by Jan Freed
It’s happening again
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Books by Jan Freed
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
Copyright
It’s happening again
Sarah blinked stupidly as she stared at the gun in Larry’s hand. “No,” she whispered, rising blindly from the sofa.
Her vision cleared. She turned and met Mike’s turbulent gaze, then stepped deliberately between the two men.
Larry shouted. Mike reached for his holster and shoved her aside.
A gunshot exploded as Sarah fell, her head smacking the sofa’s thinly padded arm. She slid to the carpet. Curled up and trembling, she faced the sofa. Her ears still rang from the gunshot or head blow or both.
“Sarah? It’s over, sweetheart.”
Mike!
Releasing her breath in shaky relief, she looked up. Visual details registered in telescopic clarity The trace of dried milk above Mike’s upper lip. The dribble of cheese on his sweatshirt. The tender regret in his brown eyes.
The slow-motion swing of his pistol barrel her way
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Why would a former bank vice president and advertising agency executive become a romance novelist? “Selling women a sense of their own self-worth beats hyping checking accounts or washing machines any day,” Jan says of her newest—and third—career “Plus I’m a sucker for happy endings.”
Jan is proud to write in a genre that presents a hopeful view of life without diminishing its hardships. Her heroines are “strong, gutsy women who safeguard traditional values against all odds—sort of John-Wayne-in-panty-hose types.”
Her debut novel, Too Many Bosses, won a Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award, Best Superromance of 1995. Her third novel, My Fair Gentleman, was nominated for the same award for 1996, as well as the Romance Writers of America RIM Award, the romance genre’s highest award of excellency.
Jan is a native Texan and lives near Houston with her husband and two children.
Books by Jan Freed
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
645—TOO MANY BOSSES
676—THE TEXAS WAY
713—MY FAIR GENTLEMAN
741—NOBODY DOES IT BETTER
Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325. Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: PO. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
THE WALLFLOWER
Jan Freed
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
To my staunch and talented support team:
Kathleen McKeague, Kim Rangel and Bonnie Tucker, for
plotting and plodding patiently with me on this project.
Special thanks to Mica Stone and my husband, Gerald,
who were beacons in darkness.
Let’s all go have a beer!
PROLOGUE
SHE WASN’T AFRAID. Not anymore. In fact, only the thought that John Merrit’s killer wanted her dead kept her from dying of sheer boredom.
Sarah Davidson adjusted her flannel nightgown, tightened the belt of her terry robe and dragged herself from the steamy bathroom into the den. Drab and cheerless, despite the tinsel-draped Christmas tree shimmering in one corner. A black ski jacket lay in bloated rigor mortis on the flattened beige carpet potato chips tumbled out of an open bag on top of the water-stained coffee table.
She grinned and shook her head. Mike, her favorite of the two deputy marshals assigned to guard her in shifts, had returned from the grocery store. The industrious clatter of pots said he was whipping up something to feed his tapeworm. Larry must’ve gone straight to bed.
Sinking onto the worn sofa, she slapped a palm down on the end table and groped. “Hey, where’s the remote control?” she called over her shoulder.
The racket in the kitchen stopped. “I dunno. Wherever you left it, I guess.”
Grrr. This was why she lived alone. Or at least, used to live alone.
She wanted her life back, dammit! The one with an immaculate apartment in Dallas and rising star status at WorldWide Public Relations. Another four months out of the loop would make her loopy. She’d shoot herself by then and save some hitman the trouble.
The rumbling whir of the garbage disposal interrupted Sarah’s mental tantrum. When the telephone rang seconds later, she let Larry pick up from the bedroom. It would only be someone from the department checking in. She wasn’t allowed to make or receive calls.
Swallowing her lump of self-pity, Sarah probed between the couch cushions for the missing remote control. The kitchen door swung open and Mike walked in carrying a plate and glass of milk.
“I made a killer omelette,” he said, tilting the plate. “If you’re nice I’ll let you have some.”
She eyed the oozing butter and cheddar cheese. “Killer is right. You’re the one who needs protecting—from a major heart attack.”
“Spoken like a starved woman.” The middle-aged marshal settled an annoyingly trim backside onto the seat of a nearby armchair, his leather shoulder holster creaking. “According to my last physical, I’ve got the body of a thirty-year-old stud.”
“And the brain of a two-by-four,” Sarah quipped.
Lively brown eyes contradicted his sorrowful tsk-tsk. “Starved women are always so cranky. Sure you don’t want to split this?”
“Yes, thank you.” The smell of buttery eggs, the sight of cheese stringing between his plate and uplifted fork set off geysers in her mouth.
Leaning forward, he waved the plump morsel in front of her nose. “Mmm, looks good, doesn’t it? One bite. What could it hurt?”
A man who ate like he did without gaining an ounce would never understand her fear that one taste might lead to another, and another, until she woke up one morning in the body that had caused her so much pain growing up.
“I’m not hungry,” she insisted.
