The Cop

Cara Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my fellow New York Princesses—

Sarah, Emma, Julie and Janet!

Let’s have another wicked adventure soon!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Prologue

AS THE FIRST RAYS of the rising sun began to color the sky, Cassandra Angelis hurried through her garden and prepared to look into the future. Her abilities as a seer often strengthened at the time when night surrendered to day. She was banking on that because she needed all her powers this weekend.

The certainty of that thought quickened her pace as she moved along the path. The ability to “see” had always run in her family. Her great-grandmother had claimed that the power could be traced back to Apollo’s priestess, the Oracle at Delphi, who had inhaled the scent of burning laurel leaves before she made her predictions. Cass couldn’t testify to that, but she burned laurel leaves once in a while, just in case.

For a month, she’d known that the days surrounding the full moon would be pivotal for her family. At midnight, she’d seen that her youngest nephew, Kit, would face danger and death, and if he chose to follow his heart, he would also find the woman the Fates intended him for. A damsel in distress—the perfect match for an Angelis who was both a private investigator and a writer.

The choice would be his, of course. But Cass knew that of her three nephews Kit would find it easiest to listen to his heart.

A sudden chill moved through her as she finally reached the pond. The Fates were going to offer someone else in her family crucial choices this weekend. She was sure of it. The only question was who?

Sinking down on a bench, she folded her hands on her lap and tried to clear her mind. Above her in one of the trees, a squirrel began to chatter. Protesting loudly, a startled bird soared into the sky. In the lull that followed, Cass focused her gaze on the smooth surface of the pond and waited.

Ever since she’d lost her husband, Demetrius, and her sister, Penelope, in a boating accident eighteen years ago, she’d always found a kind of peace whenever she sat near the pond, perhaps because she always felt closer to Demetrius here. He’d so loved the sea.

Sometimes, she even brought clients here. Still watching the surface of the water, Cass recalled the day when her Demetrius had decided to build the pond. “A Greek has to live near the water,” he’d declared. His brother Spiro had insisted on stocking the pond with fish. “A Greek has to have somewhere close to fish.”

She and Penelope had met Demetrius and Spiro in a sea coast village in Greece. She’d fallen in love with Demetrius at first glance, and it had been the same for Penelope and Spiro. Unable to turn their backs on what the Fates were offering, the two Angelis brothers had left their homeland for San Francisco. After Penelope and Demetrius had died, she and Spiro had moved back in with her father, and she’d raised her niece and three nephews right along with her own son, Dino.

They were all grown up now. Dino had already left the nest to join the navy. The youngest, her niece, Philly, had graduated from college in January, and eventually, they’d probably all move out of the house. Perhaps that was why she found herself feeling a bit lonely lately and missing that special connection she’d had with Demetrius.

A fish broke the surface of the water and sent ripples widening in all directions. Cass’s lips curved, and she sensed Demetrius’s presence as surely as if he’d sat down beside her on the bench. Almost immediately, her tension eased.

On the fading ripples, she began to see images. They were blurred at first, but at last she saw a woman’s face—fair skin, green eyes and red hair. Cass felt passion, temper and a courage that she could only admire.

The sound of a gunshot shattered the quiet, the noise so real that Cass jumped. More ripples blurred the picture she’d seen, and another one appeared. The redheaded woman was running and the man at her side was…

Cass leaned closer to the water, until she could finally recognize her nephew, Nik, who was a detective in the San Francisco Police Department. Another shot ripped through the silence and this time, water erupted so violently that it cascaded over the rocks lining the edge of the pond.

Cass’s stomach clenched in fear as she sensed the meaning in the images. For the next seventy-two hours Nik’s job would be to keep the woman at his side alive. And she wouldn’t be an easy woman to handle. Brave and impulsive, the redhead had a mind of her own.

From what she’d observed, Nik liked his women tall, blond and easy to manage. He satisfied his love of adventure on his job. The more Cass considered it, the more she thought that Nik needed a woman who would challenge him. Yes. Cass nodded to herself. The fiery redhead might do very well for her nephew.

Suddenly, the water in the pond turned red as blood. Greed, envy and death surrounded Nik and the woman on all sides. But Cass also felt passion, generosity and love. Would those be enough to protect Nik and the woman the Fates had chosen for him?

1

THE ANGRY SHOUTS began just as J.C. Riley was finessing the bride into the spun sugar gazebo on the top of the wedding cake. Startled by the raised voices, she dropped the figurine, then watched in horror as it ricocheted off a pink butter-cream rose and nose-dived to the floor.

Dammit! She’d spent five full minutes fashioning that rose. Not only was the flower ruined, but the little plastic bride now wore a pink veil. As she stooped to pick it up, the shouting grew louder and J.C. heard a loud thump. Years of experience growing up with four brothers told her that it was the sound of a body crashing into a wall.

A door slammed. More thumping followed, punctuated by muffled grunts.

Maybe she ought to think about rescuing the real bride. Striding to the door of the rectory dining room, she peered down the hall to the covered walkway that connected Father Mike’s residence to St. Peter’s Church. The door to the church sacristy was shut. Strange—it had been open when she’d brought the cake in from her van.

So far, the whole wedding had been strange. Father Mike had ordered cake and champagne for five people—the bride and groom, two witnesses and himself. That made it the smallest wedding that J.C. had catered at St. Peter’s, and the first one where she’d yet to meet either the bride or the groom. Father Mike hadn’t even given her their last names. He’d called them by their first names only once—Juliana and Paulo. Then he’d seemed upset that he’d let the names slip and had asked her not to mention them. A very secret wedding, he’d explained. If word got out, there could be…consequences.

Maybe that was what was going on now in the sacristy—consequences. She glanced back at the table she’d just finished arranging. The cake—now minus a rose and a bride—was in the center. An arrangement of white flowers flanked it on one side, along with linen napkins, crystal plates and silver forks. At the other end, candlelight flickered off of a silver bucket and champagne flutes. Scattered along the whole length of the table were little bowls of sugar-coated almonds.

Moving to them, J.C. popped an almond into her mouth. She’d made them, adding a chocolate layer just to please herself. She always got so hungry when she was nervous.

Thump. Crash.

None of her business. Besides, she had to get the plastic bride into the gazebo. She figured Father Mike had been talked into marrying a pair of minor celebrities. With all the reality and become-a-star TV shows, fifteen-minutes-of-fame people were popping up all over the place. Father Mike had become a minor celebrity himself. A few months back the Sunday paper had run a feature article on the hip priest who’d turned St. Peter’s into a very popular church for young people in the area who wanted to get married. Since then, St. Peter’s had become the “in” place to have your wedding—which was working out very well for her fledgling catering business.

Thump. Thump.

J.C. glanced at the door, then popped another almond into her mouth. The extreme secrecy of tonight’s wedding reminded her a bit of Romeo and Juliet. So did the continuing sounds of a fight in the sacristy. Hadn’t it been a stupid fight that had spun events out of control for Shakespeare’s lovers?

Thump. Crash.

Enough. J.C. strode through the door of the dining room and down the hall. Someone had to do something, and she had more than a little experience in breaking up fights. The sacristy was a small room, about the size of a boxing ring, but it was certainly not meant to be used that way. Most of the space in the room was taken up with cupboards, the largest of which stored Father Mike’s vestments. Whoever was rolling around in there on the floor ought to be ashamed of themselves. They were probably scaring the bride to death.

