McCabe Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Undercover with the Nanny

  Lock ‘N’ Load

  Reckless Honor

  Wanted for Life

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jenna Ryan. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  [email protected]

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Tera Cuskaden

  Cover design by KAM Designs

  Cover photography from Depositphotos and Big Stock

  ISBN 978-1-64063-622-4

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition August 2018

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  To my parents, Bill and Kay Goff. You supported me every step of the way.

  Love you always…

  Prologue

  One year ago…

  James Mockerie knew things about Rowena. One of them was that she loved to walk, to move. To do.

  When they’d lived in Las Vegas, she used to stroll along the Strip at least three times a week and watch people gape at the spectacular light displays, the special effects, and the stunts designed to draw passersby into whichever hotel they fronted.

  The city was a whirl of glitter and color and money. Of sparkling jewels and beautiful women on the arms of anyone who could afford them.

  Mockerie suspected Rowena had been mildly amused by the Byzantine drama that played out nightly like a gaudy Broadway play. Odd that she would have enjoyed such a spectacle. His brilliant partner of three years, who could make computers dance, sing, and play fucking dead if she so chose. Home schooling by the oh-so-loving grandparents who’d raised her had contributed hugely to that. Damn their miserable Colorado hides.

  He’d been careless where she was concerned, blinded by her charms, by her amazing brain and, oh yes, by her beauty. Seduction was Rowena’s middle name. Mata Hari her first and last.

  She’d seduced him, then she’d turned around and poisoned his life. As a result, everything he’d worked so hard to achieve in his vast business empire was threatened. Or would have been if he hadn’t crushed the last remnants of his feelings for her. Gone were love and fascination. In their place? Loathing and fury.

  She’d flown to Miami ten days ago, then driven north to a sunny resort town called Cocoa Bay. She’d needed time to herself, she’d told him. But what she’d really wanted, and he’d known it, was to use the resort as a springboard to flight.

  She was going to leave him and take what she’d discovered about his underground businesses with her.

  What she was planning to do with that knowledge he wasn’t sure. She hadn’t approached the FBI as yet. But that was irrelevant in any case. He’d covered his bases there. His nemesis, though, a man named McCabe. Now that was something he cared very much about. Rowena knew him. And as a US Marshal, McCabe could be very dangerous if he got hold of too much information.

  Mockerie stood on one of Cocoa Bay’s remote piers under a filmy, overcast sky that allowed only a few stars and a tiny crescent moon to shine through. He listened to the ebb and flow of waves, to the nearby merengue music, and smoked an ultra slim cigar.

  He smoked and waited and paid no attention whatsoever to the man he’d brought with him, the one dressed in loose cotton pants who looked like a surf bum, zoned out on some drug he’d purchased on the beach. But he was amazingly effective at his job. Better than zoned, however, his man was wired. They both were.

  “Any sign of her, Carson?” Mockerie exhaled smoke and gazed at the water.

  “Not yet, sir. But she’ll show. Between nine thirty and nine forty-five is her usual time. Crowd of people partying below could be a problem.”

  “They’re too drunk to merengue, much less notice anything going on around them. And if they do happen to look up and spot us, all they’ll see is two men helping a tipsy woman make her way along the pier.” Mockerie grinned. “Ain’t we gentlemanly sons of bitches?”

  “Sweet as a pair of vipers,” Carson replied. “Look right, Mr. M. I think that’s her.”

  Mockerie was sure of it the second he spotted her. The pang that arrowed through his heart was short-lived and had his lips pulling back over his teeth. Fucking bitch. She’d made him halfway human. Who knew if he’d ever be wholly untouchable again?

  “Stay where you are,” he ordered Carson. At least he sounded like a ruthless bastard. “This part is my problem. I’ll handle it. I just want you here in case something goes wrong.”

  “But…” Carson began. Biting off the objection, he finished with a grim, “Yes, sir.”

  She wore a long, flowy dress that wound around her legs in the tropical breeze. Deep purple and no wrap to cover her bare arms. Her black hair, half up, half down, fell around her shoulders in a mass of soft curls. For a moment, he clenched his fingers. He had to claw his way through the red haze that enveloped his mind in order to return to a calm state.

  Lack of control would screw up his plans more certainly than any external force. She was here, and so was he. The situation was perfect.

  He waited until she reached the rail and stood gazing at the sea before he stepped out of the shadows.

  “Rowena.” He called her name softly. By distant lamplight he had the satisfaction of seeing her startled expression as she spun to face him.

  “James! What…?” She composed herself quickly, gripping the wooden rail behind her. “You followed me.”

  He walked toward her, slowly and with intent. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “Hoped,” she replied. “I hoped you’d give me the space I asked for.”

