Czytaj książkę: «Internal Affairs»
“They had a proposition for me,” Rafe said. “One they tried to make very difficult to refuse.”
She frowned. “What kind of proposition?”
“They wanted me to use our past to try to get on your good side and convince you to cooperate.”
Her eyes hardened. “And did you agree to this?”
“No,” Rafe said forcefully. “Of course not. I would never do anything to put you or Chloe in danger.”
They let that hang in the air for a moment, then she laced her fingers through his and squeezed. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, Rafe. How many times I’ve cursed myself for letting you go.”
“You don’t think I feel the same?”
Her eyes looked hopeful. “Do you?”
About the Author
ALANA MATTHEWS can’t remember a time when she didn’t want to be a writer. As a child, she was a permanent fixture in her local library, and she soon turned her passion for books into writing short stories, and finally novels. A longtime fan of romantic suspense, Alana felt she had no choice but to try her hand at the genre, and she is thrilled to be writing for Mills & Boon® Intrigue. Alana makes her home in a small town near the coast of Southern California, where she spends her time writing, composing music and watching her favorite movies.
Send a message to Alana at her website, www.alanamatthews.com.
Internal
Affairs
Alana Matthews
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
Chapter One
She opened her eyes with a start, not sure what had awakened her.
She was alone in the room, which was quiet except for the sound of an autumn breeze outside her window and the faint metallic squeak of the bed springs.
Had it been Chloe?
Squinting at the clock—which read 4:32 a.m.—she stilled herself and listened carefully, using the supersonic hearing only a mother possesses, tuning it in to Chloe’s frequency.
But she heard nothing.
No whimpering. No cries in the night.
Even as a baby, Chloe had been a sound sleeper. And now that she was just past her third year, she was nearly impossible to get out of bed in the morning. The girl liked her rest and, unlike her mother, could snooze through a thunderstorm.
But what Lisa Tobin had heard was not thunder.
The noise, if she hadn’t dreamed it—and she didn’t think she had—was high-pitched and abrasive. Like glass shattering.
A window?
Was there an intruder in the house?
Icy dread sluiced through her bloodstream as the thought took hold. She listened awhile longer, hoping it was just her overactive imagination, and the moment she convinced herself it was, she heard another sound—a faint, muffled crash—coming from downstairs.
Definitely not her imagination.
There was someone down there.
Could it be Beatrice? Had she awakened in the middle of the night and decided to get an early start on her housekeeping?
Not likely. Bea was efficient, but she wasn’t overly ambitious and was as sound a sleeper as Chloe. And even if she were tidying up, she had never been the clumsy type. The woman was as stealthy as an alley cat.
So intruder it was. Probably that punk kid from next door trying to prove himself to his punk buddies.
There had been a rash of break-ins up and down the street in the past few weeks and everyone pretty much suspected the kid. He was the product of a broken home—something Lisa was all too familiar with—and had been acting out ever since he’d reached puberty. In the year and a half she had lived in this house, the boy had been arrested three times. Twice for drugs, and once for burglary. And he was undoubtedly working his way toward arrest number four.
So what should she do?
Sit here and let him clean the place out?
Lisa’s first instinct was to call the police, but as she reached to the nightstand for her cell phone, she remembered that she had left it in her purse, which was sitting on the table in the foyer downstairs. She had never had a landline installed, and now cursed herself for it.
So she had two choices. Stay put and hope the punk didn’t work his way up the stairs …
Or confront him.
Neither choice thrilled Lisa, but she was not the shrinking-violet type and she wasn’t about to sit here, waiting to be victimized.
So option number two it was.
Throwing her blankets aside, she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, then got to her feet and pulled her robe on. She would need protection, of course. You don’t go into a situation like this without it.
But what kind of protection?
A gun?
Lisa didn’t like guns. Hated them, in fact. Had only held one in her hands twice in her lifetime and had felt extremely uncomfortable each time. But before he moved out, her ex-husband, Oliver, had insisted on putting a pistol in a lockbox on the hall closet shelf, telling her not to hesitate to use it if necessary.
