Buch lesen: «Protecting His Brother's Bride»

Sixteen years ago I drove sixty miles on a Thursday night to attend a Heart of Iowa Fiction Authors meeting. I brought along ten single-spaced pages of my manuscript, which I’d printed on lavender paper. No one laughed at me. I received nothing but encouragement and amazing advice. Thank you, Roxanne Rustand, Kylie Brant and Cindy Gerard for being such great roomies at the conference and for including me in all your fun.

When we moved to Kansas nearly six years ago, I connected with a critique partner, Sarah Cannon. We kept each other going when it might have been easier to give up. And thank goodness we didn’t give up, because 2014 was the year we both sold manuscripts to Mills & Boon. It’s been an exciting ride and one that wouldn’t have been possible for either one of us without the unwavering support of Mills & Boon® Intrigue author Angi Morgan. Besides being my toughest critic, she’s also my best friend. I am lucky beyond measure to have her in my life.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“I am not a criminal,” Kira Kincaid announced to the female FBI agent who watched her every move. On the contrary, Kira was an upstanding example of citizenship. “I never even drive over the speed limit.” The fact that she didn’t own a car was inconsequential.

“Save it for the judge,” her keeper barked.

Kira pressed the cup to her lips and finished the last drop of water. She wished she had more. The third-floor interrogation room faced west and the late-August sun was outpacing the air-conditioning.

Rocking back and forth in the seat, she focused on trying to calm her nerves while preparing for what would happen next. Every police drama she’d ever seen replayed in her head. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. The only attorney she knew was Marissa Reynolds, a neighbor in her apartment complex.

Sitting there in shock, Kira didn’t know how much time passed. She also didn’t know how she remained so calm. Shock could do that to a person, she guessed. Even so, she had enough sense to refuse answering any questions until her attorney arrived. She sat quietly in the interrogation room, handcuffs removed, but with one agent left to supervise her actions. Where would she go?

She’d gone out of her way to avoid direct contact with Marissa, but Kira could deal with the interaction if it meant the difference between going home and spending the night in jail. After having messy fingerprints and a horrible mug shot taken, she had used her one allotted phone call.

The door swung open and Marissa Reynolds hurried in, giving Kira a quick once-over before a glance to the agent sent the woman from the room.

“I’m sorry you had to wait. I was right in the middle of an adoption.”

Kira pressed a fingernail into her palm to keep the tears at bay. Adoptions meant babies were getting new families. Marissa dealt with children every day, which was part of the reason they could never move beyond the boundaries of exchanging pleasantries in the hallway of their apartment complex.

Kira had stopped at Marissa’s once to borrow Scotch tape and nearly had a meltdown in her kitchen. Marissa’s refrigerator was covered in pictures. Snapshots of babies and toddlers offered an unwelcome reminder of what Kira had lost.

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

Marissa pulled out a chair, sat and dropped the notepad she’d been holding on the table. “I’m not a criminal attorney, but I can refer you to someone who is.”

“I’ve been set up,” Kira insisted. “I know who’s responsible.”

“Then you need to cooperate with the FBI.” Marissa was all business as she paused to straighten her lapel and brush away invisible lint.

Cooperate with the FBI? Kira had come too far for that option to sound feasible. And if they had any proof against her, dollars to doughnuts it was Griffin who’d once again left her a hair’s breadth away from learning his true identity. He’d also promised a fate worse than being arrested.

Two men entered the room after a quick tap on the door. Their FBI badges were flipped open on their jacket pockets. Marissa stood to greet them. Introductions and handshakes were exchanged, and Marissa asked to see the warrant for Kira’s arrest. Kira already knew what it said—the United States Government, Judicial District 47, was charging her with twenty-two counts of insurance fraud and fifteen counts of identity theft. And to add insult to injury, there were three counts of embezzlement. All Kira could do was sit and stare in dumbfounded silence.

“Mrs. Kincaid, you seem to have gotten in quite a pickle,” Agent Nissen said, sitting at the table with them. “Fortunately, it’s not you we’re after.”

He dropped a file in front of Marissa. She opened it and scanned the page.

“Eleven million dollars?” Marissa snapped the file shut and looked at Kira, not questioning the agent.

The second agent leaned against the wall. “We’re after the bigger fish and the money.”

“Meaning Justice is ready to make a deal to recover the cash,” Agent Nissen said.

Three pairs of eyes turned to Kira.

