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Her Montana Man
Laurie Paige


She was back on his turf…pregnant!A mysterious death had brought Dr. Chelsea Kearns back to Rumor, Montana, an assignment the forensics expert hadn't been savoring. She would have to face Pierce Dalton. Successful businessman. Town mayor. Brother to her best friend. Former lover…Unable to resist, Chelsea found herself back in Pierce's passionate embrace, picking up where they left off years ago. To boot, she was now pregnant!Chelsea's life was about to get much more complicated. She tried to keep her news secret. But once the good mayor discovered the truth, he wasn't about to let his happily-ever-after get away from him–again–without a fight!












Stories of family and romance beneath the Big Sky!

“That is the skimpiest bathing suit I’ve ever seen,” Pierce told Chelsea as she rose out of the icy water of the lake.

She looked at her two-piece suit. It was cut high on the legs, as all of them were. “Surely not,” she said airily.

Uh-oh, wrong thing to say. He looked as if he would like to choke her.

“That outfit might be modest for the city, but around here, folks dress more circumspectly.”

Chelsea couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you don’t sound at all like the Pierce Dalton who dared me to go skinny dipping in the pool at my apartment building at three o’clock on a January morning.”

“I’m not here to discuss the past,” he informed her. “If the guys working here see you like that, they’ll take it as an open invitation to visit. I won’t have them distracted by a siren from the city.”

Chelsea rubbed the end of the towel over her dripping hair. “You’d better watch yourself, too, Pierce. City sirens are hard to resist.”





Her Montana Man










Laurie Paige







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




LAURIE PAIGE


“One of the nicest things about writing romances is researching locales, careers and ideas. In the interest of authenticity, most writers will try anything…once.” Along with her writing adventures, Laurie has been a NASA engineer, a past president of the Romance Writers of America, a mother and a grandmother. She was twice a RITA® Award finalist for Best Traditional Romance and has won awards from RT Book Reviews for Best Silhouette Special Edition and Best Silhouette, in addition to appearing on the USA TODAY bestseller list. Recently resettled in Northern California, Laurie is looking forward to whatever experiences her next novel brings.


To Bobby and Melba,

for all the adventures in Montana.




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 One


Chelsea Kearns stripped the surgical gloves from her hands and tossed them in the Contaminated Waste Disposal bin. In the locker room she showered, then dressed in street clothing of khaki slacks and a cotton shirt of cool, mint green.

Once outside the hospital, which housed the county morgue, she breathed deeply several times before unlocking her car from the passenger side, opening both doors and letting the accumulated heat escape.

Here in the Beartooth Mountains of Montana just north of Yellowstone National Park, summers were usually pleasant—low eighties during the day, forties at night. The temperature on the digital display at the bank proclaimed the temperature to be ninety-three.

“This heat is terrible. It must be global warming,” a passerby said to her companion as they strolled past Chelsea. “The government should do something.”

“Maybe we’ll have a thundershower later this afternoon,” the companion said in a soothing voice.

The first woman grimaced. “Those only bring lightning and forest fires at this time of the year.”

Chelsea sympathized with the ill-humored woman. She felt out of sorts herself. The bank clock indicated it was well past the noon hour on Wednesday, July third.

She’d eaten a quick breakfast at five-thirty, but she wasn’t hungry. She never was after a morning spent in the morgue, doing her job as a medical examiner. The autopsy had disclosed information that was going to shock most people in the town of Rumor, located twenty miles from here.

Tossing her purse onto the passenger seat, she reluctantly followed it inside the hot car and started the engine. She turned the air conditioner on full blast and aimed the vents directly at her face.

Leaving Whitehorn, she followed the highway to the turnoff that would take her to Rumor, Montana, and the lakeside cottage where she would be staying for the next three weeks. This first week she had to work, but after that she had two solid weeks of vacation.

Ah, bliss.

However, before the fun began she had bad news to report to the deputy sheriff in charge of the investigation. The autopsy she’d performed indicated murder, not suicide; although, the perpetrator had tried to make it look that way.

The absence of powder burns precluded a self-inflicted shot, or else the victim would have had to have held the weapon with her toes in order to inflict a wound in her left temple at a sufficient distance. Besides all that, the angle of entry of the projectile was all wrong for suicide.

Chelsea sighed. This was going to be a tough case. She could feel it in her bones. The trial, assuming they caught the guy who did it, would be time consuming. She’d have to come down from Billings, an hour’s drive each way, and testify about her findings. The defense attorney would try to prove she didn’t know what she was talking about.

She sighed again. There was also the complication of Pierce Dalton—successful businessman, mayor of Rumor where the murder had been committed, brother to her best friend, Kelly, and…former lover.

Her life, which had seemed calm and sensible when she’d accepted the position as medical examiner in Billings, suddenly seemed complicated.

Maybe she should have stayed in Chicago. She’d been busy but lonely in the city, she admitted. And she’d missed the mountains. Had she also wanted to see Pierce again? She didn’t have an answer for that.

Arriving in town, she slowed to the requisite thirty-five miles per hour for the short drive down Main Street, then turned right onto Blue Spruce Road and right again onto the lane that took her to a modern cottage set among towering evergreen trees next to a jewel of a lake.

With a deck built out at the edge of a tiny cove, the place was as enchanting as a scene in a fairy tale.

Grabbing her purse, which held her recorder and the notes dictated that morning, she went in and changed to shorts, a comfortable T-shirt and flip-flops. On the deck, with a tall glass of iced tea and her handy laptop computer, she began her formal report.

Sometime later, the sound of tires on the gravel lane interrupted her concentration. She heard a car door slam, then silence. She waited until a knock sounded on the cabin door before calling out, “I’m on the deck.”

A male figure appeared at the corner of the cabin. Dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, his stride long and assured, the visitor exuded power and authority.

She instantly recognized the sandy-blond hair and six-two frame of her long-ago lover. Pierce was a man with a commanding presence. She hadn’t been surprised when Kelly had told her Pierce was now mayor of the town.

The jagged edge of remembered hurt plucked at her heart, a never-forgotten melody of love and wonder and, ultimately, rejection. Pierce had made it clear he was not a settling-down kind of man the last time she’d seen him.

“Hello, Pierce,” she managed to say in a quiet manner.

Two years older than she was, at thirty-six he looked trim and fit, a prime male specimen with his blue eyes and handsome, somewhat rugged features. He’d always reminded her of the mountains—strong and solid and inspiring.

It had been eight years since she’d last seen him. They’d parted one stormy April night, two months before she graduated medical school. So many dreams ago.

He ignored the three steps and leaped to the deck in a single, graceful bound. “Chelsea,” he said, acknowledging her greeting. He didn’t smile.

So what had she expected—that he would gaze soulfully into her eyes and declare he’d never gotten over his love for her and that she must marry him at once so they could live happily ever after?

Dream on, she thought, and would have laughed had it been the least funny.

“You have a wonderful place over there,” she said, indicating the resort, the lake and the idyllic setting.

He nodded, his mind obviously not on the scenery. “What did you find out?”

Blunt and to the point. She’d wondered how he would react to her being here—on his turf, so to speak—so now she knew. She could be all business, too.

“I’m preparing a report for the deputy,” she told him with a polite smile. “He’ll have it Friday morning.”

“I want it now.”

She started to make a smart remark, but, seeing the concern in his eyes, she refrained. This was his hometown and he was the mayor. Murder was serious business.

“You’d better have a seat,” she advised. “Would you like a glass of iced tea?” She’d finished her own glass while working on the report.

