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Excerpts from the Prologue and Chapter One of heartbeats

Prologue

...Elizabeth's lips froze in mid-sentence. Her words caught in her throat as her heart did a major flip-flop. She recognized him instantly. There was no mistaking the identity of the man who stood in the entrance to the ballroom, nametag in hand, as if he had just arrived. She stood, motionless, staring, unaware of the murmurs of uneasiness arising from the gathering. She watched, mesmerized, as his lips curved into that slow, Mona-Lisa smile of his and his chin lifted in acknowledgment of her awareness of him. Although quite a distance away, Elizabeth could easily make out the slight cleft in his chin, the sexy, firm line of his jaw—and those deep set eyes which she knew were the most amazing shade of midnight blue.

"Dr. Iverson, are you all right?" the alumni president asked at her side.

Suddenly, the awkward coughing of the guests, the clinking of glasses, the shuffling of chairs reached her senses. Embarrassed and frustrated by her reaction to him, she broke contact with those eyes and grabbed for her water glass as if reaching for a lifeline. When she looked up again, he was gone. The twinge of disappointment she felt at that surprised her, but she forced it to the back of her mind as she turned her attention once more to the gathering.

"I'm sorry, where was I? Yes, the dreams..."

Elizabeth made her way back to her table. Glancing at the empty chair beside hers, she noted that Julie Parks, her former college roommate and best friend, still hadn't arrived. Grabbing her evening bag, she hurried from the room and headed for the ladies' lounge.

Her knees wobbled as she leaned against the vanity for support. Turning on the tap, she splashed cold water onto her face, trying to shock the blood into returning to her cheeks. Why was he here? she wondered. Why now, when everything was finally going so smoothly for her? Why did Drake McGuire have to show up now like a ghost haunting her from her past?

But if he was a ghost, he was the most handsome ghost she'd ever seen. She gazed into the mirror, into her own amber eyes, remembering… It had been over six years since they'd been together, and he looked older, naturally, and even more put together. She smiled. Yes, he was one solid hunk of a man and he looked downright delicious in that sleek suit of his—delicious like the sleek vanilla mousse with chocolate swirls they'd had for desert—Yes, definitely the chocolate swirls—melting in your mouth....

... Sighing, she opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, praying that she would make it back to her table before she had a chance to come face to face with Drake. But she barely made it into the golden-hued State Ballroom, the reception area for the banquet, when Drake blocked her path. Like a true lawman, he had staked her out.

"Dr. Elizabeth Iverson," he said, his lips curving into his signature smooth smile. "It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

The sound of his voice, deep and casually sensual, even with that touch of cynicism, made her heart take off again. Now that she was over her initial shock, it also sent the blood rising to her cheeks, warming them in a most annoying way. She forced her most confident smile to her lips. Fake it until you believe it, she told herself. The words were her mantra.

"Special Agent Drake McGuire,” she said. “It's good of you to come. I'm glad that you support the fund."

"Yes," he said, his dark blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "We must support the old alma-mater." He held up a glass, offering it to her. "Gin and tonic, with a twist of lemon, just the way you like it as I remember."

"Thank you." She accepted the drink, then nodded toward his, trying to avoid meeting his eyes. "And yours, Gentleman Jack, on the rocks."

"I like the color, it reminds me of someone." He held the glass up very near to her face and studied the honey-colored contents of his glass, then her eyes. Finally, he brought the glass to his lips and took a slow sip.

"Besides," he said, after he swallowed. "It eases the soul."

"And your soul needs easing?" she teased, her pulse throbbing in her throat. She needed to keep the tone light until she could make her escape.

But he wasn't going to let her get away with it.

"Hmmm..." His gaze raked down boldly over her form. She felt her blood simmering, threatening to boil over as his gaze caressed her curves, moving down past her waist, over her hips, then down the long sheath of her legs before slowly sliding back up. He lingered at her breasts where their rounded crests swelled above the low-cut scooped neckline, then returned to study her face.

"I didn't think my soul needed easing until tonight," he said, his voice oddly tight, "when I saw you up on that podium. That dress becomes you."

Elizabeth's skin sizzled with sexual tension. She sipped her drink, welcoming the iced liquid, trying to concentrate on anything but him...

...The heat of his gaze and her own memories of their time together sent tremors of awareness rippling through her body. Part of her wanted to slap him for bringing that out in her, but the rest of her reveled in the sensations. And he knew it.

