One-Night Alibi

Walking away is not an option

It was one night. And it might have stayed that way for Elizabeth Downey if her steamy evening with Hudson Vale hadn’t been the same night her estranged father was murdered. Now she and Hudson—a cop who had arrested her father—are the prime suspects.

Forced to work together to clear their names, Elizabeth and Hudson must deal with their wildly different approaches. Worse, the simmering attraction between them won’t go away. As they race to untangle a web of deceit, the stakes get higher. Because not only do their lives depend on finding the truth, but so does this passion that’s turning into so much more.…

“You have to leave.”

The urgency had returned to Liz’s voice. “We can’t be seen together.”

“We’ve already been seen together,” Hudson said. “Your security man downstairs knows I came to see you. The valet at the wedding saw us leave together. You think cops won’t figure that out?”

Her face fell. She returned to the living room and more or less collapsed onto the sofa. Hudson sat in the chair opposite her.

“Maybe you better tell me everything,” he said. “Why would you want to kill Franklin Mandalay?”

“Because he’s my father. And we’re estranged. He is manipulative and controlling and a liar. And I’m his sole heir.” With that, her eyes filled with tears. “I have no idea why I keep crying. He was not a very nice man.”

Mandalay was her father? Hudson’s head spun. “I knew there was something off about that night,” he murmured. Then, louder, he said, “Tell me everything. All of it, Liz. If I get even a whiff of deception from you I’m going straight to the police.”

Dear Reader,

Any writer will tell you that coming up with the title of a book can be an excruciating process. For me, I usually begin writing with some lame title in place. Then, as I get to know my story and my characters, other titles will come to mind. By the time I send the manuscript to my editor, I’ll probably have a title I’m happy with.

Oh, but it doesn’t end there. Editors have their own ideas about titles, and every title undergoes a great deal of scrutiny. Does it fit the story? Is it the right tone? Does it sound like a Harlequin Superromance title? Will it fit on the cover nicely? Although the title usually is something all parties can agree to, often it is not the author’s original title.

One-Night Alibi is one of those titles that come up once in a blue moon. I had it before I even started the book. I love it because it tells you exactly what the book is about. It’s sexy and it’s suspenseful-sounding. Happily, the editors agreed with me on this one! I hope it caught your attention, too!

All best,

Kara Lennox

One-Night Alibi

Kara Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kara Lennox has earned her living at various times as an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer, an artist and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has ever made her happier than writing romance novels. To date, she has written more than sixty books. Kara is a recent transplant to Southern California. When not writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of hobbies. Her latest passions are bird-watching, long-distance bicycling, vintage jewelry and, by necessity, do-it-yourself home renovation. She loves to hear from readers. You can find her at www.karalennox.com.

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For Sally Slocum

Everyone should have such a wonderful mother-in-law

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

HUDSON VALE LIKED to brag that he never got sick. All the vitamin C in the Mountain Dew he drank kept him healthy as a horse. But today, he’d been made a liar. After sneezing his head off yesterday, he’d cut his shift early and gone home. A handful of extra vitamin C hadn’t done the trick; he’d awakened with the mother of all colds. His head hurt. His chest hurt. His throat hurt. He couldn’t breathe. And he had nothing resembling cold medicine in the house.

Like it or not, he had to drag himself out to his car, drive to the nearest convenience store and buy some Alka-Seltzer Plus.

Although it was October, Hudson didn’t bother with a jacket. He shoved his badge in the pocket of a pair of disreputable jeans because he never went anywhere without it. Breaking his usual pattern, he didn’t arm himself. In his current state of debilitation, he’d be more danger to bystanders than to anything he aimed at.

It was a brilliant, clear day outside, one of those rare instances when the humidity was low, the air crisp and fresh. Football season was in full swing, and citizens of the greater Houston area were focused on fall barbecues and tailgate parties.

Hudson climbed into his Datsun 280Z and headed for the local convenience store.

At this hour of a Sunday morning, most people were still in bed, sleeping off a wild Saturday night, or in church repenting for the same. But in an hour or two, the store would be filled with fishermen stocking up on bait and beer and charcoal briquettes, intent on wringing every ounce of recreation from the outstanding weather.

Hudson wished he could get out on the water today. But after sneezing four times in a row on the way to the store, he couldn’t think fondly of anything except his bed and a box of tissues.

As he got out of his car, he noticed a familiar-looking woman in a red miniskirt and white patent-leather boots talking on the pay phone outside. On seeing him, she turned to face the wall.

It wasn’t until he was inside the store, paying for his purchases, that he recalled her name. Jazz was a prostitute he’d arrested last year. Conroe had quite a few working girls, but most of them plied their trade near the strip clubs, liquor stores and pawn shops downtown or near the railroad tracks. They didn’t normally trawl the Lake Conroe Stop ’n’ Shop parking lot on a Sunday morning.

