by Cynthia Eden
“H-help! Dammit—h-help me!”
His informer. Upstairs in the middle of the flames and fury.
Kenton yanked off his jacket, covered his mouth, and tried to stay as low to the floor as he could. His eyes burned and the fire and ash singed his nostrils. How the hell had this happened? He was investigating arson but he wasn’t supposed to get drawn into the fire.
Part of the ceiling fell behind him.
Kenton glared up at the long row of stairs. Ten-to-one odds they’d fall away before he got to the top.
“H-help…” Weaker. He took the stairs. One. Two. Three.
And, yep, they gave way just as he reached stair number four. Kenton went down hard. The broken wood bit into his arms and legs, and the fire flew toward him.
A blast of water shot out, slamming into the flames, and someone grabbed him, yanking him up with a hand locked tight around his arm.
Kenton found himself staring right at a firefighter. He caught a smoky glimpse of narrowed eyes behind a clear shield, a thick, black helmet, a dark mask, and brown uniform—
The firefighter shoved him, obviously trying to send him toward the front of the building.
Hell, no.
More firefighters swarmed around him, battling the fire. Some struck out with axes, and some scrambled into the rooms.
Couldn’t they hear the voice calling for help?
He tried to break free and jump for those stairs. There was a gap so he might make it, he might—
The firefighter who’d grabbed him before snatched him right back and gave a hard negative shake of his black helmet.
Screw that, he wasn’t leaving a victim behind.
He wrenched away.
Then the firefighter slugged him. Hard. Right in his jaw. Kenton went down.
The firefighter’s arms wrapped around him. Another grabbed him. Then another.
And they dragged him out of the flames.
“Idiot!”
Kenton looked up, his gaze narrowed against the smoke that still burned his eyes, and saw the firefighter—the jerk who’d slugged him—pull off his helmet and mask—
Her helmet and mask. Not a man there. No way.
Kenton swallowed and choked a bit.
He could make out her eyes better now that there wasn’t a giant cloud of smoke in front of them. Gorgeous, shimmering gold, so clear and deep and—
He lowered his oxygen mask aside and leapt to his feet. “You left a man in there!”
Those golden eyes widened. Very slowly, she lifted her right hand—a fragile-looking hand that had packed a whole lot of punch—and pointed to the left where a fire-truck ladder was being lowered from the building. An older man with stooped shoulders and a soot-stained face was on the ladder. A firefighter had him in a tight grip, and the guy appeared to be coughing up a lung.
“Got him,” she said sweetly, her voice a slow southern drawl that reminded him of a teammate at the Bureau.
His gaze snapped back to her, and Kenton looked now, really looked at her. Short blond hair, wet from sweat and the heat, molded to her head. Her face was all strong angles with a sharp, pointed chin. Wide, golden eyes. Cat eyes. Not classically pretty. Not really.
But with those full lips, those sharp-enough-to-cut-me cheekbones and, damn, those eyes—sexy. Definitely sexy.
Her hands were on her hips now. He couldn’t tell a thing about the shape of her body, not in that bulky uniform, but she was tall, just a few inches shy of his own six-foot-three.
Probably long and lean, but he usually liked them a bit softer around the edges and—
“Wanna tell me why you’ve got a death wish, GQ?”
GQ? He glanced down at his ruined suit. So she was funny. Or wanted to be. “I heard…” Kenton coughed and had to pause to clear his throat and breathe. “I heard… him calling for help.” He wouldn’t tell her the guy was his informant, not yet. That’d be on a need-to-know basis. Bedroom Eyes didn’t need to know that yet.
Her eyes were impressive. They were so big that he was surprised that she’d gotten them to go so mean and small so fast.
“Firefighters fight the flames,” she said. Ice could have dripped from her drawl. “Not businessmen with a hero complex.”
He rubbed his jaw. It hurt but so did his ego. “You always punch out your victims? That part of your complex?”
She shook her head. “I only punch when the guys are dumb enough to fight help when it comes.”
Ah, now that was the second time she’d insulted his intelligence. He reached into his back pocket and yanked out his wallet. The leather stuck a bit when he tried to open it, and he shoved his ID toward her. “FBI, sweetheart. I think I know how to handle a dangerous situation.”
She didn’t even glance down. “I think that’s debatable.”
A snicker came from behind him. Great. An audience. He’d forgotten all about the EMTs.
His sexy savior—with the serious attitude—turned away. “Get him checked out, Harry,” she called out and marched away.
That was it?
His gaze dropped. He couldn’t help it. Even in that thick garb, she had a nice sway.
“You—you assaulted an officer!” was all he could think of to say. She was heading for his informant and leaving him in her dust.
He didn’t want her to go. Not yet.
Her name was on the lower back of her uniform, spelled out in big, reflective letters: L. SPADE.
She threw a vulgar gesture over her shoulder but didn’t stop walking. Well, well… He didn’t fight the smile that lifted his lips.
“Dude, you better stop while you’re ahead,” suggested the EMT. What had she called him? Harvey? Harry?
