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The Woman Most Wanted
Pamela Tracy
Did Tom Riley arrest the wrong woman?For six years, the Sarasota Falls police chief has been hunting the cunning beauty involved in his partner's death. Now here she is, back in his New Mexico town, her face a match to the one on the wanted posters. But the woman Tom Riley knows as Rachel Ramsey insists her name is Heather Graves.Is Heather really as innocent as she claims? And what is he supposed to do about their undeniable mutual attraction? As his search for answers uncovers secrets in Heather's past, Tom realizes that Heather is the woman he most wants…
Did Tom Riley arrest the wrong woman?
For six years, the Sarasota Falls police chief has been hunting the cunning beauty involved in his partner’s death. Now here she is, back in his New Mexico town, her face a match to the one on the wanted posters. But the woman Tom Riley knows as Rachel Ramsey insists her name is Heather Graves.
Is Heather really as innocent as she claims? And what is he supposed to do about their undeniable mutual attraction? As his search for answers uncovers secrets in Heather’s past, Tom realizes that Heather is the woman he most wants...
She followed so close that when he stopped, she walked right into him.
Tom righted her, his hands clasping her arms and automatically pulling her toward him. Heather looked up expectantly, and before he could stop himself—not that he wanted to—his lips were on hers.
Her lips were soft and warm, pliant and giving at the same time. He wanted her closer, but that wasn’t even possible. Her arms wound around his neck. In the car, she’d smelled like strawberries. Right now, though, she smelled like the outdoors, crisp October leaves with maybe a hint of rain.
Yes, rain had a scent, and it made him feel more alive than he had in years.
Dear Reader (#ua2a5596a-5edb-5c72-be84-cd057c3d561a),
Have you ever caught a glimpse of someone ahead of you, sucked in your breath, got all excited and hurried over to say hi only to discover you’d made a mistake. LOL, I have. I’ve shouted greetings only to get the “who are you?” stare.
They say everyone has a doppelgänger. I just love that word. I heard it first in a movie. It took me two weeks to learn how to spell it (I’m so glad spell-check will put that little thing over the a), and it’s really, really hard to work into conversations.
Lately, my misidentifications have to do with my dad. He was a WWII vet who passed away over a decade ago. But often I go into a restaurant and there’s an eightyish balding man, wearing baggy jeans and a plaid shirt—sometimes suspenders—and even though the face isn’t my dad’s, it’s all I can do not to go over, fall to my knees, touch his face and tell him how much I miss him.
In The Woman Most Wanted, Chief Tom Riley sees a woman he thinks he recognizes, one wanted by the police, and one he has a special interest in. Except it’s a case of mistaken identity. Though it takes him a while to figure out the truth, in his heart, he knows from the beginning that, indeed, Heather Graves was wanted. By him. Forever.
And in this case, it takes an entire book to get over a first impression because, boy, did he blow their first meeting.
Ain’t romance grand?
Thank you so much for reading Harlequin Heartwarming books! If you’d like to know more about me, please visit www.pamelatracy.com (http://www.pamelatracy.com). You can also get to know most of the authors at heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com (http://heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com).
Pamela
The Woman Most Wanted
Pamela Tracy
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PAMELA TRACY is a USA TODAY bestselling author who lives with her husband (the inspiration for most of her heroes) and son (the interference for most of her writing time). Since 1999, she has published more than twenty-five books and sold more than a million copies. She’s a RITA® Award finalist and a winner of the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year Award.
To Daniel Crawford, who looks like me, or maybe I look like him—doesn’t matter, we look like each other. Except I’m shorter and wider. Next time I see you we’ll do “rock, paper, scissors” to see who’s cuter.
I love you, baby brother!
Contents
Cover (#u3c9fc422-ecf6-5607-80e5-f3d85b032e53)
Back Cover Text (#u863f8995-4559-5e12-8597-488f78270278)
Introduction (#u9bd33019-efb6-5a32-be0a-acd69f7a1243)
Dear Reader (#ud8d7dd85-ce74-57a3-b5cd-83af8b57a55e)
Title Page (#u23721ca7-b8ff-56b6-b44b-207063841df6)
About the Author (#u515eace2-bb30-5d76-a286-da124c9b588c)
Dedication (#u3d28a1d4-01ec-5339-a89b-057c63ed7430)
CHAPTER ONE (#u360499cf-d69e-5fa9-b0ec-5ab4a41be1d1)
CHAPTER TWO (#u692844ea-d11e-5006-9330-dd3d6f669342)
CHAPTER THREE (#udadb1046-0363-5491-b893-e525ecbfd49f)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u836abad6-ed6c-5d1b-906b-7f265bf27ce6)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u2a243f6f-5585-5626-a58e-254d469396fd)
CHAPTER SIX (#u8c192776-d728-57b1-b0c7-05ce2b03d6dc)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#u68ec03fe-fc9c-5fc5-8e41-abc88e3ec6ff)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua2a5596a-5edb-5c72-be84-cd057c3d561a)
TRAFFIC ALWAYS MADE Police Chief Tom Riley want to jump out of his SUV and redirect vehicles until every lane ran smoothly. Sitting still, waiting longer than he deemed necessary for his turn to exit, annoyed him. He didn’t like it, didn’t want it and even his badge could do nothing about it.
Truthfully, his little town of Sarasota Falls seldom required a vehicle to suffer through one rotation from the traffic light. Today, however, was Founder’s Day and Tom was idling in front of Sweet Sarasota, the town’s bakery, far enough back to know it would take two turns before he got to hang a left.
He had something to do, it was police-related, and he was half-tempted to engage the siren.
