She knows what she saw...
Can he believe her?
Detective Jack McTavish can’t afford another slipup. So when artist Greta Renault claims to have witnessed a murder without a shred of evidence, he’s tempted to walk. Jack’s gut propels him to pursue this case—and his attraction to Greta. Soon, not only is his job on the line, but Greta’s life is, too...and only Jack can keep her safe.
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
“So what do we do next?”
Jack choked on his tea. “By ‘we’ you mean—”
“You and me.” Greta snapped her teeth through a cookie and grinned. “You don’t really expect me to stop now that I’m invested. I’m your only witness, Detective. I think that means you’re stuck with me. No matter how confused your pronouns were earlier.”
“Ah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah, that’s not the way things work, Greta. This is my job. I will take care of it.”
Had a man’s irritation ever been so utterly appealing? No way was he going to investigate this without her. She couldn’t allow it. Not with what she had at stake. “I’m not going to let this go, Jack. I can’t. Not until I get to the truth.” Because she needed to know, with 100 percent certainty, that what she’d seen had actually happened. “I can either do that with you or without you. Your choice.”
Dear Reader,
Jack McTavish was one of those characters who was tired of standing in the background. I loved him from the second he arrived on the scene in More Than a Lawman. Unlucky and unfortunate in love, it was going to take a unique woman indeed to finally change his relationship prospects. Artist Greta Renault definitely fits the bill.
I’ve always had a varied list of interests, but I have always been fascinated with Hollywood, movies and movie stars specifically. One of my favorite books when I was a teenager was a compilation of classic movie star publicity shots (from Marilyn to Tyrone Power, Errol Flynn, Jimmy Stewart). There’s still something captivating about that period of time. Ironically, I’ve never been a fan of Alfred Hitchcock, but a few years ago I sat down to watch Rear Window for the first time in forever and boy did I get inspired. The tension in that story, the suspense even as Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart fall even deeper in love than they already are, is fabulous. And so...the plot for Guarding His Midnight Witness was born. Throw in a dash of Gaslight and a group of familiar friends (for fans of the Honor Bound series) and I ended up with a book I’m very happy with.
So sit back and try not to turn the pages too fast. Jack and Greta are about to get things stirred up—falling head over heels while trying to solve a murder that maybe wasn’t.
Happy reading.
Anna J. Stewart
GUARDING HIS MIDNIGHT WITNESS
Anna J. Stewart
Bestselling author Anna J. Stewart is living her dream writing romances for Harlequin’s Romantic Suspense and Heartwarming lines. In between bouts of binge-watching her favorite TV shows and movies, she puts fingers to keyboard and loses herself in endless stories of happily-ever-after. Anna lives in Northern California, where she tries to wrangle two rapscallion cats named Rosie and Sherlock, possibly the most fiendish felines known to humankind.
Books by Anna J. Stewart
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Honor Bound
Reunited with the P.I.
More Than a Lawman
Gone in the Night
Guarding His Midnight Witness
The Coltons of Roaring Springs
Colton on the Run
Harlequin Heartwarming
Return of the Blackwell Brothers
The Rancher’s Homecoming
Butterfly Harbor Stories
The Bad Boy of Butterfly Harbor
Recipe for Redemption
A Dad for Charlie
Always the Hero
Holiday Kisses
Safe in His Arms
The Firefighter’s Thanksgiving Wish
A Match Made Perfect
Visit the Author Profile page at
Harlequin.com for more titles.
For Lindell Costa.
A woman who made it all look effortless.
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
Epilogue
Excerpt from Colton 911: Agent By Her Side by Deborah Fletcher Mello
Chapter 1
“Welcome back, Detective.”
Jack McTavish dropped out of his SUV and tried not to cringe at Deputy Scott Bowman’s guarded tone. He’d heard the same inflection from countless others during his long weeks of convalescence. So he’d been shot eight months ago. So one of the bullets had missed his heart by mere millimeters. And okay, yeah, he’d flatlined twice during surgery and once more in recovery. In the days that followed, he’d come roaring back by challenging his surgeon more than any other patient of his, ever, no doubt leaving him questioning his career choice. But none of that, at least in Jack’s opinion, gave his fellow officers and detectives permission to eye him as if he had just returned from the dead.
He wasn’t dead. Not by a long shot. But apparently he still had to prove it.
“Thanks, Bowie. It’s good to be back.” Jack reached into his car for his double-shot espresso and checked to make sure he’d clipped his badge to his waistband before verifying his sidearm was secure. He resisted the now familiar urge to scrub uneasy fingers over the still throbbing scars across his chest and side. Psychosomatic, according to his physician sister, Ashley. Ghost pain. Easy for her to say. He was completely healed, but knowing that in his head didn’t prevent the occasional panic attack and nightmares that continued to plague him. When he actually slept.
“So, what are we dealing with?” Jack fell into step beside the deputy as they headed down the dimly lit street. His LT hadn’t been very forthcoming with information about the call, only that the person had specifically requested a detective when she’d called 9-1-1. “Crackpot or attention seeker?”
