Born in Danger

by Susan Kearney

  Born in Danger

  “WHERE DO YOU think you’re taking me?”

  Devin tilted the rearview mirror to reflect her face back at him. Vulnerability flicked in her topaz eyes. Then her lids lowered, and he questioned whether the vulnerability had been there at all. He must have been mistaken.

  “I thought you might help me track your wife’s killer.”

  The reminder that a murderer was still at large burned Ford’s stomach like acid. “Help you how?”

  “I’m used to tracking cheating husbands and divorcees who avoid meeting their financial obligations to their ex-wives and children, not going after killers. But I don’t have your business or social connections.”

  A lot of good his money and networking had done him when he’d tried to find the assassin. “I hired the best private investigators. None of them turned up a clue.”

  Pride and a hint of challenge entered Devin’s tone. “You should have hired me.”

  Other Susan Kearney Titles from Bell Bridge Books

  The Braddacks

  Born in Secret

  Born in Danger

  Born in Mystery

  The Rystani Warrior Series

  The Challenge

  The Dare

  The Ultimatum

  The Quest

  The Heat Series

  Lunar Heat

  Solar Heat

  Futuristic Novella

  Devil in Paradise

  Romantic Suspenses

  Kiss Me Deadly

  Dancing with Fire

  Secrets of Moore House

  Coming Fall 2014

  Born in Danger

  by

  Susan Kearney

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-481-5

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-504-1

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 1997 by Hair Express, Inc.

  Born in Mystery(excerpt) copyright 1998 Hair Express, Inc. Previously published by Harlequin Books as Deceiving Daddy.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A mass market edition of this book was previously published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. as Sweet Deception

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites

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  Cover design: Tara Adkins Designs

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Hands (manipulated) © Ruslan1117 | Dreamstime.com

  Background (manipulated) © Riverrail | Dreamstime.com

  :Edbv:01:

  Letter from the Author

  Dear Reader,

  You’re about to return to the Braddacks’ world of privilege, wealth and intrigue. In this, the spin-off of Susan Kearney’s Born in Secret, you’ll meet up with the Braddack twin, Ford.

  Imagine a groom kidnapped by a spunky private investigator. Imagine an assassin and a chase in which one misplaced step could bring death. Add sizzling sexual attraction and you have the kind of suspenseful read you expect from Susan Kearney.

  Susan lives in a Tampa suburb with her husband and Boston terrier. She graduated with a business degree from the University of Michigan, where she was a three-time all-American diver. Susan is currently at work on the third book in the Braddack trilogy Born in Mystery.

  Now join Ford Braddack as he searches for his wife’s killer . . . and finds a new love.

  Happy reading!

  Cast of Characters

  Ford Braddack—A man whose life takes an unexpected twist once he’s in the hands of his alluring kidnapper.

  Devin Ward—A private investigator on a special assignment to bring to justice her cousin’s killer.

  The Black Rose—An international assassin.

  Yvonne Jansen—A Dutch widow carrying on the family business, and a grower of black roses.

  Sir Richard Kaplan—A powerful English industrialist and grower of black roses.

  Byron—Kaplan’s son who has his own secret interest in the rare black roses.

  Max Braddack—Ford’s identical twin.

  Martin Crewsdale—Ford’s friend and powerful partner at Norton Industries.

  Dr. Henschel—Now-deceased physician who hired the Black Rose to kill Ford and his wife.

  Prologue

  ALL SHE HAD left to do was kidnap the groom. Devin Ward had finished the distasteful chore of paying the bride to leave town. She’d called the guests to inform them of the wedding’s cancellation and had made a donation to the minister’s favorite charity.

  Consulting the notes on her desk, she reread the September schedule she’d committed to memory. Since Ford Braddack’s private jet wasn’t due in New Orleans from Beijing until tomorrow morning, the groom shouldn’t learn of the changes she’d made in his wedding plans until it was too late.

  Devin shifted in her lumpy chair, hoping Ford didn’t kill her once he discovered what she’d done. Ford Braddack was unpredictable, had the devil’s own temper. According to her investigations, his wife’s death last year had made him even more abrupt, demanding and domineering than usual, so she had no way to predict how he’d respond to his canceled wedding or his kidnapping.

  She’d only met him once at her cousin’s wedding. She’d found him undeniably attractive and had gone out of her way not to cross paths again. In her mind Ford had been perfect. And he was Rhonda’s . . . except when he crept into Devin’s fantasies.

  She couldn’t help it. Ford Braddack was unforgettable. Strong, capable and with a devilish gleam in his eyes that revealed how much he’d adored his wife.

