GENUINE FAKE
Devlin Security Force - Protecting priceless treasures
Although part of a series, this is a stand-alone with its own conclusion.
Although part of a series, this is a stand-alone with its own conclusion.
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“...filled with a serious relationship… well-written characters who possess realistic goals, motivation, and conflict…. spiced with danger and suspense—up the rung on the fantastic read meter. Susan Vaughn continues to keep us entertained with her novels of non-stop action and suspense… terrific read. On a scale of 1-5, Genuine Fake deserves a 6.” --Kat Henry Doran, Wild Women Authors Reviews |
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A Devlin Extra - Not in Sequence
Although part of a series, this is a stand-alone with its own conclusion.
from The Wild Rose Press
Available at Amazon - Barnes & Noble - iTunes - Kobo
His tragic past… Her guilty secret… Their only chance for redemption.
Devlin Security operative Boyd Kirby guards only art and artifacts. Memories of leading his Army Ranger team into a deathtrap haunt him,
so he swears never to protect people. But when the woman who once stole his heart asks for help, he can’t refuse.
The search for Gemma’s missing friend leads to a complex case of art forgery and murder attempts on her.
Sweating bullets, Boyd vows not to be distracted by her warmth and his desire. He damn well will protect her… with his life.
Gemma Bellini believes managing her famous grandfather’s art legacy can redeem her for a past scandal that makes her wary of men’s motives.
Because of forgeries linked to her friend and life-threatening incidents, she needs Boyd, who worked with her before.
She never forgot his sexy magnetism and wry sense of humor that masked pain.
This strong man will investigate and keep her safe, but can Gemma trust him with her heart and soul?
When sparks between them ignite to flames, the danger escalates—to their lives and their hearts.
Although part of a series, this is a stand-alone with its own conclusion.
from The Wild Rose Press
Available at Amazon - Barnes & Noble - iTunes - Kobo
His tragic past… Her guilty secret… Their only chance for redemption.
Devlin Security operative Boyd Kirby guards only art and artifacts. Memories of leading his Army Ranger team into a deathtrap haunt him,
so he swears never to protect people. But when the woman who once stole his heart asks for help, he can’t refuse.
The search for Gemma’s missing friend leads to a complex case of art forgery and murder attempts on her.
Sweating bullets, Boyd vows not to be distracted by her warmth and his desire. He damn well will protect her… with his life.
Gemma Bellini believes managing her famous grandfather’s art legacy can redeem her for a past scandal that makes her wary of men’s motives.
Because of forgeries linked to her friend and life-threatening incidents, she needs Boyd, who worked with her before.
She never forgot his sexy magnetism and wry sense of humor that masked pain.
This strong man will investigate and keep her safe, but can Gemma trust him with her heart and soul?
When sparks between them ignite to flames, the danger escalates—to their lives and their hearts.
Excerpt - Chapter 1
GEMMA GUIDED THE paint pen across the rayon fabric, her lips compressed in concentration, her other hand steadying the stretcher frame. No slips allowed. The image must be perfectly outlined to create the three-dimensional illusion of ribs. One rib. Then the next and the next.
She stepped back and capped the pen. A perfect scallop shell. The other shell was a whelk, more difficult coloring, but she’d already drawn the image on the tunic. She could add tiny periwinkles as accents. Use of the dauber to create the sand around the shells would be the finishing touch. The design was so Virginia seashore. Her sister would love her birthday gift.
Smiling, Gemma flung her arms over her head and twirled around the table. And came up against the project she ought to be working on. The anchor. Her serious art. Worthy or not, it might as well be her albatross. Still, she’d almost completed the painting. If only he were here, her grandfather would tell her to focus on it, not on the fabric painting. He would’ve guided her. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She missed him so much.
She’d disappointed him bigtime once and could still picture the sorrow in his eyes. Guilty, guilty, whispered inside her head. She drew two deep breaths against ever present ball of tension in her chest. Why had her grandfather then trusted her with his legacy? She’d never know. Maybe she should’ve taken Tina up on her offer to share the responsibilities… No, she had to prove to him and to herself she could do this.
