His Wanted Woman

“Don’t.”

She’d meant to sound firm and cool, yet her voice was anything but. Horrified, she ordered herself to put some space between them. Her feet, however, refused to move. And it was all Patrick’s fault. If he would just stop touching her…

Unable to take her eyes from him, she reached blindly for his hand. “I’m fine,” she said huskily.

But instead of pushing him away, she clung to him like a lifeline.

The feel of her fingers wrapped around his caught Patrick off guard. This was crazy. Just that morning, she’d been a suspect, and now all he could think about was the softness of her skin, her mouth…and kissing her.

Dear Reader,

Before I started writing, I worked for the FBI in Washington, D.C., and loved it. So going back to D.C. thirty years later to research this book was almost like going home. A lot has changed since the late ’70s: the street in front of the White House is closed to traffic and the FBI no longer gives tours. When I was working at the Bureau, all you had to do to take a tour of the White House—even a candlelit one at Christmas—was get in line.

Those days are gone, but Washington is still a wonderful city, and steeped in history. My kind of place! That’s why I love Mackenzie and Patrick’s story so much. If I ever had a bookstore, I would want it to look just like Sloan Antiquarian Books and Maps. Enjoy!

Linda Turner

His Wanted Woman

Linda Turner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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LINDA TURNER

began reading romances in high school and began writing them one night when she had nothing else to read. She’s been writing ever since. Single and living in Texas, she travels every chance she gets, scouting locales for her books.

I owe special thanks to Kelly Maltagliati and Matthew Elliott, who are both special agents with the Office of the Inspector General of the National Archives and Records Administration, and Mitchell Yockelson, an investigative archivist with the Office of the Inspector General. I would also like to thank Harry Husberg with the Ft. Worth Police Department for his advice on police procedures. Thank you all for your expertise and ideas.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

The old tavern was packed with St. Patrick’s Day revelers who were loud, boisterous and in the mood to party. Rushing inside, his black, wavy hair and sharp features glistening with the damp mist that had socked in Washington, D.C., Patrick O’Reilly wasn’t surprised to find his two brothers already seated at their favorite table, right next to the fireplace, where a roaring fire took the chill off the air. They both worked just around the corner from the bar and didn’t even have to move their cars. He, on the other hand, had been working a case across town and had been caught in traffic.

Devin spied him first as he made his way through the crowd and grinned, though there was little amusement in his steel-blue eyes. “It’s about damn time you got here. We started without you,” he said, and raised his Guinness in a salute.

“We ordered you one,” Logan added. “Devin didn’t think you were coming, so he drank it for you.”

“Hey, it was getting warm,” he said, defending himself. “Here. You can have mine.”

“No, thanks.” Patrick chuckled. “I’ll get my own.”

Signaling the waitress for another beer, he sank into the wooden chair between his brothers and lifted a dark brow. “Well? Did you bring them?”

Devin and Logan didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. They both pulled out a single piece of paper and tossed it onto the table, then waited for Patrick to do the same. Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he produced his own document and added it to the two on the table.

“That’s a pretty sorry sight,” Logan retorted as the waitress delivered another round to their table. “Three brothers. Three divorces, all within six months of each other. Who could have guessed?”

“You should have,” Patrick drawled, “at least when it came to yourself. You never believed in marriage anyway. How you let Jan talk you into walking down the aisle, I’ll never know.”

“Yeah,” Devin said. “You always said marriage was unnatural. Then the next thing we know, you’re planning a damn wedding.”

His green eyes twinkling ruefully, Logan shrugged. “What can I say? It was temporary insanity, and I learned my lesson the hard way.”

“You weren’t the only one,” Patrick said grimly. “At least you didn’t fall for a liar.

“I saw that look,” he added when his brothers exchanged speaking glances. “You two are as bad as Mom. Just because I’m never going to get married again doesn’t mean I’m bitter. I’m just not stupid.”

Grinning, Logan held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, you won’t get an argument out of me. Our mama didn’t raise any idiots.”

“Just a bunch of cops who have bad taste in women,” Devin added, chuckling. “I think she’d rather have idiots.”

Patrick laughed. “Too bad. She’s stuck with us.” Raising his beer, he clicked glasses with his brothers.

“To the three stooges,” Devin said with twinkling eyes.

“Speak for yourself,” Logan tossed back. “To the three musketeers.”

“To never getting married again,” Patrick said.

“Amen,” his brothers said.

And without further ceremony, they each picked up their marriage licenses and, on the two-year anniversary of their divorces, tossed them into the fire. Within seconds, the licenses…and the relationships of the past…went up in smoke.

Chapter 1

“Geez, Mac, how do you stand all this?” Stacy Green sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the dust she had stirred as she helped sort stacks of old documents and maps that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. “I know you said your dad really let the place go over the last couple of years, but it’s going to take you decades to get this all cleaned up.”

