Heat of the Moment
Page 1
“Didn’t our night together prove anything?”
Obviously Kate wasn’t the only one jolting down memory lane. Liam drew her toward him until his body heat—and mere inches—separated them. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, Just Kate,” he whispered. “But I swear I won’t hurt you.”
She stared into his searing green gaze. “You’re not stalking me?”
“No.” His quietly sad denial recalled his tenderness and understanding when she’d called an abrupt halt to their lovemaking. Kate pressed her pounding temples. Liam didn’t hide his feelings. He laid his cards on the table, as he’d just done.
Battered by conflicted emotions, she glanced at him through her lashes. Self-defense had been her priority for so long, it was her operational default mode. If she let down her guard, admitted he wasn’t the man stalking her, it relieved the threat to her safety.
And tripled the threat to her heart.
Dear Reader,
From the moment Liam O’Rourke and Murphy sauntered into Midnight Hero, I couldn’t wait to tell their story. I was amazed by the change in my easygoing cop! The instant laid-back Liam met Kate, he simmered with intensity. While sensitive to her disability, he encouraged her to spread her wings.
Liam and Murphy also coaxed me from my comfort zone. Like Kate, I was terrified of large dogs. I stuck to my “no dogs” mandate through fifteen years of my daughter’s begging. But researching K-9s, I was deeply affected by their faithful sacrifices. And my daughter was thrilled when we adopted a puppy.
Cyrus makes me laugh. He’s always happy to see me. His intelligence and unconditional love astound me. Like Murphy, he adores takeout. His spirit shines in his lively brown eyes, and his unique personality inspired me…and made Murphy come alive. Peruse pictures on my Web site: www.dianaduncan.com.
Enjoy reading Liam, Murphy and Kate’s adventure!
Diana Duncan
DIANA DUNCAN
HEAT OF THE MOMENT
Books by Diana Duncan
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Bulletproof Bride #1284
*Midnight Hero #1359
*Truth or Consequences #1373
*Heat of the Moment #1434
DIANA DUNCAN
Diana Duncan’s fascination with books started before she could walk, when her librarian grandmother toted her to work. Diana crafted her first tale at age four, a riveting account of Perky the Kitten, printed in orange crayon. The discovery—at age fourteen—of her mom’s Harlequin Romance novels sparked a lifelong affection for plucky heroines and dashing heroes. She loves writing about complex, conflicted men and strong, intelligent women with the courage to dive into the biggest adventure of all—falling in love.
When not writing stories brimming with heart, humor and sizzling passion, Diana spends her time with her husband, two daughters and two cats in their Portland, Oregon, home. Diana loves to hear from her readers. She can be reached via e-mail at writedianaduncan@msn.com or snail mail at P.O. Box 33193, Portland, OR 97292-3193.
Grateful acknowledgment to Officer Matthew Grubb
and K-9 Airus. Thanks, guys, for all the help, advice,
encouragement and inspiration. Stay safe out there!
For Mom…the strongest person I know. You never give
in and never give up. No matter how tough things get,
you always make me laugh. And you whip up a mean
Grasshopper. ;) How can I possibly begin to thank you
for all you’ve done for me? I love you.
For Luis…you adopted our crazy clan without a second
thought. Your thoughtful heart and generous spirit have
gifted us with so much happiness over the years.
I’m proud to call you Dad.
For Boomer, Batesy and Sam, who await us in Heaven.
Our loyal and faithful canine companions…
your people love and miss you.
Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Prologue
Las Vegas, Nevada
August 30, High Noon
Kate Chabeau stared down at the sweaty blond man working feverishly between her thighs and waited to die.
Jack Carson raised his head and attempted what she assumed was a reassuring expression. “I know it’s tough, but don’t squirm.”
She clenched her teeth. “Does it usually take this long?”
“Depends on how she’s wired.”
Slowly, carefully, she eased a strand of long brown hair back from her eyes. “Exactly how good are you?”
“Plenty.” Carson’s voice grew more strained by the moment. “But this is…beyond me.” He eased gingerly from between her legs. “I’m calling in backup.”
“They said you had the best hands in Vegas.” Perspiration trickled down Kate’s spine as he slowly straightened.
“I do.” Leaving her sitting immobile in her black Ford Focus convertible, he jogged toward the other members of the bomb disposal squad, convened a safe distance away.
If the best hands in Vegas couldn’t disarm the explosive under her seat, then who would save her?
Wait! She bit back the silent scream echoing inside her head. Come back! Don’t leave me to die alone!
The sun beat down on her exposed head and soaked into her sleeveless black dress, stinging the tender skin beneath. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, a wavery curtain isolating her from the heavily armored police officers surrounding the perimeter. They’d evacuated the parking lot and adjoining buildings, and other than what seemed like hundreds of police vehicles in the distance, hers was the only car in sight. If you didn’t include five vans swarming with media personnel.
She scowled. If the vultures got lucky, she might die in time to boost the ratings on the six o’clock news.