He might have tried to chat her up, find out why she was so far from her usual stomping grounds, but he was off duty and sick, and for once he was just going to stifle his innate curiosity and go on about his business.

That plan worked fine, until after he’d paid for his purchase and was heading out the door.

The first things he noticed were raised voices. Jazz was no longer alone; she was arguing with a middle-aged man in a baseball cap and sunglasses, his jacket collar pulled up to hide as much of his face as possible.

Classic “john” disguise.

Even so, Hudson was inclined to let it slide. He wasn’t in Vice anymore. It was just an argument in a parking lot, no crime.

Still, he couldn’t help wandering closer.

“You better do what you’re told,” the man growled. He was shoving something into Jazz’s hands.

“What the hell are you doing? Not here.” She glanced over, saw Hudson and went pale, though her hand did reflexively close over what Hudson could now see was a thick wad of folded bills.

“Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you.” The man grabbed her chin and swiveled her head, forcing her to face him.

Hudson sighed. He set the bag with his cold medicine on the hood of his car and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. In a matter of seconds, he had summoned backup.

Acutely aware of the fact he was unarmed, he approached the confrontation. “Excuse me, is there a problem here?”

“Mind your own business,” the man barked. Then he saw the badge Hudson had casually slipped out of his pocket.

That was when Jazz cut and run. She let go of the money in her hand, and several twenties fluttered to the ground.

“Hey!” The man took a couple of steps in the direction Jazz was fleeing, sprinting faster than a girl in four-inch heels ought to be able to run, but Hudson snagged the man’s arm.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put your hands on this wall, here.”

“What for?” he asked haughtily.

“I’m arresting you for solicitation of a prostitute.”

“Are you out of your mind? Do you know who I am?”

Great. Another entitled rich guy who thought he deserved a pass because he wore a suit and had a family.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” With that he pushed the uncooperative suspect against the wall. “Now put your hands against the wall and spread ’em. Unless you want me to add resisting arrest to the charges. You have the right to remain silent...”

As Hudson continued the Miranda warning, the man finally complied, but not silently. “You are going to be very sorry. I’ll have your badge.”

“No, you won’t,” Hudson said in a bored voice. “You’ll be too busy hiring a lawyer and trying to hide your little indiscretions from your wife and your boss and your golf buddies.”

“I was not paying that girl for sex!”

“Those twenty-dollar bills all over the ground say differently. Oh, and by the way, you’re overpaying. In addition to being a dirtbag, you’re a sap.”

Hudson probably shouldn’t have added that last part. Baiting a suspect who was not cuffed was on that list of things cops learned not to do. But Hudson was really sick and really annoyed that he was probably going to have to spend his morning filling out a report.

Without warning, the man swiveled around and took a swing at Hudson. It was a clumsy punch, but the man had some heft, and a strength born of outrage on his side. His fist landed in Hudson’s solar plexus.

Then the idiot made a break for his car.

Hudson didn’t think—he just reacted. He lit out after the man, tackling him in the parking lot before he’d got ten steps. They both went down, hard.

A Montgomery County Sheriff’s Department squad car pulled into the parking lot just then and came to a stop mere feet from Hudson and his suspect, who was still struggling. Deputy Allison Kramer got out, shook her head, then held out a pair of cuffs.

“Need some of these?”

Hudson took them without comment, flipped the man onto his stomach and cuffed him, then hauled him to his feet with Allison’s help. The man’s face was now scraped and bloody, his nose possibly broken. He’d lost his hat and sunglasses in the scuffle.

“Holy crap,” Allison said.

“He bolted,” Hudson said in his defense, thinking she was reacting to the suspect’s condition.

“No, it’s not that. Do you know who this guy is?”

“Franklin Mandalay III,” the suspect replied haughtily. “Young lady, I want to file a formal charge of assault. I was minding my own business when this scruffy, disreputable individual attacked me. I was committing no crime. I had no weapon—”

“Save it,” Hudson said impatiently. “Allison, I’ll meet you at the station.”

But despite his best attempt at indifference to the name Franklin Mandalay, Hudson’s stomach felt queasy. If he had to get into a scuffle with a suspect, why did it have to be one of the most influential attorneys in Houston? Especially since his only witness had flown the coop.

CHAPTER ONE

HE ARRIVED LATE to the wedding reception, but that was par for the course for Hudson Vale. He would probably be late to his own wedding, in the unlikely event he ever got married.

A young valet with frizzy brown hair and big black glasses took the keys to his Z, whistling in appreciation. “Awesome. You restore it yourself?”

“Every square inch.”

