Untraceable
The critics are hot
for the compelling suspense novels of
LAURA GRIFFIN
WHISPER OF WARNING
“A roller-coaster ride filled with intrigue, murder and toe-curling passion… Irresistible characters and a plot thick with danger… A sexy and suspenseful read you won’t want to see end.”
—Romance Junkies
“A perfectly woven and tense mystery with a sweet and compelling love story.”
—Romantic Times
“A read you can’t put down. Will and Courtney have set off electric sparks that sizzle and burn throughout this tingling love story every time they meet to keep you reading far into the night.”
—Suzanne Coleburn,
The Belles & Beaux of Romance
“Action, danger and passion… A compellingly gripping story.”
—Single Titles
“An exciting police procedural starring a wonderful cop and an intriguing ‘femme fatale’…”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“A gripping romantic suspense that will keep you guessing until the final page… Another book for the keeper shelf.”
—Fresh Fiction
THREAD OF FEAR
“Suspense and romance—right down to the last page. What more could you ask for?”
—Publishers Weekly Online
“Catapults you from bone-chilling to heartwarming to too hot to handle. Laura Griffin’s talent is fresh and daring.”
—The Winter Haven (FL) News Chief
“With numerous unknowns, perilous action and a stirring romance, Thread of Fear is innovatively enthralling on each page.”
—Single Titles
“A tantalizing suspense-filled thriller. Enjoy, but lock your doors.”
—Romance Reviews Today
ONE WRONG STEP
“Griffin’s characters are well developed, the narrative complex and the dialogue skillfully written in this suspenseful romance.”
—Romantic Times
“Griffin has more than proved that she is a force to be reckoned with in the world of romantic suspense novels. One Wrong Step is a sexy and thrilling novel that will keep readers turning the pages.…”
—Queue My Review
“One Wrong Step starts with a bang and never lets up on the pace. Laura Griffin is an exceptionally talented author who has a knack for keeping her readers on the edge of their seats. The twists and turns of the story leave the Le Mans racetrack in the dust.”
—The Winter Haven (FL) News Chief
“Imaginative scenarios, dynamic characters and countless emotions combine to make One Wrong Step intriguing from beginning to end.”
—Single Titles
“A first-rate romantic suspense story!”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“Enjoyable, fast-paced romantic suspense.”
—Publishers Weekly Online
ONE LAST BREATH
“Laura Griffin hits all the right notes—compelling characters, unexpected twists and a gripping story from the first gasp to the last sigh.”
—Bestselling romantic suspense
author Roxanne St. Claire
“Heart-stopping intrigue and red-hot love scenes… One Last Breath rocks!”
—The Winter Haven (FL) News Chief
“An action-packed tale filled with passion and revenge.”
—Romantic Times
“Griffin’s fully fleshed characters, dry humor and tight plotting make a fun read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This tasty debut mixes suspense and snappy humor with wonderful results.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“There is a new romantic suspense author in town. Laura Griffin’s debut novel, One Last Breath, is a strong blend of suspense and romance.”
—All About Romance
“Fast-paced romantic suspense with lots of surprises!”
—FreshFiction
Also by Laura Griffin
WHISPER OF WARNING
THREAD OF FEAR
ONE WRONG STEP
ONE LAST BREATH
And look for
the next book in the Tracers series:
UNSPEAKABLE
Coming Summer 2010
from Pocket Star
LAURA GRIFFIN
Untraceable
The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”
Pocket Star Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Laura Griffin
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Pocket Star Books paperback edition December 2009
POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Interior design by Julie Schroeder.
Cover design and hand lettering by Jae Song.
Landscape by mail4cindi/stock.xchng.
Photo of rain by Marcelo.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4391-4919-5
ISBN 978-1-4391-6318-4 (ebook)
For Doug
CHAPTER ONE
Melanie bumped along the pitted road, almost certain she wasn’t lost. She peered through the darkness and drizzle, searching for nonexistent landmarks. Had she missed it again? No way. First left after the low-water bridge—
She spotted the yellow porch light and sighed. Finally. Sex and Mexican food. She’d been craving both all day—in that order—since Joe had called to tell her he was off tonight.
The Blazer pitched down, then up again, its worn shocks responding to every rut as she neared the house. She pulled in behind Joe’s Honda and noticed the house’s darkened windows. Maybe the game had ended. With a giddy rush, she gathered up the carryout bag and pushed open the door. The smell of warm tortilla chips mingled with the cool dampness of the spring night. She glanced at the house again—
And froze.
The back of her neck tingled. She heard a voice from her past, a faint echo at first, then a whisper. She gazed at the house through the raindrops as the whisper grew louder.
