Born in Mystery

by Susan Kearney

  Born in Mystery

  HOW HAD SHE gotten herself into such a mess?

  All she needed was a place to hide. Why couldn’t he compromise? Why was he holding her so close, and why was she suddenly so aware of the heat of his hand on her hip?

  Obviously he had no concerns for her welfare. He thought only of his children. But then, what had she expected? She’d known Craig Braddack’s reputation.

  What she hadn’t expected was her own reaction to his proximity, a nameless silvery excitement that tensed every muscle and scattered her senses.

  As he carried her up the stairs, panic clutched her. Somehow she’d lost control of the situation. “Where are you taking me?”

  His eyes gleamed. “To bed.”

  Other Susan Kearney Titles from Bell Bridge Books

  The Braddacks

  Born in Secret

  Born in Danger

  Born in Mystery

  The Rystani Warrior Series

  The Challenge

  The Dare

  The Ultimatum

  The Quest

  The Heat Series

  Lunar Heat

  Solar Heat

  Futuristic Novella

  Devil in Paradise

  Romantic Suspense

  Kiss Me Deadly

  Dancing with Fire

  Secrets of Moore House

  Coming Fall 2014

  Born in Mystery

  by

  Susan Kearney

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-482-2

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-505-8

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 1998 by Hair Express, Inc.

  Kiss Me Deadly (excerpt) copyright 2007 Hair Express, Inc. Previously published by TOR in 2007

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A mass market edition of this book was previously published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. as Deceiving Daddy

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  Visit our websites

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  Cover design: Tara Adkins Design

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Hands (manipulated © Marina Dyakonova | Dreamstime.com

  Background (manipulated) © Riverrail | Dreamstime.com

  :Embn:01:

  Cast of Characters

  Bianca Warren—On the run from a stalker, Bianca’s last hope of survival hinges on the irresistible man she has lied to.

  Craig Braddack—A man whose life takes an alluring and dangerous twist once he marries Bianca by proxy.

  Gran—Bianca’s grandmother who tries to protect her.

  Kendrick Yarlboro—Bianca’s egocentric ex-boyfriend. How far will he go to get her back?

  Fred Hardcastle—A family friend. But can Bianca count on him?

  Harry Pibbs—The family’s attorney and Bianca’s former boss. Did he know more about her parents’ estate than he was admitting?

  Bob Carlson—Bianca’s great uncle. Is he a keeper of old secrets or confused by alcohol-induced delusions?

  Prologue

  Her sense of impending danger kicked in with no warning, just an ominous prickle on the back of her neck. Every day this week she’d spent her lunch hour in the park beside the lake, and every day the ducks gobbled the bread until not a crumb remained.

  Until today.

  Heads bobbing and weaving, the gaggle fluttered their wings and drew closer together as if sensing a threat.

  Impossible. She was safe now.

  She tossed the last crumbs and looked around. Nervousness stayed with her.

  The kids celebrating their last days of freedom before school began skated by and disappeared, as had the mothers pushing baby strollers and the men reading the Santa Del Ray Times on wooden park benches. The breeze picked up, rustling the oak branches. Scudding clouds blocked the California sun, leaving her with a sudden chill sprinting up her spine.

  Jamming her fists into her jacket pockets, she turned away from the lake. She tried to convince herself she was only imagining a threat. Tried to ignore the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Tried to breathe evenly, although her breath lodged in her throat.

  At the roar of an engine firing up, her heart tripped against her ribs. Motorcycles weren’t allowed in the park.

  Don’t panic. He isn’t coming for me.

  She increased her pace along the sidewalk that encircled the lake, staying clear of the broken slat fence by the bicycle paths.

  Take it easy.

  Just because someone was taking an afternoon joyride didn’t mean he was after her again.

  Did it?

  The bike emerged from behind a grassy hill. Dressed in black leather from head to foot, the rider twisted his wrist and revved the motor. A dark helmet with an opaque face shield prevented her from discerning his features.

  He lifted his boot from where he had it braced and steered toward her. Maybe he only wanted to ask directions?

  No.

  She hadn’t bolted three steps before he blocked her path. Willing her knees not to buckle, she sidestepped the bike.

  From his boot, he extracted a baton. With a flick of his hand, the baton extended and locked in place with an ominous click.

  Once again, a sick, trapped feeling threatened to corner her. She couldn’t outrun a motorcycle. And no one would hear her scream.

  He beat his leather-gloved palm with the baton then raised it over her head. He meant to kill her. To him, her life wasn’t worth much. But she had so much to lose.

  Cold resolve steeled her spine. She wasn’t ready to die. Or stand still like a sheep in a slaughterhouse.

  When he swung the baton at her head, she lunged forward, slammed into him, and man, woman and machine tumbled in a tangle of flesh and metal.

