Internal Affairs. Alana Matthews
“They had a proposition for me,” Rafe said. “One they tried to make very difficult to refuse.”
She frowned. “What kind of proposition?”
“They wanted me to use our past to try to get on your good side and convince you to cooperate.”
Her eyes hardened. “And did you agree to this?”
“No,” Rafe said forcefully. “Of course not. I would never do anything to put you or Chloe in danger.”
They let that hang in the air for a moment, then she laced her fingers through his and squeezed. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, Rafe. How many times I’ve cursed myself for letting you go.”
“You don’t think I feel the same?”
Her eyes looked hopeful. “Do you?”
About the Author
ALANA MATTHEWS can’t remember a time when she didn’t want to be a writer. As a child, she was a permanent fixture in her local library, and she soon turned her passion for books into writing short stories, and finally novels. A longtime fan of romantic suspense, Alana felt she had no choice but to try her hand at the genre, and she is thrilled to be writing for Mills & Boon® Intrigue. Alana makes her home in a small town near the coast of Southern California, where she spends her time writing, composing music and watching her favorite movies.
Send a message to Alana at her website, www.alanamatthews.com.
Internal
Affairs
Alana Matthews
MILLS & BOON
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Chapter One
She opened her eyes with a start, not sure what had awakened her.
She was alone in the room, which was quiet except for the sound of an autumn breeze outside her window and the faint metallic squeak of the bed springs.
Had it been Chloe?
Squinting at the clock—which read 4:32 a.m.—she stilled herself and listened carefully, using the supersonic hearing only a mother possesses, tuning it in to Chloe’s frequency.
But she heard nothing.
No whimpering. No cries in the night.
Even as a baby, Chloe had been a sound sleeper. And now that she was just past her third year, she was nearly impossible to get out of bed in the morning. The girl liked her rest and, unlike her mother, could snooze through a thunderstorm.
But what Lisa Tobin had heard was not thunder.
The noise, if she hadn’t dreamed it—and she didn’t think she had—was high-pitched and abrasive. Like glass shattering.
A window?
Was there an intruder in the house?
Icy dread sluiced through her bloodstream as the thought took hold. She listened awhile longer, hoping it was just her overactive imagination, and the moment she convinced herself it was, she heard another sound—a faint, muffled crash—coming from downstairs.
Definitely not her imagination.
There was someone down there.
Could it be Beatrice? Had she awakened in the middle of the night and decided to get an early start on her housekeeping?
Not likely. Bea was efficient, but she wasn’t overly ambitious and was as sound a sleeper as Chloe. And even if she were tidying up, she had never been the clumsy type. The woman was as stealthy as an alley cat.
So intruder it was. Probably that punk kid from next door trying to prove himself to his punk buddies.
There had been a rash of break-ins up and down the street in the past few weeks and everyone pretty much suspected the kid. He was the product of a broken home—something Lisa was all too familiar with—and had been acting out ever since he’d reached puberty. In the year and a half she had lived in this house, the boy had been arrested three times. Twice for drugs, and once for burglary. And he was undoubtedly working his way toward arrest number four.
So what should she do?
Sit here and let him clean the place out?
Lisa’s first instinct was to call the police, but as she reached to the nightstand for her cell phone, she remembered that she had left it in her purse, which was sitting on the table in the foyer downstairs. She had never had a landline installed, and now cursed herself for it.
So she had two choices. Stay put and hope the punk didn’t work his way up the stairs …
Or confront him.
Neither choice thrilled Lisa, but she was not the shrinking-violet type and she wasn’t about to sit here, waiting to be victimized.
So option number two it was.
Throwing her blankets aside, she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, then got to her feet and pulled her robe on. She would need protection, of course. You don’t go into a situation like this without it.
But what kind of protection?
A gun?
Lisa didn’t like guns. Hated them, in fact. Had only held one in her hands twice in her lifetime and had felt extremely uncomfortable each time. But before he moved out, her ex-husband, Oliver, had insisted on putting a pistol in a lockbox on the hall closet shelf, telling her not to hesitate to use it if necessary.
It was a typical Oliver move. He was no stranger to violence—something she had learned only in the last days of their marriage, and part of the reason she had filed for a divorce. His stubborn refusal to consider her feelings—the pistol, for example—was the other part. She had thought she was marrying a prince charming but quickly discovered that there was something deadly beneath that charm. Something dangerous and controlling.
And intimidating.
A Dr. Jekyll who had quickly morphed into Mr. Hyde.
But Lisa had never been turned on by bad boys. She had too much self-respect for that. And where she had once felt warmth, she now felt trepidation whenever she encountered him. An uneasiness that wormed its way into her gut every time she saw him.
As much as she hated to admit it, however, Oliver had been right about the gun. And despite the punk’s young age, confronting him without a weapon would be foolhardy.
She didn’t have to use it, of course. Merely wave it at him to scare him away. Get to her cell phone and call the cops.
So that was the plan.
One