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

  “Do you know what prompted the argument?”

  Scroggins shook his head. “Don’t know. Little girl’s the only one that knows that.”

  Or the murderer. Veronica has amnesia. “Veronica says someone else was there. She sees a shadow in her dreams.”

  The old man’s eyebrows arched, the wrinkles beside his eyes drawing out in thin lines. “She was just a kid, Dawson. Poor little thing was traumatized. Why, she was in shock when they carried her to the hospital. Took her a few weeks before they could even get her to talk.”

  Nathan’s gut clenched. This was getting him nowhere. “And you called the case a murder-suicide. What did you base that on?”

  “Wasn’t nothing else I could do,” Scroggins said, lighting his cigar and glaring at Nathan as if he dared him to argue. “Weren’t no witnesses. House was a mess, furniture overturned, lamps broken. Ms. Trudy claimed she heard the Millers screaming at each other. By the time we got there, they were both dead.”

  “And Veronica?”

  “She was sitting ’side the bodies. Covered in blood. Had the danged bloody knife in her hands.”

  Exactly the way he’d seen her the first time. Nathan chewed his lip in thought. “I read the articles. Someone suggested Veronica might have murdered her parents?”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t go with that. She was just a little bitty thing. I don’t think she could have done it.”

  Nathan agreed. But still…if someone was there and she’d seen them, and that person knew she was a witness…“Was there a suicide note?”

  “Nope. That worried me.” Scroggins blew out a puff of smoke. “I figured it must have been a crime of passion. Man stabbed the woman in anger, then couldn’t stand himself for killing his wife so he killed himself.”

  “Makes sense,” Nathan said, knowing it was possible. Domestic violence cases were more frequent than he’d ever dreamed.

  “Would you mind if I looked over your file on the case?”

  Scroggins snapped his head up. “What you want that for?”

  “I wanted to do some checking on my own.” Maybe he would find out why Scroggins was so reluctant to help him, too.

  “Look, Dawson. I know you want to protect the Miller woman. But have you considered the fact she’s doing all this to get attention?” Scroggins scraped his fingernails up and down the chair. “It was common knowledge she had some emotional problems after her parents died. Her grandmother took her away, but I heard she had to see one of them psychiatrists. Even heard one time she tried to commit suicide when she was a teenager. Took some sleeping pills or something.”

  Nathan hadn’t heard that. He remembered her wrist wound and hearing the paramedics asking her if she’d cut herself on purpose. Then he remembered how vulnerable and afraid she’d looked the night she’d called them, and he couldn’t bring himself to believe she’d done that to herself. But if it were true, he would find out.

  And if Scroggins was holding something back, he would find that out, too. “Thanks for your time,” he said in a clipped voice. Then he strode out the door, slamming it behind him.

  Back in his car, he headed toward the precinct. Maybe Ford had something on Barrett. He picked up the phone and dialed Sherry. “Hey, Sherry. It’s Nathan.”

  “Hey, sugar. What’s up?”

  “Got anything on that voice print on the Miller tape?”

  “Yeah, but we couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman’s. It was computerized.”

  “How about the results from that knife?”

  Sherry paused. He knew she was consulting the computer database. “Only one blood type identified. Ms. Miller’s. Oh, and there was evidence of a sleep-inducing drug in her system.”

  “Hell.” Nathan stopped at a red light and tapped his hand impatiently on the steering wheel. “No other blood? DNA?”

  He heard Sherry snap a piece of gum in her mouth. “DNA tests indicate the possibility of another person’s blood on the knife, but the tests are inconclusive.”

  Nathan silently cursed, contemplating his next move. Veronica had been certain she’d cut the intruder’s arm. Back to square one. “I need you to run another check for me.”

  “Okay, what is it this time?”

  “I’d like a list of all the townspeople who lived in Oakland at the time of the Miller murder-suicide.”

  “That’ll take some time.”

