Authors: Pat Warren
Forbidden
P
AT
W
ARREN
began her writing career at the age of sixteen with a teenage column in
The
Akron
Beacon Journal.
She later wrote about marriage and motherhood for
The Detroit News
, and sold her first novel to Silhouette Books in 1986. While continuing her romance writing, Pat also wrote romantic suspense,
mystery, and contemporary mainstream novels, bringing her books in print to a total of over 3 ½ million. Several of her
novels have appeared on the Dalton and Waldenbooks paperback bestseller lists.
Pat lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, with her husband, and is the mother of four grown children. She likes to travel and is a
voracious reader.
Adam ran a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have married her. The party bosses kept after me that voters didn’t trust a single
man. I shouldn’t have listened. We’ve both been miserable.”
Liz felt drained, limp. “I don’t know what to say. We…We both made some mistakes.”
“Not you. Me. I made the mistakes.” He drew her nearer so his mouth was a breath away from hers. “My life is so empty without
you. When I’m making love to my wife,
you’re
inside my head. Why is that, after all these years?”
Liz stared at Adam, unable to answer, her heart aching for all the years forever lost to them.
“I want so badly to kiss you. I know I lost the right years ago. I know I can’t have you.”
Liz struggled with needs unspoken, with longings unanswered. One kiss would never be enough. While she was still able, she
pulled free and stepped back. If she didn’t leave now, right now, she knew they’d be on the sand in moments, past the point
of no return…
“Ms. Warren melds chilling suspense and passionate romance into a marvelous amalgam of reading pleasure.”
—
Romantic Times
on
’Till Death Do Us Part
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1995 by Pat Warren
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: October 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56945-3
Contents
This book is dedicated, with affection and
gratitude, to Robin Kaigh, without whom it
never would have seen print.
Friday, August 28, 1992
Southern California
Lieutenant Lou Genovese got the call just before one
A.M.
A sports car had careened off the coastal road in Ocean Beach, crashing down the embankment onto the jagged rocks far below.
The desk sergeant had said a passing motorist with a car phone had called it in. Several uniforms were on the scene, but someone
with more authority than they had was needed.
No bodies could be seen from the road.
It was the kind of call all cops hated, Lou thought as he pulled on his gray slacks. By the time they hauled up the car and
discovered who and where the occupants were, it’d be morning before he’d be finished. Nights like these were the reason his
brief marriage had ended in divorce twelve years ago. All for the best, Lou thought as he slid his feet into leather loafers.
He buttoned his pale yellow shirt over a gold
cross on a heavy chain, a gift from his Italian Catholic mother that he always wore. After looping his tie around his neck,
he grabbed his navy sport coat and hurried out the door.
It took him just under half an hour from his home in Clairemont to reach Sunset Cliffs Blvd. In the sixties the area had been
home to an assortment of hippies. Now, facing the ocean, expensive residential homes were set back from the street and scarcely
visible behind river-rock walls and high oleander bushes.
The two black-and-whites were angled close to the cliff’s edge, their red lights still flashing. Someone had strung a yellow
crime scene tape between the two cars. Lou pulled his white Acura into a narrow space just before the road curved, and he
got out.
Police Officer Ray Orlando had been the first on the scene and the one who’d asked the precinct to call for backup. Lou knew
him casually, a young, eager cop anxious to do the right thing.
Ray hurried over to meet Lou. Despite the hour, his khaki uniform looked bandbox fresh. “Sorry to drag you out of bed, Lieutenant,
but I got a funny feeling about this one.”
“What’ve you got, Ray?” Hands in his pants pockets, Lou checked the ground. No sign of skid marks. “Someone fall asleep at
the wheel?” He knew this to be a dangerous section of road where accidents happened frequently because of the many sharp curves
and the way the highway hugged the cliffside. If the driver had been awake, surely he’d have slammed on the brakes hard.
“Or maybe a suicide,” Ray answered as he led Lou over to the rocky edge. The police cars had their bright searchlights beamed
down along the sheer drop onto the black rocks below, where the restless waves rolled endlessly in, then were sucked back
out. Ray pointed to where a red sports car hung precariously on a jutting rock slimy with seaweed and moss. “By rights, that
little beauty should have dropped into
the sea, but it got caught on that rock. It’s going to be a bitch to haul up.”