“Jury’s out.”
Jack didn’t have to look at Bowie to know the legacy cop was grinning. A grin served as the kid’s default expression. The twentysomething deputy with a little more than three years under his belt was also one of the most organized and reliable officers Jack had worked with in his nearly twelve years on the job. Which was why Jack had specifically requested him as his partner while his usual cohort Cole Delaney finished his vacation. Besides, Bowie was looking to earn his detective’s badge, and Jack was happy to play mentor for the time being. “Tell me what you do know, Bowie. Who’s the caller?”
“Greta Renault. Resident across the street. Claims to have witnessed a crime from her window but wouldn’t give any details over the phone. The dispatcher couldn’t shake the feeling something was off, so rather than listing it as a nuisance call, the supervisor called the lieutenant who—”
“Who decided my first day back on the job should start with a bang. Awesome.” Jack’s first question was what this Greta Renault had been doing spying out her window at this time of night. In his experience, calls like this were a cry for help, in more ways than one.
“
A patrol unit did a quick sweep, didn’t find anything amiss. I did a walk-around while I was waiting for you,” Bowie continued. “I didn’t see anything either around the caller’s building or the one in question. I did knock on the door of the office complex and spoke with the night security officer. He said as far as he knew, he was the only one in the building. Which makes sense as it’s still under construction in some parts.”
“Sounds like someone’s been watching too much Hitchcock.” Jack took in his surroundings as they headed toward the caller’s front door. Nothing like dead of night silence to ease a cop’s mind. This time of year in the Sacramento Valley, when April was sliding into May, the weather had yet to decide which direction to go. Cool nights and warmish days interspersed with surprise thunderstorms and retina-blasting sunshine. Personally, Jack preferred crisp nights like this. Nothing could hide in the silence. Even the quietest cough couldn’t go unnoticed while shadows caught in the beams of determined streetlamps.
A twinge of envy nudged at him as he looked up at the impressive structure that reminded him somewhat of a New York City brownstone. He’d always liked this part of town, the way historic Sacramento, California, meshed with newer, flashier and less interesting architecture. Such a stark contrast to his two-bedroom condo in the family-heavy suburb of Elk Grove. This recently restored landmark brick building where the witness lived was situated within walking distance to the new downtown arena, a nice neighborhood grocery, the capitol building, and the ever popular Old Sac, the tourist trap that had caught Jack up in its temptations on more than one occasion since he’d moved here almost three years before. This part of town, with its combination of corporate offices, hole-in-the-wall restaurants and reputation-building art galleries tended to be a bustling part of town during the day. At four in the morning? Not so much.
“What do we know about Miss Renault?” Jack sipped his cooling jolt of caffeine and tried to ignore the haunting sound of his sister’s disapproving tsks. He’d done everything she’d instructed during what seemed like his endless recovery, including cutting down on red meat and upping his intake of kale. He was not, however, willing to give up coffee. No matter how much Ashley grumbled at him.
“We don’t know much,” Bowie said. “She only moved to Sacramento last summer, but two years before she bought this building and had it renovated into loft apartments. She’s currently the only occupant, though. Must be weird, living in this big a building all alone.” Bowie craned his neck to look up. “Bet it would play with your head.”
Jack agreed. He knew how the solitude could push in on a person and keep them on edge. “You liking these early hours?”
“Not particularly, sir. But it’s part of the job.”
That it was. Knowing Bowie, however, the deputy had already rearranged the times and days he spent volunteering at local teen centers and the Y teaching self-defense classes to kids of all ages. “So what do you think?” Jack glanced up at the four-story facade. “Want to lay odds on what this turns out to be?”
“Ah.” Bowie glanced at Jack with a familiar twinkle in his always appraising eye. “I’ll put twenty on our witness having partaken in some recreational smoking products.”
Jack chuckled and pressed the one intercom button outside the custom wood and glass-etched door. “There’s that sense of humor that keeps us all sane. I’ll take that bet. But I’ll go with lonely. Someone needs some attention.”
“Safe bet,” Bowie mumbled.
Jack bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t like the idea of anyone thinking he preferred to play anything safe, but the truth was...that’s exactly what he planned to do. He had to if he was going to convince his superiors that he was ready to be on the job again. Because he’d realized one thing while he’d been lying in bed, going out of his mind with boredom: without this job, he had nothing. He pressed two fingers against his heart as doubt surged. Doubt that had him considering putting in for a promotion if he didn’t think he’d die a lot sooner stuck behind a desk.
He hit the buzzer again.
“Yes?” A calm, slightly breathy, coherent voice drifted out of the state-of-the-art intercom speaker.
“Detective Jack McTavish and Officer Bowman from Major Crimes, ma’am.” Jack leaned in and pressed the button as he spoke. “We understand you’d like to report a crime?”
Silence echoed on the other end. Jack frowned at Bowie, who shrugged.
“Ma’am?” Jack said again.
“I didn’t think you were coming.”
Translation: they’d taken their time getting there. “I apologize for the delay, Ms. Renault. If you could buzz us up, we’d like to speak with you.”
