“I gave birth to our son seven months ago.”
Dex didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. “I have a son.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
“Yes,” Alyson said finally.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
“I couldn’t take the chance. I was afraid you’d try to take him away from me.”
His face flushed with anger. “You should have trusted me to do the right thing. You should have damn well told me.”
She let his anger buffet her. He was right. She’d known it in her heart all along. She should have told him. Despite her fear. Despite the risk. “I’m here now. I’m telling you now.”
“Why are you here now, Alyson? Why did you pick tonight of all nights to tell me I had a son?”
“Because…” She forced her words through the thickness in her throat, through the fear tightening her lips. “Because he’s gone.”
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Out like a lion! That’s our Harlequin Intrigue lineup for March. As if you’d expect anything else.
Debra Webb concludes her trilogy THE SPECIALISTS with Guardian of the Night. Talk about sensuous and surreal and sexy. Man alive! You’re sure to love this potent story that spans the night…and—to be sure—a lifetime. And you can find more COLBY AGENCY stories to follow this terrific spin-off later in the year.
Veteran Harlequin Intrigue author Patricia Rosemoor has created a new miniseries for you called CLUB UNDERCOVER. It’s slick and secretive—just the way we like things here. Fake I.D. Wife is available this month and VIP Protector next month. So get your dancing shoes retreaded for this dynamic duo.
Finally we have two terrific theme promotions for you. Claiming His Family by Ann Voss Peterson is the newest addition to TOP SECRET BABIES. And Marching Orders by Delores Fossen kicks off MEN ON A MISSION. Who could ever resist a man in uniform?
So we hope you like our selections this month and we look forward to seeing you choose Harlequin Intrigue again for more great books of breathtaking romantic suspense.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
CLAIMING HIS FAMILY
ANN VOSS PETERSON
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts to working with quarter horses to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at [email protected] or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com
Books by Ann Voss Peterson
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
579—INADMISSIBLE PASSION
618—HIS WITNESS, HER CHILD
647—ACCESSORY TO MARRIAGE
674—LAYING DOWN THE LAW
684—GYPSY MAGIC
“Sabina”
702—CLAIMING HIS FAMILY
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dex Harrington—A target of revenge, District Attorney Dex Harrington stands to lose everything he cares about: his career, his reputation and the child he never knew he had.
Alyson Fitzroy—A DNA analyst in Wisconsin’s State Crime Lab, Alyson fell in love with Dex years ago. And when their relationship crumbled, so did her heart. But now she must go to him for help if she ever hopes to see their child again.
Andrew Clarke Smythe—The rapist is clever enough to get himself pardoned for his crimes. But that isn’t enough. Now he wants revenge against the district attorney who put him in prison. And he’ll do anything to get it.
John Cohen—Is the assistant district attorney cynical enough that he would sell out his office for cash?
Lee Runyon—How far will the top criminal defense attorney go to serve his clients?
Connie Rasula—Did she lie in order to get Smythe out of prison?
Maggie Daugherty—An employee of the D.A.’s office, Maggie holds a grudge against Alyson. But what is the real reason behind her narrowed eyes and severe frown?
Valerie D’Fonse—The brilliant scientist loves to gossip. But is there something sinister behind her wide smile?
Jennifer Scott—Is the crime lab chemist romantically involved with Andrew Smythe? Or is she part of the conspiracy to get him released?
Al Mylinski—He’ll give his all to serve justice.
To Brett, a true labor of love.
Special thanks to Jerome Geurts, Director of Wisconsin State Crime Lab—Madison for his help. Any errors, omissions or creative license are mine alone.
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 Seventeen
Chapter One
Alyson Fitzroy stared at the television screen and ground her teeth together until the pain shooting along her jaw made her let up. A scene taped earlier in the day flickered on the ten o’clock news. Grinning broadly, Andrew Clarke Smythe swaggered to a waiting limousine, a small crowd of supporters cheering him on from outside the prison gates.
Andrew Clarke Smythe, the most notorious serial rapist in Dane County’s history, was free. And the tests Alyson had performed in Wisconsin’s State Crime Lab were responsible.
Since the day she’d received the order to perform the DNA comparison between blood found under the fingernails of a recent rape victim and the DNA of the imprisoned Smythe, she’d feared this would be the result. But she’d hoped the police would be able to shoot holes in the impossible theory that Smythe had a DNA clone out there committing rape—before he won his appeal for a new trial. She’d never dreamed the governor would bypass the criminal justice system completely and give the Smythe Pharmaceuticals heir a pardon.
She wrapped her arms around herself. She felt sick to her stomach. But as sick as she felt, she knew it had to be worse for Dex.
