Up in Smoke (Crossing the Line, #2)(33)

“Or someone on the inside didn’t record the visit.” She appeared to be bracing herself. “In fact, I know Stark got an assist from someone in Cook County. The way he escaped was too convenient.”

Connor’s blood heated. Dammit. He didn’t like where this was headed. Had sensed something coming and wasn’t sure he could handle the rest of what she had to tell him. Already, the muscles in his neck were vibrating, his senses sharpening. “You want to tell me how you know that?”

She visibly shivered, probably over his tone of voice. “I’m working up to it.”

He jerked his chin toward a two-story parking structure, indicating that she should follow, using the time they spent ascending the two ramps to attempt to compose himself. His instincts were buzzing that he wouldn’t like the information he intended to get out of her. He kept seeing her nervous expression when she approached him, his intuition that she’d done something to make herself vulnerable. Stay calm. No matter what she says, stay calm.

They reached the roof, which was mostly deserted except for a half dozen cars. The notorious Chicago wind picked up her hair and streamed it out behind her, making her even more achingly pretty than usual. That same wind plastered her already-tight shirt even more provocatively against her body, highlighting the perky nipples standing at attention beneath. His gaze dipped to her belly and thighs, remembering how they felt sliding over his muscles with the aid of oil.

Connor stopped at a navy-blue SUV and waited, hands on hips.

Erin plunked down on the bumper. “There is a bar called Hanover’s a few blocks from Cook County. I took a wild guess that there would be some CO’s inside reliving their glory days.” She brushed her hair over her shoulder. “I went in and talked to one such working-class hero who’d had one too many whiskeys and he spilled the beans. It was actually kind of boring.”

“You think I’m going to buy that version?” He laid a hand on the car and leaned down toward her, his mind attempting to roadblock his anger, but a need for information drowned out his voice of reason. “I might not have gotten answers today, Erin, but I’m a trained interrogator. I’ve had terrorists where you’re sitting before, so don’t insult me.”

She frowned up at him. “Shouldn’t you care more about how May escaped?”

“I don’t. I don’t care more.” He felt a punch of satisfaction when her blue eyes widened. “There’s your answer. Now give me mine.”

“I flirted with the guy. Is that what you want to hear?” She shot to her feet and paced away. Connor just about caught himself before he could grip her shoulders and pull her back against him. Something hideous took up residence in his stomach at what she’d just revealed. He’d seen it coming and still hadn’t been prepared for the image. “I let him think he was going to take me home so I could get the information we needed, then I crawled out the bathroom window.”

His hands started to shake. It wasn’t only the flirting that maddened him. He loathed knowing she’d smiled at some f*cker, teased the guy with the same body she teased him with. But it was so much more. He knew what men were capable of. Some men, especially men who’d had a few whiskeys, weren’t always satisfied with flirtation. It gave them the false assumption they were owed something. Which could lead to them trying to take it. That line of thinking might be extreme, but when he’d lived his life, seen women around him get taken advantage of or mistreated, the possibilities crashing through his brain weren’t out of the question. Not by any stretch.

He massaged his forehead for long moments, trying to bring his boiling temper back down to a simmer, but it didn’t work. It needed to be released or it would remain and fester. Without thinking, he hauled back with his fist and slammed it into the SUV’s rear window. It cracked, glass crunching into a curved impression of his closed hand. Goddammit. This part of himself was disgusting. This trait he’d inherited. The need to be destructive when everything built up and required a place to go. “You don’t know what it does to me, Erin.” He pushed the words out between clenched teeth. “Knowing you were all alone in a bar full of men. You don’t know.”

Based on the stunned look on her face, she now had an inkling. “You do know that they can’t touch me. I wouldn’t let them. If I can’t even have your hands on me, you think I could stand theirs?”

“Theirs. That’s my point. How many of them, sweetheart? And only one of you.” He bunched his fist, pondering full-on demolishment of the window. Needing to see it break. Dying to hear the crunch and feel his knuckles being abraded. “What if they didn’t give you a choice? Any of them could have followed you to the bathroom or out of the bar—”

There went the window. Aware that his show of anger had to be alarming her, he inhaled through his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, she was standing in front of him, not a hint of fear on her face. Only concern for him. He mentally sagged under the weight of her confidence in him, her obvious faith that although his fist broke windows, it would never come near her. Jesus, he’d rather die.

Connor held his breath as Erin locked her wrists behind his neck, rubbing her cheek against the center of his chest, his hammering heart. She started to sway side to side, like a lapping ocean, and he was powerless to do anything but move with her, getting lost in the unhurried rhythm. Inside him, the chaos turned from a bright, blazing red to a tranquil blue. It happened so fast, it dizzied him. All it took was her touch, her being there. “You’re back now. You’re back,” she murmured, her voice almost carried away by the stiff breeze. “Anyway, that window had it coming.”