Secondary Targets

by Sandra Edwards

  “That’s very true,” Doug said. “Every year, we have a car show and an auction, mainly because that’s the only way my wife says I can keep doing it next year.” He winked at Katey. “We use the money from the auction to finance our restoration projects for the upcoming year. Now I’m not one to solicit at these barbeques because I consider them to be an informal get-together. But, since we’ve had a few inquiries about the Shelby, we thought we’d let everyone know…” Doug paused, catching his breath and his wife eyed him with a curious, what-are-you-up-to look.

  Neither she, nor Angela—as far as Doug knew—had any idea about his and Julian’s plans for the Shelby.

  “We’re going to sell raffle tickets at the car show...and just let me say this now, before everyone stops listening…” This was going to create quite the buzz. “The Shelby is insured for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. We are going to sell raffle tickets at one hundred dollars per ticket. You can buy as many tickets as you like, and, so long as we sell at least five hundred tickets...some lucky person is going to win that Shelby.” Doug paused to let the chattering die down, and then he continued. “The reason we want to raise at least fifty grand is because we are donating the money to Angie and Katey’s clinic.”

  The crowd burst into applause. They all knew what the clinic meant to their small community.

  Katey and Angela showered their respective husbands with sweet kisses.

  “That gesture is going to pay off big-time for you, Mr. Cooper.” Katey’s promise breezed against Doug’s ear and rolled thrilling thoughts through his mind.

  “I’m going to hold you to that, Mrs. Cooper.” He sealed it with a smile.

  When the Coopers weren’t throwing neighborhood barbeques, or Doug and Julian weren’t fixated on some automobile that they were bringing back to life, and Katey and Angela had left the clinic in the capable hands of the staff for the day, there was nothing that either of the two couples loved better than spending a lazy Saturday afternoon sitting on their respective front porch swings.

  They were content just to sit there watching their children play together and with all the neighborhood children.

  Julian could be found glancing across the street from time to time, holding his wife in his arms. Sometimes, his expression tended to lean toward the sad side and Doug figured that’s when his thoughts wandered off to his first wife. Julian had never told Angela about his first wife, but Doug knew he had no regrets.

  Across the street in the Coopers’ swing, Doug loved nothing more than holding his wife in his arms and caressing her long dark hair.

  It’d been hard getting used to calling her Katey. He suspected it had been just as hard for her to get used to calling him Doug.

  But it had to be done.

  After Marcus shot Cherilyn, Eric and Grace thought it probably best if they reinvented themselves and never breathed a word about what had happened. Who’d believe them anyway? More than likely, Marcus would’ve ended up in prison. It was possible, and very likely that all three of them would have ended up incarcerated.

  And, there was still one of them out there. Somewhere. They’d never found out which one of Cherilyn’s cohorts had survived.

  Eric had suggested, several times, that it hadn’t been Cherilyn. He’d never been quite so graphic with Marcus, but he’d seen the bullet pierce her forehead. That diminished her chance of survival immensely.

  Still, as long as one of them was still out there, danger always lingered just around the next corner. Eric could live with that. What he couldn’t live with was seeing Grace in prison.

  Eric and Grace didn’t think that’s why her father had gone to all that trouble, years ago, for that to happen.

  So, with relative ease Eric and Grace turned into Doug and Katey Cooper, identities Michael Hendricks had created for them.

  It was easy enough to reinvent themselves, with all the fake identities the General had given them to choose from. Eric had learned enough from Cherilyn that he had no trouble converting one of his identities, Julian Turner, a real estate tycoon from California, into a black man with Marcus’s face.

  They’d all gotten stuck with the Cooper and Turner identities when Marcus and the doctor who’d saved his life fell in love.

  Eric Wayne, Grace Hendricks Wayne, and Marcus Johnson had disappeared. And none of them could ever come back. They had to disappear, just like the real identity of Grace’s father had vanished. And their true identities, like his, was lost forever.

  And just like Grace would never know who her father really was, their children could never know who their parents were either. A sad destiny, but it beat getting caught.

