Would she ever feel safe?

Anne’s thoughts kept churning through the morass of danger that lurked. Would a hit man slit her throat as she slept? As she came out of the school building? Went to the grocery store?

And what of Professor Patrick McClain? And how much she enjoyed being around him?

Thinking about Patrick was more productive than worrying about the threat she couldn’t control. There was something very steady and reassuring about him that drew her in and made her wish he could see her as she really was.

But she couldn’t afford to get attached to anyone. She was pretty sure she could keep from revealing her past, but she wasn’t sure that she could keep her lonely heart from wanting what she couldn’t have.

A friend. Love. A life without fear.

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

TERRI REED

At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill Books. Her second book, A Sheltering Love, was a 2006 RITA® Award Finalist and a 2005 National Reader’s Choice Award Finalist. Her book Strictly Confidential, book five of the Faith at the Crossroads continuity series, took third place in the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Award. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.

You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280, or visit her on the Web at www.loveinspiredauthors.com, or leave comments on her blog at http://ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com/.

Double Jeopardy
Terri Reed

And those who know your name put their trust

in you; for you, O Lord, have not forsaken

those who seek you.

—Psalms 9:10

To my children; you are my joy and my blessing.

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

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

PROLOGUE

March

Gunfire!

The plush private suite on the top floor of the Palisades Casino and Resort in downtown Atlantic City, New Jersey rocked with the deafening noise of gunfire, echoed by the screams of its once-privileged occupants.

The woman’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs and a cry burst from her lungs. The tray of glasses she held fell to the carpeted floor with a thud, the liquor soaking the rug. The stench of alcohol mixed with the smell of gunpowder. A potent combination.

She dove behind the free-standing bar. Crouched and shuddering with terror, she clapped her hands over her ears to muffle the retort of weapons firing and the sounds of men dying.

“Oh, God in Heaven, please, help me,” she prayed, rocking on her heels. She didn’t know why she was praying. Did God even exist? But if there was a time to glom on to any hope that He was real, now was that time.

A man’s body dropped to the floor beside her. She gasped. Jean Luc Versailles, the owner of the Palisades, groaned. Thankfully he wasn’t dead, but a deep crimson stain spread across the white dress shirt beneath his tuxedo jacket.

Adrenaline pumping, she grabbed him by the arm and struggled to drag him closer to the relative safety behind the bar. Tears clogged her throat and ran down her cheeks. He had always been nice to her.

“You have to get out of here,” Jean Luc said with a croak, his voice expressing the pain reflected in his dark eyes.

“You’re hurt,” she said inanely, her mind trying to recall her first-aid training from high school P.E. Like that had prepared her to deal with a gunshot wound.

Pressure. She had to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Gagging from the sight and smell of blood, she yanked two bar towels from the shelf beside her and pressed them to his shoulder. She cringed as more gunshots filled the air.

His hand fastened around her wrist like a vise. “My jacket pocket. Get my wallet.”

Keeping one hand firmly on the towels, she slid out his black leather billfold from the inside pocket of his tailor-made jacket with her free hand.

“Now what?” she asked.

He closed her hand tightly around the billfold and thrust it against her stomach. “Take the money. Use it. Disappear.” He let go of her and pushed himself up to a seated position, the bar at his back. “Escape through the wall panel. Run and don’t stop. Go.”

Acutely aware of the massacre taking place on the other side of the bar, she whispered, “I can’t leave you. We need the police.”

“No police.” He struggled to his knees, swayed slightly, and reached around her. From behind several liquor bottles he pulled out a large silver gun.

She shrank back, wishing she’d called in sick today. Wishing Jean Luc hadn’t invited Raoul Domingo to his private suite. Wishing she were anywhere but here.

But wishing never did any good.

His dark gaze pierced her. “On three.”

“What about you?”

He got a foot beneath him. “Just go. One. Two.” He staggered to his feet, the gun raised in his shaky hand. “Three!”

Self-preservation, survival instinct, whatever, took over. She scrambled to her feet and in a half-crouch ran toward the mirrored wall.

The sight reflected there made her stumble. Her heart thumped in her chest. Anticipation wound a tight knot in her gut.

Any moment the blast of a bullet would slam into her. But she didn’t want to die here today. Every muscle in her body, tightened in readiness, made movement painful.

She flung the potted fichus out of the way and pushed desperately at the edge of the mirrored wall.

A slight click and the wall opened. She squeezed through into Jean Luc’s opulent private bedroom in the hotel. The blur of red satin and black leather assaulted her already heightened senses as she dashed for the door leading to the hall on this floor.

Cautiously she peered out.

The corridor was empty. Too afraid to wait for an elevator, she rushed to the stairwell and descended the stairs as rapidly as she could without flying face-first into the concrete walls. She hit the outside door with her whole body and stumbled into the hotel staff’s section of the underground garage.

Through the sea of employee cars she saw no one, friend or foe. She raced toward where she parked, fumbling to get her key out of her pants pocket.

Her little blue hatchback was a welcome sight. With shaky hands, she unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The gears ground as she shifted into Reverse and almost simultaneously pressed on the gas.

