Shielded In The Shadows (Where Secrets Are Safe Book 17) Read online

  On a quest for justice, it’s a battle of duty versus desire

  Emma Martin does her best to keep her past to herself, her heart hidden. But working closely with parole officer Jayden Powell has the attorney considering breaking her own rules. When a dire threat turns lethal, Jayden proves just how far he’d go to protect Emma. Would she go just as far to let him in—guarding her body and her heart?

  “I’m guessing you know why I’ve asked to meet with you,” she said and smiled. He smiled back, looking at her as though they’d already sealed the deal.

  “You need my help,” he said, sounding confident. Assured. Not the least bit egotistical, though how he managed that she didn’t know. He had a lot to be proud of. He sounded...willing to help.

  “Yes,” she said, opening Bill Heber’s file.

  “You want me to join the High Risk Team, and I have to tell you, I’m intrigued...”

  “No!” She hadn’t meant to blurt out the word. But there was no way she wanted to work with the man on a regular basis. “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing at the file that would right her brain instantly. “I need your help with a case.”

  She couldn’t lose Suzie Heber. She just couldn’t. And it was in his power to help her make certain that didn’t happen.

  * * *

  If you’re on Twitter, tell us what you think of Harlequin Romantic Suspense! #harlequinromsuspense

  Dear Reader,

  I was invited to a reader event as I was writing this book. After an unfortunate night, I was sitting at a table feeling as though I wasn’t contributing when a reader sat down, immediately filling the space with calm. With a sense of kindness. She happened to be carrying some lavender oil—my go-to when I’m stressed—and offered it to me. I was rejuvenated, as much by her kindness to a stranger as by the oil.

  This angel, an avid romance reader, was also a probation officer, just like my hero, Jayden. One who believed successful rehabilitation was possible and tried to help her clients achieve their second chances—again, just like the hero I was writing. This woman graciously answered my many questions over the next weeks, via messaging, to bring Jayden most completely and accurately to life. All good things about Jayden’s work come through her. Any mistakes in the representation are mine.

  Beth Maeder, thank you. For Jayden. For the lavender oil. But mostly for the heart and kindness you bring to the world. Your clients, your fellow officers and the citizens you help protect are very lucky to have you.

  Tara Taylor Quinn

  SHIELDED IN THE SHADOWS

  Tara Taylor Quinn

  Having written over ninety novels, Tara Taylor Quinn is a USA TODAY bestselling author with more than seven million copies sold. She is known for delivering intense, emotional fiction. Tara is a past president of Romance Writers of America and a seven-time RITA® Award finalist. She has also appeared on TV across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. She supports the National Domestic Violence Hotline. If you need help, please contact 1-800-799-7233.

  Books by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Harlequin Romantic Suspense

  Where Secrets are Safe

  Her Detective’s Secret Intent

  Shielded in the Shadows

  The Coltons of Mustang Valley

  Colton’s Lethal Reunion

  Harlequin Special Edition

  The Parent Portal

  Having the Soldier’s Baby

  A Baby Affair

  Her Motherhood Wish

  The Daycare Chronicles

  Her Lost and Found Baby

  An Unexpected Christmas Baby

  The Baby Arrangement

  The Fortunes of Texas

  Fortune’s Christmas Baby

  Visit the Author Profile page at

  Harlequin.com for more titles.

  For Adam Stoddard, another officer who made a tough choice, stood by it and won my respect even before he met my daughter and became a member of my family.

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Excerpt from Hunting the Colton Fugitive by Colleen Thompson

  Chapter 1

  Shots rang out. At first, Jayden Powell had thought a car had backfired. Ducking behind a tree by instinct, he identified the source as gunfire seconds before the sound came again and he fell backward with the force to his chest. Upper left. The only part not shielded by the trunk he’d been using for cover.

  Lying still, in agony, his head turned to the side on the unevenly cut lawn, Jayden played dead, figuring that’s what the perp wanted: him dead. Praying that it was enough. That the guy wouldn’t shoot again, just for spite. Or kicks.

  A long blade of grass stuck up his nose. Tickling. Irritating. Damn. If he sneezed, he’d be dead. Killed again—by a sneeze. Did his breathing show? Should he try to hold his breath?

  Why wasn’t he hearing sirens?

  They were in Santa Raquel, California. It was an oceanside town with full police protection—not some burg where they had to wait on County, like some of the other places he served.

  His nose twitched. Had to be two blades of grass. One up inside trying to crawl back into his throat. One poking at the edge of his nostril. Maybe if his chest burned a little more, he wouldn’t notice. Maybe if someone mowed once in a while, a guy could play dead in the front yard without fear of exposure.

  Where in the hell was Jasper? His sometime partner and fellow probation officer, Leon Jasper, had waited in the car on this one, just as Jayden, the senior of the two, had insisted. Harold Wallace was Jayden’s offender. His newest client. He preferred first meets to be one-on-one.

