by Diana Duncan
The housekeeping aide bumped out the open door backwards, tugging the cart piled with crumpled linens. Zoe waited, her eyes holding Aidan’s, willing him to believe her as the aide swung the cart around and entered the next room. She infused her words with sincerity. “I’m good at my job. Give me a chance—”
A cell phone pinged from inside Aidan’s jacket. He yanked it out, read a text. “Rich!” he roared.
Officer Ryan rounded the corner and jogged down the hallway toward them. “Got a call-out?”
“Yeah.” Aidan slammed DiMarco’s door shut, then whipped his jacket off the chair. Thunderous glare skewering Ryan, he pointed at Zoe. “She gets within spitting distance of DiMarco, and you’ll be wearing your own balls as ear muffs.”
Ryan snapped to attention. “I didn’t let her inside before, and I won’t now.”
“Good man.” Aidan sprinted away, his fluid gait the long-legged stride of a predator on the hunt.
Momentarily thwarted in her quest, Zoe shouldered her bag. A SWAT call-up, hmm? That was usually breaking news.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, garbed in black battle gear, Aidan stood with his hip propped against the white kitchen counter in a suburban house the team had commandeered for the on-site command post. Establishing a nearby command post was critical in these situations, and they sometimes had to use private residences. They’d evacuated the homeowners, plus a safety grid around the entire block. At the north end of the tree-lined street, a man named Joe Davis had gone ballistic and was holding his two young daughters at knifepoint.
Domestic disturbances made the top five hit list of worst scenarios. Hazardous and unpredictable, often brutally violent, they simmered with explosive emotions that put victims and the police officers sent to help them in deadly peril.
Give him a straightforward armed assault any damned day.
“Davis lost his job three months ago.” Also wearing battle gear, Captain Lou Greene, a tall African-American whose thick hair had started to gray at the temples, sat at the table scanning intel reports. Everything from blueprints of the hostage site to neighbors’ observations of the suspect’s moods and behavior were detailed on the forms. “He’s been moping around the house, drinking and talking shit. And we still can’t locate the wife.”
Captain Greene was temporarily filling in for Aidan’s brother Con, Alpha Team’s new leader since February. Con was getting married that evening. Bailey, his fiancée, was fully supportive of Con’s dangerous, unpredictable job, but she’d drawn the line at him answering call-outs on their wedding day.
Unfortunately, Bravo Team was on another call-out across the river, so the best man and groomsmen had no choice about working.
Aidan felt as if he were missing a limb without Con by his side. He’d seen a lot less of his brother lately. He didn’t begrudge Con one second of happiness, but Con’s engagement had left Aidan somewhat adrift.
At least they still worked together. In fact, Aidan had declined a recently offered leadership of Bravo Team. He liked working with his brothers, wanted to be the man who guarded their backs.
Their unsinkable mom Maureen called them her four “S” men. Not only because they stair-stepped in age from twenty-eight to thirty-one, or because they were all SWAT. She had a unique handle for each. Aidan, the strong. Con, the sensitive. Liam, the scamp. Grady, the searcher.
Mom was amazing. The energetic redhead was as fiercely stubborn and capable as any of her sons. Maybe more than all four together.
Speaking of stubborn, capable women, Aidan’s earlier encounter with Zagretti still had his insides tied in knots. Even furious with her for probing around his family, the raw sexual attraction sizzling between them damn near lit his boxers on fire.
Jesus, he didn’t even like her. Why the hell did he burn to take her to bed and pound himself into her until neither of them could walk?
He frowned at the ceiling. He had to divert Ms. Nosy off the DiMarco case. For his family’s sake and her own. When this DV incident was settled, he’d round up his brothers for a war council. Damned good thing Ryan had called him to the hospital. The exotically appealing Zagretti could talk a man off a ledge.
Even when she had driven him to the brink in the first place.
“Yo, A-Man!” Greene’s hail jerked him off the bullet train to Disasterville. “What the hell’s got your dick in a twist?” His CO’s bushy brows slammed together. “You’re normally two-hundred percent focused.”
Yeah. Until Zoe Zagretti blasted his concentration into scattered shards of WTF. “Cap’n?”
