Sullivan's Last Stand

Chapter Two

One way or another, Bailey Flowers had been the biggest mistake of his life, Terrence Sullivan told himself, pressing the button for the elevator and slanting a sideways glance at the straight-backed figure beside him. He just wasn’t sure what part had been a mistake—acting so out of character as to let himself get involved with her in the first place, or reverting at the last possible moment back to type and letting her walk away for good.

The former, of course, he thought with a familiar twinge of self-disgust. He’d known from the moment he’d laid eyes on her that she was capable of blowing the precariously fragile existence he’d carved out for himself all the way to hell and gone. He’d known she wasn’t the type that he’d been so careful to restrict himself to up until then. A few laughs, a couple of heated encounters between the sheets, and the women he usually dated would be casting their big blue eyes around as restlessly as he was, looking for someone new.

Bailey’s eyes were the color of water running over stones in a stream. They hadn’t glanced around restlessly; they’d been direct and clear, looking at him and only him. Sometimes he’d even had the unsettling feeling that her hazel eyes could look right through him and see everything he’d always kept so well hidden.

The rest of her was a combination of ordinary attributes that somehow added up to beauty. Her hair was a rich, peaty brown, with glints of honey and amber in it. She’d pinned it up on top of her head once, and the exposed nape of her neck had excited him as no blatant display of any other woman’s cleavage ever had. Her mouth was wide, and a dead giveaway to whatever she was feeling. She was slim, her muscles had definition, and all in all she was as unlike the kittenish blondes he was used to as possible.

He’d fallen for her like a ton of bricks.

Things had ended badly between them, and it had been his fault entirely. But as brief as their affair had been, there had been moments about it that he’d clung to since she’d walked out on him. One wet afternoon they’d gone to a horrendously bad kickboxing double feature, and Bailey had laughed so hard she’d spilled a jumbo carton of popcorn all over him. Once they’d gone on a picnic, and she’d fallen asleep in his lap under a big shade tree, with the sunlight dappling her features, the breeze stirring those honey-amber strands of hair, and him just watching her, drinking in all the delicate details of her face and stamping them on his memory. He could remember every single time they’d made love—her hands on him, his on her, the scent of her skin and the taste of her mouth and the small shallow sigh she gave just before the two of them reached the limits of their control and soared over the far edge of desire together.

But from her attitude toward him since she’d walked into his office, it was all too obvious she’d kept none of those memories. And if they didn’t exist for her, then maybe one day he would lose them, too. Fear shafted through him, bright and painful.

“My sister and now your best operative. Are you starting to see a pattern here?”

Wrenching his thoughts back to the present, Sullivan frowned as the elevator doors opened and Bailey stepped in. He followed her and the doors slid closed behind him.

“Not yet. But there’s something taking shape I don’t like.” He reached over and grasped her shoulder lightly. Immediately she stiffened.

“Hands off, Sully. Like I told you, this is strictly work.”

“I know.” He pivoted her around to face him. “And like you also said, my firm screwed up. Why don’t you go back to Triple-A and I’ll call you after I talk to Hank? There’s no need for you to be involved in this.”

She gave him a blankly incredulous look. “Come again?”

He sighed. “Let’s face it, the past half hour just proved we can’t even keep up a civilized facade when we’re together.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit. “Hell, we’ve got a history, and my part in it isn’t anything I feel too proud about. Let me find Hank, locate Angelica, and send you a report when I’m through.”

“You’re giving me the brush-off.” Her voice was dis-believing. “Again.”

“For crying out loud, Bailey, it’s not like that at—” he began, but she cut him off.

“It’s exactly like that.” Her glance flicked to somewhere a little lower than his midsection, and then back again to his face. “Tell me, Sully, are they made of brass? Is that your secret? Because you’ve got a nerve like I just don’t freakin’ believe!”

Her eyes glinted ominously. “Your conscience is bugging you. Tough. Learn to live with it, because this time I’m not going to quietly disappear just to make things easier on you. I’m coming with you to talk to Jackson. You owe me that much, at least.”

