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

  Veronica chewed her bottom lip. “Oh, yes, that’s right.” Massaging her temple, she searched her memory. She didn’t remember filing it. What was wrong with her? Normally she was organized, but lately she’d been misplacing things. First she thought she’d lost her keys, then she’d found them in her office desk. And now a file.

  “Well, good luck with Barrett,” Louise said, turning back to the computer.

  Veronica mumbled thanks, squared her shoulders, reminded herself of the assertiveness training classes she’d taken and strode toward her office.

  Wayne Barrett, big-time entrepreneur, offered a perfunctory greeting as she entered. He sat gripping a mug of coffee, tugging at his waxed mustache. A designer suit, red power tie, Gucci shoes—the man had money and liked to flaunt it. He even had his nails manicured. He said he could enjoy his wealth better if he held it with polished hands. She’d disliked the man the moment she’d met him.

  “Hi, Mr. Barrett.” Veronica placed her tea and briefcase on her desk, snapped open the sleek Italian case and pulled out a file. “I assume this is what you came to discuss.”

  Barrett perched in the red leather chair nearest her desk, crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward, Veronica was sure, to intimidate her. “Of course. You knew it wasn’t what I was expecting.” The anger in his deep baritone jostled her already taut nerves.

  But she refused to show it.

  Instead she met his cool gaze and calculating eyes with a confident smile. “I know. But when you withheld information about those bonds from me and your wife—”

  “My ex-wife,” Barrett clarified hastily.

  Veronica nodded, although she knew the divorce hadn’t been officially granted yet. “Yes, your ex-wife notified the courts of this money, and the government had to be informed. I’m sorry it worked out like this, but my hands are tied.”

  Barrett’s nostrils flared with anger. He stood and glared into her eyes. “I paid you to work this out. Walsh always took care of me.”

  Veronica leaned back in her chair, putting some distance between them. This man smelled like whiskey and it was only 8:00 a.m. He had the nerve to blame her for his loss, when he’d withheld pertinent information about his earnings from the government.

  “I found you every loophole available—within the law.” Veronica punctuated the last words, simultaneously tapping her pen on the desk for emphasis.

  “You know this will cost me two million,” Barrett said. “I thought you were the best tax attorney around. Walsh even recommended you.”

  Veronica refused to let him faze her. “I am a good attorney, but I’m also honest. I won’t go to jail to hide your earnings, Mr. Barrett. Or to save you from having to pay your wife and the government what you lawfully owe them.”

  A vein bulged in Barrett’s pale forehead. “Sometimes, Ms. Miller, there are worse things than going to jail. Remember, I know where you live.” He jerked his own briefcase from the floor and stormed from her office.

  Veronica exhaled a shaky breath at his implied threat. Could Barrett have attacked her the night before?

  The phone jangled, catching her off guard, and she almost jumped out of the chair. Forcing herself to steady her voice, she picked up the receiver. “Hello, Veronica Miller speaking.”

  “Veronica, this is Eli.”

  Veronica relaxed, grateful for the comfort of her godfather’s voice. She’d missed talking with him lately.

  “How are you, dear?”

  “I’m fine. Just got rid of a nasty client, but what’s new?”

  Eli laughed. His voice was rusty, and she realized age had crept up on him while they’d lost touch. “Tomorrow night we’re having a reception in honor of my son Gerald.”

  “Oh. What’s the occasion?” Veronica asked. Although she didn’t remember Gerald, Eli had kept her informed of all his son’s political activities through his letters.

  “It’s a kickoff for his campaign,” Eli said, pride evident in his voice.

  “Like father like son, huh?” Veronica said.

  Eli laughed. “Yeah, but he’s not stopping at senator. He wants to run for president.”

  “Wow.” Veronica was mildly impressed. “What time is the party?”

  “Seven o’clock. And bring a date if you want.”

