Necessary Secrets

“You’re pregnant,” he said.

“Yes, I’m pregnant, okay? But that’s my business, not yours.” Sylvie tried to push past him, but he stepped in front of the door and kicked it shut. The sharp click echoed through the hot, quiet room.

“We’re not done talking yet, Ms. Mitchell.”

Her head shot up. For the first time she stared hard at him, forcing herself to notice every little detail of his handsome face. If circumstances had been different…

“Please excuse me, Mr. Cahill.”

“Call me Jon. You’re going to see a lot of me in the future.”

She shot a sharp glare at his calm features, ignoring his smooth-as-silk voice.

He continued. “I’m not condemning you for carrying my brother’s child. I’m just telling you I will be a part of its life.”

Necessary Secrets

Barbara Phinney

BARBARA PHINNEY

Barbara Phinney was born in England and raised in Canada. She has traveled throughout her life, loving to explore the various countries and cultures of the world. After she retired from the Canadian Armed Forces, Barbara turned her hand to romance writing. The thrill of adventure and the love of happy endings, coupled with a too-active imagination, have merged to help her create this and other wonderful stories. Barbara spends her days writing, building her dream home with her husband and enjoying their fast-growing children.

Dedicated to the soldiers and police officers who have served on United Nations and NATO peacekeeping missions around the world.

My story is not real, but the dangers these men and women have faced are very real. They’ve kept the peace—sometimes making it first—and they have made those countries safer, especially for the children.

This author thanks them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

The small town of Trail, Alberta, always bustled on a Friday. And with a sunny, early-June weekend advancing on the leading edge of a heat wave, the town hummed like a beehive when the canola bloomed.

Sylvie Mitchell parked her car and walked toward the local medical clinic, or more specifically, the small birthing clinic within it.

Sometime in December, she thought. Good timing, at least. With the ranch and campground at its slowest, she’d have more time for the baby.

And by then Andrea would have dragged Dad down to the condo in Mexico, and life would be quiet again.

After thirteen years in the Canadian Army, quiet sounded pretty good to Sylvie.

The squeal of tires cut through the stream of street noise, and she snapped her head around.

One burning, brutal memory bubbled to the surface…. The thick, wet Bosnian snow, the mess of rocks and brush and tree trunks, the strain of dirty brakes as her truck skidded to a slushy stop barely in time. The jolting pop of machine-gun fire. The cold wash of horror as she watched Private Rick Cahill close his eyes for the last time….

A merry shout answered the squeal. Two teenagers, cutting school, no doubt, threw greetings into Sylvie’s recollection, dissolving it. She blinked and hurried into the clinic.

The receptionist smiled when she reached the counter.

“I need to see the doctor,” she told the woman.

“Is it an emergency? We’re booked until next Wednesday.”

“Wednesday’s fine.” Sylvie waited for the receptionist to decide on a time.

The woman glanced up. “What seems to be the problem? Or is it for your yearly exam? I have to allot the right amount of time.”

Sylvie met the woman’s gaze evenly. She’d seen her around the grocery store and such, but the woman wasn’t a born-and-bred local. She may as well get used to stating her condition. And seeing the look of surprise on the faces of the few friends she had when they subtracted the time she’d been home from how far along she was. “I’m pregnant. Almost twelve weeks. I took a home-pregnancy test this morning.”

Her words sounded amazingly smooth, considering the turmoil on which they’d ridden free.

What a shame she couldn’t feel the same placidity about the night of her baby’s conception. Twelve weeks ago, Rick had been alive. In Bosnia, in early spring. What a terrible place and time to conceive a child.

Tears suddenly welled up and a thick lump of something ripened in her throat. Oh, no! Not here.

She continued to stare at the receptionist, an overwhelming horror swamping her as she realized she could break down at any moment. All those years running a quartermaster store, all that time in so many war zones, and now she was as tearful as a two-year-old.

“Here.” The receptionist handed her a tissue.

