Trust No One

Trust No One

by Meryl Sawyer
Trust No One

Trust No One

by Meryl Sawyer

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Overview

A woman engaged to the heir of one of California’s great wine dynasties falls in love with his twin brother in this irresistible tale of passion and suspense from New York Times–bestselling author Meryl Sawyer
 
Navy SEAL Brody Hawke is fighting for his country when he gets a letter from his father—who died when Brody was three. Not only is Giancarlo Hawke alive, he begs his son to come to California. He believes he’s in grave danger and warns Brody to trust no one. Taped to the back of the letter is a photo of a man who’s a dead ringer for Brody—the twin brother he never knew existed.
 
Victoria Anderson thinks she’s found an ideal partner in loyal, levelheaded vintner Elliott Hawke. But then his father dies under suspicious circumstances, and she meets the brother who was separated from Elliott at birth. Tori’s attraction to Brody is instant—and electric. Unable to keep their passion at bay, they begin a secret affair. But Brody’s father had powerful enemies and someone is willing to kill to keep Brody from claiming his half of the family’s multimillion-dollar business.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781504027267
Publisher: Open Road Media
Publication date: 12/22/2015
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 416
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Meryl Sawyer is the New York Times–bestselling author of more than twenty-five romantic suspense novels. Among her accolades are the Romantic Times Career Achievement Awards for Contemporary Romantic Suspense and Contemporary Romance, the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award for Romantic Suspense, and the Georgia Romance Writers’ Maggie Award for Contemporary Romance. Sawyer grew up in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and lives in Newport Beach, California, with her golden retriever.

Read an Excerpt

Trust No One


By Meryl Sawyer

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 2000 M. Sawyer-Unickel
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2726-7


CHAPTER 1

Three weeks later: the Amazon jungle


Brody Hawke hunkered down in the mire of silt and reeds lining the bank of the river. He'd been in this muddy tributary of the Amazon for nearly eight hours, and he was so bored he could hardly concentrate.

"Get a grip," he muttered under his breath. "A wandering mind is as deadly as a bullet."

Brody forced himself to watch the traffic on the river for the boatload of terrorists their informants claimed were coming here. A variety of watercraft chugged by him, and each time he hid, dropping under the water and holding his breath until the boat went by. Hours passed, one long minute at a time without any sign of the terrorists.

Brody cursed, wondering if all this waiting would make him lose his edge. He thrived on action, danger. Waiting day after day wasn't his style, but he supposed it came with the territory. So far, his missions had been fast-paced. This time was different, and he'd damned well better adjust his mind set.

He went off duty, saying, "catch you later" to the man who relieved him. Like a panther, he silently and quickly stole his way between shacks built along the river bank. Finally, he reached the lean-to they used as a safe house.

The ceiling in the grass shack wasn't high enough for him to stand up straight. He bent over and peeled off his wet suit. As he stripped, he noticed the letter on his cot. He stared down at the envelope and wondered who would write him. His mother was dead, and he had no close relatives.

The return address on the typewritten envelope wasn't the least bit familiar. St. Helena, California. He didn't know anyone in California. Hell, he hadn't been in that crazy state except for the six months he'd spent in San Diego for SEAL training.

Who would be sending him a letter?

He ripped the envelope open and pulled out two sheets of paper. The letter had been written on a computer he noticed. He read the opening line, then dropped onto the cot, dazed.

Dear Son.

He scanned the first page of the letter from the man who claimed to be his father. The poor bastard was certifiable, Brody assured himself. His father had died in an automobile accident when Brody had been three.

"Yo, Hawke! You're losing it."

Brody looked up and saw another SEAL had entered the hut. He hadn't heard him come in. Cuidad del Este was a haven for terrorists, drug lords, and every other kind of criminal. Letting his guard down was crazy.

Jake Wilder shrugged out of his sweat soaked T-shirt, then used it to wipe off the charcoal smudged on his face for camouflage. "Whatcha got there?" Jake asked. "A love letter from your main squeeze?"

"Nah, it's from some nut."

