LOVE, LIES and LEGACIES

Read excerpt for Love, Lies and Legacies by Irene Estep

Chapter One

An explosion forced air from her lungs. She reached out, groped blindly, tried to catch the faceless body as it flew past her. She sensed it was someone she knew. Someone very precious and dear to her. Someone she couldn't bear to see harmed...

Pulled awake by the feeling of helplessness, Maggie Youngson stared into the darkness of her bedroom. Was her recurring dream a subconscious effort to reenact her late husband's accident? Or did it have a broader, more subtle meaning. Her psychology professor might interpret it as symbolic of her feelings of inability to protect a loved one. Who?

Her deceased parents? Her late husband?...Jenny?

Maggie flung back the covers and slid her feet off the side of the bed. Then she remembered her five-year-old daughter was spending the night with her Auntie Claire.

She sank back onto the pillow and glanced at the digital readout on her bedside clock. Two more hours before she could carry out her mission. Her heartbeat accelerated, aftereffects of the nightmare or prospects of her unknown future. Maybe both.

It was a cinch she wasn't going to get any more rest at this rate, and she was going to need all the energy she could muster for what she had to do. She flipped onto her side and stared at the telephone. A voice inside her urged, "Call him."

With shaking hands, she reached for the receiver and punched in the number she'd committed to memory.

"Hello...Hello," said the deep voice at the other end of the line.

She couldn't blame him for being angry. It was a rotten thing to do, waking him in the middle of the night just so she could hear his voice, a voice that brought her a feeling of peace and tranquility. But it was the only way she could go back to sleep and not be revisited with the awful dream. At least, it had worked all the other times she'd tried it.

* * *

Parker Wilson stared at the receiver for a moment then hung up. He should get caller ID, he thought, so he could catch the joker who kept disturbing his rest. Not that he'd slept much in the months since his accident, anyway. In the early morning hours his leg muscles tended to knot up.

He sat on the side of his bed, nursed his head with one hand and massaged the tight muscles in his left thigh with the other. He didn't know which was worse, the cramping in his injured leg or the steady pounding in his head.

Stiffly, he lifted himself off the mattress. Unless he got up and exercised the leg, he'd get no relief from the persistent cramping. He glanced into the dresser mirror opposite the bed and decided a little exercise couldn't hurt the extra weight around the midsection he'd picked up lately, either.

He might have to give up the beer. At the moment, that didn't seem like much of a sacrifice. The weight inside his head started bouncing around, a steady reminder of how foolish his overindulgence the night before had been.

It seemed all the booze in the world couldn't keep him out for more than four or five hours at a time. He should know he'd spent lots of time in the past several months either thinking or drinking.

He snatched a pair of sweatpants and T-shirt with ATF printed across the back from the bureau drawer, pulled them on and limped his way down the narrow hallway of what he now called home.

It wasn't much, a twelve-by-forty house trailer provided for the groundskeeper. He was the groundskeeper and general do-flunky at Wilson's Nursery and Landscaping at the moment. Not that he did much in the way of maintenance around the place, but his father seemed to think it important Parker have some sort of title.

He knew Grady used the poor-me-I-need-help routine to get him off the thinking-drinking cycle, but Parker had already figured out he didn't want to make a career out of the horticultural business. His constitution wouldn't allow him to be a full-time drunk either.

And with a bum leg, he wouldn't be going back to his old job with the Division of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms anytime soon. Maybe never. The near death experience he'd suffered on his last assignment had left him a crippled old man, a hollow shell of the robust figured he'd been a year ago.

The doctors told him to take it easy after leaving the hospital. He supposed he'd taken that sage advice too literally and for too long. He'd spent most of his waking hours sitting around eating junk food and sipping beer until his father barged into his domain over a week ago and demanded Parker get off his lazy duff and help him out. Seems the idle life of groundskeeper Parker had been handling was no longer enough for his father anymore. "We're overwhelmed with holiday orders," he'd said. "Shawn and some of the workers are out with the flu, and you can sit on your butt and pot plants, if nothing else."

Guilt more than his father's demands pulled Parker off the couch and into the workforce. Shawn usually managed things for Parker's father. Funny how long his brother-in-law's bout of flu had lasted. Almost two weeks had gone by and still Shawn hadn't shown any signs of improvement.

In spite of his suspicions there might be a conspiracy going on in his family, Parker had been doing a whole lot more than potting plants. He'd worked long hours to help keep things running on an even keel until his brother-in-law could get back on his feet.

Parker finger-combed his dark hair and dug the coffee carafe out of the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. After getting the coffee pot going and downing two aspirins, he stepped outside into the crisp morning air. He would work out the kinks and aches in his body by walking one turn around the grounds before daybreak. It was a routine he'd only recently begun, and one he found invigorating.

He took his time this morning, thinking about how he was going to break the news to his father that he wasn't going to work at the nursery much longer. Cass had been the one who'd pushed him into making plans, tentative as they may be, for his future. After he'd moved into the trailer to gain some privacy from his bullying family--a useless move, apparently--she'd barged in and presented him with an application for a private investigator's license.

Being the efficient, pushy broad she was, Cassandra had it all filled out and ready to sign. How did you say no to a sister who bugged the hell out of you until you relented and gave her what she wanted? He smiled, remembering he'd managed to sidestep her yesterday when she'd tried to set him up with a phony case. She was appeased somewhat when he explained he was already working on another case, a slight stretch, but the job was in the works, anyway.

The downside of the whole PI thing: His father wasn't going to take his new career choice well.

Parker ambled between several rows of potted plants that covered the back twenty acres of Wilson's Nursery and up-righted some pots that had been knocked over by the wind. His father had built the nursery from scratch, and it was one of the biggest and best horticulture businesses in the state of Florida.

Parker hoped he would be half as successful in his new venture. Finding a classic car--his very first case--that had been missing for the last ten years wasn't going to be easy. To make matters more mysterious, his client insisted on remaining anonymous, working with him through a former cohort of Parker's.

As he arrived back at the trailer, the whitish tint over the horizon gave a hint of the Florida sunshine the day would bring. He poured himself a cup of hot coffee and was sipping gingerly when the phone rang again.

This time a familiar female voice came on the line. "Parker, have you got your television on?"

"Cassandra Leanne? Do you know what time it is?"

"Why? Don't you have a clock?"

"Cute, Sis. Real cute. Did you call here a couple hours ago? If so, I don't appreciate your perverted sense of humor."

"You must be kidding. Get up in the middle of the night when Jamie's sleeping peacefully just to goad you? I wouldn't have called now, except I saw your lights on and figured you were up. I just saw something on the early news that I thought you should know about. Channel nine. Got to go now, Jamie's crying to be fed."

"Uh-huh. Shawn feeling any better?"

"Still a little feverish," she said.

Parker thought he heard his brother-in-law in the background emitting a muffled snort. "Feverish, my ass."

"Channel nine," Cass repeated and hung up.

Why was his sister being so insistent he turn the TV on at this ungodly hour? Christmas was coming up soon. She probably wanted him to see some advertisement or other for children's toys, since she'd often complained about the sort of presents he'd picked out for his nephew and niece in the past. What the heck was wrong with a pocket wrench and bottle of French perfume? Parker wondered. The kids loved it. A newborn baby might be a challenge though. He couldn't remember what he'd given the twins when they were that age.

He picked up the remote control and switched on the TV, flipping through the channels. Since he knew most of the lines from It's A Wonderful Life by heart, he'd lowered the volume to a crooning level last night, one not detrimental to nodding off on the couch should the beer do its job. He must have built up some sort of immunity to alcohol, because getting drunk enough to pass out was becoming more and more difficult.

Channel nine. Waiting for the next commercial, he watched the dour-faced newscaster's lips move as she pointed across a four-lane road to a familiar building. When Parker saw people exiting the front of the structure, he almost dropped his coffee cup.

The camera zoomed in on Maggie Youngson's face. Not the sweet, smiling face he remembered from two years ago, but the face of a frightened, disturbed young woman. Apparently Cass hadn't seen this part of the broadcast, or she'd have really been upset. The two women had become pretty tight after he'd departed for what turned out to be his final undercover assignment.

On camera, Maggie was being led from Star's Restaurant by a police officer. Parker fumbled with the volume control, turning it up so he could hear.

"Maggie Youngson apparently found the body of the restaurant owner, Starlene Davis, early this morning," the anchorwoman said. "Details are unavailable at this time, but a spokesman for the police department said the death is suspicious. He said Mrs. Youngson is being taken in for questioning. It's unclear why she was in the restaurant at such an early hour..."

"She worked there, you nitwits." Parker pushed the off button on the TV and slammed his cup down on the kitchen counter. He ran his fingers through his hair as he paced the small floor space. Maybe Cass hadn't been trying to set him up with a fake case after all.

Why would they take Maggie downtown to question her unless they suspected her of the crime? How much of what Cass told him yesterday in the nursery had been true? Moreover, how many other people knew about the alleged affair between Maggie's late husband and Starlene Davis?

"Damn, damn, damn." He rubbed the back of his neck and his fingers came in contact with the patch of tender skin, scar tissue that was a constant reminder of his failures. He jerked off the T-shirt and went in search of something more concealing. He found a black turtleneck and pulled it on, exchanged the sweatpants for a pair of faded blue jeans, then rushed back to the kitchen when the phone rang again.

Knowing who his caller would be this time, he lifted the receiver and said, "I'm on it."

"You'd better be!" His sister's demand quavered with worry.

"Cass," he said before she could hang up, "that thing about Maggie's husband and Starlene Davis...that wasn't just made up for my benefit, was it?"

"For heaven's sake, is that why you refused to take her case?" Her tone softened, "Parker, you've got to stop seeing subterfuge in everything that comes your way via family. Maggie's my best friend, but you should know you'd be the last person in the world she'd ask for help if I hadn't browbeat her into it. Now go get her out of this mess and I'll forgive you," she ordered, then hung up.

Parker jerked open the end kitchen drawer and took out the brand new PI license and identification badge. His sister was good at browbeating people, including him.

He eyed the Beretta and hesitated. Maggie hated guns, he remembered.

A weapon might not be needed in his new profession, but he'd carried for so long, he would feel naked without one. He picked up the automatic and checked the clip. He'd have to leave it in the truck, anyway. It wouldn't be allowed past the metal detection gates at police headquarters.

Shoving the drawer closed, he grabbed his truck keys off the counter.

He didn't like the idea of working for Maggie, but it seemed inevitable now.

* * *

With a visitor's badge and familiarity, Parker worked his way through the maze of officers and desks. He glanced over the arrestees being processed. Maggie wasn't among them, which was a relief. At least they hadn't charged her with anything...yet. He spotted her brother-in-law pacing a nearby waiting area.

"Parker," Ryce Knight called as he approached. "I'm glad you're here. They won't let me see Maggie. I convinced Claire to stay home with Jenny, but if I don't have something to report to her soon, she's liable to come down here. I don't want her getting overwrought about this, Parker. Claire's pregnant, you know."

Ryce drew his shoulders back proudly as if he'd invented the fertilization procedure himself. Parker figured the only thing that kept the man from grinning ear to ear was anxiety over his sister-in-law's current situation.

He pushed back the sudden rush of envy. "Congratulations."

They had known each other for a few years, but Parker's assignments had created time and distance that kept him from sharing a closer relationship with Knight. He thought he knew where he could find Maggie and said, "Go home and tell Claire to hold tight. I'll get her sister out of here as soon as possible."

Ryce's drawn expression eased, and they shook hands. "Thanks, Parker."

"Don't mention it. Jenny doesn't know what's going on, does she?" Parker hoped not. Maggie's five-year-old daughter was too young to understand what was happening, but old enough to realize it was bad.

"Maggie came in last evening, and Jenny was already asleep in our spare bedroom, so I talked her into letting her spend the night. When she didn't come get Jenny this morning, Claire told her that her mother was called in to work unexpectedly."

"Good. I'll have her home in no time." Nothing like making rash promises your first day on the job, he thought.

He glanced into the office of the captain of the violent crimes division. It was empty. There was only one other place Maggie might be. He made his way toward the rear of the building.

"Come in," the man in the dimly lit room said when Parker tapped lightly and cracked open the door.

He stepped quietly into the observation room, nodding a hello to the officer who'd cooperated with him in the past on investigations of mutual interest. Captain Bigley stood before the plate glass that covered a large portion of one wall. He was around fifty, a big, brawny type of only fair intelligence, but tenacious. If he suspected Maggie of murder, he'd dog her until she broke.

Parker had been in the observation room on several occasions when he'd needed to ID criminals involved in cases of interest to ATF, but seeing Maggie on the other side of the one-way mirror caused a tightness in his gut he hadn't previously experienced.

She was alone in the room. Blond hair falling forward, her elbows on the table, she rested her head in her hands. Was she crying? God, he hoped not.

Would Maggie kill to protect someone she loved? The words sat on his tongue like pepper sauce too hot to swallow, but he was wise enough not to spit them out until he had all the facts. "What's the score?"

"With all Mrs. Youngson has told us so far," Bigley said, "we should probably book her for first degree murder."

"She wouldn't harm a fly," Parker said, unable to remain neutral, facts or not.

"Maybe." Captain Bigley's shiny pate swiveled. He was a couple of inches shorter than Parker, so he had to look up as he squinted and focused on him. "What's your interest in this case, Wilson?"

"She's a client."

"A client?" Bigley cocked one brow. In contrast to white fuzz bordering his head, his brows were dark and bushy.

Parker flipped open his wallet and flashed his brand new badge and ID.

Bigley leaned forward as if trying to focus, then croaked with disdain, "Christ, Wilson, I heard about your accident, but private investigator?"

"Gotta make a living."

The captain snorted. "You get disability insurance."

Parker knew PIs were only a notch above bounty hunters in most lawmen's eyes.

"If you'd checked with me, I might have found something for you in the department."

"Much obliged to you, Captain, but I'm not much good at pencil pushing." He might have gone back to ATF if that had been the case. In Parker's way of thinking, being tied to a desk job would be a worse fate than working in his father's nursery.

"We do everything on computers these days," the captain said snidely, then turned back toward the one-way glass when the officer in charge, followed by his partner, walked into the interrogation room with three Styrofoam cups of coffee.

Parker recognized the ranking detective. James Manning was a fish-faced man with a piranha attitude. As he sat one of the cups down in front of Maggie, he leaned unnecessarily close to her. Her nose twitched and Parker remembered the man's heavy-handed use of a musty scented cologne.

"Moldy Manning," the other officers called him behind his back.

His partner, a barrel-chested man with matching crew cut and gray three-piece suit was twice Manning's size, but kowtowed to him like a sheepdog to a shepherd.

"Start the tape, Everett," Manning ordered.

The younger detective fiddled with the tape recorder sitting in the middle of the table. After Everett recorded the date, time, and name of the subject being questioned, Manning took over.

"Now, let me restate what you told us so far, Maggie, and you can verify if it's correct or not. You said you were the last one to leave the restaurant last night?"