It was a typical Oliver move. He was no stranger to violence—something she had learned only in the last days of their marriage, and part of the reason she had filed for a divorce. His stubborn refusal to consider her feelings—the pistol, for example—was the other part. She had thought she was marrying a prince charming but quickly discovered that there was something deadly beneath that charm. Something dangerous and controlling.
And intimidating.
A Dr. Jekyll who had quickly morphed into Mr. Hyde.
But Lisa had never been turned on by bad boys. She had too much self-respect for that. And where she had once felt warmth, she now felt trepidation whenever she encountered him. An uneasiness that wormed its way into her gut every time she saw him.
As much as she hated to admit it, however, Oliver had been right about the gun. And despite the punk’s young age, confronting him without a weapon would be foolhardy.
She didn’t have to use it, of course. Merely wave it at him to scare him away. Get to her cell phone and call the cops.
So that was the plan.
One she desperately hoped wouldn’t go awry.
Sucking in a deep breath, she moved to her bedroom door and opened it a crack, peering out into the dark stillness of the second-floor hallway.
Empty.
Steeling herself, she stepped into that stillness and quickly made her way to Chloe’s bedroom. She wasn’t about to confront anyone without first checking to see that her little girl was safe.
She carefully turned the knob and pushed the door open. To her relief, Chloe was wrapped in her blankets, her tiny figure illuminated by the moonlight from the window, her shallow chest rising and falling.
Despite her trepidation, Lisa felt a sudden warmth spread inside her. The sight of Chloe sleeping always had that effect on her. It had been a lousy couple of years, yet Chloe had been the one constant, the one shining star, in Lisa’s universe.
Reassured that her daughter was safe, she clicked the lock button, then pulled the door shut. She didn’t like the idea of locking Chloe in, but didn’t want to take any chances, either.
Turning now, she headed back down the hallway toward the stairs, stopping at the narrow closet on the left side of the landing.
Checking the darkness at the bottom of the stairs, she quietly opened the closet door, reached to the overhead shelf and found the wooden box where Oliver had left it, almost a year ago. It was secured by a small lock with a combination that was easy enough to remember: Chloe’s birth date.
Dialing it in, Lisa unfastened the lock, opened the box, then carefully removed the loaded pistol. She didn’t feel comfortable hefting it, but what choice did she have?
“Just point it and shoot,” Oliver had told her during one of his more generous moments. “That’s all you have to remember.”
Easier said than done, she thought.
Returning the box to the shelf, she closed the closet door and turned again toward the mouth of the stairs, listening for more sounds from below.
It was eerily silent now.
No rummaging noises, no whispering voices—assuming there was more than one intruder—no footsteps.
Nothing.
Lisa had all but come to the conclusion that the burglar had left when she heard it: the faint, almost imperceptible clink of a glass and the sound of pouring liquid.
Someone was still down there all right—but whoever it was wasn’t ransacking her house. He was helping himself to a drink from the wet bar.
What the heck?
Lowering the pistol to her side, Lisa started down the stairs, her heart thumping with every step. She was barefoot, but like the stairways in many old St. Louis homes, this one was made of wood and was full of creaks and groans, the carpet covering it doing little to muffle the sound of her descent. She may as well have announced her entrance with the trill of trumpets.
As she reached the living room, clutching the gun tightly at her side, a lamp next to the sofa came to life, startling her. She was about to swing the gun upward when she stopped herself, realizing who it was.
Oliver. Drunk or stoned, as usual, sitting on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, a glass of vodka in hand.
“You’ve gotta work on your stealth skills, babe. I could hear you at the top of the stairs.”
As her heartbeat slowed, anger rose in Lisa’s chest, crowding out the fear she was already feeling. “I almost shot you, Oliver. What the heck are you doing here?”
She glanced around the room and saw what had made the noise that got her out of bed: a picture frame lay on the polished wooden floorboards, its glass shattered. The photo inside was one she had always loved—she and Chloe in front of the lake house, Chloe squirming happily in her arms. It had been taken at a better time in her marriage, nearly two years ago, before Oliver had released Mr. Hyde from his cage.
She had no idea if he had purposely knocked it from the end table or had merely stumbled into it. Whatever the cause, she’d now have to clean up the mess and replace the frame. Another black mark in a string of them as far as Oliver was concerned.
