DADDY WITH A BADGE Read online

  There was one bright spot however. Her own silver lining. A tired smile curved her lips as she pressed her hand to her swelling tummy. Jonathan had given her a baby.

  Her baby, and Lyssa's, not his. Never his.

  As desperate as she was financially, she had still gotten the best of the bargain. Perhaps that was the best revenge, she thought with a small measure of satisfaction.

  "Miz Fabrizio, you still with me?"

  "Still here." Barely. "Uh, tell you what, Bruno, let me see what I can do about raising the money, and I'll call you on Tuesday."

  "Yes ma'am. I'll be waiting." He cleared his throat. "Uh, Miz Fabrizio, say you wasn't able to come up with the money, I'd be willing to take that old hatchback off your hands for … say, four hunnert."

  She sucked in a breath. "Cash on the barrelhead?" she couldn't resist asking as her headache suddenly increased exponentially.

  "Why yes, ma'am." He chuckled. "You might do you some askin' around before you accept, but I promise you, it's a right fair offer. You're not gonna get a better one."

  Her throat was suddenly clogged with tears. Somehow she managed to thank Bruno before putting down the phone. And then, alone in the office that was the only thing Jonathan hadn't been able to steal, she buried her face in her arms and cried.

  * * *

  Finally, after frustrating months of mistaken identities and dead ends, they'd scared up a lead. It was thin, little more than wishful thinking but even that was more than they'd had in weeks of chasing down dead-end leads.

  Rafe had been running on the treadmill in the Treasury Building's basement gym when Gresham had come charging in, waving a fax from the Portland, Oregon office. The local authorities had put out a "wanted for questioning" alert for a man using the name Jonathan Sommerset who matched Folsom's description.

  The charge was credit card fraud, swindling and forgery. The suspect's M.O. was strikingly similar. A "chance" meeting with a lonely widow on a luxury cruise to Acapulco, a whirlwind courtship ending in a romantic wedding in a chapel on the beach before sailing home.

  The honeymoon had scarcely been over before he'd managed to have his name added to the deed to his bride's house and the title of a nearly new Lexus sedan. Naturally, he had insisted on adding her name to the deeds to his condo on Maui and the flat in San Francisco as well as his brokerage account and savings accounts, all of which existed only on official looking documents Folsom had created on his laptop computer. In turn, she'd given him total access to her bank and savings accounts, both of which were all too genuine.

  Then, as was his pattern, he had convinced her to invest in a revolutionary new method of converting sawdust to decking material impervious to weather and pests. The process was real, as were the reams of supporting documentation. Only the stock certificates were phony.

  Ten weeks after the wedding Sommerset arranged to take his wife and stepdaughter to England as a birthday surprise for the girl. Two days before departing, he'd pleaded a sudden business emergency, sending them on ahead. Excuse followed excuse until three weeks had passed. By the time the woman had gotten suspicious and flown home, Folsom had systematically emptied her bank accounts, sold her home and all the furnishings and maxed her credit cards before disappearing.

  That had been almost three months ago, long enough for the trail to have gotten colder than a hooker's heart. Picking the victim's brain for some forgotten detail, some chance recollection that might put them on the scent again was their only hope.

  They'd been on the red-eye that same night, landing at Portland just as the sun was rising this morning. The head of the Service's local office had lent them a vehicle, a no-frills sedan that smelled like a Texas honky-tonk, and drawn a map to the Portland PD precinct that had caught the case.

  Even though it was raining steadily, Rafe had cracked the windows, front and back. The breeze that streamed through was flavored with pine and brought back memories of the crowded migrant camp by the river where he'd spent the first seventeen years of his life.

  He shifted until his shoulders were wedged against the door. Even then and with the seat pushed back all the way, he couldn't stretch out his legs far enough to get comfortable.

  Damn, he hated this, he thought sourly. Memories were a bitch, especially the mean, gut-twisting kind that snuck under a man's guard to deliver a sucker punch to the solar plexus. He'd known it was going to be rough being in Oregon again, but he'd figured to handle it fast and dirty, no more than forty-eight hours to find out all he needed to know, then he'd be outta here again. For good, this time.

