“I heard a suspicious click right before the explosion. Someone wants you dead—with no evidence left behind.”

“If you hadn’t been here—”

She gripped his shirt and buried her head against him. He’d seen the reaction before. He held her tight.

“We’ll find out who’s doing this. I promise.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He couldn’t say no to her trembling frame. Each shudder evoked every protective instinct throbbing in his veins. He cradled her against him and stroked her hair softly, brushing a few stray snowflakes out of her hair. “You’re okay. It’ll be okay.”

He was lying. Again. This assassin wanted a kill. Mitch could stop him only so long—unless he discovered who was behind the attempts on her life.

About the Author

Award-winning author ROBIN PERINI’s love of heartstopping suspense and poignant romance, coupled with her adoration of high-tech weaponry and covert ops, encouraged her secret inner commando to take on the challenge of writing romantic suspense novels. Her mission’s motto: “When danger and romance collide, no heart is safe.”

Devoted to giving her readers fast-paced, high-stakes adventures with a love story sure to melt their hearts, Robin won the prestigious Romance Writers of America® Golden Heart® Award in 2011. By day, she works for an advanced technology corporation, and in her spare time, you might find her giving one of her many nationally acclaimed writing workshops or training in competitive small-bore rifle silhouette shooting. Robin loves to interact with readers. You can catch her on her website, www.robinperini.com, several major social-networking sites or write to her at PO Box 50472, Albuquerque, NM 87181-0472, USA.

Finding Her Son
Robin Perini

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my mom—the most ferocious mama bear I know.

Your love and unbending faith in me have given me the strength to persevere. I am truly blessed.

I love you, Mom. Always.

Acknowledgements

I’m living my dream. But no one gets to this wonderful place alone.

To my amazing editor, Allison Lyons, who saw something in my writing and took a chance.

You made my dreams come true.

To the most vicious critique group ever—

Tammy Baumann, Louise Bergin and Sherri Buerkle.

I love you all. You, my dear friends, sacrificed for this one more than anyone will know. I am humbled and grateful. Let’s not do it again!

To Angi Platt and Jenn Stark for their keen insight and willingness to help. Thanks are not enough, and I expect payback.

To my best friend and the sister of my heart,

Claire Cavanaugh, the wind beneath my wings.

This book wouldn’t be here without you.

You know why.

Prologue

Icy wind howled through the SUV’s shattered windshield, spraying glass and freezing sleet across Eric Wentworth’s face. He struggled in and out of consciousness. Flashes of memory struck. Oncoming headlights on the wrong side of the road. Skidding tires on black ice. The baby’s cries. Emily’s screams.

Oh, God.

Why couldn’t he focus? Above the wind, he heard only silence, then an ominous gurgling sound from his lungs. He shifted his head slightly to check on his wife, and a knife-like pain seared his neck. He stopped, staring in horror at the shaft of metal guardrail penetrating his chest. Blood pulsed from the wound, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.

Eric was dying. And it was no accident. He hadn’t taken the threats seriously, hadn’t told Emily what he’d done. Why they were all in danger.

“E-Eric?” Her voice was weak, barely audible over the storm gusts.

Thank the Lord she was still alive. In the darkness, he could just make out her small frame pinned by the dashboard. He had to warn her.

Emily. Escape. Before he comes back.

No sound came from his lips, and at the effort, his vision blurred.

“Eric, are you all right?”

Fear tinged her voice, but he could do nothing to comfort or reassure her.

A soft cry came from the backseat. The baby. Only a month old.

“Mommy’s here.” Emily pushed at the dash. “Eric, I’m stuck. I can’t get to Joshua.”

Headlights swept across the crumpled interior. A vehicle pulled up behind them.

“A car! Help!” Emily called out. “We’re trapped! There’s a baby in here!”

No! Emily. Get out. Now. Please. Take Joshua. Run.

A door slammed, but from the stealth of the approaching footsteps, Eric knew this was no rescue. Tears of impotent rage scalded his cheeks. They’re innocent. Don’t kill them. They’ve done nothing.

The back door ripped open, revealing a dark, hooded figure. The baby whimpered. After a moment’s hesitation, the person unclicked the car seat and yanked it free.

The baby’s cries filled the air.

A sob escaped Emily’s throat. “Joshua? Is he all right?”

Without responding, the man shined the flashlight through the broken passenger window, scanned Emily, then focused the blinding light directly in Eric’s face, illuminating his fatal wounds.

Emily gasped. “Eric! No! Please. Please, help my husband.”

Struggling to remain conscious, Eric stared toward the beam of light, willing the man not to carry out the contract, silently begging for mercy for his family.

As if in answer, the man reached into the car, grabbed Emily and slammed her head on the door frame. With quick movements, he wrapped her hand around a jagged piece of windshield and forced it to slash across her neck.

No. Not Emily! Eric’s silent scream echoed her agonized one. The man slammed her head again. She fell silent. Blood trickled down her throat.

With one last mocking salute, the bastard lifted the baby’s car seat and turned away, smearing blood across the small, blue blanket. Utter grief overcame Eric as his son’s cries disappeared into the night.

Spots danced in front of Eric’s eyes. He stared at Emily’s still body. His life flickered painfully within him.

Please, let her live. Give her strength. She has to find him.

Emily took a shallow breath as Eric Wentworth’s world faded to black for the final time. I’m sorry, my love. So sorry.

Chapter One

One Year Later

Cursing under his breath, Mitch Bradford yanked his collar up against the bitter Colorado wind. Where was Emily Went-worth going? He stalked across Colfax, on a stretch of the street known as a candy store for illicit drugs and prostitution. He could’ve been home alone in front of the fireplace, his bum leg propped up, nursing a stiff drink and a double dose of ibuprofen. The irony didn’t amuse him. He’d been tapped for the Wentworth case because of his injury. One more reason to kill the guy who’d shot up his leg during his last SWAT operation.

Mitch ducked his head and plunged forward into the night, ignoring the exchange of money on the corner. He would’ve busted the dealer any other time, but he refused to let his suspect out of sight. When she approached a group of gangbangers, he tensed and reached for his weapon.

They circled her.

Two murders last night in the neighborhood. No time to be subtle.

He broke into a run, disregarding the twinge in his leg. He’d pay for it later, but they could shoot or stab her in seconds. Before he reached her, she tilted her head at the assailants like she was flirting and skirted through the wall of thugs. They let her go.

Mitch pulled back. Crazy woman. He tucked his Glock into the shoulder holster. He’d had enough of these cat-and-mouse games. He sped up and followed her across an alley. The scent of vomit and urine, and God knew what else, soured the night.

She stopped in front of a darkened building. After a furtive glance right, then left, she knocked. The door cracked open, then squeaked wider. Before he reached the entrance, she vanished behind the worn oak.

“Figures.” Why would anything about this case be easy? Cold seeped through his jeans as he searched the front of the building for a sign. Nothing. No indication of what took place inside. That didn’t bode well. His guess: drugs, sex, who knew what else.

A movement in the alley caught his attention. Carefully, he rounded the corner. A blond-haired kid tried to streak past. Mitch nabbed the boy’s hoodie and lifted him off his feet. A familiar face glared at him. “Ricky?” Mitch released the young teen.

His on-again, off-again running back dusted his pants and groaned. “Coach. Man, why’d it have to be you? Gran’ll have a fit if she has to come get me at juvie for breaking curfew.”

“Then you better start talking. Is this why you haven’t shown up for football practice the past two weeks? You hanging around the streets now?”

Ricky widened his stance and stared at Mitch, defiant. “I’m looking for Kayla.”

“In an abandoned building?”

“Nah. Sister Kate runs a shelter out of here.” Ricky bowed his head. “Kayla got herself pregnant by a real loser. But she was turning it around,” he said in that earnest way that was half kid, half teenager. “At least that’s what she told Gran last week. Kayla was gonna live with us again, but she didn’t come back.”

“You’re hoping she landed here?”

Ricky nodded, and Mitch studied the street-smart kid. “You know how I can get in unnoticed?”

The boy’s eyes grew large. “Something going down in there?” His gaze flickered to the front door. “Kayla might be in there.”

Mitch rested his hand on Ricky’s shoulder. “I don’t—”

A loud, high-pitched scream pierced the night from inside. “Leave me alone. I won’t go.”

Ricky leaped toward the door, but Mitch held him back. He tossed the kid his cell phone. “A beat cop named Vance just rounded that corner not five minutes ago. Call 911, then get him.”

“But Kayla…”

“I’ll find your sister. Now go!”

Ricky took off down the street. Mitch pulled his Glock, braced, then barreled through the locked door, the rotted frame giving way much too easily. “Police,” he shouted. “Nobody move.”

