Colton 911--Soldier's Return Read online

  “How’d your family get-together go?”

  “It went well,” Carly replied. “I told them about you being alive. And here in Chicago.”

  Micha had suspected she might. “How’d they take it?”

  “Well. You know how much they liked you. Several people asked why I didn’t bring you with me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I changed the subject. Honestly, Micha, I’m still not sure how I feel about all this. Having you back and here with me is wonderful, but it’s also scary as hell.”

  “Scary? How so?”

  “Losing you hurt, Micha. It took me a long time to pick myself up and climb out of that deep, dark place.”

  “Would you rather I hadn’t come back? Would you...” He had to swallow hard to keep his voice from breaking. “Would you rather you still thought I was dead?”

  “Of course not. But I’m still struggling with the fact that you waited two entire years before even attempting to contact me. I know you have your reasons. But what you don’t understand is this. I can’t go through that again. I wouldn’t survive losing you a second time.”

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  * * *

  Colton 911: Chicago—Love and danger come alive in the Windy City...

  * * *

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  Dear Reader,

  Another Coltons book! Yay! As you know, I adore the Colton family. Writing about them reminds me of watching the TV show Dallas back in the ’80s. Never a dull moment.

  In this book, I got to tell the story of Micha Harrison and Carly Colton. It’s a book about redemption and learning to trust again and knowing love won’t ever fail to heal old wounds. It’s got a lot of suspense as we try to figure out who wants Carly or Micha (or both of them) dead and whether or not it’s tied to the potential serial killer who murdered Carly’s father and his twin brother. The rest of the Colton family comes to visit, too. I truly enjoyed writing this story. I hope you enjoy reading it.

  Karen Whiddon

  COLTON 911:

  SOLDIER’S RETURN

  Karen Whiddon

  Karen Whiddon started weaving fanciful tales for her younger brothers at the age of eleven. Amid the gorgeous Catskill Mountains, then the majestic Rocky Mountains, she fueled her imagination with the natural beauty surrounding her. Karen now lives in north Texas, writes full-time and volunteers for a boxer dog rescue. She shares her life with her hero of a husband and four to five dogs, depending on if she is fostering. You can email Karen at [email protected]. Fans can also check out her website, karenwhiddon.com.

  Books by Karen Whiddon

  Harlequin Romantic Suspense

  Colton 911: Chicago

  Colton 911: Soldier’s Return

  The CEO’s Secret Baby

  The Cop’s Missing Child

  The Millionaire Cowboy’s Secret

  Texas Secrets, Lovers’ Lies

  The Rancher’s Return

  The Texan’s Return

  Wyoming Undercover

  The Texas Soldier’s Son

  Texas Ranch Justice

  Snowbound Targets

  The Widow’s Bodyguard

  Visit the Author Profile page at

  Harlequin.com for more titles.

  To my beloved husband and daughter. I love you both more than I could ever express.

  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

  Excerpt from Colton Bullseye by Geri Krotow

  Chapter 1

  The sun shone bright yellow in a blue sky speckled with fluffy white clouds. Happy clouds, Carly Colton thought. The kind she used to imagine were animals and ships when she was a child. All around her, birds were singing cheerful songs and the still-crisp air carried the promise of warmer temperatures to come. Typical spring in Chicago. One minute, cold enough for snow flurries; the next, warm enough to cause trees to start to bud and flowers to bloom. Finally, nice enough weather to enjoy the outdoors, to take more walks, maybe even visit the lakeshore.

  Despite being outside, in the warm sunshine, Carly couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder. The beautiful April day did nothing to lessen her unease. For the past six weeks, whether shopping or taking a walk, she’d been certain someone was stalking her, even though she’d never actually been able to catch sight of them.

  It was more of a gut feeling, a visceral instinct. She’d be walking along familiar streets and then feel someone’s gaze on her with a tingle of nerves in the back of her neck. Who? Terrified, she’d spin wildly, hoping to catch her stalker in the act. But so far, she’d been completely unsuccessful, unable to locate a single person or even a group of people paying her the slightest bit of untoward attention. Nothing, absolutely nothing, out of the ordinary. Enough to make her wonder if her father’s and uncle’s murders had made her become overly fearful.

  These days, she had to make herself venture out of her home, despite craving the fresh air. Her neighborhood had always been perfectly safe, and she loved her street.

  Even now, on a perfect spring day, she swore she could feel someone watching her. Unsettled, she managed to force herself to continue on her walk, though every instinct screamed she should run home as fast as she could. As usual, she resisted the urge.

  Paranoid? Maybe. But then she had reason to be on edge considering her father and his brother had been murdered a few months ago. The killer had yet to be caught. Even so, she didn’t like feeling uneasy outside her own house in her wonderful Hyde Park neighborhood, the one place she should have felt safe. Until a month and a half ago, despite occasional bouts of bad weather, she’d always enjoyed her early-evening strolls around her block, waving at neighbors and enjoying a bit of fresh air.

