“They had a proposition for me,” Rafe said. “One they tried to make very difficult to refuse.”

She frowned. “What kind of proposition?”

“They wanted me to use our past to try to get on your good side and convince you to cooperate.”

Her eyes hardened. “And did you agree to this?”

“No,” Rafe said forcefully. “Of course not. I would never do anything to put you or Chloe in danger.”

They let that hang in the air for a moment, then she laced her fingers through his and squeezed. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, Rafe. How many times I’ve cursed myself for letting you go.”

“You don’t think I feel the same?”

Her eyes looked hopeful. “Do you?”

About the Author

ALANA MATTHEWS can’t remember a time when she didn’t want to be a writer. As a child, she was a permanent fixture in her local library, and she soon turned her passion for books into writing short stories, and finally novels. A longtime fan of romantic suspense, Alana felt she had no choice but to try her hand at the genre, and she is thrilled to be writing for Mills & Boon® Intrigue. Alana makes her home in a small town near the coast of Southern California, where she spends her time writing, composing music and watching her favorite movies.

Send a message to Alana at her website, www.alanamatthews.com.

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Alana Matthews

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

She opened her eyes with a start, not sure what had awakened her.

She was alone in the room, which was quiet except for the sound of an autumn breeze outside her window and the faint metallic squeak of the bed springs.

Had it been Chloe?

Squinting at the clock—which read 4:32 a.m.—she stilled herself and listened carefully, using the supersonic hearing only a mother possesses, tuning it in to Chloe’s frequency.

But she heard nothing.

No whimpering. No cries in the night.

Even as a baby, Chloe had been a sound sleeper. And now that she was just past her third year, she was nearly impossible to get out of bed in the morning. The girl liked her rest and, unlike her mother, could snooze through a thunderstorm.

But what Lisa Tobin had heard was not thunder.

The noise, if she hadn’t dreamed it—and she didn’t think she had—was high-pitched and abrasive. Like glass shattering.

A window?

Was there an intruder in the house?

Icy dread sluiced through her bloodstream as the thought took hold. She listened awhile longer, hoping it was just her overactive imagination, and the moment she convinced herself it was, she heard another sound—a faint, muffled crash—coming from downstairs.

Definitely not her imagination.

There was someone down there.

Could it be Beatrice? Had she awakened in the middle of the night and decided to get an early start on her housekeeping?

Not likely. Bea was efficient, but she wasn’t overly ambitious and was as sound a sleeper as Chloe. And even if she were tidying up, she had never been the clumsy type. The woman was as stealthy as an alley cat.

So intruder it was. Probably that punk kid from next door trying to prove himself to his punk buddies.

There had been a rash of break-ins up and down the street in the past few weeks and everyone pretty much suspected the kid. He was the product of a broken home—something Lisa was all too familiar with—and had been acting out ever since he’d reached puberty. In the year and a half she had lived in this house, the boy had been arrested three times. Twice for drugs, and once for burglary. And he was undoubtedly working his way toward arrest number four.

So what should she do?

Sit here and let him clean the place out?

Lisa’s first instinct was to call the police, but as she reached to the nightstand for her cell phone, she remembered that she had left it in her purse, which was sitting on the table in the foyer downstairs. She had never had a landline installed, and now cursed herself for it.

So she had two choices. Stay put and hope the punk didn’t work his way up the stairs …

Or confront him.

Neither choice thrilled Lisa, but she was not the shrinking-violet type and she wasn’t about to sit here, waiting to be victimized.

So option number two it was.

Throwing her blankets aside, she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, then got to her feet and pulled her robe on. She would need protection, of course. You don’t go into a situation like this without it.

But what kind of protection?

A gun?

Lisa didn’t like guns. Hated them, in fact. Had only held one in her hands twice in her lifetime and had felt extremely uncomfortable each time. But before he moved out, her ex-husband, Oliver, had insisted on putting a pistol in a lockbox on the hall closet shelf, telling her not to hesitate to use it if necessary.

It was a typical Oliver move. He was no stranger to violence—something she had learned only in the last days of their marriage, and part of the reason she had filed for a divorce. His stubborn refusal to consider her feelings—the pistol, for example—was the other part. She had thought she was marrying a prince charming but quickly discovered that there was something deadly beneath that charm. Something dangerous and controlling.

And intimidating.

A Dr. Jekyll who had quickly morphed into Mr. Hyde.

But Lisa had never been turned on by bad boys. She had too much self-respect for that. And where she had once felt warmth, she now felt trepidation whenever she encountered him. An uneasiness that wormed its way into her gut every time she saw him.

As much as she hated to admit it, however, Oliver had been right about the gun. And despite the punk’s young age, confronting him without a weapon would be foolhardy.

She didn’t have to use it, of course. Merely wave it at him to scare him away. Get to her cell phone and call the cops.

So that was the plan.

One she desperately hoped wouldn’t go awry.

Sucking in a deep breath, she moved to her bedroom door and opened it a crack, peering out into the dark stillness of the second-floor hallway.

Empty.

Steeling herself, she stepped into that stillness and quickly made her way to Chloe’s bedroom. She wasn’t about to confront anyone without first checking to see that her little girl was safe.

She carefully turned the knob and pushed the door open. To her relief, Chloe was wrapped in her blankets, her tiny figure illuminated by the moonlight from the window, her shallow chest rising and falling.

Despite her trepidation, Lisa felt a sudden warmth spread inside her. The sight of Chloe sleeping always had that effect on her. It had been a lousy couple of years, yet Chloe had been the one constant, the one shining star, in Lisa’s universe.

Reassured that her daughter was safe, she clicked the lock button, then pulled the door shut. She didn’t like the idea of locking Chloe in, but didn’t want to take any chances, either.

Turning now, she headed back down the hallway toward the stairs, stopping at the narrow closet on the left side of the landing.

Checking the darkness at the bottom of the stairs, she quietly opened the closet door, reached to the overhead shelf and found the wooden box where Oliver had left it, almost a year ago. It was secured by a small lock with a combination that was easy enough to remember: Chloe’s birth date.

Dialing it in, Lisa unfastened the lock, opened the box, then carefully removed the loaded pistol. She didn’t feel comfortable hefting it, but what choice did she have?

“Just point it and shoot,” Oliver had told her during one of his more generous moments. “That’s all you have to remember.”

Easier said than done, she thought.

Returning the box to the shelf, she closed the closet door and turned again toward the mouth of the stairs, listening for more sounds from below.

It was eerily silent now.

No rummaging noises, no whispering voices—assuming there was more than one intruder—no footsteps.

Nothing.

Lisa had all but come to the conclusion that the burglar had left when she heard it: the faint, almost imperceptible clink of a glass and the sound of pouring liquid.