“You seriously think I embezzled eleven million dollars? I’m an insurance investigator. I only have three hundred dollars in my checking account. I didn’t steal anything.”

“Tell us what you know,” Agent Nissen insisted. “Start with the account under your maiden name holding eight hundred thousand dollars.”

“You’re married?” Marissa tipped her head to the side, her eyes reflecting betrayal. No one in their apartment building knew Kira was married. It was a lot easier not to discuss how she’d been abandoned.

“It’s been a while. Things didn’t work out.” Understatement of the year. “If an account still exists, then it’s news to me.”

“Here’s a listing of wire transfers into that account spanning the last four years, including one just two weeks ago.” Agent Nissen slid a sheet of paper across the table.

Kira would never in a million years waste fifty dollars on a single wire transfer, let alone continue doing it for several years. Her thrifty nature was common knowledge. She always packed a lunch and rode the bus rather than wasting money on a car, insurance and gas.

The numbers staring back at her contained too many commas and zeroes. But the paper also listed her full name, with the last four digits of her social security number. “Anyone can rent a PO box under my name and pay cash to hide their identity.”

“Is that how you did it?” Agent Nissen asked.

Kira ignored the jab. “What about this account in the Cayman Islands? Whose name is listed on it?”

Another sheet of paper sailed across the table. “Recognize that signature?”

“I recognize the name,” she conceded. “But that isn’t my signature.” She grabbed Marissa’s pen and signed her name on the first sheet of paper, shoving both across the table to Agent Nissen.

After studying the page for a moment, he shrugged. “We have plenty of other evidence linking you to these crimes.” He pulled a few more sheets from the folder. “Video of you from the bank in Denver, airline manifests showing frequent trips to Colorado, the Cayman Islands and your condo in Florida.”

“Stop.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose and took a cleansing breath. “This is absurd. Beyond absurd, it’s ludicrous. I’ve never been to Florida, let alone the Caymans.”

“The evidence tells a different story.” The second agent had a note of superiority in his voice, almost as if he was taking too much pleasure in tightening the invisible noose around her neck.

Whatever fear existed in her before was gone, along with her initial shock. This was wrong, plain and simple. “What is it you want from me?”

“We want evidence against your partners. This scheme is too well orchestrated for one person.” Nissen ticked off his list by unfolding his fingers. “We want to know how it was done. Obviously, the safeguards in place at the federal level are not enough to deter every criminal.”

“Terms for immunity?” Marissa’s voice was clipped.

“The money, or nothing else is negotiable.”

“What if she agrees to sign over the funds in those accounts?” Marissa held up her hand before Kira could protest.

“This isn’t a fine on an overdue library book, Ms. Reynolds. Your client is looking at some serious time behind bars, whether or not the money is returned.” Agent Nissen tugged at his shirt cuff and checked his watch. “We’ll give you a few minutes to confer with her.”

Marissa followed them to the door and verified that it was closed before turning to Kira. “I’m really disappointed in you.”

“Why?” It hurt knowing Marissa believed anything Agent Nissen said.

“You’ve got a condo in Florida and haven’t invited me along even once?” She shook her head. “I thought we were friends.”

“I didn’t do this,” Kira insisted. “Marissa, you have to believe me.” Kira needed to know that at least one person was on her side. No one from Midwest Mutual had rushed to her defense when she’d been handcuffed and marched out of the office earlier today.

“I obviously don’t know everything about you.” A smile worked its way across the attorney’s face. “But I do know that you’re afraid to fly.”

Kira’s relief was evident in the hug she offered Marissa. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she insisted. “First we need to get you arraigned and released.”

Kira had to pull herself together. Equal parts anger and angst rolled through her veins. Anger at Geoff Griffin, the man who’d managed to elude all her attempts to link him to the stack of claims the audit department funneled her direction every month. Griffin was the only one who’d figured out that she’d spent quite a bit of her free time away from Midwest Mutual, working every angle she could come up with. How in the world had he known about her off-the-books investigation?

The only positive in this fiasco was that she now had confirmation that her activities were making him nervous. Was it his goal to see her in prison? From every document she’d obtained, she knew the man covered his tracks too well. Someone inside Midwest Mutual must be helping him. It was the only explanation for his ability to know her every move.

The bank account was a bonus. Just further proof that her husband was a control freak and had failed to follow through on one more of his promises. Kira thought of the divorce papers that were gathering dust in her bill organizer. Even when she’d made the effort to erase his memory, he’d avoided the sheriff’s attempt to serve him with the papers.