  Veronica laughed silently. She hadn’t been in town long enough to meet anyone she wanted to date. She’d spent the first few weeks getting settled and reviewing a few of the accounts she inherited from Walsh. “Sounds great,” Veronica said. “I’ll be there.” She was tempted to tell Eli about her midnight visitor, but he sounded weary himself, and with Gerald’s decision to run for election and Eli’s own commitments to several state departments, he obviously had his plate full. Besides, living on her own had taught her to be independent. Eli had his own family and life to deal with.

  “See you then.” Eli coughed, then hung up.

  Hmm. Eli still hadn’t shaken the cold he’d had when she’d had lunch with him. Veronica reached for the stack of files on her desk. Paperwork should take her mind off her problems.

  Later that afternoon a light knock sounded at the door. Louise poked her head in. “This package arrived for you.”

  Veronica squinted in confusion at the brightly wrapped package. “For me?” Who would be sending her a gift?

  Louise placed the small package on the desk. “Maybe it’s from a secret admirer,” she said, slipping out the door.

  Veronica removed the small card and read it silently. “Something to remember me by. See you soon.”

  It had to be from Ron. But what did he mean he would see her soon? She’d told him she wanted time and space. For heaven’s sake, she’d moved to Oakland to get away from him.

  She examined the package. Pale blue paper with roses on it. Her hand trembled. Something about the wrapping seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She silently chastised herself for being so jittery. She’d probably bought similar paper and wrapped a gift with it for someone else.

  She must be getting paranoid from lack of sleep and nerves. Gingerly, she fingered the delicate baby pink bow and finally lifted it from the gift. The paper came away easily. She slowly opened the container and took out a beautiful music box in the shape of a hot air balloon. It was lovely. The familiar characters from The Wizard of Oz danced in the basket. Again, something about the gift tugged at the corners of her memory, but nothing materialized.

  Ron hadn’t sent the gift. She was sure of it. He was the most practical man she’d ever known, he would never have sent her something this frivolous. But if he hadn’t sent it, who had?

  As she stared at the little scarecrow and cowardly lion, the image of Dorothy in her red slippers appeared in her head. Dorothy tapping her ruby red slippers together chanting, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” A vague memory floated through her mind; her mother had read her the story as a child. She’d had the music from the movie. A chill slithered up her spine. Why did the childlike story make her feel so frightened? Had she been listening to the song the night her parents were killed?

  With shaking fingers, she slowly wound the music box and listened as it played. She hummed along in a low voice. “Somewhere over the rainbow…”

  An image of Dorothy being chased by the bad witch and the horrid monkeys took her breath. Her hands shook so violently she dropped the music box onto the desk with a thud. The song droned on. “Why, oh, why, can’t I?” Veronica covered her ears to drown out the sound. Why, oh, why, couldn’t she remember what happened that night?

  As the music continued to play, she could almost hear her mother’s soft voice singing the words. Her mother had given her a music box just like this one for her seventh birthday, only a few days before her death. She hadn’t seen the music box in years. And nobody had known about it except her parents.

  NATHAN STOOD in the open doorway of Veronica’s office, one hand gripping the shiny doorknob, the other shoved in his pocket, and watched silently as
Veronica stared at the small music box. She mumbled something about monkeys.

  “The monkeys, they’re after me.” Panic tinged her voice, and her eyes were glazed and haunted with shadows.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he asked the tall, lanky secretary. She’d opened the door for him when Veronica had refused to answer her buzzer.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice filled with concern. “She’s been acting a little strange lately, forgetting things. A messenger delivered a present for her a few minutes ago.” Louise pointed to the torn wrapping paper. “It must have been that music box. I’ve never seen it before.”

  Nathan closed the distance between himself and Veronica in a few quick strides. “Why would it cause her to react this way?”

  “I have no idea,” Louise said, wide-eyed.

  “I didn’t mean to do it,” Veronica whimpered in a tiny voice that jabbed at Nathan like razor-sharp scissors. He didn’t have a clue what she meant or even if she knew, but he needed to snap her out of this delusional state. He lowered himself beside her.