"I need to return to the banquet," she said smartly. "Thanks again for the drink." She pushed the still half-full glass into his hands.

His smile deepened. She tried to ignore it as she turned to reenter the ballroom.

Somehow, he still managed to get in the last word.

"This isn't over yet, Doc," she heard him say as she stepped back under the glittering light of the Grand Ballroom's crystal chandeliers.

Drake watched her slim hips sway ever so slightly as she retreated. His hand itched to curve over her nicely rounded buttocks, even as he cursed himself for letting her have that effect on him. The meeting hadn't gone anything like he planned, but when she looked up at him with those seemingly innocent eyes of hers, he couldn't resist stirring the fires he knew dwelled within her. When she smiled at him with those heart-shaped lips, the memory of how she had once cried out his name in passion burned his soul.

For a five-foot-five neatly wrapped package she packed a hell of a wallop.

"Damn!" he cursed. He downed his own drink, then slammed both glasses onto a table and headed for the elevators.

Chapter One

...Julie?" Elizabeth called again, louder this time. She glanced to the left where Allison's door stood ajar. Sensing nothing there, she turned toward the hallway, debating whether to continue on or call the police. Now she was really being paranoid, she chided herself. Julie probably just changed her mind about attending the banquet and decided to go out somewhere else, or—her husband had shown up.

Elizabeth set her briefcase down. She took her cell phone out of her evening bag and flipped it open, just in case, then started down the hallway. At the bathroom, she paused. Glancing around the partially opened door, she discovered Julie's makeup scattered on the counter along with her own toiletries. A damp towel lay on the floor. She pushed the door open further, but the bathroom was clearly unoccupied.

She took another step toward the bedroom, then stopped as a dark spot on the beige carpet caught her eye. She bent down, stretching her fingers out to touch it. The familiar texture of the moisture that wicked against her fingertips left her feeling somewhat dazed. She turned her fingers to the light although her mind already knew what her eyes would tell her. The sticky substance was blood—spent blood—already drying with time...

...Drake pressed his hand against the door handle, then paused as he heard the blare of a siren approaching from behind. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw a rescue squad speeding toward him. It's flashing lights reflected garishly off the windows of the homes that lined the street. As it passed his car, a police squad screamed around the corner up ahead and raced toward him from the other direction. Both braked in front of Elizabeth's building.

A sense of dread seized him, followed instantly by the familiar rush of adrenaline as he grabbed his gun from the glove box and shoved it beneath his belt. He stepped out, eyes trained on the building, then jumped back as another squad car blared past, just missing him, and screeched to a halt behind the first. Deciding it was no time to be circumspect, he ran across the street. When he reached the front yard, Chicago's finest were already approaching the building with their guns drawn.

"Police! Open up!" an officer shouted, banging on the glass front door.

Drake ran toward him, his heart pounding violently. "What's going on here?" he yelled.

A second officer straight-armed him, holding him back.

"Sir, do you live here?" The cop gave him a quick once-over, taking in his suit and tie.

"No, but I..."

"Then stand aside."

"Hey, Sal," the officer at the door yelled back, "Can they get hold of that lady yet?"

With his hand still on Drake's chest, the officer spoke into his shoulder mic, then replied a moment later, "She's not responding."

"Hell, we gotta get into this building! Shoot the lock off."

"Who's not responding?" Drake asked, shoving at the cop's hand.

"Sir, I asked you to step aside," Sal warned, then nodded at two of the officers in the yard. "Gus, go around and see if you can get in through the back. Kick the damn door in if you have to, but be careful. Nick, you cover him. The perp could still be in there for all we know."

Drake had enough. He reached into his suit coat and pulled out his I.D. He needed info now.

"I'm FBI," he shouted at Sal. "Now tell me what the hell is going on here?" The street that had been so quiet minutes before was now in chaos. Neighbors funneled out of their homes, trying to get a better look at the scene as another squad car approached. The paramedics waited impatiently beside their van, a gurney already wheeled out, ready to rush in as soon as the cops gave the okay.

Sal glanced at Drake's I.D. His eyes narrowed, then his attention was drawn back toward the entryway where the shadowy figure of a woman appeared behind the glass door.

"Open the door, ma'am," the first officer ordered.

The lady fumbled with the lock, then the door flew open as the officer pushed through into the hall. Sal seemed to forget about Drake as he followed his partner inside.

But as the officers started up the staircase, two steps at a time with Drake at their heels, Sal shouted over his shoulder. "Thirty-two-year-old woman—multiple stab wounds."

