Buch lesen: «Cavanaugh Strong»

To

Patience Bloom,

who lets me spin stories

and

makes my dreams come true

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“C’mon, Henry, I know you’re in there. Did you forget about our lunch date?” Lucinda O’Banyon paused to press her ear against the door she’d just been knocking on, trying to ascertain if she heard any movement within the closed-off room. Though she was well into her seventies, her hearing was still good. “Open up, Henry. I can stand out here longer than you can play possum, old man. You know that.”

Lucy took a step back, keeping her eyes on the door.

It remained shut.

Lucy blew out a breath and frowned. This wasn’t like Henry.

She and Henry Robbins had an “unofficial” standing date for every other Thursday afternoon for several years now, ever since, in a fit of depression, her friend had sold his house and moved in to the Happy Senior Retirement Home.

As far as Lucy was concerned, the latter was a misnomer if she’d ever heard one.

“There’s nothing ‘happy’ about shoehorning a bunch of older people into tiny rooms and dictating every facet of their lives from here on in,” she had told Henry when she’d heard what he planned on doing.

Only a year older than she was, after one surgery had left him feeling weak and far from his old fit self, Henry had been advised by his doctor that he might be better off in a place where help was available 24/7. And even though Lucy had reminded her childhood friend several times that she was only a phone call away, Henry had sold his house and thus opted to “withdraw from life,” as she had phrased it.

After she had reconciled herself to his decision, she’d begun visiting him at The Home—and watched, to her horror, Henry become progressively more morose. Which was why she’d made up her mind that today, as tactfully as she could, she was going to suggest that Henry move in with her—strictly on a platonic basis. She intended to make sure he understood that part. They were friends, always had been. It had never gone beyond that.

A year ago, her stipulation would have gotten a wicked response from Henry who fancied himself to be somewhat of a ladies’ man. But he’d changed in the past year.

Blessed with incredible health and excellent eyesight, Lucy still had her driver’s license at seventy-eight and she made a point of driving Henry as far away as possible from this so-called “happy” home.

He still wasn’t opening the door. What was that man up to? she wondered.

“Henry, you leave me no choice. I hope you’re decent because I’m coming in,” Lucy announced, putting her hand on the doorknob.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a pleasant, albeit somewhat condescending and authoritative, voice behind her said before she could turn the doorknob and let herself into Henry’s room.

Surprised, Lucy turned around to see Amanda Wright. The rather attractive, statuesque dark-haired woman, who volunteered a couple of days a week at the home, was standing almost directly behind her.

“Henry likes his privacy,” Amanda told her.

Lucy’s back went up. She resented this woman, in her early fifties, presuming to know her lifelong friend better than she did.

For the sake of peace, Lucy took a breath in order to subdue her temper and then said, “Honey, Henry and I go way back. I knew him when he used to smile,” she added after a beat.

Amanda raised her chin. Taller by five inches, the woman gave the impression that she was looking down at her. “Henry told me that he wasn’t feeling well after breakfast. I suggest that you let him rest,” the volunteer told her. “Perhaps even come back later for your little visit.”

Lucy had a sudden urge to scratch the woman’s eyes out, but she didn’t. “And I suggest he tell me so himself,” she countered.

She might have been smaller than the younger woman, but Lucy was nothing if not full of sheer grit and determination. She’d come up the hard way and had triumphed over her circumstances. She was not about to allow this woman to dictate to her.

With a deliberate movement, Lucy turned her shoulders around and opened the door.

Fully dressed, appearing to have decided to take a quick nap, Henry was lying very still on his bed.

Too still, Lucy thought, a chill shimmying up and down her spine.

Until just a short time ago, before his surgery had taken place, her friend had been a rather robust and healthy man, especially given his age. However, he had always complained about his inability to sleep. Henry was a light sleeper at best, prone to waking up even if there was the least, inconsequential noise somewhere in the vicinity. That was the reason why she’d gotten him a set of earplugs as a housewarming gift when he had moved into The Home.

“See, he’s asleep. You need to leave,” Amanda told her, taking her by the arm. The woman looked as if she was ready to hustle her out of Henry’s room.

