Men Made in America Mega-Bundle

by Gayle Wilson, Marie Ferrarella, Jennifer Greene, Annette Broadrick, Judith Arnold, Rita Herron, Anne Stuart, Diana Palmer, Elizabeth Bevarly, Patricia Rosemoor, Emilie Richards

  Dawson chewed the inside of his cheek. “Should I? Is she someone famous?”

  “Not the way you mean.” Ford sighed audibly. “She’s a kook.”

  “What?” Dawson tried to hold on to his patience. “If you’ve got something to say, Ford, spit it out.”

  Ford scratched his beard. “We’ve gotten a couple of calls from her before.”

  Nathan eyed Ford with curiosity. “Yeah, she told me that. Why didn’t someone follow up on it?”

  Ford grunted in obvious disgust. “’Cause she’s a flake. Two weeks ago she said someone was lurking outside her apartment.”

  “And?”

  “Turned out to be a stray cat. I told you, she’s a nut.” Ford’s big belly shook as he let out a harsh breath.

  Nathan frowned, still unconvinced the woman wasn’t in danger. “There could have been someone there.”

  “She called again last week. Said someone had been in her office.”

  “Yeah? What did you find?” Nathan arched an eyebrow.

  “Nobody but a cleaning service. Said she’s been getting hang-up calls, too, and some pretty weird messages.”

  In spite of himself, Nathan was growing more and more curious, not just about Veronica, but about this case. “What kind of messages?”

  Ford shrugged. “Don’t know. When she brought in the tape, it had been erased.” He shifted to his left foot and rubbed his thigh. “My guess is, she made it all up. Trying to get attention.”

  “Yeah? What makes you think that? Her injuries look pretty damned real to me.”

  “Well, she’s weird. Everyone who grew up around these parts knows about her.”

  “And why is that?” Nathan asked, growing tired of Ford’s cat-and-mouse game.

  “’Cause of what happened to her folks years ago.”

  Nathan leaned against the porch railing. “What about her parents?”

  Ford pulled out a wad of chewing tobacco and stuffed it in his mouth. “That’s the interesting part. Veronica Miller grew up around here, but she moved to Florida to live with her grandmother.”

  Nathan knew there was more. Ford was obviously enjoying dragging the story out, adding suspense. “Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me the rest.”

  Ford grinned. “Veronica Miller’s parents died right here in this town. Same time of year as this. Police called it a murder-suicide. Father killed the mom, then killed himself.”

  Nathan swallowed, feeling the cold bite of winter all the way down to his toes. Through the glass door, he saw the paramedic helping Veronica through the hallway. She looked pale and fragile. Then she glanced up and met his gaze, and the corners of her mouth lifted in a slight smile of relief. His gut tightened.

  “They say Veronica witnessed the whole thing, but she doesn’t remember it,” Ford continued.

  A drop of sweat rolled down Nathan’s neck. “How old was she?”

  “Seven.” Ford paused. “There’s more. Reporters went nuts over the story. The girl had to see a shrink.” Ford spat a blob of tobacco juice off the porch edge. “Sounds to me like she still may be crazy. You know they say kids never get over traumatic things like that. Makes some of ’em pure schizo.” He studied the toe of his battered boot. “There were rumors she might even have killed her parents herself.”

  “It’s hard to believe a seven-year-old would be strong enough to kill two adults,” Nathan said. “Any evidence to support that theory?”

  Ford scratched his beard. “Just the fact she was holding the murder weapon when the police arrived.”

  Nathan adapted his poker face. “Let me guess. The parents were killed with a knife.”

  Ford grinned. “Yep. A kitchen one. Kind of like the one she had when we got here. And she kept muttering that it was her fault. Some said her grandma whisked her away to cover it up.”

  A sigh of frustration escaped Nathan. He looked out over the small landing of her apartment complex. The outside lights shone brightly, and pansies filled the flower beds. What a beautiful little complex, and what a sad story.