Why hadn’t she tried harder to track him down? She wanted to forget their relationship, right? So what did it say about her that she remained linked to him?

And now, angst over the latest revelation that she was somehow involved. The bank account the FBI had found was much too convenient. It also meant she’d have to make a concerted effort to find her almost ex-husband. Josh could sweet-talk his way out of walking naked through a ladies’ Bible study. Yes, he was that charming. Totally untrustworthy, but charming...like a snake.

She had only herself to blame. This is what happened when you trusted the wrong person. This is what happened when impulse overruled common sense. And this is exactly what happened when you lived a lie without giving any consideration to the consequences.

She’d survived far worse than this, hadn’t she?

It was time for her to demand answers from the man who’d left her broken and alone. If it meant the difference between prison and freedom, she would use every morsel of information she’d gathered to track him down.

Chapter 1

Dalton Matthews slapped the sawdust from his well-worn jeans and scowled at the gray Ranger pickup parked a half mile or so down the gravel lane to his house. It was a little late for the welcome wagon to come knocking, since he’d no longer be considered a newcomer. If his streak of bad luck continued, another snooty reporter from News Channel 9 was probably close enough for him to strangle.

He scanned the area and then jogged down the road to check for the intruder. Anger swelled and added to his frustration when he found the truck unoccupied. He stared inside the unlocked cab. The keys hung from the ignition and a black leather purse was sideways on the seat amid some fast-food wrappers and a few empty water bottles. But the most interesting item of all was a digital camera partially hidden under a road atlas.

Damn the paparazzi for their never-ending attempts to breach his privacy and twist the knife deeper in his gut. He should have known they wouldn’t allow him a moment’s peace. Not with Gossip Girl magazine offering three hundred grand for any picture of him in exile.

He swiped the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. Let the owner hike to the main road and hitch a ride. Or maybe he’d call the sheriff and have them arrested for trespassing. As an afterthought, he removed the memory card from the camera and pocketed it, as well.

As he retraced his steps to the house, he noticed the door to the storage shed swaying in the breeze. He was certain he’d closed it earlier after placing extra lumber inside. He scanned the yard once more before checking his pockets for his phone. Maybe he ought to call the sheriff first and delay a confrontation.

Instead, he rushed to the building’s entrance and shouldered his way inside. His annoyance ratcheted up another notch when, even in the dimly lit space, he spotted the trespasser picking her way through various pieces of scrap wood littering the floor.

A woman with blond hair falling below her shoulders and a shapely rear end clad in faded blue jeans.

“What are you doing out here?”

The startled woman pivoted and stumbled, tripping on the uneven surface and pitching sideways. He instinctively extended his arms, but he wasn’t nearly close enough to break her fall. She whacked her head on one of the wide wooden support beams and crumpled to the floor.

He was paralyzed by memories of another time and another woman. His attempts at revival had been futile back then. The sickness of that moment clogged his throat, as it had so frequently in the early days. He’d clutched a lifeless form in his arms while he’d bargained with God for another chance.

Hurrying forward now, he knelt beside the stranger and moved a length of hair from her brow while avoiding the cut over her right eye. Blood flowed down her temple, forming a small puddle near her ear. He lifted her in his arms and strode outside, hoping the late-afternoon sun would provide a better view of her injury.

She was softer than he remembered a woman being, probably because his memories of the opposite sex were in the distant past. A pink lacy bra was visible beneath her green short-sleeved shirt. Only a pervert would recognize a front-hook bra on an unconscious woman. One more reason for annoyance to fuel his actions.

He shifted her in his arms and forced his eyes away from her undergarments as he crossed the last thirty feet to the house. Spying another large scrape on her forearm brought him to a halt. What if she needed an ambulance?

He didn’t relish the thought of alerting anyone to his location or having her arrested so she could blab to the highest bidder. Right now he needed to make sure she was all right and stem off any possible lawsuit she might have in mind. People got a bit crazy when they had their sights set on some easy money, a lesson he wished he’d never learned.

After taking the front porch steps two at a time, he caught the bottom corner of the screen door with his booted foot and kicked it open. His living room rivaled an obstacle course. All the kitchen appliances and furniture had been relocated to the small room because the new granite countertops hadn’t arrived yet. The path to the stairwell was tight, forcing him to turn sideways and adjust his hold on the woman when her feet caught on his oversize recliner.