“Get me an ETA on the war wagon. The suspect cut the phone lines, and we need a throw phone.”
“Copy that.” Disgusted with himself, Aidan pushed off the counter and wove around SWAT-team members milling through the house. The Kevlar-suited officers were prepared to either stand by for hours awaiting a peaceful surrender, or do a ten-second scramble to execute an assault-and-rescue.
He pushed aside dark-green living room drapes drawn shut against prying eyes and saw the huge, black-armored SWAT truck, loaded with weapons, siege and breeching equipment, and even a computer center, rumble down the street and pull over to the curb.
At the south end of the street behind a police barricade, a curious mob milled around. Waiting bad guys out was the one factor civilians, and sometimes top brass, didn’t understand. The public and the paper pushers too often demanded immediate results. He spotted a TV camera in the crowd and scowled. Egged on by the press. Then TV news programs trotted out Monday-morning quarterbacks to pick apart the team’s decisions and performance.
“War wagon’s on site, sir,” he shouted. Best-case scenario: waiting out a peaceful surrender. But if this incident dragged on for hours, the best man and groomsmen could be no-shows at Con’s wedding. Aidan shook his head. Another hard reality check confirming his decision to avoid the matrimonial snare.
“O’Rourke.” Uh-oh. The snap in Greene’s bass voice didn’t bode well.
He strode into the kitchen and stopped short. Shit. Zoe Zagretti stood just inside the back door, along with a uniformed officer and a slender, disheveled blonde with a haggard, tear-streaked face stamped by hard living. Mottled bruises blackened both eyes, and her baby-blue tank top revealed additional bruises around her throat and upper arms.
Aidan scowled at Zoe as he gestured at the uniformed cop. “Escort the reporter out.”
More tears leaked down the blonde’s face and she clutched Zoe’s arm. “No! She understands! She can help.”
“Yeah, she’s a regular Mother Teresa,” Aidan gritted, ignoring Greene’s smirk. The entire team had been riding Aidan’s ass about Zoe’s “devotion” since he’d saved her life during the mall incident. Number three O’Rourke brother Liam had informed Aidan with great relish that in some cultures, if you save a person’s life, they belong to you forever.
He shuddered. He needed this woman’s devotion like he needed a pink bedazzled jockstrap.
Zoe slid an arm across the blonde’s shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “This is Shelly. She’s Kylie and Emma’s mom. The police couldn’t find her. So I did.”
“How did you know—” He exhaled roiling frustration. “You own equipment that picks up secure police transmissions.” He’d deal with that later. He gentled his voice and addressed the sobbing blonde. “Mrs. Davis, what can you tell us about your husband?”
“Joe’s been on a four-day jag, drinking and smoking and snorting God knows what. Now he thinks I’m screwing around on him.”
“Are you?”
Shelly cried harder, and Zoe gave an indignant huff. “No, she is not. Even if she were, that’s no excuse for her husband to use her as a punching bag and threaten the kids.”
“Of course it isn’t.” He handed Shelly a paper towel to blot her tears. He pulled out the chair beside Greene and offered it to the shaken woman. “Whatever your situation is, we need the facts. The more accurate our information, the easier it is to keep your little girls safe.”
“There’s nobody else. Joe just went off.” Wiping her eyes, Shelly dropped into the chair. “I’m so scared.”
“Neighbors reported him packing a knife. Does he have other weapons in the house? Firearms?”
“Not that I know of, but can’t say for sure. ’Cause Joe keeps secrets. ”
Greene introduced himself and grabbed a blank intel report. “Start from the beginning, Mrs. Davis. What exactly happened this morning?”
The CO was more than capable of obtaining necessary intel. Aidan grasped Zoe’s upper arm, immediately regretting it when lava flooded his bloodstream. Dammit, he should know better by now not to touch her. “A word, in private.”
Shelly’s face crumpled. “Zoe, you’ll be back? Please come back.”
Zoe nodded. “You bet. In the meantime, help the police prepare to rescue your daughters.”
