Read the book: «A Woman With Secrets»

Kate flopped back against her pillow

Way to go. Nothing like a bloodcurdling scream to waylay suspicion. No telling what Cole thought she had in her closet now. Drugs. Stolen jewelry. A bag full of cash.

She got out of bed and opened the closet, feeling around for the leather case. Still there.

She pulled out the suitcase, opened it and stared down at the neatly stacked rows of bills. A little over one million dollars. By rights, it was hers. Karl had stolen every cent of it. Left her virtually penniless.

So getting this money back meant she had beaten her ex-husband at his own game. In the end, she’d won.

She should be drinking champagne. Celebrating.

She went to the sink and stared at herself in the small mirror. But what was there to celebrate, really? She’d regained a few strands of her tattered pride. So what? It didn’t change the fact that she was thirty-three years old, had never worked a day in her far-too-cushioned life and had no idea where to go from here.

Dear Reader,

A Woman with Secrets was a fun story to write. I love the Caribbean and have always thought it would be great to sail around for a while, island to island, living like someone content to leave all memories of fifteen-degree winter mornings in the been-there-done-that file.

On arriving in Miami for a ten-day excursion of just this sort, Kate Winthrop gets both more and less than she’d bargained for. When the story starts, she is completely absorbed with the need to exact revenge on an ex-husband. But aboard the Ginny, Kate finds herself falling in love with Cole Hunter, and she begins to see that she can be someone she never imagined she could be. By the end of the trip, Kate has let go of her need for revenge and is motivated to make her once-shallow life mean something.

While I hope A Woman with Secrets has its moments of humor and lightheartedness, I found myself unable to resist weaving threads of seriousness through the story. Maybe this is a reflection of my increasing awareness of a need to look outside myself to those situations where even a small effort on my part can make a difference to another living being. The ripple effect of kindness continues to amaze me. When people link hands and take it upon themselves to make a difference, incredible things can be done.

I like to think this is the place where Kate is at the end of A Woman with Secrets. A place where happiness is a direct result of giving instead of taking.

I love to hear from readers. Please write to me at P.O. Box 973, Rocky Mount, VA 24151. E-mail at inglathc@aol.com. Or visit my Web site at www.inglathcooper.com.

All best,

Inglath

A Woman with Secrets
Inglath Cooper

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Inglath Cooper is a RITA^® Award-winning author of seven published novels. Her books focus on the dynamics of relationships—those between a man and a woman, mother and daughter, sisters, friends. Her stories are often peopled with characters who reflect the values and traditions of the small Virginia town where she grew up.

To my Dad, for showing me the true definition of

courage and determination.

And to my editor, Johanna Raisanen,

for being such an absolute pleasure to work with.

An eye for story weaknesses, a kind manner

and she loves dogs, too. Need I say more?

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Even a dog knows the difference between being stumbled over and being kicked.

—American Proverb

KATE WINTHROP HAD REACHED an all-time low. She was broke. Desperate. And about to become a thief.

She had her ex-husband to thank for each of these mantles. And if it were the last thing she did on God’s green earth, she planned to get even with him.

She made this resolution in the backyard of the castle-size Georgian house Karl had recently purchased in one of Richmond’s more lavish neighborhoods. Amazing in itself, considering he supposedly had no money. But then, he had her money, and it didn’t look as though either conscience or good sense had prevented him from spending it.

A car drove by, the lights arcing across the backyard, catching her in its glare for a flash of a second. She stepped back into the shadows, her heart relocating in her throat. She waited a full minute after the car had passed before peeling herself off the brick wall.

A headline flashed in front of her: Kate Winthrop, Daughter of Self-made Millionaire Hart Winthrop, Five to Ten in State Pen.

Long headline, but point taken.

She knew it was crazy, coming here like this. Even so, she could no more make herself leave than she could erase the mental image of Karl stealing her blind day by day, week by week for the past three years. As it always did, the thought brought with it fresh humiliation.

She stepped back and studied the house. Karl lived by the creed that more was more. Here, that principle had been put to adequate test.

