At that, he laughed. He leaned over, brushed his fingers down the side of her face, slowly moving over the curve of her cheek, along her jaw to her mouth, where he ran the pad of his thumb over her lips. “If that’s meant to scare me off, it’s not working.”

She dipped her head, rubbed her cheek along his fingertips. “It is your condo. I have no right to tell you when you can be here.”

“I’m not staying,” he said. She pushed the door open but didn’t move.

A gust of wind blew her hair into her face and she shoved it back. “Okay.”

“Unless you want me to.”

The Rebel

Adrienne Giordano

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ADRIENNE GIORDANO

, a

USA TODAY

bestselling author, writes romantic suspense and mystery. She is a Jersey girl at heart, but now lives in the Midwest with her workaholic husband, sports obsessed son and Buddy the wheaten terrorist (terrier). For more information on Adrienne’s books, please visit

www.adriennegiordano.com

or download the Adrienne Giordano app. For information on Adrienne’s street team, go to

facebook.com/groups/dangerousdarlings

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

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

Extract

Chapter One

“Come on, boy. Another quarter mile and we’re done.”

Larry McCall whistled for Henry, his black Lab, who needed exercise more than Larry, to move along. Sunrise illuminated the sky, streaking it in shades of purple and orange that made even a grisly homicide detective marvel at the beauty of nature on an early fall morning.

With Henry busy sniffing a patch of dirt, Larry paused a moment, tilted his head back and inhaled the dewy air. Another two weeks, all these trees would be barren and the city would come in and scoop up the leaves. At which point, his body would make excuses to stay in bed rather than hoof it through ten acres of fenced-in fields on Chicago’s southwest side.

Half expecting Henry to trot by him, Larry opened his eyes and glanced to his left, where the dog always walked. No Henry. Since when had he gotten subversive? Larry angled back and found Henry still at the spot he’d been sniffing a minute ago. Only now he was digging. Hard. Terrific. Not only would he have dirt all over him, but he’d also probably snatch a dead animal out of the ground and drop it at Larry’s feet.

Here ya go, Dad.

Not happening. He whistled again. “Leave it,” he said in his best alpha-dog voice.

His bum luck was that Henry had alpha tendencies, too, and kept digging. He’d have to leash him and pull him away before a dead squirrel wound up in his jaws.

Years earlier the city had torn down three low-income apartment buildings—the projects—because of the increased drug and criminal activity surrounding the place. All that was left was the fenced-in acreage that made for great walking. Problem was, there could be anything—rodents, needles, crack baggies, foil scraps—buried.

Needles.

Dammit

. Larry hustled back to the dog before he got stuck. Or stoned.

“Whatever you found, Henry, we don’t want any part of. Leave it.”

He snapped the leash on, gently eased Henry back and was met with ferocious barking. What the hell? His happy dog had gone schizo.

“What is it, boy?”

Holding the dog off the hole he’d started, Larry bent at the waist to focus on something white—dull white—peeking through the dirt.

Henry barked and tugged at the leash.

“Okay, boy. Relax. Let me look at it.”

He led a still-barking Henry to a tree, secured the leash around it to keep him at bay and walked back to the spot. Using the handkerchief he always carried—yes, he was that old-school, so what?—to protect his hands, he cleared more of the loose, moist dirt from the top, and more white appeared. He tapped the surface. Solid. Rock solid. And Larry’s stomach twisted in a way it only did on the job.

Stop.

Twenty years of working homicide told him he should. Right now.

Don’t go any further; call it in.

Birds chirped overhead, the sound so crisp and incessant it sliced right into his ears. Henry apparently had riled ’em good. Still squatting, Larry scanned the desolate area. Beyond the fence at the end of the last quarter mile, the early-morning rush began to swell on Cicero.

Henry barked again. Normally calm as a turtle, he wanted to dig.

Larry cocked his head to study whatever peeked through the dirt, and once again his stomach seized. After all these years, only one thing futzed with his stomach.

