Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Copyright
“Special Agent Logan Pierce. I need you to come with me.”
Zara’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“No time to explain. The first priority is to get you somewhere safe.” The fingers of his hand wrapped around her upper arm like a steel band. He swiftly propelled her along with him to a distant exit.
“Safe! What the—”
She was accompanying a strange man—a very large and intimidating strange man—to God knew where, for God knew what purpose.
Zara jerked hard against his unyielding grip, to no avail. “Hold on,” she cried. “Mr. Piercel I mean, Agent Pierce, please!” She tried to sound assertive. “I need to see your ID again.”
“No time.”
Her voice wobbled as they sprinted across the parking lot. “Why do you have to get me somewhere safe. Safe from what? From who?”
He stopped, but he did not release her. His features were strong, intriguing. His big body radiated heat and male vitality. “You should be more careful who you do business with.”
Dear Reader,
When Harlequin asked us to write two books featuring twin heroines, they didn’t have to ask twice! As identical twins ourselves, we knew we’d have a blast with this unique project.
Along with the creative challenge came a geographical one: We live four hundred miles apart! However, between occasional road trips and daily phone calls (our twin telepathy was on the fritz), we brainstormed a dynamite suspense story that begins in Twice the Spice, Pat’s Harlequin Temptation (April ‘97), and ends here in Pam’s Twice Burned.
While each book stands on its own, we urge you to read both for the most enjoyment. We’ve woven tender romance and sizzling passion into a story rife with mistaken identity, heart-thumping danger, stunning plot twists and more than one dark secret.
Our twin heroines, Emma and Zara, are close to our hearts. Despite different personalities and a strained relationship, their special bond gives them the strength and courage to overcome all odds. And as for Gage and Logan…we think you’ll fall in love with them both, just as we did!
We’d love to hear from you. Write to us at P.O. Box 1321, North Baldwin, NY 11510-0721 (send an SASE for a reply).
Happy reading!
Sincerely,
Pamela Burford and Patricia Ryan
Twice Burned
Pamela Burford
To the “good twin,” Patricia Ryan,
for never letting me forget that life
is not a dress rehearsal
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Zara Sutcliffe—The sophisticated, assertive twin; her impulsive actions have put her life in danger.
Logan Pierce—An FBI agent-or is he?-with a shocking secret.
MacGowan Byrne—A charming psychopath; capable of anything.
Candy Carmelle—A former horror-movie scream queen and the twins’ mother, she’s more than her abductor bargained for. Emma Sutcliffe-The timid twin is full of surprises.
Gage Foster—The “golden cowboy” has trouble keeping his woman home on the range. William-Why is this eccentric collector willing to pay millions for Candy Carmelle’s ray gun? Douglas and Madeline Byrne-Their warped sense of duty has disastrous consequences.
Chapter One
Wolf’s eyes, Zara thought, watching the man weave through the crowd at Kennedy Airport’s International Arrivals Building, that feral golden brown gaze riveted to her.
It struck her then, where she’d seen those eyes. In that painting of a timber wolf that used to hang in her father’s den.
A little shiver scuttled up her spine. Exhaustion, she told herself. The flight from Sydney to New York had been interminable, and she’d yet to refine the art of sleeping on planes. On top of that, the geek in customs had given her short, tight-fitting fuchsia suit a lingering once-over and made her wait another half hour while he took his time pawing through her luggage and ogling her cleavage.
Now she wanted nothing more than to cab it back to her penthouse apartment on East Eighty-sixth and soak the kinks away in an aroma-therapeutic whirlpool bath. Maybe she’d call her masseuse.
She grimaced, remembering her masseuse was a thing of the past, thanks to Tony. Her ex-husband’s greed and vindictiveness had left her emotionally and financially drained. She’d lost even the privacy sheso desperately craved, since she now lacked the means to install her mother in a place of her own.
With any luck, Mom would be out bowling or something and Zara would have a few rare minutes of solitary peace.
With even more luck, her twin sister, Emma, wouldn’t have bollixed up the transaction Zara had arranged. The transaction that would give her back her privacy.
Wolf Eyes was nearly upon her now, striding with single-minded resolve. He was hard to ignore, towering over everyone else by at least half a head, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, those eerie, unsmiling eyes locked on her like heat-seeking missiles.
She sighed. What now?
Whatever business he had with her, it could wait till Monday, and office hours. She refused to deal with it now, when she was mentally fried and both her Movado watch and her internal clock were set at Sydney time. She rationalized that since she’d already made it to Saturday morning, she could ignore this pushy fellow who was still getting through Friday afternoon.
He was probably some hack author who took exception to receiving a form rejection letter from the Zara Sutcliffe Literary Agency.
She tried to veer away from him, but her progress was hampered by the gigantic wheeled Hartmann suitcase she was hauling, with assorted smaller matching bags dangling from it by straps.
Suddenly he was there, planted directly in her path like some damn sequoia, blocking her escape route. She skidded to a graceless stop in her stiletto heels, nearly landing on her fanny when the heavy suitcase rolled into her, driven by forward momentum.
