Her One and Only Hero Read online

  A frantic search...and a second chance?

  Francesca Scarpetta is desperate—her twelve-year-old daughter trusted the wrong people and now she has disappeared. Fran’s last hope is Miami detective Dale Baldwin, her high school sweetheart and the father of her child. Only, he doesn’t know he’s a father. Will they be able to overcome the pain of the past in time to rescue their daughter?

  Francesca Scarpetta? It couldn’t be...

  Dale had convinced himself she was dead. Because if she were alive, it meant she hadn’t loved him the way he’d loved her all those years ago. So he’d put Fran out of his mind and never tried to find her again.

  But he was a man now, a cop. A detective. He had no choice but to accept painful truths. He blew out a breath.

  “So what do you want, Francesca?” he asked, not caring how angry he sounded. “And why now after all these years?”

  Francesca closed her mesmerizing eyes and took a deep breath.

  “You have a daughter,” she said, her voice breaking. “We have a daughter. Her name is Isabella.” Fran opened her eyes and fixed her liquid gaze on him again. “I have come to you now because I believe she has been abducted.”

  Dear Reader,

  Don’t you love a secret-baby story? Well, I do. I always wanted to write one...and here it is! Her One and Only Hero is the fourth story in The Rookie Files, my miniseries about a group of police officers who began their careers together in Miami, Florida.

  Dale Baldwin was devastated when his high school sweetheart, an exchange student from Rome, returned home and disappeared. To get over a broken heart, he joined the army, went to war and was determined to never fall in love again. Best laid plans, right? The first of their rookie class to reach the rank of detective, Dale is stunned when Francesca reappears in his life needing his help to find their missing twelve-year-old daughter. A daughter he’d had no clue existed.

  Her One and Only Hero sends Francesca and Dale on an emotional rollercoaster where they need to forgive each other while working together to find their daughter. I hope you enjoy reading their journey.

  Please visit my website at sharonshartley.com.

  Sharon

  SHARON

  HARTLEY

  Her One and Only Hero

  Sharon Hartley is so fascinated by cops and the dangerous people who complicate their world that she attends every citizens’ police academy she can find. Having worked as a court reporter for many years, Sharon plays “what if” on her old cases and comes up with fictional ways to inject them into her stories. After time on the computer creating plots where the bad guys try to hurt the good ones, she calms herself by teaching yoga, plus hiking and birding in the natural world. Sharon lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, with her soul mate, Max, hundreds of orchids and a Jack Russell Terrorist. Please visit her website at sharonshartley.com.

  Books by Sharon Hartley

  Harlequin Superromance

  The Florida Files

  The South Beach Search

  Accidental Bodyguard

  Stranded with the Captain

  Her Cop Protector

  To Trust a Cop

  The Rookie Files

  The Billionaire’s Son

  A Cop’s Promise

  A Cop’s Second Chance

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  For my father.

  I wish you were here to read this story about a father finding his daughter.

  Contents

  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 ONE

  FRANCESCA SCARPETTA CIRCLED the slab of stone in the center of her studio. Natural light from huge windows bathed the pristine Carrara marble towering over her, beckoning her, urging her to approach and begin its transformation. She understood the lure only too well and knew she must be patient.

  She itched to grab her drill and begin the process. No. Not yet.

  Waiting, of course, was something she had always had much trouble with. But this time she would not rush.

  The moment she had found this stone in the quarry, half hidden behind lesser marbles, she knew this was the one for her Searching Man.

  And now it was here, in her studio, calling to her.

  She needed to study this stone, to understand what it wanted from her. What it needed from her. What she needed from it. She had to be certain before she began. These were lessons she had learned the hard way.

  Her Searching Man would be strong and sexy and intelligent. He would be Everyman, Everywoman, searching for what is missing in...

  “Signora Scarpetta. Per favore.”

  The loud male voice interrupting her thoughts sounded annoyed and long suffering, as if he’d been attempting to gain her attention for hours.

  “What is it?” she asked, unable to tear her gaze away from her magnificent marble.

  “If this stone is acceptable, madam, will you please sign the receipt so we can go?”

  Francesca whirled to the sweat-soaked delivery team standing at the door of her studio. Four men stared at her as if she’d gone mad. These men had struggled for over an hour to maneuver the huge, heavy marble out of the elevator and position it where she wanted it in the third-story studio of her home. As soon as her stone was in place, she had forgotten all about them.

  Once again she’d been thoughtless. She’d been caught up in her dreams and the rest of the world fell away.

  “Oh, of course,” she said, hurrying toward the supervisor, who held out an electronic tablet for her to sign.

  “Scusi,” she said.

  “Grazie, signora,” he replied with a relieved smile. “Buona fortuna.”

