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LETHAL DECEPTION
previously published as Honeysuckle Rose--also available in a two book bundle with LETHAL OBSESSION Rose DeAngelo knows that insuring high-level shipments is a risky business, but when hijackers start lifting loads and injuring drivers and the string of thefts seems squarely targeted at her clients, she starts to feel the heat. Especially when all the signs point to her as the primary suspect.
To investigator Mike Ramsey, it looks like a clear-cut case of an inside job. Working undercover and posing as a trucker with valuable cargo, he sets himself up as the hijacking ring’s next target, hoping to catch the thieves—and Rose—in the act. As the two are thrown together to find out who’s behind the dangerous crimes, each harboring doubts about the other, their suspicions mount even as an undeniable passion grows between them. But what neither of them realizes is that the hijackers are closing in, and Rose and Ramsey will be forced to trust each other and join forces or risk losing everything, including each other. LETHAL OBSESSION is loosely tied to this story--the heroine, Kat Malone, is a secondary character from LETHAL DECEPTION. 
"...a delightful romantic adventure that takes Ramsey and Rose cross-country and into love. Their experiences range from funny to poignant to downright dangerous, and the plot twists are many and unexpected. But it is the love which grows between these two that cements this story — a real, up and down, scary as all get-out thing that catches both of them by surprise... I highly recommend this book to any romance fan. It’s funny, heartwarming and touches something fundamental in our hearts. Don’t miss it."
Reviewed in May 2003 by Celia for A Romance Review |
Read an Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Monday morning, Pittsburgh
“I know, Mr. Hannibal. Please, you must understand why we have to add a five percent risk premium to your usual rate . . . Mr. Hannibal, there’s no need to be rude. Acme Insurance has paid out a substantial amount . . . I realize those thefts were unusual . . . yes, Mr. Hannibal, I agree, otherwise you . . . I understand you’re upset, Mr. Hannibal. As I said, I agree, you do have an excellent record.”
Rose DeAngelo arched her back and ran tense fingers through her heavy twist of dark hair. It didn’t help a bit. Blast it! Headaches like this one generally didn’t start until after lunch.
A second light on the phone flashed. Rose stared at the little orange square, peripherally aware that it blinked in perfect time with the pounding in her head.
“Mr. Hannibal.” Rose clenched her teeth against the blossoming pain in her skull. “There is no other option. I’m sorry. I’m going to switch you back to my secretary. You’ll pay the additional five percent? Fine. Please give Denise the route information.”
Rose took the next call, groaning audibly the moment she recognized the patronizing voice. Sighing, she reached into her drawer for two aspirin. James Dearborn was the last person she wanted to talk to right now.
Not a promising sign, Rose. She ignored the quiet voice in the back of her mind. Now was not a good time for analyzing relationships. Rose gulped the aspirin with a swallow of tepid coffee and grimaced at the bitter taste.
“James . . . hello.” She twisted the large marquis-cut diamond on her left hand. Why was it, lately, all her conversations with James made her ring finger itch?
“Please, James. I don’t have time to discuss this right now.” Rose glanced through the glassed wall of her office into the waiting room beyond. Her boss leaned over Denise’s desk, waving a large stack of folders under the young woman’s nose.
“You want to what?” Line two blinked hypnotically. Line three quickly joined in. She couldn’t possibly have heard James right. What did he say? Set a date? Rose furiously scratched the raw skin under the offending ring. “No,” she said, well aware of the sense of desperation in her voice. “I absolutely refuse to plan my wedding because your mother has a free weekend in July! No, James . . . absolutely not . . . no, we can’t discuss it at lunch with your mother. I don’t have time for lunch today . . . are you giving me an ultimatum?” Rose pulled the ring off her finger, scratching frantically.
Denise, precariously balancing a huge armload of folders, opened the office door with her shoulder. Frank Bonner, the company president, glared through the open door into Rose’s office, then rudely signaled for her to join him in his. James’s voice droned on, bouncing around inside Rose’s head, thumping in time to the pounding behind her eyes.
Denise set the pile of folders on the corner of Rose’s desk, then quickly backed out of the office. As she closed the door the stack gradually slipped to one side. Rose stretched full length across the large oak desk, holding the phone to her ear with one hand, grabbing for the top of the pile with the other. She felt the snag in her new black stockings open up then run the length of her leg, crawling up her inner thigh at precisely the same rate of speed as the folders slid to the floor.
“We’ll have to talk another time, James.” Rose took a deep breath and broke the connection. She knew she’d hear about her behavior later, but there was no way she could deal with him now.
She signaled for Denise to take the call on line three, then punched the button for line two. James’s mother. Could this day possibly get any worse?
Alicia Dearborn’s shrill voice crackled into Rose’s ear. “No, Alicia. I can’t go to lunch with you and James . . . I’m sorry too. I’ll have to call you back.” Rose gritted her teeth. “I’m very busy. No, nothing special. Just a typical Monday. Good-bye.”
Sighing, Rose replaced the handset. She stared at it a moment, daring the phone to ring, then picked the scattered folders up off the floor and piled them on her desk.
She couldn’t put off her meeting with Bonner any longer, no matter how unpleasant the prospect. It had to be about the recent hijackings. Acme Insurance had paid a bundle in settlements the past few months and pressure around the office had been steadily building.
Most of that pressure had come from Rose’s office.
Insuring special loads for long-haul trucking companies had its risks, but lately it appeared as if someone had it in for her clients. Even Hannibal Trucking’s perfect record had been compromised with two major thefts in the past two weeks.
Rose glanced at the heavy oak nameplate on her desk, the one Mr. Bonner had presented to her the day he’d promoted her to manager. “It’ll make a dandy bookend,” she muttered. She stared at the etched letters of her name a moment longer, then headed out the door for the inevitable dressing down from the boss.
“Ms. DeAngelo.” Denise held up a stack of notes to catch her attention. “That last call was from your Aunt Rosa. She left you a message, said you must be really busy since she was on hold so long.” Denise flipped through the notes, then held one out to Rose.
“I wish I’d known it was her.” Rose took the slip of paper. “She’s a lot more fun to talk to than James’s mother.”
