open the front door and strode to the phone.

“What’s going on? What the hell are you doing here?” Danny demanded.

The answer came quickly in the form of three hastily fired bullets. One burned by his ear. The other two sank into his middle.

The figure raced on as Danny Huntington opened his mouth to protest. No sound came. He fell to the ground.

He didn’t lose consciousness. Not then. He started to crawl. Blood trailed from his wounds, over the dark earth, over tree roots, fallen leaves. Over dirt and pavement.

He kept crawling. David’s house was straight ahead. The door was open. Sweet Jesus, but he was in pain. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, how could one person lose so much blood? His life, oh, no, not yet, he couldn’t die yet….

Spencer…

“Danny!”

David dropped the receiver he’d just lifted and raced to the doorway. Danny was there, crawling toward him, covered in blood. David started to pick up his best friend, registering almost blankly that Danny had been shot. Years of training sprang into his mind, and he ran for his phone again, dialing the police dispatcher.

“Three-fifteen!” It was the code for Emergency! Officer needs assistance. “It’s Danny Huntington, and he’s been shot.” He gave his address, then added, “Hurry, damn it!” He’d already said enough, he knew they would hurry for any officer, but this was Danny. In his heart he kept pleading. Christ-oh-God-please-get-here-it’s-really-bad.

He raced to Danny and cradled his friend in his arms, trying to discern just where the injuries were. Shot, oh, hell, Danny had been shot twice, and he’d lost a lot of blood, but he still had a pulse, his heart was beating, and his lungs were still laboring. If the trauma unit could just get here and get him over to Jackson, they worked miracles there.

Staunch the blood, you asshole, staunch the blood. You’ve got to keep him alive, David told himself.

But the bleeding wouldn’t stop, no matter what he did.

Suddenly Danny’s eyes opened. He reached out a bloody hand, circling it around David’s neck. He tried to form words.

“Easy, Danny, easy. Help is almost here. You know the cops, you know how fast they come for one of their own.”

“Spen…cer,” Danny croaked.

“Yes, yes, I’ll get Spencer. Danny, listen to me, you’ve got to help us. Come on, buddy! Danny, who did this? Who—”

“Spencer!” Danny managed again. Blood oozed past his lips. He tried to form words again. “Spencer!” Danny mouthed. His eyes were glazing.

“Hold on, Danny, hold on. Don’t you die on me. I love you, you skinny little rich kid! Danny!”

He could hear the sirens. He could even hear the chopper blades. He’d said he needed the trauma unit, and they’d believed him. Help would be there in a matter of seconds.

The med techs arrived, already ripping open packages of bandages, starting an IV. There were hands on David’s shoulders.

“David!”

He turned.

Lieutenant Oppenheim, Danny’s superior, once his own, stood behind him. “David, let them do their work. If anyone can save Danny, it’s these guys. What happened? Who did this?”

Oppenheim was an old-timer on the force, white-haired, tall, solid as a barrel.

“I don’t know—he was supposed to meet me on the street. He was late. I came back to call and turned around—”

He looked at Danny. His friend was on a stretcher. Someone was radioing to the helicopter, and they were choosing a place for it to land.

“David, what the hell happened. Do you know? Did Danny say?”

David shook his head, staring at Danny as if he could keep him alive by watching him. “He was supposed to meet me. He was late. I came in to call his house and he was at my door. Just like that.”

“Did he say anything?”

David shook his head. “Just Spencer. His wife’s name.”

Ten minutes to go! Spencer switched off the water and stepped from the shower, toweling herself strenuously, a slight smile curving her lips. She dropped the towel and picked up her brush and hair dryer, fluffing up the heavy blond mass on her head as best she could in the time she had left. It was going to be perfect, she determined. Just perfect. And she knew just what she was going to do.

Seconds later she was slipping into a black garter belt with sheer black stockings and a pair of black heels. She found Danny’s black silk tie in the closet and tied in loosely around her neck. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Basic black. Danny had told her once that he liked her in black, and that he would like her best in a black tie and nothing more. Well, that was what he was getting today, because this was going to be special.

