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Alias
Amy J. Fetzer
Mills & Boon Silhouette
What ever happened to Darcy Steele?In school, she was everyone's best friend. But these days, Darcy Steele was a single mother living in the shadows following a marriage gone dangerously wrong. Not even her closest friends knew her whereabouts–until one of those friends was murdered.Now Darcy was back to find answers about her friend's death, even if it meant jeopardizing the cover she'd so carefully constructed–and discovering that the one man she trusted might not be what he seemed. Because risking her own life was a small price to pay when the lives of those she loved were at stake….Athena Force: Chosen for their talents. Trained to be the best. The women of Athena Academy shared an unbreakable bond…until one of them was murdered.
Trained together at the Athena Academy, these six women vowed to help each other when in need. Now one of their own has been murdered, and it is up to them to find the killer, before they become the next victims….
Alex Forsythe:
This forensic scientist can uncover clues others fail to see.
PROOF by Justine Davis
Darcy Allen Steele:
A master of disguise, Darcy can sneak into any crime scene.
ALIAS by Amy J. Fetzer
Tory Patton:
Used to uncovering scandals, this investigative reporter will get to the bottom of any story—especially murder.
EXPOSED by Katherine Garbera
Samantha St. John:
Though she’s the youngest, this lightning-fast secret agent can take down men twice her size.
DOUBLE-CROSS by Meredith Fletcher
Josie Lockworth:
A little danger won’t stop this daredevil air force pilot from uncovering the truth.
PURSUED by Catherine Mann
Kayla Ryan:
This police lieutenant won’t rest until the real killer is brought to justice, even if it makes her the next target!
JUSTICE by Debra Webb
ATHENA FORCE:
They were the best, the brightest, the strongest—women who shared a bond like no other….
Alias
Amy J. Fetzer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
AMY J. FETZER
The daughter, wife and mother of U.S. Marines, Amy J. Fetzer has written over twenty-seven historical, paranormal, short contemporary and romantic suspense novels and novellas, and now she takes on adventure romance for Silhouette Bombshell. From moving across the country to across the world, Amy has a storehouse of knowledge and experience to draw on for her writing. A certified diver with five years of Shorin Ryu Karate (just in case she’s attacked sixty feet underwater by a flounder), Amy has rappelled down a mountain, fired weapons and loves writing “strong heroines who know what has to be done, then do it. Believe me, a Marine wife would never wait to take action.”
To the women of the United States Marine Corps Our often forgotten heroines, mothers, sisters and daughters who strap on a helmet, a nine-millimeter, shoulder a rifle and heft a sixty-pound pack just like their male counterparts.
For walking into danger and being willing to die to protect and defend the freedom of a nation.
If that’s not a true heroine, I don’t know what is.
Semper Fi
Contents
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 1
Somewhere in northeast Texas
10:00 p.m.
E li Archer’s world was about to change.
If he’d had any smarts, he’d have left for his usual Friday night out with his pals by now. Instead, he’d stuck around his house, drinking too much too early—and that turned a redneck bully into two hundred pounds of mean and nasty.
His mistake was in taking his temper out on his small, barely nineteen-year-old wife while Darcy was less than a hundred yards away.
At the first scream, Darcy’s long legs ate up the dry, flat land, each step on her toes to make as little noise as possible. She hitched over the porch railing and stopped short of rushing through the half-open back door, then flattened against the wall. The floor-boards creaked but Eli couldn’t hear the noise over his own shouts. Over the degrading insults he threw at his wife, Mary Jo.
Darcy reached up and gingerly unscrewed the back-porch light, throwing the area into darkness.
She’d been watching the isolated country house from the tree line since sundown. Up close, it was worse. Sacks of garbage torn open by animals were stacked against the house. The stench of rancid grease and rotten food hung in the night air, which pulsed with swarming flies.
Darcy’s eyes watered. The place reeked more of hopeless neglect. Its sagging porches and roof begged to be put out of their misery with a well-placed wrecking ball. Paint barely colored the wood exterior, the stains of the rusted tin roof streaking the sides of the building like bars caging in its inhabitants.
But a shiny new pickup truck sat in the dirt driveway, a full gun rack clear in the rear window. Easy to see where Eli’s priorities lay. Darcy had already unloaded the weapons and removed the firing pins. But that didn’t mean Eli Archer didn’t have more. Men like him always had more weapons than guts. Predictable morons. Eli drank heavily, worked little and, for recreation, tortured stray cats and spotlighted deer. That Eli beat his wife was a character flaw that put him just below amoebas.
A real prize.
Inside the house, Eli shouted for his boots. He was leaving. Men like him always left long enough to work up some twisted reason as to why they pounded on women—she had personal experience to back up that theory. Darcy prayed Eli went out the front door without hurting Mary Jo again. Confronting a drunken wife beater was not in her immediate plans, but she couldn’t let him hurt the girl. If his mood was any indication, he’d kill her.
Darcy spied through the window for a sign of Mary Jo Archer. Shadows moved behind tattered curtains, and her heart pounded a little harder as the people inside drew closer to her position.
This was stupid. Normally, she snatched abused women while the men were gone. She could be shot for being this daring, but she couldn’t abandon Mary Jo, either. And where the heck was Jack? He should have been here by now to back her up.
She moved to the open doorway, peering inside. Despite what the Archer place looked like on the outside, the interior was tidy and clean. But then how else would Mary Jane spend her time as a prisoner in her own home?
Darcy flinched when another door slammed somewhere inside, shaking the windows. She heard Eli’s voice, harsh and deep as he hurled foul words at the woman he’d promised to love, honor and cherish.
Three days ago, Darcy had been woken by Mary Jo’s call around midnight, the voice on the other end of the line sounding achingly familiar, hushed, terrified. Sobbing. The caller had heard from her only friend, Tomas, a worker at the local grocery store, that Darcy helped women like her. Darcy had driven like a madwoman to get there, to find Tomas and discreetly learn all she could about the Archer household. It paid to be aware of routine.
Eli met his pals at the Bullriders Saloon like clockwork every Friday night, leaving his wife locked inside the house like a punching bag he stored for his rage. He was so terrified of losing her that he’d installed latch locks better suited for a storage shed.
Pig.
That pissed Darcy off more because she understood exactly what Mary Jo was feeling right now. Terror, hopelessness. A loneliness that imbedded itself deep into her bones. And the constant worry over which insignificant detail would provoke another battle for your life.
It ends tonight.
The sound of flesh hitting flesh then a cry of pain came through the open windows and doors. Without a choice, Darcy took a breath, then stepped through the back doorway, into the kitchen. No one noticed.
Mary Jo was on the floor, scooting back out of her husband’s reach, but Eli kept coming, a growling bear intent on his kill. Man, he was a big one.
Darcy slipped her knife out if its sheath. “Touch her again, Eli, and you’re a dead man.”
Eli whipped around, scowling mad. “Who the hell are you? Get the fuck outta my house!”
Darcy stood on the threshold. “Leave her alone.”
He latched on to Mary Jo, holding her off the floor like a limp rag doll. “She’s my wife, I can do what I want with her.”
“No, you can’t, actually. Legally or morally.”
Darcy inched closer, gripping the knife, point down to slice faster and with greater accuracy. Eli didn’t look the least bit intimidated by the nine-inch blade. Guns were his deal. Darcy didn’t like guns. They were noisy and registered. And though she didn’t really want to stab Eli, he wasn’t looking very cooperative right now.
Dangling in Eli’s grasp, Mary Jo whimpered, her lip bleeding.
Darcy couldn’t spare a look at the woman. She kept her gaze on the man threatening them both as she moved the blade slowly back and forth, waiting for the knife to catch Eli’s attention. When it did, he let his wife go, grinning as he headed toward her.
He charged like an angry bull going after the red cloak. Darcy stood her ground till he was three feet away, then sidestepped out of his path. He plowed past her into the kitchen table and landed hard on it, shattering the table legs and crashing to the floor.
Darcy rushed to Mary Jo. Keeping one eye on Eli, she grabbed the bruised, bloodied woman and tugged her to her feet, then pushed her toward the back door. “Get out of here.”
“He’ll kill you!”
“I’m right behind you. Go!” Darcy put herself between Eli and Mary Jo.
Mary Jo was nearly at the door when Eli rolled over, shaking his head and getting to his feet. “You bitch!”
Oh, no. For a big man, he was fast. Darcy sidestepped again, circling, forcing his attention off his wife stumbling toward the back door. Darcy’d run out the front if she had to and circle back.
