Fake I.D. Wife Read online

  They were being watched…

  When Logan opened the door for her, Elise smiled at him and threw her arms around him.

  Logan’s arms slid around her so fast she didn’t have time to react. His sleek silver gaze locked with hers, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. He closed the gap between them, his mouth covering hers.

  He suckled her lips for a moment, but didn’t invade. The kiss was seductively sweet…questioning…almost as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to go further.

  Heart thudding, blood rushing through her veins like liquid fire, Elise flattened her hands on his chest and pushed. Immediately he let her go. Somehow finding her voice, she whispered, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Trying to convince the neighbors we’re newlyweds.”

  Dear Reader,

  What if you were in big trouble, but legal channels were either unavailable to you or couldn’t do the job fast enough? What if you had to “disappear”? Who would help you? When the desperate have nowhere else to turn, they go to Club Undercover, my new series based out of a Chicago nightclub. This idea came to me years ago—heroes and heroines who helped the desperate but who also had secrets of their own. At the time I was busy with the McKenna and Quarrels families, but finally CLUB UNDERCOVER is born, and the team is a family in its own right. There’s Gideon, the leader and mysterious owner of the club; Cassandra, the former magician’s assistant; Blade, a Special Forces dropout; and Logan, a Chicago detective who voluntarily turned in his badge.

  Chicago is my hometown, and I love exploring diverse neighborhoods and figuring out new ways to put my lovers in danger. Years ago I discovered the Wicker Park/Bucktown area, what used to be the “Polish Gold Coast,” now an eclectic neighborhood of young professionals, artists, students and others. I used the area in CHICAGO HEAT, my Harlequin Blaze erotic thriller miniseries. And happily Harlequin Intrigue’s CLUB UNDERCOVER has settled into its new home. I hope you enjoy the series!

  FAKE I.D. WIFE

  PATRICIA ROSEMOOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To research her novels, Patricia Rosemoor is willing to swim with dolphins, round up mustangs or howl with wolves—“whatever it takes to write a credible tale.” She’s the author of contemporary, historical and paranormal romances, but her first love has always been romantic suspense. She won both a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award in Series Romantic Suspense and a Reviewer’s Choice Award for one of her more than thirty Intrigue novels. She’s now writing erotic thrillers for Harlequin Blaze.

  She would love to know what you think of this story. Write to Patricia Rosemoor at P.O. Box 578297, Chicago, IL 60657-8297 or via e-mail at [email protected], and visit her Web site at http://PatriciaRosemoor.com.

  Books by Patricia Rosemoor

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  38—DOUBLE IMAGES

  55—DANGEROUS ILLUSIONS

  74—DEATH SPIRAL

  81—CRIMSON HOLIDAY

  95—AMBUSHED

  113—DO UNTO OTHERS

  121—TICKET TO NOWHERE

  161—PUSHED TO THE LIMIT

  163—SQUARING ACCOUNTS

  165—NO HOLDS BARRED

  199—THE KISS OF DEATH

  219—TORCH JOB

  243—DEAD HEAT

  250—HAUNTED

  283—SILENT SEA

  291—CRIMSON NIGHTMARE

  317—DROP DEAD GORGEOUS

  346—THE DESPERADO

  361—LUCKY DEVIL

  382—SEE ME IN YOUR DREAMS*

  386—TELL ME NO LIES*

  390—TOUCH ME IN THE DARK*

  439—BEFORE THE FALL

  451—AFTER THE DARK

  483—NEVER CRY WOLF*

  499—A LOVER AWAITS

  530—COWBOY JUSTICE

  559—HEART OF A LAWMAN†

  563—THE LONE WOLF’S CHILD†

  567—A RANCHER’S VOW†

  629—SOMEONE TO PROTECT HER

  661—MYSTERIOUS STRANGER*

  665—COWBOY PROTECTOR*

  684—GYPSY MAGIC

  “Andrei”

  703—FAKE I.D. WIFE**

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Elise Mitchell/Nicole Hudson—Framed for her husband Brian Mitchell’s murder, she escaped from jail and changed her identity to save her son from a killer still on the loose.

  Logan Smith—The ex-cop left the force with a mission of his own, one that involved the powerful Mitchell family.

  Diane Mitchell—The star witness against Elise thought she was finally going to get everything she ever wanted, including Elise’s son.

  Kyle Mitchell—How far would he go to satisfy his political aspiration to be the next governor of Illinois?

  Minna Mitchell—The politically minded matriarch wanted the Mitchells to be the Kennedys of the Midwest.

  Carol Mitchell—She balanced the responsibility of being a Mitchell with a secret life.

  Rafe Otera—The outsider had a deeper link to the Mitchells than it appeared.

  To my brilliant editor, Julie Barrett, for helping me to work out the kinks in the CLUB UNDERCOVER series.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Troubled awake from a deep, cottony sleep, Elise Mitchell grew aware of the unnatural rhythm of her heartbeat. Lashes glued together over tear-swollen eyes, she concentrated, forced her lids open to the dark room.

  “Brian?”

  Her heart was beating too fast. Covers tangled her legs, and her silk nightgown clung to her damp skin.

