Why would this man be angry with her?

“I…don’t know who you are or why you think you know me.” Stella met the man’s gaze, determined to prove her point, but somewhere deep inside, in the far recesses of her mind, something intangible registered.

A wild and primitive awareness flickered in his eyes, something predatory, an almost hungry look, as if she’d not only met him, but that he’d known her intimately.

As quickly as the moment came, it fled, and she was thrust back into the depths of lost time.

“This isn’t funny, Stella.” Luke stalked toward her, stopped and gritted his teeth. “I’ve been searching for you ever since you ran out on our wedding night.”

Stella gasped, perspiration beading her lip. Wedding night? What was he talking about? She’d never been married….

Had she?

Vows of Vengeance
Rita Herron

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded her storytelling for kids for romance, and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romantic hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her Web site at www.ritaherron.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Special Agent Luke Devlin—An FBI agent who never crossed the line—until he met the enigmatic Stella Segall and married her.

Stella Segall—Luke’s wife disappeared on their wedding night without a trace. Now, accused of murder, she insists she has no memory of her traumatic past or the man who claims to be her husband—Luke Devlin.

Dorothy Segall—Stella’s mother supposedly sold her when she was an infant, but Stella’s returning memories hint at a different story.

Kat Dixon & Jaycee Short—Two hired and trained killers just like Stella—or are they?

Spencer Grossman—Luke’s superior at the agency suspected that Luke’s partner was a bad agent. Now he’s gunning to find out if Luke had joined him.

J. T. Osborne—Osborne’s death was ruled a suicide— wasn’t it?

Drake Sutton—A stranger who claims to be Stella’s guardian—his sinister secrets may destroy them all.

Marvin Andrews—This reporter who will do anything for a story—will he die trying to write it?

The Master—He trained them all to kill without a conscience—is it his turn to die now?

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

Epilogue

Prologue

It was Luke Devlin’s wedding day. The happiest day of his life.

Nothing could go wrong.

He and Stella had arrived at the chapel just before it had closed. They’d already exchanged vows. And now his wife was waiting in the honeymoon suite, preparing for their wedding night.

A night of ecstasy he couldn’t wait to begin.

Neon lights flashed across the night sky on the Vegas strip as he rushed to the car to retrieve the champagne and roses he’d bought for the occasion. Granted, he wasn’t much of a romantic. Hell, he wasn’t romantic at all. And he wasn’t even sure he knew how to be a husband. But he’d decided to give it a try.

After all, he’d never met anyone like Stella.

She hadn’t wanted a big, fancy wedding and neither had he. She’d insisted they drive to Vegas, instead of marrying in D.C. where they’d met. They’d gotten in around eleven, picked out simple wedding bands at a jewelry store nearby and had a nice quiet romantic dinner with a bottle of red wine. After toasting their future, they’d found an Elvis chapel offering a special deal for midnight ceremonies.

Even though the chapel had been somewhat cheesy, he wanted the honeymoon night to be special. Memorable.

And it would be. After the ceremony, they’d hurried back to the hotel as excited as if they’d floated into paradise.

Heady images drifted to mind as he jogged to the elevator. Stella in a bubble bath waiting for him, sipping champagne as he licked bubbles from her breasts. Stella naked and lying on that heartshaped bed with her hair spilling across the pillow and her legs open wide. Stella whispering that she wanted to go down on him as they’d left the chapel. Him doing the same for her afterward, giving her pleasure, and hearing her long-winded ecstatic cries.

Then being inside her, all night long…

A blissful evening of making love where, for once in his life, he could forget he was FBI. That he had an endless number of cases to work. Murders to solve. Killers to hunt down. Women and children to protect.

A life of violent and heinous crimes.

One that didn’t include pleasure.

A life he wanted to share with Stella.

A frisson of anxiety suddenly assaulted him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He had this feeling often. Every damn time he went to a potential crime scene.

But not now.

Hell no. Not on his wedding night.

Exhaling slowly, he exited the elevator, cut his gaze up and down the hallway, then toward the intersection where the halls met. Nothing seemed out of place. No strangers were lurking in the corner. No guns pointed his way.

Still, his pulse accelerated as he approached his room and inserted the key in the door. The wooden panel swung open.

Maybe Stella had left the door unlocked. Maybe she was waiting in the room, naked with strawberries and whipped cream on her belly. With chocolate sauce on her thighs, and promises in her eyes.

But that eerie premonition clutched at his chest again, and he felt for his gun, removed it from his jacket and slipped inside the room. All was quiet.

Eerily quiet.

Stella was nowhere to be seen.

He glanced at the bathroom but heard nothing. Only a daunting silence. As if the air couldn’t move. As if death had taken residence inside.

His gaze flew to the bed. On top of it lay the white sundress Stella had worn to the chapel. Blood dotted the skirt. The spaghetti straps looked as if they’d been torn.

Shock and horror momentarily paralyzed him. What the hell was going on?

He rushed to examine the damaged dress, picked it up and sniffed the blood to make certain it was real. A mental image of Stella wearing it down the aisle flashed in his head. The bodice had stretched tight over her breasts, the scalloped skirt swirling around her slender bare legs.

His throat closed, confusion and fear clawing at him.

Where was she?

He scanned the room in search of a clue. Her white stilettos were underneath the bed as if she’d kicked them off. The bouquet of fresh flowers had been crushed. Tossed on the end table.

