An Officer and a Gentle Woman
He had never made a bigger fool of himself in his entire life.
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Books by Doreen Owens Malek
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Copyright
He had never made a bigger fool of himself in his entire life.
And that was saying something.
Michael Lafferty sighed. What a mess. It was his job to help the district attorney convict Alicia Walker, and yet every time he saw the accused murderess, all he wanted to do was get her into bed. He had to put a stop to it. And worse than his personal interest in the murder suspect was his overwhelming desire to help her, which was going to make him about as popular with his superiors as a lion at a lamb picnic. This was all wrong in every way—he knew that, but he had to force himself to stay where he was and not run back into the house and pick up where they had left off.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another month of fabulous reading from Silhouette Intimate Moments, the line that brings you excitement along with your romance every month. As I’m sure you’ve already noticed, the month begins with a return to CONARD COUNTY, in Involuntary Daddy, by bestselling author Rachel Lee. As always, her hero and heroine will live in your heart long after you’ve turned the last page, along with an irresistible baby boy nicknamed Peanut You’ll wish you could take him home yourself.
Award winner Mane Ferrarella completes her CHILDFINDERS, INC. trilogy with Hero in the Nick of Time, about a fake marriage that’s destined to become real, and not one, but two, safely recovered children. Marilyn Pappano offers the second installment of her HEARTBREAK CANYON miniseries, The Horseman’s Bride. This Oklahoma native certainly has a way with a Western man! After too long away, Doreen Owens Malek returns with our MEN IN BLUE title, An Officer and a Gentle Woman, about a cop falling in love with his prime suspect Kylie Brant brings us the third of THE SULLIVAN BROTHERS in Falling Hard and Fast, a steamy read that will have your heart racing. Finally, welcome RaeAnne Thayne, whose debut book for the line, The Wrangler and the Runaway Mom, is also a WAY OUT WEST title. You’ll be happy to know that her second book is already scheduled
Enjoy them all—and then come back again next month, when once again Silhouette Intimate Moments brings you six of the best and most exciting romances around
Yours,
Leslie J Wainger Executive Senior Editor
* * *
Please address questions and book requests to.
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AN OFFICER AND A GENTLE WOMAN
DOREEN OWENS MALEK
Books by Doreen Owens Malek
Silhouette Intimate Moments
The Eden Tree #88
Devil’s Deception #105
Montega’s Mistress #169
Danger Zone #204
A Marriage of Convenience #282
An Officer and a Gentle Woman #958
Silhouette Special Edition
A Ruling Passion #154
Silhouette Romance
The Crystal Unicorn #363
Silhouette Desire
Native Season #86
Reckless Moon #222
Winter Meeting #240
Desperado #260
Firestorm #290
Bright River #343
Roughneck #450
Arrow in the Snow #747
The Harder They Fall #778
Above the Law #869
Daddy’s Choice #983
Big Sky Drifter #1097
DOREEN OWENS MALEK
is a former attorney who decided on her current career when she sold her fledgling novel to the first editor who read it. Since then, she has gained recognition for her writing, winning honors from Romantic Times Magazine and the coveted Golden Medallion Award from the Romance Writers of America. She has traveled extensively throughout Europe, but it was in her home state of New Jersey that she met and married her college sweetheart. They now live in Pennsylvania.
For my Monica, the karate kid.
Chapter 1
The security guard, whose name was Moresby, lounged against the wall near the entrance to the stage of the Plaza Hotel ballroom, straightening when he saw Alicia Walker come in by the back door.
“Mrs. Walker,” he said deferentially, touching the brim of his cap. “We were told you were ill. The Chairman will be so glad you were able to make it after all, even just for the end.”
The woman smiled briefly and glanced at the steps leading to the podium.
“He’s still onstage—he’ll be departing from the greenroom on the other side,” Moresby said.
She nodded.
“You still have time to slip in and leave with him, if you like,” he added helpfully.
She nodded again and brushed past him, leaving a drift of expensive scent in her wake, clutching her bag to her side. The guard watched her go, his eyes skimming her slim figure in the beige silk Adolfo suit. dropping to the exquisite legs sheathed in sheer hose and the narrow feet shod in calfskin pumps. He sighed mentally. What a looker. If he had that waiting for him at home and two hundred million dollars he wouldn’t be spending all his time stumping for a stressful political job no sane man would want in the first place.
But who ever knew what Joseph Walker, called The Chairman by his friends and associates, was thinking?
The woman stopped at the stage’s entrance, nodding to the press secretary, Drew Smithson, who glanced up at her in surprise. He was gesturing for her to join them when Walker swept off the stage, beaming at the burst of applause that accompanied his departure. As the members of the press rattled their papers and recorders, and the flash cameras whirred, she stepped into the shadows, waiting until Walker had left the stage. He trotted down the steps, leaving the press gathering behind as he was enclosed by several of his advisors.