As if echoing her thoughts, Dane County’s new District Attorney Dex Harrington’s face flashed on the television screen next. Outwardly he looked the same—the all-American male with hair the color of a sun-kissed beach and the square jaw and cleft chin of a superhero. But he’d changed in the past year and a half. She could read it in the hardness in his eyes, the rigid muscles along his jaw. He seemed even more judgmental than he had the last time she’d seen him. The time she’d been the one on whom he was passing judgment. The time she’d come up wanting.
She shoved the bitter memories from her mind. She couldn’t waste her life being bitter. It wouldn’t change anything. And looking at Dex’s face on TV, the solemn line of his lips, the tortured squint of his eyes as he answered the reporters’ questions, bitterness was far from her reach. She felt only regret.
Alyson pushed herself up from the couch and switched off the television. Wrapping her terry-cloth robe tighter around her, she padded out of her comfortable little living room on bare feet and started up the staircase leading to the bedrooms.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she strode past her own bedroom to the closed door at the end of the hall. She paused for a moment and listened. Hearing nothing, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Though Alyson had closed the windows against the humidity, the air still smelled like the fresh June night outside. She squinted her eyes against the darkness, the full moon obscured by drawn curtains. Only a feeble light from the hall chased away the shadows and revealed the white bars of the crib in the corner. The crib that held the most precious thing in her life.
She approached on stealthy steps and peered inside. Seven-month-old Patrick lay on his back, his head turned to the side. His little chest rose and fell with each breath. As always, a wave of love and gratitude surged through her at the sight of him. His peaceful face, his clenched fists, the tiny cleft in his chin.
Just like his daddy’s.
She’d meant to tell Dex at first. Even after the blowup. After all, he’d had a right to know. She’d even telephoned him a few times, but he’d refused to take her calls. And whenever she’d forced herself to drive to his house, she’d invariably driven away without stepping from her car. She just couldn’t make herself face him.
She’d kept seeing the scorn in his eyes when she’d defended her father, when she’d taken her first wrong step. She’d kept hearing Dex’s bitter words the last night they were together, the night he refused her a second chance, the night he told her he didn’t want her anymore.
She shook her head, shutting out his words, and focused on her child’s innocent face. No matter what Dex had done to her, he still deserved to know he had a child. And if things were that simple, she would have found a way to tell him.
But things weren’t that simple.
Leaning over the crib gate, she reached a finger to touch the soft blond down on her baby’s head. He’d given her the strength to go on after Dex’s rejection, after her father’s crimes and his subsequent death from his co-conspirator’s bullet. Patrick was her little man, her love, her life. He was everything she had.
She couldn’t risk losing him.
A feeling crept over her skin. A feeling that had nothing to do with the child sleeping in the crib. A feeling of being watched by malevolent eyes.
She jolted upright. Too late. A hand closed around her throat. A sweet-smelling cloth pressed over her nose and mouth.
She held her breath. She couldn’t scream. If she did, she’d drag the fumes into her lungs, she’d lose consciousness. She wouldn’t be able to fight. She kicked back, connecting with a shin.
A guttural growl exploded in the darkness. “Damn bitch.”
She flailed her arms, trying to hit her attacker, trying to loosen his grip. Swinging low with one hand, she hit his hip, her fingers grasping something soft hanging from his belt. A rope. Oh, God, he intended to tie her up. Or just slip the ligature around her throat. Once that happened, she didn’t stand a chance. Panic bolted through her. She flailed harder. One fist connected with the side of his face.
Another curse erupted from his lips. The hand on her throat tightened, cutting off her breath. Cutting off her life.
She hit him again, trying to put more force into the punch, but he only gripped her throat harder. Her pulse beat in her ears. Dizziness swam in her mind. Her fist connected again. She needed air. She couldn’t let herself pass out.
Suddenly the grip on her throat loosened.
She gasped in a breath. Then another. She tried to twist in his grip, tried to get away, but he held her fast, the cloth clamped over her mouth and nose. The scent of chloroform tickled her sinuses and filled her lungs. Her head reeled, dizzy, slipping.
Darkness closed over her.
Chapter Two
Alyson woke, a strange smell filling her nostrils, its sweet flavor tainting her mouth. Her stomach protested and her head whirled. What had happened? She lay still, willing her stomach to stop flipping, her head resting on the berber carpet in Patrick’s room.
Patrick.
Memories rushed back. The hand gripping her throat. The cloth over her mouth and nose. The unmistakable smell of chloroform.
She jolted into a sitting position. Her stomach heaved. Her head pounded. She choked back her sickness and climbed to her feet. Two steps and she was at the crib gate, her fingers clutching the bars, her mind scrambling to process what she was seeing—and what she was not seeing.
