“Why did you bring us to your home?”
“No one will ever think to look here. You’ll be safe,” Dillon said, his gaze confident.
Safe.
Jacqueline glanced down at Amanda once again, at her little girl’s tired eyes, glassy and wide with fear. She wanted so much to believe they were safe with Dillon.
But could she, with a murderer out there she knew nothing about and a man protecting them who was on his own personal crusade?
She once again allowed her gaze to meet his. Two things were clear. There was more to this case than Dillon was telling her. And there was more driving him than dedication to his job.
She had a lot of questions for the cowboy district attorney. And if she was going to keep her baby safe, she needed answers….
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Yet again we have a power-packed lineup of fantastic books for you this month, starting with the second story in the new Harlequin continuity series TRUEBLOOD, TEXAS. Secret Bodyguard by B.J. Daniels brings together an undercover cop and a mobster’s daughter in a wary alliance in order to find her baby. But will they find a family together before all is said and done?
Ann Voss Peterson contributes another outstanding legal thriller to Harlequin Intrigue with His Witness, Her Child. Trust me, there’s nothing sexier than a cowboy D.A. who’s as tough as nails on criminals, yet is as tender as lamb’s wool with women and children. Except…
One of Julie Miller’s Taylor men! This month read about brother Brett Taylor in Sudden Engagement. Mystery, matchmaking—it’s all part and parcel for any member of THE TAYLOR CLAN.
Finally, I’m thrilled to introduce you to Mallory Kane, who debuts at Harlequin Intrigue with The Lawman Who Loved Her. Hang on to your hat—and your heart. This story—and this hunky hero—will blow you away.
Round up all four! And be on the lookout next month for a new Harlequin Intrigue trilogy by Amanda Stevens called EDEN’S CHILDREN.
Happy reading,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
HIS WITNESS,
HER CHILD
ANN VOSS PETERSON
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts to working with quarter horses to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her toddler son, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare.
Books by Ann Voss Peterson
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
579—INADMISSIBLE PASSION
618—HIS WITNESS, HER CHILD
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dillon Reese—An assistant D.A. who didn’t only want justice, he needed it. So when he lost his star witness in his latest murder trial, he vowed to catch the killer at whatever cost.
Jacqueline Schettler—She was a mother first and foremost and she had to protect her child, even if that meant going against Assistant D.A. Dillon Reese, the compelling crusader for justice who desperately needed her young daughter’s testimony.
Amanda Schettler—An innocent child—and witness to a brutal murder. The only sanctuary she had now was in her mother’s arms.
Buck Swain—A war hero turned murderer who had either an uncanny knack for staying one step ahead of the D.A.’s office—or an informer on the inside.
Neil Fitzroy—The Dane County District Attorney had a bright political future ahead of him. But just how far would he go to protect it?
Dex Harrington—As Fitzroy’s greatest rival for the D.A.’s job, Dex might have a stake in keeping Buck Swain a free man—and Fitzroy’s office mired in scandal.
Kit Ashner—It wasn’t easy for a woman in the D.A.’s office—not even a woman as tough as Kit. But was she the type to leak secrets to keep herself ahead of her colleagues?
Dale Kearney—The fiery-haired cop had crossed paths with the murderer during his days in the military. Would his soldier’s bond with Swain cause him to betray his buddies on the force?
Al Mylinski—The only man Dillon Reese trusted with his life. But was that trust misplaced?
To Cole, who made the writing of this book both a challenge and a joy.
Contents
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
Chapter One
Jacqueline Schettler pushed the gas pedal to the floor and steered frantically through the icy streets of Madison, Wisconsin. Heat blasted from the car’s dashboard vents, drying her tears. Tonight her worst fears had become reality. The whispered warnings on the telephone, the cut-and-paste notes stuck to the front door—a half-dozen threats had come to fruition. Mark, her ex-husband, was dead. Murdered on the eve of his testimony in the Swain murder trial.
A block away from the Schettler Brew Pub, Jacqueline stomped on the brake and swung her car to the curb. She threw open the door and climbed into the frigid night. “I’m coming, baby. Just hang on. Mommy will be there very soon. Mommy will make you safe.”
The moment she’d received her little girl’s frantic phone call, she knew Amanda was in danger. Although only seven years old, her daughter wasn’t given to flights of imagination. She wouldn’t make up a story like the one she’d told between sobs tonight. Something had happened at the pub, all right. Mark was dead. And unless Jacqueline reached the pub before the police questioned Amanda, her little girl was bound to be next.
Heart pounding, she ran the remaining distance, the cold air making her throat and lungs ache. Nearing the beer garden behind the pub, she slowed to a brisk walk. Police cars huddled around the gated entrance, their red and blue lights pulsing off the pub’s yellow brick like the swirling lights of a carnival.
Dread pierced her heart. Had the police found Amanda?
Please God, don’t let me be too late.
