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Synopsis
Nothing’s impossible when love is on the menu. In Peggy Jaeger’s luscious series, the only thing more tempting than a delicious meal is a truly delectable romance . . .
Look for exclusive recipes in each book!
Photographer Gemma Laine is looking for arresting faces on the streets of Manhattan when her camera captures something shocking—a triple murder. In that moment, she becomes a target for the mob—and a top priority for a very determined, breathtakingly handsome, FBI special agent. With deadlines to meet and photo shoots on her calendar, Gemma chafes at the idea of protection, but every moment she spends under his watchful eye is a temptation to lose herself in his muscular arms . . .
With two of his men and one crucial witness dead, Special Agent Kyros Pappandreos can’t afford to be distracted. But Gemma is dazzling—and her connection to Kandy Laine’s high-profile cooking empire makes her an especially easy mark for some very bad people. Keeping her safe is much more pleasure than business, but as the heat between them starts to sizzle, Ky is set to investigate whether they have a shot at love . . .
Release date: October 3, 2017
Publisher: Lyrical Press
Print pages: 336
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A Shot at Love
Peggy Jaeger
Chapter One
Special Agent Kyros Pappandreos scanned the midtown Manhattan street in front of him and swore.
“I want to see the cops who were first on scene right now,” he demanded of the uniformed NYPD officer next to him. Ky turned to his partner. “How did this happen?”
“It looks like a blitz attack.” Jon Winters squinted an eye at the midday sun. “They’d finished lunch, were walking back to the car.”
“We didn’t have eyes or ears on them?” Ky asked, surveying the gory scene. Two of his best agents were dead and his witness lay with his face kissing the curb, pooling blood drenching his inert form, arms bent back in unnatural angles at his sides.
“Neither,” Winters said. “They were out of touch for an hour, tops. Our guys had their cell phones, but no communication since they left the hotel.”
“This is unbelievable.” Ky squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and let out a heavy breath. Three years of work shot to hell in a matter of seconds.
“Agent Pappandreos? You wanted to speak with me?”
Ky turned to the metro officer who approached him, noting the name badge over the left breast pocket of his blue uniform shirt. “Officer Johnson, you got here first?”
“Yes, sir. My partner and I responded to a shots fired at one fifteen.”
“I want details. Where were you when the call came?”
“Outside the deli between Madison and Fifth, two blocks over. Dispatch alerted us, we raced down, saw the victims on the sidewalk. Whole thing was done by the time we got here.”
“Any ID on the shooters? Witnesses? Did anyone see anything?”
“It was pretty chaotic when we arrived. The area’s packed this time of day with lunch business. Lotta banks and professional offices are headquartered around here. People heard shots, ran for cover.” He referred to his notepad. “I got a few statements about a black van, dark blue, maybe. No one got a license or has been able to give an accurate description of the vehicle. It pulled up, shots were fired, it sped off. Matter of seconds it was all over and your three vics were on the ground.”
“Johnson, I’ve got a witness,” another metro uniform called as he sprinted up to the trio. Ky turned in the direction of the voice.
“This is my partner,” Johnson said.
“Where’s this witness?” Ky asked.
“I’ve got her isolated by my squad car.” He shot his thumb in the direction behind him. “Says she saw everything, and—get this—she’s a professional photographer. Filmed it all as it went down.”
“Take me to her,” Ky said. “Jon?”
“Yeah, Papps, I know. Go interview this witness. I’ll coordinate from here.”
“Let’s go,” Ky commanded the officer.
“That’s her.” The officer pointed to a police vehicle in the middle of the barricaded street a moment later. “Name’s Gemma Laine.”
A woman stood next to the vehicle, a cell phone at her ear, her back to him. Tall, maybe as tall as him, and slender, her back tapered down to a miniscule waist, her legs clad in tight, faded jeans. When she turned Ky almost stopped midstride, the questions he intended to grill her with jumping out of his head. His breath caught as he simply stared at the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.
Hair the color of midnight, straight as a board, fell to just below her shoulders, blowing back from her face in the gentle afternoon breeze. Blunt, chopped bangs fringed a pair of large, bright-blue eyes. Plump, coral-colored lips moved as she spoke into the phone and for a brief, hot second, Ky wondered if they’d taste as delicious as they looked.
Her gaze stayed on him as she spoke.
“I’ve gotta go,” she said into the phone. “Yeah. I’ll call when I’m done. Love you, too.”
“Miss Laine?”
She tucked the phone into her back pocket.
“I’m Special Agent Pappandreos. I need to speak with you about what you saw.”
“Special Agent?” Those delicate brows furrowed under her bangs. “Like, FBI?”
Jesus, where does a woman get a voice like that? Whiskey laced with honey and rolled into one smooth pitch.
“Yes. I understand you witnessed the shooting? You photographed it?”
She nodded. “I was working when it all started. I took a series of shots while it was happening.”
His gaze flicked to the camera she held in one hand.
“I need to see those pictures.”
His first impression of her height had been correct. She was maybe three or four inches shorter than his six-foot-one frame. As she moved closer, the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight at attention. She smelled as good as she looked and his nostrils flared from the scent of sweet cherries blended with some hot exotic spice.
“It all went down so fast,” she said. “But I got some good shots.” Handing him the camera, she added, “Press this button to advance.”