"I told you, I wanted to speak to Ms. Davis alone, but I didn't get a chance because she said she had another engagement."

"And you believed her and let it go at that?"

"I heard someone outside her office door, so I knew she was telling the truth."

"You can describe this person then."

"No, I never got a look at him...or her. Whoever it was ducked into the kitchen before I came out of her office. I left by way of the lobby, so I never saw who it was."

"I see. A clandestine affair." Manning rolled his eyes, something the recorder couldn't pick up and Maggie may have missed, but it was obvious to Parker the detective didn't believe a word she was saying.

"So, you said you'd found out about this affair...excuse me, alleged affair for the first time yesterday morning. Why didn't you confront Ms. Davis about it then?"

"I did, but she-she was on her way out and wouldn't discuss it with me at the time. I had an afternoon class at UCF, then the dinner shift to get through...." Maggie's words trailed off, as if she could see the incongruity of her statements. On the one hand she was very upset about what she'd learned, yet she didn't press the issue until much later that evening. It left plenty of time for premeditation. Parker suspected it was a point Manning wanted to make on record.

In the midst of her busy day, she'd found time to call her best friend and cry on her shoulder, yet didn't find time to track down Davis and press her for an explanation. He could just imagine where Manning would go with that information, and he hoped Maggie remained silent on the specifics of how she'd spent her day.

Thankfully, Manning seemed too enraptured by what he'd already written down, to try to extract new information. He flipped through several more note pages, then said, "Hmm, that's right, you're studying for.... Oh, yes, a degree in hotel/restaurant management. I guess keeping your job at Star's Restaurant was pretty important to you then."

"Not that important," Maggie said, weakly.

She should have a lawyer present, Parker thought, to keep her from digging her hole any deeper. Knowing Maggie she probably agreed to answer their questions without one, thinking she didn't have anything to hide. Little did she know how the most innocent of actions could often be interpreted the wrong way by a jaded officer of the law, or one too lazy to look for other suspects when a perfectly good one with motive was sitting before him. "I see, so you talked briefly with Ms. Davis around eleven," the detective continued, referring to his notes, "then drove straight home."

"No, I-I drove around a little first."

"Drove around? Kind of dangerous for a woman driving around alone at that time of the night, isn't it?"

"I didn't think about it at the time. I--"

"I know. You were upset because Starlene Davis confirmed your suspicions about her and your late husband."

When Maggie didn't answer, he flipped pages in his notepad again and switched gears. "You arrived at the restaurant around five a.m., to give notice you were quitting?"

"Yes, I didn't want to stay on, knowing--"

"Knowing, Maggie. A moment ago, you used the term alleged."

Maggie bit her lower lip. Instead of allowing Manning to bait her to anger, she remained quiet. Parker knew it wasn't a planned maneuver. Maggie never faced confrontation when it could be avoided. That was probably the reason she didn't pressure her employer for one the day before.

"So," Manning picked up where he'd left off, "you went to the restaurant around five-thirty, hoping to catch Miss Davis alone and give your notice. Instead, you found her hanging from the open beams in the front lobby and immediately called 911."

"That's correct." Maggie's voice was barely above a whisper.

"You're real pretty for a murderer, Maggie." Manning inhaled deeply as if sniffing her hair. His partner chuckled. Parker curled his fingers into tight fists. Detective Manning was the sort of person who made you want to rearrange his nose every time he opened his mouth. They'd had several run-ins over the years.

"I didn't kill her." Maggie sounded doleful and undisturbed by the backhanded compliment, which made Parker suspect it wasn't the first time this morning that Manning had made the allegation.

"Five o'clock, that's a rather odd hour to be at the restaurant, isn't it?" Manning's brow knitted together as if he were truly puzzled.

"Not so terribly early," Maggie said. "The breakfast crew comes in around five-thirty."

"But didn't you say..." Manning made a production out of searching his inside coat pocket. He took out a small notepad, flipped it open, and tapped the page. "Yes, you said you weren't scheduled to work this morning."

He pulled out the chair beside her and lifted one shiny tasseled loafer onto the seat. Propping an elbow on his knee, Manning leaned in close to her, practically breathing down her neck.

His cocky stance made it difficult for Maggie to look him in the eye without seeming to cower away from him. Parker knew Manning expected her to maintain her submissive posture. He silently applauded her decision to lift her gaze toward the mirror instead. Parker felt as if she were staring directly at him.

Back erect, face forward, she waited for Manning to catch her eye in the mirror before answering. Her blue eyes were clear as a summer sky. She wasn't crying, Parker noted with relief.

"I wasn't scheduled to work, but I had typed a new menu Star--Miss Davis wanted. She was anxious to get it printed up before the new chef came in on Monday. I couldn't sleep so I decided to take it to her this morning. I wanted to talk to her again, anyway."

"About the hanky-panky that went on between her and your late husband?"

"What she claimed went on," Maggie said defensively.

"I understand why you might have been hurt over such a revelation, Ms. Youngson," Detective Everett, said sympathetically.

"Hurt? You got angry as hell, didn't you?" Manning bellowed. They sounded like bad actors in a good cop, bad cop routine.

"I was a little upset, but--"

"A little upset," Manning mocked. "Upset enough to want Starlene Davis dead. You wanted her dead and you stood by and watched your accomplice get the deed done. You either seduced or hired..."

Manning went on to give a theoretical rendition of how Maggie and an unnamed accomplice killed her boss.

"What the hell is he talking about?" Parker asked.

"The victim," Captain Bigley explained, "was found hanging from a rope tied to the lobby chandelier. The stress marks on the neck seemed consistent with that of a natural hanging, and there was no evidence of the hands being tied. We'll have to wait for the autopsy to find out if the victim was drugged. At first, it looked like a typical suicide."

"What makes you think it wasn't?" Parker asked.

"The chair, supposedly used to stand on while putting the noose around her neck, is what gave it away. When stood upright, it was about three inches short of reaching the bottom of the victim's feet."

Parker wondered who'd been clever enough to check that little detail. Certainly not Manning. The captain confirmed his suspicions.

"The medical examiner and crime scene unit also made calculations of the weight and height of the victim at the scene. I think unless Mrs. Youngson is a lot stronger than she looks, she might have had a hard time strong-arming the larger woman into position, even if the victim were drugged."

"She wouldn't have stood by idly and watched someone else do it, either," Parker argued.

"I'm a little dubious as well," Bigley said, "but Detective Manning--"

"To hell with Manning. Is she under arrest?"

"Well, except for a possible motive, which, at the moment, we don't know--"

Parker snatched open the connecting door to the interrogation room. The look of relief on Maggie's face tempted him to pick her up and carry her out in his arms. Instead he gestured over his shoulder and barked out, "Let's go, Maggie."

"What? The hell you say," Manning sputtered and dropped his foot off the chair. His gaze slid to his captain following Parker into the room. "She's not going anywhere just yet."

"Either you book her, or I'm taking my client out of here. She's not answering any more questions without a lawyer present."

"She waived her rights to a lawyer," Manning fumed.

"Well, I'm un-waiving them." Parker took her by the arm and practically lifted her up from the chair. All the way down the corridor to the outer offices, he heard Manning protesting Maggie's leaving to his superior officer.

* * *

"You can let go of my arm now, Parker," Maggie said as she stumbled down the last step at the front of the police department.

"Sorry." Parker released her arm, and she suddenly missed his touch and wished she hadn't complained. With measured steps he strolled over to the street crossing.

Maggie cast a discreet look over his backside. For some reason she had an uncanny desire to check out Parker's physique. Probably because she hadn't had a good look at him since before his accident.

When the interrogation room door had burst open, a medieval warrior stepping out of some time warp couldn't have surprised her more. In fact, Parker sometimes reminded her of some of the medieval warriors she'd read about in romance stories. He'd had that same feral gleam in his eyes when he took up her defense. His tight black jeans and black turtleneck added ambiance to his dashing and dangerous appearance.

He hadn't changed much in two years. The grooves that crisscrossed his brows, the dark circles under his eyes, and the specks of gray beginning to show around his temples weren't there before. But, they in no way detracted from his rugged good looks. Still six feet of sinewy strength and raw sensuality. He seemed a little thicker through the shoulders and waist, but it only made him appear more powerful. And except for the slight limp, one would never guess he'd been injured.

"I'm parked across the street," he said, when she lingered near the steps. After she caught up, the light changed and they walked side by side toward the parking lot beneath Interstate 4. She noted that he moved away when her arm brushed against his.

"I really appreciate what you did back there," she said.

"You're not out of the woods yet," he responded gruffly.

"You don't believe I killed Starlene, do you?" Maggie held her breath for his answer.

"I know you didn't kill her, but considering you had a good motive, it may be difficult to convince the police otherwise."

She got a whiff of his clean scent as he reached around her and wrenched open the passenger door of his pickup. The combination of light sandalwood and Parker's unique manly essence was much more pleasant than the odor left in Detective Manning's wake. For some reason the man reeked of a fish-like essence. "They can't prove something that isn't true."

"Haven't you ever heard of miscarriage of justice? It happens all the time."

Cass had talked to Parker about investigating the alleged affair between Starlene and her late husband. She said he'd flat out refused. To everyone else it might seem irrelevant since Starlene and Sam were both dead, but what woman could rest easy with the image of her husband making love to another woman? "You said I was your client, Parker. Does that mean you've changed your mind about taking my case?"

"Your husband's dead, Maggie. So is his lover--"

"Alleged lover," she corrected. If she didn't know Parker better, she might have mistaken a faint spark of jealousy in his dark brown eyes.

"Explosives are my specialty, not sifting through a dead man's dirty laundry."

She winced, but she wasn't going to be deterred by his poor attitude. This was too important to her. "I'll help you," she said and slid into the passenger seat.

She thought he said, "God forbid," as he slammed the door.

Maggie felt reasonably satisfied that Parker had agreed to take her case and wouldn't go back on his word, even if he did find the job distasteful. He was right though. She wasn't out of the woods as far as her employer's murder went. Who else had a stronger motive?

Parker got behind the steering wheel and, as if reading her thoughts, asked, "Can you think of anyone who would have had a reason to want your boss dead?"

She could think of several who didn't particularly like Starlene, but enough to kill her? "No one that I know of."

He turned the key in the ignition and shot her an honest to goodness smile as he backed out of the parking space. Her heart did a quick somersault. His sense of humor, however, seemed a long way from being restored to what she'd gotten accustomed to a couple of years ago. His injuries seemed to go a good deal deeper than just a hurt limb.

"We both know you didn't do it," he said, "so there must be someone else."

"Thanks, Parker," she said softly.

He just grunted again and drove up the entrance ramp into Interstate 4 traffic.

"What makes you so sure I didn't do it?"

"It's only logical. You don't have the stamina necessary to hang someone twice your size from an overhead beam."

So his decision stemmed from a logical conclusion rather than faith in her. "I could have hired someone like the detective said."

"How much money do you have?"

"Money?" Maggie wondered if he was worried about his fee. "I'll pay for your services." Someday, somehow, she added silently.

He snorted. "I'm happy to hear it. However, it takes a lot more than a pretty smile to buy a hit man. And I don't think there are many in the business who work on credit."

Another logical deduction. His clear, concise way of sifting though information was why she'd had faith in his ability to help her in the first place. She ignored his surly remark, and secretly hoped her smile would be enough for Parker, for without a job, her credit wouldn't be much good.

Look for Love, Lies and Legacies by Irene Estep in April 2008, available from www.awe-struck.net : Read Reviews

A Regency Romance

Excerpt from Calamity Claresta:

CHAPTER ONE

No stranger to adversity and scandal, Miss Claresta Huntington knew a marriage of convenience--the sort she’d decided to pursue--would involve both. But with only two months to fulfill her obligations, what choice did she have?

“I must find a husband, Nan.”

The robust housekeeper snorted, as was her penchant to do more often than not when expressing disapproval. She pounded life back into the feather pillow Claresta had slept on and said, “'Tis a pity you can't see fit to go about acquiring one in the traditional fashion.”

“Yes, it is a pity,” Claresta mumbled. Sometimes her housekeeper’s honesty took on the form of impertinence.

While her dresser, Lizette, twisted her strawberry blonde hair into a coronet about her head, Claresta contemplated how to go about her mission. For certain she could not go into the dockside taverns alone. She would need Nan to accompany her to find a ne’er-do-well suitable for her purposes. But to get the woman to go along with the plan, Claresta first had to convince her of the necessity to take such a drastic measure. Over the years, she had come to rely on Nan for advice. She was more than a servant. She was family--a distant country cousin on her mother’s side, but still family. Nan wasn’t required to perform the duties of housekeeper, but she insisted she must earn her keep. Since the age of seven, Claresta had had no other mother figure to turn to.

“I have to do what is necessary to keep my inheritance. And, even you must admit that marrying up to salvage my tarnished reputation is no longer a possibility.”

“What of your cousin, Lord Westhaven?” Nan asked as she smoothed down the linen pillowcase.

“That toad-eating imbecile! At Vauxhall the other evening, he called me a sorceress.”

To the first Nan could find no argument, to the latter she said, “Uh-huh.”

“I tell you, he fell into that fountain on his own. I never laid a finger on him.”

Nan lifted her nose as if to emit another disapproving sound. Instead, she said, “Well, you are not to be faulted for having clumsy suitors. Young bucks these days fall into fountains, stumble down stairs, and overturn carriages all the time.” Nan tsked. “And, who could have known Lady Chelsworth’s brother had a bad heart?”

“Enough, Nan.” Claresta didn't like to remember the elderly gentleman's head plopping like a stone into his bowl of soup at Garraway's. She had been able to overlook the unlucky events that had squelched her other marriageable prospects, but none had ended with such finality as that of Sir Pedigrew.

“Well, 'tis none of it your fault,” Nan insisted. “If not for the Morning Post quoting Sir Pedigrew's sister when she called you Calamity Claresta--”

“I said enough, Nan. Now, are you going to help me carry out my scheme to find a husband or not? Edwin said if I caught the lot before they became too deep in their cups, I may find one man in a dozen worth a farthing.”

“I cannot believe your cousin would encourage one of your antics,” Nan mumbled. “He always seemed so much more dependable and levelheaded than his brother.”

Edwin had given her information on the best time of the day to catch a quarry only after she had made it clear she was determined go through with her scheme, with or without anyone’s help. To point out her younger cousin’s better qualities in comparison to that of Lord Westhaven’s would be easy as comparing daylight to dark.

However, if she went off on a tangent of defending Edwin they could be here all day. She signaled the maid to quit fussing over the few strands of her hair that defied confinement and said, “Lay out the yellow gown, Lizette, and then you may go for now.”

After Lizette closed the door behind her, Nan picked up the yellow frock and exchanged it for a gray crepe from the wardrobe.  Then, no doubt, she hoped a guilty conscience would work where disapproval had not. “Mr. Huntington, god rest his weary soul, would not have been pleased by what you’re thinking to do.”

