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  Jack didn’t say anything, but then he didn’t need to.

  The look in his eyes, though quickly concealed, was all the proof Lexie Dawson needed. Jack Blade—a man she had slept with and still dreamed about—actually thought her capable of murder.

  “Would you be willing to let me test your hands for gunpowder residue?” Jack asked. “I’d like to rule you out as a suspect.”

  Lexie sat there for several seconds, weighing the request. If her husband had been murdered—no one would believe she was innocent. She had motive, opportunity and they would find gunpowder residue on her hands.

  “I spent the afternoon at the gun range, trying out a new pistol.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Maybe two or three,” Lexie said. “And if you’re through with me, I’d like to go now.”

  Jack stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid not,” he said. “In fact, I need to read you your rights….”

  LORI L. HARRIS

  SECRET ALIBI

  For Mavis Allen, with gratitude.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lori L. Harris has always enjoyed competition. She grew up in southern Ohio, showing Arabian horses and Great Danes. Later she joined a shooting league where she competed head-to-head with police officers—and would be competing today if she hadn’t discovered how much fun and challenging it was to write. Romantic suspense seemed a natural fit. What could be more exciting than writing about life-and-death struggles that include sexy, strong men?

  When not in front of a computer, Lori enjoys remodeling her home, gardening and boating. Lori lives in Orlando, Florida, with her very own hero.

  Books by Lori L. Harris

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  830—SOMEONE SAFE

  901—TARGETED *

  907—SECRET ALIBI *

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Jack Blade—He worked undercover on some of the meanest streets in America before taking the job as Deep Water’s police chief. But he knows even quiet streets aren’t always safe. And justice isn’t always so easy to find—even for the innocent.

  Lexie Dawson—Without an alibi, this pharmaceutical rep might just find herself on Florida’s death row.

  Dr. Dan Dawson—A successful obstetrician and Lexie’s ex-husband. Who would want him dead?

  Dr. Fleming Whittemore—Dan Dawson’s partner. Lexie considers him a close friend. But is he? Or does he have his own agenda?

  Alec Blade—Jack Blade’s older brother. A top FBI profiler, Alec retired from the FBI after his wife’s brutal slaying and moved to Deep Water, hoping to rebuild his relationship with his brother. It seems as if Alec has brought Jack only more trouble.

  Katie Blade—Less than a year ago, targeted by a brutal killer, she fought back and survived. Now she and Alec Blade are happily married.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter One

  10:30 p.m. Deep Water, Florida

  What had happened to him?

  Unable to move, unable even to lift his head off the desk blotter, Dan Dawson attempted to focus on his surroundings, but couldn’t. The room—his home office—seemed to be a mishmash of colors, one bleeding into another.

  The objects closest to him were clearer—the paper clip and the gold pen appeared almost jewel-like as they floated against a bloodred background. Those a few inches beyond were blurred and indistinct.

  As he was staring at the paper clip, his eyelids slammed shut, cutting off the one sense that seemed to be working, the one thing that kept him feeling connected to his surroundings. Even as the panic ripped through him, he tried to fight it. But it was as if he’d been closed into a box—a coffin.

  His eyelids suddenly sprang open, the sharp reentry of light painful but not unbearable.

  Don’t panic. Panic was…was counterproductive.

  Stay calm. Approach it as if it was one of his patients who was in trouble. He needed to…he needed to do… What? He tried to focus, but it was as if his brain had locked him out.

  Vitals. Like a life ring, the word suddenly floated past in the black sea of nothingness, and he grabbed on tight. If he really concentrated, he realized he could feel the air moving in and out of his chest. Respiration slow and shallow, but steady.

  A sudden explosion of pain struck at the base of his skull, then ravaged downward through him, sucking the air from his lungs. His throat muscles contracted hard, and he felt his body gasp for oxygen.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  His sluggish mind grappled with and discarded possible diagnoses. Stroke? Too young. Cardiomyopathy? Overdose? He hadn’t taken any drugs in months…or had he? Had he taken something tonight?

  Sweat slid slowly down his back, morphing into a living thing, a parasite that devoured his life force before escaping through his pores and oozing downward toward the floor, toward escape. Like rats from a burning building.

  A distorted sound shattered the silence. Not in the room with him, but in the foyer or the kitchen. He felt a warm rush of relief. Rescue. He would be rescued.

  Dan again tried to raise his head, but it was like trying to lift a watermelon that dangled from the end of a swizzle stick.

  When he attempted to speak, the muscles of his throat refused to cooperate, the sound coming out more a cough than a plea.

  More noise drifted from beyond the room. Drawers opening. Closing. Not in a hurry, but slowly, as if someone wanted to go unheard.

  A shapeless shadow entered the room. For a moment, he thought he’d imagined the movement, but then, as the form passed in front of the flickering light from the fireplace, he realized he hadn’t.

