Vision of Darkness
Author: Tonya Burrows
Date: 2014-11-07 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Romance; Romantic Suspense; Suspense; Mystery; Adult; Contemporary Romance; Fantasy; Paranormal Romance; Contemporary
Description: A beacon of light... Undercover DEA agent Alex Brennan doesn’t believe in the paranormal, despite the exhausting nightmares that reveal things he shouldn’t know. When sleep deprivation causes him to make a horrible mistake on the job, he is driven to find answers. Dreams guide him to a lighthouse in Three Churches, Maine, where he finds an inexplicable and comforting familiarity in the arms of the lighthouse’s beautiful keeper, Pru Maddox. A whisper of memory… Deadly misfortune has long plagued Pru’s family, the result of a curse “The Green Lady” placed on the lighthouse. Skeptical, Alex searc

PROLOGUE

Ever since John “Cappy” Putnam’s doc handed down the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, he’d spent the better part of the past year waiting to die. The grim reaper had his number and he was next in line, though this wasn’t exactly how he imagined it would happen. Cappy figured his arthritic legs would give out as he walked down the stairs and he’d take a nasty tumble. Or his old heart would just stop pumping in his sleep and he’d go quietly into that dark night. Or maybe his brain, rotting away in his skull, would forget to tell his tar-coated lungs to breathe.

Never figured on being murdered.

But he kind of liked the idea. Blaze-of-glory and all that.

Just too damn bad nobody in town would listen to him before it happened.

The porch’s weathered floorboards creaked as Cappy settled into his old rocker and laid a rifle across his lap, a Winchester given to him by his father when he was a boy. He had planned to pass it down to his two boys when they came of age, but John Jr. showed no interest in hunting and Wade, bless him, was too damn slow to be trusted with a butter knife, not to mention a rifle. So here sat the old gun, waiting with him. Come to think of it, it was a perfect ending for them both.

He scratched a match on the side of his chair. The flame hissed and flickered across a face that he knew had never been handsome and that had only gotten uglier with age. His final cigar fired to life between his lips and he puffed on it until the end smoldered and sweet smelling smoke curled into the night air. His sons had been afraid the cigars would end him. Oh, if only they knew how wrong they were.

Wouldn’t be long now.

Cappy inhaled, sighed, and fell into the comfortable habit of smoking as if he had never quit. Guilt nipped for breaking his promise to his boys but—well, hell, a man had the right to enjoy one last victory dance.

Death was coming, surrounding him. One if by land and two if by sea. He smirked at that thought.

Soon footsteps would pound up the wood stairs beside the lighthouse, coming up from the beach. Soon they’d ghost around the edge of his yard, slipping ever closer, but he refused to run. He may be old, his joints may be rusted, and yes, perhaps he had lost a few marbles over the years like everyone in town claimed, but he’d be damned before he let them silence him without putting up a fight.

Oh, he’d miss the keeper’s dwelling, the lighthouse, and the Green Lady, his constant and malicious ghost. Imagined she was off somewhere dancing a happy jig to know she’d soon be rid of him. He could see her almost, up on the lighthouse catwalk, dancing. The night had gone mute, too late in the year for crickets, too chilly for other nocturnal creatures to scurry far from their homes, and her laughter whispered over the grounds. The trouble she’d cause once he died—

Well, not much he could do about it now.

A pair of headlights punctured the blanket of night at the bottom of the hill, pinpricks at first. Ah, so they’d chosen to arrive by car instead. Should have figured on that.

Cappy scratched at his beard, continued to rock back and forth, back and forth. His old heart stayed calm, gnarled hands steady on the Winchester. Going down with the ship was every captain’s dream. His vessel was a land-bound lighthouse, but that made him no less proud to be going down with her tonight.

He smiled and jabbed the cigar into his mouth. Headlights played over the porch. Two vehicles. He pushed his creaky joints to stand and readied the rifle. The crew had finally come for him. Be damned if he met his fate sitting down.

CHAPTER 1

A YEAR LATER

Alex Brennan stopped his car for what appeared to be the only traffic light in the tiny town of—wherever the hell he was. He squinted through the windshield at the ornate blue and white sign posted at the edge of the road.

Welcome to Three Churches, Maine.

Huh. So there was something out here in the middle of BFE, Maine after all. Not much, but something. He’d started to wonder if he’d driven to the ends of the earth as the coastal highway twisted around insane curves and hugged the edges of wild cliffs that plunged into oceanic oblivion. Apparently, he hadn’t gone that far yet.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in tune to The Rolling Stones and studied the epitome of Main Street, U.S.A. with its iron lampposts and flower baskets that probably rioted with color in the spring. Laughing cardboard skeletons decorated the mom-n-pop storefronts. Town workers strung an orange and black banner across the intersection that promoted a haunted hayride attraction on Milbridge Road opening Friday.

The song on the radio segued into Bob Seger, and the traffic light remained red.

Seriously?

Alex leaned forward, looked both ways. The only visible vehicles sat in parking slots in front of the cinder-block diner to his immediate right. Jack-o-lanterns grinned at passersby from the diner’s front window and an orange hand-painted sign proclaimed they had the best pumpkin pie in the county.

His stomach grumbled. The light at the intersection continued to glow red.

Okay. He could take a hint.

He hit the signal and guided his Lexus into an empty space in front of the diner, marked with plain lettering over the front door as Mae’s.

No parking meters, he noticed even as he reached for the spare change he kept in the ashtray. He shook his head, let the change drop.

What kind of creepy Stepford Wives place didn’t have parking meters?

His cell phone trilled as he shut off the car. He dug it out of his coat pocket and checked the screen: Theo. Definitely not what he needed right now. With a sigh, he silenced his brother’s call and returned the cell to his pocket.

Alex slid from the close confines of his car and breathed deep, enjoying the bite of fall as he shook out his cramped legs. The air had a clean crispness here that it lacked in the city. One thing this rinky-dink town had going for it, he supposed. It smelled like a holiday candle, leaves and pine and freshly baked pumpkin pie that beckoned him into the diner.

He stepped through the doors into a blast of warm air and hearty conversation. Dishware clinked, people laughed, and a group of men groaned, drawing his gaze to the TV on the wall behind the counter. The Patriots had just fumbled the ball. From the frustrated looks on the men’s faces, it was nothing new. Had the Pats been doing that badly? Alex had no clue and he—

Jesus, he liked football.

Wow. He rubbed his unshaved jaw, walloped by the realization of something he should have known without a second thought. He’d been tied up with the O’Shaughnessy case for too long. Alex Locke, his alter ego, the thug he’d been living as for the past two years, enjoyed cars and drugs and women more than sports. Alex Brennan, his real self, liked chilling with a bottle of beer and a group of close friends in front of the Sunday afternoon game.

How could he forget that about himself?

Alex considered sitting near the TV, but then he might have to make small talk. He chose a stool at the end of the yellow counter beside a glass case that displayed the diner’s baked goods. He grabbed up a plastic coated menu from between a set of salt and pepper grinders and a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor.

Missing poster. It looked old, its corners crinkled, the white paper stained from so many greasy fingers. Alex spread it out on the counter, studied the description and faded color photo.

Lila VanBuran.

Sixteen years old, missing from Bar Harbor since August twenty-ninth of last year. Five-five, one-twenty, baby blues, blonde hair streaked liberally with black highlights, a tattoo of a bird across her lower back, navel and nose rings.

Runaway, he guessed. He’d seen many posters just like this one in the city. Pampered girls that thought they had it rough at home and decided to take off. Usually discovered home wasn’t so bad and returned within a couple days, weeks at most. The ones that didn’t…

Well. Nothing good happened to them, that was for sure.

This girl looked like trouble. Even so young, she had the body of a porn star and dressed to showcase it in a tight, low-cut tank and tiny shorts. She gazed at the camera with sex in her kohl-lined eyes, one hip jutting in a come-hither sort of way. Cocky. Insolent. Much like he, himself, had been as a teenager before the military jaded him.

Alex wondered if they ever found her and, before his eyes, Lila VanBuran’s face began to melt off the page, wax-like, dripping onto his hand in fleshy globs.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

One pretty blue eye drooped like a stroke victim’s, and then the other, and then her bow of a mouth wilted as her skin slithered off a grinning white skull—

No.

He dropped the poster and pressed his fingers into his eyes. He did not see that. It was nothing but his exhausted, highway-hypnotized mind playing tricks.

Get a grip, man.

He took a breath, grabbed the menu and perused the selections, careful not to look at the poster again. Just tired and hungry, that’s all. He needed calories, something fried and swimming in gravy. Country fried steak looked good. Potatoes, mashed. Side of corn on the cob and of course a slice of the purportedly famous pumpkin pie. Maybe two. If he couldn’t eat them both, he’d take a slice for the road. This joint had decent prices, so even if he did eat both slices now, he could still—

“Emma, did you hear? There was another accident up at the lighthouse.”

Distracted from the menu, Alex looked toward the furtive voice and saw two women chatting in the booth nearest his seat. He couldn’t say what it was about them that caught his attention, whether it was the dark tone their conversation seemed to have taken or something else, but he tuned in. People flung gossip around so carelessly that it often proved to be the best source of information.

Not that you’re here to gather information, his inner cynic reminded. He was on leave from the DEA. A “vacation” as his boss had called it, though they both knew otherwise.

The woman who had spoken wore a floral print coat that resembled upholstery. She dropped two cubes of sugar into her coffee cup then leaned over the table toward her companion, Emma, a fine-boned fidgety woman, and lowered her voice. “One of those poor workers up there chopped his hand clear off.”

“No!” Emma said, wide-eyed.

“Um-hm. My girl Betsy treated him at the clinic herself before they flew him out to Portland.”

“Horrible. Just horrible. All those accidents up there…” Emma tsked and shook her head.

“Like with nutty ol’ Cappy Putnam last year,” Flower Coat said, shaking her spoon before dipping it into her mug to stir her coffee. “I’m still not convinced he killed himself. How could he have hanged himself from the tower when he was so full of arthritis he could barely walk?”

“It’s a shame. He was such a good man before he started getting sick.” Emma shivered. “Oh, let’s not talk of it anymore. Speaking of arthritis, how’s Henry been doing?”

“He has his days…”

Alex tuned them out as one of the men watching the football game whooped and drew his attention. The man elbowed through his friends to get to the counter, and they let him without complaint.

Ah, the big fish in this small pond.

In other words, inner cynic chimed in again, an asshole.

The guy was a tall blond and packing some heat—Alex saw the telltale bulge of a piece under his half-zipped plaid coat—but he couldn’t be military or cop. Anyone with formal handgun training knew to keep their weapon easily accessible. If there ever came an occasion for Big Fish to use that gun, he’d be a goner before he got his coat unzipped.

“Are you all right?” As the new voice spoke, a shadow fell over Alex’s menu and he tensed in an automatic, trained reaction that had him ready to spring off his stool into battle.

Relax.

He drew a breath, let it out, and forced his muscles to loosen. An effort. In his experience, unexpected shadows were never a good thing.

“Uh, hello? Are you all right?” the voice asked again and a hand waved in front of his face.

“Yeah, I—” He looked up at the dark-haired waitress standing on the other side of the counter, ready to give the first lame excuse that popped to mind—he wasn’t about to say he was probably a traumatized, emotional wreck on the verge of hysteria—but lost his train of thought when she smiled. She was medium height with a pear-shaped body that strained her polo shirt and jeans in all the right places and brought to mind twisted, sex-soaked sheets. She had her hair tucked under a ball cap, but from the wisps falling out around her face, he could tell the color was so dark it verged on black.

Pretty. Even his inner cynic, that snide voice always in the back of his mind making him doubt himself, thought so. He almost smiled, felt it quirking the side of his mouth. So rarely did they agree on anything. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Her bright blue gaze said she doubted that, but her smile never wavered. “You look like you could use some coffee.”

With that voice, like a velvet caress, she was just the right mix of sweet and sultry. Now all she had to do was grab him by the shirt and drag him over the counter for a romp in the kitchen and every fantasy he’d ever had as a teenager would be fulfilled.

“So, what about it?” she said and held up a coffee pot. “You want some?”

The jolt of lust was immediate and mildly embarrassing since it caused his breath to catch.

Coffee, Al. She’s talking about coffee.

Trying for nonchalance, he turned over the mug sitting upside-down on a saucer in front of him. Still, as she poured the coffee, he couldn’t help but let his gaze drop to her chest on the pretense of reading her nametag. Nice.

“Thanks … Pru.” He raised the mug in a salute then took a sip. Hot and strong. As the coffee hit his tongue, he could already feel the caffeine zinging into his bloodstream and sighed. “I do need this.”

“Been on the road a while, huh?”

He thought about it. Ten, twelve hours? Yeah, seemed about right.

“I can always tell the weary travelers from everyone else,” Pru said. “Mostly because I know everyone else.” She set the coffee pot aside and smiled at him again.

Alex felt a stirring in his gut, the warm, heavy sensation of arousal, his libido waking up from the slumber Trisha had put it in. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at his ex-lover and wanted her like he now wanted this waitress he just met. Come to think of it, had he ever? Trisha was just another part of his life undercover, a convenient blonde bimbo to help solidify his identity in the minds of the criminal underworld.

“So where are you headed?” Pru asked.

Hah. Good question. His only goal had been to get out of the city when he packed up a bag and his camp gear yesterday and started driving. He’d originally headed west with the vague notion of driving out to Montana to visit Nick, his best friend, but he’d gotten as far as Albany, New York and had an inexplicable urge to go north. So he’d traveled up through the Adirondacks to Burlington, cut across Vermont into Maine, rambled through Bangor heading toward Bar Harbor, then hooked north again on US-1. Even after driving all over the half acre of hell known as New England, he still had no clue where he was going.

How was it possible to know right where you were on a map, yet still feel lost?

“Just passing through.” Wanting a distraction, he tapped the missing poster still laid out on the counter. “Did anyone ever find her?”

Pru did a double-take. “Wow, that’s old. Where did you find that?”

“Stuffed between the pages of the menu.”

“That explains it. Nobody around here uses the menus much.”

“So they found her?” Alex asked, surprised by the flutter of hope in his chest. He needed to hear some good news. He wanted to hear that this corner of the world was as innocent as it looked.

Yeah right, inner cynic scoffed. The bastard was speaking up a lot today, but he had a point. Innocence was a ruse. The hand of evil had long, bony fingers and nothing and no one went completely untouched. Not even this serene little town.

“No, I don’t think they ever did. Her parents even offered a reward.” Pru looked at the two women in the booth, who had stopped talking and now watched them with rapt interest. She sighed, part annoyance, part resignation. “In case you haven’t noticed already, gossip is like air around here. The general consensus was that she ran away from home and didn’t want to be found.”

At the end of the counter, Big Fish called Pru’s name, but she ignored him and took a pad and pen from the pocket of her apron. She scribbled with the pen, muttered a soft oath, and touched her tongue to the tip in a way that made Alex go instantly hard.

Christ, that gesture should be illegal. He tried to shift to a more comfortable, discreet position on the stool. Pru scribbled again and, satisfied her pen would work, sent him another bright smile.

“Okay, Boston, you want something to eat with that coffee? We have the best pumpkin pie for miles.”

Alex prayed the counter had enough of an overhang that she wouldn’t see how much her gesture had affected him. “Yeah, uh, I’ll start off with a piece. When I saw the sign out front, I couldn’t ignore it. Pie’s my weakness.” And, apparently, so were dark-haired, blue-eyed waitresses.

“You’re in for a treat then.”

She bent over to remove a pie from the glass case. Her ass was round and lush, made for a man’s hands to grab, and he noticed he wasn’t the only male at the counter looking at it. A surge of protectiveness washed through his blood.

Jesus, he really had to get a grip. She wasn’t his to protect.

“How’d you know I’m from Boston?” He watched her slice the pie with quick, efficient movements and then slide one piece onto a plate.

“The accent,” she said and set the plate in front of him.

“I don’t have an accent. Everyone else does.”

“Classic Boston response.” She laughed and it had to be one of the best sounds he’d heard in a while. He grinned like a fool as she pointed the spatula at his nose. “But even if I hadn’t heard you talk, I could still tell. I lived there for a while during college. All you Boston guys have this air of cockiness about you, like you’re God’s gift to womankind or something.”

He shrugged, picked up his fork and dug in. “You know what they say. Once you go Boston, that’s what you be wantin’.”

“Oh, boy. That was corny.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t my best line,” he admitted, pleased that he had made her laugh again. “I’m Alex, by the way.”

A male hand shot between them and settled on her arm before she could shake the hand he offered. Alex looked at it, not comprehending where it had come from. For a while, everyone else had faded into the background, leaving him and Pru as the only two people left in the diner.

She shrugged off the man’s hand. “Rhett, relax. I’ll get you guys your beers in just a minute.”

Alex turned on his stool to study Rhett—Big Fish—and felt a distinct threat of violence from the other man. He bit back a groan. Dammit, of course a woman like Pru would be taken. As much as he liked her, he wasn’t interested in starting any domestic disputes, so he smiled as amiably as he could at the other man.

“Good pie.”

“Yeah, it is,” Rhett said, eyeing him up and down. Then he turned away like a prince dismissing a peasant. “Pru, the beers? Now.”

Every protective instinct in Alex roared with outrage as she rolled her eyes and walked toward the refrigeration unit. He didn’t care who she was, a waitress or a princess, Madonna or whore, a woman should never have to put up with that kind of treatment from a man. He wanted to say something. Oh, how he wanted to say something and bit hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a remark that would start a brawl. Rhett and his buddies at the other end of the counter had obviously been drinking for a while. One wrong word, they might explode. While Alex was sure he could take each of them separately, they had him outnumbered eight to one. Bad odds even if all eight were sloppy drunk.

Besides, Pru wasn’t his to protect.

He flagged down the other waitress—her nametag read Miranda—and asked for a to-go box. He’d find somewhere else to stop for a bigger dinner, but until then the pie should tie him over.

For a half second, he considered leaving his cell phone number with Pru’s tip, but that was probably just as suicidal as going up against Rhett and company in a fight. He didn’t need that kind of trouble. He had to relax, get his head on straight and figure out a way to talk the powers-that-be into letting him keep his job. He didn’t need to get tangled up with any woman right now.

Even as the thought went through his head, he glanced back at her through the diner’s window.

CHAPTER 2

Pru Maddox watched from the prep area of the kitchen as Alex left, something inside her twisting at the thought of never seeing him again. She slammed his dirty dish on the counter with a thunk.

“God! Rhett is a jackass, you know that?”

“And you’re just now discovering this?” Miranda shouldered through the door with a basin of dirty dishes tucked under her arm and a plate of uneaten food in her hand. “Jones,” she called to the cook, “we need another chicken sandwich and for the love of all that is holy, do something about your hair. If I lose one more tip because a costumer finds hair in their food, you can bet I’m gonna be in here with a razor.”

Back by the grill, Jones grunted in reply. Pru glanced over her shoulder at him and grimaced. The blond beard that hid half his face was extra fluffy today and his hair hung in greasy hanks over his eyes. He was an amazing cook, but if his hygiene and attendance didn’t improve, she’d have to find another. “Jones, please put on a hairnet.”

He grunted again but grabbed a hairnet from the box on the prep counter, snapped it on his head, and shuffled back to the grill.

Miranda sent him a narrowed-eyed scowl, dumped the rejected sandwich in the garbage and the dishes into the sink. With a sigh, she leaned against the counter. “What a day. You know what? I can’t wait for winter. No baseball games, no football.”

“Hockey,” Pru suggested.

“Ugh! Someone should tell them this is a diner, not a bar.” She rolled the kinks out of her neck, and then yanked the band from her slipping ponytail. Straight blonde hair tumbled down, brushing her shoulders without a flyaway or even a kink.

Pru scowled at her. “I hate when you do that.” She could never pull out her ponytail and have her wavy locks look like they were just styled. After a couple hours of work, she usually had to throw on her ball cap to keep her mane under control.

“What can I say?” Miranda grinned, flipped her head upside-down and gathered her hair into another tail. “I was blessed in the hair department. But you got the body.” She snapped the band back into place and straightened. “So Rhett scared Mr. Boston away, huh? He probably wasn’t worth it then. If he was really interested, he would’ve fought for you.”

“Miranda! Jeez, it wasn’t like that. He’s just a nice guy passing through. I don’t blame him for backing off when Rhett started pulling his macho bullshit. The man is ridiculous. Like a rooster strutting around the henhouse.”

“And he’s not even all that good in bed.”

Pru stared at her best friend, jaw hanging open. “You’ve slept with Rhett Swithin?”

“Oops.” She bit down on her lower lip and glanced around to be sure nobody else was in earshot. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Yes. And I can’t believe it. You never told me that.”

“It’s just a … thing that started after you left for school and got engaged. He was heartbroken; I was horny. These things just happen.”

“An ongoing thing?”

Miranda turned away and started running water over the dirty dishes. “Uh… maybe sometimes. It’s no big deal.”

Pru laughed and looped an arm over her shoulders. “Oh, honey, you can do so much better.”

“I know, right?” She plunged her hands into the soapy water. “I’m a slave to my hormones. You have to admit, the man’s hot. Not as hot as Boston…”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Whatever. Rhett went on his macho trip because you and Boston were shooting sparks off each other like a Fourth of July show.” She flung her hands out and soap bubbles flew. “And he left you a ten dollar tip for a slice of pie. I wonder if he still would’ve done that had he known you’re rich.”

Pru shook her head. “I’m not rich.”

“You had enough to buy and start restoring that creepy, old lighthouse.”

Jones hit the little silver bell indicating an order was up, and Pru walked over to the serving window to retrieve the chicken sandwich. “Yes, but it was Dad’s money and it’s what he would’ve wanted.”

“I don’t know how you can live up there.” Miranda gave a dramatic shudder. “All the ghost stories and then Cappy Putnam hanging himself from the tower last year… Ugh. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”

Pru shrugged and headed toward the door with the order. “I do hear footsteps sometimes, but I figure The Green Lady was there first. It was her home before it was mine.”

“Still, a ghost as a roommate? No thanks. I’ll take my dumpy trailer over a haunted lighthouse any day. That’s going to table six, by the way.”

Pru took the order out, placed two more, and cleared off all the booths along the back wall before the lunch rush began to calm and she could take her break. She grabbed a sandwich from the kitchen and decided on a stroll down Main Street to get the smell of fried fish out of her nose.

She found a spot to sit on a bench by the little brick building that served as town hall. At the intersection, Mrs. Helen Mallory, the mayor’s wife and town events planner, stood in the middle of the street directing her poor son, Kevin, to raise one side of the Halloween banner, only to have Josiah Wilson lower the other. Traffic was at a standstill, but Helen paid no attention to the flashy Lexus that hadn’t known enough to take a side road. She crossed her arms over her ample chest.

“Kevin, it’s too high now! It’s all crooked. Do I need to come up there and do it myself? It needs to go lower!” She whirled around as Josiah snickered. “Don’t you laugh at him, Josiah Wilson. Your side’s too tight. I want it to flow.” She swayed her hands whimsically to demonstrate.

Josiah groaned, sent Pru an exaggerated eye roll, but climbed back up the ladder to loosen the rope. Nobody dared disobey the formidable Mrs. Helen Mallory.

Pru hid her smile behind a bite of her sandwich. Home. Just what she needed after the horror show her life had turned into this past year. Why had she ever believed there was anywhere better than home?

She wondered what Alex had seen when he’d drove into her town. If he didn’t get out of the city much, he had to be a bit culture shocked. Her first trip to a big city as a teenager fresh out of high school had left her feeling both alive and strangely claustrophobic. Would the aspens, pines, and mountain ashes close in on him as the skyscrapers had her? Or would he see the quiet beauty that she saw in the trees and ragged cliffs? She hoped he saw the beauty. He looked like a man in need of something beautiful in his life. His smile hadn’t come at all easily and when it did, it never reached his broody eyes.

Pru scoffed at herself even as she pictured him again. The faded jeans, the brown leather bomber jacket, the sunglasses shoved back on his head. As Miranda had put it, he was hot—if you went for the devil-may-care type and Pru didn’t. Or at least, not usually, but thinking about him now brought a warm flush to her skin.

A day’s worth of stubble shaded his square jaw. His coffee colored hair hinted of red highlights—natural, she’d guess since he didn’t strike her as a metrosexual manscaper type who highlighted his hair—and the cut was short and neat. His body… Oh, yum. All long and lean with toned legs that looked chiseled out of stone under the denim of his jeans. He probably looked damn good in just his shorts. Or in nothing at all.

“Stop,” she told herself. Not going to go there.

Tourists were off-limits when it came to naked fantasies. The last thing she needed on her plate was another broken heart with a side of guilt, and Alex had all the right ingredients for a serving. Good thing she’d never see him again.

But…then why did it feel so wrong?

Pru didn’t dare analyze that question, even in her own thoughts. Appetite gone, she folded what was left of her sandwich into a napkin. She stood with every intention of returning to the diner, when a raised voice drew her attention to Helen and company on the road. Her heart bumped once with shock, then skittered around in her chest. Alex stood beside an idling Lexus looking fatigued and pained as Helen shook her finger at him.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Lookit, ma’am, I just want to get by. I’ve been on the road all day and I’m tired.”

“You city people,” Helen chided. “Always rush, rush, rush. The road’s not going anywhere.” She turned and studied the banner with her hands on her hips. “These decorations are important to this town, young man. Pumpkinfest is a to-do around here and they have to be perfect.”

“It’ll be Halloween before you get them up,” he muttered and rubbed a hand over the lower half of his face.

Pru saw the lecture brewing on Helen’s pursed lips and decided to take pity on him. She walked over. The subtle straightening in his posture when he spotted her made her grin. He was obviously exhausted, but still trying to be a macho man. She wished she could read his eyes through the lens of those dark sunglasses.

“Mrs. Mallory?” Pru positioned herself between him and Helen and infused her voice with excitement. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I just had to come over and tell you the decorations look amazing. I especially like the lighted pumpkins on the lampposts. Are those new this year?”

Helen beamed. “As a matter of fact. Richard didn’t want to spend the extra money, but I talked him into it.”

“You can assure Mayor Mallory it was well spent.”

“Thank you.” She fluffed her hair then brushed imaginary lint off the lapel of her powder blue jacket.

A moment of silence trickled by.

“Well,” Helen said in an exaggerated, polite tone, “I have things to do. Can’t stand around chatting all day. You”—she jabbed a lethal fingernail at Alex’s nose—“need to learn some manners.”

Alex let out an explosive breath as Helen trotted off. “Oh, man. I could kiss you for that.”

Please do. Heat exploded on Pru’s cheeks and she saw the blush reflect in the lens of his shades. She looked away, focused on Josiah and Kevin, now struggling to hoist one of the lighted pumpkins up a nearby lamppost. “You just have to know how to handle her.”

“Still…” He hooked a finger under her chin and brought her gaze back to his. He’d shoved his sunglasses onto the top of his head. “Thanks.”

“I—” With those eyes on her, how could any woman expect to breathe? “You’re welcome.”

There was something…familiar…about him and her heart ached with a longing she couldn’t comprehend. Sure, she’d been lonely since her divorce, but that couldn’t possibly account for such a visceral reaction to him. She rubbed her temple, closed her eyes and drew in a calming breath to ease away the feeling. What she really wanted was to stand on her toes and taste the hard line of his mouth—even imagined herself grabbing two fistfuls of his hair and yanking his lips to hers, which was a perfectly ridiculous thing to want. She didn’t know him and wasn’t in the habit of kissing men she didn’t know. In fact, since her divorce, she had not been in the habit of kissing any men, period. But staring at Alex, at the solid line of his shaded jaw and narrowed eyes, she wished for just one second she could be as reckless as Miranda.

Alex appeared just as surprised by the contact of his fingers on her chin as she was. He dropped his hand, backed up a step, and she watched a shutter slam down over his face. His expression became all hard, suspicious lines again—same as when he first entered the diner before she coaxed a smile out of him. The bizarre intimacy dissipated like the last tendrils of fog under morning sun and the longing in her chest vanished. She mourned it almost as much as she was relieved it had passed.

They were strangers again.

Alex rubbed a hand around the back of his neck and glanced away, but not fast enough to hide the dazed expression in his eyes. “Uh, I need to get going.”

“Of course.” Her voice came out breathless. She wanted to fidget. Instead, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat and concentrated on Kevin and Josiah as they continued to struggle with the heavy decoration. “Have a safe trip.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He stared at her for a second too long then replaced his sunglasses. He walked toward his car, but stopped short of it. He shook his head and turned back. “Pru, listen, I know we just met—”

Overhead, Kevin lost his grip on the grinning pumpkin. The decoration ripped out of Josiah’s grasp and smashed to the sidewalk nearly on top of Alex, its colored bulbs bursting into orange and black shrapnel. Pru swallowed a cry as Alex dove behind his car.

“Oh, God. Oh, shit.” Kevin scrambled from the ladder and over to where Alex was laying on his back by the front tire of his car. “Oh, God. Oh, shit.”

“Kevin!” Helen’s high-heels crunched over the scattered bits of colored plastic as she hurried over. She frowned at the broken pumpkin, then over at Kevin. “What did you do?”

“I-I don’t know. I’m sorry, Mom. One minute I had it and the next….” He trailed off and his hangdog face went green. “We should call the ambulance. He’s bleeding. He’s not moving. Oh God.”

“No.” Alex finally stirred. He sat up and wiped a hand down his face, smearing the blood that bubbled from a little cut over his eyebrow. “No, it’s all right. It’s a scrape. I’m fine.”

Alex climbed to his feet, using the car to steady himself. His eyes locked on Pru and concern flashed in their gray depths. He angled between Helen and Kevin.

“Pru, are you okay?” Alex asked. “You’re white as hell. Here, sit down.”

For a moment, it had been like watching a movie with the comfortable distance of a screen between her and the action. She snapped back at the sound of his voice. Her insides screamed with terror, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the fear of what could have happened. In her mind’s eye, she saw Alex still lying on the pavement, unmoving in a pool of spreading blood. A slice of glass had severed an artery and there was no saving him. Blood everywhere, just like in Portland when her life fell apart and two others brutally ended.

Then his warm fingers brushed her cool cheek. She blinked and his face came into focus. He wasn’t dead, but he was bleeding, a little trickle down the side of his head. The lens of his shades had popped out when he had landed and nicked his eyebrow. It was a tiny cut, barely worthy of a Band-Aid, but it made her stomach roll over in panic.

“Pru,” he said and cupped her face in his strong hands. “Hey, it’s all right. C’mon, sit down.”

She jerked away from his gentle prodding. She had to get as far away from him as she could. Too dangerous for him. She was cursed. Frantic, she held up her hands as if to ward off an attack.

“You need to go.” Tears swam close to the surface and she blinked hard to hem them in. “Please.” The word came out more desperate sounding that she would have liked. She firmed her lips and forced herself to meet his confused gaze. “You need to go. I can’t see you again.”

“Pru, wait—”

She shook off the hand he laid on her arm and—maybe it made her a coward; she’d think later that it did—but she ran away.

CHAPTER 3

“What’s up with your home phone?” Nick Gray Wolf, one of the few people Alex counted as a close friend, said when Alex found his ringing cell phone inside his tent and lifted it to his ear. “The line’s no longer in service.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry about that.” Alex crawled out of the tent and wind slapped at him with a cold hand. This grassy knoll right beside the beach was probably not the best place to set up camp for the night. In fact, it probably would have been smarter all around to find a cozy B&B in town or even keep right on driving, but he had to conserve his money and he’d felt strangely compelled to stay right here, in this spot, in this town. He liked the solitude. The ocean churned below him, restless gray and white surges that pummeled the rocky beach without mercy.

“You decide to get rid of the landline?” Nick asked.

“No. I…needed time away to do some thinking and didn’t know when I’d be back, so I had the phone company shut it off.”

“Thinkin’ was never your strong suit, Range,” Nick drawled.

Hearing the nickname his military buddies had given him made something twist nostalgically near Alex’s heart. He missed Nick, who had been spotter to his sniper, and could picture the Sioux man relaxed on the front porch of his Montana ranch, staring out over the horse paddocks to the white-tipped mountains in the near distance.

Alex smiled and squatted down to nurse his sputtering fire. “About like shutting up was never yours, Wolfy.”

“I’m serious. You don’t do so hot when you’ve got time to brood. Where are you?”

Alex sighed and sat back on a jutting rock, watching the flames dance. “Small town on the coast of Maine called Three Churches.”

“What in blazin’ hell are you doin’ there?”

Damned if I know, he thought even as he heard himself saying, “I shot a man on the job.”

Silence echoed over the line and Alex winced, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, uh—shit. Forget I said that.”

“What happened?’ Nick murmured.

He swore under his breath. He hadn’t meant to talk about it. The confession had rolled off his tongue unbidden, but now that it was out, he figured he might as well get it all off his chest. If anyone understood, it would be Nick.

“I don’t know what the hell happened. It went from a quick breakfast with my handler to situation critical in a split second and I didn’t think, just pulled the trigger, almost reflexively. The man wasn’t innocent. He was a very bad guy and deserved more than he got, but it wasn’t my right to give it to him. Webster put me on leave pending an investigation, but we both knew when I left his office I wasn’t coming back.”

“Ah, c’mon, now,” Nick said after a moment. “Don’t say that. You’re a good agent. The DEA wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“Good or not, I’m done.” He swallowed, forcing down the lump rising into his throat from his chest. “Someone’s gotta pay for it. If I’m lucky, they’ll pin it on my undercover ID and make him disappear. If I’m not lucky…” He let the thought trail off. By voicing the worst-case scenario—the DEA exposing him as a UC agent then tossing his ass in jail with a bunch of guys that wouldn’t be happy to see him—he felt like he was jinxing himself.

“It’s that bad?” Nick asked.

“Worse. It wasn’t a legit shot, Nick. I’ve tried to tell myself it was, but… yeah, it wasn’t. Turns out, the guy had a fucking cell phone, but he was making threats and when I saw him reach for it—”

“I get it. You remembered the sandbox.”

Iraq. Goddammit. He’d traveled to a lot of shitty places in the world throughout his military career, but that place held top spot on his shit-o-meter and as much as he tried to shut it out of his head, it always found a way to creep back. It was in Iraq that his commanding officer, Sully, took a nearly fatal bullet to the chest. Iraq was where their special ops squad experienced its one loss, K.C Archer, to a RPG. Iraq, where you couldn’t even trust the kids not to want your head on a platter, where your brothers could be walking next to you one second and blown sky-high by a IED the next, where he’d almost lost his own life, was where his nightmares returned time and again. Not the jungles of South America, the mountains of Afghanistan, or the hellhole that was the whole continent of Africa. No. Goddamn Iraq.

“That place fucked me up.” He’d never admitted that to anyone, but since this seemed to be the convo for show-and-tell, he told Nick about the lighted pumpkin on Main Street coming from within an inch of breaking his skull: “I froze. I dove out of the way and I froze. All I could think was IED. For a second, I was right back in the sand and heat.”

“You can’t go through what we went through over there and not change some, Alex,” Nick said softly after a moment. “And I don’t be meanin’ to play devil’s advocate, but Webster was right to put you on leave. You need a break.”

I know. He would never confess to such a weakness aloud, yet deep down he knew his boss had done the right thing. He wasn’t sleeping and wasn’t functioning at one-hundred percent. But he’d been on the knife edge for so long, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that he didn’t have to play that dangerous balancing game.

When the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory, Nick let out a long breath. “You need me, pal, you call. Day or night.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

“Last time you told me that you had a maggot infested wound in your side and a mean case of blood poisonin’. I mean it. Day or night.” He hung up before Alex had a chance to comment.

Alex closed his phone and looked away from the pathetic fire, toward the lighthouse perched on the edge of a cliff in the near distance.

Déjà vu.

