Survive the Fire Page 10

  “Only for my own dumbass misdemeanors. Why would I take heat for his?”

  “Because you’re older and ‘should’ve known better?’ Whenever Janine got into trouble, she’d blink her big baby blues and point the finger at me. Somehow I’d be found at fault.”

  He scowled blackly and tugged her nearer. “Hung by a kangaroo court, without a trial.”

  Liam’s muscled body so close, his heat, his invigorating scent sent desire soaring. Kate barely resisted the urge to lean into him. Lean on him. That path leads to madness. “Not hung. I just got grounded. I liked to paint, listen to music, and read by myself anyway. It was more retreat than penalty. That’s when I got hooked on Phil Collins, the balladeer. Luckily, I enjoy my own company.”

  “You’re a remarkable woman.” Liam’s arm slid around her waist.

  An encouraging hug, one friend to another. Suurre. Her hormones shot fireworks. Sizzling bursts of gold and brilliant green. “So what kind of trouble did you get into? And really, how tough was it for Grady to talk you into it?”

  His scowl morphed into a grin. “He was always taking stuff apart to see how it worked, conducting crazy experiments, or embarking on daredevil adventures, and yeah, I was a more-than-willing accomplice.”

  “That sounds fun.”

  “Ma and Pop might not agree.” He chuckled. “When he was eight and I was ten, we accidentally set our bedspreads on fire, then later blew up our bicycles, trying to attach rocket boosters. Guess how I became fascinated by volatile chemicals?”

  “My sister and I never had a relationship.” Kate strove to banish dejection. “I do give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she doesn’t feel well.” She drew a fortifying breath. “However, her outbursts seem to occur whenever she’s been denied something, or lacks attention. It’s tough to be patient with Janine when her daughter is gravely ill and she makes everything about herself.”

  Gentle fingertips stroked her cheek, making her insides quiver. “Don’t beat yourself up. I’d have throttled the lot of ’em years ago.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t been tempted.” Her uneven grin was half guilty, half conspiratorial. “I stick it out for Aubrey’s sake. She needs a loving, stable influence in her life. If I give in to pettiness, the poor kid is on her own.”

  “Like you were.” His warm hand cupped her face. “Like you still are.” His gaze drew her in, enticed her into a glistening, intimate bubble where only they existed. So close, she could see each long, sooty eyelash, every spark dancing in his compelling irises. Could not resist lifting a finger to trace the sensual curve of his full lips. Soft lips that’d cruised over her bare skin. Commanding lips that’d teased and tantalized until she’d lost herself in all-consuming need.

  Kiss me!

  Kate locked her jaw to trap the demand inside. He made her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. As if she was the center of his universe.

  Since he apparently had that effect on every woman, it explained his legions of adoring groupies.

  She pulled out of his embrace, out of the impossible daydream. “I don’t need anybody.”

  His provocative mouth slanted. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “I do fine all by myself.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t you want a little girl of your own someday?” He glanced at Aubrey. “With big brown eyes just like her mom?”

  “You noticed the resemblance.”

  “Hard to miss.” His usually direct attention darted away as he cleared thick emotion from his throat. “When I saw her, I thought ... she’s your mini-me.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Oh. My. God. The reason he’d gone green when he’d first seen Aubrey, the reason he’d desperately asked about her age ... was because he’d thought Aubrey was Kate’s ... and his.

  And the idea had made him sick.

  Kate turned aside and wrapped her arms around herself to ward off a foreboding chill. A man allergic to commitment would freak over having kids. Kids were definitely permanent.

  She stared out the window through the open blinds, where the relentless Vegas sun hovered in a blazing ball low on the horizon.

  If Liam were just another pretty face, he’d be easy to dismiss. But his beauty went soul deep. His intelligence, compassion, and quick-fire humor made him lethally attractive. Impossibly hard to resist. Incredibly dangerous.

  He was the one man who could thaw the glacier shielding her heart. Tempt her to play with fire, embrace the heat. But a brief interval of glittering warmth wasn’t worth the inevitable scalding pain. Hell, scientists had proven that people who lived in cold climates were better preserved. She’d keep her emotions frozen, protected. Where they were safe.