Another hesitation. “All right. Fourth floor.”
“Thank—” his response was cut off by the shrill buzzer and the lock unlatching. “This should be interesting.” He pulled open the door and stepped inside.
“Elevator, nice.” Bowie gave an appreciative nod toward the restored, old-fashioned iron car.
Silence filled the space as the front door closed behind them. Impressive locks and security, Jack noticed. High-end marble extended across the expansive foyer. A large circular table sat in the center of the area, filled with a spray of flowers Versailles might appreciate. High ceilings, carved crown molding. Elegant and tasteful despite the odd trace of turpentine lingering in the air.
He headed for the stairs and ignored Bowie’s disappointed sigh. Jack hadn’t been burning up his treadmill every morning to take elevators. He wasn’t about to give anyone an excuse to doubt his fitness for the job. Not that Bowie, or any other officer he worked with in the Sac PD, would rat him out if Jack took the less stressful option.
“You hear from Cole and Eden?” Bowie asked as they rounded the second floor landing.
“Talked to Cole yesterday. They’ll be back next week.” Jack flinched as his chest twinged in protest, this time maybe not so imaginary. “Eden came across more evidence in that cold case she’s been chomping on and talked Cole into staying in Flagstaff a while longer.”
As much as Jack missed his partner, he was glad to be working this case without him. Even Cole had joined in the chorus of naysayers, suggesting Jack consider taking more time off.
When he pulled open the door to the fourth floor, his heart pounded heavy in his chest. He stepped aside to let Bowie pass and bent over for a moment to take a long, deep breath.
“Pull it together, man.” Jack gave himself a good shake and stepped into the hallway just as Bowie knocked on the only door in sight. It opened at Bowie’s touch and for an instant Jack wondered if Ms. Renault employed a ghost as a butler.
“Hello?” Bowie called, his hand heading for the snap on his holster.
Sweat broke out on Jack’s forehead. Instinct had him mirroring Bowie’s action even as his hand shook. He’d been caught off guard once—he wouldn’t let it happen again. “Miss Renault?”
“Come on in!” a voice from inside called.
The tension strangling Jack’s spine evaporated, and he patted Bowie on the shoulder as if he hadn’t been worried. “You spook too easy.” Jack sniffed the air. “No recreational smoking in here. Get ready to pay up.”
“You haven’t won yet,” Bowie mumbled and followed Jack inside.
“Miss Renault? Detective Jack...” Jack trailed off as he caught sight of the apparition moving toward them. Apparition seemed the only appropriate way to describe her, given the way Miss Renault glided across the room, light on her feet, dark silk pajamas flowing around bare feet. The deep V at the neck gave a hint as to lush, full breasts and creamy skin. Stark, silver-blond hair sat piled on top of her head, and she wore thick, black-rimmed glasses perched on her narrow nose. But her eyes, Jack thought. The eyes behind those glasses stole the breath from his lungs. Indigo. With sharp shards of gold that made him think of Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. She looked at him with those eyes now in a comb
ination of irritation, suspicion and...interest?
“McTavish,” Bowie finished for him and elbowed him in the side. “Detective Jack McTavish.”
Jack pinched his lips tight and stepped forward right onto Bowie’s foot. The officer let out a whimper he attempted to cover with a cough.
“A pleasure. And it’s Greta, please.” She held out her free hand as her other held a stark white teapot, steam billowing from the spout. “I assumed when no one arrived shortly after I called...” She trailed off in much the way she had over the intercom. Her eyes glazed over just a bit, and she swayed.
“Ma’am?” Jack bolted closer, wondering if this wasn’t some sort of seizure disorder. Was it? She was still there, wasn’t she? “Greta?”
“Hmm?” She blinked, lifted her chin, and even in the dim light of her spacious loft, her cheeks exploded with color. “Oh, heavens! I’m sorry. I’ve been working, stuck, actually. You know, when you can’t figure out where...” She went quiet, turned around and disappeared around the corner, leaving the faint hint of jasmine and paint thinner in her wake.
“I’d like to amend the conditions of our bet.” Bowie moved in behind him. “I’m going with kooky.”
“Maybe.” Greta Renault certainly seemed unique, and unique had always fascinated him. Unique had also gotten him burned more times than he could count. He followed her as if in some kind of trance and found her, to his surprise, sitting cross-legged on her wide and deep kitchen island, doodling on a pad of paper. “Greta?”
“Uh-huh.” She held up a finger for a flash of a moment. A thin, embossed leather bracelet adorned her wrist. “Just a second. I had an idea, and I just...need...to...” Her fingers flew across the paper as if they had wings. The sharp lead scraped in the silence, an oddly comforting sound that drew him closer. “Okay, yeah. Yes. This will work. Oh, this is perfect.” She tilted her head up and smiled at him, a smile so wide and joyous, his knees went week. “You, Detective Jack McTavish, are a lifesaver. Definitely an inspiration. One look at you and bam!” She smacked her palm against the side of her head. “The ideas are flowing again. Thank you.”
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