Читать онлайн книгу «Private S.W.A.T. Takeover» автора Julie Miller

Private S.W.A.T. Takeover
Julie Miller
In his custody and in his arms. . .Liza was nobody special ; until she witnessed a high-profile murder. Only traumatic amnesia kept her from remembering the killer's identity. Holden Kincaid was KCPD's number one sharpshooter, and he was desperate for answers regarding his father's death.Yet he was denied access to witness Liza. . . until the security of her whereabouts was compromised. Taking Liza into his very personal custody would definitely keep her safe ; but now devastatingly handsome Holden's heart is on the line!


“I’m not supposed to like you, Kincaid,” she whispered against his collar. “I’m not supposed to even know you.”
“I know.”

Liza’s fresh, angelic face, momentarily free of attitude or suspicion, was smiling.

Those peachy lips were parted in anticipation, and, like a hungry man, Holden couldn’t resist. He leaned in, brushed his lips against hers. Her taste was sweeter than he’d imagined.

The scrape of metal on metal jarred Holden from the unexpected pleasure of that kiss, reminding him that nothing could come of it—that he was only guaranteeing trouble for them both if something did…

Available in September 2009 from Mills & Boon® Intrigue
The Sheriff’s Amnesiac Bride by Linda Conrad & Soldier’s Secret Child by Caridad Piñeiro
Her Best Friend’s Husband by Justine Davis & The Beast Within by Lisa Renee Jones
Questioning the Heiress by Delores Fossen & Daredevil’s Run by Kathleen Creighton
The Mystery Man of Whitehorse by BJ Daniels
Unbound by Lori Devoti
Private S.W.A.T Takeover by Julie Miller
Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.”
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.

PRIVATE S.W.A.T. TAKEOVER
BY
JULIE MILLER





MILLS & BOON

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
For the Greyhound Museum in Atchison, Kansas. What a pleasure to meet “The Talented Mr Ripley,” a retired champion greyhound, and his two female companions, who greeted us at the door, kept us company as we toured the facility and insisted that we pet them.
Thanks to the friendly docents and dog owners who made the visit an unexpected yet marvellous addition to last summer’s vacation. And thank you to every person with a kind heart and a conscience who rescues unwanted, discarded and neglected animals and gives them a loving home.

Prologue
April
“…’Tis I’ll be here in sunlight or in shadow. Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy…”
Officer Holden Kincaid had learned three things from his father—how to sing like an Irish tenor, how to shoot straight and how to be a man.
He’d never learned how he was supposed to deal with losing the father he idolized to two bullets. He’d never learned how he was supposed to help his mother stop weeping those silent tears that twisted him inside out. He’d never learned why good men had to die while bastards like the ones who’d kidnapped, beaten and murdered Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid could cozy up someplace safe and warm while Holden buried his father in the cold, hard ground.
The lyrics flowed, surprisingly rich and full from his throat and chest, while he sought out his fractured family. Thank God his brother, Atticus, was here to sit with their mother and hold her up throughout this long, arduous day. Though he was the hardest one to shake of all the Kincaids, Atticus was hurting, too. Holden noted the way his unflappable older brother sat, with his hand over his badge and heart, revealing a chink in his stoic armor.
He looked farther back and spotted Sawyer standing just outside the tent, getting soaked. The tallest of all the Kincaid brothers, Sawyer might be hanging back so as not to block anyone’s view of the graveside ceremony. Judging by the way he kept shifting from foot to foot, though, it was more likely he was scanning the crowd of mourners, sizing everyone up as a potential suspect. Holden could understand that. He was about to crawl out of his own skin because he was so antsy to do something about the injustice of their father’s murder.
But Susan Kincaid had asked him to sing. Had asked him to honor his father with John Kincaid’s favorite song. He’d suck up his own grief and anger, and do whatever he had to do to bring their mother some measure of peace and comfort.
Speaking of comfort, where the hell was Edward? Holden’s oldest brother should be here, too, no matter what the reclusive master detective was dealing with. Yeah, he knew that there were a couple of heartwrenching reasons why Mount Washington Cemetery was the last place Edward might want to be. But after losing the husband she’d loved for more than thirty-seven years, all her sons gathered around her might be the one thing that could bring a smile back to their mother’s face. For her sake, if not his own, Edward Kincaid needed to be with the family.
Holden finished the song, as quietly as a prayer, and blinking away his own tears as he pulled his KCPD hat from beneath his arm and placed it over his light brown hair, he turned to the flag-draped casket to salute his father. The steady drumbeat of rain on the green awning over the burial site punctuated the ensuing silence like a death knell. Holden didn’t even remember moving, but next thing he knew, he was seated beside his mother, warming her chilled fingers in his grasp. The Commissioner of Police completed the eulogy and the twentyone gun salute resonated through every bone in his body.
And then it was done.
Or was it all just beginning?
“Holden?” Atticus asked him to take his place at their mother’s side. Instead of telling him the reason, he nodded toward a copse of trees about thirty yards up the sloping hill.
Son of a gun. Edward had shown up, after all. He wasn’t wearing his KCPD dress uniform like the rest of them, but even from this distance Holden could tell he’d cleaned up, and, hopefully, sobered up to pay his respects to their father.
Holden was twenty-eight years old and he still had the urge to charge up that hill and swallow Edward up in a bear hug. But he’d let wiser heads prevail. Namely, Atticus. Charging and hugging would probably send Ed running in the opposite direction just as fast as his cane and gimpy leg would allow.
With his extensive training in Special Weapons and Tactics, Holden understood that teamwork usually got the job done better than any one man’s heroic gesture. Tamping down his own desire to take action, Holden slid into the role required of him on this particular mission. He drew his mother’s hand into the crook of his arm. “I’ll stick with her.”
As Atticus picked up an umbrella and went to talk with Edward, Susan Kincaid’s grip shifted. “You did a beautiful job, sweetie.”
“Glad to do it, Mom. I know Dad loved that song. He taught it to me on one of our camping trips. Scared all the fish away with our singing. All the brothers, too.”
He heard a bit of a laugh. Good. Maybe not.
He easily supported her weight as she wrapped her arm more tightly through his and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. As he looked down at the crown of her dark brown hair, he noticed gray sprinkled through the rich sable color. Hell. He hadn’t noticed those before. He’d bet good money the sudden sign of aging hadn’t been there a week ago when he’d stopped over for a family dinner—while his father had still been alive.
An unexpected rage at the collateral damage the senseless murder had spawned exploded through every cell in his body. John Kincaid’s killer hadn’t just stolen his life. The killer had left a big hole in the leadership of the Kansas City Police Department, and an even bigger hole in the hearts of the Kincaid family.
Somebody had to pay for all that.
But with the same kind of deep breath that iced his nerves before he pulled the trigger to shoot, Holden buried his anger. Instead of lashing out, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the crown of Susan’s hair. “I love you, Mom.”
She hugged the triangular folded flag tight to her chest and nodded, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve. The sniffle he heard was the only indicator of sadness she revealed. Her brown eyes were bright and shining when she looked up at him and shared a serene smile. “I love you, too, sweetie.” Then she settled in at his side, holding her chin up at a proud angle his father would have admired. “Walk me to the car?”
“You bet.”
They were all the way down to the road when a man in an expensive black suit stopped them. “Su?”
“Bill.”
Holden adjusted the umbrella to keep his mother covered as William Caldwell, his father’s best friend since their fraternity days at college, bent down to exchange a hug. The laugh lines alongside his mouth had deepened into grooves, emphasizing his silvering hair and indicating another casualty of John Kincaid’s death.
“Holden.” As Bill pulled away, he reached for Holden’s hand. “I can’t tell either of you how sad, and how angry, this makes me.” Releasing them both, he straightened his own black umbrella over his head. “I’m making a sizable donation to the KCPD Benevolence Fund in John’s name, but if there’s anything more personal I can do…anything…ever….”
Bill Caldwell ran his multinational technology company as smoothly as he’d told B.S. stories around the campfire on the many hunting and fishing trips he’d taken with the Kincaids over the years. But today he seemed to be at a loss for words.
