Heat of the Moment by Karen Foley

the air, and the realization that if she and Sgt. Martinez didn’t leave their truck, they might become the next target. But then her training had kicked in and she’d been so preoccupied with following protocol that there hadn’t been time to feel anything. She scarcely recalled the instant when the bullet had struck her, or when the compression blast had knocked her off her feet. All she remembered was seeing Shane, bloodied and deathly still.
    Shaking off the disturbing images, she picked up her camera bag and made her way down to the kitchen. Beside the coffeepot was a note, scrawled in Shane’s bold handwriting.
    “Down at the boathouse. Didn’t want to wake you.”
    At least he hadn’t left, she mused, pouring herself a mug of strong, black coffee and stepping outside onto the deck. The air was crisp with the scent of pine and rich, moist earth. The lake was clear and still, and she could barely hear the distant thrum of boat motors and jet-skis. The Durant family owned nearly fifty acres of land on the pristine lake, and there wasn’t another cabin or house for at least a half mile in either direction, affording the family retreat complete privacy.
    Holly stood at the railing and sipped her coffee, her eyes on the boathouse. What was Shane doing down there? Maybe his note had been a subtle invitation for her to join him. Maybe she would find him spread out on the small, iron bed in the guest room, waiting for her. Images of him lying back, naked and welcoming, filled her mind.
    She was so caught up in her own lustful imaginings, that she didn’t see the figure of a man coming around the corner of the house until he was almost directly beneath her. Startled, she sloshed hot coffee over her hand and hastily set the mug down on the railing.
    “Pete?” she asked cautiously, swiping her hand across the seat of her shorts.
    A stocky man stood on the lawn below the deck, with a head of thick, auburn curls and a full beard to match. He tipped his baseball cap back on his head and peered up at her.
    “Holly?” His voice registered his surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you out here.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Who were you expecting?”
    “Shane Rafferty. He called in some groceries yesterday, and I told him I’d bring them out this morning. I knocked on the front door but there was no answer. Is he here?”
    “He’s down in the boathouse. Sorry, I didn’t hear you knock,” Holly explained. “Give me a sec to put some shoes on and I’ll help you bring the groceries in.”
    “I’d appreciate that,” he said, and retreated back toward the front of the house.
    Holly slid her feet into a pair of sandals and went out to the driveway where Pete’s truck stood. Holly had known Pete Larson her entire life and he’d been present at more than one Durant family gathering. In fact, she was pretty sure he’d been at the lake house the night of her graduation party. He’d aged in the few years since she’d last seen him. Up close, she could see gray hair sprinkled liberally through his russet curls and laugh lines seamed his face. There were a half dozen paper sacks in the flatbed of the truck, and Pete reached in to grab one.
    “Here, I’ll take that,” Holly offered, reaching for it.
    Pete handed the bag to her, but Holly was unprepared for the weight of it, or the fact that her injured arm chose that moment to act up. She got her good arm around the top of the shopping bag, but her bad arm refused to grab it from the bottom, and the entire sack of goods slid through her grasp and split open on the driveway.
    There was a moment of stunned silence as both Pete and Holly watched the juice from a broken jar of pickles seep into the ground, and cans of chili and spaghetti sauce roll in different directions. Pete reacted first, jumping forward to scoop up the escaping canned goods and redeposit them in the remaining bags. The sharp tang of pickle juice scented the air.
    “That was my fault, Holly,” he