by Rita Herron
The guy with the rifle came up behind Trey and poked the muzzle into his back. “What’s the signal?”
Trey shifted slightly, just enough to see him and still keep the other guy in his peripheral vision.
“If I tell you—”
Trey abruptly stopped talking and grabbed at his chest. Rebecca felt her own chest seize with fear.
When he crumpled to the floor she reached for him.
“Don’t move,” the man closest to her warned. He kept his gun pointed at her. “See what his problem is,” he said to the man with the rifle.
Rebecca’s heart pounded mercilessly. “He needs help,” she cried as she watched Trey’s body alternately quake and shudder. God, was he having a heart attack? He’d looked healthy enough…he wasn’t that old. But did that even matter anymore?
The man with the rifle dropped down onto one knee next to Trey. The other shoved Rebecca back onto the sofa. She wished she could see what was going on. The coffee table and the man blocked most of her view. Oh, God. How could this be happening?
An explosion rent the air.
She jerked. Recognized the paralyzing sound. Gunshot.
Another blast seemed to explode all around her. She felt herself moving…vaguely understood that she’d gotten to her feet.
Trey?
What was happening?
The man holding the .9 mm grabbed at his throat with his free hand. Blood spewed from between his fingers. His weapon discharged. Fire flew from the muzzle. Then he collapsed onto the floor right in front of her eyes.
Her gaze moved to the other man, the one who’d been hovering over Trey. He lay sprawled on his back on the floor and Trey was standing over him.
As she watched, Trey kicked both weapons away from the lifeless bodies while simultaneously using a cell phone to make a call. Where had the gun he clutched in his hand come from?
She blinked.
Didn’t understand any of what had just happened.
“This is Detective Murphy,” he said into the phone she had never seen before. “Saxon Jewelers has been hit. Two armed perps may still be at the scene or fleeing in a dark blue or black sedan. I’ve got two perps down at the personal residence.” Trey turned to face her, surveyed her once. “Miss Saxon is safe.”
Safe.
She was safe.
Rebecca’s knees suddenly gave out beneath her and she dropped onto the sofa, stared into the unblinking eyes of the man on the floor.
Did this mean it was over?
Chapter Nine
It was almost dawn when the last of the official personnel had departed from her home. Her den had been cordoned off as a crime scene. As had her shop in town.
Rebecca sat on a chair in the entry hall, not sure she would ever be able to look at the home her family had lived in for generations the same again.
Two men had died here.
Since all of the shopkeepers had been murdered at home, Trey had made certain preparations. He’d taped a weapon and a cell phone in a strategic spot in every room of the house, like under her coffee table. He’d faked a heart attack in order to drop to the floor and reach the hidden weapon.
Never in her life had she been so very thankful for advance planning.
She closed her eyes and breathed a true sigh of relief.
It was over.
The other two members of the team of murdering thieves had been captured leaving her shop. The car Trey had suspected as being the getaway vehicle had, indeed, been the one.
Rebecca dropped her chin into her hands. She’d already called the nurse on duty at the nursing home in case her grandmother was having one of her rare lucid evenings and had heard anything about this on one of the news channels. A police cruiser complete with two uniformed officers would stay out front all night for her comfort.
Now there was nothing left to do but to get on with her life.
She sat up straight again and looked around the massive entry hall.
How was she supposed to do that?
Nothing about her or her life felt the same.
She’d let Trey Murphy slip beneath her defenses. Now she would spend all her free time wondering about him. Wishing he would kiss her again. Or that she’d never even met him since he would likely go back to whatever woman he’d been dating before getting this assignment.
Rebecca fully recognized that she had been a mere assignment. A blip on the radar of his career.
Nothing more.
Oh, well. They’d scarcely known each other for a matter of days, how could she expect anything to come of it? No matter that she’d seen glimpses of some part of him that seemed to like the way she looked and that kiss had certainly been special. Hadn’t it?
What did she know? She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had a real kiss.
Rebecca hoisted herself to her feet and decided it was time to go to bed and try to put this horror behind her. She glanced longingly at the Christmas tree she and Trey had decorated.
“Merry Christmas,” she muttered. Same as always. She would be alone except for the little while she spent with her grandmother at the nursing home.
The front doorbell rang, sending a burst of fear through her. She shook it off, scolded herself for being so jumpy. The bad guys were either dead or in jail. She had nothing to be afraid of.
When she checked the viewfinder, she gasped.
Trey.
Detective Murphy, she amended. Somehow she’d started referring to him as Trey in the last few hours. Not a good idea.
She smoothed a hand over her skirt, shoved her hair behind her ears and opened the door. “Did you forget something, Detective?”