Susan squeezed his hand, rescuing him from his overwhelming emotions. “Come to the house, Bill. We’re having an informal potluck dinner. Nothing fancy. I just want to be surrounded by everyone who loved John. I want to celebrate what a good, wonderful man he was.”
Bill squeezed back and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be there.”
Holden settled his mother into the back of the black limousine they’d ridden in to the cemetery. After tucking a blanket over her damp legs and finding a box of tissues to set beside her, he closed the door and circled the long vehicle to greet Atticus as he walked up the asphalt road. Alone.
Holden’s temper flared again. “Where the hell is Edward?” His long strides took him away from the limo. “You went to talk to him. What did he say?”
As usual, Atticus didn’t ruffle. “I talked to him. As tough as this is on us, you have to know it’s probably harder for him to be here. His wife and daughter aren’t that far from where—”
“I know he’s hurting,” Holden snapped. “But Mom wants to see him. He can’t be such a selfish son of a bitch that he’d cause her pain, can he?”
“Get off your high horse. Sawyer’s with him—bringing him around to avoid the crowd. Ed won’t let Mom down.”
“You don’t have to defend me, Atticus.” Edward and Sawyer walked out of the woods to the limo. “Got your boxers in a knot, baby brother?”
The rain whipped his face as Holden spun around. Edward’s dark hair and beard had been trimmed short—a vast improvement over the shaggy caveman look he’d sported a couple of weeks ago the last time Holden had dropped by his place to try to annoy him out of his drunken grief. Yet there was something dark and sad about his pale gray eyes that wiped away Holden’s temper.
He noted the scar cutting through Edward’s beard, and the way he seemed to lean heavily on his cane as he approached. Edward had been through more than any man should have to endure, and Holden was immediately contrite about any doubts he’d had about his oldest brother’s loyalty to the family.
“Hell.” It wasn’t much to offer in the way of sympathy, but Holden walked the distance between them and wrapped Edward up in a tight hug. “I miss you.”
At first, Edward’s shoulders stiffened at the contact. Then one arm closed around Holden’s back and squeezed with a familiar strength. But just as quickly as the bond was affirmed, Ed was pushing him away. “Get off me, kid.” He inclined his head toward the limo. “Is Mom inside?”
“Yeah.”
Edward swiped the rain from his face and looked at Holden, then beyond to Sawyer and Atticus. The four brothers hadn’t been united like this for a long time. But the unspoken sentiment between them felt as strong as ever. “This ain’t right.”
After Edward climbed into the backseat for a few minutes alone with their mother, Holden closed the door and straightened, standing guard to ensure their privacy. Sawyer rested his forearms on the roof of the limo on the opposite side, looking first to Atticus beside him, and then across the top to Holden. “We’re gonna get whoever did this, right?”
“Right,” Atticus said before turning away to scan the departing crowd and keep everyone else away from the private family meeting.
Holden took the same vow. “Amen.”

Chapter One
October
Oh God. In her sleep, Liza Parrish rolled over and tried to wake herself up. It was happening again. And she couldn’t stop it.
“Shh, baby. Shush.”
Liza closed her hand around the dog’s muzzle and hunched down closer beside him in his hiding spot in the shadowy alley. The fact that he didn’t protest the silencing touch was evidence of just how close to starvation this furry bag of skin and bones was.
He was lucky she’d come here after classes and work tonight, following up on a call to the shelter about an emaciated stray wandering the dock area that neither the county’s Animal Control Unit nor the Humane Society had been able to catch. She’d get him back to the vet’s office where she was interning—feed him a little bit of food and water, run some tests to make sure he wasn’t infected with heartworm or some other debilitating disease, give him some love and a bath, and maybe just save his life.
But who was going to save her?
She hoped the dog was the only one who could hear her heart thumping over the whoosh of the Missouri River, surging past only a few yards away.
Trying to calm herself so the dog wouldn’t panic and give away their position, Liza blinked the dampness of the foggy night from her eyelashes. If only she could blink away the stench of wet dog and old garbage just as easily. If only she could blink herself to safety.
Her leg muscles were beginning to cramp in protest against just how long she’d been curled up with the knee-high terrier mix, hiding behind the trash cans and plastic bags that smelled as if they could have been left in this alley off the river docks ever since the warehouses on either side had closed. She was tired, aching, chilled to the bone—and scared out of her mind.
But she wasn’t about to move.
Hearing two gun shots from the other side of the brick wall she huddled against did that to a woman.
Watching the two men waiting in the black car parked only ten, maybe twenty feet from her hiding space also kept her rooted to the spot. Her jeans were soaking up whatever oily grime filled the puddle where she crouched. The only warmth she could generate were the hot tears stinging her eyes and trickling down her cheeks.
Was this what it had been like for her parents and for Shasta? Endlessly waiting for death to find her. Fighting back the terror that churned her stomach into an acid bath. Driving herself crazy trying to decide whether, if she was discovered, it was smarter to fight or run for her life.
She felt her parents’ terror. Felt her pet’s confusion as he valiantly tried to protect them. Felt their senseless loss all over again.
Two gunshots.
Death.
And she had a ringside seat.
The dog squirmed in her arms and Liza absently began to stroke his belly, feeling each and every rib. “Shh, baby.” She mouthed the words. She wasn’t the only witness to this crime.
Eyewitness.
Almost of their own volition—maybe it was a subconscious survival streak kicking in—her eyes began to take note of the details around her.
Black car. Big model. Missouri plate B? Or was that an 8? Oh hell. She couldn’t make out the number without moving.
But she could see the men inside. She had a clear look at the driver, at least. He was a muscular albino man, with hair as shockingly white as the tattoos twining around his arms and neck were boldly colored. In the passenger seat beside him sat a black man. He was so tall that his face was hidden by the shadows near the roof of the car’s interior. She could tell he was built like a lineman because he was having a devil of a time finding room enough to maneuver himself into his suit jacket.
The size of the black man was frightening enough, but the albino looked crazy scary, like he’d beat the crap out of anyone who stared crosswise at him.
She was staring now. Stop it!
Liza closed her eyes and turned away. She could note any damn detail she wanted, but if those crazy colorless eyes spotted her, she was certain there’d be no chance to tell anyone what she’d seen.
The gunshots had rent the air only a couple of minutes ago, but it felt like hours had passed before she heard the next sound. The sticky, raspy grind of metal on metal as someone opened the front door of the warehouse and closed it with an ominous clank behind him. At the sharp bite of heels against the pavement, she opened her eyes again. The black man was getting out of the car with an umbrella, opening the back door.
“No, Liza. Don’t look.” It was almost as if she could hear her mother’s voice inside her head, warning her to turn away from the eyes of a killer. “It’ll hurt too much.”
“But I need to see,” she argued, feeling the tears welling up and clogging her sinuses again. “It’s the only way I’ll be free of this nightmare.”
“Don’t look, sweetie. Don’t look.”
“I have to.”
Liza squinted hard, catching sight of the back of a pinstriped suit climbing into the backseat of the car.
“No!” She threw her head back. She’d missed him. She hadn’t seen the man who’d fired the gunshots.
The next several minutes passed by in a timeless blur. The car drove away. She’d seen fogged up windows, and a face through the glass. But it had been too vague. Too fast.
She didn’t know what the third man looked like.
As she had dreamed so many times before, what happened next was as unclear as the mist off the river that filled the air. But Liza was inside the warehouse now, cradling the weightless black and tan dog in her arms, creeping through the shadows.
If there were gunshots, if there were killers, then there must be….
“Oh, my God.”
Liza had no free hand to stifle her shock or the pitying sob that followed.
In the circle of harsh lamplight cast by the bare bulb hanging over the abandoned office door was a man. Lying in a spreading pool of blood beside an overturned chair, his broken, bruised body had been laid out in a mock expression of reverence. His twisted fingers were folded over his stomach. The jogging suit he wore had been zipped to the neck, and the sleeve had been used to wipe the blood from his face.