  Dan again tried to speak, but the pitifully weak sound that came from his lips was barely audible. “Help…”

  The shadow made no attempt to render aid. Dan’s vision partially cleared, and he made out a hand encased in latex. The disembodied hand hovered ghostlike, and then slowly slid open the top right drawer of the desk.

  With sudden lucidity, Dan knew what had left him paralyzed. Worse, he knew what was about to happen.

  And this time, there was no controlling the panic.

  LEXIE DAWSON GLANCED longingly at the exit of Baldacci’s.

  Even before she had arrived for this business dinner, it had been a long day for her, and the conversation among the three surgeons at the table had drifted into more technical realms. As a pharmaceutical rep of a large drug company, she was well versed in her product, but not this stuff.

  Fortunately, none of the three seemed to notice that her attention had shifted.

  Dr. Dennis Rafferty, the oldest and least forward-thinking of her three guests, had chosen the upscale, overpriced restaurant, which was located in what eighty years ago had been Deep Water’s theater house. Back then, the interior would have been quite ornate, but now, all that remained of the once-gracious building were exposed brick walls and large, unadorned windows, giving it the warmth of an empty operating room.

  Small wonder that Rafferty had chosen the place. She didn’t even want to think about what this one night was going to do to next month’s expense report. But if it paid off, if she sold another doctor on using Talzepam, the meal would be well worth it.

  “What’s your opinion, Lexie?”

  Lexie refocused her attention on the m
an directly across from her. Ken Lattimer was a thirtysomething orthopedic surgeon with dark hair and liquid brown eyes. Good-looking by most standards, but not by hers. He was reputed to be the Southeast’s best hand and wrist surgeon. But his nickname around the hospital—Dr. Hands—had nothing to do with surgical talent.

  The third man at the table was Joe Lemon, a slightly over-weight, fortysomething pulmonary specialist with a wife, two kids and a booming practice.

  Straightening in her seat, she hoped to buy some time by reaching for the glass of water. With any luck, someone would unknowingly clue her in on the direction of the conversation. When she lifted her gaze above the glass rim, though, she realized all three doctors were waiting for her to respond.

  It was Ken who rescued her. “I was telling Joe and Rafferty that I’ve been using Talzepam for about two months now. Or has it been three?”

  “Three.” Lexie had started repping the drug about six months ago and had found it a difficult sell. Most anesthesiologists and surgeons were slow to make changes. In fact, Ken was one of the few doctors at Cougar County Regional Hospital who embraced Talzepam.

  She understood the reluctance the others had. Talzepam’s competitors, Valium and flurazepam, had been used in the operating room with good success for years. Why take a chance on a new drug—even if it offered some advantages to the patient?

  “Like Ken, most surgeons who have tried Talzepam have found it to be fast-acting and dependable,” Lexie continued.

  Ken agreed. “And so far I’ve seen very few post-op side effects. At least with my patients.”

  She scanned the faces of the other two men—the unconverted—then swung her gaze back to Ken. “Not just your patients. I’ve been hearing the same from all my accounts. In every trial, Talzepam outperformed its counterparts. There were fewer reports of vision changes post-op, as well as problems with breathing or a slow heartbeat.”

  Rafferty leaned forward. “Perhaps fewer incidences of respiratory problems, but those that did occur were more severe.”

  Lexie maintained her relaxed posture. “You’re right. Several early studies did suggest that when breathing problems occurred with Talzepam, there was greater difficulty stabilizing the patient’s respiration—especially during long procedures. But it was found that, in all but one case, the anesthetist had overcompensated for the patient’s body weight. Talzepam is a powerful drug and dosing guidelines have to be strictly adhered to.”

  His expression thoughtful, Ken nodded. “I’ve been following Talzepam since the trial stages. I think it has something to offer both the medical community and the patient.”

  “In what ways?” Joe Lemon asked, and in the next instant, Ken was off and running, discussing his experiences with the drug.

  Lexie knew that doctors tended to listen to other doctors more than sales representatives. Which made sense, really. The key was to pick the right doctor—usually the young ones were more open to new drugs. And if you could nab one who was both well-liked and respected by his peers, as Ken Lattimer was, the selling became that much easier.

  She still was puzzled, though, by Ken’s phone call this morning. He’d asked her if it would be possible for him to join the group. That had never happened to her before, and she couldn’t help but wonder what was in it for him. It could hardly be the free meal. Or that he was without other social options for the evening. Reaching for the nearly full glass of red wine, she realized what she was most afraid of was that his interest was not in Talzepam, but her.

  The cell phone tucked discreetly beneath her black tweed jacket vibrated. Pretending to smooth the napkin in her lap, she glanced down. Her ex-husband’s home phone number appeared on the backlit screen.

  Great. She’d been expecting some form of communication from Dan all day. Dreading it, actually.

  Lexie straightened her jacket, concealing the phone once more. Even if it had been someone she was interested in talking to, she would have ignored it. She’d already been caught once being less than attentive; she wasn’t about to look unprofessional a second time in one evening.