  She had Aubrey and her photography. What more did she need?

  What she wanted didn’t matter.

  Yet yearning gripped her in a heavy fist, refused to shake free. Liam’s babies would be stunningly beautiful. With their father’s effusive, confident charm, and their mother’s ...

  She gulped. What did she have to offer?

  Aching from the effort to subdue her longing, she finally answered his question. “I’ll probably never marry or have children.”

  “What?” In her peripheral vision, he appeared stunned. “Why?”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that the women in my family aren’t ideal models of motherhood.”

  “Maybe not. But you’re amazing with Aubrey.”

  “Granting wishes as an auntie is vastly different from a mother’s responsibilities. And I ... my ... my hands aren’t reliable anymore. Janine didn’t let me hold her when she was a baby, because she was afraid I’d drop her. So was I, for that matter.” She ignored the hurt and raised her chin. “Hell, you possess more nurturing qualities than the Chabeau women combined.”

  He scowled. “Drama Queen can’t take care of herself, much less a tiny human. Don’t believe her bullshit. You can depend on your hands. And your instincts.”

  “My photographs are my children.” She uttered a quavery chuckle. “Okay, stepchildren. My paintings were the true creations of my heart, and I’d hoped they would be my legacy. But I’ve adapted. I’ve grown fond of my photos.”

  And if that affection didn’t run as deeply or strongly as it had for her paintings, who would know? She was able to express her artistic urges and pay her own way. And pay for Aubrey’s treatments. That was plenty. Had to be enough.

  He scrubbed a not-quite-steady hand over his jaw. “How did you make the transition from painting to photographs?”

  “Actually, it was something you said to me the night we were together.”

  He glanced out the window. Went rigid. “Hold that thought.”

  She looked at the baking cityscape, rush-hour traffic crammed bumper-to-bumper in the ruthless heat. “What did you see?”

  Response rapid, voice still quiet, he spun her away from the window. “A red flash. Maybe laser sights. We could be under surveillance or targeted for a hit.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not a hundred-percent but I’m checking it out.” He swooped her up and sat her on the foot of the bed. “You’re out of the kill zone over here. I’m leaving the blinds open so an UNSUB won’t suspect I’m on to him. Stay away from the window.” He sprinted toward the door. “I’ll put Murphy on guard. He won’t let anyone near this room until he receives my okay.”

  “No! Wait!” But he’d already disappeared.

  * * *

  The man crouched in a stinking alley across the street, high-powered rifle scope trained on the couple silhouetted in the hospital window. Black malevolence writhed inside his brain—a nest of poisonous snakes he couldn’t exterminate.

  The bitch was supposed to die today.

  His fingers clenched around the gun so tightly it should’ve shattered. Katherine never did what she was supposed to. That was her entire problem.

  Katherine Chabeau’s death would’ve proven his new explosive was no longer unstable in lethal qu
antities. Free advertising, replayed worldwide, 24/7 on all the news networks. Her glorious demise would’ve made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. Set him free of the anger and resentment constantly boiling inside him. Feelings he’d been forced to conceal far too fucking long.

  She was to have been his grand finale, his pièce de résistance before his rebirth from the ashes of mediocrity.

  But he’d failed. And his disgrace was all her fault.

  Everything was her fault.

  Anger seethed, consuming him alive from the inside out.

  Her agent de police and his fucking dog had made him look like a goddamned fool this afternoon. Stolen his glory and riches.

  He was out of patience. Finished with them both.

  He fought temptation to rapidly squeeze the trigger twice and be done with them. Non. He would force them to play his game.

  His rules.

  His way.

  His compatriots were becoming uneasy. With Homeland Security and the FBI now in possession of one of his masterpieces, he’d run out of options ... and so had she. Les Hommes de la Mort—the Men of Death—would soon take matters into their own hands. They despised loose ends.

  He glanced at his watch. Mere hours, perhaps less before they intervened. Until then, Katherine and her fawning policeman’s fates, their very lives, belonged to him. He was their god. Power surged through him, slicking his palms. Hardening his cock.