“Stay with me, baby.” She set the dog on the floor, keeping one foot on the leash she’d looped around his neck in case he should find the energy to try to run from her again. Although she was in grad school learning how to treat animals, not humans, she knelt beside the man’s carefully arranged body and placed two shaking fingers to the side of his neck. She already knew he was dead.
“Remember.” Liza heard the voice inside her head. Not her own. Not her mother’s. “Remember.”
“I’m trying.”
Barely able to see through her tears, Liza pulled her cell phone from her pocket and turned it on. She punched in 9-1-1. “I need to report a murder.”
“Remember.”
“Shut up.” She tried to silence the voice in her head. She wasn’t on the phone anymore. She was kneeling beside the body, reaching out to him.
The dead man’s eyes popped open.
Liza screamed. She tried to scoot away. “No!”
His bloody hand caught hers in an ice-cold grip and he jerked his face right up to hers. “Remember!”
“No-o-o!” Liza’s own screams woke her from her nightmare. She thrashed her way up to a sitting position. Panting hard, she was barely able to catch her breath. And though she felt the haunting chill of her cursed dreams deep in her soul, she was burning up.
“What the hell? What…”
She became aware of wiping her hands frantically, and then she stilled.
On the very next breath she snatched up the pen and notepad from her bedside table, just as she had been trained to do. Write down every detail she remembered from her dream before the memories eluded her. Dead body. Cold hand.
“Remember,” she pleaded aloud. Before the body. There were gunshots. She put pen to paper. “Dead man. Two shots.” And…and…
Blank.
“Damn it!” Liza hurled the pen and pad across the room into a darkness as lonely and pervasive as the shadows locked up inside her mind.
A low-pitched woof and a damp nuzzle against her hand reminded her she wasn’t alone. She was home. She was safe. She flipped on the lamp beside her bed and with the light, her senses returned.
Three sets of eyes stared at her.
She could almost smile. Almost. “Sorry, gang.”
The warm, wet touch on her fingers was a dog’s nose. She quickly scooped the black and tan terrier mix into her lap and hugged him, scratching his flanks as she rocked back and forth. Liza couldn’t feel a single rib on him now. “Good boy, Bruiser. Thanks for taking care of Mama. I’m sorry she scared you.”
Not for the first time Liza wondered if the scrappy little survivor remembered that night more clearly than her own fog of a memory allowed her to. She traced the soft white stripe at the top of his head. “I wish you could tell me what we saw. Then we could make this all go away.”
But she and her little guardian weren’t alone. The nightmare might have chilled her on the inside, but her legs were toasty warm, caught beneath a couple of quilts and the lazy sprawl of her fawn-colored greyhound, Cruiser. “So I woke you, too, huh?”
Cruiser outweighed Bruiser by a good sixty pounds, and could easily outrun him, but a guard dog she was not. She was the cuddler, the comforter, the pretty princess who preferred to offer the warmth of her body rather than her concern. Liza reached down and stroked the dog’s sleek, muscular belly as she rolled onto her back. “I know you’re worried, too, deep down inside. I wish I could be as serene and content as you.”
And then, of course, there was the furry monster by the door. Yukon’s dark eyes reflected the light with something like contempt at the disruption of his sleep. Despite weeks of training and all the patience she could muster, the silvery gray malamute had yet to warm up to her. No amount of coaxing, not even a treat, could lure him to join her in bed with the other dogs. He didn’t even mooch when she cooked in the kitchen. Yukon tolerated the rest of the household. He accepted the food and shelter she offered and ran or roller-bladed with her anytime she asked. She always got the feeling that he was looking for a chance to escape—to run and keep on running away from the prison he temporarily called home. No way was Yukon ever going to thank her for rescuing him from being euthanized by an owner who couldn’t handle such a big, athletic dog. No way did he care that she’d been scared, trapped in a nightmare she’d relived time and again these past six months. No way was he going to offer one bit of his strength to make her feel any better. She spotted the crumpled notepad lying just a few feet away from him against the wall. “Nothing personal, big guy,” she said. “Sorry I woke you.”
Liza checked the clock. Four a.m. She’d worked the late shift at the vet clinic and had her applied microbiology review in another four hours. She should try to get some more sleep.
But she was wide awake in the middle of the night. She had no family to call, no arms to turn to for comfort. She was isolated by the very nightmare she desperately needed to share with someone who could help her complete the memories and then get them out of her head. But the KCPD and a restraining order from the D.A.’s office—to keep her identity out of the press—prevented her from talking to anyone but the police and her therapist about the gruesome crime she’d witnessed. She was alone, with no one but her three dogs for company.
She glanced over at Yukon, who was resting his muzzle on his outstretched paws again. He understood isolation. “But you like it better than I do, big guy.”
With sleep out of the question and class still hours away, Liza shoved Cruiser aside and kicked off the covers. “Move it, princess.”
Knowing she’d have extra fur and body heat to keep her warm, Liza kept the house cool at night. The October chill that hung in the air shivered across her skin as her bare feet touched the wood floor beside her bed. Instead of complaining, she let the coolness rouse her even further. After a few deep breaths, she stepped into her slippers and pulled on her robe as she walked past Yukon and headed for the kitchen.
The usual parade followed, with Bruiser right on her heels and Cruiser padding behind at a more leisurely pace. Yukon deigned to rise and come out of the bedroom, only to lie down outside the kitchen doorway. Liza brewed a pot of green tea, ignored her fatigue and pulled out her pharmacology text. She read her next assignment until the first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains above the kitchen sink.
It was 7 a.m. Late enough to politely make the call she’d been ready to make since the nightmare woke her.
The male voice on the other end of the line cleared the sleep from his throat before answering. “This is Dr. Jameson.”
Great. She’d still gotten him out of bed. Now her therapist would think she’d had some kind of breakthrough. But all she had was the same familiar nightmare she wished would go away.
Combing her fingers through the boyish wisps of her copper-red hair, Liza apologized. “I’m sorry to wake you, Doctor. This is Liza Parrish. I think I’m…” She swallowed the hesitation. There was no thinking about this. Just say it and get on with it, already. “I want to try the hypnotherapy you suggested. I need to get the memory of that cop’s murder out of my head.”
“CAN SHE TELL ME ANYTHING NEW or not?” The burly blond detective named Kevin Grove addressed the question across his desk to Dr. Trent Jameson rather than to her.
The gray-haired psychologist answered for her as well. “Possibly. Though she seems to be juxtaposing her parents’ deaths with your crime scene, there were certainly a few more details in the account she shared with me this morning. She’s certain there were two gunshots now. And that the victim’s body had been arranged in a way that indicates the killer—or someone who was on the scene with the killer—cared about him.”
“Uh-huh.” Grove frowned, looking as skeptical as Liza felt.
Dr. Jameson continued. “I realize those are clues your forensic team can piece together as well. But I tell you, the clarity of her memory is improving. I believe we’ve reached the point where I can put her under and guide her memories toward a particular fact.”
“You can do that? You can pick a specific memory out of her head?” Grove asked.
“It’s a new technique I’ve been working on for several months with some success.” Jameson blew out a long sigh, as though defending his expertise was a tedious subject. “I believe questioning Liza while she’s in a suggestive state could tap into those memories she’s either blocked or forgotten.”
“You want to hypnotize her here.” Detective Grove still wasn’t up to speed on the idea of hypnotherapy. Or else, that doubt in his tone meant he understood just fine what Dr. Jameson was proposing—he just didn’t think it was a worthwhile idea.
Liza squirmed in her chair. Surrendering her thoughts and memories to a professional therapist was risky enough. To do it in front of an audience felt a whole lot like standing up on a firing range and letting the entire world take a potshot at her.
But she had to try. This was about more than clearing her head of the nightmares that plagued what little sleep she did get and left her exhausted. She owed something to John Kincaid, the dead man she’d found in the warehouse. Six years ago, witnesses had come forward to help convict the thieves who’d murdered her family in a home invasion. Liza had been away at college, working on her undergraduate degree, the night her parents and pet were murdered. She hadn’t been there to fight to protect her family. Or to see anything useful she could testify to at their killers’ trial.
