Loyalty Under Fire (Operation: Hot Spot Book 3) Read online

  Loyalty Under Fire

  Operation: Hot Spot

  Trish McCallan

  Trish McCallan Inc.

  About Loyalty Under Fire

  Rio

  He betrayed her once.

  Listened to the wrong damn people and walked away when she needed him most. That was on him. He’d live with that mistake for the rest of his life.

  But she was back again with a killer on her heels, and he’d break anyone who tried to hurt her. He’d make them bleed. He’d make them disappear if he had to.

  And when it was over, he wasn’t letting her go.

  Becca

  He came close to breaking her with his desertion. But in the end his defection made her stronger. It taught her she could survive anything. She could survive without him.

  Now she’s back, ready to serve justice for a decades-old murder.

  And he wasn’t getting in her way…no matter how much she craved his mouth on hers…his body pressed against hers…

  He burned her once—she wasn’t giving him another chance.

  This book was previously published as Bound by Deception

  Copyright © 2018 Trish McCallan

  Cover Design: Frauke Spanuth, Croco Designs

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Model: Bijan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Published by Trish McCallan, Inc

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the following people for their help in producing this book!

  Copy Editing: Anne Victory, Victory Editing

  Proofing: David Steele,

  Formatting: David Steele

  Also by Trish McCallan

  Series: Operation: Hot Spot

  These are military romantic suspense. There are no cliff hangers and each book has a HEA. The books can be read and enjoyed in any order.

  Books in the series:

  Hearts Under Fire

  Trust Under Fire

  Loyalty Under Fire

  Future Under Fire (releases June 2020)

  Hero Under Fire (releases August 2020)

  Series: The Red-Hot SEALs

  This series is complete, and the entire series is for sale. These are military romantic suspense. The first three books end with plot cliffhangers, but the main romance for each book is resolved and each couple gets their HEA.

  To follow the plot and for full enjoyment, these books do need to be read in order.

  Book One- Forged in Fire

  Book Two- Forged in Ash

  Book Three- Forged in Smoke

  Book Four- Forged in Ember

  Series: Dark Falls, CO

  This is a multi-author series set in Lori Ryan’s Dark Falls CO world. Each book is a standalone and features a law enforcement hero or heroine. There are no cliffhangers and the books can be read in any order. My two contributions to this series are:

  Dark Legacy

  Dark Tidings

  Newsletter

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  Contents

  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

  Author’s Note

  Find Me

  Chapter One

  Rebecca Blaine studied the return address on the certified letter as she pushed open the door to the post office and stepped into the sunny afternoon. Once upon a time, during her nine years of undergraduate and graduate classes, she’d received a generous monthly stipend from that New York address. It had come like clockwork, arriving in her mailbox the first of every month. But she’d finished her doctorate in psychology three years ago… Why in the world would Harold’s lawyers reach out to her again?

  Settling into the driver’s seat of her Corolla, she absently started the engine and cranked on the air-conditioning. It was unseasonably warm for June in Olympia, Washington.

  As she stared down at the creamy envelope, a thick weight congealed in her chest. The letter carried bad news; she just knew it. After a deep breath and a long exhale, she turned the envelope over and carefully peeled back the flap, then pulled out two swaths of thick, smooth paper. The sheets were folded in thirds. After unfolding them, she bent her head and read the first page.

  Layton, Felder, Bach & Moore

  Attorneys-at-Law

  58 East 42nd Street, Suite 1800

  New York, New York 10016

  646-287-1876 ext. 21

  Rebecca Blaine

  1045 W. Rogers Street

  Olympia, WA 98502

  Dear Ms. Blaine,

  I am acting as the executor of the estate of Mr. Harold Hopewell, whose Last Will and Testament was entered into probate in the Surrogate’s Court, New York County, State of New York. I write to inform you of certain assets bequeathed to you pursuant to Mr. Hopewell’s Last Will and Testament, to wit:

  $500,000 and a Jacobean oak secretary bureau, drop front, circa 1620.

  Please contact me at the above-referenced phone number at your convenience regarding these bequests.

  Regards,

  Frederick Bach, Esquire

  Five hundred thousand dollars!

  Harold had left her five hundred thousand dollars? Disbelief struck, drilling into her like a needle full of Novocain. Everything went hazy and numb. She read the amount again, but the combination of letters and numbers didn’t rearrange themselves into a more realistic figure.

