by Jenna Ryan
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Books by Jenna Ryan
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Copyright
“I’ve been assigned to protect you...
“...unofficially, as far as the commissioner’s office is concerned.”
“Undercover?” Cops assigned to protective duty, should not, Devon decided testily, be allowed to have sexy bodies, mysterious gazes or tousled hair that skimmed their shoulders. It made women think of dark princes with troubled souls and needs that few if any females could ever satisfy.
Riker kept his fists jammed in his jacket pockets. “I’m listed as ‘on assignment.”’
“That’s nice and vague.” He smelled good, like leather and some intriguing brand of male soap. She would have stepped away if she hadn’t seen the shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw. He looked troubled—not in the manner of a dark prince, but rather like a man with a host of problems surrounding him.
He felt his teeth beginning to grind and knew it was time to leave. Past time if he were truthful. Guilt and a beautiful woman whose scent brought to mind woodsy Irish Rowers were not mixing well in his system. There was, however, one more thing he needed to do.
Kiss her senseless...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jenna Ryan loves creating dark-haired heroes, heroines with strength and good murder mysteries. Ever since she was young, she has had an extremely active imagination. She considered various careers over the years and dabbled in several of them, until the day her sister Kathy suggested she put her imagination to work and write a book. She enjoys working with intriguing characters and feels she is at her best writing romantic suspense. When people ask her how she writes, she tells them by instinct. Clearly it’s worked, since she’s received numerous awards from Romantic Times Magazine. She lives in Canada and travels as much as she can when she’s not writing.
Books by Jenna Ryan
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
88—CAST IN WAX
99—SUSPENDED ANIMATION
118—CLOAK AND DAGGER
138—CARNIVAL
145—SOUTHERN CROSS
173—MASQUERADE
189—ILLUSIONS
205—PUPPETS
221—BITTERSWEET LEGACY
239—THE VISITOR
251—MIDNIGHT MASQUE
265—WHEN NIGHT FALLS
364—BELLADONNA
393—SWEET REVENGE
450—THE WOMAN IN BLACK
488—THE ARMS OF THE LAW
543—THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT
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The Stroke of Midnight
Jenna Ryan
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN •MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
To everyone I love—the ones who matter most.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Devon Tremayne—The target of a serial killer’s obsession.
Jacob Price—He adopts a cop’s identity in order to obtain Devon’s trust.
Joel Riker—The vacationing police detective whose name and badge number Jacob borrows.
Hannah Wallace—Devon’s sister has had two nervous breakdowns. Can Devon protect her from a third?
Jimmy Flaherty—A colleague of Devon’s. The only girlfriend he ever had is dead.
Roscoe Beale—He wants Hannah, whether Devon likes it or not.
Warren Severen—He has a history of alcoholism and a dubious past connection to death.
Alma Severen—She controls her brother, Warren, and a successful business—or hopes she does.
Andrew McGruder—A neighbor who desperately wants Devon’s love.
Brando—An addict with knowledge; but was his overdose accidental or intentional?
Prologue
“You’re listening to the Wave, WWAV FM, in Philadelphia. I’m Devon Tremayne. Join me again tomorrow on City Life. Oh, and by the way, to the listener who sent me that lovely Christmas angel pendant, I want you to know that I can’t be bribed. Have a great afternoon everyone, and be careful on the drive home. It’s snowing awfully hard out there....”
The man surged upward from a black pool of guilt, weariness and too much red wine. The woman’s voice penetrated the murky layers as if they’d never existed, jerking him awake in the space of a single second.
His dark eyes registered snowflakes dancing outside the curved apartment window and a handful of newspaper clippings scattered across the floor. He got gloomy at Christmas time. He didn’t remember hauling out the clippings, but then he’d drunk too much wine and whiskey last night to remember much of anything—and what the hell had the woman just said?
Devon Tremayne’s words echoed with eerie clarity. She’d received a gift. A Christmas angel pendant. He hadn’t dreamed the remark, he knew that as surely as he knew his name. The host of WWAV’s daily talk show, “City Life,” had acknowledged her gift openly.
A dull throbbing started at the base of his skull. Shoving the hair from his eyes, he squinted at the swirling snow, then over at the radio he hadn’t bothered to turn off last night when he’d stumbled through the door and straight into his punching bag. Devon Tremayne. A voice on the airwaves to her ever-increasing Philadelphia audience. But what else might she be?
Something in his stomach twisted unpleasantly. Forcing himself off the rumpled bed, he stepped carefully over the clippings.
He didn’t need to look to know that every headline began with the same chilling phrase: ‘The Christmas Murders...’ there for all to read in bold black print. And the city was creeping toward the Christmas season yet again.
The sour taste of bile rose in his throat. Halting at the frosted window pane, he let his head drop forward. The throbbing intensified to unbearable proportions.
He closed his eyes, fighting it. He’d wanted to believe it was over. He’d needed to believe it. Seven women dead in eight Christmases. Seven Christmas angel pendants sent to them before they died. Death at midnight where possible, and always by strangulation.