The first few pictures showed his witness ambling along the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. There was a smug, satisfied smile on his face as he was flanked by the two agents assigned to protect him. Ky pressed the button a few times. Another series of pictures showed the impact of the bullets as they pierced one of his agents, the next detailing the second man as a single shot impaled the center of his forehead. Shock, horror and stark fear replaced the smile on his witness’s face as he bent forward and appeared to run from the bullets. The next few photos showed him struck and then felled by several shots, all clustered in his chest. Ky depressed the advance button again. The photographer had moved to view a black van with no windows on the sides nor any identifiable markings on the body. He wanted to curse when he saw it, thinking the van would be a dead end, when he flipped the advance button again to see she’d zoomed in on the license plate.
Elated, he glanced up and found her eyes trained on him.
“I need you to come with me.” He grabbed her arm.
“Where?” She stretched across him and tried to take back her camera. Ky held it up and away from her reach.
“My office. I need a written statement from you about what you saw. It’s better to do it now, right away, so you don’t forget any details, anything of importance.”
“I never forget details,” she said, reaching across him again. “Can I please have my camera? I don’t like anyone carrying it but me.”
“This piece of equipment is the only link to finding out who killed my men. It’s not leaving my hands.”
She stopped and tried to pull her arm out of his grip. Ky tightened his grasp.
“Look, Agent PappaJohn—”
“Pappandreos,” he corrected. It was a common mistake, one he’d heard a number of times in his career, but hearing her say it, wrapping the syllables around those pouty lips with that husky voice, for some reason charmed him.
“Whatever.” She swiped her free hand in the air. “I want my camera.”
“You’ll get it back, I assure you.” He started walking, giving her no choice but to follow.
Before she could protest again, he stopped. “Jon?” His partner turned from the interview he was conducting with a restaurant waiter. “Can you have someone escort Miss Laine back to the office? She needs to have her statement written up.”
“Sure, Papps.”
“Wait a second,” Gemma said, wrenching her arm from his grip. The smooth, natural warmth in her voice had turned to frosted ice. “I’ll be happy to give you a statement, but I want my camera. Now.”
“I won’t break it, Miss Laine, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Then stop holding it like it’s a cheap piece of tin! Give it back to me. I’ll hold it.”
“This is digital, right?” Jon Winters stepped between them and asked.
“Yes, and it’s very expensive,” Gemma said, still trying to take it from Ky’s hand.
“We really only need the SD card then, Papps, not the camera.”
“True.” Ky examined the device, found the button to expel the memory card and depressed it. He took the card and slipped it into his pocket. “Here.” He handed the camera back to her.
“Wait a minute.” She clutched it to her chest as if she were protecting a child from a threat. “You can’t keep the card. All my work is on it.”
“We won’t erase anything you need,” Ky told her. “Or let anything happen to it.”
“This is ridiculous.” Gemma blew at her bangs. “How do I know you won’t keep it as some kind of evidence? I haven’t uploaded the pictures I took today. I need those shots.”
“I told you you’d get the card back,” Ky said, his patience wavering. “Now we’re wasting time. Jon?” Dismissing them, he walked away and over to the scene of the shooting.
* * *
Gemma paced the small room for the hundredth time, her arms folded across her chest, desperately wanting to hit something.
No, not something. Someone. Agent Pappa-pain, or whatever the heck his name was.
For over two hours she’d been confined to this cramped, windowless, and drab room. During the first hour she’d written, in full detail, everything she’d witnessed on the street corner. Agent Winters had guided her through the questions while she wrote the answers in her smooth, precise script. When they were finished, he’d left her, promising to return shortly.
Winters’s definition of shortly was exceedingly different from hers.
With a heavy sigh, she plopped back down into a metal chair, arms still crossed, and thought about Winters’ partner, Special Agent Moron. Reconsidering, she added, a hunky moron, but one nonetheless.
Gemma had been speaking on the phone when she’d turned and seen him approaching. Her first thought had been serious eye candy. Clad in a supremely well-fitted dark-blue suit, he simply tore up the pavement on his way to her, those long legs striding with purpose and determination in each step. His face was a contradiction in origins. Deep, milk-chocolate colored hair, cut just a bit too short for her liking, with soft, gold flecks framing his temples and the top of his head. His skin was a light golden brown, giving the impression he spent a great deal of time in the sun. Eyes the color of the sea at sunrise, so light green, they almost appeared crystal with the sun hitting them, were surrounded by jet-black eyelashes Gemma admitted she was jealous of. His face was angular, the jaw tapering into a rock solid V at its tip, a small crevice winking out right below his lower lip.
All-in-all it was a face she wanted to photograph, knowing just the way she’d capture it. The fact he’d yanked her along after him like an errant child got her dander up. Coupled with the way he’d carelessly held her camera, it made her want to kick some sense into him.
God, what a day.
All she’d planned on doing was spending a few hours walking along the city streets, shooting interesting faces. She was almost done when the dapper-looking gentleman alighted from the restaurant, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. Gemma recognized that smile. It was the same one she always had after treating herself to some well-deserved Cherry Garcia ice cream after a tough, demanding day. She knew without a doubt the man had just eaten a pleasant meal. Satisfaction like that came only from two things: good food or great sex. Since he was walking along with two testosterone hulks in conservative suits, she figured it was the food part of the equation dancing on his face.
In the blink of her camera shutter’s eye, the scene had changed to one of horror. Professional instinct made her continue shooting the events as they unfolded, capturing the slaying of the three men. She turned her camera when she realized the direction the shots were coming from, and through her viewfinder found the van speeding off. Pointing her lens at its retreating back, she zoomed in on the license plate. Without even thinking about the composition of the shot, she snapped as fast as she could, trying to record as much information as possible.
After the van escaped, she ran to the victims to see if she could help in any way. It was too late for all three of them. The sound of sirens glued her to the spot. She’d located the first officers to arrive, told one of them she had footage of the incident, and then had been led away from the scene to wait. A quick call to her brother-in-law Josh was interrupted by the arrival of the arrogant FBI Agent.
