by Diana Duncan
“He’s immersed in his company. We barely see him.”
He didn’t hide his dismay. “I’m sorry.” His mellow voice was low and intimate. As his stroking thumb moved to her wrist, petals of warmth blossomed inside her. “That’s rough on you.”
Always self-reliant, she’d never questioned it. “Didn’t your baby brother get all the attention?”
Liam smirked. “Grady is independence personified. His imagination never disengages, and constantly got him into scrapes.”
“And you didn’t get blamed?”
“Why would I take heat for his misdemeanors?”
“Whenever Janine got into trouble, she’d blink her big blue eyes and point the finger at me. Somehow I’d be found at fault.”
He scowled blackly and tugged her nearer. “Hung by a kangaroo court, without a trial.”
Liam’s muscled body was so close, his heat, his invigorating scent sent desire soaring. Kate barely resisted the urge to lean into him. Lean on him. That path led to madness. “I just got grounded. I liked to paint and listen to music and read all by myself anyway. It was more retreat than penalty. That’s when I got hooked on Phil Collins. Luckily, I enjoy my own company.”
“You’re a remarkable woman, Just Kate.” Liam slid his arm around her waist.
It was an encouraging hug, one friend to another. Almost brotherly. Yeah, right. Like it mattered. Her hormones shot fireworks. Sizzling bursts of red and gold and brilliant green…the same color as his eyes. “I have a hard time buying that you never got into trouble, Saint Michael.”
His scowl morphed into a grin. “Okay, I confess. I did, but only because Grady dragged me along for the ride. He was always taking stuff apart to see how it worked, or launching a daredevil experiment, and I was a more-than-willing accomplice.”
“That sounds…fun.”
“Mom and Pop might not agree.” He chuckled. “When he was eight and I was ten, we accidentally blew up his bicycle, trying to attach ‘rocket boosters.’ Guess how I became fascinated by volatile chemicals?”
“My sister and I never had a relationship.” Kate strove to banish dejection. “I give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she doesn’t feel well.” She drew a fortifying breath. “However, her outbursts seem to occur whenever she’s been denied something, or lacks attention. I find it difficult to be patient when her daughter is gravely ill and all she thinks about is herself.”
He stroked gentle fingertips down her cheek, making her insides quiver. “Don’t beat yourself up, Kate. I’d have throttled the lot of ’em years ago.”
“Don’t think I haven’t been tempted.” Her uneven grin was half guilty, half conspiratorial. “I stick it out for Aubrey’s sake. She needs a loving, stable influence in her life. If I give in to pettiness, the poor kid is on her own.”
“Like you were.” His warm hand cupped her face. “Like you are.” His gaze drew her in, enticed her into a shiny, intimate bubble where only they existed. He was so close, she could see each long, sooty eyelash, every golden speck dancing in his compelling green eyes. Could trace the sensual curve of his full lips. Soft lips that had cruised every inch of her bare skin. Commanding lips that had teased and tantalized until she’d lost herself in all-consuming need.
Kiss me! Kate locked her jaw to trap the demand inside. He had the ability to make her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. As if she were the center of his universe.
He apparently could make every woman feel that way. Which is why love ’em and leave ’em Liam had legions of adoring fans.
She yanked herself out of his embrace. “I don’t need anybody.”
Unhappiness darkened his gaze and his provocative mouth tipped downward. “Maybe that’s the problem, sweetheart.”
She didn’t want pity. Or sympathy. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me. I do fine all by myself.”
He shook his head. “Don’t you want a little girl of your own someday?” He glanced at Aubrey, his face wistful. “With big brown eyes just like her mom?”
Her heart skipped a beat. Holy crow! He wasn’t the first person to notice the resemblance between her and her niece. The reason he’d gone green when he’d first seen Aubrey and had asked about her age was because he’d thought she was Kate’s…and his.
And the idea had made him sick.
She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off a foreboding chill. A man allergic to commitment would freak over having kids. Kids were definitely permanent. Yearning gripped her in a heavy fist, refused to shake free. Liam’s babies would be stunningly beautiful. With their father’s effusive, confident charm, and their mother’s…She gulped. What did she have to offer? “I’ll probably never marry, or have children.”
