Posts Tagged ‘romantic suspense’

Excerpt from

Saving Grace

Book 2 in the Serve and Protect Series

by

Norah Wilson

Copyright © 2010 Norah Wilson

Published by Norah Wilson

All rights reserved.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Being drunk slowed Ray Morgan’s reaction time. The telephone managed a full ring before he snatched the receiver.

“Grace?” To his own ears, his voice sounded like someone else’s.

A second’s silence, then a man’s voice. “That you, Razor?”

Ray sagged back into the depths of the couch. John Quigley, from the station.

Not Grace after all. Never again Grace.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Ray dragged a hand over his face. “’Fraid I’m no good to you tonight, though, Quigg.”

Another pause. “You okay, Ray?”

“Sure. Been keeping company with Jim Beam, is all.” Ray’s lips twisted at his own wit. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t that witty, but it was either laugh or cry. “S’okay, though. I’m not catching tonight anyway. Hallett is.”

“Just a sec, Ray.”

Quigg must have covered the mouthpiece, because Ray could hear muffled conversation in the background.

“Okay, I’m back,” Quigley said.

“I was sayin’ to call Gord Hallett. He’s your man tonight.”

“I don’t need a detective, Ray. I was looking for you.”

“Huh? You’re looking for me at, what…?” He squinted across the room at the glow of the VCR’s digital clock. Grace’s VCR. She hadn’t slowed down long enough to take anything.

What had he been saying? Oh, yeah, the time. “…eleven o’clock at night?”

“It’s Grace.”

At the mention of his wife’s name, Ray felt the hollowness in his gut open up again, wide and bottomless as ever. Guess the bourbon hadn’t filled it after all.

Leave it to Grace to get stopped on her way out of town, in her red Mustang the boys in Patrol had come to know so well. Had she explained why her foot was so heavy tonight? His grip on the phone tightened. Had she told the uniform — a guy Ray would have to face every day for the next ten years — that she was rushing off to meet her lover and couldn’t spare the horses?

Her lover.

“You got her downtown?” he asked evenly.

“Downtown? Hell, no. They took her to —”

“’Cause you can keep her. You hear me, Quigg? I don’t care.”

“Dammit, Ray, listen to me. She’s been in an accident.”

Ray shot to his feet, dragging the telephone off the table. It hit the floor with a crash, but the connection survived. “What happened?”

“She missed a bend on Route 7, rolled her vehicle.”

He felt his stomach squeeze. “Is she hurt bad?”

“Hard to say. By the time I got there, they were already loading her into the bus. But she didn’t look too bad, considering she rolled that puppy like the Marlboro man rolls a cigarette. Paramedic said he thought she might have lost consciousness for a bit, but she seemed pretty with-it to me.”

Wait a minute, Quigg was off duty. Why’d they call Quigg?

Unless Grace was hurt so bad they thought his best friend should break the news.

Ray gripped the receiver so hard now his fingers hurt. “Why’d they call you?”

“Nobody called me. Suz and I were on our way home from visiting friends when we came on the scene. I stopped to see if our Mountie friends could use a hand. When I saw it was Grace, I offered to make the call.”

Okay, relax, man. Breathe. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. But she’d rolled the car.

Pressing a thumb and forefinger to his closed eyelids, he pushed back the images from every bad wreck he’d seen in his twelve years on the force.

“They taking her to the Regional?”

“She’s probably there already.”

“I’ll be there in —” Ah, hell, the booze. Morgan, you idiot. “Quigg, I’m in no shape to drive. Can you send a car?”

“Way ahead of you, buddy. Stevie B will be there in about four minutes.”

 

***

 

Four hours later, Ray sat across the desk from Dr. Lawrence Greenfield, the neurologist who’d just finished Grace’s workup.

The six cups of coffee he’d downed had sobered him up, but his stomach lining felt like he’d been drinking battery acid.

“So she’s going to be okay?” Ray had been through such a wild range of emotions in the five hours since Grace had dropped her bombshell, he didn’t know how he felt about this news. Christ, he didn’t even know how he was supposed to feel. He eyed the doctor, who looked way too young to be fooling around with anyone’s grey matter. “She’ll walk away with no real injury?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. At least not yet. She did suffer a Grade Three concussion.” Dr. Greenfield leaned forward in his chair, steepling his hands. “Brain injury is more of a process than an event, Detective. It can escalate over as much as seventy-two hours, so we’ll have to wait and watch for the next little while. What I can tell you is she has no focal injury we can pinpoint with conventional imaging.”

“Focal injury?”

“No concentrated damage in any one area. The scans were clean. On the other hand, any time a patient loses consciousness, we have to be suspicious.”

“What do you mean, suspicious?”

“She could have a diffuse injury, where the pathology is spread throughout the brain, rather than focused in a specific spot. We’ll have to follow her for a while to rule out more subtle brain injury.”

Ray slouched back in his chair, kicking a leg out carelessly. “She’s conscious now?”

“Yes. And anxious to see you.”

Ray rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Then I think I’d go back and look at those scans again, Doc.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She can’t possibly want to see me.” He congratulated himself on how matter-of-fact he sounded. “She left me tonight. She was on her way to join her lover when she had her accident.”

Dr. Greenfield blinked. “She told me she was coming home from an interview with a man who raises miniature horses, and that you’d be worried that she was late.”

The pony interview? “Doc, that interview was a week ago. The story ran on Monday.”

“I see.” Dr. Greenfield leaned back. “Well, this puts things in rather a different light.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we could be looking at a retrograde amnesia.”

Amnesia? Oh, Christ, he was in a bad novel now. “But you said she’d escaped injury.”

“Amnesia can accompany any loss of consciousness, however brief, although I thought we’d ruled it out.” Greenfield removed his glasses and polished them. “She identified the date and day.”

“Couldn’t she have picked that up from the EMTs or the hospital staff?”

“Absolutely. Amnesia victims can be very good at deducing such things from clues gleaned after the accident. But she correctly answered a whole host of other questions for me, including the results of Tuesday’s municipal election.”

Ray digested this information. “Is it possible she remembers some things, but not others?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, it’s quite probable.” Dr. Greenfield replaced his glasses. “Amnesia can leave holes in the memory, with no predicting where those holes will appear. The location of the gaps can be as random as the holes in Swiss cheese. In fact, we call it Swiss cheese memory.”

Terrific. Freaking wonderful. “So she might remember the election results, but not the fact that she’s taken a lover?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

To his credit, Greenfield’s gaze remained steady, but Ray could read his eyes. Faint embarrassment, carefully masked empathy for the cuckolded husband.

“Or she may not have forgotten Romeo at all, right, Doc?” he rasped. “Just the fact that she told me about him.”

“That’s also a possibility,” the neurologist conceded. “Whatever the case, Detective, I can vouch for the fact that she seems genuinely anxious to see you. She’s very much in need of some sympathy and support.”

Ray made no comment, keeping his face carefully blank.

“I should add that new memories are especially vulnerable, since it takes a few days for your brain to move them into permanent memory.” Dr. Greenfield hunched forward again. “Do you use a computer, Mr. Morgan?”

Ray struggled to follow. “Of course I do. Who doesn’t?”

“Well, to make a very crude analogy, fresh events, whatever might have happened in the last couple of days, are to your brain what random access memory, or RAM, is to your computer. If the computer unexpectedly loses power before a bit of data gets stored on the hard drive, it’s lost. You can boot up again, but whatever was in the RAM has been wiped out. Thus, with any loss of consciousness, it’s possible to lose memories that were in transition.”

Great. She’d probably forgotten she’d dumped him.

Ray stood. “Well, no time like the present, is there, Doc? Let’s go see my darling wife.”

Dr. Greenfield’s eyes widened. “Surely you don’t plan to tell her … I mean, you won’t —”

“Won’t what? Suggest she call her boyfriend so she can cry on his shoulder instead?” Ray drew himself up, growing in height and girth, and let his expression go flat in the way he knew inspired fear. Bad cop to badder cop. “Why shouldn’t I? She chose him.”

Dr. Greenfield looked singularly unintimidated, no doubt because he’d already seen the raw edge of Ray’s anguish.

Damn you, Grace, how could you do this to me?

“The fact remains that she seems to need you right now. She’s quite distraught. The last thing she needs is to be upset any further. If a diagnosis of retrograde amnesia is confirmed, I’d like to give her a chance to recover her memories on her own.” Dr. Greenfield’s intense gaze bored into Ray. “Can I have your cooperation on that point?”

Ray stared back at the doctor, unblinking. “I hear you, Doc. Now, take me to her.”

 

***

 

Grace Morgan felt like a dog’s breakfast.

Despite the painkillers the nurse had given her, everything she owned seemed to hurt, albeit in a distant way, and her head ached with a dull persistence. But she hadn’t cried.

In fact, she seemed unable to cry. Instead of tears, there was just a hot, heavy misery in her chest. If only Ray would come. If he were here with her, she could cry rivers.

She’d cry for her beloved Mustang, shockingly crumpled now, a red husk of twisted metal they’d had to open like a sardine can. How had she come out of it alive?

She’d cry for her carelessness.

She’d cry for scaring Ray, and for scaring herself.

Ray. He would gather her close and soothe her while the pain seeped out, soaking his shirt. He would lend her his strength, his toughness. He’d kiss her so carefully and sweetly….

She could almost cry, just thinking about it. Almost.

Ray, where are you?

On cue, the door swung open to admit her husband. Her heart lightened at the sight of him, so strong, so solid. His shoulders seemed to fill even this institutional-size doorway.

If she felt bad, he looked worse. Haggard. And for the first time she could remember in the six years she’d known him, he looked positively rumpled, and his face was shadowed with stubble as though he’d missed his second shave of the day.

Poor pet. He must have been so worried.

“Ray.” Her right arm hindered by IV lines, she reached across her body with her left arm. He took her hand, but there was something wrong. He looked … funny. Guarded. Wrong.

