Fall Sampler

Falling leaves. Uplifted hearts. Romance to move you.

As the weather cools, get cozy with these heartwarming stories that are sure to inspire and delight you as much as your favorite fall colors.

**Enjoy this FREE digital sampler featuring extended excerpts of new books by bestselling authors!**

Featuring extended excerpts of: Texas Proud by Diana Palmer Claiming His Bollywood Cinderella by Tara Pammi Rookie Instincts by Carol Ericson Claiming the Rancher's Heir by Maisey Yates

Chapter One

Her name was Bernadette Epperson, but everybody she knew in Jacobsville, Texas, called her Bernie. She was Blake Kemp’s new paralegal, and she shared the office with Olivia Richards, who was also a paralegal. They had replaced former employees, one who’d married and moved away, the other who’d gone to work in San Antonio for the DA there. They were an interesting contrast: Olivia, the tall, willowy brunette, and Bernie, the slender blonde with long, thick platinum blond hair. They’d known each other since grammar school and they were friends. It made for a relaxed, happy office atmosphere. Ordinarily, one paralegal would have been adequate for the Jacobs County district attorney’s office. But the DA, Blake Kemp, had hired Olivia to also work as a

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part-time paralegal. That was because Olivia covered for her friend at the office when Bernie had flares of rheumatoid arthritis. It was one of the more painful forms of arthritis, and when she had attacks it meant walking with a cane and taking more anti-inflammatories, along with the dangerous drugs she took to help keep the disease from worsening. It also meant no social life to speak of. Bernie would have liked having a fellow of her own, but single men knew about her and nobody seemed willing to take on Bernie, along with a pro- gressive disease that could one day make her disabled. There were new treatments, of course. Some of them involved weekly shots that halted the progression of the disease. But those shots were incredibly expensive, and even with a reduced price offered by kindly charitable foundations, they were still out of her price range. So it was methotrexate and prednisone and folic acid. And trying not to brood about the whole thing. She was on her way to her room at Mrs. Brown’s boardinghouse. It was raining, and the rain was cold. It was October and cool. Not the best time to forget her raincoat, but she’d been in a hurry and late for work, so it was still hanging in her closet at home. Ah, well, she thought philosophically, at least she had a nice thick sweater over her thin blouse. She laughed hysterically to herself. The sweater was a sponge. She felt water rolling down over her flat stomach under her clothes. She laughed so hard that she didn’t see a raised por- tion of the sidewalk. It caught her toe and she tripped. She fell into the road just as a big black limousine came along. Her cane went flying and she hit the pavement

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on her belly. She was fortunate enough to catch herself on her forearms, but the impact winded her. Luckily for her, the driver saw her in time to stop from running over her. It was dark and only the streetlights showed, blurry light through the curtains of rain. A man got out. She saw his shoes. Big feet. Expen- sive shoes, like some of the visiting district attorneys who showed up to talk to her boss. Slacks that were made of wool. She could tell, because she used wool to knit with. “You okay?” a deep, velvety voice asked. “Yes,” she panted. “Just…winded.” She rolled over and sat up. A tall man, built like a wrestler, with broad shoulders and a leonine head, squatted down, staring at her with deep-set brown eyes in an olive complexion. His jet-black hair was threaded with just a little silver, and it was thick and wavy around his head. A lock of it fell onto his forehead as he bent over her. He had high cheekbones and the sort of mouth that was seen in action movies with he-men. He was gorgeous. She couldn’t help staring. She couldn’t remember ever having a man send her speechless just by looking at her. “Nice timing,” he mused. “Saw the limo coming, did we? And jumped right out in front of it, too.” She was too shaken to think of a comeback, although she should have. She checked her palms. They were a little scraped but not bleeding. “I tripped.” “Did you really?”

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That damned sarcastic, mocking smile made her very angry. “Could you find my cane, please?” she asked. “Cane?” She heard his voice change. She hated that note in it. “It went flying when I hit the raised part of the sidewalk. It’s over that way.” She indicated the sidewalk. “On the other side, probably. It’s red enamel. With dragons on it.” “With dragons. Mmm-hmm.” A car door opened. Another man came around the front of the car. He was older than Bernie but younger than the man squatting down next to her. He was wearing a suit. “What’s that about dragons?” the man asked, faintly amused. “Her cane. That way, she says.” He pointed. The other man made a sound in his throat. “Look anyway,” the big man told him. “All right, I’m going.” There was a pause while Ber- nie sat in the road getting wetter by the minute. “Well, I’ll be…!” The other man came back, holding the cane. He was scowling. “Where the devil did you get something like that?” he asked as he handed it down to her. “Internet,” she said. The pain was getting worse. Much worse. She needed a heavy dose of anti-inflammatories, and a bed and a heating pad. She swallowed hard. “Please don’t…stare when I get up. There’s only one way I can do it, and it’s embarrass- ing.” She got on all fours and pushed herself up with difficulty, holding on to the cane for support. She lifted

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her head to the rain and got her breath back. “Thanks for not running over me,” she said heavily. The big man had stood up when she did. He was scowling. “What’s the matter with you? Sprain?” She looked up. It was a long way. “Rheumatoid arthritis.” “Arthritis? At your age?” the man asked, surprised. She drew herself up angrily. “Rheumatoid,” she em- phasized. “It’s systemic. An autoimmune disease. Only one percent of people in the world have it, although it’s the most common autoimmune disease. Now if you don’t mind, I have to get home before I drown.” “We’ll drive you,” the big man offered belatedly. “Frankly, I’d rather drown, thanks.” She turned, very slowly, and managed to get going without too much visible effort. But walking was laborious, and she was grit- ting her teeth before she’d gotten five steps. “Oh, hell.” She heard the soft curse before she felt herself suddenly picked up like a sack of potatoes and carried back toward the limousine. The other man was holding the door open. “You put me down!” she grumbled, trying to strug- gle. She winced, because movement hurt. “When I get you home,” he said. “Where’s home?” He put her into the limousine and climbed in beside her. The other man closed the door and got in behind the wheel. “I’ll get the seat wet,” she protested. “It’s leather. It will clean. Where’s home?” She drew in a breath. She was in so much pain that

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she couldn’t even protest anymore. “Mrs. Brown’s boardinghouse. Two blocks down and to the right. It’s a big Victorian house with a white fence around it and a room-to-rent sign,” she added. The driver nodded, started the engine and took off. The big man was still watching her. She was clutch- ing the cane with a little hand that had gone white from the pressure she was using. He studied her, his eyes on the thick plait of platinum blond hair down her back. Her clothes were plas- tered to her. Nice body, a little small-breasted and long legs. She had green eyes. Very pale green. Pretty bow mouth. Wide-spaced eyes under thick black eyelashes. Not beautiful. But attractive. “Who are you?” he asked belatedly. “My name is Bernadette,” she said. “Sweet,” he mused. “There was a song about Saint Bernadette,” he recalled. She flushed. “My mother loved it. That’s why she gave me the name.” “I’m Michael. Michael Fiore, but most people call me Mikey.” He watched her face, but there was no rec- ognition. She didn’t know the name. Surprising. He’d been a resident of Jacobsville a few years back, when his cousin, Paul Fiore of the San Antonio FBI office, was investigating a case that involved Sari Grayling, who later became Paul’s wife. Sari and her sister, Mer- edith, had been targeted by a hit man, courtesy of a man whose mother was killed by the Graylings’ late father. Mikey had made some friends here. “Nice to meet you,” she managed. She grimaced.

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“Hurts pretty bad, huh?” he asked, his dark eyes narrowing. He looked up. Santelli was pulling into a parking spot just in front of a Victorian house with a room-to-rent sign. “Is this it?” he asked. She looked up through the window. She nodded. “Thanks so much…” “Stay put,” he said. He went out the other door that Santi was holding open for him, around the car and opened her door. He reached in and picked her up, cane and purse and all. “Come knock on the door for me, Santi,” he told his companion. Bernie tried to protest, but the big man kept walking. He smelled of cigar smoke and expensive cologne, and the feel of his big arms around her made her feel odd. Trembly. Nervous. Very nervous. She had one arm around his broad shoulders to hold on, her hand spread beside his neck. He was warm and comforting. It had been a long time since she’d been held by anyone, and it had never felt like this. Santi knocked on the door. Bernie could have told him that he could just walk in, but he wasn’t from here, so he didn’t know. Plump Mrs. Brown opened the door, still wearing her apron because she offered supper to her roomers. She stopped dead, with her mouth open, as she saw Bernie being carried by a stranger. “I fell,” Bernie explained. “He was kind enough to stop and bring me home…” “Oh, dear, should you go see Dr. Coltrain?” she said worriedly.

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“I’m fine, really, just a little bruised dignity to speak of,” she assured the landlady. “You can put me down,” she said to Mikey. “Where’s her room?” Mikey asked politely. He smiled at the older woman, and she flushed and laughed nervously. “It’s right down here. She can’t climb the stairs, so she has a room near the front…” She led the way. He put Bernie down in a chair beside her bed. “You need a hot bath, dear, and some coffee,” Mrs. Brown fussed. There was a bathroom between Bernie’s room and the empty room next door. “Can you manage?” the big man asked gently. She nodded. “I’m okay. Really. Thanks.” He shrugged broad shoulders. He frowned. “You shouldn’t be walking so far.” “Tell her, tell her,” Mrs. Brown fretted. “She walks four blocks to and from work every single day!” “Dr. Coltrain says exercise is good for me,” she retorted. “Exercise. Not torture,” Mrs. Brown muttered. The big man was thinking. “We’ll see you again,” he said quietly. She nodded. “Thanks.” He cocked his head. His eyes narrowed. “First im- pressions aren’t always accurate.” Her eyebrows arched. “Gosh, was that an apology?” He scowled. “I don’t apologize. Ever.” “That didn’t hurt, that didn’t hurt, that didn’t hurt,”

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she mimicked a comedian who’d said that very thing in a movie. She grinned. Probably he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. He threw back his head and roared. “Police Acad- emy,” he said, naming the movie. Her jaw fell. “Yeah. That guy was me, at his age,” he confessed. “Take a bath. And don’t fall in.” She made a face at him. His dark eyes twinkled. “See you, kid.” He walked out before she could correct the impression.

He stopped at the front door. “That room to let,” he asked Mrs. Brown. “Is it still available?” “Why, yes,” she said, flushing again. She laughed. “You’d be very welcome. We have three ladies living here, but…” “I’m easy to please,” he said. “And I won’t be any trouble. I hate hotels.” She smiled. “So do I. My husband was in rodeo. We spent years on the road. I got so sick of room keys…” He laughed. “That’s me. Okay. If you don’t mind, I’ll have my stuff here later today.” “I don’t mind at all.” “How much in advance?” he asked, producing his wallet. She told him. He handed her several bills. “I don’t rob banks, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said with a wry smile. “I’m a businessman. I live in

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New Jersey, and I own a hotel in Vegas. Which is why I hate staying in them.” “Oh! You have business here, then?” He nodded solemnly. “Business,” he agreed. “I’ll be around for a while.” “It will be nice to have the room rented,” she confessed. “It’s been vacant for a long time. My last ten- ant got married.” “I’ll see you later, then.” He hesitated, looking back toward the room where he’d left Bernadette. “She’ll be okay, you think?” “Yes. She might look fragile, but Bernie’s tough. She’s had to be.” “Bernie?” His eyes widened. She laughed. “That’s what we call her. We’ve known Bernadette all her life.” “Small towns.” He smiled. “I grew up in one, myself. Far from here.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “The lower number is my cell phone. If she needs anything tonight, you call me, okay? I can come and drive her to the hospital if she needs to be seen.” Mrs. Brown was surprised at that concern from a stranger. “You have a kind heart.” He shrugged. “Not always. See you.” He went out, motioning for Santi to follow him. They got in the limo and drove off. Mrs. Brown watched it go with real interest. She wondered who the outsider was.

Mikey was all too aware of the driver’s irritation. “They told me to keep an eye on you all the time,” he told Mikey.

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“Yeah, well, I’m not sharing a room with you, no matter what the hell they told you. Besides,” he added, settling back into his seat, “Cash Grier’s got one of his men shadowing me with a sniper kit.” “It’s a small town,” Santi began. “A small town with half the retired mercs in Amer- ica,” Mikey cut in. “And my cousin lives right down the road. Remember him? Senior FBI agent Paul Fiore? Lives in Jacobsville, works out of San Antonio, worth millions?” “Oh. Him. Right.” “Besides, I know the sniper Grier’s got watching me.” He chuckled. “He doesn’t miss. Ever. And they snagged The Avengers to watch when the sniper’s asleep.” “The Avengers?” Santi roared. “That’s a comic book!” “Rogers and Barton. They’re called the Avengers because Captain America’s name in the series is Rog- ers, and Hawkeye’s is Barton. Get it?” “Yeah.” “I know how bad Mario Cotillo wants me, Santi,” Mikey said quietly. “I’m the only thing standing between Tony Garza and a murder-one conviction, because I know Tony didn’t do it and I can prove it. Tony’s in hiding, too, in an even safer place than me.” “Where?” Santi asked. Mikey laughed coarsely. “Sure, like I’m going to tell you.” Santi stiffened. “I’m no snitch,” he said, offended. “Anybody can hack a cell phone or the elaborate two- way radio we got in this car, and listen to us when we

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talk,” Mikey said with visible impatience. “Use your brain, okay?” “I do!” “Well, you must be keeping it in a safe place when you’re not using it,” Mikey muttered under his breath, but not so that Santi could hear him. The guy was good muscle and a capable driver. It wouldn’t do to upset him too much. Not now, anyway. Mikey leaned back with a long sigh and thought of the woman he’d met tonight. He was sorry he’d misjudged her, but plenty of women had thrown themselves into his path. He was extremely wealthy. He had money in Swiss banks that the feds couldn’t touch. And while he’d been accused of a few crimes, including murder, he’d never even been indicted. His record was pretty clean. Well, for a guy in his profession. He was a crime boss back in Jersey, where Tony Garza was the big boss. Tony owned half the rackets around Newark. But Tony had some major new competition, an outsider who saw himself as the next Capone. He’d targeted Tony at once, planned to take him down on a fake murder charge with the help of a friend who worked in the federal attorney’s office. It had backfired. Tony also had friends there. So did Mikey. But Mikey had been with Tony in a bar when the murder had taken place and by chance, Mikey had a photo of himself and Tony with a date stamp on his cell phone. He’d sent copies to Paulie and Cash Grier and a friend down in the Bahamas. Before the feds could jump Tony, who might have been dealt with handily and at once before it even came to trial, Mikey and Tony had both skipped town.

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The next obvious play by Cotillo would be to put out contracts on Mikey and Tony. Mikey smiled. He knew most of the heavy hitters in the business. So did Tony. It wouldn’t work, but Cotillo didn’t know that. Yet. Meanwhile, Mikey and Tony were playing a waiting game. Both had feds on the job protecting them. Mikey wasn’t telling Santi that, however. He didn’t trust anybody really, except his cousin Paul. The fewer people who knew, the safer he was going to be. Not that life held such attractions for him these days. He had all the money he’d ever need. He had a fear- some reputation, which gave him plenty of protection back home in New Jersey. But he was alone. He was a lonely man. He’d asked a woman to share his life only once, and she’d laughed. He was good in bed and he bought her pretty things, but she wasn’t going to get married to a known gangster. She had her reputation to think of. After all, she was a debutante, from one of the most prominent families in Maryland. Marry a hood? Ha! Fat chance. It had broken his heart. Even now, years and years after it happened, it was a sore spot. He was more than his reputation. He was fair and honest, and he never hurt anybody without a damned good reason. Mostly, he went after people who hurt people he cared about. Well, there was also the odd job for Tony when he was younger. But those days were mostly behind him. He could still handle a sniper kit when he needed to. It was just that he didn’t have the same need for notoriety that had once ruled his life. Nobody needed him. Funny, the main reason he’d

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enjoyed the debutante was that she’d pretended to be helpless and clingy. He’d enjoyed that. Since his grandmother’s death, there had been nobody who cared about him except Paul, and nobody who needed him at all. Briefly, he’d helped his cousin protect a young woman from Jacobsville, Merrie Grayling, before she married the Wyoming rancher. But that had been sort of an accessory thing. He’d liked her very much, yet as a sort of adoptive baby sister, nothing romantic. It had been nice, helping Paulie with that little chore, especially since he knew the contract killer who’d been assigned to get Mer- rie. He had known how to get the hit called off—actually, by getting Merrie, an artist of great talent, to do a portrait of Tony. The contract killer had ended badly, but that happened sometimes. Most sane people didn’t go against Tony, who’d told the guy to call off the hit. But all that had been three years ago. Life moved on. Now here was Mikey, in hiding from a newcomer in Jersey, trying to protect his friend Tony. He thought again about the young woman who’d fallen in front of the limo. He felt bad that he’d misjudged her. She was pretty. What had she called herself—Ber- nadette? He smiled. He’d been to France, to the grotto where Saint Bernadette had dug into a mudhole, found a clear spring and seen the apparition she referred to as the Immaculate Conception, and he’d seen Bernadette in her coffin. She looked no older than when she’d died, a century and more ago, a beautiful young woman. He wondered if her namesake even knew who Saint Berna- dette was. He wondered why she’d been given that name. So many questions. Well, he was going to be stay-

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ing in the same rooming house, so he’d probably get the chance to talk to her, to ask her about her family. She was nice. She didn’t like pity, although she had a devastating medical condition, and she had a temper. He smiled, remembering that thick plait of blond hair down her back. He loved long hair. It must be hard to keep, for someone with her limitations. His little Greek grandmother had been arthritic. He recalled her gnarled hands and the times when she hadn’t been able to get out of bed. Mikey had carried her from room to room when she had special company, or outside when she wanted to sit in the sun. He couldn’t remember what sort of arthritis she’d had, but it was in the family bible, along with plenty of other family information. He kept the bible in a safe-deposit box back in Jersey, along with precious photographs of people long dead. There had been one of the debutante. But he’d burned that one. The car was eating up the miles to San Antonio, where Mikey had left his luggage in a hotel under an assumed name. He’d send Santi in to pick it up and pay the bill, just in case, while he waited outside in the parking lot. You couldn’t be too careful. He needed to send a text to Paulie, as well, but that could wait until he was back in Jacobsville. He should ask Paulie about hackers and what they could find out, and how. He still wasn’t up on modern methods of surveillance. He leaned back against the seat with a long sigh. Bernadette. He smiled to himself.

Bernadette took a hot bath, and it did help ease some of the discomfort. Mrs. Brown had been kind enough

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to add a handhold on the side of the tub so that Berna- dette would find it easier to get in and out of the tub. She took showers, however, not baths. It was so much quicker to stand up. Besides, the bathroom was used by all the boarders on the ground floor, although there had been just Bernadette for several weeks, and poor Mrs. Brown had enough to do without having to scrub the tub all the time. She did have a daily woman who came in to help with the heavy chores. But Bernadette was fastidious and it bothered her, the idea of baths when at least one of the former boarders had been male and liked lots of musk-smelling bath oil. For women, especially, baths in a less than spotlessly clean tub could lead to infections. Bernie had enough to worry about without those. So, she took showers. She dressed in her pajama bottoms and one of the soft, thick T-shirts that she wore with it. There was a tap at the door and Mrs. Brown came in with a cup of tea in a beautiful ceramic cup on its delicate saucer. “Chamomile tea,” she said with a smile. “It will help you sleep, sweetheart.” “You’re spoiling me,” Bernadette complained softly. “You have enough to do without adding me to your burdens.” “You’re no burden,” Mrs. Brown said gently. “You keep your room spotless, you never mess anything up, and I have yet to have to pick up after you anywhere.” She sighed. “I wish we could say the same for the two nice women on the second floor, and don’t you dare tell them I said that!” Bernadette laughed. “I won’t. You know I don’t gossip.”

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“Of course you don’t.” She put the cup and saucer on the bedside table. “What a nice man who brought you home,” she added with a speculative glance that Bernadette missed. “He’s renting a room here, too!” Bernadette caught her breath. “He is?” she stammered, and flushed a little. Mrs. Brown chuckled. “He is. The one on the other side of the bathroom, but that won’t be a problem. I’ll make sure he knows to knock first when he needs to use it.” “Okay, then.” She sipped tea and smiled with her eyes closed. “This is so good!” “I put honey in it, instead of sugar, and just a hint of cinnamon.” Bernadette looked up at the older woman. “You know, he thought I’d fallen in front of his car on purpose.” “You fell? You didn’t tell me!” She sipped her tea. “The sidewalk was slippery and my toe hit a brick that was just a little out of place. I went flying into the street. Lucky for me that his driver had good brakes.” She frowned. “It was a limousine.” “I noticed,” Mrs. Brown said with a wry smile. “He was wearing a very expensive suit, as well. I think I recognized him. He looks like Paul Fiore’s cousin.” “I heard about that,” Bernadette said, “when I was working as a receptionist for a group of attorneys, before I got my paralegal certification from night school and Mr. Kemp hired me. I never saw him, but people talked about him. He was helping protect Merrie Gray- ling, wasn’t he?”

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“That was the gossip. Goodness, imagine having contract killers stalking two local girls in the same family!” She shook her head. “I had it from the Grayling girls’ housekeeper, Mandy Swilling. She said the girls’ father had killed a local woman for selling him out to the feds on racketeering charges, and the woman’s son put out contracts on both Grayling’s daughters, to get even. He thought their father loved them so much that it would really hurt him.” She sighed. “Well, the man was dead by then, and the woman’s son was charged with conspiracy to commit murder. They say he’ll be in prison for a long time, even though he did try to help them find the killers.” “Good enough for him,” Bernie said. “Murder is a nasty business.” “That’s another thing. They say that Mr. Fiore’s cousin Mikey is mixed up with organized crime.” “His cousin?” “The man who carried you inside the house tonight,” Mrs. Brown replied. Bernie sat with the cup suspended in one hand. “Oh. Him.” She laughed. She hadn’t really been paying attention. “Him.” She laughed. “But I don’t believe it. He’s so nice. He was really concerned about you.” “Not when I first fell, he wasn’t,” Bernie said, wrin- kling her nose. “He thought I did it on purpose to get his attention.” She hesitated. “Well, you know, he is drop- dead gorgeous. When I first saw him, I could hardly even get my breath,” she confessed. “It was like being hit in the stomach. I’ve never seen a real live man who

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looked like that. He could be in movies.” She flushed. “Well, he’s good-looking, I mean.” “I suppose some women do find excuses to attract men like that,” Mrs. Brown said in his defense. “I suppose. He changed his mind when he saw the cane, though.” Her face grew sad. “When I was in high school, there was this really nice boy. I thought he was going to ask me to the senior prom. I was so excited. One of my girlfriends said he was talking about me to someone else, although she didn’t hear what he said.” She looked down into the now-empty cup. “Then another friend told me the truth. He said that I wasn’t bad to look at, but he didn’t want to take a disabled girl to a dance.” She smiled sadly, aware of Mrs. Brown’s angry expression. “After that, I sort of gave up on dating.” “There must have been nicer boys,” she replied. “Oh, there were. But there were prettier girls who didn’t walk with canes.” She put down the cup and saucer. “I didn’t need the cane all the time, of course. But when I had flares, I’d just fall if I made a misstep.” She shook her head. “No man is going to want a woman who may end up an invalid one day. So I go to work and save all I can, and hope that by the time I need to give up and apply for disability, I’ll have enough to tide me over until I can get it.” She made a face. “Gosh, wouldn’t it be nice not to have health issues?” “It would. And I’m sorry that you do. But, Bernie, a man who loves you won’t care if you have them.” She added, “Any more than you’d care if he had them.” Bernie smiled. “You’re a nice woman. I’m so lucky to live here. And thank you for the tea.”

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“You’re very welcome. You get some sleep. Tomor- row’s Saturday, so you can sleep in for a change.” “A nice change.” She grimaced. “But I don’t want you to wait breakfast for me…!” “I’ll put it on a plate in the fridge and you can heat it up in the microwave,” said Mrs. Brown. “So stop worrying about things.” Bernie laughed. “Okay. Thanks again.” “You’re very welcome.” She hesitated at the door. ‘What a very good thing that we don’t have many young women living here, except you.” “Why?” “Well, that nice man who brought you in is really good-looking, and we don’t want a line forming at his door, now do we?” she teased. Bernie blushed, but Mrs. Brown had closed the door before she saw it.

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Mikey waited for Santi in a parking spot near the front door of the San Antonio hotel. He hoped it wouldn’t take too long. The streets were busy, even at this time of night, and some of the people milling around were wearing gang colors and had multiple tats. He knew about the Los Serpientes gang. Although they were technically based in Houston, they had a presence here in San Antonio. Paulie had told him about them. They looked out for children and old people. Amazing. Kind of like the Yakuza in Japan. Japan was a great place to visit. Mikey had gone there for several weeks after his tour of duty in the Mid- dle East. He’d needed to wind down and get over some of the things he’d seen and done there. He’d been with a group of military overseas that included two men from

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here, Rogers and Barton, who’d been protecting the Grayling girls from contract killers. He hadn’t served directly with them, but Cag Hart and the local DA, Blake Kemp, had been overseas at the same time. From Afghanistan to Iraq, he’d carried a rifle and served his country. The memories weren’t good, but he had others he lived with. He just added the more recent ones to them. He’d been surprised to find his company commander involved with Merrie Grayling. The Wyoming rancher, Ren Colter, had been the company commander of his sniper unit overseas. In fact, the Grayling girls’ protec- tors, Rogers and Barton, had also been part of his group. What a homecoming that had been. Not a really great one, because Mikey had gotten in trouble scrounging materials for a brothel. But his commanding officer had gotten him out of trouble with Ren, because Mikey had the greatest luck in the world at poker. He never lost. It was one reason he was so rich. Of course, he couldn’t get into casinos anymore. He didn’t cheat. He didn’t have to. But that luck had gotten him barred all over the world, even in Monte Carlo. He chuckled. It was sort of a mark of honor, being barred from those places. So he didn’t mind that much. He had all the money he’d ever need until he died an old man, so who cared? The car trunk opened suddenly. Mikey’s hand had gone automatically under his jacket to the .45 he’d put there before Santi went into the hotel. He kept it in a secure compartment under the seat, custom-made. He hadn’t needed it in Jacobsville, but this was unknown territory, and it was dangerous not to go heeled. He

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had a concealed carry permit, but for Jersey, not here. He supposed he’d have to go see the sheriff in Jacobs County and get one for Texas. That would be Hayes Carson. He knew the sheriff from three years ago. They got on. Santi opened the door and got in behind the wheel. “All the bags are in the trunk, chief,” he told his boss. “We need to stop anywhere else before we head south?” “Not unless you’re hungry.” “I could eat.” “Well, there’s a nice restaurant in a better part of town. Let’s go looking.” He glanced out through the tinted windows at a young man who was giving the limo a real hard look. “I’m not overjoyed with the cli- entele hereabouts.” “Me, neither.” “So, let’s go. We’ll drive around and see if we can find someplace Italian. I think Paulie said a new place had just opened recently. Carlo’s. Put it in the computer.” Santi fed it into the onboard GPS. “Got it, chief. Only three blocks away.” “Okay! Head out.”

