Triggered by Love

by Rachelle Ayala

  He opened the door to the gun shop for her.

  “Coffee?” he repeated.

  “You have any new information?” she challenged, looking back over her shoulder.

  He stood too close, raising the hairs on the back of her neck—not in a bad way, if she had to admit it to herself. She could sense his masculinity. The scent of gunpowder, aftershave, and animal magnetism spoke to that primal place in her.

  Something curled deep in her belly, a warm, expanding sensation, but she shut it down by clamping her jaw and stepping away from him.

  He wasn’t the kind of man to use and forget.

  He came with consequences.

  And he wasn’t forgettable.

  “There isn’t a minute going by when I’m not thinking about your fiancé and who killed him,” Jason said, shouldering his ammo bag.

  She’d upgraded Brando’s status to fiancé during the police interview because he’d had a diamond ring in his pocket at the time of his death. It sucked even worse that he’d held off from proposing before her big fashion show debut.

  “Even a cold case?” She practically growled, regretting for the thousandth time her excitement at winning the best new designer spot in the show. If she hadn’t been such a wimp with her stage fright, she would have walked the runway alone. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t walked it a million times as a teenage model.

  “No case is cold,” he answered grimly. “It might be buried in the background, but it’s always there. New what-ifs, theories, angles. If I come across something, I look for patterns, things that stand out or don’t make sense. The guy who ordered the hit is still out there.”

  “How sure are you that Brando wasn’t the target?” The words tasted bitter in her mouth, and she wasn’t trying to deflect the grinding guilt she marinated in. But it was damn tiring looking over her shoulder and wondering which of her competitors or frenemies, or even people she might have known in her past hated her enough to take her life.

  “Wish I didn’t kill the shooter,” he said. “Then we could have found out who hired him.”

  Except he was a two-bit drug user and was probably randomly accosted on the street to do the job—not a professional high-priced hitman. Disposable. Why?

  “We’ve been over this too many times.” She sighed. “Going around in circles. It’s been a year, and no one has tried again. Maybe it was random. Gang initiation or something. It was my first fashion show as a new designer, and he might have picked up one of my flyers, decided to make his mark.”

  Jason’s brows were drawn and his lips tight.

  She could tell he didn’t like the not knowing.

  They exited the indoor range—the only one in Manhattan—and were immediately on the busy street walking toward Fifth Avenue.

  Avery didn’t want to have coffee with Jason. Didn’t want to stir up emotions better left for dead. The man she loved was dead. The whirlwind romance that started when he’d carried her out of a burning building had turned to dust and ashes, and the family she thought she’d have would never be.

  There would be no Mrs. Avery Bonet even if they put the killer behind bars. No firehouse potlucks. No Christmas-decorated fire truck toy drives. No private strip show in turnout pants and fire gear, and no waking up late on a Sunday morning with nothing but Brando and brunch on the agenda.

  “You have a point.” Jason opened the door to The Big Bean, a trendy coffee house that roasted their own beans.

  “What point?” Avery asked, stepping into the atmosphere of fresh brewed coffee, infused with the comforting sounds of frothing and grinding and the muted chatter of young, urban professionals.

  “The circular part.” He made a twirling motion. “If we stop thinking about our theories, we would be more open to noticing something we missed. Maybe it’s like a problem we have to sleep on.”

  “Sleep on,” she found herself repeating, and her gaze moved silkily to his eyes—medium-brown with soft glints of golden specks. Wary and observant.

  “Yeah.” His voice burred, and his eyelids half-closed, going full-on bedroom. “Have dinner with me. Tonight.”

  “I don’t know.” She felt the stirring of attraction war with the impossibility of this situation. She could never carry on with Detective Burnett as if he were any other man. He was too deeply embedded with the worst thing that ever happened to her. Too involved with the trauma. Too tied in with the aftermath: the funeral, the investigation, the cold case.

  “Friends.” He put out his hand to shake. “Let’s start with coffee.”

  “We’re already here,” she muttered, letting her hand disappear in his firm and protective grip. “I don’t know if I can forget.”

  “No need to forget, but for now, let’s put it in a box and leave it be.”

  “You’ll take it out and worry over it in your spare time,” she accused, knowing it was next to impossible to pretend this was a new beginning.

  What was she doing entertaining the thought of starting over? Brando would always be present. His dying body soaking her with his blood. Being ripped from his side and thrown into a shroud of grief and regret.

  It wasn’t Jason’s fault, she reminded herself.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder, comforting her. “We’ll figure it out when we least expect. For now, let it rest.”

  “Okay,” she said, knowing she could never let Brando’s death rest. Yet, she was doing no good worrying and fretting. Maybe letting go would clear her mind and the answer would present itself. Maybe it was staring in her face.

  “Avery Cockburn, meet Jason Burnett, your best friend,” Jason said, guiding her to the coffee line. “How’s your day going?”

  “Fine,” she replied. “Coffee?”

  Chapter Three

  Jason shielded Avery in the coffee line while keeping a watch on the glass storefront and doorway. He knew he was standing too close, but it wasn’t to be creepy, at least not by intention.