Go, go, go!
And she did, numbly dropping the takeout food and yanking the door shut. Turning the key and shoving the Blazer into gear. Shooting backward down the driveway, then retracing her course, only the gentle bumps were bone-jarring now as she sped toward the highway with a hammering heart.
He was there.
How did she know? She just knew. Something about the house told her, something she could figure out later. She tried to keep the Blazer centered on the road as she rummaged for her phone. Her trembling fingers dial
ed Joe.
Voice mail.
Tears burned her eyes. She reached the paved highway and slammed on the brakes just as a sports car zipped past.
Think, damn it. What would Alex do? The tires shrieked as Melanie pulled onto the highway and groped for a plan. She had one. She had a plan.
What was it?
She took a deep breath. Her emergency kit was in the back. She could leave this instant, no stops. She could go to her safe spot.
But what about Joe? She slowed again. She had to go back.
A pair of headlights winked into her rearview mirror. The objective part of her brain registered the height, the shape, the spacing. The rest panicked.
She floored the gas pedal. Her pulse skittered as the car behind her sped up, too. The speedometer inched past sixty, but still the lights behind her refused to fade. Her hands clenched the steering wheel. Her heart pumped furiously. He couldn’t have found her. Not now.
Why hadn’t she listened to Alex?
A curve in the road. She jerked the wheel, then struggled for control. She felt the spin coming, felt her stomach drop out as the tires glided across the asphalt. Brakes squealed—or maybe it was her scream—and a wall of bushes rushed at her. Metal crunched. Her nose hit the wheel.
Then nothing. Just the rasp of her breathing and the tip-tap of rain over her head. No air bag. She clutched her abdomen and tried to take stock. Blood, warm and coppery, seeped into her mouth.
He’s coming.
The thought spurred her body into action. She pushed at the door, heavy because of the angle. She was in a ditch. She threw her shoulder against the door and muscled it open. Branches snapped at her cheeks as she heaved herself out of the car.
The only light nearby was a head lamp, now buried in leaves. Rain pelted her face. She blinked at the surrounding gloom and tried to orient herself.
She heard a low rumble—like thunder, but not. It was a pickup, diesel engine, somewhere behind her. She listened, paralyzed with terror, as the rumble ceased and a door slammed shut. He was here. The nightmare she’d imagined so many times, in vivid detail, was happening.
She clawed wildly at the vines and branches. Panting now, she crashed like an animal through the woods. No car. No phone. No emergency kit.
A distant whir growing nearer. Tires on pavement. She scrambled toward the sound. She broke through the foliage just as the car whizzed by.
“Help!” she screamed, waving her arms at the shrinking taillights.
Her mistake hit her. She ducked back into the bushes, but it was too late. He was right behind her, closer now, so close she could hear his grunts and breaths.
Move! she willed her rubbery legs. She choked back a sob as he came closer, closer. Then smack! she was on the ground, her legs pinned. No air, no breath. She scratched and elbowed and kicked, her heel hitting something soft. A moan. She jerked herself free and lunged for the road. Another car—she heard it, saw its lights beckoning her to safety. Just a few more feet… She reached for the light, the pavement. She clawed at the gravel.
“Help! Stop!”
A hand clamped around her ankle and dragged her back.
Two days later
Alex Lovell downed her last sip of tepid coffee, slung her camera around her neck, and checked her watch. Late again.
Fortunately, the subject of today’s surveillance liked to sleep in. Less fortunately, he lived in his girlfriend’s apartment near campus, which meant parking was going to be a bitch. As a backup plan, Alex grabbed the orange traffic cone that lived in the corner of her office and helped her get away with damn near anything.
Outside, an early morning downpour had snarled traffic. Alex cast a glance over her shoulder as she hurriedly locked the office. Cars inched along Lavaca Street, and she tried to decide which route to UT would be fastest.
A shadow fell over her.
“Scuse me, ma’am?”
She surveyed the man’s reflection in the glass door before answering. Boots, jeans, western-style jacket. His six-foot frame was augmented by a cowboy hat. Was this guy for real?
“Think I might be lost,” he drawled.
She turned around. “Cattle Raisers Association’s two blocks over.”
He smiled slightly, and the lines bracketing his mouth deepened. “I’m looking for Lovell Solutions.”
She nodded at the words etched on the glass door beside her. “Looks like you found it.”
“Are you Alexandra Lovell?”
“Yes,” she said, certain this wasn’t news.
“I have something to discuss with you. Only take a minute,” he added, as she glanced at her watch.
“What’s your name?”