Shrugging out of the woman’s hold, Lucy silently counted to ten in an effort to rein in her temper. She’d had just about enough of this know-it-all woman.

“I’ll be the one who decides what I need or don’t need to do,” Lucy retorted.

Putting her hand on Henry’s shoulder, she was about to gently shake her friend awake when she suddenly froze. A coldness swept over her, initiated by the coolness of Henry’s skin. She could feel it beneath the thin light blue polo shirt he was wearing.

Fear began to do a soft-shoe through her. She did what she could to block it and the thoughts that were simultaneously being generated.

“Henry,” Lucy said, raising her voice. “Wake up. Henry?”

But even as she repeated his name, the sinking feeling inside her chest told her that no amount of calling was going to get her childhood friend to open his eyes.

Henry Robbins was dead.

That made two, she thought numbly.

Chapter 1

“Momma, Lucy’s late.”

Six-year-old Melinda O’Banyon’s knees were sinking into the sofa against the large bay window facing the front walk. The little girl, a miniversion of her mother down to her light red hair, was kneeling there, staring out onto the cul-de-sac street. Having made her announcement, Melinda leaned her forehead against the windowpane and continued to stare out at the semideserted area.

For the moment, no one was leaving or going anywhere.

Detective Noelle O’Banyon pushed thick red bangs out of her eyes and glanced at her watch. It was coming on to eight o’clock in the morning. If she was going to be at the precinct on time, she was going to have to be leaving soon.

Hurry up, Lucy.

“She’s not late yet. She has five minutes before she’s late,” she told her daughter.

Even as she reassured her daughter, a degree of concern slipped in and hovered along the perimeter of her mind. This wasn’t like Lucy. Her grandmother wasn’t just punctual, she was notoriously early. Always. For the woman to be on time was highly unusual. For her to be late was equal to the Second Coming: it hadn’t happened yet.

Noelle felt for her cell phone in her back pocket, debating giving the woman a call. She knew that Lucy would take it as an insult, a silent insinuation that she might have slipped and needed a keeper, but nonetheless, hearing Lucy’s voice would ease her mind.

Granted, her feisty, petite grandmother looked and acted not just years but decades younger than she was. Still, the fact of the matter was that the woman, who had insisted that Noelle refer to her as “Lucy” rather than any acceptable generic title befitting her station in the scheme of things, such as “Grandma,” “Nana” or, God forbid, “Granny,” was getting on in years—even if she refused to acknowledge it.

“Lucinda is my given name,” her grandmother had revealed, the first time their association took on a more permanent quality. “But you can call me Lucy. No one else does,” she had added by way of making that their own special secret.

Her grandmother was then and continued to be now a live wire, with as much if not more energy as the six-year-old great-granddaughter she currently cared for whenever the need arose. And lately the need arose frequently because Noelle had been promoted to the rank of detective a scant six months ago.

That last development had Noelle thinking of taking another crack at trying to convince her grandmother to give up the apartment she was renting—the one she stayed in only approximately half the time—and just come live with her.

Her last attempt at convincing Lucy had been a failure.

“You’d save money and it’d be easier on you,” Noelle had coaxed, thinking the argument more or less made itself.

She’d thought wrong.

“I’m not interested in saving money or ‘easier.’ I’m interested in my independence,” Lucy had responded, cutting the discussion down before it had any time to take root. “I’m the one who taught you about that, remember?” she’d said.

Slipping on her shoes, Noelle glanced over toward her daughter. Melinda was still on the sofa, diligently keeping watch.

C’mon, Lucy, where are you? Noelle thought impatiently.

Though she didn’t like to dwell on it, the simple fact was that Lucy was in her late seventies and things had a tendency to happen to people at that age.

Lots of things, Noelle thought, biting her lower lip as she carried on a heated internal debate as to whether or not to call her grandmother.

“Whether” won.

Taking out her cell phone, Noelle began to press the series of numbers on the keypad that would successfully connect her to her grandmother’s smart phone.

She’d just pressed the last number and was waiting to hear the sound that would tell her the call had gone through when she saw Melinda suddenly jump up and down on the sofa.

“She’s here! She’s here!” Melinda declared in a triumphant voice.