The elevator doors opened to the lobby, and the guard behind the desk looked over at them. He gave the man a brief nod and switched his attention back to Bailey.

“It won’t work, you and me together, and you know it, lady.” He shrugged. “Within twenty-four hours you’ll be at my throat or I’ll have you in my bed—and neither of those scenarios can have a happy ending.”

“You never know.” Her tone was ice. “Why don’t we give that first one a shot and see how it plays out?”

He wasn’t going to win this one, Sullivan told himself in defeat. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. He took a deep breath.

“Move that sweet butt and let’s get going, honey.”

For a moment—just for a moment—the woman he’d once known looked up at him through those clear, brilliant eyes. Then she was gone again.

“Don’t push me, Sullivan.” Her lips tightened. “I’m in no mood, believe me.”

No matter what she’d said to him, it looked like Bailey Flowers was back in his life again, he told himself as he exited the building behind the slim, straight figure striding ahead of him to the parking lot. And no matter what he’d said to her, he was glad she was.

Except that in a day or so he was going to have to arrange things so that she walked away from him again. But this time he’d have to make her hate him enough to stay away, Sullivan thought wearily.

And this time it would have to be for good.

IT SEEMED AS THOUGH they’d hit upon a way of being together that didn’t lead to a confrontation, Bailey thought—total silence. So far on the drive to Jackson’s house neither one of them had said a word. Sullivan had concentrated on avoiding the worst of the traffic snarl-ups, she had stared out of her window, and an edgy peace was prevailing.

She closed her eyes, acutely aware of his presence beside her, and tried to make some sense of the way she’d acted back in his office. She’d walked in there planning to keep her emotions under control whatever the provocation, but within minutes she’d—she’d—

For crying out loud, Flowers, she told herself uncomfortably, within minutes you practically had your tongue in his mouth. How restrained was that?

Even so, right up until the second her lips had touched his she’d thought she could handle it, because what she’d told him was true—she was over Terrence Patrick Sullivan. Completely and totally over him. So why at the exact moment of contact had she experienced that icily electric thrill, as if she had leaped recklessly out into empty space and was suddenly plunging toward destruction?

Her only consolation was that he’d obviously been hit by the same force that had smashed her detachment to bits. And although she was pretty sure she’d hidden her reaction from him, Bailey thought shakily, there had been no mistaking his response for anything other than pure, immediate desire.

But that meant nothing. She opened her eyes. If all she wanted from the man was another brief physical fling, she could be in his bed within twenty-four hours. She could have those strong, hard hands on whatever part of her body she chose. She could see those blue, blue eyes looking down on her and becoming blindly hazed with passion. She could feel his mouth the way she used to feel it, slowly and unerringly igniting every secret desire she’d ever imagined.

But that would be all she would ever have from him. And that was why she was over him.

“The way I hear it, your guy Jackson used to have an alcohol-abuse problem,” she said abruptly. “How under control is it?”

A driver in front of them made a typical Boston lane change—no signal and at the last possible minute—and Sullivan jammed on his brakes. He looked over at her. “Hank takes it day by day, just like any other recovering alcoholic. He’s got his five-year pin from AA, if that’s what you’re getting at, and I’d trust him with my life.”

“But you’re still checking up on him personally,” she argued. “You’ve got some doubts about him, haven’t you?”

“No.” His tone was flat and uncompromising. “If he hasn’t been at work for the past few days then something’s the matter. I should have known about this sooner.” He geared the Jaguar down as they entered a rotary, merging seamlessly with the flow of traffic. “You were right about one thing. I’ve let myself slack off these last few months.”

There was a hard edge to his voice, but Bailey knew instinctively it wasn’t directed at her. It was directed at himself, she thought curiously, darting a look at him through her lashes, but self-chastisement was something that the Terry Sullivan she knew didn’t indulge in.

His jaw was set and his expression was unreadable. Maybe she’d imagined that tone of disgust in his voice, she thought hesitantly, but now that she was studying him, she realized there were other changes she hadn’t noticed earlier. They were subtle, but they were there.

