Dangerous Desires

By Dawn Altieri

Three years after Emma Sloane's wealthy fiance's mysterious death, she's finally ready to move on and pursue her own dreams. But her plans are derailed when she's attacked outside her New York City apartment in what she thinks is a random violent incident. Then other women who look just like her start turning up dead...

Homicide Detective Jake Quinn is haunted by the one case he couldn't solve. When he's put in charge of a new high-profile murder case, he interviews a victim who escaped a similar attack—and to his shock it's Emma, the former fiancée of his unsolved murder victim.

Neither expects the sparks of attraction between them. But the killer escalates, clearly targeting Emma, and Jake's job is on the line. Can he solve this case before it's too late for both of them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jan 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781682815298

Book preview

For every girl who has ever been afraid to go get what she wants.

Chapter One

"Don’t tell me you didn’t go out with anyone this weekend."

Emma Sloane fought the urge to laugh. Her coworker and best friend Lauren Reed meant well, even if she didn’t realize the hopelessness of her mission.

After leaving the offices of MacMillan Investments, Emma had headed to the bustling Union Square Greenmarket with Lauren—their usual Monday evening routine, doing a little shopping, a little man-watching, and then stopping at the gourmet beverage booth where Lauren was currently harassing Emma over her nonexistent love life.

Lauren tipped the carafe of hazelnut creamer into her coffee. "By the time we left the office Friday, you had six messages on Lovematch. Six, Em."

Actually, fourteen the last time Emma checked, but Lauren didn’t need to know that.

She snapped a lid onto her cup of English Breakfast tea, lifted her eyes skyward, and tapped her finger against her lips. Let’s see, I caught up on my laundry and gave myself a manicure… She slipped a lock of her long dark brown hair behind her ear. Nope. Didn’t go out with anyone.

Lauren grumbled and shook her head, sending her shoulder-length golden curls into a tizzy. I filled out the questionnaire for you, loaned you my killer little black dress, and took that smoking hot photo for your profile. What else do I have to do? Date the guys?

Emma smirked but didn’t answer. It wasn’t a bad suggestion.

You are answering one of those guys tomorrow, Lauren said, her voice stern, even if I have to write the message myself. Seriously, Em, you have to put a little effort into this.

Maybe she should answer some of them. But then Lauren might expect her to go out with the guys, too. Lauren made the whole dating thing seem easy. Outgoing and confident, the leggy blonde knew how to get exactly what she wanted—something Emma still hadn’t quite figured out, in love or any other aspect of her life.

I don’t have time for that at the office, Emma said, hoisting her canvas bag full of vegetables higher on her shoulder.

Why, because you’re so dedicated to your job? It was no secret how much Emma longed for a different career. "Think of how much more productive—Lauren threw up fingers quotes with her free hand as they merged into the flow of shoppers—you could be if you blew off some steam with a hot date once in a while."

Leave it to Lauren to mock Emma’s respectable work ethic. There was nothing wrong with being conscientious about her job. Even if her job bored the hell out of her and she’d give it up in a second.

Besides, the thought of a hot date set Emma’s nerves on edge. She hadn’t been with a man since Justin passed away almost three years ago, mere weeks before they were to be married. The pain of losing him was the worst she’d ever experienced. She had no desire to go through any of it again. She’d been doing just fine on her own.

Lauren shielded her eyes from the sun with her free hand. Where’s that hot guy with the pickle stand?

He was closer to the corner of Sixteenth Street last time we were here. Emma snickered. I’m sure he’s got a gherkin with your name on it.

Screw that, Lauren said with a wave of her hand. My money’s on a big juicy kosher dill.

You’re terrible. Emma glanced around, surveying the other vendors’ offerings. Do you mind if we head over there by the flowers?

Here we go, Lauren said with a roll of her eyes. The crazy plant lady has emerged from winter hibernation.

Emma playfully nudged her shoulder before they crossed the path. Trays of colorful petunias and violas covered the asphalt. That’s not true. You know I’m just as crazy in the winter, too.

She picked up a small tray loaded with bright pink petunias and turned it side to side to be sure the batch was healthy, excited at the prospect of watching them grow on her balcony. Her mother had ridiculed her love of flowers and gardening and had squashed her dream of becoming a landscape designer. Instead, she’d strong-armed Emma into majoring in finance, a field her mother assured her meant more money—and more men with money. Men who would take care of Emma, just as Evelyn Sloane’s string of wealthy husbands had taken care of her. Until they didn’t.

