- -
- 100%
- +
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ROZ DENNY FOX
A secretary by trade, Roz began her writing career in 1986 with a series of self-help articles. She sold a short story to a magazine in 1987. After much prodding from her then high-school-age daughter, Roz tried her hand at writing a contemporary romance. Roz began writing full-time in 1995.
Roz’s second book was a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist in the Traditional category, and she’s also been a finalist for the Desert Rose Chapter’s Golden Quill Award and the Holt Medallion.
Currently, Roz resides in Tucson with her husband, Denny. They have two married daughters and five grandchildren. Readers can find out more about Roz by visiting her Web site, www.korynna.com.
For Nakita and Savannah.
Dream big. Read much.
Be anything you want to be.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
DAPHNE MALONE put down her phone, threw her hands in the air and danced a zany victory dance around her perpetually unmade bed. She’d just been offered a job. Not the greatest in the world, but a start. In the middle of her jazzy dance to a blaring CD, a strand of curly dark hair caught on one of the four posters, bringing her up short. The jolt sobered her. This was real. A job. In a few hours.
She dashed to her cluttered closet, and because Daphne never did anything slowly, she rummaged around frantically until she uncovered an old beach bag. With her free hand she began pawing through costumes she might use today. She couldn’t decide, so she tossed in accessories. The bag was already bulging, and she still hadn’t settled on a costume. Maybe she’d phone her mom for advice. Calandra Malone had taught both her daughters how to sew at an early age, which was why Daphne had such a splendid array of clown suits.
She grabbed the phone from her nightstand and hopped around, pulling on a pair of clean white jeans while punching in her parents’ number. Daphne juggled the cellular between her cheek and shoulder and braided her long hair into a single, more manageable plait.
“Mom? Guess what?” she said the instant Callie Malone answered. “I’ve got a job at a birthday party this afternoon over near Commerce. I am so excited!”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “It’s near East L.A., not in East L.A. Yes, Mo…ther, I know Kieran says that part of the city isn’t safe for a woman alone. But I’m going to the home of someone who’s a friend of a friend of the wife of one of Dane’s partners. It’s a party for ten seven-year-olds. How safe is that?
“Okay, okay! I’ll check in when I get home.” Daphne glanced at her watch. “I called to see which outfits you think I should take, but I need to run. Be happy for me, please. It means money, at least, until I get the break I’m really waiting for.” Daphne lowered the receiver at the last possible moment, listening to Callie, who continued to spout dire warnings. She ended with one good suggestion. “Take a variety, Daphne, and see which feels right when you get there. Just…be careful, sweetheart.”
Daphne added her favorite clown suits to the bag, all the while wishing her parents and her three older brothers would believe she could take care of herself. After all, she was twenty-six. Granted, Kieran subsidized the apartment, but only until she could get herself established. Meanwhile, why couldn’t the lot of them stop hovering? Her sister, Becky, was a year younger and they left her alone. Of course, Becky had a solid marriage, a good career, and she was already a mom herself. Daphne’s jobs had been a disaster up to now, and her love life—well, that didn’t bear mentioning.
Lugging the beach bag down to the vintage chartreuse VW Bug that her brother Perry had lovingly restored, Daphne let a perfect late-summer afternoon rejuvenate her spirits. She was an eternal optimist. She wasn’t going to let her mother’s undue alarm change that.
Placing the directions to the party on the empty seat, Daphne dropped her sunglasses over her eyes and chugged off along the familiar streets of Culver City—the suburb of L.A. where she’d lived forever.
Like a pro, she cut from the I-10 freeway to the Santa Ana Freeway, eventually exiting on Atlantic Boulevard. A cop’s siren screamed over her new Josh Groban CD. Daphne automatically moved to the right and rolled to a stop. Squinting into the sun out her side window, she watched in amazement as five police cars sped past. Daphne couldn’t tell if Kieran was driving one. Her brother did sometimes patrol this area. She hadn’t spoken with him since the previous Friday because she’d spent the week babysitting her oldest brother’s kids. As a rule, she’d know Kieran’s schedule. The Malones were a close-knit family in spite of her complaints about their hovering.
