by LENA DIAZ,
THE CLOCK WAS TICKING…
Detective Rafe Morgan knew that, as a psychologist, Darby Steele was used to people coming to her in need. But now she was the one in danger. A serial killer had made her a pawn in a sick game, sending her photos of his targets with clocks counting down. As a part-time bomb technician, Rafe was uniquely capable of keeping Darby safe. Usually psychologists rubbed Rafe the wrong way, but when it came to Darby, his urge to protect and serve went way beyond the badge. Getting to know the beautiful doctor had opened Rafe’s eyes—and his heart. But if their elusive bomber had his way, Rafe would never get a chance to prove just how far he’d go to keep Darby alive.
He set the photograph down to reach for the envelope again. When he pulled out the watch, Rafe’s eyes widened and he let out a vicious curse.
He grasped the watch in one hand and yanked his cell phone out of his jeans pocket with the other.
“What’s wrong?” Darby hated the alarm in her voice, but what had seemed like a harmless prank a few minutes ago now seemed like something far more sinister.
Rafe issued rapid-fire instructions into the phone. In answer to Darby’s earlier question, he held the watch down where she could see it.
A stark digital readout flashed against the white background, displaying 00:00:15. The last number was decreasing—fourteen…thirteen…twelve. Rafe wasn’t holding a watch. He was holding a timer.
And it was counting down.
He ended the call and looked at the timer. His gaze shot to hers. “Time’s up.”
Boom.
Lena Diaz
Explosive Attraction
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lena Diaz was born in Kentucky and has also lived in California, Louisiana and Florida, where she now resides with her husband and two children. Before becoming a romance suspense author, she was a computer programmer. A former Romance Writers of America Golden Heart® finalist, she has won a prestigious Daphne du Maurier award for excellence in mystery and suspense. She loves to watch action movies, garden and hike in the beautiful Tennessee Smoky Mountains. To get the latest news about Lena, please visit her website, www.lenadiaz.com.
Books by Lena Diaz
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
1405—THE MARSHAL’S WITNESS
1422—EXPLOSIVE ATTRACTION
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Rafe Morgan—One of the best detectives on the St. Augustine police force, Rafe is also a trained bomb technician. After losing his wife in a brutal home invasion, Rafe is more determined than ever to make the streets of his hometown safe, and keep criminals where they belong—in prison.
Darby Steele—She became a psychologist to overcome her past and help others do the same. Her expert testimony often puts her and Detective Morgan on opposite sides in court. But after she becomes a serial bomber’s obsession, she must turn to Rafe for help.
Jake Young—This St. Augustine detective and bomb-squad technician used to be Rafe’s brother-in-law and his best friend. Jake can’t get over his sister’s death and Rafe’s failure to protect her. But is he angry enough to turn to murder?
Captain Buresh—He oversees the serial-bomber investigation and may end up on the victim list.
Robert Ellington—The way this reporter covered Detective Morgan’s wife’s death made the two of them bitter enemies. How far will Ellington go for revenge and a story?
Nick Morgan—Brother of Rafe Morgan, Nick is a drug enforcement agent who helps Rafe and Darby when they are on the run.
Victor Grant—He is an assistant district attorney, and his death could be an important clue to the serial bomber’s identity.
Judge Thompson—He presided over many of Rafe and Darby’s court cases.
Clive McHenry—This private investigator knew Rafe’s deepest secret.
As always, my heartfelt appreciation goes to my editor, Allison Lyons, and my agent, Nalini Akolekar. I am having a blast, and you are both to blame. To my fellow Fire-Breathing Flamingos—Sheila Athens, Valerie Bowman, Alyssa Day, Madeline Martin and Ava Milone—thank you for your awesome critiques, your incredible brainstorming sessions and all those late nights at the Hen. This book is dedicated to George, my incredibly patient and supportive husband of more than twenty-six years. You taught me the real meaning of unconditional love, and gave me the best gifts a woman could ever receive—our son, Sean, and our daughter, Jennifer. I love you more than you will ever know. I’m enjoying every chapter of this story we’re living together, and can’t wait to see what happens next.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Excerpt
Chapter One
The door to Darby’s office flew open and banged against the wall. She froze in her chair, blinking in surprise at the man standing there, his dark eyes narrowed, intent, like a predator on the hunt.
Darby very much feared she was his prey.
“Where’s the letter?” He stalked across the room, his laserlike gaze settling on her.
Trapped, between the desk and the wall. She pressed back against her chair while she mentally cataloged the office supplies around her for their weapon potential. She was reaching for her stapler when it dawned on her what he’d said, something about a letter.
Her young assistant stood in the doorway wringing her hands, glancing from the stranger to Darby. “I’m sorry, Dr. Steele. He refused to wait. He just—”
“The letter,” the man repeated, his deep voice gruff with impatience.
