Danger and Desire: Ten Full-Length Steamy Romantic Suspense Novels

by Pamela Clare

  “Poushinsky still around?”

  Amy jerked in her seat, startled by Cramer’s deep voice from behind her. He didn’t often come over to the Floor—usually he’d send Lisa to fetch one of the detectives. She swung her chair around to face him.

  “No, sir.”

  His slightly disapproving look didn’t surprise her. Cramer never left before seven. While Amy often worked long past the end of her regular shift without claiming overtime, Poushinsky liked his free time and had no qualms letting the supervisors know that.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s you I wanted, anyway, Robitaille. I contacted the BSU in Quantico after our meeting. Just to give them a heads up. They need us to fill out a VICAP questionnaire before they can get moving on a profile.”

  That was standard procedure. Amy had studied the Behavioral Sciences Unit and their history of profiling after Ariane was murdered. Profiling sometimes proved useful, but it sure as hell wasn’t the magic bullet that TV shows often portrayed.

  “And when I say us, you know who I mean,” he added dryly.

  “I’ll get right on it,” Amy said with satisfaction. Even if she had wanted to have dinner with Beckett, she would have had to bail. The FBI’s questionnaire, with close to two hundred questions, would force her to detail every bit of information they knew about Carrie Noble’s murder, and even get into a fair amount of speculation. The Feds were nothing if not thorough, at least when it came to paperwork.

  “Good. I know you’re quick, but let’s ratchet it up one more notch, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best, Captain.”

  Cramer started to turn away, but uncharacteristically hesitated. “I don’t want to keep you from your work, Robitaille, but I think we should take a couple of minutes in my office.”

  Summoned to the principal’s office again? Twice in one day, a record for her.

  Sighing, Amy picked up her jacket and slipped it on. It might be late in the day, but Cramer still looked starched and pressed, so by God she’d follow suit as best she could.

  “I watched your reactions in the meeting, Amy,” Cramer said as he closed his office door behind her. “Closely.”

  Surprised that he’d called her by her first name, she sank into a chair before he invited her to sit. The commander had never called her Amy before. Was he about to tear a strip off her?

  “Sir?”

  “You have a problem with Luke Beckett.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Amy forced herself not to bristle. “Did Beckett make a complaint, Captain?”

  Cramer snorted, shaking his head. “Hell, no. You don’t know Luke. If he has something to say, I guarantee he’ll say it straight to your face. Anyway, why would you think he complained?”

  “I got the feeling he thinks I have an attitude,” she hedged.

  Cramer barked out a laugh. “Jesus, you do have an attitude. You know it. The whole damn Sheriff’s Office knows it. Luke’ll get used to it, too.”

  “I just want to focus on my job, sir. As a professional.” She sounded chippy, but she didn’t much care.

  Her boss eyed her suspiciously. “Amy, what’s your problem, anyway? You practically turned purple when Beckett walked into the meeting. And after that you barely looked at him. Something’s going on, and I damn well want to know what it is.”

  Gabe Labrash. Justin Wilson. Egomaniacal baseball players who treat their women like throwaway toys.

  But how to explain that to her boss without sounding like a lunatic? “Captain, let’s just say that the women of my family have had some history with baseball players. Bad history. I’d rather leave it at that, if you don’t mind. Respectfully,” she added for good measure.

  Cramer stared at her for a couple of moments, clearly surprised. “Well, I’m not asking you to date him, for Christ’s sake. Get over yourself. This isn’t about you. It’s about putting a serial killer behind bars before he strikes again.”

  A flush of shame and worry crawled up her neck. Great. Now Cramer thinks I’m a self-important asshole. “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you know about Luke Beckett?” he asked, sprawling back into his chair. For a moment, Amy thought he was about to put his feet up.

  “Not very much,” she said, not at all embarrassed by her baseball ignorance. “He played for the Montreal Expos when I was a teenager up there. He was a pretty big deal in those days.”

