Chapter One

      Reilly Delancey was late. He hurried up the steps of the St. Tammany Parish courthouse, through the metal detectors and into the large central hall, fingering the knot of his tie and wishing he hadn’t tied it so tightly.

      He spoke to a couple of fellow officers who were waiting to testify in other cases. They had the same resigned expression on their faces that he was sure was on his.

      A quick glance at the courtroom schedule told him that the McGilicutty case, in which he was testifying as the lead hostage negotiator, was in Courtroom Three. He rushed to the door, only to be stopped by the assistant district attorney who’d prepped him.

      “Judge Simmons just got here,” Hale Dunham told him. “It’ll be at least twenty minutes before we need you.”

      “Simmons is hearing the case? It’ll be thirty. I’ll get a cup of coffee.”

      “Be back in fifteen,” Hale warned.

      “Eighteen,” he countered and headed toward the small kiosk on the far side of the hall. If Simmons had just entered the courtroom, it would be ten minutes before he finished straightening his robes and arranging his gavel and pens. Then another twenty before the preliminaries were over. Simmons questioned everything.

      He ordered and paid for his coffee and dumped sugar into it, then stood sipping it as he glanced around at the hubbub in the courthouse.

      Two detectives walked by. Dagewood and Phillips. He didn’t remember their first names. They worked with his twin brother, Detective Ryker Delancey. Phillips was loud and overweight, but basically he seemed like a good guy. Dagewood, on the other hand, was arrogant and rude.

      As if to prove Reilly’s opinion, Dagewood stopped in front of him. “Well,” he said. “If it’s not the Delancey that didn’t make detective.”

      Reilly bit his tongue. Somehow, Dagewood had figured out how badly Reilly had coveted the position Ryker had gotten, and he mentioned it every chance he got.

      “Dagewood,” Reilly responded noncommittally, taking his own shot. The big detective liked the uniformed officers to address him by his title, so Reilly never did.

      “So what’s up today?” Dagewood continued. “Defending a traffic ticket?”

      Phillips chuckled at the old joke.

      Reilly sipped his coffee and didn’t answer.

      “Come on, Ted,” Phillips said. “I didn’t get any breakfast. By the time we get back to the office, all the doughnuts’ll be gone.”

      “Hang on,” Dagewood said. “I haven’t tried the coffee here. If it’s good enough for Delancey …”

      Phillips laughed again and the two stood in line.

      Reilly ignored them as his gaze slid over the crowd. He half expected to see Ryker. His brother was here for the sentencing hearing of the man who’d killed four women in St. Tammany Parish over the past five years.

      Reilly and Ryker didn’t normally see each other a lot these days. They ran in different circles since Ryker was a detective and Reilly was SWAT. But Reilly had babysat his brother’s injured star witness a few weeks ago while Ryker was booking the killer. She wasn’t just his star witness either. Since two weeks ago, she was his fiancée.

      Ryker engaged. Reilly shook his head. Hard to believe. Before his older brother—older by seven minutes—had met Nicole Beckham, he’d never even dated anyone seriously.

      As his thoughts wandered and his coffee cooled, his gaze settled on what just might be the most striking woman he’d ever seen. She was tall and slender, with midnight-black hair that fell to her shoulders and a confident walk that had more eyes than his following her.

      As soon as he realized that most of the males in the central hall were watching her, it became obvious that she wasn’t paying attention to any of them. She was headed straight for him.

      Or more likely, for the coffee kiosk.

      Whatever she had her eyes on, Reilly would bet a month’s pay that she’d get it. She was the confident, super-cool type who got whatever she wanted. He swallowed a chuckle as he watched her mow down the men in her path with a glare. Her high heels clicked with purpose on the marble floor.

      He couldn’t tell where she was looking behind the narrow, black-rimmed glasses she wore, but he managed to resist the urge to glance behind him. He kept his gaze on her face. He was dying to know if her eyes were as black as her hair and her glasses frames. He got his answer when she stopped directly in front of him.

      They weren’t black. They were green. And flashing with irritation. At him.

       At him?

      “Detective Delancey,” she said, propping a hand on her hip.

      Reilly