Incriminating Passion

“Oh, no, you’re not,” Andrea protested.

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“Yes. You find out who killed Wingate and I leave.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll go someplace safe and give you a number where I can be reached.”

He shook his head. “You’re my key witness. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

She glanced at the door. Maybe she should run for it. Maybe it was her only chance to get out of this mess.

Ridiculous.

But equally ridiculous was the idea of John as her bodyguard. No, not ridiculous. Dangerous. Because even now, with his questions and threats still ringing in her ears, she could hear the loneliness in his voice.

And she could feel her heart respond.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

This month Harlequin Intrigue has an enthralling array of breathtaking romantic suspense to make the most of those last lingering days of summer.

The wait is finally over! The next crop of undercover agents who belong to the newest branch of the top secret Confidential organization are about to embark on an unbelievable adventure. Award-winning reader favorite Gayle Wilson will rivet you with the launch book of this brand-new ten-story continuity series. COLORADO CONFIDENTIAL will begin in Harlequin Intrigue, break out into a special release anthology and finish in Harlequin Historicals. In Rocky Mountain Maverick, an undeniably sexy undercover agent infiltrates a powerful senator’s ranch and falls under the influence of an intoxicating impostor. Be there from the very beginning!

The adrenaline rush continues in The Butler’s Daughter by Joyce Sullivan, with the first book in her new miniseries, THE COLLINGWOOD HEIRS. A beautiful guardian has been entrusted with the care of a toddler-sized heir, but now they are running for their lives and she must place their safety in an enigmatic protector’s tantalizing hands! Ann Voss Peterson heats things up with Incriminating Passion when a targeted “witness” to a murder manages to inflame the heart of a by-the-book assistant D.A.

Finally rounding out the month is Semiautomatic Marriage by veteran author Leona Karr. Will the race to track down a killer culminate in a real trip down the aisle for an undercover husband and wife?

So pick up all four of these pulse-pounding stories and end the summer with a bang!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Harlequin Intrigue, Senior Editor

Incriminating Passion

Ann Voss Peterson

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts to working with quarter horses to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at ann@annvosspeterson.com or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Andrea Kirkland—She witnessed something the night her husband disappeared. If she can only remember what she saw, she would know whether he is alive or dead. And who killed him.

John Cohen—A burned-out, cynical assistant district attorney, John doesn’t believe in anything or anybody. That is, not until a desperate, tattered Andrea walks into his office and challenges his heart.

Wingate Kirkland—The powerful, abusive multimillionaire is missing—or dead.

Joyce Pratt—Wingate Kirkland’s sister, Joyce blames Andrea for her brother’s disappearance.

Melvin Pratt—Joyce’s husband’s favorite words are yes and dear. Is this meek man hiding a dangerous side?

Gary Putnam—The small-town police chief has Andrea in his sights.

Tonnie Bartell—Was the brunette bombshell trying to take Andrea’s place?

Ruthie Banks—Andrea’s neighbor says she witnessed something fishy going on at the estate. Is she telling the truth?

Judge Gerald Banks—Known as the hanging judge, Gerald Banks is out to see that Andrea is locked away for good.

Hank Sutcliffe—The beefy blond Adonis is hiding something. The question is, will that something clear Andrea or put her behind bars?

Marcella Hernandez—How far will the housekeeper go to protect what she loves?

To John.

Thanks for the love, the support and the inspiration.

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Andrea Kirkland clutched the steering wheel with trembling hands and squinted into the rearview mirror. The black pickup pulled closer. So close the headlights glared through the back window of her Lexus.

Flipping the mirror to cut the reflection, she forced herself to draw in a deep breath. The truck’s driver was probably just in a hurry. He couldn’t have anything to do with the memories she had suppressed, the memories that had finally broken through this evening. Memories of her husband Wingate crumpling to the floor, of his blood soaking into the Persian rug, of his fixed stare.

She eased her car close to the edge of the country highway to allow the truck to pass. She was going as fast as she dared on the dark road. If he was in such a hurry, he would have to go around.

The truck remained glued to her bumper.

Andrea’s throat closed. Fear scrambled up her spine. The road was straight for another quarter mile. Then it grew curvy as it wound its way around the quarry. Any ordinary impatient driver would have grabbed the opportunity to pass while he still could.

Unless this was no ordinary impatient driver.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She hadn’t told anyone her memories were returning. Not when they’d started filtering back in flashes of nightmares, nor when she’d put all the pieces together this evening, after the crack of deer hunters’ rifles had her break out in a cold sweat.