He didn’t answer her question immediately. Instead, he took a sip of his vodka and gave her a long, slow smile.
“What’s the matter, Leese, you don’t like me darkening your doorstep? This is, after all, my house.”
“Tell that to my attorney.”
“Ah,” he said, “your attorney. I’ll bet you’d love to have a reason to give him a call. Real movie-star material, that guy.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. The two of you probably had this planned from the very beginning.”
“Had what planned? What are you talking about?”
Oliver smirked, but there was a coldness in his eyes that frightened her. How could she not have known that he was a sociopath when she met him? How could she have let him seduce her into believing he was her man on a white horse?
“I’ve been thinking about this ever since you tricked me into the divorce,” he said.
“Tricked you?”
“What else would you call it?”
“Surviving,” she said, then sighed. “It’s been nearly a year, Oliver. Time to move on.”
“You and your pretty-boy lawyer planned this, didn’t you? You knew I was a rich, successful businessman and you targeted me, roped me in, used that cute little rear of yours to break me down, take advantage of me. Started snooping around behind my back, sticking your nose in things you had no right getting into.”
She thought about Harvey, her handsome but overly earnest attorney who was nearly twice her age, married and had three kids. Their relationship had always been strictly professional.
“You’re insane.”
“Am I? You got your hooks in me good, babe. I take one look at you in that robe, I get as a randy as a teenager.”
Lisa felt her dinner backing up on her. The thought that she’d ever had the desire to take this man to bed gave her an urgent need for a box of gingersnaps. Or a chug of Pepto Bismol.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she told him.
“I was trying to flatter you.”
She stared at him. “Get out of here, Oliver. You don’t live here anymore, and you know what’s at stake. So go home.”
“And what if I don’t?” He shifted his gaze to the gun at her side. “You gonna put a hole in me?”
She frowned at him, then moved to the long table against the wall and set down the gun down, glad to be rid of it.
As she stepped away, she said, “You can take it with you, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t ever want you thinking I owe you any favors.”
The coldness filled his entire face now as he swung his feet off the table and stood up. “Let’s talk about favors, why don’t we?”
He moved toward her, and Lisa found herself backing away slightly, wondering now if she should have been so quick to put down the gun. Oliver carried with him such a sense of menace that she was unsure of what he might do.
Despite his history of violence, however, he had never threatened either her or Chloe and she hoped that would continue to hold true.
“You weren’t so anxious to refuse my favors when I got you out of that dump of an apartment you lived in. I didn’t see you protesting when I put you in a brand-new Volvo. Made sure you and Chloe had all those pretty little clothes to wear.”
“I’ve never said I’m not grateful, Oliver, but none of that means you own me. And right now you’re trespassing.”
He moved in close, trapping her against the wall. “Trespassing? I haven’t been around here in months and this is how you treat me?”
Lisa’s heart started thumping again. “Get out of here, now, or I swear I’ll—”
It came suddenly and without warning. Oliver’s hand shot toward her, grabbing her by the throat, slamming her roughly against the wall.
Lisa struggled, feeling her air cut off. She tried to speak but couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said. “What was that? Were you about to threaten me again? Tell me I don’t have the right to come into a house I bought and paid for? You think some computer file you’ve got stashed, or some piece of paper your lawyer drafted up is gonna change that?”
Panic rose in Lisa’s chest. She could barely breathe.
Upstairs, Chloe started to cry, the sound muffled by her door. But Lisa doubted it was their voices that had awakened her. Her usual sound sleep had instead been disturbed by that sense of menace that Oliver carried with him wherever he went. A malignant contagion stirring the air around them.
As Lisa struggled to breathe, he loosened his grip on her throat and she stumbled sideways. But before she could move away from him, he grabbed hold of her arm and shoved her back against the wall.
She was too stunned to move. This was the first time he had ever laid a hand on her.
“Don’t you talk to me like that again, you little gold digger.” He held her in place and slipped his free hand inside her robe, grabbing her right breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple. “You may have snagged the gold, but the way I see it, you’ve got a long way to go before you earn—”
A ratcheting sound cut him off. They turned and saw Beatrice standing at the foot of the stairs, a shotgun in her hands, leveled at Oliver.