There was a steel-wire tenseness about him that betrayed itself in the grim lines that bracketed his mouth. His face was leaner somehow, his cheekbones harder looking. He drove with the same casual competence he’d always had, but on closer inspection she could see that the knuckles of the hand wrapped carelessly around the steering wheel were held tightly enough that they were whiter than the rest of his skin.

At first glance he still gave the impression of a big, lazily sexy man with not much more on his mind than the nearest attractive female. He gave that impression because he wanted to give that impression, she thought slowly. Had it always been a facade? Had it been a facade even when she’d known him a year ago?

“Sully? The man was a maniac—always volunteering for suicide missions, always with that incredibly charming but quite mad grin on his face. It got worse after the Salazar woman was killed.”

The gray-haired British officer’s words came back to her, and so did the feeling of frustration she’d felt when the man had refused to elaborate any further on what he’d told her. The name of Maria Salazar had had that effect on others who had known Sullivan, too. One of his closest friends, a pale-eyed, grimly silent mercenary named Quinn McGuire, had simply gotten up from the table and walked away when she’d asked him what he knew about the woman.

But right now wasn’t the time to go into the subject of Maria Salazar. She cleared her throat awkwardly.

“You run a different kind of operation than Triple-A. With the dozens of case files that Sullivan Investigations must be working on at any given time, it’s not possible for you to be familiar with each one personally. I was out of line saying that.”

“Yeah, but that’s what I liked about you, honey.” Like magic, the grim look had disappeared from his face. One corner of his mouth lifted wryly as he briefly switched his attention from the traffic to her. “You were always out of line. I’ve missed that.”

He didn’t know it, but he couldn’t have said anything more calculated to wipe out the fragile détente she’d been about to embark on. Bailey stiffened.

“If you missed anything at all about me, it was nobody’s fault but your own. You had me. You got bored. End of story.” Her tone was barbed. “But since you like it when I cross the line, I’ll oblige. Tell me, Sullivan, why did you have to destroy me? When you were talking on the phone to your newest plaything that morning, you knew I was right behind you and hearing every word you were saying, didn’t you?”

“I knew.” His admission took her aback for a moment, but his next words floored her. “I planned it that way.” He shrugged. “You had a concept of me that wasn’t real. A clean break seemed best.”

His words were completely uninflected. Unhurriedly he swung the Jaguar down a smaller side street lined with older, slightly dilapidated homes, as Bailey scrambled to cope with his unwelcome revelation.

She’d lied to herself, she thought. She’d never gotten over him—not totally. It had taken this latest admission of his to open her eyes, but this time she wanted to be absolutely sure she understood him.

“You say my concept of you wasn’t real. What do you mean?” she asked carefully.

“You were beginning to think of me as someone you could build a future with.” He could have been talking about the weather, there was so little emotion in his voice. “Your faith in me was all wrong, but you couldn’t seem to see that. I did you a favor, Bailey. I let you see what kind of man I really was before it was too late.”

“Your timing could have been a little better,” she said, still not looking at him. There was a far-off roaring in her ears that made it hard for her to hear her own voice. It was as if she were holding a conch shell and listening to imaginary waves crashing against an imaginary shore, she thought foolishly—as if she was standing in the middle of a desert, longing for a sea that didn’t exist.

“My timing could have been a lot better,” Sullivan said harshly. Pulling in to the curb in front of a small bungalow, he switched off the ignition and turned to her. “I never should have gotten involved with you at all.”

“So why did you?” she rasped, amazed to find that her voice still worked in any fashion at all. “If going out with me in the first place was such a big mistake on your part, why did you?”

His eyes darkened as he looked at her. “For God’s sake, do you think I had any choice?” he said tightly. “You came into my life. I took one look at you and I was lost. I didn’t care if it was the smart thing to do, the responsible thing to do, or the right thing to do—I wanted you. Even knowing that I was going to have to make you walk away in a day or two didn’t matter, honey.” He rubbed the heel of his hand against his mouth in frustration. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“What’s there to get, for God’s sake?” Her eyes, wide and uncomprehending, were fixed on his. “You haven’t told me anything yet! I’m a pretty simple girl, Sullivan, so why don’t you give it to me in words of one syllable, so I can finally grasp it and get on with my life?”

