Sin And Bone

“Dr. Pierce, report to Emergency, stat!

Your wife is gravely injured.”

Except Devon Pierce’s wife has been dead for six years. Someone is trying to frame him for murder! The Colby Agency assigns Isabella Lytle to investigate. Her instincts tell her Devon is no murderer, but he is hiding something. It could be the key to his innocence. Now Bella must coax out Devon’s deepest secret—while resisting the undeniable allure she feels for him.

Colby Agency: Sexi-ER

DEBRA WEBB is the award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of more than one hundred novels, including those in reader-favorite series Faces of Evil, the Colby Agency and the Shades of Death. With more than four million books sold in numerous languages and countries, Debra’s love of storytelling goes back to childhood on a farm in Alabama. Visit Debra at www.debrawebb.com.

Also by Debra Webb

Finding the Edge

Sin and Bone

Dark Whispers

Still Waters

Bridal Armor

Ready, Aim…I Do!

Colby Law

High Noon

Colby Roundup

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Sin and Bone

Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07896-2

SIN AND BONE

© 2018 Debra Webb

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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This book is dedicated to Chicago, one of my favorite cities and the home of the Colby Agency!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The Edge Emergency Department, Chicago Monday, June 4, 5:30 p.m.

Dr. Devon Pierce listened as administrators from more than a dozen hospitals in metropolitan areas across the nation bemoaned the increasing difficulty of maintaining emergency departments. Once the opening discussion concluded, Devon was the featured speaker.

He rarely agreed to speak to committees and groups, even in a teleconference, which was the case today. His participation required only that he sit in his office and speak to the monitor on his desk. He much preferred to remain focused on his work at the Edge. There were times, however, when his participation in the world of research and development was required in order to push his lagging colleagues toward the most advanced medical technologies. Emergency treatment centers like the Edge were the future of emergency medicine. There was no better state-of-the-art facility.

Devon had set his career as a practicing physician aside and spent six years developing the concept for the center’s prototype before opening it in his hometown of Chicago. The success of the past year provided significant evidence that his beliefs about the future of emergency rooms were correct. This would be his legacy to the work he loved.

The subject of cost reared its inevitable and unpleasant head in the ongoing discussion as it always did. How could a person measure the worth of saving a human life? He said as much to those listening eagerly for a comment from him. All involved were aware, perhaps to varying degrees, just how much his dedication to his work had cost him. He’d long ago stopped keeping account. His work required what it required. There were no other factors or concerns to weigh.

Half an hour later, Devon had scarcely uttered his closing remarks when the door to his office opened. Patricia Ezell, his secretary, silently moved to his desk. She passed him a note, probably not containing the sort of news he wanted if her worried expression was any indicator, and it generally was.

You’re needed in the OR stat.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to take any questions. Duty calls.” Devon severed his connection to the conference and stood. “What’s going on?” he asked as he closed a single button on his suit jacket.

Patricia shook her head. “Dr. Reagan rushed a patient into surgery in OR 1. He says he needs you there.”

Ice hardened in Devon’s veins. “Reagan is well aware that I don’t—”

“He has the surgery under control, Dr. Pierce. It’s...” Patricia took a deep breath. “The patient was unconscious when the paramedics brought her in. Her driver’s license identifies her as Cara Pierce.”

A spear of pain arrowed through Devon, making him hesitate. He closed his laptop. “Few of us have a name so unique that it’s not shared with others.” There were likely numerous Cara Pierces in the country. Chicago was a large city. Of course there would be other people with the same name as his late wife. This should be no surprise to the highly trained and, frankly, brilliant members of his staff.

“One of the registration specialists browsed the contacts list in her cell phone and called the number listed as Husband.”

Devon hesitated once more, this time at the door. His secretary’s reluctance to provide whatever other details she had at her disposal was growing increasingly tedious. “Is her husband en route?”

Patricia cleared her throat. “Based on the number in her contacts list, her husband is already here. The number is yours.” She held out his cell phone. “I took the call.”

Devon stared at the thin, sleek device in her hand. He’d left his cell with Patricia for the duration of the teleconference. He hated the distracting vibration of an incoming call when he was trying to run a teleconference. Normally he would have turned it off and that would have been it, but he was expecting an important work call—one that he would pause his teleconference to take if necessary. So he’d assigned Patricia cell phone duty with instructions to interrupt him only if that call came in, or if there was a life-and-death situation.

