Caridad Piñeiro - Night of the Cougar

Galen motioned to one of the women and she popped up out of her chair with the speed of a jack-in-the-box. “We’d like to know,” she began, and shot a conspiratorial wink at her friends. “Is there someone special in your life?”

He had been expecting the question and so he was prepared. “I have lots of special people in my life. My parents and siblings. My agent and publisher—”

“No, I mean a special lady,” she clarified.

Something made him look to the back row, searching for the woman he had seen earlier. She was still there and this time her gaze met his as he said, “Not yet, but maybe I’ll get lucky someday.”

Before his admirer could press again, the moderator stepped in, raising his hands to quiet the crowd.

“Let’s end on that upbeat note, ladies and gentlemen. Please thank Mr. Hawke for his time and his generous donation to the Cat’s Claw Mountain Preservation Society.”

Galen stepped back out of the spotlight and immediately experienced relief, until the moderator laid a hand on his arm. “We do have a special request, Galen. If you don’t mind, there’s a reporter here for a short interview.”

“I hadn’t really planned on any interviews with the press.”

“But the story might help bring awareness to our attempt to preserve the mountain,” the man advised, once again wringing his hands.

Galen wasn’t good with interviews. The reporters generally tried to push him for personal details that he preferred to keep private. “I’d rather not,” he said, and was about to walk away when he caught sight of her waiting by the steps leading to the stage.

“She’s right there, Galen. Please. It might prompt donations so we could reach our goal.”

Galen examined the woman again and as she smiled, at him this time, desire awakened. Returning her grin, he said to the moderator, “If it will help, I guess a short interview would be fine.”

“We appreciate it, Galen. You can’t imagine how much.”

Galen dipped his head in farewell and took a step toward the reporter. As her gaze raked up and down his body and her eyes widened with appreciation, he got the sense that this interview wasn’t going to be all that bad.

Chapter Two

Jamie shot a half glance at him as she took notes. So far Galen had been solicitous during their discussion, but then again, she had seen the gleam of male interest in his eyes that had replaced his initial annoyance when the moderator introduced them.

She couldn’t deny that being passably pretty helped with the men she was supposed to cover, but a smile and hint of flirtation were as far as she usually took it. She suspected that was not where it was going to stop with this man, maybe because he was all man. Rock solid, her father would have said, and so far nothing in the interview had led her to believe otherwise.

Not to mention that even as she was doing her job, it had been impossible not to engage in that man-woman dance of attraction. She could feel the anticipation rising with each subtle smile or prolonged gaze.

Satisfied that she had enough for her story, she closed her notebook and faced him full on. “I really appreciate you taking the time to sit with me.”

“It’s the least I could do. I appreciate you mentioning the society in your story.” He was sitting across from her at a very small table near the windows of the inn’s coffee shop. Well, maybe the table wasn’t that small, but the size of him made it seem that way.

He had shoulders as broad as a fullback’s and arms thick with roped muscle. She had no doubt the muscles were hard earned and not the result of any gym. An impressive chest tapered to a lean waist hidden from her view by the table, but she remembered the shape of him from when he had been on stage, talking about his writing, pacing back and forth as he spoke, full of marvelous male energy.

She contained a sigh and offered him a smile. Gesturing to the mountain visible through the windows, she said, “It’s a beautiful spot. I hope the story will help you preserve it.”

He nodded and peeked out the window for only a second before returning his attention to her. His big hands cupped the mug before him. Capable hands. A man’s hands, strong, with a few nicks and scars as a testament to the fact that he used them for things other than writing.

That little tingle of desire grew to a solid buzz as she imagined those hands on her. Touching her.

“I sense you still have something else you want to ask,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he considered her. A cop’s eyes still, she realized, and in reality, her question was about that.

“Why did you leave the NYPD and come up here?”

A slight tremble worked across those competent hands and the smile on his lips died, replaced by a tight, uncompromising slash. His eyes, a green flecked with bits of golden brown, dulled to the color of a sunburned lawn. He jerked a finger in the direction of the tape recorder she had laid on the table.

“Off the record?” His deep voice had a bit of a quaver from the emotion he was containing. Anger in part, she recognized.

Jamie reached over and shut off the recorder. “Off the record,” she confirmed.

After a slow assessment, as if to convince himself that she could be trusted, he nodded and began. “If you did your homework—you know I was shot and my partner killed during a routine investigation.”

“I know.”

He sighed deeply, broadening that amazing chest with the depth of the breath before he looked away, toward the mountain. “We always spent the summers here. My grandparents owned the cheese shop in town. It seemed natural to come here to heal, and not just physically.”

The emotion in his voice made Jamie reach out and lay her hands on his. They were trembling, but not just with remembered pain. She sensed his anger and tried to quiet him with a gentling touch.

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened.”

He wagged his head and the longish strands of his strawberry-blond hair shifted with the motion. “He had kids and a wife. I should have been the first one through the door instead of him, but we always took turns.”

She tried to soothe him with another sweep of her hands along his, which were now wrapped so firmly around the mug that she worried the thick ceramic might shatter. “It wasn’t meant to be your time.”

He whipped his head around then, nailing her with the intensity of his gaze. “Funny thing, time. Do you know how much time the shooter got?”

She racked her brain, trying to remember if any of the newspaper accounts she’d read had mentioned the sentence, but failed to recall. At the shake of her head, he plowed on, possibly even angrier.

“He didn’t. The Feds wanted him to flip on someone. Gave him immunity and a new life in the Witness Protection Program.”

Which explained the birth of Galen’s detective hero Jack Fitzgerald. In Jack’s world, justice was always served, in one way or another, and the assorted criminals always got their asses kicked for good measure.

“I’m sorry for your friend and for what happened, but not for where it led you. I suspect you like this life a lot better.”

Better? Galen considered her statement as he released his death grip on the mug. She slipped her hands into his. They were smooth and slightly cool against his rough palms. Surprisingly, even just that simple touch produced a tangle of emotions within him. Comfort was something he hadn’t experienced in some time, maybe because he hadn’t allowed himself that sentiment. Desire again wove through him and brought a tightening to his groin.

It had been a long time. Too long. After coming up here to heal, he’d shut himself off emotionally, and even physically at first. What few relationships he’d had in the five years since retiring from the NYPD had been mostly situations of friends with benefits and, even then, it had been some time since his last benefit.