It slid greasily through his gut as the cold beam of light twisted around and around, slicing through the gathering clouds. Without thinking, he stood and started down the slick hill toward the beach, never taking his eyes off the lighthouse. The trees dropped away as he descended and he spotted a small yacht riding out the angry waves at the base of the cliff.

Weird. The back of his neck prickled with warning. Why wasn’t the boat in the safety of the harbor? At any moment, a wave could smash the vessel into oblivion on the jagged rocks. Did someone need help?

He picked up his pace and stumbled when his cell phone shrilled. Heart thudding, he caught himself on a jutting rock and snatched the phone from his pocket before it could ring again. He checked the caller ID, expecting Nick again. Nope. His brother.

“Dammit.” Alex silenced the call and looked toward the lighthouse.

The yacht was gone.

He blinked, then scanned the choppy ocean and saw nothing but a slate gray sky melding into black water on the horizon.

Eyes playing tricks again. He shook his head, stuffed his cold fingers into his jeans pockets, and trudged uphill to his tent. It was stupid enough for him to be out here like this. He didn’t need to go wandering around. The locals would probably call him crazy if they knew he’d pitched a tent on the beach in the middle of October.

Maybe he was crazy. God knew it ran in his family.

***

He dreamed that night, nodding off in a haze of alcohol as the quiet of the country settled around him like a blanket.

The pull to walk forward on the rocky beach was damn near overpowering. The oil lantern in his hand swung to the beat of his stride and a rare smile broke out over his face. He so looked forward to these nightly rendezvous. He was supposed to be working, but he’d made sure everything would run smoothly for the hour or so he’d be gone.

He gazed up at the sheer rock wall of the cliff butting the thin strip of beach, assuring himself he’d be able to see if there was trouble. The lighthouse stood tall and dark against the diamond-strewn night, a watchful soldier with its one bright eye. If the light went out, he could be back in the lantern room with the oil bucket in minutes.

It was a hot night for mid-September, an Indian summer, and she had her skirt hiked to her knees as she kicked at the surf. Her hair hung loose and wavy down her back and her skin glowed alabaster in the moonlight. She laughed, a cool, soothing sound like soft rain on leaves, and he started thinking of taking her right there where the ocean met the beach. His body tightened in anticipation. He loved her laugh. Loved everything about her. He couldn’t stop seeing her any more than he could stop breathing.

She sighed when he slipped his arms around her waist and drew her into his embrace. Clouds drifted over the moon and the shadow of the cliff deepened. He turned her around, kissed her hard.

Always in the dark. He regretted he could never love her in the light.

“You’re late,” she whispered.

“I had some things to take care of.” He angled kisses down from her ear, enjoying the feel of her dark hair tickling his face. His erection already strained for her against his trousers and the layers of her skirt. Her head dropped back, allowing him access to the ivory curve of her neck.

“No problems, I hope.”

“No problems,” he promised. He’d promise her anything.

“I have something to tell you,” she said.

“Mm. Later.”

“No.” She shrugged out of his arms and faced him, the look on her pixie face so serious his heart plummeted. “Now.”

He gripped her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

She smiled. Slow, satisfied, and intensely feminine. “We’re going to be parents.”

“We’re—”

“Going to be parents,” she finished when his jaw dropped.

The joy that burst through him took him by complete surprise. He hadn’t known he wanted a child. It had always been a vague idea in the back of his mind, but suddenly it was something he wanted very badly. With her.

He cupped her waist in his palms and stared down at her flat belly. “You’re sure?”

She smiled, pressed her hands to her stomach and nodded. He let out a whoop and grabbed her up in a hug. His lips found hers. He was going to make love to her until—

The phone rang.

Alex blinked himself awake, groaning at the interruption of the first good—weird, granted, but good—dream he’d had in ages. He was still semi-hard and adjusted himself before fumbling for the cell phone with fingers that felt like sausages. With some surprise, he noticed his portable alarm clock read a little after one. He’d slept for almost five hours straight.

“New record,” he muttered and answered the phone without looking at the ID. “Brennan.”

“I saw the news,” Theo said. His voice sounded rough, but not at all slurred by the drugs the hospital gave him to control his outbursts, and Alex thought, uh-oh.

“They said you shot a guy,” Theo continued. “Killed him. Uh, they didn’t say it was you specifically, but I knew. The Guides told me.”

Dammit, bro, please leave it alone. For a second, he considered hanging up and yanking the battery out of the phone. Then he’d roll over, go back to sleep, and hopefully end up in the pretty woman’s arms again. He rubbed a hand over his face and beard stubble rasped against his palm. It was a nice idea—if he wanted to drive his brother even crazier with worry.

“You okay?” Theo asked.

What little energy he’d been able to recover during the last five hours seeped out, leaving him deflated. He couldn’t deal with one of Theo’s paranoid rants right now. “Lookit, T, it’s nothing you need to worry about. It was a legit shot.” He waited a beat. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Don't use that baby tone with me, Alex. I’m five fucking years older than you.”

“You're going to be in trouble.” He forced himself to sound normal as he switched on a battery-powered lantern. Whenever he spoke to his brother, he fell into using a saccharine tone best reserved for indulging children. It was hard not to when Theo’s disease made him childlike in many ways. “If they catch you using the phone after hours, they’ll suspend your privileges again.”

“But I had to call you. The Guides told me you—”

“The Guides do not exist.” A mantra he was sick of repeating. He rolled over on his sleeping bag and noticed the one photograph he had of his brother, sitting in its plain black frame on top of his duffle. Stupid and sentimental, but he took the damn thing with him whenever he left home for an extended trip. Even to Iraq.

The photo had been taken—Alex didn’t know by whom—right after Theo passed his driver’s test and bought a junker T-bird convertible. He looked happy leaning up against the piece of shit car in his baggy 1990’s style clothes and backwards Red Sox cap, a devil-may-care grin splitting his square face. He hadn’t smiled like that since.

“It’s all in your head, T,” Alex said and picked up the photo. “A manifestation of the schizophrenia. Are you cheeking your meds again? Remember what Dr. Romano told you—”

“I’m not crazy!”

Alex shut his eyes as the ocean wind beat at the nylon of his tent like an angry fist. “Listen, I can’t do this now. I have to get up early. Webster has me out of town on assignment,” he lied. No sense in burdening his unstable brother with his problems.

“Out of town?” A tinge of panic crept into Theo’s voice. Straddling a fine line between calm and hysteric, as always. “Where?”

“Maine.”

“No!”

Alex grimaced, held the phone away from his ear. “Jesus. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, God.” His voice shook. “No, listen, you can't go to Maine.”

“I’m already here.”

“No. Oh, no. You have to leave. Get out of there! Al—”

“Theo,” a man interrupted in the background, his voice full of caution. “What are you doing up?”

“Leave me alone!”

“Who did you call? Give me the phone.”

“No, wait—let me—dammit, just let me talk to my brother. I'm not bothering any—don't come near me with any fucking needles!” Something crashed. Feet scuffled. A muffled umph as if someone caught a wayward fist to the stomach.

“Hey,” the hospital aide shouted, “I need help down here! Theo’s having another episode.”

“T, relax,” Alex tried to soothe, feeling powerless lying in a tent in another state while the aides fought with his brother. “Go to bed. I'll call you tomorrow when you’re allowed to use the phone, okay?”

“No, wait, wait—please, I need to talk to Alex. He needs to know what The Guides said—Alex, get out of Maine!” he shouted, his voice echoing as the aides dragged him away from the phone. “Don’t go to the light—”

The line went dead.

Alex stared at the phone. Then he shut it off, dropped it into his bag. He looked at the picture of his grinning brother for a long moment.

And turned it face down.

CHAPTER 4

“Pru, you have a visitor.” Gail, the morning shift waitress, poked her head through the swinging door into the kitchen as Pru rushed around to fill a stream of early lunch orders. The morning had been hectic and she had no doubt lunch would be a zoo. Leave it to Jones, the lazy good for nothing, to call in again. She should ring his greasy neck.

“Visitor?” she said, distracted from the halibut she was slicing for the stew already boiling on the stove. “But Grandma Mae’s not supposed to be back from her trip yet.”

“Now did I say anything about your batty grandmother?” Gail stepped in and planted her hands on her aproned hips. Triton, Pru’s curly coated retriever and the diner’s occasional mascot, whined at the sight of the new person and pawed at the door that led into the diner from the employee parking lot. He sorrowfully eyed the kitchen through the mesh screen, turning on his puppy-dog charms long distance in hopes of a treat. Gail did not attempt resistance. She stole a bit of halibut from Pru’s cutting board, pushed open the door, and tossed it to him. He caught it mid-flight with a short, happy bark.

“It’s a man,” Gail said, watching Triton with a nicotine yellow smile.

The vegetable knife paused for an instant as a thrill raced through Pru’s belly. She turned her back on Gail and continued cutting. It wasn’t Alex. Couldn’t be. He was leaving town. Even if he hadn’t left yet, he wouldn’t come back after the way she acted yesterday.

Oh, who was she kidding? Yes, he would. The man struck her as the tenacious type and having her tell him off probably only whetted his appetite for a challenge. Well, she wasn’t interested. She’d just have to set him straight about that.

She tried to keep her hands steady and voice casual. Of course he’d pick today of all days to come back. She was a sweaty mess from working in the kitchen all morning and her hands smelled like fish. “A man?”

“A very good looking one at that.” Gail wiggled her over-plucked brows. “Miranda said you had a thing going with a man from Boston yesterday.”

“There was no thing.”

“Humph. Not to hear her tell it. You’d think you were picking out china patterns with him.”

“I don’t date tourists.” I won’t date anyone ever again. She picked up the cutting board and used her knife to swipe the fish into the stew pot.

“Well, this one’s hoping to change that. He brought you a flower.”

She froze. “No, he didn’t.”  Nobody ever brought her gifts, especially not flowers.

“See for yourself.”

Pru ducked her head to peek out the serving window. The diner had emptied some since she last checked, most of the breakfast crowd having finished their meals and gone about their days. She spotted two tables that needed clearing. A family of four tourists waited for their lunch at a table by the front window, the baby in a high chair giggling at the faces the toddler made while the parents talked quietly over a map. Mr. Leary lingered over his coffee at the counter as he did every morning, his breakfast dishes licked clean and stacked in a neat pile in front of him. John Putnam Jr. sat in a booth, tapping his fingers in an impatient rhythm as he waited for his terminally slow brother, Wade, to finish breakfast. Kevin Mallory sat in another booth in the corner, poking at what now had to be stone-cold eggs. He’d been brooding there all morning and didn’t seem inclined to stop anytime soon.

Then there was Alex. He stood beside the counter with a single cheery sunflower in his hand. Dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a black sweater that looked soft and expensive, his hair combed back from his unshaven face, he might as well have the words “city slicker” stamped on his forehead. He looked completely out of his element among the other patrons in their flannels and he knew it. She got the feeling he was not a man that liked standing out.

Sensing her gaze, he turned his head and those intense gray eyes met hers for an instant. She ducked back into the safety of the kitchen and, despite her best efforts to stop it, her heart melted a little.

“How did he know I like sunflowers?” she demanded then gasped. “Miranda. Oh, that little sneak!”

Gail chuckled and gave her a gentle push toward the door. “Go say hi to the boy. He looks uncomfortable.”

Pru dug in her heels. “Oh, no. I can’t get involved with anyone.” Gail pushed harder. She braced her hands on the doorframe to keep from budging. “Gail, stop it! I have work to do. The orders are already backed up—”

“Miranda will be here in a few minutes to take orders and I can handle the kitchen. Take your half-hour.” Gail gave one last shove and almost sent Pru sprawling onto the floor at Alex’s feet. She caught herself on the edge of the counter and straightened, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. She was still wearing a hairnet.

God, could she look like any more of a fool?

With as much dignity as she could manage, she took it off and smoothed down her hair. She hoped her smile didn’t look as wobbly as it felt on her lips. “Back for more pie?”

“No.” He glanced over at the glass case displaying the freshly baked pies. His mouth turned up in one corner—not quite a real smile. “Well, maybe. Like I said, it’s an addiction of mine. I’ve gone to meetings and everything, but I can’t kick it.”

The laugh bubbled out of her in an unexpected rush, half from amusement and half from panic. “You have the oddest sense of humor, Boston.”

Just being this close to him again was doing strange things to her. She could picture it so clearly, him and her naked, straining together—

Oh, God. She slammed the mental brakes on that image. This was definitely a case of lust at first sight. Lust and nothing more. She drew a breath and slapped a muzzle on her overactive libido.

Just act normal.

Hah.

“I was going to take Triton, my dog, for a walk,” she blurted and reached behind the counter for the dog’s leash. She had to get outside. The diner was too warm and cramped all of a sudden, with too many curious eyes studying them.

“I’ll walk with you,” Alex said. “If you don’t mind.”

She did mind, but saying so would be rude and only partly true. He bothered her, but not in such a way that she disliked his company. Besides, it was only a walk.

“I’ll meet you out front.” She pushed through the kitchen door and ignored Gail’s smirk. Triton perked up from the sunny spot he’d found to lay down in and starting hopping like he had spring-loaded paws when he saw the leash. She unhooked his lead from his collar and snapped on the leash, then sucked in a calming breath and walked around the front of the diner. Triton pulled her to a halt as they neared Alex and watched the newcomer with wary chestnut eyes. Alex bent down the pet him and Triton let out a low grumble of warning.

“Huh. I don’t think your vicious pooch likes me much, Pru.”

“He’s not vicious. He’s just suspicious of strangers.” She bent down to give Triton a scratch behind one floppy ear to soothe him. “He can’t decide whether you’re a friend or not.”

“And what about you?” He motioned her down the sidewalk with one arm like a gentleman escorting a gowned lady to the dance floor. “Have you decided?”

“I don’t know you. I’m reserving judgment.”

“Would you like to get to know me?”

She stopped walking and gaped at him. “You didn’t just say that. That’s the oldest line in the book, pal.”

“I… guess I did.” And he looked completely flabbergasted by it. “Wow. Um, I’m usually better at—I didn’t mean that like—” He held up the sunflower. “Peace offering?”

His expression was so repentant that she couldn’t help but laugh. She accepted the flower. “You’re a Catholic.”

He blinked. “Uh, I’m sorry?”

“I can tell. You’ve perfected that sorry-I-sinned look.”

“Yeah, I am. Or was. Guess you’d call me non-practicing.”

“Bet your priests groaned whenever they saw you headed for the confessional.” He walked so close beside her she could smell him, a spicy male musk she liked, and feel the warmth emanating off his strong body. “Bet you sinned a lot.”

She realized, too late, how sexual that sounded and felt the blistering heat of embarrassment color her cheeks. She glanced away, but not before she caught the glint of wicked humor in his eyes.

“Every chance I got. I was a…spirited kid.”

She forced a light chuckle. “Hey, pal, it’s New England. We’re all spirited.” She paused to let Triton relieve himself on a lamppost and caught sight of the lighthouse tower from the corner of her eye. “Even our lighthouses. Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Uh, what?”

“Ghosts.” She turned to face him. “Do you believe in them?”

His mouth opened then closed without making a sound. “You…baffle me, Pru. Do you always change subjects like that?”

Oh, great, she was babbling now. “Like what?”

“Like you—” He studied her for a second with his intense eyes as if trying to figure out an intricate puzzle, then shook his head. “Never mind.” He stuck his hands in his coat pockets and gazed up at the lighthouse. A breeze rolled off the ocean and ruffled his hair, which looked to have been only finger-combed this morning. She watched a shadow fall across his face like a veil.

“Ghosts, huh? No, I don’t believe in any of that paranormal shit. Ghosts, psychics, curses, demons—it’s all crazy.”

“Hm.” She continued down the sidewalk with Triton sniffing every tree and sign along the way. Alex fell into step, watching her twirl the sunflower between her fingers.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Yes.” She angled her head to look at him. “How did you know they’re my favorite? Usually a guy goes for roses when he’s trying to impress a woman.”

He moved his shoulders as if an uncomfortable weight had settled there. She liked riling him, she decided. He looked cute when he was flustered and it gave her a sense of power to do so. He struck her as a man who didn’t fluster easily. Also struck her as a man who did not usually give flowers to women.

“I didn’t know,” he admitted. “I saw that beside the road on my way into town. It reminded me of you.”

“Little late in the year for wild sunflowers.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Gardening isn’t my area of expertise.”

“No? Then what is?”

“I’m, uh…” He was flustered again, his gaze sliding away from hers as his words trailed off. He looked up at the lighthouse tower and she got the feeling he was searching for something, anything to say to change the subject. The man obviously didn’t like to talk about himself, so she decided to take pity on him. For now.

She motioned to the lighthouse. “It isn’t ready to open to the public yet—I still have a lot of work to do on it—but if you’d like, I can give you a tour.”

“Wait.” He stopped walking and stared at the lighthouse, then at her. “You own that?”

“I live there. I’m in the process of renovating it, turning it into a bed and breakfast.” Since he stopped moving, she did too. She set down the sunflower and hoisted herself to sit on the wide ledge of one of the now-empty concrete planters lining the street. The stone was hard and cold on her legs and it fortified her.

Triton hopped along the sidewalk, chasing fallen leaves until his leash ran out, and then gazed back with the expression she thought of as his puppy frown. To atone, she dug a dog biscuit out of her apron and tossed it to him.

Alex sat beside her, close enough to make Triton forget his treat and move protectively between them.

“I got the impression you own the diner,” Alex said, paying no attention to the dog’s low growl as he laid his hand over hers on the cool stone. His hand was large and, except for a strange callus on his pointer finger, surprisingly smooth. As their skin touched, a little thrill raced straight from her hand to her muzzled libido—it hissed, snarled, and demanded release. Oh, how she wanted to let it loose, to turn her hand into his and link their fingers. Instead, she shifted away on the pretense of tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“The diner’s my grandma’s baby.” She tried to keep her voice light. “That’s why it’s called Mae’s, after her. She’s semi-retired, which basically means I run it when she’s off on one of her many adventures. She’s in Africa right now. But the lighthouse…” She picked up the sunflower, twirled it between her fingers again. “Much to Grandma’s dismay, it’s always intrigued me. The ghost stories alone—”

“C’mon. Ghost stories?”

“Oh, yes. It’s said lighthouses are America’s version of castles. Each has its own ghost, and mine is no exception.”

Alex made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. According to legend, the ghost’s name is Adeline Barnett True, better known as Lovie,” she said, settling into the telling of a story she’d known since childhood. “She’s also called The Green Lady because she’s always seen wearing a green flapper-style dress. She came to town after her husband, a soldier in World War One, inherited the lighthouse from his father. Some of the rumors say her husband took up drinking after the war and beat her to death. Others say she was a city girl at heart, the isolation got to be too much, and she took her life by jumping off the tower. Either way, she died in 1925, but she still roams through the lighthouse and she’s still bitter about whatever happened to her. She doesn’t like men in her territory. She gets blamed for a lot of the accidents that happen around here.”

“And you’ve…seen…her?” Alex asked.

“I’ve heard her. She bangs around the kitchen, walks up and down the stairs, and sometimes I even smell whatever she’s cooking. Pork, usually.” At his dubious expression, she laughed. “Now you think I’m crazy. It’s all true. She was a real person. I have her picture hanging in my stairwell. Her grave’s at the cemetery.”

“No, not crazy.” He shrugged. “I know a lot of people believe in that sort of thing. I’m just not one of them.”

“Stay one night in the lighthouse and I bet you’ll change your mind.” She realized, again too late, how much that sounded like an invitation and cursed her carelessness. The way he was watching her, like she was the most interesting and beautiful woman in the world, made her stomach jitter. Whether it was nerves or lust, she didn’t know. Probably a combination of both.

He reached for her hand again, gave it a light squeeze. “I’d like that, Pru.”

“I didn’t mean it as an invitation.”

“Not yet,” he said with a slow, devilish smile.

She tried to pry her hand free, but he held it for just a moment more before letting her go. She worked up a scowl. “You’re pretty damn sure of yourself there, buddy.”

“No, I’m realistic.” He ran his fingers along her jaw—it was as if he couldn’t stop touching her—and smiled when she stiffened. “Have dinner with me, Pru.”

“I thought you were leaving town.”

“I’m in no hurry. Especially if someone convinces me to stick around.”

She glanced away. “I can’t.”

“Why not? I don’t see a ring on your hand.”

She looked down at her empty finger and felt a twinge in her chest. It still hurt, she realized. Even after six months, it still hurt that Owen’s ring was not there anymore. She curled her hand into a fist and jumped down from the ledge. She paced away from Alex. Then, feeling like a coward for avoiding his gaze, she circled back to face him.

“Listen, I just got out of a bad relationship.”

“Me too. Besides, who said anything about a relationship? I enjoy your company and I don’t know anyone else in town. I just want to have dinner with you.”

And sex, she thought. She shook her head. “We both know where dinner would lead.”

He opened his mouth, she assumed to protest, but he surprised her by not denying it. His mouth closed again and he rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. “Well, yeah, probably. Would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” Pru sighed when he scowled. She’d hurt his fragile male ego, but she didn’t have time to nurse the pieces back together. Her half hour was almost up.

“I have to go back to work.” She handed him the sunflower. “Please, just stay away before something happens that I’ll regret.”

It was probably better this way, she decided as he stared after her with a mixed expression of aggravation and bewilderment. At least he wouldn’t be popping into the diner for a visit again.

She hoped.

***

That was a first.

Alex rubbed his unshaved jaw, feeling almost as if she’d slapped him. How did he manage to completely fubar everything he said to her? Usually the pickup was the easy part for him. Knowing what the hell to do with a woman once he’d had her was the part he sucked at.

He looked at the sunflower. Its perky petals beamed back, bright as Pru’s smile. Frowning, he tossed it aside.

Forget her.

Why was he even chasing after a skirt right now anyway? He had bigger things to worry about than getting laid.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he started down the street to his car. He didn’t need this sort of aggravation in his life now and he certainly didn’t need her—but, Christ, who was he kidding? Need and want were two entirely different concepts and he wanted her.

Bad.

He hadn’t been able to stop touching her. Like an addict needing a constant fix.

Desire thrummed in his blood and he only had to close his eyes to see it, the two of them coming together, hot and panting and desperate to be flesh to flesh.

He stopped walking and growled as the fantasy thickened in his groin. Need and want were two different things, and in this case want won. He had never before felt this pull—no, it was more violent than that, he decided, like a yank—toward a woman. It was such a strange sensation that he refused to leave Maine without exploring the possibilities of it first. Besides, it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go now that he was jobless.

Alex snatched up the sunflower from the spot it had landed on the sidewalk and stalked toward the diner. Pru stood behind the counter, cashing out a customer at the register. He tapped on the window to get her attention and saw a becoming flush fill her cheeks as everyone turned to watch. He held her gaze as he threaded the sunflower through the door handle.

“I’m not leaving,” he said loud enough that she’d hear through the glass. Then he turned, nodded to Mrs. Mallory, who stood on the sidewalk behind him, and walked to his car.

***

Pru made sure she was busy with an order when Helen marched up to the counter with the sunflower in hand. Of all the people that had to be present for that spectacle, why did it have to be the mayor’s nosy wife? How mortifying.

“What was that all about?” Helen demanded.

“Nothing.” Pru snatched a coffee pot from the warmer and refilled the line of empty and nearly empty cups at the counter.

Miranda, carrying a load of dirty dishes to the kitchen, snorted as she passed. “Nothing? Yeah, and my tush is flat. That city boy has his pretty gray eyes on our Pru.”

“Does he?” Helen twirled the flower once and pursed her red-painted lips. “How unfortunate for you, dear. Beauty is such a curse.” With a flick of the wrist, the sunflower sailed into the wastebasket beside the counter.

Pru stopped herself—barely—from retrieving it. Did she want to look like she was completely gone over Alex? Because she wasn’t. She didn’t even know him. Instead, she picked up the plate of fried clams waiting in the order window.

Helen gave a dainty, disapproving sniff. “I hope you know, dear, a tryst with a man like that will only end badly.”

She knew, which was why she’d tried her hardest to tell him off. The man was obstinate, frustrating, and…dammit, oddly sweet. She shot a glance toward the discarded sunflower, wishing she didn’t want to pick it up.

Miranda pushed through the kitchen door and moved to toss a paper towel in the trash. A large fist squeezed Pru’s heart in protest and a distressed noise slipped out. Miranda sent her a knowing smile and shoved the towel into her apron pocket. Helen tsked.

Miranda scowled at the mayor’s wife. “Is there something you need, Mrs. Mallory?”

“I’m looking for my son.” Her gaze landed on Kevin, still brooding in the corner booth. Without another word, she marched over. Kevin sank lower in his seat like a chastised teenager.

“Good riddance,” Miranda said. “I pity Kev, though.” She shook her head once, then gave Pru a gentle nudge in the ribs with her elbow and took the plate of fried clams. “I got this, hon, but I think the garbage needs emptying.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll do it.” Feeling silly, but unable to stop herself, Pru scooped up the trashcan and hurried through the kitchen. Out back, she plucked the flower from the nearly empty can and cast the rest into the dumpster. Triton, lying in his customary sunny spot, thumped his tail twice.

“I know, boy.” She sighed and straightened one of the flower’s crinkled petals. “I’m a sentimental fool.”

CHAPTER 5

When Pru pulled into her driveway that evening, three men—John Putnam Jr., Wade Putnam, and David Faraday—stood in her backyard beside a black, Ford truck, studying a large stump that lay on its side next to an even larger hole in the ground. The stump’s tangled roots clawed at the sky like skeletal hands digging out of a grave. It would be a suitable Halloween decoration, she mused, if she actually got trick-or-treaters. But if the myths surrounding the lighthouse weren’t enough to keep them away, then the drive up the steep, winding driveway was. She wasn’t even going to bother buying candy this year. She’d be the one who wound up eating it, and a bag of Reese’s, yummy as they were, would not help the size of her ass.

Pru parked her car and reached for the sunflower wedged between the front seats in its makeshift plastic vase. It was so pretty, staring at her with its bright, yellow petals, its dark head turned a little to one side as if in question, and her heart turned to putty all over again.

Damn you, Alex.

She hesitated, biting down on her lip, and glanced at the three men in her yard. John Jr. dug two cans of beer out of the cooler by his feet and tossed one to David Faraday, who sat on the tailgate of the Ford. They popped the tabs, clinked the cans, and each took a long, deep pull, their tanned throats working. Wade, who was a head taller than the other two and looked as if he’d been welded of steel rather than conceived and born the natural way, squatted by the hole in the yard and boomed with laughter.

No, she’d just leave the flower here for now. Her feet hurt, her back ached, and a headache already pounded on her brain, so the last thing she needed this evening was to answer more questions about the “city boy” that had made such a spectacle over her this morning.

Damn you, Alex, she thought for the hundredth time but there was no longer any heat to it. Instead, it made her smile. Yeah, he was a slick one all right. She had to be careful or he’d have her heart before she realized it.

She left the sunflower, slid from her Jeep, and opened the back door for Triton. “C’mon, boy.” The retriever sprang from the vehicle and loped over to the men, tongue lolling and tail wagging.

She followed. “Hi, guys. Got any more of those?”

“Sure do.” John Jr. fished another can out of the cooler and tossed it to her.

“So,” she said after popping the tab and taking a drink. She studied the stump. “You finally got that baby out, huh?”

“You bet!” Wade embraced Triton, who wiggled around him for attention. “It put up a fight though. J.J. almost rammed your porch with his truck.”

“You’re not supposed to tell her that, stupid.” John Jr. gave his brother an affectionate shove with his foot and man and dog went sprawling into the grass, much to the delight of them both.

Pru studied the wraparound porch she’d just had painted. “You don’t listen to your brother, Wade. I’d really like to know whenever he does something boneheaded like that.”

“Well, then I should tell ya about last summer—”

“Wade,” John Jr. interrupted and gestured to the clouds gathering along the horizon, dark billows over the ocean already flashing with lightning. “We need to get our equipment packed up before that storm makes landfall.”

Wade’s eyes widened. “Uh-oh.” He patted Triton on the head, then hopped to his feet and sprinted around the other side of the house.

“Uh-huh,” Pru said with a smile. “What should he tell me, John?”

“Nothing.” John Jr. finished off his beer and tossed the empty back in the cooler. “Really.”

“Riiight.” She rolled her eyes as a blast of wind rustled the leaves on the trees bordering her property and brought the clean, cold scent of rain in from the ocean. She turned and gazed out over the water. “First storm of the season.”

“Yup,” David said and finished off his own drink. “It’s going to be a big one too.” He clapped John Jr. on the shoulder, gave it a little squeeze. “I’m gonna head out, boss. Try to beat the storm back to town. See ya Monday.”

Pru waited until David backed out of the drive and gave the horn a tap in farewell, then turned to John Jr. “So?”

He avoided her gaze by picking up the cooler and placing it in the back of his Ford, then rearranging the heavy chains they’d used to pull up the stump. “So what?”

“You know.” When he still didn’t look at her, she flapped her arms. “Miranda! Have you asked her out yet?”

His face reddened. “I don’t wanna ask her out.”

“Bullshit. I see it in the way you look at her at the diner. You want her.”

He choked. “I, uh—She’s with Rhett. Everyone knows that.”

Pru scowled. She’d forgotten that complication, but wasn’t about to give up her decade-old mission to hook her cousin up with her best friend. John Jr. was homespun handsome with his blond hair, soft blue eyes, and a body honed by years of hard construction work. So he was shorter than Miranda liked her men and terminally shy when it came to women. He still had a lot going for him. His own company. His truck and a boat the size of a small yacht, both bought with cash. One of the nicest houses in town, a Victorian on Penobscot Street he restored himself. Beyond his material worth, he was funny. Caring. Honest to a fault. A far better man than Rhett Swithin could ever dream of being.

“Forget Rhett,” Pru said. “They’re not officially together. You still have a shot.”

“He’d kill me,” John Jr. said and gazed out over the ocean, his expression lined with regret.

Probably. She slung an arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “You can’t think like that, cuz. Who she dates is her choice, but she’ll never notice you unless you make her notice. She’s just that way. That’s why she’s attracted to Rhett. He’s not happy unless everyone within a mile notices him.”

John Jr. scowled. “If I have to act like that blowhole to get her attention, then it’s not worth it. I’d rather have my pride.”

“You can have both. You don’t have to act like Rhett. Just be yourself and be confident and she’ll notice.” She elbowed him in the ribs. “Want me to give her a little nudge in your direction?”

His eyes all but popped out of his head. “God, no! I don’t need my baby cousin setting me up. Jesus, talk about a hit to the pride.”

She laughed and pushed him away as thunder rolled in on a blast of wind. “You should get going before the storm hits. I’ll help Wade finish picking up.”

John Jr. took a step toward his truck and hesitated, gazing up at the house. “Maybe you should come stay with me. I don’t like the thought of you up here by yourself during a storm.”

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I won’t be by myself. Wade’s right out in the carriage house if I need help.”

“Yeah, but Wade’s …” He looked at the side yard, where Wade stood at the edge of the cliff, a coil of rope over his brawny shoulder as he stared out over the beach as if dumbstruck. John Jr. grimaced. “Wade’s retarded.”

“John!”

“Well, dammit, I hate to say it as much as you hate to hear it, but we both know it’s the truth. Just because Dad refused to have him tested and officially labeled doesn’t make it any less true. If the storm gets bad, you can’t count on him not to freak out on you.”

Pru sighed, knowing he was right. Wade was sweet and tried his hardest to be helpful, but he was like one of those big, dumb dogs that jumped at his own shadow. In a crisis, he’d be no help, but she didn’t think the storm rumbling toward shore now counted as a crisis. She shooed John Jr. toward his truck.

“We’ll be fine. It’s not the first storm I’ve weathered in this lighthouse and it won’t be the last.”

“It’s the first for him. Maybe I should hang around tonight…”

“You wanted your pride, John, so let the man have his. God knows, he doesn’t have much else.” She gave him a reassuring hug. “You’ve spent your whole life looking out for Wade. You’re a good brother, but he needs some independence. The carriage house is the perfect place for him to get it without being completely on his own.”

He frowned. Pru held his face in her hands and kissed the furrow that worry had gouged between his brows. “Give it some time. He may decide he doesn’t like being on his own and move back in with you, but let him make that decision, okay? I’ll check up on him tonight and if there are any problems, you’re only a phone call away.”

John Jr. looked at Wade again, still stuck in the same spot at the edge of the yard with his mouth hanging open. The wind whipped Wade’s unkempt hair around his face as the first drops of rain fell, but he didn’t seem to notice, transfixed as he was by whatever he saw down on the beach.

John Jr. sighed and opened the door of his truck. “I get that he wants privacy, I do. What I don’t understand is why he wants to stay here, of all places. No offense.”

“None taken.” Pru crossed her arms as the wind pierced her coat and raised goosebumps on her skin. “I think he just wants to be closer to Cappy.”

His gaze strayed toward the lighthouse tower, then jerked away. “Yeah. Well.” He climbed into his truck and started the engine, then leaned out. “Any problems, call me.”

“Sure thing. Hey, John?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. You’ve been great about this whole reconstruction, considering Cappy….” She let the sentence trail away, unsure of how to finish it. Killed himself sounded too harsh. After all, she was talking to the man’s child. It had to be hard to know his father was so tired of life that he willingly climbed to the top of the tower, looped a rope around his neck, and jumped to his death.

John Jr. tried to shrug it off, but his eyes darkened and he stared at his steering wheel for a long moment. “It’s what Dad would’ve wanted. He loved this place.” He wagged his head as if to shake away the memories. “I’ll be back tomorrow to get that stump out of here and fill the hole.”

“No, it can wait until Monday,” she started to say, but he’d already shut the door and put the truck in drive.

She waved goodbye, then edged up to the hole. It was deeper than she expected, bordered with jutting rocks and broken roots. Triton ambled to her side and gazed into the hole then up at her as if to say, what’s this?

“No.” She snagged his collar, got down on her knees and looked him in the eye. She pointed at the hole. “No.” His tail wagged. She held his gaze, pointed again, and said firmly, “No.”

Triton’s shoulders hunched, his ears flattened, and his tail tucked between his legs. Satisfied he wouldn’t stray near the hole, Pru rubbed his head and grimaced at the dark pit. With all the accidents that plagued the lighthouse’s reconstruction, maybe it was a good idea to have it filled in as soon as possible. She really didn’t want to see anyone else get hurt. It was bad enough that in the past month alone, five of John Jr.’s workers had left the site in an ambulance, two with life-threatening injuries. Thank God neither man died and both were on their way to making a full recovery. Pru didn’t think she’d be able to handle more death on her conscience.

Thunder bellowed, closer, louder, and the wind splattered raindrops on Pru’s face. Shivering, she got to her feet and looked around for Wade. He stood rooted in the same spot, in the same position.

Poor Wade. Sometimes his brain needed a jumpstart to remember what he was doing. She started toward him just as he shook off the trance. He threw down the coil of rope and sprinted across the yard, over to the wooden stairs that carved a path down the side of the cliff to the beach.

“Wade!” She tried to catch him, but his legs were longer and for all his bulk, he was fast. Heart thudding, she scanned the beach, searching for whatever he’d seen that made him take off like that. In the distance, where the cliff gentled into a rolling slope, sat a tent, already battered by the wind, and a sputtering fire.

A campsite.

And Wade headed for the unsuspecting campers like a bulldozer.

CHAPTER 6

Should have found a cozy bed and breakfast, you dumb jackass.

Alex sighed, pillowed his hands behind his head, and watched the wind abuse the rain flap on his tent. He could be relaxing with a warm cup of coffee in front of a fire, a book on his lap. A good thriller à la John Sandford or Lawrence Block. He hadn’t read for pleasure in so long, it’d feel good to lose himself in someone else’s problems for a while.