Claresta lifted herself from the dresser chair in a towering passion. “If not for my dear papa's final decree, I should not be in need of a husband to begin with!”                                         

* * *

 Drake Lockwood walked unsteadily down the gangplank. As he stepped onto the London wharf, he was fairly tempted to drop on his shaking knees and kiss the firm, unmoving structure.  He was thankful the crisp morning air kept the combined odors of spices and gutted fish to a bare minimum.

The red-bearded captain of the Black Eagle, walking beside him, chuckled. “Aye, that greenish tint ye've been sporting since we left America is beginning to wan a mite.”

Drake grunted. Just because he was major stockholder in a shipping company didn't mean he liked sailing. He was a land lover at heart in more ways than one. This would be the first time since his father passed away ten years ago that he wouldn't be around to oversee spring planting at Oakcrest.

“Are you sure you want to be settling on English soil permanently, your lordship?”

Drake gave the barrel-chested captain a scathing look. “I've asked you at least a dozen times, Captain Mercer, not to call me that.”

“Aye, but as the new Earl of Norwood, it’s a title you best get used to, my lord.” Mercer emphasized the title and smiled broadly. “You’ll like as not be addressed as Lord Norwood by these English noddies.”

Drake made no comment to this. Egard for his title had already been made evident to him from his own family. Ever since Druscilla learned of his entitlement, she'd had her heart set on snaring a member of the peerage for her only daughter. Not that he minded much. It was time he repaid his stepmother for her many kindness’ to him over the years. He doubted it would take much more than a season to marry Franny off, anyway. His half-sister was almost as pretty as her mother.

 “I'll look over the Norwood holdings and see what is what before deciding whether to stay on here for good. In any event, by the time the Season ends, Mitch will have reached his majority. I'll need to return to Oakcrest then and tidy up the accounts with him.”

Already he missed the clean scent of freshly plowed ground. It was hard to remember sometimes that Oakcrest belonged to his younger bother. Drake had no little resentment toward his dead father because of it, either.

Lord Norwood. He tumbled the title around in his mind. Mercer was right; he'd have to become accustomed to being addressed in such a manner. As for respect, he'd worked long and hard for that back home. Being a member of the peerage should make things easier here. When his father was alive, he’d made sure nothing came easy to his eldest son.

Drake shook the sudden reminder of his father's hatred from his mind. He thought instead of the vast lands of his own he would soon possess. As he understood it there were over ten thousand acres at Norwood Manor. That was three times the size of Oakcrest. If a thing were possible, Quentin Lockwood would suffer apoplexy from his grave if he knew all Drake had inherited as his descendent.

“Let's hope it is a long Season, yer lordship.” Mercer's eyes twinkled with mischief. “I don't expect your constitution will take another voyage too soon.”

 Inclined to agree, but reluctant to admit his weakness, Drake kept his counsel. He still felt a bit feeble from his continual bout of mal de mer while on the high seas. Making the return trip wasn't something he wanted to dwell on at the moment.

“Well, go on with you now,” Captain Mercer said. “I'll see your trunks get delivered to the Clarendon. I'll be shoving off to Oporto within the hour to pick up them casks of wine you ordered. Should be back here in about a week for that batch of chamomile you insisted I haggle from that green-eared agent this morn'.”

Mercer shook his head. “Can't see as why you'd want to invest in such a missish drink myself. Course, that sample you was carrying around did seem to work wonders on your stomach, didn't it now?”

Drake remained silent, not willing to be baited by the captain's teasing. Instead, he directed his attention toward a street urchin who looked to be no older than six or seven running toward them. Drake withdrew a coin from his waistcoat.

Mercer followed his line of vision and cautioned, “Remember what I told you. London's full of beggars and misfits. You cannot be a bleeding heart for every single one of 'em.”

“Don't worry, Captain. Druscilla made out a whole list of do's and don'ts and I'm sure that charity is listed on the don't side.” Not that he intended to follow every one of his stepmother's suggestions.

 Drake was well known back home for being soft for a sad tale. Ignoring the poor had been the only form of social propriety he'd never understood, or adhered to. And rarely had he regretted helping those in unfortunate circumstance through no fault of their own, especially children.

His stepmother’s list crinkled when Drake patted his right pocket. He also checked his other pocket to assure himself he'd not left the packet of important paperwork behind. He'd need the money draft from his American bank and the introduction to the London solicitor handling the transfer of the Norwood titles and estates inherited from a great-uncle. He’d never known of the late Earl of Norwood since his father had never spoken of his English relatives.

The urchin approached with his hand extended. He wore a threadbare frieze coat, knee breeches, and hole-riddled stockings that left most of his legs exposed to the elements. “Spare a sixpence for a loaf o' bread, gov'ner?” 

Drake's stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't kept down a solid meal in several days. He held a coin just out of the boy's eager reach. “How would you like the chance to earn this, young fellow?”

“Earn?” The ragamuffin glanced at the coin, and his brows beetled into a dubious expression.

Drake thought the poor lad must never have been given the opportunity to work for his keep. “Nothing too strenuous, mind you. Just direct me to a nearby inn. If the place is clean and serves decent fare, there could be another shilling in it for you.”

 The captain cleared his throat. “Lord Norwood, I think you’ll find the food at the Clarendon much more to your liking.”

“Nonsense, Captain. Surely a local would know the best place to breakfast.”  Drake looked around at the fog that, in spite of dawn being more than an hour past, still hung low over the dock area. He didn’t know how far it was to the hotel. And traveling in this thick stew would be slow going at best. “Besides, I need nourishment now.”

A crooked smile split the boy's dirty face. He cast a smug look toward the captain, then boasted loudly, “The Boar Bristle’s the best feed around, yer lordship. I'll take ye there meself.”

“What's your name, lad?” Drake asked.

“Charlie--er, Charles Farrell, m'lord.”

Drake handed over the coin, and the boy bit on it to make sure it was genuine. Then his eyes followed Drake’s hands as he carefully replaced his money pouch inside his left coat pocket.

“You said you would see to my bags, Captain?” Drake asked.

“Aye.” Mercer gave the dock-waif a sidelong glance and endeavored to warn Lord Norwood again. “But do be careful, sir.”

“I'm sure I'm in good hands, Captain Mercer.” Drake winked at the boy. “Very well, Charles Farrell. Lead on.”

 When they arrived at the Boar Bristle Inn, Drake flipped the other coin to the boy. Charlie grabbed it deftly out of mid-air and tested its authenticity as he had the first coin. After shoving the money into his pocket, the boy sniffed the air filled with the scent of fresh baked bread and rubbed his stomach. The child looked more emaciated than Drake did now in his loose fitting cloths. He had lost several pounds during the lengthy sea voyage. “I never did care for dining alone, Charles. I wonder if you'd like to join me?”

“Blimey, if I wouldna, gov'ner, er, ye lordship.” The boy's eyes sparkled, and then he looked downcast and struck his foot against the cobblestones. “But don't rightly see as how I can accept yer kind offer. Not wid me own dear sister going nigh on two days wid nary a bite.”

Drake chuckled. The little urchin was a veritable flimflammer. It reminded him of the days before Druscilla married his father and took him in hand. Feeding two scrawny children would be no strain on his purse. “Fetch her along then and be quick about it.” 

While Drake waited, he contemplated the choices the buxom barmaid rattled off to him in a singsong voice. He ordered a tankard of ale and said he'd wait until his friends joined him.

 As the barmaid placed the tankard in front of him, the door to the inn swung open. The malnourished little girl he'd expected turned out to be a dark headed young miss nearer his sister's age. She stepped cautiously into the room behind Charlie and searched every corner of the room until her eyes landed on Drake, and then she lowered her lashes.

He’d seen courtesans use more subtlety. As the girl moved saucily toward him, he barely held back a chuckle. The child looked more entertaining than provocative.

He stood and waited for the pair to join him. As the young woman came closer, he noticed--with the exception of a few red blotches here and there--her skin held a jaundiced pallor. Obviously, she was recovering from some sort of illness, and he feared his generosity might prove to be as foolhardy as Mercer had hinted.

“This is me sister, Juny,” Charlie said.

“Juny, I’m pleased you could join us.” Drake bowed politely, and the girl’s eyes widened in surprise. He couldn’t help but note the frailty of her body beneath the worn blue dress and knew he did not have the heart to turn them away.

“Pleased to make your acquaintanceship, m’lord.” No gentleman ever did the pretty for Juny. She curtsied in return and attempted another seductive smile as she slid onto the bench beside her brother.

The barmaid backed up a step or two as if she feared whatever ailed the girl might be catching. Drake overcame a similar inclination and took his seat on the opposite side of the table.

 “We'll start with a bowl of porridge and some of that delicious smelling bread,” Drake told the barmaid, sensing the pale thing across from him couldn't handle anything heavier at first.

“Porridge?” Charlie sniffed.

Drake chuckled. He’d forgotten the amount of vittles a boy of Charlie’s age could manage. “Perhaps a rasher of ham and some eggs, also, for my young friend here.”

Charlie beamed with approval. Juny placed her hand suggestively over his lordship’s, then imitated the speech of the fine ladies she'd seen coming from the opera houses late at night. “Thank you, yore lordship.”

Drake smiled ruefully and slid his hand from beneath the girl’s. He gave her a fatherly pat. At first, she looked aghast, then her eyes narrowed. “What will you be wanting in return for this fine breakfast, sir?”

Just then, the barmaid came back with their meal. She sat the girl's bowl down next to Drake's, leaving it to him to slide the steaming concoction in front of Juny. It saddened him to see so much suspicion reflected in her young eyes over such a small kindness. “You can repay me by not letting your food go to waste, young lady. Now eat up and don't fritter away your time asking silly questions.”

 At that, a wide sparkling smile more befitting her age lit up Juny's face. Once again Drake was reminded of his little sister. Except on the few occasions when Franny was in a sulk for not getting her way, she bubbled with happiness. Thankfully, his little sister had never had to go without food or anything else her heart desired.

“You really are a bloomin' gentleman, ain't you?” the girl said, dropping her restrained dialect.

“Did I not tell ye it was so?” Charlie piped around a mouthful of eggs.

After that the two sprites dug into their food with gusto. Apparently the girl's constitution wasn't as delicate as Drake thought. The porridge had quite satisfied his appetite for the moment, but after the girl downed hers, she ate half the rasher of ham, over Charlie's virulent objections.

Drake felt another tug of homesickness as he remembered his own siblings’ frequent quarreling. He settled the argument by ordering another helping, plus more eggs, bread and two tankards of ale to wash it down. All of this the brother and sister gulped as if they'd never had food before.

He was pleased to note the girl's coloring had taken on a much healthier glow by the time she wiped her plate with the last crumb of bread. Then Juny sat staring moon-eyed at Lord Norwood until Charlie kicked her shin beneath the table.

“Ouch!”

“Well, 'tis best we be on our way, right, Juny?”

 Drake puzzled over the beseeching look she gave her brother, but anxious to be about his own business, he pushed back his bench and stood. Bowing graciously, he said, “It was an honor dining in such pleasant company.”

Unexpectedly, Juny threw her arms around Lord Norwood and gave him a fierce hug. He felt uncomfortable by the display of appreciation but could do little but bear it. With a feeble grunt, he acknowledged her “thank you” and patted the girl on the back until she decided to let go.

“I swear I'll pay you back someday, your lordship,” Juny said, and thumped his chest with more fervor than Drake felt his kindness afforded. Then she and Charlie sailed past two well-dressed ladies and a stoical gent who'd just entered the inn. When the boy stopped to gawk at the younger woman dressed in gray, Juny gave him a shove out the front door.

Only after Drake sat back down and prepared to pay the barmaid for their meal, did he realize his pockets had been picked clean.

* * *

“Disgraceful,” Nan snorted.

“It looked like an innocent gesture to me, wouldn't you say so, Shipley?” Claresta asked, bending her neck to look up at the tall, slender butler.

 Shipley, a protective and devoted servant, formerly valet to Claresta's grandfather and then her father, last year accepted the position of butler rather than being pensioned off. Even at his age, he was a gallant fellow; tall erect posture, thick gray hair, and similarly colored eyes that were always drawn into a narrow, discerning squint.

Maintaining his usual reserve, he barely nodded, making no comment one way or the other to Claresta’s question. Once he'd learned her destination, she could not get out of the house without him. Of course, if Nan hadn't been denouncing her mission so vehemently as they came below stairs, Shipley might never have known where they were going. As it was, the whole household seemed to have been aware of what Claresta had in mind to do. The small staff even followed them out onto the stoop, with varying degrees of anxiety marring their faces, until she assured them all would be well.

“Innocent, my eye,” Nan huffed. “No gentleman entertains a pretty young'un in a tavern without ulterior motives.”

Claresta looked around the room. She hadn't considered how few patrons would be about this early in the morning. The only marital candidate to be seen was the one trying to explain to the proprietor why he couldn't pay his tab. It was the same man who'd been entertaining the 'pretty young'un', as Nan had put it. “I came looking for a husband, Nan, not a gentleman,” Claresta said.

When the dark-haired man offered to flip for the meal with the proprietor's own coin, she thought the innkeeper would have apoplexy, his face grew so red.

A gambler. Who else would be willing to take a chance on Calamity Claresta? She smiled hopefully and started forward.

“Claresta Huntington, you stop right there!” Nan grabbed her arm. Her companion could be quite forceful when she set her mind to it. “I don't like the looks of that one, I tell you. The way he's carrying on, he's bound to be nothing but a rapscallion. From the looks of things, he is a freeloader to boot. And look at those clothes he's wearing. They don’t appear to have been tailored for his frame. Stolen right off some unsuspecting gentleman's back, most likely.”

Claresta bit her lower lip and tried to view the man in the same light as Nan did. He stood at least a head taller than the innkeeper. An intriguing strand of dark hair popped back over his forehead regardless of the numerous swipes he made at it with his wide palm. Dark circles etched half-moons beneath his eyes but hardly detracted from the rest of his handsome features. A hawk-like nose, high cheekbones and square jaw adorned his face with such masculine ease Claresta’s breath caught at the sight of the full view when his head swiveled in her direction.

It was the barmaid he was looking at though. When the woman took his part, a rakish, lopsided grin lifted the corners of his firm lips. A ripple of butterflies danced inside Claresta's stomach--the result of skipping breakfast, she decided.

The barmaid's entreaty made little impact on the innkeeper. He accused the gel of being loose in the haft, then he turned on the “scaff and raff” and told him he’d best come up with payment for his fare or the magistrate would be sent for straightway.

Although the man's clothes did hang rather loosely, he still had a rather regal look about him, and his shoulders lifted in a commanding way as he argued his trustworthiness. His skin, though a bit drawn, looked well bronzed as though he'd spent a lot of time outdoors.

A soldier or sailor perhaps. Neither of which would have much interest in the business world, Claresta deduced. Mayhap he was not so inarticulate as expected from one of the lower orders, for he presented a persuasive story about a pair of urchins picking his pockets. Although, the tavern owner still seemed unimpressed with the man's drawling speech.