Denise laughed, then shrugged her shoulders philosophically as the phone rang again. She turned to answer it.
Rose unfolded the note, suddenly aware of a lump in her throat. She hadn’t talked to Aunt Rosa for over a week.
Please tell Rose the honeysuckle’s blooming. And tell her I love her. She’s working too hard. Rosa DeAngelo.
The honeysuckle’s blooming and I haven’t seen Aunt Rosa in two years. The sweet scent of honeysuckle filled Rose’s mind, the memory of the massive vine covering the porch at her aunt’s bed-and-breakfast out in California a balm to headaches, frustrating clients, angry bosses and disappointing fiancés.
Rose looked through the window into Frank Bonner’s office. He paced back and forth and gestured violently as he argued with someone over the phone, his angry words muted behind the soundproof glass.
Denise answered her phone again, at the same time indicating to Rose she had a call waiting. Rose ignored the blinking light, mesmerized by the ugly shape of Frank Bonner’s mouth twisted in anger, visible but silent behind the glass.
She took a deep breath in a vain attempt to ease the tension in her neck and shoulders, then turned around to take the call in her office. As if mocking Rose, the marquis diamond twinkled at her from its resting place in the paper clip bowl. She picked it up, staring absentmindedly into its icy blue depths before answering the phone.
The door to the outer office opened. Rose paused with her hand over the headset and looked up to see James guiding his mother through the tastefully decorated foyer.
“Why me, God?” she muttered. How had the two of them gotten here so quickly? Lunch was beginning to look like a setup, with wedding plans as the main course.
She knew better than to think Alicia would ever take no for an answer. Or James, either, for that matter.
Why should he? He was just like his mother.
In fact, Rose had never noticed before how much the two of them resembled one another. Not a flattering observation at all since she thought Alicia Dearborn looked exactly like the ugly little Pekinese tucked firmly under the woman’s left arm.
Suddenly it all fell into place: the rhythmic pounding in Rose’s head, Alicia Dearborn’s strident voice, James’s placating tones, even Frank Bonner’s flailing arms as he carried on his argument via speakerphone in his spacious, soundproof office across the hall.
Then it all drifted away as, once again, the sweet memory of honeysuckle filled Rose. Drawing a deep breath, she inhaled the peaceful, calming scent of her childhood, not the antiseptic, filtered air of her Acme Insurance Company office. Aunt Rosa was absolutely right. She was working too hard.
Rose drew her hand back from the telephone and all its blinking lights, picked up her heavy leather purse, slung her raincoat over her arm and quietly walked out of her office. She closed the door behind her and straightened her shoulders at the solid sounding “click” as the latch caught and locked her chaotic morning behind her.
Ignoring Alicia’s imperious command that she explain herself, Rose smiled calmly at her secretary. “Hold my calls, Denise. I’ve decided to take the afternoon off.”
“Well, it’s about time you came to your senses, Rose. I’m glad you’ve decided to join Mother and me for lunch. We have to talk.”
Rose turned to James. Why, when she looked into the eyes of the man she’d promised to spend her life with, did she feel nothing stronger than regret?
“You misunderstand, James. I’m taking the afternoon off by myself.” She fumbled for the right words, finally deciding honesty was best. “Please, I’d like for you to take this back.” She held the heavy gold and diamond ring out to him. “We both know it’s never going to work. We’ve known it all along.”
He didn’t move. She looked at his face, searching for whatever had made her think she loved him. She’d once been so enamored of his dark blond hair and finely chiseled jaw, in awe of his elegant manners and cultured speech. But the man she thought she loved didn’t exist at all.
I imagined you. The thought struck like a bolt of lightning. Am I that desperate? Self-awareness brought a sad smile to Rose’s lips, followed by a sudden urge to giggle. James and his mother, her secretary Denise, even that disgusting little Pekinese, all stared at her with their mouths open.
Finally, a way to silence Alicia Dearborn. Feeling almost giddy with power, Rose tucked the ring into the breast pocket of James’s custom-tailored Armani suit, then quietly left the building. It didn’t even bother her that James hadn’t asked her to stay, hadn’t reached out to her, hadn’t disagreed with her. No, it didn’t bother her at all.
Somewhere, a peaceful country road beckoned.
~~*~~
Rose wasn’t certain how long she’d been driving, or how far. The isolated landscape loomed dark and unfamiliar, the heavy clouds were no longer visible in the night sky, and her trusty little Volvo had developed an unhealthy klunking noise.
She searched the horizon for the lights of Pittsburgh, but no telltale glow marked the sky. In fact, she hadn’t seen any light other than the occasional flash of lightning for at least an hour. Rose glanced at the fuel gauge. Less than a quarter of a tank left.
At least her headache was gone. “Along with my job,” she muttered as the first fat drops of rain splatted against the windshield. Just what I need. She leaned over the steering wheel, closer to the windshield, and strained to see through the sudden downpour. More proof that my life is totally out of control.
“Well, not completely.” Stuffing that ugly ring in James’s pocket had been rather empowering. Doing it in front of her secretary, the company president, and her once future now ex-future mother-in-law hadn’t been bad, either.
“One of your better exits, Rose.”
She waited for the fully expected sense of guilt to swamp her, the feeling that, once again, she’d done something terribly wrong, but the only feeling Rose felt was right. Wrong would have been staying with James, going through with a loveless marriage. No, she thought, her decision to return that ugly ring and leave had been a long time coming.
Grabbing a clean tissue, she wiped the condensation from the windshield and grinned. Too bad Aunt Rosa had to miss it. She loved dramatic exits. Then she glanced down at her left hand, barely visible in the pale glow from the dash lights. It looked much better without the heavy diamond. She’d hated that ring from the moment James put it on her hand, hated the sense of ownership James assumed once they’d become engaged.
To think she’d almost convinced herself she loved him. A sudden wave of loneliness swept over her and a hollow pain filled the pit of her stomach, reminding Rose why she’d agreed to marry a man she didn’t love. Life was pretty empty for a thirty-year-old woman who lived alone and worked a sixty-hour week.
She didn’t even own a damned cat.
