From the files of Kelly Chapman

JANE HAMILTON. First wife of murder suspect and bigamist. Well-regarded magazine editor.

Close friends with Bradley Manchester—who wants to move their relationship to a deeper level.

Jane is resisting. But unless she confronts the past—with honesty—she won’t attain happiness in the present….

Praise for the novels of Tara Taylor Quinn

“One of the skills that has served Quinn best…has been her ability to explore edgier subjects.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Combining her usual superb sense of characterization with a realistically gritty plot, Quinn has created an exceptionally powerful book.”

—Booklist on Behind Closed Doors

“I thoroughly enjoyed [Behind Closed Doors] to the point where I could not put it down to attend to such routine things as eating. I was riveted from the first page to the last.”

—All About Romance

“Tara Taylor Quinn has created a masterpiece with The Night We Met…. This novel deserves to sit on every reader’s shelf as a keeper. I highly recommend all readers of women’s fiction, romance and series grab their copies today and prepare to be taken for the emotional ride of their life.”

—Love Romances and More

“Lisa Jackson fans will fall hard for Quinn’s unique ability to explore edgy subjects with mesmerizing style.”

—BookReporter.com

Dear Reader,

Welcome! You’re about to get details from the first of many private files of psychologist and expert witness Kelly Chapman. This character first presented herself to me a couple of years ago, and I’m excited to share her life and her files with you.

Kelly is in demand all over the country, but she’s lived in the same town, Chandler, Ohio, most of her life. She has also counseled many of the citizens of Chandler, so while she is loved by many, intimate personal relationships are kind of out for her. At home she’s happily ruled by her four-pound toy poodle, Princess Camille, who allows Kelly to address her as Camy.

The First Wife is the story of Jane Hamilton, a successful magazine editor who’s on top of her game until she finds out that not only has she been lied to in the most hideous way, but she’s also been lying to herself. She’s called to testify at a trial. The defendant is her ex-husband. The crime—he’s been accused of murdering his wife. Jane is the first wife. Complications arise from the fact that Jane’s husband was a bigamist—married to the woman he murdered at the same time he was married to Jane. And there’s a third wife, too. But the complications don’t end there. Don’t worry, though. Jane does find love again. And you’ll learn what happened during Jane’s first marriage and afterward. Kelly Chapman takes great notes!

For access to more of Kelly’s files, check out these upcoming MIRA releases in THE CHAPMAN FILES—The Second Lie (October 2010), The Third Secret (November 2010) and The Fourth Victim (December 2010).

I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 13584, Mesa, Arizona 85216, or through my Web site, www.tarataylorquinn.com.

Tara Taylor Quinn

The First Wife
Tara Taylor Quinn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author of more than fifty original novels published in twenty languages, Tara Taylor Quinn is a USA TODAY bestselling writer with over six million copies sold. She is known for her deeply emotional and psychologically astute novels. Tara won a 2008 Readers’ Choice Award, is a four-time finalist for the prestigious RWA RITA® Award, a multiple finalist for the Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best Award and the Holt Medallion, among others. She has appeared on national and local TV across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. When she’s not writing or fulfilling speaking engagements, Tara loves to travel with her husband, stopping wherever the spirit takes them. Home is in Ohio, where they live with their two dogs.

For Tim. My first and last. I love you, babe.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PROLOGUE

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Chandler, Ohio

I WAS SITTING at my kitchen table that morning, having a banana and trying to decide whether to skate first—I’m an avid in-line skater—or read a couple of patient files and then skate, when the phone rang.

Not all that unusual. I’d lived in Chandler my entire life—except for when I was in college. I was on the committee to beautify Main Street, volunteered at our version of a soup kitchen, belonged to a book club, mentored a doctoral candidate for State Board of Psychology Licensure. And any number of my clients had my home phone number. I lived in a small town. There was no escaping them.

And truth be told, I didn’t want to escape them. I wanted to help them. I cared about them. Regardless of what the professors had taught us in all of my Clinical Psychology classes—that we were not to personalize our work—I got emotionally involved with my patients’ care. My professors’ theories worked on an academic level. They didn’t work in Chandler. Bottom line was, trauma didn’t punch a time clock. So neither did I. But I digress.

I was going to read files. Two in particular. And I was going to skate. The only question was which I would do first.

And then the call came.

Camy, or Camelia as the royal queen of the four-pound toy poodle world is more formally known, jumped down from my lap as I grabbed the phone.

I recognized the number on the display. Sheila Grant was one of Ohio’s leading county prosecutors. She also happened to live in Chandler—probably because, as the seat of Ford County, Chandler has the only courthouse.

A few years older than me, Sheila had been at her job a long time. And with her lover, Geraldine, even longer. I respected her. Liked her, even, but we’d never been close. Sheila enjoyed motorcycles, demolition derbies and pig roasts.

I didn’t.

“Hello?” That was the way I always answered the phone. Didn’t matter that now, with caller ID, I knew who was on the other end. I mean, what if it was my dad’s number and I let out a “what do you want?” and it turned out to be a cop using my dad’s phone to call and tell me Dad was dead on the side of the road?

“Good, you’re there,” Sheila said, her voice as feminine as her skin was tough.

“Yep. For the moment. What’s up?”

“I have a case.”

Of course she did. It was the only reason the prosecutor would be calling me at home. If she was selling raffle tickets for her latest cause, she’d have caught me at the courthouse. Or my office.

“What kind of case?”

“It’s a strange one, Kel,” Sheila said. “Murder, but that’s not what’s weird.”

“Okay.” I grabbed the pen and pad of paper from the counter because it was closer than the one on the table. Or the one beside the couch. Besides, it had colorful spring flowers in the background. I had a feeling I was going to need some cheer for this. “Fill me in.”

I hadn’t started my career with any desire to be an expert witness. And certainly not one who was nationally registered and got calls from all over the country. That hadn’t been my goal. But our purposes in life aren’t always clear to us, are they?

“I’ve got a guy who killed his wife.”

Dead wife, I jotted.

“The weird part is, I need you to interview his wife.”

Reading what I’d just written, I said, “I’m not real successful with dead people.” I’m also not callous, but Sheila seemed to bring out the dark in me.

Or maybe it was the stuff we dealt with that did it.

“This is a different wife,” Sheila replied, her serious and detached tone unchanged. “James Todd was a bigamist. Twice, actually. I spoke with Jane Hamilton, his first wife, early this morning. Seems to be in some kind of denial. I may need you to meet with her, too.”

“He was married to three women?” What a guy.

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t that make him a polygamist?” Like it mattered. I was just trying to take it all in. Bigamy, deceit, I wrote.

“No, just twice a bigamist. He married Lee Anne Todd, the murder victim, while he was married to Jane. Kept them both for a couple of years and then divorced Jane, apparently without either of the women being the wiser.”

“What was he doing, a test run, to see which woman he preferred?”

“Who knows?” Sheila’s disgust was obvious. “But he wasn’t satisfied with wife number two, either. He married wife number three, Marla Anderson, last year, while still married to Lee Anne. Several months ago he asked Lee Anne for a divorce. She refused. She’d been spying on him, following him. She found out about wife number three, including the fact that Marla is an heiress, and threatened to expose him unless he paid her to be quiet. We think that’s why he killed her.”

“For what? To avoid a bigamy charge? I mean, what was he looking at? A fine?”

“Technically he could have done a little jail time, but avoiding the bigamy charge wasn’t his motive. Money was. If Lee Anne exposed him, his marriage to Marla would be legally void. Marla would know that their relationship was a hoax, and all that money would no longer be his. He either had to resign himself to paying Lee Anne forever to buy her silence—and to living with the threat of exposure hanging over him—or he had to get rid of her.”

“Do you know this or is it just theory at this point?” I knew how Sheila generally operated. Theory to proof, rather than proof to theory like some of the other prosecutors I’d worked with. Either way was fine with me. I just liked to know, going in, if I was up against opinion or fact.

“A bit of both. We’ve got some substantial evidence, but a lot of it is going to rely on the character witnesses. I need you to talk to Marla. Let me know if you think she’s telling the truth about this guy. She insists he’s the gentlest man she’s ever met. Never shown any temper or violence. If you think she’s lying I might need you to testify.”

“Okay.” I was interested. Very interested.

“She’s hostile at this point.”

I wasn’t surprised. The woman was married to a liar. Was probably in love with a liar. And, for now, she was desperate to believe a liar.

“I’m assuming spousal privilege doesn’t come into play?”