Someone was still down there all right—but whoever it was wasn’t ransacking her house. He was helping himself to a drink from the wet bar.

What the heck?

Lowering the pistol to her side, Lisa started down the stairs, her heart thumping with every step. She was barefoot, but like the stairways in many old St. Louis homes, this one was made of wood and was full of creaks and groans, the carpet covering it doing little to muffle the sound of her descent. She may as well have announced her entrance with the trill of trumpets.

As she reached the living room, clutching the gun tightly at her side, a lamp next to the sofa came to life, startling her. She was about to swing the gun upward when she stopped herself, realizing who it was.

Oliver. Drunk or stoned, as usual, sitting on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, a glass of vodka in hand.

“You’ve gotta work on your stealth skills, babe. I could hear you at the top of the stairs.”

As her heartbeat slowed, anger rose in Lisa’s chest, crowding out the fear she was already feeling. “I almost shot you, Oliver. What the heck are you doing here?”

She glanced around the room and saw what had made the noise that got her out of bed: a picture frame lay on the polished wooden floorboards, its glass shattered. The photo inside was one she had always loved—she and Chloe in front of the lake house, Chloe squirming happily in her arms. It had been taken at a better time in her marriage, nearly two years ago, before Oliver had released Mr. Hyde from his cage.

She had no idea if he had purposely knocked it from the end table or had merely stumbled into it. Whatever the cause, she’d now have to clean up the mess and replace the frame. Another black mark in a string of them as far as Oliver was concerned.

He didn’t answer her question immediately. Instead, he took a sip of his vodka and gave her a long, slow smile.

“What’s the matter, Leese, you don’t like me darkening your doorstep? This is, after all, my house.”

“Tell that to my attorney.”

“Ah,” he said, “your attorney. I’ll bet you’d love to have a reason to give him a call. Real movie-star material, that guy.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. The two of you probably had this planned from the very beginning.”

“Had what planned? What are you talking about?”

Oliver smirked, but there was a coldness in his eyes that frightened her. How could she not have known that he was a sociopath when she met him? How could she have let him seduce her into believing he was her man on a white horse?

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since you tricked me into the divorce,” he said.

“Tricked you?”

“What else would you call it?”

“Surviving,” she said, then sighed. “It’s been nearly a year, Oliver. Time to move on.”

“You and your pretty-boy lawyer planned this, didn’t you? You knew I was a rich, successful businessman and you targeted me, roped me in, used that cute little rear of yours to break me down, take advantage of me. Started snooping around behind my back, sticking your nose in things you had no right getting into.”

She thought about Harvey, her handsome but overly earnest attorney who was nearly twice her age, married and had three kids. Their relationship had always been strictly professional.

“You’re insane.”

“Am I? You got your hooks in me good, babe. I take one look at you in that robe, I get as a randy as a teenager.”

Lisa felt her dinner backing up on her. The thought that she’d ever had the desire to take this man to bed gave her an urgent need for a box of gingersnaps. Or a chug of Pepto Bismol.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she told him.

“I was trying to flatter you.”

She stared at him. “Get out of here, Oliver. You don’t live here anymore, and you know what’s at stake. So go home.”

“And what if I don’t?” He shifted his gaze to the gun at her side. “You gonna put a hole in me?”

She frowned at him, then moved to the long table against the wall and set down the gun down, glad to be rid of it.

As she stepped away, she said, “You can take it with you, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t ever want you thinking I owe you any favors.”

The coldness filled his entire face now as he swung his feet off the table and stood up. “Let’s talk about favors, why don’t we?”

He moved toward her, and Lisa found herself backing away slightly, wondering now if she should have been so quick to put down the gun. Oliver carried with him such a sense of menace that she was unsure of what he might do.

Despite his history of violence, however, he had never threatened either her or Chloe and she hoped that would continue to hold true.

“You weren’t so anxious to refuse my favors when I got you out of that dump of an apartment you lived in. I didn’t see you protesting when I put you in a brand-new Volvo. Made sure you and Chloe had all those pretty little clothes to wear.”

“I’ve never said I’m not grateful, Oliver, but none of that means you own me. And right now you’re trespassing.”

He moved in close, trapping her against the wall. “Trespassing? I haven’t been around here in months and this is how you treat me?”

Lisa’s heart started thumping again. “Get out of here, now, or I swear I’ll—”

It came suddenly and without warning. Oliver’s hand shot toward her, grabbing her by the throat, slamming her roughly against the wall.

Lisa struggled, feeling her air cut off. She tried to speak but couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said. “What was that? Were you about to threaten me again? Tell me I don’t have the right to come into a house I bought and paid for? You think some computer file you’ve got stashed, or some piece of paper your lawyer drafted up is gonna change that?”

Panic rose in Lisa’s chest. She could barely breathe.

Upstairs, Chloe started to cry, the sound muffled by her door. But Lisa doubted it was their voices that had awakened her. Her usual sound sleep had instead been disturbed by that sense of menace that Oliver carried with him wherever he went. A malignant contagion stirring the air around them.

As Lisa struggled to breathe, he loosened his grip on her throat and she stumbled sideways. But before she could move away from him, he grabbed hold of her arm and shoved her back against the wall.

She was too stunned to move. This was the first time he had ever laid a hand on her.

“Don’t you talk to me like that again, you little gold digger.” He held her in place and slipped his free hand inside her robe, grabbing her right breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple. “You may have snagged the gold, but the way I see it, you’ve got a long way to go before you earn—”

A ratcheting sound cut him off. They turned and saw Beatrice standing at the foot of the stairs, a shotgun in her hands, leveled at Oliver.

“You’d best get your paws off her real quick, son. I wouldn’t want to muss up the lady’s new robe.”

Tears of relief filled Lisa’s eyes. She hadn’t even known Bea owned a shotgun—wouldn’t have approved if she did, not with Chloe in the house—but the old woman looked as if she knew how to use it and Lisa welcomed the sight.

“If you think I’m kidding,” Bea continued, “just try me.”

Oliver released Lisa, but his body went rigid, the coldness in his eyes turning into a hard, angry stare. “You don’t have the guts, you old bat.”

“Don’t I?” She moved forward. “My daddy taught me how to use this scattergun when I was twelve years old. I’ve never shot at nothin’ but tin cans, but I’m all too happy to find out what a round of buck can do to a grown man’s face. I don’t imagine it’ll be pretty.”

“I didn’t come here alone,” Oliver told her. “I’ve got men outside and all I have to do is sound the alarm.”

Bea smiled. “You go right ahead and do that, son, see what it gets you.”

He studied her a moment longer, then did as she asked and backed away, throwing his hands up as he moved. “Never argue with a shotgun.”

“Damn right.”