Rather than reaching out to steady her, as any gentleman would have done, Wolf Eyes flashed an open badge wallet in her face.
“Special Agent Logan Pierce. FBI. I need you to come with me, Miss Sutcliffe.”
Zara’s jaw dropped and she gaped at him like a beached mackerel. “What?”
He reached around her and seized the handle of her suitcase. “No time to explain. The first priority is to get you somewhere safe.”
“Safe! What the—”
The fingers of his free hand wrapped around her upper arm like a steel band. He swiftly propelled her along with him toward the distant exit.
They were halfway there when the shock wore off and her mind lurched into high gear. She was accompanying a strange man—a very large and intimidating strange man—to God knew where, for God knew what purpose. He didn’t even look like an FBI agent. Didn’t G-men wear suits and ties? This guy was in jeans and a black windbreaker over a maroon T-shirt.
Zara jerked hard against his unyielding grip, to no avail. He didn’t even slow his pace. He towed her ponderous luggage with such apparent ease, it might have been a toddler’s pull toy.
“Hold on!” she cried. “Wait up a minute.”
No response
. Those stony wolfs eyes never stopped scanning the noisy crowd, for what hidden perils, she could only imagine.
“Mr. Pierce! I mean, Agent Pierce, please!” She twisted her arm where his long fingers crushed the silk. “You’re hurting me.”
“You’re hurting yourself. Take it easy.”
“Take it easy? Listen, mister, if you don’t let go of me this instant and tell me what this is about, I swear I’ll scream my head off.”
He stopped, but he didn’t release her. He stared down at her, his expression revealing impatience and more than a little distaste. His features were strong, not classically handsome but interesting.
Okay, intriguing. She couldn’t help it. Behind those cool amber eyes she detected more stories than one man had a right to.
She almost laughed at the fanciful notion. Her imagination would be the death of her yet. If she could write worth a damn, she’d be a novelist herself instead of a literary agent.
She tried to sound assertive. “I need to see your ID again.”
“No time.” He was off once more, Zara’s spiked heels clicking on the tiled floor as he hauled her along, just another piece of baggage.
Outside the terminal, the air was balmy, the sky clear azure—a flawless May afternoon. Zara squinted against the dazzling sun, wishing she could get to her shades. Somehow she doubted Pierce would be willing to stop and let her fish them out of her carry-on.
They crossed busy airport roads, darting through traffic. All the while he continued to scrutinize their surroundings.
Suddenly it occurred to her that his loose windbreaker almost certainly concealed a holster. She swallowed back a knot of apprehension. Her voice wobbled as they sprinted across the parking lot. “You said you had to get me somewhere safe. Safe from what? From who?”
“MacGowan Byrne.”
She lost her precarious footing as that sank in, and would have ended up sprawled on the pavement if not for Pierce’s death grip on her arm.
“Mac Byrne?” she squeaked. “The art dealer?” The man she’d made Emma promise to meet to complete the lucrative sale she’d arranged? The man who was going to solve all her financial problems?
“That’s the one.” He retrieved a key chain and thumbed a keyless entry button. A car chirped nearby. A small, sleek BMW. Black with tinted windows and wide tires. He quickly stowed her luggage in the trunk, then opened the passenger door and shoved her inside. She barely had time to pull in her feet before he slammed the door.
He circled the car and slid behind the wheel, his movements swift and economical, as graceful as the timber wolf she’d likened him to.
And no doubt as dangerous.
He seemed to completely fill the compact sports car, his big body radiating heat and male vitality. Turning the key, he said, “You should be more careful who you do business with. Mac Byrne tried to kill your sister when she went to meet with him.”
“Emma?” she whispered.
Zara was drowning. Air. She needed air. She dug her nails into the leather armrest, her chest heaving with the effort to make her world stop reeling.
“Is she…is she okay?”
Pierce didn’t spare her a glance. “She’s no longer. in danger. But he’s got your mother. Candy Carmelle. Kidnapped her from your apartment over a week ago.”
A sob broke through the fingers she clamped over her mouth.
Dear God, what have I done?
A solid metallic snick made her jump. The sound of power door locks engaging. She glanced at the spot where her own lock button should have been, only to spy an empty hole. Her gaze flew to her companion’s impassive profile as he palmed the steering wheel and backed out of the parking space.
“A little insurance.”
CANNDY CARMELLE WAS a dead woman. She could see it in her captor’s cold, golden brown eyes. Wolf’s eyes.
As she looked back on her sixty-one years, her only regret was having slept with Billy Sharke back in 1966 for the ray gun—the first step in a love affair that changed the course of her life. If it weren’t for that damn ray gun, she’d be home right now, watching “Oprah” and working Lady Clairol into her roots.
Billy had directed her in Dr. Blood, Blood Wedding, The Slithering, The Brain from Asteroid X, The Atomic Bride and Return of the Atomic Bride. He’d adored Candy. No one could scream like her. She was the queen bee of B-movie scream queens. A regular diva.
