Dalton dropped the handcuffs and kicked them across the floor to her. “Put those on.”

“A frequent fantasy of yours?” Kira had been aiming for a sarcastic tone and instead, the words came out breathy. Like an invitation.

“Definitely.” His raised eyebrow spoke volumes and she balanced on the thin line between anger and appreciation. He was good. Scratch that. He was very bad, and he knew it.

“I meant, use them on your friend. We need to get out of here before the fire closes in.”

“And if I refuse?” She swiped her cheek across her forearm and stifled a groan when her skin burned from the action.

“Then you deserve each other,” he drawled. His warped sense of humor added to his raw appeal. Laughter and looks were a dangerous combination.

His silky brown eyes slid down her body and then to the gun in her hand.

“You’re making me nervous. How about a truce?”

Protecting

His Brother’s

Bride

Jan Schliesman

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JAN SCHLIESMAN became addicted to Mills & Boon® novels in high school, often swapping bags of books with her girlfriends. Shortly afterward, Mr Wonderful walked into her life, and it was love at first sight. At least for her. It took a few months for him to realise that she was mowing the grass in tight spandex to get him to notice her. They married and started a family and she became a stay-at-home mum. Not as much time to read meant Mills & Boon® Desire™ books were her new best friend, especially when they started including wineglasses in the monthly shipment. After their son was diagnosed with autism, it was also vitally important that somebody, somewhere, was getting a happy ending. She returned to college in pursuit of an English degree, but working as a police dispatcher provided too many story ideas. The Romantic Suspense line became her new love, and a degree in criminal justice followed many years later.

Most days you’ll find Jan listening to love stories and helping couples choose the perfect engagement ring. Most late nights she’s in her office, getting new words on the page. Born and raised in Iowa, she’s the mother of three semi-grown children. Jan lives in Kansas with the man she still calls Mr Wonderful. Find her on Facebook, follow her on Twitter or check out her website at www.janschliesman.com.

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Sixteen years ago I drove sixty miles on a Thursday night to attend a Heart of Iowa Fiction Authors meeting. I brought along ten single-spaced pages of my manuscript, which I’d printed on lavender paper. No one laughed at me. I received nothing but encouragement and amazing advice. Thank you, Roxanne Rustand, Kylie Brant and Cindy Gerard for being such great roomies at the conference and for including me in all your fun.

When we moved to Kansas nearly six years ago, I connected with a critique partner, Sarah Cannon. We kept each other going when it might have been easier to give up. And thank goodness we didn’t give up, because 2014 was the year we both sold manuscripts to Mills & Boon. It’s been an exciting ride and one that wouldn’t have been possible for either one of us without the unwavering support of Mills & Boon® Intrigue author Angi Morgan. Besides being my toughest critic, she’s also my best friend. I am lucky beyond measure to have her in my life.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“I am not a criminal,” Kira Kincaid announced to the female FBI agent who watched her every move. On the contrary, Kira was an upstanding example of citizenship. “I never even drive over the speed limit.” The fact that she didn’t own a car was inconsequential.

“Save it for the judge,” her keeper barked.

Kira pressed the cup to her lips and finished the last drop of water. She wished she had more. The third-floor interrogation room faced west and the late-August sun was outpacing the air-conditioning.

Rocking back and forth in the seat, she focused on trying to calm her nerves while preparing for what would happen next. Every police drama she’d ever seen replayed in her head. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. The only attorney she knew was Marissa Reynolds, a neighbor in her apartment complex.

Sitting there in shock, Kira didn’t know how much time passed. She also didn’t know how she remained so calm. Shock could do that to a person, she guessed. Even so, she had enough sense to refuse answering any questions until her attorney arrived. She sat quietly in the interrogation room, handcuffs removed, but with one agent left to supervise her actions. Where would she go?

She’d gone out of her way to avoid direct contact with Marissa, but Kira could deal with the interaction if it meant the difference between going home and spending the night in jail. After having messy fingerprints and a horrible mug shot taken, she had used her one allotted phone call.

The door swung open and Marissa Reynolds hurried in, giving Kira a quick once-over before a glance to the agent sent the woman from the room.

“I’m sorry you had to wait. I was right in the middle of an adoption.”

Kira pressed a fingernail into her palm to keep the tears at bay. Adoptions meant babies were getting new families. Marissa dealt with children every day, which was part of the reason they could never move beyond the boundaries of exchanging pleasantries in the hallway of their apartment complex.

Kira had stopped at Marissa’s once to borrow Scotch tape and nearly had a meltdown in her kitchen. Marissa’s refrigerator was covered in pictures. Snapshots of babies and toddlers offered an unwelcome reminder of what Kira had lost.

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

Marissa pulled out a chair, sat and dropped the notepad she’d been holding on the table. “I’m not a criminal attorney, but I can refer you to someone who is.”

“I’ve been set up,” Kira insisted. “I know who’s responsible.”

“Then you need to cooperate with the FBI.” Marissa was all business as she paused to straighten her lapel and brush away invisible lint.

Cooperate with the FBI? Kira had come too far for that option to sound feasible. And if they had any proof against her, dollars to doughnuts it was Griffin who’d once again left her a hair’s breadth away from learning his true identity. He’d also promised a fate worse than being arrested.

Two men entered the room after a quick tap on the door. Their FBI badges were flipped open on their jacket pockets. Marissa stood to greet them. Introductions and handshakes were exchanged, and Marissa asked to see the warrant for Kira’s arrest. Kira already knew what it said—the United States Government, Judicial District 47, was charging her with twenty-two counts of insurance fraud and fifteen counts of identity theft. And to add insult to injury, there were three counts of embezzlement. All Kira could do was sit and stare in dumbfounded silence.

“Mrs. Kincaid, you seem to have gotten in quite a pickle,” Agent Nissen said, sitting at the table with them. “Fortunately, it’s not you we’re after.”

He dropped a file in front of Marissa. She opened it and scanned the page.

“Eleven million dollars?” Marissa snapped the file shut and looked at Kira, not questioning the agent.

The second agent leaned against the wall. “We’re after the bigger fish and the money.”

“Meaning Justice is ready to make a deal to recover the cash,” Agent Nissen said.

Three pairs of eyes turned to Kira.

“You seriously think I embezzled eleven million dollars? I’m an insurance investigator. I only have three hundred dollars in my checking account. I didn’t steal anything.”

“Tell us what you know,” Agent Nissen insisted. “Start with the account under your maiden name holding eight hundred thousand dollars.”

“You’re married?” Marissa tipped her head to the side, her eyes reflecting betrayal. No one in their apartment building knew Kira was married. It was a lot easier not to discuss how she’d been abandoned.

“It’s been a while. Things didn’t work out.” Understatement of the year. “If an account still exists, then it’s news to me.”

“Here’s a listing of wire transfers into that account spanning the last four years, including one just two weeks ago.” Agent Nissen slid a sheet of paper across the table.

Kira would never in a million years waste fifty dollars on a single wire transfer, let alone continue doing it for several years. Her thrifty nature was common knowledge. She always packed a lunch and rode the bus rather than wasting money on a car, insurance and gas.

The numbers staring back at her contained too many commas and zeroes. But the paper also listed her full name, with the last four digits of her social security number. “Anyone can rent a PO box under my name and pay cash to hide their identity.”

“Is that how you did it?” Agent Nissen asked.

Kira ignored the jab. “What about this account in the Cayman Islands? Whose name is listed on it?”

Another sheet of paper sailed across the table. “Recognize that signature?”

“I recognize the name,” she conceded. “But that isn’t my signature.” She grabbed Marissa’s pen and signed her name on the first sheet of paper, shoving both across the table to Agent Nissen.

After studying the page for a moment, he shrugged. “We have plenty of other evidence linking you to these crimes.” He pulled a few more sheets from the folder. “Video of you from the bank in Denver, airline manifests showing frequent trips to Colorado, the Cayman Islands and your condo in Florida.”

“Stop.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose and took a cleansing breath. “This is absurd. Beyond absurd, it’s ludicrous. I’ve never been to Florida, let alone the Caymans.”

“The evidence tells a different story.” The second agent had a note of superiority in his voice, almost as if he was taking too much pleasure in tightening the invisible noose around her neck.

Whatever fear existed in her before was gone, along with her initial shock. This was wrong, plain and simple. “What is it you want from me?”

“We want evidence against your partners. This scheme is too well orchestrated for one person.” Nissen ticked off his list by unfolding his fingers. “We want to know how it was done. Obviously, the safeguards in place at the federal level are not enough to deter every criminal.”

“Terms for immunity?” Marissa’s voice was clipped.

“The money, or nothing else is negotiable.”

