Keeping Secrets

By B.J. Daniels

From a New York Times–bestselling author, a woman goes to pay her respects to the father she never knew and finds herself caught up in his dangerous life.

Paige Grayson dreams of a life of adventure as her alter-ego P.T. Alexander. Her dull life takes a turn though when she gets a mysterious note saying the father she thought dead for twenty-three years only recently died. From the moment she goes to view his body at the funeral home to when she seems a strange woman put a mysterious package in his coffin, Paige is suddenly on a wild ride straight out of one of her fantasies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781460347096

B.J. Daniels

New York Times and USA Today bestselling authorB.J. Daniels lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and two springerspaniels. When not writing, she quilts, boats and always has a book or two to read. Contact her at www.bjdaniels.com, on Facebook at B.J. Daniels or through her reader group the B.J.Daniels' Big Sky Darlings, and on twitter at bjdanielsauthor.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

P. T. ALEXANDER GRABBED the Beretta from her shoulder bag and told the taxi driver to keep the pedal to the metal as the cab raced through the dark, sultry streets of New Orleans. Behind them, a black, sleek sports car gave chase, dogging them like a Louisiana bloodhound.

She’d recognized the international jewel thief on the plane thanks to her photographic memory and trained eye for suspicious-looking men.

Darkly mysterious and fabulous-looking with broad, muscled shoulders and slim hips, he was a dead giveaway in jeans that hugged his body like the skin of a banana and made every woman on the plane want to peel that denim.

She’d kept him under surveillance from behind the latest issue of Rosie, but she’d known eventually their eyes would meet across the 757. Still, nothing could have prepared her for the shocking electric blue of his gaze. He took her in like a long, cool drink of water. His look said he knew exactly what to do with a beautiful woman. She didn’t doubt it for a moment.

Oh, she’d known men like him. Dozens of them. All handsome. All dangerous. All expertly skilled in the art of seduction. But this one stripped her bare with a glance, making her skin tingle from her painted toes to the roots of her long, luxurious raven-black hair.

It was a real shame she was going to have to kill him.

The cab jerked to a stop. Are you sure this is the right place? the taxi driver asked.

Paige Grayson blinked and glanced around in confusion. She shot a look out the back window of the cab. No sleek, black car. No sexy international jewel thief. No P.T., woman of mystery and adventure. Just plain Paige and her imagination.

Paige dropped back to reality with a thud. A reality that always disappointed her—just as her own reflection in the cab’s window did. Instead of long, luxurious raven-black hair and exotic beauty, her hair was chin-length and pale blond, her lightly freckled face cute.

Cute didn’t cut it. Not compared to her alter ego P. T. Alexander who Paige fantasized as being everything desirable and exciting—and as far removed from herself as Paige could get.

And right now she would have given anything to be far away from her real life. She stared out the cab window at a less than desirable area of New Orleans.

This is the address you gave me, the taxi driver said, sounding worried.

She looked through the darkness at the old brick building. One side was flanked by a narrow, garbage-strewn alley, the other by an abandoned grocery with its broken windows and graffiti-covered walls.

A dim light over the weathered sign illuminated the words: Eternal Peace Funeral Home.

She knew she shouldn’t have been surprised the place was a dump. Nor disappointed. But on the plane she’d dreamed the funeral home would be a large, stately one, in a beautiful, old New Orleans mansion with an expansive lawn, stone sculptures and classic architecture.

Unlike her daydreams, reality wasn’t measuring up to the way she’d imagined.

She checked the address again on the letter, still holding out hope there was some mistake—and not just about the address.

Unfortunately, the address at least was right. This is the place, she said and looked at it again, considering telling the taxi driver to take her back to the hotel, her fear of what was waiting behind Eternal Peace’s door too great.

You sure it’s even open this late? the driver asked, no doubt noticing her obvious reluctance to get out. "Odd time to have a funeral, but this is New Orleans."

Yes. Paige glanced at her watch—11:35 p.m. While there was only an old hearse parked on the street in front, she could see a faint light glowing deep inside the funeral home and she’d been assured the body would be available for viewing until midnight. According to the letter, there would be no funeral service.

She’d come late to avoid running into anyone. Now she wondered if that hadn’t been a mistake as she looked around and saw only an occasional car cruise by on the dark, poorly lit street. What pedestrians she saw looked homeless. She could feel the driver watching her in his rearview mirror.

You want me to wait? he asked.

No. She wasn’t sure what she’d find inside. Or how long she’d be. But a cab waiting outside the front door would be too conspicuous and she didn’t want anyone knowing she was here or had ever been. I’ve ordered a cab to pick me up, but thanks. She had fifteen minutes. That would be more than enough time.

She glanced again at the light inside and reached for the door handle, her heart taking off like a racehorse. Last chance to change her mind. She really wished she did have a Beretta in her purse. Not that she would know how to use it. More than anything, she wished she had her imagined P.T.’s courage right now.