  It wasn't until he'd met with Detective Sergeant Case Randolph and heard the name of the victim that he'd known just how rough.

  Twenty years ago he'd been wildly, blindly in love with Daniela Mancini.

  In the case folder had been a photograph, taken of the happy couple right after their wedding. It was like a slice in his heart to see the photo of his adorable Princess looking stunningly happy in a flowing white Mexican wedding dress, her dark eyes glowing as she looked up into the face of Jacob Folsom.

  He'd spent a lot of years telling himself she'd probably gotten fat and sour-tempered. Just his luck the young girl who had been a beauty at sixteen had matured into a sensuous, elegant lady with a body that could make a dead man weep.

  "Nice neighborhood, this. Real homey like, you know. Almost makes a guy want to settle down and raise himself a couple of kids."

  Jarred from his dark thoughts by the sound of Seth Gresham's perfect prep-school diction, Rafe opened his tired eyes long enough to shoot his talkative partner a sardonic look.

  "Thought you were committed to playing the field." In contrast to Seth's cultured voice, his own was strictly blue-collar and inclined toward hoarseness when he was tired, a residual affect of the tube they'd stuck down his throat to keep him breathing. Women tended to consider the gruff texture a turn-on, something he wasn't above using to his advantage when it suited him.

  "I said 'almost,' compadre," Gresham tossed back with a grin. "As long as the ladies keep smiling back, I'm keeping my options open."

  Seth nudged the seat back another notch and loosened his tie before pulling a folder from the hand-sewn briefcase at his feet. Inside were copies of Sergeant Randolph's notes.

  The man had lousy handwriting, but he knew his stuff. It was a textbook report, concisely detailed, every question Rafe might have had answered. Just in case, he read it twice. By the time he'd finished the second read, his gut was twisted into an icy knot.

  It was Folsom, all right. Rafe would bet his farm on it, the one he'd bought in the Maryland countryside about ten years back when he'd felt the need to have space and fresh air around him. He felt the same way now.

  "Taxi just turned the corner."

  Without moving, Rafe opened his eyes and glanced toward the end of the street. Mill Works Ridge was only two blocks long. On one side, far below the street was the mighty Columbia River. On the other was an alley leading back to Waverly Avenue, the main access road.

  His gut tightened as the cab pulled to the curve in front of the house listed on the crime report as Danni's address.

  "What the hell?" Gresham muttered under his breath as he shot to a sitting position.

  "Could be a visitor."

  "Definitely female," Gresham said as the passenger struggled to get out of the cab's back seat. Swathed in a bright red slicker, she made a vivid splash against the gray landscape.

  As she emerged and straightened, Rafe felt his world tilt. It was Danni. And she was pregnant.

  * * *

  A driving rain stung Danni's face and obscured her vision as she struggled to balance two bulging grocery sacks, and the large shoulder bag that served as both a briefcase and purse. Ducking her head deeper into the slicker's hood, she edged crab-like toward the curb, only to have a sudden gust of wind bang the cab's door against her hip.

  "Thanks for all the help," she muttered in the direction of the grossly overweight cabby with real
ly bad body odor who had refused to leave the protection of his equally smelly cab to help carry the groceries to her front door.

  "Fact of life, lady," he said with a shrug. "I get paid to drive. Anything else costs extra."

  Extra she didn't have. "I'd hate to have your karma," she muttered before ducking her head against the stinging drops.

  Struggling against the wind, she finally made it to the safety of the curb, then turned awkwardly to slam the cab door. As she did, one of the sodden bags tore, spilling the contents into the muddy water surging along the gutter. Cold spray hit her shins as cans thudded onto the pavement. A large can of tomato juice smashed her toes, sending pain shooting through her foot.

  She jerked back, only to lose her balance. With a cry, she dropped the other bag, and reached out desperately to keep herself from falling. He came from nowhere, a large man in a dark suit moving fast. An instant later, she was wedged against a chest as hard as granite, her head tucked against a bronzed throat. Steely arms held her steady while his wide back sheltered her from the rain and wind.

