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Overview
Mason looks nothing like her former lover, but there's something about his mannerisms, if not his face, that draws Charlie in. As they begin to piece together what few clues and skimpy details they have, Charlie and the man she believes is Seth slowly discover a mutual passion. With the Feds following at a distance and someone trying to kill them, will they live long enough to find out his true identity?
56,300 words
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781426896644 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Carina Press |
| Publication date: | 07/15/2013 |
| Sold by: | HARLEQUIN |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 1 MB |
Read an Excerpt
Never had the sound of a man's voice done more healing and more damage than Seth's. Charlie had been excited, despite the anger she'd felt for months, when she first heard him and all he'd done was say hello.
Now he was being a jerk. How dare Seth act like he didn't know who she was?
Charlie hadn't been this close to tears since she'd been shot, and even then she'd steeled herself against the pain, but this was different. This was a pain that stabbed her in places no one could see and reverberated throughout her entire being, making her physically weak and psychically vulnerable, feeling as if she could trust no one, not even herself. And Charlie was nothing if not self-contained.
The sexy male voice on the other end of the line was the cherry on the cake of Charlie's day.
First her captain had saddled her with a new partner, police rookie Julio Rodriguez, who had a bad case of glamour-cop-itis. He wore mirror-shaded sunglasses and sported thick, wavy hair that was too long on top and too short on the sides, and Charlie wouldn't have put it past him to have had a life-sized poster of CHIPs star Eric Estrada on his bedroom wall. He'd done his best to charm her with his twenty-six-toothed smile and beefy arm muscles that he flexed at every opportunity. He'd talked her ears off all during their shift, and he'd chided her on the amount of coffee she'd drunk during the hours they were together.
"Green tea, Vargas. You need to treat your body more like a temple than a garbage dump," he'd said at one point. "And feed it. You can't subsist on coffee beans and water. You're gonna give cops a bad name, those of us who like to take care of ourselves."
She'd leveled him with her best go-to-hell stare, and he'd shut up for all of five minutes. Good thing. She'd been about to tell him the tight pants he wore must be cutting off the circulation to his brain if he thought his comments would win his new partner over.
Later, she'd discovered her favorite deli had closed, her bank had inadvertently overcharged her on a bank draft that wasn't hers but someone else's with a similar name, and now a former lover was calling, acting as if he didn't know who she was.
She sat for a moment, stilling her racing pulse and reentering the conversation with Seth Taggart.
"Pardon me?" She knew she sounded edgy, and she'd have liked nothing better than to approach her ex-boyfriend with an air of confidence rather than one of indignation.
The man repeated his questions. "Who are you, and how did I get your number?"
Sputtering, she hung up on him, knowing that if she didn't, she'd tell him where to go and how to get there as quickly as possible.
Fuming, she felt her face flame and was glad Rodriguez had left for the day. Nothing would mortify her more than to burst into tears like some soph-omoric fluffball in front of him, and if she didn't monitor her hurt and anger, crying was imminent.
She finished changing out of the sweats she'd worn while working out in the on-site gym after her shift and into her favorite pair of skinny jeans and a cotton V-neck sweater. Running tense fingers through her short hair, she bit her lips to keep them from trembling.
Who am I? You jerk. Just the woman you dated every night for two weeks solid and boldly—and probably insincerely—proposed to the last time you were together.
Charlie plopped to the bench in the dressing room and jerked on her sneakers. She stared at the cell phone beside her as it vibrated, scooting across the bench. Same number, one she hadn't recognized, but she sure remembered the voice.
"Look," she said, not giving the caller a chance to speak. "I don't know where you get off with this attitude after all we've been through, but it's been over a year, you are not funny and I am soooo over you, buster."
She paused, listening, despite the instincts that told her to hang up on him again.
"Is that my name, or is buster what you're calling me to keep from calling me bastard? Because I get the impression you want to rip my head off." The man's voice still sounded familiar, but it held a ring of uncertainty she hadn't heard the first time he'd called, before she'd hung up on him.
Charlie blinked. He didn't sound like a prank caller. What if it really wasn't Seth? What if she'd dreamed of the day he'd phone for so long that this was wishful thinking? "Who is this?" she finally asked, horrified at the possibility that she'd been so rude to someone she didn't know, someone who may have simply needed her assistance.
"That's what I wanted to ask you once you explained who you are."
"Say what?" Charlie did her best to recover quickly, but her heart beat rapidly, and her breath became shallow. Am I hallucinating? Maybe this is someone I've already helped or at least have spoken to, a man who has my business card.
