Mistaken Identity
Merline Lovelace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MERLINE LOVELACE

A retired U.S. Air Force officer, Merline Lovelace served at bases all over the world, including Taiwan, Vietnam and at the Pentagon. When she hung up her uniform for the last time, she decided to combine her love of adventure with a flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her experiences in the service.

Since then, she’s produced more than seventy-five action-packed novels, many of which have made USA TODAY and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. Over ten million copies of her works are in print in thirty-one countries. Named Oklahoma’s Writer of the Year and the Oklahoma Female Veteran of the Year, Merline is also a recipient of a Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award.

When she’s not glued to her keyboard, she and her husband enjoy traveling and chasing little white balls around the fairways of Oklahoma. Check out her Web site at www.merlinelovelace.com for news, contests and information about upcoming releases.

To my dad, who reads every one of my books—

thanks for gifting me with your love of adventure and joy in books!

Contents

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

Epilogue

Chapter 1

After almost thirty-six hours of continuous surveillance, Marsh caught the sound of a car pulling up in front of the house next door.

Every one of his senses jumped to full alert. Moving like a silent shadow through the darkened living room, he flattened himself against the wall and lifted the blinds an inch. When he saw the unmistakable silhouette of a woman climb out of a taxi, his heart picked up speed.

It was her! Rebecca Smith. It had to be. The hair was longer than in the picture on her Arizona driver’s license, but even in the dim glow of the streetlights Marsh couldn’t miss its gleaming auburn tints. Just to make sure, he grabbed the night-vision binoculars he’d appropriated for this stakeout.

“Come on,” he urged, his gaze drilling into the woman’s back. “Turn around. Let me have a look at you.”

Marsh gripped the binoculars and stared unblinking through sandpapery eyes at the image haloed in the greenish glow. He’d hardly slept or eaten since that grim night when Reece had relayed the gut-wrenching news of Ellen’s death that had brought the Hendersons back to the Bar-H once again.

Marsh knew he’d never wipe that gray, drizzly day of the funeral from his mind. He, Reece, Sam and Evan had been pallbearers, while Jake stood stony-eyed and silent. With his mother on one side, and his sisters-in-law on the other, the eldest of the Henderson brothers had watched as his wife was lowered into an earth just browning after the first touches of frost.

They’d stayed with Jake as long as they could, but knew that the loss wouldn’t really hit him until everyone left and he was alone with his memories of Ellen. Their mother was still at the Bar-H, in the house she’d come to as a bride and had left after Big John died. Jessica Henderson intended to remain with her son until they both came to grips with Ellen’s senseless, tragic death.

Except it wasn’t senseless. It was a brutal, if misdirected, murder. And Marsh was going to bring the man behind the shooting to justice.

Long weeks of determined investigation, dogged persistence and ruthless shaking down of every snitch in southern Arizona had finally paid off. Ten days ago, the Phoenix police had busted a smalltime crack dealer. In an attempt to beat the rap, the doper let drop that he’d witnessed the incident that had made all the Phoenix papers.

The dealer also confirmed that the drive-by shooting was no random act. Another car sped through the intersection at the precise moment the shots were fired. The driver of that car was the intended target, the police informed Marsh. Ellen just happened to get in the way.

The doper’s description of the other vehicle led to an ID of the owner—one David Jannisek—a Phoenix hotelier with a weakness for fast redheads and not-so-fast horses. Allegedly, Jannisek owed hundreds of thousands to the mob boss rumored to control the southwest. But before the police could close in on him, he’d disappeared.

The investigators had then set their sights on the flamboyant hotelier’s latest love…the cocktail waitress who, according to all reports, Jannisek had fallen for in a big way, and for whom he had dug himself even deeper into debt. The police figured she might lead them to her missing lover, who in turn could finger the man behind the attempt on his life. When they’d interviewed her, however, Jannisek’s companion had denied all knowledge of either the shooting or her boyfriend’s whereabouts. Just days ago she, like Jannisek, had disappeared.

With all leads played out and nowhere else to look, the overworked homicide detectives had been forced to put the case on the back burner. A grimly determined Marsh had picked up where they’d left off. After informing his boss that he was taking an unpaid leave of absence, he’d jumped onto the next plane leaving El Paso for Phoenix.

The locals had cooperated as much as they could. They’d brought him up to speed on the investigation to date and turned over copies of their case files. They’d even arranged a walk through the missing woman’s rented house. One glance at the disarray inside told Marsh she’d left in a hell of a hurry…and that she’d return sooner or later to reclaim her possessions. Assuming she was still alive.

Al Ramos, the detective in charge of the case, believed both Jannisek and his girlfriend had disappeared for good. Maybe the mob had tried again after the first botched shooting that had taken Ellen’s life. Maybe they’d find the bodies of both the handsome hotelier and his girlfriend in an arroyo one of these days.

Marsh refused to settle for “maybe’s.” None of the sources the police had shaken down could say with any certainty that Jannisek had been taken out. Unless or until he and/or Becky Smith turned up dead, they constituted the only lead to the shadowy figure responsible for Ellen’s death. Grimly determined, Marsh had rented the house next door to Smith, hunkered down, and spent thirty-six long, empty hours waiting for the target to show.

Now it looked as though his wait might just have paid off.

His jaw tight, he adjusted the focus on the high-powered binoculars. He forgot to breathe, forgot everything until the woman finished paying the cabbie, slung her oversized tote bag over her shoulder, and turned. Her face blurred, and then filled the lenses.

“Bingo,” Marsh said, softly.

With the keen eye of a hunter, he cataloged his prey’s features. Full, sensuous mouth. High cheeks. Eyes wide-spaced under winged black brows. Wine-colored hair parted just off center and falling in sleek folds to her shoulders.

What clinched her identity for Marsh, however, was the pin on the lapel of her caramel-colored linen jacket. Even from this distance, he couldn’t mistake the wink of diamonds as she hurried up the walk. Eyes narrowed, he adjusted the focus to zero in on the fanciful little unicorn brooch.

Triumph brought a savage smile to Marsh’s face. He recognized that pin. He’d seen a picture of it in the case file. A laughing Becky Smith had purchased the expensive piece just weeks ago and airily instructed the clerk to charge it to David Jannisek’s account. The store clerk had described the pin in detail to the detectives trying to track down Jannisek. He’d described the luscious Ms. Smith in some detail, too.

Marsh had to admit the clerk hadn’t missed the mark. Becky Smith was a looker. Her face appeared more fine-boned in the flesh than in the photo on her three-year-old driver’s license. What hadn’t shown in the photo were her killer body and the mile-long legs that gave Marsh an unexpected kick to the stomach.

The gut-level reaction annoyed the hell out of him. Of course she would come equipped with supple curves and a mouth made for sin. She’d have to pack something extraordinary to keep a playboy like Jannisek dancing to her tune…along with the half dozen other men who’d enjoyed Becky Smith’s companionship at various times in her busy career as a cocktail waitress.

Blanking his mind to the body displayed to perfection by tight jeans, a black stretchy top and the hip-skimming linen jacket, Marsh waited with mounting anticipation for her to climb the few steps to the front stoop.

She went up the shallow stairs, reached for the door, froze.

“That’s right, sweetheart.” Wire-tight with tension, he kept the binoculars on her profile. “The door’s open. Make you nervous?”

She hesitated, indecision in every line of her body. Interminable seconds ticked by. Marsh held his breath, willing her to take the next step. Finally, she gave the door a tentative push. It swung wide open, revealing nothing but blackness inside the small stucco house.

