Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Incriminating Passion

Incriminating Passion
Ann Voss Peterson


DEFENDING THE INNOCENTSomeone was trying to kill Andrea Kirkland. And with good reason. For she was the only witness to a murder. A murder her mind refused to recall. A murder assistant D.A. John Cohen needed her to remember so that she could testify and put an end to the threats, the danger. Until then, John felt duty bound to protect her. Just until the murderer was found, he told himself. After all, she was his key witness. But once the passion exploded between them, the rugged D.A. came to realize that his key witness had come to mean so much more….









“Until we get some answers about this case, I’m your bodyguard,” John said


“Oh, no, you’re not,” Andrea protested.

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“Yes. You find out who killed Wingate and I leave.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll go someplace safe and give you a number where I can be reached.”

He shook his head. “You’re my key witness. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

She glanced at the door. Maybe she should run for it. Maybe it was her only chance to get out of this mess.

Ridiculous.

But equally ridiculous was the idea of John as her bodyguard. No, not ridiculous. Dangerous. Because even now, with his questions and threats still ringing in her ears, she could hear the loneliness in his voice.

And she could feel her heart respond.


Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

This month Harlequin Intrigue has an enthralling array of breathtaking romantic suspense to make the most of those last lingering days of summer.

The wait is finally over! The next crop of undercover agents who belong to the newest branch of the top secret Confidential organization are about to embark on an unbelievable adventure. Award-winning reader favorite Gayle Wilson will rivet you with the launch book of this brand-new ten-story continuity series. COLORADO CONFIDENTIAL will begin in Harlequin Intrigue, break out into a special release anthology and finish in Harlequin Historicals. In Rocky Mountain Maverick, an undeniably sexy undercover agent infiltrates a powerful senator’s ranch and falls under the influence of an intoxicating impostor. Be there from the very beginning!

The adrenaline rush continues in The Butler’s Daughter by Joyce Sullivan, with the first book in her new miniseries, THE COLLINGWOOD HEIRS. A beautiful guardian has been entrusted with the care of a toddler-sized heir, but now they are running for their lives and she must place their safety in an enigmatic protector’s tantalizing hands! Ann Voss Peterson heats things up with Incriminating Passion when a targeted “witness” to a murder manages to inflame the heart of a by-the-book assistant D.A.

Finally rounding out the month is Semiautomatic Marriage by veteran author Leona Karr. Will the race to track down a killer culminate in a real trip down the aisle for an undercover husband and wife?

So pick up all four of these pulse-pounding stories and end the summer with a bang!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Harlequin Intrigue, Senior Editor




Incriminating Passion

Ann Voss Peterson





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




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts to working with quarter horses to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at ann@annvosspeterson.com or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com.










CAST OF CHARACTERS


Andrea Kirkland—She witnessed something the night her husband disappeared. If she can only remember what she saw, she would know whether he is alive or dead. And who killed him.

John Cohen—A burned-out, cynical assistant district attorney, John doesn’t believe in anything or anybody. That is, not until a desperate, tattered Andrea walks into his office and challenges his heart.

Wingate Kirkland—The powerful, abusive multimillionaire is missing—or dead.

Joyce Pratt—Wingate Kirkland’s sister, Joyce blames Andrea for her brother’s disappearance.

Melvin Pratt—Joyce’s husband’s favorite words are yes and dear. Is this meek man hiding a dangerous side?

Gary Putnam—The small-town police chief has Andrea in his sights.

Tonnie Bartell—Was the brunette bombshell trying to take Andrea’s place?

Ruthie Banks—Andrea’s neighbor says she witnessed something fishy going on at the estate. Is she telling the truth?

Judge Gerald Banks—Known as the hanging judge, Gerald Banks is out to see that Andrea is locked away for good.

Hank Sutcliffe—The beefy blond Adonis is hiding something. The question is, will that something clear Andrea or put her behind bars?

Marcella Hernandez—How far will the housekeeper go to protect what she loves?


To John.

Thanks for the love, the support and the inspiration.




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

Epilogue




Chapter One


Andrea Kirkland clutched the steering wheel with trembling hands and squinted into the rearview mirror. The black pickup pulled closer. So close the headlights glared through the back window of her Lexus.

Flipping the mirror to cut the reflection, she forced herself to draw in a deep breath. The truck’s driver was probably just in a hurry. He couldn’t have anything to do with the memories she had suppressed, the memories that had finally broken through this evening. Memories of her husband Wingate crumpling to the floor, of his blood soaking into the Persian rug, of his fixed stare.

She eased her car close to the edge of the country highway to allow the truck to pass. She was going as fast as she dared on the dark road. If he was in such a hurry, he would have to go around.

The truck remained glued to her bumper.

Andrea’s throat closed. Fear scrambled up her spine. The road was straight for another quarter mile. Then it grew curvy as it wound its way around the quarry. Any ordinary impatient driver would have grabbed the opportunity to pass while he still could.

Unless this was no ordinary impatient driver.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She hadn’t told anyone her memories were returning. Not when they’d started filtering back in flashes of nightmares, nor when she’d put all the pieces together this evening, after the crack of deer hunters’ rifles had her break out in a cold sweat.

She’d made a single call. To the tiny Green Valley police station. And explained her memories to a single person—the receptionist. But when Ruthie had told her all three officers in the department were busy on a call, she’d decided she couldn’t wait. She had to get away from that house. Away from the memories of blood. Of death. So she’d set out for the police station.

And now here she was with a black truck breathing down her neck.

She didn’t need the rearview mirror to know the truck’s bumper was only inches from hers. She swallowed the fear rising in her throat and piloted the Lexus into a sweeping curve. Trees lined the edge of the road. The sparkle of moonlight on water glittered through thinning autumn leaves. The police station was still a good three miles away. On the other side of the old quarry. On the other side of the world.

Her hands were damp, slippery on the steering wheel’s leather cover. Another sharper curve loomed ahead. She pushed her foot down on the accelerator. Surely her sporty Lexus could take a turn better than the large, boxy truck behind her. She swept into the turn just as she felt the first hit on her bumper.

The steering wheel jumped in her hands. She tightened her grip, digging her nails into the leather. Pulling her foot from the accelerator, she fought to gain control.

The truck swerved into the opposite lane and pulled up beside her. Its windows stared down at her, tinted black. Its shadow loomed beside her like a specter of death.

Oh God.

The truck’s side slammed against the Lexus. Steel screeched against steel. Her neck snapped to the side. The wheel ripped from her grip. She fought to regain control, fingers slipping on leather.

The truck drew back and hit again, plowing its side into her. Pushing her off the road. Toward the steep bank. Toward the moonlit water of the old quarry.

No.

Tires skidded on pavement, on gravel. She gripped the wheel with all her strength, trying to right the car, trying to keep from plunging down the bank and into the water.

The truck hit again, its full weight slamming into her car. Steel buckled. Wheels churned, spewing gravel. Scrub brush and tree branches scraped against her car like frantic fingers. But nothing could slow her down. Nothing could stop her.

Andrea braced herself and prayed. The Lexus flew over the edge, weightless for a moment. Then gravity dragged her down to the black water below.

