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PROLOGUE Oh, God, please let this nightmare end! Susannah Chapman prayed fervently, her heart pounding wildly, her palms clammy. Nausea churned in her stomach. She couldn't breath. For a moment she feared she would faint. Surely everyone in the courtroom could hear the blood pounding through her veins, could feel the overwhelming fear that filled every cell of her body. How could this have gone so far? Swallowing hard to contain the nausea, she stared straight ahead at the walnut paneling on the front of the judge's bench. Tuning out the sounds of the courtroom, the sounds that had grown more and more familiar as each day had progressed, she held on to her control with tenuous threads. She was so scared. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined things going so wrong. The American legal system was built to defend justice, not make mockery of it. How could twelve men and women find her guilty of a crime she had not committed? She swayed slightly, feeling ill. The nightmare was endless. Sliding her hands beneath the edge of the table, she pinched one thumb, trying to wake up. The pain was sharp and sudden. But she didn't awaken. She was still in the courtroom awaiting the judge's sentence–-he literally held her life in his hands. Swallowing against the rising bile that threatened to spew out, she took a shaky breath. She'd felt sick for weeks, unable to eat, unable to concentrate, fighting the injustice of the situation with all she had. Which, granted, wasn't much. The jury was seated in the box. Present to hear the sentence their guilty verdict demanded. From the corner of her eye she saw the young deputy district attorney lounging carelessly in his chair, talking with someone she couldn't see without turning her head. The prosecuting D.A. sat upright, smug, radiating triumph. He'd pushed and prodded and confused her so much she couldn't tell which way was up. But she knew she was innocent, why wouldn't they believe her? Focusing ahead, she took another breath. Her heart raced. She rubbed her palms surreptitiously on her skirt, trying to dry the dampness, trying to quell the fearful dread. She dropped her gaze to the table before her. Harry Lind, her attorney, had file folders neatly before him. "Are you all right?" he asked before a paroxysm of coughing took over. He'd been ill during the entire travesty of a trial. But he had pushed onward, her only hope. She shook her head slightly. "I think I'm going to throw up," she whispered back. "Hang in there. It will all be over soon." His tone sounded bracing, but Susannah wasn't reassured. The trial might be over soon, but the nightmare would go on forever. She looked directly at the opposing counsel. He had been relentless in his prosecution. Especially when she'd taken the stand. She had tried to convince him she had done nothing wrong, but he hammered at her until she became confused and she knew her testimony sounded muddled. She was no match for a district attorney with years of experience behind him. Especially one up for re-election and anxious to get a quick conviction to clench the vote. He had gone after her like a personal vendetta. She had hoped the cross-examination by her own attorney had minimized the damage on the jury. It hadn't. Now her only hope lay in an appeal. When she looked at the district attorney she was filled with rage. How dare he convince everyone she had killed a man! The entire proceedings had been surreal–especially the relentlessness of the opposing counsel. The judge arrived, taking his place behind the polished barrier. Blinking back tears of frustration and anger, Susannah stared straight ahead again as the judge rapped his gavel. Her heart rate tripled. She wiped her hands against her skirt again and stared at the man, her heart in her throat. "We have to stand, now," Harry said beside her, his hand coming beneath her arm to assist her up. Susannah stood, her legs feeling like soggy spaghetti. Turning slightly she stared at the men and women on the jury. They were strangers. They didn't know her. They hadn't known Shawn, or Timothy. The evidence had been skewed. From that alone they shouldn't have had the power to decide her fate. They didn't know her! "...found the defendant, Susannah Chapman, guilty of murder in the first degree..." She swayed, steadied by her attorney, who turned her slightly until she faced the judge, his hand was the only anchor. She stared as if through a fog. The nausea gained a stronger grip. She held her breath hoping she would not vomit all over the shinny table before her. It was the only trace of pride she could muster. Timothy Winters had been alive the last time she saw him. She had not killed him because of Shawn's death, the death Timothy had caused. She was innocent. "...life in prison, without parole," the judge droned. Susannah had a manic desire to laugh. She had come to Denver to begin a career, get married and start a family. She was only twenty-one years old. She had her whole life before her. She swallowed hard, fear and terror gaining a foothold. She had her whole life before her but she needn't worry about establishing a career. Needn't worry about going it alone after Shawn's death. The state of Colorado had decided her future for her. She was to spend the rest of her life in prison for a crime she hadn't committed. "We'll appeal," Harry said gruffly, coughing into his handkerchief again. She looked at him as if he were a stranger. She felt as if she were viewing everything through a distorted glass. Glancing over to the prosecutor, she stared at him, fear clawing at her, nausea threatening to overcome her control, anger churning. His triumphant satisfaction grated. He was surrounded by men and women congratulating him. Smiling, laughing, slapping him on the back as if he'd just accomplished some great feat. Not as if he had ruined her life. The press strained across the wooden railing that separated the spectators from the participants in the courtroom drama, vying for attention, calling out questions, cameras flashing. For a moment the tall, dark-haired assistant district attorney turned and his gaze locked with hers. His dark eyes held a trace of compassion. Susannah stared at him, willing him to do somthing. "I didn't do it," she whispered. Anger vied with the horror of the day. Somehow she had to get it across to him. He had to believe her. Someone had to! "Let's go, miss." A marshal was at her side, the cold, steel handcuffs snapping sharply over her wrists. Turning, Susannah took two steps and slid into a faint. CHAPTER ONE "Mrs. Walker is here to see