The Return of Connor Mansfield Read online

  One of the Mansfield brothers was dead to everyone else…except her

  Having mourned the “death” of her fiancé, Darby Kent isn’t prepared for the moment they come face-to-face. For years, the man she loved and lost has lived in hiding. Until now. Connor is the only person who can save their ailing daughter, a living testament to the passion they once shared. But time is running out. And while Darby prays for their daughter’s survival, she must confront old desires…and powerful new enemies who’ve patiently awaited Connor’s return.

  Connor gripped her hand almost to the point of pain, and she glanced up sharply.

  The intensity of the gold stare she met sent a tremor through her.

  “So marry me now. I want you and Savannah both to have my name.”

  Darby’s heart lurched. “What?”

  “It’s what we’d planned before I went into WitSec. We can get a justice of the peace or the hospital chaplain to come—”

  “Connor, stop.” She wrenched her hand from his and shook it to get the blood circulating again. “Think about what you’re saying!”

  “I don’t need to think about it. It feels right. It is right.” Determination and conviction set his jaw and shone in his gaze.

  Her pulse raced so hard her head spun. At one time, marrying Connor and growing old with him had been her heart’s desire, a dream within her reach. Now he was offering her another chance at the dream that had been snatched from her. She should be grabbing on with both hands. But she couldn’t.

  How could she marry a man she knew planned to leave her in a few days?

  Dear Reader,

  The Return of Connor Mansfield is the first of a new trilogy about three sexy brothers from my fictional town of Lagniappe, Louisiana. The Mansfield brothers—Connor, Grant and Hunter—will rise to the challenge of life-threatening danger with courage, loyalty and honor, and will find that true love is worth fighting for!

  Connor is up first as he risks his life to claim his daughter, make a life-saving gift and win back the heart of the only woman he’s ever loved. This was a heartbreaking tale to write—a gravely ill child is every parent’s worst nightmare, next to the death of the child—and I found myself rewriting and struggling at times to tell it just right. I hope you enjoy Connor and Darby’s story. Watch for Hunter’s story in the next few months!

  Happy reading,

  Beth

  THE RETURN OF CONNOR MANSFIELD

  Beth Cornelison

  Books by Beth Cornelison

  Harlequin Romantic Suspense

  Special Ops Bodyguard #1668

  Operation Baby Rescue #1677

  ^Soldier’s Pregnancy Protocol #1709

  ^The Reunion Mission #1717

  Colton’s Ranch Refuge #1724

  ^Cowboy’s Texas Rescue #1746

  Colton Christmas Rescue #1780

  #The Return of Connor Mansfield #1784

  Silhouette Romantic Suspense

  To Love, Honor and Defend #1362

  In Protective Custody #1422

  Danger at Her Door #1478

  Duty to Protect #1522

  Rancher’s Redemption #1532

  Tall Dark Defender #1566

  *The Christmas Stranger #1581

  Blackout at Christmas #1583 “Stranded with the Bridesmaid”

  *The Bride’s Bodyguard #1630

  P.I. Daddy’s Personal Mission #1632

  *The Prodigal Bride #1646

  *The Bancroft Brides

  ^Black Ops Rescues

  #The Mansfield Brothers

  Other titles by this author available in ebook format.

  BETH CORNELISON

  started writing stories as a child when she penned a tale about the adventures of her cat, Ajax. A Georgia native, she received her bachelor’s degree in public relations from the University of Georgia. After working in public relations for a little more than a year, she moved with her husband to Louisiana, where she decided to pursue her love of writing fiction.

  Since that first time, Beth has written many more stories of adventure and romantic suspense and has won numerous honors for her work, including a coveted Golden Heart Award in romantic suspense from Romance Writers of America. She is active on the board of directors for the North Louisiana Storytellers and Authors of Romance (NOLA STARS) and loves reading, traveling, Peanuts’ Snoopy and spending downtime with her family.

  She writes from her home in Louisiana, where she lives with her husband, one son and two cats who think they are people. Beth loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5418, Bossier City, LA 71171, or visit her website, www.bethcornelison.com.

  For my dad. Thanks for all you’ve done for your family through the years!

  Thanks to Emma Welch for sharing her cat, Toby.

  I was happy to celebrate the love and loyalty of her furry friend as Darby’s faithful feline companion.

  Thank you to Allison Reed for her winning bid in Brenda Novak’s Auction for the Cure of Diabetes 2012 to be featured as a character in this book.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Excerpt

  Prologue

  Through the thick fog of a Louisiana autumn morning, Victor Gale watched his prey from an abandoned hunter’s blind. Raising his rifle, he peered through the scope and drew a bead on his target’s head. Hatred gnawed his gut like acid, and his muscles hummed with tension and anticipation. Other men had used this camouflaged blind to hunt deer. Victor hunted a man. A traitor. A liability to his family, his livelihood, his freedom.

