Carrie Weaver - Count on a Cop
Page 1
“Why’d you go into law enforcement?”
Normally Angel would have answered with a well-rehearsed spiel. But she knew it wouldn’t fly with Matthew. He was too perceptive. “A cop helped me once when I was in trouble. I guess I admired her and I wanted to help other women like me.”
“What kind of woman would that be?”
Angel refused to allow anyone but her very close friends and her superiors to know she’d ever been that vulnerable. A victim.
“You know all you need to know about me, Matt.” She stood and headed for the bathroom. Stopping in the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. “Except that you really don’t want to get in my way.”
“What about the game?”
Angel wasn’t sure if he referred to the Scrabble game she’d abandoned or the dangerous personal game developing between them.
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed my first romantic suspense, The Secret Wife, I suspect you’ll become immersed in Secrets in Texas. As the titles suggest, both books involve (family) secrets. They also contain twists and turns and complex emotional entanglements.
The idea for Secrets in Texas was born of news articles I read about the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—polygamous sects prevalent near the Arizona/Utah border, among other places.
I contemplated how hard it must be for men and women raised in this culture to adjust to living in the outside world. So I gave my hero, Matthew Stone, just such a challenge. I tested him to the limit and sent him back to the polygamist group, this time with a faux wife who is anything but submissive. Problem is, there are secrets in Angel Harrison’s past that have her wondering if she might be more vulnerable than she thinks.
While I did research fundamentalist sects, I didn’t try to factually recreate their lifestyle in my book. Instead, I created my own sect, Zion’s Gate.
Please join Angel and Matthew on their journey of discovery at Zion’s Gate.
Yours in reading,
Carrie Weaver
P.S. Carrie enjoys hearing from readers by e-mail at www.CarrieWeaver.com or snail mail at P.O. Box 6045, Chandler, AZ 85246-6045.
SECRETS IN TEXAS
Carrie Weaver
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With two teenage sons, two dogs and three cats, Carrie Weaver often feels she lives in a state called Chaos (not to be confused with Dysfunction Junction, a place she’s visited only once or twice). Her books reflect real life and real love, with all the ups, downs and emotion involved.
Books by Carrie Weaver
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
1173—THE ROAD TO ECHO POINT
1222—THE SECOND SISTER
1274—THE SECRET WIFE
1311—HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
1346—FOUR LITTLE PROBLEMS
HARLEQUIN NASCAR
NO TIME TO LOSE*
HIS FATHER’S SON*
This book is dedicated to my editor, Laura Shin.
Thank you for having confidence in me even
when I sometimes don’t.
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
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
ANGEL OPENED HER eyes, trying to focus. What started as a fuzzy recollection of violence morphed into full-blown terror.
She stifled a whimper as she rolled onto her stomach.
Must be quiet. She knew her survival depended upon it.
Drawing her knees beneath her, she bit her lip as her legs slid in opposite directions. It was like a grotesque combination of Twister and Slip ’N Slide. Only the splotches were red instead of an assortment of colors, and the liquid was too slimy for water.
It was blood. Hers? His?
Her knees stabilized, gaining traction. Slowly, deliberately, she placed a palm on the once-pristine tile floor. Then she put her other hand next to it.
Sweat rolled down her face. This should have been so simple.
But nothing had been simple for a long time.
She bit back a hysterical chuckle.
Must be quiet.
By slowly tilting her head, she was able to survey much of the kitchen peripherally without expending precious energy.
Kent wasn’t in the room.
She had already registered that fact on a subconscious level, but caution had served her well in the past. Otherwise she’d be dead.
Inching forward, she focused solely on the cordless phone that had skittered beneath the table. Frowning, she tried to remember holding it, making a call.
But it was like a recurring nightmare. The phone was just out of her reach. And so was the memory.
Angel smiled grimly.
The phone might be out of reach, but the butcher knife wasn’t. It was a foot or two away, probably dropped in haste.
She forced back the hot saliva pooling on her tongue as she moved forward and grasped the handle. It was slick with blood from hilt to tip. The blade was coated with the stuff. And she was pretty sure it was her own.
Bones crunched. Pain radiated up her arm. The knife dropped from her numb fingers.
It took precious seconds for reality to register. A size-twelve work boot pinned her wrist to the floor. Jeans brushed the tips of the brown boots, jeans she’d laundered so carefully earlier that morning.
Angel’s scalp burned as her head was jerked backward. Her long, dark hair had once been her pride and joy. Now it was simply a handy leash, snarled in Kent’s fist, as he forced her to look evil in the face.
She struggled to get away, an effort so ineffectual it made him smile. A cold, triumphant smile that told her she would die today.
The sound of splintering wood barely penetrated, as did the shout to freeze.
