Chapter Two
Carlton pounded on the door, long enough and hard enough to have other hotel patrons poking their heads out of their doors, looking dazed and/or annoyed—at least until he flashed his badge and snarled at them to back the hell off. The tourists looked sheepish and/or alarmed and hastily ducked back in their rooms while the regulars merely shrugged and ducked back into their rooms while still looking annoyed.
Not that he gave a rat's ass. All he wanted was the door to open. Now.
"Goddammit, I know you're still in there. If you don't open the door right now, I swear to God, I will shoot the damned thing open."
Never mind if he drew his weapon he'd find himself in the pokey and being treated like some common crazy-assed criminal by the local cops. At least they'd have the crazy-assed part right.
Of all the hare-brained, thoughtless, stupid, drunken, idiotic things to do—
He resumed pounding, his fist aching under the strain. Behind him, the elevator pinged, followed by a "Sir. Sir—we've been receiving complaints about the noise, you will have to settle down or Security will escort you from the premises. Sir—"
With a growled, "Buzz off," to the officious little twerp and the two gorillas who'd accompanied him—presumably "Security"—he continued pounding, ignoring the increasingly agitated "Sir—" followed by "Oh my God, he's got a weapon!"
Just as one of the gorillas grabbed his arm, the door swung open, revealing a bleary and disheveled O'Hara. Her eyes widened, followed almost immediately by a wince as she lifted a hand to shade them from the light. Not that there was much, considering the shades were drawn in the suite, leaving it dim and even the hallway wasn't all that bright because hell, this was Vegas. They left the bright lights for the Strip and the casinos.
"Carlton, what the hell?"
"Where is she?" he snapped, shaking off the gorilla's hand only to feel it replaced by a near-bruising grip. Only the barest thread of control and awareness that a fight would derail him from his objective kept him from taking a swing at the oversized jackass.
"Ma'am, do you know this gentleman?" the officious little twerp bleated with a concerned look at the holster barely concealed by Carlton's casual jacket.
One hand still to her head, O'Hara gestured with the other that they should pipe down. "Yeah… I do. He's my partner. On the Santa Barbara Police Force," she added hastily as one of the gorillas made a move to protectively step between them, clearly misinterpreting her use of "partner." "We're here with his fiancée." Glaring balefully at Carlton beneath her upraised hand, she added with no small measure of acid, "Whom I presume is still asleep."
"Actually, no, she's not." With an impatient jerk, he yanked his arm free from Gorilla #1 and stepped past O'Hara into the suite.
"God, Carlton, what the hell is going on? Why are you even here? Actually—hold that thought. Quietly." She held a hand up and turned to the twerp and his bipedal minions. "You can go ahead and go—everything's fine."
"Are you sure?" One of the gorillas—apparently having mastered the intricacies of speech—posed the question.
"Absolutely." O'Hara drew herself up to her full height—slight by comparison to the gorillas, but that didn't matter. Her "You can go—now," was quiet and steely, and even clad in a tank top and sweat pants and clearly hung over to all hell and back, she exuded an unmistakable authority. Carlton would've laughed at how fast the gorillas retreated if he wasn't so goddamned pissed.
As soon as O'Hara closed and locked the door behind the Keystone Kop contingent, Carlton ground out, "Where. Is. She?" enunciating every word very slowly and distinctly while his gaze ranged over the surroundings, taking stock of the expansive suite.
The immense sofa, littered with twisted sheets and pillows bearing indentations, was clearly where O'Hara had crashed the night before, judging by her purse tumbled sideways on the kidney-shaped glass coffee table and her favorite leather jacket draped over a pile of clothes at one end. To his right, a door led to a powder room, while further in the suite, past the kitchenette, were two more doors, set opposite each other on either side of a broad curtained wall that no doubt would reveal a stunning view of the Strip. One of those doors was open, revealing light spilling through blinds left open, highlighting the luxurious and still-pristine bed while the other was firmly closed, the room's inhabitant oblivious to the drama unfolding beyond its barrier.
