The Missing Monarch (21 page)

At first he didn’t think she was
going to answer. When she lifted her chin higher and
said, “Because I got
tired of everybody asking me about
you,
” he wished she hadn’t told him
the truth.

* * *

The swing shift sped by
for Samantha. Weary and eager to get home and relax, she clocked out at
midnight, grabbed her purse and headed for her compact, blue
sedan.

Overhead lights cast a yellowish
glow across the medical-center parking
lot. Fall breezes were scattering dry
leaves and either piling them against the tires of the few remaining
vehicles, or tumbling them down the hill into the farmers’ mowed fields
beyond.

Samantha turned up the collar of
her fleece jacket and clasped her arms across her chest to help ward off the
chill. She knew she hadn’t been the same since she’d seen John
again and she
didn’t like the feelings of loss—and of buried anger—that kept washing over
her.

Logic insisted that it was
foolish to relive an unhappy past. The problem was, most of her time with
John Waltham had been blissful. Elating. Filled with the promise of a
perfect future.

That was the real problem. She
was once again coming face-to-face
with a shattered dream and seeing how
irrational it had been in the first place. Childhood attachments were fine
for kids. A person had to grow up eventually. In a way, John had done them
both a favor when he’d left town and forced her to stand on her own two
feet. Intellectually, she believed that. All she had to do was convince her
emotions.

Because of hospital
rules,
Samantha’s car was parked in a distant section of the lot designated for
employees. There were some lights back there, too, but the farther she got
from the buildings the more forbidding the encroaching darkness
seemed.

One hand was inside her shoulder
bag, reaching for her keys, when a large, black-clad form stepped out of the
shadows. She sensed
him before she actually saw him and her fingers began
probing the deepest reaches of her purse. Instead of her keys, she gripped a
small can of pepper spray.

Shaking on the inside, she
continued walking boldly toward her car. When the silent figure blocked her
way she simply said, “Excuse me?”

His resulting laugh was far from
humorous. Widening his stance
he said, “Lady, there is no excuse for the
likes of you. Now give it to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re
talking about. Move. I need to get to my car.” She sidestepped to keep out
of reach and raised the spray can, ready to put it to use.

“You think that scares me?” the
man said. “I can take that away from you before you know what hit
you.”

“Why
me?
” she asked, fighting to remain
calm enough to defend herself. “I don’t know you.”

“No, and you won’t try to ID me
if you know what’s good for you. Let’s just say we have a mutual friend
whose life won’t be worth a bucketful of manure if you rat us out.” His
raspy tone was almost as frightening as the outright threat.

“I don’t know what you’re
talking about.
Get out of my way and I’ll leave. I won’t say a word about
this. I promise.”

This time his laugh was even
more sinister. “You bet you won’t. The only way you’re getting away from me
is if you give me the package.”

“
What
package?” She could hear the fear
in her voice and rued the lack of self-control.

“The one the Boland kid gave
you.”

So that
was the supposed mutual
friend he was threatening to harm. “Bobby didn’t give me anything. I hardly
know
him.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why did he point
to you when they were hauling him off to jail?”

“Me? I didn’t even see him
leave. He couldn’t have pointed to me.”

Suddenly, the man
lunged.

Samantha directed the pepper
spray at his face
and heard him curse as it hit its target but he didn’t
slow his attack. In the blink of an eye he’d disarmed her and wrenched her
purse from her grasp, as well.

Blinding headlights suddenly
came out of nowhere and illuminated the darkened corner of the lot. Her head
whipped around. A large vehicle, probably a pickup truck, was speeding
toward her so fast it
looked as though it might actually hit her car or run
her over.

Tires screeched on the asphalt.
The truck rocked as it slid to a stop. A man in a denim jacket jumped out
and raced past Samantha in a blur, hot on the trail of her fleeing
attacker.

The whole incident happened so
quickly she needed a moment to process the details. What in the world could
that guy have meant? Bobby Joe hadn’t given her any packages. He hadn’t
given her anything but a headache. But it was clear the stupid kid was
involved with criminals and was in way over his head. Perhaps lethally
so.

It quickly dawned on her that
the driver of the pickup had looked familiar. Peering after him she saw John
Waltham returning with a broad
grin and her purse in hand.

