Unspoken

by Lisa Jackson

  “You’re a liar, Nevada Smith,” she sniffed, clinging to him. “You’re the worst. And ... and ... and, damn it, I love you.”

  “Do ya now?” he drawled. “Funny thing how that worked out,” he said, touching a bruise on her head, “because I was just thinkin’ I love you. I just don’t know what I’m gonna do about it.”

  She couldn’t help but grin. “I have a few ideas, cowboy.”

  “I’ll just bet you do,” he said, linking his arms around her back and kissing her soundly. “And once I get a few details cleared up, I intend to examine each and every one of them.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” she promised.

  “I know.” His eyes turned serious in the darkness. “Oh, darlin’. I know.”

  Epilogue

  Rays from a late summer sun glinted off the pool’s clear surface. Sitting on the terra-cotta lip, Shelby tentatively slipped one toe in and glanced at the cloudy heavens.

  “Chicken?” her daughter teased from the far end of the pool, and Shelby grinned widely. How had she ever thought Elizabeth could have been fathered by Ross McCallum when each day she looked more like Nevada Smith? Tests had confirmed his paternity, of course, but now it all seemed so petty. “Come on, Shelby,” the girl, dressed in a bright orange bathing suit encouraged her. She had yet to be called “Mom,” but that would come in time. If Shelby could somehow find her patience.

  “Oh, all right.” Shelby tossed off her coverup and slid into the water, swimming beneath the surface and skimming the bottom of the pool. Who would have thought things would turn out so well? She and Nevada had married and moved into the big house while her father was off on a world cruise—his last, he claimed, though Shelby hoped there was still time to bury all the old hatchets and become a family before the Judge decided to leave this earth for good.

  Nevada, cleared of all charges once Vianca had started talking, still owned both his places, and he wanted to build a more modest home there, raise their children and live a simple life.

  Shelby wasn’t sure that was possible. Though she’d moved from Seattle for good, life was still a whirlwind and didn’t seem to be slowing down. Elizabeth and Maria lived with them and slowly Elizabeth, who had agreed to be called Liz, was growing accustomed to her new home. Thank God for Maria’s patience, for the woman planned to marry a man she’d met in Galveston, but they had agreed to wait until Elizabeth was settled and had accepted her new family.

  Maria, as well as Lydia and Pablo and Carla, would always be a part of Elizabeth’s life. Norman Rockwell, it wasn’t. But it worked for them and that, Shelby figured, was all that mattered.

  Under the water, she grabbed Liz’s toes, and the girl screamed in delight, then began churning her way toward the shallow end of the pool. The chase was on, and Shelby caught up with her just as Liz reached the steps. They laughed and gasped as Nevada, wearing Levis and a long-sleeved shirt, strode out of the kitchen. Even after all these years, Shelby’s heart leaped at the sight of him.

  “Well, it’s official,” he said, “Shep’s runnin’ for sheriff and since he solved Ramón Estevan’s murder, he might just be a shoe-in.”

  “He’s as good as the next guy, I suppose.” Shelby stared up at her husband and was grateful for Vianca’s confession. She admitted to “borrowing” Nevada’s gun on the night that Ross had stolen it, and had told the court that when her father started slapping her around for a mistake she’d made while making change, she’d followed him to the back of the store and threatened him with the gun, never intending to use it.

  She’d prodded him with the barrel, had made him walk to the dumpster, just to scare him, but her mother had witnessed the fight and had gotten involved. Ramón had tried to slug Vianca, and Aloise had pulled the trigger. In the shock of it all, she’d lost whatever hold on sanity she had. Vianca had hidden the gun in an abandoned warehouse and later planted it in the cave, calling Shep anonymously, hoping that Nevada would be accused of the crime, as she was afraid an all-out investigation would find her mother a murderer when, in fact, in Lydia’s estimation, Aloise was only protecting her daughter.

  Vianca hadn’t cared who took the rap for her father’s death—either Ross or Nevada—just as long as Aloise was free.

  “I don’t know. Shep has a tendency to bend the law,” Nevada said, squatting down and ruffling his daughter’s wet head. Elizabeth giggled. She adored her father. “And he’s got his own problems. Peggy Sue isn’t letting him in the house these days.”