A pool took up most of the suburban backyard, surrounded by expensive, imported planters that anchored boxwoods the size of an overfed sumo wrestler. Wrought-iron loungers with plump cushions sat in neat rows at the water’s edge.

She pictured herself upending each of them into the blue water. That was too petty, though. She was here for real evidence. Something concrete. Something she could take to the police, wave in their faces with an indignant, “See, I told you he was a scumbag!”

As to what that would be, she had no idea. She’d know it when she saw it. In all reality, could someone really embezzle millions of dollars without leaving a trail of some sort?

She patted a hand against the pocket of her zip-up vest and pulled out her flashlight. She glanced down at the rest of her outfit. Turtleneck, gloves, cargo pants, boots. So maybe she’d gotten a little carried away with the Mission Impossible theme.

French doors served as a wall to the back of the house. She stepped forward and pressed her face against the glass, peering into the darkened living room. After learning that Karl and his new wife would be out of town until tomorrow afternoon, Kate had called the house earlier in the day to inform the maid she had a package to deliver to Mr. Forrester. Berta—leave it to Karl to import a German housekeeper—had said she would be there until 6:00 p.m. It was now seven-thirty. All the lights were off in the house, no one home. Still, her stomach dropped at the thought of being caught.

But then she envisioned herself standing in front of the divorce court judge, heard him say that as far as he could see, she had knowingly and willingly given her husband the authority to do with their joint funds as he had seen fit. “His name is on all the accounts, dear,” he’d said, Southern disdain for her idiocy marking each word. “Your husband might have made some bad decisions, but there’s no law against that. I suggest you be careful who you marry next time, young lady.”

So there was no law against robbing your wife blind. There was, however, a law against breaking and entering. She sent a quick glance over both shoulders, then turned the flashlight around and placed the butt of it against the glass pane nearest the door handle. A quick jab, and the glass shattered, falling to the floor on the other side. She reached through the open cavity and pressed the lock. The door swung open, and the silence exploded.

She jumped as if poked with a cattle prod, even though she’d fully expected an extra-loud alarm system. Extra was Karl’s style. If you could super-size it, his name was on the dotted line.

She stepped inside and closed the door, using the flashlight to wind her way down the hall to the front of the house.

The control panel was where she’d thought it would be: to the left of the door. She had forty-five seconds to figure out the code and turn off the alarm before the security company called. Earlier that day, she’d invested a couple of hours in coming up with the combinations Karl might have used.

Being married to Karl had left her with an absolute understanding of the three engines that pulled his train of thought: golf, women and money. And not necessarily in that order.

From her pants pocket, she pulled the piece of paper on which she’d written her best guesses.

First, golf. With one gloved finger, she punched in the two scores he had bragged about so often that the numbers were seared in her brain. 6265.

But the ear-piercing wail continued.

Door number two: women. She punched in 3624, picturing Karl’s wife—Tiffany-the-interior-decorator, her surgically enhanced figure leaving little doubt as to what had initiated his defection.

But clearly Karl had not immortalized Tiffany’s measurements in his alarm control panel. It continued its wail. Her nerve endings were beginning to feel as if they’d been dipped in Tabasco Sauce.

One more. Time was running out. She had ten seconds max. Next on the list: Karl’s penchant for picking stocks. He played the market the way little old ladies in Las Vegas played the quarter slot machines, going online ten or fifteen times a day to monitor his latest picks. He’d hit the jackpot once, quoting the stock’s sell price to anyone who would listen. She glanced at the piece of notepaper on which she’d written the last of her three guesses.

What if she were wrong?

She drew in a deep, hopeful breath and punched in the numbers.

The wailing immediately ceased. Ah. Silence. Peaceful, blessed silence.

And then she grew indignant again. It figured, after all. When it came right down to it, everything that mattered most to Karl centered around money. Without it, he couldn’t afford golf or women.

She leaned her head against the wall, gathering up her now shredded nerves of steel. A neighbor could have heard the alarm. The police could be on their way right this minute.

Even as she indulged her paranoia, she knew the closest house lay well out of earshot. It wasn’t likely that the police would have been notified. Now that the alarm was off, she should have all night to search the house.