She hit the surface with a bone-jarring thud. Her head lurched forward like a rag doll’s. Her forehead grazed the steering wheel, her body held in the seat only by her seat belt. The car dipped low and sprang backward. It bucked on the waves before settling in the black water.

Andrea’s head rang with the impact. Dizziness threatened to swamp her, to pull her under.

Black water swirled around the car and lapped over the hood. The headlights glowed, already under the water, the heavy engine dragging her down. Frigid water crept over the pedals and up the floorboards, lapping at her feet.

Oh God, she was going to sink like a stone.

She had to clear her mind. She had to get out of this car before it was too late.

She lurched forward, trying to move, but something pinned her to the seat. The seat belt. She had to release the seat belt. Concentrating hard, she made her unsteady fingers close over the latch and push the release button. Nothing. The belt still held. She pushed the button again. It still didn’t release. Forcing herself to hold on to some shred of calm, she jammed the button as hard as she could. The belt pulled free.

Pain throbbed in her head and shot down her neck with each movement. Nausea swirled in her stomach. Black water washed against the door and the front corner of the window. She had to get out. Now. She pressed the button to lower the power window. Nothing. Heart in her throat, she tried all the buttons. No luck. The water had short-circuited the windows. She would have to open the door and hope she could get out of the car before the black water swamped it.

She groped a hand along the door. Her fingers brushed the cool steel handle. She’d have one chance. Once she opened the door, the water would rush into the car. It would fill in a matter of seconds. She had only one chance to get clear of the sinking hulk of steel before she was dragged to the bottom.

Drawing in a deep breath of courage, she grasped the door handle and pulled. The latch released. She pushed the door with her shoulder.

It didn’t move.

She shoved again with all her strength.

It wouldn’t open. Water pressed against the door, keeping it shut as effectively as if whoever had run her off the road was on the other side, pushing it closed. Waiting for her to drown.

She closed her eyes, struggling to keep a lid on her panic. She had to think. There had to be a way out.

A chill of fear claimed her, causing her whole body to convulse. She would have to let the car sink. She would have to let it fill with water until the pressure outside the car and inside the car equalized. Then she could push the door open and swim to the surface.

She would have to wait.

She had no idea how deep the quarry was, or how steep the walls. The car might flip on the way down, rolling down the sheer wall until she was so disoriented or injured that she couldn’t escape. But there was no other way out. The doors were sealed. The windows inoperable. She would have to take her chances.

The car listed forward, dragged downward by the engine. The water rose. To her knees. To her waist. To her shoulders. She lifted her head so she could breath the shrinking pocket of air. The water kept rising.

Finally, with one last belch, the car nosed forward and plunged for the bottom.

Head near the ceiling, she could still breath from a pocket of trapped air. She could last until the car hit bottom.

Unless it flipped.

The front bumper jarred against stone. Andrea pitched forward. She gulped in a last breath of air. Water closed over her head. Her chin came down hard on the steering wheel. Her teeth clamped together, catching the inside of her cheek. The copper taste of blood flooded her mouth. For a moment, she seemed suspended. The car swayed.

And flipped.

The roof hit rock. Andrea twisted, her body flopped forward, her back landing hard on the car’s ceiling. The car stopped, resting upside down on the quarry floor.

Andrea groped for the door. Her fingers closed around the handle. She pulled the lever and shoved the door open. One strong thrust with her legs and she was out of the car. She kicked and thrashed, battling for the surface.

The water was cold, so cold. Her lungs burned for air. She kicked harder. Faster. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her lungs felt as if they would explode. Her clothing dragged at her, pulling her down, her shoes making each kick clumsy.

Finally, her head broke the surface. She gasped for breath, pulling air into burning lungs. Scissoring her legs, she trod water, gulping breath after breath.

Once she felt strong enough, she swam to shore and crawled out on the steep bank. Rocks dug into her hands and knees. Her body shivered uncontrollably. But she had made it. She was alive.

Now she had to make sure she stayed that way.




Chapter Two


Assistant District Attorney John Cohen trudged out of the courtroom and down the hall to the elevator on the way back to his office. Thank God the day was almost over. He’d won another case, put another scumbag in a long line of scumbags behind bars for a few more months, and added to his impressive conviction record. He should be happy. He should be looking forward to a night out with friends, to lifting a glass in celebration. But the only thing he wanted to do was go home, collapse into his recliner and forget the whole depressing mess his life had become.

When he’d taken the job with the district attorney’s office, he’d had aspirations of justice and making the world a better place. But after fifteen years of prosecuting the scum of the earth, only to have viler scum replace them while they did their too-short stints in prison, it was getting harder to drag himself to work each day. He felt more and more as if he was fighting a losing battle. As if his soul was being weighed down with the evil of life.

He needed a vacation. A vacation that would last the rest of his years.

The elevator door slid open. It was almost full. Just his luck. He crowded inside and hit the button for the fifth floor, trying not to breathe the air, sour with tension and stale sweat.

“Hold the door, please.”

Reflexively he reached out his arm to stop the door from sliding shut.

A slip of a woman with stringy blond hair and bruises marring her forehead and chin darted into the elevator. Her eyes met John’s for an instant, their depths pale blue and glassy, as if she’d gotten too little sleep or done too many drugs or just plain seen too much of the sordid underbelly of life. She turned her back to him and focused on the lighted numbers over the door.

John resisted the hypnotic tradition of staring at the numbers. Instead, he stared at the top of the newcomer’s head and tried to guess whether she was a battered woman coming to plead for her husband’s release so he could go home and punish her for calling the cops in the first place, or a prostitute struggling to look reformed for a court date. Her petite body and slender curves evident even under the jacket pulled tight around her shoulders made him think she had the goods to be a prostitute. And a successful one at that. But the bruises, her lack of makeup, and the silent desperation in her eyes settled it. She was here to plead for her husband.

He shook his head. Not that it made much of a difference. She was stuck in a hell of a life either way. A hell of a life that he sure couldn’t rescue her from. God knew he’d tried before with other women. And he’d failed miserably each and every time.

He directed his gaze to the numbers over the door, determined not to think about the woman in front of him too hard. Just the idea of a man laying a hand on that slender neck made his blood boil. Or at least simmer. His blood was too thick to reach boiling anymore. These days it only hardened and burned.

When the door opened he followed her down the hall and into the district attorney’s office. There he left her waiting to speak with a receptionist while he walked to his glorified cubicle and dropped his briefcase on a chair. He had nothing left to do but hop a bus and return to his empty two-flat dump. To his recliner, a dinner of cold pizza and a good stiff drink. In fact, since his big, empty house was within stumbling distance of the office, a good stiff drink was in order right now. He was just reaching for the bottle of Jack Daniels in the bottom drawer of his desk when his phone rang.

He held the receiver to his ear. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Cohen?” The new receptionist’s voice melted over the line like warm honey.