The tears Rose had been fighting all afternoon suddenly broke free. She fumbled in her handbag for another tissue, wiped her streaming eyes with one hand and guided the car through the growing storm with the other.
She didn’t even like cats, for crying out loud!
“God, if you’re there, can you tell me what to do?” she pleaded. “Please, give me a sign!”
An ominous roll of thunder eclipsed the sputtering, coughing engine. Lightning flashed. A tree exploded, ahead and to the right. Cascading flames burst through the air as the huge pine toppled onto the road.
Screaming, Rose hit the brakes. The little Volvo careened sideways on wet pavement, spinning, slipping out of control, sliding and skidding through water and fiery embers until it stopped, trapped solidly among the flaming branches.
Rose screamed again and again until the rich scent of honeysuckle clouded her mind and a cloak of black velvet covered her eyes.
~~*~~
Mike Ramsey pulled the diesel truck with its heavily loaded trailer out of the yard at Hannibal Trucking and headed west. He checked his map and immediately took an exit onto a slower, alternate route. No point in making it too tough for the hijackers.
The headlights reflected off big, fat raindrops and an occasional flash of lightning arced between the clouds. Puddles filled low spots along the two-lane road, deep enough to catch the tires of the heavily laden truck. The rig bucked and swerved through one particularly large pothole. Ramsey shut the radio off to concentrate on his driving.
He hadn’t hauled a load in years, not since he’d worked summers for his stepdad, but the knowledge he’d gained under Handy’s patient tutelage had paid off more than once. Ramsey thought of the journey ahead and silently thanked the old man. This time the lessons could mean the difference between life and death.
Hijacking expensive loads off the nation’s highways was big business, modern-day piracy as bloodthirsty and brutal as any violent crime. How ironic, Ramsey mused, that after years of undercover work handling investigations for the Department of Transportation, he would find himself back in one of his stepdad’s familiar rigs, hauling a load from Pennsylvania to California. Just the way it had been almost fifteen years ago, back when he was a struggling college student.
Except the purpose this time was twofold.
Deliver the load, intact and on time.
And catch the hijackers before they put Handy Hannibal and a lot of other independent truckers out of business for good.
Hannibal Trucking had been hit twice in less than two weeks. Another theft could put the business under, especially if that damned insurance company put up a stink. Ramsey almost wished they would, because as far as he was concerned, Acme Insurance was part of the problem, if not all of it. Hannibal Trucking hadn’t been the only company hit with the recent string of thefts. Ramsey’d talked to the other victims. All of them had two things in common. They’d all been insured by Acme Insurance, and all of them had dealt with the same agent.
Ms. Rose DeAngelo.
Described by Handy as one extremely formidable woman. A real “bitch on wheels,” according to Handy.
There had to be a connection. Everything Ramsey’d learned about the woman piqued his suspicions. Barely thirty years old, she was the only female division manager at Acme, a typical “good old boys” operation. Never married but currently engaged to the son of one of Pittsburgh’s wealthiest families, obviously an opportunist, both socially and professionally.
“Somehow, Ms. DeAngelo . . .” His words trailed off and Ramsey grinned, enjoying the chase, sensing victory. He hadn’t had a hunch this strong in ages, especially one so strongly supported by fact.
After reading the reports, he’d been surprised no one else had spotted the obvious. Only Acme’s division manager had access to the routes, the shipping dates, the value of the goods on board. Not surprisingly, the thefts had started right around the time Rose DeAngelo got her promotion.
And I imagine they’ll end about the time I slap the handcuffs on her. Grinning, he checked the rearview mirror.
She’d want this load. Her gang hadn’t missed an expensive piece of heavy equipment in the last two months. The scraper lashed securely to the trailer behind Ramsey’s truck was worth a small fortune. When the hijackers hit, Ramsey’d be waiting for them. When they started to talk, as crooks always did, Ramsey suspected they’d lead him directly to Ms. DeAngelo.
Then maybe he’d be able to cancel out some of the debt he owed Handy. When the DOT supervisor brought the case to Ramsey’s attention, his first reaction had been anger. Why hadn’t Handy asked for his help? Once he calmed down, Ramsey realized Handy’d acted true to form, just like the tough little bantam rooster he’d always been.
A little bantam rooster with a big heart of gold.
It felt good to know he finally had a chance to pay back some of the kindness Handy had shown him and his mother over the years. No other man had been willing to take on a hellraiser like Mike Ramsey, twelve years old and so full of himself even his mom had given up.
Then Handy came along. He swept Rebecca Ramsey off her feet and Mike Ramsey under his wing.
Ramsey smiled, remembering, then immediately sobered as a huge gust of wind buffeted the diesel. Rain formed a shimmering band of silver in the headlights and lightning flashed again, closer this time.
Suddenly, just ahead, a huge pine tree burst into flame. Ramsey hit the brakes and down-shifted as the blazing tree twisted and fell, casting a shower of flame and sparks across the highway.
Stopping almost seventy tons of metal on a partially flooded road without jackknifing the rig took all Ramsey’s skill and then some. Heart pounding, hands sweating, he fought the steering wheel and prayed.
The big diesel and its heavy load slid crossways on the narrow road, then shuddered to a stop. That’s when Ramsey saw the car, a small, square sedan skidding broadside on the wet pavement, sliding toward him, toward the inferno of flaming pitch and burning wood that blocked the way between them.
~~*~~
They’re never coming back, are they, Aunt Rosa?
No, dear. They’re not. There were no survivors.
How can we bury them, if the plane went down at sea?
We can’t, sweetheart. But we can always remember them.
How? How, Aunt Rosa? I want them back. I want Mommy and Daddy back!
I know, Rose. I want them back too . . . but some things just can’t be changed. I’m sorry.
What will happen to me?
You’ll stay here, sweetheart. You’ll be my little girl. I’ve always wanted a little girl of my own, you know.
I love you, Aunt Rosa.
I love you, too, Rose. Now, will you help me plant this?
What is it?
It’s a honeysuckle vine. Your daddy always loved honeysuckle, even when we were children.
Why are we planting it now, Aunt Rosa?
To help us remember, sweetheart. To help us remember.