Impatience flickered over his face and was gone. He nodded and settled in the deck chair facing the lake.

She quickly prepared the refreshing drinks, then, after a struggle with herself about playing the polite hostess, arranged a tray of crackers, cheese, veggies and dip and carried them outside.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the glass she indicated and pulling a table between their two chairs so she could set the tray down.

When she was seated, he leaned forward, his blue eyes focused intently on her. It would have been exciting, except she knew he was interested only in her information.

“The victim died of a gunshot wound to the head,” she told him. “The bullet entered the left temple and ricocheted in the skull without exiting, inflicting severe brain damage and instant death.”

“I can’t believe she’d commit suicide.”

Chelsea gave him a level perusal. “She didn’t.”

“She didn’t?” he echoed, his eyes hot blue lasers as he glared at her.

“She was semiconscious from a blow to the back of the head. Prior to that, she’d been slapped hard enough to leave a bruise. From scrapes on her elbow and knees, she probably fell to the floor. She was then placed in a chair and shot from a distance of three or four feet. Panicking, the perp decided he’d better make it look like suicide.”

“Why panic and why a he?”

Chelsea considered the evidence before replying. “The victim was hit hard enough to knock her unconscious or nearly so—”

“Harriet,” he broke in. “Her name was Harriet Martel.”

Chelsea kept a bland expression. She’d learned during her five years of pathology training and three years on the job to keep an emotional distance from those who’d died by violence; otherwise, her job would become unbearable.

“From the deputy sheriff’s report, Miss Martel was knocked to the floor, then lifted, not dragged, to the chair. Both facts indicate strength. If you’re looking for a female perp, she’s strong as an ox.”

He gave a grunt that could have indicated agreement, skepticism or any number of things. “Why did he panic?”

“His anger cooled after he killed her. He realized he needed to make it look like suicide and that someone might have heard the shot. He wanted to get away, so he was hasty in setting up the scene. He wiped the gun, then pressed her fingers into position around it.”

Pierce frowned at her. “The gun was found on the floor beside the chair.”

“Planted to look as if she dropped it after the shot.”

Chelsea watched a couple push off from a dock across the lake. Cabins nestled among the trees over there. Pierce had started from scratch and made a huge fortune in real estate and recreational activities for tourists, so his sister had said. Good for him.

“However,” she continued, pulling her gaze from the happy couple, whose laughter she could hear drifting over the water like an echo from happier times in her own past, “he messed up. Suicide victims usually retain the gun in a death grip that’s almost impossible to break.”

Pierce was quick on the uptake. “Usually?”

“Yes. That’s the first thing you look for in a suspected suicide. But it doesn’t always happen, so I examined the weapon. From the fingerprint evidence, Miss Martel didn’t exert enough force on the gun to pull the trigger, much less hold it in place to kill herself. There were no powder burns, either.”

“So the gun had to be held at least a few feet from her,” he murmured, frowning as he considered this fact.

Chelsea nodded and lifted her glass. The tea was cold and tart from the generous squeeze of lemon she’d put in. She hadn’t added any lemon to his glass on the assumption he still liked it with one spoon of sugar and no lemon.

Eight years was a long time, she reflected. Perhaps his tastes had changed. However, he didn’t say anything as he took a long drink, then rubbed at the condensation on the glass while he thought.

She continued with her conclusions about the crime. “I think the killer didn’t decide to shoot her until he placed her in the chair. They’d been quarreling. Perhaps she’d hit him first. Now she was vulnerable, in his power. He needed to get rid of her, to keep her quiet—”

“Why?” Pierce demanded.

Chelsea met his gaze. “The victim…Miss Martel…was pregnant. About four months, I would say.”

“She couldn’t have been,” he said. “She was an old maid, the town librarian, for Pete’s sake. She didn’t date anyone.”

“Maybe not,” Chelsea said coolly. “But she was certainly having an affair. I’d look for a married man with a lot to lose if the scandal got out, someone in a prominent position in town, maybe someone on the city council.”

“Yeah, right,” Pierce said in a snarl, rising to his feet and looming over her. “The council is composed of a retired rancher, a high school coach at least fifteen years younger than Harriet, plus three women. That’s certainly a bunch of likely suspects.”

“The motive was conjecture on my part,” she readily admitted. “Your investigators will have to ferret out fact from fiction. I’d start with the woman’s secret life.”

Lips that had once kissed her thousands of times thinned to a straight line. “What about your life?” he asked in a soft tone that sent shivers along her neck.

She met his gaze that contained no signs of welcome for her in it. “What about it?”

“Why did you come back to Montana?”

Smiling slightly, she answered truthfully, “I always loved the mountains.”

He studied her for another ten seconds, then walked off, disappearing around the house. A minute later she heard his vehicle on the gravel as he left.

Peering through the trees at another house no more than a football field away, she wondered why he’d bothered to drive. He lived over there, just across the creek that fed icy mountain water into the lake. Kelly had said it was a marvelous house, meant for a family.

Chelsea sighed as gloom settled over her. An innocent life had been snuffed out when the librarian was killed. The violence of deliberately inflicted death disturbed her. The person hadn’t cared about the child at all.

Laying a hand over her abdomen, she recalled her own plans. She’d assumed she would have a home and family. She’d thought Pierce would be the man in her life. Instead she had an apartment and no husband or children in sight.

Some things were never meant to be. She managed a smile at life’s ironies, reviewed the report and went inside before dark.



“Chelsea, I can’t believe you’re here!” Kelly Dalton Brenner threw her arms around her best friend and gave her a bone-shattering hug late Thursday afternoon. “I’m so glad.”

Chelsea returned Kelly’s bear hug. They’d met in medical school and had been assigned the same cadaver to autopsy. The horrifying—at the time—experience had made them friends forever. Now Kelly was a family physician with a busy practice in a large county with few doctors. Her husband, Jim Brenner, was a hunting and fishing guide and owned the local sporting goods store.

“I’m glad, too. This is a beautiful place.”

Kelly tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “Bet you couldn’t sleep—not enough noise. All the city dudes complain about that the first couple of nights.”

“Actually, there was too much racket. Those crickets and tree frogs kept up a chorus all night. One of them was definitely off tune.”

“Come on. It’s nearly time to eat.” Kelly pointed toward the house barely visible through the trees lining the creek.

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to come?” Chelsea hated the uncertainty that plagued her. With it was an undefined sense of excitement brought on by more than the prospect of a Fourth of July picnic and fire works by the lake.

“Of course. The whole town is invited.”

That news didn’t make her feel more comfortable. She was hesitant to see Pierce again. Perhaps because her dreams last night had been so graphic. She’d woken once with the feel of his lips on hers, so real she’d had to touch her mouth with her fingers to be sure it hadn’t happened.

“Bring a jacket. It’ll be chilly by the time we have the fireworks,” Kelly advised.

Chelsea went inside, clipped a fanny pack on and stuffed a jacket inside it. With a straw hat to protect her from the sun, she rejoined her friend and set off along the lakeside path.

Her mouth was dry by the time they covered the two or three hundred feet between her cabin and Pierce’s home. The scent of sizzling meat and the sound of children’s laughter filled the air. Volleyball, baseball and a game of horseshoes were in progress. Several people swam or rode in paddleboats about the lake.

And a good time was had by all, she thought, mocking her nervousness as she and Kelly approached the cooking area.

Pierce and his brother-in-law, Jim, manned the huge barbecue grill, where steaks, chicken, hot dogs and hamburgers cooked.