The small car shot backward. She slammed on the brake and shifted into Drive. Her foot pounced on the gas and the car rocketed forward, the tires squealing as she zipped around the curved lot and jetted out onto the dark, deserted street. This late at night people were either at home asleep or inside one of the many casinos along the strip.

She drove, hardly paying attention to the direction she headed until she came to a screeching halt at a red light. Her breathing came shallow and fast. She checked the rearview mirror. As far as she could tell, no one had followed her.

Hopefully she’d had enough of a head start that she could stop somewhere and figure out what to do. Where to go. She needed to go to the police.

Because she’d witnessed murder.

Jean Luc had said no police. But Jean Luc was dead.

Her stomach roiled with terror.

Nothing she’d ever faced in her life had prepared her for this.

She pulled the car into the parking lot of a fast food joint. The bright fluorescent sign illuminated the inside of the car. She’d thrown Jean Luc’s wallet on the passenger seat.

Now she picked up the supple leather and thumbed through the contents. Her eyes widened at the number of hundred-and thousand-dollar bills inside the wallet. She swallowed hard.

He’d planned on dying when he’d given her the money.

Heart aching at his sacrifice, she let loose with fresh tears. He’d been a kind and thoughtful employer.

He’d once said she reminded him of his little sister. She didn’t know if that was true but she had liked him and admired him.

A pang pierced her heart.

He’d given his life to set her free.

And doomed her to a life of fear.

Did she dare take the time to go back to her loft apartment? Was there anything there worth grabbing? Thanks to Jean Luc, she had enough cash to start over anywhere she wanted.

Only…she couldn’t forget the image she’d seen in the mirror seconds before she’d made her escape.

A gun firing at Jean Luc, his body crumpling to the floor.

The expression of hatred on the man holding the gun that delivered the fatal bullet would forever be seared on her brain.

A man she recognized.

The cold eyes of Raoul Domingo would haunt her nightmares.

Where could she hide that was far enough out of reach from New Jersey’s most feared mob boss?

Lieutenant Lidia Taylor, Chief State Investigator for the Atlantic County Major Crimes Squad, walked out of the interrogation room with frustration pulsing in her veins. Yes, Jean Luc Versailles’s Thai girlfriend, Nikki Song, confirmed that the casino owner had set up a meeting with Raoul Domingo for that night. But knowing about a meeting and proving Domingo was a murderer were two different things.

“Good work,” General Investigator Section Detective Rick Grand, Lidia’s partner, stated when he met her in the hall, his voice full of respect.

“It isn’t enough. I’ve already got D.A. Porter breathing down my neck on this.”

“I have two resort guests who will swear they saw Domingo and his gang get in the elevator,” Rick replied.

More frustration kicked Lidia in the gut. “That still doesn’t put him in the suite or the gun in his hand. We need to find that girl on the video.” The hotel’s security camera had shown a woman running out of the hotel employee entrance a few minutes after Versailles’s death.

Rick smiled like a Cheshire cat sitting on the moon. “I have a lead on another person who might be able to put Domingo in the same room with Jean Luc.”

Lidia stilled. “Details.”

“Housekeeping had a maid scheduled to attend to Jean Luc’s private room right about the time Domingo entered the elevator. The maid never returned to finish her shift.”

“Who else knows about this?”

Rick shrugged. “Just you and me. And housekeeping.”

Exhaling an adrenaline laced breath, Lidia said, “Find me that maid before Domingo does.”

“Hey, Taylor,” called the desk sergeant, Morales, from the end of the hall, his weathered face glowing with interest. “I’ve got a live one for you.”

Lidia followed the heavyset officer to the public waiting room.

A long-haired blond woman sat in a hard plastic chair near the vending machine. Her frightened blue gaze kept darting to the door as if either expecting someone to come in or as if she were contemplating running out.

“Can I help you?” Lidia asked as she stopped in front of the woman, blocking he exit.

Slowly the young woman stood. Blood splattered the front of her gold and black uniform. The same uniform worn by the hotel staff at the Palisades Casino. Anticipation hit Lidia like the business end of a Taser.

The woman spoke, her voice low and shaky. “My name in Anne Jones. I want to report a murder.”

ONE

May

“Really, Patrick, this won’t be as disruptive as you imagine. The new computers and software are very easy to navigate. They will just take a little getting used to.”

Patrick McClain stared at the Web site for the fancy new system as Sharon Hastings, the Economics Department staff administrator, pointed to the computer monitor sitting on her desk.

Sharon was efficient and talented at her job, but whenever Patrick entered her domain of scattered files and stacks of papers, he had to wonder how she accomplished anything. The array of clutter made him itch.

Patrick twitched his shoulders beneath his tweed sport coat. “What’s wrong with the computers we have now?”

In her mid-sixties with graying hair held in a loose bun at her nape and rows of sparkly beaded necklaces hanging down her front, Sharon was a throwback to the seventies, despite her tech savvy. She sighed with a good dose of patience that always brought heat to Patrick’s cheeks.

“The school received a grant to buy the new computers. We need to update and stay with the times,” she stated calmly.