Or, better yet, a woman on his lap. A particular blue-eyed waitress would definitely make him forget all his problems.

Thunder cracked overhead. He pressed his palms to his eyes.

He could still go find a B&B, but the idea of breaking down camp now in the wind and rain didn’t hold much appeal. And staying in town equaled a bigger headache than camping. People were too damn nosy. He’d rather deal with a no-holds thunderstorm than a bunch of hopeless gossips.

Of course, if he left town, he wouldn’t have to worry about gossips. No reason for him to stay here, freezing his ass off alone in a tent in the middle of Bum Fuck Egypt, Maine, when he had a perfectly good condo back in Boston. Pru obviously didn’t want him here, and yet he was hanging around like a frickin’ stalker.

Hah. Look up the word masochist in the dictionary, and there’d be a picture of Alex Brennan’s ugly mug.

He could call Nick and unload some of the shit weighing on his chest, but Nick would probably say he was punishing himself for perceived misdoings and yadda, yadda, yadda. Alex could hear the psychoanalysis now. He’d tell Nick to shut the fuck up. It’d be as satisfying as any therapy session.

Alex smiled, reached for his phone, and froze.

A shadow loomed outside his tent.

He realized it too late. The door burst inward, the zipper releasing with a snap. A hand gripped his ankle like a manacle and yanked him out into the storm. For a long, stunned moment, he lay on his back, rain pelting his face as he blinked up at the hulk of a man backlit by flashes of lightning.

Then self-preservation kicked in. He rolled, twisting his ankle free, and sprung to his feet. Hulk roared and launched at him. He dove to the right and Hulk flattened his tent.

“Jesus!” Alex swung around, ready to fight, his heart pounding in a hole in his chest, the sound of blood rushing in his ears blocking out everything else.

Probably smarter to run, but his boots were inside the tent underneath Hulk, who was up on his hands and knees, shaking his head.

Closest building was Pru’s lighthouse, at least a quarter of a mile down the rocky beach. He could make a run for it, but Hulk had longer legs and better traction in work boots than he had in wool socks.

Hulk lumbered to his feet with a scowl, swaying a little. Now would be the time to run. Alex edged a step backwards.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, his inner cynic screamed. Coward! Pussy-faced coward!

Alex cursed under his breath and stood his ground. It just wasn’t in him to run. Maybe he was suicidal. God knew that ran in his family too.

“You’re trespassing!” Hulk shouted over the wind. “Dad doesn’t like trespassers!”

Okay, so this guy wasn’t the sharpest knife in the dishwasher. Alex held up his hands in a peacemaking gesture. “Lookit, buddy, I don’t want to fight. I didn’t know this was private property. I’ll leave. All you had to do was ask.”

Hulk’s face screwed up as if he was having trouble processing the words. “You’re trespassing.”

“Yeah, I get that now. I’m sorry. Lemme get my stuff together …” Alex crouched down and reached for his broken tent. There was no way he’d win in a hand-to-hand fight with this guy, but maybe if he got hold of his gun, he’d stand a chance at getting out of this situation intact.

Hulk dropped a shoulder and plowed into him, the blow like a freight train to the stomach. Alex managed to stay on his feet and used his smaller size to slip out of Hulk’s grasp. He made it three steps before he bent double, gagging on the surge of bile.

Hulk advanced.

Alex let his body fall forward, caught himself on his hands and tumbled into a line of bushes along the edge of the campsite, leaving Hulk with nothing but a handful of air. Just like the good old days in sniper school, he kept his face, body, and heels flat to the ground, letting the little bit of shrubbery provide cover. When lightning flashed, he paused and used the second of illumination to get his bearings. He’d crawled about twenty feet. Hulk stood in the same spot where he had dropped into the bushes, pounding at the shrubs with his foot, screaming and—

Shit, was the guy crying?

Alex wasn’t about to stick around and find out. Inner cynic be damned, he was outta here. He crawled through mud and over rocks as the storm exploded and cold rain lashed his back like stinging pellets of shrapnel. Just like Hindu Kush, without all the snow—

No. He slammed the door shut on those memories. Afghanistan had been just as bad as Iraq and if he let himself go there, he’d freeze up. He had to stay in the present and get away from the crazy asshole still stomping through the underbrush looking for him.

Headlights flashed over his ravaged campsite as a Jeep screeched to a halt next to his car. A woman jumped out, dressed in jeans and a red rain slicker. The wind whipped off her hood and sent black hair flying. Alex’s heart made a freefall dive into his stomach, then bungeed back into his throat.

Pru. What the fuck was she doing out here?

She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, but her voice was lost in the storm. He couldn’t let Hulk hear her. The guy had a good hundred-fifty pounds and well over a foot on her. She wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against him if he decided to attack.

Alex got to his feet, but stayed low, using trees and rocks for cover as he made his way in a wide circle, coming up behind Pru’s Jeep. She stood in the high beams, making herself an easy target, calling into the wind.

Dammit, Pru, don’t draw his attention.

He couldn’t call her name. The wind would carry whatever he shouted away from her. He hated to frighten her, but he saw no choice. He darted out from behind the Jeep and snagged her around the waist, clamping a hand over her mouth to muffle her frightened shriek as he dragged her out of the pool of headlights.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he said in her ear. “It’s Alex.” She sagged against him as he opened the Jeep’s door. He lifted her inside and climbed in behind.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” She shoved herself into the passenger seat to make room for him, then beat on his arm with her fist. “Sneaking up on a woman in the middle of a storm is not the best way to endear yourself to her! Idiot!”

He dodged another blow and felt around for the gearshift. He bumped the lever for the wipers and they sped up, squeaking as they swiped at the rain. “Can you beat me up later? We have to get outta here. There’s a fucking maniac running around out there.”

Her fist stopped mid-flight. “Oh. Oh, God.” She pushed open the passenger side door and jumped out before he could snag her jacket.

“Dammit.” He slammed a hand into the steering wheel and shoved open his door, catching the sleeve of her slicker. She shook out of the coat and kept going, rain soaking her diner uniform, pasting the polo shirt to her breasts as she skidded down the hill.

“Pru!” He tossed the coat aside and went after her. “Jesus, are you insane? Get back in the car.”

She ignored him. “Wade! Wade, you come here this instant. God, your brother’s going to kill me. Wade!”

Alex skidded to a halt beside her and watched the Hulk’s shoulders stiffen, then fold in as he dropped his head like a chastised child. “You know that maniac?”

“Don’t call him that. Wade,” she said again and the huge man approached in reluctant, shuffling steps. She pointed at the Jeep. “You are in so much trouble. In the car. Now!”

Wade obeyed, but glared daggers at Alex as he passed.

Once Wade was safely in the car, she whirled and poked a finger at Alex’s chest. “What exactly are you doing out here in a storm, in a tent, in the middle of October? Are you out of your flippin’ mind?”

He opened his mouth to reply. She cut him off with an impatient gesture. “Don’t answer that. Get your stuff, get in your car, and follow me.” She stalked toward her Jeep, rain plastering her hair to her head.

Alex watched her go, feeling small and put in his place. Admiration mixed with lust—a dangerous concoction. He usually tried to avoid women he admired when it came to sex. Too complicated. If he admired them, respected them, it made it harder to walk away unscathed.

He shouldn’t be so turned on by her temper. No doubt she’d skin him once they got someplace dry and warm, and yet he was so eager to follow he tripped over his own feet trying to get his stuff packed up.

Yup, no doubt about it. He was a masochist in every sense of the word.

***

God save her from testosterone!

Pru fumed as she navigated the hill to the lighthouse, her fingers opening and closing around the steering wheel. Wade, she’d deal with. His outbursts weren’t entirely his fault. He just wasn’t smart enough to control his impulses. But Alex—sneaking up behind her, ordering her around like he had a right? She should have left him on the beach to face the storm like the idiot macho man he thought he was. Serve him right to let Mother Nature have a go at him. Except Wade had destroyed his tent and, even as satisfying as it would have been, she couldn’t wittingly leave him without shelter.

“Damn that man,” she muttered. It was becoming a mantra when it came to Alex.

Behind her, the lights of his ostentatious Lexus bounced over the unpaved road. If she looked hard enough, she could see an outline of his broad shoulders and square face behind the steering wheel.

Strange that he would drive a Lexus. He didn’t strike her as the type. Too flashy. Then again, she didn’t really know him, did she? He could come off as modest and low key at first, but then turn out to be exactly like her ex, Owen. Arrogant and fussy, always worried about the bottom line.

Ugh. Owen, the presumptuous ass, made her head hurt. She shoved him out of her mind and glanced in the rear-view again.

Wade, hunkered in the backseat, lifted his miserable gaze to meet hers in the mirror. “I’m in trouble.”

“Uh, yeah,” she said. “Why did you attack Alex?”

“The Green Lady told me to.”

She nearly swerved off the road in a knee-jerk reaction. “What?” She straightened the car and shook her head. “Wade. Tell me the truth.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know he was your friend,” he said, his eyes widening and filling with tears. He had a streak of mud down the side of his face that smeared when he wiped away the tears with his sleeve. “I thought he was trespassing. She said he was trespassing and Dad doesn’t like trespassers!”

Technically, Alex had been trespassing, but that was beside the point.

“Okay, it’s all right,” she said. “But do you remember the last time you went after someone?”

He stared down at his lap. “I got put in jail ‘cause I hit Rhett with a chair at Buzzy’s. He needed to get hit, but they put me in jail anyway. I didn’t like it.”

“Right.” Pru used the turn signal for Alex’s benefit, since the turn off could be hard to see, and steered the Jeep into her driveway. She wondered if Alex’s city car would make it up the steep hill in this rain or if she’d end up pulling him out of the ditch. She checked the rear-view. He seemed to be doing all right, so she turned her attention back to the conversation.

“You can’t go after people like that, Wade. No matter who tells you to. You could hurt someone bad and then you’ll go back to jail for a long time.”

His lower lip trembled. “Do you have to tell J.J.?”

“Yes.” He looked so miserable that she added, “In the morning. We’ll just let everyone get some sleep tonight.” And it’d give her time to talk Alex out of pressing charges. Maybe. Hopefully. She’d just explain Wade’s situation and if Alex was as reasonable as she thought, they could brush the whole matter under the carpet and forget about it. Of course, John Jr. wasn’t going to want Wade living in the carriage house anymore, but one mistake shouldn’t condemn him. He enjoyed the freedom of having his own place, liked having Triton to play with and lots of room to wander. It’d be a shame to take that joy away from him. If she could convince John that Alex wasn’t upset about it, maybe—

“Hey, look!” Wade said and pointed from the backseat as the Jeep chugged up the last incline, cleared the trees, and the lighthouse rose into view. The beacon flashed its intense white light over the yard at twenty-second intervals as expected, but every light in the house also blazed as if in welcome. The front door hung wide open, banging into the side of the house in the wind. Triton paced the porch with his head hung low and his tail tucked between his legs.

“Triton’s scared,” Wade said.

“Aw, poor pup.” Pru tried to smile for Wade’s sake. “The storm probably frightened him.” But that didn’t explain why he wasn’t in the house. Or why the lights were on and the door open when she’d left it dark and locked.

She parked the Jeep and turned in her seat. The carriage house loomed on the right side of the property, dark and silent. At least that seemed untouched. “I want you to go home, get cleaned up, and go to bed. No wandering around tonight, got it?”

Wade nodded.

“And you need to apologize to Alex.”

He stuck out his lower lip in protest, but then nodded again.

She watched from her seat as he trudged toward the Lexus. Alex stiffened behind the wheel for an instant, then his door opened. He climbed out. Wade said something. He replied and held out a hand. They shook.

Pru let out the breath caught in her throat and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel as relief washed through her. Maybe Alex wouldn’t press charges after all. Small miracle.

A knuckle tapped on her window. She looked at Alex, standing in the rain with a duffle bag on his shoulder, covered from head to toe in mud, a good bruise darkening the side of his jaw, a half-grin on his face.

Dammit if her heart didn’t melt a little more, soothing the rougher edges of her irritation.

She opened the door and got out. “Thanks for being nice to him.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly Wade’s fault. I was trespassing.” He spotted the sunflower, still stuffed between the seats in its plastic vase, and his smile widened.

Embarrassed heat crawled up the back of her neck. She slammed the car door with a little more force than necessary and started toward the front porch. “We should get inside.”

Alex hitched his chin at the brightly lit house. “Not worried about the electric bill, I see.”

“It’s The Green Lady. Usually it’s just one or two lights, but she must be in a playful mood tonight. Probably the energy from the storm revving her up.”

“The ghost turned on your lights?” He stopped walking to stare at the house, then sprinted across the yard to catch up to her. “You can’t be serious.”

“Hmm. She’s a bit of a practical joker. It’s funny when you’re dead and don’t have to pay the bills.”

When her foot hit the bottom step of the porch, Triton launched himself into her arms. She staggered back, landing against Alex’s solid chest. Sexual heat flared at the contact, warming away the chill that the rain had pounded into her bones.

“Whoa.” He caught her hips and righted her after a charged moment of having her backside pressed against his front, the pause too long to have been anything but deliberate.

Face flaming, she led the way inside the house and left him to shut the door behind them. She refused to let him see the blush and busied herself with turning out some of the lights. He made enough passes at her as it was already and certainly didn’t need any more encouragement judging by the bulge she’d felt press into her lower back.

Besides, she wasn’t completely done being mad at him yet and arousal tended to put the lid on a good head of steam.

The idiot, she reminded herself, had set up camp in the middle of an October storm. He’d frightened her half to death by creeping up on her. Bossed her around, manhandled her. Ugh, the jerk!

Whew. Better. Irritation was so much easier to deal with than the fire-hot spark of attraction that made her insides quiver and had her wanting to do things with him that had to be illegal somewhere.

She whirled around, using Triton like a barrier, and jabbed at Alex’s chest. “So just what were you doing camping on my land in the middle of a storm?”

He stared down at her finger pressed to his solar plexus, his lip twitching as if holding back a smile. “I like camping.”

“It’s freezing out.”

“I’ve slept in worse conditions.” His tone picked up an edge, a hint of darkness, and the smile vanished.

Interest dampened her anger. She dropped her hand. “You have?”

“I’ve camped a lot of places.”

Maybe so, but no camping trip put that much regret in his eyes. She burned with curiosity, but bit back the questions. Now was not the time. The rain had soaked them both to the bone and they needed warm, dry clothes. Perhaps a cup or two of coffee. Then she’d ask.

Pru set Triton on the floor. The dog stayed pressed up against her legs as she headed for the stairs. “Since Wade destroyed your tent, you can stay here for the night. I’ll show you to one of the finished guest rooms. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall on the right and there’s fresh linens in the closet if you want to clean up.”

“That sounds like a plan.” Alex followed her up the stairs, but paused on the landing to study the old photograph hanging there. He tapped the gilded frame with his knuckle. “Your alleged ghost?”

“That’s her. Lovie True.”

He leaned closer to the portrait, squinting at Lovie’s face. The young woman wore a wedding dress and veil that partially obscured her dark eyes as she gazed over her right shoulder at the photographer. Pru had always thought the touch of a smile on Lovie’s lips was captivating and often found herself stopping on the stairway to study it.

Alex stepped back and shook himself like he was coming out of a bad dream. “Well, it’s creepy all right. I’ll give ya that.”

He took two steps at a time to stand on the stair beside her, so close that she could feel the winter chill in his wet clothing and the heat radiating from his body underneath. The man was like a furnace and she itched to run her hands up under his soaked T-shirt. He should be steaming right now.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said, sounding breathless. She mentally kicked herself for it. “You’re a non-believer.”

“Ghosts don’t exist.”

“So you say.”

Their eyes locked for a defiant second. His irises were such a deep, dark gray in the shadows of the stairway that they seemed to go on for miles, right down into the very pit of his soul. She saw the skepticism there. She also saw something else that made her breath catch. No mistaking it. Heat and lust.

Although chilly drafts stole into the stairway from the house’s old windows, warmth crept up the back of her neck, spread over her breasts and pooled low in her belly. Her gaze settled on his mouth. Typical lips for a man. Maybe a little too thin and hard, but she found them enticing, especially when he gave a slow, knee-melting smile like the one spreading over his mouth now.

She sucked in a breath. Forced herself to look away. How could he turn her on like this without even laying a hand on her? Not good.

Yeah, right, girl. It would be so, so good. Probably the best ever.

She clamped down on the rebellious thoughts. That wildcat libido tugged on its chain again, but she refused to let it off leash. God, imagine the consequences. Dangerous territory.

Behind her, Alex laughed low in his throat and followed her up the rest of the stairs. The sound reminded her of velvety chocolate and brought on a rush of arousal.

“I think I’ll shower,” he said. She imagined he used that same velvet-chocolate voice in bed and almost groaned. The mental image of him in the shower, hot water and soap bubbles sluicing his body—pure torment.

She swallowed hard and gestured to the end of the hall. “Bathroom’s down there.”

He didn’t move. “Care to join me?”

Yes, yes, yes! Her body all but shrieked it. Her mind said, are you stupid? She gave a breathless laugh. “So much for subtlety.”

“Subtlety’s a waste of time. The more direct, the better.”

“And I appreciate that. But, ah, it’s not a good idea.”

“I don’t have bad ideas.” Leaning down, he brushed his lips along her hairline. His tongue traced the curve of her ear, a light caress, just enough to make her shiver. Her nipples peaked, her belly clenched.

“Door will be open if you change your mind,” he murmured in her ear.

He left her standing in the middle of the hallway, panting and wet and wanting more than that fleeting caress of his tongue. What would it hurt? People have one night stands all the time. Okay, so she’d never been one of those people, but maybe it was time she change that. She took two steps toward the bathroom before she caught herself.

Dammit, no.

She jammed her hands through her drying hair and whirled away, stalked back downstairs. She had no time for such a relentless, incorrigible, overconfident man. Who also happened to be sexy as all get-out.

Feeling eyes on the back of her head, Pru stopped on the landing. Lovie True’s smile seemed broader and directed right at her. Upstairs, a rich tenor thrummed under the sound of running water.

Was he singing?

Yes, he was. Not very loud, but sound carried in the old house. She laughed, softening toward him a little more until she recognized the song. Bad Company’s Feel Like Making Love.

Oh, boy.

Face hot, Pru tried not to wonder if he’d left the door open as promised.

***

The old, cast iron, claw-foot tub was charming and, Alex noticed, the perfect size for bathtub sex.

Nice. He filed that idea away for later use.

He had to bend to fit under the showerhead and the bathroom walls were too far away to lean against as he did at home. Still, after bathing in freezing ocean water for the past two days, the hot shower felt excellent.

Pleased, Alex stood in the spray, letting the near-scalding water beat his chest, and hummed to himself. He’d crawled into his tent expecting to weather another cold, wet, miserable night. Instead, here he was in Pru’s shower with the strawberry scent of her hair—he knew it was strawberry because he’d shamelessly snooped through all her girly soaps, lotions, and perfumes on the vanity—still in his nose.

He should send Hulk a gift basket to thank him for that weird little freak-out.

Singing softly, Alex grabbed his travel-sized bottle of shampoo, squeezed some into his hair, which was in bad need of a barber, and thought about Pru. How angry she’d been at him for scaring her, the stiffness of her spine as she showed him the house, and how she’d started melting right there on the stairs with the slightest nudge. He hadn’t even done it on purpose.

Well, sort of hadn’t.

The sexual buzz was just there between them and felt as natural and comfortable as an old pair of slippers. If she stopped resisting, she’d feel the rightness of it too.

But then, hell, what would be the fun in that?

He grinned and tilted his head forward to rinse the suds from his hair. The thrill of the chase was the second best part of sex.

No doubt she’d use this time alone to rebuild her defenses against him. Fine with him. He’d been a good soldier in his day and infiltration was one of his specialties. He’d find the weak spots in her armor soon enough, then he’d make her melt again. And again. And again. All night long.

His cock hardened. He gave it a couple lingering strokes and thought of Pru’s lush ass, right at eye level as she ascended the stairs in front of him. Talk about torture. It had taken every fiber of self-control he possessed not to reach out, cup that luscious rump, and bury his face in the deep curve of her lower back. He couldn't wait to get that woman into bed and fill his hands and mouth with her bare flesh. His erection jerked in his hand, weeping with excitement. Squeezing, he imagined his palm was the tight grip of her body. Ah, torture.

God, it would be so good. He could almost taste her, feel her sumptuous curves pressed against his body, her slick heat sucking at him as he thrust—

The bathroom door squeaked.

Alex froze, cock in hand, his heart pounding hard in his ears. Footsteps padded across the old wood floor.

Had Pru changed her mind? Oh, please, let her have changed her mind. He’d rather not take care of this raging boner by himself. He held his breath, waiting for the shower curtain to slide open and Pru to step under the spray.

A minute passed with excruciating slowness, and then another.

Nothing.

Finally, he yanked open the curtain. “Pru?”

Steam billowed into the empty bathroom. The door stood partly open, but that was how he’d left it. His discarded clothing lay unmoved in a pile on the floor, but if someone had come in, the opening door would have shoved them against the wall.

Alex pulled the curtain shut and stared at the showerhead for a long moment. He had excellent hearing. No mistaking the sound of footsteps, the very distinct slap of bare feet on wood. Maybe Pru reconsidered at the last second and left. He hadn’t heard her leave, but that explanation made the most sense.

Skittish woman.

She reminded him of an abused mare Nick had taken in the last time Alex visited the ranch. That mare hadn’t wanted anyone near her, but over the course of a week, Nick won her over with calm persistence and a strong dose of animal magnetism. Alex could do the same with Pru. Like the mare, she just needed to be put at ease around him.

Hell, he couldn’t even blame her for her hesitation. It was a powerful attraction, the most intense he’d ever felt. It amazed him that he, the master of no-strings-attached flings, didn’t want to run from it himself. Maybe because it took his mind off the clusterfuck the rest of his life had become?

Alex shivered. The shower water still ran hot, but the air temperature seemed to drop as if a door or window stood open nearby, and goosebumps prickled all over his body. Probably time to get out anyway. If he stayed in, he could rid himself of the hard-on, but that made him feel a little dirty and ridiculous. He hadn’t jerked off in the shower since he was a teenager and really shouldn’t start again now as a guest in Pru’s bathroom.

Alex shuddered again, shut the water off. As he rubbed a towel over his head, his breath clouded in the air. Was the heating on the fritz? At least the chill took the edge off his erection.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, snagged his duffle bag and dirty clothes from the floor where he’d dropped them before the shower, and hot-footed it down the cool hallway. Eight doors lined the hall, but only one stood open with light burning inside like an invitation. He hustled inside and shut the door.

The room felt warmer, maybe due to the candlelight-yellow paint job that gave the place a cozy glow. One wall sloped with the angle of the house, a dormer window overlooking the ghost-white lighthouse tower in the side yard. The beacon flashed through the room every twenty seconds or so.

Fog had rolled in as the storm rolled out, thick as wool as it spread over the ground and curled around the base of the lighthouse. Anyone out at sea would need the light tonight.

Whoa. Déjà vu.

He shook his head to clear it then squinted out the window again. What was the story he’d overheard at the diner? The former keeper—his name was something like Cappy?—had hanged himself from the tower last year.

Alex calculated the height and grimaced. Ouch. Hanging was a bad way to go. If Cappy had wanted to off himself, why not use a gun? It was painless if done right and a hell of a lot easier than climbing up seventy feet worth of stairs, especially if the guy had been full of arthritis.

That pain could be excruciating, Alex knew. His kneecap had been shattered in the military and early-onset arthritis had settled into the joint, making it unbearable to get out of bed some mornings even with his freakishly high tolerance to pain. No way he’d be able to climb that tower when his knee acted up. Definitely no way if that pain infiltrated every other joint in his body. Not unless he had help.

“God,” he said aloud in disgust. “Looking for conspiracies now, Brennan? Here?” He was starting to sound like Theo. Fatigue, he decided. It made him paranoid. Or, at least, more paranoid than usual.

He shook himself to wake up and prowled the room. Minimalist but comfy. A decent-sized closet took up one wall and another door opened into a small, gutted space he assumed would be a private bath when it was finished. A corner shower stood in the room, but hadn’t been installed yet.

“Not bad.” He tossed his duffle on the double bed and sat down to rummage through it for some pajama pants and his toothbrush. The mattress was memory foam and cupped his ass like a lover. He lay back, groaning in pleasure as he sank into the bed. Really nice.

He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, thinking he’d like to have Pru in this bed with him. The next, he was out cold.

CHAPTER 7

Wade…

“No!” Wade’s breath fogged against the air. He rolled over in his narrow bed and buried his head under the pillow to block her out. He wouldn’t listen to her anymore. She got him in trouble with Pru and tomorrow, J.J was gonna be so angry he wouldn’t let him live in the carriage house anymore.

Wade liked his apartment. He had a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen with a microwave and a fridge, and a giant living room all to himself. He could watch baseball, eat potato chips, and drink Pepsi all day when he didn’t have to work. He even had a satellite hooked to his TV and could watch baseball all year round if he wanted, there were so many channels. He didn’t want to go back to his one room at J.J.’s house and all of J.J.’s rules. He was a grown-up. He could be good.

Wade…

“I’m not listening!” He sat up and launched his pillow across the empty room. “You got me in trouble. Everyone’s mad at me.”

The air warmed to room temperature.

“Hey! Where’d you go?”

Wade…

The whisper came from outside now. He padded over to the window, bare feet icy on the pine floor. The storm had blown over, but the wind still moaned and shook the trees at the edge of the property. A sliver of moon peeked out from behind two dark clouds, spilling soft white light onto the yard as the wind dragged fog in from the ocean. She floated over the storm-whipped grass toward the keeper’s quarters.

“Wait!” Wade pried the window open. The cold air hit him like a baton to the face. “No, don’t be mad at me too. I’m sorry. Are we still friends?”

She gazed over her shoulder with a little smile, just like in the photo in the stairway of the house.

Come with me.

Wade bit down on his lower lip and looked around his apartment. Pru said he wasn’t allowed to wander around tonight. “I can’t.”

Your father wants you.

“Dad?” A fist squeezed his heart. He blinked as tears clouded his vision. “You know where he is?”

Come with me.

Shivering with excitement, tears streaming down his face, Wade ran for the door without his shoes or coat. He’d just let The Green Lady take him to see Dad, then come right back inside. If he was quiet, Pru didn’t have to know he disobeyed.

***

Footsteps creaked overhead again. The sound had stopped for so long that Pru thought Alex finally went to bed. But, nope, he’d started pacing again.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

She pictured him in a pair of sexy, formfitting boxer shorts—he seemed like a boxer-brief kind of guy—retracing his steps over the pine floorboards like a caged wildcat, muscles flexing under taut skin tinged with the dregs of a summer tan. Was his chest hair the same black coffee color of the hair on his head? And what about the happy little trail that led the eye from his belly button to—

Ai-yi-yi.

Ever since that heated moment on the stairs, she couldn’t keep her mind out of the gutter. Or, more to the point, out of Alex’s pants.

Pru huffed out a breath and glanced at her alarm clock. One-thirty in the morning. Why wasn’t he sleeping?

She hoped, with a wicked twinge of satisfaction, that his insomnia was due to a guilty conscience for skipping dinner. When he never came downstairs after his shower, she sat at the kitchen table by herself, picking at her food, checking the clock every other minute until she realized he wasn’t coming back.

Fool, she thought now in disgust and tossed aside her blankets. Just like a lovesick teenage girl waiting by the phone for her boyfriend’s call, she’d sat there for twenty minutes worrying if he’d like the warm and spicy winter squash soup and deviled ham and pecan sandwiches she’d thrown together.

Okay, so maybe she hadn’t tossed it together at the last minute, though that was what she’d planned to tell him with a little flippant wave of her hand. Oh, this? This is nothing special.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d been grandstanding, hoping to impress him—and he’d blown her off. The jerk. Probably his way of getting back at her for not joining him in the shower.

Not that she hadn’t considered it but, sheesh, give a girl some time to think things through. Too much, too fast, and the man was like a tornado when he wanted something, flattening everything in his path. No doubt, he’d expected some slippery-hot shower sex tonight—and, for the love of God, she didn’t need that mental picture when she already ached for the man’s touch. She twisted on the bed, trying to find a comfy spot, willing away the heat pooling between her legs.

The footsteps continued. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Oh, forget it.

Groaning, Pru sat up and gazed toward the window where fog as thick as Grandma Mae’s chowder obscured her view of the lighthouse tower. The beacon still shone bright and steady, guiding ships away from the deadly rocks of Danger Ledge.

Was that light keeping Alex up? She should offer to pin a blanket over his window. Maybe then he’d stop pacing and she could push him out of her mind and get some sleep.

As she swung her feet to the cool pine floor, the footsteps upstairs stopped. Finally. Straining her ears, she heard the soft squeak of his door opening and the careful tread of a heavy man trying to be quiet on a creaking stairway. She padded to her bedroom doors and cracked one side open in time to see his broad-shouldered shadow slink across the foyer. He tested the knob on the front door.

Pru smiled and leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Expecting company?”

Spine snapping straight as a poker, he turned toward her. His jeans rode low on his hips, showing a V of muscle that arrowed the gaze down, and his chest was bare. A thin, white ridge of scar tissue started below his collarbone and sliced diagonally, ending just below his left nipple.

Whatever made that mark—a knife, maybe—must have taken him to death’s door. Her heart squeezed in response and she hoped the person who did that to him was dead. She hated violence, and felt a tiny prick of guilt for thinking it, but a person capable of slicing another human up like that didn’t deserve to live.

The scar drew her attention to the spattering of chest hair along his breastbone. He wasn’t a hairy man, but had just enough to be mouth-wateringly masculine. The color was a shade lighter than the hair on his head and—she dipped her gaze to the waistband of his jeans—yup, the happy trail trickling down his abs was a shade darker.

Well, she got her answer about that. Her belly muscles tightened. She had to remember how to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you?”

Inhale, exhale. “No,” she forced the word out. “I’ve been up.”

Alex’s gaze returned to the front door. “Did you go outside?”

She laughed and that made breathing easier. “Why would I? It’s freezing.”

“I swore I heard …” He shook his head and reached to check the door again. “You haven’t heard anything strange?”

“Nothing but you pacing all night long.”

He froze, one hand mid-way to the doorknob. “I haven’t been pacing, Pru. I was asleep until five minutes ago when I heard running footsteps and the front door slam shut.”

“No, nothing like that. Only you pacing.”

“But I wasn’t,” he insisted. “I crashed after getting out of the shower. Didn’t even dress. Woke up still in my towel.”

Her stomach knotted up again. His long body stretched out on a bed wearing nothing but a towel was another mental image she didn’t need. She forced her muscles to relax and tried to sound casual.

“Aren’t you in the room with the old rocking chair? It’s the one I set up for you.” She gestured to her bedroom. “The one right above me?”

He looked over her shoulder and the line of his jaw hardened. She knew what he saw. She’d only opened one of the pocket doors, but from where he stood, half in the foyer and half in the living room, he had a perfect view of her rumpled bed. His gaze moved to her, slipped over her body like a hot caress, then considered the bedroom again.

Oh, God.

Every nerve ending flared as if he’d doused her in gasoline and lit a match. She hurried to shut the door before he got any ideas and leaned against it, arms crossed over her breasts, keenly aware her nipples had pebbled against the chill in the air. He noticed at the same time she did and his gaze lingered on her chest for several long seconds before lifting to her face. His expression turned dark and hard, his gray eyes bright in the dimness of the room. A hungry predator sizing up his prey.

Pru straightened her spine and drew a calming breath. Like any predator, he would only attack if he sensed fear.

Good grief, what a silly thought. Alex wasn’t a wild animal. He was a man, and there was no reason for her heart to pound in fear of him. Plenty of other reasons for her heart to pound around him, but fear was ridiculous. She just wasn’t used to a man staring at her like he wanted to devour her.

She made herself uncross her arms, but still could not force her heart to steady.

Alex looked away, cleared his throat. “Yeah, my room’s up there.”

What were they talking about? Oh, right. The noises in his room.

“I heard someone prowling around up there.” She skirted the edge of the couch and sat down, padding the air between them with some distance and furniture. “Must be my ghost paid you a visit.”

“Ghosts don’t exist.”

“Are you so sure?” She hated how breathy her voice sounded, but couldn’t seem to help it with the hungry way he still stared. “I mean, you did hear phantom footsteps running down the stairs.”

“I must’ve been dreaming.” He turned away. Without those heated storm cloud eyes focused on her, she could breathe again and took a moment to settle herself down.

Alex wiggled the doorknob as if to reassure himself that it had not magically come unlocked in the past few moments. The door did not budge. He rubbed the back of his neck and for the first time, she realized he held a gun at his side.

He had a gun in her house.

She stared at it, her heart in her throat.

A gun. He had a gun.

Something clicked inside her, an ingrained flight instinct that shut down higher thought.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” She scrambled to her feet, banging into the coffee table, nearly face planting on the rug before catching herself on the chair and bounding back to her feet. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” She couldn’t stop saying it, like a mantra or a prayer.

Alex moved across the room so fast her brain didn’t register it until his hand rubbed circles on her back. “Pru, what’s wrong?”

She stared at the gun, so close now. She could already feel its cold mouth digging into the base of her spine again, urging her toward the cash register .…

“Pru!” Alex gripped her shoulder with his free hand and gave her a hard shake. That brought her back, but only halfway. The memories, those vicious, life-ruining memories, still played out in her mind’s eye, haunting and yet so very real.

“What—” The words wouldn’t form on her tongue. Her voice came as a panicked squeak. “What are you doing with that?”

“Aw, shit.” He switched the safety on and stuffed the muzzle into the waistband of his jeans behind his back. “It’s gone now, see?” He held up his hands, showing his empty palms.

Her whole body shook, her chest shuddered as she tried to draw in oxygen, her legs threatened to give out. She stared at Alex, but didn’t see him standing there helplessly with worry etching deep lines around his mouth. A masked man stood there, waving that gun, shoving it into her face after she emptied the register, yelling at her to get into the freezer….

She opened her mouth to scream. Nothing came out.

Alex muttered a curse and her feet disappeared from the floor as he scooped her up. He sat down with her cradled in his lap, holding her while she shook and remembered the incident that ended her career and marriage. The screams, the gunshots, the blood, the death. Owen’s accusations, the divorce, the breakdown. A horror she’d tried to escape by coming home and working at Grandma Mae’s diner.

The sobs started as small mewling sounds, like something an injured kitten would make. She tried to hold them in but the floodgate had opened. She curled into Alex’s chest and cried until her eyes ran dry.

***

Sometime later, Pru became aware of his heart thudding under her ear, heard each indrawn breath fill his lungs. Alex’s cheek rested on the top of her head and his hand moved in slow strokes up and down her back. He murmured soft comforts, and the thrum of his voice helped ground her.

She blinked a couple times, eyes gritty, and her nose leaked like a busted faucet all over his chest. So not sexy. She sniffed and looked up at him.

Alex lifted his head but said nothing, just stared into her eyes with concern in his own. He palmed her cheek, his thumb brushing aside a tear. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there was anything to say. She’d never been held like this during one of her—

Oh no.

Her eyes widened as the last of the disorientation cleared and embarrassment slammed into her. Face hot, she struggled out of his embrace. He let go, sat with his hands on his knees and watched without saying a word.

Minutes ticked by.

Dammit, why didn’t he say anything? She paced away, breathing in ragged huffs, dragging her hands through her hair. The silence became suffocating. She wanted to melt into the floorboards.

“Alex, I am so sorry for that.”

“Don’t be,” he said softly. “I should have told you about the gun when you invited me to stay. I’m so used to having it, I didn’t think about how you might react.”

“Why do you have it?” Her voice quivered and she hated herself for that. Hated herself even more that she still couldn’t look at him. Instead, she focused on the family portraits sitting on the mantel over the fireplace. Her grandparents’ wedding photo and her parents’. Her dad teaching her to ride a bike in the yard out front and various other still-frames of her childhood. Christmases, Thanksgivings, Easters.