Sylvie shook her head. “I don’t need it. It’s just the hormones. I don’t cry.” She wouldn’t cry, either, not now, not ever. She’d been a soldier for thirteen years, done three tours of duty overseas and countless training exercises. She’d been the youngest warrant officer in her unit, and each promotion she’d earned was the result of hard work, not tears.

Besides, she had the baby to think about—the only thing left of the man who’d known the risks and had still made love to her.

She turned her head and drew a stabilizing breath. The “man.” Who was she kidding? He’d been barely out of high school, little more than a boy to her, a warrant officer doing her final NATO tour before she took early retirement, which had been offered because the military wanted to downsize.

Not that she was old. She just felt old compared to Rick, who was old enough to father her child and yet too young to drink in some provinces.

On an afterthought, she grabbed the tissue. With a mutter of thanks, she snatched the appointment card and strode out of the medical center, refusing to spare a glance at whoever sat patiently in the waiting room behind her, no doubt watching her fight her impending breakdown.

Rick Cahill. Young, bright, handsome. Eager without being naive, he’d been one of her best storesmen. He’d been a good driver, and a sensible soldier for his age.

And he knew his way around a woman’s body.

The last duty she’d performed in Bosnia was to attend his memorial service.

Her eyes stung and her chest burned as she headed toward the drugstore across the street. Think about prenatal vitamins, Sylvie. Nothing else.

What would the other soldiers under her command have said if they’d known she and her youngest stores-man had been together and that she’d sat in the front row of the chapel tent during his memorial service, carrying their dead friend’s baby?

Thank heavens the military wanted to cut its forces. Thank heavens she’d escaped her unit before she discovered she was pregnant. She would have been repatriated immediately anyway, but the rumors would have whipped up like prairie dust.

She couldn’t have looked them in the eye. Not after realizing the mistakes she’d made.

Not after signing the nondisclosure agreement.

Not after killing Rick.

Nausea surged into her throat at the thought of her cowardice. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she threw a wild look up the busy street. She had to make it back across to her car—and fast—if she was to vomit behind it.

Panic seized her. Would she make it? Standing on the curb, holding back bile, she spotted the receptionist from the medical center lead a man out into the brilliant sunshine. The woman scanned the street until her gaze settled on Sylvie. Touching the man’s arm, the receptionist pointed directly at her.

Oh, boy. She wouldn’t make it now. That guy, whoever he was, would intercept her. He was heading straight into disaster—

Striding across the street like he owned the town, the tall man fixed his stare on her. Rooted her to the sidewalk.

Within seconds he reached her. “Warrant Officer Mitchell?”

She stiffened, thankful the six-inch curb brought her eye level with him. “I’m retired now,” she said after a bitter swallow. “Call me Sylvie.”

“Sylvie?” The man tested the name on his tongue, all the while his riveting gaze drilling into her. “Sylvie.”

Good heavens. The way he said her name conjured up warm, moonless nights when crickets provided the music…and someone in the dark provided the silky caresses.

Her bones melted. Were these hormones going to plague her like this for the next six months? Nauseated one minute, aroused the next?

She forced her voice to stay brisk. “What can I do for you?”

He studied her with eyes squinting against the sun. An incredible, body-weakening image of the fantasy from a moment ago wafted in on the warm southerly wind, as vivid as any nightmare her time in Bosnia still produced on those damned sleepless nights she’d had lately.

She didn’t welcome either vision.

The man stepped onto the curb. Sylvie craned her neck to stare up at him. His ebony hair lifted with the breeze, the same breeze that delivered a warm, lingering male scent to her keen nose. She couldn’t help but inhale it, draw it deeply in and hold it.

“Were you recently in Bosnia?” he asked.

Her jaw tightened and she wet her lips. “Yes.” Most soldiers took Bosnia in stride, a tour of duty that was difficult but necessary.

She’d wished, mostly in the dead of night when the horror returned, that she had the same casual outlook.

The government believed the Former Yugoslavia had been stabilized. They wouldn’t give credence to the small pocket of resistance she’d faced that night, a resistance she knew had friends inside her own camp.