“I’m trying, Silvio. I’ll make you proud one day.”
Shaking away her maudlin reverie, she set the stretcher frame back on the table. Maybe she should leave aside the tunic for now. There was time before Tina’s birthday.
She tilted her head at the anchor painting. She was close. Something about the color of the anchor’s rust was--
Van Halen’s screaming guitar erupted from her cell phone.
Gemma’s heartbeat clattered. Troy! She dashed to her phone, which she’d foolishly left out of reach on the far table. “What took you so long? You left town without a word. Are you o—”
“Gemma, slow down. I’m good. No prob.”
“Where did you go? Why didn’t you call me? Dammit, it’s been two weeks. Two weeks. I’ve been worried sick.” When she didn’t want to bonk him over the head for not calling.
“I couldn’t call. Don’t ask why.”
Her friend’s voice pitched higher than normal, taut as stretched wire. He wasn’t okay, but she’d find out more later.
“Where are you? Do you need help? What’s wrong?”
“I called to warn you, Gemma. Watch your back. Be careful.” The phone went dead.
Warn her? Watch her back? Why the warning? Tears welled. Was he hurt? Mixed up in— No, she wouldn’t think it, not that the idea hadn’t reared its Medusa head many times since his disappearance. Those snakes could bite in more than one direction.
She hit speed dial. The screen read user is temporarily unavailable. She stared at the words. Crap, he turned off his phone.
Five minutes later, painting gear swapped out for the sundress and flats she’d worn earlier, she tossed her tote onto the passenger seat of the car and punched the garage door remote.
Was he in his apartment? Maybe he returned to get clean clothes or his mail. Where could he have been? She’d even phoned his folks, but they hadn’t heard from him in a month.
The temp had to be ninety in her garage and in this clunker. Finally the air conditioning kicked in, and she rolled out into the June night’s cool-down. She left the condo development and headed south to Linley Harbor.
Her phone jangled with “Get the Party Started.” She set the phone on speaker and laid it on the other seat. “Hey, Pia. What’s up?”
“You at Galerie Flora?”
“Nope. I changed my day from Friday to Tuesday.” She and a few other local artists worked there because Flora was such a supporter. Besides, having the artists there brought in more shoppers. As it was, Gemma barely had enough time to organize exhibits and shipments of Silvio’s works or to complete her own projects.
She reached Linley Harbor and turned right. The street rose gently up a hill across side streets. The neighborhood stretched away from the town docks on the Potomac.
“Well, then, girlfriend, you can meet Ritchie and me at The River House for drinks.”
“I’ll bet he has a buddy you want to introduce to me.” Pia was always fixing her up with guys. Sometimes they hit it off, but she kept things light, well short of relationship. “No time tonight, sorry.”
“Hmm, Pia the All-Seeing knows. I hear street sounds, a car horn. You’re going to Troy’s place again.”
For some reason, telling Pia about Troy’s phone call didn’t seem right. “I have to do something. This time I’ll find a clue, something the police missed. Maybe in Fairfax and Alexandria, they go to whatever detective school Virginia has. Not in this burg south of the Beltway.”
The local cops had told her his missing laptop and duffel meant Troy had left on a trip and not to worry. But his call… the warning. How could she not worry? She prayed he was in the apartment.
“I know when to give up. You’re a loyal friend,” Pia said, her voice softening. “You have your car back?”
She pulled over and parked in front of Troy’s small redbrick building.
“Still have this older loaner with no technology. Ugh, and the seat cushions smell of stale beer. The body shop had to order parts for mine.”
“Brakes shouldn’t just fail like that.”
“This time they did.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
“It wasn’t that bad. When I veered off the highway, I went into a ditch is all.” And just missed hitting a boulder. A shudder worked through her as she remembered the horror of having no braking power. Her chest clamped tight. Again. She forced in a deep breath. “Hey, I’m fine, and I’ll have my Prius back soon. Gotta go now. I’m at Troy’s place. Bye.”