“Right. At the moment, anyway. Their marriage is void, but now that he’s a widower, they can always re-marry. He’s out on bond.”

So he might still get the money anyway. If Marla Anderson believed in him long enough to marry him again. I liked it better when life was fair.

“You said you already spoke with his first wife?” I read my notes. “Jane Hamilton.”

“Yeah.”

“Does she remember him being violent?”

“She says he wasn’t, but I’ve got some suspicious domestic violence police reports….”

“Suspicious how?”

“The cops were called, but not by her.”

“Who called them?”

“The hospital.”

“Jane Hamilton was accident-prone?” I guessed. I’d seen it before. More than once.

“Apparently. Or her husband was and she just happened to be in the way each time.”

“Did the police investigate?”

“Yeah. They were concerned, but there was never enough evidence to file charges.”

“Why are you so sure he killed Lee Anne?”

“He was the last person known to be with her. His fingerprints were found in her car. Footprints found at the edge of the cliff match his shoe size. There was bruising on her back that wasn’t explained by the fall. And the way she landed, the distance out from the edge of the cliff points to her having been pushed hard rather than falling. He had motive….”

“Who’s paying for his defense?” I asked, though I’d have bet that I already knew the answer.

“Wife number three.”

I’d have won my bet.

CHAPTER ONE

“JANE, TALK TO ME.”

Jane’s heart pounded as Brad’s gaze met hers. Pressure, rising like a tidal wave from within, strangled her throat and throbbed behind her eyes.

She had enough to handle without Brad Manchester adding to the mix.

Sitting on a log in the wilderness in Illinois, part of a two-hundred-acre plot of land Brad had purchased with plans to someday build a cabin on it, Jane just wanted a couple of hours away from all the stress. The basket and water bottles, remains of their picnic lunch, still lay on the blanket spread a few feet away. Brad sat with them.

They’d left their homes in Allenville, a suburb of Chicago, only hours ago. Right now it felt like days.

The rough bark dug into the backs of her thighs through her jeans. A twig poked just behind her right ear. Strands of chocolate-brown hair hung loose from the clip holding her twisted bun. She’d sweated off most of her makeup—she never left home without it on—an hour into the day-long hike.

Her employees would look askance if they could see her now. As the editor of a new national women’s magazine, with only initial backing and the threat that if they failed they’d be left in the dust, Jane prided herself on being always professional and well put together.

She didn’t usually let her hair down.

Except when she was with Brad. He was her buddy. Safe.

Usually.

“You’ve been distracted all day,” Brad said now.

Jane nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.

“We’ve been friends what, two years?”

“About that.” Long enough to see the countless women who flitted in and out of his life almost as frequently as he changed his underwear. And to share in many, many court triumphs with him as he represented abused women seeking freedom.

“I’ve seen you happy, worried, angry and exhausted, but I’ve never seen you look so…lost.”

She felt lost. And utterly alone.

“Obviously something serious has happened. What I can’t figure out is why you aren’t talking to me about it.”

At her silence, his expression intensified.

“I thought we could tell each other anything.”

Not quite. But almost.

“Have I done something to…”

“No! Oh, God, no, Brad. You… I… You’re my best friend.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then, why don’t you tell Uncle Brad what’s got you so distracted that you completely missed my last three attempts at conversation?” His words, while cloaked in levity, increased the tension tightening her chest.

Funny how one phone call could undo years’ worth of moving on.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to recall anything he’d been talking about during the lunch stop.

“Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what’s wrong.” He sat forward, feet on the ground, his arms resting on his knees.

“Did your doctor say something? Are you sick?”

He knew she’d been for her yearly physical a few weeks before.

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m in perfect health.” Physically, at least. And she was determined to be so mentally and emotionally, too. She’d fought too hard to let someone else win now.

“You got another threat, then,” he guessed. It was a testament to how rattled she was by the call she’d received that morning that she hadn’t thought once about the threats. She’d received a couple of pieces of anonymous mail at work, one each for the past two weeks.

Do what’s right or else.

Until this morning, the threats had occupied her thoughts almost constantly. She’d read the words countless times, trying to figure out what they meant. What they referred to.

And hated that she came up blank.

“No,” she said. “Though I got a call from the police yesterday. They found no fingerprints other than mine and Marge’s on the letters. The envelopes had been handled by so many people they couldn’t identify any thing. They’ve talked to everyone and didn’t find anything.” Which hadn’t been a surprise to her. She knew her staff. If any of them had a problem with her, they’d talk to her face-to-face.

“So what happens now?”

“They’re running a search for similar crimes on other magazines, particularly those dealing with women’s issues. They’re also checking into relatives, spouses and ex-spouses of the women at Durango.”

Jane wasn’t all that upset by a check on the women’s shelter where she and Brad both volunteered. Extra police protection wasn’t a bad thing when you were afraid for your life.

“What about you? Do they think it’s safe to continue going into the office?”

“I can’t not work.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“They’re running extra patrols around the office, and around my house, too. And they suggested I hire someone….”

“And did you?”

“Marge made some calls. Found a guy who’s going to be starting on Monday at Twenty-Something.”

“What about at home?”

“In the first place, I can’t afford a round-the-clock private bodyguard,” Jane said. “In the second place, the danger is clearly at the office—even the police think so. I haven’t received any threats at home. And in the third place, I couldn’t stand to have someone shadowing my every move. I’d rather take my chances.”

Brad didn’t look entirely convinced. “So why couldn’t you tell me about this?”

“I just forgot….” As soon as the words slipped out, Jane wished she could take them back. Brad would’ve been satisfied with the threats as the reason for her unusual mental absenteeism.

Brad stood up. “Forgot?” He shook his head. “What’s going on, Jane?”

As Jane thought about the phone call from the Ohio prosecutor, she tried to figure out what she could tell Brad. Brad Manchester might be determined to live footloose and fancy-free, but he was also one of the most decent men she’d ever known. He truly cared.

And while he dated a lot of women, maybe because there were so many of them, Jane was the one he turned to when he needed a friend.

He wanted to return the favor.

She didn’t blame him. She didn’t blame anyone.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she should blame her creep of an ex-husband. Or the woman who’d stolen him away from her.

Except… Lee Anne was… And James was… Jane did blame herself.

When she could stand the internal cacophony no longer, Jane jumped up, stepping over the backpack she’d worn on the hike. She stopped a couple of feet from the ledge directly in front of them. It wasn’t a sharp drop, but it was the high point of the property. It seemed as though they were in heaven up here. At the top of the world. And for as far as she could see there was nothing but green, trees, hills, brush, grass and wildflowers. Wilderness.

No pavement. No cars. No people.

No subterfuge.

Sometimes, looking into Brad’s deep brown eyes was a lot like standing there at the top of the world. They’d managed to rise above life’s complications to form a bond that was near perfect.

He was the truest friend she’d ever had.

“I’ve never trusted anyone like I trust you,” she blurted.

Her career she had down pat. But not this.

Not being emotionally vulnerable. Or out of control.

Jane continued to survey the world. “I… This is just something I have to handle on my own.”

“You sure about that?”

Hell, no. She wasn’t sure about much of anything at the moment. Except that she had to be strong, had to take care of herself.

“This is me you’re talking to, Jane. I’m on your side, remember?”

There really was no reason to panic. She’d had a phone call. A blast from the past. Nothing that affected the woman she’d become. Nothing that affected her life today.

And the threats—she’d hired protection for herself and her staff. The police were working diligently on that investigation.

“Maybe I can help.” Brad was just a few feet away.

Her only close friend. A lawyer. The best.

“I got a call this morning.” The statement could have been random.

“Who from?” He’d come closer.

“A prosecutor. In Ohio. Chandler, Ohio.”

“That’s where your ex moved after your divorce, isn’t it?”

“Right.” It didn’t surprise her that he’d remembered a detail he’d heard only once—one night when they’d shared a bottle of wine and exchanged divorce horror stories. “James has been charged with murder. They want me to testify.”

Two short sentences. Manageable.

“What!” Brad turned her around, brought her back toward their blanket. His hands were surprisingly gentle on her shoulders. Odd that she’d even noticed. He’d touched her before. A hand on her back as she preceded him into the theater. Or a restaurant. And she’d never reacted. Brad meant nothing to her in the physical sense, no matter how attractive other women found him.

“Who’d he kill?” His fingers slid from her shoulders, but the warmth of his touch lingered. “And why would they think you know anything about it?”

Another surge of panic swept over her.

