Lethal in Love

by Michelle Somers

  Either way, wavering outside his place of work wouldn’t catch her anything but a cold, something she needed less than his amused tolerance and a desire to prove she deserved otherwise. It didn’t matter how he viewed her, as long as she left today with enough info to finish her book.

  Another bracing lungful of frost and her hands left their warmth for the two-way double doors. Her palm connected with the glass and it sprung outward, driving her back. She stumbled, overcorrected, propelled forward into a solid mass—strong arms, warm, spicy scents, and muscles both delectably superhuman and male all at once.

  Murphy’s Law chuckling at her expense.

  Chase’s fingertips dug into her upper arms, pushing her back. ‘Lurking outside police stations now, are we Stacey? Hoping to catch a killer? Or maybe a detective?’ Humour tumbled across his lips, calling her resident kittens to romp and roll across her stomach lining. ‘I guess it’s your lucky day. You found one.’

  She stepped back, giving the kittens a stern back-in-your-basket warning. Chase yanked her from the path of a passer-by and she toppled back into his body.

  Firm, muscular, warm . . .

  Before she became too comfortable or kidded herself that she’d enjoy the wrap of his arms and the press of his lips too much, he dragged her through the station doors.

  Her skin tingled, not from cold.

  She shrugged free of his grasp, tossing the rain from her hair, avoiding his gaze. There it was again, that amused forbearance she hated so much. It hauled her back two-and-a-half years. Made her feel worthless and small, and left her questioning how far she’d come.

  And whether she’d ever really moved on from being nothing at all.

  Stacey’s lips tightened like a bow seconds before the arrow’s fired.

  Chase’s first impulse was to lean across and drown in the scent of honeysuckle and woman. His second was to get the hell away before he did something stupid. Like kiss her.

  ‘What are you doing here, other than wreaking havoc on everyone within bomb-blast range?’

  One-and-a-half metres of curvaceous irritation uncoiled, like a taipan ready to strike. ‘You bowled into me, buddy, not the other way round!’

  He bit back a retort. Rolled his shoulders and winced. His troubles were no fault of hers, and projecting them only added guilt to his ever-growing dung-pile of emotions.

  Still, that didn’t change the fact that Stacey Holland was trouble, with her dripping blonde ringlets, bright pink cheeks and wet ruby lips. He had no time for distractions. The Night Terror had struck again, killing a friend. That was his focus—that and stopping the bastard before he murdered again. That and showing he deserved his lead role on the case.

  He had so much to prove.

  The second hand on his watch hacked at the last threads of his patience. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘But we have a meeting.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Today.’ To prove her point, she shoved her mobile in his face.

  He read: Appointment. Detective Durant. 1.30 p.m.

  The words were a mental slap about his head. As if things weren’t bad enough, his memory had become another dud bullet in an already dwindling chamber.

  He pushed the phone away.

  She snatched her hand back as if his fingers were the last thing she wanted against her skin. Or maybe they were the first?

  He couldn’t help it. Her reaction tugged a dry smile to his lips. ‘Appointment? Don’t you mean date?’

  ‘This is work, not pleasure!’

  Red flooded her face and he bit back a laugh. ‘Ouch! Yet another slap to my ego. If you’re not careful, I might think you don’t like me.’

  She had that startled deer look—wide eyes, ready to bolt—and his laughter slipped into a chuckle. ‘Work and pleasure aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.’

  ‘They are for me.’

  ‘Live a little, Stacey. Life’s too short.’ Which reminded him. His real appointment awaited. He side-stepped and pushed open the door. ‘Call and we’ll make another time.’

  She scampered up beside him, didn’t notice the puddle until she ploughed through it, splashing water halfway up his leg. Great!

  Water plastered her trousers to her calf, but she didn’t seem to notice, or care. ‘Can’t we at least walk and talk at the same time?’