Emma would have dropped out after one semester if she hadn’t met Justin. He’d convinced her to stick with him at the business school, and now she was stuck, all right. Alone and mired in a job she didn’t want, with no other experience or education to fall back on. Her life needed a whole new direction, but fear and complacency had kept her paralyzed, unable to talk herself into taking the risk to start over and fulfill her own dreams.

She grabbed a second tray of colorful blooms. You should get a few of these for your place. They’d really liven things up.

My place gets all the livening up it needs, Em. Don’t you worry about that. They rounded the first row of plants toward a table of cut flowers. There he is, Lauren said, pointing to the next row of booths. Hurry up, girl. I need to see a man about a pickle.

Go, Emma said with a chuckle. I’m going to pay for these and then I’m heading home.

The market was filled with some of Manhattan’s finest-looking men on a beautiful May evening, yet all she could think about was getting home to plant the flowers out on her balcony.

Maybe she needed more help than she thought.

Lauren sauntered off with a wave. Emma settled her purchases, then as an afterthought she picked up a business card from a box next to the cashier stand. There had to be some way she could apply her talents to the floral industry. The card included an email address. She could reach out to someone, maybe send a resumé… She shoved the card into her purse. One of these days, she swore she’d do it.

She made her way through the crowded sidewalks toward her apartment, struggling to balance the plants, her groceries, and her purse. She could grab a cab, but at the rate traffic was moving, she’d make it home faster if she walked. Maybe that wasn’t the best decision with everything she had to carry, but New York City was alive with people enjoying the warmest evening spring had offered so far. The fresh air carried a promise of invigoration and renewal she desperately needed.

The sky took on an orange glow as the sun dipped between skyscrapers. As she traversed the last few blocks toward her apartment building, darkness settled in more quickly than she’d expected. She headed up the steps to the building’s entrance and shifted everything to one arm so she could access the keypad next to the door with the other hand.

Need help with that?

She turned at the odd, raspy sound close behind her, like that of a man trying to disguise his voice. A tall, muscular figure emerged from behind the potted shrubbery, dressed all in black and wearing a ski mask that revealed nothing but his hazel green eyes.

A ski mask? In May?

He gripped her elbow and she gasped. The tray of flowers crashed to the concrete. Her bag of vegetables tumbled to the ground and scattered in every direction. She managed a muffled cry as he slapped a work glove-covered hand over her mouth, filling her nose with the stench of rubber.

He spun her back to his chest and choked off her air with a thick arm around her neck. Shut up, he snarled. The malicious command vibrated off her skin, sending a cold chill down her spine. He stepped backward as if to drag her toward the corner of the building.

Hey! Mrs. Henderson from 5B hurried toward them, still in her scrubs after her shift at New York Presbyterian. Get your hands off her!

The man released Emma so quickly she fell backward and landed hard on the stone planter box next to the doorway. He stood frozen, his furious gaze fixed on her like a wild animal who’d lost its prey and couldn’t decide whether or not to give up. She fought to memorize anything she could about him, but it was all a blur once he turned and took off down the sidewalk.

Mrs. Henderson reached her side, grabbed her hands, and steadied her. Emma, are you all right?

Yeah, she said as she stared down the street after her attacker, fighting for breath. I’m okay.

But who the hell was that?

And oh my God. Had he just tried to abduct her?

Chapter Two

Detective Jake Quinn surveyed the crime scene before him and the chaos swarming around it. The city hadn’t seen a young white female victim in a while, so he’d expected the extra attention, but this was ridiculous.

He stepped out of his black Chevy Tahoe, pushed through the crowd of officers and reporters, flashed his badge to get past the barricades, and signed in with the officer maintaining the logbook.

There he is, a voice called out. About time.

Jake could almost hear the smirk on his partner’s face. No matter how fast Jake raced to an after-hours call, retired Marine John MacKenzie always managed to get there first.

Screw off, Mack, Jake shot back. What have we got?

Unidentified Caucasian female, mid-twenties. Mack led Jake to the alley where the body lay surrounded by forensics officers and the precinct’s photographer, all busy with their respective tasks.

He caught his first glimpse of the woman framed almost perfectly in the dim, circular glow of an overhead light fixture. Slim, probably about five foot six—although it was hard to be sure the way she was slumped against the brick wall of the building—with long dark hair that fell in soft waves around her face.

Fuck, he muttered under his breath and peered closer.

Problem? Mack asked.

No, just… No. It wasn’t her. Relief poured out of him along with a gush of air. Just looks like someone I used to know.

Even three years later, Emma Sloane still held permanent residence in his mind. Usually, she kept herself firmly ensconced somewhere in a back corner, but occasionally she jumped front and center. Not what he needed at the start of an investigation.