“What if she agrees to sign over the funds in those accounts?” Marissa held up her hand before Kira could protest.

“This isn’t a fine on an overdue library book, Ms. Reynolds. Your client is looking at some serious time behind bars, whether or not the money is returned.” Agent Nissen tugged at his shirt cuff and checked his watch. “We’ll give you a few minutes to confer with her.”

Marissa followed them to the door and verified that it was closed before turning to Kira. “I’m really disappointed in you.”

“Why?” It hurt knowing Marissa believed anything Agent Nissen said.

“You’ve got a condo in Florida and haven’t invited me along even once?” She shook her head. “I thought we were friends.”

“I didn’t do this,” Kira insisted. “Marissa, you have to believe me.” Kira needed to know that at least one person was on her side. No one from Midwest Mutual had rushed to her defense when she’d been handcuffed and marched out of the office earlier today.

“I obviously don’t know everything about you.” A smile worked its way across the attorney’s face. “But I do know that you’re afraid to fly.”

Kira’s relief was evident in the hug she offered Marissa. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she insisted. “First we need to get you arraigned and released.”

Kira had to pull herself together. Equal parts anger and angst rolled through her veins. Anger at Geoff Griffin, the man who’d managed to elude all her attempts to link him to the stack of claims the audit department funneled her direction every month. Griffin was the only one who’d figured out that she’d spent quite a bit of her free time away from Midwest Mutual, working every angle she could come up with. How in the world had he known about her off-the-books investigation?

The only positive in this fiasco was that she now had confirmation that her activities were making him nervous. Was it his goal to see her in prison? From every document she’d obtained, she knew the man covered his tracks too well. Someone inside Midwest Mutual must be helping him. It was the only explanation for his ability to know her every move.

The bank account was a bonus. Just further proof that her husband was a control freak and had failed to follow through on one more of his promises. Kira thought of the divorce papers that were gathering dust in her bill organizer. Even when she’d made the effort to erase his memory, he’d avoided the sheriff’s attempt to serve him with the papers.

Why hadn’t she tried harder to track him down? She wanted to forget their relationship, right? So what did it say about her that she remained linked to him?

And now, angst over the latest revelation that she was somehow involved. The bank account the FBI had found was much too convenient. It also meant she’d have to make a concerted effort to find her almost ex-husband. Josh could sweet-talk his way out of walking naked through a ladies’ Bible study. Yes, he was that charming. Totally untrustworthy, but charming...like a snake.

She had only herself to blame. This is what happened when you trusted the wrong person. This is what happened when impulse overruled common sense. And this is exactly what happened when you lived a lie without giving any consideration to the consequences.

She’d survived far worse than this, hadn’t she?

It was time for her to demand answers from the man who’d left her broken and alone. If it meant the difference between prison and freedom, she would use every morsel of information she’d gathered to track him down.

Chapter 1

Dalton Matthews slapped the sawdust from his well-worn jeans and scowled at the gray Ranger pickup parked a half mile or so down the gravel lane to his house. It was a little late for the welcome wagon to come knocking, since he’d no longer be considered a newcomer. If his streak of bad luck continued, another snooty reporter from News Channel 9 was probably close enough for him to strangle.

He scanned the area and then jogged down the road to check for the intruder. Anger swelled and added to his frustration when he found the truck unoccupied. He stared inside the unlocked cab. The keys hung from the ignition and a black leather purse was sideways on the seat amid some fast-food wrappers and a few empty water bottles. But the most interesting item of all was a digital camera partially hidden under a road atlas.

Damn the paparazzi for their never-ending attempts to breach his privacy and twist the knife deeper in his gut. He should have known they wouldn’t allow him a moment’s peace. Not with Gossip Girl magazine offering three hundred grand for any picture of him in exile.

He swiped the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. Let the owner hike to the main road and hitch a ride. Or maybe he’d call the sheriff and have them arrested for trespassing. As an afterthought, he removed the memory card from the camera and pocketed it, as well.

As he retraced his steps to the house, he noticed the door to the storage shed swaying in the breeze. He was certain he’d closed it earlier after placing extra lumber inside. He scanned the yard once more before checking his pockets for his phone. Maybe he ought to call the sheriff first and delay a confrontation.

Instead, he rushed to the building’s entrance and shouldered his way inside. His annoyance ratcheted up another notch when, even in the dimly lit space, he spotted the trespasser picking her way through various pieces of scrap wood littering the floor.

A woman with blond hair falling below her shoulders and a shapely rear end clad in faded blue jeans.

“What are you doing out here?”

The startled woman pivoted and stumbled, tripping on the uneven surface and pitching sideways. He instinctively extended his arms, but he wasn’t nearly close enough to break her fall. She whacked her head on one of the wide wooden support beams and crumpled to the floor.

He was paralyzed by memories of another time and another woman. His attempts at revival had been futile back then. The sickness of that moment clogged his throat, as it had so frequently in the early days. He’d clutched a lifeless form in his arms while he’d bargained with God for another chance.

Hurrying forward now, he knelt beside the stranger and moved a length of hair from her brow while avoiding the cut over her right eye. Blood flowed down her temple, forming a small puddle near her ear. He lifted her in his arms and strode outside, hoping the late-afternoon sun would provide a better view of her injury.

She was softer than he remembered a woman being, probably because his memories of the opposite sex were in the distant past. A pink lacy bra was visible beneath her green short-sleeved shirt. Only a pervert would recognize a front-hook bra on an unconscious woman. One more reason for annoyance to fuel his actions.

He shifted her in his arms and forced his eyes away from her undergarments as he crossed the last thirty feet to the house. Spying another large scrape on her forearm brought him to a halt. What if she needed an ambulance?

He didn’t relish the thought of alerting anyone to his location or having her arrested so she could blab to the highest bidder. Right now he needed to make sure she was all right and stem off any possible lawsuit she might have in mind. People got a bit crazy when they had their sights set on some easy money, a lesson he wished he’d never learned.

After taking the front porch steps two at a time, he caught the bottom corner of the screen door with his booted foot and kicked it open. His living room rivaled an obstacle course. All the kitchen appliances and furniture had been relocated to the small room because the new granite countertops hadn’t arrived yet. The path to the stairwell was tight, forcing him to turn sideways and adjust his hold on the woman when her feet caught on his oversize recliner.

He maneuvered the narrow stairway to the second floor, slipped into the first doorway and laid her on the unmade bed. She looked so out of place, and so pale, with the dark circles rimming her eyes matching the shade of gray from the sheets covering the mattress. He caught himself reaching for her wrist and counting the beats before he comprehended he’d been holding his breath. This woman had a pulse, unlike Lauren.

He dropped her hand and stepped away from the bed, working to calm his racing heart. He never relived the day he’d found Lauren without the benefit of a strong drink. But all the same, the image was there, sinking into the gap in his brain he hadn’t managed to fill despite the physical labor blending the days together.

The woman moaned, one ashen forearm covering her eyes as she rolled closer to the side of the bed. He jerked forward, catching her shoulders before she could topple to the floor. She shuddered in his grasp as he settled her against the pillow and pressed a handful of tissues against her injury.

Her eyes opened a fraction of an inch and long lashes fluttered against the brow already shadowed with purple, predicting an impending bruise. Lifting her hand to her forehead, she winced, before glaring at him with utter contempt. “You hit me?”

“Of course not.” Perhaps she’d used this ploy before.

“You must have,” she said, as her gaze bounced around the sparsely furnished room. “Where am I?”

“You’re lost,” he offered, seriously tipping the scales in the generosity department. This little fiasco had scam written all over it, and he was through playing the game.

Removing his cell phone from his pocket, he scrolled to find the number of the local police department. Pausing before hitting the send button, he shifted his gaze to the trespasser, resigned to giving up his anonymity in order to get her out of his hair. “Maybe the sheriff can help you find your way.”

A thunderous boom rocked the house, shattering the bedroom window and sending shards of glass and chunks of metal hurling through the air.

Dalton lurched forward, eliciting an ungrateful cry from the woman. She bucked like a bull out of the chute, rolling them both to the floor. He used his elbows to keep from crushing her with his full weight.

Evidently gratitude wasn’t in her vocabulary, because Ms. Con-Artist-Extraordinaire kicked his shin and tried twisting out of his hold. He allowed his full weight to drop on top of her, pinning her to the floor. But if he thought the explosion in front of the house was his utmost worry, he’d been mistaken. The angry glint in her bright green eyes warned him the game wasn’t over. She kicked once more, drawing his attention to a lump pressing against his kneecap.

“Get off me.” Her painted fingernails were little spikes through his shirt as she shoved at his chest.

