Deadly Secrets Read online

  DEADLY SECRETS

  SCVC Taskforce, Book 7

  Misty Evans

  Deadly Secrets, SCVC Taskforce, Book 7

  Copyright © 2017 Misty Evans

  ISBN: 978-0-9979895-7-1

  Cover Art by Sweet & Spicy Designs

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Editing by Elizabeth Neal, Patricia Essex, Marcie Gately

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  DEADLY SECRETS

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Books by Misty Evans

  About the Author

  To Mark, my perfect hero

  * * *

  The reality of the other person is not in what he reveals to you,

  but in what he cannot reveal to you.

  Therefore, if you were to understand him,

  listen not to what he says

  but rather to what he does not say.

  ~ Kahlil Gibran, Sand & Foam

  Acknowledgments

  To all my readers who imagine they are the heroine in my stories. You are!

  To Amy Remus whose love of Conrad Flynn inspired this story. I hope you enjoy the underlying tongue-in-cheek moments in this book.

  Every book I write is a group project and I couldn’t bring my stories to the world without the help of my cover artist, editors, and formatter. Thank you for making my stories shine!

  As always, my writing partner in crime, Adrienne Giordano, was my sounding board and helped bring the plot of Deadly Secrets to the next level. Can’t do without your evil mind, woman!

  Much love and gratitude to my hubby and sons who inspire me every day to keep writing.

  And to the fans who email me to let me know how much they love my stories…

  This one is for you.

  Chapter One

  Raindrops plunked loudly on the bar’s metal roof as if a giant were dropping pebbles on it.

  Nursing an iced tea, Brooke Heaton wished fervently she’d declined the invitation from the San Diego State University religious studies academics and headed back to her hotel room. After three days of lecturing at the university, she was ready to get back to the real world.

  She discreetly checked her phone under the bar overhang for the umpteenth time, hoping for a text or call of any kind to give her an excuse to bug out. But there were no missed calls, no messages. Maybe she could pretend differently and tell her hosts that she needed to go back to her room.

  But what kind of anthropological emergency would require her to beg off the company she was with?

  Bars just weren’t her thing—especially since at this particular one, it seemed to be prime time for Stephen Colbert-wannabes who thought their standup comedy routines were a stepping stone from San Diego to L.A. Her companions laughed at the latest joke from the young man on stage, who just happened to be a grad student from their department. Brooke smiled obligingly. For a religious studies major, the guy sure knew a variety of interesting ways to work the word “fuck” into his routine.

  She’d been hungry for companionship and had erroneously thought her academic colleagues meant for their night out to include a decent meal and in-depth discussion about religious symbols of the Mayan culture. Boy, had she been wrong.

  Maybe I’m just getting old. She’d much rather be in the king size bed at the hotel, eating horrible room service food and reading her latest Journal of Forensic Anthropology, than here listening to jokes about bathroom habits and the current administration in the White House.

  Although, the two subjects did have some things in common these days.

  Oh, who was she kidding? She wanted to get back to reread her favorite romance novel.

  She checked her watch and blew out a sigh. Making sure no one noticed, she pulled out her cell from under the bar overhang to text a cab service.

  Now all she had to do was come up with a polite excuse to bail.

  There was always the universal go-to—I have a headache. At the rate she was going, she would indeed have one soon.

  If only she didn’t have yet another morning of lectures at the university the next day, she could pretend she had an early flight back to L.A.

  But no, three departments had banded together to pay her speaker fee. Plus, the university had generously comped her hotel room and loaded her down with Fighting Aztec everything. No way could she carry all of it on the plane; she’d have to ship most of it home or find someone to donate it to. There was at least five pounds of shirts, scarves, coffee cups, and paperweights with the school’s mascot on them to haul back.

  Did anyone actually use paperweights anymore?

  It was nice to be wanted, but she’d left the world of academia for a reason—she wanted to marry the past with the present. To show modern-day men and women how instrumental learning about their ancestors could be. The university bubble was comfortable and safe, and for years, it had been the perfect hideaway for her. She’d thought she could do exactly what she wanted—turn young minds on to her love of anthropology. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been quite what she’d expected, and most of her students had simply taken her classes as an elective, thinking they could use religious studies and anthro class to nab an easy A.