Scrambling off the sofa, the redheaded pint-size dynamo made an instant beeline for the front door, apparently ready to throw it open.

“Melinda!” Noelle called after her sharply. She managed to stop her daughter in her tracks, just short of yanking open the front door. “What did I tell you about opening the front door?” she asked, crossing the room in a few quick steps.

“Not to,” Melinda repeated dutifully, her lower lip sticking out in a pout to end all pouts. “But this is Lucy. We hafta open the door for Lucy,” she insisted. “Lucy can’t get in unless we open the door.”

“Terrific,” Noelle muttered under her breath as she shook her head in disbelief. “I’m raising a minilawyer.” Taking a deep breath, she answered Melinda as if she was talking to an adult instead of a six-year-old. Brighter than most children several years older than she was, Melinda responded to being acknowledged rather than ignored. “Lucy can get in because I’m going to open the door for her, not you. When you get to be my size, you can open the door for her, too. Understand?”

The small, open face scrunched up as Melinda obviously pondered her mother’s words. “How tall are you, Momma?”

“Taller than you. Look, we’ll talk,” she promised the little girl, breezing by her. She flipped the lock on her front door to the open position. “Hi!” Noelle said brightly, greeting her grandmother as she walked in.

“Hi,” Lucy echoed back in a less-than-enthusiastic tone.

Even if Lucy’s tone of voice had sounded chipper, Noelle would have immediately realized that something was definitely wrong. While no one had ever accused Lucinda O’Banyon of being cheerful, she was chipper and behaved closer in age to her great-granddaughter than to the octogenarian she would soon become.

Lucy’s voice, coupled with the fact that she had come very close to being late for the first time since Noelle had known the woman, had Noelle back to being concerned. Really concerned.

“What’s wrong?” she asked the older woman pointedly.

This would have been the place where her still very shapely, attractive and feisty grandmother would have denied that there was anything wrong and then turn the tables on her, putting her on the defensive by demanding to know why she thought anything was wrong, etc.

Noelle knew the way her grandmother responded to events almost as well as she knew how she herself responded to things. Better, actually, since there were times when she was unclear as to her own reactions. She was never confused about Lucy’s reactions and motivation. Lucy was reliable, predictable and, more than that, the older woman had been her rock for ages now.

Neither one of her parents had ever been very “parental.” Her mother, Adriana, viewed being a mother as an inconvenience that got in the way of her lifestyle, and while her father, Howard, had shown signs of wanting some sort of a relationship with his only child, he was firmly entrenched under her mother’s thumb. Being so didn’t allow him to deviate from the plans Adriana had set in motion for him. He was her escort, her consort and the man who paid for all the expenses despite the fact that in the grand scheme of things, Adriana’s family had more money than her father did.

As far back as she could remember, her parents were always going to one country or another, usually getting there via some lavish cruise. That sort of lifestyle had no room for a pubescent daughter who needed regular schooling of some sort. So time and again, her parents would deposit her with her grandmother and take off.

In the beginning, they would pick her up again when they returned from whatever vacation hot spot had lured them away. But by and by, with each trip that became less the case. At first, a few days would go by before they would come for her. But then a few days would knit themselves into a week and then two, until one day, they “forgot” to come for her at all. After that, she stopped seeing her parents between their travels.

Noelle adjusted accordingly.

Though Lucy wasn’t ordinarily given to protestations of feelings or any overwhelming displays of emotions, her grandmother made her feelings for her known through actions and the interest that Lucy took in the various events—large or small—occurring in Noelle’s life.

Whether it was through her vigilance regarding basic hygiene or making sure that her grades were kept up, her grandmother made a point in having her finger in every pie that was part of her young life.

And Noelle loved her for it.

She noticed now that Lucy was not shrugging off her question, but neither was her grandmother immediately answering it.

Noelle examined the older woman more closely, seeing her grandmother’s reluctance to talk coming in direct conflict with an obvious apparent need to talk.

Noelle decided to try to help the matter along a little. Her eyes met her grandmother’s. “Tell me,” she coaxed softly.

Lucy took a deep breath as if bracing herself for the words that were to emerge from her lips. “Henry died,” the woman replied quietly.