Chantel was her name, if he remembered correctly. A welcome change from Maggie. He pushed the thought of the former receptionist from his mind. He didn’t like to think about her. How she’d tried to set him up to take the fall for fixing a case that set serial rapist Andrew Clarke Smythe free. How she’d almost succeeded. And, worst of all, how she’d utterly ruined his taste for ketchup. “Do you know what time it is, Chantel?”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I know you just returned from court.”

He heaved a breath and released it into the phone. “It’s all right. What do you have for me?”

“I have a woman here who needs to talk to someone.”

There’d been only one woman in the reception area when he’d entered the office. The one he’d seen in the elevator. He exhaled a stream of air through tight lips. He was tired. Exhausted. He’d had it with sad, dead-end stories. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in another. He should tell the receptionist to find another assistant district attorney to talk to the woman or tell her to come back tomorrow. But something wouldn’t let him push the words past his lips.

Maybe it was the desperation he’d seen in her pale-blue eyes. Maybe it was the fear plain on her face. Hell, maybe it was simply the urge to be near that saucy little body again. He grimaced. He was even more cynical than he’d given himself credit for. “Send her in.”

He had replaced the receiver and relocked the booze drawer when a timid knock sounded on his door. “Come in.”

She pushed the door open and stepped inside before recognition registered on her face. “I saw you on the elevator.”

“You sure did.” He half rose from his chair and held out a hand. “The name’s John Cohen.”

She reached out and shook his hand. Her skin was soft, her nails perfectly manicured. Quite a contrast to her stringy hair and desperate look.

“And what brings you here today?”

“I need your help. I don’t know where else to turn.” She met his gaze with an urgency that made his gut tighten.

He pushed the unease aside. He couldn’t afford to feel for this woman, no matter how desperate she seemed. Once he let himself feel, expectations were right around the corner. And once he started to expect too much, disappointment was inevitable. It was a mistake he’d made many times before. And it was one he damn well wasn’t going to repeat.

“Why don’t you have a seat and tell me about it?” The words automatically tripped off his tongue. Maybe he should be a shrink. He could psychoanalyze himself during off hours. Save a bundle of money.

She lowered herself into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

He sank into his own chair. Gluing his gaze to hers, he waited for her to begin.

“It’s about my husband.”

Damn. Could he call them or what? A leaden weight settled in his gut. He’d been doing this job far too long. He braced himself for the rest of her sad story—a story he likely couldn’t do a damn thing to make end happily. “What about your husband? Is he a ward of the county?”

“What?”

“Is he in jail?”

“Not hardly.” She frowned and drew a slow breath as if to steel herself. “I’m Andrea Kirkland. Wingate Kirkland’s wife.”

John sat forward in his chair. He’d thought he’d run out of surprises during the past few years, but this certainly qualified as a change of pace. “Wingate Kirkland?”

She pursed her lips together and nodded.

Even though John didn’t exactly rub shoulders with the movers and shakers in Dane County, he’d sure as hell heard of Wingate Kirkland. Everyone had heard of Wingate Kirkland. The millionaire and his money were single-handedly responsible for reclaiming countless landmarks in Madison’s historic downtown. Of course, once reclaimed, he turned them into condos and rented them to anyone who could pay. Capitalism in action.

He narrowed his eyes on the woman in front of him. The manicured nails and doe-soft skin fit the image he had of Kirkland’s wife. But the stringy hair, the bruises and the desperate glint in her eyes were another story. “And what is it you want to tell me about your husband?”

“He’s dead. Murdered. And whoever killed him is after me.”

Second shocker in a row. John blew a breath through pursed lips, creating a soft whistle. Wingate Kirkland. Murdered. So even living in a gated rural estate and having more money than God couldn’t isolate a person from violence and villainy. What else was new? “Why haven’t I heard about this? I would think the news media would be all over Wingate Kirkland’s death.”

She gripped the arms of her chair. “No one knows yet.”

He raised his brows. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“I don’t know what the beginning is exactly.”

“Then start as close as you can. When was your husband killed?”

“About a week ago, I think.”

“A week ago? You think?” He didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice. The rich really were a different breed from the rest of the human race. “Glad you could take time out from your busy schedule to finally report it.”

She raised her chin and looked him square in the eye. A show of superiority. An empty show, if her nervous fingers tangling together in her lap were any indication. “I would have reported it, but…”

“But what?”

“But I didn’t remember it until last night.”

“Your husband’s murder just slipped your mind?”

She untwined her fingers and splayed her hands in front of her in a pleading pose. “I must have blocked it. I mean, that happens sometimes, doesn’t it? My mind must have blocked out the murder until I was better able to deal with it.”

Maybe he should have had that belt of Jack before agreeing to talk to this woman. He needed a good buzz in order to swallow this wild tale. “Are you suggesting you had amnesia?”

“I guess. I don’t know. All I know is that except for some nightmares, I thought my life was business-as-usual up until last night.”

“Except you had no husband. I take it a body hasn’t been found.”

She shook her head.

“Do you know who killed him?”

“No.”

“This sounds more like a missing person’s case than a murder. Have you filled out a report with the police?”

“No.”

“When did you realize he was gone?”

“Just last night. When the memories—”

“When you remembered your husband had been missing for a week.”

She raised her chin at the suspicion in his tone. “I thought he was away on business. His real-estate development company is based in Chicago. He’s down there most of the time.”

Incredible. The woman seemed to have an answer to everything. “Was he often gone for a week at a time without giving you so much as a phone call?”

“We didn’t have the greatest marriage, Mr. Cohen. In fact, we didn’t have much of a marriage at all. He kept me around for show on the rare occasions he needed a trophy wife. And he said he wanted an heir eventually. Otherwise, Win didn’t have a lot of use for me.”

“So why did you marry him?”

“I had my reasons.”

“I’ll bet you had a few million of them.”

Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed to blue bands. “I didn’t marry him for his money, if that’s what you’re implying. Not really.”

“Then why did you really marry him?”

“Listen, I didn’t want to come here. I can take care of myself. I don’t want yours or anyone else’s help. But a man is dead, and I thought you might care to know about that.”

“But you say you can’t tell me much about that, Mrs. Kirkland. So I need to know all you can tell me about your husband. Including what his marriage was like.”

She pushed a defeated breath through tight lips. “Fine. My father left when I was young. Win was a father figure, I guess. He took care of me, offered me security. I was eighteen when I married him. It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“Then why did you stay married to him?”

“Win made it clear he didn’t want me to leave.”

“He threatened you?”

“Yes.”

“With violence?”

“At times.”

John’s gut tightened. So he’d called Andrea Kirkland right after all.

She raised her chin again, a flash of fire smoldering in the depths of her eyes. “I was leaving him anyway. I had made arrangements, set aside money. I was leaving that night—the night I saw him murdered.”

Time for John’s eyes to widen again. “You witnessed the murder?”

“Yes. But I don’t remember much about it. Just the gunshots. And Win’s head resting on the Persian rug. And all the blood….” She dropped her gaze to his desk and studied the wood grain for a full minute. Crossing her arms, she rubbed her hands over them as if she was cold. She looked like that little girl in search of a father figure she’d talked about. Desperate, vulnerable, yet determined to go it on her own.