  Veronica and the paramedic came to the door. She seemed vulnerable and troubled and she’d called him for help. As an officer of the law, he had to protect her. But what exactly was he protecting her from? From some weirdo or from herself? She could be telling the truth. But if Ford was right and Veronica was unstable, perhaps she hadn’t been attacked at all.

  A rancid taste filled his mouth. He wanted to believe her, but he had to check out all angles. And knowing about Veronica’s past shed a whole different light on the situation.

  Chapter Two

  A dozen questions tumbled through Veronica’s head.

  “We’ll have this arm stitched up in a minute,” the doctor said. “You were mighty lucky. Another quarter of an inch and your main artery would have been severed.” Arlene Baits reminded Veronica more of her grandmother than a physician. She’d been especially tender and kind while she’d cleaned Veronica’s wound, chatting to distract her from the unpleasant chore.

  But the past few hours kept replaying themselves in Veronica’s head like an old horror show. The only halfway bright spot had been meeting Detective Dawson. He hadn’t looked at her as if she were nuts like so many people in the past. But she’d seen him talking to Ford, whispering and glancing back and forth at her. Something was up. Either they’d found evidence in her apartment they didn’t want to tell her about or they didn’t believe her. She knew what Ford thought. But she couldn’t read the other detective. He’d been kind and concerned and performed all the seemingly appropriate police tasks. But he kept staring at her as if he could see into her soul.

  No man had ever looked at her that way. She shivered, then flinched as the doctor dabbed antiseptic over the small nick on her throat.

  “All done. How did you say this happened?” the doctor asked again.

  “Someone broke into my apartment and attacked me,” Veronica said for what she felt like was the umpteenth time. At least she hadn’t implied she’d tried to commit suicide like the paramedics.

  The elderly woman clucked her tongue. “Can’t be too safe these days. I keep a dead bolt. And my puppy dog, Randall, barks at anything that gets near me.”

  Veronica smiled. Maybe she needed to get a dog.

  “What’d you say your name was, dear?”

  “Veronica Miller.”

  “Oh.” Dr. Baits tilted her head sideways as if in thought. “I knew of some Millers a long time ago.” Her eyes widened, then narrowed again. She suddenly pressed her lips tightly together. Her hands trembled as she helped Veronica down from the examining table.

  Veronica wondered at the woman’s strange reaction. The doctor was old enough to have known about her parents. And their murder. Maybe she remembered them. Maybe she had an idea who had killed them.

  “You can go now,” Dr. Baits said, her face pale.

  Veronica started to question her, but Dr. Baits quickly opened the door. “That detective said he’s waiting to drive you home.” The woman forced a smile, but Veronica recognized the lackluster quality. “Handsome young fella. Better not keep him waitin’.”

  Handsome didn’t matter, Veronica told herself. Just as long as he could do his job.

  “Thanks for everything, Dr. Baits.” Veronica felt weak. Perhaps she’d return when she felt better to question the woman. She wobbled on unsteady feet but managed to make it to the waiting room without collapsing. All she wanted was a nice warm bed and some sleep. Then she remembered what had happened in her bedroom, and knew she couldn’t sleep there tonight.

  “Are you all right?” Detective Dawson rose from the stiff-looking vinyl chair and rushed instantly to her side. His arm curved around her elbow in support. Veronica was immediately grateful she’d changed from her thin cotton gown into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “I’m fine,” Veronica lied. “Just exhausted.”

  The detective nodded. “You want to go home? Or do you have some family—” an odd expression crossed his face “—
or do you want to go to a friend’s house?”

  Veronica froze, her gaze colliding with his. She read understanding and something else she couldn’t identify. His eyebrows furrowed, and once again that strange probing look darkened his eyes, making her wonder what he had on his mind or how much he knew about her. Questions lingered in his expression. He seemed to have as many as she did.

  “No friends,” Veronica said as he walked her to the car. She thought of Eli, her parents’ friend who lived only a few miles away. He was also her godfather, but she didn’t feel comfortable horning in on his family. “I just moved here a couple of months ago,” Veronica said, deciding not to go into a long explanation.

  “From Florida?”

