by Lydia Burke
This book made available by the Internet Archive.
LYDIA BURKE
was born in Michigan and comes from proud German stock. She grew up with her parents' marriage as a model of commitment and family values, a heritage she likes to think she and Glenn, her husband of three decades, have passed on to their own four children.
Lydia has taught high school English, operated her own word-processing business, worked as an executive assistant for a large corporation and traveled wherever her army-officer husband was sent in twenty years of military service. Today she lives in San Antonio, Texas, and is finally doing on a full-time basis what she likes best—writing.
In loving memory of my mother,
Lydia Burke Strefling
(1918-1978)
And for Glenn—thanks, honey.
Chapter 1
J essie Webster came awake with a jerk. What— ?
A hand clapped over her mouth. It was large, strong.
Male.
My God! Assault!
Fear froze her body, but her mind raced. Should she fight? Run? Surrender?
The man leaned close. Warm, moist breath filled her ear and Jessie trembled. He spoke in a low, quiet voice.
"Don't panic. It's me—Ben. I don't have time to explain, but there are people watching your house. You've got to get out of here."
His words were meaningless. She didn't know any Ben, and she could think of no reason for anyone to spy on her house.
Then she remembered. She was in Allie's house, Allie's bed. Alone.
As though confident his confusing explanation had calmed her, the man lifted his hand off her face.
Jessie took a shaky breath. "I don't—"
Hard fingers pressed even more tightly against her lips than before, muffling her words. "Quiet, dammit!" he whispered fiercely. "I'm trying to save your neck. Understand?"
No, she didn't understand, but Jessie nodded her head anyway. The pressure over her mouth slackened a little, and she breathed easier. The small consideration allayed some of her fear and enabled her to think more clearly.
The man—Ben—had identified himself. Rapists didn't do that, did they? Never having been in a situation like this before, Jessie didn't know.
"Okay," Ben said. "I'm going to take my hand away, but you've got to keep your mouth shut. Got it?"
Again Jessie nodded. True to his word, Ben withdrew his hand, taking with it the fragrance of spring-scented soap.
The moment she was free, Jessie clutched the covers to her throat and sat up, scooting as far away from him as possible. Even as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she could see little more than a squat shadow next to the bed. Either the man was kneeling on the floor or he was a midget.
A low chuckle rumbled from the shadow's direction. "You weren't so standoffish a few nights ago."
His deep voice sent shivers across Jessie's skin, a reaction she ignored. Clearly he had mistaken her for her flamboyant twin. Evidently he didn't know any more about where AlHe was tonight than Jessie herself.
Ben's first cryptic words came back to her. Why would someone be watching her sister's house?
"Whaf s going on?" she demanded in a loud whisper.
"Shh! Keep it down! I told you, there's no time for explanations."
"Oh, I see. But there is time for you to make suggestive remarks, isn't there?" Jessie countered, though not so loudly as before. "I repeat, what's going on?"
"Oh, for—" Ben exhaled impatiently and leaned on the bed, crossing his arms on the exposed bottom sheet. The bed dipped, and Jessie saw the stark outline of his elbows against the white background. She could feel his eyes peering at her across the mattress and for a split second wondered whether she should try to make a run for it. But, no—if he intended to harm her, he wouldn't have released her in the first place.
"Listen," he said. "I'm only pretending to be a bouncer at the club. I'm really a cop, okay? And my partner just found out Mai thinks you're a reporter and doesn't much like the idea that
you've been snooping around Club Duan. She or somebody worse has a couple of enforcer types posted outside in a Chevy. God only knows what their orders are. You're better off not finding out. That's why you've got to leave with me—now, before they make their move."
Caught in the low, compelling tone of his voice, Jessie was hardly aware of what the man was saying until he stopped talking. Then, his warning—a warning meant for Allie—penetrated.