Stepping into the covered walkway, she picked up her pace. She’d caught a glimpse of the young bride and a woman who was probably her maid of honor when a taxi had dropped them off in the parking lot about ten minutes ago. Five minutes later, when she’d been unloading the champagne and the flutes, the groom had arrived with his driver. At least she figured the younger man was the groom and the big, burly man who’d driven the car was some kind of a chauffeur. But he’d looked more like a bodyguard.

If the happy couple were celebrities, J.C. hadn’t recognized them. Of course, they were young, and she didn’t think she was up-to-date on all the latest tween and teen idols.

The only one who’d seemed familiar was the man who’d arrived alone just moments ago. She’d figured him for the best man. He was tall and good-looking, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, and she was sure she’d seen him before.

She was halfway across the walkway that joined the rectory to the church when there was another thump and a cry. “Roman! No!”

A gunshot sounded. Another.

J.C. stopped in her tracks, her heart beating frantically in her throat.

“Get out of here! Now!” shouted another voice.

Two male voices. And the name Roman had jogged an elusive memory into place. The man who’d seemed familiar was Roman Oliver, whose family had been loyal supporters of her father during his last two campaigns for mayor of San Francisco. The Oliver family had also been in the news lately because of some big land deal they were competing for.

Was it Roman Oliver who’d just fired those shots? Where was the bride? And Father Mike? Grabbing her cell phone out of her pocket, she punched 911 as she raced toward the sacristy door.

“I’m at St. Peter’s Church near Skylar and Bellevue,” she said to the 911 operator. “There’s a wedding and a fight broke out. Somebody’s shooting a gun.”

Through one of the open windows that ran along the choir loft on the side of the church, she saw a man running. The bridegroom.

“Shots were fired?” the operator on the other end of the line asked.

Reaching the door, J.C. pushed through it and barely kept from tripping over a body.

“Yeah.” She recognized the man at her feet as the groom’s driver. He was lying in a pool of blood, and he had a large, nasty-looking gun in his hand. “There’s a body. I think he’s…dead.”

J.C. didn’t catch what the operator said in reply because of the buzzing that had begun in her ears. But she did recognize Father Mike’s voice coming from the altar.

“…a house of God. Put…gun away.”

Dragging her gaze away from the body, J.C. hurried around it and reached the doorway to the altar in time to see a man with his back to her point his gun at the priest.

“No,” she screamed. Then she did the only thing she could think of—she hurled her cell phone at the shooter.

After that everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. The cell phone hit the man in the head with a thwack. She saw a flash of fire, heard the explosion as the gun went off. Her ears rang as the priest fell, and the man with the gun ripped off his ski mask, pressing it against the back of his head, and turned toward her.

For an instant his eyes met hers, and all she could think of was a snake—the kind that hypnotized its prey before it struck. Then he smiled at her and raised his gun. In another second she was going to join the priest on the floor. The image galvanized J.C. into action. Whirling out of the doorway, she pressed her back to the wall. A bullet splintered her reflection in the mirror across the room. Another bullet sliced through the door frame inches from where she stood.

She had to run. But her feet might as well have been planted in concrete. The shooter’s definitely weren’t. Even above the wild beating of her heart, she heard his footsteps on the marble floor coming closer and closer.

She was going to die. That certainty streamed through her, heightening each one of her senses. She could smell the scent of the gunfire and blood, see the fractured image of the approaching shooter in the broken mirror, and she felt a door handle dig into her side. The cupboard. She tried to grip the handle, but her damp fingers slid off of it. Another shot was fired from farther away. The choir loft?

The footsteps coming toward her never faltered. Any second the shooter would step into the sacristy. The door to the walkway seemed miles away. Desperate, she gripped the handle again. This time it turned and she pressed herself backward, deep into the garments hanging in the cupboard.

Then J.C. Riley began to pray.

BY THE PRICKING of my thumbs something wicked this way comes.

“Dammit!” Nik Angelis braked at yet another red light. He, along with thousands of other San Franciscans, was inching his way toward the Golden Gate Bridge to escape the city for the weekend. But it wasn’t the slow-moving traffic he was cursing. It was the damn pricking in his thumbs. It was bad enough that the annoying little rhyme had been popping into his mind all day. It had started when he’d taken his morning run along Baker beach. Any day that began near the sea was a good day—when he wasn’t plagued by a hint of coming disaster. But now his thumbs had actually begun to hurt.

That sucked. This was his weekend off.

Taking his hands off the steering wheel, he flexed his fingers. The sensation didn’t go away. It never did simply because he wanted it to.

According to his aunt Cass, a well-known psychic in the San Francisco area, the prickling sensation he always got when something significant and usually bad was about to happen was simply an outward sign of the psychic ability he’d inherited from his mother’s side of the family. From the time he’d been a child, first his mother and then his aunt had encouraged him to nurture and develop it. Instead, he’d chosen to ignore it—as much as it was possible to do that.

It was only since he’d become a cop that he’d begun to value a talent that he suspected had saved his life on more than one occasion. Anything that warned of approaching disaster was something a cop had to appreciate. But he was off duty this weekend, and the only significant thing that he wanted to happen was to beat his brothers, Kit and Theo, to his family’s fishing cabin and get out in his sailboat. Oh, he’d fish, too, but his first love was to be out there on the water, capturing the wind and skimming over the waves.

Theo was already at the cabin, Nik had gotten the gloating phone call before he’d left the office. There was still a good chance that he could beat Kit there. His youngest brother was a P.I. and a writer. If he wasn’t tied up with surveillance, he could be hunched over his laptop determined to meet his next deadline.

Nik let out a frustrated breath as the traffic light ahead of him turned red. A love of the sea and fishing was big in the Angelis family. Their paternal grandfather had made his living as a fisherman in Greece, and Nik figured he’d inherited his love of sailing from his maternal great-grandfather, who’d made his fortune building boats in nearby Sausalito. Even though his father had become a restaurateur, Spiro Angelis still found the time to join his sons at the cabin as often as he could. But lately Spiro was always busy at the restaurant.

After eighteen years, there was a new woman in his father’s life. She was a five-star chef he had met on a recent visit to Greece and had invited to come to San Francisco to help him expand his restaurant. The result was that The Poseidon now offered fine dining on an upper level—and Spiro and Helena had somehow become rivals. Each time Helena added a new item to her menu, Spiro felt obligated to add something to his. His aunt Cass and his sister Philly thought that Spiro was in love with Helena and bungling it badly. So far, Nik and his brothers had stayed out of it, but drama was running high at the restaurant.

As he inched his car forward, Nik felt the pricking in his thumbs grow stronger. Not a good sign. He was Greek enough to know that he couldn’t escape what fate had in store and curious enough to wonder if his premonition would prove to be work-or family-related.

He thought of his partner, Dinah McCall. She was assigned to a stakeout this weekend—a drug dealer that they’d been watching for months. Because he was off duty, she was paired up with a rookie.

On impulse, he lifted his cell phone off his belt and punched in her number.

“If you’re calling to let me know that you’re sitting on the front porch of that cabin and opening your first beer, I’ll get even,” Dinah said. “You won’t know when it will happen—next month, a year from now. Or what it will be—tacks on your chair, salt in your coffee. Or perhaps, I’ll have a heart-to-heart with one of those blondes you’re always dating and tell them what a long string of other Malibu Barbie-types you’ve left in your wake. You’ll live in terror, not knowing when or how I will strike.”

Nik grinned. “Empty threats. I live in terror of you already. How’s the stakeout going?”

“Boring. I’m on my third crossword puzzle and my second bag of M&M’s. Luckily our relief should get here soon. And you’re calling because you don’t think I can handle myself without you.”