  Maybe that’s why they named the twins Eric and Grace. It was their attempt at preserving some little something of who they really were.

  And while there true identities would undoubtedly have to remain buried forever, Eric and Grace’s love for each other was something they were finally able to convey openly and freely with one another and never have to worry about the other’s intentions. They both knew they were in it for the long haul.

  But neither Eric, Grace, nor Marcus could truly let their guards down. Trouble could waltz back around the corner at any time.

  It’d done it before.

  **I hope you enjoyed SECONDARY TARGETS. Please turn the page for an excerpt of my Kindle bestseller CRAZY FOR YOU**

  **Directly following CRAZY FOR YOU, please enjoy an excerpt of Cara Marsi's romantic suspense LOGAN'S REDEMPTION**

  CRAZY FOR YOU

  by

  Sandra Edwards

  PROLOGUE

  1988

  New York City

  The interview wasn’t going well. Not from Roxanne’s point of view. She knew Lauren Weber’s reputation as a talk show host. In a word, barracuda said it all. This came as no surprise to Roxanne and now she wondered how she’d ever been talked into this in the first place.

  If Lauren’s guest had anything to hide she had a way of tempting those skeletons out of the closet. And Roxanne had plenty to hide. Plenty that could tarnish her public image of sweet and innocent.

  This is all Walt’s fault. Roxanne’s publicist had convinced her it would be good publicity for the new movie. Initially, his argument had been a good one: Lauren Weber was the most popular talk show host around, and this would be a nice plug for the new movie since millions of people would see the clips.

  Walt had been adamant, so reluctantly, and against her better judgment, she’d agreed to let America’s favorite talk show host interview the renowned authoress-actress Roxanne Simon.

  “What can you tell us about Garrett-Hollander?” Lauren’s questioning voice brought Roxanne back to reality.

  She didn’t falter at the mention of the ever-popular rock band. “Well…” Roxanne said, “I don’t know what I could tell you that you don’t already know.”

  “Isn’t it true that you and your sister Candy knew them when they were nobody?”

  “I’ve never thought of Frank or Rich as nobody.”

  “Isn’t Frank Garrett the father of your son?”

  The audience reacted with a mixture of gasps and whispers.

  Roxanne laughed skeptically. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Well, his name is Frankie.”

  “Frank is my father’s name,” Roxanne said with all the repose expected of someone with two Best Actress Oscars under her belt.

  Lauren took on one of those looks that said she knew she was getting nowhere. But Roxanne wasn’t falling for that. Lauren Weber was regrouping. And Roxanne Simon would be ready.

  “Your latest movie,” Lauren said, changing the subject, “Bad Company, was released last week and it’s doing well at the box office.” She paused briefly, allowing the audience time for applause. “And rumor has it that it’ll be nominated for multiple Academy Awards.”

  “Well…I think it’s a little early to be supposing about the Oscars,” Roxanne declared.

  “You’re no stranger to t
he Oscars,” Lauren said. “You’ve won awards before. Aren’t you getting used to collecting them by now?”

  “I’ll never get so used to it that I’ll take something like that for granted,” Roxanne said meekly of the Oscars. “I’m always grateful for any recognition of my work.”

  Roxanne was surprised at how cool she’d managed to remain. Lauren had invaded territory that was better left alone. Territory that was known for bringing out Roxanne’s weaknesses.

  “What’s next?” Lauren’s voice remained casual.

  “A vacation,” Roxanne said, and dropped it at that. It wasn’t time for the public to know she’d started work on her autobiography.

  “Devoting some time to your son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he here with you?”

  Apprehension bundled up inside Roxanne, but she wouldn’t lie. In the past, her lies had a way of biting her on the butt. “Yes, he is.”

  “Could we bring him out?”

  Shit. Through the years, Roxanne had successfully protected Frankie from the press. Not one photograph of him had ever been published in any newspaper or magazine. But America was going to get a look at him now.

