Secrets and Seduction: 5 Romance Novels (50 page)

How convenient. She didn’t really move here. The doorbell interrupted his planned cross-examination.

“Excuse me.”

Bryce checked the front door’s peephole and sighed. He opened the door to his former girlfriend and lover.

“Hello, Monique. This is a surprise.”

She looked stunning in her chic casual summer outfit, her hair and make-up as perfect as ever.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I just got back into town and heard about the bomb. I’d planned to visit you in the hospital today. I couldn’t believe it when they said you’d been released.” Her blue eyes looked him up and down in clear disbelief.

“I’m fine. All I need is some rest.”

One perfectly manicured hand indicated his suit. “Dressed for the office?”

“I have a big case to prepare for, Monique.”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Bryce had dated this woman and slept with her, but now he felt nothing for her. He’d felt more passion playing one-on-one with Ciara.

“Bryce?” Speaking of the devil, here was Ciara now.

• • •

Ciara recognized the former beauty queen immediately. Figure of a pin-up, face of a model, legs men chased after, perfect blonde hair. She had everything men thought Ciara lacked. Next to the former Miss Michigan, Ciara felt less feminine.

Monique Dennison stood very close to Bryce, possessively close. Her blue eyes widened and then narrowed at the sight of Ciara.

“I’m sorry, Bryce,” she said. “I didn’t realize you had company.” Was that hurt in her voice?

“Hello Miss Dennison. I recognize you from your photo.” The one with Bryce Ciara had seen during her research.

Ciara got the impression from the way Monique had been looking at Bryce that she might be having second thoughts about their breakup.

“Monique, this is Ciara Alafita, my new legal assistant.” Bryce’s voice sounded stiff. Did he wish Ciara hadn’t interrupted?

“Bryce and I were having lunch,” Ciara explained with extreme politeness. “Would you like to join us?” Already she felt like a fifth wheel.

Monique looked from Ciara to Bryce. “No, thank you. I can see I’m interrupting. Bryce, I brought some of the things you left at my condo.” She waved at a box on the porch behind her.

“I appreciate that, Monique.”

“I didn’t know if you needed anything. Even though we’re not together anymore, I know you better than anyone. I thought you might be more comfortable with me helping you recuperate. But I see you don’t need help.” Monique sounded like she was trying to hide her upset.

“Now that I know you’re all right, I won’t keep you from your lunch.” She turned and walked with beauty queen grace down the steps to her car.

Bryce tugged the box inside and closed the door.

Ciara debated with herself for a moment, and then said, “I think she wants you back.”

He gave her a sharp look. “You’re mistaken.”

Ciara narrowed her eyes at him. It was possible the blonde got tired of Bryce’s coldness, but Ciara would swear the former Miss Michigan still wanted him. Had Bryce had a secret affair Monique couldn’t accept, so she’d walked away? But like Ciara’s mother, she’d decided to forgive Bryce’s indiscretion and take him back? Did she think Ciara was the other woman? Ciara shuddered at the thought.

“You two look like the perfect couple,” she said. Like Barbie and Ken.

“There’s more to a relationship than looks.”

Ciara’s mouth dropped open in surprise. That was like saying blonde hair and big boobs weren’t enough. No man in her experience said that.

Yet Bryce had let a woman men would break their wedding vows over walk away, and for what? Not another blonde, not even for another woman, or a man for that matter. He’d given up the American male’s perfect dream girl to be alone as far as Ciara could tell.

Why, why, why? She had questions but no answers. Maybe she should concentrate on his professional life instead.

But later that afternoon, Bryce threw her another curve ball.

“Would you drive me to my office so I can get my car?”

Ciara nearly dropped the file she was reading. Her heart skipped a beat. “You’re in no condition to drive.”

At Bryce’s glacial glare, she could have bitten her tongue.

“Will you drive me or should I call a cab?”

“Bryce, be reasonable. This is your first full day home. Why do you need your car anyway?”

“So I can go to the carry-out for cigarettes if I run out,” he stated in a voice deadly serious.

Her mind’s gears jammed. Had he made a joke … or a point? Giving him his car would be akin to giving a child a loaded gun. But if she didn’t drive him to his office, she was sure he’d take a taxi. And either way, he’d be driving back here alone.