The lighthouse stood in all of the shots.

That was why she’d come home. So many good memories here to drown out the bad.

Behind her, she heard Alex set something on the end table beside the couch. Probably the gun. She shuddered. She didn’t want to see it again.

“I was a Marine for a long time,” he said after another long moment of silence. “Spec ops. After I got out, I felt naked without a gun. It’s second nature for me to be armed.”

She turned at the odd note in his voice and thought she caught regret fluttering over his expression. Then he shrugged. “I’ll lock it up and you don’t have to see it again.”

Maybe she imagined the flash of remorse or transplanted her own emotions onto him, because his gaze was as intense and direct as always.

“No, you don’t have to do that. It’s not the gun.” When he arched a brow, she added, “Not completely. It’s a long story. I have…issues.”

Alex slouched into the couch cushions and laced his hands across his stomach. His grin had a wholesomeness to it that contradicted his city boy swagger. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Pru tried to laugh. It came out somewhere between hysterical sob and hiccup. “I guess so, but…not everyone has these kinds of issues. Um, my therapist called it post-traumatic stress.”

“Fuck therapists.”

This time when she laughed, it came out sounding more like a real laugh. Sniffling, she wished she had something other than her sleeve to wipe her nose. “Wow, and they say I have issues.”

“No, seriously,” Alex said. “I’ve had extensive experience with them. It’s no coincidence the word ‘rapist’ makes up two thirds of the word ‘therapist’. I’ve learned the best therapy is having a good friend willing to listen. Saves money too.” He patted the cushion next to him. “Need a shoulder to cry on?”

“I already did that.” Self-conscious, she chaffed her arms and gazed around her living room, one of the few areas in the house not touched by construction. She’d chosen the décor, an eclectic mix of old and new, to please both her love of antiques and her love of creature comforts. John Jr. had once despairingly called her style “schizophrenic,” and maybe it was, but she wasn’t looking to win any interior design awards. It was a good space. Bright, cheerful, and cozy. Her space, where she made a fresh start—and still the shadows of the past were always right there, under the surface, threatening to yank her back into the darkness.

That terrified her.

Maybe Alex was right and she did need someone to listen, but should she confide in him? Part of her wanted to—no, craved to. Even Miranda didn’t know the whole story of her divorce and return to Three Churches, and it would feel so good to let it all out for once. But baring her emotional scars seemed like an intimate act, making him less of a stranger, and she really needed that barrier. At least until she could rein in her raging physical response to him.

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me,” Alex said when the silence stretched out a little too long. “I’ll admit, I’m curious though. You don’t seem the type to have many skeletons in your closet.”

“I don’t, not really. It’s…”

C’mon, Pru, you’re being silly. Telling him was not equivalent to an act of intimacy. Simply conversation.

She blew out a breath that ruffled her hair and sat beside him. “Two years ago, I lived in Portland with my ex-husband, Owen. We had just opened our own restaurant, which has been a dream of mine since my grandma first plunked me down on a stool beside her in the diner’s kitchen. I cooked, Owen handled the business, and we struggled a little at first, but then a major food critic reviewed us and—boom.”

She smiled, remembering the overwhelming joy, the excitement, the pride that welled up inside her that morning when Owen read the critic’s review aloud over breakfast. It seemed like so long ago now.

“I bet things got easier,” Alex said and reached for her hand.

“Yes and no. We still had problems, just different kinds. Overnight, everything changed. We had a full house every night and we didn’t have the staff for it. Owen hired ten waitresses, I hired four chefs. Celebrities came up from New York and Boston to eat there. It was … beautiful. Hectic, tiring as hell, but beautiful.”

Emotion rose up so suddenly, she choked on it. She pressed her hand to her mouth and felt tears trickle down her cheeks.

Alex moved closer, tucking her in the curve of his arm. “What happened?”

“Someone robbed us after Christmas last year.” It felt strange to say it aloud with such ease. For a long time, she wasn’t able to form those words together in that order. Part of the PTSD, her therapist had said.

Alex cursed and rubbed a hand from her shoulder to her wrist and back. She nudged closer, tucking her legs underneath her body, wanting to wrap herself in his heat and absorb some of the strength she felt in his arm as it tightened around her.

“I was out front with one of the waitresses,” she continued in a hollow tone, seeing the whole horrible night play out in her mind’s eye. “Carrie. Her boyfriend, Todd, was one of the new chefs I’d hired and we were waiting for him to finish cleaning up his station so I could lock the door behind them when they left. Just standing there talking, you know. She bitched about his commitment phobia, mad that after two years of dating he still hadn’t proposed. I stood there and did the girl-power, what-do-we-need-men-for thing, but the whole time I knew Owen had helped Todd pick out a ring just that afternoon. He was going to pop the question on New Year’s, right in our restaurant, had this big thing planned. God.”

The tears spilled out in earnest now. Alex did his best to wipe them away. “Carrie never got her ring?”

“No.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “The guy came in wearing a ski mask. It was cold out, one of the coldest winters we’d had in a while, and a lot of people were wearing them so at first I thought he was a customer. I told him we were closing. He said, ‘good,’ and then I saw the gun. Carrie screamed. He shot her in the head, just like—like he didn’t even think twice about it. The blood…splattered all over me and the tables and the walls and Todd came running out of the kitchen and the guy grabbed me and shoved the gun into the base of my neck—” She touched her neck, could still almost feel the barrel digging in there.

“Okay,” Alex said, voice raw. “Okay, baby, stop. You don’t have to tell me more.”

She heard him somewhere in the back of her mind, but the words poured out. The dam that had held them back broke and she relived each one in terrible, vivid detail.

“He wanted the money out of the register but there wasn’t much there because everyone uses credit cards now. He took my wedding ring, the money in my wallet—there wasn’t much there either. Everything I had, I put into the restaurant. He took my keys and said he was going to my house. Then he wanted Todd’s keys and wallet and the ring for Carrie, but Todd wouldn’t give that up so he shot him. I started screaming and couldn’t stop. I thought he was going to kill me too. He locked me in the freezer. I still don’t know why he killed those two kids and spared me. Owen found me an hour later in shock, hypothermic, and called the cops. By then, our house had been ransacked.”

“Did they catch the bastard?” Alex asked. The dark edge in his voice made her flinch. He tightened his arm, holding her to his side, soothing her by rubbing his hand down her arm again.

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean that to come out like it did.” He linked their fingers, raised her hand to his lips. “Don’t be afraid of me. Hearing that someone hurt you like that…it hurts me,” he said, sounding amazed by the realization. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “And pain makes me angry. It’s not directed at you. Never at you.”

Nothing else he said or did could be any sweeter than that admission. Pru relaxed into him, watching her tears drop onto his skin and roll down his pectoral muscle, over his nipple.

“No, they never caught him,” she answered finally, “and that’s the worst thing. He’s still out there. For a long time afterward, I dreamed about him coming back to kill me. I had panic attacks. Owen couldn’t take it. We fell into debt and he blamed me because I couldn’t function. It didn’t help that my dad died right after all this happened. I was…broken.”

“Believe me,” Alex said, “I know how that feels.”

“It took me a long time to fix myself.”

“But you did it, and that is amazing to me.” His finger hooked under her chin, forcing her to look at him. The smooth pad of his thumb strayed over her lips and she released a shuddering breath. Hot, unfamiliar waves of desire poured into her stomach, warring with the guilt and pain.

“You are the bravest, most amazing woman I have ever met,” he said. He wasn’t lying or feeding her a line—she could see the truth of it in his eyes.

Oh, that did it. First he’d given her the sunflower. Then he’d forgiven Wade for attacking him. Then he’d held her while she freaked out on him. But this was the cake topper. He’d listened to her ugly story and didn’t run for the hills screaming or brush it off and tell her to get over it. He just accepted it and the scars it had left on her. The man was almost too good to be true, and that worried her. She really couldn’t take getting her heart broken again.

“Alex, you’re a stranger to me,” she whispered, breathless, and yet she could not find it within herself to push him away.

He smiled, and there was a guarantee that he was something she’d never had before in the small curl of his lips. “That I am.”

His hand dropped and traced the fine bones along her collar before circling to the back of her neck and pulling her closer so that she was almost on his lap. Her voice abandoned her, leaving only a rusty semblance in its wake. “What if I don’t want you to stay a stranger?”

“I think I’d like that very much.”

He was using the velvet chocolate voice again, the one that made her bones turn to water, and she nearly melted into a puddle right there beside him on the couch.

“But I’m not going to just hop into bed with you,” she said, struggling to maintain an ounce of control. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is.”

She pushed a hand against his chest. “I told you my story. I need to know something about you now.”

Something other than the way those fingers of his, kneading the back of her neck like that, made it hard to breath.

His fingers moved, threading into her hair, and she sighed, half with relief and half with disappointment. His other hand traced the curve of her waist and flattened against the small of her back, bringing her closer still. He pressed a kiss to her head, then leaned his forehead against hers and smiled.

“Anything you want to know, Pru. Anything at all.”

Her body reacted to the caress of his hand down her spine as if struck by a bolt of electricity. Her mind short-circuited. Every nerve ending tingled in response to his touch. The only thing she really wanted to know about him was how he would look without those blue jeans on. How his lips would feel crushed against hers. How those big hands would move on her skin. How he would feel on top of her, pushing inside her.

Oh, screw it. She was tired of thinking. She needed comfort right now and he wanted to give it. She needed to feel more than that old, raw edge of fear, needed something beautiful to fill the black hole that had opened up in her heart. He was beautiful.

Pru lifted her head and pressed her lips to his. A gentle kiss, but the surprise of it fractured something inside him. She felt his control slip, hanging on by one less link than before, and smiled into his mouth. She did like riling him. She threw a leg over his body, straddling him, and pressed her center to the hard ridge in his jeans. The shudder that tore through him as he gripped her hips excited her, made her breasts tingle and her body turn molten. She ground her hips against his pelvis.

“Pru…” He groaned her name. His hands left her hips long enough to find the edge of her nightshirt.

“Oh, c’mon.” He pulled at her sports bra, but he wasn’t going to get it off until her shirt came off and she wasn’t about to help him. She had to make him work for it a little. He started swearing, fighting with her for control of the shirt.

“Oh, c’mon,” he said again. She liked the edge of desperation in his voice.

Pru wrapped her arms around his neck and shifted positions, drawing him down to the couch, reveling in the weight of him on top of her, drowning in the sexed-up male spice of his scent. She arched into him and another link popped on his control. A rumble rose from deep in his throat and he plundered her mouth with a hot, hard kiss, all gentleness gone, his tongue sparring with hers, conquering.

Yes. This was what she wanted. She parted her legs, and his hips settled between them as if they had done this a thousand times, no awkward jostling or rearranging. Her bare legs curled around his. The bulge of his erection probed the wet strip of cotton covering her, and she twisted against him, wanting to be closer, wanting more. He forgot about the sports bra and delved his hands underneath her, gripping her bottom, pushing into her heat. His jeans scraped her bare thighs but—oh, did it feel delicious. She rubbed herself on him, no doubt soaking the front of his jeans with her lube.

With a growl that sounded primal to her fevered brain, Alex shoved himself up and reached for the fly of his pants. He froze midway through undoing the button and looked over the back of the couch toward the foyer.

And, damn him, his control rebounded as if it never slipped—she could almost see the links she’d broken reform and lock tight again. His muscles tensed, coiled like a spring trap. She had a feeling he’d jump into action if she said “boo!”.

She ran a hand down the taut muscles in his thigh. The man looked fine in blue jeans, but she wanted them off. Now. She reached to finish undoing his fly herself. “Don’t stop.”

He shifted his weight backward enough to avoid her hands. “Are you cooking something?”

She blinked. Wow, talk about a subject change. Her mind raced to catch up to the non sequitur, but her body was a little slower to respond. Her panties were soaked through and the spot where his hands had pressed against her butt zinged with erotic heat. Small, excited tremors worked up her legs. Her womb clenched in anticipation of a joining that didn’t look like it was going to happen now.

Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he got enough of a look at her naked body and decided he wasn’t interested in pear-shaped women, turned off by her lumps and bumps and cellulite thighs. The flood of mortified disappointment shook her to her core.

God, how many more times can she make a fool of herself tonight?

“Um, no, I’m not cooking anything.” She tried to keep her voice light despite the lump rising in her throat. Self-conscious, she struggled to sit up and straighten her shirt, but his heavy weight looming over her held her pinned to the couch. “Are you, uh, hungry?”

Duh, she told herself, of course he was hungry. He passed out before dinner, so he probably hadn’t eaten since lunch or before.

“No,” he said and gazed down at her still sprawled underneath him with her nightshirt all twisted around and pulled up to her chin. Heat—embarrassment, not arousal—flushed her skin from her face down and she knew she had to be turning pink. All over. She tried to squirm away.

“At least, not for food,” he added. He let out a vicious curse and got to his feet, adjusting his erection to fit more comfortably in his jeans. “I smell something burning in the kitchen.”

“Fire?” She sat up and caught the faint scent he’d noticed, like a pork roast but with a slight rancid undertone. It was a smell she recognized, one that hung in the air at least once a week.

“Oh.” She huffed out a breath in relief and pressed a hand over her heart before it jumped out of her chest. “That’s Lovie making her dinner. You’ll smell it once in a while. See, it’s already fading.”

Alex stared at her, mouth-hanging open, brows drawn low in such a comical expression that she had to smother a giggle behind her hand.

“Lovie?” he echoed. “Uh, wait.” He closed his eyes, shook his head, opened his eyes and squinted at her like she was a foreign recipe he couldn’t figure out. “Lemme get this straight. Your…ghost…cooks dinner?”

Pru grinned. “Don’t believe me?”

“Ghosts don’t exist.”

She shrugged and pushed to her feet, smoothing her nightshirt into place. She ignored the dampness between her legs and his scent, a dark spice laced with clean soap, clinging to her body. The moment was ruined and now that she thought about it, that was probably a good thing.

“Then c’mon,” she said and crooked a finger at him. “I’ll prove to you I have nothing cooking.” She crossed to the foyer. He still stood by the couch, the button of his jeans undone, his hair mussed, his expression one of disbelief with a hint of annoyance. He was still hard, his jeans ridged from the erection. She pretended not to notice. “Coming?”

“Uh-uh,” he said. “Why don’t you save your parlor tricks for your tourists in the spring and come back in here? Or better yet, we can go to bed.”

Not a good idea. If it wasn’t for The Green Lady, he’d be inside her right now. Most likely, without a condom. She certainly didn’t have any in the house and unless he made a habit of carrying around a just-in-case stash, she doubted he had any either.

How much more reckless could she be? He could have a STD or something and the timing was perfect for her to get pregnant. For the love of God, she didn’t even know his last name.

Thank you, Lovie.

“Afraid I’ll prove you wrong?”

Alex scowled. “Hell no. I’m not scared.”

“Then come here.” She continued into the dining room and heard the rustle of his jeans, the wood floor creaking under his feet as he followed.

“Pru.” He caught her hand before she entered the kitchen through the swinging door. “Let’s say you really do have a ghost. How about you don’t disturb her? Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping ghosts lie.”

“Ah. Well, the expression is ‘dogs’, Alex. It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, so let’s not disturb Triton, okay?”

“It works for ghosts too,” he muttered.

“You are scared.” She laughed and poked a finger at his chest. The big bad-ass warrior was afraid of Casper. Too cute.

As if he needed to be any more appealing.

“Relax.” She patted his cheek. “Lovie’s harmless. She pulls pranks, that’s all. Here, I’ll show you.” Before he could protest, she folded her fingers around his and shouldered through the kitchen door. “See? Nothing. I told you—”

The room exploded with flames.

CHAPTER 8

Kevin Mallory slipped through the door of Buzzy’s Tavern and frowned at the line of full tables along the back wall.

Seriously? It wasn’t as if Buzzy’s served anything remotely considered edible when sober. Or when drunk, for that matter. Even frying up some halfway decent potatoes was more of a chore than Frank Garrett wanted to deal with. The only thing Buzzy’s owner knew was beer and everything he served was homemade in the microbrewery out behind the building. So why did the handful of tables always fill up first?

Stupid question, Kevin thought and loitered by the busted jukebox, hoping for a table to open up. He didn’t want to sit at the bar for the same reason nobody else sat there. Nosy, meddling women. His mother was sure to come looking when he didn’t return home and the deep shadows shrouding the tables made for a perfect hiding spot.

He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake. If he wanted a drink, he’d drink until he was good and ready to stop. So he’d made that one stupid mistake last year. Ancient history. No reason to ride his ass about it. Let the shit go already.

Grumbling under his breath, Kevin decided on a seat at the far end of the bar, as much in the shadows as he could manage, and ordered a mug of amber ale. He finished off his first glass in three long gulps. With a mother like Helen, a man had to drink to stay sane.

As he set down his mug with a hollow thunk, he caught the stare of a man seated three stools away. Clean-shaven with his hair pulled back in a slick tail, the guy rang a bell of familiarity in Kevin’s brain, but his clothes shouted city. Slacks, a button-up shirt, denim jacket—all stiff and new. Tourist.

“Hey,” the man said. Even his voice sounded familiar.

Kevin gave him a cool nod and held up a hand, signaling Frank he was ready for his second round. The man didn’t take the hint. He walked over, slapped a twenty on the bar, and sat beside Kevin.

“This one’s on me.”

Kevin knew better than to protest when someone wanted to buy his alcohol for him, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He took his refilled mug, downed half of it, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Thanks, but this is a townie bar. Most of us don’t take well to outsiders.”

“I know.” And if he didn’t look as pleased as punch by it. “Actually, I’m looking for someone. A man.”

Kevin choked on his next mouthful and nearly spit the ale out. “Whoa, can’t help ya. I’m not a fucking homo.” He started to stand, but the stranger put a hand on his arm and squeezed. Hard.

“I know you can help me.” He pushed aside his coat just enough to show the gun in a shoulder holster underneath.

Kevin swallowed and dropped back to his stool. “I-I can try.”

“Good man.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket. Kevin gulped more ale as he unfolded a photo and placed it on the bar. “Do you know this guy?”

The photo looked military, the man in it young and unsmiling. Marine, judging by the dress uniform. Recognition chimed in Kevin’s mind, but he said, “Nope,” and took another deep swig from his mug. It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t personally know the man who had popped up in town a couple days ago, the one Pru was now involved with.

The stranger cleared his throat. A subtle sound, but a definite warning. “Now, Kevin, I think you’re lying to me. Not a good thing to do, considering what I know about you.”

This crazy mother knew his name? Kevin went cold down to the bone as beer swirled around in his stomach, threatening to come back up. Droplets of sweat rolled down his spine. Oh, shit. What else did he know?

“I’m not lying. I swear, I don’t know him.” He licked his dry lips. “But I’ve seen him. He’s older now than in that picture. Mid-thirties. Hair’s longer too. I know his first name’s Alex, but that’s it. I swear.”

The stranger gave a slow smile and folded the picture in half once, then again. “So he’s definitely here in town?”

“Yes. Showed up yesterday, I think.”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“No.”

“Tsk. Not the answer I wanted to hear, Kev.” The stranger pulled out a cell phone and thumbed the power button. Reception was spotty in Three Churches, but Buzzy’s was one place in town where the signal was good. “Maybe I should just call the state troopers. I’m sure they’d love to know all about—”

“Wait, please.”

The stranger paused with his thumb poised over the buttons.

Kevin drew in a deep breath to keep his stomach from revolting. “I-I really don’t know where that guy’s staying. Honest. But I know how you can find him.”

The stranger nodded and slid the phone back into his pocket. “Good.” He slung his arm over Kevin’s shoulders as if they were old pals. “Let’s go have a chat, hmm?”

CHAPTER 9

“So you didn’t see or hear anything beforehand?”

Seething with frustration, Alex wanted to punch out Sheriff Bernard Forbes, find Pru in the chaos of cops and volunteer firemen swarming her front yard, and make sure she was okay.

Instead, he reined it all in and rubbed his hands over his head. He sat on the hood of the sheriff’s cruiser, his feet balanced on the front bumper, and suspected he was lucky not to be in the backseat. He was trying to be cooperative, but dammit, why wouldn’t the sheriff let him see Pru?

“Lookit, sheriff,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “I already told you a hundred times. I heard footsteps running down the stairs and the front door slammed shut about an hour before the fire started. It must have been on a timing mechanism to go off when Pru opened the kitchen door.”

“But you don’t recall seein’ anyone?”

“I don’t.”

A man in a turnout coat walked out of the house with a helmet tucked under one arm. He motioned to Forbes. They moved away from the police car and spoke in undertones for several moments. Forbes jerked in surprise. The fireman shrugged.

The sheriff finally nodded and returned to Alex. “Firemen have been through the place top to bottom. There’s no timing mechanism, no accelerant, no burn marks. No fire.” He spit a wad of tobacco on the ground and his eyes narrowed. “So who did you say you are again?”

Alex ignored the question. “That’s not possible. I saw a fire. I felt the heat.” He rubbed the back of his neck where the fire had scorched his hair. He’d thought for sure he’d have a good burn there, but the paramedics gave him a clean bill of health.

“And yet neither of you are burned,” Forbes pointed out. “I’d really like to see some ID now.”

Alex reached for his wallet, remembered it wasn’t in his pocket. “It’s in my room.”

A deputy called Forbes’s name. He held up a finger, classic give-me-a-sec gesture. “Go get it. But don’t think about sneaking away.”

Yeah, right. Like he would take off and leave Pru to deal with this alone.

On his way upstairs, Alex took a side-trip to the kitchen to see it for himself. He steeled his nerves before shoving through the door, half-expecting another explosion, but the kitchen was quiet and empty. He studied the doorframe and ceiling, both of which should be a burned out shell now. Not even a speck of dust on them.

How was that possible?

Alex ran his palm over the frame and pain cleaved through his left side as if someone had jabbed a knife into his kidney. The room tilted and shifted before his eyes, reality softening into something like a dream. A man lay face down on the kitchen floor, blood pooling under him, a knife protruding from his side. Flames leapt up the wall over the stove and licked the ceiling.

Alex could feel the heat on his face and arms, felt blood leaking through his hand from a wound he didn’t have. He gasped and scrambled backwards, banging into the door, nearly falling on his ass in the dining room.

The door swung shut and everything popped into sharp focus. The pain in his side ebbed, replaced with a pounding inside his skull. The heat of the flames faded.

Panting, Alex straightened and looked around the dark dining room. A plastic sheet covered the table. Half the floor was torn up and slats of wood flooring sat in a neat stack along the back wall. Looked normal, smelled normal, felt normal—except for his heart thudding in his ears. He gave the door to the kitchen a nudge with his palm. It swung open.

No man bleeding out on the floor. No flames. No burn marks.

Not possible. Not possible. Not possible.

Shaking his head, he backed away until he reached the foyer and then bolted upstairs for his wallet.

***

Pru wrapped her hands around the thermos of coffee one of the firemen had given her and huddled under a thin blanket. She didn’t know who gave her the blanket, having still been in a state of shock when it was draped over her shoulders, but she was grateful for it. The cold nipped at her bare arms and legs and she wasn’t crazy about the idea of half the town seeing her in her nightshirt. She curled her knees up to her chest and hugged the cover more securely around herself.

Triton sat next her, pressing against her leg. As she moved, he whimpered and scooted closer, snuggling under the blanket with her. She patted his head, reassuring him and herself they were both okay.

“I really think you need to leave this lighthouse.” Rhett paced in front of her, his tan deputy sheriff uniform looking as if he’d slept in it. She wondered if he was at Miranda’s before the call came in or if he’d warmed someone else’s sheets tonight. Probably someone else. If he was at Miranda’s, she would be here right now wrapping Pru up in one of her big hugs.

Tears blurred Pru’s vision and she swiped at them before they leaked out. God, she wished Miranda was here. She could really use one of those hugs and Miranda would know just what to say to make her feel better.

“Rhett, please. Don’t start this again. Not tonight.”

“I’m not saying the ghost story’s true,” Rhett continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “But I do know it’s not good for you, not good for anybody to live here. It sucks the sanity out of people. Look what happened to Cappy Putnam.”

“Cappy was old. He had Alzheimer’s. He lived here for years and nothing happened to him.” She was tired of defending her decision to live at the lighthouse. Even Grandma Mae disapproved and she was sick to death of it. “You’re being ridiculous. It’s just a house. I’m staying.”

He paced away from her, gave a growl of frustration, and circled back. “I don’t like this.”

Oh, the nerve of this man! Did he seriously think that his opinion still mattered to her?

“I don’t care,” she said. “You have no say over what I do. You never did. That’s why we broke up. You wanted a pregnant and barefoot wifey waiting at home for you and I wanted to go to Le Cordon Bleu in Boston.”

His face reddened. A vein throbbed in his temple. “Yeah, and that was a huge waste of time and money. Look where you ended up, waitressing at Mae’s where you started.”

The barb stung. She sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut, shuddering at the pain it caused.

“Go away.” She hated herself for the wobble in her voice, but a lump had lodged in her throat and talking around it was almost impossible. It was all she could do not to burst into tears in front of him. “Just leave me alone.”

“I can’t. I have to get your statement.” Rhett took off his hat, ran a hand through his blond hair. He looked at the front of the house as the screen door banged. Alex disappeared inside and the sheriff strode toward the backyard with another deputy.

“What do you know about this guy staying with you?” Rhett said and replaced his hat.

She sighed, rubbing her forehead with her fingers. “I know what your problem is. You’re jealous of him.”

“Damn right I’m jealous!” He leaned into her space and trapped her on the bumper of the ambulance with his hands on her thighs. “I sit by your bedside and take care of you every time you have one of your mental breakdowns and I barely get a peck on the cheek for it.”

She stared at him, appalled. The man was a jackass, but this was even lower than she thought he’d stoop. “Did you expect payment?”

“Nobody else wanted to take care of poor, unstable Pru.”

She flinched. Another stinging blow. He knew right where to aim them. “Fine. I’ll get my checkbook.”

His hands tightened, fingers digging into her bare flesh as he dragged her closer. Triton growled. Such a good boy, but completely ineffective. Everyone knew Triton was about as much of a threat as a bunny.

Rhett ignored the dog. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” she snapped. “And I may be unstable but I’m not a whore so get your hands off me.”

He removed his hands, but didn’t back up. The look in his eyes made her shiver. Cold. So very cold. And—hurt? No. He couldn’t really care enough to be hurt by her rejection. Most likely, his ego had taken the brunt of the blow.

“Oh, you’re not a whore,” he said, skepticism rich in his voice. “Then explain to me why you’re cozying up to a guy you just met.”

“God.” She shoved him and stood, pacing away just to put some distance between them. “Get it through your head, Rhett. Who I cozy up to is none of your concern.”

Rhett surged toward her. She shrank back. Triton, the dear thing, barked a warning then cowered inside the ambulance.

“Swithin,” Sheriff Forbes called from the side of the house. “Over here. Now.”

“Yeah. Coming.” Rhett looked at her for several long seconds, his jaw tight. “I don’t trust this Alex guy.”

He walked away. She exhaled and grabbed her dog around the neck in a tight hug. Triton licked the tears off her cheek.

***

Had to be a logical explanation for what happened here tonight, Alex thought and grabbed his ID from his wallet on the nightstand.

Yeah, man, there is, his inner cynic taunted. You’re going bat-shit crazy just like Theo, just like Mom, just like Granddad. Crazy runs thick in your blood, pal. Doesn’t get much more logical than that.

No. He banished the idea from his thoughts. He’d find Pru as soon as he got the sheriff off his back and she’d confirm that the first fire was not a figment of his imagination. He couldn’t figure out how to explain away the second fire he’d seen or the man bleeding out in the middle of the kitchen yet, but he would.

He was not crazy.

Maybe a stress-induced hallucination? He’d seen it happen to friends in combat.

As Alex headed for the hallway, uneasiness stole over his skin, raising the hairs on his forearms. He stopped moving.

God, something was wrong in this place. Not just the in lighthouse, which was creepy as all hell, but in the entire damn town. He’d had the feeling since he rolled to a stop at that red light by the diner. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his instincts were rarely wrong and every alarm bell in his mind clanged in warning.

Alex hesitated, glanced back at his wallet, lying open on the bed where it had landed when he tossed it. He looked at his license. Real name. Real address. His DOB. A quick background check with that info would reveal his connection to the DEA, as well as some—not all, thank God—of his military background. That, he decided, was not something he wanted floating around town.

He strode to the bed and slid his other ID out of one of the credit card slots of his wallet. Alexander Locke. Security consultant with a specialization in knocking heads, money launderer, recreational cocaine user, and all-around jackass.

Goddammit. When he left Boston, he thought that guy was gone for good. He’d enjoyed being himself for the first time in a long time and dreaded slipping back into Locke’s slimy skin, but it felt safer than revealing his law enforcement background.

Using the Locke ID was a risk, no doubt about it. It’d be smarter to get in touch with some of his shadier buddies from the military—Kai or Malcolm—and have one of them get him a new, squeaky-clean ID, but he didn’t have time for that. He had to work with what he had, and he had either his real name or his UC name.

He grabbed his duffle, yanked out his clothes and the fabric-covered cardboard bottom. He’d had a thin pocket sewn into the lining of this bag long ago, perfect for concealing multiple IDs. He slipped his license into the pocket, followed by anything in his wallet with his real name or address on it, and then replaced the bottom and his clothes in the bag. Ran his hand around the bag, checking to be sure none of the cards stood out in the lining. Perfect.

One last thing. Alex sprinted downstairs to grab his gun. He had to root around before finding it between the table and the couch—he and Pru must have knocked it off when things got hot-and-heavy. It was registered to him, not Locke, so he couldn’t have anyone running the serial number. He took it and his back-up piece into the unfinished bathroom off his room and wedged them into a crevasse where the tile of the corner shower stall met the bare wall studs. He moved some insulation over them with his foot. Good enough. It’d do until he could find a more secure, better accessible place to stash them.

Satisfied, Alex snapped up his wallet and headed downstairs to find Pru.

She sat on the bumper of an ambulance hugging her dog, a blanket draped over her shoulders to fend off the chill of the October night. Alex was still only in jeans, though he did think enough to pull on his boots. Cold didn’t bother him. The military had hardened him to the elements a long time ago.

“Pru.”

She jumped and lifted her head from Triton’s neck, stared at him with dazed eyes. There was a small cut above her eyebrow, the skin around it inflamed and starting to bruise. His heart constricted.

“Oh, hey.” He dropped to his knees in front of her. To his surprise, his hand shook as he raised it to her cheek. His hand—that had ended more lives than he cared to count, that had stitched together his own flesh as well as a couple of Nick’s wounds, that had coolly traded drugs with Boston’s most notorious and dangerous criminals during the last two years of living undercover—was quivering.

“Hey, don’t cry.” The tears were killing him.

“Sorry.” She sniffed, shook back her tangled hair and dashed away the tears with the edge of her blanket. Dark circles of exhaustion bruised the pale flesh under her eyes. “It’s been a hell of a night.”

“I don’t think it’s over yet.” He hated to say it, but he had a sinking feeling in his gut, a gaping black hole that made him nauseous. He knew better than to ignore it. “Before anything else happens, I need to ask you something important.”

Worry creased her brow. “Okay.”

“Has there ever been a murder in Three Churches?”

Pru stared at him. One beat. Two. Then she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Has there ever been a fire in the lighthouse?”

“Besides tonight?”

No one had told her about the lack of damage in the kitchen yet, Alex realized. He ignored the punch of relief that she had seen the fire too. If he was hallucinating, then so was she. “Yeah, besides tonight.”

She shook her head again. “No—ah, I don’t know. Maybe. Not as long as it’s been in my family, but before that, it’s possible. It was built in the mid-1800s. Fires happened all the time back then. My grandma might know. Why do you ask?”

He couldn’t explain. It was just a hunch, a feeling of unease he could not shake, a prickling sensation like the hairy legs of the desert tarantula he’d discovered he was sharing his sleeping bag with one night in Iraq. He’d had the same creeping feeling right before he watched through a rifle scope as his friend Sullivan Nathanson was shot at point-blank range in the chest. Then again on the night K.C. Archer was killed when insurgents fired a RPG into their camp three days before they were slated to come home. And again Tuesday morning when he entered that restaurant on Tremont to have breakfast with his handler and ended up killing a man.

Alex had never put much stock in the apparent extra sense he’d been cursed with, but it would be downright stupid to brush it off right now when it had yet to fail him. Even if it was the luck of the Irish or coincidence as he’d always thought.

He moved to sit beside Pru on the bumper of the ambulance. “Lookit, it’s hard to explain. That guy that died here last year. Cappy?”

She nodded. “I didn’t know you knew about it. His name was John Putnam Sr. Everyone called him Cappy. He hung himself last fall.”

“No, I don’t think he did.”

She gave him another long look, like a cat’s unblinking stare, that made him twitch on the inside. Outside, his expression stayed calm. One of the perks of working undercover for so long.

Finally, she moistened her lips. “So…what? Are you saying he was murdered?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying.” At least he could be honest about that. “There’s something about the whole deal that doesn’t feel right. I heard some women talking at the diner that first day I was in town. They said he had arthritis and that shit hurts. If he had it in his legs and knees, there’s no way he walked to the top of that tower without help.”

“He was determined. His son, John Jr., was talking about putting him in a home. He was ill, couldn’t take care of himself anymore, but he didn’t want to go.”

Well, that was a damn good reason to off yourself, Alex thought. Death had to be preferable to living in an institution.

Like Theo, his inner cynic pointed out. Alex rubbed a hand over his face and mentally told the cynic to fuck off.

Still, it didn’t make sense to him. Hanging was a horrible death if the neck didn’t break. He’d seen more than his share of people hanged while overseas. It took minutes, as many as twenty in some cases, if the drop wasn’t long enough or the noose wasn’t fashioned right or in the right position. Why would the old guy walk up that tower, loop a noose around his throat and jump? Why not use a gun or pills or a hundred other easier, less painful ways?

“Was Cappy’s death investigated?” he asked Pru.

“By the sheriff,” she said.

“Yeah, I had the pleasure of meeting the sheriff,” he muttered and made her smile a little. “Not impressed. What about the state?”

“I was still in Portland when it all happened, but I would assume so. I thought that was standard operating procedure.”

Not always, Alex thought and wondered if anyone performed an autopsy. He opened his mouth to ask and saw the sheriff headed his way, trailed by three deputies, including Rhett Swithin.

Great. That cocksucker worked for the sheriff’s department? That was something he hadn’t calculated into his plan. Not good.

“I think things are about to get really bad, Pru. I might—” His throat tightened. He couldn’t look at her.

Dammit, he hated this. He didn’t want to be Alex Locke. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he couldn’t tell her he was not the asshole he had to pretend to be from now on. Everyone had to believe. One weak spot and his cover was blown.

Forbes’s expression was flat and grim as he approached. He gave off a distinct vibe that said pissed off cop. Swithin tried to appear as grim as his boss but had a satisfied gotcha look in his eye.

The black hole in Alex’s gut got a little deeper, a little blacker.

“Alex?” She touched his cheek. He closed his eyes and exhaled with a soft curse before meeting her gaze. This sucked.

“Listen, I might have to say or do some things that—”

The cops stopped in front of them and sized him up for a beat. Dammit, too late. He gave Pru’s hand a quick squeeze and stood to face the sheriff.

Forbes lifted a hand. A gold chain gleamed between his gloved fingers, a crucifix and the dull copper casing of a 9mm bullet swinging from the end.

Alex touched his bare chest. His crucifix. His bullet. He’d taken the chain off before his shower and had forgotten about it until now. It should still be where he’d left it on the bathroom sink.