  Eventually the shock faded and sorrow swept in to replace it. The grief was followed by a mixture of anguish, anger, and guilt as her mother’s face surfaced in her mind. She took a deep breath and held it, letting the echo of ancient emotions wash through her. Memories of Harold were intrinsically tied to memories of her mother.

  But this sorrow shouldn’t be about her mother; it should be about Harold. The man who’d stepped in to help her when she needed it most. While she’d kept in touch with him through Christmas cards and periodic thank-you notes, she hadn’t seen him since her mother’s death when she’d moved out of his La Jolla bluff mansion and into Château Fontaine, her father’s Mission Hills villa. Still, Harold’s kindness had made it possible for her to attend college and graduate school, which had turned her away from the destructive path she’d been on. She owed her psychology practice to his generosity, possibly even her life.

  He’d been a good man, able to see past her teenage angst to the troubled, grieving girl below.

  She dropped the letter from the lawyer onto her lap and fumbled open the second piece of creamy paper.

  My Dear Becca,

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  As I’m sure you’re aware by now, I can no longer make such claims myself. Don’t grieve for me. My life has been a long and
rewarding one, and I am ready to join my beloved Catherine. I have watched with great pride as you overcame the pain of your adolescence and opened your heart and practice to troubled children. Please accept my gift of $500,000 to use however you see fit. I will rest easy knowing that in some small way I have contributed to the wonderful work you are doing.

  I’m also bequeathing you the antique secretary desk that enthralled you as a child. I hope you share my fond memories as we explored all the nooks and drawers. Oh, how much fun we had as we discovered secret compartment after secret compartment. It is my wish that you and your children will find as much pleasure in the desk in the future as we did back in the day.

  My very best to you. May you find the happiness you so richly deserve.

  H

  A whiff of minty aftershave drifted up from the letter, blindsiding her. Becca sat perfectly still as the memories unraveled.

  Sitting beside Harold on the floor, his spicy cologne a pungent cloak surrounding her… opening the wood drawers… poking and prodding the ornate trim throughout the desk… the rise and fall of delighted laughter when they struck a spring mechanism and a secret compartment creaked open.

  The vision shifted, and for a moment her mother’s lilting voice filled the car.

  A stainless steel spoon in hand, her thick black curls romping against her slender back, Rachel Blaine danced between the huge eight-burner gas stove and the gemstone counter of the kitchen island. Her voice rose and fell in a pure Irish cadence…

  “Aye, I see the moon and the moon sees me

  She be smilin’ through the window on me precious baby

  Aye, the moon loves me Becca, as much as me

  See her smilin’ on the face of me sleepin’ beauty.”

  The recollection spawned quiet sorrow. Her mother had claimed that moonlight was the moon’s way of smiling. Funny how she’d forgotten that.

  The memory had barely registered when an ominous shadow usurped her mother’s sparkling eyes and bouncing hair. She stiffened, flinching as the shadow writhed and swayed, a macabre dance in midair from the business end of a noose. With a shudder, Becca banished the nightmare.

  It was odd how memories worked. How one’s imagination could infuse them with events that hadn’t happened—terrifying images that hadn’t been seen by the human eye but still buried themselves in the human psyche.

  Her mother’s body hadn’t been moving when she’d walked into the foyer. It had been hanging there in midair, perfectly still—like a beautiful, life-sized doll. Her long corkscrew curls had shimmered beneath the chandelier’s glow; her dark eyes had been wide and glassy—empty of life. Her mother hadn’t been struggling or writhing or any of the horrific images that had reeled through Becca’s mind late at night or infected her dreams so often sleep had become something to fear.

  It had taken years to banish the nightmares. She wasn’t about to let them sink their destructive fangs into her again. So, as she’d learned to do in the early days of her recovery, she closed her eyes and concentrated on detaching the negative emotions from the image—on denuding the memory of its teeth. She envisioned a gentle silver rain, a tranquil cleansing that rinsed the wretched emotions away, washing and washing until nothing but serenity remained.

  The desk Harold had left her arrived two weeks later, delivered to her doorstep by three young men in T-shirts sporting the logo of National Freight.

  “Where would you like it?” one of the deliverymen asked once the bureau was freed from its crate.

  “In the living room. I’ve already cleared a spot for it.”

  She led the way through her front door, down the short entry hall, and around the corner to the living room. After indicating the open space in the corner next to the window, she stepped back so they could wiggle the desk into place. After signing the release form and escorting the two men back to the front entrance, she returned to study the newest addition to her living room.

