“You okay, Skye?” Hayley reached her slender hand over and patted Skye’s arm. “If you’re too tired to eat, we’ll get our dinners to go and I’ll drive you home.”
“No way!” Skye yanked her thoughts back to where they belonged. “I’m fine,” she said. “Hey, there’s our food.”
The waitress was back with their mostly seafood entrées, and Skye joined in with the good-natured banter and sharing of bites that followed.
But in the back of her mind, she wondered about the man whose life she had snatched from certain death.
What was it about SWAT Officer Trevor Owens that now intrigued her?
Trevor felt as if he’d been run over by one of the Robotic Offensive Bomb vehicles used by the ABPD’s bomb squad.
He lay still and exhausted in his hospital bed, knowing it was only the drugs being sucked into his bloodstream via the IV needle in his arm that kept him from hurting like hell.
The room was tiny, but it was all his. There was no one to fight him for control over the TV mounted overhead, but he didn’t even have enough strength to push a button on the remote. All he could do was wonder how—and why—he’d survived.
He’d thought he was dying. Dead. Killed in the line of duty, protecting the public from a suspect who’d taken down yet another civilian victim and now a cop, too. Danver, damn it! His team leader didn’t deserve that.
Trevor had always figured that would be how he’d go. On his own time, though. Up against a guilty suspect who’d gotten away with murder before Trevor was on him. A suspect about to be stopped from doing it again, even if Trevor had to die to take him down.
But Trevor hadn’t had a chance to do things his way. He’d had to play by the book this time, and what had it gotten him?
Shot in the neck. The kind of wound that’s usually fatal. But he hadn’t died. Instead, he’d heard someone telling him to get his ass in gear and get back to the world of the living.
Then he’d opened his eyes to find that hot blond female K-9 officer staring at him. It seemed as if she was the one hollering in his head to wake up.
Rydell was her name. She was relatively new to the force—not that his guys fraternized much with the rest of the department. He’d met her, seen her around, definitely noticed her. But had he ever talked to her?
Not that he remembered. But—
The phone rang. It was on a little table right beside him, and it took all his concentration to swivel and pick up the receiver. “Yeah?”
“Owens, that you?” It was Greg Blanding, a fellow SWAT officer and Trevor’s closest bud on the force.
“What do you want? You were here only a few minutes ago.”
“Try a few hours ago. And I’m just about to go into the captain’s debriefing about your big show yesterday.”
“Say hi to them all for me.”
“Yeah. Will do.” Blanding sounded as if he was getting misty-eyed. Hell.
“Any word on Marinaro?” Trevor asked gruffly.
“No, but I’ll let you know if I hear of anything at the meeting.”
“Good.” He paused. “We gotta get that SOB.”
“Yeah.” Blanding’s tone was icy now. “Gotta run. I’ll call again later. You okay?”
“Sure, if feeling like my neck’s been run over by an R.O.B. vehicle is okay.”
Blanding laughed. “Got it. Talk to you soon.”
“Hey, do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“That K-9 officer, Rydell? If she’s at the meeting, tell her I need to talk to her. Right away.”
“Why?”
Damned if he knew. But it felt urgent. Like his life depended on it.
He had to give Blanding some explanation. “She must be my lucky charm. I opened my eyes after I was shot, and what did I see? Her face.”
“Not a bad face, either,” Blanding said, sounding as if he was getting all worked up just thinking about Rydell.
“Go screw yourself, Blanding. And her, too.” Now, why the hell had he said that? It only made him wild to think his friend might even consider getting it on with that gorgeous, sexy woman whom he now had one hell of an urge to talk to.
“I’ll leave that to you, sir,” Blanding said with a laugh as he hung up.
Blanding’s remark peeved Trevor even more, but it gave him a sudden surge of strength, which made it possible for him to pick up the remote and push the button to turn on the TV news.
“Easy,” Skye whispered to Bella, whose head kept turning as more people entered the roll call room. Captain Boyd Franks had called a late-afternoon debriefing after yesterday’s warehouse situation. Everyone who’d been on duty yesterday was to attend, except for those patrolling beats right now.