And her suitcase was missing.

Instincts honed by years of training kicked in. He angled himself sideways and approached the bathroom, his imagination going wild. Other images flashed before his eyes. Stella on the floor bleeding. In the tub, drowned. Stella with her neck sliced open. Her eyes staring into space in death.

He’d seen it all before. The horrors of mankind.

But God, not on his wedding night. Not to his bride.

His lungs tightened as he peeked through the door. But no one was inside. The shower stall was closed. She might be hiding behind it.

So might an attacker.

Inching through the doorway, he poised his gun, ready to fire, then jerked open the door.

But it was just as empty as the room. Only a bottle of Stella’s raspberry scented shampoo lay on the floor, the contents spilling over, the red color floating in puddles like blood.

Something bad had happened to Stella.

He flew back to the room, scanned it one more time. A piece of hotel stationery was crumpled on the floor as if it had fluttered there when he’d opened the door.

A ransom note? A Dear John goodbye?

One ear cocked for sounds of an intruder, he leaned over and read the note.

“Don’t come after me. Goodbye.”

The writing was shaky. The note scribbled. A drop of blood dotted the white.

Had she decided their marriage was a mistake, or had she met with foul play?

Rational thoughts kicked in. If she had left of her own accord, why would there be blood?

He grabbed the phone, called security, identified himself as FBI, then ordered them to get someone up to his room. Within minutes, a chunky man with rumpled clothing and a name tag that read Ted appeared.

Ted frowned as he entered. “You reported that your wife is missing?”

Luke nodded, and removed a photo, the only one he had. The wedding photo of them kissing at the chapel. Thunderous emotions rose in his throat at the sight.

In the photo Stella had clung to him. She had looked happy. She had wanted to marry him and be his wife.

“We’ll call the local police.” Ted cocked a brow. “But, sir, are you sure she didn’t just, er…” He cleared his throat and glanced away, his face turning red. “Leave you?”

“There’s blood on her dress,” Luke snapped. His emotions pinged back and forth between fear and panic. And there was more. He had wanted to make a life with Stella. Had finally carved a place in his heart for a woman. Now it felt as if someone had jammed a knife in his aorta, and his own blood was spurting out.

It was unbelievable. Luke Devlin was an agent, a hardass, a man who investigated cases for others. He’d never been personally involved in a case before. That is, except for his partner J.T.’s recent death.

The man glanced at the dress, then at Luke and took a step back. A wary look darkened his eyes.

Luke looked down and realized he’d made a fatal mistake. He’d touched the dress. It held the scent of his cologne. His dirty handprints muddied the white.

And his fingerprints were all over the room. His day had gone from bad to horrible to worse. He was the husband, the one who’d called in the crime.

When the police came, they’d treat him as a suspect.

As if they thought he’d killed his wife.

Just as they’d treated him after J.T.’s recent demise.

Chapter One

Thirteen months later—Savannah, Georgia

The sheets were soaked in blood.

Stella stared at them in shock, then glanced down at her trembling hands. More blood. On her hands. Her fingers. Her nightgown.

It was still wet.

Then she saw the man.

Moonlight streaked his face, a golden outline of his still form stark against the bloodstained sheets. Nausea rose to her throat, the room swirling.

He was lying beside her. Half naked. Brown hair. Average features.

Except blood oozed from his mouth. And his chest had turned crimson, a red stain spreading across his torso.

The stench of body odors assaulted her, and a scream bubbled in her throat. She scrambled backward off the bed, panic clawing at her. Her foot hit a gun and sent it skittering to the floor. She jerked it up, turning it over in horror as she realized the man had been shot with it.

Her heart pounded as she glanced back at him again. Whoever he was, maybe he was still alive.

But he wasn’t breathing. His eyes were wide open, glued to the ceiling in the cold shock of death.

Suddenly the door burst open, and a policeman raced in, his weapon drawn. Stella froze.

The officer took one look at the dead man, then her, and his ruddy face went white. “Don’t move, ma’am.”

Her hand shook violently, the gun bobbing up and down as she realized how the scenario appeared. “I—”

“Put the gun down,” he barked.

“But I…I don’t understand.”

His tone hardened. “Now. Slowly lower the weapon to the floor.”

Shock and fear washed over her as she did as he instructed.

“Raise your hands in the air.”

She swallowed hard, then lifted her hands in surrender as he trained his gun on her. It was obvious that he thought she’d killed the man in the bed.

Only she had no idea what had happened.

LUKE DEVLIN’S phone trilled, the sound cutting into the silence of the night as if announcing trouble. He reached for it, one foot already sliding off the side of the bed, his mind playing the guessing game as to the nature of the call. A new case. An old one. Somebody else found dead. Something mysterious happening at Nighthawk Island. More bioengineering related to terrorism and chemical warfare. Their newest undercover plot—or maybe the feds with information on who had killed his partner J.T. Osborne last year and made it look like a suicide.

Or something about his wife’s disappearance.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing he’d had at least an hour or two’s worth of sleep. But sleep eluded him these days. So he welcomed work to relieve the pain and restlessness. “Special Agent Devlin.”

“Devlin, this is Lieutenant Rawlins of the Savannah Police Department.”

“Yes?”

“I just got a call from one of my officers, Detective Black. They found your wife.”

