Getting involved shouldn’t be this dangerous...
Cate Sullivan is no damsel in distress. She’s kept herself and her son safe for six long years. Built a good life in Indian Lake. But now that her drug-dealing ex-husband is moving his operation here, that life is about to explode.
Her instincts tell her to trust Detective Trent Davis. That he’s more than just a handsome cop doing his duty. The former Green Beret has even formed a fast bond with her son. But there’s something he’s not telling her. Some darkness that keeps him from giving in to the feelings she knows are growing between them. Cate trusts Trent to keep her safe, but the real question is whether he’ll trust himself with her heart.
“Listen, Trent, I should be honest with you.”
She pierced him with a look so earnest, he held his breath.
“Please.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m...well...a maiden in distress. I can take care of myself. One of the things I’ve realized is that I’m a magnet for guys who...are inappropriate for me.”
“That’s diplomatic.” He frowned.
“I can’t stand losing control. You have to know that, and right now I can’t let you take over my life—”
“I wasn’t trying to do that.”
“Sure you were. Our situation gives you a control over me and Danny that isn’t healthy...in the long run, I mean.”
He let her continue.
“Listen, I think it’s best I take a step back.”
She was right and he hated it.
Dear Reader,
For those of you who have followed the loves and lives of my friends in Indian Lake, you may remember I introduced Cate Sullivan in my first book of the series, Love Shadows. In that book, she was the Realtor who sold Luke Bosworth’s house when he couldn’t pay his deceased wife Jenny’s medical bills.
As I wrote other books, Cate kept niggling at me, but her words were strange. “You don’t know me. Nobody does. I won’t let them. I’m in disguise.” The night I heard that in my head, that did it. I had to delve into Cate and find out who she was.
Then, when I wanted to write a miniseries within the Indian Lake series on the issue of illegal drugs in our modern lives and how all of us feel those wretched effects, Cate’s story slapped me in the face. I really had to pay attention to her, because she wasn’t about to leave me alone.
I have always found silver linings in the worst circumstances. To find the love of one’s life while pitched into the center ring of death and terror not only makes for an edge-of-your-seat story but, to me, proves that love does conquer all. Happily-ever-after is that much sweeter after a high-stakes battle, and Cate and Trent have earned their joy.
Please share your thoughts with me—I’d love to hear from you. Write to me at [email protected] and connect with me on Twitter (@cathlanigan), Facebook, LinkedIn and Wattpad, and at www.catherinelanigan.com and www.heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com.
All my best,
Catherine
Protecting the Single Mom
Catherine Lanigan
Catherine Lanigan knew she was born to storytelling at a very young age when she told stories to her younger brothers and sister to entertain them. After years of encouragement from family and high school teachers, Catherine was shocked and brokenhearted when her freshman college creative-writing professor told her that she had “no writing talent whatsoever” and that she would never earn a dime as a writer. He promised her that he would be her crutches and get her through his demanding class with a B grade so as not to destroy her high grade point average too much, if Catherine would promise never to write again. Catherine assumed he was the voice of authority and gave in to the bargain.
For fourteen years she did not write until she was encouraged by a television journalist to give her dream a shot. She wrote a six-hundred-page historical romantic spy thriller set against World War I. The journalist sent the manuscript to his agent, who then garnered bids from two publishers. That was nearly forty published novels, nonfiction books and anthologies ago.
Books by Catherine Lanigan
Harlequin Heartwarming
Sophie’s Path
Fear of Falling
Katia’s Promise
A Fine Year for Love
Heart’s Desire
Love Shadows
MIRA Books
Dangerous Love
Elusive Love
Harlequin Desire
The Texan
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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This book is dedicated to my son, Ryan Pieszchala, whose sense of honor, responsibility and unconditional love for his family was the inspiration for my hero, Trent Davis.
And to all the men and women in blue who Serve and Protect our lives across rural farmlands and sprawling cities: your sacrifices do not go unnoticed. God bless you all. You are true heroes and heroines.
To my late husband, Jed Nolan, my hero, my best friend. I will love you to the moon and back, throughout all galaxies and all the universes.
Acknowledgments
Passions and causes have rumbled through my life and my writings since I wrote my first poems at the age of ten. I wish I was powerful enough to eradicate heroin from the streets and the playgrounds. I wish I could stop every man from beating his wife and children. I wish I could eradicate harsh and hateful words and actions from all humans.
I can’t.
My blessings are the trust and belief that my editors, Claire Caldwell, Megan Long, Dianne Moggy and Victoria Curran have in my ability to deliver a romance that has wide wings and deep, moral roots. It is your intelligence, commitment and heartfelt compassion for my story and me, that gave me the courage to delve into Cate’s fears about loving and her unrelenting devotion to her son, her friends and her town.