  Not only did he work impossibly long hours, the man drove his employees hard, and he played hard, too. Ford had grieved deeply after Rhonda’s death, disappearing for a while, then throwing himself into the company with a ruthlessness that shot Norton Industries’ stock soaring. His corporate exploits hadn’t slowed during the past six months. Although he’d escorted a variety of debutantes to business functions, charity events and to his home in the exclusive Garden District, no woman ever stayed the night in his mansion.

  Which had led Devlin to daydreaming if anyone could ever capture Ford’s attention like her cousin Rhonda. Damn it. She missed Rhonda, too.

  Devin closed the file on her desk and stared unseeing out the window. One month ago, Lindsay Betancourt had whirled into Ford’s life with the force of a hurricane. Two weeks ago, Ford had announced his engagement. Devin had been hired to contain the destruction.

  She imagined him furiously conducting business now, fully expecting to marry Lindsay tomorrow.

  But Devin had canceled the wedding.

  Abductions weren’t her regular line of work. Her usual cases involved following cheating husbands and chasing down hiding divorcees
behind on child support and alimony—a far less dangerous task. While her P.I. firm might be in desperate need of the cash this assignment provided, Devin had accepted the contract only after discovering that Miss Lindsay Betancourt didn’t care one whit for Ford Braddack. While the scheming woman had claimed a deep affection for Ford, she’d jumped at the substantial bribe Devin’s client had offered her to leave New Orleans for Hollywood.

  Only God knew how Ford would react once he discovered the betrayal—not only Devin’s, but her client’s. Apprehension, mixed with the thrill of anticipation, clutched at her stomach. Her neck itched, warning her to watch her step and keep her distance. When Ford’s business ran smoothly, he was a man to be reckoned with. She shuddered to think how he’d react to her kidnapping him from his own wedding.

  Chapter One

  A GROOM SHOULD be happy or at least eager on his wedding day, but roiling thunderclouds reflected Ford’s mood. Thirty weeks and four days had passed since his precious Rhonda had died in the avalanche.

  He should be done grieving. He wasn’t.

  He ought to accept her death, but he couldn’t.

  Adjusting his bow tie, he looked in the mirror and scowled at the dark circles under his eyes. What had happened to his renowned control? Since he’d awakened from a coma to learn of his beloved wife’s murder, he’d functioned by ruthlessly suppressing his grief. As he slipped into the black jacket of his tuxedo and tugged on the cuffs, he couldn’t help remembering how Rhonda’s eyes had shone with pleasure as she’d performed the wifely task for him.

  His inability to sleep most nights would disappear with his new marriage. Lindsay Betancourt would make a fine wife, easing the sadness and loneliness that weighed on his heart. He had to accept he would never love another woman like his Rhonda and shed the sorrow that weighed like lead on his chest. He had to move on, recover, get on with his life.

  He didn’t regret giving Lindsay carte blanche over the wedding arrangements when it had made her so happy. If she’d asked his opinion, he’d have chosen a quiet ceremony with only family and close friends, instead of the extravaganza she’d planned. And he’d much prefer driving his sports car rather than riding in his company’s stretch limo. But she’d planned the frilly details and hadn’t asked anything of him but to show up at the church on time.

  He straightened his collar with distaste. Yet if wearing this tight-necked monkey suit made Lindsay happy, he’d do it, grateful for such an easy way to indulge her. Determined to make a success of this marriage, he shoved aside his brooding over last-minute doubts. All grooms had second thoughts. With strict, practiced control of his emotions, he thrust his reservations aside. He’d spoil Lindsay, and in return, his loneliness would ease.

  He would not take after his older brother Craig who had lost his wife in a recent drowning accident. Craig had withdrawn from family and friends. He’d let his business interests slide. Ford was made of sterner stuff. He was going to live his life. Rhonda would have wanted him to be happy.

  Checking his watch, Ford frowned. Where was the limousine?

  Patting his pocket to ensure he had the rings to give to Max, his identical twin and best man, Ford rolled his luggage outside because the staff had the week off. The security system was activated. He’d cleared his desk of work for the week. Determined not to show up late for his wedding, he waited, impatient for the limo to arrive.

  Gray thunderheads furrowed the Louisiana sky. Steamy humidity clung to his flesh and dampened his clothes. Lightning zigzagged earthward, and thunderclaps warned of an early fall storm. As Ford walked from the shelter of the house, the skies opened, spattering the brick walkway with fat droplets.

  Finally. The white limousine pulled through the electronically opened wrought-iron gates and onto his driveway. He didn’t recognize the uniformed chauffeur from the company driving pool, who without a word of greeting exited the vehicle, his face hidden by a cap drawn low over his face. The driver produced an umbrella and held open the passenger door while Ford slipped into the car.

  He’d barely seated himself and brushed the stray drops of rain from his hair before the door slammed with an ominous thud. The driver carelessly tossed the luggage into the trunk. Ford opened his mouth to complain, but hail the size of marbles pelted the car’s roof, setting off an enormous din. He fastened his seat belt, and as the driver jerked away from the curb, Ford glanced at the car door.

