by Diana Duncan
“How did it lead you into photography?”
She fastened the flap. “I’d told you that before my hand was damaged, I took seascape photos. I did them in black-and-white so I could reference realistic details as I painted, but use my own unique color palate. Art school profs loved my photo captures of light and shadow, and they raved over my compositions. After I came to grips with the fact that I’d never paint again, I pondered your words ... and it seemed like a natural transition.”
His intent gaze lingered on her face. “But it came hard.”
Like ripping out my soul. She looked away from him, out the window. “Changing camera settings with my left hand isn’t too difficult. Manipulating the focus is a bit trickier, but manageable. Normally, I use a tripod to support the camera’s weight and keep it steady, which leaves my damaged hand out of the—pardon the pun—picture.”
“Nice evade, but no escape. I was talking about emotionally.”
She grimaced. Deep down, she’d known he wouldn’t let her skate past it. “I got through it. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Sure you did. You could’ve given up, gone into a totally different field. But you gutted it out. You should be proud of yourself.”
She walked to the opposite wall for Grandma Elise’s painting, then extracted a second satchel from under the bed. “Told you before, I’m not a quitter.”
His penetrating focus stayed locked on her. “Have you tried to paint with your left hand?”
“Yes.” Under his close perusal, warmth shimmered over her skin. “But I couldn’t illustrate any details, only abstract strokes. And I couldn’t feel anything, emotionally. Couldn’t capture any emotion on the canvas.” She shrugged. “I can’t relate to abstracts.”
He gestured at the painting she was easing into the satchel. “Your grandmother’s painting is an abstract. What do you feel when you see it?”
“Inspired. Uplifted. Happy. But that’s not the same.” She paused, glanced down at bright, bold splashes of scarlet, orange, and gold interwoven with delicate fronds of shaded greens, and accented by the perfect touch of a few feathered violet strokes. As different from her stark black-and-whites as the Caribbean from Antarctica.
“I’m connected to this painting. From my dad, I know how Grandma struggled. How no recognition—and no financial reward—didn’t stop her from finding joy in her art. Her abstract isn’t simply random brushstrokes. I see her optimism, her steadfast hopes and bright dreams, like butterflies dancing among jungle flowers.”
“So you have internal vision, but can’t transfer it to a visual medium?”
“Right.”
“Kate.” His smooth voice went low, and he caressed her cheek. The zing glittered down her spine, clear to her toes. “Stifling your emotions is not only causing you headaches, it’s smothering your creativity.”
Astonished, she stared at him.
No. She would not open Pandora’s box and expose her personal demons to the man who spun her feelings into wild loop-de-loops. “I’m perfectly happy as a photographer.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She stalked to the closet, yanked out a wheeled carry-on. “Are you going to stand there and drive me bonkers with amateur analysis, Dr. Phil, or do you plan to help?”
“I’m trying to help. You won’t let me.”
So done with this conversation. And she needed a break from his overwhelming presence. “If I’m going to a safe house, I don’t want to leave dirty dishes sitting in the dishwasher. Could you throw in a detergent pod ... they’re under the sink ... and start it up, please? Run the tap to prime the hot water first. Otherwise, the dishes don’t get completely clean.”
“Sure. But I’d rather stay and pack your lingerie.”
Relieved to be on firmer ground, she chuckled. “What would your mother say if she found out you were a pervert?”
“Irish mothers see all, hear all, know all. Their kids can’t get away with a bloody thing.” Laughing, he left.
She kept her bureau as ruthlessly organized as her life. In less than three minutes, she rolled her suitcase into the hallway. She tucked her art satchels under her arm, pulled her phone from her purse and again dialed Paris.
Liam met her in the living room. “Water comes on, but it’s all cold.”
“Weird. I’ve never had problems with the water heater before.”
“Where is it?”
“Inside the closet in the hallway, by the front door.”
He walked to the closet, opened the door. Murphy padded out of the kitchen and peered over Liam’s shoulder as he squatted to examine the fittings. “It has juice.”