He understood, but that didn’t mean he had to like the change. All of his work was on his computer. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Sharon’s lined face spread into an understanding smile. “Don’t worry. We have temps coming in to do the software integration. You won’t have to do a thing until you have the new notebook computer in your hand. This will be very freeing and much more time-efficient, since you will be able to take your computer home with you and work there instead of coming on campus every weekend.”

Taking a cloth from his sport coat’s front pocket, he removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses. He thought about his apartment in Boston’s Back Bay. His name was on the lease and he did sleep there occasionally, but he didn’t consider the stark walls and stiff furniture home.

No, the house he grew up in was home.

But his mother had made it clear recently that she didn’t want him coming “home” so often. She’d lamented that it was time for him to get a life. And for her to start living again.

Whatever that meant.

“Well, I just hope whomever you have working on this is competent,” Patrick stated and replaced his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

Sharon inclined her head. “I’m sure they will be.” A knock sounded at the door of Sharon’s office. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened and a young woman, devoid of any hint of makeup, who looked to be in her early twenties, stepped inside. Her short burgundy-red hair spiked up in all directions and her big violet-colored eyes showed hesitance and wariness as she glanced at Patrick. She wore an ill-fitting dress suit and though the drab brown fabric hung off her shoulders, Patrick’s gaze fell to the hem of her skirt where her shapely calves were emphasized by heeled pumps.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” the woman said in a soft voice.

“We were just finishing,” Patrick offered, feeling the need to banish her uncertainty.

She smiled slightly, and the soft curving of her mouth unexpectedly grabbed at his chest. She turned her gaze to Sharon. “Mrs. Hastings?”

Sharon stood and came around the desk to offer her hand. “I am. And you are…?”

“Anne Johnson. The admin office sent me up.”

“Ah, my temp. Did they explain the project to you?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. I was just telling Professor McClain about the new computer system.”

A strange lump formed in Patrick’s stomach. This young, fresh-faced student was not his idea of a competent person to handle such sensitive material.

He gave Sharon a sharp-eyed glance. If she noticed his disapproval she ignored it. Instead Sharon pretty much dismissed him by pulling Miss Johnson toward the computer to show off the new notebook-style system that would be arriving within the next few days.

The cell phone attached to his belt vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID. His sister. He needed to take the call, but he wanted to stay and learn more about this temp that would be working on the computer issue.

“I’ll be going now,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to hide his irritation at being ignored by the two ladies.

Sharon nodded distractedly. Patrick met Miss Johnson’s wide-eyed stare for a moment before she hastily dropped her violet gaze. The impact of those interestingly colored eyes left him slightly off balance. He frowned some more. He didn’t like being off balance.

He stepped out into the corridor and flipped open his phone. “Meggie?”

He listened to his sister’s tear-filled tirade. Finally he interrupted, “Meg, have you talked to Dr. Miller about this? Hon, you know how the subway upsets you, so why do you insist on taking it?” He tried to keep the frustration from his voice, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“No, I’m not upset with you. Things here are a bit…stressful.”

He acknowledged her suggestion that he see a psychologist for stress management. “I’ll take that into consideration. Promise me no more subway rides. Take a cab or walk. Isn’t that one of the reasons you moved to Manhattan was so you could walk instead of sit in a car?

“I love you, too, sis.”

He hung up with a sigh. As proud as he was of his little sister for forging out a life in the art world which she was passionate about, he couldn’t help but worry. Her obsessive-compulsive disorder flare-ups seemed to be more frequent the more she tried to push herself to overcome the disorder. But at least she knew he’d always be here for her.

As he headed back down the hall of the fourth floor of the main building on the lower campus of Boston College, Patrick’s thoughts turned back to the new computer system and he decided he’d double backup all of his work, just in case. He was not going to trust the wide-eyed Miss Johnson with his life’s work.

Lidia entered the outer office of the District Attorney, Christopher Porter, in the old courthouse of Atlantic City. The wood paneled walls and wooden desk made the small space seem cramped. In the corner next to the filing cabinet, where a woman in a blue sweater and navy slacks sat with an open drawer in front of her, a limp palm tree tried to bring some color to the room.

The woman turned as Lidia noisily closed the door behind her.

“Lieutenant Taylor?”

Lidia nodded and flashed her badge at the mousy brown-haired woman. Her pale face and unrefined features were dominated by wide hazel eyes. The name plate on the desk read Jane Corbin.

“You may go in, he’s expecting you,” Jane said, her voice low and timid. She adjusted her sweater over her ample chest and turned back to the filing cabinet.

So much for chitchat. Lidia gave one solid knock on the wood door before entering. Porter sat at his desk, his gaze on a report in front of him. His salt and pepper hair caught the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window behind him. He looked up and pinned her to the floor with his intense gray eyes. “Hello, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”

Lidia sat across the scarred pine desk. Porter didn’t waste time with pleasantries but went right to reviewing the details of Domingo’s arrest.

Domingo’s DNA matched the blood found at the crime scene. They had him on tape entering the hotel and exiting through a service door during the time of the murders. And they had an eyewitness. It couldn’t get better than that.