Drake's steps faltered. A cold sweat iced his back and he was sure his heart stopped, if only for a second. Shoving his foreboding aside, he drew his own gun and pushed on up the stairs.

"Who's he?" the first cop asked as they paused on the landing.

Sal shrugged his shoulders. "FBI."

"Great!" But the look on the cop's face showed he clearly didn't think so. He stood to the side and began pounding on the door. "Police! Open up!"

A muffled shout sounded from inside. "In Here! Hurry!" Elizabeth's voice? Drake couldn't tell.

Sal tried the door, then threw it open. The first cop went in and quickly scanned the living room, then motioned for Sal to follow. Sal stepped in and headed left to make sure the front of the apartment was clear.

Drake wasn't waiting. Leading with his weapon, he shoved through the door, then sprinted down the hallway to his right, stopping briefly to check the kitchen and bath.

"Hey!" the first officer shouted, but Drake paid no attention. The officer followed.

"In here!" the woman cried from around the next doorway. This time he was sure it was Elizabeth.

He paused to peer around the corner and scan the room. He nodded to the cop, who raced passed him and checked out the closet. Finally, he allowed himself to look down toward her voice.

His stomach turned at the ghastly sight that met his eyes.

"Elizabeth..." he breathed.

_____________________

Excerpts from Prologue and Chapter One of Freefall

Prologue

The pilot gazed off into the clear blue Midwestern sky for a final safety check to make sure no planes were coming in. Satisfied all was clear, he thrust the throttles forward.

“Okay baby, here we go!”

The plane’s powerful engines roared. The twin-engine Comanche started to roll, slowly at first, then quickly gained momentum. The pilot’s blood raced as the ground flew past him. An excitement he found nowhere else coursed through his veins. He pulled back on the column, knew the moment the wheels left the ground, and smiled in wonder—no matter how many times he did this, the rush was always the same.

The plane soared up past the terminal, up over the hangars and the land-locked cars in the parking lot below. As the Comanche gained altitude, the pilot marveled at the sleek phenomenon of speed slowing down.

Then all hell broke loose.

He felt rather than heard the loud bang in the starboard engine.

The Comanche shuddered and careened to the right. The pilot wrestled with the controls—trying to make the adjustments to the flaps, ailerons, and rudder—trying to bring the Comanche back to level flight. Sweat beaded on his brow. An errant lock of hair fell down over his eye. He slammed his fist against the engine restart button. Nothing!

“Damn!” He didn’t have the altitude for this! He didn’t have the speed. The plane groaned, fighting the stall, fighting the frantic movements of his hands and feet.

He had two options—bring the plane back to level flight, straighten the turn, lengthen the glide, and pray it picked up enough speed to climb—if he didn’t succeed, he’d crash into the apartment complex northeast of the runway—or, work with the plane, letting it bring him back to the airport, to an almost certain crash.

The words, Take no collateral damage, echoed in his mind. He knew there really was no decision; but even as he stopped fighting the turn, the north wind grabbed the left wing, further aggravating the attitude of the Comanche. The plane careened back past the control tower. The ground raced back toward him. He stared at it, mesmerized by the sensation of speed returning. He could taste his own salty sweat on his lips, could almost smell the green grass of the airfield as it rushed toward him, and an icy fist of cold certainty seized his chest.

Just like the rocket grenade that had blown his helicopter out of the sky in Afghanistan four years ago—this was no accident.

Seconds later, the plane met the earth, cartwheeled, and burst into flames.

Chapter One

Kate Reynolds’ cell phone rang. Glancing at it where it lay upon her desk, she recognized the area code, but not the number. She hesitated. She had two presentations to do that afternoon, computer systems for accounts she was hoping to pick up for her fledgling consultant firm. If she wanted lunch, it was now or never. Gazing at the phone, though, an odd sensation moved through her. Although not his number, it could be Keith, she reasoned, trying to ignore the feeling of foreboding that sent the nerves tingling at the back of her neck. He’d called her earlier that morning, but she was in the middle of her morning jog and didn’t pick up. The message he left said he needed to talk to her about something important, but when she tried to call him back an hour later, he didn’t answer. She picked up the phone now and pressed the talk button.

“Hello?”

“Kate?” the voice on the other end queried. “It’s J.T.”

J.T. Baines was Keith’s partner in an aircraft repair shop they owned at a small airfield about forty miles southwest of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, near the home town where she and Keith grew up. She could think of only one reason why J.T. and not Keith would be calling her. Her grip tightened on the phone.