Brody flipped over the second page without reading it, intending to wad up the letter and toss it into the corner with the rest of the trash. A photograph taped to the back page caught his eye.

"Son of a bitch!" he cursed between clenched teeth.

Jake leaned over his shoulder and looked at the picture, too. "Hey, you can be hosed off and taken out in public, Hawke. Who'd have guessed?"

Brody was too stunned to respond to Jake's ribbing. The man in the photograph could have been Brody — except he wasn't. He had the same thick, dark hair, angular jaw, and cleft chin. The same piercing blue eyes beneath straight brows.

The shot showed the man from the shoulders up, making it impossible to know if he was six-three. Judging from the breadth of his shoulders, Brody assumed the man was that tall, maybe taller.

"Wait a minute!" Jake pointed at the man's right eyebrow. "That isn't you. He doesn't have a scar."

Brody reached up and touched his eyebrow. He vividly recalled the fight, even though it had been more than twenty years ago. He'd been seven at the time and terrified of the school bully. Because he was slight and small for his age, Brody had been easy to pick on. He knew if he didn't stand up for himself he would go through life an underdog, a punching bag for every bully.

He hadn't won the fight, but he'd held his own and came away with nothing more than a cut above his eye that had gushed blood. A badge of courage. And a rite of passage even though he'd been very young.

He and his mother had moved from town to town, never staying long in one place, so Brody was forced to prove himself over and over. The first fight — the one that had caused the scar — had given him courage. He began to win more fights than he lost.

He never became a bully even when he had a growth spurt and became much taller and more solidly built than other boys his age. To the contrary, his early experiences sent him to the underdog's corner to take on bullies even when he wasn't directly threatened.

The scar wouldn't be visible today if his mother had taken him for stitches. But she barely had enough money for food, so going to a doctor had been out of the question. "Be brave," she'd said, the way she always did when he needed comfort. "You're my stand-up guy, remember?"

Brody never would have traded the small scar that bisected the outer edge of his brow, lifting it slightly. Who would want to look as perfect and happy as the guy in the picture? Brody liked the slightly menacing expression the scar gave him. Women jokingly said it made him look dangerous, which was closer to the truth than they suspected, considering his occupation.

"Who's the guy in the photo?" Jake asked, breaking into his thoughts. "He's a dead ringer for you. Black hair. Blue eyes. Same crazy dent in the chin."

"Damned if I know."

Brody turned over the page and read the rest of the letter while Jake walked across the small shack and pulled a Coke out of the metal cabinet. Brody barely heard Jake pop the tab on the warm soda. His eyes were riveted on the words: This is your twin brother.

"Twin brother?" he whispered.

He stared down at the photograph and thought of his mother, wondering just a little. Had the woman he adored, the only person he'd ever loved, kept a secret from him?

Brody had asked her countless times about his father. Linda Hawke always had given the same terse explanation. His father had died in a car crash. When he'd asked for details about his father, her stock reply had been, "I can't talk about him. It hurts too much."

Slowly, taking in every word, he reread the letter. At the bottom was a typewritten signature, Giancarlo Hawke. Beneath it was a single line scrawled in pen. The writing was so difficult to read that Brody had to stare at it for a minute before he deciphered it.

Son, come right away. I need your help. My enemies are closing in. Trust no one.


Victoria Anderson allowed the glider to rock her back and forth as she gazed up at Napa Valley's moonlit sky. It was nearly three in the morning and not a sound could be heard around the Silver Moon Bed and Breakfast or in the adjacent vineyard. Even the noisy crickets had settled down for the night.

Earlier the light breeze had carried the sugary smell of ripe grapes and the sounds of people taking part in the crush. Years ago, the grapes were crushed by people standing barefoot in the vats and stomping on the grapes. A few small vineyards still practiced the centuries-old tradition, but most had come into the modern age and used machines.

"Why can't you sleep, Tori?" she asked herself. "Why?"

How many times had she awakened in the dead of night, a debilitating sense of loneliness and betrayal overwhelming her? When would she finally be able to put the past behind her? She surveyed the stars winking down at her. As usual, they didn't have an answer.