“I’ll call a cab,” she relented. When Bryce glared at her she explained, “I’m riding back here with you.”

He looked mulish. “That’s not necessary.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I can’t in good conscience allow you to drive alone. What if you tire? What if you need to use your inhaler? I’m only being prudent.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid. I’ve driven since I was sixteen.”

“But you’ve never had a near-fatal injury before, have you?”

Ciara suffered his courtroom glare, the one that broke witnesses. She raised her chin.
Bring it on.

The moment elongated, but if Bryce thought she’d be the one to back down, he knew nothing about her. She’d fought harder than this against her mother and won, and for much higher stakes.

Bryce nodded, just once and only a slight movement. A little thrill ran through her that she hid by reaching for the phone.

The cab sped along the freeway toward Bryce’s office in Sterling Heights. Traffic was congested and Ciara remembered the Tigers had an afternoon home game today. She chewed on her lower lip. What if Bryce’s reaction time was off? Detroit’s expressways were no place for an impaired driver. Was she literally putting her life on the line by riding with him?

The cab pulled up to his office building on 15 Mile and they exited. Bryce looked up at the modern multi-story building, his face impassive. He hadn’t brought his briefcase with him, but she thought he might be considering going inside.

Instead, he turned and entered the underground parking garage. He scanned the lot and strode towards the first row of cars. He pointed his key fob at the row where a silver Mercedes sedan chirped and the lights blinked.

The E class was an older model, but still more car than many people could afford. Bryce opened the driver’s side, a look of challenge and satisfaction on his face. Ciara sighed and slid in on the passenger’s side. She turned towards Bryce so she could watch him for signs of strain.

The first thing she noticed was the car was a stick shift. Strange, she’d thought a luxury automobile would be automatic. Bryce grimaced as he worked the gearshift into neutral. The powerful engine roared to life and again Bryce used the shifter to reverse. His hands touched the controls with familiarity and ease. Only his set face showed the strain it was to drive a stick. He backed the car and spun the wheel to turn towards the exit.

By the time they reached it, sweat beaded Bryce’s forehead. But his jaw was hard as granite. Grim determination described it best. Ciara held on as he accelerated towards the freeway, moving smoothly through the gears. His hands held the wheel tight. He didn’t speed or change lanes to move around slower cars. Still, she was afraid to distract him from his driving.

But as they reached the freeway and merged into traffic, the speed of the powerful car evened out and Bryce relaxed. Well, as much as she thought he ever relaxed. The muscles in his jaw unclenched and his grip on the wheel eased.

In the driver’s seat again, Ciara thought, and then realized the truth of that statement. Since the hospital Bryce had been pushing the limits others set for his recovery.
He
wanted to be in charge of his life. This car was a symbol for him. He controlled the gear changes. He decided direction. He went where he chose, when he chose. He had power over a more powerful object, and it was active control, not passive.

Maybe this facet of his personality had led to the breakup with Miss Michigan. A woman didn’t win that crown by being passive. Maybe the blonde didn’t always want to be in the passenger seat in the relationship — or in bed. Did Bryce dominate like this in bed?

A shivery feeling darted through her lower abdomen. It’d be interesting to test that theory.

When Bryce reached his house he pulled all the way to the back near the basketball court. Instead of putting the car in the garage, he turned off the engine.

“Are you going out again?” Ciara asked in alarm.

Bryce glanced at her. “I’m leaving my options open.”

He had his courtroom face on, so she couldn’t tell if he meant the remark or not. She wouldn’t put it past him, just to prove he could.

The next morning he did just that. “I’m going to the office,” Bryce told Ciara when she walked in his back door. “I need you to re-interview these witnesses for me.” He held out a handwritten list.

“Bryce, you’re supposed to be recuperating. You can’t go to the office.”

“The matter’s not open for discussion,” he said with cold disdain, and then grabbed her hand and tucked the list in it.

Ciara tried arguing some sense into him. “Is winning this case so important you’d risk your health for it?”

“Hell yes it is.” He pointed his key fob at the kitchen window towards where his car was parked.