He popped the fork into his mouth and moaned in appreciation. Within seconds, half the omelette had vanished.
Scowling, she reached for the farthest cushion crevice and wedged her fingers inside. Aha! In one swift movement she extracted the remote control, aimed at the television set and zapped in rapid succession.
“Wait! Go back a station,” Mike ordered.
Sarah paused midclick. “I refuse to watch another ball game.”
“No balls in sight,” he promised, drowning his juvenile smirk in a huge sip of milk.
Thumbing the Down button, she arched a brow. “I see what you mean. So, I guess not all home-shopping programs are ‘foreign infiltration of American culture designed to bankrupt families and create anarchy,”’ she quoted him dryly.
“Hey, some of the credit charges my ex ran up were worth the money.”
Sarah studied the on-screen red satin peignoir modeled by a Claudia Schiffer look-alike. “And to think that all these years I could’ve been tall, blond and sexy by ordering a nightgown. Quick, pass the phone!” Half-serious, she wondered if Larry was o
ff the line yet.
“Quit fishing for compliments.” Stuffing the last bite of omelette in his mouth, Mike stabbed the fork at the TV. “You’d look great in that little red number,” he mumbled.
Her bubble of laughter was as much for his milk mustache as his outrageous flattery. “I’d look like a kid playing dress-up, and you know it.”
Makeup and sophisticated clothes helped, but she still couldn’t order a beer without having to show her ID. What had been annoying at twenty-one was humiliating at twenty-seven.
Setting his empty plate and glass on the floor, Mike regarded her thoughtfully. “Trust me, sweetheart, you’ll thank the powers that be for that baby face when you’re my—” His gaze lifted sharply to a point beyond her shoulder. He flashed a startled smile. “Hey, Larry, what’s up?”
Sarah twisted toward the red-haired man standing in the hall doorway behind the couch. Wearing a rumpled flannel robe, his ginger freckles stark against skin drained of color, he looked as if he’d just awakened from a nightmare.
“What’s the matter, buddy?” Mike prodded. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“The phone woke me.”
To her left, Mike stiffened. Tension crackled between the two men, raising the hair on Sarah’s arms. Larry pulled a hand from his robe pocket and withdrew a dull black pistol.
She blinked stupidly. Was this some kind of joke?
His two-handed marksman’s stance appeared deadly serious. “Raise your hands slow and easy, Mike. You even twitch funny and I’ll shoot. Sarah, don’t move.”
She couldn’t breathe, much less move.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Mike warned, his voice grim. “C’mon, buddy, put the gun down and let’s talk. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
It’s happening again, Sarah thought. A fog of horror blurred the boundaries of time, distorted her perception. Larry’s pistol melted into a glittering knife. His red hair became blond, his blue eyes a colorless reflection of-moonlight. She was once again in John Merrit’s backyard, knowing her client was in danger yet cowering behind the ligustrum bushes to watch a blade pierce his chest—and bloody her conscience for the rest of her life.
“No,” she whispered now, rising blindly from the sofa.
Her vision cleared. She turned and met Mike’s turbulent gaze, then stepped deliberately between the two men.
Larry shouted.
Mike reached for his holster and shoved her aside.
A gunshot exploded as she fell, her head smacking the sofa’s thinly padded arm. She slid to the carpet. Curled and trembling, she faced the sofa’s box-pleated skirt. Her ears still rang from the gunshot or head blow or both.
“Sarah?”
She suppressed a moan and tightened her fetal position.
“It’s over, sweetheart.”
Mike!
Releasing her breath in shaky relief, she looked up. Visual details registered in telescopic clarity. The trace of dried milk above Mike’s upper lip. The dribble of cheese on his sweatshirt. The tender regret in his brown eyes.
The slow-motion swing of his pistol barrel her way.
As her mind reshuffled the cold facts, blessed numbness cloaked her emotions. “The phone call,” Sarah said evenly. “It was for you, wasn’t it?”
He nodded in a friendly manner. “A day earlier than I expected. Larry’s been acting suspicious for a while. He must’ve pretended to be me on the phone, and the idiot on the other end believed him. Damn, I hate working with amateurs.”
“You professional bastards have your standards, huh?”
His friendly expression vanished. Sarah couldn’t find the strength to care. She’d be dead soon, anyway. She pushed up awkwardly into a sitting position.
“So how much is my carcass worth?” she managed to ask, fighting a wave of nausea. “Enough to cover home-shopping charges?”
Affronted ego glittered in his eyes, more dangerous than anger. “Ah, Sarah, I’m gonna miss that sassy mouth. Actually you’re worth a small fortune in gambling debts, not to mention my neck. I’m afraid my book’s not a very...understanding operation.” He offered a charming, apologetic smile to absolve his deceit... and his unhesitating earlier decision to snuff out Larry’s life.
Deep inside Sarah, a last vestige of innocence died.