Eli charged again, this time with a table leg in his hand. He swung. Darcy ducked. The table leg sang past her head, the impact driving it into the plaster wall. Eli tried jerking it out and with her elbow, Darcy clipped him in the kidney. He howled, arching with the pain, then sank to his knees. She backed toward the door, but not fast enough. He grabbed her ankle and yanked.
She hit the floor so hard her teeth clicked. The knife flew from her grip and spun across the floor.
Oh God.
“Run, Mary Jo!”
But Mary Jo, a slim blonde dressed in shorts and a T-shirt meant for a twelve year old, huddled on the edge of the room, too scared to move.
“Yeah, run, Mary Jo,” Eli taunted, “so I can hunt you, too.” He lunged at Darcy.
As he came down, she drove the heel of her hand up into his nose.
Cartilage shifted, bone cracked. Blood poured.
Eli Archer lurched back on his haunches, swearing and clutching his bleeding nose. “I’m gonna kill you!” he shouted, swiping his sleeve under his nose, smearing blood before grabbing for her.
But Darcy rolled away, springing to her feet, glancing around for her knife. She spotted it, but he was there, lumbering, big and hound-dog ugly.
She dove at the knife, landing on her side, grappling for it as he neared. His meaty hand latched on to her calf. He dragged her.
Darcy kicked out, struggling to reach her knife.
Eli pulled her closer to him. One smack from him and it was over. Her face would be hamburger and the latex mask hiding her identity shredded.
A crash sounded at the front of the house, the door banging against the wall just as her fingers skipped over a piece of wood. She grasped the splintered table leg and with every bit of strength she had, she swung it at his head and connected with a solid thunk.
He dropped like a stone. Darcy didn’t move, breathing hard.
She heard the distinct click of a bullet moving into the chamber and looked up.
Jack Turner stood in the doorway to the living room, a huge .357 Magnum pointed at Eli’s head.
“You’re late.” She tossed aside the wood, then crawled to her feet, annoyed with him, but glad he was here.
“A bounty got loose.” His gaze flicked to her, switchblade sharp and angry. “Why the hell do you have backup if you don’t wait for it?”
“He started early,” she said as she retrieved her knife. Mary Jo was still in the corner, staring at her motionless husband. “You know, that was highly illegal—” she nodded toward the shattered front door “—unless there’s a bounty on him.”
“Oops. Wrong house,” Jack said, deadpan, his weapon still trained on Eli. “That disguise is hideous by the way.” His voice was low, for her ears only.
The short frosted wig and carefully applied latex face mask made her look homely. “Helps to ugly up a bit. People tend not to notice you.”
His gaze moved over her body with an intensity that rivaled static electricity. “Yeah, sure.”
“Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to wake the sleeping giant.”
But Eli still hadn’t moved.
“Oh, hell.” Assault was one thing, manslaughter in self-defense was quite another. She inched close enough to gingerly check his pulse, but Jack stopped her.
“Leave him. He’s breathing like an engine. He’ll wake soon enough.”
Darcy hurried to Mary Jo, pulling her off the floor.
“Who—who are you people?”
“You called me, remember? Come on.”
When Mary Jo started for Eli, Darcy stood in her way. “Look at me. Look at me!” When Mary Jo did, she said quickly, “It’s now or never, Mary Jo. You stay, he’ll kill you.”
Mary Jo nodded sharply, and Darcy pulled her to the door. They ran down the porch, and Darcy directed her toward the woods.
“Go, straight that way.” She pointed, pushing her on. “Run, girl.”
Mary Jo looked back at the house she’d shared with Eli for two years and her expression grew angry. Good, that’s what Darcy needed to get her out alive.
Mary Jo took off, and Darcy backed up, sweeping branches across the ground to cover their tracks. Eli was a hunter, and word from the townsfolk was that he could track anything. His hunting dogs were feasting on some prime, sedative-laced USDA beef right now to keep them quiet. But that wouldn’t last.
Jack rushed to her. “Go! Dammit! I’ll do that.” He took the branches. “He’s waking up.”
Darcy froze, met his gaze. “Already? He must have a head like a rock.”
“So do you.” Jack pushed her toward the tree line.
Darcy ran, snatching up her equipment pack, then ducking under low branches. Mary Jo was only a few yards ahead of her, crying, but moving. Darcy called softly and the girl froze, a ragged silhouette against scrubby trees. Darcy raced past, grabbing Mary Jo’s hand, pulling her along, then pushing Mary Jo ahead of her. She still had to do some fast moving to get the girl safely away undetected. The two women ran, batting dry branches and skidding on crumbling ground. Then they were out in the open, vulnerable.
Darcy and Mary Jo headed straight to the edge of a ravine, stumbling down the dirt hillside to Darcy’s Jeep. Darcy pushed Mary Jo into the passenger seat, tossed in her bag, then slid behind the wheel. The engine started up on the first try and she gunned it, racing away from the Archer place.
“Is he dead?” Mary Jo asked.
“No.”
“Then he’ll find me, I know it!” she cried.
Darcy smothered her impatience, understanding coming quickly. “He won’t find you, Mary Jo.” Even if Eli had the balls to go to the police, with his record, they’d be slow to react to his claims. “I’m taking you someplace safe. Within twenty-four hours, someone will come to you at the safe house and document your abuse with photos and a statement.”
She’d helped a hundred women in the last three years, from women who drove Mercedes to ones who’d never seen the inside of a hospital before and would be scarred for life. Each time, the situation seemed more desperate. More hopeless. Often, Darcy was their last chance. For some, the legal system had failed them, letting wife beaters out on bail to find the women and do it again—often resulting in death. Some were too scared to venture into the unknown without support. Or worse, they’d become so brainwashed by verbal abuse that they thought they needed these men to survive.
Mary Jo Archer had a right to be scared.
Darcy understood that kind of fear only too well.
It made her an expert at evasion and deception. Five years as a Hollywood special-effects makeup artist made her unrecognizable even now. Using disguises at every leg of a rescue protected the women’s lives, as well as hers.
Darcy coveted her privacy like a fanatic. With good reason. She was a kidnapper. Plain and simple. She’d taken her baby son from his father and hidden from the world. From her perspective, the end justified the means. Saving a life. In her case, it was two lives.
But in the eyes of the law, she was the criminal. It wouldn’t matter that, before she’d escaped her abusive husband, she’d gone to the police and filed reports. Maurice’s influence had a long reach. The cops had dismissed her accusations, just as Maurice’s family and their friends had. Maurice had money, power and a stellar reputation as an executive film producer behind him, and in Beverly Hills and Hollywood that put him above reproach. Above the law.
Darcy had had nothing, and Maurice had made sure she was trapped from all directions. Till she escaped with her friend Rainy Miller Carrington’s help.
Suddenly her throat tightened with unspent grief. Rainy was dead. Killed in a car crash only weeks ago. With Mary Jo’s call coming soon after the funeral, Darcy hadn’t even had a chance to mourn.
Rainy would be mad that I’m still hiding, Darcy thought morosely. Even the Cassandras, her school-mates from the Athena Academy for Women, didn’t know the full extent of her ugly past. Rainy had known. And she’d told Kayla some of what Darcy had gone through to escape. The others knew she was no longer with her husband, and to them she was still Darcy Allen Steele, hairdresser and owner of the Chop Shop Salon. She was ashamed to admit the full truth to them.
To the rest of the world, including Jack, she was Piper Daniels, an alias she’d been using for nearly three years.
Everything in my life is an alias.
A forgery, a mask to keep herself and her son, Charlie, safe and hidden. She did nothing that would alert her husband to her whereabouts and was certain he was still searching for her.
Maurice wasn’t the kind of man who gave up control. Ever. Power and control were the root of who he was. And you didn’t cross him without consequences.
She took a deep breath, searching for calm. She needed a clear mind for the next hours of the journey.
At least Mary Jo had a fresh chance.
“You’ll file a report with the police,” Darcy said, her eyes on the road, “and then disappear till Eli is behind bars.”
“He should be in prison,” Mary Jo muttered bitterly. “See how he likes it.”
Darcy glanced her way. The girl’s face was a mess.
Maurice had never struck her face—it would have been proof to the public that he abused her. No, he had more deadly ways of keeping her under control.
“Eli kept me in a prison for years,” Mary Jo said, oblivious to Darcy’s thoughts. “That house might as well have had bars.”
The comment hit Darcy square in the chest.
A prison without walls. She was still locked in hers.
“Why don’t you try to get some sleep.” She spoke quickly to bury the feelings struggling to surface. “It’s a couple hours till we make it to the safe house.”
