Survive the Fire: 24 Hours - Final Countdown, #3

By Diana Duncan

What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object?

It's explosive!

Two years ago, a mind-blowing one-night stand left SWAT bomb squad tech Liam O'Rourke searching high and low for the woman he'd known as Just Kate. The only woman who'd ever lit his heart's fuse.

Now fate, with its warped sense of humor, hurls them back together … when a stalker armed with an arsenal of bombs thrusts injured artist-turned-photographer Kate Chabeau into Liam's custody.

Unfortunately, Liam's partner, K-9 Murphy, is Kate's worst nightmare. Liam and Murph have just twenty-four hours to defuse Kate's mistrust, capture the bomber, and win her heart.

Or lose her forever.

Just 24 hours can change your life.

Previously published as Heat of the Moment

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Duncan
• Release date: Dec 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386791409

Diana Duncan

When her dreams of becoming a ballerina were quashed by early-onset klutziness, Diana Duncan took up the safer vocation of writing. Her first thrilling masterpiece--written in orange crayon--was titled "Perky the Kitten," and became an instant bestseller with her grandparents.  Her childhood growing up as a military brat gave her the ability to leap into a conversation with anyone, anywhere, anytime...and she always discovers a new friend in the process. This gift of gab perfectly equipped her for a career that involves making stuff up. Di is famous for using seven words when one will do. She wields smart-assery like a samurai sword, and will be the first to volunteer in a catastrophe. Of course, she was probably the one who caused the catastrophe. She's fiercely loyal to her friends and family...but in the event of the upcoming zombie apocalypse, she won't hesitate to use them as human shields. She loves her job as an author, and claims writing is the most fun she's ever had while wearing her sock monkey pajamas. She also enjoys gardening, cooking, and adopting abandoned curbside furniture to refurbish into treasures. Diana published 6 award-winning books with a traditional NY publishing house before going rogue with Indie publishing. 10% of the proceeds of every book she sells is donated to different organizations that serve those who are in need, both people and animals. Di loves to hear from her readers. Write to her at [e-mail] Join her on Facebook on her official author page, and feel free to stop by and ogle her kilted hunks on her website www.dianaduncan.com

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SURVIVE THE FIRE

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Diana Duncan

Dedication:

Grateful acknowledgment to Officer Matthew Grubb and K-9 Airus. Thanks, guys, for all the help, wise insight, encouragement, and inspiration. Stay safe out there!

Table of Contents

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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

Chapter 17

Epilogue

A Sneak Peek of Survive the Storm

Other Books by Diana Duncan

Dear Reader

About the Author

Prologue

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"I saw that you were perfect and I loved you. Then I saw that you were not perfect and loved you even more." ~ Angelita Lim

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Las Vegas, Nevada - August 30, High Noon

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Kate Chabeau stared down at the sweaty blond man working feverishly between her thighs and waited to die.

The man of the moment raised his head and attempted what she assumed was supposed to be a reassuring expression. I know it’s tough, but don’t squirm.

She clenched her teeth. Does it usually take this long?

Depends on how she’s wired.

Slowly, carefully, she eased aside a strand of long brown hair that’d escaped her tight chignon. Exactly how good are you?

Plenty. His voice grew more strained by the moment. But this is ... beyond me. Damn, it’s frigid. Iced. He eased out from between her legs. I’m calling in backup.

They said you had the best hands in Vegas. Perspiration trickled down Kate’s spine as he slowly straightened.

I do.

Leaving her sitting immobile in her black convertible, he jogged toward the other members of the bomb disposal squad convened a safe distance away.

If the best hands in Vegas couldn’t disarm the explosive under her seat, then who would save her? She bit back the silent scream echoing inside her head.

Wait! Come back! Don’t leave me to die alone!

The sun beat down on her head and burned through her sleeveless black dress, stinging tender skin. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, a wavery curtain isolating her from heavily armored police officers surrounding the perimeter. They’d evacuated the parking lot and adjacent buildings. Other than what seemed like hundreds of police vehicles in the distance, hers was the only car in sight. Except for five vans swarming with reporters.

