“God.” She shoved her hair away from her face, digging her fingers into her scalp. Images tumbled through her brain, the horrific death inflicted on Jessica Grady. Rhett had taken part in that? “Why?”
“Because her baby was conceived to be Amarie’s marrow donor.” His raw, audible swallow made her throat hurt. “Jessie got greedy, started asking for more money from Rhett for the child and blackmailing Baker as well. So they went and…took it.”
“Where’s the baby now?” She covered her mouth with both hands as another thought slammed into her. “Did Mariah know?”
“No.” He shook his head, rubbing a thumb along the seam at his thigh. “Baker had one of his lackeys take the baby to Atlanta. Obviously, he had a doctor on the payroll up there. They concocted some story about finding a donor. My bet is they planned to put the baby up for an illegal adoption once the marrow was extracted.”
Another transaction. Another problem to be disposed of.
Like Jessie. Like Cicely.
She closed her eyes, heart aching now for Mariah and Amarie. So many lives destroyed.
Pain nudged at her mind and she instinctively recoiled. That wasn’t her emotion. Her lashes lifted, in time for her to catch a flash of naked agony on his face.
No, not her pain. His. Tom’s hurt and sense of betrayal. His anger and confusion.
Moving on intuition, she bracketed his face with her hands. “I’m sorry,” she murmured and leaned forward to feather her mouth over his, to smooth kisses along his jaw. “So sorry. I know he was your friend, how much this has to hurt you.”
His arms came around her with crushing force, clutching her to him as though he feared she’d disappear if he let her go. Celia buried her face in the curve between his neck and shoulder and sucked in a deep breath, fortifying herself. “I love you, Tom.”
He froze but she sensed the relieved shudder that traveled through him.
“I can’t make you forget any of this, Cee,” he whispered into her hair. “Not what happened to Cicely, what Rhett did, but I can promise you new memories, good memories, baby.”
“Memories of us.” She trailed a hand down his back, a touch of connection and comfort rather than desire, a connection she felt all the way to her soul. “For both of us.”
He held on tighter. “I’m so sorry, baby. I know she was all you had—”
“I have you.” She murmured the words against his throat, and when he pressed his face to her temple, she felt the dampness of tears on her skin. “I just didn’t know how much I needed you.”
“I’ll always be here for you. As long as you need me.”
She leaned back and tilted her face so their gazes met. “It could take a long time to make those memories, McMillian. A lifetime, maybe.”
“Definitely a lifetime, if that’s what you want, Celia.” He cupped her face, catching her tears on his thumbs and rubbing the moisture away. Frustration twisted his mouth. “Damn it all, I have to go to the sheriff’s department. Tick is going to make a statement to the press and I want to be there. I wish I could stay with you and be—”
“It’s okay.” She smiled, although her lips trembled, the same sense of connection and comfort unfurling between them. “I’ll come with you.”
“I’m going to put them away, both of them, baby, for as long as I can, for what they did. I swear it to you.”
“I know you will. You’re a tough son of a bitch.” She lifted his hand, brushed her lips across the inside of his wrist. “That’s what I love about you most.”
Epilogue
The steady flow of icy water did little to soothe her burning skin. Celia lifted her face from the stream spilling from the hose. She blinked, her eyes still blurred and watering. Jesus above, she hated recertifying for pepper spray.
“I’m really sorry.” Cook spoke somewhere over her head.
She straightened and handed the hose off to a waiting deputy, also a fellow victim. She brushed wet hair from her face and fixed a decidedly unrepentant Mark Cook with a glare. “Sure you are. Just wait. I’m going to pay Calvert off so I can hold the canister when you have to do this.”
“I’m good for two more years.” With a smug grin, he folded his arms.
She narrowed her eyes at him but squashed the desire to stick out her tongue. “I’ll wait.”