“Go inside,” he urged fiercely. “Come on, you know you want to.”

His prey hovered on the stoop. Any woman with half a lick of common sense would turn around and run to the nearest house with lights on to call the police. Marsh was counting on the fact that Rebecca Smith would do exactly the opposite. Every bit of information he’d gathered on the fickle, flirtatious Becky indicated she was better known for her kittenish sensuality than her common sense.

After endless seconds of indecision, she stepped into the darkness. The lights inside the house flicked on, spilling a bright glow into the night. Long moments later, the front door slammed shut.

Savage satisfaction coursed through Marsh’s veins. Phase One was under way.

Dropping the binoculars, he checked his watch. Five minutes—he’d give her five minutes before he implemented the next phase of his plan to trap Ellen’s killer.

His pulse hammering, Marsh leaned against the wall. It didn’t bother him in the least that he was operating outside the parameters of his authority, and with only the tacit consent of the locals. Or that the detective in charge of the case had clearly considered staking out Rebecca Smith’s house a waste of time.

Marsh had been a cop long enough to trust his instincts, and his walk through the house next door had convinced him Smith would come back. She might be the world’s sexiest waitress. She certainly qualified as the world’s worst housekeeper. But she also, Marsh discovered during his search, had expensive tastes. Very expensive. A woman who collected diamond jewelry and undies of the Neiman-Marcus variety wasn’t going to leave them all behind.

With a grunt, Marsh fought to banish the erotic image that jumped into his mind. He had no business imagining the woman he’d just pinned in the binoculars in a pair of those skimpy, lace-trimmed thong panties. Her long legs and rounded hips would certainly do them justice, though. No wonder Jannisek had gone off the deep end and lost more at the track than he could ever hope to pay back, in an attempt to impress Rebecca Smith.

The gambler’s unpaid debts had come close to getting him killed, Marsh remembered, with a twist of his gut. Instead, Ellen had taken the bullets meant for Jannisek.

He flicked another impatient glance at his watch.

Three minutes to Phase Two.

His blood racing with anticipation, he closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on the woman next door. The open front door would have shaken her. She’d be scared now, and with good reason. In three minutes, Marsh intended to frighten her even more.

Her nerves jumping like live electrical wires, Lauren Smith stood amid the shambles of her sister’s bedroom. Discarded clothes lay everywhere. Glossy fashion magazines were scattered across the floor and the unmade bed. An empty pizza carton occupied the chair by the window. The stuffed and porcelain Garfields Becky collected grinned down gleefully at the mess.

Was anything missing? Had the place been burgled? For the life of her, Lauren couldn’t tell.

Becky thrived on chaos. In her home. In her work. In her life. With a mere ten months separating the sisters, it had always amazed Lauren that they could look almost like twins, yet possess such diametrically opposite personalities. The laughing, irrepressible Becky flitted through life as though it were one huge game to be played to the fullest. Cautious, careful Lauren had always followed more slowly, often cleaning up the messes Becky left in her wake.

Like this one.

“What the heck have you gotten yourself into this time?” she murmured, as she had repeatedly since she’d returned to Denver from a quick, up-and-back trip to D.C.’s National Gallery of Art late this afternoon. She’d hit the button on her phone recorder, and heard her sister’s voice leap out at her.

Something had happened, Becky had exclaimed. She…she needed to take some time to think things through and decide what to do. Call me, she had demanded. A second message had expressed impatience that Lauren wasn’t home, and then cut off abruptly then in Becky’s usual haphazard style.

Lauren had called immediately, only to listen in frustration to the endless ringing. Nor had Becky answered her cell phone. Lauren had redialed repeatedly, wondering and worrying.

What had happened? What did Becky need to think through? Even more disturbing, what had put an uncharacteristic tremor in her sister’s voice?

Lauren’s worry had mounted with each unanswered phone call. After hours of pacing and dialing, she did what the sisters had always done in a crisis—rush to the other’s aid. With just moments to spare, she caught the seven-ten flight out of Denver for Phoenix.

Now that she was here, though, she didn’t have a clue what to do next. Where was her sister? Had she skipped town, or merely gone out for the evening?

Chewing on her lower lip, Lauren skimmed another glance at the unmade bed, the clothes tossed carelessly on the floor, the Garfield cats decorating the old-fashioned vanity with its oval mirror, a relic right out of the 30s that the perpetually broke Becky had found in a junk shop and beautifully restored.

That was Becky, Lauren reflected, her mouth curving. On paydays she’d splurge on a leg wax or the expensive lingerie she collected with as much passion as her Garfield cats, and then have to subsist on tuna fish for the rest of the week. Or she’d purchase wildly extravagant gifts like the diamond unicorn pin Becky had sent her sister for her birthday a few weeks ago, followed up with an urgent request for a loan. Fondly, Lauren fingered the pin on her lapel. She didn’t even want to think how much the piece must have cost her sister. Or her latest boyfriend, she guessed wryly.

Men were always falling all over themselves to score points with the vivacious Becky. It wouldn’t have surprised Lauren if her current love hadn’t footed the bill for the expensive birthday gift. From the way her sister had gushed about the guy, he could afford it. According to her, Dave Jannisek was as loaded as he was handsome. Becky had even hinted that she might be serious about this one.

If so, it would be the first time she’d ever fallen for one of her many admirers. Lauren suspected their parents’ bitter divorce and Lauren’s own short, disastrous marriage had given the volatile Becky a permanent fear of commitment.

Finding her ex in bed with another woman had certainly made Lauren herself wary of leading with her heart instead of her head, but she didn’t compensate for that humbling experience by indulging in a string of love-’em-and-leave-’em relationships the way her sister did.

None of which explained where said sister was at this particular moment. Or why her front door had been open when Lauren arrived.

Raking her hand through the hair that was so like her sister’s in its thickness and dark red sheen, Lauren thought about that open door. The moment she’d noticed it, alarms had started pinging up and down her nervous system. Whatever or whoever had made Becky so nervous was starting to make Lauren distinctly uncomfortable, as well.

She’d check the kitchen, she decided, tossing aside the oversized tote she carried on quick trips like this. Maybe she’d find some clue to Becky’s whereabouts there. If not, she’d grab a shower, clean some of the clutter off the bed, and zonk out until her sister showed up. After the flight from D.C., followed by the hop down to Phoenix, even Lauren’s jet lag had jet lag.

She was halfway out the door when she spotted what looked like the strap to Becky’s favorite shoulder bag buried under a discarded blouse on the floor. Frowning, she pulled out the purse and checked its contents. Wadded tissues, loose half-sticks of cinnamon gum, a funky little makeup bag in the shape of a grinning Garfield and the embossed leather wallet Lauren had given her for Christmas a couple years ago. No house or car keys.

She hefted the wallet in her hand and looked inside. Fresh concern spilled through her. Why would her sister leave the house without her cash or credit cards?

Thinking of that open front door, Lauren slipped Becky’s wallet into her own tote for safekeeping. She’d hang on to it until Beck showed up, or until Lauren figured out just what the heck was going on here.

Forehead creased with worry, she headed for the hall. She’d better call her assistant Josh. She’d have to cancel her early morning meeting with the stationery supplier who wanted to show her his new line of stock. If Becky showed up any time soon, maybe Lauren could still make her afternoon appointment with the director of Denver’s museum of fine art. She really wanted the museum account.

Really needed that account.