  “Yes, but I was born here,” Veronica said. Maybe she should tell the detective bits of her past before he heard the distorted version from someone else. “My parents died when I was a child so I moved away with my grandmother.”

  “What brought you back to Oakland?” Dawson asked.

  “I’m a tax attorney. After my grandmother died, I didn’t have any real ties to Florida. When Abe Walsh retired, I took over his practice.”

  “I remember Walsh,” Dawson said. “Decided to travel the world. Must have retired with a hefty chunk of change.”

  Veronica remained silent, her thoughts scattered. She’d had to return to this town. Back in Fort Lauderdale, her boyfriend, Ron had pushed for more commitment, but she’d been leery. Her childhood nightmares had returned, occasionally a flash of something from her youth seeping in. Eli had contacted her, too, wanting to see her—it seemed like everything had come together at once, bringing her here. She’d decided if she finally put all her ghosts to rest, maybe she could move on with her life.

  “You want to go back to your apartment?”

  An image of yellow police tape, shattered glass and dark shadows filled her mind. Veronica shook her head. “No, a hotel would be nice. I’d like to stop by and pack a bag though.”

  He opened the car door. “Sure. You should have dead bolts installed tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  Dawson made his way to the driver’s side and climbed in. “Which hotel?”

  “One of the busy ones in town,” Veronica said automatically. One where no one will know me. She wrapped her arms around herself in a protective gesture. “Maybe I can lose myself in the crowd.”

  AFTER NATHAN MADE SURE Veronica was settled into the hotel room, he headed to the station. If Veronica thought she could ever be lost in a crowd, she was wrong. The ridiculous thought made him chuckle. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And he realized when she’d made the statement that she didn’t have a clue how men saw her.

  Or had her statement meant something else? Had she wanted to lose herself as in commit suicide? He’d considered the possibility as soon as he’d seen the wrist wound. The paramedic had immediately asked her the same question. Her big dark eyes had turned to the young man in disbelief, as if she couldn’t fathom why he would ask such a thing. Considering her confused state, the combination of alcohol and possibly sleeping pills along with her troubled past, the assumption seemed logical.

  But still, something bothered him about the incident. He didn’t know what had happened at her apartment, but he didn’t think she’d tried to take her own life.

  “Stop thinking with your hormones and use your brain,” he muttered to himself as he turned into the precinct. It might be 2:00 a.m., but he intended to start his investigation of Veronica immediately. He only hoped she didn’t turn out to be nuttier than his Aunt Willemena’s fruitcake.

  An hour later, his eyes blurring, he slurped down the dregs of his third cup of coffee and choked down a stale bear claw. The files on the Miller family lay before him. There appeared to be enough for the beginnings of a novel.

  Good heavens, the woman was a legend. Or at least the news of the Miller murder-suicide had been highlighted in Atlanta newspapers for months after her parents’ deaths. He stared at the yellowed edges of the old newspaper article, and his heart twisted at the sad expression on Veronica’s face—a seven-year-old girl with the weight of her mother’s and father’s deaths on her mind. Her big, dark eyes glistened with pain and turmoil, and a single lone tear streaked her cheek as she clutched an elderly woman’s hand.

  They stood beside a gravestone, Veronica with a small bunch of fresh daisies almost crushed to pieces in her tiny hand. A few mourners hunched in the wind on the dark, dreary day, a day much like this one had been. Police and reporters had been present, too. The poor child hadn’t been able to grieve without being hounded by the press. Or the police. What kind of effect had the gossip and media attention had on her?

  He leaned back in his chair, studying a picture of her folks when they were alive. The hot coffee burned his throat as he gazed at a tiny Veronica being cuddled by her father. It was the only picture where she was smiling. He realized it wasn’t the color of her eyes, but the deep sadness that had drawn him to believe her.

  Annoyed with himself, he stood and paced across the room. Why was this story getting to him? He balled up several pieces of paper and spiked them toward the trash can. She was a grown woman now, not a child. An independent adult—a respected tax attorney. He had to remain uninvolved.

