by Adrianne Lee
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Books by Adrianne Lee
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
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Copyright
She was so familiar…
Jake watched the tall blonde, her shapely curves ripe in a body-hugging sweater and skintight leggings. Adrenaline pumped through him, pooling in his groin as he took in the soft flaxen hair, the lush red lips. “Lookit, Ms. Jones or Devlin, or whatever your real name is,” he said as she got into his car, “do I know you?”
“Intimately.”
She tugged off the blond hair. A wig. As her sable hair fell around her face, the air leapt from Jake’s lungs. He hadn’t seen this woman since she’d left him at the altar.
“Hello, Jake.”
White-hot fury coursed through his veins. “Get out of my car, Laura.”
“But you have to help me.”
He wasn’t about to, not after the way she’d cut out on their wedding day. “Why?”
“Because someone’s trying to kill me.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Seattle-area native Adrianne Lee started her career writing mainstream mysteries, but her romantic heart soon led her to Harlequin Intrigue. She says, “Family and love are very important to me, and I hope you enjoy the way I weave them through my stories.” Adrianne’s own life has been wonderfully romantic; she married her high school sweetheart and became the mother of three beautiful daughters. She loves to hear from readers, and can be reached at: P.O. Box 3835, Sequim, WA 98382. Please include an SASE for response.
Books by Adrianne Lee
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
296—SOMETHING BORROWED, SOMETHING BLUE
354—MIDNIGHT COWBOY
383—EDEN’S BABY
422—ALIAS: DADDY
438—LITTLE GIRL LOST
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The Runaway Bride
Adrianne Lee
For Susan and Don Baumann, who are always in my comer rooting me on and making the highs higher.
Special thanks to Jennifer Malone, Delta Airlines, Boston Reservations; Gerri Muley, R.N.; the nagging gang at Tuffit for understanding what a deadline means; and always, Anne Martin, Kelly McKillip, Susan Skaggs, Gayle Webster and Larry.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Laura Whittaker—What’s the real reason she ran away from her own wedding?
Jake Wilder—Laura had left him at the altar. Could he believe her when she said she still loved him and needed his protection?
Ruthanne Wilder—Her forgetfulness could prove fatal.
Don Bowman—Was Jake’s partner too hostile not to be hiding something?
Susan Bowman—How far would she go to protect her husband?
Travis Crocker—Had he killed his brother for the woman they both loved?
Izzy Dell—Was Laura’s emotionally wounded ex-friend a killer?
Payton Dell—Had he stolen the million-dollar formula?
Ralph Russell—Was he the honest cop he seemed?
Cullen Crocker—Had Laura’s friendship cost him his life?
Chapter One
Fire trucks and police cars blocked Highway 101, stalling traffic. An odd prickling started at her neck. Instinctively, she knew whatever was going on ahead somehow involved her. But how?
Smoke burned her nostrils, blotting out the moon and stars as she emerged from the stranger’s car and began running toward the commotion of people and vehicles. Flames shot into the night sky. Winning out over the stream of water pouring from the fire hoses, they engulfed the pitched roof, the main frame of the tiny beach house.
Her house.
She staggered to a stop. Shock held her in the shadows of a giant fire truck. Two people were passing. Talking. “Poor woman. Didn’t have a chance.”
She found her own voice. “W-what happened?”
In the dark, with all the confusion, she knew these neighbors wouldn’t recognize her. To most Californians, one leggy, blue-eyed blonde looked much like another. She’d counted on that. Kept to herself. Discouraged any and all who’d found their way to her doorstep.
But she’d paid careful attention to her neighbors, where they lived, their comings and goings, their visitors. This couple lived across the street.
The woman shook her head, her hennaed hair bobbing in the night air. “Just heard a god-awful explosion. It knocked out all the windows in our house, all the windows on both sides of her house.” She sniffed into a hankie.
“Gas leak,” the man said, a slight lisp to the words. “Lit a cigarette the second she went inside and boom that’s all she heard.”
Laura’s gaze flew to the house. Her Taurus was parked in the driveway—crushed from the impact of the explosion. Sunny had been driving it. Sunny was dead. An innocent victim in this nightmare that had become Laura’s life. Horror and guilt sent ice through her veins, into her stomach.
She stepped back, repulsed by the sights and smells and sounds. By the abomination that had occurred. She had been the intended victim. Not Sunny Devlin. Whoever had flattened Sunny’s two rear tires thought he’d kept her from following Laura home. He didn’t know Sunny and she had traded cars.
Laura’s knees wobbled. He’d tried to kill her. Again. Thought he had killed her. Again. The warm night air felt chilly. Was he here somewhere now? Savoring his handiwork? Thinking he’d silenced her at long last? Would he spot her and realize his error?
With bile climbing her throat, Laura ducked her head, darted back across the street to Sunny’s Corvette, climbed inside and sank onto the leather seat. What was she going to do? She started the car and drove away. She’d have a few days before he discovered the remains in the house weren’t hers.