Finally, the call to Annette connected. A nasal recording announced in French, “The number you are calling has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”
She hung up and squelched a spear of unease. European phone service could often be sporadic. Kate tapped in the number for the family-owned bistro across the street. No worries about the early hour there, the owners would be busy baking fresh bread and pastries.
“Bon matin,” a breathless female voice answered.
“Margot? It’s Kate. I’m calling from the States, and I can’t get through to my studio.”
“Kate? Mon Dieu! I was about to call you.” Margot erupted into a frantic tirade.
Kate choked out pertinent questions and listened to the answers with growing horror. She hung up. Numb with despair, she groped for the wall, found only air.
Liam was instantly by her side, strong arms supporting her. “What’s wrong?”
“My— My cloud drive where I store all my photo files was hacked and deleted. Annette had just discovered that when my studio in Paris ... was bombed. Annette barely escaped by climbing onto the roof. Thank God she and the baby are okay.” She gulped. “But the blaze was so intense that everything ... Even my supposedly fireproof safe—and the backup hard-drives inside—were destroyed. My studio, my equipment, all my work ...” She battled useless tears. “The past two years of my life are gone.”
Her knees buckled, unsubstantial as cooked spaghetti. “Aubrey!” she whispered. “Without the photos or any way to make copies, there’s no auction! No transplant!”
“Easy.” He steered her to the sofa and sat beside her. “We will get your stolen photos back. Do the French authorities know what happened?”
“Apparently, the bomb was hidden inside the toilet’s water tank. It was activated by remote control, they suspect by telephone. Annette got a phone call from a mechanical voice taunting her about the cloud drive sabotage right before the explosion.”
The implications hit. She gasped. Stared at Liam in terror-stricken disbelief.
He stared back at her, the humming air electrified.
They both turned and looked at the water heater, situated between them and the front door. Between them and the way out. A nearly inaudible click sounded.
Murphy sat on his haunches, nose and ears pointed, body quivering. Heads up, partner!
Fuck!” Liam gritted. “Murph just alerted on a bomb.”
Her cell phone began to ring.
Chapter 9
8:00 p.m.
Kate didn’t have time to blink before Liam snatched her art cases in one hand and grabbed her with the other.
As a louder, ominous clink sounded from inside the tank, he was already rushing her to the patio door. Murphy ran at their heels. Liam yanked open the sliding glass door and shoved her out onto the balcony. He looked down at the pool. “Everybody in!”
He stripped her purse off her arm and tossed it and her satchels over the iron railing. They banged onto the cement in a drift of dust two stories below. Heartbeat thundering in her ears, Kate stared down at the tiny aqua rectangle. Gulped. If she didn’t jump wide enough and missed ...
Then Liam scooped her up and flung her over.
Flailing, she fell for forever. Shock crashed into her as her legs hit cool water, and she managed to inhale before waves closed over her head. Stunn
ed, she sank to the bottom.
A splash hit to her right. Murphy floated down, then thrashed upward.
KABOOM!
The world rocked. The water around her shuddered, an orange glow flashed.
Kate bobbed to the surface and gulped in frantic breaths. Murphy paddled beside her.
She frantically searched the pool’s surface. Where was Liam? Had he saved her and Murphy, then run out of time to jump? She’d only heard one splash. Distraught, she tried to see beneath the roiling waves as fire rained from the sky.
“Kate!” She spun at the sound of his voice behind her. Weakened by relief, she floundered. He grabbed her. “Take a breath!”
She obeyed and he pushed her under, then followed her down. He wrapped his arms around her, sheltering her, and she clung to him. They both flinched as chunks of flaming wood and blackened shrapnel plunked into the pool and sizzled out.
Her lungs screamed for oxygen. Can’t ... hold ... breath ... much ... longer.
Finally the bombardment stopped. They surfaced, gasping. Appearing uninjured, Murphy paddled alongside. Hungry red flames spewed from the charred, gaping maw of her apartment and oily smoke churned into the darkening sky.