Still slumping with relief, she turned around and waved the flashlight across the room. The main living area looked like a candy cane factory, the red-and-white stripes on the walls nearly blinding her. A hysterical giggle bubbled up from her throat and broke free, the sound ridiculous in the otherwise tomb-still house. Appearances were important to Karl. She wondered if he provided his business associates with protective eyewear when he entertained here.

She left the vertigo-inducing living room and aimed the flashlight down the hallway that led to the rest of the house. Tiffany’s touch had found its way to these walls as well. Karl now had stripes in black and white, green and white, pink and white. The upside? If she could find something to convince the police he was a crook, he’d have no problem adjusting to his prison uniform.

The house felt eerie, pitch black as it was. But she didn’t dare turn on any lights for fear that someone would notice and report it. Like the alarm code, she had planned this part of her efforts as well. She’d start with the most obvious place: Karl’s office. Using the flashlight as a guide, she poked her head inside several different rooms until she found it.

Here, Tiffany had given up the striped wallpaper for paint. Purple was her color of choice, although Kate would bet Karl had dubbed it eggplant.

She headed for the desk, sat down in Karl’s leather chair and began opening drawers, using the flashlight to illuminate their contents. The first three yielded nothing more than paper clips and files full of papers that meant nothing to her.

The bottom drawer was locked.

But she’d come prepared for locked drawers. She reached inside her vest pocket and pulled out the small black case that held a series of lock picks she’d managed to purchase at a pawn shop in the seedier part of Richmond.

She chose one and got to work, fumbling at first, then getting the hang of it. The first four did nothing. The fifth one, however, did the trick.

The drawer popped open. Again, there were files, neatly organized. Behind them sat a metal box. She reached for it first, surprised to find it unlocked. She popped the latch and then sat a little straighter at the sight of the gun nestled inside. What was Karl doing with a gun? A big one at that. In three years of marriage, she’d never known he had one.

Maybe he and Tiffany played games with it. A mental picture she didn’t need.

Glad she’d reached the point where she could actually joke about the biggest mistake of her life, she slammed the lid closed and stuck the box back in the drawer. She worked on the files then, leafing through each of them in the hope that something incriminating would jump out at her.

Nothing did.

Twenty minutes later, she’d found little more than records of car loans, garage services, health insurance.

She slumped in the chair, her ponytail squished against the cushioned back. There had to be something in this mausoleum of a house to prove what a lying, cheating…

She put the brakes on that particular rant. It was old territory, after all. Trekked across one too many times.

Looking back, she could see everything so clearly now. Not that it did her any good to have such remarkable hindsight—a worthless commodity, after all.

With renewed determination, she got up from the chair and headed for the master bedroom, where lace and mirrors were the key decorating ingredients. She wondered where Tiffany had actually managed to get her hands on an interior design degree. The house was an aesthetic assault to the senses.

She started with the nightstands by the bed, emptying the contents of their drawers on top of the black duvet. She shook her head. Black? Really.

She rifled through hand lotion, Chap Stick, a few receipts, theater ticket stubs. She worked her way through each drawer in the room, ending up in an enormous walk-in closet that could easily double as a retail store. She closed the door and flipped on the light switch. She patted down every suit, looked under every sweater, opened every shoe box.

Nothing.

She sank onto the floor and dropped her head in her hands. Maybe it was time to accept the fact that she had been used. That she’d let herself be conned by a man who planned her fleecing down to the last dime. Maybe it was time to put it all behind her and start over again. At McDonald’s, maybe. Polyester uniforms could do a lot for a girl with natural curves. Emphasis on natural.

She got to her feet and glanced at her watch. Time to admit defeat. She gave one of Karl’s Ferragamo loafers a kick and sent it hurtling across the floor. It landed against the baseboard of the closet with a loud whack.

She stared at it for a moment. Was the board loose, or was her desperation making her see things?

She got down on her knees and poked it with an index finger. The baseboard moved. She shoved the shoe aside and gave the board a tug. It loosened easily.

Renewed hope tumbled through her like a shot of straight adrenaline. Pressing her left ear to the floor, she peered into the hole, then stuck her hand in, encountering something hard.