She’d made a single call. To the tiny Green Valley police station. And explained her memories to a single person—the receptionist. But when Ruthie had told her all three officers in the department were busy on a call, she’d decided she couldn’t wait. She had to get away from that house. Away from the memories of blood. Of death. So she’d set out for the police station.

And now here she was with a black truck breathing down her neck.

She didn’t need the rearview mirror to know the truck’s bumper was only inches from hers. She swallowed the fear rising in her throat and piloted the Lexus into a sweeping curve. Trees lined the edge of the road. The sparkle of moonlight on water glittered through thinning autumn leaves. The police station was still a good three miles away. On the other side of the old quarry. On the other side of the world.

Her hands were damp, slippery on the steering wheel’s leather cover. Another sharper curve loomed ahead. She pushed her foot down on the accelerator. Surely her sporty Lexus could take a turn better than the large, boxy truck behind her. She swept into the turn just as she felt the first hit on her bumper.

The steering wheel jumped in her hands. She tightened her grip, digging her nails into the leather. Pulling her foot from the accelerator, she fought to gain control.

The truck swerved into the opposite lane and pulled up beside her. Its windows stared down at her, tinted black. Its shadow loomed beside her like a specter of death.

Oh God.

The truck’s side slammed against the Lexus. Steel screeched against steel. Her neck snapped to the side. The wheel ripped from her grip. She fought to regain control, fingers slipping on leather.

The truck drew back and hit again, plowing its side into her. Pushing her off the road. Toward the steep bank. Toward the moonlit water of the old quarry.

No.

Tires skidded on pavement, on gravel. She gripped the wheel with all her strength, trying to right the car, trying to keep from plunging down the bank and into the water.

The truck hit again, its full weight slamming into her car. Steel buckled. Wheels churned, spewing gravel. Scrub brush and tree branches scraped against her car like frantic fingers. But nothing could slow her down. Nothing could stop her.

Andrea braced herself and prayed. The Lexus flew over the edge, weightless for a moment. Then gravity dragged her down to the black water below.

She hit the surface with a bone-jarring thud. Her head lurched forward like a rag doll’s. Her forehead grazed the steering wheel, her body held in the seat only by her seat belt. The car dipped low and sprang backward. It bucked on the waves before settling in the black water.

Andrea’s head rang with the impact. Dizziness threatened to swamp her, to pull her under.

Black water swirled around the car and lapped over the hood. The headlights glowed, already under the water, the heavy engine dragging her down. Frigid water crept over the pedals and up the floorboards, lapping at her feet.

Oh God, she was going to sink like a stone.

She had to clear her mind. She had to get out of this car before it was too late.

She lurched forward, trying to move, but something pinned her to the seat. The seat belt. She had to release the seat belt. Concentrating hard, she made her unsteady fingers close over the latch and push the release button. Nothing. The belt still held. She pushed the button again. It still didn’t release. Forcing herself to hold on to some shred of calm, she jammed the button as hard as she could. The belt pulled free.

Pain throbbed in her head and shot down her neck with each movement. Nausea swirled in her stomach. Black water washed against the door and the front corner of the window. She had to get out. Now. She pressed the button to lower the power window. Nothing. Heart in her throat, she tried all the buttons. No luck. The water had short-circuited the windows. She would have to open the door and hope she could get out of the car before the black water swamped it.

She groped a hand along the door. Her fingers brushed the cool steel handle. She’d have one chance. Once she opened the door, the water would rush into the car. It would fill in a matter of seconds. She had only one chance to get clear of the sinking hulk of steel before she was dragged to the bottom.

Drawing in a deep breath of courage, she grasped the door handle and pulled. The latch released. She pushed the door with her shoulder.

It didn’t move.

She shoved again with all her strength.

It wouldn’t open. Water pressed against the door, keeping it shut as effectively as if whoever had run her off the road was on the other side, pushing it closed. Waiting for her to drown.

She closed her eyes, struggling to keep a lid on her panic. She had to think. There had to be a way out.

A chill of fear claimed her, causing her whole body to convulse. She would have to let the car sink. She would have to let it fill with water until the pressure outside the car and inside the car equalized. Then she could push the door open and swim to the surface.

She would have to wait.

She had no idea how deep the quarry was, or how steep the walls. The car might flip on the way down, rolling down the sheer wall until she was so disoriented or injured that she couldn’t escape. But there was no other way out. The doors were sealed. The windows inoperable. She would have to take her chances.

The car listed forward, dragged downward by the engine. The water rose. To her knees. To her waist. To her shoulders. She lifted her head so she could breath the shrinking pocket of air. The water kept rising.