Jacqueline raised her parka’s hood over her head with trembling fingers. Bowing her head to hide her face, she shoved her hands into her pockets. She couldn’t let anyone see her. Or, God forbid, recognize her. If they did, they would ask questions. They would put the pieces together.
They would find Amanda. They would learn what she’d seen. As with Mark, the district attorney would insist she testify. And once that happened, no one could keep her safe. Not the district attorney’s office, not the police, maybe not even God himself.
The cobblestone beer garden seethed with police and evidence technicians snapping pictures and taking measurements. The low hum of their words floated on the biting wind. Their voices were thin, hushed, a tone reserved for the aftermath of tragedy.
Jacqueline dodged behind a row of Dumpsters and scurried up a short flight of stairs to a little-used side door. She pulled her old key chain from her pocket. Finding the right key, she opened the door, slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind her.
Like ozone after a thunderstorm, the heavy odor of deep-fr
ied food hung in the still air of the kitchen. Nothing but silence came from the cooks’ line or the prep area. A cold shiver crept up her spine. She hadn’t set foot inside her father’s old pub since she’d signed over control to Mark as part of the divorce settlement nearly six months ago. And despite the threats, she’d never imagined she’d return under such circumstances. She stepped carefully across the expanse of greasy red tile and toward what used to be her father’s office.
A feeble blue light glowed from the crack under the office door. She unlocked the door and turned the knob, the brass slick under her fingers. After one last glance around the deserted kitchen, she ducked inside the office and closed the door safely behind her.
“Amanda? Are you here, sweetheart?” Jacqueline held her breath. Amanda has to be here. Please. The police can’t have found her.
A rustling sound rose from under the desk. “Mommy?” Faint and tremulous, Amanda’s voice was little more than a mew.
Still, it was the sweetest sound Jacqueline had ever heard. She shoved the desk chair out of the way. Falling to her knees, she gathered her little girl into her arms.
Amanda clung to her like a frightened kitten. She gasped air in hiccuping sobs. Her heart pattered frantically in her little chest.
Jacqueline squeezed her tight until her seven-year-old’s heartbeat melded with her own. She breathed deeply, drawing in Amanda’s fresh, little-girl scent. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.”
Night air and the hum of voices drifted through the open window, snapping Jacqueline back to the situation at hand. Soon the police would extend their evidence gathering to the rest of the brew pub. They would search Mark’s office. She had to get her daughter out of the building before the police spotted them. Before they learned Amanda had witnessed her daddy’s murder.
Before the murderer set his mind to silencing Amanda the way he’d silenced Mark.
Jacqueline kissed Amanda’s cheek, tasting the salty tears—her daughter’s and her own. “We’re going home now, punkin. And we have to be very quiet.”
Amanda raised her blue eyes, tears clinging to her long lashes. After a few hiccuping breaths, she found her voice. “I stayed in the office in the dark like you told me on the phone. I locked the door.”
“You’re a good girl. You did everything right.”
Amanda nodded, but didn’t relax her clinging grip. She buried her face in Jacqueline’s neck.
The voices in the beer garden seemed to grow louder. Closer.
Jacqueline stood and hoisted her daughter to her hip. They couldn’t stay here a minute longer. She needed to get Amanda out unseen while she still had the chance.
She moved to the open window to see what was happening outside. The worst thing she could do was run blindly out of the building and smack into a throng of cops. Smoothing her hand over Amanda’s silky hair, she held her little girl’s head in place against her neck. Amanda didn’t need to see the scene below the window. She’d already seen more horrors than anyone should see in a lifetime.
The beer garden glowed with the pale yellow light from old-fashioned lantern poles. Skeletons of dogwood and cherry jutted from raised flower beds, now barren and dusted with snow. In the middle of the activity, in the middle of the courtyard, Mark’s still figure lay on the cold cobblestone.
Her heart constricted.
He lay on his back, his green eyes open in a blank stare, his face flashing pale with every burst of a camera’s flashbulb. A thick ribbon of red slashed his neck. Blood stained his blond ponytail.
She closed her eyes, but it was no use. The sight had burned into her memory forever, an incarnation of the horrible nightmares she’d endured since Mark had witnessed Buck Swain disposing of those blood-soaked clothes over a year ago.
Jacqueline clenched her teeth and opened her eyes, staring at Mark’s body. If only he’d listened to her when the phone calls started coming, when she’d found the threatening notes taped to the front door. But he’d been so caught up in the bright lights and celebrity that accompanied a war hero’s murder trial that the well-being of his family had finished a distant second. Thanks to the urging of the assistant district attorney prosecuting the case, Mark had been more than willing to place interviews on the local TV news and a bustling pub business above his daughter’s safety. And his own.
The past few months when the threats had slowed to a trickle and then stopped altogether, she’d let herself believe the danger was over. She’d even allowed Amanda to spend this evening with her father when an accident at work had forced Jacqueline to stay late. Between the cessation of the threats and Mark’s continued police protection, she’d believed her daughter would be safe. She couldn’t have been more wrong.
