Buch lesen: «The Taylor Clan»
Jessica wasn’t even aware that she was screaming
“Jess?”
Sam’s voice broke through the demons. Jessica threw herself against his chest. “I was so scared,” she breathed. Strong arms folded behind her back and pulled her close as she clamped her fists around the waistband of his jeans. She could feel him moving, retreating, pulling her along with him. Away from the unknown danger.
“Are you hurt?” Sam asked softly.
She was surrounded by strength and heat. Her cheek pressed against the warm skin beneath. Bare skin. She breathed in the clean, masculine smell of soap and the earthier scent of the man himself. She was hugging, grasping, clinging…. She waited for the shock of being clutched against a man’s hard chest to undermine the comfort seeping into her. But she was okay. She was okay with this. She was okay with him. She nuzzled her cheek closer.
She needed him.
Unsanctioned Memories
Julie Miller
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.
THE TAYLOR CLAN
| Sid and Martha Taylor: | butcher and homemaker ages 64 and 63 respectively | |
| Brett Taylor: | contractor age 39 the protector | |
| Mac Taylor: | forensic specialist age 37 the professor | |
| Gideon Taylor: | firefighter/arson investigator age 36 the crusader | |
| Cole Taylor: | the mysterious brother age 31 the lost soul | |
| Jessica Taylor: | the lone daughter antiques dealer/buyer/restorer age 29 the survivor | |
| Josh Taylor: | police officer age 28 at 6’3", he’s still the baby of the family the charmer | |
| Mitch Taylor: | Sid’s nephew—raised like a son police captain age 40 the chief |
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jessica Taylor—Only one person knows what happened to her the night she wound up in an emergency room, brutally assaulted and half dead—and it isn’t her. She needs a bodyguard and she needs the truth. Because her attacker wants to finish the job. And what she can’t remember could get her killed.
Sam O’Rourke—FBI agent on an unsanctioned mission. He’ll do anything—or use anyone—to find out who killed his sister and bring the man to justice. Will his quest for vengeance cost him the chance to redeem his frozen heart?
Alex Templeton—Jess’s former lover in Chicago. Meeting the wife ended the affair. For Jess.
Derek Phillips—Jess’s part-time help. He has a serious crush on his boss.
Boyce, Riegert and Winston—Jess’s best customers. But are these mystery men who they claim to be?
Trudy Kent—She might come from old money, but there’s nothing old-fashioned about the way this woman does business.
Charles Kent—The gentleman farmer is buying up parcels of land to keep out the undesirables.
Sheriff Curtis Hancock—Was he Jess’s best line of defense? Or her worst nightmare?
Kerry O’Rourke—Inspiration or excuse?
Harry—The dog knew the truth. He just couldn’t get his mistress to listen.
In memory of Lyn’da Simon Van Slyke.
A gentle soul with a brave heart.
A supportive fan and wonderful influence
on the youth of Nebraska.
I miss our long talks and shared hugs.
She loved her family best—
and I was lucky to have her as my friend.
Contents
Prologue
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
Prologue
“Hell, O’Rourke. Don’t you ever miss?”
With machinelike efficiency, FBI Special Agent Sam O’Rourke reloaded the spent magazine of his Bureau issue Sig Sauer pistol. He adjusted the protective goggles and insulated earphones to tune out the awed skepticism of his partner, Virgil Logan.
Lightly caressing the grip of the pistol between his hands, he took a bead on the image of John Dillinger at the end of the firing range and pictured a faceless man between the sights. Head? Or heart? Did it really matter? He emptied all fifteen rounds into the paper target before acknowledging his partner.
“It’s just a matter of steady hands…” he dumped the spent magazine “…twenty-twenty vision…” he punched the button to pull the target forward “…and nerves like ice.”
Virgil tried to laugh, but the worry lines in his coffee-dark skin had deepened with concern. “Usually a Feeb with sharpshooter status asks for a transfer to a TAC team. But you insisted on staying with drug enforcement.”
“That’s so I could be close to you, pal.”