Treading water, Liam surveyed the wreckage. “Sonofabitch! Inside the water heater and freakin’ undetectable. Surrounded by cool water, it wouldn’t trigger a heat sensor, either. And impossible for the dogs to scent until it ignites.” His brows winged up. “Man, this pyro is a genius!”
Her mouth dropped open.
He gave her an abashed, waterlogged smile as he towed her poolside. “Ah ... in a scary, psycho-killer sorta way.”
“You bomb guys really get into your work.” She spat chlorinated water tinged with smoky bitterness. “Mr. Wizard almost killed us!”
Liam lifted her onto the tiled edge and wrapped tense hands around her thighs. He looked up at her, face strained. “And it would’ve been my fault.”
She stroked his cool, bristled cheek. “It would’ve been his fault. You took every precaution. You saved us.” She brushed water from his dripping forehead. “Why didn’t he trip the bomb when we came in? And how did he know exactly when to make it go off?”
He planted both palms on the pool’s edge. Cannonball biceps flexed below the navy T-shirt now plastered to his sculpted pecs as he speared his long, lean body out of the water. Standing on the concrete deck, he scooped aside sodden wavy hair.
Her concentration fractured into glittering shards. Liam O’Rourke, wet. His soaked, snug jeans left nothing to the imagination. Her imagination was as well-endowed as she remembered. Her mouth went dry.
“Hel-lo. Earth to Kate.”
She started. Shockwaves from the bomb blast had pulverized her brain. It was the only explanation. “What?”
“Busted, babe. Felonious ogling.”
“I wasn’t ... I ... What on earth is wrong with me?”
His glorious mouth twitched into a brief grin. “Adrenaline rush fires up your senses. All of ’em. Anyway, I’d wager Psycho bugged your apartment. He’s playing with us.”
“This is his warped idea of playing?” Kate wiped stinging chlorine from her eyes. Stared at the burning wreckage. “Why?”
“Bombers seek out attention, and often get a sexual charge from power over life and death. They view people as objects to be manipulated, like pawns on a chessboard. It’s a game.” He leaned and hefted Murphy’s front quarters out of the pool. “Winner takes all.”
Murphy scrambled out and shook himself. Droplets flew off his heavy fur, pelting her. “Yikes! I already had a shower today, thanks.”
Her right upper arm stung. Puzzled, she glanced down, frowning at the thin line of blood trickling down her arm to her elbow, at splintered tiles beside her. Huh? Water didn’t break ceramic. Water didn’t sting. Didn’t cut skin.
Another patch of tiles next to her hip blew apart and fragments exploded into the air.
“Shit!” Liam yelled. “Fucker’s shooting at you!”
Stunned, she looked at the craters inches from her thigh. A piece of broken tile must’ve flown up and scratched her arm. Numb lips made it difficult to speak. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Suppressor.” Again, Liam was already in motion, had already yanked her up and was towing her to a trio of steel Dumpsters in the alleyway behind the courtyard. Murphy followed at a fast lope.
“Down!” Liam pushed her to the pavement. He drew his gun. Knees flexed, he eased around the Dumpster and fired three rapid shots. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
PING! PING! Bullets bounced off metal as the stalker returned fire.
Liam pivoted and flattened his spine against the Dumpster. He thrust his hand into his pocket, extracted his keys. Tossed them to her. “Make a break for the car and start her up. I’ll cover you.”
Icy fear snaked into her bloodstream. Not for herself. For him. “Who’s going to cover you?”
“I’ll meet you in front of what’s left of the building. Stay low.” He slid around the corner again. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Who knew a firefight was so loud? “Go!” he commanded.
Zing! Zing Zing! A deadly hail of bullets whizzed overhead and her heart pounded in her throat as she crashed through prickly bushes and tore around to the parking lot.
Fumbling with the unfamiliar gearshift and clutch, she killed it twice before the powerful engine rumbled, vibrating the entire car. Finally! Kudos to the conscientious driver’s ed instructor who’d insisted on teaching manual transmissions!
