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Back The Runaway Heiress Save as PDF
Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. PRAISE FOR MEG TILLY AND HER NOVELS
  3. TITLES BY MEG TILLY
  4. Dedication
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
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  20. 15
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  25. 20
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  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
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  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
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  54. 49
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  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
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  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  69. Excerpt from SOLACE ISLAND
  70. 1
  71. 2
  72. 3
  73. 4
  74. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  75. What’s next onyour reading list?

“Be on the lookout. More precisely, an ATL—an Attempts to Locate. With technology and the automated license plate readers installed on the roofs of most major city police cars, it’s only a matter of time before a cop drives past her car. When that happens, an alert will show up on the system, along with the precise spot her vehicle was sighted. The instant that occurs, I’ll”—Kevin cleared his throat—“I’ll track her down.”

13

Using every ounce of control at his disposal, Phillip Clarke managed to place the receiver gently into its cradle before slumping into his high-backed leather office chair in an effort to absorb the psychological blow without undue agitation to his heart. Is it possible the girl is alive? Lieutenant Kevin Hawkins could be bluffing, but just in case . . .

Phillip sighed. He was tired and old and had no stomach for this type of foolishness. However, this was too important. He would need to follow up. The stakes were too high, couldn’t afford to make a mistake. He pressed the intercom button on his phone.

“Yes?” Phillip closed his eyes and let the warmth of Vicki’s voice wash over him. “Mr. Clarke?” She always addressed him formally in the office. In the early days, sometimes a “Mr. Clarke” would accidentally slip out when they were in the throes of passion. Ah, those were the days when he could wield his mighty sword at the blink of an eye. He sighed. No more. Type 2 diabetes had robbed him of that. Now it was the sweet, calm tenderness she provided that caused him to fabricate excuses to his wife before hopping into his cashmere-white Mercedes S-Class and making the furtive journey across the bridge to Brooklyn. He’d grab an hour or two at their little hideaway. The love nest he had purchased for her decades ago. Then, reluctantly, he’d head back to hearth and home. “Mr. Clarke . . . ?” Vicki’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Are you all right?”

For a second he couldn’t remember why he had called her. Oh yes. The girl. Sarah Rainsford. “I . . . I . . .” He was having difficulty catching his breath. He heard the scrape of her chair, the sound of her sensible shoes hurrying to his door. Vicki used to wear the most glorious spiky-heeled pumps in the old days. She had sashayed into his office, a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old looking for a job. For him it was love at first sight. He’d hired her within the hour. Took a little longer to cajole her into his bed. She’d made him wait, but it was well worth it.