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

by Pamela Clare

  Not only that, the fucking press statement was about to blow up his plans for Robitaille’s evening. If she was as much of a perfectionist as he suspected, he’d be waiting half the night for her to finish.

  Luke had spent the past hour researching the San Antonio and Portland players, double checking that he’d accounted for every one of them from the years in question—even the guys that had only been in those cities long enough for a cup of coffee before being traded, promoted or demoted. A guy named Zach Griffin was the one and only possibility, but he’d pitched for the Portland Sea Dogs in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania the night of Krista Shannon’s murder.

  And with such totally different M.O.’s in play, Luke’s doubts that there was a link between all five murders escalated. Still, it was weird. Ballplayers’ wives were hardly abducted and killed on a regular basis.

  A growl from his stomach reminded him that it had been too long since he’d eaten. Luke decided to give Robitaille another hour, and after that, he’d go get dinner himself and try his luck with Detective Intense another night.

  As he glanced up at the institutional clock at the other end of the Floor, Pushy hung up the phone and rose from his desk. After a yawning stretch, the lanky detective donned his jacket and ambled down the aisle that separated his row of cubicles from Robitaille’s. Grateful for any excuse to get out from behind his cramped desk, Luke stood and joined them. If Pushy had news, he might as well hear it firsthand.

  Robitaille didn’t look up but raised her right hand, palm out, as Pushy approached. Judging from her knitted brow, she seemed to be in the midst of an overdue creative burst at the keyboard. As Luke looked down at her jet black hair, a little damp and curling at the temples, the image of a terrier jumped into his mind. One of those little black Scotties, maybe. Cute and tough as all hell, and ready to take on anything, no matter how big.

  Robitaille sighed and stopped typing. “This is total shit,” she grumbled. “I know what I want to say, but every time I try to put it down on paper it sounds like a half-baked lecture. I suck at writing.”

  Luke couldn’t repress a smile. “That’s because you’re a warrior, Robitaille, not a scribe.”

  Pushy grinned. “Well, fucking A on that, man.”

  Robitaille gave a reluctant laugh, a low, pleasing sound that slipped right under Luke’s skin.

  “I have to say you two are pretty good for my ego,” she said. “You got something for me, Poushinsky?”

  “Not much. I talked to the detective who investigated the San Antonio murder. He confirmed that there was no carving. No evidence of any torture, in fact. And the husband didn’t get a photo in the mail. The killer abducted the victim from the parking garage of her apartment, took her to a wooded area south of the city and shot her in the head. They had some suspicions the husband might have contracted the murder, but they couldn’t come close to assembling enough evidence. No murder weapon, no significant trace evidence.”

  Amy nodded. “I’m not surprised. It looks like there’s nothing in common with ours except the baseball wife thing.”

  “And remember, the San Antonio woman was a fair bit older, too. Twenty-eight. She’d married a younger player.”

  “Not much point in pursuing that one any further,” Amy said. “Maybe Ryan will have more luck with Portland.”

  “Hopefully.” Pushy jangled the set of keys in his pocket. “Anyway, I’m done for tonight. Got a date at eight and I can’t be late,” he rhymed.

  Luke stifled a grin. Pushy’s timing was perfect.

  “You are such a studly man, Poushinsky,” Amy snorted. “Just make sure you give a thought to me slaving away back here while you’re slinging back your girlie drinks.”

  “Ouch. Going for the kill shot, huh?” Pushy gave her a grin then turned on his heel and sauntered off.

  Luke arched an eyebrow. “Girlie drinks?”

  She rolled her eyes. “What can I say? The guy’s crazy for daiquiris, Beckett. Daiquiris, hostie. He makes sure to drink beer when he’s around other cops, but he finally confessed to me.”

  “He was probably yanking your chain.” Luke refused to believe any cop would drink daiquiris. At least any male cop.

  “Nope. I was with him when he guzzled down two of those god-awful things they make down at the Royal Palms. He can’t resist a frozen blue daiquiri, and I’m not kidding.” She pointed a threatening finger at him. “But don’t you say a word, Beckett. I told him his secret was safe with me.”

