Sloan laughed softly and kissed Michael’s forehead again. “Baby, everyone knows I wanted that guy dead. And every cop—federal, state,

• 165 •

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or city—knows that the most likely suspect usually turns out to be the guilty party.” She stroked Michael’s arm, as much to comfort herself as her lover. “In this case, I’m the prime suspect. Christ,” she muttered disdainfully, “even I can’t blame Clark for going after me. I’d do the same in his shoes.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Michael said vehemently. “You wouldn’t because you don’t take the easy way out. You do what’s right, not what’s expedient.”

“I’m not that noble, baby,” Sloan murmured. She buried her face in Michael’s hair, and some of her tension eased. Michael was the calm at the eye of her storm. She was the one Þ xed point in the swirling tide of Sloan’s anger and pain. “It feels so good when you hold me.”

With surprising strength, Michael rose, keeping her arm around Sloan’s waist and drawing her upward. “Let’s go back to bed. You haven’t had any sleep, and I need very much to have you in my arms.”

“Okay,” Sloan whispered, wanting nothing more than to lay down her shields and shelter in the protective circle of Michael’s embrace.

“Yeah, I’d like that too.”

v

“So, is everything okay now?” Sandy asked as she sat on the side of the bed watching Mitchell shed her clothes.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Mitchell balled up her shirt and threw it on the ß oor by Sandy’s suitcase. “Man, this sucks.” Shirtless, she stalked across the room and ß opped on the bed next to Sandy. Legs dangling over the side, she ran her Þ ngers down the center of Sandy’s back. “I don’t know how the lieutenant did it this morning. The way she went after Sloan, like she didn’t even know her. I…fuck…I’m going to be a lousy detective.”

Sandy turned, her eyes sparking with indignation. “That’s bullshit.

Frye’s been doing it a long time. And besides,” Sandy said dismissively,

“Frye is ice. There’s no one like her.”

Mitchell thought back to the one time she and Rebecca had leveled with one another—when she’d confessed her love for Sandy, and Rebecca had admitted to the panic that had nearly crippled her when Catherine had been in danger. Mitchell had an inkling of the depth of emotion that Rebecca Frye never revealed and despaired that she would

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Justice Served

ever be able to control her own passions anywhere near as well. “She’s the best. But she still has feelings.”

“Yeah,” Sandy admitted, “I know. But you still can’t expect to be her, rookie. Not yet.” She feathered her Þ ngers through Mitchell’s hair.

“Besides, I like you a whole lot better than Frye.”

“I kept praying I’d Þ nd something that would clear Sloan.”

Mitchell turned on her side and pulled Sandy down beside her. She kissed her on the mouth, then tilted her forehead to Sandy’s with a weary sigh. “I don’t think that’s how I’m supposed to be feeling when I’m gathering evidence.”

“Baby…” Sandy played her Þ ngertips across Mitchell’s lips, then drew them away and traced her tongue in their place before kissing her again. “You’re supposed to feel the way you feel.”

“How come you make me feel so good?”

“’Cause you’re so easy.”

Mitchell laughed, sliding her hand under Sandy’s T-shirt. Sandy’s skin was soft and warm, her breasts free beneath the loose cotton.

Sweeping her Þ ngertips rhythmically across Sandy’s nipples, Mitchell asked softly, “Oh yeah?” She kept up the teasing strokes, intermittently squeezing the rapidly hardening nipples, watching Sandy’s eyes cloud with pleasure. “Easy, huh?”

“Dell,” Sandy murmured as she grasped Mitchell’s wrist. “Stop that.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Mitchell eased over on top of Sandy, pressing one thigh hard and high between Sandy’s legs. “You’re hot. I can feel you right through my pants.”

Sandy Þ sted both hands in Mitchell’s hair and yanked her head up and away from her breast, where Mitchell had just settled her mouth.

“You’ve got that thing. We have to get ready.”

Redirecting her mouth toward the soft, warm, wonderful ß esh, Mitchell muttered, “There’s plenty of time.” As if to drive her point home, she caught Sandy’s nipple between her teeth at the same time as she slid her Þ ngers beneath the edge of the pale blue wisp of material between Sandy’s legs. She sucked the tight nipple into her mouth as she sank her Þ ngers into Sandy’s depths.

Sandy arched her back and screamed.

“That’s it, baby, that’s it. Oh, yeah, you feel so good.” Mitchell was half out of her mind with the wild pleasure of possessing Sandy

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so completely and the indescribable comfort of just being inside her.

When Sandy pumped upward into her palm and simultaneously lifted a knee into Mitchell’s crotch, she felt herself unexpectedly teetering on the edge. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna come.”