Crime scene.

But, truth be told, he had a tendency to overthink things. Something else years on the job had done to him. Hell, he could be staring at an old ceramic bowl. And how humiliating would it be to call this in and have it wind up being someone’s china?

Just hell.

Henry barked again, urging him on, and Larry gave in to his curiosity and pushed more loose dirt around. At least until he hit a depression and his finger, handkerchief and all, slid right into it. Gently, he moved his finger around, hitting the outer edges of the depression, and a weird tingling shot up his neck. His breathing kicked up.

What’d this dog find?

He cleared more dirt, his fingers moving gently, revealing more and more of the surface of whatever was buried here. Once again, his fingers slipped into the depressed area and he knew. Dammit.

He’d just stuck his finger into an eye socket.

Chapter Two

Five Years Later

Surrounded by four hundred guests, seven of them sitting at her table in the ballroom of Chicago’s legendary Drake Hotel, Amanda studied a giant photo of a fallen firefighter that had flashed on the screen behind the podium. Without a doubt, she’d botched his nose.

Ugh. How embarrassing. Any novice artist, particularly a sculptor, would see the slight flare of the man’s nostrils. She slid her gaze to the sculpture, her sculpture, a gift to the widow of Lieutenant Ben Broward, who’d died three months ago after running into a crumbling building to save a child.

The child had survived.

Ben had not.

And Amanda’s gift to his widow and their children was now worthless. At least in Amanda’s mind. Had the flaring nostrils been that obvious on the photos she’d been given? Later, when she arrived home, she’d swing into her studio and check. Just to satisfy herself.

Darn it

Sitting back in her chair, she eased out a breath and made eye contact with Lexi, her interior designer friend who’d originally suggested she attend this fund-raiser and meet Pamela Hennings and Irene Dyce, both politically connected—and extremely wealthy—women. Amanda’s idea to donate the sculpture had come after seeing an interview with Lieutenant Broward’s wife and children. She couldn’t give them the man back, but maybe the sculpture would bring some sort of peace. Not exactly closure because Amanda didn’t buy in to that whole closure thing. What did that even mean? Tragedy was tragedy and she doubted Ben’s family would ever fully recover.

Mrs. Hennings leaned closer to speak over the chatter and the sound of clanging silverware filling the room. “Amazing likeness, dear.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Dyce said from the other side of Mrs. Hennings. “Beautiful work, Amanda.”

“Thank you.”

Not that she believed it after spotting her mistake, but coming from Mrs. Hennings, the wife of Chicago’s most brilliant defense attorney, a woman notorious for her good taste, Amanda, as she always did, graciously accepted the compliment, allowing it to momentarily smother her doubt.

At least until she looked at that nose again. Would the widow notice? Would she see the blunder every time she chose to look at the piece? Would it drive her insane? Gah.

The woman couldn’t spend years looking at a nose butchered by the artist. Amanda couldn’t allow it. She’d redo the piece. That was all. She’d make time to fix her mistake.

Done.

Over.

Move on.

A waiter slid a slice of cherry cheesecake in front of her. Any other day, she’d happily indulge, which of course wouldn’t help her lose that extra ten pounds, but a girl had a right to sugar. Simple fact. But after the beating she’d just given herself, she wasn’t sure her stomach could handle a rich dessert. Gently, she nudged the plate away, opting instead for a sip of water.

“Evening, Miss LeBlanc.”

She glanced up to where a large, barrel-chested man, late fifties perhaps, stood behind her. “Hello.”

“I’m Detective Larry McCall. Chicago PD. Homicide.” He gestured to the vacant chair next to her. “Mind if I sit?”

Oh, boy. What was this?

Whatever it was, she was thankful he wasn’t the man who’d been sitting beside her all evening.

That

man, a financial planner from one of the city’s big banks, had disappeared more than thirty minutes ago after she flatly told him, no, she was not interested in doing “hot” things in his bed. What an idiot. With any luck, he’d found a woman willing to take him up on his offer.