  “Yes, but I heard they were ‘dating’ again.”

  Nevada made a sound of deprecation. “Yeah, well, we’ll see if she can forgive and forget.”

  “At least he’s not seeing Vianca anymore.” Vianca had moved away two months ago, as had Katrina Nedelesky, who was writing a book, supposedly already shopping the idea around. If Shelby had her way, the rift between father and daughter would be mended, but so far, neither Katrina nor the Judge had started reaching out. It might never happen.

  “Come in,” Liz encouraged him from the far end of the pool. “Swim with us, ’Vada.”

  “Yeah,” Shelby teased. “Join us.” She couldn’t help herself and splashed water up at him. A dark stain spread up the leg of his Levis.

  “You’re askin’ for trouble, darlin’,” he said, one side of his mouth lifting upward.

  “Of course I am. I just wonder if you’re man enough to give it to me,” she teased.

  Nevada’s grin was positively wicked. “Tell ya what,” he drawled. “Let’s find out.”

  “Oh, yes, let’s,” she agreed.

  Quick as a cat pouncing, he jumped into the water, reached down and grabbed her legs. She squealed, and he pulled her under the water. She popped up again and laughed. From the far end of the pool, Liz giggled, then began heading their way, water churning as she plowed across the clear surface.

  “I’ll get you back,” Shelby warned.

  Nevada’s laugh started deep in his throat. “You’d better,” he said. In his wet clothes, he dragged her close and kissed her soundly. “You’d damned well better, darlin’.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll have to teach you a lesson.”

  “Another one?”

  “As many as you need,” he said as Liz landed and grabbed him around the waist.

  “I don’t know.” She tilted her head to one side. “This might take a while.”

  “Well,” he drawled. “I’m sorry. All I’ve got is the rest of my life. If that’s not long enough, you’ll have to find someone else.”

  “Never,” she said. “After all I went through with you, I’m never looking at another man.” And she meant it. With every breath in her soul. He kissed her again and Shelby knew this life, this love, was forever.

  Dear Reader,

  Now that you’ve read UNSPOKEN, I thought you’d like to know what else I’m up to. I’ve finished working on my next romantic suspense for Zebra Books, IF SHE ONLY KNEW.

  Set in San Francisco, IF SHE ONLY KNEW is the story of Marla Cahill, a woman, who after a horrific accident, some memory loss and plastic surgery, feels adrift from her wealthy, upper-crust family. She has trouble connecting with her husband, teenaged daughter and infant son. The huge, rambling turn of the century Cahill mansion doesn’t feel like home to her. She feels out of place. Asea. As if everyone she’s loved and trusted has turned against her. Is she paranoid or is there really a conspiracy to keep her from learning the truth about her past? And if so—why? What are the secrets her family doesn’t want her to uncover?

  She senses that her life and the lives of her children are in danger, though she doesn’t understand why.

  Should she trust her secretive but passionate husband Alexander? Or would it be wiser to turn to his half-brother, Nick, the black sheep of the Cahill family, a thorn in the family’s side? Nick’s a dark and sexy man to whom she feels she’s always been attracted, though her memory is hazy. No matter what he’s a man who’s forbidden to her—taboo, but so sinfully
seductive. A man she finds impossible to resist.

  IF SHE ONLY KNEW is the story of sizzling seduction and dangerous intrigue, the story of a woman searching for her past—no matter what the price.

  If you’d like any other information about these books or other Lisa Jackson titles, please write to me c/o Zebra Books, 850 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10022 or contact me through my web site at www.lisajackson.com.I’d love to hear from you!

  Thanks and Happy Reading!

  Please turn the page for

  an exciting sneak peek

  at Lisa Jackson’s

  IF SHE ONLY KNEW

  Now in bookstores everywhere!

  IF SHE ONLY KNEW

  SHE WOKE UP WITH A NEW FACE ...

  Not only has Marla Cahill survived a deadly car accident, but her beautiful features have been restored through plastic surgery. She should be grateful. Instead, she’s consumed by confusion ... and panic. For the people gathered at her bedside—her family—are strangers. And so is the woman whose haunted eyes stare back from the mirror....

