Stolen Memory. Virginia KantraЧитать онлайн книгу.
She could be mistaking sex for love.
That would be female. Foolish. Like her. She had known Simon for less than two weeks. Maybe she was letting loss and loneliness and incredible sex blind her not only to what she had to do but to what she really felt.
But she didn’t think so.
She hadn’t just fallen for a hunky Mensa millionaire. Okay, the incredible body and amazing mind were a definite plus. But she liked his integrity, his perception, his calm competence and cool humor. She admired the way he took care of others who only wanted to take from him.
No way was she joining their ranks.
She’d come back to the island with Simon tonight because he wasn’t safe alone. But her focus had to be on this case. Her self-respect depended on it.
And so could his life.
Stolen Memory
Virginia Kantra
VIRGINIA KANTRA
credits her enthusiasm for strong heroes and courageous heroines to a childhood spent devouring fairy tales. A four-time Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she has won numerous writing awards, including two National Readers’ Choice Awards.
Virginia is married to her college sweetheart, a musician disguised as the owner of a coffeehouse. They make their home in North Carolina with three teenagers, two cats, a dog and various blue-tailed lizards that live under the siding of their house. Her favorite thing to make for dinner? Reservations.
She loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at [email protected] or c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY, 10279.
Special thanks to Lt. A. J. Carter, Criminal Investigation, Durham Police Department; to Pam Baustian and Melissa McClone; and, always, to Michael.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 1
No man is an island.
But reclusive inventor Simon Ford could afford to buy one. He’d built his modern-day castle on a limestone cliff in the middle of a lake, two miles off-shore from the town of Eden, Illinois.
Detective Laura Baker didn’t want to be impressed by Ford’s mansion or his money. Which was too bad, because from the inside his multimillion-dollar house was even more imposing than it had looked from the water. She followed Ford’s squat, muscled butler—who had a butler anymore? Besides maybe Batman—across the polished stone floor. Soaring wood, jutting stone and wide panes of glass framed the views and let in the light.
Jeez. Her entire apartment would fit inside Ford’s foyer.
Laura resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her uniform pants and stuffed them in her pockets instead. This could be considered a crime scene. She wasn’t about to contaminate it by touching anything. Besides, the butler guy was watching her like he expected her to make a grab for the family silver or something.
He lumbered in front of her to a broad, shallow staircase that spilled down to a room lined with windows and furnished in natural woods and neutrals. A massive fireplace split the view. The only spot of color in the room, a violent collision of oranges, purples and reds over the mantel, seemed jarringly out of place.
Silhouetted against the sparkling lake was a big, dark, solitary figure. Ford?
Something about him—the powerful line of his back, maybe, or the rigid set of his shoulders—brought Laura to attention. Beneath her heavy Kevlar vest, her heart beat faster.
Stupid. She was not impressed, she reminded herself. She would not be intimidated. She touched her elbow to the gun at her waist for reassurance.
Her guide stopped at the top of the stairs and scowled. “The police are here.”
“Thank you, Quinn.” The tall figure didn’t turn around. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”
Quinn shot Laura a resentful look. She returned it blandly. As the only female on Eden’s small police force, she was used to men who considered her presence an invasion of their turf.
“Right,” Quinn said, and stomped away.
Ford pivoted from the glass. His head lifted sharply. “You’re not Chief Denko.”
Good deduction. The man should have been a detective.
“Detective Baker,” Laura said.
“Simon Ford.” He surveyed her a moment, silently. With the light behind him, she couldn’t see his face.
A disadvantage, she thought, and wondered if he’d positioned himself deliberately.
“I asked for Chief Denko,” he said.
And whatever the almighty Simon Ford asked for, Laura gathered from that deep, abrupt voice, the almighty Simon Ford got.
Except this time.
She kept her cop mask firmly in place. “It’s Memorial Day weekend, Mr. Ford. We see a lot of traffic and handle a lot of calls over the holidays.” Which you would know if you ever bothered to get involved in the community. “Chief Denko was called to an accident scene.”
A pileup on Highway 12 that had pulled patrol cars and snarled traffic for miles. She was missing all the excitement.
“But you are a detective?”
“That’s right,” she said, doing her best not to sound defensive. Her rank was very new. She’d completed her training with the district attorney’s office in Fox Hole less than six months ago.
“Then why are you in uniform?”
Laura frowned. Somehow this interview had gotten turned around. He shouldn’t be the one asking questions.
“In a small department like ours, detectives have to be prepared to do double duty. And most tourists respond better to an officer in uniform.” Not that her uniform seemed to be having a similar effect on Ford. She cleared her throat. “The dispatcher said you had a situation out here?”
“Yes.” He didn’t elaborate.
She waited. Maybe now that Ford had a detective on site, he regretted calling. It happened. Somebody claimed an item was stolen and then discovered they’d misplaced it. Or got pissed off at a neighbor’s kids and then relented. A lot of police work wasn’t solving crimes but soothing tempers. Civil assists, the chief called them, but he was adamant his officers respond to every call with professional attention.
“You want to tell me about it?” Laura invited.
Ford studied her, still with his back to the light. And then he said, abruptly, “My lab was broken into.”
All righty. Now they