Motive, Means... And Marriage?

by Hilary Byrnes

  “You wanted to rip his bead off?”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Dedication

  About the Author

  The Silhouette Spotlight - “Where Passion Lives”

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Copyright

  “You wanted to rip his bead off?”

  “Of course.” Patrick shrugged. “I thought he was trying to hurt you.”

  Helen sucked in her breath. Had anyone else, ever, wanted to protect her? “Thank you.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Is that all?” As soon as the words were out, she wanted to snatch them back.

  His silver eyes met hers with an almost audible clash. “No,” he said, his voice rasping. “It’s not. And you know it.”

  Slowly he lifted one hand and stretched it toward her.

  She wanted to take his hand. To let him pull her into his arms. She wanted it with an ache as frightening as it was powerful. Stepping away was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. “We’d better go or we’ll be late.”

  Patrick turned away. “Sure,” he said, and the flat tone of his voice speared her heart. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  Dear Reader,

  It’s autumn. There’s a nip in the air, the light has a special quality it only takes on at this time of year, and soon witches and warlocks (most of them under three feet tall!) will be walking the streets of towns everywhere. And along with them will come vampires, perhaps the most dangerously alluring of all romantic heroes. (The six-foot-tall variety, anyway!) So in honor of the reason, this month we’re bringing you Brides of the Night, a two-in-one collection featuring vampire heroes who are (dare I say it?) to die for. Maggie Shayne continues her wonderful WINGS IN THE NIGHT miniseries with Twilight Vows, while Marilyn Tracy lures you in with Morried by Dawn. Let them wrap you in magic.

  We’ve got more great miniseries going on this month, too. With Harvard’s Education, Suzanne Brockmann continues her top-selling TALL, DARK AND DANGEROUS miniseries. Readers have been asking for Harvad’s story and now this quintessential tough guy is rewarded with a romance of his own. Then follow our writers out west. as Carla Cassidy begins the saga of MUSTANG, MONTANA, with Her Counterfeit Husband, and Margaret Watson returns to CAMERON, UTAH. in For the Children. Jill Shalvis, an experienced author making her first appearance here, also knows how great a cowboy hero can be, as she demonstrates in our WAY OUT WEST title, Hiding Out at the Circle C. Finally, welcome Hilary Byrnes. This brand-new author is Intimate Moments ‘WOMAN TO WATCH. And after you read her powerful debut, Motive, Meons...and Marriage? you will be watching—for her next book!

  Enjoy! And come back again next month, when we bring you six more of the best and most exciting romance novels around—right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Executive Senior Editor

  * * *

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  * * *

  MOTIVE, MEANS... AND MARRIAGE?

  HILARY BYRNES

  For Brian—best of husbands, best of friends.

  And with many thanks to Nancy Drew, for patient

  critiquing and generous moral support.

  HILARY BYRNES

  has loved books all her life. As a child, she spent whole days curled up with her favorite stories, and she went on to earn a degree in English literature. After working in academic and corporate libraries, she finally fulfilled a lifelong dream by turning from cataloguing books to writing them.

  Hilary grew up on Vancouver Island, off the west coast of British Columbia. True love brought her to the city of Vancouver, where she now lives with her husband. When she’s not busy reading or writing, she enjoys hiking, sewing and, of course, prowling around in bookstores.

  The Silhouette Spotlight

  “Where Passion Lives”

  MEET WOMAN TO WATCH

  * * *

  What was your inspiration for MOTIVE, MEANS...AND MARRIAGE?

  HB: I’ve always been fascinated by criminal law. During college, I planned to be a prosecutor—and even won scholarships to law school—but at the last moment, I realized what I really wanted was to write. So instead of becoming a prosecutor. I wrote about one: cool, ambitious Helen Stewart, whose world is about to be turned upside down by one very sexy cop.

  * * *

  * * *

  What about the Intimate Moments line appeals to you as a reader and as a writer?

  HB: I love the excitement. Mystery. Adventure. And romance, of course! Intimate Moments stories are a unique blend of all those things. As a writer and a reader, they keep me coming back for more.

  * * *

  * * *

  Why is this book special to you?

  HB: Writing MOTIVE, MEANS...AND MARRIAGE? gave me the best of both worlds; it allowed me to blend my passion for writing with my longtime interest in crime and the law.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  The shrill demand of the telephone dragged Helen from the depths of an uneasy slumber. She forced her eyes open. It was still pitch-dark out; not even the faintest thread of light filtered through the wooden slats of her blinds.

  The telephone rang again, and Helen rolled over with a groan. What time was it, anyway? She peered at the brass alarm clock that perched on the low oak table beside her bed. Its glowing hands revealed that it was a quarter after three in the morning. But who—

  Her mouth went dry, and she grabbed the receiver as the telephone rang a third time. “Hello? Mom?”