“What?” Stunned, he straightened. “Why not?”
She was a realist. Realists faced life head-on, without knuckling under to pain. “I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that the women in my family aren’t ideal models of motherhood.”
“Wait a minute.” He reached for her again, but she sidestepped. If he touched her now, when she was so vulnerable, she’d crumble. She couldn’t afford to be weak. The weak got devoured alive. “You’re great with Aubrey.”
“Granting wishes as an auntie is vastly different from a mother’s responsibilities. And I…my hands aren’t reliable. Janine didn’t let me hold her when she was a baby, because she was afraid I’d drop her. So was I, for that matter.” She ignored the pain and raised her chin. “Heck, you probably possess more nurturing qualities than the Chabeau women combined.”
“No freaking way.” He gripped her shoulders and pulled her toward him. He was mad, but controlled. She might fear his passion, but she wasn’t scared of his anger. “Drama Queen couldn’t take care of a dog, much less a baby. You’re buying into a lie. You can depend on your hands…and your instincts.”
Fighting him was useless. She was as determined to keep her distance as he was to bring her nearer, but he was far stronger. However, he couldn’t make her come any closer emotionally. Unless she chose to. “My photographs are my children.” She uttered a quavery chuckle. “Okay, maybe stepchildren. My paintings were the true creations of my heart, and I’d hoped they would be my legacy. But I’ve adapted. Over the years, I’ve grown fond of my photos.” And if that affection didn’t run quite as deeply or strongly as it had for her paintings, who would know? She was able to express her artistic urges, and they would pay for Aubrey’s treatments. That was enough. Had to be enough. Life was short. You couldn’t expect too much.
His grip gentled, and he released her. “I don’t normally fly off the handle. You tangle me up…” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “How did you make the transition from painting to photographs?”
She knew exactly how he felt. He blasted apart her peace of mind with a mere look. “Actually, it was something you said to me the night we were together.”
Staring out the window, he went rigid. “Hold that thought.”
She looked at the baking cityscape, rush-hour traffic crammed bumper-to-bumper in the ruthless heat. “What’s wrong?”
He spun her away from the window, his response rapid-fire, his voice low. “I saw a red flash. Maybe laser sights. We could be under surveillance, or we might be targeted.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but I’m checking it out.” He swooped her up and sat her down on the bed. “You’re safe here. I’m leaving the blinds open so he won’t suspect I’m on to him. Stay away from the window.” He sprinted toward the door. “I’ll put Murphy on guard. He won’t let anyone near this room until he receives my command.”
“No! Wait…” But he’d already disappeared.
The man crouched in a stinking alley across the street, his rifle trained on the couple silhouetted in the hospital window. Black malevolence writhed inside his brain—a nest of poisonous snakes he couldn’t exterminate.
She was supposed to die today.
He clenched his fingers around the gun stock so tightl
y it should have shattered. Katherine never did what she was supposed to. That was her entire problem.
Katherine’s death would have proven that his explosive was no longer unstable in large quantities. Free advertising, repeated worldwide on CNN, in glorious Technicolor. Her demise would have made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. Set him free of the anger, indignation and resentment that boiled constantly inside him. Feelings he’d been forced to conceal far too long.
She was to have been his grand finale, his pièce de résistance before his rebirth from the ashes of mediocrity.
But he’d failed. And his disgrace was all her fault.
Everything was her fault.
Anger seethed, consuming him alive from the inside out.
Her policeman had made him look like a damned fool this afternoon. Had stolen his glory and riches.
He was out of patience. Finished with them both.
He fought the temptation to squeeze the trigger and be done with it. First, he would force them to play his game.
His rules.
His way.
His compatriots were becoming uneasy. He’d run out of options…and so had she. Les Hommes de la Mort—the Men of Death—would soon take matters into their own hands. They despised loose ends.
