Fugitive Bride

by Paula Graves

  * * *

  OWEN WOKE TO sunlight angling through a window, falling across his eyes and making his head hurt. He turned his head with a grumble and found himself face-to-face with Tara.

  She was just starting to wake, her eyes fluttering open. She gave a slight start when she saw him watching her. Pulling back from the bed, she laughed sheepishly. “Good morning.”

  He winced in pain as he shifted position in the bed. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “Are you in a lot of pain? Do you want me to call the nurse?”

  “No, please don’t. She kept waking me up all night.”

  Tara brushed his hair away from his face. “Oh, come on, you slacker. You slept through the last couple of vitals checks. I was awake for all of them.” She rubbed her red eyes. “God, I need about a week of sleep.”

  “How did you get the police to let you come here?” His throat felt as if he’d swallowed glass. Probably the breathing tube they’d have administered before surgery.

  “Quinn sicced Tony Giattina on them. They didn’t know what hit them.”

  “Tony’s speaking to us after what we did to him?” He was surprised.

  “Well, that’s still up in the air.” Tara touched his face, her expression gentle. “You look terrible.”

  “Thank you. You don’t know how much better that makes me feel.”

  “I thought I’d lost you.” Her fingers moved lightly over his forehead, her touch strangely tentative, as if she weren’t sure whether she had a right to offer him comfort. “When I realized you’d been shot, I was so scared.”

  “I’m okay. Everything’s okay.” He put his hand over hers. As he did, he noticed a piece of tape wrapped around his left ring finger. A vague memory drifted through his brain. Tara holding his hand, talking about debts. But the rest of the memory eluded him, somehow distant and unreachable.

  “I love you,” she murmured, pressing her lips against his palm. “I was so afraid I’d never get to tell you that again.”

  “Oh, I already knew that.” He gave a weak wave of his other hand, wincing a little as the IV cannula shifted in his vein. He was aching all over and felt as if he’d gone about ten rounds with a freight train, but a sense of peace began to settle over him. Everything was going to be okay now. His wound would heal and he and Tara would get their lives back.

  “What are you smiling about?” Tara asked, rubbing her cheek against the back of his hand. He liked the feeling, liked the way it sent little flutters of life through his otherwise lifeless body.

  “Just thinking that it’s finally over. The truth will come out, one way or another, and we’ll get to go back to our lives again.”

  “Do you remember anything about last night?”

  “I remember running into Virgil and Ty. I remember getting shot. Then someone shot Virgil.”

  “Deputy Trask,” she said, her voice darkening. “Virgil’s younger brother.”

  Owen grimaced. “Poor bastard.”

  “What do you remember after that?”

  “You holding my hand. Paramedics. Lots and lots of lights, and then it’s a blank.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Did I miss something?”

  “Quite a bit,” she said with a wry half smile.

  “I remember seeing you after surgery,” he added. “If that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Yes, I was waiting for you when you came up after recovery.”

  “You told me I owed you big.”

  “That’s right.” Smiling, she ran her finger lightly over the edge of the tape on his finger. “I also told you the payment I wanted.”

  He looked at the tape on his finger, then back at her face. What he saw in her eyes made his heart turn a little flip in his chest. “Did I agree to your terms?” he asked, emotion swelling through him to settle like a lump in his throat.

  Tears glittered in her eyes. “Yes, but you were a little loopy at the time.”

  “So maybe you should tell me again. What do I have to do to even up things between us?”

  A smile crept over her lips. “Marry me, Owen Stiles. Make me your wife.”

  He caught her hand in his, pressing it against his chest. “Why, Tara?”

  She frowned, as if she hadn’t expected the question. “Because I love you.”

  “You loved me yesterday and the day before that. But you weren’t anywhere near thinking about marrying me. Don’t make a big decision just because we’ve gone through a crisis.”

  “I’m not. I was already thinking about it before you were shot. It’s just, staring down the barrel of a gun really clarifies things for you, you know? I realized that I might not get the chance to tell you that the one thing I wanted more than anything in this world was to live the rest of my life with you. To be with you in every way. It suddenly seemed so stupid to be afraid of having everything with you. I trust you completely. With my life. And with my heart.” She stroked his cheek, the tears spilling down her cheeks. “I know now that we belong together in every way. I believe that with all my heart.”

  He had trouble pushing words past the lump in his throat. “So ask me again.”

  Her eyes met his, deadly serious. “Will you marry me, Owen Stiles?”

  “I do believe I will,” he answered, pulling her down for a kiss.

  * * * * *

  Look for the continuation of Paula Graves’s CAMPBELL COVE ACADEMY miniseries when OPERATION NANNY goes on sale next month.