His heart thundered in his chest. Stella had been found. Alive?

Time vaulted to a standstill. For the past year, he’d searched endlessly. Even as a suspect himself, he’d pushed the cops and feds for the truth. They thought he’d crossed the line on this one.

But Luke Devlin never crossed the line. Not for anyone. Just as he didn’t believe that J.T. had been corrupt, either.

Eventually clues had turned up that made them believe Stella had left of her own accord. That she was alive and well, moving from one place to another. That she didn’t want to be reunited with him or to be found. But her disappearance had stamped a black mark on his career. Too many questions left unanswered. Too much doubt and suspicion for anyone to completely trust him.

Especially after all the trouble with J.T.

Although the police had officially deemed his partner’s death a suicide, and had called off the search for Stella, Luke hadn’t given up.

He had to solve the mystery around J.T.’s death. He’d been undercover at CIRP, getting close to finding out their latest experiments when he’d died. Luke needed to know what had happened to his wife on their honeymoon.

“Devlin?”

Luke cleared his throat, collecting himself. “Where is she?”

“Sunset Motel.”

“What?” His hand tightened around the phone. Was this some kind of joke? “What’s going on?”

“You can meet Detective Adam Black when you get there,” Lieutenant Rawlins said.

The officer started to hang up, but Luke needed more information. “Wait. Just tell me—is she … alive?”

A long hesitation stretched over the line, riddled with tension. Heat from the open window brushed his neck, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

“Yes, but, Devlin, there’s something else you need to know.” Rawlins paused, the scent of death and fear filled Luke again.

“What?”

“She’s going to be charged with murder.”

The breath whooshed from Luke’s chest. Moving on instincts so natural, he didn’t contemplate his actions, he closed the phone, yanked on his jeans, grabbed a shirt and jogged to his car. His mind raced while he cut through the streets of Savannah. Though it was midnight, tourists crowded the streets, Saturday night partiers in full swing. Booze and music floated through the humid summer air from River Street, a cruise ship had docked in town creating more chaos in the summer atmosphere. The roar of a siren in the distance reminded him that crimes had been at an all-time-high for the area, the closing of the bizarre suicide cases a while back having added more hype to the mysterious happenings at Nighthawk Island.

Questions rattled through his head, the same ones that had haunted him the past year. Where had Stella been all this time? Why had she left him on their wedding night? Had their marriage been some kind of scam? Had she been ill and decided not to burden him? Had she decided that she couldn’t stay married to him, that he was some kind of cold, FBI agent who didn’t know how to treat a wife? Or had she been in some kind of trouble, something she was afraid to confess to him?

But if she’d left of her own free will, why had there been blood on her wedding dress? That one element had bothered him, kept him searching for her, kept him awake each night with disturbing dreams and images.

And if she had been in trouble, why hadn’t she attempted to contact him sometime during the last year?

He maneuvered around traffic and a handful of pedestrians leaving a blues bar, then sped onto the road leading to the motel, leaving the historic side of Savannah with its town squares, haunted cemeteries and classy bed-and-breakfasts behind. He continued on, threading his way to the outskirts, to a rinky-dink motel that catered to low-rent patrons and truckers, ones who didn’t mind bug-infested rooms and two-bit hookers.

What was Stella doing at a place of this caliber? And why had Rawlins said they were going to arrest her for murder? Had she been held captive? Had she become involved with another man and gotten in over her head?

He approached the motel room with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Finally he’d glean some answers. Learn the truth. Get closure.

Look into her eyes and know why she’d put him through hell the last year. Why she hadn’t loved him enough to stay around.

The blue lights of the Savannah police car swirled through the darkness, the neon lights of the Sunset Motel blinking as he parked. One letter was missing in the word Sunset so it read the Sunet, and the building was so dilapidated it should have been condemned. A smattering of rattletrap cars filled the lot, a group of spectators already hovered in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes and mumbling, obviously aware their peaceful night had been interrupted by crime.

He barreled his sedan into a parking spot, killed the engine, then grabbed his badge and flashed it at the locals working to secure the scene.

“Special Agent Devlin.”

The squatty officer at the bottom of the steps spoke first. “Detective Black said you’d be here.”

Luke nodded, grimacing. The man obviously knew about his past. As Luke climbed the steps to the second floor, he dodged a reporter and cameraman. The motel rooms were lined up, each with its own outdoor access to the balcony. The doors were painted an avocado-green that had faded to a pea-green color from the blistering sun and relentless summer heat.

Seconds later, he stopped at the doorway, his gaze skimming past the security guard talking to one of the local cops. Through the open doorway, he cataloged details of the scene.

Blood was splattered everywhere, soaking the sheets and dotting the stained gray carpet. The foul odors of death hit him. The mumblings of policemen at work. A crime scene crew that had just arrived.

He saw Detective Black inside, then his gaze landed on Stella, and his heart literally seemed to stop beating.

She sat stone-stiff in one of the motel chairs, her hands knotted, her normally olive complexion a pasty-white, while Black questioned her. Luke hadn’t imagined the gut-wrenching reality of seeing her alive, in the flesh.

The hair that had been buttery-blond was now jet-black, not short and layered as when he’d known her, but a long tangle of ebony waves that sent a bolt of surprise through him. Surprise and sexual desire. He had wanted Stella the first moment he’d met her. The moment he’d looked into her pale green eyes.