He glanced at his watch. He had mere hours, probably less before they intervened. Until then, Katherine’s and her policeman’s fates, their very lives, belonged to him. Power surged through him, making his palms slick with excitement. Making him hard.
If they survived his game, proved themselves worthy opponents, he might choose to spare them. For now. Or he might kill them anyway.
And revel in their dying.
His lips thinned into a grim smile as he holstered the rifle over his left shoulder.
Only time would tell.
Chapter 7
6:00 p.m.
Pulse galloping, Kate crouched protectively over her sleeping niece. Once Aubrey fell asleep it took an earthquake to wake her, especially after the ordeal of dialysis.
Kate fidgeted. She was used to solving her own problems. She couldn’t twiddle her thumbs while Liam put his life on the line. She strained to look out the window, but saw only the glittering Vegas skyline. Liam had left Murphy to defend her and Aubrey. He’d rushed headlong after an armed assailant alone. Her heart skipped a beat. Without his partner. Without backup.
Though Liam hadn’t mentioned it, maybe she should call 9-1-1. She glanced at the phone. What would she say? He saw a flash? Maybe someone is targeting us? Oh yeah, Chuck Hanson, gung ho FBI guy would love to document a false alarm on Liam’s record.
She could do something. She attached the heavy telephoto lens to her Leica. With the strap draped around her neck, she crawled to the window. Crouched below the sill, she thrust up the camera and snapped. Long shots were her favorite technique. The distance gave the impression of an outsider looking in. Kept her emotions out of the picture and emphasized the scene.
That’s what she envisioned. Liam had a different opinion. How odd that he’d mentioned “Man in the Shadows.” She’d been wandering the streets of Paris at 2:00 a.m., unable to shake thoughts of Liam. The man’s tall, limber frame; the wide set of his shoulders; the way his dark hair curled over his collar had jarred her with the similarities to her Irish charmer. She’d been missing him as much as she missed the use of her right arm when she’d captured the moody portrait.
Of all her photos, it was the first to sell. The only one she truly loved. The only one she’d kept a copy of. It wasn’t stored in her studio safe with the negatives of her work. She took it wherever she went. It was currently displayed on her condo’s bedroom wall, opposite Grandma’s painting.
Grinding noises from inside the camera housing, followed by an abrupt pop, made her mutter a soft curse. The film had broken. Not an uncommon occurrence, but a pain in the derriere.
She risked a fast peek outside and saw nothing unusual. She crawled back to the bed, perched on the end, and then glanced at her watch. Liam had been gone over twenty minutes.
Kate stared at the telephone, racked by indecision. Because she hadn’t seen or heard a commotion didn’t mean he was all right. Guns had silencers. Knives didn’t make noise. What if he needed help? What if he lay crumpled in an alley, bleeding to death? The agonizing image crushed her chest until she could barely breathe.
She checked her watch again. Twenty-six minutes. Way too long. She’d rather be labeled a fool than let something awful happen to Liam. Nerves jittering, she reached for the phone.
Suddenly the door opened and he strode inside. “Miss me?”
Heart in her throat, she whirled and frantically inventoried his body. No bullet holes, no knife wounds. No blood. Her trapped breath whooshed out. “Finally!” Her quiet tone didn’t disguise the worried edge of anger. “Do you know how anxious…” Her jaw dropped as she saw what he carried.
“Mission accomplished.” He held up a water-filled fishbowl, where a small orange fish swooped in happy circles. The ensemble included rainbow colored gravel and a miniature Arc de Triomphe.
She blinked in stunned disbelief. “I’m being stalked by a goldfish? Gee, somehow I thought he’d be taller.”
He laughed softly. “Officer O’Rourke always gets his ma—”
“Mackerel?” Shouting in a whisper wasn’t easy, but she managed. “I was scared half to death…” Her voice quavered. “I was afraid you were wounded, or…” She choked, unable to say it. “And you were shopping for amphibians?”
“Well, technically, fish aren’t amphibians—”
“Do you think I give a rip about a biology lesson right now?” Fear, relief and anger unspooled in rapid succession. “A dog isn’t enough? You felt compelled to acquire another pet?”
