Sophie's Last Stand

Stella, Get Your Gun

“Fans of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum should enjoy Nancy Bartholomew’s sassy Stella Valocchi…a fun, fast-paced mystery with a distinctive heroine, an intriguing hero and humor.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“A clever, outrageously funny caper.”

—New York Times bestselling author Stella Cameron

“A kick-ass heroine and an engaging story, Stella, Get Your Gun is unquestionably a winner.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“I’d like to come by later and check on you,” Detective Gray Evans said. He tried to grin and I tried harder to resist him.

“How about I call you?” I lied.

He nodded. He knew I was lying.

I walked him through the house to the front door, opened it and stood just inside the hallway while he said goodbye. The farther away from me he was, the less chance there was of me giving in. I forced a smile, thanked him again and closed the door.

However, deep down inside, I was thinking a fish might not need a bicycle, but it sure would enjoy a ride every now and then.

Dear Reader,

You’re about to read a Silhouette Bombshell novel, one of the most engaging, exciting and riveting books on the shelves today. We’re pleased to bring you fast-paced, compelling reads featuring strong, admirable women who will speak to the Bombshell in you!

In Sophie’s Last Stand by Nancy Bartholomew, Sophie Mazaratti’s trying to start over after her marriage ends very badly—but it seems her slimy ex has left her in a sticky situation involving the mob, the Feds and one darned attractive detective….

Get ready for a thrilling twenty-four hours as military author Cindy Dees continues the powerful Athena Force continuity series with Target, featuring an army intelligence agent on a mission to save the President-elect from being assassinated. To gain his trust, she’ll give the villain someone new to chase—herself….

It’s a jungle out there when a determined virologist races into the Amazon to stop a deadly outbreak—a danger that authorities seem determined to cover up, even at the cost of Dr. Jane Miller’s life. Don’t miss The Amazon Strain by Katherine Garbera!

And a protected witness must come out of hiding after her sister mysteriously disappears, in Kate Donovan’s adventure Parallel Lies. It’s up to Sabrina Sullivan to determine which of two charismatic men is lying—or if they both are—to save her sister’s life.

The stakes are high and the pressure is on! Please send me your comments c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279

Sincerely,

Natashya Wilson

Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Bombshell

Sophie’s Last Stand

Nancy Bartholomew

www.millsandboon.co.uk

NANCY BARTHOLOMEW

didn’t seem like the Bombshell type at first. Sure, she grew up in Philadelphia, but she was a gentle minister’s daughter. Sometimes, though, true wildness simmers just below the surface. Nancy started singing country music in biker bars before she graduated from high school. And, yes, Dad was there, sitting in the front row, watching over his little girl!

Nancy graduated from college with a degree in psychology and promptly moved into the inner city where she found work dragging addicted inner-city teenagers into drug and alcohol rehabilitation. She then moved south to Atlanta, and worked as the director of a substance-abuse treatment program for court-ordered offenders. Her patients were bikers and strippers and they taught her well…lock picking, exotic dancing, gunplay for beginners and hot-wiring cars.

When the criminal life became less of a challenge, Nancy turned to the final frontier…parenthood. This drove Nancy to writing. While her boys were toddlers, Nancy spent their nap-times creating alternate realities. Nancy lives in North Carolina, rides with the police on a regular basis, raises two hooligan teenage boys and tries to keep up with her writing, her psychotherapy practice and her garden. She thanks you from the bottom of her heart for reading this book!

For Becky, the wonderful sister who provided the inspiration and the motivation, and didn’t disown me for writing it all down!

Thank you!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 1

T he first time I spotted him, I figured I was just a little bit paranoid.

Being followed by strangers was my daily ritual in Philadelphia, but I was in North Carolina now. I couldn’t imagine that anybody from up there would take the time and energy to follow me all the way to New Bern just to ruin my vacation.

