Lock, Stock and Secret Baby. Cassie Miles

      About the Author

      Though born and raised in L.A., CASSIE MILES has lived in colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Posy.

      After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

      Lock, Stock and

      Secret Baby

      Cassie Miles

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       Table of Contents

       Cover

       About the Author

       Title Page

       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

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      Clutter spilled across the desktop in Ray Jantzen’s home office: unopened junk mail, books, a running shoe with a broken lace, file folders, research notes for a paper he’d published in the American Journal of Psychiatry and … a gun.

      Behind a stack of magazines, he located a framed photograph of his late wife, Annie, and their son, Blake. The sight of his beloved Annie’s smile wrenched at his heart. She’d passed away two years ago, a month shy of their fortieth anniversary.

      With his thumb, Ray wiped a smudge from the glass and focused on the image of his son. Though Blake was only eight in this picture, his dark brown eyes snapped with impatient intelligence. Gifted wasn’t a sufficient word to describe him. And yet, he hadn’t chosen a career where he could concentrate on his intellect. At age twenty-five, Blake was part of a Special Forces team working undercover in undisclosed locations.

      Setting aside the photo, Ray opened his laptop and typed an e-mail.

      My dear son, I loved you from the moment you emerged from your mother’s womb with a squall and two clenched fists. Forgive me for what I’m about to disclose …

      He was well aware of his pompous phrasing, clearly a defense mechanism to hide his shame. He should have told Blake long ago. After four decades as a psychiatrist, Ray should have been wiser. Unspoken secrets never went away. The lies one told festered beneath the surface and arose in times of stress to bite one’s ass.

      His e-mail ended with: Take care of Eve Weathers. She needs you.

      He hit Send, closed the laptop and took it to the safe hidden behind the bookshelves. Like the rest of his office, the interior of the safe had accumulated a great deal of paper. But these notes were precious; they would tell the whole truth about the story he hinted at in his e-mail.

      After locking the safe and closing the hinged section of bookshelves, he went to the window. The red, yellow and magenta tulips in his garden bobbed in the June breezes. The sun was setting behind the foothills west of Denver. So beautiful. He should have spent more time outdoors.

      The door to his office opened. A melodic voice said, “Good evening, Dr. Jantzen.”

      “How did you get inside?”

      “Your alarm system is rudimentary. Your locks, pathetic.” The extraordinary tonal quality of the intruder’s voice hinted at his immense musical talent. “And this office is a rat’s nest. How do you work?”

      “I like it this way.”

      “And what does that say about your emotional state? Hmm? Disorganized thinking, perhaps?”

      Angered by this mocking analysis, Ray turned away from the window and faced the intruder. His eyes were silver, like the barrel of his Beretta.

      Ray lunged for his own weapon. It trembled in his hand. He’d never be able to shoot this young man whom he had known literally since birth.

      “You’re not a killer.” The voice was sheer music. “Put down the gun.”

      Ray sank into the chair behind his desk and reached for the telephone. Still holding the gun, he hit the speed dial for the security service that monitored his “rudimentary” alarm system. They were guaranteed to respond within ten minutes.

      “Hang up the phone, Dr. Jantzen.”

      “Or else?”

      “Be reasonable.” He aimed the Beretta. “You know what I’m looking for.”

      Turning over his records wouldn’t be enough, and Ray knew it. “I won’t remain silent. I can’t.”

      “Then