“Does this belong to you?” Forbes asked.

“So what if it does?”

Forbes nodded, turned to one of the deputies, and dropped the necklace into a waiting evidence bag. “Cuff him.”

“For what?” Pru exploded to her feet.

Ah, shit. He’d hoped to have more time with her before he had to get into character. Alex looked at her, hair in tangles, blanket forgotten, eyes wide with outrage on his behalf. She had such trust in him. A dull pain started in his chest and sharpened as it moved into his throat, choking him. She was going to hate Alexander Locke.

Too late to worry about it now.

Alex let his mind go blank, forcing his own wants, needs and fears into a mental lockbox. His features hardened, lips twisting into the sneer Locke used whenever there were cops within spitting distance. His posture slouched, losing the erect bearing the military had beaten into him.

When Rhett reached for his wrists with a pair of handcuffs, he jerked away. Rhett clamped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a hard shove. On instinct, he spun and decked the guy.

At least that part felt pretty good.

“Alex!” Pru said in stunned horror.

Rhett stumbled backward, leaking bright red blood from his nose, and the other two deputies pounced. Alex took a couple swings at them, purposely missing but making it look real. He could beat these two down in his sleep, but he didn’t want to hurt them, just rile them up. Alex Locke liked little more than pissing off a bunch of cops.

Both deputies were panting by the time he let them drag him to his feet, each holding him under an arm. He hadn’t even broken a sweat yet.

Forbes marched over and got into his face. “That was stupid, son.”

“Fuck you, old man,” he said and the words tasted bitter on his tongue. His tone of voice had changed, picked up more street, more Boston, a hint of Ireland. Like slipping into an old, dirty suit.

Forbes said, “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer and suspected murder.”

Pru’s face went white. Alex momentarily forgot his alter-ego.

“What?” they said in unison.

Forbes focused on Pru, his forehead lined with regret. “I’m so sorry, honey. I hate to tell you this way, but Wade’s dead. One of my deputies found his body in the hole where that big tree stump used to be. We found that necklace in the grass nearby.”

“Wade…?” Pru swayed on her feet. Forbes steadied her with an arm around her shoulders. She blinked at Alex. “Did you—”

“No! They’re setting me up. I didn’t kill him. Pru, I didn’t—” He tried to hold her gaze but the deputies jostled him toward a patrol car and shoved him into the backseat. She didn’t move, except to wrap her arms around her middle. Even from a distance, he could tell she was shaking. The door slammed shut. He groaned and smacked the back of his head against the seat.

Shit.

CHAPTER 10

The body was lighter than expected. Skin and bone and more fat than muscle, but not much of either.

The former Kevin Mallory.

Too bad it had to come to this, but the little twerp was a whiny, spineless worm. If Alex Brennan got hold of him, he’d spill his guts about their little chat. Couldn’t have that, so poor Kevin had to disappear.

The Sierra Group operator hoisted the body onto his shoulder and carried it fireman-style away from his rental car. He’d dug a just-in-case grave as soon as he got the call to action from his commander, way out in the middle of the forest in the soft dirt at the bottom of a craggy ravine. A long hike from the road with one-hundred-forty pounds of dead weight on his shoulders.

Nobody would find Kevin. He’d be a runaway. Just like that girl he’d killed.

The operator sent up a prayer for that poor girl’s soul. Since he first saw the flyer at the diner, he’d suspected that someone in town knew what happened to Lila VanBuran, and during their chat, Kevin confirmed his suspicions. Four people were responsible for Lila’s death. Four living out their lives—well, the operator mused, three now—while that girl rotted away in a cave on the beach, lost to those that loved her.

It made him heartsick.

Killing Kevin hadn’t exactly been part of his mission, but God couldn’t fault him for wanting a slice of justice for the girl. If he had the time, he’d take out the others as well.

At the grave, he dumped Kevin unceremoniously into the hole and dusted his hands on his jeans. The body was still warm, but it already stank of death and the smell had lodged itself in his senses. He rubbed a hand under his nose and sniffed. No use. He needed a hot shower with a gallon of lemon-scented soap. But first, he had to finish the job.

It took longer than anticipated to bury Kevin and when he finished, sweat poured from him, making him shiver in the cold night air. He thrust the shovel’s tip into the dirt and swiped at his forehead as he admired his handiwork. It looked…like a grave. Still, he doubted anyone would find Kevin. Not down here.

Now to report in. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checked the screen. No signal, so he grabbed his shovel and scaled the steep wall. It wasn’t a hard climb for a man who’d spent his life in the woods hunting deer and the like, and he was out in minutes. The storm clouds had rolled away a long time before, leaving the chill of winter and a clear, starlit sky in their wake. To the east, the faintest hint of gray colored the horizon. Sun would be up soon.

His cell phone showed only half a bar. The call to report in would have to wait.

The operator returned to his car and drove back to the highway motel ten miles outside Three Churches, a shabby place that catered to truckers and pilots from the tiny local airport, which lay just beyond the motel’s back parking lot. Full of sin, it made him feel dirty, but it was also safely anonymous. His comings and goings wouldn’t be noticed or commented on by nosy neighbors.

After showering, scrubbing off grime and death, he set his alarm clock for eleven. Eli wouldn’t be happy about the delay, but he’d report in after some sleep. His eyes felt gritty and his brain had grown a layer of fuzz. He wasn’t sharp, and Eli would like that even less. This was his very first mission, and he didn’t want to screw it up.

With a yawn, the operator crawled into one of the twin beds and slept the sleep of the righteous until a familiar sound penetrated his dreams.

Whap whap whap whap.

He jolted, alert in an instant, and bounded toward the picture window that overlooked a cracked, mostly empty parking lot and the manager’s office. A helicopter swung in low over the motel, its sleek black body glinting in the morning sun as it headed to the small airfield. He couldn’t read the lettering on its side, but he recognized it anyway.

Perfect. Eli would be pleased.

Scratching the bit of new scuff on his jaw, the operator snapped up his phone from its charger on the bedside table and dialed.

***

Insanity.

It was the only word Miranda could think of for what was happening this morning at Mae’s. People lined up on the sidewalk long before she unlocked the door and flipped the sign to open, trying to peek in the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Pru. They wouldn’t see her of course. When Sheriff Forbes showed up on the doorstep of Miranda’s trailer at three a.m. with a pale, dull-eyed Pru in tow, he’d warned her not to let Pru come into work today. Miranda had been prepared to lock Pru down, but the poor woman was still too shocky to consider leaving the house.

Miranda hadn’t wanted to go in herself, but dammit, she was already late on her electric bill, she needed rent money, and the tips would pour in today as everybody stopped by to rubberneck. Shallow of her to think of money at a time like this, but that was the harsh reality of the world. A girl had to keep a roof over her head.

Nobody ate much, but coffee didn’t brew fast enough to keep the mugs full. Everyone asked after Pru. Most of it was harmless curiosity and genuine concern, and Miranda answered with vague, polite responses like, “She’s resting.”

A couple of the more vicious gossips tried to wheedle information out of her, like Azalea Wingate, the Sunday school teacher at the Methodist church on Pine Street, and her ever-present lackey, Emma Pickett.

“I don’t see why Pru invited that city man into her home in the first place,” Azalea said primly.

“She was asking for trouble,” Emma agreed.

“And now there’s a murderer in town!” Azalea turned on the waterworks and dabbed at her cheeks with a napkin. “Poor, slow Wade.”

“Wade’s death was an accident,” Miranda said, gritting her teeth in a smile as she refilled Azalea’s coffee. “Alex had nothing to do with it.”

“So why does the sheriff have him trussed up in the basement of Town Hall, hmm?”

Good question. But Miranda refused to think Alex had killed Wade Putnam. Sure, she’d only met him once and too briefly to form an opinion of his character, but she knew her best friend. Pru wouldn’t defend a killer, no matter how enamored she was with him.

And, boy, was she enamored. Miranda had overheard her making calls on Alex’s cell phone this morning—the trailer had paper thin walls and it was hard not to eavesdrop—pleading for help on Alex’s behalf from his friends. The longest conversation, with a man called Nick, went on for fifteen minutes. By the end, Pru, and Miranda by proxy, were both satisfied that the cavalry was on its way. Alex apparently had high friends in high places.

“… it’s just sinful,” Azalea was saying and drew Miranda’s attention back to the present. “I’ve always thought Pru was better than...that.” She emphasized the word so that it sounded more like whore.

“I’m sure what you think of Pru is right at the top of her list of concerns,” Miranda said with a bright smile and moved on to the next table. You self-righteous, hypocritical bitch, she added silently.

Never mind that Azalea had been shacking up with the church’s minister for the past ten years. No, Pru was the whore for inviting a man to stay in her house. Well, at least Pru’s man wasn’t married. Or a minister. And Pru did run a B&B for God’s sake.

At the last table in Miranda’s section sat a sole man reading the morning paper out of Bangor, oblivious to the chaos around him. Tourist. She recalled seeing him in the diner several days before, mainly because she’d found him attractive with his sandy hair yanked into a loose tail and a scruffy face hiding a blade-edge jaw. His face didn’t suit the pricey city clothes that fit his rangy body like a glove. A man of contradictions. His name…she struggled to recall. Something foreign and girly sounding, it didn’t fit him either. Mischa?

He set aside the newspaper and smiled as she approached. “We meet again. Good morning, Miranda.”

“Mornin’, Mischa,” she said and filled his empty mug.

He grinned. “You remembered.”

Butterflies twirled in her stomach at his smooth baritone. His accent wasn’t foreign like his name, but it wasn’t New England either. Midwest, maybe? “I always remember a handsome face. Can I get you something for breakfast?”

The menu lay open on the table. He scanned it then said, “The special sounds good. Eggs over-easy.”

“I’ll have it out in a jiffy.” She started to turn away and noticed the flyer lying on top of his newspaper. The missing girl, Lila VanBuran, smiled up from the tattered poster.

Miranda felt a sharp twist in her belly, as she always did when she saw one of those flyers kicking around. The girl was dead. No proof, but everyone knew something bad had befallen her.

Mischa followed her gaze to the flyer. Tight-lipped, he folded it into fours before sliding it into the pocket of his coat.

“I’m sorry,” Miranda said and averted her eyes. “Are you a relative?” Police had called off the search a long time ago, but Lila’s relatives had never stopped looking. Every few weeks, a cousin or uncle would pop into town hoping for new information.

“No,” Mischa said and his tone sent a chill down her spine. “I’m someone who, God willing, wants to see justice done.”

O-kay. Major creeper vibes.

Miranda excused herself and hurried back to the kitchen, aware of his gaze tracking her movements. Not so handsome anymore, she thought. He had a feral look in his eyes that set off alarm bells in her mind. If anyone had killed Wade—she knew nobody had; it was an accident—but still, if someone had, she’d point the finger at Mischa long before Alex.

Mischa felt like a killer.

“You okay?” Gail asked as Miranda barreled into the prep area. She was loading plates of food onto a tray, but stopped and studied Miranda’s expression with a frown. “You’re awful pale, sweetie.”

“I’m good. It’s crazy out there.”

“Bunch of vultures,” Gail muttered and hoisted the tray to her shoulder. “Why don’t you take a few minutes? You look beat.”

A break sounded like heaven. She’d normally jumped on the chance, but with Pru out and Jones pulling another no-call, no-show, they were already severely understaffed. “You sure?”

“Don’t you worry. Me and our angel Jenny got things covered, huh? Go ahead and take your break.”

No need to tell her twice. She placed Creepy Mischa’s order with Jen, the high schooler who worked as a part-time cook and saved them loads of trouble this morning by coming in on her day off. “Angel” was not a kind enough word for the girl.

Miranda snagged her coat from the employee lounge, a storage closet with a few battered lockers off the prep area, and hesitated again at the back door. “Um, Gail, keep an eye on the guy at table ten. It’s probably nothing, but I’m getting weirdo vibes from him.”

“Sure, honey.”

Miranda stepped outside and the day slapped her with a cold hand. Snow wasn’t imminent yet, but the threat of it hung in the steel gray sky.

Silly to say anything about Creepy Mischa, she thought and turned her collar up to ward off the chill. But, hey, at least nobody could say she didn’t warn them if he turned out to be a crazed mass murderer.

She lit a cigarette, drew in a deep lungful of nicotine, and started walking. She didn’t know what drew her down Penobscot Street, hadn’t even realized her surroundings until she found herself standing in front of John Putnam Jr.’s Victorian. Years ago, the house had been a rundown, abandoned dump that all the local kids claimed was haunted. It wasn’t—unlike the lighthouse—but its state of dilapidation and looming turret made it look like it should have been.

Miranda smiled as she remembered it. J.J., Rhett, David Faraday, Kevin Mallory, and Wade—collectively known in those days as The Crew—had scared her silly one time in high school by hiding out and rattling the windows when she, Pru, and a group of other girls crept up to the house on a dare.

Now cheerful blue paint coated the house, with pretty gingerbread detailing in white. Elegant and charming, a cobblestone walkway led to the wraparound porch. Pru mentioned once J.J. restored the entire house on his own time between construction jobs. That must have taken crazy skills, Miranda thought.

And so had the Halloween decorations. Fluffy, store-bought cobwebs draped the porch and jack-o-lanterns lined the front steps. Plywood gravestones turned the yard into a cemetery, with a ghoulish hand clawing out of the ground in front of one. J.J. had painted each gravestone with a funny epitaph. Her favorite: “See, I told you I was sick!”

The curtain in the front bay window twitched and she froze, shame filling her cheeks with heat. He had to be hurting and here she was rubbernecking like the rest of town. Just as bad as Azalea Wingate.

Disgusted, she turned away and heard the house’s front door pop open.

“Miranda?” John Jr.’s voice was rusty and slightly baffled.

Caught red-handed. She spun and forced a smile that was probably too bright, considering the circumstances. “Hi.”

“Miranda?” he said again. He padded onto the porch in corduroy slippers that flopped against his heels and stared at her like he thought he might be hallucinating. His blond hair stuck up at angles and the flesh around his bloodshot eyes looked bruised. He wore sleep pants patterned with Animal from the Muppets. A threadbare sweatshirt from the local community college bagged from his lean, rugged frame.

God, he was adorable in his slippers and pjs. In a goofy, yet oddly masculine sort of way.

Huh. How had he stayed so far off her sex radar all these years?

“Miranda?” he said a third time.

“Yes, it’s me.” She gave a little wave, nerves quivering around in her belly. “I had a break from the diner and thought to …”

What? To check up on him? Sure, they had been friends, but they weren’t close and hadn’t run in the same social circles since middle school. What gave her the right to check on him? He’d probably tell her to get the hell off his property.

She bit down on her lower lip as he continued to stare. “Um.” She cast around for an excuse and lightning struck. “Pru’s worried about you. She stayed at my house last night after Wade—”

She saw his eyes cloud as his brother’s name left her lips and wished to God she could take it back. A lump swelled in her throat. “I’m sorry. Oh, J.J., I’m so sorry. Is there anything you need?”

His gaze slid away and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He backed toward his front door like a man trying to escape a wild animal. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“I could bring you something from the diner after work.” Heat rushed into her cheeks when he looked at her in wide-eyed surprise. She babbled on, “Our soup today is chicken noodle. It will make you feel—” No, she refused to finish the trite condolence. His brother just died and nothing was going to make him feel better for a long time.

“Ah, that was stupid.” She fluttered a hand over her hair. “Forget I said that. I know a bowl of chicken soup won’t take the hurt away but—well, dammit, it’ll make me feel better to do something. I—” Her voice cracked and for the first time since she heard the news of Wade’s death, she let the tears spill over. “I really liked Wade. He always remembered my birthday, every year.”

“He was good with dates,” John Jr. whispered.

She nodded and dug into the pocket of her apron for the handful of lollypops that had felt like lead weights all morning. “I bring these to work every day for him. This morning, I put them in my pocket without thinking and when I got to work—he wasn’t there.”

Tears eased from John Jr.’s eyes. He walked down the porch steps and folded her hand, still holding the lollypops, up in both of his. Big hands, rough with calluses like her father’s. Hands that could cause a woman a world of pain, but John Jr. had the softest touch of any man she’d ever met.

She blinked in amazement, more tears spilling out. Was he…attracted to her? Maybe she was imagining it, but she was usually good at picking up the signals. Under the layers of grief, he definitely seemed to be broadcasting.

How had she never noticed that before?

John Jr. held on a moment too long, then pried the lollypops out of her grip. “I’ll put these with him. When we bury him. He’ll like that.”

Miranda stared as he backed away. A nice, respectable man—a man like she wanted—that she’d known her whole life, and she’d never really seen him before.

“John.” His name came out a whisper.

He stopped moving. “Miranda.”

They stared at each other. Words and emotions tangled inside her mind. She struggled for a coherent thought, something sweet or sexy to say.

Nothing.

A little smile flitted over his lips. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Chicken soup would be good.”

CHAPTER 11

Languishing in a jail cell for a day—yeah, not Alex’s idea of a relaxing vacation. He paced the cell, feeling slime smeared over his soul.

Murder.

Jesus Christ.

Panic seethed just under the surface of his conscious. Never did like being cooped up. The defenselessness of it made him edgy. He sat on the squeaky cot for a moment, then popped to his feet and continued pacing.

Alex knew how the system functioned, knew the sheriff was sweating him, and damn if it wasn’t working. They’d had one quick interview, during which the sheriff had read his rights and again laid out the charges.

“So Pru tells me you had a little altercation with Wade,” Forbes had said. He leaned against his desk and faced Alex in the visitor’s chair of the tiny office, arms crossed in front of him.

Alex had said nothing.

“You see, I find that interesting. You show up, have a fight with Wade, and now he’s lying at the bottom of a hole in Pru’s backyard with a snapped neck.”

Bile scorched his throat, but he forced it down. “Maybe he fell.”

The lines around Forbes’s lips went white. He opened his mouth to relax his clenched jaw, breathed deeply for a moment, and then continued, his voice still calm.

“It’s just too bad Pru called in that fake fire. That hole was going to be filled first thing this morning. John Jr. might have buried his own brother without realizing it. Our Pru’s a smart girl. Think she was on to you?”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Alex said. Today, his inner cynic had chimed in.

“See, that I find hard to believe. Got some interesting information on you.” Forbes picked up a thin file folder and flipped it open. “Alexander Locke, 34, resident of Boston. You own a security company that’s done some consultant work on housing projects and…” He sucked on his teeth. “It looks like you have a bit of an anger management problem. Four assault arrests in the past three years.”

“All dropped.”

“Yes, I see that. I also see a military background.” His heavy salt-and-pepper brows popped up as if he was impressed. “Says here most of that’s classified. Special ops? Bet you have some nifty fighting skills. Any martial arts training?”

Alex felt the manipulation. Forbes was good at his job, appealing to Locke’s overinflated ego to get an admission, and for a moment Alex considered dropping the act and confiding in the sheriff. It seemed like the smart thing to do considering the circumstances—but, dammit, he didn’t know who he could trust. That sick-dread feeling was still sucking at his gut, like he was the sole swimmer in a pond full of sharks. Was Forbes one of those sharks? He couldn’t tell. Better to keep playing Locke until he felt solid ground under his feet again.

“Bet you’d know how to snap a neck,” Forbes said, his tone reflective with just a hint of admiration. Oh yeah, he was good. “They teach you that sort of thing in the military. Bet it’d be easy for you, like popping the head off a dandelion.”

“Could be.”

“Even on a guy as big as Wade?”

Alex ran his tongue over his teeth and sat back in his chair. “You’re not gonna get anything outta me, old man.”

Forbes leaned in, his face inches from Alex’s, his breath stinking of tobacco juice and mint gum. “You think you’re smarter than me, don’t you? That I’m some podunk townie cop not worth your time. Think again. I have not had one murder on my watch in thirty years so it really pisses me off that I have the body of a good kid at the morgue and a smart-ass city punk handcuffed to my chair.”

“It pisses me off too. I didn’t do it.”

“Someone did. Someone twisted the kid’s head around until his spine snapped then shoved him into that hole, and you are the only one on scene with those kind of abilities.” He straightened, swiping a hand over his thinning gray hair as his comb-over tumbled out of place. “The charge for now is assaulting a police officer, but it will be murder. You’ll want to call a lawyer.”

After that, Forbes had him tossed back into his cell.

The case was shaky, at best. More of a grudge, really, because he was the outsider in a town that didn’t like outsiders. Alex had noticed that hole out his bedroom window last night. It was deep enough that someone wandering in the dark could stumble into it and break his neck. Reasonable doubt right there.

But his necklace…

How the hell did that get out there?

A key clicked in the lock of his cell door. One of the deputies, no doubt. He hoped to hell it wasn’t Rhett Swithin. Exhausted, cold to the bone, and hungry, he didn’t feel up to dealing with that asswipe.

The door opened, a shadow filling the frame. Alex’s jeans landed against his chest, his boots with a thump on the floor at his feet.

“Get dressed,” the shadow said.

He squinted, his eyes slow to adjust to the flood of florescent light from the hallway. Then he blinked and squinted again. “Kai?”

Kaikane Alameida stepped back and held the cell door. Alex hadn’t seen him in years—the Hawaiian man was like Pru’s ghost, slipping around unseen, which was why his nickname in the military had been “Spooky”.

But Alex would know that shit-eating grin anywhere. “Jesus Christ.”

“I prefer Kai, but that works too.”

Alex laughed as they embraced. A quick, backslapping hug. “What the hell are you doing here, Alameida?”

“Rescuing the damsel in distress. Duh.” Kai’s voice held the faintest hint of a tropical accent, calling up images of white sand beaches and palm trees. He wore a slate-gray suit, a pale blue shirt that set off the blue of his eyes even more than his copper skin usually did, and a hideous navy tie patterned with pale gray swirls—very unlike his typical frat boy style. He had slicked his black hair back so recently that it still held teeth marks from the comb he’d used. In one hand, he held a briefcase. With his other, he fished around in the pocket of his suit coat for his cell phone.

“Say cheese.” He snapped a picture of Alex with the phone and grinned again. “Ah, priceless. You in a prison jumpsuit. Never thought I’d see the day.” He saved the photo and pocketed the phone. “You’ve really put your foot in it this time, Range.”

Questions whirled in Alex’s head, but he knew better than to waste time asking them now. He stripped out of the jumpsuit, yanked on his jeans and muddy boots, and joined Kai in the hallway. Since he was shirtless when Forbes arrested him, his chest was still bare. Kai handed him a black hoodie that said “Nathanson Consulting” on it in white lettering and some of the puzzle pieces clicked into place. No wonder he suddenly had a get out of jail free card. Money made things happen, made unpleasant things go away, and Sullivan Nathanson, his old C.O., had enough to share.

“How’d Sully find out about it?” he asked once they were outside in the parking lot, beyond the glowering stares of the sheriff and his deputies.

“Sully knows all and sees all,” Kai said and handed over an evidence bag that contained Alex’s necklace.

“Bullshit.”

“Not entirely,” Kai muttered.

Alex slipped the chain over his head, thumbed the bullet, then tucked it and the small, cool cross against his chest. “Seriously, who called him?”

“Nick.”

“So who called Nick?”

“Some woman named Pru Maddox.”

Alex’s heart did a little two-step. He stopped walking. “How’d she know to call him?”

Kai gave him an odd look, a lifted eyebrow. “She went through your phone after the cops took you. Smart lady. Sully, being the suspicious asshole that he is, had a dossier put together on her and I read it on the flight over. Photos included. Nice ass.” His grin returned. “She available?”

Even though he knew Kai was kidding—maybe—Alex felt his jaw tighten, a hot surge of possessive testosterone spilling into his blood. Kai was a playboy. He’d fuck anything with a vagina and a nice set of tits as long as she didn’t say no. When he turned on his charms and flashed his smile, women melted like ice on a summer day. Very rarely did he hear the word no.

“Hands off, Spook,” Alex warned.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. That’s okay. My flight’s waiting anyway. I don’t have time to worship that luscious body properly.” A dreamy smile spread over his lips as if he was imaging doing just that. “Mm. But that won’t stop me from thinking about it.”

“Kai,” Alex said through his teeth, “don’t make me hurt you.”

“Hah. I’d kick your Irish ass into next month.” He laughed and slapped Alex on the back hard enough to rattle teeth. “So like I said, your woman’s a smart cookie. Nick was the last person you called, so she redialed and explained what was up. He called Sully, and here I am. Your lawyer.”

“Yeah right. Since when do you have a law degree?”

“Since Sully forged the documents.” He wiggled his brows. “I passed the bar exam in Maine about an hour ago too.”

“Says the mercenary to the fed. I don’t want to hear this.”

Kai ignored him. “Nick wanted to play the part, but we didn’t think he looked lawyer-y enough. It’s that whole Cowboys and Indians look he has goin’. Jacob—hah, can you image Jacob as a lawyer? And Mal—well, he still needs to work on his people skills before we let him out in public alone.”

“No kidding.” Alex loved the guy like a brother, but Malcolm Cole was about as trustworthy as a starving pit bull trained to fight. About as brutal too. “So that left you.”

“That left me,” Kai agreed. “I shine up nice when the sitch calls for it.” He tugged the knot of his tie, loosening it, and reached for the driver’s side door of a rented SUV. “Don’t worry, these cops have nothing on ya. A monkey could poke holes in their case.”

Alex slid into the soft leather passenger seat of the car. “Well, that explains one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Why Sully really sent you.”

“Oo oo ah ah,” Kai said, deadpan, and stepped on the gas.

***

“Sully’s probably gonna nail my balls to his ceiling for not dragging you outta here,” Kai said twenty minutes later, studying the outline of Pru’s slim figure standing on her front porch. “Is she worth it?”

Alex opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Yes, had been the immediate response that jumped to mind, but he felt foolish saying so to Kai of all people. He watched Pru wrap her arms around her middle as if holding herself together, same as she had last night when Forbes dragged him away. Emotion rolled through him, so poignant his vision blurred. She’d cared enough to call Nick for help. That had to mean something.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted.

“Yeah, you do.” Kai stared at Pru a second longer, then turned in his
seat and the smart-ass clown persona dropped away, revealing a glimpse of the deadly man Alex knew Kai really was.

“I got a couple things to say before I take off.” His blue eyes cut into Alex like shards of glass. He motioned with a jerk of his head toward the house. “See that lady up there? First, don’t fuck it up. She’s good for you; I can tell. Second, she’s the only reason I’m risking my balls, which I happen to like right where they are. I’m getting a distinct danger vibe here, and who better to protect her than the guy that’s goofy in love with her.”

“Hey, whoa. Spook, I’m not—”

“Shut up and listen,” Kai said. “You need to know Sully’s been getting some…ripples…lately.”

Alex groaned. “C’mon, you know I don’t believe in that psychic shit.”

“Yeah, believe in whatever the hell you want, man. It doesn’t change the fact that Sully has instincts like a shark and whatever’s going on …” He trailed off, thumped his hand on the steering wheel and looked at Pru again. She was nervous now, shifting back and forth on her feet.

“You’re probably the one putting her in danger, you know,” he said. “Guys like us, we can’t settle down. Sully thinks someone’s after us.”

The thought of putting Pru in danger sent pain stabbing through Alex’s chest. He wanted to punch Kai for the feeling and gritted his teeth. “Sully always thinks someone’s after us. The man sees conspiracies in line at the grocery store.”

“Like he’s ever done his own grocery shopping.”

“You know what I mean.” Alex exhaled sharply and forced his muscles to relax. His hands had balled into fists and he shook them out. Anger would not do any good. He had to get control of himself, had to think this through. It was true Sullivan was a paranoid son of a bitch, but as much as he hated to admit it, the paranoia came with good reason. Sully’s so-called “ripples” were never, never wrong.

“All right, so someone’s after us. Who’s he thinking?”

“Government, military, Interpol, Taliban, little green pygmies.” Kai lifted a shoulder. “Who the fuck knows? We’re not exactly popular guys in certain circles.”

He had a point. Still, it was too much to think about right now, a vague threat, one of Sully’s ripples compared to the very real danger lurking in this town, hanging around Pru.

Alex popped open the door. “I got other problems to deal with, but if those little green pygmies start coming out of the woodwork, keep me in the loop.”

“Don’t laugh. They’re mean little fuckers.” Kai shifted the car into gear. Alex shut the door and backed up a step, but the car didn’t move. The window buzzed down.

“Yo, Range,” Kai said, leaning down to look out. “It was good seeing you.”

“You too. Thanks for springing me.”

***

Kai Alameida rolled the rental car out of sight of the house and stopped with a soft curse. Being a good friend sucked the big one. First, Sully yanked him out of the bed of a hot-to-trot mamacita in the Keys to fly halfway to the arctic and pretend to be a lawyer, his least favorite breed of people. Then Alex pulls the nice-seeing-ya-pal-now-take-off routine.

Whatever. He did his part. Time to wash his hands of this mess. Alex’s problem—and Sully’s because anything concerning one of them was Sully’s problem—not his. God knew he had plenty of his own shit to deal with.

But he was curious. And, as much as he lamented it, a good friend.

Aw, fuck it. He reached into his bag in the backseat for the Night Owl binocs and coughed a couple times as he propped himself between the front seats of the SUV. Focusing the lens through the back windshield, he watched Alex approach the porch. Pru Maddox still hadn’t moved from her spot, and Alex stopped short of the bottom step. They seemed to be talking.

What Kai wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall for that convo.

He zoomed in on Pru. She was scowling, but Kai saw why Range had gone ga-ga over the woman. A sexpot with just the right touch of innocence, like a naughty catholic schoolgirl. She was so Range’s type. She’d be Kai’s type too if he was asshole enough to subject such a nice girl to himself. He wasn’t.

The Night Owls gave a clear image even in the murky half-light of the approaching night. Kai caught the flash of a tear, watched Pru’s face soften. Then she moved and he lost her, had to zoom out to see her launch herself into Alex’s arms.

“Go get her, buddy,” Kai chuckled and set aside the binoculars. He dug around for his phone and ignored the quick stab of jealousy. He used to like picturing himself with a nice girl, having a brood of kids. But Fate, nasty bitch that she was, had given Kai Alameida a very limited watch. Nice girls wanted a guy for the long haul. Fast women—that mamacita he’d picked up toasted from a tourist hotspot—were all he had the time for.

Sullivan Nathanson snapped up the line before a full ring. “Did you get him?”

“Yes and no,” Kai said.

A pause. “What do you mean ‘yes and no’?”

“Just what I said. I sprang him from the cop shop, but he refused to leave with me. He wanted to go back to the lighthouse. You know how he is about woo-woo stuff.”

“That stubborn jackass,” Sully muttered. “He never listens.”

“Never has, Lieutenant. Did you really expect him to start now?”

Sully grumbled. Kai smothered a smile. “Hey, I know you got one of your insights about all this, but do you really think Alex is more of a target than any of the rest of us right now? I mean, he wasn’t around for the worst of what our dear government did to us. He doesn’t even believe in this shit.”

“That’s not going to matter to the Sierra Group,” Sully said. “They’re fanatics trained to kill and on a mission from God—”

“Ooo, my favorite kind.”

Sully, as usual, ignored his wisecrack. “I’ve kept an eye on these people for years. Until recently, they didn’t pose much of a threat, but now they’ve rallied. They’re organizing under a new leader and somehow he knows about us. Alex’s disbelief makes him the perfect target because he won’t take the proper precautions. They could make him disappear without a problem. I know for a fact they set him up to lose his job earlier this week and they probably already have someone in that town looking for him.”

“Probably,” Kai agreed. He stared out the windshield at the empty stretch of snaky country road. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted, a feeling similar to the one he got when someone tracked him through a scope, but he couldn’t sense anyone out there. “I can tell you my woo-woo stuff’s tingling like hell. There’s definitely something wrong about this place.”

“Then both you and Alex need to evacuate ASAP,” Sully said in his listen-to-me-or-else tone. The first lieutenant dishing out orders. It gave Kai a pang of nostalgia. War sucked, no doubt about it, but it was so much fucking easier than civvy life.

“Hey, I’m all for getting outta here myself. I got things to do before I die. As for Alex, if you wanna come out here and drag him away from his lady love, go for it. But I won’t help you. She’s good for him.”

“You think he’s fallen for that Maddox woman?”

“Ka-splat. Head first and with a big, dopy grin on his face. He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m telling you, he’s a goner. He’s not gonna leave her.”

Sully grumbled. There was the sound of rhythmic tapping, as if he was drumming his fingers on the big teak desk in his home office. “I’ll talk to Nick, see if he still wants to take a trip to Maine. Since he’s never shown any psychic ability, the Sierra Group won’t bother with him. He can keep an eye on Alex without putting another one of us in danger.”

A chill tap-danced down Kai’s spine. He straightened and scanned the area around the car again. Nothing.

“Fuck, I gotta get outta here. I’m starting to act as paranoid as you. Feels like there’s a target on my back.” He moved his shoulders, trying to shake the feeling. “Alex has to feel it too. Dunno how he can stand it.”

“He’s distracted.”

Kai thought of Pru’s sweet face and succulent curves. Alex was one lucky, lucky man. “Can’t blame him there.”

“Be careful,” Sully said.

“Like I said, I got things to do before I die.” Kai hung up and shifted the car into gear, but waited to turn on the headlights until he was a quarter of a mile down the road. He didn’t want to divert Alex’s attention from pretty Pru Maddox. If the man had any sense in his fool head, he’d be rocking that woman between the sheets by now.

CHAPTER 12

Alex hesitated at the bottom of the steps. She looked so pretty, standing there backlit by the porch light, her hair a loose tumble of black silk over her shoulders. A butterfly bandage covered a cut above her eyebrow, the only injury from their encounter with the phantom fire. She bit down on her lower lip and her arms, wrapped around her middle, tightened. Whether the gesture was against the chilly air or meant to fortify herself against him, he didn’t know.

Probably both. He hadn’t fully contemplated the idea that she might not want him here anymore in the wake of everything that had happened. Now, three steps from her, staring up into eyes puffy from crying, it hit him in the face.

“I’ll go,” he said, his voice coming out hoarser than he would have liked. A lump of emotion lodged around his Adam’s apple and forming words around it was a chore. “Just say the word, Pru, and I’ll pack up my stuff and leave.”

Her gaze slid away from his as a tear traced down her cheek. “Okay.”

Alex squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled a ragged breath. Kai warned him not to fuck up, but it was already too late. Their thread of connection had been fragile to start, and the moment his fist connected with Rhett Swithin’s nose last night, it had frayed beyond repair.

Dammit, how could he be so stupid as to mess up something that felt so good?

“Okay.” He set his foot on the bottom step. “I’ll just grab my things and—”

She surged into his arms like a heat seeking missile, nearly knocking him off balance. She wound her arms tight around his neck and buried her face in his sweatshirt.

Emotion vibrated from her body as her shoulders shook with silent sobs. “Don’t leave.”

“Oh God.” Afraid it was too good to be true, he nuzzled the top of her head. Her hair smelled of strawberry and was still slightly damp from a recent shower. He wanted to tunnel his hands in it and tilt her head back, find her soft mouth with his. But, damn, he was so afraid to let her go.

Pru made a muffled sound against his chest and the thought struck that he might be crushing her. “Sorry, baby.” He gave her head one last nuzzle and released her.

She jerked back, scowling, and slapped his chest. “You stupid, pig-headed, arrogant…ugh!” Her hand curled into a fist and pounded his chest again. “God save me from macho men. I could just kick your ass for what you did.”

The breath in his lungs flash-froze. Did she think he was responsible for Wade’s death? He didn’t know if he could handle that kind of rejection so close on the heels of the last crippling surge of emotion.

“What did I do?” His voice came out raw. “Just so I know not to do it again.”

“You punched Rhett!”

“Yeah. Uh, I did do that.” Heat rose up the back of his neck and he hoped to God he wasn’t blushing. He licked his lips, but the knot of dread in his stomach wouldn’t loosen. “So, uh, everything else…?”