They were well into their plates of spaghetti when Mikey noticed a couple of customers in suits giving them a cursory inspection. “Feds,” Mikey said under his breath. “At the second table over. Don’t look,” he added. “Know them?” “Nope,” Mikey said.

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“FBI, you think?” Mikey chuckled. “If they were, Paulie would have mentioned that I had a tail here in the city.” “Then who?” “If I were guessing, US Marshals,” he replied. “The big dark one looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place him. He was working with Paulie during the time I spent in Jacobsville three years ago.” “Marshals?” Santi asked, and he shifted restlessly. “Relax. They aren’t planning to toss our butts in jail. There’s this thing called due process,” Mikey said im- perturbably. “We’ll have fewer worries down in Jacobs County. Jacobsville is so small that any stranger sticks out. Besides, we’ve got shadows of our own.” “Good ones?” “You bet,” Mikey replied with a smug grin. “So eat your supper and I’ll move into my new temporary home.” “I don’t like being down the road in a motel,” Santi muttered. “Even with all the other guys watching your back.” “Well, I’m not sharing the room,” Mikey said flatly. “It’s barely big enough for me and all my stuff, without trying to fit you into it. No room for another bed, anyway.” “I guess you got a point.” “Of course I do. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to get hit until they track me down here.” “The limo is going to attract attention,” Santi said worriedly. “Yeah, well, no more attention than the gossip will,

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but there’s not a place in the world I’d be safer. Strangers stick out here. Remember, I told you about Cash Grier’s wife being tracked here by a contract killer, and what happened to him?” Santi chuckled. “Yeah. Grier’s wife hit him so hard with an iron skillet that he ran to the cops for protection.” “Exactly. Nobody messes with Tippy Grier. What a knockout. A movie star, and she’s married to the police chief and has two kids. I never thought Grier could settle down in a small town. He didn’t seem the sort.” “That’s what everybody says.” Santi paused. “I feel bad about that poor girl we almost hit,” he added, sur- prisingly, because he wasn’t sentimental. “She was nice, and we thought she was trying to play us.” “We come by our suspicious natures honestly,” Mikey reminded him. “But, yeah, she was nice. Needs looking after,” he said quietly. “Not that she seems the kind of woman who’d let anybody look after her.” “I noticed that.” Mikey glanced at his watch. “We’d better go.” He signaled to a waiter for the check.

Bernadette was reading in bed. The pain was pretty bad, a combination of the rain and the fall. She needed something to take her mind off it, so she pulled out her cell phone, on which she kept dozens of books. Many were romance novels. She realized that her condition would keep most men away, and it was nice to day- dream about having a kind man sweep her off her feet. She couldn’t stop thinking about the big dark-haired

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man who’d done that earlier in the evening. He was kin to Paul Fiore, who was married to Sari Grayling. Bernie worked with Sari in the local DA’s office. She wondered if she could get away with asking her anything about the man, who’d been very kind to her after mistaking her for some kind of con woman. She shouldn’t be thinking about him. A man that handsome probably had women hanging on to his ankles everywhere he walked. He was apparently rich, as well. There was another woman in her office, the receptionist, Jessie Tennison, a gorgeous brunette in her late twenties, who was crazy about men and openly solic- ited any rich one who came into the office. Mr. Kemp, the DA, had already called her down about it once. A second offense would cost her the job, he’d added. Her position didn’t include sexual harassment of clients. What a new world it was, Bernie mused, when a woman could be accused of what was often seen as a man’s offense. But, then, her coworker was very pretty. She was just ambitious. She had a failed marriage behind her. Gossip was that her ex-husband had been wealthy but had a gambling habit and lost it all on one draw of a card. Nobody knew, because the woman didn’t talk about herself. Well, not to the women in the office. A sudden commotion caught her attention. There was movement in the hall. Some bumping and a familiar deep male voice. Her heart jumped. That was the man who’d brought her home earlier. She knew his voice already. It was hard to miss, with that definite New Jer- sey accent. She knew about that because of Paul Fiore. He had one just like it.

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There was more noise, then a door closing. More footsteps. Voices. The front door opening and closing, and then a car driving away. Mrs. Brown knocked at Bernie’s door and then slipped in, closing it behind her. “Sorry about the noise. Mr. Fiore’s just moving in,” she added with an affec- tionate smile. Bernie tried not to show the delight she felt. “Is he going to stay long? Did he say?” “Not really,” she said. “His driver is staying at a motel down the road.” She laughed. “Mr. Fiore said no way was he sharing that room with another man, especially not one as big as his driver.” Bernie laughed softly. “I guess not.” “So you’ll need to knock before you go into the bathroom, like I mentioned earlier,” Mrs. Brown continued. “Just in case. I told Mr. Fiore again that he’d need to do the same thing, since you’re sharing.” She looked worried. Bernie was flushed. “I’m so sorry. If I had a room with a bathroom free, I’d—” “Those are upstairs,” Bernie interrupted gently, “and we both know that I have a problem with stairs.” She sighed and shook her head. “The rain and the walk and the fall pretty much did me in today. You were right. I should have gotten a cab. It isn’t that expensive, and I don’t spend much of what I make, except on books.” That was true. Her rent included all utilities and even the cable that gave her television access—not that she watched much TV. “I know that walking is supposed to be good for you,” the older woman replied. “But not when you’re

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having a flare.” She drew in a breath. “Bernie, if you wrote the company that makes that injectable medicine, they might…” “I already did,” Bernie said softly. “They offered me a discount, but even so, it’s almost a thousand dollars a month. There’s no way I could afford that, discount or not. Besides,” she said philosophically, “it might not work for me. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s a gamble.” “I guess so.” Mrs. Brown looked sad. “Maybe someday they’ll find a cure.” “Maybe they will.” “Well, I’ll let you get back to your book,” she teased, because she knew about the late-night reading habit. “Need anything from the kitchen before I turn out the lights?” “Not a thing. I have my water right here.” She indicated two bottles of water that she kept by her bedside. “You could have some ice in a glass to go with it.” Bernie shook her head. “It would just melt. But thank you, Mrs. Brown. You’re so good to me.” The older woman beamed. “I’m happy to have you here. You’re the only resident I’ve ever had who never complained about anything. You’ll spoil me.” “That’s my line,” Bernie teased, and she laughed. It made her look pretty. “Sleep well.” “You, too.” Mrs. Brown went out and closed the door. Bernie thought about that injectable medicine. Her rheumatologist in San Antonio had told her about it, encouraged her to try to get it. At Bernie’s age, it might

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retard the progress of the disease, a disease that could lead to all sorts of complications, the worst of which was deformity in the hands and feet. Not only that, but RA was systemic. It could cause a lot of issues in other parts of the body, as well. Chance, Bernie thought, would be a fine thing. She’d have to be very well-to-do in order to afford something so expensive as those shots. Well, meanwhile she had her other meds, and they worked well enough most of the time. It wasn’t every day that she fell in a cold rain almost in front of somebody’s fancy limousine. She smiled to herself and went back to her book.

Breakfast the next morning would have been interesting, Bernie thought to herself as she ate hers from a tray her kindly landlady had provided. But she couldn’t get up. A weather system had moved in, dropping even more rain, and Bernie’s poor body was still trying to cope with yesterday’s fall. What a good thing it was Saturday. She’d have had a time getting to work. Just as she finished the last drop of her coffee, there was a perfunctory knock and the man who’d rescued her walked in. She pulled the sheet up over her breasts. The gown covered her nicely, but she’d never had a man in her bedroom in her life, except for her late father and her doctor. She flushed. Mikey grinned from ear to ear. He loved that reaction. The women in his life were brassy and easy and unshockable. Here was a violet under a staircase, un-

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discovered, who blushed because a man saw her in her nightgown. “Mrs. Brown said you might like a second cup of coffee,” he said gently, approaching the bed with a cup and saucer. “Oh, I, yes, I…thank you.” She couldn’t even talk normally. She was furious with herself, especially when her hands shook a little as she took the cup and saucer from him. He lifted the empty one from the tray, so she’d have someplace to put the new one. He cocked his head and looked at her, fascinated. Her long blond hair was in a braid, a little frizzled from being slept on. She was wearing a cotton gown, and he could see the straps with their eyelet trim. It reminded him of his grandmother, who’d never liked artificial fabric. “You aren’t feeling so good today, are you?” he asked. “Need me to run you over to the doctor?” The flush grew. “Oh. Thank you. No, I’m…well, it’s sort of normal. When it rains, it hurts more. And I fell.” She bit her lip because he looked so guilty. “It wasn’t your fault, or your driver’s,” she added quickly. “I’m clumsy. My toe hit a brick on the sidewalk that was just a little raised and it caused me to lose my balance. That’s why I use the cane on bad days. I’m clumsy even on flat surfaces…” “My grandmother had arthritis,” he said softly. “Her little hands and feet were gnarled like tree roots.” He wasn’t watching, so he didn’t notice the discomfort in Bernie’s face—her poor feet weren’t very pretty, either. “I used to carry her in and out of the house when she

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had bad spells. She loved to sit in the sun.” His dark eyes were sad. “She weighed barely eighty pounds, but she was like a little pit bull. Even the big guys were afraid of her.” “The big guys?” she asked, lost in his soft eyes. He shrugged. “In the family,” he said. She frowned. She didn’t understand. “You really are a little violet under a stair,” he mused to himself. “The family is what insiders call the mob,” he explained. “The big guys are the dons, the men who run things. I’m from New Jersey. Most of my family was involved in organized crime. Well, except Pau- lie,” he added with a chuckle. “He was always the odd guy out.” She smiled. “He’s married to Sari Grayling, who works in our office.” He nodded. “Sweet woman. Her sister is one hel— heck of an artist,” he said, amending the word he’d meant to use. “She truly is. They had her do a portrait of our local college president, who was retiring. It looked just like him.” He chuckled. “The one she painted three years ago saved her life. Her father whacked a woman whose son hired contract men to go after Grayling’s daughters. Merrie painted the big don from back home, and he called off the hit.” He didn’t add how Tony Garza had called it off. “We heard about all that. I wasn’t working for the district attorney’s office at the time. I was working for a local attorney who moved his practice to San Antonio.

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But we all knew,” she added. “Everybody talked about it. He actually gave her away at her wedding, didn’t he?” He nodded. “Tony’s wife died young. He never had kids, never remarried.” He grinned. “He tells everybody he’s Merrie’s dad. Gets a reaction, let me tell you, especially when he mentions that her brother-in-law is a fed.” She sipped coffee, fascinated by him. It was mutual. He smiled very slowly, his heart doing odd things in his chest. It had been many years since he’d felt such tenderness for anything female, except his grandmother. “Do you have family?” he asked suddenly. Her face clouded. “Not anymore,” she said softly, without elaborating. “Me, neither,” he replied. “Except for Paulie. We’re first cousins.” “Mr. Fiore’s nice,” she said. He nodded. He was thinking about Tony, in hiding and waiting for developments that would save him from life in prison. Mikey had the proof that could save him. But he had to stay alive long enough to present it. Here, in Jacobsville, was his best bet. He’d agreed, knowing how many ex-mercs and ex-military lived here. But as he stared at this sweet, kind young woman, he thought about the danger he might be putting her in. Even in a foolproof situation, there could be snags. After all, the contract killer who’d been after Merrie actually got onto Ren Colter’s property in Wyoming and had her bedroom staked out before she came back to her sister and brother-in-law.

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Bernie cocked her head. “Something’s worrying you.” He started. “How do you know?” She drew in a slow breath and averted her eyes. “Peo- ple think I’m strange.” He moved a step closer to the bed. “How so?” She shifted restlessly. “I…well, I sort of know things about people.” She flushed. He nodded. “Like Merrie. She has that sort of per- ception. She painted a picture of me that nailed me to a T, and she’d never even met me.” She looked up. “Oh. Then you’re not…intimidated by strange things.” He chuckled. “Nothing intimidates me, kid,” he teased. She smiled. “So. You think something’s worrying me.” One brown eye narrowed. “What, exactly?” She drew in a long breath and stared into his eyes. “Somebody wants to keep you from telling something you know,” she said after a minute, and saw the shock hit his face. “Damn.” “And it worries you that somebody might hurt anybody around you.” “Need to get a crystal ball and a kerchief and set up shop,” he teased gently. “You’re absolutely on the money. But that’s between you and me, okay? The fewer people who know things, the fewer can talk about them.” She nodded. “I don’t talk about things I know, as a

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rule. I work for the DA’s office. Gossip isn’t encouraged.” He chuckled. “I guess not.” Her coffee was now stone-cold, but she sipped it, for something to do. He stared at her with conflicting emotions. She was unique, he thought. He’d never met anybody in his life like her. She stared back. Her heart was almost smothering her with its wild beat. She was grateful that she had the covers pulled up, so he couldn’t see her gown fluttering with her heartbeat. There was another quick knock and Mrs. Brown came in. “Finished, dear?” she asked as she went to pick up the tray. “You can just set that on here, Mr. Fiore,” she told Mikey with a smile. “I’ll…” He put it on the tray and then took the tray from her. “You’re too delicate to be lifting heavy weights,” he said with a grin. “I’ll carry it for you.” “Oh, Mr. Fiore,” she laughed, and blushed like a girl. “If you need anything, you just call me, Bernie, ok?” “I will. Thanks. Both of you,” she added. Mrs. Brown smiled. As Mikey went through the door, he turned and winked at her. That wink kept her heart fluttering all day, and it kept her awake most of the night.

She was able to go to the table for breakfast the next morning, even if she moved with a little difficulty. Her medicines worked slowly, but at least they did work.

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She had prednisone to take with the worst attacks, and it helped tremendously. “You look better today,” Mrs. Brown said. “Going to church?” “Yes,” she replied with a smile. “I’m hitching a ride with the Farwalkers.” Mikey frowned. “The Farwalkers? Wait a minute. Farwalker. Carson Farwalker. He’s one of the doctors here. I remember.” Bernie laughed. “Yes. He’s married to Carlie Blair. Her dad is pastor of the local Methodist church. I don’t have a car, so they come by to get me most Sundays for services. Sometimes it’s just Carlie and their little boy, Jacob, if Carson’s on call.” He didn’t mention that he knew that pastor, Jake Blair. He also knew things about the man’s past that he wasn’t sharing. “My whole family was Catholic,” he said. “Well, not Paulie. But then, he always went his own way.” “The Ruiz family here is Catholic,” she said. “He’s a Texas Ranger. His wife is a nurse. She works in San An- tonio, too, so they commute. They’re very nice people.” “I never met Ruiz, but I heard about him. Ranch the size of a small state, they say.” Bernie grinned. “Yes. It is rather large, but they aren’t social people, if you get my meaning.” “Goodness, no,” Miss Pirkle, one of the tenants said with a smile. “Your cousin and his family are like that, too, Mr. Fiore,” she added, her thin face animated as she spoke. “Down-to-earth. Good people.” “Thanks,” he said.

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“We have a lot of moneyed families in Jacobsville and Comanche Wells,” old Mrs. Bartwell interjected with a smile. “Most of them earned their wealth the hard way, especially the Ballengers. They started out with nothing. Now Calhoun is a United States senator and Justin runs their huge feed lot here.” “That’s a real rags-to-riches story,” Miss Pirkle agreed. “Their sons are nice, too. Imagine, two brothers, three children apiece, and not a girl in the bunch,” she added on a laugh. “I wouldn’t mind a little girl,” Mikey said, surprising himself. He didn’t dare look at Bernie, who’d in- spired the comment. He could almost picture her in a little frilly dress at the age of five or six. She would have been a pretty child. He hadn’t thought about children in a long time, not since his ex-fiancée had noted that she wasn’t marrying some famous criminal. It had broken Mikey’s heart. Women were treacherous. “Children are sweet,” Bernie said softly as she finished her bacon and eggs. “The Griers come into our office a lot with their daughter, Tris, and their son, Mar- cus. I love seeing their children.” “The police chief,” Mikey said, nodding. He chuckled. “Not your average small-town cop.” “Not at all,” Bernie agreed, tongue-in-cheek. “That’s true,” Miss Pirkle said. “He was a Texas Ranger!” Bernie caught Mikey’s eyes and held them. He got the message. Their elderly breakfast companion didn’t know about the chief’s past. Just as well to keep it quiet. “Are you from here, too?” Mikey asked Miss Pirkle.

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“No. I’m from Houston,” she replied, her blue eyes smiling. “I came here with my mother about two years ago, just before I lost her.” She took a breath and forced a smile. “I loved the town so much that I decided I’d just stay. I don’t really have anybody back in Houston now.” “I’m not from here, either,” Mrs. Bartwell said. “I’m a northern transplant. New York State.” “Thought I recognized that accent,” Mikey teased. Mrs. Bartwell chuckled. “I have a great-niece who lives in Chicago with her grandmother. Old money. Very old. They have ancestors who died in the French Revolution.” “My goodness!” Miss Pirkle exclaimed, all ears. “My sister and I haven’t spoken in twenty years,” she added. “We had a minor disagreement that led to a terrible fight. My husband died of cancer and we had no children. My great-niece’s mother was from Jacobsville. She was a Jacobs, in fact.” “Impressive,” Bernie said with a grin. “Was she kin to Big John?” “Yes, distantly.” “Big John?” Mikey asked curiously. “Big John Jacobs,” Bernie replied, because she knew the history by heart. “He was a sharecropper back in Georgia before the Union Army burned down his farm and killed most of his family, thinking they were slave owners. They weren’t. They were poor, like the black family he saved from real slave owners. One of the Union officers was going to have him shot, but the black family got between him and the Army man and made him listen to the truth. They saved his life. He came here just after

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the Civil War with them. He didn’t even have a proper house, so he and their families lived in one big shack together. He hired on some Comanche men and a good many cowboys from Mexico and started ranching with Texas longhorns. He made people uncomfortable because he wasn’t a racist in a time when many people were. He married an heiress, convinced her father to build a rail- road spur to the ranch, near present Jacobsville, so that he could ship his cattle north. Made a fortune at it.” “What a story,” Mikey chuckled. “And all true,” Miss Pirkle said. “There’s a statue of Big John on the town square. One of his direct descen- dants is married to Justin Ballenger, who owns one of the biggest feed lots in Texas.” “All this talk of great men makes me weak in the knees,” Mikey teased. “Do you have illustrious ancestors, Mr. Fiore?” Mrs. Brown asked with a mischievous grin. “Nah,” he said. “If I do, I don’t know about it. My grandmother was the only illustrious person I ever knew.” “Was she famous?” Mrs. Bartwell asked. “Well, she was famous back in Jersey,” he mused. “Got mad at a don and chased him around the room with a salami.” There were confused looks. “Mafia folks,” he explained. “Oh! Like in The Sopranos, that used to be on television!” Miss Pirkle said. “I never missed an episode!” “Sort of like that,” he said. “More like Marlon Brando in The Godfather,” he said, chuckling. “After- wards, he sent her a big present every Christmas and even came to her funeral. She was fierce.”

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“Was she Italian?” Mrs. Brown asked. He laughed. “She was Greek. Everybody else in my whole family was Italian except for her. She was a tiny little thing, but ferocious. I was terrified of her when I was a kid. So was Paulie. Our folks didn’t have much time for us,” he added, not explaining why, “so she pretty much raised us.” “I never knew either of my grandmothers,” Bernie said as she sipped coffee. Mikey was studying her closely. “Where were your grandparents from?” he asked. She closed up like a flower. She forced a smile. “I’m not really sure,” she lied. “My father and mother were from Jacobsville, though, and we lived here from the time I was old enough to remember things. I have to get ready for church. It was delicious, Mrs. Brown,” she added. “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Brown said, and grimaced a little. She knew about Bernie’s past. Not many other local people did. She could almost feel Bernie’s anguish. Not Mr. Fiore’s fault for bringing it up. He didn’t know. “Want a second cup of coffee to take with you while you dress?” “If I drink two, I can fly around the room and land on the curtain rods,” Bernie teased. “I’m hyper enough as it is. But thanks.” She glanced at Mikey, puzzled by the look on his face. She smiled at the others and went back to her room.

Jake Blair was a conundrum, Bernie thought as she walked in line out the front door to shake hands with him after the very nice sermon. He seemed to be very conventional, just like a minister was expected

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to be. But he drove a red Shelby Cobra Mustang with a souped-up engine, and there were whispers about his past. The same sort of whispers that followed Ja- cobsville’s police chief, Cash Grier, wherever he went. Bernie gripped her dragon cane tightly and glanced at the toddler in Dr. Carson Farwalker’s arms as he and Carlie walked beside her. “Imagine you two with a child.” Bernie sighed as she went from one face to the other. Carlie grinned. “Imagine us married!” she corrected with a loving look at her husband, which was returned. “They were taking bets at the police station the day we got married about when he’d do a flit.” “They’re having a long wait, don’t you think?” Car- son chuckled. “Very long,” she agreed. “Imagine, we used to fight each other in World of Warcraft on battlegrounds and we never knew it. Not until my life was in danger and Dad had you watching me.” “I watched you a lot more than he told me to,” Car- son teased. She laughed. They’d moved up to Jake by now and he was giving them an amused grin. “There’s my boy!” he said softly, and held his arms out for Jacob, who was named after him.” “Gimpa.” The little boy laughed and hugged the tall man. Jake hugged him close. “If anybody had told me ten years ago that I’d go all mushy over a grandchild, I guess I’d have laughed.”

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“If anybody had told me ten years ago that I’d be practicing medicine in a small Texas town, I’d have fainted,” Carson chuckled. “I like having family,” Jake said, and smiled at his daughter and son-in-law. “I never belonged anyplace in my life until now.” “Me, neither,” Bernie said softly. Jake looked at her kindly, and she knew that he’d heard the rumors. She just smiled. He was her minister, after all. Someday maybe she’d be able to talk about it. Mrs. Brown knew, but she was a clam. Not a lot of other people had any idea about Bernie’s background because she’d lived for a few years, with her parents, in Floresville before coming back here with her father just before he died. She didn’t like to think about those days. Not at all. Jake looked behind his family at the few remaining, obviously impatient worshippers and handed his grandson back to Carson. “Ah, well, I’ll see you all at the house later. I’m holding up progress,” he added, and looked behind Carson at a man who actually flushed. “Not a problem, Preacher,” the man said. “It’s just that the line’s already forming for lunch at Barbara’s Café…” “Say no more,” Jake chuckled. “Actually, I’m head- ing there myself. I can burn water.” “You can cook,” Carlie chided. “Only when I want to. And I don’t want to,” he con- fided with a grin. He kissed her cheek and shook hands with Carson. “I’ll see you all for supper. You bringing it?”

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“Of course,” Carlie replied with a grin. “We know you can’t boil water!” He just laughed.

Bernie walked into the boardinghouse a little tired, but happy from the few hours of socializing with friends. She wasn’t looking where she was going, her mind still on the Farwalkers’ little boy, whom she had sat beside in the back seat and cooed at all the way home. She ran right into Mikey and almost fell.

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Mikey just stared at her, smiling faintly as he caught her by both shoulders and spared her a fall. She did look pretty, with her long, platinum blond hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a pink dress in some soft material that displayed her nice figure without making it look indecent. He thought of all the women he’d known who paraded around in dresses cut up to the thigh and slashed to the waist in front. He compared them with Bernie, and found that he greatly preferred her to those glitzy women in his past. “Thanks,” she said, a husky note in her voice as she looked up at him with fascinated pale green eyes. It was a long way. He was husky for his height, and his head was leonine, broad, with a straight nose and chis-

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eled lips and a square chin. He looked like a movie star. She’d never even seen a man so handsome. “Deep thoughts?” he asked softly. She caught her breath. “Sorry. I was just thinking how handsome you are.” She flushed. “Oh, gosh,” she groaned as that slipped out. “It’s okay,” he teased. “I’m used to ladies swooning over me. No problem.” That broke the ice and she laughed. He loved the way she looked when she laughed. Her whole face became radiant. Color bloomed on her cheeks. Her green eyes sparkled. Amazing, that a woman with her disability could laugh at all. But, then, his little grandmother had been the same. She never complained. She just accepted her lot in life and got on with living. “You never complain, do you?” he asked suddenly. “Well…not really,” she stammered. “There’s this saying that the boss has on the wall at work, a quote from Saint Francis of Assisi…” “‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference,’” he quoted. She smiled. “You know it.” He shrugged. “My grandmother dragged me to mass every single Sunday until I was old enough to refuse to go. She had a plaque with that quote on it. I learned it by heart.” “It’s nice.” “I guess.” He let her go belatedly. “You okay?”

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“I’m fine. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Sorry I ran into you.” “Feel free to do it whenever you like,” he said, and his dark eyes twinkled. “You fall down, kid, I’ll pick you up every time.” She flushed. “Thanks. I’d do the same for you, if I could.” She eyed his height. Her head came up to just past his shoulder. He probably weighed twice what she did, and the expensive suit he was wearing didn’t dis- guise the muscular body under it. “I don’t imagine I could pick you up, though.” He laughed. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll see you later.” She nodded. He went around her and out the door, just as she heard a car pull up at the curb. His driver, no doubt. She wondered where he was going on a Sunday. But, then, that was really not her business.