“Hey, about time,” Jim called out. “We need help.”

“What should we do?” Kelly asked, volunteering for duty. She grabbed an apron and tossed one to Chelsea.

Chelsea had no choice but to smile, don the apron and get to work. Jim assigned her to slicing tomatoes and onions while Kelly set out condiments and bags of chips.

Pierce had been laughing and talking when the women arrived. Now he was silent. Chelsea felt like an intruder.

“Hey, Doc,” a male voice called. Holt Tanner separated himself from a crowd of friends and came over. “I heard you finished the autopsy yesterday.”

Chelsea admitted she had.

“Will the report be ready tomorrow?” he asked.

Around Pierce’s age, the lawman shared the same intense intelligence and curiosity that Pierce had displayed about the case yesterday.

“Yes. In fact, it’s ready now. I printed it out this morning,” she told him.

“Great. Let’s go get—”

“You’re off duty this evening,” Pierce broke into the conversation. “The report can wait until tomorrow.”

The quick warning glance he flashed Chelsea told her he didn’t want the news about Harriet Martel to be disclosed today.

“Holt, how about meeting in my office at nine in the morning?” He flicked another glance her way. “Dr. Kearns, will you be available?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll discuss it then.”

“I’d better tell the sheriff,” Holt said, peering around the lake. “He’s interested in the case and would probably want to attend the meeting.”

“I don’t want anyone there but you and Chel— Dr. Kearns.”

Deputy Tanner stared at the mayor for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be there. See you, Doc.”

Chelsea had met the lawman Monday afternoon when she arrived in Rumor. He’d told her of the arrangements for her work at the morgue and directed her to the lake house Kelly had put at her disposal. Chelsea had liked the deputy’s no-nonsense directness and his easy mannerisms.

After he ambled off, Pierce looked her way. “Is the cabin satisfactory? You have everything you need?”

“Yes, it’s a lovely place. I’m quite happy there.”

“Good. Call the office if something doesn’t work. They’ll send a man over.”

She realized the cabin must belong to the resort, rather than to Kelly and Jim as she’d thought, and therefore to Pierce. He was her host for the duration of her vacation.

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled graciously while her heart jumped in alarm. This could get complicated.

Pierce gave her a keen glance as if noting the lack of real warmth in her thanks, as if he knew she wouldn’t have accepted accommodations there had she known it belonged to him. His gaze hardened.

Kelly gave him a poke in the ribs. “I hate to mention this, oh great chef, but the hot dogs are burning.”

He moved the blackened ones to the back of the grill. “Ring the dinner bell, smart mouth,” he ordered.

Chelsea smiled at the teasing between the two. Unlike her family, the Daltons were closely knit. Their father had died when Pierce was thirteen. He and Kelly had pitched in to help their mom make ends meet on her housekeeping earnings. Kelly and Pierce had made being poor sound like an adventure. Chelsea knew it must have been hard.

Her own family had been split by divorce when she was four. Each parent had remarried and had two other children, leaving her the odd man out in each family.

Poor, pitiful me, she mocked the odd sorrow she couldn’t quite shake.

The ringing of the bell brought a flock of hungry kids and parents to the table where she and Kelly toiled for the next two and a half hours, keeping everyone supplied with napkins, paper plates, tons of chips, mustard, relish and mayo while the men served an equal amount of meat.

“Hey, the end of the line,” Kelly sang out in relief. “We can fix a plate and sit down.”

Chelsea had to admit she was happy for a respite, too. Holding a soda can in one hand and a full plate with the other, she glanced around the picnic area.

“Come on,” Pierce told them. “There’s a table on my deck where we can sit.”

His house nestled in the trees that screened the resort from view. Like hers, it was made of stone on the bottom and logs on the top half with lots of windows to let in light. The deck wound around several trees near the edge of the creek. They settled in padded chairs at the patio table.

“Hi, Dr. Kelly,” a little boy called out.

“Hi, Dr. Kelly,” a girl around the same age echoed.

“Two of my favorite patients,” Kelly said, waving at the pair. “They’re twins and just full of mischief.”

Chelsea noted the longing on Kelly’s face as she watched the twin brother and sister run across the lawn and join a man and woman at a table by the lake. They looked like a happy family.

“Shall we tell them our surprise?” Kelly asked her husband.

“Sure.”

“Jim and I think we’re going to become parents in about eight months,” Kelly said softly.

Chelsea’s throat closed up at the exchange of gentle glances between husband and wife. Kelly was also thirty-four. It was time they were starting their family.

“Congratulations,” she said, truly glad for them, but envious, too. They’d married right after Kelly got out of medical school. Her residency had been hard on the marriage, but they had gotten through the tough times. Now they radiated quiet happiness as they shared their news.

Pierce laughed. “Wait till Mom hears she’s going to be a grandmother. She’ll buy out the toy stores by Christmas.”

“We’re thinking of adding on another bedroom to the house,” Jim said. “You think your construction crew could work us in?”

“Sure. You need to finish replacing the plumbing in that old barn, too. And the wiring. How about moving to one of the cabins and letting us do it all at one time? It’ll save you money in the long run.”

“Talk to your sister,” Jim said.

“Sis?”

“You know I hate moving,” Kelly wailed.

Chelsea knew the family had lost their home after their father had died. Finding places they could afford to rent had been touch-and-go during those early years until Pierce got out of high school and started working full-time.

He’d gotten his real estate license and started his own construction company by the time he was twenty-one. At twenty-five, he’d moved his mother into a brand-new home of her own, and she’d never had to move again.

When he’d bought the lake property, he’d built this marvelous home for himself two years ago. When Kelly had told her about it, Chelsea had thought he would be bringing a bride to his secluded retreat soon.

Why hadn’t he ever married?

She stared into the distance as she contemplated the question. No answer came to her. After a bit she watched the scene by the lake while she finished the meal. Seeing the twins, she smiled as they organized a game of tag with several other kids, the brother and sister ironing out the rules between them, while the others waited for the final decision. Born leaders, they were.

Her eyes misted over. She wasn’t getting any younger, but a family wasn’t in the cards. Her gaze swung around like a magnet pointing to the lodestar.

Pierce was watching her, an unreadable expression in his eyes. For a moment, she couldn’t look away. Then she did and hoped he hadn’t detected the longing that filled her to the point she hurt someplace deep inside.

Life was what it was, she reminded herself. She hadn’t time for adolescent yearning. She had a job to do—help the police find the person who would take the life of a woman and her child, then hide it as a suicide.

A local, she’d concluded. A stranger would have simply left the area. Only someone who lived there would need to cover his or her tracks. She wondered if Pierce had figured that out.




Chapter Two


Chelsea didn’t want to be at his house, Pierce realized when she announced she should get back to the other cabin. She didn’t want to be around him, period.

For some reason that made him angry. It also stirred up a demon that made him want to make sure she was as aware of his presence as he was of hers.

He cursed long and silently, but it did no good. All the old feelings she’d once evoked in him were on a rampage. He wanted to kiss her, to yell at her, to…to… Hell, he didn’t know.

“You can’t leave,” Kelly insisted. “We have to stay for the fireworks.”

“We’ll have to move closer,” Pierce said. “The trees screen us from the east side of the lake.”

His sister had an answer for that. “Let’s go over to Chelsea’s place. It has a perfect view of the entire lake.”

Before anyone could protest, Kelly was on her feet and leading the way. Pierce gritted his teeth. He knew his sister when she was in her full-speed-ahead mode.

“Another beer?” he asked Jim.

