To Love, Honor And Defend

The heat and strength in his grasp were almost enough to drive away the doubts chilling her to the marrow. His grip felt safe. Steady. Solid.

But the last time she’d needed him to be there for her, he’d abandoned her. Shattered her faith. Broken her heart.

The judge pronounced them man and wife and turned to Cal with a grin. “You may kiss your bride.”

Libby’s stomach pitched.

No way.

Cal had accepted her terms. He’d agreed to keep things strictly hands-off. He’d promised. So he wouldn’t…he couldn’t…he—cupped her cheek in his palm and tipped her chin up.

Libby gawked at him, her heart thumping.

His piercing gaze zeroed in on her mouth like a heat-seeking missile. And ka-boom.

To Love, Honor and Defend

Beth Cornelison

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BETH CORNELISON

started writing stories as a child when she penned a tale about the adventures of her cat, Ajax. A Georgia native, she received her bachelor’s degree in public relations from the University of Georgia. After working in public relations for a little more than a year, she moved with her husband to Louisiana, where she decided to pursue her love of writing fiction.

Since that first time, Beth has written many more stories of adventure and romantic suspense and has won numerous honors for her work, including the coveted Golden Heart Award in romantic suspense from Romance Writers of America. She is active on the board of directors for the North Louisiana Storytellers and Authors of Romance (NOLA STARS) and loves reading, traveling, Peanuts’ Snoopy and spending downtime with her family.

She writes from her home in Louisiana, where she lives with her husband, one son and two cats who think they are people. Beth loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 52505, Shreveport, LA 71135-2505 or visit her Web site at www.bethcornelison.com.

This one is for Jeffery—who has big dreams

of his own. You can achieve anything in life with faith,

a firm foundation, a good attitude and

dogged perseverance. I love you!

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Lt. J. E. Via, retired Investigator and Major Case Supervisor for the Criminal Investigation Division of the Ouachita Parish Sheriff Department, for answering my many questions and letting me know about Louisiana Act 894, which will allow Cal a happier ending!

To Christy Hughes, sales manager for Kone, Inc., for her helpful information about elevators.

To Anna Destefano and Winnie Griggs, my dear friends and critique partners on this book.

To Lucienne Diver, my wonderful agent, for her assistance, friendship and unflagging support through the years.

To Paul, for putting up with this zany writer while I followed my dream.

Contents

Prologue

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

Prologue

“All rise. The Honorable Judge Thomas Fitzpatrick presiding.”

Showtime.

Cal Walters shoved stiffly to his feet. He knew what was coming—two years in prison before he was eligible for parole.

Tension vibrated in the silent courtroom and through Cal’s taut muscles as he waited for the judge to rule on the plea agreement. He glanced behind him, where the guys from his fire station had come out in a show of support. His fellow firefighters had been at the bar with him the night he’d spotted David Ralston in the back hall using a woman as a punching bag. They’d stood with him as he’d come to the woman’s defense.

And his buddies had peeled him off Ralston when his defense of the woman had turned into something more, when the past and present had blurred and Cal had gone a little crazy.

He drew a deep, fortifying breath as Fitzpatrick settled at the bench.

Maybe, just maybe, the judge would agree that the deal the district attorney’s office had offered was unreasonable. Maybe the judge wouldn’t make him serve time once he considered the circumstances surrounding that bar fight.

Sure. And maybe Assistant D.A. Libby Hopkins’s presence in the courtroom meant she still had feelings for him and wanted to pick up where they’d left off three years ago.

In your dreams.

Regret sliced through him, sharp and merciless.

“Counsel, I’ve reviewed the plea agreement reached in this matter.” Judge Fitzpatrick shuffled his papers then addressed the lead prosecutor. “Mr. Moore, do you have anything that needs attention before I make my ruling?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Cal turned, staring past the tall, bearded assistant D.A.

