Circumstantial Evidence Read online

  Circumstantial Evidence

  By

  Annette Broadrick

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  An Irresistible Desire

  Rafe leaned over and kissed her softly just below her ear. Ashley murmured and turned her head. Her mouth touched his tentatively and her arms moved to his shoulders. Without loosening his hold, Rafe shifted on the bed until he lay beside her, his arm slipping under her as he began to stroke her body.

  Ashley realized that she was no longer dreaming. Rafe was in bed with her, his arms wrapped around her, his mouth moving with heartstopping touches along her throat, down the V-neck of her shirt.

  "No!" She shoved him away. "Get out of this bed!"

  ANNETTE BROADRICK is a native Texan and lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, Gaylen, his poodle, and her Siamese cat. Now that her four sons are grown, she has decided to combine a life-long addiction to reading romantic fiction with her equally compulsive need to write.

  Dear Reader:

  I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for all your support and encouragement of Silhouette Romances.

  Many of you write in regularly, telling us what you like best about Silhouette, which authors are your favorites. This is a tremendous help to us as we strive to publish the best contemporary romances possible.

  All the romances from Silhouette Books are for you, so enjoy this book and the many stories to come.

  Karen Solem

  Editor-in-Chief

  Silhouette Books

  Copyright © 1984 by Annette Broadrick

  Cover artwork copyright © 1984 Doreen Minuto

  ISBN: 0-671-57329-2

  Map by Ray Lundgren

  To Lynn and Lauraine, who insisted…

  Chapter One

  Ashley Allison glanced at the digital watch on her wrist—7:15—and decided to forget about staying at the office until she cleared her desk. Her body felt as though she'd spent the day working out in a gym, rather than in court.

  Her watch continued to flash other information— month, June; day, Friday; date, 28—which she ignored. She was already aware of the date. She'd spent six hours in trial at the Multnomah County Courthouse in Portland, Oregon, and even the fact that she'd won couldn't compensate for the energy she'd expended.

  The framed print hanging on the wall in front of her desk caught her eye as she stood up and stretched. It was a cartoonist's version of Ashley's home state, Texas. The exaggerated shape stretched as far north as the Great Lakes, east to Maine, and west to California. The print had been solemnly presented to her by the staff on her twenty-eighth birthday in November.

  No one in the office allowed her to forget her origin, her southern drawl, or her nickname—"long, tall Texan." Since Ashley stood five feet eight inches in her bare feet, she couldn't argue with the nickname —or the sentiment: If you're born a Texan, you never recover.

  Ashley pushed her shoulder-length hair behind her ear as she reached for her briefcase. Unloading papers taken to court, she glanced at the stacks of files and correspondence scattered across her desk and tried to decide what work to take home. No. She intended to forget all about the law for the next couple of days and enjoy some of the rare sunshine they'd been having. She glanced out of her window and saw Mount Hood shimmering white against the blue sky. She might even drive up into the mountains tomorrow and enjoy the fresh air.

  Her thoughts turned to possible plans for the evening. She had refused an invitation to see the musical comedy at the Civic Auditorium that night. One of the new associates had invited her to go, but she didn't want to encourage his interest. How many times had she explained to various men that she had no time to devote to a relationship, that her career took too much of her time and energy? Yet there always seemed to be some egotistical male who was convinced he could change her mind and whisk her away from the drudgery of the legal world.

  "There's no such critter," Ashley muttered, and her mind suddenly flashed the image of a man she'd seen that morning in the elevator. She'd never seen him before, she was certain of that. His looks were not the type a person would forget. For one thing, his size made him quite noticeable. Even in her two-inch heels Ashley found herself looking up several inches to meet his eyes. Those eyes were what had caught her attention. In a deeply bronzed face, their silver blue was striking. His ebony hair suggested that his skin tones were natural rather than the result of long exposure to the sun. So where had he gotten those eyes?