Henry, Henry. Noelle searched her brain, trying to match the name to a piece of information that might have been carelessly tossed her way in one of their many conversations, both recent and from years past. Lucy was not one to go on at length about anything, but she did mention a great many things in passing.

And then it clicked into place.

“Henry, that’s the friend you visit at that senior retirement home on Thursdays,” Noelle remembered.

“Every other Thursday,” Lucy corrected. “Henry was Dan’s friend,” her grandmother told her, referring to her late husband, the grandfather she had never known. “And mine,” Lucy added in an eerily quiet voice Noelle surmised she was using to camouflage her pain.

Her grandmother and Melinda were the two people she allowed inside the barriers she had built up around herself. Emotions within that limited area came quickly and without restraints.

“Oh, Lucy, I’m so sorry,” Noelle cried softly. Stopping short, she knew better than to just go with her instincts without first asking for permission. Generally speaking, Lucy was not a demonstrative person. But this was, after all, an extenuating circumstance. “Is it all right to hug you?”

Lucy nodded, suddenly looking much sadder than she remembered ever seeing her grandmother look. “I think I could use a hug right about now,” the older woman said.

Melinda, who had been quietly listening to the exchange, absorbing every word like a short adult-in-training, now took this opportunity to remind her mother and her grandmother of her presence by piping up, “Me, too, Lucy?”

Lucy extended her free hand toward the child, even as she struggled to keep back her hot tears. “You, too, Cupcake.”

Melinda instantly pressed her small form against her mother and her grandmother, melting into them and becoming part of the whole.

* * *

From a distance, as he watched the woman approaching the squad room where they both worked, Duncan Cavanaugh thought that his almost-brand-new partner looked like a walking tall drink of water. In general, he had always been a man who had never quite satisfied his overwhelming thirst.

But if nothing else, Duncan also had a keen instinct when it came to survival. He just naturally knew when to stand back and when to lean in.

The former was at play here. Newly minted detective Noelle O’Banyon might as well have had a no-trespassing sign taped to her forehead. Tempting though she was and definitely gorgeous, he knew enough to stay back and keep hands off. Even if he hadn’t been unexpectedly partnered with her when his former partner Lopez relocated to Miami six months ago to be near his ailing father, Duncan understood that you didn’t act on feelings of attraction to someone who clearly had the word rebuff written all over her.

At bottom, Duncan had decided that Detective Noelle O’Banyon was his own personal, ongoing trial. A test he could only successfully pass if he was oblivious to her.

Not an easy trick.

Especially when Cameron Holloway, one of the other detectives in Vice, had been quick to give him a heads-up the first time he had learned the name of Lopez’s replacement on the Aurora police force.

“Hey, man, this should be very interesting. You’re partnered with the Black Widow,” the slightly overweight Holloway had gleefully told him.

The unflattering nickname sounded like something an irreverent journalist would slap on an elusive perpetrator, not a label the police would put on one of their own.

“What are you talking about?” Duncan had demanded, confused.

Holloway had looked at him, obviously enjoying the fact that for once he was the one in the know while Duncan was still in the dark.

Grinning broadly, the detective had laughed, “You really don’t know, man?”

Duncan enjoyed being challenged. Teased, however, was a different matter and he had little patience with it. Curbing what could be a flash temper on occasions, he replied as coolly as he could, “I wouldn’t be asking if I knew.”

The other man had smirked, no doubt enjoying the moment and drawing it out for as long as he could. “You ask me, it’s nature’s way of protecting its own.”

“What is nature’s way of protecting its own?” he’d asked through teeth that were clearly gritted.

Holloway had leaned in, though he still failed to lower his voice. “Well, rumor has it she’s been engaged twice.”

“Twice,” Duncan had echoed while looking at the woman who at that moment was meeting with the head of the vice department, Lieutenant Stewart Jamieson, before being brought out to meet the rest of them.

The grapevine, in the guise of Duncan’s older brother, Brennan, had alerted him to the name of his new partner. But Brennan failed to provide certain other pertinent details. If it didn’t interest Brennan, he just naturally assumed that it didn’t interest anyone else, either.

