Secrets In Texas
They had a glimpse of heaven…After the wreck of her marriage, Detective Angel Harrison swore no man would ever control her again. Then she had to infiltrate a dangerous cult, and pretending to be a submissive wife was the only way in. Even worse, her new " husband" quickly aroused feelings ignored for too long.But first they had to go through hellMatt Stone had escaped Zion' s Gate, but concern for the sister left behind had him agreeing to the cops' plan to return. Angel was good at playing the subservient wife–so good that he began to worry when the rebellious glint in her eye started to fade. After all, he' d been hoping for a permanent partnership. Assuming, of course, they made it out alive.
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âWhyâd you go into law enforcement?â
Normally Angel would have answered with a well-rehearsed spiel. But she knew it wouldnât fly with Matthew. He was too perceptive. âA cop helped me once when I was in trouble. I guess I admired her and I wanted to help other women like me.â
âWhat kind of woman would that be?â
Angel refused to allow anyone but her very close friends and her superiors to know sheâd ever been that vulnerable. A victim.
âYou know all you need to know about me, Matt.â She stood and headed for the bathroom. Stopping in the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. âExcept that you really donât want to get in my way.â
âWhat about the game?â
Angel wasnât sure if he referred to the Scrabble game sheâd abandoned or the dangerous personal game developing between them.
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed my first romantic suspense, The Secret Wife, I suspect youâll become immersed in Secrets in Texas. As the titles suggest, both books involve (family) secrets. They also contain twists and turns and complex emotional entanglements.
The idea for Secrets in Texas was born of news articles I read about the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saintsâpolygamous sects prevalent near the Arizona/Utah border, among other places.
I contemplated how hard it must be for men and women raised in this culture to adjust to living in the outside world. So I gave my hero, Matthew Stone, just such a challenge. I tested him to the limit and sent him back to the polygamist group, this time with a faux wife who is anything but submissive. Problem is, there are secrets in Angel Harrisonâs past that have her wondering if she might be more vulnerable than she thinks.
While I did research fundamentalist sects, I didnât try to factually recreate their lifestyle in my book. Instead, I created my own sect, Zionâs Gate.
Please join Angel and Matthew on their journey of discovery at Zionâs Gate.
Yours in reading,
Carrie Weaver
P.S. Carrie enjoys hearing from readers by e-mail at www.CarrieWeaver.com or snail mail at P.O. Box 6045, Chandler, AZ 85246-6045.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With two teenage sons, two dogs and three cats, Carrie Weaver often feels she lives in a state called Chaos (not to be confused with Dysfunction Junction, a place sheâs visited only once or twice). Her books reflect real life and real love, with all the ups, downs and emotion involved.
This book is dedicated to my editor, Laura Shin.
Thank you for having confidence in me even when I sometimes donât.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
ANGEL OPENED HER eyes, trying to focus. What started as a fuzzy recollection of violence morphed into full-blown terror.
She stifled a whimper as she rolled onto her stomach.
Must be quiet. She knew her survival depended upon it.
Drawing her knees beneath her, she bit her lip as her legs slid in opposite directions. It was like a grotesque combination of Twister and Slip âN Slide. Only the splotches were red instead of an assortment of colors, and the liquid was too slimy for water.
It was blood. Hers? His?
Her knees stabilized, gaining traction. Slowly, deliberately, she placed a palm on the once-pristine tile floor. Then she put her other hand next to it.
Sweat rolled down her face. This should have been so simple.
But nothing had been simple for a long time.
She bit back a hysterical chuckle.
Must be quiet.
By slowly tilting her head, she was able to survey much of the kitchen peripherally without expending precious energy.
Kent wasnât in the room.
She had already registered that fact on a subconscious level, but caution had served her well in the past. Otherwise sheâd be dead.
Inching forward, she focused solely on the cordless phone that had skittered beneath the table. Frowning, she tried to remember holding it, making a call.
But it was like a recurring nightmare. The phone was just out of her reach. And so was the memory.
Angel smiled grimly.
The phone might be out of reach, but the butcher knife wasnât. It was a foot or two away, probably dropped in haste.
She forced back the hot saliva pooling on her tongue as she moved forward and grasped the handle. It was slick with blood from hilt to tip. The blade was coated with the stuff. And she was pretty sure it was her own.
Bones crunched. Pain radiated up her arm. The knife dropped from her numb fingers.
It took precious seconds for reality to register. A size-twelve work boot pinned her wrist to the floor. Jeans brushed the tips of the brown boots, jeans sheâd laundered so carefully earlier that morning.
Angelâs scalp burned as her head was jerked backward. Her long, dark hair had once been her pride and joy. Now it was simply a handy leash, snarled in Kentâs fist, as he forced her to look evil in the face.