How many minutes did she have left? She fought the riptide of fear and glanced at the wilted calla lily on the gray leather upholstery beside her. Its once stark white petals were brown and curling in the heat. Another “gift” from her stalker. The head case had left her lilies and creepy notes, but this was the first bomb.
Her nightmare might finally end here, with her body violently ripped to pieces.
The engine idled a little faster, and her pulse sped into matching BPMs. Could the change in engine tempo trigger the bomb? The young bomb tech had told her she was fortunate her cell call to 9-1-1 hadn’t made it explode. She’d been fussing with a melting mocha frappuccino and started the car before she’d spotted the note tucked into the console. The radio station, tuned to “all eighties, all the time,” segued into Phil Collin’s “In the Air Tonight.”
She closed her eyes. How ironic.
Two years ago, the same song had been playing the first time she’d died.
Chapter 1
Two Years Earlier
Riverside, Oregon
March 17, 7:00 p.m.
Breathless and shivering beneath the cold lash of rain, Katherine Chabeau hovered outside the entrance to Delany’s Pub.
She’d left her coat behind when she’d fled the hospital, never imagining her car would wheeze to death and leave her stranded. The auto club wouldn’t be available for over an hour. And Lord knew, nobody in her family would come to her rescue.
An Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day.
What could be warmer? Safer? More abominably cheerful? Kate shuddered. She wasn’t a party girl under the best circumstances, and today had taken the prize as the worst day ever. However, she couldn’t sit in her dark car in the storm and wait to turn into a human Popsicle.
Over the past year, she’d turned pro at lowering her expectations. She only wanted a steaming cup of cocoa with whipped cream. It was a start.
She attempted to tug open the heavy door before she remembered and switched hands. How long before that became automatic? Heated air, chatter and lively music cannoned into her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Suddenly reluctant, she hesitated. Time ground to a halt for a weird, intense moment…as if Fate were holding her breath.
Kate squared her shoulders. Get a grip. She was simply walking into a pub. So why did her stomach roll as if she were making a life-or-death decision as she stepped inside?
Jostled by the roiling sea of green-clad revelers, she finally spotted a hallway leading to the restrooms. She pushed inside the door marked Lassies, and then glanced in the mirror. Blech. She looked as hideous as she felt.
A random act of violence had stolen her career, incinerated her dreams. Then her fiancé had betrayed her. After the first hit six months ago, she had anticipated tonight’s blow. Braced herself to take it on the chin and keep on keeping on. She’d been prepared to kiss her past goodbye.
But not her future.
No matter how badly her throat ached to release the grinding pressure, she would not cry. Kate raised her chin. When the tough got sucker punched, they climbed right back into the ring. She grimaced. She looked like she’d gone nine rounds with Rocky. Her specter-pale face was devoid of makeup except for streaky mascara rimming her brown eyes, dark and flat with shock. Her shoulder-length brown hair hung in ropy hanks, and rain splotched her white silk blouse and black wool skirt. Her stockings were soaked, her black Kate Spade pumps—her reward to herself after a grueling stretch of physical therapy—beyond salvation. She shivered, and goose bumps pimpled her damp skin.
After liberal use of paper towels and the hand dryer, she dared another mirror check. Still more Halloween than St. Patrick’s Day. And she was shaking, cold to the bone. Kate rubbed her hands over her arms. She might never be warm again.
Inside the pub, she found an empty bar stool in the corner. When she asked for hot chocolate, the bartender offered an Irish chocolate, with a wee dash of whiskey to warm her insides.
Exactly what the doctor ordered. And a heck of a lot better than hemlock. The promise of whipped cream on top sealed the deal. She ordered two. After all, she wouldn’t be driving.
She turned her back on the din and huddled over her drinks. The chocolate was excellent, but it didn’t alleviate the cold, or fill the emptiness. Why did being in a crowd always make her feel so much lonelier?
“It should be a felony for such a beautiful lady to look so sad.” The husky male baritone speaking behind her was richer and more intoxicating than the whiskey-laced chocolate.
Kate glowered into her mug. She wouldn’t fall for that load of gilded blarney on her best day, but especially not when she looked like roadkill. She swiveled. “I’ll bet you reel them in by the bucketful with—” She strangled on her retort as she got a glimpse of the speaker.
Gorgeous Hunk Alert. Capital G, capital H.
Charcoal dress slacks and a pearl-gray shirt hugged the guy’s big body like they’d been tailor-made to showcase hard, sinewy muscles. Wavy black hair framed his sculpted features. Defined cheekbones complemented a well-shaped masculine nose and strong chin. And, oh, his mouth! Full lips so sexy and kissable, she couldn’t help licking her own in response.
He wasn’t wearing green. He didn’t need to. Eyes as clear and brilliant as emeralds—warm, intelligent eyes fringed by smoky black lashes—sparkled down at her.
She had stared in awe at faces like his gracing marble statues in the vast, echoing galleries of the Louvre.
Over six feet of perfect male magnificence.