She held her hand out. “Of course. Someone was sitting there, but he’s been gone awhile.”

Hopefully, for good.

The detective glanced across the table to where Lexi sat with her boyfriend, Brodey, another Chicago homicide detective and also the brother of one of the Hennings & Solomon investigators. Seemed to Amanda that the Hennings clan had a connection to just about everyone in this city.

“Junior,” Detective McCall said, nodding a greeting.

“Lawrence,” Brodey drawled.

And how amusing was this? Clearly these two were in some kind of twisted male peeing match, and Amanda did everything in her power not to roll her eyes.

Detective McCall dropped his bulky frame into the chair beside her. “I’ll move if he comes back. Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

“Not at all. What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I checked out your bust.”

Amanda bit her lip, stifling a smile as the detective replayed in his mind the last seconds—wait for it.

There

He smacked himself on the head, then did it again, but he laughed at himself all the same. Instantly she liked him, liked his ability to find humor in embarrassing situations, liked his acceptance of his blunder without making a fuss.

“I apologize,” he said. “This is what happens when you put a guy like me in a place like this. I insult nice women.”

And he had the rough-around-the-edges grit of one of those throwback detectives she liked to watch on reruns of

NYPD Blue

“Well,” she said, “lucky for you I’m not easily offended. And what’s worse is that I figured out immediately you meant the sculpture and not my—” she looked down, circled her hand in front of her chest “—you know.”

“The sculpture. Yeah. It’s really good.”

Aside from the botched nose

“Thank you.”

“No. I mean it’s

really

good. I knew Ben. Good guy. Great guy, actually. His wife is the daughter of...” He shook his head, waved it off. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. The sculpture is...accurate. Scary accurate.”

Hmm... Having been approached by detectives before, Amanda felt the puzzle pieces beginning to come together and she readied herself to ruin Detective McCall’s evening. “I had a few photos from different angles to work from.”

“Yeah, I guess that helps. Listen, do you ever do forensic work?”

And there it was.

As suspected, the detective wanted her help on a case. Probably doing an age progression on a missing child or working with a witness to identify an attacker. Because of budgeting woes and a lack of funds for full-time forensic artists, police departments sometimes hired outside the department.

None of it mattered. She’d have to turn him down. “I’m sorry, Detective. I do have an interest and have taken some classes, but it’s not work I feel comfortable with yet.”

McCall, apparently ignoring her refusal, leaned in. “I’ve got this case...”

He has a case.

On countless occasions throughout her childhood she’d heard those very words from her mother, a part-time forensic artist. Amanda held her hand up. “I’d like to help, but I have little experience in forensic work. I’d do more harm than good.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Trust me. It’s a cold case. Five years now. No leads. All we have is a skull and some hairs found where it was dug up. That’s all that’s left of her.”

“Her?”

“The medical examiner thinks it’s a female. Maybe late teens or early twenties.”

“I see.”

“I actually found her.”

Amanda gawked. Couldn’t help it. “You found the skull?”

The detective shook his head as he let out a huff. “Craziest damned thing. I was out walking my dog in that vacant spot near Midway, and Henry started digging. I’ll never forget it. Whoever this girl is, she and I are a team. I made sure I kept her case. It’s mine.”

“That’s admirable, Detective. Really.”

He shrugged. “We have a sketch done by one of the department artists, but I don’t know. Maybe she got it wrong because no one is coming forward to claim this girl and we didn’t get any hits from DNA. I’m a father. It makes me sick.” He ran his hand over his thinning, gray hair as he scanned the ballroom and the people moving toward the exit. “I saw what you did with the sculpture of Ben and thought maybe you could help us out.”

Amanda glanced across at Lexi, hoping to grab her attention with the

save me

stare. No luck there because her friend was busy whispering in Brodey’s ear. By the look on his face, he liked what he was hearing. A flash of something whipped inside Amanda. At odd times, she missed the comfort, the familiarity, the

knowing

of an exclusive relationship. Casual dating didn’t provide any of that.

