Книга - Sin And Bone

Sin And Bone
Debra Webb


A deep dark secret and red-hot desireWhen Devon Pierce is framed for murdering his wife, Isabella Lytle knows she needs to do everything she can to clear his name. Bella must coax out Devon’s deepest secret – while resisting the undeniable allure she feels for him…







“Dr. Pierce, report to Emergency, stat!

Your wife is gravely injured.”

Except Devon Pierce’s wife has been dead for six years. Someone is trying to frame him for murder! The Colby Agency assigns Isabella Lytle to investigate. Her instincts tell her Devon is no murderer, but he is hiding something. It could be the key to his innocence. Now Bella must coax out Devon’s deepest secret—while resisting the undeniable allure she feels for him.

Colby Agency: Sexi-ER


DEBRA WEBB is the award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of more than one hundred novels, including those in reader-favorite series Faces of Evil, the Colby Agency and the Shades of Death. With more than four million books sold in numerous languages and countries, Debra’s love of storytelling goes back to childhood on a farm in Alabama. Visit Debra at www.debrawebb.com (http://www.debrawebb.com).


Also by Debra Webb (#uc3709756-4edf-5eb8-9762-0986f6436c88)

Finding the Edge

Sin and Bone

Dark Whispers

Still Waters

Bridal Armor

Ready, Aim…I Do!

Colby Law

High Noon

Colby Roundup

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Sin and Bone

Debra Webb






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07896-2

SIN AND BONE

© 2018 Debra Webb

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to Chicago, one of my favorite cities and the home of the Colby Agency!


Contents

Cover (#u7ec4f3b8-8a65-5c84-989c-0eb8d03840c5)

Back Cover Text (#u2dfedda3-12b6-54c0-bb10-bda3b72bf7ee)

About the Author (#u89c90d22-a05f-510f-be35-b793e8e420c1)

Booklist (#u5189fb3d-cda9-5348-8ff1-a50928898cdc)

Title Page (#u087c4b1f-6da9-5640-9626-08b0eaf6e4b6)

Copyright (#u9f8f7b8b-83da-5e35-8850-c4c2ba3117ab)

Dedication (#ucddb39e9-c6c1-5516-858c-8e0cc3cb863b)

Chapter One (#u092f15a2-7805-521c-b22c-c28797456f04)

Chapter Two (#ubac42704-0afc-5bb8-a1c5-7a8817339cd7)

Chapter Three (#ub4de3045-dd96-5780-8e6a-5279139f7f10)

Chapter Four (#ue35823ab-62b6-5249-aca6-23f18f0df67c)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#uc3709756-4edf-5eb8-9762-0986f6436c88)

The Edge Emergency Department, Chicago Monday, June 4, 5:30 p.m.

Dr. Devon Pierce listened as administrators from more than a dozen hospitals in metropolitan areas across the nation bemoaned the increasing difficulty of maintaining emergency departments. Once the opening discussion concluded, Devon was the featured speaker.

He rarely agreed to speak to committees and groups, even in a teleconference, which was the case today. His participation required only that he sit in his office and speak to the monitor on his desk. He much preferred to remain focused on his work at the Edge. There were times, however, when his participation in the world of research and development was required in order to push his lagging colleagues toward the most advanced medical technologies. Emergency treatment centers like the Edge were the future of emergency medicine. There was no better state-of-the-art facility.

Devon had set his career as a practicing physician aside and spent six years developing the concept for the center’s prototype before opening it in his hometown of Chicago. The success of the past year provided significant evidence that his beliefs about the future of emergency rooms were correct. This would be his legacy to the work he loved.

The subject of cost reared its inevitable and unpleasant head in the ongoing discussion as it always did. How could a person measure the worth of saving a human life? He said as much to those listening eagerly for a comment from him. All involved were aware, perhaps to varying degrees, just how much his dedication to his work had cost him. He’d long ago stopped keeping account. His work required what it required. There were no other factors or concerns to weigh.

Half an hour later, Devon had scarcely uttered his closing remarks when the door to his office opened. Patricia Ezell, his secretary, silently moved to his desk. She passed him a note, probably not containing the sort of news he wanted if her worried expression was any indicator, and it generally was.

You’re needed in the OR stat.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to take any questions. Duty calls.” Devon severed his connection to the conference and stood. “What’s going on?” he asked as he closed a single button on his suit jacket.

Patricia shook her head. “Dr. Reagan rushed a patient into surgery in OR 1. He says he needs you there.”

Ice hardened in Devon’s veins. “Reagan is well aware that I don’t—”

“He has the surgery under control, Dr. Pierce. It’s...” Patricia took a deep breath. “The patient was unconscious when the paramedics brought her in. Her driver’s license identifies her as Cara Pierce.”

A spear of pain arrowed through Devon, making him hesitate. He closed his laptop. “Few of us have a name so unique that it’s not shared with others.” There were likely numerous Cara Pierces in the country. Chicago was a large city. Of course there would be other people with the same name as his late wife. This should be no surprise to the highly trained and, frankly, brilliant members of his staff.

“One of the registration specialists browsed the contacts list in her cell phone and called the number listed as Husband.”

Devon hesitated once more, this time at the door. His secretary’s reluctance to provide whatever other details she had at her disposal was growing increasingly tedious. “Is her husband en route?”

Patricia cleared her throat. “Based on the number in her contacts list, her husband is already here. The number is yours.” She held out his cell phone. “I took the call.”

Devon stared at the thin, sleek device in her hand. He’d left his cell with Patricia for the duration of the teleconference. He hated the distracting vibration of an incoming call when he was trying to run a teleconference. Normally he would have turned it off and that would have been it, but he was expecting an important work call—one that he would pause his teleconference to take if necessary. So he’d assigned Patricia cell phone duty with instructions to interrupt him only if that call came in, or if there was a life-and-death situation.

He reached for it now.

“Thank you, Patricia. Ask the paramedic who brought her in to drop by my office when he has a break.”

The walk from his office in the admin wing to the surgery unit took all of two minutes. One of the finely tuned features of the Edge design was ensuring that each wing of the emergency department was never more than two to three minutes away from anything else. A great deal of planning had gone into the round design of the building with the care initiation front and center and the less urgent care units spanning into different wings around the circle. Straight through the very center, the rear portion of the design contained the more urgent services, imaging and surgery. Every square foot of the facility was designed for optimum efficiency. Each member of staff was carefully chosen and represented the very best in their field.

As he neared the surgery suite, he considered what his secretary had told him about the patient. The mere idea was absurd. There’d been a mistake. A mix-up of some sort.

Cara.

His wife was dead. He’d buried her six years and five months ago.

Devon moved into the observation area where all three operating rooms could be viewed. He touched the keypad and the black tint of the glass that made up the top half of the wall all the way around the observation area cleared, allowing him to see inside and those in the OR to see him. Two of the rooms were empty. One held Cara Pierce.

The patient’s hair was covered with the usual generic cap, preventing him from distinguishing the color. Most of her face was obscured by the oxygen mask. He turned on the audio in OR 1.

“Evening, Dr. Pierce,” Reagan said without glancing up, his hands moving in swift, perfectly orchestrated movements that were all too familiar to Devon.

“Dr. Reagan.” Devon’s fingers twitched as he watched the finely choreographed dance around the patient. His life had revolved around saving lives for so long that his entire body was finely tuned into that instinctive rhythm.

“Splenic rupture. Concussion but no bleeding that we’ve found.” Reagan remained focused on the video screen as he manipulated the laparoscopic instruments to resect and suture the damaged organ. “She’ll be a little bruised and unhappy about the small surgical scars we’ll leave behind but, otherwise, she should be as good as new before you know it.”

Five or ten seconds elapsed before Devon could respond or move to go. “Watch for intracranial hemorrhaging.” He switched off the audio, darkened the glass once more and walked away.