Jane wasn’t a complete stranger to court. She volunteered at Durango, a Chicago women’s shelter, helping battered women with professional writing like letters and résumés, and helping them gain healing through personal writing, too. She’d been asked to be a supportive shoulder during domestic abuse trials several times. That was how she’d met Brad. He offered free legal advice at the same shelter.

Jane also volunteered as a receptionist one night a week for a local Victim Witness program, a government-funded project that provided free support to victims obtaining protection orders.

She was seasoned. The call that morning, while disturbing, shouldn’t be debilitating her.

“They say he killed Lee Anne.” She couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the words. They just repeated themselves, again and again, in her mind.

“My God. Lee Anne’s dead?”

Brad sounded as though he’d known the woman, rather than just having heard about James’s second wife from Jane. She nodded. “What happened?”

“She was found at the bottom of a cliff.” Jane shuddered, glancing back at the expanse below them. Standing atop the cliff—looking out—could seem like heaven and could quickly become hell. “Her hyoid bone was broken, which could point to strangulation, but there was no obvious bruising there. But there was some on her back.” Jane rattled off the facts as though reading a finance report. They seemed just as distant, just as impersonal. “Lee Anne apparently told a friend that she was going to meet James for lunch. But they never made it to the restaurant she’d said they were going to. Her car was found at the base of a trail leading up to the cliff. James’s truck was spotted in the same area and there were footprints his size at the cliff. Broken foliage and dirt patterns indicated a struggle. His fingerprints were found inside her car and when questioned, he’d said he was at home that morning, alone. They told him his truck had been seen near the cliff. After which he admitted to being in the woods with her, to being in her car, but he claims that they talked and that she was still sitting in her car, perfectly fine, when he left.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Six weeks.”

“They’ve had enough time to go over the body, then. Did they find anything to indicate that she’d been pushed?”

“The prosecutor, a Sheila Grant, said that the coroner found fingerprint-shaped bruising beneath the skin on her back.”

Brad practiced family law these days, mostly representing abused women, but he’d also done a stint as a prosecutor, so he was familiar with the challenges Sheila Grant could be facing. From everything Jane had heard, he’d been a great prosecutor. And he’d been stifled by politics and people above him who were apt to seek convictions and sentences based on factors other than the severity of the crime. Especially if there was an election or a point to prove.

A breeze blew through, rustling leaves and cooling clothes still damp from the sweat she’d worked up on their hike. Chilling her skin.

“What exactly does Ms. Grant want from you?”

And that’s where her throat froze up.

“Jane?”

“She wants me as a character reference.”

Brad studied her from below his lowered eyebrows and she could almost hear that talented brain of his whizzing along. A prosecutor would only seek character testimony from someone who had information that would support the murder theory.

“Did you tell her you would testify?”

“Yes.” And then she quickly added, “But I don’t know what good I’m going to be. It’s not like I expected something like this. I’m in total shock. The James I thought I knew was weak and selfish, but he wasn’t a murderer.”

“Very few people have any idea someone they loved is capable of murder,” Brad said, taking her hand in another unusual show of physical support. Something she rarely needed.

She let him link her fingers with his and held on.

“I come up against it again and again,” he was saying. “The shock. The disbelief. You know this as well as I do. With all of the articles Twenty-Something has done, your volunteer work and the editorials you’ve written, you’re as much an expert on domestic abuse as I am. I’m sure you can quote statistics.”

Probably. Being the CEO of a start-up magazine focusing on issues facing today’s young women did have its benefits. And what she hadn’t gleaned from her work on Twenty-Something, she’d learned through her years of volunteering.

Domestic abuse. Brad’s words, couched in generalities, lay between them. She’d told Brad her ex-husband had been unfaithful. His infidelity had been the reason for their divorce.

She’d told him the truth. At least, as much of it as she’d known.

“Sheila Grant told me this morning that James is a bigamist. And that I’m one of his victims.”

A victim. Jane hated the sound of that. The feel of it. As though she’d been branded.

Brad leaned back, staring at her. “You’re still married?”

“No!” Shaking her head, she squeezed his hand. And still didn’t let go. She’d been hanging out with Brad for a couple of years now and this was the first time they’d held hands. “My divorce is perfectly legal,” she said. “But it hadn’t happened yet when he married Lee Anne. He wasn’t just having an affair with her—he’d taken her to Vegas and married her.”

“Then, he wasn’t really married to her at all.”

“Apparently he’d asked her for a church wedding, complete with an Ohio marriage license, after our divorce, still without telling her about his first marriage. It was for their anniversary. He told her the Vegas wedding didn’t feel legitimate enough.”

“What a guy.”

“Yeah and it gets worse. He married a third time, about eighteen months ago.”

“Let me guess, he didn’t bother divorcing Lee Anne first.”

“Right.”

Brad frowned, taking on the look she’d seen him wear in the courtroom. His thinking face. “If he doesn’t want her around anymore, why not just divorce her?”

Jane relayed what Sheila Grant had told her about the triangle in Chandler, Ohio. Some supposition. Some not. Brad seemed to agree with the prosecutor’s blackmail theories, but Jane didn’t know what to think. The whole thing—James being a bigamist, her not knowing that her husband was lying to her in such a fundamental way—was just too unbelievable.

A lot of men could pull off an illicit relationship on the side. But a second marriage? And she hadn’t even suspected?

Where was the strong, capable woman who’d been given the chance to head up a new national magazine? Who stood at the head of a Chicago boardroom and justified spending thousands of dollars on copy and cover art, layout and gloss? Who, in her spare time, helped vulnerable women find their feet?

Could the real Jane Hamilton please stand up? A mental version of the old television show To Tell the Truth played in her brain. Or should that be, Could the real Mrs. James Todd please stand up?

She was spiraling out of control. Didn’t know herself. Didn’t know what—

“Did he hit you, Jane?”

Brad’s softly spoken question broke through her internal torment.

“No! Of course not.” She’d have known what to do about that.

They stood there, peering into each other’s eyes. She tried to smile at the man who’d become such an important part of her life.

“But he hurt you.”

Of course he had. He’d been unfaithful to her. He’d been her mentor. Her professor. And then her friend and lover and husband. She’d looked up to him. Learned so much from him. And…

Was she really so pathetic that she’d overlooked enough lies that he’d been able to hide a second family? Had she been that desperate to keep James in her life?

Brad was watching her and the idea of him seeing her as a helpless victim felt far too threatening.

For no reason. Her sense of self-worth came from within.

Still she broke away and dropped down to the blanket. She held the container with the fruit they hadn’t yet eaten, but didn’t open it.

“I wasn’t abused.” The constriction in Jane’s throat lessened. “There were a couple of accidents that were blown out of proportion. That’s all. Sheila Grant got hold of some old police reports.”

Brad sat down beside her, his long frame seeming to take up far more of the blanket than it had earlier.

“You called the police?”

She shook her head. “I told you, they were accidents. Which the doctor in the emergency room felt compelled to report. The police asked some questions, and they left. No charges were filed.” Holding the container of fresh strawberries in her lap, she glanced up at him. “God knows, I appreciate the law that requires medical personnel to notify police whenever they see something that suggests abuse, but in my case, those calls just caused a lot of embarrassment. James was a professor at the local university. Well liked. Respected. He was not a wife beater.”

Brad’s expression remained completely focused. “Do you have any idea why Ms. Grant would be interested in the reports?”

“Apparently they were filed with suspicion.”

“Meaning that while no one was charged, the investigating officer wasn’t convinced a crime hadn’t been committed.”

Right. So Sheila Grant had explained, though that morning had been the first Jane had heard of any suspicion.

“What happened? Tell me about the accidents.”

“I fell down the stairs once and before you say anything, yes, I’m positive I tripped. James did not push me, though the doctor, and the cop, too, for that matter, kept trying to get me to say he did.”

“So James was there.”

“Yes, we were going downstairs together. And no, we weren’t fighting.”

His head slightly lowered, Brad watched her with a sideways glance. “And you’re sure there’s no way he pushed you.”

“It would have been physically impossible. I was behind him. As a matter of fact, he helped break my fall.”

“And the other time?”

“We were playing tennis. We had one of those machines that shot balls over the net to us. He was demonstrating. I ran into his swing and caught his arm with my nose.”

“How were things between you then?”

“He was wonderful, picked me up and ran me to the car, not caring that I was dripping blood on his new upholstery. He rushed me to the hospital and was everything any wife could want in a loving husband.”

“I meant before the incident. How were things between you on the tennis court?”

Oh. Jane thought back, her chest getting tight again. And then she reined herself in.

