by Julie Miller
Jessica wasn’t even aware that she was screaming
“Jess?”
Sam’s voice broke through the demons. Jessica threw herself against his chest. “I was so scared,” she breathed. Strong arms folded behind her back and pulled her close as she clamped her fists around the waistband of his jeans. She could feel him moving, retreating, pulling her along with him. Away from the unknown danger.
“Are you hurt?” Sam asked softly.
She was surrounded by strength and heat. Her cheek pressed against the warm skin beneath. Bare skin. She breathed in the clean, masculine smell of soap and the earthier scent of the man himself. She was hugging, grasping, clinging…. She waited for the shock of being clutched against a man’s hard chest to undermine the comfort seeping into her. But she was okay. She was okay with this. She was okay with him. She nuzzled her cheek closer.
She needed him.
UNSANCTIONED MEMORIES
JULIE MILLER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.
Books by Julie Miller
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
588—ONE GOOD MAN*
619—SUDDEN ENGAGEMENT*
642—SECRET AGENT HEIRESS
651—IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE*
666—THE DUKE’S COVERT MISSION
699—THE ROOKIE*
719—KANSAS CITY’S BRAVEST*
748—UNSANCTIONED MEMORIES*
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
45—INTIMATE KNOWLEDGE
THE TAYLOR CLAN
Sid and Martha Taylor:
butcher and homemaker
ages 64 and 63 respectively
Brett Taylor:
contractor
age 39
the protector
Mac Taylor:
forensic specialist
age 37
the professor
Gideon Taylor:
firefighter/arson investigator
age 36
the crusader
Cole Taylor:
the mysterious brother
age 31
the lost soul
Jessica Taylor:
the lone daughter
antiques dealer/buyer/restorer
age 29
the survivor
Josh Taylor:
police officer
age 28
at 6’3", he’s still the baby of the family
the charmer
Mitch Taylor:
Sid’s nephew—raised like a son
police captain
age 40
the chief
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jessica Taylor—Only one person knows what happened to her the night she wound up in an emergency room, brutally assaulted and half dead—and it isn’t her. She needs a bodyguard and she needs the truth. Because her attacker wants to finish the job. And what she can’t remember could get her killed.
Sam O’Rourke—FBI agent on an unsanctioned mission. He’ll do anything—or use anyone—to find out who killed his sister and bring the man to justice. Will his quest for vengeance cost him the chance to redeem his frozen heart?
Alex Templeton—Jess’s former lover in Chicago. Meeting the wife ended the affair. For Jess.
Derek Phillips—Jess’s part-time help. He has a serious crush on his boss.
Boyce, Riegert and Winston—Jess’s best customers. But are these mystery men who they claim to be?
Trudy Kent—She might come from old money, but there’s nothing old-fashioned about the way this woman does business.
Charles Kent—The gentleman farmer is buying up parcels of land to keep out the undesirables.
Sheriff Curtis Hancock—Was he Jess’s best line of defense? Or her worst nightmare?
Kerry O’Rourke—Inspiration or excuse?
Harry—The dog knew the truth. He just couldn’t get his mistress to listen.
In memory of Lyn’da Simon Van Slyke.
A gentle soul with a brave heart.
A supportive fan and wonderful influence
on the youth of Nebraska.
I miss our long talks and shared hugs.
She loved her family best—
and I was lucky to have her as my friend.
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
Prologue
“Hell, O’Rourke. Don’t you ever miss?”
With machinelike efficiency, FBI Special Agent Sam O’Rourke reloaded the spent magazine of his Bureau issue Sig Sauer pistol. He adjusted the protective goggles and insulated earphones to tune out the awed skepticism of his partner, Virgil Logan.
Lightly caressing the grip of the pistol between his hands, he took a bead on the image of John Dillinger at the end of the firing range and pictured a faceless man between the sights. Head? Or heart? Did it really matter? He emptied all fifteen rounds into the paper target before acknowledging his partner.
“It’s just a matter of steady hands…” he dumped the spent magazine “…twenty-twenty vision…” he punched the button to pull the target forward “…and nerves like ice.”
Virgil tried to laugh, but the worry lines in his coffee-dark skin had deepened with concern. “Usually a Feeb with sharpshooter status asks for a transfer to a TAC team. But you insisted on staying with drug enforcement.”
“That’s so I could be close to you, pal.”
“Right.” Virg was too smart to buy Sam’s witty repartee, which lacked the heart that used to back it up. He ripped the target off its mounts and counted the holes inside each of the two circles that would constitute a fatal shot. “Fifteen for fifteen.”
Sam released a slowly measured sigh. His grim expertise was about the only thing that gave him comfort and satisfaction anymore.