Emma’s fiancé, Justin Windsor, had been run down out in the Hamptons by a driver who never even slowed down. Jake had been an assistant investigator on the case, and he’d been drawn in by Emma’s huge brown eyes, filled with sadness and the need to see justice served. One of the biggest regrets of his career so far was that he hadn’t been able to give that to her and the rest of the Windsor family.

Justin Windsor’s death and Jake’s failure to make an arrest had alienated the entire Windsor clan—one of the city’s wealthiest families and long-time contributors to the New York Police Foundation. It was a literally costly mistake his superiors would love to see him rectify, but he had no idea how the hell to do that. The hit-and-run was the only crime he’d ever failed to crack, and it haunted him almost as much as the death of his own mother.

Sexual assault. Probable strangulation, Mack was saying, pulling Jake back to the present. Waiting on the ME.

Jake leaned in for a closer look at the telltale red marks around the woman’s throat.

Last seen with a Caucasian male, Mack added. Muscular build, also mid-twenties, wearing a Yankees cap.

Great, Jake grumbled as he donned a pair of gloves. That narrows it down to about thirty percent of the city. He dropped to one knee next to the body, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

Christ, the vic really did look just like Emma Sloane.

Damn. He needed to focus.

A scrap of paper beneath the victim’s hip caught his eye. Anybody get this?

Mack craned his neck. Don’t know. What is it?

Jake reached into his pocket for his basic evidence kit and pulled out a pair of metal tweezers he used to lift the paper. He read aloud what was written on it, ‘These violent delights have violent ends,’ and looked over his shoulder at Mack. Any idea what that’s about?

Damned if I know. Mack handed Jake an evidence envelope before scribbling the words into his notepad. And what’s up with all the dead flowers?

A dusting of tiny petals, dry and brown, covered the victim’s torso. Lilacs, I think, Jake replied. His thoughts jumped to the bushes his mother used to grow in the garden behind their home. Every spring, a glass vase in the dining room held sprigs of the tiny purple flowers until they finished blooming in early June.

Every spring, until the one when she was brutally murdered on her own front lawn.

He forced down a wave of mournful regret. Another distraction he didn’t need right now.

Forensics grab a sample? he asked.

Couldn’t hurt to grab another one. Mack handed Jake another envelope.

After placing a few of the petals in the evidence packet, Jake rose to his feet, snapped off the gloves, and ran a hand through his dark hair. He’d heard rumors that his lieutenant had him on the short list to make second grade if he played his cards right, and he planned to do just that.

He had to stop ruminating over his mother’s death, even though it was the underlying motivation behind every arrest he’d ever made, behind all the ridiculously long hours he worked and his insatiable drive to move his way up the department’s ladder as if every rung he climbed would be the one that finally proved he was a worthy cop…if only to himself.

It would also help if he could clear his head of the woman who’d haunted his thoughts for the last three years and push the memory of Emma Sloane back down where it belonged, permanently. Thankfully, his colleagues hadn’t noticed how distracted he’d been since seeing the dead woman.

He took in the buzz of activity around him. Time to canvass the neighborhood to get some answers and solve this woman’s case.

…

Hours later, after a briefing with Lieutenant O’Shea at the precinct, Jake climbed into his SUV to drive home. Nearly eleven p.m., but he’d be back early tomorrow morning, interviewing the victim’s family, friends, and coworkers to get to the bottom of who’d done this.

The SUV’s Bluetooth buzzed with Mack’s number on the screen. Jake jabbed the button to answer it. Yeah, Mack.

You need to come back to the precinct. They’ve got someone they want us to talk to.

Great. He’d been that close to getting a decent night’s sleep. But it was probably just as well. If he went home, no doubt he’d be up all night anyway, obsessing over that promotion and fighting back the memories this new case had dredged up.

He cut the steering wheel hard to head around the block, back in the direction of the place he spent more time in than his own apartment. I’m on my way.

Chapter Three

Emma fidgeted in her seat in the local precinct’s small, brightly lit interview room. A clock ticked away the approach to midnight above the large mirrored window like the ones she’d seen on so many television crime shows. A shiver of self-consciousness ran through her at the possibility of more officers scrutinizing her from the other side of the glass.

Her heart hadn’t stopped racing since she’d all but collapsed into the planter box outside her apartment, and it still showed no sign of slowing down. After giving what little information she could muster to the patrolman who’d responded to her call, she’d been brought to the First Precinct to give a formal statement. She’d faced a parade of officers who all had the same questions. Anyone who’d want to hurt you? Anyone you’ve argued with recently? Anyone who might be holding a grudge?

