by Laura Parker
“You know who I am?” she asked.
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Books by Laura Parker
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Copyright
“You know who I am?” she asked.
Anger swamped Joe’s reserve. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
She flinched, though he hadn’t raised his voice. “What I mean is, who do you think I am, Mr. Guinn?”
Joe checked the impulse to answer with the phrase, “My ex.” He didn’t like any reference to the act that had “X-ed” out what had once been the emotional center of his life. The divorce had been her doing. If this was her way of testing his attitude, he wasn’t going to make it easy for her.
“Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?” he asked harshly.
“Very well.” Her chin lifted. “I want to hire you, Mr. Guinn. I have amnesia, and I need you to find out who I am.”
Dear Reader,
We’ve got six great books for you this month, and three of them are part of miniseries you’ve grown to love. Dallas Schulze continues A FAMILY CIRCLE with Addie and the Renegade. Dallas is known to readers worldwide as an author whose mastery of emotion is unparalleled, and this book will only enhance her well-deserved reputation. For Cole Walker, love seems like an impossibility—until he’s stranded with Addie Smith, and suddenly... Well, maybe I’d better let you read for yourself. In Leader of the Pack, Justine Davis keeps us located on TRINITY STREET WEST. You met Ryan Buckhart in Lover Under Cover; now meet Lacey Buckhart, the one woman—the one wife!—he’s never been able to forget. Then finish off Laura Parker’s ROGUES’ GALLERY with Found:One Marriage. Amnesia, exes who still share a love they’ve never been able to equal anywhere else...this one has it all.
Of course, our other three books are equally special.
Nikki Benjamin’s The Lady and Alex Payton is the follow-up to The Wedding Venture, and it features a kidnapped almost-bride. Barbara Faith brings you Long-Lost Wife? For Annabel the past is a mystery—and the appearance of a man claiming to be her husband doesn’t make things any clearer, irresistible though he may be. Finally, try Beverly Bird’s The Marrying Kind. Hero John Gunner thinks that’s just the kind of man he’s not, but meeting Tessa Hadley-Bryant proves to him just how wrong a man can be.
And be sure to come back next month for more of the best romantic reading around—here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Yours,
Leslie Wainger
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A SX3
FOUND: ONE MARRIAGE
LAURA PARKER
Books by Laura Parker
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Stranger in Town #562
*Tiger in the Rain #663
*Together Again #682
*Found: One Marriage #731
Silhouette Special Edition
The Perfect Choice #137
Dangerous Company #203
*Rogues’ Gallery
LAURA PARKER
A Texas native, Laura recently made a “major” relocation. Her office is now on the third floor of a turn-of-the-century colonial house in northern New Jersey, where she lives with her husband and three children. Laura is often told that she must have the best career around. “After all, my hours are my own. I don’t have to get up, dress and commute to work. I’m available if my children need me. I can even play hooky when the mood strikes. Best of all, I get to live in my imagination—where anything is possible.”
Chapter 1
The east Texas drawl coming through his cellular phone broke up a little as Joe Guinn’s pickup rounded a line of trees.
“...the damn investigation kept quiet! If Lacey’s disappearance turns up in print every damn loony between here and the gulf will want cash for a lead. I’m hiring you ’cause you’re one of us. I expect you to keep things under control. No damn leaks! Got that, Joe?”
“Yes sir, Mr. McCrea.” Joe’s tone was that of a patient professional. “I’ll need to speak with your wife, of course. I can come by this even—”
“Absolutely not! Too upset. Doctor had to give her a sedative.” Exasperation laced McCrea’s baritone drawl. “Day or two won’t make much difference. That hothead son of mine won’t get far without my damn gold card! I’ve had enough. Gonna stick his butt in a military academy! You come by the bank tomorrow. Give you the details then.”
The line went dead abruptly.
Joe smirked as he punched the Off button on his phone. McCrea was not only part owner in East Texas Ranchers Savings and Loan, but a state senator. He was a man accustomed to issuing orders and having them followed without comment. Not everyone appreciated the treatment. Lacey McCrea seemed to be among them. Sixteen-year-old runaways were so common these days the media wouldn’t ordinarily consider it news. But the disappearance of an unhappy son whose father had just announced his intention to run for another term would be of interest. That meant this job could become one big pain in the rear.
Joe reached for the ice-cold soda can wedged between his thighs and took a swig as the radio weatherman predicted that the unusually warm spring weather would bring thunderstorms by nightfall.
McCrea wasn’t the only one who mistrusted the media. Two years ago Joe had been the main course in a media feeding frenzy that had savaged his life. He’d moved from New York City all the way back home to Gap, Texas to avoid more. Nowadays, all he asked of life was to be left in peace...and for the fish to be biting at sunrise.
He tucked the can back between his legs and reached up to scratch the week’s growth on his chin. He’d been fishing down at Sam Houston National Park when the urgent message left by McCrea had prompted him to return today.