* * *
Ky watched her pace the length of the room from the video camera mounted on the wall in the corner. “What do we know about her?”
“Aside from the obvious?” Jon’s grin was quick. “She’s awfully easy on the eyes.”
“Aside from the obvious,” Ky said, his own gaze never leaving the monitor.
“Twenty-eight, single, lives alone. Her professional rep is pretty impressive.”
“How so?”
“Ever heard of chef Kandy Laine?”
His eyes widened. “My mom and YiaYia love her. They have all her books, used to watch her show every time it was on. Laine? Any relation?”
“Sister. One of seven. Owns her own photography business called GAL Photos. Pretty famous in her own right. Last month alone she shot three magazine covers. She’s what’s called in the entertainment biz ‘the go-to’ when you need a great headshot.”
“So why was she in midtown today when our witness bought it?”
“Seems she’s doing a coffee-table book of faces. Today she was walking around, looking for interesting ones, spotted Calafano and thought he’d make a good subject. She started snapping away and then the proverbial shit hit the fan.”
Ky nodded.
“Here.” Jon handed him a copy of her typed statement. “Read it for yourself.”
Ky took it and within a few minutes had it committed to memory.
“You don’t think there’s anything more to this, do you?” Jon asked. “I mean, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, right?”
“Appears that way,” Ky answered. “I have a few more questions before we let her go, though.”
“She’s still asking about the SD card. Wants it back, undamaged and unaltered. Now.”
“She’ll get it back when we’re done with it,” Ky said, buttoning his jacket.
When he entered the conference room a moment later, he thought he was prepared for the jolt seeing her in the flesh would cause again. He was wrong. The second he opened the door and saw her eyes tracking him like those of a caged animals, he realized just how wrong. A subtle, unmistakable, pang of unease sliced right into his midsection, cutting off all circulation except to his groin. With a mental and physical shake, he approached her.
Anger percolated through her from across the room.
“Miss Laine—”
“Why am I still here? I gave my statement. I want my memory card and I want to go home. I have a ton of work to do.”
Ky reached down deep to curb his temper. “I need to clarify a few things first.”
“What things?” She leaned back against the wall, leveling him with a hard stare. “I told your partner everything I remember. In vivid detail.”
“Yes, I read your statement. Please.” He motioned to a chair. “Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.”
He couldn’t tell if she was being purposefully obnoxious when her chin tilted up defiantly at him or if it was a character trait. Regardless, he pulled the facing chair from the table and sat.
“You mentioned in your statement you were out walking when you noticed the shooting.”
“No, that’s not correct.” She must have forgotten her reason for standing because she moved back to the chair and settled into it. “I said I was out working and noticed the trio of men coming out of the restaurant.”
Ky knew that. He wanted to see if she’d change any of the details with time.
“The older man had an attention-grabbing face,” she continued, resting her arms on the table. “I’m on the lookout for interesting faces.”
“So you notice him, see his face and decide, what? To take his picture? Just like that?”
She nodded. “It’s what I do. I’m working on a book called Faces of New York.”
“What was so fascinating about his?”
“It wasn’t so much his face as the expression on it,” she said. “He’d just come out of Sam’s. I figured he’d eaten lunch because he was patting his stomach and had a contented, gratified smile on his lips. So I took his picture. A series of them, in fact, as he continued walking.”
“Why did you continue snapping away? You had your shot. Why take more?”
Gemma blew out a breath and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over her chest again. “Do you know anything about photography?”
“No, not really.”
She sliced a finger through the side of her hair and tucked the strands behind her ears. It refused to settle and fell back across her cheeks the moment she removed her hand.
“There’s more to getting the shot you want than merely pressing a button. You have to consider the lighting, the motion, or absence of it. A million different things go into capturing the perfect image. A person’s face changes in a millisecond. You can go from an expression of rapture, to the simple turning up of the lips in the time it takes for a heart to beat just once. I wanted to make sure I got the look I wanted to convey. Taking several shots in a continuum ensures I will.”
Ky nodded. “So the only thing you knew about the older man was you liked the expression on his face?”
“Yes.”
“You had no idea who he was?”
“No. I still don’t. All I know is he and two other men were gunned down on a New York City street. And because of some quirk of nature, I was there when it happened.”
Ky waited a beat. “What made you continue taking pictures after the shooting started? Most people ran for cover, got out of harm’s way. You stayed where you were and continued to photograph what was happening. I have to ask myself why?”
Gemma’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not a news reporter or photojournalist. You don’t work for any national news publications. You own your own business, work for yourself. What were you hoping to gain from continuing to shoot?”
Gemma shot up, the chair falling to the floor behind her with a resounding thwack. “Your implication is insulting. You think I continued filming for some dark ulterior motive, don’t you? Like I wanted to sell the pictures, or in some way benefit from them. That’s not only insulting, it’s disgusting.”
“I don’t think I said anything along those lines.”
“Your veiled wording implies otherwise. For your bigoted information, my brother-in-law is in private security. I’ve assisted him a few times with surveillance photography, even helped his partner in various filming techniques when he’s gone undercover. I’m not a paparazzo looking for my next big photographic score. Agent—,” she flipped her hand in the air in lieu of addressing him by name, “I’m a professional photographer, and I reacted as one today. I kept filming because I could. I didn’t think I was in any danger. The van was speeding away from me, not toward me.”
Ky looked across the table at her, weighing her words. “For the record, again, it’s Pappandreos, and I never assumed you were anything other than what you’ve stated, Miss Laine. I simply need to make sure you had no prior knowledge of the men who were gunned down today.”