“Lie still.” He held her in place as she squirmed beneath him. She was a lot stronger than he’d expected. Her labored breathing warmed his chin and her continued movements succeeded in firing more than his temper. Those sizzling emerald eyes promised retribution for her confinement. He reached between them, shoving the denim up her leg, revealing a leather ankle holster.

“What’s this?”

Bad enough the scam artist had accused him of assaulting her and then managed to blow up a good portion of his house; she also had a concealed weapon.

“It’s not what you think.” She bucked her hips beneath his in a feeble attempt to break free.

“Don’t even start.” He double-checked the safety before releasing her and hauling himself to his feet. Inspecting the magazine, he half hoped it would be empty. No such luck. One bullet was chambered and another eight remained in the clip.

After shoving the clip into place, he kept the weapon aimed at her while sliding closer to the window. The woman’s truck was fully engulfed in bright orange flames.

“Your truck exploded.”

“What?” She sat up, appearing genuinely shocked by the news.

“Not part of your plan?”

“No. Why would I blow up a rental?” Inhaling a shaky breath, she swiped at pieces of glass stuck to her palms.

“Maybe you should have put more thought into your plan, whatever that may be.” Sparks ignited the dry grass around the truck. His anger with the woman slid to a nonpriority. Alerting the fire department was his first.

Dalton crossed the room, collected the remainder of his cell and disgustedly tossed it aside. “Where’s your phone?”

“I don’t have one.” She remained seated on the floor.

“Empty your pockets.” He didn’t believe a word she spoke.

After wiping a spattering of blood on her jeans, she shifted to her knees and dug her hand into her pockets. A handful of change clattered to the floor along with a lip balm, a few dollars and a piece of gum.

“I told you the truth.”

“I doubt it.” Now what was he supposed to do with her? From the corner of his eye he noticed movement beyond the tree line. Another armed trespasser?

“Who else is out there?” He held the gun on the woman and watched her accomplice making his way to the back of the barn.

“How would I know?” Her eyes darted to the doorway and then returned to the weapon in his hand. “I want my gun.”

He flat out laughed at the request. Smoke from the explosion reached his nostrils, reminding him of the urgent need to control the fire.

“Get up,” he ordered, wordlessly promising to drag her off the floor if she didn’t comply. He reached for the simple wooden chair that had survived more than a century of abuse at the hands of his family.

“You can’t keep me here. What if the fire spreads?” Was that genuine fear or insolence lacing every word?

“Wanna bet?” He dropped the chair at her feet and shoved the weapon into the back of his jeans. He pulled out his pocketknife and cut through a section of sheet, quickly ripping it in half. A second later her shoe sailed through the air and bounced off his cheek, before she bolted for the door. He chased her into the hallway, catching her around the waist and pulling her back into his bedroom.

“Let me go,” she hollered. Her elbows and feet connected with various parts of his body as she tried ineffectually to get free. “Ouch, you’re hurting me.”

“And you’re really pissing me off, cupcake.” He dropped her onto the chair. Pulling her arms together in back, he slipped a wide section of sheet around her wrists and tied a double knot. Then he moved in front of her to secure her legs to the chair.

“You’re going to be sorry you messed with me,” she threatened, already trying to work her way free.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Dalton demanded. Her immediate silence surprised him. He should’ve been grateful for the reprieve.

He glanced out the window once more. The blonde bomber’s cohort was skirting the shed with a gun clutched in his hand. Armed paparazzi or kidnappers hoping to extract a big ransom? It didn’t make sense for them to blow up their own getaway vehicle.

Dalton may have briefly forgotten the Coast Guard’s motto, Semper Paratus, Latin for Always Ready, but having a gun in his hand again brought his training to the forefront. His muscles twitched in anticipation, not unlike the first time he’d boarded a vessel in the Gulf of Mexico and helped his team seize a shipment of cocaine bound for the United States.

He slipped off the safety and approached the open doorway. Glancing once more at the troublesome woman, he stifled a brief flicker of guilt over leaving her without a way to protect herself. But she’d already burned through his goodwill. Judging her an enemy instead of an ally was self-preservation in its simplest form. As jaded as it sounded, it was easy to slip back into the role that had shaped his early life.

Chair legs scraped across the floor, but he didn’t have any more time to waste on her. He needed the landline downstairs and it would take a minute to push his way to it. Phone, firemen and, unfortunately, another round with the police. Maybe it was time to hire some private security and stop depleting the sheriff department’s resources. Then again, his donations had already funded two new patrol vehicles and trained a K-9 dog. What next?

* * *

Smoke billowed in an upward spiral close to the house, tainting the breeze, which had earlier carried the scent of autumn. Kira’s head pounded an irregular rhythm, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to overcome the nausea bubbling in her stomach. Convincing herself that being sick wasn’t an option, she tried piecing together a plan. This was the place, she was almost certain. That shed outside hadn’t been here before, but there was something familiar about this room.

Why hadn’t she blurted out the question she wanted answered? Do you know Joshua Kincaid? That’s what normal people did—they asked questions. She was terrified the man would say no, because she’d run out of options, chances and luck.

Nothing to lose. She wiggled in the chair. The tiny thumb drive wedged in her bra beneath her left breast pinched, confirming it was still in place. Considering her jarring fall to the floor and being manhandled by the impatient ogre in a lumberjack shirt, it was a miracle. Maybe ogre was an exaggeration, but he looked and felt solid enough to play the man in the Brawny commercials.

Most people backed up their computer files. But some people, like Kira, went a little crazy. She had an external hard drive for her home computer and several flash drives she rotated through. The FBI thought they’d confiscated everything, but they didn’t know about the online backup site she used. Some secrets would always be safe as long as they didn’t fall out of her bra.

Straining her neck to the right, she shifted enough to see past the valance hanging lopsided from one of the two front windows. A six-inch pane of glass remained intact, but the rest was reduced to various sized pellets littering the hardwood floor.

Nearly four years had passed since she and Josh had spent the weekend here and he’d proposed. If Kira thought too much about how she’d arrived back here, she’d never dig herself out of the darkness.

Josh had effectively fallen into a black hole. She had no idea where he’d gone after their separation, and she had to find him. Her desperation had led her to the obituaries, numerous social networking sites and every phone number for every Kincaid in the Midwest. No one knew him or was related to him. Josh couldn’t have disappeared without a trace. Okay, she’d found a trace in the form of a joint tax return he’d filed, managing to collect a refund.

He had also worked for one of Griffin’s shell companies. The entire time Josh and Kira had been together he hadn’t been the struggling artist he’d portrayed. He had earned nearly twenty thousand dollars and hadn’t shared a dime with her. Not only were the Feds breathing down her neck, but since her arrest five weeks ago she’d acquired a shadow. If there were two feelings she’d never quite grown used to, they were being watched and being alone.

What had Josh gotten mixed up in? And why had she worked twelve-hour days to put food on the table while he’d spent their extra money on studio time? She’d seen only one of his paintings, and it hadn’t inspired confidence that he’d ever support their expanding family.

Learning he had money and yet hadn’t offered to do more shouldn’t have surprised Kira. He’d never been a college student, either, at least not in Kansas City. The number of lies he’d told her expanded into double digits. When she finally tracked him down, she’d be armed with plenty of persuasive evidence to encourage some honesty. And a quick divorce.

Kira rocked the chair from side to side, determined to free herself. Tight bindings cut into her wrists. Swallowing a groan, she fought against the material holding her hands and legs in place.

Her truck was gone. Technically, it wasn’t hers, but she assumed the obnoxious rental car manager wouldn’t mind garnishing her wages for the next decade.

What did it matter? She’d be in prison, anyway... Which was negative thinking. She was supposed to send good vibes out into the universe and be rewarded for her efforts. Obviously the ogre wasn’t a fan of Dr. Phil.

“I can absolutely, positively free myself,” she chanted. Her fingers found an opening in the bindings, and on the third try, the knot was gone and she was free. She heard noises downstairs and hurried to detach the bindings from her legs.

She stood and grabbed the chair, steadying herself while her head spun with troubling theories of escape. She couldn’t stay here. The Brawny guy was determined to call the fire department, and probably the sheriff’s office to charge her with trespassing. If she was arrested, they’d ship her back to Kansas City to face all the original charges, plus bail jumping.

A rush of adrenaline forced her awareness to strict survival skills. She needed a weapon.

Feathers from a down-filled pillow covered most of the floor and the box springs clung precariously to one side of the metal bed frame. Kira stepped closer and yanked at the center support bar underneath. It popped loose and one end dropped to the floor with a resounding clunk. She froze.

What if Brawny heard?

Seconds passed. No footsteps.

