Deadly Intent

Deadly Intent

by

Christiane Heggan

Already available in MIRA’ Books by Christiane Heggan

TRUST NO ONE ENEMY WITHIN

BLIND FAITH

MOMENT OF TRUTH

SUSPICION

DECEPTION

DEADLY INTENT

CHRISTIANE HEGGAN

MIRA® BOOKS

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was

reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the author

nor the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises IIB. V. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

First published in Great Britain 2004 by

MIRA Books,
Eton
House,
18-24 Paradise Road
,

Richmond
,
Surrey
,
TW9 1SR

© Christiane Heggan 2003

ISBN 1551 66648 0 58-0404

Printed and bound in
Spain
by Litografia Roses S.A.,
Barcelona

This book is dedicated to the International

Book Club of South Jersey and
Pennsylvania
.

It’s my way of thanking you for your support

over the years, the wonderful luncheons, the

lively discussions, the laughter and, above all, your friendship. To all of you,

Danke

Tack

Spasibo

Mange Tak

Thanks Merci

Prologue

May 18

Allen Correctional Center

Lima
,
Ohio

On his forty-third birthday, which nobody gave a crap about, Ian McGregor decided he’d had it with prison life. He came to that realization as he and nine other inmates walked from Cell Block 11 to the prison rec room, dragging their feet and shoving each other, for no other reason than to piss off the guards.

Ian had spent half his adult life in and out of prison. While most of his offenses had been minor—drunk and disorderly, attempted burglary, bad checks—this last stint, sixteen months for breaking and entering, had been the pits. Thank God, ten days from now he’d be a free man, and this time, by God, he would stay free. No more stinking cells, no more pervert inmates and no more prison riots, the last of which had left him with four ugly puncture marks on his arm where some goon had stuck him with a fork.

Unfortunately, freedom was about all he had to look forward to. He had no money, no job prospect and no place to call home, unless his longtime, on-and-off girlfriend, Rose Panini, took him back. He wouldn’t blame her if she

didn’t. With his track record over the last twenty years, he wasn’t exactly what women called a catch. Simply put, Rose was fed up. She had made that plain the morning of his last sentencing, swearing she never wanted to see him again. So far, she had kept her word. His pleas for her to visit him had remained unanswered, as had his letters. But Ian was optimistic. Once she saw him standing on her doorstep, repentant and oozing with charm, she’d take one look at him and forgive him. Rose was no prize, but she had a big heart. Not to mention a steady job.

His second problem was a little more serious. And it came with a name: Arturo Garcia, one of the meanest SOB’s he’d ever had the misfortune to know. Ten years ago, Ian had worked for the man, delivering meth and cocaine to nightclubs throughout the
Toledo
area. The job had been fairly easy and the money good until the cops, who had been watching Ian, had apprehended him in the middle of a delivery and hauled him off to jail.

But just when he thought he’d be spending the next decade behind bars, the D.A. had offered him a deal that was almost too good to be true—his freedom for the goods on his boss. Ian hadn’t thought twice. He should have, because in addition to ratting on Arturo, Ian had walked off with thirty thousand dollars of his money, and that had made the drug distributor even more enraged.

On the day of his sentencing, which Ian had been dumb enough to attend, Arturo had to be dragged out of the courtroom kicking and screaming as he fired a volley of obscenities at Ian.

“This ain’t over, you lousy snitch,” Garcia had shouted. “When I get out I’m gonna find you and gut you like a fish.”

Fortunately, by the time Arturo was getting out of prison, Ian was going in for the B & E job, a twist of fate that

saved him from a sure and painful death. The word was that Arturo had returned to his native town of
El Paso
, where he and his younger brother, Tony, helped their widowed mother run the family grocery store. But who could tell if that was really true. For all Ian knew, Arturo could be cooling his heels outside the prison gates right now, waiting for a chance to kill him.

Ian’s thoughts were interrupted by a vicious whack behind the knees. “Move it, McGregor. What do you think this is? A funeral procession?”

