Each Precious Hour Read online

  “Are you crying?”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Books by Gayle Wilson

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  “Are you crying?”

  As Jared held her in the aftermath of their lovemaking, he saw a tear streak. Glinting faintly, it ran from the corner of her eye to the disordered hair at her temple.

  “I had this sense of...I don’t know. It’s silly. But... I don’t know. Something’s going to happen somewhere. Sometime. Something bad.”

  He laughed, somehow relieved by the vagueness. “You’ll never make it as a fortune-teller.”

  “I know,” she agreed, her lips aligning themselves into an answering smile.

  Jared drew his thumb down the tear track, and then he put the moisture he removed from it onto his tongue, licking it off. She was still watching him. “It’s all gone,” he said comfortingly. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Not to us. Not to our baby.”

  The tilt of her lips increased. “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart,” he whispered, “and hope to die.”

  Dear Reader,

  When actions of the past come home to haunt Senator James Marshall McCord, Texas rancher and recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor, he knows he must protect the people he loves most in the world: his family. But he’ll need some help from three very rugged, very determined men.

  Harlequin Intrigue is proud to bring together three of your favorite authors in a new miniseries:

  THE McCORD FAMILY COUNTDOWN.

  Starting in October 1999, get swept away by a mysterious bodyguard in #533 Stolen Moments by B.J. Daniels. Then meet the sexy town sheriff in #537 Memories at Midnight by Joanna Wayne.

  And finally, feel safe in the strong arms of a tough city cop in #541 Each Precious Hour by Gayle Wilson.

  In a race against time, only love can save them. Don’t miss a minute!

  Enjoy,

  Denise O’Sullivan

  Associate Senior Editor

  Harlequin Books

  300 East 42nd Street

  New York, NY 10017

  Each Precious Hour

  Gayle Wilson

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Robin McCord—Robin is not only Texas Senator James McCord’s beloved niece, she is also his media spokesperson. Has Robin now become the target of McCord’s enemies?

  Jared Donovan—He and Robin have a shared past, but perhaps no future—unless the NYPD bomb squad expert is willing to give up the job he loves for the woman he loves...and the baby she’s carrying.

  James Marshall McCord—The Texas senator is about to officially toss his Stetson into the presidential ring on New Year’s Eve. And someone seems determined to keep him out of the race.

  Paul Farley–Paul is responsible for tracking public opinion for the campaign. Is he tracking the outcome for more personal reasons?

  Carl Bolton–The explosives expert from McCord’s Vietnam unit has gone missing. Will finding Bolton give Jared the key he needs to protect Robin?

  Whitt Emory—McCord’s manager has a vested interest in seeing the senator succeed.

  Katie Chang—As a member of his staff, Katie also has an interest in McCord’s success. And it seems she has an interest in Jared Donovan, as well....

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Gayle Wilson is the award-winning author of fourteen novels written for Harlequin. She has lived in Alabama all her life except for the years she followed her army aviator husband—whom she met on a blind date—to a variety of military posts. Before beginning her writing career, she taught English and world history to gifted high school students in a number of schools around the Birmingham area. Gayle and her husband have one son, who is also a teacher of gifted students. They are blessed with warm and loving Southern families and an ever-growing menagerie of cats and dogs.

  You can write to Gayle at P.O. Box 3277, Hueytown, Alabama 35023.

  Books by Gayle Wilson

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  344—ECHOES IN THE DARK

  376—ONLY A WHISPER

  414—THE REDEMPTION OF DEKE SUMMERS

  442—HEART OF THE NIGHT

  461—RANSOM MY HEART*

  466—WHISPER MY LOVE*

  469—REMEMBER MY TOUCH*

  490—NEVER LET HER GO

  509—THE BRIDE’S PROTECTOR***

  513—THE STRANGER SHE KNEW***

  517—HER BABY, HIS SECRET***

  541—EACH PRECIOUS HOUR

  HARLEQUIN HISTORICALS

  211—THE HEART’S DESIRE**

  263—THE HEARTS WAGER**

  299—THE GAMBLER’S HEART**

  349—RAVEN’S VOW

  393—HIS SECRET DUCHESS

  432—HONOR’S BRIDE

  *Home to Texas miniseries

  ***Men of Mystery miniseries

  **The Heart miniseries Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the

  following address for information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  For my aunt Mamie Lee, who has lived through almost all of the years of this passing century.

  During the new century, may all of you enjoy lives

  that are as full and rich and productive as

  hers was and still is.

  Prologue

  He had known from the prickling on the back of his neck that it was going to be bad. Just not this bad.

  “Son of a bitch,” Officer Samuels said almost reverently.

  Jared Donovan pulled his eyes away from the big block of plastic explosive, which had been hidden at the top of the elevator, to look at his companion. There were beads of sweat on the policeman’s temple, and his features were waxen. His gaze hung, unmoving, on the bomb just above their heads.