  SHE WOKE UP WITH NO MEMORIES...

  Secluded at the magnificent Cahill mansion, Marla waits for something to trigger recognition. Yet the only thing she’s left with is the unshakable feeling that she is not who everyone says she is, and that something is very, very wrong....

  ... AND SHE WOKE UP TO MURDER

  Determined to piece together the truth of her identity, she finds herself drawn to her brother-in-law, Nick—a man who seems both to want her and despise her. And, as her fractured mind slowly clears, Marla begins to have flashes of another life ... of cruel betrayals and deadly secrets. Marla’s life isn’t just different—it’s in danger, controlled by a twisted killer who’s waiting for the right moment to strike ... the moment Marla remembers....

  Prologue

  Northern California, Highway 17

  “It’s the next car ... she’s coming in the next car, a black Mercedes coupe, an S500, traveling south, just as we planned.”

  Crouching low in the underbrush, with fog creeping over the wet earth, he strained to hear the anxious voice crackling through the static of his two-way radio. “I thought she drove a Porsche.”

  “She’s driving a Mercedes,” the voice snapped angrily. “You’ve got about ninety seconds.”

  “Got it.” Eyes narrowed, he focused all his attention on the twisting road that cut through the canyons and hills in this part of California. Sure enough, through the mist and darkness, he heard the soft purr of a finely tuned engine. The car was, indeed, climbing. Getting nearer.

  She was getting nearer.

  His heart hammered. He remembered the scent of her skin. The look in her eyes. The depth of her betrayal.

  She deserved this, the self-righteous bitch. He only wished she could know that he was the instrument of her death.

  Adrenalin surged through his blood.

  “Don’t blow this. It’s our only chance,” he was instructed.

  “I know. I know.”

  “It’s worth a hundred grand.”

  A lot more than that, he thought but didn’t say it. A helluva lot more.“I’ll take care of it.” He snapped the walkie-talkie off, slammed down the antenna and stuffed the headset into a deep pocket of his jacket. Sweat prickled his scalp and ran down his neck, though it was barely forty degrees in this stretch of woods. Slipping his ski mask over a face already painted black, he jogged through a carpet of wet leaves, his old army boots still sturdy, his camouflage suit a perfect cover in the mist-shrouded night

  Branches slapped his face. The air was dank and thick with the smell of wet earth and something else: His own fear. That he would fail. That somehow she would survive. That she would end up laughing at him.

  No way. No fucking way.

  Somewhere nearby an owl hooted, barely distinct over the pounding of his heart. And a rumble of low gears and a heavy engine ... not that of the Mercedes. Coming from the other direction. The saliva dried in his mouth.

  Steady,he reminded himself as he emerged from the woods at the designated bend in the road. He hoped to God that the truck was a few miles away and hurried across the wet pavement with the stealth of a SWAT team member. He checked his watch. Thirty seconds. The damned car sounded close. He gritted his teeth; saw a flash of headlights through the fog and trees.

  Come on, bitch, just come on.

  Louder, from the south, the truck—a semi from the sound of it—was gaining speed. Shit.

  Crouching low on the narrow road, he positioned himself between the sharp S curves. Concentrating hard, he heard the whine of the coupe’s tires singing on the wet pavement. Hurry, he silently urged, his eyes narrowing. You can beat the truck. You have to.

  The car sounded closer.

  Good.

  He glanced at his watch again, the illuminated dial counting off his heartbeats. Everything was going as planned except for the truck. A few more seconds ... He licked his lips in anticipation.

  Brakes whined in the night. Too close. Too damned close. He swung his head southward, toward the oncoming roar. There was a catch in the eighteen-wheeler’s engine as the driver shifted into a lower gear.

  Every muscle tightened as he listened. He couldn’t risk a witness. Sweat ran down his spine.

  He could abort. There was still time.

  But when would he get another chance?

  A hundred grand. And just the beginning.

  Besides, she deserves this ... and it fucking fell into your lap.

  The truck’s engine growled loudly, reverberating through the forest of sequoia and oak. An eighteen-wheeler hurtling down the steep grade.

