Reckless Lover

by Carly Bishop

  There were good reasons why she couldn’t escape him....

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  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

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  There were good reasons why she couldn’t escape him....

  For one, he held her tight, so tight that to onlookers, his actions must have appeared intimate and caring. But Eden wasn’t fooled.

  “Listen to me,” he said, softly, movingly, in her ear.

  “Try to remember. Innocent people die when you’re around. If you keep this up, someone else might get hurt.”

  Eden nodded, clearly seeing Christian Tierney for what he was. Bulletproof. Clever and daring enough to steal her away under the noses of two lawmen and an assassin. Brutal enough to dictate her cooperation. Powerful enough to command a hijacking without ever drawing a weapon.

  No matter how much he terrified her, she could never escape him now.

  Because he’d saved her life twice in less than three hours.

  Dear Reader,

  What is it about mysterious men that always makes our pulse race? Whether it’s the feeling of risk or the excitement of the unknown dangerous men have always been a part of our fantasies. And now they’re a part of Harlequin Intrigue. Throughout half of 1996, we’ll kick off each month with one of our DANGEROUS MEN. This month, meet Christian Tierney in Reckless Lover by Carly Bishop.

  Romantic suspense is the favorite genre of Denver author Cheryl McGonigle, writing as Carly Bishop. A long-time member of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, she won the coveted RMFW Writer of the Year award in 1991. Cheryl finds writing romantic suspense one of life’s great joys—in the manner of Joseph Campbell’s maxim, Follow your bliss—and she’s likely to be doing more of it, as her only daughter is off to college next fall.

  With our DANGEROUS MEN promotion, Harlequin Intrigue promises to keep you on the edge of your seat...and the edge of desire.

  Regards,

  Debra Matteucci

  Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator

  Harlequin Books

  300 East 42nd Street

  New York, NY 10017

  Reckless Lover

  Carly Bishop

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  To Anita, Colleen and Carol

  For terrific support and endless good times

  over Sizzling Rice and Hot & Sour Soup....

  Thanks.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Eden Kelley—She’d never wanted to fall in love with a dangerous man.

  Christian X. Tierney—The widowed U.S. Marshal would take the law into his own hands to save the life of a daring woman.

  Margo Bancroft—Tierney’s sister-in-law knew him better than anyone. Her son would do anything for his uncle, but her husband couldn’t be trusted.

  Paul Maroncek—The head of Boston US Marshals suspected Tierney was a loose cannon—not all bad, but dangerously close to real trouble.

  Winston Elijah Broussard—A Cajun charmer, his generosity knew no bounds, but he demanded loyalty above all else.

  David Tafoya—The Boston FBI go-to guy would go to any lengths to protect his witness.

  J. J. Gelham—An old colleague of Tierney, he warned against more futile games of hide-and-seek.

  Dan Haggerty—The government pilot bought into a hijacking and lived long enough to regret it.

  Chapter One

  Eden Kelley bade her last patron of that day goodbye with a bouquet of false hopes. The exquisite handmade camisole and tap pants, the trademark garments of her boutique, Eden’s!, would not be delivered by the end of the week. Her reassurances were not worth the price of a cheap spool of thread.

  The lie broke her heart, but no one must guess that when Eden left tonight, she would never be back.

  Her life, as she knew it, was over. The hopes. The dreams. The wedding ... her wedding.

  She had been planning the design of her gown for as long as she could remember, from the romantic sweetheart neckline to the elegant train, kissed with hand-stitched pearls, each applied with the same loving care she gave every handmade confection in her lingerie boutique.

  Instead of her wedding gown, Eden found herself busily stitching up the government’s case against her financier and fiancé, Winston Elijah Broussard III.

  Web, daaalin’. You mus’ call me Web. I can see now I’m going to be heartbroken if things don’t work out between us.... Web was New Orleans laid-back, Cajun and more sensual than the Big Easy itself. Add to that, Eden thought bitterly, a Louisiana-born Boston gangster. She’d fallen for it all—his financial backing, his long, sultry looks, the clouds of hothouse orchids he bestowed on her...his marriage proposal.

  Eden swallowed hard and threw the dead bolt on the front door of the boutique. She’d learned an easy lesson the hard way. She would never again sit back and allow any man to take care of her. When had she grown so foolish?

  She hurried now, anxious to make the break and leave behind the remnants of her dreams. In keeping with her routine, she locked the display case tastefully strewn with dreamy hand-sewn lingerie, plucked her antique needlepoint satchel from the coat closet, then headed for the back staircase.

  Web’s handsomely appointed office occupied the entire third story of the Cambridge brownstone. She had to make this good, make this seem an ordinary farewell. Web already suspected a leak, a defector, a traitor in his organization. If she screwed up now and gave him any inkling that she had already gone to the Feds and would never be back, he would...stop her. Drop her into the Charles River, or whatever mobsters did these days.

  In a lifetime of command performances, always bending herself to what she thought someone else wanted her to be just to survive, this one had to be Eden’s most convincing.