But she could testify for John Kincaid. If she could remember.
Helping another victim find justice was the only way she could help her late parents.
Twisting her gloves in her hands, Liza distracted herself from the uneasy task that lay ahead of her by counting the dog hairs clinging to the sleeves of her blue fleece jacket.
“The setting isn’t ideal.” Dr. Jameson gestured around the busy precinct office with an artistic swirl of his fingers. “But I’m skilled enough to perform my work anywhere I’m needed. A little privacy would be nice, though.”
Detective Grove pushed his chair back and stood. “A little privacy sounds good. We can use one of the interview rooms.”
Divided up into a maze of desks and cubicle walls, the detectives’ division of the Fourth Precinct building was buzzing with indecipherable conversations among uniformed and plain-clothes investigators and the technicians and support staff who worked with them. Liza felt a bit like a rat in a maze herself as she got up and followed Dr. Jameson’s fatherly figure and Grove—the bulldog-faced detective who’d interviewed her before in conjunction with the Kincaid murder case.
Liza tucked her gloves into her pockets as they zigzagged between desks. While Dr. Jameson discussed their late morning session with the detective, she couldn’t help but compare the two men. Both were eager to tap into the secrets locked inside her brain. But while Detective Grove wasn’t concerned with how her memories got tangled up, her therapist seemed to think he could use the painful experience of her parents’ deaths to tap into her hazy memory of John Kincaid’s murder, and draw out the information that he believed was hiding in a well-protected corner of her mind.
It felt odd to be discussed as though she were a walking, talking clinical experiment instead of a human being with ears and feelings.
About as odd as it felt to be watched by the tall, tawny-haired hotshot standing beside a black-haired man with glasses at the farthest desk.
Liza’s first instinct was to politely look away. The two men were obviously sharing a conversation, and the parade through the desks had probably just caught his attention for a moment. But the moment passed and she could feel him still watching her. Liza turned his way again, then nearly tripped over her own feet as she stuttered to a halt. “Impossible,” she gasped.
Remember. An imaginary hand from her nightmare grabbed hers and she flinched.
She was being watched by a ghost.
Closing her eyes and shaking the imagined sensation from her fingers, she purged the foolish notion from her head. Her brain was tired and playing tricks on her. Ghosts, shmosts. They weren’t real. Taking a deep breath, her streak of self-preservation that had seen her through the most difficult times of her life kicked in, giving her the impetus to mask her shock before opening her eyes and moving on.
Man. Ghost.
Reality. Memory.
She snuck another peek as the man lowered his head to resume his conversation. See? You twit. Get a grip.
The similarities were there, yes. But that honeybrown hair wasn’t streaked with gray.
The square jaw was whole. Not bruised and broken.
The eyes were blue as cobalt. Piercing. Very much alive.
Liza circled behind a carpeted cubicle wall. No way could Captain Hotshot be the same man she’d found murdered on that warehouse floor. She was going nuts, plain and simple. Agreeing to interrogation under hypnosis was a very bad idea. She should go home. Go back to work. Go for a run with her dogs. Anything normal. Anything physical. Anything that would stop the fear and confusion, and get her life back to its fast-paced, sleep-deprived, business-as-usual state.
But when she cleared the wall, Liza was forced to pause again as a pair of uniformed officers escorted a young man wearing baggy pants to a desk and handcuffed him to a chair. Determined to convince her brain that she’d only imagined Kincaid’s ghost across the room, Liza used those few camouflaged seconds to study the man who’d spooked her.
The badge hanging from a chain around his neck marked him as a police officer. Yet, unlike the detectives wearing suits and ties or the patrol officers wearing their standard blue uniforms, this man was dressed in black from neck to toe. Black turtleneck. Black gun and holster at his hip. Black pants tucked into what looked like black army boots. And a black flak vest that bore two rows of white letters—KCPD and S.W.A.T.
Mask the spiky crop of hair with a knit cap and add stripes of eye black beneath his eyes, and she’d think he was ready to launch some kind of covert attack.
Against her, judging by the way his gaze darted back to her the instant her path cleared and she took a step.
That nosy son of a… Red-haired temper flamed through her veins, and Liza tilted her chin and hurried after Jameson and Grove.
So Captain Hotshot was a tough guy. One of those S.W.A.T. cops who defused bombs and calmed riots and shot rifles at bad guys from a mile away. He probably hunted for fun—had trophies of innocent deer and hapless pheasants mounted on his walls at home.
Tough guys didn’t scare her.
The detective with glasses standing beside him kept talking, but the man in black continued to watch her. Suspecting her own scrutiny might have intensified his, Liza resolutely focused her gaze on the back of Jameson’s silvery head and wished the path from Grove’s desk to the interview room was straighter and shorter.
She felt the tough guy turn his conversation back to the man beside him, but the instant she snuck a glance over to make sure his fascination with her had waned, he blinked. And when those clear blue eyes opened again, they locked on to hers across the sea of desks and detectives. What the hell? Liza’s pulse rate kicked up a notch. Without looking away, he lowered his head to say something to the other man. Were they talking about her?
Liza broke eye contact as she neared his position. A distinct feminine awareness hummed beneath the surge of temper. But both energies fizzled as an all-too-familiar panic crept in. Maybe she had more than her sanity to worry about. Did he recognize her? Did he know why she was here? Dr. Jameson and Detective Grove had reached the hallway leading to the interview rooms. Another few steps and she’d be there as well.
Two more steps. One more glance.
Enough.
“What?” she exclaimed, turning and taking a step toward the armed man, realizing too late that he was several inches taller and a heck of a lot broader up close than he’d been with the length of the room between them. But guts and bravado spurred her past the unnerving observation. “Do I have lunch in my teeth? You think I’m some kind of circus sideshow? Why are you staring at me?”
Without batting an eye or missing a beat, he grinned. “You started it.”
“I did not.” Snappy, Liza.
“Holden…We need to walk away.” The caution from the detective beside him went unheeded.
Tough Guy faced her, looking as calm and bemused as she was fired up. When a man was armed for battle and built like a fort, he probably didn’t feel the need to lose his cool. “Maybe I’m just admiring the view.”
Liza scoffed at the flirtatious remark. Right. Like her freckles and attitude had turned his head. “And maybe you’re just full of it.”
An elbow in the arm from the man standing beside him made the tough guy raise his hands in surrender. “My apologies. Can’t help it if I’ve got a thing for redheads.”
“Uh-huh.” Liza hadn’t expected the apology. Didn’t trust it. Wasn’t quite sure how to handle it, either.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand at her elbow. She calmed her reaction before it reached her face and looked up into Dr. Jameson’s indulgent expression. “Liza? It’s not the time for chatting. I want to pursue this while the dream is fresh. Come along.”
“Who’s chatting?” Liza grumbled. Grateful for the opportunity to escape, she allowed Detective Grove to usher her into a room stuffed with a conference table and chairs. Before the door closed behind her, she gave one last look over her shoulder. The tough guy with the smooth lines and eerily familiar countenance was still watching her. Her reaction to his intense scrutiny was still sparking through her veins. Something about those probing blue eyes was as spellbinding as it was unnerving. Turning away from his inexplicable fascination and determined to dismiss her own, Liza let the door close behind her.
“Who was that man staring at me? I’m sure I’ve never met him, but he looked…familiar.”
Detective Grove glanced toward the door as if her ghost had followed them into the room. “The big guy in the S.W.A.T. vest?” As if anyone else had zeroed in on her through the midday crowd like that. “That’s Holden Kincaid.”
Liza sank into the nearest chair. “As in Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid?”
“Yeah.”
That explained the resemblance. A thing for redheads, my ass.
So much for anonymity. If she could figure out who he was, then he had probably identified her as well—the woman who’d reputedly witnessed John Kincaid’s murder. Behind that smart-alecky charm, he was probably wondering why the hell she hadn’t come forward with the entire story and fingered the killer already.