The four-foot piece of metal she held was heavy, awkward and difficult to grip. But she managed to swing it a couple times and pictured herself landing a blow to Brawny’s kneecaps. Then she could retrieve her gun. She hated guns, but after the explosion, she needed all the help she could get.

A board squeaked and she scampered to a side wall. Her heart hammered as she tried breathing without making any sound. She needed the element of surprise on her side. A partial shadow crept across the floor. She swung, aiming low, pouring every ounce of her strength into connecting with his kneecaps.

But the man who came through the door wasn’t Brawny.

And she hadn’t hit his kneecaps.

The new man howled as he doubled over, firing off three quick shots before collapsing to his knees. Kira swung at his shoulders, hoping to knock him out of the game. His gun skidded across the floor.

She dropped the metal bar and dived for it. Shards of glass and wood splinters bit into her arms and legs. Feathers scattered in her wake. As her fingers gripped the weapon, she rolled onto her back, pointing the barrel toward the newcomer’s balding head.

Could she shoot him? Would it guarantee no more attempts to kill her? The man on the floor didn’t move and relief engulfed her.

She’d never thought herself capable of killing anyone, so this was testament to how far she’d fallen on the sanity scale. Kira struggled to a sitting position, exhausted and swiping at the blood mixed with sweat dripping down her cheeks—battle scars from her earlier tumble.

“Guess your friend found you.” Brawny stopped short in the doorway, holding her gun as if he planned to use it.

“You mean your friend. Put my gun down or I’ll shoot.” Okay, maybe she’d shoot. She’d never fired at a real person before.

Brawny was tall, probably over six feet, with a stance that said he expected compliance. A faint hint of stubble ran across his jaw. His dark brown hair held a few blond highlights, showing a bit of length in the back, leading her to believe he’d missed a haircut or two.

“Shoot your friend first, since he’s the one trying to kill you.”

A very rational request. “Maybe I should shoot you both.” The gun wobbled in her hands. It was heavier than hers and she really shouldn’t point it at anyone. What if it went off?

“Good luck with that. You know live ammunition does more than go boom, right?”

Was he mocking her? “Of course I know.”

Brawny fired at the wall above her head and she ducked. When she glanced up again, he was dumping the shells into his palm before tossing the gun at her feet. “Your gun is loaded with blanks and I’m dying to hear why.”

“I tried telling you, but you wouldn’t listen.” How would she explain that she didn’t want to shoot anyone? To her they were practice bullets, meant to help her get used to the sound of gunfire without flinching.

“Why use a gun without real bullets?” Brawny rubbed his chin, drawing her attention to the five o’clock shadow that was much too sexy for his own good.

“I’m holding a real gun with real bullets now.”

“If you shoot me, who’s going to help you with these?” He held out a set of handcuffs, nodded toward the man on the floor. Then he unwisely took a step closer.

“Stay back,” she ordered, visualizing herself handcuffed to another chair. “I don’t want any more of your help.”

He flashed a perfect smile, which under any other circumstances would have made her weak in the knees. He shrugged. “You destroyed half my house.”

“I didn’t destroy anything.” She needed to hold on to the anger, make him think twice about laying another hand on her.

“And I know this isn’t your house.” She hated that her voice shook.

“Really? Then whose house is it?”

“I’ll ask the questions.” Her eyes darted to the man on the floor and then to Brawny. “How do I know you didn’t send him up here to kill me?”

“You don’t.”

Not at all what she’d expected. “No song and dance about why I should trust you?”

“You shouldn’t.”

Well, good. At least they were on the same page. He took a lazy step forward and she adjusted her sights. She slid a few inches to the left and connected with a wall. “Don’t move any closer.”

“Shooting me is a waste of bullets.” He dropped the handcuffs and kicked them across the floor to her. “Put those on.”

“A frequent fantasy of yours?” She’d been aiming for a sarcastic tone, and instead the words came out breathy. Like an invitation.

“Definitely.” His raised eyebrow spoke volumes and she balanced on the thin line between anger and appreciation. He was good. Scratch that. He was very bad, and he knew it.

“I meant, use them on your friend. We need to get out of here before the fire closes in.”

“And if I refuse?” She swiped her forearm across her cheek and stifled a groan when her skin burned from the action.

“Then you deserve each other,” he drawled. Brawny’s warped sense of humor added to his raw appeal. Laughter and looks were a dangerous combination.

She lowered her gun a smidgen. Was she really going to shoot either of the men? And if she had to trust one, it would be Brawny. His silky brown eyes slid down her body and then to the gun in her hand.

“You’re making me nervous. How about a truce?”

“How long until the police arrive?” she countered. The burst of adrenaline was quickly fading from her bloodstream, causing her hands to shake.

“Twenty minutes.” His critical eyes swept her again. “Do you need an ambulance?”

Did she? The thoughts were getting jumbled in her head. She couldn’t stay here, but didn’t know how to leave. The man on the floor shifted, distracting her long enough for Brawny to pry the gun from her fingers.

He pointed the weapon at the man she’d temporarily sidelined. “I will shoot.” He kicked the balding man’s outstretched arm for emphasis, earning a grunt in return.

“Hand me the cuffs,” Brawny said.

Kira reached for the handcuffs, stifling the urge to ask where he’d gotten them. Pressing her back against the wall, she struggled to stand, one bare foot crunching on broken glass. She winced, throwing all her weight onto her other leg while trying to extend the cuffs to Brawny.

“You ain’t cuffing me,” the other man bellowed.

“Shut up,” Brawny said.

An obnoxious noise filled the room. Belching, maybe? But the man’s lips weren’t moving.

“Oh, that’s classy,” Brawny said. “Where’s the phone?” He pressed the barrel of the gun against the balding man’s head when he didn’t reply. “Last chance.”

“All right, all right, it’s in my pocket.”

As Brawny squatted to search the denim pockets, Kira stood holding the cuffs. She should do something to help, right? Maybe slip one of the silver bracelets onto the man’s wrist while Brawny subdued him.

She took a step closer as Brawny located the phone and silenced the annoying ringtone. In a flash, the balding man wrapped his fingers around her ankle and yanked her off balance as he threw his elbow toward Brawny’s face. Her bare foot was already unsteady as she tried kicking free.

Kira tumbled, her arms windmilling as she tried to catch herself. Hot pain hammered the back of her head as she fought to remain conscious. Her eyes slid closed against a backdrop of grunts and punches. She rolled to her side, unable to do more than lie there and listen.

Another punch, another curse, another gunshot, then silence. She felt more than heard the vibration against the floor. Sensed someone moving nearby. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she couldn’t breathe.

“Tell me she’s dead.” An unfamiliar voice crackled through the phone.

Another gunshot exploded and Kira grabbed her head. The sound echoed in her ears, reverberated through her skull. Then silence.

Chapter 2

“She’s dead.” Dalton mimicked the thug’s voice to perfection, a skill he and his brother, Josh, had honed as kids. At the same time he was grinding his heel into the intruder’s face for emphasis.

“Clean it up and get here by morning.” Whoever Rico was, he disconnected before Dalton uttered another word.

He shoved the phone into his pocket. The surreal activities of the past twenty-odd minutes came into clear focus. The blonde bomber had told at least one truth: she didn’t have a partner. She also didn’t have a prayer of walking away without sharing the full, unabridged version of why she’d ended up at his door, and how she planned to stay alive.

For a moment, he allowed his gaze to roam her body, lingering on the cleavage exposed when her shirt had slipped off one shoulder. The thickening smoke reminded him they had to get out of here.

Dalton could consider himself every kind of fool for not letting the woman suffer alone, but she needed a doctor. A man with any functioning brain cells would’ve found out her name when she’d first opened her eyes. There had been an explosion, so maybe he should cut himself some slack.

The sound of rain splattering against the house, along with the crack of thunder that followed, had him breathing easier. The small fire would be out in no time. “At least something is going right.”

He should have expected that the man would put up quite a fight. The bastard had gone after Blondie again, leaving no doubt he wanted her dead. Dalton had stopped short of killing him, but the thought still flickered in the back of his mind.

It would be self-defense, plain and simple. But he didn’t want an ounce of scandal to touch his family’s name ever again. His mom couldn’t take another and would never forgive him. First Lauren, and the personal attacks that had seeped into his mom’s life, then Dalton lying his way through his brother’s death. The tabloids insinuated Josh had gotten what he deserved, and although Dalton felt the same way, he had to deflect their claims.

Josh had always been their mother’s favorite. Maybe because he was the baby of the family, or maybe because his mother coveted his free and easy nature. He could do no wrong in her eyes. And since they’d fought the day before his death, his mother was convinced she’d played a role in sending him over that cliff.

