Broken Through Read online

  Broken Through

  Adam and Grace Book Two

  By J.C. Paulson

  Copyright August 2018

  ISBN 978-0-995975637

  All rights reserved

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Notes and Acknowledgements

  Also by this author

  About the author

  Chapter One

  She still had that fucking dog. He told her to get rid of it months ago, but no. The dog was undeniably there, panting and standing guard, as he let himself in the back door. He knew the dog wouldn’t bark. Never did, when he came by, after the first couple of times.

  Fury filled his head with thudding blood. If she had listened, maybe this wouldn’t be happening. Maybe. But it wasn’t just about the damn dog. She had betrayed him.

  He went for the dog’s throat with a chain, but the beast was too fast for him. It sprung, snarling, teeth bared, and crunched into his forearm. Fucking hell.

  He clenched his teeth and with his left arm drew a handgun from the inside pocket of his jacket. Aimed. Fired.

  The dog fell to the kitchen floor, twitching. Dead in seconds.

  His face twisted into a mirthless grin. One job down. One to go.

  *****

  Grace Rampling drew a hand across the back of her neck, under her heavy tangle of auburn curls. It came away dripping with sweat.

  Hell, she swore under her breath at her desk in the newsroom of the StarPhoenix. Why, she wondered, did the damned air conditioning always break down on the steamiest days of the year? It was invariably repaired just in time to freeze everyone in place by August. Today, when the mercury showed thirty-five degrees Celsius outside, it was only marginally cooler inside, and without the benefit of breeze.

  Saskatoon, a rapidly-growing city of just over two hundred thousand in the middle of the Canadian Prairies, was noted for its lovely summers. Occasionally, lovely tipped over into ridiculously hot. Its citizens usually embraced the heat, or at least coped with little complaint, because it beat the heck out of the long, frigid winters.

  Thirty-some degrees indoors, though, was a different matter.

  “Bloody hell,” Grace repeated out loud to Lacey McPhail, her friend and colleague. “I’m going to stick my head in the sink. I’m melting.”

  “Me too,” said Lacey, her smooth face dotted with pearls of perspiration. “Does this have to happen every time it’s approaching two hundred degrees outside?”

  Grace grinned at Lacey’s exaggeration, as the two reporters grabbed their purses, makeup within, and headed to the washroom. They drenched paper towels with cold water and applied them to their necks, faces and arms.

  “What a hot summer,” complained Lacey, who wasn’t good with heat. “I guess it’s our reward for surviving an extra-cold winter. Stupid continental climate.”

  Grace agreed a temperate climate would be more comfortable, but she had once endured the blast furnace of Australian summer for two months, along with the contiguous collapse of a relationship with her former boyfriend of two years, Mick Shaw. This was better, apart from the lack of air conditioning, especially considering the turn her life had taken recently. A mere three weeks ago, she finally connected body and soul to Adam Davis.

  At the moment, though, she was not just physically but sexually overheated, and bereft.

  Grace peered at herself in the mirror, attempted some facial touchups and tried not to think of the nights they had spent together. Lacey cocked her head and smiled sympathetically at Grace’s huge, liquid brown eyes and furrowed brow.

  “Missing him?” she asked.

  Grace sighed. “It’s that obvious?”

  “Oh yes. Yes, it is. When’s he coming back?

  “Another week or so.”

  “Let me try to distract you. Want to go out for dinner one night this week? We can call Suzanne, see if she wants to come. Haven’t seen her in ages.”

  “Yes. Sure,” Grace said vaguely.

  “Hey, Rampling. Hello? Are you okay?

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  Lacey gave Grace another sympathetic look.

  “Do you need help on that crash story, by the way?” she asked, as they returned to their desks.

  “No, I can handle it. There aren’t many details yet; no sign of the speeding car, no arrests. Thanks, though. And dinner would be great.”

  *****

  Detective Sergeant Adam Davis of the Saskatoon police force was in Los Angeles at a North American police conference, to be followed immediately by a second conference on psychological profiling. Police Chief Dan McIvor liked to send his detective sergeants and inspectors to the annual events as often as possible, budget allowing. They were, he said to Adam, helpful forums from which to gather new ideas, connect with officers facing similar policing issues, and hone skills such as profiling and researching.

  “I know you went a couple of years ago,” McIvor said to Adam. “But you’re the right guy to go this year.”

  “What about Pearson?” Adam asked hopefully. But he knew the answer. McIvor hated Inspector Terry Pearson almost as much as Adam did.

  “No way,” said McIvor.

  Adam still looked unconvinced, which McIvor apparently took as modesty.

  “Look, Adam, your work on the bishop’s murder was brilliant. That was some kind of crime solving. Go share it.”

  Due to his chief’s enthusiasm, Adam had been obliged to hastily pull together a presentation on the bishop’s murder, complete with photos, overhead slides and handout. God damn it, thought Adam, I don’t have time for this. Worse yet, I’ll be away for two weeks, aching for Grace. He wasn’t sure he could stand it. He was having trouble getting his butt into work as it was; how was he going to manage two weeks away from her, when twelve hours was a problem?

  Adam met Grace in March, over the body of that bashed-up bishop. She was covering a story about a gay choir booted from holding a concert in the sanctuary, and got more than she bargained for. She literally stumbled over the corpse.

  Adam was captivated, as he had never been before, the second he saw her rising from her hiding spot between two pews. The next three months were torture, as he tried to stay away from her. Grace was his witness in the murder case, and later became a victim to violence herself. Legally and ethically, they couldn’t go near each other. Three months later, they finally fell, explosively, into each other’s arms.

  Now he was in L.A. Three days into the first conference, he already pined for Grace. He called her in the evenings, before the obligatory social events started, and tried not to talk about making love to her.

  It never wor
ked. The conversations would start with his heart rate soaring at the sound of her rich, low voice, and end with him sitting disconsolately on the edge of the bed, head bowed.

  After he had finally made love with Grace for the first time, Adam had fallen asleep — unintentionally, fearing one of his nightmares would awaken him and terrify Grace. And so it had awakened him; but she was undaunted. After pulling him back into bed, she crawled up his body, touching and licking every inch of him, to both comfort and arouse him. He could hardly stand remembering it. He missed her, and her bed.

  “Grace. How was your day?”

  “Hot,” she said, giving the word a whisper of innuendo. “It’s thirty-five degrees here today. How is it there?”

  “Also hot. It’s bloody L.A. in the summer, and if we were right on the coast, we’d be fine. But it’s brutal downtown.”

  Talking about the heat had Adam envisioning Grace in a cool, light dress outlining her slim figure, with a deep décolletage, and wishing he wasn’t. Her breasts made him crazy. How long would it be before just the thought of her didn’t arouse him?

  “Have you given your presentation yet?” she asked, breaking into his reverie.

  “No — tomorrow. I’m dreading going over the whole case again, but I suppose it’ll be good practice for when Ellice Fairbrother goes to court.”

  The trial for the man who had murdered Bishop Howard Halkitt was still pending. Crown prosecutor Sanjeev Kumar had told Adam it might go to court in the winter; he was still preparing what he hoped was an iron-clad case, with Adam’s help.

  “Any interesting stories today?” Adam asked, ready to temporarily forget the Fairbrother case.

  “A few. There was a bad car accident — some idiot flying down a Nutana street in an SUV and smashing into a Smart Car. The speeder drove away; the Smart Car was crushed. Amazingly, the driver lived, but he’s in bad shape. He’d be dead if the SUV had hit the driver’s side.

  “I can’t understand how people can even get up to such high speeds on those narrow streets,” Grace added. “We’re still waiting to find out more from your shop — whether they’ve caught him yet, if he was DUI, et cetera.”

  “How fast was he going?”

  “Police say he could have been going ninety kilometres an hour, based on witness observations and the state of the Smart Car.”

  “Wow. That’s insane.”

  “But I think I’m going to get to talk to James. I gather he’s on communications duty today, still being stuck in the office. I’m looking forward to it. He’s so lovely.”

  Adam knew it was ridiculous, particularly since James was gay, but he felt a tiny pang of jealousy. Grow up, he said to himself.

  “You’re lovely,” he said, huskily.

  Grace felt her body heat rise even further to the compliment.

  “Hush, Adam. Don’t unlock the zoo. I’d like to keep my animals safely inside until . . . later.”

  “I’ll try to behave,” Adam said. Then he didn’t. “I want to kiss your neck right now. Then your lips. Then the rest of you. Hell.”

  “God, oh . . . Adam, stop it. I’ll never make the next week.”

  “Neither will I.”

  After they hung up, and Adam was hanging by a thread in his lonely hotel room desperately considering having phone sex with Grace, an idea came to him.

  First thing the next morning, he called his boss; feeling very guilty about it, he also called Grace’s.

  And then he called his travel agent.

  Chapter Two

  The next day dawned just as hot and even muggier, in both countries.

  Grace dug out the skimpiest dress in her closet and added the lightest little bolero sweater, in a large weave, over top — in case someone from the public showed up at the office. She slipped her feet into sandals, and slicked on a trace of lipstick and mascara. Makeup would end up sliding down her face anyway, so why bother with more than that?

  Driving to the office from her little bungalow in the Buena Vista neighbourhood, in her air conditioned vehicle, she wondered if the same amenity would be available today at the office.

  It was not. It was so hot the day before, the managing editor had come out into the newsroom and told the staff they could wear pretty much whatever they wanted, as long as it was barely decent.

  “No cutoffs, no tank tops, no muscle shirts,” warned Mark Williams, sweat streaming down from his temples and coursing down both cheeks. “Everything else is pretty much fair game.”

  Melting brains on journalists wouldn’t do. But it was just as hot today, if not worse.

  Grace put down her bag, started her computer, and greeted Lacey, who had beaten her in by a few minutes.

  Seconds later, Grace’s phone rang. She sighed. The phone rang all the time. No peace. She saw it was Alison, the receptionist, and sighed again: there was probably someone in the reception area asking to pitch a story to a reporter. Couldn’t it wait until after nine in the morning?

  She picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Allie. How are you? Melting?”

  “You bet. God, it’s hot. Grace, there are flowers for you here. Do you want to come and get them, or should I send them up next time Dorothy does deliveries?”

  “Depends. Is it cooler than thirty-five degrees where you are?”

  Alison checked the little thermometer on her desk. “Yep. Only thirty-two.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Grace grabbed her security card, stuck it in the pocket of her dress, and feeling rather free without her purse and reporter’s gear, skipped down the winding staircase.

  “Wow,” she said, upon seeing the massive bouquet of white and red flowers, partly visible through semi-opaque cellophane wrap. “Wow. It’s not even my birthday.”

  Alison’s eyes were wide with excitement. “It’s a big one. Open it, Grace!”

  Grace lifted the bouquet off the high counter in front of Alison’s desk and took it to the coffee table on the other side of the lobby. Bending slightly at the waist, she untied the ribbon at the top and undressed the gorgeous, fragrant bunch. Red roses. White, frondy chrysanthemums. Beautiful.

  Snagging the unusually large card off the top — it was not the usual florist’s mini-offering — she opened the envelope and read:

  Grace.

  I’ve had time to think, alone in this cold hotel, in this steaming city.

  And what I think is, I miss you. I crave you, day and night.

  You’ve tapped the shell. You’ve broken through.

  I can hold on, if I know you’re on the way.

  Come to California, Grace. — Adam

  Grace turned bright pink, breathed “Oh, Adam,” and sank onto the blue leather couch, shaking.

  “Grace!” said Alison, extricating herself from her boxed-in desk and dashing over. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s just such a surprise.”

  Alison put her arm around Grace’s shoulders. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine, Allie.”

  But she had to take the elevator back upstairs; she couldn’t trust her legs to get her up the long winding staircase, and she had a massive bouquet of flowers to carry besides. What was she going to say when she got back to the newsroom?

  She understood immediately what Adam was telling her: her efforts to soothe and support him, after years of struggling with the post-traumatic after-effects of being shot and nearly killed, were helping him. Healing him. She was breaking through his pain. He was shaking off the awful nightmares. He felt less of a victim, counterintuitively less of a superhero — and more of a man.

  When the dreams did come, she would hold him until he calmed, then make love to him in the deep night. She was amazed and thrilled that she could help this beautiful man, this fierce police officer. Besides, she loved the soothing, and the sex.

  There was more in the envelope.

  As Grace returned to her desk with the enormous bouquet, Lacey looked up and raised her eyebrows.

  “Ada
m?”

  Grace nodded, and handed her the second piece of paper in the envelope. The note she kept to herself, slipping it into her dress pocket. The larger paper was a printout of an airline itinerary, detailing a flight from Saskatoon to Calgary to San Francisco, eight days away. Her name was on it.

  “Oh, my God,” breathed Lacey. “Holy shit. Is this a surprise?”

  “Completely. I hope I can make it happen. It’s so soon.”

  “He didn’t, like, you know, ask or anything?”

  “No. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “That’s so romantic I can’t stand it,” said Lacey, to a shushing noise from Grace.

  Grace’s phone rang again. This time, it was Mark.

  “Hey boss, what’s up?” answered Grace.

  “Hey Grace, can you come into my office for a minute?”

  “On my way.”

  “Hi, Grace. Take a seat,” said Mark when she arrived two seconds later.

  Grace thought the expression on his face was odd. His lips were twitching, as if he was trying hard not to break into an ear-to-ear grin, but he looked guilty, too.

  “What’s up?” she asked, baffled.

  “I see you got some flowers.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I kind of knew they were coming. Adam Davis called me. He wanted to know whether you could get away if he booked an impromptu trip. He felt terrible, for what it’s worth, about giving me the head’s up first, but it was the only way he could figure out how to surprise you, and still make it work.”

  Grace was silent for a moment.

  “He’s a pretty nice guy, Grace,” said Mark, who seemed to interpret her silence as being upset about Adam going over her head.

  Mark had been impressed by Adam’s handling of the bishop’s case, and how hard he had tried to protect the StarPhoenix reporters from potential harm. He had said so to Grace, several times.

  “I know,” said Grace, who was actually having trouble absorbing the fact her boss and her lover were conspiring to put her on a plane. Whatever worked, as long as she could see Adam as soon as possible. “So what do you think? Can I get away?”