“Now be a good girl and stand up.” Moving forward, Mike hauled Sarah to her feet and thrust his pistol barrel against her temple. “The bullet has to come from Larry’s gun, but I promise it’ll be quick and painless if you stay right here. Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said almost pleadingly.
“No.” She held his gaze. “I want you to carry this memory all the way to hell.”
Blanching, he released her arm as if stung and stepped away.
A gunshot cracked. Mike’s head snapped back. He crumpled in a graceless heap at Sarah’s feet, a round bloody hole between his surprised eyes. Behind the sofa, a second heavy thud sounded.
She was cold. So cold.
“Sarah,” a weak voice whispered urgently.
Larry!
Her movements sluggish, she made herself stumble around Mike and the end table to the young deputy marshal sprawled faceup.
Oh, dear Lord, there was so much blood. And more pumping out with his every heartbeat. She ripped off her robe, fell to her knees and pressed the makeshift bandage against the bubbling wound on his chest.
“You’ll be just fine,” she murmured, praying she was right. “Hang on, Larry. I’m calling 911, then I’ll be right back.” She started to rise.
He grabbed her wrist and squeezed with surprising strength. “No time,” he croaked, his chest lifting and falling in great labored breaths. “He’s coming—” wheeze “—trust no one—” wheeze “—hide... until... trial.” His gaze intensified along with the pressure around her wrist. “Run!”
It was snowing outside. She had two hundred dollars and some traceable credit cards in her purse. “Run where? Hide how?” Panic sharpened her voice. “Who’s coming, Larry? Answer me!”
His breath rattled out, then stopped.
In the terrible silence, a baritone voice urged shoppers to take a look at the new item coming up. A sterling silver friendship ring, delivered to your best pal in time for Christmas if ordered now. Turning, Sarah stared at the toll-free number blinking at the bottom of the screen.
She was cold. So cold.
CHAPTER ONE
STUCK-UP RICH KIDS. That’s how the students of Roosevelt High School appeared to most Houstonians—at least to the ones without servant’s quarters behind their pools. Jack Morgan was quick to call the generalization unfair.
Usually.
Right now he found it hard to put himself in these kids’ shoes and be objective. Especially when the combined cost of new Dr. Martens and Air Max Triax footwear shuffling through his classroom door would fund a semester of college for his sister Kate. If Kate had wanted to attend college. Which she most definitely and stubbornly did not.
Frowning, he scooped up a pencil from his scarred oak desk and focused on his fifth period lesson plan. The word quiz stood out in red letters. He doubted anyone but Elaine Harper had read The Grapes of Wrath over the Christmas break, but what was he supposed to do? Blow off the assignment because it was the first day back? That’s what every other teacher had done, or so his first four classes had assured him.
Doodling in the margin of his lesson plan, he absorbed snippets of conversation from incoming students. The skiing in Vail had been awesome. The new Jeep from Mom and Dad was “kickin’.” Kevin had finally replaced his piece of shit stereo using cash sent from aunts and uncles.
Jack grew still. Kate had asked for a combination stereo CD player last Christmas. He’d said maybe next year, then promptly forgotten until now. A prickle of guilt increased his irritation.
“Cool Hilfiger shirt, Danny.”
“Love the new jacket, Kim.”
“Ohm’god, Jessica, you got the purple Docs!”
Jack’s pencil tip snapped aga
inst paper. He brushed a tiny cone of lead from the scribbled word brats, then plucked a new pencil from the dozen sharpened replacements filling a black coffee mug. White letters on the curved ceramic stated, Bad Spellers of the World...Untie! Staring at the Christmas gift from Beto Garcia, an atrocious speller and the fifth period class clown, Jack felt his lips twitch. He needed, as the gift card had advised, to “lighten up.”
These kids on the verge of adulthood weren’t necessarily brats. Just normal self-centered teens who possessed resources others didn’t. If they would hit the books with half as much persistence as they’d obviously hit up their relatives for gifts, he might not have to teach Responsibility 101 as well as English. And somebody had to, dammit, before the oblivious seniors were thrown to demanding bosses or impersonal professors. Before they joined the increasing pool of underachievers in a disillusioned post yuppie generation.
Before they relinquished their dreams and settled for less.
Glancing at the wall clock, he reached out and tapped his one-minute warning desk bell. The four football jocks lounging next to the blackboard sent him disgruntled looks, but broke apart and ambled toward their desks as if it had been their idea to sit down. Books hit wood laminate in staccato rhythm all around. Obedient rumps slid into assigned seats.
Trapped in the middle of one aisle, “Elaine the Brain” hugged her textbooks tighter, walked forward three steps and waited behind Jessica Bates, who stood chatting and oblivious to her shy classmate’s dilemma. Turning, Elaine retraced her steps and faltered to a stop behind Tony Baldovino, who’d better sit his hotshot quarterback butt down and let the girl through, Jack thought grimly, else he’d make sure the Italian heartthrob never passed English—or a football—in the near future.
