by JoAnn Ross
"Is that your phone in your pocket," Kate drawled in a damn fine version of Mae West's comment to Cary Grant, as Nick's phone vibrated, "or are you just happy to see me?"
"A little of the first, a whole lot of the second." Her nearness had his gut tangling in a knot of sexual awareness as he pulled his cell phone off his belt.
Her breath was sweet from the sugary beignets she'd eaten. And warm. The thought of those sweet, silky lips on his body, moving down his chest, over his stomach, which was knotting even tighter at the fantasy, then lower still, taking him deep, nearly undid him.
He might be a SEAL. But he was also a man. A flesh-and-blood horny man who couldn't resist plucking at those amazing lips.
"The talent for storytelling is obviously embedded deep in Ms. Ross's bones."
—Romantic Times
Praise for the Novels of New York Times Bestselling Author JoAnn Ross
Impulse
"A well-written, spine-chilling novel, Impulse is a good mix of suspense and romance, and a must read for all lovers of romantic suspense."
—Romance Reviews Today
"A dark character study and a gripping thriller told by a master..,. The shadowy, gritty realism of this story really resonates."
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine
"Effortlessly merges murder and love."
—Romance Junkies
Blaze
"A perfect ten! As hot, compelling, and all-consuming as a five-alarm fire."
—Romance Reviews Today
"Top-notch romantic suspense . . . hot in more ways than one."
—Karen Robards
Out of the Blue
"A white-knuckle read, Out of the Blue is the best kind of romantic suspense: heart-stopping terror and a heart-tugging romance. Don't miss it!"
—Romance Reviews Today
"A story wrought with terror and intrigue, with a love story so emotional it practically stops your heart."
—The Old Book Barn Gazette
Out of the Mist
"The story's robust momentum and lively characters make this a fun, energetic read."
—Publishers Weekly
"Ross weaves the search for the missing family treasure and the growing attraction between two creative spirits with aplomb in this charming romance."
—BookPage
Magnolia Moon
"Perennial favorite JoAnn Ross wraps up the hugely engaging Callahan trilogy in great style. Filled with emotion, passion, and a touch of suspense, this is just plain fun reading."
—Romantic Times
River Road
"Skillful and satisfying. . . . With its emotional depth, Ross's tale will appeal to Nora .Roberts fans."
—Booklist
"The romance . . . crackles, and their verbal sparring keeps the narrative moving along at an energetic clip. Readers ... will be heartily entertained ... delightful."
—Publishers Weekly
Blue Bayou
"Ross is in fine form... plenty of sex and secrets to keep readers captivated."
—Publishers Weekly
Also by JoAnn Ross
Homeplace
Far Harbor
Fair Haven
Legends Lake
Blue Bayou
River Road
Magnolia Moon
Out of the Mist
Out of the Blue
Out of the Storm
Blaze
Impulse
Contents
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
The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased thta book without a cover, you should be aware that It wae reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed." Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this "stripped book."
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by The Ross Family Trust
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0166-4 1SBN-10: 1-4165-0166-5
This Pocket Books paperback edition March 2007
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Cover illustration by Craig White;
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To the people of New Orleans, as well as all the others in Louisiana and along the Gulf Coast who suffered—and are still struggling—from the devastation of Hurricane Katrina.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With heartfelt thanks to Fredericka Meiners, Chris Foutris, Blythe Gifford, Debbie Pfeiffer, Margaret Watson, and Diane Whitton-Brown, for answering questions about Kate's scenes in Chicago.
Also, I could not have completed this book without The Times-Picayune, which won a much-deserved Pulitzer Prize for its spectacular coverage of Hurricane Katrina. The paper's continuing stories about life after the storm proved hugely helpful, as did contributions from New Orleans bloggers, particularly freelance writer Troy Gilbert, who came to my aid when I was searching for marinas, which allowed Nick Broussard to stay on The Hoo-yah.
1
New Orleans
THEY CAME FOR NICK BROUSSARD IN THE DARK, guns drawn, harsh shouts shattering the night.
It was 0430 hours, a time in the morning that the navy referred to as "oh-dark thirty," when all but the most detennined party animals or chronic drunks were asleep—or at least passed out—in bed.
As he'd been. Until they'd stormed onto his ketch, dressed all in black like ninjas, pistols drawn.
"On your knees!" one of them screamed, his voice cracking with the same nervous adrenaline that slammed into Nick's bloodstream like a Stinger missile. "Hands on top of your head."