When his gaze locked on the brunette in the first row of the gallery, his gut rolled. Libby stood with her back rigid, buttoned down in her pinstriped suit. She’d slicked her shiny chestnut hair into a neat bun. Her cool, crisp courtroom dress didn’t fool him. He remembered the feel of that silky mane, unbound and tumbled around him during the hottest sex he’d ever had. Even now the memory made his body ache and pulse, his heart clench. They’d shared something special. Something intense.

Something he’d ended after a precious few months to marry a former girlfriend. Renee had discovered, weeks after they’d parted company and he’d later met Libby, that she was carrying his child. Cal wanted his baby to have his name, but giving Libby up had left a hole in his heart.

Seeing Libby walk into the courtroom today had been bittersweet. She hadn’t been a member of the prosecution team, but that didn’t allay his suspicions about her contributions to his lynching. Watching her repeatedly confer with the prosecution made it clear where Libby’s loyalties lay.

“Mr. Walters, do you understand the terms of this plea and accept them without coercion or duress?”

Hell, no! I don’t understand why any of this has happened, how my life could have gotten so far off track.

Cal’s chest contracted, filled with a dull ache. If he went to prison, he wouldn’t see his daughter for months. Two-year-old Ally meant the world to him. He’d given up Libby to be Ally’s father, and now he felt his baby girl slipping away, too. He choked back the bitter frustration and defeat and nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“You understand that your attorney has asked that you be allowed the provisions of Act 894? That if you maintain a clean record for five years after serving your full sentence that these charges will be expunged from your record?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He was grateful for that ray of hope in this nightmare.

“Would you like to address the court before I rule on this plea agreement?” Judge Fitzpatrick asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Cal knew that what he had to say wouldn’t make a bean’s difference. He’d pleaded his case to his attorney, to the police, to Renee. So why repeat himself now? Libby lifted her dark brown eyes to his at that moment, and he knew. He was appealing to her. Maybe she could dismiss all they’d shared, but their months together meant something to him.

“I deeply regret everything that has happened. If I could change things, I would. Many people have been hurt by my actions, and for that I’m sorry.”

Libby shifted her weight, her hard, all-business facade cracking. She knew he was addressing her, their history. He could see it in the flash of vulnerability and sadness that drifted over her face. Then she glanced to the spot behind him where Renee sat, and Libby’s sadness morphed into something hard-edged, cold. And vengeful?

Cal’s pulse jumped. He knew he’d hurt her when he’d married Renee, but he never imagined Libby would retaliate. Had Libby played a part, behind the scenes, in the D.A. office’s tough negotiations on his plea?

A chill snaked through him. The glint of anger and distrust in Libby’s glare was unmistakable. The acid bite of betrayal gnawed inside him. Didn’t she know how it had killed him to leave her? Didn’t she understand why he’d made the choices he had?

Cal’s attorney cleared his throat, and Cal realized he’d lapsed into an awkward silence. His muscles tense, he tore his gaze away from Libby and addressed the judge again.

“My father raised me to respect and defend women.” He took a slow breath to keep the pain of Libby’s injustice out of his voice. He saw the stiff penalty the prosecution had demanded in a new light, and his gut twisted. “I couldn’t sit back and watch Ralston hitting a lady.” Cal took a deep breath and shook his head. “As a firefighter, my job is to protect and save lives. Ms. Dillingham was in danger, so I stepped in. I regret crossing the line with Ralston, but in the same situation, I would still defend any woman.”

Judge Fitzpatrick arched a bushy eyebrow. “Anything else?”

Cal clenched his teeth, glanced at Libby again. “No, sir.”

The judge unfolded the document in front of him and read, “Calvin Rutledge Walters, in accordance with the plea agreement reached with the Lagniappe, Louisiana, District Attorney’s office, this court accepts your guilty plea to the charge of aggravated battery and sentences you to serve no less than two years and no more than five years in the parish correctional institution.”

Cal’s knees almost buckled, but he stood firm by sheer will.

He couldn’t be certain, but Cal would have sworn Libby flinched when the gavel slammed down, sealing his fate. Yet while the bailiff snapped handcuffs on his wrists, she congratulated her colleagues on a job well done.

