The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2011 Melinda Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN: 978-1-61218-151-6
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated first and foremost to my husband and kids, for believing in me from the beginning and for willingly eating tons of takeout.
To my agent, Jill Marsal, for her tireless efforts on my behalf.
To Jeff Belle, Alex Carr, and everyone else on the Amazon publishing team for giving me this amazing opportunity.
Additional thanks to the other founders of Liberty States Fiction Writers: Gail Freeman, Rayna Vause, Caridad Pineiro, Michele Richter, Lois Winston, Kathye Quick, and Anne Walradt for generously sharing their combined wisdom with a newbie; and to my critique partners Dale Mayer, Walt Mussell, and Beverley Bateman.
I couldn’t have done it without all of you.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Beth’s hand trembled. Her knuckles hovered an inch from the recessed oak panel. The office door was closed, which meant Richard didn’t want to be disturbed. She glanced at the box in her hand, delivered by messenger just moments before. It must be important. Would Richard be angry if she interrupted him? Or angrier if she didn’t? Her stomach clenched. He’d be angry no matter what she did.
With a hitched breath, she rapped lightly. The latch hadn’t caught properly and the door swung open. Beth froze, paralyzed by the scene before her.
Confusion shifted into comprehension, and fear turned her insides to ice water.
Could she slip out before he noticed her? She eased backward, but Richard sensed her presence. He turned and stared. Their gazes locked for a few seconds, his feral, hers panicked. The lion and the gazelle.
Then he grabbed the crystal letter opener on his desk and lunged.
Beth ran.
She couldn’t leave the house. Her children were upstairs. She needed a weapon. Her eyes locked on the kitchen doorway ten feet away.
His Italian loafers scraped the wood floor of the hall behind her as he fought for traction. The rubber soles of her sneakers fared better. She almost outran him. Almost.
At the threshold, he caught her in a flying tackle. She flung her hands out. Pain shot through her wrists and palms as she braced her fall before her face slammed into the tile.
After all this time wondering if he’d eventually kill her, there was now no more doubt. If she didn’t get away, she was dead.
Panting, on all fours, he pulled on her legs. She donkey kicked backwards, catching him on the side of the face. He grunted. His grip loosened, and she belly crawled forward a few inches before his hand closed around her calf.
She raised her chin and eyed the knife drawer, an impossible ten feet away on the other side of the room. In a frantic visual sweep, her peripheral vision caught the cordless flashlight plugged into the outlet on her left.
She kicked at his fingers. They jerked open. Pulling a knee under her body, she pushed forward and yanked the flashlight from the wall. Richard crawled closer and slashed at her middle. Her skin registered a flash of agony, then went numb.
Without losing momentum, she turned over and swung the flashlight in an arc toward his head. Metal clanged against bone.
His eyes widened in shock before his body went limp.
Shaking, Beth scrambled out from under his torso. Blood seeped through her silk blouse.
Lungs heaving, she rooted through the odds-and-ends drawer and pulled out a roll of duct tape. She rolled him to his side, forced his wrists behind his back, and taped them together. As an extra precaution, she secured his hands to a heavy table leg, then bound his ankles. She slapped a final piece of tape across his mouth. Richard wasn’t going anywhere until the cook arrived in the morning.
Adrenaline and nausea coursed through Beth as she glanced at the clock. She had exactly ten hours to vanish.
CHAPTER ONE
Ten months later
Beth stopped the car in the middle of the street and stared at what was supposed to be her family’s new home. Uh-oh.
“Why’s there a hearse parked in front of the house?” In the passenger seat, her son, Ben, chewed on his thumbnail. At twelve, he was wise beyond his years, and that was all her fault.
“That’s a really good question.” Her gaze shot to the rearview mirror. The road behind her was empty. Satisfied that she hadn’t been followed, she nudged the gas pedal with a toe, turned off the estate’s private road, and parked at the base of a circular drive. She stared through the windshield at the strange vehicle two cars ahead. Mild queasiness from a seven-hour drive and a greasy rest-stop cheeseburger churned into full-blown nausea. The fragile hope she’d nurtured all day evaporated in an instant. Just once she’d like something to work out the way she’d planned. Just once.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Ben asked.
“This is it.” The Dutch Colonial mansion looked exactly the same as when she’d interviewed for the caretaker position two weeks ago—except for the hearse. That was definitely new.
“Weird.”
“Yeah.” And weird was so not what they were looking for.
Ben lowered his hand and picked at the cuticle. “What do you think it’s doin’ here?”
“Only one way to find out.”
She peered over the seat back. Katie’s eyes remained closed. Her head rested on the side of her booster seat. Behind her seven-year-old daughter, luggage and boxes crowded the rear of the wagon. Beth turned back and contemplated the black-curtained vehicle again. “Maybe you should wait here while I check it out.”