  If they survived his game ... His lips thinned into a grim smile as he broke the rifle down and packed it into a padded case.

  He would kill them anyway. Slowly. Painfully

  And revel in their dying.

  Chapter 7

  6:00 p.m.

  Pulse galloping, Kate strained to see any activity outside, but her limited view out the window revealed only the glittering Vegas skyline. Liam had left Murphy to defend her and Aubrey. Had rushed headlong after a possible armed assailant. Her heart skipped a beat. Without his partner. Without backup.

  She looked at the wall clock, willing the hands to move. Liam hadn’t mentioned calling 911, but maybe she should. She glanced at the bedside phone. And say what? Liam thought he saw a flash? Maybe someone is targeting us? Oh yeah, Chuck Hanson, gung-ho FBI dick would gleefully slap an unfair false police call-out on Liam’s record.

  But sitting here twiddling her thumbs while Liam potentially risked his life? She could do something. Kate retrieved the telephoto lens from her purse and attached it to her Leica, then draped the strap around her neck. She slipped to the floor and crawled to the window. Crouched below the sill, she thrust up the camera and snapped blindly.

  Long-distance shots were Renée Allete’s forte, her signature style. Distance gave the impression of an outsider looking in. Kept the photographer’s emotions out of the picture and emphasized only the scene.

  That’s what she envisioned. Apparently Liam had a different opinion. How odd that he’d mentioned “Man in the Shadows.” She’d been wandering the streets of Paris at 2:00 a.m., unable to shake thoughts of him. The man she’d spotted ... his tall, limber frame, the set of his wide shoulders, the way his dark hair curled over his collar ... jarred her with similarities to her Irish charmer. She’d been missing Liam more than she missed the use of her right arm when she’d captured the moody portrait.

  Of all her photos, it was the only one she truly loved. The only one she’d refused to sell, and kept a print of. She took it wherever she went. It was currently displayed on her condo’s bedroom wall, opposite Grandma’s painting.

  A slight pop sounded from inside the camera, followed by a soft grinding noise. Aw crap. The micro SD slot spring mechanism had gone wonky. Again. She’d had it fixed twice already. But she loved this Leica. It was the camera she’d formerly used to capture seascapes, and the only thing she had left of her previous artistry.

  She risked a fast peek outside. Nothing unusual. She crawled back to the bed, perched on the end, then glanced at the wall clock. Liam had been gone over twenty minutes.

  Kate stared at the phone, wracked by indecision. Because she hadn’t seen or heard a commotion didn’t mean he was all right. Guns had silencers. Knives didn’t make noise. What if he needed help? What if he lay crumpled in an alley, bleeding to death? The agonizing image crushed her chest until she could barely breathe.

  She checked the clock again. Twenty-two minutes.

  Twenty-three.

  Twenty-four.

  Twenty-way-too-damn-long. Hell, she’d take the rap if nothing was wrong and Hanson tried to nail Liam.

  As she reached for the phone, the door opened and he strode inside. “Miss me?”

  No bullet holes, no knife wounds. No blood. Her trapped breath whooshed out. “Finally! I was about to ...” Her jaw dropped as she saw what he carried.

  “Mission accomplished.” He held up a water-filled fishbowl, where a goldfish swooped in happy circles. The bowl also contained small plants, rainbow colored gravel, and a miniature Arc de Triomphe.

  She blinked in stunned disbelief. “I’m being stalked by a fish? Somehow I thought he’d be taller.”

  He laughed softly. “Officer O’Rourke always gets his ma—”

  “Mackerel?” Shouting in a whisper wasn’t easy, but she managed. “I was scared half-to-death ...” Her voice quavered. “And you were shopping for amphibians?”

  “Well, technically, fish aren’t amphibians—”

  “Do you think I give a crap about a biology lesson right now?” Fear, relief, anger unspooled in rapid succession. “A dog isn’t enough? You felt compelled to acquire another pet?”