It was the next morning before Bernie saw Mikey again, at the breakfast table. He was quiet and he looked very somber. He felt somber. Somebody had tracked Tony to the Bahamas and Marcus Carrera had called in some markers to keep him safe. Tony had used one of his throwaway phones to call Mikey—on the number Mikey had sent through a confederate. Carrera, he recalled, was not a man to mess with. Once a big boss up north, the man had done a complete flip and gone legit. He was worth millions. He’d married a small-town Texas girl some years ago and they had two sons. The wife was actually from Jacobsville, a girl who used to do clothing repairs at the local dry

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cleaner’s. Her father was as rich as Tony. Her mother had pretended to be her sister, but the truth came out when Carrera was threatened and his future wife saved him. Mikey knew Carrera’s in-laws, but distantly. At least Tony was safe. But if they’d tracked him down, they probably had a good idea where Mikey was. It wouldn’t take much work to discover that Mikey had been down here in Jacobsville three years ago to help out his cousin Paulie. That being said, however, it was still the safest place he could be. He had as much protection as he needed, from both sides of the law. He looked around at the women at the table. His eyes lingered on Bernadette. He didn’t want to put her in the line of fire. This had been a bad idea, getting a room at a boardinghouse. Or had it? “Deep thoughts, Mr. Fiore?” Mrs. Brown teased. “You’re very quiet.” He laughed self-consciously when he felt eyes on him. “Yeah. I was thinking about a friend of mine who’s been in some trouble recently.” “We’ve all been there,” Miss Pirkle said warmly. “I guess friends become like family after a time, don’t they? We worry about them just as we would about kinfolk.” “And that’s a fact,” he agreed. “My best friend drowned in a neighbor’s swimming pool, when my family lived briefly in Floresville,” Ber- nie commented. “Did you see it?” Mikey asked. She looked down at her plate. Her whole face clenched. “Yes. I didn’t get to her in time.”

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“Listen, kid, sometimes things just happen. Like they’re meant to happen. I’m not a religious man, but I believe life has a plan. Every life.” Bernie looked up at him. Her face relaxed a little. She drew in a long breath. “Yes. I think that, too.” She smiled. He smiled back. The smiles lasted just a second too long to be casual. Mrs. Brown broke the silence by putting her cup noisily in the saucer without glancing at her boarders. It amused her, the streetwise Northerner and the shy Texas girl, finding each other fascinating. Mrs. Brown’s husband had died years ago, leaving her with a big house outside town and a fistful of bills she couldn’t pay. Open- ing her home to lodgers had made the difference. With her increased income, she was able to buy this house in town and turn it into a new boardinghouse. The sale of the first house had financed the purchase and remod- eling of this one. The new location had been perfect for her boarders who worked in Jacobsville. She found that she had a natural aptitude for dealing with people, and it kept her bills paid and left her comfortably situ- ated financially. But romance had been missing from her life. Now she was watching it unfold, with delight. Mikey glanced at his wrist, at the very expensive thin gold watch he wore. “I have to run. I’m meeting Paulie up in San Antonio, but I’ll be home in time for dinner,” he told Mrs. Brown. He got up and leaned toward her. “What are we having?” “Lasagna,” she said with a grin. “And yes, I do know how to make it. Mandy Swilling taught me.”

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“You angel!” he said, and chuckled. “I’ll definitely be back on time. See you all later.” They all called goodbyes. Bernie flushed when he turned at the doorway and glanced back at her with dark, soft eyes and a smile.

She felt good enough to walk the four blocks to work and she hardly needed the cane. Her life had taken a turn. She was happy for the first time in recent mem- ory. Just the thought of Mikey Fiore made her tingle all over and glow inside. That was noticed by the people she worked with, especially the new girl, Jessie Tennison. Jessie was older than Bernadette’s twenty-four years. She had to be at least twenty-seven. She’d been married and was now divorced, with no children. She had a roving eye for rich men. It had already gotten her in trouble with their boss, Mr. Kemp, the district attorney. That hadn’t seemed to stop her. She wore very revealing clothing—she’d been called down about that, too—and she wasn’t friendly to the women in the office. Bernie put down her purse, folded her cane and took off her jacket before she sat down. “I don’t see why you work,” Jessie said offhand- edly, looking down her long nose at Bernie with a cold blue-eyed stare. “I’d just get on government relief and stay home.” “I don’t need handouts. I work for my living,” Ber- nie said. She smiled at the tall brunette, but not with any warmth. Jessie shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m going over to the

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courthouse on my break to talk to my friend Billie,” she added, slipping into a long coat. Bernie almost bit her tongue off to keep from men- tioning that their breaks were only ten minutes long and it would take Jessie that long just to walk to the courthouse. The district attorney’s office had been in the courthouse, but this year they’d moved to a new county building where they had more room. The increased space had delighted the office staff, which had grown considerably. Their new office was closer to Mrs. Brown’s boardinghouse and Barbara’s Café, but farther from the courthouse. She didn’t say it, but her coworker Olivia did. “Who’s in the courthouse today, Jessie?” she asked with a blank expression. “Some really rich upper-class man who might need a companion…?” “You…!” Jessie began just as Mr. Kemp’s office door opened. She smiled at him, all sweetness. “I’m going to the courthouse on my break to see my friend Billie for just a minute, Mr. Kemp. Is that all right with you?” she added with a cold glance at her coworker. “If it’s absolutely necessary,” he replied tersely. He wasn’t pleased with his new employee. In fact, he was beginning to think he’d made a big mistake. A glowing recommendation from a San Antonio attorney had gotten Jessie the job, mainly because there were no other applicants. Competent receptionists with several years’ experience weren’t thick on the ground around Jacobsville. “It really is,” she said, and looked as if it wasn’t the

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whole truth. “I have a friend in the hospital in San An- tonio. Billie’s been to see him,” she added quickly. “Okay. Try not to take too long.” He paused and looked at her for a long time. “You get a ten-minute break. Not an hour.” “Oh, yes, sir.” She was all sugary sweetness as she walked out the door in a cloud of cloying perfume. Bernie’s coworker fanned the air with a file folder, making a face. Not five minutes later, assistant DA Glory Ramirez walked in the door and made a face. “Who’s been film- ing a perfume commercial in here?” she asked. “Somebody who’s mad at me, probably,” Sari Fiore, their second assistant DA, laughed as she came in behind Glory. “Perfume gives me a migraine.” “I’ll turn the air conditioner on long enough to suck it out of the building,” Mr. Kemp volunteered. “Ask her to wash it all off. I dare you,” Sari said to the boss. He laughed and went back into his office. The phone rang. Sari picked it up, nodded, spoke into the receiver and pressed a button. It was for Mr. Kemp. She hung up. “Where’s Jessie?” Sari asked curtly. “The phone is her job, not ours.” “There’s some rich guy at the courthouse,” Olivia told her. “She had a call from her friend Billie, who works as a temporary assistant in the Clerk of Court’s office. I guess that was what it was about, although she said she was going to ask about a sick friend.” “She can’t do that on the phone?” Sari asked, aghast.

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“Well, she can’t see the rich guy over the phone,” Olivia said demurely and with a wicked smile. “Jessie’s a pill,” Glory added. “I wonder how she ever got past the boss to hire on here. She’s definitely not like any legal receptionist I’ve ever known.” “She’s big-city, not small-town,” Sari said. “She’s got an accent like that lawyer from Manhattan who was down here last month.” “I noticed,” Glory replied. “How are you feeling, Bernie?” Bernie flushed and grinned. “I’m doing fine.” “Oh?” Sari teased. “We heard about your new boarder at Mrs. Brown’s.” Bernie went scarlet. “That was mean,” Glory told Sari. “Sorry,” Sari said, but she was still grinning. “Isn’t Mikey a doll?” she added. “He could pose for com- mercials.” “I noticed,” Bernie said. “He’s very good-looking.” “We heard about the fall. You okay?” Bernie gasped. “Does he tell you guys everything?” “Well, not everything. Just when he feels guilty about something.” She smiled gently. “He felt really bad that he’d misjudged you. But it’s not surprising. He’s had women jump in front of his car before.” “My goodness!” Bernie exclaimed, fascinated. “He is very rich,” Glory pointed out. “And some women are less than scrupulous.” “Very true,” Bernie said. “But I’m not.” “He noticed,” Sari replied, tongue in cheek. “He said you remind him of his grandmother.”

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Bernie’s eyes widened to saucers, and she looked absolutely horrified. “No!” Sari said quickly. “He didn’t mean he thought you were old. He said you had the same kind heart and the same sharp tongue she did. He was tickled when you compared him to that guy in the Police Academy movie.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked at Bernie. “Paul said he really was like that guy, too.” Bernie laughed. “He’s a lot of fun around the boardinghouse. He makes our two older ladies very flustered. Mrs. Brown, too.” “He’s a dish. But he’s not really a ladies’ man, despite the appearance,” Sari added. “In fact, he doesn’t like most women. He had a hard experience some years back. I guess it affected him.” “We’ve all had hard experiences,” Glory remarked. She shook her head. “If anybody had ever told me I’d marry Rodrigo…!” “If anybody had ever told me that I’d finally marry Paul…” Sari countered, and they both laughed. Both women had had a hard path to the altar, with some painful experiences along the way. Now they were happy. Glory and Rodrigo had a son, but Paul and Sari hadn’t started a family. Despite being filthy rich, they were both career oriented. Paul was FBI at the San An- tonio office and Sari was an assistant DA here in Jacobs County. Children were definitely in their future, Sari often said, but not just at the moment. Bernie would have loved a child. It would have been difficult for her with her physical issues, but that wouldn’t deter her if she ever found a man who loved her enough to marry her. She thought briefly of Mikey

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and her heart fluttered, but she knew she wasn’t beautiful or cultured enough to appeal to a man so sophisticated. And if he’d reached his present age, which had to be somewhere in his thirties, unmarried, he was un- likely to be thinking of marrying anybody in the future. What a depressing thought, she realized, and how silly of her to be thinking of it in the first place. He was only here temporarily. He belonged up north. She sat very still, aware of conversation around her and not hearing it. Mikey belonged up north. But he was in Jacobsville for no apparent reason, and he’d taken a room at a boardinghouse, which meant he was staying for a while. Why? She knew he was worried about the people around him in the boardinghouse. Had he made somebody really mad, and they were after him? Was he in Ja- cobsville because he was safe here? She’d heard just a snippet of gossip from Mrs. Brown, that Mr. Fiore was being watched by one of Eb Scott’s men. Nobody knew why. But Eb’s men were mercenaries, experienced in combat. Bernie hoped that Mikey wasn’t being hunted. What an odd word to think of, she mused as she pulled up the computer program she used in her work. Hunted. She’d guessed that Mikey was worried about somebody else. Her heart jumped. Was it a woman, perhaps? No. Sari said he was sour on women. A man? Somebody from his past with a grudge? He knew a lot about organized crime. Maybe it was somebody he’d come across in his job, because Mrs. Brown said he told her he owned a hotel in Las Vegas. He must, she thought, be very rich indeed if he owned property in that expensive place.

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She was well into research on a new case precedent for the boss when Jessie breezed back in, wafting her expense perfume everywhere. Sari glared at her. “Jessie, I’ve told you that heavy perfume brings on migraines. I’d hate to have to speak to Mr. Kemp about it.” “Oh, I’m sorry!” Jessie said at once, feigning surprise. “I won’t wear so much from now on.” “Thanks.” Sari gave her a look she didn’t see and went back to work. “Well, was he there, your rich mark?” Olivia drawled. Jessie glared at her. “I don’t have a rich mark.” “Some wealthy gentleman?” Olivia probed further. Jessie took off her coat and sat down at her desk. “I don’t know. He was riding in a black limousine. He’s from New Jersey.” Bernie’s heart dropped to her feet. She only knew one rich man in Jacobsville who rode around in a black limousine. It had to be Mikey. Jessie was beautiful and sophisticated, probably the sort of woman Mikey would really go for. Jessie was an oddity in Jacobsville, where most women weren’t streetwise. The older woman probably charmed him. While she was thinking, Jessie’s cold eyes stabbed into her face. “He said he’s living at Mrs. Brown’s boardinghouse. That’s where you live, isn’t it, Berna- dette?” “Yes,” Bernie said shortly. Jessie laughed, her scrutiny almost insulting. “Well, you won’t be any sort of competition, will you? I mean, no sane man is going to want to take on a woman who can’t stand up without a cane—”

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“That’s enough,” Mr. Kemp said shortly from his open office door, and he looked even more formidable than usual. “You get one more warning, Jessie, then you’re on your way back to San Antonio. You do not disparage coworkers. Ever.” Jessie actually flushed. She hadn’t realized the boss could hear her. She’d have to be a lot more careful. There weren’t any other jobs available in Jacobsville right now, and she couldn’t afford to lose this one. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Kemp,” she began. “Bernie’s the one who’s owed an apology.” “Yes, sir.” Jessie turned to Bernie. “I’m sorry. That was wrong of me.” “Okay,” Bernie said, but she didn’t really look at the other woman. Mr. Kemp hesitated for just a minute before he went back into his office. “Careless, Jessie,” Olivia said in a biting undertone. “Better make sure the boss isn’t listening when you start making rude comments about one of us.” Jessie looked as if she might explode. The phone rang and saved her from making her situation any worse.

At lunchtime, Olivia and Bernie went to Barbara’s Café to eat. Glory and Sari went home, where Glory had a babysitter and she could visit with her son while she ate. Sari had lunch with Mandy Swilling, the Gray- ling housekeeper. Jessie was stuck in the office until the others returned, thanks to Mr. Kemp who insisted that somebody had to answer the phone while he was out of the office. Jessie was almost smoking when the other women went out the door.

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* * * “Jessie’s a pain,” Olivia said curtly. Bernie’s pale green eyes sparkled as she dug into her chef’s salad. “You really made her mad.” “Well, nobody else says anything,” the other woman defended herself. Her voice softened. “Least of all you, Bernie. You’re the sweetest woman I’ve ever known, except for my late grandmother. You could find one kind thing to say about the devil,” she teased. Bernie laughed softly. “I guess so.” “At least Sari finally said something about the heavy perfume. I know it gives her fits. She’s prone to migraines from just the stress of her job. Jessie doesn’t care what she does or says unless the boss loses his temper.” She frowned. “What’s she doing down here?” she added with a frown. “I mean, she worked in San Anto- nio, where salaries are a lot higher. She doesn’t know anybody in Jacobsville.” “The boss said she wanted a slower pace,” Bernie replied. “Sure. Like she has any stress. Unless answering the phone gives you ulcers,” Olivia said drily. “Or bend- ing over the desk to show as much cleavage as possible when a wealthy client comes in.” “Oh, shame on you!” Bernie said, laughing. “I know. I’m bad. But Jessie’s worse. She met your fellow boardinghouse occupant, too,” Olivia added with a pointed glance at Bernie’s flushed face. “She’ll be after him soon. Nobody here rides around in a limo except Paul’s cousin Mikey. Sari used to, but she mostly just drives now that all the threats to her and her sister are gone.”

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“He’s here for a reason, too,” Bernie said. “A guess, or that intuition that makes most people nervous?” Olivia teased. Bernie laughed. “Maybe a bit of both.” “Or maybe not.” Olivia glanced up and then down again. “Any idea about what he might be doing today?” Bernie’s heart jumped and she felt it flutter. Incred- ible, that she knew absolutely where he was, without even looking. “He’s coming in the door.” She hadn’t looked up. She did now, and there he was, in a dark suit with a patterned blue tie, looking around until he spotted Bernie. He grinned as he went to the counter and placed his order, paying for it before he joined Olivia and Bernie at their table. “Room for one more?” he asked with a grin at both women. “I don’t really know anybody else in here, and I’m shy.” “Oh, sure you are,” Olivia said with a wry smile. She wiped her mouth. “I have to get back before Jessie turns purple and says we’re starving her. You stay and finish your salad, Bernie,” she added as she stood up. “You have a half hour before you have to come back.” “Jessie. That the underdressed brunette who works in your office?” he asked. They nodded. “Don’t tell her I’m here, okay?” he asked Olivia. He shook his head. “I know how deer feel in hunting season.” They both laughed. “I won’t. I promise,” Olivia said. She winked at Ber- nie and went to carry her tray back. Mikey looked at Bernie slowly, taking in the blond

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braid and the nice gray suit she was wearing with a pink camisole. “You look pretty,” he said softly. She flushed and laughed self-consciously. “Thanks.” “You’re a breath of spring compared to the women I know,” he added quietly, watching her. “Brassy, over- bearing women don’t do a thing for me these days. I guess I’m jaded.” She smiled shyly. “You’re very handsome and you’re wealthy. I guess women do chase you. Even movie stars and rich women.” He pursed his lips. “They used to. It’s the other stuff that puts them off.” Her thin eyebrows lifted. “The other stuff?” she asked. He shrugged. “My connections.” She still wasn’t getting it. While she tried to, Bar- bara brought his steak and salad and black coffee, and put it down in front of him. “I hope it’s done right,” she told Mikey. “My cook tends to get meat a little overdone. One of our customers actually carried his back into the kitchen and pro- ceeded to show him how to cook it properly.” “Jon Blackhawk,” Bernie guessed. “How did you know?” Barbara asked. “He’s the only gourmet chef I know, and he’s Paul’s boss at the FBI office in San Antonio. They were both down here recently on a case. And nobody eats anywhere else in Jacobsville except here,” she teased. Barbara chuckled. “Exactly. It didn’t come to blows, but it was close. My temporary cook’s from New Jer- sey,” she added. Mikey’s ears perked up. He glanced at Barbara.

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She made a face. “His people are heavily federal, if you get my meaning. His brother works for the US Mar- shals Service in San Antonio, and he’s a former policeman where he came from. He’s retired.” “Oh.” Mikey relaxed, just a little. “I was going to add… Goodness, excuse me,” she said, suddenly flustered as she went back to the counter. Bernie’s eyes followed her, and she grinned to herself as she watched a husky man in a police uniform smile at Barbara as she went to wait on him. “Okay, what’s that little smirk all about?” Mikey teased. “That guy at the counter. That’s Fred Baldwin. He worked as a policeman here for a while, then at a local ranch. Now he’s back on the police force. He’s sweet on Barbara and vice versa.” Mikey glanced in that direction and laughed softly. “I can see what you mean.” “Her son’s a lieutenant of detectives with San Anto- nio PD,” Bernie added. He nodded. “I met him, last time I was here. Nice guy.” “Her daughter-in-law’s father is the head of the CIA,” she added. “I heard that, too. Her son’s dad is a head of state, down in South America.” “He does have some interesting connections,” Ber- nie agreed.

Mikey finished his steak. “What’s there to do around here at night?” he asked. She pursed her lips. “Well, people go to concerts at

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the local high school on the weekends sometimes. Other people drive in the Line.” “What the hell…heck’s the Line?” he amended. “A bunch of people drive around in a line. Teenagers, married people, even old people sometimes. They have a leader, and they go all around the county, one after the other, sometimes even up to San Antonio and back.” He shook his head. “The things I miss, living in a city.” His dark eyes met hers. “How about movies?” “Jack Morris and his son just opened a drive-in theater outside town,” she said. “He even built a snack bar with restrooms. He says he’s bringing back the 1950s all by himself. It’s pretty successful, too.” “What’s playing right now?” She named the movie, an action one about comman- does. He smiled. “You like movies like that?” he asked. “Well, yes,” she confessed. He chuckled. “I thought you had an adventurous nature. Mrs. Brown told me about those books you read in bed. She said you have some on outfits like the Brit- ish SAS and the French Foreign Legion.” She blushed. “My goodness!” “So, how about a movie Friday night?” he asked. “I’ll have Santi rent a smaller car, one that won’t get so much attention from the populace.” Her heart skipped a beat and ran wild. “You want to take me out, on a date?” “Of course I do,” he said softly. She thought she might faint. “But I… I have all sorts of health issues…”

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“Bernadette, you have a kind heart,” he said quietly, his dark eyes soft on her face. “None of the other stuff matters. Least of all an illness you can’t help.” He grinned. “I won’t ask you to go mountain climbing with me. I promise.” She laughed. “That’s a deal, then.” He shook his head. “Why would you think you’re untouchable?” “A local boy told me that when I was in high school. He said he didn’t want to get mixed up with a handicapped girl.” “Idiot,” he muttered. She smiled at him. “Thanks.” “How long ago?” She blinked. “How long ago was it?” He shifted. “Clumsy way to put it. How old are you?” he added. His dark eyes twinkled. “Past the age of con- sent?” he probed. She closed up and looked uncomfortable. He put a big, warm hand over hers on the table. “I don’t proposition women I haven’t even dated yet,” he said softly. “And you aren’t the sort of girl who’d ever get such a proposition from me. Honest.” She caught her breath. He was so unexpected. “I’m twenty-four. Almost twenty-five.” He was shocked and looked it. “You don’t look your age, kid.” She beamed. “Thanks.” He laughed and curled his fingers around hers, enjoying the sensations that ran through him. Judging by the flush, she was feeling something similar.

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“Careful,” she said under her breath as more people came in the front door. “Careful, why? Somebody with a gun looking our way?” he asked, and not entirely facetiously. “Gossip.” He scowled. “What?” “Gossip,” she repeated. “If people see you standing close together or holding hands, they start talking about you, especially if you’re local and unmarried. You’ll get talked about.” “Like I care,” he teased. She felt as if she could float. “Really?” His teeth were perfect and very white. She noticed, because he didn’t seem to smile much. “I don’t mind gossip. Do you?” She hesitated. But, really, nobody here was likely to gossip about her to him, at least. Not many people knew about her parents or, especially, her grandparents. “No,” she said after a minute. “I don’t mind, either.” “Just as well. I have no plans to stop holding hands with you,” he said. “It feels nice.” “It feels very nice,” she said.

He had Santi drive her back to her office. He even got out, helped her from the car and walked her to the door. “That woman in the courthouse said she works here. That right?” he asked. She made a face and nodded. “Then I won’t come in. Phew,” he added. “She could start a perfume shop on what she was wearing.” “She could in there, too,” she said.

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He laughed. “Well, I’ll see you back at Mrs. Brown’s later. If it starts raining, you call me and I’ll come pick you up.” She looked hesitant. “Oh. Right.” He pulled out his wallet, extracted a business card and handed it to her. “Cell phone. At the bottom. You can call me or you can text me. Texting is better. I hate talking on the damned phone.” She laughed. “So do I.” “Okay, then. See you later, kid.” “See you.” He got back in the car. She went into her office and closed the door behind her. Jessie was watching. Her face was livid. She’d tried to cadge a ride back to the office in that nice limo and been refused. It made her furious that little miss sunshine there had managed it. And she was late back to work, to boot!

Want to know what happens next? Order Texas Proud by Diana Palmer, available September 29, wherever books are sold!

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CHAPTER ONE

Vikram Raawal walked up the steps of Raawal Mahal, his family’s two-hundred-year-old palatial ancestral bungalow. It was the only property his parents had left unsullied by their still-tempestuous marriage of forty years. The muggy October afternoon was redolent with the pungent aroma of the jasmine creeper that his grandfather had planted for his wife all those years ago. His grandparents had shared a love story that couldn’t be recreated by all the glittering sets and stars of Bollywood. If not for the fact that Vikram had very clear memories of them—Daadu and Daadi sitting side by side listening to ghazals on the gramophone, sharing stories with him and his younger brother and sister, Daadi keeping silent vigil by her husband’s side as he vanished away into nothing…he would have scoffed at even the idea of such a love. But he had seen it. He’d been a part of it. He’d found comfort and joy in its shadow. And today,

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at the age of thirty-six, memories of that love hit him hard. He was lonely, he admitted to himself, as he walked through the gated courtyard toward the main bungalow. The strains of an old ghazal played on the gramophone player, sinking sweetly into his veins, slowly releasing the pent-up tension he’d been carrying. He laughed at the mural his younger brother, Virat, had painted on one wall where a profusion of plants and flowerpots sat on an elevated concrete bench. The cozy bungalow, full of sweet memories and peaceful childhood associations, was his favorite place in the world. And yet, he had avoided visiting for almost two months, using out-of-country shoots and overloaded scheduling as excuses. But here in this place where he was just Vikram and not Vikram Raawal, Bollywood star, and the chairman of the family production company Raawal House of Cinema, he couldn’t lie to himself. He hadn’t wanted to expose himself to his daadi’s brand of perceptiveness. He hadn’t wanted her to see how unhappy he’d been of late. How…unsettled in his own skin. The raucous burst of a man’s laughter punctured his thoughts. It was Virat. For a few seconds, Vikram considered turning around and walking out. His recent argument with his brother had been far dirtier than their usual head- butting over projects for Raawal House. Being called

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arrogant and dominating by a brother that he loved and respected had…shaken him. The laughter came again and Vikram’s curios- ity trumped his reluctance. He walked through the grand salon, filled with his grandfather’s trophies and accolades from a career that had lasted close to five decades in Bollywood. Vijay Raawal had not only been a celebrated actor and director but had built his career from the ground up after traveling the country with a theater group for years. Started his own production company, and taken the industry in a new direction. Made main- stream films, art projects, and careers of many stars and never once lost his integrity. How had his grandfather sustained such a glittering career in such a superficial and cutthroat industry? Had it been simply the unconditional support Daadi had offered him through everything? After fifteen years and numerous box office hits in Bollywood, Vikram had suddenly found himself filled with a strange feeling of discontent all of a sudden. But it was more than creative burnout. In a cinematic twist, he’d found himself wanting the same kind of support and affection from someone that Daadi had given Daadu while knowing that he wasn’t actually capable of returning it. In a crazy moment of impulse, he’d asked his best friend Zara to marry him. Thankfully, Zara had instantly said no. That he had even considered marriage in the first place—even if it was to his oldest

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and longest friend, showed how unlike himself he was currently feeling. He nodded at Ramu Kaka—his grandfather’s old manservant, as old and comfortingly familiar as the bungalow itself. The first thing that hit him as he entered the expan- sive sitting room was the subtle scent of roses. Every inch of him stilled as he stood over the threshold, his long form hidden from his daadi and Virat by the L-shaped angle of the hall. They were lounging on the divan, while a number of their servants stood huddled by the other door that led to the huge kitchen. Every mouth twitched in varying degrees of smiles. In the middle of the room, kneeling on the rug, was a young woman with her face in profile to Vi- kram. Evening sunlight filtered through the high windows in the room and lit up her silhouette. The first thing he noted was the dark halo of her hair, curly and thick like her very own crown, that swung from side to side every time she moved her head, and huge glittering earrings that reminded him of the crystal chandelier Mama had spent thousands of dollars on in some Italian boutique. The earrings swayed enchantingly every time the young woman moved her head. And she did it a lot. His mouth curved. Wide eyes, pert nose and a lush mouth moved in constant animation, along with her plump body. Almost anesthetized by seeing size zero bodies on movie sets, he let his gaze return to the voluptuous lines of her body with a curious fascination. A white

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cotton kurta hugged her breasts, a long chain of glit- tery beads dancing over them. White stones on tiny half-moon gold hoops glinted in a perfect line over the shell of her left ear, winking mischievously in the waning sunlight. With her multihued skirt spread out around her in a kalei- doscope of colors, she was a gorgeous burst of color against a gray landscape. Full of life and verve and authenticity he hadn’t seen in a long time. A thrilling sliver of excitement bloomed in his gut even as he frowned at the oversized stuffed teddy bear on the floor in front of her. Suddenly, the woman opened her mouth and screamed. The cry was deep rather than shrill, perfectly modulated, and eerily familiar. Vikram watched in increasing fascination as she extended her arms and bent to scoop up the stuffed toy from the ground into her arms. The gold and silver-colored bracelets she wore on one wrist tinkled at the moment, adding their own background score to the entire scene. And then it came to him. She was enacting a scene. From a recent movie. His latest action thriller. She was…mocking him? She was imitating the cheesiest line he’d ever said in front of a camera and she was doing a fantastic job of pinpointing everything he’d hated about the movie and in particular, that scene. But instead of putting an end to what felt like a

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mockery of his talent, his choices, and even him, Vi- kram continued to watch. Still curious to see what else she’d do. Bizarrely hungry for the spectacle the woman was making of him. No wonder Virat was having the time of his life. In their recent argument, his younger brother hadn’t packed his punches when he’d criticized that action thriller and every other career choice Vikram had made in the last fifteen years with the brilliant wit and rapacious tongue that he was famous for throughout the industry as a top Bollywood director. It seemed his brother had been sitting on a mountain of complaints that had suddenly blown up in Vikram’s face. The argument had begun after he’d confessed to Virat about his ridiculous proposal to Zara. Virat had unexpectedly gone ballistic about that, then moved on to an old disagreement about their sister Anya’s future, then the script for a film Vikram had rejected last year…and finished with his brother calling him a control freak who just didn’t know when to stop. The woman hugged the imaginary person to her chest and bent her head, a low growl building out of her petite form. A couple of seconds passed as she buried her head in the stuffed toy’s neck. Just as he’d done to the heroine in that scene. Even the theater hadn’t had this kind of pin-drop silence from the au- dience that she did. His chest burned with embarrassment, even the beginnings of anger but there was something else too. He continued to watch, as captivated as the rest of them.

