H.E.A.T. Book Bundle (H.E.A.T. Books 1-3)

by Nicola Claire

  I turned my head toward the speaker, surprised beyond words to find it was Cawfield.

  He looked me in the eye as he released one of my wrists. The pain was excruciating and for a moment Cawfield didn’t even exist.

  When I came to I was huddled on the floor and Joe Cawfield was covering my body with his jacket.

  My teeth started chattering. So when I spoke, the words were stuttered.

  “Wh..where’s D..Damon?”

  “Here,” Damon’s voice said from over my shoulder.

  “You got her?” Cawfield asked, rising to his full height and staring warily at Damon.

  “I’ve always got her, arsehole,” Damon succinctly replied.

  “Whatever,” Cawfield said and walked away. I reached up and gripped his jacket, pulling it closer. Unsure why I felt indebted to a man I’d thought a traitor.

  Was he? Or was he just the most aggravating, obnoxious, cocky peacock that ever existed and rubbed me entirely up the wrong way?

  “Hey,” Damon said sitting himself down on the floor beside me. “You OK?”

  “We should get out of here, those gases linger,” I said, not making an attempt to stand. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to.

  I kept staring at that empty cross. The one that was opposite mine.

  “The AOS guys said it’s harmless. Short acting. We’ll be fine.”

  “And the Marcrofts?”

  “Under arrest,” Pierce said as he walked into my line of vision. “Good work, by the way. Whatever you said to Kyan has made him sing like a canary. He wants to give his statement to you.”

  “Me?” I said, feeling like it was the last thing I wanted to do.

  “It’d be a solid arrest on your record, Keen. The sort that makes a sergeant out of a cop.”

  The cross beckoned, like Samantha Hayes’ body had once upon a time done.

  “Nathaniel killed her,” I said. “All part of walking the path to Paradise and atoning for his sins. But he couldn’t stop atoning. The atonement became a drug.”

  “He would have kept going,” Pierce said in agreement. “And I’m guessing his son would have kept covering it up.”

  “Fucked in the head,” I offered.

  “The SFO has agreed to join forces. Give us what they’ve already got,” Pierce advised.

  “Too late,” I said. “If they’d opened up their case sooner we might have seen what Kyan was capable of.”

  “Which is?”

  “Doctoring security camera footage. Circumventing Police CCTV recordings.”

  “Shit,” Pierce said softly.

  The cross was a loud siren inside my head.

  I swallowed. Tasted blood that should have been on my hands.

  “Where’s Carole?” I asked, unable to stop staring at an empty crucifix.

  I realised Damon had been very quiet. I forced myself to turn my head and look at his face.

  My eyes closed at the pain and guilt on display there. At the torment he was suffering.

  “Rhys Kyle Weston,” Inspector Hart’s voice announced, breaking into my own type of agony. “Aka Andrew Falkner. Aka Terrence Watson. Aka Brandon West.”

  I moved to stand. You didn’t sit when the Inspector was standing. Not just correct policing etiquette. No one wanted David Hart towering over them.

  “Don’t get up on my account, Keen,” he grumbled.

  I made it upright, pain and fatigue and utter heartache making it difficult to remain there.

  An arm wrapped around my waist, heat washed down my side. I leaned into Damon while I still could.

  If Hart was impressed with my fortitude, he didn’t show it. He turned and looked at the empty cross.

  “I’m sorry, Michaels,” he said, and it sounded genuine.

  “Ultimately, it was her choice,” Damon surprised the fuck out of me by saying.

  Is that why he chose me? Because he thought his sister had asked for it?

  “He’s brainwashed her,” I said softly. “Just like the Marcrofts brainwashed Eagle and possibly more of the street workers who disappeared. I wouldn’t put it past Weston to have shown them how. He’s an expert mind manipulator. Cunning. Intelligent. At a guess, a high functioning psychopath. She didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Exactly,” Hart agreed. “Which is why I’m placing you in charge of finding him and getting her back.”

  I blinked at him.

  “He’s not done with you either, Michaels,” Hart added. Damon stiffened. “You might have chosen Keen, but this type of criminal doesn’t think like you and me. He’ll be either offended you didn’t try harder and want to punish you. Or he’ll think you’re playing dead, and he’ll strike back before you get the chance. In his mind, you’ll still be a challenge.”

  “To his ownership of Carole Michaels,” Pierce added.

  “He’ll go to ground for now,” Hart continued. “But not for long. We know who he is now. At least we have a name. A face to put to it. I want a complete profile on this nutcase by close of business tomorrow. And I want you, to tell Keen everything you know, or think you don’t know, about your sister. Likes. Hates. Desires. Hang outs. Places she despised. Places she dreamed about. People she trusted. People she didn’t. Everything.”

  Damon slowly nodded, a look of resolve entering his tired face. He wasn’t giving up on Carole. He probably never would have, he’d just been shell shocked. Worn down. Blindsided. But Hart was giving him a goal, a focus. Enabling him to find the energy, the drive, to get his sister back.

