by Delores Fossen, Rachel Lee, Carol Ericson, Tyler Anne Snell, Rita Herron
Pulling the material over his head, he flinched against the sting of his stitches. “What can I do to help?”
“You can mince garlic while I clean the shrimp.” Kate grabbed a clean cutting board and a knife, setting them beside her station on the counter. Her deep purple nail polish caught the gleam of lights from overhead as she moved between ingredients, and it somehow represented everything he’d imagined her to be. Intriguing, sexy, independent.
Maneuvering to her side, he breathed her vanilla scent in a bit deeper, let it fill him with a renewed sense of appreciation. After everything this woman had been through—the shooting, the surprise of his resurrection, the exhaustion—she’d put his needs ahead of her own. Hell, if that didn’t earn his respect. A woman like that was a rare creature, one that needed to be protected. She cared, she sacrificed, she pushed through.
He was the only one standing between her and another attempt on her life. He’d be damned if he failed her again.
“Why the change to profiling?” he asked.
“What?” Her hold on one shrimp faltered, and it fell onto the counter.
“You said Brian Michaels was your patient, but you’re profiling for Blackhawk and the FBI now. Why the change?” Declan reached for another clove of garlic, brushing the edge of his hand against hers.
Awareness shot straight up his arm, of her shallow breathing, the way her beautiful green eyes widened slightly, the tightening of her fingers around the handle of the knife. Something inside him responded to her on a deep, instinctual level. It was probably due to the fact they’d been married, been intimate, that his brain refused to forget her even after the most dramatic event of his life. For all he knew, the hitch in his breathing and heart rate had more to do with muscle memory than any real connection between them. Because she’d made it perfectly clear: he wasn’t her husband anymore.
He positioned the flat edge of his knife over the garlic and slammed his hand on top. Maybe a bit too hard. “Can’t imagine putting yourself in the head of a killer like the Hunter does miracles for your outlook on life.”
“Oh.” Kate stared at the shrimp in her hand, rolling her bottom lip into her mouth. The tendons between her neck and shoulders strained. She swiped the back of one hand across her forehead, then shifted her weight onto her other foot. Obvious anxiety deepened the small indents between her eyebrows. She didn’t want to talk about it.
“Hey, I’m sorry.” He forgot the garlic, turning into her. He smothered the urge to touch her again. The intense reaction that sparked every time he laid a hand on her wouldn’t do either of them a damn bit of good right now. “You don’t have to tell me anything. We just met. We don’t know each other well enough—”
“No, it’s okay.” But she still wouldn’t look at him. The slight tremor in her hand settled as she set down the paring knife she’d been using on the shrimp. “As a psychologist, I encouraged my patients to talk in order to work through their issues. You’d think it’d be easy for me to follow my own advice.”
Only the sound of the boiling water behind them on the stove drowned the hard pounding of his heartbeat behind his ears.
“I let my personal life get in the way of helping my patient.” She busied herself by ripping a tail off the last shrimp and tossed it into the ceramic bowl with the rest. “Michaels was spiraling out of control, and I didn’t have any clue. I missed the signs. I didn’t know he’d stopped taking his medications.”
Kate raised her green gaze to his, gripping the edge of the granite countertop. “When Sullivan approached me to work for the team, to help catch the bad guys and get justice for those who the police couldn’t or wouldn’t help, I said yes.”
Everything inside of him went cold. He’d gotten a hint of her guilt back at the house, with her hands working to stop the blood flow from his wound. But this...
Declan closed the short space between them, unable to keep his distance any longer. Sliding his hand across the back of hers, he peeled her white-knuckled grip from the countertop and massaged his thumbs into her palm. “You don’t have to carry that guilt, Kate. Michaels knew what he was doing. He would’ve found a way—”
“You don’t understand. I didn’t only lose you that night, Declan.” Kate pulled her hand from his, tugging up the bottom hem of her T-shirt. Smooth, creamy skin slid beneath his fingers as he gave in to the urge to see if she was as soft as she looked. But his gaze homed in on the lump of scar tissue an inch or so under her belly button, dead center. White, puckered and angry, an exact match for the four scars he carried. “I lost our baby, too, and I’m not going to let Michaels get away with it.”
Chapter Five
“You were...pregnant?” Light blue eyes slowly raised to hers. “With our baby.”
“I carry a lot of guilt for what happened that night, but it only plays a small part compared to the anger.” Kate lowered her shirt, turned to the pasta boiling over on the stove and flipped off the burner. She blinked back the burn of tears. She didn’t cry. She didn’t feel. She didn’t let her guard down. She had control, and she wasn’t about to break down for the millionth time in front of a complete stranger.
Except when Declan threaded his hand around her waist, pulled her into him and held her, that control shattered. In a matter of seconds, aching sobs ripped through her, but he only held her tighter, grounding her.
“We’re going to find Michaels,” he said. “Together. And we’re going to make sure he gets everything that’s coming to him.”
She didn’t know how long they stood there, the pasta overcooking, the scent of garlic thick on the air. She didn’t care. For a split second, she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t standing on her own. He held her up, gave her the strength. He took that pain away.