She lifted her tote and exited. Lights glimmered in curtained windows on two of the building’s three stories.
And blazed from the bare third-floor dormer windows.
Yes, he’s there!
Gemma’s pulse kicked up. But if he’s there, why did he shut off his phone? Her elation fizzled. Her shoulders slumped and her lips thinned as she entered the foyer. Was he in some sort of trouble? And that cryptic warning?
By the time she reached the third-floor landing, she’d imagined all sorts of dire scenarios. Shoot, the ceiling light was out too. In the gloom, she glared at the door. From inside came the sounds of a dish shattering and a clunk as something fell on the floor.
She rapped sharply on the wood. The door creaked partway inward, spilling light onto the landing. “Troy?”
Footsteps clomped toward the door. A large man filled the opening. He swatted her aside like a mosquito.
She slammed onto the floor. Reeling, she pitched forward toward the steep stairs. She grabbed the newel post and collapsed next to it.
He stepped around her and hit the stairs. A second man hustled through the door behind him. As he passed, his foot struck her hip. She yelped at the pain.
She could hear them stomping on downward. Farther below, a cell phone rang the universal default tune. The front door banged. They were gone.
No tenants on the lower floors came out to investigate. Gemma was on her own.
What had those guys been doing in Troy’s apartment? She didn’t get much of a look at either one. On the first one, only an impression of dark clothing and a hat pulled low.
She hauled in a deep breath. Her tote…where? Did those men take it? She turned her head, searched in the gloom. The triangle of light from the doorway showed the bag in a corner. She managed to scoot over and snag it.
Another deep breath, and she assessed. She ached, was probably bruised. She’d be stiff tomorrow, but nothing seemed broken. Trembling all over, she clutched the wooden railing as she climbed to her feet.
“Troy?” No reply. No sound at all from inside. Was he in there, hurt?
She took one step inside the apartment, then another. Her throat tightened.
The futon mattress lay flat on the floor, slashed open and bleeding stuffing. Pots and pans, broken dishes, utensils, papers littered the floor. His art portfolios dumped and trampled. Stale odors, the dust that layered everything and the old air conditioning unit.
But no Troy.
Lightheaded, she sank to the floor. Police. She needed to call the police. She fumbled her phone from her bag and tapped 911. When the dispatcher answered, she managed, “A burglary, they… they broke in.” To the next question, “No, my friend’s place. He… he’s not here.” One more question. “Two men. Gone. The apartment is trashed.” Finally she got out the address.
Her gaze fell to the sketches scattered on the floor. Pointed ears and an equine face caught her eye. She probably shouldn’t touch anything. Leave it to the police. But… that image, the angle of the head. She nudged aside the paper atop the horse. And gasped, recoiling as if it were a snake poised to strike. No, it couldn’t be.
Troy was definitely in trouble. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner? She couldn’t help feeling responsible. He wasn’t strong. Sometimes, well, most of the time, he resented her hovering. Now what? Tears burned and she blinked them away.
Police or not, she pushed to her feet. She had to study the sketch, make certain. It went into her tote, between the pages of her drawing pad.
She couldn’t bear to look at the mess. Feeling marginally better, she went to sit on the top step. Why’d she bother to call the Linley Harbor police? But it was a crime. And the jerks had trashed Troy’s stuff. She didn’t trust the local guys to do much. Her dad or Uncle James maybe. But no, they thought Troy was a bad influence. They’d tell her to mind her own business.
She needed someone who’d do something.
The image of a rugged face and pewter gray eyes popped into her mind. What about Boyd?
When she’d needed to move Silvio’s unsold sketches and paintings from a crowded unit to a larger secure art storage facility, she’d contracted with Devlin Security Force. A perfect choice, because the company’s mission was protecting and retrieving art and artifacts. Boyd Kirby managed the process with complete competence. She fretted about the whole venture, but Boyd kept her reassured.