“I think we were fighting,” she said slowly. “Or had been. It’s hard to remember. There were so many times we were at odds there toward the end.”

“And he never lifted a hand to you?”

“Not once. Ever. He never backed me into a corner, or even touched me in anger.”

Brad moved and Jane jumped. Reaching toward her, he tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear. “If the suspicions are false, why was it so hard for you to tell me about it?”

“Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to know that I considered myself in love with a man who was so not in love with me that he was actually married to someone else at the very same time he was married to me?”

Brad frowned and she continued, “After Sheila Grant first called this morning, I started thinking about my marriage. Looking for signs James might have given of what he was doing, clues that I missed. Something to restore my faith in my judgment. And it took me right back to square one. Before, I thought I’d only missed the signs of him being unfaithful—having a girlfriend. That kind of thing happens all the time. But bigamy? I missed the fact that James was someone else’s husband at the same time that he was mine. Why didn’t I see it before? And how do I know I wouldn’t miss something that big in the future? How could I ever trust myself to know? The phone call also confirms that I wasn’t such a great wife. Not only did my husband seek sex elsewhere, he sought a wife elsewhere, too.”

How much of that had been Jane’s fault? James had obviously loved her at some point—he’d wanted to marry her. What had she done to cause him to lose interest?

“By all accounts that man is sick, Jane. His choices are no more a reflection on you than they are on the other two women he lied to.”

“Which doesn’t negate the fact that I didn’t see what he was doing. Didn’t even suspect. I was an easy target.”

“You were a young woman, a student, who trusted her mentor. And later her husband.”

“I trusted an untrustworthy man.” Jane hated being unsure of herself. It reminded her too much of her life with James.

Her life before Twenty-Something.

“The way Emily trusted me.”

Emily. Brad’s ex-wife and his biggest scar.

“That woman adored me,” he continued. “And you know I say that with shame, not ego. I loved her, but not any more deeply than I’d loved other people.”

He’d told her all about his guilt over drinks after their first time in court together with a Durango resident.

“I cared enough about Emily that I stayed, even after it became obvious to me that our relationship had run its course. I kept trying to be as happy in our marriage as she needed me to be. As happy with her as she was with me during those times when she believed I loved her. She stayed because she kept hoping that, with time, our relationship would grow and we’d find the closeness she craved. I hung on for several years trying to fall in love with her as much as she loved me. A lot of people were hurt over my inability to give up. I robbed her of several years of happiness, of the chance to find someone who could love her more deeply than I could. And still Emily hung on, waiting. Believing in me, in the vows we took. Does that make her somehow less?”

“No.” Jane got his point. But she wasn’t Emily. “There’s a major difference here, Brad.”

“What’s that?”

“She was married to a good and decent man who was trying to love her the way she needed him to.”

“And you thought you were, too.”

“Right, but the guy I was married to was apparently a two-bit schmuck.”

“His problem. Not yours. It sounds to me like you were a faithful wife, committed to the marriage. Nothing more.” With his arms resting on his bent knees, Brad glanced straight at her again. “Unless there’s more. Sheila Grant seems to think so…”

“Why are you trying so hard to paint me abused?” He hadn’t actually said as much, but she knew what he was implying. She could tell he didn’t believe her. Indignation was good for the soul. Or at least for distracting her from her own weakness.

“I’m not sure,” he said, as frank with her as ever. “Maybe because I’ve seen that frightened look a hundred times before but never in your eyes.”

The compassion in his voice brought her close to tears. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what? Being a friend?”

“Climbing inside my head.”

“I don’t know,” he said again. After a moment of silence, he added, “You’re struggling. And I care.”

She needed him to care and was glad he did. But he was pushing. And they didn’t pressure each other. It was part of what made their unique friendship so successful.

“It occurs to me for the first time—” Brad paused, and Jane braced herself “—that things about you fit the profile of an abused woman.”

They did not. He was just wrong about that. If she fit the profile, he’d have seen that before today. “Like what?”

“Like the fact that in the two years I’ve known you, you haven’t been on a single date.”

“Come on, Manchester. It’s a new world out there. One where a woman doesn’t need to have a man to be complete.”

“No, but she doesn’t generally need to avoid them, either.”

“I’ve been busy getting a magazine off the ground, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You stay busy, and yet you’re the most isolated person I know. You have a lot of acquaintances, a lot of people who look up to you and care for you, but none, that I know of, other than me, with whom you’re really close. You help them, but who helps you?”

“I’ve always been a bit of a loner. And a nurturer. I know what I want and that’s okay.” She knew herself. Liked herself. Was overall happy with who she was and where she was in her life. “There’s nothing wrong with being different as long as you’re happy that way. Look at my mom.”

Jane’s parents hadn’t been married. Brad not only knew the story, he’d met her mother once.

Her dad, a professional military man, had traveled constantly, moved all over the world, and her mother, a small-town girl, hadn’t been able to sign on for that kind of life. They’d continued to love each other, to see each other occasionally, until he’d been killed in the Gulf War when Jane was twelve.

Later, her mom married a local man, a single father with one son a few years younger than Jane. Her husband had eventually retired from the manufacturing firm where he’d worked all his life and taken her to Alaska to live with him on a fishing boat. Jane heard from them a few times a year, when they were in port.

The important thing was, they were happy. They’d all been happy.

“Besides, you’re one to talk. I don’t see any real relationships in your life, either. And I’m not calling you abused.”

“I hurt a sweet woman very badly,” Brad reminded her. “I can’t even think about getting serious with anyone unless I’m positive that I can give her my whole heart.”

Jane stared at him. “So you do want to marry again someday?” She’d been worried about him. Worried he was going to waste his life on one-night stands. Which would have been fine if it made him happy, but it didn’t seem to. He tried too hard to stay busy—as though he was outrunning his dissatisfaction.

Brad’s mother had been killed in a car accident when he’d still been too young to remember her. And his father had passed away four years before, from a massive heart attack.

Aside from a few distant cousins, he was alone in the world.

“I want a family, sure,” he said. “But not unless I meet someone I know I can love forever.”

So maybe his constant dating was more than she’d realized. Maybe he was searching…

“Do you think that really happens?” Jane asked, curious—and also relieved to be talking about something besides her.

“I like to believe it can,” he said and then sent her a grin. “I’m certainly doing extensive research on the topic.”

That was more like the Brad she knew. “Well, spare me the details, but do tell if you find a definitive answer.”

And then, just like that, his face grew serious once again. “I’m more interested in finding answers for you, right now,” he said. “I’m concerned about you, Jane.”

“And I’m telling you there’s no reason to be. The phone call shocked me today. I need some time to get used to the idea of having been a bigamist’s wife. But I’m fine. Really.”

“Okay, but I want you to think about something for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Durango’s number one profile characteristic of an abused woman.”

The list was posted in the main gathering room at the shelter. Jane knew it by heart.

And at the top:

She lives in denial.

Damn him.

CHAPTER TWO

BRAD WASN’T SURE why he was pushing so hard. The whole reason he and Jane were good together, the one thing that had allowed their unusual friendship to work, was the lack of expectation for more than either wanted to give.

They cared about each other, they were open to soul-deep confidences, to emotional intimacy, but they didn’t require it of each other. And they never got personal, physically.

Other than that time she’d had the flu and he’d taken care of her.

And the lump. Brad had been in the shower and found a lump in his prostate. He’d called Jane first, his doctor second. And a day later she’d treated him to drinks at their favorite neighborhood pub to toast his perfectly normal good health.

As he recalled, she’d laughingly left him to it that night when he’d spotted a red-haired beauty sitting alone at the bar….

With so much unsaid between them, they sat on their picnic blanket silently staring out over a land that didn’t really hint at all the danger that lurked in the world. Not that Brad spent a lot of time pondering life’s dangers. He knew the dangers would find them without their help.

What they needed to figure out was how to be happy regardless of the dangers.

Jane was eating a strawberry; juice dripped off her lower lip. Funny, he’d never noticed how full her lips were…

Maybe he should stick to figuring out how, on Monday, he was going to fight a client’s husband for the support she deserved after having put up with his emotional abuse for more than twenty years.

“You’re wrong, you know?”

“About what?”

“About me being abused.”

Brad met Jane’s gaze and saw that she meant it. So why didn’t he believe her?

“After the tennis incident…I wasn’t sure. The doctor made such a big deal of the direction of the blow. He said that James would’ve had to pull his elbow back into my nose to have broken it the way he did, not going forward for a shot as he claimed.”

“How did it seem to you?”