Zoe didn’t resist as he towed her down the hallway and into the nearest room—the bathroom. He shoved the door shut with his boot. Her body was inches from his, and her tantalizing aura wove its spell around him. A sexy, appealing woman in a confined space ...
Not his brightest idea.
He let go of her, but aching need didn’t release its hold on him. “I don’t know what you said or did to infiltrate this command post, and don’t give a rat’s fuzzy gray ass. You’re in the way, compromising operation security, and you’re gone.”
She jutted her chin in a by now familiar determined gesture that ... flooded him with admiration? God damn, he was losing it.
“A story isn’t my main concern here,” she insisted. “Shelly is scared and hurting. I’m her only support, and I won’t abandon her.”
He blinked. There she went again, whammying him with the unexpected. Being caught constantly off balance was a new and unsettling experience. “What?” He also despised sounding like a deranged parrot every time it happened.
“Shelly doesn’t have family, and Joe’s temper alienated their friends and neighbors. She doesn’t know where to turn. She needs help. Not platitudes and judgment.”
“I wasn’t judging her, I was doing my damned job.”
“I realize that, but some will judge her. You’ve heard the drill. ‘Why does a woman stay with a man who smacks her around?’ Know why? Because Shelly needs health insurance for her kids, and her job doesn’t offer it. And she can’t support her kids on her salary alone. Like so many women in the same terrible situation, she’s trapped. Since Joe got laid off, they’ve even lost that.” She sighed. “Besides, you’re a tough guy. Not the best at dealing with feelings.”
She patted his arm, and his skin tingled beneath the protective barrier of his battle uniform. She seemed to be a natural toucher, not meant as a come-on.
Yeah, tell that to his high-alert horniness.
“Shelly got hysterical when she discovered Joe had taken the girls hostage,” Zoe continued. “She’s had a hard life and been knocked around, and I can relate. I’ll keep her calm and encourage her to talk to you, without tying up an officer. Which benefits you and her.”
Sonofabitch, he hated how his gut churned at the idea of Zoe suffering hard knocks. How his instincts raged at the thought of anyone causing her pain. Even at his most infuriated, he could never hurt her. In fact, he’d freaking annihilate anyone who tried.
He clenched his jaw as chaos roiled inside him. “And benefits KKEY’s ratings.”
“No.” Her fascinating, changeable eyes glowed green with empathy. “She’s been abused enough, Aidan. I won’t exploit her.”
He didn’t have one damn reason to believe a member of the press did anything for anyone without ulterior motives. Nevertheless, he believed Zoe.
Gullible wanker.
“You are some piece of work, Zagretti.” He’d been neutralized before he’d launched the first strike, and knew it. Worse, she knew it.
She grinned. “I can stay.” Not a question.
“Three conditions. You remain in sight at all times. No eavesdropping, no access to classified tactical ops. And I preview your report for intel that compromises my team or any resulting arrests.”
“Sounds fair.” Her dazzling smile did funky things to his blood pressure.
How did she breach his defenses and read him so easily? Why didn’t his intimidation tactics—which worked on meth heads, gangbangers, and badass bad guys—faze her?
Why did he long to kiss her full, red lips until she lost the power of speech?
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Maybe ... just yield to the insane compulsion? Kiss her and get it over with. Exorcise her from his head. Banish her from his dreams.
Purge her from his system once and for all.
He studied her mouth. Soft. Red. Moist. Succulent lips partially open.
Her eyes widened and golden highlights swirled in the green-and-brown depths. Her breath hitched.
Yeah, his own breathing wasn’t exactly rock-solid.
Every sense he possessed acutely honed in on her as her warm gaze caressed his. Her exotic scent beckoned him nearer. Under the lavender blouse, her breasts rose and fell rapidly, each hurried breath whispering a silent, intimate invitation.
Just one kiss.
Though his brain screamed a warning, his body swayed closer. A tantalizing brush of clothing. Hot, erotic sparks.
He lowered his head, already anticipating her sweet taste. Her long lashes drifted down. He stood at the edge of the map, about to cross into the unknown. Plunge into uncharted territory.
Hurtle willingly over the cliff.
Gut-wrenching certainty assaulted him. One taste of Zoe Zagretti wouldn’t be nearly enough.
