The Great Escape Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  A funny thing happened…

  Books by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Copyright

  “Did you really kill that man, Miss O’Leary?”

  “What?” Joan answered absently. She’d been daydreaming, wondering how she could get the gorgeous lawman in a set of handcuffs. She started. “Oh! Yes. Yes, I killed him. In a fit of passion.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Passion.” Dan looked her over, then shook his head. “Nope. Don’t see it. Not you.”

  Joan zeroed in on his insult. “You don’t think I can be passionate? Not that it’s any of your business, but I can be as passionate as the next woman— maybe even more. And don’t you forget it.”

  A husky chuckle preceded his words. “I won’t. I’m just glad to know that all that red hair and those green eyes weren’t wasted on someone with no fire.” Dan dug into his pocket and pulled out some keys. “Stand up, please.”

  She tensed, breathing shallowly. “Are you cutting me loose?”

  Dan shook his head. “No. You’ve been arrested and charged. Only the D.A. can cut you loose.” Pulling the handcuffs off her, Dan asked, “I can trust you not to try to escape, can’t I?”

  Joan looked at him sweetly. “As much as you can any other cold-blooded killer.”

  Dear Reader,

  Runaway brides and runaways seem to be the theme this month in a pair of great romps!

  Renee Roszel always writes great comedy about heroes and heroines you really do fall in love with, and There Goes the Bride (rather self-explanatory) is no different. It is also the first of a mini marathon of Westem-themed romances coming out in the next four months. Cowboys and the women who lasso their hearts. You, too, will fall head over spurs for these love stories!

  Cheryl Anne Porter’s heroine can think of only one really safe place to hide from the Mafia, and therefore confesses to a crime she didn’t commit. The only problem is that no one thinks she’s guilty—certainly not the sexy deputy assigned to escort her to jail. The only thing to do is to plan The Great Escape.

  So take some time to smell the roses (it is May!) and enjoy yourself with two great LOVE & LAUGHTER books.

  Malle Vallik

  Associate Senior Editor

  The Great Escape

  Cheryl Anne Porter

  A funny thing happened…

  I’m not a good liar, I hate flying, I can’t ski and I’m intimidated by policemen, not to mention bears. But I love to tell a good story. So, in The Great Escape, what else could I do but put all these elements together? Of course, I desperately needed to do some research (since I generally don’t know much about things I avoid). So I pestered very big policemen and very busy pilots into answering a few questions. It didn’t take long before they were threatening to throw me into a cell or out of an airplane if I didn’t go away! Now I know how my heroine, Joan, feels. She wasn’t the only one who had to make The Great Escape!

  —Cheryl Anne Porter

  Books by Cheryl Anne Porter

  HARLEQUIN LOVE & LAUGHTER

  21—A MAN IN DEMAND

  Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

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  To the men in my life—Paul, Paul III, Nick, TJ, Jimmie and Mark. Heroes all, and all beloved to me.

  1

  IT’S KIND OF HARD to scratch your nose when you’re handcuffed, Joan was forced to conclude as she tried but failed to raise her manacled hands to her face. She sat down with her chain mates as ordered, but immediately turned her head and tried to rub the dastardly tickle against her raised shoulder. Her snorting, sighing and iron-clanking efforts, while easing her itch, suddenly sounded awfully loud to her. But surely she wasn’t as—

  She peeked. Lots of curious stares were coming her way. Lots. Joan straightened up, relaxed her posture. Great. That’s what I want—freak-show status in a women’s prison. Could she help it, she argued right back, that her every move made her sound like the Ghost of Christmas Past? No, but she needed to look that scary if she hoped to keep body and soul intact.

  Conceding that point, Joan cramped her features into a glare meant to convey what-are-you-looking-at-sister. Apparently it did, because the rough women averted their gazes. Joan lowered hers to her lap. Prison coveralls, compliments of Houston’s penal system, engulfed her body. Her oh-so-fashionable orange jumpsuit and matching chain accessories didn’t matter, she told herself. What did matter was that she was safely in jail. Thank God.