Oh, Lord, was she dying after all? Was her brain irrevocably damaged and nobody wanted to tell her? She could be hemorrhaging right now, her brain swelling out of control. Maybe that’s why her head hurt. Maybe….

Then he touched her forehead, brushing aside the fringe of hair peeping out from under the bandage, his gentleness dispelling her crazy impression.

“You all right?”

She would be now. “Yeah, I’m all right. Unless you know something I don’t.”

That look was back on his face again. “What do you mean?”

“They didn’t send you in here to tell me they mixed up the charts, by any chance? That my brain is Jell-O after all?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No, your head is fine, as far as they can tell.”

She drew his hand to her cheek, pressing it there with her own palm. Some of the pain abated. “That’s what they told me, too, but you’d never know it from the way I feel.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

She swallowed hard, her throat tight with the need to cry. “I rolled the Mustang.”

“Like a cowboy’s cigarette, to quote Quigg.” Another ghost of a smile curved his lips. Lips he hadn’t yet pressed to hers.

She smiled tremulously. “I guess I’m lucky, huh?”

“Very lucky.”

The tears welled, scalding, ready to spill. “I really loved that car.”

“Something tells me you could love another one.”

Again that twisting of his lips. It wasn’t humor that lit his eyes. What? A vague, formless anxiety rose in her breast.

“A newer model, with fewer miles on the odometer. Or maybe something faster, flashier.”

She wasn’t imagining things. His tone was … off. What was it she was hearing? Accusation? Grace blinked. “Are you very angry? About the car, I mean?”

He seemed to swallow with difficulty, and his hand tightened on her chin. “Grace, I don’t give a damn about the car.”

For the first time since he entered the room, she finally saw what she expected to see in his face. To hell with the car. You’re okay. You’re safe, his eyes said. Her sense of strangeness dissipated.

“I was so scared.”

He pulled her into his arms. The dam broke and her tears spilled over at last.

 

***

 

They kept Grace overnight for observation.

Ray stayed, planting himself in the single chair by her bed. Once he dozed off, waking when the night nurse came in for yet another check. At eight o’clock, he left Grace to her breakfast and went down to the lobby to find a pay phone.

He was a fool, plain and simple. He knew it, but knowing didn’t seem to help. He was going to take her home anyway.

Of course, it wasn’t like he had a helluva lot of alternatives. He couldn’t send her home to her mother, that frozen excuse for a human being, even supposing Elizabeth Dempsey would take her daughter in. Grace’s father had died two years ago, completing the retreat from an imperious wife which Ray figured must have begun minutes after Grace’s conception.

No, there was no place for Grace to go. Not in her current condition.

Ray dropped his quarter and punched in the number, kneading the tense muscles at the back of his neck as he waited for his Sergeant to answer. It was likely to be a short-lived arrangement anyway, having Grace back home. When she didn’t show up for her rendezvous, no doubt lover boy would come looking —

“Quigley.”

“Quigg, it’s me.”

“About time you checked in. How’s it going?”

“Grace is good. Concussed and sore as hell, but okay.”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting regular updates. But that’s not what I meant.”

Ray bit back a sigh. “Is this where I’m supposed to ask what you did mean?”

“Last night you were ready to let her rot in the lockup.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Pain shot up to the base of his skull, and Ray massaged his neck again. “Biggest favor I could do for the motoring public, with that lead foot of hers.”

“Except you don’t know how to be mean to Grace. Leastways, not before yesterday.”

“Yeah, well.” Ray rubbed at a scuff on the tiled floor with the toe of his Nikes. There was a pause at the other end of the line, no doubt so Quigg could digest that pithy comment.

“I think you should take some time off,” Quigg said at last.

“That’s actually why I’m calling. I’ll need a day or so to get Grace settled.”

“I was thinking more in terms of weeks.”

“Weeks?” The idea of spending days at home with Grace as she recovered her mobility — and her memory — filled him with cold dread. Not that it would take long. Even if nature didn’t cooperate, Grace’s paramour was bound to show up to hurry the process. Ray had been counting on putting in long days on the job, both before and after Grace’s veil of forgetfulness fell — or was ripped — away.

“I can’t take time off. You’ll be short-staffed.”

“Not for long. Woods is three days away from rotating in.”

“He’ll need orientation….”

“He’s been here before,” Quigg said. “Couple of days, it’ll be like he’s never been gone.”

“But what about Landis?”

“I’m pretty sure our small-town bad guy will be here when you get back.”

“There’s nothing small-town about that bastard, and you know it.” Ray knew he was letting the simmering fury of his domestic disaster leech into his voice, but he didn’t care. That puke Viktor Landis was a worthy target for it. “He’s got his fingers into every dirty deal that goes down in this town.”

“And some day you’ll catch him at it, but not this week. And not next week.” Quigg’s agreeable tone turned hard. “Compassionate leave, Razor. Two weeks, starting now. The work’ll be here when you get back. It’s not going anywhere.”

“But I only need a few days, not weeks.”

“Take ’em anyway.”

A definite command. Ray gripped the receiver tightly. Dammit, how could his friend do this to him? He needed to work.

“Get away from the station house,” Quigg said, his voice softer now. “Spend some time with Grace. Chrissakes, Ray, you haven’t taken a real break since your honeymoon.”

Quigg’s words stopped the retort on Ray’s tongue. Had it been that long since he’d taken a vacation? He was passionate about his job, but four years? Why hadn’t Grace said something?

“What do you say, buddy? You gonna take the time or do I have to suspend you?”

Before his promotion last year, Quigg had worked right alongside Ray in the detective bureau. Hell, he was the best friend Ray had in the world. But it wasn’t going to make any difference here. Quigg meant business.

Ray put his hand on the phone’s switch hook, ready to break the connection. “A week.”

“Two.” Another command. “And Ray? I know you’re not in the market for unsolicited advice, but I’m gonna give you some anyway. Whatever you need to do to get straight with Grace, do it. She’s a keeper.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. She’s a good —”

“I meant about the unsolicited advice.” With that, he replaced the receiver.

He stood staring at the telephone for a few minutes. Then, feeling like a man condemned, he turned on his heel and went in search of the doctor to see about Grace’s discharge.

 

***

 

Six days later, Grace sat in her bedroom, battling tears.

Her headaches had receded, and her bruises were resolving nicely. The total body agony she’d come home with had faded to mere muscle pain, easily tamed by a couple of Ibuprofen. In fact, she had everything a recuperating patient could wish for.

Ray had taken time off to nurse her. He’d fixed her meals, bought her medication, ferried her to and from the doctor’s office, and generally anticipated whatever she needed before she asked for it.

In those first days, he’d massaged her sore muscles and changed the bedding regularly. He’d helped her in and out of the bath until her soreness abated enough for her to manage by herself.

He rented videos for her, most of which they watched together.

He talked to her, too. Did she remember the bird-watching trip they’d taken to the Tantramar Marshes last year? The Christmas they spent in their first apartment, before they’d bought this house? He even pulled out the photo albums she’d lovingly constructed over the years, and which he’d largely ignored, and got her to narrate each snapshot.

Yes, her husband was the perfect companion.

And she was thoroughly, completely miserable.

Oh, he was the soul of kindness, but his kindness was platonic, his touch devoid of anything remotely sexual. Even with their heads bent together over the photo album, she hadn’t managed to strike a spark off him. And she’d tried. Somewhere along the way, she seemed to have gained a care-giver and lost her lover. He even slept on the couch at night, claiming he didn’t want to jar her sore body.

That last thought had her knuckling her eyes like a kid.

Oh, grow up. He just doesn’t want to hurt you. It’s up to you to show him you’re better, that you’re ready to be treated like a woman again, not an invalid.

Though she thought she’d been pretty eloquent on the subject last night when he’d given her the back rub she’d requested. Or at least as eloquent as she could be in a non-verbal way. She squirmed as she recalled the way she’d purred and stretched under his hands, but none of her signals had slowed his firm, clinical strokes or brought that fierce light to his brown eyes.

Why, oh why, couldn’t he see how desperately she needed this connection with him, the reassurance of physical closeness?

She chewed at her lip. Maybe men really did need things spelled out. They were always complaining women expected them to read their mind. Maybe she had to be more direct about it.

Except he’d never had any trouble reading her body language before the accident. She’d never had to ask for that. The very idea made her face flame.

She’d come to Ray a shy virgin, and while he’d carefully and skillfully relieved her of that state, he’d seemed content for her to keep her demureness. More than content, she suspected. He’d grown up with a mother who prized ladylike decorum above all else. Grace grimaced, thinking how often her own nature fell short of that saintly mark, at least in thought if not in actual deed.

But in the five years they’d been married, Ray had never avoided their bed before. His disinterest had to stem from the accident, and his reaction to her injuries.

Her spirits revived as she warmed to the idea. Really, it made perfect sense. He’d always treated her gently, so careful not to frighten or hurt her. So much so that she sometimes wanted to scream. Obviously, he needed her to affirm her return to health more forcefully.

She’d do it, she decided. She’d do it tonight.

 

***

 

This was sheer, unmitigated hell.

Ray leaned against the cupboard as he waited for the kettle to boil. He’d been in some tight spots in his time. Hell, in the four years he’d put in on the Metropolitan Toronto force before coming to Fredericton, he’d seen some truly bad shit. But nothing had tested him quite like this.

Six days, and still she acted like everything was normal.

As far as he could tell, Grace’s recall was perfect, except for the last day or two before the crash. Which meant she must remember the fact of her lover’s existence. Much as he’d like to, he couldn’t believe those random Swiss cheese ‘memory holes’ Dr. Greenfield alluded to could excise the bastard so neatly.

Clearly, though, she had no memory of telling him.

And equally clearly, she was in the mood for sex.

Sex.