  Eventually, she’d had to break free and do something. Writing a book about famous fossils, and a high-profile media tour several years ago, had made her an anthropological star for about three months. A well-known Hollywood producer had taken a chapter from her book and made a web series based on the famous Lucy find of fossils from a 3.2 billion year old hominin species Australopithecus afarensis.

  Anthropology meet pop culture.

  Social media had given her another popularity boost for a few months. She’d loved seeing fossils and past cultures getting some notoriety, but it had been a strain on her personally. She’d determined she wasn’t cut out for the spotlight.

  An unexpected bonus had come from her brief dance with fame. She’d never dreamed she’d end up consulting for law enforcement, but with her forensic anthropology experience, research into various religions stretching back to the Sumerians, and her criminal justice degree, she’d ended up helping out Cooper Harris and his SCVC Taskforce.

/>   There’d only been a couple of cases so far, but they’d fit into her schedule nicely and provided extra funds for her travels.

  Speaking of travel… Tomorrow, after her last lecture, she’d be off to Utah and an area so remote it could only be reached by donkey. Ten miles on an ass to the dig site would be no picnic, but at the moment, it sounded like absolute heaven. Plus, it was a highly prized dig, headed by Dr. Borgman of the Smithsonian Institute. The whole situation was very exclusive and required kid gloves due to the fact the bones and artifacts were ancestors of a Native American tribe, maybe two.

  From behind her, she heard loud male laughter that was out of sync with the comedian on stage. Glancing over her shoulder, she skimmed the three men making all the noise. Her gaze came back to one boldly staring at her and her stomach dropped.

  Oh, no. Not him. What is he doing here?

  The licorice black hair and searing blue eyes weren’t to be denied. Neither was the cocky smirk on his face as he looked her up and down.

  The trimmed beard was new. So was the longish hair pulled up into a man-bun. The tight T-shirt, showing off his tattoos, revealed his muscled arms and chest. He looked downright criminal.

  Or the ideal model for the cover of Muscle & Fitness.

  Roman Walsh. Dr. Roman Walsh. The criminal justice PhD and Homeland agent was either slumming or undercover.

  Or he’s stalking me.

  Again.

  She might have a use for that paperweight after all.

  For six months, he’d been calling and emailing her, wanting to “talk shop.” Last month, on a panel about domestic religious terrorism, she’d switched their seating arrangements so she was at the opposite end of the long table the panel sat at. It hadn’t stopped him from openly seeking her out during the social event later that night and flirting with her. He’d told her he wanted her to consult for his taskforce.

  He certainly couldn’t be interested in her as a woman—a man like Roman Walsh dated models and actresses, not frumpy workaholic analysts who loved dank old libraries, dig sites, and hundred-year-old churches. But there was something beneath his invitation—both the verbal and nonverbal. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

  Why do you keep turning him down? the devil on her shoulder complained. Why don’t you give him a chance?

  From across the way, his attention returned to his friends and she saw him flip one of his thumbs over his shoulder in her direction. The other men in the group looked over at her, two sets of hard eyes sizing her up.

  Brooke quickly refocused on the comedian on stage, heat lacing up her neck.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  This was why she’d refused to answer his emails or sit next to him on a panel. Working with his West Coast Domestic Terrorism Taskforce might be right up her alley; the experts on his team were top of the line. They analyzed bad guys and figured out ways to put criminals in jail and save US citizens, just like the SCVC Taskforce.

  Unfortunately, there was no way in Hades she could be on his team. He made her a nervous wreck. His voice alone made her panties wet, not to mention that killer smile of his.

  No man should be that mouthwateringly gorgeous. No man should be that…perfect.

  Perfect men like Roman Walsh didn’t flirt with women like her. She was a good girl, a professional academic who buried her head in ancient civilizations and religious rituals. Outside of her brief brush with fame over her book, she was a nobody.

  Roman Walsh was a hero. High IQ, a body ancient Greeks would envy, and an arrest rate of criminals that wowed her. If he knew how to handle a trowel, I might actually ask for his autograph.

  Behind that sexy smile and Superman complex, however, there had to be a volcano full of secrets. One that would erupt all over her and leave her heart fossilized.

  And that was what scared her right down to her toes.

  There weren’t many men in her fields of study that actually made her drool. Most were older, balding, or at the very least, too pompous for her to tolerate. There were plenty of young, attractive co-eds who hit on her every time she visited a campus, but at thirty, she wasn’t interested in stroking their egos by playing the cougar. With three failed relationships under her belt, she might just be done with men altogether.