“Oh, no. Alex.” Her features softened, the scowl fading into a sad smile. She cupped his cheeks in her palms. “You didn’t have anything to do with Wade. If I thought you did, I wouldn’t have called your friends for help. It was an accident.” She squeezed her eyes tight in an effort to keep the tears back. “Another horrible accident. I should’ve known—should’ve insisted he stay in the house with me or—”

“Don’t.” Alex gripped her wrists and guided her hands to his chest so he could pull her close again. “It’ll only make it hurt worse.”

“I can’t help it. There have been so many accidents…”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “And we need to talk about that.”

She shook her head. “You should go back to Boston. I’m cursed. People keep getting hurt around me. It’s not safe here for you.”

“Or for you.” He lifted her chin with the arc of his finger, made her look at him. “Have you considered people are getting hurt around you because someone wants to hurt you?”

“What?” She yanked out of his embrace and stared at him, open-mouthed, for a long second. “Why would—don’t say that! Nobody’s trying to hurt me.”

Dammit, why did his arms feel so cold without her? He resisted the urge to reach out and draw her back, and dropped his arms to his sides. “Pru, first the fire—”

“No. Stop. It was Lovie True getting carried away with her pranks. Cappy always claimed—”

“That’s another thing. Cappy? There’s no way—”

“No!” She covered her ears with her palms. “Stop right there. He killed himself. End of story. Wade was an accident. The phantom fire was Lovie.”

Alex could only stare at her. She couldn’t honestly believe the fire was the work of a ghost. Yeah, true, he had no explanation for the lack of damage. And, yes, he had smelled what he thought was burning pork before the blaze, but that scent could have come from anywhere, traveling on a wayward breeze through the cracks of the old house. It certainly hadn’t come from a pyromaniac ghost chef.

“Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”

She dropped her hands from her ears. “No more crazy than thinking someone’s out to get me.”

God, she was stubborn. Alex itched to tell her the truth about himself and the real reason he’d punched Rhett last night. It was on the tip of his tongue: I get these feelings sometimes—my friends think I’m psychic, but that’s a load of bull. It’s intuition—or whatever—and it’s never been wrong. Something is going on here, so I decided to use my undercover identity until I figure out who to trust.

Yeah, right. Even in his own mind, it sounded ridiculous.

Pru mistook his silence as proof she had a point and added, “Besides, who would want to kill me?”

“The guy from Portland.” He hated to say it, knew it would hurt her, but it was something she had to consider. “The one that robbed your restaurant.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. Let it out in a shudder. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t go there. I can’t—”

“I’m sorry, babe. I really am, but it’s a possibility. Guys like that—they can fixate on their victims, especially if he sees you as the one that got away.”

“Alex, please, don’t bring that nightmare back into my life. I won’t listen to it.” As her resolve built, her shoulders straightened. Anger flushed her cheeks pink, which eased the tension in his stomach. That blush was so much better than the sallow coloring of grief.

“Wade was an accident,” she repeated, a ribbon of steel in her tone that raised his hackles despite his attempts to keep his own frustration in check. “The fire was Lovie. There’s nothing else going on. You’re paranoid if you think there is and you might want to seek professional help for that.”

Maybe it was because she had hit the nail a little too close to its head, or maybe because she was so obstinate—but he snapped. He yanked her against his body, his nose inches from hers. Saw a flash of alarm, and took a second to smooth his voice to a reasonable tone.

“I’m only pointing out obvious facts that you can’t go on ignoring if you want to keep alive. Someone’s out to get you. It’s the only logical explanation and, damn it all, I don’t want to see you hurt.”

She opened her mouth to protest and he seized her lips with his. This woman was naïve, stubborn and frustrating as all get out…and so irresistible he could no longer stand the memory of what her kiss tasted like. He wanted the real thing again, consequences be damned.

He kept his eyes open, watching her reaction. She stiffened and her eyes, now wide blue orbs, panicked. She pushed on his arms and when that didn’t work, she banged her palm against his chest in a wimpy, half-hearted escape attempt.

Then she wasn’t pushing, but pulling him closer with a low moan humming from her throat. Her eyes drifted shut.

Smiling into her mouth, Alex softened the kiss to a gentle caress, sliding his tongue between her lips. Her mouth opened and accepted his, supple and sweet. All sense of time, of reality, flew right out the window when she returned his kiss, parrying the thrusts of his tongue with her own.

His head spun. The nerve endings from his toes to his fingertips tingled. When did kissing become so erotic? He never much liked kissing—too intimate—but he’d been seriously missing out over the years by refraining from it if the act always turned his balls to rocks and made his body shiver with desire like this.

Or maybe it only was the act of kissing Pru.

Clamping his hands around her hips, he held her in place in front of him, letting her feel how hard she’d made him, how much he wanted to lift her into his arms, take her inside, and have his way with her. She was just tall enough that his bulge fit intimately against her when they stood nose-to-nose—she didn’t have to stand on tiptoes. Perfect fit, like they had done this a zillion times before. He crushed her to him, tongue plunging, probing, plundering. As she melted, her fingers crept under his sweatshirt and traced his spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

When he finally forced himself to pull away for air, she gazed at him with bewildered wonder. He felt dazed, himself, and slightly dizzy. He stared into those blue eyes and lost all intelligent thought to heady primitive instinct. He’d known her a little less than a week, yet he knew he wanted this woman more than he’d wanted any other, in ways beggaring description. He watched the tip of her tongue trace over pale lips as if she was still savoring the taste of his kiss. Inside his chest, his heart galloped. Inside his pants, his cock hardened to the point of exquisite pain.

Tears spilled over Pru’s cheeks. Her sexy lower lip quivered.

Did she have any idea how enchanting she was?

“You jerk,” she whispered. “That was low, using sex to manipulate me.”

Alex jolted and the fog of lust instantly lifted from his brain. “Whoa, that’s not what—I didn’t mean—”

Shit. He had been manipulating her, even though it hadn’t been a conscious decision. He let her back away and made no move to keep her close, sensing she needed the space.

Forget the doghouse. He was in the outhouse.

“I’m not turning you away,” Pru said after an agonizing moment. “God knows I should, but—well, I’m not.” She met his gaze and fire lit her blue eyes. No lingering hint of dazed lust. “I am way pissed at you right now. You can stay in the room upstairs, but keep away from me. I’d rather not see you again tonight.” She turned, climbed the porch steps, and disappeared behind the slapping screen door.

Feeling like an ass, Alex rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. What the fuck had happened to his impulse control?

CHAPTER 13

Alex bolted upright in bed with a gasp, jolting out of a dream that began fading from memory the moment his eyes popped open. Reflexively, he grabbed for the thin gold cross that hung around his neck. The nightmares were getting more gruesome, more detailed, more disturbing.

God. He must truly be one of the damned.

An impatient woof drew his attention to Triton, who sat on the bed next to him, sloppy pink tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.

“Hey there, boy.”

The dog’s tail beat against the mattress. Alex gave an unsteady chuckle as Triton flopped over, offering up a hairless belly for scratching. No wonder Pru adored the pooch.

“Guess I’m not a threat anymore, huh. What are you doing in here?” He checked his watch after petting the dog. It was after ten in the morning.

“Aw, hell.” He jumped out of bed. The excitement of yesterday must have taken a bigger toll on him than he’d realized; he’d been out for over twelve hours. He padded to the bathroom, relieved himself and showered. When he got back to his room, he discovered Triton amusing himself by chewing a hole in a pair of dirty boxer shorts.

“Aw, man, Tri. Those are new. Or, they were.” He dressed in his favorite pair of jeans and a UMass Boston T-shirt, then tried to pry the underwear from the dog. “C’mon, leave ‘em alone.”

Triton tugged and play-growled, his butt up in the air, his tail wagging. Alex let go of the boxers. “Okay, you win. But I bet there’s something tastier for breakfast downstairs.”

He whistled and the dog bounded off the bed, zipping past him to thunder down the stairs to the front door.

On the stairway landing, Alex paused and studied the photograph of Lovie True. A lump of dread took up residence midway between his heart and Adam’s apple. She seemed to have a bigger smile today, as if she knew about his dreams and mocked him for them.

There was something about that smile….

The lighting in the stairway changed, dimmed. It was dark outside, and a candle lantern hung from his hand, casting soft triangles of yellow onto the wall.

What the hell?

He blinked, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and gazed around. The house looked the same, but the photo’s frame had morphed from glossy bronze to faded pine. The print looked newer. Fine cracks caused by time had filled in, with every shade between black and gray defined to highlight the beauty of the smiling woman.

Floorboards creaked overhead. “Where are you going?”

He whipped around, his heart leaping into his throat as his gaze jumped from the photo to the woman at the top of the stairs. She stood there, blonde hair bobbed and curled up around her cheeks, eyes heavily painted with black liner, and lips smeared a wild, racy red.

Lovie.

The hem of her green dress barely covered her to mid-thigh and a spike of hot resentment shot through him. Was she trying to look like a vamp? Didn’t she know what they whispered about her in town?

It doesn’t matter, he reminded himself and sucked in a breath. After tonight, what she did would no longer be his concern. Soon he would be rid of her.

“You got wax in your ears?” Lovie demanded.

“The light needs tending,” he said. The voice was his, but without a hint of his Boston accent. “You know this.”

“God, you and that damn lighthouse. Don’t futz around up there all night. Dinner’s almost finished.”

Triton barked. Alex staggered as pain tore through his skull and caught himself against the railing. Blinking, he touched his temple, half expecting blood, the headache was so bad. Everything was normal. No blood. Daylight poured through the windows. He no longer carried a lantern. Nobody stood at the top of the stairs scowling at him.

Great. It was happening while he was awake now. Dreams he could brush off, but hallucinations….

“Goddammit. I’m not crazy. I’m not.”

You sound like Theo now, his inner cynic taunted.

Theo.

Jesus, he hadn’t heard from Theo in—three, four days? No, that couldn’t be right. He dug his phone out of his pocket and, blinking against the pain in his head, he scrolled through the missed calls. Several from Sully and Nick, one from Kai and one from Trisha, his ex-lover in Boston. None from Theo. Strange.

Alex called up the hospital’s number from his phone’s memory. He waited through several rings then a chirpy woman answered. He asked for Romano. The doctor was in a meeting.

“Is there someone else available?” he asked. “This is Alex Brennan. I’m calling to check up on my brother, Theo Macartan. I haven’t heard from him in a couple days.”

“One moment. I’ll see if a nurse can take your call.”

Alex waited, listening to sleepy hold music, and felt eyes burning holes in his skull. His gaze landed on the smiling photo of Lovie True.

“Creepy-ass picture.” He turned his back on it and walked down the stairs as someone picked up the line.

“Mr. Brennan?” The new voice was older and thick with a smoker’s rasp. “This is Lilith Morgan. I’m an RN here at Our Lady. I understand you have some questions regarding your brother?”

“I haven’t heard from him in several days,” Alex said. “He calls me at least once a day, usually more. Last time I talked to him, on Wednesday, he had a bit of an episode.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. He sent one of the aides to the emergency room.”

Alex swallowed hard. “Have there been other episodes since then?”

“I can’t go into the specifics about his condition over the phone without Dr. Romano’s okay, but I can tell you we’ve had to segregate him from the rest of the patients. If you’d like, I can have Dr. Romano call you when he has some free time to discuss the matter further.”

“Please. I’d appreciate it.” After a wooden goodbye, Alex disconnected the call. He pressed the phone to his forehead, squeezing back the tears blurring his vision. Theo was getting worse. The nurse hadn’t said so, but she didn’t need to. It was all in the way she’d handled the call.

Triton whimpered and scratched at the front door’s frame.

“Yeah, I’m comin’.” Alex yanked himself back together. He dropped the phone into his pocket and pushed the door open. “You’re not gonna run off and chase cars on me, are ya?”

Triton streaked by in a flash of black fur and danced around the yard until he realized Alex hadn’t followed. The mutt circled around and raced back to the porch to wiggle around his feet.

“Okay, okay. Sheesh, I’ll play with ya.” He sighed and bent over, scooping up a well-worn tennis ball from the empty flowerpot by the porch steps. “Here you go.” He threw the ball, and the dog bounced after it, kicking up clouds of dead leaves.

Alex scanned the yard. Chilled air filled his lungs, so salty he could taste it with each breath he took. Triton’s happy barking and the rhythmic crashing of waves against the rocky beach below the house punctured the heavy autumn silence.

Where was Pru?

The old rocking chair behind him creaked and groaned, as if someone had settled into it. He turned, expecting Pru, but the seat was empty, moving gently on its sloped legs. That old Boston rocker seemed to have a mind of its own. He hadn’t once seen it motionless since he arrived.

He reached out and stopped the chair and a faint wisp of cigar smoke touched his nostrils before the wind carried it away. An icy shudder rattled through him.

What was it about this place that set his nerves on edge?

Triton returned and dropped the slobbery ball into Alex’s hand. He sucked in a breath and gazed down at a goofy doggie grin.

“Thanks, boy,” he said and meant it. He’d needed the distraction.

He strolled to the end of the porch and chucked the ball far over the embankment onto the beach beside the house. Pru was down there. Dressed in a dark green windbreaker jacket and jeans with her hair loose and dancing on the wind, she strolled along the beach, occasionally picking something up to add to the red bucket she carried. Silhouetted against the sky and ocean, she looked almost mythical, a hazy figment of the sea’s imagination.

It was all so…familiar.

He snorted at his thoughts. “Get a grip, man.”

The ball landed several feet from her. She looked up and waved. “Hey!”

His hands tightened on the porch railing as he remembered her flat-out rejection of him last night after he kissed her, and the ache in his heart returned with a raging vengeance. He watched her climb the creaky wood steps up the embankment with Triton, ball in mouth, trotting at her side.

“Hi,” he called back.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” she said, breathless from the hike up the stairs. She set the shell-filled bucket on the porch step and sat down next to it, brushing dirt off her feet. She had her jeans rolled mid-way up her calf and, for the first time, he noticed the delicate rose above her right ankle. It looked familiar too, but he couldn’t put a finger on where he’d seen it before.

“What’s that?”

“Oh.” She stretched out her leg and studied the tattoo. “I got it when I decided to make the move here. I’ve always sort of wanted a tattoo but Owen, my ex, hated them. When he left me and I pulled myself back together, I—” She shrugged and laughed. “Well, I guess I rebelled like a teenager. I wanted to start over, do something out of character. Kind of immature of me, huh?”

“Nah. I did it too after my granddad died.” He lifted his pant leg to show her the stylized bulldog tattooed to his calf, and she arched a brow.

“A bulldog?”

“It’s a Marine thing.” He dropped his pant leg. “What about yours? A rose in a glass case?”

“It’s a Disney movie thing. The enchanted rose from Beauty and the Beast.”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s where I’ve seen that before.”

Pru stared at him for a second, then laughed. “You watch Disney movies?”

“Uh…” Shit, his inner cynic said. Now what, genius? “No. I mean, not regularly. I had a friend with a daughter who loves Disney Princesses, and I babysat her a couple times. Enough to know each of the Princesses by name.” It was the truth, sort of. Only the “friend” was notorious in the Irish mafia and he’d used the babysitting gig to help gain the guy’s trust and climb the ranks closer to Nolan O’Shaughnessy. But she didn’t need to know that part of it.

Triton brought the ball back. Grateful for the distraction, Alex tossed it again, as far out into the yard as he could manage.

Pru linked her hands over her knees and smiled, watching her dog catch the ball mid-flight. “I see Triton has conned you into playing his favorite game.”

“Yeah, I suppose I’m no longer the enemy.” He leaned on the porch railing and said nothing more for several minutes, hoping to let the words sink in. See, Pru? Your suspicious pooch trusts me, so why can’t you?

The silence became uncomfortable.

“All right.” She unlinked her hands and turned toward him, her gaze direct. “I get it. You’re pissed off because of last night.”

“No, I’m not.” He sighed and scrubbed his face with one hand, beard stubble rasping his palm. He hadn’t shaved in three days and probably looked like a caveman. Rather felt like one too with the way he wanted to grab Pru, toss her over his shoulder, and find the nearest bed.

“I’m…” He searched for the right word. This civilized, talking-about-your-feelings shit was hard. “Frustrated.”

“Because I won’t hop into bed with you?”

Lying probably wouldn’t win him any points. “Partly,” he said.

“I had a right to react the way I did. Wade died—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “And Sheriff Forbes put you in jail. Then when you came back, you tell me my worst nightmare may be coming true. It was a hell of a day.”

“I’m not arguing that.”

“Then what?”

Damn, he didn’t want to say it. She’d no doubt think he was nuts, but he couldn’t find another way to make her understand.

“What?” she prompted.

Alex tunneled his hands in his hair. “Okay. I get these…feelings…about things sometimes.”

She stared at him for a long time. He waited, dread churning in his gut, sure she was going to burst out laughing.

“You do?” Her tone was curious rather than sarcastic. It fortified him. He exhaled in a rush.

“Always have.”

“You mean like a psychic?”

“No. Shit, I’m not crazy enough to think I’m psychic.” He dropped to the step next to her and rested his elbows on his knees. “Just feelings. Intuition. I don’t know how else to explain it, but I’ve never been wrong.”

Pru looked away from him, out over the yard. He could see her throat work under her creamy skin as she swallowed. “And you have one of these feelings about me?”

“Not you. Not like that. But I’ve felt…wrong since I came into town and it’s driving me bonkers. Hell, I don’t even know what prompted me to come here in the first place. I was headed west when I left the city, but I got as far as Albany and had this urge to go north. I drove here like—like I knew where I was going.”

Alex paused, waited until she turned toward him, and held her gaze. “I’ve never been this far into Maine before. There’s no way I could have known.”

Her teeth sank into her lower lip, drawing his gaze to her mouth. Such kissable lips. He wondered if her nether lips—and all her soft, pink woman parts—were just as kissable, then immediately cursed himself for the thought. Not the time for a hard-on. Of course, his cock didn’t listen. He shifted away from her body and ignored the strawberry scent of her shampoo as the wind played through her hair. His fingers itched to touch the black silk, wind it around his hand and drag her mouth to his.

Stupid, stupid, stupid to sit down so close to her.

Pru hugged herself, pushing her breasts up with her arms. Under the windbreaker, she wore a V-neck shirt and he caught a glimpse of cleavage as she moved. He almost groaned. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was torturing him on purpose, but she was so oblivious to her own sexiness, she had no idea how much she tantalized a guy’s fantasies.

“The other night you asked me about murders in the lighthouse,” she said. “Is that because of this feeling you’re having?”

The only feeling he had right now was raging lust.

Hah. She’d slap him if he said that. Alex jerked his gaze from her chest and tried to focus on the question, but it took a moment for the blood to pump back to his brain.

“Maybe,” he hedged. “I don’t really know what prompted me to ask that. At the time, it seemed important.”

“So we should check it out.” She climbed to her feet and dusted off her ass, right at eye level. Alex’s mind went blank and all of his blood rushed back to another, more southern portion of his anatomy. The spit dried in his mouth. Man, those blue jeans were sinful the way they hugged that round bottom like a second layer of skin.

He gave himself a mental kick. Mind on the task at hand, Al—though he would very much like to have her ass at hand instead. He shook his head and struggled to pick up the thread of the conversation again.

Murders. Lighthouse.

Right. She wanted to investigate.

“We should?” he asked.

“Well, you don’t know why you came to town, but it felt important so you did. You don’t know why you asked me if there had been any murders, but it felt important too. So we should at least research it. What can it hurt?” She shrugged and held out a hand to help him up. “And I happen to know the perfect person to ask.”

***

Charming in a way Alex couldn’t immediately explain, the one-story cape cod had the look of a pair of timeworn, well-loved boots. Yellow paint peeled off the sunburned siding to show specks of gray underneath. The front yard boasted a wild tumble of flowers and a menagerie of stone animal figurines behind a white fence badly in need of painting. A woman with a long braid tossed over one shoulder sat on the front porch, waving at them with the ear of corn she had been husking when they pulled into the drive.

Alex pressed his lips together. “Lookit, I don’t think this is a good idea. Meeting your grandmother…I mean, you made it perfectly clear last night you wanted to leave things platonic.”

Pru poked him in the ribs. “Hey, you wanted to know about the lighthouse. Grandma Mae knows more about the lighthouse than anyone. Besides, she’s dying to meet you.”

Great. Just…great.

He stared out the windshield of Pru’s Jeep and rubbed his bad right knee. The early-onset arthritis ached today, probably because of the weather. It was a beautiful day with puffy clouds in a vivid blue sky, but a deep chill whispered the promise of winter in the air and cold always aggravated his knee.

Pru gave him an encouraging smile and touched the back of his hand, a fleeting brush of skin not remotely sexual that sent lust pounding through his veins.

“We’ll only stay for a bit,” she said. “Grandma’s already seen us so there’s no turning back now.”

No turning back now. Somehow, those words had a ring of truth to them that had nothing to do with meeting Pru’s grandmother. He couldn’t find his voice and nodded, his gaze dropping to her hand resting on his. She yanked back and whacked her elbow on the steering wheel. Wincing, she shoved open the car door and scrambled out as if escaping the clutches of an evil beast.

You got the devil in you, boyo. Alex heard his grandfather’s voice in his head and his stomach twisted. Granddad had done a massive mind-fuck on him—he knew it, but it was still hard to shake the ideas Cillian Brennan had pounded into him throughout his adolescence.

He released a shaky breath, fortifying himself, and stepped out of the jeep. Stupid to be terrified of the skinny gray-haired woman bounding off the steps with the sprightliness of a girl, enveloping her granddaughter in a firm hug—yet he was. He approached slowly, but gave serious consideration to a duck-and-run maneuver that had always worked well for evading the enemy in the Middle East.

“There’s my dear!” Pru’s grandma exclaimed. “I was wondering when I’d see you again. I heard about all the nastiness at your place this past week. Poor, poor Wade.”

“I know,” Pru said and to Alex’s horror, both women started crying.

Oh good God in heaven, help me. He didn’t know what to do when one woman started the waterworks, and now he had two hugging and blubbering all over each other. He decided to let them get it out of their systems and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.

Finally, Mae set Pru back at arm’s length. “Are you okay, honey? Let me have a look at you.” She frowned. “You’re too skinny and too pale.”

Pru sniffed and wiped her eyes. “And you’re too old and too cranky.” The smile she gave the old woman was the warmest Alex had ever seen from her and made him forget his unease. His heart swelled, leaving him grinning like an idiot at her side as she again squeezed her grandmother.

“Oh, I’ve missed you, Grandma Mae. How was your vacation?”

“Same old, same old.” She waved a thin hand. “I tell you, you go on one African safari, you’ve been on them all. I’m thinking next year I’ll try backpacking in the Outback. The travel agency’s offering a great deal on a two week Sand-n-Surf trip in Australia….” Trailing off, she looked at Alex as if just noticing him. “Oh, my. Where are my manners!” She wiped her hand on the front of her purple sweater and held it out in greeting. “You must be Alex Locke. I’m Pru’s grandmother, Fiona Mae Pritchard. You can call me Grandma Mae. Everyone else does.”

Her hand felt bony and light, and blue veins crisscrossed the pale skin on the back, but her grip was a firm one and her clear eyes—the same haunting shade of blue as Pru’s—held his gaze as they shook. This woman was all of five feet tall, thin as a wisp of smoke, and larger than life. He had the strangest feeling she could see right through him.

After a second, she smiled and those chilly blue eyes warmed. “Welcome to Three Churches, Alex. Come along inside. I have lunch on the grill. Oh, and could you be a dear and help an old lady carry this heavy basket of corn?”

CHAPTER 14

As Pru and her grandmother disappeared into the kitchen with the directive he make himself at home, Alex wandered around the parlor, taking a moment to soak in the cottage’s unidentifiable charm. A nice, lived-in area. Clean but not the military tidiness of Granddad’s old house that he’d come to associate with the elderly. Not airy and open, no polished metallic fixtures, no perfectly choreographed linens, no matching patent leather furniture like there had been in Granddad’s living room, like there was in Alex’s condo. The air didn’t carry the clean, stringent smells of Clorox, Windex, Pledge, or Pinesol like he was used to, though it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant odor either. Just different—a hybrid of aromas that came from living every day but only cleaning on every other. He spied several cobwebs draped high in the corners of the room and even though there was a pile of coasters on the coffee table, rings from sweating drink cups dotted the scuffed glass surface. Books on everything from soap making to spelunking gathered dust on every available surface that photographs did not take up. On the coffee table sat a cold mug of coffee and an open book. He leaned over the back of the couch and peered at the page. Surfing for Dummies.

He smiled. Grandma Mae had to be in her mid-eighties and she was learning to surf? Amazing.

There was love in this house and plenty of it. He could see it in the clutter of new and yellowed photos over the drafty fireplace. He sidled over to get a closer look. Danger Ledge Lighthouse hovered wraith-like in the background of the photos, and he noticed it hadn’t changed at all over the years. The clothes, hairstyles, and cars changed, as did the people, but the lighthouse remained the same, as strong and faithful as the life-saving beacon it sheltered. He picked up one photo—a family portrait of four adults, three young boys, and a baby girl—that looked to have been taken mid-twentieth century, judging by the beautiful 1948 Cadillac Series 61 parked in the far left corner. One of the women in the photo was undoubtedly a much younger Grandma Mae, and the other looked enough like her to be her sister. Mae had a toddler boy on her hip and another small boy tugging at the hem of her dress.

“That one is Pru’s father, Samuel,” Grandma Mae said, pointing to the boy with his pudgy hand knotted in her skirt. “And that little guy standing next to my sister is Cappy.”

Alex gazed up, startled. The woman seemed to walk on air, she moved so soundlessly. He glanced around the living room, but Pru was nowhere to be seen.

Mae smiled. “She’s in the kitchen on the phone with her Uncle Joey. That’s him right there.” She pointed to the toddler on her hip in the photograph, then her expression melted the way only a mother’s could.

“Oh, goodness, I haven’t really looked at these in so long. Look at him,” she cooed and took the frame, lovingly touching the faded print. “My Joey. So chubby and look at that smile! He was always smiling. I swear he came out of me with that grin. Oh, he was such a happy boy until the accident.”

Alex frowned, struck by the sudden note of sorrow in her voice. Another accident? Couldn’t be a coincidence. “What happened?”

Mae sighed. Her hand shook a little as she replaced the photo on the mantel. “He was in a car accident when he was eighteen. It paralyzed him from the waist down. It broke something inside him, something more than his spine. He was never the same afterward.”

She stared at the photo for a long moment. Alex’s heart twisted with sorrow and maybe a nip of envy. He had never put much stock in the power of the maternal bond. Until now, he hadn’t had much to measure it against. His own mother had all but disowned him the moment he was conceived, though it was no fault of his own that he’d come from an extramarital affair that ended Monica Brennan-Macartan’s marriage to Theo’s father.

Alex studied Grandma Mae, watched the flutter of emotion over her features. Joey Pritchard had to be in his fifties or sixties by now, and she still hurt for what he went through at eighteen. How would it feel to have a mother who cared that deeply for her children?

Mae gave her head a slight shake. When she smiled, all traces of sadness dissipated. “Did you see how much Pru looks like my mother?”

She picked up another photo half-hidden behind goofy high-school portraits of each of her sons and passed it to him. It was a good two decades older than the others judging by the car the pregnant woman leaned against, and again, the lighthouse stood in the background. The woman, Grandma Mae’s mother and Pru’s great-grandmother, could have been Pru in 1920s costume. Same hair, same eyes, same pear-shaped build and heart-shaped face.

Alex whistled. “They could be identical twins.”

“Creepy, huh?”

“Yeah. Wow,” he said and set the picture down. “So the lighthouse has been in your family a long time?”

She nodded. “Since my uncle bought it.”

“Who did he buy it from?”

“Nobody ever talked about the previous owners. Not in polite society anyhow.”

“Lovie True?” Alex guessed.

Mae grinned. When she was younger, her smile had probably knocked more than one man for a loop. As it was, he felt himself falling a little bit in love with her.

“Have you seen The Green Lady?” she asked.

Alex snorted. “Ghosts don’t exist.”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“But I’d like to know more about the lighthouse,” he added, “if you wouldn’t mind answering a couple questions for me.” He hesitated. She looked so frail he wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Uh, some might be disturbing.”

She patted his cheek. “Honey, I’m nearly eighty-nine years old. There’s not much that disturbs me anymore. Ask away.”

“All right.” He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he stuck them in his pockets and studied the line of photographs again. “Uh, where to start?”

Mae sat on the couch and folded her hands across her stomach in a gesture that reminded Alex of Pru. “I’ve found the beginning always works best.”

He nodded. The beginning was as good a place as any, and it would ease the way for the tough questions. She may not find much disturbing, but the thought of talking murder with a nearly eighty-nine year old woman disturbed him, which was why he’d never gone into homicide investigation.

“Okay,” he said. “The beginning. When was the lighthouse built?”

“Ah. Let me make sure I have the story straight.” Her eyes rolled toward the ceiling as she thought about it. “A ship wrecked right below Danger Ledge in 1845, killing quite a few people, including women and children. You could say that was the final straw, the last of a long line of shipwrecks, and the government commissioned the lighthouse that year. I believe they completed construction in…oh, goodness. 1847? Somewhere around there.”

Mae grinned at him again. “You say ghosts don’t exist, but for over one hundred and sixty years, people have claimed to see that ship still riding out the waves at the base of the cliff. Cappy, my nephew, believed it existed right up until the end.” She tsked. “That poor boy. What happened to him…and then Wade…it’s just awful.”

Okay, so much for easing into the hard stuff, Alex thought. She’d gone right to the heart of the matter.

“You sound like you don’t think Cappy killed himself,” he said.

“I don’t.” Mae sat up and picked a napkin from the pile she’d brought in with the cider. She dabbed at her eyes. “And I said so for months afterward, but who’s going to believe me? I’m a silly old woman.”

“Then what do you think happened to him?”

“Now that’s the mystery, isn’t it? Cappy was ill. There’s no denying that. He loved telling stories, but it got to the point he wasn’t able to distinguish story from reality. The day before he died, he kept talking about the ghost ship, came to me in a panic, saying the crew wanted to kill him. I’ve often wondered if maybe he’d seen a real ship and confused it with the ghost story.” She let her voice trail away and shrugged. Speculation hung thick in the air.

“A real ship?” Alex asked, remembering the boat he’d seen below the lighthouse his first night in Three Churches. Even though it had seemed to disappear into thin air, that boat hadn’t been a ghost ship. He refused to believe that. Besides, it certainly hadn’t been from the 1800’s. Modern. Sleek. Was that the same boat Cappy had seen? Did it have anything to do with how he ended up hanging from the lighthouse tower?

Alex filed those questions away for later consideration. He moved across the room and took the empty seat beside Grandma Mae on the couch. “As far as you know, has there ever been a murder at the lighthouse? Particularly a stabbing.”

“A murder? Well.” The wrinkles around her mouth deepened as she considered it. “Not that I’m aware of, but I don’t know the lighthouse’s entire history.”

“What about a fire?” Alex asked.

Mae started to shake her head but stopped. Her eyes widened. “There was! Lordy, I—I completely forgot about it, but my mother mentioned a fire once when I was very young. I had burned my hand playing with the stove and when Mama told my daddy about it, she had such a sad look on her face. She said, ‘Abe,’—that was my father’s name, Abraham. She said, ‘Fiona Mae nearly burned down the kitchen again’. Daddy yelled at me and my mama started crying. She never cried. I remember it so clearly now. I was shocked that Mama thought I’d tried to burn the kitchen down once before.”

“You hadn’t had any other close calls with fire?” Alex asked.

“No. That was the first, and the only reason I turned the stove on was because I had this silly idea I could make cookies for Daddy. I was six.”

“So you think your mother was referring to another fire, one that happened before you were born?”

“She must’ve been. I can’t think of any other reason she’d say what she did.” Mae brightened and many of her wrinkles vanished, making her look decades younger. “If there was a fire, there would be records in the archives of Town Hall.”

Alex grimaced. Sheriff Forbes’s office was in Town Hall. No way he’d be able to get in there and research a fire that may or may not have happened eighty plus years ago. Stupid to try. Dead end.

“Do you think a fire has something to do with what happened to Cappy?”

Alex laughed at her girlish excitement. “Honestly, I have no clue where I’m going with these questions.”

“Oh, I think you do. You’re a smart man.” She patted his bad knee as Pru entered from the kitchen carrying a platter of cheese, crackers, and dip. “If anyone can figure out the lighthouse’s curse, it’s you.”

“Now, Grandma,” Pru sighed. “Don’t start that again.”

“What?” Mae’s chin hitched up in the same defiant way her granddaughter’s did. “The boy asked me some questions, and I was giving him my answers.”

Pru rolled her eyes, set the platter on the coffee table and dropped a kiss on her grandmother’s brow before heading back to the kitchen. “There is no curse on the lighthouse, Grandma Mae.”

“That’s what your daddy thought too,” she shot back. “And look where it got him.” To Alex, she added, “Sam, her daddy, fell off the tower last year while he was painting it.”

“Dad lost his footing,” Pru said. “Simple as that.”

“So did your grandfather when he fell down the stairs and your great aunt Sarah when her horse spooked in the yard. And what about poor, sweet Wade? Next you’ll be telling me Cappy fell too.”

“Cappy killed himself.” Pru shook her head and mouthed sorry at Alex from the kitchen doorway, then added aloud, “How about a subject change? Tell Alex about your safari. I’m sure he’d like to hear about it.”

“My ass,” Mae muttered and crossed her arms over her thin chest. The gesture was also so similar to Pru that Alex had to hide a chuckle behind a cough.

“She’s a sweetheart,” Mae confided, “but she’s so innocent. She’s not like me or you. Her daddy loved her very much and his intentions were always good, but he did her no great service by keeping her in a bubble her whole life. I had hoped she would grow up when she moved away from here, but that ex-husband of hers stepped in and took over right where my Samuel left off.”

“I can understand why,” Alex said. Putting Pru in a bubble where nothing or no one could hurt her seemed like a good idea to him. His gaze strayed to the mantel, settled on a photo of Pru as a child in pigtails on a banana-seat bike. Yes, as a matter of fact, the bubble was an excellent idea.

Mae gave a knowing smile. “Mm. I can see that. You’ve only known her for a short time and you want to protect her as well.” She folded both of her tiny hands around his. “You go ahead and keep her in that bubble a little longer, Alex. Okay? Protect her for me. All these recent accidents have me worried sick.”

The so-called “accidents” happening around Pru didn’t sit well with him either, but he couldn’t let that on. He cleared his throat. “Ma’am, if you’re really worried about her you should ask the sheriff to keep an eye on her. I just install alarm systems for a living.”

Without a word, Mae spread his right hand open, palm-out, and traced the callus on his trigger finger.

“We both know you’re not a ‘security consultant’,” she murmured. “Just as we both know Sheriff Forbes cannot be trusted to look after our Pru. He’d put Rhett Swithin on the job and that good for nothing—” She snorted delicately. “He wants her for one reason and one reason only. But you…Oh, my dear boy. You care about her in ways that you won’t understand until you look at her fifty years down the road and still see what you see in her today.”

He kept his face impassive. The old lady was too smart for her own good. “Ma’am, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not.” Grandma Mae leaned forward. Her lips brushed his cheek, soft and dry. “You’re a good man, Alex, with a good heart. Keep her safe.”

CHAPTER 15

Keep her safe.

Yeah, Alex thought with a soft snort as the jeep rambled up the driveway toward the lighthouse. Grandma Mae’s words had put a bitter taste in his throat. He’d tried to cleanse it away with cider and tender grilled chicken, corn on the cob, and fried sweet potatoes. No such luck. If anything, the excellent food and enjoyable company only made it worse.