I can’t change the world, but as a writer, I can change a reader’s perspective. Even if one person who is being abused physically, mentally or verbally, reads this story and finds the courage to make changes in her life, then I have succeeded.
Thank you to everyone at Heartwarming for giving me the voice to help others.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EXCERPT FROM LOVE, SPECIAL DELIVERY BY MELINDA CURTIS
CHAPTER ONE
TRENT DAVIS GRIPPED his fully loaded Smith & Wesson M&P 45 semiautomatic pistol an
d motioned to his fellow officers who had approached the abandoned brick building with as much stealth and expertise as his Special Forces team had used in Afghanistan. They plastered their backs against the outside walls. All wore Kevlar vests and navy windbreakers with yellow ILPD patches on the back. Trent tried the rickety door. It was locked. He gave a hand signal that said he would bust it down.
“Police!” Trent bellowed with a voice that used to thunder down rocky mountains and desert terrain, as he kicked the door in.
The heroin dealers were sitting at a table counting money, just as the two undercover officers had planned. Both Sal Paluzzi and Bob Paxton had been Green Beret just as he was. They’d been to Iraq while Trent had been all over the Middle East. The three of them had worked closely on this sting for two months.
Trent knew a lift of an eyebrow, sidelong glance or nod of recognition could blow future efforts if this bust didn’t go well. Trent had worked undercover a few times and never liked it. He didn’t like living amid criminals even for a single day. He wanted them behind bars where they couldn’t sell dope to a kid or pull the trigger on an innocent bystander.
Trent worked best as the leader. The first guy in. The one who might have to take a bullet for his men, but who knew he could take down any obstacles in his path.
Trent was not just good at his work, he was excellent. He knew it. The United States Army had plastered ribbons and stars on his chest because they knew it, and now the Indian Lake Police Force knew it.
He was prepared for anything. Even to die.
Instantly, Trent recognized Sal and Bob slouched in their metal folding chairs watching the gang leader count money. Behind the table was a stack of plastic-wrapped heroin. Five-pound bags, Trent assumed. All of it looking like innocent sugar.
There has to be half a million dollars of dope in that pile.
Sal and Bob shot to their feet, whipping their guns out from under their shirts.
In a nanosecond, the tall, lean Asian dealer whisked his semiautomatic off the table, spun around and away from the table, making himself a tougher target to hit. Immediately he fired, spewing bullets at Sal and Bob.
Trent fired and winged the perp. Right shoulder. It didn’t faze the creep, who kept firing. Trent dropped to the floor, belly down flat, aimed and shot the perp’s gun out of his right hand. Blood sprayed the man’s face. He screamed and hugged his hand to his chest.
Another gang member, as rotund as he was tall, spilled off his chair, hit the floor and rolled, spraying bullets randomly from his black .40-caliber Smith & Wesson. Bullets pierced the tin ceiling, pinged off pipes, but, mercifully, didn’t hit anyone. Trent guessed the guy was a wheelman.
Trent shot the jerk in the foot. He squealed like a pig.
More bullets from the third gang member zinged through the air as he spun the table on its side, sending money fanning in all directions. The guy was quick. He moved like the wind toward a far wall where a window was covered by a sheet. The man was tall, dark haired and stared at Trent with black, cunning, evil eyes.
Eyes Trent had seen once before. Eyes on a terrorist in Afghanistan who’d held Trent dead in his sights. He’d thought he’d been a dead man for sure. But he’d been too fast for the poorly trained al-Qaeda shooter. Trent tried to shake off the memory, but it held him like a prisoner. The flashback of the sound of his gun firing reverberated in his ears. His aim had been deadly. Trent had lived.
The present slammed back at Trent as the sound of his men shouting broke through his PTSD terrors. He looked up to see the gang leader getting away.
“Le Grande,” Trent shouted, and the hair on his neck prickled as he stared down the leader. Trent wanted this one—bad.
Le Grande scrambled toward the far wall and was out the window. He bolted down the alley.
Trent cursed and leaped across the overturned table in pursuit. He swung through the window.
A black SUV started, and Le Grande jumped in the passenger’s seat. It sped down the alley, out on to the street.
Trent shot at the tires and missed. He ran as fast as he could, trying to catch up to the vehicle. As the SUV raced through a red light, dodging one oncoming car and swerving around another, Trent realized that the license plate had been muddied enough he couldn’t get an accurate read.
Out of breath, he stopped in the middle of the empty side street, bent at the waist and placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath. What he wouldn’t give to be nineteen again. At thirty-one, he felt like an old man.
