16,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Suspense Thrillers and Romantic Suspense Collection Books 1 – 5 Trust Me Once Twice Burned Triple Threat Fourth Victim Five in a Row Five Complete Novels That Will Keep You on the Edge of Your Seat!
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 2515
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Ähnliche
SUSPENSE THRILLERS & ROMANTIC SUSPENSE COLLECTION
Books 1 - 5
JAN COFFEY
withMAY MCGOLDRICK
Book Duo Creative
In the event that you enjoy any of these novels, please consider sharing the good word by leaving a review, or connect with the authors. Thanks!
Jan Coffey Suspense Thrillers & Romantic Suspense Collection: Books 1-5. Copyright © 2023 by Nikoo and Jim McGoldrick
Individual titles previously published by Harlequin/Mira
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.
CONTENTS
Trust Me Once
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Edition Note
Author’s Note
Twice Burned
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Edition Note
Author’s Note
Triple Threat
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Edition Note
Authors’ Note
FOURTH VICTIM
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Edition Note
Author’s Note
FIVE IN A ROW
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Edition Note
Author’s Note
Also by Jan Coffey, Nik James, and May McGoldrick
About the Author
To Donald Maass, agent and friend…
for believing in this book from the start
and for helping to shape it into what it has become.
To Miranda Stecyk Indrigo and Dianne Moggy,
editors par excellence,
for your insight and your guidance,
and for your unflagging effort.
PROLOGUE
Adult Correctional Institute, Rhode Island
August 2, 2001
The black Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of the gray stone building. The driver of the car lowered the tinted passenger window and stared across thirty feet of concrete at the armed guard, who was frowning with scarcely veiled disgust from behind bulletproof glass. Sweating profusely, the driver flipped the air conditioner to high and turned his head toward the line of concrete barriers leading from the prison’s gate to where he sat waiting.
Moments later, a heavy door swung open, and a tall, athletic man in jeans and a black polo shirt emerged. The driver, grunting as he leaned his ponderous body across the center console, pushed open the passenger door, and the inmate climbed nimbly inside.
In a few minutes, the Mercedes had passed beyond the outer gate. Frankie O’Neal, his sausage-like fingers wrapped around the wheel in a death grip, kept glancing into the rearview mirror as he picked up speed. They passed the sign pointing toward the Interstate and made the turn.
Letting out a half-sigh of relief, the driver wiped away the beads of perspiration from beneath his lower lip before lighting a cigarette. He looked over at his passenger. “How much time, Jake?”
Jake Gantley’s eyes flicked toward his cousin. In a single motion, one hand went to the power window button while the other snatched the cigarette from between Frankie’s lips. Jake crushed the cigarette in his fist as he tossed it out of the car.
“This stuff will kill you, Frankie. Don’t you watch TV...or read?” His mouth turned up in a half smile. “And secondhand smoke is even worse, you know.”
“Stop screwing around, Jake.” Frankie’s eyebrows, already a straight line connecting above the bridge of his nose, bunched up in agitation. From the driver’s side control panel, he rolled up Jake’s window and glanced nervously again at the mirrors. “I asked how much time!”
Jake Gantley glanced into the back seat and smiled. “You brought my suit.” He reached over and pulled the plastic-wrapped garment onto his lap. “And you had it cleaned.”
The driver banged a heavy hand against the steering wheel. “Come on, Jake! Of course I brought your suit. You never do a fucking job without wearing your suit.” He put another cigarette to his lips, then immediately raised a hand protectively. “And you mind your own goddamn business about my health. Now, are you gonna tell me how much time we have or not?”
“Look at you, Frankie. You’re a fat pig. You smoke. And you worry too much, besides. Last month’s New England Journal of Medicine had an article about stress. I’ll send it to you.”
The driver rolled his eyes and gnawed at a sore on his lip while his passenger changed his clothes. A few moments later, Frankie watched his cousin knot his tie in the mirror.
“Listen, Jake. This is important. I need to know when you hafta—”
“Have you collected?”
“What? Yeah, of course. Half the full amount. As usual.” Frankie glanced over and found himself beginning to relax. All dressed up—his thinning hair combed back, his tie in place, the gray eyes in that cold squint—Jake Gantley had finally joined him. Frankie leaned forward and ran his fingers along the side of the center console until he felt the button beneath the carpeting. As he pressed it, a panel behind the gearshift popped open, revealing a hidden compartment. He pulled out a leather case and handed it to Jake. “How much time?”
“Five hours.” Jake unzipped the case, slipped the chrome-plated 9mm handgun from its holster and ran a hand over the gleaming metal. Laying the weapon on the floor, he attached the holster to his belt. Then, with movements that were slow—almost reverent—he picked up the pistol, slid in a cartridge clip, and placed it in the holster.
“So we have to leave Newport no later than quarter after four.” Frankie was still counting hours on his watch. “Jeez. Five hours furlough? That’s not long enough.”
“That’s plenty long enough for this little lady, Frankie.” Jake turned his cold smile on the driver. “We’ll have time to kill.”
* * *
The rambling Tudor mansion stretched out atop its perch of grass and rock in the attitude of a lion, lazy and regal, its face raised in the afternoon sun as if testing the breezes for a scent of supper.
Beneath the rocky bluff that dropped off fifty feet to the Atlantic Ocean, waves crashed in between massive boulders. The salty wind, cool and refreshing despite the blazing sun, swept over the gray slate roof of the mansion, past the dozen chimneys, and on across the lawns of Astors and Vanderbilts and Whitneys. No force of nature on this day could disturb these century-old monuments to bygone elegance and power.