Jim cast him an amused but sympathetic glance. “Yes, thanks.”

Pierce retrieved a couple of bottles from his fridge and followed the other three across the stepping stones in the creek to the other house that was basically a smaller version of his own. He didn’t know what Kelly and Chelsea were planning, but he wanted no part of it.

Eight years ago she’d chosen a residency in forensic pathology at a prestigious university hospital back east over a future with him. Who could blame her?

For a moment he recalled how she’d looked—her eyes shining and filled with awe that she’d been accepted in the program. Then had come an expression of uncertainty, as if she didn’t know what to do with him. He’d wished her well and made it clear he’d never been interested in a long-term relationship with her.

So what was she doing back in Montana? Knowing his sister, the answer wouldn’t be good news for him.

Heaving a rough sigh, he carried the beers over to the deck bordering the lake and settled in a chair already in place for him…next to Chelsea.

“Good timing,” Kelly said. “The fireworks are just starting.”

Seeing Chelsea slap at her arm, he recalled that she seemed to attract every mosquito for a mile around and developed big lumps from their bites. “I’ll get some bug spray,” he told her.

“I have some.” She went into the cabin and returned in a minute, smelling of citronella. She waved the spray can at them. “Anyone else?”

Kelly held out a hand. “Yes. Honey, I’ll spray your back, then would you do mine?” she said to Jim.

Pierce observed while the couple took care of each other. When he glanced at Chelsea, she, too, was watching, a quietness about her that was unsettling.

Huh. She’d chosen her career over all else. If she regretted it, that was just too bad.

Pleased that he was able to maintain the right psychological distance from her, he relaxed, took a swig of beer and enjoyed the first burst of fireworks over the lake.



Chelsea woke fully alert and ready to get on with the day. She had three hours before the nine o’clock meeting in Pierce’s office. Plenty of time for a swim and workout.

She donned a bathing suit and headed out the back door to the deck. The lake wasn’t deep enough to dive in at this point, but she could wade out to waist deep, then swim some laps. She set her waterproof watch for twenty minutes.

The air was already comfortably warm, an indication that the day would be another scorcher. What had happened to those cool Montana nights?

She waded into the lake, then laughed as chills raced along her thighs. The water hadn’t warmed up. She plunged in up to her neck, sighted a cottonwood as a marker and swam steadily up and down the shore between the deck and the tree for twenty minutes.

Finished, she raced for the deck and the towel she’d left behind. “Oh,” she said softly upon seeing Pierce standing there in snug jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

He tossed her the towel, his gaze colder than the icy water of the lake.

“Good morning,” she said, determined to be cheerful around him. It was time to get over the past and move on.

“That is the skimpiest bathing suit I’ve ever seen,” he told her.

She looked at her two-piece suit. It was cut high on the legs as all of them were, but it wasn’t a string bikini or anything like that. “Surely not,” she said airily.

Uh-oh, wrong thing to say. He looked as if he would like to choke her.

“That outfit might be modest for the city, but around here, folks dress more circumspectly.”

She couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

Pierce glared at her.

She laughed harder. “I’m sorry,” she finally managed to say, not at all sincerely. “It’s just that you sound so pompous and indignant, not at all like the Pierce who dared me to go skinny-dipping in the pool at my apartment building at three o’clock on a January morning.”

He looked rather taken aback that she would bring up the passionate past, but she’d realized last night that they couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist.

“I’m not here to discuss the past,” he informed her. “I have other things to do than watch out for you.”

“No one asked you to look after me.”

Gesturing toward her outfit, now hidden by the towel, he stalked toward her. “If some of the guys working here see you like that, they’ll take it as an open invitation to visit. I won’t have them distracted by a siren from the city.”

Chelsea rubbed the end of the towel over her dripping hair. She’d never been called a siren before.

“If it’s for my benefit,” he continued, “you’re wasting your time. I have more important things to do than get mixed up with you again.”

Astounded at this proclamation, she stared at him. The situation was no longer amusing. Anger flamed. “Pompous and egotistical,” she murmured loud enough for him to hear. “You have changed in eight years.”

His gaze drifted all the way down to her feet and back to her face. “You’re on my turf now. Watch yourself.”

With that sage advice, he strode off, heading back to his house in a manner that suggested a charging bull. She leaned against the railing and frowned at his back, her temper unappeased.

“You’d better watch yourself, too,” she called to him. “City sirens are hard to resist.”

His shoulders stiffened, but he stalked on.

Feeling that she’d gotten the last word in, she shivered and hurried inside to a warm shower. The day was off to a good start. She could hardly wait to see how the rest of it went.



“I don’t believe it. Miss Martel?” Holt Tanner said when Chelsea related her findings.

“Nevertheless, it’s true.”

“Four months,” he repeated. “Who was the father?”

“He didn’t leave a calling card.”

Pierce shot a warning glance at her flippant remark. He still wasn’t very happy with her. Fine. She could live with that. In fact, it made things easier. There would be no more dreams of hot kisses and roaming hands—

“And you can definitely rule out suicide?”

She nodded to the lawman.

Holt paced to the window. “I don’t want the news of a pregnancy to get out. It’s the only thing we know that the killer also knows. Maybe he’ll slip up sooner or later.”

Chelsea was pleased that the deputy was on the same mental track with her. “He’s local.”

“Yeah, I realized that as soon as you said she was pregnant. Do you think she was blackmailing him—demanding money for her silence?” The lawman stared into the middle distance, deep in thought.

“Or demanding marriage,” Pierce suggested. He rubbed a hand over his face. “What else don’t we know about the mysterious Miss Martel, gruff and reclusive librarian that she was?”

Holt turned a chair around and straddled it, his forearms crossed over the back. “I’ve been checking her records and accounts. By Rumor standards, she was rich.”

“Harriet Martel?” Pierce was obviously startled at this new disclosure.

Holt nodded. “She’d been investing her money for years. There’s a sizable inheritance.”

“Who gets it?”

“I don’t know if there’s a will. The only relatives are her sister, Louise Holmes, and Louise’s son, Colby. Gossip has it that Colby is denying his aunt would have killed herself.” Holt frowned. “The thought of murder makes people nervous.”

“It could scare off the tourists, too. The city council is planning another event after the success of the Crazy Moon Festival last month. It’ll be a bust if no one shows up for it.”

Chelsea listened quietly as the men discussed the case and the consequences for the small town that depended on tourist dollars for cash flow. Murder spread a wide ripple across a narrow pond in a community such as Rumor.

Holt snapped his fingers. “In a murder case in one town, they tested every male’s DNA. We could do that.”

Chelsea grimaced. “The perp paid another man to take the test for him, so the results didn’t do any good.”

“Not until the man’s conscience finally got the better of him and he confessed. The perp was then tested and found to be guilty,” Holt reminded her.

Pierce dismissed the idea. “The court would have to agree it was necessary, too, else it’s an invasion of privacy. I don’t think a judge in the county would condone widespread testing.”

The men were silent as they sought another avenue to pinpoint the murderer.

“Chelsea, can you help out?” Pierce asked.

“Of course. What do you have in mind?”

“Holt, do you mind if Chelsea looks over all the evidence? I can vouch for her discretion,” he added when the lawman shot her a troubled glance. “You can take her out to Harriet’s house and let her poke around. Maybe she’ll find an angle we’ve overlooked.” He smiled grimly. “Harriet was murdered on Saturday night, during the last weekend of the festival. Six days ago. We need this case wrapped up.”