Mary Jo snuggled down into the seat. Darcy drove, aware of every flash of light in her rearview mirror. Every car they passed. Tonight, Mary Jo had her freedom.
After three years, Darcy didn’t.
Because Maurice was out there. Waiting for her to slip up. Hunting her.
A pearl of fear slid down her throat.
She hated it. It tasted foul and pitiful.
And Darcy knew she couldn’t live like this anymore.
But even after three years, she hadn’t figured out a way to outsmart Maurice. Legally, he still had the power.
And she wasn’t giving up her son, not even for her freedom.
Chapter 2
Nevada
J ust past the state line, Darcy pulled into the Sleep Easy Motel parking lot, wishing it was her own driveway. But she was still hours away from Comanche, Nevada, and at two in the morning, she was bone tired, her eyes gritty.
She turned off the engine and leaned back into the seat. Mission accomplished. Mary Jo was at the safe house in Utah, and she’d zigzagged her way toward the motel to make sure that no one followed her. She’d removed the mask and wig somewhere in between when she’d stopped to grab a bite to eat. Her skin itched from the glue and all she wanted was a hot shower and a soft bed.
Grabbing her bags from the back seat, she climbed out, locked up, then headed toward her room. She stopped short when she saw a figure braced against the overhang support post outside, smoking a cigarette.
Jack Turner.
No man wore a black cowboy hat that easily.
Just seeing him made something under her skin shiver. But Darcy didn’t want to be anywhere near Jack tonight. Hours in the car with her own unpleasant thoughts for company, she felt combustible. Rainy’s death, the grief she’d shelved to help Mary Jo and leaving Charlie again when she just wanted to cuddle up with him and be safe had left her riddled with a mountain of emotions just waiting to crush her. Succumbing to them anywhere near Jack would just make a bigger mess of her life. He’d want to know too much, and right now, she felt weak enough to slip up.
“Well at least you didn’t get arrested,” she said.
He stared at her hard for a second, then pitched the smoke onto the pavement. “Don’t do anything that stupid again,” he said coldly.
She didn’t need a reminder of the danger she’d put herself in. The bruise on her hip would do that. “I didn’t have a choice. And I can take care of myself.”
He sent her an arched look that said after the stunt she’d pulled tonight, he wasn’t so sure. “Why do you keep doing this, Piper?”
Piper. God, what she wouldn’t give to hear her own name. “Because no one else will help them.”
“That’s what the cops are for.”
She scoffed. They’d been down this route before. Ever since that night nearly two years ago when he’d busted through a door to apprehend his bounty and found her helping a woman escape, he’d appointed himself her protector. She almost laughed. If he knew the truth about her, he’d be outta here. Or hauling her in to the police.
Darcy’s only advantage was that Maurice had never filed kidnapping charges against her. She knew why—it would mean giving up control of his life if he was investigated.
“If that always worked, then they wouldn’t be calling me, would they?” Or you, bounty hunter.
Jack moved away from the post, stopping inches from her. From under the dark hat, his China-blue gaze bored into her. He gently pinched her chin and turned her face to the side, looking for marks. “Did he hurt you?”
She stepped back, yet was touched by his concern. He looked as if he’d just about burn rubber to go avenge her.
“No, he never got the chance,” Darcy said. “I had the advantage of surprise and he was tanked already.”
He folded his arms. The motion made him look bigger. “You should know by now that booze just makes them stronger, meaner—”
“But slow and off balance,” she cut in. “Besides, you know that most of the time when I rescue a woman, the man isn’t home.”
Jack snarled something she didn’t get, then said, “Were you thinking of Charlie when you confronted that ape?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Don’t lecture me, Jack. You know I was. Charlie’s all I have. And if you don’t like the way I do things, then why are you always shadowing me?”
She didn’t expect an answer. She’d asked once. He never explained and wasn’t open to prying. Neither was she, so she dropped it. Though she’d tried skirting around him, he always found a way to be near. It was simply less aggravating to include him in her plans, and she admitted she felt safer with Jack and his big gun close by.
“Charlie needs his mother alive, not in a damn grave!”
His sharp tone stung, felt chastising, and she stiffened. “You think? Jeez, Jack, you act like I wanted to face down Eli. I waited as long as I could! He was going to kill her.”
“And then you.”
“Then be on time!”
His head snapped back, his expression taut.
She arched a brow. The air between them felt charged. Darcy felt so brittle and angry, she was spoiling for a fight.
“I’m capable of defending myself and you know it.”
What he didn’t know was that she’d graduated from the Athena Academy for the Advancement of Women, a private high school in Arizona that recruited exceptional girls and trained them mentally and physically to become anything they could imagine. Many Athena graduates went on to do government work, or joined the military. Darcy knew more about survival, self-defense and investigating than the average woman. While she’d never thought of herself as exceptional, she had good reflexes, strength and a sharp mind. Of the rest of the Cassandra team, two worked for intelligence agencies, one had joined the police force, one had become a national newscaster who had been recruited for government operations on the side, and one was rising fast in the ranks of the U.S. Air Force. What Darcy did for abused women was dangerous enough, but her skills were in deception. By altering her face and hair and using her acting talent from UCLA Drama, Darcy could deceive her own mother. She’d never regretted not going into the CIA when they’d come to recruit her. She had Charlie because of that choice, and though the rest of her life wasn’t perfect, she wouldn’t trade being his mom for any of it.
Maurice was her only regret now. He’d taken control after she’d married him, but then, she’d given some up for him to do that. Never again, she thought, even if it meant ignoring her attraction to Jack.
“Yeah, but fast and agile doesn’t always match up against big and brutal.”
“Don’t I know it,” she muttered. For a second the cool ice of his gaze softened.
He was powerful without saying a word. His rare smiles made her stomach pitch, and Charlie adored him. That alone warned her that Jack Turner was in her life too much already. Yet Jack was so unlike Maurice. He respected her views, cared less what people thought and dressed more for comfort than style—his black hat was shaped with wear, his brown bomber jacket a relic from the fifties. He was rarely without either. Or his gun.
Like her, he played everything close to the vest, as if testing people. He didn’t play games. Didn’t waste time or words. If she succumbed to even a scrap of her feelings, he would take her heart. And she’d made too many mistakes to invite more trouble.
“You’re thinking too hard, I can tell,” he said softly, his gaze riveted to her.
His gentle tone rippled over her skin, making it tighten. “Yeah, I know.” She shifted, hitched her bag on her shoulder, stuck her hands in her jacket pockets. “I have a lot on my mind.” Before he could lend those big shoulders to lean on she said, “Go to your room, Jack. You must be tired, too. I’m fine.”
He frowned, his gaze scouring her features as if he could see into her soul. It unnerved the hell out of her.
“You sure? You haven’t been still for two seconds since you got out of that car.”
She pushed her fingers into her short layered hair, unknowingly making herself look a little wilder. “Yeah, but it’s nothing that some sleep won’t cure.”
He didn’t look satisfied, yet he took her room key, opening the door and pushing it wide then leaning against the doorjamb.
Across the parking lot, the Sleep Easy neon sign sputtered and flashed, splashing blue light over him. He looked her over, long and slow, the single glance telling her he knew what she looked like naked. Darcy’s insides clenched with bubbling need, her nerve endings raw near him, her body too aware of his. Desire spiraled and she closed her eyes, wishing him away, wishing he’d come to her.
She felt suddenly lost. Disconnected to everything.
No Rainy.
No freedom.
No solutions.
She raked her fingers through her hair again and gripped the back of her neck. Her eyes burned.
Damn, damn, damn.
“Piper?”
She slammed her eyes shut, craving to hear her own name. Darcy, she wanted to shout at him. I’m Darcy Allen. I’m here, behind all these disguises and lies, I’m here!
Then he was there. Up close. She didn’t have to look to know. She could feel him, warm and male. And oh, he smelled good. Hunger flushed through her body, begging for a man’s touch, to be a woman and not someone else’s savior when she couldn’t even be her own.
She opened her eyes, snared by the blue patience in his.
“I’m down there.” He gestured to the long corridor of street-front rooms.
She didn’t look. That made him too accessible—and tonight she was so on edge, she could feel it scraping up her spine and dancing on her last nerve.
She moved into the room, pulled the key from the lock and faced him.
He stayed where he was, a gentleman despite his jagged edges.
“Thanks for watching my back, cowboy,” she said.
“Anytime.” No pushing, no prying, just accepting as he stepped back. She closed the door. He didn’t leave till she locked it behind herself.