Lisa took a deep breath and said, “Get out of here, Oliver, and don’t come back.”

He snapped his gaze toward her. “Or what?”

“Or I go to the police.”

“Why? Because I copped a feel?” He grinned. “Judging by the way your body reacted, I’d say you were enjoying it.”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Lisa said.

His face got hard and Bea gestured with the shotgun. “Son, I’m about two tics away from squeezing this trigger—and it isn’t much of a target, but I’ll be aiming at your talliwacker.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna regret this,” he said, then looked at Lisa. “Both of you.”

He walked to the front door and yanked it open, then turned in the doorway and smiled at them again, using his thumb and forefinger to form a gun.

“You’re about to find out what happens to women who dump on Oliver Sloan …”

He pretended to pull the trigger, then turned again and went outside.

Chapter Two

The call came in two hours earlier. Gunshots heard by an insomniac, coming from the auto repair shop next to his apartment building.

“Unit Fourteen, we’ve got a possible 142 in progress, can you respond?”

“Roger, dispatch. I’m on it.”

Sheriff’s deputy Rafael Franco was in the middle of his usual graveyard shift, happy to have the distraction after a night of shoveling up street drunks and carting them to the holding tank. It was a part of the job he had never enjoyed, mostly because his skill and brains were being underutilized by the department.

His college diploma still had a bit of wet ink on it, but he was frustrated that he hadn’t yet been promoted.

Rafe had been with the Sheriff’s department for nearly three years now, the newest and greenest member of the Franco family to wear a badge. The Francos and law enforcement went all the way back to his great-great-grandfather Tomas, an Italian immigrant who had joined the St. Louis police force when it was little more than a ragtag group of men with guns and good intentions.

Rafe knew he had a lot to live up to, but he felt restless working the streets, and figured he had already paid his dues. He was tired of patrol duty. What he really wanted was to join his sister, Kate, on the homicide squad, where brains and reasoning and solid evidence-gathering far outweighed your ability to heft a drunk into the backseat of your cruiser.

Unfortunately, Rafe didn’t get the impression he’d be bumped up anytime soon. But a report of gunshots gave him hope. Not that he wished any other human being ill, but if he happened to luck into something big, maybe he’d get a chance to demonstrate his investigative skills.

He also didn’t mind the distraction from his thoughts tonight. As always, he had taken a long nap before reporting to duty, and a dream he’d had was haunting him—a vague, half-remembered remnant from his college years, featuring a girl he had once loved. He had awakened from it feeling disoriented and a little sad, filled with a vague, undefinable yearning that he couldn’t quite shake.

Rafe hadn’t seen the girl in over three years now, but she still showed up on the doorstep of his mind every now and then and he’d often thought of trying to contact her. Their breakup had been mutual—both convinced that they were too young to be getting serious—but Rafe often regretted the decision and wondered if she did, too.

He hadn’t met a woman since who had made him feel the way she had. And that dream, as hazy as it was, hadn’t done him any favors.

THE AUTO BODY SHOP was located on a deserted city street, nestled between a run-down apartment building and an abandoned drive-in liquor store.

The place was dark when Rafe pulled up to the curb. A sea of cars in various states of disrepair crowded the lot out front, making the place look more like a junkyard than a body shop. The garage—a large rectangular structure—was located in back and, by Rafe’s count, sported nine repair bays, each with its aluminum roll door closed and locked for the night.

Off to the right of the building was a connecting office with its front door hanging open, nothing but darkness beyond.

Something obviously wasn’t right here.

To Rafe’s mind, this was an indication that the caller might not have been hearing things. Too often reports of gunshots are nothing more than a car backfiring or kids playing with firecrackers, but that open door suggested something far more sinister.

Rafe called it in, told the dispatcher he was on the scene. That he’d stay in radio contact as he checked it out.

Grabbing his flashlight from the glove compartment, he killed his engine and climbed out of the cruiser. He moved off to his left, not wanting to approach the open door directly, in case the shooter—assuming there was one—was still inside.

Stepping into the sea of cars, he stayed low and carefully made his way around and through them, drawing closer to the office, making sure to come at the doorway from an angle.

He was about ten yards away when he stopped, crouched behind an old Chevy Malibu missing its grill, and peered into the darkness beyond the threshold, looking for signs of life inside.

Nothing but still air in there.

Nobody home.

Satisfied that he was alone out here, Rafe stood up, clicked the radio on his shoulder.

“Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen. Looks like it’s clear out here, but I’m headed inside for a closer look.”

“Do you need backup?”

“I think I’m good for now,” Rafe said. “I’ll stay in radio contact.”

“Roger, Fourteen.”

Switching the flashlight on, Rafe pointed it toward the building, then dropped a hand to the holster on his hip and unsnapped it, resting his palm against the grip of his Glock.

Using the beam to guide him, he approached the doorway and stepped through it, finding nothing but your typical cluttered office—a desk piled with paperwork, an adding machine, a few metal chairs, a bookshelf full of repair manuals, an old computer. There was a faded calendar on the wall featuring the Motor Babe of the Month wearing a barely there bikini and holding a wrench provocatively as she posed in front of a souped-up Ford Mustang.

Off to the left was another doorway that opened into a garage bathed in moonlight, which filtered in from a bank of high windows. It was about half the size of a football field, and there were cars parked in each of the nine bays, all but one in various states of disassembly.

Rafe smelled the odor of a cooling engine and ran the flashlight beam over the car closest to him—a shiny Jaguar XJ that looked as if it was in fine condition, no body work needed. There was a thin layer of road dust covering it and it didn’t seem to have been repaired at any time in the recent past.

So why was it parked in here?

Was it the owner’s car?

And, if so, where was he?

Before Rafe could ponder these questions, the beam of his flashlight caught something dark and glistening on the cement directly beneath the Jaguar’s front passenger side—

A small pool of red liquid that looked very much like blood.

It was coming from the crack beneath the door.

Rafe’s body tensed. Drawing his Glock from its holster, he shone his light through the car window and saw two figures slumped inside, both male, both very dead. Eyes wide. Mouths agape. Judging by their appearance—unshaven, rumpled clothes, with matching bullet holes adorning the middle of their foreheads—they weren’t Sunday school teachers.

And this was definitely the work of a professional.

Rafe was about to call it in when he heard a sound coming from across the garage—the faint clang and scrape of metal against concrete, as if someone had accidentally kicked a stray hubcap.

He wasn’t alone in here.

Jerking his flashlight beam toward the source of the sound, he illuminated the far end of the garage.

“Sheriff’s department,” he called out. “Show yourself and take it slow, hands in the air.”

He caught a glimpse of movement and reacted instinctively, diving sideways, just as a muzzle flashed and the bark of gunfire filled his ears. One of the Jaguar’s side mirrors exploded above his head and he dove for cover behind a tall, rolling tool cabinet.