  “This won’t be easy,” Hart said, looking back towards the cross. “She trusts him more than she trusts you now. But this isn’t just about your sister. This is about HEAT and Malcolm Warren and Joe Cawfield. This about fucking with my department and thinking he can get away with it.” His voice was a low growl now. “You’ve got the use of any resource required, Keen. Get this done.”

  He started to walk away then stopped.

  “All other assignments are on hold,” he added.

  “Oh,” I said, not sure how to take that. Cawfield might not have been the CIB traitor I’d thought him to be, but that didn’t mean I’d given up on pinning something on the bastard just the same. I shrugged his jacket closer when it began to slip off.

  Then checked the pockets for evidence.

  Nada.

  “Head home,” Hart ordered. “Interview the Marcrofts together with Pierce tomorrow afternoon. Once that’s a wrap, you’re on the Weston case indefinitely.”

  I nodded my head.

  Pierce beamed a proud smile. Damon pulled me closer as though he couldn’t get close enough.

  “And Michaels?” Hart said, still half turned away, half turned to us.

  “Yes, sir,” Damon said in an exemplary show of professional respect.

  “You’ve been seconded to CIB. Meet your new partner.” He nodded towards me and then walked away before he could see Damon’s reaction.

  “What?” Damon said, but Hart had already gone. “I’ve got a HEAT division to run.”

  “Welcome to the world of public service and interdepartmental cock-ups,” Pierce offered. “Oh, and welcome to the team.” He slapped Damon on the back and went off in search of something else to bother.

  “What just happened?” Damon asked, staring after a retreating Pierce and a now disappeared Inspector Hart.

  “You just got screwed. Big time,” I offered.

  He turned and looked down at me, his face a picture of blank understanding for a moment. And then he let a whoosh of air out in what had to be a release of tension that rivalled the volume of a hot air balloon.

  “Lara,” he said, pulling me closer, leaning his forehead against mine. “Jesus, Lara. I almost lost you.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I replied automatically.

  He laughed. It was strained, not his normal rumble. Almost a mixture of frustration and fear.

  “You weren’t getting out of there alive.”

  “Neither were you,” I whispered.


  “Your wrists,” he suddenly said, picking up my hands and gingerly holding them while he stared at the marks the chains had made. A growl emerged from the back of his throat. “Let’s get them seen to. There has to be an ambulance around here.”

  “Damon,” I said, as he started to herd me out of the Irreverent Inferno cavern.

  “They must be painful,” he blurted, interrupting my argument. He was deflecting, and for a moment I almost let him.

  My heart hurt. My body ached. Damon was a solid shield at my side. I could be his too.

  But Carole was missing. He’d chosen me over her. And I knew what he’d be feeling inside.

  “Damon,” I said again, halting him in his tracks by pulling back on his tender grip of my hand. He stopped immediately, too scared to hurt me more than I already was.

  I looked up at him. This man who had chosen me. I looked into his dark eyes and saw my future there. As well as my present and past. I saw everything good there was in my life. I saw his pain and it almost ruined me.

  “We’ll get her back,” I vowed. “We won’t stop looking until we’ve found her and Weston is behind bars. I promise you this.”

  “Lara,” he breathed, the weight of his guilt and worry plastered all over his face.

  Carl once said, you can’t solve everything at once. But you can sure as hell solve everything eventually. Samantha Hayes’ murderer was going away for a very long time. Eagle would get the help he needed, as would those street workers who went before him into Marcroft’s Hell. And we knew who the HEAT arsonist was and it wasn’t a HEAT member.

  The CIB traitor may not have been Cawfield, although I refused to consider other options any time soon. And Carole may have been found and then lost. But I was not giving up on either.

  I would solve them. I would find her. I would capture Weston and make him pay. I would track down the betrayer who threatened my professional family, even while I tried to come to terms with my father’s place in my world.

  And I would look after this man before me, take care of him when his heart ached and his mind clouded with fear. I would trust him with my life. With my heart. With my body.

  I would trust him.

  And one day soon I might just be able to face Carl and solve that mystery too.

  “Take me home,” I said, holding Damon’s hands and looking up into the most stunning eyes I’d ever seen. They weren’t any different from their usual dark brown. Not heated with desire. Or flashing with power. Or darkening with an impressive anger.

  They were just him. And they were stunning.

  “Take me home,” I repeated.

  “Where’s home, love?” he asked, voice low and wrapping around me with a touch of heat that curled my toes.

  “Home is with you,” I said, and watched those gorgeous eyes disappear behind closed eyelids and then reappear and pin me to the spot.

  “Then let’s go,” he whispered. “Moonlight and alabaster await.”

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  Description

  “I sometimes wonder if life had gone differently would I be a different man? It’s hard to say. I can’t imagine being any other way. I am who I am and I relish it. I breathe the air I want to breathe. I drink the wine I want to drink. I touch the flesh I want to touch. I am in control of my world and no one can tear it asunder.”

  Ethan Keen lives by a certain set of strict rules. Secrecy and discretion are paramount. And memories must stay locked away in a mental drawer. It makes him hard and uncompromising. It means his role as Superintendent of South Auckland Police is kept clean of all that taints his private life.