He was quietly intense, with sword-sharp intelligence. He radiated heat and strength. She sensed something solid about him, and an air of command. And yet he had a wry sense of humor.
At dinner after all was finished, he’d told her a little about his time in Afghanistan, about what his team did to help the villagers. Nothing about the danger she was certain he and his men had faced daily.
When he walked her to her car, she stood on tiptoes, intending a quick buss of thanks. But the press of Boyd’s firm lips gave her heart a jumpstart, the zing of desire blotting out her ugly past. She pressed against him as he deepened the kiss. He pulled her closer, lifted her onto the car hood, and brought his mouth back to hers. Wanting more, she wrapped her legs around his slim hips and hung on for the ride. She must’ve moaned or something because he ended what had been until that moment an endless embrace and lowered his forehead to hers. He’d apologized. She’d mumbled something about no need and two consenting adults.
At the memory, a flutter skipped around in her belly. She touched her lips, trying in vain to conjure the sensation of his mouth on hers. Or maybe their embrace hadn’t been as hot as memory made it out to be. Even if it had, getting too involved with any man was risky.
Boyd was a security operative. He’d know how to solve this mystery and what to do to find Troy. But calling him would be awkward. They’d had that one sort-of date, and the award-winning kiss, but he’d never followed up. Maybe her chatter about art bored him, and kissing her was compensation. She should’ve known not to trust he’d want to see her again.
So if she called, he might refuse. Maybe he’d tell her to hire Devlin Security the official way. Or… She stared at her phone, clutched in both hands.
The wail of sirens growing louder forced her decision.
She stepped back and capped the pen. A perfect scallop shell. The other shell was a whelk, more difficult coloring, but she’d already drawn the image on the tunic. She could add tiny periwinkles as accents. Use of the dauber to create the sand around the shells would be the finishing touch. The design was so Virginia seashore. Her sister would love her birthday gift.
Smiling, Gemma flung her arms over her head and twirled around the table. And came up against the project she ought to be working on. The anchor. Her serious art. Worthy or not, it might as well be her albatross. Still, she’d almost completed the painting. If only he were here, her grandfather would tell her to focus on it, not on the fabric painting. He would’ve guided her. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She missed him so much.
She’d disappointed him bigtime once and could still picture the sorrow in his eyes. Guilty, guilty, whispered inside her head. She drew two deep breaths against ever present ball of tension in her chest. Why had her grandfather then trusted her with his legacy? She’d never know. Maybe she should’ve taken Tina up on her offer to share the responsibilities… No, she had to prove to him and to herself she could do this.
“I’m trying, Silvio. I’ll make you proud one day.”
Shaking away her maudlin reverie, she set the stretcher frame back on the table. Maybe she should leave aside the tunic for now. There was time before Tina’s birthday.
She tilted her head at the anchor painting. She was close. Something about the color of the anchor’s rust was--
Van Halen’s screaming guitar erupted from her cell phone.
Gemma’s heartbeat clattered. Troy! She dashed to her phone, which she’d foolishly left out of reach on the far table. “What took you so long? You left town without a word. Are you o—”
“Gemma, slow down. I’m good. No prob.”
“Where did you go? Why didn’t you call me? Dammit, it’s been two weeks. Two weeks. I’ve been worried sick.” When she didn’t want to bonk him over the head for not calling.
“I couldn’t call. Don’t ask why.”
Her friend’s voice pitched higher than normal, taut as stretched wire. He wasn’t okay, but she’d find out more later.
“Where are you? Do you need help? What’s wrong?”
“I called to warn you, Gemma. Watch your back. Be careful.” The phone went dead.
Warn her? Watch her back? Why the warning? Tears welled. Was he hurt? Mixed up in— No, she wouldn’t think it, not that the idea hadn’t reared its Medusa head many times since his disappearance. Those snakes could bite in more than one direction.
She hit speed dial. The screen read user is temporarily unavailable. She stared at the words. Crap, he turned off his phone.