Claresta would hold her own judgment until she spoke to the man. She didn't care about looks, even if she did find him very pleasant to gaze upon. If clothes were what made a man, she could deck him out in the finest money could buy. Right now, he was in trouble, obviously without funds, and that could work well to her advantage.

No matter Nan's objections, Claresta was determined to get her situation settled before the noon hour. She still had columns of figures to tally, merchandise to inventory, and a meeting with a buyer to attend.

“He's perfect,” she declared and marched across the room.

Nan lifted her eyes toward heaven and gave a silent prayer, then followed helplessly. The only way she could restrain Claresta now would be to tie her down with a rope. Oh, but had she only thought to snatch the tassels off the bed hangings before leaving Gilbert House.

Shipley trailed sedately after them.

As Claresta approached the arguing pair she pulled her change purse from her reticule. “My dear, how fortunate I caught up with you so soon.”

The proprietor and Drake turned abruptly toward the feminine intrusion.

“Here,” the pretty woman said and pushed a small pouch at Drake. The article may conceivably have been taken as a masculine article had it not been made of pink silk and lace. He cast a quizzing glance from the purse to the lady. She, however, offered no explanation but bespoke a close acquaintanceship by saying sweetly, “Really, dear, you're not usually so careless. You went off this morning without your pocket change.”

Drake couldn't help starring at the female who clearly needed spectacles. But he duly noted the innkeeper suddenly changed from a screaming banshee to a grinning possum. Drake wasn't certain whether the man's brightened expression was achieved by the prospect of being paid, or from seeing a grown man who dared carry his money about in such a frilly geegaw.

 Drake knew his mouth was still hanging at half-mast, but he couldn't seem to come up with anything to counter the lady's claim without placing them both in a worse predicament than he already found himself. He had no choice but to go along with her ridiculous claim and accept the purse.

As he did so, the older woman standing beside her snorted, and an imperceptible gleam flashed from the narrowed eyes of the tall, white-haired gentleman flanking her other side.

“Pay the man, dear,” the pretty urged. “We'll be late for our appointment if we don't hurry.”

Drake yanked open the purse and paid the man.

CALAMITY CLARESTA is now available from www.awe-struck.net , www.fictionwise.com and other on-line bookstores.

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Excerpt from SUNSET PROMISE:

CHAPTER ONE

            Jordan Wilkins read the sign above the double glass door and groaned. Incognito's, Exotic to Erotic; A FANTASY LAND OF MAKE OVERS.          

            Though it wasn't unusual for men and women to use the same hair technicians, he still preferred going to an old-fashioned men's barbershop. He hoped such a place existed in this Florida panhandle community. Too busy getting the ball rolling on the Brantley Shores mall project for Johnson Construction, he'd not had time to look. 

            As he walked inside a strong stench wafted through the air, tickled his nose and burned his throat.  He coughed.

            A brunette, standing behind a chest-high counter with a phone receiver pressed to her ear, glanced up and smiled.  Jordan smiled back forgetting his aversion for entering the feminine establishment until he looked beyond the pretty receptionist.  Reflected in a mirror-lined wall, a row of unappealing, plastic capped and tinfoil wrapped women stared back at him. 

            They reminded him of a tough renovation job he'd recently completed on a rundown historical building in Orlando.  The before, not the after.  Unlike the beautiful masterpiece turned out by Johnson Construction, not one of these antiquities of womanhood looked as if she were getting the exotic or erotic treatment Incognito's advertisement promised. 

            The brunette hung up the phone and gave Jordan another flirtatious smile.  "May I help you?"

            Jordan cleared the thickness lodged in his throat from the chemical scent, and said, "Yes, ma'am,"

            "Carrie.  My name," she added, tapping the tag over her left breast when he lifted a brow in question.

            "Er, Carrie, I have an appointment with Louise at five."

            With her hair done up in little flat curls to match the era, the young woman's red flapper dress looked like something straight out of the roaring twenties.  Her deep-veed neckline made a provocative part when she leaned over the appointment book, giving Jordan an ample glimpse of cleavage.  When she straightened, he caught a mischievous glint in her eye that took all the fun out of looking.

            "Come this way, Mr. Ravens," Carrie said, walking away before he could correct her.  He shrugged his shoulders and followed. He kept his eyes on the fringe-bottom of her outfit, which danced around her shapely calves to avoid the gawking stares of the row of women. 

            Carrie seated him at an empty chair next to a fat-cheeked woman who gave him a sly peek through short sprigs of dark brown hair. She wore a silly grin that reminded him of a happy face sticker.  The technician wielding the brush dryer that lifted the hair and obscured the woman's face, fit the salon's erotic image rather well.  A sheer yellow garment revealed a pair of long sinewy legs.  A jogger like himself, he theorized.  He lifted his eyes to her ebony skinned stomach where a diamond-like jewel sparkled and undulated each time she moved.

            "Harrumph."  The sound came from the chair to his left.  He spun around and met the disapproving gaze of a prune-faced woman who had small pieces of tinfoil sticking out all over her head.              A tentative smile lifted the corners of his lips.  Her forehead screwed up into a mass of deep wrinkles when she glanced at the stomach-decorated hair tech, then back at him.  He wondered who she disapproved of most, him or the belly dancer hair stylist.  She lifted a Good Housekeeping magazine in front of her face and made another condemning sound.

            "This is Louise's station, someone will be with you in just a moment," Carrie said, patting him on the shoulder as if she knew exactly what he was going through.  She gave him an apologetic look when she draped a bright pink smock around him and then lightened the mood by screwing her eyebrows up to form a straight line across her forehead, a perfect imitation of the stern woman sitting next to him.  Jordan grinned.  Tinsel Head cleared her throat as if she'd witnessed the young woman's mimicry through the dense pages of the magazine and Carrie scurried away.

            He watched her shimmy and sway around a group of stations located in the middle of the room.  She looked back and smiled at him when she stopped and tapped the shoulder of a woman hovered over a deep washbasin—Carlton Ravens' fiancée, no doubt. Carlton had made the appointment to have his hair cut by his fiancée, Louise. Since Jordan's construction foreman had to fly to the main office in Orlando for a work orientation, and since Jordan was in bad need of a trim, Carlton graciously offered to let Jordan take his place.

            The strawberry blonde straightened, stretched, and glanced his way.  He felt a sudden thud in his chest and checked to see if Tinsel Head noticed the guilty surge of heat that crept up his neck and other places.

            The magazine blocked her view so he allowed himself another look at Carlton's sweetheart.  And what a sweetheart! 

            He couldn't see her eyes clearly from this distance, but they seemed to glow, indicating a vivid, bright color.  Her lips, even bare of red gloss, looked well-defined, full and enticing.  Nothing alluring about her outfit, though, unless you considered the way the black lacing at the front of her gray jumper lifted and enhanced the fullness of her breasts against a prim white blouse.

            Tiny red-gold wisps of hair hung in uneven ringlets around her small oval face.  His project manager was one lucky s.o.b.

            Until a week ago, Jordan hadn't seen Carlton Ravens since they'd worked on a project together for Benjamin-Micah Construction a year ago, so he'd never met his fiancée.  When Anthony Johnson had asked Carlton to fly back to Orlando with him today for a company orientation, his old friend had insisted Jordan take the appointment with Louise.  The haircut was a part of Jordan's effort to make a good impression on the group of hostile community leaders he must face at the town hall later tonight. 

            He realized he'd been staring at the woman too long when he heard another disgusted snort.  He avoided the eyes of the wrinkle faced, foil wrapped head next to him, turned around and sorted through the stack of magazines lying on the countertop.  He glanced into the mirror and caught the woman leaning forward to peek over his shoulder at his selection.

            The smelly, chemical scent hit him again and he sat back, snapped the publication open, imitating the woman's previous show of disapproval.  He didn't realize until he starred down at an ad for sanitary napkins he'd picked up a woman's magazine.

***

            When she felt a tap on her shoulder, Kate rose from over the basin and stretched.  She'd spent at least five minutes rinsing the perm solution from Mrs. Walker's hair before the woman was satisfied with the job. 

            "Have you seen Louise?" Carrie whispered.  "Her five o'clock, Carlton Ravens, is here."

            "You can sit up now, Mrs. Walker," Kate said. She wrapped towel around the woman's head.

            "Are you sure you got it rinsed good enough this time.  My husband hates for me to come home smelling like I just came from the beauty shop."

            "I'm sure, Mrs. Walker."  Kate sighed.  The first week of each month, every woman past the age of sixty-five held a standing appointment with Incognito's, the only hair salon in Brantley shores. Most were sweet, adorable grandmotherly types.  But she'd gotten more than her share of complainers today.  She was hot, tired, and her feet hurt in the pointy-toed shoes.  The heavy material of the new costume Jodie asked her to try out today hadn't helped matters either. 

            She took a quick envious glance at Jasmine's light, airy harem outfit.  The dark skinned beauty seemed to get all the best costumes, at least the coolest ones anyway.  Of course, she was the only employee who had the figure for the flowing material—tall, willowy and graceful.

            Jodie insisted all the image consultants dress as if they'd come from a different era, and she had fun typecasting each one. Right now Kate felt anything but the composed, virtuous Dutch milkmaid that Jodie believed best suited her personality.

            Though the worst heat of summer was over, the air conditioning in the old frame building didn't do an adequate job of keeping the place cool.  Kate blew at a wisp of hair plastered to her forehead.   

            "Louise already left."  Then so Mrs. Walker couldn't hear, Kate leaned near Carrie's ear and whispered, "I can't believe the man is so inconsiderate.  He left a message for Louise while we were out to lunch that he had to leave town on business."                     She very nearly voiced an unlady-like expletive when she cast a darting glance toward the thoughtless man sitting at Louise's station.  Just a blow dry away from finishing the day, Kate wasn't in the mood to worry about Louise's errant fiancé.

            She lifted one of her aching feet and rotated it for relief while contemplating the short respite at home before meeting her brother, Artie. 

            "I don't remember taking any message like that," Carrie whispered back.

            "I thought Jodie told you. She left the message taped to Louise's mirror.  I don't know what he expects, making a spur of the moment change without notifying her." 

            "You're so rigid, especially about men," Carrie scolded, then raised her voice slightly and added dreamily, "Ohhhh, just look at him.  Isn't he cute?  Louise is so lucky."

            "Ouch!  Kate, you're rubbing too hard."

            "Sorry, Mrs. Walker." 

            "Well, what are we going to do?" Carrie asked.  "You know Jodie wants us to be especially courteous to the men from the mall construction.  She's depending on the extra business these next few months.  Who knows what will become of Incognito's when the new mall opens."

            Kate frowned.  She looked down at the thin head of hair she toweled dry.  She tossed the wet terry cloth into a bin, retrieved a dry one from the shelf and draped it around Mrs. Walker's shoulders.  It would take more than a minute or two to do this blow-dry. Louise would cover for her under similar circumstances.  She sighed with resignation.

            "Okay, I'll take care of it, Carrie.  Tell Mr. Ravens I'll be with him shortly." 

            The dry took longer than Kate expected. She had to rearrange Mrs. Walker's hair at least three times before she'd gotten it styled to suit her. Kate pocketed the hard earned dollar tip and approached the man at Louise's station from the front desk where she'd bid Mrs. Walker goodbye. She viewed his face in the mirror in front of him.  Carrie's description of Louise's fiancé was misleading.  Cute just didn't fit.  Drop-dead handsome was more accurate. 

            An involuntary moan slipped past her lips and she glanced around to make sure no one heard her.  No one had, because with the exception of Mrs. Davidson and Jasmine who were now at the washbasins, and Carrie sitting at the front desk, everyone had already left.  Jodie, the owner, had been mysteriously absent all afternoon, which puzzled Kate since she hadn't mentioned having to leave. Kate sighed again. If her employer didn't return soon Kate would be expected to stay and lock up. 

            Straightening her spine, Kate narrowed her eyes on the broad shouldered hunk and reevaluated him.  It took more than hard muscle and good looks to impress her these days.  Her ex-husband had been a looker too, and he turned out to be the biggest womanizing scoundrel east or west of the Apalachicola River.  Besides, Carlton Ravens was already taken, and even if he weren't, in spite of Jodie's admonishment, Kate didn't have much use for anyone associated with Johnson Construction. 

            The only point in his favor was Louise's defense of him, saying he'd only taken the job to be near her.  Their weekend-commuter romance—they'd met six months ago at her sister's wedding in Atlanta—must have become quite tiring.

            Kate paused to shake off the weak-kneed feeling she got when the man pressed a hand behind his neck and stretched. Geez, she'd been dead on her feet before, but never to the point of fainting. She shook off the feeling and scrutinized the light streaks in his tawny-blond hair—apparently results of staying in the sun a lot—that brushed across his wide shoulders before he returned to the magazine open on his lap.

            She could see in the mirror, he didn't seem particularly interested in reading.  He rapidly flipped the pages.  With his head lowered, she couldn't see his eyes, but she noted the tiny squint lines that ran outward from the corners.  As a construction worker, he probably spent a great deal of time outdoors, which gave him a nicely tanned face.

            He reminded her of a surfer-type model on a poster displayed in the front window of Incognito's a few months back. A little too long for her taste though, this man's hair fell a good three inches over his collar.  But as a connoisseur of beautiful manes, she had an urge to run her hands through the thick mass.  Being an image consultant gave her the perfect excuse to satisfy her whim. 

            Close behind him now, she reached out and slid her fingers through the silky strands.  When he looked up at her with a pair of earth shattering gold-brown eyes, she had to bite her lower lip to keep from making another spontaneous sound.

***

            Jordan felt the light touch of slender fingers thread upward through the back of his hair.  His eyes locked with large green ones in the mirror, causing him another jolt of desire.  

            "Hi," she said.  If velvet had a sound her voice would be synonymous.

            "Hi," he rasped back.  Thank God, the nosy old biddy was gone. He was sure he sounded like a warthog with a sore throat.

            It took a moment before he could pry his gaze away from the sea-green one staring back at him long enough to take in the rest of her appearance. He laid the magazine over his lap when he felt another twitch in his lower region. 

            She's Carlton's fiancée, he reminded himself.  She continued to run her fingers though his hair as she made a slow circle around him.  He twisted in the seat and searched for something about her to turn him off. 

            Too short!  With him sitting on the barber-type chair, her head barely cleared his shoulder.  He lifted his gaze to her hair.  It reminded him of the inside of an overripe papaya.  Braided and pulled into a coronet framing her head, it made her look very much a young Fraulein.

            Jesus!  He was concentrating on the wrong things. 

            She smiled. He frowned.

            He looked for other flaws besides her height.  Her nose was a bit pointy and her chin a little sharp.  Not much of an imperfection when her expressive sea-green eyes, elegant swan-like neck and full natural pink lips distracted from those minor shortcomings.

            Her fingers in his hair felt like a lover's tender caress.  Thankfully, the magazine hid his most telling reaction from view.

            Libido in check, he shook himself mentally, leaned forward and placed the magazine on the counter, grateful for an excuse to detach her hands from their tantalizing foray.  But, instead of the relief he expected, the separation brought an unwanted deprived feeling.  "Could you hurry it up?  I've been waiting quite awhile."