In the process of changing the seasonal display in the shop’s bow window from Thanksgiving to Christmas, Mackenzie Sloan said, “Bite your tongue. It’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, right.” Stacy snorted. “And I’m the Queen Mother.”

“I’m making progress,” she insisted, but as she looked around at the antique bookstore her father had left her when he died unexpectedly three months ago, Mackenzie had to admit that Stacy was right. The place was a mess. In spite of the fact that she’d been cleaning and trying to organize the shop since the day after her father’s funeral, it was still little more than barely controlled chaos.

Guilt tugged at her, bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. “I should have come home more often—”

“Don’t you dare blame yourself!” Stacy, her oldest friend and fiercest protector, immediately jumped to her defense. “You were working a crazy schedule and spending every spare moment on your master’s. Not to mention trying to have a life with a man you loved! When would you have come home? Between two and three in the morning? You were in California, for God’s sake, not across the street!”

“I know,” she sighed. “That’s why Dad came to see me instead. And he acted like everything was fine. I didn’t have a clue he was sick.”

“He didn’t want you to know, Mac. You would have quit school and come home and he would have hated that. You were so close to finishing. He didn’t want you to give that up for him.”

“And the irony of it is, Hugh and I broke up and I came home anyway,” she said with a grimace of a smile.

“After you got your master’s,” Stacy pointed out.

“True,” she agreed. But by then, it had been too late for her father. “At least Dad died knowing I was able to finish school.” Shaking off her sadness, she forced a smile. “He was a great dad. And in spite of the condition of the shop, he left me a business I love.”

“I’m just worried you’re working yourself to death,” Stacy said, frowning. “I hardly see you anymore. You’re working night and day. I bet you don’t even remember the last time you had a date.”

“There are plenty of men in my life—”

“Oh, really? Name one.”

“Lincoln…Washington…Stonewall Jackson…”

Stacy gave her a reproving look. “Cute, smarty-pants. This is serious. I’m concerned.”

“I’m fine.”

“You need to let me introduce you to Baxter Townsend. If I wasn’t married and crazy about my lover boy—”

“Not to mention seven months pregnant,” Mackenzie said dryly, grinning as she patted her friend’s extended tummy. “Or are you forgetting about my goddaughter?”

A tender smile curved Stacy’s mouth as she placed a hand over her stomach. “How could I forget her? The little stinker kicks me all night long. I think she’s going to be a soccer player.”

“Then she’ll have to get that gene from John. You haven’t got an athletic bone in your body.”

Grimacing, Stacy grinned. “Too sweaty. But you like sports. You and Baxter would get along great. He played tennis in college.”

“Stace—”

“He’s never been married,” she added, “and makes a ton of money. He’s a—”

“No.”

“At least meet him. You two are perfect for each other.”

Mackenzie rolled her eyes. The last man Stacy had claimed was perfect for her and had actually introduced her to had turned about to be an alcoholic with a temper. “Do I need to remind you of Gus Dole?”

Stacy had the grace to wince. “Ouch! Okay, so I screwed up with Gus. And now that I think about it, you probably wouldn’t be crazy about Baxter—he can be kind of pompous. But you’re fading away in this shop, turning to dust just like your father’s books and old maps. You’ve got to get out of here!”

“I do,” she argued. “I go somewhere nearly every weekend.”

“To memorabilia shows.” Stacy sniffed. “Where you meet dusty old men who are pushing eighty and only interested in one thing—buying something that belonged to Washington or Jefferson or God knows who else. Dammit, Mac, you’re twenty-eight years old! When your father left you the business, he didn’t intend for you to bury yourself in it.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But you said yourself this place is a mess. Can you think of any man you know who would want to take on this and me? He’d have to be crazy.”

“Not crazy,” Stacy retorted, grinning. “Just a confident, good-looking hunk who likes to read about Thomas Jefferson and John Adams instead of girly magazines. How hard can that be to find?”

“Yeah, right.” Mackenzie laughed. “When you find him, let me know.”

The door to the shop opened then, and, as always, a John Philip Sousa march began to softly play throughout the shop and apartment upstairs. As the music grew progressively louder, Mackenzie, as always, laughed. John Philip Sousa had been born in Washington, D.C., but that wasn’t the only reason her father had chosen a Sousa march for the musical alarm he’d installed years ago. He’d had a tendency to get caught up in his work and lose track of what was going on around him and he’d needed something to jar him back to attention when someone walked through the front door. Even now, in her mind’s eye, she could see him jump as the cymbals crashed loudly, reminding him he had a customer.

Beside her, Stacy glanced at the customer who strolled in, only to immediately smile with quick interest. “Oh, goodness, what do we have here? I think I’m in love.”