“Not true,” Nik insisted. And it wasn’t. In spite of the fact that she was barely five foot two and dressed like what his sister Philly would describe as a girly-girl, Dinah McCall was a smart and tough cop. “I’m just having one of my…feelings. So be careful.”

“You be careful, too,” she said, her tone suddenly serious. “Where are you calling from?”

“My car. I figure it’s going to take me another hour just to get across the bridge.”

“I’m hanging up. Do you happen to know how many accidents are caused every year by people talking on their cell phones? In some states, you could get a ticket for driving while talking on your cell. And if you got into an accident, you might mess up that pretty face of yours, and there would go one of my job perks.”

“Nag, nag, nag.” He glanced in his side-view mirror, then floored the gas pedal and cut off a taxi. The cab driver blasted his horn.

“Considering the way you drive, it’s a wonder your thumbs haven’t fallen off,” Dinah commented.

Nik laughed. “Watch your back, Dinah.”

“Same to you, partner.”

He shouldn’t have called her, Nik thought as he hooked the phone back on his belt. She’d worry about him now, but he’d wanted her forewarned. Dinah was the only person outside his family he’d ever told about his “gift,” and she’d been with him once when one of his little premonitions had saved both of their lives.

The problem was the premonition could very well be about his family. The last time his thumbs had pricked this insistently was the weekend his cousin Dino had announced that he was going to join the naval academy and see the world. It wasn’t a decision that Nik had particularly liked because he’d seen the sorrow that had come into his aunt Cass’s eyes. However, he’d supported Dino because he’d seen the same look in his father’s eyes when he’d announced he was going to enter the police academy.

His father had always nurtured the dream that one of his sons would follow in his footsteps in the restaurant business and take over The Poseidon one day, but it didn’t look like it would pan out that way. Kit had a thriving P.I. business and a promising new career as a crime fiction writer. Theo, the middle brother, was a rising star in the San Francisco legal community. And Nik had a hunch his kid sister Philly would be following in his aunt Cass’s footsteps since she seemed to have a special knack for communicating with animals.

The light changed to green and Nik inched his way through the intersection and down half a block before he had to stop. His patience, never his strong suit, wore even thinner. He was never going to get out of the city at this speed. Nik was sorely tempted to slap the light on the hood of his car and start the siren.

He was eyeing the string of cars to his left, waiting for an opportunity to cut in, when there was a blast of static from his radio.

“Attention all units. Two callers reporting shots fired at St. Peter’s Church on Skylar near Bellevue. At least one man seriously injured. Ambulances have been dispatched.”

The sensation in Nik’s thumbs sharpened and he felt adrenaline shoot through his system. This was it. He was sure of it. Bellevue and Skylar was only about ten blocks away. He grabbed the light and slapped it on the hood of his car. Then he picked up the handset. “Detective Nik Angelis. I’ll take it. I’m only a few blocks away.”

“Roger. I’ll send backup.”

Nik turned on the siren, executed a U-turn, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

2

ST. PETER’S CHURCH looked quiet enough when he pulled up to the corner of the intersection. No cars parked in front. No pedestrian traffic on the street. Since there was no sign of backup yet, Nik turned the corner and pulled into the parking area behind the church. Three vehicles were parked there. One was a black Mercedes sedan, another a white van with Have an Affair with J.C. scrawled across the side. It was the third one that had Nik frowning. He recognized both the car and the plate; it had been parked in the driveway of his aunt Cass’s house often enough. It belonged to his brother’s best friend, Roman Oliver.

He got out of his car, pulled out his gun and moved quickly toward a covered walkway connecting the rectory to the church. He should wait for backup to arrive, but the door to the church was open…and it was too damn quiet.

Nik spotted the body from the walkway. The tightening in his stomach eased the moment that he registered the man lying on the floor of the sacristy was too big to be Roman. Crouching, he stepped into the room and fanned his gun.

No one. The space was small and lined with cupboards. Shots had been fired all right. A mirror had been splintered and so had a doorjamb. The body at his feet was lying in a pool of blood. Keeping his gun aimed at the open door leading to the altar, he squatted down and checked for a pulse. None. The dead man was large, with the kind of build that required regular maintenance and custom-made suits. His tie was silk, his shoes expensive-looking. He was also holding a Glock in his right hand. Bodyguard or hired gun?

This wasn’t going to be the only body. Nik was certain of that. Sirens sounded in the distance as he rose and moved into the doorway that opened onto the altar. Once more he fanned his gun, taking in the choir loft that ran along both the sides and the back of the church.

Nothing. Then he moved toward the body of the priest that lay behind the altar. This time he found a pulse—weak but steady. From what he could see, the blood was coming from a shoulder wound. Pulling off his shirt, he ripped it in half, then fashioned a pressure bandage. He’d just satisfied himself that he’d slowed the bleeding when the priest’s hand closed over his wrist.

“Pro…tect.”

Nik leaned closer. “Don’t try to talk, Father. An ambulance is on the way.”

“Protect…them.”

The words carried only a thread of sound. “Protect who?”

“Bride,” the priest breathed, tightening his grip on Nik’s wrist. “Ju…liana Ol…iver.”

The pricking sensation in Nik’s thumbs grew very sharp. “And the groom?”

“Paulo…” the priest gasped. “Carlucci. Grave danger.”

Dread formed a cold hard ball in Nik’s gut. He recognized the names—and if there was ever a pair of star-crossed lovers, Juliana Oliver and Paulo Carlucci had to be it. If his memory served him correctly, Juliana was young, still in her teens, and Paulo couldn’t be much more than that. Nik couldn’t imagine how they’d even met. The Oliver and Carlucci families had a bitter rivalry that went back over fifty years, to a time when both families had ties to organized crime. Since then, both the Olivers and the Carluccis had become rich and influential by running legitimate businesses, but the rivalry was just as bitter as it had been three generations back. They refused to even appear in public together.

Of course, San Francisco was reaping great benefits. If the Carluccis donated a pediatric wing to a hospital, the Olivers, not to be outdone, would build a new aquarium. Recently, the feud had been freshly stoked by a lucrative land deal—a still pristine stretch of beach along the California coastline that both families had bid on. For the past week, the papers had been hinting that the Olivers had clinched the deal.

“Help…them.” The priest’s eyes drifted shut. “Choir…loft.”

“Hang on, Father,” Nik murmured.

A sudden noise from the sacristy behind him had him raising his gun and whirling. The uniform in the doorway had his gun raised, too. He was young, a rookie, Nik surmised. They’d each lowered their weapons by the time the young man’s partner appeared in the doorway.

Nik spoke to the young officer. “I want you to stand in the walkway and keep everyone but EMTs out.”

“There’s another squad car—they’re coming in through the front of the church,” the older officer said.

Nik gave him a nod. “Come here. I need you to put pressure on the wound until the EMTs arrive.” Once he had the officer in position, Nik rose and started off the altar. He paused when he spotted a cell phone lying on the marble floor a few feet away. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “When the crime-scene guys arrive, tell them to bag this cell phone.” Then he hurried down the aisle. Two more uniforms waited for him in the vestibule. One was kneeling over a man’s body. Nik tried to ignore the sensation in his thumbs as he noted the gun in the man’s hand and the twisted position of the body. Moving quickly, he squatted down and confirmed what he already knew. The man lying to the side of the circular staircase was Roman Oliver.

“Alive or dead?” Even as he asked the question, he rested his fingers lightly against Roman’s throat. Relief shot through him when he detected the pulse.

“He’s breathing, but unconscious,” one uniform replied. “No bullet wound. But his gun’s been fired. Looks like he took a bad tumble down the stairs.”

“Either that or he fell over the railing,” the other cop said.