Her voice had risen, and in the close confines of the Jaguar’s interior they sounded shockingly loud. He looked away.

“Hell, I’ve said too much already. I’m a bastard, honey, and you’re better off without me. There’s your simple answer, so let’s just leave it at that.” He reached for the door. “Come on, let’s see if Jackson’s here and get some answers from him.”

Without waiting to see if she was following him, in one swiftly fluid movement he got out of the car and started up the cracked walk to the bungalow.

Bailey didn’t move. She’d told him she’d come to get some answers about her sister’s whereabouts, and that was true. But if she was honest with herself, after they found out where Angelica was, there was still another mystery she needed to find some answers to, another woman she wanted to ask him about.

Maria Salazar was dead. If she existed at all, it was as a ghost. There was no reason why she should still have any power over Sullivan.

But she did, Bailey thought fearfully. She didn’t know why she was so certain about that, but she was. Maria Salazar had taken Sullivan away from her, and she was going to find out why.

She looked up. His hands in his pockets, he was waiting at the bungalow’s front door, and with sudden resolve she got out of the car. Her determination wavered for a moment, but then she set her shoulders and started up the concrete walk. Even as she did, she saw him slip something out of his pocket.

He was breaking in, she thought in faint shock. She quickened her pace and reached him just as the door swung open.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, nervousness overlaying the jumble of conflicting emotions she’d just been experiencing. “That’s breaking and entering, Sullivan—we could both lose our licenses!”

“This was stuck in the mail slot.”

His voice was curt. He handed her a business card and she took it from him reluctantly. It bore the name of an S. Wilkes, who was apparently a regional sales director for some unknown company, and a phone number. Flipping it over impatiently, she saw a scrawled message.

“Hank—missed you at the last two meetings. Call me.”

“Wilkes is a friend from AA,” Sullivan said. “Hank’s mentioned him once or twice.” He frowned. “Those meetings are his lifeline, Bailey. He doesn’t miss them. There’s something wrong here.”

She met his eyes. “I agree, but it’s pretty obvious what it is,” she said, trying not to sound brusque. “He’s fallen off the wagon, Sullivan. Your boy Jackson’s probably out on a bender.”

He turned from her abruptly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t believe that. I’m going in.”

Before she could say another word, he stepped across the threshold, and without even having seen him reach for it, she saw that his gun was in his hand. She looked apprehensively over her shoulder. It was midafternoon, and apart from an old man a few houses down dozing on his porch, the street was deserted. Stifling her annoyance, she slipped quickly in after him and closed the door quietly behind her.

The minuscule front hall opened immediately onto a cramped, untidy kitchen. On the counter an empty bottle lay on its side, and the broken shards of a smashed glass were strewn nearby on the linoleum floor.

“Hell.” In front of her, Sullivan slowly holstered his gun. He turned to her, his mouth tight. “Looks like you were right, doesn’t it? I’ll check the bedroom in case he’s sleeping it off in there.”

Shrugging in resignation, he started to step across the broken glass, but then he stopped, his glance sharpening on the fallen bottle on the counter. He set it upright, turning it so that the label faced them. She looked at him, confused, and saw the broad shoulders stiffen under the impeccably cut jacket.

“Hank’s not a rye drinker. Somebody didn’t do their homework,” he said grimly.

His hand went to his holster again, and all of a sudden the Armani suit might just as well have been fatigues, and the small, untidy kitchen an ominously silent jungle. He hadn’t put his former profession behind him at all, Bailey thought with quick insight. He reacted like a soldier. Just below the casually lazy surface of the man was a tense alertness, and at the first sign of trouble his military instincts took over.

Except she couldn’t see what had aroused his suspicions.

“He’s an alcoholic,” she said dismissively. “If he wanted a drink badly enough he’d break into the cooking sherry.”

“Maybe he would, at that. But he still wouldn’t choose a grain-based alcohol, and if he had, he’d be lying on the floor with that glass, his throat swollen closed,” Sullivan snapped. “He’s even allergic to bread, for God’s sake. This is some kind of setup.”