Secret Lover
Page 1
What was there about Jim Richards that seemed so familiar?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Books by Shawna Delacorte
Title Page
CAST OF CHARACTERS
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
Copyright
What was there about Jim Richards that seemed so familiar?
Andrea focused on his eyes, his nose, the shape of his face. His athletic build—broad shoulders, long legs and good looks. His bed-tousled hair. She recalled the warmth of his handshake and the moment of poignancy when he had placed his hand on top of hers. A tremor of desire shivered inside her. Why?
The man was an enigma, a puzzle with many layers and facets. Did she have the right to pry into his private life? Her sense of integrity said no, but her instincts kept tugging at her with a different answer. Every instinct she possessed told her he was not who he appeared to be, that he was hiding something.
Andi had to know who Jim Richards really was and why he had assumed a secret identity. The last thing she needed was to become involved with a mysterious stranger.
But she couldn’t ignore his allure....
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Shawna Delacorte worked for many years in television production until she turned to writing. With the publication of her first novel she was honored with the Waldenbooks award for Bestsellin Series Romance by a New Author. Though she has live most of her life in Los Angeles, she currently resides in Wichita, Kansas.
Shawna would enjoy hearing from her readers and may be contracted at 6505 E. Central #300, Wichita, Kansas 67206-1924.
Books by Shawna Delacorte
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#413—LOVER UNKNOWN
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Secret Lover
Shawna Delacorte
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jim (Richards) Hollander—Who is this mysterious man and why is he hiding?
Andrea Sinclair—Mystery writer whose fiction suddenly turns into reality.
Steve Westerfall—Is this investigative reporter after more than he’s letting on?
Milo Buchanan—This powerful industrialist escaped prosecution once, but the case was never dosed.
Gordon Conklin—Milo Buchanan’s strong arm.
Keith Martin—Andrea Sinclair’s agent—does he know more than he’s saying?
Phil Herman—This prosecutor dismissed the charges against Milo Buchanan, then resigned.
Frank Norton–This ambitious assistant prosecutor stepped into Phil Herman’s job.
Lou Quincy—He headed the U.S. Marshal’s office, but is he bitter about lack of career advancements?
Ben Turner—The head of the FBI investigation of the Buchanan case had lots of expensive habits.
Sally Hanover—A computer whiz, with beauty and brains.
Theo Gunzleman—The court clerk had access to lots of important information.
Chapter One
“Mr. Buchanan, look at this.” A sense of urgency rang in Gordon Conklin’s words. He hurried into the large, mahogany-paneled office carrying a magazine. As with everything else that surrounded Milo Buchanan, the office reeked of money and power, from the thick carpeting to the leather chairs and the monogrammed silver cigar lighter. Gordon handed the magazine to the white-haired man of sixty-five seated behind the large desk. “Right there, Mr. Buchanan—the circled item.”
Milo Buchanan was a slight man, his grooming impeccable and his manner fastidious. He picked up the magazine and read the circled item in the book review section.
According to his publisher, award-winning mystery writer Wayne Gentry’s next effort will be a departure from his established style. Gentry, who has topped the bestseller list with his past five books, is basing a novel on the Buchanan Chemicals case of five years ago. He is centering the story around James Hollander, the missing government witness who was the key to the prosecution’s case.
“Well, Gordon. Let’s find this fellow, this Wayne Gentry. It’s just possible that he’s run across something in his research, some little scrap of information that we’ve overlooked.”
Gordon’s enthusiasm for the prospect of what lay ahead forced its way through his craggy exterior—fresh information, a new lead to follow. “Yes, sir, Mr. Buchanan.”
Gordon Conklin had been administrative aide to Milo Buchanan for seven years. His primary function for the past five years had been exercising all avenues available in tracking down the elusive James Hollander. He used to be known as Gordie, and his mere presence struck fear in the hearts of many a hapless victim. Even though he now wore silk suits and reported directly to Buchanan, he had not given up his shoulder holster and .45-caliber handgun.
Gordon left the office, a look of determination on his hard face.
ANDI SINCLAIR STARED out the window. The snow had been falling for three days. It blanketed everything in a silent shroud of white, broken only by the dark, foreboding shapes of the tall fir trees that surrounded the cabin. She was not sure which was more disconcerting, the snow or the eerie silence.
She returned her attention to the typewriter and read aloud the words on the paper. “It was a dark and stormy night.” She did not know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity. Of all the trite and ridiculous openings. I can’t believe I actually typed that. She stared at the words again. At least it would have given my editor a laugh. She ripped the piece of paper from the typewriter, crumpled it into a ball and dropped it on the floor with all the other discarded sheets. Someone should be getting a laugh out of this, because I’m sure not.