She’d been leaning against a bar wearing a red dress that hugged her curves and a pair of rhinestone earrings that had dangled down to her shoulders. Although surrounded by gaping men, she’d appeared disinterested. Instead she’d looked lost and lonely.

After the death of his partner and the questions surrounding J.T.’s final days, Luke had been vulnerable himself. He’d always admired the way Osborne had juggled his career and a wife, and for the first time in his life, Luke had wanted the same.

In an uncharacteristic move, he’d bought Stella a drink. Three vodka martinis later, and they’d crawled into bed for some of the steamiest sex in his life. Stella had completely poleaxed him with her odd mixture of shy vulnerability and her bold lack of inhibitions about her body.

A month later, they’d eloped and that blissful month of premarriage heaven had turned into the year from hell.

He cleared this throat, struggled for calm and entered the room. An eerie quiet descended as if the black cloud that had been following him had swallowed the light. Two officers parted, their stares burning his back as he walked toward her. They knew who he was. Knew this was his wife.

When he stopped, only a breath away from her, he expected recognition. He waited, bracing himself, tamping down his anger.

She looked up, and he stared into her light green eyes, was caught anew by the sensuality and sweetness he’d once seen there. A bruise darkened her cheek, though, and a cold look of horror filled those crystalline eyes, as well as a dead emptiness that shook him to the core.

Yes, it was Stella.

But not the Stella he remembered.

She didn’t speak, jump up and greet him, or offer an explanation. Didn’t acknowledge that she was his wife. Didn’t move to touch him, to hold him or beg him for forgiveness.

He had to clear his throat twice to make it work. “Stella?”

He waited, his lungs tight.

“Yes.” An odd, almost distant look glazed her expression, then her voice came out in a low whisper. “Who are you?”

STELLA’S HEAD was swimming. First from waking up to find the dead man beside her, her hands coated in blood. Then the security guard and police with their questions and accusing eyes.

And now this stranger…was staring at her, calling her name, looking at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

As if she should know him.

“Come on, Stella,” he said in a harsh voice. “It may have been over a year since we were together, but don’t pretend you don’t recognize me.”

“I…” She gripped her hands in her lap, shuddering at the blood on her fingers. The sticky dark substance had seeped beneath her fingernails, soaked into her skin, settled in the fine lines on her palms. The smell suffocated her, the feel of the dried blood caking her hands nauseating her.

She desperately wanted to shower and rid her body of the stench of the dead man, but the detective beside her had already informed her bathing was impossible. They had to collect evidence. Fingerprints, DNA. Protect the crime scene.

So they could nail her for the murder.

Even though confusion muddled her mind, she knew what they were thinking. Realized she looked guilty. For God’s sake, she’d been holding the gun when the cop had arrived.

And what had this man said—that it had been a year since she’d seen him? Denial swept through her. If she’d ever met him, she wouldn’t have forgotten him. He was too powerful. Virile. Sexy. Intimidating.

Then again, she couldn’t remember anything except her name.

“Stella?”

She studied his features, searching for familiarity, for any dot of a memory to return. His tight jeans accentuated the massive power of his body. He was tall, over six feet, broad-shouldered and muscular. His eyes were dark, too, like two hot coals on fire, probing, unnerving as if he never smiled. A broad jaw brushed with dark stubble gave him a sexy appearance, but the tight set to that jaw indicated he was angry.

Why would this man be angry with her?

“I…don’t know who you are or why you think you know me.” She met his gaze, determined to prove her point, but somewhere deep inside, in the far recesses of her mind, something intangible registered.

A wild and primitive awareness flickered in his eyes, something predatory, an almost hungry look, as if she’d not only met him, but he’d known her intimately.

As quickly as the moment came, it fled, and she was thrust back into the depths of lost time.

“This isn’t funny, Stella.” The man stalked toward her, stopped and gritted his teeth. “I’ve been searching for you ever since you ran out on our wedding night.”

Stella gasped, perspiration beading her lip. Wedding night? What was he talking about? She’d never been married….

Had she?

LUKE STUDIED his wife’s reaction, his temper battling with other emotions he didn’t want to admit. He was glad to see her. Relieved she was alive. Furious that she’d left him.

And he ached to hold her. To grab her, drag her into his arms and tell her how terrified he’d been that she was hurt, in trouble, needing him. How he’d nearly been out of his mind the last twelve months. That he’d imagined horrid scenarios, seen her face in death a thousand times in his mind, her neck twisted or broken, her body covered in blood with glazed eyes.

That he’d made love to her a thousand times in his mind.

Stella stretched her left hand in front of her. “You must have me confused with someone else, mister. I’ve never been married.”

His dark eyebrow shot up. “Stop lying,” he said in an icy tone. “I’m not in the mood to play games and neither are these other officers.” His cold gaze slid across her, sideways to the bed where the dead man lay in a pool of blood, then back to her hands. “Who was he? Your lover?”

Detective Black cleared his throat. “Devlin, maybe you’d better let me handle this.”

Luke glared at him. “What has she told you so far?”

Stella knotted her hands and glanced at the detective as if he were her friend. As if she thought she needed protection from him.

“I don’t know who this man is,” Stella said to Black. “Or what he’s talking about. Do I have family to call?”

