Excerpt of Miami Steam by Chantal Verlaine

Rebecca Challenger glanced at the clock on the wall and
tapped her pen against your reporter’s notepad in a
furious rhythm. Was the police chief ever going to finish
his meeting? She been waiting forty minutes for this
interview already, and although she felt like getting up
and walking out, she couldn’t. She desperately needed
this interview for her story, a profile of the “Night
Knifer,” a serial stabber who had been terrorizing the
city of Miami for the past nine months. Harry, her
editor, slotted it for the Sunday front above the fold,
right below the masthead “Miami Star,” the spot most
coveted by reporters. Her story – and byline – would be
prominently featured in the front window of newspaper
coin boxes and would be the first thing readers would eye
on the stacks of newspapers in convenience store racks.
Still, she had to get the story first, and the chief was
not being quite as cooperative as she had hoped.

Rebecca leaned her head against the wall and slid her
eyelids shut so she wouldn’t keep staring at the clock.
She’d been the Star’s cop reporter for the past year, and
she desperately wanted to move to the features desk.
However, the features editor wanted to see that Rebecca
could write more than basic police stories. This profile
of the murderer, who had stabbed seven men to death after
they had patronized prostitutes, could be the clincher.
Come on chief.

A rumble of deep voices approached the other side of the
closed door. Her eyes flew open and she straightened her
back. The doorknob clicked. She bolted to her feet, ready
to pounce on the chief, with her pen and pad poised. She
wasn’t going to let him shut her out. The door cracked
open, but the conversation was still going. They were
taking their sweet time. Rebecca rolled her eyes. The
door swung open, but it did not give way to the portly,
bulldog-jowled chief. The broad shoulders of Detective
Rick Gonzalez filled the door frame. Rebecca’s heart
halted as her green-eyed gaze sank into the deep pools of
his eyes, a brown so dark they appeared black.

Rick. The sonofabitch was even more gorgeous than she
remembered. His complexion was the color of dulce de
leche and just as caramel smooth. His nose was a perfect
aquiline that balanced a strong chin. He was sexy as
hell.

She had worked with him on a case about an abducted
child, one of the first stories that she had been
assigned on the cop beat. She had sat beside him in his
unmarked car as they drove around Miami’s meanest
streets, trying to keep her mind on the questions she
needed to ask instead of the sensuous outline of his full
lips and the testosterone-laden bulge in his pants.
Regrettably, he had made it easy to keep herself under
control. He would barely look at her and wouldn’t speak
in anything more than monosyllables. She had finally
snapped in exasperation. “What is it with you?” she
had exploded. “If we put this in the paper, it just might
help find this kid.”

Rick had turned toward her. “I don’t like reporters. You
mess everything up,” he had said. “We do not.”

Rebecca had flushed with indignation. “That’s ridiculous!
Many witnesses have come forward after seeing a story or
a photo in the paper.”

Rick’s upper lip had curled into a sneer. “Yeah, well,
it’s a slight problem when you put the photo of an
undercover vice cop in the paper.”

That had rung a bell. Rebecca’s mind had raced as she
tried to focus her memory. She had been working in a
suburban bureau when there was some ruckus in the main
newsroom about the publication of a picture of a plain-
clothes detective. The chief had stormed into the
publisher’s office and had slammed the paper on his desk.
Publishing the photo had jeopardized an elaborate sting
operation.

“That was you?” she had ventured.

“I was this close to nailing a big narc.” Rick had held
up a thumb and forefinger a smidgen apart. “You wasted an
eight-month investigation and got me thrown off
narcotics. Now, I’m looking for runaway brats.” His voice
had oozed bitterness.

Rebecca had bristled. “I’m sorry, but I had nothing to do
with that so don’t take it out on me. Besides, reporters
don’t make the decisions about photos, so it probably
wasn’t even the reporter’s fault. It was some idiot desk
editor.”

Rick had clammed up for the rest of the afternoon. Her
story had fallen far short of what she had hoped, and
Harry, her editor, had buried it in the back of the B
section. He had made it clear that he didn’t think much
of her reporting skills. “Do a better job next time,
Challenger, or you’ll be back in the suburban bureau
covering the animal pound,” Harry had scolded.

Thank you, Detective Rick Gonzalez. Luckily, she hadn’t
dealt with him since then, and she had lost track of him
inside the monolithic police force. Of course, in some
cruel trick of fate, Rick Gonzalez was holding up her
crucial interview. GQ face or no GQ face, she wasn’t
going to let him tank her career. She stiffened her
spine. “I have an appointment to see the chief.”

“Be my guest.” His tone was icy.

Rebecca drank in the sight of his achingly masculine
chest. A sudden urge to rip off his shirt washed through
her.

“Ahh, excuse me?” he said. Rebecca, with heat sweeping
her cheeks, sidestepped so he could pass.

“Where’s that reporter?” the chief barked from his inner
sanctum. “You got two minutes.

She startled and forced herself to refocus on the
interview. The sudden appearance of Rick had shattered
her train of thought. “That’s all I need, Chief.

She entered the office and swiveled to close the door.
Rick was standing in the doorway, looking straight at
her. His gold detective’s shield, which hung from his
neck, glinted in the fluorescent light as he pivoted on
his heels and walked away.