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The low growl erupted from the woman’s throat as she let the huge toy roll away from her lap and, in a movement that was creepily close to his own movements, she raised her head, pushed her fingers to the back of her neck, and screamed again in simulated fury and anguish. She managed to pitch her voice pretty low, sound- ing almost as a man might. And then, she looked up. “I will avenge you, Meri Jaan, in this life and the next. I will destroy everyone that harmed you. I will paint the world with the blood of the man that wronged you. I am the destroyer.” The wretched woman even started humming the soundtrack that followed those horrible lines of dia- logue. Who was she? Applause broke around her. With a familiarity that Vikram found annoying on a disproportionate level, Virat wrapped his arm around the woman and pulled her into a hug against him. Even Daadi laughed. And then it clicked. This was his grandmother’s new personal assistant. The wonderful Ms. Naina Menon that Daadi couldn’t stop singing praises of. The one who’d been hired by his grandmother around two months ago, after she’d done some work for Virat. Vikram had never met her. “You could give most of the leading ladies a run for their money, darling,” said Virat. She shook her head. “Thanks, Virat. But I’m not made for acting. I…this was just—” Pushing his hands into the pockets of his trou- sers, Vikram stepped into the room. “My brother’s right, Ms. Menon.”

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The cheerful atmosphere died an instant death. The servants disappeared like rats at the sight of a big cat. Slender fingers pushing away at her unruly cloud of hair in a nervous gesture, the woman turned to face him. Large, wide eyes alighted on his face, and there was a tremble to that pink mouth. “Hello, Mr. Raawal. I can’t tell you how excited I am to finally meet you.” It should have sounded pandering, syrupy, and yet the sentiment in her words was clearly genuine. The fascination he’d felt as he’d taken in her plump curves morphed into a rumbling growl inside his chest, not unlike the one she’d just done in imitation of him. “I wish I could say the same of you, Ms. Menon,” he said, his tone betraying nothing but icy disdain. “I’m sorry if that performance offended you, Mr. Raawal. It was meant to just be a bit of fun…” She looked incredibly young as she visibly swallowed. “I wasn’t mocking you.” “No? It sounded like you were,” he retorted softly, childishly put out that he was Mr. Raawal while his brother was Virat. Of course, Virat had been charming women since he’d been in langotis, so it wasn’t much of a surprise. “You are wasting your talents here. If not the silver screen, you should be on one of those talk shows, making money from doing the caustic commentaries that are all the rage now, mocking every artist, and bringing them down for the world’s glee.” The moment the words were out of his mouth,

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Vikram regretted them. Even before he noticed her stricken expression. He’d been called arrogant, blunt, even grumpy, but never cruel, not even by the media that kept looking for dirt underneath the shield of his public persona. But that had been downright cruel. She went from laughing and glowing to a pinched paleness that punched a hole in his bitterness. Virat interrupted. “Bhai, Daadi and I insisted that she—” “What do you do with that talent?” he cut in, once again disproportionately riled by Virat’s protective stance toward this relative stranger. For some reason, Vikram was far too invested in this woman’s opinion of him. Ms. Menon continued to stare up at him, big eyes wide, tension swathing her petite frame. He moved closer to her and felt that tug again. She was pretty in a girl-next-door way, but the expression in those eyes, the rapid change from anger to desire to con- fusion…it made her utterly gorgeous. God, she only looked about twenty. “Lost your ability for words now?” he murmured, more to hear her speak again than anything else. She glared at him. “I don’t understand your question.” “You’re clearly talented, Ms. Menon. What do you do with it all? I mean, other than making a mockery of others?” “I was… I was just showing them my mimicry. I even did a few other actors earlier too. Like Big B.” “Ahh…so you’re one of those critics who makes

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fun but has never done a minute’s worth of creative work themselves or shared it with the world? It’s so easy to hide on the sidelines and mock the person out in the public arena, no? Can I ask why you pin- pointed that particular scene?” Her spine straightened and she charged forward. The scent of roses filled his nostrils and he felt a thrill run down his spine. God, she was gorgeous when she was all riled up. “First of all, I’m not ill-equipped to make such comments. Not when I’ve studied film history all through college. Secondly, are you sure you want to know why I picked that scene to reenact?” “I’m a big boy, Ms. Menon. I assure you I can take it.” “Can you though? When you’ve turned a minute of comedy into a huge insult to your own ego?” He didn’t answer and the resolve tightened in her face. “Fine, here’s my honest opinion, for what it’s worth. “You cater to the lowest denomination of the mass population with these action blockbusters, and you offer a warped image of what a hero should be with your revenge and destroy plotlines. You perpetuate the same tired old trope of being the macho guy who’s a ‘true man’ just because you can supposedly beat up more guys than anyone else. That movie was not only gratuitously violent but offensive on every level to women, from your leading lady to your blind sister to even your overdramatized female best friend. They only exist in the film to make you their savior.”

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Every word of her criticism was justified. Every word was utter truth. And he’d asked for it, so he couldn’t even blame her for saying it, could he? If Vikram didn’t hate the idea of true physical vio- lence on every level, he would’ve sucker-punched his brother for the low whistle that ran around the room. “I make movies to make money, Ms. Menon. Hav- ing clearly inveigled yourself into my grandmother’s household, I’m sure you’ve a really good idea that it’s wealth which makes the world go around. So please don’t tell me that all artists create just for the purpose of art.” He had no idea why he’d just said that because his grandmother was a great judge of character. And if she thought Ms. Menon was the newly rising sun, then Vikram would normally have believed her, no questions asked. “Inveigled myself?” she repeated in a low tone, her body vibrating with her anger. “I can’t… I can’t believe I used to have a teenage crush on you! Of course, I know wealth makes the world go around probably far better than you do—because, believe me, I don’t have any. “As for art… I’m not asking you to throw away any of your considerable wealth making artsy movies that might bomb at the box office. I know you have to keep growing this amazing dynasty…” she threw her arms around and those damn bracelets of hers tinkled again “…to enable the generations of Raawals that might come after you to sit around on their bums.”

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She slapped her hand over her mouth and groaned. Vikram felt the insane urge to drag her hand away and taste that groan. As much as she was skewering him with her painful truths, he wanted to hear her go on tirade after tirade. God, he could listen to that throaty voice of hers for hours. She turned to address his grandmother. “I’m sorry, Daadiji. I didn’t mean to insult your family.” Virat and Daadi laughed and even Vikram’s chest filled with a burst of irreverent joy. “Never mind, beta,” Daadi crooned, her perceptive gaze on Vikram. “No one else would dare rip into my grandson quite so well as you just have. Please go on. You have my blessing.” The last he knew was added for his benefit. Not that she believed he would harm Ms. Menon in any way. “I don’t think she has the guts, Daadi,” Vikram taunted deliberately. “She’s too scared to say anything else to my face.” Fury coated her cheeks, and her brown eyes danced with fire. “You’re not just wealthy, you wield power and in- fluence. Directors and producers change story lines for you. They hire and fire people at your say-so. They create these multi-crore elaborate sets for you. You have the chance to steer things the right way in the industry. You could use your star power to create a new kind of hero, Mr. Raawal. Because, believe me, the world needs to reexamine what makes a man a hero.” Vikram knew he should leave it at that. She hadn’t

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said anything he hadn’t already faced up to in the dark of the night. And yet to be so thoroughly reduced to the sum of his flaws grated at his ego. To be thought of in such poor terms by a woman that stirred his interest like never before…pricked his male pride. “Why should I give your cutting opinion any weight? What have you done so far that’s so important and worthwhile? You’re clearly both educated and talented because even Virat sings your praises, and yet you’re hiding here playing PA to my grandmother, hiding from your own life!” “That’s unfair,” she threw back at him and yet he could see from her reaction he’d hit the nail on its head. He hadn’t become the king of an industry without being perceptive. “Ah… Ms. Menon, you can dish it out, but you clearly can’t take it,” he drawled. “You don’t know anything about my life,” she retorted and he had a horrible feeling he’d truly wounded her. Regret filled his chest. He desperately wanted to touch her, to hold her trembling body. Instead he stepped back. For the entire world, even for his family who knew him well, he was a coldhearted businessman, the head of Raawal House. And nothing else. With no shades or flaws. “And yet you presume to know everything about mine,” he said softly, his frustration with himself, with the world seeping into his tone. “Because I live my life for your entertainment and God forbid I make

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mistakes like every other person on the planet. God forbid anyone even wonders that there’s more to me than the company or this bloody family or being a successful star. Right?” Silence met his own outburst. Virat and Daadi stared at him with stunned expressions. As for Ms. Menon, he had no words to describe the look in her eyes. It wasn’t pity or sympathy. It was something else, something he wanted to drown in. Something he wanted to demand she give voice to. Which was crazy enough in itself. Vikram turned around and walked away from the damned woman with her far-too-blunt opinions and big eyes and from the house with its insistent mockery of what he should’ve been and what he had become instead. Damn it, how had the woman gotten under his skin so easily? Why had it taken someone like her to point out the obvious truth of how far off course he’d veered? To make him suddenly understand the reason for his recent burnout? Because he’d surrounded himself with yes-men and women. Because he’d made himself so power- ful, so untouchable that there wasn’t anyone who would dare dig into him like she just had. Except Virat. And he hadn’t really listened to his brother. Because in the pursuit of trying to fix everything their father had destroyed, he’d sold his soul in the process.

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“You’re hiding here…” One bitingly truthful comment from Vikram Raawal had been enough to make Naina ache to take action. One small tidbit of gossip from her stepsis- ter, Maya, that Naina’s ex was getting engaged had propelled her into doing this… And now she was here. At a masked ball in bor- rowed glad rags, determined to have fun. The minute Naina had asked him, Virat had agreed to bring her to his parents’ latest charity ball, a mischievous smile lighting up his entire face. He’d always been friendly, charming but since her tirade at his older brother, he’d positively showered her with affection. They’d arrived not two hours ago, waved in through the high gates into a beautiful winding pathway toward yet another bungalow the Raaw- als owned. Naina took a glass of some frothy pink cocktail as she moved around the dance floor in the expan- sive ballroom. Her eyes were going to be permanently stuck in

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a wide-eyed position from all the celebrities she had spotted so far. Even with elaborate, custom-designed, gem-encrusted masks, the stunning features of more than one actor and beautiful actress were obvious. And yet, there was a strange thrill in the air as most of the A-listers pretended as if they didn’t know each other. Was that the attraction of a masquerade ball? Were these people so jaded that a pretend dress-up party passed for excitement in their frenetic, under- the-microscope lives? Looking like one of them, even if every inch of her had been pinched, pushed, molded, painted, had been much easier than she’d imagined. Especially since Daadiji had tasked an entire team to dress Naina for the party. The baby-pink A-line dress in chiffon, one of Anya Raawal’s own creations, had initially reminded Naina of a birthday frock her stepmother, Jaya Ma, had bought her when she’d been twelve. Full of layers and gauzy material, that frock had made Naina look like pink bubblegum. But since the elegant Ms. Raawal had been doing Naina a favor with this dress, she’d kept her mouth shut. Once she had stood in front of the full-length mirror, Naina had quickly realized that Anya was a ge- nius. The dress hugged her body from chest to waist and then flared wide, making the most of her short stature. With her unruly hair straightened to within an inch of its life, it fell to her waist in a long silky curtain.

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With her hair not stealing the focus from her face and with cleverly applied makeup, her eyes seemed huge in her face. Even Naina had thought she looked almost beautiful. After two dances and an introduction to one of her favorite writers, she’d insisted that Virat do his own thing. She’d realized from Daadiji’s sharp surprise he was even attending this party, that Virat usually gave a wide berth to anything related to his parents. “I feel like I’m releasing an innocent doe into a horde of stampeding beasts,” Virat had said when she’d demanded if he was going to stick to her like last week’s gum. “If you stand by me the entire time, shooting glares at any man who even looks at me,” she said with a smile, “I might as well freeze in place and look like one of these priceless sculptures that are dotted around. Please, Virat. I’m not as helpless as I look.” That had done it. She’d kissed him on the cheek, nodded obediently when he gave her strict instructions to text him when she was ready to leave, and then he disappeared into the crowd. For the next half hour, Naina stayed on the steps going out into the balmy night, standing on the fringes of a group, listening to them argue the finer points of why remake mania had taken over the industry. “You’re hiding, Ms. Menon,” said a deep voice in her head and she took a long drink of her cocktail in

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defiance. Damn Vikram Raawal. She wasn’t going to let the man have the last word. Spotting another young actor that she thought was particularly cute, Naina edged along the perimeter of the dancing crowd, determined to introduce herself.

It wasn’t until an hour and a half later when Naina reached the huge library and closed the door behind her that she took in a deep breath. The last thing she wanted was another confrontation with Vikram Raawal. No matter that he stood so separate from the crowd at the party, almost as if he was as out of place among these people as she herself. Which was ridiculous. For one dazzling second, their eyes had met across the room, the rhythmic beat of the music around them in concert with her own heart. For one insane second, Naina had felt as if he’d actually seen her. The real her. The usually dull, plump, bookish Naina Menon who stood on the sidelines and watched life pass her by. It felt as if he’d known that it was she beneath the mask. Luckily, his attention had been quickly drawn away by a costar of his. And whatever spell, imagined or real, had woven between them, had been broken. “And yet you presume to know everything about me…” Those words of his haunted her. He had been right. Who was she to moralize to

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anyone else? She had not only criticized him, but she had attacked his worth as a person. Naina sat down on a comfortable lounger and pulled her cell phone out of her clutch to text Virat. She’d had enough of the party and the loud music. She had introduced herself to a lot of people, she’d danced, she’d shamelessly fan-girled over one Urdu poet that Papa and she had adored for years by reciting his own poem back at him, she had laughed at the not-so-funny joke by an actor who had been called the latest wonder boy to breeze into the industry. The same one she’d thought was cute. For all his gorgeous features and ripped body, Naina had found him deeply boring. Really, the man- child had talked about himself—his workout reg- imen, his Instagram followers, the love letters he received from his rabid, female fans professing un- dying love to his perfectly chiseled abdomen—for more than half an hour. Without saying anything of significance concerning the arts or films or theater or anything. Holding her arm up, she moved her phone around to get a signal. She was about to go find Virat in person when the huge double doors of the library opened. And in walked the very man she’d wanted to avoid, not just for tonight, not just this week, but for the rest of her life. Vikram hadn’t noticed her yet. She’d turned off most of the lights, leaving only the dim lamp next to her switched on. Not until he reached the pool of soft light thrown by the lamp did he see her.

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“I didn’t realize anyone else needed to escape that madness,” he said after a beat of silence. In the near dark, his voice sounded impossibly deep, sliding over her skin like a note of music. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Couldn’t find the words past her dry mouth and the rapid drumbeat of her heart in her ears. “Are you all right?” he asked, concern filling his voice. Naina took a deep breath and pitched her voice lower than usual. “I am. Thank you. I just…” “You were clearly not enjoying the party.” “I was. I mean, I am. How do you know, anyway?” “I was watching you in the other room.” He raised his hands and backed up a step when she frowned. “In a non-creepy way, that is. There’s something very familiar about you and I was trying to remember if we had met.” Heat poured into Naina’s cheeks and she ducked her head. That feeling of being consumed by his gaze returned. She looked up to find him studying her in- tently and she was immensely grateful she’d kept her mask on when she’d walked into the library. “No. I don’t know you.” She smiled at her own words. “I mean I do know who you are.” She pointed a finger at his unmasked face. He was wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned at his throat, his hair a little bit on the longer side right now. The subdued light from the lamp only served to highlight the beautiful symmetry of his features. “I wondered

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why you clearly touted the rules of the party. But then I realized you’d have been recognized even with a mask on. Your face is certainly perfect enough,” she blurted out and then instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push myself and my compli- ments into your space. I’ve learned recently how much I presume…” She cleared her throat and looked away. “Sorry.” “Since I was the one who intruded on your soli- tude, shall we call a truce?” She nodded. “May I sit down?” “Yes, but it’s literally your parents’ house. I should be the one to—” “No, please stay. That way, we can be alone together. Instead of being forced to socialize.” Her suddenly teenaged heart went pitter-patter at that. “Why are you hiding?” “I usually come to these parties just to keep an eye on…things.” He folded his tall, lean form next to her with movements that were sheer poetry in mo- tion. “I promised my brother I’d give his friend a lift home. He had to leave suddenly.” She straightened instantly. “Wait, Virat already left? But he said…” She flushed furiously when he saw Vikram studying her with a raised brow. “Ah…that’s why you were waiting for him here? In the dark. In secret. You should know, Virat is no- torious for changing his girlfriends as easily as he changes actors for his projects.” “What?”

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“He left with that new pop singer.” There was a strange gentleness in his voice that enveloped her. “Why are you telling me that?” “It’s better to cut your losses now rather than have your heart trampled later on by Virat. He’s ditched you and whatever exciting, private tryst you’d both planned and gone home with another woman.” Naina looked around the quiet, shady nook she’d chosen in the vast library, the rest of which was enveloped in darkness. “You think I was waiting here to meet Virat so that we could…for some secret… to have a private…” The longer she stumbled over her words, the more she blushed and the wider the dratted man’s smile grew. “Virat is well known for his…adventurous ex- ploits.” “I’m not waiting here for your brother so that we can get it on in some kind of secret, silly seduction game.” “No?” “No. And stop smirking at me in that condescending way.” His mouth straightened but the smile lingered in his eyes. Gorgeous did not do the man justice. “I’m not smirking or condescending. I just find you ador- able.” “I’m no such thing and how…what?” Apparently, the night was full of surprises. “You apologized for invading my personal space and for complimenting my perfect features. You’re trying very hard to sound all sophisticated about men

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and seduction yet it’s clear you’re not, and the effect is very endearing.” “My ex did say I was far too old-fashioned.” Naina sighed. The temptation to pull off the mask was over- whelming but it meant whatever this camaraderie between them was…would disappear in a breath. It was strange how life worked. She had covered her face with a mask because she wanted to be someone else for one night. And yet, even with the mask in place, she felt seen for the first time in a long time. By the very man she’d torn into not a few days ago for his insensitive portrayal of women. If he realized who she was, there was no doubt he’d walk away without a backward glance. He might even think she’d…tricked him. She couldn’t bear the thought of tonight ending like that, the thought of him thinking ill of her. She wanted more from tonight. From him. From herself. “Are you old-fashioned?” Naina shrugged. “What does that even mean? Who decides what’s modern and what’s old- fashioned anyway? And why are all those stupid, arbitrary constructs only applied to women? You and Virat are praised as playboys whereas every move your sister Anya makes is held to some vague standards of behavior no one else in your family is held accountable to.” “Ah…now I know how you became close to my brother.” His arm went around the chaise lounge. “Also, your ex sounds like a jackass who wanted to

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push you into things you were not ready for. And because he’s probably a mama’s boy used to getting what he wants, he attached a label to you to make you feel bad about it. You should be glad you dumped his ass.” “I didn’t. He dumped me,” Naina replied automatically, stunned to her core at this seemingly arrogant man’s astute summary of Rohan. Hadn’t Jaya Ma always said the same? Why hadn’t Naina seen it? Why had she let him hurt her like that? She looked at Vikram with new eyes. “Then I’d suggest you be thankful for whatever brought that around.” “He had started a new job in Delhi last year, and asked me to move in with him. First Papa got really sick, so I had to postpone it. Then after Papa died, we discovered we were up to our neck in debt. So my ex decided he didn’t want to be held back any longer by my dead weight. He had places to go, careers to achieve.” Thankfully, he didn’t offer any meaningless plati- tudes to fill up the silence like Maya had or say I told you so like Jaya Ma. He simply honored her feelings of grief and betrayal. Naina didn’t know how long they sat quietly like that. But she absolutely knew she liked being alone together with him. “He’s not a bad guy really,” she finally said into the silence. He snorted. She glared at him. “So if you were not waiting for Virat for a secret seduction, what did you want with him?” “Oh, he…he was only supposed to give me a lift

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back home, that’s all. I’d had enough of my wild crazy night. Did he really dump me onto you to take home?” He shrugged. “Virat has a weird sense of humor. Was the party everything you imagined it might be?” “I… I wanted excitement and drama. And I certainly got more than enough to last me for a decade.” “I saw you dance earlier with that hot young actor. I tried to keep an eye on you but I got distracted. He didn’t act…inappropriately with you, did he?” Naina colored at his direct question. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I got the impression that I was far too beneath his usual standards to be the object of his lust. The dance he indulged me with was, I believe, his charity act for the year. Maybe for the decade.” Those beautiful brown eyes of his swept over her face as if taking inventory. Naina felt as if he had actually touched her. “Charity act?” “Apparently, he doesn’t date anyone who’s not at least eight inches taller and twenty kilos lighter than me. Or alternately a few crores richer than I am. “But he decided he could be generous enough to give me a taste of how it felt to be in his arms. A treat to remember when I return to my unglam- orous, unhappening life, as he put it. God save me from men who want to save me from my apparently pitiful existence!” Laughter burst from him so suddenly that Naina startled. She pushed back into the lounger until her legs were crossed away from his and she could study

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this gorgeous man with his stunning smile. All evening, she’d thought whatever magical quality she’d been chasing tonight had been nonexistent. That she was foolish to have expected life to be more exciting just because she’d entered a different world for a few hours. But sitting here with Vikram, and seeing his irreverent smile and knowing that she’d caused it, this was the magic she’d been looking for. This moment, with its explosive, exciting possibilities. “I’m glad my life is a source of entertainment to you, Mr. Raawal.” “Vikram.” A simple command. She shook her head. “I won’t know you long enough to be so presumptuous.” “Try,” he urged, with a half smile around his mouth, and she found herself nodding. If he smiled like that and asked her to follow him into hell, Naina had a feeling she would do it without a blink. Was that why so many women—actresses and models and businesswomen alike—fell for him year after year, even knowing that he would never commit to any of them? In-depth details of his love life, if it existed, never graced any magazine or TV channel. Only frequent speculations about his relationship with actress Zara Khan—which by its long-standing nature made the media hungry for more. “I’m sorry your exciting evening turned out to be…exhausting.” “It isn’t a complete waste.” She ran her palms over the soft chiffon of her dress and smiled. “I got

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to dress up and play a star for one evening. I danced with more than one gorgeous stud, I saw things that I never thought I would. I met Husainji, although I’m afraid I made a fool of myself by reciting his own poem back at him. Papa would have loved to be here. For that alone, I’m happy I came tonight.” He smiled. “And I got to look beautiful for one night.” “I have a feeling you look beautiful whatever you’re wearing, Ms… .” False names came and went from Naina’s lips. “Please don’t ask me to tell you my identity. I don’t want to return to the real world just yet.” “Tell me why you came tonight then.” “I just heard that my ex is engaged to be married. He…found a girlfriend a mere month after he dumped me and now she’s his fiancée. The other night, I got into an argument with…someone and what they said, it really shook me. I took a good look at my life, at myself, and I just… I became angry with myself. “Since Papa died, I’ve been flitting from job to job, situation to situation, letting circumstances and other people push me around. For one night, I wanted to be in control. I wanted to…not be in control too. I just didn’t want to be the boring N…girl that people left behind.” Something shimmered in his eyes, something that looked like desire. But no, that wasn’t possible. This man, this gorgeous superstar couldn’t be attracted to

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her. For all the makeup and the dress and the glittering mask, she was still only Naina. Naina Menon, whose sole accomplishment so far had been running away from her own life. De- spite the smiles and down-to-earth attitude of his, Vikram was used to seeing perfection from sunup to sundown. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking away. “I don’t think I’m making much sense.” His hand reached for hers on the back of the sofa, barely touching the tips of her fingers. The slight contact was teasing, yet grounding. As if he saw her clearly even in the darkness. “You’re making perfect sense. “I’d give anything to not be Vikram Raawal for one day. To forget that my every breath, every look, every step is hounded by the media. To make mistakes like any other man and not be vilified for it. To throw off the shackles of…” He looked away, his fingers roughly thrusting through his hair. A laugh, full of self-mockery burst from his mouth. “God, you’re a dangerous woman. And believe me, I have known enough of them.” Her smile faltered and he instantly caught it. “What have I said wrong?” “I don’t like the way you lump women together, as if we all share the same brain. The same thoughts. Have the same agenda.” “That’s the second time this week I’ve been criticized by someone for my bias against women.” He rubbed a hand over his face, as if he was truly tired.