He reached for it now.

“Thank you, Patricia. Ask the paramedic who brought her in to drop by my office when he has a break.”

The walk from his office in the admin wing to the surgery unit took all of two minutes. One of the finely tuned features of the Edge design was ensuring that each wing of the emergency department was never more than two to three minutes away from anything else. A great deal of planning had gone into the round design of the building with the care initiation front and center and the less urgent care units spanning into different wings around the circle. Straight through the very center, the rear portion of the design contained the more urgent services, imaging and surgery. Every square foot of the facility was designed for optimum efficiency. Each member of staff was carefully chosen and represented the very best in their field.

As he neared the surgery suite, he considered what his secretary had told him about the patient. The mere idea was absurd. There’d been a mistake. A mix-up of some sort.

Cara.

His wife was dead. He’d buried her six years and five months ago.

Devon moved into the observation area where all three operating rooms could be viewed. He touched the keypad and the black tint of the glass that made up the top half of the wall all the way around the observation area cleared, allowing him to see inside and those in the OR to see him. Two of the rooms were empty. One held Cara Pierce.

The patient’s hair was covered with the usual generic cap, preventing him from distinguishing the color. Most of her face was obscured by the oxygen mask. He turned on the audio in OR 1.

“Evening, Dr. Pierce,” Reagan said without glancing up, his hands moving in swift, perfectly orchestrated movements that were all too familiar to Devon.

“Dr. Reagan.” Devon’s fingers twitched as he watched the finely choreographed dance around the patient. His life had revolved around saving lives for so long that his entire body was finely tuned into that instinctive rhythm.

“Splenic rupture. Concussion but no bleeding that we’ve found.” Reagan remained focused on the video screen as he manipulated the laparoscopic instruments to resect and suture the damaged organ. “She’ll be a little bruised and unhappy about the small surgical scars we’ll leave behind but, otherwise, she should be as good as new before you know it.”

Five or ten seconds elapsed before Devon could respond or move to go. “Watch for intracranial hemorrhaging.” He switched off the audio, darkened the glass once more and walked away.

A weight, one that he had not felt in years, settled on his chest. His wife had died of intracranial hemorrhaging. There had been no one to save her and his efforts had been too little too late. The old ache twisted inside him.

But this woman—who shared Cara’s name—was not his wife.

Devon drew in a deep breath and returned to his office. Patricia glanced up at him as he passed her desk but he said nothing. With his office door closed, he moved to the window overlooking the meticulously manicured grounds surrounding the facility. Trees and shrubs were precisely placed amid the expanse of asphalt, lending a welcoming, pleasing appearance. He’d insisted on extensive research for design purposes. What aspects would make the family members of patients feel more at home? What could be done to set a soothing tone for patients? A patient’s outlook and sense of well-being and safety were immensely important to healing.

Devon stared at nothing in particular for a long while. When his mind and pulse rate had calmed sufficiently, he settled behind his desk. A couple of clicks of the keyboard opened the patient portal. He pulled up the chart for the Caucasian female he’d observed in surgery. He surveyed the injuries listed as well as the paramedic’s comments. The kinds of injuries she had suffered were alarmingly similar to those his late wife had suffered in the car accident that had taken her life.

Pierce, Cara Reese, thirty-seven. Her address was listed as the Lake Bluff residence Devon had built for his late wife more than a decade ago...the house he had inhabited alone for the past six-plus years.

He scrolled down the file to a copy of her driver’s license.

His breath trapped in his lungs.

Blond hair, blue eyes. Height five-six, weight one-ten. Date of birth, November 10—all the statistics matched the ones that would have been found on Cara’s license. But it was the photo that proved the most shocking of all. Silky blond hair brushed her shoulders. Mischief sparkled in her eyes.

The woman in the photo was Cara. His Cara.

Devon was on his feet before his brain registered that he had pushed up from his chair. The DMV photo was the same one from the last time his wife renewed her license eight years ago. As if that September morning had happened only yesterday, he recalled vividly when she realized her driver’s license had expired. She’d been so busy planning another trip before the holidays were upon them she’d completely forgotten. He’d teased her relentlessly.

His chest screamed for oxygen, forcing him to draw in a tight breath. The name could certainly be chalked up to pure coincidence. Even the physical characteristics and the shared birthday. The photo...that was an entirely different story.

