Lori L. Harris - Targeted

Alec’s fingers tightened briefly before falling away and she missed the connection immediately. She placed a hand on his chest and when she did, both of them went instantly still. Tension radiated from his body. His breathing became shallower. She met his gaze and saw the desire there. Her pulse kicked a little harder and her throat tightened. When she’d reached out for him, she’d intended to ask him to hold her. She’d thought the only thing she wanted from him was to feel safe. But looking into his eyes, she felt anything but that.

Uncertain, Katie dropped her gaze to his throat. Smooth skin. The scent of his cologne reaching her. The open collar of his shirt left a triangle of skin exposed. What would his chest be like? What would it feel like to lay her hand over his heart without a shirt in the way? To feel smooth male flesh beneath her palm instead of starched cotton? Letting her hand drop, she backed away. It took her another second to look at him again.

“I trust you, Alec,” she whispered, but was surprised by just how unsteady her voice was when she said it.

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Lori Harris has always enjoyed competition. She grew up in southern Ohio, showing Arabian horses and Great Danes. Later she joined a shooting league where she competed head-to-head with police officers—and would be competing today if she hadn’t discovered how much fun and challenging it was to write. Romantic suspense seemed a natural fit. What could be more exciting than writing about life-and-death struggles that include sexy, strong men?

When not in front of a computer, Lori enjoys remodeling her home, gardening and boating. Lori lives in Orlando, Florida, with her very own hero.

Dear Reader,

When I was thinking about the setting for Targeted, the first in a pair of stories about THE BLADE BROTHERS OF COUGAR COUNTY, I knew immediately that it would be Florida. From the very first moment I set foot in the state more than twenty years ago, she has always held a certain mystery for me. On the surface, she’s sunny beaches and sparkling salt water, modern cities with mass transit and sophisticated nightlife. But that’s just the garb she wears, not who she really is.

You have to get off the beaten track to discover Florida’s true beauty—the dark, tea-colored waters of her mangrove swamps, the large expanses of her real estate owned more by the alligators and mosquitoes that inhabit them than the investors who hold title to them. Wide open prairies where cattle graze in knee-high grasses and cowboys still ride out to check on them. And the small towns where a hitching post still stands out front—a reminder that no matter how much we seem to move beyond our pasts, we never fully leave them behind.

Alec Blade and Katie Carroll, the hero and heroine of Targeted, are both attempting to do just that, though, when they move to Deep Water, Florida. They believe it’s possible to file away the unresolved events of their violent pasts. But they learn just how mistaken they are when one of those faceless monsters reappears. Suddenly it isn’t a matter of outrunning the past. Now they have to survive long enough to have a future.

Hang on as Alec and Katie fight for their lives—and somewhere along the way, they’ll discover a passion neither of them has ever experienced.

Warmly,

Lori Harris

I need to thank fellow critique partners Terri Backhus,

Ann Bair and Kathleen Pynn for their unending generosity.

And fellow suspense author Kathy Holzapfel for her devious

mind, quick wit and friendship. Without these four,

writing wouldn’t be nearly the adventure that it is.

And as always, to my very own hero, Bobby Harris.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

As soon as Alec Blade stepped inside Frankie’s Gun and Range, the dull thuds of live rounds slamming into plate steel at a velocity of more than eight hundred feet per second resounded.

The rottweiler that had been dozing at the end of the long display counter climbed to his feet even before the range marshal looked up. The man was somewhere deep in his sixties, on the lean side, wearing a bowling shirt with Frankie embroidered on the chest. His smile was welcoming enough. Until he spotted the telltale bulge of a weapon beneath Alec’s jacket.

He reached for something beneath the desk. “I need to see a badge or a concealed weapon permit.”

“Sure.” Alec handed over the newly acquired State of Florida permit, and while it was being inspected, glanced at the rottweiler that now sat two feet away with pricked ears and watchful eyes.

“Beautiful dog. Does he have a name?” Alec asked.

“Teddy Bear.”

Alec guessed the dog’s weight to be in the one-fifty range, most of it in the massive head and jaws, the thick, muscled neck. “Interesting choice of a name. Sort of like calling a Great Dane, Tiny.”

“My wife named him as a pup. It fit back then. Teddy, give the man a smile.”

The dog’s heavy dewlaps drew back to reveal a very impressive set of teeth. It was like looking into the eyes of a sociopath. The mouth said one thing; the eyes said something far more deadly. Intent on keeping both hands, Alec left them resting on the display case.

Satisfied, Frankie passed back the permit. “Any relation to our new police chief?”

Sensing his services weren’t needed, the rottweiler wandered back to a spot at the end of the counter and plopped down.

Alec returned his wallet to his back pocket before answering. “Brother. I was told he was shooting here.”

The man checked the log book on the counter. “In the sixth bay. I got a spot next to him open.”

“No, thanks. Is he alone in there?”

“No. Got a lesson going in bay three, but it should be over in a few minutes.” Frankie grabbed a form from the pile next to the cash register. “Even if you’re not shooting, you’ll need to sign the waiver.”

He pointed to the signature line beneath several paragraphs of small print. His blue-tinged nail bed suggested the beginning stages of lead poisoning, a fairly common problem for people who owned and ran indoor ranges.

“You can read it if you want, but it just says you won’t hold it against me if they cart you out of here on a gurney. Or in a body bag.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Alec took the pen.

“And you’ll need eyes and ears.” Frankie retrieved shooting glasses and earmuffs from a box on the floor behind him and laid them on the counter.

After putting on both, Alec opened the heavy door separating the store from the range, and the noise escalated. Since leaving the FBI nearly a year ago, he hadn’t had a reason to visit an indoor facility, but the scent of cordite was still familiar, as was the strong percussion of a forty-five caliber round ripping through paper before flattening against the back wall.