“Yes, J.T. What is it?”

“It’s Keith. He’s been in an accident.”

She’d known, even before he said the words.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s not good. His plane crashed on take-off. I’m sorry kid, but I think you’re gonna want to be here.”

Kate gulped back the panic that squeezed the air out of her lungs. Staring out her office window at the sun-dappled waters of San Francisco Bay, she willed her heart to stop its sudden hammering. She hated to fly—hated it almost as much as her brother Keith loved it. It would seem, though, that Keith’s love of flying had caught up with him once again. If J.T. thought she should be with Keith there was only one thing to do.

“I’ll catch the first flight out.”

# # #

The pungent odors of antiseptic and disinfectant snaked toward her, then wound themselves around her. Somewhere an alarm toned and Kate’s hands began to shake—but the elevator doors were closing. Hugging her laptop tote to her, the only luggage she’d been able to grab in her mad dash to the airport, she slammed her free hand against the jamb and stepped out into the hospital corridor.

Her high heels beat a steady tattoo across the tile floor as she made her way determinedly toward the sign that read Surgical Intensive Care. Pushing through the double doors, she spotted the central nurses’ station. Monitors filled the low inner island behind the station. Across from it, glass-partitioned rooms rimmed the outer walls. Heading for the nurses’ station, she addressed a nurse who sat in front of one of the monitors.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice sounding amazingly calm despite the butterflies that swept and dove in her stomach. “I’m Kate Reynolds. I’m here to see my brother.”

The nurse glanced up, then turned to another nurse who was in conversation with a man who stood in the corridor just a few feet from her. “Julie, the sister’s here.”

Kate looked over to them. Almost as one, the man and the nurse turned their heads to glance at her. Both seemed to hesitate, then the nurse smiled, but her eyes took on a sympathetic cast. Kate’s heart skipped a beat.

Stepping toward them, she asked, “My brother, Keith...is he...?” Her words broke off and she swallowed, unable to put into words her greatest fear. The trip from San Francisco to Milwaukee had taken a long, grueling, and quite turbulent seven hours. During her layover in Denver, she’d checked in with the hospital. Keith was in surgery, and although his condition was grave, he was still alive—then.

“Your brother is holding his own, Miss Reynolds,” the nurse assured her. “At least for now.”

Kate felt her knees go weak. She hadn’t realized until now that she’d been holding her breath.

The man reached for her, grabbed her arm, steadied her.

She stared down at his hand—stunned by his touch, stunned by her own weakness. This weakness wasn’t like her. It was just that it was all so much like that other time—the time her parents had crashed in their experimental plane. She was nine. Her parents had died. Then, just a few years ago, she thought she’d lost Keith, too.

“Can I get you a chair?” the man asked.

Kate’s gaze wandered up to the man’s face. The look of concern in the gray eyes that stared back at her brought her senses jolting back to the present.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. “No...thank you.” She said, straightening. “I...I’m all right.”

But the man wasn’t buying it. He held her firmly, his eyes still leveled on hers.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the nurse asked at her side.

Kate took a deep breath. “Yes, really, I’m fine,” she insisted. With Keith in critical condition, the last thing she needed was people fawning over her.

Finally, the man lowered his hand, but he hesitated a moment longer, as if still reluctant to believe her. At last, he removed his gaze from hers and turned back to the nurse. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I have something I need to take care of.”

Although Kate’s main concern right now was Keith, she found herself watching the man’s retreating back as he strode on down the corridor. As she stared after him, an odd sensation she couldn’t quite put her finger on moved through her. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar.

“Ms. Reynolds’s,” the nurse said, interrupting Kate’s thoughts, “The doctor would like to talk to you before you go in to see your brother. If you’ll follow me, he won’t be long.”

Kate turned to the nurse. She hadn’t flown over two-thousand miles to be told to wait now. “I need to see Keith,” she said, giving the nurse her most determined look.

The nurse raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Yes, but perhaps it would be better if you talked to the doctor first.”

Kate stood her ground. “No, first I see Keith, then I’ll talk to the doctor.”

The nurse’s gaze sharpened on Kate, as if she was reevaluating her. It didn’t surprise Kate. People often took her blond hair and somewhat petite frame for frailty. It didn’t take long, though, before they realized that behind the blue eyes lay plenty of grit. Granted, she’d had a moment of weakness, but that was over. She was determined to stay strong from here on out—for Keith.