He supposed he should be grateful he had been offered the job. McCrea could have gone to Houston or Dallas to hire big-time professionals. A private detective in a town the size of Gap didn’t get many cases. Running down the occasional errant husband or back child-support checks barely kept his lights on and the phone connected. Nearby Tyler offered the slightly more lucrative case of the cheating spouse or bad check writer. But, all in all, no case these last two years promised to pay as well as this one.
Joe shifted gears as he made the turn onto the dirt road that led a hundred yards along a windbreak of oaks to the farmhouse that had been in his family since Roosevelt charged San Juan Hill. Three generations of Guinns before him had sunk roots deep into east Texas soil. The fact that he hadn’t set foot in the state between the ages of fifteen and thirty hadn’t counted against him with his neighbors when he moved back.
He had overheard a conversation between his closest neighbor, whom everyone called Uncle Liam, and the mailman not long after he arrived. His return was the subject of their discussion.
“The boy ain’t a Yankee,” Uncle Liam had offered in explanation. “Joe just now figured that out, is all.”
Joe was grateful for the backing but he suspected the older man was as curious as everyone else about his reappearance.
No one had dared probe directly into the reason for his sudden and unexpected return to the place of his birth, but he knew people talked and speculated behind his back. The gossip that had dogged him
all the way from Manhattan was too juicy to be ignored. One rumor said he had married and divorced an ex-Radio City Rockette. Another whispered that she’d been a rich-bitch society type. Others concentrated on his professional life. It was said he had committed a crime and been forced out or even fired under a cloud of suspicion from his position as a detective of the NYPD. For a few months, those rumors made him the quiet eye of a very lively storm. Joe did not answer them, defy them, or defend them. To do that would have meant he would have to think about the rumors. And thinking was the last thing he wanted to do... unless it was feeling.
Gradually, he had learned to reappreciate the simple pleasures of the pine-forested gentle rolling land of his youth. He had even found an excuse to awaken every day by going fishing. He had learned to put pleasure before purpose and found that life had become bearable.
As Joe rounded a turn, he expelled a rough whisper of vulgarity as he braked hard to- an accompanying spray of gravel from beneath his truck tires.
A paper banner stretched twelve full feet across the front porch of his house. In big block letters were printed the words: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JOE! The fancy banner acted on him like a red flag waved before a touchy bull.
“Lauren,” he muttered irritably as he swung open the truck door and stepped out. Lauren Sawyer had been trying for months to “draw him out” as his neighbors would say. He had tried to make it perfectly clear that he didn’t want to be drawn out. He couldn’t imagine how she found out it was his birthday. He hadn’t meant to remember it himself.
He slammed the truck door then leaned against it, thumbs hooking into the belt loops of his jeans. Though he didn’t see her car, he suspected she might be inside waiting to surprise him. Behind his shades his gaze narrowed in on the end of the banner that had come loose and snapped whiplike in the brisk wind. He saw now that it contained the day’s date: April 1. It was his birthday—but it was also the anniversary of his marriage, and divorce.
The reminder made the old anger and hurt and humiliation roil in his belly like a barrel of snakes.
Since the day of his return, he had had to battle east Texas hospitality. Folks just smiled when he said he wasn’t much for socializing and continued to invite him over for fried chicken or barbecue. Occasionally, reluctantly, he accepted. He had a PI business to run, such as it was. Contacts were vital.
Not surprisingly, he often found himself introduced to the unattached sister, aunt, cousin or friend who just happened to be in town. He would smile cautiously, avoid eye contact, and then retreat as soon as etiquette permitted. Occasionally the woman wouldn’t take no for an answer. Lauren Sawyer was one.
As tenacious as a burr, she found ways and excuses to meet him in town, at the grocery, in the street, even at the homes of mutual acquaintances. The few times he had relented and they’d gone out had been nice, but only nice. Ending up in bed with her had not improved his feelings of discomfort. The impulse had been a response to a call of nature that she was more than willing to answer. He’d been lousy. She’d been a sport. No strings, she said. Just laughs, she promised.
Had he been any other man he suspected her flattering attention would eventually have made inroads in his reluctance. But he didn’t want a relationship with her or any other woman just yet. He liked his self-made hell just fine.
A wicked smile bloomed in the dark nettles of his beard. He hadn’t bothered to shower or change clothes since he left home. He looked like a wild man and smelled like something that had washed up on the riverbank and been left too long in the sun. He knew that if he chose he could in five seconds flat have Miss Sawyer running for her jasmine-scented life.
Smiling, he reared away from his truck and headed for his house.