A weight, one that he had not felt in years, settled on his chest. His wife had died of intracranial hemorrhaging. There had been no one to save her and his efforts had been too little too late. The old ache twisted inside him.

But this woman—who shared Cara’s name—was not his wife.

Devon drew in a deep breath and returned to his office. Patricia glanced up at him as he passed her desk but he said nothing. With his office door closed, he moved to the window overlooking the meticulously manicured grounds surrounding the facility. Trees and shrubs were precisely placed amid the expanse of asphalt, lending a welcoming, pleasing appearance. He’d insisted on extensive research for design purposes. What aspects would make the family members of patients feel more at home? What could be done to set a soothing tone for patients? A patient’s outlook and sense of well-being and safety were immensely important to healing.

Devon stared at nothing in particular for a long while. When his mind and pulse rate had calmed sufficiently, he settled behind his desk. A couple of clicks of the keyboard opened the patient portal. He pulled up the chart for the Caucasian female he’d observed in surgery. He surveyed the injuries listed as well as the paramedic’s comments. The kinds of injuries she had suffered were alarmingly similar to those his late wife had suffered in the car accident that had taken her life.

Pierce, Cara Reese, thirty-seven. Her address was listed as the Lake Bluff residence Devon had built for his late wife more than a decade ago...the house he had inhabited alone for the past six-plus years.

He scrolled down the file to a copy of her driver’s license.

His breath trapped in his lungs.

Blond hair, blue eyes. Height five-six, weight one-ten. Date of birth, November 10—all the statistics matched the ones that would have been found on Cara’s license. But it was the photo that proved the most shocking of all. Silky blond hair brushed her shoulders. Mischief sparkled in her eyes.

The woman in the photo was Cara. His Cara.

Devon was on his feet before his brain registered that he had pushed up from his chair. The DMV photo was the same one from the last time his wife renewed her license eight years ago. As if that September morning had happened only yesterday, he recalled vividly when she realized her driver’s license had expired. She’d been so busy planning another trip before the holidays were upon them she’d completely forgotten. He’d teased her relentlessly.

His chest screamed for oxygen, forcing him to draw in a tight breath. The name could certainly be chalked up to pure coincidence. Even the physical characteristics and the shared birthday. The photo...that was an entirely different story.

A rap on his door pulled him back to the present. Devon reluctantly shifted his attention there. Why wasn’t Patricia handling visitors? He needed time to untangle this startling mystery. At the sound of another knock, he called, “Come in.”

The door opened and a young man stuck his head inside. “You wanted to see me, Dr. Pierce?”

Devon didn’t recognize the face but the uniform was as familiar as his own reflection, maybe more so since he hadn’t scrutinized himself in a mirror in years. More than six, to be exact. The contrasting navy trousers and light blue shirt marked his visitor as a member of the Elite Ambulance service. The identifying badge above the breast pocket confirmed Devon’s assessment. The paramedic.

“You brought in the female patient from the automobile accident?”

He nodded. “My partner and I. Yes, sir. It appeared to be a one-car accident on the Kennedy Expressway near Division. It was the strangest thing.”

Devon gestured to the pair of chairs in front of his desk and the young man took a seat. The badge clipped onto his pocket sported the name Warren Eckert. “Strange in what way, Mr. Eckert?”

Devon lowered into his own chair as Eckert spoke. “Nobody witnessed the accident. There was a sizable dent on the front driver’s-side fender, but nothing to suggest an accident capable of causing the kind of injuries the patient sustained.”

“What kind of vehicle was she driving?”

“A brand-new Lexus. Black. Fully loaded.” Eckert whistled, long and low. “Sharp car for sure.”

Cara had driven a Lexus. Devon had bought it for her on her last birthday before she died.

“Do you recall seeing anything in the vehicle besides your patient? Luggage perhaps, or a briefcase?”

Eckert shook his head. “I don’t remember. Sorry.”

“What about the officers investigating the scene?” Obviously the police had been there, probably before Eckert arrived.

“Joe Telly was the only cop on the scene. He called us before he called backup.”

“The woman was not conscious when you arrived?”

“No, sir.”

“Was she able to speak to the officer before your arrival?” Devon’s instincts were humming. How had a woman involved in such a seemingly minor accident been injured so severely?

“She was unconscious when Telly pulled over to check on her.”

“How would you describe the woman?” Devon thought about the photo on the driver’s license. “I’m sure you concluded an approximate age and such.”

The other man nodded. “Blond hair, blue eyes. Medium height. Kind of thin. Midthirties, I’d say.”

“Well dressed?” Her clothes had been removed before surgery and very little of her body had been visible on the operating table.

Eckert nodded slowly. “She was wearing a dress. A short black one. Like she might have been headed to a party or dinner out or something. Not the kind of outfit you’d wear to work unless you’re a hostess in an upscale restaurant or something like that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eckert.” Devon stood. “I appreciate your time.”

“Do you know her?”

The rumor had already made the rounds. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

When the paramedic had exited the office, Devon pulled up the record on this Cara Pierce...this woman who could not be his wife.

Preliminary tox screen showed no drugs. And yet if there was no intracranial hemorrhaging, why had she still been unconscious when she arrived at the ER? Remaining unconscious for an extended period generally indicated a serious injury, illness or drug use.

Devon picked up his cell phone and made the call he should have made weeks ago. When she answered, he dived straight into what needed to be said without preamble. “Victoria, I was mistaken. I will require your services after all.”

His old friend Victoria Colby-Camp agreed to have her investigator meet him at his residence at eight tonight.

Devon ended the call and tossed his phone onto his desk. Last month, someone had left him an ominous message right here in his office. At first, he’d been determined to have the Colby Agency look into the issue. It wasn’t every day that someone who knew how to best his security system dropped by his office and left such a bold message.

I know what you did.

But then he’d decided to drop it. Why stir up his painful past? He knew what he had done. Why allow anyone else to delve into that unpleasant territory?

If the man who’d left him that message was trying to reach him again, he’d certainly prompted Devon’s attention this time.

What better way to send a message than to resurrect the dead?


Chapter Two (#uc3709756-4edf-5eb8-9762-0986f6436c88)

Arbor Drive, Lake Bluff, 8:00 p.m.

Isabella Lytle was surprised when the gate to the Pierce property opened without her having to buzz the enigmatic owner for admittance. Instead, the instant her car nosed up to the entrance, the towering iron gates parted and opened wide for her.

She rolled up the long drive, coming to a stop in front of the palatial home. Bella shook her head. She never liked to judge anyone, but Dr. Devon Pierce grated on her somehow. She’d never met the man in person but she had studied his background until she knew it by heart. Victoria had first assigned Bella his case one month ago, but then Dr. Pierce had decided he didn’t need the agency’s assistance after all.

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Even before this latest call for assistance, Bella had not been able to stop attempting to dissect the man. What made him who he was? What event or events in his childhood and then as an adult had narrowed his focus to a singular purpose—his work? What secrets did he keep? The man had secrets, Bella had no doubt.

The many photos she’d discovered of him on Google sucked her into his world. She knew the clothes he wore, the way he held himself. In recent years, he’d attended endless fund-raisers seeking support for his development of the emergency department of the future. Urbane and sophisticated was the best way to describe his style and the way he carried himself. Beautiful women with money flocked to him as if he were the most eligible bachelor in Chicago, which he probably was. On top of everything else, he was intensely handsome and mysterious.

That was the part that kept reeling her in.

She closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake. Her need to figure him out had become a bit of an obsession.

She forced the thoughts away as her gaze swept over the mansion that would be more suited for a royal estate in England. Who needed twenty-six thousand square feet of living space? A six-car garage? Not to mention an ostentatious fountain perched right in the middle of the parking courtyard. Her eyes rolled upward as she climbed out of her practical sedan. No one. Especially not a man who lived alone. Maybe he was attached to it since he’d lived here with his wife. The estate was an hour’s drive from his work in the city. Was this his way of escaping the twelve-to sixteen-hour days?

