Motive For Marriage (Marriage of Inconvenience) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Books by Linda Markowiak

  Title Page

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Please God. Let Melissa be safe.

  Nathan Perry snatched up the telegram lying on top of the pile of mail his housekeeper had left on his desk. The telegram was a day early. For the past eight years—ever since his two-year-old daughter had been placed in a witness protection program with her mother and stepfather—the telegram had said the same thing: “Package Safe. Chet.”

  This year the telegram was longer: “Package safe, but moved to another warehouse.”

  Melissa was safe. For a moment that was the only part of the message that registered. Then Nate studied the rest of the telegram. Moved to another warehouse. What the hell did that mean?

  Had the government been forced to give Melissa and Eve and Lloyd a new identity, move them to yet another place? As the years had passed, Nate had assured himself he’d done the right thing by allowing his daughter to go with her mother. The proof had always been in these telegrams from his good friend Chet. Package safe. But now…

  Nathan Perry knew what he had to do.

  Pick up his package from the warehouse and bring it home.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Linda Markowiak has recently returned to northwest Ohio with her husband, Jim, and nine-year-old son, Stephen. She and Jim are happy to be back among friends and family. It was natural, then, for her to want to write a book about the North Coast with its pristine beaches and tiny, unspoiled islands. Though Linda—like Sara in this story—is no sailor, she has spent time doing some lazy power boating along the Maumee River.

  Books by Linda Markowiak

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  Motive For Marriage

  Linda Markowiak

  I’d like to thank Ann and Dick Hamilton, Kent and Sandy Gordam and Andy Phillips for answering my questions about sailing and for “giving” Nate their fantasy racing boat, a Quest 30.

  I knew I was dealing with a hardy bunch of sailors when I asked Dick how easy it would be for an experienced sailor to get caught in a storm on the lake. “Very easy,” he replied. “Ann and I were in a bad one once. It was fun.”

  Again, thanks, everyone. May the wind be steady and true and the beer cold as you all sail your Quests into the sunset.

  CHAPTER ONE

  NATHAN PERRY shouldered his way to the front of the line at the airport, too impatient to wait his turn for a cab. He yanked open the door of the only taxi in sight and threw his overnight bag into the back seat. “Hey,” a fellow passenger from the Chicago flight protested. “Get in line.”

  “Sorry,” Nate mumbled. He hadn’t really paid attention to the queue of people, except as obstacles in his path. He’d been shell-shocked, not really there for hours, ever since he’d got the telegram from Chet.

  For the last eight years, the annual telegram had said the same thing. “Package Safe. Chet.” And for eight years, Nate had fallen into a chair, weak with relief, flooded with memories.

  This year had been different. He’d got home from work at 9:00 p.m. last night, and found his telegram there a day early, on top of a pile of mail his housekeeper had left on the table. He’d snatched it up. Please, God. Let Melissa be safe.

  This year, the telegram had been longer. “Package Safe, but moved to another warehouse.”

  Melissa was safe. For a moment, that had been all of the message that had registered.

  Then he studied the rest of the telegram. Moved to another warehouse. What the hell did that mean?

  Maybe the government had been forced to give Eve and Lloyd and Melissa another identity, move them to yet another place. As the years had passed, he’d told himself over and over that he’d done the right thing, letting his daughter enter the federal witness protection program. The proof was always in these telegrams. Package Safe. But now…

  “Where to, mon?” The cabdriver had a Jamaican accent and a friendly smile as he looked back at Nate.

  “The Justice Department.”

  “I know where that is, no problem. Hey, are you with the FBI?”

  “No,” Nate said shortly.

  “You look like an agent, with that haircut and good-lookin’ suit. I know those guys over in Justice, too. My daughter dated a federal marshal.” He pushed the button to show the fare for the proper zone. “He was a guy who knew how to crack computer codes. You got big business with the feds?”

  “No.” Nate leaned forward. “Listen, can’t you cut the chat and hurry?”

  The cabdriver’s smile faded. His face disappeared from the rearview mirror. He wrenched the steering wheel left and the cab bounced out of place and shot into a narrow opening in the traffic. “How the hell was that for a hurry, mon?”

  Nate didn’t answer, staring out the window without really seeing anything. It was his first trip to Washington, but the city made no impression on him.

  Instead, he was remembering his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter. The last time he’d seen her, Melissa had been on a weekend visit. He’d had to meet a client on Saturday, but Sunday had been all theirs.

  Their last day together. He could remember it with perfect clarity. The temperature had been near freezing. He’d bundled Melissa in snowsuit, hat, hood and mittens, until she’d resembled a fat red hen, and carried her on his shoulders when her legs got tired at the zoo. At dinner she’d eaten nothing but french fries—out of her bag, then his.

  Then, as he was buckling Melissa into her car seat, she said out of the blue, “Daddy, kittens say meow, meow.”