For over two hours, Porter shot off questions and she shot right back with answers.

But no matter how much he pushed Lidia, he wouldn’t find any flaw in the investigation or the arrest of Domingo. They’d done everything by the letter of the law. No way would Domingo walk on a technicality from the homicide division.

From this point on, the burden to convict lay with the D.A.’s office.

Tired and hungry, she finally barked, “Enough.” If she didn’t get out of the musty office she was going to scream.

Porter started, his sharp gray eyes widening slightly. He wasn’t accustomed to her abrupt manner but in time, if they continued to work together, she had no doubt, he’d get used to her.

“All right. Fine. For now.” He closed the file lying in front of him with a snap. “We have a solid case. As long as our witnesses continue to cooperate, we should see Domingo behind bars by summer’s end.”

“They’ll cooperate,” Lidia assured him with confidence. The three witnesses all claimed to have held Jean Luc Versailles in high regard. All three were reluctant to come forward but thankfully were doing the right thing.

“They’re secure?”

Frustration twisted in her gut. “Two are in WITSEC. One refused, but is in hiding. We’ve maintained contact with all three.”

“I’m pushing to have the case moved up on the docket. But you know the system.”

“Yeah, like molasses in a freeze.”

Porter gave her a sidelong glance as he closed and then picked up his briefcase. “Where are you originally from?”

“Michigan.”

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

“You have a way about you that’s different.

Heat crept into her cheeks. “O-kay.”

“I like it,” he said.

His grin disarmed her. He really was handsome. How had she not realized that before? Sharp, cool and calm under pressure. His thick graying hair once had been very dark but the lighter strands were attractive. She liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

Lidia mentally stepped back and assessed the situation. He was a widower, like herself. They were colleagues, working toward a common goal. She’d seen him at church a few times. All pluses. Before she could talk herself out of it, she asked, “Want to grab a bite to eat?”

“Love to.” He held the door open for her.

A confused mixture of pleasure and angst stretched through her system. “Great.” Lidia walked out of the office and in the hall, very aware of Porter’s hand at her elbow.

She couldn’t believe it. She had just asked the D.A. out to dinner. She hadn’t been on a date in at least five years and had no intention of starting a relationship beyond the confines of work.

So why was she so looking forward to the evening?

Two days after she’d first stepped onto the campus of Boston College, Anne found herself lugging Professor McClain’s new notebook to his office on the second floor. She hefted the box a little higher so she could knock on the professor’s door. She waited a moment before knocking again. When no reply came, she shifted the box to her hip and tried the door handle. Locked.

“Great,” she muttered and bent to put the box on the floor. Once free of the encumbering box, she shook out her arms and stretched her back. She’d sent the good professor a note telling him she’d be delivering his computer at five o’clock, long after his last class of the day ended.

She checked her watch. Okay, so she was a few minutes early. Still.

She leaned against the smooth green-painted wall to wait. At least the halls were empty and peaceful. So far her job as a BC temp was going well. Boston College lay in the suburb of Newton, eight miles outside of Boston proper. Newton Center had lots of coffee houses and wonderful trinket shops. Plus a commuter train stop that could take her into Boston when she wanted. She really liked the area. Too bad she wouldn’t be staying long.

And she hadn’t come here without doing a little research. The current campus site on Chestnut Hill had been built in the early 1900s and featured examples of English Gothic architecture that Anne found fascinating. She’d spent countless hours wandering the walking paths that meandered through lush lawns and tall maples and evergreens to stare at the buildings.

There was something so…moving about the majestic structures with their cathedral-like shapes made of stone and mortar. Where she’d grown up houses were made of wood or tin. When she’d moved to the city, she’d found only a concrete jungle that both intimidated and awed her.

In this New England setting, she was content with her life. No matter how short her time here would be. She smothered the anger that sprouted. What was done was done, she had to learn to live with it.

A movement at the far end of the long, empty hallway made her push away from the wall. A man stood in the shadows at the top of the stairs. She couldn’t make out his features. He didn’t look tall enough or broad enough to be the professor. She squinted. “Professor McClain?”

“Yes?” a deep voice came from right beside her shoulder.

She jumped with a squeak and whirled around to face the professor. Tall, overbearing—and for some reason comforting. “What…?” Her gaze swung back to the shadows. No one was there. “Did you see that guy?”

“Who?” His gazed moved past her toward the stairwell.

Foreboding chased down her spine. She hadn’t imagined the man in the shadows, she was sure of it. She tightened her hold on her purse, feeling the outline of her cell phone. Her lifeline. “No one, I guess.”

Behind his glasses, Patrick’s dark blue eyes regarded her with puzzlement. “Are you okay?”

She liked his eyes, liked how a darker shade of brown rimmed the irises, like layers of rich chocolate cake. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Do you always sneak up on people?”

One side of his mouth twitched. “You sound like my sister-in-law, Kate. She’s always accusing me of sneaking up on her. I can’t help it if I’m light on my feet.”

Anne gave his long, lean frame a once-over. “Dance classes?” she joked.

He shrugged and she thought his cheeks turned pink but in the waning light coming from the high window above the classroom doors she wasn’t sure. “My mother thought her boys should be graceful.”