Each and every one of those bullets had been for Kerry.
His opportunity would come—one day—when he could put away his sister’s murderer. One way or another. And he’d be ready.
“I have to practice to stay efficient with my weapon.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all that practice that has me worried.” Virgil stood by as Sam stripped, cleaned and holstered his weapon. “Chief Dixon thinks the strain of your sister’s rape and murder is proving too much for you.”
A flare of Sam’s Irish temper tried to show itself. “He’s already stuck me on desk duty.”
Virgil put up his hands in surrender, reminding Sam that he was just the messenger. And a concerned, loyal friend. “He wants you to take that bereavement leave. Get your head on straight before you shoot at something you shouldn’t. Before you crack.”
“Is that what you think, too? That I’m about to crack
?”
Virgil shook his head. “I know you need the work to get your mind off things.” His partner’s mouth thinned into a grim line. When Virgil Logan got serious, Sam paid attention. “I just don’t want to see you make a mistake that’ll come back and kick you in the chops. I don’t want to see you in a second career as a security guard somewhere because you lost your head.”
Sam inhaled and exhaled deeply. He leaned forward and rested both fists atop the shooting deck. “I’m not trying to screw up anything, Virg. I only want justice done.”
“You know I want that, too. But you gotta give yourself some time to heal. You haven’t taken any time off since the funeral.”
Sam pushed himself up straight and backed out of the booth. “Seeing that bastard lined up in the crosshairs of my gun is the only thing that’ll help me heal.”
Virgil followed him out. “That’s the kind of talk that worries me. You’re a damn good investigator when your head’s on straight.”
They turned and headed for the locker room. “You think the fact that I’m spending extra time on the shooting range means I can’t run an investigation anymore?”
“No. I just don’t want to have to break in a new partner. I had a hell of a time training you.”
“Training me?” Sam twisted up a towel and flicked Virg in the backside before tossing it around his neck, catching the support beneath the gibe. “I love you, too, pal. I promise I won’t be stupid. If I give you my word, will that do?”
They shook hands like men. Then they shook hands in a goofy secret code that only two people who had been friends through the best and worst times of their lives could share.
“That’s all I needed to hear.” Virgil stopped at his locker and opened it. He pulled out a folded slip of paper, rolling it back and forth between his fingers and frowning as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “Because I got some information you’ll be interested in.”
Sam ran his tongue around the rim of his lips and tried not to betray the instant anticipation racing through his veins. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be pushing the regs, not you.”
“I know you’ve been accessing files you don’t have clearance for. Reading hospital records and police reports on rapes that match the MO in Kerry’s case.”
Sam’s jaw shook with the restraint it required to keep from snatching that paper from Virgil’s hands. “So far I’ve matched up four rape-murders with the same binding and strangulation marks, and the souvenir lock of hair cut from the scalp. Kerry here in Boston. One each in Dallas, New York and Miami.” He knew his sister’s case backward and forward. “The Bureau profiler and my gut tells me they were all victims of the same man. In each case the victim was dark-haired. She was single and successful, but she ended up in a bad part of town. She was kidnapped, tortured and ultimately raped. And then, as if that wasn’t enough…”
Sam closed his eyes in a futile effort to block the image of Kerry’s sweet round face bruised and frozen in death. He’d seen dead bodies before. But hers had unnerved him. She was his responsibility. Even as a full-grown woman she’d still been his baby sister. The sassy sweetheart he’d promised his father on his deathbed that he’d protect.
He’d failed.
Oh, God. Sam shook with the force of his emotions. Bile twisted in his gut and tried to poison the good memories he had left of his family. He’d failed. He tilted his head and swallowed hard, forcing down the gag reflex that convulsed throughout his body.
When he was in control of himself once more, he opened his eyes and looked deep into Virgil’s cryptic expression. “Did you locate another vic?” he asked.
“It’s not much. A rape in Chicago. Dark hair with a chunk of it cut off. That was enough to flag it for me. Listed as a Jane Doe.” Virgil handed the paper to Sam. “But there’s one key difference between this case and Kerry’s.”
“What’s that?” Sam unfolded the paper with impatient fingers and read the answer for himself. No. His heart thumped hard against the wall of his chest, trying to hope, trying to believe what his eyes were seeing. “Jane Doe survived the attack.”
In a flurry of movement, Sam removed his holster, peeled off his shirt and hurried toward the showers. A biting sense of urgency nipped at his heels, making every moment too long, too precious to waste. This was the best lead—the only lead—he’d had since Kerry’s murder nearly eight months ago.
An eyewitness.
If it was the same murderous son of a bitch who’d killed Kerry, this vic could ID him. Give him a name, a visual, a voice—anything that he could put in the profile and hunt down.