Dropping the flashlight, he reached for the radio on his shoulder and clicked it on.

“Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen. I’m under fire. Repeat, I’m under fire.”

“Roger, Fourteen, we’re sending backup.”

More gunshots punched holes in the Jaguar and the tool cabinet, landing way too close for comfort. Rafe quickly snatched up the flashlight and closed it, tucking it into its loop on his belt.

No point in giving this guy a target.

He returned fire—once, twice—then retreated into the darkness behind him and waited.

The gunfire stopped, followed by the longest stretch of silence that Rafe had ever experienced. His heart pounded wildly as he waited for the perp to make a move. He figured the guy would either start shooting again—assuming he had the rounds—or make like a jackrabbit.

Rafe didn’t have to wait long for the perp to decide. A dark figure popped up from behind the equally dark silhouette of a car and took off, heading for a door on the left side of the garage.

Rafe shot to his feet and shouted, “Hold it!” as he took off after the guy, leaping over stray tools and car parts that lay on the garage floor.

A moment later he was at the door and about to crash through it, when he stopped himself, thinking that might not be a wise move.

What if the perp was out there waiting for him?

Instead, he stepped to the right side of the doorway and crouched down to avoid being in the line of fire. Then he reached a hand out, turned the knob, and flung the door open.

As it swung wide, he half expected another flurry of gunshots—

But nothing happened. All he heard was the distant drone of street traffic.

Getting back to his feet, he carefully peeked around the door frame and saw the perp several yards away, working his way through the maze of cars in the front of the lot.

“Police!” Rafe shouted as he took off after him. “Stop right now!”

The guy didn’t slow down. He was nearly to the sidewalk now, only feet from where Rafe had left his cruiser. As the perp barreled past the last of the cars, he brought his gun up and shot at the black-and-white, shattering the windshield and puncturing one of the tires.

Rafe swore under his breath and kept running, moving into and through the maze—

Now the guy was on the street and jumping into a gray BMW. The engine roared to life as Rafe vaulted the hood of a junked Mazda and scrambled after him.

Just as he reached the street, the BMW’s rear tires began to spin and smoke, the car laying rubber as it tore away from the curb.

Rafe tried to read the license plate, but the streetlight was too dim and the plate was obscured by darkness. He whirled around, hoping his cruiser was still good to go, and found that the shooter had hit his mark. The right front tire was shredded and leaking air. Fast. No way he’d get very far.

Swearing under his breath again, he watched the BMW disappear down the street, then reached for his radio.

“The suspect has escaped,” he said. “He’s headed north on Davis Avenue in a gray BMW, license plate unknown. My vehicle has been compromised.”

“Roger, Fourteen. Patrol’s been alerted and backup is on its way.”

AS HE WAITED for his fellow deputies to arrive, Rafe went back into the garage. He found the switch for the overhead lights and took a closer look at the bodies inside the Jaguar.

Two males, approximately thirty years old, one with a tattoo of a spider on his neck. They both looked Slavic to Rafe, maybe Russian, which immediately brought to mind the Russian mob.

Were these guys connected?

Was it a contract killing?

Judging by the placement of the wounds, Rafe had no doubt it was a professional hit, but he’d failed to get a look at the shooter and had no idea if he’d been chasing another Russian or someone else entirely.

Knowing full well that he was breaking protocol, Rafe untucked and used his shirttail for protection as he reached for the passenger door handle. He’d have a heck of a time explaining any stray prints. Swinging the door open, he leaned inside and carefully checked the pockets of the victim closest to him.

Nothing. No wallet. Keys. Coins. Cigarettes. Not even a stick of gum. Rafe closed the door, then moved around to the driver’s side and did the same thing with the other victim, getting the same results. The shooter had obviously cleaned house after he’d made the hit.

Rafe was about to close the car door when he spotted something on the floor mat near the driver’s left foot.

A small, narrow slip of paper.

He reached down, snatched it up and tilted it toward the light, noting that it was a receipt for a fill-up at a Western Star service station just across town.

The time stamp read 2:45 a.m.

Rafe knew this could very well be the key to identifying the victims—and, by extension, the shooter. He also knew he should return it to the floor mat where he’d found it. But as the sound of approaching sirens filled his ears, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket and closed the car door.

A moment later, he stepped outside to greet his colleagues.

Chapter Three

“Let’s go through it one more time,” Kate said.

Rafe balked. “Seriously?”

They were standing outside the auto repair shop. The roll doors had all been raised, the garage overheads lighting the yard as a flurry of crime scene techs moved in and out of the building.

“Look, Rafe, I know it’s late, I know your shift is almost over, but if this is a mob hit, things could get sticky. I want to make sure all our bases are covered.”

Rafe hadn’t been surprised when his big sister, Kate, showed up at the scene. She was the Homicide Squad’s best investigator, specializing in organized crime, and anything that smacked of a professional hit was usually passed off to her. She took her job very seriously and had the tenaciousness of a bulldog. She also got results and was the envy of every investigator on the squad.

Growing up in Kate’s shadow had not been easy for Rafe. Ever since he’d graduated from college and had joined the department, he had been trying to live up to her reputation. He had put in extra hours, volunteered for event work, even worked the holidays no one else wanted to—all in hopes that he could make just the fraction of the impression that his sister had made. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to have taken notice of these sacrifices.

Including Kate.

“I don’t care about working a little overtime,” he told her. “I’m here for the duration.”

It wasn’t as if he could go anywhere anyway. His cruiser was being towed to the police garage as they spoke and he’d have to hitch a ride with one of the other deputies to get back to the station. He was bound to be here at least another hour.

“Good,” Kate said. “So let’s go through it again.”

Rafe sighed. “As I said, I got the call out at about 0300 hours, give or take. Dispatch’ll have the exact time.”

“And no ID on the caller, right?”

“Right,” Rafe said. “Although he said his apartment overlooks the lot.”

Kate turned to her partner, a burly guy named Eberhart who stood nearby. Rafe got the feeling the guy had always regarded him as an irritant, and the feeling was mutual.

She signaled to him. “Charlie, get a canvass going on the apartment building. We need eyes on this thing.”

Eberhart smirked. “Maybe your little bro here would like to volunteer. He’s gotta be good for something.”

Kate frowned. “Just get it started, all right?”

Eberhart gave her a salute. “Your wish is my command, O Great Leader.” Then he turned and called to a couple of deputies who were huddled near their cruisers. “Look alive, knuckleheads, you’ve just been recruited.”

The guy was a jackass.

When he was gone, Kate returned her attention to Rafe. “Okay, so you responded to the call and arrived at approximately what time?”