Was this his hiding place?

Five acres loaded with lots of trees and lush landscaping backed up to Lake Michigan. The main part of the house was large enough but then it winged off on both sides, extending along the manicured grounds, eventually connecting to triple-car garages on either side of the drive, creating a sort of fortress. The iron-and-brick fence was at least twelve feet high and stretched as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the dense woods.

“Lovely.” She made the assessment grudgingly with a heavy dose of reluctance. The house was undeniably, extravagantly attractive. Really, it was. She shouldered her bag and shoved her car door shut as she sent a final glance back at the massive gates that had already closed. Dusk had settled, awakening the discreet and well-placed landscape lighting. Did he have the interior lights on timers as well? Every light in the house appeared to be spilling through the windows to greet her.

“I’d hate to pay your electric bill, Dr. Pierce.”

She exhaled a big breath and decided she’d dawdled long enough. The cobblestone was damp beneath her shoes from the early-evening rain. Three steps up and she was at the front door.

Victoria, her employer, had sensed Bella’s strong reaction to this client. Bella had assured Victoria that she could handle Devon Pierce. The real question in Bella’s mind was whether or not Pierce could handle her. To do her job, she would need his cooperation. Not in a million years could she see him cooperating on the necessary level. He was accustomed to being in control...of keeping his secrets. Pierce was a man who preferred doing things his way.

As brilliant as he was, he couldn’t be the best at everything. If that was possible, he wouldn’t need the Colby Agency’s help now.

A part of her—one she intended no one to ever see—wanted him submissive on every level. Chasing away the notion and bracing for the icy glower for which he was known, she pressed the doorbell, listened as it chimed through the house. The door opened and she stared at the man from her numerous Google searches. To her dismay, he was even hotter in person than he was on the computer screen.

She stood under his scrutiny and felt her temper rising. His gaze roved over her, head to toe and back. She’d taken great care with what she chose to wear tonight. A navy skirt, the hem landing just above her knees, and the matching jacket. Her favorite silk shell with its high neckline in the same dark blue color. She never wore heels. At five-nine, she’d always preferred flats. A good pair of shoes with rubber soles and sturdy straps had served her well.

Deep inside she fully comprehended that she would need every part of her professional armor to protect her from his dark lure. She was well aware that her obsession with him hovered on a very narrow ledge. One wrong move and she would slip.

Even as the warning echoed in her brain, her gaze swept over his handsome face. Square jaw darkened by the stubble of a day’s beard growth, dark blue eyes analyzing her even as she did the same. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, probably silk. A paler gray shirt peeked from between the lapels of the jacket. He had dispensed with his tie and left a couple of buttons undone. The platinum cuff links remained nestled at the center of his perfectly folded French cuffs. Bella suspected this was as relaxed as he allowed himself to be in front of company.

“Ms. Lytle.” He opened the door wider in invitation.

She concentrated her attention on the details of his home rather than on the man. This was the one aspect of Dr. Devon Pierce that remained private. Though there had been plenty of photos of the exterior of the home on the internet, there was none of the interior.

Black and white marble flowed across the floor in a diamond pattern. The walls as well as the ornate trim were coated in an old-world white paint, the aged matte finish an elegant contrast to the glossy floors. A chandelier drenched in crystal hung twelve or so feet overhead. The rich, ornate mahogany table to the left and the cushioned gray bench to the right lent a warm hue to the boundless canvas of sleek black and white.

“I have coffee waiting,” he announced.

She nodded. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

The large entry hall flowed straight ahead. Some twenty or so feet from the front door, the hall parted to the right and left. On each side, a grand staircase led up to the second level. A wide door beneath the staircase on the right provided a glimpse of the kitchen—opulent wood cabinetry, acres of sleek granite and an expansive wall of windows. The double doors to her far left were closed. A library or his office, she supposed.

Moving straight ahead, the entry hall progressed into a truly stunning great room. The whitewashed walls soared to a vaulted ceiling, complete with rustic wood beams that looked as though they might have held up a bridge somewhere in the Mediterranean in another century. The stone fireplace was huge. The marble floors of the entry hall had given way to gleaming hardwood. The furnishings were upholstered in sophisticated burgundies and golds. To soften the hard surfaces, a classic Persian rug was spread over the center of the room, the burgundy and gold yarn so muted it had surely been washed out by decades of wear in a castle somewhere.

Whatever charm the man lacked in demeanor had been infused into his home. The place was utterly breathtaking. Massive and yet somehow intimate. Nothing like the cool, distant man.

Two sofas faced each other in the center of the room. The silver coffee service sat on the cocktail table between them. As Bella settled onto the edge of one of the sofas, she shifted her gaze and full attention to him. Not an easy feat with so many striking pieces of art she’d only just noticed on the walls.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, his voice as terse as it had been when he answered the door. “Do you take cream or sugar?”

“Black is fine, thank you.”

She wondered if there were half a dozen housekeepers and a couple of cooks hidden somewhere in the house. God only knew how many gardeners the property required. She glanced around. Surely a member of staff lurked about someplace. She couldn’t imagine Devon Pierce using his skilled surgeon’s hands to perform such a menial task as preparing coffee.

Former surgeon, she amended. Though his license and hospital privileges and credentials remained in place, he did not routinely practice medicine.

He placed a cup and saucer in front of her, the rich black coffee steaming. Vintage china, she noted. His wife must have been a collector. He poured himself a cup and sat down on the sofa opposite her.

“Victoria tells me you’re very good at solving mysteries.” He sipped his coffee.

“I’m very good at seeing the details others often miss.” The coffee warmed her. From the moment she’d stepped into the house, she’d felt cold. Liar. Meeting the man she’d been cyberstalking had sent her temperature rising. Foolish. “I spent seven years with the Alabama Bureau of Investigation. I never failed to solve the case I was assigned.”

He seemed to consider her answer for a time, his eyes probing hers as if he intended to confirm every word by looking directly inside her soul.

“You graduated from the prestigious University of Alabama with a psych undergraduate degree and a master’s in criminal justice,” he continued. “Two years as a victim counselor with Birmingham PD and the FBI wanted you but you chose the ABI over the better opportunity.”

There it was. That arrogance she instinctively understood would be a part of his personality. She had zero tolerance for it. “The FBI isn’t better, Dr. Pierce. It’s merely larger with a broader jurisdiction. The work I did for the ABI was immensely important. Had I chosen the FBI, I would have spent a great deal of time working toward the opportunity to be a field investigator. Instead, I went straight to the work that I wanted to do—solving crime in the field.”

He set his coffee aside. “I appreciate a stellar résumé, Ms. Lytle, and yours is quite good. But I always look at the person behind the credentials. The heart of the person begins with their roots.”

For the first time since she was eighteen, Bella felt the heat of shame rush along her nerve endings. The idea that this man held that much power over her further flustered her. “Not everyone is born into the perfect scenario for who and what they want to become, Dr. Pierce. Some of us had to fight our way out of where we were before we could reach where we wanted to be.”

“Your father murdered your mother when you were ten and your thirteen-year-old sister shot and killed him in self-defense,” he stated as if she had said nothing at all. “According to the police reports, he was coming at you next and your sister protected you.” He studied her a long moment. “The reports also said that the two of you couldn’t keep your stories straight. In the end, you seemed to agree with whatever your older sister said.”

The blast of a shotgun echoed in Bella’s brain followed by screaming...so much screaming. She gathered every ounce of self-control she possessed to prevent her hands from shaking when she carefully set the cup and saucer on the table. “That’s right.” She held his gaze without flinching. “My father was an alcoholic with a mean streak a mile wide. It would have served my mother far better if she had blown his head off long before he decided to wash his hands of the three of us. My sister was forced to protect us when our mother failed.”