  “I know, but it could be important.” Nathan hesitated, a frisson of guilt shivering up his spine. “Pull up anything you can find on Veronica Miller. I need to know everything about her life after she moved to Florida with her grandmother.” He paused again. “And, Sherry, she’s had some…some emotional problems. Find out the names of any psychiatrists she’s seen over the years.”

  As he hung up, a knot of apprehension tightened his stomach. Veronica’s face flashed into his mind. He wanted her, and he wanted to believe her. But he had a job to do. And he had to know the truth, even if it killed him.

  AFTER AVOIDING the media all day and finishing her paperwork, Veronica hurried home, needing to be in the sanctuary of her own apartment where she was safe from the questions and phone calls about Barrett. And where she could nurse her hurt over Eli’s rejection.

  Working all day was really a blessing—she’d been too busy to think about Nathan Dawson and the strange feelings he evoked in her. She’d been too busy to worry about the threatening phone call the day before. She was grateful she’d had Louise call a locksmith to have the locks changed for her. She kicked off her shoes as she entered and started undoing her blouse, peeling the silky fabric away as she made her way to her bedroom. A jog would help ease her tension.

  Maybe four or five miles.

  She would jog until she dropped from exhaustion, both physically and mentally. The faint scent of a man’s cologne made her pause but she dismissed it, thinking it must be the potpourri she’d put in the bathroom. Or maybe Nathan’s lingering scent. She tossed her blouse onto the bed, shimmied out of her skirt and dropped it to the floor, then reached for her hose. But out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something odd. Slowly she glanced up, caught sight of the mirror and gasped.

  Someone had been in her apartment. Again. And this time they’d written all over her mirror in bright red lipstick:

  “Leave the past alone. Bury it or you’ll be buried alive.”

  Veronica’s legs wobbled as she sank onto the bed and reached for the phone. She considered dialing 911, but instead grabbed Nathan’s card off her dresser and punched in his number.

  “Hello?” His husky voice calmed her immediately.

  “Nathan, this is Veronica.”

  “Yeah?”

  She heard her own shaky breath and tried to find her voice.

  “Veronica, what’s wrong?”

  She shuddered. “Someone…someone broke in…can you—”

  “I’ll be right there, Veronica. And don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.”

  Seconds dragged into torturous minutes as she waited for Nathan to arrive. Veronica twined her hands and rocked herself back and forth, then jumped when a pounding sounded at the door. Wrapping her robe tightly around her, she stumbled to answer it.

  “Veronica, it’s me. Open up!” Nathan yelled.

  She swung open the door and stared at him, her heart pounding at the look of concern on his face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, gripping her by the arms and checking her all over.

  “I am now,” she whispered. Then she fell into his arms and sank against him.

  Chapter Eight

  With one arm still around Veronica, Nathan closed the door. “Shh, it’s okay,” he muttered softly as he stroked her trembling body and felt her chest heave against his. His own breathing was erratic, his pulse racing, his mind still trying to erase the fear that had jolted through him when she’d called. On the way over to her apartment, he’d envisioned a number of disturbing scenarios, and to see her now and know she was all right sent a wave of relief rushing
through him.

  She was a gutsy woman or she could never have become an attorney, but she felt small and fragile in his arms, and anger burned through his veins at the thought of someone terrifying her. In the back of his mind, the evidence was piling up. Scroggins’s information taunted him—as a child she’d had to see a psychiatrist; as a teenager, she’d taken sleeping pills and tried to commit suicide; then when the blood tests came back on the bloody knife from the attack, there had been a sleep-inducing drug in her system.

  Damn. She didn’t look emotionally disturbed. She looked beautiful and sexy as hell. Her long ebony hair fell in silky strands that tempted him beyond reason. She smelled like peaches and soap, and some womanly scent all her own that was as intoxicating as an aphrodisiac.