His soft laugh rumbled between them. She lifted the collar of her T-shirt and rubbed water from her face with a gingery motion. Hell, even touching her capsicum-abraded skin hurt. She gazed across the parking lot behind the Chandler County Sheriff’s Department, where the training exercise was going on. Tick Calvert sat on the back steps, scribbling on a clipboard. He looked as withdrawn and dejected as he’d been all day, the normally straight line of his shoulders slumped.
Celia nudged Cook’s side. “What’s with him?”
Cook rested his hands at his gun belt. “His wife’s pregnant again. They just found out last week.”
“That’s not a good thing?” Celia frowned. “I thought they wanted kids.”
“They did. They quit trying after her third miscarriage last year. Hurts too bad, I guess.” Cook’s mouth tightened. “This one was a total surprise for both of them and I don’t think it’s a happy one. More a wait-and-see-what-goes-wrong one, you know?”
“Yeah.” Sympathy swirled through her. The sorrow apparent in Tick’s posture she understood. It mirrored Tom’s over the loss of his son so long ago. Losing a loved one lingered, the grief rising to torment when least expected. Celia tugged at her chain, where the small ring Cicely had always worn on her right hand now shared space with a tarnished button from an Air Force dress blue uniform.
“You don’t have to hang around here.” Cook pulled her from the melancholy reverie. “We’re going to debrief as a department. Don’t think you have to suffer through that just to get your certificate renewed.”
“Thanks.” She lifted a hand in a wave. “See you.”
This late on a summer Saturday afternoon, traffic was sparse, not that it was ever too heavy to begin with. Within minutes, she was zipping along the lakefront, the warm breeze whipping in through open windows and soothing the sting from her skin. After pulling into the drive, she parked the Xterra in the garage beside the Mercedes and entered through the laundry room.
The house lay quiet and she wandered through the kitchen to the living area. She needed a shower as the biting smell of pepper spray still clung to her clothes and hair. Sunlight slanted in through tall windows. She stopped, smiling at the sight of Tom napping on the wide leather couch, a recent law journal on his chest, reading glasses perched askew on his nose.
His bare feet were propped on the sofa arm, and she tweaked his big toe and watched his tall body come to alertness. Dark lashes lifted to reveal sharp blue eyes.
“Hello, Counselor.” She moved closer to lean down and remove his glasses. She’d barely set them aside on the coffee table when he grasped her wrist and pulled her down atop him. The glossy journal slid to the floor.
“Hello, Mrs. McMillian.” Still holding her wrist and with one arm clamped around her waist, he nuzzled her ear. Shivery anticipation tingled over her.
“You get a serious jolly from saying that, don’t you?” She melted into him, rubbing her hands over his chest. Under her palm, his heart thudded a steady rhythm.
“Yes.” He nipped at her earlobe. “I like knowing you belong to me, that I belong to you.”
She liked it too, liked knowing that even when things went pear-shaped, she could count on him to be there. He’d proven it over and over in the last year, from Cicely’s funeral to Rhett High’s and Alton Baker’s trials for her sister’s murder.
And through everything, she’d been right with him too.
With his mouth doing wicked things to her senses, she fiddled with the placket of his golf shirt, freeing the buttons so she could slide her fingers across warm, hair-roughened skin. The hand at her waist slipped down, dipping beneath the waistband of her jeans to caress the small
of her back and lower.
“Know what I think we should do, Mr. McMillian?” She caught her breath as those marauding fingers found intimate flesh.
“What’s that, Cee?” Near her ear, his voice lowered to a sinful growl.
“I think…” She tiptoed her fingers down his chest. “We should go upstairs and make another memory.”
His teeth flashed in the shark’s smile she loved and he pressed her to him, drawing her mouth down to his. “My pleasure, Mrs. McMillian.”
—
Two lazy hours later, after they’d showered together, she’d managed to weaken his knees and leave him moaning, and he’d returned the favor, Tom set about putting together shish kebobs for the grill. A glass of pinot noir in hand, Celia perched on a stool at the island, chatting to him about her training mishaps while he sliced peppers and a red onion. The spicy scent of marinade filled the air.