A burly man spun around. “Do-gooders. You set me up. Well, I ain’t letting ’em take me.” He grabbed a pregnant girl, her face battered with yellow and green bruises, and held a knife against her throat.

“Please, Ghost. Don’t do this.” Emily Wentworth’s husky voice shook as she stepped forward, her face pale. She clutched a bat in her hand.

She was a brave little thing, determined and fierce.

“I’m warning you,” Ghost threatened.

With careful movements, she set the weapon aside. Her hand went to her throat. “Let Heather go. We’ll work it out. I promise.” She stepped closer.

“I said, don’t move,” Mitch snapped and glared at Emily. “That means everybody.”

She met his gaze, the flash of fury in her eyes unmistakable, but with a curt nod backed away. Mitch took a quick survey of the room. Not a good setup. He could make the kill shot from where he stood, but he’d risk hitting the group of girls in various stages of pregnancy huddled around a nun. If Ghost had an automatic weapon under his coat, the situation could turn into a bloodbath.

Ghost pressed the knife closer, drawing blood at the girl’s neck. “Back off. I’m leaving. With the girl. And you ain’t stopping me.”

After years on SWAT, Mitch recognized the wildness in the man’s dilated eyes. “Come on, buddy. Put the knife down.” Mitch lowered his weapon a bit. He could only hope the guy was high enough or stupid enough to relax his guard.

“She’s coming with me. They won’t pay me if I don’t bring one of ’em back.”

Mitch eased to his left for a better angle and met the frightened gaze of the girl. “You can’t just duck out of here…Ghost.” Mitch hunched his shoulders a bit and sagged, praying the terrified victim would understand his silent instruction.

“I don’t want to go,” Heather said, nodding. “I told him. Mrs. Wentworth said she’d help me.” The girl went limp in the perp’s arms.

Now.

Mitch spun on his good leg. One quick jab against Ghost’s vulnerable back and the scumbag released his hold on the girl. Mitch shoved her toward Emily Wentworth and shifted his weight, but his injured leg spasmed and nearly buckled underneath him. He bit his cheek to block the pain as he covered the suspect with his Glock. No sirens and no telling if Ricky had found help. Mitch needed backup before anyone realized his leg had locked up.

“On the ground. Face down. Arms spread. And you,” he snapped at Emily, “call 911.”

EMILY TAPPED THE PHONE to end the call. A cop. She should’ve known when the jerk burst through the door like some misguided superhero. He’d ruined everything. She and Sister Kate had almost guilted Ghost into talking. Now he was facedown on the floor, zip ties around his wrists, with no interest in spilling his guts to anyone. Great, just great. A month’s worth of work down the drain.

Sister Kate knelt beside the man they’d hoped would be their informant. “You can tell us. It’s the right thing to do.”

Ghost glared at the nun. “Leave me alone.”

“Sister,” the cop said. “Step away from him. He’s in custody.”

An angry fire lit Sister Kate’s eyes, one Emily had seen toast bigger brutes than this interfering officer. She waited for the blowtorch of words to fry him. In truth, she looked forward to it.

Sister Kate gave the cop a thorough once-over, then nodded her head before standing and walking away from Ghost. “You’re one of the Bradford boys. Handsome as sin, the lot of you. The middle one, I’d wager. You’ve got the look of your daddy. I’ll give you a pass. For now.”

Emily almost smiled at the man’s slack-jawed expression.

“You know my father?”

“Oh, my, yes. Sergeant Bradford visited my halfway house to recruit for his football team. I hear you’re following in his footsteps, Mitch.” At his slight nod, she patted his arm. “I was sorry about what happened to him.”

The man’s jaw tightened, but Emily didn’t miss the flash of pain across his face. She recognized the emotion all too well, but she couldn’t let herself sympathize with him, even if Sister Kate was right, and his rugged good looks would make angels weep.

Emily had only one mission. Finding her son. And this cop—Mitch Bradford—had ruined her most promising lead. With nothing to lose, she bolted to Ghost and grabbed his collar. “Tell me the name,” she said, her permanently husky voice still foreign to her ears, but an all-too-physical reminder of her entire purpose in life. “It’s the only way you might talk your way out of this.”

“Go to hell. You and your nun.” Ghost flipped on his back and kicked out. A chair near his feet flew across the room. He lunged at Emily.

“Get away from him.” Mitch grasped Emily’s arm and yanked her to safety before subduing Ghost and pinning him with a knee to his back.

The brute on the floor grunted. “You should’ve stayed out of it.”

“Shut up,” Mitch said. He double-checked the zip-tie cuffs just as a cruiser pulled up, sirens blaring. A uniform raced inside.

“Get this guy out of here,” Mitch said. “I’ll file my report once I get back.”

The cop nodded and escorted Ghost from the building. Officer Bradford walked toward the girls huddled in the corner, his gait slightly off when he put weight on his right leg. As he approached, they shrank away. Emily didn’t blame them. It had taken her months to get past the fragmented flashes of memory when any man in a dark coat had come near her. For these teens—one girl’s eye was swollen shut; another’s face was mottled yellow and green from old bruises—all they’d see would be a tall, muscular brute who had shown he could incapacitate anyone who crossed him.

Then his expression softened. “You did great, Heather,” he said softly. “Is everyone else okay? Anybody need a doctor?”

The girls shook their heads.

“Sister Kate takes care of us,” one said, crossing her arms in defiance. “She’s a nurse.”

He nodded, not pushing just accepting. Emily couldn’t get over the change in his demeanor. He’d transformed in seconds from a warrior—someone she was convinced could’ve killed Ghost if he’d wanted—to a man with a gentle gaze. Still, none of the girls would look him in the eye. His focus lowered to the discolored cheeks of one of the teens. His lips grew tight. Good. If nothing else, the evidence of abuse made him angry.

“Will you tell me about Ghost?” he said, still keeping his voice calm and low.

Amid the blare of more sirens, the girls looked as if they’d rather die than say anything.

“I got proof they’re hooked up with drug dealers.” Ghost’s shouts rammed through the open doorway. “I can give you names, dates, places. I know their johns. I can help you put ’em away. Give their babies to people who deserve ’em.”

Heather shivered and caressed her burgeoning belly. Her gaze rose to Mitch’s. “He trolls for girls who get knocked up. Tries to sweet-talk the ones who haven’t been around too long. He sells himself as someone who can help. We know better. They’re buying a one-way ticket when they go with Ghost.”

“You never see any of them again,” Mitch said, the statement stark and certain, the ending unspoken.

A commotion sounded from the kicked-in doorway.

“I got something for Coach…Officer Bradford,” a young kid shouted.

The cop stood and walked over to the boy, who handed over a cell phone. “I couldn’t find Vance, Coach.”

“That’s okay, Ricky.”

The boy received an affectionate ruffle to his hair, and Mitch guided the kid over to them. “Sister Kate, Mrs. Went-worth, this is Ricky Foster. He’s looking for his sister, Kayla.”

Over the next hour, Mitch questioned the girls and Ricky. Pregnant girls vanishing. Their babies gone. Not one of them reported missing. Until Kayla Foster.

“You’ll find her?” Ricky asked, his voice laced with hope as Mitch led him to the back exit, past the front door he and Ricky had worked side-by-side to barricade to the back exit.

“Get me the picture, and I’ll put the word out. We’ll discover what happened.”

Ricky walked out of the shelter with an expression that could only be described as cautiously optimistic.

“I wish we’d seen her.” She spoke to the nun standing at her side.

“I have a feeling with Officer Bradford on the case, Ricky will be reunited with Kayla.”

“It doesn’t always end the way we’d want, Sister,” Mitch said from behind them.

Emily hadn’t realized he’d approached. She stiffened as his huge presence overwhelmed her, making her heart race. Not with fear, though. With something else—unfamiliar and enticing at the same time.

“Oh, I’m well aware of that, boy-o,” Sister Kate said. “But we can’t give up, can we? One soul at a time.” The nun glanced at her watch. “Now, it’s getting late. We’re safe, and I need to do a bed check on my chickadees. Perhaps you’ll walk Emily to her car? It’s dark, and a pretty girl like her would do well to have a strong protector at this time of night.”

The cop turned to Emily, his chocolate eyes studying her with an intensity that made her shiver. Heat rose into Emily’s face, and she knew her cheeks must be crimson. When had Sister Kate turned into a matchmaker?

Her belly fluttered. He’d been so gentle and caring with the girls and Ricky, but she couldn’t let herself feel anything. She just prayed a man like Mitch was watching over Joshua somewhere. And that someday she would find her son.

“You ready?” Mitch asked.