Five blocks farther down the road she discovered the police had cordoned off the street she was supposed to turn into. Not familiar with this neighborhood, she wasted time locating an alternate route on a map stored in a side pocket of her car.
The roundabout journey took her down some scuzzy streets. Remembering her mom’s lecture, she locked both doors. After making a U-turn, she finally found the street she wanted. The homes here were older, but she was relieved to see they were well maintained. The one she sought was at the bottom of a dead-end street. A partially wooded lot bordered it on the left, intersected by trails. Neighbors probably walked their dogs there or jogged through the trees.
Daphne hefted her beach bag, draping it nonchalantly over one shoulder as she checked the house number. She mounted the steps and knocked.
A harried, very pregnant woman opened the door. She introduced herself as April Ross. After exchanging a few words, April led Daphne into a living room that was a mess of floating balloons. “Forgive me, please. The first helium tank I rented didn’t work, so I had to take it back. This is Natalie, the birthday girl. Nat, Daphne Malone, our party clown. Honey, will you take Daphne to the guest bedroom so she can change into her costume?”
April finished tying off a balloon and added, “The guest room has a sliding glass door leading out onto the patio, where I’ve set up for the party. I know you said you’ll probably change costumes during your program. I thought it’d be easiest to run back and forth into the house through the slider.”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks, April. I’ll scoot off and dress so I can help you greet the kids. Or tie balloon bouquets. Whatever you prefer. In any case, I’d better hurry. I see a couple of moms bringing kids up the walkway now. I’ll just go, get out of your hair.” Daphne moved toward the hall.
“Thanks for your offer of help. I’m frazzled and I hate being late,” April wailed. “Oh, and Daphne, thanks a million times over for bailing me out on such short notice. Nat had her heart set on a clown to do magic tricks. Like I told you, I booked through an agency, but apparently the receptionist flipped two pages at once on her calendar. Another family got first dibs because they’d phoned first.”
“No problem.” Daphne grinned. “Tell your friends, in fact. I need all the bookings I can get between now and when I find permanent work in my real field.”
Daphne chatted with the birthday girl as they walked down the hall. She loved kids, and often babysat her niece and nephew whenever Dane and his wife, Holly, needed her. Natalie Ross was cute and talkative. Before she scampered off, Daphne learned that Nat wanted her to paint the faces of all the kids attending the party.
So, she’d been right to bring all that stuff. Daphne intended to make this the coolest party ever. Humming happily, she dumped her costumes and face paints out across a cheery yellow bedspread. Matching curtains blew gently in the breeze.
She circled the bed and closed the miniblinds. Still feeling exposed, Daphne pulled the lined drape across the glass slider for privacy, leaving the door open for easy access to the patio.
Muted sounds of children’s laughter and boisterous shouts drifted through the closed hall door. Daphne kicked off her sandals and skimmed out of her jeans. She had her T-shirt nearly off, when a scraping sound at the slider made her swing around.
It’d be impossible to say who was most shocked, Daphne or a scruffy-looking man who stood poised on the balls of his feet as he stealthily shut and locked the glass door. The drape slipped through his fingers, silently closing them in together.
The T-shirt plopped at Daphne’s feet. Her throat tightened and her hammering heart battered her ribs. Feeling the stranger’s Delft-blue eyes making a thorough examination of her, she grabbed the first clown suit she could reach and covered herself as best she could with the slithery material. She opened her mouth to scream, but suddenly found her breath driven from her lungs by the agile intruder, who vaulted the bed in a single bound. He covered her mouth with a strong hand. A no-nonsense pistol caressed her ear before she could force air, let alone a scream, past her numb lips.
Her brother Kieran would’ve said only a fool would fight against those odds, but Daphne wasn’t about to die without putting up a fight. She tried jabbing an elbow into her captor’s midriff, but hit rock-hard abs. Next she attempted to disable him by stomping on his foot. Except that she was barefoot and he wore boots, as she quickly discovered. And the more she struggled, the more tenuous became her hold on the clown suit.
“Chill out,” he growled, jerking her tighter against his own heaving chest. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded in a gruff stage whisper.
