Protect and Serve: Soldiers, SEALs and Cops: Contemporary Heroes from NY Times and USA Today and other bestselling authors

by J. M. Madden

  “I’d like to have a normal life again. A boyfriend. Sex. Maybe marriage and kids eventually.” Although not yet. “But I have no idea when I’ll be ready for any of that. And it isn’t fair to ask you to wait. Assuming you’d even be willing to wait. Assuming you’re interested enough to want to wait.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Will said calmly. “I have a career to work on, too. I just got promoted, you know.”

  “I know. Bianca told me. Congratulations.”

  He smiled. “It’d be sort of fun to work together, wouldn’t it? Learn the ropes at the same time?”

  It would. Although the ropes I’d be learning would be ones he’d already mastered. Then again, I’d be learning them in a place where I was the kickass undercover cop who took down Duane Henderson, and not the place where I was that poor girl who got raped by Stan Laszlo.

  Or the slut who got what she deserved.

  “It’s OK if you want to leave,” Will told me. “Key West is only a couple hours away. I’d drive down to see you.”

  “And I could come up and see you.” If he wanted. “Or I could just stay here.”

  “Why don’t you give it some thought,” Will said, “while we have lunch. You don’t have to decide until tomorrow. That’ll give me the rest of the afternoon to convince you that you’d like it here.”

  “I’ve been here six months,” I told him. “I already like it.”

  “Then half my job is done.” He opened the door to Murphy’s Law and bowed me through. “After you.”

  I stepped across the threshold into what looked like a party. Approximately a dozen people were gathered in the middle of the room. I recognized Murphy, Will’s uncle, from the other night. A six-and-a-half foot tall black guy with wire-rimmed glasses had to be Cal, since I figured there couldn’t be too many of them around. The others were new to me, but when we walked in, they all turned to us. After a moment, someone started applauding, and then the others began clapping, too.

  “You’re early,” Cal called out over the noise, grinning at Will. “We didn’t have time to hang the banner.” He was holding one end of it. The other was in the hands of a much shorter Hispanic guy who reminded me of my brother Juan. He was standing on a chair so the banner would be straight. They shook it out. CONGRATULATIONS, CARMEN! it said, in big, shiny letters.

  Will leaned closer to talk into my ear. “They’re throwing a party to celebrate catching Duane. You’re the guest of honor.”

  “They didn’t have to do that.”

  “They wanted to,” Will said. And changed it to, “We wanted to.”

  “Do they know...?”

  “No,” Will said. “They knew my dad offered you the job, but they don’t know you haven’t accepted. I’ll tell them you haven’t made up your mind yet.”

  That wasn’t what I’d wanted to know. Do they know about Stan? About me? About Key West?

  But if my past wasn’t a concern to Will, or to them, why would it be a concern to me? Kickass undercover cop who had put Duane Henderson behind bars.

  “You want me to tell them?” Will asked.

  “No,” I said, and went to meet my new colleagues in the Miami PD.

  * * *

  Carmen Fuentes was a secondary character in Before You (2014) and Finding You (2015), Jenna Bennett’s Sex on the Beach books featuring Cassie Wilder and Ty Connor. For more information about the Sex on the Beach series, please click HERE.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jenna Bennett/Jennie Bentley writes the Do It Yourself home renovation mysteries, the Savannah Martin mysteries, the Sex on the Beach series of NA suspense, the award-winning Soldiers of Fortune series of science fiction romances, and a variety of other books in the mystery, suspense and romance genres. Find out more on her website, www.jennabennett.com

  * * *

  © 2015 Bente Gallagher

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  RUNNING FROM SHADOWS

  By

  Danielle Stewart

  ONE

  Swigging back the last of his neat scotch, Roark Miller prayed for death. Well, not really death. He’d settle for something slightly less final as long as it resulted in his getting out of this Detroit nightclub. The Oyster’s Crystal, a name that made absolutely no sense, was a dark, loud cave of a club. The neon green rope lights over his head gave everyone the appearance of being ill. As the music thumped incessantly he was starting to feel a little sick himself. He was thirty-five years old, but tonight, sitting here, he felt like he was a grumpy eighty-year-old.

  This was the job, though. When his client’s daughter intended to go out clubbing this weekend it was up to him to be completely prepared. He now knew the exits, the staff, the regulars, and in a place like this, the irregulars. Why any nineteen-year-old girl would insist on coming to a place like this completely escaped him. The second a woman walked through this entrance she transformed into nothing more than an object. Every eye judged her. Nearly as many hands tried to grope her. But as hard as he worked to talk Kimberly out of it, she demanded she be allowed to live her life, arguing that it wasn’t her fault her father was a diplomat. At the thought of the argument, Roark rolled his eyes. He hated the life of private security. The obstinate and reluctant people he had to protect were enough to drive a guy to drink. Literally. He was waving down the waitress for another scotch. His client’s daughter was safe at home. This was only a night of research so drinking was a must. Hell, he needed to blend in.

