Double Jeopardy

Would she ever feel safe?

Anne’s thoughts kept churning through the morass of danger that lurked. Would a hit man slit her throat as she slept? As she came out of the school building? Went to the grocery store?

And what of Professor Patrick McClain? And how much she enjoyed being around him?

Thinking about Patrick was more productive than worrying about the threat she couldn’t control. There was something very steady and reassuring about him that drew her in and made her wish he could see her as she really was.

But she couldn’t afford to get attached to anyone. She was pretty sure she could keep from revealing her past, but she wasn’t sure that she could keep her lonely heart from wanting what she couldn’t have.

A friend. Love. A life without fear.

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

TERRI REED

At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill Books. Her second book, A Sheltering Love, was a 2006 RITA® Award Finalist and a 2005 National Reader’s Choice Award Finalist. Her book Strictly Confidential, book five of the Faith at the Crossroads continuity series, took third place in the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Award. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.

You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280, or visit her on the Web at www.loveinspiredauthors.com, or leave comments on her blog at http://ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com/.

Double Jeopardy

Terri Reed

And those who know your name put their trust

in you; for you, O Lord, have not forsaken

those who seek you.

—Psalms 9:10

To my children; you are my joy and my blessing.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

PROLOGUE

March

Gunfire!

The plush private suite on the top floor of the Palisades Casino and Resort in downtown Atlantic City, New Jersey rocked with the deafening noise of gunfire, echoed by the screams of its once-privileged occupants.

The woman’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs and a cry burst from her lungs. The tray of glasses she held fell to the carpeted floor with a thud, the liquor soaking the rug. The stench of alcohol mixed with the smell of gunpowder. A potent combination.

She dove behind the free-standing bar. Crouched and shuddering with terror, she clapped her hands over her ears to muffle the retort of weapons firing and the sounds of men dying.

“Oh, God in Heaven, please, help me,” she prayed, rocking on her heels. She didn’t know why she was praying. Did God even exist? But if there was a time to glom on to any hope that He was real, now was that time.

A man’s body dropped to the floor beside her. She gasped. Jean Luc Versailles, the owner of the Palisades, groaned. Thankfully he wasn’t dead, but a deep crimson stain spread across the white dress shirt beneath his tuxedo jacket.

Adrenaline pumping, she grabbed him by the arm and struggled to drag him closer to the relative safety behind the bar. Tears clogged her throat and ran down her cheeks. He had always been nice to her.

“You have to get out of here,” Jean Luc said with a croak, his voice expressing the pain reflected in his dark eyes.

“You’re hurt,” she said inanely, her mind trying to recall her first-aid training from high school P.E. Like that had prepared her to deal with a gunshot wound.

Pressure. She had to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Gagging from the sight and smell of blood, she yanked two bar towels from the shelf beside her and pressed them to his shoulder. She cringed as more gunshots filled the air.

His hand fastened around her wrist like a vise. “My jacket pocket. Get my wallet.”

Keeping one hand firmly on the towels, she slid out his black leather billfold from the inside pocket of his tailor-made jacket with her free hand.

“Now what?” she asked.

He closed her hand tightly around the billfold and thrust it against her stomach. “Take the money. Use it. Disappear.” He let go of her and pushed himself up to a seated position, the bar at his back. “Escape through the wall panel. Run and don’t stop. Go.”

Acutely aware of the massacre taking place on the other side of the bar, she whispered, “I can’t leave you. We need the police.”

“No police.” He struggled to his knees, swayed slightly, and reached around her. From behind several liquor bottles he pulled out a large silver gun.

She shrank back, wishing she’d called in sick today. Wishing Jean Luc hadn’t invited Raoul Domingo to his private suite. Wishing she were anywhere but here.

But wishing never did any good.

His dark gaze pierced her. “On three.”

“What about you?”

He got a foot beneath him. “Just go. One. Two.” He staggered to his feet, the gun raised in his shaky hand. “Three!”

Self-preservation, survival instinct, whatever, took over. She scrambled to her feet and in a half-crouch ran toward the mirrored wall.

The sight reflected there made her stumble. Her heart thumped in her chest. Anticipation wound a tight knot in her gut.

Any moment the blast of a bullet would slam into her. But she didn’t want to die here today. Every muscle in her body, tightened in readiness, made movement painful.

She flung the potted fichus out of the way and pushed desperately at the edge of the mirrored wall.

A slight click and the wall opened. She squeezed through into Jean Luc’s opulent private bedroom in the hotel. The blur of red satin and black leather assaulted her already heightened senses as she dashed for the door leading to the hall on this floor.

Cautiously she peered out.