Renee marched up and shot him a disgusted look. “I’ll be filing for divorce tomorrow. I should’ve done it long ago.”

“Fine,” he said, still watching Libby revel. “As long as you let me see Ally. You can’t keep me away from my daughter.”

Renee snorted. “Watch me. You’re hardly in a position to fight for custody.”

A tremor twisted through Cal as he met Renee’s sneer. What if he lost his rights to see Ally while he was locked away? Ally was all he had left.

The cold steel handcuffs jerked his arms up as the bailiff led him out of the courtroom. Cal found Libby again as he shuffled toward the door. He gritted his teeth and kept an icy stare pinned on the woman he’d once believed he loved. Libby Hopkins had betrayed everything they’d once shared. He had no doubt she’d encouraged her colleagues’ merciless dealings with him. Her vindictive glare confirmed that she’d sought revenge on him for her broken heart.

She’d helped destroy his life.

Chapter 1

Two years later

Another letter. Her stalker was nothing if not persistent.

Libby Hopkins’s hands shook as she stared down at the telltale blue envelope. Dread twisted her stomach, but perverse curiosity, a need to know what she was dealing with made her open the letter and read.

To the bitch who ruined my life,

That was an ugly blue suit you wore yesterday. Made you look like a man. Under those suits, I bet you have a hot body. You should dress to show off your assets. Better yet, you should stay home, where a woman belongs, and stop playing the tough lawyer. Do you get a thrill destroying people’s lives? You ruined my life, but I’ll have the last laugh. When you least expect it.

Shuddering, she crunched the letter in her hand. He knew what she’d worn to court yesterday. He was watching her.

“Libby?”

She gasped, and the letter fluttered to the floor. Clapping a hand over her racing heart, she turned toward her office door and flashed an embarrassed grin at her colleague from the D.A.’s office.

“God, Stan, you scared the daylights out of me.” She stooped to retrieve the letter and tossed it on her desk. “Try to make more noise when you sneak up on someone.”

Stan Moore grinned and shoved his hands into his pressed and pleated khakis. “Like wear a cowbell maybe?”

She dropped into her chair. “There’s an interesting idea. You could start a Lagniappe fashion trend.”

Stan scratched his ear and grimaced. “I’ll pass, thanks.” He nodded toward the letter. “So what had you so engrossed that you didn’t hear me sneaking up? Something break in the Chandler trial?”

Libby shook her head. “See for yourself. That’s the fifth one I’ve gotten. Same handwriting, same stationery, same language. I’m beginning to take this guy seriously. I admit, I’m spooked.”

Frowning, Stan took the letter from the desk and read. “Have you reported this to the police?”

“Yeah. A couple weeks ago. They can’t tell me much. No prints on the letters, and the stationery is pretty generic.”

He grunted. “And this one? You called it in yet?”

“Not yet.” Libby rubbed her temple. “I’ve been so tied up with the Chandler case, I hadn’t realized how out of hand this guy had gotten. I’ve had hate mail before—people letting off steam. No real substance. But this guy…” Libby bit down on her bottom lip as she thought back to the earlier letters. “His threats are escalating.”

Stan tossed the letter onto her desk. “This is way beyond venting steam, Lib.”

She shivered. “Yeah. I know.”

“So…” He lifted the receiver of her desk phone and waved it at her. “Shall I report this letter or will you?”

Sighing, she pried the phone from his hand. “I’ll call it in. But not now. I’m exhausted. Too tired to deal with police questions and protocol.” She hung up the receiver, and Stan frowned. “When I get home. I promise. First, I just want a hot bath and a couple aspirin.”

Pushing away from her desk, she collected her briefcase and brushed past him. Stan turned as she marched toward the door and continued glaring his disapproval. “You taking home the brief I gave you on the Browning case?”

She raised her overstuffed briefcase and nodded. “Got it. I’ll go over it tonight and get back with you in the morning.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. If I know you, you’ll put it first and forget about calling the cops.”

Her shoulders drooped. “I won’t forget.”

