by Rebecca York
“Kissing you was unprofessional of me.”
The flat way Cal said it made her eyes suddenly sting. Then he added in his soft drawl, “It happened because I’m attracted to you, and when I had you in my arms I forgot the rules.”
The admission stunned her, but Beth could not, would not allow herself to think of the meaning of those words. Instead, she took a step back. “About this case,” she said. “I’m not going to fool anybody into thinking we’re married. So I’m not going to help you catch the killer.”
“You can help me, Beth. And you will. But only if you let yourself feel comfortable with me. Please give it a try. I won’t hurt you.”
Oh, but you will, she thought. Her pulse was hammering in her throat. Partly from fear, partly from needs that were impossible to deny. She was sure he didn’t understand how vulnerable she was to him. She raised her face to tell him, but the words remained locked in her throat as she saw his eyes, dark and intense.
“Give us a chance,” he whispered.
The simplicity and the honesty in his voice reached straight to her heart, and against her better judgment she went into his arms….
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
We have another great selection of exciting Harlequin Intrigue titles for you this month, kicking off with the second book in Rebecca York’s 43 LIGHT STREET trilogy MINE TO KEEP. Never Alone is a very special story about the power of love and the lengths to which a man and woman will go to find each other—no matter the obstacles.
One down—three to go! Our MONTANA CONFIDENTIAL series continues with Special Assignment: Baby by Debra Webb. A covert operation and a cuddly baby are just a day’s work for this sexy cowboy agent. And Caroline Burnes scorches the sheets in Midnight Burning, a story about one man’s curse and his quest for redemption.
Finally, come play HIDE AND SEEK with Susan Kearney as she launches her new three-book miniseries with The Hidden Years.
So pick up all four for a dynamic reading experience.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
NEVER ALONE
REBECCA YORK
RUTH GLICK WRITING AS REBECCA YORK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning, bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as Rebecca York, is the author of close to eighty books, including her popular 43 LIGHT STREET series for Harlequin Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories, she’s also the author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.
Books by Rebecca York
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
143—LIFE LINE*
155—SHATTERED VOWS*
167—WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT*
179—ONLY SKIN DEEP*
188—BAYOU MOON
193—TRIAL BY FIRE*
213—HOPSCOTCH*
233—CRADLE AND ALL*
253—WHAT CHILD IS THIS?*
273—MIDNIGHT KISS*
289—TANGLED VOWS*
298—TALONS OF THE FALCON†
301—FLIGHT OF THE RAVEN†
305—IN SEARCH OF THE DOVE†
318—TILL DEATH US DO PART*
338—PRINCE OF TIME*
407—FOR YOUR EYES ONLY*
437—FATHER AND CHILD*
473—NOWHERE MAN*
500—SHATTERED LULLABY*
525—AFTER DARK
“Counterfeit Wife”*
534—MIDNIGHT CALLER*
558—NEVER TOO LATE*
582—AMANDA’S CHILD*
606—BAYOU BLOOD BROTHERS
“Tyler”
625—THE MAN FROM TEXAS**
633—NEVER ALONE**
Brazilian Green Beans
Here’s the green bean recipe Beth makes for Cal. It’s from my new cookbook, Fabulous Lo-Carb Cuisine.
Makes 6 cups
6 cups snapped fresh green beans
½ cup mayonnaise
2 tsp Dijon-style mustard
1 tsp cider vinegar
½ sweet red pepper, diced
2 tbsp chopped chives or green onion tops
¼ tsp salt, or to taste
Dash white pepper
1. In a small pot, cook green beans to desired degree of doneness, 10 to 20 minutes. Cool under cold running water in a colander.
2. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, stir together mayonnaise, mustard, vinegar, red pepper, onion, salt and white pepper. Stir to mix well.
3. Stir in green beans. Serve at once, or cover and refrigerate overnight (the beans will keep in the refrigerator for 2 or 3 days).
4. Stir before serving. Garnish with additional chopped red pepper and chives, if desired.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Beth Wagner—She wanted to be left alone; then she found herself smack in the middle of a police investigation.
Cal Rollins—He wanted Beth as he’d wanted no other woman—but could he trust her?
Hallie Bradshaw—Was she dead or alive?
Len Patterson—He forced Cal into a role he didn’t want to play.
Tim Fillmore—Did he know more than he was letting on?
Hannah Dawson—Would she ever lead a normal life again?
Lucas Somerville—He was sticking close to Hannah.
Sam Lassiter—He needed Cal’s help.
Howard Mason—Why was he hanging around Beth’s place?
Wayne Jenkins—Was he guilty or innocent?
Damion Hardon—He’d turned his whole life around.
Deep Throat—What secrets did he have to tell?
Alex Shane—He had a job to do, if his boss would let him do it.
Jamie Naylor—He was out to avenge his brother’s death.