But a pity party wouldn’t get her assistance from Lexi or Brodey. To her right, Mrs. Hennings and Mrs. Dyce were in deep conversation about scheduling a lunch, so there’d be no help there, either. For this one, she’d fly solo. Try once again to nicely let the detective know she couldn’t help him. As much as she felt for him, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—risk involvement. She faced him again, meeting his gaze straight on. “Detective, I’m sorry. It’s just not what I do. I’ve never done a reconstruction before. I could ask around, though, and see if any of my colleagues might be interested.”

McCall hesitated and studied her eyes for a few seconds, apparently measuring her resolve. He must have received her message because he nodded, his jowly cheeks shaking with the effort. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you. I want to give this girl her name back.”

And, oh, that made Amanda’s stomach burn. Ten years ago, her mother would have loved this project.

A lot had changed in ten years.

Movement from Amanda’s right drew her attention to Mrs. Hennings placing her napkin on the table. “I’m sorry to say, it’s past my bedtime.” Mrs. Hennings touched Mrs. Dyce’s shoulder. “I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll figure out a day for lunch.”

“I’ll be at the youth center. Call me there.”

“Will do.” Mrs. Hennings nodded at Lexi. “And I’ll have David call

you

about his new home. He needs help. Just don’t tell him I said that.”

Lexi laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. And thank you. I’m excited to work with him.”

Then Mrs. Hennings turned her crystal-blue gaze on Amanda. “My son has just moved back from Boston. Lexi will be helping him on the redesign of his condominium. I’d love to have him look at your artwork. He’s starting from scratch.” Her lips lifted into a calculating smile only mothers pulled off. “Whether he likes it or not, he’s starting from scratch.”

And from what Amanda had heard from Lexi, when Mrs. Hennings made a request, you should not be fool enough to deny her. When it came to Chicago’s upper crust, Mrs. Hennings might be their president.

“Of course,” Amanda said. “I’d love to. Lexi and I have worked together several times. Your son can come by my studio and look at some of my paintings. Or we could do a sculpture. Whatever he likes.”

The older woman reached to shake Amanda’s hand. “Wonderful. I’ll have him call you.”

* * *

“OH, COME ON, David,” Mom said. “I know you can be charming.”

David Hennings sat in the kitchen of his parents’ home, his hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, and faced down his mother, a woman so formidable and connected the mayor of Chicago kept in constant communication with her. She might be able to sway masses, but she was still his mother and, at times, needed to be told no.

Otherwise, she’d control him.

And that wasn’t going to happen.

“Mom, thank you for your never-ending encouragement.”

She scoffed at his sarcasm. “You know what I mean.”

Yes, he did. As much as he liked the usual banter between them, he didn’t want to hear about whatever scheme she had going. Not on a Monday morning when he had a to-do list a mile long, including meeting with the contractor renovating his new condo. Yep, after two weeks of living under his parents’ roof, because even he couldn’t be rebellious enough to break his mother’s heart by staying in a hotel, he needed to get that condo in shape so he could move in.

As usual, Mom kept her piercing eyes on him and with each second she slowly, methodically chipped away at him. This look was famous in the Hennings household.

This

look could possibly bring down an entire nation. He blew air through his lips, part of his willpower going with it. “Have you talked to Dad about this?”

“Of course.”

Lying

. He eyed her.

“Well, I mentioned it. In passing.”

David snorted. “I thought so.”

After attending a fund-raiser for a fireman’s fund the night before, his mother had gotten it into her head that Hennings & Solomon, the law firm his father had founded, should have their investigators look into a cold case. An apparent homicide. All in all, David didn’t get what she wanted from him. All she knew about the case was what she’d overheard at the dinner table. One, some detective had a skull he couldn’t identify. Two, the detective wanted a sculptor to do a reconstruction.

That was it.