“Mmmmf…mmfff,” Daphne mumbled against his sweating fingers. He smelled sweaty, anyway, and rough whiskers scraped her neck, although his longish, sun-streaked blond hair was soft where it brushed her cheek. What a funny thing to notice at a time like this.
As her initial shock receded, Daphne tried to store her impressions—for the police—supposing she got out of this alive. He was tall. A rangy build like her brother Perry. She was five foot eight; the man was taller. And stronger by far, she was learning. She couldn’t budge him, and twisting only tightened his grip on her.
Her legs felt every quiver of his taut muscles hidden under threadbare blue jeans. A once-black sweat-stained T-shirt hugged a muscled torso. Iron-hard biceps indicated her captor probably kept fit working out or doing manual labor.
For all she knew, he could be April Ross’s pool guy.
Although probably not. He seemed inordinately interested in what might be happening on the street in front of the house. Bingo! How close was the Ross home to the area cordoned off by the police? It’d be due east of April’s backyard. Quite close. Too close. Daphne began to shake uncontrollably as her mind revolved faster. He could be a hardened criminal. Maybe even a murderer.
That thought came when he forcefully dragged her to the far side of the front window, where he used the barrel of his gun to tip aside the blind. Apparently he didn’t like what he saw. He swore ripely under his breath and flattened them both against the wall, fast.
It wasn’t that Daphne hadn’t heard such language before. Her older brothers, Dane, Kieran and Perry, were a firefighter, a cop and a long-haul trucker, respectively. Even though she frequently complained about having too many bossy brothers, oh boy, did she wish any one of them would burst through that door right now. If she ever got out of this predicament, she vowed she’d pay strict attention to every one of her mom’s lectures, too.
“Where’s April?” her captor asked right beside her ear. “Are you keeping her company because Mike deployed again?” Ever so slowly, he slid his fingers off Daphne’s mouth. But as she geared up to bellow for help, he waved the mean-looking pistol in her face. The cry froze on her lips.
“Get dressed,” he hissed, sounding almost angry. Her fingers felt all thumbs, and there was no way Daphne could comply.
Muttering, he gave her a shake and repeated his demand.
Logan Grant found that he was beginning to be affected by the armful of half-naked woman he’d surprised when he slipped in through April’s back door. At first he was too shocked over seeing anyone—let alone a partially clad anyone—in a room he’d counted on being empty. That, coupled with the fact that he was positive his cover had been blown in a big narcotics buy gone sour, meant Logan wasn’t having the best day of his life.
Special Agent Grant had spent ten months working his way into a position of power in an organization his agency had been trying to bring down for two years. He’d been minutes from meeting the next big fish in the scummy pond, which would’ve been another step up the slippery, slimy ladder of crime. Then all hell had broken loose. Cop cars had roared down side streets from all directions. And when push came to shove, Logan had been forced to take sides.
Billy Holt, his superior in the local heroin import ring, had seen him knock out another ring member and steal a pistol from him. Now Holt had more interest in tracking down Logan than in staying to fight local law enforcement, one or more of whom had to be on the take. Only an insider could’ve made Logan and brought in the cops.
Logan knew too much about the next big shipment due to land on California shores. It made him dangerous to the organization. Dangerous and expendable. Even now, two cars filled with Holt’s trusted henchmen were combing the streets, hunting for him.
Under other circumstances, Logan thought he might work up a red-hot interest in this big-eyed, leggy woman—in close proximity to a large, soft bed. Unfortunately, at the moment, saving his skin and hers took precedence over baser instincts.
He’d come here because his sister’s home presented his only chance of escape. Though taller than Mike Ross, Logan thought he could borrow Mike’s razor and fit into one of his shirts. A change of clothes, use April’s cell phone to contact his office, and poof, he’d be scooped up by his associates, leaving Holt to wonder how he’d managed to pull a disappearing act.
Things rarely went according to plan in a special agent’s life. This day had gone to hell more rapidly than most, however. Billy’s goons cruised the streets, alleys and backyards, leaving Logan—what? With a hysterical, nearly nude female threatening to scream her head off, that’s what.