A rap on his door pulled him back to the present. Devon reluctantly shifted his attention there. Why wasn’t Patricia handling visitors? He needed time to untangle this startling mystery. At the sound of another knock, he called, “Come in.”

The door opened and a young man stuck his head inside. “You wanted to see me, Dr. Pierce?”

Devon didn’t recognize the face but the uniform was as familiar as his own reflection, maybe more so since he hadn’t scrutinized himself in a mirror in years. More than six, to be exact. The contrasting navy trousers and light blue shirt marked his visitor as a member of the Elite Ambulance service. The identifying badge above the breast pocket confirmed Devon’s assessment. The paramedic.

“You brought in the female patient from the automobile accident?”

He nodded. “My partner and I. Yes, sir. It appeared to be a one-car accident on the Kennedy Expressway near Division. It was the strangest thing.”

Devon gestured to the pair of chairs in front of his desk and the young man took a seat. The badge clipped onto his pocket sported the name Warren Eckert. “Strange in what way, Mr. Eckert?”

Devon lowered into his own chair as Eckert spoke. “Nobody witnessed the accident. There was a sizable dent on the front driver’s-side fender, but nothing to suggest an accident capable of causing the kind of injuries the patient sustained.”

“What kind of vehicle was she driving?”

“A brand-new Lexus. Black. Fully loaded.” Eckert whistled, long and low. “Sharp car for sure.”

Cara had driven a Lexus. Devon had bought it for her on her last birthday before she died.

“Do you recall seeing anything in the vehicle besides your patient? Luggage perhaps, or a briefcase?”

Eckert shook his head. “I don’t remember. Sorry.”

“What about the officers investigating the scene?” Obviously the police had been there, probably before Eckert arrived.

“Joe Telly was the only cop on the scene. He called us before he called backup.”

“The woman was not conscious when you arrived?”

“No, sir.”

“Was she able to speak to the officer before your arrival?” Devon’s instincts were humming. How had a woman involved in such a seemingly minor accident been injured so severely?

“She was unconscious when Telly pulled over to check on her.”

“How would you describe the woman?” Devon thought about the photo on the driver’s license. “I’m sure you concluded an approximate age and such.”

The other man nodded. “Blond hair, blue eyes. Medium height. Kind of thin. Midthirties, I’d say.”

“Well dressed?” Her clothes had been removed before surgery and very little of her body had been visible on the operating table.

Eckert nodded slowly. “She was wearing a dress. A short black one. Like she might have been headed to a party or dinner out or something. Not the kind of outfit you’d wear to work unless you’re a hostess in an upscale restaurant or something like that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eckert.” Devon stood. “I appreciate your time.”

“Do you know her?”

The rumor had already made the rounds. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

When the paramedic had exited the office, Devon pulled up the record on this Cara Pierce...this woman who could not be his wife.

Preliminary tox screen showed no drugs. And yet if there was no intracranial hemorrhaging, why had she still been unconscious when she arrived at the ER? Remaining unconscious for an extended period generally indicated a serious injury, illness or drug use.

Devon picked up his cell phone and made the call he should have made weeks ago. When she answered, he dived straight into what needed to be said without preamble. “Victoria, I was mistaken. I will require your services after all.”

His old friend Victoria Colby-Camp agreed to have her investigator meet him at his residence at eight tonight.

Devon ended the call and tossed his phone onto his desk. Last month, someone had left him an ominous message right here in his office. At first, he’d been determined to have the Colby Agency look into the issue. It wasn’t every day that someone who knew how to best his security system dropped by his office and left such a bold message.

I know what you did.

But then he’d decided to drop it. Why stir up his painful past? He knew what he had done. Why allow anyone else to delve into that unpleasant territory?

If the man who’d left him that message was trying to reach him again, he’d certainly prompted Devon’s attention this time.

What better way to send a message than to resurrect the dead?

Chapter Two

Arbor Drive, Lake Bluff, 8:00 p.m.

Isabella Lytle was surprised when the gate to the Pierce property opened without her having to buzz the enigmatic owner for admittance. Instead, the instant her car nosed up to the entrance, the towering iron gates parted and opened wide for her.

She rolled up the long drive, coming to a stop in front of the palatial home. Bella shook her head. She never liked to judge anyone, but Dr. Devon Pierce grated on her somehow. She’d never met the man in person but she had studied his background until she knew it by heart. Victoria had first assigned Bella his case one month ago, but then Dr. Pierce had decided he didn’t need the agency’s assistance after all.