Skye, still tired but functioning, sat uncomfortably on a chair at the end of a row. She had chosen a place in the middle of the room, which was now filled with the pulsing hum of dozens of conversations.
Ron slipped in beside her and lifted his hand in greeting to a couple of the guys.
It looked like her pal was fitting in well—maybe even better than she was even though she’d been in Angeles Beach for about eight months. Skye hadn’t spent a lot of time getting to know her fellow cops. Getting too chummy with them might make it harder to do what she had to, when she had to do it.
Bella whined, and Ron gave her a rough pat. “How you doin’, girl?”
Skye smiled. “Her or me?”
“Both.”
As the rush of people into the room slowed, Captain Franks took his place at the wooden dais at the front. Skye guessed he was nearing retirement age, with silver hair adorning a long face whose dourness and deep wrinkles suggested he’d experienced plenty of bad stuff in his time with the department. He wore a lot of stripes along the arm of his blue uniform, each signifying five years of service.
“Listen up,” he bellowed to get everyone’s attention. The buzzing stopped abruptly. “Thanks. We’re here to go over the events at that auto parts warehouse yesterday.”
“How’s Owens?” shouted someone near the front of the room.
Skye’s heart started to race.
“Wanna give us an update, Blanding?” Franks called, looking into the sea of uniforms seated in front of him.
“I visited him at the hospital, just talked to him, too. The guy’s one tough bird. Most of the bullets hit his vest, but one got him above it, in the neck. Don’t know how, but it managed not to do a whole lot of damage. He’ll be sore for a while, but he’ll be okay.”
A cheer erupted throughout the room, and Skye joined in. She was as pleased as anyone that Owens would survive. Maybe more than most. She knew exactly how the bullet failed to do permanent damage, but she wasn’t about to mention it.
“Let’s not forget about Danver,” Captain Franks said, pouring icy water onto their brief celebration. A low, grief-filled rumble ensued.
“When’s the funeral?” called someone.
“Next week. We need enough time to make sure everyone who wants to get here can make it.” The captain’s voice rasped now, and Skye again felt tears rush to her eyes.
She’d done what she had to and made dying at least a little easier for Danver.
But it still hurt, and she hardly even knew him.
“Anyone spotted Marinaro?” someone else shouted. The rumble turned into a roar of fury.
“Not yet,” the captain admitted. He looked as enraged as everyone else in the crowded room. “But we’ll get him.”
Shouts of agreement echoed off the walls.
For a short while, the captain went over what was being done to track the suspect. A special team was being formed to follow up on any leads—assuming some came in.
The person who’d called in with the initial tip that had led them to the warehouse had apparently disappeared. It wasn’t clear whether she’d fled in fear…or whether Marinaro had found her first.
Soon, the meeting adjourned, and rows of uniformed officers filed out, rumbling and swatting each other on the arms, obviously glad to be alive despite their anger about their fallen comrade.
“You on duty this evening?” Ron asked as they waited for the others in their row to leave. “I am—I’m patrolling downtown.”
“No, soon as I finish my report Bella and I are through for the day.” She needed to rest. This meeting had made Skye feel…well, helpless—as if she’d initiated something important, yet left it undone.
It wasn’t up to Bella and her to locate Marinaro now, yet she itched to find the suspect and bring him down.
“You okay, Skye?” Ron asked.
“Just fine,” she said. “I was only thinking of what the captain said, and wondering how, with all of us around like that, Marinaro was able to get away.”
“You’re not the only one,” Ron said, straightening in his uniform.
They’d reached the end of their row. Ron edged out first, but as Skye and Bella started to leave, their way was suddenly blocked.
SWAT Officer Greg Blanding stood there, his shaved head emphasizing the breadth of his slightly misshapen nose. “Skye, hope you don’t mind, but I have a special request for you.”
And when he told her what it was, she worked hard to maintain a straight face and nonchalant air despite the inappropriate cartwheels her insides had started to turn.
“Sure,” she said. “I’m just happy Officer Owens survived. And I’d be glad to visit him in the hospital.”