Think, Charlie, think, she told herself. He wouldn't have your personal phone number off your business card. But someone at the switchboard might have transferred him to her cell phone. Would that show up, though?
Taking her best cop tone, she asked, "What does the card read? Surely you didn't just pull my name out of thin air."
He appeared to be either concentrating or searching, because he was quiet a moment before speaking. Then that same sexy voice unnerved her again. "There isn't a card."
Well, that settles that. She tried picking up the fractured thread of conversation once again. "So why are you calling me?"
"I was in a car wreck some time back, and this number is the only thing I remember prior to the accident. Just the number. It's been playing over and over in my head, like a movie I can't forget, so I phoned." Then he sounded agitated. "This isn't a crank call—I really need to know who you are."
Impatiently, and still thinking of Seth Taggart, she demanded, "No, you called me. Who are you and how did you get this number? I haven't had it but over a year."
"I-I don't know. That is, I'm not sure. All I know is that it keeps playing in my head and that I can't remember a damn thing else. I figured it had to mean something."
She heard him take a deep breath, and she wondered at his serious tone. If this was Seth, he had a hell of a nerve. Sure, they'd only seen one another a few times, but those days and nights had been magical. They'd met at her favorite pub one night after she was off work. They'd talked for hours, and he'd walked her home…then kissed her.
She still remembered the feel of his arms about her, how well their bodies had seemed to fit, with her much smaller, shorter frame molding to his taller one. He'd smelled of a delicious aftershave. His lips had been firm but soft, and his breath had tasted of peppermint and wine. His natural scent was a masculine mix of woodsy testosterone and urban sophistication, as if he belonged nowhere and everywhere.
She groaned. Why hadn't she kept from telling him the truth about her job that night? They'd both been reluctant to exchange more than names, wanting to get to know one another in other ways and leave the superfluous surface stuff for later. Their romance had been intoxicating, exciting, passionate and all-consuming. She hadn't been that head-over-heels giddy since she'd been a college sophomore, but even then, the relationships she'd had seemed superficial compared to what she'd felt with Seth.
He finally spoke. "My name, or so they tell me, is Mason Aldridge, and…I think they're lying to me."
Was he kidding? Personal feelings warred with cop instincts. "When you called before, I thought you sounded like a guy I knew…well. That's why I was mad at you and thought you were yanking my chain."
"I'm not playing games with you." His voice sounded troubled.
Charlie couldn't help but take hope. "Where are you? Who is lying to you?"
"I'm in Houston now—and I know this sounds ludicrous. My sister and her husband, the doctors, all of them. I don't think I'm who they say I am, but it doesn't make sense that they'd help me live a lie."
Charlie's heart sank. Seth Taggart had been an only child. He'd told her as much that first week. But then he'd also not gone by the name Mason Aldridge. The only thing she really hadn't known about Seth was his occupation. For some reason, they'd both been hesitant to talk business until that last night, when she'd come clean with him regarding her own.
She had a good reason. Every man she'd dated after she'd graduated from the academy had run like a rabbit once he discovered she was a cop, and she'd been one for the past ten years, ever since she was twenty-one.
Then she'd confessed to Seth, who had seemed fine, even intrigued, but they'd had to part before he divulged his personal information.
At the time, it hadn't mattered because they had a date planned for later in the week after he returned from a business trip. Charlie had great people instincts and skills—they'd served her well as a cold case investigator. She knew he wasn't involved in anything illegal or immoral. She just knew it.
"Are you originally from Houston, Mr. Aldridge?"
"Call me Mason, please. I think so. I've gone through all of my personal papers. My birth certificate tells me I was born here, but I actually live north of the city, closer to Alvin."
More reason not to consider Seth, who had told her he hailed from Chicago, that his parents had been killed when he was ten and that he'd been raised by an aunt in Port Charles, Louisiana.
"I see."
"Look, I don't mean to be rude," he interjected, "but I really need to know who I'm talking to and how we met. Does my name ring a bell?"
"No, I'm afraid not." Charlie struggled to maintain professionalism. "I'm a cop. Sometimes people think of something they'd forgotten after we talk, but your name doesn't strike any cords. I'm sorry. I'll check my files." She had another thought. "How long have you had my number? Does the name Seth Taggart mean anything to you?"
"I don't know. And, no. The name means nothing."
Charlie latched onto his first response. "You don't know how long you've had my number?" She knew she sounded incredulous.
Again, the momentary silence on his end before he spoke. The man's caution while feeding her information piecemeal drove her nuts. His next words, however, weren't confusing—they were shocking…and compelling, filling her once again with hope.