There was no doubt that the women gathered around him begging for selfies were good for his ego, but after fifteen minutes, Landon had his fill of the adulation. He wanted Taylor, and only Taylor. He wanted to hold her, touch her.

And, yes, he wanted to tell her he loved her. Something his mother had realized even before he had. But Gayle Bartlett was a smart woman, and she knew her son. Because he was head-over-heels. And the sooner he told her—the sooner he learned if she felt the same—then the sooner their life together could begin.

Brent came up to him and slapped him congenially on the back. “Congrats. Couldn’t have happened to a better man.”

Landon chuckled. “Be careful what you say. You know you’re not getting out of playing this game, right? Eventually, either Jenna or Megan’s going to talk you into standing exactly where I’m standing now.”

“But until then, I’m the one wearing a shirt.”

Landon rolled his eyes and grabbed his shirt off the stage. He was pulling it on when his phone rang, and he missed the damn call. As soon as the shirt was over his head, he pulled his phone out, then frowned when he saw that it was Sanchez. He was about to hit the number to call the detective back, when the phone rang again.

He answered it, an icy dread curling through him.

“Christ, Ware,” Sanchez said. “I just got word. It’s so fucked up. There was a wreck. Hell, almost half an hour ago, and—”

“Beauregard Harkness,” Landon’s voice was as taut as a wire. “Where the fuck is Harkness?”

“That’s just it,” Sanchez said. “We don’t know.”

---

Landon sprinted for the door, Brent right beside him. “Call dispatch,” Landon barked. “Get hostage rescue to her apartment. Hell, get the whole goddamn department there. I’m going to call Taylor. Maybe we got lucky and she hit the grocery store on her way home.”

“Already on it,” Brent said. “Go.”

Landon went, ordering Siri to dial Taylor’s number, and praying that she hadn’t gone straight home. That she’d gone to buy wine. Cheese. Something slinky to wear. Anything to keep her away from that apartment.

No answer.

Fuck.

His car was equipped with a dashboard light, and he activated it the instant he got in the car. But the damn thing couldn’t clear a complete clusterfuck of a jam, and he ended up waiting through two lights as he edged forward, squeezing in as the logjam of cars maneuvered enough to let him squeeze through.

Three more attempts to call. Three more rolls to voicemail.

He pounded on the steering wheel so hard he bruised his hand.

When he’d finally inched the car forward until he was so close he could almost smell the clear path ahead, he found himself blocked again. He spat out a fresh string of curses, then remembered the tracking app. If nothing else he could at least check her location. And maybe, just maybe, that would prove that she was safe.

He opened the app, hit the button, then waited for his phone to locate hers.

Nothing.

And then—

Fuck.

Her apartment. As big as life on his screen. And she wasn’t answering her phone. And he was stuck in goddamn traffic.

Motherfucker.

He abandoned the car, sprinted into the intersection, lifted his badge, and flagged down the first car. A college-aged male in a sports jersey who looked scared shitless. “I need a favor. About a mile that way. As fast as you can. Understand?”

Now the kid nodded, looking scared and excited.

“Go.”

The kid went, hauling ass, then turning on a dime when Landon ordered him to, and finally screeching to a halt in front of the larger complex that abutted Taylor’s tiny one.

“Turn around here,” Landon ordered. “Don’t go forward. That’s an active crime scene. And thank you,” he added, as he practically fell out of the car, his gun now drawn as he raced the short distance to Taylor’s complex.

He saw Beau the second he turned the corner into the long driveway off which the individual parking spaces were located. The slimy bastard was standing in front of the trunk of an ancient Chevy—presumably stolen—and was about to slam the hood.

Landon caught a flash of movement and felt sick—the bastard had put her in the trunk. But if she was moving, she was alive.

“Freeze, Harkness,” he called, as Beau turned just enough so that he could look back at Landon. The trunk was still open, and Beau held one hand over the open space, a large kitchen knife clutched in his meaty paw, its blade pointed down at Taylor.

“You move, the bitch dies. Think I give a shit? I already got her to tell me where she stashed my money. Amazing what hearing your own bones break will do to someone’s desire to cooperate.”

Bile rose in his throat. “Drop the knife. Step away from the car.”

“Yes, sir, Officer.” He started to slowly raise his hands, the knife still in one.

Landon watched, his finger ready on the trigger. He’d kill the fucker in a heartbeat if it came to that—and damn, but he hoped it came to that—but he couldn’t do it if the man was truly surrendering.

And then it happened. A swift blur of motion and Beau turned, the knife starting down.

Landon fired at the same time his mind processed what had happened. Taylor had thrust her bound legs up and kicked. And Beau had acted the way he always did—he attacked.

Landon’s bullet had caught him on the turn. A chest wound that knocked him back against the car, then had him rolling to the ground into a pool of his own blood.

Landon didn’t even realize he’d started racing for the car until he was already there.

He glanced in the trunk, saw Taylor’s sickly twisted arm and her bound body. But she was alive and she wasn’t bleeding. She nodded, unable to speak behind the gag. He carefully untied it, then crouched to check Beau.

No pulse. No respiration.

The bastard was dead.

In the distance, he heard the approaching sirens. He closed his eyes and took a moment—that had been too damn close. Then he stood and untied her legs. “I’m leaving the arm tied, baby,” he said gently. “I don’t want to touch that until you’re with a doctor.”

She nodded, her face a mass of rising bruises. “I knew you’d come.” Her voice emerged soft and gravelly. “Some wild police action totally trumps horny women drooling over you.”

He laughed. A real laugh. “God, I love you,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered, her eyes bright with meaning. “I love you, too.”