Chapter 3
“Want me to come with you, Skye?” Ron asked as they walked out of the roll call room door with Bella.
“Hey, Gollar, joining us for dinner?” one of the other guys called, punching his shoulder good-naturedly. “Your turn to buy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like you need it.” Ron grinned at the taller and rounder cop.
The other guy was also smiling. “I’ll let you try to beat me up one of these days.” He went on ahead.
“I’ll be fine on my own,” Skye told Ron. “It looks like you have things to do.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Enjoy your dinner.”
“Right. And you enjoy your handiwork.” Ron looked a little wistful. He was a good guy, with a deep sense of right and wrong. Too bad he had to save lives the ordinary way.
Skye led Bella back toward the area in the station that contained their cubicle. She didn’t have the time, or the inclination, to break for a meal. She was thinking too much about her impending visit to Trevor Owens’s hospital room.
But she couldn’t go immediately, and not just because she had to finish the report detailing her perspective on what happened yesterday. She had research to do. She couldn’t exactly ask Owens what he was thinking when she brought him back from the dead or what made him so determined to survive. But she could arm herself with at least a little knowledge before going to see him.
“Come on, Bella.” She led her companion out to the parklike fenced-in training area. The weather was Southern California perfect. The sun was shining, and it smelled…well, green and a little salty from the nearby Pacific.
She let Bella run for a few minutes but she stayed still, conserving her energy. They were soon joined by three more members of the ABPD K-9 unit, guys with young, eager German shepherds who engaged Bella in roughhousing while Skye and her fellow humans cheered them on.
“You were at that warehouse yesterday.” Ken Vesco was a by-the-book cop, an African-American who was friendly with Skye despite chiding her now and then about not treating Bella enough like a dog. “I wish to hell they’d called me back on duty, but Bandit and I had already worked ten hours.”
“I doubt there was more you or any of the other guys could have done,” Skye said. She’d been the only K-9 handler there at the time. “Bella picked up the scent in the warehouse, but by the time she followed it outside to the parking lot the suspect was already gone.”
“The bastard shot two cops,” Curt Tritt said through uneven, gritted teeth. His dog was Storm.
“I want to be in on it when there’s something else to go on,” tall, thin Manny Igoa added. “Rusty and I’ll help bring him down.”
“Bella and me, too.” Sure, Skye had taken on responsibilities in law enforcement for reasons far different from most of her compatriots’, but she always wanted to do a good job with her regular duties—not to mention those that her fellow officers would consider quite irregular.
The others were still playing when she called Bella to go inside. She led her dog into the bull pen of cubicles shared by the K-9 team—a bunch of desks and file cabinets roughly organized in one moderate-sized room. She sat at her desk, told Bella “down” and booted up her computer.
As soon as she’d filled out her report on yesterday’s warehouse incident, she opened the nonconfidential part of the ABPD employee files and looked up Trevor Owens.
And got a jolt. The guy had been with the department for nearly seven years. During that time he’d been in four officer-involved shootings besides yesterday’s. In all the others, the suspect had also apparently fired first, and Owens returned fire in self-defense. Each time but this one, the suspect had died.
The Force Investigation Division had cleared Owens of any wrongdoing. That’s all that was listed there—no specifics regarding any event or its review. The more detailed reports remained confidential, and although Skye might have been able to access them, she wasn’t officially entitled to. Plus, if she opened them, it might raise a red flag. She couldn’t do that. Her survival here depended on her remaining low-key, under the radar.
She soon left for the day with Bella and with more questions raised than answered.
After Skye showered and changed into comfortable jeans and a blue denim shirt, she walked and fed Bella. Then, leaving Bella at home, Skye drove her own car to the Angeles Beach Medical Center.
She asked at the information desk for the room number. After exiting the elevator on the correct floor and walking to his room, she paused. What the hell was she doing there?
Accepting an invitation from a downed officer, she reminded herself. Plus…satisfying her curiosity, if only a little.
Still, she hesitated at the door. Then she rapped and walked in.
The room’s sole occupant was sitting up in bed. “Hello, Officer Owens,” she said. “I’m Skye Rydell. I was told you wanted to see me.”