  “I hoped you’d be loving and faithful to me. Apparently, we’re both doomed to disappointment.”

  She couldn’t see his face. No one could. He always wore a hat with a brim broad enough to hide his features. If the custom stemmed from a lingering shred of vanity present prior to the time when he’d been brutally scarred, he refused to acknowledge the fact. Mystery was paramount in his opinion. The more the better. He had it in spades—and fully intended to keep both his personal and business affairs shrouded in it.

  “You betrayed me, Rowena.” He continued to advance on her.
“You used your expertise, your prowess with computers to infiltrate my private files. I swear to God I never thought you’d do that. You always seemed so disinterested in my work.” And he’d gone to great lengths to protect the less ethical aspects of his life. Hell, he’d been duping the IRS and the Treasury Department for years. Or, if not duping, at least making it impossible for them to find any real evidence they could use against him.

  “I thought you were a legitimate business person, James. What I did is nothing compared to some of the hideous crimes you’ve committed.”

  He formed his lips into a smile. “So, no attempt to beg for forgiveness or claim your actions were the result of temporary insanity. No desperate promise to forget everything you’ve learned… Where’s McCabe?” he snapped sharply and out of the blue.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fuck that and you. You always know where he is. You were screwing him before you met me, remember?”

  “I knew him before I knew you. But you’ve known that from the start, so why the sudden outrage? McCabe and I didn’t plot together to set you up if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  He couldn’t contain the growl that crawled into his throat. The merengue music below grew louder, matching the beat of his thundering heart.

  “I’d have done anything for you, Rowena.” Tossing his cigar aside, he reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a Magnum, his best and favorite weapon. With the silencer attached to the tip, he pointed it at her. “I loved you, you bitch. Now I’m going to kill you and take our son. You can take that to the grave.” He spaced the words for effect. “I’m going to take our son.” Fury overwhelmed him. Words failed as the red haze slithered back in and got a stranglehold on his mind.

  He registered the glitter of panic in her eyes, before he bared his teeth and squeezed the trigger. Twice, as was his habit.

  The breeze kicked up. He saw blood pool in the center of her chest. Two splotches of it. Pushing upright, she swayed where she stood. Then she closed her eyes and fell backward into the rail.

  He heard it crack. The sound of rending wood echoed in his brain. A second later she was gone, tumbling off the pier and into the water below.

  “Shit.” Carson leaped to his feet, joined him. “I’ll get her, sir.”

  Mockerie walked to another section of the rail. He tested it for strength, found it wobbly and insubstantial. While Carson ran down the stairs, he returned to the spot where Rowena had stood and, crouching, rubbed his fingers over the blood that had dripped onto the pier.

  What a waste. There were so many more intriguing ways he could have killed her. Ways that would have… Well, best not to think about what might have been. Better to focus on what he’d accomplished. Now their son would be his to do with as he saw fit. He might not like children, but he could continue to hurt Rowena through Parker and that made her death even sweeter in his mind.

  His man returned twenty minutes later, soaked and panting. “I can’t find her, sir. I almost got sucked under myself. There’s a strong riptide out there right now.”

  “They happen.” Mockerie narrowed his eyes. “Make one more search, then come back here and erase the blood. Any partygoers we need to worry about?”

  “No one that I could see has reacted to it. I’ll keep watch for a while longer, and make sure no one shows up and starts poking around.”

  “Then my part in this is done.” Mockerie surveyed the pier one last time. “If you find her, bring her to me. I want to see her.”

  Nodding, Carson left.

  Mockerie breathed out. He’d executed Rowena’s death in a most unsatisfactory way. This wasn’t how he killed people. Had them killed if necessary, yes. Quick and easy. But when he did it, torture was the preferred method of death. Long, drawn out and oh-so painful.

  Staring down at the missing half finger on his left hand, he shoved Rowena to the back of his mind and focused on another death. Ryan McCabe wouldn’t be as lucky as her. Not a chance. McCabe would pay and pay and pay for what he’d done. For what he’d made Mockerie do. For the horrors he’d made him commit. For the fact that the people that mattered most in Mockerie’s own life cared so damn much about McCabe. There’d be a full week of payment if it could be stretched that long. In the end, Ryan McCabe would beg for the grave.

  Casting a final look past the broken rail and into the water, Mockerie whispered a silky, “You got lucky, Rowena. Very, very lucky. I promise you, your former lover won’t.”

  Chapter One

  Present day

  She moved with the stealth and purpose of a cat. No sound, no extraneous motion. Only pure determination and a focus that never wavered.