  It would take more than a pair of unforgettable blue eyes, however, to cause Ashley to stray from her chosen course. She hoped to become a partner in the law firm of Begley, Henderson & Howe by the time she reached thirty, and no man, regardless of wealth, charm, or beautiful eyes, could offer anything more appealing to Ashley. Still—she'd never seen eyes quite like his before. Funny she should remember them.

  As she left the office she wondered what Tasha might have in store for her that night. She loved her Siamese cat dearly but admitted that she could be a real pain. Tasha hated being left alone nights. Normally, Ashley had no problem with that idiosyncrasy since she seldom stayed out late, but that week had been an exception. Monday she'd attended an Oregon Symphony concert with a friend, and when she had arrived home she was ignored by her cat instead of being greeted with a recounting of the day's events. On Wednesday Ashley had arrived home after a long day to find her living room strewn with papers and magazines that she'd left stacked in a neat pile on the coffee table. Instead of the stack, the table held a sleek and satisfied-looking Siamese cat in the midst of intricate ablutions. Ashley dreaded to think of what Tasha might have dreamed up as punishment for that night.

  As she started down the hallway to the elevators, Ashley was already planning her evening. She could hardly wait to kick off her shoes, pour herself a large glass of wine, and relax in a hot bath.

  In another office on the same floor Raphael McCord had his own problems. While leaving telephone instructions with his assistant in San Francisco, he was interrupted by a strange man who burst into the office with a degree of belligerence seldom seen in the business world.

  McCord kept an eye on the short, beefy man, noting the deep frown marring his face, as he continued to speak into the phone.

  "That's about it, Jim. I should be arriving on the 9:05 flight on Monday, so have the car at the airport. I'll see you then." He hung up the phone and studied the man in front of him. A green and yellow plaid jacket strained across the protruding stomach and partially revealed the open collar of a dingy white shirt. Clenched fists hung below frayed cuffs. McCord cocked an eyebrow and gazed into eyes that looked like brown marbles decorated with red lace. "Is there something I can do for you?" McCord's tone implied that he doubted it.

  "Your name McCord?" the man asked. Since the name on the office door read McCord Industries, he could be excused for jumping to conclusions.

  "That's right."

  A beefy hand shot out across the desk. "I'm Pete Wilson. Virgil Tysinger sent me." He waited as though he'd just explained all that was necessary.

  A slight frown appeared on McCord's face. "Why?" he asked, shaking the extended paw with some reluctance.

  That must have been the wrong question. Wilson's face turned a deeper shade of red and the veins in his beefy neck began to stand out. "Don't play games with me, McCord. He wants you and your wife to have dinner with him tonight. He told me to come by and pick
you up." His frown deepened. "You'd never be able to find the place on your own."

  McCord started at the word wife. His brief glance at the sofa by the windows confirmed that the infant still slept. Wilson intercepted the glance and spotted the baby.

  "Where's your wife?"

  McCord needed time to think, but he had none. He gave Wilson an appraising stare, then came to his feet in a lazy manner, towering over the other man. "She's shopping at the moment. We're supposed to meet later." He motioned to the baby. "As you can see, I'm baby sitting."

  "When are you supposed to meet her?"

  McCord glanced down at his watch in an effort to stall for time. Seven-fifteen. Later than he thought. He shrugged as he moved toward the baby. "You know what women are like. There's no telling."

  "Then we'd better locate her. It takes a while to get to Tysinger's place." He edged to the window and glanced out. "Which direction did she take?"

  McCord picked up the infant and grabbed its diaper bag. "I'm not sure. I think she said she'd meet me at the car."

  "Then let's get down there. The sooner we find her, the sooner we can get started." The man had a positive genius for overstating the obvious.

