Once a Hero

She swallowed, her mouth watering from nerves. “You think you know everything,” she scoffed, but she was afraid that he soon would.

“Not everything,” he said, shaking his head. His hair had completely dried, the strands a pale gold color again. “I know the boy lives with you. He has his own room, and there are toys all over.”

“Maybe I’m just a really loving aunt.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he admitted. “I can tell the two of you are very close. Too close for you to be just babysitting. You’re obviously his principal caregiver, or even his guardian. How did that come about?”

She decided to tell him what she told anyone else nosy enough to push for an answer. “His parents weren’t able to care for him anymore.”

“What happened?” Kent pressed. “Did they die?”

“They’re not dead.” Not yet. Although Mitchell had been in prison for four years already, she worried about him being able to survive there much longer. Certainly he wouldn’t last the rest of his ten-year sentence.

“Then why can’t they care for him anymore?”

Her heart thumped hard. For a year, with no success, she’d been trying to learn Kent’s secrets. After less than an hour in her home he was entirely too close to learning hers. “That’s none of your business.”

He shook his head. “We’ve been through this already. You’ve made yourself my business, Erin—” he stepped nearer, his chest bumping her shoulder “—with every article you’ve written attacking me. And now this column of yours—Powell on Patrol…” He snorted in derision.

“You just can’t take the truth,” she snapped, refusing to allow him to intimidate her. She planted her feet on the hardwood floor so she wouldn’t move back, even though her pulse raced with his nearness.

His gunmetal-gray eyes narrowed. “No, I think you’re the one who can’t take it.”

Did he already know the truth? Was it possible that he had talked to her mother?

“Just because someone wants you to believe something doesn’t make it true,” she insisted, tilting up her chin with defiance and pride.

“I hope everyone who reads your articles and your new column realizes that.” He lifted his hand and slid his thumb along her jaw. “I’m not the bad guy you want everyone to think I am.”

Not everyone. Just herself. She wanted to believe he was the bad guy, but his touch, so gentle against her skin, distracted her.

“You’re flirting with me again,” she said, reminding herself that turning on the charm was probably just another of his tactics.

“That’s not flirting,” Kent said as he lowered his head, his face nearing hers. “This is flirting….” His mouth touched hers, lips brushing across lips.

Erin’s heart shifted, then beat hard and fast. She reached out, intending to push him away, but her palms pressed against the hard wall of his chest. His heart was racing as frantically as hers.

He closed his arms around her, pulling her tight against him, and deepened the kiss.

Erin’s lips clung to his, returning his passion with a surge of her own. She opened her mouth, and the tip of his tongue slid across her bottom lip. Heat flashed through her body, yet she shivered.

“Erin…” he murmured, as if uncertain that she was really in his arms.

What the hell am I doing? Disbelief doused her desire. She shoved her hands forcefully against his chest, pushing him back. “No!”

“Erin—”

Remembering her nephew, she lowered her voice and said, “Please, get out….”

She closed her eyes, shame washing over her. How had she forgotten about Jason? How had she forgotten about Mitchell and what Kent had done to him? Taking him away from his son, from her?

Kent’s hand, shaking slightly, closed around the doorknob. “Erin—”

“Just leave….”

She didn’t open her eyes again until she heard the door close behind him. Tears of guilt blurred her vision, the mahogany door wavering in and out of focus. She lifted a hand to her mouth, intending to wipe away every last trace of his kiss, but her lips still tingled with the sensation of his mouth against hers. She licked her lips and tasted him.

How could I have enjoyed his kiss? How could I have kissed him back?

She latched the chain and bolted the door, wishing she could lock him out of her mind as easily as she could her apartment. Yet he wouldn’t leave, not until she got justice for her brother.

She walked back to her nephew’s room, leaning against the doorjamb to study his face in the faint glow of his night-light. He slept peacefully, blissfully unaware of what his aunt had done, and whom she had allowed into their home.

The man who had taken away his father. The man who had given Jason nightmares, because the child had been there four years ago when Sergeant Terlecki, working vice, had led a special response unit into their home. The team had broken down the door and, with their big guns and loud voices, had stormed the apartment.

Just a toddler, Jason had been too young to have a clear memory of that day when Kent had arrested his father. But ever since then, the little boy had had nightmares and a paralyzing fear of police officers.

Erin hadn’t feared Kent Terlecki—until tonight. Until he kissed her. And she didn’t actually fear him as much as she feared what he had made her feel. Desire.

WHAT HAD HE BEEN THINKING?

He walked into the Lighthouse, grateful for the noise that surged out of the open door like a wave. Hopefully, it would be too damn loud for him to think, to replay in his mind what he’d just done.

He had kissed Erin Powell, the reporter determined to destroy him and the department. Or maybe the department was just collateral damage. He would bet that her real intention was to ruin him.

Was that why she’d kissed him back? To trick him, to mess with his head? The kiss had been even more effective at doing that than anything she’d written. Yet he suspected he hadn’t been the only one that kiss had rattled.

Nodding at people who waved or shouted in greeting, he made his way through the crowd to the bar. The bartender, an auburn-haired beauty named Brigitte, greeted him with a smile. “Hey, Sarge, your usual?”

His usual was Bloody Mary mix on ice, without the alcohol. Tonight he felt like he needed the bloody. The bloodier the better. He shook his head. “Shot of tequila.”

Brigitte, whom he thought he’d seen the other night at the CPA, lifted a brow. “Really?”

“Really?” Paddy parroted as he swiveled the stool he was sitting on toward Kent. “You don’t usually imbibe.”