  Asking her to dinner had crossed a line. He’d never had much of a filter, but his role was to protect Avery—well, not officially, since Brando’s case was no longer a priority.

  He was still responsible. He’d gone to the fashion show as a guest of one of the promoters, because he’d been hearing noises on the street concerning a longtime congressman in a neighboring district. There had been several questionable deaths associated with fundraising parties. The investigations had been stymied by the mayor’s office. The official verdict was accidental drug overdoses, but a string of three within a year warranted suspicion—at least in Jason’s mind.

  Not that he had anything actionable. When he’d heard the congressman was to attend the fashion show, Jason had dressed the part, let his date make him presentable, and prepared for a boring evening of watching the attendees rather than the models on the runway.

  Which was why he’d noticed a man wearing a cheap tan suit who’d sat alone, staring at the program for most of the show. As a cop, Jason was good at picking out what didn’t belong. When the man made a sudden movement, Jason’s date, Alida Adams, a public relations consultant, had interrupted his response by pointing out the fireman walking onto the runway with Avery.

  “See that firefighter? He rescued her from a burning building. What a romantic story.” She sighed and clasped her hand on his arm. “That’s the hottest young designer in the city, Avery Cockburn. Did you like her wickedly colorful designs? So much verve and boldness—like living fire.”

  Jason had no comment on the implausible items passing as clothing, but he had noticed the designer earlier on the red carpet.

  She was strikingly gorgeous, with long, flowing honey-blond hair, a classically beautiful face, and the sensuous eyes of a Botticelli Madonna—wide-eyed but knowing. Her figure was slender, and she was model tall, but curved in the places that mattered.

  He'd caught the last bit from Alida. “She used to be a model, confident, supreme, and completely anonymous. Her aloofness was her appeal. She was a magical creature, dressed and ma
de up as an ethereal being, half here and half there. I suppose it made her feel anonymous, like she was playing a part. Now that she’s a designer, she represents herself, and she’s frightened to come out on stage.”

  “Why would that be?” he’d asked as Avery had nervously straightened the tie of her firefighter fiancé. She’d given the man a look so adoring that it had made Jason’s teeth ache.

  What would it be like, he’d thought, to be on the receiving end of such love?

  The power couple walked down the runway toward the spotlight turnaround. Avery waved shyly at the applause, and the fireman was poised and rock-sturdy at her side, an arm to lean on and, as it turned out, an impenetrable shield.

  Alida said something, but Jason was already jumping over the front row of spectators. He’d caught the glint of a raised handgun. It was the sweaty man in the tan suit.

  “Get down,” he shouted, drawing his gun to return fire.

  The rest was indelibly stamped in his mind. And as he stared at Avery ordering her cappuccino, she turned and her gaze locked on to his with that wide-open Madonna look.

  “Get down?” She shrank back against the counter. “Jason? Did you think of something?”

  “No, it’s something Alida said.” He blinked to recover his sense of time and place.

  “Alida Adams? You know her?” Avery handed the barista her credit card.

  “Yeah, she was my date,” Jason admitted. “It’s nothing.”

  “What did she say about me?” Avery demanded, not giving him an out. “She’s my publicist, and I’d like to know.”

  “She said you were anonymous as a model. Why was that?”

  Avery’s face lost all its color. Her already large eyes popped wider, and a look of sheer terror froze over her face like a scream in a silent movie.

  Avery took a moment to compose herself when Saul, the barista, handed her the cup of cappuccino poised on a tiny saucer. He’d poured the milk into a heart design, as he always did, and she thanked him. His was a friendly, open face, and he’d once helped her out when her purse was snatched outside of the shop.

  “Let’s see that smile,” Saul said, holding his hands as if he had a camera ready to snap. “Hold it, that’s good. Smile. Great. Looking good. Beautiful.”

  He always played photoshoot with her, as if she were modeling bikinis, which she used to do. He’d once confessed to her that he wanted to be a fashion photographer but hadn’t taken any of the coursework. She made a mental note to introduce him to the guy who did her photoshoots back in her modeling days.

  Saul had that quality that put people at ease, and his distraction enabled her to recover from Detective Burnett’s none-of-his-business inquiry.

  Smiling wide, Avery twirled toward an empty table in the corner away from the window.

  She didn’t look back at Jason, but she could feel his gaze piercing straight through her. How come she didn’t know he’d been Alida’s date that night? And why was her publicist gossiping about her when it was her big night?

  She was going to have a word with this woman. Sure, she’d had her best interests in mind, and she’d been the one who’d suggested Brando escort her for the final ramp walk. But if Avery hadn’t let her stage fright get the best of her, Brando would still be alive.

  “Avery, wait up,” Jason called after her. “Is everything okay?”

  She needed to stop falling apart like this. She had to shape up.

  It’s been almost a year already. But how do I get over what could have been?

  Taking a napkin and a deep breath, she forced her shoulders back and her head high. “I’m okay. Did you get your coffee?”

  “Yes, you should have let me pay for yours,” he said, quirking a half-smile.

  She took a moment to study his demeanor. It looked like he was going for casual. Having ascertained that she was okay, he wasn’t going to pursue her momentarily lapse.