  His right arm spasmed. Reason enough to end things here. His squad believed he was following up on a lead and he didn’t need some ditsy romance writer catching him on the lie. He stopped, and pulled her in before she pitched into a lamppost. How the woman survived her day without him was a mystery. Wide green orbs stared up through the rain, her lips parted and ready . . .

  He released her and stepped back. Not now.

  ‘I’m busy in the real world, solving real problems, catching real killers. I don’t have time for pretend.’ He glanced at his watch. Dammit, if he didn’t move, late would be an understatement. No brisk walk to clear the cobwebs now.

  He raised his hand to a passing taxi and sighed inwardly when it pulled into the curb. He brushed past her and this time she didn’t follow. ‘Call me and we’ll have that date. Just not today.’

  Her frown deepened. No sense of humour—that was her problem. And he had neither the time nor the inclination right now to help her find one. Stacey lived in a fairytale world where princes rode in on white horses and the damsels they saved were young and perfect and innocent; where life always ended with a happy ever after.

  Fiction. He wasn’t fool enough to think life even remotely resembled that. His fist clenched in his lap as he tried to hold it steady.

  That didn’t mean he was willing to give up hope.

  1

  11 months later

  . . . And the RuBY winner is . . . From Mishap to Murder, Stacey Holland!

  The Cloverleaf Ballroom erupted in a frenzy of applause, friends and associates standing, cheering. Celebrating. For her.

  Champagne bubbles clogged in Stacey’s throat. She knocked back another mouthful to wash them down, and spluttered.

  Great move, Einstein.

  Shazz slapped her none-too-softly on the back and she almost leapt from her seat.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Complain now, thank me later,’ her friend whispered. ‘At least you’re no longer choking your way toward cardiac arrest.’

  Stacey straightened. Damn, she was right! Who knew bubbles scared the same as hiccups?

  Romantic Book of the Year.

  She won.

  Difficult to move past the whirling spinning wheel that was her thoughts.

  Shazz pulled her out of her seat and into a hug. ‘Go get ‘em, Stace. Romance Writers of Australia’s biggest award, and it’s yours. This is your moment.’

  It was. One she’d envisioned since her leap into romantic suspense three years ago.

  Agent, Beth Samuels—“Morticia” to her friends—unfolded her lithe frame from her chair and sandwiched Stacey’s hand between her bony ones. ‘Well deserved. You aced it this time.’

  Rita Hayden, her editor, flicked back her fiery bob before wrapping Stacey into her curvaceous frame. ‘I knew you had it in you.’

  Ethan Miklem tugged her into a not-so brotherly embrace, his low whisper delivering a gopher-trail of goose bumps across her neck. ‘Another rung on your ladder to success. I’m glad I get to share it with you.’

  People wanted to hug her, shake her hand, tell her she’d done good.

  She’d been trying to tell herself that for years. Now perhaps she’d believe it.

  Her head whirled and she gripped the back of a chair.

  She’d avoided going heavy on the alcohol all evening for just this moment. A RuBY nomination was the Australian romance authors’ equivalent of the Oscars. No mean feat. Exciting. Elating. Thrill-the-pants-off-overwhelming.

  RWA President Jermaine Hart had pitched into the lead-up and Stacey had thrown caution all the way to Antarctica. This was the moment—a stepping-stone toward New York Tim
es best-seller status.

  Recognition. Validation.

  Reason her mother had to be happy now.

  She blinked, champagne effervescing through her blood and into her brain.

  Jermaine’s speech had her biting nails she’d never bitten before, and steadying her nerves had become more pressing than the need for temperance. She’d grabbed Shazz’s second glass of bubbly and downed the lot in one hit.

  She hadn’t considered the subsequent steam-train rush of alcohol to her brain.

  A path cleared before her.

  Paper scrunched in her palm. Her speech.

  Daubing moisture from her eyes, hoping her mascara was as waterproof as professed on the label, she made her careful way to the stage through the cheering crowd. Over-polished marble and stiletto heel collided. She tottered, caught her breath, adopted a nothing-to-see-here-but-drunk-woman-in-heels smile, then continued toward the stairs. The hellish heels transformed the remaining metres into a marathon.

  Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t trip.

  She made it past stair number one. Only four more to go.

  Don’t trip.

  The toe of her borrowed Armani sandal caught on the second step and she pictured Shazz’s cringe, her protect-those-shoes-with-your-life speech forever engraved in her mind.

  ‘Got you!’ Jermaine grabbed her arm and guided her up the remaining stairs.

  Air whooshed from her lungs as she made it to the podium, all vital body parts miraculously intact. Jermaine pressed the award into her hands and she didn’t hear a thing past that moment. The angular-cut glass felt cold and unnatural, heavier than it looked. She tried not to think of how the shards would scatter if it were dropped.

  Great murder weapon.

  Not an ideal time for plotting.

  She stared out at the crowd of upturned faces, an entire litter of kittens prancing through her chest. Everyone out there is on your side. They want you to win. Her editor’s words. Comforting in theory, not so easy to remember under a bright spotlight and five-or-so hundred pairs of eyes.

  She rested the award on the slanted wood, smoothed her crumpled speech with her free hand, cleared her throat and launched in before the tentative grasp on her nerves slipped.

  ‘As many of my oldest friends will attest, I’ve been dreaming up bad guys and bad boys since I was old enough to appreciate the difference.’

  Chuckles rippled through the audience, providing her with courage enough to stem the waver in her voice. ‘I’ve always felt that authenticity is the key. Every piece of action, every murder that makes it into my books is performed until I’m satisfied it’s plausible. If I can’t do it, I don’t write it.’

  She looked up from her notes. Big mistake.

  Cut glass dug into her palm as she lost herself in familiar eyes of tropical blue. Butterflies joined her resident kittens, tangoing in tandem across her stomach.

  Breathe.

  Oxygen dragged into her lungs, diffusing the jitters.

  How dare he! Trespassing on her day, her moment. Making her all fuzzy and warm and melty in front of her friends.

  No!

  She clenched her jaw, ignoring a heartbeat that would challenge the most rigorous Riverdancer. The racing heartbeat wasn’t him. It was the champagne.

  Awareness was not allowed in places that shouldn’t be aware. Not over Detective Chase Durant.

  Her grip on the award tightened. She stared at her crumpled speech and forced the scrawled black into focus.

  ‘My characters are everyday people who get caught in not-so-everyday circumstances. They’re true and honest, they hurt, but they always mend. Such is the way of romance, a genre which gives so much pleasure to so many of our readers. It’s why we as authors push through the uncertainty, through the pain, the tears. But this moment, accepting this award, makes every tear, every heartache worth it, because it says that in some small way I’ve touched the hearts of the people out there. And as writers, that’s all we ever strive to do.’

  This time when she looked up, she avoided the front row’s far left table.

  ‘My list of thank-yous is long, but I’ll try to make it quick. First, I’d like to thank . . .’

  Before she knew it, her speech was done, the crowd was standing and concertina legs were carrying her back to her seat. His table stood in the opposite direction to hers, so avoiding him should have been easy.

  Her gaze met his. Deep, probing, accusatory.

  ‘What happened up there?’

  Stacey snapped her attention to Shazz. Safer.

  She dropped into her seat. ‘Chase Durant happened.’

  The presentations wrapped up and wait-staff descended on the room with trays of chocolate berry mousse and crème brûlée.

  ‘He’s here?’ Shazz swivelled in her seat, an excited oh-my-god-I-just-saw-Hugh-Jackman shrill in her voice.

  Stacey grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t be so obvious.’

  ‘Oh, like you?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Not so if the look on your face is anything to go by. Why do you let him rile you?’

  ‘Oh, let’s see, because he thinks I’m a flake and a disaster. Plus, last time I asked him for help he fobbed me off.’