  "Easy, I've got you." The voice came from far above her head, a deep baritone with a faintly hoarse quality. She smelled soap on damp skin and felt the edge of a starched collar against her cheek. Heart thudding, she clutched at the strong arms supporting her.

  "Don't be frightened, Daniela, we're Federal agents."

  Federal agents? Men in Black, or in this case a lovely charcoal gray? In safe and solid Mill Works Ridge, the same community known affectionately as Maternity Row? Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. She fought it down. Later, she would fall apart

  "If you're IRS, you're wasting your time. The old blood and turnip thing. I'm the turnip."

  She thought he chuckled before she remembered that government types had no humor. "Good thing we're Treasury, not IRS, then."

  He loosened his hold but kept his arms around her. After straightening carefully, she pushed back her hood so that she could see his face. At the same time he lowered his head so that his gaze met hers, and for a moment she felt as though she were poised at the top of a ski run, with a pristine slope of freshly-groomed powder falling away in a dizzying drop below.

  She knew that face. Oh, how she knew it! Once she'd held it in her mind so that she would fall asleep thinking of him. After he'd left her, his image had tormented her in dreams for months.

  The proud angles and strong planes were more sharply chiseled now, but still breathtaking. Beneath slashing brows the color of sun-washed sand, his eyes were an unusual sage green with sun crinkles at the corners and dense lashes. His chin was solid, with a hint of a cleft, his features boldly drawn, as though with swift, angry strokes on an imperfect canvas—all but his lips which had the smallest of curves at one corner. Like the beginning of the sweetest of smiles.

  It wasn't really a smile, but a scar, one she'd put there herself when she'd been six and he'd been eight. He'd caught her crying because her brothers had gone fishing and left her behind, so he'd taken her to his own favorite spot along the Little Applegate.

  Instead of a steelhead, she'd hooked him, then in her dismay jerked hard on the line, slicing his mouth as the hook pulled free. Blood had spurted like a fountain, and she'd gotten hysterical. He had ended up comforting her.

  "My God, Rafe?"

  His mouth slanted. That same cleanly defined mouth that had brushed hers in her first real kiss. "So you do remember. I'm flattered."

  Remember? How could she forget? Suddenly cold to the marrow, she shivered violently.

  His face changed, growing hard. "Give me your hand. You need to get inside."

  Somehow she drew herself taller, pitting her five foot four inch admittedly out of shape form against six feet three inches of hard-bitten, decidedly intimidating muscle. "I'm not moving an inch until you tell me why you're suddenly on my doorstep after twenty years."

  "We'll talk inside."

  "Oh no we—"

  His gaze narrowed, acting remarkably like a whiplash. She refused to be afraid. "Inside, Daniela. Maybe you're immune to pneumonia, but I'm not."

  Without waiting for permission, he slipped the strap of her briefcase from her shoulder and slung it over his own, before tucking a big hand beneath her elbow. She started to turn, only to have his hand tighten.

  "Gresham!"

  Startled by the sudden bark of command, she glanced up to find him looking over his shoulder. As though conjured by Rafe's will alone, a tall, dark-haired man appeared, his suit blue instead of gray, his tie knotted in the same full Windsor Mark had preferred.

  Ice blue eyes in a tanned, aristocratic face met hers with frank curiosity as he inclined his head a polite two inches then waited while Rafe performed a perfunctory introduction.

  "Dr. Daniela Fabrizio, meet Special Agent Seth Gresham, of the Greenwich Greshams."

  The young agent's mouth curved into a boyish grin. "A pleasure, ma'am."

  "Agent." Her voice came out too thin, and she took a fast breath. Heart thudding, she willed herself to calm down. Adrenaline wasn't good for the baby. It wasn't all that good for the baby's mom, either, she realized, as the dull headache that had gotten worse while she stood in the checkout lane took on a sharper edge.

  "I need to get Dr. Fabrizio inside," Rafe informed his partner curtly. "Make sure that rubbernecking cabby's not thinking about calling out 911 on us, then get the damn groceries."

  "Yes sir." Gresham shifted his gaze to her, then asked politely, "Ma'am, are you square with the driver?" His voice was Eastern, the diction perfect.