She clutched the satchel she always carried containing an age-progressed photo, fliers and the case details. Could this policeman help her? She’d never felt she could rely on the police department…or the cops in it. They’d never believed her. This man seemed different somehow, but she didn’t know if she could trust him. With Ghost a lost cause, she needed another way to get information on these missing children and hopefully tie them to Joshua.

Mitch turned, and as his weight shifted to his right leg, he hesitated. She studied him for a few steps. His hip did most of the work on his right side. He tried hard not to let it show. If her job hadn’t been to notice the signs of strain on the human body, he would’ve succeeded. He’d injured himself being a hero, trying to save them.

“You’re hurt.”

He stiffened, warning her to back off, but she wouldn’t. Not when he was so obviously in pain. She dug into her purse for her keys and tugged out a card. “You injured yourself helping me, Officer. Come by. Let me take a look at your leg. Maybe I can do something for you.” She thrust the card into his hand.

“Physical therapist, huh?”

“What’ve you got to lose?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He’d clearly shut her out. Emily remained silent, but she wouldn’t forget what he’d done. He opened the back door for her, and she walked out of the haven that Sister Kate had created for her lost girls into a darkened alley filled with the sounds of angry shouts and crying babies.

When they reached the street, a tall woman in a spandex dress whistled at them. “You and your lady looking for some action?”

“No thanks. We’re exclusive.” Mitch tucked Emily’s arm in his and shifted closer to her.

“Lucky lady,” the woman said and turned her salesmanship toward a slow-moving BMW, so out of place on this street.

“You don’t have to protect me,” Emily said.

“After what I witnessed tonight, I’m not so sure.” His gaze scanned the street before he guided her toward the crosswalk. “If you want to be a crusader, take some advice. Don’t get too involved,” he said. “It’ll eat you up inside.”

“You’re a cop. You obviously think everyone’s a bad guy.”

Mitch’s grip tightened on her arm, and he stopped. “See that kid on the corner? His name is Mario. He’s twenty now. Was an amazing quarterback. Smart. Could’ve gone to any college he wanted. Gotten a degree. Maybe even turned pro. But he couldn’t say no to his so-called friends. He was shot at seventeen. Severed the nerves in his throwing arm. No more scholarship. He gave up. He’s dealing now. He’ll be in prison within the year. Dead in five.”

Emily doubted Mitch recognized how clearly his emotions for this young man showed on his face. “He was one of your team,” Emily said. “Like Ricky.”

Mitch nodded and guided her down the street. “I know the odds. I thought Mario would make it. I was wrong. I don’t want to be wrong about Ricky. I’m going to fight for him. And his sister. But the odds are against them.”

“You still try. And you still care.”

A car screeched around the corner and barreled directly toward them. Before Emily could move, Mitch grabbed her and dove away from the oncoming vehicle. He slammed into the ground hard, wrapping her in his arms and turning so she landed on top of him. A heated gust from the car rocked them as the old Cadillac squealed past.

Mitch let out a sharp curse. “Okay, lady. Just what have you gotten yourself into?”

THE SUNSHINE-YELLOW curtains and serene green walls should’ve made Vanessa happy, but the colors mocked her. She’d been so very stupid. Why hadn’t she left town when she’d first decided to keep her baby? The midwife had been furious. The doctor would—

A key jiggled in the lock. Vanessa huddled in the bed, cradling her newborn baby girl in her arms. Fine blond hair covered her sweet head, and Vanessa kissed the tiny cheek. “Mama will take care of you.”

She prayed it would be so.

The door eased open, revealing the man who’d approach her in the mall just a few short months ago. “We had a deal.” His voice was quiet and cold.

Vanessa shivered. She’d expected him to start yelling, and now wished he’d slammed open the door and screamed at her. This deadly anger made her insides quake. Bad things always happened when her daddy got like that.

“I’ll pay you back. I promise.” Vanessa swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I just can’t give her up. I love her.”

“You love her. Really? Well. That’s just too bad. I have a family for her, and they aren’t going to wait.” He thrust a paper toward her. “Sign the form. Now.”

“No.”

“Marie,” he called out the door. “Get in here.”

The portly midwife rushed in. “But Doctor—”

“Do it.”

She sighed and reached for Vanessa’s baby. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“You can’t just take her!”

Vanessa kicked and screamed, holding on to her child, but it was no use. She was too weak from giving birth. “You can’t do this,” she cried as the midwife left the room with the baby. “I’ll tell the police you forced me to sign. They’ll give her back.”

“No, my dear,” the doctor said, his voice deadly soft. “You won’t be telling anyone.”

He moved fast, then grabbed her arm and secured one wrist with a restraint strap. She fought, rolling her body back and forth, scratching his cheek, anything to stop him.

He cursed and slapped her face. Her head snapped back, and by the time she regained her senses, he’d fastened her other hand to the rails of the hospital bed. She arched and twisted against the bindings, but he just smiled, his expression calm as he touched his hand to the cheek where she’d clawed him.

“This could’ve been so easy. You should’ve taken the money. You could’ve had a new life like your slutty friends,” he said.

A sharp prick. She yelped at the sting as he tugged out the needle and untied her.

“What did you do to me?” She sat up, rubbed her freed hands and stared down at her arm where a small drop of blood formed.

“You’ll know soon enough.”

She looked at him, seeing for the first time that the eyes she’d once believed glowed with compassion were blank and hollow. “Let me have my baby. Please.”

Begging him to listen, to do the right thing, suddenly she swayed. Her arms dropped, her head spun. She tried to breathe, but she couldn’t. Something was choking her. She gasped. Oh, dear Lord. What was wrong? She tried to suck in air and clasped at her chest. It felt like someone was sitting on her, suffocating her. Desperately she tried to breathe, but she couldn’t. The doctor’s grin grew wide.

She reached out to him. “Help me. Something’s…wrong.”

“Sign this.” He thrust the paper beneath her hand and placed a pen there. “And I’ll save you.”

She panted, listening to the short gasps as if she floated outside herself. She didn’t have a choice. Somehow she’d get her baby girl back. But she had to stay alive.

Barely able to see the line on the page, she scrawled her name on the paper, then slumped back against the sheets. She reached out to him. “Help me. You promised.”

“That I did. But then, so did you.”

With the signed consent form in his hand, he walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Vanessa couldn’t yell, she couldn’t scream. She stared at the sunshine-yellow curtains, and they morphed into strange shapes and faces. The doctor’s face. He laughed at her. Called her a fool.

And she had been. It was all her fault. What would happen to her baby?

She tried to breathe. She couldn’t. Strange white spots danced in front of her eyes. There was nothing she could do. Nothing.

Please, God. Protect my baby.

Chapter Two

Mitch grimaced as he limped into the police department. What a night. And it wasn’t over. He’d called in the hit-and-run. Two reports of assault in less than an hour. He’d never live it down. Especially since the busy downtown street had suddenly gone ultrasilent right after the attack. No witnesses. No nothing.

Just a woman who’d seemed quite satisfied to have been attacked. She’d met his gaze and without blinking had said, “I’ve got them worried. That means I’m onto something.”

Unbelievable.

Half of him admired her tenacity. She scared the spit out of his other half. Come to think of it, she’d acted a lot like his late mother when he or his siblings had been on the short end of trouble. Fearless. Mitch got that. Mama-bear syndrome. Do anything for your child. But with such an overt attempt on her life, Emily’d found more trouble than she realized. She’d made someone very nervous.

She’d even fought leaving. Had wanted to stay, canvas the neighborhood. Only the threat of spending the night in the police station had convinced her to leave. He’d tailed her to confirm she went home and hadn’t doubled back. She was safe—for now. With an unmarked unit watching her, just in case.

He glanced at his watch. Midnight was around the corner. He was on Emily duty first thing in the morning and still had reports to file. He straightened and struggled to hide his awkward stride. At this hour, maybe he could get past the desk sergeant and the SWAT Den without seeing anyone he knew.

His thigh was on fire; his muscles were seizing up. He had less than two months to pass the physical to get his real job back. If he didn’t do something drastic, he’d lose his career.

With a sigh, he sank into the hard wood of his desk chair and massaged his leg. What if he couldn’t go back to SWAT? He wasn’t an investigator. He didn’t like analyzing and waiting. He liked breaking down doors and grabbing the bad guy. No talk. Just action. It’d felt good bringing down Ghost tonight.

“What did you do, Bradford?” Detective Dane Tanner, his temporary supervisor, stalked into the room. “You’re hobbling like an old woman.”

Mitch stiffened at the truth in Tanner’s words. “Nothing. Just a little twinge. What are you doing here this late? I thought high-powered detectives kept banker’s hours.”