Holt stood. “Are you available now? I’m free this morning, but I have to present evidence at a hearing this afternoon.”

“Yes,” she said.

Pierce rose when she did. He glanced at his watch. “I have a council meeting shortly. Chelsea, can you join me for lunch at twelve sharp?”

Confused by the invitation, which sounded more like a command, she agreed to meet him. “Here?”

“At my place. I want to discuss your findings in private.” He turned to the deputy. “Have you turned in Chelsea’s report to the sheriff?”

“Not yet. I’ll be seeing him at five.”

“Tell him I’ll be at home this evening if he wants to come out and discuss it. I’d rather not say anything on the phone, especially a cell phone.”

The hair crept up on Chelsea’s neck at Pierce’s ominous tone. Noting his deep frown as she and Holt left his office, she realized he was worried about the town and its citizens. As mayor, he had to be. There was a killer loose in their midst, and right now, only the three of them knew it, plus one other….



Ten minutes later, the lawman muttered an expletive when he turned into a narrow drive on a quiet side street. Another vehicle was parked next to the white cottage with its dark green shutters and colorful flower boxes and yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the front porch.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“The nephew. Colby Holmes. I’ll wring his neck if he’s touched anything.”

The door was unlocked, eliciting another curse. Chelsea followed Holt inside. “Colby,” he yelled.

“In here,” a male voice called out.

Chelsea entered a room that was more an alcove than a full-size room, Holt on her heels. Bay windows let in the morning sunlight. Bookshelves lined every available wall, and a desk occupied the rest of the space.

A young man in his mid-to late-twenties sat on the floor in front of a bookcase. With brown eyes and hair and a restlessness that spoke of contained energy, the former rodeo star was attractive and determined as he returned the deputy’s glare.

“What the hell are you doing, crossing a police line and messing around in here?” Holt demanded.

“Looking,” came the reply.

“For what?”

“Proof that Aunt Harriet didn’t commit suicide.”

“Who said she did?”

The nephew narrowed his eyes at the deputy. “That’s the rumor flying around town. It’s a lie. My aunt may have been a recluse, but she wasn’t a wimp who couldn’t face life.”

“So what’s your theory?” the deputy challenged.

“She was murdered.” The younger man finished flipping through the book, put it on the shelf and stood. His eyes cut to Chelsea. “Who’s she?”

“Dr. Kearns. The medical examiner sent down from Billings.”

“Mom said the cops had ordered an autopsy. Have you done it yet?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” he said impatiently.

Chelsea held her temper with an effort. The men she’d met thus far in Rumor were an autocratic bunch. When she’d arrived Monday evening after working in Billings all day, the deputy had wanted her to start that night.

She’d refused. However, she’d spent all day Tuesday and most of Wednesday in the morgue. She’d checked and rechecked the evidence, which was in short supply. She’d promptly written up her report. Did that satisfy them? No way.

First the mayor, then the deputy had demanded firsthand information on the case. Now a third male was demanding to know her findings. She was tired of demands.

“Check with the sheriff,” she advised.

“No information is going out until we finish investigating the case,” Holt told the younger man. “If you’ve destroyed any evidence, I’ll have your hide in jail so fast it’ll make you dizzy. Stay out of it, Colby.”

“Then find out the truth.” He strode toward the door. “My aunt didn’t commit suicide.”

Chelsea and the lawman watched the nephew leave, then they turned back to the crime scene. “Where was her body found?” Chelsea asked.

For the next two hours they went over the cottage for any missed evidence. Chelsea noted the librarian had few personal effects in the neat little house. Other than a couple of pictures of Colby, plus one of his mother and the deceased woman, there was an absence of knickknacks.

However, there were plenty of books. Naturally. A librarian would have a passion for books. And for the man who’d killed her and the unborn child?

“Was the child his?” she murmured aloud. “Or had she gone to someone else, and that’s what made him so furious?”

“Good question.” Holt wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked tired and irritated. The temperature was in the nineties as predicted. He continued his inspection of the chair where Harriet Martel had died. It had already been combed for fibers and hairs.

On the table next to the chair was a novel. Chelsea read the title: Dangerous Liaisons. A bookmark near the end indicated the woman had been reading it prior to the murder.

An apt selection. The librarian’s liaison had proved very dangerous.

Chelsea reached for the book, then stopped. She wasn’t wearing latex gloves, so she was hesitant to touch anything. “Has everything been dusted for prints?”

Holt was now on his haunches studying the carpet. “Yeah. We didn’t find many, and what few we did find belonged to Harriet or her family. A few others were too smudged to reveal anything. The whole place was wiped down before the perp left.”

“Did you check the drains for hair? Are there any toothbrushes that are different?”

“We did all that.”

Chelsea stepped nearer the chair. A sense of intense cold caused her to shiver.

The times when she was requested to attend a murder scene bothered her for days afterward. Maybe it was imagination, but she seemed to feel the anger and the agony, the tragic death scene that had resulted from uncontrolled emotion. A psychic she’d once met on a case had assured her it was real, that the energy caused by strife and grief lingered long after the deed.

Chelsea felt it now—the hot fury, then the cold, calculating anger, the sudden fear of the woman, the need to protect the child—

“It was for the child,” she said. “Whatever started the conflict, it was for the child. The victim wanted to protect her baby.”

“From what?” Holt asked, giving her a curious look.

“Scandal, perhaps. Or maybe he wanted her to get rid of it and she refused.”

As soon as Chelsea said the words, she knew they were true. The cold in the room drove right down to her soul. It lingered near the chair where the librarian had died, like a ghost hovering there, silently imploring them to discover the truth and thus find her killer.

She stared at the worn chair. For a wealthy person the woman had lived very simply. The chair, table and lamp indicated this was her favorite reading spot.

A small stain marred the upholstery, but that was the only evidence of the violence that had taken place. Since the bullet hadn’t exited, there was little bleeding and no splatter on the walls and floor.

A very neat murder with a small-caliber weapon such as a woman might have in the house to protect herself from intruders. The man would have known about the gun. Maybe he gave it to her.

“You ready to go?” the deputy asked.

Wrapping her arms across her chest, she nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”

The return trip was short. The deputy parked on Main Street in front of the sheriff’s office. After he went inside, she realized she had a half hour before she met with Pierce. Seeing a diner up the street, she went there and ordered a cup of coffee.

A newspaper had been left on a chair at the table. She picked it up and read the headline: Suicide in Rumor.

The story recounted Harriet Martel’s life in the town and how she’d transformed the library into a quiet oasis of learning. She’d instituted several story hours for different age groups and arranged for tutoring sessions between volunteers and students who needed help.

All in all she appeared to have been a good person, apparently dedicated to her job. Who had made her forget her basic values? Who was the man she had so foolishly loved?

Colby Holmes slid into the chair opposite her. “I want to talk to you,” he said.

“Mr. Holmes, you have my sympathy about your aunt, but the work I do in a case like this is strictly confidential. You’ll have to ask the sheriff—”

“In a case like what?” he interrupted.

She gazed at him without answering.

“If it was suicide, why all the secrecy? Coffee,” he practically snarled at the teenage waitress, who scurried off in the face of his anger. He turned back to Chelsea. “Why an autopsy in the first place? Why call in the state’s top forensic expert to perform it?”

She took a drink and watched him warily over the rim of the thick white cup.

The waitress plunked a mug and a cream pitcher on the table and departed.