She drove to a busy street and into a deserted bank lot, made certain no one lurked nearby, then hurried to the ATM machine and withdrew all the money from her account One hundred sixty dollars. It wouldn’t last two weeks.
Back inside the Corvette, she caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Panic glistened in her eyes. What the hell was she going to do? A sob exploded in her throat Hot tears burned her cheeks. What else could she do but what she’d always done? Run.
She swiped at her eyes. Crying helped nothing. It wouldn’t bring Sunny and the others back. She had to think. Think! She sniffed and drew in a jerky breath. She knew the drill. The police wouldn’t act on any missing-person reports for Sunny Devlin for at least twenty-four hours. She couldn’t stay at Sunny’s residence. The woman might not have lived alone. But the Corvette offered a convenient, if temporary, haven, transportation, and the added bonus of a car phone.
And tomorrow…or the day after, it would all start anew. She swallowed hard. How long would it be before he found her again?
Weariness washed through Laura, heavy and draining, pulling at her arms, her legs, weighing her down. She
loathed running. Hiding. Changing identities. Starting new jobs. Beginning to feel safe again. Then watching some innocent someone killed in her place.
She screamed, one loud, long howl of impotent rage. Afterward, she felt no better. With her chest heaving, she started the engine and drove back onto the busy thoroughfare. The car swerved as wildly as her pulse. This horror had to end. One way or the other. That meant returning. That meant getting the evidence to the police.
A cold, mirthless laugh sprang from her throat.
She didn’t even know if the evidence still existed. Or if it was still in Riverdell. The thought of her childhood hometown chilled her. Had she lost what little remained of her sanity? As long as she didn’t know who was after her, she might as well parade in front of targets on a rifle range as show up in Riverdell, Washington, and contact the local law.
A dull ache drummed at her temple. The knot in her stomach tightened. But a sense of purpose settled over her like a coat of armor. If the evidence still existed, she would risk anything, everything; whatever it took, wherever it took her, to end the nightmare.
First, however, she had to track down Jake Wilder. His name sang through her head like a bittersweet tune she’d once loved, but had grown to hate. And now he held her fate in his hands. Her heart twisted at the irony.
“I DON’T KNOW any woman named Bunny.” Jake Wilder shoved his long blunt fingers through his short golden hair and frowned at his partner.
Don Bowman, all six foot four of him, hitched a muscled thigh onto the edge of Jake’s oak desk. Don wore his dark-brown hair long, held at his nape with a leather thong. He reminded Jake of the Grand Canyon, his size impressive, imposing, his face craggy and sharp planed, with eyes as muddy as the Colorado during spring runoff.
His voice was deceptively gentle, the soft drawling tone disarming. “She asked for you specifically, pal. Sounded like she knew you.”
“Anyone named Bunny would take one look at my ugly mug and hightail it straight for the desert.” Jake smirked, feeling the skin tauten the entire length of the scar that sliced the left side of his face. He kicked back in his chair and crossed his own long legs at the ankles. His snakeskin Tony Lamas collided with a soft thwack. “Believe me, I don’t know her.”
Don scratched his head. “Bunny. Who’d name a kid Bunny? Someone from Tinsel Town, maybe?”
Jake shook his head and scowled at Don. They’d grown up together in Riverdell, Washington, been partners for three years with the local police, until Jake transferred to the Los Angeles police force last year. He’d loved the California weather, but hated the frequent earthquakes. Loved the casual lifestyle, but the violence in the City of Angels had sickened him.
When he’d signed on with the LAPD, he’d thought himself cynical enough to deal with the depravities that one human being could inflict on another. Not for the first time in his life, he’d been wrong. He touched his scarred cheek. Three months with the force and he’d resigned. No job waiting, no idea what he’d do next.
An unexpected windfall from a fortuitous investment he’d backed some months earlier saved him from being evicted. Within five more months, it had made him financially secure enough to write his own ticket to just about anything he wanted to do. He decided he wanted to own his own company. A business that suited his restless spirit, an occupation that kept him on the move, meeting new people and new challenges, a job well suited to his law enforcement background.
Four months ago, he’d talked Don into joining him in Mesa, Arizona. They’d opened BMW Securities with Don’s longtime girlfriend, Susan Meade.
Now Don and Susan were married, new parents, and BMW Securities was a going concern. Their clients ranged from rock stars to rock collectors, anyone in need of a temporary bodyguard.
Jake shook his head more firmly this time. “I said I don’t know any women named Bunny.”
Susan Meade-Bowman strolled in from the hall that led to her and Don’s offices and a large conference room and tiny kitchen. She held her squirming three-month-old daughter, Jake’s goddaughter. Both females had curly, soft blond hair and bright blue eyes. Susan smirked at Jake. “Are you sure she’s not someone from your Hollywood days?”