Finally, with one last belch, the car nosed forward and plunged for the bottom.

Head near the ceiling, she could still breath from a pocket of trapped air. She could last until the car hit bottom.

Unless it flipped.

The front bumper jarred against stone. Andrea pitched forward. She gulped in a last breath of air. Water closed over her head. Her chin came down hard on the steering wheel. Her teeth clamped together, catching the inside of her cheek. The copper taste of blood flooded her mouth. For a moment, she seemed suspended. The car swayed.

And flipped.

The roof hit rock. Andrea twisted, her body flopped forward, her back landing hard on the car’s ceiling. The car stopped, resting upside down on the quarry floor.

Andrea groped for the door. Her fingers closed around the handle. She pulled the lever and shoved the door open. One strong thrust with her legs and she was out of the car. She kicked and thrashed, battling for the surface.

The water was cold, so cold. Her lungs burned for air. She kicked harder. Faster. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her lungs felt as if they would explode. Her clothing dragged at her, pulling her down, her shoes making each kick clumsy.

Finally, her head broke the surface. She gasped for breath, pulling air into burning lungs. Scissoring her legs, she trod water, gulping breath after breath.

Once she felt strong enough, she swam to shore and crawled out on the steep bank. Rocks dug into her hands and knees. Her body shivered uncontrollably. But she had made it. She was alive.

Now she had to make sure she stayed that way.

Chapter Two

Assistant District Attorney John Cohen trudged out of the courtroom and down the hall to the elevator on the way back to his office. Thank God the day was almost over. He’d won another case, put another scumbag in a long line of scumbags behind bars for a few more months, and added to his impressive conviction record. He should be happy. He should be looking forward to a night out with friends, to lifting a glass in celebration. But the only thing he wanted to do was go home, collapse into his recliner and forget the whole depressing mess his life had become.

When he’d taken the job with the district attorney’s office, he’d had aspirations of justice and making the world a better place. But after fifteen years of prosecuting the scum of the earth, only to have viler scum replace them while they did their too-short stints in prison, it was getting harder to drag himself to work each day. He felt more and more as if he was fighting a losing battle. As if his soul was being weighed down with the evil of life.

He needed a vacation. A vacation that would last the rest of his years.

The elevator door slid open. It was almost full. Just his luck. He crowded inside and hit the button for the fifth floor, trying not to breathe the air, sour with tension and stale sweat.

“Hold the door, please.”

Reflexively he reached out his arm to stop the door from sliding shut.

A slip of a woman with stringy blond hair and bruises marring her forehead and chin darted into the elevator. Her eyes met John’s for an instant, their depths pale blue and glassy, as if she’d gotten too little sleep or done too many drugs or just plain seen too much of the sordid underbelly of life. She turned her back to him and focused on the lighted numbers over the door.

John resisted the hypnotic tradition of staring at the numbers. Instead, he stared at the top of the newcomer’s head and tried to guess whether she was a battered woman coming to plead for her husband’s release so he could go home and punish her for calling the cops in the first place, or a prostitute struggling to look reformed for a court date. Her petite body and slender curves evident even under the jacket pulled tight around her shoulders made him think she had the goods to be a prostitute. And a successful one at that. But the bruises, her lack of makeup, and the silent desperation in her eyes settled it. She was here to plead for her husband.

He shook his head. Not that it made much of a difference. She was stuck in a hell of a life either way. A hell of a life that he sure couldn’t rescue her from. God knew he’d tried before with other women. And he’d failed miserably each and every time.

He directed his gaze to the numbers over the door, determined not to think about the woman in front of him too hard. Just the idea of a man laying a hand on that slender neck made his blood boil. Or at least simmer. His blood was too thick to reach boiling anymore. These days it only hardened and burned.

When the door opened he followed her down the hall and into the district attorney’s office. There he left her waiting to speak with a receptionist while he walked to his glorified cubicle and dropped his briefcase on a chair. He had nothing left to do but hop a bus and return to his empty two-flat dump. To his recliner, a dinner of cold pizza and a good stiff drink. In fact, since his big, empty house was within stumbling distance of the office, a good stiff drink was in order right now. He was just reaching for the bottle of Jack Daniels in the bottom drawer of his desk when his phone rang.

He held the receiver to his ear. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Cohen?” The new receptionist’s voice melted over the line like warm honey.

Chantel was her name, if he remembered correctly. A welcome change from Maggie. He pushed the thought of the former receptionist from his mind. He didn’t like to think about her. How she’d tried to set him up to take the fall for fixing a case that set serial rapist Andrew Clarke Smythe free. How she’d almost succeeded. And, worst of all, how she’d utterly ruined his taste for ketchup. “Do you know what time it is, Chantel?”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I know you just returned from court.”