you," Rose said when Jared Walker picked up his phone. "Send her in." He replaced the receiver and stood, almost glad to take a break, but wishing it were someone else, anyone else interrupting. He'd been reading a deposition taken by one of his assistants and still had a slew of questions he needed answered. They'd have to call the man back in. Dammit, he hated inefficiency. "Hello, love." Noelle stood in the doorway for a moment, poised for an entrance. "Hello, Noelle. What brings you by? Is Eric all right?" She hadn't changed a bit, had always been dramatic. For a moment, he tried to remember what it had been like to be so passionately caught up in her spell he couldn't think straight. That had ended long ago. Now he wondered where his head had been. He came around the desk and waited for her to reach up and kiss his cheek which she did every time they met. He knew the routine, and would not make an issue of it. Their relationship had formally ended eighteen months ago. Now, she was merely the mother of his son. She tried to make more of it, but he wasn't interested. That fire and passion had long ago evaporated. "He's fine. He loves kindergarten. Why, I can't imagine. I didn't like school at all, except for the extra curricular activities and the dances," she said, looking around the cluttered office. "He's a little young for dances," Jared said dryly. He waited until she sat in one of the visitor chairs facing his desk, carefully crossing her legs to give him the maximum view. So typically Noelle. Ignoring her blatant sexuality, he dropped into the matching chair beside hers. She often stopped by the office–especially since the divorce. Usually she tried to interest him in escorting her to some charity event, though recently she'd begun to see a man named Martin. Jared didn't think Noelle needed an escort. Why had she come? "If he's fine, why are you here?" he asked. "Darling, can't I stop by just to visit?" "You've stopped by more lately than when we were married. I'm busy, Noelle. If this is a pleasure call, maybe we should wait until the next time I come to pick up Eric." Not that Jared ever spent a moment with Noelle if he could help it. His time with his son was special, he didn't want to share it with his ex-wife. One, moreover, who still seemed to cling to the hope he'd fall madly in love with her again and take up where they left off. She studied him, as if trying to gauge his mood. "Martin is going to London at the end of the week," she said, and there's a party I want to attend. I would appreciate your escort." Jared leaned back in his chair, warily watching her. She never gave up. How clear could he make it? They were divorced. He had wanted out of the marriage when the love he'd felt had faded. He was not interested in rekindling old flames. The only regret he had was not having his son live with him. He missed Eric more than he had expected. He should have fought harder for joint custody, but at the time, he had believed his young son would be better off with his mother. Now he wished he's sued for joint custody. How receptive would Noelle be to change? Not at all, if he read things correctly. Rather, she'd try to use that as a negotiating tool to have him come back. "Go with me," Noelle urged. "It'll do you good to get out and mingle again. All you do is work." It was an old argument. His devotion to work was her most common complaint when they'd been married. "Besides, you miss all the gossip going around," she said. "Do you remember the Burroughs, Ed and Evelyn? They're friends of my parents," Noelle asked. Jared nodded. "I remember meeting them. Don't they always go to the New Year's Day function your folks put on?" "Usually. I ran into to them the other afternoon and they had the most outlandish tale you can imagine." He waited. Obviously she had something to say. Used to her tricks, he kept silent. Noelle liked being coaxed, but that could take all afternoon. If he appeared disinterested, she'd get to the point faster. And he could get back to work that much sooner. "Honestly, Jared, aren't you the least curious?" "About what friends of your parents had to say to you? Not really." She shrugged. It was nonsense. They claim they saw Timothy in San Francisco two weeks ago." "What? Your cousin was murdered eight years ago," he said evenly. For an instant that courtroom scene flashed into mind. The young woman convicted of the crime had been scared silly. He could still see the fear and anger in her eyes, hear her protestations of innocence. It had been his first murder conviction after joining the district attorney's office. Graduating at the top of his class, he had bypassed the get-rich-quick aspects of defense law for the hard-hitting prosecution for justice. He'd been so young, so eager, so enthusiastic. He'd thought he had the world by the tail after that conviction. Michael Denning had been the District Attorney up for re-election eight years ago. The high-profile murder of a son of one of Denver's leading families had given him the flurry of attention needed at the last moment to assure his reelection. The conviction had also assured Jared's alliance with Noelle Winters. Denver's leading family had been more than eager to welcome him after that, despite their divergent backgrounds. She shrugged. "They saw him. See what you miss by not going to parties?" "It was someone who looks like him," Jared said. "Noelle, he's dead. His body was identified by his father." "With his face blown away? I always wondered how my uncle could have recognized him at all." She hesitated. "They seemed sure it was Timothy." "Did they speak to him? Find out what the hell he's doing in San Francisco when we all thought him dead and buried here in Denver? Did they find out why he hadn't contacted his family in all this time? It's a double, Noelle." "Of course, I know that. They didn't speak to him, just saw him. But when they called to him, he turned, spotted them and then ran into a office building. What if it were Timothy?" "Impossible!" He rose and strode to the window. His office was on the twelfth floor. His view looked west, to the Front Range of the Rockies. Snow already blanketed the peaks of the distant mountains, the closer peaks too low to have snow this early in October. Usually the view calmed him, gave him a sense of freedom he relished. Today, however, he didn't even see the view. If what Noelle suggested was remotely possible, it was a prosecutor's worst nightmare-–the conviction of an innocent person. The First Day , A Harlequin Super Romance, will be on sale starting Tuesday, October 12, in the United States, wherever good books are sold. |