Ordinarily, Hudson took pleasure when someone complimented his ride. But these days, it was hard to take pride in anything. He’d been officially stripped of the one thing he was really proud of. Without the gun and the badge, he was just another guy. No, not just another guy. Another suspect. Scum, in other words.

One week after his scuffle with Franklin Mandalay, Internal Affairs was still investigating.

Hudson headed for the massive front door of Daniel Logan’s River Oaks mansion, which looked like the manor house of an English village, not an oil billionaire’s home smack in the middle of Houston. He hadn’t really wanted to come to the wedding. He barely knew the bride, Daniel’s former assistant Jillian, and had only met her groom, Conner, once. But his friends at Project Justice had wangled him an invitation. They’d also made him promise to come, knowing he needed to get out of the house. Knowing he needed distraction.

Now he wished he hadn’t listened to them. He wasn’t fit company. He’d quickly pay his respects to the bride and groom, say hi to his friends, then make his escape, thereby convincing everyone he was doing okay.

Which he wasn’t.

The front door opened by itself, and a butler-type person gestured him inside a cavernous foyer every bit as opulent as Hudson had heard. A trickling fountain that would have been right at home in ancient Rome echoed against the marble floor and walls, and a stained-glass window cast colored bits of light like confetti over the far wall. From somewhere in the distance he heard faint strains of a country-and-western band, but this room was an oasis of quiet and dignity.

A plump young woman sat at an antique side table guarding the doorway leading to the rest of the house. She silently handed Hudson a pen adorned with a big white feather and pointed toward the guest book. The book was almost filled.

He smiled at the girl out of habit, because he always smiled at young women. She looked down and blushed. He wondered what her story was; had she been stuck behind the guest book because she was the awkward ugly duckling, or had she chosen this job because she wouldn’t then be forced to mingle?

Hudson felt a fleeting urge to ask her. But his insatiable curiosity about people—especially women—often got him into trouble he didn’t need.

Case in point: when he saw two people arguing in a parking lot, when he was sick and off duty, he could have looked the other way. But no, he just had to get involved. Not that he could see himself reacting any differently. He couldn’t stand to see a woman being bullied, and as a cop it was his job to uphold the law, on or off duty.

He bit his tongue and walked past the girl into a living room that could have housed a couple of Sherman tanks. A few people sat on plush white sofas and chairs in this serene room, talking in low tones, but live music beckoned from outdoors. A roving waiter with a tray of full champagne glasses offered Hudson his choice, but champagne wasn’t his deal, so he passed and headed through a Spanish-tiled solarium to the flagstone patio, where most of the guests had gathered to eat, drink and dance.

“Hudson! Over here!” A cool blonde in a pale turquoise dress waved madly at him.

Grateful not to have to wade through oceans of strangers trying to find someone he knew, he quickly made his way to an umbrella table where Dr. Claudia Ellison sat with her husband, Billy Cantu, a Houston cop.

Hudson hoped Claudia didn’t have matchmaking in mind for tonight.

She threw her arms around Hudson and kissed him on the cheek, a rather effusive show of affection from the normally reserved psychologist, but since his suspension she’d been trying extra hard to show him and everyone else that she was on his side.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“The cold’s gone.” He didn’t comment on anything else, because everything else sucked.

Billy stood and shook Hudson’s hand. “Glad you could make it.”

“I knew you’d want to see this place,” said Claudia. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“I guess. Listen, I’m going to find the bride and groom, pay my respects, then—”

Claudia put a melodramatic hand to her forehead. “No, you can’t leave so quickly. We haven’t even had a chance to catch up.”

“You don’t really want to know.”

“Of course I do.”

Billy pulled out a chair. “Have a beer. They got the biggest selection of microbrews I ever saw. Not that I’m really into designer beer, but this Dogfish Head Chicory Stout is pretty good stuff.”

“Look, y’all don’t have to be so nice. I’m not falling apart. I’ll get through this just like I’ve gotten through every other damn thing in my life, okay?”

Claudia waved away his diatribe with a careless hand. “Get over yourself. We’re not being any nicer than usual. Now sit down, shut up and drink heavily of free booze. Logan has limos lined up for anyone who overdoes it.”

Hudson was about to object again. That was when he saw her, the stunning brunette standing near the edge of the pool with a martini glass in her hand. She was tall, made taller still by silver stiletto heels. Her dress shimmered like liquid silver, clinging sinuously to her curves. Her black hair was piled on top of her head in an artfully casual way that had probably taken hours to achieve.

Hudson might not have paid her that much attention, except that she was looking right at him.

Without meaning to, he sank into the chair Billy had offered moments ago. Who is she? And why is she smiling at me like that?

“See something you like?” Billy asked.

Hudson forced himself to break the almost-hypnotic stare-off with the woman. Her eyes were a deep ocean-blue—he could tell even at this distance.