The Labrador retriever at her feet sighed, a heavy, almost snorting sound. She reached down to calm him with a reassuring hand. How many nights had Piny arisen to keep her company? Too many to count.

She gazed down at her left hand, and a shaft of starlight sparked off the pear-shaped diamond. It was a stunning engagement ring, the type most people gawked at, making Tori uncomfortable.

"Oh, Piny, I have to return this ring," she said out loud. "I can't marry Elliott."

Why had she ever thought she could? Even though it had been nearly five years since Connor had died, marrying again was out of the question.

She had been drawn to Elliott Hawke's steadfastness, his sense of honor, his commitment to his family. He was everything she wanted in a man — yet something was missing. It wasn't fair to either of them to pretend this was a temporary phase. Even a good man like Elliott couldn't heal her emotional scars.

"Maybe guilt is keeping me awake," she whispered, still petting the dog. "I should never have accepted the ring in the first place."

As the dog's silky fur passed beneath her fingertips, the telephone in the carriage house rang. She stifled a shudder of alarm. Telephone calls in the middle of the night didn't necessarily mean bad news she reassured herself.

She raced across the grass to the French doors that led into her small cottage. On the fifth ring, she snatched the receiver out of its cradle, stricken with anxiety — remembering another night, another telephone call.

"H-h-hello," she managed to mumble breathlessly.

"Tori, did I wake you?" Elliott Hawke's voice was low and huskier than usual.

"I wasn't asleep."

"You told me you had trouble sleeping," he responded, his voice lower still.

She wondered if his comment wasn't a backhanded way of criticizing her for never having slept with him. Despite the ring on her finger, Tori had held back, never truly allowing herself to emotionally — or physically — commit.

"I was sitting outside with Piny," she told him.

"I had the feeling you would be awake."

It had been two days since she'd heard from Elliott. He'd been angry with her for postponing their wedding — again. If Elliott was still upset, he didn't sound it. In fact, he seemed troubled, which probably accounted for a call so late at night.

She hesitated, not wanting to tell him over the telephone she couldn't marry him. She owed it to him to discuss this in person.

"My father" — Elliott's voice became nothing more than a whisper — "he's dead."

"Oh, no!" she cried, a surge of guilt hitting her. She'd been selfishly thinking about her own problems. Elliott's father had suffered a debilitating stroke more than a year ago. He'd been confined to a wheelchair, a shadow of the man he'd once been. "What happened?"

A beat of silence, then, "He accidentally fell into the swimming pool."

"In his wheelchair?"

There was a long pause. "Yes. It was dark. He must have misjudged the distance."

"Oh, my God," she cried. "How terrible."

She listened, sympathizing with Elliott's loss. Although Elliott's relationship with his father had been troubled, Elliott had idolized Giancarlo Hawke. A domineering man known in the wine country for his ruthlessness, Gian had made more than his share of enemies. Still, he was Elliott's father, his only parent.

She had often mused about their upbringings. Both had lost their mothers at a very early age and had been raised by their fathers. There the similarities ended.

Tori's father was a warm, loving man who'd done his best to be both mother and father to her. Gian Hawke had left Elliott to be raised by the housekeeper, giving his son little time and less love.

Now Elliott would become head of the prestigious Hawke's Landing Vineyards. He would have to assume a mantle of leadership, which would be daunting to someone twice his age. The heaviness in Elliott's voice told her that he realized what awaited him and the burden he would have to carry without his father.

"It'll be hard to manage without him," Elliott admitted.

"You can do it, darling. You've been running things since your father's stroke."

"True," he said, his tone weary, lacking his usual self-confidence.

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No," he responded without hesitation. "I'm all right."

She said good night, promising to help during the next few days when he would have to plan the funeral and make arrangements for the hordes of friends and relatives who would descend on the wine country for the services.

Walking to the open window, she saw a light on in Silver Moon Bed and Breakfast. It was her father's second floor suite, she realized with a start. What was he doing up so early?