“Stop that!” Mackenzie hissed as her own eyes roamed over the customer who looked like something out of one of her fantasies. Tall, dark and handsome—there was no other way to describe him. With dimples that framed either side of his mouth and a boyish glint in his green eyes, he had trouble written all over him. Mackenzie took one look at that long, lean body and fantastic face and forgot to breathe.

Stacy, on the other hand, had no such trouble. “Well, hello,” she said with a grin. “Aren’t you the cutest thing? I’ll bet you’re a history major, aren’t you?”

Caught off guard, he laughed. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“And you’re a Civil War buff.”

“Stacy,” Mackenzie warned.

“I’m just asking,” she said innocently.

“I’ve been known to spend days at Gettysburg studying strategy,” he admitted. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” Stacy said before Mackenzie could say a word. “There’s just something about history majors—”

Shooting her friend a quelling glance, Mackenzie said, “Is there something in particular you were looking for or would you just like to look around?”

“I’ll look around,” he said with a wicked grin and a wink at Stacy. “Thanks.”

“Civil War books and maps are upstairs,” Mackenzie told him. “Just let me know if you need some help.”

“You’ll be the first person I call,” he promised and headed up the stairs.

The second he was out of sight, Mackenzie whirled on Stacy. “What are you doing?”

“Just having a little fun.” She chuckled. “And you should, too. An honest-to-goodness hunk just walked through the door and what do you do? Treat him just like one of your regular customers. You haven’t had anyone under sixty-five walk through that door since your dad died. What were you thinking?!”

“He’s a customer—”

“No! He’s a good-looking man who doesn’t happen to have a ring on his finger, in case you didn’t notice.”

She’d noticed, all right, but she would have cut out her tongue before she admitted it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bull!” Stacy laughed. “Tell that to someone who hasn’t known you since you were four. But I’m not going to harass you,” she added with a grin. “I’m meeting John for dinner, so I’ve got to go.” Giving her a quick hug, she headed for the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Stacy!”

Laughing, she disappeared out the door with a teasing wave.

Five seconds later, Mackenzie heard a step on the stairs and whirled to find the “hunk,” as Stacy described him, standing on the landing. Mortified, she could have sunk right through the floor. Had he heard what Stacy said?

Mackenzie only had to see the glint of humor in his eyes to know that he’d heard every word. She was, she decided, going to hang Stacy by her ears the next time she saw her.

Heat climbing in her cheeks, she lifted her chin and met his gaze head-on. “Did you see anything you like?”

His lips twitched. “That depends. For the right price, I could take just about everything in your shop home with me.”

Studying him through narrowed blue eyes, she told herself he surely wasn’t including her in “everything.” But there was something about the man’s confidence that told her there was little he wouldn’t dare.

“What, in particular, were you interested in?”

He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s start small. I noticed you had a framed letter from one of the soldiers at Valley Forge. What’s the price tag on that?”

“You won’t like it.”

She watched as he literally and figuratively rolled up his sleeves and braced himself. “Try me.”

“A thousand.”

“What?! That’s outrageous!”

“For an original piece of American history?” she scoffed. “I don’t think so. I can get twice that much on eBay.”

“eBay? Bite your tongue!”

His reaction didn’t surprise her. Many serious collectors didn’t believe in buying anything they couldn’t see and examine before money exchanged hands. “I have to make a sale where I can. If you’re not interested—”

Not fooled by her ploy, he grinned. “You’re damn good at this.”

“I come from a long line of horse traders,” she said, “and I have a feeling you do, too.”

“I’m Irish,” he said simply. “It’s in the blood. So how about a trade?”

Wary, she frowned. “What kind of trade?”

For an answer, he pulled out a yellowed, folded piece of paper in a sealed Ziploc bag. “Just a little something I picked up years ago that you might be interested in,” he told her casually.

Curiosity threatening to get the best of her, Mackenzie just barely resisted the urge to reach for it. “If you’re wanting to trade even-steven,” she warned, “you need to know that I don’t usually do that. You’d have to offer something pretty phenomenal for me to agree to an equal trade.”

Amused, he said, “You’re assuming your letter is more valuable than my map.”

Mackenzie’s ears perked up at that. She loved maps—and so did her customers—but she had no intention of letting him know that. “A map, huh? I don’t know about that. Most of my customers are more interested in first edition books.”

Not the least bit worried, he held the Ziploc bag out to her. “You might want to look at it before you make a decision,” he told her. “It’s a map of Gettysburg hand-drawn by General Lee. There are also notes in the margin containing his field strategy.”

Already reaching for it, Mackenzie looked up sharply.

“This is the General’s Map?”

A cool smile touched his lips. “So you’ve heard of it.”