“I don’t know them from Adam.” Her voice dropped a notch as her gaze bore into his.
Ky wanted to believe her, but a cautious regard for human nature had always served him well.
“Do you recognize the name Mario Calafano?”
Her eyes narrowed again, her gaze never leaving his. “It sounds familiar, but I’m not sure. Why?”
Instead of answering he asked, “How about Jackson Hunter or Paul Ingersall?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Ky nodded. Rising, he told her, “I think we’re finished here, Miss Laine. We have your contact information. We’ll call when we’re done with the memory card.”
“I can’t have it now?”
The childlike whine in her husky voice reminded him of his nieces and nephews when they didn’t get their way.
“We haven’t finished with it yet. But I assure you, I’ll get it back to you.”
“When?”
“As I’ve said, when we’re finished with it.”
“This blows.” She frowned and crossed her arms in front of her again, this time her hands were fisted.
It wouldn’t have surprised him if she stomped her foot next. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his card. “These are my contact numbers. If you don’t hear from me in a few days, feel free to call.”
“A few days?” she cried. “That’s a lifetime to someone on a publishing deadline. I have a lot of work on that card and it needs to be uploaded and edited.”
“A few days are all we need.”
She mumbled something he couldn’t hear and didn’t think he wanted to, figuring it was something derogatory about himself. Ky made arrangements for an agent to drive her home and then watched as she was escorted out of the office.
“Hell hath no fury.” Jon chuckled.
“The quote pertains to a woman scorned.”
“Scorned or not, she’s one seriously pissed but fine-looking female.”
Ky agreed, on both counts. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
* * *
Gemma let herself into her condo, threw her keys down on the entrance table, toed off her shoes, and then plopped down onto her couch.
“Jerk.” She rubbed her tired eyes with the heels of her palms and dropped her chin to her chest. “Special Agent Jerk.”
Seething, she thought about all the shots she’d taken before the shooting. Pictures she now couldn’t work on. An entire day’s filming, shot. Literally. Shot to hell.
And there were some great images in the batch, too. The toddler twins running down the street with their parents laughingly chasing after them; the tiny, elderly woman carrying her equally frail Pomeranian; the Asian shopkeeper sweeping outside her grocery store, an e-cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
All pictures she knew would be perfect for the book. Only now she had to wait for them to be returned. And if there was one thing Gemma Laine hated, it was waiting.
That, and arrogant special agents.
She blew out a breath, her bangs dancing up off her forehead. Since seven o’clock that morning, she’d been walking around Manhattan, looking for inspiration. She hadn’t stopped to eat or drink before the shooting, and waiting at FBI headquarters had chewed up another few hours with nothing in her system. A loud growl snarled up from her empty stomach and echoed in the apartment.
A quick inventory of the refrigerator reminded her she’d wanted to stop at the local grocery today when she’d finished working. All that stared back at her from the cool interior was a pint of skim milk, a few bottles of beer from the last time her sister and brother-in-law had visited, and three eggs.
“Oh, well. An omelet it is.”
She put the frying pan her sister had given her for Christmas on the stovetop and turned the coil to medium heat. She’d never be the chef Kandy was, but she knew the basics for making a great breakfast. After whisking the eggs with some of the milk, she added a sprinkling of black pepper and nutmeg to the mix.
When the pan was the perfect temperature and she was about to pour in the eggs, the doorbell rang.
Since she lived in a doorman-controlled condo and all her family were well known to the man on duty, she assumed it was one of them. Without looking through the peephole, she opened the door. Her smile died in an instant.
“Scream and I’ll shoot,” a man holding a gun aimed at her face declared.
Gemma’s first instinct was to run. She pulled back, using the door as armor and pushed. Her intruder pushed right back, knocking her to the floor when the force of the door smashed into her. Flat on her butt, she crab crawled backward and tried to stand while the man flew into the apartment, banged the door shut and was on her in a second.
He grabbed a fist full of her hair and pulled her up by it.
Tears of pain sprang into her eyes. She ignored them, slipping into full defense mode. She flattened one of her hands over the one he had on her hair, pushed down and twisted, turning to face him as she’d been taught to do. If she stood upright she knew she’d be taller than he was, so she stayed stooped. He was attempting to yank on her hair again, but Gemma pulled her other hand back and, opening the web between her thumb and index finger wide, shot her hand out like a snake, striking him with the “V” straight in the throat.
The hit had its intended effect. He let go of her hair and staggered backward, one of his hands flying to his gullet. Gemma took a split second to stand tall, stepped one foot behind her and then, raising her opposite leg, kicked him full force straight in the chest with the ball of her foot, knocking him back. The gun dropped from his hand and she ran to it, but he reached out and grabbed her leg, jerking her down hard to the floor. Gemma felt her knee splinter into the hardwood floor and she recoiled into a fetal position from the impact. With his advantage, the intruder jumped over her, grabbed the gun and pointed it straight at her face again.
“Bitch! I should kill you now.” His neck was bright red from her strike, his voice raspy and raw like sandpaper gliding along fresh-cut wood.
“What do you want?” The gun bobbed up and down in his hand as she stared down its barrel.
“Where is it?”
“What?”
“The camera you were using today.”
His eyes flicked around the living room and then back to her, the gun still pointed straight at her face. “Where is it?” he repeated.
“I don’t have it. The police took it.” She rubbed her knee, gauging if she’d be able to stand on it. It wasn’t broken, but she’d landed hard.
“Try again. I watched you leave the FBI building. You had it in your hands. Now stop wasting my time and give it to me.”
