Shades of Passion

CHAPTER SEVEN

A WEEK AFTER THEY’D found Rebecca Hyatt, the little girl Michael Callahan had kidnapped, Simon sat at his desk in SIG’s detective pit. He finished typing up his report on the Cann murder, stuck it in the folder and filed it along with the other “as-of-yet unsolved” crimes that would be occasionally looked at but otherwise relegated to the back burner. Between Simon and DeMarco, they’d followed every lead and interviewed everyone they could think of, patrol cops included, but had come up empty. Add the fact that their only witness, Rita Taylor, had recanted her statement about Cann’s killer being a cop—she now insisted that what she’d thought was a police uniform might actually have been that of a city bus driver or air-conditioning repairman—and it was time to move on to the next case. First, however, he had to do the final report on the Michael Callahan incident.

In front of him laid the daily newspaper from the day after the event. He’d seen the article when it had come out. He’d kept a copy to add to the file. Now, he skimmed the article again and cursed.

Doc Finds Child but Public Suspicion of Police Continues

The article was chock-full of information. First, it detailed several recent incidents between police and mentally ill suspects, some of whom had been homeless, and all of whom had claimed police brutality. Next, it referred to the murder of Mr. Cann, a homeless veteran, and the “rumor” that a cop had been responsible, though thankfully it didn’t identify Rita Taylor as a potential witness. Finally, the article touched on Rebecca Hyatt’s rescue, though again the reporter had been smart enough not to include the little girl’s name.

He’d had no such qualms about Simon. Or Nina Whitaker. Or Officer Rieger or Michael Callahan. According to Callahan’s parents, their son was schizophrenic and hadn’t meant to harm anyone, and they were grateful Nina had been able to work with him to find the girl’s location; funny how people didn’t mind exposing skeletons if doing so meant it might keep a loved one out of jail.

Taking everything into account, the article had managed to do what the reporter had intended: make San Francisco law enforcement look like a bunch of blundering fools who couldn’t distinguish their asses from a hole in the ground without the help of a damn shrink.

Yes, Nina Whitaker had helped them find the little girl, but the newspaper made her sound like a miracle worker. Worst yet, a miracle worker whose involvement was necessary in order to overcome the shortcomings of local police, when the only shortcoming in this particular situation had been Michael Callahan’s. As much as Nina would say that shortcoming had been caused by illness, it was no excuse. Even assuming Callahan had been trying to save the little girl from aliens? He’d almost killed her. Besides, the only one who’d ever know if Callahan really believed aliens had been after the girl was Callahan. What a crock. Simon had seen enough to know that Callahan had probably been motivated by far less altruistic desires.

Slapping the newspaper clipping on the top of his “To Be Filed” mound of paperwork, Simon started on the final report. Unfortunately, it didn’t have his full attention. His mind kept wandering back to Nina, just like it had all week.

She was beautiful, sure, but she had a strength and spirit that eerily reminded him of Lana’s. On the one hand, that called to him. On the other, it made him sick. He couldn’t help thinking that the same spirit he admired was going to get her in trouble one day. Maybe not in as much trouble as it had gotten Lana, but...

Move on, Granger, he told himself. Lana and Nina Whitaker were both in his past. He needed to focus on the present and the future, and do his job—keeping people safe from the criminals Nina Whitaker wanted to heal and treat.

He’d just finished the final report on the Callahan incident when he felt an itch between his shoulder blades. When he looked up, he thought he must be hallucinating. First he’d read about her in the paper. Then he’d struggled to keep her from his thoughts.

He needn’t have bothered.

Nina Whitaker stood in front of him.

Shit, he thought, but his curse was mostly in response to the way his body immediately zinged to life. Feigning an annoyance he wasn’t really feeling, he stood and walked up to her.

“What can I do for you?”

She cocked a brow at his curt greeting. “I’m here for an update,” she said mildly.

He pressed his lips together, knowing he should have called and updated her as soon as they’d found the girl. It would have been the professional thing to do. Unfortunately, since she made him feel anything but professional, he’d figured it was better to be safe than sorry. But now that she was here... “You were right. We got to her in time. Rebecca Hyatt. I should have filled you in. I apologize.”

There was none of the relief he’d expected to see in her expression. “I already know that,” she said. “When you failed to call me, I tracked down the information on my own. I found out her name and what hospital she was admitted to. I also know her mother fainted before seeing her and that her father caused quite a scene, too. By all accounts, despite the fact his daughter was found and is going to make a full recovery, he blames me for the delay in getting to her. According to him, if I’d let the police handle the situation, we wouldn’t have wasted time coddling a criminal and you would have gotten to his daughter much sooner. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t file a lawsuit against me.” She paused, but only to suck in enough breath to continue. “Then, of course, there were all the news stories covering the event. Some more favorable to me, some not. So like I said, I already knew what happened. I meant I’m here to give you and your commander an update.”