The corridor was empty. Too afraid to wait for an elevator, she rushed to the stairwell and descended the stairs as rapidly as she could without flying face-first into the concrete walls. She hit the outside door with her whole body and stumbled into the hotel staff’s section of the underground garage.

Through the sea of employee cars she saw no one, friend or foe. She raced toward where she parked, fumbling to get her key out of her pants pocket.

Her little blue hatchback was a welcome sight. With shaky hands, she unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The gears ground as she shifted into Reverse and almost simultaneously pressed on the gas.

The small car shot backward. She slammed on the brake and shifted into Drive. Her foot pounced on the gas and the car rocketed forward, the tires squealing as she zipped around the curved lot and jetted out onto the dark, deserted street. This late at night people were either at home asleep or inside one of the many casinos along the strip.

She drove, hardly paying attention to the direction she headed until she came to a screeching halt at a red light. Her breathing came shallow and fast. She checked the rearview mirror. As far as she could tell, no one had followed her.

Hopefully she’d had enough of a head start that she could stop somewhere and figure out what to do. Where to go. She needed to go to the police.

Because she’d witnessed murder.

Jean Luc had said no police. But Jean Luc was dead.

Her stomach roiled with terror.

Nothing she’d ever faced in her life had prepared her for this.

She pulled the car into the parking lot of a fast food joint. The bright fluorescent sign illuminated the inside of the car. She’d thrown Jean Luc’s wallet on the passenger seat.

Now she picked up the supple leather and thumbed through the contents. Her eyes widened at the number of hundred-and thousand-dollar bills inside the wallet. She swallowed hard.

He’d planned on dying when he’d given her the money.

Heart aching at his sacrifice, she let loose with fresh tears. He’d been a kind and thoughtful employer.

He’d once said she reminded him of his little sister. She didn’t know if that was true but she had liked him and admired him.

A pang pierced her heart.

He’d given his life to set her free.

And doomed her to a life of fear.

Did she dare take the time to go back to her loft apartment? Was there anything there worth grabbing? Thanks to Jean Luc, she had enough cash to start over anywhere she wanted.

Only…she couldn’t forget the image she’d seen in the mirror seconds before she’d made her escape.

A gun firing at Jean Luc, his body crumpling to the floor.

The expression of hatred on the man holding the gun that delivered the fatal bullet would forever be seared on her brain.

A man she recognized.

The cold eyes of Raoul Domingo would haunt her nightmares.

Where could she hide that was far enough out of reach from New Jersey’s most feared mob boss?

Lieutenant Lidia Taylor, Chief State Investigator for the Atlantic County Major Crimes Squad, walked out of the interrogation room with frustration pulsing in her veins. Yes, Jean Luc Versailles’s Thai girlfriend, Nikki Song, confirmed that the casino owner had set up a meeting with Raoul Domingo for that night. But knowing about a meeting and proving Domingo was a murderer were two different things.

“Good work,” General Investigator Section Detective Rick Grand, Lidia’s partner, stated when he met her in the hall, his voice full of respect.

“It isn’t enough. I’ve already got D.A. Porter breathing down my neck on this.”

“I have two resort guests who will swear they saw Domingo and his gang get in the elevator,” Rick replied.

More frustration kicked Lidia in the gut. “That still doesn’t put him in the suite or the gun in his hand. We need to find that girl on the video.” The hotel’s security camera had shown a woman running out of the hotel employee entrance a few minutes after Versailles’s death.

Rick smiled like a Cheshire cat sitting on the moon. “I have a lead on another person who might be able to put Domingo in the same room with Jean Luc.”

Lidia stilled. “Details.”

“Housekeeping had a maid scheduled to attend to Jean Luc’s private room right about the time Domingo entered the elevator. The maid never returned to finish her shift.”

“Who else knows about this?”

Rick shrugged. “Just you and me. And housekeeping.”

Exhaling an adrenaline laced breath, Lidia said, “Find me that maid before Domingo does.”

“Hey, Taylor,” called the desk sergeant, Morales, from the end of the hall, his weathered face glowing with interest. “I’ve got a live one for you.”

Lidia followed the heavyset officer to the public waiting room.

A long-haired blond woman sat in a hard plastic chair near the vending machine. Her frightened blue gaze kept darting to the door as if either expecting someone to come in or as if she were contemplating running out.

“Can I help you?” Lidia asked as she stopped in front of the woman, blocking he exit.

Slowly the young woman stood. Blood splattered the front of her gold and black uniform. The same uniform worn by the hotel staff at the Palisades Casino. Anticipation hit Lidia like the business end of a Taser.

The woman spoke, her voice low and shaky. “My name in Anne Jones. I want to report a murder.”