“Murder, that’s why,” he answered the questions he raised. “What have you found out? I know you know more than you’re telling. She was my relative. I have a right—”

“What’s going on here?” Pierce asked in a low tone. He stopped by the table and leaned over Colby. “Holt Tanner says you’re interfering in the investigation and possibly tampering with the crime scene. That could earn you several years in the pen.”

Colby gave the mayor a sarcastic grin. “I didn’t tamper with any evidence. I was looking for some. Holt must have missed something.”

“Why do you say that?”

Colby tapped the newspaper headline. “Because Aunt Harriet was too strong-minded to do something like that. I wasn’t around my aunt a lot, but she was a forceful woman. Look how she straightened this town out on how to run the library. When she said jump, the city council did.”

Pierce studied the younger man for a long twenty seconds. Chelsea stilled herself for a confrontation. Pierce surprised her when he placed a hand on Colby’s shoulder.

“I agree. She was one determined woman, practical and fair-minded. Suicide seemed out of character to me, too. I asked for Dr. Kearns to do the autopsy and lend the sheriff’s department a hand because she is the best. Let the law do its job, okay?”

The two men eyed each other, one angry and suspicious, the other calm and certain.

At last Colby nodded. “I’d like to know what you turn up,” he requested.

“I’ll see that you get a full report,” Pierce promised.

After Colby left, Pierce tilted his head toward the street. “Ready to go? I have to get back for a meeting at two this afternoon.” He sighed and added, “I hate meetings.”

Instead of riding with him, she drove her own car to her cabin, then walked the short distance to his. She’d wondered what he was going to serve, then discovered he’d bought two lunches at the diner. That’s what had brought him in while she was being grilled by the nephew.

“Barbecued chicken, your favorite,” he said, setting the containers on the patio table. He’d also provided two large cups of iced tea, hers with lemon.

Taking a chair, she joined him in the meal, her mind going like a buzz saw. Pierce had asked for her help with the case. She hadn’t known that. He’d remembered that she took lemon in her tea.

Not that these tidbits meant anything, she reminded her suddenly buoyant spirits. She sighed quietly. Whatever they had shared was now long gone, but it had been a lovely time out of time while it lasted.

As soon as they finished eating, he asked, “Did you see anything interesting at Harriet’s house?”

Chelsea brought her wayward thoughts in line. “She was a neat person. Her house wasn’t cluttered. She liked flowers and she was fond of her sister and nephew. There were no signs of a past of any kind. Where did she go to college? Where was she born? What was she hiding?”

“I don’t think she was hiding anything. Her diplomas are in her office at the library. She has several. She earned a PhD after she moved here, but she didn’t like being called Dr. Martel.”

“It’s obvious she was very intelligent,” Chelsea said.

Pierce studied her, a questioning frown on his face. “But you see a contradiction in her actions?”

“Yes. How does a smart, independent and wealthy woman get mixed up with someone who would shoot her and try to make it look like suicide?”

“You’re the expert. You tell me.”

Chelsea hesitated, then said, “He was very controlling. I think he wanted her to get rid of the baby. She refused. That triggered the quarrel.”

Pierce leaned toward her, excitement flashing through his eyes. “Can you profile him for us?”

“I can give you some ideas on his personality.” She considered the evidence she’d seen and been given by the lawman. “He’s used to command, and he hates to be thwarted. He has a temper, which he’s generally learned to control.”

“But not always,” Pierce muttered.

“No, not always. He’s in his forties, maybe early fifties. Miss Martel was forty-three. At any rate, he was mature enough to control the first wave of panic and think through corrective steps. He wiped down his fingerprints, then set up the suicide. He was smart enough to use her gun.”

“There’s no record she had one,” Pierce said.

Chelsea shrugged. “The slug was a twenty-two, a caliber a woman would be comfortable with—not too big, but powerful enough for close range, say if a burglar was in the house. He probably gave her the gun and insisted she keep it.”

Pierce was silent for a long minute. “Anything else?”

“He would be drawn to positions of power. If in the army, he’d be an officer. In civilian life, he could be a cop or a CEO. If he owned a company, he’d be a tyrant. To attract a woman like Harriet Martel, he’d have to be intelligent. He’d also be charming. Both are good skills for public office. He’d more likely hold an elective office rather than an appointed one.”

“Why?”

“Self-preservation. Other men would be afraid of him. He’s ambitious and ruthless. Utterly ruthless.”

“A person would have to be without conscience to kill his lover and his child. Is that your conclusion?”

“Yes.”

Pierce grimaced. “I wish I knew what to think. I can’t conceive of a murderer walking around loose in my town. I know everybody within ten miles of the city limits and probably half the rest of the county, too. You and Holt say the man is local. I find that hard to believe.”

Anger blazed from his eyes as he glared at her.

She went on the defensive. “Believe what you wish.

Perhaps you’d like to bring someone else in on the case. I can give you a name. I trained under one of the FBI’s foremost forensic investigators my last year of school.”

“So Kelly said.” He waved a hand in dismissal of her suggestion. “You’re the best, or else I wouldn’t have asked for you.”

Her eyes met his and locked. For an eternity they gazed at each other, questions and awareness rushing in rivers of unappeased hunger between them.

“Damnation,” he muttered.

Then he reached for her.




Chapter Three


Chelsea knew she should tell him no. She ordered her lips to form the word. But she didn’t utter it. This moment was too much like her dreams the past few nights.

Then his mouth met hers and all the wonder and desire of the past rolled over her. She knew he felt it, too. A shudder went through him as he held her closer, and she was instantly aware of the hardness of his body and of his hunger.

She arched her back and pressed against him, eager for completion that had been missing for eight years. Tears burned the back of her eyes as she realized just how much she’d missed this…missed him….

His hands, warm and supple, roamed her back, her hips, along her thighs, up her sides, then paused for an instant before sliding upward once more. He turned slightly so he could cup her breast in one hand while the other slid to her hip to caress in a kneading motion.

“Too long,” he muttered, releasing her mouth and skipping kisses along her jaw and down her throat. “It’s been too long.”

“Yes.” She touched his face, combed her fingers through the thick strands of his hair, loving the feel, the texture of him against her palms. “I’ve missed—”

She stopped the words, not wanting to admit there’d been few dates and no serious relationship in her life since they’d parted.

“This,” he finished for her. “I know. I told myself I wouldn’t want you again.”

“Then don’t. Let me go.”

Anger joined the flames of passion in his eyes. “I can’t. It’s too strong. You have a hold over me….”

He shook his head. She understood the frustration, the longing that wouldn’t let up, the failure of logic and all the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this.

When he lifted her to the railing and pushed between her thighs, fitting their bodies intimately into place, her bones became as pliant as taffy. When he moved against her, her mind went cloudy.

They kissed endlessly, a wildness running through her blood and echoing in the beat of his heart against her breasts. Fighting the tidal wave of hunger was useless. She clung to him, wanting the hot bliss that only he stirred to life in her.

“Why?” he said at one point, his eyes licking over her in restless flames of need. “Why does it have to be you?”

Hurt, she tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t let her. She turned her face from his rampaging mouth. He caught her head between his hands and held her face so he could gaze into her eyes.

“It’s always been this way for us, hasn’t it?” he demanded huskily. “Wild and necessary. Primitive and unexplained. The call of blood to blood.”

She shook her head, unable to summon words in her defense but feeling that she should.

“Irresistible,” he whispered.

He took her mouth again, fanning the passion that flowed like lava between them, burning all sense and good intentions to a crisp, leaving only the hunger, the terrible, terrible hunger. She moaned as he caressed her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive tips so that they contracted into hard points of ecstasy.