  She must have had another nightmare.

  But the images wouldn’t gel. Not real, she assured herself, seeking the comfort of her husband’s arms but bumping against a small body, instead.

  “Mama?” came a sleepy voice, and a hand reached for her.

  “Eric, baby, hush,” she crooned. She’d forgotten where she was. “Mama’s here. Go back to sleep now.”

  Heart melting at her son’s sigh, she stroked the two-year-old’s fine blond curls until his tiny frame went slack.

  She waited a moment, disturbed by thoughts of the fight with Brian that had landed her in their son’s bed. Her husband had been drinking again, had been drinking too much for more than a week.

  Elise didn’t understand what was happening. Didn’t understand how Brian could have pushed her away when she’d tried to stop him from having another bourbon. He’d slammed her up against a wall in front of his society friends. Her marriage was crumbling and she was lost.

  Brian, what’s happening to us?

  Planting a kiss on Eric’s head, she eased out of her son’s bed. A draft drew her to the window. A sliver of a moon slid between clouds, hiding Lake Michigan. Still, she could hear the waves lapping at the shore, their rhythm familiar and comforting. She secured the window and snapped on a night-light. Eric didn’t like being alone in the dark.

  Elise didn’t blame him. Lately, that’s the way she’d been feeling—alone in the dark. But no more, she decided as she left the room, intending to confront her husband over the truth.

  Crossing the landing, she heard a noise below. A door?

  “Is that you, Carol?”

  Brian’s sister had separated from her husband barely a week before and was liv
ing with them temporarily. Had she finally come home from some late-night tryst?

  No answer. No other sound. Her imagination.

  The only other person in the house was Brian’s sister-in-law Diane, Brian’s brother Kyle being in Springfield on government business. Diane had never been fond of Brian or her, and had studiously avoided spending time with them. So it had come as a complete surprise when Diane said she’d had too much to drink after the party, then had appropriated Kyle’s old room in the north wing.

  Until six weeks ago, the California-style house, white with a red-tiled roof, had belonged to the older Mitchells. Then Brian had agreed to follow family tradition and run for political office. His parents had rewarded him by signing the estate over to their favorite son—the future head of the Mitchell clan.

  Elise approached the south end of the house and entered the master suite. Lit only by a slash of light coming from the bath, the room was unnaturally quiet.

  “Brian?” she tested, in case he was lying there awake.

  No mumbled acknowledgment. Sorrow filled her. Why wouldn’t Brian tell her what was wrong? Whatever trouble he might be in, Elise was willing to help him through anything. She loved him.

  Prepared to give him her unconditional support, she slid over the edge of the mattress. “Honey?”

  She touched his arm. No response. He lay there unmoving. Saddened, she slid against him, ignoring the reek of bourbon, seeking the comfort of closeness. She smoothed her hand across his stomach until her fingers met a warm and sticky substance.

  Her heart pounding right into her throat, she snapped on the bedside lamp and was shocked by the viscous red mess on her hand…and the smears she’d left on the fixture.

  Brian lay there, eyes open, covered in his own blood, a protrusion from his chest.

  “No!”

  Praying he was alive, she scrambled over the mattress and pulled at the blade. It gave with a sucking sound. Gagging, she stemmed the ooze of warm blood with her nightgown.

  “You can’t die! You can’t leave us!”

  He had no pulse. No breath whispered through his lips. Her cry of despair echoed through the room.

  Brian Mitchell, the only man she had ever loved, was dead.

  She stared, for a moment fascinated with the murder weapon…a fancy letter opener monogrammed with her initials…. Nausea clutched her stomach and dizziness her head.

  A sound at the door startled her. “No!” she gasped out, thinking it was her son. Her pulse was racing and she was having trouble breathing. She choked out, “Eric, don’t come in!”

  But as her world whirled around her in a crazy curlicue, the door opened. Diane, blue eyes widening, horrified gaze on Elise, screamed, “My God, you said he’d be sorry— Now you’ve killed him!”

  Remembering the earlier scene at the yacht club and the argument with Brian, Elise whispered, “You can’t possibly believe I did this…”

  No one could believe it.

  Not when she was innocent.

  Chapter One

  As the new security chief of Club Undercover, Logan Smith kept his eyes peeled for problems in the making. So having gone to Helen’s Cybercafé to replenish his favorite coffee beans for the employee lounge, he was aware of his environment as he strolled down Milwaukee Avenue, the downtown Chicago skyline a hazy silhouette in the distance.

  The Bucktown-Wicker Park neighborhood was a study in gentrification, its citizenry going in and out of the stores, an eclectic mix of artsy, young professional and low-income city-housing types. The screech of an elevated train on the next block competed with techno-rock coming from a nearby store. And a homeless guy who’d staked out the corner down from the club was hawking Streetwise, the newspaper of the homeless.

  Everything A-OK, he thought, turning toward the old building with a fancy tile facade that housed the club. Employees were arriving as he took the stairs down to the entry level. A glance into the darkened club itself made him stop and set down the package of coffee beans at the hostess stand. A tall woman with shoulder-length mahogany-colored hair was sneaking up onto the stage.

  “Hey, what are you doing up there?” he growled.

