The detective reunites with his runaway bride
A brand-new suspense story from USA TODAY bestselling author Marilyn Pappano
When a stalker targets Natasha Spencer—and her exes—Tash must warn the man she abandoned at the altar. She reconnects with Detective Daniel Harper, but a history of heartbreak still lingers between them. Daniel is determined to protect, but not trust, Tash. Every clue they pursue and chance they take reignites desire...and leads straight into an inescapable trap.
“There was a prowler at my house last night, Tash,” Daniel said quietly.
“Also, we have a witness who says he’s seen a guy watching you.”
Natasha’s muscles froze, leaving her unable to breathe or process his words. She didn’t feel the trembling in her hands until she saw rings spreading across the surface of her coffee. Daniel’s right hand took her left, and she reflexively grasped it, squeezing tightly, focusing all her energy on maintaining contact with the one person who’d always, always made her feel safe.
“You went out there by yourself? Knowing that RememberMe wants to—” She finished with a gesture of her left hand, unable to put it into words. The mere thought of the danger she’d brought into Daniel’s life could break her heart and her spirit.
“I wasn’t alone. I had my weapon.” He laid his free hand on the pistol snugged on his belt. “You know I never leave home without it.”
The small smile that touched his mouth was reassuring, but Natasha couldn’t stop the ominous words in her head. Her stalker was here in Cedar Creek, and he knew where Daniel lived, and he wanted him dead...
* * *
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Dear Reader,
I read somewhere that the song “Every Breath You Take” by The Police is widely considered by women to be one of the great love songs. In fact, quite a few of my female friends agree. While I like the song, I also think it’s very, very creepy. The composer himself, Sting, called it “sinister” and says it’s about “surveillance and control” in an interview with The Independent in 1993.
Just goes to show how different perceptions can be.
A woman meets a man in a social situation. She smiles and says, “Nice to meet you.” He hears, “I’ve waited all my life for you.”
She shakes his hand. He feels the promise of forever.
She pleads, “Leave me alone.” He understands, “Please don’t ever leave me alone.”
Perceptions.
It had been a while since I’d done a stalker story, and I’ve always wanted to write my own runaway bride, too. I already knew Detective Daniel Harper, from Killer Secrets, was going to be the hero, so I added one commitmentphobic heroine (Daniel was third on Natasha’s list of jilted fiancés) and one freaky psychopath and set them on a course that would alter, threaten or even end their lives. And I had a lovely time doing it.
I hope you have a lovely time reading it.
Marilyn Pappano
KILLER SMILE
Marilyn Pappano
Oklahoma, dogs, beaches, books, family and friends: these are a few of Marilyn Pappano’s favorite things. She lives in imaginary worlds where she reigns supreme (at least, she does when the characters cooperate) and no matter how wrong things go, she can always set them right. It’s her husband’s job to keep her grounded in the real world, which makes him her very favorite thing.
Books by Marilyn Pappano
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Killer Smile
Killer Secrets
Detective Defender
Nights with a Thief
Bayou Hero
Undercover in Copper Lake
Copper Lake Encounter
Copper Lake Confidential
Christmas Confidential
“Holiday Protector”
In the Enemy’s Arms
Copper Lake Secrets
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Excerpt from Undercover Passion by Melinda Di Lorenzo
Chapter 1
When Daniel Harper was a kid, he had decided on two career options for the future: he would become the President of the United States, and in his first term, with his great wisdom, foresight and people-pleasing skills, he would solve the country’s problems once and forevermore.
Or he would become a doctor—not the medical kind; he had an aversion to sick people and preferred to avoid their spores when at all possible—and by the time he was thirty, he would discover a little known gene that, with slight manipulation, would cure all of humanity’s ills.
Instead, he became a cop.
In Cedar Creek, Oklahoma, with a population of twenty-five thousand—comprised of farmers, ranchers, cattle people and horse people; country folk and city folk; sports fans, foodies and good ol’ boys; stubborn men, stubborner women and pretty young things; cowboys, Indians, oil people and church people; winemakers, meth makers and troublemakers.
And beset by the most diverse weather he’d ever experienced, everything from drought to flood to blistering heat and subzero freezes, windstorms, hailstorms, ice storms, tornados and, lately, earthquakes that made his home state of California look like a slacker.
Life in Los Angeles hadn’t prepared him for this.
A snort ahead of him drew his attention to his fellow detective, Ben Little Bear, standing on the first of the six broad steps that led into the Cedar Creek Police Department. “You gonna stand there and soak up a little more water? Isn’t stepping in the puddle enough for one day?”
Daniel scowled at Ben, then at the water that had collected in the low spot in front of the steps from the downpour that didn’t appear to plan on stopping anytime soon. He knew the low spot was there. Knew it filled with water with the lightest sprinkle. Knew because he’d worked there five years, and because he’d stepped in it on the way out two hours ago. The water had finally drained from his shoes and his feet had stopped squelching with every step, and now...