The word brought down the cascade of visuals he alternately tortured himself with and ruthlessly suppressed. His wife, another man. Grace welcoming another man, opening her arms for him, parting her legs —

The shrill scream of the kettle dragged him back from the edge of madness. Cursing, he shut the burner off, forcing the images back into the dark place from which they’d escaped.

Back to the problem at hand. What to do about Grace’s amorous urges? He threw two tea bags in the pot and added boiling water. He sure as hell wasn’t going to oblige her. Thank God for that puritanical streak her mother had instilled in her. She wouldn’t ask him to make love to her, at least not in so many words. As for her non-verbal invitations, he’d continue to let them sail over his head.

How long would it take for her memory to return? Greenfield had urged him not to force the matter, allowing Grace to remember by herself. But there was a limit to how much a man could take, a limit Ray feared he was rapidly approaching.

And where was this jerk? It’d been six days. What kind of man wouldn’t come looking for a woman like Grace when she failed to show up?

The smart kind. The kind who fears the righteous wrath of a man who carries a gun for a living.

With a fierce oath, he drove the violent fantasy from his mind. Satisfying as it was, it was only fantasy. If Grace wanted to walk out that door with another man, he wouldn’t detain her.

Grimly, he put the teapot on the tray, along with the weekly rag containing the story he knew she was going to hate. Willing his face blank, he lifted the tray and headed to the bedroom.

 

***

 

Where was he? She’d heard the kettle whistle minutes ago.

Grace lay on the bed pretending to read, wearing nothing but one of Ray’s good white shirts.

Well, okay, Ray’s shirt and a pair of bikini panties. She wasn’t brave enough to dispense with that bit of covering. But it was literally a bit, a barely-there scrap of lace.

She flicked back her hair, lustrous from the oil treatment she’d used on it earlier. Smooth and touchable as silk, straight as a waterfall, it was her one vanity. She tossed it back again and drew one knee up, striving for a sexy pose.

Striving and failing. Shoot. She was far too jittery to pull this off. Ridiculous to get so twisted out of shape over the prospect of seducing her own husband. It’s just that he’d been so … distant. While he accepted her touch, she sometimes got the soul-shriveling impression he had to fight himself not to shake her off. And he sure as heck hadn’t initiated any touching of his own, at least nothing that wasn’t related to her care. Now that she was so much better, he hardly touched her at all.

Oh, God, what if his distance sprang from more than concern about her injuries? What if he didn’t want her? What if he found her efforts at seduction crass? What if he turned her down?

Grace pressed a hand to her stomach. It felt like she’d swallowed a dozen Mexican jumping beans, like the ones her father had given her when she was six. Jumping beans her mother had discarded with the trash despite Grace’s protests that the caterpillars inside would perish before they could emerge as butterflies.

She groaned. Way to go, Gracie. When he comes in, you can be wearing that whipped puppy look you get when you think about Mama. That’d be real seductive.

No, she needed to think positive thoughts. She needed to show Ray she was a well woman. Strong. Lustful.

Very lustful.

Abandoning the magazine, she rolled onto her back. Closing her eyes, she imagined Ray approaching the bed, looking down at her with those smoldering, hooded eyes. He’d bend down to kiss her with exquisite delicacy, and his hand would go to her waist, careful not to rush her. Then, as she grew ardent beneath him, he’d lift his hands to her breasts.

Her breathing grew short. With one hand, she cupped a tingling breast, using her other hand to skim her thigh where the hem of Ray’s shirt left off. Next, he’d slowly unbutton the shirt —

Something — not noise, for Ray always moved soundlessly as a cat — made her open her eyes. He stood in the doorway, a tray clutched in his hands, looking like he’d been turned to stone.

Which, I guess, would make me the Medusa head.

Grace shook the dismal thought away. At least she’d captured his attention. Even as a blush warmed her face, she drew herself up on her elbows.

“There you are.” Her shallow respirations made her sound breathless as a schoolgirl, but she couldn’t help it. “I was going to come looking for you in another minute.”

Her words had the effect of unfreezing him. His movements jerky, he approached the bed, putting the tray down on the night table.

“I brought you the weekly paper.” Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the tray, he poured the tea. “You better read it.”

Grace’s shaky confidence took a plunge. He hadn’t even spared her a sideways look after that first eyeful. To counter her flagging assurance, she reminded herself how much he loved seeing her in his shirts. He’d said so dozens of times, proved it dozens of times.

She took a deep breath, drew herself up on her knees. “I can think of things I want more than the Tribune,” she said, running her index finger along his bare forearm.

Ray sloshed the tea he was pouring. With a muffled oath, he put the teapot down and snatched the newspaper up before it could become totally saturated. Grace shrank back as he shook droplets off the newspaper.

“Here,” he said gruffly, thrusting the paper at her while he mopped the tea up with a napkin. “Front page, bottom right.”

Her face burning, she took the paper, more as a physical shield to hide her humiliation than anything else, but the photo at the bottom of the page drew her eye. The sight of her crumpled Mustang, its roof peeled back grotesquely, struck her hard. Without warning, her mind lurched backward.

She was in her car, hurtling through the night, the road black, unwinding in her headlights like a shiny snake. Her hands gripped the wheel, and her heart was heavy with misery. Oncoming cars, their headlights brilliant blobs through the prism of her tears. Tires catching the graveled shoulder. That sick feeling when she started to lose it. Then … nothing.

“You okay?”

Grace lifted a hand to her head.

“It’s not like you didn’t expect this, right?” Ray swiped the bottom of her teacup with a cloth napkin and handed it to her. She accepted it automatically. “It’s one thing for your own paper to give the story a pass, but you had to know this other rag would run with it.”

She looked up at him, seeing black road, headlights. “My accident — what time was it?”

His gaze slid away. “Ten thirty. Ten forty-five.”

Almost eleven o’clock! That couldn’t be right. She’d been coming home from an interview with the horse guy. Garnet Soles.

The idea seemed somehow both right and wrong. She’d started home from that interview well before five o’clock. It just didn’t add up. And what was she doing out that late?

“Ray, where was I going?”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, his expression guarded. “I don’t know.”

She searched his face for long moments. He spoke the truth, she decided at last. But he also lied. If he didn’t know where she was going, he most certainly knew why.

“I wasn’t coming back from the horse interview.”

She swallowed when he shook his head.

“I’ve forgotten something important, haven’t I?”

He nodded.

“That’s why Dr. Greenfield kept asking me those questions.”

“Yes.”

Her stomach took a plunge. That’s why Ray had pored over the photo albums with her. Testing her memory, not reminiscing.

Ask him. Ask him why you were flying down that rain-wet highway after dark.

No! Whatever it was, she wasn’t ready to hear it.

Something scalded her thigh. She looked down to find she’d spilled most of her tea on herself.

Ray swore, taking the china cup from her trembling hands.

“Your best shirt,” she said.

He cursed. “It’s my fault.”

“It’s the one I bought you for your birthday last year.”

“Forget the shirt.” He strode to the bathroom. She heard the splash of water, then he was back, wet cloth in hand.

“Egyptian cotton.” She examined the brown splotch. She’d bought it at a men’s luxury store, spending the better part of a paycheck on it. Ray appreciated a really fine shirt.

“Here, put this on your thigh.”

Suddenly, it seemed imperative that she save the shirt. If she didn’t deal with the stain immediately, it would set, and she couldn’t use bleach on the fine fibers. “I’ll wash it now.”

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons, but he brushed her hands away.

“Forget the shirt, dammit. Just lie down and let me put this cold cloth on that burn.”

She lay back. He was right; it was just a shirt.

Ray perched beside her on the edge of the bed and gently applied the cold cloth to the red flesh at the top of her thigh.

As he bent over his task, Grace studied his lean face, so infinitely dear to her. Deep grooves bracketed a sensual mouth, and sandy brown hair sprang back from a high, smooth forehead. His downcast lashes lay sooty against his dark skin, shielding warm brown eyes.

Oh, God, why did it feel like she was losing him? It made no sense. Nothing made sense.

He glanced up. “Better?”

“I’m scared.”

A muscle leapt in his jaw and he lowered his gaze again. “It’ll be okay,” he said, his voice gruff as he flipped the cloth to the other, cooler side.

Would it really? Something terrifying loomed at the edge of memory, just beyond her grasp. Would it ever be okay again? A shudder racked her.

“Hold me, Ray.” The words were out before she knew she was going to say them. His head came up again and she met his eyes, realizing with a shock that they were as pain-filled as hers must be. Her fear took another leap. “Please.”

He groaned, pulling her into his arms. She pressed herself against him, seeking to obliterate the fear bleeding into her soul from that dark, shrouded corner in her mind. Love me, she begged silently, her hands roaming his back.

He crushed her against his chest, trapping her arms and burying her face against his neck. Oh, Lord, he was going to rock her like a baby. He planned to comfort her in that same sexless way he’d treated her all week.

No! She wouldn’t let him do this. Her arms might be pinned by his embrace, but she still had options. She opened her mouth on his neck, tasting him with her lips and tongue.

“Grace.”

Her name on his lips was a growl, a warning she was past heeding. She needed this, needed him. Wriggling on his lap, she inched higher, kissing the underside of his clenched jaw, inhaling the clean scent of the lemongrass soap he used.

“No, Grace.” He grasped her upper arms. “Your leg.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I have been for days.”

He eased her away, holding her at arm’s length. A few days ago — shoot, maybe a few minutes ago — she’d have let him put her aside. But not now. She couldn’t let him retreat to that place he’d been these past days.

She dipped her head as though giving up, and he slackened his grip. The instant he did, she leaned into him, using her full weight. Had he anticipated such a move, she never could have budged him, but as it was, she overbalanced him easily. The next instant she sprawled atop him. The look of astonishment on his face would have been funny, under other circumstances.

Oh, my God, I’m on top! What now?

Quickly, before he could recover his wits, or maybe before she recovered her own, she bent and kissed his slack mouth.