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“As galling as it is to admit, I owe both of you an apology,” he said, stealing away the ground from under her feet. Another teasing smile. “Now you’re shocked that I even know the meaning of the word.” “No, I just…” “It’s okay. Even with that mask on, you have the most expressive face I’ve ever seen. Your eyes flash like glittering gems when you’re angry and your mouth…” His gaze dipped to it and a flash of electricity seemed to strike them both simultaneously. Suddenly depleting the air from the room. Fill- ing her skin with a restless energy. Filling her mind with impossibly wanton desires that could never come true. Dreams and desires that had to be impossible, didn’t they? She wasn’t actually thinking of kissing Vikram Raawal, was she? She couldn’t. “You’ve got that feverish glint in your eyes again. Tell me what you’re thinking.” “That this day couldn’t get any more bizarre. That I had no idea what I’d signed up for. That wanting to kiss you has to be the most impossible thought to ever cross my mind.” He didn’t flinch at her statement. He didn’t even blink. He just sat there and stared at her with those eyes that seemed to devour her. Naina could feel her cheeks burning. Mortifica- tion, she’d tell Maya, had a special kind of sting. If only the earth could burst open like it did so often in his blockbusters and swallow her whole. Closing her

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eyes didn’t change reality. He was still there, solid as ever, watching her. It caused fast words to spill out of her without her permission. “I don’t know what just got into me. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself and not that this makes it any better, but believe me, my desire to kiss you doesn’t arise from the fact that you’re the Vikram Raawal, Bollywood superstar, eligible bachelor and one of the wealthiest men in the country.” “No?” he said. He didn’t sound accusatory. It encouraged her to carry on. “No. I mean, I know I can’t just isolate the movie star part of you, but that’s not the draw for me,” Naina clarified breathlessly. She didn’t know why it mattered so much that he believed her. That she wasn’t some mindless groupie that wanted to live out a kind of warped fantasy here. “Tell me what it is then?” His question had a curious thirst to it. As if he desperately wanted to know why she wanted him. As if hearing a woman’s admiration for him wasn’t a regular thing in his world, only she knew that it was. “I want to kiss the man that saw me across the room this evening. The man that can laugh at himself, who is maybe just as lonely as I’ve been, for all that he has the world at his feet. The compli- cated stranger with whom I’ve found a connection in a quiet, darkened room made for secret trysts,” she finished with a smile, loving this fearless ver- sion of herself.

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Their gazes held, a live wire of electricity spark- ing into life between them. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. And Naina was okay with that too. He had given her something tonight, something precious. Self-confidence. And she wanted to give something back to him, this man who had everything in the world. “Then come kiss me. I’m all yours.” Her heart went thud against her rib cage. “What?” “Kiss me,” he repeated and as if to underscore his invitation, he spread his legs apart, making room for her. “Have your way with me. Do with me whatever you will.” Naina had never felt more terrified and more thrilled in her entire life. Not even when Papa had taken her and Mama to see snow for the first time when she’d been six and they’d stood at the top of a snow-covered mountain, both majestic and terrifying in its presence. “Why?” she managed to ask, trying to cling to the last remnants of any sanity that might be left. “Shall I speak my mind? I’ll probably be blunt.” “You’re a gentleman to ask permission. I believe I crossed that line long ago.” “I want to see if that lovely mouth of yours tastes as good as it looks. I want to tear that mask and that dress off and touch every inch of you. I want to cover those gorgeous breasts with my hands and mouth until you’re begging me for more. I want to be inside you while you laugh with your beautiful eyes and strip another layer of clothing off me.”

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“Oh.” Her clutch slipped from Naina’s hands, falling onto the floor in a sinuous whisper. “Why?” He sighed. “Because when a man thinks a woman is incredibly sexy, he wants to do things to her. With her. Wild, wicked things. He wants to—” “I said I don’t have much experience, not that I’m lacking basic common sense,” Naina interrupted, feeling a tingle of excitement all over her skin. The chiffon suddenly felt like a tight cage against it. He smiled and shrugged. “I warned you I’d be blunt.” It was the kind of smile that made girls like her put posters of him up on their walls after his debut movie. There was charm and mischief in that smile. She hadn’t seen it that day at his grandmother’s house. A little glow erupted in her chest that she’d made him smile like that again. As if it were a prize to be won. “Honesty seems to be the best policy when you want to do all those things with someone,” she agreed and again, he laughed. Naina felt as if she was the richest person in the world. She wanted to spend entire eons making him laugh like this. While he whispered filthy things in her ear and made her damp between her legs. “Says the woman who won’t reveal who she is.” “If I reveal myself, I can’t be this wild, crazy woman.” “But I have to call you something.” He swept his gaze over her with a scorching intensity that put paid to any doubts she harbored. “I’ve got it. Dream Girl.”

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She laughed. “That name is for beautiful divas like Hema Malini,” she said, naming the star of the seventies who’d taken both the industry and her leading men by storm. There was even a song with that title. “It suits you just as well it suited her.” He shook his head when she’d have protested. The moment stretched and she finally nodded, taking the compliment with a grace she didn’t usually possess. “You don’t feel it? This thing between us?” “I do. Absolutely.” She had felt the tension between them even the other day. When they’d been busy lobbing verbal grenades at each other. “But I…” She licked her mouth and his gaze immediately focused there. “I’m not good at reading the signals. I didn’t want to assume that you’d be attracted to someone like me.” “Ah…who’s stereotyping now?” “There’s a certain truth to stereotyping,” she protested, feeling flustered. “In yours but not in mine?” he said gently, calling her out. “It’s just that… I’m not what you call conven- tionally beautiful. Please, I’m not asking for compli- ments. And I’m fully aware that conventional beauty is also an arbitrary standard. It’s just that you’re used to being with incredibly sophisticated, beautiful, ac- complished women. Like we established earlier, I’m little more than a novice when it comes to men and their desires.”

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“I’ve definitely never met a woman who disagreed with me so much.” A shaft of joy blew through Naina. She loved how he made her smile. Even when she was mostly at- tacking him. “I couldn’t bear it if you were laughing at me. Or worse, condescending to me like that arrogant young stud earlier.” “You think I’m asking you to kiss me out of some sense of pity?” “If not pity, at least as an experiment.” “Every kiss is an experiment. Sometimes, the result is that whatever chemistry you had burning between you just fizzled out. Sometimes, you find that flame in the strangest of places with the last person you’d have ever thought of.” “See? Because I’m not your type.” “No, because I don’t know you. Not even your name. Should I tell you the risk I’m taking right now?” Naina snorted inelegantly. “There’s nothing you risk by indulging the silly woman who wants to kiss you senseless. Who wants to muss you up so thoroughly with her hands that she’s shaking. Who wants to…” She trailed off at the unholy glint of wick- edness in his eyes, then swallowed and found the courage to continue. “Press her mouth against the hollow at your throat and make you feel as crazy as she does.” “Kiss me senseless… Ahh…love, now you’re just winding me up.” He smiled, his teeth digging into his lower lip, grooves in his cheeks and a dark twinkle

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in his eyes. Energy vibrated from his frame. As if he was thoroughly excited at the thought of her kissing him senseless. “If you could see yourself as I see you right now, threatening all kinds of delicious sensual attacks on me…” Anticipation licked through her body, releasing a restless hunger. “Tell me, what great risk are you taking right now?” “You know who I am. You know pretty much everything about me. My favorite color, my favorite car, my favorite dish, probably even my favorite position with a partner.” He sounded close to dis- gusted, and Naina realized he was right. What she was doing was not a risk at all. Not when compared to him. “Tomorrow morning, you could go to any media outlet you want and tell them all about this moment. You could repeat everything I said to you tonight. You could sell this story and probably make enough money to last the rest of your life.” Naina vibrated with anger and hurt. “I would never do that. Ever. Revealing to anyone what might happen between you and me tonight would be a total betrayal of myself.” Those long fingers of his slid against hers until they were entwined. His touch sent a jolt of warmth up her arm. “I believe you. You’ve no idea how fantastic that is.” “How?” He sighed. “I am Vikram Raawal. From the moment I could understand the world, it meant something. It meant more to other people even before I

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understood what it meant to me. Privilege and power and pride, yes. But so much more that the world doesn’t see. Everybody wants something from me. My family, my friends, my fans…apparently even my critics. There are so many expectations that they feel like shackles around my ankles.” He pressed a finger against her mouth when she opened it. “Hear me out before you give me another speech about my civic duties, please. I’m more than happy to lend a word or a hand when I can. But it’s not every day that someone comes to me with no expectations of me. Expect maybe what my mouth can do for her.” Naina let her gaze fall to study it. “It is a gorgeous mouth,” she whispered on a long sigh and it came again. His laughter. Deep and rumbling. Turning his face into a thing of beauty. That need between them shimmered into life again, gaining in intensity, until it was a peal ringing deep inside her body. He tugged and she scooted closer to him on the sofa. The warmth of his body was a tempting caress against her bare arms. “I want to join you in your fantasy and escape. So for tonight, I’m all yours, Dream Girl.” “I can muss you up however I want?” Naina asked, stunned by her own daring. Again, he dug those teeth into his lower lip and nodded. “I can take this however far I want?” “Yes.”

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“And if I…” “If you want to stop, we will stop. This is absolutely your show, baby. In fact, how about I don’t touch you unless you ask me to?” “I was going to say what if I don’t know what to do next?” she murmured. “Then you can ask me to help you along.” Her heart beating a million to the dozen, Naina covered the small distance that still remained between them. It was akin to flying off a cliff. But she wanted this kiss. She wanted this man, so she took a deep breath and shoved herself off the edge.

Want to know what happens next? Order Claiming His Bollywood Cinderella by Tara Pammi, available October 27, wherever books are sold!

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9781335136817_PL.indd 6 and thisonehitsherwhereithurtsmost. game, butsomecasesaffecthermorethanothers, Crime Divisionisaprofessionalatthetopofher Alana Suzuki— too latetosaveher? a dealwiththedevil,butwillherrealizationcome Brandy— ring…and theFBI’s onlyhopeofcrackingit. highlife, he’s aneasypawnforadrug-smuggling Tony Balducci— people andpayswithherlife. problem, shegetsintobusinesswiththewrong Chloe Larsen— his protectiveinstinctsintooverdrive. person hecantrustisagreenFBIagentwhosends onto adrug-smugglingoperation,andtheonly her baby, thisDetroitbusinessmanhasstumbled docks ofPort Huron tofindhismissingsisterand Grayson Rhodes— brother ofonethevictims. hits aroadblockinthesolid—andsexy—formof as aprofessionalamonghernewteammembers case isrightupheralley, butAria’s resolvetoshine Crime Divisionandanarcoticsspecialist.Herfirst Aria Calletti— This youngwomandiscoversshe’s made CAST OF CHARACTERS OF CAST A newmemberoftheFBI’s Tactical The directoroftheFBI’s Tactical A youngmotherwithadrug A dockworker withdreamsofthe Working undercoveronthe 5/6/20 11:46 AM

Intrigue Reg 11/20 Rookie Instincts #335136817 page #6 Prologue

The wind whipped off the lake, its chilly tentacles snaking into his thin black jacket, which he gathered at the neck with one raw hand, stiff with the cold. His other hand dipped into his pocket, his fingers curling around the handle of the gun. His eyes darted toward the dark, glassy water and the rowboat bobbing against the shore before he stepped onto the road…and behind his prey. She hobbled ahead of him, her shoes crunching the gravel, her body tilted to one side as she gripped her heavy cargo, which swung back and forth, occasionally banging against her leg. A baby. Nobody said nothing about a baby. He took a few steps after her and the sound of his boots grinding into the gravel seemed to echo through the still night. He froze. When her footsteps faltered, he veered back into the reeds and sand bordering the lake. He couldn’t have her spotting him and running off. What would she do with the baby? She couldn’t run carrying a car seat. He’d hauled one of those things before with his niece

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inside and it wasn’t no picnic, even though Mindy was just a little thing. He crept on silent feet, covering three or four steps to her one until he was almost parallel with her. Close enough to hear her singing some Christmas lullaby. Close enough to hear that baby gurgle a response. The chill in the air stung his nose and he wiped the back of his hand across it. He licked his chapped lips. Nobody said nothing about a baby. The girl stopped, her pretty voice dying out, the car seat swinging next to her, the toys hooked onto the handle swaying and clacking. She turned on the toes of her low-heeled boots and peered at the road behind her, the whites of her eyes visible in the dark. But he wasn’t on the road no more. He stepped onto the gravel from the brush that had been concealing him. Her head jerked in his direction. Her mouth formed a surprised O, but her eyes knew. When he leveled his weapon at her, she didn’t even try to run. Her knees dipped as she placed the car seat on the ground next to her feet. She huffed out a sigh that carried two words. “My baby.” He growled. “I ain’t gonna hurt the baby.” Then he shot her through the chest. The sound of the shot buffeted his eardrums, and a few birds screeched and took flight, but there was nobody here to help her or her baby…just him. The girl had crumpled to the ground, her knees drawn up, her hand flung out to the side, inches from the car seat. If her lullaby had put the baby to sleep, the

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gunshot had awakened him and he wailed as if he knew his momma was gone. He shuffled forward and hovered over the body. Brushing aside the brown hair that had swept across her neck, he placed a finger at her throat. Her pulse had stopped. Her song had ended. With the sound of the gunshot dead in the night, the baby’s howls faded into squishy, blubbery sobs. “Shh. Don’t cry, little buddy.” All babies looked the same to him, but this one had a blue beanie on his head and a blue blanket dotted with panda bears tucked around his body. His sister always dressed her daughter in pink just so everyone would know she was a girl. The baby hiccupped and put a knuckle in his mouth, his blue watery eyes wide. “That’s it, little buddy. I ain’t gonna leave you out here for long.” He retrieved a crumpled tissue from the front pocket of his jeans and dabbed the baby’s damp cheeks and runny nose. He didn’t bother to blot the blood spots on the blanket. Then he shoved his hand into his cheap jacket and withdrew a plastic bag, whispery smooth between his fingers. He wiped off his fingerprints with the edge of his shirt and, still pinching the bag with fingers poked into his shirt, leaned over the dead girl and tucked the bag of Dance Fever in her purse. The bullet hadn’t touched the strap. It remained crossed over her body, soaked with the blood still oozing from her chest. “Just a few more minutes, little buddy.” He dipped into his pocket once more and pulled out the burner

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phone they’d given him. They should’ve said something about the baby at the same time. He flipped up the phone and called 9-1-1. When the operator answered, he pitched his voice low and scratchy. “Yeah, there’s a baby in a car seat down by the lake all by himself. Looks abandoned.” “Where are you sir? Is the baby hurt?” He gave the operator directions to the gravel road snaking beside the lake, flipped the phone shut and walked back to his boat, whistling the lullaby.

Rookie Ins_9781335136817_txt_304632.indd 10 6/12/20 3:23 PM Chapter One

Humming off-key, Aria punched the elevator button with her knuckle and then wiped her clammy palms on the thighs of her black slacks. When the doors whispered open, she stepped inside the car and released a breath as she stared at her mottled reflection on the elevator doors. She slid her finger beneath the elastic band that held her hair back and pulled it out. She shook her head to loosen the strands over her shoulders. The ponytail begged, Take me seriously. She didn’t need props to get that message across to her coworkers. She shrugged out of her black wool coat, leaving the purple scarf twined around her neck. Squaring her shoulders, she said aloud, “Oh, the scarf? Too busy to notice I still had it on.” She snorted and unwound the scarf, leaving two purple-fringed ends hanging to her waist. The elevator dinged and she stood at attention until the doors opened on the seventh floor. Hiking her laptop case on her shoulder, she strode down the hallway to the conference room, the heels of

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her black boots clicking on the floor in a steady, confident beat. The door to the conference room yawned open on a large space with a gleaming, oval table in the center and two large video screens on either side of the room. A smaller desk hunched in the corner, overflowing with a laptop, an abundance of cords and a variety of AV equipment. The only other person in the room, a cur- vaceous bottled-blonde with a colorful clip in her hair, hovered over the computer. With a flash of red lipstick, she gave Aria a quick smile and a wink and returned to her work. Director Alana Suzuki, smart in a navy pantsuit with a snowy-white blouse, barreled through the door. “You made it.” She thrust out her hand to Aria, her eyes gleaming behind translucent-framed glasses. “Welcome aboard. I’ll do the introductions when everyone gets here. Take any seat around the table.” “Director Suzuki.” Aria gripped the older woman’s hand, giving as good as she got. “Glad to be here.” “Alana, please.” She ran a hand through her short black hair, unapologetically peppered with gray. “We’re an informal bunch here.” The woman tapping away at the computer called out. “Uh, you might want to revise the invitation to take any seat. There’s no assigned seating, but everyone always claims the same spot. Habit or security.” Alana waved her hand at the other woman. “Don’t pay any attention to Opaline. She’s our tech guru and her mind works in mysterious ways. Opaline, this is our new team member, Aria Calletti. Aria, Opaline Lopez.”

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Opaline raised her hand and wiggled her fingers, her long nails matching the red of her lips. Aria cleared her throat. “Nice to meet you.” With Opaline’s words about the seating hanging in the air, Aria folded her arms across her bag and wedged a shoulder against the wall. She didn’t want to ruffle anyone’s feathers on her first day. As long as you played by the rules, went by the book, you’d fit in. She’d discovered that as a beat cop on the mean streets of Detroit. Go along, get along and do your job. The other team members started to filter into the room, a few in pairs, a few on their own. As Aria glanced at each person, his or her name flashed into her brain. She’d done her research on the Tactical Crime Division team when Director Suzuki—Alana—had invited her to apply for it. And apply she did. She’d given up her job with the Detroit PD and hit the ground running at the FBI Academy in Quantico. Five months later, she’d taken the assignment with the TCD and was ready to hit the ground running again. A few of the team members nodded at her as they grabbed seats. Aria had pretended to be looking through her bag to explain her delay in taking her place at the table—with the big boys and girls. When everyone seemed settled in, she slid into a seat next to Super- visory Special Agent Axel Morrow, his large frame dwarfing the chair. His blue eyes assessed her as she scooted her chair forward, making her glad she’d opted for slacks and a jacket but regretting the loss of her ponytail.

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Alana stood at one end of the table and commanded the room. At just over five feet tall, her physical stature was not responsible for the snap to attention, all eyes on her, conversations dying out. The woman had a presence—an erect, military bearing that radiated confidence and demanded respect. She had Aria folding her hands on the table in front of her like a schoolgirl. “Welcome back, everyone. I want to congratulate you on the successful completion of Operation Lolli- pop. A job well done.” The room erupted in applause and Aria joined in. She’d read the files on the human trafficking case and couldn’t wait to be part of this team that did so much good. “Okay, okay.” Alana held up her hand. “Don’t get too carried away. We have the next case on our plate. Before I get into that…we have a new team member I’d like to introduce Aria Calletti. She can say a few words about herself and then we can go around the room and you can tell her who you are. Try to keep it under a minute, Opaline.” The other team members chuckled, as Opaline tapped a finger to her chest, her heavily mascaraed eyes wide. As she took her seat, Alana nodded in Aria’s direction. “Tell us a little something about yourself, Aria.” Aria cleared her throat. “I grew up in Holland, Mich- igan, and joined the PD in Detroit. Due to my age, I did a lot of undercover work in narcotics, especially at the schools, and worked dope as a beat cop. While work-

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ing as a cop, I put myself through Wayne State, criminal justice major. Got lucky on a big case and helped bring down a drug kingpin. That’s when Director Su- zuki invited me to apply to the FBI with this division as my goal.” Axel, Alana’s second-in-command, held up a finger. “That’s ‘Alana’ to you. We’re not into formalities.” Selena Lopez, the K-9 handler, her dark hair in a sleek chignon, nudged Axel in the shoulder. “And don’t you dare call Axel ‘Supervisory Special Agent Mor- row.’ He hates that.” “She’s right. We’re on a first-name basis around here.” Axel rubbed his arm. “Impressive stuff, Aria.” Alana took off her glasses and hunched over the table. “Yeah, that was a little more than luck, Aria. Her investigative work was instrumental in bringing down that dirtbag. That’s why she’s a perfect fit for this team. Anything else you want to tell us?” Anything else…such as how she felt as if her entire career hinged on her ability to pull her own weight on this team? Such as how she felt like an imposter? That her real self was that distorted image in the elevator door? “That’s it.” Aria pressed her lips together and eked out a small smile. “You, go.” Alana leveled a finger at Opaline in the corner. “We met earlier because I was the first person here, as usual.” Opaline wiggled her fingers in the air. “I’m the tech support for this motley crew. They’d fail mis- erably without me. Oh, and I heard you had a bunch

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of brothers who are firefighters, so if any of them are single I’m willing and able…and that was well under a minute.” Aria shot a quick glance at the K-9 handler, Selena Lopez. She’d read in the bios that these two were sisters. Selena’s tight smile and clenched hands in front of her told Aria nothing…well, almost nothing. “I’ll go next.” The tall, cool blonde sitting across from Aria held her up hand. “I’m Carly Welsh. I’ve been on TCD for three years, and before that, I was with the FBI in Detroit. So, we have that in common, Aria. Welcome to the squad.” Selena spoke up, her low voice vibrating. “That’s Dr. Carly Welsh. She’s got a Ph.D. in biological warfare.” Aria’s gaze darted back to Carly, a rosy hue wash- ing over the blonde’s pale cheeks. The knots in Aria’s gut twisted a little more. The brooding man at the end of the table ran a hand over the top of his head. “I guess I’ll go next. I’m Max McRay. Explosives. Did a stint in the Army. Looking forward to working with you, Aria.” Axel put a hand over his mouth and coughed. “War hero.” Aria nodded at Max. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that he’d lost the lower half of his left leg to a bomb in Afghanistan. Although he’d had a slight hitch in his step when he’d walked into the conference room, if Aria hadn’t read his bio, she wouldn’t have known about his leg. “I’m Selena Lopez.” Selena put her long, slender fingers in the air and wiggled them, just as Opaline had

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done. “My raison d’être on this team is surveillance and tracking. My partner’s a white shepherd named Blanca, and if she doesn’t like you… I don’t know, Aria.” “Blanca’s a good judge of character.” Axel tugged on the lapels of his jacket. “She happens to love me.” Max shot back. “That’s because you give her treats when Selena’s back is turned.” “Busted.” Carly flicked a rolled-up piece of paper at Axel, who caught it easily in one hand. Aria’s lips stretched into a smile. The relaxed camaraderie of the team tightened those knots in her belly even more. Would she ever be able to engage in this friendly back-and-forth? She’d never been one of the boys on the PD; had always felt like she had her nose pressed against the glass. As the only girl in a family of five siblings, she was accustomed to that feeling. Her brothers loved her, of course, but were overly protective and, like Rudolph, she’d never joined in their reindeer games. Axel bobbled the ball of paper Carly had fired at him between his palms, his blue eyes alight. “I’m Supervi- sory Special Agent Axel Morrow. You can call me Axel or Axe. I would say that I’m Alana’s right hand, but we all know that honor belongs to Amanda over there, furiously taking notes on her laptop.” The cute redhead seated next to Alana peered over the top of her computer and grinned. “You got that right.” Aria studied Axel as he reeled off his background— his work background. His gift of gab must be one of the reasons for his top skills as a hostage negotiator. He

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could probably get anyone to do anything. At the FBI Academy, they’d studied some of Axel’s criminal pro- files for their insight and accuracy. Now, Aria narrowed her eyes at the good-looking blond and practiced a little profiling of her own. Did he use his charming manner to mask the tragedy of his young life? “That’s me in a nutshell, but feel free to ask any of us anything anytime. We’re here to help you.” He flattened a hand over his heart. “Great to have you on board, Aria.” “Now, for my true right hand, last but certainly not least, Amanda Orton.” Alana tapped the redhead on the shoulder. Amanda stopped typing. “I’m Amanda Orton. I’m Alana’s assistant. If you want to reach Alana or sched- ule a meeting with her, you come through me.” “And if you want to get to Amanda, you have to go through that massive security guard downstairs, who happens to be her husband.” Axel raised his eyebrows. “You see him? He looks like a linebacker for the Lions.” “You do not need to go through him to see me.” Amanda’s lips and eyes turned up at the corners. “You can reach me anytime, Aria, and I’m the keeper of the birthday club so I need to get that from you at some point.” Carly rolled her eyes. “As if we need to be reminded of our birthdays every year.” “Let me know when you want it, and I’ll give it to you.” Aria tucked her hair behind one ear. “Thanks

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for introducing yourselves. I’m so impressed with your work, and I can’t wait to be a contributing member of this team.” Silence. Ugh, had she laid it on too thick? “The only one missing is Rihanna Clark. She’s our PR person. She interacts with the media, the local PDs and crime victims. She had a meeting today,” Alana said, rapping on the table and pushing to her feet. “Now that the niceties are out of the way, we have work to do. Opaline?” Opaline clicked her keyboard and the oversize TV screens on either side of the room came to life—only to show death. Two young women, both on their backs, sprawled on the ground, a gaping gunshot wound in their chests. Alana aimed a pointer at the split-screen, the red laser hovering over the bodies. “Two victims in Port Huron. Both near the lake, different roads. Single gunshot to the chest, point-blank. The Port Huron police don’t have any leads yet but…” The next slide jumped onto to the screen and Amanda gasped. “I-is that a baby?” “It is.” Alana clenched her jaw. “A baby in a car seat was next to the most recent victim. Child Protec- tive Services has the baby now, and the PD ordered DNA tests to determine if the baby belongs with the dead woman.” Max growled. “Was the baby hurt?” “The baby is fine, which is how the second body was discovered. Someone called in an abandoned baby.