There was no one inside the dim cool interior when he pushed open the front door. As he glanced about the empty living room he felt the sudden letdown of a man cruising for a fight only to find no takers. His gaze whipped right and left, past the plain but wellpreserved furnishings nearly a century old, past the more modern additions of TV and stereo, to the dining room. He discovered only one thing out of place. In the center of the crocheted tablecloth sat a slightly melting cake with a single candle sticking up from the middle.
He closed in on it like a member of a bomb squad approaching a ticking package. He glanced toward the open door that led to the kitchen, half suspecting that at any moment a party horn would blare and confetti would rain down cheerfully from a feminine hand. Nothing.
Up close, he recognized the white boiled frosting cake with toasted coconut and pineapple tidbits for garnish as a staple of church socials. He stuck a finger in the stiff marshmallowlike frosting and sucked the sweet glob off his finger. Almost reluctantly he admitted that it was good.
Then he spied the card lying on the table. In a neat swirling feminine hand was written his full name: Joseph Aloysius Guinn.
Joe winced. In a part of the country where boys were given short masculine names like Jake or Chip or Bart or Sonny, his appellation had been the bane of his young life.
He opened the card and his dark brows lifted in surprise. He knew at once she had not purchased this card in Gap. It contained an unexpectedly salacious drawing with an invitation to do more than share a slice of cake. At the bottom she had left the impression of her lips in scarlet with her phone number beneath. He closed it with a rough sigh.
Maybe he was being a little too hard on himself. Maybe the only way to get over the past was to participate in the present. Maybe...if...
He glanced up, accidently meeting his reflection in the gilt frame mirror that hung over his grandmother’s buffet. What he saw was a tall man in a burnt orange University of Texas T-shirt. Above the shirt his sun-darkened face was all but masked by bristle and too long thick dark brown hair whipped by the wind. He looked like a mugger or a rapist. No doubt about it, Lauren would have run.
He dropped the card on the table, plowed his finger again into the icing, and then headed for his bedroom. After a shower and a beer he might even change his mind about that birthday invitation. He wasn’t dead—just cautious.
it was nearly dark and Joe had gotten no farther than his living room. All he wore was the towel he had wrapped about his hips after exiting the shower. Drops of water ran from his hairline down the sides of his face, mimicking sweat tracks. He sat sprawled in a recliner, staring absently at an Australian rules football game on the TV. It was amazing what a satellite dish could bring into one’s home. Other things weren’t so easily obtained.
After two years’ absence he had decided that he really missed only three things about his New York life: real pizza, all-night Chinese takeout, and...and.... A blur of images swam before his unfocused gaze. The third thing escaped him.
He took a slow-motion swig of beer from the can in his hand. The rest of the empty six-pack lay beside him on the carpet. He would not be leaving his house tonight. He was way beyond the legal limit for drivers. He rarely drank much. But he had decided to celebrate, after all.
He glanced at the crumbling facade of the birthday cake sitting on the coffee table next to where his bare feet were propped. Three tender yellow layers were exposed where he had hacked away several slices with a butcher knife. Cake and beer. It wasn’t much for nutrition but it had filled his belly.
There was another place inside him that could not be filled. The hollowed-out place in his gut carved by bad luck, bad timing, and bad choices had not been plugged, paved over, or healed to any real degree by two long years of regret and self-recrimination.
Halle!
The aluminum can caved in to the pressure of his hand and then warm beer foamed over his fingers. The TV image blurred before his gaze. But not from tears. He had not, could not, shed a tear as long as blistering rage continued to make a wasteland of his emotional terrain.
He had nominally survived the divorce. But at times like this his brain kept tossing up question marks at the end of the positive statements of survival.
Someday he woul
d get over her.
Fine. When would his ‘get over’ begin?
He would move on.
Good. How long before the pain would end?
He would love again.
Great! Who and when?
He knew the answer. No one and never. He had left something undone, incomplete. He had never had a chance to explain his actions, his mistakes, his regrets to the one person in the world who deserved an explanation: the very ex-Mrs. Joe Guinn.
It did not help one iota to know that she had gotten on with her life. Hell! She’d remarried within a few months of their divorce to the exact type of man she should have married in the first place.
But, sometimes, the self-loathing bled over into rage at Halle. He knew it wasn’t her fault that he had not moved forward. He envied her resilience...and hated the memory of her that would not let him get on with his own life.
Joe opened his eyes at the sound of a car coming up the road toward his house. He heard a car door open then the gentle whisper of a female voice.
A lopsided self-satisfied male smile blossomed in his unshaven beard as he rose slowly to his feet. Lauren must have come back. Maybe she had known he wouldn’t accept her invitation and decided not to take no for an answer.
He was only mildly surprised to hear the car retreating. She must have had someone drop her off. Was she making certain he wouldn’t be able to send her away? Well, this was her lucky day. Her appearance caused him to make a snap decision. From now on, he would fake it until he could make it. His ‘get over’ would begin tonight, with the woman who walked through his door.
He checked his towel. No need to scare her away.
