by Diana Duncan
Torment burned like a blue flame in her eyes. “I’m so confused. I don’t even know which way is up anymore.”
He wanted to ease her pain, and couldn’t. Hated feeling helpless, hated the uncertainty that was tearing her apart. Tearing them apart. For the first time in his life, he faced an enemy he couldn’t bring down with force. He could not conquer her fear with fists or weapons.
So Con charged into combat with the only ammo he had. Faith. Integrity. Trust. He placed her palm over his heart and covered her hand with his. “I swear on my life, nothing you do will ever make me walk. Nothing will ever make me stop loving you. I’ve made my choice. I’m off the streets, off SWAT.”
She jerked. “Con, no!”
“Think it over and make a logic-based decision. If you still want to end it, I’ll accept that.” Though losing her would rip out his heart. “But I won’t let you push me away because of fear.” He brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “Look past the scars, see what the woman inside you really wants.”
He cupped her head and kissed her soft mouth. Her rosy fragrance surrounded him, filled him. An exhilarating, too-brief taste. He stepped back and thrust his hands in his jacket pockets before he was tempted to do more. He’d just committed to riding a desk for the next twenty-five years. He shuddered. His fingers brushed velvet and he closed his fist over the ring box, holding it tight. When push came to shove, she mattered most. With her by his side, he’d be content painting houses.
“Now you have a choice to make.” He turned and strode out of the store.
Stunned, Bailey stared at the empty doorway. Of all the reactions she’d envisioned, Con giving up active duty wasn’t even on the list. No way would she let him do it. He’d never be happy strangled in a suit and tie. Wielding a pen against reams of papers instead of wielding weapons against bad guys. Mediating political squabbles instead of protecting innocents. And the worst slap in the face, approving ops—sending other men into harm’s way—without taking part.
She reached down and plucked the team leader application from the garbage. As she straightened the sheets crumpled by Con’s lean, capable hands, she read: Qualities demonstrated in the field by Officer C. O’Rourke. Above average intelligence. Can assess a situation, review possible alternatives and come to a sound decision, all while under tremendous stress. Maintains emotional control, whether in traumatic situations or with suspects who may have perpetrated heinous acts upon hostages. Well-disciplined team member who looks out for other members. Quickly and flexibly adapts when the unexpected event occurs that throws the plan into disarray. Suppression of fear—cool head and high function under fire. Highly motivated and patient. Does not rush into incidents without thinking.
She knew Con’s depth, intelligence and dedication. The report confirmed everything he’d stressed about preparation. A SWAT officer’s job was much more than bashing in doors and eating bullets.
The words commendation for bravery jumped out at her. With growing dread, she read on. Last night, Con had apparently spotted and neutralized a series of deadly traps hidden in the path of his brother Liam and Liam’s K-9 partner, Murphy. He’d saved two lives. At considerable risk to himself. He would always be a dragon slayer.
Just like her father.
Sick inside, she stumbled to the counter to get her purse and tucked the folded papers away. She’d make sure he got the application back before he missed the deadline.
Bailey stared at the register, trying to sort her thoughts. Deadline. She had to count the money and deliver it to the bank. She glanced into the murky, deserted mall, and her stomach sank. She might already be too late. Getting fired for negligence would make this horrible day intolerable.
The key opened the register and she separated bills into neat piles. Con had told her to think through the problem logically, without emotion. She tried to push emotion aside. There was no doubt in her mind Con loved her, and she loved him. Logically, how strong was love? Stronger than duty? Stronger than sorrow? Stronger than fear?
Not in her experience.
If love were strong enough to overcome all those things, the divorce rate wouldn’t be so high. And the divorce rate for cops was astronomical. Thank goodness the news broadcast this morning had jolted her to her senses in time.
She unzipped the bag and stuffed the bills and deposit slip inside. Logically, if someone listed her suitability to be a SWAT wife, she’d fail miserably. Unlike Con, she wasn’t cut out for the job. She’d suspected that when he’d taken her to the department’s Halloween party.
