Mistaken Identity. Merline Lovelace

of which explained where said sister was at this particular moment. Or why her front door had been open when Lauren arrived.

      Raking her hand through the hair that was so like her sister’s in its thickness and dark red sheen, Lauren thought about that open door. The moment she’d noticed it, alarms had started pinging up and down her nervous system. Whatever or whoever had made Becky so nervous was starting to make Lauren distinctly uncomfortable, as well.

      She’d check the kitchen, she decided, tossing aside the oversized tote she carried on quick trips like this. Maybe she’d find some clue to Becky’s whereabouts there. If not, she’d grab a shower, clean some of the clutter off the bed, and zonk out until her sister showed up. After the flight from D.C., followed by the hop down to Phoenix, even Lauren’s jet lag had jet lag.

      She was halfway out the door when she spotted what looked like the strap to Becky’s favorite shoulder bag buried under a discarded blouse on the floor. Frowning, she pulled out the purse and checked its contents. Wadded tissues, loose half-sticks of cinnamon gum, a funky little makeup bag in the shape of a grinning Garfield and the embossed leather wallet Lauren had given her for Christmas a couple years ago. No house or car keys.

      She hefted the wallet in her hand and looked inside. Fresh concern spilled through her. Why would her sister leave the house without her cash or credit cards?

      Thinking of that open front door, Lauren slipped Becky’s wallet into her own tote for safekeeping. She’d hang on to it until Beck showed up, or until Lauren figured out just what the heck was going on here.

      Forehead creased with worry, she headed for the hall. She’d better call her assistant Josh. She’d have to cancel her early morning meeting with the stationery supplier who wanted to show her his new line of stock. If Becky showed up any time soon, maybe Lauren could still make her afternoon appointment with the director of Denver’s museum of fine art. She really wanted the museum account.

      Really needed that account.

      An exclusive contract to produce the museum’s postcards and gift stationery could finally take her fledgling design firm out of the red. She’d launched the business after her divorce had left her jobless as well as husbandless. Drawing on her art training, she had decided to specialize in adapting the great masterpieces to local scenery. Her unique designs were just starting to take off, particularly the cards that blended the whimsical, mythical creatures she so loved into familiar settings.

      Lauren had sunk everything she had into the enterprise. Everything she could scrape together, that is, after her ex had cleaned out their joint account. And Jack had had the nerve to look wounded when Lauren told him that she was reverting back to her maiden name. How had she ever imagined herself in love with the jerk?

      Wondering if man trouble was what had precipitated Becky’s odd call, Lauren headed down the narrow hall toward the kitchen.

      The sound of glass shattering spun her around. Eyes wide, she stared at the front door. For a heart-stopping instant she caught a shadowy movement on the other side. Then, a black-gloved hand reached through the broken glass and groped for the dead bolt Lauren had locked behind her only minutes before.

      Lauren didn’t stop to think. Didn’t even consider snatching up the phone to dial 911. Someone wanting in the front door was enough to send her flying down the hall and out the back. Her fingers frantic, she fumbled with the lock on the kitchen door.

      The knob wouldn’t turn. It twisted halfway, then caught, as if the tumblers inside the lock were out of alignment or gummed up or something. She slammed a palm against the door and tried again.

      “Come on! Come on!”

      Still the lock wouldn’t turn the whole way. In a spurt of pure desperation, she tugged off her shoe and whacked the handle with the stacked heel, and then tried again.

      The lock gave. Almost sobbing with relief, Lauren threw open the door and charged outside. Two steps later, she collided with a wall of solid muscle.

      “What the hell…?”

      The gruff voice split the darkness as Lauren rocked back, almost toppling over. Hard hands grabbed her arms, whether to save her from falling or to keep her from running, she had no idea. She flung her head up, gasped at the sight of the lean, shadowed face inches from hers.

      “Are you okay?”

      “I…I…” Lauren struggled to reply around the lump in her throat.

      Those hard fingers stayed locked around her upper arms, but the hold gentled, supporting her while she stammered incoherently.

      “Who…? What…?”

      “I’m your new neighbor. I was carrying some boxes out to the trash and heard the sound of glass shattering. Did you drop something? Cut yourself?”

      Too flustered to correct his mistaken impression that she was Becky, Lauren did manage to gather her scattered wits enough to register two swift impressions. One, his eyes were the bluest she’d ever seen. They reflected the light pouring from the kitchen like blue ice. Two, the hands wrapped around her arms were bare, uncovered by black gloves.

      “Someone broke in the front door,” she got out on a shaky breath. “He smashed the glass and reached inside to turn the dead bolt.”

      His head shot up. Eyes narrowed, he peered over her head at the house she’d just vacated.

      “I left my back door open,” he said tersely. “Go inside, shoot the lock behind you, and wait there until I get back.”

      Uncurling his hands, he started forward. Alarmed, Lauren snatched at the sleeve of his blue denim shirt.

      “Wait! You can’t go in there alone!”

      He eased out of her grip. “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing. Go on over to my place. I’ll let you know when it’s all clear.”

      His calm instruction almost convinced her that a little breaking and entering wasn’t anything to get excited about. The wicked-looking automatic he slid out of a holster at the small of his back convinced her otherwise.

      With swift efficiency, he ejected the magazine, checked the load and palmed it back in place. Swallowing, Lauren lifted her nervous gaze from the gun to his face.

      “Shouldn’t we just go to your place and call the police?”

      “My phone’s not hooked up yet.”

      He cocked the weapon, pulled back the slide and released it with a snap that ricocheted through the stillness. Then his white teeth flashed in a grin that was pure, rogue male.

      “If it makes you feel any better, though, I am the police.”

      Chapter 2

      Satisfaction sang in Marsh’s veins as he went through the motions of searching Becky Smith’s house. Judging by the target’s stammering incoherence a moment ago, he’d achieved exactly the results he’d hoped for when he’d staged that bit of B and E. Good thing he’d thought to jimmy the lock on the kitchen door. That had given him the few moments he’d needed to rip off the black gloves, toss them into a handy bush and race around to the back of the house in time to intercept the woman who’d come flying out.

      Sternly, Marsh repressed the twinge of guilt that tried to wiggle through his sharp satisfaction. Okay, he’d set her up. And yes, he fully intended to play on her stammering fear. If nothing else, the delectable Ms. Smith was guilty of associating with a gambler who was head over his heels in debt to the mob. She was up to her neck also in the dirty business that had led to Ellen’s death. Marsh refused to let her frightened brown eyes deter him from finding his sister-in-law’s killer. Now, if he could just shake the memory of Becky Smith’s trembling body pressed against his, he could concentrate on finessing her into the next phase of his carefully constructed plan.

      With a last glance at the mayhem that constituted her living room, he strode down the hall and out the back door. A frown sliced across his face