“I had to.” The words were almost lost under the susurration of the night’s breeze. “I had to,” Trinity repeated. “Perhaps my calculations are in error, and I am degrading. Be...safe, Ms. Candless. Goodbye.”
“Trinity, wait—”
But the other woman was gone, stepping out onto the balcony. By the time Holly got there, she was just a fading smear of agent-strong scent, and it again reminded Holly powerfully of Cal’s. Was that why he was looking for her?
Outside, the city growled, and a sharp spatter of gunfire sounded in the distance. The songs in this part of the country sang about the narcos and forbidden love, corridas and muerte. Was the violence any cleaner because it was out in the open?
Footsteps in the hall. She recognized them, and relief poured through her. The key in the lock, and she rushed to unbar the door—because here, you couldn’t be too safe—and Reese’s smile as he saw her was a balm. He stopped, his nostrils flaring, and she pulled him inside.
“Trinity was here. She just left. Reese, she’s—”
“Good.” His grin widened. “Cal’s in town, too, honey. He’s determined, I’ll give him that much. Smarter than he thinks he is, too. Were you waiting up for me?”
“Of course. Reese—”
“Let me just be happy to see you, baby. We’re moving on tomorrow.” He barred the door and took her in his arms. “But that can wait. I, um, found you a ring.”
What? “A ring?”
“Crap. I thought I’d get down on one knee, but I blew it. There’s a place farther south, I know a priest—they’re all Catholic here, I forgot to ask if you—”
Oh, good God. “You’re asking me to marry you?”
“Well, we’re running for our lives, I suppose I might as well, you kno—”
He might have said more, but by that time, Holly was kissing him, and for that night, at least, the outside world didn’t matter.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from
PROTECTING THE COLTON BRIDE by Elle James.
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SPECIAL EXCERPT FROM
ROMANTIC SUSPENSE
Can this Colton cowboy save his wife—and his beloved ranch—when a killer threatens everything they hold dear?
Read on for a sneak preview of
PROTECTING THE COLTON BRIDE
by New York Times bestselling author Elle James,
the fourth book in the 2015
COLTONS OF WYOMING continuity.
“Why don’t we get married?”
Even though she’d known it was coming, it still hit her square in the chest. The air rushed from her lungs and a tsunami of feelings washed over her. A surge of joy made her heart beat so fast she felt faint. She crested that wave and slid into the undertow of reality. “A marriage of convenience?”
“Exactly.” Daniel reached for her hands.
When she hid them behind her back, he dropped his arms. “It wouldn’t have to be forever. Just long enough to satisfy the stipulations of your grandmother’s will and save your horses, and that would help me get past the Kennedy gauntlet. We could leave tomorrow, spend a night in Vegas, find a chapel and it would be over in less than five minutes.”
With her heart smarting, Megan forced a shaky smile. “Way to sweep a girl off her feet.”
He waved his hand and Halo tossed her head. “If you want, I can make an official announcement in front of my family.”
Megan shook her head. “No.”
“No, you won’t marry me?”
“No.” She pushed past him to pace down the center of the barn. “Your plan is insane.”
“Do you have a better one?” he asked. “I’m all ears.”
The plan was the same as the one she’d been thinking of before Daniel had woken up. Only when she’d dreamed it up, it didn’t sound as cold and impersonal as Daniel’s proposal. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d hoped that marriage to Daniel would be something more than one of convenience.
After yesterday’s kiss, she wasn’t sure she could be around Daniel for long periods of time without wanting another. And another.
Don’t miss
PROTECTING THE COLTON BRIDE
by New York Times bestselling author Elle James,
Available September 2015
www.Harlequin.com
Copyright © 2015 by Harlequin Books, S.A.
Read on for a sneak preview of FATAL AFFAIR,
the first book in the FATAL series
by New York Times bestselling author
Marie Force.
Fatal Affair
by Marie Force
Chapter 1
The smell hit him first.
“Ugh, what the hell is that?” Nick Cappuano dropped his keys into his coat pocket and stepped into the spacious, well-appointed Watergate apartment that his boss, Senator John O’Connor, had inherited from his father.
“Senator!” Nick tried to identify the foul metallic odor.
Making his way through the living room, he noticed parts and pieces of the suit John wore yesterday strewn over sofas and chairs, laying a path to the bedroom. He had called the night before to check in with Nick after a dinner meeting with Virginia’s Democratic Party leadership, and said he was on his way home. Nick had reminded his thirty-six-year-old boss to set his alarm.
“Senator?” John hated when Nick called him that when they were alone, but Nick insisted the people in John’s life afford him the respect of his title.