  Now not so much. In fact, she’d begun to realize she might need to consider stopping them altogether. Which would be a shame, since she considered walking her main stress reliever after working as a pediatric nurse in the NICU—Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. She hated to lose that one little bit of joy in what could sometimes be long, and often painful, days.

  Determined to persevere, she’d continued her walks, heart often racing, always alert, looking for proof that the eyes she felt watching her were real. If she saw anything, any tangible evidence to confirm her fears, she’d stop immediately.

  Her family would be worried if they knew. Ever since the devastating death of her fiancé, Micha, two years ago, they had a tendency to treat her as if they believed she might break. Plus, with everyone still raw after her father’s and uncle’s murders, she hadn’t wanted to worry them.

  Same with the man she’d been dating, though she’d decided to tell him that evening over dinner. Since Harry Cartwright was a police officer, she figured he just might take her seriously. Maybe he’d even offer to help.

  Someone had to. Because instead of going away, it was getting worse.

  Carly picked up her pace. Once she’d made it around this next corner, she’d be able to see her house. The sight of her tidy little brick bungalow never failed to lift her spirits. Though she wasn’t a runner, if need be she figu
red she could always sprint for home.

  Again, she scanned her surroundings, unease sitting like a lead balloon in the pit of her stomach. She saw nothing out of the ordinary. A man walked his dog on the other side of the street. A woman holding fast to her child’s hand moved at a leisurely pace several houses ahead.

  Yet she could not shake the feeling of being watched.

  Frustrated, she rounded the corner, still at a brisk walk but on the verge of breaking into a jog. And then she saw him, stepping out into her path from a driveway, his dark sunglasses and longish, wavy brown hair doing nothing to disguise his achingly familiar—and ruggedly beautiful—face.

  It couldn’t be. No freaking way.

  Shocked, Carly froze. Now she knew she’d officially ventured into the land of needing professional help. Because the man standing less than ten feet in front of her had died two years ago. How could she be looking at a ghost?

  He took a step toward her, disturbingly solid. No apparition, but muscle and bone and skin. Real.

  “Micha?” she heard herself ask, as if from a distance. Because it couldn’t be and yet... “Micha Harrison, is that really you?”

  Of course, this man, whoever he was, with his striking features and stylishly shaggy hair, would now speak and tell her no, she’d made a terrible mistake. Because people just don’t come back from the dead.

  “It’s me,” he said instead, his words and the familiar husky voice making her stagger. “Carly, we really need to talk.”

  She couldn’t catch her breath. Heart pounding, she stared.

  Talk? She wanted to scream, push past him, but she couldn’t seem to make her legs move. How could he be there, this beautiful, rugged, beloved man who’d destroyed her by his absence. Which had all apparently been one huge pack of lies.

  “Have you been following me?” she asked, still numb, struggling to make sense of how she was supposed to feel. The man she’d loved, whose ring she just stopped wearing on a chain around her neck, had died. She’d never forget the day she’d opened her front door to find a uniformed soldier standing on her porch with the gut-wrenching news that Micha had been killed.

  Had that been fake? Clearly, it must have been. But why? Why would the man who’d promised to love her forever do such a thing to her? How dare they? How dare he?

  Suddenly furious, she wrenched herself away from him and broke into a run. Despite her lack of expertise, her anger fueled her and she raced down her street and into her driveway.

  To her immense relief, Micha didn’t chase after her.

  Once she’d made it safely inside her house, dead bolt locked, she doubled over. Out of breath, in pain, her rage warring with a stunned sense of disbelief. And the grief, oddly enough, resurrected from the dark place she’d shoved it, as surely as the man she’d had to let go.

  Micha wasn’t dead. She wasn’t sure how to process this. Dimly aware of the tears streaming down her face, she angrily swiped at them with the back of her hand.

  A moment later, the sorry bastard had the nerve to knock on her front door.

  She froze, then squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and wiped her eyes once more. On the one hand, she wanted to fling open the door and tell him to get the hell off her porch. On the other, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and hold him tight, as she’d dreamed of doing so many times while aching from his loss.

  Alive. The love of her life. He’d ruined her for anyone else. She’d hung on to the memory of him, of their love shining bright and incandescent. She’d mourned him, damn it. He hadn’t died. Alive. And he didn’t bother to show up until two freaking years later.

  Pain, fresh and as new as the day she’d learned of his death, slammed into her gut, almost sending her to her knees.

  Carly had never been an indecisive person, but she honestly didn’t know what to do.

  Micha knocked again. “We need to talk,” he said, the solid wood door muffling his raspy voice. “Please, Carly. Let me in. I promise you I can explain.”

  She wanted to. Oh, how much she wanted to. Right now, she warred between a furious need to pummel him with her fists and to haul him up against her and kiss him senseless.