“She broke it off?” Duncan had guessed.

Holloway had shaken his head, looking like the proverbial cat that had gotten into the cream. “Nope, she didn’t have to. They both died. She didn’t even get to walk up to the altar once.” Pausing dramatically, Holloway had given it to the count of two before adding, “The first one left her pregnant.”

Because he belonged to an extended family that could have easily acquired its own zip code, Duncan’s interest had gone up a notch. “She has kids?”

“Kid,” Holloway had corrected, holding up his forefinger. “One.”

“A daughter. Her name’s Melinda. She’s almost six. Anything else you want to know?” a melodious low voice coming from directly behind him had said, completing the information.

Duncan had turned his chair around a hundred and eighty degrees to face her. Up close the energy had almost crackled between them. He would have had to have been dead not to notice. Just like he would have had to be dead not to notice her delicate, heart-shaped face, her soul-melting green eyes and her flaming red hair. But what got to him most of all was the killer figure that no clothes could adequately hide. He had a feeling that somewhere, in some huge ledger in the sky, he had just been put on notice. His number had finally come up.

Still, he managed to sound unaffected as he calmly asked, “Yeah, where do you buy your shoes, because I didn’t hear you come up.”

She’d glanced down at her footwear. Not knowing exactly what was expected on her first day in “the big leagues” as Lucy had referred to it, she’d worn her most attractive high heels. Wearing heels always secretly boosted her self-confidence.

“This is just a guess,” she’d said drily, “but I don’t think that you’d look that good wearing four-inch heels.”

“I make it a point never to rule out anything without giving it a fair shot,” he’d told her gamely, then rose to his feet as he put out his hand. “Duncan Cavanaugh,” he said, introducing himself. “I take it that I’m your new partner.”

Jamieson had pointed him out to her, then had to stop to answer a phone call. She’d decided to do the honors herself and dive into her first day here.

“I know,” she had replied.

“And your name is?” Duncan had asked, thinking it only polite to pretend that he didn’t know as much as he did about her—including the information that Holloway had just given him.

Holloway was retreating to his own desk. She had nodded in his direction. “Your friend there didn’t tell you?” Noelle had asked.

Duncan remembered grinning. His new partner was quick. He liked that. “He skipped that part.”

The two men had appeared to be deep in conversation when she’d approached them. Being the new kid on the block, she’d just assumed that they’d been talking about her. Duncan’s answer had made her doubt her assessment. It also made her wonder just what they had been discussing. The other man had glanced in her direction three times in that short length of time.

Taking Cavanaugh’s hand, she told him, “It’s Noelle O’Banyon.”

Duncan had nodded as if taking in the information for the first time. “You were born on Christmas?” he’d asked. He couldn’t recall hearing a woman called that name before.

“As a matter of fact—no.”

It seemed like a logical assumption from where he stood. “Oh.”

“I was born on Easter Sunday,” she deadpanned.

Duncan had stared at her for a second. He would have wondered if she was putting him on except that she looked so sincere when she’d said that. The woman had to have really out-there parents.

“You’re kidding.”

She’d laughed, dropping the ruse. “Actually, I am. It was just a name. I’m not even sure if either one of my parents picked it, or if maybe some hospital attendant suggested it.”

That had an uncanny sad ring to it. Was she pulling his leg again? He couldn’t tell. “Well, either way, it’s intriguing.”

“If you say so,” she’d said.

And so began their dance of words. Over the past six months, they’d each gained a healthy respect for the other’s skills and knowledge.

They also got as close as they could as partners given that one partner held the other at arm’s length, Duncan now thought, watching her approach.

But maybe, he concluded as Noelle slid into her seat behind the desk that faced his, that was ultimately all to the good. He’d never had a relationship with a woman that had lasted beyond a month.

Most had had a shorter lifespan. If his interaction with Noelle had gotten serious during off-duty hours, then gone sour, that would, in turn, have laid them both open to absolute months of awkwardness.

If not longer.

No, he told himself perhaps a little too firmly for what felt like the umpteenth time, what they had going on between them now was definitely the better way to go.

He ignored the little voice inside his head that whispered, Sour grapes.