  You’ll find it wherever

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  USA TODAY bestselling author Debra Webb

  begins a new thriller series with MIRA Books.

  Here is an excerpt from NO DARKER PLACE,

  a SHADES OF DEATH novel.

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  No Darker Place

  by Debra Webb

  Detective Bobbie Gentry wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Despite the early hour she was melting right here on the sidewalk like a forgotten ice-cream cone. The weather forecast called for a high of 101 today—the same kind of record-breaking temps the capital city had been experiencing for fifteen grueling days in a row.

  The line of thunderstorms that had swept through about the same time her phone rang that morning hadn’t helped one bit. Steam rose from the simmering asphalt, disappearing into the under
bellies of the blue-and-white Montgomery PD cruisers lining the sidewalk. The meteorologist who’d insisted milder temps were on the way had seriously overestimated the cool front accompanying this morning’s storm. The rain had done nothing but ramp up the suffocating humidity.

  She’d been a cop for ten years, a detective for seven of those, and she’d learned the hard way that relentless heat made people crazy. Like the father of four currently holed up in the modest ranch-style home across the street.

  Carl Evans had no criminal record whatsoever—not even a parking ticket. According to his wife, the checkup he’d had three months ago showed him to be in good health. Their middle daughter had been diagnosed with a form of childhood leukemia a year ago, and they’d gone through a serious financial crisis a couple of months back, but both issues were under control now. The husband had no problems at work as far as his wife knew.

  And yet he’d arrived home at two this morning with no explanation for where he’d been and with no desire to discuss his uncharacteristic behavior. At seven, he’d climbed out of bed, promptly corralled all four of his children into one bedroom and told his wife to call the police.

  Bobbie’s radio crackled. “No go. I’m coming out” vibrated across the airwaves.

  “Son of a bitch,” she muttered as crisis negotiator Sergeant Paul York exited the house and double-timed it to her side of the police barrier. York was a small, wiry man of five-eight or so, the same height as her. His less intimidating size and kind, calming presence made him damned good at his job as a facilitator of nonviolent resolutions. Those same traits, however, belied his unquestionable ability to take charge of a situation and physically contain the threat when the need arose.

  “What happened?” she demanded, bracing her hands on her hips. She was not going to have a hostage die on her watch. The fear she refused to allow to gain a foothold kept reminding her that these hostages were children.

  This wouldn’t be the first time you allowed a child to die.

  Not going to happen today.

  “He won’t talk to me.” York tugged at his black tie, his gray shirt still crisp despite the rising humidity and immeasurable frustration. “His wife refuses to leave the house as long as the kids are in there.”

  “Who can blame her?” Bobbie exhaled a blast of exasperation. Before York had arrived on the scene, she’d spoken to Mrs. Evans by phone. Anna Evans insisted she had no idea what had set off her husband. To her knowledge, he had never owned a weapon, much less used one. He was a CPA at Latimer, Latimer and Burton, for Christ’s sake. He’d worked there since he graduated from Vanderbilt two decades ago. His wife was completely stunned by his actions.

  “Did he give you any idea what he wants?” Bobbie needed something here. Evans surely had a goal he hoped to attain or a statement to make. How the hell could a purportedly humble CPA cause this damned much trouble?

  “He wouldn’t say a word.” York’s lips flattened as he shook his head. “Not a single word.”

  SWAT Commander Zeke Miller held up his hands as if he’d experienced an epiphany. “We’re wasting time. He could kill those children while we’re standing out here with our thumbs up our asses. It’s time we went in.”

  Bobbie rolled her eyes. What was he thinking? The polar opposite of York, Miller was a big, muscular guy with an ego to match. His reputation for playing hard and fast was well known, but this was her crime scene, and she wasn’t going the guns-blazing route. At least not yet.

  “And get those kids killed for sure?” Bobbie argued, ignoring the fear gnawing at the edge of her bravado. “Evans has them standing around him in a huddle. Your guys can’t get a clear shot at him. A flash bang could freak him out and prompt a shooting spree. And you want to go charging in there?” She folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, daring him to challenge her assessment. “Is it just me, or is there something seriously wrong with that scenario?”

  Miller glowered at her, but neither he nor York had a ready response for her assessment. There was no easy way to do this, and everyone present understood that unfortunate fact.

  “Where the hell is Newton?” Miller demanded. “We need a senior detective on the scene. Are you even cleared for a situation like this, Gentry?”

  Despite the fury his words ignited, Bobbie smiled. This chauvinistic hothead was not going to get the better of her when four children’s lives depended on her staying calm and collected. “My partner’s daughter is getting married this weekend, so he’s not here. You’ve got me, and I’m as fit for duty as you, Miller. Deal with it.”

