The Truth About Tara

Brought together by a secret

Tara Greer’s world is fine the way it is—even if some details of her childhood simply don’t add up. Life on the beautiful Virginia coast with her mother and young foster brother are all she needs. What she doesn’t need is gorgeous stranger Jack DiMarco’s suspicion that she was stolen as a child. Because if he’s right, the truth would devastate her family.

Steering clear of Jack is the easy answer, right? Wrong! The sexy, compassionate on-the-mend baseball player is everywhere she turns...exactly where her heart wants him. But their future seems unlikely when being with Jack means facing a reality that could cost Tara everything.

“According to Mr. Snyder’s buddy, I’m your old man.”

Tara scoffed at Jack’s words. “You’re not my man at all.” She caught the gleam in his eyes and frowned at him. “You’re teasing me.”

“Guilty,” he said. “But I am at your disposal for the next few weeks. You can do what you want with me.”

“I’m not going to ask you to have sex with me, if that’s what you mean.”

“It wasn’t,” he said, his grin spreading. “I was talking about helping you refinish that piece of furniture.”

“Sorry.”

“No apology necessary.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’m flattered that you look at me and think about sex.”

She wondered how this conversation had spiraled out of control so quickly. So what if Jack was handsome and charming and likable? She should have acknowledged the growing attraction between them and taken better steps to prevent it. “You weren’t listening. I said no sex.”

“It’s okay with me if we start out slow.”

Dear Reader,

Websites of missing persons are filled with images of people who have disappeared, never to be seen again by their loved ones. Way too many of these missing persons are children.

The Truth About Tara grew out of a what-if. As in, what if a woman looked eerily like an age progression photo of a missing child, but didn’t want to know if she’d been abducted? What if she was desperate not to be the face on the milk carton?

Out of those questions, the character of Tara Greer was born. Milk cartons don’t typically depict the photos of the missing anymore, so Jack DiMarco comes to the Eastern Shore of Virginia to check out a tip for his private investigator sister.

I took a research trip to the Eastern Shore to check out the setting for this book. It’s lovely and serene, a peninusla of land surrounded by salt marshes, the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. It makes perfect sense that Tara would love her life there. I hope you enjoy “visiting” the Eastern Shore as much as I did.

So is Tara a missing person? You’ll have to read the book to find out!

Until next time,

Darlene Gardner

P.S. Visit me on the web at www.darlenegardner.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

While working as a newspaper sportswriter, Darlene Gardner realized she’d rather make up quotes than rely on an athlete to say something interesting. So she quit her job and concentrated on a fiction career that landed her at Harlequin/Silhouette Books, where she wrote for the Temptation, Duets and Intimate Moments lines before finding a home at Superromance. Please visit Darlene on the web at www.darlenegardner.com.

To my nieces Marlee and Reva

for helping me with the scenes where the

Down Syndrome children appear.

They’re both longtime volunteers at a camp

for children with mental disabilities.

And to the families of the missing.

May the lost be found.

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 THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

THAT WHITE PICKUP WAS as conspicuous as the evening sunset over the Chesapeake Bay.

It took its time in coming, too. For the past block, since Tara Greer had crossed the empty street to walk along the sidewalk, the pickup had rolled along at a speed roughly equivalent to her pace.

In ten or fifteen more minutes, children who walked to school from the bordering neighborhood would start appearing. So would the school buses that transported students from the rural areas of the Eastern Shore that fed into the elementary school.

For now, however, Tara was virtually alone.

Tara glanced back over her shoulder, hearing the slow thud of her heartbeat over the rumble of the truck engine. She couldn’t tell much about the driver except that he was male and had thick dark hair. The pickup didn’t have a front license plate, so it wasn’t registered in Virginia.

Even though it was early June, when tourists seeking peace and quiet were starting to show up in the area, something about the pickup seemed off. The Eastern Shore was geographically removed from the rest of Virginia, sandwiched by the Chesapeake and the Atlantic Ocean, seventy miles north to south but only fifteen miles at its widest point. Wawpaney was about three or four miles inland from the bay, a community of a few hundred without even a bed-and-breakfast. Strangers stuck out.

The school was in sight. Tara walked faster down the uneven sidewalk shaded by leafy oak trees and tall pines. It was barely past eight in the morning, but there would be people, safety if the guy tried anything.

The truck drew even with her, slowing down for the space of a few heartbeats before continuing past her. Tara chided herself for being silly. This was Wawpaney, not the mean streets of a big city. The town’s Native American name meant daybreak, the most peaceful time of day. Nothing bad happened here.

No sooner did she have the thought than the driver swung the pickup over to the curb and shut off the ignition. The sigh of relief caught in Tara’s throat.