Well, now what?
she asked herself, trying to still her trembling
enough to present a calm facade, even though she’d been scared out of her
wits just now. John had saved her from theft and goodness knows what else.
She could hardly snub him.

Instead, she merely smiled and
said, “Thanks,” as she accepted her handbag from him and slung
the wide
strap over her shoulder.

“You’re welcome. Sorry he got
away.” John eyed the bag. “Aren’t you going to check and see if he stole
anything?”

“I doubt he had it long enough
for that.” Samantha nevertheless pawed through the contents. Her wallet and
cracked cell phone were still there. To her surprise, so was the pepper
spray.

Looking
back at her rescuer she
raised an eyebrow. “Wait a minute. It’s after midnight. What were you doing
out here?”

“Waiting for you to get off work
so I could try to talk to you again,” John said.

“How did you know my
hours?”

“I asked at the information
desk. That’s what they’re for. Information, right?”

“They’re not supposed to give
strangers
my personal schedule,” Samantha countered.

“Ah, but they could tell I was
one of the good guys because I was still in uniform when I
asked.”

She shivered. “Yeah, well,
apparently you weren’t the only one waiting for me.”

“No kidding. I think I’d better
escort you to the station to make a report.”

“For a purse snatching? I’d
really rather not.”
Especially since I don’t
intend to involve Bobby Joe until I’ve made sure he won’t be hurt worse
because of my statement,
she added to
herself, considering that decision totally rational under these
circumstances.

“Why not?” John was
scowling.

“Hey, don’t look at me like I’m
some kind of criminal. I just don’t relish visiting Sheriff Allgood or Chief
Kelso, okay? We don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

John still didn’t touch her but
he did hover closer, making Samantha feel safer and more secure than she had
in a long, long time. “Explain.”

She leaned against the side of
her car because she was still unsteady on her feet and didn’t want him to
suspect. “It’s not complicated. I see it as my duty to report
suspicions of
child abuse and the authorities don’t often take me seriously. It was bad
enough before I became a CASA volunteer but it’s even worse now. You know
what that is, right?”

“Court Appointed Special
Advocates for children? Sure. What’s the problem? The people you report are
guilty, aren’t they?”

“Sometimes. Like Bobby Joe was
today.”

“And sometimes not?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s okay, Sam. I understand.
You’re smart enough to catch clues that others miss.”

“Do you really believe that or
are you just trying to get back into my good graces?”

“Maybe both. I’ve been thinking
a lot about what you said earlier. It pains me to hear you dropped out of
church because of me. Is that actually
true?”

“In a manner of speaking. People
were so used to seeing us as a couple and expecting us to get…married…that
they kept nagging me about it long after you’d left. I finally decided it
was easier to stay home than to go through interrogation every
Sunday.”

“That’s a shame.”

Samantha knew she’d already
revealed too much for her own good so she
changed the subject. “If you want
me to make a police report I suppose it would be better to get it over with
now, while your office is quiet.”

She jingled her keys. “I’ll take
my car. You can follow if you want.”

When he smiled tenderly and
said, “You couldn’t get rid of me tonight if you tried,” she was so touched
by his evident concern she had to turn
away to hide her emotions.

Don’t do it, Samantha,
she warned herself.
Don’t soften. Don’t start imagining that you can go back and pick up where
you left off. It’s far too late for that. The romance is over.
Period.

A basic truth struck her as she
was climbing into her car. She and John had had more than a romance. They
had shared a special friendship for years.
And that, more than anything, was
what she missed. What she grieved for.

Looking into the side mirror she
watched him striding to his truck. There was a time when she’d believed that
he was everything she’d ever wanted; that he completed her in a way no one
else could.

The lump in her throat and
rapid, thrumming pulse told her that she’d never changed
her mind. But John
had changed his. He had chosen his career over a life with her and the only
way she could hope to protect herself from a repeat of the same pain was to
guard her heart—no matter what.

ISBN: 9781408997512

The Missing Monarch

© Rachelle McCalla 2012

First Published in Great Britain in 2012
Harlequin (UK) Limited
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, including without limitation xerography, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the prior
consent of the publisher, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual
known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l.

® and TM are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk