Cavanaugh Or Death
THOSE LAW-ENFORCING CAVANAUGHS ARE BACK!After losing two partners in the line of duty, major crimes detective Davis Gilroy isn’t about to get close to his new one. Especially when that partner is an optimistic blonde beauty with killer curves!Davis will do his job, keep a close eye on detective Moira Cavanaugh, and not let her get under his skin. But when someone starts disturbing old graves in local cemeteries, he and Moira work long nights to solve the macabre mystery. Suddenly Davis finds himself caring too much about the strong, sexy woman who always has his back…and is gaining on his heart.
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Davis wasnât sure just what had possessed him at that moment. Most likely it was frustration.
Or maybe he just wanted her to back off once and for all, and the only way he felt he could do that was to frighten her off. He reasoned he could do that by kissing her.
Which was why heâd turned toward Moira and, operating on what amounted to automatic pilot, he suddenly and without a word pulled her to him despite her seat belt. He didnât even remember leaning against the rather awkward transmission shift that was between them, dividing them from one another like an old-fashioned bundling board. All that he did remember was that he kissed her.
Kissed her hard.
Kissed her until neither one of them could breathe anymore and the only sound within the sedan was the one created by two pounding hearts.
* * *
Be sure to check out the next books in this exciting series:
Cavanaugh JusticeâWhere Auroraâs finest are always in action.
USA TODAY bestselling and RITA>® Award-winning author MARIE FERRARELLA has written more than two-hundred-and-fifty books for Mills & Boon, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website, www.marieferrarella.com.
To Kristin Costello, With deep appreciation For being more Than a nurse.
Contents
Dawn was beginning to touch the edges of the darkness, hinting that first light was not far away.
Davis Gilroy was only vaguely aware of the time, having glanced at his wristwatch just before entering St. Josephâs Cemetery, the larger of the two cemeteries in the city of Aurora, California, where he had lived all of his life.
Davis assumed that there was a groundskeeper in the area somewhere, possibly grabbing a catnap in one of the three mausoleums on the far end of the property. Or maybe the man was sleeping on the creased brown leather sofa back at the office right off the cemeteryâs chapel. But other than the groundskeeper, Davis was fairly certain he was the only one in the area.
That was the way he liked it. He liked being alone.
Although he was a detective in the police departmentâs major crime division, Davis wasnât much of a people person. Especially since losing his last two partners, Detective Mike Chan and Detective Ed Ramirez, both of whom now permanently resided at this same cemetery.
But he wasnât here to pay his respects to the two men he had worked beside for a total of less than three years. They were each decent men and good detectives in their own right, though he hadnât socialized with either of them in life and saw no reason to visit them now that the conversation would only be one-sided.
The only people he had one-sided conversations with these days were his parents: James and Martha Gilroy. It was their mutual grave heâd come to visit, as he did at least once a month, more often if he got the chance. For the most part his life consisted of work and sleepâand work kept him pretty busy. Coming here was his only deviation from that narrow path.
Davis stood in front of the double headstone. It was a wide, expensive marble piece that had taken him months to save up forâputting aside every cent he could out of his paychecksâuntil the tombstone was finally paid off and in place over his parentsâ grave instead of the meager one his uncle had put there.
They were together in death just as they had been in life. His father had taken pride in the fact that it had been love at first sight for both of them. As heâd gotten older, Davis had pretended not to listen, though heâd never tired of hearing the details.
Heâd been almost thirteen the day they died. They had been together in the car that Sunday, but only he had survived.
That still haunted him.
Davis was kneeling over their grave, the bouquet of fresh white rosesâhis motherâs favoriteâplaced just beneath the headstone. Spring had been part of the terrain for a good month. His mother had always loved spring.
He felt the sting of tears smart at the corners of his eyes and was glad no one was around to see him.
Here, alone with his parents, away from other inquisitive eyes, he was free to be himself the way he wasnât in his daily life. Six-foot-two, thirty-four-year-old men didnât get emotional or shed tears about events that had happened more than two decades ago.
But there was no one here to judge him.
âSorry I havenât been around latelyâhad a case that wasnât easy to solve. But Iâm here now and thatâs what counts, right, Dad?â
His father had never bothered berating him for time that had been lost; heâd only pointed out that there was time ahead to be usedâuntil there wasnât any time ahead left.
âCan you believe it?â Davis asked, addressing the two people beneath the tombstone. âItâs been almost twenty-one years now. Twenty-one years since you and Mom relocated here.â