“About 3:10. The place was dark, so I notified dispatch and decided to take a look around.”

“Did you request backup?”

“We didn’t even know for sure that shots had actually been fired at that point, so I didn’t think backup was necessary.”

Karen gave him a stony look. “And as a consequence, you almost got your rear end shot off and the suspect got away.”

Rafe felt his cheeks go red. As a big sister, Kate had never been much of a nurturer, and it was just like her to point out any mistakes he may have made.

He frowned at her and said, “Are you going to bust my chops or let me talk?”

“Go on.”

“When I got close to the building, I saw the door was ajar—”

“And you still didn’t call for backup?”

Rafe sighed. “What exactly are you investigating here? Me or the murders? I told dispatch what I was doing every step of the way. I’m not exactly a rookie, you know.”

Her frequent interruptions and insistence that he repeat his story made him feel like a suspect, as if she were expecting to expose him in some kind of lie. But he knew from previous conversations with her that this was merely a technique she employed to try to jog a witness’s memory and draw out more details.

“Just tell me what happened when you got inside,” she said.

“I saw the Jaguar, the bodies, then the shooting started.”

“And where was the suspect?”

“Across the garage.” Rafe pointed to the building behind them. “He came out that door and was gone before I could stop him.”

“Did you at least get a look at him?”

“My answer hasn’t changed since the last time you asked me. It was too dark. And he was wearing a hoodie.”

“And no license number from the car he was driving?”

Rafe just gave her a look.

“Okay,” she said, reading his unspoken message. She flipped her notebook shut and clipped her pen to it before putting it in her coat pocket. “Enough business for now. How are you doing? It isn’t fun getting shot at.”

“The only thing that’s hurting is my pride,” Rafe said. “I wish I could’ve caught the guy.”

“Sounds like you did what you could, little brother. I wouldn’t sweat it, if I were you.”

“Thanks. What do you want me to do now?”

Kate waved a hand at him. “You’re done here. Find your ride, go back to the station and write up your report.”

“That’s it?”

Her eyebrows went up. “You have a better idea?”

He shrugged. “I thought I might be able to assist somehow. Maybe help Eberhart with that canvass. Or help you inspect the crime scene.” He paused. “I’m thinking the owner of the auto repair shop must be connected to these guys somehow. Otherwise, what were they doing here?”

Kate smiled. “You just can’t wait to get rid of that uniform, can you?”

He hadn’t realized it was so obvious. The last thing he wanted was to come across like an anxious puppy. At twenty-five, he was still young, but he’d always thought he was pretty mature for his age. Ready to take the next step in his career.

Maybe he’d been deluding himself.

“As I said, I just want to help.”

Kate’s smile disappeared and she suddenly looked very serious. “You can help by being patient and doing your job, Rafael. Your time will come, but it may not be as soon as you want it to be, and that’s something you’ll just have to live with.”

Spoken like a true big sister, he thought. With just the right amount of condescension. Rafe had the urge to tell her where to stuff it, but remained professional.

“So are we good?” Kate asked.

“We’re good,” Rafe said.

She turned away and was about to start toward the garage when she stopped. “Just one last question.”

“Which is?”

“You didn’t touch the car, right? Didn’t try to do a little investigating of your own?”

Rafe felt his heart kick up and thought about the gas receipt that was still in his pocket. He’d meant to give it to her, but now he wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. Surely they’d be able to identify the bodies through fingerprint analysis, and his breach of protocol would never have to come to light.

If worse came to worst, he could give it to her later, claim he’d found it on the garage floor and in the excitement that followed had forgotten about it. But handing it over now would be a mistake. Especially after she had just treated him like a redheaded stepchild.

“Rafe?”

He blinked at her. “Give me some credit, sis, I’m not stupid enough to interfere with a crime scene.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes,” he lied. “Absolutely sure.”

She studied him skeptically. The woman had always had the uncanny ability to read him. Had caught him in a number of lies as they grew up, but had always been merciful enough not to tell their parents.

Kate was a good six years older than Rafe and that gap had given her enough insight to avoid the pettiness of sibling rivalry. She may not have been a nurturer, but she wasn’t a traitor, either. And nobody could ever say that the Franco kids didn’t look out for one another.

Even so, she really annoyed him sometimes.

“I’m going to trust you on that,” she said. “But if any fingerprints show up, you’re on your own.”

“They won’t,” he told her, relieved that he’d had the wherewithal to use his shirttail for protection. “I promise.”

She studied him a moment longer, then nodded and walked away, heading into the garage.

When she was gone, Rafe let out a long breath and tried not to feel too guilty.

Chapter Four

“So is your sister seeing anyone these days?”

The deputy he’d snagged to drive him back to the station was a guy named Phil Harris. Harris was what qualified in the patrol division as an old-timer, although he couldn’t yet be over forty. He’d been with the department since he was Rafe’s age and had never progressed further than a RS-3 pay grade.

Harris was a good cop, but not the most ambitious guy in the department.

“Sorry, Phil, I don’t keep track of her love life. You’d have to ask her.”

Harris wasn’t the first deputy to approach Rafe about Kate. One of the hazards of working in the same department as your sister was that you had to put up with every hot-to-trot single—and sometimes married—guy on the job, looking to get into her pants. Rafe would be the first to admit that Kate was a looker—she did have the Franco genes, after all—but the last thing he wanted to think about was who she may or may not be sleeping with.

“I was hoping you’d put in a good word for me,” Harris said. “Let her know I’m interested.”

What was this—high school?

Rafe shook his head. “First, I’ve got zero influence over Kate. And second, you might as well stand in line. You’re about the fifteenth deputy who’s asked me about her in the last month alone—and the competition is stiff.”

“How stiff?”

“Like County Undersheriff stiff.”

Harris’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re telling me she’s been hitting it with Macon?”

“That’s the rumor,” Rafe said. “But, as I told you, I don’t keep track. I’m having a hard enough time with my own love life.”

Harris turned. “I thought you were dating that blonde in dispatch? The one with the big—”

“That’s been over for months,” Rafe said. “In fact, it was over before it really got started. No chemistry. Besides, I don’t have time for romance. I’ve got to think about my career.”

Harris snorted. “You sound like me about twenty years ago. I passed up on a perfectly good relationship—a gal I could have had a life with—all because I thought I didn’t have time for that nonsense. Now look at me. I’m alone and going nowhere. And believe me, it isn’t much fun.”

Rafe found his mind wandering back to last night’s dream and the girl he’d left behind. He shook the thought away.

“Boo-hoo,” he said. “I’m still not going to set you up with my sister.”

Harris grinned. “You saw what I was trying to do there, huh?”

“From a couple hundred yards away.”

THEY WEREN’T TWO MILES from the station house when Harris’s radio came to life.