Dalton grabbed the man’s shirt collar and dragged him into the bathroom, anchoring him with duct tape to the cast-iron bathtub while he writhed in agony.

“Who are you and why do you want her dead?”

The portly man pressed his lips together, trying to look cocky. “You’re a wrinkle in the plan,” he said. “They want this place gone, burned to the ground. I’ll be out of jail and back in a couple hours to finish the job.”

“I’m shaking with fright.” The man might have been intimidating to anyone else, but to Dalton, he was simply a bully. “Behave yourself and I’ll call the cops tomorrow.”

He returned to the bedroom and dialed the emergency services number again. He couldn’t second-guess his decision to help the unconscious woman. Commitment was his middle name. “This is Dalton Matthews. I need to cancel the call for a grass fire. Looks like the rain put it out.”

“I’ll remove it from our list,” the dispatcher replied.

“I’m heading out of town for a few days. Could I get an extra patrol to swing past tomorrow and make sure everything’s in order?”

“We can do that.”

The man in the next room gathered enough energy to bellow a string of curse words.

“Sorry. Forgot to mute the television before I called.”

“No problem, sir. I’ve heard worse.”

“Now that I think about it, switch the patrol to the day after tomorrow.” Dalton grinned to himself. “Nothing exciting ever happens around here.”

“Right. I’ve got you down. Have a safe trip.”

He disconnected the call and stared at Blondie. She was out for the count and his ruse might have bought her a short reprieve. Getting her to a doctor or hospital would cover his culpability regarding her injuries. He dropped his bloodstained flannel shirt and pulled on the first available T-shirt.

“Now for sleeping Blondie.”

All his efforts while he’d been in hiding the past several months would be wasted by tomorrow. There was no time to cover all the windows and prevent any further damage to the house. He released another, longer sigh and with it some of the anger kindling his blood.

He tossed an old afghan onto Blondie and secured her close to his body. He settled her in the front passenger seat of his vehicle, clicked the seat belt in place and climbed into the driver’s side. He backed out of the garage and refused to look at the damage.

The rain had arrived in time to stop the fire. He adjusted the wipers and pulled onto the darkening county road with one final glance in his rearview mirror. No second thoughts.

Right or wrong, he was committed to securing Blondie’s health and safety. She needed a hospital. She’d get a hospital. If she woke up before that, he’d get answers.

Dalton rubbed his knuckles, thinking of the bastard who’d taken a hit to the groin. The man’s curse-filled tirade had confirmed that someone wanted more than death for Blondie. What did she want from Dalton? More than a few things didn’t add up.

Dalton spotted the bright pink nails grasping the edge of the damp afghan he’d thrown over her. He caught himself reaching for her fingers, the familiar color causing his gut to clench. Instead, he anchored his hands on the steering wheel.

How many times had he seen such a color? Visiting the nail salon had been a ritual for Lauren. Until the day she’d taken her life. It was almost impossible not to think of his wife, and every time he did, he couldn’t get past the circumstances framing her death or the blame levied at him.

“How many media exclusives can you people want?” An unlimited supply, when every person Lauren had known, past and present, collected a fee for their sorrow. Too bad they hadn’t been half as involved in her life when her fame had started tearing her apart.

But paparazzi don’t normally carry guns or have thugs blowing up their cars.

The woman beside him was too pale. Too fragile looking, as though she’d endured more than her fair share of pain. She moistened her lips and wiped her hand across her eyes before wincing and bolting upright in the seat.

“Let me out!” She tugged at her seat belt.

He glanced at the highway. “Out where?”

She pushed a strand of hair off her face and glared at him. “Just pull over and let me out.”

Dalton hit the brakes and steered the sedan onto the shoulder, sending gravel flying against the undercarriage of the car and abruptly stopping them with enough force the airbags could have deployed.

She braced a hand against the dashboard before throwing off the afghan and releasing the seat belt. She yanked on the door handle and then beat her fist against the cherrywood trim in frustration. “Why won’t this door open?”

Dalton placed the car in Park and turned off the ignition. “Because we have some unfinished business, because it’s dark and rainy outside or because you aren’t wearing shoes. Take your pick.”

She shut up for six seconds and then immediately returned to attack mode. “I already said I was sorry. Now let me go.”

“First tell me your name.”

“Tell me your name.” She might talk big, but her body language told a different story. She was shrinking to the corner of the seat.

“I have a feeling you already know it.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she softly counted to ten. Then she reached forward, opened the glove box and started riffling through the papers inside. He’d give her points for resourcefulness, but she’d find nothing in there to help her.

Next, she flipped on the console light and held up three or four papers for inspection. “BCA. BCA. And BCA, Inc.” She glared over at him. “What’s a BCA?”

“Business name.” He winked, hoping she could see it in the dim light. “Your turn.”

“I pass.” She crossed her arms, stubborn yet again.

“Are you sure?” he asked, typing in a request on the car’s GPS screen and doing it with enough fanfare she had to be watching him. He flipped on the audio switch and waited for the announcement.

“Law enforcement located, ten point three miles northeast, downloading directions now.”

She stared at the screen, chewed her lip nervously and then straightened her spine. “If you were going to turn me in, why didn’t you do it already?”

He didn’t need her calling his bluff. He needed her to crumble and spill her guts so he could determine her true motivation. It was like a really bad game of hot potato and he wanted to get rid of her as soon as feasibly possible.

“Simple answer, I was headed to the hospital, quicker than waiting for an ambulance.” He invoked his most take-charge tone before continuing. “You could move things along by telling me your name and how you found me.”

She shoved the mass of paperwork and fast-food napkins back into the glove box and slammed the cover shut. “I wasn’t looking for you.”

“Really? Then what were you doing, snooping around my property?”

She chewed her bottom lip again. “Exactly how long have you lived there?”

The air in Dalton’s lungs turned to fresh cement and for several seconds he couldn’t breathe as he remembered the day he’d escaped to the woods. Had he really been hiding out for over a year? He cleared his throat. “Answering a question with a question is a classic avoidance technique, one you probably already knew.”

She blew the bangs from her forehead and turned toward him. “And yet it’s a question I will ask again. How long have you lived there?”

“And I’ll repeat, what were you doing snooping around my property?” Two could play her game.

She glared at him again. “I wasn’t trying to snoop, but I’d actually been there several years ago. I was searching for...an old friend.”

Dalton took a moment to absorb the information. This woman was asking him to believe she’d been there, legally, without his knowledge. There were only four people with a key.

“Maybe the exterior has changed a bit, but I’m 99 percent certain my friend still owns that property. We came here New Year’s Eve almost four years ago.” Her voice shook again and she blinked away tears.

“Blondie, my family has owned that house for sixty years.” Dalton watched as her expression changed from anger to uncertainty. “You’ve either confused the location with another property or you were trespassing the first time.”

He’d expected another string of denials to fall from her lips.

“Damn you, Josh,” she softly cursed.

Dalton’s blood ran cold at the mention of his brother’s name. He gripped the steering wheel when he’d rather have hold of her neck. “Did you say Josh?”

“Yes, Joshua Kincaid.” She swiped her tongue across her lips again, momentarily distracting him.

“And...” He tossed off his seat belt and leaned across the console, anxious to hear what scheme his half brother had gotten her involved in.

“And what? He proposed to me in that cabin.” She released a huge sigh. “Josh is my husband.”

Dalton couldn’t stop staring at her as if she’d admitted to being a topless dancer at an old folks’ home. Then a laugh burst from his chest. “You’re definitely not his type.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Josh was never married.” So this was her plan the whole time? She was sniffing around for a windfall, but not from him, from Josh. No wonder she’d turned up at his family’s cabin, but claiming to be Josh’s wife didn’t help her credibility. At least not with Dalton. And there was no way in hell he’d let his mother hear. Lie or not, she’d take Blondie’s word without a shred of evidence, just so she’d have some part of Josh again.

“We are married,” Blondie said. “And I need to talk to him.”

“Lady—and I use the term very loosely—there are many things you obviously need. But you’ll never talk to Josh.”

“Oh, you can bet I’ll find him,” she yelled, shoving forward and staring Dalton in the eye. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Lucky me.” He’d give her points for appearing wounded by his comment, but she was still a fraud. “Cooking up this whole story isn’t getting you a dime. I guarantee it.”

“It isn’t a story and I don’t want your money. Josh will help set everything straight. Do you know where he is?”

“Yeah, I know a lot of things.” The words spit from his lips. “I know you’re definitely not Josh’s wife.” Of all the ridiculous lies she could have created, this one knocked the breath from Dalton’s lungs. He had to stop her before the situation snowballed out of control.