Virgil followed at a slower pace. “Should I tell the chief that you’ll be taking that bereavement leave now?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t want his partner to get caught in a lie, so he played along. They both knew what he had to do. “Tell Dixon I’m leaving tomorrow. Tonight, if I can get a flight.”
One way or another—sooner rather than later—he was going to track down this Miss Jane Doe.
Chapter One
One Month Later
Jessica first saw him from her porch, walking along the gravel country road, putting a determined distance between each step and the urban sprawl of Kansas City, Missouri. She watched him as he approached the crossroad that divided her property and the Kent estate.
The shaggy black German shepherd mix that lay at her feet shifted his big, rangy body to a sitting position beside her, eyeing the stranger. The dog’s alert curiosity matched her own, and a ripple of uneasiness cascaded down her spine. Trouble was headed their way.
“What do you think, Harry?” she asked, trusting the dog’s judgment and companionship more than she trusted most people’s.
The front porch ran the full length of her one-and-a-half-story log cabin house, situated on the top of a hill. The high-school boy she’d hired for odd jobs around the shop and acreage had just driven home to his parents’ farm for dinner, and the dust kicked up by his speeding truck never even slowed the man’s stride. Rendered ghostlike until the curtain of dust settled, he just kept coming, moving toward the iron gates of her property with a sense of purpose that had her shifting back half a step.
Thrilling anticipation as much as cautious fear revved in her veins and gathered speed as the blood raced from her heart into her tingling extremities. Her lips parted to accommodate the quicker pace of suddenly shallow breaths.
Was he the one? Was he finally coming for her?
Nothing about him seemed familiar. And yet, how could she know?
The dog stood and circled her legs, antsy about her next command. Would she order him to run down the stranger? Stay and protect? Attack?
Jessica shook her head, answering the dog’s unspoken questions. “I don’t like the looks of him, either.”
She slipped back another step, into the shadow of a wooden post. She needed more time to think, more time to make a decision. She needed to remember.
But he just kept coming.
The sun hung low in the western sky, not yet at the point on the horizon that would color the Indian-summer clouds in a palette of orange, pink and gold. Silhouetted against the sun, she could see he was a big man. The pack he carried on his back seemed to hold a whole life’s worth of belongings, from the faded denim jacket tied at the top to the sleeping bag that hit his hips. Yet he carried it all with an easy posture and resolute stride that said he could carry the weight of the world on those broad shoulders. And had.
Jessica reached down and scratched Harry behind the ears, catching up a handful of his longish black coat, which reflected more of his wolfhound heritage than his police dog ancestry. She needed the comfort of contact with another living creature to forestall the sense of impending doom that made her chest seize up. Had she felt this same fear before? Reacted this same way? Had she gone numb with shock like this? Choked on her helpless anger?
“Turn the corner,” she coaxed the stranger beneath her breath. “Walk on by.”
He could turn at the crossroads at the foot of the hill and head east. But long before he neared the brick posts and wood rail fence that surrounded her land, she knew he wasn’t going to turn. He would come right through the gate, saunter up her long gravel driveway and invite himself up to the house.
And he didn’t look like the type of man who’d hiked out into the countryside southeast of Kansas City just to buy antiques at her shop. He paused only to read the carved wooden sign, Log Cabin Antiques. He must have read the hours, knew she’d just closed at six.
Frozen in the shadows, Jessica curled her fingers around Harry’s collar. “Walk on,” she mouthed again.
The stranger’s shoulders heaved in a controlled sigh beneath the taut fit of his faded black T-shirt. Then he lifted his eyes and looked straight at her. Sought her out in the shade of the porch. Made eye contact as if he’d known she’d been watching him all along.
Her breath stuttered out in a rush of panic. Harry growled and barked twice, sensing the exponential swell of his mistress’s fear.
She grabbed the dog by the collar and pulled him inside with her, bolting the door behind them.
She hurried through the tiny living room, past the stairs to her bedroom loft, sidestepped a glass-front display case that housed doll dishes and campaign buttons and slipped into the private nook that doubled as office and dining room. She squatted down out of sight beside the rolltop desk that held her computer and hugged Harry close to her chest. She could scarcely think. Breathe. See.
She was flashing back.
Flashing back to what? she demanded of herself, trying to see through the blind haze of terror that filled her mind. All she could remember was the fear, the sense of being trapped. A business trip and romantic evening gone horribly awry. She could recall that last dinner in Chicago with Alex almost word for word—how angry and heartbroken she’d been. She knew what the doctors and cops had told her when she came to in the hospital more than twenty-four hours later. But she couldn’t remember anything in between.