Candy stared sullenly at the movie prop that had vanquished the Atomic Bride and her undead minions in Return, now tucked into a corner of the dingy basement room that had been her prison for more than a week. The ray gun was polished chrome, the size and approximate shape of a rifle. A 1950s version of a futuristic weapon, it sported more knobs, levers, gadgets and gizmos than the space shuttle.
She’d thought she was the only one with a sentimental attachment to the silly thing. Seems some weird recluse with more money than God just couldn’t live without it. And Mac Byrne was more than willing to accommodate him.
She sneaked a peek at Mac, who’d just come in from one of his mysterious excursions. He sat slumped at the opposite end of the rump-sprung sofa that doubled as her bed, staring into middle distance and muttering to himself. She thought she heard ripe cussing directed at “that damn cowboy.” Again.
No doubt about it, her captor was a few pecans short of a pie and getting loonier by the hour.
Maybe that “damn cowboy” was the one who’d worked Mac over shortly after he kidnapped Candy from her daughter Zara’s apartment. Mac had hogtied her and left her in this musty cellar for what seemed like hours. She had to admit the terror and discomfort were almost worth it when he returned looking like rewarmed dog do—a split lip, a nasty shiner and a couple of cracked ribs.
Couldn’t happen to a nicer psychopath.
If nothing else, the shellacking her captor had endured was evidence that all was not going according to his demented plans. Which might mean that her daughter Emma, Zara’s twin sister, was still safe. Perhaps this “cowboy,” whoever he was, was looking after her. Whatever else, Candy couldn’t help but feel warm and fuzzy about anyone Mac hated so virulently.
“Mac…?” Her tone couldn’t get more syrupy if she were gargling with molasses.
He slid her a suspicious sidelong glance.
She scooted closer. “Your face healed up nicely, but I bet those ribs are still bothering you. Lemme have a look.”
She reached for his shirt. He grabbed her wrist, not roughly but with enough force to aggravate the rope burns. She winced. Immediately his touch turned gentle as he sat up and examined the welts.
He murmured, “Your skin is so delicate. These’ll get infected if I don’t put something on them. I’ll go out for some ointment.”
“Your hands are very soothing.” She smiled shyly and traced the muscular pad of his thumb. “But strong, too. I find that so…intriguing. A man of contradictions.”
Contradictions, hell, the guy was downright schizoid—brutally cold one second, tender and solicitous the next.
Sweet Lord, how had this demented creep talked Zara into selling him the ray gun in the first place? Her daughter was supposed to be an astute businesswoman. Candy liked the way they’d put it in that Wall Street Journal article:
Zara Sutcliffe is the quintessential nineties wheeler-dealer, a glamorous literary superagent with more media presence than her famous and infamous clients.
Candy often wished Zara’s twin sister, Emma, possessed a fraction of that glamour—or the street smarts that went along with it. But then, it was staid, sensible Emma who’d been forced to cope with the desperate situation her impulsive sister had caused.
She studied Mac as he tenderly inspected her wrists. His display of concern was ludicrous—they both knew he had no intention of releasing her alive.
The man might be a homicidal maniac, but he was a good-looking, prosperous homicidal maniac. Midthirties, tall and powerfully built, with rugged features and long dark hair past his shoulders—and that
Rolex didn’t come from Kmart. On the surface, precisely the sort of affluent, studly hunk she’d always wanted Emma and Zara to hook up with.
He said, “I didn’t want to do this to you, Candy. They left me no choice.” Those wolflike eyes looked more like a puppy’s now, anxious for her approval.
He’d abducted her to force Emma to hand over the ray gun. Now that he had it, he was supposed to release her. But Candy was under no illusions. She’d seen enough movies to know what happened to hostages who could identify their kidnappers.
They were never heard from again.
Her only hope was to stall for time. And the best way to accomplish that was to play on Mac’s weakness: his adolescent fixation on Candy Carmelle, scream queen extraordinaire.
When he’d kidnapped her he was no doubt anticipating your basic sixtyish grandma type. What he’d ended up with was the same fit, alluring B-movie actress he’d obviously spent his youth drooling over, glued to the tube and Reptile Bride day after day on the “Million Dollar Movie.”
She and Jane Fonda were about the same age, and the similarities didn’t stop there. They were both shining examples of sexy mature womanhood. Candy even dreamed of starring in her own exercise videos, though that was all it amounted to, a dream. Her initial inquiries had left her dispirited.
Still, that goal had been something to fantasize about when she’d assumed she had a few more decades in which to grow old disgracefully. With every hour that passed, that future appeared more elusive. Well, she sure as hell wasn’t going to give in without a fight. Her weapon of choice? The one she’d spent a lifetime honing.
She took a deep, shuddering breath and was pleased to note the direction of Mac’s gaze. The top two buttons of her blouse had popped off during the struggle in Zara’s apartment, revealing a deep vee of crimson lace and what Billy Sharke used to call ten pounds of cantaloupes in a five-pound sack.
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