Inside, at one end of the Tudor estate, in a spacious apartment looking out over the sea, the sound of the surf was drowned out by the hammering beat of Pearl Jam. The music, loud enough to vibrate the neatly arranged prints of Cézanne and Cassatt and Van Gogh, emanated from speakers tucked amid the books lining several walls. Oblivious to the volume of the music, a young woman came down the stairs to the ground floor, her body moving to the beat as she descended.
A step from the bottom, she halted, switching the phone from one ear to the other. She looked impatiently at her watch and shook her head.
“Come on...come on...come on!”
She caught her reflection in an antique mirror hanging on the wall opposite the stairs and scrutinized her image.
“Come on, lady. I have places to go. People to see.”
Placing the phone in the crook of her neck, she ran a hand through her crop of short blond hair and then stepped closer to the mirror. She tightened the back of a gold loop dangling from her earlobe, and brushed her fingers across her cheeks to blend in the blush she’d just applied upstairs. A moment later, satisfied with the face staring back at her, she pushed open the kitchen door. A voice crackled through the phone, and her body tensed.
“Yes! Of course I’m still on the line. For ten minutes I’ve been holding...No, I can’t hold another—”
Banging the phone on the counter, she frowned and took a deep breath as she was again put on hold. Glowering, she yanked open the door of the fridge and took out a Diet Pepsi. Kicking the door closed, she stalked into the living room, soda in hand.
Her eyes scanned the room, coming to rest on a large mahogany desk in the corner. A few reference books sat beside a felt desk blotter, and the answering machine at the other end was partially obscured by newspapers and some ten-year-old photographs in a variety of silver frames. She had no sooner reached the desk when a voice again issued from the telephone.
“I’m here, and don’t you put me on hold again. Wait a minute, I can’t hear you.” She plunked the can of soda on the desk and hurriedly crossed to the stereo receiver, twisting the volume knob. “Okay, go ahead. No response to the page? Okay. Are you absolutely certain she’ll get the message? You’re sure?”
As the voice on the other end spoke briefly, the blonde-haired woman frowned again.
“Okay. Maybe it’s still too early for her to be there. Just have her call me...Yeah...No, I’m not going anywhere. Just be sure the message says it’s important. Good! Thanks a lot.”
Punching the button on the phone, she tossed it onto a chair. She was clearly thinking of other things as her fingers automatically cranked up the volume on the stereo. Crossing the room to the desk, she reached over the newspapers and picture frames and switched off the answering machine.
“This next call is for me, honey.” Picking up the can of soda, she was again halfway up the stairs when the sound of the doorbell spun her around.
“Thatta girl. You found it.” She bounced down the stairs to the front entrance.
As she pulled open the door, two telephones—the one on the desk and the one on the chair where she’d dropped it—started to ring. She turned her head in surprise but then looked around at the open door as a man stepped across the threshold. She took an involuntary step backward into the room.
“Just a sec...”
Her eyes widened as he lifted the muzzle of a pistol to roughly a foot from her nose. There was no time for thinking—never mind reacting—before he squeezed the trigger, firing two bullets in rapid succession into what had once been a very pretty face.
1
Rhode Island
August 16, 2001
Out of nowhere, the headlights appeared behind her, blinding Sarah with their intensity. Blinking her eyes against the glare, she tilted the mirror and hit the rear defrost button again.
“A lovely night for tailgating,” she murmured, cracking the driver’s window.
Sarah fished into her bag on the floor of the passenger side and pulled out her friend Tori’s wallet. Flipping it open, she held it up into the light from the car behind her as she glanced again at the contents. The money, the credit cards, the California driver’s license were all there. A pang of guilt settled in her stomach. She could just imagine all the trouble the young woman must have been through over the past two weeks. Sarah knew first-hand what a pain it could be, replacing all this stuff.
Wind-driven rain continued to slash at the windshield, and Sarah peered through the darkness, trying to ignore the vehicle on her tail.
It was easy to see when it had happened. Earlier on the same day Sarah had left for Ireland, she’d picked up Tori at the airport. She remembered watching her friend sling the purse into the trunk.
Sarah dropped the wallet on the passenger seat and tightened her grip on the wheel as her car hydroplaned around a bend in the road. A truck passed in the opposite lane, buffeting the sports car with wind and spray.
Letting out a nervous breath, she turned up the volume on the radio to hear the weather report of the storm that was punishing the coast. The heavy rains were likely to continue through the night. She turned off the radio and focused on the road ahead. This weather was not part of the cheerful welcome she’d been envisioning for the past two weeks. Well, at least she was home. The worst was behind her.
She tightened one fist on the steering wheel and tried to make herself believe that.
Fighting back the sudden pooling of tears, she tried to erase the image of her father as the dark-suited corpse she’d seen in the open casket. John Rand was no longer the tall man with dancing green eyes and the powerful laugh.
It was the laugh she would make herself remember, and not the arguing before the separation. She would force out the memories of those nights as a child when she had prayed aloud and buried her head in a pillow. No, she would remember his laugh, his eyes, and his warmth as he cuddled her on his lap and held her close to his heart.
The rain was coming down even harder now, and she flipped the wiper blades on to full speed. The high beams reflecting in her mirrors were as unrelenting as the sheets of rain.
She had no clear memory of the day he left. She knew she didn’t want to remember it. And maybe someday she would forget the bitterness that had lived in her mother’s eyes and put the edge in her voice to the day she died.
Sarah shook her head. As for herself, she would just remember him as John Rand. Maybe even as the father he never was. Just green dancing eyes and a laugh.
The car behind her edged closer. The high beams glared threateningly in the side mirror.
“And can I help it if there’s no passing zone?” Sarah sped up a bit.
She glanced at the clock on the dash. Ten thirty-eight. Not too late to call Hal again when she got home. Sarah had left him a message, but she knew better than anyone his penchant for checking them about once a week.
