by Linda Style
Dangerous Secrets, Loving Lies…
National Bestselling Author
Sometimes you have to tell a lie to find the truth…
She will never give up…
Finally free of her abusive past, photographer Whitney Sheffield’s job is her life, and she plans to keep it that way. But a desperate phone call from her long-lost sister just before her death, begging Whitney to rescue her three-year-old daughter from her dangerous father, changes everything. When Whitney tracks down the child’s father — a man named Rhys Gannon — she’s not surprised to find him partying with his entourage at a biker bar in northern Arizona. But her plan to photograph Gannon dealing drugs falls apart when he sees her taking pictures. On the spot, she makes up a story…because if he discovers why she’s really there, she may never see her niece…
He will never let go…
Rhys Gannon will do anything to protect SaraJane from her unstable mother. He’s suspicious of anyone who doesn’t live in the small town where he’s caring for the child…even the sexy photographer who says she’s there taking photographs for a national magazine. He’s intrigued by more than her job, but he’s not stupid. She’s cut from the same cloth as his rich and spoiled rotten ex-wife… and off limits in every possible way. But SaraJane really likes the woman. Damned if he doesn’t, too. And when the sparks of attraction between Rhys and Whitney ignite…there’s no turning back.
Except Whitney’s sister wasn’t the only one with secrets. Both Whitney and Rhys have secrets of their own, that when revealed, shocks them all. And someone is going to get hurt.
HER SISTER’S SECRET is a riveting novel of familial relationships, and the many faces of love, sacrifice and redemption.
PRAISE FOR LINDA’S NOVELS
Winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award
Winner of the Orange Rose Award
Holt Medallion Award of Merit
USA TODAY Best Romance of 2012 List
“Linda Style writes an intriguing, fast-moving, intelligent story. I’ll be on the lookout for more.”
—Linda Lael Miller
“A riveting story with fresh plot appeal.” —Romantic Times
“Absolutely spellbinding. A great plot…extraordinary in every way.” —Coffee Time Romance
“A tale of striking intensity…a compelling romance. Style has a gift for creating intriguing settings and characterizations …escape to a world of danger, intrigue and passion. A compelling romance.”
—Cindy Penn, Midwest Book Review
“An exhilarating romantic suspense that keeps readers wondering until the end. Action-packed…a strong intrigue.” —Harriet Klausner, The Best Reviews
“…Style writes with style… Style writes highly original stories that include characters with great depth. An exciting, heart-stopping reading experience you won’t want to miss. It proves once again, Ms. Style writes with style.” —Suzanne Tucker, Old Book Barn Gazzette
“A riveting read that will leave readers glued to the pages. Ms. Style has a flair for suspense. A series you won’t want to miss. —Romance Designs
“Tense, suspenseful and full of surprises. The pages seem to turn by themselves. When a story engages my mind as well as my emotions, I know I’m hooked.” —The Romance Reader
“Great Story! So intense, with strong feelings of love and betrayal. Mystery and danger…another couldn’t put it down story you’ll really love.” —Rendezvous Magazine
“Brilliantly creative, an engrossing read of romance and suspense…strong characters and a beguiling plot.”
—Donna Zapf, Cataromance
THE DECEIVED, June 2014, THE TAKEN, July 2014, THE SILENT, August 2014
L.A.P.D. Special Investigation Series
Giving up is not an option
CONTENTS
DEAR READER
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
OTHER NOVELS by LINDA STYLE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
Dear Reader,
Thank you for sharing your love of reading by purchasing my books. Whether you started this journey with me nearly fifteen years ago, just came on board, or hopped on somewhere in the middle, I treasure each and every one of you. Without you, my books would have no audience, so I am ever grateful that you enjoy my stories.
Those of you who’ve been on board with me since the beginning may remember my first book. It’s a story that will always hold a special place in my heart…and that’s why I’m so excited to be able to reissue HER SISTER’S SECRET in its (almost) original form. Technology has changed a lot in fifteen years, so I’ve painstakingly gone through and updated the book, but because I still love Whitney and Rhys’ journey of love and redemption, I’ve left the story alone. It was fun for me to revisit my first published novel, and I hope it will be fun for you, too.
Whether it’s your first time reading HER SISTER’S SECRET, or the second, I hope you enjoy Whitney and Rhys’s journey. I’d really appreciate it if when you’re finished, you’ll consider going on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or wherever you like to hangout to share your book thoughts, and leave a review or rating. Your opinion is important to me.
If you’d like to keep updated on future releases, I invite you to check out my website and sign up for my newsletter at www.LindaStyle.com . You can also find me on Twitter @LindaStyle_ and Facebook, so do stop by to chat. http://www.facebook.com/LindaStyleAuthor/
Happy Reading!
Linda
DEDICATION
—To my family—
Whose love, support, and encouragement
keeps me on this incredible journey.
CHAPTER ONE
MORGAN’S MURDERER stood less than thirty yards away.
Turn around, you scumbag.
Whitney Sheffield raised her camera, squinted into the viewfinder, then clicked off half a dozen frames. Mouth and throat dry, she zoomed the lens, focused on Rhys Gannon.