Ben shot her a “duh” look. He clearly had no intention of coming in with her.
“Lock the doors.” She covered his hand with hers and squeezed. “It’ll be OK.”
He nodded as he opened the car window a few inches. His gaze shifted back to the hearse. She couldn’t blame him. It drew the eye like Gorbachev’s port wine birthmark.
Rusty metal protested with a grating squeal as she wrenched the door open and slammed it shut. Thick clouds kept the sun’s rays at bay, but midsummer humidity clung to the evening air. She picked her way across a crabgrass-and-weed-en
croached gravel path.
Stopping at the base of the walkway, she lifted her eyes to study the house’s facade. One faded black shutter hung askew on the gray Pennsylvania fieldstone. Against an overcast, late afternoon sky, the house looked shabbier than on the sunny day she’d previously visited. With a deep breath she climbed three steps to the peeling front porch. Her finger hovered over the doorbell. Moisture pooled on her lower back, saturating the waistband of her dress slacks.
Just do it already.
Chimes broke the silence, followed by the muffled bark of what sounded like a large dog.
The front door opened. Instead of the elderly gentleman she’d expected, a forty-something man in a rumpled polo shirt and jeans greeted her. Even slouched over a crutch, he towered over her by at least a foot. A metal brace enveloped his leg from mid-thigh to mid-calf. A glass of amber-colored liquid hung from the fingertips of his free hand.
“Can I help you?” He lowered his hand from the doorknob to the handle of the crutch.
Beth’s gaze rose, traveling up his long legs and narrow hips, over the muscular wall of his chest, and settled on his well-defined biceps. Horrified by her gawking, she jerked her gaze up to his face and cleared her throat. “I’m looking for Mr. O’Malley.”
“I’m Mr. O’Malley.” Alcohol fumes wafted over the space between them.
Eyes stinging, Beth pulled back. “No. You’re not.”
He raised his brows and grinned. “I’m not?” The mussed hair and boyish humor in his expression were at odds with a square-jawed, masculine face, which sported several days of beard growth. His eyes were deep brown, the color of dark chocolate, and just as tempting. Even in their current bloodshot state, they captivated her for a few seconds longer than was polite.
Refocusing her attention, Beth stammered. Heat flooded her cheeks. “I’m sorry. Of course you know who you are. I mean, you’re not the same Mr. O’Malley. I’m looking for Daniel O’Malley.”
“Oh, right. My uncle. I’m Jack. You’re just in time. This way.” His eyes flashed in understanding. “You almost missed him.” Jack turned and disappeared through the doorway.
Beth followed, pulling the door closed behind her. She exhaled in relief. Daniel O’Malley was here. Thank God. Maybe his nephew, Jack, worked for a funeral home. That would explain the hearse parked outside in a nice, neat way that did not involve any dead bodies.
Her heels clicked on the wood floor as she crossed a wide, two-story foyer heavy with the scent of flowers. Jack lurched through a set of French doors. Beth turned the corner and stopped dead. In the room beyond an open casket sat amid a field of floral arrangements.
No.
In front of the coffin, two black-suited men maneuvered a wheeled dolly.
It can’t be.
Jack set his glass on a small table.
“Hold on a minute, guys. We have one last toast.” He turned to two disheveled blond men sprawled on an overstuffed sofa. One snored, his head tipped back at an awkward angle. “One of you bums get the lady a scotch.”
The conscious blond unfolded his long frame and staggered over to a wheeled cart in the corner. Dirty glasses and empty bottles cluttered the bar’s surface. He broke the seal on a new bottle of The Macallan and reached for a clean tumbler on the second shelf.
“Thank you, but I don’t drink.” Beth squared her shoulders and crossed to the casket. Her heart stuttered.
Resting on a bed of pillowed ivory satin was the elderly man who’d hired her.
The air left her lungs in a quick whoosh. Her knees wobbled, and she reached for one of the tables flanking the coffin.
A shadow fell across her as a hand grasped her elbow. Startled, Beth took a jerky step away, bumping the table with her hip. A brass vase of carnations wobbled. She reached for the flowers and steadied them with a shaky hand.
“OK.” Jack pulled his hand away and lifted it in front of his chest palm out. “Take it easy.” Blondie handed him a glass. Jack passed it to Beth without moving any closer.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were here to pay your respects, but you’re not, are you?”
While he surveyed her, from her cheap shoes to her home dye job, Beth held the glass to her lips. Whisky vapors burned her nose, and she lowered her hand. She shook her head, staring at the whisky. Her throat tightened. What was she going to do?
Her eyes filled, but she blinked back the tears. Dammit. She could not get a break, no matter how hard she tried.
