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Risking It All
Beverly Bird
This was the case that could make or break Grace Simkanian's career as a defense attorney, but her client, Aidan McKenna, wasn't making it easy for her.The charming cop enjoyed provoking and challenging her - inspiring emotions that were anything but professional. Grace was determined to win this case, but would she lose her heart in the process? Framed for extortion and set on proving his innocence, Aidan was forced to depend on the sleek, sophisticated Grace to help him find out who was behind the frame-up.His lady lawyer was pure temptation, and he yearned to set her cool demeanor on fire. But would putting his trust in Grace ultimately be Aidan's downfall?
“In. Out,” Aiden said.
“What?” Grace gasped the word, and suddenly he could feel her trembling under his touch. Oh, man, he thought. Beautiful, mysterious and trembling.
“Inhale, exhale,” he explained. “That’s what I meant.”
“I’m breathing,” she retorted.
“Not well. And your pulse is going off like a machine gun.”
“What kind of mind uses machine guns in an analogy?”
He tightened his grip on her wrist. “Maybe a criminal mind,” he suggested. “Maybe dark characters excite you.”
“Go to hell.”
“I might, for what I’m thinking about doing to you right now. You know, there are only so many miles of legs, so much dark hair, a man can stand.” That did it.
She wrenched away from him.
He really rattled her, he realized, and he didn’t understand why. All this mystery was going to make for one very long night.
Dear Reader,
This is definitely a month to celebrate, because Kathleen Korbel is back! This award-winning, bestselling author continues the saga of the Kendall family with Some Men’s Dreams, a journey of the heart that will have you smiling through tears as you join Gen Kendall in meeting Dr. Jack O’Neill and his very special daughter, Elizabeth. Run—don’t walk—to the store to get your copy of this genuine keeper.
Don’t miss out on the rest of our books this month, either. Kylie Brant continues THE TREMAINE TRADITION with Truth or Lies, a dicey tale of love on both sides of the law. Then pick up RaeAnne Thayne’s Freefall for a haunting, mysterious, page-turner of a romance. Round out the month with new books by favorites Beverly Bird, who’s Risking It All, and Frances Housden, who’ll introduce you to a Heartbreak Hero, and brand-new author Madalyn Reese, who gives you No Place To Hide from her talented debut.
And, as always, come back again next month, when Silhouette Intimate Moments offers you six more of the best and most exciting romances around.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Editor
Risking It All
Beverly Bird
BEVERLY BIRD
has lived in several places in the United States, but she is currently back where her roots began on an island in New Jersey. Her time is devoted to her family and her writing. She is the author of numerous romance novels, both contemporary and historical. Beverly loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at BvrlyeB@aol.com.
For Don again…. The Title Man.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 1
Aidan McKenna decided that he could easily be provoked into hurting the man who was shoving him down Cell Block Nine of the county prison. One more nudge of that nightstick into the small of his back would do it, he thought, then the bastard did it again.
Aidan stopped walking and the guard ran up his heels. He pivoted and crowded him bodily against a gray brick wall that seemed to have absorbed the decaying odor of all the evil that had passed this way over the years. Every convict down the cell block was rattling the bars of his cage now, hooting and shouting obscenities.
He couldn’t stay here, Aidan thought. “Where are you taking me?”
“The holding cell for now,” the guard answered.
“That’s downstairs. Block One.”
The guard began inching to his left. Aidan looked that way. There was an alarm button on the wall there. He crowded the man harder into the brick to keep him from reaching it. Aidan had an easy twenty pounds on him and most of the guard’s pounds seemed given to fat anyway, so it didn’t take much effort.
“I’m a cop, you idiot,” he warned. “Did you read the paperwork that came in with me? Does the term protective custody mean anything to you? Listen to them!” They knew he was a cop—somehow the inmates always knew. And this was the worst of the bunch. Block Nine was for the hardened criminals waiting to be moved out to the state pen.
The guard’s belligerent expression faltered. “Your paperwork doesn’t say you’re a cop.”
“Look again. What’s my name?”
“Bran Downey.”
“Nope. Listen to them,” Aidan said again. He moved one shoulder in the direction of the cells and all the raucous inmates.
“They know.”
The guard glanced up and down the block, uncertainty putting creases in his expression now. The inmates’ hurled expletives left very little doubt as to Aidan’s identity. The man swore. “I’ll put you downstairs until we straighten this out. But if you’re pulling one on me, Baines is going to have my job.”
“He’s already got mine.” Edward Baines was the chief of police and Aidan was still trying to figure out what part he played in this.
They made a U-turn and went back to the elevator. The calls from the cells grew louder, more vicious. In eleven years on the streets, five in a uniform, six as a detective, Aidan had heard it all and he caught a few phrases now that even he wasn’t familiar with. Then the elevator doors slid shut behind them and sealed them into quiet.
“Call Plattsmier,” Aidan decided as the elevator doors slid open again. Plattsmier was the Robbery-Homicide captain.
“He’ll tell you who I am. If he sounds hinky about IDing me, ask him to check with Fox Whittington.” He had a few buddies in the R-H unit.
They stepped out onto the first floor. The guy pushed him again, this time toward a small temp cell halfway down a wing off the prison lobby. Aidan went in gladly, given the alternative. But he still winced when the bars clanged shut.
Fear was clawing madly in his gut now since he had temporarily fixed his most immediate problem—that of being locked up on Nine with a few guys he may well have put there. If it got out of control, he wouldn’t be able to think past it. Same thing with the image of his parents that kept trying to swim into his mind’s eye. Hell, if they got into the mix, he’d end up comatose with shame and bitterness and regret. Best to keep focused, he decided. Aidan sat down on a cold concrete bench to wait.