            She frowned at the reprimand.  "Of course.  What would you like?"

            What would you like, he mimicked silently and had an instant vision of her hair released from those thick, tight braids and spread across a pillow. His pillow. 

            She jerked open a drawer in front of him and took out a pair of scissors. His impression of a fraulein was further emphasized when he got a closer look at her drab, gray dress.  It resembled something he'd seen in a World War One movie.  The garment covered her primly enough, from neck to mid-calf, but the tight bodice that outlined her well-rounded breast kept drawing his attention.

            She had a sweet flowery scent that he immediately associated with tulips, even though he had no idea what tulips smelled like. The gathered skirt of the wool garment draped softly around her derriere when she bent to open a lower drawer and caused another painful twinge in his groin. 

            He swallowed and continued to use his best defense; being rude. "I'd like to have you trim my hair and be able to get out of here sometime within the next week if at all possible."

            She slammed the drawer shut and straightened. She gave him a quelling go-to-hell look he knew he deserved. 

            "I guess you don't want a wash then," she sniffed.

            A wash would have been nice, but it probably would only prolong his agony. "That's right."

            She walked behind him, seeming to deliberately avoid further eye contact.  She combed his hair roughly forward over his eyes.  Her scissors had a ruthless snipping sound.  A blow dryer hummed from somewhere on the other side of the room.

            Jordan chastised himself for being so abrupt.  This was not how he should be treating Carlton's fiancée.  They were bound to be thrown together at various social functions in the near future.  He should try to be cordial.  He'd just decided to apologize when she leaned forward and her breast brushed across his shoulder.  Surprised by the sensual touch, he jumped, causing the chair to swivel sharply to the right.

            The scissors closed with a loud snip.

            He caught her as she fell across his hard thighs. Thankfully, his hand was over the part of his anatomy that would tell her just how hard that part of his body had become. He became distinctly aware of how soft she was in contrast.  Even through the heavy skirt, when he turned over his hand to help lift her off his lap, her flesh molded to his palm with such perfection he couldn't help what he did next.  It just happened.              As his five year old nephew, Tony, would say, 'the devil made him do it'.  He gently squeezed her supple bottom. 

            He could have used the excuse that he was helping her up, if his other hand hadn't come down on her waist holding her in place.  She struggled for a moment, then her eyes went wide when she looked up at him and she gave a little squeal. 

            Damn!  Maybe he squeezed harder than he thought. 

            He started to apologize, then realized the cause of her screech wasn't from pain, nor from his familiar advances—unless he was losing his touch—when she covered her mouth, averted her head and muffled a giggle. 

            In the mirror, he caught sight of her as she burst into full-bloom laughter.  Hell, the whole damned shop stared at him—at least the three he saw—behind hand-stifled snickers. Carrie, the belly dancer and Tinsel Head, who stood at the checkout counter wearing a silver-blond helmet that he assumed was her real hair.  He followed the direction of their fascination to his own reflection, and discovered the source of their amusement.  Apologies for improper advances and uncontrollable attractions forgotten, he jumped to his feet, unceremoniously dumping the Fraulein onto the floor. 

            "Jesus!  Look what you did to my hair!"

            Easing her way up off the hardwood floor, she rubbed her bruised posterior, then started to speak.  "I-hiccup—"

            "Look!  Look, what you did!"  Jordan felt like an idiot for repeating himself and even more so because he was doing it in front of a sniggering bunch of women. 

            Not enjoying being the center of attention, he gave them all a scathing glare that sent them back to what they were doing before he'd become their source of entertainment.  Then he looked at the papaya headed nymph and rasped out between clenched teeth, "What in the hell are you going to do about this?"  He reached up and grabbed the short, spiked strands of hair that stuck out above his forehead.

            "Hiccup." Kate placed a hand over her mouth in an effort to repress the ill-timed case of hiccups.  Her mirth was arrested temporarily by the quelling look in his eyes.  If looks could kill, she thought, she'd be dead meat.  "Hiccup." 

            He shifted his glare back to the mirror and tried to brush down the disobedient strands.  When he released them, they returned to their standing position. 

            She slapped her hand back over her mouth in a futile effort to hold down a giggle that bubbled up in her throat and popped out anyway, quickly followed by, "Hiccup." 

            He scowled at her.  Gold sparks flared from his eyes and subdued Kate's next laugh.  She hiccupped again instead.

            It was his fault for giving her those heated looks with those beautiful golden-brown eyes, she thought, her amusement turning sour.  She stewed in silence.  From the way he groped at her body, she wondered if he'd tripped her on purpose just so he could play innocent when he copped a feel.  The unfaithful clod.     Poor Louise.  "Hiccup." 

            All Louise ever talked about was how in love she and Carlton were and what a wonderful, loyal, loving and handsome man he was. Well, handsome, Kate conceded, but as for the other traits that Louise had praised, well, "Hiccup"...poor Louise.

            "I asked you a question!" 

            Fascinated by the twitch in his jaw, Kate's hiccups subsided and she gaped in silence. 

            "What the hell are you going to do?" Jordan hissed under his breath.  He was trying to remain calm, wasn't he?  He was trying to be nice, wasn't he?  Hell, Jordan thought, it wasn't the hair so much.  He was not that vain.  It was the humiliation.  That was it! 

            The little hoyden had fondled him.  She'd rubbed her hands through his hair, rubbed her soft bosom against his shoulder and caused him to lose control of his senses as well as his libido.  Jesus! How much was a guy supposed to take?  And to think that Carlton thought the sun rose and set in this, this woman. This little tease he'd offered to marry.  Poor Carlton.

            "Please sit down.  I'll fix it," she coaxed sweetly. 

            That smile...that smile could make mush out of granite, Jordan thought, causing him to lose some of his annoyance and compelling him to return to the chair as she'd asked.  She swirled his chair around until his back faced the mirror. 

            "What are you doing?" Jordan asked, worriedly.

            "I can reach the front easier this way."  She continued to wear that sweet, innocent smile.

            Well, he thought, that makes sense.  He wouldn't have to worry about her leaning those beautiful soft mounds on his shoulders anymore.  It made sense until she lifted her arms to cut his hair.  This new position gave him a view that again brought that unhealthy-healthy sensation to his lower region.

              Hovering directly in front of his eyes were those beautiful, jiggling mounds.  His hands began to itch like crazy.  His knuckles turned white where he clutched the chair arms in an effort to keep from following his instinct to reach up and grasp those handfuls of man's pleasure.  It must be the desire for the forbidden, he thought.  He'd never felt this uncontrollable urge around another woman in his life.

            Snip.  Snip. Snip.  She'd show him, Kate thought. 

            She didn't like being threatened, especially about something that hadn't been her fault in the first place.  She'd fix him all right.  She gave him another condescending smile and ignored those fascinating sparks in his amber eyes.  His expression of outrage took on a more moderate, less heated look as he relented and eased further back in the chair.  Poor Louise.   

            Snip.  Snip.  The lecherous beast. 

            She didn't have to look down to see him staring at her breasts.  She could feel it.  She only hoped he couldn't see her nipples standing at attention beneath her clothes.  The thought made her fingers stop a bit closer to his scalp as she clipped the strands above them. 

            Snip.  Snip.  She felt a warm rush of air as he exhaled.  She shivered.  She clipped and held her breath to abate another bout of hiccups that threatened to rise in her throat.  Poor Louise.

            The little sorceress was really enjoying this, Jordan thought.  He noted the way her nipples pebbled beneath the soft material of her blouse.  A vision, another fantasy, of taut nubs standing out against a pinkish brown areola sent a wave of current through his body. 

            He tried closing his eyes to banish the view from his mind and let out a small swooshing sound when he released the lung full of air he'd contained much too long when the impression remained.  Eyes closed, the image became even more fine-tuned.  He tried a deep breathing exercise he used when jogging, to calm his erratic heartbeat.  Her sweet flowery scent invaded his concentration and caused a new hothouse fantasy to cross his mind.

            He wished she'd hurry up and finish.  Then he wished she wouldn't.  He didn't think about how much hair was being removed. He was relishing his fantasies too much.  He opened his eyes just enough to take a peek at those sweet little nubs again, then squeezed them tightly shut when her breasts moved seductively against her silky, soft blouse.  Damn right, she knew what she was doing, he thought.  Poor Carlton.          

            Kate finally stood back and observed her handiwork.  She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down slightly to keep from grinning.  Maybe she got a little too carried away.  He was still a handsome devil though, even with his new much shorter hairstyle.  He would be furious, she thought.  She just hoped that Louise would forgive her, but she would leave it to him to explain what had happened.  She would love to be a fly on the wall then. 

            She picked up the soft bristled brush and cleaned the loose hair from his shoulders with meticulous care.  She thought he mumbled a curse when she blew at a few stubborn bristles on his nape.  He was going to be outraged, she thought, and glanced around nervously to make sure her cohorts were within shouting distance. 

            Jasmine was stronger than she looked, the mud wrestling she did down at Papa Joe's place on Saturday nights kept her in tiptop shape.  And even though Carrie was attracted to the man, Kate knew she could depend on both her friends to come to her aide if she needed them.

            She slowly removed the smock and turned him toward the mirror and stepped back.  The outburst she'd been prepared for didn't come.  However, the silence that ensued was twice as menacing.

            Jordan stared at his reflection for a long moment.  He thought of all the times his sister-in-law, Emma, had ruffled his long tresses and cajoled him about getting it cut into an executive style like his brother, Micah's.  Some of the last words his father had said this afternoon before boarding the plane with Carlton, was "Jordan, be sure you get a haircut.  Remember the image presented for the company at this meeting tonight is half the battle of winning the citizens over to our way of thinking." 

            Well, wouldn't his father and Emma be happy if they could see him now? 

            That thought took some of the edge off his anger—some, but not all.  He avoided looking at the little green-eyed enchantress.  She probably thought she'd gotten back at him for squeezing her luscious buttock when she'd fallen across his lap.  Maybe this was her way of getting even.  Or more likely it was a subconscious attempt to alleviate her own conscience about her part in what happened.  Well, he'd get his revenge, too. 

            Somehow. 

            Poor Carlton.  Someone should tell him what kind of woman he was engaged to.  "How much do I owe you?"

            "Nothing.  This one is on the house," she said with a magnanimous show of even white teeth as she backed away as if she were afraid he'd pounce on her.

            He frowned.  He'd never hurt a woman in his life, although taking this one over his knee was mighty tempting.  He pulled out a large bill and threw it down on the counter.  "Hell, lady, you deserve something for the job you did on me today."

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PROMISES, PROMISES....One protects her. One suspects her. They both fall in love with her, and she becomes the source of animosity that drives the estranged brothers even further apart.

"Promises, Promises pleases with lots of action, enjoyable characters, and a spooky stalker with a grudge."...Michelle, Fallen Angel Reviews

Excerpt for Promises, Promises:

Chapter One

Present day:

"Are you alone?"

Emma Bowers strained to hear the raspy words over the static-riddled connection. The telephones had been acting up ever since the afternoon storm. The voice had definitely sounded creepy, but she remembered the construction crew had played a similar joke on her last week when she had worked late. Only, then she hadn't been alone in the creaky doublewide office trailer.

"Jeremy?" she asked, and wondered if she'd guessed right. The young, energetic steelworker was the biggest prankster on the job. The gravel-like voice seemed to match the one he'd used before. The phone crackled and he didn't answer. Either he didn't hear her or he wanted to continue his practical joke a little longer.

She chuckled. "Don't you have anything better to do than harass a lonely working girl? And no cracks about the working girl part. You know what I mean."

Hugging the receiver against her shoulder, she typed out another line of the proposal she'd been working on. She could just hang up--serve him right for trying to scare her--but she couldn't let them get the best of her or next time they'd try something even more provoking.

She waited for the voice to admit he was one of the employees. Instead, she got a full thirty seconds of heavy breathing. The men did like to have their fun, but this was irritating and...and unsettling. She'd assured Ben she wasn't afraid of staying by herself while he went to attend his son's birthday party, but that was before the tomb-like sound of the front door closed behind him.

"Sorry to disappoint you jerks, but I'm not falling for--" A loud crackling sound drowned out her words.

"I know yo--" a crackling, then "'lone," intermittently filtered through the noise. The disjointed conversations she'd had to put up with all afternoon had been driving her up the wall, but the phone company said repairs couldn't be made until tomorrow morning.

All right, she thought, enough is enough. But she couldn't allow the men to know their persistent joking around shook her or they'd never let her live it down. She would feel a lot better if they'd just own up to the prank before hanging up. She asked flippantly, "This is Jeremy Bates, isn't it?"

With no static interference, this time when she received no answer, she began to feel more confident. "I knew it! You can't fool me by disguising your voice like that. Look here, Jeremy, you tell all the guys, who I'm sure are standing around you snickering their cone-shaped heads off, to try this trick on some unsuspecting soul who doesn't know what a sick sense of humor construction workers have."

"You are alone, aren't you?" the raspy voice insisted over the now clear line. The seriousness of the man's tone, combined with her doubts even Jeremy-- the most mischievous of the lot--would be perverse enough to carry a joke this far, caused a prickling sensation along the back of her neck. She remembered hearing somewhere that criminals often checked before breaking into a building by calling ahead to see if it was vacant. Maybe they didn't even care if it was empty as long as the occupant posed no threat. With more bravery than she felt, she said, "There are at least ten other people in the building with me. Which one do you want to speak to?"

"Lying bit--" Line static cut off the expletive.

"You have a wrong number." She slammed the receiver down hard, hoping the line had cleared long enough to give the ill-mannered caller ear damage. Her hands shook. She'd never been defamed in such a manner before, least of all by the good-natured employees of Benjamin-Micah Construction Company.

Emma stared at the ivory-colored instrument for a moment as if it might grow fangs and bite her. Then aware of the absurdity of being afraid of a telephone, she laughed. She looked at the blinking cursor on her computer screen for a moment, then continued with her work. But, she couldn't put the call out of her mind.

What was the point of anyone trying to scare her, and why had he been so insistent in knowing if she were alone? Could it really have been one of the guys having some fun as she originally suspected? She didn't think anyone in the construction crew would stoop to calling her vulgar names. Maybe she'd mistaken that last word the man had said, but bitch with lying seemed more in context than anything else she could come up with.

It could have just been an obscene caller. Deciding that must be the case, she knew those people rarely did more than make sick innuendoes. "Creep."

Emma tapped out the last few lines onto the computer screen, checked for errors, and then depressed the print key. The whir of the office LaserJet broke the quiet of the empty building.

"All alone am I..." She half sang, half hummed the oldies tune softly, keeping time by drumming her fingertips rhythmically on the desktop.

When the printer stopped, she rolled back her chair and gathered the pages of the proposal. She tamped them into a neat stack along with the bid bond and other necessary forms for tomorrow's bid opening. Clipping the papers to the front of the manila envelope she'd already prepared, she dropped the bundle into the top drawer of the file cabinet.