An ache settled in John’s shoulders. He shouldn’t care about her vulnerability. He shouldn’t care that her husband had used threats of violence to keep her in line. He shouldn’t care at all about her bizarre tale. He should merely do his job and go home to that recliner and stiff drink. “Have you told the police you witnessed a murder?”

She swallowed hard and met his gaze. “I tried.”

“But?”

“I called the Green Valley police station last night, but all the officers were out on a call. I told Ruthie, the woman who answers the phone, the things I remembered and that I was driving in. I didn’t want to stay in that house one more second.” She paused as if hesitant to go on.

“And?”

“On my way a black pickup truck ran me off the road. My car is at the bottom of the Green Valley quarry.”

He crooked a brow. “That old quarry is full of water.”

“Good thing. Otherwise I would have crashed and died. As it was, I only had to worry about drowning.”

Yet another surprise. That old quarry was deep as hell itself. And this time of year it would be bonecold as well. Somehow this petite woman had managed to free herself from certain death. She must be a lot stronger—and even more determined—than she looked.

He took hold of the stirrings of admiration. He couldn’t go there, couldn’t start weaving her into some sort of heroine in his mind. Or some sort of victim in need of his protection. Not unless he wanted to give reality an opening to bite him in the ass like a snarling dog. He reached for the phone. “I’ll call the Green Valley police right now. They can investigate your claims and we’ll see what we can do.”

Her eyes sprang wide. She lunged for his hand. Her fingers clamped down hard, preventing him from lifting the phone out of its cradle. “No police. Please.”

“That’s how cases like this are handled, Mrs. Kirkland. The police investigate the crime. I prosecute the offender.”

Her gaze landed on her hand gripping his. She yanked her hand back as if afraid he would bite. But she didn’t sit back in her chair. She stood at the edge of his desk, every muscle in her body rigid. “You can’t call the Green Valley police.”

He pulled his hand from the phone, leaving the receiver in the cradle. “You’d better give me a good reason.”

“The police were the only ones who knew I remembered what happened to Win. I called the station, then suddenly this truck showed up and tried to kill me.”

“And you think someone in the police department was in that truck?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

She had him there. But where did that leave him? If he couldn’t call the police and have them check out her story, what was he going to do with this woman?

He glanced at his watch. Almost six o’clock. Except for a few assistant district attorneys preparing for court tomorrow morning, the office would be empty. That ruled out foisting this woman off on a junior ADA. “Do you have any family you can stay with until we can figure out what’s going on here?”

“Win has a sister, but we aren’t exactly close.”

“How about friends?”

She shook her head.

The weight dragged him down like a two-ton barbell. Every instinct he had screamed for him to stay as far away from this case—and as far away from this woman—as possible. He’d been through this grind before. A beautiful woman witness to a crime. A sad story. A need for his help. And him racing in on his white steed only to be bucked off. He’d be a fool to subject himself to that kind of torture again.

A fool or a masochist.

As if she could see the path his mind was traveling, she thrust her chin forward. “Listen, I can take care of myself. Just find out who murdered Win. We may not have had much of a relationship, but he was my husband. He deserves justice.”

John pushed back from his desk and rose to his feet. The recliner and belt of Jack would have to wait because it didn’t look like he was going home any time soon. “I’ll look into it. But I’ll need your permission to search the house. I want to bring in the county sheriff and a crime scene unit.”

“Anything. I’ll call Marcella, our housekeeper. She can let you in and give you any help you need.”

“Good.” The ache in his shoulders eased slightly. The evidence. All he had to do was trust the evidence. Trust the facts and leave feeling out of this. “I suggest you check into a hotel. At least until I can figure out what’s going on.”

Her head bobbed in a tight little nod. She was scared. Of that he was sure. And if someone had run her car into the Green Valley quarry as she claimed, she had damn good reason.

“If you let me know where you’re staying, I’ll ask the Madison police to keep an eye out.” He gave her his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “You’ll be okay.”



ANDREA SLID the deadbolt home and followed it with the security chain. She’d been afraid a lot in her twenty-four years, but never as afraid as she was now.

She crossed the no-frills hotel room and lowered herself onto the bed. “Everything is going to be okay,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll survive this. I always do.”

She’d faced the streets of Chicago alone at fifteen years old. She’d faced Wingate’s temper alone. She’d faced the decision to leave him, even if she hadn’t gotten the chance. She’d faced all of it and she’d survived. So far. But she’d never had someone trying to kill her. And worse yet, she’d never faced the loss of her memory—her very mind.

She glanced at the phone sitting on the nightstand. She wasn’t totally alone. At least not as alone as she had been in that car last night. John Cohen had agreed to look into her story. He’d asked the Madison police to drive by the hotel and check on her. He’d promised to call as soon as he found anything.

When she’d first entered his office, she’d thought she was sunk. His dark intense eyes had seemed to drill right through her. His narrow face had seemed to harden against her, icy with cynicism. But as she told her story, she’d seen a transformation in him. Although he might still be skeptical, he’d listened. And when she’d finished explaining the unexplainable, he’d even seemed concerned. Far more than she’d gotten from another person in longer than she could remember.

And she still didn’t know what to make of it.

She slipped her legs under the sheets and blanket and pulled the covers up to her shoulders, hoping the warmth would still the shaking in her bones. She had to keep her wits about her. She had to be strong. Because although John Cohen had offered to help, she knew better than to rely on him. Or anyone. And if an enemy of Wingate’s had now set his sights on her, she might be up against more than she could handle this time.




Chapter Three


John sized up the man on the other side of the handshake. Even if Police Chief Gary Putnam wasn’t dressed in blue, the average neighborhood thug would make him as a cop from a mile away. Close-cropped hair, wide shoulders, and slightly square demeanor, he was the kind of man the public trusted. The kind of cop John loved to put on the witness stand.

Andrea Kirkland’s suspicions about the Green Valley police scrolled through his mind. If he was to pick a dirty cop—one who might want to silence the witness to a murder—Gary Putnam would be one of the last ones on his list.

Chief Putnam released the handshake and gestured John into his office. “Come in. It’s quieter in here. We can talk.”

John glanced over his shoulder at the tiny Green Valley police station. The place wasn’t exactly a hub of activity. A young woman dressed in plain clothes hunched over an old typewriter, employing the hunt-and-peck method. Other than that, the place was quieter than a morgue.

John stepped into the office anyway and settled in a plastic-seated chair.

Not bothering to close the door, the chief sat behind a cheap-looking desk, the office furnishings of a public servant. “You want to know about Andrea Kirkland? Yes, she phoned last night. About dusk.”

“And a woman named Ruth talked to her?”

“Yes. I was out on a call. Ruthie talked to Mrs. Kirkland just before she went home for the night.” He nodded in the direction of the young woman typing. “She radioed me immediately. Mrs. Kirkland said her husband was missing.”

“Did you check out her story?”

“I checked into it this morning. Very interesting situation.”

“How so?”

“Seems no one has seen Wingate Kirkland for a week. Both his office in Madison and his company headquarters in Chicago were under the impression he was spending the time at his estate. Seems he’s an avid deer hunter. The interesting part is that Mrs. Kirkland waited the entire week to report him gone.”