“I have to see you, all of you,” he told her. “It’s like being starved, then coming upon a feast. I have to have it all.”

“Yes,” she said, knowing exactly what he meant. “Yes.”

With fingers that trembled ever so little, he unfastened her blouse and pulled it from her slacks. Eyes narrowed impatiently, he checked her bra, then slid his hands around her and unfastened the hooks.

Slowly, torturously, he pushed the satin upward, out of the way. Then he simply looked, his lashes lowered sexily over the flaming passion she saw in his gaze.

“Beautiful,” he said, and kissed the yearning tips, then feathered his tongue over each one.

She clutched his shoulders as the world spun out of control. When he lifted her breasts and paid special attention to them with his lips and his hands, she couldn’t keep from crying out as the wonder of his touch filled her.

He lifted her from the railing and set her on her feet. Taking her hand, he said, “Let’s go.”

In the cabin, its air cool compared to the heat of the deck, she tried to think, but her mind refused to cooperate. She realized she didn’t want caution and reason and all the things she’d practiced all her life.

Going into the bedroom with him, she stopped when he did and faced him, her heart rushing its beat at the intensity in his gaze.

“I have protection at my place,” he said softly, his eyes locked with hers. “Would you feel better if we used it?”

She blinked in uncertainty. “I can’t conceive,” she finally said. “I had polyps removed, but there’s scar tissue.”

He laid a finger over her lips, then lingered to caress her gently. “Kelly told me. I’m safe, but I wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”

Chelsea looked away from his probing gaze, touched by his consideration in ways she didn’t want to admit. He’d always had the ability to reach inside and touch the lonely places she tried to hide.

He tipped her chin up. “Chelsea?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m comfortable.”

He heaved a breath as if he’d been unsure of her answer. “I’m not. I’m burning up.”

With a grin that caused her heart to flip, he pushed the shirt and bra off her shoulders until they fell to the floor. His eyes darkened as he stared at her.

Her breasts were flushed, the tips a dusky pink. Passion’s bloom, he had once called the telltale rosy hue her body took on when he caressed her intimately. She’d been embarrassed at the obvious signs of passion when they’d first become lovers.

The smart of tears surprised her as she remembered how sweetly reassuring he’d been, how he’d encouraged her to show the need, to tell him what she wanted. It had been a thrilling time of mutual exploration and discovery of the passionate side of nature.

He quickly stripped his shirt off and moved closer until he could brush her nipples, teasing her with slow dry strokes of wiry hairs across her as he had earlier with the wet caresses of his tongue.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head until she could feel the brush of her hair along her back. Holding on to his powerful shoulders, she let inhibitions go and gloried in the tactile sensations of touch.

When her knees went weak, she swayed against him, her body curving into his as naturally as a willow bending before the wind.

“Wait,” Pierce said huskily. He shucked his clothing, then helped her get out the rest of her things. They fell onto the bed as one.

Then there was skin against skin as their arms and legs entwined naturally, in ways never forgotten.

He knew there was danger in her embrace, but it didn’t matter—not now. If there was a price to pay for this moment, he’d worry about it tomorrow.

“So sweet,” he murmured, taking her lips in a thousand kisses that fed a part of him he didn’t know was starving. “And so dangerous.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but so good. I’ve never forgotten how good it was.”

Stroking intimately, he found she was ready. So was he. He rolled over her lithe form, settling between her thighs as she opened to him, her eyes on his face, shining with trust as well as need.

It gave him pause, then he whispered, “Take me in you.”

As if it had been hours rather than years, he merged his body with hers. As she shifted to accommodate him, he realized she was experiencing some discomfort.

Puzzled, he stopped. “Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head. “It’s okay.”

Which didn’t tell him a thing. “It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?” he asked, feeling his way through the moment.

She closed her eyes. “Yes. Don’t talk.”

When she wrapped herself around him and urged him deeper, he couldn’t hold back. He sank into the smooth hot depths, a shudder rippling over him as he held back the too-ready climax. He wanted hours with her…hours…

Chelsea gasped when he carefully started moving, bringing her back to passionate intensity with his lips and his hands. Flames danced through her as she touched him in all the places he liked. She savored hearing his breath catch and his heart pound when she grew bold with her caresses.

He laid his head on the pillow beside hers. “Wait,” he whispered. “We’re going too fast.”

“I want you…now.”

Catching her hands, he kissed the tip of her nose, a funny smile on his mouth. It was almost sad.

“You were always impatient,” he scolded good-naturedly. He tousled her hair. “A little redheaded, green-eyed ginger cat who wanted it all right away.”

“You wanted it to last,” she said, remembering their ardent love play, rich with the nuances that flowed between lovers.

His low laughter filtered through her like dappled sunlight on water, warm and sparkling. “We can have both,” he murmured, then proceeded to show her.

With sure touches that spoke of their experiences long ago, he brought her to pleasure so intense she cried out in shocked delight. He smothered her cries with kisses and his own panting efforts at control. When at last she lay still beneath him, he turned them to the side and smoothed the damp clinging tendrils from her face.

With her nose snuggled against his chest, she floated in some peaceful sphere where nothing touched her—not doubts or worries or anything of a mundane nature.

She murmured contentedly when he began moving again. It had always amazed her how quickly she could respond again when she was in his arms.

“I want you again,” she told him in wonder. “How can I want you again so soon?”

“Because,” Pierce said, and rolled over her, finding the sweet nest between her thighs. “I won’t be able to stop this time,” he warned as the banked passion flared with astounding speed.

She opened her eyes, dark green now with passion. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He breathed deeply when she moved against him, away, then arched up to meet his downward thrust. His mind glazed over as the hunger took hold.

At her whimpering gasp of need, he thrust deeper.

He guided her hand between them, encouraging her to ride the tide between them while he plunged into the hot center of her, nearly going over the edge but managing to hold it together until she cried out as the pleasure overcame all other senses. He thrust once more and went into the mindless abyss with her.

It was a long time before either of them moved.

The tick of the clock finally penetrated the haven where he drifted in perfect peace. The ringing of the telephone jarred the tranquility of the afternoon. He reached past her shoulder, picked up the receiver and held it to her ear.

“Uh, Chelsea, this is Kelly.”

Chelsea stiffened as reality forcefully returned. “Hi, Kelly,” she said, using her friend’s name to warn Pierce to be silent.

“Fran is looking for Pierce,” Kelly said. “She’s his secretary. She says he had a meeting at two. She called me when he didn’t show up or answer his phone or beeper.”

Chelsea was intensely aware that his head was pressed to hers so he could hear the conversation. She looked a question at him. He shook his head.

“Should I go over to his house and see if he’s there?” Chelsea asked.

Kelly didn’t reply for a heartbeat. “Uh, no. I was hoping he was at your place.” She laughed. “Actually, I thought you two might be…uh, how should I put this—in the sack? The sparks were flying from more than the fireworks last night.”

The blood rushed to Chelsea’s head so fast she went dizzy. “Don’t get any ideas,” she advised her friend, and carefully kept her gaze from Pierce. “I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. If I see him.”

“Okay, thanks. By the way, I’m having a birthday dinner for Mom Saturday night. That’s tomorrow. You’re to come.”

They said goodbye and hung up. When she glanced at Pierce, he seemed deep in thought. She squirmed to remind him he was nearly lying on her.

Muttering a curse, he sat up. “I’m supposed to be at a meeting.” He flung on clothing as fast he could.

