To the Edge

TO THE EDGE

CINDY GERARD

This book is dedicated to our fighting men and women who protect our freedom and our way of life while promoting peace and enduring all that is asked of them every day.

And to my mother Vera Adams. I love you, Mom. Here's your big book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As a writer of close to thirty romance novels, I have been blessed to be associated with a number of amazing individuals who have been there for me over the years. Some of incredible people have been around from the beginning. They've seen
me through the good news, the bad news, the moments
 
when I needed a little lift, the moments when I needed a big one. Words cannot express the debt I owe them. I'd like to acknowledge their contribution to my life and any writing success I've enjoyed.

Tom: I love you. You know all the reasons why.

Glenna McReynolds: my friend, my sister in spirit. For your generosity of time, your treasured talent, your honest critiques and unending faith in me, thank you, thank you,
thank you.

Leanne Banks: You are one of the most incredibly generous and savvy women I know.
 
There is no writer in this business whose opinion I rely on more.
 
Thank you for being my friend and for always knowing what I need to know and sharing it with me.

Susan and Jim Connell: My Florida connections and good buddies.
 
Without you, this book wouldn’t be what it is, Without you, I wouldn't be what I am—warm and tan in the middle of February.

Maria Carvainis: Thank you for your experienced guiding hand. I am fortunate, indeed, to have such an advocate and adviser in an agent.

Monique Patterson: Thank you for buying this book and your unflagging enthusiasm over the entire project from the beginning. It's a pleasure working with you. And to all the fine folks at St. Martin's Press, your confidence in me is inspiring.

Acknowledgments also to Dean Garner, literary agent, photographer extraordinaire, and former U.S. Army Airborne Ranger (Hooah!), for sharing information with a stranger who accosted him in cyberspace with endless questions. Dean, your generous contributions to this work have been invaluable. Thank you so very, very much.

Debbie Sheets, Patti Knoll, Anna Eberhart, and Darlene Layman: In some way, shape, or form you were all there in the beginning. You will never know what a difference it made. Thank you.

TO THE EDGE

U.S ARMY AIRBOURNE RANGERS MOTTO:

SUA SPONTE – OF THEIR OWN ACCORD

1

Even among the masses populating
West Palm Beach, Florida, Nolan Garrett found hundreds of places to be alone: in a packed corner deli, in the crush of tourists on a Sunday afternoon by the seawall, in his vintage Mustang on a deserted midnight street with the gas pedal down and the city's finest asleep at the wheel. Tonight, in this seedy bar where the Latino beat was sultry and loud, the beer flowed as free as air, and smoke hung like rotor wash in a drop zone, he made sure he stayed alone.

The sharp crack of a cue sent a dozen pool balls scattering across worn green felt. He tuned out the sound of the game along with the music and the raucous laughter, thick with undercurrents of the streets. The stench of stale spilled beer faded to background scent as well, as he wrapped his fingers around the shot of bar scotch sitting directly in front of him on the scarred table.

Slumped back in the chair, he spared a glance at the blatant invitation from a leggy blonde with hungry eyes and a black leather skirt that barely covered her crotch. Her Barbie breasts, loosely harnessed in skimpy black lace beneath a white see-through blouse, pressed provocatively against his shoulder as she squeezed slowly by him. A
do-me
smile tilted the cherry red lips she moistened with a suggestive sweep of her tongue.

He dismissed her with a long, cold look. It not only dimmed the wattage of her smile; it startled a shocked wariness into her eyes and sent her scrambling toward the other side of the room for action. What he wouldn't let himself find in the booze he sure as hell wasn't going to find in her— no matter how clear she made it that she not only came cheap, she came often, and in ways that guaranteed him several shots at mindless, numbing oblivion.

If he'd been looking for oblivion, the table would be littered with a dozen empty shot glasses instead of one full one. He stared at the scotch, imagined the drugging taste of it on his tongue, the welcome burn as it slid to the pit of his belly.

On a slow breath, he unclenched his fingers and made himself focus on the big-screen television suspended above the congested bar. It wasn't the evening news that drew his brooding attention; it was the woman delivering it.

Jillian Kincaid.

She was publishing mogul Darin Kincaid's darling daughter; she was bona-fide Palm Beach royalty and local television's answer to Diane Sawyer. And even cloaked in the journalist persona she played to the hilt in her Worth Avenue suit that most likely cost enough to finance a small third-world coup, she also played a leading role in every straight man's X-rated fantasies.

Through the medium of television, he knew her famous face well. Knew the auburn and ginger hue of her long, lush hair, knew the multifaceted shades of her clear, bright eyes that transitioned from sea to forest green like the Atlantic shifted colors beneath a hide-and-seek sun. He knew the shape and the fullness of the lips she sometimes wrapped around a line of professionally delivered copy. Often she wrapped them around an expose that made strong men squirm. Regularly she made a man with a weakness for dewy-eyed debutantes imagine those lips wrapped around something that didn't make for polite table conversation.

Until this morning, everything he'd known about Jillian Kincaid had been limited to the media. That had been just fine. He hadn't wanted to know any more about her. The fat dossier locked in his glove compartment along with his gun, however, had fleshed out the picture in three-dimensional color. And now it no longer mattered what he had or hadn't wanted to know.

On a breath that was weary and weighty and resigned, he rose, dug into his hip pocket for his wallet, and tossed some bills on the table. After one last look at her incredible mouth, he headed out the door.

In less than an hour he was going to invade Jillian Kincaid's pricey City Place penthouse with his Beretta locked and loaded. And then he was going to wish he'd drained that shot of scotch.

