Brenda Harlen - Some Kind of Hero

He winced again when the shrill ring of his cell phone echoed in the empty room. He might have been tempted to ignore it, but he knew the only person who would be calling this early on a Sunday morning was his partner. And Mike would only be calling if he had information to share.

“Logan.”

“I tracked Felicia Elliott to Flint, Michigan,” Mike said without preamble. “She was in a women’s shelter there for a few months after she left her husband.”

“Have you spoken to her?” Joel was less interested in the trail than he was in the results.

“She moved out several weeks ago.”

“Where is she now?”

“The director of the shelter wouldn’t give me that information.”

Although Joel understood the reasons for such a policy, he was frustrated. Every time he started to make any headway in this case, yet another obstacle was thrown in his path.

“Maybe I should go to Michigan,” he suggested. He needed to wrap this case up and move on to something else. Somewhere else. Anywhere but West Virginia.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Mike told him. “I left our number with the woman at the shelter. She agreed to pass it along to Felicia Elliott if she hears from her again.”

Joel knew it was the best they could hope for, which only frustrated him further. “Do you have any new leads to follow?”

“I could get in touch with Gavin Elliott again, to see if he’s remembered any other details that might be helpful.”

“Don’t bother,” Joel said, rubbing absently at the throbbing behind his temple. “It looks like we’re just going to have to cool our heels on this one until we hear from Mrs. Elliott.”

“You haven’t made contact with the senator yet?” Mike asked.

“No,” Joel admitted. “Apparently she’s in Thailand.”

“Thailand?”

“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction,” Joel agreed.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Her daughter wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details.”

“You’ve spoken to the daughter?”

Unbidden, a series of images came to mind. Riane moving toward him. Long legs, short dress, easy smile. Riane in his arms on the dance floor. Creamy skin, subtle curves, intoxicating scent. Riane with her fiancé.

Fiancé.

None of the information Joel had gathered indicated that Riane Quinlan was engaged, and he was certain something like that would have been splashed across all the society pages. Still, he’d recognized the man who’d intruded on their dance. Stuart Etherington III, a corporate lawyer at one of the biggest firms in nearby Huntington and an up-and-comer on the local political scene with big ambitions. Apparently Senator Rutherford-Quinlan’s daughter was one of his ambitions.

“Joel?” Mike’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “Did you meet with the daughter?”

“Yeah,” he said again.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, then, “What was your impression?”

Long legs, short dress— Joel severed the thought abruptly this time. “I’d say there’s more than a passing resemblance between the two women,” he said instead. “And too many other coincidences to ignore.”

His years on the police force had taught him to be wary of coincidences, and the scandal that ended his career had given him more than enough reason to distrust anyone with the name Rutherford.

When Joel had first started to examine the potential Rutherford connection in this case, Mike had accused him of letting his personal quest for vengeance interfere with his professional judgment. Joel couldn’t deny that his impartiality had been compromised, but regardless of his personal feelings, facts were facts. And all the facts in this case had led him to West Virginia.

“I just can’t believe that someone trying to pass off someone else’s child as their own wouldn’t at least change the name,” Mike said.

“The spelling is different,” Joel pointed out.

“So is the date of birth,” Mike reminded him.

“Do you really think I’m looking for something that isn’t there?”

“It would take quite a conspiracy to pull it off.”

“Or a lot of money,” Joel countered.

There was a long pause, then Mike said, “You know I have the greatest respect for your instincts, but I can’t help thinking that your interest in this case is more about digging up dirt on the Rutherfords than finding the woman we’re looking for.”

“I know what my job is,” Joel said coolly. But if he happened to find some dirt in the process of doing that job, he sure as hell wasn’t going to wipe it off his hands and pretend it didn’t exist.

“Okay,” Mike relented.

Joel sighed as he disconnected the call. It looked as if he was going to be stuck in West Virginia for a while after all.

West Virginia.

He’d known that he’d find her. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy. And he hadn’t expected it to be in West Virginia.

He was a little disappointed. He’d wanted a challenge. A task worthy of his time and attention. She had rarely been either.

He should forget about her. He knew that was the smart thing to do. But he couldn’t forget—or forgive—her betrayal.

She would pay for what she’d done.

But that was only the first part of his plan.

Four days after the charity ball, Riane hadn’t stopped thinking about Joel Logan. Even sitting across from Stuart at their usual table at the Casa, where they dined every Wednesday night, she couldn’t help but think about the other man.

It was because of Joel that she’d decided to shake up her relationship with Stuart a little. Maybe Stuart wasn’t passionate with her, she reasoned, because she didn’t inspire him to passion. So she’d bypassed the dark blue Chanel suit in favor of a scarlet silk A-line dress she’d bought several months earlier but hadn’t yet found the courage to wear. The dress had a plunging neckline and a back slit that cut more than halfway up her thighs. It was bold, vibrant, daring. Everything she wasn’t. Everything she wanted to be.