The man who hopped out of the truck was tall, lean and probably in his early thirties. He looked normal enough, but so did lots of prison inmates.

Through an opening between the trees, the man was momentarily bathed in sunlight that magnified his appearance. He had a square jaw and a nose that was on the long side, a combination that lent him an air of gravity. Or maybe he looked serious because he wasn’t smiling.

If he smiled, he’d be handsome. But if he smiled, she’d be even more freaked out.

She veered off the sidewalk, intending to run to the other side of the street. She gave silent thanks that as a physical education teacher she wore tennis shoes to school.

“Wait! Please!” The man’s voice was low pitched and pleasing to the ear. “I just need to ask you something.”

Tara froze on the dew-damp grass of the swell between the sidewalk and the street, considering once again that she might have overreacted. She drew in a deep breath of bay-scented air, reminding herself it wasn’t like her to be skittish.

The man was walking toward her, getting closer with every step. He wore jeans and a light-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up, projecting a casual coolness instead of sinister purpose. Probably a tourist who’d lost his way. He got to within a body’s length of her.

“Do you need directions somewhere?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.

She retreated a step closer to the curb, then stopped and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t sure how, but now that she could see the man up close she knew he meant her no harm. Stepping onto the sidewalk, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Then you were following me.”

“It’s not what you think,” he said hurriedly. “I was driving over to the school, hoping to talk to you. And then suddenly, there you were.”

She should have been alarmed, but his eyes, a velvety-brown shade, seemed kind. His voice was so low it was almost soothing.

“Why would you want to talk to me?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

If she had, she’d remember.

“My name’s Jack DiMarco. I’m visiting from Kentucky.” His accent was soft, evident only in the slight rounding of his vowels. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and shook his head. “I’m not sure how to say this.”

“How to say what?”

He opened his mouth, closed it then withdrew a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans and unfolded it.

“Maybe this will help you understand,” he said, holding the paper out to her.

Tara had a premonition that she didn’t want to see whatever was on the paper. She didn’t know what had gotten into her this morning. She wasn’t normally so anxious. Careful not to touch him, Tara took the paper. On it was the photo image of a young woman with golden-brown hair, a high forehead, wide-set eyes and an oval face with a rounded chin.

Tara’s free hand flew to her mouth. “This looks like me.”

“I think so, too,” the man—Jack—said. “Except for the hair. Yours is more reddish-brown.”

It made no sense. Why would this stranger have a drawing of her? She waved the paper at him. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s a computer-generated photo done by a forensic artist,” he said. “My sister pushed for an updated version of it. She’s a private investigator.”

Tara caught only the first part of his answer because she was reexamining the photo. Underneath it in large block type was the name Hayley Cooper. The smaller print below the name blurred as she belatedly recalled his last two words. Her chin came up. “You’re a private investigator?”

“I’m not,” he said. “My sister is. Since I was coming to the Eastern Shore, anyway, she asked me to check out a lead on one of her cases to see if it was worth pursuing.”

“What case?”

“A missing-person case.”

Tara’s shoulders relaxed. She breathed in air that carried the familiar smell of salt water and late-spring blooms. Without reading the rest of the print, she extended the sheet of paper back to him. “There’s been a mistake. I’m not Hayley Cooper and I’m not missing.”

“You don’t understand.” He nodded down at the piece of paper. “That’s an age progression. It’s an approximation of what the missing person would look like today.”

Tara’s stomach tightened as the tension returned. She remembered a magazine article a few years back about Jaycee Dugard, a missing child who’d been found after being held against her will for eighteen years. The magazine had run Jaycee’s current photo and her age-progression one side by side. They’d looked remarkably alike.

“What does this have to do with me?” Tara asked.

“Maybe nothing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Here’s the deal. My sister is investigating the case of a three-year-old who was abducted twenty-eight years ago from a shopping mall in a little town outside Louisville.”

“And?” Tara prompted.

His mouth twisted. “Is there any chance you could be her?”

It felt as if all the blood rushed from Tara’s head. She fought not to sway. The stranger was watching her carefully, as though she were a specimen under a microscope.

“That’s crazy,” Tara said.

“You’re about the right age,” he said. “Hayley would be thirty-one in a few weeks.”

“I’m thirty-two.” Tara needed time to gather her composure while she assessed how to handle the situation. The next few moments could be crucial. “What led you to me?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “That photo I showed you, my sister made sure it was posted on all the missing-persons websites. She’s gotten dozens of tips, too many to physically track down every one herself.”

Tara wanted to find out more about the websites, but it was more important to convince the stranger he was wrong about her.

“I’ve lived in Wawpaney my whole life,” Tara said. “I’ve never even been to the Midwest.”

He tilted his head. “Are you sure? Most people don’t have memories from their first few years.”