Kenton tossed the oxygen mask at him. Spade was too close to his informant. No way was she getting first crack at him. The guy was his.
“Hey—wait!” the EMT shouted. “You need to go to the ER, you can’t just—”
Ignoring him, Kenton shoved his way through the crowd. There were gawkers lined up across the street watching the fire begin to sputter. Smoke drifted lazily into the night air, sirens wailed, and general chaos seemed to surround him.
The informant had reached the ground, and the paramedics immediately swarmed him.
“We need him taken to Langley General, stat!” Spade’s voice. “Sir, sir—you’re gonna be all right! You hear me? You’re safe!”
The guy coughed, shuddered, and seemed to collapse in on himself. But then he broke free of the paramedics and ran right at L. Spade.
“Sir!”
Was she going to punch him, too?
No, a coughing fit took the man down. Then there was a pile of bodies as the paramedics got to work. When the guy appeared again, he was strapped to a gurney, twitching, shouting, and spitting.
“You’re welcome.” Spade sighed, running a hand through her short hair. “Must be the night for assholes,” she muttered.
Kenton came up close beside her. “Guess it must be.”
Her head turned toward him. Those amazing golden eyes narrowed. Huh. Kinda like fire.
But Kenton’s informant was getting away. An EMT shoved the screaming man into the back of the ambulance. Great. He already knew the guy was a runner. If the fellow made it to the hospital, he’d vanish long before emergency personnel got hold of him.
“You are so full of crap.” Ah, this from the sweet-tongued L. Spade.
He blinked at her. “Sorry, I’m suddenly feeling… a little woozy.” He rubbed his jaw. “Could be from the blow I took. I think, I—I think I need to get to the hospital.” Kenton took a step away from her, his eyes already on the ambulance.
She touched his arm. He felt the heat of that touch right through the sleeve of his dress shirt. “What’s your name, GQ?”
“Kenton. Special Agent Kenton Lake.” So she’d noticed the connection, too, that hot zip of—
“Thanks. I needed your name because I’ll be reporting your actions to your boss at the Bureau.”
What? S
he was reporting him? She was the one who should be—
A siren screamed on. “Talk to you later, sweetheart.” He broke into a run. No, don’t shut that door— “Wait! I’m coming with you.” Kenton yanked out his mangled ID again, waved it at the EMT, then jumped inside.
As the door slammed shut behind him, Kenton tossed a hard grin at the man he suspected to be Louis Jerome, informer extraordinaire. “You didn’t think I’d miss our meeting, did you?”
That stopped the screaming.
“Uh, sir, you need to sit back—”
Kenton shook his head, hard, and the EMT quieted.
“Tell me what’s going on, Jerome,” Kenton said. “Tell me what’s happening with these fires, tell me why you called—”
“N-Name’s… not… Jerome.” Hoarse, either from the fire or the screaming. “Larry. Larry… Powell. Don’t know… who the… hell you are.”
Kenton’s body tensed. The words didn’t sound like a lie. Those eyes didn’t look like the guy was lying, either. And Kenton was good at finding the lies. It was a special talent he had.
Kenton reached for his phone but his pocket was empty. He must have dropped it during the fall. Dammit. He needed to run a check on this guy Larry Powell.
Because if this wasn’t his informant…
Then where’s Jerome?
He liked to watch the fire. When it danced, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Sensual, like a lover.
The firefighters had battled his blaze with all their strength. But in the end, the fire had won—and claimed her prize.
And to make things interesting, he’d even gotten a bonus during the show. Two bonuses really. More victims.
Like the fool who’d rushed in. He hadn’t counted on that. He’d underestimated the man.
But the guy had been saved. So had the addict.
Not that they mattered. They weren’t really part of the game. Well, not yet.
But they’d tasted the fire tonight. They wouldn’t soon forget that taste. After all, you never forgot your first.
The smoke was in the wind. When he opened his mouth, he felt it on his tongue.
She came out then. Yanking off her helmet. Pacing back and forth too quickly. Ah, found my body.
She understood the game. Perhaps better than anyone else. She knew what he was doing. Did she know why?
Tonight, the firefighters had lost. They hadn’t searched hard enough. Hadn’t responded fast enough.
The dead… was on their hands. Her hands.
More bodies would come. Because when you fought the fire, you learned fast that the fire fought back.
Lora Spade liked to win.
So did he.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Cynthia Eden
Dear Reader,
I like to be afraid. No, let me qualify that—I like the thrill that comes from being afraid, but I also like to know that I am completely 100% safe.
As a teen, I was a horror movie addict. I jumped every time a killer popped out of the darkness on-screen, and I yelled each time the foolish/brave heroine walked into the woods by herself. I loved the rush that came from watching those movies—and that same rush got to me even more intently when I read scary books. (It still gets to me!)
Fear gives you a spike of adrenaline; it makes your heart race, your breath heave; and, for the villain in my new book, DEADLY FEAR—well, fear makes his life worth living. The killer in this tale has an intimate connection with fear. He feels truly alive only when he can see and hear the real fear of others. So he sets out to turn his victims’ worst fears into reality. Oh, yes, this guy would have scared me as a teen.
