CHAPTER ONE
Saturday, 3:50 AM EST
Run, Tate, run. Her muscles screamed with pain and exhaustion. To stop was not an option—not now. She had to get away from whoever was chasing her.
Run, dammit, run. White-hot pain engulfed her lungs, and the dryness in her throat made her tonsils feel swollen. Tate curled her tongue and squeezed her mouth to create saliva, then swallowed, as she ran up the hill and down the other side. The dirt shifted under her feet. She slid, but managed to stay upright.
The wind kicked up, and Tate coughed to expel the dust she’d inhaled, never letting up on her pace.
“Where the hell am I?” She screamed, unable to see what lie ahead. Her parched throat burned with every breath, yet she continued to run. She pushed the thought away.
His raspy breathing and the thunderous pounding of his feet told her he had gained on her. She must have slowed down without realizing it. The intensity of pain in her legs grew stronger, and she willed them to move faster, but they refused to cooperate. “Oh, God. Please help me.”
She turned her head to look over her shoulder to see him a few feet behind her. A surge of adrenaline took over, and she sprinted forward, then tripped over the uneven terrain and fell to the ground. She tried to stand, but a sharp blow to the center of her back caused her knees to buckle and sent her sprawling forward. Pain shot through her nose when her face struck the hard surface. She squeezed her eyes in a tight hold to block out the pain. Blood gushed down her face. The nauseating taste of copper made her gag.
His evil laughter echoed in her ears, and she knew it was all over. He was going to kill her. Fear, thick as the blood running down her face, froze her to the spot. She lay on the sparsely grass-covered ground helpless. She released a low, tortured sob afraid to fight back.
He reached for her arms and pulled them behind her back. She could feel the sharpness of a rope cut into the skin on her wrists. A trickle of fluid ran down the side of her hand. Blood? Was it her blood? Or was it his sweat? The latter disgusted her and made her want to heave again.
“Oh God,” she gasped; her heart hammered out of control, so loud, she could hear the echo in her ears. She whispered a silent prayer hoping whatever was about to happen would be swift.
He jerked her to an upright position, whirled her around, and forced her onto a large boulder. The black hooded cape he wore concealed everything except his piercing eyes. She focused on them trying to identify her assailant; if not for the police, for herself—so she’d know who was stalking her—know who wanted her dead.
The click of the hammer echoed in the still night. If Tate hadn’t already been sitting, her legs would have given out when he pressed the cold steel of a gun barrel against her cheek. One last chance for someone to hear me, she thought, and screamed at the top of her lungs.
Detective Tate Kensington jerked and sat upright in bed, drenched in sweat. Her hand clutched to her chest as she gasped for air, unable to breathe from the suffocating sensation that gripped her. She scanned the dark room as she gulped in mouthfuls of air. This was a dream, wasn’t it?
The floor creaked. Tate narrowed her eyes and peered into the darkness, trying to ascertain whether someone was in her room or it was her insomniac neighbor upstairs. When footsteps tromped overhead again, she concluded it was her neighbor and chalked her behavior up to the aftermath from the nightmare.
Tate flopped back against the pillows and willed her heart rate to calm down. The sounds of her ragged breathing broke the silence. Damn! The sensation of that gun against her cheek felt so real. She’d even smelled the hint of gunpowder. Her hand instinctively reached up to touch the spot on her cheek, the very spot he’d pointed the barrel end of that
gun.
Relief washed over her when her fingertips touched the smoothness of her skin, reinforcing that it was indeed a bad dream. She reached over and pulled open the drawer on the nightstand and felt inside for her Glock. Thank God, it was still there.
The shrill ring of her house phone scared the crap out of her, and she jumped. Her heart kicked up its pace, and she feared it would burst through her chest. She raised her hand to answer it, then pulled back, afraid. The sensation of dread refused to go away. “This is ridiculous!” It was only a dream, she told herself.
The ringing stopped abruptly. A few seconds later, her cell phone rang. This time, she checked the caller ID, and flipped the lid of her cell open, and took a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand. A low guttural groan escaped her lips. “This better be good, Zac Gerard.”
“Whoa, Jesse James, sounds like I’ve interrupted something,” he chuckled.
Tate ignored his comment and shoved the phone away from her mouth so he wouldn’t hear her rapid breathing. “Zac, what did you expect on my only day off?”
“Uh oh. You’re with someone, aren’t you?”
“Give it a rest, will you?”