She fumbled for the flashlight, and then beaming it into the hole, spotted what looked like a leather bag.

Heart pounding, she dropped onto the carpet, planted one foot on either side of the opening, then grabbed the bottom of the exposed wall with both hands and pulled. It gave, and a small section of the wall opened up like the entrance to Aladdin’s cave.

She sat there for a stunned second or two. Then she reached out and eased the bag forward. She popped the latches and it opened. She froze.

Money. Stacks and stacks of it. She picked up a bundle and fanned the edges. All one hundred dollar bills. Too many to count.

She sat for a long time, not moving, just staring at what she’d found, the taste of revenge sweet on her tongue even as she reached a whole new level of understanding about her husband’s betrayal.

She tilted the satchel up and emptied its contents onto the floor. There had to be at least a million dollars. Maybe more.

So what now?

If she left this house with the money, Karl would be hot on her heels as soon as he discovered it missing.

But what could he do? Go to the police and accuse her of stealing back what was hers to begin with? Let him try. Stupid, once, yes. Next time, he would find her a worthy opponent.

She waited until she’d arrived back at her apartment before she called Tyler Bennett’s home number. He’d worked for her father for years and represented Kate in her divorce from Karl as well. After three rings, he answered with an indignant hello.

“It’s Kate,” she said. “Sorry to call so late.”

A fumbling sound was followed by, “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know. You’ll be happy to hear I can now be removed from your delinquent accounts list.”

A big sigh, and then he said, “You called to tell me this?”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“You want to tell me what this is really about?”

“You won’t approve.”

“Kate, didn’t I tell you to stay away from Karl?”

“You did, yes. Which I agree, under normal circumstances, is very good advice. It just so happens he separated himself from a good portion of my money long enough for me to find it.” She glanced at the pile of money on her bed and smiled.

The ensuing stretch of silence made her wonder if he had fallen back to sleep. “I realize your fondest dream is to put Karl in jail,” he said in a careful voice. “But as your attorney, I have to tell you this kind of behavior is going to land you behind bars.”

“For taking back what was mine to begin with?” she asked, unable to keep the indignation from her voice.

“There are ways to handle these things, Kate. This is not one of them.”

“Yes, I’ve had a relatively good indoctrination to the legal way.”

“And what do you think he’s going to do when he finds the money missing?”

“I’d love to be there to see it, but I think I’ll forego the pleasure and give him a little time to cool off. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. You and Peg are leaving for a cruise day after tomorrow, right? She mentioned a buddy of yours from law school runs the tours.”

“Yeah,” Tyler said cautiously.

“How much would you take for those tickets?” she asked.

A full fifteen minutes later, she had finally convinced him to sell her the tickets. Although he made a valiant effort to convince her she might be stepping off the ledge of sanity.

“I’ll pick them up at your office first thing in the morning,” she said and then hung up. She quickly stuffed the money back in the satchel, the thick shell of self-disgust she’d been wearing these past months melting under a wave of self-congratulation.

In finding Karl’s stash, she had reversed the wheel of fortune. For a washed-up artist who’d been robbed of her demolished inheritance, it was a step in the right direction. Maybe Karl would be the one applying for a job at the Golden Arches.

She closed the latches on the leather bag and got to her feet. Paybacks were hell.

CHAPTER TWO

It is a true saying that a man must eat a peck of salt with his friend before he knows him.

—Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

COLE HUNTER RESTED AN ELBOW on the side of the phone booth, the receiver tucked inside his left shoulder, his gaze fixed on the steamy pavement beneath his feet. The Miami sun burned through the back of his white T-shirt while barely suppressed frustration bucked inside him.

“Look, Sam, no insult intended here,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even, while barely restraining the urge to shout, “but why should I believe you’re any closer to finding my daughter now than you were all the other times?”

“I know I’ve told you I was close before,” Sam said, his diplomacy failing to coat Cole’s irritation, “but I’ve managed to connect with a discarded boyfriend of your ex-wife. Apparently, she dumped him, and he’s not too happy with her.”

Cole had no trouble believing this. Casting people aside, after all, was Pamela’s forte. “And he said he knows where she is?” he asked, trying not to let himself get too hopeful.