“You told me you had no family.” Luke swallowed, grappling for control. After all Stella had put him through, how could she pretend she didn’t recognize him?

Detective Black gestured for Luke to step aside. Reluctantly he did so, well aware Stella tracked his movements.

“I think she may have amnesia or be suffering from shock,” Detective Black said. “I want the paramedics to evaluate her.”

Luke nodded. “All right, but just to cover our asses. She’s lying through her pretty, white teeth.”

Black shrugged. “Then see what you can get out of her. So far, I’ve hit a dead end. She insists she doesn’t remember anything except her name, that she doesn’t know the victim.”

Luke grunted. Hell, maybe she hadn’t known him, maybe she’d picked up a stranger for a one-night stand. “She was in bed with the damn man.”

Not how he’d expected to find her. He’d be a laughingstock all over the bureau. Disgust rode through him in waves. He’d made a fool of himself the last year. Begging the feds to keep looking for her and trying to clear himself at the same time.

Dammit, he’d chased down lead after lead. Tortured himself over what might have happened to her. Blamed himself for not protecting her. Nearly lost his damn career.

And now here she sat, denying their marriage ever existed, pretending not to know his name…

Fury raged through him as he turned back to her. She was trembling and had shrunken back into the chair as if the cheap flimsy plastic might save her. Hating the sympathy that struck him, he stifled the urge to grab a blanket and wrap it around her arms, to calm her.

Instead he steeled his voice. “All right, Stella. Tell me what’s going on.”

Her eyes smoldered with unease. “Like I told the police, I don’t remember what happened. I woke up around midnight and found this man in my bed. B-blood was everywhere.” Her face paled as she picked at the dark stain between her fingers.

“Go on.”

She bit down on her lower lip. “I…had blood on me, then I scrambled off the bed and saw the gun.”

“You were holding it when the security guard arrived.”

“I…I picked it up off the floor. I…” She gestured toward the bed. “I …don’t know this dead man, though…or what’s going on. I…swear it. I don’t even remember checking into the motel.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

Stella glanced away, rubbed at her temple as if a headache brewed. “Nothing.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw, his agent instincts battling with the memory of her in his arms. He almost believed her. Almost.

Too much circumstantial evidence pointed to the opposite.

He knelt and touched her hands, ignoring the stab of desire the movement cost him. She was shaking, her eyes glued to the crimson stains on her fingers and nails.

He slowly turned her hands over, and saw the powder burns.

Powder burns didn’t lie. Only people did.

“STELLA’S OUT of control.” He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bar in Sutton’s office, swirled it in circles, then downed it in one swooping gulp. While he waited on Sutton’s response, he savored the taste for a moment, the slow burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat and warming his belly.

“I have the situation in hand,” Sutton barked. “She told the police nothing.”

“You lost her a long time ago, Sutton. You should have disposed of her when she first betrayed you and attempted to escape.”

“My plan will work. Just be patient.”

“Patient? Devlin won’t let go. And we’ve put too much into this project for you to go soft.”

“Soft?” Sutton’s voice rose. “If I’d gone soft, how the hell did I pull off what I just did? My plan is a stroke of genius.”

He tapped his nails on the smooth marble bar. “What if it doesn’t work? You’re taking a chance just letting her near the cops. And that bastard Devlin—he’s no fool.” He paused and poured himself another drink. “He didn’t let the hype about his partner being corrupt deter him.”

“It did for a while. He got sidetracked with Stella.”

“You think we can use her to do the same now?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

He harrumphed. Sutton might think he had things under control, but that was near impossible now. Stella was like a pipe bomb—unpredictable. “Know that I’m monitoring your ever movement, Sutton. If Devlin gets too close, if Stella starts remembering and talking, then I’ll kill them both.”

“I understand.”

Did he really? Sutton might be riding the line, but he wasn’t. He was the same ruthless man he’d been trained to be. He took without mercy. Trained the others to do the same. And he hadn’t gone soft.

Soft meant forgetting what he had learned from the Master. The Master who had led him down the path years ago, just as he continued to lead the others.

Stella had been one of them. One of the hardest to break. One of the ones who’d tried to get away.

But there was no escape. Only a price to pay for trying to do so.

And Stella would learn just how high that price could be.

Death for her lover. For herself.

But first…first, she would know the pain of betrayal.

And if Sutton couldn’t handle it, he’d meet death himself.

Chapter Two

Luke’s gaze rose from Stella’s bloodstained, powder-burned fingers to her heart-shaped face. The bruise stood out, stark now, making his gut clench.

As their gazes locked, the undeniable spark of sexual energy that had zapped him the first time he’d met her rippled through him again, as strong and potent as before. The pull of those green eyes, luminous with fear and confusion, tugged at emotions he refused to acknowledge.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and hands, and his heart pounded. The air was sultry, the room cloying with the stench of death, yet she still had the power to touch some unreachable place that he hadn’t even known existed. A weak place that wanted and needed her in spite of the fact that she had deceived him.

Every protective instinct he’d ever possessed reared itself, taunting him with what-ifs.

What if Stella were telling the truth? What if she were innocent? What if this were some bizarre case that was more complicated than a wife having skipped out on her husband? What if the dead man had tried to hurt her, and she’d been acting in self-defense?

What if she hadn’t wanted to leave you?

Hopeful, stupid thoughts that no jaded cop or federal agent was supposed to think, much less allow himself to believe. Not even for a second.