  It means he hasn't spoken to his daughter in six long years.

  And then a new pet arrives. On his doorstep, eyes downcast, face serene. Her grace is exquisite. Her silence a siren call to his soul. Her surrender is his undoing. But also his salvation. For his sweet Haydee he'll break his rules. For his sweet Haydee he'll remember.

  Wild passions ignite in a twist of heat that sears them both together. And for Ethan, nothing will ever be the same again.

  For: My Sweet Street Seducers.

  You guys rock!

  And I thought you might like a little more naughty in your Christmas.

  Chapter One

  “Thank you.”

  I sometimes wonder if life had gone differently would I be a different man? It’s hard to say. I can’t imagine being any other way. I am who I am and I relish it. I breathe the air I want to breathe. I drink the wine I want to drink. I touch the flesh I want to touch. I am in control of my world and no one can tear it asunder.

  The Scotch tastes like honey going down. I clink the ice in the tumbler as I hold it up to the soft light in the room. Golds and bronzes, ambers and mahoganies glint in the many facets of the cut glass. The fire crackles in the background but there is little else to distract the mind. Heat. Warmth. The flicker of a candle.

  It’s not been lit to set a romantic scene. Tonight is not about romance. That may come. Or not. Tonight is a performance we’ll both have to play. And the candle is a prop, nothing more. The fireplace a tool to make her comfortable. It’s not particularly cold in Auckland, but this house is old. Insulation could have been better.

  But in here she’ll not think of the cool night air. Nor the seasonal wind that buffers the window. The world outside this room ceases to exist when she walks through that door. For her it will be an escape. Turning her back on whatever it is that she runs from. Opens herself to whatever it is I can give her.

  And I can give her a lot. Freedom in the form of surrender. Unending pleasure in the form of controlled release.

  They give up their bodies for a moment in time free of everything but this.

  My eyes find the clock on the mantel, an old carriage clock that belonged to my father. It’s two minutes fast. No matter what I do, no matter how often or not I wind it, it is always two minutes fast. I don’t mind. You’d think I would. But punctuality is essential in my world. If she arrives on time, the clock on the mantle will already read two minutes too late. If she arrives early, I’ll keep her.

  I take another measured sip of whisky and feel the burn as it coats the back of my tongue. I shift in my seat with an unusual amount of anticipation. I haven’t met this woman before but I’m told she’s perfect for me.

  I don’t believe in perfection anymore, even though I aim to attain it. Too many have let me down in the past. Too many have fallen short when they should have succeeded. I force my mind not to dwell on the past; I keep it locked away, but tonight it threatens to escape the confines of my carefully built filing cabinet.

  My eyes land on my desk. It’s clear of the case files I brought home and the memo I was drafting. Even the laptop has been stored securely in a locked drawer beneath. Just one single item sits in the centre of the dark wood. Glinting like the Scotch in its crystal glass.

  I smile. I have no expectations but when they see the chain they try harder. I admit to myself I’m looking forward to her trying harder.

  The doorbell rings, two deep, full sounding gongs. Most unlike what you’d think a weatherboard house would have. But this is an old house. A big house. When my father built it, it had been sitting on several flowing acres. Not anymore, but the beauty is still retained in the detailed fretwork, the moulded plaster ceilings, and deep set skirting boards. She is a grand old lady.

  I place the whisky down on a side table, and move to my feet in a smooth glide. I know how strong I am. I know how fit I am, how long I can keep going without needing a break. I’ve honed my body to meet the
demands of the lifestyle I live. And that does not just include my profession. Which, unfortunately, is spent more behind a desk now than in front of it.

  I see her silhouetted behind the stained glass in the door. I have no idea what she will look like. Only what she won’t look like. That is essential. Jason would never have sent her to me if she didn’t meet that most basic of rules. I pause taking in her willowy frame, the indistinct features of her person. Once I open that door the fantasy of her potential will be over.

  Am I ready?

  I think I’ve been ready for a while. My usual pursuits have not sustained me.

  I reach forward and turn the handle, pulling the door wide and catching my first glimpse of her.

  Her dark head of hair is bowed, eyes to the floor, hands clasped loosely in front of her body. She’s tall. But at well over six feet, I still tower above her. Her hair is short. I usually prefer it long; the one concession to history. I can’t tell what style it’s in, but her nails are painted, her clothes of a high quality, and her handbag a fashion brand-name that speaks of class rather than show.

  She is exquisite and I haven’t even seen her face, her eyes, yet.

  She waits patiently with a type of grace that does wild things to me. She says nothing, does nothing, but waits. I could leave her here, shut the door, and know she’d still be standing outside my house until I told her otherwise. I know this, as easily as I know that she’s turned on right now.

  “Haydee,” I say, my voice deeper than normal. It’s the voice I reserve for just this. “Come in.”

  She steps towards me, her face still tipped down to the floor, and brushes past in a sweet cloud of vanilla and rose petals. It’s not as overpowering as I would have thought. Subtle. Like her breathing. Measured like her graceful steps. Controlled like her still tipped down head.