For a few heartbeats, he lay there, unresponsive. Fueled by equal parts of fear and need, she kissed him with renewed desperation. Then, just as she began to despair, she felt him catch fire beneath her. In a single heartbeat, he was right there with her. Trapping her head, tangling his fingers in her hair, he kissed her back.

Giddy, she slid her hands over him, glorying in the way he arched up into her. Could she take him like this, claim him as thoroughly as he’d claimed her so many times? The idea sent bolts of excitement zinging jaggedly along her nerve endings. Did she dare try?

Deciding she had nothing to lose, she broke the kiss and sat up so she could tackle his belt.

He groaned and pulled her back down. Wrapping an arm around her, he rolled her swiftly onto her back, pinning her beneath him. She wanted to protest, but then he was kissing her again, deep and hot and insistent, and she couldn’t think of one single thing to complain about.

Besides, it was probably best this way. She needed him to take her with an authority that left no room for doubt.

“Love me, Ray,” she urged against his ear. “Love me like you’ve never loved me before.”

His body stilled. Cursing, he levered himself off her and strode out of the bedroom.

Grace was still trying to process what had happened when she heard the front door slam. A few seconds later, Ray’s truck roared to life, reversed out of the driveway and accelerated off. As she listened to the sound of his engine growing fainter, she realized she’d felt this same black despair before.

At the wheel of her car as she sped away from her husband on a ribbon of wet blacktop.

 

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Excerpt from

Guarding Suzannah

Book 1 in the Serve and Protect Series

by

Norah Wilson

Copyright © 2010 Norah Wilson

Published by Norah Wilson

 All rights reserved.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 Detective John Quigley stepped inside Courtroom 2, closing the door quietly behind him. One or two people in the small gallery glanced up at him briefly, then returned their attention to the front of the courtroom where a young patrol officer was being sworn in.

Quigg took a seat, glancing around the drab, low-ceilinged, windowless room. Provincial Court. Nothing like the much grander Queen’s Bench courtrooms upstairs or the Court of Appeal chambers on the top floor. But aesthetics aside, they did a brisk business here. In the fifteen years Quigg had spent on the Fredericton force, he’d been responsible for sending quite a few customers through these doors. Doors that all too often turned out to be the revolving kind, the kind that spit offenders right back out on the street to re-offend.

On that thought, Quigg glanced over at the accused. Clean shaven and neatly dressed, he sat off to the right, beside the Sheriff’s deputy. His long hair, drawn back into a ponytail, glinted blue-black under the fluorescent lights. If he were conscious of Quigg’s scrutiny, he didn’t betray it with so much as a twitch of a muscle. Rather, he kept his flat, emotionless gaze trained on the witness.

“Your witness, Mr. Roth.”

At the magistrate’s words, Quigg faced forward again.

“Thank you, Your Honour.” The Crown Prosecutor adjusted his table microphone and directed his first question to the witness. Mike Langan, the impossibly young looking constable in the witness box, responded, his answer clear and concise.

Over the next fifteen minutes, the prosecutor methodically built his case with one carefully chosen question after another. Constable Langan’s manner in the witness box was confident and assured. He referred often to his notebook, which appeared to contain copious, comprehensive notes. Quigg unclenched his fingers and leaned back into his seat. What could go wrong?

Everything.

His gaze slid to the one area of the courtroom he’d so far managed to avoid, the defense table. Suzannah Phelps. There she sat, primly erect, all that straight blond hair pulled up into a knot at the back of her head. Even under the black tent-like court robes, she still managed to look model elegant. His pulse took a little kick.

Dammit, why did he do this to himself? He didn’t have to be here. He was off today. He didn’t have even a glancing involvement with this case, or with Constable Langan.

Because you’re a bloody masochist.

“Any questions on cross, Ms. Phelps?”

The magistrate’s voice cut into Quigg’s thoughts.

“Just a few, Your Honour.”

A few? Yeah, sure.

“Please proceed.”

Quigg glanced at Langan, saw the younger man tense. Relax man. He tried to send the thought telepathically. Don’t let her get to you. Don’t let her see you sweat.

“So, Constable Langan, you didn’t actually see my client flee the crime scene?”

“No, ma’am. Not from the actual scene. But I did see a man fitting the robber’s description running just four blocks from the scene.”

“And who provided this description?”

“The shopkeeper.”

“And the description was…?”

“Native … er, First Nations individual, average height, stocky build, long black hair worn in a ponytail.”

“Were those the shopkeeper’s precise words? First Nations individual?”

“Huh?”

“Did the shopkeeper describe the perpetrator as Native? Native American? First Nations?”

“Not exactly.”

Quigg sank lower in his seat, suppressing a groan. This was gonna be a train wreck and Langan didn’t even know it yet.

“Exactly how did he describe him, then?”

“He made it clear that the individual was Indian.”

“Those were his words, then? Indian?”

“No.” Constable Langan shifted, glancing down at his notebook.

“What were his precise words, Constable?”

Langan glanced at the judge, then back at Suzannah Phelps. “I believe his precise words were, wagon burner.”

“Which you took to mean a member of the First Nations?”

“Yes.”

Quigg massaged his temple. Ah, Christ, here we go.

“Thank you, Constable.”

Her voice was polite, prim, even. Which just served to show that sharks came in all kinds of guises.

Suzannah glanced down at her notes, then back at the hapless witness. “So, Constable Langan, could you take a guess how many males from our Native population would fit that description?”

“Objection, Your Honour. We have eye-witness testimony from the shop owner that the accused is the individual who committed the robbery. He was picked out from a lineup containing no fewer than ten Native men of similar ages and builds.”

Finally! An objection from the Crown. Quigg resisted the urge to rake a hand through his hair.

“As my learned friend knows, I could cite dozens of cases where eye-witness identification put innocent men behind bars,” responded Suzannah. “And those were cases where the perpetrators’ faces were not partially obscured by a kerchief.”

“Point taken.” The judge leaned forward. “Your objection is overruled, Mr. Roth. You may proceed, Ms. Phelps.”

“Thank you, Judge.” She turned back to the witness. “Again, Constable Langan, in your opinion, can you tell me how many males of Mi’kmaq or Maliseet descent could answer to that description: medium height, stocky build, black hair?”

A pause. “Quite a few, I would imagine.”

“A majority of them?”

“Possibly,” Langan conceded.

“Then any Native male observed within a reasonable radius of the crime scene might have fit your description?”

“Maybe. But then again, there aren’t a lot of them in this particular shopping district.”

Mother of God. Quigg sank even lower in his seat.

“Ah, so my client shouldn’t have been there in the first place, in an exclusive shopping district?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Langan’s face hardened. “This particular Native male was fleeing capture.”

“Is that so?” She made a show of reviewing her notes. “Was my client running when you first spotted him?”

“No.”

“When did he start running?”

“When I cut him off with my vehicle. He was walking fast—I mean, real fast—down the sidewalk, in an easterly direction. I pulled into an alley, blocked him off.”

“And then he fled?”

“Yes. He turned and fled back in a westerly direction.”

“Were your red and blue bar lights flashing when you executed this maneuver?”

“Yes.”

She shuffled some more papers. “Is it conceivable that my client’s flight might have been an ingrained response to perceived police harassment?”

“No!”

“No? Constable Langan, are you a member of a visible minority?”

“No.”

“Objection!”

The judge held up his hand in the prosecutor’s direction. “Overruled.”

“Imagine for a minute that you are a member of a visible minority. What might you do if a police cruiser were to suddenly swing into your path like that?”

Constable Langan bristled. “The guy had the money on him. The exact amount that was later determined to be missing from the cash register.”

“Ah, so now we have a First Nations male, walking where he ought not to, with more money in his pocket than he should have?”

“Money he stole from that shopkeeper at knifepoint!”

Damn, the kid was losing it.

“Ah, yes, the knife.” Suzannah flipped the page on the legal pad in front of her. “A knife which bore no fingerprints and which you haven’t been able to tie to my client.”

“He dumped it down a sewer grate a block from where he was apprehended, two blocks from the scene. He still had the polkadotted blue-and-white handkerchief in his pocket. Give or take the coins in his pockets, he was carrying exactly the amount of money that was stolen. He was ID’d by the shopkeeper…”

Quigg closed his eyes, pressing a thumb and forefinger against his lids. Inside his head, he heard the theme from Jaws.

“Thank you for that summation, Constable, but I think the Crown was planning one of its own.” She flipped another page on her yellow pad. “Since you’re feeling so loquacious, maybe you can answer this question for me—do you yourself ever carry a handkerchief?”

Langan blinked.

“Would you like me to repeat the question, Constable? When you’re off duty, wearing your civilian clothes, do you ever carry one of those polkadotted handkerchiefs? Shoved in a front pocket of your jeans, maybe, or in your coat pocket?”

Five more minutes. That’s all it took to completely decimate the Crown’s case. Not that Roth surrendered without a fight. He called the shopkeeper and adduced his evidence. Evidence which the defense challenged effectively. But by the time Suzannah finished her summation, she’d planted more than just the seed of reasonable doubt. No one in the courtroom was surprised when the judge pronounced his verdict without even a short recess. Not guilty. The prisoner was released.

Quigg stood and slipped out the door as quietly as he’d slipped in.

 

* * *

 

Suzannah stood, turning to scan the gallery. The seats had emptied out, apart from her client’s two female cousins. Certainly the owner of the gaze she’d felt boring into her back for the last half hour was gone.

“Congratulations.”

She turned toward Anthony Roth, whose lean, dark features were wreathed in resignation. Fiercely competitive, he hated to lose, but he was a good prosecutor. He knew his role wasn’t to secure a conviction at any cost; it was to get to the truth.

“Thanks.”

“And you made yourself a brand new friend on Fredericton’s finest, too. Quite a day.”

She grimaced.