“Cool mom,” she commented as she bent to pick up the computer box. “Where I come from, boys would rather be hog-tied than sent to dance class.”

“Here, allow me,” Patrick said and bent as well, his hands covering hers on the box. Warm, big and strong.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

Slowly she withdrew her hands and straightened, aware of a funny little hitch in her breathing. Must still be the adrenaline from the man in the shadows making her forget herself.

“Al—L.A.” She’d almost slipped up. That wouldn’t be good.

“You’re a long away from home.”

He had no idea.

“Uh—” Patrick muttered as he stood with the box in his arms. “The door keys are in my pocket.”

“No way am I going fishing,” she stated and backed up a step. Three months ago, she would have expected that sort of line from practically every man she dealt with but not here, not now. Not the professor!

Patrick pinned her with a droll stare that made her think perhaps she’d overreacted. He balanced the box on one knee while he dug the keys from his coat pocket and held them out to her. “Here.”

Taking the keys as embarrassed heat crept into her cheeks, she unlocked the door and pushed it open. Following Patrick inside, she looked around the office, not surprised to see a clean, clutter-free desk, faced by two perfectly aligned chairs and a filing cabinet with neatly written labels on each drawer. All button-down and tidy, just like the professor.

Patrick set the box on the corner of the desk. “I’ve backed up all my files. Twice.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Really? On what?”

He went around the desk and opened a drawer to produce two floppy disks.

“Unfortunately your new computer doesn’t take floppies.”

His complexion paled. “It doesn’t?”

He really was technologically challenged, which she found endearing. “CDs and thumb drives. Tomorrow I’ll bring in a portable USB floppy drive.”

He took his glasses off and began rubbing the lenses with a cloth. “That will solve the problem?”

“I’ll have to save the files onto a thumb drive.” She plucked a silver letter opener from the pen holder on the desk and went to work opening the box. “Until then, we can fire her up and see how she runs.”

“You’ve given my computer a female gender?”

“We can call your computer a boy if you’d rather.” She tugged on the white foam protector and slid the black notebook computer out of the box.

“The female pronoun is fine, like a ship. Just as potentially deadly and much too unpredictable.”

“The same way guys view women,” she stated and reached in the box for the cables.

“Excuse me?”

His affronted expression made her hold up her hand and amend her statement. She supposed it wasn’t a fair statement, nor was it completely true. “Not all, just some.”

He set his glasses back on his nose. “You’re not old enough to have such a bleak outlook on the male gender.”

She blinked. “Not old enough?”

“You’re what, all of twenty?”

Her mouth twitched. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Though I’m not sure you meant it as such. And I’m actually thirty.” She ignored the fact that her current driver’s license stated otherwise. What would it matter if he knew the truth?

He cocked his head. “Really? Indeed.”

“Yes, indeed.” She plugged the cable and cords into the right spots. “Here we go.” She opened the lid of the laptop and began acquainting him with all the bells and whistles.

“So I can actually write on here with this little stick? And the computer types it in?”

She nodded, finding his amazement and wonder quite charming. “The stick is called a stylus and yes, the computer converts your writing to text. And,” she said with a dramatic flare, “the lid folds all the way back so it looks more like a clipboard than a laptop, which makes writing on the pad that much easier.”

“I think I’m going to like this.”

Though there was a smile in his voice, his stoic expression didn’t change. Odd. And odder still, she so wanted to see his smile.

She picked up her purse. “I’ll leave you to play with your new toy. I’ll come back tomorrow and download your files off that dinosaur.” She gestured to the archaic computer taking up most of his desk.

He walked her to the door. “Thank you. I appreciate your up-to-date knowledge.”

She hid a smile. He’d have a coronary if he knew that the basics of her knowledge came from a year of living with Rob, the computer geek, and the rest from the stack of manuals she’d been devouring over the last few weeks.

She was nothing if not a quick study. Would have been nice if the skill had helped with her acting career.

Moving to the Big Apple at seventeen to follow her dream of the Broadway stage hadn’t worked out so well. She’d been just another pretty girl among a thousand other pretty girls, some with talent, others not so much. She’d been somewhere in the middle, but playing bit walk-on roles hadn’t paid the bills.

Her dream of the theater had faded and reality had set in. Clearly she’d had to adjust her plans and had found a way, besides acting, to survive.

But then again, the professor clearly didn’t suspect she was anything other than what she presently appeared to be. Maybe she wasn’t such a bad actress after all. That had to count for something.

“Uncle Raoul.”

Raoul Domingo stared at his nephew Carlos and tightened his grip on the phone at his ear. He wanted to hit something or someone. But being incarcerated meant he had to hold on to his temper.

At least until he got out of the joint.

He still couldn’t believe that female cop and her pretty boy partner had had the gall to bust in to his home in the middle of his dinner and cart him off in handcuffs.

As if he’d ever see the inside of a courtroom. No way! His men would make sure of that.

And then Raoul would settle the score with the two of them—especially the lady cop.