Allie should have been here to greet Jessie after her long drive from Chicago to Port Mangus, Wisconsin. They'd planned to spend Thanksgiving together. But when her sister hadn't answered the door, Jessie had simply clicked her tongue and dug out the key Allie had given her the day they'd moved her into this place. Her twin had a history of ignoring prior arrangements if something "more importanf' came up.
Now it occurred to Jessie that maybe Aliie's no-show wasn't due to her typical impulsiveness.
Nothing Ben had said made any sense to her, except the part about Allie being a reporter. The rest of it didn't jibe with the breezy news she'd heard from her sister during their weekly phone calls. Allie certainly hadn't mentioned a "Ben." Or any other man in particular, other than her boss and a few coworkers at the newspaper office. Since taking the new job in Sheboygan two months ago, she had been preoccupied with pursuing professional success, not dating. And she'd said nothing at all about a nightclub.
Ben's warning shaded Aliie's absence with ominous overtones. Could the "enforcers" outside have already made their move? If they had, they wouldn't still be outside, would they? Of course, Jessie only had Ben's word for it that they were out there.
"How do I know you're a cop?" she asked suspiciously.
"I was afraid of this," he muttered. "Look, Angela, this isn't a trap, believe me. I really don't work for Mai. I'd show you my badge if I had it, but a cop under cover can't chance—"
"Did you say Angela?" Giddy relief poured through Jessie's body. "You've made a mistake, Ben. There's no Angela
living here. You've come to the wrong house. How did you get in here, anyway? I'm sine I locked the doors."
In the darkness, Jessie sensed Ben's sudden stillness, brought on, she guessed, by the realization he'd sneaked into the bedroom of the wrong woman. No point now explaining that she didn't live here. Why bother informing him that he didn't even have the right wrong woman? He had enough troubles.
"Maybe you should try next door," she suggested kindly. "I'm sure there's still time—"
"Shut up!" Ben hissed. "Let me think a minute!"
"I only thought—"
"Shut up!"
Jessie closed her lips tightly. This man had been barking orders—okay, whispering, but the effect was the same—ever since he'd appeared, uninvited, in her sister's bedroom. He sounded altogether too much like her mucho macho ex-husband Antonio. Jessie had squirmed out from under that thumb years ago, and she'd vowed to never again become entangled with a dictatorial man.
Of course, he was on a mission to save some luckless woman named Angela—not Allie, thank God—and he'd obviously screwed up. Jessie had found herself in that position often enough to fed some kinship. She supposed she could tolerate his high-handedness while he figured out what he should do next.
She'd probably never see him again, anyway. Not that she'd recognize him if she did, given that in the middle of a moonless night in an unlit room, she couldn't make out so much as the color of his hair. Though maybe, if he talked softly in that sexy voice, she might know who he was
"Is there a window in the bathroom?"
Jessie jumped. "What?"
"I said, is there a window in the bathroom?"
"Oh," she said, believing he
meant to find an escape route. "No, I don't think so, but why don't you—"
"You don't think so! For crying out loud, woman, if s your bathroom, isn't it?"
Jessie had just about reached the end of her patience. "As I was about to say, why don't you leave the same way you came in? You obviously weren't seen, so it should be safe."
"I don't... want...to leave...yet." The terse way Ben spaced the whispered words made her think his teeth must be pressed tightly together.
"Then what-"
"Look, I can't see in the dark. I need you to lead me to the bathroom."
"Why? Are you sick or something?" Jessie left her protective covers behind and moved closer to where he knelt beside the bed. "No, I'm not sick, you little— Give me your hand!"
Ben made a grab toward her in the dark. His fingers missed her hand entirely and took a firm hold of her left breast, which was covered with loose flannel. And nothing else.
She gasped at the intimate contact, and Ben froze.
Jessie managed to recover first.
"Here." She grasped his hand and moved it away from her body. Her breast tingled, the imprint of his fingers leaving a heated memory on her skin.
Disconcerted, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and got to her feet. Then the shadow that was Ben untucked itself from its crouching position and stood up.