Gemma quickly ran through all her options. Her knee was pounding, she had a lethal weapon pointed at her face and she was on the floor flat on her butt: a very bad position to deal from. Her gaze swept from the gun to the man’s face, memorizing it, detail by detail.
“It’s in the kitchen,” she told him, rolling over and trying to rise up on her uninjured leg.
“Get it. Now.”
“My knee is blown,” she told him, standing upright on her good foot. “I can’t move fast.”
To prove her point she tried to walk and hobbled, almost going down to the floor again.
Her intruder swore. “Forget it. I’ll get it.” He turned his head, the gun still directed at her. . . .
Special Agent Kyros Pappandreos scanned the midtown Manhattan street in front of him and swore.
“I want to see the cops who were first on scene right now,” he demanded of the uniformed NYPD officer next to him. Ky turned to his partner. “How did this happen?”
“It looks like a blitz attack.” Jon Winters squinted an eye at the midday sun. “They’d finished lunch, were walking back to the car.”
“We didn’t have eyes or ears on them?” Ky asked, surveying the gory scene. Two of his best agents were dead and his witness lay with his face kissing the curb, pooling blood drenching his inert form, arms bent back in unnatural angles at his sides.
“Neither,” Winters said. “They were out of touch for an hour, tops. Our guys had their cell phones, but no communication since they left the hotel.”
“This is unbelievable.” Ky squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and let out a heavy breath. Three years of work shot to hell in a matter of seconds.
“Agent Pappandreos? You wanted to speak with me?”
Ky turned to the metro officer who approached him, noting the name badge over the left breast pocket of his blue uniform shirt. “Officer Johnson, you got here first?”
“Yes, sir. My partner and I responded to a shots fired at one fifteen.”
“I want details. Where were you when the call came?”
“Outside the deli between Madison and Fifth, two blocks over. Dispatch alerted us, we raced down, saw the victims on the sidewalk. Whole thing was done by the time we got here.”
“Any ID on the shooters? Witnesses? Did anyone see anything?”
“It was pretty chaotic when we arrived. The area’s packed this time of day with lunch business. Lotta banks and professional offices are headquartered around here. People heard shots, ran for cover.” He referred to his notepad. “I got a few statements about a black van, dark blue, maybe. No one got a license or has been able to give an accurate description of the vehicle. It pulled up, shots were fired, it sped off. Matter of seconds it was all over and your three vics were on the ground.”
“Johnson, I’ve got a witness,” another metro uniform called as he sprinted up to the trio. Ky turned in the direction of the voice.
“This is my partner,” Johnson said.
“Where’s this witness?” Ky asked.
“I’ve got her isolated by my squad car.” He shot his thumb in the direction behind him. “Says she saw everything, and—get this—she’s a professional photographer. Filmed it all as it went down.”
“Take me to her,” Ky said. “Jon?”
“Yeah, Papps, I know. Go interview this witness. I’ll coordinate from here.”
“Let’s go,” Ky commanded the officer.
“That’s her.” The officer pointed to a police vehicle in the middle of the barricaded street a moment later. “Name’s Gemma Laine.”
A woman stood next to the vehicle, a cell phone at her ear, her back to him. Tall, maybe as tall as him, and slender, her back tapered down to a miniscule waist, her legs clad in tight, faded jeans. When she turned Ky almost stopped midstride, the questions he intended to grill her with jumping out of his head. His breath caught as he simply stared at the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.
Hair the color of midnight, straight as a board, fell to just below her shoulders, blowing back from her face in the gentle afternoon breeze. Blunt, chopped bangs fringed a pair of large, bright-blue eyes. Plump, coral-colored lips moved as she spoke into the phone and for a brief, hot second, Ky wondered if they’d taste as delicious as they looked.
Her gaze stayed on him as she spoke.
“I’ve gotta go,” she said into the phone. “Yeah. I’ll call when I’m done. Love you, too.”
“Miss Laine?”
She tucked the phone into her back pocket.
“I’m Special Agent Pappandreos. I need to speak with you about what you saw.”
“Special Agent?” Those delicate brows furrowed under her bangs. “Like, FBI?”
Jesus, where does a woman get a voice like that? Whiskey laced with honey and rolled into one smooth pitch.
“Yes. I understand you witnessed the shooting? You photographed it?”
She nodded. “I was working when it all started. I took a series of shots while it was happening.”
His gaze flicked to the camera she held in one hand.
“I need to see those pictures.”
His first impression of her height had been correct. She was maybe three or four inches shorter than his six-foot-one frame. As she moved closer, the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight at attention. She smelled as good as she looked and his nostrils flared from the scent of sweet cherries blended with some hot exotic spice.
“It all went down so fast,” she said. “But I got some good shots.” Handing him the camera, she added, “Press this button to advance.”
The first few pictures showed his witness ambling along the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. There was a smug, satisfied smile on his face as he was flanked by the two agents assigned to protect him. Ky pressed the button a few times. Another series of pictures showed the impact of the bullets as they pierced one of his agents, the next detailing the second man as a single shot impaled the center of his forehead. Shock, horror and stark fear replaced the smile on his witness’s face as he bent forward and appeared to run from the bullets. The next few photos showed him struck and then felled by several shots, all clustered in his chest. Ky depressed the advance button again. The photographer had moved to view a black van with no windows on the sides nor any identifiable markings on the body. He wanted to curse when he saw it, thinking the van would be a dead end, when he flipped the advance button again to see she’d zoomed in on the license plate.
Elated, he glanced up and found her eyes trained on him.
“I need you to come with me.” He grabbed her arm.
“Where?” She stretched across him and tried to take back her camera. Ky held it up and away from her reach.
