Ever since that night, years ago, when she’d let her guard down with him despite her ironclad efforts not to, he was one of her weaknesses.
And she only had two.
“Nice to see you, too.” Liam’s frown stayed in place, at odds with the words. God, that mouth was just fucking ridiculous, firm, full lips framed by just enough stubble to be sexy over scruffy, and Carmen nailed him with a stare despite the way her face had heated at the thought. Por el amor de Dios, it was just a mouth. Vermillion zone, philtrum. Damn near everyone had one, and she needed to get over his—fast—if she was going to make it past him.
“You haven’t answered my question.” She noticed his badge on full display at his hip, and a tendril of worry snaked through her. “And where’s Isabella?”
“She’s fine,” Liam said quickly. But that was the extent of his kindness. “I’m here because I have questions for you.”
God, he was so pushy. At least pushing back was something she knew how to do. “They’re gonna have to wait,” she said.
“Why, you have a hot date or something?”
Carmen’s brows shot upward. “Excuse me?”
Liam’s eyes went wide, as if he’d just heard the implication layered in what he’d asked. “It’s an expression. I didn’t mean…just…never mind. Anyway, the questions are important.”
“So are my plans for the night,” she said, and at least this was true.
“Great. The faster we talk, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”
She sighed and took aim at one last ditch. “You’re going to stand out here on my doorstep until I talk to you, aren’t you?”
One corner of his mouth edged further into the dark red stubble at its border. “Yep.”
And there went her nap. “Fine,” Carmen said, although her tone made it sound like a very different four-letter F-word. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
She slipped past him to put the key in the lock, disengaging the deadbolt with a heavy thunk. The idea of letting Liam into her apartment didn’t exactly take her to her happy place. Still, letting him see her stuck-in-a-time-warp living space was better than letting nosy Mrs. Derringer across the hall eavesdrop on whatever he was going to ask her. The last thing Carmen needed was for word to spread that she was getting chummy with cops. She might work with Isabella from time to time in order to help get some really nasty people off the street, but she needed to keep that on the down-low now more than ever. Earning trust where she was headed later tonight was hard enough.
Liam spun a gaze around her foyer/living room/kitchen, which took all of five seconds. “Nice place,” he said, and her cheeks prickled at the polite lie. Of course, she’d just had to leave her dirty breakfast dishes in the sink. And—oh, hell—was that the bra she’d flung off the minute she’d walked in the door two days ago, stuffed between the sofa cushions?
“Something tells me you’re not here to discuss my interior decorating skills,” Carmen said, dropping her bag over the satin and lace to hide it from sight. His place probably boasted things like granite countertops and hand-scraped hardwood floors, for Chrissake.
Thankfully, he got right to the point. “No. Can you tell me how you know Axel Franklin?”
“Um, you might want to backtrack and ask me if I know Axel Franklin,” she said, shaking her head. “Because the answer is no.”
Taking his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, Liam pulled up a mug shot, turning the phone in her direction for a good look. “This guy. Axel Franklin?”
White guy, sandy blond hair, a little on the lanky side, dark eyes, and yep. Still no. “I’ve never seen him before,” Carmen said.
“Really,” Liam replied, and funny, it didn’t sound like a question. Not that she expected him to take her word as gospel, but still.
“Yes, really.”
“Then why did he try to call you three times tonight?”
She blinked. This was the guy who had tried to call her? She’d never seen him before in her life. “I don’t know,” she said, her frustration rising. “Why don’t you ask him that?”
“Because he’s currently unconscious at Remington Mem, being treated for a stab wound to the chest. Isabella just called to tell me Dr. Sheridan thinks he’s lost about thirty percent of his blood volume.”
Oh. Shit.
“Exactly,” Liam said, and great, she’d let that slip past her lips. “So, do you want to try again?”
Carmen’s hands found her hips, her resolve turning to stone as she chose the truth she could tell. “There’s nothing to try,” she said. “I told you, I don’t know him.”
“Okay, let’s backtrack,” Liam said calmly. “Are there any voicemail messages on your phone?”
“No.”
“Even if Axel didn’t say anything, we might be able to get something from the background noise,” he tried again, and Carmen shook her head.
“No messages.” Axel, or whoever had called her, had hung up before the beep. “Just three incoming calls from a number I didn’t recognize. It was probably a wrong number.”
Liam wasn’t having it. “But he called you three times in twenty minutes. Your phone number was on a slip of paper that was in his hand when we found him.”
“Well, I didn’t give it to him.”
More carefully selected words. She really didn’t know this Axel guy—that much was true. But there was only one reason a stranger, especially one who was badly hurt, would’ve called her, and that, she did know. A patient from the night clinic must have given it to him. Not that she could tell Liam that. Despite the fact that they had strict rules against treating crime-related injuries, coming out with that little truth bomb would only jeopardize the underground clinic and countless people who needed help, not to mention taking a flamethrower to the career she loved.
Carmen couldn’t take the risk, and anyway, what she knew wouldn’t help Liam. She’d never met Axel and had no idea who had hurt him. Telling Liam about the night clinic would only cause trouble.
He tilted his head, eyeing her scrubs with care before returning his eyes to her face, and she forced herself to meet his stare even though—whoa—all that gray-green intensity made her belly do a little flip. Fucking nerves.
“Have you been at the Davenport Clinic all day?” he asked.
“What does that…” She trailed off, losing her words as realization slammed into her. “Are you asking me if I have an alibi? You think I hurt this guy?”
A split-second of confusion moved over Liam’s face before turning to shock. “What? No.”
“Then why else would you ask me that?”
As soon as the question was out, Carmen wanted it back. Hearing him say, out loud, that she didn’t exactly inspire trust—or anything good, really—wasn’t on her “oh, yes, let’s do that” agenda.
To her surprise, though, he didn’t. “I’m trying to figure out if you spoke to him earlier today, or if maybe you saw him at the clinic as a patient. Look”—Liam dialed his expression to the laid-back setting she’d seen him use dozens of times, although not usually with her—“if you know him, and he’s in some kind of trouble, we can help.”