She was bone tired. The flight from Shannon had been long. And the wait at JFK for the connecting flight to Providence had seemed even longer. But there was too much on her mind, and she needed to talk to someone. Someone who would listen. Someone who had recently gone through what she had just gone through. Someone like Hal.
Sarah glanced again in the mirror and frowned at the headlights of the car behind her. There wasn’t another car on the road. She pressed her foot on the accelerator, and her sports car gained some ground. The gain was only momentary, and the headlights closed the distance.
“Ass.” Sarah pressed her foot to the floor. Her effort was in vain as the lights again slithered up behind her.
The shoulder widened, and Sarah pulled the car off the travel lane. Slowing down, she glanced back for the driver behind her to make his move past her.
The other car pulled onto the shoulder, as well, staying on her tail.
Sarah tried to swallow the sudden knot of fear that rose in her throat, and reached for the lock button. She pressed it hard and tried to get a look at the driver beyond the blinding high beams. But there was nothing she could see—nothing but the lights’ fierce glare piercing the driving rain. Pulling back into the travel lane, she looked at a passing speed limit sign. Forty-five.
“You’re in no danger,” she murmured, trying to ignore the cold pool of liquid in her belly. With the exception of that truck, the road was deserted because of the weather and the hour, but she was only about three miles from Wickford if she needed to get to a town.
The sudden dimming of the headlights behind her and the appearance of flashing lights on the dash of her pursuer elicited a gasp of relief from Sarah. She immediately eased up on the gas. Again there was no shoulder, but she pulled to the right side of the road to allow the unmarked police car to go by. The large sedan stayed behind her, though, lights flashing.
“You scared me into speeding!”
She slowed and stopped.
As the police car halted behind her, a dark figure emerged from the passenger side. Then, to her surprise, the vehicle pulled around and angled in front of her, effectively blocking the car.
“Oh, brilliant. Just what I need. Officer Overkill makes the collar!” She reached for her license and registration, keeping an eye on the driver of the unmarked car. He was just stepping out. His flat-brimmed hat was covered with plastic, and he shrugged into a raincoat before coming around his sedan.
Before she got a good look at his face a flashlight was shining in her window, drawing her attention. The officer kept the light directly in her eyes, and Sarah lifted a hand to block the glare.
He was standing close to the car, and she glanced away from the light. Dark gray pants flapped in the wind, and large black shoes reflected the red flashing light of the police car. The two policemen didn’t appear to be concerned with the driving rain, and the driver of the unmarked vehicle was now flashing his light into the car from the passenger side, covering every inch of the interior.
Before the officer could say anything, Sarah had her driver’s license and car registration sticking out of the small opening of her window.
“Lovely night, isn’t it?” she asked, watching him flash his light on her license. The brim of the hat obstructed her view of his face.
“So what have I done wrong, officer?” Suddenly, it struck her as odd that at least one of them wasn’t returning to their car to run a check on her license. The wind pushed at the raincoat. She hadn’t even seen a badge.
A small noise to her right brought her head around. The passenger door was locked, but she was certain the second man had tested the door.
“I’d like to see some identification, officer.” She could hear the hint of a quiver in her voice. He ignored her request. “Excuse me...”
“Switch off the car, Ms. Rand, and step out, please.” The flashlight was blinding.
“I’m an attorney in Newport.” She forced herself to stay calm. “I’ll be glad to follow you to the station, but I believe you are required to identify yourself.”
Sarah tried to see the license plate on the police car, but the angle of the vehicle prevented her from getting a clear look.
“Step out of the car. Now!”
Squinting her eyes, she turned her head fully into the glare of the light. “Officer, you know that I am within my rights to ask to see—”
The shattering glass of the windows on either side of her showered Sarah with glittering pebbles.
She barely had time to let out a scream before the man’s hand clamped around her throat.
It was adrenaline. It was panic. It was the sudden terror of knowing she may have just taken her last breath. Rather than clawing at the man’s brutal fingers, Sarah’s hand reached for the center console of the car, and she blindly yanked the gearshift into Reverse. Slamming her foot on the gas, her body jerked forward as the car leaped into motion. Sarah found her throat still caught in the man’s grip for an endless moment before he finally let go and stumbled into the middle of the road.
Fifty feet away, she came to a screeching stop and, still gasping for breath, stared in terror at the two men advancing toward her, their drawn weapons pointed at her windshield.
There was only one thing to do.
Putting the car in drive, she jammed the accelerator to the floor. One of the men jumped directly in the path of her car, and Sarah jerked the steering wheel in an attempt to miss him. She felt the body of the other man bounce off the side of the car, and a split second later the sports car wiped out the tail light of the unmarked police car as she sped past.
Glass splintered around her as the windshield became a lacy mass of crystalline webs.
They were shooting at her.
She quickly left them behind. But as she tried to peer through the shattered windshield, a cold fear flooded her with the realization that at any moment her assailants would be coming after her.
Sarah’s body began to shake uncontrollably.
Acting on impulse, she suddenly yanked the wheel to the right. The car responded and plowed through a gully of water onto a gravel road. In an instant, she was out of sight of the main road, following a narrow track of gravel and mud and flooding rains.
The rain lashed at her face, but she continued on until the low-slung automobile suddenly dove into a water-filled gully. The vehicle lurched out of control and entered the woods. Sarah felt the car bouncing through the undergrowth as she frantically jerked the wheel right and left in an effort to dodge larger trees. In seconds that felt more like hours, she managed to bring the car to a shuddering halt between a pair of scrub pines.