The driver hustled out to get the door for her.

The hot, dense, muggy air was smothering as she stepped from the cab. So different from Montana.

Be careful, the driver said, making her wonder if he didn’t have a daughter her age.

Her eyes teared as she thrust a twenty into his hand. Thank you. She waited for him to leave, needing him to hurry up and go before she changed her mind.

He tipped his hat to her as he got back into the cab. The taillights glowed bright red to the end of the block, and then were gone as the vehicle turned.

She stared down the dark empty street. No cars. No lights in any of the surrounding buildings. Probably most were abandoned. She’d gotten her wish. She was alone.

Hitching up her shoulder bag, she took a deep breath—the smells sickeningly foreign and not just those from the garbage in the alley. She stepped toward the grimy glass-front door with its metal bars and huge open padlock, wondering who’d want to break into a funeral home.

As she tried the knob she almost wished she really did have the wrong viewing times and the place was closed. The knob turned in her hand and the door swung open with a soft groan. On wobbly legs, she stepped in and the door whooshed closed behind her with the same soft groan.

The dramatic difference in temperature shocked her as canned, refrigerated air, smelling of stainless steel and chemicals, blew into her face from a large vent overhead. She gagged and covered her mouth, preferring the garbage smell of the alley.

For a moment, she stood motionless. What had she been thinking coming here?

She tried to slow her frantic heartbeat, tried to breathe, fighting the urge to turn and run. But her cab wouldn’t be here for at least another ten minutes. The thought of waiting on the street for another cab warred with the thought of what awaited her in one of the viewing rooms.

Something creaked. She jumped, heart clanging against her rib cage, then recognized the sound. The creak of a chair on wheels off to her right. Through a crack between door and jamb she could see what appeared to be an office. A man in a black suit sat with his feet up on a desk, his back to her as he talked on the phone.

She moved past the door soundlessly imagining what her alter ego—the fearless P. T. Alexander would do. P.T. wouldn’t even consider turning tail and running.

The dim light she’d seen from outside emanated from a room off the back. The other two viewing rooms were dark and empty as she passed. Only one body tonight.

As she neared the farthest room, she saw that the lamp lit a gold-colored casket, the top half open. Deep red velvet curtains lined three walls of the small, narrow room. Other than the casket and a dozen metal folding chairs, the room was vacant. Next to the open door was a narrow metal plate where the name of the deceased went. It was blank.

Her pulse quickened. Maybe the information in the letter had been wrong after all. Relief swooped over her, but then she would have made this long trip for nothing.

Or had she?

She could still hear the mortician in the office on the telephone. He appeared to be arguing with whoever was on the other end of the line. Possibly a wife or girlfriend from the wheedling tone and the fact that he wasn’t getting to say much.

She stepped into the red velvet viewing room and, with a soft click, closed the door behind her. It was quiet except for faint piped-in music—jazz. And dark with only the one lone lamp shining down on the casket. All of the metal folding chairs were perfectly aligned, she noticed as she passed them, making her wonder if anyone else had even been here. How sad that whoever was in the casket had no family, no friends.

Her hand trembled as she clutched the strap of her shoulder bag. She’d never seen a dead body before. But she had to look, had to be sure because of the anonymous letter that had come, informing her mother of the death—and the viewing time.

The irony didn’t escape Paige. She would never have seen the letter had her mother still been alive. Grief threatened to overwhelm her. She moved zombielike toward the open casket, terrified of what she’d see, her pulse deafening in her ears, her heart banging against her rib cage like a war drum.

Closer. Closer. Until, she saw him.

She stumbled, startled, tears instantly burning her eyes. There was no mistake. Even through the tears, she could see the resemblance. She felt such a wave of regret she had to grab the edge of the casket to steady herself.

She’d never known how much she looked like her father and that seemed the most heinous of her mother’s omissions.

His blond hair had grayed at the temples, a web of lines etched around his eyes and mouth. Sun lines? Or laugh lines? She’d never know.

Suddenly she felt the full weight of the loss of those twenty-three years she’d spent believing her father was dead. She stared down into his face, trying to see what could have made her mother lie.

He didn’t look like a criminal as she’d been led to believe. He wore a dark suit. It appeared expensive. The casket looked expensive as well. And that seemed odd given the funeral home and the fact that no service would be held.

She stared at him, wondering about his life, his death and why he’d never tried to contact her. Was he really a man too dangerous to be around his own daughter? A man so awful her mother hadn’t even let him live in Paige’s memory through photos of him?

Her mother never spoke of Michael Alexander as if he’d never existed and had been upset when as a little girl, Paige had found his name on some papers and started asking questions about her father.

What had this man done that her mother felt she had to cut him out of their lives? But Paige would never be able to ask her mother. Simone had been killed only a week ago by a hit-and-run driver.