Unfortunately, their mother had been weak. Bella blinked once, twice. So weak.

He stared at her for a long time. Pierce was forty-five, ten years her senior, but he didn’t look more than forty. His dark brown hair was thick and trimmed in a distinguished yet fashionable style. A few strands of gray had invaded the lush color at his temples. Blue eyes, the color of the sea. Chiseled jaw with a nose that was ever so slightly off center, probably from the car accident when his wife was fatally injured. He’d suffered a broken nose, a fractured jaw and collarbone as well as a gash in the head. Despite his rigorous work schedule, he kept his tall, lean body in excellent condition. She imagined the female nurses and doctors on his staff spent plenty of time discussing the handsome administrator. Particularly since he was single.

Sadly his personality reportedly left a great deal to be desired.

“You narrowly avoided foster care,” he went on with his well-prepared monologue of her early history, “but an estranged aunt, your mother’s sister, came forward to whisk the two of you to Mobile. At sixteen, your sister dropped out of high school and took a job at a local hair salon. She married and had three children by the time she was twenty. If I counted accurately, she’s on husband number five now. You didn’t appear very happy in school either. The school counselor documented bruises on several occasions. She listed you as withdrawn and lacking the ability to make friends. Child services were called to your home on more than one occasion.”

The shame faded and fury took its place, igniting a blaze that rushed through her veins. “My aunt had rigid religious and disciplinarian views. As for the other, most children go through times in school when making friends is difficult.”

Bella had nothing else to say about that part of her life. Her aunt hadn’t really been the problem. It was her husband. Bella was fairly confident he got off on beating her and her sister. The slightest infraction required a trip to the woodshed. After her sister left, Bella had tolerated his beatings for a couple more years. Eventually, she’d had enough and she’d got her hands on the ax and threatened to kill him the same way she and her sister had killed their mean-ass daddy. From that point forward, they’d had an agreement of sorts. He didn’t touch her and she didn’t cut off his head in his sleep. He never touched her again.

Funny how the tendency to choose the wrong kind of man seemed to run in families sometimes. Her mother, her aunt and then her sister. The three looked right over a nice guy and went for the jerk every time.

Bella never intended to allow a man to rule her. Never. If Dr. Pierce was under the impression that his extensive knowledge of her past would somehow put her off, he was mistaken. Her past wasn’t something she cared to discuss and, frankly, it still embarrassed her to some degree, but this man would need a lot more than humiliating backstory to undermine her determination or her confidence.

Pierce stared at her for a full minute before he spoke again. “My wife died six years and five months ago. My hands were inside her body when her heart stopped beating. I did everything humanly possible to stop the hemorrhaging but I couldn’t. She died on the operating table in a hospital that didn’t have the proper equipment or the necessary staff. The only surgeon within an hour of the hospital couldn’t get there fast enough because of the record-breaking snowstorm that had hit the area. I was the only chance she had of surviving and I failed. I have no idea why someone would use her to rattle me now, but that’s precisely what happened today.”

Victoria had briefed Bella on the incident. According to her employer’s second conversation with Pierce today, he’d examined today’s patient after she was placed in the ICU. She had blond hair and pale blue eyes, like his late wife. Similar build. But she was, of course, not his wife. Her face was different though there were definite similarities. Shoe size was wrong. Her fingers weren’t as long as Mrs. Pierce’s had been.

Not that there had ever been any question. The point was that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to find a woman who, on first look, greatly resembled Cara Pierce.

“You were able to speak with her.” It wasn’t a question. Victoria had told Bella as much. She simply wanted to watch his reaction as he answered.

“Briefly. She claimed not to know her name or mine. She couldn’t say where her home was or what had happened to her.”

“Which could be as a result of her injuries,” Bella suggested.

“It’s possible but doubtful, in my opinion. There are also certain drugs that can produce the same effect. We’re running new screens for those substances.”

“Did you tell the police?” Bella knew he had not. She’d spoken to a contact at Chicago PD and nothing else had come in about the accident. As far as the police knew, the woman hit the guardrail. The accident was her fault. No alcohol in her blood. She would survive and the only property damage was her own.

“No, I haven’t spoken to the police about the matter.” He crossed his arms over his chest in a classic defense gesture. “Since the situation is obviously very personal, I intend to conduct my own investigation first.”

Bella wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t the sort of man to turn over control of something so extremely personal unless he had no other choice. “You do realize that legally you have an obligation to inform the police about the patient’s situation.”

Another of those long staring sessions came next. Finally, he said, “I do and I will, when I’m ready.”

“This is your dime, Dr. Pierce, so we’ll play your way until I am compelled to take a different tactic. If at any time I feel the woman in that hospital room is vulnerable to the situation in some way, I will go to the police myself.”

“I’ve assigned security to her room,” he said, his tone flat. “She’s completely safe.”

“As long as we’re clear on that point.”

“We’re quite clear, Ms. Lytle.”

She straightened her back, squared her shoulders. “Is there anything else you should tell me before we begin?”

He shook his head, the move so slight she would not have noticed had she not been watching him so closely. “Nothing at all.”

Something else Bella had learned during ten years of investigative work, seven at the ABI and three with the Colby Agency, was that when a man could look you straight in the eye and lie without a single tell, he was dangerous.

“Tell me about your enemies, Dr. Pierce.”

“When I first began the development phase of the Edge, two years before my wife was killed, I had a couple of partners. Jack Hayman and Richard Sutter. Both eventually fell off the project.” One corner of his mouth lifted as if he might smile. “Jack knew basically nothing about what I was doing. He simply wanted to invest part of his vast fortune in something useful.”

“What about Richard Sutter?”

Pierce lifted one shoulder in a negligible shrug. “Our parting was less than amiable. He filed several lawsuits but all were dismissed as frivolous.”

“Less than amiable” was a vast understatement. “He suffered tremendous financial losses when the two of you severed your business relationship.”

A single nod. “Our visions for the project turned out to be vastly different. Severing the relationship was his choice, not mine.”

Bella held back the laugh that tickled her throat but she couldn’t completely hide the smile. “My assessment of those events is that you left him no other choice.”

He stood. “There are always choices, Ms. Lytle. Perhaps limited, but choices nonetheless. I think I’ll have something stronger than the coffee. Would you like a drink?”

“The coffee is fine.”

She watched as he crossed the room, then opened a cabinet that revealed a bar lined with mirrors and glass shelves. He reached for a bottle of bourbon and poured a significant serving into a glass. His every move was measured, elegant, like the suit he wore.

Bella had read many articles about Pierce before tragedy sent his life on a different path. She’d even watched a couple of television interviews. Dr. Devon Pierce had been a real Chicago hero at Rush University Medical Center. He’d smiled often in the interviews. He’d spoken like a man determined to help others...determined to do good. He and two partners were developing a new kind of ER model. He had been a man with a mission. A happy man.

This was not the same man. He’d resigned from his position as head of surgery at Rush. He’d become completely obsessed with his mission to create a better ER. He’d withdrawn from society beyond the necessary appearances at fund-raisers. But he had completed his mission. His prototype, the Edge, was an unparalleled emergency department dedicated to his late wife.

When he’d taken his seat once more, she asked, “Assuming his goal is to ruin you or perhaps worse, do you believe Mr. Sutter would go to these extremes to have his vengeance?”

“Richard is an extremely intelligent man with vast resources. He certainly possesses the means to carry out such an elaborately planned plot, but I would prefer to think not. Yet here we are.” He sipped his drink.

Bella watched him savor the taste that lingered on his lips. Her throat parched and she had to look away. “You knew the man—like a brother, you claimed in one of the interviews I watched. Would he want to simply damage your reputation? Or is he capable of far worse?”

That blue gaze trapped hers once more. “Powerful men rarely have set boundaries, Ms. Lytle.”