  Maybe his recent stay in the hospital had something to do with his reactions. Months of lying in bed and going to rehab to regain the use of his leg, reliving the moment the bullet had pierced the lining near his heart—a near-death experience did something to a man. And losing his partner—he would never forget the devastation he’d felt when he’d awoken to find Reid gone. He’d died because he trusted the wrong person. Nathan had come as close to dying himself as he’d ever come. In those dreadful months of recovery, he’d realized something. There wasn’t a person in the world who cared about him. Not one.

  His family had all been gone for years, and he’d never let anyone get close to him. For the first time in his life, he’d begun to think about his future. Not just his future as a detective, but his future…alone. But this wasn’t the time to pursue a relationship. And work definitely wasn’t the place.

  He slam-dunked another piece of paper into the trash can and sank back in his chair. His stint in the hospital had obviously turned him into a melancholy wimp. Police work and marriage didn’t mix. He’d seen dozens of marriages fall apart because wives couldn’t stand the hours, the danger and fear of losing their husbands. And the combination of a policeman getting involved with a victim was lethal. He had a job to do and he intended to do it.

  He shuffled the papers and zeroed in on a column a few weeks after the reported murder-suicide. The journalist suggested that Veronica had suffered severe trauma from the incident. The psychiatrist treating her had released very little information, except that she had repressed the horrible memories of that fatal night. And that she might never remember the details. Serious long-term effects might reveal themselves in her later years. Schizophrenic behavior often resulted from childhood trauma. So did paranoia. Illusions of someone threatening the person were common. Suicide in cases like this was prevalent, most likely in the teens or early twenties. He couldn’t ignore the facts: Veronica fit the profile, even her age, which was twenty-seven.

  Nathan scrubbed his hands over his eyes, and leaned on his palms. Things were not looking good for Veronica’s case. He had to admit Ford might be right. He couldn’t do anything else tonight. The lab wouldn’t be open until morning. It would take time to study the evidence and match blood types.

  If Veronica had stabbed someone with that knife, the person’s blood should show up. And if they couldn’t find any evidence to support her claim, well, he’d discover the truth about her, too. He stood and dragged his weary body toward the door. He might as well get some sleep. Tomorrow he had work to do. And he had to forget about the alluring Veronica Miller as a woman. Whether she was delusional or someone was threatening her life, she obviously had personal problems.

  And
that was looking on the bright side. After all, she just might be a lunatic.

  VERONICA BRUSHED DOWN her straight black skirt and smoothed her teal silk blouse over her bandaged arm, grateful the blouse’s collar hid the small cut on her neck. She walked into her office, hesitating momentarily as she always did when she entered the huge Victorian house that had been her father’s office years ago. Of course, it had undergone major renovations, but she’d hoped being in his work space might jog her memories. So far it hadn’t.

  A yawn escaped her. Last night she’d barely slept. She’d tossed and turned in the hotel bed, wondering why someone would attack her. It had never happened before. So why now? Could it have been a simple robbery attempt?

  In the wee hours of the morning, she’d slipped into a fretful sleep, and she’d awoken at dawn, still unrested. But she had to come to work today. Although she’d always been a failure with people, especially men, she was a whiz at numbers—a skill and service her clients paid prime money for. Work was her salvation.

  “Ms. Miller, Wayne Barrett is waiting for you in your office.” Veronica’s secretary, Louise Falk, gave her a sympathetic smile as she stopped to check her messages. “He’s on the rampage this morning.”

  Veronica smiled. “I expect so. He not only received my bill, but he just learned he owes the government a huge sum of money.”

  Louise sipped her coffee. The woman was tall and skinny and could drink five pots of coffee a day without getting jittery. Veronica envied her that. She and caffeine did not agree. She fixed herself some decaf tea and hoped she could enjoy it before Barrett exploded.

  “You want me to call 911 if he starts shouting?” Louise licked the sticky icing from a Danish.

  “I think I can handle him.” Veronica’s fingers tightened around her leather attaché case. “By the way, did you find the Avondale file?”

  Louise gave her an odd look. “You filed it yesterday before you left. Don’t you remember?”