It was a miracle the car hadn’t burst into flame, Lou thought. The Porsche had landed about two hundred feet down, the nose
pointing toward the sea. The lights were still on, and both car doors were hanging open.
“Doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside, though they might be on the floor.” Ray held out his binoculars. “Take a look.”
Lou did and could see no one.
“Maybe she fell asleep at the wheel.”
Lou straightened. “She?”
“Look to the right and down some, on that flat rock just below.”
Adjusting the glasses, Lou saw a woman’s red jacket and, beside it, something that appeared to be a red handbag. “Maybe she
was a passenger, fell onto the rocks, then bounced into the sea. The driver could have shot out the other side.” Slowly he
scanned the area through the binoculars. “No sign of anyone in the water. Their bodies could be miles from here by now.”
“The jacket and bag could’ve been on the seat and landed on the rock. From here they look dry.”
Lou narrowed his eyes. “License plates are from a rental.” He lowered the glasses. “Did you call it in?”
“Yeah. Mac’s on the radio now. Rescue unit’s on the way with the hitch to pull up the car and a flatbed to tow her in. I asked
for frogmen to search the area, but they didn’t know if any were available. I didn’t want to delay in case it rained and the
vehicle got dislodged.” Ray glanced up at the dark night sky and wondered how long before the predicted summer storm would
hit. “Hope that was what you’d have done.”
Lou clapped the intense young officer on the shoulder. “Good work.” They walked over to the second police car just as Mac
stepped out.
“Got a make on the car, Lieutenant,” said the officer named Mac. “Rented from Avis in their midtown office, which closes at
eight. It’s the location that handles these expensive sports cars on special order. The only Avis outlet open all night is
at the airport, and their computer’s down. So we won’t be able to get a name until morning.”
Just their luck, Lou thought.
“We could dust the car for fingerprints and ID her that way,” Mac suggested.
Lou shook his head. “Do you know how many prints we’d find in a rental car? Besides, if she didn’t have a record, we couldn’t
get a match anyway.”
Embarrassed, Mac nodded. “Right.”
Turning, Lou saw the big truck with the heavy-duty winches pull up as the two other officers stepped to the road to keep gawkers
in the light traffic moving along. Two men carrying diving suits stepped out of a second vehicle. He checked his watch and
stifled a yawn.
It was going to be a long night. As a twenty-four-year veteran who’d moved slowly up through the ranks, he was used to long
waits.
By four they had the Porsche as well as the jacket and woman’s handbag up at road level. Lou shone his light inside, not wanting
to touch anything until forensics had a look. The expensive Porsche was pretty banged up, but not wet other than from sea
spray. With his pencil eraser, he pushed in the glove compartment button and found in empty, as was the rest of the interior.
The key was still in the ignition.
The two frogmen in wet suits scampered up over the cliff’s edge just then, and Lou walked over. “See anyone?”
After removing his headgear, the taller man spoke up. “Not a sign of anyone, Lieutenant. The breakers are really hitting hard
and fast. He’d have to be a hell of a good swimmer to land in that sea and make his way out, especially if
he’d be dazed from the accident. The shoreline doesn’t straighten out for half a mile or more.”
“But a good swimmer, say, if he jumped as the car was going down, could do it?” Lou persisted.
The shorter man scratched his head. “He’d be taking a terrific chance. If he landed on one of those sharper rocks, it’d be
all over at that speed.”
A calculated risk, but not impossible. “Thanks, fellas.” Lou returned his attention to the car. Carefully he popped the trunk
and found no luggage or personal effects. With a finger under the collar, he picked up the woman’s jacket. It was just a little
damp. The label read “Lafayette of Paris.” Big bucks. The pockets were empty. Using his handkerchief, he reached for the soft
leather handbag and opened it.
Three keys on a cheap silver ring seemed out of place. The tube of Elizabeth Arden lipstick was more in keeping with someone
who’d rent a Porsche. Whoever she was, she apparently liked red, he thought as he put the top back on. There was a small mirror
in a black velvet case and, at the bottom, half a dozen folded newspaper clippings.
Using care, he spread them out. The articles, each ripped from the
San Diego Union,
carried dates spanning seventeen years, from the first in 1975 to the last only a week old. They chronicled the rise of the
hometown boy who’d made good, the two-term senator who’d been tapped by the Democratic Party as its vice-presidential candidate
at last month’s convention, Adam McKenzie.