Under the haze of scotch, Jack’s shrewd brown eyes narrowed. “Let’s start again.” He held out a hand. “Jack O’Malley.” He nodded toward the blond man pouring an inch of whisky into his glass. “My cousin, Sean Wilson. The guy passed out on the couch over there is his older brother, Quinn, who never could hold his liquor.”
“Freakin’ embarrassing.” Sean sighed.
“And your name is?” Jack’s hand beckoned.
“Beth Markham.” Uncomfortable with physical contact, she gritted her teeth and allowed their palms to touch for a nanosecond before tugging free from his grasp. “I don’t understand.”
Jack frowned down at her as she pulled her hand away. “Uncle Danny planned his own funeral. The family viewing was this morning. The burial’s tomorrow. This afternoon the three of us held our own private send-off. We were sort of like Huey, Dewey, and Louie to Uncle Danny’s Scrooge McDuck. He was eligible for a full military funeral, but he didn’t want the fanfare. Just this.”
“Get pissed with me one last time, boys,” Sean added in a thick, fake brogue as he collapsed on the sofa. He raised his glass. “To Uncle Danny. Wherever he is, may the scotch be old and the women young. Not the other way around.”
“To Danny.” Jack picked up his glass and tossed back a half inch of whisky. He gave his head a quick shake.
Beth barely wet her lips on her glass and her stomach cramped. She had no job. They had nowhere to live. “But he just hired me. What happened?”
Jack hiccupped. “He had a heart attack. Don’t get me wrong. We’ll miss the old bugger, but he was eighty-seven. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, especially when you consider how much he loved his scotch and cigars.”
“I guess not.” She couldn’t go back to her uncle James’s place in Virginia, where they’d been hiding all this time. He’d said it wasn’t safe, which was why she’d driven all the way to the northeastern corner of Pennsylvania today. She had thought this job would be perfect. Secluded, remote, secure. Dotty old Daniel O’Malley hadn’t been a threat. He hadn’t even asked her many questions during her job interview. James had talked her into the arrangement, and he was the only man in the world Beth still had faith in.
But this man…She raised her eyes to meet Jack’s bloodshot gaze. He cocked his head to the side and studied her. Even with more scotch than blood coursing through his veins, he saw too much. And she had so much to hide.
“You said my uncle hired you?”
Beth nodded.
“For what position?” He and his cousin exchanged a glance.
Beth hesitated. Oh, what the hell? She didn’t have anything to lose at this point. She reached into her purse and pulled out the letter confirming her employment. Thank God she’d asked to get her offer in writing.
Jack opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, squinting as he scanned the text. His eyebrows shot up when he reached the second short paragraph. “You and your kids were supposed to live here?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“In the car. With the hearse and all…I thought they should wait outside.” Beth paused as her new reality struck her again. “I’m glad I did. Now that Mr. O’Malley’s gone, I suppose I won’t be needed. Can you direct me to the nearest motel?”
“Christ, I can’t even think straight.” Jack scratched his head. “Look, Ms. Markham…”
She interrupted, “Beth.” She hated using her last name. There was always the risk she’d forget to answer to it. Which people tended to notice.
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“Beth. This is a huge house. Why don’t you and your kids stay the night? The only motel nearby isn’t fit for human occupation. We can talk again tomorrow afternoon, after the funeral, and get everything straightened out. Right now I just want to go to bed.” He dragged a hand through his already rumpled hair. “Besides, it looks like a storm’s rollin’ in.”
Beth glanced out the window, where black clouds were gathering on the horizon. The wind whipped leaves across the side lawn. She had to get to Katie before the storm broke. Her gaze swung back to Jack. Good-looking men were not to be trusted.
“The funeral tomorrow morning is just family. Maybe a dozen people. You’re welcome to attend.” Jack lowered his voice. “Or you can stay out of sight if you like.”
Beth hesitated. The fact was they had nowhere to go. She was suddenly bone tired, so weary that even holding her eyelids open was a chore. Even if she managed to find a cheap motel, she wouldn’t be able to leave all their stuff in the car. And she didn’t want to drive through a thunderstorm with Katie in the car. Never a good idea. Neither was running without a plan. Even a simple act like renting a motel room or filling her gas tank could have fatal consequences. The more people who saw them, the greater the chances that Richard’s men would find them—again. Her stomach knotted. She bit her lip. “OK. But just for the night. Thank you.”
He swung around on his crutch and headed back into the hall. “Drive your car around back and park it in the garage. You can come in through the kitchen so the kids don’t have to watch them wheel Uncle Danny out. Do you need any help with your stuff?” At the front door, despite his handicap, he opened the door for her. Barking erupted from the back of the house as he stepped backward far enough so she could pass without touching him.
She Can Run Page 1