Instead, NATO and the new Bosnian government had discounted those who’d ambushed her truck, diplomatically announcing that the group would eventually negotiate or disperse. No, they weren’t associated with any terrorists. They’d see the light as soon as they realized their actions weren’t getting the media’s attention.

Sylvie couldn’t manage the same simplistic view. Too many frightening, conflicting memories. Begging children and mined areas too dangerous to even graze goats, now overgrown with various self-seeded grains. Food for hungry children that was too risky to harvest.

And Rick, killed in an ambush she could never acknowledge because of that damn simplistic view…and a nondisclosure agreement.

The man cut deep into her thoughts with his smooth voice. “You had a young soldier working for you. A Rick Cahill?”

The sun beat hard on her back. With no breakfast to fortify her, her knees weakened to those of a newborn calf. And her everchurning stomach—

She swallowed again, at the same time locking her knees to steady them. “Yes, Rick worked for me.” How did she manage to sound so calm?

The man’s piercing eyes darkened and the creases between his brows deepened. “I’m Jon Cahill. Rick’s brother. I’ve come to find out exactly what happened to Rick the night he died.”

Jon waited for the woman in front of him to answer. All she did was pale dramatically. If he hadn’t seen an obvious faint before, he’d have accused Sylvie Mitchell of offering a distraction to hide something important concerning Rick’s death.

He might still do that.

But her eyes glazed over and one undulating wave wobbled through her body. His wife, no, ex-wife now, had done this exact same damn thing before she’d dropped to the ground. She’d been pregnant with another man’s child.

Jon caught Sylvie Mitchell before she fell. Quickly he wrapped his left arm around her back and bent to shove his right hand under her jean-clad knees. Scooping her up, he marched across the street and straight back into the medical center.

Thankfully, an elderly couple opened all the doors for him, and the startled receptionist who a moment before had pointed out Sylvie, hurried to locate a free bed in the adjoining ward.

“She’s fainted,” he stated, laying her down on the examination bed. A nurse bustled in, shoving him back as she began a quick assessment.

A movement caught his attention. The receptionist had opened the door to leave, but not before eyeing him with open curiosity. Did she expect him to follow?

No way. And he told her so with a sharp frown before she hurried out. Jon turned back to the examination table.

After checking Sylvie’s vital signs, the nurse rolled her into the recovery position. Then she looked up at him. “What was she doing when she fainted?”

“Talking to me. I caught her before she fell.”

“Good thing. She could have really rapped her head.” She slung the stethoscope around her neck. “Her vitals are fine, but I’ll get the doctor to look at her, just in case.” She stalked over to the wide medicine cabinet and pulled out a clear capsule. She returned to the bed, broke it open and shoved it under Sylvie’s nose.

Sylvie flinched. Her eyelids fluttered wide and she batted the nurse’s hand away. “Ew! What the hell?”

The nurse smiled as she discarded the smelling salts. “Works every time.” She peered down at Sylvie before patting her hand. “You fainted. Lie still. I’ll ask the doctor to check you over.”

The nurse left them alone. Jon remained by the window, again speculating on whether the faint had been a ploy to avoid answering his question. The military had pulled every other damn stunt to prevent him from learning exactly what had happened the night Rick died.

Like the night he’d called Rick’s commanding officer. Oh, the man had been more than polite, calling Jon “sir” and showing in his voice the right amount of sympathy and concern. But Jon’s gut tightened with intuition when the man turned vague about the details: investigation still on-going; bad weather that night; trouble finding the truck they’d sent out on detail.

Jon was a police officer in Canada’s biggest city. Lies, omissions, and cover-ups came with the territory, and there were some of each crossing through the phone lines that night.

“Trouble finding the truck?” he’d barked back. “How could that happen? You sent them out on a detail, with a route to follow?”

“The weather was poor, Mr. Cahill,” the commander had answered. “I’m sorry, but the connection is bad on this end. I must tell you, we’re still investigating your brother’s death very thoroughly.”