Still scowling, he climbed the first step, shook the excess water from his shoes and his trouser legs, pulled his raincoat closer and swore mildly. His father cussed like the proverbial sailor and had made him cringe more than a few times as an impressionable kid. Now, at thirty-one, he rarely said anything harsher than damn himself.
This rain deserved more than a damn.
Finished shaking, he trotted up the remaining steps and followed Ben inside the station. It had been a post office back in the day and was as stately a building as any he’d ever been inside. The floor was marble, and so were the panels that went four feet up the walls. Here in the lobby, the ceiling was fourteen feet high, with the original chandelier still in operation. Sound echoed out here, but as soon as he walked behind the tall counter and into the station proper, with its lower ceilings and ugly industrial rugs, the echoes faded.
A row of brass hooks mounted on a gleaming oak plank hung on the wall just inside the doorway. He hung his soppy coat there and picked up
the towel he’d left earlier, making half an attempt to dry his face and hair.
“Dan’l, you had a visitor,” Cheryl called from her desk. She was the chief’s secretary, but she pretty much handled the entire office. Though taking messages and making notes on comings and goings wasn’t technically her job, what was the use of working for the police chief, she declared, if she didn’t get to poke her nose into everyone’s business?
“Daniel,” he muttered under his breath.
She looked over her glasses at him. “I thought you’d given up trying to correct me years ago.”
He had. The best way to deal with annoying people, his dad had taught him, was to ignore them. Once they saw that their actions were no longer annoying, they stopped.
The best way to deal with annoying people, his father had disagreed, was to knock the crap out of them every time they annoyed you. Eventually they learned to leave you alone.
Both of his fathers were right. Ignoring people worked fine sometimes. Body-slamming them to the ground was sometimes the better option. But Cheryl was on their side, more or less, and Chief Douglas wouldn’t take kindly to Daniel body-slamming her.
“Who was it?” he asked, hanging the towel back on its hook so it could dry.
“She didn’t say.”
Hmm. He knew an awful lot of shes, though most of them wouldn’t just drop in on him at work. “What did she want?”
“She didn’t say.” Cheryl slurped the last of her coffee from a giant mug that proclaimed her Queen of the World, and then wheeled her chair off the mat behind her desk and across the floor to what she called the beverage center. It was only fifteen feet. She could have walked with less effort.
“Was it about a case?”
“She didn’t say.”
He ground his teeth as he watched her fix her coffee. Wishing that someone else, even one of the inmates in the jail in the back, had talked to this visitor, he gritted out, “What did she look like?”
“She didn’t—Oh. She was pretty if you like size twos who look like they just strolled in off the beach, and what man doesn’t? I’m pretty sure she was wearing tinted contacts because I don’t believe anyone has eyes that shade naturally. Oh, and she was wearing the cutest dress, sleeveless, scooped neck, with a fitted bodice and a drop waist with a little pleating that gave it really nice movement when she walked. And her shoes! OMG.”
Bewilderment joined Daniel’s annoyance. All this talking, and had she actually said anything? He didn’t know what size two meant in women’s clothing. Small, he presumed. He would also presume the unnatural eye color was blue, green or some shade of purple. But scooped neck? Fitted bodice? Drop waist?
“So, she was a small woman in a cute dress?”
Cheryl scowled at him. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
From his desk in the back, Ben snorted again. Daniel was glad he provided entertainment for the guy. That could be his new purpose in life. Or he could just go ahead and strangle Cheryl like he’d wanted to since fifteen minutes after meeting her. He would even write up the inventory of his own personal possessions, take his own fingerprints and lock himself in the holding cell. No jury who’d ever met Cheryl would find him guilty.
“Next time someone comes in, get a name, would you?” he groused, heading past her desk to his own in the back.
“I asked, but—”
Everyone else in the room—three detectives, five uniformed officers preparing for shift change and two dispatchers in their alcove to the left—all chimed in together, “She didn’t say.”
Sometimes he hated this place.
No one in the department had a private office besides the chief and the assistant chief, who was out of town for training. The detectives had desks clustered in the rear of the large room and conducted interviews in the conference room off to the right. Normally, he was okay with that, but there were days when a person needed a little privacy and right now, as he kicked off his wet shoes and peeled away his dripping socks, was one of those times.
“She makes LA look better every day,” Ben said from his desk a few feet away.
“I thought you’d never been to LA.”
“I haven’t, but I don’t need to see it to know it beats working with Cheryl.”
Wringing first one sock, then the other, over the trash can, Daniel scowled at him. “She likes you.”
“No, she just has more fun with you.”