It was toward that one Carlton unhesitatingly veered, O'Hara's alarmed, "Carlton, what's the matter? What do you mean Marlowe's not here? Will you just talk to me… Carlton!" trailing him as he threw open the door with enough force to cause it to crash against the wall. The bed's inhabitant immediately sat up, automatically groping for a weapon in a way with which Carlton was all-too familiar. Except she wouldn't have her weapon with her. Why would she? This was supposed to have been a fun little getaway. Just the girls. Out to raise a little hell before one of them bid her single days goodbye.
Without giving her the opportunity to gain her bearings, he crossed to the bed and grabbed her arm, hauling her resistant form from beneath sheets and comforter. Again, out of instinct, she fought—twisting, an elbow to the ribs, a kick to his shin—moves that would have been highly effective, even half-awake, if her reflexes hadn't been slowed by God only knows how much booze the night before. But since he had the upper hand, literally and figuratively, her blows did little more than glance off their intended targets.
In one swift move, he whirled her, clamping both hands on to her upper arms to still her violent thrashing, and glared down into her furious face.
"Detective—what the hell?"
"Oh, I think we can dispense with that little farce now, can't we, honey?" he snarled, watching as confusion waged battle with fury across her expressive features. And damn him, this close—the closest he'd literally been in years—and looking into her eyes, it felt as if no time at all had passed. Especially as his body registered the inescapable fact that she still had the habit of sleeping in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else, leaving her legs bare and smooth, one lodged between his thighs.
Twenty-five years ago, it had been his oversized t-shirts that she'd commandeered, claiming that even if they were just out of the dryer, they somehow smelled just like him and that comforted her. That it made her feel as if he was always with her… surrounding her. Said with a smile that had driven him to pull the shirt she'd been wearing off and surround her for real. Claim her for real.
But that had been then.
Back when Karen had been his—the first time in his life he'd ever felt as if anyone belonged just to him. That he'd belonged to anyone.
Now, however—
"Dammit, Karen, what in the hell were you thinking?"
Her eyes widened so far, a full rim of bloodshot white appeared around the deep brown. "What are you talking about?"
Behind them, O'Hara's hushed, "Oh sweet God, it was real," echoed through the suddenly silent room.
In an instant, Karen's expression shifted, fury dissolving as her brows drew together with consternation, then growing awareness, followed by horror in rapid succession. Even in the dim light of the room, Carlton could see the sudden paling of her skin and this time, when she made a move to pull free, he let her go, watching helplessly as she clapped a hand over her mouth and ran for the bathroom revealed by yet another door. The whole damned suite was like a maze of doors and rooms that should never have been opened.
He put his hands to his suddenly aching head and sank to the edge of the bed—still warm and bearing Karen's scent. That hadn't changed either.
Jesus.
Marlowe had been so excited by the trip—organized by his kindhearted partner, of course—a bachelorette party in Vegas to bid farewell to her days of being single. Of being lonely. She'd never had many friends—girl or otherwise—growing up and on into her adulthood, preoccupied as she'd been with her brother's illness and the necessity of protecting him.
Now with Adrian taken care of, in a manner of speaking, she had the opportunity to live a life she'd long denied herself. That she'd felt accepted by Juliet and Karen had meant the world to her.
He'd worried, of course. He wouldn't be him if he didn't worry. Fret, even. He was a world class fretter, after all. But not one bit of that worry and fretting had been because he'd ever imagined Karen would betray their past. For crap's sake, they'd made it this long without revealing a damned thing—no one had ever guessed. Not O'Hara, with her people instincts and exceptional skills, not Spencer—either of them—with their bizarre gifts and in the case of Spencer the Younger, his relentless nosiness. Not a single soul with whom they'd been in constant contact for the past seven years had ever sniffed out so much as a hint that the Head Detective and the Chief of Police had once been not just married, but intensely, insanely, in love.
No, silly him—he'd just been worried that Marlowe have a good time. Hell, he could even admit that at its heart, it had been a selfish desire. With their wedding date fast approaching, they were due to apply for their marriage license and he knew then, he'd have to confess that he'd been married not once, but twice before. Setting aside the fact that he was required by law to document his former marriages on the license application, Carlton could not—would not—go into his marriage to Marlowe under a cloud of deceit.