  The handle was gone.

  His gaze darted to the far door. Another missing handle. The hardware’s absence was no coincidence. The prickling hairs on his neck turned to a full-fledged stab of alarm. He couldn’t open the door from inside the vehicle.

  Despite the hail pinging against the roof, he pressed the electric window switch. The glass didn’t budge. What the hell was going on?

  He reached for his cell phone.

  The driver behind the bulletproof shield tapped the glass. With his phone.

  Damn it. The driver must have picked his pocket as he’d slid into the vehicle.

  Ford picked up the limo’s phone. But it was dead.

  Looking out the window at the familiar route to the church, his temper welled up like lava. While the New Orleans downpour might be normal, this limo ride was not. Trying to break out a window was not an option. His entire car came equipped with bulletproof glass. Until someone from outside opened the car door, he was incarcerated. He commanded thousands of employees with a crook of his finger, transferred millions of dollars with a punch of a button, but he couldn’t control where his damn car took him.

  He rerouted his rippling anger into precise, constructive analysis, putting the intellect that had made him several fortunes to work. Possibilities raced through his mind. A man in his position had many enemies, but he couldn’t think of one who’d go to such extremes. Whoever set up this operation had gone to considerable trouble. Unfortunately, the time and location of his wedding had made the papers so anyone could have anticipated his schedule.

  When the limousine passed the empty church parking lot, the magnitude of this operation sank in. Where was everyone? Somehow his huge society wedding had been canceled. Had his bride been kidnapped, too?

  He gritted his teeth in frustration and took a moment for his thoughts to race past the astonishing fact that not one family member had called to commiserate about his canceled marriage. His parents, Eva and Red, hadn’t phoned, and neither had his elder brother Craig, Max or his sister-in-law, Brooke.

  No matter what reason his mother had been given for the change in plans, that his mother hadn’t called weighed heavily on his heart. Eva, the ultimate party planner, couldn’t resist interfering—helping, she called it—in her sons’ lives. That his foe could outsmart his mother chilled him to the spine.

  Snapping on the intercom, Ford forced his tone to normalcy. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the airport,” a female voice replied, surprising him with her gender.

  The rearview mirror angled downward, and he couldn’t see her face. Releasing his seat belt, he slid to the other side of the car and frowned. Her exotic cheekbones and delicate tawny skin looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Wisps of curly hair escaped her cap, and while she kept her hands steady on the wheel, the pulse in her throat beat wildly.

  She wasn’t as calm as she appeared. Good. He could use that to his advantage.

  “In the pocket behind my seat is a pair of handcuffs.” She issued instructions in a voice accustomed to giving orders. “Place them over your wrists and lock them.”

  In your dreams, lady.

  Ford hadn’t felt this helpless since Rhonda had died. Not only had he been unable to prevent her death, he lived with the failure of locating and identifying her murderer. That he’d hired the best private investigators and they’d found nothing didn’t ease his need for justice. Being forced to face a dead end hadn’t sat well w
ith him. Neither did being forced to don handcuffs.

  Seething, he swung around until his back rested on the seat with his soles placed against the rear window. Jerking his knees to his chest then straightening his legs, he rammed his heels into the glass.

  The window didn’t crack. The driver didn’t say a word. With a muffled curse, he repeated his kick twice more, receiving a wrenching jar to his joints for his effort. But the glass remained intact.

  The handcuffs dangled tauntingly from the seat pocket. It didn’t help his temper to realize he wouldn’t be leaving this vehicle a free man.

  “The car’s equipped with gas,” she informed him, her tone casual. “Unless you put on the cuffs, I’ll be forced to knock you out. The choice is yours.”

  “Some choice.”

  “The gas won’t hurt,” she assured him in a naggingly familiar voice, “but you’ll wake up with a ferocious headache.”

  He straightened in his seat. “After the airport, where are you taking me?”

  “We’ll refuel in London before flying to Bern.” He removed his bow tie and slipped it into his pocket. “What about customs? I don’t have a passport.”

  “I’ve taken care of the travel arrangements.” Holding a passport to the glass partition separating them, she verified her statement. He recognized the coffee mark that had stained the cover during a bumpy flight from Saigon to Singapore.

  Damn! He’d had that passport in his hands this morning. She or a cohort must have broken into his home, either while he’d caught a two-hour nap or during his shower. Only a pro could have successfully sneaked past his security system and picked his pocket.

  “Who hired you? Who canceled my wedding, and where is my fiancee?”

  The driver didn’t answer.

  Frustration wrapped around his chest and squeezed. The lack of answers infuriated him almost as much as his lack of control over the situation.

  Who could have arranged this?