Keep her safe.

Dammit, he was trying, but it was a tall order when he had no idea where the danger came from.

The top of the driveway rose into view and Alex stiffened in his seat as he spotted a silver truck parked in front of the carriage house. He reached for his hip only to come up with nothing. Patted his side in disbelief. Jeans, cotton shirt, leather jacket. No weapon. Fuck.

“Pull over.”

“What?” Pru shot him a sideways glance that might have been a little annoyed—okay, he amended, a lot annoyed. He hadn’t exactly been stellar company since they left Grandma Mae’s, shooting down her every attempt at conversation until she finally jabbed on the radio and ignored his presence.

“Pull over,” he said again.

“Why?” she asked, but still brought the jeep to a stop short of the last steep incline of her driveway.

“Because I don’t know who that truck belongs to.” And that made him twitchy. Too many bad things had happened to take an unexpected visit from an unknown truck lightly. Alex studied the vehicle: Chevy Silverado with rental plates and an Avis sticker in the window.

“It’s probably a customer,” Pru said and an unspoken duh came out in her tone. “I do own a bed and breakfast.”

Which was another thing that made him twitchy. Inviting strangers into your home with a smile and a wave was a good way to get yourself killed by some nutjob. “I thought you weren’t open yet.”

“Well, not officially, but I have enough finished rooms that I sometimes take in the spillover from Mermaid’s Purse in town. Gladys Sherry probably sent this person up here for a room.”

He turned in his seat to face her. She had a regal profile: high cheekbones and a slim nose without a freckle or blemish to mar her ivory complexion. Her sweater hugged her curves and the seatbelt had nestled itself comfortably between her breasts. How pathetic was it, he wondered, to be jealous of a seatbelt?

Sexual frustration simmered below the surface of his skin like a hot, uncomfortable rash. Great. Like he hadn’t been aggravated enough without adding a dose of unfulfilled lust to the mix.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said. “You can’t trust every Tom, Dick, and Harry you meet.”

Pru crossed her arms over her chest. “And why not?”

“Because there are a lot of crazy people in the world and most are out to hurt whoever they can. You know that. You’ve experienced it firsthand.”

Her lips trembled once before she pressed them together in a grim line. Before his eyes, she yanked the slipping pieces of herself together, viciously reining in what had to be a storm of emotions. Such an intriguing contradiction, he mused, so vulnerable and yet so strong.

Respect bloomed soft and warm in his chest. It was dangerous to add that to the mix of lust and admiration he already felt, and he damned himself for it even as he fantasized about cupping her jutting chin in his hand and kissing the scowl from her lips.

“I refuse to be drawn into the dysfunctional world you believe in,” she said after a charged moment. “People are mostly good.”

The woman was incredible. And naïve as hell. Alex wanted to reached over, grip her lovely shoulders, and shake some sense into her. “How can you still believe that after what you’ve been through?”

“How can you have such a harsh view of the world?” she shot back.

“It’s a harsh world.”

She huffed out a breath. “Don’t you trust anyone?”

“No.”

Pru finally glanced over at him, a sharp slice of blue eyes that cut straight to the heart. He knew she disapproved, but at the moment he didn’t care, distracted by the uncomfortable feeling that the answer had come out too fast and too easily for even his own liking. It had sounded callous and downright…well, coldblooded.

So what? He refused to qualify his answer. He was a coldblooded son of a bitch and it’d be best for the both of them if she remembered that.

“Stay here,” he ordered and opened the jeep’s door.

She threw up her hands with an exasperated sigh.

Alex shut the door behind him without making a sound and started up the hill at a jog, angling himself so that he came at the truck from the back passenger side. He wished for his weapon as he approached in a half-crouch. Technically, with all his training his hands were lethal weapons, but as an average-sized guy, he always felt at a distinct disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat, especially if his opponent was bigger than average. He’d rather have a gun.

Staying low, Alex peeked in the truck’s passenger side window. Empty, but someone had spent some time in the vehicle. A handful of fast food bags sat in the foot well. Half a bottle of caffeine-free diet coke in the cup holder. A green military-style duffle bag in the seat, unzipped. Several CD cases lay on top of the clothes in the bag—George Straight, Garth Brooks, Toby Keith, Dixie Chicks.

Dixie Chicks?

There was only one man in the world that could listen to that garbage without his balls shriveling to the size of raisins.

Alex circled to the front of the truck and scanned the yard. “All right. Where are you?”

The tap on his shoulder didn’t surprise him. Nick Gray Wolf moved with all the soundless grace of the animal he was named for. Alex turned and Nick grabbed him in a rib-crushing, backslapping hug.

“Howdy, Range.”

Alex gave him a jab in the gut. “Seriously? People don’t say howdy anymore.”

Nick grinned and stepped back, hooking his tanned leather hands into the belt loops of his Wranglers. “Says you.”

A big guy with hopelessly mixed ancestry—Lakota Sioux, Mexican, White and a bit of Japanese tossed in, he always said, “to make things interesting”—he dressed with a similar clash of styles. A fringed buckskin jacket covered his broad shoulders, half-concealing a Red Sox T-shirt. As if that wasn’t sacrilege enough, he’d topped the ensemble with a pair of brown cowboy boots and hat, his dark hair hanging in twin braids over his shoulders.

“Lemme guess,” Alex said. “You’re petitioning to move the Sox to the Wild West?”

He flashed a smile and a set of dimples that ladies swooned over. “Bet you rue the day you got me hooked on baseball.”

“Somewhere, Wally the Green Monster is crying,” Alex said, but grinned. Nick was once again the man he remembered from their days as impulsive young marines—quick feet and even quicker mind—and not the vagrant that had shown up on his doorstep several years ago, penniless, substance-addicted, scarred from a fresh attempt at suicide and desperately depressed that he would succeed the next time he tried to off himself.

Nick laughed and clapped him on the back. “So what’s up with the G.I. Joe routine, Al? Saw you creepin’ up the hill like you expected Hajji to jump out at any second.”

Down the hill, the Jeep’s engine fired and rumbled closer. Pru, ignoring his order to stay put. Alex sighed and rubbed his face hard with his fingertips, remolding the flesh over his cheekbones as if that would stop the shooting pain she caused in his skull.

Nick’s grin faded. “That bad?”

“You tell me. Sully’s the one who thinks I need a babysitter.”

At least Nick didn’t bother denying it. “Well,” he said after a second. It sounded like whelp. “Sully’s just bein’…Sully. The careful, paranoid first lieutenant we all know and love. Safety in numbers and all that.”

“Yeah, right.” Alex started toward the jeep as Pru parked behind the truck, slid from the driver’s seat and eyed them both warily.

CHAPTER 16

“Honestly, Pru, this place is amazin’.”

She beamed at Nick as they entered the kitchen, where Alex had started a pot of coffee while she’d given a tour around the lighthouse. As Alex had promised when he introduced them, she did like Nick very much—although his fashion sense was horrid, also as Alex had promised. She didn’t want to consider how many Bambis had to die to make his coat.

“Thanks, I think it’s pretty amazin’”—she copied his country accent, dragging out the word— “as well.”

Nick grinned. Dimples softened the hard lines of his face and made him look less like a stoic Sioux warrior and more like a New Age science geek intrigued by all the strangeness happening around Danger Ledge Light. He was so not what she’d expected from one of Alex’s military friends. From her short phone conversation with him after Sherriff Forbes arrested Alex, she knew he could be an intense, ruthless, and scarily efficient soldier, but she saw no sign of that in him now.

“And I completely believe it’s haunted,” Nick added, an edge of excitement in his Montana drawl. “It has a feel to it, energy. It pulls you and repels at the same time.”

“Don’t get him started,” Alex grumbled and handed Pru a mug while sipping from his own. Their fingers brushed and his lingered a moment too long. He had been touching her all day, a caress of his thumb against her wrist, a whisper-soft touch to the back of her neck, a hand on her arm or leg. She wasn’t even sure he was aware of doing it. Grandma Mae had noticed, though, and made a suggestive comment about it as soon they were out of Alex’s earshot.

Pru prayed Nick hadn’t noticed the constant touches too, and took a drink of her coffee to hide the blush she felt riding her cheeks. Then she realized Nick still didn’t have a cup. Alex hadn’t even offered one to him.

She sent Alex a scowl and crossed to the coffee maker, reaching for a third mug on the shelf overhead. “Would you like some coffee, Nick?”

“Decaf?” he asked.

Alex shook his head. His eyes narrowed a bit as he took another sip. “Nope.”

Nick held up his hands. “Won’t touch it then.”

“Good,” Alex said.

Okay, Pru thought, watching unspoken words pass between the two. She put the mug away. “Would you like something else?”

“Nah. Thanks, but I gotta get back to the motel and hit the hay.” He stifled a yawn behind his hand. “Long trip out.”

It took her a second to process his words. She’d fully expected him to stay in one of the lighthouse’s finished rooms. More than that, she wanted him to stay. He acted as a nice buffer between her and Alex, and she needed the lust dampened. If she had to toss and turn through one more night of achy, sex-filled dreams, knowing Alex was right upstairs but that a fling with him was so not a good idea—she was pretty sure she’d explode.

“Motel? Nonsense,” she said, doing her best impression of Grandma Mae’s won’t-take-no-for-an-answer voice. “You can stay here for free.”

Nick slid a glance toward Alex, who had gone very still. She could almost see the word pass between them—cockblock.

Ugh. Men!

Nick’s mouth kicked up at the corner. He shook his head. “Nah. Motel’s good.”

“I insist. It’s already getting late and—” She checked her watch. The hands had stopped at seven-eighteen. Again. Frustrated, she took the watch off and tapped its face. “Dammit. This is the third battery I’ve gone through.”

She looked at the clock on the wall over the sink, the one her father had handcrafted out of driftwood, usually so steady and reliable. The hands were still, trapped at seven-eighteen.

“What on earth?”

“That’s weird,” Alex said and flicked the face of his own watch. “Mine stopped at the same time.”

“Mine too,” Nick murmured. On the floor at his feet, Triton whined and pressed closer to his legs.

Pru frowned at her dog. How odd. Triton was usually weary of strangers. It’d taken Alex days to win him over.

Nick reached down and patted Triton’s side. “Does that happen often around here? Go through a lot of batteries, do ya?”

“Like water since I moved here.” She crossed to the sink and stood on her tiptoes to take the clock down. After replacing the battery from the hundred-count value pack she’d bought last week, which was half-empty already, the second hand jumped to life. She checked the time on her cell phone and reset the clock. “I can’t figure out why.”

“Here, let me.” Nick came up behind her, took the clock, and hung it back on its nail without even stretching. “Supposedly, ghosts use all the energy they can get when they manifest. They suck the heat out of the air, creatin’ cold spots, and the power out of batteries and other such things. Electronics rarely work when spirits are hangin’ around.”

“Really?” She never knew that, but it sure explained a lot. Like why that hundred-count pack of batteries was fast dwindling and why some of them, although they were brand new, were dead before she ever used them.

Nick nodded. “That’s why paranormal investigators use electromagnetic field readers when lookin’ into a hauntin’. Ghosts suck up the energy around them, creatin’ jolts the EMF scanners pick up. Have you ever considered havin’ someone investigate here?”

A paranormal investigation? Huh. A little thrill chased around in her belly. The possibility hadn’t occurred to her, but boy, that would give her an interesting story to tell her guests come spring when she opened. And, maybe, she’d get proof The Green Lady existed so she could rub it in Alex’s face.

“Do you know any paranormal investigators?” she asked.

“Oh, come on,” Alex groaned and plopped into a chair at the table. “Let’s change the subject, please.”

Nick ignored him. “Yup,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I do.” Triton again whimpered and he gazed down with honest sympathy. “You got one of the best investigators right here. Dogs are acutely sensitive to the preternatural.”

Pru followed his gaze and her heart squeezed. Poor pup cowered underneath Nick’s legs, his ears pressed to his head, his tail tucked. “Triton has been acting strangely since we moved here. He sleeps less, paces a lot, almost like he’s frightened. He’s even had accidents in the house, and that’s not like him. I thought the new surroundings had him agitated, but it’s been over three months.”

“He senses somethin’s not right,” Nick explained, “and his doggie brain can’t quite get a handle on it. He probably is scared.” He gave Triton’s head a soothing rub. “Poor guy. Tell you what, Pru. I do know a human paranormal investigator. Alex does too.”

“Jesus Christ,” Alex muttered.

“Though he doesn’t like to admit it,” Nick said with a flash of dimples. “See, I’ve made a hobby out of studyin’ the paranormal, but my expertise lies more in cryptozoology, the study of mythological animals—Big Foot, the Jersey Devil, that sorta thing. But a guy from our squadron has made a livin’ from studyin’ ghosts out around Seattle. I could contact him, if you’d like—”

“Jacob Street is a nut job.” Alex rolled out his shoulders to hide a shudder. It was a slight movement, but Pru, intensely aware of his body in every way, noticed. Her curiosity perked.

“Why don’t you like him?” she asked.

“Never said that. I love the guy like a brother. The war just hit him harder than it did the rest of us.”

Pru wasn’t so sure about that. From what little she knew of these enigmatic men sharing her company, war had also effected them both profoundly.

“Jacob lost his best friend and got a bit screwy afterward,” Alex told her. “He claims K.C.’s still hanging around. His way of coping, I guess.”

“Maybe K.C. really is,” Nick said.

“Bullshit. Case is dead and has been for eight years. For fuck’s sake, they didn’t even have enough left of his body to bury.”

“Means nothin’ if he’s a ghost.”

“Ghosts don’t exist.”

Nick scoffed. “See, Al here doesn’t like what he can’t prove. Jacob’s a friend, but also a medium, and psychic abilities are exceedingly hard to prove.” He all but skewered Alex with his strange yellow eyes. “Especially to a latent psychic who doesn’t want to believe and who’s workin’ mighty hard to suppress his abilities.”

Alex’s returned gaze was just as cutting. “I’m not psychic.”

“Ah, but Jacob figures you are and he would know.”

“You do have those feelings,” Pru said.

“They’re called hunches and everyone gets them. God, I told you not to get him started on this.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling in exasperation, but Pru noticed he was also rubbing his bad knee under the table. It was an unconscious gesture, one she’d come to realize he did when he was feeling uneasy or threatened. The ache in the joint was probably a constant reminder of his mortality, and something like that would bother a man like Alex.

She turned her gaze back to Nick. “I think it’d be interesting. If your friend’s willing to fly out here, I’ll pay him for an investigation. I’m curious as to what he’ll find.”

“You might not like it,” Nick said, smile fading. “If what I felt when I arrived here is any indication—and, mind you, I don’t have an ounce of psychic ability—I’d venture to guess Jacob will find somethin’ evil. I talked to him about it while I waited for you to come home, and he thinks we should try a séance.”

Alex snorted. “Are you fucking serious?”

“What, Alex?” She leveled her gaze on him. Because of the last half hour of conversation, his mood was dark now, but the fire, the lust, was still there. If anything, his bad mood had only intensified it. He looked as if he would ravage her right there on the kitchen table in front of Nick if he didn’t think she would protest it. She shivered. “Don’t you believe in evil?”

He stood so abruptly his chair scraped on the floor and crossed the kitchen to drop his empty mug in the sink. His expression was unreadable, but his spine had gone stiff. “Only the evil that people do to each other.”

“So why can’t that still exist after those people die? It has to go somewhere.”

“She has a point,” Nick said.

“I’d like to do a séance,” Pru added.

“Youse two knock yourselves out,” Alex said and pulled out his cell phone as he headed toward the front door. “I have some calls to make.”

Pru watched him go. “He gets so touchy whenever someone mentions the paranormal.”

Nick looped an arm over her shoulder and gave her a friendly squeeze. “No worries. He has…issues.”

She had to laugh, remembering Alex’s response when she’d said the same thing about herself. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“True enough,” Nick agree with a smile that had the slightest hint of sadness to it. “That’s true enough.”

***

Alex paused on the front porch, drawing a breath of the brisk evening air. The lighthouse beam flashed across the quiet lawn at regular intervals, reminding him of a spotlight in a prison yard seeking out potential escapees. He had the odd sensation that if he ran out across the lawn he’d be gunned down by unseen guards, and the even odder sensation that he was being watched. Through the window, he could see that Pru and Nick were deep in conversation, probably talking about that damn séance idea, not paying attention to him. Nobody else was around. The night was still and silent enough that he could faintly hear a rock-n-roll band playing at Buzzy’s, the only bar in town, which was nearly four miles down the road. If a living being were watching him, he’d hear it breathing.

Living being?

Hah. He was letting Pru’s beloved ghost stories go to his head. He snorted and dropped into the creaky Boston rocker on the porch, flipping open his cell phone and jabbing out Our Lady of the Incarnation’s number. Romano hadn’t called him about Theo’s condition as the nurse he talked to this morning had promised. If the doc wasn’t in—which, given the time, he probably wasn’t—then Alex would get his private number. He deserved to have some answers, and couldn’t shake the feeling that Romano had purposely ignored his call.

A different receptionist answered, not as chirpy. She put him on hold and he listened to the same elevator music for five minutes. He pushed his feet against the floor, starting the rocker. Waited another three minutes. Just as he was about to hang up, Romano answered.

“Alex.” His voice dripped with forced cordiality. “I’m so sorry I haven’t had a chance to get back to you.”

Yeah, right. “I want to know how my brother’s doing. The nurse I spoke to this morning insinuated he’s not well.”

A pause. Romano cleared his throat. “I’m afraid Theo’s condition is deteriorating. He’s alternating between manic episodes and catatonia. We’ve had to keep him away from the other patients and, unfortunately, we’ve had to restrain him on more than one occasion these past few days.”

Alex leaned his head against the rocking chair and swallowed a surge of emotion. His big brother—who taught him to ride a bike and tie his shoes, who took care of him when their mother, too doped up to be bothered, left him cold and hungry—was deteriorating. Yes, there was a lot of bad blood between them, but Theo had always been a foundation for Alex. Even when Theo started showing the first signs of schizophrenia.

Oh God.

“I’d like to set up a meeting to consider our options,” Romano was saying. “Maybe tomorrow?”

The screen door creaked. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw a woman walk across the porch and pause on the steps, staring to the left, away from him, over at the lighthouse tower. Pru? She had changed her clothes into a hideous waist-less green dress with puffy white sleeves, and a matching veiled hat obscured her face.

“Uh, I’m sorry,” Alex said into the phone. “This isn’t a good time for me. I’ll call you back.”

“We may not have much time,” Romano said. “During his manic episodes, Theo shows an increase in suicidal behaviors and thoughts. We try to protect him as best we can but, frankly, we’re not equipped—what if I came to you? Where are you? We really need to talk…”

The doctor’s voice buzzed like an insect in his ear and he ignored it. Why wasn’t Pru still inside with Nick? And where did she think she was going in that ridiculous get-up, a costume party? Halloween was still a couple days away.

“I’m sorry, I gotta go,” Alex said. “Please keep me updated. I’ll call you back to set up that meeting.” He jabbed the end icon on the phone’s screen and turned toward Pru. “Hey, what—”

The porch was empty. He blinked and shoved out of the chair. Leaning over the railing, he scanned the quiet yard. Where the hell had she gone? He only looked away for half a second. Certainly not long enough for her to disappear, even if she ran.

“Pru?”

Silence.

“Oh, I get it, the Green Lady. Very funny. Did that pisser Nick put you up to it?” The only sounds to answer him were his own heavy breathing and his heart pumping blood in his ears. He let out a nervous laugh. “Pru?”

“She went to bed.”

He about jumped out of his skin at the sound of Nick’s voice so close behind him. “Fucking A, Wolfy! Don’t sneak up on me like that. For christssakes, make some noise when you walk.”

Nick shrugged without a hint of guilt in his smile. “What can I say? It’s the Lakota in me.” He leaned his forearms on the railing and gazed across the yard. “Who were you talking to?”

“Myself.” The answer popped out too quick to be believable, but he refused to supplement it with an excuse.

“Hm. You know what the Lakota say about men who talk to themselves?”

“No, Nick, I don’t. Please, bestow on me your Indian wisdom.”

“It means you’re brilliant or crazy. Or just very lonely.”

Relaxing a little, he gave an abrupt, albeit half-hearted laugh. “I vote for brilliant.”

“Of course you do. Personally, I think you’re one lonely sonofagun, which brings to mind a question. Why would you be lonely with a woman like Pru around?”

“Same old Nick,” Alex said with a note of resignation. “You still go right for the jugular.”

“It’s the Lakota in me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. Should’ve known Nick would say something about it. The big guy wasn’t one to let go of something easily, especially after latching on, and he’d latched on to the sexual undercurrents like his namesake would a prime cut of meat. “It’s a complicated situation.”

“So uncomplicate it. Pru’s your type, Al.”

“I have a type?”

“Yup. Smart, but a little naïve. A woman in crisis. You like to be the hero.” He cocked a brow. “Plus, you’ve always been an ass man and whew, she has one for the books. I wouldn’t mind a piece of that myself—”

Alex saw red. He grabbed Nick by the fringed jacket, slammed him against the side of the house. “You look at her ass again and I’ll kick yours back to Montana.”

Nick grinned at him until the haze cleared from his vision and he backed up a step, cursing under his breath.

Yeah, he’d just been played like a flute.

He gritted his teeth. Goddamn manipulative bastard. “You’ve been here less than three hours and you already have it all figured out.”

Nick paused halfway down the porch steps, his gaze traveling to the left side of the property, over to the lighthouse tower. Like his four-legged namesake, he stood frozen for a second, head tilted as if listening to something only he and Triton, who had trotted out onto the porch after him, could hear. His mother was a half-breed Mexican, and his father a full-blooded Sioux, but sometimes Alex had to wonder if the man actually was part wolf.

Finally, Nick’s eyes narrowed a fraction and he shook his head. “No, I don’t have it all figured out. I know you don’t believe, Alex, but there’s something bad here. A negative energy. On the bright side, it seems to be gone right now.”

“Always a silver lining with you, huh?”

“It’s the Lakota in me.” He jogged down the last few porch steps, his boots making no sound on the creaky wood. He told Triton to stay with a move of his hand. “But seriously, I’d forget whatever mission you’re on, pack up Pru and that adorable mutt of hers, and get outta dodge before somethin’ real bad happens. If I didn’t owe you for savin’ my life, I’d say hell with this place and be on the first plane back to Montana.”

Alex scoffed and settled back into the rocking chair. “So you expect me to run away from something I can’t feel or see—”

“You can so feel it, Al. You’re just ignoring it.”

“—with my tail tucked firmly between my legs?” he continued as if Nick hadn’t spoken. “Is that more Indian wisdom?”

“Nah.” He tossed a roguish grin over his shoulder before climbing into his truck. “That’s the white man in me.”

CHAPTER 17

Silas, come to me.

The whisper echoed inside his dreams, like the hiss of a snake. Alex jolted awake, his eyes popping open to the emptiness of the guest room. His T-shirt clung to every contour of his chest and a headache beat on his brain at his temples.

“Jesus Christ.”

In the light offered every twenty seconds by the beacon, he squinted at the room. Somehow he expected that it had changed, but nothing was moved as far as he could tell. His clothing was still in a pile where he left it when he changed for the night. The can of beer he’d been drinking before he fell asleep was still sweating on the end table, leaving tears of condensation on the open book of ghost stories Pru had suggested he read. He swung his feet to the cool floor and closed the book with a definitive slap of his hand. No more mixing beer with ghost stories before bed for him.

Scrubbing his face with his palms, he waited for the lighthouse beam to flash through his room again and then checked his watch. It was a little after five in the morning and still black as the devil’s heart outside his window. He groaned. Sleep, a solid eight-hours of uninterrupted zzz’s, would be awesome.

Ah, well. He was awake now and not going back to sleep any time soon judging by the twitchy unease skittering along his skin. Might as well check and make sure everything was still locked up tight.

Alex grabbed his gun and his back-up piece from their hiding spots. He ghosted down the hallway, checked the small window in the bathroom—closed and locked—and the bigger one at the top of stairs—also locked.

Your paranoia will be the death of you, inner cynic said.

Yup. No doubt about it.

In the living room, he paused and glanced at the closed pocket doors of Pru’s room. Should he knock and make sure she was still there and—No. That was his paranoia talking again. Since all the doors and windows were still secure, there was no reason to disturb her sleep.

Alex crossed the living room, back to the foyer to check the front door. Locked. He strode through the bare dining room to the kitchen. No explosion. He still half-expected one every time he pushed through the door.

He studied the unmarred frame and his throat closed up. If the fire had been real, Pru would be dead now. Why did that thought rip holes in his heart?

You care about her in ways that you won’t understand until you look at her fifty years down the road and still see what you see in her today.

Grandma Mae was right. He couldn’t understand what attracted him to Pru Maddox. His attraction to other women always started from a mutual love of sex, but the sex always got old and he’d find himself looking elsewhere for something he couldn’t begin to understand, nevertheless name. Was that what was happening now?

He gazed out the window over the kitchen sink, scanning the darkness as if looking for answers in the beacon in the backyard. He saw nothing but a flash of light severing the gathering morning fog. With a sigh, he rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at tired eye sockets with his thumb and forefinger.

“Can’t sleep?”

Alex whipped around, a sense of guilt all but body slamming him, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Just staring out the window and … fantasizing … about her. That wasn’t necessarily wrong.

Was it?

Maybe a little creepy, he decided. Definitely not wrong.

With Triton faithfully by her side, Pru stood in the doorway to the dining room wearing only an oversized T-shirt that skimmed to mid-thigh. Her nipples, hardened by the winter nip in the air, poked through the cotton fabric and yep, his fantasies solidified into something concrete, the beginnings of an erection that he hoped like hell his flannel pajama bottoms were baggy enough to hide.

He had to clear his throat to find his voice. “No, I couldn’t sleep. What with everything that’s happened, every sound I hear, I think—” He met her curious blue gaze and shut up. She probably thought he was paranoid or afraid of the dark or both. Forget that the old lighthouse did put his teeth on edge and gave him chills. Forget that there was plenty of reason to be paranoid if Sully’s little green pygmies were out there plotting his doom. He’d rather castrate himself with a rusty spoon than let her think he was a pansy-ass.

“I mean, I know it’s probably the old foundation settling.”

“Mm, yes. It can be disturbing.” She gave a small, placating smile, as if she knew his manhood was at stake, and crossed the kitchen, her socked feet making no noise on the floorboards as she made her way to the fridge. Triton was right on her heels, pausing for only a second to rub up against Alex’s leg. “Since you’re up, how about breakfast?”

“You’re not going back to bed?” As she began brewing a pot of coffee, he realized her black hair, tousled around her shoulders, bespoke of her own restless night.

“No. Tri and me, we’re early risers, aren’t we, boy?” She again patted the dog and his tail wagged. “Besides, he’s excited now. No way he’d fall back asleep. He heard you snooping around out here and thought you were a burglar.”

Alex eyed the dog, who wandered over to sit at his feet. Tongue lolling, tail thumping against the floor, Triton’s chestnut eyes stared up, full of adoring trust. “Oh yeah, a burglar wouldn’t stand a chance against this pooch.” He reached down to scratch the retriever’s ear and noticed the outline of a knife tucked into the back of Pru’s panties underneath the T-shirt. “That might deter them though.”

“Oh, geez.” She turned her backside away from him and fished out the knife and its cover. Stout but sharp, it would certainly get the job done if she needed to defend herself. She placed the blade on the granite countertop.

“It was a present from my ex-husband after a rash of break-ins in our neighborhood. He thought I needed some type of defense since he was away a lot at night.” She scoffed as she fingered the leather hilt. “He said he was working. Networking for the restaurant, but now I know better. He just didn’t want to feel guilty if something happened to me while he was out screwing one of his girlfriends. That’s where he was the night we got robbed. In bed with one of the toothpick Barbie Doll waitresses.”

Alex let his gaze drop from the knife down her body. She was no toothpick, but he’d never liked his women with angles. He wanted curves and she had them in breasts just the right size to fit into his palm and a nipped waist that flared into wide hips to support that luscious ass. So supple and feminine, she made his mouth water for a taste of her, his hands itch to touch her skin, and his dick weep for a chance to sink into her softness.

His voice came out rough. “Any man that would choose a toothpick over you has to be a complete idiot.”

Man, why did you say that? Inner cynic piped up, faithful as always, ever ready to take him down a peg. Might as well just call her fat, dumbass.

Pru’s brow wrinkled, but before she could say anything, he strode forward and scooped up the knife, testing it out. The grip was too small for his hand, made to fit a woman’s. “But I do have to give the man credit where credit’s due. A weapon’s a good idea, though I wouldn’t have chosen a knife for you. You have to be within arm’s length for a knife to do any damage and if you’re ever that close to an attacker, unless you’ve had the proper training, you’re probably already toast.” He stabbed the blade into the cutting board on the counter and started to roll up his pant leg to reveal the ankle holster and the smallest of his back-up pieces, but stopped short. The last time she’d seen one of his weapons … Uh, yeah, probably better to give her fair warning.

“Uh, I have a gun,” he said slowly.

Pru leaned against the counter, crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m prepared for it now.”

“All right.” He pulled out the revolver. “This is what you need.”

She raked her teeth over her lower lip and eyed the thing like it was a venomous snake. “You know how I am about guns. I’m okay right now, but—ugh. I don’t know.”

“You know that old cliché: guns don’t kill people; people kill people. It’s true, and if they don’t have a gun, they’ll find another, more vicious way. Believe me, Pru. It’s better protection than the knife.”

After a second, she reached out and took it from him, turned it over in her hands. Relief flooded his system as she studied it for several moments without any hint of panic.

“Isn’t it kind of small?” she asked.

“It’s supposed to be. Only has five rounds, so you don’t want to be out there playing Dirty Harry with it, but at close distance it can kill and at intermediate distance it can cause enough damage to facilitate an escape.”

“Have you … ever shot someone with it?”

“No.” When her shoulders sagged with relief, he hated adding, “It’s not really my kind of firearm.” She didn’t want to know he preferred a M40 with a good telescopic sight and a target a couple thousand feet away, so he kept that lovely tidbit to himself.

“Why keep it then?” she asked.

“Sentimental reasons mostly.” He turned the Ruger in her hands so she could read the inscription on the barrel.

Always the hero, huh? Typical marine. Semper fuckin’ fi.

Alex could almost hear the words coming out of K.C. Archer’s mouth again and cleared his throat as a fist squeezed it hard. “You remember earlier today I mentioned my buddy K.C. who died in Iraq? He gave this to me shortly before he was killed.”

After he’d saved Case’s life. He’d sensed something was wrong one day when they were out on patrol and yanked K.C. out of the way of a long-forgotten IED before it took his leg off. Afterward, with both of them bruised and singed, lying entwined like lovers on the ground, a fine rain of sand falling over them from the explosion, K.C. had grinned and said those nine words in a smoke-choked voice. About a month later, Case gave him the Ruger as a thank you as well as a going home present. A day after that, an RPG tore into K.C. and Jacob’s tent, blowing Case to the heavens and leaving Jacob wheelchair bound for the rest of his life.

Pru smiled softly. “You miss him.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, one quick jerk of his head, because if he made any other movement the tears suddenly burning behind his eyes would spill out. “Every single day. After Nick, he was my closest friend.”

Pru was silent for a moment, tracing a finger over the engraving. “Can you show me how to shoot it?”

The question took him by surprise. “Uh, sure.”

She gazed up, waiting.

“You mean now?”

“Why not? I have no close neighbors. As long as we don’t actually shoot it, we won’t bother anyone.”

He shrugged. “Sure, why not? I’ll give you a crash course.” He took the Ruger from her and cracked it open, removing the five bullets. He replaced the revolver in her hand, guiding her pointer finger against the trigger guard. Her hands were so soft and felt tiny in his. “There you go. Get a feel for it.”

“It’s light.”

“It’s meant to be. Easy to conceal, easy to carry.” He crossed into the dining room, grabbed a two-by-four from the stack against the far wall, and returned to the kitchen to prop it up with a chair.

“This is our bad guy.” He snagged her Red Sox baseball cap off the peg by the back door and his sunglasses from the counter, placing them both on the board to imitate a man. “I want you to aim at him.”

Pru giggled and he again found himself grinning like a maniac.

“He doesn’t look too scary,” she pointed out. “Plus he’s a Sox fan. I can’t shoot a Sox fan. Now if he had a Yankees hat on ….”

“Shoot our bad guy, smart ass.”

“Okay, okay.” She took aim Hollywood-style. “Am I doing this right?”

“Uh, not exactly.” He crossed the room in three long strides and stood behind her, directing her hands with his arms enveloping her. Her feminine scent laced with strawberry invaded his nose every time she moved and his dick twitched. So lovely. Like pure, soft sin. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and inhale.

Ignore it. Concentrate. She needs to know this for her own safety.

He drew a breath, well away from her. “Okay, first, tighten up your grip. Guns are like bosses. They don’t like people with weak handshakes.”

“Gotcha.”

“You’re right-handed, so close your left hand around the left side of the frame, aligning your thumbs to point downrange. To avoid an accident, always point downrange and make sure your finger is on the trigger guard and not on the trigger until you’re actually going to shoot.”

“What exactly is a triggah guahd, anyway?” she asked.

“Ah, it’s this little piece right here over the trigg—” He noticed her lips twitching and realized she was making fun of his accent. He stepped back and crossed his arms, battling between amusement and annoyance. Amusement won and he couldn’t quite suppress the smile. “You wanna learn this or not?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, then blurted, “Just so long as it’s not too hahd.”

“Pru…”

“Okay, okay! I’ll stop.” She positioned her hands on the gun. “Now what?”

He shook his head in exasperation and his palm glided up the silky skin of her bare arm. “The elbow of your right hand should be nearly straight.” His hands dropped to cup her waist. “Turn your body and balance with your feet shoulder-width apart. Your left foot should be in front.”

“It feels a little strange. Awkward.”

“You’ll get used to it with practice.” He leaned down, his lips next to her ear. God, that scent was wonderful. He couldn’t help but drink it in as he guided the gun up. “When you’re aiming, you want to keep both eyes open. Two eyes are better than one.”

She swallowed hard and opened her eyes. “Okay.”

“Imagine a chest on our Sox fan over there and aim for center mass. Now draw a breath, exhale, and pull the trigger with constant pressure. Don’t yank it or you’ll throw off your aim. Remember you only have a couple shots.”

The gun clicked. Neither of them moved.

“That, babe,” Alex whispered in the shell of her ear, “would stop any attacker in his tracks.”

“Mmm.” The gun dropped to her side and her body pressed back into his. Her eyes shut and her breaths came out a little faster. “You’re a good teacher.”

He snaked an arm around her waist and his hand splayed across her belly, holding her against him, pressed the length of his erection against her ass. She shuddered as he nuzzled her ear and glossy hair tickled his nose. He wanted to bury his hands in it, turn her around and devour those pale, trembling lips.

Hell.

A squeak escaped her throat as he spun her and dropped his mouth to hers, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, she melted against him, mouth opening under his coaxing. Her arms coiled around his waist and her fingers traced his spine to the small of his back, raising goosebumps in their wake. She hesitated only a second, and then dipped her fingers under the band of his pants, encouraging him to do a little exploring himself.

Thrilled, he let his hands wander from her waist to cup her lovely ass under her T-shirt. Round and soft, skin smooth, and—oh shit, she was wearing lacy panties, a scrap of fabric so sexy that he started entertaining ideas of doing her while she still wore it. His cock perked up, totally on board with that idea as it strained for her through his pajama bottoms and his hips surged on their own accord.

Slow down, boy. While his mini-me was all about the bump and grind, he planned to savor this for as long as possible. He pulled back a little and nipped her lower lip. “I figured it out.”

“Huh?” She looked up, those big, baby blues of hers dazed with lust.