She rushed out of the carriage house and across the grounds. On the wooden stairs leading up to the second floor entrance to her father's suite, Tori tread lightly, not wanting to awaken the guests. She tapped softly.

The door swung open, and her father appeared larger than life as he always did. Lou Edwards was handsome despite a hairline that had receded so long ago she couldn't remember when he didn't have a bald crown with lush gray hair along the sides. He had intelligent green eyes that matched hers and an air of youthfulness, even though he was in his late fifties.

"You heard?" he asked.

She stepped into the room, responding in a low voice, "Elliott just called me. Gian's had an accident. He drowned." She turned to her father so she could see his face in the dim amber light coming from the Tiffany lamp on his desk. "How did you find out?"

"Moxie phoned me."

"Moxie?" She couldn't keep the astonishment out of her voice. Moxie had been her father's editor-in-chief when he'd been a reporter with the San Francisco Herald. Her father had taken an early retirement five years ago to purchase the Silver Moon Bed and Breakfast. "Why?"

"The wire service picked it up. Gian Hawke's death could have been an accident" — her father shrugged, noncommittal, his reporter's persona in place — "but there are strong indications it was murder."

CHAPTER 2

"This had better be important." Elliott Hawke dropped into the chair beside his third cousin, Rachel. His father had been dead less than forty-eight hours, but the family attorney, Fred Wickerson, had insisted on meeting with the family.

"Were you supervising the sorting?" Rachel asked.

"Yes, and it's worse than I thought. Much worse."

He looked into his cousin's dark eyes and saw her concern mirrored his. The Hawkes' grew most of their own grape in a good year and bought as few as possible from other growers. A hard rain had scarred many of the best Chardonnay grapes they used in blending their sparkling wines, making the skins too tough to use. When he'd overseen the sorting of the grapes they'd harvested, he'd discovered the situation was even worse than he'd feared.

"When do you want me to start buying?" Rachel asked, her voice too low to carry. She gathered her long, black hair around her fist, the way she often did when she was thinking. As the buyer for the vineyard, it was her responsibility to purchase grapes when there was a shortage, not an easy job, considering most of the vineyards already had contracts.

"First thing tomorrow. Be cagey. Don't let anyone know how bad it is."

"You've got it." Rachel smoothed her hair across her shoulder, letting it fall across a full breast. Leaning closer, she whispered, "What's this meeting all about?"

"I haven't a clue."

Elliott inhaled a breath, letting his mind wander. Tori, he thought, smiling inwardly. She would make the perfect wife. He wanted someone to share his life, and the enormous burden of leading the Hawke family.

As much as he enjoyed the winery, Elliott found an extended family with conflicting interests and personalities overwhelming at times. Not only was Tori intelligent, she was good with people.

Having her at his side while he took over the family business would be reassuring. Since telling Tori about his father's death, she'd thrown herself into helping with the funeral arrangements. He'd hardly seen her. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was avoiding him.

"Elliott, Rachel." Tito Barzini waved as he entered the room.

Uncle Tito sat in the leather chair beside the huge oak desk. His son Lorenzo swaggered in next. Father and son looked exactly alike except for the difference age played. Tall and dark-haired with lively brown eyes and perpetual smiles, the Barzinis weren't much help when it came to running the business. Uncle Tito had married Gina Hawke, Elliott's father's twin sister, thus inheriting a small vineyard. It was all he could handle.

With cash reserves at an all time low and more grapes ruined than Elliott had anticipated, he was going to need a lot of luck to keep Hawke's Landing in the black. He could no longer ignore the Corelli brothers' takeover threats. He could rely on Rachel, he knew, but other than his cousin, there wasn't much family to support him.

They're like leeches, he decided as a few other members of the extended family filed in and found seats. Likable leeches, but leeches nonetheless. His relatives lived the high life in a valley where wine was king and Hawke's Landing was a jewel in the crown.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Trust No One by Meryl Sawyer. Copyright © 2000 M. Sawyer-Unickel. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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