She turned quickly from the mirror and hurried down the stairs, pausing only to make certain that the drapes were drawn.

They were.

She rushed into the kitchen, dragged out and filled the ice bucket and grabbed a special bottle of Dom Perignon, then ran to the living room. She threw a lace cover over the Victorian coffee table, plopped the ice bucket on it with the champagne, and raced to the kitchen to fix two crystal bowls of grapes, one bunch green, the other purple. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes. He should be back within five minutes.

She arranged herself on the coffee table, sitting between the two bowls of grapes, the champagne behind her and just to the left. She jumped up, glanced at her watch again and hurried to the front door. It had to be open. She would ruin the whole effect if she had to open the door for Danny, which she would, since he didn’t carry a key in his jogging shorts.

She raced to the coffee table and sat down again, legs crossed Indian fashion. She waited, her heart ticking furiously. Did she look sexy? Or foolish? She smiled and decided that it didn’t matter; they would laugh one way or the other. And if they managed the desired result, then anything was worth it! Danny wanted kids so damned badly. He’d been a lonely little boy, which so few people understood. And she felt uncomfortably as if she had failed him in so many ways, and yet she wanted what he wanted more than anything in the world.

She stared at the door a bit uneasily. What if the mailman opened the door? No, the mailman never came until past noon. Never. UPS? No, they rang the doorbell, they didn’t just walk in.

A bum? A psychopathic murderer?

Spencer! she chastised herself. It would be just minutes until Danny came back. Maybe he was having coffee with David. Maybe, being Danny, he’d felt guilty about canceling an appointment. Maybe—despite what he’d said to her—he was even telling David the truth. They were best friends. Always best friends. Nothing had come between them. Not even her.

She’d never wanted to ruin anyone’s friendship; it was just that she had been so certain that David Delgado was out of her life. That the hurt was gone, that the tempest was over. She’d been so young when she’d fallen for David. She’d never imagined that anything could be as wild as it had been with David, as passionate, as hateful, as…

“Stop!” she charged herself out loud, closing her eyes tightly. She was sitting all but stark naked on a coffee table waiting for her husband to come home so that they could make a baby together. A baby they both wanted. A husband who was one of the best men in the entire world.

She was waiting for Danny, but if she didn’t get a grip on herself, she would be remembering the first time she’d ever made love. With his best friend.

David Delgado.

“If it’s a girl, I think I like the name Kyra,” she said out loud. “I wonder what Danny thinks of it? He’ll never tell me, I know. He’ll be so happy we’re going to have a baby that he won’t give a damn about a name at all.”

It had been at Sly’s house. She’d been sixteen years old at the time, and he hadn’t been much older. And, like everything that had happened between them, she’d forced the issue. He never wanted to touch her; she was Sly’s granddaughter, and he’d loved Sly ever since he’d met him. But Terry-Sue was after him big time, and Spencer just hadn’t been able to bear it. She had known what she wanted all the time she was forcing the fight and pushing him into a corner. She had known what she wanted….

She just hadn’t been prepared for what she had gotten. Or what would follow…

“If it’s a boy, it will be Daniel, of course,” she said loudly.

Then she heard the tapping at the door. She smiled. Danny was home, and she really did love him. Together they always dispelled all the demons of the past. Almost made them go away for good.

“It’s open, come right in!” she called.

The door swung inward, and she saw a tall silhouette framed there against the rising sun. He took a step into the house, and even before she saw his features, she knew he was all wrong, too tall, too broad shouldered to be Danny, wire muscled, tense—and dark where Danny was blond. This man had ebony dark hair and bronzed, taut features.

“David!” she gasped. Her breathing seemed to cease, her heart to stop beating. She felt like an idiot, cross-legged, naked on the table—her black tie perfectly in place.

She leaped up and all but hurled herself across the room, tearing an afghan from the back of a sofa and wrapping herself in it, then staring at the man who was staring at her in return. She wished that she could crawl beneath the coffee table.