  “I know there’s a sign on the door that says you have to be eighteen to come in here,” he heard a woman’s raised voice behind him. “But there should be another sign that says if you’re over thirty you should stay out, too, for your own good.” He glanced over his shoulder, only part way, to show her he’d heard, but not enough to say he wanted to engage in a conversation.

  He didn’t chat. Not because he was doing recon, but because he never saw the point in it. How’s the weather? – look out the freaking window. Did you have a good day? – What the hell defines a good day? Especially in his line of work. He’d been accused many times by many women of being distant. He wasn’t. He didn’t consider himself emotionally shut off, just verbally. But they didn’t seem to be able to tell the difference.

  “Do you mind if I sit down with you for a minute?” the woman asked as she took a step to his side. He didn’t answer. He pushed his dark, slightly too long hair off his forehead and nodded, still not giving her his full attention. “Someone called me a cougar and I’m trying to process that. Does that mean I’m old? Old and hot? I mean, I’m thirty-one. If that’s cougar status, what the hell do I have to look forward to when I’m sixty-one?” She was talking mostly to herself as the waitress placed his scotch down in front of him.

  Roark interrupted her, “You need a drink?” He might not be chatty but he was still raised a gentleman.

  “Yes,” she sighed, refocusing. “I’ll take a Seven and ginger.”

  “Is that like a blue and red m
artini? We have those on special. They come with an energy drink shot too,” the far too skinny blond waitress asked, full of perky excitement.

  “No,” the woman answered, frowning. “You know what, I’ll just have what he’s having.”

  “It’s scotch,” Roark retorted flatly, expecting the woman to change her mind once she knew.

  “That’s perfect,” she said to the waitress, much to Roark’s surprise.

  “A blue and red martini?” she asked, slapping her hand to her forehead as the waitress bounced away. “What the hell is this world coming to?”

  “Don’t feel bad. I asked for my scotch neat, and she brought me an extra napkin. I told her it meant no ice and she asked me why I didn’t just say that.” Roark gave the woman a casual shrug before sipping his drink.

  “Really?” she sighed with a breathy laugh. “I honestly worry about this generation. How do they plan to get through life if they never look up from their damn phones? The guy who called me a cougar, he designs cars. But only for fun. In a notebook. At his parents’ house where he lives. He wanted to take me there so I could see them. I had to ask if he meant his designs or his parents. Sometimes I still feel like I’m twenty, then I spend an hour around people who are and I think, nope, not twenty any more.” She took a large mouthful of the scotch that had been set in front of her and he watched as she winced. She quickly took another.

  “It’s not a tequila shot, you’re supposed to sip it. That’s a twenty year and thirty dollar glass.”

  “What?” she asked, looking down at the small tumbler. “Does it make you shit twenty dollar bills or something?”

  He couldn’t contain his laugh or keep his eyes from finally meeting hers. Shit, he knew her. But from where? And did she know him? That was the trouble with being an ex cop. You saw hundreds of people a week, all of them burned into your mind for one reason or another. He went through the catalog in his head, taking in her features. The dimple to the left of her smile, her wide green eyes with exotic lashes. He discounted the color of her hair; it was long and blond, but women changed their hair color so often it wasn’t a reliable marker. Then it hit him.

  Alexandria Conway. She survived a brutal attack during a home invasion that left her longtime boyfriend dead. Roark recalled his name had been Toby. The case was eight, no nine years ago, just after Roark had made detective. He hadn’t interacted with her much, or maybe not even at all. He wasn’t the primary on the case. If he was remembering her from the case files, there was a chance she wouldn’t remember him. And something about that made him feel relieved. Not every old case was great to have to relive.

  “So what brings a guy like you out here tonight?” she asked, shifting uncomfortably under his stare that had lasted too long while he was lost in thought.

  “Did you just ask what a guy like me is doing in a place like this?” he smiled, trying to ease her mind with humor.

  “Oh crap, I guess I did. But I’m sticking with it. I’m committed to it now.” She straightened her back as though she wouldn’t waiver.

  “I’m in private security. I have a client whose daughter insists on coming out here this weekend.” He fiddled with his glass and rolled his eyes at the idea of this place.

  “You’re casing the joint?” she asked, lowering her voice slightly, but making sure it could still be heard over the repulsive music.

  “Um no, that’s for people who plan to rob a place,” Roark corrected. “I guess you’d call this recon.”

  “Oh,” she said, shaking her head and then looking unsure of what to say next.

  The silence hung between them for a long moment until she lit with a realization. He thought for a moment she might be on the verge of remembering how she knew him. “I haven’t told you my name, or asked yours,” she said with an extended hand. “How rude of me to just barge in on you like this and not even introduce myself.”

  “I already know your name,” he said, waiting for her reaction. Her hand recoiled and her stunned silence let him know she was taken back. That was his test. If she did remember him, this is where she’d say something. When she didn’t, he stepped in. “It’s cougar isn’t it? Or do you just like to go by ma’am?”