Ben wouldn't bother signing the bid proposal until morning. When he returned to drive her home, he'd be anxious to drop her off at her apartment and get back to his pregnant wife, Lauren.

Emma shoved the drawer closed and stared at the picture sitting on top of the file cabinet. Lauren, who used to hold the secretarial position Emma now worked at, had left it there. Emma hadn't bothered to put the picture away, for she enjoyed looking at it every now and then--something to remind her that there could be bliss in marriage. The three-year-old boy in the photo with Lauren and Ben Woodson looked like a little angel, which his father adamantly denied.

"He's a little hellion," Ben had told Emma, but he wore a wide grin while saying it. A perfect little boy for a perfect couple, Emma thought. Now they were planning for another addition to their family.

She'd given up hope of one day having a husband, children of her own. Although disillusioned by her former fiancé, she knew there were a few men like Ben who would make loyal, faithful, and caring husbands. They just seemed to be in short supply. And she was no longer naïve, trusting, or gullible enough to believe a Mr. Right was going to fall into her lap anytime soon...if ever.

Something hit the chain link fence out front and Emma jumped.

"The dogs," she whispered. It wasn't the first time they'd banged against the fence since Ben let them out of their pen earlier to patrol the grounds. That phone call really did a number on her, she thought, making her aware of sounds that might otherwise have gone unnoticed.

Slapping the top of the cabinet playfully with her palms, Emma twirled about and sang, "All alone am I..." She hummed the tune until she reached another part of the lyrics she recalled her mother singing long ago. "All alone with just the beat of my heart."

She did a little two-step across the floor. Emma loved to dance. If not for having to work late, she would be down at Odie's Lounge with the rest of the employees, along with their wives and girlfriends, dancing to live country music. It was opening night for a new band and everyone had promised the neighborhood bar owner they'd be there to make them welcome.

She glanced at her watch. Eight-thirty. Still early. The band wouldn't start playing until nine. She could ask Ben to drop her off, but then she'd have no way to get home.

Jordan Wilkins would probably give her a ride, but Emma wasn't ready to date anyone yet, and she knew the shy, good-looking crew foreman had been trying to work up the courage to ask her out. She swayed to imaginary music and another tune popped into her mind. "Fools rush in--"

Another clank on the chain link fence caused her to pause and listen intently for the usual accompanying sounds of the dogs barking. As soon as it came, she relaxed.

"You're a pitiful case, Emma Bowers. Soon you'll be jumping at your own shadow." She laughed throatily and rubbed her arms to banish the goose bumps. Yet another appropriate oldies favorite of her late mother's came to mind and she sang, "It's imagination, I know."

Her voice warbled in an off-key lilt, but with no one around to hear, Emma pretended the sound was as rhythmical as the strolling dance she did down the hallway. While heading toward the back offices, she thought about her other boss. Micah Johnson was expected to return to Orlando tomorrow from the Atlanta project he'd just completed. She was a little nervous about meeting the co-owner of Benjamin-Micah Construction for the first time. Ben had hired her three months ago during his partner's absence. Emma was naturally curious about the man and had asked a few other employees about him.

Some of the men viewed their recently absentee boss somewhat warily, having been the object of his hot temper. Jordan had told her this and then hesitantly repeated some of the highly spoken praise from others. Most regarded Micah Johnson as a "man's man," whatever that meant. Emma snorted. His partner was a bit hard-nosed at times, Ben had agreed when she expressed her concern over Mr. Johnson's reputation of being unbending and pragmatic. He insisted Micah was honest, dependable, and fair, as well, and only vented his temper on those who deserved it. No one, however, had mentioned what Micah Johnson looked like.

Emma wondered if he had a tall, brawny build like Ben, or if he were a complete opposite. Twins, she thought, and giggled at the Danny Devito vs Arnold Schwarzenegger picture that flashed through her mind. The image didn't fit Mr. Johnson's macho-like characteristics, but to allay her apprehension of meeting him, she conjured up a mental picture of Ben's thick, auburn head bent to look down on his short, balding sidekick. Both wore identical tailored blue suits like Ben seemed to favor. To top off the ridiculous picture, she mentally dressed each in a Looney Tunes tie like the one Ben had worn to the office this morning--a present from his three-year-old son, he'd proudly declared.

She laughed and turned the knob on the office door opposite Ben's. Stepping inside the dark interior, Emma had that strange feeling of comfort and warmth she'd experienced each time she came into this particular office. It was probably due to its location on the sunny side of the building. Although, the impression did seem to have a more sublime feel.

Tobacco and peppermint. She knew the tobacco smell in the office could be attributed to Nate Loudermilk. The middle-aged superintendent left a trail of tobacco odors wherever he went, half chewing, half smoking the strong-scented imported cigars he preferred.

The other scent came from the red and white candy, a gift from Lauren that filled a crystal dish on Micah's desk. Lauren said he had a sweet tooth for hard candy and a particular weakness for peppermints. Good to know the man had at least one weakness, Emma thought.

She took a deep breath. She wasn't particularly fond of cigars, but the combined scents brought back memories of her childhood. Peppermint was a favorite of her father's, as well. At Christmas time especially, he would come home with his jacket pockets loaded down with candy canes. Over her mother's dire warnings of decayed teeth and dreaded trips to the dentist, Emma and her brother would crawl onto their pop's lap and search his pockets for the treats. The memory made her long for the happy times when her mother was still alive. The closeness of her family had disappeared upon her death. Emma's brother had left to make a name for himself among Silicon Valley's computer geniuses. California was just about as far away from her as he could get, and with she and her father now estranged, Emma felt lonelier than she'd ever been in her life.

"All alone am I," she sang with a whispered breath as she trailed her fingers around the edges of the polished oak desk. She sat down in the thickly padded executive chair. The chair creaked and she made a mental note to give it a few squirts of WD-40. She'd ask Jordan to fetch her a can from the jobsite and do that first thing the next morning, before Micah Johnson arrived. Feeling melancholy and languid, she curled her legs beneath her on the spacious seat, leaned her head back against the deep cushioned headrest, and closed her eyes.

"Hmmm. Mr. Johnson, you executive types have got it made."

Something scraped across the metal siding. Like fingernails scratching chalkboard, the sound caused a chill to race along Emma's spine. She shot to an upright position and strained to identify the sound above the creaking of the chair. It had seemed very close. A breeze suddenly fanned the stray strands of blonde hair feathering her forehead.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Wanting to vent the heavy odor of cigar smoke left behind when Nate used the office to make some phone calls, she'd opened the window right after the thunderstorm passed. But, she forgot to close it.

Emma suddenly had the odd sensation of being watched. Again hair prickled along the nape of her neck. For a long moment she sat immobile, then she dared to turn her head toward the open window.

The hall lights reflected off a pair of bulging, obsidian eyes. A dark, narrow, but familiar face peeked over the windowsill. Emma released her pent-up breath and a spontaneous laugh burst free.

The guard dog whimpered and lapped sociably at the window screen. Chip, the male Doberman, was the friendlier of the two dogs. However, she'd seen the remains of a hapless rabbit that had ventured across their path and, taking no chances, Emma hurried over, shut the window and locked it.

She peered into the yard behind Chip. His mate, Dale, paced restlessly a few yards away. Emma searched the yard for other lurkers, but found none. Her gaze veered upward to the glowing full moon lighting the quiet compound. Silhouetted in the darkness, a two-story structural steel frame stood majestically against the moonlit sky. The skeletal creation would eventually become five stories of exclusive executive suites. She lowered her eyes and stared down the long row of storage trailers toward the back of the lot. At the far end sat Micah Johnson's company pickup in front of a travel trailer where he would temporarily reside when he returned to Orlando tomorrow. Ben said he preferred living near the jobsites, but had been unable to find an apartment in the area that didn't require at least a year's lease. Since Micah intended to purchase a house and stay in Orlando from now on, he felt the trailer would suffice until he could find the right place. Ben had set up the entire compound during Mr. Johnson's absence. Perhaps the luxurious chair was Ben's way of compensating his partner for the poor living accommodations he provided.

Emma looked down at Chip, who now sat docilely back on his haunches peering up at her. "I didn't lie to the caller, did I, Chip? I'm not alone."

Chip opened his mouth and emitted a wide-mouthed, yawing whimper, then turned and trotted over to his mate. He sniffed Dale's behind and when she took off, he followed in hot pursuit. Emma snapped the Venetian blinds closed, then lightheartedly complained, "Just like a male. One scent of a bitch in heat and he forgets everything else."

Like Steve.

Steve. My god, she hadn't thought about him in that way in goodness knows how long. Not since she caught him and her best friend--

The dogs began making a ruckus at the front gate again, interrupting her disturbing memory. Just as well, she thought. She promised herself before leaving Ocala not to dwell on the past.

Emma closed the door to Mr. Johnson's office behind her and made her way back to her own desk. Ben could return any minute to drive her home and she didn't want to hold him up. It was nice enough of him going out of his way to chauffer her around while her car was in the shop.

She put away the excess paraphernalia that littered her work area and placed the rock paperweight on top of the few time sheets that remained. Jordan had promised to have the rest of his crews' time turned in first thing the next morning, then she could begin payroll. To occupy her time, she picked up a pen and started a "to do" list.

* * *

Micah paid the taxi driver and the cab pulled away from the curb. He set down his suitcase, turned and faced the locked gate, then cursed soundly. He'd forgotten to get the key from Nate before leaving Odie's Lounge. He spun around to hail the cab, but the taillights blurred and wavered in the distance.

He rubbed his forehead. Two beers at Odie's on top of the scotch he'd knocked back during the rocky plane ride from Atlanta, had just about done him in. He smiled, remembering Nate's motto. "Drinking, cursing, and chasing women should come as natural to a construction worker as eating and sleeping."

Micah chuckled. Two out of three wasn't so bad. When he caught his fingers in the chain link fence and peered into the empty parking lot, his stomach roiled. Fatigue and no supper hadn't helped his condition.

He should have grabbed a bite to eat at Odie's. He hadn't planned on stopping until he'd spotted Nate's pickup truck in the parking lot. Anxious to talk with his job superintendent, Micah had ordered the taxi driver to stop so he could catch up on the progress of the Orlando job. An hour later, he'd assured Nate he could walk the few blocks, but he'd barely crossed the parking lot before his head began spinning. He saw the cab still there, and found the driver near the doorway inside listening to the band that had just started up. He'd hired the cabby again to bring him here.

A wave of dizziness assailed him as he leaned his head back to survey the ten-foot fence. After regaining his equilibrium, Micah decided it shouldn't be too difficult to climb.

He tossed his luggage over first, missing the mud-hole with the expensive leather suitcase by mere inches. Scaling the fence proved fairly simple. The problem came when he needed to get down on the other side.

The ground below seemed to swirl and dip and the next thing he knew, he landed on all fours in the wet puddle. Before he could regain his footing, two dark mongrels knocked him flat on his back. Wagging their tails, Chip and Dale greeted Micah with wet, slobbering tongues. Chip's big scratchy paws dug into Micah's chest and he took advantage of one of his two vices.

When his curses caused the animals to back off, Micah immediately felt guilty and vigorously rubbed the necks of both dogs. He managed to roll to his side in the shallow mud hole and pull himself to his feet by gripping the backs of his beloved pets. As he reached down and picked up his suitcase it dawned on him that not only had he forgotten about getting a key to the gate, but he'd neglected to get one to the office. Nor did he know how he'd get into the travel trailer at the back of the lot where he'd be staying for the next few weeks. He hated hotel rooms and opted to live in the company owned trailer until he found a place of his own. And, if the burglaries in the area Ben had told him about persisted, being on the premises should help deter a break-in.

He'd talked to his partner this morning. Ben told him the water wasn't connected at his temporary accommodations yet and that he would have to use the office shower for a couple days. So, the office trailer was his first destination. He squinted toward the office. Looked like Ben had left a light burning for him. Key or no key, he had come too far to turn back now. Tails wagging, Chip and Dale trailed along beside him.

A small window at the rear of the building looked promising. Removal of the screen was an easy task, but the window wouldn't budge. He looked around the yard for something to pry it open with. With a silent apology to Ben, Micah picked up a brick. He moved back so splintering glass wouldn't hurt the dogs and let the brick fly. The window shattered in a hundred pieces.

* * *

Absorbed in preparing her to-do list, Emma nearly fell out of her chair when the unmistakable sound of shattering glass penetrated the building.

Are you alone? The words of the caller repeated inside her head and her heart picked up a thudding cadence. There was a clatter, as though someone brushed the glass onto the floor, and she knew for certain she was no longer alone.

She slowly laid down her pen and swallowed back the fear gathering in her throat. She fought to remain calm and tried to think what was best to do. Slipping off her shoes, she eased over to the far wall, and flipped the light switch off. Cautiously, she tiptoed back to her desk and picked up the rock paperweight. Her grip tightened around her weapon until her fingers started to numb.

She'd never hit another person in her life, and she would do her best to avoid that option now--if this person would simply take whatever he came for and leave. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she stared at the phone then jerked up the receiver to call 911. Loud static grated over the line. She tried the other two lines before giving up on getting a dial tone. In a panic now, she needed to find a safe place to hide. She took a couple of steadying breaths and tried to clear her thinking. At this hour, there was a chance the intruder didn't know the building was occupied. Are you alone?

Maybe he knew and maybe he didn't. If it were the caller, maybe he'd think she'd already left. In any case, she had to take some precaution. She inched her way out of her office and across the hall toward the bathroom. What robber would take the time out from pilfering to go to the john?

More glass clinked onto the floor and then she heard the creaking sound of the executive chair she'd been lounging in earlier. Thank God, she'd left the room before the intruder decided to break in. Had he seen her silhouetted against the window earlier? She hoped not.

Emma darted into the bathroom. Quietly closing the door, she leaned against the counter for a moment to support her trembling legs. She stared at the small window and fleetingly considered climbing out it. But, even if she could manage to wiggle through the tiny opening, she was afraid of being overheard by the burglar. Remembering Dale's surly nature, the idea of being an after dinner doggy treat didn't appeal to her either.

It occurred to her that the dogs could have been disposed of in some way. How else would a stranger get past the pair without being attacked?

* * *

Micah raked aside loose glass, creating more breakage as a few bigger pieces landed on the floor. He twisted the lock free, and pushed up the frame. Shoving his suitcase in before him, he crawled though. After turning to analyze the damage, he released an out-of-character snicker. He'd have that new efficient secretary he'd heard so much about take care of getting it fixed tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

He dropped into the chair behind the desk for a moment, thinking about his reason for taking an earlier flight. Tomorrow he and Ben would have to decide what to do about the bid disclosure problems. Ben had an important bid opening to attend in the morning and Micah wanted to be there. Something rotten was going on in the company and he was determined to find out what. The thought was sobering, but not sobering enough, he thought, as he stood and swayed on his feet. What he needed was a hot shower and a good night's sleep.