2

"You
know, a
true:
friend would argue
my
side on this, Rachael," Jillian muttered into her cell phone as she stepped out of the Town Car her father had insisted on sending to drive her home from the station. "She wouldn't be aligning herself with my father like he spoke with the voice of reason."

She bid Arthur good-bye with an
I'll be fine now, thanks
smile and a friendly wave. Her father's longtime chauffeur had dutifully delivered her to the front door of her building after her eleven o'clock newscast for the fourth night running. Jillian tolerated it more for Arthur's sake than for her father's. Arthur was a sweetheart and she didn't want to get him in trouble on her account.

"That's because your father
is
the voice of reason... at least on this." Rachael Hanover sounded both weary and concerned on the other end of the line as Jillian walked briskly through the front door.

"Evening, Ms. Kincaid." Eddie, the security guard, looked up from his desk in the small alcove to the left of the main doors. "You're home a little early tonight."

She'd give Arthur that. He made good time. When she drove, she generally didn't make it home before the stroke of midnight. Arthur had whipped in and out of traffic and delivered her home by 11:45.

"Hey, Eddie." Jillian stopped in the foyer and tilted the phone away from her mouth while Rachael ran on about risk and credible threats. "Emily still holding out
ok
you?"

Jillian had lived in one of City Place's penthouses overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway for two years now. Eddie Jefferies, with his blond good looks, perpetual Florida sun-tan, and American pie smile, had been the night security guard when she'd moved in. During that time, he'd gotten engaged, gotten married, and now, at the tender age of twenty-three, he was about to become a father.

Eddie tried to hide his jitters behind a dimpled grin. "If that baby doesn't pop by next week, Doc says he's going to induce. "

"She'll be fine." Jillian walked over to his desk in the alcove and squeezed his arm in reassurance before she headed toward the single bank of elevators. "They'll both be fine. Your shift about over so you can go home to her?"

Eddie shot the cuff on his blue uniform shirt and checked his watch. "Another half an hour and I'm outta here."

"Tell her I'm thinking about her, OK?"

"Will do, Ms. Kincaid. And thanks."

"Good night, Eddie."

"G'night, Ms. Kincaid." Eddie's voice trailed behind her as Jillian punched the up button.

"Surfer boy's not a daddy yet?" Rachael asked, making Jillian realize she'd tuned out her friend completely.

"Not yet." Jillian stepped into the cab and hit the button for the penthouse level. "They seem so young," she added with a frown.

"And at thirty, you're what—Methuselah?" Rachael speculated, clearly amused.

"I'm
not bringing another human being into the world."

"OK. Hold it When, exactly, did this train derail? We were talking about
your
problem. Or was I just filling dead air with my opinion on your stalker while you chitchatted with your doorman about his personal population explosion?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore." Jillian pressed an index finger to her temple as the elevator cab gave a gentle lurch and started rising. "And it's not
my
stalker. If there even
is
a stalker."

Rachael responded with a long silence. Jillian closed her eyes and leaned a hip against the elevator cab's wall, recognizing that silence as concern.

"I hate this," she said on a deep sigh. "I really, really hate this."

"I know." Rachael's voice softened with sympathy. It didn't, however, stop her from pressing the issue. "So, did you knuckle under to your father and agree to the bodyguard?"

"Agree? Sweetie, it's not open for debate. There's not going to be a bodyguard. Trust me. If you'd grown up with one riding herd on you, you'd feel the same way. You remember how it was for me."

Horrible and humiliating. That's how it was. It had been a price she'd paid for being Darin Kincaid's daughter. Security gates, surveillance cameras, and personal bodyguards had been the norm from the time she had memories.

"What was his name again?"

"My old bodyguard? Hector."

"Right. It's coming back. Big as a lighthouse, stoic as a monk, and as clingy as sweat in August."

Jillian pushed out an indelicate snort. "That would be Hector."

The memories of Hector's infringement on her childhood and of being the most popular ransom bait in southern Florida riled a resentment Jillian worked hard to keep under wraps. She'd felt as violated as if she
had
been kidnapped. His hulking shadow had always been lurking in the background, running roughshod over everything she'd done. Nothing had been sacred. Birthday parties, school dances, dates ... and Hector.

It had been years since she'd thought of those days—and yet some things were always with her and nudged her right back into defensive mode.

"I'm not sixteen anymore, for God's sake, and here I am—still fighting to keep my father from controlling my personal freedom. It's too much, Rach. It's not going to happen. Not again."

Jillian heard the bitterness in her voice but wasn't able to curb it. She'd scrapped like a street brawler to build a credible career in TV journalism based on her own credentials and hard work—and she'd fight again to ensure that whoever was leaving messages on her answering machine and sending threatening e-mails didn't jeopardize her control over her own life. She'd worked too damn hard to get here.

"He's just concerned," Rachael reminded her, bringing her back to the moment. "Like any father would be in this situation."

"Fine. That's fine. I understand concern," she said. "But let him give me credit for knowing how to handle myself. City Place isn't exactly a tiki hut on the beach, you know. I chose this complex and this particular building because of its tight security. And I've taken other precautions. When I bought that gun several months ago, I learned how to use it. I don't need my father intervening or undermining my decisions on how I protect myself."

She felt the dull throb of a headache coming on and, what the hell, added that to her list of complaints against her father. It wasn't only her freedom at stake here. She'd had to fight her entire life to prove her worth wasn't measured in terms of the currency that came etched with Darin Kincaid's name on it. She
still
fought it, but she'd at least thought the battle with his overprotective streak was behind her.