Crossfire (31 page)

‘‘Ms. Valentine?’’

The new receptionist, the third this month—what the hell was her name? Pammi? Patsy?—stopped Valentine as she arrived back at the station.

She’d done her stand-up as near to the pumps as allowed at the gas station. And another across the street from the spa. While she would have liked to get closer, the cops had taped the crime scene off, searching for clues.

Good luck, she’d thought. So far the entire task force had been doing a bang-up job.

Now she needed to run through some voice-overs for the six p.m. newscast.

‘‘What is it . . . Patty?’’ That was it!

‘‘You received a package today.’’

After buzzing her and Joe Gannon—who’d been like a silent shadow all damn day—through the double doors, the receptionist, Patty, handed Valentine a white florist’s box. Dodging her bodyguard’s attempt to grab it from her, she carried it into the newsroom.

Which was, as always, chaotic. Cardboard coffee cups littered desktops, phones were jangling off the hook, and writers were hunkered over their computer keyboards, madly typing away as the evening deadline approached.

When Valentine had first arrived at the station, after walking away from her lucrative job and swanky digs in Manhattan, Talmadge Townsend IV had offered her not only her own hairdresser and makeup person but her own private office as well.

All of which she’d turned down. If she’d wanted the celebrity perks, she would’ve stayed in New York. What she’d wanted was to remember what it had felt like to be a working reporter. And, even more important, after Iraq she’d wanted to do that reporting somewhere she didn’t have to worry about people she’d come to care about being blown up by IEDs.

She put the florist box down on the metal desk that was one of many shoved into the crowded newsroom, only to have it scooped up by Gannon.

‘‘Let me,’’ he said.

‘‘It’s only flowers.’’

‘‘You sure of that?’’

When memories of a Hummer being blown apart reverberated in her mind, Valentine put her hands up and backed away.

‘‘Be my guest,’’ she said, knowing that as annoying as she’d found the former homicide detective today, if he died trying to protect her, she’d never forgive herself.

She watched as he untied the red satin ribbon. Held her breath as he lifted the top off the box, revealing half a dozen perfect crimson American Beauty roses nestled on a bed of white tissue paper.

She was reaching for the small white envelope tucked into the dark greenery when he caught her hand.

‘‘Let me.’’ He paused. ‘‘I don’t suppose you happen to have any tweezers?’’

‘‘Not on me.’’ Talk about overkill. They were only flowers. And the envelope was standard florist’s fare, too small to hold a tarot card. ‘‘But Sunny, the makeup woman, probably does.’’

She did.

With a deftness that Valentine suspected came from his years of collecting evidence at homicide scenes, Joe Gannon opened the envelope and pulled out the card.

‘‘ ‘Dear Valentine,’ ’’ he read aloud. ‘‘ ‘While these roses can’t begin to equal your beauty, I hope you’ll enjoy them. There are six. One for each of the people who’ll die today. I suspect that little coincidence will prove appealing to the network brass, who’ll undoubtedly give you your own sniper special . . . Love, your most loyal fan.’ ’’

Because she felt on the verge of fainting, just as Kristin Davis had done earlier in the day, Valentine sank into the chair behind her desk as Joe took out his cell phone and called the task force.

It was worse than Cait could have imagined in her worst nightmares. Moments after she received Joe’s call about the flowers, the report about the shooting at the ferry terminal crackled across the police airwaves.

Three tourists had been mowed down after a day of sightseeing on Swann Island.

Making a total of six murders in a single day.

‘‘At least, if the note in the flowers can be believed, he’s done. For now,’’ Quinn, who’d stayed by her side all day, said.

‘‘ ‘For now’ is the definitive statement,’’ she said. ‘‘God.’’

She scrubbed both her hands down her face. A few hours ago she was scorching the sheets with this man. Now she was looking at six bodies. Seven, counting the guy in the trunk of the burned-out Altima.

‘‘I’m sorry about having to leave you tomorrow,’’ he said.

‘‘Don’t worry about it. My mother is a lovely woman, but she’s an unrepentant matchmaker and can run over you like a velvet bulldozer if you let her.’’