Jane’s pause unsettled him. He dealt with similar silences too often. With intelligent, strong women who’d been so emotionally broken down that they second-guessed themselves in spite of their abilities.

“I honestly couldn’t say.” He wished her words surprised him. “One minute I was standing there, the next minute I was on the ground in the most excruciating pain I’d ever known. My head was pounding so hard I couldn’t hear. Couldn’t see.”

“Did you tell the police you didn’t know what happened?”

“Not at the time. I was too out of it. I just went with what James told me had happened. But a few days later, after James and I went back to work, I kept thinking about how angry he’d been, and what the doctor had said. The doubts set in. James left for a graduate study trip and while he was gone I went to the Victim Witness office in town, just in case I was reading things wrong. Since their sole purpose is victim support, I figured they’d know if I needed help. I told them everything. They said that there was no evidence of abuse.”

“Even with what the police and doctor had said? Even with your doubts?”

“They said that my doubts were indicative of a problem in my marriage, but that as far as obtaining a protection order was concerned, I didn’t have enough evidence.”

Jane was fiddling with the lid of the strawberry container. Opening and closing it. Watching the movement. Not at all the head-up-and-shoulders-straight woman he knew.

“Maybe they were wrong.”

“I don’t think so, Brad. I think my doubts were a result of professionals who had to do their jobs or risk potential lawsuits. While I was at Victim Witness another woman came in. She was bruised and swollen and she’d been sitting in the outer office, waiting for the counselor to be done with me. She could hardly speak. She was crying, but one eye was so swollen the tears couldn’t escape.

“She had two little kids with her, younger than four. They huddled against her and even as scared as she was, she protected them fiercely.

“Seeing them was a life-changing moment for me. That was what abuse looked like. I couldn’t get that family out of my mind and from then on I quit feeling sorry for myself. I made the decision that I was going to spend my life helping women not to live like that. I started volunteering as a receptionist at that office the very next week.”

Jane had never told him how she got her start with the women they helped. He’d never asked, assuming that she’d somehow fallen into it through her work—as he had.

“James and I had some bad fights after that,” she added, her voice soft and distant. “And not once did I get hurt. Nor was I ever physically afraid of him. Like I said. The incidents were accidents.”

Brad didn’t believe her. But he didn’t have any real reason not to, so kept his thoughts to himself. Maybe he’d seen too much of the other side. Maybe knowing that, statistically, one in two women suffered some form of spousal abuse had clouded his judgment. Maybe his perspective was too jaded.

And maybe not.

“Besides, one thing I know is that I’m more than capable of taking care of myself and those around me.”

Jane’s description fit the woman he knew.

“I’ve always had preservation instincts,” she continued, her voice going stronger. And when she smiled, Brad smiled with her. “I remember when I was a kid and I couldn’t wait for my dad’s visits. He’d only be with us a few days or weeks at a time, and those were the highlight of the year. For both my mom and me. Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“He used to tickle me to the point that it hurt. I hated that. And the more I struggled, the more he tickled. It was a game to him but it wasn’t one I enjoyed playing. But I wasn’t strong enough to get away.”

Brad didn’t like the game at all. The older man had been way out of line, holding his own daughter captive.

“It didn’t take me long to figure out how to save myself, though,” Jane continued, not sounding the least bit put out or scarred by the incidents.

“How?”

“I’d scream at a really high pitch. My mom couldn’t stand the noise and would tell my dad to stop in that voice that meant he’d better do it now.”

“And did he?”

“Of course. Every time.”

And so she’d solved her problem. A little girl figuring a way to get the best of a grown man. That was his Jane—if one way didn’t work, she’d find another. Maybe he’d been worrying about nothing. Though that wasn’t like him.

They were silent for a long time, each lost in his and her own thoughts. It was a comfortable silence, one they shared a lot when they were together like this. And then Jane said, “I am afraid of something, though.” The tentative tone in her voice got his full attention.

“What’s that?”

“The picture you painted of me—alone—I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”

“That you keep yourself detached from all of us?” Not from him—except physically.

“I…” Jane’s eyes revealed uncharacteristic hesitancy when she raised her head and met his gaze. “Can I tell you something?”

“You know you can.”

“It’s personal and embarrassing and…”

“Then this is probably the day for it.”

She hesitated a moment longer and then said, “What James did—the mental cruelty, the infidelity—it killed my ability to…you know…want…things.”

She couldn’t be saying what he thought she was saying. Not Jane. She was femininity personified. Gorgeous. A head turner. And…

“Are you saying you don’t want…things?”

They were up on a private wooded hill, away from the rules of life. The rules of Brad and Jane. What they said here would be forgotten once they descended to real life.

And he’d all but bullied her to confide in him.

She shook her head. “I haven’t had so much as a tingle…down there…since my divorce.”

Brad was shocked. He knew she hadn’t dated, but…

Thinking of Jane sexually was taboo. So he hadn’t. But in the back of his mind, he’d assumed she…something. He’d never thought beyond that.

And didn’t have any solid thoughts now, either. Their hill had turned into quicksand. An electrified quicksand for him.

“Have you talked to anyone about it? Professionally?”

“Yeah. But it didn’t do any good. It just happens that way sometimes. More often with women, I’m told.”

“It’s probably just because you haven’t been on a date in so long,” he blurted, thinking of all the women he’d been with since he’d met her.

Brad liked sex. A lot. And he made no apology for that. The idea of being unable to experience those sensations…

“It’s not like I don’t get invitations,” Jane said dryly. “I don’t date because I’m not the least bit interested in the men who ask me out.”

“You should meet more men, different men.” His mind tried to fight its way out of the thickness encasing him. “I’ve got a couple of friends from law school. I could…”

He shouldn’t have been relieved when Jane shook her head, preventing him from having to finish the offer. But he was.

“I know fine men, Brad. Successful, fun, funny men. Smart, introspective men. Older men. Younger men. Good-looking. Great-looking. Okay-looking…”

“And nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe you’re wired the other way,” he suggested, hardly recognizing the tinny sound to his voice. Yeah, let her be gay. That would make him a hell of a lot more comfortable.

It would safeguard their friendship forever. Unless they both fell in love with the same woman.

“I’m not a lesbian.” Funny how four words could weigh a man down and lift him up all at the same time. “I think, with as much time as I spend around women, I’d know if they pushed my buttons. They don’t.”

Brad’s throat was too dry to speak. So he sat there, hands resting nonchalantly on his knees, wondering what the hell was the matter with him. He talked to a lot of women about sex—those he was having it with, and some he wasn’t. He was completely comfortable with the topic.

“I was perfectly normal,” Jane continued as though now that her demon had been unleashed, she felt better letting it all out. And he understood fully the old saying about being careful what you asked for.

He’d pushed her to open up to him, egotistically certain that he was the one who should be there for her in her time of need.

“And you…felt things.” Some masochistic part of his soul made him ask. He didn’t want to picture Jane with another man. Didn’t want to picture her naked. Or sexual in any way. She was Jane. His Jane. Asexual.

Which was exactly what she was telling him. The asexual part.

And that wasn’t right. This beautiful, warm woman asexual?

“Oh, yeah. So much it made me his slave.” Jane’s eyes widened as she spoke, and Brad knew he would never forget the stricken expression that came over her face. “And when James betrayed me, when he kept telling me that his infidelity was my fault, I…”

She stopped and Brad waited, focusing on the slight breeze that had passed over their picnic site.

“I haven’t been the least bit interested in sex since,” she finally said. “He killed it, Brad. And it’s kind of hard to have a truly intimate relationship without that.”

“I’m sure it’s not dead, sweetie,” Brad said now, grasping for anything that would keep his head above the sand. “You know the drill better than most. After any kind of mistreatment, these things take time. And the right person. The feelings are in there.”

“I don’t think so.” Jane’s eyes were clouded again. “It’s been five years since my divorce.”

“Jane, don’t do this to yourself. Relax. I’m sure you’re fine.”

“Am I?” Clearly skeptical, she looked him up and down. “Take you for example,” she said. “You’re gorgeous. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t see you and at least entertain a thought…feel some kind of attraction…”

What did a guy say to that?

“We… I’ve… It’s been two years. We’re together all the time. And I’ve never once…”

Good thing Brad’s ego could afford the hit. Good, too, that relief eased some of the unintentional sting from her words.

“Maybe I’m not your type. And as for other men, you just haven’t been open to it,” he told her. “You’ve blocked that part of yourself. When you’re ready…it’ll be there.”

“I wish I believed that. But after all this time, I just don’t.”