  “I’ll take it to the grave. So, what’s your personal poison, Robitaille?”

  She turned her face toward her monitor and didn’t respond for several seconds. “Jack Daniel’s neat when I’m stressed out. A good Languedoc Cabernet when I’m not.”

  “Good choices,” he said. “After today, I’d say you could use a shot or two of Jack right about now.”

  She glared at him. “Oh, that’s brilliant, Beckett. Didn’t you hear the captain? He wants this statement on his desk before I leave, and I’m still just going around in circles with it.”

  Luke reached a hand down and rested it on her shoulder. “Then take a break. Let’s go grab some Jack and a steak. I’m buying.”

  As she started to shake her head, he dropped into a crouch by her desk so their eyes were level. She met his gaze, but a faint blush glazed her fine cheekbones.

  “Look,” he said, “you need to give that overloaded brain a rest, Robitaille. Have dinner with me, then we’ll come back and I’ll help you nail this thing. I’m not bad with words, believe it or not, and I’ve had to deal with the media most of my life. I know how to feed the vultures.”

  Robitaille looked him over suspiciously, but then pushed her chair back and stood up, forcing him to rise quickly, too. As usual, the ligaments in his left knee gave a little yelp of protest. He’d wrecked the knee in Afghanistan and tore it up again in a spring training game. Surgery had allowed him to play two more years, but he’d have some level of pain for the rest of his life.

  Robitaille touched his arm as he winced. “Are you okay?” Her silver-gray eyes reflected concern.

  “Sure,” Luke said, enjoying the warmth of her small hand. “Old injury. No big deal.”

  She nodded, but he didn’t think she wasn’t buying it.

  “Ninety minutes, starting right now,” she said. “And not a minute more. You buy, and I drive. And when we get back, you take a shot at finishing up this sucker. Deal?”

  Luke had no problem agreeing to those terms. It would get the job done and still give him a chance to be with her without the brutal pressure of their work staring them in the face. “Deal. There’s a decent steak house five minutes from here. Ready to go?”

  Her mouth hinted at a smile. “Give me two minutes.” She reached for her jacket but Luke snatched it away and held it for her. She slipped her arms inside, flipped the back of her hair up and over the collar, and gave him a wry, sweet smile that sliced right through him.

  Damn. Robitaille would surely set him back on his heels if he wasn’t careful.

  “Not many men do that these days,” she said as she turned and headed toward the rest rooms.

  Luke stared at her as she walked away. Cop or not, Amy Robitaille was one hundred percent sexy female. Slim and beautifully toned, she still had generous curves in exactly the right places. He hoped that someday soon he would have the chance to explore those curves in detail.

  But it would all have to be in good time. Robitaille had made it crystal clear she didn’t want him hitting on her. While subtlety with women had never been Luke’s forte—he preferred the direct, no nonsense approach—Amy Robitaille was something special. Smart. Driven. Beautiful, but without pretensions. And he respected her dedication to the job and this case.

  In some ways, she reminded him of Kate. Not physically, of course. Kate had been bigger—a good five inches taller—and her chocolate brown, almond-shaped eyes were completely unlike Robitaille’s. But their personalities matched. Both were brave, dedicated warriors. Ka
te’s battleground had been journalism, the dangerous kind that takes a reporter to every global hot zone to bring home no-holds-barred stories of war, terrorism, natural disaster, and disease. Robitaille battled the dark forces on her home ground with the same kind of grim determination that had led Kate to continue taking the most dangerous assignments, even after she could have ridden a senior editorial desk in Paris.

  Luke muttered a low curse as the familiar rush of anger tinged with despair tightened his chest. Kate was gone forever, and he still missed her like hell. He often wondered if anything could ever fill the void her death had left in his soul.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Friday, July 30

  8:15 p.m.