  Last year, Connor Mansfield had found evidence of Gale Industries’ side business, had stolen company records to show the FBI and had testified for the prosecution at William Gale’s trial. Mansfield’s betrayal had cost Victor’s father everything. For that, Mansfield had to pay. He had to be silenced. He had to die.

  Their father had taken the fall for the family to protect Victor and his brother, James, so retribution against Connor Mansfield fell to his sons. Victor relished the duty.

  As quietly as the mist curled through the woods, Victor tracked Mansfield’s progress from his truck to the small cabin, a hunting camp deep in the pine forest of central Louisiana, waiting for a clear shot through the trees. He had to take Mansfield out before he went inside.

  Before he lost his chance.

  Mansfield hesitated at the cabin door as if reluctant to go inside, but a fat cypress obscured Victor’s line of sight. Damn it!

  When Mansfield finally slipped inside and out of view, Victor growled his frustration and spit on the ground. He might not get another shot for hours, not until Mansfield left the camp. Unless...

  Victor considered approaching t
he ramshackle cabin, peeking in the window and shooting Mansfield from closer range. But he risked being seen or heard, tipping Mansfield off, leaving evidence near the scene that could trace the kill back to him.

  No. Better to have patience. Wait him out. Catch Mansfield when—

  A deafening blast rocked the woods as the cabin erupted in a massive fireball.

  The concussion of the explosion knocked Victor off his feet. Rang painfully in his ears. Thundered in his chest.

  Debris rained down around him, piercing the thin walls of the hunter’s blind and stinging his skin when it hit. When all fell quiet again and his shock eased, he scrambled to his knees to peer out the blind’s slit of a window.

  The cabin Mansfield had just entered was in ruin, the remnants ablaze. Stunned by the turn of events, Victor stared, his head buzzing from adrenaline and the damage of the loud blast.

  Finally he pulled out his cell phone and punched in his brother’s number.

  “Is it done?” James asked without preamble.

  “Yeah, but...I didn’t do it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The freakin’ cabin exploded. Maybe a gas line leak that went up when he hit the light switch?” Victor shook his head, still gawking at the carnage. “No way he survived that blast.”

  Silence answered him.

  “Did ya hear me, man?”

  James’s sigh rattled through the phone. “Yeah. I guess fate took its own revenge.”

  Victor grunted, a tickle of suspicion pricking his neck. “Maybe, but...I don’t like it. I smell a setup.”

  “What kind of setup?”

  “Don’t know, but...I think I’ll stay and watch the place. See who shows up—whether they recover a body—how this gets handled.” Victor pinched the bridge of his nose, dreading the long hours of sitting cramped in the hunter’s blind, getting eaten by mosquitoes. But he had to be sure.

  “Fine,” his older brother said. “I want a full report of everyone and everything that happens out there the rest of the day.”

  Resigned to the task and more mosquito bites, Victor stayed and watched as the cops and fire department arrived and put out the flames. Grim-faced men in FBI jackets came next. A coroner’s hearse hauled away a body bag. And an attractive redhead drove up, broke down in hysterical tears and was stopped from approaching the smoldering remains of the cabin by two FBI agents.

  When the scene was deserted several hours later, Victor rolled his aching shoulders and dialed James again to report in. “Did Mansfield have a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah,” James said. “A redhead. Name’s Darby something. Kent, I think. Yeah, Darby Kent.”

  “She showed up. Seemed pretty torn up about his death.”

  James grunted, then fell silent again for several nerve-racking seconds.

  Victor braced himself. He knew what was coming next.

  “Find Darby. Follow her. See if she meets up with him. If the explosion was part of a setup, she’s the key to bringing him outta hiding.”

  “You want me to take her out?”

  “Naw. She’s nothing to us. But if she meant anything to him, and he’s still alive—”

  Victor glanced at the burned-out husk of the cabin. His brother had a point. Family had always been Mansfield’s weakness. But Victor disagreed with James on one point. If Mansfield was still alive, pulling a hoax, Victor wasn’t as squeamish as his brother about collateral damage. If Darby Kent led him to Mansfield, he’d kill them both.

  Chapter 1

  Four and a half years later—Dallas

  Sam Orlean looked up from his laptop when he heard a knock on his office door.

  His boss at Tri-State Insurance strode in and slapped several files on his desk. “These just came in. They’re Roy’s accounts, but he’s on vacation. All three have reached over a hundred thousand in claims in the past month and need a policy review, follow-up calls.”

  Sam glanced at the sticky note on the top file that Roy had left.

  Male, 87, two weeks in intensive care—complications from flu

  Female, 3, cancer

  Sam’s gut wrenched. The cases that involved children were always the toughest to handle. The third notation read:

  Woman, 37, staph infection post-hysterectomy— extended hospital stay

  Sam’s job didn’t usually include medical claim reviews. He was in the auto claims department, but the company was small enough that covering for a different department wasn’t unusual.