The crib sheet glowed like pristine snow. Shadows from the mobile suspended above the crib danced across the expanse of the sheet.
The empty expanse.
Patrick was gone.
Her heart lurched in her chest. She grabbed the side of the crib to keep from toppling over. It couldn’t be. Her little man. Her baby.
She knelt beside the crib and looked underneath, straining her eyes, desperately searching the shadows. As if she believed he’d crawled out. As if she believed her seven-month-old was suddenly able to play a game of hide-and-seek with his mommy. Even in her panic, she knew he was gone. She knew it. But she didn’t want to believe it. There had to be another explanation. There had to be, however impossible.
A phone’s ring jangled above the roaring in her ears. Cold dread welled up inside her, swamping her, drowning her. She forced herself to concentrate. Forced herself to turn away from the empty crib. Forced herself to walk down the hall to her bedroom.
The telephone waited on a bedside table, its light throbbing in the shadows with each ring. She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear in a shaking hand. Far away she heard her voice say, “Hello?”
“I came for you tonight, Alyson.” The voice slithered from the phone.
She gripped the receiver until her knuckles ached. “Where’s my baby?”
“Like I said, I came for you tonight, but I found something better.”
“Where’s my baby?” Her voice broke, shrill with panic.
“He’s safe. For now. But if you call the police, he won’t be safe for long.”
Oh, God. Oh, God. Her mind raced. She didn’t know what to do. “Don’t hurt him. Please. I’ll pay you anything you want.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Then what? What do you want me to do?”
A chuckle erupted over the phone. “I was waiting for you to ask that. I want you to contact the baby’s father.”
“The baby’s father?”
“You know who he is, don’t you, Alyson? Or do you need to do a DNA test to find out?”
She did her best to swallow her panic. She had to stay calm. She had to stay focused. She had to convince this man she would do whatever he wanted. As long as he didn’t hurt Patrick, as long as he gave her baby back, everything would be all right. “I know who he is.”
“Good. It’s much better when you don’t have to rely on DNA. It’s such an unpredictable science. All those double helixes running around, or whatever the hell. You never quite know when you’re going to get an inconvenient match that will ruin all your plans.”
Understanding cut through the fog of panic and confusion clouding her mind. The chloroform. The rope. All elements of the rapes he’d been convicted for two years ago. She knew who was on the other end. She knew who had stolen her baby. “Smythe.”
“Can’t put anything past you smart scientist types.” A chuckle rippled over the phone line, vulgar, obscene. “How about that justice system? Isn’t it great?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Revenge. Pure and sweet.” His voice lost the chuckle and grew dark. “You see, I know who fathered your bastard, too, Alyson. And no man condemns me to two years in that hellhole of a prison and gets away with it. No man. I want you to tell him that.”
How in the world had Smythe learned Dex was Patrick’s father? Alyson hadn’t told a soul. She’d taken a leave of absence from work to hide her pregnancy. She hadn’t even listed Dex on Patrick’s birth certificate. But it didn’t matter how Smythe had learned the truth, he was planning to use the baby against Dex. She couldn�
�t let that happen. “Your plan isn’t going to work, Smythe. Dex doesn’t even know about Patrick.”
“He will after you tell him.”
Tell Dex? She couldn’t tell Dex. Not now. Not after all this time. “But I—”
“You what?”
Her knees wobbled. She sank onto the bed, grasping the edge with one hand to keep her balance. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll tell him tonight.”
“I thought you’d see things my way. You want me happy, Alyson. For your baby’s sake, you want me happy. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.” She forced herself to breathe. She had to do something. Anything. Spotting the Memo button on the answering machine, she pushed it. At least she could get Smythe’s voice on tape. She’d have proof of his threats. “After I tell Dex, then what?”
“I’ll call.”
“Can’t you tell me more now? Can’t I do something? Please.” She couldn’t just sit and wait. Not while Patrick was in the hands of this monster. Not while her baby was hungry and cold and wanted his mother. Not while Smythe might—
She bit the inside of her cheek until the coppery taste of blood tinged her mouth. She couldn’t think about what Smythe might do to Patrick. She couldn’t function if she thought about that.
“You just let Harrington know he has a son. I’ll be in touch.”
“Please. You can’t do this. Give him back to—”
The line went dead.
ANDY SMYTHE pulled his sweet, red Corvette to the curb in front of the little ranch house and killed the engine. Alyson Fitzroy’s questions and challenges still rang in his ears. Damn. A woman’s mouth was only good for one thing, and it sure as hell wasn’t talking. He couldn’t stand women who talked too much. Especially the smart, superior types like Alyson Fitzroy. He would have loved to do what he’d gone to her house to do. He would have loved to grab her by her long red hair and put her in her place. He had been looking forward to it.
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