It’s a race against the clock: Will he save her or seduce her?
“Shh.” A light shined on the window and she braced for another grenade, this time one that might land right next to them. Zack must have felt her tense because he whispered, “It’s only a flashlight beam.”
“He’s coming?”
“It might be another minute. Try to think of something else.”
Like that was going to be possible. “Let’s call the police.”
“The neighbors probably already have. If the cops come in with their sirens wailing, he might slip away. Wouldn’t you like this to be over?”
“Of course, but . . .”
He snuggled, his long legs wrapping over hers, his arm against her breast.
“You’re crowding me.”
“Sorry. I’m getting into shooting position.” He aimed his right hand and the gun at the door. “Once he enters the house, the tiniest sound will warn him. We’ll need to hold perfectly still. Stay quiet.”
“You’re using us for bait.”
“I’m keeping us alive.”
Without Zack’s weight pressing against her, she would have been trembling and icy. His heat helped keep her teeth from chattering, but she felt trapped, scared.
“Za—”
His mouth came down on hers. Damn him. Despite her raw nerves, despite her irritation, despite her fear, his kiss made her breathe in his spicy scent. Memories she’d forgotten washed over her. Memories of other kisses as hot as this one. Memories of need. Of desire so strong he’d haunted her dreams for almost two years.
He pulled back quickly. “If anything goes wrong, I didn’t want to have any regrets about—”
The sound of creaking wood, probably caused by a footstep, stopped him in mid-sentence. Even as fear pummeled her, she could feel Zack’s hardness. Knew he wanted her despite the danger, despite the real possibility they might die.
Her head was spinning.
Zack’s body was primed for sex.
And a damn killer was in the house.
Novels by Susan Kearney coming soon from Bell Bridge Books
Dancing With Fire
The Challenge
The Dare
The Ultimatum
The Quest
Island Heat
Solar Heat
Kiss Me Deadly
by
Susan Kearney
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-266-8
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-250-7
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2007 by Hair Express, Inc.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
A mass market edition of this book was published by TOR in 2007
We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design: Tara Adkins
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
Young woman under the rain (manipulated) © Chaoss | Dreamstime.com
Couple running (manipulated) © Tomas Del Amo | Dreamstime.com
Shattered glass background (manipulated) © Susan Kearney
:Emkf:01:
Dedication
This one’s for Tara, Jared, and Bodhi. Hopefully they know how much I love and appreciate them.
Chapter One
MANDY NEWMAN glanced in her rearview mirror at the pickup truck that had swung around the corner to hug her rear bumper. What was up with him? This same truck had been following her since she’d left her parking garage. Now he was close. Too close.
There was no telling if the tailgater was a drunk or simply a lousy driver, but a rear-end collision wasn’t on her to-do list today. Neither was coping with the rain that made the oil-slick street treacherous. But considering that the Sunshine State’s daily afternoon showers were a fact of life during the summer rainy season, the other driver ought to know better than to follow so close.
Another glance revealed the pickup was still sticking to her rear bumper like a sandspur, the driver revving his motor as if bent on making her sweat. Why wasn’t he hitting his brake, backing off, giving her maneuvering room? Perspiration trickled down her neck, and Mandy flicked up the AC. Fog cleared from her windows. But he was still there.
Damn him for crowding her. For worrying her.
Come on. Keep it together. Surely he was harmless? Not a sicko spoiling for a fender bender.
Keeping a wary eye on her mirror, Mandy tried to shake off the tension in her neck and shoulders. All she had to do was ignore the jerk. Not let her nerves and fatigue from another long day of court set her on edge. Reminding herself that giving in to paranoia was all too easy, especially after these past months of working a mind-numbing number of back-to-back divorce cases, she took several deep breaths. After all, just because her clients often feared their abusive, greedy, and hostile spouses, she didn’t need to let her imagination run amok.
The truck’s driver, a white man with dirty blond hair sticking out from a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, probably had nothing to do with her or her work. He could simply have poor eyesight . . . or have forgotten his glasses. Yeah, right. More likely he was a whacked-out junkie or a pervert who got off on scaring women.
Mandy stopped at a red light on South Franklin Street, and he just barely tapped her rear fender. Son of a bitch. Even as she told herself the bump had to be an accident, Mandy checked her door locks.
Sweat beaded on her scalp, and the air conditioning had nothing to do with the shiver of apprehension that had her heart beating triple-time. She needed to get away from him, but changing lanes in the Tampa rush hour traffic that now resembled a parking lot wouldn’t be easy. Not with rumbling delivery trucks and commuters hemming her in. Besides, she only had to drive another five blocks to safety, to her island community where security guards would stop the moron from following her through the gate. Deciding her best option was to keep going, Mandy inched forward, a wary eye on the rearview mirror. Another four blocks, and she’d be safe. Five minutes, and she’d be home free.