An exclusive contract to produce the museum’s postcards and gift stationery could finally take her fledgling design firm out of the red. She’d launched the business after her divorce had left her jobless as well as husbandless. Drawing on her art training, she had decided to specialize in adapting the great masterpieces to local scenery. Her unique designs were just starting to take off, particularly the cards that blended the whimsical, mythical creatures she so loved into familiar settings.

Lauren had sunk everything she had into the enterprise. Everything she could scrape together, that is, after her ex had cleaned out their joint account. And Jack had had the nerve to look wounded when Lauren told him that she was reverting back to her maiden name. How had she ever imagined herself in love with the jerk?

Wondering if man trouble was what had precipitated Becky’s odd call, Lauren headed down the narrow hall toward the kitchen.

The sound of glass shattering spun her around. Eyes wide, she stared at the front door. For a heart-stopping instant she caught a shadowy movement on the other side. Then, a black-gloved hand reached through the broken glass and groped for the dead bolt Lauren had locked behind her only minutes before.

Lauren didn’t stop to think. Didn’t even consider snatching up the phone to dial 911. Someone wanting in the front door was enough to send her flying down the hall and out the back. Her fingers frantic, she fumbled with the lock on the kitchen door.

The knob wouldn’t turn. It twisted halfway, then caught, as if the tumblers inside the lock were out of alignment or gummed up or something. She slammed a palm against the door and tried again.

“Come on! Come on!”

Still the lock wouldn’t turn the whole way. In a spurt of pure desperation, she tugged off her shoe and whacked the handle with the stacked heel, and then tried again.

The lock gave. Almost sobbing with relief, Lauren threw open the door and charged outside. Two steps later, she collided with a wall of solid muscle.

“What the hell…?”

The gruff voice split the darkness as Lauren rocked back, almost toppling over. Hard hands grabbed her arms, whether to save her from falling or to keep her from running, she had no idea. She flung her head up, gasped at the sight of the lean, shadowed face inches from hers.

“Are you okay?”

“I…I…” Lauren struggled to reply around the lump in her throat.

Those hard fingers stayed locked around her upper arms, but the hold gentled, supporting her while she stammered incoherently.

“Who…? What…?”

“I’m your new neighbor. I was carrying some boxes out to the trash and heard the sound of glass shattering. Did you drop something? Cut yourself?”

Too flustered to correct his mistaken impression that she was Becky, Lauren did manage to gather her scattered wits enough to register two swift impressions. One, his eyes were the bluest she’d ever seen. They reflected the light pouring from the kitchen like blue ice. Two, the hands wrapped around her arms were bare, uncovered by black gloves.

“Someone broke in the front door,” she got out on a shaky breath. “He smashed the glass and reached inside to turn the dead bolt.”

His head shot up. Eyes narrowed, he peered over her head at the house she’d just vacated.

“I left my back door open,” he said tersely. “Go inside, shoot the lock behind you, and wait there until I get back.”

Uncurling his hands, he started forward. Alarmed, Lauren snatched at the sleeve of his blue denim shirt.

“Wait! You can’t go in there alone!”

He eased out of her grip. “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing. Go on over to my place. I’ll let you know when it’s all clear.”

His calm instruction almost convinced her that a little breaking and entering wasn’t anything to get excited about. The wicked-looking automatic he slid out of a holster at the small of his back convinced her otherwise.

With swift efficiency, he ejected the magazine, checked the load and palmed it back in place. Swallowing, Lauren lifted her nervous gaze from the gun to his face.

“Shouldn’t we just go to your place and call the police?”

“My phone’s not hooked up yet.”

He cocked the weapon, pulled back the slide and released it with a snap that ricocheted through the stillness. Then his white teeth flashed in a grin that was pure, rogue male.

“If it makes you feel any better, though, I am the police.”

Chapter 2

Satisfaction sang in Marsh’s veins as he went through the motions of searching Becky Smith’s house. Judging by the target’s stammering incoherence a moment ago, he’d achieved exactly the results he’d hoped for when he’d staged that bit of B and E. Good thing he’d thought to jimmy the lock on the kitchen door. That had given him the few moments he’d needed to rip off the black gloves, toss them into a handy bush and race around to the back of the house in time to intercept the woman who’d come flying out.

Sternly, Marsh repressed the twinge of guilt that tried to wiggle through his sharp satisfaction. Okay, he’d set her up. And yes, he fully intended to play on her stammering fear. If nothing else, the delectable Ms. Smith was guilty of associating with a gambler who was head over his heels in debt to the mob. She was up to her neck also in the dirty business that had led to Ellen’s death. Marsh refused to let her frightened brown eyes deter him from finding his sister-in-law’s killer. Now, if he could just shake the memory of Becky Smith’s trembling body pressed against his, he could concentrate on finessing her into the next phase of his carefully constructed plan.

With a last glance at the mayhem that constituted her living room, he strode down the hall and out the back door. A frown sliced across his face when he spotted her crouched in the shadows of the hedge that separated her rented house from the empty unit next door. That wasn’t part of his plan.

“Didn’t I tell you to go inside my place and lock the door behind you?”

“I thought…” she began, straightening up. “That is, I was worried you might need help.”

“Help?” He threw a disbelieving glance at the garbage can lid she gripped in one hand. “What the hell did you think you could accomplish with that?”

“Well, I was thinking along the lines of bonking the intruder over the head if he came running out. But I probably wouldn’t have had the nerve to do much more than make a racket and scare him off,” she admitted, dropping the lid back on the can.

The fact that she’d been prepared to take a stand at all surprised Marsh. From everything he’d learned about Becky Smith, she’d struck him as more likely to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble, the way she did after the police interviewed her a few days ago.

“Is he…?” She darted a look at her back door. “Is he gone?”

“He’s gone.” Marsh slid his Glock back into its holster at the small of his back. “He must have wanted in pretty bad, though, to bust the glass like that instead of taking the time to use a cutter or lock pick. Any idea what he was after, Miss Smith?”

She shook her head, her nervous gaze still on her sister’s house.

She didn’t blink at his use of her name, or ask how he knew it. Marsh had an explanation all ready. He’d even been prepared to lecture her on the idiocy of stenciling her last name as well as the house number on the mailbox out front. Since neither the explanation nor the lecture appeared necessary, he dug the hook in a little deeper.

“I thought I heard a car pull up in front a few moments ago. Was that you?”

Distracted, she shoved a hand through her hair. “Yes. I took a cab. From the airport.”

His pulse jumped. The cop in him almost asked her where she’d flown in from. The patient, determined hunter knew better than to press too hard or too fast. Instead, he used the truth to spring his trap of lies.

“Whoever tried to break in must have seen you drive up. Sounds as if he was waiting for you.”

Her head jerked up. “Waiting? For me?”

Marsh steeled himself against the shock that leaped into her eyes. “I’d say it was a distinct possibility.”

Every bit of the color she’d recovered drained from her face.

Ruthlessly, Marsh clamped down on his feeling of guilt. If she insisted on making it with guys who played games with the mob, she’d better be prepared to face a few unpleasantries in life. Curling a hand around her upper arm, he steered her toward her back door.

“I could be wrong. Maybe it was just a kid wanting something to pawn. You’d better take a look and see if anything’s missing.”

Lauren almost told him that she’d already looked, and that she had no idea what, if anything, might be missing. The words stuck in her throat, unable to get past the thick lump of fear and dismay he’d lodged there.