“I couldn’t care less what you believe,” she snapped, giving as good as she got. “Can you help me find Josh or not?”

“Find him? Oh, yeah, I can lead you right to him.” Dalton slammed his fist against the console and drew a deep breath before he threw the car into gear, made a U-turn and tore down the roadway. He veered right on the second gravel road, so upset that he forgot about slowing down for the ruts.

“Where are you taking me?”

He couldn’t answer her.

“When was the last time you saw Josh?”

“Seven weeks ago.” He pushed the words out.

“Did he seem all right?”

“No.” Dalton felt nothing now that the gate was in sight. “He seemed dead.”

* * *

Blondie was silent for several minutes. “Tell me how.” She kept her face turned toward the window, although he couldn’t have judged her true reaction in the darkness, anyway.

“Does it matter?” Dalton refused to go into the whole story when it was the least of his worries. He followed the ruts in the road as the pellets of rain lessened to a fine mist. After kicking on the high beams, he adjusted the wipers to a slower interval and watched for washed-out spots in their path. He hadn’t been here often, but the archway entrance to the cemetery couldn’t be missed.

“It matters to me.” She rubbed her palms against her eyelids. “Why is this happening?”

“You must have some idea.”

“So far, every one of my ideas has turned to crap.” She coughed. “Leave it to Josh to get the last word, even in death.”

“So the honeymoon was over? I can’t imagine why Josh would’ve kept your charming personality a secret from the rest of the family.”

“Family? What are you talking about? Josh didn’t have family. Who are you?” She fired the questions while bracing a hand on the ceiling to keep herself from jostling around each time they hit a bump.

Dalton ignored her question. He sped through the gate, gripping the leather steering wheel as he turned to the family’s corner. He eyed Josh’s wife with renewed annoyance and questioned her lack of emotion since he’d announced his brother was dead. If they really were married, shouldn’t she have some remorse over his passing? What kind of wife referred to her deceased husband as getting in the last word?

The cemetery had been a private plot until his father sold most of the land thirty years ago. Dalton had hated the place as a kid. Hated it more now, since Lauren and Josh were buried here. Throwing the car into Park, he jumped out and opened the heavy iron gates separating their family from the rest of the cemetery.

When he climbed back inside the car, he realized Blondie could have locked him out and driven away. Instead, she was staring out her window. What was going through her mind?

He followed the pathway curving to the right. Towering green ash trees and a few rare bushes whose name he’d forgotten edged the lane. He parked near the large headstone serving as the grand centerpiece.

“Let’s go.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not doing this.”

“I don’t remember giving you a choice.” He released the door locks, remembering to pull the keys.

The interior lights flickered when he tugged on his door handle, then exited the car. Stepping away from the closest muddy rut, he waded through the grass and flipped open the trunk. He found the emergency kit and the flashlight before circling to the front of the vehicle, where he waited for Blondie.

She took her time, staring through the windshield at him for several moments before joining him in the halogen glare of the headlights. She dragged the afghan with her as she stalked silently beside him. The flashlight glimmered off the headstone at the center of the plot.

“I guess size matters a lot in your family,” Blondie snickered.

“It’s rumored to be sprinkled with real diamond dust. Probably not true, since no one has ever tried stealing it.”

“Pretty flashy for the middle of nowhere,” she said, continuing around the far end. “Why did you bring me here?”

Was she deliberately trying to goad him?

“The Matthews men were a prideful bunch, with a history of grand exits from the world. This massive headstone took two years and a lot of money during the Depression to complete. Nowadays, only the caretaker sees it on a regular basis.”

“Nice history lesson, but my husband’s last name is Kincaid. This has nothing to do with me and I don’t care.”

Dalton hadn’t been the most respectful Matthews family member to set foot in this place, but Blondie’s disrespect was ticking him off. Or was it being close to Lauren’s grave?

Or even the fact that Josh had been buried next to Lauren, at his mother’s suggestion. And Dalton couldn’t object without voicing his suspicions about their affair and starting everything again. No, this had to end—right here, right now.

Then a stretch of bare earth appeared, and the pile of flowers the wind and rain hadn’t managed to carry away. No one visited, but his mother insisted a fresh arrangement be placed there every Sunday.

“Josh is over here.” Dalton took her arm and tried pulling her a few feet closer to the site.

“Why should I believe a complete stranger who won’t tell me who he is?”

“I’m Dalton Matthews. Josh was my half brother.” It wasn’t a term they’d ever used as kids. Their mother used to say that half of anything didn’t matter. They were brothers. Period.

“No, you’re not. Josh didn’t have any siblings and you have no proof he’s dead. My Josh can’t be dead.” She pivoted and took off running for the car.

Dalton was more than mad, but he couldn’t lose it, not here. For some reason this woman got under his skin faster than any paparazzi. But she wouldn’t fake that she was his brother’s widow. What if she went to his mom?

Dalton easily caught up with her in a few steps and gripped her shoulder.

“Get your hands off me.” She tried dodging his grasp.

He spun her around to look at him, shining the flashlight in her eyes. “How long were you married?”

“Four years in January.”

If Josh had been married, that would explain his frequent absences. Or was Dalton clutching at any straw to keep his mind from straying to the thought of Lauren and Josh together? The flashlight beam swept their graves. He tried for calmness.

He failed.

“You haven’t seen Josh’s headstone yet.”

“You’re an ass.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Chapter 3

“More diamond dust?” Kira yanked her arm from his grasp and fell sideways into the mud. She didn’t realize what the mud was until the beam of light fell across the stone. Joshua Kincaid Matthews, loving son and brother.

Kira immediately wanted to scream what a bastard Josh was. She recognized yet another lie to add to the long list her husband had told her. But if he hadn’t used his real name with her, had they really been married?

“Do you still think I didn’t know Josh?” She stood, wiping her mud-covered hands down her pants. There wasn’t anything physically similar about the two men.

“You aren’t acting like the mourning bride.”

“How I mourn is none of your business. What motive could I possibly have to stand here if I’m not married to that man?”

He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. She refused to show any sadness for the man who’d abandoned her. But what made her want to sink to her knees in despair was knowing that her last hope to identify Griffin and clear her name was gone.

It was a long shot to begin with, and now she’d truly run out of options. There wasn’t anyone left to turn to for help. No family to lend support or friends to phone for advice. Now her freedom hung in the balance.

Strong fingers latched on to the soft flesh of her shoulders.

“You’re an imposter.” He gave her a slight shake.

The eternity candle from the mausoleum was doing weird things with Josh’s brother’s features. It cast a glow that made everything appear more sinister.

Cemeteries in general were creepy. And visiting one in the middle of nowhere, with an armed stranger, was more creepy than usual. The likelihood anyone would stumble upon them was minimal, but being so far out in the boondocks only magnified the otherworldly feel.

Dalton Matthews looked angry enough to kill, and Kira’s mind jumped into overdrive. A moment of sudden clarity struck. What better place to dump a body than in a private cemetery with a fresh grave? The longer she stood next to him, the more certain she was that leaving was less likely. He’d been furious when she’d mentioned Josh’s name and then he’d immediately driven her to this isolated cemetery. Brother or stranger? BCA, Inc. could stand for Brawny Commits Assault for all she knew.

Stay or run? If she could get the jump on him and sprint to the car, she could lock herself inside and drive away. Then Kira remembered he’d pocketed the keys.

She wanted to punch something, and violence had never been an option in her life. Until today. She knew it was wrong, even before her fist connected with a set of rock-hard abs. Hitting him hurt her much more than she’d expected, forcing her nails into her palm with razor sharpness.

“What was that for?” Dalton grabbed ahold of both her fists and shook her till her teeth rattled.

Hysterical laughter escaped her lips. Was he serious? As if being chased, blown up and tied to a chair wouldn’t cause the average person to become a little cranky? Kira tugged against his grip, but he held tight, startling her into throwing up a well-placed knee, barely missing its mark. Then training from her Saturday-morning self-defense class kicked in and she released a bloodcurdling scream, hoping to attract someone’s attention.

Dalton spun her away from him and quickly pinned her arms at her sides, drawing her back to his chest.

“Knock it off or I’m finding a place for you in the trunk,” he threatened, tightening his grip for emphasis.

“This is against the law,” she said, trying to fight her way out of his grasp.

“Guess it depends which side you’re on, right, Blondie?”

“Blondie?”

“I’ve got to call you something, unless you’d rather tell me your real name?”

“I’m so not amused by you, Brawny Boy.”

The afghan fell to the ground, leaving her arms bare against the coolness of the night. His forearms crossed beneath her breasts, shoving her assets even closer to overflowing from her worn and torn shirt. His breath fanned against her neck, causing a chill to run down her spine.