For some reason, his instinct was to apologize for the behavior of Rebecca’s father, when he’d probably have felt the same way if he’d been in the man’s shoes. Confused, he scowled. “An update on what?”

“On my patient.”

Her patient. Michael Callahan. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What makes you think I give a f*ck what the status of your patient is?”

Her expression softened. “Michael didn’t mean to hurt her. Aliens, remember? He thought he was helping her.”

“And I’m sure that’s exactly what his defense attorney is going to argue at trial. Will you be testifying on his behalf?”

“I imagine so. And I imagine that makes you hate me even more, doesn’t it, Detective?”

He paused. It would be easier if she thought he hated her, but for some reason, he didn’t want that. “I don’t hate you,” he said grudgingly.

“Just my job.”

He didn’t bother denying it. “Well, you’ve given me the update. So I guess you can go now. Thank you for your help.”

“If you really want to thank me, have a drink with me.”

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d suddenly stripped down in front of him. It didn’t matter that he’d sensed she was attracted to him, too. He’d done absolutely nothing to encourage her. And she obviously thought, with good reason, that he was a redneck cop who’d use muscle to get results when reasoning failed. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why? We already established I don’t respect what you do.”

“Is that a requirement for having a drink with me?”

“Not usually. But then again, having a drink is usually a prelude to something else. You offering me that, too?”

He’d simply been trying to goad her, but the way she blushed and looked away had his body hardening. Yeah, she was attracted to him. But was she receptive to doing something about it? He’d never have pegged her as an easy lay, but maybe...

She lifted her chin defiantly. “A prelude to having sex, you mean? I’m afraid that’s not what my invitation is about.”

He shrugged, not surprised that he’d misread her. “So what is it about?”

She imitated his shrug. “You interest me. You seem to be a smart man, yet your bias against the field of mental health treatment seems unreasonable.”

That wasn’t quite how Elaina Scott had put it, but close enough. “So you want to analyze me?” Of course she did. For all he knew, she’d compared notes with Dr. Shepard. He knew that would be illegal, but people broke the law all the time.

“I prefer to think of it as ‘getting to know someone better.’”

“And then what?”

“Does there have to be anything else?”

There did if his body had any say in the matter. He stepped closer, wanting to rattle her and liking the fact he did. Her breath escalated and she inadvertently took a step back. He studied her slowly. From her pale, glossy hair, down to the tidy but curvy length of her body and ending at the shiny black pumps she shifted nervously.

When he met her gaze again, her eyes were slightly dilated.

“I just like to keep my options open,” he explained. “I don’t like what you do for a living, but you’re damn easy on the eyes. Who knows? Maybe I could do something for you this time around. I’d make damn sure you enjoyed yourself in bed with me.”

“I’m sure you would. But it takes more than the promise of pleasure to get me into bed with someone.”

“And it takes more than someone wanting to get to know me better to get me to go for a drink with a shrink.” Deliberately, Simon stepped back.

She smiled tightly and nodded. “I understand. Then I suppose it really is time to go, Detective Granger. Goodbye.”

She turned to leave, looking as shocked as he felt when he reached out to stop her.

“Wait.”

She stared at his hand for a second and so did he. His grip highlighted the differences between them. Him, big and rough. Her, soft and smooth. Powerful and delicate. Male and female. Suddenly, he longed to press the rest of his flesh against hers, chest to chest, hips to hips—to see how that looked, yes, but more important, to feel it. To feel her.

He whipped his hand away and took a step back.

To her credit, she didn’t smirk or comment on his retreat.

“Michael Callahan is still in the hospital,” he said. It was a statement, not a question, and even though he hadn’t meant to sound critical, she obviously interpreted his words that way.

She pursed her lips then nodded. “He was held on a seventy-two-hour hold for evaluation, but under the law can be kept for an additional fourteen days for treatment.”

“Even though he’s going to prison the second you’re done with him?”

She gave him a chiding look. “He’ll only go to prison if he’s deemed competent. And only then if he’s convicted—”

Simon snorted. “He gave you the information that led us to that little girl. He’ll be going to prison eventually.”

He didn’t say the words if I have anything to do with it but they echoed around them nonetheless.

She sighed. “Maybe prison is where he’ll end up. Maybe not. And whether you or I think he deserves to be imprisoned is irrelevant. It’s up to a jury, one that’s been given all the facts, including those about Michael’s psychotic break at the time he took the little girl.”

“Right. And you’re going to be the one to tell them those facts. Don’t forget to bring your box of Kleenex while you’re at it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Look, I know you’re—”

“Simon, you going to introduce us to your friend?”

Nina’s head whipped around at the sound of Jase Tyler’s voice. The handsome, sandy-haired Texan stood several feet away. Beside him, Carrie Ward, fellow agent and Jase’s girlfriend, struggled to keep her expression serious but her curious gaze bounced between Simon and Nina as if she was watching a tennis match. A very interesting tennis match.