Kate rested her head on his shoulder, her nose pressed into the column of his throat as her palm found his heart. She counted off the beats as the strong, steady drum hammered through her. For the first time since the shooting, right here, right now, safety was within reach. Which didn’t make sense. She’d just met him, really, but something deep down—something she’d buried in that coffin—said he wouldn’t hurt her.
“You can forgive yourself right now, angel. Michaels was in charge of his actions. Not you,” he said. “That guilt is only going to destroy you.”
Her breath hitched. Impossible. Kate swiped at her face and put a few inches of space between them, her fingers skimming down his arm. “What did you call me?”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Angel.”
“Why?” Desperation clawed through her as she fisted her hands in his shirt, the one he used to wear on the weekends, used to wear to bed. The one she’d recently packed away because she couldn’t stand the thought of getting rid of it. “Why that name? Why angel?”
“Your blond hair, your perpetuity for putting everyone else first before yourself.” Declan ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “I guess it kind of slipped out. If you’re offended—”
“No. I’m not offended.” She forced her fingers to release him and smoothed the creases her damp palms had pressed into the shirt. It was a coincidence. Nothing more. Nothing she should sink her nails into. Her pulse slowed as she breathed him in. Slow, deep breaths. The dam had been broken when he’d kissed her, when he’d coaxed her to relive the pain she’d suppressed for so long. She was out of control. She had to get a hold on reality. “You...you used to call me that. Before.”
Once upon a time, she’d been his angel. But now...
“I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t know.” He stepped into her, hands out, but every muscle in her body tightened in response.
Declan backed down, put space between them at her reaction. “It slipped out, but I’ll be careful in the future. I won’t call you that again.”
Kate forced herself to take a deep breath. Then another. “No. It’s not your fault. It’s been a crazy day. Emotions are running h
igh. I’m... I’m really tired, and it looks like dinner is ruined anyway.”
She maneuvered around him, pointing down the hall toward her bedroom. Distance. She needed distance. The past eight hours had ripped her apart, but even with his attempt to piece her back together, the human body and mind could only take so much.
“I think it’s best we get some rest before looking for Michaels, but you’re welcome to raid the fridge and the pantry if you’re hungry. Please, take whatever you need, and there’s extra bedding in the linen closet.”
The apartment blurred in her vision as she escaped down the hall, her chest too tight, her head spinning. She forced herself to close the door behind her softly, then collapsed against it. She didn’t have the strength for this. For years, she’d helped her patients become stronger, better versions of themselves, helped them work through their trauma. Kate rubbed the base of her palms into her eye sockets. Why then couldn’t she help herself?
She shoved to her feet. She needed to shower, drink a glass of water, get something to eat. There were people out there who needed her help, and she wouldn’t be doing her team or the FBI any good in this condition.
Heading for the bathroom, she stripped out of her bloodstained clothing, then twisted the shower knob to hot. Steam filled the bathroom quickly, and she breathed a bit easier.
Declan hadn’t done anything wrong. None of this was his fault. She needed to apologize to him, explain. They’d be working this case together. Despite her internal battle, he was as much a part of this as she was.
In minutes, she toweled off and dressed in her favorite pair of sweats and oversize T-shirt. As she reached for the bedroom door, three knocks reverberated through her.
“Kate?” Declan’s voice was a soothing remedy to the panic consuming her vision, and it took a moment to center herself. Of course, he’d come to check on her. From the moment he planted himself in that bullet’s path to save her life, he’d proven that part of her husband had survived the trauma. “You okay?”
Hand on the doorknob, she put the armor he’d stripped back into place. The man on the other side of the door wasn’t her husband—never would be—and she had to accept that reality. They’d have to work together to find and question Michaels, she’d help him get his life established, get him out of that shelter, but that was as far as it would ever go between them.
Kate swung the door inward, faced with the sight of shrimp linguine in creamy mushroom sauce. Her mouth parted as her stomach gargled with hunger pains at the aroma. “You finished cooking it.”
“Didn’t want our hard work go to waste.” Declan offered her the plate, complete with a fork and a glass of white wine, the muscles down his arms bunching as he moved. That gut-wrenching smile did its job as his fingers made contact with hers. What was it about touching him that had her all twisted in knots?
“Thank you.” Heat penetrated through the plate into her hand, but the sensation exploding from her chest demanded her attention. Nobody had ever cooked for her before. Her own grandparents who’d raised her had worked full-time and hadn’t had the time or the energy to do much else but provide packets of ramen noodles for Kate and her younger brother. But this...this wasn’t ramen.
“Least I could do for you giving me a place to crash tonight.” Declan nodded and turned to head back toward the living room, but Kate took a step after him, her heart in her throat.
“You don’t have to eat alone.” That sensation behind her sternum rocketed through the rest of her body as he slowed to a stop in the hallway. Ridges and valleys of muscle flexed along his back, then he faced her, blue eyes assessing every change in her expression. Looking for another crack in her armor? He wouldn’t find it.