After all, he’d seen the worst of mankind, witnessed deplorable acts and betrayals that had destroyed his trust in the human soul. And years ago, he’d steeled himself against falling for a wounded woman.

Until Stella had stepped into his life.

Then a part of him had gone soft.

He hated softness of any kind. Had been trained not to tolerate it.

He glanced at her hands again, registered the absence of her wedding ring, and he won the war with his primal instincts. Humiliation and anger raging inside him, he wiped the sweat from his brow and spun away from her, leaving her to face the cops alone while he spoke with the crime scene unit. The medical examiner, Dr. Yates, studied the body, making notes. A sandy-haired man in his twenties and a red-headed female CSI tech were collecting evidence, combing for fingerprints, picking hair fibers from the bed and carpet, lifting prints from the water and wineglasses on the end table. The sheets were soaked, hanging askew, the white pillow-case marred with a crimson stain in the shape of a hand. Stella’s hand.

Luke swept his gaze over the victim. Noticed not for the first time that he was naked. He had brown hair, was average height, no distinguishing marks on his face, except for a scar by his right ear. He was lying on his back, his legs partially dangling over the side as if he’d tried to get up and run. One hand was thrown over his head, the other on his chest where the bullets had pierced his heart. His body was lean, but not muscular. Hairy. And his jewels… They were limp, hanging in plain sight.

Not a man he’d have thought Stella would have been attracted to.

Luke’s hands knotted by his sides. Had Stella slept with the man, then killed him? And if so, why hadn’t she tried to cover up the murder? Why had she screamed as if she was calling for help? She hadn’t even attempted to hide the weapon.

Or maybe her amnesia act was part of her plan…a self-defense ploy to keep her from jail.

He scratched his chin, assessing the rest of the room with a trained eye. There were no suitcases. No bottle of wine to go with the wineglasses. No…clothing.

No woman’s purse.

The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit. Where were the man’s clothes?

He stalked to the bathroom and found one of the investigators bagging a pair of slacks, so he introduced himself to both the techs. “Any ID in there?”

“No. So far, we haven’t found any for him or her,” Doug, the male investigator, said.

“Condoms?” Luke gritted his teeth while he waited.

The female, Jill, shook her head. “None in here.”

“I didn’t find any in the bedroom, either,” Doug added.

Luke frowned. Stella had always insisted on condoms. So had he, for that matter.

Then again, maybe she and the dead man hadn’t gotten to the nitty-gritty yet.

Luke rushed to the bedroom, checked the nightstand. Empty except for the motel Bible.

He closed the drawer with a scowl, then approached the body again, parking himself by the M.E. “What do we have so far?”

“It appears he died of multiple gunshot wounds. Two to the chest. Close range. My guess from the size of the wound, a .38.”

The same kind of gun Stella had been holding.

“Any other injuries?”

Dr. Yates rolled the man to his side, indicating several bruises that marked his lower back. Others, less noticeable due to the blood on his chest, covered his torso. And another one darkened his thigh.

“Any signs that he had a weapon?” Luke asked.

“No powder burns on his hands. There is some blood under his fingernails. We’ll send it to trace.” The M.E. glanced up and frowned. “There are hair fibers that appear to match the woman’s.”

Luke spotted a long, black strand of hair caught in the man’s finger and his stomach knotted. “Any evidence that indicates someone else might have been in the room?”

The crime scene techies returned. “We’ve found a few short brown hairs in the bathroom,” the sandy-haired CSU guy reported. “They don’t appear to belong to the victim or suspect.”

Jill shot a look of disdain around the room. “Could be a product of a shoddy cleaning staff,” she muttered. “You know they rent these rooms by the hour.”

Luke nodded. “Bag and tag all of it. I want every inch searched, including the bathroom.” He glanced back at Stella, bracing himself for his next move. “I’ll arrange for a doctor to examine her, and make sure he goes over her body with a fine-toothed comb. He’ll look for defensive wounds, signs of sexual activity, blood, semen, DNA from the victim and any other source.”

“She’s already asked to shower,” Jill remarked, a hint of derisiveness in her tone. “At least she isn’t screaming rape.”

Luke aimed a frigid stare toward the tech. “This is a murder investigation, so let’s stick with the evidence. Stella claims she has no memory. We don’t know what happened, and until then, we can’t rule out any possibility.”

The woman’s expression went from cocky to chastised in a flash.

He exhaled, then pivoted to study Stella again, to look for the lies and the truth in the woman he’d married. She was shaking violently now, had her arms wrapped around herself in a blatant attempt to hold herself together. Either that, or she was a consummate actress.

Still, her hair was disheveled, dried blood crusted her fingers and nightgown, and the pale skin of her legs was showing. His eyes narrowed. A long scar glistened along the bottom edge of the nightshirt—a scar that hadn’t been there a year ago. And he would know. He’d loved, kissed and touched every inch of her.

“She can’t clean up until she’s thoroughly examined,” he said, shutting out the memory. “And I’ll inform the doc to examine that scar on her leg. I want to know how long it’s been there and what caused it. Our psychiatrist will also conduct a complete neurological. Let’s see if her amnesia is for real.” He jerked his gaze back to the crime scene agents. “Get me the results from here as soon as all of you are finished.”