Besides, my sister was already doing a fine job of that. In fact, just moments before I saw him, obviously out of place in his dark suit and wraparound glasses, I was plotting Darlene’s impending demise. My sister just has that effect on me. She pushes me to the brink of homicidal frustration, all the while acting like she’s just a well-intentioned love child with the best interest of her sister at heart. It drives me crazy. Now as I stood on the sidewalk, with Darlene not three feet away from me, I was thinking about how I could give her a little shove into oncoming traffic and have it be all over with. But the minute I saw the guy I stopped thinking about Darlene.

He was trying to be noticed. At least, he had gotten my attention in that getup.

Darlene was oblivious. She stood with her back to him, her long brown hair flying out and tangling with the ribbons from her fake flower wreath. In her singsong little girl voice, she said, “I know just what you need.” Without waiting for me to ask what, she rushed on. “You need to marry an architect.”

I felt my eyebrows shoot up as I looked away from my pursuer and gave Darlene the briefest once-over.

“Why in the world would I need to marry an architect?”

Darlene smiled, triumphant in the knowledge that she’d hooked me. She spun in a little circle of ecstasy, her hands outstretched to encompass the historic homes that surrounded us, and said, “Because this is your true world. You love these old houses. You want to fix one up into a cozy little nest and live happily ever after. You can’t afford to do that, so you should marry a guy who likes old houses and can take care of you. An architect would be perfect!” She spun around again. “I so know you!”

I scowled at Darlene. “Have you lost your mind? My divorce has been final for less than a year. Do you think I want to ever, ever go through that living hell again? I’m taking care of myself just fine, Darlene. So, if I want an architect, I’ll hire one!”

I glanced over Darlene’s shoulder and realized the guy who’d been following us for three blocks was gone. I scoured the street and saw no sign of him. It was paranoia, pure and simple, that kept me on guard and expecting trouble. If this had been South Philly, I really would have a guy tailing me. Lately it seemed I was always being followed, hounded and harassed by someone looking for Nick, or worse, someone wronged by Nick. I figured a change of scenery would erase the Nick factor from my day-to-day life, and maybe it had. I mean, why would someone follow me all the way to North Carolina just to harass me about my ex-husband?

Darlene was hugging her arms to her ample chest, rubbing them, as if she were cold. “I just had an insight! Maybe you were here before. You know, like in a past life? That’s why you love the old houses. It’s your destiny to walk among your ancestors. Sophie, you should not mess with your destiny.”

“Then I should marry a sea captain, not an architect. New Bern’s a port, Darlene. My dead ancestors would be sailors. Besides, why would I want to get married again? Like Gloria Steinem said, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, Darlene.”

“Yeah, well Gloria probably said it when she broke up with some jerk, but now even she’s happily married! Sophie, it’s been two years since Nick got arrested and you broke up. Aren’t you lonely?”

Lonely maybe, but not foolish enough to think that a relationship was the magical cure for whatever ailed me.

“Actually I’m relieved, Darlene. Now I can have a life without sitting around and waiting for some Prince Charming wanna-be to ride up on a white mule and make an ass out of both of us. I think you’ve been down South too long, honey. It’s starting to warp you.”

But it wasn’t just the South that affected Darlene’s mind. Darlene had been playing Snow White and Cinderella for years, long before her three marriages, subsequent divorces and move to New Bern. Darlene was just like that, a dreamer on a quest for the ultimate, idyllic, Happily Ever After. Not that I had much room to talk. Ten years I was married to a man who turned out to be a mirage—a meek, stereotypical accountant with an underbelly of pure slime.

“Nick the Dick” they called him. You couldn’t pick up the Philadelphia Inquirer last fall and not see that name plastered all over the articles about his trial. Nick the Dick, the King of Voyeur Porn; Nick, the quiet accountant, who snuck up to all our neighbors’ windows with night vision goggles and a video camera. Nick, selling pictures of naked housewives on his Web site, hiring prostitutes, making illicit movies, and then posting it all on the Internet. Oh yeah, I needed a man, all right…just not in this lifetime.

