by Diana Duncan
Grady chuckled, flashing twin lady-killer dimples. “I’d rather go mano a mano with crashing crackheads. Naked.”
Zoe’s heart lurched. Nobody mentioned that Aidan could die. But cops probably couldn’t afford to think worst-case, or they wouldn’t be able to do their jobs.
Aidan’s lips quirked. His second hit-and-run with a near smile in an hour. “You wankers sit here and sip tea while I do all the work. As usual.”
“Big brother, you’re so full of shit, your eyes are brown.” Chuckling, Liam sat again as Aidan propped the camera on his shoulder and exited the vehicle.
Zoe stayed glued to the screen. Via the camera lens, she saw through Aidan’s viewpoint as he approached the front door and knocked. “Mr. Davis, I’m here to put you on TV.”
She held her breath as the door swung open and Joe appeared. His pale eyes were red-rimmed, and a scraggly beard darkened his gaunt face. His brown hair was matted beneath a red baseball cap with white lettering, his stained clothing disheveled. Sunlight glinted off the serrated blade of a huge carving knife in his right hand.
He peered at Aidan, then the camera and grinned drunkenly. “Great, dude.”
He moved aside and Aidan stepped into the living room, giving them a view of drawn blinds casting the room into sinister shadow. Beer bottles and cigarette butts littered the coffee table, dusted with grainy powder residue and scattered pills. Two little blonde girls huddled on the couch, the smallest one’s face white as death, her breathing wheezy. They stared wide-eyed at the stranger, but remained mute, terrorized beyond crying.
Zoe’s throat snapped shut and her lungs spasmed. Their fear became her fear—sharp, splintered ice. Freezing. Hurting. Terrified and alone in the dark, she struggled to breathe.
A hand patted her shoulder. She spun to see Grady’s concerned expression. “Zoe? You okay?”
Jerked back to reality, she dragged in a painful breath. “Y-yes.” She loosened the arms she’d protectively wrapped around herself and straightened her hunched shoulders.
Get a grip.
She’d covered many heartrending stories, but while she always sympathized with the victims, she’d never before identified so closely and become one.
Her overreaction must stem from her connection with Aidan. Watching the scene unfold through his eyes as it happened made the horror all too real.
On the screen in front of her, the camera zoomed out on the children as Aidan backed slowly away. “Mind if I open the blinds while you turn your TV to channel three? We need more light to get a good picture of you.”
“Okay,” Davis assented, and Aidan’s hand tugged up the cord, exposing the room to the street.
“Good going, bro,” Liam murmured.
From previous observations, Zoe knew that Hunter Gatlin, the team’s blond, steely-eyed Tennessee-born sniper, was positioned somewhere outside.
“Sierra One,” Green said into his mic. “Got optics on the suspect?”
“Roger that, Command,” Hunter’s low, smooth voice drawled. “Target acquired. Nice clear field, straight trajectory. Standing by for a green light.”
Zoe swallowed. The steady-handed sniper was ready to shoot to kill if necessary.
Aidan glided slowly, non-threateningly away from the window again, positioning himself between Joe and the children. Emma’s pitiful wheezing rasped in the background. Aidan swung the camera back to Joe. “See yourself on TV?”
Joe faced the screen in the living room. “Fuck, yeah! Iced!” He slashed the long, gleaming blade through the air, and Zoe’s stomach pitched.
Aidan focused the camera on Joe’s face, eliminating the knife from the picture. “So, you ready to sing?”
Joe swayed, his gaunt face suddenly uncertain. “Uh. I guess.”
“We definitely want to showcase your talent on camera. Where’s your guitar?”
Joe’s forehead wrinkled. “Bedroom?”
“Well, go get it, man.”
Joe wavered. Weasely features crumpled in indecision, clearly torn between his desire for fame and fortune, and blurry suspicion he shouldn’t leave the room.
Aidan gave him an ego-boosting close-up on the TV screen that’d do Steven Spielberg proud. “This is your big break, your big chance, buddy.”