In the bathroom down the hallway, Emma was cursing because she'd forgotten to get the lock repaired. Heavy footsteps shuffled along the hallway, and then they stopped. A deadly silence followed. She pressed her ear to the door, but could only hear the echo of her heartbeat going, tah-thump, tah-thump, tah-thump. Long minutes seemed to tick by before she picked up the sound of footsteps again. They came closer and closer.

Tah-thump, tah-thump, tah-thump. Her heart kept rhythm with her silent chant. Don't panic! Don't panic! Don't panic!

The steps halted just outside the bathroom door. She quietly shifted so she could raise her arms to get a good swing in case he entered.

Slowly the door opened. Her worst fears were about to be realized and her heartbeat magnified to a blood rushing thump, thump, thump.

A hand came around the doorway, fumbled its way up the wall, and flipped the light switch. The brightness temporarily blinded her, but she made out the shape of the masculine form that tripped over her foot when she stuck it out in front of him. Emma delivered a glancing blow to the head of the tall, dark headed intruder as he fell forward.

"Christ!" the man sputtered, wobbled, then closed his eyes and slid to the floor like a noodle doused with hot water.

Emma feared she'd killed him.

At first she thought the burglar was pretending to be unconscious. The blow couldn't have been forceful enough to hurt him badly. She marveled that she'd even knocked him out since she'd hesitated just after her weapon began its decent. For a second, in the shadowed darkness, she mistook the man for Jordan. Her hesitation was just enough to lessen the blow so it glanced off the side of the intruder's forehead instead of catching him with a good solid hit.

She stood staring down at him. It wasn't the crew foreman, but there was a slight resemblance in the long aquiline nose, thickly arched brows, and deeply tanned skin. Of course it could be the mud stuck to his face that caused him to appear darker than he was.

It was hard to tell, the way he lay curled up on the vinyl tile floor, but she judged this man to be every bit as tall as Jordan's six foot plus. Her gaze slid down his body, noticing along the way a pair of well-developed biceps strained against the seams of his soiled white dress shirt. A gold medallion-like buckle adorned a belt that hugged his trim hips, and muscular thighs pushed against a pair of snug fitting dark trousers. Whoever he was, he kept himself in good shape.

She quickly looked back to the intruder's face and frowned. He still hadn't moved. Had she hit him harder than she thought? She had to make sure he was alive.

Closing her eyes, she slowly knelt beside the prostrate man and lifted his wrist to feel for a pulse. She felt strangely moved by the strong, steady beat beneath her fingers as she touched his warm skin. She leaned closer, sniffed and caught the unmistakable scent of bar smoke. Another sniff and she caught another unmistakable scent. Beer.

He moaned and curled his fingers around hers, then mumbled, "Later, darling."

"Good Lord, he's drunk as a skunk." Emma didn't know if she was relieved or appalled. Snatching her hand away, she stood and carefully stepped over his fetal- positioned body. She returned to her office and jerked up the phone. Thank god, there was a dial tone, but by the time she punched out the emergency numbers 911 all she received as she put the receiver to her ear was static. She continued to try to reach someone for help. When all else failed, she alternately started hitting the speed dial numbers Lauren had programmed into the phone.

One of the tries worked and the phone rang on the other end. When Lauren answered, her voice came through loud and clear. Emma took a deep breath in preparation of telling about the intruder. Then she remembered Lauren's condition. Trying to keep the distress out of her voice, Emma asked if she could talk to Ben.

"Are you all right?" Lauren asked. "Ben just left to pick you up."

"I'm fine, just--" When the crackling cut into the conversation, Emma looked down and noticed she still gripped the paperweight tightly in her right palm. She carefully laid it back on top of the time sheets and waited for the line to clear again. Looking for some way to get Lauren off the phone without upsetting her so she could call the police, Emma said quickly, "Look, Lauren, I have a few things to clear up before Ben gets here. Tell Tony happy birthday for me and I'll see you both Saturday."

"I ca--hear--wor--" Suddenly the phone went completely dead.

"Darn it," Emma said. She depressed the disconnect button and jiggled it several times before giving up on getting another dial tone. Now what? she wondered.

It was useless to concentrate on anything but the threat of the strange man lying only a few feet away. She heard the dogs barking again. Leaving the premises was out of the question. The Dobermans were as liable to attack her as a stranger. She wondered again why they hadn't stopped the intruder. What would she do if the man woke up before Ben came?

She looked around for something to tie him up with. The phone cord that extended around the baseboard behind her desk to the phone-jack on the next wall looked like the perfect solution. It was of little use to her anyway, she thought, and snatched loose the connections. She went back to the bathroom with her makeshift binding. The man didn't appear to have moved from the spot where he'd fallen.

A red knot bulged on his forehead where she'd struck him. She leaned down, gently touched his injury, and again wondered if she'd done serious damage. She didn't know whether to be relieved or scared when he caught and tugged her hand to his lips.

Scared, she thought, when he moaned softly and rolled over drawing her with him. She fell across his chest and froze as his other hand closed around the back of her neck. His eyes remained closed, but his fingers slid into her hair, and he forced her face downward. The warm rush of his breath feathered across her cheek, causing a tickling sensation that sent aftershocks rippling across her stomach. Then his lips met hers.

She must be out of her mind to imagine she was enjoying his kiss. He could be a murderer...or rapist for all she knew. One who worked up courage for his evil deeds by getting drunk first. Only this time he'd gone way beyond his limit. Or had he?

Wide-eyed, Emma stared cross-eyed at the face pressed close to hers. She was afraid to struggle, afraid to scream, for fear of waking him fully.

She wondered if she imagined the faint scent of peppermint as his lips moved against hers slowly, sensually. His hand drifted smoothly down her back and she held her breath as it came to rest against her buttock. That did it!

Whether it woke him or not, one more move and she'd scream bloody murder. She opened her mouth, then shut it abruptly when his tongue tried to dart inside. She drew back quickly, only to find herself in a more precarious position. Her lower body pressed intimately against the solid ridge beneath his fly, but he didn't seem inclined to make any threatening moves. Of course, he had been on his way to the bathroom, so perhaps his body's response meant something entirely non- sexual.

He murmured softly and his hand made a return journey along her back. As his hold relaxed, Emma drew his limp hands in front of him. While she was tying them together, she noticed the manufacturer's emblem on the face of his gold watch.

"Later, darling. Later," he said, and twisted onto his side. She took advantage of his fetal position to tie the cord around his feet. Having a good deal of cord left over she decided to secure him to the base of the commode. Satisfied with her work, she stood and wondered how a burglar came by a Rolex watch. Designer clothes too, she observed in puzzlement.

His knees were dirty, but the fabric of his pants cried expensive. Having felt the freshly starched texture of his shirt, she knew it was of good quality and it appeared to have been professionally laundered. Ben said some very expensive equipment had been stolen during the area robberies. The thief probably made a bundle from fencing the goods.

"Good Lord," she moaned. She'd been reading too many suspense novels if she was beginning to quote clichés from them.

Leaving the intruder, Emma went back to her office and paced the floor while waiting for Ben. She was becoming more anxious by the minute, fearing the man could awaken at any time. What would she do if he got loose? She began to hyperventilate.

There was a staccato knocking at the door; the signal Ben had devised to let her know it was him. Before he could unlock the door, she thrust it open. Falling into his arms, she gasped, "T-Thank God you're here."

"What's wrong, Emma? Lauren called me on the cell phone and said she was worried about you." Ben looked at her anxiously.

"The cell phone. Oh, I forgot." Not that it would have mattered much, she thought, only instead of punching numbers at random, she might have tried the cell phone and gotten him instead of his wife. That she should have reacted more competently to the situation, made her stumble nervously over her explanation. "S- some man broke in. I-I hit him. He's unconscious--"

"Whoa, Emma. Slow down. Come on into your office and sit down."

When she'd regained her composure, Emma related the events of the evening, omitting the embarrassing moments when the man had kissed her. Ben stared at her as if in stunned disbelief when she told him the man was still lying on the bathroom floor. "Jesus, Emma, why didn't you call the police? Stay here while I have a look."

Emma didn't see the point in explaining about the phone problems that prevented her reporting the intruder to the authorities. Ben had his cell phone and he could handle it now. He'd probably--

A low rumble of laughter came from the hall. She stepped to the door and saw her boss leaning against the bathroom doorway, holding his side.

Must be the full moon, Emma thought worriedly. "Ben?"

"I can't wait to see the expression on his face when he learns what happened here tonight. He'll be fit to be tied. Of course, he already is, isn't he?" Ben couldn't seem to stop laughing.

"I don't understand."

"No, of course not," he said, slapping his knee with glee. Finally, he straightened and made an effort to act serious. "Come here."

She edged toward the doorway where the intruder still lay curled up on his side. His bound hands were folded beneath his face, giving him a cushion against the cold, hard floor. He looked like a mischievous little boy, turned angelic by sleep.

"Take a good look, Em. Who would've ever thought Mighty Micah could be hog-tied and humbled like this, and by a woman." He laughed, again, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

As if in answer, the man on the floor gave a slumberous snort and smacked his lips. Instead of waking up, though, his lips went slack and he resumed snoring.

The name Ben mentioned didn't register until he stopped laughing long enough to say, "Emma, meet my partner, Micah Johnson."

Emma's mouth dropped open and she stared at Ben whose mouth was twitching again. "How can you-you take this so lightly?" Her gaze darted to the man she'd hit with a paperweight. He might look angelic now but she couldn't forget the tales of his surly disposition. The job security she'd felt in the last few weeks began trickling away.

"You look like you just swallowed a spider," Ben said. He was taking the whole thing as a joke. He must have noticed Emma wasn't. "Don't worry. We'll all have a good laugh over this tomorrow. You'll see."

"You don't have to tell him, do you? That is, if he doesn't remember." Emma hated using such a pleading tone on someone as softhearted as Ben, but she really liked her job and if it took playing on his sympathy to save it, then so be it.

She could see indecision warring across his features before he finally said,"Aw, all right."

Emma remembered the phone call earlier. It had to have been Jeremy or one of the other fellows from the job. Ben's obvious disappointment at not being able to enjoy getting the best of his partner made her wonder if one-upmanship was a construction industry trait. He took another look at his partner and said, "In his condition, it's unlikely his memory will be too clear on what happened here tonight. You said yourself he hasn't opened his eyes since you hit him. Did he get a look at you before you clobbered him?" Ben coughed.

Emma knew he was choking back further amusement at her expense. He might be losing an opportunity to taunt his partner, but he'd have one over on her. She didn't find the situation humorous, but being laughed at was better than being fired. If Micah Johnson was as quick-tempered, unforgiving and macho-minded as she'd heard, then he certainly wouldn't be pleased to find out he'd been brought to his knees, actually even lower, by his light-weight, five-three secretary. Ben had implied as much himself.

What if Micah Johnson decided to get rid of her? He might be too embarrassed to fire her for hitting him. He might do a more thorough background check on her in an effort to find an excuse to let her go. She'd gotten a good reference letter from Mr. Sloan before leaving her previous job, but he'd been a good friend of her father's and said he owed it to her. Now that Steve Sloan, Jr., was in charge of the company, though, there was no telling what he'd say about her. What if he said she was incompetent, that she lost or destroyed important paperwork, didn't deliver a bid on time, argued with her co-worker. Then what?

"Emma?"

She realized Ben had been waiting for an answer to his question and said, "I don't think he saw me at all." No seeing, but a lot of feeling. She flushed slightly, remembering what it felt like to be kissed by the man.

"Look, Emma, don't worry about it," Ben said, sounding more sympathetic.

She just looked away and shook her head.

"Okay," he said, "I can see you're too overwrought to think clearly right now. You were frightened and had every reason to believe Micah was a burglar breaking and entering. He would understand why you--heh, heh--why you tied him up like a prize boar in a hog-tying contest. Okay, okay," Ben put up his hands, when she stared irritably at him. "Let's handle it this way. I'll promise not to say anything about what happened here tonight unless he brings it up. Is that fair enough?"

"Thank you, Ben," Emma said, but she was speaking to his back as he disappeared into Micah's office. She heard glass crunch beneath his feet and assumed he was putting a temporary cover over the window. A moment later, he emerged with a suitcase in hand. He reached into his pocket and extracted a ring full of keys. He gave them to Emma, untied Micah and lifted him up and over his shoulders as if he weighed no more than a sack of Quickcrete. With his other hand he picked up the suitcase. "Come on, Emma, let's get this rascal to bed."

As they walked across the lot, Chip and Dale tagged along.

She sucked in her breath when Dale laved Micah's face with a long, slobbery tongue. "Later, darling ... later," he murmured, but to Emma's relief he never opened his eyes. Afraid to remain outside with the dogs, she waited in the tiny front room of the trailer while Ben put his partner to bed.

* * *

The man watching from nearby faded into the shadows of the orange grove beyond the fenced in area. He made another call, then slipped his cell phone back into the pocket of his black windbreaker. Pressing a callused palm over the red emblem adorning the left side of his jacket, he massaged his chest. He swore. Why was Johnson here? He wasn't supposed to return until tomorrow.

When Ben Woodson emerged from the travel trailer without Johnson, the man realized his nemesis was going to sleep there. He gasped with fury. His employer had advised him to abandon his plans if it looked too risky, but he didn't like being thwarted, not when he'd come so close to fulfilling a long time dream.

He took three deep breaths to calm himself. Control and patience, that was the key to success. He steadied his breathing to prove he could be patient. Hadn't he been all these years? But, it was past time that he kept his promise to Isobelle.

His eyes once more scanned the dimly lit compound as he watched the secretary and Woodson get into his Bronco and drive through the gate. Woodson got out and locked it behind them. For a moment the man contemplated the risks of continuing with his operation. Was Micah Johnson in enough of a stupor to keep him out for the rest of the night? The man couldn't afford to take the risk, couldn't chance being caught before he got his complete revenge.

"Soon, my sweet. Very soon."

Promises, Promises is available from http://www.awe-struck.net/ , http://www.tradebit.com/filedetail.php/10074  , http://www.fictionwise.com/ , http://www.amazon.com/ , www.diesel-ebooks.com and other on-line bookstores 

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 Silence Knight

Losing her job. A body in her new neighbor's kitchen. Abducted at gunpoint. Can Claire's day get any worse? She can identify the killer. Now Ryce Knight must protect her until he testifies at the dirty Miami politician's trial. But, who will protect him from Claire?

"Sexual tension between the hero and heroine makes for a delectable read.  I loved it.”...........Simegen.com

Silence Knight Excerpt:

    "Take off your clothes," the man said.

   Claire’s eyes widened and reflex made her clutch the lapels of her suit jacket. Normally, on Saturdays she’d be wearing jeans and a faded old T-shirt, but she hadn’t even taken time to change clothes before going next door to borrow the cup of sugar. She tugged the lapels together over her breasts. Just in case she’d misunderstood him, she asked in a rather squeaky voice, "What?"

   He almost smiled again—another slight curve of his lips like before. "I’ll turn my back, but make it snappy … and," he lifted the gun toward her, "don’t get cute. I mean strip everything, even the underwear."