Lately, he’d begun to think he would never see Ginny again. And in a way, it had become easier to let himself believe that than to believe in something that might never actually happen.

“Said he does.”

“And what does he want in return for that information?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Then give it to him,” Cole said without hesitation, glad for once of the investments he’d made early in his law career, the returns on which he now lived. “I’ll make a transfer to your account as soon as we hang up.”

“Done. But I’ll have to wait for him to call me.”

“Are you telling me you can’t get in touch with him?” he asked, incredulous.

“That’s the way the guy wanted it.”

Disbelief blasted through Cole, skepticism fast on its heels. “Are you sure he’s on the up and up?”

“He insisted on playing things his way. Look, Cole, I know how anxious you are to find your daughter,” the detective said, “but you’ve waited this long. Don’t give up now. I have a really good feeling about this lead.”

Cole wanted to believe him. And what choice did he have but to go along? If this Pamela castoff could help locate Ginny, then Cole could stomach the idea of doing it his way. “I’ll be going out for the next ten days this afternoon,” he said. “You have the numbers to reach me. The reception’s decent once I get out of port. Call as soon as you hear anything at all, okay?”

“Will do,” Sam said and hung up.

Cole placed the receiver back on its hook, but didn’t immediately let go. Some inner quirk of superstition kept his hand where it was, as if to sever the connection would also sever the possibility that he might actually find his daughter this time. It had been almost two years since he had seen Ginny. Nearly two years of wondering where she was. If she’d missed him. If she thought he was the one who’d abandoned her. The thought cut like a knife in his chest. To think his child might actually believe he didn’t care about her, that he’d walked away from her…

Using his phone card, he dialed the number for his bank and made a transfer to Sam’s account. He turned then and headed back down the boardwalk to the Ginny. A migraine loomed at the periphery of his vision like a hurricane off south Florida, hanging back and building up force.

Just short of his boat, he spotted Harry Smith spread-eagled across the bow, adding another layer to his suntan. The pounding in his temples gained momentum.

Harry showed up with predictable frequency, usually accompanied by a couple of string-bean-thin blondes, one of which he always offered to Cole—generous guy that he was—despite the fact that he had yet to take him up on his offerings.

Harry raised his head now and squinted in Cole’s direction. “The love boat’s back in port,” he said, getting up and jumping onto the dock, his smile chastising. “And it’s a wonder, after you all but sank it.”

Cole shot him a look. “You’re the one who can’t function without a woman on each arm. I’m managing just fine.”

Harry hailed from Savannah and everything about him suggested old money. At thirty-six, he thoroughly enjoyed his reputation as a playboy and did whatever he could to further it. Heir apparent to a silver fortune, he spent his days cruising around the Caribbean on his father’s yacht, his deck decorated with sun-adoring women who were drawn to him like honeybees to ice cream.

“Unlike you,” Harry said, “I’m not cursed with an aversion to the female gender. You’re the one living like a monk. Don’t you think there’s a little something wrong with a guy who never takes advantage of the fruit just waitin’ to be picked off the trees?”

“Have you ever noticed how fruit can be fresh one day and rotten the next?” Cole asked.

Harry rolled this around a moment, and then said, “You know, you should move to Alaska. They wear parkas there instead of bikinis.”

“It’s a thought,” he agreed, refusing to rise to the bait. He had to give Harry credit for tenacity. Harry couldn’t understand how any red-blooded male could survive two years without a woman. As someone with skid marks on his heart, Cole wasn’t real keen to repeat the experience. The only thing he cared about was getting his daughter back and making sure Pamela never saw her again. As for the rest of his life, he was just biding time.

“You see, Cole,” Harry said, “you’re not playing the game by the right rules. Nobody said you’ve got to fall in love. I walked that plank once myself, and if anybody knows there are sharks below, I do. This is all about fun. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“You really buy that crap?” he asked, amused.

“Sure I do.”

Cole shook his head. “Somebody always wants more, Harry. That, you can count on.”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “But next time you get lonely for a little female companionship, don’t come looking for—”

“I won’t.” He picked up the bottle of water sitting by the rail of the boat and took a long draw on it. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to be out for a while.”