She scowled. If the vultures got lucky, she might die in time to boost six o’clock ratings.

How many minutes did she have left? Fighting riptides of fear, she glanced at the wilted calla lily lying on the passenger seat beside her camera. Stark white petals were brown and curling in the heat. Another gift from her stalker. The head-case had previously left her lilies and creepy notes ... but this was the first bomb.

Her nightmare might finally end here, her body violently ripped to pieces.

The engine idled a little faster. Kate’s pulse sped into matching BPMs. Could a change in engine tempo trigger a bomb? The young bomb tech had told her she was fortunate her cell call to 911 hadn’t detonated it. She’d been fussing with a mocha frappuccino lid malfunction and had started the car before spotting the threatening note tucked into the console.

The satellite radio station, tuned to all eighties, all the time, segued into Phil Collins’s In the Air Tonight.

Fate, you sarcastic bitch.

A little over two years ago, the same song had been playing before the first time she’d died.

Chapter 1

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Two Years Earlier - Riverside, Oregon - March 17, 7:00 p.m.

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Breathless and shivering beneath the cold lash of rain, Katherine Chabeau left the brightly lit corner drugstore after making her purchase, and hurried down the darkened sidewalk toward Brogan’s Brass Shamrock Pub.

She’d fled the hospital twenty minutes ago, not anticipating her borrowed car would wheeze to death and leave her stranded. And ... speaking of dysfunctional, nobody in her family would come to her rescue. The car’s owner, a coworker, was having her husband come look at it tomorrow. Meanwhile, a taxi or ride sharing service wouldn’t be available to Kate for who-knew-how long, due to offering free rides to holiday bingers.

An Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day. What could be warmer? Safer? And—hello destiny—a fabulous place to carry out her impromptu plan. Determination slanted her lips into a fierce smile. Today had speared an arrow into her heart, but hopefully tonight was gonna be a whole lot better.

She was about to prove her ex-fiancé was not only a cheat, but a manipulative, lying asshole. Better late to the party than RSVPing no to Fate’s invitation, right?

She tugged open the heavy door and heated air, loud chatter, and lively music cannoned into her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Strangely reluctant, she hesitated.

Time ground to a halt for a weird, intense moment, as if the entire world was holding a collective breath.

Kate squared her shoulders. She was just walking into a damn pub. But when she stepped inside, her stomach rolled as if she’d made a life-altering choice.

Hello, overactive imagination.

Sure, she’d made a decision, but nothing that would drastically change her life.

Jostled by the roiling sea of green-clad revelers, she finally spotted a corridor leading to the restrooms. She pushed inside the door marked Lassies. The bar was hopping, but she’d caught the bathroom during a lull. Only two of four stalls were occupied and nobody was using the vanity. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Eh. If she wanted to achieve her goal, maybe a little less drowned muskrat?

She tugged off her soaked hand-knitted red poncho and plopped the soggy garment onto a gold vinyl bench alongside her—thankfully lined—sage lace purse. Yoga moves came in handy to dry her long thick mane of wavy brunette hair at one of the wall-mounted air blowers. She stepped back as a slender blonde exited stall one, washed her hands and left. Then Kate performed more pretzel maneuvers to dry her favorite floaty white organza dress with asymmetrical handkerchief hem and cheerful long-stemmed red poppies print. Paper towels did the trick on her bare calves and blotted moisture from her red high heels.

As she turned to the mirror again, a tall, elegant woman with rich deep brown skin and gorgeous dark curly hair emerged from stall two and started to wash her hands at the same time a curvy redhead swept into the room.

Nara! the redhead said in a throaty voice.

Maeve! I saw you out there dancing with him. How’s it going?

Kate shamelessly eavesdropped while reapplying her natural makeup look.