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Didn’t mention the dead body next to the baby, but reported the baby.” “Was it the killer?” Axel hunched forward, the veins popping out of his forearms, hands clenched. Alana shook her head. “We don’t know. He didn’t leave a name or contact info, but could just be a scared bystander.” Selena asked, “Did they trace the call?” “Cell phone. No info on that phone yet.” Opaline looked up, shoving her glasses higher on her nose. “I’m looking into the phone now.” “Has the PD identified the victims? Do they have any similarities?” Carly scribbled on a notepad in front of her. “The first victim had opioids in her system, too soon for toxicology on the second victim, and both had a small amount of fentanyl on them—packaged to sell.” Alana tipped her head at Aria, and Aria squared her shoulders. Fentanyl she knew, along with all its street names: China Girl, Dance Fever, Apache, Goodfella, and on and on. Alana continued. “Both women were about the same age, brown hair, brown eyes, not sex workers—at least, not known to the PD—and they were dressed conser- vatively. They did both have ID on them.” Selena slumped in her seat. “That makes things a little easier.” “Not quite.” Alana took a big breath. “The IDs they had were identical.” Aria blurted out, “Identical?” “That’s right. These women not only look alike, they

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were carrying IDs that have the same name, same address, same height, same weight. For all intents and purposes? The same girl died twice.”

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Aria hunched her shoulders as a chill shot up her spine. “Someone’s going through a lot of trouble to give these women the same ID only to kill them.” Max scratched his jaw. “Maybe their deaths are part of a plan nobody told them about, but what kind of plan calls for two identical women?” “I’m assuming the PD already checked that person and address?” Selena’s short nails clicked on the ma- hogany surface of the table as she drummed her fingers. “Is she a real person?” “The name on the ID is Maddie Johnson. Fake. Ev- erything fake down to the Port Huron address, which doesn’t exist.” Alana pressed a button on the remote in her hand and gestured toward the screen now display- ing two fraudulent IDs side by side. They were identical except for the pictures of the dead women. “If that was the killer on the phone—” Axel pushed back from the table and crossed his ankle over his knee “—why’d he make the call? Why’d he spare the baby?” “Thank God, he did,” Max replied. “So, we’re not dealing with a total monster.”

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“Maybe he likes puppies, too.” Carly’s brown eyes darkened to two chips of coal. “The guy murdered two women…a woman with a baby.” Max held up his hands. “I’m not saying he should win the Nobel Peace Prize, but leaving the baby untouched tells us something about him. Something we can use.” Aria had pulled out her laptop during the discussion and had been taking her own notes, although she figured they’d all get a copy of Amanda’s. Without looking up from her keyboard, she asked, “Do we know the grade of fentanyl they were carrying?” Dead air hung over the room and Aria glanced up to find several pairs of eyes on her. Max broke the silence. “Is that important? Should we know that?” Her gaze traveled across the different expressions— curious, piqued, encouraging—and she said, “Yes. Sometimes we can trace the packaging and the purity to a specific dealer.” “Didn’t know that.” Selena formed her fingers into a gun and pointed at Aria. “That would definitely help. Good call, Aria.” Aria held up one finger. “Another thing about the location of the bodies and the drugs… Port Huron is a border town on the water. It’s a prime location for smuggling. The packets of Dance Fever those women had could be part of a larger ring moving drugs across the border.” As Alana clicked through the rest of the slides and the team bandied about more ideas, the tension that

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had been gripping Aria’s shoulders, tension she hadn’t even realized she had, began slipping away. She could do this. An hour later, Alana put up the last slide—the baby in the car seat, a set of oversize plastic keys in primary colors and a little fuzzy sheep clipped to the handle. “Good start, people. Remember why we’re doing this. This little guy lost his mother. Someone lost a daughter, a sister, maybe a wife. Go home, get your affairs in order and we’ll meet at the airport. Private plane will take us to Port Huron at four o’clock sharp.” Opaline ended the slide show, Amanda put the fin- ishing touches on the meeting notes, and the team members began gathering their laptops, notepads, pens and coffee cups. Axel’s voice rose above the rest. “Good hire, boss. Aria has a lot to offer.” Max reached across the table, extending his hand. “I’m excited about what you can bring to the team, Aria.” She smiled and nodded, giddiness bubbling in her veins. They all seemed confident she could do the job. Now she just had to convince herself.

As the sun set, the TCD’s private plane touched down in Mount Clemens. Port Huron didn’t have an airport, so the Selfridge Air National Guard allowed them to fly onto the base, which was about forty-five minutes from Port Huron. The descent provided Aria with a bird’s-eye view of

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the area, near two lakes and not far from the Canadian border. The proximity to water and the border con- firmed her suspicions about drug smuggling. But why kill the smugglers? Why kill the young women willing to do your bidding? Dealers exacted rough justice on the street sellers, the runners and the smugglers whenever they started bucking the system or tried to circumvent it. If a smuggler decided to go into business by herself, started using the product instead of shipping it, or got cold feet, or worse, turned informant, she would most likely end up meeting the business end of a gun. Carly leaned across the aisle of the plane, her blond hair spilling like sunshine over her shoulder. “At least we get our own rooms at the hotel this time. Sometimes we have to share. That means Selena and I usually bunk together, the guys pair up, and Amanda and Rihanna share. Alana always has her own room. She claims it’s because she snores.” “Opaline doesn’t come along?” Aria cranked her head over her shoulder. She’d noticed the tech special- ist’s absence when she’d boarded. “Usually she stays in Traverse City, and sometimes Rihanna goes where she’s needed. Rihanna’s already in Port Huron. She came out here yesterday to take charge of the baby and make sure he’s placed with a foster family while the police ID his mom.” Carly blinked her golden lashes rapidly. “Poor little thing.” Pressing a hand to her heart, Aria said, “I just keep thinking how terrified his mom must’ve been when the

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killer pointed that gun at her. Her last thoughts must’ve been for the safety of her baby.” Carly stretched one long denim-clad leg into the aisle, the heel of her suede boot digging into the thin carpet. “She probably thought her killer was going to shoot her baby, too. I can’t even imagine.” “Why didn’t he?” The plane finished taxiing, its wheels squealing to a stop, the engines cutting out. “Why’d a cold-blooded killer spare a baby?” “Maybe he knew the victim. Port Huron isn’t exactly a big city, is it? Perhaps he didn’t know the identity of his target until he faced her.” “So, you’re saying someone ordered a hit.” Aria reached down and pulled her purse from beneath the seat in front of her. “Based on the duplicate IDs and the drugs, it has to be. Wouldn’t it?” Raising her eyebrows, Carly tilted her head. “Unless the killer is a fellow smuggler and got jealous or made it personal.” Aria released her seat belt. “Just trying to look at all angles here.” “No, that’s good. Keep it coming, Aria. That’s what makes this team so great—everyone coming from different places, everyone contributing their own ideas. Your theory also gives another reason why that killer had a soft spot for the baby.” Carly stood and pulled her designer luggage from the overhead compartment, set- ting it in front of her. Aria blew out a breath. The theory had made sense to her, but she was glad it made sense to Dr. Welsh, too. Aria shuffled off the plane with the rest of the team

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and headed down the steps to the tarmac where a black van awaited them. After the driver loaded their luggage and equipment, Blanca, Selena’s K-9, jumped in the back. The brisk air carried the scent of fish and brine, and Aria’s fingertips buzzed with impatience. She’d have to sit through a dinner tonight and actually try to get some sleep, but the investigation started tomorrow. They were still awaiting ballistics from this most recent murder, to see if it matched the first victim, and on toxicology reports for the second victim and the baby. The DNA would take longer. They piled into the van and Aria scooted into the very back, next to the window. Alana took the seat next to Aria and patted her knee. “We’ll spare the tall people the trouble of crawling back here, but I’m not going to be very good company. The ride to Port Huron is long enough for me to pull out my laptop and get in a little work.” “Go ahead.” Aria dropped her voice. “We shouldn’t be discussing the case in front of the driver, anyway, right?” “No, but I’m not all business all the time. I’d like to get to know you better on a personal level, Aria. I make a point to learn as much about my agents as I can.” Alana winked. “Figure out what makes them all tick.” From the seat in front of them, Carly twisted her head around. “Watch out for Alana. She has a knack for getting to our deepest, darkest secrets. She should be the one interrogating all our suspects. She’d give Axe a run for his money.”

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Alana pulled her computer out of her bag and posi- tioned it on her lap. “The better I get to know you, the more smoothly the team runs.” The van stopped at the gate on the way off the base and then hit the highway north to Port Huron. Max sat in the front seat and chatted with the driver, who was retired Army. Axel and Selena sat behind them, their heads together, exchanging whispers, probably work- related, and Carly and Amanda had claimed the middle row, each glued to her phone. As Alana tapped away on her keyboard, Aria stuffed some earbuds in her ears and listened to classical music. She leaned her head against the cool glass and watched the scenery pass by. She couldn’t see much in the darkness, but occasionally a freeway sign would pop up with the miles remaining to Canada, reminding her just how close they were to the border. Almost forty minutes later, the van took the turnoff toward downtown Port Huron. As they rolled past the lake, Aria cupped her hand over the glass and gazed at the gleaming water, boats bobbing in the docks, a few decked out with colorful Christmas lights that reflected off the lake’s dark surface. Aria squinted so that the lights blurred in a rainbow pattern. Somewhere out there, another brown-haired, brown-eyed young woman with dreams of financial security in her eyes and packets of Dance Fever in her pocket, faced potential danger. And unsuspecting families sat on a precipice of the most devastating news of their lives.

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The wind gusted and the halyards on the docked boats clanged against the masts, chiming out quittin’ time. Grayson grabbed the rope attached to the last pallet he’d loaded for the day. The rough hemp dug into his palms, already toughened from a few days’ work on the docks. He dragged the pallet to the warehouse and hoisted it on top of a stack, ready for tomorrow morning. Chuck smacked him on the back, the contact from the former hockey player and now his coworker rever- berating in his chest. “Good work today, Gary. Some of the boys are going for a beer. Wanna come along?” “Thanks, Chuck. Maybe next time.” Grayson rolled down the sleeves of his denim work shirt, the cold air finally soaking into his skin now that the heavy lifting had come to a backbreaking end. “I’m still dealing with stuff from my landlord in the new place. He’s supposed to fix the toilet tonight.” “Yeah, you gotta watch these landlords. They’ll try to skip out on paying for anything.” Chuck spit on the ground. “Rich bastards.” “I got my eye on this guy, and I plan to hold his feet to the fire.” Grayson thrust out his fist for a bump. “Hit me up next time for a brewski.” Chuck plowed his raw, reddened knuckles into Gray- son’s. “You got it, man. We’ll hoist one for you tonight.” Grayson held up his hand to a few of the other guys as he headed for the used truck he’d bought yesterday. He climbed in and gripped the steering wheel, his own knuckles abraded, staring at the docks over the rim. Despite his reason for being on the docks in Port Huron, the work invigorated him. The soreness of his

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muscles when he ran a marathon or worked out at the gym didn’t equate to the ache that permeated his bones after a few days loading and unloading cargo. This pain felt righteous. He snorted. He’d better not utter that sentiment to the men, and the woman, he worked with on the dock. They’d kick his ass for that…rich bastard. He cranked on the engine and blasted the heat. Reaching under the front seat, he retrieved his cell phone. He didn’t carry it on the job. Didn’t want anyone getting a look at his texts or photos. With a knot in his gut, he checked his calls and texts. After thumbing through a few work-related issues and listening to his assistant, Patrick, whine in not one but two voice mails, he slumped in his seat. Nothing from the police yet. Not that he expected anything. The guy at the front desk of the Port Huron PD could barely keep his eyes open when Grayson had gone in to file the missing persons report. There’d been one unidentified dead woman, but she hadn’t matched the description Grayson had given the officer…in more ways than one. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel. Where the hell was she? If the police didn’t give a damn, he’d have to do his own searching. He hadn’t heard anything on the docks yet, but he hadn’t been there that long. He still had hope of glean- ing some information from the guys as they started to loosen up more, accept him as one of their own. That beer tonight would’ve gone a long way toward that end,

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but he had his own mission after work—and it didn’t include a broken toilet. By the time he pulled out of the parking lot, the other workers’ vehicles had disappeared. Who wanted to hang around the commercial end of the dock once you punched your time card? Grayson eyed the lake as it curved around to the noncommercial side of the dock where pleasure boats, fishing boats and a few small rowboats clustered, some already decorated with Christmas lights. Already? Thanksgiving was last week with Christmas right around the corner. The realization punched him in the gut. Thanksgiving should’ve been a joyous holiday, a prelude to Christmas. He cruised along the street that bordered the shore- line and turned into the parking lot for the noncommercial harbor. Boats, all this water—it would be easy for someone to disappear. He clambered out of the truck and trudged down to the wooden dock, the cold air biting at his cheeks. Shov- ing his hands into his pockets, he stooped his shoulders and gazed at the nodding boats, talking to each other in creaks and sighs. Lights emanated from inside a couple of the larger sailboats. He knew that a few hardy souls lived on their boats full-time, but he’d already identified and dis- missed them as possible sources of information. His head jerked sideways as the sound of clicking heels came from the other side of one of the big- ger boats. He squinted into the distance and his heart skipped a beat when he saw a young woman in a dark

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coat, dark jeans and what had to be boots, not deck shoes, to make that noise. He took a step in her direction, a name on his lips, which he choked back when he saw the girl flip her dark hair over one shoulder. As she drew closer, pass- ing beneath the glow from a light, Grayson released a long breath. When she spotted him, her steps faltered, but she grabbed the strap of her purse and soldiered on toward the gate. She pushed through without giving him a second look. She could be someone else’s sister. “Hey, you should be careful walking around on your own out here at night.” Without turning her head, she gave him a one- fingered salute and yelled, “Mind your own damn business.” So much for being a good Samaritan. He twisted his head to the side and watched her cross the parking lot and walk up to the street, her stride purposeful, her shoulders back and the knit cap on her head bobbing up and down. At least she didn’t look like a victim. He watched the boats and the water for another fifteen minutes, not knowing what to expect. But instinct buzzing in his ear that this area held a clue to Chloe’s disappearance, kept him rooted to the same spot. The tip of his nose numb and his eyes stinging, he pushed away from the post he’d been clinging to with stiff fingers and returned to his truck. If he hurried, he might catch the guys for a beer, but right now he couldn’t carry off the jovial dockworker

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whose only care in the world was the Lions’ dismal record. Right now, all he cared about was finding his sister… and her seven-month-old baby.

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Rihanna Clark chucked the baby under the chin and jig- gled the set of plastic keys in front of his face. “Hello, there, Baby Doe. You sure are cute.” The baby reached out with his chubby fist and curled his fingers, wet with drool, around the yellow key. He shoved the end into his mouth and gnawed on it with his gums. Rihanna leaned forward and tapped Shereen North, the CPS social worker on the shoulder. “Is that okay? He has that key in his mouth.” Shereen looked in her rearview mirror and smiled. “That’s fine. He’s teething. I’m guessing his age is around six or seven months. He might be older if he has drugs in his system and some delayed develop- ment, but he looks healthy. You don’t have children?” Rihanna shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. After being attacked and held captive by a homicidal maniac a few years ago, she couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing any children into this world. Alana had assured her that she’d get over those fears one day, but she’d actually have to find a man she could

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trust. For now, she preferred admiring from afar and going goo-goo-gaga over someone else’s baby. “I hope he doesn’t have drugs in his system.” She reached over to the baby next to her in the back seat and stroked his cheek with her knuckle. “He seems too calm to have NAS.” “At seven months, he might be too old to display many of the characteristics of neonatal abstinence syn- drome, but he’ll be tested. If he’s positive, we can work with that.” “If we don’t find next of kin soon, is this foster family prepared to deal with that?” “Rick and Sarah are among our best, and they have experience dealing with NAS babies. Rick works as a firefighter—in fact, that’s how they started as foster parents. Rich was called out to a terrible fire that killed the parents of a baby. He and Sarah cared for that baby for a short time, and they were hooked. Sarah’s a retired teacher. They have two grown sons, no grandchildren yet, and love these babies.” “They sound perfect. Let’s just hope this is another short-term assignment.” Rihanna pinched Baby Doe’s toes through his soft suede moccasins. “This little guy needs his family…if they want him.” Ten minutes later, Shereen turned down a street of neatly groomed homes, smug in their middle-class comfort. She pulled in next to a red truck in the driveway of a home that had an actual white-picket fence. Baby Doe dropped the key and the keychain slid down the handle of the car seat. “Don’t worry, baby boy. You’re going to be in good

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hands.” She smoothed a finger over his silky blond hair, and he rewarded her with a look from his blue eyes. Given Mom’s looks with the brown hair and brown eyes, Dad must be blond-haired and blue-eyed. Shereen cut the engine and they both got out of the car. Rihanna lifted the latch of the gate to the walkway as Shereen circled around to get the baby. Hearing their approach, Rick and Sarah emerged from the house and stood on the porch. Rick’s arm curled around Sarah’s shoulder, while Sarah clasped her hands in front of her, a smile lighting up her face. She had to have been a kindergarten teacher. Rihanna’s boots clipped on the pavers as she walked up to the porch. “Mr. and Mrs. Colby? I’m Rihanna Clark, the FBI’s liaison on the murder case of the baby’s mother—or, at least, we think she’s his mother.” Sarah reached out and clasped Rihanna’s hand, tug- ging her in for a hug that smelled like warm apples and cinnamon. “Thank you for bringing him to us. We’ll cherish him as one of our own, until his people can be found and notified.” Rihanna inhaled the woman’s homey scent and blinked back tears. Maybe Rick and Sarah could adopt her, too? Just when Sarah released her, leaving her out in the cold, Rick dove in for a bear hug that almost swept Ri- hanna from her feet. He kept hold of Rihanna’s hand and said, “I hope you Feds catch the SOB who did this to his mother.” “Rick, shh.” Sarah patted his muscular arm. “Not in front of the baby.”

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Shereen had followed her to the porch, Baby Doe’s car seat swinging from her hand, the keyring and fuzzy sheep dancing in the air. Rick squeezed between the two women and lunged toward Shereen. “That looks heavy, Shereen. Let me take him.” Rick brought the baby into the house and set the car seat on the floor. Crouching, he released the straps, scooped Baby Doe out of the seat, and tucked him in the crook of his arm. “He’s a big boy. Six months old? What do you think, Sarah?” “I think he’s a little angel.” As the two foster parents cooed over their new charge, Rihanna glanced around the room, her gaze lighting on a playpen outfitted with colorful toys, a battery- operated swing, a mat on the floor with an arched mo- bile and a spinning, rocking baby walker—a cornuco- pia of fun times for baby. Although Rihanna knew all too well looks could be deceiving, CPS had solid, favorable reports of this couple, and Baby Doe couldn’t be in better hands. Rihanna cleared her throat. “We’ll keep you posted on any information we have about the baby’s identity and his family, including whether or not they’ll be making a move for custody.” “Thank you, Rihanna.” Sarah rested her cheek against the baby’s head. “I’m sure Shereen told you, we’re old hands at this. The baby is ours until he isn’t.” Shereen withdrew a folder from the bag hanging over her shoulder. “You know the drill. I have some forms for you to sign before we leave.”

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“Kitchen table.” Sarah turned to Rihanna with the baby in her arms. “Do you want to hold him for a few minutes while we take care of this, Rihanna?” “Of course.” Rihanna stepped forward, holding out her arms, and Baby Doe went willingly to her. This personable little guy must be accustomed to strangers. He hadn’t let out one peep, except for happy babbles, ever since she and Shereen had picked him up from the hospital—the same hospital where his mother lay on a cold slab in the morgue. Rihanna cuddled him close and then dipped her head, putting her lips next to the downy curve of his ear. “Don’t worry, baby. Like Rick said, we’re going to catch the SOB who took your momma away from you.”

The dinner the night before had been just what Aria needed. The rest of the special agents on the team had seemed almost human as they’d consumed actual food and drink instead of manna from heaven. She’d gotten to know them a little better as individ- uals, especially Max, who’d been seated next to her. He’d lifted up his pant leg and showed her his artificial limb, explaining how the high-tech prosthesis worked. He also talked about his toddler son, which explained why he’d been one of the first agents in the meeting to show concern about the baby left with his dead mother, presumably. The DNA on mother and child hadn’t come back yet. They hadn’t even received the autopsy report on the second victim, although cause of death was obvious—gunshot to the chest.

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As Aria eyed the scoop of congealed oatmeal she’d plopped in her bowl from the hotel’s complimentary breakfast bar, wondering if she’d made a mistake, Axel poked at her bowl with a spoon. “That looks disgust- ing.” “That doesn’t look much better.” With her fork, she tapped his plate, heaped with clumpy, orangey-yellow scrambled eggs and greasy sausage links. “Breakfast of champions. And, speaking of dis- gusting—” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Carly, decked out in lululemon tights and a sleek running jacket, her blond hair scooped into a high ponytail “—get a load of her. She makes the rest of us look like slugs.” Aria flicked a glance at Axel’s broad chest and bi- ceps visible beneath his shirt. Not a very likely slug. “How’s the breakfast?” Carly grabbed a plate and joined them, her cheeks still flushed from her run. Even the sweat glowing from her forehead had a chic sheen to it. “No green smoothies, or anything like that. Plain old bacon and eggs and whatever Aria’s got going on in that bowl.” “I think we can make that palatable with some brown sugar, banana, nuts.” Carly grabbed a glass and shoved it beneath the juice dispenser. When they were all seated around a table near the window, Axel said, “Alana’s working on getting that autopsy report for us and pulling some strings to accel- erate the toxicology test on Mom and the DNA test on Mom and baby. The more we know about these women,

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outside of their fake IDs, the faster we’re going to solve this case.” Carly looked up from slicing her banana into her oatmeal. “I’m going to be looking at the first victim’s toxicology report today. If I have any questions about the opioids in her system, I’ll hit you up, Aria.” “Sounds good. Axel and I are going to Jane Doe number two’s crime site today, just to get a lay of the land.” Aria dipped her spoon into the oatmeal and swirled the brown sugar into a ribbon through the sludge. “I’m not late for breakfast, am I?” A tall woman who looked more like the supermodel Iman than an FBI liaison strode into the breakfast room, her dark curls bouncing at her shoulders. “I’m starving.” “Don’t skip out on a team dinner next time,” Axel scolded. “Come over here and meet our newest agent.” Rihanna Clark put her plate down and floated toward the table like a ballerina in Swan Lake. “Oh, get your breakfast first.” Aria flicked her fingers at Rihanna. “The breakfast will still be there in two minutes. I feel bad about missing your first meeting.” Rihanna flashed a smile at Aria that made her feel like her best friend in the world. “First things first. I’m Rihanna Clark.” Aria grabbed her extended hand and then loosened her grip on the delicate bones of Rihanna’s fingers. “Aria Calletti. Nice to finally meet you.” “I know.” Rihanna pouted, her lips turning down at the corners. “I missed the big meeting yesterday because I was settling the baby, and I missed the team dinner, as

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Axel called it, because I had to do some follow-up with CPS after we dropped the baby off with the family.” “How is the baby?” Aria curled her fingers around her spoon so hard, it almost sprang from her grasp. The thought of him outside next to his dead mother squashed her appetite even more than her lumpy oatmeal. “He seems healthy. Doesn’t seem like he has drugs in his system, but the toxicology will tell. His foster parents are topnotch. No worries there. Poor little guy.” Rihanna’s dark eyes shimmered with tears. “Go get breakfast. We’re not going anywhere.” Aria plunged her spoon into her untouched bowl of oatmeal. “Speak for yourself.” Axel stuffed the remainder of his eggs into his mouth, leaving the sausage on his plate, proving his choice wasn’t much better than her own. “I have to sign for our rental car, which is being delivered to the hotel in a few minutes. Meet me out front when you’re done with breakfast—no rush.” As he walked away, Carly said, “Axe is just like Alana. Even though he’s the supervisor, he sees himself as one of us.” “He seems very…charming, personable. Those quali- ties must be invaluable as a negotiator and interrogator.” “He amazes me, given his…past.” Carly shot Aria a look from the side of her eye. “I know.” Aria’s knees bounced beneath the table. “We read about his background in the Academy, about the murder of his parents and brother when Axel was a child. How awful. I can’t even imagine.” “Most people can’t.” Carly picked up her coffee cup, pinky in the air, and took a dainty sip.

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“Oh, now I have to sit with the healthy oatmeal girls.” Rihanna clicked down her plate, overflowing with eggs, bacon, sausage and hash browns. “And I put ketchup on everything.” Aria widened her eyes. “Doesn’t everyone?” “I knew I liked you.” Rihanna jabbed her fork in the air at Aria. Aria chatted with the two women while they finished breakfast. She then excused herself to meet Axel, with a detour to her hotel room to grab her bag and make sure she didn’t have oatmeal stuck to her teeth. When she exited the hotel, she spotted him behind the steering wheel of a dark blue sedan, nodding his head. Was he on speaker phone? Should she interrupt? She approached the vehicle and peered through the glass, which was practically vibrating with the loud, thrashing rock music blaring from the car’s speak- ers. She tapped on the window as she pulled open the passenger-side door. Axel’s head shot up and he cranked down the noise. “Sorry about that. Just getting into the mood. Do you like heavy metal?” “Mmm, I’m more of a pop girl, top forty stuff, but I’ve been getting into classical lately. I find it soothing.” “I do, too. If you’re just learning about classical, I can steer you to a couple of composers and forms— sonatas, concertos and symphonies. I have an exten- sive collection.” “But you like headbanger music, too.” “Yeah, there’s a time to relax and a time to…not

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relax.” His jaw formed a hard line as he pressed the ig- nition button on the rental. Axel drove to the location of the second murder and parked on the street above the gravel walkway along the lake. Aria followed Axel out, stumbling down a dirt pathway through the marshy land and tall grasses. Her nose twitched at the scent of dark, dank peat. “Why would she be walking down here when there’s that perfectly good Blue Water River Walk?” “You’re the drug czar. If she were selling, would she be doing that in a more populated area or out here in no-man’s-land?” “That depends.” When they reached gravel road next to the water, Aria brushed off the wet grass clinging to her low-heeled boots. She threw her arm out to the side. “Plenty of places to hide. If the killer stalked her, he’d have cover.” “If he stalked her?” “I mean, if he wasn’t with her. She could’ve known him, been with him, come out here with him. Again, that would explain why he didn’t harm the baby and how he got close enough to take that shot without any defensive moves on the victim’s part.” She sucked in her bottom lip. “She dropped where she stood, right? No evidence that she fought back or turned to run.” “Kind of hard to run carrying one of those car seats with a six-month-old baby inside. That’s gotta add another twenty, thirty pounds to the load, right?” Axel spread his hands, as if he didn’t have one clue about babies. He probably didn’t.