“Right.” Virg was too smart to buy Sam’s witty repartee, which lacked the heart that used to back it up. He ripped the target off its mounts and counted the holes inside each of the two circles that would constitute a fatal shot. “Fifteen for fifteen.”
Sam released a slowly measured sigh. His grim expertise was about the only thing that gave him comfort and satisfaction anymore.
Each and every one of those bullets had been for Kerry.
His opportunity would come—one day—when he could put away his sister’s murderer. One way or another. And he’d be ready.
“I have to practice to stay efficient with my weapon.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all that practice that has me worried.” Virgil stood by as Sam stripped, cleaned and holstered his weapon. “Chief Dixon thinks the strain of your sister’s rape and murder is proving too much for you.”
A flare of Sam’s Irish temper tried to show itself. “He’s already stuck me on desk duty.”
Virgil put up his hands in surrender, reminding Sam that he was just the messenger. And a concerned, loyal friend. “He wants you to take that bereavement leave. Get your head on straight before you shoot at something you shouldn’t. Before you crack.”
“Is that what you think, too? That I’m about to crack?”
Virgil shook his head. “I know you need the work to get your mind off things.” His partner’s mouth thinned into a grim line. When Virgil Logan got serious, Sam paid attention. “I just don’t want to see you make a mistake that’ll come back and kick you in the chops. I don’t want to see you in a second career as a security guard somewhere because you lost your head.”
Sam inhaled and exhaled deeply. He leaned forward and rested both fists atop the shooting deck. “I’m not trying to screw up anything, Virg. I only want justice done.”
“You know I want that, too. But you gotta give yourself some time to heal. You haven’t taken any time off since the funeral.”
Sam pushed himself up straight and backed out of the booth. “Seeing that bastard lined up in the crosshairs of my gun is the only thing that’ll help me heal.”
Virgil followed him out. “That’s the kind of talk that worries me. You’re a damn good investigator when your head’s on straight.”
They turned and headed for the locker room. “You think the fact that I’m spending extra time on the shooting range means I can’t run an investigation anymore?”
“No. I just don’t want to have to break in a new partner. I had a hell of a time training you.”
“Training me?” Sam twisted up a towel and flicked Virg in the backside before tossing it around his neck, catching the support beneath the gibe. “I love you, too, pal. I promise I won’t be stupid. If I give you my word, will that do?”
They shook hands like men. Then they shook hands in a goofy secret code that only two people who had been friends through the best and worst times of their lives could share.
“That’s all I needed to hear.” Virgil stopped at his locker and opened it. He pulled out a folded slip of paper, rolling it back and forth between his fingers and frowning as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “Because I got some information you’ll be interested in.”
Sam ran his tongue around the rim of his lips and tried not to betray the instant anticipation racing through his veins. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be pushing the regs, not you.”
“I know you’ve been accessing files you don’t have clearance for. Reading hospital records and police reports on rapes that match the MO in Kerry’s case.”
Sam’s jaw shook with the restraint it required to keep from snatching that paper from Virgil’s hands. “So far I’ve matched up four rape-murders with the same binding and strangulation marks, and the souvenir lock of hair cut from the scalp. Kerry here in Boston. One each in Dallas, New York and Miami.” He knew his sister’s case backward and forward. “The Bureau profiler and my gut tells me they were all victims of the same man. In each case the victim was dark-haired. She was single and successful, but she ended up in a bad part of town. She was kidnapped, tortured and ultimately raped. And then, as if that wasn’t enough…”
Sam closed his eyes in a futile effort to block the image of Kerry’s sweet round face bruised and frozen in death. He’d seen dead bodies before. But hers had unnerved him. She was his responsibility. Even as a full-grown woman she’d still been his baby sister. The sassy sweetheart he’d promised his father on his deathbed that he’d protect.
He’d failed.
Oh, God. Sam shook with the force of his emotions. Bile twisted in his gut and tried to poison the good memories he had left of his family. He’d failed. He tilted his head and swallowed hard, forcing down the gag reflex that convulsed throughout his body.