  She wasn’t partial to Colombia, and this area of Bogota made her gag. It smelled of sweat, garbage, and excruciating poverty. People begged for pesos while urchins ran wild in the street, dipping into any pocket that might appear to have a wallet in it. Naturally, the hotel, if she could call the roach-infested rat trap she was standing in that, was hot and fetid and stank of crack.

  You had to figure there’d be drugs, she reflected as she stole along the second-floor corridor to her target room. People had to earn a living somehow, and cocaine flowed like sewer water here.

  The lock behind the rusty keyhole was easy enough to bypass, the security system its occupant had set up inside a bit trickier. A lot trickier, actually. Motion sensors and infrared beams. Not inordinately sophisticated but intricate enough to slow her down. Her specialty was computers. She’d learned about security systems out of necessity and a sense of urgency.

  It took her almost fifteen minutes to disable everything, and even then she stepped carefully across the threshold.

  Her gaze went at once to the bathroom. Possible but not likely. The sad excuse for a dresser wasn’t in the picture. Neither was the hard-backed chair with is frayed wicker seat or the closet with no doors and a single stained pillow on its lopsided upper shelf.

  If she’d been a real thief looking for a quick score, this place would have been dead last on her prospect list—which was undoubtedly why he’d chosen it and probably a thousand others exactly like it in his many and varied travels.

  “Okay, so where?” she murmured.

  Closing her eyes briefly, she put herself in his head. It wouldn’t be in the least likely spot; that would be as blatant a hiding place as the dresser. It would be where no one would think to look because it was so obvious.

  Toilet tank, no. Bed, no. Overhead light, no. With him?

  She considered that idea for a moment as she had countless times before coming here. But no. Exceptionally trained as he was, even he wasn’t impervious to street thieves.

  The hotel didn’t have safe deposit boxes. There was nowhere for valuables to be stored. It was somewhere in this room, waiting for her to take it.

  She pictured his face—a dangerous thing to do. Then she slipped under the surface and into his strange and wonderful brain.

  Opening her eyes, she looked around again. And spied it.

  A smile curved her lips. It hung half off the wall, yet was still partly screwed to it. The cord had been gnawed, probably by rats. The receiver sat cockeyed on its hook.

  Unstable and barely fastened to the chair rail, the telephone wasn’t worth a second glance. And even if someone did bother to rip it free, it would still only appear to be an old phone.

  She used her Swiss Army knife to undo the screws. The back panel was broken, the housing stuffed with ancient wires. She removed them one by one, along with a piece of crumbling plastic. The metal plate underneath was rusty and matched the rest of the device. But it didn’t belong there whether it appeared to or not.

  “Clever, clever,” she said softly. She pried the metal up, just enough to shake what was inside out. “Okay, I’m impressed.” And more than a little relieved that she was still dialed in to at least one of his thought processes.

  Breathing easier now, she replaced the item she’d removed with an identical one, pressed the m
etal into place, pushed the wires and plastic back in, and reattached the phone to the wall.

  City noise drifted up from the street below, a cacophony of shouts and laughter, untuned engines and blaring horns. For the most part she’d succeeded in shutting all of that out, but the reality was the sounds existed. And they masked the ones around her.

  If the door had opened on deliberately oiled hinges, she might not have noticed it. And many people had the ability to silence their footsteps. But her senses had become finely tuned over the past several months. She knew instantly when someone was behind her.

  “Shit!”

  Spinning, she slipped the Swiss Army knife and the object she’d stolen into the back pocket of her jeans.

  His face told her nothing. No anger or surprise registered. He simply caught her by the wrist before she could avoid him and yanked her tightly against his body.

  She met his eyes, her head up and her stare unflinching. She didn’t speak. For a long moment, neither did he. Finally, a wry smile tugged on his lips.

  “Welcome back to the land of the fucking living, Rowena.”

  And before she could reply, he covered her mouth with his.

  …

  He’d caught her off guard. But that had been the plan. The one McCabe had conceived back when he’d first realized he was being followed. What was that now? A week ago?

  His mind wasn’t exactly functioning on all cylinders. The taste of her filled him. The scent of her skin and hair infused his senses with emotions so rich and vivid he couldn’t see past them. Everything about her, every memory, every moment, rushed back into his head and tumbled together like a thousand fragrant vines that twisted around him body and soul.

  Suddenly he was back in Paris where they’d met. Where he’d fallen in love with the most beautiful computer geek on the planet. They’d done all the usual things, shared lunches at romantic sidewalk cafes, gone to galleries—and a few unusual things as well. They’d discovered a shared love of science fiction, specifically of Star Wars. They’d actually binged on an all-night retrospective in a shabby little Montmartre theater. Quirky stuff, looking back, but part and parcel of what seemed like a surrealistic period of his life.