“Doors!” Greene ordered, and the war wagon’s big double doors swung wide. Greene didn’t take his eyes from the monitor as the SWAT team surged to their feet. Modern-day knights in black body armor and helmets, weapons steady in large, capable hands. Any bad guy with an ounce of brains should surrender at the mere sight of them charging in.
“Ready ...” Green warned.
Every muscle in Zoe’s body went rigid, every nerve on edge. Emma didn’t sound like she could hold out much longer. If Aidan couldn’t talk Joe down, he’d have to take him down and risk injury, not only to himself, but the children. The fact that Davis was both stoned and stupid made him unpredictable, even more dangerous.
“C’mon, Joe,” Aidan persuaded, “What’re you waiting for? You’re gonna be a superstar.”
“Mmm? ’Kay.” Still swinging the knife, Joe staggered out of sight.
“Go!” Greene barked, and the team charged outside.
The camera dropped onto the coffee table. Zoe had a panoramic view of the living room as Aidan scooped the children under his arms and sprinted out the kitchen door.
At the same time, the team burst through the front door ... just as Davis shuffled back into the living room. His mouth fell open. The guitar dropped from his hands.
CLANG.
“Police! Get down! Down!” team members shouted. Four MP-5 rifles pointed unerringly at Davis while a snarling K-9 backed him into a corner. Two other team members split off to sweep the house. “Get on the floor!”
Even stoned and stupid, Davis knew the jig was up. Whimpering, “Don’t hurt me,” he dropped to the carpet on hands and knees, and heroically puked his guts out.
* * *
Aidan’s system throttled back from high-alert to normal as he and the team stood down. The siege had ended the best possible way. No shots fired, no injuries. Grady successfully treated Emma at the site, and she and her sister were safe with Shelly. Joe Davis would be wearing an orange onesie for a long while.
Barring further emergencies, the best man and groomsmen would make it to the wedding on time.
Zoe stayed with Shelly until Emma was stabilized and the police barricades were removed. Then Aidan saw her speaking in front of a KKEY news camera. Disgust twisted inside him at the thought of her using Shelly and those scared, defenseless little girls for five o’clock fodder.
Until he moved near enough to hear what she was reporting.
Her heart-shaped face solemn, Zoe’s earnest voice declared, “No woman or child ever deserves to be victimized. If you, or someone you know is trapped in an abusive situation, free help is available. Please, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE. Or go online to www.thehotline.org and live chat with a counselor, without having to speak a word. You don’t have to live in fear. There’s no shame in asking for help. Call today. Your life, or the lives of your loved ones may depend on it.”
Twenty-two minutes after listening to Zagretti’s report, Aidan stalked down the tree-lined sidewalk toward his car. In direct contrast to the sunny day, a storm of confusion thundered inside him. He thought he had her pegged, but she surprised him at every turn. She’d consistently done the unexpected. Today, he’d admired her smarts. Had actually enjoyed her teasing.
Hell, he’d damn near kissed her.
He canted his head side-to-side to ease his tight neck muscles. Had he jumped to unwarranted conclusions where she was concerned? Maybe.
But he’d reserve a verdict until he had more evidence. Keep his guard up.
No way would he give her any information, much less his trust.
About to cross Elm Street, he faltered mid-stride. Zoe was slumped in the driver’s seat of a battered red Corolla. Her eyes were closed, her fac
e ashen. She wasn’t moving.
Was she even breathing?
His heart lurched, then tried to pound its way out of his chest. Her body looked limp, lifeless.
Looked far too much like his worst nightmare come true.
Chapter 4
2:00 p.m.
“Zoe!” Aidan’s shout emerged a mere croak as he sprinted across the street. He wrenched open the car door and knelt on the pavement. She tipped sideways, nearly falling into his lap, and his arms instinctively closed around her.
Her slight form moved in his embrace. She’s alive!
His own lungs resumed functioning.
“Zoe, what happened?”
She blinked dazedly at him. “Aidan? What the ... hell?”
Aidan shifted her so he could see her face. Grady had once brought home a bedraggled, starving black kitten. The boys took turns feeding the tiny animal around the clock with a doll’s bottle. Alone in the dark kitchen in the middle of the night, Aidan had carefully held the delicate kitten and it’d stared up at him with wide, trusting green eyes.