Five minutes later, painting gear swapped out for the sundress and flats she’d worn earlier, she tossed her tote onto the passenger seat of the car and punched the garage door remote.
Was he in his apartment? Maybe he returned to get clean clothes or his mail. Where could he have been? She’d even phoned his folks, but they hadn’t heard from him in a month.
The temp had to be ninety in her garage and in this clunker. Finally the air conditioning kicked in, and she rolled out into the June night’s cool-down. She left the condo development and headed south to Linley Harbor.
Her phone jangled with “Get the Party Started.” She set the phone on speaker and laid it on the other seat. “Hey, Pia. What’s up?”
“You at Galerie Flora?”
“Nope. I changed my day from Friday to Tuesday.” She and a few other local artists worked there because Flora was such a supporter. Besides, having the artists there brought in more shoppers. As it was, Gemma barely had enough time to organize exhibits and shipments of Silvio’s works or to complete her own projects.
She reached Linley Harbor and turned right. The street rose gently up a hill across side streets. The neighborhood stretched away from the town docks on the Potomac.
“Well, then, girlfriend, you can meet Ritchie and me at The River House for drinks.”
“I’ll bet he has a buddy you want to introduce to me.” Pia was always fixing her up with guys. Sometimes they hit it off, but she kept things light, well short of relationship. “No time tonight, sorry.”
“Hmm, Pia the All-Seeing knows. I hear street sounds, a car horn. You’re going to Troy’s place again.”
For some reason, telling Pia about Troy’s phone call didn’t seem right. “I have to do something. This time I’ll find a clue, something the police missed. Maybe in Fairfax and Alexandria, they go to whatever detective school Virginia has. Not in this burg south of the Beltway.”
The local cops had told her his missing laptop and duffel meant Troy had left on a trip and not to worry. But his call… the warning. How could she not worry? She prayed he was in the apartment.
“I know when to give up. You’re a loyal friend,” Pia said, her voice softening. “You have your car back?”
She pulled over and parked in front of Troy’s small redbrick building.
“Still have this older loaner with no technology. Ugh, and the seat cushions smell of stale beer. The body shop had to order parts for mine.”
“Brakes shouldn’t just fail like that.”
“This time they did.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
“It wasn’t that bad. When I veered off the highway, I went into a ditch is all.” And just missed hitting a boulder. A shudder worked through her as she remembered the horror of having no braking power. Her chest clamped tight. Again. She forced in a deep breath. “Hey, I’m fine, and I’ll have my Prius back soon. Gotta go now. I’m at Troy’s place. Bye.”
She lifted her tote and exited. Lights glimmered in curtained windows on two of the building’s three stories.
And blazed from the bare third-floor dormer windows.
Yes, he’s there!
Gemma’s pulse kicked up. But if he’s there, why did he shut off his phone? Her elation fizzled. Her shoulders slumped and her lips thinned as she entered the foyer. Was he in some sort of trouble? And that cryptic warning?
By the time she reached the third-floor landing, she’d imagined all sorts of dire scenarios. Shoot, the ceiling light was out too. In the gloom, she glared at the door. From inside came the sounds of a dish shattering and a clunk as something fell on the floor.
She rapped sharply on the wood. The door creaked partway inward, spilling light onto the landing. “Troy?”
Footsteps clomped toward the door. A large man filled the opening. He swatted her aside like a mosquito.
She slammed onto the floor. Reeling, she pitched forward toward the steep stairs. She grabbed the newel post and collapsed next to it.
He stepped around her and hit the stairs. A second man hustled through the door behind him. As he passed, his foot struck her hip. She yelped at the pain.
She could hear them stomping on downward. Farther below, a cell phone rang the universal default tune. The front door banged. They were gone.
No tenants on the lower floors came out to investigate. Gemma was on her own.
What had those guys been doing in Troy’s apartment? She didn’t get much of a look at either one. On the first one, only an impression of dark clothing and a hat pulled low.