  ‘Wasn’t he working some serial killer case at the time? I’d say that’s reason enough for not being as available as you’d have liked.’ Shazz winked on the word “available”, as if that bugged Stacey more than the info she’d needed for her now award-winning novel. It so wasn’t. ‘Far as I can see, with the way his eyes superfix-follow you, the only disaster in this equation is his emotions.’

  Damn, she couldn’t help it. Shazz’s words had that fuzzy feeling back again. She bit her lip rather than ask her for more.

  ‘Forget about him. He doesn’t matter.’

  She said the words with a toss of her hand. Even turned to the table and smiled at Ethan across the swanky chocolate centrepiece. But as others joined them and drew her into another round of hugs and congratulations, she knew the words were a lie.

  Her speech was so close to a confession, its sweetness glazed his tongue.

  She was brazen, he’d give her that. And too goddam sexy in the green, filmy get-up that clung and revealed and . . . well, revealed.

  The Muscle Man deep in conversation with her seemed to think so. His palm brushed her upper arm as he leaned in. She gazed into his eyes, didn’t pull away.

  Chase pushed out of his seat. Time to clear his head, of her, in the dress. Out of it. He tossed back his lemon, lime and bitters. Better if it was whiskey. Only this was work, albeit off the clock. He had a hunch and he had to follow wherever it led. Which meant keeping his head.

  Focus. Not easy with a certain strawberry blonde needling at his concentration. But he’d prevailed under worse pressure. And there were worse things than surveilling Stacey Holland.

  Even if she was willing to kill for a good story.

  His glass clattered onto the table. Difficult to believe the woman could plan, let alone execute a murder. But too many indicators pointed her way and until he could rule her out, she was stuck fast under his radar.

  And Muscle Man’s, it seemed. The bastard could barely tear his eyes off her.

  With a growl, Chase headed for the double glass doors leading out to the rose garden.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  His hand paused on the cold of the glass, then pushed, and he slipped through, toward the scent of roses, leaving the plush scent of honeysuckle behind.

  The door opened behind him, as he knew it would.

  ‘Chase?’

  Even angry, her voice contained a lilt that tugged at his gut. Low.

  He turned to meet her flinted-green glare, her face a soft contrast of shadows under the muted lighting. So not the face of a murderer.

  He crushed the thought before it wheedled its way through his reserve. He’d worked homicide long enough to know murder had many faces, some of them just as exquisite as the one looking
up at him now.

  ‘Funny how fate keeps crossing our paths.’ He grinned.

  ‘Does “pull the other” ring any bells for you?’

  The daggers in her expression said she missed the humour.

  One day he’d see her laugh.

  Another thought to bury. And he’d heap on weedkiller, just to make sure. He had no business making the stern Stacey Holland laugh. Enjoying the view, on the other hand, was free fodder, and who in their right mind would pass up such a bargain? He indulged in a slow perusal of that dress close-up, enjoying the way her skin flushed, the red disappearing beneath her strapless neckline.

  His spike in temperature had everything to do with spring moving toward summer, and nothing to do with the view. Or his reaction to it.

  He switched focus from his reaction to hers. ‘Why am I here? To celebrate the success of women in writing, of course.’

  ‘Something I’m sure your date is most grateful for.’ She frowned the moment the words left her lips, the grate of her voice matching the porcupine-prickles in her stance.

  His grin couldn’t help but widen. His “date” was busy networking inside, and Gracie’s bestie. And while dating his sister’s friends was something he’d partaken on occasion in the past, this, right now, was work.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it. ‘Jealous?’

  She even snorted cute. ‘I write fiction, I don’t live it, detective.’

  ‘You called me Chase before.’

  ‘And many other things, but I think for all intents and purposes “detective” is fine.’

  He stepped in. ‘Why? Because it helps you keep your distance?’

  She tottered backward on those ridiculous heels. Heels that made her legs go on forever, tempting a man to explore and dream and want. He reached out and the only way to steady her was to pull her in. He was a practical guy, after all.

  Her chin tilted up, the set of those plump raspberry lips unimpressed, even whilst the green of her eyes became overtaken by black. By a need almost equal to his.