  "Look, Mr. Wilson." McCord used his most reasonable tone. "I appreciate the invitation, but let's make it for some other time, okay?" He ushered Wilson out of the office, made sure the door locked behind him, and motioned Wilson down the hall to the elevators. He wasn't sure what he was going to do when Wilson discovered there was no wife waiting at the car. He'd think of something, he supposed. This wasn't the first time he'd managed to bluff himself out of a situation not of his making.

  The sound of an angry male voice reached Ashley as she rounded the corner near the elevators. An inner alarm jangled. She knew that most people who worked in the building had gone home long before.

  Two men stood near the elevators; a short, heavy-set man was doing most of the talking. Her concern eased when she recognized the man listening to the tirade. He was her elevator companion of the morning, the one with the unforgettable blue eyes. Ashley watched with amusement. He seemed to have his hands full with an irate client. Then the shorter man moved a pace to the side and Ashley discovered that "Blue Eyes" literally had his hands full. He held an infant tucked into his arm much as a football player would carry a ball, and he had a diaper bag dangling from his other hand.

  The business suit and diaper bag didn't blend too well, in Ashley's opinion, although the baby seemed content enough. Better him than me. Give me a brief over a bassinet any day.

  The elevator made its appearance, and Ashley moved toward the lighted area near the men. She'd be home in a matter of minutes. It couldn't be too soon for her.

  As she stepped into the elevator, Ashley nodded to the man she recognized, giving him a tentative smile. The short man spun around and saw her at the same time his companion spoke.

  "Oh, there you are, love. I thought we were supposed to meet back at the car."

  Ashley glanced around, wondering whom he'd addressed in such familiar terms. There was no one else in the elevator, and he was staring at her. Her smile wavered. Perhaps she had misunderstood him. There was no way she could misunderstand his next actions. He approached her and with a deft movement transferred the small infant from his arms to hers. He leaned over and kissed the side of her mouth as he murmured, "I think Josh missed you almost as much as I did."

  Ashley blinked as she glanced down at the baby thrust into her arms. He returned her look with a solemn, blue-eyed inspection. The man at her side pulled her close to him.

  "I want you to meet my wife, Mr. Wilson." He smiled at her and added in a warm tone, "Honey, this is Pete Wilson. He dropped in rather unexpectedly today." Ashley stared at the two men as the incredible conversation continued. "He's brought us an invitation from Virgil Tysinger for dinner tonight." His expression reflected his regret. "I explained to him that we've already made plans for the evening." In a cordial tone he addressed Wilson once again. "Maybe we can get together with Tysinger some time next week."

  My God! They must be filming a television series here in the building and I got on the wrong elevator. But surely these men knew she wasn't part of the production, didn't they? The name Virgil Tysinger registered. What would the state legislator have to do with all of this?

  Ashley managed to get her tongue unglued from the roof of her mouth. "I think there's been some sort of mistake—"

  The man introduced as Pete Wilson interrupted. "Look here, McCord, I told you—Tysinger doesn't care what your plans are, he wants to see you—" The elevator doors opened onto the lobby.

  McCord's arm clamped around Ashley's waist and he guided her into the marbled lobby. She looked around, her first thought centered on getting the guard's attention. As they reached the front door, McCord spoke to the man on duty.

  "Goodnight, Sam. Have a good weekend."

  "You too, Mr. McCord." His smile of acknowledgement did not register anything unusual in the departure of the three adults and infant.

  Ashley's adrenalin managed to overcome the inertia caused by her shock. "Just a blasted minute. What do you think you're doing?" She planted her feet, determined not to move another step. The two men paused, similar expressions of impatience darting across dissimilar countenances.

  "I've already explained to Wilson that we can't make the dinner tonight, honey. I don't understand his insistence any more than you do." McCord's glance at Wilson would have wilted a less determined man.

  Shaking her head in an unconscious attempt to make sense out of a senseless statement, Ashley attempted her most calm, dispassionate, courtroom voice. "I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about. I've never seen you before in my life." Not a totally accurate statement, perhaps, but close enough to make her point.