  Good thing, too, or Leon would be lying right next to him—and the guy had a wife with a kid on the way. A boy. No...maybe a girl. Had he actually heard yet?

  Jayden was going to sneeze. If he took another breath, he’d be dead for sure. Maybe just a small inhalation through the mouth. Slow and long and easy, just like he’d been doing. Right?

  Shouldn’t have let his mouth fall open. Now he had grass there, too. It tasted like sour bugs and...

  Sirens blared in the distance. An unmistakable sound.

  Thank God.

  * * *

  Prosecutor Emma Martin was having a chicken salad sandwich in her office when a paralegal stopped to tell her that there’d been a shooting and an officer was down. Immediately concerned, she could hardly get the bite in her mouth past her dry throat.

  “Is he alive?” she asked Kenny, the best paralegal she’d ever worked with. Married with three kids, Kenny was an integral part of the mechanism that kept the district attorney’s office running smoothly. At the moment, Emma wanted to run out and help gather every detail that would put a cop-shooting perpetrator behind bars for good.

  “Yeah, he was
wearing his vest, thank God,” Kenny told her, his balding head bobbing up and down a couple of times to punctuate his words. Something so intrinsically him, the bob had become a “Kenny” trademark. “He’s at the hospital but insisted on going in his own car.”

  “He drove himself?”

  “I heard his partner took him.”

  Ready to leave her lunch behind and get on the case, to be ready to help obtain warrants and find the culprit as soon as possible, if she was assigned the case, she asked, “Who was it?”

  “Powell.”

  Her jaw dropped. The man she’d been thinking about while eating lunch?

  “Jayden Powell?” she asked, heart thudding for no valid reason. She already knew the probation officer was okay.

  And it wasn’t like she knew him personally.

  Or even wanted to.

  She’d been planning to call him, though. To request a sit-down. This morning, one of his client’s names had come up at the meeting of the High Risk team—a group comprised of professionals from the fields of education, medicine, law, counseling, domestic violence shelter workers and law enforcement who came together with the sole purpose of preventing domestic violence deaths.

  Had Bill Heber, the offender she’d needed to speak with Powell about, been involved in the morning’s shooting?

  “Is the shooter in custody?” If it was Bill, that would be great news.

  “Yeah. Shame, too. It was the thirteen-year-old son of the offender. Powell had set up a first meet at the guy’s home.” A “first meet.” The offender was newly out on parole if Powell was seeing him on the outside for the first time.

  “Was his partner hit, too?”

  “No, Powell insisted the guy wait in the car.”

  Powell had been doing a first meet at the home of an offender who was already armed just two days after getting out? Reading the guy’s record, in prison and before, should have given Powell some indication that he might want to schedule that meet in a more protected setting...

  Reckless.

  And fitting, too, from what she’d heard about Powell. He went all out for the job, which was good, but he was also known as a bit of risk-taker.

  Those were the types of men she usually went for. Which was why she’d been thinking about him over lunch. Worrying over the call she had to make. She wasn’t going to let herself be at all sidetracked by desires that had never served her well.

  “I’m assuming they brought the offender in, too?” A newly released parolee wasn’t permitted on any premises with guns. Possible charges, degrees of same, popped into her brain.

  “They held him for questioning, but no, they aren’t keeping him. He’s the one who disarmed the shooter, his own son. Wasn’t Wallace’s gun. And he had no idea it was on the premises. Turns out,” he continued, “when the kid heard his dad tell his girlfriend some officer was coming to the house, the kid stole the gun from a friend’s brother and backtracked to the house instead of going to school. His dad didn’t even know he was there. Kid’s filled with a boatload of anger. Blames all law enforcement for the fact that his father was put away to begin with. I have a feeling some bad stuff is going to be coming out there—things that happened to the kid while the dad was locked up.”

  Wow. Okay, then. Possibility off her desk. Minors were not in her area of responsibility.

  And the offender wasn’t Bill Heber, either—an offender she’d never forget. The forty-two-year-old abuser and his twenty-eight-year-old wife, Suzie, didn’t have any children.

  Not since the night, four years before, when Bill had beaten his pregnant bride so badly she’d lost the baby she was carrying.

  Emma had caught that case. Charged him with attempted murder for Suzie, and second-degree murder for the almost-four-month gestational-aged fetus. And had failed to get the conviction. If she’d gone for lesser abuse charges, she probably would have won. Bill would have been sentenced to four years, served two, and been out. She’d been trying to put the bastard away for life. To protect Suzie for life.