“Promise me. ’Cause I will call if you don’t. This guy sounds serious, and you know how dangerous he could be.”

She shuddered. Yeah, she knew. The wackos she’d helped put away never ceased to amaze her with their capacity for evil.

“I’ll call. I swear.” She gave Stan an affectionate pat on the shoulder then headed out to the long, dim hall.

“Let me at least walk you out to your car.” Stan kept pace beside her.

She grinned and shook her head. “No need. I’ve got Old Peppy with me.” She held up the pepper spray on her key chain. “And I’m parked in the garage. Security’s got cameras there. I’ll be fine. Go back to whatever’s got you here burning the midnight oil.”

Stan hesitated, but finally shrugged and waved her off. “Just be careful.”

“Always am.” Despite her bone-deep weariness, she headed toward the elevator with a brisk stride, her head high and her eyes scanning her surroundings. As usual, she and Stan weren’t the only ones working late, but the majority of the offices along the spartan corridor were already dark and empty. Her low-heeled pumps clicked on the linoleum floor, the sound reverberating in the deserted hall. Libby had walked this hallway at night for years. Yet tonight, with Stan’s warnings fresh in her ears and the newest letter from her stalker tugging at her thoughts, the isolated corridor seemed gloomy. Unsettling. The spiders-on-your-skin feeling of having someone unseen watching you.

Libby jabbed the elevator call button with more force than needed, irked that she let herself get spooked so easily. Just the same, she repositioned her keys so the pepper spray was more accessible and ready with the flick of a finger.

She pulled in a cleansing breath while she waited for the elevator and mentally reviewed her schedule for tomorrow. In addition to the Browning hearing, she had depositions for the Gulliver case and motions to file with the Chandler case. Another twelve-hour day at least.

The elevator rumbled and groaned in the shaft, but the doors never opened. Hadn’t Sally Hickson spent two hours stuck in the elevator last week?

Libby gave the elevator doors one last withering glance before she headed for the stairs. The exercise would be good for her. By working late, she’d missed her three-nights-a-week kickboxing class twice this week already.

The emergency exit door clanged closed behind her as she trudged down the first of twelve flights of stairs, lugging her overburdened briefcase. Until the Chandler case was settled, she’d probably be missing a lot more than just aerobics classes. Like a personal life.

When was the last time she’d gone to dinner with a friend? If she couldn’t remember, it had been too long. And forget about dating. A relationship took too much time and energy. She didn’t need another demand on her day.

Or another broken heart. Libby’s steps faltered. Where had that thought come from?

Easy. Her assistant Helen’s little aside in their morning meeting that Cal Walters was out on parole.

Cal Walters. The memory of his laserlike blue eyes drilling into her from across the courtroom still haunted her. He hated her. He’d made that much clear with his icy glare. But why?

So much history…

Squaring her shoulders, she plodded on down the steps, shaking off the melancholy that settled over her whenever she thought about Cal. No point dredging up the if onlys.

As she reached the ninth floor, Libby heard a door a few floors above her open and close. She grinned wryly. Someone else had tired of waiting on the decrepit elevator.

The heavy, low-pitched thud of a man’s footsteps joined the clack of her own shoes on the concrete steps. An uneasy jitter crawled up her spine. She was so isolated in the stairwell….

She pushed the nagging sensation aside, blaming Stan for making her too jumpy. Pausing at the seventh floor, she shifted her briefcase from one hand to the other. When she stopped, the heavier footsteps fell silent, too.

Libby furrowed her brow. Odd.

She started down the next flight. The man’s footsteps resumed.

A prick of alarm nudged her to a faster pace. The person behind her matched her speed.

Don’t panic. Clamping down on the swirl of jitters that skittered through her, she leaned over the railing to look up. “Stan? Is that you?”

No answer.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Silence.

She slowly took a few more steps. The thuds echoed her progress, but she saw no one.

“You’re not funny, Stan!” She picked up her pace, wishing she’d accepted his offer of an escort.

The rasp of labored breathing wheezed behind her, growing louder—the ominous hiss of a viper waiting to strike.