When young Mike Langan had finally been excused from the witness box, his body language as he jammed on his hat and tugged at his Kevlar vest had screamed exactly how he felt. Suffice to say he wouldn’t be joining the ranks of the Suzannah Phelps Fan Club any time soon.

That’s how it goes, Suzie-girl. You didn’t get into this business to make friends.

“Couldn’t be helped,” she said lightly. “You know I had to play the cards I was dealt.”

“Of course. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.” Roth swept his briefcase from the desk. “Fair warning, though. It’ll be different next time we cross swords over this guy.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

His lips lifted in a cynical smile. “Right.”

As soon as the Crown Prosecutor moved off, her client moved in. Gripping her hand in a two-handed clasp, he pumped it enthusiastically. “Thank you, Ms. Phelps.”

“You’re welcome, Leo.” Suzannah withdrew her hand.  “You still interested in a job at the graphics studio I mentioned?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

She plucked a business card from her briefcase and handed it to him. “Give this lady a call. She agrees you have talent, but you’d have to prove yourself.”

The card disappeared into Leo’s huge hand. “Thanks, Ms. Phelps. This is great.”

“And you’d have to stay clean, Leo. You understand?” She caught his gaze and held it. “Squeaky clean. No more altercations with the police.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you do. You put a foot wrong after this, they’ll be watching.”

He cast a sideways glance at his cousins. “Gotcha.”

“Good. Now get out of here.”

He grinned and was gone.

Suzannah turned back to the desk, her smile fading as she began packing her note pads, law books and files back into the big hard-sided court bag.

Dammit, she’d won, hadn’t she? Why didn’t she feel better?

Made yourself a brand new friend today …  Roth’s words echoed in her head.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” She was such a baby sometimes. Shoving the last file into her bag, she glanced around the courtroom. Normally, she’d adjourn to the ladies room to remove her court garb, but she could do a striptease in here today and there’d be no one to witness it.

One tug and the white tabbed collar came off. Then the robe, over the head like a choir gown. She ran a hand over her hair to make sure it hadn’t come loose. Satisfied, she folded the robe carefully, stuffed it into a blue velvet sack and pulled the drawstring tight. There. Street ready. She smoothed her pinstriped skirt, slung the sack over her shoulder, hefted her bag and headed for the exit.

Despite the quick change, her getaway was not as clean as she would have liked, however. In the corridor, she ran into Renee LeRoy, half-assed reporter and full-fledged pain-in-the-ass. Suzannah searched her mind for the name of the local weekly Renee worked for, but it eluded her. Not that it mattered. She avoided reading her own press if she possibly could, especially anything this particular woman might have to say.

Well, at least this explained the sensation she’d felt of being watched back there in the courtroom. Suppressing a groan, Suzannah tacked on a pleasant smile. “How’s it going, Renee?”

The other woman didn’t smile back. In fact, her face was set in grim lines more reminiscent of a Russian forward in the ’72 Canada/Russia hockey series than a female reporter. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Suzannah chastised herself. Her dislike of Renee LeRoy had nothing to do with the other woman’s appearance and everything to do with her attitude.

“I see your client walked away a free man.”

Oh, hell, here we go again. The woman was a broken record. “The burden of proof always rests on the Crown, Renee,” she said reasonably. “This time, they failed to meet that burden.”

“Thanks in no small part to you.”

“Why, thank you.” Suzannah offered a wide if disingenuous smile. “I’d be flattered, except I think any reasonably competent criminal lawyer would have secured an acquittal under the circumstances.”

The reporter’s eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t it keep you awake at night, Ms. Phelps? Doesn’t your conscience ever bother you, knowing you’re helping guilty men go free?”

Suzannah’s lips thinned, along with her patience. Was a little open-mindedness from the press too much to ask? “What would bother me is to see a conviction entered on the quality of the evidence we saw today. My client deserved to be acquitted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a schedule to keep.”

A minute later, she descended the steps of the Justice Building and crossed the parking lot. The sun had already begun to dip behind the tallest buildings, casting long shadows. Even so, heat rose from the asphalt in shimmering waves.

All of southern New Brunswick had been gripped in a heat wave since the July 1st Canada Day holiday. Like the rest of her pasty-faced compatriots, Suzannah had welcomed the first real taste of summer. Now, almost three weeks later, she cursed the humidity that made perspiration bead between her breasts before she’d even reached her car.

She thought briefly about stowing her case in the BMW’s trunk, but decided that would require too much effort. Instead, she hit the button on her remote to release the door locks. She opened the back door on the driver’s side and tossed the garment bag onto the back seat. She’d started to swing the heavy bag into the vehicle when a flash of color from the front passenger seat caught her eye. She lost her grip on the handles, and the bag collided with the car’s frame and thudded to the pavement.

Oh, God, no. Not again.

 

* * *

 

“Can I give you a hand with that?”

She seemed to just about come out of her skin at his words, whirling to face him. Wide blue eyes locked onto him, and for an instant, Quigg saw fear. Not surprise. Not your garden variety momentary fright when someone startled you. This was real, raw fear. Then it was gone, and she wore her smooth Princess face again.

“Thank you, no. I can manage.”

Her voice was cool, polite, completely assured. Had he imagined the blaze of fear?

Bending, she righted the briefcase, deposited it on the car’s seat and closed the door. She must have expected him to move on, or at least to step back, because when she turned, she wound up standing considerably closer than before. Closer than was comfortable for her. He could see it in the quick lift of her brows, the slight widening of her eyes. But she didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

Damn, she was beautiful. And tall. In those three inch heels that probably cost more than he made in a week, her gaze was level with his. Throw in all that long blond hair that would slide like silk through a man’s hands, and a body that would…

“You’re that cop.”

He blinked. “That cop?”

“Regina vs. Rosneau.”

“Good memory.” They’d secured a conviction on that one, but her client had taken a walk on appeal. Though in truth, Quigg hadn’t minded over much. The dirtball had done it, all right, but strictly speaking, the evidence had been a bit thin. One of those fifty/fifty propositions.

“Regina vs. Haynes. That was you, too, right?”

Okay, dammit, that one still stung, although the insult was almost two years old now. Two defendants, separate trials, separate representation, each accused managing to convince a jury the other guy’d done it. Of course, Quigg could take consolation from knowing the noose was closing yet again around Ricky Haynes’ good-for-nothing drug-dealing neck. Haynes had since moved outside the city limits, beyond municipal jurisdiction, but Quigg had it on good authority that the Mounties were building a rock-solid case against him.

Yes, he could take some consolation in that. Some small consolation. Not enough, however, to blunt the slow burn in his gut right now.

“Keep a scrapbook, do you, Ms. Phelps? Or maybe you cut a notch in your little Gucci belt, one for every cop you skewer?”

Something that looked astonishingly like hurt flashed in her eyes, but like before, it was gone before he could be certain he’d really seen it. Then she stepped even closer and smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made him think about skin sliding against skin and sweat-slicked bodies fusing in the dark, and he knew he’d been mistaken. When she extended a slender, ringless finger to trace a circle around a button on his shirt, his heart stumbled, then began to pound.

“Definitely not the belt thing,” she said, her voice as husky and honeyed as his most sex-drenched fantasy. “At the rate you guys self-destruct under cross, there’d be nothing left to hold my trousers up, would there, now, John?”

Then she climbed in her gleaming little Beemer and drove off before his hormone-addled brain divorced her words from her manner and realized he’d been dissed.

Against all reason, he laughed. Lord knew it wasn’t funny. Certainly, young Langan wouldn’t share his mirth.

Of course, the whole thing defied reason, the way it twisted his guts just to look at her. She was rich. She was beautiful. She was sophisticated. She was the daughter of a judge, from a long line of judges. She was … what? He searched his admittedly limited lexicon for an appropriate term. Kennedy-esque.

Meanwhile, his own father had worked in a saw mill; his mother had cleaned other people’s houses. Suzannah Phelps was so far out of his league, there wasn’t even a real word for it.

She was also the woman not-so-affectionately known around the station house as She-Rex. And worse.

Much worse.

Except she hadn’t looked much like a She-Rex when she’d spun around to face him, her face all pale and frightened.

Quigg turned and headed for Queen Street, where he’d parked his car. What had spooked her? Not his sudden appearance. He was sure of that. She might not have much use for cops, but she wasn’t scared of him.

Maybe it was something inside her car.

He’d reached his own car, which sprouted a yellow parking ticket from beneath the windshield wiper. Great. He glanced up, searching traffic. There she was, at the lights a block away.

What could be in her car to make her look like that? Or was he completely off base? Was it a guilty start, not a frightened start? Hard to say. She’d masked it so quickly.

Damn, he was going to have to follow her.

Climbing into his not-so-shiny Taurus, he fired it up, signaled and pulled into traffic.

Even at this hour with the first of the home-bound traffic leaving the downtown core, tailing her was child’s play. As he expected, she headed back to her office. No knocking off early for Suzannah Phelps. She probably put in longer days than he did. Two blocks from her uptown offices, she pulled into another office building’s parking lot. Quigg guided his vehicle into the gas bar next door and watched Suzannah drive to the back of the lot where she parked next to a blue dumpster.

Pretending to consult a map he’d pulled from his glove compartment, Quigg watched her get out of the car and scan the lot. Then she circled the BMW, opened the passenger door and pulled something out. The car itself blocked Quigg’s view, but he saw a flash of mauvey/pinky floral patterned paper. Then she lifted the dumpster’s lid and tossed the object in. Quickly, she rounded the car, climbed in and accelerated out of the lot.

Quigg watched her vehicle travel east along Prospect. When she signaled and turned into her office’s parking lot, he slipped his own car into gear. Thirty seconds later, he lifted the lid to the dumpster.

Flowers? She’d been scared witless by flowers?

More likely by who sent the flowers, he reasoned. Maybe they still had a card attached. Out of habit, he patted his pockets for latex gloves before remembering he didn’t have any on him. He wasn’t on duty. He had some in a first aid kit in his car, but he wasn’t about to dig them out. This wasn’t an investigation.