He stepped inside as she opened the door wider.
“I was just thinking…” He hitched his thumb toward the door. “I’d gotten to the end of your driveway and I realized I couldn’t go.”
She frowned, clearly remembered that he’d taken his bag along with whatever items he’d brought when he arrived. The forensics techs had finished their work. Her statement had been taken. What else was there to do? “I don’t understand.”
Before she could comprehend his intent, he grabbed her and pulled her into his arms. “I couldn’t go and leave you here all alone in this big old house.” He touched his lips to hers and her heart stumbled. “It’s Christmas Eve. You’ve been through a hell of a night. You shouldn’t be left alone.”
“I’m fine, really,” she murmured breathlessly as her hands went instinctively to his broad chest, flattened against the cotton shirt that had replaced the velvet Santa jacket. She wanted to look into his eyes but couldn’t take hers off his sexy mouth. Her heart shot out of the chute like a race horse determined to make the finish line before all the others. Please, she prayed, let him kiss me again.
His arms tightened around her and her entire body reacted to the incredibly masculine feel of his. “If you insist on staying here alone,” he warned, “then I’ll have no choice but to stay with you.” A smile flirted with his mouth and her feminine muscles clenched. “I haven’t written the final report yet so, technically, this case isn’t finished.”
She did look into his eyes then and she was immediately lost, heard herself ask, “You mean, you’re still supposed to watch every move I make.”
“Every—” he tasted her lips, she shivered “—single—” he licked his own, she shivered again “—one…”
She couldn’t take it anymore. She entwined her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. Sighed as he took control of the kiss and she promptly melted against the sexy contours of his body.
And just like that she got exactly what her heart desired. Her entire life she’d been waiting for a Christmas just like this.
MERRY’S CHRISTMAS
MALLORY KANE
Prologue
Merry Ducharmes Randolph stood in the cramped viewing room behind a darkened one-way mirror and clutched her brother-in-law Lawrence’s hand. The smell of stale cigarettes and sweat turned her
mild morning sickness into full-blown nausea.
Two police detectives and a district attorney all towered over her, and the Randolph family lawyer stood on Lawrence’s other side.
She was the only woman in the room, a realization that clogged her throat with unreasoning fear.
Unreasoning, because as they’d been reminding her all morning she shouldn’t be afraid. She was surrounded by good guys.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered to her deceased husband’s brother, cradling her pregnant belly with her free hand.
Lawrence squeezed her fingers comfortingly and whispered in her ear, “Hang on just a few more minutes, Merry.”
“Here we go,” a male voice said.
Before Merry could identify who’d spoken, the dark wall in front of her turned bright. She gasped, startled, even though she’d been carefully instructed about how the one-way mirror worked.
Six men, each holding a cardboard square with a number on it, stared straight at her through the grimy, streaked barrier that looked like a mirror to them.
She shrank back, tightening her grip on Lawrence’s clammy hand. Rationally, she knew they couldn’t see her, but her response wasn’t rational, it was visceral. Her pulse reverberated like a jackhammer through her, disturbing the tiny life inside her.
She was facing the Widow Maker. As his only surviving victim, she had the responsibility of identifying him.
Her gaze went straight to him. As long as she lived, she would never forget his long face with its prominent chin, the neatly trimmed hair, the small, squinty eyes. And his hands. She shuddered. Those bony, knuckly hands had been on her throat. Now they clasped a card with the number two on it.
For an instant she was thrown back in time, his heavy body pressed against hers, his voice in her ears, the cold barrel of his gun against her temple.
Lawrence’s fingers tensed around hers, the gesture causing her eyes to sting with gratitude. He’d been so sweet to her since Zach’s accident, and even more so since the attack. She choked back a sob.
“Take your time,” the lawyer said.
“I don’t need any time,” she said, exerting a huge effort to sound calm and strong.
Lawrence stiffened beside her. “Don’t rush. I know you’re scared.”
“It’s Number Two.” Merry heard the detectives’s coats rustle as they shifted. Were they relaxing in relief or stirring in concern?
It didn’t matter. She was right. “Number Two,” she said firmly.
D.A. Brian Waverly reached for the door behind them. “Thank you, Mrs. Randolph. I’m sorry you had to be subjected to this.”
As the men parted to let her exit the room first, Lawrence paused in front of Waverly.
“Will Merry’s ID convict this monster of murder?” he asked.
Waverly shook his head. “We still have no concrete proof that he had a gun, and we can’t connect him to the other three victims.”
“So he’s going to walk?” Lawrence’s voice rose.
“We’ll get him for attempted robbery and assault.”