Even as his mind raced, Nik managed a nod. Roman Oliver was the bride’s older brother and even though he usually kept his temper under control, Nik had seen it flare on occasion. The dread in his gut grew colder. Not only had Roman been Kit’s best friend since college, but he’d helped Theo out when he’d first opened his own law office. And six years ago, Roman had saved his sister Philly’s life. She’d wanted to take Nik’s sailboat out by herself. Roman, who’d been with them at the cabin that weekend, had been the only one to object, and he’d insisted on going with her. When the sudden squall had come up and the boat had capsized, Roman had gotten her to shore.

All the Angelises figured they owed him for that.

Pushing that thought aside, Nik forced himself to think like a cop. As the next in line to take over the Oliver business interests, he figured that Roman wouldn’t have been happy about his sister’s wedding. In fact, he might have done anything to prevent it.

Still crouched down, he glanced around the area. The space beneath and behind the circular staircase was shrouded in shadows, and it wasn’t until his gaze swept the area a second time that he spotted the purse lying beneath the first step. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out plastic gloves and slipped them on. Then he lifted the purse and dumped the contents out. Neat was his first thought. In his experience most women carried an enormous amount of junk around in their purses. This one contained only a cell phone, a wallet, a day planner, a lipstick and a pen. When he flipped open the wallet, he found the driver’s license in a clear plastic frame. His stomach clenched. Sadie Oliver, Roman’s other sister.

Searching his memory, Nik pulled up details. If he remembered correctly, Sadie was about four years Roman’s junior. He’d never met her, but there’d been a shot of all three of the Oliver siblings in the paper recently. Like her brother and sister, Sadie was tall, and she had long dark hair. She’d graduated from Harvard Law School recently and come home to work at Oliver Enterprises. So Sadie, Roman and Juliana had all been here in the church when the shooting had started. That wasn’t good.

After slipping the items back into the purse, Nik rose, and drew out his gun again. He had a very bad feeling about what he was going to find in the choir loft. Signaling to one cop to follow him, he spoke to the other officer. “Don’t let anyone else in except the EMTs. There’s a dead man in the sacristy and the priest’s been shot. Call the crime lab and tell them to get a team here ASAP.”

“Yes, sir,” the uniform said as he pulled out his cell.

At the top of the stairs, Nik stopped. The choir loft was empty but there was a closed door ten feet from where he was standing. He motioned the uniformed officer to one side and he took the other. As soon as they were both in position, he threw open the door and went in low, while his companion went in high.

The room was small, ten by ten, and it was empty. Except for the wedding bouquet—and the bloodstains on two walls.

J.C. WASN’T SURE how much longer she could stay hidden in the depths of the closet. Even as a child, she’d hated to wait for anything. Plus, she was absolutely starving. She always got ravenously hungry whenever she was nervous or scared. Surely the police should have arrived by now.

She thought she’d heard a siren, but that had been a while ago. And it could have been wishful thinking. She wasn’t even sure how long she’d been hiding. She’d tried to say a rosary—something she hadn’t done in years. How long had that taken? Five minutes? Ten? She wanted to check on Father Mike but she wouldn’t do him much good if Snake Eyes was still out there.

It was too dark to check her watch. If she could just hear something…Whatever the priest’s vestments were made of, they certainly blocked out sound. The police could be out there right now, and she wouldn’t know it.

What J.C. did know was that her fear of the snake-eyed man was gradually being replaced by her fear of being confined in a small space. And Father Mike’s closet gave new meaning to the word confined. She felt as if she were buried in robes and the incense lingering on them had grown cloying. Keep calm, she told herself. But she could feel her heart beating faster and faster.

As the urge to bolt began to grow, J.C. imagined Snake Eyes looking for her—searching the rectory, then returning to the sacristy. At any moment he could fling open the cupboard and start plowing through the garments. She was nothing more than a sitting duck.

Well, there was no sense in making it easy for him.

Slowly, she burrowed her way toward the front of the cupboard, holding her breath each time one vestment rubbed against another. When she reached the door, she discovered that in her rush to hide herself, she hadn’t closed it completely. Pressing her face to the narrow opening, she peered through it and fear bubbled through her again.

A man stood over the body of the dead man. He had his back to her, but she knew he wasn’t Snake Eyes. This man was taller, broader. Snake Eyes’s hair had been slicked back close to his head because of the ski mask. This man’s dark hair was dark, curly and unruly. But she could sense just as much danger emanating from him as she had from the killer.

He was wearing a tank top that fit snugly over nearly bronze-colored skin. As he began to move slowly around the dead man, she caught her first glimpse of his face and for a moment she stared, fascinated. He reminded her of the Greek gods she’d had to study in a required mythology class. Unlike most of her peers who’d complained noisily about the class, she’d been fascinated with the stories. This man reminded her of Adonis. Of course, Adonis hadn’t been a god—just the human lover of two very powerful goddesses, Persephone and Aphrodite, who’d fought over him constantly. She’d found the story intriguing, but personally, she’d yet to meet a man worth fighting another woman for.

J.C. gave herself a mental shake. This man might not be Snake Eyes, but he might very well be the man who’d fired those other shots she’d heard. He was certainly tough enough looking. His nose wasn’t quite straight, and taking in the sharp slash of cheekbone and the strong line of his jaw, she thought of a warrior—the kind of man who would lead armies into war…and win. This didn’t at all explain why she had the oddest urge to touch his face—to feel the planes and angles beneath her hands.

What was up with that, she thought with a frown. Warriors had never been her type.

But then when it came to men, she really hadn’t had much experience determining her type. The kind of men her dad and stepmom wanted her to date might as well be clones of each other, successful young metro males with the right kind of family backgrounds. She found them almost as boring as the temperamental prima donnas she’d met when she’d trained at the American Culinary Institute.

The man in front of her had circled the body so that he was standing with his back to her again, and she caught herself noticing the way his threadbare jeans molded his butt. Good Lord, she wanted to touch that, too.

Whoa! J.C. reined in her thoughts again. A vivid imagination had always plagued her as a child, but she’d never reacted in quite this physical a way to a man before. Just looking at him made her palms itch.

For the first time, she noticed the gun and her throat went dry. It was tucked into the waistband of his jeans, right above his exceptional-looking—

Stop it, she scolded herself. She could very well be looking at a killer. A ruthless, cold-blooded killer.

In that very instant, he whirled on her and she found herself looking down the barrel of a very big gun.

“Open the door slowly and keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t make me shoot you.”

3

“WHO IN THE HELL are you?” Nik asked as the tiny redhead stepped out of the cupboard.

“Who are you?” she countered.

“I’m a cop, so I get to ask the questions.” She was such a little pip-squeak that he couldn’t imagine that she’d played a part in the carnage in the church, but his thumbs had prickled again the moment he’d stepped back into the sacristy. And it didn’t sit well with him that it had taken him so long to sense her presence in that cupboard.

“Who are you?” he demanded a second time.

“I’m the caterer. Now it’s your turn.”

Nik narrowed his eyes. For a little bit of a thing she had guts. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed it, but the church was getting crowded. The EMTs were dealing with Father Mike and Roman. He’d arranged for both of them to be transported to the new St. Jude’s Trauma Center, and he’d sent the first crime-scene team to the choir loft because he’d wanted a few minutes alone with this body. He’d called his captain, and D.C. Parker would want a full report as soon as he disentangled himself from some big charity ball he was attending.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“You know, you don’t look like a cop. Those clothes are a bit casual even for a dress-down Friday. Do policemen even have casual-dress days?” She lowered one of her hands and held it out to him, palm up. “Show me some ID.”