I don’t know. He’s already danced with three other women and now he’s playing pool with his brothers. The lush redhead smoothed her snug green silk sheath. Damn, she’d be a killer model for the fantasy mermaids Kate painted.

Stay in it to win it. Nara made an mmm sound like she was savoring an expensive chocolate truffle. "A night with Love-’em-and-Leave-’em-Liam is wowza. The man really knows his way around downtown. Totally unforgettable. And one night is all you’ll get, so if you do, make the most of it."

Fingers crossed, but nothing else. Snickering, Maeve went into a stall and Nara left.

Kate picked up her soggy poncho between two fingers. Now dressed for success, she headed down the hallway. Huh.

This Liam dude sounded perfect for what she had in mind.

Inside the pub’s main room, she snagged the last empty stool at the very end of the bar. The devilishly cute dark-haired bartender suggested an Irish hot chocolate with a dash of whiskey to warm her insides. The promise of genuine whipped cream on top sealed the deal. Oh baby. Exactly what the doctor ordered. She requested two. After all, she wouldn’t be driving.

And an extra boost of liquid courage couldn’t hurt. Tonight, she was borrowing a strategy from a favorite girlhood fairy tale and grabbing the chance to be fun and flirty Princess Ella instead of dependable Cinderella.

Sipping her drink, she tapped her toe to the lively Celtic rock song jamming overhead and considered the possibilities.

Four tall, dark, eye-bogglingly buff men commanded the nearest pool table. Three in blue jeans and long-sleeved shirts in plum, midnight blue, and moss green respectively, were facing her, and one in black jeans and a gray shirt had his back to her. She blinked. Wowza didn’t even begin to describe them. Talk about divine DNA. Women probably lined up for blocks to cannonball into that gene pool. Didn’t matter which was L-and-L-Liam, because any of those guys? Oooo yeah. She was hopping aboard the downtown express.

The one with his back to her bent over the table. Hey there. His rear view was as spectacular as the flipside of the others.

He straightened. As if he felt her ogling him, he turned around ... and looked right at her.

Kate strangled on her own breath.

Holy St. Patrick!

Acres of hard-muscled man. Exceptionally well-fitting jeans and a pearl gray button-down rolled up on steely forearms hugged a big to-die-for body. Wavy midnight hair framed chiseled features sculpted by a Celtic goddess on one of her really happy days. Defined cheekbones complemented his well-shaped nose and strong chin. And, oh glory, his mouth! Full, sexy lips so wickedly edible, she couldn’t help licking her own.

He didn’t need to wear green. Irises as clear and brilliant as emeralds—warm, intelligent eyes—sparkled at her.

She’d stood in vast, echoing galleries of the Louvre and stared in awe at marble statues with faces less striking than his.

Over six feet of perfect male magnificence.

Her muse hummed with pleasure and her fingers clenched with the urge to snatch up a paintbrush and immortalize him. She swallowed hard.

Dear Fate, please let him be The One.

*  *  *

Liam O’Rourke stared at the brunette perched daintily on the bar stool like a brilliant butterfly ... and a two-by-four slammed him upside the head.

Jesus.

He liked women. Like everything about them, all shapes, coloring, and sizes. But that one?

Gobsmacked him.

Pretty oval face. Killer legs made even sexier by red high heels. Lush breasts beneath her flowered dress.

Those eyes, though.

Big and rich warm brown, fringed with long, dark lashes. Taking his measure. Astutely aware and glinting with mysterious secrets. His pulse throttled into double-time. Secrets he wanted to discover.

Hey, Casanova, Con said, elbowing him in the ribs. Your shot.

Rudely dropkicked out of Fantasy Land, Liam shook his head. He’d come here tonight to take his mind off today’s near-miss with tragedy. Hadn’t helped much—until now. Wha—? He swiveled to face his smart-assed brothers.

Grady smirked at him. You gonna play, or you gonna go get some play?

Aidan snorted. "I dunno. That one looks really smart. She might love and leave him."