When he was in control of himself once more, he opened his eyes and looked deep into Virgil’s cryptic expression. “Did you locate another vic?” he asked.
“It’s not much. A rape in Chicago. Dark hair with a chunk of it cut off. That was enough to flag it for me. Listed as a Jane Doe.” Virgil handed the paper to Sam. “But there’s one key difference between this case and Kerry’s.”
“What’s that?” Sam unfolded the paper with impatient fingers and read the answer for himself. No. His heart thumped hard against the wall of his chest, trying to hope, trying to believe what his eyes were seeing. “Jane Doe survived the attack.”
In a flurry of movement, Sam removed his holster, peeled off his shirt and hurried toward the showers. A biting sense of urgency nipped at his heels, making every moment too long, too precious to waste. This was the best lead—the only lead—he’d had since Kerry’s murder nearly eight months ago.
An eyewitness.
If it was the same murderous son of a bitch who’d killed Kerry, this vic could ID him. Give him a name, a visual, a voice—anything that he could put in the profile and hunt down.
Virgil followed at a slower pace. “Should I tell the chief that you’ll be taking that bereavement leave now?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t want his partner to get caught in a lie, so he played along. They both knew what he had to do. “Tell Dixon I’m leaving tomorrow. Tonight, if I can get a flight.”
One way or another—sooner rather than later—he was going to track down this Miss Jane Doe.
Chapter One
One Month Later
Jessica first saw him from her porch, walking along the gravel country road, putting a determined distance between each step and the urban sprawl of Kansas City, Missouri. She watched him as he approached the crossroad that divided her property and the Kent estate.
The shaggy black German shepherd mix that lay at her feet shifted his big, rangy body to a sitting position beside her, eyeing the stranger. The dog’s alert curiosity matched her own, and a ripple of uneasiness cascaded down her spine. Trouble was headed their way.
“What do you think, Harry?” she asked, trusting the dog’s judgment and companionship more than she trusted most people’s.
The front porch ran the full length of her one-and-a-half-story log cabin house, situated on the top of a hill. The high-school boy she’d hired for odd jobs around the shop and acreage had just driven home to his parents’ farm for dinner, and the dust kicked up by his speeding truck never even slowed the man’s stride. Rendered ghostlike until the curtain of dust settled, he just kept coming, moving toward the iron gates of her property with a sense of purpose that had her shifting back half a step.
Thrilling anticipation as much as cautious fear revved in her veins and gathered speed as the blood raced from her heart into her tingling extremities. Her lips parted to accommodate the quicker pace of suddenly shallow breaths.
Was he the one? Was he finally coming for her?
Nothing about him seemed familiar. And yet, how could she know?
The dog stood and circled her legs, antsy about her next command. Would she order him to run down the stranger? Stay and protect? Attack?
Jessica shook her head, answering the dog’s unspoken questions. “I don’t like the looks of him, either.”
She slipped back another step, into the shadow of a wooden post. She needed more time to think, more time to make a decision. She needed to remember.
But he just kept coming.
The sun hung low in the western sky, not yet at the point on the horizon that would color the Indian-summer clouds in a palette of orange, pink and gold. Silhouetted against the sun, she could see he was a big man. The pack he carried on his back seemed to hold a whole life’s worth of belongings, from the faded denim jacket tied at the top to the sleeping bag that hit his hips. Yet he carried it all with an easy posture and resolute stride that said he could carry the weight of the world on those broad shoulders. And had.
Jessica reached down and scratched Harry behind the ears, catching up a handful of his longish black coat, which reflected more of his wolfhound heritage than his police dog ancestry. She needed the comfort of contact with another living creature to forestall the sense of impending doom that made her chest seize up. Had she felt this same fear before? Reacted this same way? Had she gone numb with shock like this? Choked on her helpless anger?
“Turn the corner,” she coaxed the stranger beneath her breath. “Walk on by.”