  “Ms. Miller,” he said, gently nudging her shoulder, “Ms. Miller, can you hear me?”

  An almost childlike cry escaped her. Although he told himself this was strictly business, that this woman might be psychotic, his heart wrenched. All he could see in his mind was a picture of a sad little girl with a handful of crushed daisies standing beside her parents’ grave. Lost and alone.

  “Ms. Miller…Veronica, can you hear me? It’s Detective Dawson.” He took her icy hands in his and turned her to face him. Gently he stroked some warmth into her chilled fingers and watched as her breathing began to steady. “Veronica, tell me what happened. I’m here to help you. You have to talk to me.”

  “I’ll get some water,” Louise said, dashing from the office.

  “Veronica, look at me.” He framed her face with his hands and forced her to meet his gaze. Although her eyes still seemed slightly glazed, her pupils weren’t as dilated as when he’d first arrived, and she focused on him. He kept talking in a soft, comforting voice. “I came by to see how you’re doing today. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Veronica’s limp body sagged against her chair. She glanced around her office, her desk, then back to him, still in a state of confusion.

  “Veronica, will you talk to me now?”

  “What…how long have you been standing there?” Her voice sounded weak and distant.

  “Not long.” Nathan replayed the details of her file in his head. The lack of evidence from the night before complicated things even more. He needed more details from Veronica. “We need to talk.”

  Louise rushed in and thrust a glass of water in Veronica’s hands. “Are you okay, Veronica?” Louise rubbed a hand over her own forehead and made a futile attempt to tuck the loose strands of her auburn topknot back into place. “You scared me to death.”

  Veronica looked at her in confusion, then seemed to visibly shake herself. “I’m fine.” She stared at Nathan, a dazed look on her face. “What did you say you were doing here?”

  “I came by to ask you some more questions. Who sent the gift?”

  “I don’t know,” Veronica said in a listless voice. “The card didn’t say.”

  “You shouldn’t have opened a strange package after what happened last night.” Nathan turned to Louise. “What did the messenger look like? Was it a courier service?”

  Louise bit her lip. “I…I didn’t see them. I went to the rest room and found it on my desk when I returned.”

  “What time is it?” Veronica asked, looking more and more confused.

  Louise and Nathan exchanged concerned looks. “It’s about four-thirty,” Nathan said.

  “Why don’t you go on home?” Louise suggested. “You don’t have any more appointments today. I’ll answer the phone and lock up.” Veronica nodded, and Louise made a hasty exit.

  Nathan quickly took the initiative. “We’re through with your apartment, Ms. Miller. Why don’t you call a service to clean up while you and I go someplace to talk?”

  Veronica’s dark eyebrows arched in surprise.

  “About your case,” Nathan clarified. “We need to discuss what we found at your apartment.” That would be the hard part, Nathan thought morosely. He had no idea how she would react to his report.

  Veronica nodded and stood. Nathan noticed her trembling hands, the way she almost collapsed against her desk as she tried to stand. “Are you okay?”

  A sudden bout of determination filled her eyes. “I will be,” she said simply. She buzzed Louise, asked her to call her usual cleaning service to clean her apartment, then grabbed her briefcase and purse and headed toward the door. “Let’s go to the café around the corner, Detective Dawson.”

  Nathan watched the way her curvaceous backside swayed in her short black skirt as she disappeared out the door. The woman definitely had a figure. Subtle round curves. Just enough breasts to fill a man’s hands. Gorgeous long legs.

  And she carried herself like she had all the confidence in the world. But he knew her bravado was a sham. When he’d witnessed her unveiled fear only moments earlier, he’d had to order himself not to wrap her in his arms and comfort her. Worse, he’d had to remind himself he was a professional, a detective, not the woman’s boyfriend or lover. Veronica Miller’s lover. Just the thought made his groin ache. But a personal entanglement with this woman would be a mistake.

  Business, buddy, strictly business, he reminded himself as he followed her to the elevator. Maybe if he told himself that fact often enough he would believe it.