  Questions needled him. He could be wrong about her. But he shoved the thought aside. It felt too right to hold her, too perfect to have her snuggle against him as if he were her savior. You couldn’t save your partner, and he died because he trusted the wrong person. And you almost died trying to help him. What if you can’t save her? Your heart is at stake here. Will you die trying?

  He loosened his hold and rubbed his hands up and down her arms, hoping to soothe the tension from her stiff muscles and get his own irrational emotions under control. Her body felt so welcoming and his own reacted as a man to a lover’s, not as a cop to a woman in distress.

  And if you’re sloppy because you’re involved with her and someone is trying to hurt her, you could cost her her life. The thought sobered him immediately.

  “Thanks for coming,” Veronica said softly, raising her dark eyes to look into his. The fear and vulnerability trapped him, held him hostage, and he watched with admiration as she made a valiant attempt to gather her own composure. He wanted to make love to her. Now, more than ever. Not because she was afraid, but because she didn’t want him to see it.

  Instead he reminded himself that if he finished this case, he would be done with Veronica. And more than likely she wouldn’t want anything to do with him. They’d met under such stressful circumstances that they’d connected. But could it last?

  He tilted her chin up and stroked her jaw with the pad of his thumb. “You want to show me what they did this time?”

  The slight nod of her head was her only answer. He released her and took a deep, calming breath while she led him to her bedroom to see the violence someone had inflicted upon her—the most primal part of him wished she were leading him to her bed instead. The soft sway of her curves beneath the satin robe drew his eye, but he forced himself to scan the room, his gaze finally resting murderously on the message written on her mirror.

  “Son of a—” he muttered, striding over to examine the lipstick-scrawled words.

  “I don’t know how they got in,” Veronica said, hugging her arms around her. “I had the locks changed today.”

  When he glanced at her, an unsettling thought hit him in the gut. He’d never seen a more innocent-looking face. But as he studied the writing, something nagged at him. He’d seen Veronica’s signature on her client list. The person who wrote the damning message dotted their is with an open circle just like Veronica.

  She smiled slightly and lowered her hands by her sides. He jerked his gaze away. “Who changed the locks?”

  “I don’t know. I had my secretary call and set it up.”

  “Louise, the woman I met?”

  “Yes,” Veronica said. “I was in a meeting all afternoon. She met the locksmith, then brought me the new keys.”

  Nathan frowned and pointed to the mirror. “You didn’t touch it?”

  Veronica shook her head. “No, I went straight to the phone and called you.”

  He met her gaze and saw his own need and desire reflected in her turbulent eyes. She ran her tongue over her lips and combed her fingers through her hair. Her hand was trembling.

  He turned away and picked up the phone. “Ford, I need some assistance.” He briefly explained about the threatening message.

  “You want us to do what?” Ford growled.

  “Fingerprint Ms. Miller’s apartment.”

  “The woman probably wrote the threat herself,” Ford said. “You’re wasting the department’s time. When are you going to quit thinking with your hormones?”

  Nathan reined in the curse word on the tip of his tongue. Hadn’t he told his former partner, Rick, the same thing? But Rick hadn’t listened. And now he understood why. Rick had been just as mesmerized by that girl, Melissa, as he was by Veronica. Rick had made a fatal mistake in trusting a suspect. Was he falling into the same trap?

  And whether he liked it or not, somehow he and Ford had to learn to work together.

  “You know if you’d stop running every time that woman called, she’d quit pulling these pranks,” Ford said snidely.

  “Just do it,” Nathan snapped. “And don’t take all day about getting here.” He slammed down the phone, then glanced up and saw Veronica watching him, her expression unreadable.

  “Thank you for checking into this,” she said quietly.

  “I’m going to find out who’s doing this,” Nathan said. Even if it’s you.

  But deep down, he couldn’t believe it was. Then he thought about Scroggins and what he’d said about Veronica’s father’s files being burned after his death. The coincidence was too neat and tidy to be a coincidence. And he already had two suspects with motives to threaten her—Veronica’s old boyfriend and Wayne Barrett. Maybe she was an innocent pawn in someone else’s twisted game. Maybe she really did need his protection. He’d be a fool not to listen to his own instincts.