The Plexiglas window separating him from his nephew was dirty and scratched from years of standing between visitors and the inmates of New Jersey State Prison. Knowing their conversation was probably being recorded, he chose his words carefully so they couldn’t incriminate him. He asked, “Have you taken care of that little detail?”

“Not yet.”

Carlos squirmed under Raoul’s furious stare. Raoul wanted to reach through the glass and wrap his hands around his nephew’s throat. “Get it done.”

“We’re working on it,” Carlos assured him, his pockmarked face growing red.

“Work harder.”

Carlos nodded. His gaze shifted around and he cupped a hand around the receiver. “We’ve got another issue.”

Raoul’s nostrils flared. “What?”

“My—uh, friend says there’s another pigeon in the nest.”

Acid churned in Raoul’s gut. Another witnesss? How could that be? Trinidad had sworn the hotel was secure the night they’d visited Versailles, but apparently Raoul had been mistaken in trusting Trinidad. The man better come through now or he was dead meat.

“Tri—”

Raoul put his finger to his lips. “No names.”

Carlos grimaced. “Yeah. Uh, we’re out tracking.”

Raoul wanted out of this stink hole so bad he could smell the tantalizing scent of freedom on his nephew. “Happy hunting.”

TWO

Patrick paced the thick brown carpet of his office while the clicking of Anne’s nails on the keyboard drilled into his head. She certainly knew her way around a computer and she seemed much more competent than his original assessment. Even so, it rankled knowing someone else had the power to destroy his work.

He didn’t like uncertainty. He liked being in control. Had grown used to it since the day after his father died.

He’d become the man of the house, the guy his younger siblings turned to for advice or help and whom his mother relied upon to keep their world rotating even if the axis was now a bit skewed.

Patrick worried about his siblings, though Brody, who should be the one most messed up, had found a wonderful wife and now lived a great life. He’d somehow accepted the past and learned to live with the tragedy of their father’s death.

Ryan had been too young to have been traumatized by their father’s murder, but Patrick could see how much not having a father had pushed Ryan into his quest for material wealth. Patrick had a feeling Ryan thought having money would give him what he’d lacked as a child. Patrick wasn’t so sure.

And then there was little Megan. Patrick adored his sister, but she most of all was messed up and not merely from the trauma of losing her dad, but she suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder, which was a bad combination with her fiercely independent spirit. As soon as she could, she’d left home to find her own place in the world.

Sometimes Patrick felt lost without his siblings underfoot. But he’d found a way to express his feelings in his work.

What if Anne lost something despite the CD and the little device she called a thumb drive? What if she inadvertently opened one of his files and read his writings? Would she laugh?

He could only pray that…

What a lame sentiment. As if God would listen.

No, Patrick couldn’t rely on God to help, no matter how much his mother or his brother, Brody, tried to convince him otherwise.

So the best he could do was monitor computer-wizard Anne’s progress.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. He opened the office door to a young Asian man, slim in build with dark, penetrating eyes that made Patrick think of onyx stones.

“Professor McClain?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

The young man stuck out his hand. “My name is Cam. I’m transferring from MIT. I’ll be taking your class, Macro Economics of the Irish, this summer.” For a man with a slight frame, he had a strong grip.

“Wonderful.” Why was he here now? Students didn’t normally come knocking. Obviously this was an overeager overachiever. Not many of them around anymore. Too many students seemed jaded and uninterested in more than how to make a quick buck. “Do you have the list of required textbooks?”

“Yep. I’m all set. Just putting a face to the name on the syllabus,” Cam stated with a pleasant smile. “I—”

“Oh, bummer!” Anne’s voice interrupted.

Patrick glanced at Anne. She was shaking her head, her gaze fixated on the new computer screen. “Problem?” he asked.

She nodded but didn’t look toward the door.

Wanting to end the interruption, he turned back to Cam and asked, “Is there anything else I can help you with tonight?”

Cam shook his head, his gaze riveted on Anne. “No, thank you.”

“Okay, then.” Patrick stepped into the man’s line of vision.

Those obsidian eyes shifted to meet his gaze. “I’ll see you in class, Professor.”

As Patrick shut the door behind his new student, a chill skated across his flesh. There was something odd about Cam, something in the way the black of his eyes seemed depthless. Overeager, overachiever and off balance? He’d have to watch the guy. Patrick didn’t want a Virginia Tech tragedy happening at Boston College.

Shaking off the strange notion as nothing more than his worry over his work, he turned his attention to Anne. Her bright red, spiked hair didn’t look nearly as stiff tonight, as if she’d run her fingers through the points, loosening their rigidness.

Her high forehead creased with concentration and her lips moved without audible sound. The jacket of her ill-fitting brown suit hung off her shoulders, making her look slightly stooped.

“Why the bummer?” he asked as he came to stand at her side.

She sighed as she sat back. Her right hand reached up to massage her neck. “I zipped your files together and changed them to RTF. I just ran a program to import them to the new system and the computer didn’t like it.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” Patrick tried to keep a quiver of panic from seeping into his tone. If he lost his work now, he’d have a hard time retrieving it.

“It’s not,” she replied.

Heart beating in his throat, he asked, “Have I lost anything?”

“No.”