He strode toward Stella just as Detective Black snapped the handcuffs on her delicate wrists.

STELLA GLANCED UP at the federal agent, Luke Devlin, the handcuffs rubbing heavily against her skin as the detective gripped her shoulder to lead her from the room. For a brief second, she thought something flickered in the man’s enigmatic eyes—a look that hinted at an apology. Or maybe a promise that he would help her. That she wasn’t alone in the world of darkness that had become her life.

But the feeling disappeared as if it had never existed, and tremors racked her body again, a trapped feeling overwhelming her. She had been trapped before. Had been held against her will. Made to do unspeakable things. And a man had been involved. A black-haired man with cold, black eyes.

Then she had tried to escape.

But there were harsh punishments for that.

Snatches of memories, all in black and white, blurred reality, and the room twirled and spun in a dizzying frenzy. She saw herself—running, running, running. But she could never escape. Never outrun the demons.

The detective cleared his throat. “Mrs. Devlin…are you all right?”

She blinked at the sound of the title, the agent’s face wobbling back into focus along with the voices and murmurings of other officers. The stench of the dead man’s body floated toward her, then the overwhelming scent of another man invaded her space—Luke Devlin.

He carried with him a commanding air, a mixture of a spicy, woodsy scent that simmered with sexuality, a scent that overrode the worst of the stench in the room.

Had she really married this stranger? And if so, why didn’t his face look familiar?

She took one more look at the dead man’s body on the bed and nausea rose to meet with the clogged air in her throat, renewing her panic. The man was dead. She had no idea who he was. Or who had murdered him.

But she was going to jail for the crime.

She would be locked behind bars, a prisoner…

Just as she had been before.

She balked and drew back, stiffening and digging in her heels. The men halted. Another officer reached for his gun as if preparing to fire if she attempted to escape.

“Relax. We’re taking you to the hospital to be examined,” Detective Black said in a low voice. “Agent Devlin is arranging for a CSI team to collect evidence and have you evaluated.”

Luke Devlin approached her, closing his cell phone as he stopped by her side. He stood towering over her, a mass of muscle, black hair and intimidating eyes. “I’ll escort her, Detective.”

A mixture of unease and relief poured through her. If this man had married her, he must care about her. Surely he would help her figure out the truth. Help her regain her memory. Keep her from prison. But the rigid grip of his fingers as he half dragged her to the police car indicated differently.

Outside, she gulped, startling as thunder rent the air, and lightning zigzagged across the gray, mantled sky. It was pitch-black, not a star in sight.

She shifted and looked up at Luke Devlin. His eyes were the same eerie combination of black and gray.

This man might have claimed to be her husband, but would he really help her?

And what if the memory of being trapped meant she had been trapped by him…

THE VULNERABILITY in Stella’s green eyes stole Luke’s breath. When they’d stepped outside, panic had tightened her slender body.

She was scared.

Dammit, she should be. Every piece of circumstantial evidence so far pointed to the fact that she had murdered a man. Probably in cold blood. Maybe even premeditated.

And now she was hiding behind a smoke screen of amnesia.

How common was memory loss anyway?

They descended the steps, his instincts as an agent warring with a compassionate side he hadn’t known he possessed. A side that no one else had ever touched.

But he had pledged vows to this woman. Promised to protect, honor and love her for the rest of their lives. As bitter and cold as he liked to believe he was, he was a man of his word.

They reached the car, and he opened the back door, then squared his shoulders, and helped her inside. Part of him wanted to drive her to some hideaway, a place where they could talk and be alone.

Someplace where he could have his damned unfinished wedding night. Maybe if he made love to her, she’d remember him. He sure as hell hadn’t forgotten her touch. Or what her lips had done to his body. And how it felt to sink himself inside her.

Detective Fox, Adam Black’s partner, jumped into the driver’s seat while Luke claimed the passenger side. “To the hospital?” Fox asked.

Luke gave a clipped nod. “Yes.”

A sound of distress rippled from Stella, but Luke ignored it and gestured for Fox to drive. Thunder barreled and rolled across the moonless sky, and rain began to pound the roof.

The ten-minute ride seemed like an hour. Fox was forced to a crawl from the heavy rainfall. Luke occupied himself by phoning the hospital to confirm that the doctor who worked for the police department was available to examine Stella. Fox parked in the emergency entrance, and angled himself toward Luke.

“You want me to wait?” Fox asked.

Luke shook his head. “No, I’ll assume custody of her now.”

Stella gave him a helpless, frightened look from the back, but he ignored it. Although when he climbed out, he shucked off his jacket and wrapped it around her arms to shield her from probing eyes as he coaxed her into the hospital. She halted in the entrance, her body trembling. He smoothed a damp strand of hair from her cheek in comfort, but she pulled away from him, as if he were the enemy.

“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked in a low, shaky voice.

“They’re going to examine you, take trace evidence. Make sure you’re healthy enough to…”

“To be arrested?”

His gaze met hers. “This exam is as much for your safety and protection as it is for us, Stella. They might discover evidence that someone else was at the crime scene, too.”

Or that she’d been assaulted and had defended herself. He latched onto the thought. As awful as that idea was, the other possibilities were more daunting.

She bit down on her lip, her tangled hair falling over her forehead and across her cheek. He was tempted to reach out and push it back again, but jammed his hand inside his pocket instead. He couldn’t allow himself to touch her. The other officers would see what a complete and utter fool he’d been. Think he’d lost his edge and couldn’t function on the case.