  Cramer rolled his eyes as if she were a cretin. She smiled apologetically, but her jaw clenched so hard she worried her teeth might crack. What was it with these guys and their hero worship of professional athletes?

  “What he did on the baseball field is legendary, but that’s not important. Not right now. It’s what he did on the battlefield that you should know about.”

  Battlefield? “Sir?”

  “Let’s go back to 2001. Luke was twenty-five years old, give or take a year. He was an All-Star with Montreal, and one of the best hitters in the major leagues. He was making millions playing baseball, and God knows how many more millions from endorsements. Then along came 9/11, and that day changed a lot of people forever, including Luke.”

  Cramer sat up straight and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Suddenly, playing baseball seemed frivolous to him. Luke wanted to fight for his country. So, less than a month later, at the end of that season, he simply quit. Walked away from baseball and enlisted in the Army.”

  Stunned, Amy could only nod weakly.

  “Late the following year, his Ranger battalion was deployed to Afghanistan. He wound up doing two tours over there. Was wounded twice. Spent almost four years in uniform before he left the service. Eventually, he went back to baseball and resumed his career.”

  Cramer’s gaze turned speculative. “Can you even imagine what that cost him, Amy? In monetary terms alone, he gave up more than twenty million dollars in salary and maybe fifty million or more in endorsements. All because he did what he felt was right, fighting to keep his country safe from the terrorists. How many men like that do you know?”

  Now that she’d been forced to think about it, Amy vaguely remembered hearing about a famous ballplayer that had interrupted his career to fight overseas. Or was she thinking about that football player? What was his name? Tillman? That story had ended in tragedy.

  “I don’t know what to say, Captain,” she said, shifting uncomfortably. The man Cramer had just described didn’t fit with her jaundiced view of big-shot athletes.

  “You don’t have to say anything, Detective. Just be a police professional and do your job. Luke Beckett is going to help us catch a multiple murderer. We should be grateful for any help he can give us.” He gave her a brusque nod. “Now, get to work on that questionnaire.”

  “Yes, sir.” Amy hustled out the door, eager to escape. It appeared she had been unfair to Beckett, at least in terms of his work ethic, commitment, and dedication. And, for some reason she didn’t want to think about, that made her more determined than ever to keep him at a distance.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thursday, July 29

  10:35 p.m.

  Ashley Rist wanted to get seriously buzzed tonight, and the team’s favorite bar was a damn good place to do it. But not so wrecked that she couldn’t drive home. Tyler would kill her if she got into a fender-bender with his precious new Mercedes coupe.

  With her husband still up in Viera, she needed company. The news of Carrie Noble’s death had ripped through the small community of player wives, and the rumor mill had been spinning out of control. Ashley didn’t know how much of those rumors to believe, and the cops weren’t saying a lot to the media. But the news had hit her harder than she would have believed. She barely knew Carrie, but it still cut pretty close. Ashley had never known anybody who died at her age, and sure as hell not by murder.

  She was already finishing her second beer and only Jody Garrett had appeared. She’d called close to a dozen of the Hammerhead women to get them to show up at Chester’s bar to raise a glass to Carrie. But, actually, she didn’t w
ant to dwell on the murder. As far as she was concerned, it was better to get out, have a few drinks, maybe even a few laughs, and try not to think about the fact that some son of a bitch had kidnapped and murdered one of their own.

  It looked like she was striking out, since it was already going on eleven and only Jody had joined her. It ticked her off when people said they’d come and then didn’t. She’d talked the hostess into giving her a table for six, but she wouldn’t be able to hog the big table much longer unless more of her friends arrived soon. Ashley glanced again at her watch. It was still early enough.

  The always-noisy bar served as a hangout for both the Hammerheads and the Cardinals, and for their wives and girlfriends, too, of course. Tonight, the place was rocking, full of Cardinals fans celebrating their win over Tampa. Because of the teams’ rivalry, both the players and the wives socialized almost exclusively within their own groups. Ashley had met only met a handful of the Cardinal crew.