Her embarrassment regarding her mother’s behavior at the academy had almost flown her mind, replaced by far more vital issues. Such as how the hell were they going to catch this psycho? Before he killed again?

‘‘She wants her daughter to be happy,’’ he said mildly. ‘‘Can’t blame her for that. And I’d be happy to go to your niece’s baptism party. But I got a call while you were setting up the defensive perimeter with your partner. Seems something’s come up.’’

There was a stress in his voice she’d never heard before. A little surprised, she looked up at him.

‘‘An emergency?’’

‘‘Of sorts,’’ he said. ‘‘But nothing I can’t deal with. And I’ll definitely be back by tomorrow night.’’

She hated to admit the rush of relief that statement gave her. Because the truth was, she had the sinking feeling that things with this shooter were going to get a lot worse before they got better. And Quinn had definitely been right when he’d said sex was a great stress reliever.

Though it was more than that.

The absolute truth was that she felt better when she was with him.

Ignoring the fact that her behavior was totally unprofessional, she linked her fingers with his.

‘‘I’m glad,’’ she said, ‘‘that you’ll be back.’’

As if oblivious to the crime scene experts buzzing around them, Quinn bent his head and touched his mouth to hers.

‘‘I’m glad,’’ he said, ‘‘that you’re glad.’’

The kiss was quick. Light. But it still managed to make Cait feel as if he’d lit a candle in the icy darkness the shooter had created inside her.

‘‘I can’t believe this,’’ Valentine murmured, much, much later that night.

Although she’d wanted to run home and hide beneath the covers, she’d managed to get through the six o’clock and the eleven o’clock newscasts with both Joe and Brendan—who’d shut the pub early again— watching over her.

Now she was home, sipping her second glass of wine while wrapped in the Irishman’s protective embrace.

‘‘Murder isn’t usual for Somersett,’’ he agreed.

‘‘It’s because of me.’’

She took another sip and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Usually she found pleasure in the night view of the brightly lit bridge and dinner cruise ships, but in her mind’s eye she was seeing all of today’s bodies and, even worse, a Humvee in flames, viewed from the air as the military plane had flown her safely out of Baghdad International Airport.

‘‘It’s not the first time people have died because of me.’’

‘‘Now isn’t that talking foolishness?’’ He brushed a kiss against her hair. ‘‘Even if the man has fixated on you, these killings are in no way your fault.’’

‘‘Have you ever wondered why I left New York?’’

‘‘I assumed you wanted a change of scenery. Something, given that I moved here from Ireland myself, I could certainly understand.’’

He drew her a little closer. Nuzzled her neck. ‘‘I assumed that if there was more to your reasoning, you’d be telling me when you were ready.’’

‘‘You don’t push.’’

It was one of the things, along with his friendship and absolute steadfastness, she’d come to love about him. That and, although it might be shallow, the fact that he was one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen.

‘‘We Irish are not only a tenacious race, we can be patient. When it serves our purpose.’’

‘‘I was in Iraq on assignment. Although things had grown increasingly worse since I’d first been embedded during Shock and Awe, for some reason I never felt at risk. It was as if all that death and carnage couldn’t touch me.’’

‘‘And can’t I identify with that?’’ he murmured as he took a sip of the whiskey he’d poured for himself.

She looked up at him, surprised, and was about to ask him what he meant, when he merely touched his fingertips to her cheek.

‘‘Go on,’’ he said.

It was not the first time she’d gotten the impression there was more to Brendan O’Neill than the easygoing, sexy pub owner persona he showed to the world. But since she’d already begun to share her dark and painful secret, Valentine was determined to get it out.

‘‘We were warned to stay in the Green Zone. But since access to real Iraqis was too limited, all the reports coming out of there, at least to me, were sounding the same. I’m ashamed, looking back on it, that I wanted more. I wanted to stand out. I had a reputation of being one of the most fearless war reporters— man or woman—to protect.’’

‘‘There’s no harm in ambition.’’