That familiar voice had Darby letting go of the stapler and studying him more carefully. Several days’ growth of stubble darkened his jaw. His shaggy, unkempt hair hung just past his ears. His brows were a fierce slash on a deeply tanned face that would have been handsome if he wasn’t frowning.
She’d been the recipient of that frown too many times not to recognize it.
Some of the tension drained out of her. “It’s okay, Mindy,” she reassured her assistant. “This is Detective Rafe Morgan.”
A look of relief flashed across Mindy’s face. Without waiting to see if Darby needed anything, she eagerly fled the office.
So much for having her boss’s back.
Darby squelched her own desire to flee. Having Rafe Morgan burst into her office was only slightly better than confronting the drug-crazed stranger she’d first believed him to be. Especially since Rafe could barely stand to be in the same room with her.
The feeling was mutual.
Giving him the bland smile she reserved for her most difficult clients, she pushed back from her desk to shake his hand. “Detective, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
When he made no move to take her hand, she let out a deep sigh and dropped her hand to her side. Actually, the slight probably wasn’t intentional. He seemed preoccupied, studying every detail in her office, as if he expected someone to jump out from behind a bookshelf or from behind the couch and chairs she used for her therapy sessions.
“You called the police, said someone sent you a threatening letter,” he reminded her.
He was on duty, seriously? She glanced at the wrinkled shirt he was wearing and the equally wrinkled blazer that did little to conceal the large gun holstered at his waist. Since when had he started wearing jeans to work? Every time she’d ever s
een him he was wearing a suit and tie, clean-shaven, with his dark hair cut military short. Then again, she’d only seen him at the courthouse, when they were both testifying—usually on opposite sides of a case. Maybe this was how he dressed when not in court.
He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his jeans pocket and tugged them on. His gaze flicked down her suit, slowly, insultingly, past her skirt, down her legs to her heels then back up, before his mocking gaze met hers again.
Point taken. He’d noticed her looking at his clothes and was giving it right back to her. She wouldn’t have expected anything less from him.
“I’m in a hurry here, Dr. Steele.”
Her fists clenched at her side. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you here any longer than necessary.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Of course.”
She gritted her teeth and whirled around, marching toward the grouping of furniture on the far side of the room. She reminded herself Rafe had lost his wife a year ago in a horrible tragedy. He deserved her patience and understanding. She drew a deep, bracing breath and stopped beside the couch. “I’m sure the letter isn’t anything serious. I get things like this every once in a while.”
“If you didn’t think it was serious, why did you call the police?”
Patience, patience.
He stopped next to her, and she had to crane her neck back to look at him. In her calmest voice, she explained, “I have clients to think about. I never ignore threats, even if I don’t think there’s any real danger.”
He seemed to consider that for a moment. “You get a lot of threats?” No sarcasm, just what sounded like genuine concern.
Darby let out a pent-up breath and moved past him to the small, decorative table where she kept her mail. “Two or three a year. People pin their hopes and dreams on a therapist. When things don’t work out, they naturally blame me. Understandable.” She reached for the large, padded manila envelope sitting on top.
Rafe grabbed her wrist in an iron hold.
She glanced up in question.
“The perp’s fingerprints might still be on the envelope,” he said.
“My prints are already on the envelope because I opened it. There’s some kind of watch inside, and a piece of paper. I didn’t pull either of them out, though, because as soon as I opened the envelope and saw what was printed on the paper, I put it down and called the police.” She expected he’d praise her for her quick thinking in preserving the evidence, but he didn’t say anything.
Instead, he picked up the envelope and peered inside. His entire body went rigid. “You saw the word boom written on the paper inside and didn’t mention it when you called the police?”
She stiffened at his incredulous tone. “It’s obvious there’s nothing dangerous in there. I didn’t want to raise alarms over a watch and a piece of paper.”
He shook his head as if in disbelief. “Lucky for you, I’m a bomb tech and can verify the envelope does not contain a bomb. But you shouldn’t have made that assumption. You should have reported exactly what you found and let the police handle it. If it had been a bomb, the person who responded to your call could have been killed if they weren’t wearing a bomb suit or using the proper equipment.”
Meaning he could have been killed. And of course, that she could have been killed when she’d first opened the envelope. Or even Mindy—a single parent with three small children—when she’d brought the mail in.
That thought had Darby swallowing hard against her suddenly tight throat. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think about it that way. I would never purposely put anyone in danger.”
His eyes widened at her apology. “No harm done,” he said, sounding as if the admission had been wrung from him.
She frowned, thinking about his earlier statement. “Why would the police send a bomb technician without me mentioning the word boom?” She cocked her head to the side. “For that matter, when did you stop being a detective?”
“They sent me because I was the closest detective when your call came in. The bomb-tech part of my job is part-time, as needed.” He reached into the envelope for the piece of paper.
“Makes sense, I suppose.” She watched him pull the paper out and hold it up toward the light. “Actually, in a city as small as St. Augustine, I wouldn’t expect we’d have a bomb squad at all. Doesn’t the St. Johns County sheriff’s office handle things like that?”