  If Roxanne refused to let him come out, the audience would know she had something to hide. That news could get back to Frank. On the other hand, if she let did him come out, then Frank might see him. Yet there was no real choice in the matter; refusing to bring him out would cause a much bigger fuss.

  “If he wants to come out,” Roxanne said. “But, Ms. Weber…please understand—” her tone issued an unmistakable warning, “—I wouldn’t want his head filled with any foolish ideas.”

  That probably wouldn’t stop Lauren, but hopefully a sense of decency would. Lauren didn’t have to tell Frankie she thought Frank Garrett was his father to get her point across. The implication would be more than enough.

  Roxanne’s four-year-old son ran across the set and climbed into a chair that had been strategically placed between talk show host and guest.

  Frankie looked at Roxanne for direction.

  “Hi, sweetie.” Roxanne smiled at the boy. “This is Ms. Weber and she wants to talk to you.”

  Frankie turned to Lauren and waited for her to say something.

  “Frankie,” Lauren’s tone, drenched in gentle persuasion, placed additional emphasis on his name. “Is there anyone out there in TV land that you’d like to say hello to?”

  Frankie nodded.

  Lauren pointed off to the right. “Just look into the camera over there, and say whatever you want.”

  Frankie peered into the camera and waved. “Hi, Aunt Candy. I’m on TV.” His upper lip twitched slightly to one side—a trait all too familiar for Roxanne.

  Lauren smiled. “And what a lovely child he is. I’d say there’s a striking resemblance.” She paused. “Wouldn’t you?” She topped off her declaration with a triumphant stare straight into the eye of the camera.

  The damage was done. Anybody with eyes could see that Lauren wasn’t speaking of any resemblance between mother and child. Frankie’s locks, curly and black, were far from Roxanne’s straight chestnut-brown hair. Nothing about his piercing baby blues resembled her unusual eyes shaded the color of purple violets. No, it was clear—Frankie didn’t resemble Roxanne at all.

  After filming the show, Roxanne and Frankie went home to their apartment overlooking Central Park. Candy had left for Florida the day before, at Roxanne’s insistence, and now Roxanne was wondering what she’d been thinking.

  Heading to Florida—a place she hadn’t been in five years—wasn’t Roxanne’s idea. If she’d had her way, she would have chosen to never step foot in the place again. But Jerry, her psychiatrist, had said she’d never be free of her demons if she didn’t face them. And that meant returning to Florida for an extended stay.

  Well, at least she could nip this Lauren Weber fiasco in the butt before she left. Sure, Lauren’s audience had seen Frankie, but if Roxanne could keep the whole of America from getting a firsthand look, she had to try.

  Inside her bedroom, Roxanne carelessly tossed clothing inside her suitcase while holding the telephone against her ear with her shoulder. “I do not want it aired.”

  “They won’t go for it,” Walt said with a measure of regret in his tone. “What they’ve got is too hot.”

  “Well, threaten them then.” She cradled the receiver in her hand while various scenarios, all of them revenge oriented and involving Frank, wrecked havoc in her mind. “Tell them they’ll never get another interview from anyone even remotely associated with Simon Productions. Ever again.”

  “Roxanne, I tried. They don’t care.” His words were kind, and draped in a compassionate tone, but they missed the mark. “It’s going to air in a couple of weeks.”

  “A couple of weeks...?” Nothing could lessen that blow. “Why so soon?”

  “Rox…” Walt said. “They aren’t going to let this one sit on the back burner. Just go on to Florida and let the whole thing blow over.”

  Blow up, is more like it. “Okay,” she agreed in a defeated tone and slammed the phone down, staring at it. Lauren Weber had managed to turn her world upside-down. “Bitch.”

  A Few Days Later

  Florida

  Roxanne’s red Porsche sailed smoothly down the highway. With the convertible top down, her hair flew recklessly around her head and she’d reach up from time to time to push it out of her face.