  “I’m glad you got me out of the house,” Jody said as Ashley watched another group enter the bar. “I still can’t believe Carrie’s dead. Jesus, after that girl in Lakeland…”

  Ashley shook her head. “Let’s not talk about it, okay? Some of the other girls might want to hash it over, but not me. I came here to try to forget about it for awhile.”

  Her pint-sized blond friend kept twisting her wedding ring, her nerves obviously frayed. Ashley wanted to sympathize, but Jody irritated her more by the minute.

  “I get what you’re saying, Ash,” Jody said. “But doesn’t it scare the crap out of you? They say the killer took her right from her house.”

  Ashley glanced over to the bar. That same guy was looking at her again. He’d been glancing her way off and on for a while, now. “It was probably someone she knew. It usually is,” she said in what she hoped was a reassuring voice.

  Her gaze strayed back to the guy at the bar. Was he thinking of hitting on her? She was pretty certain she’d seen him here before. Tonight, he’d seemed to zero in on her as soon as he walked into the bar. When their eyes finally met, he smiled.

  Decent-looking dude, for sure. And he filled out his tight, blue Cardinals shirt in a way that screamed workout nut. She liked his crooked smile, too.

  Ashley averted her eyes and hoisted her beer to her lips. Another couple of drinks and she might just be in the mood to do something crazy.

  Tyler would kill her if he knew she’d even given a passing thought to hooking up in a bar. She’d been faithful to him—so far—and that was a lot more than she could say for him.

  Jody was so busy twisting that damn ring that she was ignoring her beer. Ashley prayed silently that more people would get there soon to relieve this boring one-on-one with the dullest of her friends.

  “Does Tyler know you’re out tonight?” Jody said.

  “Are you crazy? I get enough grief from him. He’d kick my ass if he knew.”

  “I told Sam I was meeting you for a drink, but I’d be home by eleven or so. To tell you the truth, I was kind of disappointed when he didn’t order me to stay inside the house.” Jody gave a little girl giggle.

  Ashley got even more irritated. “Right. We want them to be protective, don’t we? Just not too protective.”

  Jody’s handbag played a familiar rock tune. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’d better check this. It’s probably Sam, and he goes crazy if I don’t answer.” She plucked the phone out, checked the call display, and nodded. “Be back in a minute.” She slid out of her chair and headed for the door.

  Ashley sighed. Sam Garrett kept Jody on a short leash. Tyler was a little less overbearing, but he could be just as jealous, despite his own extra-curricular activities. Too many of the players seemed to treat their wives and girlfriends more like property than partners. It wasn’t surprising. They’d been pampered and constantly told how special they were since they could pick up a bat or a ball. No wonder they had trouble with wives who didn’t always follow the script.

  As Jody disappeared, Ashley flicked another glance toward the bar and noticed the guy get up. He picked up his beer and elbowed his way through the crowd toward her. She made a point of watching the door, but shot a glance or two his way as he approached.

  He put the beer down on her table and gripped the back of Jody’s chair, leaning into it. She liked his hair—black, short, and a little spiky, with lots of gel. A strong, stubbled jaw. But his eyes seemed murky and far away, looking at her but not really focusing. They weren’t at all striking—more of an indistinct gray, as far as she could tell in the uncertain light of the bar.

  “Did your friend leave you all alone?” Another crooked smile that made her smile, too.

  Lord, he had a body on him. She liked the way the muscles in his forearms stood out as he grasped the chair. “Phone call. She’ll be right back.”

  He nodded. “You’re a Hammerheads’ fan, aren’t you?”

  She wondered about that for a couple of seconds, then realized she must have been wearing a team shirt the last time she saw him. She often wore her teal jersey when she took in a game, and lots of times she’d scoot across to Chester’s to wait for Tyler after it ended. “Till death or divorce, whichever comes first.”

  He laughed. “We talked over at the stadium once. The Hammerheads were taking batting practice.”

  She knew she’d seen him before. “Oh, right.” Now she was able to place him. Though she thought he might have been in uniform, she wasn’t sure. She tried hard to conjure up his image but couldn’t.