Ian was tempted to yank the guard’s baton out of his hand and shove it up his ass. The thought, satisfying as it was, went no further. That kind of behavior would only get him a week in solitary and suspension of his TV privileges. He didn’t mind the solitary part, but he hated to be deprived of his nightly hour of television, especially now that Baywatch had gone into syndication and was being shown every night. There was nothing like a bunch of stacked babes in tight bathing suits to get a man’s blood pumping.

As always, the recreation-hour crowd was divided into two groups—the hard-core poker players, who never got the game out of their system, even when they played with fake money, and a handful of TV aficionados. Tonight, Ian and his tube-addicted buddies were in for a treat. Instead of a full hour of their favorite program, they had elected to watch the last half hour of a local beauty pageant, followed by the last thirty minutes of Baywatch.

Taking a seat in the first row, Ian kept his eyes glued to the screen where six shapely girls, all finalists in the Miss Columbus Pageant, pranced across the stage in skimpy bikinis, their boobs bobbing up and down and threatening to spill out of their tops. Ian and his friends clapped and cheered every time a contestant got close to the camera and

gave them a mouthwatering view of her firm round ass. Even the guards joined in, whistling and ogling the girls as if they’d never seen skin before.

“Hey,” the inmate next to Ian said when the pageant was over. “Somebody tape that?” Larry Warmath made a goofy face and wiggled in his seat like an idiot. “I’d like a replay at my next jammy party.”

Laughter erupted, but Ian was no longer paying attention to the banter. Remote in hand, he was flipping through the channels in search of Baywatch, when two women on the screen, a skinny blonde with too much makeup and a brunette in a white apron, caught his eye. The slim, rather petite brunette wasn’t exactly his type, but he had to admit she was a looker. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties until she smiled, then she looked much younger. Her dark brown hair was pulled back from her face and held with a white ribbon at the nape of her neck. The eyes were very nice, big and gray and unwavering, but it was her mouth that drew his attention. It was full, lightly tinted and conjured up all kinds of fantasies.

The two women appeared to be in a restaurant, empty at the moment. His eyes on the brunette, Ian listened.

“Today,” the blonde was saying, “we are talking to Abbie DiAngelo. Ms. DiAngelo is the owner and executive chef of the French-country restaurant Campagne, right here in
Princeton
.”

Ian sat up. Abbie DiAngelo? He had known an Abbie DiAngelo once. His stepsister. She was eight the last time he’d seen her, so he couldn’t be sure it was her, but how many Abbie DiAngelos could there be?

“Gimme this!” Warmath tried to take the remote from Ian, but Ian kept it out of the man’s reach. “We ain’t interested in no news, man. We want Baywatch.”

“This ain’t the news, so chill out, Larry, okay?”

“Then what the fuck is it?”

“Two good-looking broads. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” He winked at the others, who were already snickering. “Casanova?”

“Hell, no.” Warmath, who wasn’t too bright, wet his lips and settled in his chair. He didn’t have much of a choice, anyway. Ian had the remote control and he wasn’t about to let it go. The other three men didn’t seem to mind watching the two women.

“Ms. DiAngelo,” the reporter continued, “is a graduate of the New York Culinary Institute and is well known to Princeton-area residents. Prior to opening her restaurant, she owned and operated a popular catering service, aptly named DiAngelo Catering.”

She turned to the young woman. “And now you have just returned from
Lyon
,
France
, where you were awarded one of the world’s most coveted culinary prizes—Le Bocuse d’Or. This is an incredible accomplishment for an American chef, isn’t it? Until now, no one from this country had ever received such an honor.”

Leaning against one of the tables, Abbie DiAngelo ignored the camera and focused her attention on her interviewer. “No, and frankly, I never thought I’d be coming home a winner. I would have been happy enough to place in the top ten, especially since this was my first time as a competitor.”

“How did the French react when they heard you had won?”

Abbie DiAngelo laughed, and there, in her left cheek, Ian thought he recognized a dimple. “The same way they reacted when Lance Armstrong won his first Tour de France.” Feigning a shocked expression, she cupped her cheeks with both hands, “line Americaine? Mon Dieu! C ‘est pas possible.”