The devil himself.
Her stomach knotted as she watched the man strut among the ragtag band of motorcyclists—men with tattoos, wearing leather, chains with keys dangling, torn and dirty jeans. Some wore bandannas over long straggly hair.
She glanced around for a better position.
Hidden behind a post in an old bandstand across the road, she found an opening between the heavy pine boughs, then panned the narrow mountain street, stopping to focus on the motorcycles lined up in front of the old-west storefront like iron horses hitched to a post.
Some of the bikers straddled low-slung seats or stood slumped against their vehicles; others carried on like a marauding band of outlaws, poking and punching, hooting and shouting loud enough to be heard in Phoenix.
Come on, come on. Look this way…
Her breath came in quick snatches as she clicked off a few more shots. Crap. He wouldn’t turn—and she couldn’t get closer without being seen.
She zoomed in…studied Gannon through the telephoto lens, and despite the hatred pumping through her veins, her photographer’s eye caught his body’s graceful symmetry as he strode from one man to another—then stopped in their midst.
That’s it! Make that deal…and let me get a shot of your face. Turn, dammit.
She needed proof. Even though her hands trembled and her heart battered her ribs, she wasn’t going to leave without it.
A man pointed in her direction. She jerked back behind the pillar. Oh, God! She squeezed her eyes shut, praying he hadn’t seen her, praying she hadn’t made the biggest mistake of her life in coming here alone.
But she’d had no choice. She’d finally found him, a
nd it didn’t take a nuclear physicist to know Rhys Gannon could disappear in a photoflash. Time was of the essence.
Never mind that her decision catapulted her into a situation as far removed from her life as Harlem—and she couldn’t remember ever being so scared.
Her pulse racing, she waited a moment, then hauled in a deep breath and peered around the post. Seeing the bikers’ attention had turned to an attractive woman walking into the store next to where they were parked, she sighed in relief, raised the camera and focused on Gannon, again.
The man had his back to her, but he looked every bit as dangerous as Morgan had said. The ebony hair that curled over the collar of a black leather jacket, the boots and snug-fitting jeans—his appearance affirmed every evil image Whitney had conjured in the three long months it had taken to find him.
Three torturous months filled with despair over Morgan’s death. Despair and the uncertainty of ever finding her sister’s child.
She continued to track the man, following his lithe arrogant strides. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with cocksure confidence, the kind found in men who knew full well how to defend themselves.
He sauntered from one biker to another, exchanging fist bumps or high fives with each. One man noisily revved his motor. Then came another blast, and another. Raucous shouts rode the crisp October air, and amid a spate of whoops and hollers, the steel cavalcade spit gravel and peeled out in a cloud of dust and exhaust.
Fearing he was leaving, too, Whitney grabbed her bag, preparing to follow. But when the dust settled, she saw Gannon had stayed behind. He jammed a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small package.
A jolt of excitement zapped through her. Yes! She readied the camera, but before she got off a shot, he’d stuffed the bundle back in his pocket. He climbed the wooden steps and disappeared into the store.
Dammit. Whitney glanced at her watch, then at the sky. Five o’clock and it was already dusk. But he couldn’t stay in there all night. She gritted her teeth and crossed her arms, staring at the door of the motorcycle shop. She’d wait—no matter how long it took.
And if the bikers returned? She shuddered at the thought and rubbed her chilled hands together.
Whatever it takes, that’s what! If she’d learned nothing else in thirty years, she’d learned that much. Just do it had been her mantra long before Nike had appropriated the phrase.
Waiting, she cursed the man who’d brought her here. Rhys Gannon. His name was probably as phony as everything else about him. But whatever he called himself, he was the man who’d caused her sister’s death.
No, he hadn’t been tried in any court of law…and maybe he hadn’t actually lifted a hand to do the deed…but he was responsible. Rhys Gannon had dragged Morgan into a life of drugs and prostitution to support his own habit, and when she’d finally had enough and left, he’d kidnapped their baby to force Morgan to come back.
Tight-jawed and trembling, Whitney clenched her hands. He was to blame, all right, every bit as much as if he’d crammed the pills down Morgan’s throat.
And he was going to pay for that.
Whitney swallowed hard against a surge of grief and blinked back sudden tears. Her sorrow fused with a bone-deep ache of guilt. She hadn’t been there when her little sister needed her, and nothing she did now could change it.
She sucked in a lungful of air, quelling a flood of regret. It was too late to help Morgan—but not too late to carry out her last request.
She would find SaraJane, the three-year-old niece she’d never seen. She’d find her and gain custody, just as she’d promised Morgan. She would not let her sister down again.
Whitney sat on the dusty wooden bandstand steps to switch lenses, glad for the expertise of her profession—though she could hardly compare snapping pictures of a junkie with photographing the rich and famous.
In the midst of swapping lenses, she caught a flurry of movement in her peripheral vision and looked up. Gannon stood on the empty wooden boardwalk, legs apart, boots firmly planted, thumbs hooked in his front pockets. Like a sentinel, he surveyed the street from one end to the other.
Then he stared directly at her.