He maneuvered the narrow stairway to the second floor, slipped into the first doorway and laid her on the unmade bed. She looked so out of place, and so pale, with the dark circles rimming her eyes matching the shade of gray from the sheets covering the mattress. He caught himself reaching for her wrist and counting the beats before he comprehended he’d been holding his breath. This woman had a pulse, unlike Lauren.

He dropped her hand and stepped away from the bed, working to calm his racing heart. He never relived the day he’d found Lauren without the benefit of a strong drink. But all the same, the image was there, sinking into the gap in his brain he hadn’t managed to fill despite the physical labor blending the days together.

The woman moaned, one ashen forearm covering her eyes as she rolled closer to the side of the bed. He jerked forward, catching her shoulders before she could topple to the floor. She shuddered in his grasp as he settled her against the pillow and pressed a handful of tissues against her injury.

Her eyes opened a fraction of an inch and long lashes fluttered against the brow already shadowed with purple, predicting an impending bruise. Lifting her hand to her forehead, she winced, before glaring at him with utter contempt. “You hit me?”

“Of course not.” Perhaps she’d used this ploy before.

“You must have,” she said, as her gaze bounced around the sparsely furnished room. “Where am I?”

“You’re lost,” he offered, seriously tipping the scales in the generosity department. This little fiasco had scam written all over it, and he was through playing the game.

Removing his cell phone from his pocket, he scrolled to find the number of the local police department. Pausing before hitting the send button, he shifted his gaze to the trespasser, resigned to giving up his anonymity in order to get her out of his hair. “Maybe the sheriff can help you find your way.”

A thunderous boom rocked the house, shattering the bedroom window and sending shards of glass and chunks of metal hurling through the air.

Dalton lurched forward, eliciting an ungrateful cry from the woman. She bucked like a bull out of the chute, rolling them both to the floor. He used his elbows to keep from crushing her with his full weight.

Evidently gratitude wasn’t in her vocabulary, because Ms. Con-Artist-Extraordinaire kicked his shin and tried twisting out of his hold. He allowed his full weight to drop on top of her, pinning her to the floor. But if he thought the explosion in front of the house was his utmost worry, he’d been mistaken. The angry glint in her bright green eyes warned him the game wasn’t over. She kicked once more, drawing his attention to a lump pressing against his kneecap.

“Get off me.” Her painted fingernails were little spikes through his shirt as she shoved at his chest.

“Lie still.” He held her in place as she squirmed beneath him. She was a lot stronger than he’d expected. Her labored breathing warmed his chin and her continued movements succeeded in firing more than his temper. Those sizzling emerald eyes promised retribution for her confinement. He reached between them, shoving the denim up her leg, revealing a leather ankle holster.

“What’s this?”

Bad enough the scam artist had accused him of assaulting her and then managed to blow up a good portion of his house; she also had a concealed weapon.

“It’s not what you think.” She bucked her hips beneath his in a feeble attempt to break free.

“Don’t even start.” He double-checked the safety before releasing her and hauling himself to his feet. Inspecting the magazine, he half hoped it would be empty. No such luck. One bullet was chambered and another eight remained in the clip.

After shoving the clip into place, he kept the weapon aimed at her while sliding closer to the window. The woman’s truck was fully engulfed in bright orange flames.

“Your truck exploded.”

“What?” She sat up, appearing genuinely shocked by the news.

“Not part of your plan?”

“No. Why would I blow up a rental?” Inhaling a shaky breath, she swiped at pieces of glass stuck to her palms.

“Maybe you should have put more thought into your plan, whatever that may be.” Sparks ignited the dry grass around the truck. His anger with the woman slid to a nonpriority. Alerting the fire department was his first.

Dalton crossed the room, collected the remainder of his cell and disgustedly tossed it aside. “Where’s your phone?”

“I don’t have one.” She remained seated on the floor.

“Empty your pockets.” He didn’t believe a word she spoke.

After wiping a spattering of blood on her jeans, she shifted to her knees and dug her hand into her pockets. A handful of change clattered to the floor along with a lip balm, a few dollars and a piece of gum.

“I told you the truth.”

“I doubt it.” Now what was he supposed to do with her? From the corner of his eye he noticed movement beyond the tree line. Another armed trespasser?

“Who else is out there?” He held the gun on the woman and watched her accomplice making his way to the back of the barn.

“How would I know?” Her eyes darted to the doorway and then returned to the weapon in his hand. “I want my gun.”