“Hold that light steady. Thanks. Was she conscious when you pulled her free?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I just wanted to get her out before the car blew up. How’d you guys get here so fast?”
“A neighbor called when he heard the explosion. The fire station’s just down the road. She doesn’t appear to have any serious injuries. Just that bump on the head. She’s damned lucky you showed up when you did.”
“I saw it happen. Almost didn’t get my rig stopped in time. Hey, looks like she’s coming around.”
The sweet scent of honeysuckle disappeared in the acrid stink of melted rubber burning Rose’s eyes and throat. She coughed and blinked and tried to focus on the faces hovering just within her line of vision. The features were indistinct, lit from behind by an orange glow that flickered through the steady mist.
At least the driving rain had stopped.
“Wha . . . what happened?” Her voice sounded alien to her, a tortured whisper scraping raw throat tissue. “Who are . . . ?”
“Mike Ramsey. I pulled you out of your car. Bill here’s a paramedic.”
“Paramedic? I’m not hurt . . . am I?” Rose struggled to sit up. She managed to prop herself on her elbows, the better to see the two men squatting beside her.
“Doesn’t look like it, thanks to Mr. Ramsey here.”
Rose squinted, bringing her savior’s face into focus. The harsh glare of the emergency lights cast his features into deep shadow. She made out a high forehead, long, slightly crooked nose, dark eyes and brows, all framed in thick, dark hair slicked wetly back from his face. A black smudge that could have been a burn crossed his right cheek, disappearing into the day’s growth of beard covering his lean jaw. Still disoriented, her perusal took on a dreamlike quality as she stared at the slightly imperfect but attractive face with the shadowed eyes.
Eyes watching her just as intently. Intrigued, Rose forced herself to look away, beyond the fascinating Mr. Ramsey, at the smoldering heap of metal that had recently been her Volvo. She shuddered and quickly turned her head. She could have died, would have died, but for this stranger.
“Thank you doesn’t quite seem adequate, Mr. Ramsey.” Rose cleared her throat, then broke into a fit of coughing. The paramedic helped ease her into a sitting position. Ramsey knelt at her other side, sliding a strong, warm arm around her shoulders. Rose struggled to catch her breath, soothed by the gentle pressure of Ramsey’s touch. It would be so easy to turn her face against his solid shoulder, close her eyes and pretend this Monday had never happened.
A sudden weariness overwhelmed her, weighing her eyelids, lulling her into somnolence. Only vaguely aware of the paramedic’s gentle probing near her hairline, she was exquisitely conscious of the strong arm bracing her shoulders, the heat of the man’s body so close beside her own.
A high-pitched tone shattered the moment. Ramsey’s hand tightened protectively around Rose. Her eyes flew open, just in time to see the paramedic sheepishly gesture to the radio clipped to his belt.
“Danged thing always scares the devil outta me when it goes off,” he muttered, holding the radio to his ear as he stood up and moved to one side.
Ramsey rubbed his hand lightly across the woman’s back, aware of her trembling beneath his touch. Hell, his own hands were still shaking, the adrenaline coursing wildly through his veins. A few seconds later and he might not have saved her. He couldn’t look at the burning wreck, didn’t want to imagine this beautiful woman meeting such a horrible death.
She was a looker, even covered in soot and smelling slightly of burnt rubber and plastic. She felt good, too, pressed warmly against him, snuggled trustingly into the curve of his arm as if she’d been designed specifically to occupy that position.
Dream on, Ramsey. He jerked himself back to reality as he studied the woman in his arms. She looked shaken and vulnerable and oddly familiar. How could that be? She certainly didn’t seem to know him.
Soot covered her face and a large bruise marred the left side of her forehead. Her dark hair fell partially undone, tumbling wildly around her shoulders.
She took a deep breath and her ribs expanded within his embrace. Ramsey focused on the tip of her tongue as it swept across her slightly parted lips.
“I really don’t know how to thank you.” She sounded confused, uncertain. Bewildered. “You saved my life.”
She swallowed. Ramsey watched the muscles in her throat contract. “Seeing you’re okay is thanks enough,” he answered, swallowing just as deeply. “Miss, uh . . . ?”
“DeAngelo. Rose DeAngelo.” Her voice, a smoky whisper, teased his senses.
But . . . Rose DeAngelo? No way! This beautiful, vulnerable woman couldn’t possibly be the “bitch on wheels” Handy’d warned him about, not this wounded creature with soulful green eyes and trembling lips. This was his chief suspect? Ramsey thought of the file photo he’d seen, of the austere woman with the dark hair pulled tightly back from an unsmiling face, and shook his head in mute denial of the improbability of the situation. Just as quickly he wiped the expression from his face.
He’d had a life filled with coincidence and good fortune. He accepted it, knew it made him a successful investigator. He’d be a fool to deny coincidence. If this were the same Rose DeAngelo, opportunity lay, literally, within his grasp.
“Can you help me stand up, please?” She leaned forward, away from his support, out of his embrace, and held her hand out to him. Ramsey focused on the pronounced tremor in her long fingers.
“Are you sure?” He looked to Bill for confirmation. The paramedic ignored him, focusing intently on the voice crackling over his radio. “Well, if you think you’re okay.” Ramsey stood up and reached for her outstretched hand.
She grasped his hand and rose to her feet lightly, with the grace of a dancer. A smudged and rumpled dancer. She was tall, maybe five ten. Ramsey hadn’t noticed before, not when pulling her out of the burning car had been his only concern.
“Ma’am, do you think you’ll be okay?” Bill suddenly asked, grabbing for his medical bag. “There’s been a terrible wreck on the interstate, fifty or more vehicles, serious injuries. You should probably be checked out by a physician, but . . .”
“Please, go ahead. I’m not hurt. Oh. Wait! My car . . .”
“I can take Ms. DeAngelo into town,” Ramsey offered. “That is, if it’s okay with you,” he added, looking not at her face but instead at their hands, still tightly linked. Her fingers trembled in his grasp.
He trusted his hunches. She was his primary suspect. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. He certainly didn’t need this attraction. Ramsey loosened his grip on her fingers and stuck both hands in his back pockets.