  An explanation was in order, so she smiled closemouthed and motioned for him to sit across from her.

  “Are you still dating Alida?” she asked as he pulled his powerful body into the small chair.

  He gave a slight shake of the head. “She’s an acquaintance. I’ve been to a few of her events, but I wouldn’t call it dating.”

  “Oh?” She took what she hoped was a calm sip of the cappuccino, breaking up the swirly heart in the cup.

  Neither of them was forthcoming with information—probably a good thing. She was of the “loose lips sink ships” school, and it looked like he, too, kept his personal life close to his vest.

  It was easier to talk about Brando’s case, and so far, that was the extent of their interaction. Except he’d changed the rules.

  She raised an eyebrow to question him and get him to open up.

  Without looking at her, he stirred cream into his black coffee—no sugar.

  “What does Alida do for you?” he asked, appearing not to care about the answer.

  “Public relations.”

  “And?”

  Avery shrugged. What was the harm in letting him know? He already knew as much of her public history as he needed for the investigation.

  “She helped me make the transition from modeling to fashion design. I’m afraid I haven’t been as involved in promoting my line as I should have been.”

  “Understandable, given what happened at your debut. You doing any upcoming shows?”

  “My line has been to all the major shows,” she said. “I just haven’t been appearing on the runway. Alida’s been pushing me to go back into the spotlight.”

  “Think that’s wise?” He blew over the top of his creamy coffee before sipping.

  “They’ve upped the security at most of these shows. Gun free zones,” Avery said. “Metal detectors at the door. Alida says even if someone were out to get me, which she doesn’t believe, they wouldn’t try it the same way.”

  “How reassuring.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Avery said, wiping her lips. “I need to buck up and carry on. Can’t hide for the rest of my life.”

  “Are you seeing anyone about the stage fright?”

  “You know about that, too,” she stated, not surprised. “No, and I’m not taking anti-anxiety meds. It makes me paranoid.”

  She lifted her coffee cup and smiled.

  He tapped it with his. “To getting back in the game.”

  “I can do it. I’m sure Brando believed in me. I don’t need a man on my arm. In fact, I’m going to do the ramp walk this year.”

  “Good. I’ll be there.”

  “Alida’s date?”

  He reached across the table and grasped her hand. “Yours.”

  Her first reaction was to draw her hand from his, but the zinging pleasure of his grip gave her a warm feeling of belonging.

  “I’m walking alone, although Alida wants me to walk with one of her football clients.”

  He raised an inquiring eyebrow and gave her hand a slight squeeze.

  “It’s a publicity thing,” she hastened to explain. “You know New York Brokers quarterback, Matt Swanson?”

  “Everyone knows about him.” Jason’s voice was dry. “A real player, on and off the field.”

  “Yeah, a bad boy of bad boys.”

  “New York City is full of bad boys. What’s the angle?” Jason let go of her hand and rubbed his chin.

  “We’re two of Alida’s trouble kids,” Avery said. “He needs to be seen as a hero, and I’m a basket case.”

  “You don’t need him.” Jason’s brown eyes narrowed something fierce. “He might be able to throw a touchdown pass, but what good would he do if …”

  “Stop.” Avery raised her hand in a halt position. “I have to believe no one’s gunning for me. I could never put Matt or the other models’ lives in danger. The event will be as safe as ever, and I’ve heard that Secret Service will be involved.”

  “The president’s daughter in the show?” Jason was referring to Diamante Steele, a twenty-two-year-old model who w
as the nation’s treasure, having grown up in the fishbowl of the White House.

  “You really do your homework, don’t you, Detective Burnett.”

  “I keep myself knowledgeable on all that interests me.” His gaze on her was devouring, as if she were the sum total of all that engaged his appetite.

  Too bad she couldn’t date him. He was a cop. He was too rough around the edges to bring home, and he had blood on his hands. She’d done her research too, and while he’d been cleared by the department, there were those in the community who disagreed.

  “Friends,” she stated to keep him in his place. “I’m headed to a meeting with Alida. Do you want me to say ‘hi’ to her for you?”

  “Not necessary,” he said, his eyes shuttering. “I’m not dating anyone these days.”

  She almost said she wasn’t either, but that wouldn’t help her public appearance, and it was none of his business anyway.

  Instead, she said, “Thanks for having coffee with me. Let’s do it again.”

  Chapter Four

  Avery had enough time for a quick shower. Her hair was manageable, thanks to it being mostly straight, and she touched it up with a quick spritz of hairspray. Makeup, not as heavy as when she was a model, and a stylish skirt suit as becoming her businesswoman status would do.

  She grimaced at a chipped fingernail on her trigger finger. There wasn’t time for a full manicure, so she touched it up with a dab of polish. Hopefully, Alida’s critical eyes would focus on the kaleidoscope-inspired pendant she’d designed for a charity art show.

  She was on her way out the door when her landline phone rang. Other than telemarketers and spam calls, the only people who used it were the concierge at the front desk and other residents who preferred using the internal private line. One in particular who she couldn’t ignore.

  Sighing, Avery picked up the call. “Hello? Avery here.”