  "What do you mean, you've never seen me before? What kind of silly statement is that? You married me, didn't you, or is that up for debate as well?"

  Ashley's well-ordered, uncomplicated existence began to unravel. Had she stepped into some sort of time warp?

  "Married? Are you out of your mind? I certainly am not married." Her firm denunciation was made in ringing tones of sincerity that would have convinced a jury anywhere.

  "I suppose you're also going to deny that Josh is our son?" He indicated the infant in her arms with all the drama of a prosecuting attorney exhibiting the murder weapon to the jury.

  "Our son!" Ashley's conversation had degenerated to repeating parts of his sentences. She stared with a certain amount of horror into the eyes of the young person in her arms and was rewarded with a smile that seemed to have been produced on cue.

  Wilson stepped toward them, menace in every line of his body. "Look, McCord. We don't have time for this. You and the missus can fight in the car as well as here on the steps. Get going." He spun around and started down the steps in front of them.

  What an unpleasant person, Ashley thought, a faint tremor coursing through her body. Not exactly a first choice for a lighthearted companion. She had no idea what was going on, but knew darned well she wanted no part of it.

  She turned to McCord and held out the baby. "I'm not going anywhere with either of you, do you understand me? If you don't leave me alone, I'll scream my head off until every policeman in downtown Portland will think a riot's taking place." She glared at him with all the anger, indignation, and fear that had been building within her.

  Unfortunately McCord wasn't intimidated, nor was he accepting the baby she offered him. Instead he propelled them both down the steps and started leading Ashley past the other man with a brusque "We've got to go" to Wilson.

  Ashley heard Wilson say, "Sorry, McCord, I only obey orders, and my orders was to get you and the missus and bring you to Tysinger." Then she saw two more men materialize before them, effectively blocking their path. Ashley's heart leaped from its normal position in her chest to play Ping Pong between her throat and her stomach. These men didn't have to work at looking intimidating. Al
most identical in build, their arms bulged with well-developed biceps that would give the Incredible Hulk competition. She had no desire to see how they behaved when angry.

  McCord's voice sent a chill through Ashley, though he never raised his tone. "I don't care for your strong-arm tactics, Wilson. I don't like threats, either against me or my family. My wife and I have other plans. Now get your playmates to move out of the way."

  Once again McCord and Ashley moved forward, this time with Ashley's full consent and approval. Then she saw the long, low limousine illegally parked at the curb, a rear door open. With the three men surrounding them, McCord and Ashley had no escape route open.

  One of the trained primates muttered, "Get in, McCord, we've wasted enough time. We don't want trouble, but if you're gonna insist, we'll oblige."

  Ashley's ability to think on her feet, a necessary trait for a good trial lawyer, deserted her in her time of need. She'd never been physically overwhelmed before.

  McCord's arm tightened and Ashley glanced up at him. He stared into her eyes as though attempting to read her thoughts. She returned his gaze, refusing to allow him to see her fear. McCord touched her cheek gently with his finger. "We might as well see what this is all about." He took the baby from her, assisted Ashley into the limousine, and climbed in behind her.

  The other men wasted no time; two of them leaped into the front seat, and Wilson got into the back with Ashley and McCord.

  The last door slammed and the limousine pulled silently away from the curb, gathering speed as it neared the Hawthorne Bridge and crossed the Willamette River.

  McCord handed the baby back to Ashley, reached into the bag he still carried, and brought out a bottle, saying, "Josh hasn't been fed." He handed her the bottle. Ashley studied his face, searching for a clue as to what was happening. Then she looked at the infant in her arms, who was already anticipating the delights of the bottle in front of him. He seemed to know what to do with it as she stuck it with some awkwardness into his mouth. What Ashley knew about babies could be inscribed on the heel of one of her two-inch pumps, with plenty of room to spare. However, the infant didn't appear to need much instruction at the moment. He grasped the bottle as though afraid she'd try to remove it.