Wet branches jutted in through the open spaces that had once been windows. Her breath was still coming in gasps, her body shaking as the adrenaline continued to pump through her. Sarah shut off the headlights and listened to the rain falling in waves on the car’s roof. Protected as she was by the surrounding trees, the sound of the wind and the storm seemed so distant. Then, the vaguely ominous scent of pine and wet earth enclosed her, and real fear began to steal into her bones, cold and numbing.
She had to get out. Grabbing her bag off the floor, she pushed the door open against the weight of the trees and shouldered her way out. Branches and needles scratched at her face, soaking her clothing, and a shard of broken window glass, jutting up from the door, cut the palm of one hand, but in a moment she was standing in the semi-darkness behind her car.
Lightning lit the forest floor with a ghostly flash, and a thunderous crack rocketed through the woods. She didn’t know where she was. She had no idea where she was going. But she knew she had to run.
That is, if she wanted to stay alive.
* * *
The room had all the warmth of an empty art gallery.
Owen Dean placed his wine flute on an angular glass shelf and excused himself from the pair of chatty socialites who had cornered him there. Ambling past a bored-looking string quartet, he climbed a wide set of stairs to a loft-like area and paused at the top. He looked out over the rail, letting his eyes wander over the room.
Frank Lloyd Wright had to be the coldest, most academic stiff ever to sit at a drawing board, Owen thought, eyeing the sharp, sterile lines of wood and stone and glass.
“Quite a place, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I was just thinking that.” Owen turned and looked at the speaker. Tall, middle-aged, tanned, with the build of a former linebacker. He’d been introduced to Senator Gordon Rutherford earlier in the evening.
“This house of Warner’s is quite a showpiece. Though, to be honest, my taste runs more to Middle Georgian architecture.”
“Actually, I’m more an Early Ski Lodge type, myself.”
“Are you?” Rutherford flashed a mouthful of square, well-cared-for teeth and waved off his minions hovering in the background. “May I call you Owen, Mr. Dean?”
“Of course, Senator.”
“I have to tell you, that show of yours, Internal Affairs, is one of my guilty pleasures.”
Owen cocked an eyebrow. “Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re a satisfied viewer. But why guilty, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Rutherford looked down at the glittering crowd of guests below. “I’ve built my political career on being a law-and-order man. If it got out that my favorite TV series portrayed the police every week as a bunch of corrupt self-seekers, with moral standards that often sink beneath those of criminals on the street, how would it look?”
Owen mulled that over for a moment. “Hmm. I see what you mean. But I like to believe we simply tell it like it is, Senator. After all—regardless of profession—none of us is perfect. And, in the case of this show, our premise is that police have human failings, just like everybody else.”
The senator smiled again and accepted a drink from a passing waitress. “Right, you are, Owen. And who knows about human failings better than a politician these days?”
Owen let the comment hang in the air as his attention drifted down over the railing. His gaze immediately lit on Andrew Warner, distinguished-looking beneath a shock of white hair. Andrew was lighting a pipe and speaking to two deans from the college. Outside the large windows, lightning briefly illuminated a rain-drenched scene of fenced fields bordered by woods.
“This is your fifth season, isn’t it?”
Owen accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waitress as distant thunder rumbled. He turned again to the senator. “Yes, it’s the show’s fifth season.”
“Ratings good?”
“Damn good.”
“And if I remember correctly, you left a successful acting career in film to get into starring in and producing this TV show.”
“Success is a relative term, Senator. I was ready for something different.”
The politician laughed and shook his head. “You movie stars are hard to understand. I would have thought somebody with your screen appeal would have stayed in the fast lane—bigger movie roles, more money—instead of stepping back into television work.”
“Stepping back?”
“Well, perhaps that’s the wrong term. But here you are in Rhode Island, at Rosecliff College, doing God knows what for Andrew.”
“It’s called ‘teaching,’ Senator.” Owen straightened up at the rail.
“Don’t take me wrong, Owen. It’s just that the way Andrew brags about you, a person would think Steven Spielberg sweeps out your offices. Just a little odd having such a big fish in our little pond.” The senator leaned forward with a conspiratorial smirk on his face. “What does he have on you, anyway?”
Owen replaced his untasted champagne on a passing tray and looked the politician in the eye. “Extortion isn’t the only way of getting a friend to help out, Senator. But maybe you need to get out of Washington more often.”
Rutherford’s perfect tan turned a darker shade. “No doubt about that, Mr. Dean. But an honest legislator’s work is never d—”
A woman’s voice floated in over the party noise as she climbed the steps. “Well, there you are. I’m glad you two got an opportunity to talk.”
A flash outside the large, plate-glass windows was accompanied by a loud crack of thunder, punctuating the sentence of the small, gray-haired woman who joined them at the railing.
The sound of a man coughing cut through the guests’ surprised laughter in response to the thunder. Owen looked over the railing and saw Andrew retreating to a corner, his shoulders hunched as he fought to control the hacking fit.
“Wonderful party, Tracy,” Rutherford declared.
“Thank you, Gordon. It is a nice way for the college benefactors to get to know one another before the school year starts, don’t you think?” She took Owen by the arm, pulling his attention back to her. “And this year they also get to meet our very own Hollywood celebrity.”
“I’ll only be teaching a course.”
“Yes! And Andrew tells me you were at the college today, checking out the campus.”
“I was.”
“Dull place compared to what you’re accustomed to, I’d wager. It will probably be a relief to get back to your very own exciting life.”
“Not before the semester is over.”
“But you must find the whole lot of us extremely boring.” She winked at the senator and waved a hand over the guests. “Not a supermodel or a rock star among us.”
From the first moment Owen had met Andrew’s wife nearly thirty years ago, he had known that her resentment for him ran deep. He’d been too young then to attempt to understand her reasons. Later, he’d become too detached to care. He glanced at the fake smile Tracy had plastered on her face for Rutherford’s benefit. Her eyes, though, were bullets.