"Hey, stay cool, cher. I know the drill."
Hadn't he been on the other end of it enough times? Both as a Navy SEAL
and, more recently, before he'd been thrown off the force, an NOPD cop.
Nick's head nearly exploded as he crawled out of bed, laced his fingers together on top of his pounding skull, and refused to flinch when the metal barrel pressed against his temple.
The kid on the other end of the pistol had a shiny, beardless face that made him look as if he hadn't made it out of adolescence.
Had he ever been that freaking young?
Nah. When your father was Antoine Broussard, an angry, brawling man with an explosive, white-hot temper, you grew up real fast.
A storm had boiled in from the Gulf; the torrential rain hammering on the deck of The Hoo-yah created a thick, slanting curtain of white noise that mustVe been why he hadn't heard them coming.
It had to have been the rain. Or all the damn Jack Daniel's he'd drunk last night. Because the only other possibility was that he was losing his edge. Which would suggest he might be getting old.
And wasn't that a fun thought?
Nah. Couldn't be. Six months ago he'd been running black op missions in Afghanistan and Iraq. Sure, he'd been wounded, but a little shrapnel in the thigh and chest couldn't make a guy go downhill that fast.
Could it?
Hell, no. Still, getting older was definitely preferable to an up close and personal meeting with the Grim Reaper. Which could well be in his future if these thugs decided to take a little drive out into the swamp.
There were four of them, and one of him. Which might present a problem for some Delta Force dog-face, but if you were a SEAL, well, hey, that just meant the odds were in your favor.
His problem was, he had to keep his eye on the mission. Which meant if he took the bad guys out, he might fail to infiltrate Leon LeBlanc's organization. Which wasn't an option.
"Y'all cops?" The easy conversational tone wasn't easy given that his mouth was dry as Death Valley and tasted like he'd sucked up every last bit of mud in the Mississippi delta. "Or maybe LeBlanc sent you?"
Getting the attention of the guy who ran the South Louisiana rackets was what had put him in that Algiers bar last night. And that, in turn, was responsible for what he suspected was going to end up being the mother of all hangovers. The trouble with going undercover was that you had to act like the had guys. Who last night had appeared to be trying to drink the state of Louisiana dry.
"Shut the hell up!" A big ugly thug, built like a refrigerator, slammed a steel-toed boot into his back.
A shock of fiery pain tore up Nick's back. Hell, he'd be pissing blood for a week.
If he stayed alive that long.
Nick wasn't afraid of death. Back when he'd been providing rapid response in hot spots all over the world, he'd faced it down more than once. Besides, any guy afraid to die was a guy who was afraid to live. And the one thing Nick had always had in common with his brawling, alcoholic old man was that he believed in living life to the fullest.
"Let's go, Broussard." The refrigerator jerked Nick to his feet.
"Y'all gonna let me get dressed first? Even down here during Mardi Gras, dragging a guy off to jail naked might make some bystander a tad suspicious."
Nick figured he'd be lucky to be going to jail.
Proving that he wasn't exactly dealing with NASA scientists, the men seemed stumped by his request. He watched as they exchanged dumbfounded, what-the-fuck-do-we-do-now looks. Finally, fridge guy lifted his knuckles off the floor long enough to scoop up the underwear lying on top of the discarded pile of clothes Nick couldn't remember stripping out of, and he tossed them at him.
"Thanks."
Nick snagged them out of the air and yanked them on. The gray knit boxer briefs were a long way from a suit of armor, but if a guy had to go into battle, and it looked as if he was going to be doing exactly that, it was a helluva lot more preferable to tuck your balls away beforehand. He'd never gotten why so many of his old SEAL team found going commando a cool thing to do.
The thug yanked his arms behind his back so hard, he was surprised his shoulders didn't pop out of their joints. A pair of handcuffs locked around his wrists, digging tightly into his skin. Nick had always enjoyed that click of metal, which was so much more satisfying than the rasp of plastic the military was using these days. He did not enjoy it now.
Everyone on the boat, including Nick, froze as a siren from a cop car screamed nearby on Lake Marina Avenue. Then faded into the distance.
"Let's go." His captor pushed Nick toward the splintered door that was hanging by its hinges.
"Since you asked so nicely, how can I refuse?"
"You keep mouthin' off, numbnuts, and you gonna be gator bait."
It was not, Nick suspected, an idle threat.