To make matters worse, he’d stayed too long. He’d already put everyone in this house in jeopardy. He let loose another stream of colorful invective. Under current circumstances, it was all he could do.
Daphne’s addled brain took in his second barked order—get dressed—and that was what she was trying desperately to do, even though it meant peeling the clown suit away from where she had it plastered to her front. Even though it meant revealing her scanty Victoria’s Secret finery to a crazed gunman.
She attempted to shake out the material, bend and slide the colorful, baggy jumpsuit over first one leg, then the other. She nearly tripped and fell flat on her face. It wasn’t humiliating enough that the gunman caught her, oh, no. Worse, he zipped the suit up from the vee in her legs all the way to her neck because her fingers were shaking so hard.
“What kind of getup is that?” he asked, eyeing her speculatively.
Fully covered now, Daphne felt a bit steadier. She smoothed back a stubborn curl that had slipped out of her clip and snapped back, “It’s a clown suit, you idiot. I’m here to perform at a birthday party. Natalie’s. Her name is Natalie. You, uh, called her mother by name. Are you…ah…a fr…riend of April’s?”
Hearing herself squeak, Daphne crossed her arms and grabbed her elbows just to have something solid to hang on to. No one, especially her brothers, would ever believe her if she told them she’d stood here trading niceties with a man holding a gun on her.
Logan noticed her wide, tawny cat eyes fixed on the 9mm Luger he’d taken from one of Billy Holt’s confederates—a much larger and more lethal weapon than the handgun he usually carried, a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson. All things considered, the party clown was holding up well. He figured that most women in her position would either be dissolved in tears by now, or they’d have fainted long ago.
“So, we’re finally making progress,” he said. “Dammit, I forgot Nat’s birthday. I’ll have to make it up to her later. Listen, can I trust you to open the door and call April back here without screaming down the house? I need to talk to her, but I’d rather Natalie didn’t see me looking like this.”
“I don’t think so,” Daphne sniffed. “You have one hostage already. I won’t be party to helping you get another. Especially not one who’s pregnant. What kind of degenerate are you?”
“Hostage?” He grinned then, showing two rows of very white, very even teeth. “I think you’ve been watching too many cop shows on TV. Just attract April’s attention, please. Then sometime, when I’m not so rushed, maybe you and I can sit down over a cold beer and talk about how I’d have done things differently if I really was making you my hostage.”
Daphne processed only about half of what he said. His killer smile had, in spite of his stubbly beard, devastated her equilibrium. That smile turned him into the most appealing bad boy she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. Big surprise. She’d always been a sucker for the wrong men.
No wonder her family thought she needed a keeper! She was actually standing in this room contemplating a date with a man who was obviously on the wrong side of the law. Kieran would have a fit, she thought as she let the intruder hustle her toward the door.
“Get April,” he said again. “And be quick about it.”
Daphne cracked the door open, praying the hall would be empty. No—April Ross was just exiting the adjacent room. From the way she adjusted her smock, she must have been in the bathroom.
“Psst!” Daphne couldn’t think of any other way to get the woman’s attention.
April turned, curiosity on her face. Daphne looked quickly at the window, ready to shout a warning, but a ray of sunlight winked through the drapes covering the sliding glass door and glinted off the gun in her captor’s hand. That completely stilled her tongue. She merely beckoned frantically, not caring if her hostess thought she was a nutcase.
April walked slowly toward the woman she’d engaged to be her party clown. “Yes? Is there something you need, Daphne? A friend of mine took the children outside to play a game. You’ll make your entrance after that winds down, okay? If you don’t mind, later on I’ll have you help me serve refreshments. Cake and ice cream. I figured the kids would like an opportunity to talk with a real clown.”
Still unable to work any comprehensible sound through her lips, Daphne simply reached out, latched onto April’s wrist and yanked her inside the room. The door slammed on its own, and Daphne clasped her hands to her breasts. “I’m honestly so sorry to do this to you, April,” she croaked.
The woman glanced up at the man who hovered close behind Daphne. Her annoyed expression turned to one of recognition. “Logan! I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you were out of town. Nat will be ecstatic.”