Darcy sighed, more with relief that she hadn’t done something stupid than at the prospect of a hot shower and some rest.
She dropped her bags and headed straight for the bath.
For nearly a half hour, she let the hot spray of the shower beat down on her body, washing away the tension in her muscles. With her hands braced on the wall, head down, she forgot about Mary Jo, about Eli Archer, and let her mind wander.
It was a mistake.
Her thoughts went immediately back to Rainy. The last time she’d seen her. In a coffin. Knowing Rainy was gone forever. Having to face it. Her heart broke all over again, and she relented to her pain, sinking to the floor of the stall and sobbing like a baby.
She missed Rainy. She missed her Athena sisters. And she felt very alone and worn.
Rainy had been the best, leading the Cassandra squad when they were young, coaching them, pushing them to be stronger, better. Without Rainy, the chain felt broken. Darcy didn’t have many people in her life, even fewer who knew who she really was, but Alex, Josie, Tory, Kayla and Samantha were the people she could count on in a crunch. They were bound together by more than an oath to each other. They were bound by the trials of Athena.
Pushing her hair off her face, she tipped her head back. Her heart felt like a wounded prisoner in her chest. Captured and hurting.
Turmoil boiled inside her and exploded.
She smacked the tile floor.
She wanted her life back, dammit! She wanted to hear her name spoken aloud, to stop being suspicious of everyone new in her life and constantly looking over her shoulder. She wanted to tell the Cassandras the whole truth about her marriage and wash away the shame of her weakness. She deserved better.
Charlie deserved better. Yet her own fear of losing her son kept her from finding a way to take her life back with both hands. It was by skill, caution and a hell of a lot of luck that Maurice hadn’t found her yet. There was no telling what he’d do if he did. He had it in him to kill her. She’d seen that when he put a knife to her pregnant belly and threatened to kill his own child if she didn’t behave. For the sake of her unborn child, she’d backed down then, smothering the urge to hit her husband.
Charlie was nearly four now, a happy, lively little boy and her entire world. He was the reason she’d planned her escape from Maurice’s estate. Charlie was the reason she had bitten back her pride and called Rainy for help.
Her throat tightened, knotting like old rope.
I can’t live like this anymore. With this crippling fear. Because without her freedom, she was just a shadow hiding in Piper Daniel’s clothes.
Maurice Steele strolled through his home, inspecting the staff’s work, then setting the alarms for the night. He was reluctant to go to bed just yet, with the house feeling extraordinarily empty. He supposed he should have gotten used to it, and a starlet in his bed would have eased his solitude, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he didn’t want to look at some well-used wanna-be in the morning.
He tightened the sash of his silk robe, walking into his library, then to his desk. He collected his papers, sliding them into his briefcase and setting it precisely to the right of his desk before pouring himself a brandy. He lit the warmer and set the snifter in the holder on its side, counting off the seconds toward perfection. The TV droned in the background.
He lowered himself onto the sofa, propping his feet on the table, and supposed that he was anxious for the reviews of his latest production. He’d have to wait. He had a fortune riding on it, and though he was certain it was spectacular, critics had their heads up their asses most of the time and rarely understood the entertainment potential of an action-spy thriller.
He sipped, holding the brown liquor in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. He rarely drank more than one and never drank in public. Some people speculated that he was a recovering alcoholic because no one saw him drink liquor. Maurice never responded to the gossip. It was his personal feeling that too much explanation gave them more to speculate about, and too much drink took away the edge on the brain, the command he had of deals and productions, on or off the set.
He was leaning forward for the TV remote to turn off the set when the news anchor, relaying the recap of lead stories for the past few weeks, said one word that made his attention snap to the screen.
Athena.
He turned up the volume and listened.
Attorney Lorraine Miller Carrington was dead, a car crash. Police didn’t suspect the death of the Harvard alumni attorney was more than an accident, yet gave no significant details. Maurice’s eyes narrowed when they flashed a picture of “Rainy,” as his wife used to call her. A pretty thing. The last time Maurice had seen her was at his wedding. They showed pictures of her in life, then one in death.
A film clip of the funeral appeared, but he didn’t hear the commentary. He only saw a group of women standing outside the church. His attention focused on one, a little boy clasped in her arms. He watched, his heartbeat gaining speed. She didn’t turn toward the camera, in fact, as soon as she spotted the camera she avoided it and left immediately. But Maurice had already recognized the woman’s delicate profile. Her stance.
Darcy.
Well, well. The little rebel has surfaced.
He hadn’t had time to study the child and he watched the clip roll to its end, hoping for another glimpse. He switched channels and after a few moments, it appeared again on another late-night station, the kind that had nothing to report but other stations’ news.
Maurice leaned back, tossing the remote on the table. So. Darcy had been in Phoenix two weeks ago. With his son. Maurice had sent a half dozen private investigators after her, giving them the story that he didn’t want the press to know. That she’d left in the night, with his son. But the press had found out. So had his friends, and he was left with the humiliating task of explaining away his very pretty wife’s disappearance. He’d complained to his friends that he’d given her everything he had and it wasn’t enough. And yes, he wanted her back. They believed him, thankfully, and he still wore his wedding ring to keep up the pretense. Maurice never hurt for feminine company—women found affairs with married men enticing—but seeing Darcy on the TV, he suddenly wanted her back under his control. Desperately.
She was too much of a rebel under all that beauty. He blamed Athena Academy and those Cassandras for that. He should never have married her, but she was poor and struggling and so lovely. He’d seen her as an uncut diamond, just waiting to be shaped and molded. He’d had to compete with a couple of men for her attention, but money made it easy. He’d seen her clothed by the finest designers, her hair styled by Hollywood’s star makers. For a time, she was the perfect wife, a beautiful, sexy bride to show off.
In the back of his brain the reminder that he’d been cruel to her—that he’d shoved her down the stairs and threatened her—tried to push to the surface. But it was overshadowed by the sight of the woman who’d dared defy him. Who’d run off with his son.
She was nothing but white trash, he thought with a flash of sudden sharp anger. With a drunk for a mother and no father she could claim. And look at her—that long black dress and dark wig. Haggard, skinny. Frail. Yes, yes, it had to be her. Clearly she couldn’t function well without him. He smiled slowly, pleased, knowing there was a lush, shapely body under that shapeless dress, plump round breasts on a petite frame. Dove-blue eyes in a delicate face. His little elfin princess, he thought, and for a moment he remembered having her beneath him, making love to her, nurturing her into a butterfly who had made him the envy of Hollywood.
He’d made her. She owed him.
And she was going to pay.
No one left him. No one smeared his reputation.
She’d evaded him for nearly three years, but now he had a trail. Weak, but still—it was a start. He reached for the phone, dialing, knowing exactly who owed him a favor and how to use them.
Chapter 3
M egan Pinchon’s front door sprang open and Darcy couldn’t get out of the Jeep fast enough as her little dark-haired boy came racing across the lawn in his Scooby Doo pajamas.
“Mommy!” He leaped at her and she caught him, crushing his body to hers, and her eyes teared as he pecked her face with kisses and made her laugh. Oh, she loved him so much. She’d been gone only overnight but it seemed much too long.
“I missed you, Mommy,” he said, cupping her face and squishing it.
“I missed you, too, baby. I love you.”
“Me, too. We’re having doughnuts!”
She pushed back the urge to say that wasn’t a healthy breakfast. “I’ve been dreaming of having doughnuts and I’m starving.”
Megan was on the doorstep, smiling, wrapping her robe a bit tighter around her thin frame.
Darcy walked with Charlie in her arms and met her gaze. “Thanks, Meg. I love you for this.”
“I know you do, honey. Come on in.”
“Yeah, come on, Mom, you gotta see the puppies.”
Darcy looked at Megan. “Puppies?”
“They’re the neighbor boys’. Six of them.”
Darcy gave her a “don’t even think about pawning one off on me” look as she put Charlie down. She couldn’t have a pet in a beauty salon, and since Charlie was in the salon in his play area during the day, that wasn’t happening. She walked a thin line with the state board of cosmetology because while her schooling and initial license were real, the license posted in the salon was a forgery for Piper Daniels.
In the kitchen, Megan pushed a mug of coffee into her hand. “Everything okay? You look—I don’t know. Different.”
A good cry did that sometimes, Darcy thought, but hoped it was her new determination to break free of Maurice that showed. “I got some good sleep, I guess.”
Megan wasn’t fooled, but didn’t push it. “Well relax, your first appointment isn’t till ten this morning.”
