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Under His Protection
Amy J. Fetzer
HE WAS SWORN TO UPHOLD THE LAWDetective Nash Couviyon never let emotion interfere with duty. But when his former flame Lisa Bracket was the victim of a frame-up, he knew he had to help her clear her name. Although Nash had thought he'd never see Lisa again, desire for her had always burned inside him. To the untrained eye she looked guilty. However, Nash knew Lisa was innocent of murder, and when she became the victim of a series of attacks, he knew his instincts had proved right. Now the only way to keep her safe and draw out the true killer was to place Lisa under his protection. But did duty alone motivate him or did he hope to rekindle the love they'd once shared?
Lisa’s life was on the line
Nash had to make it safe for her again. He understood the evidence of the case, but the attacks were directed at her. He was willing to take a bullet in the line of duty, but there was no way he’d drag Lisa into the danger of his job. Inevitably, anything more than friendship would do that.
Even as Nash insisted to himself that he was restraining his feelings, that he was keeping as much distance as he could, he also knew it was a lost cause. Lisa was in his blood.
Four years hadn’t changed that.
He should be smarter, he thought. A hell of a lot smarter. But he couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t let someone else hold her. Images of Lisa and the past they’d once shared crowded his brain.
Nash didn’t think he was strong enough to let her go….
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Beginning this October, Harlequin Intrigue has expanded its lineup to six books! Publishing two more titles each month enables us to bring you an extraordinary selection of breathtaking stories of romantic suspense filled with exciting editorial variety—and we encourage you to try all that we have to offer.
Stock up on catnip! Caroline Burnes brings back your favorite feline sleuth to beckon you into a new mystery in the popular series FEAR FAMILIAR. This four-legged detective sticks his whiskers into the mix to help clear a stunning stuntwoman’s name in Familiar Double. Up next is Dani Sinclair’s new HEARTSKEEP trilogy starting with The Firstborn—a darkly sensual gothic romance that revolves around a sinister suspense plot. To lighten things up, bestselling Harlequin American Romance author Judy Christenberry crosses her beloved BRIDES FOR BROTHERS series into Harlequin Intrigue with Randall Renegade—a riveting reunion romance that will keep you on the edge of your seat.
Keeping Baby Safe by Debra Webb could either passionately reunite a duty-bound COLBY AGENCY operative and his onetime lover—or tear them apart forever. Don’t miss the continuation of this action-packed series. Then Amy J. Fetzer launches our BACHELORS AT LARGE promotion featuring fearless men in blue with Under His Protection. Finally, watch for Dr. Bodyguard by debut author Jessica Andersen. Will a hunky doctor help penetrate the emotional walls around a lady genius before a madman closes in?
Pick up all six for a complete reading experience you won’t forget!
Enjoy,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
Under His Protection
Amy J. Fetzer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amy J. Fetzer was born in New England and raised all over the world. She uses her own experiences in creating the characters and settings for her novels. Married more than twenty years to a United States Marine and the mother of two sons, Amy covets the moments when she can curl up with a cup of cappuccino and a good book.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Lisa Bracket-Winfield—Four years ago Lisa left Indigo with a painful secret she’ll never reveal.
Detective Nash Couviyon—When Lisa finally comes back into his life, it’s not as his friend or lover, but as his prime suspect in a strange murder.
Peter Winfield—the victim, hiding more secrets than his ex-wife ever knew.
William Reese Baylor—Owner of the Baylor Inn. Murder under his roof has cost him more than customers.
John Chartres—Baylor Inn’s concierge. Does his superior attitude and attention to detail include planning the perfect murder?
Kathy Boon—A new face in town. Did what she heard and saw lead to her disappearance?
Catherine Delan—Linked to a married man, she has more to gain than anyone. And that makes her dangerous.
Carl Forsythe—Is he the killer or the key to why Winfield was murdered?
To Ronnie,
aka Kelsey Roberts
For your guidance and insight
while I stumbled through in a new genre
For pink friends,
weekends of dressing badly
and free association moments
For being friends
and mostly, for staying that way
even when things get weird
Love you, girl.
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
Prologue
Indigo, South Carolina
His death smelled like lavender.
Moisture from his bath still hung in the air like a veil, preventing him from sensing more than the cramping in his stomach, the flashes of hot and cold thrashing over his skin. The gradually slowing beat of his heart.
His thoughts collided, spilling into one another till he couldn’t recall truth from memory, fiction from fact. The buzzing of the phone, half-off its cradle, droned like a fly. Was it day or night? He could see no more than slivers of light draped in shadows.
As he lay on the bed, a towel barely covering him, his body felt heavy, immobile, pressed into the antique quilt. He hated being helpless. He hated disorder and the vulgarity of illness. Fury worked beneath his clammy skin and he tried to use it to counter the seeping of strength from his body in thick, oppressing waves. How long had he felt this numb? Earlier he’d thought it was the flu. But he knew better. It was happening too fast. The fire beneath his skin, the furious headache that only grew stronger. His eyes shifted sluggishly, the simple effort like sand grinding behind his lids, and the room tilted, the furniture stretching like something out of a cartoon.
His heartbeat slowed, beating a painful dirge toward his death.
He tried to reach again for the phone to call for help, but his fingers only flexed with a faint spring, then went still. Regret lanced through him, and her face filled his mind. Always her. She was his wife. She always would be.
He hated being pitiful, pathetically weak. And he was. Completely. His heartbeat dropped another notch, and he couldn’t fill his lungs. Saliva dribbled from his mouth and down the side of his face. He heard a noise and blinked to focus. He hadn’t the strength to turn his head, and the indignity of it, the slovenliness, humiliated him.
He’d have preferred a bullet between the eyes, messy as that would be. They would find him like this, he thought. Wet, naked and in God knew what state. A shadow moved, a shape forming in the faint light.