Darlene stood in front of me wearing that smug, patronizing look she gets. She reached out and patted my shoulder, which further pissed me off.

“One day you’ll want someone,” she said, her voice soft and mushy with idealism. “You feel bitter now, betrayed, but this will pass. You’re a Leo. You need a water sign to provide balance in your life. I know these things, Sophie.” She straightened her shoulders and tossed her head defiantly. “After all,” she said, “I am a trained, professional therapist.”

“Darlene, you’re a physical therapist, not a psychiatrist.”

“Whatever!” She was insulted now. “I know people—that’s all I’m saying. And you need a soothing water sign. There’s too much fire in your personality.”

Once again I began contemplating putting Darlene out of her unenlightened misery.

“I don’t need a husband, Darlene.”

She ignored me, waited for the light to turn and began crossing the street toward the Tryon Palace Visitors Center. She reminded me of a cruise ship leaving port. She charged off ahead of me, streamers gaily flying out behind her, blending their cheerful colors with those of her brightly patterned broomstick skirt. Life was just a pleasure cruise for Darlene and the rest of us were left to wallow in her wake.

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

Darlene consulted her tour handbook. “Number 23. The Beale House.”

“Go on ahead. I’ll meet you at 24. I need to make a pit stop.”

Darlene looked back over her shoulder, smiled that self-satisfied, I’m-right-and-you know-it smirk and took off, because she knew if she so much as slowed up, I might’ve wiped that look right off her face, thereby recreating every childhood encounter we’d ever had.

When she turned right, I made a beeline for the darkened interior of the air-conditioned welcome center. Marry an architect indeed! I stayed inside the building a full five minutes, cooling off, before allowing myself to head back out after my errant sister.

Number 24, the tiny Episcopal chapel, was one short block away. I could see the blue-and-white sign shimmering in the midafternoon heat as I made my way toward it. I walked slowly, taking my time and looking at everything—the Tryon Palace grounds, the other tourists, the flowers and gardens. I was soaking it all in but I was also looking for the suit. He was nearby. I could feel him. Damn.

New Bern was old, but not in the dirty, dingy way Philly sometimes seemed. New Bern had a fresh-scrubbed, healthy glow to its old buildings. It felt as if someone, many someones in fact, cared about this old town, cared for every brick and windowpane, cared enough not to let it decay with grime and misuse. It breathed in color, while Philadelphia stayed sepia-toned and dull.

I stepped inside the darkened chapel, inhaled the scent of lemon cleaner, stepped forward and ran smack into the proverbial bicycle—the most incredibly handsome man I’d ever seen in my life.

“Oh, God,” I said, and then realized I was in church, and crossed myself hastily. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”

He was making the same apologies and backing up a step, his gray-blue eyes the first thing I could see clearly because they were so intense and bright in the gloomy church.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, and then flashed me a smile that seemed to light up the dark interior of the ancient building. “I should know better than to stand right in front of the door. This is the third time today I’ve done this.”

As my eyes adjusted, I could see what he meant. He stood in front of a card table that was covered with tiny paper cups and plastic pitchers of lemonade. Behind the table stood two prepubescent Boy Scouts, both grinning and looking at Mr. Wonderful like he was the funniest thing going.

“Here,” he said, holding a cup out toward me, “at least have some lemonade.”

“He spilled it on the last lady,” one of the Scouts volunteered.

“Yeah, I’d take it quick,” the other added.

The guy laughed and shot them a look that said they were all pals, anyway, despite the boys’ comments. And for a moment I was completely and totally charmed. I stood there watching him, frozen to the spot like a deer staring into a set of oncoming headlights.

“Is it all right? It’s a new batch but it shouldn’t be too…” He paused.

“Oh no,” I said, breaking out of my stupor. I took a huge gulp, choked and sputtered. “It’s great, really!”