Tara had only one, although it had never made any sense. She’d gotten good at banishing the memory, if that were truly what it was. It had been years since she’d awakened abruptly from a deep sleep with her body shaking and tears dampening her cheeks.

“I’m sure I wasn’t abducted.” She managed to laugh. “The neighbors would have been awfully suspicious if a three-year-old suddenly joined the family.”

Before he could respond, she added, “Besides, I’ve seen baby photos of myself. You have, too, right?”

A corner of his mouth kicked up. He seemed to relax. “I’m from a family of six,” he said. “My mom takes so many photos she should have bought stock in Kodak.”

“My mother, too.” Tara was relieved the hand that still held out the paper to him wasn’t shaking. This time he took it.

“Sorry to have bothered you,” he said. “My sister warned me the lead probably wouldn’t pan out. Most of them go nowhere. But you’ve gotta admit, that photo looks an awful lot like you.”

“I’m sure age progression isn’t an exact science.” Tara needed to get away from him as soon as she possibly could. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to school. Class is starting soon.”

“Of course.” He seemed about to say more, but she didn’t give him a chance, passing by him and continuing on the cracked, narrow sidewalk to Wawpaney Elementary.

She was fortunate that Jack DiMarco wasn’t the private investigator in his family. Otherwise, it might not have been so easy to convince him she wasn’t the grown-up version of Hayley Cooper. She forced herself to act normally and walk at a measured clip, resisting the urge to glance back to see if he was still studying her.

She couldn’t afford to do anything that would make him suspect that most of what she’d just told him were lies.

* * *

MOST DINERS THAT LOOKED like old railroad cars were actually cleverly designed fakes. Or so Jack had heard. The place with the silver exterior where he stopped for breakfast just outside Wawpaney, though, had to be an exception.

The inside was long and narrow, with a counter lined with stools running the length of one side of the diner. Opposite the counter were booths with windows that overlooked the parking lot. It seemed as though the floor rumbled when Jack stepped inside, as though the railroad car still had some miles left in it. That could have been his runaway imagination, though.

He took a seat at the end of the counter and looked over a plastic menu with fingerprint smudges—it ran the gamut from breakfast to dinner. Home-cooked entrées, tried-and-true favorites and dishes with fresh ingredients populated the menu. The scent of bacon and eggs filled the air.

The place was nearly full, although it probably held no more than thirty or thirty-five customers. Conversational voices blended together to create a continuous hum.

Jack looked up from the menu, surprised that a waitress was standing across the counter from him, waiting. Her curly black hair framed a round, friendly face. She was so short they were almost at eye level, although he was sitting down.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t notice you there.”

“You must be a tourist.” She balanced one hand on her hip. “The locals all know the menu by heart.”

“The food must be good here,” he said.

“The best, especially the fresh seafood and homemade desserts. The lemon meringue pie is to die for,” she said. “But our breakfasts are nothing to sneeze at, either. Where you from?”

“Kentucky,” he said.

“You don’t sound it.”

“Lexington, not Appalachia,” he said. “It’s pretty urban, with lots of transplants.”

“What brings you here?”

“Road trip,” he said.

“Business or pleasure?”

His waitress asked so many questions, she reminded him of his two sisters, who never hesitated to poke around in his business.

“Both,” he said, hastening to ask a question of his own before she could fire off another one. “Tell me, do you know anything about Tangier Island?”

“Sure,” she said. “Never been myself, but I hear it’s real tranquil, though maybe not so much as it used to be on account of tourism. No cars—just bikes and golf carts.”

Tangier sounded like the kind of place people with high-stress jobs and expendable cash vacationed. No wonder Robert Reese had chosen it.

“Any idea how to get there?” Jack asked.

“Easiest way is the ferry in Onancock, which is up the coast a ways along the Chesapeake,” she explained. “Or you could always charter a boat. It’s not a long trip. Tangier’s only ten or so miles off the coast.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate the information.”

“Have you decided on breakfast?” she asked.

“What do you suggest?”

“You can’t go wrong with the creamed chipped beef or the sausage gravy biscuit. They come with either grits or home fries.”

What the hell, Jack thought. When on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, eat as the natives do. “I’ll have the creamed beef with grits. And coffee.”

“Black?”

“Two creams, two sugars.”

She flashed him a grin. “Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?” he asked.

She leaned over the counter. “It means you have a sweet side.”

He thought of the glare he’d adopted as the top relief pitcher for the Owensboro Mud Dogs, a minor league baseball team in his home state that for many was the last stop before reaching the big time. Jack had gotten called up to the majors late in the season twice over the course of his career, both for brief stints. His goal was to make the third time stick.

“Not everyone would agree with that,” Jack said.

“Then they’re not looking hard enough.” She raised her dark brows and left the counter to take another order.