  "Unfortunately, yes, the jerk." She drew back to glare at the cab driver who was leaning forward, staring white-faced through the passenger's window. "Took my tip, then refused to move his fat … self to help me."

  Rafe's gaze flicked toward the cab. "Might be a good idea to rattle his chain a little, make him rethink the way he treats his paying passengers."

  "Be a pleasure," Gresham said, his grin flashing white again before he turned away. The wind blew his coat back, revealing a gun in a holster hugging his side.

  "Are you sure he's old enough to carry a gun?" she muttered, feeling more ancient by the moment.

  "He's old enough." Rafe tightened his grip and helped her up the two short steps to the brick walk.

  Grateful for his support, she concentrated on sidestepping the puddles formed by the walk's uneven surface. Water from the gutter squished in her sodden shoes, and her last pair of panty hose were now spattered with mud. To add insult to injury her mashed toes hurt like the very dickens, making her limp.

  "What's wrong?" he demanded after only a few steps.

  "I was attacked by a can of tomato juice," she shot back impatiently.

  "Why the hell didn't you say so?"

  "Because it's silly and—" Her voice ended in a gasp as she was suddenly swept off her feet and into his arms.

  "Anyone ever tell you you're supposed to take care of yourself when you're pregnant?" he grated close to her ear.

  Only everyone from her father and her doctor, Luke Jarrod, all the way down to Bruno of automotive repair fame, she thought peevishly. "I am doing my very best, I assure you," she said with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances.

  Behind her, she heard the cab roar away, leaving more foul air behind. Though it wasn't quite six-thirty, the gloom had caused the streetlights to wink on. The rain was coming down harder, now, driven sideways by the wind.

  "Is your daughter home?" he asked as they neared the small porch with its rose-covered trellis.

  "No, Lys is…" She stopped abruptly and narrowed her gaze suspiciously. "How did you know I have a daughter?"

  "It was in the file," he said as he climbed the three steps to the porch.

  "What file?"

  "Later." As he swung her around, her sleeve brushed one of the lavender roses climbing the terraces, and she caught a whiff of its perfume. Roses in the rain, her favorite scent.

  "Where's your house key?"

&n
bsp; "In my briefcase. If you'll just put me down, I'll—"

  "Gresham, get your butt over here and unlock the damned door!"

  She winced. What did he have to be so angry about? She was the one whose life was imploding. Reminding herself that she was a responsible, mature adult and not an hysterical six-year-old, she drew back her head and treated him to her coolest shrink look. "Wouldn't it be more sensible if you just put me down and let me unlock the damned door?"

  "Probably." He flicked her an impatient glance. "In case you haven't noticed, you're still shivering."

  She hadn't actually, but she noticed now. Noticed, too, that her head was splitting. Even more annoying for a woman who prided herself on her coping skills, it was becoming a struggle to keep her mind from wandering off on odd little side trips. Like remembering the last time she was smashed up against that muscular chest.

  They'd both been naked and…

  Oh God, don't think about that now, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. It had taken years—years—before she stopped remembering every touch, every kiss, every fevered word they'd spoken to each other in the heat of passion.

  "Sorry, had to get the rest of the oranges," Gresham said as he vaulted up the steps. "Sneaky little suckers rolled halfway down the block."

  Remembering the sodden bags, she started to ask him how he'd managed when she saw the dark blue tote bag slung over a shoulder that wasn't nearly as broad as Rafe's. A stalk of celery protruded through the open zipper. Grateful for the distraction, Danni burst out laughing, then winced as pain crashed through her skull.

  Rafe jerked his attention to her face. He'd spent time recently in the sun and the same rays that had burned his tan to a golden bronze had bleached his brows to a tawny hue. "What's wrong now?" he demanded impatiently.

  "Trust me, you don't want to know." She sighed. "Even I don't want to know all the things that are wrong in my life at the moment."

  His mouth softened, and time seemed to spin backward to the innocent days when she had run to him with all her problems, confident he would make everything better. "Put your head on my shoulder, Daniela," he commanded in that oddly hoarse voice.