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  Dear Reader:

  Before there was Lisa Gardner, there was Alicia Scott. It’s true. I started my publishing career in the 1990s, writing thirteen really fun romantic suspense novels under the pseudonym Alicia Scott. Even back then, I was drawn to twisted plots and complex characters. I liked to take ordinary people, totally mess up their lives, then see if they could both save the day and find true love.

  The Family Secrets trilogy—Maggie’s Man, MacNamara’s Woman, and Brandon’s Bride—represent three of my Alicia Scott titles. Written around the same time I was writing The Perfect Husband, these books include many of the traits I like to think I’m still known for today: great characters, shocking plot twists, and really fun research. For example, I attended a high-performance driving school for MacNamara’s Woman, learning how to turn at the apex, and, even more important, recover from a spin. For Brandon’s Bride, I spent an afternoon interviewing a Hotshot, a wildland firefighter. He was sitting in a watchtower in Oregon at the time, while I was calling from a small apartment in Boston, which made it even more interesting.

  How do these books differ from Lisa Gardner? For starters, they were written pre–September 11 and pre–cell phone. So from a suspense point of view, you have to remember you didn’t need photo ID to purchase plane tickets, which made life on the run easier, but you also couldn’t immediately call for help, which made life running from a serial killer harder. Also, these books definitely have more sex. Yep, sex and violence. If that’s not your idea of a fun reading experience, then these books are not for you.

  But for readers interested in meeting three half siblings Maggie, C.J., and Brandon and following their quest to find love while solving the mystery of what happened to their enigmatic father, I hope you enjoy some of the best books my predecessor, Alicia Scott, has to offer.

  Happy reading!

  PRAISE FOR

  CATCH ME

  “Catch Me is the best thriller she has written to date. It is full of twists and turns, but best of all it is filled with fascinating characters who come to life on her pages.”

  —The Huffington Post

  “The compelling characters, the shocking plot, and the realistic atmosphere of how police operate make this a ‘must read’ for any suspense aficionado.”

  —The Associated Press

  “Irresistible high-wire melodrama.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A page-turner . . . will definitely appeal to the lovers of psychological thrillers.”

  —Mystery Tribune

  “Lisa Gardner is one of the best thriller writers around, and this latest . . . really ratchets up the tension.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Gardner always plays in the big leagues, but this scare-your-socks-off thriller is a grand slam. . . . Fans of Michael Connelly and Harlan Coben will delight in Gardner’s scare fest.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “The creepy meter is off the charts. . . . And, somehow, miraculously without any contrivance, Gardner’s conclusion delivers a welcome glimmer of hope.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Well-wrought suspense.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A pulse-pounding, earth-shattering thriller that will take you on the ride of your life. . . . This is, without a doubt, Lisa Gardner at her finest.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “A great, twisting psychological thriller. Fans will immensely enjoy this taut, strong suspense tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Gripping, exciting, thrilling. One of my favorites. I ripped through it in no time at all and enjoyed every page. Highly recommended.”

  —The Book Whisperer

  MORE PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF LISA GARDNER

  “No one owns this corner of the genre the way Lisa Gardner does.”

  —Lee Child

  “You can’t wait to see what happens next.”

  —People

  “Riveting, hold-your-breath suspense.”

  —Iris Johansen

  “Nerve-shattering suspense.”

  —Tami Hoag

  “Lisa Gardner is an amazing writer.”

  —Karin Slaughter

  “Emotionally true, harrowing, and unputdownable.”

  —Lisa Scottoline

  “Gardner keeps us guessing.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Gripping . . . the pages turn with speed.”

  —The Wall Street Journal

  “The Mozart of thriller writers.”

  —Tess Gerritsen

  “Gardner continues to break ground no other writer dares to tread.”

  —The Providence Journal

  ALSO BY LISA GARDNER

  The Perfect Husband

  The Other Daughter

  The Third Victim

  The Next Addict

  The Survivor’s Club

  The Killing Hour

  Alone

  Gone

  Hide

  Say Goodbye

  The Neighbor

  Live to Tell

  Love You More

  Catch Me

  Touch & Go

  BY LISA GARDNER WRITING AS ALICIA SCOTT

  Maggie’s Man

  MacNamara’s Woman

  Brandon’s Bride

  LISA GARDNER

  WRITING AS

  ALICIA SCOTT

  BRANDON’S BRIDE

  A Family Secrets Novel

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Silhouette edition.

