White Heat A Novel

by Cherry Adair in stores July 10, 2007

Genres:

Action & Adventure, Fiction, Romance, Suspense & Thriller

Themes:

conspiracy , good vs. evil , part of a series , travel

Book Excerpt

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Chapter One

Florence, Italy
January 3rd
0200

Max Aries flung a leg over the crumbling second-floor balustrade then dropped lightly onto the narrow stone terrace below. He'd spent some pretty damned phenomenal days and nights in this 16th century palazzo. But he wasn't here to seduce Emily Greene. Not this time.

He presumed she was here. Her little yellow Mazerati was parked out on the street, but she hadn't answered the doorbell when he'd rung a few minutes ago. Of course there were any number of places an attractive, single woman could be at two in the morning. If not for the urgency of her calls Max might have waited until a decent, civilized time to see her. He'd been awake for a straight ninety-seven hours, and he was punchy as hell. Sleep would've been good. A shower would probably be appreciated. But there hadn't been time for either.

He'd been on the T-FLAC jet, halfway home from an op, when he'd called in during a break in debriefing. He rarely had personal messages; operatives didn't have time for real lives.

There'd been twenty-six voice mails from Emily Greene. Apparently she'd been leaving messages for weeks. The messages had started out cool, but reasonable and sympathetic, then grown increasingly more annoyed as she'd practically summoned his ass to Florence.

Message received loud and clear.

Fine. He was here, wasn't he? A few weeks late, and several dollars worth of sincerity short, but he was here.

The balcony doors were wide open to the chill damp air and several of the spicy-scented potted geraniums crowding the patio had been knocked over. There were dozens of possible reasons the pots had been toppled, but between one inhale and the next Max's hand went instinctively to the custom Glock in the small of his back.

He wasn't the only one who'd entered her apartment this way.

Exhaustion dissipated as adrenaline reactivated his tired brain. Unless she had Romeo and Juliet fantasies, Emily had an intruder. First his father's murder, now this? Max didn't believe in coincidences. He stepped over scattered pottery shards to slip through the open French doors where sheer white draperies fluttered in the rain drenched air.

The delicate fragrance of woman was underscored by the familiar, but out of place, smell of male sweat and gun oil. The intruder had passed this way recently. Very recently.

Shit.

Moving quickly and soundlessly through the stygian darkness of the living room, he circumvented the enormous, down filled floral sofa where they'd made love on their only Sunday together. Their last time together. His night vision was excellent, and his eyes automatically adjusted to the almost pitch blackness of the interior even as he cataloged the blend of distinctive odors around him. The acrid smell of turps, the unmistakable smell of still wet oil paint from Emily's first floor studio, dust, flowers, garlic-

The intruder.

Alert to the smallest sound or hint of movement, he followed the man's trail like a bloodhound. Weaving his way at top speed through the over-crowded rooms, and heading toward the long hallway leading to the rest of the apartment.

Silently crossing the terrazzo floor of the entryway, he noted the flowers in a vase on the hallstand, black in the darkness. A woman's purse lay beside the crystal vase. An umbrella and long raincoat hung from a hook nearby. No sign of moisture, indicating she'd been home a while. Two suitcases stood sentinel nearby. Where the hell was she going?

He froze as he noticed a dark shape in the hallway, twenty feet ahead, just this side of the open bedroom door. Max's heart did a double tap.

Emily-

He charged down the hall, heart in his throat. God damn it.

Between here and there was the slightly less dark opening to the kitchen where he sensed someone standing in wait. Max spun on his heel just as a hard object struck his upper arm with a jarring thud. He deflected the second blow, grabbed the assailant's wrist and twisted. The second his grip closed on the slender, bare arm, he knew his attacker was a woman.

He yanked her arm up behind her back, not letting up because his assailant was a she. He knew plenty of female tangos who could f*** a guy's brains out one minute and put a bullet between his eyes the next. He used a little more force on her arm.

The woman let out a blood curdling shriek, but his grip was implacable. He didn't ease up any, but he wasn't using enough pressure, yet, to snap her fragile bones. She wiggled and squirmed in his hold, determined to break free.

He backed her into the kitchen. Separating her from the dark lump a few yards away on the hallway floor. Divide and conquer. "Settle down, I-"

She wasn't listening. "Mi lasci andare, figlio di puttana!"

Emily?

She swung the heavy pan, it connected on his upper arm with a bone-jarring thud. "I killed your accomplice," she yelled in rapid, almost unintelligible, Italian. Whack! "and I won't," Whack! "hesitate to," Whack! "kill you too. The police are on their way." Whack. "I'll get a medal for killing you bo-"

Definitely Emily.

"Emily," Max grabbed her arms- much more gently than he would have a tango- to stop the pummeling. "It's me, Ma-"

She kneed him in the balls.

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