It was completely annoying that it had been sunny and
bright on the day of Patrick's funeral. Not one single cloud
in the sky as a sea of men in uniform, their badges all cov-
ered with a black horizontal stripe to mark the loss of one
of their own, mille around a cemetery. Their expressions
were sole, and many of them were visibly sweating from
wearing heavy uniforms in the Southern California heat.
Detective Dante Sinclair's eyes were riveted to the
screen as he watched the video of his laptop computer, a
huge lump in his throat as he listened to the customary last
radio call go out for Detective Patrick Brogan, unanswered
Patrick was officially proclaimed to be 10-7,
Dante gulped for air as he slammed the lap-
top closed, wishing like hell that it had been a
shitty, rainy day during the funeral. Somehow it
didn't seem fair that the services had been held
on just the kind of day Patrick had loved, and
he hadn't been there to enjoy it. It was the sort
of weather that would have had Patrick itching
to be out fishing. Instead, he'd been dead, en-
tombed in a casket covered by a US flag, unable
to enjoy one single thing he loved ever again.
Casting the laptop off the bed, to caring
whether it shattered into pieces, he sat up un-
concerned with the pain it caused him to do so.
Christ! He hadn't even been able to attend his
own partner's funeral because he'd still been in
the hospital. But he'd been compelled to watch
it. Patrick had been his partner and a member of
Dante's homicide team for years. He'd also been
the closest friend Dante had ever had.
It should have been me who died. Patrick had a
wife, a teenage-son who was left behind without a
father.
Hell, Karen and Ben, Patrick's wife and son, had practi-
YOU ARE READING
No ordinary Billionaire
RomanceDante Sinclair never cared about his family's money. All the ultra-sexy billionaire ever wanted was to be a cop and now that he's a homcide detective in Los Angeles, he's a damn good one. But when he is injured an...