Daphne gaped from her hostess to the gunman and back again, while he reached around both and locked that door, too.
“April, this isn’t a social call. We can’t let Nat see me. I’m in trouble. I shouldn’t have taken refuge here—I forgot it was her birthday. Suffice it to say, I need a little assistance, and then I’ll be off.”
Daphne, exhibiting more bravery than she had up to now, insinuated herself between the man and the pregnant woman he appeared to know. “April, don’t listen. Even if he’s a friend of yours, that’s aiding and abetting,” she whispered to her hostess. “On the way in, I passed a ton of cops. Something big. Something bad went on. Between us, we can stop him.” She waved a hand toward where she’d seen the ruckus.
The man studied her with a half-amused expression. “Aren’t you forgetting I have a weapon?”
April snorted inelegantly. “Honestly, Logan. Quit scaring the poor woman to death. Just tell me what’s going on. Why do you look like a skid-row bum?”
“Sorry, you know I can’t tell you. Just get me a shirt of Mike’s and his razor. I’ve got to alter how I look enough to avoid the men who chased me here.”
As if Daphne wasn’t attempting to block her, April unlocked the door, opened it and peered down the hall. “The coast is clear. Go into our room. You can take anything in Mike’s closet. He’s out at sea with his naval unit for two weeks.”
Daphne threw her body against the door and slammed it shut. “Friend or not, he’s obviously involved in whatever just happened. He’s running from the law.”
April stared at the woman plastered against her guest room door. “Oh, Daphne, you don’t understand. Logan is the law. Logan, this is Daphne Malone. I hired her to perform for Nat’s party.”
His rough laugh rolled up from his belly. “I love it. I’ve gotten so jaded, I didn’t believe there were still people around who had the guts to stick their necks out for the good guys.”
“You’re a cop?” Daphne asked, suspicion in every tense line of her body. “What force? My brother’s LAPD. I know cops in a lot of the local precincts. I’m sure I’d remember if we’d ever met.”
“Honestly, didn’t you tell her you’re FBI, Logan? Daphne, meet my crazy brother, Special Agent Logan Grant.”
He didn’t look altogether happy about the introduction. “April, you can’t go blabbing what I do for a living to everyone under the sun. The element of surprise is our best defense. Sometimes our only defense.”
Feeling sheepish, Daphne quickly sidled away from the door. “Ohmigosh! Kieran said I was going to screw up big-time one of these days.” Her regard changed—became rapt as that of April Ross, who smiled with pride at her brother.
The agent actually got red in the face. “You need to forget my name—Daphne, is it?—and both of you forget I was ever here.” He stepped to the window again and made another furtive survey of the street. “Look, here’s the deal, April. I’ve got some real bastards wanting to get their hands on me. Bad enough that they’re in no hurry to give up the hunt. They probably have the area blanketed with sharpshooters. I don’t think changing into Mike’s shirt will make a lot of difference. So I’ll wait until the more obvious searchers move up the street. Then I’ll slip out through the back and take my chances. At least I can try to lead them away from this house.”
“No, Logan!” Worry creased April’s forehead. “Nat’s party is in full swing in the backyard. Surely you won’t risk getting my friends or the kids hurt if those men do spot you.”
“You’re right. Well, damn! What now?” He paced the length of the room and back.
Daphne had been studying him, trying to figure out how, disguised or not, he’d fooled her so completely. She wasn’t easily duped, since disguise was her business. Or rather, it would be her business when some studio hired her. She’d just completed a two-year makeup artistry course at City College. Special-effects makeup was an art. And she was good at it. She’d graduated at the top of her class. In another setting, she could make Logan Grant over. Except she didn’t have the proper equipment with her. She’d only tossed in rudimentary face paints for a kids’ party. But…
Clearing her throat, Daphne went to the bed where she’d dumped the contents of her beach bag. “May I offer a temporary solution? I wasn’t sure what type of clown Natalie liked, so I came prepared with several costumes. I can mix and match false ears, noses, wigs and such. One of them might fit you, Agent Grant.”