Darcy was watching Charlie roll around with puppies. She turned to look at Megan. “How’d you manage that for a Saturday morning?”
Megan grinned. “I have my gifts.”
Darcy smiled as Meg went to dress for work, feeling fortunate just then.
Megan Pinchon was the only person she trusted with her son. Megan had been the common-law wife of an abusive husband and was the first woman Darcy had helped. By accident. Megan had been trying to climb out the bathroom window of a fast-food restaurant to get away, and Darcy had switched clothes with her and helped her escape. She’d given her a job as her receptionist and a place to live till she could support herself. They’d done some healing together and Megan had been a huge help with Charlie. She was also the only person in Comanche, Nevada, who knew that Piper Daniels was really Darcy Allen Steele.
She’d trained Megan to defend herself and, while Darcy was away, to defend Charlie. She didn’t have a single doubt that Meg would protect her boy with her life, and it made leaving a lot easier.
Darcy sipped the coffee, watching Charlie and the six puppies again. She couldn’t imagine life without him, and she had to make his world safer.
Megan came back, dressed and eating another doughnut. The woman was rail thin no matter how much she stuffed in her mouth. It was maddening.
“Ahh, now there’s a grin.” Meg pointed with the half-eaten doughnut. “Since Rainy’s death, I didn’t think I’d see that again.”
Darcy turned to her, pushing her hair off her face. “Me, either.” It was hard to believe the funeral had been nearly two weeks ago.
Her brows knit as she freshened her coffee, the night Rainy died rolling back.
“I’m calling on the Cassandra promise,” Rainy had said on the phone. They’d made the pact as teens, that when one of them called for help they would come, no questions asked. “Meet at the Christine Evans bungalow.” Christine was the principal of Athena Academy, and her bungalow was on school grounds. Darcy had bought tickets to Phoenix, Arizona, the nearest city, immediately.
Rainy had insisted on secrecy. That alone told them something was up. Alex, Kayla and Josie were there before Darcy had arrived with a sleepy Charlie. Christine hadn’t known what Rainy wanted to talk to them about and only mentioned searching the school records.
Exactly why Rainy wanted to meet with them at the principal’s house they never learned. She was killed in an accident just an hour before the appointed time. Darcy swallowed, holding back new tears. Car crash my fanny, she thought, growing angry again.
None of the Cassandras believed the doctor’s report that Rainy had fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed.
Alex, a forensic scientist with the FBI, had observed Rainy’s autopsy. Alex had discovered that the appendectomy Rainy had supposedly had during her first year at Athena had been a fake. She’d also noticed severe scarring on Rainy’s ovaries.
Rainy’s husband, Marshall Carrington, had revealed that he and Rainy had been trying for years to have a baby. Recently Rainy had begun fertility treatments. Her doctor had told them Rainy had scarring on her ovaries that would make it hard for her to conceive. The doctor had thought it the result of a natural physical problem. The Cassandras now suspected, as Rainy must have, that her eggs had been harvested when she was only a girl and the scarring was a result of that monstrous crime.
Automatically her gaze swung to Charlie rolling around on the grass with another little boy and six fat black puppies. She could almost feel her heart break for Rainy. Charlie was her whole world and she understood her friend’s need for a baby.
But it was depraved that someone would violate a twelve-year-old girl for her eggs. And the Cassandras were certain that someone had taken the eggs for a reason. God, with the technology, it could be any number of options and experiments. The thought turned Darcy’s stomach.
Rainy’s doctor had also left town suddenly, and Alex and Kayla’s efforts to find out her whereabouts had so far come to nothing. And what about Kayla fainting while on Athena grounds just before the funeral?
Darcy made a mental note to call Kayla sometime today to see if she’d learned something more. The one thought repeating in her mind was, if someone had fertilized Rainy’s harvested eggs, in-vitro or perhaps via a surrogate, then there was a real possibility that Rainy had a child out there somewhere.
Darcy’s skin chilled. If Rainy found out and had been killed to keep it quiet, then it was murder. The questions the Cassandras had to answer were who had harvested the eggs and why.
Oh, Rainy, she mourned, covering her mouth and fighting fresh tears. You knew, didn’t you?
Before you died, you knew.
Her throat tightened, and suddenly, Darcy pitched her coffee and stepped off the back porch. Kicking off her shoes, she called to Charlie and plopped down in the grass. The puppies hopped all over her and she lay flat, letting them lick their fill.
But it was Charlie’s sweet giggles that melted the pain in her heart.
The Chop Shop was humming, with four stylists hard at work and more clients waiting to be pampered. The atmosphere in the fifties garage-style salon, complete with cheesecake posters and retro fittings, invited fun and drew a wide variety of clients.
The doors on the stylists’ work stations were old car doors, cut to fit, the handles authentic. The chairs were comfy car seats upholstered in electric blue. Even her appointment desk was the chopped-off front end of a Cadillac, complete with windshield. The walls were high gloss with four-foot-wide tear stripes in hot pink, electric blue and neon green between wide paths of black, toned down by the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Neon signs with the shop’s name hung outside and in the front window.
Darcy had put her mark on everything, from the black work aprons with the shop’s name emblazoned in hot pink to the play area for Charlie and her customers’ kids. Yet she longed for the day when she could add her real name to the proprietress sign tacked near the front door.
She passed the picture of the previous owner, Crystal Hart, smiling, knowing Crystal would approve of the new look and name. Darcy loved the salon because Crystal had taken her in, given her a job and kept her secrets. The older woman had been more interested in helping her with Charlie than doing hair and to Charlie, she’d been more of a grandmother than Darcy’s own mother. Which wasn’t hard, she thought, sectioning off a client’s wet hair for a cut. Delores Allen had her nose deep in a fifth of scotch by noon every day. Darcy shook off thoughts of her mother and started cutting.
For less than two short years, Darcy had been graced with Crystal’s wisdom and kindness. Then Crystal had been diagnosed with cancer. When her health declined, Darcy took over the business for her. Crystal’s dying wish had been for Darcy and Charlie never to have to hide behind an alias again.
Darcy was determined to get her life out of this holding pattern.
Around her, blow-dryers whined and the strong scents of tint and bleach permeated the air. Fifties music played in the shampoo area in the back of the salon while the television entertained the clients in the front.
She trimmed her client’s hair, not paying attention to anything but the cut. Charlie was corralled in his play area with another customer’s child, coloring.
Her client spoke up. “Oh, there’s that thriller movie that’s coming out. I want to see it. Ben Collier is to-die-for cute.”
Darcy barely glanced up at the TV as the entertainment segment came on. She kept trimming hair. When she glanced up again, she saw the Steele Productions Presents logo and her heart slammed in her chest.
Maurice.
There was a brief theatrical trailer for the action-spy thriller before the commentator said, “Critics are calling the high-budget film Dead Game the action thriller of the year. Ben Collier delivers a surprisingly stellar performance that some say will make him the next box-office king. The film combines a tremendous script, daredevil action and breathtaking locations. The film world is breathlessly awaiting this release because recent Pegasus-backed films involving Ben Collier and executive producer Maurice Steele haven’t had the expected box-office draw in recent years. Sources tell us that Steele cofinanced this film himself with financier Porche Fairchild.”
Darcy went still, listening. In the past, Maurice had used his business assets and connections to back a film that studios didn’t want. Most often they came crawling back to him when the film was nominated for Oscars. She had to give him credit, he could spot true talent. He liked to have enough money invested that he had control of the film, too.
But it wasn’t until the reporter again mentioned production financier Porche Fairchild that Darcy excused herself from her client and moved closer.
She turned up the volume.
“Ms. Fairchild has been on sabbatical in Europe, and while her sudden disappearance was at first suspicious, authorities say the doubt has been clarified. Yet, since October three years ago, the reclusive Ms. Fairchild has yet to come forward and show herself.”
A picture of Porche Fairchild flashed on the screen. Small, blond and sophisticated. And missing?
“In the financial world, Miss Fairchild was known for bankrolling large-scale productions, but her decision to finance this film with Steele Productions, whose last few films had flopped, became gossip for the rumor mills.” Darcy saw pictures of Maurice and Porche Fairchild shaking hands. Three years out of sight? Didn’t anyone miss this woman? The police must have investigated, Darcy thought, and proven her existence.
“Maurice Steele had no comment other than how delighted he was to work with Porche and would love to again, and that he hoped she’d make the premiere. The good news for Ben Collier is the prerelease reviews are tremendous. The widely publicized premiere is scheduled for later this month and Nightly Entertainment will be there to show you all the glitz and glamour of the event.”