  Up close, the desk looked even smaller than she’d remembered. Not a surprise since she’d only been six or seven when she’d been obsessed with its secret compartments. It was interesting to see it now through adult eyes. It was quite lovely, with a warm patina and the aura of timelessness emitted by material objects of historical significance.

  Its feet were carved like cat’s paws, and the front and back legs were clearly the limbs of a cat as well—broadening as they reached the undercarriage of the desk until they resembled shoulders.

  The front of the desk was up and held in place by two yellow straps. After cutting the plastic straps, she eased the front down until the hinges caught. The interior had drawers stacked three high on the right and left with a double tier of file slots in between. Above the drawers and file folders were seven more drawers. They were tiny, barely large enough for paper clips or keys. But if she remembered correctly, that fourth drawer hid the latch that opened the largest of the secret compartments.

  Grasping the tarnished knob, she gently pulled the drawer all the way out and set it aside, then eased two fingers inside the small space and pressed up. The wood against her fingertips gave with a soft click, and the file folders dropped forward slightly. Smiling, she pushed the section with the file folders down, revealing the ten-inch compartment behind.

  The slanted entrance to the secret compartment was exactly as she remembered. But the russet, leather-bound book tucked inside the space was new. Wasn’t that just like Harold? He must have left her the book as a surprise. When he’d been in residence at his La Jolla Farms estate, he’d hid toys or treats in the desk for her.

  She eased the leather-bound book out and turned it over. A blue, tear-shaped stone was embedded in the middle of the front cover, encircled by a sphere of stitched leather. Antique clasps of tarnished bronze kept the book closed. It was somewhere around six by eight inches, the leather exterior carved with clusters of what looked like mistletoe. But the cover and spine held no title or author…. Odd…

  Settling cross-legged on the carpet, Becca carefully pried the two clasps apart and spread the book open. Familiar, looping writing filled the white sheets of paper—her mother’s handwriting. Her throat tightened. She turned the page. A hummingbird feeder surrounded by a flock of hummingbirds took life in front of her. The sketch was in pencil and so detailed and realistic the birds appeared to take flight beneath her hands. Her throat tightened even more and started aching as sorrow rose.

  Her mother’s art.

  Her mother’s writing.

  Her mother’s diary.

  Becca sat there frozen, her mother’s words and memories lying heavy in her hands. It felt wrong to turn the pages, to read the words, absorb these memories that weren’t her own. It felt like a violation of privacy. Her mother must have hidden this journal for a reason…

  But maybe, just maybe this diary would provide some answers to the questions that had haunted her for the past decade and a half. Like why? Why had her mother committed suicide, abandoning the child she professed to love? Why had she doomed her child to a hellish existence beneath her lover’s roof?

  By taking her own life, her mother had abandoned Becca to that god-awful house, full of those god-awful people. Beyond taking her in, her father certainly hadn’t stepped up to protect her or bothered to put an end to the vicious pranks pulled by her half brother or the constant bad-mouthing by her martyred stepmother.

  Was it any surprise she’d latched onto Rio when he’d returned to town? After all, he’d been gorgeous, five years older and experienced—with an aura of danger that rode him like a leather jacket. As a member of SEAL Team 7, he’d been one of the Navy’s elite warriors, a proverbial knight in shining armor.

  In other words, a foolish girl’s wet dream.

  All it had taken was one look from those piercing blue-gray eyes and she’d fallen in love with him—utterly in love. She’d been so starved for affection by then. Starved for someone to love, for someone to love her. Desperate for someone to believe her, take her side, help her chart
a course through the quicksand she’d been floundering in.

  Desperate to be rescued.

  Bitterness rose, but she sighed and gave it wings. If she’d used her brains back then instead of relying on teenage emotions and hormones, she would have known that intense interlude with Rio would end badly. He’d been best friends with Adam, her lying, vindictive half brother. Not to mention Rosaria, Rio’s grandmother, had been best friends with Lena, her father’s martyr of a wife. Adam’s insidious lies aside, it didn’t take much imagination to guess what horrible things Lena had said about her, which would have filtered through Rosaria and burned into Rio’s subconscious like black, pitchy tar.

  She’d never stood a chance with him. Too bad she hadn’t figured that out before he’d turned his back on her and shattered what remained of her heart. With a deep breath, she pulled away from those painful memories. She’d survived a lot during those four excruciating years between her fourteenth and eighteenth birthdays… but Rio’s abandonment had almost destroyed her.