Dear Reader,
If there ever was a man who needed the love of a good woman, it was Cal Rollins. But Cal’s mother abandoned him when he was just a baby, and his father raised him to think that falling in love was the prelude to pain.
So Cal has kept his relationships superficial, which wasn’t all that difficult to do—until he met Beth Wagner. The moment he laid eyes on Beth, he wanted her. Yet there had never been a woman Cal would be less likely to trust.
Cal’s push-pull relationship with Beth is only one of the problems he faces in Never Alone. He’s a police detective trying to track down a serial killer. He needs Beth to give him access to the next potential victims—and perhaps the murderer. So now he’s working closely with a woman he wants, a woman he can’t quite trust, a woman with extraordinary abilities he doesn’t understand. And to make things worse, he finds he’s putting her in grave danger.
It’s a situation from which Cal desperately needs to escape. And the escape hatch he picks could spell his doom.
I’d tell you more, but I don’t want to give away the strange twists and turns of this plot.
So I’ll just say that Cal’s very survival depends on Beth and the link she forges with him—against his will.
All my best,
Ruth Glick, writing as Rebecca York
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 One
The jolt of
pain took Beth Wagner by surprise.
One moment she was working at her loom on a half-completed wall hanging. In the next her hand jerked off the shuttle as if she’d been zapped by a bolt of electric current.
Her vision went blurry, then snapped back to the subtle blend of dyed yarns she was using to weave a scene of marsh grass against a background of sea and sky. Disoriented, she struggled to catch her breath as she stared at the soothing combination of greens, blues and browns that had absorbed all her attention until a few moments ago.
From the rug in the corner, her dog, Granger, pushed himself up and trotted toward her, laying his massive head in her lap.
“Good boy,” she murmured, absently stroking one of his soft ears. He was a large mutt. The result of an unfortunate liaison between a rottweiler and a German shepherd, the combination giving him a menacing look, if you discounted the warm brown eyes. He was great for chasing away anyone who wandered up her road uninvited.
He raised his head, looking at her as if inquiring whether she was all right and if she intended to go back to work.
“I’m fine,” she told him.
He stared at her for a moment longer, then settled comfortably at her feet where she sat at the big loom, the one that she’d bought eight years ago when her commissions started becoming more serious. This wall hanging, for the Columbia Bank lobby, was going to earn her fifteen thousand dollars, enough to do much-needed repairs on the barn.
When her parents had run the Howard County, Maryland, farm, it had mostly been planted in corn and alfalfa—with a side business in pick-your-own fruits and vegetables for the ex-urbanites moving to the new town of Columbia. Dad had bought a few farm animals, including sheep, to amuse the children who came with their parents. As a teenager, Beth had gotten interested in using the wool for weaving.
Now here she was with fifty head of prime wool producers, a big ugly dog and a growing reputation as a master craftsman who dyed her own yarns for the wall hangings she’d sold to wealthy clients as far away as France and Japan.
Beth sat with the work resting beneath her unmoving hands and her breath shallow in her chest, praying that the pain wouldn’t come again. Sometimes it was like that. A jolt out of the blue, then nothing more. As the seconds ticked by, she began to relax, began to let her mind drift.
Sensing the tension ease, Granger licked his large tongue across a brown paw, then closed his eyes.
Beth’s own eyes closed for a moment as she stroked the animal’s head. Here on the farm, away from people, she had the peace she needed. The long lane, the beds of wild-flowers she’d planted near the house, the sheep quietly nibbling across the green fields, her intimidating dog. Each in its own way formed a barrier between herself and the rest of the world.
She had a sudden image of herself ten years ago. Rising from her seat in the back of a yellow school bus as it stopped at the end of the lane. Most of the kids had simply ignored her, except Hallie, who’d given her a smile as she passed.
Hallie Bradshaw. Her friend. At least they had been friends when they were little, their moms taking them to each other’s houses for visits.
Beth blinked, wondering why she was thinking about Hallie now. Maybe it was that letter she’d gotten about the Glenelg High School tenth reunion. It had been a form letter, asking if she wanted to be on the planning committee.
Probably it had gone out to everyone, because she’d be the last person they’d ask. Not the girl who’d sat by herself at a table in the cafeteria and scurried to the safety of her house as soon as she got off the bus.
The pain of those old days stabbed at her. She’d never fit in. Never enjoyed any kind of easy give-and-take with her classmates. She’d been too uptight, too on guard.
She sighed, then went back to the weaving, the rhythm of the shuttle moving back and forth and her foot rising and falling on the treadles soothing her as they always did.
She had just started working with a strand of cerulean blue when the pain jolted through her once more, this time accompanied by the sound of a woman’s scream and a voice pleading, “No, please. Don’t hurt me. Please.”
The words reverberated in her head, bouncing painfully off the inside of her skull, bruising her brain. Through the agony, she struggled to make her mind work. Had she really heard that cry for help? Or was this like the other times—an echo of reality in her mind?