And then I ran, darting across the room, where I stood examining the baked goods like my life depended on it, and wondering where in the hell Darlene was. I shot a glance over at him and found he was watching me, the same hundred-watt smile stuck on his face.

He was handsome, all right. Tall, maybe six foot two inches. I put him a few years older than me, perhaps in his early forties, with a salt-and-pepper, supershort haircut and faint lines that crinkled around his eyes when he smiled. I realized with a start he was still smiling at me and that I was still, and most obviously, staring at him.

I flipped back around, pretending to study a display that covered the history of the tiny chapel. This was too ridiculous. What was I doing? I was no better than Darlene, getting myself all hot and bothered over the very gender I’d just sworn to avoid like the black plague. Men were a disease. They crawled under your skin and poisoned you into believing that this time it would be different.

“Fool me once, shame on you,” I muttered. “Fool me twice, shame on me.”

I took a deep breath, ignored the pull of infatuation at first sight and forced myself to walk right past him, outside into the brilliant sunlight. Darlene was probably lost in the ozone of her past lives and had wandered into another house, forgetting all about her sister in the process. She’d turn up, but when or where was anybody’s guess.

I walked slowly, turning down the side street where I’d seen Darlene last, looked for her and imagined what my life would be like if I lived here and not in crowded South Philly. I tried to see myself in every perfect garden, watering flowers with an ancient metal watering can, or sitting on a white wooden swing and rocking slowly in the moonlight. I tried not to worry about my sister. After all, this was New Bern and not Philadelphia. If someone was looking for me, he wouldn’t bother my airhead sister. Still, I felt the shiver of apprehension and suddenly wished like hell I could catch a glimpse of colorful ribbons up ahead in the crowd of tourists.

When I didn’t see her on the street in front of me, I turned again, wandering down a block shaded by ancient oaks. The sidewalk was bumpy brick, rippled with tree roots and narrowed by the paving of what had to have once been a cobble-stone street. Darlene stood outside a house at the far end, talking to an elderly woman and gesturing wildly with her hands. I heaved a deep sigh of relief. Now that I knew she was all right, I really was going to kill her.

I started toward her, walked maybe fifty feet and stopped. Behind a battered picket fence, behind a gigantic magnolia tree, behind overgrown bushes and weeds, sat my dream house, a battered brown-and-white cottage with a sagging porch and a rusted tin roof. In bad shape now, but, oh, what potential!

A For Sale sign, faded but firmly planted just inside the front yard, and brochures in a box beside the sign called to me. I grabbed a paper and stood looking up at the little house. I could see it all as it would be with a little attention, with a little hard work and, of course, a little money. I looked at Darlene, caught her eye and pointed toward the house. She waved, but made no move to join me.

I examined the house as I walked up the tiny driveway. It would take a chainsaw working overtime to actually make it possible to enter the house, but if it was structurally sound…Well, the possibilities were all there, waiting for the right person. I made my way down the length of the house, trying to look in through the grime-covered windows. The faint scent of the nearby waterfront mingled with the smells of honeysuckle and wild roses, and I found myself falling deeper and deeper into the trance of possibility.

The man I’d seen earlier suddenly reappeared, trying to take me as I pushed open the back gate. He lunged for me, springing out of the shadows that framed the back porch and rushing me. In his hand, he held an ugly black knife. I whirled, dropping my purse as I turned, and stepping into his move, hitting him low and inside with my body as I turned to grip his knife arm with both hands.

I yelled, guttural and hoarse, and brought his arm down across my thigh, heard the welcome snap of the bone breaking, and saw the knife skitter away into the bushes. His scream got caught short by the brick wall as I slammed him into it, bringing the useless arm up behind his back and working the weight and momentum of his big frame against him.

“Tell whoever sent you that Nick worked alone. I don’t have his money. I don’t have any of his nasty pictures and I sure don’t have whatever else it is you want. Tell him to leave me alone. You got that?”