The officers’ wives hadn’t noticed her floundering out of her depth. They’d welcomed her, appearing no different from other engaging, friendly women she’d known. Until the call-out came. The women of Alpha Squad had kissed their men—maybe for the last time—without tears. Had sent them off to war with smiles on their faces and no traces of fear in their eyes. Instead of rushing home and worrying…waiting in dread…those women had stayed at the party and managed to have a good time.
She didn’t have the strength or courage. So what if she spoke Latin, French, Spanish and Italian and could recite both positive and negative effects of theobromine? Romance languages and the chemical breakdown of chocolate were of no use to Con.
Bailey sighed in longing. Con wanted her, she wanted him. Giving in to her need would be easy. They’d be happy for a while. She scooped the change from the tray into the bag with the bills, then stared at the money. But at what cost? Logically, as time passed, they would pick and tear each other apart until one of them couldn’t take it. The price was just too high.
The unvarnished truth—Con possessed a poet’s heart and a warrior’s spirit. Logically, in the final battle, the poet didn’t stand a chance. The warrior would choose duty over love. Sacrifice his personal feelings for the greater good. He would leave her. Either by desertion or death.
Just like her father.
She zipped the canvas bag closed. Finished. Shoulders slumped in defeat, she stepped into the gloomy, eerily silent mall. River View Mall had been remodeled last year. Rather than a long, corridor-type layout, it spiraled three stories upward, with intricate columns of escalators at its center. During the holiday season, a towering Christmas tree stood on one side of the escalators, reaching almost to the third floor.
A glass-walled sky bridge connected to the food court on the third floor offered panoramic city views. Beautiful fountains, imaginative sculptures and eclectic art drew browsers as well as shoppers. At the moment, some stores were dimly lit by emergency lights, some cloaked in shadow. Christmas displays that had looked cheerful an hour ago now seemed spooky. She shivered. She preferred the mall warmly lit and bustling with interesting people to this eerie emptiness. The cold, deserted space echoed the barren desolation inside her.
As she trudged past Beautiful Brides next door, she looked away from the wedding gown displayed in the window. Every cell of her being recognized Con as her mate, yearned to be with him.
Why did it have to be so complicated? So impossible. So cruel.
Would she ever remember him without the pain, the longing? She touched the hummingbird charm nestled at her throat. She didn’t think so. More scars for her to bear. He was stronger, more resilient. He was hurt now, but in time, he’d be okay. He was better off without her. She had to believe that.
She cut kitty-corner across the mall’s imitation marble floor. Why couldn’t she be the woman he needed? The woman he deserved? Why had she been given the desire, but not the courage? She didn’t want to give him up.
She jerked to a halt in front of Santa’s workshop. Everything in her roiled in hot rebellion at surrendering. She clenched her jaw. She descended from hardy, dauntless pioneer stock. Her past might have left scars, but she wasn’t a coward. If there was any way for her to overcome her fears and not let Con down, she’d grab it in a heartbeat.
Bailey stared morosely at Candy Cane Lane. During the past month, excited kidlets had traipsed past reindeer and elves to
sit on Santa’s lap and request their hearts’ desire. But Santa was gone, and Bailey’s childish faith had burned to cinders.
She turned her back on the sight. The wishing-well fountain loomed in front of her. Visitors had thrown coins into the pool, each representing a wish, a dream. Hope for a miracle. The money glittered in the fountain’s soft, rose-colored lights.
Con’s smooth, deep voice floated through her memory. Believe in the realm of mysteries. Believe in us.
She hadn’t believed in miracles for a very long time. Maybe that was the problem. It was the Christmas season. A time of miracles. On impulse, she unzipped the canvas cash bag and fished through the coins inside until she found three pennies. One with Con’s birth year, one with hers, and a new, shiny copper with the current year. She’d repay them from her purse.
