Love And Lies
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Guest Register
Title Page
Dedication
Dear Reader
About the Author
Books by Dawn Stewardson
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
Copyright
GUEST REGISTER
—Was she singled out for murder?
—He didn’t want to fall in love!
—Was Talia on his hit list?
—Was he really looking out for the jurors?
—Was he dangerous?
—The jury foreman wasn’t doing his job.
—Was the sharpshooter a hired gun?
—He could be anyone.
Love and Lies
Dawn Stewardson
To Julianne Moore and Marsha Zinberg,
my two terrific editors for this book, with thanks for
inviting me to be part of the Bride’s Bay series.
And to John, always.
Dear Reader,
For a woman who lives in a country that’s covered in snow several months a year, I seem to have written a lot of books set in far warmer climes—from Mexico to Arizona to Georgia to the Dominican Republic.
At any rate, when I was asked to write a book for the Bride’s Bay series, with its South Carolina setting, I was delighted. So there I was, the snow swirling outside my office window, writing a scene set on a moonlit beach on a sultry spring evening. (Now, is that a great example of escapism, or what?)
Of course, it’s the characters, rather than the setting, that make a story, and in the case of Love and Lies I really came to admire Talia Sagourin and Cade Hailey as I wrote about them. Thrown into a potentially deadly situation, they toughed it out—and fell in love along the way. I hope you enjoy reading their story,
Warmest regards,
Dawn Stewardson
P.S. If you’re ever in Charleston, be sure to take the ferry over to Jermain’s Island. You never know what adventure might be waiting there just for you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dawn Stewardson is the award-winning author of over twenty novels for Harlequin. “A few years ago,” she told us, “I served on a jury. At the time, I hoped the experience would someday prove helpful in writing a book, and Love and Lies turned out to be that book.”
Dawn lives in Toronto, with her husband and a small menagerie of pets. Their turn-of-the-century house was built by a retired sea captain, and she’s certain it has an intrigue somewhere in its past. She keeps hoping to find buried gold in the garden, but so for has found only bones the dogs persist in burying.
Books by Dawn Stewardson
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
80—PERIL IN PARADISE
90—NO RHYME OR REASON
222—CAT AND MOUSE
257—THE MUMMY CASE
261—THE MUMMY BEADS
281—HUNTER’S MOON
302—I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
329—VANISHING ACT
355—DEEP SECRETS
383—BLUE MOON
405—PRIZE PASSAGE
409—HEARTBEAT
432—THREE’S COMPANY
477—MOON SHADOW
521—COLD NOSES, WARM KISSES
551—ONCE UPON A CRIME
571—THE YANKEE’S BRIDE
615—GONE WITH THE WEST
653—BIG LUKE, LITTLE LUKE
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Chapter One
His stomach felt sour—a combination of nerves, the stale antiseptic smell in the washroom and the desire to be just about anywhere else on earth. He’d known, though, that he’d end up having to meet Joey Carpaccio’s goon somewhere in the courthouse.
There hadn’t been a prayer all the jurors would vote not guilty the first time around. Hell, they’d even been instructed to bring a suitcase with them this morning, just in case. And he’d known that once the voting was over they’d be stuck here until they were sequestered—and that Carpaccio wanted to hear, right away, the details of how the vote had gone.
But knowing he’d had no choice about things didn’t make him feel any better. And he was going to feel a lot worse if one of the other jurors walked in here. Or the court officer. Anxiously he glanced toward the stall Joey’s goon had disappeared into, wondering how long he was going to be.
The guy was a casting director’s dream—a perfect movie gangster. So if any of the others caught the two of them in here talking, it wouldn’t take Einstein to figure that whatever was going on shouldn’t be.
Telling himself to relax, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror and smoothed his hair, deciding he looked as sick as he felt. He was as pale as a mole living in a burrow—a good analogy, considering he was a mole on the jury. Joey Carpaccio’s secret eyes and ears.
Not willing eyes and ears, though. If he could have turned down the money he would have. But that hadn’t really been an option. He’d gotten more an ultimatum than an offer. Finally the toilet flushed and the goon reappeared, his newspaper still in his hand.
“At least it ain’t gonna be in the papers every day now,” he muttered, shoving the morning’s Charleston Times-Courier under the mole’s nose.
He read the most recent headline: CLOSING ARGUMENTS IN CARPACCIO TRIAL THIS MORNING.
The jurors had been instructed to avoid newspapers, along with radio and TV news about the trial, but this was far from the first of the coverage he’d seen. Even if he’d wanted to go along with the instructions it would have been impossible.
A lot of people still took Charleston’s nickname of the Holy City seriously. So when a married woman was shot to death while in bed with her lover it had been front-page news for days. And when her wealthy club-owner husband, with his rumored mob connections, was charged with the murder, the ensuing trial had been news from beginning to end.