  “I need a hand up,” Jared said.

  “What about the stuff?” the cop asked, his eyes still directed upward. The “stuff” was the equipment the bomb squad had brought into the building. The robot. The disarming gun. The protective gear: All of which were downstairs.

  Jared’s eyes lifted again to the hunk of plastic explosive over his head. Six ounces of Semtex had brought down Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie. This was the size of a couple of bricks. With an elevator shaft sitting on top of it. A shaft that ran through the heart of the government office building.

  Even Jared wasn’t sure exactly what that would mean. And he had lots of experience with explosions. More than he wanted to remember. Like the one that had killed Jeff Matthews.

  That hadn’t been nearly as big as this, but it had been booby-trapped. And when Jeff had eased open the drawer where it had been hidden, the whole thing had gone. The armor Jeff was wearing was good, the latest and best design, but it wasn’t that good. Not proof against that kind of force. Or this. When you got
right down to it, nothing was.

  “I need to take a look at what we’ve got,” Jared said.

  He’d be able to tell more once he was up there. Maybe he could even tell if there was anything that didn’t belong. Anything like that hidden wire that had taken Jeff Matthews’ life. A wire designed to do just what it had done—prevent anyone from disarming the bomb.

  “Okay,” Samuels said. His voice was almost breathless.

  Not that Jared faulted him for that. Bombs demanded respect. Any bomb. And it had gotten harder for Jared himself to breathe when they told him that one of the janitors employed in the search was reporting something in the overhead panel of one of the elevators. Harder still when he had seen what the janitor had found. And this was his job. His chosen profession.

  The patrolman put his hands together, making a stirrup to hoist him up so that Jared could look death eye-to-eye. This wasn’t the first time he had done that. And it wouldn’t be the last. At least, he amended, he hoped to hell it wouldn’t be. He put his hand on the cop’s shoulder for balance and fitted his foot into the joined palms.

  The lift Samuels provided gave him just enough height that he was now face-to-face with the bomb. High enough to see more clearly what had been barely visible from below. Timer, battery pack and the plastic. There was no smell, which is why the dogs hadn’t found this. That and its positioning.

  Jared’s eyes focused on the timer, close enough now that he could hear it ticking. And close enough to see that the alarm had been set for ten o’clock, which according to the hands was now less than thirty seconds away.

  “How long?” the patrolman below him asked, the words little more than a hoarse whisper.

  “Not nearly long enough,” Jared said softly, aware that the patrolman had not been asking about the clock.

  Jared might have been surprised at how calm he sounded, if he had thought about it. But he was no longer thinking about anything other than dynamics of the device in front of him. Even the sound of the clock’s ticking had faded, low and muted.

  This was his baby now. His problem. No time to get anyone else up here. No time to send for the equipment. This would have to be done the old-fashioned way, he thought, fishing the cutters out of his back pocket, or it wouldn’t get done at all. This one would be the way it used to be—just one man and a bomb.

  A vacuum of calmness had settled over him. Jared could feel the cop’s hands beginning to tremble under his foot. Whether that was from the strain of holding Jared’s weight or from the patrolman’s belated realization of how close to dying they were, he couldn’t be sure. And it didn’t really matter.

  All that mattered was not doing anything stupid. And not taking anything for granted. His eyes traced the wires leading from the battery pack. One to the explosive and one to the timer. Simple setup. Almost...too simple. His eyes examined the plastic, which showed signs of being shaped. Molded. And the cold prickle along the back of his neck increased.

  All the possibilities sped through his mind, ticked off far more rapidly than the seconds on the clock. The feeling that this was a trap was so strong, it was almost physical. Mercury switch? Collapsing circuit?

  Jared put his fingers on one of the wires leading from the battery, being careful not to move anything. He was surprised to find that his hand was steady. Too simple, Jared thought again, his fingers poised to make the cut. Too easy.

  Even as the thought formed, he cut the wire, separating the battery from the plastic. Two long heartbeats throbbed away, matching the ticking of the clock. And nothing happened.

  His fingers found the second wire, the one leading to the timer, and they were still steady as he used the cutters to slice through that one as well. When it separated, Jared listened to the flow of his own blood through his ears, his breathing suspended. He hadn’t breathed since he’d gotten a good look at the timer. And the prickling was still at the back of his neck.

  “Higher,” he said to Samuels. “I have to be higher.”

  He needed to see behind the explosives. The shaping of the plastic suggested there was more to this than he was seeing. He glanced at the hands again and saw that ten seconds remained before the old-fashioned ringer connected. Ten seconds.

