Ann Peterson - Marital Privilege

“We chose each other, Laura. Our feelings for each other had nothing to do with my background. That hasn’t changed.”

“Everything’s changed.”

“Because my past is different than you thought?”

“Because my future is different. Our son’s future is different.”

This morning, when she’d awakened, her life had been everything she’d ever wanted. She had a thriving business. She thought she was married to the man of her dreams. And she had a perfect little son on the way.

And now her marriage—everything she knew—was gone.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Special thanks to Lynda Sandoval, Linda Style,

Susan Vaughan and Virginia Kelly for their help

filling the gaps in my limited knowledge.

To my critique partners Carol Voss and Judith Lyons.

And to my family for doing without wife and mother

while I battled the Russian mob.

Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts, to working with quarter horses, to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at ann@annvosspeterson.com or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com.

Alec Martin—Born Nikolai Stanislov, Alec has tried to build a new life since entering the Witness Security Program. But when the man he sent to prison—his own father—is paroled, he has to run to save his life—and that of his wife and unborn son.

Laura Martin—She thought she was married to the man of her dreams, a safe caring man, only to find out he’s the son of a mobster. But before she can figure out if she still has a marriage, she has to run for her life.

Ivan Stanislov—The powerful head of a faction of the Russian Mafiya, Ivan wants revenge almost as much as he wants his unborn grandson.

Wayne Bigelow—The reporter says he wants to help Alec. Can he be trusted?

Tony Griggs—When the U.S. Marshal died, he gave away Alec’s new identity. Now his murder might bring Ivan Stanislov down.

Detective Mylinski—Is the seemingly honest cop beyond suspicion?

Special Agent Callahan—He needs Alec’s help to bring down Ivan Stanislov, but will he be able to honor his promise to keep Alec safe?

Sergei Kamarov—The murderous brute wants revenge and to regain his place in the warm spot.

Pavel Tverdovsky—The young thug is the future of the Russian mob.

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

Epilogue

Alec Martin stared at the photo of U.S. Marshal Tony Griggs on the morning news and struggled to wrap his mind around what he was seeing. He stepped toward the television set suspended high above the scarred oak bar. “Can we turn up the sound?”

The bartender glanced up from his cup of morning coffee and the list of booze he needed to order. “No remote. Lost it during a Packer game a couple years ago. You want to climb on the bar and turn it up? Hey? Be my guest.”

Alec didn’t move. The stiff collar of his dress shirt choked him. Sweat slicked his palms. He’d dreaded this day for ten long years. Even now he didn’t want to believe what he was seeing.

Snips of headlines scrolling under the talking head, CNN style.

Retired U.S. marshal killed.

Signs of torture found.

The screen focused on a balding police detective named Mylinski. Frustration knotted Alec’s aching gut. He had to know more, and staring at a soundless interview with a tight-lipped cop wasn’t doing a damn bit of good. He grasped his cell phone from his belt and flipped it open. Spinning on his heel, he made for the door, punching in Wayne’s direct number at the Brooklyn Chronicle from memory.

“I haven’t given you my liquor order yet,” the bartender’s annoyed Wisconsin accent sounded from the bar.

“I have to make a call,” Alec shouted over his shoulder as he pushed outside. The morning sunlight blinded him for a minute, but he didn’t slow his pace.

The secretary answered on the second ring. “Brooklyn Chronicle.”

Alec didn’t recognize her voice. “Wayne Bigelow, please.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bigelow is in a meeting. Would you like his voice mail?”

“No.” The last thing Alec was going to do was leave him a message. Not about this. “Interrupt the meeting.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do it. This is an emergency.”

“That may be, Mr….”

“Stanislov.” Alec never thought he’d hear the name come from his lips again. It rested on his tongue like a curse word, bitter, cruel. “Nika Stanislov.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanislov, but I’m not going to interrupt an important meeting for—”

“Tell him the name.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell Bigelow the name. Nika Stanislov. He’ll take my call.”

“Please hold,” she said, her exasperation coming across loud and clear. A click sounded, and canned music took over the line.

Alec strode across the parking lot, pulse hammering louder than the drone of synthesized strings in his ear. If anyone would know what was going on, it was Bigelow. He’d better, anyway. With Griggs gone, Alec sure as hell didn’t trust anyone in law enforcement.

He dipped his free hand in his pocket, pulled out his SUV’s keyless remote and unlocked the vehicle before he reached it. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and threw it inside. His ass had just hit the driver’s seat when Bigelow’s voice boomed over the phone.

“Nika. My God, how are you?”

“Is he out?”

“Yesterday.”

The knot tightened. Alec had always thought he’d know the day the bastard got out of prison. That he’d feel the vibration in the air. Smell the stench. Something. But he hadn’t had a clue.

“I would have called, but…” Bigelow let his sentence trail off. There was no point finishing.

“Yeah, I know.” Bigelow didn’t know where Alec was. Nobody knew where Alec was. At least, no one was supposed to.

“Didn’t the Marshals’ Service tell you he was up for early parole?”

“No.”

“Probably a screw-up between state and feds. Typical.”

Alec wished this was a typical screw-up. But his gut told him different. “Griggs is dead.”

“Griggs?”

“A U.S. marshal on my case. The one in charge of relocating me.”

“When?”

“I just saw it on the news. Breaking story from Madison.”

“Madison?”

“Wisconsin.”

Bigelow let loose a string of curses. “Doesn’t anyone around here stay up on the news? We’d better have a reporter on a flight to Wisconsin right now, or someone’s going to lose his head.”