After she turned at Channelside Drive onto the Harbour Island Bridge, the traffic gushed as if from an unclogged drain, and she relaxed, tension streaming away from her. The rain seemed to be letting up, the sky lightening and the two-laned bridge pavement shimmered with broken rainbows in the early evening heat. Below Mandy, the Hillsborough River flowed out to Tampa Bay between Harbour and Davis Islands, where a cornucopia of condos, custom homes, and high-end apartments knotted together along the waterfront and sprawled over every spare inch of dirt. As she traversed the bridge, she picked up speed. So did the silver pickup.
One moment she was driving in total control—the next, her car bucked. Good God, the pickup had bumped her. Again.
Bastard. Why was he gunning for her? Who the hell was he? A dr
unk? Someone trying to rob her? An angry ex-husband of a client? She should have called the cops when she’d noticed him following her. She should have listened to her gut. She should have—
Her car spun sideways. Out of control. Toward the guardrail.
Mandy slammed on the brakes. Bad move. Her tires squealed and skidded on the slick pavement. Clenching the wheel, she fought the spin. But her car careened sideways, smashed into the guardrail. Concrete crumbled. Horns blared.
Her airbag exploded in her face.
She slapped it down, choking on the powder in the air, and opened her eyes. And gasped.
Pitched downward, her car dangled about twenty feet over the water below. Through her front windshield she had a bird’s-eye view of rippling river, of rain drops plunking into the water and muttering a warning. She could be next.
Oh . . . my . . . God. She screamed. Started to claw at her seat belt to escape the car before she plummeted.
Somewhere above and behind her, an engine roared. Craning her neck, she glanced over her shoulder, praying that help was coming.
Wrong again.
The silver pickup rammed her car a second time. Fear slicked across her skin. He didn’t want to rob her. He didn’t want to kidnap her. He wanted to kill her.
So she had to stop him. But how? It wasn’t like she had a weapon in her front seat and could pull out a gun and shoot him. Or had a rope handy. So what could she do?
Behind her, the guardrail cracked, and metal pieces rained into the river. Her car slid, teetered. The truck crashed into her again, shoving her vehicle all the way over the lip.
No. Please . . . no.
She had no time to release her seat belt. No time to escape. No time to pray.
Her car plunged toward the water, flipping, somersaulting through the air. Mandy fought blackness. Nausea. Dizziness. The terror of not knowing up from down.
Bracing her hands on the wheel, holding her breath, closing her eyes, she froze. But even as Mandy’s ears roared and the water rushed up to smack her, she gulped air. She was so not ready to die. She had to survive. For Gabrielle. It was bad enough that her precious baby girl didn’t have a father. She couldn’t lose her mother.
Whatever it took to make it back home to her daughter, she would do. If that meant turning herself into Lara Croft, so be it. If it meant coming up with a plan, she’d be brilliant. If it meant gritting her teeth to avoid biting her tongue, she wouldn’t so much as utter one yelp.
But inside, she howled. She was not going to die. She was not going to die. She was not—
Her car punched through the water, slamming the air from her lungs and bruising her, wrenching her. But even in pain, surely she still could swim.
If only the car would float long enough for her to leap into the water. But it didn’t float. She sank with a giant sucking noise, as if the river were taking her to hell.
Cold water cascaded over her, hissing like a deadly sea creature. Blinded in the dark, she felt panic rise up to choke her, and she pounded her palms on the window.
Wait a minute. What was she doing? Dizzy, confused, she finally figured out her car was upside down and sinking toward the river bottom. And she didn’t have the strength to break the glass with her bare hands.
Still, she had options: get out or drown.
Fighting her seat belt, she fumbled, finally released the buckle, and placed her hands above her head to break her fall. She toppled sideways and ended up sitting on the ceiling in a deepening pool of water.
Unable to see, dazed, Mandy groped for the door. She touched smooth leather. Idiot. The handle was upside down from this angle.
Everything’s backwards.
Her fingers finally closed on the handle, and with desperate strength, she yanked, then shoved the door with her shoulder. But it wouldn’t budge. Too much water pressure from outside.
Damn it to hell. She had to get out.
Caught like a crab in a trap, she clawed the door, hammered the window with her fists. Water poured in through cracks. Her air bubbled out. The car kept plunging. Inexorably, with a moan of tortured metal, it settled on the bottom, the roof denting beneath her. Water hissed past her feet, her waist, her neck.
She would not shut down. Or break. She would not quit. Gabby needed her. Besides, she hadn’t scheduled dying into her day planner. And no way in hell was she letting that SOB get away with murder.
Think.
Could she escape after the pressure equalized?
Water rose past her chin, and she lunged upward and banged her head. Easy. Ignoring the pain, she tilted her head back, clamped her mouth shut and breathed through her nostrils. She didn’t care if every cell in her body urged her to flee, if she wanted to open the door, she had to remain still, and wait for the water to close over her head.