Nik swept his gaze over her. “If you’re not going to tell me your name, maybe I’ll just call you Pipsqueak.”

It gave him some satisfaction when she narrowed her eyes and her foot began to tap. She couldn’t be more than five foot two, but her stance radiated enough attitude for a woman twice her size. She had her hair twisted up on her head, but a few red curls had escaped. Her ruffled front white shirt was tucked into black pants that showcased surprisingly long legs. His gaze lingered on them a moment before he shifted his attention back to her face. That was when he noticed the eyes. They were green and direct, and for a moment he saw nothing else.

“Well? How about it? You do carry ID, don’t you?”

Annoyance and something else moved through Nik as he forced himself to blink and break eye contact. Then he gave her his cop smile, the one his partner Dinah said looked like a sneer. “Dream on, Pipsqueak. Let me make this as clear as possible. I not only ask the questions, I give the orders. Turn around, put your hands flat against the door of the cupboard, and spread your legs.”

There was a beat before she did what he asked, and he couldn’t prevent the ripple of admiration that moved through him. He’d always been a bit of a sucker for a woman with guts. Nik was halfway through patting her down when he realized that he’d made a huge mistake. He had actually begun to enjoy the feel of those tight little muscles and soft curves beneath his palms. Dammit, he was a professional. This was a crime scene that needed his full attention.

The moment he straightened, she whirled to face him. In that second when their bodies brushed against each other, a blast of heat shot through him. What in hell—?

He took a quick step back, but he could tell by the way her green eyes darkened that she’d felt it, too.

“Who the hell are you?” he muttered, half to himself.

She lifted her chin. “I told you. I’m the caterer.”

“Detective Angelis?”

Nik recognized the voice of the young officer he’d left with Father Mike, but he kept his gaze on the redhead.

“Now, you know my name. What’s yours?”

“I’m J.C. Riley. I made the 911 call, and I want—”

He held up a hand to cut her off. “What is it, officer?”

“Sir, they’re about to take the priest away.”

Nik tucked his gun into the waistband of his jeans, then grasped the redhead around the waist, lifted and plunked her on the counter. “Stay put.”

Following the officer out to the altar, he saw that the EMTs had loaded the priest onto a stretcher and that two officers were taping the area where the body had been. Another two crime-scene investigators stood on the altar steps. So much for his desire to quietly walk through the crime scene and think before his captain arrived.

Nik addressed his question to the medics. “How is he?”

“Unconscious, but stable. The bleeding has stopped.”

That was good news. “And the man in the vestibule?”

“Still unconscious. They won’t know how seriously he’s injured until they run tests.”

“I saw who shot Father Mike.”

Nik whirled and nearly brushed right up against the redhead again. He scowled at her. “I told you to stay put.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you’re a cop, shouldn’t you be asking me some more questions? I certainly have some for you. Are the bride and the groom all right? I heard some shots from farther away—maybe from up in that choir loft. And what about Roman Oliver?”

Nik frowned. “What’s your connection to Roman Oliver?”

Before he could stop her, she slipped past him and nearly made it to the gurney the priest was on. Grabbing her arm firmly, he said, “Look, lady—”

“Is Roman Oliver dead, too?”

Nik clamped down on his temper. “No. He’ll be taken to the hospital. In the meantime, this is a crime scene, and since you think it’s my job to ask questions, try answering the one I just asked. What is your connection to Roman Oliver?”

“None. But I thought I recognized him. His picture’s been in the paper lately because of that big land deal. He came in the back way a short time after the groom arrived. At least, I assumed it was the groom. And someone used the name Roman while the fight was going on.”

“Fight?” Nik asked.

“Yeah. It was a doozey. I didn’t see it, but I could hear it from the dining room in the rectory. That’s where I was setting up the cake and the champagne. What about the bride and groom and the other woman, the blonde? Are they okay?”

Nik could feel his head beginning to spin. “The blonde?”

“She came in with the bride. She was carrying one of those big dress bags so I figured her for the maid of honor. I assumed the brunette was the bride because she was carrying the flowers and had a little crown of them on her head. Definitely bridal.”

“You’re sure that it was a blonde who came in with the bride?” The photo he’d seen of Sadie Oliver in the newspaper had been taken from a distance, but she’d had dark hair.

“I’m positive.”

“How tall was she?”

“Short. About my height. Are they all right? I think some of the shots came from the choir loft. Have you checked up there?”

When she tried to step past him again, Nik tightened his grip on her arm.

“I saw the groom running along the choir loft right after the first shots. Is he all right?”

Frowning, Nik pulled her into the sacristy. When the two crime-scene officers followed, he said, “When you’re finished with the body, see if you can find the bullets.” He gestured toward the shattered mirror and the splintered doorjamb. Then he glanced around and spotted a door that opened off the sacristy. It was small and narrow, its only purpose being to provide access to a staircase he assumed led to one of the lofts that edged the sides of the church.

But it had exactly what he was looking for. Slipping his handcuffs out of his back pocket, he fastened one of the bracelets around the redhead’s wrist and latched the other one around the pipe of the radiator in the stairwell.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Looks like I’ve done it, Pipsqueak.” So far, he hadn’t expected one move she’d made so it was giving him more than a little satisfaction to have surprised her.

She whirled, quick as lightning, and poked a finger into his chest. “This is police brutality. I’m going to report you to your superior.”

“You’ll have an opportunity to do that.” A hell of a lot sooner than he’d like, Nik thought. A quick glance at his watch told Nik that Captain D.C. Parker would be arriving soon, and he still wanted to walk through the scene.

“Better still, I’m going to scream.”

Did she ever shut up? He met her eyes, and for an instant he felt that same odd sense of awareness he’d experienced before. This close, her eyes reminded him of a swiftly moving stream, the kind that warned of rapids ahead, the kind a man could easily get sucked into and drown.

Suddenly, he was aware of just how close she was. One more step and their bodies would be in full contact again. One more step and he could…

No. Nik slammed the brakes on the direction his thoughts were taking. What in hell was happening to him? He was a cop, and she was a material witness to a crime that involved his brother’s best friend. That’s what he should be concentrating on.

It took more effort than he liked to take a step back instead of forward, but once in motion, he moved all the way to the doorway. That way he could keep his eye on what the officers were doing in the next room. Then he took out his cell and settled the little debate he’d been having with himself since he’d recognized Roman Oliver. He was going to break a rule and give his brother Kit a call. He needed a second set of eyes, and Roman needed someone on his side—at least until they sorted everything out.

IT WASN’T UNTIL Detective Angelis reached the doorway that J.C. finally allowed herself to breathe. The sudden influx of air burned her lungs. In a second or two her brain cells would start working again. She hoped. She watched the detective punch a number into his cell. It really wasn’t a good idea to look at him, but she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away.

“Hey, bro, this is Nik.”

Time for a reality check, Jude Catherine. This was Detective Nik Angelis. He was investigating a case. A case she was involved in. And someone had tried to kill her. She had worrisome things to occupy her mind. Still, it was hard to forget the effect that the man seemed to have on her senses. A moment ago when he’d been standing so close to her, he’d very nearly kissed her. If he had—

Just the thought of that possibility had heat pooling in her center. J.C. reminded herself to take another breath. She’d never in her whole life reacted this…this…viscerally to a man. And he hadn’t even kissed her. Yet.

She definitely had to get a grip. Nik Angelis was a stranger, and while he might be handsome, he was also annoying. He’d called her “Pips-queak,” for heaven’s sake! More importantly, there was a dead body not fifteen feet away in the next room. Father Mike and Roman Oliver were going to the hospital. And what about the others? Nik Angelis hadn’t answered any of her questions about them. Were they dead? Then there was the man with the snake eyes…

And to top it all off, she was starving. If only she’d thought to stuff some of those almonds in her pockets. Then she remembered the candles…

J.C. took two quick steps before the handcuffs brought her up short.