That confused Angel. It was a bright, beautiful Sunday afternoon. No frost or snow on the ground.
But something about that weather report seemed to enrage Kent even more. Or maybe it was the jumble of DPS officers arriving uninvited into his home.
He glanced at the cordless phone lying a few feet away. Fury burned in his eyes.
“Bitch.” He swung her just far enough away so he could reach the knife and still keep her within his grasp.
She saw the knife arc into the air, then sweep toward her.
Waited for the fatal thrust that never came.
Flinched as shots echoed in her sunny kitchen.
Stumbled to the floor, still tethered to Kent. Saw him writhe once, twitch, and then lay still.
Sighed when her hair was cut from Kent’s grip. And focused on the hank clutched in her husband’s fist.
Even in death, Kent had refused to let her go.
CHAPTER ONE
Nine years later
Brownsville, Texas
ANGEL HARRISON squared her shoulders and entered the conference room. One look at her new assignment and she wanted to puke—the man and all he represented sickened her. But he was one of the good guys now, she reminded herself.
Or so she was told.
Realizing her supervisor wai
ted for her to make nice, she forced herself to step forward and shake the visitor’s hand. She also forced herself not to break all twenty-seven bones in his pale hand. Just apply enough pressure so he knew she meant business. “I’m Agent Harrison.”
To his credit, he didn’t flinch. And he didn’t try to one-up her by resorting to force. He just held her gaze, his green eyes serious as he acknowledged her greeting. “Ma’am. I’m Matthew Stone.”
“So when are we getting married?”
He shrugged, not a golden hair out of place on his conservative head. Nodding toward the suit and the ranger entering the conference room, he said, “Whenever they decide.”
To give him credit, he was a cool one. And better-looking than his photos suggested. Definitely not Brad Pitt-perfect, more like Matthew McConaughey masquerading as an overgrown, utterly serious Eagle Scout. His crooked nose was the only feature out of the ordinary.
Angel’s inspection was interrupted by the ranger, Javier Perez. He was legendary in the law-enforcement community as tough but fair.
Ranger Perez took the lead while the man in the suit positioned himself in an unobtrusive corner. He had federal agent written all over him.
Angel struggled to keep her expression impassive as her supervisor went to fetch coffee. Women of her rank shouldn’t fetch coffee. Women of any rank shouldn’t fetch coffee.
Perez took his place at the head of the table. “Please sit down, Mr. Stone, Agent Harrison.”
Angel longed to defy the command. But today compliance served a purpose. She sat stiffly on the edge of the chair.
Ranger Perez slid a file folder to Stone, then one to Angel. “Here is the identity we’ve created for Agent Harrison. Since she works undercover with the Department of Public Safety gang unit, there will be no paper trail to refute the identity we’ve set up or cast any doubt on the whirlwind romance you two are about to begin. It’s the best cover we could devise to get an agent inside.”
“Is it really necessary? The Vegas wedding?” Stone asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
Perez frowned. “We think so. It’s likely Jonathon Stone has been keeping tabs on you in recent years, possibly even the entire time you’ve been away from the sect. Marriage records are in the public domain, precluding a more long-term union. Hence your new red-hot romance with Agent Harrison resulting in a quickie marriage. The more public, the better.”
Angel winced. This was so not her idea of a decent cover. How would she be able to act lovey-dovey with the Eagle Scout? Eyeing him, she decided even a bottle of tequila wouldn’t do the trick.
Perez cleared his throat, as if sensing she wanted to bolt for the door. “We’ve shaved a few years off Agent Harrison’s profile because ATF surveillance indicates your stepfather, um, uncle, might be more…receptive to a daughter-in-law on the easy side of thirty. Fortunately Agent Harrison appears much younger than her age.”
Thanks, asshole.
Matthew’s lips twitched as if he’d heard her thoughts loud and clear. And agreed with her.
Angel revised her earlier assessment of Matthew white-bread-bland Stone. He might seem quiet and unperturbed, but beneath the surface he was razor-sharp.
Angel’s cheeks warmed with an unfamiliar wave of shame. Surely he couldn’t see inside her with that steady gaze of his? Couldn’t see all she’d endured and sacrificed to rejoin the human race?
He averted his head, but not before she’d seen pity flash in his eyes.
Damn. Did he know? There was nothing to tie her to the news reports detailing the bloodshed nine years ago.
But Matthew Stone somehow knew her shame. And pitied her.
Angel did what came naturally these days—she came out swinging. “Let me get this straight, Ranger Perez. You want to serve up my well-preserved-for-an-old-broad-of-thirty-one body to Jonathon Stone? That’s how I’m supposed to protect the women and children at Zion’s Gate?”