A reconstruction alone would be no easy task if an artist didn’t have training in forensics. And who knew what kind of credentials this particular artist had?

David might not have been a criminal lawyer like his father and siblings, but he knew that much about forensics.

Mom folded her arms and leaned one hip against the counter. “We can help. I know we can.”

For years now, the two of them had been allies. Unlike his siblings, when David needed shelter, he went to his mother. He adored her, had mad respect for her. No matter what. Through that hellish few months when he’d destroyed his father’s dream of his oldest son joining the firm because David had decided civil law—horrors!—might be the way to go, his mother had pled David’s case, tirelessly arguing that he needed to be his own man and make his own decisions.

And Dad had given in.

It might have been butt-ugly, but the man had let David go.

That was the power of Pamela Hennings.

David slugged the last of his coffee because, well, at this point, the extra caffeine couldn’t hurt.

“Okay,” he said. “You do realize I’m not a criminal attorney, right? And, considering I don’t even work at Hennings & Solomon, I’m guessing I’m not the guy for this assignment.”

“Your father said Jenna and the other investigator, Mike what’s-his-name, are too busy. And

you

said you were bored. Since your new office won’t be ready for a couple of weeks, you can do this.

can do this.”

Cornered. Should have known she had a counterattack prepped. So like his mother to use his own words against him after he’d complained the night before that the contractor doing the renovation on his new office was running behind. Had he known that, he’d have stayed in Boston another two weeks before packing up and moving home to open his own firm.

“But I’m meeting with my contractor this morning.”

“By the way, as soon as you’re done with him, you need to call Lexi.”

“The decorator? Why?”

Mom huffed and gave him the dramatic eye roll that had won lesser actresses an Academy Award. “Interior designer, dear. And what do you mean, why? I told you I arranged for her to work with you. Because, so help me, David, you will not be living the way you did in Boston with all that oddball furniture and no drapes. You, my love, are a grown man living like a teenager. Besides, Lexi’s significant other knows the detective from last night. When you talk to Lexi, get the detective’s name. He’ll help you. We’ll get Irene Dyce in on this, as well.” Mom waggled her hand. “She was at the fund-raiser last night and overheard the conversation. I’m about to call her to set up lunch and you can bet I’ll mention it. Between her and her husband, they know half this city. It’s doable, David.”

He sat forward and pinched the bridge of his nose. By now he should be used to this. The bobbing and weaving his mother did to confuse people and get them to relent. “What is it exactly you want me to do?”

She slapped a business card in front of him. “Talk to the artist. I got her card last night. I told her you were about to move into a new home and might need artwork.”

“Seriously? You’re tricking her? And how much is

that

going to cost me?”

“David Jeremy Hennings, just shush. I needed a reason to contact her again. And it’s not a trick if you hire her. Just have her do a painting or something. That’s only fair.”

If he wound up buying something, his mother was paying for it. That was all he knew. Sighing, he picked up the card. Amanda LeBlanc. Nice name. Good, solid name. “Why do I need to talk to her?”

“She told the detective she couldn’t do the sculpture. I think she’s intrigued, though. She might just need a push. And you, my darling, excel at the art of the push.”

He held up both hands. “Mom, please don’t strain yourself with all these compliments. First I’m charming, and now it’s persuasive. This might all go to my head.”

“You need to zip it with the sass. For God’s sake, you’re the intellectual around here. You love research and history and combing through information to reach a conclusion. This case would be perfect for you.”

“I’m no investigator.”

“But you don’t have to be. All you need to do is get the ball rolling. Think of the people we have at our disposal. Russ is an FBI agent. I’m sure he’d help.”

Now she wanted to drag his sister’s boyfriend into this. Great. Given David’s strained—as in they drove each other nuts—relationship with Penny, he and Russ hadn’t gotten off to the greatest of starts.

Inspired, Mom boosted herself away from the counter and sat in the chair beside his.

It’s over now.

When she got charged up like this, there