“What did his supervisor say happened?”

“Warrant Officer Mitchell gave her statement that night, sir, and has already repatriated back to Canada.”

Jon had frowned. “When?”

“The day after the memorial service, actually.”

“Would it be possible to talk to her?”

“Mr. Cahill, I’m not at liberty to say any more—”

The line had gone dead, and Jon wagered it wasn’t because of a bad connection. Not at liberty to say. The commander had been watching too many media interviews on TV.

Why had Rick’s supervisor been shipped back so soon? She sure as hell got out of Dodge pretty damn quick. And why couldn’t they find their own supply truck? Intuition burned hot inside of him.

Now the military would get a lesson in how good the police were with investigations. Finding Warrant Officer Sylvie Mitchell had been a breeze.

Jon focused on the woman lying in front of him, intuition still itching his skin. Something was definitely being covered up.

And Sylvie Mitchell was his last chance to find out what that was. God help her if she clammed up, as well. He walked over to the bed and leaned slightly forward. “Feeling better?”

Her eyes flew open, shock and horror flaring in them. And fear, too?

Fear of what? Him?

His anger dropped away like an icy stone. He wasn’t here to scare the facts out of her. All he wanted was the truth about Rick, something he deserved above all else.

Sylvie Mitchell had better understand that.

Sylvie. The name conjured up the image of a sultry brunette with voluptuous curves and a come-hither smile.

This woman could only be the exact opposite. A blond, she had lean, toned, minimal curves, and no way would he ever expect a beckoning, erotic smile to crack her efficient, porcelain complexion.

“As soon as you started to wobble, I picked you up and carried you over here.”

She blinked around the room. “Where am I?”

He followed her gaze. Judging from the posters and the odd-looking pieces of monitoring equipment, he realized this place must be a birthing room of some kind. “In the maternity ward attached to the medical center, I presume. I haven’t got a lot of experience in this area.” Not wanting to dwell on that fact, he turned back to her. “How do you feel?”

Sylvie inhaled and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the examination table. “Better. Thank you.”

He shoved out his hand to stop her from rising off the bed. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, leaving plenty of exposed skin to touch.

Warm, dry skin. And softer under his fingertips than he’d expected from a soldier.

He yanked back his hand. “Just the same, wait for the doctor. There has to be some reason you fainted.”

She shot him a wary look. “I missed breakfast.”

Jon glanced at his watch. “It’s only ten o’clock. What time do you Albertans get up?”

“Early.” She looked the other way. “I run a ranch just outside of town, so I don’t sleep in.”

Jon was ready to shove her back onto the table, should she try to stand. But she didn’t. Rather, with a soft exhalation, she lay back down and shut her eyes.

That was it? Jon waited for more, for anything to stop him from staring at her lean form: her right knee bent; breasts that were still firm enough to curve upward; and a thin line of flat stomach that looked as though it needed warm, moist kisses—

He swung away from her. Hell, maybe he should leave. He’d acted on impulse coming here, and through all the hours traveling, he’d envisioned a different Sylvie Mitchell, a different set of answers and a much different reaction to her.

He shoved aside the attraction. No way would he leave. He was so close to finally hearing the truth he could taste it.

But Sylvie Mitchell looked so vulnerable lying there. He cleared his throat and looked over at her. “Um, do you want me to get you something to eat?”

“Do you want me to throw up on you?”

Her face was so deadpan Jon couldn’t help but smile. Yet the pitiful grin fell away quickly. Oh, cripes, it had been so long since he smiled it hurt his cheeks. “Not really.”

She said no more, only lay there, eyes shut again, totally ignoring him.

“Ms. Mitchell?”

She opened her eyes.

“You knew my brother, didn’t you?”

She blinked. “You don’t look like him.”

Annoyed that she didn’t answer his question directly, he worked his jaw. “He took after our mother. I favor our father.” Both of whom were dead, he wanted to add.