“Come in.” His voice was hoarse but wasn’t weak or pained the way someone who’d recently been so near death might be expected to sound. That didn’t surprise Skye.
His bed was raised, supporting his back as he sat straight up. He wore the kind of faded green cotton hospital wrap that made most people look ill. But despite the slight pastiness to his face, he looked healthy and tan. His sleeves were pushed up to his wide shoulders, framing impressive biceps.
As she looked at him, those brown eyes she recognized, deep and steady, met hers. A little embarrassed to be caught assessing him, she smiled uncomfortably. “You look like you’re recuperating okay,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Like shit.” His voice cleared as if he’d intentionally thrust away its former hoarseness. “But a whole lot better than when they brought me in. I’ve seen you around, you know, but I almost didn’t recognize you without your dog.”
That evoked a genuine smile from her. “And I almost didn’t recognize you without your assault rifle.”
His laugh, deep and sexy, filled the room. “Have a seat.” He motioned to a chair, and she complied.
“So…why am I here?” She studied the way the guy’s prominent cheekbones underscored the eyes that so defined his face. The artificial light radiating from a bar above the bed’s headboard revealed a hint of auburn in his sable-brown hair. Beard stubble shadowed his taut cheeks and emphasized a cleft in his strong chin. Definitely one good-looking cop, especially this close up.
“I was told you were there when I was wounded, weren’t you?”
“Outside,” she replied. “We came into the warehouse—Bella and I—when you were already down.”
“Yeah, after Danver was hit.” He sounded offended, as if the death was a personal affront. There was a bleakness in his eyes and the set of his mouth that stirred Skye.
She couldn’t exactly tell him she’d communicated with his fellow SWAT officer, helped him peacefully to the other side. “It was really terrible,” she confirmed. “But at least you’ll be okay.”
“But the bastard who did this got away.”
That was obviously on a lot of cops’ minds.
“He won’t get away with it,” she said with certainty.
“Yeah.” Trevor’s grim expression suggested he would see to it himself.
Was he going to get caught up in another officer-involved shooting? Was the goal she’d sensed in him as he lay dying to right this wrong by committing a wrong himself?
She shuddered. Maybe she had made a mistake after all. Her intent, as always, was to help those who needed—and deserved—it. Was this police officer a loose cannon who would kill a suspect first and ask questions later? But he had been cleared of wrongdoing in those past shootings. There was no reason to think he would kill anyone, even Marinaro.
Even so, she had a sudden urge to leave, to never see him again.
Won’t happen, taunted a perverse voice inside her. They were both part of the ABPD. They’d see each other around.
Well…okay. Good, in fact. No matter what, she was intrigued by him—wanted to understand his side of those shootings and why she had such a strong sense of connection when she saved him.
“Did you say anything to me then?” he asked. “I mean, when you saw me on the floor. I can’t remember a whole lot that happened then, but I remember seeing you, and I thought I heard you say something.”
“I don’t think so.” It wasn’t a lie. She hadn’t said anything…aloud. And only she heard her internal voices.
At least no one she had ever saved in the past had mentioned them. But, then again, she’d hardly been able to ask any of them—any more than she could ask Officer Trevor Owens.
There are other things you could learn from him, that same internal voice taunted. Like his apparent intense desire to get the bad guy?
Or just desire.
She felt herself flush from uneasiness…and sexual attraction. And as their eyes caught again, there was more that made her uncomfortably warm.
No way could Trevor Owens know that she had restored him to life…or could he?
Trevor knew for sure now that he was still alive.
Her slim, coplike yet gracefully curvy form and her intoxicating scent made him ache. He wanted this woman.
Yeah, as if your body could follow through right now.
She was interested, too. He could tell from the look on her face. But Trevor knew Officer Skye Rydell was lying about something.
What? And why?
He studied her.
He liked seeing her in civilian clothes and with loose hair. He wondered what women called that shade of blond—or those shades. It was streaked—some strands were almost white, though most were several shades darker. She usually wore it pulled back and fastened behind her neck as required by the department. With it loose, she looked even more female.