  First Signet Printing, December 2013

  Copyright © Lisa Baumgartner, 1998

  Excerpt from Maggie’s Man copyright © Lisa Baumgartner, 1997

  Excerpt from Touch & Go copyright © Lisa Gardner, Inc., 2013

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN 978-1-101-63352-6

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Note from the Author

  Praise

  Also by Lisa Gardner

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Epilogue

  Preview of Fear Nothing

  Preview of Maggie’s Man

  Preview of Touch & Go

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Ted Johnson, Assistant Fire Management Officer Ochoco National Forest, and Lance Honda, Superintendent Redmond Hotshot Crew, for sharing their time, expertise, and war stories. I am not sure any book can do the heroics of the Hotshots justice, but I have done my best.

  And to the gang from Penn—Jenn, Drew, Chris, Jon, Mark, Gabi, Parris, and Michelle. Here’s to all the New Year’s Eves to come.

  Finally, to Anthony, my love, my life, my anchor. Thank you.

  Prologue

  Ray Bands could count the cumulating days by the number of crumpled pretzel bags and empty diet sodas piling up on the surveillance van’s metal floor. In the beginning, he’d thought absently of bringing a wastebasket for his next shift. Now he waded through the crinkling, salty cellophane without a second thought. It wasn’t his van, anyway. And in his line of work, neatness didn’t count.

  Results did.

  He stretched up his arms again, rolled his old, creaking neck, then adjusted his headphones. The screens in front of him remained static, the large reels of tapes frozen, waiting for a sound to trigger them to action. Still nothing happening. Ray propped his feet on a milk crate, opened a fresh bag of fat-free pretzels and stared at them morosely. He wanted French fries.

  Ray had grown up during the days when food was just food and you were happy you got some. No fat-free this or free-range that. For God’s sake, who ever would have believed that food that contained so much less—less fat, less sodium, less cholesterol, less taste, for crying out loud—could actually cost more. It defied the imagination.

  But then last year, he’d started dating a granola-crunching, sassy-mouthed aerobics instructor who was a fraction of his age and so damn beautiful she took his breath away. She had him eating puffed rice cakes, lean meats and fresh vegetables. He’d given up cigarettes. He’d given up beer. He’d joined a health club where young, nubile bodies preened in front of mirrors so shamelessly he didn’t know where to look.

  And there were nights he woke up just so he could watch Melissa sleep, her dark hair like a satin frame around her pale, ethereal face. God, she was gorgeous. And then he would wonder what a sweet girl like her was doing with a beat-up old geezer like him. Sometimes, he thought she had to be KGB, but those days were gone, of course. No more cloak-and-dagger. No more evil empire. He’d survived it all without seeing half the glory he’d thought he would. Hell, he was four years from retirement and they’d pulled him off his current case to eavesdrop on a semiretired Wall Street investment banker.

  On cue, the screens in front of him abruptly blinked to life. Sound waves undulated across the black backdrop, spiking to indicate louder noises. Brandon Ferringer was finally awake in his Manhattan apartment.

  From the little the powers that be had deemed to tell Ray, Ferringer was one of those Richie Rich thrill-seeker types. In the four years since his young wife’s death, he’d been running around the globe hell-bent on either adventure or suicide, depending how you looked at it. He’d just returned from Nepal, which must have been something because the man had been asleep for five straight days. Now, at last, Ray could hear him moving about.

  Ray adjusted the headphones and focused on the four primary screens. The mike in the bathroom reported the sound of a shower running, then the brisk whisk, whisk of someone toweling off. Footsteps pattered down the hall, and the kitchen mike transmitted the sound of a coffee grinder roaring to life.

  Brandon’s cell phone was turned on. Finally getting some action, the van’s reel tapes kicked to life and recorded the call. Ferringer didn’t have phone service reconnected to his apartment yet. A big break for Ray. Bugging a landline phone sometimes caused interference or small clicks that gave the wiretapping away. Cellular phones, on the other hand, didn’t require a bug. If you knew the frequency, you could eavesdrop or trace a call to your heart’s content. Ferringer had obviously been monitored before—the frequency, serial number and PIN of his cell phone had been included in his dossier.

  The ringing was staticky. The high-rises didn’t always get the best reception—too many steel girders got in the way. At the other end, a man finally picked up.

  “C.J.’s Mortuary. You stab ’em, we slab ’em.”

  “C.J.,” Brandon said.

  “My God!” the other man replied.