The odd stench permeating the apartment caused a tingle of anxiety to register on the back of Nick’s neck. “John?”
He stepped into the bedroom and gasped. Drenched in blood, John sat up in bed, his eyes open but vacant. A knife spiked through his neck held him in place against the headboard. His hands rested in a pool of blood in his lap.
Gagging, the last thing Nick noticed before he bolted to the bathroom to vomit was that something was hanging out of John’s mouth.
Once the violent retching finally stopped, Nick stood up on shaky legs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and rested against the vanity, waiting to see if there would be more. His cell phone rang. When he didn’t take the call, his pager vibrated. Nick couldn’t find the wherewithal to answer, to say the words that would change everything. The senator is dead. John’s been murdered. He wanted to go back to when he was still in his car, fuming and under the assumption that his biggest problem that day would be what to do about the man-child he worked for who had once again slept through his alarm.
Thoughts of John, dating back to their first meeting in a history class at Harvard freshman year, flashed through Nick’s mind, hundreds of snippets spanning a nearly twenty-year friendship. As if to convince himself that his eyes had not deceived him, he leaned forward to glance into the bedroom, wincing at the sight of his best friend—the brother of his heart—stabbed through the neck and covered with blood.
Nick’s eyes burned with tears, but he refused to give in to them. Not now. Later maybe, but not now. His phone rang again. This time he reached for it and saw it was Christina, his deputy chief of staff, but didn
’t take the call. Instead, he dialed 911.
Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart and making a supreme effort to keep the hysteria out of his voice, he said, “I need to report a murder.” He gave the address and stumbled into the living room to wait for the police, all the while trying to get his head around the image of his dead friend, a visual he already knew would haunt him forever.
Twenty long minutes later, two officers arrived, took a quick look in the bedroom and radioed for backup. Nick was certain neither of them recognized the victim.
He felt as if he was being sucked into a riptide, pulled further and further from the safety of shore, until drawing a breath became a laborious effort. He told the cops exactly what happened—his boss failed to show up for work, he came looking for him and found him dead.
“Your boss’s name?”
“United States Senator John O’Connor.” Nick watched the two young officers go pale in the instant before they made a second more urgent call for backup.
“Another scandal at the Watergate,” Nick heard one of them mutter.
His cell phone rang yet again. This time he reached for it.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“Nick!” Christina cried. “Where the hell are you guys? Trevor’s having a heart attack!” She referred to their communications director who had back-to-back interviews scheduled for the senator that morning.
“He’s dead, Chris.”
“Who’s dead? What’re you talking about?”
“John.”
Her soft cry broke his heart. “No.” That she was desperately in love with John was no secret to Nick. That she was also a consummate professional who would never act on those feelings was one of the many reasons Nick respected her.
“I’m sorry to just blurt it out like that.”
“How?” she asked in a small voice.
“Stabbed in his bed.”
Her ravaged moan echoed through the phone. “But who… I mean, why?”
“The cops are here, but I don’t know anything yet. I need you to request a postponement on the vote.”
“I can’t,” she said, adding in a whisper, “I can’t think about that right now.”
“You have to, Chris. That bill is his legacy. We can’t let all his hard work be for nothing. Can you do it? For him?”
“Yes…okay.”
“You have to pull yourself together for the staff, but don’t tell them yet. Not until his parents are notified.”
“Oh, God, his poor parents. You should go, Nick. It’d be better coming from you than cops they don’t know.”
“I don’t know if I can. How do I tell people I love that their son’s been murdered?”
“He’d want it to come from you.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’ll see if the cops will let me.”
“What’re we going to do without him, Nick?” She posed a question he’d been grappling with himself. “I just can’t imagine this world, this life, without him.”
“I can’t either,” Nick said, knowing it would be a much different life without John O’Connor at the center of it.
“He’s really dead?” she asked as if to convince herself it wasn’t a cruel joke. “Someone killed him?”
“Yes.”
* * *
Outside the chief’s office suite, Detective Sergeant Sam Holland smoothed her hands over the toffee-colored hair she corralled into a clip for work, pinched some color into cheeks that hadn’t seen the light of day in weeks, and adjusted her gray suit jacket over a red scoop-neck top.
Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves and settle her chronically upset stomach, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Chief Farnsworth’s receptionist greeted her with a smile. “Go right in, Sergeant Holland. He’s waiting for you.”
Great, Sam thought as she left the receptionist with a weak smile. Before she could give into the urge to turn tail and run, she erased the grimace from her face and went in.