“Ever hear of a police radio? I keep tabs on my guys, especially those wet behind the ears like you. I heard from dispatch about your adventures tonight—you bagged this guy, Ghost, for targeting young girls. Good job.” Tanner’s face twisted into a scowl. “Unfortunately, he broke out of holding. A couple of street thugs created a diversion and the perp fought his way out. Put two of our guys in the hospital.”

Mitch shot to his feet. “He got away? You get his prints?”

“No such luck, but we have an APB out on him.” Tanner shook his head. “He’s a dangerous guy. You took a big risk going in alone.”

“I tried to get backup.”

“Yeah, you had a fourteen-year-old kid call 911 and then try to find Vance—who’d just gone off duty, by the way. Better men than you haven’t walked away from psychos like Ghost.”

“Point taken,” Mitch said. His father, Paul Bradford, had been paralyzed in a shootout five years ago. Being a cop and carrying a weapon hadn’t protected him. And his dad hadn’t been trying to fight on an injured leg.

“I hope so. I understand investigating’s not your gig. But until you pass the SWAT physical, you’re stuck with us. You follow our rules. One of which is not to go in without backup. The other is not to reveal your identity to a suspect. In your case, Emily Wentworth.”

“Detective—”

“Don’t even try to tap dance. Lives were on the line. I get it, but you better comprehend how lucky you were.” Tanner crossed his arms, staring Mitch down with a warning the ex-special forces officer clearly expected to be heeded. “Did you at least salvage the Wentworth case?”

“She noticed my leg. She offered to help me with rehab, and I’ve got another angle I can work to stay near her.”

Mitch ran down the Kayla Foster situation, and Tanner smiled. “It sounds like you’re in. We might make a detective of you after all.”

“Over my dead body,” Mitch growled.

“I hope not. Your dad would kill me.” Tanner bent closer, his expression deadly serious. “I want this collar. Someone orchestrated Eric Wentworth’s death. His murder case was stone-cold until his mother discovered that bank account in Emily’s name. It’s a lot of money and puts a whole new spin on the investigation. I want to know how the wife’s involved, and I’m not backing down this time.”

“If Emily’s guilty, why would she offer to help me?”

“To gain an ally in the office. To get intel on what’s happening in the investigation. If she arranged the hit-and-run to take out her husband, then she’s willing to do anything— including slitting her own throat—to make herself look like a victim. You and I both know that’s not as uncommon as it should be.”

“You’re reaching. Emily almost died. Her voice will never be the same. And my neighborhood contacts don’t know squat about her being involved in anything, except she’s a do-gooder.” Mitch knew he’d been mistaken in the past, but he couldn’t get past his feelings about Emily. If he could trust them. “What if we’re wrong? What if she’s just trying to find her son?”

“Could be.” His boss’s jaw tightened. “But she knows something. And someone tried to kill her tonight. And that someone wasn’t Ghost. I want an explanation.” His eyes were cold. “There’s dirt there. I can smell it. Find the proof. Whatever it takes.”

NO MORNING SUN PEEKED through the winter clouds closing in on the cemetery. The day should be dreary. Nothing good should happen on December fifth. Ever again. Emily ran her fingertips over the engraved inscription on the wall of stone. Eric Wentworth. Beloved son and father.

“Beloved husband,” she whispered the words his family had denied her and wiped away a single tear.

She stood alone just inside the open archway of the Went-worth Family Mausoleum, the large marble temple as cold and unforgiving as Eric’s family. They’d made their feelings perfectly clear with his marker. They had never accepted her. They blamed her for Eric’s death and Joshua’s kidnapping. If only she could remember that night. Something more than headlights, screams and a hooded man.

A gust of icy winter wind buffeted against her, and she stuffed her hands in her pockets. She should know what happened to her child. The diaper bag had been left in the car, but Joshua and his car seat were gone. “I still haven’t found our baby, Eric,” she said in the husky voice her husband wouldn’t have recognized. “I’m sorry.”

A lonely bell tolled from afar, and just as the tones died, a rustle of grass fluttered. She tensed. She’d had a sense all morning someone was watching her—again. For weeks she’d fought her instincts, but after last night’s attack, she didn’t doubt the feelings.

A looming shadow crossed the side of Emily’s face. “You don’t belong here.”

Emily shivered at her mother-in-law’s sharp words and turned slightly. Victoria Wentworth looked the perfect, elegant role of grieving mother, her black veil hiding her expression and eyes Emily knew were accusatory.

“You’re not family.”

“He’s my husband,” Emily countered softly.

“You killed him.”

“Mother, you know that’s not true.” Victoria’s son, William, stepped forward to pull her back. He shot Emily an apologetic look. “It was a tragic accident.”

Victoria slapped William’s hand away and faced Emily. “You set up the murder of my son and grandson. And someday I’ll prove it.”

Emily winced. She’d been eager to get along with Eric’s family, but from the beginning the Wentworths had pushed her away until finally Eric had made a choice. He’d turned his back on them, their money and their corporation until Joshua was born and Emily had persuaded him to reconcile. Their baby deserved a family. The snowy drive to Cherry Hills Village last December had been her idea. In so many ways, his death in the hit-and-run truly was on her shoulders. “I loved Eric.”

“You wanted a way at the Wentworth money,” Victoria said as her husband, Thomas, entered the tomb and stood by her side. She reached out and clasped his hand. “Well, we won’t allow it. Eric disinherited himself, and we told the insurance company his death was your fault. We even found your secret account. You’ll get nothing. Nothing.”

Account? “What are you talking about?”

“As if you didn’t know.” Victoria turned to her son. “William, get her out of here.”

Victoria tilted her head into Thomas’s shoulder and broke down in sobs. William whispered something to his mother and hurried to Emily.

“I think you’d better go now,” he said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“I didn’t do anything. You know that. He was my husband. I loved him.” With one last look at Victoria and what might have been, Emily slid on her gloves, fighting tears of confusion, anger and hurt. William escorted her out of the cold building. Their footsteps crunched over frozen grass as they crossed toward the parking lot.

“I know you loved him,” William said. “Mother can be a real witch when she wants to be. She can’t let go of Eric. None of us really can.”

“You think I’ve let go? I fight to find our son every day.”

“And that’s something else we have to talk about.”

William’s tentative voice, so similar to Eric’s, sent a chill of foreboding through Emily.

“I don’t quite know how to say this, so I’ll just tell you. Mother and Father found my receipts for your private investigator and some of the airline tickets I bought. They came unglued when they learned I’d been helping you financially. I had to promise I’d quit.”

Emily halted and faced William. “You can’t stop now. I’m counting on your help.” She clutched at his arm. “I’m so close.”

“You’ve found Joshua?”

William gripped her arm, the eagerness in his voice gratifying, but she couldn’t mislead him. “Not exactly. I’m collecting information on adoptions from last year because I discovered these missing babies downtown. Well, at least there are missing pregnant girls, and—”

“Oh, Emily. How many times have we traveled down this path?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but they’re my family. In some ways they’re right. It’s been a year. We have to accept reality. We’ve tried to find him. Even my parents tried. But Joshua’s gone.”

“I’m not giving up. Not ever, but I need more time. With your parents painting me as a Black Widow in the gossip rags, my clinic is barely making it.”

“I can’t help anymore. I’m sorry.” William opened the door of the decade-old compact Eric had complained about so often. When she slid onto the cracked vinyl seat, William knelt beside the car. “Take my advice. Move on with your life. Close this chapter.”

“How can I do that when my son is out there somewhere? You may not believe I’ll find him, but I refuse to accept that I won’t.”

William gripped her hands, his gaze regretful. “Then I’m sorry for you. Goodbye, Emily.” He shut the door and, after a pitying look, walked back to the family crypt.

She shuddered and let out a slow breath, the cold filtering into her bones. This couldn’t be happening. She started her car and cranked up the heater as high as it would go to ease her shivering, though that had little to do with the weather. She’d wondered why the life-insurance company kept stalling on the check. She had her answer. And what was that about the so-called secret account? She’d have to call the bank, but she’d never get at the money. The Wentworths would see to that.

She glanced at her watch. Officer Bradford had an appointment and would be waiting at her clinic. Could she trust him? Right now, she needed him as much as he needed her. The second phase of her plan made her stomach churn, but she had to take drastic action. She needed funds to ramp up her search for Joshua. Eric would’ve understood.

Snagging her purse, she dug into her pocket for the number she’d saved. With one last glance at the marble resting place of the man with whom she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her life, she placed the call. “Karen, it’s Emily. Put the house up for sale. I’ll take the first offer. I need the cash. Now.”

THE PHYSICAL-THERAPY clinic looked too familiar. Mitch hated the fact he had a reason to enter the place, but after following Emily all morning, after zero leads on either the attempted hit-and-run, Ghost or Kayla’s disappearance, the trail was subzero. He had to shake something loose.