Well, much deceit.
He'd never had any intention of confessing who. He'd already had his speech planned—the same speech he'd used with Victoria. It was a stupid, youthful indiscretion, one that would have been annulled except they didn't qualify under any of the parameters, so they'd had to opt for a divorce. Once that had been granted, they'd gone their separate ways, determined to pretend it had never happened and with the full intent of never again crossing paths.
Of course, that last hadn't exactly gone to plan, had it? But by the time Karen had reappeared in his life, it was almost like they were two different people. He certainly wasn't the naïve, trusting idiot he'd been way back then, harboring a fragile belief that maybe, just maybe… forever was a possibility for the likes of him, and she… Well, she wasn't Karen Dunlap anymore was she? She was Karen Vick, detective, married, and then not long after, his boss. His married, pregnant boss.
She definitely wasn't the same girl she'd been.
Although, damn him, there were times he could swear he caught a glimpse of her—every now and again, peering out from behind a honey blonde fringe of hair or appearing in a pensive flash, quickly masked by the deep brown of her eyes. But those glimpses of Karen, the girl, were few and far between and all too quickly obliterated by the sharp, no-nonsense Chief Vick, so different, it was easy for him to pretend she was an altogether separate individual.
He'd sensed the same from her. One of those things he'd been shocked to discover hadn't changed with the passage of time—the innate awareness he'd never really experienced with anyone else before or since. Attuned as he was to her, he'd sensed her palpable relief that Carlton, the adult man—the tight-assed, paranoid, perpetually angry Head Detective she was forced to deal with on a daily basis—appeared every bit as changed as she.
So he'd gone about his life, secure that the Carlton and Karen they'd been, once upon a time—those stupid, innocent kids—were long gone, never to be heard from again.
He'd built a life—one he was damned happy with—or at least, that's what he'd swear to, if asked, and God knows, he didn't admit to happy all that easily. He'd moved on from Karen and then, Victoria—not without considerable effort, especially where Karen was concerned—then Marlowe had found him and she liked him and even loved him, with all his faults, and if he didn't feel the same sort of sense of wanting and being wanted more than anything else in the world that he had once upon a time, well, that was just a natural result of the passage of time, wasn't it? He was older and wiser and understood that that sort of terrifying, all-encompassing emotion was best left to kids and suckers. Anyone with any kind of sense knew to build up walls and to be very, very careful about how far past their perimeters to venture and if he still hadn't been brave enough to leave himself completely exposed for Marlowe, it was still further than he'd gone for anyone since… well…
Damn her.
As he grappled with the same helpless rage that had driven him for the past six hours, a sudden shaft of light bisected the dim room. Karen stood at the entrance to the bathroom, pale and breathing hard as she clung to the doorjamb.
"Where's Marlowe?" Her voice was hoarse and pained—whether from being sick or something else, he didn't know and right now, he didn't care.
"Gone," O'Hara replied from the doorway leading into the suite. "Her bed hasn't been slept in and her things are gone."
Without looking away from Karen, Carlton said, "That's because, O'Hara, Marlowe is back in Santa Barbara, and if I had to guess, she's just about finished packing up her things and taking off for God only knows where."
Emotionless, he watched as Karen sank to the floor, tucking her knees in close to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. Trying to disappear into herself.
"Dear God, what have I done?"
"Kind of what I've been asking myself ever since Marlowe reappeared with the very interesting news that my boss had made a hell of a confession over a raspberry mojito with a twist."
Part of him—the really, really pissed off part—enjoyed the faint tinge of green that overtook her at the mention of the cocktail.
"What the hell prompted you to say such a thing?"
"So… it's actually true?" O'Hara asked, as she approached Karen holding a glass. Judging by the bubbles, probably Sprite or ginger ale. "Drink slow," she warned as she pressed the glass into Karen's trembling hand.
"Would I be here if it wasn't?" Carlton shoved a restless hand through his hair. "And you still haven't answered my question."