   "I won’t be taken advantage of," she spouted with Victorian-like vehemence, in spite of the fear curling in her stomach. She had barely escaped Vernon’s drunken, pawing advances last night. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, she faced the danger of being raped. Vernon only fired her; the stranger could shoot her. Her day had certainly gone from bad to worse.

   He slowly scanned her body up and down and seemed to dismiss her as lacking. "Don’t worry. You don’t have anything I want in that department."

   She didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended. She remembered her near miss with Vernon, the horrible names he’d called her after she’d slapped his face. She had been insulted by better-looking men than this macho criminal and it hadn’t bothered her overmuch. She straightened her shoulders and pretended she didn’t notice his mockery.

   He didn’t seem to notice her not noticing.

   He turned down the covers on the bed furthermost from the front door, then moved to stand beside the one window, peering around the frayed and faded green curtain into the parking lot. "When you’re done, get between the sheets."

   While he had his back turned, she hurriedly removed her clothes. Climbing into bed as he’d ordered, she fisted the edge of the sheet with both hands and pulled it to her chin.

   "Finished?" he asked.

   "Yes," she said. She couldn’t figure out why he acted so considerate now. That must be how the captive-captor-sympathy syndrome started. The victim feels grateful for the slightest kindness. His kindness was all in her head, she cautioned herself. He’d already pointed out he wasn’t interested in her body and that was a good thing. Wasn’t it?

   "What are you going to do with my clothes?" she asked fretfully when he rolled them into a wrinkling bundle.

   "Taking them with me."

   "You’re leaving." She hadn’t meant for it to sound like a statement.

   "Don’t sound so relieved. I’m just going to the hamburger joint we passed up the road."

   "Y—You’re going to take my clothes to get hamburgers?" A redundant question always sounded apprehensive. She didn’t want him to know how scared she was. "I like lettuce and tomatoes, no onions."

   Gathering the bundle beneath his armpit, he stuck his thumbs into the waistband of his low-riding Levi’s and quirked a dark brow. "Pickles?"

   "Of course," she snapped, irritated by his rakish pose. He smiled. This time he actually showed teeth. She would rather he hadn’t. The even white row converted his appearance from a sinister villain to a handsome devil. Was there really a difference between the two? she wondered.

   He sported a tan that any Hollywood actor would die for, and from the way his deltoids strained against his shirt, she wondered if he lifted weights to keep them looking so solid. Yes, the man had flawless features and a physically fit body, but he was overbearing, and like most extremely virile looking men, untrustworthy and deceitful.

   Claire would bet those teasing amber eyes had captivated numerous females. She’d also bet not a one of those females suspected the raven-haired man capable of kidnapping and murder. A fact she’d best keep in mind. She shuddered remembering the poor woman lying in a pool of blood on her neighbor’s kitchen floor.

   He didn’t look like a killer. Handsome rakes were the worst kind of villains. They were chameleons, changing their appearance along with their personality from winsome to wretched, from noble to nefarious in the blink of an eye. Amber eyes.

   She burrowed deeper into the covers. If he thought leaving her naked would keep her here, he was sadly mistaken.

   Suddenly he unrolled the bundle of clothes onto the other bed and picked out her pantyhose. He stretched them as if testing their strength. His grin widened and she got an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

   When he wrested her hands away from the sheets she yelped, "What are you doing?"

   He didn’t answer until he had both of her wrists bound and stretched above her head, using the nylons to tie her to the headboard. "Just a safety precaution until I get back."

   She twisted her head to the side when he touched her cheek gently with the back of his hand, hating the shivery sensation that raced through her body.

   "I won’t be long." His voice had the quality of soft cotton.

   He is a bad guy.

   She just had to keep telling herself that over and over. It was a fact she easily remembered when he gagged her with her brassiere. She cringed when he jerked the phone cord from the wall, crushed the connector under his booted heel, then walked out.

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Available from http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/eBook36709.htm

Protect and Serve Series, Book 1:

  3rd Place in the Lau

Read Reviews!

A serial killer is loose in Orlando, Florida, and Hazel Crenshaw can identify him. Guardian to a five-year-old, her life is turned upside down when the killer finds out who she is and where to find her. Hazel, a headstrong, independent woman, is now forced into protective custody with the handsome, but overbearing, investigating officer. Detective Lee Wade is after a killer, and he's willing to use any means to catch him. However, when an innocent young mother who can identify the Trail Strangler falls into his lap, he's torn between using her to lure the killer and fighting his attraction to her. At all costs, though, he must protect her and the child from becoming the Strangler's next victims.

"...The plot of OVERPROTECTED nicely blends suspense and romance; the killer may give you the chills, but Lee and Hazel will warm you up again. Be prepared for several surprises along the way in this well-written offering from a talented pen."  Jane Bowers, Reviewer for Romance Reviews Today

Excerpt from OVERPROTECTED:

Lee drove a half a block before he repeated the question he'd often asked when working undercover for TRU. "You working tonight, honey?"

            Hazel didn't respond to his question. She didn't even know what he meant by it. Everything had happened so fast she wondered if she'd missed something important. She felt like a rabbit caught in a triggered trap. Except for her short, rapid breaths, she lay stunned, motionless.

            Jerked into awareness by a hard ridge moving beneath her cheek, she realized her face lay wedged between her kidnappe­r's legs. She had little choice but to burrow deeper while she worked her hands free from beneath her body.

            "Hold up on the blow job, would you, sweetheart? It has a very distracting effect on my driving."

            Hazel froze again. He used the same vulgar reference the other man had. Only this one had taken her against her will and probably would force her into doing what he suggested. Well, by god, she'd already escaped a seduction and a proposition tonight. She'd damn well fight to her death before allowing this man to violate her.

            Finding a grip on his hard denim clad thigh, she flung herself upward by one hand and grabbed for the passenger door handle with the other. His right arm shot out and snagged her by one thin shoulder strap, which snapped off in his fingers. For the second time tonight Hazel's head jostled forward from the sudden braking of a car. The rest of her body was held in place by his long muscular arm.

            She wasn't going to make it easy for him to take her. She bucked and fought like a tigress. If he didn't have her arms pinned, she'd scratch his eyes out. However, he was stron­ger, much stronger.

            Lee wrestled the woman back into the seat. He partially held her in place with his upper arm and kept an unrelenting hold on her left one, while he gripped the front of her dress with his other hand. They both gasped, him more from exasperation than overexertion.

            While catching his breath, Lee stared at her tightly clenched eyelids. They formed long feather crescents on clear, fair skin. Slowly they lifted and he felt an unexpected jolt. Her crystal blue gaze looked feral, fearful … and innocent. He couldn't be sure which one to believe. Anger, he knew. Fear maybe. But, he must be mistaken about the innocence. After all, she was a prostitute. Regardless, his body reacted. He tried holding his breath to keep from inhaling the faint scent of flowery perfume that added to his discomfort.

            He became distinctly aware of the soft swell rising and falling beneath his hand, giving him a mischievous urge to measure and probe. His eyes fell to her full, luscious looking lips as if drawn there like a bee to a sweet, pink blossom. Blood rushed through his veins and a low droning, a sound not unlike a disturbed beehive, picked up momentum inside his head.

            She made a faint whimper and Lee realized where his train of thought had been taking him. Definitely not on the proper track, he admonished himself.

            He'd known cops who couldn't work prostitution because the temptation was too great, but he'd never been one of them. Of course, he'd never met a hooker of this quality until now, either. Certainly never one as well dressed working the South Trail area. His eyes traveled over her, taking in the hint of exposed cleavage, down the snug fit of the black dress, then drifted to the hemline that rode high on her shapely silk-covered thighs. The material of the dress felt soft and pliant beneath his fingers. Quality material. Expensive.

             She made it easier for him to avoid further thoughts of indiscretion when, once again, her eyes shut tight and he realized her whimpers were obviously motivated by fear.

            "Damn!" he barked, then released her and moved back behind the wheel. The short, breathy sounds she made filled the solitude of the car.

            She kept her eyes closed while he watched her in his peripheral vision. No doubt, it didn't occur to her until she guardedly opened them that she might have another opportunity for escape. When she did, it was too late.

            Lee grabbed her wrist just as her hand touched the door handle. His other hand grasped the back of her neck. He squeezed, only using enough force to make her give up and ease back onto her seat.

            He reached across her and bringing her seat belt down across her shoulder, he locked it into place. She smelled good, he thought, like … honeysuckles.

            His mother grew the fragrant vines along the fence beside their house. As a teenager, he'd sat on the porch many a late summer evening when the honeysuckles were in full bloom dreaming about girls. Maybe the smell had triggered his adolescent behavior.

            Giving the theory a test, he inhaled deeply. The slow drone-like sound hummed once more inside his head. He moved away from her quickly, determined to keep his eyes straight ahead and his mind on his business. "Now behave," he said, "or I'm going to have to cuff you."

             "Cuff me? Wh-Where are you taking me?"

            He answered in a clipped tone as he pulled back into the traffic. "Downtown."

            "Oh God! Please let me go. I swear—"

            He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his wallet. Flipping it open to his ID and badge, he stuck it beneath her nose.

            "You're under arrest, lady."

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(Next in the sequel..CONNER'S BACK)

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Protect and Serve Series, Book 1:

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Detective Marleen Avoni must protect Conner Brenningan, a journalist who’s life is threatened after he begins a series of articles on Colombian cartels.  Can she overcome her personal feelings for the man who walked out on her three years ago? Or, will the distraction wind up getting him killed?  

"It’s a tension-filled romantic suspense that keeps us on the edge of our seats and reading furiously to see what happens next."...Fallen Angel Reviews

Conner's Back excerpt:

His bourbon-scented breath fanned across her face. Her gaze drifted downward to the curly patch of hair revealed by his open shirt. She hardly noticed the sharp edge of the countertop digging into her backside as Conner pressed his lower body against her. The growing heat and hardness between them made her gaze shoot upward. Then his lips descended over hers in a bruising, punishing kiss. But, oh, how she welcomed it. Her lips opened and beckoned the invasion of his tongue.

Gradually, his mouth eased back into a softer, gentler touch. Sliding his hands into her hair, he maneuvered her mouth like a puzzle piece to fit perfectly with his.

The scent of bourbon and the smell of coffee intermingled, registering in her senses as more pleasing than expensive cologne. The sweet, biting taste of alcohol left a warm, stinging sensation inside her mouth as his tongue traced its interior from one side to the other.

Just as suddenly as the kiss began, he broke the connection and backed away. Only the fact that she was trapped between him and the counter kept her from feeling she was being discarded like a flea scratched from a dog’s back. Though his eyes still held the dark green velvet look of passion, his actions were loaded with rejection.

He spun away, stopping when he reached the door. His back to her, he said, "I think when we return to Orlando, it would be a good idea if you didn’t see my daughter for awhile."

He then walked out the door without looking back.

Marleen hung her head as a tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped it away with the back of her hand, but it was a useless gesture, for more fell behind it. Her superiors could yell at her, her colleagues could condemn her, and her mother could reject her, but it only took a direct hit on her heart from Conner Brenningan to make her cry.  

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(Next in the sequel...SEND ME NO ROSES)

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Protect and Serve Series, Book 3:

Joani Brenningan-Estivez wakes up poolside and finds her soon-to-be-divorced spouse dead. Motive, opportunity, and a 9mm Glock lying on her lap gives her a strong incentive to flee the scene. She knows only one person who can help her discover the real murderer, but will this man, sworn to uphold the law, help prove her innocence or turn her over to the local sheriff?

"..,Irene Estep writes a fast-paced, electrifying suspense story with enough romance to captivate both mystery lovers and romantics.Well-told and satisfying."...Affair de Couer

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Excerpt from SEND ME NO ROSES:

          David sat across from her, tilted his chair back, and stretched out his long, denim-clad legs. He watched her from beneath half-lowered eyelids as he sipped from his coffee mug. He hadn't changed a bit.

The same unruly strands of blond hair flipped defiantly over his forehead. The same woodsy scent emanated from his muscular body. The same quixotic gray eyes gleamed as if harboring an amusing secret. Cocky, flirtatious eyes, Joani had always judged them. She took a large gulp of the brew, which had been reduced to lukewarm by the generous portion of cold milk.

“I’m surprised you called me, June Bug,” David said.

"I wouldn't have bothered you, but Marleen and Dad took the boys camping in North Carolina. I had no way of reaching them. I guess, I could have called my mother, but . . ." She shrugged. She really didn't want to go into her reasons for not calling Laura.

David sat down his cup. "All right, Joani. What's going on? Your eyes are bloodshot, and your clothes look like you slept in them. Why are you riding around in an ice cream truck, for Christ's sake? Can't that husband of yours afford to furnish you with transportation?"

“I have a car, a Mercedes,” she stated, then realized how pretentious that might sound to someone like David. “It’s just that—” How could she break the news about her husband without sounding incompetent and foolish? She should have called the police. Now David would be caught in the awkward position of having to turn her in. “I used to buy treats from the ice cream truck for the children in the cul-de-sac beside Miguel’s estate. Jimmy, the driver, lives in the neighborhood.  He let me hitch a ride on his way into town to pick up supplies.”

“You’d rather hitch a ride on a vending truck than drive in luxury?” he smiled.

Another thing that was the same about David, she thought, was his ability to catch her off guard. He could play good-cop bad-cop all by himself. Being as unpredictable as the Central Florida weather was probably what made him so good at his job. The teasing light in his eyes still held, but his voice sounded angry, critical, too much like the time he’d come home and found her naked in his bed.

A thin veil of tears clouded her vision. She didn’t know if she felt more like crying for her dead husband, or for the unrequited feelings she still harbored for the man sitting across from her. Seeing him again was like coming home after a long absence. One felt warmed by the familiar sights, sounds, smells, but ones old room was now occupied by another.

She remembered the woman who’d left earlier: beautiful, sophisticated. Rena Colter struck her as being a clever, assertive personality as well. Assertiveness wasn’t something that came easily for Joani. How ridiculous to be filled with self-pity at a time like this, she thought, and suddenly blurted out, "Miguel's dead."

“What!” David's chair bounced to the floor with a hard thud. He reached across the table and clasped her hands in his. The whimsical glitter had vanished from his eyes. "I mean—I’m sorry, honey. Who—er, what happened? Was he in an accident?"

Blinking back tears, Joani looked down. David’s fingers were long and slender, but one of his palms was almost broad enough to completely envelop both her hands. So strong, yet his touch was gentle. As contradictory as the rest of the things she remembered about him—macho and brusque one minute, tender and affectionate the next.

"He was shot, David. I found him in the swimming pool with a bullet hole in his back."

         "Murdered?" he asked quietly, as if a bullet in the back could indicate anything less brutal.

         She noted the reflective look in his eyes as if he hadn’t realized he’d voiced the question aloud. She nodded anyway.

"Did you see who did it? Is that why you're hiding out?"

"No. I-I—Oh, David, what if I did it?"  

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