The crowd noise faded as the auditorium emptied, and the Walker group progressed along a hall, heading for the kitchen exit. Suddenly the woman stepped forward, reaching for her bag in the same motion. A pistol appeared in her hand as Smithson, the only one in the small group not looking at his boss, saw what she was doing and his mouth fell open in horror.
She took aim with practiced ease as Smithson frantically shouted a warning. Walker, still high from the crowd’s approval, glanced at his aide in confusion as a bullet entered the side of his head and effectively ended his life. Those closest to him, alerted by the muffled thup of the silencer, stopped and stared, trying to understand what was happening. Walker reeled, and in the second before he collapsed, the woman saw that she had found her target, shoved the gun into her purse and ran.
Smithson dashed after her as two others rushed to Walker’s side. Two more aides scrambled frantically for cover as realization of the tragedy dawned. The departing press conference crowd, chattering and shuffling in ignorance of the drama taking place nearby, flooded into an area near the other end of the hall, thwarting Smithson’s efforts to catch the assailant. He bellowed in helpless frustration as the police, summoned by Smithson’s shouts and focused on the wounded man, let Walker’s wife rush by them and make her escape handily.
“Grab her!” Smithson screamed at a New York City patrolman, who looked at the woman’s departing form, then back at
him in puzzlement.
“She shot him, dammit, grab her!” Smithson shouted, pointing, but it was too late. She had fled through the emerging crowd and was gone.
“Mrs. Walker, what happened?” Moresby gasped in alarm, as she almost knocked him down on her way past him. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t meet his eyes and didn’t answer, flying through the door just as the call came from the interior of the building, “Seal all the exits, Mr. Walker’s been shot.”
The guard charged after her, gun drawn, but she had vanished into the street.
“Where’s Mrs. Walker?” Moresby yelled to another guard, who was shoving his way through the swarm of people.
“I didn’t see her.”
Moresby scanned the crowd once again and then ran back inside to use the police radio. It was possible that a patrol car could catch her on the road.
Inside, Smithson turned back to Walker, who was sprawled on the floor surrounded by the small group. Most of the reporters and photographers had left, unaware that anything had happened behind the scenes, and the few who had realized something was wrong were held back from the scene by the police. A figure detached itself from Walker’s side and hurried over to Smithson. It was Chuck Weiss, a Walker administrative assistant. His face was the color of cream and his crisp tailored shirt was stained with blood.
“How is he?” Smithson gasped.
Weiss shook his head and closed his eyes, his lips trembling. “There’s a doctor with him, but...his head—” He stopped and swallowed. “I’m sure he’s dead.”
Smithson sighed deeply, glancing over at the prone figure, visible only from the knees down. His expression was tinged with sadness and regret. Then it hardened.
“Did you see her?” he asked sharply.
“Who?” Weiss replied, pushing his disordered hair back with a shaking hand.
“Alicia. After Joe was shot, she darted out of here.”
Weiss stared at him blankly for a moment, then recovered his wits. “What the hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” Smithson replied flatly, “that Joseph Walker was murdered by his wife, and I saw her do it.”
When Alicia Walker’s doorbell rang an hour later in Scarsdale, the sound awakened her from a light sleep. She blinked groggily at the clock, remembered that she had sent Maizie home at three in the afternoon, and reached for her robe. She was belting it around her waist and padding softly down the wide, winding stairwell when the doorbell rang again
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” she muttered, crossing the flowered Aubusson rug on the parquet floor. She switched on the overhead light and the brass chandelier flooded the foyer with a warm glow. She pulled open the door.
Two policemen with badges on display stood on the brick pediment between the polished brass tubs of flaming geraniums. Their expressions were grave. The first was an older man of about sixty, and the second one, much taller, was a handsome man close to her own age, with thick black hair and a steady blue-gray gaze that made her feel somewhat breathless and disconcerted. Beyond the colonnade of her front porch three police cars crowded the circular drive, their blue lights pulsating silently, ominously.
Her hand went to her throat. “Has something happened?” she said quickly. “My children?”
“Mrs. Alicia Walker?”
“Yes, yes, what is it? What’s happened?”
“I’m Lieutenant Chandler of the Twenty-First Precinct, Manhattan,” the older man said flatly, and added, gesturing to his partner, “And this is Detective Lafferty. Mrs. Walker, your husband is dead.”
Alicia gasped and the younger man stepped across the threshold to take her arm, leading her to the brocade love seat at the base of the staircase. As she sat, her hand brushed the Lalique vase on a stand next to the chair, and the delicate crystal crashed to the floor, shattering and spilling roses and water everywhere.
Alicia glanced at it automatically. “Don’t worry, Maizie will get it,” she said, and then shook her head, annoyed. “No, she’s gone. I’ll clean it up myself.” She made as if to rise, and the policeman pushed her gently but firmly back into her seat.
“Mrs. Walker,” Lafferty said, “sit down.”