  The mahogany-paneled stairwell was dark. The stair runner muted the sound of her steps as she ascended to Web’s inner sanctum, but the pounding of her heart echoed in her ears. The skirt of her peach wraparound dress whispered against her long, silk-stockinged thighs. She reached the third-story landing and took a deep breath to boost her nerve.

  His door stood ajar. Eden sighed with relief. If the door had been closed, she would have been forced to wait on the deacon’s bench outside. This understanding, which was carved in stone, should have been a clue to her months ago of something very much amiss.

  She straightened her shoulders and slipped through the door of the outer office, calling softly, making herself into the besotted creature he supposed her to be.

  “Web darling?”

  No answer came. She crossed the thick burgundy pile carpeting. She could hear the low murmur of men’s voices, Web’s and one not very much like his except that they were speaking half in English, half in the Cajun-French patois.

  She called out again as she pushed open the heavy door to his private domain and slipped inside. “Web? I’m leaving now. I just wanted to see you—” She broke off. He sat at his desk, his dark good looks appearing sinister to her now. He was, as ever, impeccably attired, his suit and shirt adorned by a scarf rath
er than tie.

  But he wasn’t alone.

  Another man, pockmarked and dark and slightly built, stood by the windows overlooking the street. He stared at her a moment from unusual fiery, amber-hued eyes that chilled her. By the cut and skilled tailoring of his jacket, she knew he wore a gun.

  The man flicked ashes at an old-fashioned brass spittoon and turned deliberately away. Eden smiled guilelessly, as if she hadn’t a clue what kind of man this was. Only a few months ago, that would have been true.

  Sitting at his ornate desk, Web stubbed out his cigarette and turned toward her. His dark eyes narrowed against the smoke into dangerous slits. “Eden. What are you doin’ here, darlin’?”

  “I...” She swallowed hard, remembering that the outer door had been left ajar. Her heart knocked painfully. Why would he leave the door open unless he meant her to get the message—his guest was a hit man. An assassin. A shooter. Whatever. She had gotten away with betraying his illicit operations to the Feds because he thought her essentially harmless and...decorative. Had he finally realized she must be the one?

  Fear began to unravel her nerve.

  Stop it! she commanded herself. If he knew anything, she would already be fish food. Just say goodbye and walk out of here. There would never be a better time than this. Web had arranged for her trip to the couture design show in Dallas himself. She had merely meant to make one last, convincing demonstration of her devotion, but instead she’d interrupted him and he was angry.

  She gave a tiny, artless shrug. Her eyes flicked to the man at the window. She dragged her gaze back to Web and put longing into it. “I... I only wanted to see you once more before I left.”

  “Ahh see.” He stood and approached her, blocking her view of his guest. “Poor darlin’. You’ll miss me, won’t you?” He smiled in the same slow, drawling way that he spoke.

  Her skin began to crawl. “I will, yes.” Her throat seemed to lock, but it didn’t matter. Web would simply think her tongue-tied with her fascination for him.

  How could she ever have been taken in by him, ever thought she wanted to marry him? It took everything she had to stand her ground and behave as if she couldn’t bear to part with him without one last goodbye.

  His small black irises shone. He reached out and stroked her cheek and let his fingers trail down to caress her obscenely through the peach silk. Eden shivered hard in a revulsion she hoped he would mistake for unrequited desire.

  “Soon, my sweet, hungry virgin,” he promised her, but his sultry tone lacked any real passion. She understood in a blinding moment of clarity that he hoped to so shock her or besot her that she would forget what, or whom, she had seen here tonight.

  A soft moan escaped her lips. He laughed softly, deep in his throat, but Eden knew it was her horror in reaction to his caress that made him believe his goal had been accomplished.

  “You go on along now, Eden, my little garden of secret delights. Miss me.” She shivered. How she hated him and the lewd joke he made of her name. He laughed. “Ahh know you will.”

  She managed to produce a shy, demure little smile. He was going to burn in hell. And because he wished her to forget, she would remember till hell froze over the man with the skilled tailor and the cold amber eyes.

  ON THE SEVENTH of February, five months later, Eden began her testimony in the prosecution of Winston Elijah Broussard III for the extensive, illicit use he had made of her Eden’s! overseas connections. He sat there at the defense table day in and day out, never in all the unnerving hours of her testimony taking his eyes from her.

  And each day, the defense table was adorned by a lavish display of fresh, dewy, hothouse orchids. A reminder, Eden thought, of everything she had sacrificed to testify against him. Wealth, privilege—a pampered life.

  The boutique.

  And Sheila Jacques. Eden’s closest friend, an inner-city junior high school teacher, was tough as nails but more stupid than Eden about smooth-talking men. Eden had been allowed to write Sheila a note to be hand-delivered by the FBI so that she wouldn’t worry Eden had come to any harm—but only that.

