Marilyn Pappano - My Secret Valentine

Quickly, Justin took several more pictures, then laid the camera aside and reached for one of the boxes. The lid was damaged, with flash burns and shrapnel embedded in its surface, but the gems inside…

All the Reed women—except Golda—loved flashy jewelry. They’d never seen a necklace too gaudy, a ring too ostentatious or a stone too big. Even so, not one of them had a piece that could compare to this. The emeralds were top quality, rich, deep, dark, damn near glowing inside, and the diamonds were as good or better. He’d estimate the smallest stone at three or four carats, the largest probably three times that.

Stuart gave a long, low whistle. “That must be worth—”

“One point two million. The matching bracelet—” Justin pointed to the other box “—is another half mil. It was stolen from a couple in the D.C. area four years ago. The thief slipped right through their elaborate security system, pocketed these and left another couple million dollars worth of jewels in the safe. Presumably they didn’t meet his standards.”

“And you know this because…?”

“To ensure that his cleverness didn’t go unnoticed, as he was leaving, he blew up their garage. Did close to a million dollars damage there, including the Rolls, the Ferrari and the limo that went up with it.” Justin shook his head wonderingly. “I’ve been after this guy for eight years. These were his fourteenth robbery and bombing. We’re up to twenty-four now. I cannot believe he’s been in Grand Springs.”

Quickly he checked the other wooden box, then the velvet boxes underneath. He recognized every piece—knew who it had been stolen from, how much it was worth and what kind of blast had accompanied the theft. For years, he—and the owners, the insurance companies and other law enforcement agencies involved in the cases—had wondered what Watkins had done with the gems. Very few had been recovered, apparently fenced when he needed money, but the really exquisite pieces had never shown up on any market. Everyone had had their theories, but no one had ever suspected they were buried in an ammo can somewhere in the Colorado Rockies.

An ammo can containing blasting caps that had been guaranteed to become unstable and go off at the slightest disturbance—or, hell, no disturbance at all. Static electricity in the air could have caused them to detonate, and the damage could have been much worse than a petrified kid.

Though that was bad enough, he thought grimly, hearing in his mind Katy’s hysterical tears and the panic in Fiona’s voice. It was past time to put a stop to Patrick Watkins’s games.

And he had a pretty good idea how to do it.

Fiona stood beside Katy’s hospital bed, watching her daughter sleep, thanks to the sedative they’d given her. Her injuries had been relatively minor—cuts on both hands and her face from flying shrapnel, a few bruises from both shrapnel and small rocks blasted loose by the explosion. She’d been incredibly fortunate, the ER doctor had stressed, and Fiona had given thanks for it repeatedly.

Now that she knew Katy was safe, she was feeling the aftereffects of the day’s emotional overload. The temptation to lower the side rail, crawl into bed with Katy and fall asleep holding her tight was strong, but she remained where she was, watching her, savoring the mere sight of her.

When the door opened, she didn’t look up. Her parents had spent several hours at the hospital, as well as her sisters and several of her friends, and the hospital staff had been in and out. Whoever it was could take care of business, then leave them alone. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want food, didn’t want anything but to watch her daughter and make sure she remained safe.

The visitor stopped just inside the door. Fiona had pulled the shades to block the afternoon sun and turned off all but one dim light over the bed, so he stood in shadow, but she knew who it was. “She’s asleep,” she said quietly. “You won’t wake her.”

Justin came forward until he stood opposite her. “How is she?”

“Just bumped and bruised.” That was Katy’s favorite description for all the little injuries she suffered in her tomboy play. Smiling at the memory of the phrase in her little girl’s voice, Fiona rubbed her arm, found it cool to the touch and gently tucked it under the sheet. “They had to put a few stitches in the worst cuts on her face, but she’ll be fine. They’ll hardly even leave a scar.”

“How long are they keeping her?”

“Just until tomorrow. Her injuries are minor, but she was so upset…”

“She’s lucky.”

“I know.” Fiona rested her arms on the rail and finally looked at him. He still wore jeans, but he’d changed from the shirt that had been splattered with their daughter’s blood. Now he wore a leather jacket open over a dark blue dress shirt that brought out the color of his eyes—of Katy’s eyes. He looked handsome, tired, serious—and just a bit excited. Because his uncomfortable duty trip to Colorado had turned into the work that meant so much to him?

Her resentment skyrocketed. Their daughter was lying sedated in a hospital bed, and he was happy to have a case to occupy his few remaining hours in town. But when she spoke, she kept the anger and shock out of her voice. “What happened? What exploded and how did it get in my yard?”

“It was an ammo can, a small steel case the military uses to store ammunition. Chief Stuart’s theory on how it got there is the mudslides a few years ago that leveled off your yard.”

Fiona was puzzled. “You mean, the military’s responsible for this?”

“No. Ammo cans are sold at surplus stores all over the country. This one held some stolen property, along with a couple of blasting caps. Katy must have uncovered the can while digging, and they detonated.” Withdrawing a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket, he gave her an uncomfortable look. “I need some information for my report—just basic stuff. Is that okay?”

She shrugged.

“What is your full name?”

“Fiona Frances Lake.”

His gaze lingered on her face a moment before he wrote it down. “And Katy’s?”

“Kathleen Hope.”

“Hope’s her last name?”

“Middle name,” she said impatiently. “Her last name is Lake.”

“But— Why doesn’t she have your husband’s name?”

His question sent a stab of pain through Fiona. He was the only man she’d ever wanted to marry, the only one she’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and he’d claimed to feel the same about her. It had taken her years to stop wanting him, and she hadn’t yet found a way to want anyone else. It had taken him only a few days, maybe even hours, to forget her.

“I don’t have a husband,” she said stiffly, “so it would be difficult for her to take his name.”

Justin stared at her across the bed, obviously surprised. “You’re not married?”

“No.”

“Have you been?”

“No. I had plans once, but it turned out, the offer was just part of the joke.”

He had no reaction to the jibe. He simply continued to look surprised, with some confusion thrown in for good measure. “But—Katy— Who is her father? Where is he? Why didn’t you marry him?”

Fiona went cold inside. This wasn’t funny. Pretending ignorance when she’d delivered the news of her pregnancy herself was not the best path to choose. He’d known he was going to be a father, and he hadn’t cared enough to even acknowledge it. He’d ignored her message and ignored their daughter for her entire life, and now he was pretending he didn’t know? Was he such a self-centered bastard that he possibly could have forgotten? Or merely a coward who couldn’t own up to his failings?

Or…was it possible he truly didn’t know? He sounded sincere—but he’d sounded sincere when he’d told her he loved her and wanted to marry her, and he’d been lying then. He could well be lying now.