Her eyes shot from the brightly lit workroom to the yard where floodlights blazed, holding the night at bay. Beyond them was the darkness of the fields. Someone was out there in the dark. Someone in trouble.
Someone.
A face formed in her thoughts. A young woman her age. A woman with straight black hair and dark eyes, her features twisted by fear. A trickle of blood was running from her scalp.
It was Hallie, she realized with a sudden stab of understanding. Her friend Hallie was out there. In the dark. That’s why she’d been thinking about her moments before. She’d known.
She was on her feet, flying down the hall, the dog at her heels, barking furiously when she opened the locked cabinet where Dad’s guns were still kept. Out here in the country, you needed protection, he had taught her. And he had made sure she knew how to use the weapons, taking her out in the woods where she could shoot at tin cans and bottles.
“Help me!” she heard Hallie cry, her friend’s voice rising in terror. Then, “God, no!”
Granger growled as Beth opened the door, shadowing her as she stepped into the yard.
Outside it was absolutely still, the spring air cool and damp.
She crouched beside the dog. “Granger, can you find her, boy? Can you find Hallie?”
He looked puzzled, his gaze swinging from her to the blackness beyond the spotlights, but he didn’t move from her side.
Beth flicked her own eyes from the dog to the darkness and back again. Granger was an excellent watchdog, but he hadn’t heard anything. He hadn’t smelled anything. Which meant Hallie couldn’t be close to the house.
Beth thought about calling her friend’s name. But what if someone else was there? Someone who would come after her. Someone whose presence she’d felt here before.
She knew then that it would be foolish to try to handle this on her own. She had to call the police.
HOWARD COUNTY police detective Cal Rollins stood silently in the front hall of the west Columbia town house rented by Hallie Bradshaw, his dark, assessing gaze taking in the obvious details of violence—the overturned lamp, the trail of blood across the trendy Berber carpet. Then he asked himself the first question he always asked at a crime scene—who had been in this room and why?
Karen Philips, certainly. She was the one who had called the police. At eight o’clock the night before, she’d been scheduled to meet Bradshaw and some of their other friends at McKinley’s, a restaurant in downtown Ellicott City, where the two-hundred-year-old stone buildings had been converted into a quaint shopping area. When Hallie hadn’t shown up, Philips had phoned her. Then when Bradshaw still hadn’t surfaced in the morning, she’d been worried enough to stop by—and the evidence of a struggle in the living room had sent her dashing to the phone.
Cal had caught the investigation.
He stood where he was for several moments, observing, making mental pictures, running scenarios through his mind in the soft North Carolina drawl that he hadn’t lost since coming to Maryland ten years ago.
Had someone been waiting inside for the woman, or had the perp followed her in? And who was he—an acquaintance or a stranger?
Pulling out his Polaroid, Cal snapped some pictures that would recall the scene to him later. At the same time, he started making a mental inventory of the support staff he was going to need: an official photographer and some crime scene techs, a computer expert to check Bradshaw’s hard drive.
After calling for the techs, he started searching the woman’s personal stuff. He found a phone book, which he bagged and tagged as evidence, then thumbed through her bills and mail. Next he
started on the bedroom drawers and closet. She had a half-empty box of condoms in her nightstand and some pretty hot-looking erotic novels, but no kinky sexual paraphernalia, unless it was hidden in a heating duct or somewhere else her mother wasn’t likely to stumble over it.
When he came out of the bedroom, a technician was sweeping lint from the rug into a small plastic bag. “I’d appreciate an analysis of that blood as soon as possible,” he said.
“You got it.”
If luck were running his way, Bradshaw’s address book would have the name of her doctor, and her medical records would give him her blood type.
He had a lot of work ahead of him, Cal thought as he stepped into the sunshine and closed the door, eyeing the knot of rubberneckers gathered on the other side of the court.
He’d already had a long talk with Karen Philips, who’d had nothing but good things to say about Bradshaw. She was a loyal friend. A hardworking mortgage analyst who liked to relax with some of her co-workers at the end of the day. She’d been married for a brief time after college but had no children. Now she was single again and wasn’t dating anyone special. She and the ex-husband had parted amiably. The guy lived in California, and probably hadn’t flown in to town to manhandle his former wife. As far as Karen knew, she had no enemies, nobody who wanted to do her harm.
But it was an almost sure bet that someone had invaded her town house last night, maybe stabbed or shot her, then spirited her away. Unless she’d staged her own disappearance. That was always a possibility if she was up to her ears in debt or if she had some other dark secret she was hiding from her friends.
Stepping off the curb, Cal strode purposefully toward the group of rubberneckers, hoping one of them had something useful to tell him—either about Bradshaw’s background or about last night.
He spent another two hours doing interviews. Either the neighbors hadn’t spotted anything out of the ordinary last night, or nobody was talking. And none of them knew Hallie Bradshaw well enough to rate her dates.