She hugged her shoulders and rubbed her hands over her upper arms in an effort to ward off the chill. She had been told that the winters were usually mild. This sure wasn’t her idea of mild. What in the world had she been thinking of when she agreed to go to a small summer resort on Vancouver Island in the middle of winter? For the past six months her life had been in a state of complete upheaval. Ever since she broke up with Nick, her fiancé of two years’ standing, he had been harassing her. Actually, harassing was not really the proper word. He had not been threatening her or anything like that, it was just...
Oh, Lord...I’m beginning to sound like one of the mystery novels I write—“Heroine stalked by obsessed former lover, film at eleven”—that’s as bad as “It was a dark and stormy night.”
Andi rose from the chair and stretched her five foot seven frame to its fullest, trying to get the kinks out of her back and neck. She had been sitting at the table for too long without moving. She kicked one of the wadded sheets of paper across the floor, shaking her head in dismay as she made her way to the fireplace. She had been putting off buying a laptop computer. She had considered it an unnecessary expense. Not any more. She planned to buy one as soon as she got home. She rubbed her hands together, then held them out toward the heat. The flames had died down. There was a supply of firewood stacked on the front porch. She reached for the doorknob.
A gasp escaped her throat when someone suddenly pounded on the door. She quickly yanked back her hand. There was no reason for anyone to be knocking on her door in this isolated place in the middle of a snowstorm. She started to reach for the doorknob again, then stopped as caution prevailed.
“Who’s there?” She was not pleased with the quaver in her tone.
A smooth masculine voice answered her. “Andrea Sinclair? I’m Jim Richards, the manager and winter caretaker for the resort. It’s been three days since you arrived and you haven’t left the cabin. I thought I’d better check to see if you were okay. Is there any problem, or anything you need?”
Andi opened the door a crack and peered out at her visitor. He was tall, more than six foot, with hazel eyes and longish medium brown hair peeking out from the edges of his wool knit cap. His neatly trimmed beard and mustache were a slightly darker shade of brown. He appeared to be in his late thirties, although it was hard to tell with him bundled up in a heavy jacket, wool cap, snow boots and gloves. She opened the door wider.
Jim pulled off his gloves and extended his hand as he smiled. “We hardly ever get anyone up here in winter.” He felt the tightening in his chest when their hands clasped as she accepted his handshake. The unexpected sensation immediately irritated him, but he covered the annoyance. He had become expert at hiding his true thoughts and feelings. He could not afford the luxury of allowing himself to be tempted by an attractive woman, no matter how much she caused his pulse to race. “What brings you here all by yourself?”
Her sparkling blue eyes held a look of caution. He could not call her beautiful in the classic sense of the word, but she had a captivating mixture of innocence combined with the type of sensuality that caused grown men to act like fools. The tightening in his chest indicated there was something special about her. Once again he shoved the unacceptable feeling away.
She quickly withdrew from his touch. The potent jolt of reality caused her insides to tremble. She stepped back from him in an attempt to regain control of this unexpected turn of events. “You startled me. I certainly didn’t expect anyone to be knocking on my door, especially in the middle of this snowstorm. I was just about to bring in some firewood.”
“Let me do that for you.” He loaded his arms with several pieces of wood and carried them to the fireplace, adding a couple of logs to the fire. His gaze darted around the room, taking in everything, including the typewriter and the numerous crumpled sheets of paper strewn across the floor.
He returned his attention to her. “Are you a writer?”
His manner was open and easy. Her wariness of this stranger lessened, but the unnerving sensual pull of the man refused to go away. A nervousness jittered through her insides, caused not by any concern for her safety but rather the result of far more primal instincts. “Yes, I am. For the past four months I’ve been heavily involved in researching my next book and now I have to write it. I’m trying something different this time and I’m having trouble with it. I’m basing a fiction novel on a real-life case that happened five years ago. This is the first time I’ve tried doing that type of book, and I wasn’t making much progress at home....”
Her voice momentarily faded as she thought of the reason for her concentration problem—the unwanted attentions of Nick. She quickly returned her attention to the problem at hand. Whoever Jim Richards was, he seemed to notice everything—every detail that surrounded him. For some inexplicable reason she felt a sudden need to let this stranger know that someone knew where she was. “My agent thought a change of scenery might be helpful in breaking the ol’ writer’s block, so he sent me here—lots of peace and quiet without any distractions.”
He indicated the mess on the floor surrounding the typewriter. “Do you have as many completed pages as you do discarded ones?”
“Not exactly...” Andi allowed a soft chuckle. “In fact, I don’t have any completed pages.” She stooped down and began picking up the mess.