The reporter laughed but Abbie quickly turned serious again. “Actually, they couldn’t have been nicer, before, during and after the competition. A local reporter nicknamed me La Petite Americaine—the little American. Somehow, the name stuck and when it was all over, all the contestants were thrilled for me.”

“What does winning this award mean for you, Abbie?”

Abbie’s eyes lit up. “Well, for one thing, it’s doing wonders for my ego.”

“I’m told you don’t have one.”

She laughed again. “Don’t be so sure. A chef without an ego is like a souffle without air. It will never rise to the occasion. Seriously,” she continued, “for me, the real reward is to have been part of such an elite group for an entire week. Working with world-renowned chefs, sharing tips with them, comparing techniques and then cooking under such pressure for three days, convinced me that no matter what challenge comes my way now, I’m ready for it.”

“The menu you prepared for the judges was impressive. Will you be adding any of those dishes to your current menu?”

“I already have. All have been a big hit.”

Leaning toward Abbie but winking at the camera, the reporter said, “Is that the reason it’s so difficult to get a reservation at Campagne these days?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Abbie replied with a smile. “You might try using your connections.”

Next to Ian, Warmath jabbed him in the ribs. “Hey, what’s with you and that broad, man?” He wiggled again and said in a singsong voice, “You in love, McGregor?”

Ian kept his eyes on the screen. “No, I just think I know her.”

“Oh, yeah?” The inmate barked out a laugh. “Well,

then, why don’t you introduce us? We’d like to know her, too.” He turned to his buddies. “Ain’t that right, fellows?”

“Shut up, will you?” Ian tuned them out, fascinated by what he was hearing, almost certain the woman on the screen was his stepsister.

“Did you always want to be a chef?” the reporter asked.

Behind her, a waiter in black pants and a white, short sleeved shirt moved from table to table, placing silverware beside each plate. “Actually, I wanted to be a ballerina.”

It’s her, Ian thought, remembering the ballet posters in Abbie’s room, the dancing lessons she had taken twice a week, the recital he and his sister Liz had been forced to attend. It’s really her. Son of a bitch.

The blonde’s gaze followed the waiter for a couple of seconds before returning to Abbie. ‘ ‘When did you change your mind?”

“I’m not sure. My mother was, and still is, a wonderful cook. That had a lot to do with my decision to go into the food business.”

So Irene was still around. That wasn’t surprising. She had only been in her mid-thirties when she had married Ian’s father.

“Thank you, Abbie, for taking time from your busy schedule to talk to us. And again, congratulations on your award.” The reporter turned to the camera and flashed her pearly whites. “We’ve been talking to chef Abbie DiAngelo, the new recipient of the prestigious Bocuse d’Or. For CBS, this is Loraine Grant.”

Warmath gave Ian another jab. “Maybe we should get that broad to come here and cook for us. That prison grub they’re feeding us is carving a hole in my stomach the size of the Grand Canyon.”

But Ian wasn’t listening. He was thinking. Though not religious by any stretch of the imagination, he believed that

finding Abbie after twenty-eight years was no accident. It was a sign from up above—one he couldn’t afford to ignore. A moment ago he had been wondering where his next buck would be coming from and now everything had changed. Yes siree, at long last the gods were smiling on Ian McGregor. And he owed it all to a twist of fate—or in this case, a punch of the remote.

Who said miracles were only for the believers?

May 28

Stateville Prison Akron, Ohio

The first person Ian went to see when he walked out of Allen Correctional Center ten days later wasn’t Rose, but an old buddy of his, a death-row inmate who had been awaiting his fate at Stateville for the last six years.

Ian and Earl Kramer had met in
San Francisco
more than a decade ago. Both men had been partners in a venture to bring in illegal aliens from
China
—men and women so desperate for a better way of life, they were willing to pay ten thousand dollars each for safe passage to the
United States
. Before Ian and Earl could make a single penny from their investment, however, the third partner had split with their money.