2
Chicago
THE SKY OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT WAS STILL A deep, dark purple as Kate Delaney set her treadmill to a grade more likely found in the Rockies than the flat Midwest, then cranked her iPod up to blast out her eardrums. As Pearl Jam spun the black circle, she began to run, her snazzy new Nike Shox Turbos pounding on the endless rubber track that wasn't nearly as satisfying as running outdoors.
Southern born and bred, Kate hated the cold, but given the choice between the treadmill and having her cheeks chapped red by the icy Chicago wind, she'd choose the wind any day.
"I hope they end up in the lowest hub of hell," she muttered, damning the cretins who'd so screwed up her life. "Forced to spend eternity in polyester white leisure suits, listening to canned disco music 24/7."
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights sparkled over the landscape like jewels spilled from a pirate's chest. The view was one of the reasons she'd rented a loft in a building that was still undergoing renovation. Even with the raise she'd gotten with her last promotion, lake views were beyond a cop's salary. Then one day, while she'd been trying on shoes at Marshall Field's, a fellow shopper had her bag snatched.
Barefoot, Kate had chased him through the store and down State Street. After half a block, she nailed him with a flying leap that knocked the breath out of him and gave her concrete burns on both knees.
After the perp had been hauled away in a black-and-white cruiser, the woman, hugely grateful to have her pricey Prada bag back, gave Kate her card and told her to call if she ever happened to be in the market for a house. Or even, she'd amended, taking in Kate's decidedly midpriced dark suit, an apartment.
Coincidentally, Kate just happened to be.
The real estate agent had not only found Kate this loft, she'd gotten the building's owner to pay the power bills, which made it not cheap, but at least affordable. So long as she was willing to eat Rice Krispies for dinner twice a week.
Her first night in the loft, Kate had watched, enthralled, as the city kept changing before her eyes between dusk and dawn. Her grateful real estate agent had left a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator. It'd been domestic, not imported, but the difference would have been lost on its recipient, anyway, and in between hot, steamy lovemaking sessions with the man who'd taken advantage of her uncharacteristically romantic mood to propose yet again (only to be refused, yet again), Kate had toasted her good fortune, blissfully unaware that her luck—and her life—were both about to take a drastic turn for the worse.
The same windows that offered Kate a bird's-eye view of Chicago also allowed people to look in. Was someone in that building across the street watching her now? Through one of the many telescopes she knew residents had set up in their apartment windows?
Or worse yet, was she being watched through a sniper's scope? Was she, even now, in the crosshairs?
Hating the feeling of being so exposed, Kate cranked up both the volume and the speed and began running faster. Harder.
An hour later, her aggravation somewhat eased by exertion, she showered, blow-dried her unruly curly hair, twisting it into a braid so tight her temples hurt, then dressed in one of the black pantsuits she'd bought when she made detective.
She'd chosen the suits because they were practical and didn't show dirt or bl
ood. Not because they proved an appealing foil for her light auburn hair and ivory complexion. Today she was counting on the unrelieved black to provide her with gravitas and keep attention on her words and not her looks.
Standing at the kitchen counter, looking out over the sweeping spread of city lights, feigning a composure she was a long way from feeling, just in case anyone might be observing her, Kate gulped down her third mug of coffee, then poured one more for the road.
Sufficiently wired with the caffeine that overrode her sleepless night, she strapped on her leather shoulder holster, grabbed her coat from the rack by the door, squared her shoulders, and then, reeling a lot like Russell Crowe's gladiator entering the Colosseum, marched out the door.
The ancient elevator, formerly used for freight, took its time clanking its way up to the top floor. When it finally arrived, she swept a quick look around the interior, then, assured it was empty, stepped inside.
She'd been offered protection. In fact, the federal prosecutor had called again just last night, trying to get her to accept an armed bodyguard. Which was, in Kate's mind, ridiculous. Cops were the ones who protected and served. They didn't need protection. Especially from other cops.
She'd turned the offer down. As she had dozens of times over the past months.
Knowing that the yellow-livered bastards she was testifying against wanted her to believe that every breath might be her last, Kate refused to give in to the dark and creeping reeling of doom as, with an ominous grinding of gears and a jolt that rattled her bones, the elevator began its descent. Their goal was to make her sweat the everyday stuff, to make her live her life on that gut-gnawing, razor-sharp balance between fight and flight.
But the thing was, if she allowed the bad guys to get under her skin, they'd win.
And for them to win, she'd have to lose.
"Which is so not an option," she muttered darkly as the elevator suddenly rattled to a jerky stop on the fifth floor.