Help! Thank God, help!
His whimper shamed him, but he was desperate. Then the figure leaned over the bed. His eyes widened, but only a fraction. Rage and confusion ground down to the marrow of his bones, and he choked on words he couldn’t form, couldn’t push past his lips.
Why?
His killer smiled and watched him die.
Chapter One
The damp heat of Indigo in September still clung like a bad tempered child. By eight in the morning its punishing grip was firm and hot and wouldn’t be tamed till well past sunset. Locals were used to it, visitors complained about it, but that Detective Nash Couviyon had to investigate a suspicious death this early was an indecent slap to the beauty of the nearly three-hundred-year-old town.
Worse when death occurred in the richly appointed Baylor Inn, the jewel of Southern hospitality in Indigo and smack-dab in the center of the historic old town. He could almost hear the mayor’s outrage at such an event occurring here and scaring the tourists.
By the time Nash had arrived at the suite, the officers had already sealed off the floor and taken photographs. Unfortunately there were no witnesses to the crime. The victim had been locked in his suite and found by a member of the housekeeping staff in the morning.
Nash took a sip of coffee from a paper cup so thin his fingers, encased in latex gloves, felt seared by the heat. He circumvented the room again. Antique dressers bore two hundred years of wear like an ancient king. The thick down comforter on the bed reminded him of how little sleep he’d had the night before. The body of the victim was sprawled across the wide mattress.
Nash ignored it for a moment, his gaze picking through details that were not so obvious: the crystal tumbler with the dregs of a cocktail, the unopened briefcase neatly tucked under the desk. The air was filled with a revolting combination of death and the sweetness of flowers. Very little was out of place, no signs of a struggle. The sofa and stuffed chairs sat facing the hearth, and the only furniture that wasn’t an antique was an armoire holding the television and VCR. Resting on the lowboy was a sweet-grass basket filled with teas, packaged snacks, flavored coffees and a china mug only a woman would use. On the basket was a small brass oval engraved with “Enchanted Garden.” He frowned. Enchanted Garden was a nursery his brother Temple used in his landscaping business. Nash took account of the contents and gestured to an officer, who then bagged it.
A look through the victim’s clothing hanging in the closet, shoes precisely two inches apart, socks arranged by color, told Nash that the victim was fanatical about his appearance. The remains on the room-service tray from the night before indicated he cared about what he ate, too. It was so healthy it made Nash cringe.
Nash moved to the bathroom before examining the body again. His gaze sharpened at the evidence, sifting normal from unusual. The victim had bathed leisurely. His neatly arranged shaving gear and toiletries added to Nash’s initial feeling that the victim was picky about order. Several candles littered the edge of the tub, burned down to the nubs and dripping into the cold, cloudy bathwater. The mess contradicted what he’d seen so far. Then he leaned over the tub to lift what looked like a large teabag out of the water. Untying the ribbon that secured the thing to the faucet, he sniffed. So that was where the flower smell came from, he thought, lowering it into the evidence bag, then marking it. He handed the bag to an officer, then left the bathroom and returned to the suite. He stopped at the foot of the bed, staring at the victim.
White male, perhaps thirty-five, naked except for a towel around his waist and the scarf wrapped around his throat. Muscular body even in death, stylish haircut, manicured nails.
“Everything tagged and bagged?” Nash asked the patrol supervisor.
“Except him,” the man said, then handed him the victim’s wallet as he walked past.
Absently Nash slipped the wallet from the evidence bag, yet his attention, for the moment, was on the coroner.
At the side of the bed, Quinn Kilpatrick examined the body. His thickly muscled arms strained against his jacket sleeves, and though Quinn was built like a linebacker, he handled the body as if it were fine porcelain.
“What do you have for me?”
“You cops, always impatient.” Quinn bagged the victim’s hands.
“Hey, pillage and plunder, murder and mayhem, are going on as we speak. We have to go out and be heroes.”
Quinn smirked, but didn’t glance up as he lifted the victim’s arm to look beneath. “Dead nine hours at least.”
“The scarf?”
Quinn eased the nearly transparent pale-green scarf from around the victim’s neck. “There are ligature marks, but they’re not really dark enough to indicate this was the cause of death. Maybe postmortem. No other signs of strangulation. I’ll know more when I get him into the lab.” Quinn straightened, frowning still. “See this?”
“The rash?”
“It’s not a rash, it’s a reaction.”
“He didn’t have any medication, except vitamins, but he took a bath. Maybe it’s from whatever he added to the water?” Nash could still smell the flowery fragrance.
Quinn started to put the scarf into an evidence bag, then frowned, smelling the fabric. He held it out to Nash, who moved near and inhaled.
“Perfume.” Something caught in his gut. “That’s familiar.” And he knew exactly where he’d smelled the fragrance before. It was the one Lisa wore.
Lisa Bracket… Oh, hell. Lisa Bracket Winfield. His gaze snapped to the ID, then the body.
Peter David Winfield. Lisa’s husband. The man she married, instead of him. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he argued. Nash’d never asked her to marry him. After a year of dating steadily, he’d never told her he loved her, and when he said he didn’t want to get serious, she’d ended their relationship. A few months later she was dating Winfield, and Nash, like a jerk, cut her completely out of his life like a bad-tempered high-school jock the day before the prom. Six months later she was gone. And married. But she was in town, that much he knew from Temple. Alone. So why wasn’t she here with Winfield?
He flipped through the wallet, and her familiar face stared back at him from a photo. It landed a punch right between the eyes.
Lisa in her wedding dress.
He closed his eyes briefly, remembering her face with four-year-old clarity, the feel of her body against his and what she did to him with just a look. Which was plenty. His mind was latched on to the memory of her last kiss when someone called his name.