He flat out laughed at the request. Smoke from the explosion reached his nostrils, reminding him of the urgent need to control the fire.

“Get up,” he ordered, wordlessly promising to drag her off the floor if she didn’t comply. He reached for the simple wooden chair that had survived more than a century of abuse at the hands of his family.

“You can’t keep me here. What if the fire spreads?” Was that genuine fear or insolence lacing every word?

“Wanna bet?” He dropped the chair at her feet and shoved the weapon into the back of his jeans. He pulled out his pocketknife and cut through a section of sheet, quickly ripping it in half. A second later her shoe sailed through the air and bounced off his cheek, before she bolted for the door. He chased her into the hallway, catching her around the waist and pulling her back into his bedroom.

“Let me go,” she hollered. Her elbows and feet connected with various parts of his body as she tried ineffectually to get free. “Ouch, you’re hurting me.”

“And you’re really pissing me off, cupcake.” He dropped her onto the chair. Pulling her arms together in back, he slipped a wide section of sheet around her wrists and tied a double knot. Then he moved in front of her to secure her legs to the chair.

“You’re going to be sorry you messed with me,” she threatened, already trying to work her way free.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Dalton demanded. Her immediate silence surprised him. He should’ve been grateful for the reprieve.

He glanced out the window once more. The blonde bomber’s cohort was skirting the shed with a gun clutched in his hand. Armed paparazzi or kidnappers hoping to extract a big ransom? It didn’t make sense for them to blow up their own getaway vehicle.

Dalton may have briefly forgotten the Coast Guard’s motto, Semper Paratus, Latin for Always Ready, but having a gun in his hand again brought his training to the forefront. His muscles twitched in anticipation, not unlike the first time he’d boarded a vessel in the Gulf of Mexico and helped his team seize a shipment of cocaine bound for the United States.

He slipped off the safety and approached the open doorway. Glancing once more at the troublesome woman, he stifled a brief flicker of guilt over leaving her without a way to protect herself. But she’d already burned through his goodwill. Judging her an enemy instead of an ally was self-preservation in its simplest form. As jaded as it sounded, it was easy to slip back into the role that had shaped his early life.

Chair legs scraped across the floor, but he didn’t have any more time to waste on her. He needed the landline downstairs and it would take a minute to push his way to it. Phone, firemen and, unfortunately, another round with the police. Maybe it was time to hire some private security and stop depleting the sheriff department’s resources. Then again, his donations had already funded two new patrol vehicles and trained a K-9 dog. What next?

* * *

Smoke billowed in an upward spiral close to the house, tainting the breeze, which had earlier carried the scent of autumn. Kira’s head pounded an irregular rhythm, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to overcome the nausea bubbling in her stomach. Convincing herself that being sick wasn’t an option, she tried piecing together a plan. This was the place, she was almost certain. That shed outside hadn’t been here before, but there was something familiar about this room.

Why hadn’t she blurted out the question she wanted answered? Do you know Joshua Kincaid? That’s what normal people did—they asked questions. She was terrified the man would say no, because she’d run out of options, chances and luck.

Nothing to lose. She wiggled in the chair. The tiny thumb drive wedged in her bra beneath her left breast pinched, confirming it was still in place. Considering her jarring fall to the floor and being manhandled by the impatient ogre in a lumberjack shirt, it was a miracle. Maybe ogre was an exaggeration, but he looked and felt solid enough to play the man in the Brawny commercials.

Most people backed up their computer files. But some people, like Kira, went a little crazy. She had an external hard drive for her home computer and several flash drives she rotated through. The FBI thought they’d confiscated everything, but they didn’t know about the online backup site she used. Some secrets would always be safe as long as they didn’t fall out of her bra.

Straining her neck to the right, she shifted enough to see past the valance hanging lopsided from one of the two front windows. A six-inch pane of glass remained intact, but the rest was reduced to various sized pellets littering the hardwood floor.

Nearly four years had passed since she and Josh had spent the weekend here and he’d proposed. If Kira thought too much about how she’d arrived back here, she’d never dig herself out of the darkness.

Josh had effectively fallen into a black hole. She had no idea where he’d gone after their separation, and she had to find him. Her desperation had led her to the obituaries, numerous social networking sites and every phone number for every Kincaid in the Midwest. No one knew him or was related to him. Josh couldn’t have disappeared without a trace. Okay, she’d found a trace in the form of a joint tax return he’d filed, managing to collect a refund.