He could turn at the crossroads at the foot of the hill and head east. But long before he neared the brick posts and wood rail fence that surrounded her land, she knew he wasn’t going to turn. He would come right through the gate, saunter up her long gravel driveway and invite himself up to the house.
And he didn’t look like the type of man who’d hiked out into the countryside southeast of Kansas City just to buy antiques at her shop. He paused only to read the carved wooden sign, Log Cabin Antiques. He must have read the hours, knew she’d just closed at six.
Frozen in the shadows, Jessica curled her fingers around Harry’s collar. “Walk on,” she mouthed again.
The stranger’s shoulders heaved in a controlled sigh beneath the taut fit of his faded black T-shirt. Then he lifted his eyes and looked straight at her. Sought her out in the shade of the porch. Made eye contact as if he’d known she’d been watching him all along.
Her breath stuttered out in a rush of panic. Harry growled and barked twice, sensing the exponential swell of his mistress’s fear.
She grabbed the dog by the collar and pulled him inside with her, bolting the door behind them.
She hurried through the tiny living room, past the stairs to her bedroom loft, sidestepped a glass-front display case that housed doll dishes and campaign buttons and slipped into the private nook that doubled as office and dining room. She squatted down out of sight beside the rolltop desk that held her computer and hugged Harry close to her chest. She could scarcely think. Breathe. See.
She was flashing back.
Flashing back to what? she demanded of herself, trying to see through the blind haze of terror that filled her mind. All she could remember was the fear, the sense of being trapped. A business trip and romantic evening gone horribly awry. She could recall that last dinner in Chicago with Alex almost word for word—how angry and heartbroken she’d been. She knew what the doctors and cops had told her when she came to in the hospital more than twenty-four hours later. But she couldn’t remember anything in between.
Twenty-four hours of her life lost in the closed-off fog of a memory, purged by a mind that craved sanity in order to survive.
All she knew was that she should have been dead. That she’d been violated in a way beyond imagining and had lived to tell about it.
Only she couldn’t tell about it.
She couldn’t remember it.
“Damn,” she muttered, as frustrated now as she’d been last March.
She came from a family of cops. Her brothers had taught her how to defend herself, had lectured her on how to be more observant than the average citizen. But it hadn’t been enough. Somehow she’d let them down and he’d gotten to her.
The crunch of gravel beneath a heavy footstep reminded her of the danger at hand. Was he here? Was that him coming closer and closer?
Burying her nose in Harry’s neck, Jessica could feel the dog’s warmth and strength. She could sense his unwavering loyalty and devotion to keeping her safe. He licked her arm, his long, raspy tongue a gentle request for direction and understanding.
“I don’t know, boy.” She hugged him tighter, trading comforts. “I don’t know what to do.”
Hidden in the dining room behind a wall of shelves and an old walnut wardrobe filled with antique dresses and quilts, she could simply lock the doors and hide until the man went away.
But she had a feeling locked doors and windows wouldn’t stop a man like him. She could hide inside the wardrobe itself or lose herself in the aisles of furniture and collectibles she had for sale—and he’d still find her.
Paralyzing fear warred with the less certain instinct to survive. Her brothers had taught her to protect herself. And although she had failed then, she was a different person now. One who was a lot smarter about the harsh realities of life. One who had a lot less to lose.
One who wasn’t done living yet.
Besides, there was really only one way to know if the man who’d come to her remote cabin was him.
And more than anything—more than the fear itself—she wanted to know the truth.
Jessica leaned back and caught the dog’s streamlined jowls between her hands. “You with me, Harry?”
Uncanny intelligence stared back at her from midnight-brown eyes. He’d had one hell of a past, too, before she’d found the giant mutt on death row at the pound. Maybe it took someone who’d survived the worst the world had to offer to understand what she’d been through, what she had to face every day of her life now. Maybe someone could understand—and love her anyway. The dog’s unflinching support actually coaxed a smile out of Jessica.
And inspired a sense of calm that allowed her to think clearly once more. “Let’s go.”