“Dispatch to Unit Ten, do you read me?”

Harris snatched up his handset. “This is Ten. What do you got?”

“A possible 273 D in Forest Park. Can you respond?”

Two-seventy-three D was code for a domestic dispute, every deputy’s least favorite type of call. Too often it was a husband being abusive to his wife, and Rafe had no tolerance for such men. It took everything he had to keep himself from giving the abuser a very painful life lesson.

Harris turned to him. “You in?”

Rafe was already supposed to be off the clock, but despite his reservations, he found that he still had a lot of pent-up energy coursing through his veins.

“Sure,” he said.

Harris clicked the handset. “I’m on it, dispatch. Deputy Franco assisting. Give me the address.”

Ten minutes later they pulled into Forest Park, an affluent section of St. Louis, not far from the Hill, where Rafe lived. The neighborhood featured a mix of 2-million and 3-million-dollar homes. Tudors. Dutch colonials. A couple of Cape Cods thrown in for good measure. It was the kind of place that made deputies like Rafe and Harris feel as if they were little more than servants to the rich and powerful.

Rafe had to fight against this feeling as they pulled up to the house in question, a two-story colonial. The front door was nearly the size of his entire apartment.

They got out and he waited as Harris knocked.

A voice on the intercom came to life. “Yes?”

“Sheriff’s department,” Harris said. “You called us about a domestic dispute?”

A moment later, the door opened and an elderly woman who was built like a bull terrier, ushered them inside.

“Come in, come in,” she said. “The no-good creep is gone, but we want to file a formal complaint against him.”

“Against whom?” Rafe asked as they followed her into a large foyer.

“The former man of the house. He broke in through the back door and raised quite a fuss.”

“Is anyone hurt?”

“No, but it got pretty dodgy there for a minute.”

Rafe nodded. “So who is this guy? Your husband?”

The old woman laughed. “Me? No. I’m just the hired help. But I had to scare him off with my scattergun. Couldn’t have him treating Lisa like that.”

“Lisa?”

“The lady of the house.”

Just as she said this, they stepped into an expansive, tastefully furnished living room and Rafe’s heart momentarily seized up as his gaze shifted to the woman sitting on a large white sofa in the center of the room.

The name Lisa was not uncommon, but the face that went with it was all too familiar. One that Rafe knew quite well but hadn’t seen in over three years.

Except in his dream last night.

Call it fate or luck or serendipity, but the woman sitting on that sofa—the woman holding a sleeping child in her lap—was none other than Lisa Tobin.

His college sweetheart.

Chapter Five

Lisa thought she must be dreaming.

Or simply mistaken.

But one of the deputies Beatrice had just escorted into the living room looked a lot like …

She swallowed, felt her pulse quicken. “Rafe? Rafe Franco?”

He stopped at the edge of the foyer, nearly frozen in place. He looked a little older—especially in that uniform—no longer the boy she had known in college, but a man. A man who had filled out with muscle and angular edges and broader shoulders. A man who had obviously spent the past few years working out and had the body to prove it.

But it was him, all right. It was Rafe.

A new and improved Rafe.

His eyes went wide at the sight of her, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Lisa?”

Lisa’s mind suddenly flooded with images from the past—the pain, the heartbreak she’d felt in those days following their breakup. The sense of loss and confusion and, most of all, fear. Especially when she found out she was…

She stopped short, pulling herself back to the present. She carefully laid Chloe on the sofa and got to her feet, moving to Rafe, who now looked like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

She felt pretty much the same way.

“My God,” she said, overcome by a kind of surreal numbness. They met in the middle of the room, Rafe pulling her into a hug as Bea and the other deputy looked on in surprise.

Lisa could feel Rafe’s taught muscles pressing against her, and it gave her a small thrill to be back in his arms after all this time. It felt different, yet much the same.

His smell hadn’t changed. The smell of his hair and his skin and the faint remnants of aftershave …

She reluctantly pulled away from him now, holding him at arm’s length, trying to process this unexpected turn of events.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “How …?”

“I’ve been living here for a few years now.”

“I know your family’s from St. Louis, but I thought you went to California after college. All that talk about beaches and surfing and …”

“That lasted about two months before I realized I really don’t like sand. So I decided to go into the family business.” He gestured. “I tried to get ahold of you when I came back. I even called your mother, but she had no idea where you’d gone.”

Not surprising, Lisa thought. She and her mother had never gotten along.

She nodded. “It’s a long story. And not worth repeating.”

“When did you move to St. Louis?”

“About a year ago. I moved here with …” She hesitated, not wanting to talk about her marriage and divorce. As if talk of Oliver would spoil this moment. “As I said, it’s a long story.”

Now Rafe’s gaze shifted to the sofa, to Chloe, his eyes clouding with confusion. “She can’t be yours.”

“I’m afraid so,” Lisa said, her heart kicking up a notch. “All thirty pounds of her.”

“How old is she?”

Lisa hesitated. “She was three last month.”

She half expected him to start doing the math, but the significance of the timing seemed to be lost on him.

“I guess you were busy while I was pretending to be a beach bum,” he said. “I’m happy for you, Leese. She’s beautiful.”

Because she looks like you, Lisa thought, suddenly overwhelmed by an intense, gut-wrenching guilt.

But this wasn’t the proper time and place for confessionals. She wasn’t sure if there was a proper time and place. Not over three years and another life later. Not when part of her past had been sprung on her without warning or preparation. This was a delicate situation that needed to be dealt with in private—with tact and sensitivity.

Lisa couldn’t count the number of times she had wanted to pick up the phone and call Rafe. Tell him that long story in detail. But it was too much to handle right now, too much to process.

So she merely nodded in response and said, “Her name is Chloe.”

She saw confusion in Rafe’s eyes, and maybe a hint of disappointment, too. Not because of Chloe, but because she had somehow managed to move on with her life in a much bigger way than either of them could have expected back in college. A life that, despite the circumstances, hadn’t included Rafe.

But before he could speak again, his partner said, “I hate to interrupt this happy reunion, folks, but we are here for a reason.” He looked at Lisa. “Do you have a complaint to make?”

Lisa pulled herself from her thoughts and shook her head. “Calling you was Bea’s idea. I don’t really want to stir up any trouble.”

“Oh, for God sakes,” Bea said. “The creep broke into your house and started manhandling you.”

“What creep?” Rafe asked, looking concerned. “The so-called former man of the house?”

Lisa nodded. “My ex. But it really wasn’t that big of a deal. He has a few boundary issues, is all.”

Rafe frowned. “Tell me about the manhandling part. Did he hurt you?”

Lisa hesitated. “He … he pawed me a little.”

