Kate Hoffmann - Conor

“You saved my life!” Olivia cried. “How can that be improper?”

“You were a witness and I exerted undue influence. I developed feelings for you when I knew it was wrong. I ignored departmental procedure. I figure my career with the Boston Police Department is probably over.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Olivia said, reaching out to touch his arm. “I don’t care if you’re a cop or not.”

“But I do,” Conor said, evading her touch. “Just like this is who you are, a cop is who I am. If I’m not a cop, then I’ve got nothing.”

“You have me,” Olivia insisted.

“But I don’t have anything to offer you. Come on, Olivia, at least you should know that much about me. I have to take care of the people I love. I can’t let them take care of me.”

She blinked once, her gaze fixed on his. “Then you admit it?”

“Admit what?”

“You love me,” she said. “And I love you. And we can get through this.”

Conor shook his head, then cupped her cheek in his hand. He wanted to believe in the truth in her words, but all this had happened so quickly between them. People didn’t fall in love in a week. And those who did usually fell out of love just as quickly. “I have to get through this on my own. And I think you need time to realize that what we had didn’t ever exist in the real world. You live in the real world, Olivia, where people like you don’t socialize with cops.”

“Please, don’t leave me,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.

“Give it time,” he murmured, taking a step back. The very effort made his heart twist in his chest. Then he turned and walked toward the door. A muffled sob echoed through the shop and he cursed himself for hurting her. But it was better this way. She would hurt for a few days and then she’d realize that she never really loved him at all.

When he reached the street, he stopped, fighting the urge to go back in and kiss away all his doubts. “Give it time,” Conor murmured as he started toward the car. “Just give it some time.”

CONOR STOOD outside Quinn’s Pub, staring at the building from across the street. Neon beer signs blazed from the plate-glass windows and Irish music drifted out every time the door opened. His brothers had insisted that he meet them for a drink and he already knew what was going on inside. The pub had played host to many celebrations. Any excuse to hoist a pint or two was welcomed at Quinn’s. But this time, the celebration was meant for Conor.

Earlier that morning, Detective Conor Quinn’s suspension had been lifted. The investigation into the improprieties in the Red Keenan case had been dropped and he was told to be back on the job the next morning. As far as his superiors cared, he’d been guilty of nothing more than poor judgment. Conor sighed softly, his breath clouding in the cold, damp fog that had fallen over Boston. So that was the end of it. Poor judgment.

Somehow, it seemed to be an awfully simple explanation for such a complex time in his life. Hell, a little more than three weeks ago, he’d arrived at that cottage on Cape Cod to do a job. And in the process of doing his job, he’d fallen in love with the most incredible woman he’d ever known. He’d spirited her away, safeguarding her life while violating a host of departmental policies and procedures. And even after the danger was over, he’d tricked her into believing that she still needed his protection.

Poor judgment didn’t even begin to describe his actions over the past few weeks. He’d been crazy, out of his mind, wrapped up in a world that was pure fantasy. Yet here he was, standing in front of Quinn’s, back to his old life and his old ways, ready to spend his evening lost in a bottomless glass of Guinness while he recounted his regrets.

He’d thought about calling Olivia. The trial had begun and was over within three days, Red Keenan choosing to plea bargain against overwhelming evidence provided by his associates. Kevin Ford had never even had to testify, yet he walked as a result of his own plea bargain. In the end, protecting Olivia had become a moot point and everything that they’d shared now existed in a strange limbo between real life and fantasy.

Chances were, Olivia had already settled back into her life. He’d once thought he could be a part of that future, but then he’d been hit with the Internal Affairs investigation. With his job in jeopardy, Conor had believed that he’d had nothing to offer her. But now that he had his job back, he’d begun to fantasize that maybe they could make it work.

She’d never really disappeared from his life. Every hour of every day, he thought about her, replaying their time together over and over again in his head, until he could recite their conversations by heart. He’d learned to conjure up an image of her face, a memory of her scent and her taste, the sound of her laughter, by just closing his eyes and allowing his mind to drift.

At night, when he lay in bed alone, his hands could still feel her silken skin and the soft contours of her naked body molded against his. The memories were so intense that he wondered if they’d ever fade. In truth, he didn’t want them to. He wanted to make more memories, a lifetime full of memories with Olivia.

Yes, things had changed. But he still couldn’t bring himself to contact her. Hell, she was probably better off without him. Now that she was back to her old life, she probably barely thought of him. And he’d never been the sort to settle down into domestic bliss.

Conor cursed softly. But he could be. With Olivia in his life, he could be a loving husband and a terrific father. He wasn’t sure how he knew for certain, but Conor was sure he had what it took to make her happy. She’d given him that, a glimpse inside his heart, a realization that he could love-and be loved-without fear. Olivia wasn’t Fiona Quinn, and if they had a life together, he’d never do anything to make her run away.

He had control, Conor mused. If he wanted to make a relationship work with Olivia, then he could make it work. Conor glanced up and down the street. Suddenly, he needed to see her, to hear her voice and to touch her face. He could make it happen if he just told her how he felt. Conor started toward his car, determined to find her and convince her that he loved her.

“Damn it!”

The sound of a voice on the empty street stopped him short. Only then did he notice a woman bent down on the pavement a few cars away. She seemed to be struggling with a tire iron. A few minutes earlier, he might have been glad for a diversion and an excuse not to go inside the pub. Now that he’d decided to find Olivia, he was anxious to leave. But his duties as a cop couldn’t be put aside. If there was a citizen in distress, he was bound to render aid. He hurried over to the spot. Changing a tire. How long could that take? “Can I help?”

The woman screamed, then jumped to her feet, clutching the tire iron in her fist.

Conor held out his hands. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m a cop. I can help you.”

The young woman regarded him warily, raising the tire iron a few more inches. “Let me see your badge,” she demanded, the tremor in her voice giving away her fear.

Conor impatiently reached into his pocket and withdrew the leather case, then flipped it open. He should have just walked away. She obviously didn’t want his help. “See,” he said. “Detective Conor Quinn. Boston P.D.”

She blinked in surprise. “Quinn?” Her gaze darted across the street.

“Yeah,” Conor said. “My da owns Quinn’s Pub.” He stared at her for a long moment as the light from the streetlamp caught her face. A strange sense of déjà vu flashed though his mind, so brief that he wasn’t able to focus on it. “You look familiar. Have we met?”