Latching on to Harry’s collar, Jessica pulled against the dog’s weight and stood, quickly unlocking the gun cabinet beside her desk. She pulled out the Remington double-barrel shotgun she used for trap shooting and loaded two rounds. She stuffed two more shells into the front pocket of her jeans, whistled for Harry and headed out the double screened doors onto the back porch.
Matching the full-length porch on the front of the house, this one wasn’t decorated to show off the cabin’s rustic charms. This was a workspace full of rockers that needed recaning, wagons that needed new wheels, a 1910 buggy that needed one of its traces replaced. Wooden boxes, shutters, a washing machine, stools, barrels, trinkets, gadgets. It was a veritable fortress of camouflage, and Jessica used it to her advantage, keeping the faded green buggy between her and the stranger who approached.
“That’s far enough,” she ordered, hugging the rubber butt of the gun against her shoulder and leveling the business end at the center of his chest. It was a broad enough target. And she was a better shot than he could ever imagine. Harry bristled to attention at her side.
The man halted his steps, betraying more curiosity than alarm. “Not exactly the back-door hospitality I’ve heard tell about Missouri.”
His voice was low pitched, smooth as whiskey and tinged with the barest hint of an accent.
And completely unfamiliar to her.
“This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast,” she warned. “It’s private property.”
He tilted the crown of his coal-black hair toward the front gate. “The sign says you sell antiques.”
She held the gun steady, making her message clear. “We’re closed.”
He’d turned from the customer parking lot up the private driveway that bisected the grounds between the cabin and her storage barn. And though she stood three steps above him on the elevated porch, she was almost looking him straight in the eye. And they were the coldest eyes she’d ever seen. Icy gray. Almost colorless behind the squint of his expression. He was a man who didn’t give a damn about anything. It was the best impression he could have made.
That meant he didn’t care about her, either.
“Do you know how to use that thing?” he asked.
He might not be a voice from her past, but he was still trespassing. “Yes.”
“And the dog?” His gaze never shifted off hers.
“I know how to use him, too.”
“Look, lady, I don’t—” He raised his hands in mock surrender and took half a step forward.
It was all the provocation she needed. “Harry, sic.”
The snarling black powerhouse leaped from the porch and charged the man at a dead run. But despite the stranger’s big size, his reflexes were quick. Before Harry lunged for his forearm, the man whipped the huge pack off his back and wielded it like a shield, absorbing the brunt of Harry’s first blow. One hundred and twenty pounds of charging canine knocked the man back a couple of steps.
Harry bared his teeth and menaced in a horrible growl as he lunged again. The man used the pack to buffet the second attack. He twisted and blocked, countering Harry each time the dog tried to latch on to something with flesh.
The man was either trained in self-defense or damn lucky. But he would tire long before Harry ever surrendered. “Lady!”
Jessica almost smiled. Good boy. If Harry could best this man, she’d have a lot less reason to be afraid of him. “You lie down flat on the ground and I’ll call him off.”
Harry had a chunk of the backpack between his teeth now, and the attack had turned into a desperate tug-of-war. The man couldn’t surrender his grasp or he’d be defenseless at the next charge. “Fine. Call him off.”
“Harry, sit!” she commanded.
The dog obeyed, plopping down on his haunches beside the man’s shoulder as he dropped his pack and threw himself prostrate onto the swath of fading grass at the center of her driveway. The man lay perfectly still beneath the dog’s watchful eye.
Harry panted from the exertion, licking his muzzle, then letting his tongue loll out the side of his mouth. The man was catching his breath, too. But the instant he moved, a big black paw settled onto his shoulder and he went still.
“Is this how you greet all your customers?”
“You’re no customer.” Lowering the gun from her cheek and shoulder, she kept it trained in his general direction and left her finger near the trigger. “What do you want?”
SAM WASN’T READY to answer that question truthfully. He hadn’t expected a warm, trusting welcome when he showed up with his vagrant cover story, but he was a little surprised to be greeted by a backwoods, Hatfield and McCoy, you’s-trespassin’-on-my-land routine.