Well, not a sanctioned one.

Grimacing, he retrieved the prettily wrapped bouquet with his bare hands. The florist’s paper appeared pristine, undisturbed, as though Suzannah hadn’t even looked at the contents. Carefully, he peeled the paper back. Then he dropped the bouquet back into the dumpster.

Holy hell! Long-stemmed red roses. Or rather, what he suspected used to be red roses. Now they were more brown than red. Rusty, like old blood. Dead. Probably a dozen of them.

His mind whirled. How had she known? She hadn’t even opened the wrapper.

Because it wasn’t the first time, obviously.

Because they’d been deposited in her car, right there in the barristers’ parking lot, while she was inside defending Leo Warren. While a commissionaire kept an eye on the lot. While her car doors had no doubt been locked.

No wonder she’d been spooked.

He picked up the bouquet again and examined it closer. No card. There’s a surprise, Sherlock.

Why hadn’t she told him? She knew he was a cop.

Domestic. The answer came instantly. Had to be. She knew the source, but wasn’t prepared to make a complaint because she didn’t want to make trouble for the jerk who’d done this, thereby increasing his rage. How many times had he seen that age-old dynamic in operation?

Except he hadn’t expected it from Suzannah. She was too much of a fighter. What could be going on in her head?

Quigg tossed the bouquet back in the dumpster and closed the lid. Climbing back into the Taurus, he sat for long moments.

He should leave this alone. He knew it.

He also knew he wasn’t going to.

“This, you dumb-ass, is how careers are ruined.”

But she’d called him John. Back there, outside the courthouse, she’d called him by his Christian name. Nobody called him John, except his mother. It was Quigg, or Detective Quigley, or Officer, or even Hey, pig! But back there, while her index finger had traced delicate circles on his chest, she’d called him John.

Stifling a sigh, he keyed the ignition and slipped the Ford into gear.

 

Buy Guarding Suzannah here:

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Trish Milburn, MJ Fredrick and I are pleased to announce that we’ve collaborated to bring you three romantic suspense novels in one multi-author box set. The idea behind the collaboration was to try to achieve some cross-pollination. If you’re familiar with my books, perhaps it will be an introduction to Trish and MJ, and vice versa.  Each of us is an award-winning author. Each of us has finalled multiple times in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Contest. And each of us has other romantic suspense/adventure stories for you to discover, if you like what you read in this collection.

 

 

Here’s a description of the three stories:

Midnight Sun by MJ Fredrick:
This wasn’t the adventure she’d signed up for…
A sexy boss, a rough crossing, and pirates—all Brylie Winston wanted was a job to help her earn money to buy her own restaurant. She hopes to earn it by working as a chef on a cruise to Antarctica. But she’s slept with her boss, which throws her off-balance even more than the rough seas and warnings of pirates in the area. And he’s determined to have a repeat performance.Bad boy former snowboarder Marcus Devlin is running from his reputation, sent to learn the family business after decking a senator’s son and making the papers. So maybe he indulged in a last-minute fling before boarding his family’s cruise ship to Antarctica. Perhaps Fate is showing him that wasn’t so bad—the gorgeous redhead who snuck out of his bed is on the cruise. She’ll be a lovely distraction during his exile.But when modern-day pirates take over the ship, his instinct is to protect her and the other passengers. But what does a spoiled rich boy know about saving people’s lives?

Guarding Suzannah by Norah Wilson:
Criminal defense attorney Suzannah Phelps is the bane of the Fredericton police department (they call her She-Rex for her habit of shredding cops in the witness box). She is currently being stalked, but is reluctant to report it to the police, whom she half suspects of being the perpetrators. But when Detective John (Quigg) Quigley learns of it, he’s determined to protect her, at considerable risk to his career. They’ve struck sparks off each other in the courtroom, and he’s burning to do the same in the bedroom. When the danger escalates, he has the perfect excuse to pose as her boyfriend, but the closer they get, the more the lines between pretense and reality blur.

Firefly Run by Trish Milburn
Shelly Myers has finally rebuilt her life two years after her new husband, a Dallas police detective, was gunned down on the church steps minutes after they’d said, “I do.” She returned to her beloved Smoky Mountains in Tennessee to help her parents run their cabin rental and river rafting business — and to heal. Now, the murderer she helped send to death row has been released because of bungled evidence, and Troy’s partner, Detective Reed Tanner, has arrived on her doorstep to protect her from Eddie Victor, who has sworn to kill them both. Reed is determined to protect Shelly like he didn’t protect Troy. But Reed isn’t prepared for the attraction he feels toward Shelly or the fact that she obviously feels the same way toward him.

 

For a limited time, you can buy IN HARM’S WAY for just $2.99 at these vendors:

Amazon   |   B&N   |   Apple   |   Kobo   |  Smashwords  

 

 

I’m totally tickled to bring you Zoe Dawson for this installment of Workspace Wednesday. Zoe is the alter ego of Karen Anders, award winning, multi-published author. Her writing journey started with poetry and branched out into fiction. With a couple of college English courses under her belt, she penned a historical, then moved on to contemporary romance fiction.

 

 

She is the author of the very cool Going to the Dogs Series (Leashed, Groomed for Murder). She also has a six-book police procedural series (The Misfit Squad Series) featuring a group of troubled homicide detectives who have landed in the “last chance” squad. Watch for it from Entangled Publishing in 2013.

Zoe is a woman after my own heart. Not only does she write romantic suspense and romantic mystery, she’ll soon be publishing paranormal and urban fantasy novels. I love all those genres, and as a writer, I totally get the urge (need?) to be spinning stories in multiple genres.

Okay, Zoe, take it away!

 

ZOE DAWSON:   Thank you, Norah, for having me on your blog and sharing my workspace with you.  When I first started writing seriously, I lived in Virginia and my workspace was literally in a walk in closet.  Great cosmic writing power/itty bitty writing space.  The bedroom had two walk in closets so I could fit both my clothes and my writing passion into one room.  It was a tight confined space that only accommodated my desk and chair.  But it was perfect.  I could close my bedroom door, then the door to my small space and cut out all the noise from the household.  I loved that space.

When I moved to North Carolina, I lived in a two bedroom apartment with my daughter and I wrote in my bedroom again.  But this time I had to put the clothes in the only walk in closet.  Not as conducive to writing, but then I was developing ideas and had no contracts at the time.

I then moved to a three bedroom single family home where I had a dedicated office to work out of and it was huge, but with the change in the economy, I moved into a townhouse where I now currently write.  As you can see, the view is simply wonderful at all times of the year.

 

 

Even though we live right off a busy road, you wouldn’t know it by looking out the window.  Looks like we live out in the country.

 

 

 

I share the room with my daughter and when I need some quiet time, I take my laptop into my bedroom and produce away.

I have written seven books in this space and expect to produce a lot more as I have now diversified into self-publishing.

 

Thank you for that tour, Zoe. I’m so impressed by how clean your desktop is! And don’t you love having dual monitors? And is that a dog on top of your CPU?  🙂

Okay folks, it’s your turn. Leave us a comment for a chance to win one of two electronic copies of Leashed.

 

And they call it puppy love!

When Jack falls head-over-paws for cute and cuddly Jill next door — that creamy coat, those soft brown eyes, and, yowza, those long legs, he simply cannot help himself.  Bing, bang, boom, a few weeks later, Jack has some ‘splaining to do when that cute female is with puppies.  Jack’s going to be a father, trouble is his lady love’s owner and his owner need a little shove into love.  Being a large and in-charge Great Dane, that’s no problem for Jack.  With a little cooperation and a little matchmaking, some nudging, whining and puppy dog eyes, hopefully, everyone will live happily ever after together.

 

Can a dog have a bad hair day?

Brooke Palmer owns Pawlish, an exclusive doggie spa and grooming business in upper Manhattan, but when a client’s champion poodle gets a bad poodle cut and has to undergo therapy to recover, the client sues.  The lawyer they send is drop dead gorgeous, but Brooke won’t be wooed by a corporate shark in a sharp suit.

Corporate lawyer Drew Hudson has better things to do then take on this ridiculous lawsuit, but since he works for the client’s husband, he has no choice.  After meeting the beautiful, sweet-tempered owner, he can’t keep his mind on the silly case.  But when the client turns up dog gone dead, Brooke may be a conflict of interest when she’s charged with the murder.  All Drew wants to do is prove that this sexy entrepreneur is not dangerous, except to his heart.

Can she take a chance on him?

I am so pleased to have one of my local buddies, Gail MacMillan, join me today for Workspace Wednesday. And when I say “local”, that’s relative. Gail lives on New Brunswick’s north shore, while I’m way down here in Fredericton. But we’re fellow NBers, fellow romantic suspense authors and fellow dog lovers.

Gail’s Bio:  A three-time recipient of the prestigious Maxwell Medal, Gail MacMillan is author of twenty-two books. A graduate of Queen’s University with post graduate work in Expository and Narrative Writing at the University of Western Ontario, Gail has had numerous short stories and articles published in Canada, the United States, and Europe, several of which have won awards. Her three books about Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers (the first co-authored with Alison Strang) have met with excellent reviews and are selling well worldwide. Two of her canine books, Biography of a Beagle and Ceilidh’s Quest have won Maxwell Medals from the Dog Writers’ Association of America in NYC as the Best Dog Books in their category in 2002 and 2007 respectively. Gail also writes romantic suspense.

Welcome, Gail! Take it away!

 

 

GAIL MacMILLAN: Thank you, Norah!

When Norah invited me to be her guest on one of her Workplace Wednesday’s spots I was delighted.  Then, as I read more and more about her celebrated guests’ workplaces and saw more and more of their well-appointed and even glamorous writing areas, I began to panic.  I have no such designated place. In fact, I’m more than slightly nomadic in the locations where I choose to write. So, after giving the matter consideration, I decided that honesty is the best policy.  This is my workplace story.