A shrug accompanied Harry’s reply. “Met up with a little blond-haired gal who needed a lift.”

“The Triple A of the Caribbean.”

“I do what I can,” Harry said with a slightly wicked grin.

“Excuse me.”

The voice turned them both around. A woman stood on the dock, a pull-handle suitcase beside her, an expensive-looking leather satchel in her left hand. Harry’s disgruntled expression disappeared behind an orthodontically correct smile.

“Can I help you with something, miss?” he asked with the charm that was part and parcel of his genetic code.

She glanced down at the sheet of paper in her hand and frowned. “This is Tracer Harbor, isn’t it?”

Harry bolted forward as though a pot of scalding water had been tossed at his back. He took the paper from her hand, scanned its contents and shot Cole a rejuvenated grin. “Yes, ma’am. And this is the Ginny. Looks like you’re in the right place.”

The woman tipped her head and peered past them at the boat. “I— There’s been some kind of a mistake, I’m afraid. I’m supposed to be booked on a cruise—”

“So you are,” Harry squinted at the piece of paper, before saying, “Miss Winthrop. You’re looking at the captain.”

The woman’s perfectly arched eyebrows drew together over a look of suspicion. “You’re the captain?”

“Ah, no. I’m Harrison Smith. Friends call me Harry.” Harry directed her gaze toward Cole, giving him a thumbs up signal behind her back. “Captain Cole Hunter, at your service. On that note, I have a few things to do. Down the dock,” he said, pointing. “Over there. Well out of hearing range.”

Ignoring Harry, Cole looked at the woman and said, “You’re Tyler’s friend?”

“Ah, yes. Kate Winthrop,” she said. “Tyler spoke highly of your cruise.” She shot a glance at the Ginny, then corrected herself. “Boat.”

Cole had gone to law school with Tyler. He and his wife Peg had been booked on the trip out of Miami today. He’d called and said they had a change of plans, but a friend would be taking their place. According to Tyler, this friend needed a vacation and wasn’t opposed to a little roughing it.

Looking at her now, Cole strongly suspected roughing it for Ms. Winthrop meant getting booted from the Four Seasons to the Ritz-Carlton. She had that look. Diamond solitaires impressive enough to be her only jewelry. The kind of straight blond hair whose upkeep could probably support several mortgages. And blue jeans with designer holes in the knees.

“Passengers aren’t supposed to arrive until later this afternoon,” Cole said, glancing at the satchel she held in a death grip at her side.

“I’ve been driving for the past twenty hours,” she said. “I thought maybe I’d be able to board early.” She glanced at the boat behind him, crestfallen, as if she’d been anticipating a version of the QEII and had just realized she was getting a tugboat.

“Tyler did tell you this is a working vacation, didn’t he?”

She shifted from one foot to the other. “Working vacation? No, I just assumed—”

“Look, Ms. Winthrop, there’s nothing fancy about what you’ve signed on for,” he interrupted, his patience waning. “Everyone is expected to do his or her part whether it’s helping out in the kitchen or fishing for dinner. I have one crew member, but the idea is it’s pretty much your boat for the duration.”

She blinked hard, her grip on the satchel tightening. “But I…don’t know anything about boats.”

He bit back a sigh. Before the day ended, the hurricane pounding at his temples would no doubt hit land. He decided then and there that he would be far better off with a cancellation on his hands than taking Ms. Kate Winthrop on this excursion. Hitching a thumb back toward town, he said, “Try the Fontainebleau. It’s a full-service hotel. Room service. Great big pool. The works. Much more your style, I’m sure.”

THE WORDS RANG of insult.

Married to Karl for three years, Kate certainly knew one when she heard one.

Standing there in the bone-melting Florida heat, she stared at the back of the tall, sun-bronzed man now striding across the boardwalk toward his boat. Anger swelled inside her. Long overdue, without question. Life had landed her enough blows of late, and she had no intention of letting some overgrown Tom Sawyer with his shaggy hair, ragged cutoff jeans and bare feet change her plans.