  “Grazie.”

  When they had trudged away, mumbling to themselves about the crazy artist, she turned back to her stone. Dismissing them, anticipating the thrill of watching her vision emerge, she smiled.

  Francesca glanced at the clay model she had completed of her project weeks ago, and then back to the virgin marble. Yes, she had been right. This slab was perfect, the ideal size, color and texture to execute her vision. Her patrons had been rather shocked by her monumental proposal for the redesign of the piazza in Milan, but they had soon realized her idea was exactly right and had awarded her the commission, although they’d attached a looming deadline.

  She had a matter of weeks to demonstrate progress, but now that she’d found her stone, the process would move swiftly.

  The advance, the largest she’d ever received, one that guaranteed her continued independence, was now safely in the bank. Money meant little to her. She had all she needed, but in this world cold hard cash validated her talent, proved that everything she’d fought for had been worth the struggle.

  Still captivated by its beauty, she stared at the marble. How deeply in the mountain had it been buried? Was the stone pleased to be freed? Or had freedom come at a high price? Had some integral part been left behind?

  After another moment or two, she approached and ran her palm over the stone’s smooth, cool surface, feeling the texture, sensing for vibration. Satisfied, she retrieved her caliper from her workben
ch and began the measurement.

  This part was tricky. She must be precise. There could be no mistakes.

  She climbed up and down her small ladder as she worked around the marble, referring to her model and sketches when in doubt, marking where she would drill. She didn’t stop until she realized her stone now sat in shadow. She glanced to the huge bank of windows on the west side of the studio and frowned at the setting sun illuminating a series of graceful domes spread out before her across Rome. She would have to quit soon.

  But not yet.

  Francesca descended the ladder and flipped on the overhead lights...unnatural light that she would never use for the carving, but acceptable for this initial process...and returned to her stone to complete the third and final measurement.

  She would begin the drilling tomorrow with the morning light.

  Before she placed her foot on the ladder’s first step, the studio door opened with a bang.

  “Signora.”

  Surprised that Dora would dare to interrupt work in the studio, Francesca turned toward her red-faced housekeeper. Her chest heaving, Dora struggled to catch her breath. Her heavy frame trembled with visible agitation. Her long brown hair had fallen out of her usually tidy braid. It was obvious she had run up the stairs from the living quarters below.

  Some domestic crisis must have occurred for Dora to run anywhere.

  “What is it?” Francesca asked, trying not to sound bothered by this distraction. She glanced at her stone, wanting to return to work. But Dora was a jewel that Francesca depended on to help with the care of her twelve-year-old daughter, Isabella.

  Dora placed a hand on the crystal door handle and transferred some of her ample weight. “Isabella.”

  With a sigh, Francesca returned her attention to Dora. “What about Bella?”

  “She is gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “I don’t know where.”

  Francesca glanced to the setting sun. Yes, it was getting too dark too work. “Maybe she had a late class or met with friends for coffee.”

  Dora inhaled deeply, her breath now more under control. “She wasn’t in school today. I checked.”

  “What? Where was she all day?”

  “I don’t know, signora. No one knows.”

  “What do you mean no one knows?”

  “Before I disturbed you, I contacted her father. Signor Romano hasn’t spoken to her since Saturday.”

  Francesca frowned. Paolo had spoken to Bella on Saturday? What about? Maybe that’s why he’d left so many messages Sunday and a few this morning. She’d meant to call him back. She really had.

  “Then I called Gina,” Dora continued. “She thought Bella was home sick.”

  Francesca raised a hand to her lips as alarm skittered through her belly. This was ridiculous, but if Bella’s best friend didn’t know where her daughter was...

  “Now I’m getting worried.”

  Dora placed a hand on her chest. “Gina was rather secretive about Bella’s whereabouts. I think she was lying.”

  Gina lie? Why? What was she hiding? Francesca hurried to her workbench and laid down the caliper. “I’ll call her right now.”

  She picked up her phone and turned it on—it was always off while she was working—and discovered several more messages from her ex-husband. What was going on?

  “Signor Romano asked me to have you call him,” Dora said. “He said it was urgent.”

  “Signor Romano believes everything is urgent,” Francesca muttered, staring at the “Call me” texts he’d also sent.

  “Yes, Signora.”

  “Grazie, Dora. You can go back downstairs. I’m sure Bella is fine and forgot to tell us about some important event.”

  Dora nodded, obviously unconvinced, and trudged out the doorway.

  Francesca pressed the speed button for Paolo’s number and waited for him to pick up. They hadn’t spoken in weeks, which was her fault. She’d been busy, but so was he. She should have returned his calls.

  He answered on the first ring. “Francesca. Thank God.”