I’ve always written from the time I could first form letters into words so I’d have to say my first workspace was my bed where I sat huddled against my pillows in the glow of a small lamp scribbling in secret long after lights out.  These tales I hid under my bed, afraid to admit to anyone that I dared to attempt to emulate actual authors.  Authors, I believed, were next to the gods on Mount Olympus with their gifts of conjuring stories out of thin air in an absolutely enthralling fashion. I had no right to try to attempt to enter their exalted realm.

But I continued to be a closet (or under the bed one) writer for years.  When I married my husband Ron he discovered my secret addiction and insisted I join a writer’s group.  That did it.  Spurred on by that enthusiastic gathering, I wrote at every possible moment, my favorite spot being the front steps of the two room shack we called our camp in Tabusintac.   I filled notebooks and every scrap of available paper with stories and even short novels.   I bought a second hand manual typewriter and began to write boldly, openly at the kitchen table where any passing neighbor might come upon me.  Third page headlines in the Moncton Times after my first book was published dubbed me the kitchen table novelist.

Later, in attempt to find a quiet place to write, I set up shop on a wobbly-legged card table in a corner of our unfinished basement.  When the kids were finally all in school, I moved my shaky writing centre upstairs to our bedroom.  There I wrote two more books and a bunch of short stories for religious (now called Christian, I believe) magazines.  And just before I moved again, I began to write the dog stories that would take me in a whole new direction.

Two years later we finished our basement.   This remodeling included a small office for me behind the furnace and the room where we were to store our winter’s supply of fire wood.  Thus isolated, I felt I’d be undisturbed to write and write and write.  My husband, bless him, in support of my elusive dream, even built me a beautiful roll top desk that took him an entire winter to complete.

 

 

It didn’t work out.  I soon discovered my imagination couldn’t flare locked away below ground level behind several cords of hardwood with only one small window.  I found myself holding a tablet or notebook on my knee in various brighter, more convivial locations.  Later I’d force myself into that cube in the basement where, thanks to a modest inheritance, I now had a miracle machine…a self correcting typewriter…to transcribe my stories.

These days, a laptop accommodates my moods and fancies.  Summers at our cottage in Tabusintac, I set up in the gazebo out back where I have a lovely view of fields and trees, birds and squirrels, and the occasional fox.  When the chill of late October drives me indoors, I once again become a kitchen table novelist.

 

 

Winters in Bathurst I mostly write at the dining room table (apparently you can take the table away from the girl but you can’t get the girl away from the table).  From my vantage point I have a lovely view of both my backyard and the street in front of the house.  My dogs are my associate editors, always ready to tell me when it’s break time, waiting patiently when it isn’t.

 

 

My office sits alone and uninhabited except for floor-to-ceiling, well-filled book shelves, filing cabinets, and bulletin boards.  We’ve moved the beautiful roll top desk upstairs to Ron’s office.  The expensive typing chair my doctor insisted I needed to keep arms and shoulders pain-free sits gathering dust in front of my old desk top (which still comes into play whenever the laptop is ailing).  I really should be sitting in that chair, in the book-lined office, isolated from the rest of the house and neighborhood, working like a rented mule, but I just can’t seem to get the hang of it.  Instead, I sit at the dining room table, then sometimes in my grandmother’s rocking chair in the living room and dream up handsome heroes and unstoppable heroines, often in pj’s and slippers.

 

 

I admire the other authors who have been Norah’s guests.  How organized, how professional, how in control they all are.  Maybe someday when we finally build that sunroom we’ve been talking about for years, I, too, will settle down in a single location.  But until then, like the Littlest Hobo, I’ll just keep movin’ on.

 

Thank you, Gail! My favorite thing? That sweet pug. Is he the star on the cover of Holding Off for a Hero by any chance?

 

 

Here’s another of Gail’s romances, set in the wilds of northern New Brunswick.

 

 

She also has some wonderful, award-winning non-fiction books about dogs, like this one:

 

 

Okay, now it’s your turn. Please leave us a comment for a chance to win an ebook copy of Holding Off for a Hero.

 

 

 

It’s a special pleasure to have Barbara Phinney here today. Barbara is one of my very first writing friends. She and I, along with a handful of other aspiring romance writers from the area, were long time critique partners and basically taught each other to write. And we’re still sharing, but these days it’s more industry news, indie wisdom and promotional tips.

Welcome, Barbara!

 

BARBARA PHINNEY: Thank you, Norah!

There’s something dangerous in my office. Take a look at this picture. Yes, it’s cluttered. Yes, it looks like a very normal writer’s office. But in actuality there’s something very dangerous in it. No, I’m not talking about the fact that I write suspense, or the fact I like to murder a few characters every once in a while.

No I’m talking about that chair. The brown one, with the blue seat and the owl cushion. The one that just invites you to sit down on it, stretch your legs out and start talking to me.

That’s where the murder comes in. So many times I have been deep in a story, running with an idea and surfing on the wave of momentum, only to have my dear husband wander in, plunk himself down in that chair, and say, “I want you to  Google something for me.”

Slowly, I turn and look at him, lethally. “I’m busy.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

That’s when the murder starts.

 

 

Now in reality, this man who so brazenly enters my office has his own computer as seen below.

 

 

Take a look at that. Isn’t that nice? A clean desk, a little water fountain and a brand-new notepad, even some fun little balloons I’ve received over the years. (Ignore the wire. I have a son who runs his Xbox from it.) What more could a husband, who doesn’t go on the computer very much, want? (We all know it’s my incredible generosity that allows him to have his own little corner of my office.)

So, no jury in the country would convict me of anything nasty when he has this nice little corner.

Moving on, I believe offices should reflect their users. They should be places filled with inspiring pictures, maps to dream over, knickknacks and collectibles that are precious only to that person, such as you see in this picture below.

 

 

You’ll find gift bells, empty and full bottles I’ve collected over the years, even the gourdhead birdhouse and childhood teddies. Under that Bolivian blanket is an ugly filing cabinet, frequented by my husband, hence his computer desk being so close to it.

There are very few things I would toss. Come to think of it, I would only dispose of that very dangerous chair but I won’t. After all, suspense writers need little incentive now and then, don’t they?

 

Barbara Phinney writes suspense, Christian (despite her murderous plots) romance and historicals, one of which is coming out in March, entitled Bound to the Warrior. She writes sci-fi and paranormal under the pen name of Georgina Lee, including a new Sherlock Holmes tale, Dead on her Feet.

You can find all of Barbara Phinney’s books here:  Amazon | B&N

Georgina Lee’s books are here:  Amazon | B&N

Her latest book is a fun and lively twist on the Sherlock Holmes novellas, found here.

 

Thank you, Barbara! That was such fun! I got such a kick out of you DH asking you to stop what you’re doing to Google something, instead of going to his own work station. Because, you know, it would take TIME to fire up that other computer. HIS time. LOL! I think you’re right — no jury would convict! Not if there were any authors on it.

Okay, it’s comment time. And as an incentive, Barbara will give away a copy of her awesomely atmospheric romantic suspense, Hard Target, to one lucky winner, in the electronic format of their choice. So bring it with the comments!

 

Hard Target

Sgt. Dawna Atkinson has worked hard for her South American embassy posting. She’d also taken the blame for a shared indiscretion with her instructor, Tay Hastings. But when her embassy is bombed, she comes under the microscope all the more. Worse still, her unit sends Tay to search for any mistakes she’s making.

Things go from bad to worse when a sniper tries to eliminate both Dawna and Tay within hours of Tay’s arrival. As the investigation heats up, and danger lurks around every crowded corner, Dawna and Tay find their relationship is also heating up. And with a killer who can create bombs, use a sniper rifle, and poison the embassy staff, Dawna must set aside her hurt or risk many lives. And Tay must set aside the distrust deep within him.

What Dawna and Tay can’t set aside is their growing attraction. And that may just get them both killed.

 

We have a winner for Goodreads giveaway of the unabridged audiobook version of Every Breath She Takes, my romantic suspense from Montlake, on Goodreads. The prize went to Jeremy McDermott. Hope you enjoy, Jeremy!

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I met Toni Anderson when I joined the Montlake Romance authors loop. It gave me a chuckle to learn that after a career in marine biology that took her all over the world, she settled in the Canadian prairies about as far from an ocean as you can get. (Of course, the topography of the prairie is about as flat as the ocean, and maybe when the winter wind carves “waves” into the frozen snow, it probably looks like one…)

 

Toni also got my attention for another reason. She writes in my favorite genre – romantic suspense, and her books look awesome. Several of them are on my Kindle, in fact, waiting for me to stop fooling with the Interwebs and start reading. Her Montlake title, DANGEROUS WATERS, comes out very soon – specifically, Tuesday, November 20.

 

 

With that intro, I’ll turn you over to Toni.

 

TONI ANDERSON:  Until the beginning of September, I worked in a cupboard. It was a nice piece of furniture but there was no desk space and I had to raise my chair so high I couldn’t touch the floor—so I dangled my feet for 8 years. Nightmare. Finally I found a desk from Ikea that has adjustable legs and my hubby picked it up from Minneapolis when he drove to a conference down in the States. Ikea opens here on Nov 28th!!  (Yes, I’m excited LOL). Suddenly I have all this space AND my feet are planted firmly on the floor.

 

My office is a weird little open-plan room that attaches to the kitchen and what used to be the playroom and is now the ‘piano’ room (mainly because the only thing in there is a piano J). When the kids were small, open-plan was great. Now I’m thinking ‘doors’!

 

 

I’ve surrounded myself with books (fiction, non-fiction), tools of the trade (computer and printers etc, and, yes, I need a proper monitor stand J), magazines and images of my heroes and heroines on corkboards because I’m a very visual person. There’s a picture of me and hubby kissing at a recent wedding, and the kids with the Eiffel Tower in the background. And there’s a poster of a couple of cowboys in the Alberta mountains, given to me by a friend, Rich Brown, back when we worked together at the University of Waterloo. And a teapot my in-laws gave us which DH broke. It’s too beautiful to throw out though.