  “I’d like to talk to your secretary,” he said, hesitating.

  “Sure.” Veronica dialed Louise’s home phone and explained about the break-in.

  Nathan heard Louise’s shriek.

  “I’m fine,” Veronica said. “But Detective Dawson wants to ask you about the locksmith.”

  He didn’t hear Louise’s reply, but Veronica handed him the handset. “Ms. Falk, which locksmith company did you use?”

  “Rogers Locksmith,” she said. “Why, good gracious, I can’t believe this has happened. I watched him change the locks myself.”

  “And it was just the two of you?” Nathan asked.

  “Well…” Louise hedged. “I mean there are other people who work for the man’s company, but he was by himself at Veronica’s.”

  “It’s strange,” Nathan said. “Veronica’s apartment has been broken into twice, and there was no sign of forced entry. It’s almost as if the intruder had a key.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Louise said, sounding slightly defensive. “I only phoned the man, Mr. Dawson.”

  Nathan paused at her haughty tone. Could Louise be involved? What motive would she possibly have? He shook himself from his thoughts, remembering how upset Louise had been when Veronica had received the music box. He heard the doorbell and hung up. Veronica let Ford and a young, uniformed officer in. He saw the wide frown Ford gave Veronica and noticed her posture go rigid in defense. He wondered what kind of lawyer she was, probably pretty forbidding if her dark eyes were angry instead of frightened. When she met his gaze, he almost smiled at the display of bravado she showed his partner. She was used to dealing with people like Ford. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. Good.

  “Make it quick,” he heard Ford tell the young officer as he began dusting the mirror. Ford put on his own gloves and began combing the place. “Is there anything missing, Ms. Miller?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t you look around?” Nathan suggested.

  Veronica started to pick up some books off the table.

  “Don’t touch anything, just check and see if anything’s been stolen,” Ford said.

  Nathan glared at Ford. “I’ll walk with you, Veronica.”

  She nodded and walked through the kitchen, then the bathroom and the den. Her gaze rested on an antique mahogany desk in the corner. “It looks like someone’s b
een through my desk.”

  Nathan studied the sleek wood and the modern computer, the closed drawers. It looked neat to him, definitely not as if it had been ransacked. “Why do you think that?”

  “My disks have been moved,” she said. “I keep them in alphabetical order.” She pointed to the file box. Some of the disks were upside down and they definitely weren’t in any order.

  “They’re also color coded according to the files I’m working on at the present—completed files, cases pending. See, they’re all jumbled.”

  Nathan motioned to Ford. “Dust this case inside and out. If there’s anybody else’s fingerprints on them, I want to know.”

  Ford grumbled but followed his instructions. Nathan noticed Veronica’s pale face. She looked tired and weary, and suddenly he wanted to see her away from this apartment, and away from her office, where she wouldn’t be so strained. “How about we go get a bite to eat? Chinese sound good?”

  A look of surprise crossed her face as her eyes met his.

  “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said, realizing he was making up an excuse to spend more time with her.

  “The case?”

  Nathan nodded. Oh, well, he thought as she went to change clothes, the case was as good an excuse as any.

  “I NEED TO STOP by my place and get my wallet,” Nathan said when they were in the car. Veronica nodded, and he drove the short distance in silence. “Come on in. I want to check my messages.”

  As soon as they entered, Nathan regretted the decision to invite her in. His place was a mess. His black lab greeted them by thumping his tail on the floor and whining for food. “Hey, there, Chocolate,” he said, stroking his head.

  “Pretty dog,” Veronica said, petting his back. The dog nuzzled her hand, flopped onto the floor and rolled over with his legs sprawled.

  “He wants you to scratch his belly,” Nathan said.

  She laughed and knelt down, then rubbed Chocolate’s stomach. His tail thumped in response.