She didn’t have to ask if he fell into that same category. “Would he overstep the bounds of the law? Risk criminal charges and perhaps jail time?” As Pierce pointed out, setting up a woman who resembled his wife, complete with similar physical injuries, and delivering her in such a way as was done today was not a small thing. And certainly not one that was legal under any circumstances.

“I believe that may be the case.”

“Was a lack of resources why he didn’t come after you before? Five years is quite a while to wait for revenge.” Sutter and Pierce had broken their partnership five years ago. Sutter had seemingly fallen off the face of the earth until about eighteen months ago. Bella had tracked his return back that far. He stayed out of the public eye these days.

“His resources took a hit when our association ended but he was far from devastated financially,” Pierce explained. “It was likely the failed legal steps and the cancer that kept him from making a move like this before. Rumor is he found a private hospital in some country not burdened by the FDA’s restraints to seek treatment. I have no idea how long he was out of the country.”

A near-death experience like surviving cancer often changed a person’s priorities. It was possible that survival had sent Sutter on his own mission. “This might be the most important question I ask you tonight, Dr. Pierce,” she warned. “Does Sutter have a legitimate reason to want revenge?” She waited, watched his face, his eyes.

One, two, three seconds elapsed. He downed another sip of bourbon. “Yes.”

“All right.” Bella appreciated that it hadn’t been necessary to drag that answer out of him. More than that, she was grateful he answered honestly. “Does he have some sort of information or evidence that could hurt you?” After all, the message left in Pierce’s office had been pretty clear: I know what you did.

“Professionally, no.”

“What about personally?” Bella waited, suddenly unable to breathe.

He finished off the bourbon before meeting her gaze. “He believes I killed my wife.”

There was an answer she hadn’t expected. “Does he have tangible evidence or probable cause to believe you wanted your wife dead?”

Bella was certain her heart didn’t beat while she waited for him to answer.

“Have you ever loved something so much you would do anything to possess it and, once it was yours, to keep it?”

His words were spoken so softly, she’d had to strain to hear. As for his question, if she was completely honest she would confess that she felt exactly that way about her work. Her career defined her. There was nothing else. Her sister and she rarely talked, never visited each other. Basically she had no family. No real love life. Her career—her professional reputation—was everything. She would do anything within the law to keep it.

“I suppose so,” she said at last.

“I loved my wife, Ms. Lytle.” His fingers tightened on the empty glass. “More than anything. I thought giving her everything her heart desired was enough, but it wasn’t. She wanted more and I didn’t see that until it was too late.”

“She turned to someone else,” Bella supplied. It happened to career-focused—obsessed—people all the time.

He placed his glass on the table next to the deserted coffee. “She did indeed.”

“What did you do about that?” The urge to feel sympathy for him hit her harder than it should have.

“Nothing. I ignored it. Hoped it would go away.”

An odd answer for a man who prided himself on keeping his life in perfect order. “Was Sutter the other party involved?”

He turned his palms up. “I have no idea. She took that secret with her to her grave.”

The idea that Sutter remained Pierce’s partner for a while after her death seemed to negate that possibility. “You never hired a private investigator to look into her extracurricular activities?”

“I did not.” He cleared his throat. “I had no desire to confirm my suspicions. I loved her. As I said, I hoped if the worst was true that it would pass.”

As heartfelt as his answer sounded, Pierce was the sort of man who generally kept tabs on all aspects of his world. Why would he ignore some part he believed to be out of sync, or worse, out of his control completely?

“How did you come to learn that Sutter suspected you killed your wife?” A good deal of time passed before the two ended their partnership. If Sutter truly believed such a thing, why wouldn’t he have brought it up sooner? Weeks or months after Cara Pierce died? Particularly if there was a possibility he had been in love with her.

“Perhaps he thought if he stayed close to me that I would eventually confess to him or that he would find some sort of evidence.” He stared at the glass as if weighing the prospect of having a second drink. “I really have no idea what he was thinking. Or why he thought it.”

“Did he know you were aware of your wife’s affair?”

“I assume he did. He would likely see that as a motive for me wanting her dead. Frankly, there is nothing else his message could have meant.”

“But your wife died in a hospital after a car crash. What’s his theory about how you murdered her under the circumstances?”

Bella had read the reports. The accident was caused by a horrendous snowstorm. As he said before, the nearest hospital was not adequately equipped. There was no one to do the surgery his wife needed. There was only Devon Pierce and he’d had a broken collarbone, a gash in his head requiring twenty stitches, a broken nose and a fractured jaw. He’d refused to allow them to see to his injuries until his wife was stabilized. When no one could help her, he’d tried. He’d just completed the repair to her ruptured spleen when the bleeding in her brain sent the situation spiraling out of control. According to their statements, the medical staff at the hospital had all agreed: there was nothing else Dr. Pierce or anyone on-site could have done.

Nothing to indicate foul play.

Pierce stood again. “I have no answer for that question. I can only presume Sutter has lost his mind. If you have no other questions, I have work to do.”

His sixteen-to twenty-hour-a-day work schedule was something else she’d read about the man. “I’ll meet you at your office first thing in the morning,” she said as she pushed to her feet.

“I’m usually there by seven.”

“I’ll be there as well,” she fired back without hesitation.

They didn’t speak as they walked side by side to the front door. Bella’s mind kept going back to the seemingly unfounded idea that anyone could think he murdered his wife. Nothing she had read suggested outbursts or trouble handling his temper. She’d investigated her share of domestic violence cases and he didn’t fit the profile. The wife, on the other hand, fit the profile of spoiled rich wife perfectly. Not that Bella had discovered anything overly negative about her, but she had a penchant for spending and self-indulgence.

At the door, she couldn’t leave without asking again. “This makes no sense. The person coordinating this threat to you, whether Sutter or someone else, is smart.” She waited until he met her gaze. “He must have some reason to believe there was foul play on your part.” And some reason to think resurrecting Devon Pierce’s dead wife would somehow drive him to drastic measures.

There had been an investigation into his conduct as a physician in the situation. Standard procedure. But the extenuating circumstances warranted the steps he had taken that night.

The eyes that had scrutinized her so intently before abruptly looked away. “We made the trip to see her family once a year, so I had been there numerous times. I was aware of the meager health-care services available in the area.” He shrugged. “Perhaps he believes I chose a sedan at the rental car agency rather than an SUV equipped with four-wheel drive and then took that particular road in the storm for the very purpose of ensuring an accident. It was the most treacherous, curvy and hilly. But it was also the shortest route. It felt like the right decision at the time.”

“Did you choose the sedan?”

He stared at her now. “There were no SUVs available. They’d all been taken. It was either the car or wait for an SUV to be returned. Which, given the weather, could have been hours or days. I’m not a patient man, Ms. Lytle.”

She sensed that he wanted to shake her with his seemingly blunt self-incrimination. “Were the two of you arguing when the accident occurred?”

“Yes.” His face tightened. “She wanted me to turn around. I refused. We were almost there. Going back wasn’t an option. The road behind us was worse than what lay ahead of us.”

Bella still couldn’t see it. “Causing an accident is too risky. You couldn’t have known her injuries would be any more life-threatening than your own.”

“Unless I gave her head a couple of extra bashes against the window to ensure there was sufficient damage and then waited.” His gaze narrowed as if he were remembering. “I seem to recall at least two different accounts of what time our car was noticed. The police pressured me for a bit about the timing of my call for help.”

Her heart beat faster with his every word. She wanted to argue that he was only trying to make her uncertain of her own conclusions, but there was something in his eyes as he looked at her now...something that dared her to ignore his words.

He shrugged. “In retrospect, I suppose it was the perfect plan for getting away with murder. No murder weapon to prove I planned the act. No evidence at all to suggest anything but an accident. And the coup de grâce—half a dozen witnesses watched my frantic efforts to save my wife in that operating room.”

Bella adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Pierce. Good night.”