His fingers tightened briefly on the white wood jamb. It should have been over, but it wasn’t. Morbid experience and grim instinct told him it had only just begun....
Chapter One
“It’s the men, Devon, always the men who treat a woman like a wayward child.”
Alma Severen, co-owner of WWAV FM, leaned forward in her padded chair and jabbed a plump finger at the woman standing across from her.
Nine months at the radio station had inured Devon Tremayne to Alma’s no-nonsense attitude. People usually summed up and quickly assumed their proper place around the opinionated sixty-four-year-old businesswoman. Apparently, one poor soul had missed his cue.
Taking the windo
w seat, Devon raised inquiring brows at her boss. “Does this have anything to do with that angel pendant I got yesterday?”
“It has everything to do with it, my girl.”
Alma’s tone made Devon frown. “I thought the police caught the Christmas Murderer last year. A man named Casey Coombes, wasn’t it? That’s what Hannah told me last night.”
Alma sighed. “Your sister’s a kind and trusting individual, Devon.”
“She’s also right, isn’t she?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t alter the fact that the male portion of the Philadelphia police force is comprised ninety percent of condescending fools who wouldn’t know east from west if the females in their lives didn’t explain it to them every day at breakfast.”
Tired of Alma’s man-bashing, Devon leaned an elbow on the walnut filing cabinet, propped her chin in her cupped palm and blew the wheat-blond bangs from her eyes. “I wish I’d never gotten that pendant, or mentioned it to anyone when I did. It was a prank, Alma, a stupid hoax.”
“Could’ve been a copycat,” a chipper voice inserted.
“I didn’t hear you knock, Jimmy.” Alma tapped an impatient fingernail on her blotter.
The young, curly-haired man grinned. “I did knock, Ms. Severen. Your secretary wasn’t at her desk. You got a new one, didn’t you? What’s her name?”
“Brian.”
Devon hid a smile. Jimmy Flaherty, older by seven or eight years than his fresh-faced appearance suggested, shrugged and returned his attention to the original topic. “Roscoe contacted the police as per your instructions. You know, about the pendant.”
Devon slid her a sideways look. “Alma...”
“A prudent precaution.” Alma folded her hands. “You’re brushing this off, my dear, but I assure you, it isn’t a matter to be taken lightly. Innocents have gone to prison for other people’s crimes before and will again.”
Exasperated, Devon drummed her slender fingers on the cabinet top. “Coombes confessed, Alma. How innocent can he be?”
Ignoring the perfectly reasonable question, Alma pinned Jimmy with a stare. “What did the police have to say?”
He handed her a sheet of paper. “It’s all there. They told Roscoe they’d look into it, time and officers permitting. But they think they have the guy who killed those women, Ms. Severen. I, uh, doubt if they’ll bother much about a copycat gift.”
Devon’s fine brows lowered in mild consternation. When she’d first received the gift, she hadn’t given it much thought. Now, with the fuss Alma was creating added to the story she had dragged out of her reluctant sister last night, she was tempted to think it through again.
Alma waved an arm at Jimmy’s last remark. “That’s bull. You tell Roscoe to get in here pronto.”
Unperturbed, Jimmy let his grin return. “I can’t, ma’am. He’s gone to lunch with our top sponsor.” He glanced shyly at Devon. “I, uh, could drive you home if you’re nervous.”
Was she nervous? Devon considered and decided she was not. “I’ll be fine.” She stood and ran a hand through her layered sweep of blond hair. “I’ve dealt with weirdos before in L.A. The man behind the Christmas Murders is in prison, end of story. But unfortunately not,” she glanced at her watch, “end of day for me. I told Hannah I’d buy a tree from McBean’s on my way home.”
Clearly put out, Alma offered a stiff, “A live one, I hope.”
Now Devon grinned. “Sorry, no. My parents are dyed in the wool environmentalists. They’d disown Hannah and me if we so much as cut a branch off a living tree.”
“Hmph. Well, don’t forget tomorrow morning. We’ve scheduled a pancake breakfast here at the station. We’re going to discuss those radio Christmas story readings we talked about. Such self-sacrifice on your parents’ behalf will earn you ‘The Gift of the Magi,’ I think. Or maybe ‘The Bishop’s Wife.’ Teddi can be the Grinch.”
“She’ll love you for that,” Devon said with a laugh. “See you tomorrow. And, please, stop worrying about me.”
Jimmy tried to follow her, but out of sheer perversity, Alma forestalled him. Devon knew there was a very kind woman beneath that layer of crusty disagreeableness, though one might have to scrape for quite some time in order to fully expose it. Certainly, Alma meant well where Devon’s Christmas angel pendant was concerned. Unfortunately, her good intentions were having an unpleasant effect on Devon’s resolve not to be disturbed by an obvious crank. Hannah was a worrier by nature, and she’d been only moderately concerned by her sister’s disclosure the previous evening.