“Somebody’s grumpy.”
“What do you expect?” She ran a hand over her face, and tried to clear the cloud of fog from her head. The last thing she wanted was her partner to know how freaked out she’d become over a dumb dream, or the guys in the department for that matter. Not that she thought Zac would tell anyone, but men talked just as much as women—maybe even more. She and Zac had been partners for five years, knew each other pretty well, but there were some things you just didn’t share with someone you worked with every day, regardless of how much you liked each other.
“Okay, so why are you bothering me?” she asked.
“We have a homicide out by your favorite place, Jesse—Central Park. More specifically, Bow Bridge.”
She pictured his handsome face as he spoke. Zac Gerard was definitely a gorgeous hunk of a man, but getting involved with a ‘playboy’ type was the furthest thing from her mind—most of the time. His smile, his body—they did things to her mind no other man could claim, but being dumb and foolish about getting involved with her former partner had left a heavy scar, and almost cost her a job.
“For chrissake.” Tate forced her mind to listen to his words and not the sound of his sexy voice. “You mean Harwell couldn’t give it to Santori and Paige?”
“
Actually, I believe his words were, no exceptions. He expects the entire team present and accounted for by the time he arrives, and I’m almost to your apartment, so get that cute little ass of yours out of bed. I’ll be outside in ten minutes.” The phone went dead.
“No exceptions, huh?” Tate flipped her phone shut, and huffed out another sigh, this time shaking her head annoyed that her former partner and lover, Jack Harwell had been transferred to the very precinct where she worked after his promotion to Lieutenant.
Her fist pounded the mattress, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed, and flipped on the lamp. The light flooded the room with a golden glow. She remained on the bed in an upright position, suspiciously scanning the room with her eyes, and shuddered when a fleeting recap of her dream caught her attention. She couldn’t relive the dream. She pushed it to the back of her mind and focused on how infuriated she was about going to work on her only day off.
Harwell’s comment about there being no exceptions stuck in her craw. She flung her hand in the air annoyed it would probably take longer to achieve third grade detective now that Harwell was her boss. To make matters worse, his presence had started the rumor mill again about the reason she was transferred to the two-one in the first place—her involvement with Harwell, who was her partner at the time. Cripes, that was ten years ago when she was a rookie cop, a fish out of water. Damn, she thought she’d left all that crap behind. She supposed it came from some disgruntled law enforcer in the old precinct over Harwell’s promotion. And now, wagging tongues had her still involved with him, and they attributed the promotion she’d received to second grade detective early in her career as a means to avoid a sexual harassment suit against the department. Of course none of that was true. Why was it so difficult for these grown men to believe she got the promotion because she was damn good at her job?
Yeah, she was resentful all right. Resentful Harwell only got a slap on the hand. Resentful he was now her lieutenant, and sure as hell resentful this was probably a set back. Tate huffed out another sigh. She didn’t have a choice concerning Harwell—she had to make the best of it, but she was damn sure going to show all the guys she was capable of detective third grade because she deserved it, just like she earned her stripes as detective second grade.
Tate crossed the room and entered the bathroom, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. She brushed her teeth, ran a brush through her long auburn locks, and pulled it into a ponytail with a scrunchie she’d found on the messy counter.
When she saw her reflection in the mirror, a groan escaped her lips. The bloodshot eyes against the emerald green color of her pupils stared back at her and resembled a Christmas wreath. And the bags underneath, from lack of sleep, didn’t do anything for her face either.
Her fingertips pushed on the skin as if the pressure would release the puffiness and make the swelling go down. Vanity was still evident even at this hour of the morning. Her finger flipped off the light.
She eyed the pile of clothes that were folded in a neat stack on the chair, slipped on her under garments and pulled a clean T-shirt over her head, removing her long hair out from under the neckband, and then stepped into a pair of jeans. A glance around her small studio apartment made her wonder when she would ever have enough time off from work to clean the mess. Another groan escaped her lips. The stack of clothes would have to sit for another day.
Still groggy, Tate walked to the nightstand and removed her Glock from the drawer, and checked the chamber to see if she’d remembered to load it the night before. Night before? Hell, it had only been a few hours since she’d gone to bed. She released another groan, and reached for her shoulder holster draped over her bedpost, and slipped her two arms through the loops. Before snapping the holster into place, she checked the ammo carrier, and snapped the stays around her belt. Her eyes took one last scan around her apartment to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, and she was out the door.