Paige stared down at her father, at a loss to understand. She couldn’t help but wonder what he’d looked like as a young man. What he’d been like. Where he’d been all these years. She looked so much like him, it broke her heart that she hadn’t had a chance to know him.

He’d disappeared from her life when she was three, but she thought she remembered him. At least she’d held on to what she believed was a memory of him: a tall, muscular man leaning over her bed in the darkness, tucking the covers up to her chin and kissing her forehead. His cheek warm against hers as he whispered good-night. Or was it goodbye?

She couldn’t even be sure it was a true memory because she’d fantasized about her father for so many years. And the man in the memory was faceless. She could have made it up, the way she had a lot of things in her life. At twenty-six, her life was such that she had to fantasize or go crazy.

Except as she looked down into her father’s face, she told herself this man had loved her. The memory was real. And for whatever reason, her mother had lied about more than Michael Alexander’s death twenty-three years ago.

But the truth was, if her father hadn’t been the man she’d hoped he was, she didn’t want to know.

Startled, she heard the soft groan of the outer door opening, felt the air pressure change, then heard the door close again as someone came in.

The last thing she wanted to do, if her father really had been a criminal, was to run into any of his associates.

The sound of footsteps stopped just outside the door to the viewing room. The doorknob turned. Paige dove for the velvet curtains along the right side of the coffin, not surprised to find the space behind them an empty additional room. The curtains could be opened for a larger wake, closed for viewings like her father’s where few people were expected. Didn’t that alone tell her something?

The door opened and over the musty smell of the velvet drapes, she caught a whiff of perfume, the pricey, exotic kind. She frowned at the sound of high heels tapping their way across the worn carpeting to the coffin, then silence.

Unable not to, Paige peeked through the heavy velvet, more than curious to see who had come to pay their respects to her father.

A tall slim woman dressed much like Paige herself, in a dark suit, pale cream colored blouse and high heels, stood looking down at Michael Alexander. The most striking thing about the woman was her hair. It was fiery red, long and pulled up in a chignon. Through the crack in the thick, musty-smelling drapes, Paige could see the woman’s profile. She was young, early thirties, and very attractive. Who was she and what was her relationship to Michael Alexander?

The woman stood dry-eyed as she stared down at the dead man, then to Paige’s surprise, she reached into the coffin as if searching for something. Her movements stopped. She smiled and drew out a thick newspaper-wrapped bundle. Tearing off a corner of the newsprint, she revealed stacks of money.

The redhead thumbed through the cash, then looked in the casket again. Casually, she tugged one bill from the stack and put it back in the coffin.

Don’t spend it all in one place, she said, her voice sending a shiver through Paige. The rest of the money she dropped into her oversize black purse.

Just when Paige thought nothing else could surprise her, the woman pulled a small white box, about the size of a cell phone, from her purse and slipped it into the coffin. She snapped her purse closed and, crossing herself, turned and left without a backward glance.

Paige was too stunned to move for a few moments. The viewing room door closed, then the outer door. A deadly stillness filled the closed space that not even the jazz music, the mortician’s voice on the phone or the pounding of her pulse could drown out.

Paige couldn’t help herself. She slipped from behind the velvet and rushed to the casket.

Her gaze fell on her father’s hands. Earlier they’d been folded over his chest. Now one of them was turned up, a hundred dollar bill resting in his palm.

But what surprised her wasn’t the size of the bill the woman had left, but the calloused hands. What kind of criminal had hands like a laborer? That wasn’t all. There appeared to be a dark smudge on the inside of his wrist. No, not a smudge but a small tattoo. The tattoo was obviously old, distorted with age, but it appeared to be a bird of some kind.

Her gaze shifted to his gaping suit pocket and the corner of the white package the woman had hidden there.

With trembling fingers, Paige impulsively slipped out the small box, surprised it was heavier than she’d expected.

The box was neatly wrapped and taped as if the woman had thought Michael Alexander might try to open it in the afterlife? What could be inside? After what Paige had just witnessed, probably not a keepsake from a friend.

Some sort of contraband? That seemed the obvious answer. She stared at the box. She shouldn’t have come here.

She’d been trying to get over the shock of her mother’s death when the letter about Michael Alexander’s funeral had arrived—an anonymous letter addressed to her mother and marked urgent.

Since Paige had believed her father dead for the last twenty-three years, she’d been more than a little shocked to learn he’d only recently died. She’d taken the letter to the lawyer her mother had hired just days before her death, Franklin Cole.

An elderly, obviously conservative man, Franklin had advised her not to attend the funeral. He argued that her mother must have had her reasons for lying about Michael Alexander’s premature death. The man must be such that Paige had needed to be protected from him.

Also, Franklin had pointed out. You have no idea who sent this letter telling your mother of his death or even if it is true. Suppose the letter writer knew about your mother’s death, knew the letter would fall into your hands, had planned it that way and has some sort of ulterior motive?

You mean to get me to New Orleans? she asked,