“Here, let me help you.” Jim knelt down next to her. She smelled good. It was not a sweet perfume scent, rather a sort of crisp, clean fragrance—the type that fit in with a snowy day in the forest. He reluctantly acknowledged the little tremor of excitement that her nearness caused. He looked over at her, his gaze capturing hers and holding it for a long moment. The tightness in his chest returned. He forced his gaze elsewhere. “What kind of books do you write?” He smoothed out one of the crumpled pieces of paper, then quickly scanned the typed page.
“I write mysteries....”
Jim heard her voice trail off in midsentence, but he was far too occupied with what he had in his hand to respond. The words leapt off the page at him—Chicago... Buchanan Chemicals...dumping toxic waste... James Hollander...car bomb, wife killed...disappeared... government still searching for missing key witness.
A hard lump formed in his throat and his pulse raced almost out of control. It had been five years. He had changed his last name from Hollander to Richards and, four years ago, had finally settled into these isolated surroundings. And now this woman appeared out of nowhere, claiming to be a writer and in possession of notes about his past. Was this Andrea Sinclair who she pretended to be, and was all of this some strange, cruel quirk of fate, or was the truth a lot more sinister?
He regained his composure and tried to focus his attention on what she had been saying. “Mysteries, you say... Have you had any published? I read a lot, including mysteries, and I’m not familiar with your name.”
“I write under a pseudonym.” Something about his manner touched a note of discomfort and suspicion deep inside her. Maybe it was from having had twelve mysteries published. She paused in her thoughts as she realized that the James Hollander book would be her thirteenth. She dismissed the silly superstition and returned to her original thought. Perhaps it was from her degree in journalism and the year she spent as assistant to Steve Westerfall, a top investigative reporter, that caused her suspicions. Her mind jumped at the many possibilities, ticking off a list of five different plots in the space of about thirty seconds.
“Really? What’s your pen name?” He was only half listening to what she had said. “Maybe I’ve read some of your work.” A disturbing thought grew inside him. What if she was one of those investigative reporters? He tried to dismiss the idea. If the United States government had not been able to find him hiding out in the Canadian woods, how could some reporter track him down? Then an even more frightening thought occurred to him. What if she worked for Milo Buchanan? No one would ever suspect a woman of being...
“I write under the name of Wayne Gentry.” She was acutely aware that he was paying no attention to what she was saying. He just kept staring at the sheet of paper. She moved closer to him, anxious to see exactly what was written on that specific piece of paper that so captured his attention. She saw at once that it was some of her notes on James Hollander, the real-life counterpart to the main character in her book.
“Wayne Gentry? You’re Wayne Gentry? That’s quite a surprise. I’ve read some of your books. I had no idea they had been written by a woman. Why do you use a man’s name rather than your own?”
Andi laughed, a relaxed laugh, indicating her discomfort had been somewhat alleviated even though her senses were still on full alert. “My first book was actually a police procedural. My agent said it would sell better if people thought it was written by a man. After that, even though my books evolved into straight mysteries rather than police procedurals, I was stuck with the name. The publisher hands out a bio that’s as much fiction as my books.”
“And this new book you’re working on—” he tried to keep his voice calm and his speech patterns smooth and casual “—you say it’s based on a real case?”
“Yes, the Buchanan Chemicals indictments.” She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes slightly and furrowed her brow in thought as she stared at him for a moment. Something about him seemed familiar, something around the eyes. She tried to ignore the errant thought, but it would not q
uite go away.
She continued with her response to his question. “Of course, the case may not have gotten as much publicity here in Canada as it did in the States. Do you remember reading about it? It took place in Chicago about five years ago.”
“Yes...I think I do recall reading something about it. Wasn’t the case finally dropped due to lack of evidence?”
“It wasn’t lack of evidence, not in the strictest sense of the term. There was plenty of evidence, but the key witness disappeared. Without him, all the government could do was prosecute some lower-echelon hired help. The big gun, Milo Buchanan, couldn’t be touched. And—” she paused long enough for her next words to have dramatic effect “—the case has never been closed. The government is still searching for that missing witness.”
There was an anxiousness to his voice, and his words came out a little too quickly. “But, surely he must be dead by now. If the good guys haven’t found him it can only be because the bad guys found him first, wouldn’t you say?”
She remained silent for a moment, carefully turning his words over in her mind. “I’m sure there are several people who hold to that theory, but I’m not one of them. I’ve researched this case very carefully, read everything printed about it and interviewed the police, prosecutors and government agents involved in putting it together. Everything hinged on the key witness, a man named James Hollander. He was Milo Buchanan’s chief chemical engineer. When he found out what Buchanan was up to, he blew the whistle. It must have taken quite a bit of courage on his part.”
She paused for a moment, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed in a thoughtful manner. “That’s why I don’t understand why he chose to disappear. He knew when he blew the whistle that he was in for a rough time, but he did it anyway. I just don’t understand what happened after that. I couldn’t find anything that explains why he suddenly broke away from his protectors and took off on his own.”