Nik glanced at her as he pocketed his phone. “You’re not going anywhere.”

She lifted her chin. “I left candles burning in the dining room. Someone ought to check on them. And could you ask them to bring me back something to eat?”

“This isn’t a restaurant and I’m not a waiter.”

“If you were, you wouldn’t make much in the way of tips with that attitude.”

The smile he flashed was completely and unexpectedly charming. “You’d be surprised, Pipsqueak.”

On second thought, she decided he’d probably make great tips. The man had the eye-candy thing going for him, plus a kind of animal magnetism. “Look, you’d better check on the candles if you don’t want the whole place to burn down.”

He moved to the door and signaled one of the officers. “Take someone with you and check out the rectory. There are some candles burning in the dining room.”

“And bring me some almonds,” J.C. called.

The officer glanced at Nik and he nodded. Then he leaned against the doorjamb and studied her for a moment. “Ms. Riley, let’s start from the beginning. Tell me what you’re doing here and what you saw.”

“I’m here because I was catering the wedding reception.”

That’s your van in the parking lot? ‘Have an Affair with J.C.?’”

“Yes. And you’re Detective Nik Angelis.”

“Of the San Francisco Police Department.”

There was a beat of silence, and J.C. found herself thinking that here they were—not even really on a first-name basis—and they’d very nearly kissed.

“Do you have any idea where the bride and groom are?”

“They’re not dead?”

“They’re not even in the church. Neither is the blonde you mentioned.”

“You’ve checked the choir loft?”

“Empty.”

J.C. pressed a hand to her stomach as relief streamed through her. Had she been worried all along about the possibility of more dead bodies? Was the fear and adrenaline rushing through her body the reason she’d become so obsessed with Nik Angelis?

“Did you see anyone else enter the church?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He pulled out a notebook. “When were you first contacted by the bride and groom?”

“I wasn’t. I don’t even know who they are.”

Nik stared at her. “You catered the wedding and you don’t know who the bride and groom are?”

“Father Mike was keeping it hush-hush. But he did drop the names, Juliana and Paulo. I thought they might be minor celebrities. Winners of Survivor or something like that.”

“So you didn’t know that they were Juliana Oliver and Paulo Carlucci?”

It was J.C.’s turn to stare as she let out a long low whistle.

“You do know them then?”

“Not personally. But I recognize the last names. Those two families are big business rivals, right?”

“Did the bride and groom arrive together?”

“No. I’d just brought the cake in when the two women arrived in a taxi. I told you before—I figured the young, dark-haired one for the bride, and the blonde for the maid of honor. Father Mike had told me to prepare cake and champagne for five—the bride and groom, the best man and maid of honor, and him.” She frowned. “He didn’t say anything about the bodyguard.”

“The bodyguard?”

“The dead man. He drove the groom here. You’ve got to admit he has the build. Of course, he might have been the best man.”

“When did Roman Oliver arrive?”

“Maybe five minutes later. I didn’t recognize him at first, not until the fight started and someone used his name.”

“Tell me about the fight.”

J.C. described the noises, and what she’d heard.

“When I heard the shots, I called 911 and ran across the walkway and into the sacristy. I nearly tripped over the big man’s body. Then I heard Father Mike’s voice from the altar and I got there just in time to see this man in a ski mask raise his gun.”

“He was wearing a ski mask?”

“Yes.”

“Then it wasn’t Roman Oliver who shot Father Mike?”

“No.”

Nik didn’t allow himself to feel relieved. Not yet. Roman could have brought help if he’d come here to stop the wedding. “Did you see Roman at all after you entered the sacristy?”

“No. All I saw were the dead man, Father Mike and the man who shot him.”

“So you’re in the doorway, you see the guy with the ski mask pointing a gun at Father Mike. What happened next?”

“I yelled at him to stop and I threw my cell phone at him. I got him, too, but I was too late to save Father Mike.”

“Maybe not. Father Mike took a bullet in the shoulder. I bet the shooter intended that bullet for his heart.”

“Oh.” J.C. let out a little sigh and felt her knees go suddenly weak. “Oooops,” she said as she slid down the wall to the floor.

Nik got to her in two quick strides and squatted down, taking her hands in his. “You all right?” She didn’t look all right. Her face had gone white. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?”

Her eyes sharpened then and her chin lifted. “I never faint. I grew up with four brothers. There’s not much I haven’t seen. It’s…just starting to sink in.”

“Sir, I’ve got the almonds.”

Nik gestured for them, and then handed the little silver bowl to J.C. When she’d finished a handful, he said, “So what happened after you hit the guy in the ski mask with your cell phone?”

“He whipped off the ski mask and pressed it against the back of his head. I must have hit him pretty hard. Then he turned and pointed his gun at me.”

Nik noticed that her knuckles had turned white where she was gripping the silver bowl.

“His eyes were like a snake’s. When I looked into them, I knew that he was going to kill me. So I ran and hid in the closet.”

Guts, Nik thought. She had them in spades. And she’d used a cell phone to try to stop a killer. “Back to the blonde. Tell me about her. What did she look like?”

J.C. thought for a minute while she ate another almond. “I didn’t see her face. She had her back to me the whole time she was walking into the church. But she’s short and slender, and she’s a girly-girl. Her suit was expensive and fashion-forward.”

“You could tell all that from a back view?”

“Sure.” She said it in the same tone that Sherlock Holmes might have used to say, “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“Do you know what happened next?”

J.C. shook her head. “Maybe Snake Eyes kidnapped them.”

“Maybe.” Nik didn’t like that scenario, but he couldn’t dismiss it. “I was close enough to get here within two or three minutes of your call to 911. Snake Eyes could have heard the siren and decided to bolt.” At least he hoped that was the way it had gone down. If that were true, then there was a chance that the mystery woman and the bridal couple had taken off on their own steam. “Tell me about Snake Eyes again. Everything that you can remember.”

She did, and when she got to the part where he was moving in on her and she was paralyzed, Nik gripped her hands again. He didn’t like the fact that she’d raced into the sacristy after hearing the first shots. That had been foolhardy. And admirable. She’d saved the priest’s life. Yet, she’d been scared to death. Hell, she was scared now just talking about it. He saw it in her eyes, felt it in the way she was squeezing his hands.

“I need more nuts,” she said with a shaky voice.

Nik had a different idea. It was against all the rules, but the desire to kiss her had been building inside of him since she’d stepped out of that damn cupboard. He’d tried to ignore it, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to anymore. He was the one in his family who’d had to struggle the hardest against a reckless streak. Kit was a dreamer and Theo was the intellectual, the politician. Becoming a cop had allowed him to channel his recklessness and his love of adventure and—he hoped—put it to good use. But he’d been thinking about kissing the redhead, and if he’d just get it out of his system then, maybe, his head would finally clear.

“Let’s try this instead.” He covered her mouth with his.

4

THE KISS WASN’T AT ALL what she’d been expecting. There were storms inside this man. She’d sensed them, seen them in his eyes, and she’d anticipated that his mouth would be hard, demanding, and that it would set off answering storms in her. Instead, he barely brushed his lips against hers.

J.C. moistened her lips with her tongue and tasted him. His flavor reminded her of something rich and forbidden. When she leaned closer for more, he released one of her hands and raised his to cup the back of her neck. Then he took his time, sampling, nipping, tracing the shape of her mouth with his tongue. A stream of thick, liquefying pleasure moved through her. His mouth was so soft, so warm. She could feel her blood heat, her muscles grow lax, her bones begin to melt.