Heard of it? Of course she’d heard of it! Who hadn’t? It had disappeared soon after the Battle of Gettysburg and hadn’t been seen since. There’d been rumors that it had been owned over the years by everyone from P. T. Barnum to the Rockefellers to a Saudi prince who was a Civil War collector. If the map was authentic, how had it ended up in the hands of the man before her?

“Go ahead,” he said when she gave him a wary look. “Take a look at it. Tell me what you think. I already know what it’s worth, of course. I’m wondering if you do.”

Another dealer might have been insulted by his words, but Mackenzie didn’t need to defend herself to anyone. Her master’s was in American history, and she’d worked in the business of buying antique documents and rare books for more than half her life. If the map was genuine, there was no doubt that it would be worth a small fortune.

Questions—and doubts—tugging at her, she took the map and moved to the reading table that was situated in front of the fireplace. Armed with the magnifying glass she carried on a cord around her neck, she carefully pulled the map out of the Ziploc and unfolded it under the light in the center of the table. The paper was yellowed with age, the bold, scrawled notes in the margin still legible despite the fact that the map was, reportedly, nearly a hundred and fifty years old.

Mackenzie loved old maps, but she knew better than most that they weren’t always what they appeared to be. Forgery was a serious problem in her business…and so was theft.

“Where did you say you got this?” she asked casually as she put her magnifying glass to the map.

“I didn’t,” he said just as casually. “It belonged to a friend of mine. He’s had a hell of a lot of bad luck lately—he got divorced, then lost his job when the company he worked for shipped out to India. Last week, he lost his house.”

“So he was desperate and sold a family heirloom,” she concluded. “Or was he a collector? Maybe I know him.”

“A collector?” he scoffed, laughing shortly. “Not hardly. He’s into motorcycles and NASCAR. His grandfather left him the map years ago—he was just hanging on to it for a rainy day. He doesn’t even have money for an apartment. It’s not just raining—it’s a damn hurricane.”

“I see.” Continuing to examine the map, she saw, all right, more than he wanted her to. His story had lie written all over it and didn’t make a bit of sense. If the real owner had been saving it for a rainy day, the last thing he would have done was sell it to a friend when he was in desperate straits. Instead, he would have taken it to Sotheby’s or another high-dollar auction house that would have advertised it and gotten him a fortune for the sale.

If, she silently amended, the map was authentic. Looking at it under the glass, she had to admit that she had her doubts. There were file notations from the U.S. War Department on the back of the document that didn’t quite look right. And while that might not be enough to indicate that the map was a forgery, the fact that the present owner and previous one were strangers to her made her very uneasy. The people who collected the more valuable Civil and Revolutionary War memorabilia were a relatively small group. Everybody knew everybody else, for the most part, especially in the Washington, D.C./Virginia/Maryland area. And she had never laid eyes on the man standing before her.

If she had, she certainly would have remembered him. With his sharp green eyes, wavy black hair and chiseled good looks, he wasn’t the kind of man a woman forgot.

Especially when he smiled. Those dimples of his were downright dangerous.

Suddenly realizing she was staring at the sensuous curve of his lips, she stiffened. What was she doing? She didn’t care how good-looking the man was, he may very well be trying to selling her a forged map!

Deliberately pulling her attention back to the document spread out before her, she was tempted to buy it just so he couldn’t walk out with it and sell it to someone who might mistakenly think it was authentic. Just the idea of giving money to a crook for what was nothing but a forgery, however, outraged her.

Think! she told herself fiercely. There had to be something she could do. If she told him she had a customer who might be interested, but she couldn’t get an answer from him for at least three days, that would give her time to research not only the legitimacy of the map, but any recent news about it.

But even as the words hovered on her tongue, she knew she couldn’t let him walk out with the map with the promise that he would return in three days. The odds were he wouldn’t, and the map—if it really was authentic—would be lost forever. She had to do something now!

The decision made, she set down her magnifying glass with a snap and looked up at him with narrowed eyes that missed little. “What’d you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he replied easily. “But you can call me O’Reilly.”

Making no attempt to hide her suspicions, she said, “Where’d you really get the map?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“And well you should,” she retorted. “You’re lying through your teeth and we both know it. The map, if it’s real—and I have my doubts about that—has file notes on the back. So tell me, O’Reilly, where did the map really come from? Did you steal it or create it?”

He didn’t even blink. “No.”

“It’s not stolen?”

“No.”

“So it’s a fake,” she concluded.

“I didn’t say that.”

No, it’s not stolen. No, it’s not a fake. That’s all he said…just no. Frustrated, Mackenzie couldn’t believe his audacity. No explanation, no nothing. Snatching up the map, she held it out to him. “I don’t believe you. Take it and get out. I don’t deal with thieves or forgers.”

Patrick had to give her credit. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! He almost believed her. It was her eyes, he decided. They were big and blue and bright with indignation. How could a woman with eyes like that, with the face of an angel, possibly be a thief?