No, no, and no.

Ms. Sloane?

She stood as a light-haired, middle-aged man in a dark suit entered the room and reached out to shake her hand.

Detective John MacKenzie, homicide division. Call me Mack. My partner, Detective Jake Quinn.

She turned to the second, much younger detective, and her breath caught as she met his gaze. Electricity shot through her as he took her hand in his. He was tall, at least six foot two since he towered over her five-foot-six frame. His dark unruly hair was a little too long, but sexy as hell. He gave her a nod of acknowledgment, and a warm blush rose in her cheeks as he examined her with a slow sweep of his ice-blue eyes. She had the strangest feeling she’d met him before. Had she?

Mack took the seat opposite her while his partner leaned against the wall near the door, propped one foot against it, and shoved his fists into the pockets of his jeans. Dark curls peeked over the top button of his white dress shirt, and the fabric strained against the well-defined muscles of his chest.

Wait, did he say homicide?

We have just a few more questions for you, Mack said.

She faced him, praying he hadn’t caught her ogling his partner. Okay.

Emma— Can I call you Emma?

Yes.

Emma, he said, his voice soft and encouraging, I need you to do your best to tell me everything you can about the guy who grabbed you.

She swallowed past the lump of anxiety lodged in her throat and glanced toward the door. Apparently Mack asked the questions while the second detective stood ready to analyze her reactions in some sort of good-cop-bad-cop routine like she’d seen on TV, searching for any signs she was hiding something. Although as the victim, she couldn’t imagine what they’d think she’d be hiding.

She sighed deeply. She’d already been over everything with three other officers and a sketch artist, and she was clearly losing focus. It happened so fast, all I saw was black clothing and hazel eyes.

What about height and build?

Another question she’d been asked numerous times. He was taller than me, I’d say about six feet. And he seemed to be in decent shape. He wasn’t skinny, but he wasn’t overweight, either. He was wearing a sweatshirt, so it was hard to tell.

Mack scribbled furiously on his notepad, as if the crew of detectives in the adjoining room and the video camera that was no doubt recording her weren’t enough to catch all the details. Does the name Abigail Murray mean anything to you?

Okay. That was a new one.

Emma thought for a moment. No, I don’t think so. Who is Abigail Murray?

Mack’s face remained as neutral as the gray walls of the room. An awkward silence hung in the air as he stole a glance at the second detective. Those gorgeous blue eyes were still locked on her. Her scrambled thoughts had to be playing tricks on her. She’d just been the victim of an attack. Certainly the detective was not checking her out. No. He was simply doing his job, observing her. That had to be it.

Abigail Murray was murdered earlier tonight, Mack said evenly.

A shudder went through her.

He slung an arm across the back of the simple wooden chair next to him, taking on a relaxed pose likely meant to put her at ease. It didn’t work. You match the victim’s physical profile. His voice was gentle despite the grim subject of the conversation. You look like her. A lot like her.

She sucked in a breath and folded her arms around herself.

There’s a chance the person who attacked you this evening is the same person who murdered Abigail Murray. Of course, it also could have been a random break-in attempt. Your building is known for its wealthy residents.

And she was one of them, since Justin had left her everything he owned.

So we’re looking at it from that angle, too, Mack went on. He could’ve been waiting for someone to come home and unlock the front entrance so he could force his way in.

She nodded. And nodded some more. Yeah. That’s probably it. It makes sense. A robbery attempt, not a murderer. Maybe if she kept nodding, she could even convince herself.

It’s unlikely he’ll come after you again. Seems like he moved on to Ms. Murray instead. But it couldn’t hurt to be extra cautious. Mack stood and flipped the cover of his notebook closed. I think we’ve got all we need for now. He handed her his card. If you think of anything, give me a call. And we’ll be in touch if we have anything new for you.

She stared down at his card as he moved toward the door, and when he opened it, she shot to her feet. Wait, I— Her pulse sped even more, and her lungs constricted at the prospect of standing on a dark street corner trying to hail a cab. I don’t have a way to get home.

Mack exchanged a knowing look with his partner, who gave a slight nod in return. Mack faced her again. Detective Quinn can take you home.

Chapter Four

Aside from a few courteous remarks, Emma was unable to conjure up much conversation during the ride to her apartment. Detective Quinn—with his brooding air and his serious gaze fixed solidly on the road in front of him—seemed content in the silence. He slowed the SUV to a stop a few buildings away from hers.

The thought of heading down the street on her own had her stomach roiling once again. Can you drop me off a bit closer? she asked.

I’ll walk you up. Check inside for you.