“Certainly not, Agent Harrison. Your job is to observe and report back. You will not have a weapon. You will not confront anyone at Zion’s Gate. You will secure information, nothing more.”
“You say one thing, Perez, but your actions say another. You are putting Agent Harrison at risk.” Matthew’s voice was deceptively quiet, with an underlying edge. “I won’t be a party to prostituting any woman to get in my uncle’s good graces. And, yes, as my father’s brother, he is my uncle. His marriage to my mother was not legal and was not sanctified in any church I acknowledge.”
Perez’s eyes narrowed. “Point taken.”
Angel noticed he didn’t deny sending mixed messages. He wasn’t going to flat out tell her not to sleep with the perverted old goat to facilitate her assignment.
Instead Perez fell back on the bureaucratic mumbo jumbo so uncharacteristic of a ranger. At least uncharacteristic until the deaths at the Branch Davidian sect and the resulting Waco fallout. “The Rangers are grateful to Agent Harrison for volunteering for this assignment. But, just so you’re both crystal clear, she is not working for the Texas Rangers in any capacity. Nor is she working for the ATF or DEA. Our agencies will merely be apprised of any information she gathers that might pertain to the security of our citizens.”
“So if anything happens to her, you’re not responsible.” Matthew’s relaxed pose didn’t change, but the air seemed to crackle around him. No wonder Jonathon Stone had taken the dangerous gamble of inviting his nephew back into the fold. Matthew had the charisma to shore up his uncle’s crumbling position as Zion’s Gate lord and dictator.
When Perez didn’t confirm or deny the allegation, Matthew continued. “The way I see it, you gentlemen are putting Agent Harrison at the mercy of a murderer, in the very core of his highly armed compound.”
Perez stiffened, his fists clenched. “We’re all adults here, we know what we’re up against.”
Matthew stood, his movements slow, almost lazy. “I’m not sure you have any idea what you’re up against at Zion’s Gate, Ranger Perez. And if you do, you will be no less culpable than my uncle.”
Only then did Angel realize Matthew Stone was sending a civilized death threat. She got the impression Perez’s badge would be little protection against Stone if things went wrong.
Angel understood in that moment how huge her initial error in judgment had been. Not only was Matthew Stone a lot smarter than he’d let on, he was an extremely dangerous man. Her gut told her he wouldn’t hesitate to kill if necessary.
And if the way Perez clenched his jaw was anything to go by, he realized it, too. “The fact is, Zion’s Gate is in law enforcement no-man’s-land. Part of it lies on the U.S. side of the border and is connected by a tunnel system to the rest of the compound. Even if the Texas authorities were magically able to remove their thumbs from their collective Waco-weary asses, Jonathon Stone would still use his tunnel system to move to the Mexican side.”
“And if the Mexican government pursued his flock, the same would happen in reverse.” Stone’s voice held a note of resignation.
“Exactly. Stone leases the Matamoros section of the property from drug lords, which further complicates the situation. Hence the DEA interest. It’s a volatile situation to begin with. Add a large cache of weapons, political unrest at Zion’s Gate and reports of Stone’s increasing paranoia and we’ve got a potential bloodbath on our hands.
MATTHEW SUPPRESSED a groan as he glanced around the foyer of the Las Vegas wedding chapel. Tacky was the first word that came to mind. Surreal was the second.
But he stood quietly to the side as Agent Harrison entered with her parents. The man was tall, stately, distinguished. He cupped his wife’s elbow with his hand as his gaze lingered on the woman’s face. She was beautiful, an older, more polished version of her daughter. Her bearing was graceful, the line of her clothes clean yet alluring. And when she turned in his direction, her dark eyes searched his face.
Angel stood on tiptoe to whisper something in her father’s ear.
The older man stiffened and turned tow
ard Matthew. Angel took him by the hand and the three joined him.
“Daddy, this is Matthew, my, um, fiancé.”
Matthew extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“You can save it. I’m aware this isn’t a real wedding.”
The woman at his side made a censuring noise low in her throat.
“Keep your voice down, Daddy,” Angel snapped.
“Princess, it pains me to see you go through another ill-advised wedding, if only on paper.”
Princess? She’d impressed Matthew as more assassin than princess.
“It’ll be fine. Just do your part today. That’s all I ask.”
“I’ll do my part. But I can’t help worrying about you.”
“I know. But you don’t need to. I can take care of myself.”
Matthew observed the interplay with interest. Why was her father so worried? Surely she’d been on assignments just as dangerous. Maybe it wasn’t the mission that bothered him but the wedding, fake though it was.
“I’m Isabella Harrison.” The older woman extended her hand to Matthew. “We are very protective of our daughter.”