And he had to work this case.

Losing J.T. had made him look incompetent. And then falling under Stella’s seduction…

Besides, touching her was too personal. It meant reviving memories he couldn’t deal with right now. Rubbing salt into wounds that were so fresh he felt as if they’d just been sliced open. Tearing into layers of his heart that had been ripped away one time too many already.

Yes, he had to work this case. Prove he could handle it.

Because he had to know the identity of the dead man in Stella’s bed, and his relationship to her.

And if she had killed him.

AS THE DOCTOR escorted Stella back to the examining area, Luke Devlin stationed himself at the door like an armed guard, proving to Stella that there was no love lost between them.

Weak and drained, she mentally prepared herself for a different type of interrogation. But the minute Luke Devlin had deemed himself her police guardian and ordered these tests, she realized nothing could have prepared her for the humiliating ordeal of being treated as a suspect in a murder investigation.

The doctor, a middle-aged man named Morton, had icy hands that scraped, combed and touched virtually every inch of her. She felt violated in ways she hadn’t known existed.

On the heels of those vile feelings, an uneasy realization swept through her—the familiarity of being treated like a subject instead of a person. That sudden premonition was as unsettling as the remainder of the exam, which she barely endured without screaming.

As soon as the physical torture ended, an Asian psychiatrist, Dr. Wong, put her through a battery of psychological tests and questions that proved to be even more exhausting.

By the time she finished, she wasn’t just worried about her memory loss but her sanity. And she still hadn’t been allowed to bathe. It was almost as if they were playing mind games, leaving the stench of blood and death on her, hoping to drive her to a confession.

“So you don’t remember anything before you woke up in that hotel room, Stella?”

Thank heavens the woman had finally accepted that she didn’t know how to respond to the title Mrs. Devlin. It simply was too foreign for Stella to believe that she’d been married and didn’t remember a wedding or her husband.

It shocked her even more to know that she’d married that cold, unnerving man who’d ridden up front in the police car with another officer while she’d suffered the inhumanity of being shoved in the back behind a cage like an animal. He hadn’t spoken to her on the ride to the hospital, and had simply presented her to the doctor who worked with the forensic scientists and crime scene unit, as if he had no personal or emotional involvement with her.

Then again, maybe they hadn’t had one. Maybe that’s the reason she’d left. She’d been running from him.

Had he come looking for her? Had he cared what happened to her? Or had he simply viewed her departure in his calculating, unemotional way and said good riddance?

“Stella?”

She jerked back to the present, exhaustion weighing her down. She was incredibly thirsty, too, her mouth so dry her lips were sticking together.

“No, I told you I don’t remember anything.” She rubbed a weary hand over her forehead, then noticed the blood again and cringed. “When can I get a bath?”

“We’re almost finished.”

“How about a drink of water?” In spite of the heat outside, her teeth chattered. “And a blanket?”

For the first time since she’d arrived, Dr. Wong’s expression softened. In response to her request, the doctor retrieved a pitcher of water from a sideboard, poured Stella a glass and handed it to her. She also grabbed a blanket from the closet and wrapped it around Stella’s shoulders. Stella drank the water greedily, already craving more as she tugged the blanket tighter around her.

When she finished the second glass of water, Dr. Wong narrowed her eyes. “Have you been ill recently?”

“I…don’t know. Why do you ask that?”

“Because you seem dehydrated. And you’re pale, have faint bruises beneath your eyes.”

A desperate sob rose in Stella’s throat. “I’m just so tired.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Stella Segall…that’s all I know.”

“Where do you live?”

Stella searched her memory banks for some clue, some memory, anything to stir from the depths of despair threatening to swallow her. Finally she shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

“Do you have family?”

She shrugged, any patience she’d had dissipating. “Not according to Agent Devlin. And if I remembered one, don’t you think I would have asked for them by now, called and begged them to get me out of this godawful mess?” She raked her jagged bloody nails across the table. “Why? Did Agent Devlin lie to me? Has someone come forward looking for me? Do I have a mother, a sister or a brother maybe?”

Dr. Wong averted her gaze slightly, and Stella read the gesture as an answer. Luke Devlin hadn’t lied.

He was the only person she had. And he had brought her here in handcuffs.

What a sad testament to her life. Why didn’t she have friends? Family? What had happened to bring her to this point?

You’re a murderer.

The voice whispered in the far recesses of her mind, taunting her.

Was she really such a horrible person?

Dr. Wong crossed her legs, her clipboard planted firmly on top of her black suit skirt. “Where have you been staying the past year?”

“I don’t know!” Frustration exploded in Stella’s voice. “Why do you keep asking me the same questions over and over? I told you I don’t remember anything but waking up in that room and seeing the b-blood.” She gulped, the images flashing again, sweat trickling down her neck and back.

“I’m hoping to spark your memory.”

Stella gripped the water glass with trembling hands, the first glimmer of hope surfacing. “So you believe me?”

A long hesitation, followed by a labored sigh. “I believe something happened to you, something that you want to forget. Something traumatic.”

Stella flinched. So the woman thought she was guilty.

Thought she’d repressed the facts. But how could she forget shooting someone? Or getting married.

And why had a stranger been in her bed instead of her husband?

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