“Well, Tracy, I’m glad to hear that I’m not the only one so thoroughly impressed with the presence of Owen Dean at Rosecliff College. We were just—”
“Senator.” Owen cut him off, extending a hand toward the politician. “It was an experience meeting you.”
“You’re not leaving, Owen.”
“Sorry to be a disappointment, but I have to run.”
Owen put out a hand. Tracy took it and pulled him down to where she could brush a kiss across his cheek.
“Of course.”
Turning his back on the two of them, Owen took his time heading down the steps. Andrew Warner, his face back to its usual color, his snow-white hair back in place, had returned to playing host by the far windows, joking with another group of the college’s benefactors.
When Owen was a couple of steps from the bottom, Andrew glanced up, caught sight of him, and motioned for Owen to join him. Owen shook his head and pointed at his watch before waving and heading for the entrance hall.
He had only come out to the party as another favor to Andrew. But being a good ally didn’t mean he had to put up with Tracy’s subtle barbs.
The rain was falling in sheets when he stepped onto the porch. Even in the darkness, he could see that the gusts of wind were scattering leaves and branches across the yard and the gravel drive. Owen watched the storm for a moment as another bolt of lightning lit the sky, giving the scene a surreal look. The broad creek flowing into the pond at the far end of the field was a raging torrent. The crack of thunder that immediately followed was sharp and loud.
Taking out his keys, Owen turned toward the steps and the long line of luxury cars choking the circular drive.
“Last in...first out,” he whispered into the wind, turning the collar of his sports coat up and running across the rain-softened drive to his Range Rover. The rain, changing directions with every gust of wind, had him nearly soaked by the time he climbed behind the wheel.
Putting the key into the ignition, he glanced at the brightly lit windows of the house. Through the large plate glass windows, the well-dressed crowd could be seen milling in small groups. Separating himself from one of them, a rather frail-looking, white-haired man stared out into the storm for a moment before turning brusquely on his heel and moving away from the glass.
Owen turned the key. “What a waste. So little time.”
2
The lightning was all around him. Owen headed down the long and winding drive that separated the Warner’s house from the main road.
He was out of his element. He knew that. But teaching had nothing to do with it.
Before coming to Newport, Owen had considered the fact that in taking this one-semester position at the college, he would once again be allowing his life and Andrew’s to become enmeshed. He would be poking at old wounds. But when the older man had dropped the bomb on him about his illness earlier this summer, Owen’s common sense had dropped out of the equation.
Owen had to be there for him, just as Andrew had been there for him so many years ago.
And Tracy’s resentment of him was something he’d just have to endure.
A flooded section of the road slowed the Range Rover to a crawl. The rushing waters of the creek had spilled over its banks, washing over the gravel surface.
Owen flipped on the high beams and answered the cell phone on its first ring. It was Andrew.
“What did she say to you?”
“Nothing.” Owen frowned at the wheezing he could hear clearly through the phone.
“I warned her.”
“You’re jumping at shadows, Andrew. I was tired, that’s all. Just not the party animal I used to be.”
“You don’t have to protect her, Owen. I’m not blind. Or deaf. Last Sunday at the brunch, I know she sent those damned reporters to our table. And then yesterday. That flu business. Canceling our lunch at the last—” The cough cut off the words.
Owen heard the sound of a drink being gulped down. “Andrew, it’s not worth getting riled about.”
“I won’t let her do this. You’re a son to me.”
“Tracy’s your wife. She’s trying to protect you.”
There was another fit of coughing. “Don’t! Don’t let her get to you. I’m telling you I want you here.”
“I’m here.” His head was beginning to pound. “I’ll call you tomorrow night after that Save the Bay thing I got hooked into. Maybe we could meet for a drink.”
“Good.” Another pause. “We need to talk.”
“Sure.” Owen ended the call. “And it’s about time we did.”
Though Owen didn’t like getting patted on the head, Rutherford hadn’t been too far off the mark. Owen had put his life on hold to come to Newport for these four months or so. But he had no regrets, so long as he and Andrew could finally resolve what was past. He was tired of playing the game.
A brilliant stab of lightning hit the ground somewhere to his right, illuminating a small river where half of the road had been just a couple of hours earlier. Jerking the wheel, he suddenly saw the woman appear in his headlights. Owen slammed on the brakes.
“Dammit!”
His reflexes were quick, but he couldn’t be certain if he’d hit her or if she’d just fallen against the front of the car. She lay sprawled across the hood, her face resting on the metal, and he was out of the vehicle and at her side in an instant.
“Lady, you okay?”
She lifted her head slowly off the hood and tried to straighten up. Owen reached for her quickly as she wobbled a step.
“You stay right here. I’ll call for an ambulance.”
“No!” Her response was sharp as she looked up, clutching at his hand.
Despite the dripping jacket and pants that at one time must have been tailor-made for her, the woman was a muddy mess. She was soaked to the skin, her hair plastered against her head. All in all, Owen thought, she didn’t look like someone who should be wandering in the rain in the middle of the night.
“No,” she repeated more softly, letting go of his hand and standing up straight. “I’m fine. It just...took my breath away...running into the car. I’m okay.”
The rain was streaming down her face, and lightning continued to flash above them. Unconvinced, Owen held his ground and studied her in the glare of the car’s headlights. Clearly distraught, she nonetheless turned her face away from him. Pretending to adjust the shoulder strap of the case she was carrying, she peered into the darkness of the woods she’d just left.
“Your car break down?”
“No...yes.”
“Well, which is it?”