Where was the professional businesswoman with an eye for beauty and a penchant for history his contact in Chicago had told him about? Her face matched the newspaper photo of the elegant brunette at a museum exhibition opening he’d found in the Chicago Tribune archives—the same face the attending E.R. nurse had confirmed as his Jane Doe rape survivor.
He’d spent three weeks piecing together nebulous clues and putting a name to the face of the woman he was searching for. Then he’d run a background profile on her. And now he was here.
This was Jessica Taylor.
His Jane Doe had a name. And a definite attitude.
He suspected that earning her trust wouldn’t be easy. Without the sanction of the Bureau, and with little more than a hunch to go on that she would be the break he needed in order to find Kerry’s killer, Sam couldn’t conduct a normal investigation. He needed to get to know Jessica Taylor better than he knew his own partner. He needed to become her very best friend and get her to start talking. About Chicago. Her attack. How she escaped.
Who did it.
Either she’d been too terrified to give a useful report to Chicago PD, or her attacker had been too crafty—too intimidating—for her to recall much. He might even have done a little brainwashing on her. Sam intended to find a way inside her head and learn the truth. Learn enough so he could match up her attacker to Kerry’s and track him down.
But with that pump-action shotgun pointed his way and this hairy, black beast standing over him, his covert mission would be damn near impossible.
Kerry had always teased that it had skipped a generation, but Sam wondered if he could dredge up any of his father’s Belfast charm. Lifting his cheek from the scraggly grass and dirt, he tried to restart the conversation. “What kind of dog is this?”
“The very protective kind.”
Idly, Sam wondered if she’d always sounded this hard. Judging by the resonant tone and sultry pitch of her voice, Ms. Taylor could sound downright sexy if she softened up her articulation and dropped the sarcastic wit. It was probably an unfortunate byproduct of the attack. He’d be curious to know what other feminine attributes she was trying to hide.
Irrelevant, a stern inner voice warned him. Though curiosity was not the same as attraction, he wanted to argue, Sam wisely ignored the deviation from his quest. He turned his nose to the ground and inhaled the dank, musty smell of the dirt that reminded him of Kerry’s funeral—reminded him of why he was here. “So I gathered. He looks like a black shepherd, but his muzzle is broader. And obviously he’s bigger than any German shepherd I’ve seen.”
“He’s a German shepherd, Irish wolfhound mix.” Irish, huh? Maybe the hairy beast had some redeemable qualities, after all. “He was too big and too smart for his previous owners. But he suits me.”
Sam tried to move his head so he could actually look at Jessica, but apparently the dog didn’t feel the connection of their Irish roots. The growl in his throat became a deafening bark and a flash of sharp, white teeth. Sam forced his body to relax and resumed his prone position on the grass. “He seems well trained.” He’d worked with K-9 units before, but had never been on the receiving end of such training. No wonder the perps usually surrendered without much of a fight.
“He is.”
“I didn’t show up by chance, Miss Taylor.” He heard her feet shift their solid stance on the wooden floorboards, the first flinch in her protective armor. He’d called her by name. Better retreat a step. Even up the playing field. “I’m Sam O’Rourke. The clerk at the convenience store up on the Highway 50 intersection gave me your name and directions. If you let me have a chance, I can explain why I’m here.” Silence. Damn, she was a hard nut to crack. “Do you need the dog and the gun both?”
“I don’t know yet.”
It was hard to be charming with his face pressed to the dirt and a wolfhound-shepherd beast sitting on his shoulder. Kerry had been right. He’d always done better with a more direct approach.
“Look, I can see this was a mistake. The guy at the store said your regular help wasn’t able to put in enough hours and that you were desperate for an extra hand around the place.” He looked around slyly and noted the overgrown patches of grass taking over the gravel parking lot and driveway, the dead branches of stately elms that needed trimming, the rust on the red-and-white metal storage barn, the tarp-shrouded load in the back of a pickup truck waiting to be unloaded. The man hadn’t lied. “But he must have been mistaken. If you let me up, I’ll go back into town and find work somewhere else.”
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