 

 

 

 

The boxes are full of research material. Each story or linked group of stories get their own box. Some are almost empty and some are full to the gunnels. I store all my notes in the box so when I want to work on a specific story, the information I need is easy to find.

 

 

 

And here’s my little Merrythought bear that my mom sent me (we both used to work in the Merrythought shop in Shropshire, years ago), and my other companion, Holly, who’s a little mad because I’m taking photographs rather than walking her. She gets the spot closest to the radiator!

 

 

Thanks for having me today, Norah J. I’ll gift a copy of SEA OF SUSPICION from my backlist to one lucky commenter.

 

 

 

Check out Toni’s website and Amazon Author Page for a list of current titles.

 

Thank you, Toni! That was an awesome tour. And LOL on your excitement to get an Ikea. I’m envious! I doubt we’ll ever have the critical mass down east to get one of our own.

 

Okay, let the commenting begin!

 

Posting the excerpt from Guarding Suzannah last week was so much fun, I’m going to do it again for Book 2 in the series, Saving Grace.

 

 

To set the scene, Fredericton Police Detective Ray Morgan has been forced to take the wife he believes has been unfaithful on the lam with him while he tries to figure out who is trying to kill them. She’d shocked him to the core  a week ago when she’d announced she was leaving him to go join some unnamed other man, but she’d wound up crashing her car on the way out of town and no longer remembers anything. Not the name of the guy, not even the fact that she was having an affair. Her neurologist says the memories may come back, but she needs time and peace and rest. That plan goes out the window when bullets start flying and Ray gets jammed up by an internal investigation he fears is a frame job. He has to keep them safe until he can unravel the mystery and safely go back to his life. What he doesn’t count on is falling in love with his wife of five years, for real this time.

 

 

Ray was right, Grace thought, as she clutched the towel around her shoulders. Her hair had always been her “thing”. A full, rich sable, it fell perfectly straight with the lightest encouragement with a brush and blow dryer. Everything else about her might be forgettable, but people noticed her hair.

It seemed only right somehow that she should sacrifice it.

“Okay, give me some guidance, here.”

Poor Ray. He’d dodged bullets back there in that parking lot without breaking a sweat, but his hands were shaking now. She pretended not to notice.

“Just comb out a small section, then pull it tight between your fingers.”

“Like this?”

“Closer.”

“Forget it, Grace. I’m not cutting it that short. There’d be nothing left for the hairdresser to fix.”

“But that’s hardly short enough to make any difference.”

They compromised, agreeing on a mid-length.

“Okay, what now?”

“Just angle your fingers like so.” She used her own fingers to demonstrate.

“Like this?”

“Perfect. Now snip away.”

He muttered something that sounded like “Hail Mary,” and snipped.

The coppery lock fell onto her denim-covered knee. No going back now. For a moment, panic assailed her.

“Grace?”

She cleared her throat. “That’s good. Keep going.”

The second lock fell, this one hitting the newspapers, joining Ray’s impossibly blond hairs. She blinked rapidly. It was just hair. An external manifestation of her stupid vanity. She would not cry.

Besides, her old precision haircut was fine for the woman she’d been before this nightmare started. The new Grace needed something different. It was going to take all the courage she could scrape together to get through this. Just as her smooth coif had given her poise and polish, maybe a sassier color and a rough-and-ready cut would lend her the edge she needed.

Image was everything, right? Fake it until you can make it.

“What do I do with the front?”

She glanced up at Ray. His mouth was set in that way that made his jawbones stand out, the grooves bracketing his mouth deeper than ever. He looked like a man completely out of his depth and hating it.

“Leave it fairly long, about so.” She indicated a spot at the level of her cheekbone.

“Christ, I’m probably making a mess of this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she assured him. “With all the mousse and hair spray I bought at that drug store, I could probably make it look like the CN Tower, if I wanted to.”

That earned a laugh, but when he made the next snip, his jaw had again taken on that grim line. The chair wasn’t high enough, she noticed. He had to bend to do the job, which must be killing his back.

And that’s not all she noticed, now that her panic had passed. His hands were clumsy in her hair, compared to the brisk competence of her stylist. But they were gentler, too. He separated the next section delicately, easing the comb through a snarl. She shivered.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt.”

But it did hurt. Quite suddenly, it hurt a lot. It hurt that this was the first time he’d voluntarily touched her for so long, apart from that display they put on for the clerk.

And, oh, that scene in the office! She dropped her eyelids, her face heating at the memory. The way he’d touched her….

She clamped down on the warmth flooding her belly. Nothing had changed. Their performance had been necessary to divert the clerk’s attention.

Still, awareness shimmered through her when he pushed his fingers through her hair again.

“Almost done. Then you can get that cold towel off your shoulders,” he said, obviously mistaking her shiver.

True to his word, he was soon finished. Grace didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he pronounced her done. Removing the towel from around her neck, she strode to the closet-sized bathroom to inspect her new appearance. She flipped the switch for the overhead light and froze.

Yikes! Was that really her? Her eyes looked huge, her chin more pointed. Lord, it even seemed to lift her cheekbones.

Ray’s reflection appeared behind her in the mirror. “What’s the verdict?”

“Wow.”

“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I told you it was a mistake.”

“No, it’s good. You did a better job on me than I did on you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Really. A little mousse and a blow dryer and it’ll kick butt.”

He just regarded her in the mirror, unspeaking, a yellow-haired stranger.

She pushed a tendril of hair behind her ear and sighed. “I suppose I should style it now, so we can hit the road.”

“No, let’s get a few hours sleep first. We can finish our transformations in the morning.”

She met his gaze in the mirror. “I thought we were going to sneak away under cover of night?”

He shook his head. “Better to blend in with rush hour traffic tomorrow morning than travel tonight. I just wanted to pay for the room in advance so we wouldn’t have to show ourselves to the clerk after we’d morphed.”

“We actually get to grab some sleep?”

The corners of his mouth turned up at her obvious relief, his eyes crinkling the way she loved. She smiled back into the mirror. For a few seconds, despite their altered appearances, they were the old Ray and Grace, but then his face sobered again.

“You take the bed; I’ll sleep in the chair.”

He turned and left the bathroom, leaving her staring into the mirror at the empty spot where he’d stood. She drew a deep breath, then followed him.

“That’s not going to work, Ray. You’ll insist on driving tomorrow, which is fine, but that means you’re the one who needs the rest. I’ll take the chair tonight, then doze in the car tomorrow.”

“I can sleep anywhere, Grace. It’s part of the training. You, on the other hand, would sit awake all night, and we can’t have that. We’re both gonna have to be sharp.”

And you’d rather wake up with a cricked neck, a sore back and a killer headache than share that bed with me.

She felt like crying again, which was really stupid. He’d slept on the couch every night since she’d come home from the hospital. Why should it hurt that he sleep elsewhere again?

She shrugged and turned away. “Suit yourself,” she said, picking up a t-shirt and disappearing back into the bathroom.

 

 

Just for fun, here’s an excerpt from Guarding Suzannah, Book 1 in my Serve and Protect Series. The books are available singly, or you can get them all at once in the box set.

 

 

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

Suzannah groaned and tried to burrow deeper into the pillows, grasping at the threads of her lovely dream. Hard masculine hands on her body, gravel-voiced words of praise in her ear, hot mouth blazing over her skin….

“Come on, Suzannah. I got a dog at home whose gonna pee on my brand new speakers if I don’t get home and let him out.”

Her eyes flew open. John Quigley. He’d stayed last night, and now he was in her bedroom. She jackknifed up, the twisted sheets pooling in her lap. “Of course. Go. Yes. By all means.” Oh, Lord, she was stammering.

“It’s early yet, barely dawn. I’d stay longer, but the dog….”

“The speakers. Right.” She pushed her hair back from her face and glanced at the digital alarm. Not yet five a.m. She glanced back at John to find his face had changed, sharpened with an edgy, dark intensity.

Oh, hell! Her nipples thrust sharply against her thin cotton tank, thanks to that dream. A dream in which the man standing by her bed, mere inches away, had played a starring role. For a wild, terrifying second, she visualized herself reaching out to touch him as she might have in the dream, her caress bold, sexual, deliberate. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in her mind that he’d answer her need with gratifying urgency.

The idea was scary, dizzying, thrilling, incredibly powerful. Then sanity returned.

She sank back down onto her pillows, pulling the covers up to her chin and burrowing back into her pillow as though to go back to sleep. “Okay,” she mumbled through the sheets. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Whoa, whoa. Don’t go back to sleep just yet. I need you to throw the deadbolt behind me. It’s getting lighter by the minute, but I’d feel better if the bolt were thrown.”

Damn. “Okay.” She sat up again, this time with the sheets modestly clamped to her chest. “Give me a sec. I’ll drag on a robe and meet you down there.”

His eyes said eloquently that he wished she wouldn’t bother with the robe, but he merely nodded and withdrew.

The moment she heard his tread on the stairs, she leapt out of bed. Damn it, damn it, damn it! She strode into her walk-in closet and yanked a silk robe off a hanger with less care than the garment deserved. Of all the men in her world for her to fixate on, why this one? He was arrogant, pushy, exasperating in the extreme. Too tough, too forceful, too … yang.

And he was a cop.

So why did her body light up for him as it did for no other?

Chemistry. Random, unreasoning, unfortunate chemistry.

She pulled the robe on, wrapping it around her. Well, she never had been very good at chemistry back in school. And she’d get along very well without it fogging her brain again, thank you. On that thought, she cinched the belt of her robe tightly around her waist and marched downstairs to lock Detective John Quigley out of her house, and with any luck, out of her life.