Being so close to her let him get a good look at her gorgeous face—smooth, with a perfectly shaped if slightly long nose and lips that, even without lipstick, were pink and full and suggested slow, hot kisses at midnight on a deserted local beach.
The pale denim blue of her shirt deepened the blue of her eyes. Those eyes…One of the few things he remembered from when he was lying on the floor was looking up into those intense eyes and feeling as if they were lifting him back to life.
But it wasn’t only the way she’d looked at him that he remembered.
When he was barely conscious, he had the odd sensation that he shared something with her. Something vital. Hallucinations by a guy close to death? Sure. What else could it be?
“You’re sure you didn’t say anything?” he finally asked again.
Something different—perhaps embarrassment?—passed across her face.
She might be a liar, but she wasn’t a very good one.
But why lie about something so trivial?
“You didn’t look very well, so I might have murmured some good wishes or a prayer or something like that.”
Something like that. But what?
“Well, anyway, I asked Greg Blanding to call you for me. I figured I’d thank you.”
For what? Hell, he didn’t know. If things had gone as he’d assumed at the time, he wouldn’t have seen this woman, or anyone else, ever again.
“I can’t imagine why, but you’re welcome.”
“They say I won’t be out of here for a few days.”
“I’m sure they want to make certain you’re all right,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t want to tire you out.” She rose.
He wanted her to stay. “I’m fine. Honest. If you sit back down, I’ll tell you my life story.”
She laughed. “If I sit back down, I’ll tell you my life story, and then you’ll be so bored you’ll sleep till they let you out of here.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“No, really, I have to go. Bella’s waiting at home.”
“Your dog? She’s great.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Will you come see me again?” Damn. He sounded like a begging wuss who’d never seen a pretty woman before. “I mean, I’d like your view of what happened. How that SOB got away with all of us there.”
“I imagine you’ll get a better perspective from your fellow SWAT team members,” she said, appearing puzzled.
“Yeah, but I figured a K-9 officer’s ideas would be interesting.”
“Well…I’m sure I’ll see you around once you’re back on active duty.”
She’d reached the door and was almost out. Almost gone. But he knew there was something more, something she could—should—tell him that was critical to what had happened to him.
He’d thought he was dead. He survived. She wouldn’t be able to tell him more about it…would she?
“I’ll see you before then,” he called after her. “You can count on it.”
Chapter 4
Three days had passed since the incident.
Skye was sitting in her cubicle with Bella before starting their assignments for the day and thinking about how frayed everyone’s nerves remained—especially since there had been no breakthrough in their hunt for the suspect, Marinaro.
On top of that, the Force Investigation Division was not inclined to let much time elapse between the officer-involved shootings and their incisive debriefings that also played havoc with everyone’s psyches.
Her interview was in five minutes.
Relax, she ordered herself. It wouldn’t be too bad. The FID was speaking with all members of the ABPD who’d been deployed to the site that day. Since they wanted as complete a story as possible, the FID representatives had to talk to everyone, even those who couldn’t contribute much to the description of what had happened.
They would assume that included her, so how detailed could they be? It wasn’t as if they had any inkling about her real role that day in the aftermath of the officer-involved shootings.
“Come on, Bella,” she told her partner, who was alert, as always, to her every move. “I’ll let you hang out with the other dogs while I’m busy.”
Tritt and Vesco were outside conducting an informal training session with their K-9 partners Storm and Bandit. They agreed to include Bella in their lesson, which gave Skye a little relief as she trudged back inside the station. She took the stairs to the top floor, the sixth, where the brass had their offices.
One small conference room had been commandeered by the FID for their interviews. In the hallway, Skye straightened her uniform and touched the back of her head where her hair was pulled into its usual clip. Then she knocked on the wood frame of the door that surrounded panels of frosted glass.
“Come in,” called a voice from inside.
She opened the door and hesitated. Three people sat around the table: Captain Boyd Franks, Lieutenant Theresa Agnew—who, though only in her mid-forties, was the head of the FID—and civilian member John Correy. Skye had met them all before—and had hoped never to face them in an official inquiry.