“You sure you don’t mind givin’ the lady a ride?” Bill gathered his equipment as he talked. “The chief’s called a tow truck. The county crew’s on their way to clear the tree out of the road. Thanks, Ramsey. Glad you’re okay, ma’am,” he added, tipping his cap and climbing into the ambulance.
The siren wailed, the lights flashed and the engine howled as the ambulance sped into the night.
Rose appeared stunned by the abrupt departure. She turned in Ramsey’s direction, her eyes wide and frightened, and wrapped both arms around herself in a protective gesture.
Ramsey glimpsed a distant flash of lightning reflected in her deep green eyes and wondered just what he’d gotten himself into.
Chapter 1
Monday morning, Pittsburgh
“I know, Mr. Hannibal. Please, you must understand why we have to add a five percent risk premium to your usual rate . . . Mr. Hannibal, there’s no need to be rude. Acme Insurance has paid out a substantial amount . . . I realize those thefts were unusual . . . yes, Mr. Hannibal, I agree, otherwise you . . . I understand you’re upset, Mr. Hannibal. As I said, I agree, you do have an excellent record.”
Rose DeAngelo arched her back and ran tense fingers through her heavy twist of dark hair. It didn’t help a bit. Blast it! Headaches like this one generally didn’t start until after lunch.
A second light on the phone flashed. Rose stared at the little orange square, peripherally aware that it blinked in perfect time with the pounding in her head.
“Mr. Hannibal.” Rose clenched her teeth against the blossoming pain in her skull. “There is no other option. I’m sorry. I’m going to switch you back to my secretary. You’ll pay the additional five percent? Fine. Please give Denise the route information.”
Rose took the next call, groaning audibly the moment she recognized the patronizing voice. Sighing, she reached into her drawer for two aspirin. James Dearborn was the last person she wanted to talk to right now.
Not a promising sign, Rose. She ignored the quiet voice in the back of her mind. Now was not a good time for analyzing relationships. Rose gulped the aspirin with a swallow of tepid coffee and grimaced at the bitter taste.
“James . . . hello.” She twisted the large marquis-cut diamond on her left hand. Why was it, lately, all her conversations with James made her ring finger itch?
“Please, James. I don’t have time to discuss this right now.” Rose glanced through the glassed wall of her office into the waiting room beyond. Her boss leaned over Denise’s desk, waving a large stack of folders under the young woman’s nose.
“You want to what?” Line two blinked hypnotically. Line three quickly joined in. She couldn’t possibly have heard James right. What did he say? Set a date? Rose furiously scratched the raw skin under the offending ring. “No,” she said, well aware of the sense of desperation in her voice. “I absolutely refuse to plan my wedding because your mother has a free weekend in July! No, James . . . absolutely not . . . no, we can’t discuss it at lunch with your mother. I don’t have time for lunch today . . . are you giving me an ultimatum?” Rose pulled the ring off her finger, scratching frantically.
Denise, precariously balancing a huge armload of folders, opened the office door with her shoulder. Frank Bonner, the company president, glared through the open door into Rose’s office, then rudely signaled for her to join him in his. James’s voice droned on, bouncing around inside Rose’s head, thumping in time to the pounding behind her eyes.
Denise set the pile of folders on the corner of Rose’s desk, then quickly backed out of the office. As she closed the door the stack gradually slipped to one side. Rose stretched full length across the large oak desk, holding the phone to her ear with one hand, grabbing for the top of the pile with the other. She felt the snag in her new black stockings open up then run the length of her leg, crawling up her inner thigh at precisely the same rate of speed as the folders slid to the floor.
“We’ll have to talk another time, James.” Rose took a deep breath and broke the connection. She knew she’d hear about her behavior later, but there was no way she could deal with him now.
She signaled for Denise to take the call on line three, then punched the button for line two. James’s mother. Could this day possibly get any worse?
Alicia Dearborn’s shrill voice crackled into Rose’s ear. “No, Alicia. I can’t go to lunch with you and James . . . I’m sorry too. I’ll have to call you back.” Rose gritted her teeth. “I’m very busy. No, nothing special. Just a typical Monday. Good-bye.”
Sighing, Rose replaced the handset. She stared at it a moment, daring the phone to ring, then picked the scattered folders up off the floor and piled them on her desk.
She couldn’t put off her meeting with Bonner any longer, no matter how unpleasant the prospect. It had to be about the recent hijackings. Acme Insurance had paid a bundle in settlements the past few months and pressure around the office had been steadily building.
Most of that pressure had come from Rose’s office.
Insuring special loads for long-haul trucking companies had its risks, but lately it appeared as if someone had it in for her clients. Even Hannibal Trucking’s perfect record had been compromised with two major thefts in the past two weeks.
Rose glanced at the heavy oak nameplate on her desk, the one Mr. Bonner had presented to her the day he’d promoted her to manager. “It’ll make a dandy bookend,” she muttered. She stared at the etched letters of her name a moment longer, then headed out the door for the inevitable dressing down from the boss.
“Ms. DeAngelo.” Denise held up a stack of notes to catch her attention. “That last call was from your Aunt Rosa. She left you a message, said you must be really busy since she was on hold so long.” Denise flipped through the notes, then held one out to Rose.
“I wish I’d known it was her.” Rose took the slip of paper. “She’s a lot more fun to talk to than James’s mother.”
Denise laughed, then shrugged her shoulders philosophically as the phone rang again. She turned to answer it.
Rose unfolded the note, suddenly aware of a lump in her throat. She hadn’t talked to Aunt Rosa for over a week.
Please tell Rose the honeysuckle’s blooming. And tell her I love her. She’s working too hard. Rosa DeAngelo.
The honeysuckle’s blooming and I haven’t seen Aunt Rosa in two years. The sweet scent of honeysuckle filled Rose’s mind, the memory of the massive vine covering the porch at her aunt’s bed-and-breakfast out in California a balm to headaches, frustrating clients, angry bosses and disappointing fiancés.
Rose looked through the window into Frank Bonner’s office. He paced back and forth and gestured violently as he argued with someone over the phone, his angry words muted behind the soundproof glass.