  “What exactly am I looking for in the review?” he asked.

  “Just look at the paperwork, check for duplicate charges, tests run without supporting documentation from the doctor. Just make sure everything we’ve been billed for is on the up-and-up.” His boss gave a little wave as he left. “Have fun.”

  Sam leaned forward to drag the files closer, gritting his teeth in frustration. Days like today, he really hated the job the U.S. Marshals arranged for him. In his old life, when he’d been an accountant, he’d dealt with numbers. Numbers made sense. But insurance meant factoring in people—little girls with cancer and old men dying from complications from the flu. Even auto claims often mean human suffering. Spouses killed by drunk drivers, reckless teens who learned hard lessons and would never walk again.

  Given any other feasible option, Sam would leave this job. He’d complained to Marshals Jones and Raleigh before, requesting a new position doing something else, and was given the bureaucratic runaround. His new identity couldn’t bear any resemblance to his old one. New name, new hobbies, new hometown. New career.

  As they had when he entered the program, his handlers had fed him the line that went, “no Witness Security Program participant, who has followed security guidelines, has been harmed while under the active protection of the U.S. Marshals.” Translation: if you want to live, stop complaining and do what you’re told.

  Acid gnawed Sam’s gut as he shuffled the files and opened the one on the case that would be toughest. Three-year-old girl with leukemia. Chemotherapy started. Doctors placed child on bone marrow transplant list. No match found on maternal side of family. Father deceased. No siblings. One paternal uncle was a partial match, but her doctors were still hoping for a closer match from the donor registry.

  Sam sighed. He’d heard how rare it was to find a bone marrow donor with enough matching genetic markers outside of a patient’s immediate family. The poor kid and her mother were facing an uphill battle. A heartbreaking fight against an ugly disease.

  His chest tightening with sympathy, he flipped the page and found the policy history.

  Date policy purchased: January 18 of last year.

  Clicking his tongue in his mouth, hoping he could find enough supporting information to approve the claims without bothering the mother for further paperwork, he flipped back to the first page, looked for the date the first claim was filed. March 2 of this year. A little more than two months ago. He turned back to the summary page Roy had left to see the total paid out so far and gave a low whistle. Cancer treatment wasn’t cheap.

  As he flipped back to the front of the file, his gaze snagged on the name at the top of the form. The name of the mother, the policy owner: Darby L. Kent.

  Sam’s heart rose to his throat. What were the odds that there were two Darby Kents? Slim.

  He checked the woman’s address: 1209 Cypress Court, Lagniappe, Louisiana.

  Icy dismay washed through him, chilling him to the bone. It was his Darby. The woman he loved. The woman he’d had to give up when he entered the Witness Security Program more than four years ago. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her as she’d looked the last time he’d seen her, an autumn breeze lifting her copper hair from her oval face. One errant wavy lock had blown across her green eyes, and she’d laughed as she brushed the strands behin
d her ear and blown him a kiss from her front porch steps.

  He rocked back in his chair, slamming a hand through his hair. Through the haze of shock, his brain began clicking other facts into place.

  Darby had a baby. A sick little girl. Three years old. Almost four.

  He checked the child’s birth date and dragged a hand over his mouth as he did the math. The little girl would have been born...eight months after he left. Eight months after the U.S. Marshals faked his death, and he’d become Sam Orlean. Eight months...

  The file read Father deceased. But he wasn’t dead.

  A shudder rippled through him. The drone of blood whooshing through his veins buzzed in his ears.

  It was a near certainty...

  He was the baby’s father.

  * * *

  The hardest part about being a mother was seeing your child suffer and being absolutely powerless to ease her pain.

  Her heart giving a tender throb, Darby leaned forward to stroke her daughter’s tiny brow, knit in discomfort even as she slept. If Darby could have been the one getting stuck with needles and dealing with the nausea from the chemo treatments, she would have switched places with Savannah in a second. But all she could do was watch her baby soldier through the treatments and procedures she was too young to understand.

  Please, God, don’t take my baby, she begged silently for the millionth time. She’d lost Savannah’s father four and a half years ago, before she’d even realized she was pregnant, and thought she wouldn’t survive the pain. When she’d learned she was having Connor’s baby, she’d pulled herself together and rebuilt her life, focused on raising the miracle that was Savannah. An unexpected posthumous gift from Connor.

  Connor. Another sharp pang twisted in her chest, and she forcefully shoved down the suffocating ache. She had to be strong for her daughter.

  In her purse, her cell phone trilled. Darby set aside the sketch pad on her lap—drawing had always been her best stress reliever—and swiped tears from her cheek as she shuffled through her bag. The caller ID showed the insurance company with which she’d bought health coverage, and Darby tapped the answer key.