She sounded so…insecure. So lacking in worth. As though she had nothing of value to offer. So unlike the woman who’d, over the past two years, become the first person he called when he had news. The first person he thought of when the electricity went out, when he heard sirens and hoped no one was hurt, when he woke on Christmas morning.

Sex didn’t define a person’s value anyway. But Brad didn’t say so. He knew it would be pointless. He knew from all the work he’d done with abused women that women had a tendency to intermingle personal worth with sexual attractiveness.

“You’re wrong.” His words were forceful. They needed to be. “Unless you don’t do anything about it,” he said, concerned for her. “If you shut yourself off, if you believe you’ll never have those feelings again, you might not.”

“I haven’t shut myself off. I’ve…tried. With partners. And by myself. I even bought a toy off the Internet.”

Jane’s face turned red, but she didn’t look away. She was sitting there, staring at him, completely open, and believing every word she said. Dictating her own life sentence.

Brad couldn’t let that happen. Not to Jane. And he knew he could help her. Just like that.

“Then you haven’t tried hard enough,” he told her. He wasn’t going to let her give up on herself.

“I have. I—”

“Listen.” He cut her off. “I’m going to do something, and when I’m done, you’ll know that you’re all right. And then we’re going to forget it ever happened. Okay?”

She watched him with her eyes wide. And while he stopped breathing, she nodded.

“We will never mention this…interlude. We will never repeat it.”

She nodded again.

He could do this. No problem. He was the perfect choice because he wouldn’t take advantage of her.

Brad was confident until he really looked at the woman sitting next to him. Her dark brown eyes. Perfect skin. Breasts that were so much more than they should be if he was going to not be attracted to them. Why had he never noticed them before?

His fingers brushed her face, her neck, slowly gliding over the softness.

“What are you doing?” Jane stared at him, but didn’t pull back. If she had he would have stopped.

“I’m going to show you what you can feel.” He was strangely unembarrassed by the hoarseness in his voice.

His body was hard and straining against his zipper. He knew how to ignore it.

“Are you game?”

“You’re wasting your time.” The near whisper sounded like a challenge to him.

“I don’t think so.”

“Brad?”

“Shh.” He traced her lips with the pad of his thumb and they parted.

This wouldn’t take long. The rational thought comforted him. One kiss should do it.

He leaned in, touched his lips to hers and lost himself to the burst of fire that shot clear down to his feet.

Brad had had enough women to appreciate when the sex was hot.

And yet when he felt Jane’s lips against his he experienced a jolt so shocking, he felt like a first-timer.

Her eyes were still open, so he deepened the kiss, taking her lips fully with his. And when she didn’t moan with need, he pushed a little further, opening her lips with his tongue.

She tasted of salt and strawberry. And something unknown, but very, very good. He played with her tongue. Teasing it. Exploring.

Alone.

She didn’t resist, but she didn’t join him, either.

Brad pulled away, not sure what he was going to do, and got a glimpse of Jane’s face. Her eyes were almost closed, her features more relaxed than he’d ever seen them.

And yet not. Her mouth was slightly open. Waiting.

She might not be there yet, but she was getting there.

He kissed her again. And when her tongue still remained uninvolved, Brad moved his hand under the hem of her T-shirt, sliding his hand slowly up along the slender curve of her waist, lightly brushing the side of her breast. He thought she jerked a bit at his touch, but he couldn’t be sure.

He couldn’t stop, either. Not until he’d slid a finger inside her bra. Touched her nipple, made it hard and…

It was already hard.

So they were done. He’d aroused her.

He kissed her once more, just to seal the deal with a response from her tongue.

It still didn’t dance with him and he doubted himself. He knew a lot about women. He knew, for instance, that arousal wasn’t the only reason nipples hardened.

And he knew that there was one sure way to tell if a woman was turned on. Brad reached for the button on Jane’s jeans with only one thought in mind. Turn her on and get out.

He had to hand it to her. She was trying as hard as he was. She lifted her body, giving him easier access. And when it became obvious that it wasn’t enough, she lifted her butt off the blanket and let him pull the pants down to her ankles. He took her panties, too, just for the sake of getting the task done quickly.

And when he started to salivate at the sight of her, he ignored the sensation. He had a job to do for his friend.

This wasn’t about him or his needs. His body wasn’t involved. Wasn’t going to do anything. At least not now and never with Jane.

He was simply helping his friend.

At his urging, she spread her legs and his fingers went to work, knowing exactly what to do.

He found his mark on the first try. And discovered that she was already wet.

He could stop.

As soon as he made certain that Jane knew, without a doubt, what she was capable of feeling.

He didn’t look at her face. Couldn’t meet her eyes. He just focused on making her feel good.

And as soon as she’d climaxed, he’d get up and walk away. Let her put herself back together.

That’s what he intended. That’s what he told himself was going to happen.

It didn’t.

CHAPTER THREE

MONDAY MORNING Jane was up, showered, had fed Petunia, her delicate and fragile rescue bird, and was on her way into the city from her Chicago suburb home before she was usually out of bed. She had a nine-thirty meeting with her art people and needed to stop at Durango on the way. She’d promised Josie Barker, one of the shelter’s current residents, that she’d help her with her résumé that morning. Josie was applying for a job that could change her life.

And no matter how Jane managed to mess up her own life, she was going to make sure other women had a chance to improve theirs.

Josie was a lucky one. She’d gotten out of her abusive marriage early, before there were children. And before her self-esteem had been irreparably damaged.

“Jane?” Stopping on the steps up to Durango—a nondescript home close to Chicago’s downtown with absolutely no signage or other giveaway characteristics to alert anyone to its true purpose—Jane glanced over her shoulder as she heard her name. Spinning, she recognized the woman coming up the street.

“Kim! What are you doing here?” And then, with a sick feeling in her stomach, she asked, “You aren’t staying here again, are you?”

“No! Don’t worry, I’m fine.” The redheaded, freckle-faced woman stopped at the bottom of the three cement stairs, her hand on the black wrought-iron railing. “I was just coming to drop this off for Josie.” She held up a hanger covered in dry-cleaning wrap. “For her interview. I’m early, actually, but Jason spent the night with my mom and I had way too much time on my hands this morning.” Kim’s cheer seemed forced, a state Jane knew well from her work with damaged women.

“I’m a little early, too,” she said now, her own troubles fading. “Tell me how things are going.”

“Good.” Kim’s red ponytail bobbed. “Really good. Brad’s fantastic, just like you said he would be. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for setting me up with him.”

“Brad volunteers here regularly,” Jane reminded her. “You’d have met up with him eventually if I hadn’t called him.”

Brad. She’d spent all of yesterday trying not to think about him. And all of last night, too.

“But who knows where I’d have been by the time he made his next visit.” Kim shrugged self-consciously. “Anyway, I know he thinks he can’t discuss my case with you, even though I told him he could, so I wanted you to know that I hired a second attorney, Christine Ryan, just to represent Jason.”

“Why?”

The young woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Because I’m too messed up where Shawn’s concerned to know if I’m doing right by my son, or just knee-jerking. And I need Brad to be looking out for me.”

Shawn. The husband. Whose actions had driven his wife to call the domestic abuse hotline and, with their young son, seek shelter at Durango.

“So he’s still trying to get shared custody?”

“At the moment, I think he’d settle for visitation rights. And I don’t know, Jane. I mean, he never hurt Jason. He really loves him. And Jason misses him so much…”

“Shawn might not have hurt him physically, but I can assure you, Jason has suffered greatly from his father’s aggressive actions.”

Stay strong, Kim, Jane’s inner voice urged. Remember that what Shawn did was wrong. Against the law.

She’d have said the words aloud, but Kim had already heard them many times. It was up to her whether or not she believed them and made choices accordingly. If Jane pushed, she was really no better than Shawn—browbeating Kim into doing what Jane thought was best.

At this stage, she could give Kim validation. Nothing more.

“Anyway,” Kim said, shaking her head, “I’m glad I ran into you. My pastor came up to me at church yesterday and told me that Shawn had talked to him.”

Jane’s nerves stood on alert. “It’s a violation of the protection order for him to use a third party to pass messages to you. Did you call the police?”

“No.” Kim shook her head vehemently. “Shawn didn’t know Pastor Rod was talking to me. I’m sure he’d rather he hadn’t. Anyway, Rod said he’d really struggled with whether or not to say anything to me because of confidentiality issues, but said that he’d rather have betraying a confidence on his conscience than have someone hurt.”

“So what did he say? Does he think that Shawn’s a danger to Jason?”