A millimeter from devouring the tempting, forbidden fruit, he checked. Jerked back. What the unholy fuckity fuck am I doing? In the middle of a goddamn incident site.
Nobody, nothing, ever distracted him from the job.
He gulped oxygen that burned all the way down his windpipe. “Are you a witch?”
Her eyes popped open, those intriguing hazel depths dazed. She blinked. A bewildered sable brow arched. “Umm ... sure. Want to see my astral projections?”
Shit, he’d said that out loud? “I don’t know what— Never— Er ... n-never mind.” His heart was pounding like a virgin’s on prom night. He hadn’t stammered since he was four. Maybe he needed to work out more. Add on an extra kata session. Take a long, cold shower—or twenty. “I ... ah ...” The words stuck in his throat like a roadway spike strip, but had to be said. “I apologize.”
A too-knowing expression flickered across naughty elfin features. “Because it’s unprofessional conduct, or because you lost your nerve?”
He scowled. The last time he’d lost his nerve, he’d been fourteen.
Until now. “Uh ... conflict of interest.”
“I see. You’re conflicted about your interest.” She sidestepped, putting much-needed distance between them. “I agree, this isn’t the time or place. And I also apologize for getting carried away. But later, when you figure it out ... let me know, okay?”
He exhaled hard. Damned afraid I’ll end up doing exactly that.
A fist pounded on the outside of the door. “A-Man, Greene needs you in the kitchen.”
Thank fuck. He’d faced vicious armed assailants, dodged rapid-fire rounds in firefights, and been trapped in a raging meth lab inferno without getting rattled. Yet this one small woman shook him to the core.
He glanced at his stunned reflection in the medicine cabinet, barely resisting the urge to hammer his own face. He’d officially gone batshit.
Zoe Zagretti might not be insane, but she sure as hell was a carrier.
What other incurable cravings would he catch when he inevitably gave in and kissed her?
Chapter 3
12:00 p.m.
Disappointment weighted Zoe’s limbs as Aidan stalked out of the bathroom. Wrong situation, wrong place, and horrendously inappropriate. But every instinct she possessed mourned the loss of something much more significant than a mere kiss. W
hich was pretty crazy.
A kiss was just a kiss, right?
Then again, how would she know? Kisses had been as rare in her life as friends. When she couldn’t trust people enough to engage in honest conversation, long-term intimacy was a frightening risk. If not for the romance novels she devoured, she wouldn’t know the first thing about lasting relationships.
She followed Aidan as he prowled down the hallway, her mouth watering. Oh baby! The view of him walking away was every bit as delicious as his approach. His hard-muscled butt was a work of art, and his wide shoulders and narrow hips rolled with the loose-limbed, confident rhythm of a trained dancer. Since she couldn’t imagine her stoic cop prancing around in a ballet class unitard, he probably practiced martial arts.
She brushed his arm to snag his attention, and warm, rock-hard biceps bunched under his black uniform. “Tai Kwon Do?”
He jolted, stumbled, and half-turned. “What?”
She should probably stop touching him. Every time she did, he practically leapt out of his skin. Yet she’d often seen him hug his brothers, and the night of the mall incident, he’d planted an enthusiastic kiss on Con’s soon-to-be-bride. All four O’Rourke men generously bestowed guy-type contact upon each other. Only her touch freaked Aidan. Was that good or bad? “Do you practice Tai Kwon Do?”
“No. Kendo.” He turned and strode on.
Ah. Obviously, Officer SWAT—Sexy Wicked And Taciturn—was allotted only so many words per day, and had used up his quota. But she was intrigued, and direct questions were the fastest route to information. “What’s Kendo?”
“Ancient Japanese samurai martial art. Literally means ‘Way of the Sword.’”
She pictured him wielding a sword in his big, capable hands, the embodiment of lethal elegance and power. Primitive desire streaked through her veins and her stomach somersaulted—as it did often in his imposing presence.
Geez, Z, chill out. But after their almost close-encounter of the lip-lock kind, her hormones were dancing the chorus line from Chicago. “An ancient Japanese martial art would be fascinating material for a story. Would you show me sometime?”
