Inglath Cooper - A Woman With Secrets

Way to go. Nothing like a bloodcurdling scream to waylay suspicion. No telling what Cole thought she had in her closet now. Drugs. Stolen jewelry. A bag full of cash.

She got out of bed and opened the closet, feeling around for the leather case. Still there.

She pulled out the suitcase, opened it and stared down at the neatly stacked rows of bills. A little over one million dollars. By rights, it was hers. Karl had stolen every cent of it. Left her virtually penniless.

So getting this money back meant she had beaten her ex-husband at his own game. In the end, she’d won.

She should be drinking champagne. Celebrating.

She went to the sink and stared at herself in the small mirror. But what was there to celebrate, really? She’d regained a few strands of her tattered pride. So what? It didn’t change the fact that she was thirty-three years old, had never worked a day in her far-too-cushioned life and had no idea where to go from here.

Dear Reader,

A Woman with Secrets was a fun story to write. I love the Caribbean and have always thought it would be great to sail around for a while, island to island, living like someone content to leave all memories of fifteen-degree winter mornings in the been-there-done-that file.

On arriving in Miami for a ten-day excursion of just this sort, Kate Winthrop gets both more and less than she’d bargained for. When the story starts, she is completely absorbed with the need to exact revenge on an ex-husband. But aboard the Ginny, Kate finds herself falling in love with Cole Hunter, and she begins to see that she can be someone she never imagined she could be. By the end of the trip, Kate has let go of her need for revenge and is motivated to make her once-shallow life mean something.

While I hope A Woman with Secrets has its moments of humor and lightheartedness, I found myself unable to resist weaving threads of seriousness through the story. Maybe this is a reflection of my increasing awareness of a need to look outside myself to those situations where even a small effort on my part can make a difference to another living being. The ripple effect of kindness continues to amaze me. When people link hands and take it upon themselves to make a difference, incredible things can be done.

I like to think this is the place where Kate is at the end of A Woman with Secrets. A place where happiness is a direct result of giving instead of taking.

I love to hear from readers. Please write to me at P.O. Box 973, Rocky Mount, VA 24151. E-mail at inglathc@aol.com. Or visit my Web site at www.inglathcooper.com.

All best,

Inglath

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Inglath Cooper is a RITA ®Award-winning author of seven published novels. Her books focus on the dynamics of relationships—those between a man and a woman, mother and daughter, sisters, friends. Her stories are often peopled with characters who reflect the values and traditions of the small Virginia town where she grew up.

To my Dad, for showing me the true definition of

courage and determination.

And to my editor, Johanna Raisanen,

for being such an absolute pleasure to work with.

An eye for story weaknesses, a kind manner

and she loves dogs, too. Need I say more?

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

EPILOGUE

Even a dog knows the difference between being stumbled over and being kicked.

—American Proverb

KATE WINTHROP HAD REACHED an all-time low. She was broke. Desperate. And about to become a thief.

She had her ex-husband to thank for each of these mantles. And if it were the last thing she did on God’s green earth, she planned to get even with him.

She made this resolution in the backyard of the castle-size Georgian house Karl had recently purchased in one of Richmond’s more lavish neighborhoods. Amazing in itself, considering he supposedly had no money. But then, he had her money, and it didn’t look as though either conscience or good sense had prevented him from spending it.

A car drove by, the lights arcing across the backyard, catching her in its glare for a flash of a second. She stepped back into the shadows, her heart relocating in her throat. She waited a full minute after the car had passed before peeling herself off the brick wall.

A headline flashed in front of her: Kate Winthrop, Daughter of Self-made Millionaire Hart Winthrop, Five to Ten in State Pen.

Long headline, but point taken.

She knew it was crazy, coming here like this. Even so, she could no more make herself leave than she could erase the mental image of Karl stealing her blind day by day, week by week for the past three years. As it always did, the thought brought with it fresh humiliation.

She stepped back and studied the house. Karl lived by the creed that more was more. Here, that principle had been put to adequate test.

A pool took up most of the suburban backyard, surrounded by expensive, imported planters that anchored boxwoods the size of an overfed sumo wrestler. Wrought-iron loungers with plump cushions sat in neat rows at the water’s edge.

She pictured herself upending each of them into the blue water. That was too petty, though. She was here for real evidence. Something concrete. Something she could take to the police, wave in their faces with an indignant, “See, I told you he was a scumbag!”

As to what that would be, she had no idea. She’d know it when she saw it. In all reality, could someone really embezzle millions of dollars without leaving a trail of some sort?

She patted a hand against the pocket of her zip-up vest and pulled out her flashlight. She glanced down at the rest of her outfit. Turtleneck, gloves, cargo pants, boots. So maybe she’d gotten a little carried away with the Mission Impossible theme.

French doors served as a wall to the back of the house. She stepped forward and pressed her face against the glass, peering into the darkened living room. After learning that Karl and his new wife would be out of town until tomorrow afternoon, Kate had called the house earlier in the day to inform the maid she had a package to deliver to Mr. Forrester. Berta—leave it to Karl to import a German housekeeper—had said she would be there until 6:00 p.m. It was now seven-thirty. All the lights were off in the house, no one home. Still, her stomach dropped at the thought of being caught.

But then she envisioned herself standing in front of the divorce court judge, heard him say that as far as he could see, she had knowingly and willingly given her husband the authority to do with their joint funds as he had seen fit. “His name is on all the accounts, dear,” he’d said, Southern disdain for her idiocy marking each word. “Your husband might have made some bad decisions, but there’s no law against that. I suggest you be careful who you marry next time, young lady.”

So there was no law against robbing your wife blind. There was, however, a law against breaking and entering. She sent a quick glance over both shoulders, then turned the flashlight around and placed the butt of it against the glass pane nearest the door handle. A quick jab, and the glass shattered, falling to the floor on the other side. She reached through the open cavity and pressed the lock. The door swung open, and the silence exploded.