Mitch groaned as he pushed open the door and surveyed the plethora of exercise equipment and tables. The scent of menthol wafted on the air—an odor far too familiar for his liking. Several rehab patients worked on recumbent bikes. A few more did stretching exercises with the help of staff.

When he’d discovered she had an opening this morning, he’d scrambled to get a copy of his records, threw on his sweats and headed out the door. Mitch could now infiltrate Emily’s life, but he wasn’t an undercover cop. He didn’t like lying, he hated deceit and he was doing both. The bonus? He got the pleasure of being tortured in physical therapy for his trouble. A real win-win.

A young receptionist rounded her desk. “May I help you?”

With a quick, plastered-on grin, he scanned her name tag. “Hi, Cindy. Mitch Bradford. I have an appointment with Emily Wentworth.”

The door behind them flew open, and a familiar dynamo dressed from head to foot in black raced into the room. “Cindy, I know I’m late. Please tell me my new patient isn’t—”

She skidded to a halt, clearly dismayed to see Mitch standing there. “Shoot.”

Holy smokes. Emily Wentworth looked good. He didn’t know how he could’ve missed the impact of her up close and personal last night. She was completely his type, with a petite, fit body and long, light brown hair swinging from a ponytail—obviously so silky it would be amazing spread across his pillow. Then he stared into her eyes, and his heart skipped a beat. Thick lashes framed the bluest, saddest eyes he’d ever seen. For a moment he felt lost. Her look was kind and sympathetic, with depth that could embrace his soul.

Where had that come from, waxing poetic? He had a job to do. But as he took in the plain black dress, with its high collar circling her neck, he recalled her complete aloneness at the cemetery. He’d been watching, forced to back away once the Wentworths arrived. It was the anniversary of her husband’s death. Was she still in mourning, or was this all for show, all part of an elaborate plan to get at the Wentworth money?

Mitch’s gut told him she was sincere. He didn’t want to believe the pain on her face, the sorrow in her eyes, had been anything but real.

Then again, his gut hadn’t been all that reliable lately. A few months ago, Mitch had learned his mentor had been a traitor to the badge. He wouldn’t be fooled so easily now. Not anymore. He couldn’t afford to give Emily the benefit of the doubt.

Mitch gave her a deliberately innocent smile. “Did I get the time wrong?”

She bit her lip, embarrassment tingeing her cheeks.

“No,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Not a great way to make a first impression as a therapist. Let me change, and I’ll be right with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Not until he knew for sure whether he’d completely lost his ability to tell the good guys from the bad guys. If he was wrong about her, he’d get the evidence he needed. And if she was guilty, he might as well just turn in his badge.

With a smile of gratitude, she disappeared behind a staff door.

Cindy handed him a stack of paperwork. “Emily will be right back. If you’ll fill out these forms…”

Mitch took the clipboard and sat in the chair closest to the receptionist before stretching his leg out. “So, I guess I was lucky to get in to see her so quickly. I heard she’s really good. I thought I’d have to wait longer for an appointment.”

“Oh, Emily’s the best, but…” Cindy hesitated. “She’s not that busy these days. Clients stopped coming because of her in-laws. They’ve said some things about her, and, well, some people gossip too much.” Cindy bit her lip and took a furtive glance around. “I need to get back to work.”

Obviously, Emily’s business had taken a big hit. That money angle his boss had mentioned reared its head again, but Mitch didn’t see the connection. If that secret account were hers, why not use it to save her business? Why work at all? Why not just disappear?

Mitch tried to get comfortable, but his leg had been giving him fits ever since that confrontation with Ghost. His body had revolted against a move he’d used a thousand times.

Once he finished the paperwork, he settled in for the long wait, but she returned in less than five minutes. Women usually took forever with clothes. Not Emily. Which shouldn’t have been surprising really. Nothing had been usual when it came to this assignment. The turtleneck she wore under her scrubs was a subtle reminder of what he knew lay beneath. He’d reviewed the crime-scene photos, had seen the jagged cut across her throat that had permanently damaged her vocal cords.

“Officer, come on back.” Her husky voice sent a shiver through him. He didn’t know what her voice had sounded like before, but this one was downright sexy.

“Call me Mitch. If you’re going to have your hands all over me, we should be on a first-name basis.” He followed her into a private examining room, trying to avoid studying the sway of her hips under the scrubs she’d changed into. Down, boy. Do not let yourself get taken in by a pair of baby blues and luscious curves. If she were innocent and wore black on the anniversary of her husband’s death, the implications made her so far off-limits, there wasn’t a measurement long enough.

She shut the door and cleared her throat, nodding at the exam table. Mitch was just relieved she didn’t offer to help him. His pride could only take so much. “Here’s my chart, just like you requested.”

He levered himself up on the table as she sat down and flipped through the pages. “You’ve been in therapy four months.” She closed the chart. “I didn’t really think you’d take me up on the offer.”

“Normally I wouldn’t have.” The words slipped off his tongue easily—since they were the truth. “I’ve got two months to requalify for SWAT. I’ll do anything to make that happen…Emily. Anything. And your reputation as a physical therapist…You’re one of the best.”

She nodded slowly. “The gunshot wound caused a lot of damage to your femoral artery and the surrounding nerves and muscles. What did your doctors say?”

“That I might never walk again. I didn’t listen too hard.”

A laugh escaped her, and the smile brightened her eyes. She sure was pretty.

“Good attitude. As long as you don’t go too far too fast. You came a few centimeters away from losing your leg.” She leaned back in her chair and set the chart aside. “Do you have the patience to follow orders? I won’t work with someone who goes off on his own. Even though you saved my life. You’ll need to do as I say. Exactly as I say.”

He understood chain of command, but from this slip of a thing…He bristled and met her unyielding gaze. He couldn’t afford not to play along. He’d seen the toughness in her before, the challenge. He’d give her a shot. It wasn’t like he had a choice. She was his assignment. But could he get his leg strength back and investigate Emily at the same time? Without going crazy?

“I want my SWAT uniform back. You tell me to sweat bullets, run stadium steps, go to yoga, I’ll do it. I’ll even wear a Texas Longhorns jersey, and I’m an Oklahoma Sooner, born and bred. You come up with a program to help me pass that physical, and I’m with you one thousand percent.”

“I’d have thought you a Colorado Buffaloes fan. But I believe you. So let’s get a baseline. You wearing workout shorts under those?” She stood and indicated his sweats.

He nodded. “And just to be clear, my grandparents came from Oklahoma. Once a Sooner…”

“I get it.” She smiled. “I like your loyalty to your roots, Mitch Bradford. I’ll go get some equipment while you take your pants off.”

A few months ago that order would have had him pulling her into his arms. Now Mitch simply slipped off his shoes, socks and sweats. He knew the drill. He’d never felt naked in a clinic before, but as he rubbed the gnarled scars on his thigh, he tensed. She’d know soon enough how damaged he really was.

After a slight knock, she entered the room. She glanced at his leg but didn’t give anything away—not pity, not disgust. She moved in closer, and he caught a waft of sweet mixed with tartness. Vanilla and some kind of berry, perhaps? His heart thudded as she placed her hands on his thigh.

“Let’s get started,” she said.

A dozen measurements later, Mitch swiped at the sweat rolling down his face and bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. The white-hot shards of pain shooting across his thigh were much worse since his heroics of the night before. He tried to ignore them as he strained against the minuscule weight Emily had pressed against his leg. His muscles behaved like traitors. Weak as a baby.

She frowned at her notes as she compared them to his records. Then she glared at him. “What have you been doing to yourself? You’ve lost at least fifteen percent of your strength and flexibility gains in the past month. That didn’t happen because of a single jujitsu turn. What aren’t you telling me?”

Mitch grimaced, and she just shook her head. “Never mind. I know. You thought you’d be a cowboy and do a little extra on your own. More is better. Am I close?”

She shifted forward and placed her warm hands on his thigh, working the spasming muscles. Slowly, her touch eased the pain. As the agony became bearable, his focus shifted toward her fingertips on his skin, moved up her arms, to the concentration on her face. He wanted to lift her chin and lose himself in those blue eyes of hers. He wanted to forget everything that was happening around them and just escape in her caresses.

“Man, you’re good,” he groaned. “Can I take you home with me?” Emily on call 24/7. Part-time to massage his aching leg and part-time to take those magic hands and lips a little higher and to the left.

She worked the muscles up and down his thigh. “I know you want faster results, but if you keep working out on your own, you’ll do permanent damage. You’ve really screwed up your leg, Mitch.” She removed her hands. He missed her touch already, but her face had gone deadly serious. “I want a straight answer. Will you follow my rules?”