When he drew away, she grabbed his shoulder with her free hand, absorbed the sensations of smooth, hot skin and hard muscle. “More.”

“I’m with you there, Pipsqueak,” Nik murmured as he leaned in again.

This time the kiss wasn’t quite so gentle. And she didn’t want it to be. His body was so lean and hard. And his hands—she could feel the pressure of each individual finger. But they weren’t where she wanted them to be. Still the storm she’d expected, was beginning to crave, was building.

More. The sound of the word, the tone she’d used became a drumbeat in Nik’s head. He’d intended to keep the kiss gentle, exploratory, but there was something inside of him that badly wanted to break free. When he nipped her bottom lip and heard her quick gasp, he very nearly released it.

On some level, he knew that he was losing his mind. Kissing a material witness to a murder when he should be walking the crime scene? He had to stop right now—but he didn’t. Shifting onto his knees, he drew her up to hers and pulled her closer until her body was molded to his, soft and yielding. Heat flared. Her fingers dug into his shoulder, and he took the kiss deeper, devouring her.

Each little response—her throaty moan, the movement of her tongue on his—fueled the fire that was growing within him. She was so responsive, so generous. Her flavors weren’t sweet. He’d been right about that. But he hadn’t expected the endless variety that he was discovering as he probed one recess after another. Her mouth was every bit as eager and demanding as his.

Her body trembled, and in one quick move that shuddered through his system, she wiggled onto his lap until her thighs straddled his. He heard his heartbeat raging in his chest as he plunged deeper still.

More, more, more.

Need clawed through him. Anything he asked, she would give him. He could feel his control slipping and he at last found the strength to pull back.

They were both gasping for breath, both trembling. Nik wanted nothing more than to grab her again and finish what he’d started. Her eyes were dark, misted with pleasure. Pleasure that he’d given her, pleasure that he wanted—no, needed—to give her again.

“What—?” The word came out on a breath, and she shook her head as if to clear it.

His reckless streak threatened to break loose again. He could have her. He could shut the door all the way, turn the lock and take her. It would be wild and crazy and…absolutely impossible.

Dammit. He had a job to do, and she was interfering. He eased her back onto her knees. When he rose, he didn’t like it at all that his own knees felt weak.

“Where are you going?”

Her voice was stronger now. He hoped that his would be, too. “It’s been fun, Pipsqueak, but I have to do my job.”

He walked out, pulling the door behind him and heard the thud of what he suspected was the little silver bowl as it made contact with the wood and plunked to the floor.

Nik almost grinned. Kissing J.C. Riley had been a mistake. Big-time. Instead of getting her out of his system, he’d embedded her in it—deep. He was going to have to figure out just what to do about that.

But first, he was going to do just what he’d said. His job. And number one on his list was bringing his captain up to date on what he knew or had surmised so far. He punched numbers into his phone as he strode back to the altar.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Nik and Kit were studying the taped outline where Roman Oliver’s body had lain only a short time before. Nik had known when he’d called his brother that Kit would come immediately, and it had helped him to talk to Kit and to view the evidence through a second set of eyes. A glance at his brother’s face told him that Kit was thinking the same thing that he was thinking.

There was no way around it. Roman was involved in what had gone on here. Sadie Oliver might be involved also. She hadn’t come with either Roman or her sister Juliana—J.C. would have spotted her if she had. She’d probably come in through the front entrance. Now she and the bride and groom were all missing, and her purse had been left behind.

The best scenario Nik could come up with so far was that Roman had gotten wind of the wedding and had come to the church to talk his sister out of it. Then he’d gotten into a fight with Paulo Carlucci, and had shot the man in the sacristy, hopefully in self-defense. Then he’d followed Paulo up the stairs into the choir loft, where they’d struggled again and Roman had fallen or been pushed down the stairs.

He didn’t have a theory about what part Sadie had played in all of this. But it wasn’t going to look good to his captain that she’d left the scene of a crime. When he’d first gotten the call, the dispatcher had mentioned two 911 calls. He’d be able to find out if one had come from Sadie.

He shifted his gaze to the choir loft overhead. Of course, once one started theorizing about the blood on the walls of that little storeroom and the presence of J.C. Riley’s Snake Eyes, the scenario got worse because it suggested that Kit’s best friend and the man who’d once saved his sister’s life had come here with murder in mind, and he’d brought some extra firepower with him.

Nik had a hunch that his captain was going to favor the latter scenario. Hell, he’d favor it himself if he didn’t know Roman.

He studied the frown on Kit’s face and knew that his brother’s mind was traveling along the same path.

There was going to be pressure to close the case as quickly as possible. No one wanted any violence to erupt between the Oliver and Carlucci families. Sure, they’d been legit for half a century now, but Mediterranean blood ran hot. He ought to know, being Greek.

The press, once they got wind of it, was going to have a field day. The secret wedding of the children of two rival families, murder and mayhem—not to mention the disappearance of the bridal couple—was fodder for the kind of media circus that would keep the twenty-four-hour news channels going for days.

“Mind if I take a look at that room upstairs?” Kit asked.

Reining his thoughts in, Nik sent his brother a frown. “Of course I mind.” But wasn’t that why he’d called Kit in the first place—to fill his brother in on the evidence? He didn’t want to believe that Roman Oliver was behind this any more than Kit did. More than that, he wanted to make sure that Roman had someone working on the case who was on his side. As a cop, he had to be objective, do his job. A P.I. had a lot more leeway. “When has that ever stopped you once you set your mind on something?”

“Never.”

Still scowling, Nik handed Kit a pair of shoe covers. “The room’s at the top of the stairs. Don’t get in the way of my people, and don’t touch a thing.”

“Thanks, bro. I’ll be careful.”

Just then, the front door of the church blew open behind them, and a voice boomed, “There you are, Detective Angelis.”

“Shit,” Nik muttered under his breath. “It’s the commissioner and my captain. Make it quick up there. There’s a second staircase from the loft that leads down to the sacristy. Use it when you leave.”

J.C. YANKED ON THE HANDCUFFS for about the tenth time. With each tug, she’d entertained the hope that she might be able to break free. Her Grandmother Riley had always told her to dream big. Evidently, getting out of police issue handcuffs was too big a dream.

Too bad Detective Angelis’s brother Kit hadn’t been carrying a spare key because he would have helped her. Although her conversation with him when he’d stumbled across her in the stairwell had been brief, she’d found Kit Angelis to be both kind and charming. She’d even accused him of being the “good cop” Nik had sent in to interrogate her. But unless she missed her guess, Kit Angelis had come to St. Peter’s with an agenda of his own.

And except for the pretty face and those incredibly blue eyes, she wouldn’t have guessed that the two men were even remotely related. When Nik Angelis had tapped the family gene pool, he’d passed on kindness and charm and loaded up on arrogance and rudeness instead.

Scowling at the radiator, J.C. vowed that she was going to make Detective Nik Angelis pay for his high-handed treatment of her. The little room he’d imprisoned her in was hot and stuffy. And he’d closed the door on her, so that the window air conditioner that had been fighting heroically to cool the sacristy couldn’t even reach her. At least Kit had propped the door open when he’d left. But so far the cooler air hadn’t made much progress into the room.

Worst of all, the handcuffs didn’t even allow her to pace her anger off. There was no way that she was going to let Nik Angelis get away with this. Even if he had kissed her into a puddle of lust.