  “It’s okay if you don’t remember,” he said, his smile warm. “It was a while ago. I couldn’t help remembering because you’re such a beautiful woman.”

  It had been some time since a man had called her beautiful. Guys had always found her attractive, with her long, copper hair and generous curves, but Tyler didn’t seem to have the word in his vocabulary. Not anymore. She lowered her eyes. “Why, thank you.”

  He started to chuckle. “I also remember because you were ripping into Tyler Rist like a drill sergeant, telling him to ‘move his lazy ass’, as I recall.”

  She liked his easy laugh, and that hint of a southern accent. “Tyler’s my husband. I get to ream him a new one, especially when he deserves it. Wife’s prerogative, right?”

  His eyes narrowed. “He’s not hitting much this season, is he? I guess that must be a little rough. On both of you.”

  Now there’s an understatement. I could write a goddamn book. “Everybody goes through slumps. He’ll get out of it eventually.”

  He glanced back toward the entrance. Ashley followed his eyes. Jody stood just outside the door, still talking on her phone.

  “I know I’m probably out of line here, but could I buy you a drink later? After your friend leaves?”

  Wow. She inhaled a deep breath. He was out of line. But she was in just the mood to be a little out of line herself. The guy was kind of hot, and seemed decent enough.

  “Maybe. But I’m expecting more friends. You might be waiting a long time.”

  He gave her a satisfied smile. “I’m a very patient man.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Friday, July 30

  8:55 a.m.

  Poushinsky had arched an eyebrow when Amy asked him to drive to Bartow. As neurotic as it made her seem, she usually did all the driving because she hated putting her fate in the hands of another driver. Thankfully, Poushinsky didn’t interrogate her about her uncharacteristic behavior, for which Amy was profoundly grateful. Just thinking about the reason, and the fact that it had to do with Beckett, made her cranky as hell.

  Within hours of meeting Alex Poushinsky, she’d concluded that the laid-back detective had a fine brain. Despite his almost sleepwalking demeanor, there was a raw intensity under the surface that he’d let loose only once since they’d been teamed up. But it had been enough to see that he wasn’t the lightweight some of the detectives had initially taken him for.

  But when it came to Luke Beckett, Poushinsky disappeared into some vi
rtual phone booth and came out in full jock mode. And Mr. Baseball lapped it up big time. Except for a quick exchange of greetings, with Beckett giving her a sleepy grin, the conversation had been all baseball from the minute they got in Poushinsky’s Impala at HQ. As soon as they’d picked up their order at Starbucks, Amy plugged in her iPod and told the jocks to let her know when and if they wanted to talk about the case.

  They’d barely exited I-95 for the Turnpike when the voice of the dispatcher boomed out over the soft tones of Sarah McLachlan in her ears. Amy yanked the buds out and listened.

  “Poushinsky, Dispatch,” her partner answered, reaching for the volume control.

  “What’s your twenty?”

  “Turnpike, five miles north of Jupiter, proceeding to Bartow.”

  “Divert immediately to Dickinson State Park, main entrance off Federal Highway. Martin County Sheriff’s Office advises a body was discovered there by a park ranger at approximately oh-seven-hundred. Same apparent M.O. as Okeeheelee yesterday.”

  “Diverting immediately, Dispatch.” Poushinsky signed off.

  Beckett glanced back at her. “Jesus,” he said in a hushed tone.

  “I was thinking calice de tabernacle,” Amy growled. “This is un-fucking-believable. Two in twenty-four hours?”

  Poushinsky gunned the Impala. “The Stuart exit’s just ahead. It’s probably just as fast to get over to Federal Highway and head straight down instead of going back on the Turnpike.”

  “Do it,” Amy said. She took deep breaths to calm her accelerating heartbeat. If it was the same killer, would it be another baseball wife? The thought of seeing the naked body of another young woman tossed onto the ground like litter torqued her stomach into a tight knot.