“My office. I need a written statement from you about what you saw. It’s better to do it now, right away, so you don’t forget any details, anything of importance.”
“I never forget details,” she said, reaching across him again. “Can I please have my camera? I don’t like anyone carrying it but me.”
“This piece of equipment is the only link to finding out who killed my men. It’s not leaving my hands.”
She stopped and tried to pull her arm out of his grip. Ky tightened his grasp.
“Look, Agent PappaJohn—”
“Pappandreos,” he corrected. It was a common mistake, one he’d heard a number of times in his career, but hearing her say it, wrapping the syllables around those pouty lips with that husky voice, for some reason charmed him.
“Whatever.” She swiped her free hand in the air. “I want my camera.”
“You’ll get it back, I assure you.” He started walking, giving her no choice but to follow.
Before she could protest again, he stopped. “Jon?” His partner turned from the interview he was conducting with a restaurant waiter. “Can you have someone escort Miss Laine back to the office? She needs to have her statement written up.”
“Sure, Papps.”
“Wait a second,” Gemma said, wrenching her arm from his grip. The smooth, natural warmth in her voice had turned to frosted ice. “I’ll be happy to give you a statement, but I want my camera. Now.”
“I won’t break it, Miss Laine, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Then stop holding it like it’s a cheap piece of tin! Give it back to me. I’ll hold it.”
“This is digital, right?” Jon Winters stepped between them and asked.
“Yes, and it’s very expensive,” Gemma said, still trying to take it from Ky’s hand.
“We really only need the SD card then, Papps, not the camera.”
“True.” Ky examined the device, found the button to expel the memory card and depressed it. He took the card and slipped it into his pocket. “Here.” He handed the camera back to her.
“Wait a minute.” She clutched it to her chest as if she were protecting a child from a threat. “You can’t keep the card. All my work is on it.”
“We won’t erase anything you need,” Ky told her. “Or let anything happen to it.”
“This is ridiculous.” Gemma blew at her bangs. “How do I know you won’t keep it as some kind of evidence? I haven’t uploaded the pictures I took today. I need those shots.”
“I told you you’d get the card back,” Ky said, his patience wavering. “Now we’re wasting time. Jon?” Dismissing them, he walked away and over to the scene of the shooting.
* * *
Gemma paced the small room for the hundredth time, her arms folded across her chest, desperately wanting to hit something.
No, not something. Someone. Agent Pappa-pain, or whatever the heck his name was.
For over two hours she’d been confined to this cramped, windowless, and drab room. During the first hour she’d written, in full detail, everything she’d witnessed on the street corner. Agent Winters had guided her through the questions while she wrote the answers in her smooth, precise script. When they were finished, he’d left her, promising to return shortly.
Winters’s definition of shortly was exceedingly different from hers.
With a heavy sigh, she plopped back down into a metal chair, arms still crossed, and thought about Winters’ partner, Special Agent Moron. Reconsidering, she added, a hunky moron, but one nonetheless.
Gemma had been speaking on the phone when she’d turned and seen him approaching. Her first thought had been serious eye candy. Clad in a supremely well-fitted dark-blue suit, he simply tore up the pavement on his way to her, those long legs striding with purpose and determination in each step. His face was a contradiction in origins. Deep, milk-chocolate colored hair, cut just a bit too short for her liking, with soft, gold flecks framing his temples and the top of his head. His skin was a light golden brown, giving the impression he spent a great deal of time in the sun. Eyes the color of the sea at sunrise, so light green, they almost appeared crystal with the sun hitting them, were surrounded by jet-black eyelashes Gemma admitted she was jealous of. His face was angular, the jaw tapering into a rock solid V at its tip, a small crevice winking out right below his lower lip.
All-in-all it was a face she wanted to photograph, knowing just the way she’d capture it. The fact he’d yanked her along after him like an errant child got her dander up. Coupled with the way he’d carelessly held her camera, it made her want to kick some sense into him.
God, what a day.
All she’d planned on doing was spending a few hours walking along the city streets, shooting interesting faces. She was almost done when the dapper-looking gentleman alighted from the restaurant, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. Gemma recognized that smile. It was the same one she always had after treating herself to some well-deserved Cherry Garcia ice cream after a tough, demanding day. She knew without a doubt the man had just eaten a pleasant meal. Satisfaction like that came only from two things: good food or great sex. Since he was walking along with two testosterone hulks in conservative suits, she figured it was the food part of the equation dancing on his face.
In the blink of her camera shutter’s eye, the scene had changed to one of horror. Professional instinct made her continue shooting the events as they unfolded, capturing the slaying of the three men. She turned her camera when she realized the direction the shots were coming from, and through her viewfinder found the van speeding off. Pointing her lens at its retreating back, she zoomed in on the license plate. Without even thinking about the composition of the shot, she snapped as fast as she could, trying to record as much information as possible.
After the van escaped, she ran to the victims to see if she could help in any way. It was too late for all three of them. The sound of sirens glued her to the spot. She’d located the first officers to arrive, told one of them she had footage of the incident, and then had been led away from the scene to wait. A quick call to her brother-in-law Josh was interrupted by the arrival of the arrogant FBI Agent.
* * *
Ky watched her pace the length of the room from the video camera mounted on the wall in the corner. “What do we know about her?”
“Aside from the obvious?” Jon’s grin was quick. “She’s awfully easy on the eyes.”
“Aside from the obvious,” Ky said, his own gaze never leaving the monitor.
“Twenty-eight, single, lives alone. Her professional rep is pretty impressive.”
“How so?”
“Ever heard of chef Kandy Laine?”