Libby took the steps as quickly as she could without tripping. Her briefcase slapped her legs. Her heartbeat matched the frantic rhythm of her feet. Her pursuer kept time.

“I’m gonna get you, bitch!” His hoarse voice scratched through her like shards of ice, chilling her to the marrow. She swallowed the whimper that swelled in her throat.

Stay calm. Think.

With a sweaty hand, she clutched her pepper spray, flicked off the safety catch. Racing to the fifth floor, she mentally prepared for an attack. No one would hear if she screamed.

She was alone. On her own.

She could head for the lobby instead of the garage, but the night watchman’s desk was down several long corridors.

No. She’d parked right across from the stairs. Much closer.

If she could just reach her car and get inside…

His footsteps sounded closer. Oh God, no!

Move faster! Panic hovered in her chest.

She had to keep her head.

Turning at the third floor, her heel snagged. She stumbled. Her hip smacked the steel bar. Pain snaked down her leg, and she yelped. The misstep cost her valuable seconds. Ignoring the throb in her hip, she plowed on.

He was gaining on her.

Breathing raggedly, Libby bolted down the next set of stairs. It was him—the crazy who’d sent threats on blue paper. Her gut told her so.

Terror clambered up her throat, choking her. The heat of his breath scorched her neck, but when she turned, no one was there.

Don’t look. Just run.

Second floor. First. Faster!

Libby slammed through the door at garage level. Steel bands of terror strangled her lungs. A white-hot sting speared her hip as she sprinted across the deserted parking area. Gasping in pain and panic, she frantically mashed the remote to unlock her Camry. The headlights flashed on, blinding her briefly as she neared the driver’s side.

Her fingers fumbled with the ignition key. Cursing the shadows that cast the parking lot in darkness, she groped for the door. She jerked the handle of her Camry. The door didn’t budge. Her head swam dizzily, and her hands shook as she tried the remote again.

Metal screeched, followed by an echoing boom. The stairwell door. He’d reached the garage. She sensed her stalker zeroing in on her, heard the shuffle of feet on concrete….

Please, please! Finally her door lock clicked off with a snick. Her knees wobbled with relief. Snatching the door open, she threw her briefcase inside.

She smelled him first.

The unmistakable scents of male sweat, deodorant soap and pine. An instant later, a large hand closed around her arm.

“Lib—”

She gasped and jerked against the man’s grip. Spun. Raised the can of pepper spray.

With lightning speed, he knocked the vial from her hand. She screamed. Fought. Flailed at him with her fists.

He clamped a hand over her mouth. His long, hard body pinned her against the side of her car.

Still, she struggled, but her captor was an immovable wall of muscle.

The prosecutor in her cut through the haze of fear. Look at his face. Make a mental picture so you can give a description.

Assuming she got away.

Her stubborn will rejected the voice of doubt. She would get away. No way would she become a statistic.

Fighting his hold on her mouth, she angled her head. The light from her Camry spilled through the open door and illuminated his chiseled jaw, raven hair and laser-blue eyes.

A face she knew. Intimately.

“Hello, Libby,” Cal drawled. “Long time no see.”

Libby’s face, already pale with fright, blanched a shade whiter. Cal frowned and eased his grip on her arm. Something had her spooked. Badly. She’d bolted through the door from the stairs as if she had the hounds of hell on her heels.

“Are you all right, Lib?”

The bedroom-brown eyes he remembered were now bright with fear and glanced nervously around the empty parking garage. But was she looking for someone to help her or searching for whatever demon had had her racing for her car?

The idea that she could be afraid of him gnawed his gut. No matter how much he hated what she’d done to his life, the years she’d stolen from him, the job he’d lost, he wasn’t the kind of man who’d harm a woman. In all the months they’d spent together, hadn’t she at least learned that about him?

“Mmmr wwrm,” she mumbled from under his hand.

His scowl deepened, and he nailed her with a no-nonsense glare. “I’ll let go of your mouth if you promise not to scream again. That last screech busted my ears.”