“We’re perfectly capable of handling most suspicious-package reports without their help,” he said, his tone sharp. “We just don’t have the money for all the fancy equipment they have.”
Sensing she’d stumbled onto a sensitive topic, she nodded and watched him examine the paper. But when he flipped it over, she quickly realized it wasn’t just a piece of paper. It was a five-by-seven photograph.
Even with heels on, Darby had to stand on her tiptoes for a good view of the picture. In the middle of a large, empty room, a man sat in a chair, his posture stiff and oddly strained. The low quality of the photograph reminded Darby of one of those cheap, do-it-yourself picture-printing machines found in drugstores. She squinted, wishing the exposure wasn’t so dark. “He looks familiar.”
“You know him?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
She reached for the picture but he pulled it back.
“Fingerprints,” he reminded her, holding the edges with his gloved fingers. When she lowered her hands, he held the picture in front of her.
She tapped her nails against her thigh. “Why would he have his picture taken sitting in the middle of an empty room?”
“That’s a concrete floor. And those are industrial-style windows across the back. Probably a warehouse.” His jaw tightened. “And he’s not sitting there because he wants to.” He pointed to the arms of the chair. “He’s tied up.”
She let out a gasp and leaned closer to get a better look. Recognition slammed into her, stealing her breath. Was this some kind of joke?
“You know him,” Rafe said, not a question this time. “Who is he?”
“An attorney, Victor Grant. He used to be in private practice, but he made assistant district attorney last week. I saw him at the courthouse just yesterday.”
He set the photograph down to reach for the envelope again. When he pulled out the watch, she realized it didn’t have a wristband connected to it. Rafe’s eyes widened and he let out a vicious curse. He grasped the watch in one hand and yanked his cell phone out of his jeans pocket with the other.
“What’s wrong?” Darby hated the alarm in her voice, but what had seemed like a harmless prank a few minutes ago now seemed like something far more sinister.
Rafe issued rapid-fire instructions into the phone to someone named Buresh. In answer to Darby’s earlier question, he held the watch down where she could see it.
A stark, digital readout flashed against the white background, displaying 00:00:15. The last number was decreasing—fourteen...thirteen...twelve. Rafe wasn’t holding a watch. He was holding a timer.
And it was counting down.
He ended the call and looked at the timer. The corners of his eyes tightened and his gaze shot to hers. “Time’s up.”
Boom.
Darby ducked at the loud sound, which seemed to have come from right outside.
Rafe dropped the timer on top of the photograph and rushed to the window to look through the blinds. He turned and headed to the door, but paused in the opening. “Don’t touch the evidence. And stay put. Don’t go anywhere until I get back.”
With his words of warning hanging in the air, he ran out of the office. Too curious to sit and wait, Darby hurried to the window. Normally, she could see the glint of the bright Florida sun sparkling off the Intracoastal Waterway behind the office buildings across the street. But instead she saw a small, dark cloud of smoke rising from one of the warehouses.
Her stomach clenched and her fingers curled around the windowsill. Sirens sounded from a short distance away, gettin
g louder and louder. Images flashed through Darby’s mind—the word boom on the back of the photograph, that horrible sound. It couldn’t be a coincidence that there was smoke rising from the warehouse across the street. Could it?
Rafe had ordered her to stay put, but the bomb, if that’s what she had heard, had already gone off. And there was a small crowd gathering outside. As she watched, a police car pulled up. A uniformed officer and a man in a business suit got out and ran toward the warehouse. Rafe met them at the doorway and they went inside.
Several more minutes passed and more police cars arrived. A white van with the words St. Augustine Police Department printed on the side pulled up. A man in what Darby believed was a bomb suit was helped out of the back. He hurried through the same doorway where Rafe had gone earlier.
The smoke was clearing, and the only visible damage to the outside of the building was a few broken windows. The police weren’t evacuating the area. The growing crowd was still on the street watching. And when the man in the bomb suit came back outside and pulled off his protective gear, Darby knew it must be safe.
Her stomach twisted into knots at the idea that a man she’d spoken to just yesterday might have been hurt—or worse. She couldn’t stand here, waiting. She had to know if he was okay.
And whether, somehow, this was her fault.
She headed out her office door. Mindy was staring out the window in the empty reception area since they’d already seen all their clients for the day. She looked up in question when Darby marched past her.
“Dr. Steele... Darby, wait. Detective Morgan said to—”
“Stay put. Yes, I know. You do that,” Darby said, still miffed that Mindy had abandoned her with Rafe earlier. “I’ll be right back.” She opened the door and headed outside.
* * *
RAFE USED HIS TWEEZERS to pick up a small bomb fragment and drop it into an evidence collection envelope. Fellow detective and bomb tech, Jake Young, was also on his hands and knees a few feet away in the small warehouse, doing the same thing—picking up pieces of the bomb so the two of them could reassemble it at the police station.