“So whaddaya think about our problem?” the goon demanded. “How’s it lookin’?”
“I’m not sure. I told you, it was a secret ballot.”
“But she voted guilty, didn’t she. She hadda be one of the three.”
The mole nodded. “I’m sure she was. But she could change her mind. The others, too. That’s why they sequester us. So we talk about it until we all agree.”
“So, who were the other two?”
“I don’t know. As I keep telling you, it was a secret vote. But tomorrow, once we start deliberating, it should be obvious.”
The goon muttered again—under his breath this time—but the mole had a pretty good idea what he was saying. He figured the jurors should have been talking, right from the start of the trial, about whether or not they thought Joey Carpaccio was guilty. That wasn’t the way it worked, though. They’d been ordered not to discuss the evidence until they’d heard it all.
Tossing his newspaper into the trash, Joey’s goon fixed the mole with a gangster stare. “The two guys, they’ll come around. Whoever they are, we figure they’ll change their minds. But what about
the broad? You gonna be able to change her vote?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Yeah? Well, see you do your very best. That’s what you got paid for. And we don’t wanna have to start worry in’ about goin’ some other route.”
“Hey, lighten up.” The mole was beginning to sweat. He didn’t like that we he’d just heard. It sounded as if it might include him. And he didn’t like that reference to some other route, either.
Taking a payoff to ensure Carpaccio didn’t get convicted could land him in big-time trouble. But if Joey’s goon started figuring he should help some other way…Hell, that could lead to worse trouble still.
He forced a grin. “We can’t reach a verdict till all of us agree. And I’ll hold out till Christmas if I have to. So what’s the worst that can happen? Even if she doesn’t come around, the worst thing possible’s a deadlocked jury and a retrial.”
“Yeah? Well, we don’t want no retrial, see? We want this over and done with. We want twelve votes of not guilty. ‘Cause if we go through this again, we might not be so lucky with the jury that gets picked. So we’re countin’ on you to deliver. And don’t go forgettin’ South Carolina’s a death-penalty state, huh? That’s makin’ the boss real nervous.”
The mole wiped his brow. The goon was making him nervous, and he didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he couldn’t deliver.
“And what’s the deal with this resort?” the goon asked. “This Bride’s Bay place? I never heard of a jury bein’ sent off to some ritzy island.”
“It was just the luck of the draw. They told us a retired judge’s wife owns the place. And the old guy puts up a jury or two in the off-season every year—says he likes to give something back to the legal system.”
“So’s this ain’t gonna screw up the plan, is it?” the goon asked. “You can still send stuff on your computer from an island?”
The mole nodded, thanking his lucky stars for that. Sending information to an E-mail address would be a hell of a lot easier on his nerves than more face-to-face meetings like this.
“You sure? Here.” The goon pressed a slip of paper into the mole’s hand. “Take this number. And if there’s a problem and you gotta call me, do it. Just watch what phone you use.”
The mole pocketed the number, assuring the goon everything was going to be fine. “I’ve got my cell phone right here in my briefcase,” he said, “along with my laptop. So I won’t have to use the hotel lines for anything. And,” he added, giving the case a pat, “I won’t let this out of my sight until we’re there.”
“Till you’re there on your ritzy island,” the goon muttered.
“It’s probably not that ritzy.”
“No? Well that’s not what I hear. And where the hell does this old guy get off stickin’ his nose in? I mean, he puts the jury up in a place like that, and you guys might like it so much you’ll just settle in and enjoy yourselves—while the boss sits in jail worryin’.”
“No. No, I don’t think that’ll happen.” At least he sure wasn’t going to enjoy himself. Especially not if he was reading that damn Talia Sagourin woman right, if there was no way she’d be changing her vote.
TALIA PAUSED on the veranda of the main hotel building, thinking how much her parents would love this place. They were history buffs, and Bride’s Bay could be a picture from a history book—a photo titled Afternoon at the Old Plantation House.
The place was pristine white, with gracious columns on the verandah that supported a second-story wraparound balcony. And the grounds stretching away on either side were manicured to perfection.
“The whole island looks like a set from Gone With the Wind,” she murmured to Cade.
He smiled. “I don’t recall Tara being surrounded by sand dunes and an ocean.”
“Well, maybe not the whole island,” she admitted, glancing back in the direction they’d walked.
It was far enough into April that the centuries-old live oaks were the succulent green of spring. And the Spanish moss dripping from their huge branches added to Talia’s sense of the trees being rooted in time—in generations past, when many of the Sea Islands had been working plantations.
“Come on,” Cade said. “Let’s go get checked in.”
When they stepped inside, Talia paused again, deciding that whoever had transformed the plantation house into a hotel had possessed a magic touch. The lobby exuded Southern charm—a gleaming wood floor, pale yellow walls with white trim, floor-toceiling windows and a sweeping staircase she could easily imagine Scarlett coming down.