  Sheila might have guessed Eden had become a protected government witness against Web—and was now the only key prosecution witness remaining in this front-page fiasco. Eden would never see Sheila again. Or share late-night confessions or ever again feel part of a real family.

  Winston Elijah Broussard was a munitions broker, a monster making millions smuggling bullets and bombs that killed real people. Her testimony was supposed to have brought together the threads of a complicated but certain prosecution case, establishing the link between the manufacturers of death and destruction to Web’s buyers.

  Nothing came together as expected.

  Three weeks ago, the Feds had come to the Maine safe house where she’d remained in isolated protective custody to tell her that the case against Web had all but collapsed.

  “The long and short of it, Ms. Kelley, is that you’re free to walk away from this. Under Witness Protection, of course.”

  Walk away from this? Eden couldn’t believes it. “Why? You’re going to nail Web, aren’t you? You’re going to put him away!”

  The lead prosecutor, a woman, shook her head. “We had four key witnesses. The other three have bailed out. ”

  Eden paled. “How does a key witness bail out? Can’t you subpoena them? Make them testify? Threaten them?”

  The prosecutor bowed her head, then met Eden’s angry, confused gaze. “This is the way it works. We cut deals, Eden. It’s done all the time. Immunity or reduced charges in exchange for testimony. Sometimes the slugs decide it’s healthier in the long term to keep their mouths shut.”

  The prosecutor exchanged glances with David Tafoya, the FBI agent whose painstaking, bulletproof, highly publicized case had now disintegrated. His features tightened to a stony mask, but Eden had spent hundreds of hours with him and knew he must feel deeply angered, even humiliated about the outcome.

  “The best we can do with only your testimony,” the prosecutor concluded, “is to go for wire fraud. Broussard will go away to prison, but he’ll be out in two years—three years tops....

  Was it so foolish to believe that a few innocent lives would be spared somewhere in the world because Web wasn’t brokering bullets for a few years? Eden felt she had no other responsible choice than to go ahead with it.

  In for a penny, in for a pound....

  She had committed the unpardonable act of betraying Winston Elijah Broussard III and so she would have to disappear.

  Become someone else. Again.

  The courtroom echoed with the hammering gavel of the judge, who was not only fed up with the defense antics, but still irate at the prosecution’s inability to produce its witnesses.

  “Counsel, get on with it,” the judge snapped at the prosecutor.

  Eden took a deep breath and cleared her throat.

  “Ms. Kelley, help me to wrap this up,” the prosecutor said now, her hands flat on the table before her. The defense counsel had already cross-examined Eden. The prosecution had one last chance on redirect to make its most damning point. “You uncovered final proof among your records of the defendant’s illicit—”

  “Objection, prejudicial, already asked and answered,” Web’s attorney interrupted in a bored tone.

  “Rephrase.”

  The prosecutor thanked the judge, then went on. “You found evidence of the defendant’s use of your overseas banking connections, your records and your accounts last July 21.”

  “Yes,” Eden answered.

  “Remind the court one last time what it was that led you to believe you were being used.”

  “A series of phone records and bank transfers on my books and in my business records.”

  “And what, in particular, snagged your admittedly belated attention?”

  Feeling the forbidding waves of tension from Web, Eden lifted her chin. “I have no accounts in Banja Luka.” The answer she’d been coached in framing focused her testimony
for the jury to a single damning, startlingly graphic image. “I make undergarments. I don’t make or sell AK-47s.”

  The courtroom erupted. Eden forced herself to take a deep breath in the presence of well over fifty of Broussard’s extended family members seated that day in the courtroom.

  Defense counsel roared to his feet, capping off half a dozen grievances with, “Your Honor, really. My client doesn’t manufacture these heinous weapons, either, and I object to the implication that he does!”

  The judge was forced to bang his gavel to silence the defense counsel and, in lieu of clearing his courtroom, excused Eden from the stand.

  Eden stood. She couldn’t avoid one last look at Broussard. He gave a slow, mesmerizing smile. Meeting her gaze, he plucked an orchid petal, rolled it between his thumb and third finger, then drew back his finger and flicked the crushed blossom over his shoulder.

  Eden flinched. She was going to die. Web would see to it. A wild trembling began deep inside her.

  Around her, everything seemed to unravel at once. The prosecutors burst into angry protests at Web’s gesture. The bailiff came forward to escort her off the witness stand and out of the courtroom. The gavel pounded and the judge ordered the entire defense table thrown into jail for its client’s barefaced contempt of the proceedings.

  The swinging doors closed on the donnybrook behind her but Eden felt no sense of relief.

  “Ms. Kelley, this way, please.”

  She turned and fell into step with a team of six deputy marshals outside the federal district courtroom, Boston, Massachusetts. Two to each side of her, one in the lead, one behind.

  Funny, the way her mind was working, the way “this way, please” rattled around in her consciousness like an echo of too many times in too many government buildings at the mercy of well-meaning, overwhelmed child welfare workers. Sixteen foster homes in fourteen years. This way, little girl. What is your name again?