  Amy gazed across the candlelit table at Don and John’s and wondered again what had possessed her to submit to Beckett’s persuasion. Yes, she’d been tired, and so frustrated with the stupid press statement that for a couple of nanoseconds she’d even regretted that Cramer had named her lead on the case. But neither factor excused this lack of judgment, this uncharacteristic…mental weakness.

  She knew Beckett. At least she knew his kind. Too sexy for their shirts or whatever that old song said. So effortlessly handsome and charming, expecting women to be grateful for even an appraising glance or a wolfish smile. Nouveau riche, toy-loving, perpetual adolescents who made their living entertaining others and thought it was actually important.

  In two words, a Gabe Labrash—the kind of man she vowed to steer clear of forever.

  Then again, Gabe hadn’t interrupted his big career to go halfway around the world to fight for his country, so the parallels only went so far. Even so, she knew damn well that Luke Beckett wanted to do more than buy her a relaxing dinner. And that was before he’d obviously decided not the make any attempt to mask the warmth in his eyes or in his smile.

  She’d also caught him furtively glancing at her breasts, but in her weary, light-headed state it had almost made her laugh. He was, after all, a total guy.

  But why had he decided to hit on her, of all people? Proximity? Opportunity? Had to be. A man like Beckett could get anyone his womanizing heart desired. Why would he want to fool around with a thirty-one year-old cop with a cheap haircut and sleep-deprived eyes? Especially when so far she’d shown absolutely zero romantic interest in him? At least she was pretty sure she’d managed to keep her fascination well below his radar.

  She took another sip of her silky smooth Scotch. Beckett had ordered Jack, but she’d decided on a whim to opt for the best single malt on the liquor list. Not because Beckett was picking up the tab—in fact, she’d insisted she pay for their drinks. It was because she didn’t want to be predictable. Why that mattered, she wasn’t entirely sure.

  Beckett hadn’t mentioned the case yet, and that was more than fine with her. She wanted to de-stress, so the last thing she needed was to grind away over the case.

  “Starting to relax a little?” Beckett asked in that smooth drawl of his.

  Amy tilted her glass, appreciating the amber depths of the scotch. “You’d have to be walking barefoot on broken glass not to relax with this stuff sliding down your throat.”

  He narrowed his eyes, inspecting her. “Good. But your neck and shoulder muscles are still holding the tension. Sitting at the keyboard all that time probably knotted them up.”

  Calice, the next words out of his mouth are going to be an offer to massage those muscles when dinner’s over. And damned if that doesn’t sound pretty appealing.

  “You work at a computer a lot yourself these days, Beckett?” she said quickly. “I thought you’d be spending all your time on the golf course. Isn’t that what rich, retired jocks are supposed to do?”

  He gave an amused snort. “You must be thinking of retired cops.”

  She couldn’t help a chuckle. “True enough, I suppose.” Her father spent at least four afternoons a week hacking his way around his Fort Lauderdale course.

  “I checked out your business card,” he said, smoothly shifting the subject. “It gives your first name as Amélie, with Amy in brackets.”

  He pronounced it almost perfectly. Ah-meh-lee. Pleased, she nodded. “It’s good to see those years spent in Montreal weren’t entirely wasted.”

  He raised his glass in a mock toast. “It’s a beautiful name. I think you should use it more.”

  If only. “I gave up after a couple of years down here. I got tired of hearing ‘Emily’ or ‘Amelia’. Some people really tried to get it right, but it usually came out something like ‘Omly’. So, I decided to anglicize it. Amy’s pretty hard to mispronounce.”

  Beckett shook his head. “Amélie Robitaille has just the right sound. It’s perfect.” He gave her a sly smile. “Would you mind if I sometimes use Amélie?”

  Nice maneuver, Beckett. Still, it felt good to hear somebody other than her parents use her proper name. “Maybe when we’re outside HQ,” she said with a grudging nod. “And it’s not reciprocal. You’re still Beckett, Beckett.”

  He laughed full out, a sound as rich and deep as the glorious Scotch she was sipping. “You are a total hardass, Amélie Robitaille.”