Tom set the strips of pepper aside, warm contentment spreading through him. This part of each day he liked best—well, second best, since life didn’t hold anything better than waking with Celia rumpled and drowsy in his arms each morning, knowing she’d be there again when night fell. But he treasured the simple pleasure of their evenings, sharing the task of preparing a casual supper while they indulged in conversation punctuated with laughter and love.
The memories they made got him through even the toughest days.
Celia flipped through the day’s mail lying atop the granite countertop. She tapped a short, neat fingernail on a flyer from the Alabama Shakespeare Festival. “They’re showing The Count of Monte Cristo next month. We should go, maybe spend the night…”
She let the thought trail away as the front bell rang. “Were you expecting someone?”
He dumped wedges of onion next to the pepper. “No.”
“Wonder who it is?” Twirling her wine flute, Celia slid from the stool and sauntered through to the foyer, bare feet whispering against the tile.
Tom reached for the skewers. Voices wafted down the short hallway, Celia’s blending with two familiar male tones. An ominous prickle started at the base of his spine, radiating through his lower back to become a nagging pain. He stilled, a familiar and hated sensation of prodding darkness invading his brain.
Fuck. He dropped the damp wooden spits and spun to follow his wife. He almost collided with her in the doorway as she entered with Cook and Tick on her heels. The throb in his back pulsed into a low agony; the looming danger tried to cloud his mind.
He gritted his teeth against both. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Surprise flared in Celia’s blue gaze, followed by concern. She held aloft a sheet of paper. “I forgot my training log and they dropped it by.” She cast the paper aside and laid a gentle hand on his forearm. “Are you all right? You’re pale.”
“Fine.” He stepped backward into the kitchen, fighting the waves of sensation that didn’t belong to him.
“I’m going to get you some water.” Celia moved away. Pain speared across his chest, right to left, at a downward angle, taking his breath. Shit, psychic awareness was supposed to be a good thing? Like hell. Every single book he’d read on the topic which tried to put a positive spin on it lied. This was not good. Darkness crowded his vision and he tried to catch his breath.
“McMillian, you need to sit down.” Tick took his arm in a firm grip and steered him toward the dining set before the tall windows. Nausea pushed up in Tom’s throat; he laid a palm over the agony burning his torso. “St. John, you got any aspirin in the house?”
Cook flipped open his cell. “I’m calling for an ambulance.”
It was one of them, he was experiencing what would happen to one of them and they thought he was having a fucking heart attack. If he didn’t hurt so damn bad, it would be funny.
“Don’t need an ambulance.” He’d be fine as soon as whichever one of them he was feeling was out of the house. “I’m all right.”
“Sure you are.” Grim humor colored Tick’s words. His fingers rested on Tom’s wrist in a firm grip. Taking his pulse, Tom realized.
“He’ll be okay in a minute.” Celia knelt beside him and pushed a cool glass into his hand. Grateful, he lifted it to his mouth.
“Pulse is normal.” Surprise vibrated in Tick’s voice. He released Tom’s wrist.
“I’m not having a damn heart attack.” He let more of the cold water trickle down his throat. The weird pain subsided somewhat. He looked up in time to see Tick shrug and mouth “anxiety” at Cook. Yeah, that was one word for it—knowing something terrible was looming, but not being able to tell where or when it would strike. Sounded like anxiety to him.
“He needs to rest.” Celia stroked the inside of his forearm. “Why don’t you two take off?”
“You’re sure?” Cell phone still in hand, Cook frowned.
“Yes.” She curved her hand along Tom’s jaw, warmth and peace spreading out from the simple contact.
“We’ll let ourselves out.” As they left the kitchen, the discomfort eased, evaporating when the front door closed behind them with a quiet snick.
Celia glanced toward the foyer then back at him. “Better?”
He blew out a less-than-steady breath, icy sweat peppering his upper lip. “Much.”
Her eyes troubled, Celia continued to touch him in easy, soothing caresses. “Don’t you think we should tell them?”