“Bill Scoffield.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
She eyed him skeptically. Tufts of white hair peeked up from his shirt collar, and a slight paunch hung over his belt buckle. She put him at fifty-five. Her gaze dropped to his boots, shiny black ostrich. She’d been in Texas long enough to recognize expensive footwear.
She thought about this month’s receivables. “Five minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch again.
She dropped the cone on the sidewalk and unlocked the door. “And I’ll hang on to that SIG while we talk, if you don’t mind.”
You would have thought she’d asked him to surrender his dick. His gray eyes narrowed as he fished the pistol out from the holster beneath his jacket. He passed it to her, butt first.
She led the way into her air-conditioned reception room. It lacked a receptionist. Alex glanced at the door to her messy office, which thankfully was closed. As the visitor removed his hat, she walked behind her assistant’s recently vacated desk.
“Little paranoid?” He glanced pointedly at the security camera mounted up near the ceiling.
She shrugged. “You can never be too careful.” The last man she’d let in here armed had put her in the hospital.
Alex nodded at a vinyl chair. “Have a seat.” She placed the pistol on top of the file cabinet behind her and settled into a swivel chair. “What can I do for you, Mr. Scoffield?”
He deposited his hat, brim up, on the mini-fridge beside him. “I’m here on behalf of a James Bess. I have it on good authority that his estranged daughter hired you a few months back.”
“I don’t know any Bess.”
“Melanie Bess? Married name Coghan?”
“Never heard of her.”
“Well, that’s too bad. See, Melanie’s come into some money, and it’s my job to get it to her.” He watched her, as if to see whether “money” was Alex’s magic word. Sometimes it was. But at the moment she was more interested in determining this guy’s agenda.
She tilted her chair back. “Where’d you say you were from again?”
“Midland,” he said. “Drove in this morning.”
“Long trip. You probably should’ve called first.”
They stared at each other for a moment. He pulled a photograph out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. “You recognize Melanie?”
The picture showed a smiling teenage girl posing for the camera in a cheerleading uniform. Curly hair, laughing brown eyes, dimple. She looked a lot like Alex had in high school, only blond and popular and with big breasts.
“She’s pretty,” Alex said. “I’d definitely remember her.”
“Listen, Miss Lovell.” He leaned forward and rested his elbow on the desk between them. “I really need to find Melanie. Her daddy just passed away. She’s got a lot of money coming to her, and I bet she could use it. Last I checked, she wasn’t exactly flush, if you know what I mean.”
“Have you tried the Internet?” Alex tipped her head to the side. “The online White Pages can be an amazing resource these days, if you’re trying to find someone.”
He frowned at her across the desk. She watched neutrally as he stood and tucked the photo back into his pocket, then rested his hands on his hips and gazed down at her. “How good are you at fin
ding people?”
“If you can afford it, I can find them.”
“How much to track down Melanie Bess?”
She shrugged. “I’m pretty booked up right now. It would take me at least a few days to get to it.”
“The money’d be good.” He produced a business card and passed it to her.
She stood and slipped the card into the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ll think about it.”
He collected his hat, and she followed him to the door. When they were out on the sidewalk, she returned the pistol, and he wedged it back into his holster.
“You think about my offer, now.” He tipped his hat and strolled away.
In the side mirror of her car, Alex watched him head east, toward Congress Avenue, and turn the corner. She took out her phone and keyed a three-word message. She flagged it “urgent” and pressed Send.
Alex drove a five-year-old Saturn that got great gas mileage and almost never went into the shop. A surveillance vehicle it was not.
Despite a battery-powered fan, Alex spent her morning sweltering in the Saturn’s front seat and waiting for a subject who never showed. By lunchtime, she was ready to call it quits. But the guy’s insurance company was her top-paying client, and they were giving her good money to tail him with her camera wherever he went.
So Alex stayed. And sweated. Between PowerBars and a sprint to the corner gas station for a much-needed break, she made dozens of calls searching for any trace of Melanie Bess.
By evening, she’d found one.
Alex was on the move again now, still unable to believe it. The low-profile life she’d gone to great lengths to set up for Melanie was no more. Melanie had quit her job, canceled her utilities, and moved out of the Orlando apartment she’d rented under a corporate name just six months ago. And then Melanie committed the cardinal sin for women on the run.
She came back.
The news burned in Alex’s chest as she navigated the ruts of the gravel road. All that effort, and her client had come right back to the place she’d tried so hard to leave behind.
Alex passed a weathered wooden sign for Shady Shores RV Park. She crossed the low-water bridge and hung a left at a gnarled oak. Another quarter mile of scrub brush, and there it was: 15 Moccasin Road, the house number stenciled right on the mailbox.