Triggered by Love
Club Cockburn, #2
Rachelle Ayala
http://rachelleayala.net
Contents
Description
Club Cockburn Series
Welcome
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Blush of Love - Excerpt
Acknowledgments
Reading List with Heat Levels
Meet Rachelle
Copyright © 2019 by Rachelle Ayala
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All trademarks belong to their respective holders and are used without permission under trademark fair use.
Description
Fashion Designer Avery Cockburn lost everything in a single New York minute. Her fireman fiancé was gunned down next to her, and her business is in shambles. She fears her secrets caused her fireman’s death, and she wants to honor him at her next show.
NYPD Detective Jason Burnett shot the killer and saved Avery’s life, but a year later, he has no leads and the case has gone cold. He believes Avery is still in danger so he stalks her—to the gun range, through clubs and parks, and hopefully into her heart.
When Avery signs up quarterback Matt Swanson to model her new line of clothing, a series of attacks leaves her reeling. Her fiancé’s murderer is still out there, and a trail of dead male models leads back to her. With her fashion show looming, will her new relationship with Jason trigger the murderer to take out everyone who might expose her deep and dirty secrets?
—
Club Cockburn—from the Heart of the Big Apple, a series of high-octane romances—not safe for work or play.
#1 - Leap, Laugh, Love, A pro surfer on holiday after being attacked by a shark gets tangled up with an Army Ranger on leave with a mission.
#2 - Triggered by Love, After her fiancé was shot, all Avery Cockburn has between her shattered heart and death is a cocky detective, Jason Burnett.
#3 - Blush of Love, A hot New Year’s Eve date with bad boy quarterback Matt Swanson leaves Safire Chu wondering if it’s love at first blush.
Club Cockburn Series
From the Heart of the Big Apple, a series of high-octane romances—not safe for work or play.
Leap, Laugh, Love, Kerry Mills, #1
Triggered by Love, Avery Cockburn, #2
Blush of Love, Matt Swanson, #3
Welcome
I invite you to explore my world of over sixty romances, from dangerous suspense to sweet family drama, featuring hot, steamy flirts, brainy, strong heroines, and hunky men with big, gigantic hearts and melty, warm hugs.
For book descriptions, go to the Reading List with Heat Levels section or check out my Reader’s Guide at:
http://rachelleayala.net/books/
Don’t forget to download my Free Books from your favorite bookstore:
Christmas Lovebirds (sweet)
A Father for Christmas (sweet)
Going Haywire: Sapphire Falls (steamy)
Bad Boys for Hire - Ryker (steamy)
Playing Without Rules (steamy)
Broken Build (romantic suspense)
Intercepted by Love: Part 1 (steamy)
Hidden Under Her Heart (sweet)
For updates and two more free books, sign up for my newsletter at:
http://smarturl.it/RachAyala
To chat and read new works in progress, join my Reader’s Club at:
http://www.facebook.com/groups/ClubRachelleAyala/
Thanks for coming into my story world and letting me take you on an unforgettable excursion. Turn the page to begin.
Bon voyage!
For the men and women in blue.
You matter.
Chapter One
Avery Cockburn was on top of the world.
Here she was, twenty-six years old, soon to be engaged to her dream man and living her dream career as a fashion designer.
This was Manhattan Fashion Week, and her first show under her own label, Club Cockburn.
Her models strutted on the runway, and the fashion press was going gaga over her daring designs.
Haute couture with a wicked flair.
Her longtime boyfriend, fireman Brando Bonet, fidgeted with his suit jacket and tie. She’d seen him sneak a plush velvet ring box into his pocket, so she looked away to let him double-check. Her heart did a pitter-patter or many pitter-patters when she took his arm backstage.
They’d take the trademark ramp walk together, trailing the last model and accepting the accolades of her family, fans, and industry buyers. The photographers would be jostling and snapping wildly from the pit, and the fashion press would be on hand to witness the fairy-tale surprise he had in store for her.
Brando squeezed his free hand over his pocket, and Avery knew without a doubt he’d be getting on his knees once they hit the turnaround at the runway’s end.
“Ready?” She graced his handsome visage with an encouraging and adoring smile.
She loved this man. How could she not?