She’d get right on that. Just as soon as she could remember.
“Holden Kincaid, um…how is he related to the man who was killed?”
Grove spread open the case file at the end of the table. He could make that bulldog face of his look pretty grim when he wanted to. “He’s John’s youngest son. And you need to stay away from him.”

Chapter Two
“Got him.” Holden Kincaid framed the target in the crosshairs of his rifle scope, blinking once to make sure his vision was clear.
Clear like crystal.
His mind and body followed suit, blocking out any distraction that might interfere with the execution of the task at hand. The crisp October air lost its chill. The rough friction of the roofing tiles against the brace of his elbows and thighs vanished. Emotions were put on hold as months of training calmed the beat of his pulse.
Every observation was now made with cold-eyed detachment. From his vantage point atop the neighbor’s roof across the alley, he could look right over the privacy fence into Delores Mabry’s trashed kitchen. There was a cloudy spot on the window glass, a greasy hand print from the last time the perp had looked out into the back yard. But the smudge didn’t mask the gray-haired woman cowering behind a chair against the refrigerator. The window’s curtains hung wide open, indicating the target hadn’t given much thought to how the police would react to this hostage situation. Holden’s target was big enough to make this a relatively easy shot—if his orders had been to shoot to kill.
But as the pudgy stomach in the bright white T-shirt passed by the window again, Holden knew there would be nothing easy about this shot.
Al Mabry was armed. He was moving. And the poor SOB probably had no clue to the danger his delusional state had put his mother, himself, and a dozen cops into. Going off his meds did that to a schizophrenic. Mabry was ill. Suicidal. If possible, KCPD wanted to end this standoff with everyone alive. But if Mabry decided to obey the voices in his head and suddenly start shooting up more than the living room furniture, then Holden’s orders would change and a life would end.
No emotions allowed.
Static crackled across Holden’s helmet radio and Lieutenant Mike Cutler, his S.W.A.T. team leader and scene commander, came online. “You can take that shot?”
Holden rolled his shoulders and neck, easing the last bit of tension from his body before going still in his prone position. “Yes, sir.”
“Molloy, can you confirm?”
Dominic Molloy, Holden’s lookout, backup and best friend, adjusted his position on the roof beside Holden and peered through his binoculars. “I wouldn’t want to take it. But I’m not the big guy.” Holden sensed, rather than saw, the teasing grin around the steady chomp of Dom’s gum. “The hostage is on the floor,” continued Molloy. “Scared out of her mind, maybe, but she doesn’t appear to be harmed. Mabry’s pacing the kitchen with his gun to his head. Hasn’t pointed it at Mama yet. He does lower the weapon when he stops to drink his coffee.”
Mabry had ordered his mother to brew a fresh pot earlier. After spending the better part of the past night on this call, Holden longed for some hot coffee himself. Or a hot breakfast. Or a hot…No. He couldn’t afford to feel anything right now. Focus.
“The perp’s routine hasn’t varied for the last forty minutes,” Holden reported. “The next sip he takes, I could drop him. I think I can even neutralize the gun.”
“You think?”
Cutler’s skepticism didn’t rattle Holden. “Not a problem, sir. My shot is clear.”
Dom chuckled beside him. “I see what you’re planning.” He raised his voice for Cutler and their teammates to hear. “I can confirm. Kincaid can take the shot.”
“We’ve been messin’ with this drama long enough,” Cutler rumbled. “There’s no way to reason with him and I don’t want this to escalate.” If Mike Cutler couldn’t talk a hostage down from his crazy place, then no one could.
Holden was ready to take the next step. “Do you want me to take the shot, sir?”
“Let’s get him back in the psych ward. Remember, incapacitate him and we’ll take it from there. He hasn’t hurt anything but the furniture yet. I’d like to keep it that way.” Lieutenant Cutler’s tone was concise and commanding—a trait that had always inspired Holden’s own confidence. “Assault team ready to move in?”
“Yes, sir.” The responses echoed from both the front and rear ground locations.
“You have clearance, Kincaid. Assault team—on my go.”
Dom patted the top of Holden’s helmet. “You’re up, big guy. Do it.”
Shoulder? Knee? Either shot would take Mabry down. Funny how the man who’d murdered Holden’s father six months ago had shared the same skills with a gun. One neat shot to the forehead, one to the heart. Clean. Precise. Deadly.
Hell. Where had that thought come from? Get out of my head. But the comparison lingered, forcing Holden to think his way through it before he could purge the illtimed distraction.
The killer had used a hand gun, not a high-powered rifle like the one Holden cradled in his grip. He’d been a good forty yards closer than Holden was to this shot. The victim had been his dad, not a stranger. Had John Kincaid pleaded for his life? Had he held his head high in stoic silence at the end? Had he known death was coming?
Al Mabry didn’t know.
Holden’s heart quickened with each detail, beating harder against his chest, pumping a familiar rage and sorrow into his veins.
The man who’d killed his father had taken a perverse pleasure in torturing him before pulling the trigger. Holden was a better man than that. Mabry wouldn’t die. And if he had to die, he wouldn’t suffer. This was his job. Lieutenant Cutler’s S.W.A.T. team was here to save the damn day.
“Get out of my head,” he muttered, willing his training to retake control of his emotions.
“What’s that, buddy?” Dom asked.
This is my job.
“Taking the shot.” Holden iced his nerves, stilled his breath, framed the target in his sights and squeezed the trigger.
Boom.
Holden’s shoulder absorbed the kick of the rifle. Glass shattered and Al Mabry screamed.
“Go!” Cutler’s order echoed through his helmet.
Crimson bloomed on the perp’s hand as the gun sailed across the kitchen. Holden quickly lined up a second shot to the perp’s left temple in case things went south. But before Al Mabry could fully understand that he’d been shot, Holden’s teammates had battered down the door and rushed the mentally disturbed young man. Jones and Delgado had Mabry facedown on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back, the gun secured, before Holden allowed himself another blink.
The hate and sorrow were buried. The ice remained. Closing his eyes, Holden finally allowed himself to breathe.
“All clear, big guy.” Dom sat up beside him. His boots grated on the gravel roof as he stowed his gear into the various compartments of his uniform. With the flat of his hand, he reached over and slapped Holden’s helmet. “Hey. Cutler gave us the ‘all clear.’ I guess there’s a reason why they call you the best. You were aiming for the gun, right?”
Even more than the chatter of commands and replies zinging from the radio in his helmet, Dom’s gibe reminded Holden that he needed to get moving.
Striving for the same detachment from his work that Dominic Molloy seemed to enjoy, Holden rolled over, splayed his hand in Molloy’s face and pushed him away. He could give as good as he got. “Jealous, much?”
“You wish.” Dom’s eyes sparkled with humor. “I could have made that shot if I wanted to. But it’s my job to watch your backside.”
Holden secured his rifle and picked up the tripod as he pushed to his feet and made his way toward the ladder at the front edge of the roof. “Then enjoy the view. Last man down buys the beer.”
Once on the ground, they shed their helmets and locked their equipment in the back of the black S.W.A.T. van. Combing his fingers through the sweat-dampened spikes of his hair, Holden crossed down to the street to join Rafael Delgado and Joseph Jones, Jr.—Triple J or Trip, as he liked to be called.
He held up his hand to urge the gathering crowd of curiosity-seekers off the street while the others guided the ambulance carrying Al Mabry through. Lieutenant Cutler followed right behind, signaling the EMTs when they were clear to take off. Cutler joined the team as they gathered at the van. The lieutenant congratulated them on a successful mission, reminded them to write their reports. Then he shook Holden’s hand and pulled him aside. “Nice shooting, Kincaid.”
The October morning had enough bite in it to create a cloud between them when Holden released a long, weary breath. Winter was going to be damp and cold—and early—this year in Kansas City. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“We’ll get Mabry to the hospital to stitch up his hand and have him evaluated. But he’ll be all right.”
Holden propped his hands at his hips and nodded toward the house. “Take his mother, too. You said she had a history of high blood pressure. Being taken hostage by her own son can’t be good for her health.”