  In the opposite direction, the Mercedes, if his information was right, was purring ever-upward, the driver innocently unaware that she was about to die.

  His breath came in short gasps. Slow down. Think of it as an exercise—justas you did years ago when you were with the special unit. You can do this. A few more seconds and you’re home free. His heart was a drum; his hands soaked in sweat beneath his tight-fitting gloves.

  Twin beams rounded the curve from downhill. The truck’s brakes squealed from uphill.

  Now! He sprang, stood in the middle of the southbound lane. The sleek car accelerated, caught him in its headlights and swiftly he lifted the cover on his belt, exposing the mirrors he’d fastened to his torso.

  The driver slammed on her brakes.

  With a squeal, the Mercedes’ tires locked. The car swerved to the right, hit the gravel on the shoulder and spun. He caught a glimpse of the driver, a horrified expression on her beautiful face as she screamed and desperately cranked on the wheel. There was another person—someone in the passenger seat beside her. Shit! She was supposed to be alone. He’d been assured she would be alone.

  He jumped into the northbound lane. Avoided being hit by a speeding German-crafted fender by inches. Stumbled. FelL The mirrors on his belt cracked. Glass splintered. Glittered in the headlights’ glare. Hell. No time to do anything about it. Gasping, he was on his feet. Running. Toward the timberland.

  Get out of here.

  The semi rounded the corner, pinned him in its huge headlights, flooding the wet pavement with near blinding light. He jumped and caught sight of the driver’s panicked face. He was bearded, a big bear of a man, yelling over the scream of brakes. Eighteen thick tires screeched, burning rubber. The cab twisted, the truck jackknifed.

  Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh shit! Run, you bastard!

  Rolling over the guardrail, he launched his body into the protective cover of oak and redwood. He landed hard, his ankle twisted, the joint popping painfully, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. His heart pumped furiously. Sweat poured down his face beneath the mask. From the corner of his eye he saw the Mercedes scraping along the guardrail on the far side of the road. Sparks flew. With an agonizing shriek, polished steel sheared.

  He catapulted down the hill and heard the groan of metal rending as the car hit the weakened spot in the guardrail, then br
oke through, barreling through the trees.

  As planned.

  But the truck, the damned truck was out of control, careening down the hillside.

  He was running now, his ankle screaming in pain, his lungs on fire. The semi blasted down the hill. Tires locked. Metal shrieked. The entire forest shook as the big truck slashed through the guardrail, following his path, and angry metal behemoth chasing after him, tons of twisted metal chewing through the brush. His heart thundered, his legs pumped faster. The semi roared.

  Run, run! His ankle hurt like hell, his lungs were about to burst.

  He rolled, raced, ignored the agony of shredding tendons, while zigzagging through the trees. Where the hell was it? His Jeep. Where? Desperately he tried to avoid the path of the jackknifed death trap. He dived headfirst over a fallen log, then scrambled to his feet as berry vines clawed at his clothing. He hoped to hell he could get to the Jeep in time, start the damn thing and put some distance between himself and the wreckage.

  The ground shuddered.

  His feet flew out from under him, and he landed facedown on the ground.

  In a blinding flash, a fireball shot upward from the trees, billowing bright red and orange. Night was suddenly day.

  Tortured screams, horrid, agonizing sounds that would haunt him forever, pierced the night as the truck exploded and sparks showered the forest, raining down to singe his hair, ski mask and jacket. Smoke, smelling of diesel and charred rubber, spewed through the forest. For a second he thought he’d die.

  God knew he deserved it

  Then he saw it. As if delivered from hell. In the fiery illumination he caught sight of his Jeep, blood-red flames reflected in its tinted windows. Parked just where he’d left it on the abandoned logging road.

  Lurching to his feet, he unzipped his pocket, fumbled for his keys. He reached the vehicle and yanked open the door. He’d made it. Almost. Smoke clogged his throat as he threw himself into the Jeep’s interior. He was shaking, his ankle throbbing as he twisted on the ignition and the engine caught. The forest was bathed in eerie light. He kept the ski mask on as a precaution and slammed the door shut.