“Pawed you?” Bea cried, turning to Rafe. “He had her up against the wall and was slobbering over her like a Saturday-night sex fiend. And if I’m not mistaken, he had her by the throat at one point. As I told you, if I hadn’t turned my scattergun on him, he’d probably still be here.”

Now Rafe’s partner stepped toward them. The name above his badge read Harris. “Ma’am, we can’t force you to file a complaint, but it sounds to me as if things got pretty nasty here.”

Lisa nodded reluctantly. “Maybe.”

“And if I know anything about human nature,” Harris continued, “this isn’t the last you’ll see of this creep. Especially if there’s a child involved.”

Lisa caught herself glancing at Rafe, but said nothing. Rafe, however, took this as a cue to say, “Has he ever hurt you before?”

“No. That’s why I’m so hesitant to press charges. He can be violent, but he’s never been violent with me. Or Chloe.”

“So what changed?”

Lisa shook her head. “I don’t know. He was drunk, maybe a little stoned. We’ve been separated for nearly a year and the divorce became final three months ago. But I was the one who filed and he still hasn’t accepted it.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed. “You couldn’t have been together very long.”

“Long enough for me to realize what I’d gotten myself into.”

“Meaning what?”

“As I said, it’s a long story.”

Rafe nodded. “You also said he can be violent. What did you mean by that?”

“The people he sometimes associates with are not exactly the nicest people in the world. I told him I didn’t want them around the house, but he ignored me.”

“That still doesn’t explain the violent part.”

Lisa hesitated again, not sure how much she should say. But she knew that if she didn’t tell them, Beatrice would, so she might as well put it out there.

She slunk to the sofa. “He had a girlfriend while we were together. I only found out about her when she wound up in the hospital. A friend of mine works at County and saw him when they brought her in.”

“For what?”

“A broken jaw. She had to have it wired shut.”

Rafe’s brows went up now. “And you think he did that to her?”

“I know he did. He told me as much when I confronted him. Said she was a loudmouthed little witch who didn’t know when to shut up.” Lisa sighed. “That was the last straw. I filed for divorce less than a week later.”

She remembered the look in Oliver’s eyes when he’d confessed to her. A look that she could only describe as pride. He had been proud of what he’d done to that poor girl. As if he were the king ape who had punished a disobedient subject.

That’s when she realized he was a sociopath.

Filing those divorce papers had been another turning point in Lisa’s life, and the moment she did it, she felt liberated. Yet, before then, she hadn’t even realized she was a prisoner. She had allowed herself to block out the truth simply because Oliver had provided her and Chloe with a home. A family.

And the illusion of happiness.

When she thought about it now, however, maybe Oliver was right. Maybe she was a gold digger.

Rafe said, “I know you, Lisa. You always did try to avoid confrontations. But if this guy is starting to get violent with you, you need to press charges and file for a restraining order. Deputy Harris is right. He will be back.”

“I can handle him,” she said.

Bea snorted. “By letting him rub you up like a $2 tart? Seems to me he was the one doing all the handling.”

Lisa felt her face flush, but said nothing. With Bea, you could always count on the truth, no matter how unflattering it might be.

“I’ll tell you what,” Rafe said, then moved to the sofa and sat next to her. “You don’t have to file charges, but at least give me his name.”

“Why?”

“I’ll go talk to him. Tell him he needs back off.”

“You’d better take my scattergun if you do,” Bea said.

“Trust me, I’ve handled my share of tough guys. Most of the time they’re more talk than action, and I’m pretty sure I can convince him to leave Lisa alone.” He looked at Chloe, who was still fast asleep. “I assume you have custody?”

The question caught Lisa off guard. “Uh, yeah,” she said. “Sole custody.”

“Good. Then it shouldn’t be a problem. What’s your ex-husband’s name?”

“Sloan,” Bea said. “Oliver Sloan.”

And to Lisa’s surprise, Rafe and Deputy Harris exchanged a look that told her they’d heard the name before. The shock on their faces was hard to miss.

“Oliver Sloan?” Harris said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You know him?” she asked.

“Better than I’d like to. There isn’t anyone in law enforcement who doesn’t. Not in St. Louis.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Lisa said. “Oliver’s in real estate. He may have problems and a poor choice of friends, but he’s a glorified salesman. Why would the police care about that?”

“Because of what he sells,” Rafe told her.

Lisa was bewildered. For all his faults, she’d never thought Oliver was involved in anything that would raise the interest of the police—except maybe a bit of real estate hanky-panky that she was convinced he was trying to pull. There was also the incident with his girlfriend, but the woman had never pressed charges.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple,” Rafe said. “Your ex-husband is up to his eyeballs in organized crime.”

Chapter Six

Oliver Sloan.

When the name came out of the housekeeper’s mouth, Rafe wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her right.

Oliver Sloan was a bad man.

A very bad man.

Oliver Sloan was nothing less than the local king of organized crime. Drugs. Prostitution. Extortion. Gambling. If it was a thriving illegal enterprise, Sloan’s involvement was a given.

The problem, unfortunately, was proving it. Despite years of trying, neither the Sheriff’s department nor the St. Louis police had been able to come up with any evidence against him. Too many crime scenes had been sanitized. Too many witnesses had disappeared. Too many suspects had kept their mouths shut and taken their punishment, refusing to reveal who had given the orders.

Oliver Sloan had somehow managed to stay above it all. Had even presented himself to the public as an altruistic businessman. A real estate mogul. But as Harris had said, everyone in St. Louis law enforcement circles knew he was dirty. As dirty as they come.

What Rafe had a hard time stomaching, however, was that Lisa had not only been involved with the guy, but also had actually been married to him. Had a child with him.

That was just one surprise too many.

Rafe had been feeling shell-shocked ever since he entered the house and saw Lisa sitting on that sofa. And the thought that Oliver Sloan had sired that child was almost too much to bear.

Rafe remembered what he and Lisa had meant to each other in college and how their breakup was largely due to their inability to commit. Even though it was only a little over three years ago, they had seemed so young then. So immature.

But they’d both done a lot of growing up since then. And apparently Lisa herself hadn’t had much trouble committing. Not for a while, at least. She had gone straight from that breakup into the arms Oliver Sloan.

But how could she not know what kind of man he was? Was he that good at hiding it?

“Let me get this straight,” Rafe said. “You had no idea your ex-husband was suspected of being part of a crime syndicate?”

Lisa shook her head in dismay. “You must have the wrong Oliver Sloan. I’ve sat in his office, watched him make deals. If anything mob related was going on, I think I would’ve noticed.”

“His company’s a front,” Harris said. “But, trust me, you aren’t the only one he’s snookered. There are a few people on the city council who think he’s God, and he’s got more connections than the pope.”

“I can’t believe this,” Lisa said.

