Cavanaugh Hero. Marie Ferrarella
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‘As tempting as that might be,’ Declan told her, ‘I’m speaking as the primary on this case, not as someone who’s attracted to you.’
Charley’s eyes widened. Was that another slip of the tongue? Or …? ‘Are you?’ she heard herself asking. At least, it sounded like her voice, although for the life of her, Charley couldn’t have said where her question had come from.
The parking lot was deserted. The skeleton crew that was on duty had found parking in the front of the building. There was no one else in the immediate vicinity, no vehicles passing by. No one, he was acutely aware, to see them.
‘No,’ Declan answered, threading his fingers through her hair just before he cupped the back of Charley’s head. The words slipped from his lips in a hushed breath before he lowered his mouth to hers and did what he realized he’d been wanting to do since the first time he’d laid eyes on her seven years ago.
Cavanaugh
Hero
Marie Ferrarella
A USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author, MARIE FERRARELLA has written more than two hundred books for Mills & Boon, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website, www.marieferrarella.com.
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To all the readers who have been following the Cavanaughs since the first book and have asked for more.
Contents
Prologue
The gunshot was muffled deliberately, the extension on the end of the gun barrel all but silencing the scream of the bullet. A bullet that ended a life in less than a heartbeat.
One minute the inebriated, off-duty police officer on the sofa was looking up with those pathetic, puppy-dog eyes, talking about some little two-bit who had strung him along; the next, he wasn’t talking at all and those puppy-dog eyes weren’t looking at anything anymore.
The cop never knew what hit him, the shooter thought with satisfaction. He certainly hadn’t been expecting it, which was the whole point. The liquor had done its job, lulling the cop into a sense of complacency.
The shooter relished every millisecond of the bullet’s flight upon release. Relished even more the irreversible damage done by that bullet once it buried itself in the intended target’s flesh.
The shooter watched in captivated fascination as the last bit of light—and life—left Sergeant Matthew Holt’s gray eyes.
And within the shooter’s head, the sound of the discharging weapon had roared its presence, declaring its mission to be accomplished.
Justice.
Nothing short of justice had been carried out. A death had been avenged.
Vengeance doesn’t only belong to God, but to me, as well.
“That’ll teach you,” the shooter said, addressing the blue-clad man on the sofa, the man with opened eyes that could no longer see.
The smile widened along the thin lips, a smile that not only represented triumph over what had just happened, but also saw into the future and relished the deaths that were to be.
“Don’t worry,” the shooter said to the dead man who lay sprawled on his once-white sectional sofa. “You’re not going to be alone for long. You’ll have a whole lot of company before I’m through.”
The cold, heartless smile spread even wider in barely contained anticipation. That was all there was left to live for these days.
Anticipation.
And revenge.
“Might even get crowded up there before I’m through.”
The shooter laughed, envisioning the carnage. And then, just as suddenly, the laughter ceased, vanishing as if it had never existed at all.
Sergeant Holt’s executioner took out an eight-by-ten sheet of paper that had carefully cut-out letters pasted on it, pristine letters that didn’t have even a smudge of fingerprints on them, thanks to the disposable plastic gloves on the shooter’s hands. The gloves were as antiseptic as any that were hospital-issued.