She pushed upright. With a pillow behind her back and the sheet covering her, she watched him silently, no expression in her eyes. She didn’t know if she felt regret, anger or what. She wondered about him, but not for long.

“Stupid,” he said aloud. He thrust his feet into his shoes. “That was stupid. I thought I was immune to you. What a laugh.”

She blinked back the raw hurt, but said nothing. His disgust was directed at himself and his weakness—stupidity, to use his term—in succumbing to passion. Darkness gathered inside her, a void that carried the weight of the world in it. Ah, well, she hadn’t expected a rose garden….

“I thought it wouldn’t matter, who you were or that we’d once been lovers. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be the one to walk away this time.”

Her eyes widened at the implied accusation. “You did last time.”

“Like hell.”

She reviewed her memories. “You did. You said you didn’t want a long-term relationship.”

He strode toward the door. “I still don’t.” Then he walked out.

She stayed in bed until she heard his car start, then leave, the purr of the engine rapidly dwindling on the still afternoon air. Only then did she shower and dress in fresh clothing and go out on the deck to read.

Instead of opening her book, she sat there, staring at the mountain peaks to the west. Once she’d thought Pierce was her knight in shining armor and they would live in a beautiful castle in an enchanted kingdom.

She smiled in sympathy for her younger, more idealistic self. In truth, she’d never expected a fairy-tale ending, but she’d thought they would marry and have children and grow old together.

Now, eight years later, she was wiser and more skeptical about life and love and happily ever after. But it had been a lovely illusion.



Chelsea woke from a light doze when a car door slammed. “Around back,” she called out. She expected Kelly to appear, but two men came around the corner. One was Holt Tanner. The other was a man she hadn’t met, but she recognized him as the sheriff.

“Dr. Kearns, Sheriff Reingard,” Holt introduced them.

She stood and held out her hand. “Please, call me Chelsea, both of you.”

The sheriff took her hand and held it. “I’m Dave. It’s good to have you onboard, Chelsea. I was against bringing in outsiders, but Pierce convinced me we needed the best in this case. From the details in your report, I think he was right. Welcome to our community.”

Chelsea sized him up. Early fifties. Dark eyes. Surprising, given that his hair was blond. He was graying at the temples, she noted, and his face was somewhat florid. A couple of inches under six feet. His grip was firm, his hand smooth. Not overweight but at the top of his range. Nothing a good exercise program wouldn’t fix.

She eased her hand from his and thanked him. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Soda?”

“A soda,” the sheriff requested.

“Tea, if you have it,” Holt said.

She prepared iced tea for her and the deputy, a soft drink for the sheriff. After she returned to the deck, they went over her report. The sheriff questioned her extensively on the results of the autopsy.

“Four months,” the lawman murmured, gazing out over the lake. “Harriet Martel.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Pierce said he’d never seen her with anyone,” Chelsea mentioned. “Did you?”

The sheriff laughed, a deep, pleasant sound. “I’m not out on the town very much myself. My wife and I have five children. I spend my spare time at the soccer and baseball fields in summer. In the winter we rescue hunters from blizzards.” He shook his head in exasperation, then laughed again.

Chelsea smiled, too, amused as the sheriff reached into a pocket and removed a pistachio. He ate it absently and tossed the shell over the railing into the lake, obviously lost in thought. She wondered if she should make a citizen’s arrest for littering or maybe polluting the lake.

“Well,” he said at last, “here’s what I think we should do. Holt, take Chelsea over to the library this afternoon and question the staff. Maybe she can pickup on something we missed, sort of a woman-to-woman thing, especially with Molly Brewster. Molly found Harriet,” he explained to Chelsea.

“She went to Harriet’s house, thinking she must be sick or hurt when she didn’t show up for work,” Holt added. He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly four. We’d better go. The library closes soon.”

“Uh, I guess I don’t need to remind you not to give out any information,” the sheriff told her.

Chelsea observed the sheriff, knowing he wasn’t going to like her next words. “People will figure out something is going on if the investigation continues.”

A frown appeared on the still-attractive features of the lawman as he thought the situation through. He ate another pistachio. “I understand Colby Holmes is spreading the word that his aunt was murdered,” he finally said. “I suppose we can admit that much, but don’t mention the pregnancy. As Holt said, that’s our ace in the hole.”

“Right.” Chelsea insisted on driving herself into town when Holt offered her a ride. She had to stop by the grocery on the way back and pick up something for dinner, she explained. Although nothing appealed to her, she mused as she followed the lawmen along Main Street.

She parked at the library and waited while Holt dropped the sheriff off at the office, then parked his patrol car, an SUV with a rack of lights on top, beside hers. They went inside as a young woman came to the door, key in hand.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “We’re just closing.”

Holt nodded. “Go ahead. We’re here to talk to you.”

Molly Brewster was twenty-seven, of average height with wavy blond hair and blue eyes. Chelsea recalled that she was from Wyoming and worked as an assistant librarian. She’d been hired by Harriet Martel eighteen months ago.

Rage could make a person much stronger than usual, but Chelsea, studying the slender librarian, didn’t think Molly could have sustained fury long enough to accomplish all that needed doing at the crime scene, assuming she had a motive to kill her boss in the first place.

Holt introduced the women, then stepped back, leaving the questioning up to Chelsea.

She started out with general information, recapping what she already knew. The other library workers were adult volunteers or teenagers from the high school who got credit for their help. She asked about each of them and their hours of work.

She also noted Molly was nervous and apprehensive. The woman kept looking toward the front door, then a side entrance as they talked.

Chelsea decided to go straight to the point. “Who might have had a reason to dislike Miss Martel?”

Molly gasped and clutched her chest. She was slow in answering. “No one. I mean, Miss Martel was strict and all, but she wasn’t mean or anything like that. She did a lot for this town.”

Hmm, admiration, not envy, in the tone, Chelsea decided, but why the gasp and the clutching of the chest?

“Was Miss Martel murdered?” Molly asked, her eyes big and frightened, as if she thought a serial killer was loose in the area and she was the next victim.

Chelsea shrugged. “We have to cover all the angles,” she said as if this explained everything.

Holt cleared his throat behind her. She cast him a glance to let him know she wasn’t going to give anything away, then turned back to Molly. “Who were her friends?”

“Well, she didn’t have any.” Molly seemed to realize the stark quality of the statement. “I mean…well, I was her friend, and the volunteers, of course.”

“Of course,” Chelsea murmured.

“But I never saw her with anyone. I mean, she didn’t go out to dinner with friends or anything like that. She did have someone, though.”

Chelsea waited, her heart upping its beat.

“I heard her talking to someone on the phone sometimes. Once I heard her mention a time…as if they planned to meet later that evening.”

“Any idea who it was? Male? Female? Relative?”

Molly shook her head. “She never said, and I would never ask. Miss Martel didn’t approve of people prying into other people’s business.”

Chelsea had already deduced the head librarian was a reclusive woman with a very secret life.

After several more questions about the victim’s life and habits, Chelsea indicated she was finished.

Holt stepped forward. “Please keep the details of this discussion to yourself, Miss Brewster. This is an ongoing police investigation.”

“Because she was murdered?” Molly asked again. “Her nephew says it was murder. He’s told everyone in town.”

Holt’s jaw tightened. Chelsea thought he might have cracked a few teeth as he held in angry words until they were outside before muttering, “I’ll strangle Colby with my bare hands.”

“People were already speculating about the case,” she said to soothe him and because she was sympathetic to the nephew, who, unfortunately, was correct. “They would always wonder, even if we did conclude it was suicide.”




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