Had someone been waiting for Becky? Was there something more sinister behind her sister’s disjointed message than mere man trouble? Her thoughts tumbled chaotically.

Lauren reentered the house she’d charged out of just moments ago. Once inside, she whirled to face Becky’s neighbor, intending to pour out the details of her sister’s phone call.

“I…”

His narrow, fiercely intent expression killed the impulse on the spot. He looked like a hawk, she thought, in the fleeting instant before he blanked his expression. Or one of those blue-eyed timber wolves who ranged the Rockies. Sharp. Predatory. Dangerous.

“You what?”

“I, uh…”

She tried to shake the ridiculous imagery. He was a cop, for Pete’s sake! A police officer!

Or so he’d said.

Thoroughly disconcerted by her sudden, leaping doubts, Lauren tried to think of a tactful way to ask the man who’d just rushed to her rescue for some form of identification.

She must have looked as confused as she felt at that moment. His narrowed gaze swept over her face.

“Are you all right, Miss Smith?”

Belatedly, she recalled that he still thought she was Becky. With the realization came an instinctive decision to let him continue to think so until she sorted out just what she’d walked into. The mile-wide protective streak the two sisters had always felt for each had now kicked in, big time.

Older than Lauren by a scant ten months, Becky had tried to shield her sister from their parents’ bitter break up with her determined cheerfulness and refusal to cry. On more nights than Lauren wanted to remember, the two girls had huddled together in bed, trying to close their ears to the shouting, the scathing recriminations, the slamming doors. The long summer they’d spent with their mother’s friend, Jane, while their parents waged a bitter war for custody, had cemented the girls’ affection for each other into an indestructible force.

As they’d grown older, their roles had reversed. Solemn, focused Lauren had worked her way though high school and college, while Becky dropped out after her freshman year and flitted from city to city, man to man. Lauren was always there when her sister needed a loan or a place to camp out.

Just as Becky had been there for Lauren after she’d walked in on her husband and their accountant, and then turned around and walked out of her marriage.

Blood ran thicker than a dented heart, and the bond between the sisters ran thicker than blood.

“Yes, I’m all right,” she replied to this watching, watchful neighbor. “Just…nervous, I guess.”

He nodded, the movement a mere dip of his head.

The overhead light caught the glints in his dark hair. He wore it cut short, Lauren noted, neat and trim as a police officer might.

He had the body of a cop, too, or at least the body of one of those heartthrob TV cops. Broad shoulders strained the seams of his blue denim shirt. Sleeves rolled halfway up displayed arms corded with muscle. His jeans rode low on a washboard-flat belly.

As Lauren had learned from her brief, disastrous foray into marriage, however, great pecs and a flat stomach didn’t count for squat when it came to character. Her ex, Jack, had worked out regularly—not that his carefully cultivated physique could compare to this rugged, square-jawed stranger’s.

“Are you up to doing a walk-through?” he asked, those arctic blue eyes filled with seeming concern.

Needing the time to sort through her chaotic thoughts, Lauren nodded and turned to lead the way down the hall.

With her protective instincts now on full alert, she couldn’t miss the sardonic twist to his mouth when she flipped on the lights to the living room. Bristling inwardly on Becky’s behalf, she followed his gaze as it swept the room.

The mess epitomized her sister’s lack of roots and constant job-hopping as much as her casual approach to housekeeping. The furniture had obviously come with the rented house. A blend of desert chic and cheap sturdiness, it consisted of a sofa and two chairs cushioned in shades of mauve and turquoise, one end table and a tacky, cactus-shaped lamp. The collection of orange-striped Garfield cats that crowded the shelf above an adobe fireplace gave the room Becky’s distinctive stamp.

More than anything else, the grinning cats spoke to the differences between the sisters. Lauren specialized in fine works of art and mythical creatures like unicorns and dragons and griffins. Becky collected Garfields. And frothy underwear…like the lavender silk teddy trimmed in black lace draped over the arm of the chair.

It was just the type of thing Becky loved to wear, skimpy up top and even skimpier below. Becky had tried to talk her more conservative younger sister into the same thong-style undergarments a number of times, but Lauren had never mastered the art of sitting down in the darned things without squirming.

She might have guessed that the man beside her wouldn’t miss the provocative teddy. His glance zinged from the lavender silk to Lauren.

“At least we know the intruder wasn’t some pervert after your underwear,” he said, with just the hint of a drawl. “He wouldn’t have left that little number behind. Assuming he could find it in this mess.”

The half joke, half barb brought her chin up. She might complain about the untidiness every time she came to visit, but only a sister could claim that prerogative.

Her smile turned saccharine sweet. Slanting her best Becky glance from under her lashes, she purred out a sharp little jab of her own.

“Do you have a problem with the decorating scheme, big guy? Or maybe you’re wondering how that teddy got left in the living room?”

That grabbed his attention. Startled, he stared down at her. For a moment Lauren had the satisfaction of knowing she’d scored a point. Exactly what that point was, or why she’d suddenly felt the need to score one, she had no idea.

“No problem,” he replied, flashing another heart-stopping grin, even more potent than the one he’d laid on her in the backyard. “With either the decor or where you shed your clothes.”

Lauren was still trying to recover from that dazzling combination of white teeth, tanned skin and uncensored male when he hooked a thumb toward the bedroom.

“Why don’t we finish going through the house?”

Marsh’s grin faded the moment she turned away. His jaw tightened as he gave himself a swift, silent mental kick in the butt. Her sugar-coated smile and playful little jibe had caught him completely off guard. They’d also started him thinking about things he shouldn’t be thinking about…such as just when and how Becky Smith had shimmied out of that teddy.

He’d damn well better control his reactions around this bit of fluff. He couldn’t let her throw him with those kittenish glances or melting brown eyes. There was too much riding on the next few hours for Marsh to blow everything now.

What he couldn’t seem to control, however, was his imagination, which threatened to take off with each seductive sway of Becky Smith’s hips. She moved like the strawberry roan filly that had grown into her legs the summer Marsh turned fifteen. Her stride was all smooth, swaying magic. And her backside…

He reined in that thought, fast. It stood to reason that she’d look as good from behind as she did from the front. She’d seduced Jannisek with one swish of her short, ruffled cocktail skirt, or so her various coworkers at the Desert Nights Lounge maintained. According to them, the hotel owner had fallen fast and he’d fallen hard.

Fast enough to make his employees smirk when they described it.

Hard enough to shell out two thousand dollars for the diamond pin his girlfriend sported on her lapel.

She was wearing Jannisek’s brand, Marsh reminded himself grimly. The man had staked a claim to her. And he’d come looking for her when she didn’t return to wherever he waited for her.

Marsh was counting on it. He sure as hell would come after her. If Marsh had claimed this woman and put his own mark on her, she couldn’t run fast enough or far enough to escape him.

Unless he let her go.

He tensed, anticipating the little jab of pain that always came with the reminder of how he’d let Jenna go. His shoulders went stiff, the way they did whenever he thought of his former fiancée. As if it had a will of its own, his mind reached back to those weeks he’d hovered between life and death. To the agony that came with each breath pulled into his bullet-riddled lung. To the woman who’d fallen apart every time she came to visit him in intensive care.

If he let himself, Marsh knew he could summon in precise detail Jenna’s tear-streaked face. Still hear her sobs as she told him she couldn’t marry a cop, couldn’t worry whether she’d see her husband again every time he left for work.