His phone rang for the second time that morning. He checked the display. Not Annalise this time. His other sister, Maria, the private investigator. Jack had grown up with his older two sisters and younger brother in a rambling house on the outskirts of Lexington with parents who didn’t always give them what they wanted but provided them with everything they needed. The perfect family, other people called them.

The two stools closest to him were empty, but the rest of the diner was filling up fast, providing him an excuse not to answer. If he didn’t, however, one of his sisters would keep calling until they got him. They might even enlist the help of his mother. He clicked through to the call. “Hey, Maria.”

“Jack! I’m so glad I caught you. Are you okay?”

Almost thirty-two years old and they still checked up on him, proving his family wasn’t perfect. Privacy was pretty much impossible. Considering what had happened to their younger brother, though, it was understandable.

“Hold on a minute,” he told her. To the waitress who was bringing his coffee over to the counter, he said, “I’ll be back in a few.”

“Where are you?” Maria asked on the other end of the line. Patience had never been her strong suit.

He exited the restaurant into the bright sun of the morning before answering his sister’s question. “At a diner on the Eastern Shore.”

“You’re there already? You didn’t drive straight through, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” he said. “I just got a really early start this morning.”

The high-pitched giggle of a little boy carried through the gravel parking lot. The man with him lifted the boy and tossed him in the air a few inches before catching him and swinging him to the ground. A deep, pulsing throb started in Jack’s shoulder, only partially due to yesterday’s eight-hour drive and the too-hard mattress at the hotel just outside Richmond.

“Annalise said you didn’t answer your cell this morning,” she said.

“Some states have laws against using the phone while you’re driving.” Jack didn’t know if Virginia was one of them, but it was as good an excuse as any.

“Just as long as you’re okay.” Maria’s pause lasted a few seconds. “You are okay, right?”

He was getting tired of answering that question. He scuffed his foot in the gravel. “I’m fine. You and Annalise don’t need to keep tabs on me, you know.”

“You can’t blame us for being worried,” she said. “We know what a blow it was when the orthopedist told you that you couldn’t pitch again.”

Those hadn’t been his exact words. After performing a second surgery in a six-year span on Jack’s right shoulder, the doctor had said he doubted Jack would ever be able to throw a fastball in the nineties again.

Maria didn’t wait for Jack to respond. “And then when you announced you were taking off, well, what were we supposed to do?”

Jack took a deep breath and got a whiff of the bacon cooking inside the diner. “Accept that I need some time alone.”

“Of course you do,” Maria said. “You’ve never wanted to be anything but a pro baseball player, but you’re not getting any younger. You need to figure out what to do with the rest of your life.”

Jack had fallen in love with baseball at his first T-ball game when his ball soared to the outfield. Even though he now realized the ball had gone only about sixty feet, he’d felt as powerful as Babe Ruth. Later he’d gotten that same feeling when he took the mound. He’d had his future mapped out since he was a kid. He wasn’t about to change his mind now. He wasn’t going to share the particulars with Maria, either.

“Hey,” he said. “I checked out that lead for you.”

“Already? I thought you just got to Virginia this morning.”

“She wasn’t hard to find in a place as small as Wawpaney,” he said, even though it had been a shock to see a woman matching the age-progression photo walking on the sidewalk toward the school. “But she wasn’t your missing person.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Jack had experienced a moment’s doubt that the woman was being entirely truthful, but it made no sense for her to lie. It was human nature to want to know where you came from. She obviously already knew. Add to that her reddish-colored hair, her age and her comment about baby photos and Jack was convinced.

“It’s not Hayley,” Jack maintained.

He heard what sounded like a sigh. “I didn’t really expect her to be.”

“Any luck with the other leads?”

“Not so far. I’ve checked out more than half of them and they’re all dead ends. But as I told Hayley’s mother from the start, finding her daughter is the longest of long shots.”

Jack leaned against the sun-warmed passenger door of his pickup. Five years ago Maria had left the Fayette County sheriff’s office to become a private investigator and had never looked back. “Then why take the case?”

“She said not a day goes by that she doesn’t think of her missing daughter,” Maria said. “She doesn’t care if the odds of finding Hayley are one in a million, as long as that one chance exists.”

Jack reached into his back pocket, withdrew the paper with the age-progression photo and unfolded it. Unlike an actual photograph, where personality could shine through, the computer-generated likeness seemed flat and lifeless.

What would it be like to know nothing about the person your loved one had become? Or if they were even alive at all?

“Why look for her now?” he asked. “It’s been almost thirty years. The trail must be ice-cold.”

“Lots of reasons. Her husband is making noises about moving to be near their grandchildren, but it’s probably mostly because she just had a scare with breast cancer.”