  That’s how grim things were. Being a criminal was a good thing in her life. As was being charged with Murder One. Not to mention the possibility of death by lethal injection. Great. Don’t even go there, girlfriend. Your nerves are already frayed like split ends. Worry about today, about why you were taken out of your nice cell and marched in a chain gang to the Holding Room.

  Good point. She swept the room with her gaze, wondering where were the peeling paint and the dirty floors and the dripping overhead pipes? Didn’t these people watch TV? Obviously not, because the large, well-lit room was depressingly clean and…well, about as visually interesting as an air vent. But still, nitpicking her surroundings was better than being sociable with her “Who’s Who in Women’s Prisons Today” comrades. Especially Big Betty. Big Betty sat next to her. Big Betty liked to sit next to her.

  And to stare at her. Like now. Feeling the woman’s assessing, piggy-eyed gaze riveted on her, Joan attempted to inch away. But the chain that looped her waist—and also attached her to Big Betty’s girth—prevented her from doing more than yanking her own chain.

  “What’re you in for, honey?”

  Joan froze. Maybe if she just pretended she hadn’t heard her. But her shoulder being bumped forced her to turn to her chain mate. Joan stared at the woman’s broad and sweaty frying-pan face. And blinked. Finally, she managed to croak out, “I’m in for murder. I killed someone.”

  “So that’s what murder means.” Big Betty snorted out a chuckle. “Who’d you kill—the pet groomer for clipping your poodle too close?” Then she and her bad breath leaned over, got in Joan’s face. “You wouldn’t kill a rabid dog if it attacked you, doll.”

  Joan’s belly plummeted like a plunging roller coaster. This is not good. Hoping Big Betty would leave her alone if Big Betty thought she was crazy, Joan grimaced and snarled, “I ain’t nobody’s doll, sister. And you’re wrong, see? I am guilty. Guilty, I tell ya! I ain’t like these crybaby dames here in the joint, whining about they’re innocent. Not me—I whacked him. And whacked him good. He had it coming.”

  To Joan’s further horror, Big Betty’s face lit with admiration. “Hey, I seen that movie, too! I like your style, kid. And them Irish good looks of yours. Yep, Big Betty’s thinking you’re gonna be re-e-al popular in the old cell block.” Then she adopted a whispering, conspiratorial air. “You’ll need a…friend to look after you. Know what I mean?”

  No, no, no rang in Joan’s head, but she found herself nodding yes. But only because she did know and feared exactly what Big Betty meant.

  “Good,” the large woman concluded. “Because I ain’t got a cell mate no more. See, Sunny—my last old lady—well, she thought she could mess around on me. But I taught he
r different. It was a hard lesson, but she had it coming.” She shrugged her linesman’s shoulders, adding, “Maybe she’ll walk again one day. But you? You look sweet. You wouldn’t mess around on Big—”

  “All right, ladies, pipe down and listen up. Hey, I said shut up.”

  Joan jerked toward the cavalry-to-the-rescue sound of Sergeant Mackleman’s voice. Standing at the room’s far entrance, a clipboard clutched in his hand, he called out, “I’m looking for Debutante Number 8-7-6-3-4-1-9. Check your dance cards, ladies, and speak up. I got work to do here.”

  When no one responded to the guard’s repeated call, Joan thought to consult the stenciling above her left breast. 8763419. She gasped, crying out, “Oh, it’s me. I’m Joan—I mean 8-7-6-3-4-1-9. Right here, Sergeant Mackleman. Over here!”

  Seeing the guard’s handlebar mustache droop in a frown as he searched the orange ocean of seated prisoners, Joan nearly cut herself in half trying to wriggle to her feet. But the ironclad restraint of her waist chains and ankle chains and handcuffs-chained-to-her-waist chains jerked her back. Her rump smacked down onto the hardest chair in the history of civilized sitting.