“Don’t worry. She’s on the ambulance, too. We’ll let her decompress, then take her statement at the hospital. I want you to do the same.”
“Go to the hospital?” Other than being hungry as a bear and needing to take a whiz, Holden was in fine shape.
“Decompress. You’re wound up tighter than a cork in a champagne bottle. You’ve been on duty twenty-four hours, standing watch while we tried to talk Mabry off the ceiling for the last eight.” Cutler pulled off his KCPD ball cap and smoothed his hand over his salt-and-pepper hair before tugging the cap back into place. “Your dad would be proud of you today. By wounding Al Mabry, you probably saved his life. And his mother’s. He was an innocent man, a sick man, but I know you were prepared to make a kill shot.”
“Just doing my job, Lieutenant. I turn off thinking about anything,” he lied, “and take the shot you tell me to.”
“Uh-huh.” There was something in Cutler’s sharp, dark eyes that saw more than Holden wanted. So he scuffed the steel toe of his boot on the pavement and looked down to watch a tiny pebble fly against the curb—until Cutler’s words demanded his attention. “Think about this, Kincaid. Before you report for your next shift, I want to hear that you got drunk, got laid or got checked out by the departmental psychologist. I know this has been a tough year for you, and this was a tough scene to work. Go home. Go out. Go to the doc. But take care of yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dominic materialized at Holden’s shoulder, his wiseass grin firmly in place. “Aren’t you gonna order me to go get some tail, too, sir?”
“That’d just be feeding the fire.”
Trip and Delgado joined the circle, laughing out loud at Cutler’s deadpan reply.
“Ha. Ha.” Dom slapped Holden on the shoulder. “C’mon, big guy. We’ll check out the action at the Shamrock after we clean up and get a bite to eat. Drinks are on me.” He turned to Trip and Delgado. “You comin’ ?”
“You’re gonna pry open that tight wallet of yours?” Trip’s lazy drawl mocked him with awestruck humor. “This I gotta see.”
“Lieutenant?” Dom looked up at their commander. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“I’ll pass this time. My son has a football game tonight. I’ll check in with you guys day after tomorrow. Don’t forget those reports.”
A chorus of “yes, sir’s” quickly changed into a noisy conversation about the new lady bartender at the Shamrock and whether she had any sisters she’d like to introduce to them. Delgado climbed in behind the wheel and started the van while the rest of the team buckled themselves in. Holden had found the woman pretty enough the last time they’d gone to the Shamrock, but for some reason he was having a hard time remembering what she looked like.
He must be off his game big time, to let his feelings about his father’s murder distract him from his work—and his play time—and to let them distract him enough that Lieutenant Cutler had noticed.
He’d been through all the grief counseling, and had been cleared by the department’s psychologist to return to duty four months ago. He hadn’t lied to Cutler or the psychologist about his and his three brothers’ determination to see their father’s killer brought to justice. Even though they weren’t allowed to work the case because of a conflict of interest, Holden, Atticus, Sawyer and Edward had all found ways to keep tabs on the stalledout investigation.
Atticus and his fiancée, Brooke Hansford, had uncovered evidence about a covert organization named Z Group that had operated in eastern Europe before the breakup of the Soviet Union. Before becoming a cop at KCPD, their father had worked with Brooke’s late parents in Z Group as a liaison from Army intelligence. Something that had happened to a double agent all those years ago in a foreign country had gotten John Kincaid killed.
His brother Sawyer and his pregnant wife, Melissa, had dealt with an offshoot of Z Group soon after their father’s funeral. But one of the thugs hired by the group had had a personal vendetta against Melissa. He’d terrorized her and kidnapped their young son. Despite the opportunity to blow open the murder investigation, Sawyer had done what any husband would have—he protected his family. John Kincaid would have done the same—any of Holden’s brothers would have—so there was no blame there. Now, Melissa and their child were safe, but anyone who could tell them anything had been driven into hiding or killed.
And yesterday morning, while Atticus had been reporting on the trip he and Brooke had taken to Sarajevo to visit her parents’ graves—only to discover that it wasn’t her mother’s body that had been buried in that casket nearly thirty years ago—Holden had run smack dab into Liza Parrish. A name he wasn’t supposed to know. A woman he wasn’t supposed to meet.
The lone witness to his father’s murder.
Yeah. He was a little distracted.
A lot distracted.
Liza Parrish could make the scattered pieces of this whole jigsaw puzzle fall into place. His father’s killer would be brought to trial and the Kincaid family could finally find peace.
So why wasn’t she talking? Why wasn’t she telling the detectives assigned to the investigation everything she knew?
And why the hell couldn’t he remember what the sexy bartender looked like, the one who’d slipped him her number at the Shamrock, when he had no trouble whatsoever picturing freckles and copper hair, a sweet, round bottom and an attitude that wouldn’t quit?
As much as his father’s murder challenged his ability to focus on his work, little Miss Liza with the sass and curves—and answers—kept nagging at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. If he couldn’t get his head together, he’d be a bigger danger to his team than the bad guys they were trained to neutralize.
Cutler realized that.
“Yo, big guy.” Dom smacked him on the shoulder, pulling Holden from his thoughts. “I said whoever got Josie’s number first would have to buy the second round of drinks tonight. You in?”
Josie. Right. That was the bartender’s name. Yet it was hard to razz his buddies about the fact he already had her number, when he couldn’t even recall the color of her hair.
But copper-red? Short—almost boyishly cropped and sexy as hell? That he could remember.
He was so screwed. Faking a lightheartedness he didn’t feel, Holden fixed a grin on his face and turned to Dom. “You’re on.”
It was a hollow victory. But right now he’d take whatever victory he could get.
HOLDEN’S LONG STRIDES ATE UP the pavement as he ran the abandoned Union Pacific railroad bed. It had been reclaimed as part of an exercise trail along Rock Creek, near the Kansas City suburb of Fairmount, and would make for a scenic run in the daylight, with the red, gold and orange leaves of the old maples and oaks rising along the hills to his left and flattening out to the residential streets to his right.
Pulling back the cuff of his sweatshirt, he pushed the button for light on his watch and checked the time. At 11:27 p.m., however, the deserted path was gray and shadowed beneath the cool moonlight. Still, it was a good place to get away from the traffic and crowd near his downtown apartment without venturing too far from the amenities of the city.
Hanging out with his buddies at the Shamrock hadn’t provided the cure Lieutenant Cutler had prescribed. Al Mabry was fine and full of remorse now that he was back with his doctors at the Odd Fellows Psychiatric Hospital. His mother, Delores, was resting comfortably at Truman Medical Center for a night of routine observation. No one had been seriously hurt. Holden had made a good shot. They should all be celebrating.
But the beer and noise had given him a headache. The greasy food had been tasty enough, but it had sat like a rock in his stomach. As for the women? Well, when doing a little flirting began to feel like a polite chore he had to perform, Holden knew he needed to get out of there.
With the honest excuse of a long day and a longer night before that dragging him down, he shook Dominic’s hand, warned Delgado and Trip to keep an eye on him, and left. Instead of heading home, though, he found himself at his Fourth Precinct police locker, changing into his gray sweats and running shoes. After a brief chat with his brother, Atticus, who was there to pick up Brooke for a late dinner after a meeting with her boss, precinct commander Mitch Taylor, Holden pulled on his black KCPD stocking cap and headed across town.
Sleep might have been a wiser choice, but Holden was more inclined to get his blood and adrenaline pumping, and cleanse himself of this restless apprehension from the inside out.
Normally, he was content to work out in the precinct’s gym or run the streets near his apartment. But tonight, he needed something fresh and different to shake him out of this funk. The brisk dampness in the air would clear his head, while every turn on the route would reveal something new to pique his interest.
And if the path just happened to lead him past the address where Liza Parrish lived, then that could be excused as coincidence. The houses were close to the road, but set far enough apart to almost give the feeling of living out in the country. Probably at one time in Kansas City’s history, this had been farmland, but with expansion and annexations, the neighborhood was inevitably being transformed into suburbia. As he passed a quarter mile of grass and trees, he realized how this must seem like a different world from the downtown animal clinic where Liza worked an internship through the University of Missouri College of Veterinary Medicine.