  She landed on top of the pile, the wind knocked out of her. The bike pinned him in the dirt. As she scrabbled to rise and fill her lungs, she fumbled for the ignition key. Serrated metal bit into her palm.

  Run.

  She darted out of the park. Over the pounding of her breath, she listened for footfalls behind her but heard nothing above the roaring in her ears. She broke through the trees and careered into a policeman at the corner hot dog stand.

  Oh, thank God . . .

  She and the officer returned to the park, but only the bike remained. Her attacker had escaped. She swallowed her tears, frustrated she still didn’t know his identity.

  This time, he’d let her see him. This time, he’d gotten so close. Next time, she might not be so lucky. It was time to put her plan into action.

  She cradled her hand over her belly.

  Time to disappear.
>
  Chapter One

  OF ALL THE mornings for some idiot to roar up his driveway.

  Craig Braddack had been awake thirty-six hours straight, and he’d anticipated a good ten hours of sleep. Undisturbed. Negotiating the last kinks out of the Taiwan-Singapore contracts vital to keeping his company profitable had used up the last of his energy and patience. Yet from the sound of the revving motor below, he now had to deal with some motorcycle maniac lost in his driveway.

  Welcome back to LA. Apparently, living in the suburbs no longer guaranteed a peaceful morning.

  Tossing off the tangled sheet, he yanked on a pair of jeans. Without bothering with shirt or shoes, he charged downstairs and flung open the double-wide front door. Whatever invective he’d been about to hurl died in his throat.

  He’d expected a punk kid skidding doughnuts on his manicured lawn, not a fantasy woman in black leather, climbing off a motorcycle. But she was real—no fantasy conjured up from a mind lacking sleep. From her booted heels, trim ankles and legs that angled all the way up to curvy hips, she was dressed to drive a man wild. Although she wore a helmet, there could be no doubt of her gender, not with the leather clinging seductively to her lithe curves. Nothing lithe about her chest, though. Her breasts were high and firm, swelling out of a low-scooped neckline.

  She removed her helmet, and a lion’s mane of waist-length curly red hair tumbled down her back and sprang around her face, framing bright green eyes, a pert nose and hot red lips. At any moment, he expected her to break into song and dance and a striptease.

  Only it wasn’t his birthday.

  She smiled at him, a smooth, sexy smile that tied his stomach in knots and reminded him it had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Of course, hot-blooded redheads in black leather weren’t his type, no matter how seductive. His preference ran to blondes, short, sophisticated blondes who had graduated from Radcliffe or Stanford and who never reminded him of his wife. Linda had been a redhead.

  He threaded his fingers through his hair, in no mood for adolescent pranks or for memories that caused so much pain. “What do you want?”

  He’d used a tone that quelled his employees, but she advanced like a stalking lioness, never breaking stride. She didn’t stop until she stood so close he caught a whiff of vanilla. The delicate scent seemed so at odds with the rest of her that he studied her more closely. If he hadn’t seen uncertainty flicker across her face before she straightened her spine, planted her fists on trim hips and stared him squarely in the eye, he’d have thought her invulnerable. “Answer me, woman. What do you want?”

  “Is that any way to greet your wife?” she asked, her voice a throaty purr.

  He cocked a brow. “Wife? My wife is dead.”

  She ignored his quizzical expression. “Do I look dead? I’m wife number two.”

  A shudder ripped through him, and he fought the strong urge to run like hell. If she was his wife—the one he’d wed by proxy—she was the last person he wanted to see.

  His fingers tightened on the doorjamb while he dredged the specifics of their bargain from his memory. Their contract was straightforward. Strictly business. He paid expenses. If she delivered, he’d honor the balance. Although he couldn’t recall the small print, her showing up on his doorstep damned sure wasn’t part of their agreement.

  Their arrangement, if successful, wouldn’t end for another eight months. Still, he preferred to forget their marriage. When he thought of the woman at all, he pictured her as faceless, colorless, shapeless. Imagining her seductive curves hugged by sexy black leather or envisioning her brilliant green eyes meeting his with a sassy expression had never crossed his mind.

  He scowled. Better keep to business.

  To deal with her, he’d have to find out if she really was his wife. He studied her vivid features, telling himself to tread warily. Purposely, he let his gaze drift over her. The slight shifting of her weight indicated she wasn’t as cool and calm as she first appeared, but with a determined look she kept her chin high.

  What was she up to? How had she found him? She must already want more money.

  He had opened his mouth to tell her to leave when she leaned closer, her breasts inches from his chest, the scent of leather enticing him. “I am your wife, and I’m feeling fine, thank you. And very much alive.”

  Indulging in a look at the enticing shadow of a deep cleft between her breasts, he cleared his throat. “I can see that”

  He hadn’t expected her to blush. She hadn’t seemed the type. Nor did he expect to find the blush so attractive. He was bleary-eyed tired, but he’d have to be dead not to respond to her combination of overt sensuality and blushing naiveté. But something was wrong. Her innocent demeanor contrasted too vividly with her bold and sexy outfit.