And up... and up.
Jessie stared and swallowed when he had finally unfolded to his full height. Compared to her measly five-four, Ben was a giant.
He turned his hand so they were connected palm to palm. "The bathroom?" he reminded her.
"Um, over here." She had to feel her way, since she wasn't that familiar with Allie's house herself. Ben followed silently.
"There. Straight ahead," she said when she'd located the doorway. But instead of going in alone, he hauled her inside behind him and closed the door.
"Stay here," he said, still whispering.
She heard him fumbling around in a darkness more engulfing than that in the bedroom. He moved the shower curtain slightly and seemed to be patting the walls. Then he ran into something—the toilet, Jessie guessed—and cursed under his breath. The medicine chest opened and clicked closed again.
"What are you doing?" she finally asked.
"Checking for a window," was the brief response. "Okay, there isn't one. Turn on the light so I can see who you are."
With constrained patience, Jessie ignored the fact that she'd just received another order. At least now he'd know he'd made a mistake. She groped on the wall for the switch, closed her eyes and braced herself for the sudden white glare behind her eyelids. Then she blinked, and the man in front of her came into focus.
He was big, all right, several inches over six feet. But it wasn't his size that caught her attention. For some reason, maybe because of the earlier reminder of her ex-husband, Jessie had expected Ben to look more like Antonio, darkly handsome and full of arrogance. She saw immediately that there was no resemblance at all.
Ben's face was ruggedly masculine, the crooked nose and wide mouth decrying conventional good looks. His gold-flecked green eyes were compelling, well spaced and tipped slightly downward at the outside corners. Their gentle tilt balanced his stubborn, beard-roughened jaw and kept him from looking too tough, as did the fine lines etched around his eyes and mouth. Thick hair the rich, lustrous brown of coffee beans fell carelessly across his brow, gleaming under the overhead light.
But the biggest surprise of all was his complexion, abundantly awash with pale freckles from his forehead to the open vee of his collar. And beyond? Jessie wondered.
How odd that she'd always associated freckles with youth and immaturity. There was nothing boyish about Ben's face. Jessie found his craggy features and speckled skin appealing, far more attractive than Antonio's dark perfection.
"I never would have figured you for flannel."
His husky observation brought with it the realization that Ben's interested eyes were riveted on her body—in particular, on the conspicuous swell of her breasts under the granny gown she wore. She fought the impulse to cross her arms over her chest. She was decently covered from throat to toes, after all. And you know that he knows how naked you are under there, a little voice mocked.
Ben loomed over her in the confining space, reminding her of his formidable dimensions. His shoulders, garbed in a worn brown leather jacket, stretched from wall to wall. Or maybe it just seemed that way because he stood with his hands in his
back pockets, pulling the jacket open over an impressive chest. The rest of him was narrow by contrast—flat stomach, trim hips and slim, long-legged jeans that subtly delineated the masculine bulge slightly to the right of his zipper.
He reached out and caught a lock of her hair between his fingers. The action startled Jessie, and she stepped back, abruptly conscious of the inappropriate drift of her thoughts. Sternly she ordered her mind back to her potential peril.
"You've cut your hair/' Ben said.
Jessie's hope that the light would show him his error disintegrated with those words. He hadn't come to the wrong house, after all. He recognized her, or thought he did. Otherwise, he wouldn't have zeroed in on the hairdo. Allie wore her hair long, loose and sexily tousled, a style for which Jessie had neither the time nor the inclination. Her own unruly locks were cut short, the curls tamed each morning in five minutes with a blow dryer. The result wasn't glamorous, but it suited her.
"I'm not who you think I am," she told Ben, thinking it was time she set him straight.
Ben's eyes narrowed. "So you really are a reporter."
"No, Allie's the reporter. I'm a novelist."
"Allie?"
"My sister. We're identical twins. It's not often anymore that we're mistaken for each other, but—-"
"You have a sister."
"Yes, I just said that."