They’d talked about it over dinner preparations in Hannah’s high-ceilinged apartment, one of eight in the unit left to her by their maternal grandmother, Sinead, six years ago. Management of people, places and things was Hannah’s forté and their shrewd-minded grandmother had known it. They’d also received Sinead’s midnight-blue Jaguar, her emeralds and her prize Monet. To Devon’s parents, Sinead had bequeathed a large acreage of forest land in northern Pennsylvania. The pair currently resided there, in a large wood and brick house complete with a craft barn full of hand-made collectibles.
“We should leave for Mom and Dad’s early on the twenty-fourth,” Hannah had said last night in her gentle, practical way. Her waist-length blond hair had glowed fiery gold in her kitchen of painted wood, tile and oak parquet flooring. “You know how Mother fusses.”
“Tofu turkey,” Devon had murmured. She’d disguised a shudder as she’d browned the ground beef for her famous spaghetti sauce. “I’m not sure I’m up to it this year.”
“You’ll manage.” Hannah had reached over to touch her sister’s shoulder. “You’re worried about that pendant you got today at the station, aren’t you?”
Devon shook pepper onto the beef. “I’m not fond of cranks, if that’s what you mean. You’ve told me that the man behind the Christmas murders is safely behind bars, so what’s to worry about?”
“Nothing.” Hannah’s competent hands had begun tearing up lettuce for the salad. “I checked three times and Casey Coombes has not escaped. Neither has he confessed to having any friends or family willing to carry on his macabre tradition. I think you should throw the pendant away and put the entire incident out of your mind. I assume you’ve called the police....”
Devon released a sigh at the memory. Yesterday, she hadn’t thought there was a need to call them. Today, Alma had rendered the point moot by ordering the station’s PR person, a handsome slickster named Roscoe Beale, to do it for her. Roscoe, who had undoubtedly followed orders not because Alma had issued them, but because he’d been hoping to score a few badly-needed brownie points with Hannah.
Giving her silky layers of hair a shake, Devon dislodged the worst of the falling snowflakes. She locked her car then strolled along the busy South Street sidewalk, past boutiques, galleries and crowded cafés.
Three street-corner Santas rang bells, and she stopped to give money to each one. Hannah’s late husband, Tony, would have offered a few cynical remarks, but then Tony had hated Christmas with all its commercial trappings, its constant demand for good cheer and its numerous social functions. Roscoe might be a trifle too smooth for Devon’s personal taste, but at least he wouldn’t spoil Hannah’s enjoyment of the holidays.
They were in the same line of work, as well, which helped his chances. While Hannah functioned in a managerial capacity at Hare and Woden, Roscoe was on Alma and Warren Severen’s payroll. He could hustle clients with the best of them. Devon only wished he hadn’t been so quick to follow through on Alma’s instructions.
A familiar shop window, glittering with clear lights, caught her eye. It was dark, and motorists on their way home crunched along over a layer of freshly fallen snow. ‘White Christmas’ played Irish-style on the window speakers. She spotted the tree she wanted instantly, a blue-green spruce, seven and half feet tall with hundreds of tiny branches waiting to be decked out with ornaments, bows and sparkly garland.
“I feel like I’m living ‘The Bishop’s Wife,”’ she said twe
nty minutes later as the shopowner endeavored to stuff the boxed tree into the trunk of her Jaguar. “Thanks, Mr. McBean, and tell your wife if she wants some new holiday recipes to listen to Thursday’s show. We’ve got two cookbook authors scheduled.”
The man, a rotund grandfather with a shiny bald head, gave the box a final, grunting shove. “Forget the recipes, Devon Tremayne. You find out who sent you that pendant. We took the Christmas killings very seriously in this part of the city. Seven women dead over eight Christmases. All radio personalities. Four murdered at or near midnight, if that means anything. You watch yourself, you hear me?”
“But Casey Coombes—”
“Confessed to the murders, I know. We all know. But you should know that sometimes crimes get copied. It’s not a healthy world out there, Devon. Take my advice and guard your pretty throat.”
Forcing a smile, Devon thanked him again and slid into her vehicle. Who’d have thought one little on-air remark would have generated such a fuss?
Hannah and Devon’s small but lovely apartment building was constructed of mellow red brick. Its wooden shutters and tall windows hinted at the seventy-five-year-old architectural style within. The building had been erected in 1925 when high ceilings and spacious living quarters were a must. So were elegance, archways and design variation. No two apartments were alike. Hannah made her home on the first floor; Devon had opted for a vacancy on the second. Two of the units were currently empty, scheduled for refitting in early January.
At the curb, Devon opened the trunk and sized up the box inside. “Not likely,” she decided. Closing the lid, she started up the snowy walk to the front stoop.
“Ms. Tremayne?”
She instinctively sidestepped the male speaker, who’d appeared like a magician out of the blackened shrubs. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she controlled her start of surprise. “Yes—no.” Her eyes narrowed on his shadowy face. “Why?”