Interesting indeed. Of course, there was a chance she was telling the truth about that, too. John had heard of instances where a person blocked a traumatic event from his or her mind only to have it surface later. “She says she must have blocked his death. That the memory didn’t return until last night.”

“Is that what she says? She had amnesia or some damn thing? That’s a new one. I guess it goes along with what she told Ruthie.”

“What did she tell Ruthie?”

“Ask her yourself.” He glanced in the direction of the woman typing. “What did Andrea Kirkland say to you last night, Ruthie?”

The typewriter quit tapping. John turned in his chair in time to see the young woman cross the office. Her shoulder-length hair was expertly styled. Her skin was flawless. And her clothing, though baggy and a lifeless brown color, was obviously expensive and ultimately tasteful. Ruthie dressed as though she was twenty going on fifty. “She said she heard gunshots and saw Wingate lying on the floor. Anything else, she didn’t remember.”

The chief focused his sharp eyes on Ruthie. “And didn’t she say something about an oriental rug?”

“A Persian rug,” she corrected. “She remembered seeing Mr. Kirkland’s head resting on a Persian rug.”

That also squared with what she had told John. So far, so good.

Ruthie frowned slightly. “The funny thing was, I saw a man loading a rug into a van in front of the Kirkland house about a week ago. I assumed Mrs. Kirkland was redecorating or having it cleaned.”

“When exactly did you see this?”

“Last Monday, I think. I remember because Mrs. Kirkland was outside giving the man directions.”

A pain stabbed John’s gut. The ulcer kicking up again. “Are you sure it was Mrs. Kirkland?”

“I think so. It’s a long driveway. And the gate was closed. But there was a blond woman out there who looked like her. At least the way I remember Andrea Kirkland looking.”

Not the most reliable witness testimony he’d heard. Not by a long shot. “You haven’t seen Mrs. Kirkland in a while?”

“I’m afraid not. Even though I live next door, I haven’t seen her very much. She keeps to herself.”

“You live next door?” John tried to hide his surprise. The Wingate estate, a majestic old home Wingate Kirkland had restored and named after himself, was situated in a very exclusive rural development boasting one of the best views in Dane County. Although Ruthie’s hair was tastefully cut and her wardrobe expensive, if staid, he wouldn’t have pegged her for a member of the Kirkland’s social set.

She dipped her head as if slightly embarrassed. “I still live with my parents. I’m Ruth Banks. My father is Gerald Banks.”

“The judge?”

Ruthie smiled and nodded.

He knew Judge Banks well. The judge was notoriously tough on criminals. “Your father is a good man.”

“Most prosecutors think so.”

He smiled. The young woman was sharp. And the daughter of a judge would make a good witness. But from the sound of it, she didn’t see much. Not enough to prove anything, at any rate. “Do you remember what the van looked like?”

“It was blue. Kind of light blue like a robin’s egg.”

“Did it have a company logo on the side?”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Yeah. I think it was yellow. Or gold. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really pay attention.”

A blue van with yellow or gold logo. At least it was something for the police to follow up. Provided Andrea Kirkland wasn’t inventing the whole thing. A possibility he couldn’t ignore. Not until a body turned up. “Can you think of any reason Andrea Kirkland would tell us her husband was murdered if it isn’t true?”

Ruthie shook her head.

John glanced at Chief Putnam. “Can you, Chief?”

“You mean, why would she make it up?”

“If she did.”

He shrugged his square shoulders. “Attention. Isn’t that usually the thing? Maybe she’s bored with her big house and charity events.”

Was that the type of person Andrea Kirkland was? Even though John had only just met her, he couldn’t buy it. “And if she is telling the truth? If her husband is dead?”

“Then I doubt we’ll have to look any further than the obvious.”

John had a pretty good idea of where he was leading, but he bit anyway. “What is the obvious?”

“That he was killed for his money. He sure has a lot of it. And rumor has it, Andrea Kirkland is the sole beneficiary of his will.”

The ache returned to John’s gut in force. Andrea was either making up the whole story, or she was the number-one suspect in a murder. Hell of a choice.

The bleat of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. Excusing himself, he slipped out of the police chief’s office, grabbed the phone off his belt and hit the talk button. “Yeah.”

“Ace? It’s Mylinski.”

John grimaced at the nickname. Ever since an article praising his high conviction rate had run in the State Journal, Mylinski had latched onto the name. “Hey, Al.” County Detective Al Mylinski was heading up the search of the Kirkland house. And despite his penchant for assigning stupid nicknames to nearly everyone he worked with, there was no one John trusted more. If there was anything to find, Al would sure as hell find it. “What do you have?”

“The LumaLite put on a really pretty light show.”

John dragged in a deep breath. The LumaLite could show every trace of blood left at a crime scene, even when the blood wasn’t visible to the naked eye. “Where?”

“Under the rug on the study floor.”

“How much is there?”

“If someone cut himself, he needs more than a Band-Aid. There wasn’t a drop on the rug, though. Someone replaced the rug and tried to clean the floor. If it wasn’t for the LumaLite, we wouldn’t have found anything.”

“You didn’t happen to notice a body lying around to make this easier on all of us, did you?”

“Sorry. But judging from the size of this pool of blood, there’s a body out there somewhere. We’ll start with the woods after we’re finished with the house.”

John blew out a gust of breath he didn’t realize he was holding. At least one question was answered. Andrea didn’t invent the story. But she sure as hell seemed to be neck-deep in it. He shouldn’t be surprised. Like Putnam had said, start with the obvious. And the obvious in any murder was always the spouse.

He massaged the back of his neck and tried not to picture the graceful lines of Andrea Kirkland’s face, her slender body, the desperation in her eyes. There was a reason cynicism ran rampant in all areas of law enforcement. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it was warranted. And this case looked to be no different. Even if he wanted it to be.

“Gotta go. I’ll keep my eyes open for that body, Ace.”

“You do that, Al. You do that.” John hit the button to cut off the call and clipped the phone back on his belt. If anyone had to keep his eyes open from here on out, it was him.



ANDREA PULLED OPEN the hotel room door and looked into the brown eyes of John Cohen. Relief eased through her, pushing aside the fear that had kept her wide awake all night.

He’d called her on his cell phone first thing this morning and told her he’d be right over. And even though she’d met the man only yesterday, she’d felt relieved to hear his voice. And to hear he had news about Wingate’s murder, and she hoped the attack on her as well.

She swung the door wide. “Come in.”

He ambled through the door on long legs, but his stride was anything but relaxed. His gaze darted around the room as if he expected to see a dead body secreted behind the Magic Fingers hotel bed or propped on the luggage rack in the closet.

Her mouth went dry. Whatever he’d discovered was worse than she’d feared. “Did you find Win? Is he dead?”

“No, we haven’t found him. At least not yet. And as far as his condition, you’d probably know that better than anyone.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You said you saw your husband’s murder, didn’t you?”