“I...I ran out of gas.” With a scowl, she stepped around him, out of the headlight’s beam, and pushed a lock of short wet hair out of her face. Again, she shot a glance into the woods. “I thought it would be safer passing through the woods than walking on the shoulder of the state road.”
Owen stared at her in the darkness. She looked so familiar to him. A bit worse for wear, but she was well-dressed and well-spoken. But it was her face that was nagging at him. Oval-shaped eyes—he couldn’t tell the color in the darkness. The high cheekbones, streaked with mud. Or were those scratches? He tried to imagine how she would look cleaned up.
“Have we met before?” he asked.
“I don’t believe so.”
She shivered and transferred the long strap of her briefcase from one shoulder to the other. He spotted the dark stain by one sleeve. He looked down at his own hand where she’d touched him. There was blood on his hand.
“Did you cut yourself?”
She looked down at her palm and then pulled a folded wad of wet tissue out of her pocket. “I just fell back there. It’s just a scratch. Must have done it on a rock or something.”
A bolt of lightning struck close by, and she jumped back a step. Owen suddenly realized that they were now both soaked through.
“I’ll give you a ride. Climb in.”
She hesitated a moment and looked about at the storm-tossed woods.
“I would appreciate a ride to the closest gas station. I think there’s one about a mile up the road.”
He gave her another once-over look. “Okay. Get in.”
Without another word, she moved to the passenger side but then paused before getting in.
“I’m muddy and wet. I’ll make a mess of your car.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”
Frowning, she hopped in and shut the door. Without thinking, he locked the doors. She immediately reached over her shoulder and unlocked hers.
He didn’t blame her for being nervous. Running out of gas at this hour of the night, in this storm, and now getting into a car with a total stranger. Not a particularly comfortable situation. He turned to her. “Where’s your car?”
“Just...just up the road.”
“There’s the phone. You’re welcome to use it.”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine when we get to the gas station.”
“It’ll probably be closed. It’s late.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can call for a cab there.”
He shrugged. “Okay. Where are you heading?”
“Newport.”
Owen reached the end of the private lane and turned onto the main road. There wasn’t a car in sight that he could see. Once he’d made the turn, he noticed she was glancing nervously in the passenger side mirror.
“I’m going to Newport. I can take you there.”
Her eyes, dark in the dim light of the car, studied his face for a moment. He looked over at her and she looked away. “If you don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“No trouble.”
He watched her attention turn to the outside mirror again.
“Owen Dean.” He stretched a hand in her direction. She tucked her injured hand out of the way and reached over with her other.
“Sarah Rand.”
He repeated the name in his head. Sarah Rand. Even her name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“Are you certain we haven’t met before?”
She shook her head.
“What is it you do?”
“I’m an attorney,” she whispered, pulling her briefcase tighter into her chest.
Owen swerved into the other lane to avoid a good-sized tree limb that had fallen into the road.
“What kind of law do you practice?” he asked, glancing back at the blackness of the road behind them.
She continued to stare out the window, obviously pretending she’d never heard the question. He let her be. Owen concentrated on his driving, but as the silence descended, he could feel the weight of her gaze occasionally on his face.
Owen found it curious that this woman hadn’t once pushed down the visor to check her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t seem to care at all about how her short blond hair looked, plastered around her pale face. Or how the rain might have messed up her make-up. He glanced at her. Those were scratches running down her face, but she didn’t seem to even notice.
He frowned and looked back at the road. Something was gnawing at the edges of his memory.
For the next ten minutes, they drove on without talking, with only the wipers and the wind-driven sheets of rain to break the silence. She appeared totally content to be left to herself. Glancing in her direction now and then, Owen found her face turned toward the passenger window, her hands tightly fisted around the handle of her briefcase. Only once did she move at all, bending down to fiddle with the heel of her shoe as a car passed, going in the other direction.
“You’d be better off calling tonight and having your car towed someplace safe.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Her voice was distant, dismissive. She was looking ahead at the Newport Bridge, the top of which was enshrouded with rain.
But Owen was not ready to be dismissed. “Are you from around here?”
“You can drop me off by the Visitor’s Center in Newport. I can get a cab there.”
She was definitely dismissing him, working at a front of arrogance and coldness. This, however, only piqued his curiosity more.
“I’m an actor. And a producer,” he said, shooting her a half glance. He knew he sounded like an arrogant bastard. “I’ve already told you my name is Ow—”
“Nice to meet you again, Mr. Dean. But I would still appreciate it if you’d drop me in front of the Visitor’s Center.”
“And I suppose you’re one of those people who doesn’t watch TV.” Owen glanced at her and then looked back at the road. Her face would probably crack if she smiled. “What kind of cases do you handle?”
“Corrupt law enforcement,” she said after a pause, this time meeting his eyes. “Racketeering. Murder. Substance abuse. Very realistic and often quite scary.”
“Tough way to make a living.”
That couldn’t have been a smile, he thought. But her furrowed brow did open up for a fraction of a second before she answered.
“No, not me! You. That’s what you do for a living. I know who you are, and I’ve seen your show, Mr. Dean.”
“That’s great. But you still don’t think we’ve met?”
She shook her head more decidedly this time. “I’m positive, though we did come close once.”
Owen watched her attention turn to a police car, sirens and flashers going, traveling in the opposite direction on the bridge. Here was something different, Owen thought. A woman not trying to hit on him.
“Please take the first exit after the bridge,” she said. “If it’s out of your way to take me to the Visitor’s Center, I can get off at the gas station at the end of the ramp.”
“It’s not out of my way,” he said gruffly, flipping on his turn signal.
When they stopped at the first light, he watched her for the first time running her fingers through her wet hair and pushing it behind her ear. A couple of pine needles dropped onto her shoulder.
