Rita Herron - Beneath the Badge

The tape and the smoky, charred debris that had stained the imported Italian brick reminded her that someone had tried to kill her. That her body parts, instead of her BMW’s, could have been all over the lawn….

If she hadn’t rescheduled her appointment, she would have been driving home at the time the bomb exploded. According to Sergeant Egan Caldwell, the device had been set on a timer. Which meant that someone had known her routine and had intentionally planned for the car to explode with her inside.

Could Miles have done it? Or was Carlson Woodward responsible?

But why would Carlson have wanted her dead?

Hugging her arms around herself, she scanned the front of her estate, feeling paranoid as she let herself in and checked her security system. Ever since the breakins had started in Cantara Hills, she’d been nervous. Had expected to be hit. After all, her mansion held expensive furniture, paintings, vases, collectibles, and she had several exquisite customized one-of-a-kind pieces of jewelry her father had given her over the years.

All tucked away in her safe because she rarely wore them. She enjoyed the advantages money offered, but didn’t flaunt her wealth. In fact, that money was sometimes a curse. While most girls had to worry about men wanting in their pants, she had the added hassle of wondering if they wanted to get into her bank account. Even her father used his wealth to replace his feelings for her with expensive gifts.

And the break-ins—did the police believe that Carlson Woodward was responsible for them? She frowned and walked through the kitchen to the foyer and the spiral staircase, then wound her way up to her suite.

But why would Carlson steal from the neighbors? He didn’t need the money. Her little brother, Miles, was a different story. He was so desperate for cash and angry with some of her friends who’d begun refusing him loans, that he might resort to theft.

She slipped into a bathing suit, sighing as her bare feet sank into the plush Oriental rug. Padding barefoot down the steps, she exited through the sunroom, grabbed a towel from the pool house and dropped it, along with her cell phone, onto a patio chair. The last vestiges of sunlight had faded hours ago, but the pool lights illuminated the terrace, bathing the intricately patterned stonework in a pale glow. The smell of roses from the garden along with hydrangeas bordering the patio scented the air, disguising the hint of chlorine, and she stared into the shimmering aquamarine water.

Still, thoughts of Carlson’s attack on Caroline haunted her. She and Caroline had been neighbors and friends for years now. Apparently, Carlson had spread rumors in the community about Caroline having an affair with Sergeant Egan Caldwell, and had even called her father to stir up trouble.

Then he had attacked Caroline. Thankfully Ranger Caldwell had rescued Caroline and shot Carlson. Unfortunately Egan had been injured in the confrontation. Now Caroline had accompanied him to Austin to take care of him while he recuperated. Taylor still couldn’t believe that Caroline had fallen for the surly ranger.

She dove into the water and began a crawl stroke. She and Caroline had joked about the three cowboy cops who’d invaded their country club community with their big bodies, hard attitudes and…guns. They’d dubbed Lieutenant Brody McQuade, Kimberly’s brother, the intense one. Sergeant Egan Caldwell, the surly one. And Sergeant Hayes Keller—he had a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas.

Still, an odd tingling rippled through her as she thought about him—he was all bad attitude. Big, brawny, muscular, with eyes as black as soot and a temper as hot as fire. He was just the kind of man she normally avoided because he looked as if he could snap a person into pieces with just one look. But still, he was dangerously sexy….

Her stomach clenched. Where had that thought come from?

She didn’t even like the guy. When he’d questioned her, she’d felt his disdain carving a hole through her.

She’d be glad when he left the area.

She swam another lap, counting strokes, but suddenly the lights flickered off, both outside and inside, pitching the terrace into darkness. Her breath hitched. There wasn’t a storm cloud in sight, no reason for a power failure.

Something was wrong.

Scanning the terrace and garden for signs of an intruder, she swam to the pool edge to get out and call security. Suddenly a movement at the edge of the gardens by the pool house caught her eye.

A man?

Panic shot through her. She had to call for help. But the chair where she’d put her phone was next to the gardens.

And the only unlocked door was the sunroom door. She’d have to pass the pool house to reach it.

Taking a deep breath, she took off running, but before she reached the door, someone clamped a gloved hand over her mouth and encircled her neck with the other. She clawed at his hands, but he dug his fingers into her larynx, cutting off her air. Remembering the self-defense moves she’d learned, she jabbed her elbow in his chest, brought her knee up then stomped down on his foot.

He growled in fury and tightened both hands around her throat. Blind panic assaulted her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Desperate, she reached for something to use as a weapon as they fell against a patio chair. Her hand closed around a garden shovel and she stabbed backward with it, but he knocked it from her hand and it skittered across the terrace.

Enraged, he punched her jaw so hard her ears rang and she saw stars.

She had to fight back. But he hit her again, her legs buckled and her knees hit the stone with a painful thud. He shoved her face down, and she tasted blood as her head slammed against the brick wall encircling the patio. Then he dragged her toward the pool.

Summoning her last bit of strength, she flailed and kicked, clawed at him, but they tumbled into the pool.

Gasping, she struggled to fight her way back to the surface, but he was too strong. She held her breath, but her lungs were on fire, and he squeezed her throat so tightly that she choked and inhaled water.

Then an empty darkness sucked her into its vortex.

HAYES PULLED TO A STOP at the iron-gated entrance to Taylor Landis’s estate, and pressed the intercom button. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited, but she didn’t respond. Dammit, even if she wasn’t home, didn’t she have servants at her beck and call day and night?

He pressed the call button again, his impatience growing. What the hell was she doing? Lounging in some hot bath with cucumbers over her eyes, sipping champagne? Entertaining one of her rich guy friends? Maybe they were wallowing in bed with all their money.

Hell, maybe she wasn’t home. Probably out shopping.

Still, he had to make sure she was safe. Resigned, he scanned the key card through the security system. But the card didn’t work. Dammit, had she changed the system without informing them?

Or could something be wrong?

His heartbeat slammed in his chest, and he climbed out, removed his weapon, vaulted over the fence and jogged through the oaks lining the mile-long driveway, scanning the property for an intruder.

As the house slid into view, he searched the front yard, the sign of the crime scene tape a reminder that Brody might be right—that Taylor Landis might be in danger. He sped up until he reached the house, a cold monstrosity made of stone and brick with arches and palladium windows.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Why were the lights off?

The lingering odor of smoke and charred grass assaulted him, and he paused, a noise breaking the quiet. Water? A sprinkler maybe? But it had rained last night so why would Taylor have the sprinkler on?

He hurried to the front door and rang the doorbell. The sound reverberated through the cavernous inside, an empty sound that came unanswered. He pressed it again, then glanced through a front window. Nothing looked out of place. But it was pitch-dark inside. Quiet. No movement. And there hadn’t been a storm to knock out the power.