She walked out without looking back. He closed the door behind her without saying more.

Whatever he was hiding, it wasn’t murder. She would bet her career on that assessment.

Dr. Devon Pierce was a man of contradictions. Warm to his patients. Cold to the outside world. Pretentious and direct...and yet Bella saw an undercurrent of vulnerability and grief.

It was the latter that pulled at her defenses.

She needed to solve this case quickly...or risk falling under Devon Pierce’s enigmatic spell.

If she hadn’t already.


Chapter Three (#uc3709756-4edf-5eb8-9762-0986f6436c88)

The Edge, Tuesday, June 5, 9:00 a.m.

Ms. Lytle had been waiting at his office door when he arrived at seven that morning.

Devon had warned her that he had work to do before they proceeded with the investigation. He refused to allow this diversion to distract him. The medical world was watching, scrutinizing every aspect of this facility’s performance. The slightest slip could create a major setback. The Edge and all it represented for the future of emergency medicine were far too important to allow anything to get in the way of forward progress.

He had provided Ms. Lytle with the assistant administrator’s office. The position was as yet unfilled, so the office was vacant. He was here sixteen or more hours most days and never far away the rest of the time. Perhaps at a later time, he would view the need for an assistant differently. For now, Patricia represented the only assistant he required. In fact, he’d already discussed with her the possibility of upgrading her position from secretary to personal assistant. She had been with him for ten years, first as his secretary at Rush and then during the development stage of the Edge. Patricia had never once let him down.

She had been most unhappy with Ms. Lytle’s request for an interview with her this morning. Now, forty-five minutes later, the private investigator had returned to her desk and so far hadn’t said a single word to Devon. He stared at the woman seated across from him now. “Patricia Ezell is above reproach. If you insulted her in some way, I would require that you apologize immediately.”

A smile lifted Isabella Lytle’s inordinately lush lips. At their initial meeting last night, he’d at first thought she wore lipstick but he recognized now that she didn’t. Her lips were naturally a deep crimson, full and wide.

“I asked the hard questions, yes, but if Ms. Ezell took offense at any of those questions, that’s unfortunate. They were all crucial. The people closest to you represent the greatest danger. Whether by design or accident, they make you vulnerable merely because they have your confidence.”

His first instinct was to argue the point but he chose to let it go. She’d already interviewed Patricia. Not another living soul knew him so well. The entire staff at the Edge had been made aware that Ms. Lytle was to be treated with respect and given complete access. “Since there is no one else to interview, what is your agenda for the day?”

He had not expected that she would stay so close. He didn’t know what he had expected. Having her study his every move was disconcerting.

Today she wore all black. Black slacks, black jacket, black sweater that hugged her throat. All that was visible of her pale skin was her face and hands. Her dark hair, as dark as the clothes she wore, had been arranged in a French twist. She might have appeared stern or harsh if not for her expressive brown eyes and that voluptuous mouth. There was a kindness, a gentleness about her eyes. Yet she emanated a firm, steady strength that warned she was far from soft.

“Actually, I’d like to interview the woman the police identified as your wife.”

A new thread of unease filtered through him. He’d stopped by the woman’s—a Jane Doe, for all intents and purposes—room this morning. She’d still been asleep. Security remained at her door 24/7. Until someone claimed her and took her away, he intended to keep her close and protected.

“Very well.”

As they exited his office, he noticed that Patricia did not so much as spare a glance toward Ms. Lytle. He would speak to her as soon as this interview was over.

Ms. Lytle walked slightly in front of him. Her stride was confident, determined. His research showed that she was not married, had never been married. No children. Isabella Lytle lived alone on Armitage Avenue in the Lincoln Park area. No previous engagements. No long-term boyfriends or girlfriends.

Before he could quash the thought, he wondered about the woman. Were her most intimate needs kept hidden? A dirty secret she wanted no one to know? His gaze moved down her shapely backside. Or perhaps she was like him—work was her only true companion. Anything else was an afterthought.

They moved around the circular corridor until they reached the quarantine unit. The Edge did not keep patients more than twenty-four hours unless it was necessary to quarantine them until proper care could be arranged. There were overnight beds in the behavioral and senior units, but all other patients were either treated and released or transported to nearby hospitals. The Edge was not intended as anything other than an emergency care facility. Since the woman’s true identity had not been determined, there was no next of kin to take her home and no medical necessity to prompt a transfer.

He would, however, need to turn the situation over to the police soon. No matter that she was an impostor and clearly connected to some criminal activity, he could not keep holding her as if she were a prisoner. As some point, the entire matter would need to be turned over to the police.

But not until he was satisfied.

A quick nod to the security guard outside the room and the man took a break. Devon rapped twice on the door before opening it for Ms. Lytle to enter ahead of him. The woman listed as Cara Pierce was awake. She turned in surprise or perhaps in fear as they entered the room.

“Good morning.” Ms. Lytle approached her bedside and introduced herself. “I’m Investigator Isabella Lytle and I have a few questions for you.”

The woman frowned and then winced. “I don’t remember anything.” She glanced at Devon. “I’ve already told you that.”

Devon had reviewed her chart this morning. She’d slept well. Had consumed a good portion of her breakfast. Vitals were good. The general symptoms associated with splenic rupture were all but gone. Vision was within normal range. No light-headedness or shock. Beyond the confusion about her identity, all appeared to be well.

Then again, mere confusion rarely included a driver’s license and vehicle registration in the wrong name. Obviously the woman was working with someone. Frankly, her brain injury was hardly significant enough to have caused any serious confusion or amnesia. Now that she was stable, there was no reason she shouldn’t be able to tell the truth. No other drugs had been found in the follow-up toxicology. Of course, there were a number of drugs that dissipated too quickly to be caught in a tox screen.

“Let’s talk about who you are,” Ms. Lytle suggested to the woman in the bed. “What is your name?”

The pretend Cara blinked, then looked away. “I don’t know.”

Ms. Lytle set her bag on the floor and reached inside. She removed a plastic bag somewhat larger than a typical sandwich bag. With her hand inside the bag, she used it like a glove to pick up the plastic cup on the patient’s overbed table. Then she pulled the plastic over the cup, successfully bagging it.

With a quick smile at the other woman, Ms. Lytle said, “The police might be able to track down your identity through your fingerprints.”

Big blue eyes stared first at Ms. Lytle and then at Devon. “Is that legal?” she asked him. “For her to come into my room and take my fingerprints like that?” She knotted her fingers together. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Don’t you want to know who you are?” Devon braced his hands on the footboard of the bed. “You may have a husband or family worried about you.”

She stared directly at him, her blue eyes pooled with tears. Fear, whether real or simulated, glistened there. “You’re certain I’m not your wife?”

“No. You are not my wife.”

Ms. Lytle placed the commandeered cup into her bag and retrieved a pad and pen. “Why don’t we start with whatever you remember before arriving at the ER?”

The woman blinked, stared for a long moment at Ms. Lytle. “I don’t remember anything.”

Ms. Lytle nodded. “All right, then. We’ll see what the police can find. If there are any outstanding warrants or investigations related to your fingerprints, they will discuss those issues directly with you. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

The woman, looking decidedly pale against the white sheets, bit her bottom lip as if to hold back whatever words wanted to pop out of her. Ms. Lytle picked up her bag and turned toward the door before hesitating. She studied the other woman for half a minute before she spoke. “You do realize that if someone hired you to pretend to be Cara Pierce that you’re a loose end?”

The pretender’s eyes grew wider. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“When that person—the person who hired you—is finished with whatever game he’s playing, you will be an unnecessary risk. We—” she gestured to Devon “—can help you, but we’re not going to waste resources on an uncooperative witness.”

A frown furrowed across her brow. “Witness?”

Ms. Lytle nodded. “That’s what you are. Someone has committed a crime. You obviously know who that someone is, so that makes you a witness, perhaps an accessory. If you willingly participated in that crime, then you’ll be charged accordingly—unless you cooperate, in which case the DA might offer you immunity.”