A warm breeze brushed against her face when she hit the outdoors, and she wished for cooler weather. The thickness of the humidity hovered overhead as though ready to burst out of its cocoon. Zac Gerard smiled when she walked outside, his body propped up against the unmarked car, one ankle crossed over the other, a smirk spread across his handsome face, and a large container of coffee in his outstretched hand. She accepted the coffee as she passed on her way to the car.
The tight T-shirt he wore, showcasing his lean chest, deserved a second glance. But so did his other attributes, like his thick, dark wavy hair that rested on his collar, the stubble on his chin against his bronzed tan, and those piercing hazel eyes that made her shudder every time he gazed into hers. Yeah, those eyes were something all right. They made her feel as though he was digging into the very core of her being. She jerked her head away refusing involvement with another partner. It wasn’t worth the aggravation. Of course, there was no harm in dreaming.
“You made it Jesse James.”
She sipped the coffee through the hole in the lid of the container. Hearing him call her Jesse James always made her smile and reminded her of how she gained the moniker early on in her career when she was a uniformed cop. Anxious to prove she was one of the guys in the male dominated precinct, the opportunity presented itself during a night watch at the Lincoln Tunnel when two guys, armed with double-barreled sawed-off shotguns, ran across the Plaza and into the Tower behind her. Scared to death, she knew it was either she or they, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to bow out of the game. She crept up behind them and pulled out her gun, holding them at bay until backup arrived. Ever since then, she was known as the gun slinging, Jesse James.
“Thanks.”
“Want to drive?” Zac asked.
“Only if you want to get into an accident. After I finish my coffee, maybe.” She opened the passenger’s side of the vehicle, and slid across the seat, holding her container of coffee in her left hand, while buckling her seat belt with the other.
“I figured I’d better bring you some kind of peace offering after interrupting your beauty rest.” His devilish grin accentuated the deep dimples in his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled like gemstones.
“Yeah, I can see the tears running down your cheeks.” She shook her head, and changed the subject. “Who called the homicide in?”
“Your favorite sergeant, Tip Jackson. He was first on the scene after dispatch got the call from a biker going through the park.”
“A biker in Central Park at this hour of the morning?” Her eyebrows creased. “How long did Jackson wait to contact us?” She fired one question after another, like it was an interrogation. When Zac didn’t respond immediately, and simply stared directly at her, she tossed her hand in the air. “What?”
“As a matter of fact, I believe it was right away,” Zac said.
“And, how the hell did the biker see a dead body in the dark? Was it under a street light?”
"Whoa, slow down, Jesse,” he said, and reached over to pat the top of her hand. “You’re getting yourself all fired up over here. Two witnesses were in the park and found the body. They didn’t have a cell phone, so they did the next best thing—stopped a biker and asked him to call 911.” He gave her a side-glance; his eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “What’s the matter, I’m not talking fast enough for you?” He snickered. “I know your head’s not in the same place as mine right now, but I’ll get to it if you’ll give me a chance.”
“Only nut jobs,” she scowled, “would visit the park at this hour?”
“Dispatch said the couple, who claim they were out watching the stars . . . probably more like screwing in the bushes . . . fell over the body.”
“Who doesn’t carry a cell phone with them today?”
“Ah, Tate . . . probably naked people . . . screwing in the bushes.” He grinned at her impatience. “You’re a piece of work this morning.” He chuckled. “Boy, that’s just how I want my marriage to be; out watching the stars, or out in the bushes with my wife. Yeah,” he grinned, “that’s definitely what I want.”
“Are you kidding me? You? Married? You’re in and out of too many beds to ever settle down with one woman.” She grinned when she recounted how many women he’d talked about over the last month.
“I don’t tell tales out of school.”
“I wasn’t asking, hot shot” she countered, and downed a swig of coffee.
“Lighten up, will you?” His eyes narrowed in a frown. “What’s eating you?”
“Nothing, Gerard. You woke me up out of a sound sleep, on my only freakin’ day of the week. How am I supposed to act?”
He jerked his head toward her. “This isn’t the first time you’ve gotten a call from me in the middle of the night. What’s so different about this?”
Tate held her hand up to shut down the conversation and closed her eyes resting her head against the seat. Zac was right, she needed to back off and take a deep breath. Taking her anger out on him was uncalled for, but the thought of going back to Bow Bridge, the place where bad memories existed, made her cringe.
