They had to get out of the burning house or a lack of oxygen would suffocate them.
Two kicks and the barrier fell outward. Rowan turned to Jo and swung her into his arms. With her clasped against his chest, he ducked his head and stepped sideways through the gap and into the sunlight.
God, life was great!
He made it to the lawn. With his lungs heaving, he halted and watched the fire swallow up the room they’d fled from with less than a second to spare.
Rowan threw back his head as relief ripped a huge bellow of glad-to-be-alive laughter from his throat. Then he turned his attention to Jo.
Perspiration beaded her forehead, and smoky trails of tears painted her cheeks. She’d never looked more beautiful. She was alive. They were alive.
“Rowan…” Her lips seemed to tremble on his name. Her beautiful mouth filled his vision. His head dipped to take her lips with his own. Just one kiss. A hero’s kiss. He was entitled, and this time he would claim it.
Love Under Fire
Frances Housden
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
FRANCES HOUSDEN
has always been a voracious reader, but she never thought of being a writer until a teacher gave her the encouragement she needed to put pen to paper. As a result, Frances was a finalist for the 1998 Clendon Award and won the award in 1999, which led to the sale of her first book for Silhouette, The Man for Maggie. Frances also teaches a continuing education course in romance writing at the University of Auckland.
Frances’s marriage to a Navy man took her from her birthplace in Scotland to New Zealand. Now he’s a land-lubber and most of the traveling they do is together. They live on a ten-acre bush block in the heart of Auckland’s Wine District. She has two large sons, two tiny grandsons and a wheaten terrier named Siobhan. Thanks to one teacher’s dedication, Frances now gets to write about the kinds of men a woman would travel to the ends of the earth for.
This one is for family. My darling husband, Keith, for all his encouragement, my sister-in-law, Susan Church, for her courage to read my first draft, and in memory of my mother-in-law, Yvonne, who introduced me to the delights of reading romance. Also, my thanks to Graham Pelham for teaching this perennially bad sailor to drive a boat without ever having to leave solid ground.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Prologue
Life as Jo Jellic knew it had become increasingly filled with little quirks. Okay, so she was being facetious, yet less than an hour and a half ago, she’d anticipated spending the evening in the local pub with her colleagues. After letting out a collective sigh, they’d have let off a little steam, celebrating the successful conclusion of a case which had tied them up 24/7 for four months.
Instead, she was up to her elbows in dirt, listening to an ultimatum—“I’ll give you five minutes to back off or I’ll shoot the girl”—with the whaump, whaump, whaump of the helicopter they’d arrived in still hanging in the air.
Every breath was filled with dust, its bitter tang coating her tongue, no matter how hard she swallowed.
Her meager cover was a scrubby pittosporum bush and twenty yards away, on the other side, Maggie, the best friend she’d ever had, was being held hostage.
Jo squinted, eyes straining to cut through the darkness. “Where the hell is Max?” She shred the words between teeth clamped as tight as her jaw. No need for anyone but her to know her boss had gone walkabout. Only a minute ago, Detective Sergeant Max Strachan had been positioned not less than five yards away. His disappearance wasn’t part of the plan, though understanding his desperation, she couldn’t give him away. Just this afternoon, Max had asked Maggie to marry him.
This was the man she’d actually imagined herself in love with for years, but naturally it had been one-sided. Max didn’t find her all that lovable and who could blame him? She was a product of the job she did, made by the career she loved. A person couldn’t work the homicide cases she had and remain the same naive girl she’d been when she joined the force.
It was as if she’d locked all her finer feelings inside and thrown away the key. The truth about love had struck her that afternoon when she’d watched Max and Maggie together. If she ever found a man who could bring out her softer side, she’d know the love was real.
What a time to start bleating, Jellic. She had more immediate problems, like what could she do about Max?
Senior Sergeant Rowan McQuaid on her other side was in no doubt of her feelings for Max. Hell, they’d been making book on it at Auckland Central, betting on the outcome, but their money hadn’t been on her. Soon they’d be able to collect. She’d a notion if she started fussing over Max, Rowan would think she’d given in to her own brand of paranoia.
Jo huffed out air to release her tension. It didn’t work. Her heartbeat raced on a full head of steam, her grip tightening on the 9mm Glock held against her cheek. Metal that had once been cool to the touch now burned in her hand.
She stared into the growing darkness on her left. This shouldn’t be happening now, not in the middle of a hostage drama. Max was in charge. He’d no right to leave. They’d departed Auckland on what seemed a whim, unprepared for an armed siege.
Sure, the Armed Offenders Squad were on their way, but for now, they had to make do with two detectives, including herself, a senior sergeant and the helicopter jockey who had ferried them to the vineyard. Add to that four local cops, country cops, nervous as hell and excited to boot, who’d probably be about as much use as her Glock when it came to hitting a target in the gloomy light.
“Ooh.” Darned if there wasn’t a bug crawling up her arm on the inside of her sleeve. She shuddered. Man, she hated bugs. She hated dirt, too, yet her fingernails had clawed grooves in the ground. Pushing up on the ball of her palm, she paid for her view with the fetid stench of wormy earth on a defrost cycle.
Give her the city any day. She breathed easier with asphalt underfoot and streetlights overhead. This country stuff was a whole other world.
She