“So,” she said slowly, “you’re a cop.”

Isabella Lytle had introduced herself as an investigator. Devon hadn’t considered it at the time but the move was an ingenious one.

“Investigator Lytle,” he said, saving her the lie, “has been assigned to your case. If you cooperate, she may be able to help you avoid legal charges.”

Silence thickened for several seconds before the woman blurted, “I didn’t know he was going to try to kill me or I would never have gone along with this crazy scheme.” She looked from Devon to Ms. Lytle, her fingers knotted in the sheet. “I thought it was a game.”

Ms. Lytle asked, “The man who hired you, do you know his name?”

She shook her head and then winced. Her head no doubt still ached. “He never told me his name. He offered me five thousand dollars and promised there was a bonus if I didn’t screw up.”

Ms. Lytle reached for her pad and pen once more. “Can you describe the man to me?”

She blew out a big breath, and her blond bangs fluttered. “You’re not going to believe this but it was dark in the room where we met. He wouldn’t let me turn on the lights. He told me what he wanted, gave me a thousand bucks up front and walked out. Next thing I knew, I was snagged from my regular corner. I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up here.”

“You’re a prostitute, is that correct?” Outrage burst inside Devon. The idea that whoever had done this had taken advantage of someone so vulnerable made him all the angrier.

“A girl’s gotta make a living somehow.” She straightened the sheet at her waist. Smoothed the wrinkles her nervous fingers had created.

“Where did you and this man meet?” Ms. Lytle asked.

“Over on East Ontario.” She fidgeted with the edge of the sheet some more. “A car picked me up and took me to that real fancy hotel over on Michigan Avenue.” Her lips trembled into a small smile. “I was thinking that was going to be my lucky day. You know, a big tipper.”

“Which hotel?” Ms. Lytle asked.

When the woman had given the name and address of the hotel, Devon demanded, “What can you tell me about his voice? Deep? Did he sound older or younger?”

“Not really so deep. He sounded older than me for sure.” She moistened her lips. “His voice was kind of gravelly like he’d spent a lot of years smoking.”

“What exactly did he ask you to do?” Devon demanded. He realized he’d taken over the interview but it was his prerogative. Ms. Lytle worked for him, after all. This outrageous situation was about him! Fury twisted sharply inside him.

“He said all I had to do was pretend to be someone else for a day. Easy money. Big money.” She shrugged one thin shoulder. “I didn’t know I’d be getting hurt and almost die.”

“What’s your name?” Ms. Lytle asked before Devon could launch his next question.

“Audrey.” She stared at her manicured fingernails, anywhere but at the woman questioning her. “Audrey Maynard.”

“Audrey,” Ms. Lytle began, “you said the hotel room was dark. Did you get any sense of his height or how big or small he was?”

She started to move her head but winced. “Not really. He was sitting in a chair. I could sort of make out his form against the cream-colored chair. He wore dark clothes. He wasn’t a big guy. Thin and medium height, I guess.”

“Did he wear cologne?”

She thought about that question for a moment. “Yes. Something expensive. I think it was that Clive something or other. I only smelled it a couple other times—once when I was part of a group of girls who attended this secret party with a bunch of really rich guys. The stuff costs like thousands of dollars.”

“Clive Christian,” Devon said. The woman in the bed as well as Ms. Lytle turned to stare at him. He was well acquainted with the cologne she meant.

“That’s it.” She pointed at him. “And you. You wear it. I smelled it when you checked on me this morning.”

“Did you keep any of the money he gave you?” Ms. Lytle asked. “What was the money in? A bag? A box?”

“It was in a bag. The shiny pink kind like you get from that fancy lingerie place. But I threw it away.”

“What did you do with the money?” Ms. Lytle prodded.

“I paid my mother’s rent. She was behind. She’s sick. Emphysema.” She sighed. “It’s bad.”

Ms. Lytle asked, “Did he contact you again after that?”

“He just said he’d send his car after me when he was ready.”

“When did the car come for you?”

“Yesterday morning. It was waiting outside my mother’s place when I walked out the door.”

“Tell us about the car.” Ms. Lytle prepared to jot down the information.

“Black. One of those big sedans you see hauling rich people around but not a limo.”

“What about the license plate? Did you see it?” Devon asked.

“No. I’d had a rough night. I was pretty out of it.”

“Did you see the driver?” Ms. Lytle inquired before Devon could.

“Yeah. He was white. Midtwenties maybe. Black hair, cut short. Not exactly cute. He looked, you know, indifferent. Wore a black suit. He told me I was to go with him the way I agreed. After I got in the car, he didn’t say a word.”

“Where did he take you?”

“Damen Silos. He just put me out and drove off. I was still staring after him when someone grabbed me from behind.” She frowned. “Wait. Maybe I did see part of the license plate.” She called off two numbers. “There were some numbers and then a TX. That’s all I can remember.”

“Thank you,” Ms. Lytle said. “We may have more questions later.”

“When will I be able to go home? I’m sure my mom is worried about me. I’m all she’s got.”

Ms. Lytle looked to Devon.

“Leave the contact information with Ms. Lytle and we’ll see that your mother is informed of your whereabouts.”

He walked out of the room. The guard resumed his position next to the door as Devon moved away. How many people knew the cologne he wore? The description of the man who’d hired her was insufficient but there was enough to further convince Devon with whom he was dealing. His former partner Richard Sutter.

Ms. Lytle hurried from the room to catch up with him. “It’s time to call in the police, Dr. Pierce. I don’t believe she’s telling us the whole truth.”

When he stalled, she glanced back at the room and the guard stationed there before meeting his impatient glare. “I know when a witness is lying, and for whatever reason, the woman in that room lied with every breath.”

He had come to the same conclusion. When he continued to stare in the direction of the room without responding to Ms. Lytle’s suggestion, she went on, “At the very least, I should get this cup to a friend of mine who can run the prints. We need to confirm who she is. She has rights and we’re walking all over those rights by not bringing in the proper authorities.”

His attention shifted to her, fury whipping through him. “I am well aware of the patient’s rights, Ms. Lytle.”

“Then you know we have to do something to protect her. I spent far too many years as a cop to ignore the situation. The man who hired her will not want her talking. Victoria and the Colby Agency have a reputation for high standards. I’m not about to let Victoria or the agency down.”

“I’m not asking you to let anyone down.” He started walking toward his office once more. “She has protection at her door and we’re going to do something right now.”

She hurried to keep up with his long strides. Though she was five-nine and in excellent physical condition, he stood at six-two and was quite fit himself. He had the advantage physically. He forced away thoughts of testing her physical endurance in all sorts of ways.

As they reached his office, she managed to get ahead of him and to block the door. “Where exactly are we going?”

He reached for patience. “To see the car. Any personal effects may still be in the vehicle. I’d like to see those and the registration.”

“Makes sense.” She stepped away from the door. “But I’m driving.”

C&C Towing, Noon

GEORGE TALBOT, her friend in Chicago’s Crime Scene Processing Unit, had promised to get results on the prints back to her ASAP. For the moment, she had let Pierce off the hook about reporting to PD what they had learned from the woman who had pretended to be his wife. But as soon as they’d had a look at any personal effects in the vehicle, the call would be made. The TX Maynard had told them about meant the car was a taxi or other chauffeured vehicle. If they could track down the vehicle and the driver, they might learn who’d hired him.

“This is it.” The tow-truck driver had escorted them into the storage yard, down the fifth row and seven cars over to where the Lexus was parked. “Damage isn’t so bad. We have a repair service if you want her fixed. We’re happy to fax an estimate to your insurance company.”

“I’ll let you know,” Pierce said. “At the moment, I’d like to gather my wife’s belongings.”