Then she started babbling. “I’m—ah, I was just waiting for Danny to get back. He was going to talk to you. Did you miss him? There’s coffee in the kitchen. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go get dressed—”

“Spencer,” he said. Just that, and nothing more. His tone was level, but it held a wealth of agony. He didn’t tease her, didn’t even make an offhand comment. He just stared at her, and suddenly she felt a gripping chill. And she knew. She knew from the raspy sound of his voice, from the look in his eyes.

“Danny?” she whispered. And then it all fell into place. There were red splashes on the Marlins tank top he wore, on the white trim of his black jogging shorts. And there were tears in David’s eyes. Tears. The only time she’d ever seen David Delgado with tears in his eyes was the day they’d buried Michael MacCloud….

“Danny. Oh, my God. Danny!” she breathed. She’d never been so afraid in her whole life. She was going to be sick; the world was starting to spin; it was going black.

“Spencer, you’ve got to come with me. Quickly.”

She heard the words, but just barely. She wanted to fight the encroaching darkness, to go with him. No good. Consciousness was slipping away from her. Black heels, stockings, tie and afghan, she sank to the floor, and everything went black, just as if someone had turned out a light….

She made it to the hospital in time. David had brought her to with a cool cloth and a few shakes, and she had immediately wished that she could plummet back into the darkness. Danny hadn’t even been at work! He hadn’t been in uniform, or even on plainsclothes duty.

“Spencer, he’s alive. Come on, hurry.”

That had brought her up short. She’d found some strength and some dignity and taken only minutes to dress. A police escort had brought them to Jackson Memorial in less than ten minutes.

Danny had already been taken into surgery. For hours she and David paced the hospital corridors, drinking bad coffee out of paper cups from a machine, waiting.

Danny lived. Amazingly, he survived the surgery. The list of things the bullets had done to his body was endless, ripped and torn pancreas, liver. Damaged lungs and intestines.

But he held on. For days he held on. Day by day, she held his hand as he lay in the trauma unit.

Then, three weeks to the day after the shooting, the doctors told her that he had gone into a coma. David was there with her, standing behind her along with Sly as they explained what had happened, what she hadn’t wanted to understand. None of the injuries to his body had really mattered. Somehow an infection had gotten started and spread to his brain. And the brain was the one thing they absolutely couldn’t bring back. So Danny was alive. But he was dead. They wanted her permission to take him off the machines.

She signed the papers. And she sat by him again in the hospital. She held his hand. His hand looked so good! So strong, so normal! Long, still bronzed fingers. Clipped nails. Those hands had touched her, loved her. She could still draw them to her face, feel his knuckles against her cheeks. It wasn’t fair that he should still be the same….

Four weeks after the shooting, he drew his last breath. David was with her again, not speaking, just watching, waiting. He’d been there all along. There were always cops around, too—waiting, praying, guarding. David wasn’t a cop anymore, but it didn’t seem to matter. He’d let his business go straight to hell to sit with Danny. With her. He was silent most of the time. But he was there. And the past remained buried. A silent truce held between them. They both loved Danny, and for his sake, everything else was set aside. Her family came; her friends came. They offered words of comfort, words that, despite the very best of intentions, could do little. David’s silent presence was the only thing that mattered. She heard him talking sometimes to the cops who came. They were completely baffled as to who had done this to Danny. It hadn’t even really hit her yet that he was going to die, was already dead in the only way that mattered. She still thought that he would twist, turn, move, listen to her, awaken. They had said that he was brain-dead, but his heart was so strong. It kept beating. And David kept his quiet vigil behind her.

And after it was over, he was there to hold her when they came for the body, when she shrieked out, unable, after everything, to believe that Danny was really gone.

David was the one to give the eulogy when hundreds of people appeared at Danny’s funeral. He talked about Danny the boy, and Danny the man, and what Danny had meant to those who loved him. He talked about how he’d been a good cop, too, always there, the most moral man David had ever met, the finest.

When he was done, he stepped away from the microphone while the dispatcher stepped up to it.

“Detective Daniel Huntington is now oh-six,” she said softly.

Officer off duty, out of service. A twenty-one-gun salute exploded in the air.

And then it was over. Danny was, at last, at rest.