“Well you’d better start wrapping your head around it, because if this guy’s giving you grief, you’re in a lot more trouble than you—”

“That’s enough, Phil.” Rafe approached his partner. “We came here to help Lisa, not scare her half to death.”

He turned to the sofa, chastising himself for letting this go on as long as it had. Lisa’s expression was a mix of fear and disbelief.

“Look, Lisa, I won’t kid you. You’re probably making the right move, not pressing charges. But that doesn’t mean Sloan won’t answer for what he did here tonight.”

“You’re still going to talk to him?”

“As soon as I get off duty. I don’t think a civil conversation will hurt, and I doubt he’ll do anything stupid. He’s not a stupid man.”

Rafe felt Harris’s gaze on him, probably wearing a look of disbelief himself. Probably thinking Rafe was the stupid one. But Harris had maintained a career as a patrol deputy by playing it safe, and what he thought right now wasn’t of much interest to Rafe. He was merely a ride back to the station house.

Lisa got to her feet and approached them, pulling Rafe into another hug. He smelled the familiar scent of lavender and was pleased to know she still used the same perfume. He knew it was an odd thing to remember or be comforted by, but that scent had defined her somehow and smelling it now sent a cascade of memories tumbling through his head.

“Thank you,” she said. “But be careful. I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not the scrawny kid you knew in college.”

She laughed. “Believe me, I noticed.”

She squeezed him tighter, then pulled away, her look telling him that she suddenly felt awkward about this whole situation. They both needed to step back for a moment, evaluate this unexpected reunion, then proceed from there.

But Rafe hoped she wouldn’t mind if he called her. “Is there a number where I can reach you?”

Their gazes connected for a moment, then Lisa moved to a table along the wall, opened a drawer and scribbled something on a scratch pad. Tearing the top sheet off, she folded it twice and handed it to him.

“My cell,” she said. “But whatever you do, don’t let Oliver get hold of it. Otherwise, he’ll start texting me day and night.”

“It’s safe with me,” Rafe said, then looked across the room at little Chloe, who was stirring on the sofa. She was indeed a beautiful child, a reflection of her mother.

Too bad her father was scum.

Rafe nodded toward the girl and said, “My grandmother always told me that children are God’s way of granting us eternal life. You’re a lucky woman, Leese. And I’m sure you’re a wonderful mother.”

She smiled wistfully. “Thank you, Rafe.”

He gestured to Harris and they went back into the foyer. And as he turned at the front doorway for one last look at the girl he had once loved, he thought he saw tears in her eyes.

“ARE YOU OUTTA YOUR MIND, Franco?” The words flew out of Harris’s mouth before he even had the cruiser’s engine started. “You think you’re just going to walk up to Oliver Sloan and tell him what’s what?”

Rafe shrugged. “You have any better ideas?”

“Damn straight I do. Walk away and leave it alone. There’s a reason we’ve never been able to pop this guy. Rumor has it he’s even got the mayor in his pocket.”

“I’ve never been big on rumors,” Rafe said.

“Well, I hope you aren’t too big on your job, either, because this guy can ruin your career with a snap of his fingers.”

Rafe chuckled. “You watch too many crime shows.”

“What I watch is my back, and you’d better watch yours, too. But if you are stupid enough to confront this clown, leave my name out of it. I don’t need him knowing I’m alive.”

Rafe wasn’t surprised by Harris’s lack of internal fortitude, but it grated on him nevertheless. “Come on, Phil, are you a cop or a glorified Girl Scout?”

“I’m a guy who knows his place in the world. And until somebody with more juice than me puts this stinker behind bars, I plan on doing my shift and keeping a low profile. I’d suggest you do the same.”

“Sorry, no can do.”

Harris shook his head in disgust and finally started the engine. “I don’t know what that lady means to you, but after what I saw, I’ve got a pretty good idea. And if you don’t start thinking with the brain in your head instead of the one in your pants, you’re gonna be knee-deep in trouble.”

Rafe supposed he had this coming, but it wasn’t like that at all. He was just doing his job.

“Doesn’t matter how many times you say it, Phil, I’m not going to change my mind. I don’t see any harm in having a nice, civil talk with the man.”

Harris huffed and put the cruiser in motion. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you, hotshot. Say hello to St. Peter for me.”

BACK AT THE STATION HOUSE, Rafe typed up an incident report on the shooting at the garage and dropped it off on Kate’s desk. It had taken considerable effort to concentrate on the task, his mind continuously drifting back to Lisa.

Had Phil been right?

Was he thinking with his libido?

The scene in Lisa’s living room kept replaying through his mind. Seeing her on that sofa with a sleeping child in her arms. Thinking how time had a way of expanding and contracting. How three years seemed like an eternity—and had been when you considered the changes they’d both been through. Yet as he had pulled her into that hug, it felt as if no more than a handful of minutes had passed since he’d last held her.

The feel of her body pressed against his had been so familiar, so comforting—so electric—that he’d had a hard time letting her go.

He thought about the dream he’d had. The one that continued to haunt him. Lisa holding him by the hand, urgently pulling him along a tree-lined trail toward a house near the water.

“Where are we going?” he had asked.

“I want to show you something. Something wonderful. Something glorious.”

She continued to pull him along.

“What?” he said. “What is it?”

She threw her head back, the air around them coming alive with the music of her laughter, a high, sweet trill that had always filled him with joy. “It’s a secret, silly. But you’ll find out soon enough.”

Before they reached that house, however, the house that held the secret, the sound of his alarm had jarred him awake. He had opened his eyes feeling cheated, the remnants of the dream swirling though his head, leaving him with a vague, undefined yearning in the middle of his chest.

In the middle of his heart.

It had been an effort to shake it off and go to work, but he’d done his best, never suspecting that he was about to walk right into that dream. To feel Lisa’s touch again, after accepting long ago that she was gone for good.

Was he some kind of psychic?

Was it fate that had brought them together again?

Rafe didn’t know or much care. It had been a shock, and a delight, and maybe Phil was right. Maybe he was letting his emotions, his desire, override his reason. But he had been trained to protect and serve, and who better to protect than someone he knew? Someone he had loved?

Oliver Sloan was a bad man—worse yet, a bad man with connections—but if Rafe didn’t confront him about Lisa, who would?

Rafe had seen Sloan’s type time and again, and he knew full well that unless someone called him on his behavior, it wouldn’t change. Unless Sloan was told, in no uncertain terms, to leave Lisa alone, he would be back, and the violence would escalate.

It always did.

So when Rafe finished his report and dropped it on Kate’s desk, he didn’t bother to shower, didn’t bother to change out of his uniform. He ran a quick address check, then went straight to the department garage and signed out a new patrol car.

Then he headed across town to talk to Oliver Sloan.

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