Ben turned back to his computer, where he was making one of his infamous lists. He had one for everything, probably even sex, and reviewed them regularly. It was the way he worked. Daniel preferred keeping information in his head and staring into space while letting his subconscious brain piece it together. It was the way he worked.
Though in his lifetime there had been no shortage of people pointing out that his way looked an awful lot like daydreaming. He didn’t care. He produced results. That was what mattered.
Footsteps echoed in the lobby, but he didn’t turn to look at the newcomer. They had a desk sergeant for that—and, of course, Cheryl. Plus Morwenna, one of the dispatchers, was nearly as nosy as the secretary, just in a much more pleasant manner.
Ben’s chair creaked as he swiveled to face Daniel. “Do you want to interview the suspect or the victim in the morning?”
“Victim.” It was an easy choice. Ben was more comfortable with suspects, and he’d handled far more domestic assault cases. Daniel had too much experience with bullies and related far better to the victims. It was odd that empathy was one of his better traits as a detective when most people thought he came down on the lacking side of the emotional scale.
“Deal. So...you don’t know any pretty size-two blondes with a fondness for black dresses with fitted bodices?”
“What do you know about fitted bodices?” Then Daniel stopped typing mid-word, and he looked up at Ben. “Cheryl didn’t say the dress was black.”
“That’s some good detecting there, son.” Ben nodded toward the front counter.
As Daniel slowly swiveled his chair, he realized the room had gone quiet and everyone was waiting expectantly, their gazes shifting from him to the counter and back again. When his own gaze got there, he saw why. There was the blonde, tall, pretty, not small—just a couple inches shorter than him—but slim and curvy and definitely looking like a California beach girl. Her hair was super short—last time he’d seen her, it was long enough to wrap his hands in—and to anyone who didn’t know her, she looked like a ray of sunshine on a dreary day.
But he knew her.
He’d been engaged to marry her.
Until she’d dumped him in front of every single friend and relative they’d had.
What in hell was she doing here?
* * *
Natasha Spencer would bet there wasn’t a person in the room who had any idea how much it was killing her to stand there and let them—let Daniel—stare at her. She used to have a lot of nerve—more then than now. Back then, she would have dared them to look their longest and hardest. She even would have done a few model-on-the-runway turns so they could form their impressions, back and front. Now she just stood, half a smile frozen on her face, and wished for a sudden case of amnesia. People always stared, but if she didn’t know why, she couldn’t care.
She’d hoped Daniel would come to the counter, maybe walk off to a distant corner or even outside with her. There was an overhang out there that provided protection from the rain. But he showed no inclination to even rise from his chair. He was leaving it to her.
She took a few more steps, until the counter blocked her way, and tried for a better smile. “Hello, Daniel. I was wondering if we could talk.”
Her words echoed off the high ceiling, followed immediately by the swivel of eight or ten heads to look at him. His silence was going to be even more booming and echoey, the kind they could get lost in and never find their wa
y out of, and the hell of it was, he was entitled.
“We could always talk. Our problem was communicating.”
Funny. The words were in what she considered his usual tone of voice: even, cool, rational, calm. Growing up the way she did, she’d always loved even, cool, rational and calm. It had soothed her every time he’d said something as benign as, Do you want seafood or Thai for dinner?
But there was an edge to his voice that she’d heard so seldom she rarely remembered it, a sharp edge that passed for angry in his cool, calm world. It made her gut tighten. She lived with guilt all the time, and she hated it. Almost as much as she hated coming here.
She couldn’t think of anything to say to that, especially nothing she wanted to say in front of his coworkers. She didn’t turn and slink out, though. Unless he’d changed tremendously in the past few years, he wouldn’t shut her out. He was too courteous to leave any conversation hanging like that and too curious to leave this one hanging. No matter what he felt, there was one question he would have to ask: Why the hell are you here?
Yeah, this was a curse-inducing moment if he’d ever had one.
Water was pooling around her shoes, and the air-conditioning gave her chills where her dress was damp from blowing rain. She’d left an umbrella next to the door, but it hadn’t proven much help when the wind brought the rain in sideways. She thought longingly of returning to the room she’d rented, taking a warm bath, having a bottle or two of wine and coming up with a new plan, because apparently this one wasn’t working.
Then, with a heavy sigh, Daniel stood and walked toward the counter. His feet were bare, she realized, cute with his dark gray suit, white dress shirt and black tie. He looked more approachable barefooted...though that was just fantasy. Sometimes he was an easy man for mushiness and sentimentality. Other times, he was logic and pragmatism personified.
He stopped with ten feet still between them. “What?”
She caught a whiff of the cologne he’d worn since he was sixteen, when he’d filched a bottle from his dad’s bathroom. She never remembered the name, but she knew the bottle. She’d bought it often enough for him in their time together.
Killer Smile Page 1