  She started. “Uh, just looking around.”

  “Well, get down. And out. Come back when we’re open.”

  She descended the stairs. “Are you the owner?”

  He could see her hair was tipped with the same shade of fuchsia as her barely-there dress and high-heeled sandals. “Security,” he said, his expression meant to be off-putting.

  She merely grinned. “Then, take me to your leader.”

  A moment later, he was escorting the stubborn woman into the boss’s office. “Sorry to disturb you, Gideon,” Logan said, “but I found this, uh…lady, sneaking around the club.”

  “I was just looking around.” She freed her arm and her gaze quickly brushed the silver-trimmed black furniture and deep-blue walls. “I like what I see, so I would be willing to work here.”

  His boss arched his dark eyebrows. “Why should I hire you?”

  She walked up to the edge of his desk. “Because I can tell you things about the people you’ll be…” She shrugged. “Let’s say I’m multitalented.”

  Logan choked back a disbelieving sound. She sure had a line. “It doesn’t take a lot of talent to be a dishwasher. And that’s what we need right now, Miss…?”

  “Cassandra.” She kept her gaze locked on Gideon as if trying to mesmerize him. “Cass, if you prefer. And you need more than a dishwasher,” she said with certainty. “Club Undercover has an untapped potential.”

  “And you’re the one who can tap it for me?”

  “No one better. I have certain…talents.”

  She was playing Gideon, Logan thought, making like she had some kind of mysterious power. He watched her reach forward toward him, her purple-tipped nails nearly grazing his cheek. When she pulled back her hand, she held a silver dollar. She closed her fingers over the coin. When she opened her hand it was empty.

  “Nice parlor trick,” he said.

  “I can create illusions that would take your breath away.”

  Logan’s inner alarms were going off. He looked beyond the woman’s bravado. What he saw there, a hint of something she seemed to be trying to hide—desperation, perhaps?—convinced him she was a great little actress.

  “Club Undercover is a neighborhood club, Cassandra,” Logan said. Yeah, right, her name was Cassandra like his was really Logan Smith. “If you’re as talented as you say you are, why aren’t you trying for something bigger and better?”

  “Jobs like that aren’t readily available in this area.”

  “Who said you had to stay here?” Logan zeroed in on the problem. “With your looks, you’d find something suited to your talents in a snap…say, in Vegas?”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t go to Vegas.” The skin around her mouth grew taut and her jaw clenched before she said, “I can’t leave the state for a while—a matter of parole violation.”

  Trouble on heels, that’s what she was. Logan cursed under his breath and straightened the lapels of his suit as he took a threatening step forward to eject her.

  Gideon put up a staying hand. “So, no one will hire you.”

  She turned for the door. “Well, thanks for your time.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to let you walk out of here?” Gideon asked.

  She whirled around. “Oh, come on! Give a girl a break. You’re not going to have me arrested for—”

  “Actually, I’m going to give you a job.”

  “What?” Logan blurted.

  “As a hostess, to start.” Gideon sat back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “Give me some time to think about how I can use these talents of yours. Come back tonight at six.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said, a Cheshire smile playing across her full lips.

  Making Logan think Gideon had been played. Then, again, the club owner seemed drawn to the underdog, to those with things to hide�
��as he well knew. Sometimes he wondered if anyone working at the club was really who he or she seemed to be.

  There was even something about the club owner himself…a mystery—and yet Gideon was one of the few men he trusted without question.

  Cassandra escaped through the door as if she expected him to change his mind if she lingered, leaving Logan staring at his boss and shaking his head. “What are you thinking?”

  “You don’t have it figured yet?” Gideon asked. “I believe in second chances. For everyone.”

  Logan wondered why that was, exactly.

  What did Gideon have to hide?

  Grass Creek Correctional Center,

  Illinois Department of Corrections (IDOC)

  THREE YEARS OF INCARCERATION in a woman’s prison…three years since she’d seen her child—but it wouldn’t be much longer. She was getting out of here. Now.

  Elise Mitchell looked around the room with barred windows and the door with a heavy lock, now open, and said goodbye to what had been her “home” for nearly two of those three years. Originally assigned to a medium security lockup, she’d been rewarded for good behavior by being reassigned to one of the low-security perimeter cottages and being permitted to wear street clothes rather than the IDOC uniform.

  That would make her escape easier.

  She slipped a worn photograph of her son into her change purse, along with the money she’d saved working in the prison law library for a dollar a day. Then she pulled on a thick, hooded sweatshirt and hugged her cell mate, Rachel.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, fearing the walls had ears. “You can’t know how much your help means to me.” She was thinking about the getaway car Rachel had arranged through her boyfriend. “Getting Eric away from his father’s murderer is everything.”

  “I know,” Rachel said, hugging her back. “And if you make it out of here and get to Chicago, Cass will help you.”

  Elise nodded. Cassandra Freed had been the first woman for whom she’d filed an appeal while working in the law library—not that she’d won. Even so, Cass had been grateful and had promised to return the favor someday. Having recently made parole, Cass was now on the outside. Elise was counting on Cass’s being grateful enough to help her find a place to stay, until she could get to her son.