“Piper? You okay?”
Darcy nearly dropped her scissors as a niggling memory flashed in her mind. She looked around. Customers and stylists were staring at her. She flashed a brittle smile and excused herself, hurrying to the back supply room.
Megan stepped in after her, closing the door.
“My God, Darcy, you’re pale.”
She waved that away. “Do you remember those plastic bags of stuff in your deep freeze?”
“Yeah, they’re still there. It’s clothes and papers, isn’t it?” Megan put her hands on her hips. “I never understood why you kept that stuff.”
“Because they’re Maurice’s clothes, his papers and a computer disk of pictures from when he beat me. It’s evidence I thought I could use someday. After all this time, I just forgot it was there.”
“So what’s got you so jittery?”
Darcy peeked out and told her client she’d be right there, then moved away from the door.
“Three years ago, Maurice was out very late one night. That was nothing big, he was always wheeling and dealing with actors and directors till dawn sometimes. But this time, when he came back, he was hugging his briefcase like a lifeline. When the maid tried to take it for him, he refused.”
“I’m still stunned you had a maid, you know. I’ve seen you scrub toilets.”
Darcy smiled, realizing she’d indeed come full circle since then. “Maurice snapped at me not to disturb him, then went to his library. Then he started drinking.”
“I don’t see your point. From what you told me, Maurice was controlling.”
“It’s not the briefcase or his attitude, but the drinking was odd. Normally he’d nurse one drink all night, because he never wanted to be drunk and lose control over himself. But what I noticed was that he wasn’t wearing the same clothes he’d left in that morning.”
“Okay, that you didn’t mention.”
“He often went to the gym with a client after work, so I didn’t think much of it until I found him passed out in the chair and the clothes in the fireplace.”
“The fireplace? He burned his clothes? Was he passed out naked?”
“No, he burned the clothes that he left wearing that morning. They must have been in his briefcase.”
“Is that what’s in my freezer?”
“Yeah. And he had scratches on his hand, too.”
“Could it have been a bar fight? Or something with an actor or whoever?”
Darcy roared back. “Maurice? He wouldn’t dare make a public display like that. He’d rather die than lose his cool or his reputation.”
Megan folded her arms and leaned back against the counter. “See, that’s the difference between Saul and Maurice. Saul wouldn’t have thought for a second about bashing me in a bar full of people.”
Darcy touched her arm, sympathetic. “Maurice would. He rarely raised his voice. He was all about threats and locks and hitting me where no one else could see it.”
“So why was he burning the clothes, do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Darcy paced in the small room, driving her fingers through her short, dark hair. “I wanted out, Meg, and I’d been planning it for a while.” She’d stolen enough of his insomnia medication over the last months to knock him out, had stashed money and clothes and was just waiting for the moment when she could call Rainy and disappear with her baby. “When I saw the burned clothes I thought, if he’s burning a two-thousand-dollar suit and a silk shirt, something must be up. So I took them. Then I copied his date book for that week and replaced the burned clothes with something similar I was giving to charity.”
Darcy laughed uneasily. “I even burned them to make it look good. He woke when the maid was cleaning it up in the morning and made some excuse that I didn’t hear. She dumped them in the trash.”
“The maid thing is still throwing me,” Megan said with a smile. “We can get the bags out tonight after closing. But what do you think you’ll find?”
“I don’t know. Rainy came and helped me get away a couple days after that, so I was spending all my time with Charlie and trying to get my strength back.”
“So give me your best theory.”
“Porche Fairchild committed millions to a movie deal with Maurice. I heard him talking to her on the phone a few times. And she’s been missing since October, three years ago.”
“Missing?”
Darcy told her about the entertainment news report. “They say she’s accounted for, but no one has seen her. I left Maurice in October, Meg. And Maurice made the deal with her in October and she vanished right around the same time.”
“You think he killed this woman, don’t you?”
“He had it in him. If I can prove Maurice had something to do with Porche’s disappearance, he’ll go to jail and Charlie and I will be free.”
Megan wasn’t convinced. “That’s a really big if, Darcy.”
“A huge one, I know. It’s a lot to prove.” Short of going to Europe to find the woman, which she couldn’t afford to do, Darcy had to prove the connection between Maurice and Fairchild that night, and well, sadly, hunt on the premise that Fairchild was dead.
“I need to get back to work.”
“Yeah, and you need to stop drinking so much caffeine, too.”
Darcy laughed softly as they left the room, but she had a hard time concentrating on anything but those freezer bags of evidence to a crime Maurice might have committed.
That’s as weak as it got, she thought, but it was a start. She had to move quickly. She couldn’t say why, but she had the distinct feeling that time was about to run out.
Chapter 4
S unday was a day of rest for most people, but Darcy was anxious to start searching.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she tracked Maurice’s recent activities easily, bringing up pictures of him coupled with the starlets in his films. She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d cheated on her back when they’d been together. He had his hands up a lot of skirts and in too many pockets. It was one of the reasons she couldn’t get help. Too many people owed Maurice and he owed just as many. Asking the wrong person would have alerted Maurice to her plans.
This morning, she’d already investigated the pages she’d copied from Maurice’s date book, but there wasn’t anyone listed who wasn’t still alive and visible. She dug deeper, Web Detective helping her along. Flipping through the archived pictures of Variety, she saw one with Maurice’s chauffeur in the background. He’d never gone anywhere without the driver—the man was his paid muscle, content to stand by the car and wait till needed. Darcy hadn’t paid much attention to him because Maurice never allowed him to speak to her directly. She wondered how loyal he really was to Maurice and made a note to find out somehow.
She almost considered calling Jack for help, but it was still early. He’d been teaching her how to investigate so she was better prepared to rescue women and bring them safely into the underground network. First rule of investigative work, he’d taught her, was follow the money trail and document it on paper. And Maurice had a path a mile wide behind him.
She worked the Internet, looking through the new movie’s Web site, the past film sites; pulling up his public financial status, she almost laughed. Maurice was rich as sin, but the report showed that he was just comfortable. Oh, yeah, pay for a four-million-dollar estate in Beverly Hills on that, and bring the IRS in full force. It proved to her that Maurice was clever, and devious. Capable of anything.
And just why did I marry this man? The same answer came. He was handsome, rich, a powerful movie producer, and while he could have had any woman, he’d chosen her.
He’d had his reasons, though she hadn’t seen it then. He thought he could mold and control her and, in a way, he had. He’d given polish and sophistication to a girl whose father was just a scribbled name on a birth certificate and whose mother was a drunk. Since Maurice still kept her mother loaded and in luxury, Darcy didn’t consider calling her. She’d tell Maurice just to keep those cushy surroundings.
And why not?
Life on Maurice’s estate was a far cry from Darcy’s youth of living in cheap apartments and being evicted when her mother lost jobs because of her drinking. Delores had constantly mourned the loss of her beauty, spending more time with “I remember when” than working to improve herself or at least get into a rehab center. Delores had been married three times and thought she needed a man to be whole. Darcy knew otherwise. Sometimes, when it was really bad, she’d lashed out at Darcy, blaming her birth for all her troubles. It was painful to hear, and the booze was doing the talking, she knew. But for a long time, she’d believed it.
She pushed herself to make good grades, as if that would win her mother’s love and make her stop drinking. Of course, it hadn’t. When she was invited to attend Athena Academy, all expenses paid by the school, she’d thought she’d been granted asylum in a foreign country. Athena made her see her own potential. Maurice had slowly taken that away.
God I was a sap, she thought, disgusted, and she focused on finding information on Fairchild.
An hour later she learned something surprising.
Porche Fairchild was not who she seemed. Though the name said money and affluence, Porche’s real name was Patty Fogerty. She’d changed it legally just before receiving her MBA and stepping into the business world. Like Darcy, she’d gone to college on scholarships and had worked a job, as well, interning with William Morris Agency. From the records of investments, Porche had done some creative financing, and while Darcy couldn’t see anything wrong in the numbers, it made her wonder how she’d become so rich so fast and why she’d then vanished. Was she into something illegal, something that had forced her to skip out before she was caught?
There wasn’t a single article or mention of Porche in any magazine or newspaper in three years, and the two she did find were about her sudden absence from the financial world. An undisclosed spokesman’s statement said that Ms. Fairchild was on sabbatical.
Bunk. It was sad that the absence of a bright young woman with a great mind would go unnoticed for so long. Porche didn’t have any family. Darcy wondered if there’d been anyone she could depend on, someone who might have cared enough to file a missing person’s report.