‘‘No. Not unless it puts others at risk.’’ Because it still hurt, she tossed back the rest of the wine.

‘‘Would you like a refill?’’

‘‘What, and get falling-down drunk and have you witnessing a crying jag?’’

The odd thing was, she hadn’t been able to cry. The pain had cut so deep and so harsh, she feared that if she let it out, she would never be able to stop the flow.

‘‘I wouldn’t be minding.’’

‘‘You know,’’ she said, seeing the truth in his eyes, ‘‘I actually believe that.’’

‘‘I’m not saying I haven’t lied in my past,’’ he said. He brushed his thumb lightly along the smudges beneath her eyes that revealed a lack of sleep. ‘‘But we’re talking about you,’’ he coaxed.

‘‘There was a group of soldiers at Camp Victory. That’s this base that sort of sprawls around the airport.’’

‘‘I’ve heard of it.’’

‘‘Most of them were so young. They could have been my baby brothers, but they took me under their wing and drove me places around the city that no sane person probably should’ve gone.’’

‘‘I watched those reports. With my heart in my throat for you, thinking you were the bravest woman I’d ever seen.’’

‘‘Or the most careless.’’

‘‘It’s a thin line at times. Between courage and carelessness.’’ Again, she had the oddest feeling that he knew what he was talking about.

‘‘I was on my way back, with letters they’d written to their families. And videotapes I’d made. One young corporal’s wife had just given birth to a baby. The other men had made this big congratulations sign for him. Everyone in his unit had signed it. I was taking it home to his wife and new daughter.’’

A lump rose painfully, familiarly, in her throat. As she tried to swallow it back down again, he merely rested his chin on the top of her head and remained silent. Giving her the time she needed to collect herself. To share the most painful memory of her life.

‘‘They have to take this special maneuver going in and out of the airport because of all the rocket attacks.’’

‘‘A corkscrew,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve seen it described.’’

Yes. He would have. Because she’d been one of the hotshot foreign correspondents reporting on it.

‘‘Although I was advised against it because of the possibility of attacks, I was watching out the window. I could see the Humvee leaving the tarmac, headed back to camp. I knew they couldn’t see me, but I was waving good-bye anyway as they turned onto the roadway.’’

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘‘One minute the Humvee full of young men I’d come to think of as my friends was there.’’ She began to tremble. ‘‘Then there was a huge blast that shook the plane.’’ How was it that she could still feel the heat from that blast, even now, but still felt so cold? ‘‘And then they were gone.’’

She closed her eyes. Which didn’t prevent her from seeing the scene.

‘‘If they hadn’t been there. On that road. At that time. Because of me . . .’’

A sob pushed its way past the lump in her throat as he took her into his arms, holding her close. She buried her face in his shirt and allowed the tears she’d held back for so long to begin to flow.

And all the while he was murmuring words in his native tongue, words she couldn’t understand but that she knew were meant to comfort. Which they did.

Finally, all cried out, she pulled away. Just a bit.

‘‘Your shirt is soaked.’’

‘‘It’ll dry.’’ He cupped her wet face in his palm, brushing at the tears on her cheeks with his thumb. ‘‘Would you be feeling better now?’’

‘‘I am.’’

She sniffled, then thanked him when he pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket. She’d had no idea men still carried those things around. Then again, there were many things she didn’t know about Brendan O’Neill. Things she wanted to know. Needed to know.

Because, although she’d always thought of herself as a rolling stone, unwilling to settle down long enough to gather moss, she realized that Brendan wasn’t the only one who’d been falling in love over these past months.

‘‘We need to talk,’’ he said, as if reading her mind. ‘‘There are things about me you don’t know.’’

‘‘There are so many things about you I want to know.’’ She managed a wobbly smile through her tears as she felt her once shattered heart beginning to mend. ‘‘But they can wait. Because right now, what I really want, and what I need, is for you to make love to me.’’

He smiled at her. With his wonderful mouth and his warm, liquid blue eyes. ‘‘And here I was beginning to worry you’d never ask.’’