Deliberately, Marsh slammed the door on the memories. Four years had passed since Jenna had walked out of the hospital, three and a half since Marsh had fully recovered. She’d married a nice, safe junior-high science teacher. Life went on….

Except for Ellen.

The grim reminder of his murdered sister-in-law brought Marsh’s thoughts crashing back to the disaster zone Becky Smith called a bedroom.

This time, he didn’t react with so much as a blink to the chaos. He’d seen the bedroom before, for one thing. For another, he was more interested in Becky than her lack of anything resembling order in her home. Face impassive, he waited while she made a quick survey of the room’s contents.

“I don’t think anything’s missing.”

Moving with seeming nonchalance, Marsh lifted a gold bracelet from the dressing table. Another Garfield dangled from the center link, this one made of gold and crystal.

“A thief wouldn’t have passed up this piece. It looks expensive.”

“It was a gift.” Her eyes clouded. “From my sister.”

“You shouldn’t leave expensive jewelry like this lying around. Take that pin you’re wearing. If those are real diamonds, it should go into a safe place at night.”

Her hand lifted to the sparkling piece. He moved closer, as if to examine the design.

“What is it, a unicorn?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in the legend, Ms. Smith?”

“About those who drink out of its horn being protected from poison or epilepsy?”

“I didn’t know that one.”

She tipped her head to the side, studying him with the same intent scrutiny he gave her. “Which legend are you talking about, then?”

Her hair danced on her shoulder like dark flame. Marsh pulled his gaze from the shimmering curtain. “I seem to remember reading somewhere that only a virgin could capture and tame a unicorn.”

Actually, he remembered exactly where he’d read that bit of nonsense—on the sales brochure the jewelry-store clerk had provided the police.

Her head dipped in acknowledgment. “True. That was supposed to symbolize the triumph of spiritual love over the ferocity of the beast. Too bad it’s only a myth,” she added, with a twist to her mouth that didn’t quite make it to a smile.

Obviously Ms. Smith didn’t believe in the power or permanency of love. That certainly fit her profile. In the past eighteen months, she’d taken up with a tattooed motorcycle jock and a drummer in a country western band before latching on to Jannisek—an association that might just get her killed.

Carefully, Marsh repositioned the bracelet on the nightstand. “If the man who broke through the glass wasn’t after jewelry…”

“Or some pervert after underwear,” she interjected coolly.

“…then I’d say we were right the first time. It was you he was waiting for—you he wanted.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Marsh refused to follow the movement of that raspberry-tinted mouth. Refused to let her nervousness sway him.

“Why did he wait outside?” she questioned, thinking back. “The front door was open when I got here. He could have walked inside.”

“Maybe he did. Maybe he searched the place, saw you weren’t here, and was on his way out again when the cab pulled up.”

And maybe he wanted to scare you enough to make sure you reacted the way you did. Reminding himself yet again that shaking up Becky Smith constituted an essential part of his plan, Marsh ignored the nervous way she had crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down her sleeves.

“Why would someone come after you, Ms. Smith? Or should I call you Becky?” He aimed a smile at her. “We are neighbors, after all.”

“Um…”

He took that vague response as consent. “Any ideas, Becky?”

“About what?”

“Who might come after you? And why?”

He kept his tone even and nonthreatening, but every nerve in Marsh’s body quivered in anticipation of her reply. She took her time about it, dropping her lids, glancing away, looking everywhere but at him. Thinking, obviously, how she would answer.

“I don’t know,” she said at last.

Disappointment whipped through him. A part of him had hoped she’d cooperate voluntarily, and that he wouldn’t have to implement Phase Three.

He didn’t see any other option now. He angled his head, his gaze thoughtful as it rested on her face.

“You can tell me. In my line of work, I’ve seen about every kind of trouble people can get into.”

She took her lower lip between her teeth again. Marsh figured she would chew off a couple of layers of skin before he got through with her. Her chocolate and caramel eyes searched his face.

“I don’t know your name.”

The abrupt change in direction threw him off stride for a moment. “What?”

“I don’t know who you are,” she said again.

“Henderson. Marsh Henderson.”

“Or what you are,” she added slowly.

“I told you. I’m a cop.”

“Do you have some identification?”

He blinked, and then gave a snort of laughter. “Isn’t it a little late to be asking to see my badge?”

Her chin came up. “You know what they say, Mr. Henderson…”

“Marsh.”

“You know what they say, Marsh. Better late than too late.”

His mouth kicked up in a half grin. “That’s what they say, all right.”

Digging into his back pocket, he pulled out a black leather case. A single flip displayed his photo ID and gold badge with its blue enamel shield, surmounted by an open-winged gold eagle.

“U.S.” She read the large initials in the center of the shield easily enough, but squinted at the smaller lettering around it. “U.S. what?”

“U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency. I’m a special agent with the DEA.”

“A special agent?” she echoed, paling.

Obviously, his profession made her nervous. It made a lot of people nervous. As it should, Marsh thought sardonically. Flipping the leather case shut, he slid it into his back pocket.

“I get the feeling you’re wondering just why I happened to move into the house next door.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Smart lady.”

“Well?”

“We’ve been using the place to conduct a surveillance.” He kept his eyes locked with hers. “We’ve been watching your house for the past three days, Becky, waiting for you to come home.”

The “we” was stretching things, but the target didn’t need to know that.

“Why?” she whispered.

“To take you into protective custody.”

Chapter 3

“Protective custody!”

Stunned, Lauren gaped at the man staring down at her.

“Why?” she asked, for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past few minutes.

“Because you’re our only link to David Jannisek.”

Becky’s latest love. The man she just might be serious about. With a shake of her head, Lauren tried to grasp what the heck this was all about.

“Why do you want to find Jannisek?”

His face seemed to get tighter around the edges. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

Henderson’s eyes went ice cold. Lauren could feel the chill from where she stood.

“Your boyfriend has had a run of bad luck at the track recently. Our sources tell us he owes his bookie more than five hundred.”

“Five hundred dollars?”

“Try five hundred grand.”

“Good God!”

Was that why Becky needed time to think things through? She’d fallen for a loser—just as her sister had? If so, Lauren ached for her. She could speak firsthand to that painful experience.

“He liquidated every asset he owned,” Henderson continued, wrenching her attention back to him. “Didn’t you wonder what happened to his Jag?”

Or didn’t you care? his expression seemed to imply. His gaze flicked to Lauren’s lapel once again, telegraphing an unmistakably cynical message.

“Your boyfriend blew the last of his credit on that little bauble. The store clerk said Jannisek told him to spread the cost of it over three separate charge cards, all of which maxed out.”

Lauren felt herself squirming on Becky’s behalf. Her sister didn’t have a greedy bone in her body, but there was no denying she was careless about finances—her own and everyone else’s. She never hesitated to hit Lauren up for a loan. And she’d apparently walked out of her house without her checkbook and credit cards! She probably didn’t have a clue that her latest love interest was up to his neck in financial hot water.

“Is that why you’re after him?” Lauren asked, still trying to comprehend this bizarre situation. “Because of what he owes?”

“I don’t care what he owes. It’s who he owes it to that I’m interested in.”

From the set of Henderson’s mouth, Lauren had the feeling that matters were about to go from bad to worse for David Jannisek—and, by extension, for her sister. Digging her fists into her jacket pockets, she braced herself.

“All right. Lay it on me. Who does he owe it to?”

“The man we suspect of controlling organized crime in the Southwest.”

“Organized crime?” Her jaw dropped. “You mean, like, the mafia?”

“The modern-day version of it.”