She hauled in a deep breath. Her tote…where? Did those men take it? She turned her head, searched in the gloom. The triangle of light from the doorway showed the bag in a corner. She managed to scoot over and snag it.
Another deep breath, and she assessed. She ached, was probably bruised. She’d be stiff tomorrow, but nothing seemed broken. Trembling all over, she clutched the wooden railing as she climbed to her feet.
“Troy?” No reply. No sound at all from inside. Was he in there, hurt?
She took one step inside the apartment, then another. Her throat tightened.
The futon mattress lay flat on the floor, slashed open and bleeding stuffing. Pots and pans, broken dishes, utensils, papers littered the floor. His art portfolios dumped and trampled. Stale odors, the dust that layered everything and the old air conditioning unit.
But no Troy.
Lightheaded, she sank to the floor. Police. She needed to call the police. She fumbled her phone from her bag and tapped 911. When the dispatcher answered, she managed, “A burglary, they… they broke in.” To the next question, “No, my friend’s place. He… he’s not here.” One more question. “Two men. Gone. The apartment is trashed.” Finally she got out the address.
Her gaze fell to the sketches scattered on the floor. Pointed ears and an equine face caught her eye. She probably shouldn’t touch anything. Leave it to the police. But… that image, the angle of the head. She nudged aside the paper atop the horse. And gasped, recoiling as if it were a snake poised to strike. No, it couldn’t be.
Troy was definitely in trouble. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner? She couldn’t help feeling responsible. He wasn’t strong. Sometimes, well, most of the time, he resented her hovering. Now what? Tears burned and she blinked them away.
Police or not, she pushed to her feet. She had to study the sketch, make certain. It went into her tote, between the pages of her drawing pad.
She couldn’t bear to look at the mess. Feeling marginally better, she went to sit on the top step. Why’d she bother to call the Linley Harbor police? But it was a crime. And the jerks had trashed Troy’s stuff. She didn’t trust the local guys to do much. Her dad or Uncle James maybe. But no, they thought Troy was a bad influence. They’d tell her to mind her own business.
She needed someone who’d do something.
The image of a rugged face and pewter gray eyes popped into her mind. What about Boyd?
When she’d needed to move Silvio’s unsold sketches and paintings from a crowded unit to a larger secure art storage facility, she’d contracted with Devlin Security Force. A perfect choice, because the company’s mission was protecting and retrieving art and artifacts. Boyd Kirby managed the process with complete competence. She fretted about the whole venture, but Boyd kept her reassured.
He was quietly intense, with sword-sharp intelligence. He radiated heat and strength. She sensed something solid about him, and an air of command. And yet he had a wry sense of humor.
At dinner after all was finished, he’d told her a little about his time in Afghanistan, about what his team did to help the villagers. Nothing about the danger she was certain he and his men had faced daily.
When he walked her to her car, she stood on tiptoes, intending a quick buss of thanks. But the press of Boyd’s firm lips gave her heart a jumpstart, the zing of desire blotting out her ugly past. She pressed against him as he deepened the kiss. He pulled her closer, lifted her onto the car hood, and brought his mouth back to hers. Wanting more, she wrapped her legs around his slim hips and hung on for the ride. She must’ve moaned or something because he ended what had been until that moment an endless embrace and lowered his forehead to hers. He’d apologized. She’d mumbled something about no need and two consenting adults.
At the memory, a flutter skipped around in her belly. She touched her lips, trying in vain to conjure the sensation of his mouth on hers. Or maybe their embrace hadn’t been as hot as memory made it out to be. Even if it had, getting too involved with any man was risky.
Boyd was a security operative. He’d know how to solve this mystery and what to do to find Troy. But calling him would be awkward. They’d had that one sort-of date, and the award-winning kiss, but he’d never followed up. Maybe her chatter about art bored him, and kissing her was compensation. She should’ve known not to trust he’d want to see her again.
So if she called, he might refuse. Maybe he’d tell her to hire Devlin Security the official way. Or… She stared at her phone, clutched in both hands.
The wail of sirens growing louder forced her decision.
