Pamela Tracy - The Woman Most Wanted

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,

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. You can also get to know most of the authors at heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com.

Pamela

The Woman Most Wanted

Pamela Tracy

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

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

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.