“No. He thinks he’s a danger to you.”

Jane stepped back, the heel of her pump catching on the cement behind her. “Me?”

“Pastor Rod says that Shawn told him that this is all your fault. He says that if you hadn’t called Brad right away, I’d have come home and given him a chance to apologize. He says he’s lost his son because of you.”

“He lost his son because he doesn’t know how to be a man,” Jane said, forcing her voice to communicate a calm she didn’t feel. Could Shawn be behind the threats she’d been receiving at Twenty-Something? But what “right thing” could he want her to do?

It wasn’t as if she had any power to influence custody orders.

Still, she’d let Detective Thomas know.

“Shawn’s right, though, in one sense,” Kim said, looking down and then back up. “I probably would have done just like he said and gone home and forgiven him.”

Wishing she could take the young woman into her arms and make her world all better, Jane quietly asked, “And do you regret not doing that?”

“No!” The strength with which Kim’s head shot up couldn’t be ignored. “My gosh, Jane, I thank God every single night for you. If not for you, I’d have gone home again and again until he killed me. And maybe Jason, too.”

“And now, if he comes within five hundred feet of you, he goes to jail,” Jane said. “You keep your cell phone with you at all times, and you call the police if you so much as fear that he’s close, right?”

“Right. I thank God for that phone and the protection order, too. Between those and you and Brad, I actually have hope of a life again. But I’m worried sick about you.”

“Don’t be,” Jane assured her. “People like Shawn are cowards. They pick on those who they think won’t hit back. And besides, we know how to keep ourselves safe and what to do if danger approaches. We don’t have to live our lives in fear.”

Jane had had all the self-defense classes right along with the victims at Durango. For cases just like this one. She might not be married to an abusive man, but she helped women who were.

Kim seemed bemused as she peered up at Jane. “You really aren’t scared, are you?”

“No.” Not of Shawn Maplewood at any rate.

“How do you do it?” Kim’s voice was filled with longing. “How have you recovered so completely?”

“Recovered?” Jane asked, unsure what Kim was referring to.

“From your own abuse.”

“What abuse?”

“Well…” Kim frowned. “I mean, I just…the girls and I assumed that since you were here, at Durango, you were, you know, a recovered victim….”

“No, I’m not,” Jane said, and then, something about the other woman’s expression drove her to continue, to talk about the period in her life that she’d kept private for more than five years. Until Saturday.

“I thought I was once,” she said. The admission was no easier the second time around and she wished she’d kept quiet two days before.

About so many things.

“I was married,” she explained anyway. “My ex-husband used to be on me all the time, telling me what a disappointment I was, that kind of thing. I always seemed to be screwing up around him.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes. Enough that I wanted to see a counselor. I wish now that I had.” Jane smiled, but without humor.

No humor in her at all these days. She’d had sex with Brad Manchester. She just couldn’t believe it. And couldn’t forgive herself, either.

She should have known better. She’d just screwed up a friendship that she really needed. But Kim didn’t need to hear about that.

“Instead I just tried harder to make it work,” Jane continued.

“You aren’t married now,” Kim said, her blue-eyed gaze serious. “What happened?”

“I caught James with another woman. I got out.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. And that you’re here,” Kim said.

“Me, too.” Jane smiled and reached for the hanger Kim had been switching from one hand to the other. “How about if I take that in for you?”

Kim gratefully released it. “Would you? Thanks. A double latte and a walk in the park before work just might be in order.”

Wishing the young woman well, Jane turned to put her key in the lock.

“Jane?”

Kim’s voice stopped her and she looked back.

“Yeah?”

“I owe you everything for saving my life. I’m worried about Shawn. Be careful. Okay?”

The tears that threatened prevented Jane from replying. She nodded instead.

“And for the record? I think that James guy should rot in hell for what he did to you.”

CHAPTER FOUR

HE SHOULD HAVE CALLED JANE. On Sunday, Brad had taken an impromptu forty-mile bike ride instead. If the bike path had been expanded to its proposed seventy-mile length, he’d probably have gone the distance.

He could do that on a bike, no problem.

Going the distance in his personal life was another issue.

Brad had been around enough to know that some people just didn’t have what it took to commit to a monogamous relationship. He wasn’t convinced he was one of them, but it wasn’t impossible.

He’d already broken one woman’s heart. He was not about to risk doing it again.

And he didn’t have sex with women except casually. For mutual recreational pleasure.

Now there was Jane.

It took Brad five minutes to drive from his home to the offices of Border, Manchester and Willow. Monday morning, while on that drive, Brad finally phoned his friend.

She didn’t pick up.

He didn’t blame her. They’d barely spoken on their hike down the hill on Saturday, other than to assure each other that what had happened would be forgotten. And he’d spent the two-hour trip back to town on the phone.

“Jane, hi, it’s Brad.” Great. He’d stopped identifying himself after a month of hanging out with her. “I was just calling to check on the time for Thursday’s flight. Call me.” He ad-libbed about as well as he’d greeted her.

He’d written down the time of her flight when he’d dropped her off Saturday evening. She was flying to Ohio to meet with Sheila Grant and he’d insisted on taking her to the airport.

He always took her to the airport. And picked her up, too.

Maybe by Thursday he would have forgotten Jane’s long, sexy legs wrapped around his waist—her body grabbing hold of him, welcoming him inside. Maybe.

If Thursday took a hundred years to get here.

JANE CALLED HIM BACK just as he was getting out of court. Brad’s first instinct was to let the call go to voice mail. Communicating through technology devices was probably just what the doctor would order were they to go see someone about the mess they’d gotten themselves into.

He seemed to be all about stupid choices this week. “Hi,” he said, sucking in the crisp spring air outside the courthouse.

“I was afraid you were avoiding me.”

“Of course not.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Lie to me. You’ve never lied to me. Don’t start now.”

There was a difference between lying and sparing someone’s feelings. Like if one of his dates wore a dress he hated and he complimented the color. Or the fabric. Or maybe, in an extreme case, the way it matched…something.

“Okay, I’ve been avoiding you.” This was Jane. They didn’t hide or pull punches.

They didn’t sleep together, either.

“Why?”

He’d reached his car, so he climbed in. He inserted the key in the ignition, but sat there without starting the engine “That answer’s obvious,” he said, somewhat dryly.

“No, it’s really not. Having sex was a mistake. We both said so, and agreed to forget it. It happened but now it’s over. It would be a tragedy if we let fifteen minutes of insanity ruin a great friendship.”

“So you’re really okay with it?”

“I’ve had a moment or two, but overall, yeah, I’m okay with it.”

“And with me?”

“I think so.”

“I didn’t mean it to happen, Jane. You have to know that. It was never my intention to have sex with you. At all.”

“I know.” He couldn’t tell if her chuckle was sincere, or if she was just strong enough to fake it for the sake of their friendship.

“I would never take advantage of you. I just—”

“Brad, it’s okay.” She cut him off, still sounding like the Jane he’d always known. “I was there, too, you know. I could’ve said no.”

Right. She could have. And she hadn’t. He’d been so consumed with his own guilt that he’d lost sight of that part.

Damn. So did that mean she’d wanted to have sex with him? That she still wanted him?

Beginning to sweat, Brad turned the key so he could start the air-conditioning.

“I can’t be best friends and have sex, too.” He just put it right out there.

“I know. Me, neither.”

“So where do we stand?” And why was he leaving it all up to her? What would he do if she said she wanted the sex more than the friendship?

“As best friends, I hope.”

Okay. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“So we’re good?”

“Absolutely.”

“No more avoiding me?”

“Nope.” Just images of those long legs. He’d avoid those. But that he could handle.

“Whew.” Jane sounded as relieved as he felt. “Thank heavens. I’ve spent the whole weekend feeling bereft, trying to imagine life without my buddy. It was awful. With everything going on in my life right now, the thought of losing you, too…”

“You aren’t going to lose me,” he promised. Though he wondered what she thought about the sex they’d shared. She had to have thought about it, too, over the weekend, but he didn’t ask. Sex was something he and Jane were never going to discuss again.

They chatted for another ten minutes—almost as though proving that they could still hold a conversation. The case in Ohio was a safe topic. Jane was worried about the meeting there and truth be told, he was worried about it, too. About her.

When awkward silences fell, Brad hurried to fill them. It would just take some time, he assured himself. They’d get back to who they’d been. He’d make certain of it.

He meant to tell Jane so as she was ringing off.

Instead, what came out was, “So…did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“Saturday.” Since they were struggling to maintain a friendship that until now had been natural and easy, he wanted to know if the risk had been worth it.