The lie rolled off his tongue without the first flinch or glance away from the man in the summer-weight coveralls. Bella had barely slept last night for mulling over their conversation in his home. Devon Pierce had the poker face down to a science. It was nearly impossible to determine what was truth and what was not. Worse, there was something about him that pulled at her. Certainly not his immense charm, she mused. Something deeper...something darker.

Perhaps a darkness similar to the one that lived inside her—a distrust of others so deep and profound that it muddied any personal feelings she might hope to ever develop. Who was she kidding? She had decided long ago that a personal life was too complicated. Work was far easier.

“All rightie, then.” The driver tossed the keys to Pierce. “Drop them by on your way out. We don’t release the keys or the vehicle until the bill is settled.”

Pierce gave him a nod.

When the driver had headed back to his office, Pierce reached for the driver’s-side door. Bella stopped him with a hand on his arm. “This car is evidence.”

“Be that as it may, I’m having a look in the car.” His tone warned there would be no discussion on the subject.

She reached into her bag and dug up a couple of pairs of latex gloves. She passed a pair to him.

He shot her a look. “The fact that you carry gloves around in your bag could be construed as—”

“I’m a private investigator. The last thing I ever want to do is render a piece of evidence unusable in court.”

She’d seen more than her share of bumbling detectives do exactly that and the perp ended up getting off on a technicality. Not happening on her watch.

While he settled behind the steering wheel, Bella opened the door to the back seat and had a look there. The small black clutch Maynard—or whoever she was—had with her was brought to the hospital. It had contained the driver’s license, lip gloss and a small round makeup mirror. One black high heel lay on the back floorboard. No overnight bag. No trash or spare change. The car looked and smelled brand-new.

“Have a look at this.”

Bella withdrew her upper body from the back seat and moved to the driver’s door. He held documents he’d taken from the glove box.

“The car was bought—if I’m reading this correctly—yesterday.” He passed the paperwork to her. “There’s nothing else here except one black shoe.”

“The other one is in the back seat.” She skimmed the pages. It appeared Cara Pierce had bought the car from the local Lexus dealership yesterday morning. She passed the papers back to him. “Did you check the console between the seats?”

“It’s empty.”

He peered up at her, blue eyes dark with fury. His lean jaw was taut with that same anger. Someone was using his painful past to get to him. But what was the endgame? That was the part Bella couldn’t yet see. Were they trying to discredit him professionally or destroy him personally? The rage in his eyes turned to something even more fierce...something desperate and urgent, something hungry. Bella abruptly realized how close she was standing to him.

Her ability to breathe vanished. “Well.” She stumbled back a step from the vee made by the open door of the car. “Let’s check the trunk.”

He pressed the button on the dash and a pop confirmed the trunk had opened. Bella headed that way with Pierce close behind. She struggled to dispel the hum of uncertainty and something like need inside her. The foolish reaction was surely related to her utter inability to sleep last night.

The trunk was empty save a single sheet of lined paper with words scribbled frantically across it. The page looked as if it had been ripped from a notebook. Blood was smeared across the center of it.

Pierce snatched up the page and stared at it.

“Don’t touch anything,” she warned again. Then she surveyed the trunk once more. Another spot of crimson at the edge of the carpeting snagged her attention. She lifted the carpeting that covered the spare tire area and she stopped.

Blood.

Lots of blood.

Pierce leaned in close, his face far too near to hers. “Ms. Lytle, I believe it’s time to call the police now.”


Chapter Four (#uc3709756-4edf-5eb8-9762-0986f6436c88)

The Edge, 1:55 p.m.

For the second time today, Bella found herself walking briskly to keep up with Pierce’s hurried strides. She had to admit, seeing the half dozen Chicago PD cruisers out front was enough to have anyone rushing to see what was going on.

Once the call was made, he’d refused to wait at the tow lot until the police arrived. Bella had almost refused to bring him back and then he’d reached for his cell to order a car. She’d had no choice. As much as she’d felt that legally speaking they needed to wait for the police to take possession of the Lexus, she had known she could not allow Pierce out of her sight. He was at the edge—no pun intended.

Whatever had been on that page—he’d thrust it into his jacket pocket too quickly for her to get so much as a glimpse—it had shaken him. The paper was evidence and he’d taken it from the scene. He’d put her in an untenable position. Yet her first responsibility was to the client. She couldn’t say for a certainty that the paper he’d taken was significant evidence—which would present the one situation in which her obligation to him slipped out of first place. Basically until she knew what was on that page, she needed to focus on protecting the client.

From himself as much as any other threat.

They reached the quarantine unit and the door to Maynard’s room was open. The guard was no longer at the door. Bella glanced at Pierce and his face was clouded with that same anger she’d been watching darken his eyes since their conversation with his pretend wife hours ago.

A uniformed Chicago PD officer and two men in suits—detectives, she surmised—were crowded around Maynard’s bed.

“What’s going on here?” Pierce demanded.

“Dr. Pierce,” one of the suits said, “glad you’re finally here.”

The suit glanced at Bella. “Detective Corwin,” he said, then gestured to the other suit. “Detective Hodge.”

He didn’t introduce the uniform, but his name, Laurence, was on his name tag anyway.

“Investigator Isabella Lytle.” She thrust out her hand. “The Colby Agency.”

“We have a situation,” Corwin said.

“Your patient—” Hodge checked his notes “—Cara Pierce.”

“That is not her name,” Pierce snapped.

Bella started to speak but Hodge cut her off. “She called 911 and reported that you, Dr. Pierce, had kidnapped her and held her hostage for two months until she escaped yesterday. That running from you is the reason she had the accident. She said you were holding her here at the hospital as well and that she had to get away so she could hide from you.”

“What?” Pierce demanded. “We spoke to her—Audrey Maynard—just this morning. She claimed to have been paid by some person she couldn’t name or identify to pretend to be my deceased wife. The man who hired her also orchestrated her accident so that she would be brought here. Ask her for yourself.”

The suits and the uniform stepped away from the bed. It was empty.

Bella’s instincts rocketed to the next level. “How long has she been gone?”

“The call came in to dispatch around noon,” Corwin said. “We’ve been here maybe half an hour.” He shifted his gaze to Pierce. “Waiting for you.”

“Where’s the guard who was stationed at her door?” Pierce demanded.

“We’ve interviewed him,” said Corwin, who seemed to be the lead detective. “He’s headed downtown, where we’ll question him some more.”

“What did the guard say happened?” Bella asked before Pierce could make another demand.

“He says she came to the door demanding a phone. When he refused to provide her with one, she took off down the hall. She snatched a cell phone off the counter at the nurses’ station. When we got here,” Corwin went on, “she was gone. We’ve got uniforms crawling all over this place.”

Bella held up her hands when Pierce would have bellowed something not in the least helpful. “Take your time, gentlemen. Interview every member of staff if necessary. Ms. Maynard was not a prisoner here. The guard was for her protection since we couldn’t determine if there was a further threat to her life. Considering the way she was brought here, we were concerned. As for her sudden disappearance, she can’t have gotten far in her physical condition.”

“Hold up.” Corwin shook his head. “What does all that mean?”

“Why don’t we take this discussion to my office?” Pierce suggested. “We’ll explain everything.”

Corwin instructed Laurence to wait at the abandoned room. He and Hodge followed Bella and Pierce to his office. Patricia glanced up as Pierce warned that he didn’t want to be disturbed. She ignored Bella altogether. Apparently she was still unhappy about the questions Bella had asked. There was no help for that.

Once the two detectives were settled in front of Pierce’s desk and Bella had taken a seat at a small conference table, Pierce explained the events that had taken place since Maynard’s arrival in the ER. He walked them through his interview that morning and the information about the car’s license plate and the hotel where she’d met the man who’d hired her. Occasionally he looked to Bella for confirmation. When he reached the part where they looked at the car Maynard had been driving, he allowed Bella to take over.





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