“Sergeant.” The chief, a man she’d once called Uncle Joe, stood up and came around the big desk to greet her with a firm handshake. His gray eyes skirted over her with concern and sympathy, both of which were new since “the incident.” She despised being the reason for either. “You look well.”
“I feel well.”
“Glad to hear it.” He gestured for her to have a seat. “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Pouring himself a cup, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve been worried about you, Sam.”
“I’m sorry for causing you worry and for disgracing the department.” This was the first chance she’d had to speak directly to him since she returned from a month of administrative leave, during which she’d practiced the sentence over and over. She thought she’d delivered it with convincing sincerity.
“Sam,” he sighed as he sat across from her, cradling his mug between big hands. “You’ve done nothing to disgrace yourself or the department. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Not everyone makes mistakes that result in a dead child, Chief.”
He studied her for a long, intense moment as if he was making some sort of decision. “Senator John O’Connor was found murdered in his apartment this morning.”
“Jesus,” she gasped. “How?”
“I don’t have all the details, but from what I’ve been told so far, it appears he was dismembered and stabbed through the neck. Apparently, his chief of staff found him.”
“Nick,” she said softly.
“Excuse me?”
“Nick Cappuano is O’Connor’s chief of staff.”
“You know him?”
“Knew him. Years ago,” she added, surprised and unsettled to discover the memory of him still had power over her, that just the sound of his name rolling off her lips could make her heart race.
“I’m assigning the case to you.”
Surprised at being thrust so forcefully back into the real work she had craved since her return to duty, she couldn’t help but ask, “Why me?”
“Because you need this, and so do I. We both need a win.”
The press had been relentless in its criticism of him, of her, of the department, but to hear him acknowledge it made her ache. Her father had come up through the ranks with Farnsworth, which was probably the number one reason why she still had a job. “Is this a test? Find out who killed the senator and my previous sins are forgiven?”
He put down his coffee cup and leaned forward, elbows resting on knees. “The only person who needs to forgive you, Sam, is you.”
Infuriated by the surge of emotion brought on by his softly spoken words, Sam cleared her throat and stood up. “Where does O’Connor live?”
“The Watergate. Two uniforms are already there. Crime scene is on its way.” He handed her a slip of paper with the address. “I don’t have to tell you that this needs to be handled with the utmost discretion.”
He also didn’t have to tell her that this was the only chance she’d get at redemption.
“Won’t the Feds want in on this?”
“They might, but they don’t have jurisdiction, and they know it. They’ll be breathing down my neck, though, so report directly to me. I want to know everything ten minutes after you do. I’ll smooth it with Stahl,” he added, referring to the lieutenant she usually answered to.
Heading for the door, she said, “I won’t let you down.”
“You never have before.”
With her hand resting on the door handle, she turned back to him. “Are you saying that as the chief of police or as my Uncle Joe?”
His face lifted into a small but sincere smile. “Both.”
Chapter 2
Sitting on John’s sofa under the watchful eyes of the two policemen, Nick’s mind r
aced with the staggering number of things that needed to be done, details to be seen to, people to call. His cell phone rang relentlessly, but he ignored it after deciding he would talk to no one until he had seen John’s parents. Almost twenty years ago they took an instant shine to the hard-luck scholarship student their son brought home from Harvard for a weekend visit and made him part of their family. Nick owed them so much, not the least of which was hearing the news of their son’s death from him if possible.
He ran his hand through his hair. “How much longer?”
“Detectives are on their way.”
Ten minutes later, Nick heard her before he saw her. A flurry of activity and a burst of energy preceded the detectives’ entrance into the apartment. He suppressed a groan. Wasn’t it enough that his friend and boss had been murdered? He had to face her, too? Weren’t there thousands of District cops? Was she really the only one available?
Sam came into the apartment, oozing authority and competence. In light of her recent troubles, Nick couldn’t believe she had any of either left. “Get some tape across that door,” she ordered one of the officers. “Start a log with a timeline of who got here when. No one comes in or goes out without my okay, got it?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Patrol sergeant is on his way along with Deputy Chief Conklin and Detective Captain Malone.”
“Let me know when they get here.” Without so much as a glance in his direction, Nick watched her stalk through the apartment and disappear into the bedroom. Following her, a handsome young detective with bed head nodded to Nick.
He heard the murmur of voices from the bedroom and saw a camera flash. They emerged fifteen minutes later, both noticeably paler. For some reason, Nick was gratified to know the detectives working the case weren’t so jaded as to be unaffected by what they’d just seen.
“Start a canvass of the building,” Sam ordered her partner. “Where the hell is Crime Scene?”
“Hung up at another homicide,” one of the other officers replied.
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