“Are you looking up what I think you are?” Atticus had caught Holden sitting at a computer in one of the darkened precinct offices. Leading his fiancée by the hand, he’d entered the room before Holden was even aware of his presence.
Brooke peeked around Atticus’s shoulder with a wry smile. “Sorry. We were on our way to the car when I mentioned that I’d seen you here. He figured out the rest.”
His smarty-pants older brother never missed a trick, so there was no sense in lying to him. Holden folded the print-out he’d made and shut down the computer. “Yeah. I checked out the public information available on Liza Parrish. Brooke just told me where to find it on the computer.”
“You helped him?” Shaking his head, Atticus turned to Brooke. “Honey, we talked about this. As much as it galls me to sit on the sidelines, we have to let Grove and his men run their investigation.”
Brooke adjusted her glasses on her nose and softened her expression into a smile that always seemed to turn his brother’s suave control into mush. “That’s not what you said this summer, when we were on a hunt to decipher the clues your father left me. You were certainly involved in the investigation then.”
“Yeah, well, we both know what kind of danger that ‘investigation’ put you in. I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt.”
She lay a calming hand on Atticus’s arm. “All I did was show Holden a shortcut to the public access files on the computer. So he wouldn’t accidentally trigger any security protocol that might alert Grove or anyone else to his search.”
Holden circled around the desk and draped an arm around her shoulders. “I knew if I had a computer question, Brooke was the source to go to. I didn’t mean to get her into trouble.”
As their father’s former secretary, Brooke had been a friend for so long that she felt like family. Holden had been more than pleased to see that Atticus had opened up his heart and put an engagement ring on her finger to make that familial feeling into the real thing. So he wasn’t about to let his leggy buddy here accept any of his brother’s blame.
But Atticus wasn’t angry, nor was he looking to place blame. His pale gray eyes reflected concern and an admiration for Brooke’s talents that went far beyond her computer skills.
“Brains as well as beauty, eh?” He pulled Brooke from Holden’s hug and curled her under his possessive arm. After pressing a kiss to Brooke’s temple, Atticus gave Holden a look as serious as any he’d ever seen. “Just be careful, little brother. Don’t get caught sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” He guided Brooke to the door, then paused to glance over his shoulder. “And if you find out anything, give me a call.”
Holden grinned. Yeah, Mr. Serious was not only crazy in love but as determined as he was to find the whole truth about their father’s murder. “Will do.”
So now he was here with his brother’s blessing, running his third mile, wondering why the hell he’d thought checking out Liza Parrish’s place would give him any sense of peace. He was working up a sweat and getting irritated with himself because no matter how hard he pushed his body, his thoughts kept coming back to the freckle-faced witness who could make or break the investigation.
At least Holden wasn’t as alone in this misguided late night jaunt as he’d first thought. Someone else was out on foot, either walking the streets a couple blocks over or biking or running the path ahead of him, closer to the houses. One by one, he could hear dogs barking at the intruder passing their territory.
Holden’s senses pricked up a notch to a mild alert. This wasn’t a dangerous part of town, but it was pretty remote for a woman who lived alone to reside in. Surely, Liza Parrish wouldn’t be out for a stroll at this time of night. The woman did possess some common sense, didn’t she? Of course, her preliminary deposition to KCPD said she’d been chasing after a stray near the docks in the warehouse district where his father had been murdered. Late at night. And that was definitely a dangerous part of town. Maybe he should hold off on the common sense assessment until…
Another bark pierced the night, turning his attention back to the houses. It was something yippy, aggressive, much closer than the other sounds had been. Holden’s wariness sharpened the way it did when a call came in for the S.W.A.T. team. Maybe it’d be worth a detour through one of the yards to the nearest street to find out what was putting all those mutts on alert.
Lengthening his stride, Holden veered toward the next access point and rounded the corner, straight into the path of a fast-moving pack. “Ah, hell!”
The woman holding on to that pack gave a curse as pithy as his own, a fact which amused him for all of two seconds before he realized she was zigging when she should have zagged. Between his bulk, the momentum of the three dogs, the tangle of leashes and the speed of her roller blades, the collision was inevitable.
“Look out!” Holden threw his arms out to catch her.
The smallest of the dogs darted between his legs. The greyhound leaped and the big malamute just kept running.
“Yukon!” the woman shouted as her helmet smacked into Holden’s shoulder.
Recognition was as surprising as it was irrelevant. A leash jerked around Holden’s ankles, cinching his legs and abruptly tripping his feet. “Hold on!”
He snaked his arms around the redhead’s waist and twisted, dodging the dogs and taking the brunt of their fall as they went down hard. Holden landed on his back with Liza Parrish sprawled across his chest.
“What the hell…? You?” Liza froze above him. The sounds of panting dogs and her accusation filled the air. Her eyes caught the moonlight and reflected like silver coins. But there was more fire than cold metal in their expression as surprise quickly changed into indignation. Bracing one fist against his shoulder, she pushed herself up. “Are you following me?”
“I…damn.” Holden sat up as best he could with a nylon lead looped around his neck as she clambered backward onto his thighs. He loosened the cord and pulled it over his head. “I ran into you, Sherlock—I didn’t run up behind you. Nobody’s following anybody. Watch it,” he added as a skate came dangerously close to the promised land in her struggle to extricate herself from his lap. “Ow!” That was because of the malamute, still eager to run, dragging them both off the curb.
“Yukon, no! Stop! Catch his leash!” Liza had lost her grip on the leads in their tumble, and the biggest dog took a shot at freedom.
Holden lunged for the disappearing strap. “Got it.” The big dog nearly pulled Holden’s arm from its socket, but Holden tugged back. “Whoa!” With the sudden jerk on his lead, the gray and white malamute halted, turned. His dark, nearly black eyes seemed to tell Holden exactly what he could do with his command. “Is he friendly?”
“Not much.”
Great, thought Holden. “Yukon. Sit.” The malamute needed a minute to think about it.
“Sit!” Holden gave the leash a slight jerk. He was feeling bruised and off-kilter and slightly less amused by this situation than he might have been on any normal day with any other woman sitting in his lap.
The dog shook his silver fur, then curled his bushy tail around his backside and eased back onto his haunches.
“Sorry.” The fringe of Liza’s coppery hair was barely visible beneath the rim of her helmet as she adjusted it on her head. Then she slid onto her kneepads beside him and tried to untangle the leashes that bound their legs together. “He doesn’t warm up to people easily, but as far as I know, he doesn’t bite. Bruiser’s the one who’ll nip—”
A miniature German Shepherd-looking terrier thing jumped, barking, onto Holden’s thigh and stretched as close to Holden’s face as his ensnared leash allowed. He recognized the yipping bark from earlier. “Um…”
“Bruiser. Sit.” Liza snapped her fingers and pointed, and the black and tan spitfire moved back to the pavement and obeyed.
“Sweet.” He admired her authority over the dog. Not counting the tan greyhound who was sniffing his stocking cap, the canines seemed to be under control. Holden joined the quest to untangle themselves, but a closer inspection revealed the pale cast beneath the freckles on Liza’s cheeks. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “That’s what the helmet and pads are for.” She spun around on her knees to untangle the red leash that had wound around his ankles. “Are you?”
“I’m fine.” In fact, he barely noticed the ache in his shoulder and hip. Sheathed in fitted black running pants, her firmly rounded bottom bounced in front of him. Holden politely looked away—for a second or two. Heck, he was a healthy young male, and she was definitely a healthy young female. Holden Kincaid. He shifted uncomfortably as his mother’s voice reminded him of her expectations about how a lady should be treated. Ogling wasn’t on the list. Ignoring the improper heat simmering in his veins, Holden turned his attention to the greyhound who insisted on being petted. He stroked her smooth, warm flank. “I guess the dogs are okay, too? Are these guys all yours?”