A low moan issued from her throat. Even though she’d never forgive Mark for risking Amanda’s life, even though their marriage had been over long before the divorce, she’d never wish this on him. Death. Murder. She ached to run to him, to cradle his head in her arms, to cry for him. But it was too late. She couldn’t help him now.
But she could save their daughter.
Jacqueline forced herself to concentrate on the various locations of the officers and technicians below. They hadn’t spread out from the beer garden to the walkway behind the Dumpsters. If she left now, she could exit the way she came.
Holding Amanda close, she spun away from the window and strode to the door. Cracking it open, she peered into the kitchen. No sound, no movement. Drawing in a deep breath, she crept into the kitchen and closed the office door behind her.
A cold draft chilled her to the bone. The side door stood wide open. She gasped. She’d closed it when she’d sneaked in. She was sure of it. That left only one alternative. Someone had entered the kitchen behind her.
Surely it couldn’t be the murderer. He would be long gone by now. The police? She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She held Amanda tightly in her arms. She had to get out of the pub. And she had to do it now.
She bolted through the open door and raced down the cement steps. She crouched behind the Dumpsters.
The odor of spent hops wafted from the steel bins, clogging in the back of her throat. The red and blue lights of idling police cars flashed in her eyes. Exhaust fumes hung in the frosty air.
Amanda whimpered into the hollow of Jacqueline’s neck, a small sound like the coo of a pigeon.
Jacqueline smoothed her trembling fingers over her daughter’s hair, trying to quiet her. Several police officers stood at the beer garden’s gate. Close enough to hear any sound. Close enough to see her make a break for the street.
Jacqueline bit the inside of her bottom lip until the coppery tang of blood tinged her mouth. She had to get past the gate without anyone seeing them. But how?
A large black pickup roared into the mouth of the beer garden and screeched to a halt. A lone figure dismounted from the vehicle. Tall and imposing in a black oilskin duster, Assistant District Attorney Dillon Reese surveyed the crime scene through squinted black eyes.
Jacqueline slunk lower behind the Dumpsters. Dillon Reese. A shiver started at the nape of her neck and worked its way down her spine. Sweat broke out on the palms of her hands. He’d always affected her that way, from the first time she’d met him. He was larger than life. He didn’t seem to belong to marble halls and paneled courtrooms. He looked more like a lawman straight out of the Old West than a prosecuting attorney working in the shadow of Wisconsin’s capitol.
And his voice. He had used his rich baritone and slow Texas drawl to convince Mark to testify, to promise her that Mark would be safe. And at first she’d believed him. Every word.
More than that. She’d admired him. His dedication, his drive, his need to do the right thing. Her marriage to Mark clearly heading for divorce, she’d even allowed herself to fantasize about what her life would be like with a man like Dillon.
Then the threats had started. Threats to Mark’s life, threats to Amanda. And Dillon had continued to encourage Mark to testify, continued
to push him, laying one promise on top of another.
And now Mark was dead.
She gritted her teeth. Mark was dead because Dillon had to do the right thing. He had to have justice. And now Amanda was in danger, as well. Dillon’s promises had turned out to be nothing but lies. And he was a liar, pure and simple. A liar with a voice as deep and smoky as a mesquite fire.
Duster flapping behind him, he strode into the beer garden, the heels of his snakeskin boots sounding on the cobblestones. All heads turned in his direction.
Now was her chance. Little did he know it, but he had provided her with the perfect diversion. Clutching Amanda tightly to her hip, she bolted across the street and raced down the block to the safety of her car. Above the tattoo of her heels on the sidewalk, above the ragged roar of her breathing, Dillon’s empty promises echoed in her memory. “Your husband will be safe, ma’am. I can protect your family, ma’am.”
“Damn you, Dillon Reese,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Damn you to hell.”
Chapter Two
Little Amanda Schettler looked up at Dillon, her eyes big and blue as a Texas sky, a well-loved stuffed horse wrapped in both arms. She was barely seven years old, her face baby plump, her features round like a pup’s. The feeble morning sunlight filtering through a living-room window sparked a halo of sorrel highlights in her hair. “I saw the man kill my daddy.”
Her thin little voice hit him with more force than a mule kick to the head. Anger blasted through him. Gut-wrenching anger with a chaser of guilt. Because of him, because he’d let down his guard, the little girl would go through the rest of her life haunted by the flick of a murderer’s knife.
He stepped toward the little girl, the old Victorian’s hardwood floor creaking under his boots. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep all night thinking about the faint rap of running feet when he’d arrived at the Schettler Brew Pub and about the car streaking past moments later—a car that had looked suspiciously like Jacqueline Schettler’s. He had come to the Schettler home this morning to confirm his ugly suspicion that little Amanda had been at the pub last night. And she had watched a man slit her daddy’s throat.
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