But to give him a strong adversary, I created my heroine in the form of Special Agent Monica Davenport. Unlike the foolish/brave heroines from my past, Monica keeps her gun close, and she doesn’t let fear get to her. Instead, she gets into the killer’s mind.
Getting into his mind is, after all, her job. Monica is the lead profiler for the SSD—the Serial Services Division at the FBI. Her job is to track and apprehend serial killers. Fear isn’t an option for her.
But it is for me.
To learn more about DEADLY FEAR and to read an excerpt, visit my website: www.cynthiaeden.com.
Happy reading!
From the desk of Dee Davis
Dear Reader,
I read somewhere that “every character believes the story is about him.” That really struck a chord with me because I’ve had characters hijack a book completely. In my first novel, a secondary character had too much to drink and in the course of a conversation revealed the entire plot—in Chapter 3. I took his tankard away, rewrote the scene, and lo and behold—he behaved. In my third novel, a character was supposed to have a one-line walk-on and wound up stealing the show with his dramatic death scene. So experience has taught me to always keep this in mind when I write, and I offer this same advice to any budding writers out there.
As a writer, I love all my characters equally. They’re like children born from the murky depths of my imagination. But if I’m being really honest, some characters have a way of digging deeper into your heart. Tyler Hanson is one of those. Unlike some heroes and heroines I’ve written, who had to be dragged forcefully onto the page and compelled to reveal their secrets, Tyler sprang fully formed onto the computer screen almost from the minute I conceptualized her. She is strong, independent, and fiercely loyal. She isn’t afraid of anything—except falling in love. And so I knew I was going to enjoy watching as she struggled with her growing feelings for Owen and, like all of us, the shadows that haunt her past.
One of the wonderful things about writing a series is that when the book ends, it isn’t the end of the characters. They get to continue their journeys, albeit on the back burner, in future stories, and happily that means that I get to spend more time with characters like DARK DECEPTIONS’s Nash and Annie and DARK DESIRES’s Drake and Madeline.
And sometimes—because, after all, it’s my world—I get to reintroduce someone from a previous book, someone I really hated saying good-bye to. Enter Harrison Blake. Harrison first appeared in my Last Chance series, and to date, he’s gotten more mail than any other character I’ve ever written. So it’s with great pleasure that I called on him to help Owen out in DESPERATE DEEDS. And I’ve got a feeling we haven’t seen the last of him.
For more insight into Tyler and her romance with Owen, here are some songs I listened to while writing DESPERATE DEEDS:
“Blurry”—Puddle of Mudd
“Mad World”—Adam Lambert
“Kissed by a Rose”—Seal
I hope you’re enjoying the A-Tac series. For more on the books and me, check out www.deedavis.com.
Happy Reading!
From the desk of Kira Morgan
Dear Reader,
I’ve heard that in order to write a good book, you have to take your perfectly nice characters and torture them mercilessly. Well, I’m afraid to tell you that’s exactly what I’ve done to my poor heroine in CAPTURED BY DESIRE.
Florie Gilder is a 16th-century Scottish goldsmith’s daughter with a mind of her own, a strong will, and a bright future. So what do I do with her? I confront her with an unfortunate misunderstanding, which deteriorates into a disastrous altercation, followed by a tragic accident that renders her utterly helpless. Worse, I thrust her into the path of Rane McAllister, a charming, assertive lady-killer of a huntsman who is used to getting his way, and then I leave her in his overbearing hands.
All her life, Florie has fought for respectability among her peers in the goldsmith’s guild, but with a wicked twist of my pen, I upset her world and drag her down to the level of a common criminal, forcing her to claw her way back up. Knowing Florie prides herself on her independence, I strip that away from her too, leaving her completely reliant on a stranger.
Since Florie hates to be touched, Rane touches her all the time. Because she’s accustomed to dining
on roast capon, sweetmeats, and fine wine, Rane brings her coarse bread, hard cheese, and rough ale. Florie prefers velvet, and Rane dresses her in wool.
But I don’t stop there.
Florie prefers to be alone, so naturally the hero is with her constantly. She doesn’t like to be the center of attention, so I make a humiliating spectacle out of her. She’s terrified of the enemy English, so they’re a constant threat.
Then, when she thinks things can’t get any worse, I make Florie, who has sworn on her mother’s grave never to fall in love, fall in love.
Of course, I put a few thumbscrews to the hero, too.
Since Rane prefers compliant blondes, I throw him a spunky brunette. I obligate him to take care of Florie when he’s supposed to be providing for starving peasants. I force him to choose between his loyalty to his lord and his love for Florie.
And because Rane is pretty much the village stud, I taunt him with women he can’t have, all the while dangling the virgin Florie in front of him.
It’s a cruel game, I suppose, making my characters suffer so much. But in the end, it really does make everyone’s “happy ever after” that much happier! After all, what’s pleasure without a little pain?