Okay, that could be the true cause of her anger with the hunky detective, J.C. silently admitted. Or perhaps it was because he’d stopped kissing her and sauntered off to do his job as if he did that kind of kissing every day and it didn’t affect him in the least.

The problem was he’d simply destroyed her. Maybe had ruined her life. What if she never met another man who could make her feel that way?

Oh, God. She sat down on the radiator and dropped her head in her hands. The absolute worst of it was she wanted him to kiss her again. It didn’t even seem to matter that on some level, she hated his guts.

The fact that she’d reacted to him the way she had simply didn’t make sense. Unless it was due to an adrenaline rush. At the idea, her spirits perked up. Maybe that was it—because Nik Angelis was definitely not her type. He had a ton of qualities she didn’t like in a man. He was pushy and impossible. Just like her father.

Oh, she loved her father dearly, but he was an Olympic contender when it came to manipulation and getting his own way. Patrick Riley was a big, gruff bear of a man whose hero in life was Joe Kennedy, and like J.F.K.’s dad, he wanted to found a dynasty. His second marriage to Alicia Hensen, heiress and socialite, had brought an aura of prestige and money to his political aspirations, and now he wanted his children married and bearing children. And her stepmother, oddly enough, was cut from the same cloth. They gave lie to the theory that opposites attract.

Her current plan as far as her parents were concerned, was to fly under both of their radar screens by devoting all of her energy to building up the reputation of her catering business. “Have an Affair With J.C.” wasn’t the talk of San Francisco yet, but it would be. In the meantime, it kept her too busy to date the sophisticated, eligible and incredibly boring males her stepmother was volleying at her like so many tennis balls.

Her two older brothers had fallen in and they’d already produced two grandchildren each. Her younger brothers, the twins, were finishing at Annapolis and had been granted a reprieve. That meant that Patrick and Alicia Harwood Riley were focused on her. She’d managed to slip out of their sights for a year by attending culinary school in New York. But now that she was back in San Francisco, her only excuse was her work. The weddings she was catering thanks to Father Mike were little plums that fate had dropped right into her lap, especially because they occurred on the weekends—prime date time.

The thought of Father Mike had her stomach sinking, and once again she pictured those seconds that had seemed to happen in slow motion—the flash of fire and the deafening sound of the gun going off. She didn’t even know how serious Father Mike’s condition was. The least that Detective Nik Angelis could do would be to come back and fill her in.

Sensitivity was obviously another quality he’d missed when he’d dipped into the Angelis gene pool. She glanced down at her cuffs. He would have to come back to release her, and when he did, she would have a grip on herself.

Her adrenaline had settled. Reaching into her pocket, she took out a sugar-coated almond and popped it into her mouth. Once he’d released her from the handcuffs, she’d go her way and he’d go his.

J.C. frowned down at the handcuffs. Just as soon as she paid him back in spades.

“WHAT WE’VE GOT HERE is a time bomb,” Commissioner Galvin said. “Do you think any of it has leaked yet, Angelis?”

“Hard to say, sir.” Nik led the way up the aisle of the church. He’d already shown them the small room in the choir loft. “I’ve given orders to the officers, but the EMTs don’t work for the SFPD.”

“What’s your take, Parker?”

Nik’s boss, D.C. Parker, nodded in his direction. “I agree with Angelis. We’ve got two missing kids, a wounded priest and a dead man. And we’ve got Roman Oliver, the older brother of the bride-to-be who had plenty of motivation to put a stop to the wedding and who seems to be involved. We don’t know what role the older sister played, but the fact that she left doesn’t look good.”

“She left her purse behind,” Nik pointed out. “In my experience, a woman rarely does that. Maybe in her rush to help the bride and groom escape, she didn’t have time to retrieve it.”

“Nice theory, Detective,” Parker said. “And in that case, we’ll hear from her soon. Before the media gets hold of this and focuses on a more headline-grabbing explanation for her disappearance.”

“The media will turn this whole thing into a circus,” Galvin said. “We need to find the bride and groom fast.”

“I agree.” Nik had known that neither his captain nor the commissioner would be happy about the situation. D.C. Parker was a political player, but he was also a good cop. Commissioner Galvin, on the other hand, had his eye on advancement. The word was that he was using his position as a stepping stone to the mayor’s office and perhaps one day the governor’s job. “The priest said that someone wanted to kill the bride and groom.”

“But Roman Oliver is in the hospital. Shouldn’t they be safe?” Commissioner Galvin asked.

“We don’t know that Roman is behind this,” Nik noted.

“He’s our prime suspect,” Galvin pointed out.

“Perhaps, but there’s a lot we don’t know,” Nik said. “Even if Roman is behind it, that puts him at risk if the Carlucci family decides to retaliate. I sent two men with him in the ambulance. We’ll need to post men twenty-four-seven on both him and Father Mike.”

“Right. Good thinking,” Galvin said. “What about the other eyewitness—the caterer?”

“She’ll need protection, too, of course. The man who shot Father Mike knows that she can ID him. He took off his ski mask when she hit him with her cell phone.” Nik ushered the two men through the sacristy and into the small anteroom where he’d left J.C. She was seated on the radiator, and she shot him a look that nearly seared his skin.

Then her expression completely changed, and he watched in astonishment as she beamed a smile at the commissioner. “Uncle Chad? Is that you?”

“Jude Catherine? What are you doing here?” Commissioner Galvin moved forward and enveloped J.C. in a huge hug. When she tried to hug him back, her handcuffs clanged against the radiator pipe.

“What’s all this?” Galvin frowned down at the handcuffs and then turned to Nik. “Why is my godchild in handcuffs?”

“Yes, Detective Angelis, I’m wondering that myself,” Parker said.

“Mayor Riley is not going to be happy about this.” Galvin shot a look at Parker and then at Nik. “I’m not going to enjoy explaining to him that a detective on my force handcuffed his only daughter.”

Nik shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. Didn’t that just figure? The little redhead was the commissioner’s godchild and Mayor Riley’s daughter. That certainly explained her habit of ordering people around.

Parker muttered under his breath, “An explanation, Angelis.”

Before Nik could reply, J.C. answered, “He fastened me to the radiator to keep me safe while he concentrated on the crime scene. He said he didn’t want me mucking it up. He was only doing his job.”

“Oh.” Galvin turned his attention back to J.C. “But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

Nik simply stared at her. She’d just done her best to save his skin. He couldn’t identify the emotions surging through him as he watched her straighten her shoulders and lift her chin.

“I’m the caterer. I’ve been running my own business for almost a year now, Uncle Chad.”

“Your father has never mentioned it,” Galvin said.

“No—”

“Wait,” Galvin interrupted and turned to Nik. “Are you telling me this is the caterer who can identify the man who shot the priest?”

“The one and only,” Nik said.

“She’ll need protection,” Galvin instructed Parker. “I want you to put your best man on her twenty-four-seven. That’s what her father will demand when I talk to him.”

“You’re looking at my best man.” Parker jerked his head toward Nik.

“Him?” Galvin and J.C. spoke in unison.

“The one and only,” Parker replied.

Galvin looked Nik up and down. Then he slowly smiled. “Well, I guess if he managed to handcuff her to a radiator, he can handle her.”

Nik met Parker’s eyes. “Sir, this is my case. And you want me to babysit her?”

“You’ve got your assignment, Angelis. I’ll handle the case personally. Your job is to stick to Ms. Riley like glue until we can wrap this up.”

Shit, Nike thought as he looked at J.C. And if he read her expression right, she was thinking the same thing. This was not only the case of the century, it was one that involved someone close to his family—and he had to babysit the mayor’s daughter.

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