  “What’s going on, Paolo?”

  “Wait a minute. Please don’t disconnect.”

  Francesca listened to him make excuses to whoever was with him and move away.

  “Bella came to see me on Saturday,” Paolo said.

  “Bella traveled to your villa?” Her ex lived in Tivoli, thirty-five kilometers east of Rome.

  “She took the train.”

  “All by herself? She’s twelve.”

  “It’s only an hour and she’s done it before. Now stop asking questions and listen to me,” Paolo said, his voice sharp, unlike his usual calm.

  Francesca collapsed into a chair, dread making her stomach cramp. She knew nothing of this visit. She had been busy in the studio with her clay model for the Searching Man all day Saturday. Bella was supposed to be studying with friends. Why would she secretly go to visit Paolo? Her daughter was intelligent and too independent for her own good. Maybe I need to pay more attention.

  “Bella knows,” Paolo said.

  “Bella knows what?”

  “That I am not her biological father.”

  Francesca swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “You told her?”

  “Of course not. You know I would never do that.”

  “Then it isn’t possible. How could she know?”

  “She signed up for an advanced genetics workshop in her biology class,” Paolo said. “She learned how to check her DNA.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “She didn’t talk to you about this?”

  “About DNA? No, never.”

  “She informed me Saturday she always knew something was not quite right about our family. That’s why she took the workshop.”

  “Mio Dio.” Francesca closed her eyes. Bella had been moody and withdrawn lately. She’d asked about Francesca’s divorce from Paolo and why she didn’t have any brothers or sisters.

  “She demanded to know who her father is.”

  “So you confirmed her suspicions?”

  “They weren’t suspicions, Francesca. She showed me the proof. She repeated the test three times.”

  “Why didn’t she ask me?”

  “Likely because she didn’t want to disturb Italy’s ‘most brilliant contemporary sculptress,’ didn’t want to tear her away from her ‘important gender-bending work.’”

  Francesca’s stomach churned as Paolo sarcastically quoted from a recent review in the Journal of European Art.

  “Don’t be cruel, Paolo. That’s not who we are.”

  He remained silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

  “What did you tell her?” Francesca asked.

  “I told her a version of the truth.”

  “What exactly did you tell her?”

  “That her father is an American from Miami, Florida, that you met him as an exchange student when you were seventeen years old and didn’t know you were pregnant until you returned home.”

  “That is the truth.”

  “I didn’t tell her about your parents’ part in our unholy deal.”

  “Thank you,” Francesca whispered. She closed her eyes. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Were you ever going to tell her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, now you must talk to Bella, explain what happened. She needs to know the truth.”

  “She’ll hate her grandparents,” Francesca said. As vehemently as I did. “I wanted to spare her that.”

  “It’s too late now. Promise me you’ll tell her everything, Francesca. It’s time.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “Call me back. I need to know how your discussion goes.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Also...�
�� Paolo hesitated. “I don’t know if it’s important, but she asked me for money.”

  “For money? Why?”

  “She said she needed it for a school project, and she didn’t want to bother you.”

  “What school project?” Francesca demanded.

  “Something about a trip to a museum. I gave her all the cash I had on me, which wasn’t much.”

  “Thank you, Paolo.”

  Francesca disconnected and with trembling hands searched her phone for Gina’s number. Gina had to know where her daughter was. Mio Dio. Where was Bella? Where would she go?

  If Bella needed money for a project, why didn’t she ask me? Or did she...and I forgot?

  As the phone rang, Francesca searched her memory for any unusual behavior from Bella on Saturday night. Nothing stood out. No hint that her daughter had been on a train to Tivoli that morning.

  Francesca closed her eyes and tried to dredge up Sunday. All she’d discussed with her daughter was the new commission. Bella had been quiet, yes, but didn’t act as if she had anything important she wanted to talk about. After mass, as usual she’d gone to the American-style coffee shop all her friends adored.

  Why didn’t she ask me about her father?

  What would I have said if she did?

  When Gina finally answered, she didn’t sound happy to hear from her best friend’s mother, which worried Francesca even more.

  “I don’t know where Bella is,” Gina said. “And that’s the truth.”

  Francesca inhaled deeply, sensing Dora had been correct. Gina knew more than she was saying.

  “Did you know she went to visit her father two days ago?” Francesca asked.

  “Yes,” Gina reported reluctantly.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Gina? This is important.”

  “I know it is, but she made me promise to wait until tomorrow morning before I said anything.”

  “Said anything about what?”

  “Bella swore she’d leave you a note.”

  “Gina, please,” Francesca said, panic spilling into her voice. “A note about what?”

  “Bella said you wouldn’t notice she was gone until tomorrow morning.”