She turned away from the fountain and gripped the coins. “I want to be with Con, forever.” She tossed the penny with his birth year over her shoulder. The coin plopped into the water.
“I need courage to be the woman he needs.” She threw the second penny, with her birth year, and waited for the plop.
“I’ll do anything. Pay any price.” Holding her breath, she tossed the third coin. The splash sent hope streaming through her.
Silly, ridiculous and nothing more than superstition. She was the first to admit it. But stating her determination to try had given her resolve. Like a timid wren pushed out of the nest expecting to fall, but discovering she could fly instead, sorrow’s unrelenting weight soared from her shoulders.
She zipped the bag and her footsteps were light as she approached the bank. She’d find an answer. Counseling. Assertiveness classes. A police family support group.
She paused outside the wide glass doorway and clutched the bag to her chest. Why not believe in the realm of mysteries? Con did. And she believed in him. It was about time she took control of her life. Went after what she wanted with everything she had.
She couldn’t see anyone inside the bank, but amber lights illuminated the lobby and the doors were open. Relief streamed through her. Mike Hayes, the manager, often stayed late. He was probably at his desk, or in the vault. Surely, he’d accept her deposit. Especially since this was an emergency situation.
She started to take a step forward, opened her mouth to call out, then hesitated. The hair rose on the back of her neck and prickles crawled up her spine. The sense of menace she’d felt earlier, when she’d taken the spider outside slithered over her. Something was wrong.
She rose on tiptoe and peered inside. The teller cages were deserted. As were the desks. She glanced farther down the lobby, and horror punched into her chest. Nan and Letty cowered on the beige carpet, along with Mike Hayes. A stocky man dressed all in black, wearing a black hood, stood with his back to Bailey, pointing a gun at her friends. A big, deadly looking machine gun.
As if sensing her presence, the man started to turn. Bailey’s heart slammed into her ribs. She froze. Ice-cold terror pumped through her veins and a scream swelled in her throat.
Chapter 4
2:00 p.m.
An iron hand clamped over Bailey’s mouth. Aborting her scream before it was born. Cutting off her air. A thickly muscled male arm snaked around her waist and brutally yanked her to the floor.
Pinned facedown in the dark, crushed between the cold floor and a hard male body, panic ripped through her. Primitive, animal instinct for survival drove her to struggle, futile against her assailant’s strength. She bit into the smothering fingers. The attacker grunted, but his ruthless hand clamped like a vise. Desperate, she clawed at the air. His forearms tightened, shackling her arms to her sides. She bucked, but he was too heavy to dislodge. Caught helplessly in his grip, she fought for freedom, her murdered scream ricocheting through her brain.
A low growl rumbled in her ear. “It’s Con. Stop fighting.”
Relief deflated her like an empty balloon and she went limp.
“Nod if you recognize me, sweetheart.” His voice was a near soundless whisper. If she hadn’t freaked out, she would have immediately known his unique, masculine scent mingled with cinnamon. She nodded and his grip loosened a fraction. “Keep quiet, and do exactly what I tell you. If you understand, nod again.” She managed another nod and his hand released her mouth.
Trembling, paralyzed by shock, she gasped in shallow gulps.
Con tugged her to a sitting position, crouched under the solid half wall under the bank’s windows. “We need to move fast and quiet. Can you run?”
Her muscles were as weak and useless as cooked noodles. Even shaking her head no was an effort.
He caught her face between his hands. They were warm, solid and steady. “I know you’re scared. But you’ve got to focus.”
She couldn’t seem to suck in any air. Her vision fogged around the edges. A vast, echoing pit opened beneath her.
“Look at me.” Con’s tender gaze held hers, kept her from falling into the abyss. His hands clasped her shoulders and he shook her. “Bailey, breathe.”
With extreme effort, she forced her lungs to inhale.
“Hold it to a four-count. Let it out slowly, to a six-count.”
He made her repeat the soothing pattern until her vision cleared and the numbness receded from her trembling limbs. She turned and flung her arms around his neck, clinging to his sure strength. “Con! I thought you’d left.”