  “Hey.” He smiled down at her. “You just said your first sentence! No more mama and dada and ‘Melissa want.’ This one had a noun, a verb. Kiddo, you’re great.” He’d planted a kiss on her forehead.

  Reluctantly, he took Melissa back to Eve’s. But Eve wasn’t waiting on the porch with her new husband, Lloyd. So Nate walked Melissa to the door and rang the bell. At the time, he’d been too fixed on telling Eve about their daughter’s first sentence to realize how strange it was that nobody was there to meet them.

  Now Nate squeezed his eyes shut against the memories that came after.

  The dark man who’d been there with Eve and Lloyd introduced himself as a federal marshal. Then had come the brief, terse explanation that Lloyd had seen too much, learned too much, in his job with the insurance company. The insurance company hadn’t been legit, merely a money-laundering scheme for a big crime family. The Kallons. Surely Nate had heard of them?

  Nate hadn’t. But Lloyd Lapulski was going to testify against the Kallons, and then he and his family were going to disappear into the witness protection program. Su
rely Nate had heard of that.

  Nate had. But he didn’t really believe it. At first, he’d thought this was another attempt by Eve to discourage his visitation. Because—perversely—the harder he tried to be a father to Melissa, the more resentful Eve became. So it had taken a while for it to sink in that his ex-wife and daughter were actually going to be part of a program that up to now had just been an item on the television news. It took even longer to realize that Melissa was going to disappear from his life forever.

  “You can’t do this!” he had roared, first at Eve, then at Lloyd, then at the federal marshal who tried to explain that for Melissa’s safety there was no other choice.

  “Nate, see reason for once.” Eve laid a hand on his arm. “For God’s sake, we can’t stay here. They might kill her.”

  Eve was dramatizing the situation again. She had to be. Nate waited for the marshal to say it wasn’t that serious. Soon things would calm down, get back to normal. But the man was nodding in agreement.

  Nate’s hands fisted. “I’ll take her home with me. You two can do what you want.”

  Eve laughed scornfully, but with a nervous high note. How will you take care of her? When were you ever home from the office early enough to do squat for Melissa? You’ll take care of her? What a joke.”

  He knew he hadn’t been much of a family man, and Eve never hesitated to remind him of his limitations. But these visitations with Melissa, well, he’d got to know his daughter. He didn’t want another fight with Eve. He just wanted Melissa. “Damn it, Eve—”

  “Eve has custody under your divorce order. You agreed to that,” Lloyd cut in.

  “Well, I never agreed to let her take my kid and walk out of my life! I’m Melissa’s father. I have visitation rights. From that same court order.” Nate started to reach for Melissa. The little girl looked from one parent to the other and her mouth wobbled. “I’ll call my lawyer. You can’t do this. Please.” Fiercely, he willed down his pride, pleading with Eve, with the two men.

  “Believe me, Mr. Perry, it’s the only way.” The marshal stepped forward. “If you really love your daughter, you’ll let her go and never try to see her again.”

  “I’m calling my lawyer, then Chet McMasters.” Nate had gone to the other room. His attorney assured him it was perfectly legal for the government and his ex-wife to take his baby away and give her another name. Thoroughly rattled, he’d called Chet at home. Chet, an old friend of Nate’s, was a lawyer at the Justice Department. His friend made a couple of calls then phoned back to assure Nate everything was on the level.

  Nate had listened while his whole world came crashing down. Chet had managed to convince him of the urgency of the situation, told him Melissa’s life could be at stake.

  Then, as if sensing that Nate was still reluctant to let Melissa go, he’d made a promise. Once a year, he’d let Nate know his daughter was safe. No, he couldn’t let Nate know more often than that. To bring up information on the computer too frequently could compromise the operation. But once a year, that would be all right. If everything was okay, he’d only say, “Package Safe.”

  Nate hung up the telephone. It was as if Melissa had died. As if he’d died. He thought fleetingly of all the hours he’d been working, how all along, everything he’d worked for was only for his daughter. For Melissa.

  Once back in the living room, he talked Eve into letting him hold Melissa one more time. Under the watchful gaze of Eve, Lloyd and the federal marshal, he’d scooped his daughter into his arms. “Hey, kiddo,” he’d whispered. Her dark curls were so soft against his cheek, like springy flannel. Be safe, baby. And remember…” He swallowed. She would not remember. She would not be allowed to remember. Remember what kittens say.” He’d set her down gently and walked out the door.

  And for eight years, no matter how complicated his real-estate development business became, how hard he worked or how successful he was, his whole life seemed geared to February 15th, the day he’d hear about Melissa. Nathan Perry had played the game the government’s way.

  Now he wasn’t as naive as he’d been the day they took away his daughter. Over the years, he’d found out a lot more about the Witness Protection Program. Most of what he’d learned wasn’t favorable. The program was riddled with leaks. He’d worried about how safe Melissa really was, but he’d been too afraid of hurting her by delving deeper. But he was going to talk to Chet McMasters today, and he wasn’t leaving Washington until he found out where his daughter was living.