“Bryce — ” Ciara began to protest.

The explosion shattered the kitchen windows and knocked Ciara and Bryce off their feet.

“Omigod. That was a bomb,” Ciara choked, her voice unsteady. She lay on her side, her back pressed to Bryce’s chest. He’d grabbed her as they fell to soften the blow.

Bryce felt just as shaken and a little winded by the fall. His heartbeat raced with fight or flight, and felt like it was lodged in his throat. He had to get up. He couldn’t lie here, as nice as it felt to be cuddled against Ciara’s warm body. He rolled over, placing a hand on the floor, and a shard of glass stabbed his palm. Glass sparkled on the kitchen floor around them. He lifted his hand to see blood welling in the cut.

“We’ve got to call the police.” Ciara made movements to rise.

“Be careful. There’s glass everywhere.”

“Ow. Yeah, I see that.” She reached for her purse and dragged it to her. Glass tinkled as it moved. Several cars’ alarms wailed nearby. As she found her cell phone, Bryce gripped the counter edge to pull himself up.

“Stay down,” Ciara hissed. “You don’t know who’s out there.”

“Bombers don’t hang around to shoot you if they miss,” Bryce said, his voice dripping disdain, although his belly shook with nerves. He didn’t really know anything about what bombers did. He gained his feet, but his legs were shaky.

Ciara had reached the 911 operator and reported Bryce’s address as she pushed herself to her feet.

Bryce looked out the almost glassless windows. Black smoke roiled from where he’d parked his car yesterday afternoon. Chunks of metal littered the basketball court.

“Tell them to send the fire department,” he managed, although it was more of a croak. He needed to go outside to make sure the house wasn’t on fire, but he felt frozen to the spot. Someone had tried to kill him — again.

He could feel his chest tighten and the drag on his lungs as he breathed.
Dammit, not now.
He forced his feet to move toward the back door, crunching through the broken glass.

“Bryce, don’t go out there. Wait for the police.”

The police hadn’t caught the letter bomber. Now that person had graduated to real bombs. Damn Steele and his organization of greedy, power hungry bastards, playing with his life as though it were meaningless. Anger sped his pace. He yanked open the door and stepped outside. A few neighborhood dogs barked and in the distance a siren wailed. In this affluent suburb, he was sure it was the 911 response.

Bryce descended the steps and stalked across the basketball court. Halfway there he came to a dead stop.

His car was engulfed in flames. Black smoke rose into the morning sky. The hood was up in the air, the passenger door askew on its hinges. One of the hubcaps lay tilted at his feet. His knees nearly buckled. If he hadn’t used the remote car starter …

He’d be dead.

He staggered the few feet to the side of the house and leaned against the brick. The smoke seared his already burning lungs, making him cough. He grabbed his inhaler and filled his lungs with the hated steroids. It fueled his anger that the medicine eased his breathing.

Luckily the car was far enough from the house that the flames couldn’t reach. Twice now a fluke had saved him — a phone call had made him look away when the letter bomb exploded, and now this. He’d only had the remote car starter installed a month ago in preparation for the hot Detroit summer and long cold winter with a major trial beginning. But he didn’t always use it. Like yesterday, after the car had sat unused for nearly a week, he’d started it manually.

He’d been strangely lucky in his life. Even in the instance with the near-fatal hazing, he’d met Paul Ziko a short while beforehand, and it was Paul who’d recognized the danger and led his other friends to the rescue.

And then an uglier thought intruded. Ciara had just arrived. Could she have planted the bomb?
Don’t be stupid
, he chided himself. He assumed it took longer than the minute from the time he’d heard her car pull into the driveway until she had walked in the back door.

But the ugly thoughts wouldn’t stop. She was working for Steele. Maybe she also reported to Steele’s competition. Maybe she’d told them he’d retrieved his car. No, that didn’t make sense. Why not just bomb his house?

Without his willing it, his hand jerked back from the wall he leaned against. How hard would it be to kill him in a brick house? A lot harder than killing him in his car. At least by bombing the car, they’d be sure he was dead.

They’d failed with the ricin. This time they’d wanted to make sure.

“Bryce?”