Her muse hummed with pleasure, and her fingers clenched with the urge to snatch up a paintbrush. Pain shot up her arm, and loss swamped her. She swallowed a bitter surge of grief. She could never paint again. “G-go away. I’m not after a pickup.”
His eyes darkened with concern. “Neither am I. You looked like you could use a friend.”
No, he probably thought she looked desperate enough to fall into his brawny arms. “I have enough friends.” Mr. Magnificent didn’t need to know she’d stopped answering the phone and socializing over the past year. Like she needed more pitying gazes and awkward platitudes. She’d rather drive a clown car for the circus.
He nodded. “Can I call one of them for you?”
Was he for real? “No, thanks.”
“Liam O’Rourke.” He held out a long-fingered hand. “I’m at loose ends, myself. My partner, Murphy, is in the hospital.”
She should’ve known. Gorgeous. Gallant. Gracious. Gay. Her shields lowered. She kept her right hand loosely curled around her mug and nodded hello. Nothing personal. She couldn’t shake hands with anyone these days. “I didn’t realize you were…sorry I was snippy. I’m having kind of a bad—” Decade. “Night.”
“No problem. I like a woman with spark.” A smile slid across his beautiful mouth, and the room tipped on its axis.
Hello! What was that? Even if he wasn’t gay, she did not need more anguish. “I thought you were feeding me a line.”
His smile widened into a playful grin. “Nah. Or I’d have said, ‘Help me find my lost kitten. It wandered into the cheap motel across the street.’”
Laughter bubbled out, surprising her. She’d thought her laughter long dead. “I’m Kate.”
He cocked his head. “Kate…?”
The impulse to ditch Katherine Chabeau’s predicament struck her. She’d borrow a strategy from a favorite book and think about it tomorrow. Grab the chance to be fun and flirty Scarlett instead of dependable-as-dishwater Melanie. “Just Kate.”
“Just Kate.” He savored her name on his tongue like melted chocolate, and warmth prickled over her skin. “You don’t need rescuing, then. Damn, and I wanted my damsel in distress medal.”
She’d stopped shaking the moment she’d seen him. Mr. Magnificent was a major distraction. “Sorry, I know the upkeep on white chargers is a killer.”
“Worse, the claymore is hell on tailored suits.” The couple beside her moved to the dance floor, leaving empty seats. Rather than assuming he was welcome, Liam looked at her, his twinkling gaze silently asking permission.
She inclined her head. “Rack your broadsword and sit down.”
“You know your armory, Just Kate.” Chuckling, he slid onto the stool, a fluid portrait of strength and agility. Yowza.
“I minored in medieval history at Western.”
He arched a wicked, glossy brow. “Me too, at U of O.”
The bartender greeted Liam warmly and remarked with concern on his and Murphy’s brush with the Grim Reaper. Liam exchanged pleasantries with him and ordered an Irish coffee.
Reassured that the bartender obviously knew Liam well, she sipped her chocolate. “A close encounter with the Grim Reaper sounds serious. I hope your partner will be all right.”
“The prognosis is good.” His Adam’s apple jerked, the only indication of the distress beneath his even tone. “He’s under sedation. The doc wouldn’t let me stay in his room, so my family dragged me here.” He pointed out his vivacious, redheaded mother and three tall, dark and buff brothers, who smiled and waved in response. Holy crow. Women probably lined up for blocks to paddle in that gene pool. “They said the diversion would help.”
“They’re right.” She’d spent far too much time in hospitals lately, and had firsthand experience with the strain.
His full lips quirked. “Not until five minutes ago.”
He was being polite. Casual conversation with a drowned rat wasn’t that appealing. “Have you and Murphy been together long?”
/> “Almost three years.” He took a swig of his Irish coffee.
She hesitated, not wanting to offend. “Did the hospital bar you because of his condition, or are they stuck on legalities?” His brows lowered, and she rushed in. “If he’s at Mercy, I know a lot of the staff, and I could pull some strings—”
He choked on his coffee. “Hellfire!” Resonant laughter rumbled out. “If my brothers get wind of this, I will never live it down.”
“I don’t understand. I thought your family was supportive.”
His exquisite mouth tilted in a grin. “You’ve obviously never been here before, Just Kate. This is a cop bar. Murphy and I are police officers. All the O’Rourke boys are SWAT cops.”
Partners, not partners. “Oh! Yikes!” She shifted, not nearly as comfortable. At least he was amused. A less secure guy would be furious over her assumption. “What…ah…what happened to him?”
His grin faded. “He took a bullet for me today.”
“How awful! That has to be hard to deal with.”
He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I’m not sure I can work without him. It’s like losing my right arm.”
Kate bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood, but the retort escaped anyway. “I know all about that.”
Liam frowned. “You’ve lost someone close?”
“In a way.” Darn it, why was this so awkward? She should be used to it. After today, she’d have to get used to it. She shoved down anguish and waved her maimed right arm in feigned nonchalance. Red jagged scars and twisted, useless muscles were partially disguised by bangle bracelets. “Old football injury.”