As he took in her no-nonsense expression, a shaft of fear sliced through him. Had he lost his chance to get back to SWAT? Follow her rules? He had no choice. For more reasons than she could comprehend. “You’re the boss in the gym, Emily. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done. I promise you that.”

She paused and finally reached out her hand. “Okay. But you go off on your own, and I’m done. No second chances. Got it?”

He nodded.

The ringing cell punctuated her orders, and Emily’s heart tripped at the sound. Every time she got a call, part of her leaped at the thought of good news while a small dark place trembled with fear of horrifying news. She shoved aside the terror and pulled her phone from her pocket. She glanced at the familiar number. Her pulse raced. Maybe this time…She tapped the phone and stepped away for privacy.

“Hello?” She struggled to keep her voice from being too eager, too hopeful, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Mrs. Wentworth?” Her private investigator’s voice crackled through the phone.

“Perry, any more on Ghost that I can use when I talk to him?”

“He lives up to his handle, ma’am. He really is a ghost, but I did get a lead. Sister Kate connected me with one of the girls. She saw a tattoo that he tried to hide. She won’t go down to the police department, but she described portions of it. The art was complicated and colorful. I can fax you a picture of something similar, but I can’t get into the police records, mug shots or tattoo database to verify his gang affiliation.”

A tattoo. Pain shot through her temple, and she kneaded the throbbing spot, the burn behind her eyes so familiar. A small whimper escaped her lips. It happened whenever she felt on the cusp of remembering the night of the accident. The threatening memories slipped away, and Emily pushed aside the pain.

“Another flash?” Perry asked, obviously hearing the familiar sound.

“Just images of pink, green and red.”

“Like a tattoo?”

“Maybe.” She let out a hiss of frustration. “I don’t know. But the episodes are happening more frequently.”

“You know something important, Mrs. Wentworth. You’ll recall that night eventually.”

She couldn’t wait. She had to go to the police department. She didn’t want to ask the detective in charge of her case for assistance, but wouldn’t he have to listen this time? A car had tried to run her over. Ghost had threatened her. She was remembering something. “Keep digging. I’ll talk to Detective Tanner.” She tried to keep optimism in her voice, but even to her own ears she sounded frustrated. “Maybe he’ll help this time.”

Their connection ended, and she bit her lip as she studied her phone list on the small screen. A call wouldn’t do any good. Tanner would only put her off again. She’d go over there and wait as long as it took to look at those tattoo records. He would give her access. She’d make sure of it.

She snagged Mitch’s chart, grabbed her bag and turned to schedule the next session. He’d moved so quietly, she hadn’t heard him, but there he stood, inches from her. She almost stepped on his foot and stumbled into his arms. He reached out to steady her, so close she could feel his warmth. She couldn’t stop her body’s reaction to his nearness.

“Whoa, there. Are you okay?” Mitch said.

Her cheeks burned hot, and she pushed back the hair that had fallen in her face. She wanted to ask him for help but just wasn’t sure enough of him. Not yet. “Sorry. I’ve got to run. Ten a.m. day after tomorrow okay with you?”

“I’ll be here.”

She bent her head to make a note, and her unruly locks fell forward again. With gentle fingers, Mitch pushed the hair back in place. His pupils went black as his gaze strayed to her lips.

She cleared her throat and stepped back, touching her fingertips to her mouth. “Um…I’d better go.”

Mitch slowly nodded his head. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Emily filed away his record and raced out the door, her heart slamming into her chest. Her nerves tingled with awareness. Okay, so Mitch was strong and funny and determined. And hot. Despite his injury, he had a body that didn’t stop.

Each step, each rub of her cotton turtleneck against her skin reminded her of what she wanted. What she hadn’t experienced since before Joshua was born. Her breasts ached beneath her clothes. She couldn’t deny her reaction to Mitch, but that didn’t mean anything would ever happen between them. Besides, she didn’t have time for a relationship. Not with anyone. Not until she found Joshua. Thinking of Mitch in any way other than a client or a potential resource was a big mistake. She was a widow. In some ways, she’d become one even before Eric had died, but her aching loneliness was her problem.

She looked back. He stood, watching her, his expression hooded and thoughtful. She might need him and his contacts. She’d promised to help him, otherwise she would’ve handed his case over to one of her colleagues. He and Carl would probably hit it off, but she couldn’t risk letting go of even one potential collaborator.

She would find her son and just prayed Mitch would heal fast—before this unsettling temptation got the best of her.

THE ICY SHOWER HADN’T worked. Mitch secured the towel at his waist and padded across the cold tile of his bathroom. He’d almost kissed Emily. He’d wanted to, more so when he’d recognized the awareness that flashed in her eyes and echoed within him. He could think of a hundred reasons not to give in to the feelings, but that didn’t make him want to touch her any less.

At least he’d bargained for a few hours not having to watch her. He was getting to know every curve of her body, every expression on her face. Bad news. Let another cop get tempted—until he had himself back under control.

The Oklahoma fight song sounded from his phone on the nightstand. His brother, Chase, and his best friend, Ian, gave him a hard time, but “Boomer Sooner” made Mitch grin. Who wanted Mozart or a simple ringtone? Just because his best friend and one of his siblings happened to be one pancake short of a stack and attended the University of Texas…well, sometimes you just had to live with your family’s weaknesses.

“Bradford.”

“It’s Ian.”

Mitch sank onto the bed. “Are you calling as the Coroner’s Office Investigator or my goddaughter’s father?”

“Sorry, bud. Haley’s great, but you asked me to contact you if we received any pregnant guests. Jane Doe came in today. Not pregnant, but she gave birth just before she died. Blond hair, like the girl you asked me to watch out for.”

“Is it Kayla Foster?” Mitch braced himself for the answer.

“She was in a shallow grave, so the animals—”

“Yeah. I get the picture. Was it Kayla?”

“I can’t tell from the photo you sent. Her face is unrecognizable, but she has a gecko tat on her shoulder. I’m waiting on dental records.”

Mitch kneaded his shoulder with his hand, working out the tension that had settled there. “How’d she die?”

“We can’t tell from the external exam. Other than the birth, the body looks trauma free.”

“I’d hate your job.”

“At least my customers don’t carry guns,” Ian said.

“Funny.”

“Seriously, how’s the leg?”

“Almost good as new.” The lie came easily…too easily. Denial or something more after misleading Emily? “I’m a half hour away.”

“See you then.”

Mitch ended the call and sighed for Ricky’s sake. Mitch hoped this girl wasn’t Kayla. But if she wasn’t, then someone else’s family had a daughter who was dead, a grandchild who was missing, and they didn’t know anything had happened.

By the time he reached the coroner’s office, Mitch had contacted Kayla’s grandmother. He’d kept the questions lowkey, but he couldn’t fool her.

“You bring my girl home,” she’d said. “Either way.”

He entered the building housing the coroner and her staff and strode down the hall to the cracker box Ian laughingly called his office. The stench of formaldehyde and death rose to greet Mitch. He hated the odor in this place. Had since he’d been forced to visit as part of driver’s ed.

He rapped on the door and pushed it open to find his friend and a woman swallowed up in a white coat comparing two photos taped to a cork board. Mitch didn’t give Ian’s visitor a second look. He couldn’t stop looking at the pictures. One the high school photo of Kayla, the other—

“Is that Kayla?” His stomach churned at the sight of what was left of a blond-haired woman’s face. Truth be told, he could only tell the features were a woman because she didn’t have an Adam’s apple. Her eyes were missing, her nose had been gnawed away by animals. She barely looked human. He couldn’t show this body to Mrs. Foster. No way. No how.

One more reason to hate his temporary assignment and get back to SWAT.

Ian grimaced and stood, blocking Mitch’s view. “This is Dr. Tara O’Meare. She specializes in facial reconstruction and identification. Without dental records, I thought she could give us her opinion.”

The woman rose and shook Mitch’s hand.

“Is it Kayla?” he asked.

Dr. O’Meare shook her head. “No. When comparing the two photos, the distance between the zygomatic arches—the cheekbones—is wrong, and so is the position of the eyes. The girl found in the shallow grave is still a Jane Doe.”

“Her grandmother said Kayla didn’t have a tattoo, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Grandmothers don’t always know everything,” Ian finished.

“Yeah. Even if the body we found isn’t Kayla, I still have a missing girl out there.” Mitch rubbed his eyes. A missing girl, a missing baby and a Jane Doe. Not to mention Joshua Wentworth. With Emily in the middle of it all. Which pieces fit where? He had to pull it apart section by section. Somehow. “At least for the moment, Mrs. Foster gets good news. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope you don’t call anytime soon except for a game of touch foot…” His voice trailed off.