Liam gripped his cue in a suddenly sweaty hand. The zoo called. You apes are due back by nine. He could still feel her stare on his back as he took his turn—and missed by a friggin’ mile.

Normally, he’d stroll up to her, introduce himself, and before long they’d be at her place. Naked and rolling in the sheets. Not ego talking. Women liked him, too.

This woman, though.

Completely threw him off his game. And not just pool. Suddenly, he was an awkward, tongue-tied, pimply mathlete with a hopeless crush on the Homecoming Queen.

You draw them in faster than a tractor beam, bro, Grady said. She’s coming over.

Liam’s gut flip-flopped. Nerves? Shit. He hadn’t been nervous about the opposite sex since ... well ... ever. At the same time, he was weirdly let down. He reveled in challenges, and had yet to find a woman who resisted when he turned on the charm. Having to work for it for a change might be fun.

Even if Grady hadn’t warned him, he’d have sensed her the moment she got close. Energy crackled in the atmosphere, raising all the hairs on his body. He turned around.

Her enigmatic gaze met his. Hi, she said. Her slightly husky contralto made his heart stumble drunkenly. Want to dance?

Uh ... yeah. Smooth, boyo. Way to impress.

He offered his hand to lead her to the dance floor. She placed her small, soft hand in his and damn! A jolt arced through him like he’d connected the live circuits on a high density bomb.

U2’s With or Without You thrummed through the speakers as he drew her into his arms. She fit perfectly, her head level with his shoulder, as if she’d been made just for him. And she smelled sweeter than the fragrant flower gardens on expensive estates where he’d mowed lawns for adolescent spending money.

Say something to her, wanker.

Where the hell was his voice? I ... ah ... um ... There it was. Hoarse and stuttery. What the fuck? I’m Liam O’Rourke.

Her smile was gorgeous and genuine. A 2-g force. Nice to meet you. I’m Kate.

Kate ...?

Just Kate. What do you do, Liam?

I’m a cop.

Yeah? Figures. You’re a walking felony.

He grinned. Are you feeding me a line?

Nah. If I was, I’d have said, ‘Will you help me find my lost kitten? It wandered into that cheap motel across the street.’

Laughter bubbled in his chest and spilled over. And what do you do?

I’m a painter. Canvases, not houses.

Big art fan here. Abstracts, mostly, but I like it all. What do you paint?

Fantasy seascapes. Mermaids and other fantastical creatures, but they include realistic sea life details. I don’t make a living at it, yet. So I also do restorations, ’cause a gal’s gotta pay for her chocolate addiction.

Your artwork sounds intriguing.

There’s something about creating that fills a void in my soul. When I’m painting, I drift into the bliss zone and the entire world—and all my problems—disappear. I can’t imagine not being able to paint. I’d rather lose a limb. She chuckled. As long as it wasn’t my painting hand.

I get it. I restore period houses and sell ’em, then buy another. Not really flipping because I take time to get them perfect. And profit’s not my motive, because yeah, the creative factor fills a void for me, too. I just started rejuvenating a big Craftsman. He waggled his brows at her. Maybe you’ll show me your etchings sometime, Just Kate.

Her merry laugh lit him up inside. Are you a gambling man?

Gamble’s my middle name.

Ah. Your mom clairvoyant?

God, he loved that she was fluent in snark. More like wishful thinking. Laughing again himself, he drew her closer. It’s actually Michael. She and Pop gave us all saintly middle names.

The song ended and segued into something fast and loud. A couple who’d obviously imbibed the green beer a tad too freely left the bar and started flailing around on the dance floor, bumping into them from behind. Getting dangerous out here, he said. Would you like another drink?

Yes, thanks.

They snagged the couple’s vacated barstools in the nick of time. The bartender strode up to them. Hey, Liam, how’s it going? I heard about your and Murphy’s close call with the Grim Reaper today.

His fingers fisted. Gentle pressure on his forearm made him look down to see Kate’s hand there. She gave him a squeeze of support. He relaxed, rolled too-tight shoulders. Appreciate your concern, Brogan. Could’ve been a helluva lot worse. Thank fuck it wasn’t.