“Don’t ask, Brad. Don’t ever, ever ask me about my sex life again. Don’t even think about it. It’s off-limits to you. And I promise not to talk to you about yours. Got it? That’s the only way we can stay friends.”

“Got it.”

Brad hung up, relieved. He was glad to have the difficult conversation behind him, and satisfied that it had gone as well as could be expected. Better than expected. Great. Fantastic.

The best.

JANE WASN’T OUT of her art meeting five minutes before Marge Davenport, her senior editor, was at her office door with an envelope in her hand.

“We got another one,” she said, her face pinched.

Jane stared at the envelope in Marge’s hand, but didn’t reach for it. “What does it say?”

“Same as the others. ‘Do the right thing, or else.’ That’s it.”

“Has Walt Overmeyer seen it?”

The private security guard had started that morning.

“Yeah, he’s outside waiting to speak with you.”

“Did you call Detective Thomas?”

“He’s on his way over.”

Jane cursed the fear that raced through her, making her weak.

“I WANT TO ASSURE YOU, Ms. Hamilton, we’re taking this issue very seriously.” The middle-aged detective stood with Jane just inside her closed office door, holding the newest threat letter in a ziplock bag.

Jane focused on the bisque-colored plaque hanging above the doorway. Bright flowers rimmed the ceramic piece, but they weren’t why she’d purchased it or hung it there.

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Franklin Delano Roosevelt, March 4, 1933.

“I’ve been in publishing long enough to know that you’re never going to please everyone,” she said now, glancing back at Detective Thomas. “You speak out against emotionally charged issues and there’s always going to be someone having a bad enough day to need to have their grievances heard.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It’s not like this is the first threat we’ve received.”

“But it’s the only one that’s been repeated. Three times now.”

Jane grew cold. “So what are you telling me? I can’t stop living. I can’t let some anonymous coward run me out of my world.”

“I’m just saying that you need to proceed with extreme caution,” Detective Thomas said. “If you’ve got vacation time, take it.”

“I don’t. And even if I did, where would I go? For how long?”

“I understand how difficult this is,” the detective said. “Believe me, we’re working as quickly as we can, trying to trace this. Unfortunately we’re dealing with computer-generated messages on generic paper. We know from the postmark that whoever is sending these is mailing them from somewhere here in Chicago—probably from the same place each time. And based on the repetition, I’m guessing that this guy’s serious.”

“He might not be targeting me. They’re addressed to the editor in chief.”

“We are considering that he’s angry with the magazine itself. But it would appear that he believes that you control whatever comes out of here. We have to assume that whatever it is he wants done is, in his opinion, under your control, as well.”

Jane focused on the plaque.

“The guy’s sending the letters here. What if this escalates and he targets the building?”

“We’re posting extra people around the premises. A uniformed officer will be on guard at the security screening station at the main entrance. And screening officers are being assigned to the two private entrance doors, as well. They’ll hand search everyone who tries to enter there.”

The other tenants were going to love her.

She told Detective Thomas about her encounter with Kim Maplewood that morning and about Shawn’s conversation with his pastor. He told her again to be careful.

“Don’t go anywhere you don’t absolutely have to go,” he said. “Especially here in the city. And don’t go anywhere alone.”

“I’ve hired a private security company….”

“I’ve already met with Walt Overmeyer,” the detective said. “He or one of his associates will also be walking you to and from your car and the building every day for the next little bit. I recommend that you hire them to watch your house at night, too. And in the meantime, we’ll be doing all we can to get this guy.”

Before he gets you, Jane finished silently, thanking the officer as she ushered him out.

She hadn’t liked anything the man had to say.

He was there to help her. To protect her.

So why didn’t she feel protected?

BRAD WAS BACK IN HIS OFFICE after an emotionally charged settlement conference when Jane called late Monday afternoon.

He answered the call on the first ring. He hadn’t expected to hear from her again so soon.

“There’s been another threat.”

All thoughts of Saturday—and sex—flew out of his mind. “What does it say?”

“Same thing.”

“So what in the hell does this guy want you to do?”

“He might be a woman, for all we know.”

“Fine, what could this person possibly want you to do?”

“I have no idea.” Jane’s troubled sigh made it harder for him to stay detached. “Believe me, I’m driving myself crazy trying to figure it out,” she continued. “I mean, how can I possibly do what this person wants if I don’t know what it is?”

“What about nonthreatening letters to the editor?” Brad asked, hating this new feeling of helplessness he had where Jane was concerned. “Is there anything there that might tie in?”

“The police took everything we had and haven’t found a connection. I’ve personally gone over every issue we’ve published in the past six months, tried to piece them together with a note or letter or phone call, but I can’t come up with anything.”

“But this person must think you know what he or she wants or why put on the pressure?”

“Detective Thomas suspects we’re dealing with a narcissist. Or at least someone unhinged enough to overestimate their importance to me. The police are doing all they can, but how much time do I have before this person decides I’m not going to do what’s right?”

“I guess that depends on what they want you to do.”

“Right, and if I don’t do it, what’s the ‘or else’?”

Brad had no answer to that, either, but whatever the “or else” meant, it couldn’t be good.

“What about Durango? Did they find anything there?”

“Not yet, but I ran into Kim Maplewood this morning.”

Brad straightened when he heard the name. His client was no longer officially associated with Jane, but she had a very angry ex-husband. “What’d she have to say?”

He was more uncomfortable than ever when he heard about Shawn’s visit to his minister.

“He needs someone to blame in lieu of taking accountability for his own actions and since blaming Kim didn’t work…” Brad let the thought trail off.

“I know. Thomas said he’s going to bring Shawn in for questioning.”

Brad was glad to hear it, but didn’t feel any better about her safety. “And in the meantime?”

“I called Barbara Manley.” Barbara was Jane’s boss and the publisher of a much more established and highly respected national news magazine. Jane had written for the publication before heading up Twenty-Something. “The company is footing the bill for upgraded security in our building and to have someone watch my house at night, too.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Keep your phone close by.”

“I will.”

“And your mace.”

“I always do.”

“Call me if you so much as hear the wind whistle.”

“Okay.”

“Or if you just plain get scared. I’m two minutes away and sleep just fine on the couch.”

He’d spent the night at her house before, when she’d been sick. And a time or two on holidays when they’d had more to drink than safe driving allowed.

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted and Brad had a feeling that no matter how scared she might get in the middle of the night, he was not going to be the one she called.

Whether Jane wanted to admit it or not, things had changed between them.

The knowledge left him empty and sad. He was worried as hell about her. And helpless to do a damned thing that would make the situation better.

THE BLACK SUIT? Or the red one? Black spoke of power and authority. Its absence of color blocked emotional accessibility. Black commanded respect. Red meant energy. Strength. An ability to take action. It also spoke of passion.

Jane threw the black suit into her suitcase. Black with a white blouse. Elegant. Respectable.

And untouchable. She hoped.

She also hoped that the issue on clothing colors that they’d run the previous year was more than just psychological mumbo jumbo. She’d read every article before publication. Most of the stuff she’d heard before. Some she hadn’t. Like the information about Elizabethan clothes colors.

Back then England had had Sumptuary Laws that dictated the colors people could wear. It had to do with immediate recognition of a social class, but also with the expense of fabrics and dyes. Red, black and white were colors worn mostly by royalty.

And the lower class…whatever. She really didn’t care about Elizabethan clothes.

Adding her cosmetic bag, Jane zipped her suitcase shut and pulled it from bed to floor with ease. What she really cared about was that her flight to Ohio—to meet with the prosecutor in her ex-husband’s trial—left in a little over three hours. Which meant Brad would be arriving momentarily.

She was nervous about the drive. About being alone with him. That last conversation on Monday, he’d sounded different by the time they hung up. A bit distant. And other than a quick call each evening to confirm that the unmarked security car was outside her house, Jane hadn’t heard from him since.

Before Saturday, they’d talked just about every day.

“Come on, Petunia, let’s get you fed,” she said, forcing cheer into her tone as she took a container of chopped-up green beans from the refrigerator. The rescue macaw, the family member she’d adopted during a spread on animal abuse, used to scream on a daily basis. Now she only did so when she sensed that Jane was upset.

“Beans. Pet beans… Beans. Pet beans for Pet.” The twenty-four-inch blue beauty chirped, skittering to the back of her perch and watching as Jane filled her dish. “Beans. Pet beans for Pet.” As usual, Jane took an extra couple of minutes to smooth the young bird’s silky feathers.

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