"Jesus, Carlton, it was a stupid bachelorette party game and we'd all been drinking too damned much." Karen's voice shook almost as much as the hand holding the glass.
As she reached out to steady the glass for Karen, Juliet said, "We were confessing youthful indiscretions—Marlowe had the two Brazilian soccer players, I mentioned my college roommate, and when it was Karen's turn, she initially said she didn't have anything to offer. Then she said that Vick wasn't her first married name. When we pushed her for more, she described the boy she'd once been in love with but never once did she utter your name."
Carlton blinked, his brain rapidly processing through the information overload of his fiancée being with two Brazilian soccer players and his partner with her college roommate before he forced his mind back to the immediate matter at hand.
"Then how in the hell did Marlowe find out?"
"We guessed," Juliet said simply. After making certain Karen had a hold of the glass, she stood and approached him. Very quietly she said, "Marlowe said if she didn't know better, she'd think Karen was describing you. Odd as it seemed. I couldn't help but agree. And that's when Karen admitted she was." She shook her head. "It all seemed like a dream—this huge joke. We all started laughing and ordered another round and I guess I thought Karen had just been yanking our chains, because seriously?" One light brown brow rose. "The two of you?"
Carlton couldn't even bring himself to be offended because if his only experience with himself and Karen was with their current incarnations, he likely would've had the same reaction.
Crossing her arms, O'Hara fixed him with a concerned gaze. "What happened?"
Shaking his head, he focused his gaze on the faint shards of light eking through the cracks in the blinds and leaving wavering patterns along the wall. Like the slow dance of plant fronds underwater.
"Five in the morning, Marlowe's shaking me awake and saying we need to talk. She wanted to know if it was true."
"How'd she even get back to Santa Barbara? She didn't drive, did she?"
Carlton shook his head. "Hired a car." He chewed at his lower lip. "Guess once the hilarity wore off she couldn't help but wonder and once she started wondering…"
"She needed to know," O'Hara finished.
"Yeah. And what was I supposed to say? Once I confirmed it was true, she went off. It was different when I married Victoria—Karen and I hadn't seen each other for years and we sure as hell weren't working together. Now, though…"
He shrugged, fresh anger flooding him at the sympathetic expression on O'Hara's face. He didn't need pity, dammit. He needed answers. And he damn well wasn't going to get those so long as his partner was still around. He was reasonably certain he still knew Karen well enough to know she'd be closing down hard and the more time passed, the more she'd be able to shore up that considerable armor to the point it would take a battering ram to make any headway.
And people thought he was a proverbial sphinx about his emotions.
Carlton's gaze scanned the room, quickly spotting what he wanted. In a move he would never have considered less than twelve hours earlier, he picked up Karen's purse from where it rested on the dresser and rummaging through it, unearthed her keys. He tossed them to O'Hara who reflexively caught them, her brows rising at his audacity.
"I know Karen drove the three of you—you take her car home, I'm taking Karen."
"The hell you are."
Carlton whipped his head around to find Karen staggering to her feet, renewed fury flooding her pale features with color.
"You're in no condition to drive."
"I hardly think you have any right to make that decision," she snapped with a distinct air of Chief Vick.
He could give a rat's ass about Chief Vick. The time to be intimidated by her was long past. Crossing his arms, he faced her implacably. "All right then, how about I have the right to some answers."
Meeting his gaze directly, but still maintaining a cautious distance, Karen said, "You're absolutely right and Marlowe definitely deserves an apology from me. What I did was unthinkably insensitive and… and wrong. I had absolutely no right to say anything—not after all this time. When we get back, we'll get together over coffee and clear everything—"
"No."
"No?"
"Didn't you hear? Marlowe's gone. She made that very clear."
To her credit, Karen looked genuinely stricken. "But... why?"
"That's between you and me. No offense, O'Hara," he added with a glance over his shoulder.
His partner, clearly as stricken in her own way as Karen, merely waved off his apology.
"We can wait until you feel up to being in the car, but make no mistake, Karen, you're coming back with me and we are going to talk."
As her jaw dropped, he added, "Because clearly, we've got some unfinished business."