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Even before this latest call for assistance, Bella had not been able to stop attempting to dissect the man. What made him who he was? What event or events in his childhood and then as an adult had narrowed his focus to a singular purpose—his work? What secrets did he keep? The man had secrets, Bella had no doubt.

The many photos she’d discovered of him on Google sucked her into his world. She knew the clothes he wore, the way he held himself. In recent years, he’d attended endless fund-raisers seeking support for his development of the emergency department of the future. Urbane and sophisticated was the best way to describe his style and the way he carried himself. Beautiful women with money flocked to him as if he were the most eligible bachelor in Chicago, which he probably was. On top of everything else, he was intensely handsome and mysterious.

That was the part that kept reeling her in.

She closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake. Her need to figure him out had become a bit of an obsession.

She forced the thoughts away as her gaze swept over the mansion that would be more suited for a royal estate in England. Who needed twenty-six thousand square feet of living space? A six-car garage? Not to mention an ostentatious fountain perched right in the middle of the parking courtyard. Her eyes rolled upward as she climbed out of her practical sedan. No one. Especially not a man who lived alone. Maybe he was attached to it since he’d lived here with his wife. The estate was an hour’s drive from his work in the city. Was this his way of escaping the twelve-to sixteen-hour days?

Was this his hiding place?

Five acres loaded with lots of trees and lush landscaping backed up to Lake Michigan. The main part of the house was large enough but then it winged off on both sides, extending along the manicured grounds, eventually connecting to triple-car garages on either side of the drive, creating a sort of fortress. The iron-and-brick fence was at least twelve feet high and stretched as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the dense woods.

“Lovely.” She made the assessment grudgingly with a heavy dose of reluctance. The house was undeniably, extravagantly attractive. Really, it was. She shouldered her bag and shoved her car door shut as she sent a final glance back at the massive gates that had already closed. Dusk had settled, awakening the discreet and well-placed landscape lighting. Did he have the interior lights on timers as well? Every light in the house appeared to be spilling through the windows to greet her.

“I’d hate to pay your electric bill, Dr. Pierce.”

She exhaled a big breath and decided she’d dawdled long enough. The cobblestone was damp beneath her shoes from the early-evening rain. Three steps up and she was at the front door.

Victoria, her employer, had sensed Bella’s strong reaction to this client. Bella had assured Victoria that she could handle Devon Pierce. The real question in Bella’s mind was whether or not Pierce could handle her. To do her job, she would need his cooperation. Not in a million years could she see him cooperating on the necessary level. He was accustomed to being in control...of keeping his secrets. Pierce was a man who preferred doing things his way.

As brilliant as he was, he couldn’t be the best at everything. If that was possible, he wouldn’t need the Colby Agency’s help now.

A part of her—one she intended no one to ever see—wanted him submissive on every level. Chasing away the notion and bracing for the icy glower for which he was known, she pressed the doorbell, listened as it chimed through the house. The door opened and she stared at the man from her numerous Google searches. To her dismay, he was even hotter in person than he was on the computer screen.

She stood under his scrutiny and felt her temper rising. His gaze roved over her, head to toe and back. She’d taken great care with what she chose to wear tonight. A navy skirt, the hem landing just above her knees, and the matching jacket. Her favorite silk shell with its high neckline in the same dark blue color. She never wore heels. At five-nine, she’d always preferred flats. A good pair of shoes with rubber soles and sturdy straps had served her well.

Deep inside she fully comprehended that she would need every part of her professional armor to protect her from his dark lure. She was well aware that her obsession with him hovered on a very narrow ledge. One wrong move and she would slip.

Even as the warning echoed in her brain, her gaze swept over his handsome face. Square jaw darkened by the stubble of a day’s beard growth, dark blue eyes analyzing her even as she did the same. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, probably silk. A paler gray shirt peeked from between the lapels of the jacket. He had dispensed with his tie and left a couple of buttons undone. The platinum cuff links remained nestled at the center of his perfectly folded French cuffs. Bella suspected this was as relaxed as he allowed himself to be in front of company.

“Ms. Lytle.” He opened the door wider in invitation.

She concentrated her attention on the details of his home rather than on the man. This was the one aspect of Dr. Devon Pierce that remained private. Though there had been plenty of photos of the exterior of the home on the internet, there was none of the interior.