Stuart hadn’t even commented on the dress except to say, as he always did, “You look lovely, Riane.”

Not stunning.

Not sexy.

Lovely.

Several hours later, as Stuart pulled through the gates of the Quinlan estate, Riane found herself exhausted and frustrated. Dinner had been delicious, the service impeccable, their conversation monotonous.

It was all she could do not to scream.

When they arrived at the house, Stuart parked his Mercedes in front and came around to open her door. Always the gentleman, she thought, with an unfamiliar hint of resentment.

He walked with her up to the front porch, then touched his lips to hers. She willed herself to feel something, anything, in response to his kiss. But there was no tingle, no warmth, no desire. Nothing.

And then it was over.

“Good night, Riane.”

“Good night, Stuart.” She held back the sigh until he was in his car again and driving away.

Sophie was waiting for Riane when she stepped into the marble-tiled foyer.

“Good evening, Miss Quinlan.”

The housekeeper’s presence, as much as the formality she’d used, surprised Riane. “I told you not to wait up, Sophie.”

“You have company, miss.”

“Company?” Riane frowned.

“A gentleman.” Sophie’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

Riane’s frown deepened.

“He’s waiting in the den,” Sophie told her.

Riane didn’t want to deal with anyone else tonight. Her dinner with Stuart had been an exercise in monotony; his good-night kiss at the front door had left her uninspired. And she mentally damned Joel Logan for showing up at her charity ball and making her feel as though she was missing something.

All she wanted now was to slip into her favorite pair of satin pajamas and climb into bed. But she was a Quinlan, and the responsibilities she bore as such were equal to the rights and privileges. She squared her tired shoulders and turned toward the den.

The unnamed visitor was standing in front of the window, his back to the door. He didn’t turn around; he didn’t need to. Riane recognized him immediately. She wasn’t sure if it was the breadth of his shoulders, the tension in his posture, or maybe just his aura. But she knew it was Joel, and her breath caught in her throat, her heart thudded heavily against her ribs.

She chided herself for the instinctive reaction. She was twenty-four years old, not a law school freshman enamored of the editor of the Law Review. But the feelings he stirred in her weren’t so different from those she’d felt the first time she’d set eyes on Cameron Davis. And the first time he’d smiled at her, she’d been halfway in love.

The mental comparison terrified Riane. She didn’t want to have these feelings again. She didn’t want her emotions to be out of control. She didn’t want to be vulnerable.

That niggling fear bolstered her lagging resolve. She wasn’t twenty years old anymore—she was a woman. A strong, independent woman, and she could handle this man and her unexpected and inexplicable attraction to him.

“Mr. Logan,” she said, in what she hoped was a casually disinterested tone.

He turned slowly, and she realized then that he’d been standing at the window watching for her. That he’d seen her arrive. That, in all likelihood, he’d seen Stuart kiss her good-night.

“Good evening, Ms. Quinlan.”

She didn’t insist that he call her Riane this time. She’d already decided it would be best to keep this man at a distance—as far a distance as possible. He was too potentially dangerous to her peace of mind to allow him to encroach on her carefully ordered life.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded.

“Your housekeeper, Sophie, let me in.”

“I didn’t mean into the house—I meant through the security gates.”

“Sophie again,” he told her.

Riane frowned. “She’s not in the habit of opening the gates to strangers.”

“But I’m not exactly a stranger, am I?”

“You are to Sophie.”

“I told her that we’d met at the charity ball, and that I had something that belongs to you.”

“And do you?”

He gestured to the wrap draped carelessly over the back of her father’s chair. The velvet wrap that she’d belatedly realized she’d left in the ballroom.

“I didn’t realize you worked in lost and found.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a half smile. “Apparently I do.”

“Well, thank you for returning it.”

“You’re welcome.”

But instead of moving toward the door, as she expected him to do, he leaned back against the corner of a bookcase and folded his arms over his chest. His pose was deliberately casual, his gaze leisurely as it skimmed over her. His self-confidence bordered on arrogance, the boldness of his stare almost insolent. It unnerved her, and aroused her.

“You look…” Joel paused, his deep blue eyes filled with heat as he sought the appropriate word to complete his thought, “…stunning.”

Stunning.

Riane felt her cheeks flush with guilty pleasure. Why did it matter what Joel Logan thought? Why did his reluctant compliment mean so much to her when Stuart’s words had only annoyed her?

The answer came quickly, unbidden. Because Joel Logan made her feel like a woman—feminine, attractive, desirable. With Stuart she only ever felt like an accessory—a suitable companion for any press conference or primary.

Uncomfortable with the comparison, with the feelings he stirred inside her, Riane refused to acknowledge the comment. “Was there something else you wanted, Mr. Logan?”