“Rick was so blond,” she added softly, studying his face with a tiny frown. “And you’re the exact opposite.” She raised her eyebrows. “You say you’re Rick’s brother, but frankly you don’t look like him. How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You could be a reporter snooping out a story, for all I know.”

Was there a story to snoop out? he wanted to ask. Instead, and without a word, he yanked his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open onto the narrow area of examination table between them. She lifted her head to peer down at it.

He knew what it said. Jonathan Andrew Cahill. Toronto Police Services.

She slumped back on the bed. Oh, mercy. A police officer in search of the truth about his murdered brother.

Could it get any worse?

“You’re a cop?”

“Like our father, before a drug pusher ambushed him.”

Ambushed? Sylvie rubbed her arms, hoping the sudden goose bumps would disappear. She didn’t need to be an expert in psychology to know that telling Jon his only brother had died in nearly the same fashion wouldn’t be a good thing. Not while this man still carried a frustrated anger so big that she could practically see it roosting on his shoulder like a gargoyle.

“I’m sorry. I remember Rick telling me about him.”

“He was a good police officer. Then some bastard killed him. And two years later that bastard walked out of court a free man.”

What could she say? His bitter tone resounded through the room, bouncing off the walls and bombarding her, over and over. A free man. When his father lay dead.

She silently prayed he’d suggest they meet someplace, at a future date….

Something she could prepare for—or maybe even avoid.

The man heaved a burdened sigh as he picked up his wallet to pocket it. “Look, to say the least, the military has been vague about Rick’s death. I have yet to receive anything in writing. I spoke to Rick’s—and your—commanding officer, and…” He paused, quite distinctly, too, leaving the impression he was tailoring his words carefully. “…all he said was Rick was on a detail with you. Delivering rations to an outpost. The accident occurred in the mountains. Right?”

She studied the ceiling. Delivering rations to an outpost that didn’t exist. Driving around the wrong mountain. “Yes.” She couldn’t look at him and focus on his words at the same time. “I’m sorry Rick died. He was a good soldier.”

Frustration surged inside of him. Damn it, that was it? A short apology for losing a good soldier? He hadn’t come halfway across the country to hear that trite compliment. He hadn’t been told by the chief of police to take all the time he needed to deal with Rick’s death—even if it took all summer—just to hear what a good soldier Rick had been.

And he wouldn’t ignore the suspicion gripping his gut at her brush-off. No blasted way.

His mouth thinned. “Rick was a hell of a lot more than just a good soldier.”

He watched her blink, fear in the gaze she suddenly couldn’t level on him. Fear again? It had to be something else.

“You were with him when he died, weren’t you?”

She said nothing. Jon crushed the urge to grab her and shake her and demand the whole damn, blasted truth once and for all. But, checking his fury, he clenched his fists and stalked to the window.

Finally she spoke, her voice so barely above a whisper he had to hold his breath to hear her. “I’m so sorry. We’d driven—” She checked her words, for what reason, he couldn’t guess. “We’d done similar details before. Got stuck together overnight more often than not because of mudslides or bad weather. Never once had we been ambushed.”

He whirled, his heart pounding, his throat suddenly dry. It took him a minute to find his voice. “Ambushed? No one said anything about an ambush! What the hell are you talking about?”

Horrified, she fell silent again and looked away.

Ambush? Was that what the military was keeping from him? Rick had been attacked, in a country purporting to be at peace.

No. Even ambushes make the news, especially in these troubled times.

He stalked over to her and pressed a fist on either side of the black vinyl table, not caring if he towered over her like a madman. “I want to know about this ambush. Now.”

She wouldn’t even look at him. Swearing internally, he pulled back and raked his fingers through his hair. So close to the truth! So close he could feel it teasing him. How could she shut up now? “Look, Ms. Mitchell. Sylvie. My only living relative has died and no one will give me any details. Do you think that’s fair? Do you think Rick deserves to be forgotten so easily?” He sucked in a long breath in a desperate attempt to control his growing frustration.