Denise answered her phone again, at the same time indicating to Rose she had a call waiting. Rose ignored the blinking light, mesmerized by the ugly shape of Frank Bonner’s mouth twisted in anger, visible but silent behind the glass.
She took a deep breath in a vain attempt to ease the tension in her neck and shoulders, then turned around to take the call in her office. As if mocking Rose, the marquis diamond twinkled at her from its resting place in the paper clip bowl. She picked it up, staring absentmindedly into its icy blue depths before answering the phone.
The door to the outer office opened. Rose paused with her hand over the headset and looked up to see James guiding his mother through the tastefully decorated foyer.
“Why me, God?” she muttered. How had the two of them gotten here so quickly? Lunch was beginning to look like a setup, with wedding plans as the main course.
She knew better than to think Alicia would ever take no for an answer. Or James, either, for that matter.
Why should he? He was just like his mother.
In fact, Rose had never noticed before how much the two of them resembled one another. Not a flattering observation at all since she thought Alicia Dearborn looked exactly like the ugly little Pekinese tucked firmly under the woman’s left arm.
Suddenly it all fell into place: the rhythmic pounding in Rose’s head, Alicia Dearborn’s strident voice, James’s placating tones, even Frank Bonner’s flailing arms as he carried on his argument via speakerphone in his spacious, soundproof office across the hall.
Then it all drifted away as, once again, the sweet memory of honeysuckle filled Rose. Drawing a deep breath, she inhaled the peaceful, calming scent of her childhood, not the antiseptic, filtered air of her Acme Insurance Company office. Aunt Rosa was absolutely right. She was working too hard.
Rose drew her hand back from the telephone and all its blinking lights, picked up her heavy leather purse, slung her raincoat over her arm and quietly walked out of her office. She closed the door behind her and straightened her shoulders at the solid sounding “click” as the latch caught and locked her chaotic morning behind her.
Ignoring Alicia’s imperious command that she explain herself, Rose smiled calmly at her secretary. “Hold my calls, Denise. I’ve decided to take the afternoon off.”
“Well, it’s about time you came to your senses, Rose. I’m glad you’ve decided to join Mother and me for lunch. We have to talk.”
Rose turned to James. Why, when she looked into the eyes of the man she’d promised to spend her life with, did she feel nothing stronger than regret?
“You misunderstand, James. I’m taking the afternoon off by myself.” She fumbled for the right words, finally deciding honesty was best. “Please, I’d like for you to take this back.” She held the heavy gold and diamond ring out to him. “We both know it’s never going to work. We’ve known it all along.”
He didn’t move. She looked at his face, searching for whatever had made her think she loved him. She’d once been so enamored of his dark blond hair and finely chiseled jaw, in awe of his elegant manners and cultured speech. But the man she thought she loved didn’t exist at all.
I imagined you. The thought struck like a bolt of lightning. Am I that desperate? Self-awareness brought a sad smile to Rose’s lips, followed by a sudden urge to giggle. James and his mother, her secretary Denise, even that disgusting little Pekinese, all stared at her with their mouths open.
Finally, a way to silence Alicia Dearborn. Feeling almost giddy with power, Rose tucked the ring into the breast pocket of James’s custom-tailored Armani suit, then quietly left the building. It didn’t even bother her that James hadn’t asked her to stay, hadn’t reached out to her, hadn’t disagreed with her. No, it didn’t bother her at all.
Somewhere, a peaceful country road beckoned.
~~*~~
Rose wasn’t certain how long she’d been driving, or how far. The isolated landscape loomed dark and unfamiliar, the heavy clouds were no longer visible in the night sky, and her trusty little Volvo had developed an unhealthy klunking noise.
She searched the horizon for the lights of Pittsburgh, but no telltale glow marked the sky. In fact, she hadn’t seen any light other than the occasional flash of lightning for at least an hour. Rose glanced at the fuel gauge. Less than a quarter of a tank left.
At least her headache was gone. “Along with my job,” she muttered as the first fat drops of rain splatted against the windshield. Just what I need. She leaned over the steering wheel, closer to the windshield, and strained to see through the sudden downpour. More proof that my life is totally out of control.
“Well, not completely.” Stuffing that ugly ring in James’s pocket had been rather empowering. Doing it in front of her secretary, the company president, and her once future now ex-future mother-in-law hadn’t been bad, either.
“One of your better exits, Rose.”
She waited for the fully expected sense of guilt to swamp her, the feeling that, once again, she’d done something terribly wrong, but the only feeling Rose felt was right. Wrong would have been staying with James, going through with a loveless marriage. No, she thought, her decision to return that ugly ring and leave had been a long time coming.
Grabbing a clean tissue, she wiped the condensation from the windshield and grinned. Too bad Aunt Rosa had to miss it. She loved dramatic exits. Then she glanced down at her left hand, barely visible in the pale glow from the dash lights. It looked much better without the heavy diamond. She’d hated that ring from the moment James put it on her hand, hated the sense of ownership James assumed once they’d become engaged.
To think she’d almost convinced herself she loved him. A sudden wave of loneliness swept over her and a hollow pain filled the pit of her stomach, reminding Rose why she’d agreed to marry a man she didn’t love. Life was pretty empty for a thirty-year-old woman who lived alone and worked a sixty-hour week.
She didn’t even own a damned cat.
The tears Rose had been fighting all afternoon suddenly broke free. She fumbled in her handbag for another tissue, wiped her streaming eyes with one hand and guided the car through the growing storm with the other.
She didn’t even like cats, for crying out loud!
“God, if you’re there, can you tell me what to do?” she pleaded. “Please, give me a sign!”
An ominous roll of thunder eclipsed the sputtering, coughing engine. Lightning flashed. A tree exploded, ahead and to the right. Cascading flames burst through the air as the huge pine toppled onto the road.
Screaming, Rose hit the brakes. The little Volvo careened sideways on wet pavement, spinning, slipping out of control, sliding and skidding through water and fiery embers until it stopped, trapped solidly among the flaming branches.
Rose screamed again and again until the rich scent of honeysuckle clouded her mind and a cloak of black velvet covered her eyes.