Ben stared at her suspiciously. "And her name is Allie."
"Yes. Short for Alicia. I'm Jessie."
"And you're twins."
"Yes."
"Bull."
Jessie stiffened. "I beg your pardon."
"Oh, you're good, I'll grant you that. A real chameleon. I would never have guessed there was a hotshot reporter behind that wide-eyed come-on. But you're not as dumb as you pretend to be, are you, Angela?' 9
"Now wait a minute—"
Ben planted his nose two inches from hers and whispered vehemently. "No, you wait a minute. I've already wasted too much time trying to talk sense to you. Maybe you don't think
it means anything that there are two damned shifty-looking characters outside watching this place. Believe me, they aren't there to check out the nice neighborhood. They're after you."
Jessie tried again. "No, they're not. I don't know why, but it must be AUie they're after. If you'd just listen—"
Ben grabbed her shoulders and gave them a slight shake. "Look, it's over, sweetheart. It doesn't matter anymore if you're a reporter or a waitress in a strip joint or twins or even triplets. Now, unless you want to stick around to find out whether you're marked for just a friendly warning or for something more permanent, you'll get the hell out of here."
"Ooh!" Jessie squeezed her eyes shut, her voice hushed but furious. Bringing her fists up between his arms, she knocked his hands from her shoulders and glared at him. "You are the most exasperating, thickheaded man! If you would only listen—"
Ben wasn't listening, she realized, at least not to her. Suddenly his body was taut with attention as he focused on the door behind her.
"What?" she demanded.
He touched a cautioning finger to his lips. "Shh."
Jessie sensed his urgency and was instantly silent. Ben cocked his head intently. She held her breath, forgetting her irritation.
He must have heard something else then, because the next thing she knew, he had switched places with her, his ear was pressed to the door and, poised in his hand—band up, as though it wore perfectly at home there—was an ugly snub-nosed
pistol!
She gasped, and Ben turned his head just enough to look at her. He pursed his lips and said "shh" again, very softly. With his free hand, he reached over and turned out the light.
The darkness was sudden and blacker than before. What— whom—had he heard? Jessie listened, straining hard. At length the silence became a roar inside her head and it felt almost as though her ears were getting bigger. The palpable, throbbing tension in the small bathroom stretched at her nerves until she thought they might snap like an overstressed rubber band. For a crazy minute, she was tempted to shout, "Here we are!" just to put an end to the horror of not knowing what was happening on the other side of that closed door.
But Ben's solid presence gave her control. He was a police officer, or so he'd said, and the existence of the gun he held was distinct evidence. Not that policemen were the only people to carry guns, of course. But Ben hadn't hurt her when she was sleeping and vulnerable, and Jessie preferred to believe he was one of the good guys.
In fact, she told herself, being an officer of the law, he was probably used to situations like this. When it was over and good had triumphed over evil, he'd probably just blow the smoke from the barrel of his pistol, shrug and say, "Piece of cake," or some such. She was silly to be afraid.
Even so, she couldn't forget what he had implied might happen if those men got hold of her, thinking she was her twin sister.
Now if she were the heroine in one of her books, she wouldn't be standing here depending on the hero to get her out of trouble. She would be self-sufficient, assertive and extremely resourceful. By now she would have come up with a brilliant plan that would have trapped the hoodlums and left both the admiring hero and her unscathed, or, in extreme cases, with one or the other of them sustaining a minor injury that wouldn't interfere too much with the love scene to follow.
Jessie was far more suited to choreographing love scenes than contemplating impending doom, and she latched onto the welcome distraction of her thoughts. She could easily visualize a muscular, Ben-like hero with a stab wound in his shoulder—or thigh?—receiving, as he lay back against the pillows, the erotic attentions of his tenderly passionate lover. Who, coinciden-tally, bore a striking resemblance to Jessie herself. But the vision faded when she heard a muffled curse. A gravelly voice, muted by the barrier of the bathroom door, said, "She ain't here."