  Chapter Three

  Several minutes later, Veronica seated herself at a small table in the corner of the café with Detective Dawson. She liked doing business, enjoyed working with facts and numbers, but she’d always had trouble dealing with people. Give her a calculator and a computer any day. They didn’t talk or expect anything. She couldn’t fail them, she couldn’t cause them to die.

  What did Detective Dawson know? Had he discovered the truth about her?

  Her stomach knotted with dread as he sat at the secluded table she’d chosen in the corner. Did he know who’d broken into her apartment? Had he come here to ask her to go to the police station to identify her attacker? A part of her desperately wanted that to happen, while another part of her wasn’t quite ready to face the truth.

  She slipped her hair from its clasp and finger combed through it, letting the strands float around her shoulders. Somehow the simple act helped her to relax.

  Hadn’t that been her problem her whole life? She couldn’t remember who’d killed her parents because she couldn’t face the truth. That was what the psychiatrist had told her grandmother. She could understand as a child not being able to remember, but was the truth too horrible for her to accept even now?

  Her stomach turned as the waiter placed glasses of club soda in front of them. Veronica brought her glass to her mouth merely to have something to do with her hands. She barely felt the cold liquid brush her lips before she set it back down and twined her fingers in her lap. Taking a deep breath, she looked the detective square in the eye.

  “Ms. Miller—Veronica, may I call you that?”

  Veronica nodded.

  Dawson stretched out his long legs, brushing his knee against hers. She wondered if it was accidental. She’d been too frightened the night before to notice this man’s powerful masculinity. His broad shoulders and muscular body filled out his cream-colored polo shirt to perfection. He had a hard, chiseled face with high cheekbones and a small cleft in his chin, and sandy blond-brown hair that was so thick she briefly considered sinking her fingers into it.

  “You look better,” Dawson said with a slight smile.

  “Thanks. I feel a little better.” Veronica shifted, uncomfortable. The way his deep, husky voice murmured her name sent a shiver up her spine. It was too personal. And his amber-colored eyes gazed at her with such sincerity she wanted to confide in him, to tell him the whole, sordid trut
h. But if she did, would he help her?

  “Okay, Detective Dawson, what did you want to discuss?” Always get to the point, Veronica had learned. Take charge of the meeting. Don’t let the other person intimidate you.

  The detective’s mouth curved into a smile as if he knew exactly what she was doing. She shifted again, this time brushing her leg against his. The soft fabric of his khakis felt warm against her stockinged thigh. He smiled again.

  “Detective?” She raised her glass for another sip of her club soda.

  His gaze followed the movement, then suddenly, as if he realized what he was doing, he straightened in his chair and assumed a more businesslike pose. His smile faded, and a serious expression darkened his eyes.

  Veronica decided she preferred him the other way.

  “Like I said, the police finished combing your place.”

  “And?” Veronica’s pulse jumped.

  “They didn’t find anything to indicate an intruder.”

  Veronica’s hands tightened around the glass. “How about the blood on the knife?”

  The detective sipped his drink, then set his glass down with a thud. “The tests aren’t finished yet. There weren’t any fingerprints though. Except yours, of course.” He paused as if he was waiting for her reaction. “If someone was there, they wiped their prints and blood off the knife after you passed out.”

  Veronica leaned back and closed her eyes momentarily. Could she have imagined the whole thing? As a child, she had such vivid nightmares that she swore they were real. Could it be happening all over again? When she opened her eyes, Detective Dawson was watching her.

  “You want to tell me about the music box? Why did it set you off like that?”

  Veronica swallowed, tried to lift the glass for another drink, but her sore arm ached and she spilled the cold liquid down the front of her blouse. Dawson calmly handed his napkin to her, his intense gaze unnerving her even more. He stared at her arm where she’d been wounded the night before. She was grateful the long sleeve of her blouse covered the bandage, although the imprint of it could be seen through the sheer material.