  As it turned out, Heber had landed his ass in jail anyway, for breaking and entering. Not her case. But she’d heard he’d been convicted, sentenced to five years and served two. He’d been out for three months and, according to Suzie’s physician at the High Risk team meeting that morning, the woman was badly bruised again. Thank God for the creation of the High Risk team, whose members were legally permitted to report suspected abuse and who, on coming together, were able to get a more complete picture of a victim’s circumstances. Sara Havens Edwin, lead counselor at The Lemonade Stand—the unique, resort-like women’s shelter in Santa Raquel that had led to the formation of the High Risk team—was charged by the team with keeping in contact with Suzie. Something she’d been doing anyway.

  Emma’s planned move had been to meet with Bill’s current PO: Jayden Powell. A man who was dangerous to her in a completely nonabusive way. His bad-boy way of going beyond protocol, his sexy body—they called to Emma’s lesser being. The shadow side of the hardworking, caring, responsible woman she’d always thought herself to be.

  That hidden, foolish woman who consistently went for the wrong guys and had the deep burns to prove it.

  * * *

  If it had been left up to him, Jayden would have gone back to the office that afternoon. He could have pushed the point, but figured he’d get more done from home where he could move judiciously and cringe now and then without someone harping at him to rest or take a pill.

  No paid meds for him. Or alcohol, either, if he could help it. He didn’t have an addictive personality, thank God, or any sign of alcohol dependency. He just didn’t like anything messing with his brain.

  Or his ability to make decisions. Alcohol contributed to foolish choices—sometimes life-changing ones—and a man was accountable to those choices when he sobered up.

  Had to live with the ramifications forever.

  He’d learned that lesson the hard way—and his self-imposed penance was the solitary life he lived.

  Looking at the massive bruising around his left ribs, he figured he’d gotten off lightly that day. No cracks or breaks. And no blunt force trauma to internal organs. Just discomfort and bruising.

  That, he could live with.

  His nose had quit itching, too. Thank God. The damned grass had driven him nuts.

  In his softest, oldest, hole-spattered T-shirt, a leftover from the police academy, and a pair of gray running shorts, he wandered barefoot out to the kitchen. He looked at the unopened six-pack on the bottom shelf of his refrigerator—the only alcohol in the house—and opted for a fruit-flavored sports drink.

  Maybe he’d have a beer with dinner. Or before bed. Lying down wasn’t going to be all that pleasant, according to what the emergency room doc had said in his release instructions.

  Moving into the extra bedroom, he sat at the desk, flipped on the 70-inch flat-screen TV hung on the opposite wall, and picked up the phone. Every time he left the office, he had his calls forwarded to the home line. Or to his cell if he was going to be away overnight. The message light was blinking on the answering machine. He’d get to those.

  Opening the file he’d dropped on his desk when he’d come in, he dialed.

  “Pick up, Wallace,” he said aloud, reminding himself to feed the goldfish he’d purchased when he’d realized he was talking to himself too much. And then he remembered the feral cat he’d taken in had eaten the fish. He was not caregiver material.

  He’d fed the cat that morning. That was a plus.

  Three rings and then four. The man had been released and told to go home. If he—

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Jayden Powell.” Officer Powell would have been better.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s up with your kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whose gun was it?”


  “Some gangbanger brother of a kid I coached in T-ball, for Christ’s sake.” At one time Wallace had been Joe Dad, a banker climbing the ranks and doing well for himself and his family. And then he’d had an affair and gotten hooked on meth, which had derailed his life. He’d gone to prison for fraud, but on a plea deal.

  His wife had died while he was in prison. Though he’d tried to get the courts to let his girlfriend take his son, the boy had ended up in the foster care system—until two days before when Wallace had been released early on good behavior.

  “You still clean?” Jayden asked, though he knew if the guy wasn’t, he wouldn’t get a straight answer.

  “I am. I peed for the cops today, just to prove it, too.”

  Good man, Jayden had thought after he’d read the man’s file and watched a tape of his parole hearing. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt, meeting at your home, alone, as you asked,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You owe me some good behavior.”

  “I owe myself and my son good behavior. I don’t know what the hell I owe you. More than that, I’m sure. My kid shot you today.”

  And that was the crux of the matter, as far as Jayden was concerned. He needed his client to succeed at reacclimating to the outside. A son in jail and facing charges, his offender blaming himself, wasn’t a promising start.

  “What about Bettina? Where’s she at with all this?” Jayden asked about the woman Wallace’d had the affair with, the woman he was still with. The one who’d turned him on to meth. And, ironically enough, Bettina was the reason the courts had let Wallace’s son leave foster care. She had no criminal record and had already been in the process of petitioning for his care.

  “Telling me not to blame myself. Yeah, right.”

  “Is she clean?”

  “She never was hooked,” Wallace told him. “Only tried it a couple of times. I let her down, too, when I got hooked. But she stuck by me.”

  “And now?”

  “She says Tyler needs me, she needs me, and I better keep my stuff straight.”