Once a Hero. Lisa Childs

until she got justice for her brother.

      She walked back to her nephew’s room, leaning against the doorjamb to study his face in the faint glow of his night-light. He slept peacefully, blissfully unaware of what his aunt had done, and whom she had allowed into their home.

      The man who had taken away his father. The man who had given Jason nightmares, because the child had been there four years ago when Sergeant Terlecki, working vice, had led a special response unit into their home. The team had broken down the door and, with their big guns and loud voices, had stormed the apartment.

      Just a toddler, Jason had been too young to have a clear memory of that day when Kent had arrested his father. But ever since then, the little boy had had nightmares and a paralyzing fear of police officers.

      Erin hadn’t feared Kent Terlecki—until tonight. Until he kissed her. And she didn’t actually fear him as much as she feared what he had made her feel. Desire.

      WHAT HAD HE BEEN THINKING?

      He walked into the Lighthouse, grateful for the noise that surged out of the open door like a wave. Hopefully, it would be too damn loud for him to think, to replay in his mind what he’d just done.

      He had kissed Erin Powell, the reporter determined to destroy him and the department. Or maybe the department was just collateral damage. He would bet that her real intention was to ruin him.

      Was that why she’d kissed him back? To trick him, to mess with his head? The kiss had been even more effective at doing that than anything she’d written. Yet he suspected he hadn’t been the only one that kiss had rattled.

      Nodding at people who waved or shouted in greeting, he made his way through the crowd to the bar. The bartender, an auburn-haired beauty named Brigitte, greeted him with a smile. “Hey, Sarge, your usual?”

      His usual was Bloody Mary mix on ice, without the alcohol. Tonight he felt like he needed the bloody. The bloodier the better. He shook his head. “Shot of tequila.”

      Brigitte, whom he thought he’d seen the other night at the CPA, lifted a brow. “Really?”

      “Really?” Paddy parroted as he swiveled the stool he was sitting on toward Kent. “You don’t usually imbibe.”