Grace Simkanian felt her blood trying to boil as she watched her client smirk at her over his shoulder. “Told you. No sweat,” the kid said as he crossed the courthouse lobby. He was nineteen years old and he still lived at home, had never gone to college or bothered to find gainful employment. His daddy was loaded. He spent his time getting drunk and ramming his Dodge Viper into various city fixtures. The last altercation had been with a fire hydrant.
Grace could not let herself despise him. She was a criminal defense attorney employed by the most prestigious firm in the city. She’d spent a long, arduous and destitute year clerking for the Honorable Lorenzo Castello after she’d finished law school, delaying a decent income by a full twelve months to add that ultrarespectable notch to her belt. She was going to be a judge herself one day. Then she could express her opinion of people who stepped outside the law because it was the easy way. But for now she was stuck with getting them off the hook.
“This latest incident will cost you over three thousand dollars,” Grace said to her client, pushing past him through the lobby doors. “No, wait. Forgive me. I’m wrong. It will be closer to four thousand with the hike in your car insurance.”
“It’ll take the insurance people a year to catch up.” He jogged down the steps.
Let it go, Grace told herself, but a hot little fist punched at her forehead from the inside out. There were days when she really hated her job.
Grace watched the kid cross the street to his car in the municipal lot—a new lemon-yellow Lotus that would probably be wrapped around the Liberty Bell in another two weeks. Then she turned up the street toward the bus stop.
She was almost there when her cell phone started chirping inside her briefcase. She leaned back against a building to fish it out.
“No,” she said into it without greeting. She was so tired parts of her throbbed.
“I beg your pardon?”
Grace swore mildly under her breath. It wasn’t Mandy or Jenny, her confidantes, her pals. It was Dan Lutz, one of the senior partners of her law firm.
“Where are you?” he asked. “I need you to head over to County prison.”
Instinctively Grace looked across the street for the kid who had just left her. He couldn’t possibly have gotten himself into trouble again so fast. Ergo, another of Lutz’s rich college chums had offspring in trouble. Those were the only cases she caught just now. She’d been with Russell and Lutz less than a month.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“His name is Aidan McKenna. Detective Third Grade, Vice, Philadelphia P.D.”
“Who am I supposed to be seeing him about?”
“Himself. They’re holding him in a temp cell over there.”
Her pulse kicked, not just at the usual places but in a chain reaction of little hitches all through her blood. Grace came off the building she was leaning against.
This was big. This was huge.
“And you’re giving it to me?” she asked bluntly.
“Everyone else is tied up with something.”
Either that, she decided, or Lutz thought this McKenna was a no-win case. “Details?” She curled her voice up at the end to turn the single-word demand into a polite question and started to look for a cab.
“They’ve got him up on morality charges, but that’s a departmental mess. His union liaison can deal with it. Our problem is an extortion charge, mob-related.”
Grace waved down a taxi. It hurt to spend the money on one, but there was no help for it. She had to get over to County fast. Her chest was starting to hurt. A cop on the take. This was the lowest of the low in her estimation.
She opened the cab door and dropped down onto the cracked pseudo-leather seat. “I guess he still has plenty of that cash stashed aside if he can afford us.”
“Captain Plattsmier called me and asked me to take him on,” Lutz said without actually answering.
Ah, she thought. Pro bono then, a freebie in the interest of firm-city relations. Now she understood why Lutz was giving it to her. “I’ll handle it.”
She disconnected and sat forward to direct the driver. It was time to go wrestle another loser free of the jaws of justice. But this particular loser would be her ticket out, she decided. When she got this guy off, her earn-her-stripes days of DUI cases and the other minor riffraff at the bottom of the firm’s barrel would be behind her.
Aidan McKenna didn’t know it yet, but she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“Your lawyer’s here,” the guard said.
Aidan jerked off the concrete bench and stood to approach the bars.
“She’s in one of the interrogation rooms now.”
She? There was just enough old-world Irish in him that he frowned briefly at that. He thought of his mother again, born in Killarney, a tough no-nonsense woman who was happiest at a stove.
The guard pulled open the cage door and Aidan stepped through, leaving thoughts of his mother’s face behind in the cell.
“Guess you did something,” the guard said with a little grunt.
“Even if it ain’t murder two. Plattsmier didn’t say to shove you out the door. He got you a mouthpiece instead.”
All that told Aidan was that Plattsmier knew something was going on. He knew that Aidan was being charged with a crime, but he wasn’t going to let him spend a night on Nine for a murder he hadn’t committed. So which side did that put him on?
Aidan didn’t know. It occurred to him that at the moment he didn’t know much at all.
He followed the guard up the hall to an interrogation room. Then the guy removed his cuffs and stepped aside. Aidan went through the door alone—and stopped cold.
She was seated at the head of the table and she was possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her jet-black hair was a little wild, long, curling here and there in waves that just wouldn’t lie flat—the kind of hair that made a man think of sex, made him want to believe he’d been the one to take handfuls of it and tangle it. She was frowning down at some paperwork in front of her. A tiny crease dug into her smooth brow. Her nose was exquisitely straight, her mouth lush and, as he watched— God bless him, the tip of her tongue poked out to lick her bottom lip.
Everything inside him went painfully rigid. Not only a her, he thought. That kind of her. A knockout.
She looked up at him. “Who’s Bran Downey?”