His eyes widened. “My mom and YiaYia love her. They have all her books, used to watch her show every time it was on. Laine? Any relation?”
“Sister. One of seven. Owns her own photography business called GAL Photos. Pretty famous in her own right. Last month alone she shot three magazine covers. She’s what’s called in the entertainment biz ‘the go-to’ when you need a great headshot.”
“So why was she in midtown today when our witness bought it?”
“Seems she’s doing a coffee-table book of faces. Today she was walking around, looking for interesting ones, spotted Calafano and thought he’d make a good subject. She started snapping away and then the proverbial shit hit the fan.”
Ky nodded.
“Here.” Jon handed him a copy of her typed statement. “Read it for yourself.”
Ky took it and within a few minutes had it committed to memory.
“You don’t think there’s anything more to this, do you?” Jon asked. “I mean, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, right?”
“Appears that way,” Ky answered. “I have a few more questions before we let her go, though.”
“She’s still asking about the SD card. Wants it back, undamaged and unaltered. Now.”
“She’ll get it back when we’re done with it,” Ky said, buttoning his jacket.
When he entered the conference room a moment later, he thought he was prepared for the jolt seeing her in the flesh would cause again. He was wrong. The second he opened the door and saw her eyes tracking him like those of a caged animals, he realized just how wrong. A subtle, unmistakable, pang of unease sliced right into his midsection, cutting off all circulation except to his groin. With a mental and physical shake, he approached her.
Anger percolated through her from across the room.
“Miss Laine—”
“Why am I still here? I gave my statement. I want my memory card and I want to go home. I have a ton of work to do.”
Ky reached down deep to curb his temper. “I need to clarify a few things first.”
“What things?” She leaned back against the wall, leveling him with a hard stare. “I told your partner everything I remember. In vivid detail.”
“Yes, I read your statement. Please.” He motioned to a chair. “Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.”
He couldn’t tell if she was being purposefully obnoxious when her chin tilted up defiantly at him or if it was a character trait. Regardless, he pulled the facing chair from the table and sat.
“You mentioned in your statement you were out walking when you noticed the shooting.”
“No, that’s not correct.” She must have forgotten her reason for standing because she moved back to the chair and settled into it. “I said I was out working and noticed the trio of men coming out of the restaurant.”
Ky knew that. He wanted to see if she’d change any of the details with time.
“The older man had an attention-grabbing face,” she continued, resting her arms on the table. “I’m on the lookout for interesting faces.”
“So you notice him, see his face and decide, what? To take his picture? Just like that?”
She nodded. “It’s what I do. I’m working on a book called Faces of New York.”
“What was so fascinating about his?”
“It wasn’t so much his face as the expression on it,” she said. “He’d just come out of Sam’s. I figured he’d eaten lunch because he was patting his stomach and had a contented, gratified smile on his lips. So I took his picture. A series of them, in fact, as he continued walking.”
“Why did you continue snapping away? You had your shot. Why take more?”
Gemma blew out a breath and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over her chest again. “Do you know anything about photography?”
“No, not really.”
She sliced a finger through the side of her hair and tucked the strands behind her ears. It refused to settle and fell back across her cheeks the moment she removed her hand.
“There’s more to getting the shot you want than merely pressing a button. You have to consider the lighting, the motion, or absence of it. A million different things go into capturing the perfect image. A person’s face changes in a millisecond. You can go from an expression of rapture, to the simple turning up of the lips in the time it takes for a heart to beat just once. I wanted to make sure I got the look I wanted to convey. Taking several shots in a continuum ensures I will.”
Ky nodded. “So the only thing you knew about the older man was you liked the expression on his face?”
“Yes.”
“You had no idea who he was?”
“No. I still don’t. All I know is he and two other men were gunned down on a New York City street. And because of some quirk of nature, I was there when it happened.”
Ky waited a beat. “What made you continue taking pictures after the shooting started? Most people ran for cover, got out of harm’s way. You stayed where you were and continued to photograph what was happening. I have to ask myself why?”
Gemma’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not a news reporter or photojournalist. You don’t work for any national news publications. You own your own business, work for yourself. What were you hoping to gain from continuing to shoot?”
Gemma shot up, the chair falling to the floor behind her with a resounding thwack. “Your implication is insulting. You think I continued filming for some dark ulterior motive, don’t you? Like I wanted to sell the pictures, or in some way benefit from them. That’s not only insulting, it’s disgusting.”
“I don’t think I said anything along those lines.”
“Your veiled wording implies otherwise. For your bigoted information, my brother-in-law is in private security. I’ve assisted him a few times with surveillance photography, even helped his partner in various filming techniques when he’s gone undercover. I’m not a paparazzo looking for my next big photographic score. Agent—,” she flipped her hand in the air in lieu of addressing him by name, “I’m a professional photographer, and I reacted as one today. I kept filming because I could. I didn’t think I was in any danger. The van was speeding away from me, not toward me.”
Ky looked across the table at her, weighing her words. “For the record, again, it’s Pappandreos, and I never assumed you were anything other than what you’ve stated, Miss Laine. I simply need to make sure you had no prior knowledge of the men who were gunned down today.”
“I don’t know them from Adam.” Her voice dropped a notch as her gaze bore into his.
Ky wanted to believe her, but a cautious regard for human nature had always served him well.
“Do you recognize the name Mario Calafano?”
Her eyes narrowed again, her gaze never leaving his. “It sounds familiar, but I’m not sure. Why?”
Instead of answering he asked, “How about Jackson Hunter or Paul Ingersall?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Ky nodded. Rising, he told her, “I think we’re finished here, Miss Laine. We have your contact information. We’ll call when we’re done with the memory card.”