“Let me go.” Kira resisted the overwhelming desire to struggle, for what seemed like an eternity plus a day. In the span of fifteen or so seconds she knew exactly when her traitorous body shifted to the dark side, recognized that she would have been better off avoiding the heat he radiated and finally identified what a tactical mistake she’d made.

“You sure do love a good fight, don’t you?”

“I wasn’t fighting,” she mumbled, “just expressing a difference of opinion.”

Kira relaxed a tad, hating the fact she enjoyed the security of feeling his arms wrapped tightly around her ribs. Very bad. Or maybe she should consider the possibility that she’d suffered a concussion when she’d whacked her head. Whatever the reason, being pressed against Dalton forced her to catalog his attributes, which were many.

First there was the heat he radiated, and not gosh-he-feels-warm heat, but the honest-to-goodness hey-it’s-hot-in-here-so-turn-the-furnace-down kind. Big difference.

And muscles. The man had muscles upon muscles. Kira flattened her palms against his thighs for balance. She should admit that she was cold and shoeless, and he might allow her to return to the car.

“Are you finished?” His rich baritone shot warm air across her ear.

Had she really allowed herself to relax against this superbly built man? He could be lying. Remember the fresh grave? What if he was another of Griffin’s assassins? She jerked against his grasp once more.

“You can’t haul someone out to a cemetery after dark and think they’ll willingly go along with their own murder. Unless you’ve done this before?”

* * *

“Murder?” Great. He’d scared her more than the assassin at his house had.

Evidently Dalton’s lack of human contact over the past few months had turned him into one of the bottom-feeders he claimed to detest. Was he really standing in a cemetery, attempting to exert some kind of control over a woman he hardly knew? He should say something reassuring, right? But her disposition made him edgy and off balance.

Before he could form a suitable explanation, he released her and she stumbled forward. One hand covered her mouth as she coughed, while the other signaled for him to give her space.

The flashlight beam silhouetted her figure and he caught himself staring at the damp T-shirt clinging to her heaving chest, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. All her struggling against him had caused the fabric to bunch below her breasts, exposing her midriff. Her pants had also shifted, revealing name-brand underwear.

Then his disbelieving gaze slid down her slim legs to her bare feet, planted in ankle-deep mud. He should have taken her to the hospital, not a cemetery.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Each word she spoke was emphasized by a cough.

“You shouldn’t have gotten out of the car without shoes.” He glared down at her, feeling like a Sunday school teacher trying to persuade an unruly child to see the light.

After one final cough, she jabbed a finger in the center of his chest. “You didn’t get my shoes, remember?”

Yeah, he remembered. The first one she’d thrown at his head, and the other fell off as he’d carried her from his house. “Get in the car.”

He shoved his hand into his pocket for the keys, clicked the remote and popped open the trunk. It was loaded with T-shirts, sweatshirts, coffee samples and water bottles. He carried several items to the passenger door.

“You sell T-shirts?” she rasped.

“No, they’re freebies.” He dropped most of the clothing into her lap, holding on to a camouflage shirt. He mopped some moisture from the roof of the car with it, then knelt down and used the shirt to clean the mud from her feet.

“I can do that,” she said.

“I’m sure you can.”

“Buckshot’s?” She eyed the purple shirt in her lap. “Like hunting supplies or something?”

“Or something.” It might have been a reasonable conclusion for somebody living on the moon, but how could anyone with a television, a smartphone or even one dollar to her name not know about Buckshot’s? They were “world famous.” Dalton had personally opened a dozen new stores in Europe before Lauren had died.

If Blondie had never heard of Buckshot’s, she probably didn’t know who he was or what he was worth. The idea that she’d shown up looking for some fast cash, from either him or Josh, was quickly losing merit. What if Dalton was wrong? After all, he’d bailed Josh out of more than one unpleasant situation. In school. In his choice of careers. His brother could weave a story and paint himself as the victim in less time than it took to microwave a bag of popcorn.

Dalton swallowed a sigh before it crossed his lips. Blood would always be thicker than water. Was he really going to let this woman disparage his brother’s memory? God forbid his mother got wind of the latest attempt to tarnish the family name. She’d been through more than enough.

“Put on a dry shirt while I get a couple more things from the trunk.” He slammed the door before he could blurt any of his thoughts aloud. It was probably safer to let her assume he dealt in hunting supplies.

How warped was it that Dalton knew his brother was capable of deception, but couldn’t bring himself to admit it to anyone else? Fat raindrops fell on the back of his neck as he returned to the trunk. The light mist segued into rain, and he was about to be soaked.

He shoved the dirty shirt into an empty box and snagged a soft-sided cooler containing drinks. After giving the trunk lid a slam, he sloshed to his door.

“So you handle marketing for this company?” Blondie had removed her wet shirt, which was now lying on the floorboard.

A true gentleman would feign interest in the moonroof or a dashboard gadget. A true gentleman wouldn’t have hauled her out here at all. But Dalton had learned enough to make the trip worthwhile. He settled himself in the seat and watched. She didn’t seem to care, confident with her long hair dripping onto her pink bra.

“Among other things.”

“Travel a lot?” She struggled to get the clean T-shirt over her head.

“Not as much as I used to.” He allowed his gaze to follow her curves. Their conversation was quickly fogging up the windows, something he hadn’t contemplated doing in a long time. And he shouldn’t be thinking of it now, in a cemetery, with a woman who was nothing but trouble.

The dry shirt twisted below her armpit. As he reached forward and yanked on the fabric, his fingers brushed against an unusual shape. It had been forever since he’d touched a woman’s breast, but not so long that he’d forgotten what parts went where. Unless Blondie had a third nipple, she was concealing something. The unexpected jolt he felt from his knuckles skating down her rib cage took him by surprise. When their hands met near the waistband of her jeans, she turned his way. Apprehension was evident in the way she bit her bottom lip and pulled her fingers away from his.

“Did you design the logo, as well?” She was making small talk as he reached for a shred of sanity to keep his hands to himself.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether a wrong answer will make you punch me again.” The comment earned him a partial smile as she combed strands of wet hair away from her face. The cut near her eye started bleeding again and her actions smeared the blood across her forehead.

“Hold still a sec.” He grasped her chin, then reached into the glove compartment for some paper napkins. He applied pressure against the wound.

“I’m okay, really.” She pried the napkins from his fingers.

“Humor me and keep pressing.”

“I’m out of humor.”

“And yet still full of sarcasm.” He flipped on the map light for a better view and transferred the cooler to her lap. “Drink something.”

She opened the lid and eyed the contents. “How can your company stay in business if you give all this stuff away?”

“Advertising expense.”

“Yeah, but do hunters really need all these things?” She gestured to the cooler and then plucked at her T-shirt. “And since when do they wear purple?”

“People love getting something for nothing. Hunters may not need it, but it builds customer loyalty and name recognition. Usually.” Or maybe she had a valid point.

“Tell me how he died.” She removed the wad of napkins from her face before dropping them into a cup holder.

That was certainly an attempt at directness. And since she’d already asked once, he didn’t see the point in delaying the inevitable. “Josh had been missing a week before his car was found in a ravine forty miles from Denver. The highway patrol ruled it an accident, but I hired a private investigator to dig through all the reports, anyway. I’m curious why the PI didn’t find anything about your marriage.”

“He’s not very good?” she said, before swallowing half the water in her bottle.

“He’s the best.” Dalton couldn’t quite get a read on her. First demanding, then hostile, followed by defeated, compliant, accepting, and now, withholding something. He’d always been good at judging first impressions, but she was challenging everything he’d thought he knew.

She yanked a hooded sweatshirt over her head with another muffled remark.

Vagueness was not his forte. Dalton preferred getting to the point by the most direct route and with the least amount of details. “How did you meet Josh?”

“The usual way.” She shoved her knees up under the wide-as-a-tent sweatshirt before offering him the other one. It was obviously the smaller size—her size—and she knew it. He threw it into the backseat.

“Online dating?”

“I would never date someone I met online.”

“Friend of a friend, then?” Dalton was trying to come up with a few more choices that didn’t involve a drunken one-night stand.

“Nope. My wallet was stolen. Of course, they got my college identification card and bus pass.” She stared out the window. “I was six miles from my dorm room and my roommate wasn’t answering her phone.”

“No money for a taxi?”

“If I had any money, I would have used it on the bus.” Blondie’s teeth chattered, kicking him into motion.

He started the Cadillac and turned on the heat. “Keep talking.”

“I thought someone was following me, and I panicked. Ran into the first business that was still open at nine-thirty on a Sunday night.”

Dalton put the car in gear and made a U-turn. “A church?”