“I was hoping I was wrong. That it was all a bad dream or something.” Her own words rang in her ears. She had been hoping exactly that. That her memories were a mistake. That Win was merely away on an unexpected business trip. That she could leave Wingate Estate and not look back.

But deep down she knew she’d been fooling herself. “Did you find something in the house?”

A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Yes. We did.”

The shiver spread over her skin and settled in her bones. “What did you find?”

Instead of answering, he strode across the room, his long legs eating the distance in three strides. “You said you remembered your husband lying on a Persian rug after he was shot. What room was the rug in?”

She searched her memory. She could see the rug clearly. See Win’s face contorting in pain. See the blood puddle underneath him like liquid tar soaking into silk. But she couldn’t see anything else. “I’m not sure. We have a Persian rug in the dining room, the library and Win’s study.”

“Did you have any of those rugs replaced or cleaned since your husband disappeared?”

“No. They were just cleaned last spring. Why are you asking these things?”

“Because a neighbor of yours told me a man removed a Persian rug from your home and loaded it into a van only a week ago.”

“That must have been him. That must have been the killer.”

“Maybe. But my witness said one more thing.”

“What?”

“That the man wasn’t alone. That you were with him.”

“Me?” Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have been.”

He stared at her, his eyes boring past her defenses as if laying bare her jumbled thoughts.

She shuddered. “I didn’t kill Wingate. I wouldn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”

John looked away, but it was too late. She could see the doubt play across his face, as plain as if he’d called her a liar.

He didn’t believe her. The realization slammed into her like a kick to the stomach. She splayed her hands in front of her. “If I’d killed my husband, why would I call the police? Why would I come to you for help? Why would I tell you about the rug in the first place?”

“Questions I’ve been asking myself as well. And believe me, if not for the fact that the evidence fits your story—as far-fetched as that story seems—you’d be in custody right now.”

“Custody?” The word chilled her blood like the biting November wind outside. “I’m telling the truth. Someone tried to kill me last night because of what I saw. What I remembered.”

“Ah, yes. There’s that. We have divers in the quarry looking for your car. Can we expect to find it?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Her voice sounded too shrill, too panicked.

A tired look descended into John Cohen’s eyes.

Andrea cringed. This was the reaction he expected from her. Angry. Defensive. As if she was trying to hide something—trying to hide her husband’s murder. She felt sick to her stomach. “Should I hire a lawyer?”

“Do you feel you need one?” His voice was a monotone. So different from the concerned note she’d convinced herself she’d heard yesterday. So different from what she wanted to hear. Needed to hear.

She shook her head. She hadn’t killed Wingate. That was all there was to it. John Cohen’s opinion shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. “No. I don’t need one. I’m not guilty of anything. But I’m not sticking around for these accusations either.” There was only one thing for her to do. What she’d planned to do all along—before Wingate’s death, before she’d lost her memory, before she’d become the target of a killer in a black truck. She had to leave everything behind and start a new life.

A life where she would rely on no one but herself.

“Goodbye, Mr. Cohen. I should have known I wouldn’t get any help from your office.” Spinning on a heel, she strode from the room.



JOHN WATCHED Andrea retreat down the hotel’s long hallway. Damn. Barely 8:00 a.m. and it had already been one hell of a day.

When he’d decided to come to her hotel, to confront her with what he’d learned, he’d been angry. Angry she’d lied to him. Angry she’d used him. And most of all, angry with himself for wanting to believe her when he knew damn well he’d be disappointed in the end.

But he’d come anyway. For some reason, he’d had to see her face when he confronted her with the story Ruthie Banks had told him. He had to look into her eyes and know she was hiding something. He had to know she was guilty.

But all he’d done was chase her out of the hotel before she’d told him anything.

Closing the hotel room door behind him, he started down the hall in the direction she’d gone. An elevator door chimed. He lengthened his stride, reaching Andrea’s elevator just as the door closed.

He spotted the red exit sign and yanked open the stairwell door. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating the stark stairs. He raced down the steps, his footfalls and breathing echoing against concrete. Reaching the bottom, he exploded into the lobby. Scanning the modest space, he spotted Andrea through the glass entry door.

She stood on the sidewalk looking over the nearly deserted parking lot, as if waiting for a ride. Her hair gleamed, clean and shiny, and flowed over her shoulders in a heavy blond wave. A far cry from the straggly mess he’d seen last night. And although the bruises still shadowed her jaw and hairline, the sunlight brought out a peach glow in her skin he’d thought could only be achieved with a cinematographer’s artful lighting or the delicate touch of an airbrush.

Damn, she was an attractive woman. No wonder he’d wanted to believe her. If he had a brain left in his head, he’d turn this case over to Kit Ashner or some other rabid, female ADA in the office and stay as far away from Andrea Kirkland as possible.

Instead he crossed the lobby and pushed through the glass door. “Andrea.”

She didn’t turn around, as if she’d known he was watching her all along. “What do you want now?”

Good damn question. What did he want? For her to be innocent? For her to restore his faith in humanity? His faith in the value of his job? None of those things were going to happen.

Then why was he here? “I want to ask you a few more questions.”

“Why? So you can prove I murdered my husband? So you can throw me in jail?”

“Only if you’re guilty.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Then answer my questions.”

She plunked hands on hips in a show of strength. But despite her bravado, he could see her hands shake. “Maybe I should get myself a lawyer.”

He gestured to the parking lot. “Fine. Do you have one in mind? I’ll give you a ride to his office. It’ll save me a trip later.”

Her bravado faltered, and suddenly she was shaking all over. Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. She blinked, the moisture spiking her lashes. “Please, leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that.” Oh hell. If there was anything he hated, it was making a woman cry. Especially a woman like Andrea Kirkland. Unless it was all an act, of course. God knew some women could summon crocodile tears every time they needed to weasel out of a speeding ticket. But somehow he couldn’t deny the feeling that Andrea Kirkland wasn’t one of them. “Listen, your husband was a bastard. It sounds like he was asking for whatever he got. Maybe he tried to hit you. Maybe you killed him in self defense.”

“It didn’t happen that way. I was leaving him. I didn’t kill him.”

“Maybe you didn’t do it yourself. Maybe someone else got out of hand. Maybe you never intended for your husband to die.”

She shook her head, her hair sweeping across one eye. “I didn’t kill Wingate. I didn’t help anyone kill Wingate.”

“But you don’t remember. Who’s to say—”

“I don’t need to remember. I never could have hurt Wingate. I never could have hurt anyone.” She closed her eyes. When she opened them, tears spiked her lashes with moisture. “I’m waiting for a cab. Please let me wait in peace.”

He shook his head, a last-ditch effort. “Cabs take forever to arrive in this city. I have a car. Why don’t you let me drive you?”

“I’ll take a bus.” She stepped past him and into the parking lot.

Rubber screeched on pavement. A pickup circled the corner of the hotel. A black Dodge with tinted windows. It accelerated, its engine roaring.

And shot straight for Andrea.

John raced across the sidewalk and onto the asphalt. Into the truck’s path. “Andrea!”

She turned to the sound of his voice and spotted the truck. Her eyes widened.

The truck closed the distance in a heartbeat.