  Slowly, the strain so great that even Jared was aware of it, his body was pushed upward by the trembling muscles below him. Less than six inches, and he knew that Samuels wouldn’t be able to hold him there long. He stretched as far as he could, peering over the top of the plastic, close enough to it that he could smell the faintest odor of its chemicals. And there, behind the misshapen lump, was another wire. He could see nothing more than that, and there was not even time to glance again at the clock.

  He lifted the cutters over the bomb, careful to touch nothing. Jar nothing. Avoiding the slightest tremor, he eased the lower blade of the cutters under the wire and closed them around it. He thought he should pray, but his mind was incapable of coherence, and he could still hear the faint ticking of the clock. Slow motion now. Nothing but him and the wire.

  He had no idea what it was connected to, but as the ice trickled along his spine again, his fingers squeezed until he heard the small snick. Again he waited. A thick cone of silence, like air that had grown too heavy to conduct sound, settled over him. He listened to his blood, to the ticking clock, and he watched the hand sweep toward the hour.

  Then the alarm went off, filling the enclosed space of the elevator with a discordant racket. He should have been prepared. He should have warned Samuels, whose hands came apart suddenly, dumping Jared unceremoniously to the marble floor. He hadn’t done either because somewhere in his gut—in the deepest, most primitive part of his body—he’d expected to be dead when the ringer hit.

  It took a second or two to realize he wasn’t. Another to allow his lungs to fill with air. And another to be able to listen to the tinny ringing of the clock and to know what it was. Not an explosion. Not shock waves. Not death.

  “You shoulda told me it was gonna do that,” Samuels said plaintively. He was on the floor beside Jared. He had fallen to his knees when the alarm sounded, his face wet and ashen. “You son of a bitch,” the cop accused. “Why the hell didn’t you warn me?” There was an edge of anger mixed into the obvious fear.

  “I didn’t think about it,” Jared admitted.

  He didn’t confess that he had thought they were dead men. That he had never expected to hear that alarm. He had expected that the shock wave from the explosion would disintegrate them both, destroying them and the building around them instantly.

  “Sorry,” he apologized softly. And he really was. Samuels had had the guts to stay with him, to do what he had asked him to do. The least he could have done was to warn him. Jared’s eyes tracked upward to the package and the still-shrilling clock. “Tell them to get the containment unit up here.”

  His gaze returned to the patrolman, who nodded, his eyes locked on Jared’s face, looking at him as if he were some kind of strange, alien species he had never encountered before.

  And maybe, Jared admitted, maybe he was right.

  Chapter One

  “I think the senator has answered those questions to everyone’s satisfaction,” Robin McCord said confidently into the mikes that were thrust at her face. “The incident in Vietnam was terrible, but James McCord did then what he has done his entire life—the right thing in an enormously difficult situation. Difficult for him. Difficult for the men whose lives he saved.”

  “So you all think the senator can still win the nomination,” Hugh Collins asked, “despite his recent...confession?”

  Collins represented one of the larger newspapers in the Southeast, and he had written favorably about her uncle in the past. The question was a softball, giving Robin the perfect opportunity to tout the good news they’d received this afternoon.

  “According to the latest polls, the public has accepted Senator McCord’s explanation,” she said. “Not only accepted it, but embraced it. So we think it’s time to move on to other
topics. To issues of greater concern to the American people.”

  Robin’s smile was genuinely friendly and yet polished. This was a role she was increasingly comfortable filling. She hadn’t signed on to be her uncle’s spokesperson. She had volunteered years ago, fresh out of college, to be his aide. Ten years later she had been running the Texas senator’s Washington office.

  It was Whitt Emory, McCord’s campaign manager, who had decided Robin had a talent for thinking on her feet. And since she truly believed every word she was saying about James Marshall McCord, her conviction that he was the best man to be president of the United States came through loud and clear.

  Whitt had also proclaimed, much to Robin’s embarrassment, that she was the most visually appealing member of the staff, at least as far as Middle America was concerned. It couldn’t hurt, he had said, to have a long-legged strawberry blonde with a very pleasant Texas accent reiterating the messages the campaign was determined to flood the airways with before the senator threw his Stetson into the presidential ring. So the cameras were increasingly focused on McCord’s niece, as they were tonight.

  “Apparently not all segments of the public have accepted the senator’s story,” Ted Carlton said, glancing over his shoulder.

  Pickets paraded up and down the sidewalk in front of the huge Manhattan hotel, which would, in a little more than a week, be the scene for the senator’s so-called “New Millennium” speech. The nearer the close of the twentieth century came, the more crazies seemed to climb out of the woodwork, Robin thought.

  And all those who had been haunting the senator’s appearances, some since he had first indicated he was considering a run for the presidency, were here tonight. Along with a few she hadn’t seen before. They had seemed to grow in number as McCord’s campaign momentum grew. Especially now.