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“Closer to twenty than thirty pounds, maybe a little less.” She shrugged. “I’m no expert, but I do have nieces and nephews.” “That’s more than I got.” Aria sealed her lips. She had a wealth of siblings while Axel had lost his only brother in the most tragic way imaginable. The gravel crunched beneath Axel’s feet and he stopped and closed his eyes. “If he took her by surprise, he wouldn’t have followed her on this road—too noisy.” “Over here, close to the water.” Aria trailed her hand along the tall grasses that bordered the lake’s edge. Still rooted to the ground, Axel pointed ahead. “Right there. That’s where it happened.” Aria jerked up her head and narrowed her eyes at a piece of yellow crime scene tape with a jagged end dangling from a bush. Then her gaze tracked to the dark stain soaked into the dirt. “No rain yet to wash that away.” His mouth grim, Axel strode toward the site and circled the bloodstain. “The shot spattered the baby with blood, you know. Little red droplets interspersed with the pandas on his blue blanket.” Curling a hand around her throat, Aria swallowed. “I saw that picture.” “So, she knew him, came here with him, or he snuck up on her through the reeds and grasses. Bam! Shot her point-blank. Left the scene and called 9-1-1 in a fit of conscience or to show off his handiwork.” “Not a serial killer, though, not with the exact same IDs and the drugs.” She cocked her head, and the ponytail

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she’d decided on today slipped over her shoulder. “Why do you think he left the scene before calling 9-1-1?” “Give himself some time to hightail it out of here.” Axel stuffed his hands inside his pockets. “What are you thinking, Aria?” “Water all around this area. He could’ve had a boat. She could’ve had a boat. I keep coming back to the boats. He could’ve called from here and hopped in his boat. Maybe he even laid low and made sure the first responders showed up in the right place—for the sake of the baby.” “A real prince,” Axel growled low in his throat. Aria sidled up next to the bloodstain and pivoted toward the water. She glanced at the ground and the trampled grasses. Could’ve been the killer. Could’ve been the cops on the scene. A white scrap of paper had been caught on the side of one of reeds and she ducked through the grass to take a closer look. “Axel, there’s a tissue caught on a plant. The cops scanned the area for cigarette butts and all the rest, right?” “They did.” Axel hovered over her shoulder. “It could’ve tumbled in here after.” “Or they missed it. That tissue is awfully white and unsullied for being debris from the lake or the road above.” She cranked her head over her shoulder. “Do you have an evidence bag on you?” He patted the leather satchel strapped across his body. “I have a few in here. I even have some tweezers.” After scrambling through his bag, he handed her a plastic baggie and a pair of tweezers.

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Aria crouched, used the tweezers to pluck the tissue from the reed and then dropped it into the baggie. She handed it to Axel. “We should drop that off at the PD. Detective Massey in the Major Crimes Unit, right?” “Yeah, he’s the lead. Good find, Aria.” They spent another thirty minutes at the site without any more aha moments, and then Axel drove to the Port Huron Police Department with their find. Massey brought them back to his office and folded his tall, spare frame into the chair behind his desk. Aria wondered where he crammed his storklike legs. He toyed with the plastic-bagged tissue in his long, bony fingers. “I’m not trying to cover for my guys, but I don’t think this was out there.” “It’s breezy. It could’ve blown in after the fact.” Axel had enough experience to know, as FBI, you didn’t ruffle the PD’s feathers. You’d never get their co- operation when you needed it, if you did. Aria had been on the other end of that relationship with the FBI coming in and taking charge of cases. In some departments, there was no love lost between the PD and the Feds. “Could be from our killer.” Massey tapped the bag with his fingers. “We’ll send it over to check for DNA. Did you find anything else out there?” “No, just trying to get a sense of things. I’m going to go through the autopsy reports with Director Suzuki today. Did she get those?” “She did. Delivered to the hotel this morning.” Massey shuffled through a stack of papers at his elbow. “I do have something you might be interested in, something for you to check out when you have the time.”

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“We’ll take anything and everything you have, De- tective.” Aria squared her shoulders. “I used to work as a beat cop in Detroit, and I know the leads can get over- whelming, especially as so many of them go nowhere.” “Detroit, huh?” Massey raised his gray eyebrows, which seemed to stick out at odd angles, giving him a surprised look. “Do you know Smitty? Lieutenant Gerald Smith?” “I do know Lieutenant Smith. He was something of a mentor of mine.” Massey nodded, a smile cracking his lean face. “He always liked to take cops with promise under his wing.” “Great cop.” Aria reveled in the warm glow of the room, comfortable knowing she was appreciated. Not only had she won the approval of Massey, Axel had bumped her knee. The detective shook out a piece of paper he’d slid from the stack and pushed it across the desk toward her. “We took a missing persons report a few days ago about a young woman.” Aria glanced at the first few lines on the page for the missing woman—a Chloe Larsen. “This woman is about the right age as our victims, but she has blond hair and blue eyes.” “That’s why we didn’t connect it to the first victim and overlooked it for the second, but read a little farther down the report.” Axel leaned into her space as Aria ran her finger through the words. She sucked in a breath. “A baby. This is a missing persons report for a young woman and a seven-month-old baby, and CPS is telling us that

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the baby found with Jane Doe number two is between six and eight months. Despite the dissimilar physical descriptions, it’s a big coincidence.” Axel jabbed his finger at the paper. “Too big to ig- nore. Who reported the woman missing?” “A Gary Rhodes. He’s working at the docks. You might be able to catch him on his lunch break, but give him a call first at the number on the report. He said something about not being disturbed at work.” Aria held up the report. “Can I take this?” “Take it. We have a copy in our computer system.” Axel asked, “What is Gary Rhodes’s relationship to the missing woman and baby?” Massey steepled his fingers and stared at them over the tips. “Brother and uncle.”

Want to know what happens next? Order Rookie Instincts by Carol Ericson, available October 27, wherever books are sold!

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One

Creed Cooper was a cowboy. A rich, successful cowboy from one of the most well-regarded families in Logan County. He also happened to be tall, muscular and in possession of the kind of good looks a lot of women liked. As a result, nearly nothing—or no one—was off- limits to him. No one except Wren Maxfield. Maybe that was why every time he looked at her his hands itched. To unwind that tight bun from her hair. To make that mouth, which was always flattened in disap- proval—at least around him—get soft and sexy and get all over his body.

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And he had that itch a lot, considering he and Wren were the representatives for their respective families’ vineyards. Rivals, in fact. And she hated him. She hated him so much that when she saw him her eyes flared with a particular kind of fire. Fair enough, since he couldn’t really stand her either. But somehow, years ago, a piece of that dislike inside him had twisted and caught hard in his gut and turned into an intensity of another kind entirely. He was obsessed. Obsessed with the idea he might be able to use that fire in her eyes to burn up the sheets between them. Instead, he had to listen to her heels clicking on the floor as she paced around the showroom of Cow- boy Wines, looking like a smug cat, making him wait to hear whatever plan it was she’d come to tell him about. “Are you listening to me?” she asked suddenly, her green cat eyes getting sharp. She was dressed in a tight-fitting red dress that fell to the top of her knees. It had a high, wide neck, and while it didn’t show a lot of skin, it hugged her full breasts so tight it didn’t leave a lot to the imagi nation. Even if it had, his imagination was damn good. And it was willing to work for Wren. Overtime.

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She had on those ridiculous spiked heels, too. Red, like the dress. He wanted to see her in only those heels. He wasn’t into prissy women. Not generally. He liked a more practical girl. A cowgirl who would be at home on his ranch. Wren looked like she never left her family showroom, all glass walls and wrought iron furniture. Maxfield Vineyards was the premier wine brand for people who were up their own asses. And still, he wanted her. That might be her greatest sin. That she tested control he’d had firmly leashed for the last eighteen years and made him want to send it right to hell as he burned in her body. Of all the reasons to hate Wren Maxfield, wanting her and not being able to do a damn thing to make himself stop was number one on the list. He looked around the Cowboy Wines showroom, the barrels with glass tabletops on them, the heavy, distressed beams that ran the length of the room. And then there was him: battered jeans and cowboy boots, a hat for good measure. Everything a woman like Wren would hate. A testament to just why there was no reason to carry a burning torch for her fine little body. Too bad his own body was a dumbass. “I wasn’t listening at all,” he said, making sure to drawl it. As slow as possible. He was rewarded with

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a subtle flare of heat in those eyes. “Make it more interesting next time, Wren. Maybe do a dance.” “The only dancing I’ll ever do is on your grave, Creed.” The sparring sent a kick of lust through him. They did this every time they were in a room together. Every damn time. No matter that he knew he shouldn’t indulge it. But hell, he was afraid the alternative was strip- ping her naked and screwing her against the nearest wall, and that wasn’t a real option. So verbal sparring it was. “What did I die of?” he asked. “Boredom?” Those eyes shot sparks at him. “It was tragic. You were found with a high heel protruding out of your chest.” Her magic lips curved upward and he felt it like she’d pressed them against his neck. “Any suspects so far?” “Your own smart mouth. Are you going to listen to me or not?” “You’re already here. So am I. Might as well.” He leaned back in his chair and, for effect, put his boots up on the table. Her top lip curled up into a sneer, and that thrilled him just as much as if she’d crossed the room to straddle his lap. Okay, maybe not just as much, but he loved that he got to her. “Fantastic. As you know, things at Maxfield Vineyards are changing. My father is no longer the

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owner. Instead, my sister Emerson, her husband, Holden, and our sister Cricket and I now have own- ership. “This plan is Emerson’s idea. To be clear. As she is the person who oversees our broader brand.” She waved a hand in the air as if to distance herself yet further from whatever she was about to say. “I had to defer to her on the subject. She doesn’t think a rivalry is beneficial for any of us. She thinks we should join forces. A large-scale event where both of our wines are represented. As you know, wine tours and the whole wine trail in general have become increasingly popular.” “A rising tide lifts all boats and gets more people drunk?” “Basically,” she said. “I’m not really sure I see the benefit to me,” he said. “Seeing as everything is going well here.” “Everyone wants to expand,” she said, looking at him as if he had grown a second head. “Do they?” “Yes,” she responded. “Everyone.” “Well, the way I see it, our business is running well. We have just the right amount of staff, every family member has a position in the company, and it supports us very well. At a certain point, Wren, more is more. And that’s it.” She looked at him, clearly dumbfounded. There were very definite and obvious differences between

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the Cooper and Maxfield families. The Coopers might be wealthy, but they liked their winery to reflect their roots. Down-home. A Western flare. In the early days, his father had been told that there was no way he would ever be successful unless he did something to class up his image. He had refused. Digging in deeper to the cowboy theme was ultimately why they had become so successful. There was no point in competing with fancy-pants places like the Maxfields’. It wasn’t the Coopers’ way. Joining up with the Maxfields made even less sense than trying to emulate them, in his opinion. “Come on,” she said. “You’re ambitious, Creed, don’t pretend otherwise.” And that was where she might have him. Because he didn’t like to back down from a challenge. In fact, he quite liked a challenge in general. That she was issuing one now made him wonder if she was just baiting him. Taunting him. He wasn’t even sure he cared. All he knew was that he instantly wanted to take her up on it. There was something incredibly sexy about her commitment to knowing her enemy. “What exactly are you proposing?” “I want to have a large event featuring all of the wineries in the area. A wine festival. For Christmas.” “That’s ambitious. And it’s too early to talk about Christmas.”

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“All the stores would disagree, Creed. Twinkle lights are out and about.” “Ask me if I care.” “I’d like to do a soft launch, a large party at Maxfield in the next month,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “We’ll invite our best clients. Can you imagine? The buzz we’ll make joining forces?” “Oh, you mean because everybody knows how profoundly our families dislike each other?” He paused for a moment. “How profoundly we dislike each other?” It wasn’t a secret. They were never civil to each other. They never tried to be. “Yes,” she said. “That.” “And how exactly do you think we’re going to get through this without killing each other?” She looked all cheerful and innocent. “Look on the bright side. If I do kill you, you’ll get that dance you wanted so badly.” “Well. A silver lining to every cloud, I guess.” “I like to think so. Are you in?” The only thing worse than giving in to the attraction he had for her would be hurting a business opportunity for it. He didn’t let other people control him. Not in any way. Least of all Wren Maxfield. And that meant he’d do it. No matter how much

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he’d rather roll in a pit of honey and lie down on an anthill. “How is this going to work? Logistically. I’m not going to roll up to your event in a suit.” “I didn’t think you would. I thought you might be able to bring your rather…rustic charm.” The way she said rustic and charm implied that she felt the former did not go with the latter. He smiled. “It goes with me wherever I go.” “Do you have to wear a hat?” She wrinkled her nose. “That is nonnegotiable,” he said, reaching up and flicking the cowboy hat’s brim with his forefinger. “I figured as much.” She sniffed. “Well. I can accept that.” “You have no choice. We’ll provide the food. Bar- becue.” “You really don’t have to do that.” “I am not standing at a fancy party with nothing but raw fish on a cracker to eat. And anyway, if you want my clients, you better have meat.” “With wine.” “Hey. We work hard to break the stereotype that cowboys only like beer. I myself enjoy a nice red with my burger.” “Unacceptable.” His gaze flickered over her curves. That body. Damn what he’d like to do to that body. “Too repressed to handle a little change, Wren?”

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Color flooded her cheeks. Rage. “I am not. I just don’t like terrible ideas.” “It’s not a terrible idea. It’s on brand.” He said the last bit with no small amount of self-deprecation, and a smirk. “Whatever. I don’t care what you like with what. Really. I just want to know if I can count on you to help me put this together.” “You got it.” “I look forward to this new venture,” she said. She smiled, which was strange, and then she extended her hand. He only looked at it for a moment. Then he reached his own out, clasped hers and shook it. Her skin was soft, like he had known it would be. Wren was the kind of woman who had never done a day’s worth of manual labor in her whole life. Not that she didn’t work hard, she did. And he knew enough about the inner workings of a job like theirs to be well aware that it took a hell of a lot of mental energy. It was just that he also worked on his own ranch when he wasn’t working on the wine part of things, and he knew that his own hands were rough as hell. She was too soft. Too cosseted. Snobby. Uppity. Repressed—unless she was giving him a dressing- down with that evil tongue of hers. And damn he liked it all, as much as he hated it. The thing was, even if he’d been a different man, a man who had the heart it took to be with someone

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forever, to do the whole marriage-and-kids thing, if he’d been a man who hadn’t been destroyed a long time ago, it wouldn’t be her. Couldn’t be her. A kick of lust shot through him, igniting at the point where their hands still touched. Wren dropped her hold on him quickly. “Well. Good. I guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, then.” “I guess we will. Looking forward to it.”

“Dear reader,” Wren muttered as she walked back into the family winery showroom. “She was not looking forward to seeing more of his arrogant, annoying, infuriating, ridiculous…” “I’m sorry, what?” Wren stopped muttering when her sister Emerson popped up from where she was sitting. “I was muttering,” Wren replied. “I know. What exactly were you muttering about?” “I was muttering,” she restated. “Which means it wasn’t exactly meant to be understood.” “Well. I’m nosy.” “I just had my meeting with Creed.” “Oh,” Emerson said, looking her over. “Huh.” “What?” “I’m checking you for burn marks.” “Why? Because he’s Satan?”

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“No. Because the two of you generate enough heat to leave scorched earth.” She narrowed her eyes at her sister. “You’d better be talking about anger.” Regrettably, anger was not the only thing that Creed Cooper made her feel. Oh, Creed Cooper enraged her. She typically found herself wanting to punch him in the face within the first thirty seconds of his company. He was an asshole. He was insufferable. He was…without a doubt the sexiest man she had ever encountered in her entire life and when she woke up at night in a cold sweat with her pulse pounding between her thighs, it was always because she had been dreaming of him. “Yeah,” Emerson said. “Anger.” “What?” Wren snapped. “It’s just… I don’t know. The two of you seem to be building up to some kind of hate-sex situation.” Wren shifted, hating that she felt so seen in the moment. “No.” “Why not?” Emerson asked. “Several reasons. The first being that he disgusts me.” Her cheeks turned pink when the bold-faced lie slipped out of her mouth. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” “You would know. You’re…on fleek on the internet. Or whatever.” “That is an incredibly passé bit of pop culture

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there, Wren. And I think we both know disgust is not what he makes you feel.” She pulled a face. “Can we talk about business?” “Sure, sure. So, what was your conclusion?” “He’s a dick.” “Yeah. I know. But what about the initiative?” “Oh. He’s on board. So I guess we’ll be having a party. But he’s insisting on barbecuing.” “Barbecuing?” Emerson asked, her sister’s hand rising upward, bent at the wrist, her fingers curled. “Yes.” Wren lifted her nose. “Beef.” “I guess that’s what we get for joining forces with cowboys.” “Says the woman who’s married to one.” Emerson shrugged. “Sure. But I don’t let him plan my parties. He has many uses, the primary one being that he allows me to do good work and save horses.” “Save horses?” She batted her lashes. “Ride a cowboy?” “For the love of God, Emerson.” “What? He’s hot.” She was not here for her sister’s smug married- frequent-sex glow. Emerson had very narrowly es- caped an arranged marriage with a man their father had chosen for her. The whole thing with her husband, Holden, had been dramatic, had involved no small amount of blackmail and subterfuge, and had somehow ended in true love. Wren still didn’t quite understand it.

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Wren also didn’t understand why she felt so beset by her Creed fantasies. Or why she was so jealous of Emerson’s glow. Wren herself wasn’t overly sexual. It wasn’t her thing. She’d had a few boyfriends, and she enjoyed the physical closeness that came with sex. That much was true. It had been a while since she’d dated anybody though, because she had been so consumed with her job at Maxfield Vine- yards. She enjoyed what she did for work quite a lot more than she enjoyed sex, in point of fact. Her dreams about illicit sex with Creed were better than any sex she’d ever had, and she found that completely disturbing. Also, proof that her subconscious didn’t know anything. Nothing at all. “Great,” Wren said. “Good for you and your li- bido. But I’m talking about wine, which is far more important than how hot your husband is.” “To you,” Emerson said. “The hotness of my husband is an entirely consuming situation for me.” “An y w a y,” Wren said, her voice firm. “We get our joint party.” “But with beef.” “Yes,” Emerson said. “And then hopefully in a few months we’ll have the larger event, which we can presell tickets to. Hopefully we can bring a lot of people into town if we plan it right.” “I do like the way you’re thinking,” Wren said.

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“It’s going to be great,” she added, trying to affirm it for herself. “It will be,” Emerson agreed. “Have you talked to Cricket about it at all?” Cricket was their youngest sister. She had been… She had been incredibly wounded about the entire scandal with their father. The situation with their parents had gone from bad to worse. Or maybe it was just that they were all now aware of how bad it had always been. The reason Holden had come to Maxfield Vine- yards in the first place had been to get revenge on their father for seducing Holden’s younger sister and leaving her emotionally broken after a miscarriage. After that, Wren and her sisters found out their father had carried on multiple affairs over the years, all with young women who were vulnerable, with so much less power than he had. It was a despicable situation. Holden had blackmailed Emerson into marriage in order to gain a piece of Maxfield Vineyards, but he and Emerson had ultimately fallen in love. They’d ousted their father, who was currently living out of the country. Their mother remained at the estate. Technically, the two of them were still married. Wren hoped that wouldn’t be the case for much longer. Her poor mother had put up with so much. She deserved better. They all did. But while most of the changes that had occurred

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around the winery really were good things, their sister Cricket had taken the new situation hard. She had a different relationship with the place than the rest of them did. Cricket had been a late-in-life baby for their parents. An accident, Wren thought. And it had seemed like no one had the energy to deal with her. She’d been left to her own devices in a way that Emerson and Wren had not been. As a result, Cricket was ever so slightly feral. Wren found her mostly charming, but in the cur- rent situation, she didn’t know how to talk to her. Didn’t know what Cricket wanted or needed from them. “She’s been… You know,” Emerson said. “Cricket. In that she’s not really talking about anything substantial, and she’s been quite scarce. She doesn’t seem to be interested in any of the winery’s new ventures.” “It’s a lot of change.” “True,” Emerson said. “But she’s not a child. She’s twenty-one.” “No,” Wren said. “She’s not a child. But can you imagine how much more difficult this would have been for you ten years ago?” “I know,” Emerson said softly. “It is different for us. It’s different to have a little bit more perspec- tive on the world and on yourself. I think she feels very betrayed.” “Hopefully she’ll eventually embrace the win-

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ery. She can have a role here. I know she’s smart. And I know she would do a good job, whatever Dad thought about her.” Emerson shook her head. “I don’t think that Dad thought about her at all.” “Well, we will,” Wren said. The Maxfields had never been a close family in the way people might think of a close family. It wasn’t like there had been intimate family dinners and game nights and things like that. But they had been in each other’s pockets for their entire lives. Working together, deciding which direction to take their business. Their father was a difficult bastard, that was true. But he had entrusted his daughters with an extreme amount of responsibility when it came to the winery. It was weird now, to have the shape of things be so different. To have everything be up to them. “Everything will be fine,” Wren said. “It’s already better, even if it is a little difficult.” Emerson nodded. “You’re right. It’s better. And things will only get even better from here.”

“You agreed to do what?” Creed looked at his older brother, Jackson, who had an expression on his face that suggested Creed might’ve said he planned to get out of the wine business and start raising corgis, rather than just coordi- nating an event with the Maxfield family.

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“You heard me the first time,” Creed said. “What’s the point of that? They’re a bunch of assholes.” Normally, Creed would not have argued. Or even felt the inclination to argue. But for some reason, he thought back to Wren’s determined face, and the way her body had looked in that dress, and he felt a bit defensive. “You know the girls are running it now,” he said. “James Maxfield absolutely was an asshole. I agree with you. But things are different now, and they’re running things differently.” “Right. So you suddenly kissed and made up with Wren Maxfield?” The idea of kissing Wren sent a lightning bolt of pleasure straight down to his cock. And the idea of… making up with her made his gut turn. “Not a damn chance,” Creed responded. “So, the two of you are going to do this, while at each other’s throats the entire time?” “The logistics aren’t exactly your concern. The logistics are my concern, as always. You just…be a silent partner.” Creed narrowed his eyes. “You’re awfully loud for a silent partner.” “I’m not technically a full-on silent partner,” Jackson said. “It’s just that I would rather invest money than make decisions.” “So then I’m letting you know what the plan is.” Creed thought back to the moment he had told Wren

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that he was going to barbecue. Now he had to barbecue. “We have to bring some grills.” “I’m not even going to ask.” “Fine with me.” “I’m sorry, what are we planning?” Their younger sister, Honey, walked into the room. She was named by their mother, who had been so thrilled to have a daughter after having two sons that she had decided her daughter was sweet and needed a name that suggested so. Honey had retaliated by growing into a snarky tomboy who had never seen the use for a dress and didn’t know which end of a tube of lipstick to use. He had always been particularly fond of his sister. “An event. With the Maxfields,” Jackson said. Her mouth dropped open. “Are you out of your mind?” “I asked him that already,” Jackson grunted. “Well, ask again. Then check him for brain damage.” “No more brain damage than I had already,” Creed said. “Then why are we doing this?” Honey asked. “Because,” he said, taking a long moment to chew on the words that were about to come out next, because they hurt. “Wren had a point. She thinks we should join the wineries together. Make this area more of a tourist destination for wine. Wine trails, and things like that. There’s no point in being com-

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petitive when we can advertise for each other. People like to try all different kinds of wines, and experience all different atmospheres when they’re on va- cation.” “You sound like a brochure,” Jackson said. He probably did. Mostly because Wren had sounded like one and he was basically repeating her. “Well. That’s a good thing,” Creed said. “Since we need some new brochures. And somebody has to write them. It isn’t going to be either of you.” “True,” Honey said cheerfully. “You do have to help me barbecue. And you have to help set up this party. I need you two there. If for no other reason than to be witnesses.” “Witnesses to what?” Jackson asked. “Just in case Wren decides to murder me.” “You could take her,” Honey said. Yeah. He could take her. That was for damn sure. But not in the way his sister meant. “You know I would never hurt a lady.” “That’s far too gallant if the lady is willing to murder you,” Honey said pragmatically. “You could try to be less annoying,” Jackson said. “Look,” Creed said. “She came to me. So, it’s up to her to behave herself. I didn’t go to her, and I wouldn’t have.” Though, truth be told, he would have to behave himself, too. The prospect of spending extra time with Wren Maxfield was definitely problematic. But

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he’d spent the last five years not touching her. A few weeks of working in close proximity shouldn’t be an issue. Hell. They wouldn’t be. Because when Creed Cooper decided something, he stuck to it. Control was what he was all about. He might be a rich cowboy who could have everything he wanted, but that didn’t mean he did have everything he wanted. Not anymore. Not after he had experienced the disastrous consequences of that kind of behavior. He had learned his lesson. And he would never again make the mistakes he’d made as a kid. That was for damn sure.