The image hit a little close and Darcy grew more determined to find out what happened to the woman.
The only other mention was an old piece in Variety and a production notice. So if Fairchild’s finance business was closed, what had happened to her accounts, her money? Her home? Checking her last known address brought up a real-estate listing. The house had been sold three years ago and was up for sale again.
Nice digs, Darcy thought, noting the Bel Air address. She called the real-estate agent but the woman wasn’t forthcoming on the circumstances, which raised her suspicions. Darcy made another call to Porche’s former office number and got a deli somewhere in Fremont, CA. She found an old staff listing and called Fairchild’s assistant, Marianna Vasquez, but the woman worked for a bank and was away on business. She made a note to call her later.
She struck gold when she surfed free credit reports and learned Porche’s last open personal transaction was two nights before Maurice had come home hugging his briefcase.
While film and movie finances weren’t public record, Darcy went out on a limb and tried to access the personal accounts she’d shared with Maurice.
Maurice had changed the pass code, but after a few tries, she found that it was only by two digits. Idiot. She hit the key and the screen blinked to life. Pages and pages of account history scrolled past.
“Well, well, look at that money trail, Maury.”
Darcy smiled, typing in the dates to narrow the field. She kept bringing the search down tighter and tighter, and her eyes blurred from reading so many numbers.
Maurice had been a wealthy man when she married him, and she’d had unlimited funds and all the perks that went with them. Now, Maurice could afford three wives and she wondered when enough was enough. Twenty million? Thirty? Of his last three movies before Dead Game, Maurice had coproduced only the last two. Apparently the studios had lost enough confidence that he’d had to go to Fairchild for the third, Dead Game. Maurice would have had to convince her to finance the film.
Darcy’s eyebrows knitted and she sat back, remembering he’d been having trouble getting funds because, while the script was good, the star, Ben Collier, hadn’t had much success. Thirty-five million in production was a lot to ride on maybe.
She glanced at her freezer. Megan had given the bags to her last night and Darcy was so tired and busy with Charlie that she’d just thrown them in there. She knew she needed more than burned clothes to back up her theory. She had to be extremely careful. Her life and her son’s depended on it.
Darcy saved the file and printed the documents, then left her small home office to wake Charlie. She couldn’t do much else from Nevada. Though she didn’t want to be in the same state as Maurice, she had to do some firsthand snooping. She needed some special equipment, she thought, kissing her son awake.
And she knew just who to call.
Darcy threw open the door and smiled. Jack blinked as if stunned.
“What?”
“Been a while since I’ve seen you smile like that, I guess. It looks good on you.”
His gaze flowed over her body. In jeans and a strapless red top, she must look pretty silly, considering it was cold outside.
“Thanks for coming, Jack.” She pushed open the screen door. “Come in.”
Removing his hat, he stepped inside. “You going to tell me what you need all this camera equipment for?” He offered her a black duffel bag.
“No, not really. Does it matter?” Darcy really didn’t know if she was going to need it, but she wanted to be prepared.
“Just don’t implicate me in anything illegal.”
She rolled her eyes, taking the bag. “And here I thought you were the adventurous type.” She walked down the hall to the kitchen, inclining her head for him to follow. She could feel his gaze on her, as if it were rubbing over her skin. It made her insides tighten and she busied herself with getting him some coffee.
He readily accepted, groaning as he sipped.
“Tough night gathering the bad guys?” She sipped her own.
“Paperwork.” He glanced around the kitchen. “What’s all this?” He motioned to the bucket on the kitchen table, then peered into it. “Plaster?”
“I’m making faces, masks.” Her kitchen looked like a lab and she wondered at the wisdom of having him here right now.
“Mind if I hang around and watch?”
She hesitated for a second. “No, of course not. Actually I’d love a little help keeping an eye on Charlie since I’m alone.”
“No problem. Where is he?”
“Living room. Cartoons and grape juice.”
Jack set his cup down and gave her a look that said, can I see him? She smiled and nodded, following Jack into the room.
They found Charlie in his pj’s, tucked in a corner of the sofa like a bunny burrowed in for the winter. His face was smeared with jelly, a half-eaten piece of toast in his hand. Darcy didn’t think Jack would get a rise out of her son, he wasn’t interested in anything but the cartoons. She was wrong.
“Hey, pal.”
Charlie looked up, grinning widely. “Jack!” He shot off the couch and plowed into Jack’s knees.
Jack lifted him and her son looked so tiny in his arms. “So what’s with this?” He pointed to his chest, and when Charlie looked down, Jack nudged his nose up.
Charlie giggled and something inside her fell a little harder for Jack. He was so good to Charlie.
“You wanna watch Transformers with me?”
“Maybe later, I’m going to help your mom for a bit. If that’s okay.”
Her son looked disappointed for a second till the cartoon came back on. Jack set him down, then followed Darcy back to the kitchen.
She added more plaster powder to the water, stirring.
“So explain this.”
“I’ve got to make a fresh cast of my face in relief before I can build a mask. My old form is getting mushy.” She gestured to the plaster head and shoulders sitting on a stand that secured it to the edge of the table.
“I make a relief of my own face, then make a cast from that and put it on the head form. It’s hard and solid. Then with soft latex and foam, I build a new face on top of that. That way it fits over mine without any wrinkles or gaps.”
“Can you put that stuff on anyone?” From a plastic box, he picked up a fake nose, a chin and half a lip.
“Yeah, in a crunch, but you have to fill in the space between the skin and the latex with a fast-drying foam and it leaves it hard, so the facial features don’t move with the wearer. It has to be thin where it contacts with the major muscles of the face, so it moves with expressions. If it doesn’t fit, it sort of defeats the purpose. Too noticeable.”
He took up his coffee, his gaze moving over her equipment. “I’ve seen you in these masks a lot, but you never said where you learned all this.”
She stopped stirring for a second, then continued. “I wanted to work on movies and took a course.”
It was a bald-faced lie, Darcy thought, but she couldn’t say more. Nor could she look at Jack and say it. It was hard to lie to him, even if it was to protect herself and Charlie.
“Over the years, I’ve just gotten better at it, studied, tried different approaches.” The truth was Darcy had worked on movies for a few years before she married Maurice, then a couple after. She’d studied acting in college, and had gotten a couple of good minor roles in films, but she preferred the hair, makeup, and mostly, special-effects facial mechanics.
“Is this human hair?”
She glanced up, struggling with the mix as the plaster thickened. He held a sample from her selection of bound locks of hair. “Yeah, I have to put each hair in individually to make the hairline look authentic. Then put on a wig and blend the hair so there’s no line.”
Jack sipped his coffee, picking up the facial mask she’d used the other night, then riffling through the box of wigs and hairpieces. Darcy even had stuff to make her look like a man.
“You really think all this will protect you?”
“It has so far.” He was more interested in watching her than the process, she thought.
“I think that roundhouse kick and your wicked knife do more.”
“I do this to avoid being recognized. No one can trace me.”
“Stopping altogether would help.”
“You walk into danger every time you hunt a bounty, so just because I’m a woman—”
“A woman with a child to think about.”
Darcy groaned, stirring. “Leave it alone, Jack.”
“I just don’t want to see anything happen to you, Piper.”
“Why?”
He pulled out a chair and sat, sipping his coffee. “If I have to say, then you’re not as smart as I thought.”
She met his gaze and wondered why she always felt stripped naked when he was near. “Must you stare?”
“You’re an exceptionally pretty woman, why shouldn’t I stare?”
She gave him a dry look. “It’s confirmed, your taste is all in your mouth. I look like a drowned rat.” She fluffed her hair and Jack leaned over the table.
“Why is it so hard for you to take a compliment?”
She met his gaze head on. “I haven’t had many.”
His eyebrows shot up and those intense eyes roamed her body from feet to hair. “Maybe they didn’t have the guts to say.”
“Why would you think that?”
“It could be the barrier around you that’s better than a castle wall.”
She looked him over, liking what she saw too much. “A girl has to protect herself from those unseemly types.”
“Ouch.”
She motioned him close and he set aside the coffee and came to her. “Here’s where you come in. I’d take off your jacket if I were you.”
He stripped out of the bomber jacket and hung it on a peg by the back-porch door with his hat. His T-shirt stretched tight across those massive shoulders and bulging muscles and Darcy almost lost her train of thought just looking at him.
He arched an eyebrow, the look saying he caught her staring. Hurriedly, she slipped on a headband that pulled her hair back off her face, then wrapped her hair in a turban.