“I’ll keep calling,” Ian said. “You let me know when you’re up for it.”

Avoiding a last look at the photos, Mitch exited the room. He tried not to breathe too deeply until he left the building, then sucked in the crisp winter air. After he inhaled several times through his nose and mouth, he could finally smell and taste the snow tumbling around him.

Once in his car, he slipped on his hands-free device and dialed Kayla’s grandmother’s number.

“Mitchell?” Mrs. Foster’s voice trembled as she said his name.

He hated hearing the uncertainty in the woman’s voice, but he couldn’t guarantee the next time he called, the news wouldn’t be what she dreaded to hear. “It wasn’t her.”

“Thank the Lord.” A small prayer slipped from the older woman’s lips. “You’ll keep looking?”

“Definitely. I have a deal with Ricky,” Mitch promised. “He shows up for practice—”

“Oh, he’ll be at practice, don’t you worry.”

“Mrs. Foster, you know I wouldn’t stop looking for Kayla, even if Ricky never—”

“I know, dear. You’ll find her.”

He disconnected the phone and immediately “Boomer Sooner” filtered through the car.

“Bradford.”

“Get your butt down here,” Dane Tanner barked. “Now.”

“What’s going on?”

“Your assignment just walked in the front door of the police department. Without you.”

Chapter Three

“Let me see Ghost,” Emily pleaded. “Or at least look through the tattoo database. It might jog my memory.”

Detective Dane Tanner clicked the door closed and sat behind the interview table sporting that same patient, dubious expression Emily had grown to hate over the past seven or eight months.

“What are you doing, Mrs. Wentworth?”

“Look, Detective, I know it seems far-fetched, but I’m on the verge of remembering.”

“Why Ghost? And where did this brainstorm come from so suddenly?”

Here we go again. Emily took in a slow, deep breath. “He has a tattoo.”

“Did you see it? Recognize it?”

“No, but my private investigator talked to—”

“Perry Young has a spotty reputation,” Tanner said. “I’ve reiterated this every time you’ve brought one of his leads to me. All going nowhere, I have to remind you. He’s a gambler and a drinker.” The detective shuffled through some papers. “He’s stringing you along for a steady paycheck.”

Not so steady anymore. That’s why she had to convince the detective to help her now.

“I got a flash of memory, Detective. If I could just see Ghost’s tattoo, or at least look at the books, I might recognize something. Ghost’s in custody, right? How tough would it be for me to talk to him?”

“I’m not breaking protocol because you had a vision. Go to a tattoo parlor.”

“I know what you think of me, Detective Tanner, but do it for the missing girls. Maybe Joshua and their babies are connected.”

“No infants have been reported missing or stolen. I’m sorry.” Dane steepled his fingers and rested them against his lips.

“A pregnant girl is missing.”

“And Kayla Foster’s grandmother reported her. This MO’s not a fit for Joshua’s disappearance. It’s none of your concern.”

She launched out of her chair and leaned over the desk. “You can’t turn your back on the vulnerable. Joshua is only thirteen months old. He’s alone.” She hated the idea of begging—especially to the detective who didn’t trust her—but she’d do anything for her son. She knew the statistics, the chances of getting him back. Infants taken who weren’t returned within a few weeks were almost never found. The numbers didn’t matter. Joshua would be the exception. She grabbed the age-progressed photo from her satchel and shoved it at him. “Please. Ghost tried to force Heather to go with him. You have to help those girls. I can help, too, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll pass the information to the officer in charge of the assault case. That’s the best I can do. You, however, couldn’t have come in at a better time.” The detective slid a document across the table. “Is that your signature?”

Emily stuffed the photo back into her bag, scanned the paper and lifted her chin. “You want to quiz me about money or bank forms, call my lawyer. My son is out there, and I need help to find him. If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.”

She slammed out of the interrogation room, the wooden door banging behind her, and sagged against the wall. Her heart pounded as reality set in. The Wentworths had closed nearly every door. She’d have to scrape together enough money for an attorney and for Perry. God help her if they blocked the sale of the house somehow.

“Emily?”

The deep voice that she shouldn’t have recognized so easily sent a flood of hope through her. “Mitch.” She turned, then rushed over to him. “What are you doing here? I thought you were SWAT.”

“Temporary assignment while I’m rehabbing.” He clasped her arm and guided her toward a chair next to a desk with his name. “What’s going on?”

Mitch’s concern wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She looked up as he escorted her, strong and able—almost a knight in shining armor. Last night, even though someone had almost killed her, she’d felt safe and protected in his arms after he’d snatched her out of harm’s way. Could she trust him to do the same now?

She had no choice. She had to go with her instincts. She sat down and clutched her evidence satchel meeting his gaze. “Detective Tanner.”

“My temporary boss,” Mitch clarified gently as he hitched his hip on the edge of the desk.

“Oh.” Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea, but she’d run out of options, and no matter what William had advised, she wasn’t giving up. “I received a tip about Ghost’s tattoo, and it reminded me of something from the night of the accident. I asked Tanner to let me see the mug shots or the tattoo database, but he won’t. He wouldn’t even let me see Ghost.”

“Did you see his tat?”

“Well, no, but I heard one of the girls—”

“Tanner’s a real by-the-book kind of guy,” Mitch said. “He doesn’t bend regs. If you didn’t see the tat, he won’t let you at the photos.”

“Do you ever break the rules?”

Mitch quirked a small smile. “Let’s just say in SWAT sometimes a little creative thinking is required. I wouldn’t say I break regulations, but I might bend them a bit.”

Hope flickered through Emily as she stared at the man who had taken down Ghost. She leaned forward in her chair and gripped Mitch’s arm. “I need your help to find my son.”

“I’m not a real investigator, Emily. Just on temporary assignment. You need—”

“I need someone who believes in getting at the truth…and in finding Joshua. No one here does. They never have.” Bitterness crept into Emily’s voice. “I know you’ve heard the rumors, but they’re not true. I loved Eric. Please, help me find Joshua.”

She saw the turmoil and indecision in his eyes, and something that almost looked like guilt. “It’s not your fault this department has let me down, but you can change that.”

“Bradford. In my office. Now.”

Tanner’s order made Emily jump, but Mitch had been expecting the interruption. He patted her arm. “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry.”

He walked into his boss’s office.

“Wentworth came to see me like you said she would. So…what does she want from you?” Tanner asked.

“Help to find her son. Because she doesn’t trust the rest of your unit.”

The detective sank back into his chair and smiled. “This couldn’t be better if I’d planned it. Do it.”

“Tanner—”

“This is your chance. She might let something slip. Maybe her son’s disappearance was part of a plan gone wrong. But even if she’s not involved, she knows something. Tell her you talked me into letting you take over her investigation. Tell her you need to stick close because of Ghost’s escape. Earn her trust.”

“But—”

“Get out there before our chicken panics and runs away. Work Emily any way you can. Find out if she’s into something that got her husband killed and her son taken. I’ll work the money angle. I want to know who murdered Eric Went-worth.”

His boss’s jaw twitched as he passed over a single cardboard box. “Here are copies of the key forensic and evidence reports on the accident and kidnapping. No real leads. Most of that file’s full of initial interviews and her PI’s false tips. It’s been vetted. Show it to Wentworth. Use it to gain her trust and get her reaction.”

“I’ll do my best.” Mitch snagged the evidence and stared at his boss. “Why so rabid on this, Tanner?”

His boss let out a long sigh. “Eric Wentworth called me the day before he died. I’d taken time off. Turned off my cell. Wentworth said he had some vital information for me, but he needed to be discreet. No details on the message. He died before I could return the call. I never turn off my phone anymore.”

“Damn, Dane.”

“Find out who killed him.”

Mitch gave a stiff nod to his boss and pasted a satisfied expression on his face as he returned to the bullpen. He lifted the box. “It took some convincing, but I got the case.”

Emily’s face broke into a relieved smile. Guilt burned through Mitch’s gut. He liked straightforward and honest, not games.

He shifted the evidence in his arms. “Look, we should talk in the conference room, but let’s get out of here first. It may be bending the rules a bit, but there are things I need to tell you, and—” he peered around the room “—we have an audience.”

Emily looked about then turned to Mitch. “I’ve been watched more than enough in this police station. Follow me to my place. Let me show you what I’ve done. Maybe you’ll see something I haven’t.” She snagged a sticky note and pen from the top of his desk and scribbled her address. She handed him the yellow paper. “Just in case I lose you.”

He took the slip but didn’t need the information. He’d memorized her address.

Mitch didn’t like the sour taste success left in his mouth. Emily trusted him, and every word he spoke had a lie hidden behind it. He’d have to live with the consequences.