ONE

May

“Really, Patrick, this won’t be as disruptive as you imagine. The new computers and software are very easy to navigate. They will just take a little getting used to.”

Patrick McClain stared at the Web site for the fancy new system as Sharon Hastings, the Economics Department staff administrator, pointed to the computer monitor sitting on her desk.

Sharon was efficient and talented at her job, but whenever Patrick entered her domain of scattered files and stacks of papers, he had to wonder how she accomplished anything. The array of clutter made him itch.

Patrick twitched his shoulders beneath his tweed sport coat. “What’s wrong with the computers we have now?”

In her mid-sixties with graying hair held in a loose bun at her nape and rows of sparkly beaded necklaces hanging down her front, Sharon was a throwback to the seventies, despite her tech savvy. She sighed with a good dose of patience that always brought heat to Patrick’s cheeks.

“The school received a grant to buy the new computers. We need to update and stay with the times,” she stated calmly.

He understood, but that didn’t mean he had to like the change. All of his work was on his computer. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Sharon’s lined face spread into an understanding smile. “Don’t worry. We have temps coming in to do the software integration. You won’t have to do a thing until you have the new notebook computer in your hand. This will be very freeing and much more time-efficient, since you will be able to take your computer home with you and work there instead of coming on campus every weekend.”

Taking a cloth from his sport coat’s front pocket, he removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses. He thought about his apartment in Boston’s Back Bay. His name was on the lease and he did sleep there occasionally, but he didn’t consider the stark walls and stiff furniture home.

No, the house he grew up in was home.

But his mother had made it clear recently that she didn’t want him coming “home” so often. She’d lamented that it was time for him to get a life. And for her to start living again.

Whatever that meant.

“Well, I just hope whomever you have working on this is competent,” Patrick stated and replaced his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

Sharon inclined her head. “I’m sure they will be.” A knock sounded at the door of Sharon’s office. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened and a young woman, devoid of any hint of makeup, who looked to be in her early twenties, stepped inside. Her short burgundy-red hair spiked up in all directions and her big violet-colored eyes showed hesitance and wariness as she glanced at Patrick. She wore an ill-fitting dress suit and though the drab brown fabric hung off her shoulders, Patrick’s gaze fell to the hem of her skirt where her shapely calves were emphasized by heeled pumps.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” the woman said in a soft voice.

“We were just finishing,” Patrick offered, feeling the need to banish her uncertainty.

She smiled slightly, and the soft curving of her mouth unexpectedly grabbed at his chest. She turned her gaze to Sharon. “Mrs. Hastings?”

Sharon stood and came around the desk to offer her hand. “I am. And you are…?”

“Anne Johnson. The admin office sent me up.”

“Ah, my temp. Did they explain the project to you?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. I was just telling Professor McClain about the new computer system.”

A strange lump formed in Patrick’s stomach. This young, fresh-faced student was not his idea of a competent person to handle such sensitive material.

He gave Sharon a sharp-eyed glance. If she noticed his disapproval she ignored it. Instead Sharon pretty much dismissed him by pulling Miss Johnson toward the computer to show off the new notebook-style system that would be arriving within the next few days.

The cell phone attached to his belt vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID. His sister. He needed to take the call, but he wanted to stay and learn more about this temp that would be working on the computer issue.

“I’ll be going now,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to hide his irritation at being ignored by the two ladies.

Sharon nodded distractedly. Patrick met Miss Johnson’s wide-eyed stare for a moment before she hastily dropped her violet gaze. The impact of those interestingly colored eyes left him slightly off balance. He frowned some more. He didn’t like being off balance.

He stepped out into the corridor and flipped open his phone. “Meggie?”

He listened to his sister’s tear-filled tirade. Finally he interrupted, “Meg, have you talked to Dr. Miller about this? Hon, you know how the subway upsets you, so why do you insist on taking it?” He tried to keep the frustration from his voice, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“No, I’m not upset with you. Things here are a bit…stressful.”

He acknowledged her suggestion that he see a psychologist for stress management. “I’ll take that into consideration. Promise me no more subway rides. Take a cab or walk. Isn’t that one of the reasons you moved to Manhattan was so you could walk instead of sit in a car?

“I love you, too, sis.”

He hung up with a sigh. As proud as he was of his little sister for forging out a life in the art world which she was passionate about, he couldn’t help but worry. Her obsessive-compulsive disorder flare-ups seemed to be more frequent the more she tried to push herself to overcome the disorder. But at least she knew he’d always be here for her.