~~*~~
Mike Ramsey pulled the diesel truck with its heavily loaded trailer out of the yard at Hannibal Trucking and headed west. He checked his map and immediately took an exit onto a slower, alternate route. No point in making it too tough for the hijackers.
The headlights reflected off big, fat raindrops and an occasional flash of lightning arced between the clouds. Puddles filled low spots along the two-lane road, deep enough to catch the tires of the heavily laden truck. The rig bucked and swerved through one particularly large pothole. Ramsey shut the radio off to concentrate on his driving.
He hadn’t hauled a load in years, not since he’d worked summers for his stepdad, but the knowledge he’d gained under Handy’s patient tutelage had paid off more than once. Ramsey thought of the journey ahead and silently thanked the old man. This time the lessons could mean the difference between life and death.
Hijacking expensive loads off the nation’s highways was big business, modern-day piracy as bloodthirsty and brutal as any violent crime. How ironic, Ramsey mused, that after years of undercover work handling investigations for the Department of Transportation, he would find himself back in one of his stepdad’s familiar rigs, hauling a load from Pennsylvania to California. Just the way it had been almost fifteen years ago, back when he was a struggling college student.
Except the purpose this time was twofold.
Deliver the load, intact and on time.
And catch the hijackers before they put Handy Hannibal and a lot of other independent truckers out of business for good.
Hannibal Trucking had been hit twice in less than two weeks. Another theft could put the business under, especially if that damned insurance company put up a stink. Ramsey almost wished they would, because as far as he was concerned, Acme Insurance was part of the problem, if not all of it. Hannibal Trucking hadn’t been the only company hit with the recent string of thefts. Ramsey’d talked to the other victims. All of them had two things in common. They’d all been insured by Acme Insurance, and all of them had dealt with the same agent.
Ms. Rose DeAngelo.
Described by Handy as one extremely formidable woman. A real “bitch on wheels,” according to Handy.
There had to be a connection. Everything Ramsey’d learned about the woman piqued his suspicions. Barely thirty years old, she was the only female division manager at Acme, a typical “good old boys” operation. Never married but currently engaged to the son of one of Pittsburgh’s wealthiest families, obviously an opportunist, both socially and professionally.
“Somehow, Ms. DeAngelo . . .” His words trailed off and Ramsey grinned, enjoying the chase, sensing victory. He hadn’t had a hunch this strong in ages, especially one so strongly supported by fact.
After reading the reports, he’d been surprised no one else had spotted the obvious. Only Acme’s division manager had access to the routes, the shipping dates, the value of the goods on board. Not surprisingly, the thefts had started right around the time Rose DeAngelo got her promotion.
And I imagine they’ll end about the time I slap the handcuffs on her. Grinning, he checked the rearview mirror.
She’d want this load. Her gang hadn’t missed an expensive piece of heavy equipment in the last two months. The scraper lashed securely to the trailer behind Ramsey’s truck was worth a small fortune. When the hijackers hit, Ramsey’d be waiting for them. When they started to talk, as crooks always did, Ramsey suspected they’d lead him directly to Ms. DeAngelo.
Then maybe he’d be able to cancel out some of the debt he owed Handy. When the DOT supervisor brought the case to Ramsey’s attention, his first reaction had been anger. Why hadn’t Handy asked for his help? Once he calmed down, Ramsey realized Handy’d acted true to form, just like the tough little bantam rooster he’d always been.
A little bantam rooster with a big heart of gold.
It felt good to know he finally had a chance to pay back some of the kindness Handy had shown him and his mother over the years. No other man had been willing to take on a hellraiser like Mike Ramsey, twelve years old and so full of himself even his mom had given up.
Then Handy came along. He swept Rebecca Ramsey off her feet and Mike Ramsey under his wing.
Ramsey smiled, remembering, then immediately sobered as a huge gust of wind buffeted the diesel. Rain formed a shimmering band of silver in the headlights and lightning flashed again, closer this time.
Suddenly, just ahead, a huge pine tree burst into flame. Ramsey hit the brakes and down-shifted as the blazing tree twisted and fell, casting a shower of flame and sparks across the highway.
Stopping almost seventy tons of metal on a partially flooded road without jackknifing the rig took all Ramsey’s skill and then some. Heart pounding, hands sweating, he fought the steering wheel and prayed.
The big diesel and its heavy load slid crossways on the narrow road, then shuddered to a stop. That’s when Ramsey saw the car, a small, square sedan skidding broadside on the wet pavement, sliding toward him, toward the inferno of flaming pitch and burning wood that blocked the way between them.
~~*~~
They’re never coming back, are they, Aunt Rosa?
No, dear. They’re not. There were no survivors.
How can we bury them, if the plane went down at sea?
We can’t, sweetheart. But we can always remember them.
How? How, Aunt Rosa? I want them back. I want Mommy and Daddy back!
I know, Rose. I want them back too . . . but some things just can’t be changed. I’m sorry.
What will happen to me?
You’ll stay here, sweetheart. You’ll be my little girl. I’ve always wanted a little girl of my own, you know.
I love you, Aunt Rosa.
I love you, too, Rose. Now, will you help me plant this?
What is it?
It’s a honeysuckle vine. Your daddy always loved honeysuckle, even when we were children.
Why are we planting it now, Aunt Rosa?
To help us remember, sweetheart. To help us remember.
“Hold that light steady. Thanks. Was she conscious when you pulled her free?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I just wanted to get her out before the car blew up. How’d you guys get here so fast?”
“A neighbor called when he heard the explosion. The fire station’s just down the road. She doesn’t appear to have any serious injuries. Just that bump on the head. She’s damned lucky you showed up when you did.”
“I saw it happen. Almost didn’t get my rig stopped in time. Hey, looks like she’s coming around.”
The sweet scent of honeysuckle disappeared in the acrid stink of melted rubber burning Rose’s eyes and throat. She coughed and blinked and tried to focus on the faces hovering just within her line of vision. The features were indistinct, lit from behind by an orange glow that flickered through the steady mist.
At least the driving rain had stopped.
“Wha . . . what happened?” Her voice sounded alien to her, a tortured whisper scraping raw throat tissue. “Who are . . . ?”