“Unattractive, I know.” She sat in the kitchen chair. “I’m going to apply the first layer, but when I get to the places around my nose and mouth and ears, can you do the rest?”
“Sure. Just tell me how.”
She explained that there couldn’t be any air pockets and to tap the plaster lightly to get them out. “And I won’t be ignoring you if you talk—I can’t answer, lip movement destroys the details.”
She scooped up a blob of the plaster and started smearing it over her hairline, her jaw, throat and then down onto her chest.
“That far?” he said.
That was why she wore the strapless top. When she’d covered nearly all of her face, she inserted two straws into her nose so she could breathe, then motioned for him to add more. Jack rolled up his sleeves and spread plaster.
She had a notepad on her lap and a pencil to scribble advice. She felt his touch, the gentleness of it belying his big hands as he made sure the plaster was in and around her ears, and then down on her throat and lower.
Don’t get fresh, she wrote when his hand smoothed over the swells of her breasts. Her nipples tightened and her mind went into fantasyland when he kept smoothing the cool plaster slowly.
“I’m just doing what you want, Piper.”
Not quite, she thought, and reached to inspect the thickness and texture, making certain she was completely covered.
“How long do we wait?” he asked.
She scribbled, Till it dries, dingy. 20 mins. The fan set up close by hastened the process. Then she wrote again, Eye on Charlie, likes to jump on the couch. She heard Jack’s soft chuckle and barely made out his footsteps as he walked away.
Darcy tried to relax and be still, yet her mind was running at full speed. She didn’t like that she couldn’t see Jack or what he was doing. But she could feel him when he came close. When the mold was done, she tapped the table and he was there to help her lift it off.
“I hate that part, makes me feel like I’m buried alive.”
She stood and placed the relief in a frame padded with cotton, then excused herself to wash up and change into a T-shirt. When she came back Jack was exactly where she’d left him.
“Charlie? You want some eggs or cereal?” she said as she tipped the relief so it was level and started building barriers around it with thin sheets of metal and pins.
“Toaster tarts!” he called back and Jack chuckled.
“Oh, I so don’t think so.” Bending, she inserted metal frame pins to hold the irregular shape in place.
“Mom,” he whined.
“Pick one, kiddo.”
“Eggs,” Charlie said, sulking as she started mixing chemicals and plaster.
“You look like a mad scientist with all that,” Jack said.
“This will make the face form mine, in relief. It’s plaster, but it has a liquid plastic hardener that will make it come out of the mold and stay hard. Then I’ll just take the old head form, cut the face off, and apply a fresh one.”
“Yes, Dr. Mengela.”
Her chuckle was sinister as she slowly blended the plaster with a kitchen hand mixer. “Then I mix up the polymer clay and with some foam, start building the face.”
“Should I be concerned that you’ll develop dual personalities?” he asked, lifting a full mask of a man’s face.
She smiled. “No, I like being a woman. I put that on the women I help, Jack, so the trail vanishes and nothing can be traced back to here, and Charlie.”
“But this underground railroad you’re part of—”
“Don’t mention the illegalities, please.” He harped on that a lot.
“You said it, not me. What if something happens while you’re moving through it? It’s so secret even the cops can’t find the trail.”
“Why would they want to? Safe house means in secret. A lawyer and a cop come to the women and take pictures and statements at a different location. It’s a requirement to remain at the safe house that they file formal charges and appear in court if they have to.”
“They’d like to have authority over it. Make sure nothing gets thrown out of court on a technicality.”
“Hasn’t yet.”
Jack moved to the stove, pulling out a small frying pan. “Man, you are so stubborn.”
“Look who’s talking.” Darcy looked over her shoulder, her expression questioning.
“Charlie’s eggs.”
“Thanks. Scrambled.”
“Oh good, the only kind I can do.”
“Make some for yourself if you want.”
Darcy felt weird. He’d been here before, just not for long and certainly not cooking in her kitchen. She didn’t want to think about how comfortable it felt to have him here. When he was done, he cleaned up and took the plate to Charlie, and since the kitchen table was occupied with her latex, he had Charles sit at the coffee table. Then he plopped down beside her son and joined him.
Darcy’s heart did a little leap at the way he looked at her son. Charlie’s own father hadn’t even held him when he was born. Maurice demanded she abort and when she refused, he threw her down the stairs, hoping she’d lose the baby. Pushing her kept his hands clean. An accident, he’d say. The memory blasted through her and she flinched, feeling each bang of the steps. Curling her body into a ball to protect her baby, the cool tile floor beneath her cheek.
“Piper?”
She blinked. Jack was standing close, holding the empty plates. How long had she fazed out?
“You all right?”
Tears burned her eyes and she quickly looked away. “Yeah, fine. Got powder in my eyes, I think.”
Jack didn’t believe her, she could tell, yet he soaked a towel for her. “Let me see.”
“It’s fine now.”
“Let me see,” he insisted and tipped her face up, then blotted the wet cloth over her eyes. There was nothing there, but he pretended there was. He eased the cloth from her eyes and she opened them. Her vision filled with him.
“Okay?”
Darcy breathed him in, his strength, his scent. His face was so close, his mouth inviting. His gaze raked her face, as if searching for answers she knew he wanted. But he didn’t say anything.
Then his head dipped, his mouth a breath from hers.
“Don’t, Jack.” Yet she didn’t back away.
“Don’t what?”
“Oh, I know you’re not stupid and neither am I. Don’t take this friendship there.”
“Are we friends, Piper? I figured I was just the hired muscle.”
“Yeah, that, too.” She eased away from him. Instantly she felt more alone.
“Friends trust each other.”
“I trust you with my life, Jack.”
His look went sour. “You give that to cops and firefighters.”
“What do you want from me?”
“To know you.”
“You do.”
“No, I don’t.” He gestured to the array of chemicals and powders, makeup and fake hair spread across her kitchen. “I’m wondering if anyone does.”
Darcy didn’t say anything. Because it was true. No one really knew who she was, least of all her. Jack stepped away, reaching for his jacket and hat. Darcy cleaned off her hands and walked him to the door.
He had his hand on the knob when he said, “By the way, I saw Charlie on TV last week.”
And the bottom of her world fell out.
Chapter 5
“A nd you, too.”
Darcy froze. “You must be mistaken.”
“I know it was you, because you don’t let anyone near your son except Meg. But it was Charlie I recognized.”
Darcy felt instant and overpowering panic. Her knees went soft and she struggled for calm.
“That’s not possible, Jack.”
“It was a sound bite about a woman who was killed in a car crash. A lawyer.” He frowned slightly, thinking. “She went to that women’s school, the one that trains girls for spy work…Athena Academy, then Harvard.”
“You couldn’t have seen him.”
Jack moved closer, hemming her in, his cool stare leaving no doubt of what he saw. “I did, Piper. It was Charlie, and you were at that funeral.”
Cornered, she let out a long breath and muttered, “Yes, I was.”
“You went to Athena Academy?”
“Me? No, no I didn’t. I knew Lorraine Carrington from college.”
His gaze thinned. “She went to Harvard.”
“Only for law school.” Another lie, she thought, a thousand problems shooting through her mind.
Jack was scowling now. “You can’t even give me a straight answer, can you? Why can’t you trust me?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” she snapped and stepped back. “And butt out of my private life, Jack. Or I’ll start prying into yours and you can tell me how you got that bullet hole in your shoulder.”
His expression shuttered, he moved to open the door. “Fine. But I want you to know I’m here to help you if you need it.”
“With what? I don’t need it.”
“Yeah, sure. When you’re ready to tell me why you constantly look over your shoulder, why you’re terrified right now, we’ll talk again.”
“No, we won’t.”
Jack cast her a dark glance that made her shiver. Not talking wasn’t up for debate in his eyes and Darcy wondered how long she could avoid it. He left and she shut the door after him, sinking against the wall.
Oh damn. Damn.
What were the chances of anyone else recognizing her and making a connection?
Darcy headed back into the kitchen, her hands shaking. She’d covered her tracks, she knew she had.
Pay cash, use disguises, don’t make conversation with strangers for long. Check everyone out. The last thought reminded her that she hadn’t done that with Jack. All she knew of him was what she’d learned since the moment they’d collided on a rescue till now. And now he knew she’d been at Rainy’s funeral. She hadn’t worn a mask when she’d gone to Arizona, because she’d been among friends, not rescuing a woman from a dangerous attacker.
This pushed her plan to go to L.A. next week to sooner than she wanted. She had to work fast in case Maurice had seen the broadcast and found a way to track her from Arizona to here.
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