As he headed back down the hall of the fourth floor of the main building on the lower campus of Boston College, Patrick’s thoughts turned back to the new computer system and he decided he’d double backup all of his work, just in case. He was not going to trust the wide-eyed Miss Johnson with his life’s work.

Lidia entered the outer office of the District Attorney, Christopher Porter, in the old courthouse of Atlantic City. The wood paneled walls and wooden desk made the small space seem cramped. In the corner next to the filing cabinet, where a woman in a blue sweater and navy slacks sat with an open drawer in front of her, a limp palm tree tried to bring some color to the room.

The woman turned as Lidia noisily closed the door behind her.

“Lieutenant Taylor?”

Lidia nodded and flashed her badge at the mousy brown-haired woman. Her pale face and unrefined features were dominated by wide hazel eyes. The name plate on the desk read Jane Corbin.

“You may go in, he’s expecting you,” Jane said, her voice low and timid. She adjusted her sweater over her ample chest and turned back to the filing cabinet.

So much for chitchat. Lidia gave one solid knock on the wood door before entering. Porter sat at his desk, his gaze on a report in front of him. His salt and pepper hair caught the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window behind him. He looked up and pinned her to the floor with his intense gray eyes. “Hello, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”

Lidia sat across the scarred pine desk. Porter didn’t waste time with pleasantries but went right to reviewing the details of Domingo’s arrest.

Domingo’s DNA matched the blood found at the crime scene. They had him on tape entering the hotel and exiting through a service door during the time of the murders. And they had an eyewitness. It couldn’t get better than that.

For over two hours, Porter shot off questions and she shot right back with answers.

But no matter how much he pushed Lidia, he wouldn’t find any flaw in the investigation or the arrest of Domingo. They’d done everything by the letter of the law. No way would Domingo walk on a technicality from the homicide division.

From this point on, the burden to convict lay with the D.A.’s office.

Tired and hungry, she finally barked, “Enough.” If she didn’t get out of the musty office she was going to scream.

Porter started, his sharp gray eyes widening slightly. He wasn’t accustomed to her abrupt manner but in time, if they continued to work together, she had no doubt, he’d get used to her.

“All right. Fine. For now.” He closed the file lying in front of him with a snap. “We have a solid case. As long as our witnesses continue to cooperate, we should see Domingo behind bars by summer’s end.”

“They’ll cooperate,” Lidia assured him with confidence. The three witnesses all claimed to have held Jean Luc Versailles in high regard. All three were reluctant to come forward but thankfully were doing the right thing.

“They’re secure?”

Frustration twisted in her gut. “Two are in WITSEC. One refused, but is in hiding. We’ve maintained contact with all three.”

“I’m pushing to have the case moved up on the docket. But you know the system.”

“Yeah, like molasses in a freeze.”

Porter gave her a sidelong glance as he closed and then picked up his briefcase. “Where are you originally from?”

“Michigan.”

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

“You have a way about you that’s different.

Heat crept into her cheeks. “O-kay.”

“I like it,” he said.

His grin disarmed her. He really was handsome. How had she not realized that before? Sharp, cool and calm under pressure. His thick graying hair once had been very dark but the lighter strands were attractive. She liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

Lidia mentally stepped back and assessed the situation. He was a widower, like herself. They were colleagues, working toward a common goal. She’d seen him at church a few times. All pluses. Before she could talk herself out of it, she asked, “Want to grab a bite to eat?”

“Love to.” He held the door open for her.

A confused mixture of pleasure and angst stretched through her system. “Great.” Lidia walked out of the office and in the hall, very aware of Porter’s hand at her elbow.

She couldn’t believe it. She had just asked the D.A. out to dinner. She hadn’t been on a date in at least five years and had no intention of starting a relationship beyond the confines of work.

So why was she so looking forward to the evening?

Two days after she’d first stepped onto the campus of Boston College, Anne found herself lugging Professor McClain’s new notebook to his office on the second floor. She hefted the box a little higher so she could knock on the professor’s door. She waited a moment before knocking again. When no reply came, she shifted the box to her hip and tried the door handle. Locked.

“Great,” she muttered and bent to put the box on the floor. Once free of the encumbering box, she shook out her arms and stretched her back. She’d sent the good professor a note telling him she’d be delivering his computer at five o’clock, long after his last class of the day ended.

She checked her watch. Okay, so she was a few minutes early. Still.

She leaned against the smooth green-painted wall to wait. At least the halls were empty and peaceful. So far her job as a BC temp was going well. Boston College lay in the suburb of Newton, eight miles outside of Boston proper. Newton Center had lots of coffee houses and wonderful trinket shops. Plus a commuter train stop that could take her into Boston when she wanted. She really liked the area. Too bad she wouldn’t be staying long.