He heaved a breath and released it into the phone. “It’s all right. What do you have for me?”

“I have a woman here who needs to talk to someone.”

There’d been only one woman in the reception area when he’d entered the office. The one he’d seen in the elevator. He exhaled a stream of air through tight lips. He was tired. Exhausted. He’d had it with sad, dead-end stories. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in another. He should tell the receptionist to find another assistant district attorney to talk to the woman or tell her to come back tomorrow. But something wouldn’t let him push the words past his lips.

Maybe it was the desperation he’d seen in her pale-blue eyes. Maybe it was the fear plain on her face. Hell, maybe it was simply the urge to be near that saucy little body again. He grimaced. He was even more cynical than he’d given himself credit for. “Send her in.”

He had replaced the receiver and relocked the booze drawer when a timid knock sounded on his door. “Come in.”

She pushed the door open and stepped inside before recognition registered on her face. “I saw you on the elevator.”

“You sure did.” He half rose from his chair and held out a hand. “The name’s John Cohen.”

She reached out and shook his hand. Her skin was soft, her nails perfectly manicured. Quite a contrast to her stringy hair and desperate look.

“And what brings you here today?”

“I need your help. I don’t know where else to turn.” She met his gaze with an urgency that made his gut tighten.

He pushed the unease aside. He couldn’t afford to feel for this woman, no matter how desperate she seemed. Once he let himself feel, expectations were right around the corner. And once he started to expect too much, disappointment was inevitable. It was a mistake he’d made many times before. And it was one he damn well wasn’t going to repeat.

“Why don’t you have a seat and tell me about it?” The words automatically tripped off his tongue. Maybe he should be a shrink. He could psychoanalyze himself during off hours. Save a bundle of money.

She lowered herself into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

He sank into his own chair. Gluing his gaze to hers, he waited for her to begin.

“It’s about my husband.”

Damn. Could he call them or what? A leaden weight settled in his gut. He’d been doing this job far too long. He braced himself for the rest of her sad story—a story he likely couldn’t do a damn thing to make end happily. “What about your husband? Is he a ward of the county?”

“What?”

“Is he in jail?”

“Not hardly.” She frowned and drew a slow breath as if to steel herself. “I’m Andrea Kirkland. Wingate Kirkland’s wife.”

John sat forward in his chair. He’d thought he’d run out of surprises during the past few years, but this certainly qualified as a change of pace. “Wingate Kirkland?”

She pursed her lips together and nodded.

Even though John didn’t exactly rub shoulders with the movers and shakers in Dane County, he’d sure as hell heard of Wingate Kirkland. Everyone had heard of Wingate Kirkland. The millionaire and his money were single-handedly responsible for reclaiming countless landmarks in Madison’s historic downtown. Of course, once reclaimed, he turned them into condos and rented them to anyone who could pay. Capitalism in action.

He narrowed his eyes on the woman in front of him. The manicured nails and doe-soft skin fit the image he had of Kirkland’s wife. But the stringy hair, the bruises and the desperate glint in her eyes were another story. “And what is it you want to tell me about your husband?”

“He’s dead. Murdered. And whoever killed him is after me.”

Second shocker in a row. John blew a breath through pursed lips, creating a soft whistle. Wingate Kirkland. Murdered. So even living in a gated rural estate and having more money than God couldn’t isolate a person from violence and villainy. What else was new? “Why haven’t I heard about this? I would think the news media would be all over Wingate Kirkland’s death.”

She gripped the arms of her chair. “No one knows yet.”

He raised his brows. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“I don’t know what the beginning is exactly.”

“Then start as close as you can. When was your husband killed?”

“About a week ago, I think.”

“A week ago? You think?” He didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice. The rich really were a different breed from the rest of the human race. “Glad you could take time out from your busy schedule to finally report it.”

She raised her chin and looked him square in the eye. A show of superiority. An empty show, if her nervous fingers tangling together in her lap were any indication. “I would have reported it, but…”

“But what?”

“But I didn’t remember it until last night.”

“Your husband’s murder just slipped your mind?”

She untwined her fingers and splayed her hands in front of her in a pleading pose. “I must have blocked it. I mean, that happens sometimes, doesn’t it? My mind must have blocked out the murder until I was better able to deal with it.”

Maybe he should have had that belt of Jack before agreeing to talk to this woman. He needed a good buzz in order to swallow this wild tale. “Are you suggesting you had amnesia?”