She was still reeling from that when he closed the distance between them, his boot heels thudding softly on the wooden floor.

Lauren took an instinctive step back. From across the room, Marsh Henderson projected a sizzling masculinity. Up close and personal, he was just a little bit intimidating.

Okay, more than a little. Except…

He hadn’t felt intimidating when she’d plowed into him in the backyard. For a few moments there, he’d felt strong and solid and safe.

“That’s the man I want,” he told her, his deep voice resonating with an intensity that raised goose bumps on her arms. “The mob boss. And you’re going to help me nail him, Becky.”

“How?”

“By letting me tuck you away in a nice, safe place. If Jannisek’s half as much in love with you as everyone says he is, he’ll come looking for you.”

“In other words,” she said slowly, incredulously, “you want to set a trap?”

“Yes.”

“With…with me as bait?”

“Yes.”

The blunt admission ignited a little curl of anger deep in Lauren’s chest. It hadn’t taken this tough-edged cop long to show his stripes. He didn’t care about her sister. Didn’t care about David Jannisek. All he wanted was to bring down this shadowy mobster. So much for solid and safe!

“And when Jannisek comes looking for the woman he supposedly loves,” she ground out, “he’ll find you instead.”

“That’s the plan.”

“At which point, you’ll convince him to identify the man you say he owes so much money to.” Her nails dug into her palms. “What if he doesn’t want to cooperate?”

“As I see it, he doesn’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter. He’ll either cooperate, or spend the rest of his life dodging bullets.”

Shocked, Lauren took a step back. Henderson followed, relentless.

“That shook you up, didn’t it? To have the police show up at your door and inform you that Jannisek missed taking a clip full of bullets by a few turns of a car wheel?”

“I… I didn’t…”

He crowded in closer. “He’d just dropped you off, hadn’t he? A minute or two earlier, and you could have been sitting beside him when the bullets started flying. No wonder you skipped town for a few days.”

Oh, God! This was worse, so much worse, than Lauren had imagined. Poor Becky. She must be scared to death. It was time to set the record straight.

“Look, Henderson…”

“Marsh,” he corrected with a tight smile. “If we’re going to spend the foreseeable future in close proximity, we might as well get comfortable with each other.”

“We won’t be spending the future in any kind of proximity. You’ve made a mistake. I’m not Becky Smith.”

He went still. Completely still. The air around them took on a charged tension. The seconds ticked by while Lauren’s nerves stretched wire thin.

“The hell you’re not,” he growled at last.

“I’m her sister. Lauren Smith.”

Those incredible blue eyes narrowed to slits, dropped lower, settled on the diamond unicorn. When they lifted again, Lauren read scorn and flat denial in their depths.

“Nice try, Becky, but it won’t work. You’re coming with me.”

“Oh, for…!” Turning, she snatched her tote off the bed. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I have…”

Her breath left with a squeak when Henderson ripped the bag out of her hands. She stumbled back, realizing belatedly that the cop thought she might have been reaching for a weapon.

“My driver’s license,” she gasped. “It’s in there. It will prove I’m not…. Oh!”

Groaning, she recognized the hand-tooled leather clutch he dug out.

“That’s not mine!”

He shot her a sardonic look, flipped open the wallet and compared the grainy, three-year-old picture on Becky’s Arizona license to Lauren’s stricken face.

“Not your best shot,” he drawled.

“That’s—not—me,” she ground out. “That’s my sister. If you dig a little deeper, you’ll find a day planner with my license and credit cards inside.”

When he pulled out the zippered notebook, a frown sliced across his face. It deepened to a scowl as his glance went from the photo to her face and back again.

Lauren cringed inwardly. She took horrible pictures. She’d shied away from family photos, even as a child, maybe because her parents’ marriage had started to fall apart so early and group pictures had always seemed forced. Whatever the reason, she always froze in front of a camera. The photo on her license was even worse than Becky’s.

“Sit down.”

She blinked at the abrupt command. “I don’t…”

“Sit down!”

Lauren decided that discretion was the better part of valor at this point and sat.

“Don’t move until I get back,” he snarled, tossing the tote down beside her. “I’m going to the other room to make a few calls.”

Her heart pumping, she watched him stride out of the bedroom. A moment later, she caught a muffled snatch of conversation.

Who could he call to verify her identity? she wondered wildly. The phone at her office would ring unanswered. There was no one at her condo. She leaned forward, straining to hear the deep rumble of Henderson’s voice.

“…run an ID for me. Right now, Pepper. I’ll hang on.”

Wrapping her arms around her waist, Lauren rocked back and forth on the edge of the bed while her thoughts tumbled chaotically. How in the world had Becky gotten tangled up with someone who had ties to the mob? Would they really come after her sister, thinking she’d lead them to this Jannisek character?

Oh, God, would they hurt her? Maybe kill her?

Lauren had to convince Henderson he had the wrong sister, had to get him looking for the right one. When he got off the phone, she would get on. She’d call their parents, now divorced and living on separate coasts. Contact their aunt Jane. Check with her assistant, Josh. Maybe Becky had gotten in touch with one of them. Maybe she’d left a message….

She jerked upright. Her gaze shot to the tote.

“Idiot!”

Her heart pounding, Lauren yanked open the side zipper on her tote. The mobile phone that always traveled with her nestled in its snug compartment. She had the lid up and the first few digits of her home number punched in before she noticed the message on the digital display.

She had voice mail.

Chewing on her lip, she debated for all of two seconds before dialing the code to retrieve her message. When she heard Becky’s voice asking her to call an unfamiliar number as soon as possible, she almost wept with relief. Her fingers shook as she punched in the digits.

“Joe’s Joint,” a nasal-sounding individual answered.

“Joe’s what?”

“Who’s this?”

She threw a look at the bedroom door and lowered her voice. Henderson’s last threat still crawled along her spine. “Who are you?”

“Whadda you playin’ games or something, lady?”

“No! No, I…” She stopped, regrouped her thoughts. “Is there a woman named Becky, or Rebecca, Smith there? She’s twenty-six, has shoulder-length red hair.”

“Becky? Yeah, she’s here. You wanna talk to her?”

“Yes!”

Her heart thumping, Lauren kept the cell phone jammed to one ear and the other tuned to the murmur of Henderson’s voice.

“Hey, Laur,” her sister answered a moment later.

“Where are you!”

“At a truck stop outside Gallup.”

“Gallup, as in New Mexico?”

“You got it.”

“What in the world are you doing there?”

“Well, I was on my way to your place, but I remembered you were in D.C., so I decided to detour by way of Albuquerque to visit Aunt Jane until you got back. Only I’m, uh, in sort of a bind.”

“No kidding!”

“I know, I know.” She chuckled into the phone. “I’m always in some kind of a bind.”

How could she laugh? Lauren wondered in astonishment. Didn’t she know a hard-eyed cop was after her? Maybe the mob?

Apparently not. As it turned out, Becky’s most pressing concern at that moment was that she’d driven off with only the cash in her pocket—which had now run out.

“Be a sweetie and wire me a hundred, would you? I’ll pay you back when I get to Denver.”

“I’m not in Denver. I’m in Phoenix, at your place.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I wish I was. Becky, this David Jannisek. Do you know he’s in trouble?”

The chipper note in her sister’s voice dimmed. “Yes. That’s why I had to get away for a while. I thought…I thought I knew him. I was sure I could trust him.”

From her own bitter experience, Lauren could have pointed out that knowing a man and trusting him were two entirely different matters.