  “Oh my gosh, I’d have dropped a blue and red martini on someone’s head if they called me ma’am.” She gritted her teeth with a seriousness that made him wonder if she really would have.

  “I’m Demi Kay, it’s short for Demitria. Don’t ask me why my parents named me that. I have no clue,” she declared, lighting up and splitting her peach lips to show a gorgeous, perfectly white smile.

  No you’re not, Roark thought. Your name is Alexandria Conway. He’d looked down at a photo of her face every day for six months while he tried to help solve that murder. She’d changed her name, he thought. It wouldn’t be unheard of for a victim to want to start over. Especially when the killer hadn’t been apprehended. At least, not to his knowledge anyway. He’d been off the force for two years now, he was way out of the loop.

  “I’m Roark,” he said, now reaching his hand out to hers.

  “That’s a really hot name,” she blurted out, then blushed ever so slightly as she squeezed his hand firmly. “Girls must go nuts over you. I bet this weekend when you bring your client’s daughter in here her friends will be all over you.”

  “Anybody willing to set foot in this place isn’t my type,” he shot back, and then instantly realized the insult he’d accidently flung her way. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he apologized.

  “Don’t correct yourself on my account. I’d pay a bucket of money to be anywhere but here right now. I’m a nurse and I’ve been working on a clinical trial for two years. It’s been my whole world for all that time. We just finished it tonight and the younger nurses picked this place to celebrate. I’m giving it another fifteen minutes and then I’m sneaking out while they do shots out of each other’s belly buttons.”

  “That’s a good plan. I’m at capacity myself. I just saw a girl go by in what I’m pretty sure was a shirt that she was pretending was a dress. God help her if she drops anything.”

  “Gosh, we sound old,” Demi groaned.

  “Of all the things I could be in this place tonight, old doesn’t seem so bad,” Roark joked. “But maybe stop saying gosh. That’s not helping your cause.”

  “You want to use some of your secret security skills to sneak me out of here?” Demi asked as she leaned in for him to hear her over the thumping music. Her perfume was light, not intrusive but definitely intoxicating. He couldn’t decipher if she was asking him to take her home or if she was still just being funny. He found himself wanting to play along either way.

  “I don’t think it would be too hard. These people are walking around in a heavy fog of body spray and energy drinks. Doesn’t seem like it will be much of a challenge,” Roark said as he glanced around the room.

  “I’d like to see you in action though,” she said, biting at her lip and standing. She tucked her small clutch under her arm and started heading for the door. And she was right. A gaggle of young women surrounded her, chanting the word “shot.” She kicked her head back toward him and pleaded with her eyes.

  He tossed some cash on the table for their drinks. “Excuse me, ladies?” he interrupted as he broke through the crowd. “I’m sorry, but there is just way too much pretty in too small of an area. I’m going to need you to all disperse to the dance floor.”

  They all giggled and hooted as they pawed at him. “Come on,” he smiled as he moved their hands off his chest. “You’re in clear violation of the hot girl safety code. Go shake your asses over there. I think I saw that rapper, you know, the one with the hair.” They all started moving in the direction of the dance floor, nearly in a run. Before Demi could get swept up in their tide, he had his arm on her waist.

  “The one with the hair?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

  “I figured the odds were good that at least one rapper had hair.” He turned her effortlessly toward the
door. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “You going already, cougar?” a voice from behind them called, heavy with the slur of alcohol. The basement dwelling car designer, Roark assumed. “Aren’t you supposed to leave with a kid like me, not some old dude like this? That’s not what cougars like.”

  Roark felt the flush of anger come over him. He had the urge to ball his hands into fists and teach this kid a lesson, but before he could Demi was already backtracking. She swiped a drink from the couple at the bar and smiled coyly at the kid. “You know what? You’re right.” She pressed a finger to his lips and ran it down his neck to his chest, stopping just above his belt buckle. “I bet a kid like you could give me the best three minute ride of my life.” She pawed at his belt and then yanked his pants away from his waist. She dumped the drink and ice down the gap and watched him squirm. “That’s what cougars do,” she exclaimed triumphantly, turning on her heels and marching toward the door, a stunned Roark just behind her.

  “You’re a little bit crazy, aren’t you?” he asked as Demi made her way down the dark street, her high heels clicking hard.

  “Not usually. It must have been that pricey scotch that gave me some courage. Here, by the way,” she insisted, fishing in her purse. “I don’t want you buying me a drink, especially not one that expensive.”

  “It’s no problem. It was my pleasure. You made an excruciatingly frustrating night slightly more enjoyable.”

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me tonight.” She reluctantly put the money away. “This is me here,” she said, pointing over at her white eco friendly car. She turned and leaned her back against it, her hand on the door handle. “You also made this night slightly more enjoyable. Marginally, really.”

  “Hey, I got you out of there,” Roark argued, the urge to kiss her growing by the second. He felt like her smile was reeling him in like a fish on the line.