She had a long, beautiful neck and a firm, well-shaped chin. Owen’s eyes were drawn to her earrings. Very striking. Antique-looking. A large diamond, set in the star-like setting of smaller stones. Even her earrings looked familiar to him. He studied her profile once again. She was a classic beauty. Kind of a Garbo look to her. Lost in thought, she was looking straight ahead. Her eyes suddenly focused.
“It’s green.” She pointed at the light.
He put his foot on the gas and started down the road. Making the next turn, he frowned as they rounded the corner and headed downtown. The tent-like architecture of the Visitor’s Center loomed just ahead.
Letting her just disappear seemed like the wrong thing to do. Of course, he couldn’t force her to do otherwise. He pulled up to the curb.
“It looks closed to me.”
Her look of disappointment was all too apparent. “I can wait here. I’m sure there’ll be a cab coming soon.”
He used her hesitation to his advantage. “It’s raining. I can drop you off where you’re going.”
He pulled away from the curb before she had a chance to protest. After a short pause, she gave him an address on Bellevue Avenue.
“High rent district,” he commented, continuing on America’s Cup Avenue.
“It’s not my place.”
Then it must the boyfriend’s, he decided, suddenly annoyed. He hadn’t seen any wedding band on that fist clutching the briefcase.
He brought the car to a stop at a red light and turned to her again, almost in spite of himself. “I’m fairly new in town. Any suggestions on things to do for excitement?”
“The Visitor’s Center has lots of flyers.” A police car pulled up in the right lane, and the officer behind the wheel stared over at them. Sarah turned her face to Owen. “I...I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“Okay.”
“It’s been a tough night.”
For the first time, she looked unguarded. Even scared. Her eyes were riveted to his own. They were incredibly large. Beautiful. When her gaze flitted away, he looked again at the scratches on her face.
“Are you sure running out of gas was the only thing that happened to you tonight?”
The light turned green, and the police car beside them moved on. She turned her attention back to the road and nodded. “I’m sure.”
The small gate where she had Owen drop her was on a side street off Bellevue Avenue. The granite walls that protected the mansion rose a good twelve feet above the street. He saw no plaques by the iron-gated side entrance.
“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Dean.” She reached for the car door and opened it.
His hand shot out and took hold of her elbow. He fumbled in the pocket of his sport jacket and withdrew a card. “Here’s my number. Call me sometime.”
She hesitated, then took the card, staring down at it for a moment in the dim light of the car. “A local number. I thought you were new in town.”
He shrugged. “A couple of weeks hardly makes you a native.”
She gave him a polite smile and tucked the card in the pocket of her muddy jacket. “Thanks again.”
She swung the briefcase over her shoulder and stepped through the puddles to the gate. Owen sat there and watched her search in the case for keys. The rain continued to pound his car, and he waited until she opened the gate. Turning, she gave him a final wave and disappeared inside the walls. He looked up at the darkened building.
“There resides a lucky man.”
The irritation he could hear echoing in the empty Range Rover struck Owen as odd. As attractive as the woman was, Hollywood was full of beautiful women. They were always around and always very willing. How many years had it been since he’d made an effort to pursue a woman?
In a few minutes, the mansion was far behind him. Out on Ocean Drive, a sports car raced by him, going far too fast for the wet roads. The wind was steadier here, howling in off the Atlantic, and he could feel it pushing his own vehicle. Involuntarily, Owen’s mind again returned to Sarah and where he might have met her.
Considering the way she was dressed and the expensive earrings she wore, she could be any one of the ‘trust babies’ that spent so much time in this town. He might have seen her picture in the local paper, attending one of the society events. Something stirred at the edges of his memory.
He turned his car into the long drive of the converted mansion. Waves were crashing onto the rocky sea wall, and throwing up buckets of spray over the car. At the end of the spit of land, the stone, French-style chateau stood solidly against the battering winds of the storm.
Parking in the spot assigned to his apartment, Owen pushed up the collar of his wet jacket and took off for the main door. The place he was renting was on the first floor in one wing of the mansion and had a separate entrance off the stone terrace, but the large central hallway held the panel of chrome-faced mailboxes. Hauling out the assortment of mail, he headed down the hallway to the apartment.
A copy of the Newport Daily News lay on the floor. Owen picked it up, stuffed it under his arm, and unlocked the door. The apartment was silent, except for the sound of the rain beating at the windows.
Dropping his keys on the counter, he dumped everything else on the kitchen table. Opening the fridge door, he reached in for a beer...and froze in his tracks.
Whirling, he turned back to the kitchen table and studied the picture of the woman staring back at him from the right-hand column of the newspaper.
Of course, he knew her. After all, Sarah Rand had only been dead for the past two weeks.
3
“My own men confirmed it, sir. She is alive.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone line.
“I told you before not to leave it to amateurs.” The sound of a stifled yawn came through the receiver, but the authority in the voice came through clearly when he spoke again. “I’m not happy, but the arrangements still work, and your instructions still stand. You know what to do.”
The rain hammered like bullets against the windows of the car. “I do, sir. And I’ll take care of it.”
* * *
If this were a nightmare, why couldn’t she wake up?
Her eyes took in the burnished gold of the oak paneling on the walls in the outer office. The smell of old leather and parchment hung in the air from the shelves of antique law books. The secretary’s desk, the door to the judge’s private office, the open door into her own office—they were all the same. This wing of the Van Horn mansion, converted into a home office when the judge had decided to retire from the bench, was as familiar to her as her own apartment.
And yet, everything had changed in just two short weeks. She looked again at the newspaper in her hand:
In a second bail hearing, held in Providence today, District Court Judge Elizabeth Wilson denied a request made by the attorney of former colleague Charles Hamlin Arnold in...