He shrugged a broad shoulder. “By the time I hit the street, the spy was history. I reported it, but I doubt the local cops will find him. There’s a pet store next door, and I was already there.” He set the bowl on the bedside table. “The fish will give Aubrey something to care for. Something to do besides watch TV. I already cleared it with the charge nurse.”
“Oh.” She was so unaccustomed to thoughtfulness, it hadn’t occurred to her he’d bought a gift for Aubrey. “Oh!” She groped for words. “She adores fish.”
“So I gathered.”
For the second time in less than an hour, unexpected tears threatened. “That is the sweetest thing I ever…”
His wolfish grin gleamed. “You were worried about me?”
“Of course not. You’re a well-trained, armed SWAT officer. You can take care of yourself.”
He wrapped his hand around her upper arm and drew her toward him. Even in the midst of a minimeltdown, she noticed he was always careful to grasp her uninjured arm. “You said you were scared half to death.”
Kate pivoted to break his hold, and her back hit the wall near the door. He’s fine. Get a grip. But the contrast between her earlier terror and his heartfelt gesture had hurtled her onto an emotional roller coaster. She raised her chin in defiance. “An expression people blurt without thinking—”
He planted both hands on the wall on either side of her shoulders, caging her in. “When they’re upset?”
She swiped at her eyes, aghast to find them damp. Was horrified to discover she was shaking from forehead to French manicured toenails. What was wrong with her? “I am not upset!”
“Hey.” His teasing grin vanished, and he brushed gentle fingertips over her lashes. “Those are real tears.” He cupped her face in both hands. “And you’re trembling. I thought you were kidding, but you were worried about me.”
“You were gone so long. I didn’t know…how to help you.”
“I didn’t expect you to help me.” His glossy brows met in bewilderment. “I handle bombs and deal with bad guys every day. My family is packed with cops…all used to the lifestyle.” Clearly amazed, he leaned down. “Nobody has concerned themselves with my safety for a long time. Nobody has ever cried over me.”
“I’m not crying.” She sniffled. “It’s probably allergies.”
“I’ll buy that.” His low, intimate whisper washed over her. “You’re allergic to emotion.” He eased closer, and she was caught between his hard-muscled body and the wall. Heartbeat thundered against heartbeat. He was warm, vital…alive.
And she was relieved, no…overjoyed.
Shock and surprise tumbled inside at the depth of her caring, at her strong attachment. She wasn’t used to emotional upheaval. Struggling for balance, she studied the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw. Remembered the erotic tingle of his beard rasping her bare skin. She shivered. “I’ve dreamed about you.”
The words had barely escaped before she cringed. Ohmigosh! Why had she spilled that horrifying secret?
Astonishment blanked his expression before he smiled gently. “It’s okay to have feelings,” he murmured. “To have dreams.” His fingertips stroked her face, and she broke out in goose bumps. “People who don’t have dreams, don’t have anything.”
“What…” She swallowed hard. The dizzying blend of his nearness and her blunder made coherency impossible. He’d be stunned by the hurricane whip of her feelings, by the bold demand of her dreams. “What do you do when your dreams get blasted apart? When they shatter at your feet?”
“Exactly what you’ve done.” His gaze locked on hers as his clever fingers caressed her throat, grazed her collarbone. “Pick up the pieces and create something new. Channel the passion inside you to redefine something imperfect in a perfect way.”
She wanted to believe him, but couldn’t. “My pictures are far from perfect.” They’d satisfied some of the yen to create, but didn’t come close to baring her soul on canvas.
“I bought a gallery book of your work. I had no idea that you were Renée Allete.” His eyes flared with a dangerous gleam. “The pictures tugged at me, drew me in. I couldn’t resist. I like your photographs, Just Kate.”
His praise sent happiness winging. “You do?”
“A lot.” His husky whisper feathered over her lips. His green irises went smoky, and her stomach swooped on a flutter of anticipation. “God help me, I like you.” He breached the millimeters separating them and covered her mouth with his.