  “Interesting you should say that. Poushinsky made the same comment yesterday. Let’s just say it runs in the family.” She drained her glass and resisted the temptation to call the waiter over for a refill.

  “Your father?”

  “And mother, too. Both former cops. Hell, they make me look like a freaking marshmallow.”

  He gave her a disbelieving chuckle. “No way.”

  “Way,” she said firmly. “Papa ran the homicide unit for the Montreal police for ten years before he retired. Mama was a diver for the Quebec Provincial Police before she took a desk job.”

  “Nice pedigree for a cop. How’d you end up down here, then?”

  She couldn’t help grimacing. “My father and one of his golf buddies hit the Lotto 6/49 jackpot. A big one. They split a nineteen million dollar win, and in Canada lottery winnings are tax-free so he was instantly rich. After that, Papa gave the force two months notice, and as soon as it was up, he yanked my sisters and me out of school and moved our family to Florida. He didn’t even wait until the end of the school year.”

  Beckett looked kind of stunned, which was the usual reaction she got. “That’s a hell of a story. It must have been pretty cool to win all that money.”

  Amy shook her head. No one ever understood. “Beckett, when he won that goddamn lottery it completely screwed my life. It was hard enough on my little sister, but it really hammered my twin and me. Do you have any idea what it’s like for seventeen-year old girls to be uprooted from their friends—from their whole lives—and plunked down in a foreign country where they could barely cope in the language? And where everybody made fun of them? Not cool, Beckett. Not cool at all.”

  He didn’t look the least bit chastised. In fact, he seemed to think she was nuts. And that was the usual reaction she got, too. “I guess.” He signaled the waiter to come over. “I bet the last thing your folks wanted was for you to become a cop.”

  She could tell from the sympathy in his eyes that he understood that part, at least.

  Their waiter efficiently took their orders. Steak medium rare for Beckett. Amy resisted the red meat temptation, opting for the sea bass. Both ordered wine by the glass, a California Pinot Noir for him, a Sancerre for her.

  Her cell phone vibrated as the waiter turned away. “I have to check this,” she said. She always checked the caller ID.

  Her sister. Was M.L. worrying about the murders? Amy hesitated a moment before deciding to let it go to voice mail. She’d call her back soon.

  “Okay, to get back to your question,” she said, “maybe it wasn’t the last thing they wanted—I think they might have put me becoming a stripper a notch lower. Maybe.”

  She’d never forget how her parents had tried every incentive they could conjure up to lure her away from her career obsession, including an offer to pick up the full tab of an undergraduate degree at t
he Sorbonne. She’d spent a month in Paris, supposedly thinking about the prospect of university there, but in fact spending her days sightseeing and her nights partying.

  “My parents wanted me to study in France, and they were royally pissed when I chose a criminology degree at the University of Florida. But I never had any doubt about what I wanted to do. I knew from when I was a little kid that I had to work in front-line law enforcement.”

  “So, we both copied our fathers,” Beckett said. “But it worked out, didn’t it? We’re both lucky to have been able to do something we love and get paid for it, too.”

  Beckett hesitated, then gave her a sheepish grin. “I might as well tell you we have another thing in common. My mother was a cop.”

  “No way,” she said, stunned.

  “Way. So, I can relate a little to what you went through.”

  He’d certainly managed to pique her curiosity. “And your dad was a ballplayer, right?”

  Beckett nodded. “He played in the high-level minors for years, but could never stick for any length of time in the majors. When his knees gave way, his career tanked, so he got a job coaching baseball at my high school in Baton Rouge. That turned out great for me, because Dad was home all the time and was able to help me develop as a player. I never thought of doing anything other than playing baseball. Call me cocky, but it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t make it to the big leagues.”

  He gave her a quirky grin that softened his arrogant statement. “I inherited great baseball genes and I had an incredible coach. I only wish Dad could have lived to see me drafted by the major leagues. In my dreams, Dad was always there beside me at the draft, getting his picture taken with me, full of pride. But he died a month before the big day, and I ended up going by myself.”