“Do it with me, baby,” Sandy sobbed, hips thrashing with the Þ rst convulsive wave. “Oh, Dell…oh, here I come.”

Mitchell squeezed her eyes tight and tried to keep her rhythm, but everything was tearing loose inside her. She was aching and soaring and crumbling all at once. Shuddering, she pressed her lips to Sandy’s temple and whispered, “I love you.”

Lost in sensation, Sandy could only cling to her desperately, unable to answer. Her body, open and undefended, spoke for her.

v

Catherine stood by the bureau in her bedroom, still in her robe.

She’d showered an hour earlier but, since she’d taken the morning off from work, had not yet dressed. “There’s coffee for you on the bedside table.”

“Thanks.”

Leaning her hips against the dresser, Catherine sipped from her own mug and studied her lover’s carefully guarded face. Rebecca had said nothing since she’d walked in a half hour previously, placed her weapon on the top shelf of the closet, stripped off her clothes, and gone directly into the shower. Catherine supposed that cops had rules about this sort of thing—questions she should not ask, secrets she should not know. Like all rules, those dictums probably served a purpose. And like all absolutes, they often failed in the face of individual human circumstances. True or not, she did not care. What she cared about was the critical connection between herself and her lover. “Was it bad?”

“Typical homicide.” Naked, Rebecca swallowed coffee, unmindful of the temperature.

Typical homicide. Well, that’s something to ponder another day.

Catherine placed her mug on the dresser. “Can you tell me why they called you out in the middle of the night? I thought lieutenants got special dispensation around that sort of thing.”

Rebecca turned to face her.

“This is the part where I’m supposed to let you in, isn’t it?”

• 168 •

Justice Served

Catherine smiled. “Am I being particularly unsubtle this morning, or are you just reading me frighteningly well?”

“Frighteningly?” Rebecca put down her coffee and circled the bed to Catherine. She put her arms around her and kissed her. “It’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to know what you need?”

“How long have you known that?”

“From the beginning.” Rebecca reached between them and loosed the tie on Catherine’s robe. With one hand she parted the silk fabric until their bodies touched, skin on skin. “I’ve just never been sure I could do it.”

“You’re not supposed to do it all by yourself,” Catherine murmured.

She placed her palm in the center of Rebecca’s chest, then moved her Þ ngers over the scars. It was a gesture that had become automatic, almost essential, as if she could physically connect to Rebecca’s heart.

“I’m supposed to help you by telling you. I want to know where you go when you leave here, what you do, what others do to you. I want to know what you feel, what hurts you, what makes you feel satisÞ ed.”

“You,” Rebecca said thickly, her hands moving over Catherine’s back, the curve of her hips, the soft weight of her breasts. “You make me satisÞ ed. You make me happy.” She brushed her mouth over Catherine’s lips, a ß eeting, nearly fragile, kiss. “You Þ ll me up.”

Catherine’s body quickened as her heart soared. “When you say these things, when you touch me this way, all I want is to lie down with you and have you touch me everywhere.”

“Sounds just right to me.” Rebecca shifted a thigh between Catherine’s legs and kissed her again. She gave a surprised grunt when Catherine pushed her gently away. “What?”

“Talk Þ rst.”

Rebecca raised a brow. “That’s blackmail.”

Catherine nodded, feeling the heat in her face and the tight pebbling of her nipples, knowing that her excitement was apparent to her lover. Her words were breathy as her chest lifted unevenly, passion already rampant in her depths. “Besides, we have somewhere important to be.”

With a look of regret, Rebecca kissed her once more and then stepped away. “I’ll tell you while we dress.”

“All right.”

“The dead man’s name is George Beecher.”

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RADCLY fFE

As Rebecca outlined the facts, leaving out the brutal details, she and Catherine moved around one another opening drawers, slipping into clothes, adding their individual accoutrements—watch and earrings, gun and badge. By the time Rebecca related her visit to Sloan’s loft, they were completely dressed. She turned from the mirror to face Catherine, tightening the knot in her tie. “Michael was shaken. Sloan was pissed. It wasn’t pleasant.”

Catherine had never seen Rebecca in her dress uniform before.

The formal jacket and striped trousers, the gleaming buttons, the badge perfectly placed just above the spot the bullet had struck. She was beautiful. Catherine had mixed feelings about Rebecca’s profession, especially having almost lost her to it. But in that moment, the only thing she felt was pride. “I’m sorry you had to question Sloan that way, but I’m glad it was you and no one else. I’m sure you’ll straighten this out for her.” She kissed her softly. “You look very handsome. I’m very proud of you.”