He’d saved her life. She was a complete stranger and a nobody back then—a design student staying late at her sewing table when a fire broke out at the fashion institute.
Ivanna Chu, her assistant and model wrangler, signaled her. “It’s looking good out there. And, you’re on.”
Striding in a more subdued gait than the slinky models, Avery placed one slender leg in front of the other, letting the slit of her off-shoulder evening gown part, barely. Her steps were in between mincing and assertive, and beside her, Brando’s hunky fireman’s body was solid and fluid like a symphony of testosterone and alpha manhood forged with power.
The applause and cheers were deafening as they walked onto the runway. The spotlight heated her face enough to draw tiny prickles of sweat, but Avery was safe underneath her makeup. The heady, spicy scent of Brando
’s cologne was enough to invigorate her from the stage fright she suffered—unbeknownst to her colleagues.
This was her moment of glory. She had nothing to be afraid of. It was her hometown crowd, and she was the hometown favorite. With Brando at her side, she’d foregone her anti-anxiety meds. She could do it.
Brando shined a proud and admiring glance on her, bucking up her spirits. They strode past the applauding models to the end of the runway. The cheers were deafening over the electronic pulses of techno music, and the rapid-fire of photographic flashes shot stars into her eyes.
“We did it,” she whispered, glancing up at her hunky hero.
“Love you,” his mouth formed the words.
“Get down!” a man’s voice roared, followed by popping sounds.
Avery tumbled off the runway. Pain showered her, punching the breath out of her and slamming her ribs. Her head thumped onto a hard surface, and her arms and legs flailed helter-skelter.
A collective scream arose around her with the sounds of chairs toppling and footsteps running. Avery pushed and shoved underneath a big, heavy body.
“Brando. Brando,” she cried, unable to see past the red blurring her vision. Hot, sticky blood dripped over her, and she could taste the salty tang in her mouth.
The heavy man weighed over her, still warm but silent. The coppery scent of blood overpowered the manly cologne, but Avery knew every inch of her lover’s body.
“No! No! No!” Her screams rose in a wail of anguish. She didn’t have to listen for a pulse to know there was none. No breath, no heartbeat, not a single muscle twitch.
What happened? Why?
She held on to him, moaning, sobbing. “I love you. I didn’t get to tell you. I love you. Come back. Come back. You can’t leave me. My love. I owe you. It should have been me.”
“Man down,” someone shouted close by, but she already knew.
A fusillade of what she now recognized as gunshots followed. Shells clicked to the floor, and a strong hand yanked her from underneath her precious Brando’s body.
“No, no, no!” She was reduced to a single word. “No, no, no, no, no.”
Pop. Pop. Pop.
“You got to get out of here.” The stranger wrapped her slender body with one arm while shooting at the same time.
“No, no, no!” She struggled and clawed at his face, hands, anything.
Bullets whizzed by her, but strangely she didn’t care. She turned her head, looking back through the red mist. Brando’s eyes were still open. He lay on his stomach with his arms spread out. He’d protected her, and she was soaked with his blood.
“No!” Avery’s wail was thin and forlorn. “No …”
“Get down.” The man shoved Avery through a doorway and fired off more shots. “Got him.”
He spoke into a headset mic and holstered his gun.
“You killed him.” Avery kicked him with the heel of her stiletto. “You killed my Brando. Who are you?”
“Officer Jason Burnett, NYPD.”
Chapter Two
One year later.
Avery Cockburn pushed her sweaty bangs from her eyes and aimed the pistol, holding it as steady as she could. She calmed her breath and depressed her trigger finger over and over, emptying the clip in rapid succession. Each shot jolted through her like the crack of a whip, and she fought to tamp down the fury surging through her veins.
The paper target hung silent, and the outline of the head and shoulders remained pristine—not even a nick on a corner or a bullet grazing the edge.
She slapped the pistol onto the counter and tore off her earplugs. Frustration stung her eyes, and she clenched and unclenched her useless fingers.
Pow. Pow. Pow.
Hurriedly plugging her ears, she shot a glare at the man next to her emptying out his clip. Slivers of paper exploded from his target. Pow. Pow. Pow.
Her ears rang from his shots, and she was about to complain when she noticed the grim eyes underneath the safety glasses.