“I don’t want to complicate things between us more than they already are, Kate.” Rolling his fingers into fists at his side, standing there as though he were ready for battle, he looked exactly like the special agent she’d known him to be. Would she ever be able to separate the two in her mind? He closed the distance between them, one step at a time. “I don’t intend to start anything I can’t finish.”
The tendons behind her knees weakened. Air rushed from her lungs. What did that mean?
“I’ll give you one more chance to decide and be sure this time.” His voice graveled, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
Her hold on the plate faltered as his exhale grazed the oversensitive skin across her collarbone. Why did it feel as though she wasn’t asking him to eat dinner with her but something far more dangerous? Far more tempting?
“Ask me again,” he said.
Kate rolled back her shoulders, leveled her chin. He’d saved her life back at the house, cooked her dinner, and she was an adult. She could take care of herself, protect herself. And maybe the thought of eating the pasta alone hollowed her insides a bit more now that their fates had intertwined again.
She’d been alone for so long. Kind of felt nice to have someone else to talk to outside of work.
“All right. Have dinner with me,” she said.
His expression softened with a one-sided smile. Declan took the glass of wine from her, then threaded his free hand around hers. Instant warmth shot straight into her bones and counteracted the pain in her arm from the fresh wound. But this time, she didn’t flinch away.
He pulled her into the kitchen, set her glass on the countertop and slid one of the two bar stools out for her. All of the mess from food preparations had been taken care of, the island cleaned.
“You didn’t have to do any of this.” Kate took a seat on the bar stool, surprised to already find silverware laid out. As though he’d expected her all along.
When had she become so predictable? Or was it the fact he seemed to read her better than anyone else ever had? Wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. They were going to be partners for the foreseeable future. Because as much as she hated to admit it openly, she had the feeling Michaels wasn’t going to be found unless he wanted to be.
“No trouble at all, but for the record, you did most of the heavy lifting. The thought of deveining those shrimp makes me gag.” His deep laugh did funny things to her insides as Declan took a seat beside her, his body heat sliding up her arm. He lifted his own glass of wine, clinking it against hers. “To partners.”
She wrapped her fingers around the clear crystal, the weight of his gaze on her the entire time. The decision had already been made. Her purpose—to bring the man who’d shot at them tonight to justice—would be greater than her pain.
Kate clinked her glass against his and took a heavy sip. “To partners.”
* * *
SHE WAS ASLEEP in her bed—alone—her breathing heavy and slow.
Declan skimmed his fingers down the door frame to her bedroom and shut the door behind him quietly before heading back to the living room. She’d fallen asleep on the couch as they’d watched some mindless television show, and he hadn’t been able to resist tucking her in for the night.
She’d been pregnant. With his baby.
Rubbing his palms down his face, he collapsed onto one of the too-white sofas. What the hell was he supposed to do with that information?
He shouldn’t have pushed her for an answer. Should’ve minded his own damn business. Because the last thing he ever wanted was to see that woman cry again. Angels weren’t supposed to cry, yet every crack in her expression had gutted him from the inside. And he’d do anything he had to to ensure nobody hurt her. Himself included.
“She doesn’t deserve what you’re going to do to her.” He’d only brought pain and suffering into her life. Staying longer would only destroy her more.
Alone, in the dark, he took in the magical expanse of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Kate had an entire team to track down the bastard who’d taken a shot at her tonight. She didn’t need him. He wasn’t an investigator anymore and she had everything and everyone she needed
to get the job done. All he’d managed to do was mess with her head. And that kiss... He was selfish for using her to prompt another set of memories.
But she was the only tie to the past he had, the only one who could give him his life back.
The tablet Sullivan Bishop had loaned him for the investigation brightened across the room with a silent notification, reflecting off the wall of glass in front of him. Shoving away from the couch, Declan crossed the room and unplugged it from the charger. An email forwarded by Blackhawk’s network security analyst to the in-box she’d set up for him and Kate’s company email. Could have something to do with their case.
He pressed his thumb to the home button.
The screen flashed white, taking him directly to the original email. From Special Agent Dominic. The attachments laid out all the evidence, the witness statements, crime scene analysis, everything the FBI had on the serial killer Kate had been asked to profile, the Hunter.
Declan found himself tapping on each attachment, skimming over the details of all three victims and the scenes where they’d been left.
Dense trees, thick dried grass, out in the middle of the woods. Off the trail so as not to be found easily. Only the killer knew how many more were out there, waiting to be recovered. No meaningful connection between the victims as far as the FBI had been able to tell. They varied in age, height, weight. Nothing similar but their appearance. Short blond hair, athletic, green eyes. His heart raced, and he swiped through the rest of the attachments to clear his head of the look in their eyes as they stared up into the sky. All three women looked like Kate.
Declan sat in a nearby chair. Anchorage was as diverse a city as it could get. What were the odds the Hunter lured three Caucasian women to their deaths from the same location? Unless—
“You know, a normal person wouldn’t stay up late to review photos of bodies.” Her voice penetrated through the thick haze the puzzle had built.