  Micha had destroyed her. And now he wanted to tell her how and why.

  In the end it was this, curiosity over the explanation, wondering how anyone, anywhere, could possibly rationalize what he’d done, that made her unlock the door and invite him inside.

  Stepping back, she said nothing as he moved past her, his shoulders every bit as wide as she remembered. Still silent as she secured the dead bolt and turned to face him in the entryway of the house they’d chosen together. She’d gone ahead and purchased it after his death.

  He still wore his sunglasses. The better to hide from her, she supposed, her chest twisting. “Take them off,” she demanded, pointing.

  He did, revealing his dark brown eyes and something else she hadn’t expected. Scars. Numerous ones, a network of them around his forehead and right cheek.

  Unable to help herself, she moved closer, reached out and traced her finger over the lines. Her touch made him shudder, which brought her back to reality. Shaking her head, she took a hasty step back.

  “What happened to you?” she asked softly, trying to infuse a bit of steel in her voice. “I thought you were dead.”

  Her question made him swallow hard. She couldn’t keep from following the movement in his damn-him-for-still-being-so-sexy throat.

  “Could we sit somewhere and talk?” he rasped. “Please?”

  Talk. She struggled to process the word. As if this was an ordinary situation, easily solved with a rational conversation. Except right now, she thought viciously, he should be groveling on his hands and knees, full of abject apologies and recrimination over what he’d done. He’d let her believe him dead for two freaking years. She should show him the door, toss him out on his rear.

  Except...she really wanted to know what had happened. His reasons. What would make a man destroy the woman he’d supposedly loved. Just like that, the flare of anger dissipated, leaving her weak.

  Usually when stressed, Carly talked. Chattered actually. But this time, she didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words. No. Not now. That would have to be Micha’s job.

  “Sure,” she said, leading the way down the hall into the living room. At the last moment, she reconsidered and veered into the kitchen, indicating her red-and-chrome retro dinette set. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Her polite and distant tone made him flinch. She wanted to shrug and tell him to take what he could get. Civility, no matter how remote, was a far better response than giving in to her tangled emotions.

  “No, thank you.” Dropping into a chair, Micha dragged his hands through his shaggy hair. He’d never worn his hair so long, she thought absently. When they’d been together, he’d kept it closely cropped in a military-type cut, fitting since he’d been a soldier.

  Still Micha didn’t speak. She waited, but he simply watched her, his achingly familiar features a study in emotion.

  Fine. Then she’d start. She had so many questions. She deserved answers.

  “You’ve been stalking me,” she said. “Why?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he admitted. “I hadn’t planned on letting you see me, but...” He shook his head, letting the words trail off.

  “It’s been two years, Micha.” The anger came roaring back, though she managed to keep her voice steady. “Not only did you let me believe you were dead, but after all this time, you couldn’t be bothered to get in touch with me and let me know you were all right. Why now?”

  She took a step toward him, still trying to rein in her emotions, not entirely sure she was succeeding. Once, the big man sitting at her kitchen table had known her well enough to see right through to the heart that beat erratically inside her chest. If he
still could, then he’d understand the complicated mixture of raw pain and sadness, anger and, oddly, defeat.

  Since he hadn’t responded, she took a deep breath and continued, as ruthless as she knew she had to be. “I’ve moved on, Micha. I’m finally getting on with my life. I’m dating a very nice guy, Harry, and—”

  Micha pushed to his feet, towering over her. “I know, Carly,” he said, his voice rough. “And believe me, I’m well aware I have no right to show up and disrupt your life. I just couldn’t stay away.” His gaze blazed with heat. “I tried, Carly. Believe me, I tried.”

  Something—maybe his palpable anguish or the way the heat in his eyes brought back memories of his big hands on her skin—had her taking a half step toward him. Pushing to his feet, he met her halfway, sweeping her up against his broad chest, slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss that was everything it shouldn’t have been.

  Two years vanished in a flash. For weeks, months, she’d dreamed of this, yearning for him, aching for his loss, so how could she possibly let him go? She might be full of regrets later, but for now she chose to give in and ride this wave of welcome passion. For the first time since learning of his death, Carly Colton came alive.

  She denied him nothing. Greedily, she clung to him, allowing herself to touch his muscular, still-familiar body. Despite the velvet warmth of his tongue alongside hers, part of her still couldn’t help but wonder if she might wake up to learn that this turned out to be yet just another dream.

  But the force of his arousal pressing against her had to be real, her own body heavy and warm in response. Her skin tingled and she couldn’t shed her clothes fast enough. Gaze locked on hers, he did the same.

  More scars crisscrossed his chest, his stomach, and wound a horrific path down his arm. She noted these, knew she’d ask about them later, but all she cared about now was the man inside his skin.

  Unbearable, this craving. She was weak, yet on fire, her heartbeat throbbing in her ears, ecstasy spiraling with each stroke of his tongue against hers.