  The discussion at the table again drifted away from her product, briefly touching on hospital politics and the current shortage of nurses. When the conversation veered to Tampa Bay’s chances in the playoffs, she excused herself from the table and headed for the ladies’ room. She’d nearly made it there when her phone began to vibrate again.

  Flipping it open, she scanned the text message: have anniversary surprise stop by drink.

  What in the hell was wrong with her ex-husband? Didn’t he understand that as far as she was concerned the only anniversary worth celebrating was March 15, the day she’d been awarded a divorce from him?

  Fed up, she stopped just inside the short hallway where the restrooms were located and quickly manipulated the phone pad keys.

  Don’t drink with murderers. Cruel words, but Dan would know exactly what she meant.

  Only after hitting Send did she notice her hands were trembling. Calm down, she reminded herself. He’s just doing this to get a rise out of you. Or because he was drunk…. It didn’t really matter why he was doing it, though. She was pissed.

  She clipped the phone to her waistband again. Right now, she needed to forget about Dan and keep her mind on business.

  When she returned to the table a few minutes later, something in her face must have given her away, because Rafferty leaned toward her. “Everything okay?”

  She glanced at him. He’d always seemed like such a cold fish, so she was surprised when he picked up on her emotional state. “Everything is fine.” She offered a tight smile. “Can I interest anyone in some coffee and dessert?”

  Rafferty shook his head. “I have an eight o’clock surgery scheduled.” He placed his napkin on the table. “Time to call it a night, gentlemen.”

  “I’ll drop by with samples of Talzepam in the morning,” Lexie said as she, too, stood.

  “Sounds good. Wait up, Dennis.” Joe Lemon shook her hand, then hurried after Dr. Rafferty. Lexie caught the words prolapsed and ICU, and knew the two men were discussing a mutual patient.

  Ken was the last to get to his feet, and he made no move to follow the other two men.

  Here it comes, she thought. He’s going to suggest a nightcap or something. How was she going to turn him down without damaging the professional relationship?

  She bent to retrieve her briefcase. By the time she straightened, Ken had walked around the table.

  “Care to come by my place for that dessert?”

  He didn’t look quite as confident as he usually did. Which surprised her. She tried to formulate some type of reply in her head, but after several seconds realized that the longer she waited to say something, the more awkward it was going to be for both of them. She settled for simple and direct. “No, thanks.”

  He nodded, his mouth tightening ever so slightly. “I didn’t think so, but figured it was worth asking.”

  He offered his hand, and she took it without hesitation. “Thanks, Ken, for helping tonight.”

  Again, his mouth tightened briefly. “It’s a good product, Lexie. In time, it will outsell its competitors. Can I see you to your car?”

  She had barely declined his offer when he tossed his jacket over his shoulder and, with one hand tucked into a pants pocket, strolled toward the front door. Several women a few tables over watched with interest. For a moment, Lexie envied them.

  What did they see that she didn’t? She was twenty-seven, not ninety-seven. Sex was a healthy part of being an adult—one of the few perks, when you came right down to it. But in the eleven months since she and Dan had gone their separate ways, she’d had sex only one time. With a stranger who hadn’t stayed a stranger. Her abdominal muscles tensed at the memory of all the things they’d done that night. But more than the mechanics of sex, she’d been able to do something she hadn’t done in months—she had cried. He’d held her while she sobbed, never asking why, seeming to understand that her pain couldn’t be mo
llified with words.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  Lexie realized she had no idea how long the busboy had been standing there looking at her.

  “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed. Ducking her head, she moved away from the table. She had to stop thinking about that night, glorifying it as something more than it had been. Pity sex. That’s all it could have been for him. What was more embarrassing and depressing than that? To know a man had taken you to bed because he felt sorry for you?

  After leaving the restaurant, she dropped last month’s expense account report into the box in front of the post office, and then took Alligator Creek Road toward home.

  Temperatures had taken a hard dive into the high thirties—uncommon for early December in central Florida. A misting rain forced her to turn on the windshield wipers. She was used to the fifteen-minute drive, having moved out to Riverhouse, her grandparents’ old weekend retreat on the river, when she and Dan had separated. She’d expected the move to be a temporary one, lasting only until Dan vacated the house in town.

  The majority of the land out this way belonged to the state now, so she was unlikely to see another car at this time of night. The dense line of vegetation, mostly palmettos and scrub oaks, with a few slash pines mixed in, formed a wall on either side.

  Usually the drive relaxed her, but not tonight. She couldn’t seem to quite let go of her irritation over Dan’s interruption, or her uncertainty over the dinner meeting’s success.

  Her headlights skimmed across a small family of armadillos that had wandered out of the undergrowth toward the road. Braking, she hit the horn and watched them scatter back into the brush.

  She had just stopped in front of the house when her cell phone went off again. She checked the message screen.

  paprs signd last dink

  “Do you really think I’m that stupid, Dan?”

  That was a fatal drawback to text messaging—you couldn’t really tell with any certainty the condition of the person on the other end. But the dropped letters in his message suggested that Dan was at least on his way to being drunk.