Alicia glanced at him sharply and then obeyed, her eyes wide and watchful. Lafferty sat facing her, trying not to be affected by her ethereal loveliness. She had lush maple-blond hair just touching her shoulders, the color of honey in a glass jar, and clear hazel eyes—not green or brown but something in between—fringed by thick lashes much darker than her hair. Her skin was pale and flawless without makeup; there was no lipstick on her heart-shaped mouth and no color in her cheeks. She was slim, almost thin, with prominent bones showing above the collar of her robe and at her wrists. The overall effect was one of priceless fragility, exquisitely and expensively maintained. She looked like the wife of a millionaire, all right, but she didn’t look happy. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and the faint lines bracketing her lips indicated a mouth that frowned more often than smiled.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Walker?” Chandler asked, advancing into the hall, glancing around as he pulled the door closed behind him. Chandler’s wife worked for an interior decorator and he recognized everything in the room as top of the line. To his left was a formal dining room with a massive Waterford chandelier and a Hepple-white breakfront; to his right, through a set of French doors, was a living room dominated by a Baldwin grand piano and a lavish fireplace with an elaborate mantel. He had seen the rest of the house from the road; there was a den and a study and some sort of solarium filled with plants and flowers at the back of the first floor. Some setup.
Alicia nodded mutely, responding to his question.
Lafferty cleared his throat. “Your children are away at school, Mrs. Walker?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Is anyone else here?”
“No, I told you, my housekeeper went to her sister’s house in Yonkers this afternoon, and the rest of the staff are all day workers. Please, how did my husband die, Detective...Lafferty, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You haven’t told me anything. How and when did it happen?”
“He was shot about eight o’clock tonight. After delivering his speech at the Plaza Hotel.”
“Then why did no one call me? I’ve been here this whole time.”
Lafferty exchanged a glance with his colleague.
“Detective, I have asked you why no one called me.”
“Mrs. Alicia Walker?” Chandler said again sternly, moving briskly closer to her.
“Yes, of course,” she said wanly, looking from one man to the other. “What’s going on?”
Lafferty looked away.
“We’re here to arrest you for the murder of your husband, Joseph Walker.”
Alicia’s ivory complexion became almost ghostly. “Wha-what?” she whispered.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Chandler said, beginning the drone of the Miranda warning as he unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt.
“Lieutenant Chandler, this is preposterous!” Alicia said indignantly, regaining her wits as the policeman talked. “I didn’t shoot my husband, I was here all night, asleep!”
“I would advise you not to say anything else, Mrs. Walker,” Lafferty interjected warningly.
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney,” Chandler went on, looking around the spacious hall at the antique furniture, the gold framed paintings, the china figurines in a cherry cabinet against the wall, “one will be provided for you by the court.”
“Who says I killed my husband?” Alicia demanded in an outraged tone. “Who says so?”
“There are several eyewitnesses, ma’am,” Chandler said flatly, gesturing with the handcuffs for her to extend her wrists.
“Eyewitnesses? That’s ridiculous, there’s been a mistake! I was here! I wasn’t feeling well, I have a cold, so I let Maizie go early. She had gotten a message tha
t her son was sent home sick from school and she was concerned about getting home to him. I went to bed early and fell asleep until the doorbell woke me.”
“Mrs. Walker, be quiet!” Lafferty said, more urgently this time. Chandler threw him an exasperated look.
“Why should I be quiet? I have nothing to hide, I’m telling you the truth,” Alicia countered heatedly.
“Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?” Chandler concluded. He held out the handcuffs impatiently.
“Don’t you think we should let her get dressed first?” Lafferty asked quietly.
Chandler registered the satin negligee and matching lace collared robe Alicia was wearing.
“Take her to her room and let her change her clothes and pack a bag,” Chandler said gruffly. “Make it quick. Five minutes.”
Lafferty gave him a look.
“Okay, ten,” Chandler amended.
“I have no plans to escape, Lieutenant,” Alicia said with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’m sure this misunderstanding will be cleared up very quickly.”
Chandler nodded toward the staircase. “Bedroom up there?” he asked flatly.
“Yes.”
Chandler gestured and Alicia rose, climbing the stairs with Lafferty following in her wake. He passed an over-hanging balcony filled with lush exotic plants and then reached the landing, turning left along a wide hall carpeted in peach plush and hung with striped peach wallpaper. A large basket of apricot-hued tulips sat on a cherry table under a brass-framed mirror.
“This way,” Alicia Walker said, glancing over her shoulder at him. He followed her into the master bedroom suite and stopped. The king bed was draped with the same chintz fabric as the spread, the pale pastel colors blending with the huge circular Kirman rug on the floor. In the dressing room beyond he could see a wall of closets flanking a triple-mirrored dressing table cluttered with bottles and jars. To his immediate right was a gleaming tiled bathroom with an elevated Jacuzzi tub and separate stall shower, its anteroom lined on one side with double sinks and a marble vanity, on the other with a cedar storage closet.