“You’d best get your paws off her real quick, son. I wouldn’t want to muss up the lady’s new robe.”
Tears of relief filled Lisa’s eyes. She hadn’t even known Bea owned a shotgun—wouldn’t have approved if she did, not with Chloe in the house—but the old woman looked as if she knew how to use it and Lisa welcomed the sight.
“If you think I’m kidding,” Bea continued, “just try me.”
Oliver released Lisa, but his body went rigid, the coldness in his eyes turning into a hard, angry stare. “You don’t have the guts, you old bat.”
“Don’t I?” She moved forward. “My daddy taught me how to use this scattergun when I was twelve years old. I’ve never shot at nothin’ but tin cans, but I’m all too happy to find out what a round of buck can do to a grown man’s face. I don’t imagine it’ll be pretty.”
“I didn’t come here alone,” Oliver told her. “I’ve got men outside and all I have to do is sound the alarm.”
Bea smiled. “You go right ahead and do that, son, see what it gets you.”
He studied her a moment longer, then did as she asked and backed away, throwing his hands up as he moved. “Never argue with a shotgun.”
“Damn right.”
Lisa took a deep breath and said, “Get out of here, Oliver, and don’t come back.”
He snapped his gaze toward her. “Or what?”
“Or I go to the police.”
“Why? Because I copped a feel?” He grinned. “Judging by the way your body reacted, I’d say you were enjoying it.”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Lisa said.
His face got hard and Bea gestured with the shotgun. “Son, I’m about two tics away from squeezing this trigger—and it isn’t much of a target, but I’ll be aiming at your talliwacker.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna regret this,” he said, then looked at Lisa. “Both of you.”
He walked to the front door and yanked it open, then turned in the doorway and smiled at them again, using his thumb and forefinger to form a gun.
“You’re about to find out what happens to women who dump on Oliver Sloan …”
He pretended to pull the trigger, then turned again and went outside.
Chapter Two
The call came in two hours earlier. Gunshots heard by an insomniac, coming from the auto repair shop next to his apartment building.
“Unit Fourteen, we’ve got a possible 142 in progress, can you respond?”
“Roger, dispatch. I’m on it.”
Sheriff’s deputy Rafael Franco was in the middle of his usual graveyard shift, happy to have the distraction after a night of shoveling up street drunks and carting them to the holding tank. It was a part of the job he had never enjoyed, mostly because his skill and brains were being underutilized by the department.
His college diploma still had a bit of wet ink on it, but he was frustrated that he hadn’t yet been promoted.
Rafe had been with the Sheriff’s department for nearly three years now, the newest and greenest member of the Franco family to wear a badge. The Francos and law enforcement went all the way back to his great-great-grandfather Tomas, an Italian immigrant who had joined the St. Louis police force when it was little more than a ragtag group of men with guns and good intentions.
Rafe knew he had a lot to live up to, but he felt restless working the streets, and figured he had already paid his dues. He was tired of patrol duty. What he really wanted was to join his sister, Kate, on the homicide squad, where brains and reasoning and solid evidence-gathering far outweighed your ability to heft a drunk into the backseat of your cruiser.
Unfortunately, Rafe didn’t get the impression he’d be bumped up anytime soon. But a report of gunshots gave him hope. Not that he wished any other human being ill, but if he happened to luck into something big, maybe he’d get a chance to demonstrate his investigative skills.
He also didn’t mind the distraction from his thoughts tonight. As always, he had taken a long nap before reporting to duty, and a dream he’d had was haunting him—a vague, half-remembered remnant from his college years, featuring a girl he had once loved. He had awakened from it feeling disoriented and a little sad, filled with a vague, undefinable yearning that he couldn’t quite shake.
Rafe hadn’t seen the girl in over three years now, but she still showed up on the doorstep of his mind every now and then and he’d often thought of trying to contact her. Their breakup had been mutual—both convinced that they were too young to be getting serious—but Rafe often regretted the decision and wondered if she did, too.
He hadn’t met a woman since who had made him feel the way she had. And that dream, as hazy as it was, hadn’t done him any favors.