“Mike Ramsey. I pulled you out of your car. Bill here’s a paramedic.”
“Paramedic? I’m not hurt . . . am I?” Rose struggled to sit up. She managed to prop herself on her elbows, the better to see the two men squatting beside her.
“Doesn’t look like it, thanks to Mr. Ramsey here.”
Rose squinted, bringing her savior’s face into focus. The harsh glare of the emergency lights cast his features into deep shadow. She made out a high forehead, long, slightly crooked nose, dark eyes and brows, all framed in thick, dark hair slicked wetly back from his face. A black smudge that could have been a burn crossed his right cheek, disappearing into the day’s growth of beard covering his lean jaw. Still disoriented, her perusal took on a dreamlike quality as she stared at the slightly imperfect but attractive face with the shadowed eyes.
Eyes watching her just as intently. Intrigued, Rose forced herself to look away, beyond the fascinating Mr. Ramsey, at the smoldering heap of metal that had recently been her Volvo. She shuddered and quickly turned her head. She could have died, would have died, but for this stranger.
“Thank you doesn’t quite seem adequate, Mr. Ramsey.” Rose cleared her throat, then broke into a fit of coughing. The paramedic helped ease her into a sitting position. Ramsey knelt at her other side, sliding a strong, warm arm around her shoulders. Rose struggled to catch her breath, soothed by the gentle pressure of Ramsey’s touch. It would be so easy to turn her face against his solid shoulder, close her eyes and pretend this Monday had never happened.
A sudden weariness overwhelmed her, weighing her eyelids, lulling her into somnolence. Only vaguely aware of the paramedic’s gentle probing near her hairline, she was exquisitely conscious of the strong arm bracing her shoulders, the heat of the man’s body so close beside her own.
A high-pitched tone shattered the moment. Ramsey’s hand tightened protectively around Rose. Her eyes flew open, just in time to see the paramedic sheepishly gesture to the radio clipped to his belt.
“Danged thing always scares the devil outta me when it goes off,” he muttered, holding the radio to his ear as he stood up and moved to one side.
Ramsey rubbed his hand lightly across the woman’s back, aware of her trembling beneath his touch. Hell, his own hands were still shaking, the adrenaline coursing wildly through his veins. A few seconds later and he might not have saved her. He couldn’t look at the burning wreck, didn’t want to imagine this beautiful woman meeting such a horrible death.
She was a looker, even covered in soot and smelling slightly of burnt rubber and plastic. She felt good, too, pressed warmly against him, snuggled trustingly into the curve of his arm as if she’d been designed specifically to occupy that position.
Dream on, Ramsey. He jerked himself back to reality as he studied the woman in his arms. She looked shaken and vulnerable and oddly familiar. How could that be? She certainly didn’t seem to know him.
Soot covered her face and a large bruise marred the left side of her forehead. Her dark hair fell partially undone, tumbling wildly around her shoulders.
She took a deep breath and her ribs expanded within his embrace. Ramsey focused on the tip of her tongue as it swept across her slightly parted lips.
“I really don’t know how to thank you.” She sounded confused, uncertain. Bewildered. “You saved my life.”
She swallowed. Ramsey watched the muscles in her throat contract. “Seeing you’re okay is thanks enough,” he answered, swallowing just as deeply. “Miss, uh . . . ?”
“DeAngelo. Rose DeAngelo.” Her voice, a smoky whisper, teased his senses.
But . . . Rose DeAngelo? No way! This beautiful, vulnerable woman couldn’t possibly be the “bitch on wheels” Handy’d warned him about, not this wounded creature with soulful green eyes and trembling lips. This was his chief suspect? Ramsey thought of the file photo he’d seen, of the austere woman with the dark hair pulled tightly back from an unsmiling face, and shook his head in mute denial of the improbability of the situation. Just as quickly he wiped the expression from his face.
He’d had a life filled with coincidence and good fortune. He accepted it, knew it made him a successful investigator. He’d be a fool to deny coincidence. If this were the same Rose DeAngelo, opportunity lay, literally, within his grasp.
“Can you help me stand up, please?” She leaned forward, away from his support, out of his embrace, and held her hand out to him. Ramsey focused on the pronounced tremor in her long fingers.
“Are you sure?” He looked to Bill for confirmation. The paramedic ignored him, focusing intently on the voice crackling over his radio. “Well, if you think you’re okay.” Ramsey stood up and reached for her outstretched hand.
She grasped his hand and rose to her feet lightly, with the grace of a dancer. A smudged and rumpled dancer. She was tall, maybe five ten. Ramsey hadn’t noticed before, not when pulling her out of the burning car had been his only concern.
“Ma’am, do you think you’ll be okay?” Bill suddenly asked, grabbing for his medical bag. “There’s been a terrible wreck on the interstate, fifty or more vehicles, serious injuries. You should probably be checked out by a physician, but . . .”
“Please, go ahead. I’m not hurt. Oh. Wait! My car . . .”
“I can take Ms. DeAngelo into town,” Ramsey offered. “That is, if it’s okay with you,” he added, looking not at her face but instead at their hands, still tightly linked. Her fingers trembled in his grasp.
He trusted his hunches. She was his primary suspect. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. He certainly didn’t need this attraction. Ramsey loosened his grip on her fingers and stuck both hands in his back pockets.
“You sure you don’t mind givin’ the lady a ride?” Bill gathered his equipment as he talked. “The chief’s called a tow truck. The county crew’s on their way to clear the tree out of the road. Thanks, Ramsey. Glad you’re okay, ma’am,” he added, tipping his cap and climbing into the ambulance.
The siren wailed, the lights flashed and the engine howled as the ambulance sped into the night.
Rose appeared stunned by the abrupt departure. She turned in Ramsey’s direction, her eyes wide and frightened, and wrapped both arms around herself in a protective gesture.
Ramsey glimpsed a distant flash of lightning reflected in her deep green eyes and wondered just what he’d gotten himself into.
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for re-sell or re-print either digitally or in print format by ANY entity other
than the legal publisher of this work listed above. Re- sell or re-print of
this work may not be used without the written permission of the author
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