Black and white marble flowed across the floor in a diamond pattern. The walls as well as the ornate trim were coated in an old-world white paint, the aged matte finish an elegant contrast to the glossy floors. A chandelier drenched in crystal hung twelve or so feet overhead. The rich, ornate mahogany table to the left and the cushioned gray bench to the right lent a warm hue to the boundless canvas of sleek black and white.

“I have coffee waiting,” he announced.

She nodded. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

The large entry hall flowed straight ahead. Some twenty or so feet from the front door, the hall parted to the right and left. On each side, a grand staircase led up to the second level. A wide door beneath the staircase on the right provided a glimpse of the kitchen—opulent wood cabinetry, acres of sleek granite and an expansive wall of windows. The double doors to her far left were closed. A library or his office, she supposed.

Moving straight ahead, the entry hall progressed into a truly stunning great room. The whitewashed walls soared to a vaulted ceiling, complete with rustic wood beams that looked as though they might have held up a bridge somewhere in the Mediterranean in another century. The stone fireplace was huge. The marble floors of the entry hall had given way to gleaming hardwood. The furnishings were upholstered in sophisticated burgundies and golds. To soften the hard surfaces, a classic Persian rug was spread over the center of the room, the burgundy and gold yarn so muted it had surely been washed out by decades of wear in a castle somewhere.

Whatever charm the man lacked in demeanor had been infused into his home. The place was utterly breathtaking. Massive and yet somehow intimate. Nothing like the cool, distant man.

Two sofas faced each other in the center of the room. The silver coffee service sat on the cocktail table between them. As Bella settled onto the edge of one of the sofas, she shifted her gaze and full attention to him. Not an easy feat with so many striking pieces of art she’d only just noticed on the walls.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, his voice as terse as it had been when he answered the door. “Do you take cream or sugar?”

“Black is fine, thank you.”

She wondered if there were half a dozen housekeepers and a couple of cooks hidden somewhere in the house. God only knew how many gardeners the property required. She glanced around. Surely a member of staff lurked about someplace. She couldn’t imagine Devon Pierce using his skilled surgeon’s hands to perform such a menial task as preparing coffee.

Former surgeon, she amended. Though his license and hospital privileges and credentials remained in place, he did not routinely practice medicine.

He placed a cup and saucer in front of her, the rich black coffee steaming. Vintage china, she noted. His wife must have been a collector. He poured himself a cup and sat down on the sofa opposite her.

“Victoria tells me you’re very good at solving mysteries.” He sipped his coffee.

“I’m very good at seeing the details others often miss.” The coffee warmed her. From the moment she’d stepped into the house, she’d felt cold. Liar. Meeting the man she’d been cyberstalking had sent her temperature rising. Foolish. “I spent seven years with the Alabama Bureau of Investigation. I never failed to solve the case I was assigned.”

He seemed to consider her answer for a time, his eyes probing hers as if he intended to confirm every word by looking directly inside her soul.

“You graduated from the prestigious University of Alabama with a psych undergraduate degree and a master’s in criminal justice,” he continued. “Two years as a victim counselor with Birmingham PD and the FBI wanted you but you chose the ABI over the better opportunity.”

There it was. That arrogance she instinctively understood would be a part of his personality. She had zero tolerance for it. “The FBI isn’t better, Dr. Pierce. It’s merely larger with a broader jurisdiction. The work I did for the ABI was immensely important. Had I chosen the FBI, I would have spent a great deal of time working toward the opportunity to be a field investigator. Instead, I went straight to the work that I wanted to do—solving crime in the field.”

He set his coffee aside. “I appreciate a stellar résumé, Ms. Lytle, and yours is quite good. But I always look at the person behind the credentials. The heart of the person begins with their roots.”

For the first time since she was eighteen, Bella felt the heat of shame rush along her nerve endings. The idea that this man held that much power over her further flustered her. “Not everyone is born into the perfect scenario for who and what they want to become, Dr. Pierce. Some of us had to fight our way out of where we were before we could reach where we wanted to be.”

“Your father murdered your mother when you were ten and your thirteen-year-old sister shot and killed him in self-defense,” he stated as if she had said nothing at all. “According to the police reports, he was coming at you next and your sister protected you.” He studied her a long moment. “The reports also said that the two of you couldn’t keep your stories straight. In the end, you seemed to agree with whatever your older sister said.”