Last Call (16 page)

"You let me believe you quit your job," she
said.

He sighed. "It was a transfer. I wasn't moving
on, Rhys. I was running. It was yet another item on a long list of
things I'm not proud of." He moved his fingertips from her chin to
her nape, gently threading her hair, drawing closer her attention.
"I've never been anything but a cop. And I lost my objectivity when
it came to you. I needed to feel like I could still do the job. I
had to find that piece of myself."

Rhys didn't respond. What could she say?
Everything that ran through her head sounded petty, and what did it
matter? They were right back to him not owing her
anything.

"Please look at me," he said.

She did as he asked.

"I love you, Rhys. I can't remember when I
didn't."

Tears for Corey mixed with those for Nick.
After a long moment, she managed to speak. "You really love
me?"

He laughed. "I think you knew
that."

He'd said as much, and she'd hoped he meant
it, but what did it matter? She frowned and stood, effectively
pushing him aside. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Bewilderment tainted his
tone.

"You've made no secret of your plans to walk
away. You don't do happy endings, remember?"

He stood and drew her close, holding her
tight. Then he dropped his forehead to hers and touched her cheek
with a soft fingertip caress. "I may have said that. But there is
one thing I am willing to try, if you'll have me."

Hope bloomed with his words, their
soft tone begging forgiveness.
Anything,
Nick
. She swallowed a surge of emotion that
threatened to overwhelm her. "What's that?"

"Happy beginnings," he said. "With
you."

The End

About the Author

Sarah and her husband of what he calls
"many long, long years" live on the mid-Atlantic coast with their
six young children, all of whom are perfectly adorable when they're
asleep. She never dreamed of becoming an author, but as a
homeschooling mom, she often jokes she writes fiction because if
she wants anyone to listen to her, she has to make them up. (As it
turns out, her characters aren't much better than the kids). When
not buried under piles of laundry, she may be found adrift in the
Atlantic (preferably on a boat) or seeking that ever-elusive
perfect writing spot where not even the kids can find
her.

She loves creating
unforgettable stories while putting her characters through an
unkind amount of torture — a hobby that has nothing to do with
living with six children. (Really.) Though she adores nail-biting
mystery and edge-of-your-seat thrillers, Sarah writes in many
genres including contemporary and ghostly paranormal romance. Her
ever-growing roster of releases may be found at
http://sarahballance.com
.

More exciting romantic suspense from
Sarah Ballance:

Unforgiven

Something was wrong. Was the dark playing
tricks on her? Riley Beckett froze, arm outstretched, hand poised
to toss her keys on the table just inside her front door. But she
didn't let go. Instead of dropping them in their usual spot,
instinct whispered for her to feather pieces of the makeshift
weapon between her knuckles. Heart pounding, she pressed the keys
in a silent, white-knuckle grip and prayed her concerns were her
imagination, that the paranoia of coming home alone to a dark house
was getting the better of her.

One, two steps in. Wood planks echoed
underfoot. She fought to breathe in air that grew thinner with
every tense second.

Three steps.

Then it hit her. The
scent. 
His
 scent. And with it a flush of memories. The burn of hot
grass on her bare skin. Rough hands, a tender touch. Love so sweet
she ached for it, her dreams raging, and her body drenched with
need.

Their first time.

Her last.

"Gage?" Her voice broke on the single
syllable. Riley's grip on the keys tightened, her blood raging hot
and cold all at once.

A creak s+ounded from the corner chair. Her
eyes refused to adjust in the darkness, but not even the faint
light kept the blond streaks in his russet hair from giving him
away. Like rays of sunshine, she used to tease, and her words never
failed to draw a scowl across his rugged face.

"Riley."

God help her, her name on his lips sounded as
it always had. Coarse. Dangerous. Forbidden. Even before… The
memory surged, hot and vivid, leaving a metallic taste in her
mouth. White heat assaulted her from every corner of the
room.

The keys fell to the floor with a
clink.

"An eye for an eye, is it?" His voice sounded
unpracticed, as if he hadn't spoken in a long while.

She couldn't see his face, but she knew his
expression. Flat and humorless. Broken. She remembered the day he
stopped smiling. Every part of her wanted to flee, but she stood
frozen to the spot.

"What do you mean?" Riley wondered if the
words, whispered and weak, had the strength to make it across the
room. Hadn't she always known she'd shatter the next time she saw
him? Hadn't she dreamed of it anyway?

"You have to ask?" Gage laughed, cold and
hollow. "Billy's dead. Hell of a thing to come home to, Riley. My
brother blown to bits on my back porch."

"Oh, God." Riley swayed, bile rising in her
throat. The room filled with a distant buzzing. She took one
unsteady step to the side and stumbled.

When she found his gaze, it was over the
business end of a revolver.

He leveled the gun in her direction.
Everything else in her world trembled, but his aim held rock
steady. Unyielding.

His eyes burned blue and bright.
"What I want to know, 
sweetheart
, is why you did
it."

He worked his finger over the trigger, and a
veil of blackness threatened her last discerning
thought.

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