Breathing more normally now, he relaxed slightly. “What exactly is wrong and how do we fix it?”

She turned her purple gaze on him. “Your old computer software program is not talking nicely to the new software program. During the transfer, the formatting was lost. I can go in manually to each file and correct the formatting. It will just take some time.”

“How much time?”

“A day, two at the most.” She clicked open a file. “See.”

The text on the screen was from one of his fall lectures, that much he could tell, but the words were all jumbled with paragraph breaks and tab spaces and what looked like hieroglyphics. He pointed to the screen. “What are all those?”

“Computer language. The new system has converted some of the letters and symbols. It’s easy enough to read through and correct by deleting and replacing each symbol. But I can’t do a global search and replace.”

“This is bad,” Patrick stated and plucked his glasses off his face to rub with a cloth he withdrew from his pocket.

Anne stood and placed a hand on his arm. “It’s not dire, just time consuming.”

The spot where her hand rested on his arm fired his senses beneath his sports coat. He cleared his throat. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow then?”

“Yes. And I think I should start first thing in the morning, if you don’t mind?”

Staring at the smooth, elegant fingers on his arm, he said, “The morning will be fine. I have a department retreat off campus until late afternoon.”

She removed her hand and began shutting down the computers. Patrick replaced his glasses and watched her movements. Efficient, graceful. Competent. Not at all like he’d first thought.

When the office was locked up for the night, Patrick handed his office key to Anne. “Can I walk you to your car?”

She put the key in her purse. “Actually I’m headed to the cafeteria. But thank you, Professor.”

“I’m not really a professor.” Now why had he blurted that out?

Her eyebrows rose. “You’re not?”

“I’m only an associate professor.” Heat rode up his neck.

She gave a small laugh. “But you’re still a professor.”

“True, just not a full professor.”

“Okay. And you’re telling me this…why?”

“You can call me Patrick.”

“Oh. Well, then. Good night, Patrick,” she said, giving him an odd look before hurrying away.

Patrick could just imagine his father shaking his head and saying, Smooth, boy-o.

A sadness that always burned just below the surface bubbled, reminding Patrick of all he’d lost. Reminding him of all he could lose if he ever let himself care too deeply ever again.

Anne paid the cafeteria cashier for her meal of egg salad sandwich, side garden salad and a bottle of water. One of the perks of temping at the college was the food discount in the cafeteria, though under the harsh fluorescent lights the egg salad had a greenish tinge that wasn’t terribly appealing. But she’d had one a few days earlier and had enjoyed it, so she wasn’t going to let a little green rob her of her dinner.

Halfway through her meal, she had the strange sense of being watched. Her gaze swung over the few other late evening diners and landed on the student who’d come to Professor McClain’s door. Cam, he’d said his name was, stood near the vending machine, his lean, wiry frame still and his black eyes boring holes right through her.

She frowned, hoping to convey her displeasure at being stared at.

He turned abruptly and put his money in the machine. Once he had a can of soda in hand, he moved out the door and into the dusky night.

A shiver of recognition slithered along Anne’s arms, prickling her skin. She was sure he’d been the man standing in the shadows yesterday.

Was his claim of putting the professor’s face to his name true? Was Cam really a transfer student or someone more sinister? Had she been found? Would she have to run again? Where would she go? How far would she have to flee to be safe?

“Stop being paranoid,” she muttered to herself.

But just in case, she’d like to be safe inside the four walls of her apartment.

Gathering her belongings, she quickly left the cafeteria. The balmy June air bathed her, sending the last of the air-conditioned chill of the cafeteria away with a shiver.

Glancing around to be sure no one followed, she hurried to her four-door sedan parked beneath one of the tall parking lot lamps.

As she drove, once again taking a different route to her street, she pulled out her cell phone and pushed the speed-dial number for the one person who wouldn’t think she was totally off her rocker for being paranoid.

“It’s me,” Anne said to the woman who’d picked up the line.

“What’s the matter?” The sharp edge of concern echoed in Lieutenant Taylor’s voice.

“Nothing, I think. I don’t know. I’m just getting antsy.”

“You wouldn’t call just because you were antsy.”

“You said to call if anything seemed out of sync. This student…I don’t know. He gives me the creeps. There’s something vaguely familiar about him.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Cam. That’s all I got. He said he’s a transfer student from MIT. He’s taking one of Professor McClain’s classes this summer.”

“I’ll check into it.” There was a moment of silence. “How’s it going with the professor? Is he as stodgy as his profile says?”

Anne hesitated. Stodgy? After spending so many hours with him, that wasn’t a word she’d use to describe him. Cute for a geek. Adorably nerdy. Definitely charming in an odd way. Maybe too charming. Too easy to get caught up in. You can call me Patrick. “He’s an academic. Just the titles of his published articles make me yawn.”

An indelicate snort met her statement. “Don’t get attached. You’ll be leaving there soon.”

Anne sighed. “I know. Thanks for the reminder.” As if she could forget. “How soon?”

“Hard to say. The D.A. has you scheduled to testify right before closing arguments so you won’t have to come back to New Jersey until them.”

“How’s the trial going so far?”