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Sometimes it still felt strange and disorienting to walk through the large Italian villa-style home, knowing their father would likely never return. That everything here had been previously certain but now…wasn’t. For as long as Wren could remember, her life had been on a steady course. Everything had been the same. From the time she was a child she had known she would work for Maxfield Vineyards. And the only real question had been in what capacity. Emer- son’s contribution had been based on her strengths. She was a social media wizard, but that was not something anyone could have anticipated, consid-

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ering the medium hadn’t existed in the same form when they were younger. But Wren… Wren had always had a talent for hospitality. She had always been able to make people feel at ease. Even when everything had been going well in her parents’ marriage, from the outside looking in, there had been an invisible band of tension in the house. The tension had only ever been worse when they were dealing with the Coopers. Whatever the reason, her father hated that family. And he had instilled a hefty dose of that dislike in her. Though, Creed had taken that dislike to a personal level. Even so, Wren was an expert at managing tension. And making everything seem like it was okay. Delightful, even when it was decidedly less so. Even when she and Creed wanted to dismember each other, they could both do their jobs. She imagined that was why he was in his position in his family company. The same as she was in hers. Event planning and liaising with other companies in a personal way to create heightened brand rec- ognition was something she excelled at. But, it had also been the only real surprise in her entire life. Apart from when James Maxfield had been utterly and completely disgraced. Yes. That was really the first time her life had taken an unexpected turn. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. On the one hand, her father was clearly a monster. And, having never been…emotionally close with him—not

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in the way Emerson had been—it didn’t devastate Wren. But it did leave her feeling adrift. Now she was drifting into uncharted territory with this Cowboy Wines partnership, and she truly did not know how she felt about that either. But it was happening. So, there wasn’t much to be done about it. In fact, she was meeting with Creed this morning. The two of them were going to be talking logistics and deciding which wines to feature. They wanted to showcase the broad spectrum of what each wine label did best, while not stepping on each other’s toes. Unusual, since generally they were deliberately going head-to-head. But now they weren’t. Another unusual thing in a slew of unusual things. She got into her shiny little sports car and pulled out of the grand circular drive that led to the top of the mountain where the family home sat. She took the drive all the way down to the road, and as she put distance between herself and the villa, she was surprised to realize the pressure she hadn’t noticed building in her chest began to get lighter and lighter. And that shouldn’t be what was happening. She should be feeling more and more stressed the closer she got to Creed. It didn’t track with what she knew to be true about herself. That she loved her family and her life and hated him. She mused about that as she maneuvered her car

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down the winding two-lane road, through the pic- turesque main street of Gold Valley, Oregon. Her family had been based here all her life, but she had always felt somewhat separate from it. She and her sisters had gone to boarding school on the East Coast, coming back to Oregon for summers. All the men she’d dated had been from back east. Long-distance relationships that had become incon- venient and annoying over time. But those men had been like her. Educated in the same kinds of institutions, from families like her own. In fact, in those groups, often she was among the poorest. Hilarious, all things considered. But that made her feel…somewhat out of place here. She didn’t go out drinking at the Gold Valley Saloon, a favorite watering hole of most people who lived here. She didn’t have occasion to eat at any of the local restaurants, because they had a chef at home. They threw lavish parties at the villa, and ultimately… She just didn’t often venture out of the estate. She had never considered herself sheltered. Not in the least. Instead, she had considered herself worldly by comparison with most of the people who lived in Gold Valley. She had traveled extensively. Been to some of the most lavish resorts in the world. But suddenly it seemed obvious to her that she existed in a very particular kind of bubble—by choice—and there was something about having to face who her father

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really was that had…well, disturbed the bubble she lived in. It hadn’t popped it altogether. She remained in it. But as she passed through town, the thoughts about her father passed through her mind, and she focused on getting her armor in place so she could deal with Creed. Creed’s family vineyard was beautiful. The winery facilities themselves were not her style at all, but they were pretty, and she could appreciate them. Rustic barns that had been fashioned into show- rooms and event spaces, along with picnic tables that were set up down by the river, live bands often playing during the summer. She knew that food trucks came in during those events and added to the down- home atmosphere. She could see why it appealed. Now she really was worried that she had a head- ache. Wondering about the local bar and appreciat- ing the aesthetic of this place. She snorted, pulling her car into the showroom lot and getting out, immediately scuffing her high heel on the gravel. Oh, there it was. All the ready irritation that she possessed for this place, and the man she was about to meet. Her beautiful yellow leather pumps all scuffed… And then, she nearly fell off her beautiful yellow leather pumps, because suddenly he was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his broad chest and his expression as unreadable as ever. He looked

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cool. His lips flattened into a grim line, his square jaw locked tight. His green eyes were assessing her. And that was the thing she hated the most. He was always doing that. Looking at her as if he could see straight through her dress. As if he could see through her chest. As if he could see things she wasn’t sure she had ever examined inside herself. She didn’t like it. Added to the long list of things she didn’t like about him. That one went right below his being way too handsome for his—or her—own good. “Howdy, ma’am.” “Sup, asshole.” She crossed her arms, mirroring his own posture. “I thought you were supposed to be a lady.” “That’s the thing. I know how to behave like a lady in the right venue. I also know how to go toe to toe with anyone. A by-product of my private school education. Rich people are mean.” “Well. You’re certainly mean.” She shifted uncomfortably. “Not always.” She didn’t know why she felt compelled to strike at him. Constantly. Why had they slipped into the space of open hostility with such ease? You don’t know? Okay. Maybe she had a fair enough idea. But she didn’t want to marinate on it. Not at all. “Just to me?” he asked. “Aren’t I special.” He moved away from the door and allowed her

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entry into the tasting room. There, he had several bottles of wine out on the table. They were already uncorked, glasses sitting next to them. “Isn’t this nice?” she asked. “You didn’t answer my question.” “You’re certainly something,” she responded. The answer seemed to settle between them, rather than striking immediate sparks. But that left an odd note lingering in the air. They just stared at each other for a long moment. And it was like everything in the air around them went elastic, stretched, then held tight. “Nice to know.” She had hoped that his voice, his words, might banish that strange threat of tension. But it didn’t. No. If anything, it felt worse. Because there was something about that voice that seemed to shiver over her skin, leaving goose bumps behind. “Don’t let it go to your…head.” His eyes dipped down, to her lips, then lower. “Let’s drink wine,” she said, far too bright and crisp and obviously trying to move them along from whatever was happening now. “Did you bring some for me to try?” “Yes. I have a crate in the car…” “I’ve got it.” He extended his hand. “What?” “Keys?” “Oh.” She dug in her purse for her key fob, and clicked it twice. “It’s open.”

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He went outside and returned a moment later with a crate full of wine bottles slung up over his shoulder. And it was… Well, it was impossible for her not to admire all that raw male beauty. His strength. He had big hands. The muscles on his forearms shifted as he slung the crate down with ease onto the table, beginning to take the wine bottles out. They looked small in those hands. For some reason, she had an immediate image of those hands on her hips. All that strength, all that…largeness… That was another thing. She felt outside a lot of experiences here. And she had never… Well. Not with a man like him. All of her past relationships had been based on having things in common. Liking each other. Being able to see a potential future, where she served as the appropriate ornament, and they served as the appropriate accessory. The kinds of people who fit into each other’s lives with ease, and because of that decided to make a go at fitting into bed with each other. As a result, she hadn’t had the most exciting sex life. It had been fine. But she never had a wild…well, a wild anything. She hadn’t gone out to bars and hooked up. Creed Cooper was a bar-hookup kind of guy. She just had that feeling. That he was the kind of man women saw from

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across the room, all warm with whiskey and the promise of bad decisions, and thought… He looks like a terrible choice. Before gleefully climbing on. She had never done anything like that and there was something about him that made her think of those things. If she was honest, made her yearn for those things. A rough, bad decision like the kind she’d never made before. “Let’s get to pouring,” he said. And so they did. Portioning out samples for each other to try. Infinitely safer and better than her standing there pondering the potential badness of climbing on top of Creed. “Should we start here?” He picked up a glass of Maxfield Chardonnay. “It’s as good as any as far as I’m concerned,” she said. Though, now she was feeling fragile and like maybe she shouldn’t be drinking around the man. Her thoughts were doing weird things. But she’d been in a weird space since she had driven away from the house today. Or maybe, since even before then. She was familiar with this wine, and it was one of her favorites. Citrusy, with notes of white peach and apricot. It was a decent wine for her mood because of the tartness. “Nice,” he said. “Very nice.”

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“I thought it might pain you to admit that,” she said. “Not at all. Actually, I would be disappointed if I didn’t like your wine. Because I would hate to be in competition with somebody who was terrible.” “I suppose that’s a fair call,” she said. “Us next.” He offered her Cabernet Sauvignon, and the notes were completely different from the Chardon- nay. Smoky oak and rich espresso. It reminded her of him. Full-bodied and rich. Tempting, but a very bad idea to overindulge in. “Nice,” she said. “A compliment from you,” he said dryly. “What an achievement.” “Not one I would think you’d care about.” “I didn’t say I cared. I was just remarking.” “You’re irritating,” she said, taking another sip of the wine. They moved through the wines, and she felt a looseness in her limbs. Relaxation pouring through her. She knew how to taste wine without getting drunk. So she had to assume the feeling had something to do with him. Which was honestly more disturbing than thinking she might have over- indulged. “Why shouldn’t I be irritating? You’re no better.” The smug male arrogance in those words rankled. He tipped his too handsome face backward and took another sip of wine. “You know, this event might also need a bouncy castle.”

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“No,” she said. He wasn’t serious. She knew that. That was ridiculous. This was not going to be some family Sun- day picnic. He knew her well enough to know that, whether he agreed or not. “A dunk tank.” “Absolutely not,” she responded. “It’s happening in October.” “This is your problem, Wren. You can’t think outside the box. You want to bring two labels together that historically have never had anything to do with each other. You want to bring together two very different types of people.” “The kinds of people that are at my winery do not want bouncy castles. Or children running around anywhere.” “Oh, they want perfect little Stepford children just like all of you were?” Irritation twisted in her stomach. “You don’t know me. You don’t know us.” “Don’t I? You’re proving that I do. You’re all worried about appearances here, like you always have been, when this whole thing with your daddy should have taught you appearances don’t mean much of anything.” “How dare you?” She was trembling now, irritation turning to total outrage. “How dare you bring my father into this?” “It was too easy.”

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“I’ve been through enough. We’ve been through enough. I don’t need you flinging things at me about my family that I can’t control. You want to talk about living in a box… You’ve never even left here, have you?” “We both know that’s not true. A fair amount of travel is required to do this job.” “Did you even go to college?” she asked. “No,” he responded. “I was too busy working to build the family label. I guess you think attending college makes you smarter than me, but all it means is you were from a different sort of family. You see, we are not from money. Not like you. You think that makes you better, but it doesn’t. Because you know what else? My dad never sexually harassed a woman either. Unlike yours.” Raged poured through her and she fought to keep from showing just how mad he’d made her. He was doing it on purpose. He didn’t deserve the satisfac- tion of knowing he’d succeeded in getting to her. “Where is your damn wine cellar?” she asked. “I want to go look at what else you have.” “You don’t want to keep having this conversation?” “I never wanted to start having it,” she said, each word coming out in a monotone. Because if she allowed her voice to amp up, she was going to say something she would regret. Not that there was much she could say in anger

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that she would regret having spat out at Creed. It wasn’t the anger that scared her. It was everything that hummed underneath it. That it could still hum underneath when she was so infuriated with him. When he was being such a…such an unrepentant asshole. “Wine cellar’s this way,” he said. He led the way to the back of the barn, where there was a staircase that led straight down. She was reluctantly charmed by it. By the uneven rock walls that gave it the vague feel of a French country home. The thick, uneven slabs of wood that made up the staircase, making it feel old-world and resonant. She was irritated she didn’t hate it. She was irritated that he had homed in on the exact thing about herself that was bothering her at the moment. That he had managed to poke at her exact point of insecurity. All the things she had been thinking of when she had driven into town. About how there was this whole other life here—a whole other life in general—that she had never even considered living because she was a…a Stepford child. It was exactly what she had been. Going where her father had chosen for her to go, growing into exactly what he had wanted her to grow into. Taking the job he had given her. And she was still doing it all. All of the exact same things she

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had done before her father had gone away. Before he had stepped down from the company in disgrace. And it did make her wonder… What creature had she been fashioned into? And for whom? She didn’t think there was an alternative reality where she would be in favor of a bouncy castle at her event, but she truly didn’t know. She could only speculate. Everyone is a product of their circumstances. Don’t be so hard on yourself. She nearly nodded at the affirmation she gave herself. The problem was, she couldn’t agree. Be- cause she wasn’t actually ever all that hard on herself. She never made any mistakes. Not in the way that she thought of mistakes. Because she had always, without fail, done exactly what she had been charged with. By your father. And still, her father had never been effusive about his pride in her. But she had lived for that praise. Be- cause who didn’t? Who didn’t want to make their father happy? And her father was… He was a monster. All these thoughts had her feeling absolutely and completely off-kilter. And that was only serving to make her even angrier at Creed. How could she handle all of this stuff and him? And how dare he cut her so close to the bone?

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He didn’t know her. He didn’t have the right to say the things he’d said. To say things that made her feel more seen than anything anyone in her family had ever said. That was for sure. “So, the Cooper family is just all rainbows and butterflies?” she asked as they made their way through the aisles of wine. “And horseshit,” he said. “Which wine were you thinking?” “I don’t know. Pick something good.” “The array of wine upstairs is good,” he said. “That’s why I picked them.” “Something different.” She felt difficult and she didn’t care. “Rainbows and butterflies,” he reiterated. “And my dad’s not a criminal.” “And all of you work here at the family winery because you just love each other so much.” “Is that difficult for you to believe?” It wasn’t. Not really. There was a reason she was choosing to stay at the Maxfield winery, after all. A reason that went beyond just being afraid to start over, or not knowing what else she would do. Emerson was her rock, and Cricket needed her. “I’m close with my sisters,” Wren said. “I love them.” “And I love my family. You ought to love your family.” “I’m just saying. I’m not in a box. I just know

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who I am.” Those words had never felt less true. Not that she loved her family. She did love her family. It was just that right now she felt like she was wearing a Wren suit and somewhere inside was a different creature. She felt like she was inhabiting the wrong body. The wrong space. “Honestly, Wren, if you believed that, you wouldn’t be so bound and determined to try to convince me.” “You don’t know me,” she said. “You’re not my friend.” “Something we can agree on.” “You don’t get to say what I know or don’t know. You just don’t.” “Too late. I did.” “You’re such a… You’re ridiculous.” “Just take a bottle of wine so we can get on with this. I will feel a lot better dealing with you if I’m drunker.” “This isn’t exactly a picnic for me either,” she said. “You are without a doubt the most insufferable man I’ve ever known.” “You don’t like me, Wren?” he asked, taking a step toward her. “However will I survive?” “The same as you always do, I imagine,” she said. “High on an unearned sense of self-confidence and a little testosterone poisoning.” He huffed. “You like it,” he said. “I’m sorry, what?”

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“You like it. My testosterone. You’d like to be poisoned by it, admit it.” “There’s that sense of unearned self-confidence,” she said, her heart hammering steadily against her chest. “Right on time.” “It’s not unearned. I watch you. When we fight. Your face gets all flushed.” “That’s called anger.” “Why? What is it about me that makes you so damned angry?” “You… You are just…a useless, base ape.” “Base?” He asked the question with a dangerous sort of softness to his voice, and it made her tremble. “That’s what you think? That I’m like an animal who can’t control himself?” “Yes,” she spat. “I know all about you and your reputation. You get drunk at the bar, you pick up women every night of the week.” “I don’t get drunk,” he said. “That’s not me.” “Maybe that’s how you see yourself, but it’s not what I hear. I hear that you’re just a big, dumb, blunt instrument. You might go on and on about how you pulled yourself up by your bootstraps, but your daddy made all this happen. You might wear a cowboy hat, but there’s a silver spoon in your mouth the same as mine. So don’t you dare go acting like you’re better than me just because you can’t be bothered to put on an ounce of refinement. Because you don’t have the manners to leave my dad out of a con-

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versation. Just because you can’t be bothered to try to be a…a civilized human being.” “You think I’m an animal, Wren?” he asked again, his voice low and rough. “You think I don’t control my baser instincts? I have, Princess. You don’t even know. Maybe it’s time you saw what it looks like when I don’t.” And that was how she found herself being backed up against one of the stone walls in the wine cellar, six-foot-plus of angry man staring down at her, his green eyes blazing. “You want an animal?” He put his hand on her hip, and she nearly combusted. “I’ve half a mind to give you one.” Her heart was thundering so hard she felt like it might rattle the buttons clean off the front of her blouse. And if it did, it would leave her top open. And then he would be able to… She was throbbing between her thighs, her throat utterly and completely dry. This couldn’t be happening. This had to be some kind of fever dream. The kind of dream she had every other night when she had to deal with Creed. When anger turned into something much hotter, and much more naked. But it couldn’t be real. Anger couldn’t really turn into this seething, hot well of need, could it? This couldn’t really be what was beneath all of their fighting. That was… That was her being confused.

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Her having some kind of fantasy that allowed her to take control of him. That was just what she told herself whenever she had sex dreams about him. That sure, he might be hot, but she didn’t actually want to have sex with him. It was just that the idea of manipulating him with her body appealed to her subconscious, because it was always such a sparring contest in real life. And the idea that maybe her breasts could reduce him slightly was tempting. But that wasn’t real. People didn’t really do this. She didn’t really do this. You’re just trapped in a box… And suddenly, she wondered what it might be like if she did really do this. If she dared. If she returned his volley right now. If she let herself be the animal she’d accused him of being. She’d gotten to him. Really and truly. Something about her accusing him of lacking civility and control clearly irritated him. And she wanted to keep on doing it. She wanted to push him. She arched her hips forward, and her pelvis came into contact with the evidence of just what he was feeling, there in the front of his jeans. He was hard. He might be mad, but he was hard. For her. “Oh, I see,” she said. “So that’s your real problem. Pulling my pigtails on the playground because

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you like me?” She rolled her hips forward, and she nearly gasped at the sensation. She might be taunting him, but she was on the verge of overheating. Spontaneously combusting. “If you want me to lift up my skirt so you can see my panties, you should’ve just asked.” “You’re infuriating,” he bit out. “No more so than you.” “You know what, I’m tired of that smart mouth of yours. Maybe it’s time you found something else to occupy it with.” And before she could say anything else, those lips had crashed down on hers. He was kissing her, hard and deep. And he was so… Hot and strong and male. So far and beyond any man she had ever touched before. She was used to civilized men. And he might be angry that she’d called him uncivilized, but the fact remained that he was. Dangerously so. She was panting, writhing against him as he cupped the back of her head so he could take the kiss deeper. His tongue was hot and slick against hers, and the friction made a well of need open up between her thighs. She felt hollow, she felt… Like she might die if she didn’t have him. Thrusting hard and deep inside her. “You talk big,” she said against his mouth. “I hope you’ve got the equipment to back that up.” “I’ve never had any complaints, Princess.” “I’m sure I could find a few.”

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“No, baby. You’re not going to have any. Not after this.” “Are you just going to talk? Or are you going to fuck me?” She had never spoken to a man like that in her life. Had never even dreamed of saying something so raw and carnal. Because she’d never been this desperate before. And it didn’t matter. Because it was Creed Cooper, and he didn’t even like her. So it didn’t matter what he thought of her. Didn’t matter if he thought she was dirty or bad or wrong for talking to him that way. For demanding that he take her up against a wall. For fighting with him with one breath, and demanding he do something about the heat between them with the next. There were no boxes here. That was the beautiful thing. There was nothing but this. “My pleasure.” Then her shirt was torn open. Buttons scattered all over the floor, and she didn’t care. He pulled her bra down, exposing her breasts, and then those big, rough hands were cupping her tender flesh, his thumbs skimming over her nipples. She gasped, arching toward him, reveling in the way she filled his palms. She had never been like this. And suddenly, as he stripped layers of clothes off her skin, she felt like that suit had been removed along with it. That layer that had felt so foreign. So

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wrong. And even though she had never in all her life behaved like this, the situation suddenly felt more real. Suddenly felt more like who she was. Like the Wren beneath all that she had been created to be. It was her turn next. She pushed his shirt, shrugged it over his shoulders, and revealed a body that put her wildest fantasies to shame. She hadn’t known. Not really. She hadn’t even begun to guess how beautiful the man was. How much all those muscles would appeal to her. His chest hair, the scar on his side. Ev- erything that made him a rough, uncultured-looking man, the likes of which she had never had before. And everything after that became a blur. A fumble born out of desperation. She worked at his jeans while he pushed her skirt up over her hips, hooking his finger around the elastic on her underwear and shoving it to the side while she freed his cock. It was big and thick, gorgeous. And she had never particularly thought that part of the male anatomy was gorgeous before, but that was the only word for it. A thing of actual beauty. She was far too happy for herself to be annoyed with him that his outrageous ego was not in fact misplaced. He had earned the right to be full of himself. And all she wanted was to be full of him, too. “Please,” she whispered against his mouth. “That’s the first time you’ve ever asked me nicely for anything,” he growled, pressing the head of his

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arousal to the entrance of her body, teasing her, teasing them both. She’d never been so wet so fast in her life. So ready. She had never craved penetration like this before. She had never craved another person like this before. She had never thought much about her sex drive, because it had never really felt like a drive. She had thought of it as something like a sweet tooth. Some- thing people had to varying degrees, and sure, sometimes a piece of cake would be nice. But she just wasn’t one of those people who obsessively craved sugar, or sex. This felt like a drive. An urge. Something that came from deep inside her that she couldn’t control or minimize. This was something like insanity. “Did you still want that fuck, sweetheart?” His voice was a growl, feral and compelling. “Yes,” she said. “Please yes.” And then he was inside her. He was so big that it stretched at first. Hurt a little bit. But in the best way. Every time he drew away and then thrust back into her body, he did so with a growl. And she clung to him, the hard drive of him deep inside her everything she had fantasized about and more. She had not truly known that it could be like this. She had thought that people made up stories. She had thought for sure that…

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Well, when her sister had lost her mind over Holden, Wren had judged her. But she hadn’t known it could be like this. Raw and terrifying. Wonderful. Electric. There had been no more denying this than there was denying herself air. It seemed to make perfect sense now. This thing that had mystified her only a moment before. This anger turned need that rocked everything she was. Of course, this was right next to the anger that was always threatening to combust between them. Of course, this was the other side of all that need. Of course. How had she ever thought it was anything else? He whispered things in her ear. Dirty things. Shocking things. But he called her beautiful. And he kissed the side of her neck, and it made her feel like she might break apart. She didn’t know why. And then suddenly, everything came to a head, and she couldn’t breathe. All she could do was cling to him, to keep herself from collapsing onto the ground, to keep herself from flying into a million pieces. She dug her fingernails into his shoulder and cried out as pleasure took over. He wasn’t far behind. On a growl, he found his own release, his body pulsing inside her. And when it was over, they both collapsed there against the wall, sweaty and breathing hard. “This wine,” he said, reaching around her. “This

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will do.” He grabbed the bottle, then bent and picked his shirt up from off the floor. He righted his clothes disturbingly fast, and then left her standing there. She tucked her blouse as firmly into her skirt as she could, crossing the bottom ends and getting the thing to more or less cover her breasts. And then she just stood there for a moment, shell-shocked. She’d just had sex with Creed Cooper against the wall. And he had walked away like they hadn’t missed a beat between talking about wine and screwing each other senseless. She pushed the skirt down over her hips. If it wasn’t for the intense throbbing between her legs… If it wasn’t for that, she would have thought she had hallucinated it all. Because how… How had that just happened? She grabbed another bottle of wine, not even reading the label, and walked back upstairs. He was in position, his face like absolute granite. “Want to finish tasting?” “Are you… Did you hit your head down there?” she asked. “Where?” “Why are you acting like we didn’t just have sex?” “It’s done,” he said. There was something bleak in his green eyes, and it disturbed her. She was a woman. Wasn’t she the one who was supposed to freak out about this

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kind of thing? She wasn’t particularly worried about how many partners she’d had, but it was one of those things other women often seemed to worry about. But he was the one who looked…well, vaguely ashamed. “It’s just that…” Those green eyes were hard as emeralds now. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” “Why not?” “It’s not going to happen again.” Well, on that they could agree. Because there was no way—absolutely no way—that she would ever do anything like that with him again. It had been stupid to do it the first time. Even though it had felt amazing. She wanted to tell him that. She wanted to cling to him, for just a little while longer. To make him hold her up, because her knees still felt weak. To tell him it was the best sex she’d ever had, and she didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that the man who could make her body do things she hadn’t known it could do was the one man she had decided she hated more than any other. She wanted to ask him why that was, because he had taken pleasure with her, too, so maybe he could understand it. He’d certainly had more partners than she had. Had more experience overall. So surely he should be able to… And she realized she was being a ridiculous

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stereotype. A woman who was putting emotions into something that had been purely physical. She had been caught up in that moment. In being outside herself. Well, she had done something out of character. And that was that. There was no going back. But there was also no need to continue on with it now. He was still Creed. She was still Wren. She didn’t like him any more now that she’d seen him naked than she had before. Well. That wasn’t true. The man had given her the most insane orgasm of her life. It would be impossible not to like him slightly more now than she had before. “I trust you to make your selections,” she said. She felt numb and shaky. And maybe he had a point that the two of them should act like nothing had happened, but she couldn’t do it while in the same room as him. “I’ll just leave you to it.” “You’re leaving?” “Yes,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.” It wasn’t until she got back in her car, and was safely back on the road, that she started shaking. She had lived out some kind of fantasy she hadn’t even fully realized she’d had. She’d had sex with her enemy up against the wall. She didn’t intend to have a relationship with him. They couldn’t. They

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couldn’t even be in the same room without biting each other’s head off. She didn’t like him. He didn’t like her. It had been just… Just to feel good. And then, in spite of the shaking, in spite of the nerves riding through her body, she felt a smile curve her lips. Maybe what she’d done had been out of character. But it had been her choice. And she had liked it. She had liked it a lot. And what was wrong with that? What was wrong with doing something wild? She hadn’t hurt anybody, not like her dad. And she hadn’t done it for anyone else. She had done it for her. She had done it because she hadn’t been able to make any other choice. Because she had wanted it so damn much. That was a Wren choice. The real Wren. The Wren who lived somewhere deep inside her. Who didn’t just do things for approval, or because it was easy. Because it was the next step on the path. She couldn’t help but be proud of herself for that. And she couldn’t be ashamed of it either. For the first time in her life, Wren Maxfield had done something truly spontaneous. And she was just going to enjoy it.

Want to know what happens next? Order Claiming the Rancher's Heir by Maisey Yates, available November 10, wherever books are sold!

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