Brogan brought them both Irish hot chocolates and they sipped their drinks.

Are you okay? Kate asked quietly.

Yeah. Murphy, my partner, is in the hospital, though. He took a bullet for me today.

How awful. Empathy warmed her sweet face. I’m so sorry.

Doc said he’ll be all right. Kicked me out after Murph came out of surgery. He’s sedated. My brothers convinced me to meet them here for a pleasant distraction. He gave into the temptation to stroke a fingertip down her satiny cheek, delighting in her rapid inhale. It’s working.

She gave him that angel’s smile. Glad to be of assistance.

They talked and laughed, lingering over several more drinks, discovering all the things they shared in common. Kate captivated him with her vast range of knowledge, keen intelligence, and droll rapier wit.

As the night wove a magic spell, he invited her for another slow dance. Then another. With every step, every sensual graze of their bodies, heat built. The air sizzled. An odd, unspoken connection he’d never felt before grew stronger with each passing moment.

Maybe he’d finally found a woman he didn’t want to let go?

At least not right away. He’d certainly found a woman he wanted to know better. Not just physically, but on every level. A woman he didn’t want to rush into bed with, then rush out the door.

That’s new.

As the final song ended, he pulled back. It’s late. Can I walk you to your car? He’d get her number. Ask her out on another date. See where their intriguing connection led.

The car I was using is out of commission. I’m Ubering it.

In that case, can I offer you a ride home?

Very gallant. Sure, thanks.

When he discovered her sweater cape thing was still wringing wet, he draped his charcoal suede jacket over her shoulders. The voluptuous redhead he’d danced with earlier sent death glares at Kate as they headed out into the downpour. If Kate noticed, she didn’t seem to care.

He insisted she wait under the covered entryway until he pulled up in his white vintage Mustang. As she splashed through the deluge, he was already out with the door open. My white charger is at your service, milady.

Smiling, she slid inside. He got into the driver’s seat and she brushed clinging raindrops off his wet shirt sleeve. You should’ve stayed in here where it’s dry.

He steered into the nearly deserted street. As Gram always said, ‘I’m not sugar or salt nor anybody’s honey, I won’t melt.’

She studied the immaculate burgundy leather interior. Fabulous ride.

He grinned. ’66 Mustang GT convertible. This pony has the famous ‘K-code’ four-barrel 289, pumping out a lusty 271 horsepower— He caught her bemused expression. TMI?

No, but I don’t speak hotrod. I fill a car with gas and drive it. You obviously adore yours.

Pop towed what started out as a hunk of junk home on my fourteenth birthday. Over the years, we rebuilt every inch. Once, when we worked late into the night, he confided a crazy— Disconcerted, he shut his mouth. TMI again. Anyway, the pony holds a lot of memories.

You sound wistful. Your dad is ... gone?

Perceptive lady, too. He died a year after we finished the car. A shadow of grief flickered over him, but he kept his tone jaunty. You have family nearby?

Yes. But we’re not close.

She didn’t elaborate, and her tone told him to nix that subject. What area of town are we headed for here? he asked.

Liam— She hesitated.

He stopped for a red light, then glanced at her. An internal debate appeared to be happening. Huh. Maybe she also wanted to explore possibilities? He covered her hand where it rested on the console. Have dinner with me Saturday night.

She blinked. Um ...

The light flashed green, and he hit the gas, glanced over again. Would you be more comfortable with lunch?

Liam ... take me home.

Too much, too fast? How about a coffee? His fingers gently squeezed hers. Hell, I’ll settle for a hot dog from a food cart.

She laughed. "I meant take me to your home. I’d like to see your creative vision."

*  *  *

Ten minutes later, Liam ushered Kate inside the dilapidated two-story Craftsman, the door creaking loudly as he opened it. He switched on the lights. Obviously, the jamb is out of level.