He flinched away from the idea before he could stop himself. A scornful laugh escaped his lips. “Yeah. What am I going to say? I think something catastrophic is going to happen to one of you, but I don’t know which one, I don’t know when, and I don’t know exactly what that something is. Hell.”
“At least think about it.”
“I will.” Frustration made his voice sharp. Like he’d think about anything else the rest of the evening.
“Oh Tom.” She enfolded him in a close embrace. “I’m sorry.”
He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin atop her shining hair. “So am I.”
“I’d take it away if I could,” she whispered into the curve of his throat. “I’d make it better.”
“I know.” He managed to smile. Pulling back, he touched her face. “You make everything better.”
She laid her forefinger in the center of his bottom lip. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He kissed her fingertip. “You’re the one thing I’m always certain of, Cee.”
She leaned forward to whisper against his mouth, her words wrapping welcome warmth around him. “It’s mutual, Counselor.”
About the Author
How does a high school English teacher end up plotting murders? She uses her experiences as a cop’s wife to become a writer of romantic suspense! Linda Winfree lives in a quintessential small Georgia town with her husband and two children. By day, she teaches American Literature, advises the student government and coaches the drama team; by night she pens sultry books full of murder and mayhem.
To learn more about Linda and her books, visit her website at http://www.lindawinfree.comor join her Yahoo newsletter group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/linda_winfree. Linda loves hearing from readers. Feel free to drop her an email at [email protected].
Look for these titles by Linda Winfree
Now Available:
What Mattered Most
Truth and Consequences
His Ordinary Life
Hold On to Me
Anything But Mine
Coming Soon:
A Formal Feeling
Their passion rivals the fires they battle.
Hot Shot
© 2008 M.J. Fredrick
Peyton Michaels expected her assignment to be simple—write an article about everyday heroes. Heroes like Hot Shot firefighter Gabe Cooper. She never expected to find herself running up a mountain, a wildfire nipping at her heels, her life in his hands.
And she never expected to be drawn to Gabe. After the loss of her husband in the line of duty, the last thing she wants is to fall in l
ove with yet another man who routinely puts his life at risk.
Gabe has had enough of women who want to make him into someone he’s not. Women like his ex, who couldn’t handle the heat of his job. Like Peyton, who sees him as a hero when he’s just a man doing a job. Except time after time, the pesky reporter proves her mettle. And gets deeper under his skin.
But there’s an arsonist at work, and danger is closing in with the speed of a raging brush fire. Peyton and Gabe have to dig deep for what it takes to be a real hero—to find the courage to reach out and grab a forever kind of love. Before it’s too late.
Warning: sexy.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Hot Shot:
Gabe moved with such confidence Peyton couldn’t take her eyes from him as he led with his shoulder through the crowd.
Firefighters and locals alike stopped him at every table, congratulated him, offered him beer, quizzed him about his narrow escape. She liked the way he brushed off the adulation, as if his skill and know-how had no bearing on the outcome of the day. Since when could Gabe Cooper be humble? She never saw evidence of it when he dealt with her.
“Hey.” He reached the bar and edged closer to her than necessary. “Hanging in?”
The scent of smoke clung to him, probably was a part of his DNA after so many years on the fire line. She’d attributed the odor to the place, and now would always recognize the scent as Gabe. He was so close she couldn’t take a breath without smelling him. It didn’t stop her from breathing.
She tried to shift away for her own sanity, but the bar was too crowded to go far. “No. I left my will to stay upright on the mountain.”
His low, sexy laugh curled around every nerve in her body, coaxing them to the surface of her skin, where they shimmered with anticipation.
“Good thing we don’t have far to go.” He dangled a motel key from his fingers. So he’d gotten the last room. And he wanted to share. “The room’s right upstairs. Thought you might enjoy a long hot shower.”
For God’s sake, a thirty-two-year-old widow should be able to control her blush. Was she embarrassed because the bartender overheard, or because a gorgeous man handed her a line?
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