“An art studio. I burst through the door and ran into your brother. Literally. It took nearly a month to get all the paint out of my hair.”

“You met Josh at an art studio?” Dalton had to admit she was going the distance with her story. “An art studio in Denver?”

“Why would I be in Denver?” Her neck cracked as she shifted in the seat until she was facing him.

“What’s wrong with Denver?” Evidently something, by the way she was preparing to pounce.

“I’ve never been there,” she insisted. “I went to the University of Missouri.”

“Okay, you’ve never been to Denver.” Dalton kept his eyes on the muddy road leading from the cemetery. Her reaction to the city’s name was far from normal and he should probably push harder to find out why. But something in his gut was telling him to wait. Never mind the fact that he couldn’t come up with a plausible reason for Josh to be in Missouri.

The click of her seat belt buckle announced that she was no longer focusing all her attention on him. As rain splattered against the windows, he swallowed the remaining questions and waited for her to make the next move. She was quiet so long that it was killing him not to look at her.

After five full minutes of driving in silence, he heard the tires finally connect with the highway asphalt. His passenger chose the same moment to speak.

“What will it take to convince you that Josh was my husband?”

During their brief drive Dalton had replayed the hours connecting them in this day, apparently, without end. The arguments in his mind centered around one simple fact. His brother was a liar. Had always been a liar. Which meant the logical thing for Dalton to do was give his sister-in-law the benefit of the doubt. And he wanted to make the decision without looking too closely for a motive.

“You want to convince me? Then tell me what you planned to do once you tracked down my brother.”

* * *

Kira wanted to know the answer, too. “After all this time, maybe I haven’t given up on him. I hoped Josh would have a reasonable explanation for everything and save the day.”

She felt pathetic admitting she secretly wanted her miserable almost ex-husband to save the day. Now his brother knew.

Why didn’t she have a better plan from the start? She’d had plenty of time to herself lately. Enough sleepless nights since her arrest that skipping bail to track down Josh had seemed like a good idea. The FBI refused to listen to any of her theories, and wishing the money in that Denver account was Josh’s way of apologizing for all he’d put her through was a total waste of time. Instead, he was somehow connected to everything. The missing money and fraudulent documents kept looping back to Geoff Griffin. Except for that damn bank account.

Or bank accounts. The Feds produced sworn statements from the banking officials in the Cayman Islands, stating she’d opened an account with them. Kira had never realized there were so many liars in the world. At the arraignment, she’d been ordered to surrender her passport. After searching her apartment, she’d finally found it in a box of Brandon’s baby clothes.

Clothes he’d never worn and a baby she’d never held. The death of a dream. That’s what angered her most about Josh’s abandonment. They should have weathered the storm together. And now, he’d left her not only once, but twice.

Josh was a first-rate liar and she’d loved him without conditions. In return, he’d ignored their marriage vows and caused her the worst pain of her life. Sympathy for him was out of the question.

She looked at Dalton and tried finding any resemblance between him and Josh. Wrong eye color, darker hair and she’d guess a good thirty pounds heavier than Josh, who had more of a runner’s body.

“So you and he were always close?” The word always had a way of tripping people up. At least it did during an insurance investigation. It took tenacity to get to the bottom of a story and expose the scammers who earned a living by being dishonest. One bogus claim could cost Midwest Mutual tens of thousands of dollars and raise premiums for every client. If Dalton Matthews really was Josh’s brother, then maybe he’d help her clear her name.

“We kept in touch. But getting the bachelor boy to the altar would’ve been monumental news in our family. Unlikely it would’ve slipped under the radar when he came to Christmas dinner last year.”

Another lie. Kira noticed Dalton used unlikely instead of impossible. “So your family’s into marriage?”

“Most of us.” His eyes darkened and sadness etched his features. She knew the look very well, having loved and lost someone. She faced the mirror every morning wishing she’d find it gone. She also knew they were no longer speaking of Josh.

Dalton’s emotions were barely concealed, much like hers. She could eventually give him a pass for the stunt he’d pulled at the cemetery. But if his outward appearance was the opposite of Josh’s, did it automatically mean his motives were anything but selfish?

But a selfish man would have left her lying in that damn shed full of lumber. He would have immediately called the authorities and had her arrested for trespassing. Dalton hadn’t. He could have let the thug kill her instead of trading punches with the man. And once he found the other man’s phone, he should have called the police and reported everything. But he didn’t do that, either.

He kept doing the opposite of what she expected. Or maybe the opposite of what she’d been trained to expect. And if for no other reason than to prove her dead husband wrong, she was going to expect more from his brother.

“My name’s Kira.” She offered her hand before she could change her mind.

His surprise was evident as they shook hands. “Dalton. I see you’re a fellow member of the unusual-name club.”

“The answer to the age-old question of Kimberly or Rachel equals Kira.”

“Nice.”

“And you?”

“My mom was a Dalton.”

“Gotta love creative mothers.” His touch was warm, much like the eyes working their magic on the rational part of her brain. She could tell he sensed the attraction between them and also wished it was absent. It would complicate matters, especially if he was her brother-in-law.

He released her hand, but not the hold he had on her common sense. She liked to think she could distinguish between lying eyes and simple infatuation. Josh had had lying eyes that sparkled mischievously. Dalton’s eyes held a mixture of wisdom and determination.

“You really don’t look anything like your brother.” She couldn’t hide the skepticism lacing her tone.

“Different as night and day since we were kids.”

“A possible reason why you didn’t know about me?”

“I said different, not estranged. I assure you, we have the same mother.”

“You’re very precise for someone who’s been hiding out in the woods.”

Dalton Matthews drove the car and didn’t offer an explanation. Yeah, she could definitely extend him a bit more trust. As for Josh, how many lies had he told her? The entire time she’d been searching the internet for any sign of him, she’d been using Joshua Kincaid, when it appeared he’d been just as comfortable as a Matthews.

A twinge of guilt scurried up her spine.

Seeing proof of Josh’s death didn’t hurt as much as it should have, as it might have if she’d been a real wife grieving for a real husband. A real wife wouldn’t have wished her husband dead and then tried to erase him from her memory.

Then again, a real husband wouldn’t have hidden his wife from his family or purposely deceived her from the moment they’d met. A real husband wouldn’t have blamed her for losing their baby and then disappeared before she could recover from the shock.

Tears filled Kira’s eyes and she quickly swiped at them before they trickled down her cheeks. A real kick-ass heroine wouldn’t shed a tear over a man who’d done her wrong. She’d work twice as hard to settle the score, regardless of the cost.

“Look, I can understand why you don’t trust me.” Her voice wobbled, but she quickly recovered. “I have proof at my apartment that Josh is my husband.”

“I’m guessing your apartment isn’t in Denver.”

She picked up on his sarcasm and nailed her monotone response. “I live in Kansas City.”

“Of course you do.” His head bobbed up and down. “Why would anything be easy today?”

“You don’t have to help me,” she insisted. “Drop me off at the bus stop and I’ll take care of myself.”

“Yeah, you’ve done a stellar job so far,” he muttered.

“Stellar?” She hadn’t heard that word in forever. Stellar Studio was the place where she and Josh had met. The place he’d considered his second home. Had Dalton used the word as a test?

He glanced her way. “Yesterday’s crossword puzzle. The clue was: exceptionally good. The answer, of course, is stellar.”

“Right.” Her mind latched on to the coincidence, but the turmoil in her belly insisted it was more. Then again, a scoop of granola for breakfast hadn’t fueled her all day.

“We need gas and food.” The way he switched topics confirmed she’d read too much into the word. “There’s a convenience store down the road. We’ll both think more clearly after a snack.”

“Right.” She shifted in her seat.

“Proof of your marriage would help, but I think it’s more important to tell me who’s trying to kill you and how that involves my family.”

“I can tell you what I know. I need a few minutes to process everything that’s happened.” Kira leaned against the headrest and inhaled the scent of leather.

“Fair enough. You’ve got about fifteen minutes to process.” Dalton tapped a knob on the dash and music flooded the car. He adjusted the volume. “And bashing my brother’s memory isn’t an option. I want to hear about your proof.”

“After we get some food. I’m starving.” That was the truth. Forming a sentence without saying anything negative about Josh would test her lying skills. Especially when she was beginning to suspect his connection to Griffin wasn’t as innocent as she’d initially presumed. Not that it mattered, now that he was dead. He wouldn’t be clearing anyone’s name. She shifted the flash drive to a more comfortable position. She had some of the answers, just not all the right questions.

Brother or not, she wouldn’t stop until she’d proved Josh’s deliberate deception and confirmed that Geoff Griffin was behind framing her.

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