Detective Jason Burnett.
What a way to ruin an already sucky day.
She couldn’t forget the aftermath of Brando’s shooting death. She’d lashed out at the arms holding her back, kicking and screaming with an agony that hollowed out her heart.
She’d landed a blow on the man’s square jaw and scratched his eyes—enough so she could have been arrested for assaulting a police officer.
For an insane minute, she believed he’d shot Brando. Instead, the official reports had him saving her life. She was the target, according to the police. Almost a year later and after countless interviews and investigation, they had no clue who was behind the hit. All they had was the dead gunman—a small-time gangster working on his first hit job with her name and the schedule of her runway walk in his pocket.
Avery’s upper lip curled at the detective and his gun. He was a good shot, but if he’d spent more time investigating and less time shooting, maybe he’d have a break in the case. Instead, he’d given up. Brando’s death was officially a cold case and deep-sixed into never-never land. The cops had more important investigations, or in this case, more important bullets to plug into paper targets.
Calmly, as if he was supremely aware of the daggers aimed his way, Detective Burnett pushed a button to retract his paper target.
Avery wasn’t going to give him the benefit of a fangirl gasp when she spotted a single hole shredding his target. He’d emptied his entire clip into the red heart outline on the man’s head and shoulders silhouette.
Despite the unpleasantness, she couldn’t help noting the detective’s lack of fashion sense. Oh, he was as rugged and as male as they came, but he was rough around the edges with a heavy Bronx accent. His build was firm and compact, not overtly bulging, but she’d felt the power and grace of his movements when he’d swept her away from danger. He’d been dressed in a sleek black suit, off duty, and attending her fashion show—probably on a date with one of the models. It was obvious someone else had dressed him that night.
Today, at the gun range, he wore plain black jeans over black boots and a cotton sweater with a political logo—one of those gun rights, God bless America, flag waving types. Brave, considering they were in the Flatiron district of New York City where the residents tended to run liberal. Then again, he was a cop and he was armed, and a good thing too. He’d shot back and nailed the hitman.
That was all well and good, but the detective was never going to nail her no matter how good of a shot he was. Avery took one more assessing glance, purely professional since he was a complete fashion faux pas, and began dressing him with her eyes. A clean shave would help for starters and some plucking to clean up his bushy eyebrows.
Dark-brown hair over whiskey-colored eyes, his jaw was always grizzly with a shadow, even early in the day. A strong Roman nose over smirky lips, the detective thought himself a wise guy, but Avery firmly shut down any hint of flirtation.
She was in mourning, and she’d always be in mourning.
Jason’s eyebrows flicked up as he tore off the target, no doubt supremely satisfied with himself. He removed his earmuffs.
“What are you looking at?” His voice pierced the cloud of Avery’s irritated musing, snapping her gaze to his hard face.
He stalked toward her, crowding her space. He had a way of leaning slightly forward, tense and ready to jump into action.
“Nothing.” She pointed at the target, lamely, scrambling to recover as she removed her earplugs. “How’d you do that?”
“Practice.” He hooked a glance at her target, which was placed much closer in the lane than his had been. “Why are you here?”
“Shooting.”
“You taking lessons?” he asked.
“Had the basics when I got my concealed carry license,” she replied in case he thought she wasn’t prepared.
“Load up a clip. I want to see.”
“I’m not in the mood,” she said. “Carry on.”
Once, even up to a month ago, she woul
d have been prying him for information. Asking him about leads or picking his brain for theories. But no more.
Someone had tried to kill her, and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference whether she knew who it was or not.
“Suit yourself,” Jason said. “Except if someone were coming for you, it’s better not to miss.”
She packed the rental pistol in its case and picked up any loose shells on the concrete floor. She didn’t need Jason making her feel helpless. The handgun was more a security blanket than an actual tool.
Even if someone were gunning for her, she could never picture herself taking a life. It was so irrevocable.
She stepped away from the stalls toward the door.
Hurried footsteps followed her around the cinder block wall.
“Coffee?” Jason asked.
She opened the noise-isolation door to the corridor separating the shooting stalls from the rest of the gun shop and kept walking. Maybe he’d think she hadn’t heard him over the noise of the other shooters.
Triggered by Love Page 1