“Everything will be okay.” His confidence seeped through her terror, slowing her trembling. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
As appealing as escape was, she couldn’t leave her friends at the mercy of a gun-toting criminal. “What about Nan, Letty and Mike?”
“We’re their only hope. If we’re neutralized, the hostages are screwed.”
She couldn’t think straight. “What are we going to do?”
“We have to reach the main doors. Syrone will let us out, and we can call for backup.”
Backup sounded like a fine idea. Lots and lots of cops. The more cops, the better. “O-okay.”
“Can you run now that you’ve got some oxygen in you?” At her nod, he flashed a reassuring smile. “That’s my girl. First, we’re going to crawl along this wall. Without a sound.” He eased his head up for a peek into the bank, and then jerked back down. “Go!”
What seemed like forever in reality probably took minutes. Crawling with Con’s staunch presence behind her, she arrived at the corner of the building and stopped. A huge space in front of the back doors loomed ahead. An empty void affording no shelter to the hunted. They had to cross yards of exposed fake marble to reach the main doors. To Syrone and safety.
Con’s hands settled on her shoulder. “When I give you the green light, I want you to run across,” he murmured. “Stay low. Then hit the floor by the front corner of the shoe store.”
Her nerves jittered. Surely he wasn’t sending her into the open alone. After all, he had the training, the experience. The gun. “Where will you be?”
“Right behind you.” He bobbed up and took another fast peek inside the bank. “Go!”
Exposed, vulnerable and expecting to feel a bullet slam between her shoulder blades any second, she ran. For the first time since the lights failed, she was grateful. Semi-darkness hindered predators and helped prey. She’d once picked up a fallen baby sparrow whose frantic pulse had raced in her cupped hands. Empathy for the tiny bird’s terror thundered through her veins as she huddled in front of the shoe store.
She turned, glancing in trepidation at the bank windows behind Con. Dreading to see the dark silhouette of a man with a machine gun who would snuff out his precious life in a hail of bullets and blood.
Con prowled across the void, his body low, his fluid stride as graceful as a tiger’s. He wasn’t even breathing hard when he reached her side. “All right?” She nodded, and he smoothed back her hair. “We’re gonna be fine. I promise.”
“You can’t promise. You have no control over this situation.”
“The hell I don’t. Those
slimeballs just hit the wrong bank. Their last bank.”
“I only saw one slimeball.”
“I saw three, and my guess is there are least three more. I’m betting the power failure isn’t due to the weather. For a job this size, you need a full crew.”
She gulped. Six—or more—against two. The odds against them had tripled. “How come you’re not scared?”
His teeth gleamed in a dangerous smile. “I know what I’m capable of. This little adversity is a chance to learn and grow. Find out what you’re capable of.”
At the moment, not wetting her pants was a major accomplishment. In spite of her abhorrence to violence, admiration washed over her. Instead of wigging out, he saw facing his greatest fears as challenges. Growth opportunities, for Pete’s sake. “You are some piece of work, Conall Patrick O’Rourke.”
His lightning grin flashed for the second time. “Am I in trouble again?”
God, she loved him. Every gorgeous, mischievous, courageous molecule. “Con, if we get out of here—”
“Not if. When.”
She wasn’t so sure. Wouldn’t that be one of fate’s nasty ironies? To die just when she’d decided to really live? “If we get out of here, I’m going to try—”
“Shh.” His hand again covered her mouth as the sinister silhouette she’d dreaded appeared in the bank’s windows. “Freeze.”
No problem. Her blood froze in her veins, her heart stopped.
Another silhouette joined the first, and she held her breath. Though she couldn’t see their faces, like all hunted things, she felt their probing gazes piercing their hiding place.
The silhouettes shrank, disappeared. Con’s hand slid from her mouth, and she sucked in a quivering breath. “Did they see us?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
He grinned again. “Because there aren’t any bullets screaming past our heads.”