“I’m sure they did all they could, Lawrence,” Merry said, breathing in cool, conditioned air. It helped her queasy stomach to be out of that room, and away from him.
“Thank you, Mr. Waverly.” Hanging on to Lawrence’s hand, she forced herself to smile at the D.A. before turning to her brother-in-law.
Lawrence’s eyes were puffy and his fake tan didn’t hide his double chin, but his resemblance to her husband still sent a tiny pang of sadness through her, even six months after Zach’s helicopter had crashed. Lawrence was the black sheep of the Randolph family, but he’d always been nice to her.
“Lawrence, I can’t thank you enough—” she started, but he froze, his eyes focused beyond her, his expressive face draining of color.
“What’s the matter?” Her heart fluttered and the precious life inside her kicked restlessly.
He snaked his arm around her. “Let’s get out of here,” he snapped, pulling her toward the exit doors.
Merry resisted, her eyes following his alarmed gaze.
“Oh, God,” she croaked. Terror sucked the breath from her lungs. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t move.
Walking toward her, handcuffed and led by two detectives, was the man who had attacked her—the Widow Maker, Harry Bonner.
“They promised—” she whispered through numb lips. “They promised he wouldn’t come near me.”
As if he’d heard her, Bonner looked toward them and smiled, an ugly grimace that engulfed her in terror.
The taller detective cursed and jerked Bonner around, leading him back the way they’d come.
Lawrence pulled her close, his body trembling in reaction. “Come on, Merry.”
She felt light-headed. Fear bubbled up into her chest, threatening to erupt in a panicked scream. She clamped her jaw. She was safe, she reminded herself. She was with Lawrence, and Bonner was in custody.
She let Lawrence lead her out to his car. She’d much rather have had Zach’s strong arms around her, or her twin sister’s comforting embrace. But her husband was dead, her sister was spending the last week of September in Banff, and her parents were in Paris for the fall fashion shows.
Thank goodness she could count on Lawrence.
Chapter One
Police Detective Trevor Adkins jabbed at another button on the car radio, muttering curses under his breath. It was Christmas Eve. Even the rock station was playing Christmas music. He switched it off. He was nearly at his destination anyhow.
He exited the interstate two hours north of Atlanta, onto a two lane road, headed toward the Twenty-third Precinct’s safe house. His eyes skimmed over a couple of houses sporting Christmas door decorations and lights, trying to ignore the rising rhythm of his pulse and the worm of sadness that gnawed at his heart.
Damn, he hated Christmas.
Ten minutes later, as he turned onto the street where the safe house was located, a Ducharmes delivery truck passed him, going the opposite direction. He eyed it in his rearview mirror. That could hardly be a coincidence. His witness’s family owned Ducharmes Boutiques.
He reached for his cell phone and pressed his boss’s speed-dial code.
“Captain, what’s up? A Ducharmes delivery truck just passed me, coming from the safe house.”
The captain sighed. “The perils of baby-sitting the rich and famous. Apparently Mrs. Randolph needed a few things. Don’t worry, Trevor. Sims rode shotgun. The delivery was legit.”
“Yeah, but it was also very visible.”
“The mayor’s office called me. Think I had any choice?”
Trevor pocketed his phone and arched his neck to ease the tension. The holidays always boosted his stress level.
He’d been glad to do a favor for fellow detective Roger Stokes by switching duty schedules with him. Stokes had a family. Christmas was important to him.
Guarding witnesses scheduled to testify was a boring task. The witnesses were usually consumed with worry about their testimony, and the most exciting event was likely to be a good ball game on TV. Guarding a spoiled heiress would up the annoyance factor slightly, but not beyond what Trevor could handle.
His charge, Merry Ducharmes Randolph, was the only surviving victim of the Widow Maker, an inaccurate but dramatic name given by the press to the elusive killer who had stalked and killed three widows within the past eight months.
But they’d only been able to charge Harry Bonner, Merry’s attacker, with attempted robbery and assault. As badly as the Atlanta P.D. wanted to solve the Widow Maker murders, they’d been unable to positively link Bonner to the other three women. He had no priors, and turned up no hits on either the Combined DNA Index System—CODIS—or the FBI’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System—AFIS.
Trevor parked the cover vehicle, a white pickup sporting a fake plumber’s logo, in the driveway of the nondescript house next to Detective Amanda Moss’s van.
Turning up the collar
of his jacket against the rapidly falling temperature, he started up the walk, glancing around.
This was certainly an isolated neighborhood, perfect for a safe house. It looked like the developer had gone bankrupt in the middle of the project. There were only a couple of other houses completed, and those appeared to be deserted.