John lunged for her, lowering his shoulders. He hit her full force, pushing her to the pavement between two cars just as the truck rifled past.




Chapter Four


The roar of the truck’s engine fading, John struggled to catch his breath. There was no doubt in his mind that the driver had been gunning for Andrea. Trying to kill her. He rolled his weight off her. Wiping thick blond hair back from her cheek, he tried to see her face, to make sure she was all right. She had to be all right. “Andrea?”

Her eyes opened. Drawing in a deep breath, she pushed into a sitting position and scraped the remaining strands out of her eyes. Her injured hand left a trail of crimson on one cheek. “The truck— Did you see?” A strangled sound erupted from deep in her throat. The unmistakable sound of fear.

“It almost ran you down.”

“It was the same. The same truck that ran me off the road and into the quarry.”

John gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to wrap her in his arms, to comfort her. There was no time. The truck could be back any moment. And this time he had the feeling the driver would make sure he didn’t miss. He pointed to a full-sized silver van towering above the cars. “My car is just on the other side of that van. Do you think you can make it?”

She swallowed hard, as if pushing down her panic. “I can make it.”

“Good. Lean on me if you need to.” He held out a hand.

She grasped it. Her hand trembled. Her palm was sticky, blood oozing from raw flesh. She pressed her lips together in a determined line and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Rising to a crouch, John peered over the trunk of one of the cars. The distant roar of a truck engine cut through the still air. He looked in the direction of the sound, waiting for the black behemoth to appear from around the corner and crash headlong into the parked cars, pinning them between the twisted metal. But he couldn’t spot the sound’s source. The parking lot was still as death.

Time to make their move. He pulled her up. Still crouched, he dodged through the maze of cars, Andrea on his heels. Reaching his blue sedan, he unlocked the driver’s door and motioned her inside.

She scrambled over the stick shift and into the passenger seat. John ducked behind the wheel. He slipped the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine revved to life.

Suddenly the sound of the engine grew louder, deeper as it was joined by another engine’s growl.

Andrea gasped. “The truck.”

“Hold on.” Throwing the car in reverse, John hit the gas. The car shot backward. He yanked the wheel to one side. Tires screeching, it spun in place.

And faced the truck.

Black windows stared like malevolent eyes. The front bumper was dented. The perfect gleam of the truck’s right fender was marred by silver paint. No doubt the color of Andrea’s car.

She covered her mouth, stifling a scream.

John hit the gas. The car leaped forward. Another twist of the wheel and his car dodged to the side, just missing a black fender. He pressed his foot to the floor. He took the corner full throttle, tires screeching in protest. Fishtailing out of the parking lot, they raced onto the highway frontage road.

One eye on the rearview mirror, John tried to steady his pulse. The black truck was nowhere to be seen, as if it and its driver had disappeared.

“No one is following. It looks like we lost him.”

Andrea stared shell-shocked at the cars around them, as if she was convinced any one of them might morph into the black truck at any moment. “You believe me now?” Her voice rang hollow, monotoned.

He’d seen the evidence with his own eyes. The black truck. The squeal of rubber as it shot straight for Andrea. “Do I believe someone is trying to kill you? Yes.”

“And Wingate? Do you still think I killed him?”

He blew a breath through tight lips. He’d gone to her hotel room this morning to catch her in a lie, to prove she’d killed her husband, and to banish her from his mind for good. But instead of getting answers, he was stuck with more questions and no convincing evidence. He didn’t even have a body. “I don’t know.”

“I suppose that’s an improvement. Maybe if the truck had run me down, you’d actually believe me.”

Maybe I believe you now.

He clamped down on the thought. A bitter laugh lodged in his throat. Hadn’t he seen enough in his years in the district attorney’s office to know how easily people lie? Didn’t he know the lengths people would go to protect their own guilty hides?

He damn well should. But somehow, when he saw the tears in Andrea’s eyes, when he heard the fear and sincerity in her voice, he forgot every hard lesson the past fifteen years had taught.

Whether she was guilty of killing her husband or not, he wanted to believe her. And that scared him more than a charging black truck ever could.



STILL TREMBLING, Andrea stood in front of the window in John Cohen’s cramped office. She felt like a sitting duck waiting for the bullet. She hadn’t wanted to come here. She hadn’t wanted to report the latest incident with the black truck to the police. She’d wanted to disappear, to get out of town. She’d be long gone if that truck hadn’t shown up.

And she’d be dead if John Cohen hadn’t pushed her out of the way.

She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. John Cohen had bullied her, accused her and refused to believe her. But he hadn’t hesitated to rush into on-coming traffic to save her life.

She turned away from the window and raked her gaze over his office. The battered desk. The ancient chairs. The stacks of files that towered like pine trees in the north woods. With most people, she could get a sense of them by examining their surroundings. Not so John Cohen. The room was so plain, so devoid of personality, the only feeling she could glean from it was the bone-deep ache of fatigue.

And a loneliness that spoke to something in her own soul.

She shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. Ridiculous. She didn’t know John Cohen, and she didn’t want to know him. She wanted to get out of this office. She wanted to get as far away from the police and the district attorney as she could. She wanted to disappear.

Male voices filtered in from the hallway. John pushed the door wide and strode inside alone. He crossed to his desk and dropped a small stack of files on the already heaped desktop. “I struck out. Seems the department doesn’t have the man hours available to offer citizens protection from what they consider to be two unfortunate accidents.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “I told you I didn’t want the cops involved.”

He frowned. “Because you still think the Green Valley police are after you?”

“You might not want to take a chance either if your life was on the line.”

He held up his hands as if trying to fend off her anger. “You’ve got to admit, that’s a hard one to swallow.”

“All I know is that I called the Green Valley police station and the next thing I knew, the black truck was after me.” She paced to the far side of the office, shaking her head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of myself when it comes to the black truck.”

He narrowed his eyes on her. “And how do you propose to do that?”

“I can get lost. I’ve done it before.”

“Not when you’re involved in a murder investigation, you haven’t.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Which is close to nothing.”

“It’s all I remember.”

“You can’t just throw half memories and paranoia out there and then ‘get lost’ as you say. Especially not when you’re a suspect.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Her story probably did sound like half memories and paranoia to him. It sure sounded that way to her, and she’d lived through it. A bubble of helplessness rose in her throat. She might have never quite had control of her life, but she’d always had control of her memories.

Now she’d lost even that.

She straightened her spine and forced herself to meet his dark eyes. She couldn’t afford to be helpless. She couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now. Not ever again. “What about hypnosis? I’ve heard of lost memories being retrieved under hypnosis.”

He shook his head. “Can’t do it. You may be the only witness to a murder. Hypnosis introduces questions about which memories are real and which are planted. Once you go under hypnosis your testimony is worthless in a court of law.”

“So what do I do?” She swallowed, trying to keep the panic at bay. She could make a run for it, but somehow the image of her dashing down the hall with John Cohen on her heels was too ridiculous to contemplate. Judging from his runner’s physique, he’d probably catch her before she made it to the office door.

He let out a long, defeated sigh. “You mean, what do we do?”