Take this Marsh Henderson, for example. She might have trusted him. She’d wanted to trust him. His blunt admission that he intended to use her sister as bait had nipped that misplaced impulse in the bud. Now that she knew Becky was safe, Lauren’s protective instincts were fast revving up to full power.

“Beck, listen to me. Forget about going to my apartment. That’s the first place they’ll look for you.”

“Who?”

“Jannisek’s gangster friends. The police. They’re both after him. And you.”

“Me!” she squeaked. “Why me?”

“They think he might come out of hiding for you.”

“Oh, God!”

“Listen, I don’t have time to explain any more right now. I’ll call Josh and have him wire you some money. Go on to Aunt Jane’s and stay there.”

Their mother’s best friend. The woman the Smith sisters had stayed with that awful summer of their parents’ divorce. Jane wasn’t actually a blood relation. No one would connect her with Becky. Her sister was safe there until Lauren got this mess with the police sorted out.

She didn’t even stop to consider that it wasn’t her mess to sort out. She’d jumped into every crisis Becky had precipitated over the years without a second thought. She wasn’t about to let anyone use her sister as bait.

“Stay there, okay?”

“But…”

The thud of footsteps sent Lauren’s heartbeat into a spike. “I’ll call you!” she whispered urgently and snapped the phone shut. It slid into the tote just seconds before Henderson loomed in the doorway.

“Well?” she asked with what she hoped was credible nonchalance.

“I’ve verified that a Lauren Smith lives at 2205 Crescent Drive,” he growled. “That doesn’t necessarily prove you’re Lauren Smith.”

She pushed off the bed, her relief at making contact with her sister shoved to the background by this flint-edged cop’s unwillingness to accept the facts in front of his face.

“If I’m Becky, what am I doing with Lauren’s wallet?”

“If you’re Lauren,” he fired back, “what are you doing with Becky’s?”

“She left it here. I just picked it up for safekeeping.”

“Right.”

“I don’t believe this.”

Totally frustrated, Lauren speared a hand through her hair. Her closest brush with the law was a parking ticket three years ago. She’d paid the fine promptly and always maintained a healthy respect for police officers. But Henderson’s subtly veiled threats and flat refusal to accept her assertion that she wasn’t her sister punched all the wrong buttons. She had rights, didn’t she? So did Becky. Lauren was still formulating those rights in her mind when Henderson blew them away.

“I’m going with the hard evidence here,” he said on a tight note. “You walked into Becky’s house like it was your own. You’re wearing the pin Becky’s boyfriend shelled out two thousand dollars for. You’re carrying Becky’s ID. You’re Becky Smith, lady, unless or until someone says otherwise.”

“All right,” she fumed. “What if I am Becky? That still doesn’t mean I have to go anywhere with you.”

“Guess again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’d prefer your cooperation,” he said, his voice flat and uncompromising, “but we can do this the hard way if necessary.”

“What are you going to do?” she scoffed. “Slap on some handcuffs and haul me in?”

“If I have to.”

Lauren brought her chin up. “On what charges? Since when is getting involved with the wrong man against the law?”

A mistake, maybe. A big mistake if you ended up married to the cretin. But against the law? She didn’t think so.

“Try obstruction of justice,” he shot back. “Hindering a law enforcement officer in the performance of his duty. Being a material witness in an ongoing criminal investigation.”

That got her attention. So did the acerbic observation he tacked on.

“You know, you ought to be more careful about who you get ‘involved’ with. You seem to have a propensity for the wrong men.”

Her chin came up another notch. “Been checking into my sister’s colorful past, have you?”

“I’ve been checking into Becky Smith’s past,” he countered. “She’s left a string of broken hearts all across the Southwest.”

As he reeled off a list of her sister’s recent affairs, Lauren’s temper came to a slow boil. She knew how deeply their parents’ acrimonious break up had scarred her sibling, and how gun-shy Becky’d grown about commitment. With the sting of her own divorce fading but not forgotten, Lauren wasn’t exactly anxious to jump off the deep end with another male any time soon, either. Her jaw tightened as Henderson issued another of his brusque orders.

“Pack enough to get you through the next few days.”

“Let’s try this again. You’ve got the wrong woman.”

“Is that so? Then where’s the right one?”

“She’s…she’s safe.”

He crossed the room in three swift strides. Lauren felt her heart thud against her ribs as a suddenly, startlingly dangerous man towered over her.

“Where is she? With Jannisek?”

“No!”

“How do you know?”

Lauren decided not to reveal the fact that she had a phone tucked in her purse. “I just do.”

“So you’ve been stringing me along here, is that it?”

He looked so fierce, she almost caved and told him she’d sent Becky to Aunt Jane’s. But Lauren wasn’t going to offer her sister up as anyone’s sacrificial goat. Her mouth clamped shut.

Another silence stretched between them. Henderson finally broke it, his eyes like chips of ice.

“Pack what you’ll need for a few days,” he ordered again.

“But…!”

“If you’re Becky Smith, you’re not safe here. If you’re not Becky Smith, you’re still not safe here. We have to assume the guys looking for your boyfriend are looking for her, too. They might make the same mistake in identities you say I did.”

Lauren was beginning to appreciate how Alice in Wonderland must have felt after tumbling down the rabbit hole. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore—except that the idea of spending the next few days in the protective custody of Special Agent Henderson sent a nervous ripple across her skin.

“I’ll get my car,” he informed her tersely. “Meet me out back in five minutes.”

He turned away, took two strides, swung back again.

“If you’re thinking about trying to run out the front door, don’t. I’d be on you like mud on a mustang before you got a half a block.”

Lauren’s back teeth ground together. “I’m going to say this one more time. You’re making a mistake.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Still fuming, she listened to his footsteps retreat down the hall. Only after her anger cooled did the awful reality of the situation sink in. The idea that some thugs might be searching for her sister left a sick feeling in Lauren’s stomach.

Poor Becky! She’d have to stay in hiding indefinitely. Unless…

Unless someone drew the dogs off her scent. Someone like her sister.

Lauren gulped. Marsh Henderson had mistaken her for Becky. Others often did, too. Maybe…maybe she could stand in for Becky. Take Henderson up on his offer of protection while his associates hunted down this mobster who was supposedly after her boyfriend.

Biting on a fingernail, she tried desperately to think of other options. There weren’t any that she could see. With a sigh of resignation, she dug in her purse for her cell phone again. Every beat of her heart sounded like thunder in her ears as she punched in her assistant’s home number. He answered on the third ring.

“Josh, this is Lauren.”

“Are you home?”

“No. I’m in Phoenix.”

“I take it Becky’s in a jam again.”

“Sort of. I need you to wire her two hundred dollars. Send it in care of Joe’s Joint, Gallup, New Mexico.”

“What’s she doing in Gallup? No, let me guess. She’s taken up with a trucker this time.”

Lauren let the caustic remark pass without comment. Josh still hadn’t recovered from the time Becky had seduced him into a brief affair during one of her intermittent stays with Lauren. Beck had breezed off again a week later with a smile and a wave. Josh hadn’t quite reached the smiling stage yet.

“Just wire the money, okay?”

“Okay, okay. Anything else?”

Lauren clenched the phone. “Yes. Cancel my appointments for the next few days.”

“What?” His squawk jumped across the air-waves. “You’ve got that meeting with the museum director tomorrow afternoon! You know how important that is. And we promised some prototype note cards to the Breckinridge Group by Friday, remember?”