When the man didn’t answer, I jerked his arm higher. His answering cry cut through the blood pounding in my ears as adrenaline sent my overworked emergency alert system into overdrive. How much longer was this shit going to go on? When was everybody going to finally figure out that I’d been even more hoodwinked by Nick’s betrayal than the rest of them?

In my world, Nick had been just a bad husband. Until the police had come through my front door with a search warrant and a squadron of uniformed officers, I’d only known about Nick’s day job as an accountant. So how could I possibly know anything about missing money?

I pushed the big man tight against the wall and stretched up on tiptoe to say my piece. He moaned, the fight gone out of his huge frame, and I thanked God for Vinny and Krav Maga. A year ago, I would’ve been this moron’s prey, but now I could take care of myself. In the two years since Nick’s arrest and our separation I’d grown up. In the past year I’d gotten divorced, watched as my ex-husband got convicted and sent to prison, and learned to kill a man ten different ways. Not bad for a kindergarten teacher.

I sighed and watched as my attacker ran away. I now understood the concept of, “use it or lose it.” I just didn’t like it. There was something wrong with having to defend myself against hairy ogres, irate husbands and loudmouthed police officers. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, I’d married Nick ten years ago, but aside from that, nothing. So why did everyone think I knew more than I did? Why did people keep coming up to me on the street, yelling about how their lives had been ruined by my husband? Hadn’t my life been ruined? How would I ever pick up the pieces?

My heart was pounding and my hands shook as the shock and reality of my recent attack set in and overwhelmed my body. It wasn’t the first time a confrontation had turned physical, but it was the first surprise attack and by far the worst. I closed my eyes for a second, seeing it all over again in my mind’s eye. The guy had meant business. He wasn’t another irate husband, or one of Nick’s former business associates accusing Nick of embezzling money, and he was most certainly not a cop. No, this guy had been hired help. Why had he gone to the trouble of following me on vacation? Did they think I had a suitcase full of stolen money and was coming to tiny New Bern to spend it?

People just kept turning up, out of nowhere, all saying Nick owed them money, or wanting revenge. Who were all of these people and when would it all end?

“Sophie! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Darlene had snuck up on me and now stood on the sidewalk swatting at imaginary mosquitoes and looking annoyed.

I stared at my sister for a moment, wondering if she noticed that I looked a little the worse for wear, and realizing that she of course didn’t. It was actually better that Darlene not know about my encounter. She’d only run straight back to our parents and tell all, and then I’d have that to deal with.

“You were looking for me?” I sputtered. “Where were you?”

I saw her catch her breath and get ready to start in on the defense, and short-circuited her.

“Never mind. Would you look at this place?” I said, hoping she wouldn’t notice I was sweating bullets and slightly out of breath. I stared down at the brochure I held in my hands and started spouting off information, hoping to distract Darlene with facts. “It was built in 1886. It’s perfect.”

Darlene’s expression changed to one of wary concern. “Perfect for what? It’s falling apart.”

“Darlene, look. It’s got good bones. It might need updating, some paint and a new roof, but the brochure says that most of the structural renovations have been completed. It’s mainly cosmetic work now. Best of all, it’s only sixty-eight thousand.

“Dollars?”

I gave her a look that said her sarcasm wasn’t wasted on me. I knew what she was saying. “Darlene, it’s a steal. Do you realize what one of these would cost in Philly? In Society Hill? This is unbelievable.”

“Unbelievable is right,” she said. “It’s probably just a shell. And you see those brick apartments back there? Those are the Projects. Sophie, this is not a good neighborhood.”

I looked where she was pointing, almost exactly behind the house, maybe a block away. Then I turned and looked across the street in the other direction, at the little cottages that had already been renovated, sweet with flower boxes and periwinkle shutters, rich with fresh paint and gingerbread trim. Suddenly the decision was an easy one.

“It’s a steal, Darlene.”

“They’ll rob you blind, Sophie.”

“I could make money on resale.”

“You could be killed in your bed one night.”