As they passed the desk sergeant, one of his SWAT-mates, Reynolds, ran past. “Mitch. Wish you were back, man. We got a bad one at the Denver Federal Center.”

Reynolds shoved through the doors to the SWAT Den, and Mitch could see the flurry of activity.

“Okay, children. Mount up,” Lieutenant Decker, his SWAT commander, yelled.

The steel door closed out the noise. Mitch’s knuckles whitened around the box handles. “I should be there.” But until Ghost was caught, he couldn’t let this case go…whether he was reinstated to SWAT or not. Emily was in danger, and he couldn’t turn his back on his responsibility to her.

He felt the warmth of her hand on his arm.

“You’ll get back to them,” she said. “Soon.”

Was her concern real or had she recognized his desperation to return to SWAT? Was Tanner right? Was she a black widow? A beautiful, tempting black widow, but a dangerous predator nonetheless?

God, he hoped not. They walked out together.

After shoving the box in his SUV, Mitch followed her around winding curves to an isolated neighborhood that backed up against the Rocky Mountains. She slowed to fifteen miles below the speed limit when they reached the curve where the accident had occurred. A single white cross with a red wreath of poinsettias decorated the side of the road. He’d watched as she placed them there. Would she stop as she sometimes did?

After slowly passing the spot, she sped up and took a few more turns to her house. A picket fence surrounded her ranch-style home. As she pulled into the driveway, Mitch frowned at the Priced to Sell sign in the front yard. That was new since this morning. So, money was as tight as Tanner believed.

He grabbed the evidence box from the backseat and met her at the front door. “How long has it been on the market?”

“Not long.”

“You’re in a nice neighborhood. That should help it sell faster.”

“I hope so,” Emily said. “Let’s go into the dining room.”

They passed a kitchen, and Mitch noted a single cereal bowl and coffee cup on a drying towel. Nothing out of place. He glanced past a living room with a layer of dust on most of the wood surfaces. He hadn’t expected that. No magazines, no DVDs thrown about. The house didn’t really look lived in. He opened his mouth to pry as she slid open a walnut door. The words stuck in his throat when he entered the dining room.

“Whoa.” The walls had been converted to murder boards. Articles, photographs, dates had been attached, connected with arrows and lines, and adorned with notes.

Emily pointed to one side. “It’s a timeline of every event from the month before the hit-and-run until one month after. On the map, I’ve recorded every infant kidnapping in North America.”

Mitch rounded the dining room table and stepped up to the dozens of photographs tacked across the country. “You have found written on all of them. None of these kids are still missing.”

“Except Joshua.”

“And the small d in the corner of the photo?”

“Deceased,” she whispered.

Her words had gone so soft he could barely hear her. She probably hadn’t been able to write the word. Either way, the letter became a stark reminder of the worst that could happen.

He studied the third side of the room. Tips and newspaper clippings of missing children papered from ceiling to floor. On the final wall, a photo of Sister Kate’s refuge. She’d added two large questions. How many babies? Adoption?

No wonder what he’d seen of the rest of the house looked untouched. She spent all her time in this room, searching for clues to her son’s whereabouts. He couldn’t get over the detail. He disliked the tediousness of investigation, and this amazing woman had taught herself most of the techniques they’d covered in Mitch’s training at the police academy. She impressed him more and more with each passing moment.

“You’ve done a lot of work.”

“Not much else to do.” She sat in one of the hard cherry chairs, the only one that wasn’t perfectly aligned around the table.

“You have any help?”

“No one else seems inclined. Including your boss.”

Mitch didn’t blame her for the accusation in her tone. “What about your friends, family?”

“My brother’s stationed overseas. And friends…It’s been a while since I had any of those.”

Mitch let his surprise show. “You seem like a person people would latch onto—for movies, hiking, dinner.”

“I make most of my old friends…uncomfortable.”

She brought a self-conscious hand to her throat. Mitch had become accustomed to her husky voice, in fact he liked it, but it was another reminder. “Because of your son.”

“And this room. They said I was obsessed…the few who came over.” She clasped a locket resting on the outside of her turtleneck. “I remind them that nightmares can happen. Do happen.”

“You won’t give up until you find him.”

“Never. No matter what the Wentworths say or do.”

Mitch eyed a high chair pushed into the corner, a bib draped over the back. A small teddy bear with one blue eye and one brown eye sat in the seat right next to an empty wooden cradle. Unused for the past year. She faced the memory every day. This woman didn’t know where her child was. She didn’t know who took him. If she’d had anything to do with her husband’s death, she would know where to start.

If she were playing him, if this were an elaborate hoax, she deserved an Oscar. His job was to prove one theory or the other.

Placing the box with the few flimsy files on the floor, he sat beside her and stretched out his leg. “Let’s ignore the records for now and start from the beginning. What do you remember about that day?”

Emily’s expression fell, her vulnerability embedded in her eyes. Then she straightened her shoulders with an inner strength he recognized even after only a few conversations. While part of him wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her, he couldn’t. He’d already crossed a line. He liked her. He believed her. He had to keep his distance. No matter how tempting he found her.

“I try to remember the details of that night a dozen times a day,” she said. “I don’t know exactly what happened. Everything seemed fine. We’d barely left the house on the way to Eric’s parents’. The road was slick, but nothing out of the ordinary. I remember the lights coming at us, and flashes, the sound of Joshua’s cry—” her husky voice caught “—a hooded figure, but not much else.”

She rubbed her eyes with one hand and clutched at her throat with the other. “By the time I regained consciousness, a week had passed. Eric was dead. His family had held the funeral, and they blamed me for his death and Joshua’s disappearance. More than that, they thought I had something to do with the crash.” She reached out a hand to Mitch. “I know they believe I cut myself with the glass, but I would never…You have to believe me.”

“Think, Emily,” he said. “We know from the paint scrapes that you and Eric were run off the road. The question is why. They took your baby. Was your son the target? Had you been threatened?”

She shook her head firmly. “Nothing like that. Look at the map. Infants aren’t taken very often, not by strangers. And most of the time they’re found within two weeks. There’s not a slew of stolen babies in any one geographical area. Not anywhere in the country. And certainly not here.”

Mitch rose and turned to the map. He ran his finger from pin to pin. “I know that. I don’t necessarily think your son was taken as part of a baby ring. This was personal. About your family.” He faced her. “You and your husband took out a life-insurance policy just before he died. Why?”

Emily stilled, her entire body tense with suspicion. “Wait a minute. How do you know about the insurance? And the paint? I just asked for your help today.”

Oh, boy. His first big slip. Well, one thing SWAT had taught him was to think on his feet. “Tanner mentioned a few things, but I have to admit, after last night, I looked into your case. I didn’t think the attempted hit-and-run was an accident. I still don’t.”

How long could he mix truth with lies and still remain credible? The question churned in Mitch’s gut.

“Ghost could’ve called someone. He threatened me. Did you ask him?”

Mitch let out a long, slow breath. “I’ve got some bad news about Ghost. He’s no longer in custody.”

“You let him go?” She rose from her seat, her eyes sparking with fury. “How could he make bail? He’ll disappear.” She crossed to Mitch, hands planted on her hips, toe-to-toe with him.

He hated to admit the truth. “That’s not quite what happened. He escaped. Before we could get prints or mug shots.”

“I have to talk to him.” Emily paced around the room. “He’s all I’ve got.”

“You can’t, Emily. That’s one reason Tanner gave me your case. I believe, and he agrees, that you’re in danger. He knew, given your history with the police department, you wouldn’t be receptive to protection.”

“He was right about that.” Emily glared at him. “Your boss should’ve told me the second I asked to see Ghost. He lied to me. And so did you.”

“We didn’t tell you everything,” Mitch acknowledged.

“How am I supposed to trust you? I thought you were on my side. That you believed me.”

“I do believe you. I don’t think you know where your son is, but Ghost threatened you, and I’m sure he’ll come after you. You need my help.”

Emily let out a slow breath and met his gaze. “If we’re going to work together, you can’t lie to me, Mitch. Or keep secrets. I can’t do that again.” She bit her lip and turned away.

“Wait a minute.” Mitch touched her shoulder. “What do you mean again?”

She whirled around and raised her chin in challenge. “It doesn’t matter. You want to know about the money. Eric and I bought the policy because of the baby. Joshua was only a month old, but Eric planned for the future, especially since he and his family…weren’t communicating.”

Mitch didn’t like the frozen expression on Emily’s face. He’d really blown it. “Your husband didn’t get along with his parents?”

“They’d been estranged for a while. Ever since, well, ever since we got engaged. I wasn’t quite the daughter-in-law they had in mind. Not blue-blooded enough, if you get my meaning. They made no secret of it, so Eric left the family business. He gave up everything for me.”

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