Claudia took an immediate interest in the object of his attention. “She’s a friend of Jillian’s, a sorority sister, I think. Can’t remember her name.”

Hudson stole another glance at her. She was on the move now. Walking. Toward him.

Billy punched him on the arm. “Dude, she’s coming over here.”

And she did. She came right to their table, striding boldly like a runway model. But she switched her gaze from Hudson to Claudia. “Hi, you’re Claudia, right? I remember you from the bridal shower. I’m...Liz.”

“Hi, Liz, it’s good to see you again.”

“Would you all mind if I joined you? My date seems to have gone missing.”

“Sure, here’s a chair,” Billy said, nearly spilling his special beer as he pulled out the fourth chair for her. A waiter stopped by to see who needed drinks, and Billy insisted he bring Hudson a Fishhead, or whatever the hell the beer was called.

Hudson would have objected. But the woman had so gobsmacked him, he’d been struck speechless.

“This is my husband, Billy,” Claudia said, “and our friend Hudson.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Hudson said with his best polite Southern-boy manners.

The brunette took a sip of her martini, then somehow fished the olive out with just her tongue in a way that was totally sexy and classy at the same time.

Hudson’s mouth went dry.

When the waiter brought his beer, he chugged down a third without even tasting it.

“You knew Jillian in college?” Claudia asked, trying to get the conversation rolling.

Hudson wasn’t that interested in conversation. He just wanted to look at Liz, though her voice was a pleasing blend of smooth honey over six miles of rough road.

“I did, but we weren’t good friends until more recently when we worked on a charity event together.”

So, Liz obviously came from high society. Ivy League college, sorority, charity events. She oozed class. So not his type. Or rather, not the type who gave a sheriff’s-department detective a second look. A suspended detective, accused somewhat convincingly of police brutality.

So why was she staring at him?

“Have we met?” he asked bluntly.

“I don’t think so. I’d remember.”

Then she’d probably seen his picture in the paper or on TV. His case had drawn much too much unwanted publicity. The Mandalay name had a lot of cachet in the Houston area.

Claudia gasped. “Oh, Billy, I love this song. Let’s dance.”

Hudson recognized a ploy to leave him and Liz alone, but he didn’t object. He’d just keep staring at her until she got tired of it. It wasn’t as if he had anything to lose. He’d probably never see her again after this night.

“How about it, Hudson. Want to dance?” Liz raised one eyebrow playfully.

“Me? Not much of a dancer.”

“Oh, come on. Anybody can dance.”

“Sure, right.” He let her drag him to his feet. What the hell. Didn’t matter, really, in the grand scheme of things, and holding her in his arms didn’t sound like such a bad deal. All he had to do was move his feet a little, or at least pretend to try to dance.

A parquet floor had been laid out over the flagstone patio for dancing in the shadow of the band, which had switched from country-western to big band. Hudson dredged up some long-ago memories of a ballroom dance class he’d taken to please an old girlfriend. He’d forgotten her name, but maybe he could at least remember how to get into hold.

He took Liz into his arms. As other couples twirled and dipped around him, he shuffled his feet back and forth.

Amazingly, she moved right along with him, graceful as a swan. In her tall heels she met him eye to eye. Now he could examine those amazing inky-blue eyes up close. Little gold flecks shimmered in the irises like rays of sunshine on the surface of the ocean, and a pleasurable tingle wiggled down his spine.

“Are you a friend of the bride, or the groom?” she asked.

“I know both of them, but only slightly. I guess Claudia got me the invitation. She thought I’d be interested in seeing the Logan place.”

“It’s pretty amazing. And if there’s one thing Jillian knows how to do, it’s throw a party. What do you do for a living?”

He knew the question would come up. “Cop. You?”

“Social worker.”

Not what he expected. If she worked at all, he’d been guessing something glamorous—fashion editor, commercial real estate. “Enjoy it?”

“Immensely. You?”

“Usually.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Most of the time I’m just too busy to be scared.”

“Ever been shot?”

“No. That sort of thing is very rare.”

“Ever shot anyone?”

“Also very rare. I’ve hardly ever unholstered my weapon, much less shot at someone.”

“Still, it’s got to be dangerous at times.”

“I imagine your job has its dangers, too. You probably deal with all segments of society. Lowlifes.”

“Well, pretty troubled people, anyway. I wouldn’t call them ‘lowlifes.’”

The song switched to a slow number. Hudson thought the dance would be over, but she made no move to leave the dance floor. He pulled her close, resting his cheek against her hair and inhaling the scents of something clean and fruity. This was ridiculously pleasant.

But odd.

An unwelcome thought appealed to him. “Are you trying to make your date jealous, by any chance?”