Kimberly Van Meter - A Daughter's Perfect Secret

Each second that ticked by without finding his son was another second closer to losing him forever.

However, at Darcy’s look of disappointment, he said, “But I think there’s enough food to scrounge up something decent, at least for tonight. Do you cook?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “My mom always did the cooking. Her love language was food. When I was sick, she’d make fresh chicken noodle. To even suggest something from a can was an insult. She would’ve made my school lunches for me until I graduated if I hadn’t put my foot down.”

Rafe heard a hint of sadness in the deprecating laugh but he didn’t press even though he was curious. It was best to keep the lines drawn to avoid emotional entanglements. To know too much was an invitation to want more.

Like tangled sheets and rumpled clothing.

Dear Reader,

I’ve always wanted to participate in a continuity project, so when I was asked to be one of the five authors for the “Perfect” romantic suspense project, I was nearly giddy with excitement. What a joyful experience, collaborating with such talented authors. I learned a lot about myself as a writer, and about working as a team on what is usually a solitary endeavor.

If you’re following the series (you don’t want to miss any of these amazing connected stories!) you’re in for a thrilling adventure. This book, the third in the series, follows Dr Rafe Black straight into the heart of a twisted cult as he searches undercover for his missing son. He’s playing a dangerous game, pretending to be a Devotee, but he isn’t alone. Darcy Craven is searching for answers and she won’t let anything stop her—not even when her life is threatened.

I love characters who are driven by an internal force and push forward in spite of the obstacles in their way. It was a treat to delve into the scary world of a cult master. I hope you enjoy my vision of Perfect, Wyoming and all the players in this most dangerous and thrilling game!

Hearing from readers is a special joy. Please feel free to drop me a line via e-mail through my website at www.kimberlyvanmeter.com or through snail mail at Kimberly Van Meter, PO BOX 2210, Oakdale, CA 95361, USA.

Kimberly

KIMBERLY VAN METERwrote her first book at sixteen and finally achieved publication in December 2006. She writes for Mills & Boon ®Cherish™ and Mills & Boon ®Intrigue. She and her husband of seventeen years have three children, three cats and always a houseful of friends, family and fun.

Kimberly Van Meter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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As always, to my friends and family. They keep me

grounded and present when I have a tendency to drift.

I love you all!

Three months ago …

Rafe Black couldn’t still his fingers. A pile of tiny bits of shredded paper from his straw wrapper betrayed his nerves as he checked his watch one last time.

Abby was officially one hour late.

“Another tea?” The waitress, young, fresh-faced and clearly trying to earn a good tip, smiled in earnest until she saw the mess on his table. “You got something on your mind?” she asked, gesturing to the paper pile.

He didn’t want to be rude, but his thoughts were narrowed to a point and there wasn’t much room for chitchat. “No more tea,” he said, sending the hint he wasn’t up for sharing but then added to soften the brush-off, “Thank you, though.”

The waitress nodded and scooped up his pile with a small smile. “Just holler if you do.”

He rubbed his forehead, massaging the tension pulling on his brows and bunching the muscles in his neck. Where was Abby? They’d agreed to meet here, at this grubby diner about forty miles outside of Cold Plains, Wyoming, following a hurried and frantic phone call from Abby after she’d dropped a bomb on him.

If Abby were to be believed, she’d given birth to his son only months earlier, and now they were both in danger.

Had she been lying? His gut told him no. He’d heard the fear in her voice. Felt the terror even from across the telephone line. Which was why, when she’d sent him a photograph of the boy—a damn spitting image of him with his dark hair and eyes and Abby’s cupid-bow mouth—and begged him to wire $10,000 to a Western Union in Laramie, he hadn’t hesitated. He simply went to his savings account, made the withdrawal and then persuaded Abby to meet him here—today.

The money had been picked up, but Abby was conspicuously absent. He’d be a liar if he didn’t admit to some misgivings. Had she taken the money and split? Maybe.

The fact of the matter was, and this was a bit of an embarrassment, he didn’t know Abby well. Only well enough to father a child after a torrid one-night stand that’d been completely out of character for him.

Damn. He pulled the photograph from his wallet and stared at the child’s image. Had he been played? A cynic would say, wholeheartedly, yes. But he recognized his own features on that child’s face, and he couldn’t walk away. Even if Abby hadn’t called, terrified and sobbing, he wouldn’t have been able to walk away. That went against everything he believed in, stood for. And so, here he sat, like a chump, waiting for a woman who had plainly stood him up.

He flagged the waitress, tossing a ten-dollar bill on the table. Her eyes lit up at the generous tip, but then she bit her lip as if pinged by conscience. “That’s too much of a tip for just an ice tea,” she admitted.

He pushed the bill toward her but handed her a business card, too. “I need a favor,” he said, hating that he had no idea what had happened to Abby and his son.

She pocketed the ten and accepted the card, her expression wary. “Sure. What can I do for you?” She glanced at the card, reading, “Rafe Black, M.D. A doctor, huh?”

“Yes,” he answered with a brief smile. “I was waiting for a friend. Her name is Abby Michaels and she has a three-month-old baby boy. If she happens to show up, please give her my card. It’s very important that I talk to her. Can you do that for me?”

She nodded. “Sure. Is she okay?”

“I hope so,” he said. God, he hoped so. He rose. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

“No problem,” she said. “I hope your friend is okay.”

He answered with a smile as tight as the grip on his heart and walked out of the diner, but in his gut, he knew something was terribly wrong.

It wasn’t long before he discovered he’d been right.

Abby Michaels was dead. Rafe pushed his fingers through his hair, that damnable tremble returning to his hands, betraying everything he was doing to remain calm and in control. He should’ve stayed, should’ve reported her missing. Maybe they might’ve found her before … He suppressed a racking shudder and tried to focus on the here and now, but it wasn’t as if he had any experience with this sort of thing and there was so much at stake. He straightened and leaned forward, dread and anxiety twisting his gut in knots.