Oh. A strange calm fell over her. Okay.

He followed a step behind as she headed toward the building. She paused at the keypad, frozen in the spot where that monster had grabbed her earlier. Her throat tightened as though his heavy arm were around her neck again, cutting off her air and allowing in only the rubbery stench of the work glove covering her mouth.

Everything all right?

The detective’s deep, smooth voice broke her trance, startling her and sending a tingle up her spine, the complete opposite of the chill she’d felt earlier at her attacker’s gruff words.

Everything’s fine, she said and opened the door.

They took the elevator up to her apartment, but the detective stopped her after she unlocked the door. Wait here, he said. He slid his fingers to the handgun at his waist, his biceps bunching beneath the fabric of his sport coat as he stepped into her foyer. If he hadn’t been searching for a possible killer, it would’ve been an incredibly sexy move.

She chased away the thought. He was looking for a possible killer. In her apartment, no less. The shock hadn’t fully hit her until this moment.

The detective emerged, adjusting his sport coat over his solid torso and concealing the weapon at his waist. She caught another glimpse of the dark curls peeking over the top of his shirt. Why was that so damned hot? And why the hell was she thinking about such things now?

All clear.

A relieved burst of air left her in a gust. Thank you.

He ushered her inside and cleared his throat. You don’t recognize me, do you? he said.

Her heart stuttered through a few beats. I’m sorry?

He slowly lifted his gaze to hers. Jake Quinn. I worked on the hit-and-run case. Your fiancé…

She felt her already tentative smile vanish as everything came together in an instant. No wonder he’d looked so familiar. In the wake of Justin’s death she’d been traumatized, caught up in the worst nightmare of her life, but of course she’d noticed Detective Quinn back then. Guilt and shame for looking at another man that way had made her force the memory of him so far below the surface, it had almost disappeared.

Almost.

But what she couldn’t forget was that this insanely attractive detective had been part of the team that couldn’t find the person responsible for Justin’s death.

You’re right, she said. I didn’t recognize you.

You mainly spoke with my partner, Detective Waters, he said. I wasn’t the lead.

Detective Charles Waters. The sweet older man had tried so hard to coax details about Justin’s accident from her memory during hours of interviews at the East Hampton Police headquarters. What had gone wrong? What had they missed? Why hadn’t Justin’s killer been brought to justice? Hopefully, Quinn’s investigative skills had improved since she’d last seen him.

"Are you the lead now?" Her tone was sharp and unforgiving, and though it surprised even her, she had every right to it.

His narrowed eyes locked with hers, an unspoken acceptance of her challenge. Yes, I am.

She’d insulted him, made him think she didn’t want him on her case. So what? It was true, and she wouldn’t apologize for it. She had a hell of a lot more at stake than he did. Then why weren’t you the one questioning me?

His answer came with no hesitation. Mack is better with victims. I’m better with suspects.

She shifted her stance as though doing so might free her of his determined stare. It was easy to see he’d be an intimidating investigator.

I’m truly sorry for the way things turned out, he said. He faced the living room and the wall of windows showcasing the city skyline, as if lost in thought and remembering every detail. Your fiancé’s case just ran cold.

Detective Waters had told her the same thing. They’d run out of leads and had no choice but to leave the case unsolved unless further evidence emerged. None ever did.

She swallowed back a well of sadness and frustration. You’re not on Long Island anymore?

Quinn shook his head. I switched departments about two years ago. A little more action here in the city than there is in the Hamptons.

A small gasp escaped her. What a horrid thought. Was more action a good thing for a homicide detective?

A look of regret flashed across his face, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He tipped his chin toward the tray of flowers on the table and tried to change the subject. Petunias, right?

She picked at the decimated plants. Yes. They are. Some of them would be salvageable, but the excitement of planting them had been permanently tarnished.

My mom used to love these. The warmth of reminiscence brightened his face, curling one side of his mouth higher than the other and creasing the skin around his eyes. I couldn’t tell you how many of those I had to help plant as a kid.

She straightened, overcome by the image of him as a boy with that tousled hair, on his hands and knees helping his mom in the garden. Really?

Sorry, he said. You must be exhausted after what you’ve been through, and here I am babbling about my mother’s flower garden.

Actually, I’m not in a rush to be alone right now. Not that she necessarily wanted to spend more time with him.

He ran a hand across the dark scruff on his chin. We’ve got good officers on this. We’ll get to the bottom of it.

She nodded, but he peered at her as though he sensed her disbelief.

If there’s anything you need—

She stopped him. She didn’t need anything. Not from him. "I’m fine, just a little shaken up. The security here is