Trent hustled back to the building and heard obscenities fill the air, but the sound of bullets had died. Then he heard the rattle of handcuffs being latched to wrists. Miranda rights were recited. More curses.
But Trent’s hands shook as he finally holstered his gun. He shoved them in his pants pockets and let his eyes scan the melee.
The interior was exactly as his undercover investigation team had described, but that wasn’t what Trent saw. Suddenly, he was inside a bombed-out building in Kandahar where his special ops team had rappelled in to extract an American marine who’d been taken prisoner by al-Qaeda terrorists. He smelled rotted food, urine, sweat and blood. He heard voices hammering curses in Pashto and Dari like rattlesnakes. The images slithered across his memory, reminding him of horrors.
Trent knew one thing—evil was everywhere. Even in Indian Lake.
And right now, Trent’s home was under fire. Drug lords thought they’d found an easy target here. Little kids, ripe for the picking. Citizens so naive and trusting they couldn’t believe that drug lords would set up shop in their town.
Yes, they were at war in Indian Lake—just like he’d been in Afghanistan.
Sal Paluzzi was talking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words.
Instructions.
Sal wanted instructions, and Trent was their leader.
Trent tried to remember. Yes. The chopper. There was always a chopper, and it would be here in seconds. Hoist them out as if they’d never been here.
“...back to the station?” Sal said. “Sir?”
Trent blinked. Only once. He was here. He never stayed back there too long. Couldn’t afford to.
“Copy that. Get these creeps out of here,” Trent ordered, as his eyes scoped the interior. He touched the radio phone Velcroed to his shoulder. “Coming out. Send in Forensics.”
Trent turned and led the way for his men—as was expected of him.
* * *
TRENT POURED COFFEE from the glass pot into a foam cup, sipped the stale, nearly cold brew, then dumped the rest down the drain. He looked around. The break area was vacant. Dead as a tomb. It was nearly midnight. Everyone had gone home. He stared at the stained coffeepot. He guessed the last batch had been made around suppertime—when he’d been bringing in the perps. Booking them. Filling out paperwork. Doing his job.
He shoved the pot onto the warming plate. “Too late for coffee.”
He went to the nearly empty vending machine and bought a pack of jalapeño potato chips. He hated them. But the Doritos were long gone. He knew. He was probably the only guy eating them.
He went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. It was the only thing that the department provided free. That and the coffee.
Trent went to his desk and stared at the computer screen. He’d nearly finished his report. He felt as if he’d written a book.
Trent had been assigned to this sting for three months, but it had been ongoing long before his promotion to detective. The Indian Lake police chief told Trent that the Chicago Police Department had been hunting Le Grande for two years. The man was like a shadow. No one knew his real name, but he was a vicious drug lord, and his gang had tentacles from Houston to Chicago to Detroit. Le Grande’s network went straight through Indian Lake. Thanks to geography and unpatrolled country highways and roads, drugs
moved from Mexico through Texas all the way to Toronto.
In Trent’s background report on Le Grande, he discovered that Le Grande was the name of the gang, though the members called this man Le Grande, too. His largest contingent gang was based in Chicago. His minions sold drugs on the first floor of the John Hancock Building, the Merchandise Mart and even in the lobby of the luxe Drake Hotel. These were scores of a thousand dollars each. Sometimes more.
There was nothing small-time about Le Grande, and whenever the CPD closed down his dealers, they were replaced within hours. Le Grande grew dealers like an amoeba replicated.
But the one thing that Trent knew was that evil could exist only so long. Sooner or later, Le Grande would be apprehended. Trent had hoped to be the man who took him down. But not tonight.
Just as Trent downed a slug of water, a new email popped onto his screen. It was from Richard Schmitz, a lieutenant with the Chicago Bureau of Organized Crime, with whom Trent had been working for months. Richard wanted to nab Le Grande as much as, or more than, Trent did.
Trent respected Richard’s ability to sift clues out of a mass of information, and he always came up with gold. Richard’s analytical skills were the very reason Trent and the Indian Lake PD had been brought into the investigation. Richard and his superiors at CBOC strategized with Trent and Stan Williams, Indian Lake’s chief of police, about the plan for this sting. They’d all been so certain that this time they would lure Le Grande into their trap.
But Trent had bungled it. He felt guilty. And angry with himself. He was better than this. It had been that split second. That tiny falter where his mind had tripped there. To Afghanistan.
The military said he had PTSD. He hadn’t believed them at first. He’d thought it was just an adjustment to civilian life, but it had been over five years now. He’d tried counseling until he felt he was counseling the counselor. He’d meditated. He took medications guaranteed to stop the flashbacks. He’d been to the mountain of Zen and back. Nothing worked.
Finally, he faced the fact that like the memories, the flashbacks would never go away.
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