  “Stay right there,” he ordered, backing away but leaving the door open to keep an eye on her. Fleeing as much to search for the file on his “wife” as to hide his all-too-obvious physical reaction to her, he strode into the den. Still groggy but with morose foreboding, he recalled a picture somewhere.

  Dean, Atherson, and Jackson were nothing if not thorough. His attorneys had checked the woman’s background before he’d consented to the proxy marriage. Craig had a picture of his wife in the file, and he didn’t remember a red bombshell but a dull brunette. With a muttered curse, he stalked into his home office, jerked open the door that hid his storage cabinet and seized a handful of folders.

  He flung aside the superfluous files in search of the one he wanted. Smith, Temple, Warren . . .

  Got it.

  As he returned, he reached into the folder then scowled at a fuzzy photo of a, sure enough, mousy brunette. He squinted in frustration as he compared the blurred features to the vibrant woman who’d entered his foyer with the boldness of a vamp.

  She carried a duffel slung over her shoulder and headed blithely toward the den, her hips swaying seductively in tight black leather. Where was she going? Seething with mounting irritation at his limited options, he approached her, glancing at the picture he held and then back to her. She did resemble the woman he’d married.

  “Just a minute.” He wasn’t president and sole owner of an up-and-coming international corporation for nothing. He might not have seen his family in a while, but as a Braddack, he knew how to make executive questions sound like a threat. Gritting his teeth, he pointed, his finger stopping just short of the recess between her heaving breasts. “Just what in hell do you think you’re doing?”

  She started at the leashed violence in his tone then cocked her chin at a jaunty angle. “I’m moving in.”

  “What!”

  Then again, his twin brothers Max and Ford had often teased him he wasn’t cut of executive material.

  “Don’t yell at me.”

  She glared at him as if she had every right to live with him. If he hadn’t been so annoyed, he might have admired her for standing up to him like one of the Braddack brothers. Because no one else did, not his vice presidents, nor his salesmen. Certainly not a slip of a female.

  Yet, instead of retreating, she stretched to her full height, squared her shoulders and advanced to stand toe-to-toe with him. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not healthy to upset a pregnant woman?”

  “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not healthy for a pregnant woman to ride a motorcycle?” he countered, his gut gripping tight at the unnecessary risks she’d taken. “Especially when you’re carrying my children.”

  “I may be carrying your babies, but that doesn’t mean you can run my life.”

  That did it. Fury rose up to choke him. Even worse, he could no longer deny she was his wife. He would have cheerfully sold a chunk of his soul to avoid having had to use a surrogate. Having a choice wasn’t one of his options.

  Ever since he’d decided to hire a surrogate, he’d worried over his lack of control duri
ng the pregnancy. If the surrogate chose to drink herself into a stupor, take up skydiving or experiment with drugs while carrying his children, he had no right to stop her. So he’d had his attorney select the best candidate and done his damnedest not to think about the dangers. And he hadn’t breathed one word of his decision to his family—because he hadn’t wanted to hear their arguments. He didn’t want to see their pity. He didn’t want drama.

  He’d wanted peace.

  Now she had the nerve to show up here and throw the fact that he couldn’t protect his babies in his face.

  Every muscle coiled into a tight spring of tension. “If you don’t like my tone, I suggest you leave before I do something worse.”

  “Like what?” A defiant challenge angled across full lips that he found all too inviting.

  His mouth watered, and he suddenly recognized the baffling cauldron of emotion bubbling inside him wasn’t just anger. Sure, he was vexed, annoyed and outraged by her audacity—but he was also turned on.

  He ought to kiss her senseless. Unbidden images of tasting her lush lips taunted him, tantalized him almost enough to make him pursue her. Almost.

  The fantasy couldn’t quite quell his need to shake some sense into her. Instead, he clenched his fists in an effort to override his masculine reaction to her stirring old memories better left alone.

  At the uncomfortable feeling in his gut, the sudden need to send her away almost overwhelmed him. Grasping the duffel, he tossed it from the foyer onto the front porch. “You aren’t moving in. That wasn’t part of our agreement.”

  With a new wariness in her eyes, she planted her hand on one hip and edged toward the kitchen. “Our agreement is going to change.”

  What game was she playing? Her apprehension was genuine enough even if she was careful to conceal it behind a thick layer of outward composure. The contradiction between her sassy words and the troubled look in her eyes made him wonder if she had something to hide.

  He sensed reminding her of their legally binding contract would make no difference in her demented decision to live with him. She obviously wasn’t a businesswoman and probably didn’t understand the agreement she’d signed. Driven by frustration and forced to shift position to block her from gaining farther access into his home, he didn’t bother to mask his irritation. “Why is that?”