“Slow. I’ll be in touch. And, hey…”

“Yes?”

“Everything’s going to be all right. You’ll get through this, you know You’re strong.”

The reassurance soothed some of Anne’s tension. If only she felt strong. “Thanks.”

“Call if anything else strange happens. You can always reach me at this number.”

“Will do.”

Anne clicked off and tried for some deep, calming breaths as she pulled her car into her parking space right in front of her building door.

Inside the safety of her studio apartment, Anne was greeted by a large white Persian cat with only one eye and a pink collar sporting a dangling, sparkly tiara charm.

Relaxing her voice, Anne said, “Hello, sugar.” She picked the cat up and snuggled her close. For a moment Princess allowed the contact before squirming to get away. Anne set the cat back on the floor with a sigh. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if the cat loved her or not.

A few days after moving to Boston she’d gone to the humane society looking for a guard dog and ended up with a cat. The minute she’d seen the feline, she fell in love with the ball of fluff named Princess and had brought her home.

Princess marched straight to her bowl, tail stuck in the air, and meowed.

“Ah, we’re hungry.” Anne opened a can of food and left Princess to her dinner.

Making her way over to the Murphy bed, Anne kicked off her shoes and stretched her toes. She hated heels, but the role she was playing required sensible pumps and the itchy dress suit. Thankfully bare legs were an acceptable style. The thought of nylons made her shudder.

She changed into soft cotton pajamas and crawled under the down comforter. Her mind wouldn’t quiet down however. Her thoughts kept churning through the morass of danger that lurked. Was Cam a student or a henchman for Raoul Domingo? Would one of them slit her throat as she slept? As she came out of the school building? Went to the grocery store? Would she ever feel safe?

And what of the professor? And how much she enjoyed being around him?

Thinking about Patrick was more productive than angsting about the threat she couldn’t control.

There was something very steady and reassuring about him that drew her in and made her wish he could see her as she really was.

But he might not be so nice to her then.

The social-status-conscious “associate” professor wouldn’t want to socialize with a woman who had barely passed high school and had grown up in a trailer in the backwoods.

She punched the pillow with a groan. The sooner she got his computer up and running, the sooner she could move on to another project and another professor before her time was up in Boston.

She couldn’t afford to get too chummy with anyone.

Or “attached.”

She was pretty sure she could keep from revealing her past, but she wasn’t sure that she could keep her lonely heart from wanting what she couldn’t have.

A friend. Love. A life without fear.

As one day turned in to two days of deleting, replacing and reformatting, Anne’s eyes stung with grit and fatigue stiffened the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She’d figured out how to convert the old computer software into a language the new software could easily and readily read, but just to be on the safe side she’d been reading through each file and would occasionally find a trouble spot that she had to manually correct.

Though the subject matter of economics wasn’t something she found interesting, she’d certainly learned a lot. There was one file that looked huge and she’d been saving it for last.

She glanced at the computer clock. She should be able to finish with the files and get the docking station set up before Patrick returned to his office.

She clicked to open the file, “Turned Up Side Down” expecting to see more charts, theories and statistics, but instead she found herself staring at a work of fiction.

A novel. Written by Patrick McClain.

Both curiosity and the desire to make sure the file hadn’t lost all of its formatting urged her to read.

Fascination kept her glued to the words.

Soon she was hooked into the story of a young boy who loses his father and must step into the role of man of the house.

She laughed at the antics of the boy and his siblings and fought tears of empathy for the characters. She reached the last page with a satisfied sigh, yet knew she’d seen some formatting issues but she’d been so engrossed in the story that she hadn’t wanted to stop reading to fix.

She’d have to read through it again. She rubbed at her eyes. It would be easier if she could read the words from a hard copy. She began printing off the book, while her mind raced with thoughts of the story and Patrick.

She realized she knew very little of his private life. Was this book autobiographical or purely fiction? If autobiographical, she was in deep trouble.

Weren’t damaged hearts notorious for falling for their like?

After his meeting with the department chair, Patrick headed to his office, expecting to find Anne waiting for him with his computer ready to go and trusting his files to be intact.

Instead he found his office door wide-open and Anne sitting in his chair, her fingers clicking on the keyboard. Off to the side his printer hummed as it rhythmically spat pages into the tray.

Patrick couldn’t help the little glow of approval in his gut for how hard the woman worked. A very admirable trait. She definitely had surpassed his expectations, her fashion choices notwithstanding.

Tonight, though, she wore another ill-fitting, conservative dress suit, and her spiked hair seemed especially…barbed. Her normally creamy complexion held a hint of makeup and beneath her dark lashes, circles of fatigue marred her delicate skin.

She glanced up. Her wary smile made him feel as if he’d walked in on something he shouldn’t have.

“Hello.” He stepped through the doorway and hovered near the desk.

“Uh—hi. I’m sorry, I had hoped to be done by now. This last file has been sticky.”

“No problem.” He glanced at the printer. “What’s this?”

“Your book.”

Distress grabbed his throat as he reached for the top page. He barely glanced at the words. His agitation increased until shock and rage choked him.

She was printing his book.

“How could you?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.