Liza glanced up long enough to visually inspect each creature. “I’m sure they’re fine.” She continued to work quickly, almost frantically, to extricate herself and the dogs. When Holden reached down to help, she snatched her fingers away to attack a different tangle.
In another few moments they were free. Holden pulled his feet beneath him and stood while she looped the handle of each leash around her wrist. He took her arm to help her stand. But as soon as she was upright, she shrugged off his touch, nearly toppling herself again. “Easy,” he murmured.
She skated backward far enough to put her beyond his well-intentioned reach. When she was firmly balanced on her wheels, she tilted her chin and glared. Her puff of breath clouded the air between them. “What are you doing here? I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”
“Well, it’s a little late for that.” But she clearly wasn’t one for sarcasm, so he turned to more serious matters, and gestured up and down the empty path. “You should find an indoor track if you want to run at night.”
She pulled the dogs between them and straightened their leads. “And who would allow these three to join me? They need their exercise, too.”
“Then how about running in the daylight? Even with the dogs to protect you—” not that the greyhound nuzzling his hand was any great deterrent, “—this path is isolated enough to make it a dangerous place to run at night.”
“You’re here,” she argued.
“It takes a few more guts to go after someone my size than yours.” She was above-average height, and the wheels on her skates put her at eye-level with his chin. But there was still something distinctly feminine and vulnerable about her slender curves and youthful freckles that could catch a determined predator’s eye. “Any woman should take the proper precautions.”
Her eyes darted to the side as she seemed to consider his advice. But there was nothing but bold bravado in her expression when she tipped her chin to meet his gaze again. “You’re John Kincaid’s son. Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah.” There was no sense lying about what she must have already guessed. “I’m Holden Kincaid and you’re Liza Parrish.” He extended his hand to complete the introduction.
She didn’t take it. Instead, she wound the three leashes around her palm and tested their snug fit. “You’re not here by accident, are you. Detective Grove and the D.A. want to keep my face and name out of the papers—keep me as anonymous as possible. How did you find me?”
“I’m a cop.”
“You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“So you keep saying.” Propping his hands at his hips, Holden leaned in a fraction. “But my brothers and I intend to find out the truth about what happened to our father. A gag order isn’t going to keep us from knowing that you’re the key witness. What story are you telling Grove? Did you see who killed my father?”
“I can’t answer those questions.”
Maybe assertive cop mode wasn’t the best approach here. He reached down and scratched behind the ears of the willing greyhound, suspecting the dogs might be the way to gain her trust. “What’s her name?”
“Cruiser.” The confident voice hesitated, as though suspicious of the new tactic. “She’s a rescue hound. She used to race. They’re all rescue dogs. The little guy’s Bruiser and the big guy is Yukon.”
Though the terrier mix seemed to be watching the interchange between mistress and stranger intently, the malamute faced away from them, looking poised and eager to continue their run. Holden said, “I know it’s scary to come forward to work with the police, especially when there’s a murder involved. But we have teams in place who can protect you. KCPD and the D.A.’s office won’t let anyone hurt you. Just tell Grove the truth. He’ll make the arrangements to put you in a safe house if you’re worried about some kind of retaliation.” He looked up from petting his new friend and offered Liza a gentle plea. “This case has been dragging on forever. The longer it takes to solve it, the less likely it is that we will.”
The conversation seemed to rattle her independent attitude. Her silvery gaze blinked, fell to his chest, wandered off into the shadows. The abrasive woman who’d avoided his touch and given him lip was now avoiding eye contact and backing away. “I really can’t help you. I mean, I want to, but—I don’t think I can help you.”
“You don’t have to break protocol and talk to me,” Holden reassured her, “but please be completely honest with Detective Grove. Tomorrow. As soon as you can.”
“I need to be going.” She turned away, clicked her tongue at the dogs. “Good night, Mr. Kincaid.”
“It’s Holden.” But she was already skating ahead with her dogs, crouching slightly and holding on as the two bigger dogs pulled her down the path. Little Bruiser jogged along behind. In less than a minute she was out of sight beyond the trees and shadows.
Holden tipped his face to the moon, cursing his dumb luck and dumber idea for coming here in the first place. So he’d said his piece to Liza Parrish—gotten that much frustration out of his system. Instead of speeding the process, he’d probably terrorized the woman into being even more afraid of sharing everything she knew with the police.
He took a few moments to stretch before resuming his run. A few moments to realize that her scent clung to his shirt, citrusy and fresh, with a tinge of antiseptic thrown in. Feminine. Clean. It only intensified his improper fascination with the woman.
He gave himself a mocking thumbs-up. “Way to get her out of your head, Kincaid.”
He’d better make that appointment with the department shrink because he didn’t feel like getting drunk and when he was off his clear-headed game like this, he had no business getting laid.
Looking around the maze of shadows and moonlight, Holden forced himself to think like a cop. Things had quieted down in the neighborhood now that Liza and her pack had passed through. But the exercise path was still deserted. It was still nearly midnight. Even if she wasn’t a murder witness, this wasn’t the safest route for a lone woman to take.
Holden inhaled a deep breath and turned around. Keeping his distance so she didn’t know he was following, he jogged after Liza and her dogs, keeping a watchful eye out. That’s all his family needed—to have something freaky happen to the eccentric, albeit finely built, redhead who could identify his father’s killer.

Chapter Three
“Bruiser, you mooch—get your nose off the counter. Brownies aren’t for dogs.” Without pausing to let Liza remove his leash, her furry soul mate had trotted straight into the kitchen to inspect the pan she’d left out on the counter to cool. Liza locked the door behind her and sat on the Hide-a-bench in the front hallway to remove her skates. “Besides, they’re mine.”
Chocolate was a good antidote for a stressful day, and she’d been craving the sweet stuff more than usual lately. If she thought Bruiser’s short legs could handle it, she’d add another mile to their nightly run to make up for the indulgence. As it was, she’d better watch how many “antidotes” she baked after dinner or the stress would start to show on her hips.
But she’d start watching tomorrow. After the week she’d been having—too little sleep, too much work, therapy sessions that left her agitated, embarrassed and more uncertain than ever that she could recall anything useful about John Kincaid’s murder, plus two run-ins with John’s overbuilt, in-her-face and under-her-skin son—she deserved a double-sized brownie tonight.
Liza lifted the top of the bench seat and dropped her inline skates, helmet and pads into the storage compartment inside. She finger-combed her hair back into its wispy layers and whistled for the dogs. Bruiser and Cruiser showed up right away to let her unhook their leashes and reward them with a treat. “I’m feeding myself first, Yukon, if you don’t come when I call you.” She whistled again. “Here, boy. Yukon, come.”
He barely acknowledged her from his spot on the couch.
“Fine. We’re eating without you.” She padded to the kitchen in her stockinged feet, shedding her jacket and hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair as she went. Then she opened a cabinet and reached for a plate to serve herself a brownie. “Ouch.”
Drawing her arm back for a closer inspection, Liza cradled her elbow and slowly twisted it from side to side. How could she have missed hurting herself? She must have jarred her funny bone pretty good in her tumble with Kincaid. Though she’d like to credit the endorphins released during that final mile of her run for masking the injury, she had a feeling her preoccupation with Officer Kincaid was the real culprit that had kept her from feeling any pain until now.
How embarrassing, crashing into a man she wasn’t even supposed to meet. Pressing her body against his from chest to toe. Noticing things.
Even in those few short moments they were tangled together on the pavement, she’d noticed he was A) incredibly warm, despite the temperature’s drop into the 30s; B) built like an Olympic swimmer—long and solid and packed with muscle, hinting that he probably enjoyed sports and working out as much as she did; and C) he had the most beautiful eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man. Light brown, long and framing piercing blue eyes.
“Stop it.” Liza chomped a bit of brownie that was too big for her mouth, determined to take note of every sweet, chewy detail of her snack rather than wasting another moment thinking about Holden Kincaid. “He’s just a man,” she muttered around the mouthful.
A man who happened to bear a discomfiting resemblance to the murder victim who haunted her dreams.

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