  “By the time I hit the street and checked everything out, a potential UNSUB—if there ever was one—had ghosted. I reported it, but I doubt the local cops will find anything. There’s a pet store next door to the hospital, and I was already out.” He set the bowl on the bedside table, along with a box of fish food. “Goldie here will give Aubrey something to care for, to care about. Something happy to do besides watch TV. I already cleared it with the charge nurse.”

  “Oh.” Unaccustomed to thoughtfulness, it hadn’t occurred to her he’d bought a gift for Aubrey. “Oh!” She strove for words through a throat so tight it was hard to speak. “She adores fish.”

  “So I gathered.”

  Her throat filled with poignant emotion. “That’s the sweetest thing I ever ... you ...”

  His mouth quirked in a half-smile. “You were worried about me?”

  “Of course not. You’re a well-trained, armed SWAT officer. You can take care of yourself.”

  Gentle hands clasped her shoulders and coaxed her toward him. Even in the midst of a mini-meltdown, she noticed he was always careful with her. “You said you were scared half-to-death.”

  Kate pulled out of his hold, pivoted, and her back hit the wall near the door.

  He’s safe now. Lock it down.

  But the contrast between her earlier terror and his heartfelt gesture had hurtled her onto an emotional roller coaster. “An expression people blurt without thinking—”

  He planted both hands on the wall on either side of her, caging her in. “When they’re upset?”

  She swiped at her cheeks, aghast to find them damp. Was horrified to discover she was shaking from forehead to French manicured toenails. “I am not upset!”

  “Hey.” Light-as-a-feather fingertips brushed her lashes. “Those are real tears.” He cupped her face in both hands. “You’re trembling. I thought you were joking, but you were worried about me.”

  “You were gone so long. “I was afraid you were wounded, or ...” She choked, unable to say the word. “I didn’t know ... how to help you.”

  “I didn’t expect you to help me.” Midnight brows met in bewilderment. “I handle bombs and deal with bad guys every day. My family is packed with cops, used to the lifestyle.” Clearly amazed, he leaned down. “Nobody’s ever cried over me.”

  “I’m not crying.” She sniffled. “Probably allergies.”

  “I’ll buy that.”
His low, intimate whisper washed over her. “You’ve developed an allergy to feelings.” He eased closer, and she was caught between his hard-muscled body and the wall. Heartbeat thundered against heartbeat. He was warm, vital ...

  Alive.

  And she was relieved. No ... overjoyed.

  Shock and surprise tumbled inside at the depth of her caring. The upheaval jolted her totally off-balance. Struggling to regain her footing, she studied the dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Remembered the erotic tingle as it brushed her bare skin. A shiver rippled over her. “I’ve dreamed about you.”

  She cringed. Why had she spilled that horrifying secret?

  Astonishment blanked his expression. Then he gave her a tender smile. “It’s okay to have feelings,” he murmured. “And dreams.” Those gentle, callused fingertips stroked her face, and she broke out in shivery goosebumps. “People who don’t have dreams don’t have anything.”

  “What ...” She swallowed hard. The dizzying blend of his nearness and her blunder made coherency impossible. He had no idea about the lightning whip of feelings he incited, about the bold demands of her dreams. “What do you do when your dreams get blasted apart? When they shatter at your feet?”

  “Exactly what you’ve done.” His gaze locked on hers as his clever fingers moved to caress her throat, graze her collarbone. “Pick up the pieces and create something new. Channel the passion inside you to redefine something imperfect ... in the perfect way.”

  “My pictures are hardly perfection.” They’d satisfied some of her yen to create, but didn’t come close to baring her soul on canvas.

  “I bought a gallery book of your work. I had no idea you were Renée Allete.” His irises flared with a dangerous gleam. “Your photographs are incredible. Unforgettable. I couldn’t resist them. They grab me by the throat.”

  His praise sent happiness winging. “They do?”

  “Yes.” His husky whisper feathered over her lips. His green irises went smoky, and her stomach swooped on a flutter of anticipation. “Christ help me, so do you.”

  She couldn’t stop herself. Kate closed the millimeters separating them and captured his mouth.