  His arrogant sneer warned her he wasn’t going to let it go so easily.

  “We got movement at the front door!” a uniform shouted.

  Renewed adrenaline rushing through her veins, Bobbie turned toward the house as the front door slowly opened. Please let it be the children coming out. As much as she wanted everyone present to believe she was as strong as she once was and that she had everything under control...doubt nagged at her. What if she failed? What if someone died—again—because of her mistakes?

  No looking back. Focus, Bobbie.

  Barefoot and wearing a white terry-cloth robe, Anna Evans stepped cautiously onto the narrow porch, her hands raised high and her red hair tousled as if she hadn’t combed it since climbing out of bed. Her face was as white as the robe she wore. She was immediately surrounded by Montgomery PD uniforms and ushered across the street.

  “One less potential victim,” Bobbie muttered. What the devil was this guy doing? He’d made no demands. He refused to interact with the negotiator. Any time a perp took a hostage and waved around a weapon, he wanted something.

  The distant ache in her skull that had started the minute she’d received the call expanded into a dull throb. She resisted the urge to yank free the clasp holding her long brown hair off her shoulders so she could massage the pain away. No need to illustrate to all present that her headaches were still around. The whole department already watched her every move to see if she would crack under the stress. No matter that she had been back to work for four weeks without falling down on the job, she was still the detective who had shattered like delicate, hand-blown glass thrown against a wall seven months ago. The whole damned world knew that a couple of surgeons and shrinks, as well as a good half of the year, had been required to put her back together again.

  Stay sharp, Bobbie. No letting the past intrude.

  Once behind the police barricade, the uniforms released Anna Evans, and she almost collapsed on the pavement before they could catch hold of her again.

  “We need a medic,” Bobbie shouted. She moved toward the woman. “Are you injured, Mrs. Evans?”

  She shook her head, her eyes red and swollen from hours of crying. “Are you Detective Gentry?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We spoke on the phone a little while ago.” The woman appeared unharmed and reasonably composed for a terrified mother. Let this be a good sign.

  Anna Evans drew in a shuddering breath. “He says he’ll let the children go if you—” her pleading gaze latched on to Bobbie’s “—come inside and talk to him.”

  “I can do that.” The sooner those kids were out of harm’s—

  “The hell you say!” Miller roared. “That’s all we need is another hostage in there!”

  “Hold up, Miller.” York turned to Bobbie. “We can do this,” he offered in the modulated tone negotiators were trained to use. “I’ll go in with you.”

  While Miller launched another protest, Anna Evans hugged her arms around her trembling body and moved her head adamantly from side to side. “He said you have to come alone, Detective Gentry. Unarmed and alone.”

  “Not going to happen, Bobbie,” York stated, his voice hard now. “You’re—”

  Bobbie held up a hand for both men to shut up. “Did he say anything else, Mrs. Evans?”

 
Fresh tears welled in her puffy eyes. She shook her head. “Just that he...he would let the children go. Please.” She wrung her hands together in front of her as if she intended to pray. “Don’t let my babies get hurt.”

  Bobbie removed her service weapon from its holster at her waist and passed it to York. “I’m going in.”

  “I’m calling Chief Peterson,” Miller warned. “The rest of the department might believe that you being his college buddy’s daughter and all gives you free rein in this town, but I don’t. You’ll play this by the rules exactly like the rest of us.”

  His accusation made Bobbie want to unleash the volatile emotions simmering just beneath the surface of her carefully schooled facade. Montgomery was the second-largest city in the state, but the department was like a small village. There were few secrets. Eventually everyone got the lowdown on everyone else—especially as it related to the chain of command or any perceived special favors. She’d understood from day one that the time would come when someone would have the balls to say those words to her face.

  Bobbie snatched her cell from her belt and offered it to him. “Go ahead, Miller. Call the chief. He’s in my favorites list under Uncle Teddy.”

  “Enough of that nonsense,” York growled, his fierce gaze focused on Miller.

  Since Miller didn’t take her up on her offer, Bobbie snapped her phone back onto her belt. “I’m going in.”

  “Think about what you’re doing, Bobbie,” York called after her. Next to him, Miller made good on his threat and put through the call on his own cell.

  Bobbie didn’t look back. She headed across the street. If any hope whatsoever existed that Evans would let those children go, she was willing to take the risk. A twinge of pain twisted in her right leg and started to keep time with the throb in her head. She ignored it. She would do some extra stretches tonight before her run.

  Assuming she was still alive. As long as she got those kids out of there, little else mattered.