Sarah scanned the page for the fifth time. Her gaze rested once again on the picture of Judge Arnold, leaving the courthouse, his hands and feet manacled. She threw the paper aside and worked her way through the pile. Headline after headline proclaimed the alleged guilt of her friend and mentor. She pulled another paper onto her lap.
“Jealousy Possible Murder Motive.” She stared at the full-length picture of herself. It was a photograph taken at the Heart Ball last year. The judge stood on one side of her, and Hal on the other.
Leaving that issue spread on the floor, she went through the piles of newspapers stacked neatly in the bin beside the bookcase, working her way back in time. Last Sunday’s issue ran a front-page article listing Sarah’s accomplishments. Two issues before, a piece with Hal’s picture. She skimmed the article, which quoted the wealthy developer speaking of his mother, Avery Van Horn, and her lengthy battle and final defeat by cancer only a month ago. And a line about the alleged murder of his closest friend by his own stepfather, Judge Arnold.
“But I’m alive, Hal!” She wiped at the tears on her cheeks.
She found it. The August 4 headline read, “Attorney Missing—Assumed Murdered.” Sarah sat back and read on. “Judge Arnold Held.”
Prominent Newport attorney Sarah Rand is believed dead. Homicide detectives, acting on a tip from unnamed sources, today found blood in the luxury condominium home of Attorney Rand, who has been missing since August 2. Judge Charles Hamlin Arnold was later arrested at his home and will be charged, according to the district attorney, for the murder of his colleague.
Rand has been connected with the Arnold and the Van Horn family for several years. Attorney Rand was a close confidante of the judge’s late wife, Avery Van Horn Arnold, and has been linked romantically to Mrs. Arnold’s son, Newport developer Henry “Hal” Van Horn...
Sarah leaned back against the bookcase, reading through the article again. Murdered. Assumed dead. But how could she be assumed dead?
“Oh, God. Tori.” Sarah whispered as she dashed for the phone at the closest desk and dialed her number at the condo. Steady rings. No answering machine. Just the same as when she’d tried to call her from Ireland. The same as when she’d tried to call from the airport.
She hung up and looked frantically around her. The piles of mail on Linda’s desk. The missing computer. The closed door of the judge’s private office. They thought she was missing. No, dead. She reached for the phone again to call Hal. The answering machine picked up on the second ring again. She waited impatiently for his message.
“Hal. Listen, this is Sarah again. There is something wrong. I’m at the office on Bellevue and…”
The sound was faint but distinct, and Sarah froze. She was almost certain the noise had come from the small kitchenette off the hallway. She peered into the darkness and quietly placed the phone back in its cradle. She was sure she was alone. When she came in, she unlocked the door and disarmed the security system, locking the door behind her.
Reaching for the closest thing at hand, she picked up a heavy pineapple-shaped paperweight from the desk. Clutching the weight in one hand, she listened. There was the noise again. She switched on the light in the hallway. The door into the kitchen was slightly ajar.
She was a step from the door when the smell of gas registered.
Acting on reflex, Sarah took a deep breath, pulled open the kitchen door, and moved quickly to the small stove, searching for the knobs in front of the unlit burners. Solid stumps of greasy metal were the only thing that met her fingers. The knobs were gone.
Panic immobilized her for a moment as the low sound of escaping gas continued. She whirled and started for the door. It was her only route of escape.
The door slammed in her face.
“No! Wait!” she screamed.
* * *
Owen stared at the newspaper, his eyes going from the picture to the article text and back to the picture again. He laid the paper on the kitchen counter and walked into the living room. The accumulating pile of last week’s papers on the coffee table supplied everything else about the case.
He could hear her voice deep in his mind. It was the same woman. It had to be. Why would anyone in her right mind want to take a dead attorney’s name? But it wasn’t just the name, it was also the way she looked and dressed. She was Sarah Rand, no doubt about it. The inside of the Range Rover had been dark, but there was no mistaking her.
He glanced at another picture of her in the paper. Even the earrings were the same. They must be her favorites, Owen thought. In every headshot of her he’d seen, she appeared to be wearing the same earrings. Star-shaped, with a diamond in the center. Her trademark.
Last Sunday’s magazine section had a big spread about her. Including exterior shots of the condominium apartment she owned.
On the surface, she seemed to be all money and easy living. But the article portrayed a different kind of woman—hard-working, independent, and smart.
Owen scanned the article for information about the murder. Her apartment was on the ground floor of a converted mansion, with a terrace looking south over the Atlantic Ocean. From what the paper reported, the police were assuming that she’d been shot, probably in the face, just inside her front door on the afternoon of August 2. The detectives in charge were speculating that her body might have been wrapped up and carried out onto the terrace and then down to a waiting car. Sarah Rand’s body, they assumed, was at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Owen leafed through the pages and stared at the picture of Sarah standing between Henry Van Horn and Judge Arnold. An unexpected knot twisted in his gut. From the newspaper account, their relationship had all the earmarks of a love triangle in which the judge had ended up as odd man out. And it appeared that the police were looking at that as the motive for murder.
He carried the paper into the kitchen. Something didn’t jive. It just didn’t seem possible that the woman looking back at him from the photo could be playing a part in this twisted script.
“You should stop going out to parties entirely,” he muttered, reaching for the phone. “Or at least stop picking up strays off the road.”
But then again, he thought, you meet such interesting people.
* * *
No matter what she tried, the metal stumps on the stove would not turn.
Going back to the door, Sarah put her shoulder to it once again. The gas was horrible, and a fit of coughing racked her body as she threw herself against the door. It was no use, she thought, sinking to the floor. Helplessness flooded through her, and she lay her cheek against the cool tile.