“Too bad the circumstances aren’t different,” Cade said.
Talia nodded, her vision of Scarlett vanishing and her thoughts turning to the reason they were here. Tomorrow morning they’d start considering all the evidence they’d heard about Maria Carpaccio’s death. And something felt unseemly, felt almost ghoulish, in fact, about coming to one of the most beautiful island resorts on the East Coast to deliberate over a murder.
“Thought I’d lost you two,” their court officer said, materializing beside them. “Everyone who took the minivans up from the ferry has already checked in.”
“We wanted to look around a little,” Cade told him.
“And it’s quite the place, huh? Didn’t I say I was getting you in somewhere great?”
Talia shot Cade a surreptitious smile. To hear Bud Kendrick talk—and he was a gossipy sort, which meant they’d heard him talk a lot during the course of the trial—you’d think that he was in charge of South Carolina’s entire jury system. And that the system would be at risk of total collapse when he retired next year. In reality his job as court officer consisted of looking after an endless series of Charleston juries. One of the fellows on theirs had been quick to dub him Bud the baby-sitter.
“The whole island is really something,” he was saying. “Even the north end, the section the Jermain family sold off way back when, is as exclusive as the resort. There are only twelve of those private estates I was telling you about. Just those, and the little village and marina.”
Talia nodded. Bud had drawn their attention to the village marina when the ferry had passed it. It was where the estate owners kept their yachts and had things delivered from the mainland.
“And just wait,” he continued, “till you have a chance to really look around. The place has everything from a championship golf course to the best shooting range I’ve ever used. I love coming here. Just wish I could afford to come as a guest.”
As Bud talked, he dug into his pocket, produced a key and handed it to Cade. “You’re sharing with Harlan Gates, and both the keys were in the same envelope so he gave me yours. It’s room 227 and you can just go on up. You don’t need anyone to show you the way.
“Now you, Talia, you’ll have to get your key at the desk. Looks like Liz Jermain is on duty today.” Bud gestured toward an attractive thirty-something woman. “She’ll take good care of you. It’s her grandmother who owns the place, but it’s Liz who runs it. So, I’ll probably see you both at dinner,” he concluded, heading off.
“Well…guess I’ll go check out my room,” Cade said.
His gaze held Talia’s for a moment longer than necessary, making her pulse give one of those funny little skips she was almost getting used to. Being chosen as a juror for a murder trial had to be the most improbable way on earth to meet an attractive man. But Cade Hailey was living proof it could happen.
The first moment she’d seen his rugged good looks, the first time his warm gray eyes had caught her gaze, she’d felt a stirring inside. And all the time they’d spend together over the course of the trial had only nurtured her initial interest.
They’d been together all day long, five days a week, for the entire six weeks. Yet even though she was sure the attraction was mutual, they hadn’t done a thing about it—because there’d been absolutely no chance for them to be alone together. The jurors had been told not to fraternize outside the building. And inside the court building, all twelve of them
had been there.
They’d sat in the jury box while the evidence was being presented and in the jury room during breaks. They’d drunk morning coffee together, eaten lunch together, and talked about a thousand and one topics. They’d done virtually everything but sleep together.
Sleep together. Talia looked at Cade once more and watched him striding up the stairs. He’d told her he was divorced, but hadn’t gone into the details, and she’d long ago begun to wonder how any woman in her right mind could have let him get away.
She allowed her eyes to drift from his broad shoulders down the lean length of his legs. He was a construction engineer who owned a renovations company, and even if he hadn’t told her that he enjoyed doing some of the physical labor himself, she’d have guessed.
Cade Hailey was in awfully good shape. And he looked awfully good in tight jeans—coming or going. Watching him was enough to make her pulse skip again. She followed him with her eyes until he reached the top of the stairs, then she walked over to the desk.
“I’m Talia Sagourin,” she told Liz Jermain. “One of the jurors.”
“Yes, of course.” Liz smiled. “The lone female. They only let us know which jury would be coming a couple of hours ago. But as soon as they faxed us the list of names, I began wondering how it would feel to be in your shoes—sequestered with eleven men.”
“Well, it was a long trial, so I’ve gotten used to being the only woman.”
“And at least it’s getting you a room to yourself. I have you in 203, so I’ll just—”
“Excuse me?” a woman interrupted.
Talia glanced at her, recognizing her from the ferry. Apart from the jurors and Bud, she’d been the sole passenger coming over from Charleston. About fortyfive, she positively reeked of money.
“There’s a problem with the room you gave me,” she informed Liz.
A bellman in his mid-sixties—bell captain, Talia mentally corrected herself, glancing at the Bride’s Bay badge on his uniform—had followed the woman to the desk. He shot Liz a look that said the problem was with the woman, not with the room.