Finally the nurse nodded. “All right,” she said. “He’s this way, but I have to warn you, his injuries were quite severe. Along with the internal trauma, he sustained head and neck injuries, as well as numerous broken bones.”

When Kate stepped inside Keith’s room, she realized that although the nurse had tried to prepare her, nothing could have eased the shock she felt as she gazed over at her brother, or what was supposed to be her brother, lying in the hospital bed. She could barely make out his form for all the tubes and bandages that enveloped him. Tubes protruded from the back of his head and from his nose and mouth; IV bags hung along both sides of his bed; and more tubes extended down into his arms. Punctuating it all was the hiss of the respirator and the constant beep-beep-beep of the monitor.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Don’t be alarmed by all this,” the nurse said, her tone low. “It’s what’s keeping him alive.”

“Is he awake?”

“No. He’s been unconscious since he was brought in.”

Kate brushed away the tears, then reached out a tentative hand to touch the bandages along Keith’s cheek. Not a trace of Keith’s blond hair, hair that matched her own, showed from beneath the bandages. What she could see of his face looked like one big bruise—his eyelids were black and swollen shut, his lips were cut and cracked, dried blood still clinging to them.

A picture of Keith, hale and happy, flashed across her mind. He stood beside his plane, one hand loosely placed against his hip, the other resting against the aircraft’s silver wing. The smile that always graced his face curved his lips and crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. His hair, parted at one side, hung down rakishly over one eye. Yes, that was her brother, the brother that many often mistook for her twin when they were growing up, even though he was three years her senior.

This man lying in the bed was not her brother. He couldn’t be. Not this man whose bandaged arms looked like two white stumps against the white cotton blanket—only the fingers of his left hand peeked out through the dressings and those were badly scratched.

But even as her mind fought it, she knew it was true.

But how? She wondered, not for the first time that day. Keith’s Comanche was his baby. He kept that plane in mint condition. Not only was Keith an excellent pilot, but he was also an ace mechanic who believed in safety first. What could have gone wrong to cause such a devastating crash?

“Your brother is a real survivor,” the nurse said, reaching up to adjust one of the I.V.s. “I haven’t seen too many people come in with his kind of injuries and make it this far. From what I understand, there was little left of his plane.”

Survivor. Yes, Kate thought, Keith was a survivor. They both were. They’d survived the death of their parents, hadn’t they? And then, just a few years ago, against all odds Keith had survived the injuries he’d sustained in Afghanistan, even though the damage to his legs had ended his Special Ops career. He’d survive this, too, she told herself. He had to—besides, neither one of them had it in them to quit.

“It’s always rough the first time.”

The nurse’s smile was meant to be reassuring, but Kate had to fight back the bitter taste of bile that rose in her throat. She remembered Keith’s phone call earlier that morning during her jog and a sense of guilt washed over her. Keith had been her lifeline the previous year during the breakup of her marriage and subsequent divorce. Although two-thousand miles away, he was always there, day or night, whenever she needed to talk. She should have taken his call.

Sinking into the chair beside his bed, she wrapped her fingers around his and was stunned to feel how cold they were. Bending forward, she whispered into his ear.

“I’m here, Keith.... I’m here now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Everett Larsen stepped up to the glass partition, careful not to draw attention to himself. Glancing at the monitor, he studied it briefly, then allowed his gaze to settle on the woman seated beside the bed.

So this was Keith’s little sister, he thought. He knew he shouldn’t have allowed himself to come face-to-face with her earlier. It was a mistake. Still, despite the shell-shocked look in those blue eyes, there was no denying the fact that Kate Reynolds had blossomed into one helluva woman.

His cell phone vibrated at his side. He knew cell phones weren’t allowed in this part of the hospital—he should have turned it off. Lifting the phone from its holster, he glanced at the incoming number. He’d make it short.

“Yes, Larsen here,” he said quietly.

He listened to the guy on the other end for a few seconds.

“Great. You’ll let me know the minute you find something.”

Again he listened.

“Right. Thanks.”

Returning the phone to its holster, he turned back to the room. This time it was Keith he studied. Just what had Keith been up to? He wondered. And what was that message all about that he’d left on his phone earlier that morning? Everett clenched his teeth and felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. The questions only led to more questions. Right now, he had no answers—and it frustrated the hell out of him.

The doctor walked past him and entered the room. Everett took that moment to make his escape.

...to be continued.

Look for Freefall from Musa Publishing

6/22/2012