Zoe now looked at him the same way, eyes huge in her white face. Her slender body felt fragile and insubstantial against him.
Fierce protectiveness surged through him. Catching him off guard. Rattling him to the core.
He battled the urge to sweep her up, carry her home and take care of her. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She shook her head, winced. “I started feeling weird during the rescue, and after I finished my on-air report, I suddenly got hit by a headache and nausea. I hoped if I rested a few minutes, it’d back off enough for me to drive home. Maybe I’m coming down with a bug or something.”
He touched his palm to her forehead. Her skin was as soft and cool as the plumeria petals whose scent she carried. “No fever.” He studied her thin, wan face. “When did you eat last?”
“Um ... I had some Cracker Jack about three hours ago.”
“For breakfast?” He grimaced. “No wonder you’re sick. Can you stand up?”
“I think so.”
He moved back, but supported her as she swung her legs over the seat and eased shakily to her feet. Both his hands could almost span her waist. She swayed into him, and one of his hands accidentally slipped under the loose hem of her blouse, sliding across the silken skin of her stomach.
Hello. He instantly went hard.
She inhaled sharply as her belly quivered under his palm. “Hand check.”
“Sorry.” He snatched his burning palm away. “Accidental contact ... ten minutes in the penalty box.”
She chuckled. “I know, it’s okay. If I’d thought you’d done it on purpose, I would’ve stomped your enthusiasm.”
His “enthusiasm” was at DEFCON 1, maximum-force readiness. He blew out a fast breath, mentally counting backwards from ten. Stand down, asshole. He was supposed to be rescuing the woman, not ravishing her.
Still fighting the urge to scoop her into his arms, he assessed her wobbly stance. “You’re in no shape to drive.” He glanced down the tree-lined street. “My car is around the corner. Can you walk that far?”
“Yes. Fresh air is helping. Would you hand me my survival bag, please? There’s acetaminophen and water inside.”
He retrieved a tattered monkey-and-bananas printed canvas bag from behind the front seat. She leaned against the fender and sipped from a water bottle while he locked up the Corolla.
He detached the car key, pocketed it and handed her the others jangling on the Curious George ring. Hmmm ... shockeroo ... the woman liked monkey business. “I’ll have an officer bring your car home later and leave the key in your mail slot.” He’d be personally returning the car, but she wouldn’t see him.
She dropped the monkey ring in her bag. “Have you always been this large-and-in-charge, or is it a recent affliction?”
He bit back a grin. The more time he spent with the intrepid reporter, the tougher it was to keep his distance. To act unaffected and remote. To remember he disliked her. “My mother claims I was assertive from the moment I made my entrance three weeks early.”
“Ah, to paraphrase Steppenwolf, ‘Born to be Bossy.’”
He couldn’t stop the grin this time. “You enjoy classic rock?”
“Love it. You?”
“Yeah.” Something they had in common. Other than the desire to bring down DiMarco.
For her, that meant a byline. For him, it was a personal crusade.
He rested his hand against the small of her back, and they strolled down the sidewalk at a snail’s pace. She stumbled, and he moved closer. “Whoa, careful.” He slid his arm around her waist and tucked her close to his side. She fit perfectly, as if she’d been created to be his companion.
As if she belonged to him, and he to her.
And that nearly tripped him up. Mindfuck, much?
He had no intention of detouring off his determinedly mapped-out life. Wasn’t going anywhere near the cliff’s edge. Especially not with Zoe Zagretti. The woman was TNT—Tenacious Nosy Trouble.
A far-too-appealing package. Far too passionate. Far too likely to detonate ... and leave them both walking wounded.
They rounded the corner. A lawn mower droned at the end of the block, and happily shrieking children played a raucous game of kickball. He’d never have kids of his own. The one regret of his marriage boycott. He breathed in the fresh scent of newly-cut grass, trying to ignore the clutch in his chest. He’d fill the empty space in his heart by spoiling future nieces and nephews. It’d be enough. Would have to be enough. And knowing Con and Bailey, there’d be plenty of kiddos to spoil.