  “Package Safe, but…” Now Nathan Perry was going to do only one thing.

  Pick up his “package” from the “warehouse,” and take it home.

  LIBBY JAMIESON’S hand shook as she set down the telephone receiver. Her attorney, Cameron Holling, was out of town for the day, so she couldn’t ask him if there was a problem with the adoption, or why Judge Wyatt wanted a meeting with them. They were to be in court at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow, and Libby wasn’t supposed to mention anything to Sara.

  Automatically, Libby picked up a blue-tinted carnation and wopped off the stem at a forty-five-degree angle before sticking it in the foam base. Up to now, her plan to adopt Sara had been going perfectly. Libby had hardly seen her lawyer since she’d finished her duties as executor of her friend’s estate and taken up her duties as Sara’s guardian.

  Now she was scared. A judge wanting to see you was something like getting stopped by the cops. You automatically assumed you’d done something wrong. And there’d always been those hints Julia, Sara’s mother, had dropped. Secrets…Then those puzzling last words of hers, at the hospital before her death. But Julia had always liked attention, drama.

  Of course, the reason for this meeting could just be to iron out a technicality. Still…

  Get a grip, she told herself. If you’re late with the Smithson wedding flowers, you won’t have the money to pay your lawyer, and that will create more complications than Judge Wyatt could dream up.

  Another bill. That was all she needed. It was always tough to wait out this time, to husband the funds she earned in the summer, when Harborside, Ohio, was clogged with both wedding dates and tourists. Holding her lower lip between her teeth in concentration, Libby broke stems of baby’s breath. Placing some into the greenery, she took a step back and eyed the arrangement. Triangular. Competent and stiff, the fake gentian-blue of the carnations was an insult to the flower.

  The doorbell jangled and Libby looked up, her heart going soft at the sight of Sara.

  “Hey, Lib, guess what happened!” Sara blew a couple of black curls out of her eyes and flung her book bag on a tabletop covered with dried-flower bouquets. Her cheeks were red from the chilly late-winter air.

  “Careful of my stuff,” Libby warned automatically. But she was smiling. “Now. What happened?”

  “Kathleen invited me to her birthday party. We’re going horseback riding.” Her eyes danced as she took off her coat, scarf and mittens, leaving a trail through the shop. Her gold heart, with its tiny chip of blue topaz, glinted against the neck of her navy blue sweater. “I can’t wait.”

  Sara had never been on a horse in her life.

  “If I have a good time, can I have lessons?”

  Sara had been wanting horseback-riding lessons since before Julia’s death. Neither her mother nor Libby could afford them, or the rental and stabling for a horse. Now the meeting tomorrow and the possible complications in the pending adoption flashed through Libby’s mind. “I wish we could swing it.” How terrific it would be to walk into Judge Wyatt’s courtroom and say that Sara had everything she’d ever wanted.

  She looked down at her hands. The nails were bluntly filed, more functional than beautiful. Like herself, Libby thought ruefully, thinking of her unruly, copper-red hair. The skin of her hands was chapped, cut in places from the hard stems of the flowers and misses with the clippers. Suddenly she felt the hot sting of tears behind her eyelids.

  “Hey, Lib.” A small, very cold hand stole over hers. It’s okay about the lessons. I
was just asking.”

  Libby looked into eyes as blue as Lake Erie on a cloudless day. “I know, sweetheart.”

  Sara’s skin was fair and freckled, with the high-contrast coloring of the Black Irish. But Libby, who loved beautiful things, loved Sara more for her irrepressible personality, her sense of humor, her maturity. Sometimes Sara seemed older than ten. But the girl had had a lot to deal with. Her father drank, and last year had killed both himself and her mother in a collision on the causeway.

  “Wow, that’s ugly,” Sara exclaimed, her gaze on the arrangement Libby had just finished. She grinned. “What’d you do, dunk those flowers in toilet-bowl cleaner?”

  Despite her anxiety about tomorrow, Libby chuckled. Disgusting, huh?”

  “Worse. Gross.”

  They looked at each other and giggled. Finally, Libby sobered a bit. “They’re for Karen Smithson, and she wanted everything to match. The dresses, the flowers, the—”

  “Cake,” Sara finished, and she burst into laughter again. Tidybowl cake.”

  “She’s the customer.”

  “Right,” Sara said in quick agreement. Libby always tried to be honest though reassuring about their financial situation. Sara understood it was important to please a customer of the shop.

  Sara picked up a frond of Christmas fern. “So, can I help?”

  Libby sighed. Sara had been “helping” around the shop since she could walk. Her mother used to bring her here so that the women could rehearse their lines for the community theater group they both belonged to. Tina Samms, a third friend, would often join them. “I don’t suppose the help you have in mind is sweeping up this mess.”

  “I could make something. You know, for the wedding.”

  Libby made one last try. “Have you got homework?”

  “Naw.” She paused and looked away. “Well, a little. But I can help here a while.”