She twisted to look behind her, but saw only the deserted parking lot. Roaring gunshots told her Liam was still behind the Dumpsters. With no one to cover his escape, the shooter had him pinned!
Liam would run out of bullets soon. Did he expect her to save herself and leave him as cannon fodder? She gritted her teeth. She’d dance onstage with the topless vampires at the Stratosphere first!
It took so long she nearly had heart failure, but she eventually wrestled the damn gearshift into Reverse with her left hand. Peering behind her, she wheeled the car in a one-eighty and backed down the alley as fast as she dared. She screeched to a halt beside the Dumpster. Half straddling the seat, she flung open the passenger door. “Taxi. Anytime, anywhere.”
Liam’s astonished face appeared in the doorway. He grinned. “You talkin’ to me?” He sounded more like De Niro than De Niro. Crouched low, he boosted Murphy onto the floorboards in the back, then tossed in her art satchels and purse.
“You went back for my stuff? While he was shooting at you?”
“I do love a challenge.” Zing! Zing! Zing! Rounds whined over the roof as Liam dove into the passenger seat. “Keep your head down.”
Huddled over the wheel, her stomach pitched. She cursed her disability. “We have to trade places. I can’t shift fast enough and drive.”
BAM! BAM! Bullets punched holes into the wooden wall of the building on her left. “No time.” He grabbed the gearshift. “You work the gas and clutch, I’ll shift. Count of three.”
Together, they finagled the car into first gear, then second. Liam grabbed two full clips out of the glove compartment.
“Leave it to you, Lucky Charmer, to travel armed to your eyeballs. Thank all the Celtic gods,” she added fervently.
He laughed. “Gunfighter’s rules. Never go into a firefight without more ammo than the other guy.” His upper torso wedged in the open passenger window, he squeezed off departing shots as she sped out of the alley.
She charged through the parking lot and hastily assessed oncoming traffic. “Liam.” She drove for several hair-raising beats while he shot behind them. “Liam! I need another gear!”
“Coming.” He dropped back into his seat. “Stay cool.”
“Sure thing. It’s a hundred-fifteen degrees in Las Vegas and hailing bullets!”
He helped her shift, and she merged into the stream of cars. Oncoming red lights strobed as a convoy of shrieking fire engines rocketed toward her blazing apartment complex.
“I hope none of my nei
ghbors were hurt.”
“The squad evacuated the buildings, remember?”
“Oh. Yes.” She released a sigh.
He fished his phone out of his pocket. “Hellfire! My cell drowned.” He hung over the seatback, giving her an exquisite glimpse of a tight-muscled butt hugged by damp denim. Nice. Hey, she was shell-shocked, not dead.
Thank you, adrenaline.
He dropped into the passenger seat gripping her purse. “Damn good thing I rescued it.” He extracted her phone and dialed 911 to report shots fired, and told dispatch to warn the firemen to wait for police backup.
He hung up and pointed to a sign for a park ahead. “Nobody followed us. Pull into that park and we’ll switch places.”
Perfected by practice, he shifted and she coordinated the pedals. They made a smooth left turn and ended up safely hidden behind a screen of palms in the deserted park.
Kate rested her forehead on the steering wheel. “An experience I hope never to repeat in this lifetime.”
“We outsmarted Psycho.” Liam patted her shoulder. “Perfect collaboration, Kate. Thanks for pulling my ass out of the firing line.”
They were a well-matched pair—in more ways than one. Pride winged through her. She’d mastered a physical challenge. She’d rescued Liam. “Thank you for saving me, my pictures, and my purse.” Or she’d literally have nothing left.
He winked. “Murphy and Liam, at your service. You can thank the mutt for alerting on the bomb quickly enough for me to get us outta there.”
An animal that terrified her had saved her life. And Liam’s. It disoriented her. As if she didn’t know up from down, right from wrong. She glanced behind her and stiffened. “Um ... Liam?” Her heart sinking, she pointed to Murphy, who had clambered onto the backseat. He held a familiar looking envelope in his mouth.