Parked beneath a maple tree, his black ’64 T-Bird convertible glinted polished obsidian in the dappled sunlight. “That’s my ride.”
Zoe’s luscious lips tilted in an unsteady grin. “Ohmigosh! You drive the Batmobile!”
Stunned, he lurched to a stop. As a kid, he’d possessed undying admiration for the Dark Knight. His workout room closet still held several cartons of Batman comic books, purchased eons ago with hoarded allowance and chore money. He told himself he kept them because they were highly collectible, but in truth, lingering sentiment remained.
He’d loved the T-Bird on sight. Why had he never noticed what Zoe saw at first glance? The vintage car’s long, lean lines did resemble the Batmobile. Her perceptiveness impressed him. Intrigued him.
Terrified him.
If he slipped up and let Zoe Zagretti get under his skin, get into his heart, he’d never be able to hide anything from her. She would never allow him to step back, keep his emotional distance.
His secure, comfortable existence would be blown to hell.
He must have appeared as confounded as he felt, because she shot him an abashed look from beneath long, dark lashes. “I didn’t mean to insult your car. I think it’s gorgeous.”
He opened the passenger door for her. “No offense taken. I was ...” Freaked out. “Surprised by your insight.”
She slid inside. He closed her door, strode around the front of the car, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
She chuckled softly. “I’ll bet you had Batman pajamas and Con had Robin ones, and you pinned pillowcases around your necks and catapulted off your bunk beds pretending you could fly.”
Her speculation was so nearly balls-on accurate, he couldn’t contain a burst of laughter. “Close. But we wore Batman and Robin Underoos and beach towel capes, and jumped off the garage roof. ‘Robin’ jammed his big toe and hobbled for a month.”
Her breath hitched and color flooded her cheeks. She stared at him in soft-eyed appreciation, her expression as awed as if he’d just rescued a stray puppy from a rampaging river. “Hey, you laughed.”
Jesus, was he so tight-assed that a mere laugh would throw her for a loop? He brusquely fastened his seat belt. Frowned. Short answer: yes. His self-preservation radar maxed out around her, raising his defenses.
He offered her a wry smile. “I do that occasionally, when something strikes me funny.
”
Warm approval gleamed in her eyes. “Remind me to work on my stand-up routine.”
The engine growled to life, revving up in tandem with his libido, and he steered the T-Bird to the intersection. With the top down, the summer breeze caressed his face with a lover’s soft touch. So, she appreciated his laugh, huh? That shouldn’t matter so much. Definitely should not spike his body temperature into triple-digits.
Shit.
Maybe she wasn’t the only one coming down with a virus. He shook his head. “Where to?”
She gave him an address in a rundown, disreputable area. He wasn’t crazy about her living in a neighborhood where she could get shot for wearing the wrong color.
Like he had any say. And didn’t want any.
What in holy hell was it about this woman? How did merely being in her presence tangle his insides into Gordian knots?
“Aidan? Don’t feel weird about the superhero thing. I liked Wonder Woman. Oh, and the guy in blue tights, too, but I always rooted for Lois.”
Another grin surfaced as he took Oak Street, heading toward the inner city through heavy Saturday-afternoon traffic. “Big revelation there.”
Okay, he could do this. Endure several minutes of safe, polite conversation, drop Zoe off—and never again get within five miles of her.
Evade and escape.
A simple tactical plan any moron could follow. “Did you have any ‘super’ adventures with brothers or sisters?”
“I’m an only child.” She glanced at him wistfully, her loneliness painfully apparent. Making his throat ache. “I’ll bet having three brothers was a blast.”
“For us, yeah. Not so sure about Mom and Pop.” Really, his parents had adored each other and their rowdy brood. His childhood had brimmed with abundant laughter and unconditional love. “Do your parents live in town?”
“I’m ... on my own. My mom had her first stroke when I was a senior in high school. She’s had several more since, and she’s in a care facility in San Francisco. I just moved to Riverside recently and am saving up to bring her here, too. My father—” Her voice hitched. She cleared her throat. “He’s never really been in the picture.”