THE AUTO BODY SHOP was located on a deserted city street, nestled between a run-down apartment building and an abandoned drive-in liquor store.
The place was dark when Rafe pulled up to the curb. A sea of cars in various states of disrepair crowded the lot out front, making the place look more like a junkyard than a body shop. The garage—a large rectangular structure—was located in back and, by Rafe’s count, sported nine repair bays, each with its aluminum roll door closed and locked for the night.
Off to the right of the building was a connecting office with its front door hanging open, nothing but darkness beyond.
Something obviously wasn’t right here.
To Rafe’s mind, this was an indication that the caller might not have been hearing things. Too often reports of gunshots are nothing more than a car backfiring or kids playing with firecrackers, but that open door suggested something far more sinister.
Rafe called it in, told the dispatcher he was on the scene. That he’d stay in radio contact as he checked it out.
Grabbing his flashlight from the glove compartment, he killed his engine and climbed out of the cruiser. He moved off to his left, not wanting to approach the open door directly, in case the shooter—assuming there was one—was still inside.
Stepping into the sea of cars, he stayed low and carefully made his way around and through them, drawing closer to the office, making sure to come at the doorway from an angle.
He was about ten yards away when he stopped, crouched behind an old Chevy Malibu missing its grill, and peered into the darkness beyond the threshold, looking for signs of life inside.
Nothing but still air in there.
Nobody home.
Satisfied that he was alone out here, Rafe stood up, clicked the radio on his shoulder.
“Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen. Looks like it’s clear out here, but I’m headed inside for a closer look.”
“Do you need backup?”
“I think I’m good for now,” Rafe said. “I’ll stay in radio contact.”
“Roger, Fourteen.”
Switching the flashlight on, Rafe pointed it toward the building, then dropped a hand to the holster on his hip and unsnapped it, resting his palm against the grip of his Glock.
Using the beam to guide him, he approached the doorway and stepped through it, finding nothing but your typical cluttered office—a desk piled with paperwork, an adding machine, a few metal chairs, a bookshelf full of repair manuals, an old computer. There was a faded calendar on the wall featuring the Motor Babe of the Month wearing a barely there bikini and holding a wrench provocatively as she posed in front of a souped-up Ford Mustang.
Off to the left was another doorway that opened into a garage bathed in moonlight, which filtered in from a bank of high windows. It was about half the size of a football field, and there were cars parked in each of the nine bays, all but one in various states of disassembly.
Rafe smelled the odor of a cooling engine and ran the flashlight beam over the car closest to him—a shiny Jaguar XJ that looked as if it was in fine condition, no body work needed. There was a thin layer of road dust covering it and it didn’t seem to have been repaired at any time in the recent past.
So why was it parked in here?
Was it the owner’s car?
And, if so, where was he?
Before Rafe could ponder these questions, the beam of his flashlight caught something dark and glistening on the cement directly beneath the Jaguar’s front passenger side—
A small pool of red liquid that looked very much like blood.
It was coming from the crack beneath the door.
Rafe’s body tensed. Drawing his Glock from its holster, he shone his light through the car window and saw two figures slumped inside, both male, both very dead. Eyes wide. Mouths agape. Judging by their appearance—unshaven, rumpled clothes, with matching bullet holes adorning the middle of their foreheads—they weren’t Sunday school teachers.
And this was definitely the work of a professional.
Rafe was about to call it in when he heard a sound coming from across the garage—the faint clang and scrape of metal against concrete, as if someone had accidentally kicked a stray hubcap.
He wasn’t alone in here.
Jerking his flashlight beam toward the source of the sound, he illuminated the far end of the garage.
“Sheriff’s department,” he called out. “Show yourself and take it slow, hands in the air.”
He caught a glimpse of movement and reacted instinctively, diving sideways, just as a muzzle flashed and the bark of gunfire filled his ears. One of the Jaguar’s side mirrors exploded above his head and he dove for cover behind a tall, rolling tool cabinet.
Dropping the flashlight, he reached for the radio on his shoulder and clicked it on.
“Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen. I’m under fire. Repeat, I’m under fire.”
“Roger, Fourteen, we’re sending backup.”
More gunshots punched holes in the Jaguar and the tool cabinet, landing way too close for comfort. Rafe quickly snatched up the flashlight and closed it, tucking it into its loop on his belt.
No point in giving this guy a target.
He returned fire—once, twice—then retreated into the darkness behind him and waited.
The gunfire stopped, followed by the longest stretch of silence that Rafe had ever experienced. His heart pounded wildly as he waited for the perp to make a move. He figured the guy would either start shooting again—assuming he had the rounds—or make like a jackrabbit.
Rafe didn’t have to wait long for the perp to decide. A dark figure popped up from behind the equally dark silhouette of a car and took off, heading for a door on the left side of the garage.
Rafe shot to his feet and shouted, “Hold it!” as he took off after the guy, leaping over stray tools and car parts that lay on the garage floor.
A moment later he was at the door and about to crash through it, when he stopped himself, thinking that might not be a wise move.
What if the perp was out there waiting for him?
Instead, he stepped to the right side of the doorway and crouched down to avoid being in the line of fire. Then he reached a hand out, turned the knob, and flung the door open.
As it swung wide, he half expected another flurry of gunshots—
But nothing happened. All he heard was the distant drone of street traffic.
Getting back to his feet, he carefully peeked around the door frame and saw the perp several yards away, working his way through the maze of cars in the front of the lot.
“Police!” Rafe shouted as he took off after him. “Stop right now!”
The guy didn’t slow down. He was nearly to the sidewalk now, only feet from where Rafe had left his cruiser. As the perp barreled past the last of the cars, he brought his gun up and shot at the black-and-white, shattering the windshield and puncturing one of the tires.
Rafe swore under his breath and kept running, moving into and through the maze—
Now the guy was on the street and jumping into a gray BMW. The engine roared to life as Rafe vaulted the hood of a junked Mazda and scrambled after him.
Just as he reached the street, the BMW’s rear tires began to spin and smoke, the car laying rubber as it tore away from the curb.
Rafe tried to read the license plate, but the streetlight was too dim and the plate was obscured by darkness. He whirled around, hoping his cruiser was still good to go, and found that the shooter had hit his mark. The right front tire was shredded and leaking air. Fast. No way he’d get very far.
Swearing under his breath again, he watched the BMW disappear down the street, then reached for his radio.
“The suspect has escaped,” he said. “He’s headed north on Davis Avenue in a gray BMW, license plate unknown. My vehicle has been compromised.”
“Roger, Fourteen. Patrol’s been alerted and backup is on its way.”
AS HE WAITED for his fellow deputies to arrive, Rafe went back into the garage. He found the switch for the overhead lights and took a closer look at the bodies inside the Jaguar.
Two males, approximately thirty years old, one with a tattoo of a spider on his neck. They both looked Slavic to Rafe, maybe Russian, which immediately brought to mind the Russian mob.
Were these guys connected?
Was it a contract killing?
Judging by the placement of the wounds, Rafe had no doubt it was a professional hit, but he’d failed to get a look at the shooter and had no idea if he’d been chasing another Russian or someone else entirely.
Knowing full well that he was breaking protocol, Rafe untucked and used his shirttail for protection as he reached for the passenger door handle. He’d have a heck of a time explaining any stray prints. Swinging the door open, he leaned inside and carefully checked the pockets of the victim closest to him.
Nothing. No wallet. Keys. Coins. Cigarettes. Not even a stick of gum. Rafe closed the door, then moved around to the driver’s side and did the same thing with the other victim, getting the same results. The shooter had obviously cleaned house after he’d made the hit.
Rafe was about to close the car door when he spotted something on the floor mat near the driver’s left foot.
A small, narrow slip of paper.
He reached down, snatched it up and tilted it toward the light, noting that it was a receipt for a fill-up at a Western Star service station just across town.
The time stamp read 2:45 a.m.
Rafe knew this could very well be the key to identifying the victims—and, by extension, the shooter. He also knew he should return it to the floor mat where he’d found it. But as the sound of approaching sirens filled his ears, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket and closed the car door.
Darmowy fragment się skończył.