“I can’t have it now?”
The childlike whine in her husky voice reminded him of his nieces and nephews when they didn’t get their way.
“We haven’t finished with it yet. But I assure you, I’ll get it back to you.”
“When?”
“As I’ve said, when we’re finished with it.”
“This blows.” She frowned and crossed her arms in front of her again, this time her hands were fisted.
It wouldn’t have surprised him if she stomped her foot next. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his card. “These are my contact numbers. If you don’t hear from me in a few days, feel free to call.”
“A few days?” she cried. “That’s a lifetime to someone on a publishing deadline. I have a lot of work on that card and it needs to be uploaded and edited.”
“A few days are all we need.”
She mumbled something he couldn’t hear and didn’t think he wanted to, figuring it was something derogatory about himself. Ky made arrangements for an agent to drive her home and then watched as she was escorted out of the office.
“Hell hath no fury.” Jon chuckled.
“The quote pertains to a woman scorned.”
“Scorned or not, she’s one seriously pissed but fine-looking female.”
Ky agreed, on both counts. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
* * *
Gemma let herself into her condo, threw her keys down on the entrance table, toed off her shoes, and then plopped down onto her couch.
“Jerk.” She rubbed her tired eyes with the heels of her palms and dropped her chin to her chest. “Special Agent Jerk.”
Seething, she thought about all the shots she’d taken before the shooting. Pictures she now couldn’t work on. An entire day’s filming, shot. Literally. Shot to hell.
And there were some great images in the batch, too. The toddler twins running down the street with their parents laughingly chasing after them; the tiny, elderly woman carrying her equally frail Pomeranian; the Asian shopkeeper sweeping outside her grocery store, an e-cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
All pictures she knew would be perfect for the book. Only now she had to wait for them to be returned. And if there was one thing Gemma Laine hated, it was waiting.
That, and arrogant special agents.
She blew out a breath, her bangs dancing up off her forehead. Since seven o’clock that morning, she’d been walking around Manhattan, looking for inspiration. She hadn’t stopped to eat or drink before the shooting, and waiting at FBI headquarters had chewed up another few hours with nothing in her system. A loud growl snarled up from her empty stomach and echoed in the apartment.
A quick inventory of the refrigerator reminded her she’d wanted to stop at the local grocery today when she’d finished working. All that stared back at her from the cool interior was a pint of skim milk, a few bottles of beer from the last time her sister and brother-in-law had visited, and three eggs.
“Oh, well. An omelet it is.”
She put the frying pan her sister had given her for Christmas on the stovetop and turned the coil to medium heat. She’d never be the chef Kandy was, but she knew the basics for making a great breakfast. After whisking the eggs with some of the milk, she added a sprinkling of black pepper and nutmeg to the mix.
When the pan was the perfect temperature and she was about to pour in the eggs, the doorbell rang.
Since she lived in a doorman-controlled condo and all her family were well known to the man on duty, she assumed it was one of them. Without looking through the peephole, she opened the door. Her smile died in an instant.
“Scream and I’ll shoot,” a man holding a gun aimed at her face declared.
Gemma’s first instinct was to run. She pulled back, using the door as armor and pushed. Her intruder pushed right back, knocking her to the floor when the force of the door smashed into her. Flat on her butt, she crab crawled backward and tried to stand while the man flew into the apartment, banged the door shut and was on her in a second.
He grabbed a fist full of her hair and pulled her up by it.
Tears of pain sprang into her eyes. She ignored them, slipping into full defense mode. She flattened one of her hands over the one he had on her hair, pushed down and twisted, turning to face him as she’d been taught to do. If she stood upright she knew she’d be taller than he was, so she stayed stooped. He was attempting to yank on her hair again, but Gemma pulled her other hand back and, opening the web between her thumb and index finger wide, shot her hand out like a snake, striking him with the “V” straight in the throat.
The hit had its intended effect. He let go of her hair and staggered backward, one of his hands flying to his gullet. Gemma took a split second to stand tall, stepped one foot behind her and then, raising her opposite leg, kicked him full force straight in the chest with the ball of her foot, knocking him back. The gun dropped from his hand and she ran to it, but he reached out and grabbed her leg, jerking her down hard to the floor. Gemma felt her knee splinter into the hardwood floor and she recoiled into a fetal position from the impact. With his advantage, the intruder jumped over her, grabbed the gun and pointed it straight at her face again.
“Bitch! I should kill you now.” His neck was bright red from her strike, his voice raspy and raw like sandpaper gliding along fresh-cut wood.
“What do you want?” The gun bobbed up and down in his hand as she stared down its barrel.
“Where is it?”
“What?”
“The camera you were using today.”
His eyes flicked around the living room and then back to her, the gun still pointed straight at her face. “Where is it?” he repeated.
“I don’t have it. The police took it.” She rubbed her knee, gauging if she’d be able to stand on it. It wasn’t broken, but she’d landed hard.
“Try again. I watched you leave the FBI building. You had it in your hands. Now stop wasting my time and give it to me.”
Gemma quickly ran through all her options. Her knee was pounding, she had a lethal weapon pointed at her face and she was on the floor flat on her butt: a very bad position to deal from. Her gaze swept from the gun to the man’s face, memorizing it, detail by detail.
“It’s in the kitchen,” she told him, rolling over and trying to rise up on her uninjured leg.
“Get it. Now.”
“My knee is blown,” she told him, standing upright on her good foot. “I can’t move fast.”
To prove her point she tried to walk and hobbled, almost going down to the floor again.
Her intruder swore. “Forget it. I’ll get it.” He turned his head, the gun still directed at her. . . .
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