Her breath caught. She shrank back, wincing in pain when her spine hit a sharp edge on the pillar. Had he seen her? Or was he simply looking in her direction?
She should run. She wanted to run. But if she did, he’d see her for sure.
She fumbled with the lens release, cursing her cold stiff fingers as she clicked the new one in place. An engine blast split the air. She jumped, startled nearly out of her skin.
The noise resounded off the mountains like explosions in a war zone. Panicked, Whitney darted another look in Gannon’s direction…and saw the black-and-chrome machine moving toward her. Her body went taut. Blood raced through her veins. Oh, God! Oh, dear God.
Her hands shook as she shoved the camera inside her jacket, caught in the act when the massive motorcycle and its helmeted rider rumbled up beside her. Suppressing a tiny cry, she bolted to her feet. The camera case tumbled to the grass and landed right beside the man’s boot.
“Need help?” he asked over the idling growl of the engine. After a moment he leaned down, picked up the case by the strap and held it out to her.
Her insides whirled like a milkshake in a blender, but she had to suck it up, couldn’t let him see her fear. She remembered the Mace in her bag. Unreachable now. But why be so nervous when even if he guessed why she was there, what could he possibly do here in the middle of town?
She glanced down the morgue-quiet street. A fresh shiver of fear crawled up her spine. She tightened her grip on the camera and steeled her resolve by focusing solely on what she needed to do.
Find SaraJane.
No help.
She’d never felt so totally out of her element. Pulling on her old college drama training, she flashed the most brilliant smile she could muster and reached for the bag.
“I…don’t…know.” She drew out the words, stalling for time to think. She brushed back a long strand of hair that the wind had flicked across her face and tucked it into the barrette at the nape of her neck. She nodded indicating his machine.
“Your motorcycle. It looks, uh, unusual.”
The sleek helmet masked most of Gannon’s face, preventing her from seeing his expression. But then he flipped the visor and through the rectangular eye slot she saw crinkles near the corners of his eyes. She hoped that meant he was smiling.
“You interested in bikes?” His voice, a husky baritone, held a hint of amusement. Or was it sarcasm?
Whatever the case, it was obvious her plan—to get secret photos of him doing a drug deal and then offer him money to give up his parental rights to SaraJane—might be shot all to hell and back.
“Or maybe you see something else that interests you?”
Her nerves bunched. Exactly the kind of response she’d expect from a man like him. Still, the question rankled. And for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with an answer—at least none that didn’t include dirtbag sleaze or lowlife scum.
His dark gaze slid to the base of her throat, then drifted upward to her mouth. Her pulse thundered in her ears, whether from fear or anger, she couldn’t tell. After what seemed an eternity, his lids slowly raised until his eyes locked with hers.
Cobalt blue and ocean-deep. And she just stood there like a speechless idiot.
Oh, for crying out loud, Whitney. Say something! Do something! In one swift movement, she stuffed her camera into the bag and zipped it shut.
“Well, yes. I am interested in motorcycles. Sort of,” she lied, making up her story as she went along. “I’m on an assignment.” She studied his vehicle. “An assignment to photograph motorcycles.”
Despite the chill in the air, a rush of heat prickled her skin. She waved a hand at his bike. “Photographs. For a coffee table book.”
Silence.
Heat grew in her chest, then worked its way up her neck to her cheeks, and
when she saw the cold scrutiny in Gannon’s eyes, a moment of panic coursed through her. Did he know she was lying?
She brushed away the thought. Morgan’s little girl was all that mattered.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat and plunged ahead. “It’s a book on motorcycles, and unfortunately, since I’m just starting my research, I don’t know much about them.” She shrugged and stuck out her hand, debating for only a millisecond whether to use her real name or not. “My name is Whitney…Sheffield.”
She doubted he’d recognize it since she and Morgan had different surnames, not to mention Morgan had disowned the family when she ran away at sixteen and had used many different names over the years; it was the reason Whitney hadn’t been able to find her sister, though she’d tried often enough. Besides, using a fake name, she could easily forget and screw up everything.
Moments passed and he hadn’t said a word. Sweat broke out under her arms.
Finger by finger, Gannon removed one black leather glove while his slow gaze traveled over her. She struggled to maintain her cool, but her vulnerability intensified.
Morgan had described Rhys Gannon’s arrogant in-your-face attitude to a T, but even so, the vivid description failed to prepare Whitney for such a coarse appraisal.
He reached out, enveloping her hand in his. His skin was hot, his touch firm. Disturbed by the contact, she ducked her head and looked down. Her gaze landed on faded denim stretched tightly over well-muscled thighs straddling the idling bike.
She could almost feel the raw animal power humming through him—a high-octane sexual aggressiveness of which she was suddenly all too aware.
Mortified that she’d even noticed, she chastised herself. She couldn’t forget— not for a second—that this was a man without conscience.
But then, she’d have to be blind not to see him as he was. A good photographer was innately aware of her surroundings…and all the physical nuances that said more than words ever could.
She inhaled a deep breath of crisp pine-scented air, eased her hand from his grip and forced her gaze to meet his. His eyes evaluated and challenged—then, in the next instant, went all hot and vibrant.