She chuckled. Your own early warning system if anyone comes in or goes out.

Yep. He didn’t bring women to his houses. Never talked about his passion for restoration, never exposed details of his personal life. No strings, no connections, no expectations of any relationship.

Yet ... here he was. With Kate.

That disconcerting energy radiated from where his palm rested on the small of her back, messing with his equilibrium. He wasn’t about to assume anything though. Maybe she did just want to check out his house.

He removed his coat from around her shoulders and hung it on the rack alongside her damp wrap. I can’t wait to see this grand old duchess restored to her former glory.

Do you do a lot of research in order to get the period details right?

Yeah. It’s one of the most enjoyable aspects. I save as much of the houses’ original character as possible, while updating for energy-efficiency and modern conveniences.

I take photos of the ocean and sea critters as references for my paintings. I even scuba dive for underwater photos.

Man, I love diving. Grady, my younger brother, is a thrill-a-minute guy and he and I are dive buddies.

Sadness sobered her expressive face. Must be really fun to have a brother who shares your interests.

Grady’s fun all right, and fearless. Baby bro gives ‘disorderly conduct’ a whole new meaning.

She laughed, banishing the melancholy moment, and making him feel ten feet tall. O-kay.

Her attention focused on the ramshackle living room as she set her purse on a sawhorse. What you do is very similar to restoring paintings. There’s nothing more fulfilling than bringing something that’s been neglected back to life. Well, except for creating your own original masterpiece.

He pushed aside a wheeled tool cart partially blocking a doorway. I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour.

She glanced at the hardhat on top that bore the Habitat for Humanity logo. You volunteer for Habitat for Humanity? You don’t get enough construction at home?

He winked at her. Don’t ya know, Just Kate, he drawled in a lilting Irish brogue, that idle hands are the devil’s tools?

I’m sure your hands are always engaged in one activity or another, Lucky Charmer.

He sent her a wicked grin. Busy hands are happy hands, sweetheart.

Her generous mouth quirked. Aye, she perfectly mimicked his accent. That they are. And I like nothing better than having happy hands.

And hoo boy, the room overheated. He cleared his throat. About that tour ... follow me.

Kate followed him into the dining room. She glanced around. Perfect home to raise a family. Good solid bones, lots of space.

Not going there. It’ll be a better party house. He flicked a switch. I’ve already wired in surround sound.

Phil Collins’s evocative voice floated out and she grinned approval. I love Phil. He’s the modern equivalent of a medieval balladeer. All his songs tell a story.

You’ve quite the poetic soul.

Yet another trait we share in common, she replied.

He struggled to focus on the remodel as he conducted the tour. He asked her advice about the unfinished spaces, unsurprised by her exceptional sense of style and color. The interior was all clean lines, rich oak built-ins, and soon-to-be warm, cozy hues. The house smelled pleasantly of sanded wood and fresh paint.

Kate was all graceful curves, sweet smiles, and captivating glances. She smelled erotically of summer flowers and warm woman.

He led her into the kitchen. After the downstairs bathrooms were done, I started in here.

Leaning against the white and gray granite countertop, she looked around. When do you expect to finish?

His eyes caught and held hers. I like to take my time on every project. Lavish thorough, complete attention on each step before moving to the next.

Her focus riveted on him. A detail man.

Every muscle in his body tightened, while in the background, Phil’s mellow voice started wishing for rain.

Take these cabinets. He shifted until he stood mere inches in front of her. One hand reached to lovingly caress a cabinet door beside her head and he imagined his fingers caressing her. I’ll sand ’em until the pores grow warm and open, in order to easily accept the stain. Then carefully rub in the tint, layer by layer, until they glow.

Mesmerized, she watched his hand. Her breasts rose and fell as she swallowed, and lust fired deep in his belly. You ... ah ... you’re dedicated to your work.

It’s not work if you enjoy it, right? Awareness thrummed between them. Sometimes I forget to eat, forget everything but the satisfaction of creating.

Her