“I know.”

She thought furiously. She’d spent hours on various sketches that incorporated world-famous art with the stag antlers that symbolized the equally world-famous Breckinridge Resort. Josh could start the process that would transform her sketches into polished products.

“I’ve worked up a dozen or so preliminary designs for the Breckinridge account. Scan them into the computer tomorrow and start working the color screens, will you? I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“As soon as you can?” Disgust rippled through Josh’s voice. “What the heck kind of mess has your twit of a sister left for you to clean up this time?”

“I can’t explain now. I’ve got to go.”

He was still grumbling when Lauren flipped the phone shut and dropped it back in her tote.

Now what?

She toyed briefly with the idea of calling a lawyer. Unfortunately, she didn’t know an attorney other than the one who’d handled her divorce three years ago.

She was on her own with Henderson, who still didn’t know whether she was Becky or not. The next few days could prove prickly at best, downright uncomfortable at worst.

Reluctantly, she crossed the room and pulled some tops, an Arizona Suns T-shirt and another pair of jeans from a jumble of clean laundry. They wouldn’t fit in her tote, so she stuffed them in a canvas bag sporting the logo of the Hard Bodies Gym and Sports Facility she found in Becky’s closet. A foray into her sister’s underwear drawer resulted in a handful of thong panties and matching demi-bras. Grimacing, Lauren dumped them in with the jeans and tops. Luckily, she’d packed a toothbrush and a few toiletries in her tote before she’d left Denver. She was just adding a pair of sneakers to the gym bag when Henderson’s voice rang out.

“Ready?”

As ready as she’d ever be, she thought glumly. Hefting the bags, she left the bedroom. At the sight of Marsh Henderson striding toward her, she stopped short.

He’d pulled on a suede vest lined with curly sheep’s wool. A black Stetson shadowed his eyes and cheeks, already darkened with a day’s growth of beard. He looked big and tough—and a whole lot more like an outlaw than a sheriff.

“I’ve got someone coming to repair the front door,” he informed her. “We’ll go out the back.”

When he reached for the gym bag and took it out of Lauren’s hands, she had the uncomfortable feeling she’d just relinquished more than a change of clothes. Nerves prickling, she paced ahead of him into the yard. A million stars spangled the sky, but the black velvet night had a cool desert bite to it that made her shiver under her light linen jacket.

A mud-splashed sports utility vehicle rumbled like a nervous beast in the driveway separating the two houses. It was one of those big jobs, and obviously more than just a showy gas guzzler. This monster came equipped with a wrap-around bush guard, fog lamps and a high-powered spotlight bolted to the driver’s side.

Henderson opened the passenger door and tossed the gym bag over the high-backed front seat. Impatience radiated from him in almost palpable waves as he waited for her to climb in.

She approached the vehicle with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “Where are we going?”

“Given your boyfriend’s connections…”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s Becky’s. Or he was, until he got her into this mess.”

“Given Jannisek’s connections,” Henderson amended without a blink, “I decided it was best to get you out of the area.”

“How far out of the area?”

“I’ve arranged a safe house on a ranch up around Flagstaff.”

As best Lauren remembered, the northern Arizona city was a hundred plus miles north of Phoenix and its surrounding suburbs. That meant two or more hours closed in this vehicle with Marsh Henderson, and who knew how many days with him on some ranch.

Praying she was doing the right thing, she pulled herself up onto the high step and dropped into the leather seat.

The passenger door closed with a thud.

Chapter 4

Marsh kept a death grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel as he tooled the Blazer through Scottsdale’s darkened streets. His mind whirled at even faster revolutions than the steel-belted tires.

Who the hell was sitting next to him? Becky Smith or her sister, Lauren? How long would it take his partner to run down her true identity? Twenty-four hours? Less? Did it matter?

Marsh’s jaw clenched at the cold-blooded proposition that he could use either sister in the next phase of his plan, but he forced himself to consider it.

If this was Lauren—and if she could be believed—she knew where her sister was. She’d sworn Becky wasn’t with Jannisek. Marsh had fired that question too fast and her denial had come out too spontaneously to be faked. So there was a chance, a slim chance, that Jannisek had no idea what was going down.

If, on the other hand, this woman was lying, and she really was Becky, Marsh could proceed exactly as planned.

So it boiled down to two choices. He could use this woman, whoever she was, in a desperate attempt to lure Jannisek out of hiding. Or he could accept the Phoenix PD’s decision to put the hunt for Ellen’s killers on the back burner.

Marsh didn’t even consider the second option. With a flick of a directional signal, he cut off Scottsdale Road onto Camelback. The Blazer whipped past posh condos constructed to look like abode dwellings and the sprawling resorts that made Phoenix the winter escape for millionaires and mobsters.

It was an area Marsh now knew well. Ellen’s best friend owned a condo in the shadow of the city’s legendary Camelback Mountain. Ellen had been on her way for a visit and a day of shopping with her friend when she’d been gunned down only a few blocks away.

“Where are we going?”

The question dragged Marsh’s thoughts from his sister-in-law’s bullet-riddled car and Jake’s frozen face as he watched Ellen’s casket being lowered into the Arizona earth. He speared a glance at the woman beside him.

“I told you, to a ranch up by Flagstaff.”

She took her lower lip between her teeth, and then twisted to catch a street sign. The movement brought her rear up hard against his thigh. With some effort, Marsh blanked his mind to the sudden, scorching pressure.

“We’re heading west, not north.”

Suspicion rang sharp in her voice. Obviously, she didn’t trust him. Wise woman.

“We have to make a short stop before we head north.”

“Where?”

“At the Valley of the Sun Inn.”

“That’s where my sister works! They’ll verify that you’ve got the wrong woman.”

“That’s where Becky Smith works,” he agreed. “Whether or not I have the wrong woman remains to be seen.”

She folded her arms and stared straight ahead, her mouth set. She had, Marsh conceded with a swift, sideways glance, one helluva mouth. The kind a man could feast on. For hours. The body that went with it wasn’t bad, either.

His fists tightened on the wheel. Who was he kidding? She’d rocked him onto his heels when she’d flung herself into his arms there at the house, and the impact had nothing to do with the hundred and twenty-three pounds her license said she carried on that perfectly proportioned frame.

Even now, with his mind spinning like a rat on a wheel, his senses insisted on working their own agenda. Much as Marsh wanted to deny it, Becky/Lauren Smith knocked the breath back in his chest every time he pulled in her scent, an elusive combination of shampoo, seductive perfume and nervous woman. Those long legs that were stretched out beside his didn’t exactly help his concentration, either. His fingers itched to hit the window button and drag some sharp night air into the Blazer to diffuse her impact on his senses. He needed all his wits to pull off the next, delicate step in his swiftly revised plan.

His passenger didn’t know it yet, but he didn’t intend to let anyone at the Valley of the Sun Inn get close enough to positively ID her.

Luckily, he didn’t have to resort to any extraordinary measures. When he turned into the curving drive that led to the front entrance of the exclusive hotel and golf resort, he found it clogged by a fleet of the hotel’s minibuses disgorging conventioners in golf shirts and shorts. From the chorus of the raucous male laughter, the businessmen had scored more booze than birdies that day.

That suited Marsh just fine. So did the harried expression the valet parking attendant wore as he wove through the throng to get to the Blazer. Marsh lowered the darkened driver’s window just enough for the attendant to see his face. The tint on the other windows kept the Blazer’s interior in shadows.

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