  Frowning, Ray dug through the pile of empty pretzel bags until he found Ferringer’s file. Who the hell was C.J., and why would Ferringer call a mortician? After a moment, Ray solved the mystery. According to the file, Ferringer had two half siblings, Maggie Ferringer and C. J. MacNamara. They all shared the same father, Maximillian Ferringer, whose plane went down in Indonesia in 1972. His body was never found.

  The MacNamara son had entered the Marines, Force Recon. Now he lived in Sedona, Arizona, where he owned a bar and worked part-time as a “bail enforcement officer.”

  Ray snorted. Bounty hunters were nothing but a bunch of cop wannabes who couldn’t make the cut. Loser bastards, every last one of them. Then again, judging by the grainy black and white, MacNamara probably didn’t do too badly with the ladies.

  “Holy smokes, look what the cat dragged in,” C.J. said at last. “It’s been what, four, five months? How are you, Brandon, and where the hell have you been?”

  “Everest.”

  “As in the mountain? Hell, Brandon. People die on Everest!”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Obviously God does look after fools then.”

  “Which you also know firsthand,” Brandon replied wryly. “How are you, C.J.? And how is Tamara?”

  Tamara Allistair was listed in the file as a public relations executive who currently lived with MacNamara. See file, Senator Brennan. Ray had no idea what that meant.

  “Oh, we’re fine. Tamara just set up shop here in Sedona, and it’s going well. We’ve set the wedding date for September. I don’t suppose you’ll be in the Northern Hemisphere sometime around then.”

  “Actually, I’m planning on spending the next six months in Oregon. I was selected to be a hotshot.”

  “What?” Ray seconded C.J.’s surprise.

  “Our father gave Maggie a locket,” Brandon said quietly. “Did she ever tell you that? Inside, there’s a picture of a beautiful woman. She’s not one of our mothers.”

  “Surprise, surprise. Now what does that have to do with Oregon?”

  “I—well, Julia—also discovered that Max had two business partners, Al Simmons and Bud Irving. Lydia says they were all best friends from Tillamook High School. They formed the partnership right after graduation, and according to the Chamber of Commerce records, it’s never been dissolved. Don’t suppose you know about that?”

  “Maximillian and partners? Give me a break, Brandon. The man didn’t even send postcards to his wives or children. Can you picture him working with two other people?”

  “Al Simmons disappeared in 1970,” Brandon said softly, “but I’ve traced Bud Irving to Beaverville, Oregon.”

  “Uh, Brandon. When you say this Al guy disappeared, what do you mean by disappeared?”

  “I mean I can’t find any trace of Al Simmons after 1970. No taxes, no driver’s license renewals, no credit cards, no bank accounts. No death certificate. As of 1970, Al Simmons ceased to exist.”

  “That’s not a good thing. Ceasing to exist is never a good thing.”

  “No, it probably isn’t.”

  “Brandon . . .” C.J.’s sigh was audible over the line, but the brothers’ argument must have been old, because Brandon cut him off at the pass.

  “You think it’s too dangerous,” Brandon supplied.

/>   “Absolutely.”

  “You think Max has been dead for twenty-five years—why mess with it now?”

  “Let sleeping dogs lie,” C.J. agreed.

  “C.J., don’t you think it’s odd that in a partnership of three people, two have disappeared without a trace? One in 1970 and one in 1972. I’ve been to the wreckage of Max’s plane in Indonesia. There’s no good reason his body wasn’t found. Something is going on here, C.J. And the answer lies with Bud Irving in Beaverville, Oregon.”

  On the other end of the line, C.J. was silent.

  “I have to know,” Brandon said quietly.

  “Brandon, this isn’t a walk in the park. I’ve gotten threatening phone calls about Max. You—”

  “I may have lost my wife,” Brandon stated.

  “The police said she was shot by a mugger.”

  “She was researching Max for my family tree and then she was shot? Bloody hell, it was a mugger!” His voice was abruptly savage.

  “You don’t know—”

  “And neither do you, C.J. Neither do you!” Brandon exclaimed.

  Whoa. Ray sat back, impressed. MacNamara was a Marine, and Marines were known for their temper, but he never would have picked an intellectual Wall Street banker as the passionate type. Apparently, Brandon had inherited more of Maximillian the Chameleon’s genes than either of the brothers realized.

  The apple never did fall far from the tree.

  And Maximillian the Chameleon had been some apple.

  His sons were taking deep breaths and working on cooling their tempers.

  “Let me come out there,” C.J. said.

  “No, you have Tamara. I won’t jeopardize that.”

  “That’s not your decision—”