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.