She looked at him hard. “We?”

“If you think I’m going to have a relaxing weekend chugging beer, watching football and waiting to read about your death in Sunday’s State Journal, guess again.”

A chill prickled over her skin. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re stuck with me. Until we get some answers about this case or I can convince the police to spring for an officer to keep an eye on you, I’m your bodyguard. And your personal memory coach.”

“Oh no, you’re not.”

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“Yes. You find out who killed Wingate and I leave.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll go someplace safe and give you a number where I can be reached.”

He shook his head. “You’re either my key witness or my prime suspect. Either way, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

She glanced at the door. Maybe she should reconsider running for it, just throw open the door and dash down the hall. Maybe it was her only chance to get out of this mess.

Ridiculous.

But equally ridiculous was the idea of John as her bodyguard. No, not ridiculous. Dangerous. Because even now, with his questions and threats still ringing in her ears, she could hear the loneliness in his voice. And she could feel her heart respond.

“You can wipe that scared rabbit look off your face. I’m not going to hurt you, for God’s sake. I’m going to keep you safe.”

She didn’t know if he intended to hurt her or not, but she did know that being around him certainly wouldn’t keep her safe. “And what can I say to change your mind?”

“Nothing. But there’s something you can do.”

“What?”

“If you didn’t murder your husband, prove it. Help me find who did.”

She gnawed on the inside of her cheek until she raised a sore. If they found the real murderer, if they put him behind bars, she would be safe. Both from the killer trying to prevent her from remembering and from the police trying to pin Win’s murder on her. All she had to do was stay strong a little longer. Because a little longer and she’d be away from John Cohen for good. “What do you want me to do?”

“You can start by going with me to see a man about a rug.”



JOHN GLANCED at Andrea standing next to him in the showroom of Ryman International Rugs and took a deep breath. A light scent tickled his nose. Floral and feminine. The kind of scent that caused a man to lose his mind.

Too late for him. He’d obviously already lost what little gray matter he’d had rattling in his skull. That was the only explanation for what he was doing, playing bodyguard to a woman who could be a murderess. And, even worse, playing Holmes to her Watson.

He massaged the aching muscles in his neck while pretending to examine the multi-colored silk of one of the elaborate Persian rugs hanging from the ceiling. On the drive across town, he’d told himself he was just doing his job, just trying to keep her safe. Well, she might be safe, but he sure wasn’t sane. Not around her. Her body had him as hot and humid as a Wisconsin July. And every time she looked at him with those bruised eyes of hers, he had the feeling he had the power to make things better.

Or at least he’d go down trying.

He needed to get the hell away from her. And he needed to start by finding some answers about who killed Wingate Kirkland. And whether the woman beside him was a suspect or a witness.

“Hello there. I’m Oscar Ryman. Can I help you find a certain type of rug?”

John spun around and looked into the man’s be-speckled eyes. He’d tracked the blue van with the gold logo to Ryman International Rugs, a small rug shop on Madison’s upscale west side. Oscar Ryman must be the owner. He held his identification out for the man to examine. “I’m with the district attorney’s office, and I need to ask you a few questions about a rug.”

“The district attorney’s office, huh? Is this about a crime?” Tall and wire-thin, Ryman nearly quivered with excitement. Apparently the rug business lacked drama. If he only knew the reality of life in the district attorney’s office, he’d see what a real lack of drama was like.

John fixed him with his best all-business stare. If this guy wanted to pretend he was a bit player on “Law and Order,” John had no problem going along. Especially since guys like this were willing to turn themselves inside out to provide information. “A week ago, one of your trucks picked up a rug at Wingate Estate—”

“Out in Green Valley, right? A Persian. Top-of-the-line. But you’re mistaken. We didn’t pick it up. We delivered it.”

“You delivered a new rug and picked up a stained one?”

He tilted his head to one side as if doing so would connect normally unused synapses. “I don’t think there was a pick-up with that order.”

“Can you check?”

“Certainly.” He spun around and almost skipped to the tall desk looming in the center of the sales floor. At least John didn’t have to worry about this one hiding anything from him. On the contrary, this guy would probably be calling him all next week with meaningless details he remembered about the transaction.

John followed him. Once he had been that eager to prosecute the bad guys and lock them behind bars, that eager to make a difference in the world. Ages had passed since then.

Andrea stepped up next to him at the desk and leaned close, trying to see the manager’s computer screen.

Awareness prickled John’s skin like static electricity. Forcing himself to step a safe distance away, he peered over the manager’s shoulder. Dates, numbers and names were arranged in neat columns on the computer screen.

“Here it is,” the man pointed at the screen. “Wingate Kirkland, delivery. If there had been a pick-up, it would be noted here.”

Maybe Ruthie Banks was mistaken. Maybe she hadn’t seen Ryman’s delivery van hauling away a rug. Maybe she’d seen them delivering it.

Or maybe the computer wasn’t telling the whole story. “Who was the employee who delivered the rug?”

The manager squinted down at the screen. “Sutcliffe. Hank Sutcliffe.”

“Where can I find Mr. Sutcliffe?”

Ryman shrugged his bony shoulders. “Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Sutcliffe quit last week.”

Damn. Just his luck. Now he’d have to track the man down. “What day did he quit?”

“Monday. Didn’t even give two weeks notice. In fact, his last delivery was the one you’re asking about. The one to Wingate Estate.”

“Do you have a forwarding address for him?”

“Afraid not. He said he was moving back to Chicago, but he didn’t leave an address.”

Damn. The lack of a forwarding address would make the job of tracking him down tougher. Not impossible, but more time-consuming. “Where are you going to send his last paycheck?”

“He told me to keep my money. Said he didn’t need it. So unless he changes his mind and comes to collect the check, I’m taking him at his word.”

Interesting. Doubtful a man who worked delivering rugs made so much money he didn’t need his last paycheck. Unless he’d come into a lot of money from another source.

A source that paid him to haul away a blood-soaked rug.

John glanced at Andrea. She watched Ryman, her gaze steady, open, as if she had nothing to hide.

Or was that just what he wanted to see?

Ryman popped his head up from the computer. “I do have a picture of him.”

“A picture?” John glanced at Andrea again. A picture might be helpful for jogging her memory. “Can I see it?”

The manager reached for a stack of glossy advertising flyers balanced on the edge of the desk. Grabbing a flyer, he gave it to John. “Here he is, carrying the rug.”

The flyer was an ad for free rug delivery and pickup with cleaning or purchase. In the center of the photo, a beefy blond Adonis grinned at the camera, his trunk-like arms wrapped around a rolled rug. He handed the advertisement to Andrea. “Recognize him?”

A crease dug into her forehead. Releasing a breath, her face fell. “I’m sorry.”

John fought the need to trace a finger over the lines of frustration tooled in her forehead and around her mouth. As if he could erase them. As if he could make things better for her with the touch of his hand.

He forced himself to turn back to Ryman. If the man had sold the rug to Andrea, he would have recognized her when she walked in the door. But some one must have bought the rug. “Do your records show who bought the rug?”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/ann-peterson-voss/incriminating-passion/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.