“Positive. Your husband already suggested that.” Jake blinked hard. Heat climbed his neck. Don and Susan knew more than he liked about the women in his past. The woman. And they both knew this was sensitive territory. Not to push him too far. He strove to keep his temper level. “I swear I never met anyone named Bunny. Can we drop it, please?”
Susan smiled apologetically. “Maybe a former client recommended you.”
Don stroked his chin. “She didn’t mention anyone.”
“What’s her story?” Jake asked, his temper cooling.
“All she’d tell me was that she needed someone to see her safely home,” Don said.
“Which is where?” Jake sat straighter.
Don shrugged. “Wouldn’t say over the phone. She did tell me that someone is trying to stop her from returning and that she’d explain everything to you in person.”
“Why didn’t she come here?” Susan asked.
“She sounded scared, so I didn’t push it,” Don explained.
The baby let out a gentle gurgle and Jake leaned forward, tenderly stroked the back of her tiny hand with one finger and smiled at Susan. Deep inside him, regret throbbed like a nasty bruise. A godfather was as close as he would ever come to being a parent. He’d permanently closed the door last year on marriage. Love was for softheaded, softhearted fools.
And…those few lucky ones like Susan and Don.
With an effort, he refocused his mind to his new assignment To the mystery woman who’d asked for him specifically. “Where can I find this Bunny what’s-her-name?”
“Jones. She’s at the Days Inn on East Main,” Don said. “She’s expecting you in about ten minutes.”
Jake stood, crossed to the coat hook near the door and reached for his bomber jacket. This was likely some kind of joke. Bunny Jones indeed. It did sound like the name of some X-rated-film star. He told Don, “I’ll call after our meeting. Let you know the particulars and how I’ll be proceeding.”
BMW SECURITIES WAS near the Fiesta Mall on Broadway Road. Traffic noise attacked Jake as he walked outside into the frosty, sunlit January morning. He’d come to love Mesa. Sure, it got hot in summer, but if a guy planned his assignments right, he could be elsewhere during the worst heat waves.
He slowed his pace, enjoying the vivid sky, the clean, crisp air. A new assignment always invigorated him. And this time was no exception, in spite of his partners’ teasing.
He started his Cherokee and pulled onto Broadway, turned left onto Country Club Drive, then right onto Main, heading east. The Days Inn parking lot was nearly empty. He drove slowly around the two-story building, finally spotting the number he sought on the second floor end, near the stairs.
He parked next to a Corvette with California license plates, climbed out of his car and surveyed his surroundings, his instincts alert for anything that seemed out of place, out of sync. A maid’s cart stood in front of an open room at the opposite end of the landing. Nothing irregular or abnormal about that.
He started toward the stairs. A car door opened behind him. Jake lurched around. His heart hammered. His hand gripped the Glock in his jacket pocket.
A tall blonde, her shapely curves ripe in a body-hugging, black sweater and skintight leggings, rose from behind the wheel of the Corvette. He hadn’t seen her through the tinted windows. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, some of it pooling in his groin as he took in the soft flaxen hair that hung past her shoulders, the lush red lips beneath large sunglasses that hid the rest of her face.
She looked like she’d stepped off the silver screen, as sexy and innocent as a ripe ingenue. But Jake never trusted looks. Never underestimated women. Especially gorgeous women. He flicked off the safety on his gun and curled his fingers around the trigger.
She strode toward him, hitchin
g the strap of an oversized leather bag on her shoulder. “Mr. Wilder?”
She spoke just above a whisper, her voice throaty. Jake didn’t answer. “Who are you?”
“Bunny Jones. I called your agency. Could we talk in your car?”
Without waiting for an answer, she hurried furtively over to the driver’s side. “Please…”
A second later, she was inside his car, closing the door.
Jake’s mouth dropped open. What the hell? He had his keys. She wasn’t taking his car anywhere, but he didn’t like the feel of this. With his nerves jumping, he surveyed the parking lot and motel again. What had he missed? Five heart-tripping seconds passed.
Spotting nothing, he pivoted. His gaze landed on the Corvette. He approached it with caution. Jerked open the door. No one was inside. He blew out a hard breath, then leaned in and found the registration. She’d lied about her name. The car belonged to a Sunny Devlin. Not Bunny Jones.
Jake stalked to the Cherokee, wondering what the hell she was up to. What else had she lied about? He tightened his hold on the gun and yanked open the passenger door.
Again she pleaded with him, “Please, get in. Quickly.”
Against his better judgment, Jake reluctantly did as asked. Maybe this woman’s fright steered her actions. Maybe not. “Lookit, Ms. Jones or Ms. Devlin, whichever it is, why don’t you let me take you somewhere a little less…vulnerable? Then we can talk.”
“We can talk here,” she said in a more normal voice. She removed the sunglasses and gazed directly at him.
To his surprise, there was something familiar about her stormy, smoke-gray eyes, something his mind wanted to reject. Had he met her before? “Do I know you?”