  “Helen,” a male voice barked. “I need you down here right away.”

  She snapped instantly awake. “Franklin? Where are you?” In the background, she heard the low hum of voices and the clatter of a typewriter.

  “I’m at the police station,” her boss told her. He raised his voice as a siren began to wail in the distance. “There’s been another murder. A bad one. I want you on this, Helen. How soon can you be here?”

  Helen rolled out of bed and ran her hand through her short blond hair, her mind already racing. “Half an hour.”

  “Make it twenty minutes.”

  “Right,” she said crisply. “See you there.”

  Rain hissed against the pavement as Helen pulled up outside the gray stone building that housed the Evergreen police department. She grabbed her briefcase and umbrella and climbed out of her car. Her low heels tapped against concrete as she hastened up the steps and through the glass doors. The harsh squawk of a police radio sounded from somewhere deep in the building, but the dingy waiting room was quiet and nearly empty.

  Helen walked up to the wooden barrier. The uniformed desk sergeant glanced up. “Yes?”

  “My name’s Helen Stewart. I’m from the county prosecutor’s office, and I’m here to meet Franklin Chambers.”

  “Oh, yeah. He said you’d be coming.” The sergeant jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s in with Lieutenant Carmel.”

  Helen thanked him, and he buzzed her through the gate. She strode down the corridor and through a large room filled with desks and telephones. A few detectives stood clustered by the wa
tercooler, speaking in hushed tones. They stared at her suspiciously as she passed, and she gave them a look of cool appraisal in return. She belonged here as much as any of them. She’d fought long and hard to get where she was, to prove that she wasn’t anything like her mother, and she wouldn’t let anyone take that away from her.

  Not anyone.

  A glass divider separated Lieutenant Carmel’s office from the rest of the room. The blinds that covered the glass were closed, and Helen knocked on the flimsy particleboard door.

  “Come in,” a deep voice bawled.

  She pushed open the door. A man with iron-gray hair and flinty dark eyes sat behind a metal desk. Her boss, Franklin Chambers, sat in a chair in the corner.

  Franklin stood as she walked into the office. “Helen, glad you could make it. This is Lieutenant Edward Carmel. Ed, this is Helen Stewart, one of my deputy prosecutor.”

  “We’ve met before,” Helen said. She leaned over the desk to shake the lieutenant’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  The man smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “The pleasure is all mine.” He waved her to a chair. “Did Franklin brief you over the phone?”

  She shook her head as she sat down. “Not really. He just said there’d been another murder.”

  “There has,” Franklin said heavily. His eyes were suddenly faraway and he lapsed into silence.

  Helen looked at him curiously. In the three years she’d worked for Franklin, she’d never seen him looking other than perfectly groomed. But tonight, his thinning brown hair was disheveled and his tailored suit was rumpled and damp. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Whatever was going on, it had to be something big.

  But then, murder was always something big, here in the small city of Evergreen, Washington. There were rarely two murders a month in Evergreen—and this was the second in less than a week.

  “Will one of you fill me in?” she asked. “Was the murder victim another prostitute?”

  Franklin’s gaze swung toward her, and he steepled his fingers. “No. This time the victim’s a cop. A detective named Martin Fletcher.”

  “Marty Fletcher? From Vice?” She glanced at the lieutenant.

  “He used to work Vice, but he was transferred to Violent Crimes about a month ago,” Carmel said. “In fact, he was working the murder of the hooker who was killed Saturday night. Did you know him?”

  “Only slightly. He testified in a few of my cases.” Helen paused. “How was he killed?”

  “Shot twice in the head.”

  “Is there any indication this killing is related to the one on Saturday? Have you got any suspects so far?”

  The two men exchanged a long look. A tense silence filled the office. The stale air suddenly seemed very warm, almost oppressive, and Helen resisted the urge to fan herself with her fingertips.

  “Doesn’t look like this has anything to do with the other murder,” Carmel said. “But we’ve got a suspect. Shots look like they were fired from his gun—we’ll have a definite answer on that in a few days. And we’ve got a witness, a lady who saw the shooting and called it in. But there’s a problem.”

  “A problem?” she asked. “It sounds straightforward enough.”

  Franklin sighed. “There’s a problem, all right. A big problem for all of us.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the suspect, He’s a cop.”

  “A cop? Another cop shot Marty Fletcher?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.

  Carmel nodded. “His own partner, in fact.”

  “Who is it? Anyone I know?”

  Once again, the two men exchanged glances. Franklin gave a small cough. “It’s Patrick Monaghan.”

  Helen’s breath seized in her throat. Patrick. A shard of memory stabbed through her, memory so fierce, so strong, it sent a crackle of heat racing through her body. It had been a year since she’d seen him, a year since that terrible, magical night they’d made love....

  Desperately, she pushed the memory away. “P-Patrick Monaghan?” she asked, hating the uncertainty in her own voice. “Are you sure?”