“Dr. Nina Whitaker,” Simon bit out. “Meet Special Agents Jase Tyler and Carrie Ward.”

The trio shook hands.

“Sounds like you and Simon were discussing the pros and cons of rehabilitative therapy. You a shrink, Dr. Whitaker?”

Nina cautiously turned to Carrie. “I’m a psychiatrist, yes. Do you have an interest in rehabilitative therapy, Detective?”

Carrie smiled. “Working with this bunch? I need all the help I can get.”

That startled a laugh out of Nina, and Jase and Simon looked at each other. Despite himself, Simon had to forcibly stop himself from smiling, too.

“Seriously, whether I’m interested in rehabilitative therapy depends,” Carrie said. “Whose rehabilitation are you discussing?”

Nina hesitated, but Simon crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against his desk. Granted, Jase and Carrie weren’t as touchy about shrinks and therapy as he was, but as fellow cops they knew how often criminals tried to excuse their actions with claims of mental illness. “She’s treating Michael Callahan.”

“The guy who kidnapped that little girl.” This time it was Jase who made the statement, not Simon, but his tone was clearly critical.

Nina lifted her chin. “I’m here to speak with Commander Stevens. If he decides to fill you in, you can discuss your disdain for my profession then. Outside my presence.”

Jase stared at her, his expression blank, before he tipped his head. Simon saw the gesture for what it was—a small sign of respect. The same respect he felt for Nina. They couldn’t help it. They worked in a male-dominated, often violent world. The fact that Jase and Carrie’s relationship was going so strong was testament to the fact that, despite his previous dalliances with drop-dead gorgeous but fragile women, Jase was instinctively drawn to strong women who kept their soft hearts more under wraps. Just like Simon usually was. And Nina Whitaker was definitely a strong woman. In many ways, however, in ways that related to her patients, Nina’s soft heart was on display for everyone to see, whether they liked it or not.

“It was nice meeting you, Detectives,” she said to Jase and Carrie. Then she turned to Simon. “Goodbye, Detective Granger. I’d say it was a pleasure, but we’d both know I’d be lying.”

Jase made a choking sound that obviously communicated his amusement.

As Simon watched Nina stride out of SIG, Carrie elbowed Jase.

“Looks like you made less of an impression on her than even Simon here,” she said.

The other man grinned at her. “I no longer want to make a good impression on women. Just one particular woman.”

Though they immediately separated, walking to their respective desks, Carrie couldn’t hide the pleased blush that colored her cheeks. Knowing how much the two had gone through to be together, the sight pleased Simon, but he couldn’t let them see that. “Jesus, I’d tell you both to get a room, but you’re already living together. Give me a break, would you?”

He threw himself into his chair, trying to convince himself he could actually concentrate on work after seeing Nina Whitaker again.

Jase laughed. “Funny. That’s exactly what Carrie and I were saying to each other before we interrupted you and the doc.”

Simon frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You two were generating more heat than a five-alarm fire. Too bad she’s...well...you know.”

Simon grunted, but Carrie interjected, drowning out the sound.

“Too bad she’s what? Smart? Beautiful? Has a backbone?”

Simon swiveled around to stare at her. “Did you miss the part where I said she’s Michael Callahan’s shrink?”

“Nope. I didn’t. Did you forget that Lana did a lot of good before she was killed?”

Simon’s heart twisted. Stunned silence echoed around them.

“Jesus, Carrie,” Jase said.

But Carrie just continued to look at Simon. “I’m not trying to be cruel, Simon, but you can’t blame every psychiatrist for what happened to Lana. She was good at her job. What happened to her was the work of one man, and one man alone.”

“A man Lana thought was sick.”

Shadows suddenly appeared in Carrie’s eyes, giving her a haunted expression. “Brad Turner was sick. Sick enough to dismember a woman. Sick enough to peel the skin off another—” Her voice rose a notch before she tamped down her emotions.

“Carrie,” Jase said softly, but Carrie shook her head.

“No. I’m okay. Lana isn’t. Because of Brad Turner. But maybe if someone had listened to her, or someone like her, earlier, maybe Brad Turner would’ve gotten help long before he met Lana. Maybe he wouldn’t have killed the women he did. And maybe Lana would be alive today. Have you ever thought about that?”

Simon had no doubt that his face must look as haunted as Carrie’s just had. At least, that’s how he felt. Haunted. And nauseous. He rose and walked toward the door, hoping it didn’t look like he was stumbling.

“Simon, wait.”

Simon froze, but didn’t turn around.

“I—I care about you. We all do. We’re worried and—”

Simon turned toward her. “Don’t be worried. And for God’s sake, don’t care about me. All it’s gotten me so far are weekly appointments talking to a man about how I feel and what I’d do differently if I could. But no more. I’m through with ‘not-really-mandatory-but-essentially-mandatory’ counseling. You can tell both Mac and Commander Stevens that. Worry and caring? No, thanks. I don’t need it, Carrie, and frankly, I don’t want it.”