  Approaching Tampa, she wondered if she could pick up Y-95, an old radio station favorite. Adjusting the dials, instantly the hard-rocking sounds of the J Geils Band poured out through the speakers. As the band serenaded her with their wit about how much Love Stinks, she said softly, “Boy, does it ever.” Roxanne snuck a peek at Frankie sleeping in the passenger seat, and fought the temptation to turn up the volume.

  Ten minutes later, she passed a sign reading: Welcome to Tampa. A familiar excitement stirred within her. Yesterday, returning to Florida was the last thing she wanted. But now, surprisingly, coming home felt good. Of course, the new house probably had a little something to do with that. She’d never laid eyes on it, outside of photographs, but she already loved it.

  After Jerry had convinced her she needed to go back, for her own sanity, she’d been so scared that Frank was going to magically appeared from out of nowhere that she bought the house through a service. She knew the floor plan inside and out, even though she’d never stepped foot inside the place.

  At the intersection of Busch and Armenia, Roxanne waited for the traffic light to turn green. No matter how good finally coming home felt, it had little effect on her mounting dread. If Frank saw that show, or heard about it, he’d find her no matter where she was. She could only hope this would be the last place he’d look.

  Roxanne pulled her car into the semicircle driveway, parking behind Candy’s black Targa. She climbed out of the car and neither the humidity nor the heat dissuaded her as she went to the passenger side and gathered Frankie, who was still sleeping, into her arms.

  She headed toward the front door of the two-story, wood-trimmed house that she found as appealing now as she had when she’d seen it in the photographs. It looked even more inviting, if that was possible, nestled amongst the tropical trees and plants. Once at the door, she couldn’t get to her keys and decided to lean on the doorbell.

  The door opened promptly. “Hi, Jameson.” She felt a measure of comfort, seeing half the husband and wife team that’d been in her employ since shortly after Frankie’s birth.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Roxanne,” Jameson said in a well-educated accent. “Shall I take him?”

  “Yes, please.” She passed Frankie off to him. “Have Rose put him to bed,” she said of Jameson’s wife.

  “Ms. Candy is out by the pool.”

  “Thanks.” She gave him a smile, and then darted through the house and out into the back yard.

  Candy was bikini-clad and laid out in a poolside lounge chair, soaking up the sun. The tropical heat washed
over Roxanne in a thick wave of sweltering moisture as she dropped into a nearby chair. She’d nearly forgotten how uncomfortable Florida’s humidity could be. She wondered if Candy was asleep and cleared her throat.

  Candy’s eyes opened behind her Sun Clouds. After a moment, she asked, “How’d the interview go?”

  An unpleasant feeling devoured Roxanne. Reluctantly, she admitted, “Not well.”

  “So what happened?”

  “All she wanted to talk about was Garrett-Hollander.” Roxanne tried to show as little emotion as possible, even to Candy.

  Candy tipped her sunglasses up and propped them her forehead. “That was the subject?”

  In the background, one of Garrett-Hollander’s songs poured from the radio sitting on the ground at Candy’s side. Since Roxanne’s unexplained disappearance from Frank’s life five years ago, he’d written many songs about her. Some indicated his hatred for her, while others simply begged her to come back. There were also songs alleging that she’d been a hooker. It was one of those songs that played on Candy’s radio now.

  …I played the fool

  I trusted her

  But she let me down

  Cause while I was away

  Roxanne was out selling herself

  All over town…

  “I’m surprised she didn’t ask me about that damn song.” Roxanne hated that song and she cursed Frank for writing it. To hear him tell it, she’d been out prostituting herself just because she could. It hadn’t been that way at all and it pissed her off that Frank would suggest as much.

  “So tell me what happened?” Candy flashed Roxanne an eager smile. She loved gossip. Especially when it involved the two of them.

  “Well, to make a long story short—” Roxanne hesitated. “She asked me point blank if Frank Garrett was the father of my son.”

  “No...” Candy’s disbelief lit in her emerald eyes, brightening them. “What’d you say?”

  “Well, I denied it of course, but the bitch wouldn’t give up.” She paused long enough to get a hold on her frustration. “She even conned me into bringing Frankie out on the set.”