  Carmel’s eyes narrowed. “We’re pretty damn sure. The evidence is there. And if you don‘t—”

  “Stop it, Ed,” Franklin said. “Helen’s a good prosecutor. The best young lawyer in my office. I know she won’t allow any...personal feelings between herself and Monaghan to affect how she handles the case. Will you, Helen?” He turned to her with a smooth smile.

  So Franklin knew about her and Patrick. The realization made her burn with shame. How had he found out? Or had the whole town heard about it? She knew all too well how fast that kind of gossip could spread.

  But she’d done everything she could to wipe out her mistake, to prove she was back in control. Surely Franklin didn’t think she was still—

  She took a deep breath and forced a cool smile to her lips. “Just for the record, there are no ‘personal feelings’ between me and Patrick Monaghan. But even if there were, I certainly wouldn’t let them affect my work.”

  Franklin gave an approving nod. “Good. I have every confidence in you.”

  Carmel shoved back his chair and stood. “Monaghan’s cooling off in an interrogation room. You want to sit in on the interview?”

  Helen’s heart thumped. The thought of sitting in the same room as Patrick, of talking to him, of being close enough to touch, sent a hint of panic spinning through her body.

  “Has anyone talked to him yet?” she asked, stalling for time.

  “Not yet,” Carmel said. “Franklin wanted to wait until you got here.”

  There was no help for it. She was going to have to talk to him. There was no point in delaying it...no matter how much she wanted to.

  She made herself get to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  Franklin stood, as well. “I’m going to go home and try to catch some sleep—I’ve been up most of the night. I’ll leave this in your capable hands, Helen.”

  “I’ll give you a full report in the morning.”

  Franklin nodded, and she opened the door. She stepped out into the main room, but Franklin’s voice stopped her. “Helen?”

  She swung around to face him. “Yes?”

  “This is an important case,” he said softly. “A very important case. You know the election’s coming up at the end of the year.”

  She looked at him steadily. “What are you saying?”

  “I got elected as the Evergreen County Prosecutor because the people believed I would keep order. A cop shooting his own partner doesn’t look good. I want this case wrapped up fast. And I think you’re the woman for the job.”

  Helen gave him a tight smile. Politics. Of course. With the election coming up, Franklin was even more concerned with appearances than ever.

  She knew she should be pleased that Franklin had chosen her to prosecute such an important case. Pleased that her sterling conviction record and the long hours she’d put in on evenings and weekends were finally paying off. But she couldn’t help wishing it had been another case. Any other case.

  “I appreciate your confidence in me,” she said finally.

  Franklin squeezed her elbow. “Good luck with the interview. I’ll see you in the office in the morning.”

  Patrick Monaghan stared at the smoky glass window at the other end of the interrogation room. His head hurt like hell, and he knew there was blood seeping out from beneath the bandage on his shoulder, but he wasn’t about to give whoever was behind the two-way glass the satisfaction of seeing him slump in pain. Especially not if it was that bastard Ed Carmel.

  Whatever was going on, Patrick was sure the lieutenant was behind it. Ever since Carmel had taken over the Violent Crimes Unit a year before, he’d done everything he could to make Patrick’s life miserable. Carmel hated him, and Patrick knew it.

  He just didn’t know what new torture Carmel had devised for him.

  The door jerked open, and Carmel stalked into the r
oom.

  “Speak of the devil,” Patrick muttered under his breath.

  “What was that?” Carmel demanded.

  “Nothing.” Patrick leaned back casually and clasped his hands behind his head, ignoring the stab of pain that shot through his shoulder. “But why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Why don’t you tell us?”

  The new voice was female, a husky, smoky voice that hit Patrick low in the stomach like a stiff belt of whiskey. It almost sounded like—

  His gaze swung to the door. Helen Stewart stood framed in the doorway, holding a black leather briefcase, a raincoat slung over her arm. Her elegant navy wool suit and white silk blouse were immaculate, her face as cool and beautiful at four in the morning as it was in a courtroom at high noon.

  The sight of her transfixed him. They hadn’t been this close for a year—not since that night they’d spent together, a night that had haunted him ever since.

  The memory made his body tighten, and he fought down the instinctive reaction. “Helen?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to sit in on the interview. And the name is Ms. Stewart. Not Helen.”

  She strode into the room with that same athletic grace he’d noticed the first time he’d seen her walking up the courthouse steps. He hadn’t known then that she was a distance runner, a natural athlete. But he could have guessed by the way she walked, with such confidence. Determination. The kind of determination it took to run marathons—and win.

  She moved the same way now, shutting the door behind her and walking over to the scarred wooden table. She put her briefcase on the table and snapped open the locks. Her movements slow and deliberate, she pulled out a folder and uncapped a gold-tipped fountain pen.