  Grimacing, Joan settled for waggling her hands desperately as she sang out, “Yoo-hoo? Over here. I’m 8-7-6-3-4-1-9. You remember me—from last weekend when I turned myself in?”

  To her infinite relief, Joan saw the big guard zero in on her bouncing commotion. He shook his head as he started toward her, already reaching for the ring of keys clipped to his belt. When he stood at the end of her row, he eyed her and muttered, “I should’ve known. The princess.”

  Barely able to contain herself, Joan cut her gaze over to Big Betty’s sweaty presence and then, when the big guard stood in front of her, turned an imploring expression up to the armed man. “Could I request solitary confinement, please? It’s nothing personal against these women. I’m sure they’re all very nice. It’s just that…well, I know me, and I’m a lousy roommate. I love bread and water. Hate sunshine and exercise.”

  The gruff officer eyed her, shot a look at Big Betty, and then back at Joan. Leaning over her, he lowered his voice to say, “For what it’s worth, O’Leary, if you don’t start telling the truth, if you stick with your present story, you’re sitting next to your future, kiddo. And unlike you, it ain’t pretty.”

  Pursing her lips in defeat, Joan looked away from him to a Crime Doesn’t Pay poster tacked up on a far wall. Oh, sure, now they tell me. But did Sergeant Mackleman really think she wanted to be here? Tell the truth, he said. Yeah, right. The truth, as a famous someone once said, shall set you free. And thereby get me killed. Knowing that, she again sought the well-meaning guard’s brown eyes. “I’m sticking to my story.”

  Sergeant Mackleman sighed and straightened up. “Suit yourself.” He wrote something on a form attached to his clipboard and stuck his paperwork under his arm. “Okay, let’s go. You got a visitor. For your own sake, level with him. He’s your last chance, princess.”

  “A visitor?” Fear lanced a path through Joan. “A him? I don’t want to talk to him. I like it in this room. I want to stay here.”

  Mackleman chuckled as he began unlocking her irons. In his broad East Texas accent, he wisecracked, “Well, we here at the Women’s Correctional Resort and Beach Club do try to make our inmates’ visits pleasant. So we hope you also enjoy your little chat with the nice deputy sheriff.”

  Joan ignored his sarcasm, focusing instead on his last word. “Sheriff?”

  “Yes, ma’am. An official visitor. A deputy…as in lawman. Tin badge.”

  Joan made a face reflective of the sickly feeling in her belly. “Are you sure it’s not someone just pretending to be a sheriff?”

  Mackleman gripped her arm, hauled her to her feet. “Yeah, that happens all the time. It’s one big joke after another with those crazy impostors.” He then moved her aside two paces and said, “He’s legit. I know him. He used to be a Houston cop. Until his wife got killed. Now stand right there.”

  She did, but frowned in curiosity at the man’s off-hand revelation. “His wife got killed? How?”

  “Drunk driver. About four or five years ago.” With that, he bent over to couple Big Betty to a tattooed, ratty-looking biker babe who’d been on Joan’s left. When he drew himself up, he warned, “You ladies behave. Don’t make me have to come back over here.”

  The resulting lurid suggestions and catcalls and obscene kissing sounds—not all of them directed at the big, muscled cop towing her along by the arm—had Joan shuffling rapidly within the confines of her ankle manacles. By the time they’d reached the door, she was pulling Houston’s finest behind her. “Hold up, O’Leary. My bulldog’s better-mannered on a leash than you are. Now, heel and let this nice man here do his job.”

  Joan forced herself to be still as she waited for a barrel-shaped guard to unlock and open the door. She should’ve thought this through, she chastised herself. What did she think the police would do when she confessed to a major crime that was the top story in the nation? Take her to tea? She should’ve known she’d be subjected to imprisonment and all its…finer points.