  Plus, she liked a man to be more than his looks, and while a few of the grad students who’d hit on her recently certainly had the brains, they were still a bit too young and idealistic for her taste. They believed they could save the world through studying about it.

  Roman, on the other hand, was actually doing just that. He seemed determined to protect his country and her citizens with every breath he took.

  A real, honest-to-God hero.

  Just not my hero.

  Because every time she even thought of saying something to him—her throat completely locked up. His intense blue eyes would lock on her and bam…it was like she’d been hit with a stun gun.

  Her, a highly-educated, award-winning anthropologist and published author, who regularly spoke to auditoriums filled with students across the US, as well as to fellow anthropologists and religious leaders, struck dumb by a man?

  Go figure.

  It just made no sense that she couldn’t handle a simple conversation with Dr. Walsh.

  But there it was. She was too wise, and had been through too much in her life, not to at least be honest with herself.

  Drool-worthy or not, men with secrets were a no-go. Her life had already been turned upside down by them and she wasn’t about to offer her heart up to another person who would betray her.

  A fresh roar of laughter went up from Roman and his pals. She told herself not to look, but the devil on her shoulder made her turn anyway.

  He was eyeing her again with a fiendish look on his face. Was he drunk?

  Her phone lit up, a text letting her know that a cab was on the way. Estimated pickup time: five minutes.

  Good. She needed out of this place and fast. It had become entirely too hot in here.

  She slipped off the bar stool and began making her excuses to the professors with her. They balked good-naturedly, and she feigned exhaustion and explained she needed to go over her notes before tomorrow’s lecture.

  Mission complete, she turned to go when a hard body smelling of whiskey stopped her.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” Roman invaded her personal space, pushing her up against the bar. “Damn, but you clean up nice.”

  He topped six foot easily and, even in her heels, she had to look up to meet his gaze. She opened her mouth to say, “What the hell are you doing?” but as per normal, her lips moved and nothing came out.

  The gazes of her companions were on her and her cheeks flamed as if on fire. Say something! “No.”

  No?

  Brilliant, Brooke.

  “I believe the appropriate response to hello,” Roman said, placing his hands on either side of the bar, blocking her in, “is a return greeting.”

  He was so close. All that masculine energy. Those sharp, intense eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Wha…?” Oh, lord. Get it together! “What…what are you doing?”

  The words came out soft and breathy, but Roman apparently had no trouble hearing them. “My buddies over there bet me I couldn’t get you to kiss me.”

  Holy cow! He was definitely drunk. “Ki…kiss you?”

  His gaze dropped to her lips and he grinned like she was a medium-rare steak and he was one hungry man. “Yeah, kiss me, gorgeous. What do you say? Help a guy out so he doesn’t lose a hundred bucks?”

  He’d bet a hundred dollars that he could get her to kiss him? The nerve!

  Laughter over something the comedian said erupted around them. Roman leaned in, putting his lips next to her ear, “Play along, Brooke.”

  Goosebumps skittered down the back of her spine. She grabbed one of his arms and pushed. It was warm and very firm. “No.”

  He didn’t budge.

  One of his hands slid behind her neck,
gently grasping her by the nape as he looked deep into her eyes. The laughter and clapping in the bar receded and she saw a flicker of concern. “Things are about to get dangerous,” he murmured, his lips so close to hers, she could smell his breath. It smelled like ginger and mint—not whiskey. “You need to get the hell out of here.”

  And then, without warning, he brought his lips crashing down on hers.

  It was brutal and heavenly at the same time. Her brain raged for half a second before shutting down completely.

  Her eyes closed, the devil on her shoulder hooting as her bones went molten. Roman’s demanding tongue had no trouble parting her lips and slipping inside.

  His muscled body pressed against hers, holding her to the bar. Against the wishes of the few brain cells still firing in her cerebellum, Brooke grasped his shoulders and pulled him closer.

  And then he broke away, but his lips barely moved from hers.

  “I’m serious,” he said so low she almost missed it in her lust-induced haze. “Get out of here, now.”

  He released her as fast as he’d pinned her there, and she had to grab the edge of the bar to keep her weak knees from giving out.

  As Roman returned to his friends and raised his hands in a Rocky gesture of conquest, they cheered. Still staggered from the kiss, Brooke could only watch as both men at the table slapped money into Roman’s hand as he returned to his seat.