The town’s hundredth year. Mayor Rick Goodman had gone overboard with marketing the event, at least in Tom’s opinion, and for the last few days the town experienced a boon as family, friends and past residents made their way back, all to celebrate.
Tom hadn’t participated in the pumpkin-toss competition and he hadn’t played horseshoes, although he’d wanted to, but he had ridden the celebration train this morning—as security.
Rah, rah. It had gone a mile down the tracks, turned and ended abruptly.
Tom had also worked late last evening and had personally driven five inebriated people home from the Hoot & Holler. None had been in a police car before. All except him had found it a joyous occasion. They’d even tried to tip him. Then, he’d also changed a flat, found a lost kid and received a proposal of marriage.
He hadn’t minded the flat. He hadn’t minded finding the lost kid, who’d just taken off with a family member who’d been more than surprised because she insisted she’d informed the family of who was going where and when. But Tom had been somewhat taken aback by the marriage proposal, which came from a woman more than forty years his senior. She’d been at the front-desk area at ten last night, holding a bag of the town’s finest chocolate chip cookies and wanting to thank the police for the good job they were doing.
He’d honestly told her it was the best offer he’d had all day, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t looking for the next Mrs. Riley. What he didn’t tell her was that his heart still had a hole in the center from the ex–Mrs. Riley.
Eighty-three-year-old Helen Williams had slipped her phone number in his hand and said should he ever make it to Arizona to give her a call.
He had a gut feeling she’d been at the Hoot & Holler, too. He’d taken a cookie and thanked her. Then, he’d followed her out the door, grateful, and watched her walk one block to a small motel.
He’d finished up his paperwork and gone home, and now at four the next afternoon, he was back on duty. Man, he’d be glad when Founder’s Day festivities ended. He much preferred tourists to people he shared a history with.
At least a dozen had asked about his ex-wife.
Two hadn’t known about Max’s death. He’d given them the condensed version. Partner killed in the line of duty; when they buried Max, Tom buried himself in work. The next thing he knew his house was empty and his wife gone.
Everyone agreed it was bad.
Didn’t matter. Tom finally got the green light, turned left and twenty minutes later was on the outskirts of town, where houses were few and traffic nonexistent. Most of the people who lived out here just liked open spaces. Some, however, lived in the middle of nowhere so they’d not be observed.
Case in point: Richard Welborn, who’d been arrested not quite a year ago and had taken off before his court date, leaving his mother alone in a rental house she could barely afford. She claimed she didn’t know where Richie was. But Tom knew she got checks from Richie.
Welborn needed to own up to his responsibility for driving drunk and putting an elderly woman in the hospital. She’d been through months of physical therapy and now almost a year of pain.
Tom drove by the Welborn house a few times a month, even though Richie’s mother shot him dirty looks and the sight of the house brought back memories he’d prefer to keep at bay.
He willed Welborn to show up so he could arrest him and never have to drive to this particular address again.
This time, being out on bond wouldn’t be an option.
To Tom’s annoyance, even this fairly remote section of Sarasota Falls had traffic.
The woman in the white Chevy ahead of him had Arizona plates. Maybe a relative of Helen Williams? Even from behind he could tell the driver was under thirty, with long blond hair. Something niggled at his subconscious, but Helen—who’d been friends with Tom’s grandmother—didn’t have children, so that guess seemed unlikely. Tom gave his head a shake. During the past few days, with so many out-of-towners, he’d paid close attention, driven by the motels and through neighborhoods, keeping his town safe.
Little Miss Sunshine blocked his way and needed to either speed up or pull over. He had more things to do before he could head home, and thanks to an unexpected speeding ticket he’d given out as he headed this way, he was now running behind.
He might get even further behind because something about the woman in the car tugged at his memory: might be the hair color, the shape of her head, or a gut feeling. Something.
He needed to pull this woman over.
Problem was, she wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Tags up to date: check. Speed limit observed: check. Tom looked at the time on his dashboard. Not even five. The Hoot & Holler didn’t get rowdy until about ten or eleven most nights, so she probably hadn’t just left. Then again, Founder’s Day changed everything. His officers, all ten of them, had been working overtime.
He wondered if he was on a fool’s errand. Tom didn’t for a moment believe Welborn might return to his last address, but in the name of good police work, the importance of paperwork and the promise he’d made to a victim, Tom intended to do his job.
His turn was still a far distance ahead. He checked the lane next to him, glanced in his rearview mirror and started to edge over for the pass as the center line had gone from solid to striped. He wanted to see the driver.
Simultaneously, the white Chevy increased its speed so he could no longer safely pass. He was in no mood for this. The driver continued to be a pain.
Problem was, he couldn’t decide what to do. Technically, she had the right of way. At first, she’d been going so slow that he figured she was looking for a turnoff. Now, she was slowing down and speeding up. Usually, this indicated someone under the influence. Since she hadn’t started this type of maneuver until she’d seen him, he was willing to hold off. Something was up with her.
He sped up more, thinking to get ahead of her.
He started to flip on his siren, but decided that was overkill, and he always tried to put rational thought before reaction.
Once the opportunity arose, he went for the pass, slowing to look at her as he was beside her.
She looked back.
And he almost lost control of the SUV as the image from a police wanted poster stared at him from the driver’s seat.
Rachel Ramsey in the flesh!
It only took a second to catch his breath. He loosened his death grip on the steering wheel and activated the siren with one hand while motioning for her to pull over with the other.
Her blue eyes widened in innocent surprise.
Innocent? Not a chance. He’d been hunting her from the moment his partner, Max, had been shot in cold blood during a convenience-store robbery right in Sarasota Falls.