  “Okay, let’s go, Ms. 8-7-6-3-4-1-9.” Mackleman tugged her forward. Joan breathed a sigh of relief when the barred door closed behind them with a metallic clunk. Free at last from Big Betty’s leers and innuendos. A shudder rippled through her at the mere thought of—“This way,” her guard directed, cutting off her thoughts and indicating the long hallway ahead.

  Joan peered down its deserted length. Tunnel-like, the gray corridor ran on for an uncomfortable last-mile stretch of space. Literally. Hauling in a breath for courage, she minced along in her ankle irons, trying to talk at the same time. “Where’re you taking me?”

  “To the Harvest Moon Ball. Where else?”

  Joan had time only to make a face at the man’s answer before he stopped her in front of another metal door, this one labeled Interview Room 3. “Here we are,” the guard announced cheerily as he opened the door and handed her inside. “Sit down and behave, O’Leary.”

  Two paces past the dour cubicle’s threshold, Joan clanked to a stop. Her anxious gaze sought every corner. Empty, except for her and Sergeant—a heavy bang jerked her around. She stared at the closed door. Okay, empty except for her. She turned back around, eyeing the gray metal table and two chairs…just sitting there…waiting. Hanging low over these prison-movie props was a bright bulb encased in a dingy conical shade.

  Interview room, my foot. Interrogation room. She’d been expecting this. Any minute now, big angry men would come in and yell, and beat her until she confessed. Wait. She’d confessed already. All that was left was to give her a fair trial and then kill her, right?

  Don’t scare yourself to death before the state of New Mexico gets its chance. Just then footsteps in the hallway stopped in front of the door behind her. Joan tensed, listening. Male voices, male laughter. She strained to hear but couldn’t make out their words. She did recognize Sergeant Mackleman’s twang, though. Was the other one, then, that tin badge—the sheriff?

  Oops. She’d been told to sit down. Stumbling forward à la Frankenstein’s monster—or maybe his bride—Joan hobbled to the table’s far side and plopped onto the chair that faced the door. Then, watching that closed barrier as if she expected it to bark, she mentally fussed at the madness that had put her here.

  Who knew that Mr. LoBianco was a criminal?

  There ought to be a job-hunting law that stated, “At the beginning of a job interview, prospective employers must disclose to the interviewee the really bottom-line important stuff about themselves.” After all, how hard was it to extend your hand in greeting and say, “Hello, I’m a mob boss and doing all sorts of illegal things that can get us both killed—or cause me to kill you one day soon. And you are…?”

  But no-o-o. She’d had to discover that little tidbit for herself. In a most spectacular and bloody way, too. Hello? She was a freelance accountant. She did bookkeeping. How dangerous was that? Well…real dangero
us—if your boss’s nightclub is a front for organized crime. And it’s being used as a laundry—for dirty money. Which she promptly figured out the first time she did the books. You’d think, with the billions those guys handled, they’d be more skilled at creative financing to cover their tracks.

  Boy, it didn’t get any better than this. All those years working in the Lane Tag Agency here in Houston to put herself through college? Wasted. And her degree in accounting? Down the tubes. Just like the stable, independent life she’d built for herself, the one she’d never had growing up.

  But all those foster homes in Texas now felt a lot less Oliver Twist-ish than today’s accommodations. Joan instantly chided herself. That wasn’t fair. Nothing bad had ever happened to her while in foster care. It was just the constant moving, the sense of never belonging, the never feeling loved that had taught her some real-life lessons. Like self-reliance. And keeping her feelings to herself. And trusting her heart only to her own keeping. Well, she had Jack to thank for enforcing that last lesson.

  If she could find him, she’d kill him. Note to self: Refrain from saying things like “kill him” when the nice sheriff comes in. Okay, if she could find Jack the Heart-ripper Exboyfriend Weasel/Ski Instructor, she’d really…yell at him, boy. He’d begged her, in repeated phone calls, to move to Taos to be with him. It’s great here. You’ll love it. All kinds of work. And nowhere near the traffic and crime that Houston has. Please join me, honey. I love you.