For Gabby, thankfully safe in her grandmother’s care, Mandy would keep it together. For Gabby, she allowed the water to swallow her alive. For Gabby, she waited for the water to rise, with her nose pressed against the floorboards, gasping in the very last pocket of air.
Water closed over her mouth, nose, and eyes, filled the entire car, draping her in wet blackness.
Now. Make your move now.
Mandy dived down to the handle. Shoved. The door wouldn’t move.
Oxygen dwindling, mind whirring like a propeller, Mandy refused to cry. Every good lawyer had a plan B. And she was a damn good attorney.
Come on. What did she need?
Leverage?
Yes.
Grabbing the wheel with one hand, the handle with the other, she planted her feet against the door. Licks of pain shooting through her, straining every muscle, she thrust with her back and calves and thighs.
The door gave with a pop.
About damn time.
Rushing out, she banged her shoulder on the doorjamb. Lungs already on fire, head pounding as if she’d drunk too many margaritas, she kicked hard for the surface.
I’m coming, Gabby. Mommy’s coming.
Mandy’s chest ached, but she fought against the urge to open her mouth for air.
Keep kicking.
Overhead, rays of light beckoned with tempting promise. So close. But, so far . . .
Chapter Two
A HALF HOUR LATER, Mandy had gone from swimming with the fish to being a Florida tourist attraction. Jackson’s Bistro perched over the harbor like a tiered wedding cake, and the diners had abandoned their duck breast, pistachio-encrusted red snapper, oak-grilled steaks, and sushi to stare at her from expansive outdoor decks on every level.
She didn’t like being the focus of hundreds of eyes and tried to ignore her soaked clothes, running mascara, and lack of shoes. Sitting on the bench wrapped in a tablecloth, still shaking, she reminded herself she was lucky to be alive.
Traffic cops had closed off one lane of South Franklin Street and the Coast Guard patrolled the river, directing passing boats away from the area where bridge debris still fell in intermittent whooshes. No police officer had arrived to interview her.
A paramedic had offered a blanket to replace the soggy tablecloth a bystander had given her, then bandaged the cut on her head. She’d waited so long to give her statement that some of the singles crowd had actually returned to their dinners. Shivering, trying to throw off the vestiges of shock, she sipped hot coffee and waited for a uniformed officer to question her.
Mandy didn’t deal well with unexpected delays. She liked her meetings punctual, her files in order, information at her fingertips. She didn’t like anyone messing with her routine—never mind waiting on bureaucracy. So despite the fact that she was shivering more from shock than a wet chill, she made a to-do list. Notify insurance company. Download her schedule from the computer onto a new day planner. Order a new cell phone, credit card, driver’s license, purs
e, briefcase. Damn. Her life was in her purse. She sighed. At least she had all the information she needed to replace the missing documents on a flash drive and could call it up on her computer. Where the hell was the cop? She was ready to have them pursue and capture the bad guy so she could put this behind her.
Weary, she fought for patience. She yearned to go home, take a hot bath, and hold her daughter. But after a cop had checked with her to make certain no one else had been in her vehicle, he’d instructed her to remain on one of Jackson’s dockside benches. Now, he seemed in no hurry to return.
Mandy tried to calm her trembling and wondered about the man who’d tried to kill her. Why her? Did she know him through her work? Could he be married to one of her clients? When he found out his efforts had failed, would he return?
Don’t go there. The police would identify his vehicle and lock him up. Right now—she had to believe that.
Finally an officer shouldered his way through the gawking diners and approached. “Show’s over, people. Go back to your two-for-one shooters.” Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and thirty pounds overweight, he offered her an irritated look. “Ma’am. I’m Officer Delgado.”
Automatically, she reached for her purse to find a business card, but her purse, checkbook, and briefcase with the once-a-week office pool’s Powerball ticket in it, swam with the fish at the bottom of the Hillsborough River, along with her cell phone. She was damned lucky not to still be there, too.
“Amanda Newman.” To her own ears, her voice sounded raw, as if she’d worn out her vocal cords screaming.
“I know who you are, ma’am.” Officer Delgado’s tone soured, drawing her attention to his expression. Intelligent eyes underscored with dark circles, a boy-next-door round face, and a professional demeanor didn’t quite manage to hide his hostility. “You’re the reason I work two jobs. You’re the reason I only see my kids every other weekend.”
Delgado. The name clicked. She hadn’t recognized her client’s ex-husband in his uniform. Besides, it had been a year since his divorce was final. Mandy had represented his wife, and they’d both been pleased by obtaining a fair resolution that allowed her to avoid working until the youngest child reached kindergarten. As divorces went, theirs hadn’t been particularly ugly. Yet from the hurt in his tone, Officer Delgado clearly resented Mandy’s part in the settlement.
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