“I figured out why you really took me to Grandma Mae’s today. You were looking for her approval. Did she give it?”

Her lips, beautifully swollen and wet from his kiss, curved upward in a guilty arch. “She approves wholeheartedly.” She blushed pink to the tips of her ears and squirmed away from him long enough to reach for her purse on the counter. After digging around for a moment, she held up a square tinfoil package. “She even gave me this.”

A condom.

Well, a guy couldn’t get more of an invitation than that.

His gut clenched as his erection went from a half-mast boner to a raging, demanding hard-on. He crushed his mouth to hers and backed her up against the counter as his hands crept underneath the T-shirt to her nearly nude body.

Moaning against his lips as his palms skimmed over her breasts, she lifted herself onto the counter. Alex levered her knees apart with his hip and nestled between her thighs. Longs legs wound around his waist and locked at the small of his back.

He could feel her heat, her readiness, through the thin barrier of clothes separating them. His brain sizzled with carnal instinct, blocking out faint protests still gnawing on the back of his mind. He wanted her clothes off. He wanted his off. Most of all, he wanted to sheath himself inside her warmth, possess her, make her his woman. He let his hands wander to her ass and traced the cleft with one finger. The delicate shudder that went through her about did him in right there.

Knotting the stupid sleep shirt in his fists, he was all ready to rip it off and take her right there on the counter, when a chill that had nothing to do with sexual arousal scraped down his spine. It was enough to jolt a little reason back into him. The window over the sink was no longer black, but glowing soft pink with the first rays of sunlight sneaking through the morning fog.

Alex dragged his mouth from hers, gasping. “We need a bed.”

“Mmm.” She nipped his earlobe. “My room or yours?”

“Yours.” The decision was a no-brainer. Her room was closer, which meant he could bury himself to the hilt inside her in the next minute. He scooped her into his arms and stumbled in the direction of her bedroom, swaying drunkenly past the grandfather clock and chiffonier in the foyer. She kissed his neck and then tasted his skin with the tip of her tongue. He shivered.

Even with his senses muffled and dulled to his surroundings, he was aware of every aspect of her body: the evocative scent of woman and strawberry shampoo, the sweet and salty taste of satin-soft skin, the curve of full, aroused breasts that moved every time she drew a quivering breath. All that combined with her tentative kisses and licks nearly brought him to climax. He set his back teeth. He’d never before wanted a woman so much that he couldn’t control himself.

Frustrated, he swept a handful of framed photos aside, plopped her down on top of the chiffonier and pressed her back to the gilded oblong mirror on the wall behind it. Using his weight to pin her immobile, he kissed her with bruising force just because he could not take another second of not having his lips against hers.

Pru’s hands flew up to grip his shoulders as he buried his face in the crook of her neck to give himself a minute to calm down. Her scent assaulted his nose. He’d never be able to eat a strawberry again without getting a hard-on.

Pru held him close to her chest, his cheek pillowed on her small but lovely breast, and he could hear the frantic drum of her heart. At least she was as aroused as he was. Behind her, the mirror reflected them as one being, a wild twist of arms and legs and tousled hair that made him smile.

Again, her tongue flicked experimentally, tracing his ear.

“Jesus, Pru.” Every muscle in his body contracted as pleasure curled inside him. His dick felt so thick and heavy he wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk the rest of the way to the bedroom. He thrust his hips forward, grinding against her in a pantomime of the movements he so wanted to do horizontally, on top of her, naked in her bed. She let out a long, low moan, matching his movements. He caught her hips and held her still. Had to get control—had to—or he wouldn’t last thirty seconds.

Pru curled her fingers into the band of his pants and tried to pull him forward.

“Wait.” He stepped back and scooped her into his arms again. He wanted their first time to be in a bed, warm and cozy, where he could take the time to do her right.

“No. No waiting. Not now.” She closed her lips around his earlobe and wrapped her thighs around his middle. A tremble started in his gut and earthquaked down his legs. His muscles threatened to collapse under the onslaught and he had to catch himself with a hand on the chiffonier.

“Pru,” he groaned her name. “Ah, baby, I can’t take much more foreplay.”

“Okay.” Legs tight, she arched toward him, pressing her slick heat to his glans as it peeked out from the slit in his pants. The contact was electric. “I want you inside me, Alex. Now.”

All right, forget the bed. He jostled her around, trying to find the chiffonier again. Laid her across it, knocking more photos to the floor. He pulled off her panties and stepped back to kick his pants off when he noticed their reflection again. Her eyes wide, all pupil with a rim of blue, her parted lips swollen and wet, a flush high on her cheeks, her hair in tangles as she lay spread across the antique like an offering. He was bedraggled, his hair in disarray from her hands, his own lips bruised, eyes hooded and bright with lust, chest heaving. The mirror confirmed it—the two of them together like this was so right.

Alex grinned at the reflection, hooked his thumbs in the band of his pants, and the mirror shattered.

Every sense kicked back into high gear as glass exploded into shrapnel. He scooped Pru up and plopped her on the floor between the chiffonier and grandfather clock, while looking for the source of the shot from a defensive crouch. The hall and living room were empty, and no one stood on the stairs with a gun aimed at Pru.

“Stay down,” he ordered and grabbed the Ruger that was surprisingly still clenched in her hand, remembering too late that he had removed the bullets and cursing himself for setting down his own piece in the kitchen. He flattened his body against the wall and peeked around the corner into the dining room. Empty. Slowly, he crossed to the front door and tested the knob. Still locked, all the windows intact.

What the hell?

He threw the door open and stepped out onto the porch. The October air hit his bare chest like a baton, knocking him completely back to his senses.

The yard was empty.

Where had the shot come from?

Alex dragged a hand over his jaw and turned. Pru, as usual, had ignored his commands and swept up the remains of the mirror with a broom and dustpan.

He scanned the yard one last time then went into the house, shutting the door behind him.

***

Pru watched as Alex strode back into the house. There was something different about him now. Square jaw clenched, gray eyes guarded. She was so wet for him she felt the moisture dripping down her leg, but whatever they’d had a minute ago was now gone. Disappointment stole through her blood, but she refused to let it show.

Instead, she went back to cleaning up the broken mirror. “You are a jumpy one.”

He stopped several inches out of arm’s reach. “Someone is trying to hurt you, Pru.”

She stiffened for a split-second. His tone was so hard, so certain ….

“You’re ridiculous.” She set the broom and full dustpan aside, dusted her hands off on her shirt, and started straightening the photos they had knocked over in their moment of lust. “As I told you before, this happens sometimes. It’s the Green Lady. She doesn’t like men.”

“And you say I’m ridiculous? Listen to yourself. A bullet breaking the mirror is a hell of a lot easier to swallow than a ghost!”

“Maybe for you. Where’s the bullet, Alex?” She opened her arms, turning in a circle. “I didn’t find it while sweeping up the glass. It’s not in the mirror or the wall.”

He opened his mouth to reply, glanced around the hallway, and then closed it again without uttering a sound.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” he finally said, enunciating each word.

She pointed a finger at his scarred chest, at the small gold cross swinging from the chain around his neck. “And yet you believe that if you get down on your knees every night and pray, God will forgive your sins and save your soul?”

His jaw tightened until a muscle ticked below his eye.

“No,” he said after a long second and stalked toward the stairs. “I don’t believe that either. My soul can’t be saved, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

CHAPTER 18

Sheriff Forbes rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger and leveled a hard stare across his desk at Helen Mallory. Having her show up at his office to report another “crime” was nothing new and normally, he would indulge her. After all, she was the wife of the mayor, one of Forbes’s biggest backers. It was all politics. But today, with Wade’s body still at the funeral home, Alex Locke—that city asshole who was present for what was now officially an accidental death—still hanging around Pru, and Lila VanBuran’s family breathing down his neck for some new clues to her disappearance, Forbes had no time for his own indulgences, not to mention Helen’s.

“Something’s wrong, Sheriff,” she continued to rant. This morning the preposterous woman had her blonde hair tied up in a tight bun, her lips painted an obnoxious shade of red, her nails like maroon talons as she grasped a bucket-sized purse on her lap. “Kevin hasn’t been home in days.”

“Kevin’s a grown man,” he pointed out.

“He is not. He’s my child, and needs constant, mature supervision.”

“Helen—Mrs. Mallory,” he corrected when she arched a regal brow and gave him a supercilious stare. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. They’d been classmates from kindergarten on through high school. After a football game his senior year, she’d let him, the conquering hero quarterback all pumped up on testosterone and adrenaline, fuck her brains out in the backseat of his old Camaro. And now she insisted he call her Mrs. Mallory. What a crock.

“If you want to fill out a missing persons report for Kev, go on out and talk to Rhett. He’ll get all the paperwork around for you.”

She scowled at him, the look in her eyes much like bull’s stare before it ran you down. “You’re not going to do anything else? He’s the mayor’s son!”

“Yes,” Forbes said, mustering every ounce of patience he possessed, “I know. Just what does Richard think about this?”

Her lips pursed as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “He’s been busy.”

Meaning Richard thought the same thing as Forbes. Kevin, at thirty years old, was a grown man beaten down by an overbearing mother and probably took off for a couple days. He’d crawl back home when he ran out of money. Wasn’t the first time the kid had pulled a stunt like this.

Forbes tried to hold in a sigh and didn’t manage it. “If you’re truly worried, Helen, fill out the report and I’ll send some men to ask around.”

“That’s it?”

Had she expected him to call out the National Guard? Knowing her flair for the dramatic, most likely. Forbes spread his hands in a sorry-but-that’s-the-way-it-is gesture. “Unless you have proof of foul play, I’m afraid that’s all I can do now.”

Helen opened her mouth. Closed it and gritted her teeth in a tight, white smile as she stood. “I think you’ve gotten too cushy in this job, Bernard. I plan to speak to my husband about it. Don’t expect his backing during the next election.”

Forbes sat back in his seat and watched her march from his office. In the deputy squad room, Rhett stopped her with a hand on her arm. She snapped off a sentence at him, spun on her heel, and sulked out.

That woman was something else. Forbes pushed out of his chair, crossed to the window that overlooked the intersection of Main and Penobscot, where Mae’s Diner sat, and watched Helen huff her way across the street.

Let her pontificate to the patrons of Mae’s about the evil sheriff. It’d keep her out of his hair for a while at least, but he had no doubt she’d be back. He’d give Richard Mallory a call later today to smooth the waters, but he doubted anything would come of Helen’s threat. As much as she liked to make everyone think she had sway in her husband’s political affairs, it was a load of hooey.

Wishing for a cigar, Forbes returned to his desk as Rhett tapped on the open door and stepped into the office. “Sheriff?”

“Oh, don’t tell me. Kids are smashing mailboxes on Milbridge Road again?”

“Nah. All’s quiet for now.” Rhett shut the door. “Is Kevin really missing?”

“So says the queen bee. I know he’s your friend. Did he mention anything about taking off for a couple days?”

“Except for a passing hi, I haven’t talked to him in weeks. He’s been moody.”

Forbes tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth, making a tsk sound. “About what I thought. He’ll be back. But, to please her highness, if you could go to Buzzy’s, ask around a bit, write up a snazzy looking report, I’d appreciate it. It’d give me something to show her next time she comes barreling in here.”

“Sure,” Rhett said, but didn’t move.

Forbes waited. When the deputy said nothing for several more seconds, he prompted, “Is there something else on your mind, son?”

“Alex Locke.”

Should’ve known. “What about him?”

“Where do I start?” Rhett made a sound halfway between disgusted huff and irritated growl. “He didn’t so much as look at a phone when we had him in the cage, but then he’s got a hotshot lawyer getting him out. Now I’m hearing he’s got another friend hanging around the lighthouse, a big Indian guy.”

“We can’t arrest him for that and, like that fancy lawyer of his said, we have nothing else on him.”

“He attacked me.”

“You pushed him first.”

Rhett opened his mouth. Forbes cut him off with an impatient gesture. “It’s not worth pursuing and you know it. We have bigger problems, like that missing girl. Her family’s whipped up about it again, saying how her cell phone last broadcasted a signal here in town. If they get to shouting loud enough, the media will notice and it’ll be a circus like it was last year.”

Rhett drew in a breath through his nose. “Where did they get the idea to check her cell phone?”

Forbes raised a brow. “They’ve hired a private investigator. A good one.” He sat forward and linked his hands across the top of his desk. “Listen, there’s no doubt in my mind Locke’s hiding something, but damn if I can put my finger on it.”

“We need to dig deeper into his background,” Rhett said with a note of command in his voice that always made Forbes’s teeth grind. He used that tone on purpose. A reminder that he had his eye on the position of sheriff and that, in his lofty opinion, Forbes was merely a placeholder.

“Maybe. Can’t spare the manpower though.” And won’t sign off on overtime hours for you to foster a grudge. Forbes spread his hands in the same that’s-how-it-is gesture he’d used on Helen. “Sorry, Rhett. In the scheme of things, Locke’s small change.”

***

Pru had to work.

After trying to convince her to take another day off and failing, Alex brooded through a cold cereal breakfast by himself at the kitchen table. The house, creaking at the onslaught of a blustery fall day, felt uncomfortable around him—not because it was empty, save for him and Triton, but because it didn’t feel empty.

The little hairs on his neck lifted with a chill and Alex gave up on his cereal. He took his bowl to the sink, rinsed it and left it in the dish drainer, then leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. Sitting on the floor at his feet, Triton tilted his head to one side, ears perked as if to ask, now what?

“Beats me, pooch.”

Going into town was out of the question, especially since he couldn’t keep the persona of Alex Locke in place anymore and kept slipping back into his own skin. Best to avoid the sheriff, Rhett Swithin, Helen Mallory and everyone else unless he wanted to nurse a splitting headache by the time he got home. And even though he could feel Pru’s presence yanking him toward the diner moth-to-flame style, it was probably a good idea to avoid her as well, give them both time to cool off after the incident this morning.

Which still bothered the hell out of him. Not only did her parting shot about his crucifix still sting more than he cared to admit, but there also had to be a logical reason for the exploding mirror. He just couldn’t figure one out.

Goaded, Alex pushed away from the counter and headed for the foyer to take another look. Bits of glass still clung to the frame, fracturing his image as he braced his hands on the chiffonier and leaned in close. Had to be a slug here somewhere. Only thing that made sense. Mirrors didn’t randomly explode—or, hey, maybe they did. He’d believe in spontaneous mirror combustion before Pru’s ghost story any day.

Alex sighed and let his head drop forward out of pure exhausted frustration. Photos, knocked aside in the heat of the moment this morning, now lay in neat piles on top of the cabinet, waiting to return to their rightful spots. The top of the stack caught his attention: Wade Putnam standing on the bow of a boat with one brawny arm slung over his brother’s shoulders and the other around a man with a bushy white beard and pale eyes.

Cappy.

Alex picked up the photo. The nickname suited John Putnam Sr., who looked salty and grizzled, as if he’d be right at home at the helm of a ship. Either that, or on a package of fish sticks at the grocery store. He had a stubborn face and a glint of humor in his eyes. Alex could almost imagine the guy’s laugh, harsh and funny like a seagull’s chortle, and didn’t believe for one second this man would kill himself. He’d go out in a blaze of glory before taking the coward’s way. It just didn’t make sense.

“What happened to you, Cappy?”

A chill raked Alex’s spine. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement, shifting shadows in the stairway. Cool air brushed the skin of his bare back like the caress from an icy hand. He turned.

Nothing. The stairway was empty.

Triton whimpered. He patted the dog’s side and replaced the photo on the chiffonier as a knock sounded at the front door.

“Jesus.” Alex nearly jumped out of his skin and Triton barked twice at the figure on the other side of the glass before scampering into the living room to hide behind the couch.

Oh, yeah, he was a good watch dog all right.

Alex drew a breath to calm his pounding heart and flipped the lock on the door, fully expecting to see Nick and instead coming face to face with John Putnam Jr.

John Jr.’s smile froze. “Uh, I was looking for Pru.”

“She’s at work.”

“Oh.” He shifted on his feet, gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the carriage house. “She knew I was coming over to go through Wade’s—” His voice broke. “I, uh, need the key.”

Alex stepped back to let him cross the threshold. “I don’t know where she keeps it.”

“I’ll find it.” He started toward the living room, then stopped. He turned back and met Alex’s gaze with direct, bloodshot eyes. “Just so you know, I don’t believe you had anything to do with what happened to my brother.”

“Thanks.” Alex shut the front door, thought of the photograph of Cappy and his sons. He hated to cause the guy more grief, but a question nagged at the back of his mind, demanding an answer. “Hey, John. Do you think what happened to Wade has any connection to your father?”

John Jr. stiffened. He turned away quickly, hiding his expression, but Alex saw the flash of regret. “No. Dad killed himself.”

Right. Alex watched him search the living room. He found the extra key to the carriage house in a clay pot on the mantel over the fireplace and hustled back to the door, still avoiding Alex’s gaze. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Alex waited until John Jr. disappeared inside the carriage house before closing the door. He strode over to the chiffonier again and picked up the photo.

Every instinct he possessed screamed that Cappy’s only surviving son was hiding something. He either killed his old man or—and Alex thought this possibility was more likely—he was covering for the murderer.

He’d give John Jr. some time alone in the carriage house, he decided. Then the two of them were going to have a little chat.

CHAPTER 19

John Jr. felt tears building up behind his eyes again and didn’t bother holding them back as he found an old, dirty baseball that had rolled under Wade’s bed. It still had the players’ signatures on it, faded with time: Jim Rice, Wade Boggs, and Marty Barratt. He rubbed his hand over the smooth leather, tracing the names with his thumb.

Wade had collected a baseball from every Red Sox game he’d ever attended, but this one, as his first, had always been special. It had been Wade’s most prized possession for years, until he traveled to Boston last year and watched the Red Sox win the Series against the Cardinals. While there, he got another ball with three-times as many signatures, which now sat encased in a plastic cube on the bookshelf over his bed.

John Jr. had envied him that. Having a business to run and a father showing the first hints of Alzheimer’s, he couldn’t up and go to any game he pleased.

He had been jealous of Wade a lot, he realized. As the baby of the family who never quite grew up, Wade’s every whim had been catered to. In all his thirty-one years, he never had to concern himself over anything more imperative than the Red Sox: how they were playing and if they would make it to the Series again so he could get another ball.

A fresh round of tears. John Jr. picked himself up off the floor and sat on the edge of his brother’s twin-sized bed. Wade’s feet had always hung off the end of the bed when he slept, all rolled up inside his Red Sox comforter like an anaconda trying to squeeze into a caterpillar’s cocoon, but he never wanted anything bigger. Always perfectly content with what he had, never striving for anything more. Not a greedy or jealous fiber in the big guy’s body.

Oh God, he hadn’t deserved this.

John Jr. sat back and pulled out one of the dusty photo albums from the bookcase in the bed’s headboard. The photos, yellowed with time, showed forgotten clips of middle and high school. He, Rhett, Pru, Miranda, and other kids from the neighborhood, playing freeze tag in the lighthouse’s yard. He, Rhett, Kevin Mallory and David Faraday—“The Crew”—drinking stolen beers at a campfire on the beach. The neighborhood children all huddled around a similar campfire listening to Dad’s ghost stories….

In all of the pictures, Wade, a fat kid until he hit puberty, stood in the background or off to the side, half out of the photo, grinning even though he was never included in their reindeer games. He still considered them friends when they all treated him like dirt—even Pru, who was nice to everyone now, had brushed him off as a loser back then. All through middle school and part of high school, she complained about how creepy he was for having a silly crush on her, since their grandmothers were sisters. The complaints had always sent Rhett, David, Kevin and the other kids into taunts about incest and retards.

Rage bubbled as he thumbed through the photos, thankfully replacing his tears. Unlike grief, rage was something he could sink his teeth into and he gladly stoked it. He found another candid photo—Wade loved to play with cameras—showing The Crew out on his boat this past summer, fishing and drinking. In the background sat a young girl in a bikini, her black-tipped blonde hair flying in the wind, the small gem in her nostril winking in the sunlight as she raised a bottle of beer to her lips.

Lila VanBuran.

“Aw, hell, Wade.” The big, slow idiot. Why hadn’t he destroyed this? It may very well have been the signature on his death warrant. John Jr. slid the damning thing from its sheath and tore it down the middle.

Had one of those bastards killed Wade? Possibly. No, more than that. Fucking likely.

Wade was a weak link. They’d all known it from the beginning. He couldn’t keep a secret. He’d come close to spilling the beans to Pru the very night he died. And with Alex Locke showing up in town asking questions about Lila, it was only a matter of time until the weakest link snapped.

Someone had wanted to silence Wade before it happened.

A soft sound from the hallway outside the bedroom door caught his attention. Leather against wood, the scrap of a footstep. Probably Miranda. She said she’d stop by to help pack Wade’s things.

Sassy, sexy Miranda.

John Jr. gave a snorting, derisive laugh. Go figure she finally noticed him when he planned to spill his secrets and end his life as an upstanding member of the community. Just his luck. Even though, by her own admission, she had a “thing” for bad boys, asking her to overlook a prison orange jumpsuit was too much. He wouldn’t do that to her. He had to tell her the truth first, before he went public. It was only fair.

John Jr. looked up at the empty door and waited for her to appear. A full minute passed. He slid off the bed, photo album still in hand. “Miranda, is that you?”

The hallway was empty and silent, save for the faint creaking of the old carriage house. That must be what he’d heard.

He turned to stare into the room. Cluttered but clean, it smelled and looked as Wade had left it. Cheap cologne lingered over clothes strung across the floor. A half-eaten bag of Doritos sat on the nightstand, a sports magazine turned facedown next to the chips to save the page. As if Wade would return to snuggle up in that too small bed and resume his reading and snacking.

Exhaustion swept through John Jr., smothering every other tangled emotion.

Too hard to do this right now. He needed more time to cope.

Yet, as he headed for the stairs, he couldn’t part with the photo album—a connection to his brother, no matter how flimsy. His only connection.

Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

John Jr. froze on the top step and glanced over his shoulder at the pounding sound coming down the hall toward him. A small, circular object ping-ponged off the walls and floor in a manner that defied physics then came to a rolling halt beside him.

“What the…?”

Wade’s 2013 Series baseball.

Not possible. A second ago, plastic had encased it.

John Jr. bent to pick it up and stared at the empty hallway. “Miranda?”

No answer. The photo of Lila VanBuran flashed before his eyes, the evidence that could damn them all. Who was the weakest link in the chain now?

His heart bumped. “David? Rhett? Kevin?”

No sound. He swallowed hard as his shuddering breath clouded against the air. The ball felt heavy in his hand, condemning. Slowly, the bedroom door creaked open.

“Oh, God.” His voice cracked. “Wade?”

The hallway shook. Wade’s baseballs teemed from the open door and thundered toward him at speeds that would destroy any mortal pitcher’s arm. He held up the photo album in weak defense.

“Wait, Wade! I didn’t mean for it to happen! You were right. We should have gone to the police. I didn’t mean—”

The baseballs slammed into his chest. The stairs flipped up over the ceiling and the ceiling flipped over the floor. He landed with a sickening crunch, heard the noise, knew it was the sound of his bones breaking, and braced for pain. Nothing. He tried to lift his head, but his body and brain had lost communication with each other. Heartbeat slowed, teeth chattered. Warm liquid pooled onto the floor beneath him. Still no pain.

Good God, he was going to die.

John Jr. moaned as tears dripped down his cheeks. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of green fabric, a bare foot, the shapely leg of a woman. She laughed—a soft, musical, half-insane sound—and disappeared.

His mind registered shock just before it blacked out.

***

Rhett groaned at the brisk knock on his front door, muted the television, and set aside the old Winchester rifle he’d been polishing. It was a good gun, one he’d forgotten about until this afternoon, but it was in bad need of a cleaning. Since he…acquired…it last year, it had been sitting in the back of his closet gathering dust. Sad to let such a nice gun go to waste. He really should take it out and see what it could do. He could start by practicing on those two nosy pests that had overrun the lighthouse.

The knock sounded again. With a scowl, he scooped up his glass of brandy on his way to answer the door. David Faraday stood on the other side, looking as skittish as a squirrel.

Rhett leaned against the doorframe and took a swig of his brandy. The ice had melted, watering it down so that it tasted like shit. “What’s up, Dave?”

“Can I come in?”

“If this is about what I think it is, no. You can go home and forget it.”

“John Jr. was just life-flighted to Portland,” David blurted. “That Boston guy found him all busted up at the bottom of the stairs in the carriage house. It’s serious, man.”

Rhett straightened. The brandy roiled in his gut. He stepped back to let David in, then shut and locked the door. “Does Forbes know?”

“Shit, I don’t know. I—” He spotted the Winchester and staggered back a step as if Rhett had shot him with it. “What the fuck is that doing here? You were supposed to—”

“Forget it. Tell me what happened to J.J.”

After a long moment, David ripped his gaze from the gun and swallowed audibly. “He…fell. Possibly broke his neck.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?” David was acting rather guilty.

“No!” His eyes flared wide. “Did you?”

“No.” Rhett stared into his glass, the amber liquid now unappetizing. He set the tumbler aside on an end table. “That fucking Kevin. Helen reported him missing today, says he hasn’t been seen since the night Wade died.”

“Oh, shit.” David dragged a hand over his mouth. “He’s snapped. Dammit, I knew it. As soon as he dropped that pumpkin decoration on Locke, I knew it.”

“That was stupid of him,” Rhett agreed. “And desperate. You need to watch your back. First Wade, now J.J. He’s probably going to come after one of us next.”

“Oh,” David said as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Oh, hell, no. Let’s go to Forbes and tell him everything. The sheriff can deal with it and we can wash our hands.”

Rhett caught his arm as he strode toward the door. “Not unless you want to spend the next twenty-five to life in a six-by-nine cell.”

“But Kev’s the one—”

“What we did is just as bad.” Maybe, at one time, they could have gone to the authorities and gotten off with a slap on the wrist, maybe a couple years in jail, but not now. They were in too deep. “Seriously, Dave, we can’t go to Forbes. We’d be lucky to get life with parole.”

David shook off his grip and paced a circle around the living room, biting on a thumbnail that was already ragged and bloody. Then he took another lap around the couch. “What if J.J. talks when he wakes up? He’s the least involved of us all and if he thinks Kevin or even one of us killed Wade then attacked him, he’ll risk a jail sentence.”

Rhett considered it, shook his head. “You said it was bad, right? I mean, he was life-flighted, right? He’s not going to be in any condition to talk for a long while. If he even survives. By then, this could be all over. Maybe Kevin left enough behind at the scene to hang himself.”

David shot a look at the Winchester. “Bad choice of words, man.” He bit his thumb again and winced, noticed it was bleeding, and took it out of his mouth. “What if we find Kevin and end it ourselves?”

“I’m already trying. Forbes assigned me his missing person’s case, but nobody’s seen him. Frank Garrett said a guy that ‘looked sort of familiar’ bought Kev a beer at Buzzy’s the night Wade died and they left together. That’s the last anyone saw him.”

“Shit. Oh, shit. We’re so screwed.”

“Just relax, okay?” Rhett said. “We’re not screwed unless Kevin turns up.”

CHAPTER 20

Miranda was a wreck. Pru had never seen her best friend so freaked out and her heart ached as she stood in her kitchen, absently chopping veggies for a casserole. After spending a long day at the hospital in Portland waiting for news, hoping for the best and fearing the worst, she’d managed to convince Miranda to return to Three Churches for the night. The hospital wouldn’t allow her to stay with J.J. in ICU and sleeping in the waiting room wasn’t going to do anyone any good. By the time they made the three and a half hour drive to and from Portland, they were all exhausted, but Miranda was nearly catatonic.

Apparently, John Jr. had finally gotten Miranda to notice him.

His timing completely sucked.

Pru dumped a pile of potatoes into the bubbling pot on the stove and swallowed back her own surge of tears. John Jr. would be okay. The alternatives—paralysis, death—were simply not an option. Soon, he’d come home and explore the blooming relationship he’d always wanted with Miranda. Maybe they’d even get married and Pru would finally have a cousin-in-law.

At the kitchen table, Alex groaned and Nick laughed in a low, rolling sound that made Pru smile despite her dismal mood. She glanced over her shoulder. Nick had beaten Alex in their umpteenth round of gin. They started the card game in the hospital’s waiting room and it had turned into a war, both men showing their competitive natures.

“You guys want more coffee?”

“Always,” Alex said and nudged his mug to the edge of the table. He grabbed the deck of cards, shuffled, and started the deal. “Best seven outta ten.”

Pru resisted—barely—the urge to bend over and kiss his forehead as she refilled his mug. When the news spread through the diner that someone was life-flighted from the lighthouse, her first panicked thought was, Alex! But then he showed up about twenty minutes later with Nick, both men fatigued and sad. She had ushered them into the empty kitchen—Jones, damn him, had called in again—away from the curious ears of the diner’s patrons. Miranda barreled through the door seconds later.

“What happened? Where are they taking him?”

Alex explained how he let John Jr. into the carriage house to pack up Wade’s things. A half hour or so later, he’d walked out to talk to J.J. and found him at the bottom of the stairs, a photo album clutched in his hand and a scatter of baseballs around him.

Alex’s voice had snagged on the last part of the story, and he’d taken a long drink of his coffee to hide it. He didn’t even know J.J. all that well, and he was visibly shaken by the accident. Something had shifted inside Pru then, a melting sensation, a blooming of emotion that should probably terrify her.

Dammit, she was falling in love with Alex.

“You just love gettin’ your ass kicked, huh, Range?” Nick said, bringing her back to the present. “All right, seven out of ten.” He covered his mug with his hand when she motioned to the pot of decaf she’d brewed especially for him. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

The L-word was off-limits, she reminded herself as she returned the coffee pot to the burner. Unless it was “lust”. No doubt, she was deeply in lust with the man. Plus, she liked him, admired his strength and compassion. That was enough. Love didn’t have to factor into the equation.

Yeah, right.

Miranda padded into the kitchen as Pru checked on the casserole in the oven. Thank God. She needed the distraction. “You’re up.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Miranda said. “Every time I started to drift off, I heard you laughing. How can you laugh now? John Jr.’s in the hospital—” Her voice broke. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Pru crossed the kitchen and gave her a hard hug. “Oh, honey. I wasn’t laughing.”

“Uh,” Nick said and blushed a deep red, “I was. At Alex. I meant no offense, Miz Miranda.”

“No, it was a woman. I thought Pru…” She trailed off.

“Lovie,” Nick said.

She blinked at him. “You think so?”

“He knows all about ghosts,” Pru said and guided her to a seat at the table. She hurried to fetch another coffee and set it down in front of her best friend.

Miranda wrapped her shaking hands around the mug. “He does?”

“It’s a hobby,” Nick said.

“Obsession,” Alex corrected.

“To-may-to, to-mah-to.” Nick waved one big tanned-leather hand in the air. “I bet it’s Lovie True you heard laughin’, Miz Miranda. If the myth’s correct, she don’t like men. What happened to John—” He cut himself off as Miranda flinched and Pru shot him a warning look. “Well, Lovie’s probably gotten a kick outta it.”

“Bitch,” Miranda said. “I’d like to say a thing or two to her.”

An idea flitted through Pru’s mind and she snagged it. “You could,” she said. Anything to keep Miranda from thinking about John Jr. “A couple days ago, Nick suggested we do a séance. He has a friend who’s a medium.”

“A séance?” Miranda asked with more curiosity than fear. She wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt. “That might be cool.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Alex groaned and threw down a card.

Don’t tempt me. Pru tamped down the rebellious thought and waved him off. “Shush. I’d like to try the séance.”

Nick glanced around the table, shrugged. “If nobody has any objections—besides Alex,” he added as Alex raised a hand. “It’s early yet on the west coast. We can call Jacob and have him walk us through it.”

Miranda sat forward. “This Jacob guy’s a real, true and blue medium?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nick withdrew a cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans. “I’ve seen him work.”

“Okay, let’s do it.” Pru pulled out the chair between Nick and Miranda, across the table from Alex, whose expression had gone hard.

“C’mon, people,” he said. “Let’s play a round of cards. We’re all adults here. This is something a bunch of preteen girls would do during a sleepover.”

“Not necessarily,” Nick said. “Jacob makes a mighty fine livin’ doin’ séances.”

“And as I’ve already pointed out several times, Jacob is not sane anymore.”

Nick placed his open cell phone on the table and a cheerful voice said, “Love you too, Range.”

Alex grimaced. “You know you’re not right, Jacob.”

“And I kind of like it that way,” Jacob Street laughed. “You’re just afraid something will happen you won’t be able to explain away with logic.”

Alex’s back straightened. “I’m not afraid.”

Nick leaned over the table, his yellow eyes narrowed in challenge. “Prove it.”

“Fine.” He threw down his cards. “We’ll do this damn séance and you’ll see it’s a load of crock.”

Miranda leaned toward the phone. “Uh, hi, Jacob. I’m—”

“Miranda,” he said. “I know. And, yes, I really do see ghosts. I’m also a touch clairvoyant, so I know for sure your man will get better. Don’t worry your pretty head about that. Everything will work out.”

She sat back with a gasp. “Oh my God. How did he know that?”

Nick snorted. “He’s showing off.”

Jacob chuckled. “But it’s the truth. So, you guys decided to do the séance after all? Cool. Here’s how it works. Alex, since I can’t be there, you’ll serve as the medium.”

Alex jolted. “Me? Why not Nick?”

“Because Nick’s not like us.”

“I’m not psychic,” Alex said through his teeth.

“Yes, you are. Clairvoyant to be exact, with a touch of psychometry—pun intended. But that’s not what I said. I simply stated Nick is not like the rest of us.”

For the first time ever, Pru saw Nick look uncomfortable. He didn’t squirm, but his face hardened and his easy smile faded. “All right, Jake,” he said. “We get it. Move on.”

Jacob laughed again. Almost a creepy sound, fit for an evil genius. “Sure thing. Al, like I said, you’ll do the honors. Now you need to turn down the lights.”

“Candles?” Alex asked, sarcasm thick in his tone.

“They’re good, give off a nice subdued glow, which is why they’re used. But they’re not necessary. A lamp works as long as it’s not too bright.”

“Do we sit in a circle, hold hands, and sing Kumbaya?”

“Normally,” Jacob continued without acknowledging the snide remark, “Alex’s cynicism would disrupt the circle’s energy, but he’s powerful enough that it won’t matter. If there’s a spirit around, it’ll be attracted to him.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely peachy.”

Nick sent him a quelling look over the table and Alex sat back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child. He glowered at the phone as if he wanted to reach through it and throttle Jacob.

Pru shook her head at him and got up to dim the lights, leaving only the lamp over the stove on. “I hope that’s enough.”

“It’s fine, Pru,” Jacob’s rough voice came through the phone like the caress of a calloused hand. “By the way, if you ever get sick of Range, I’ll be happy to show you a good time.”

She felt color rise into her cheeks. Alex lurched for the phone, but Nick batted his hand away and picked it up himself, switching off speaker mode.

“Jake, are you goin’ta help us or not?” He listened for a moment. “Yeah, we’re sure.” Another pause. “Then behave.” He turned the speaker on and replaced the phone on the table.

“This won’t be like you see on TV,” Jacob said, subdued now. “There won’t be anyone barfing ectoplasm and you probably won’t get a manifestation either. You all need to place your hands palms down on the table. Close your eyes and concentrate on the purpose of this séance.”

“The Green Lady,” Nick supplied.

“Yes. You need to push everything else out of your mind. Your worries, fears… everything. It’s like meditating. If you feel the need to say something during the session, say it. If an image pops into your head, describe it—especially you, Al. It may be the spirit trying to communicate. I’m going to hang up and Nick, you’ll need to turn the phone off. If anyone else has a cell phone on them, they need to do the same because it can disrupt the energy.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Good luck. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

The line went dead and Nick shut the phone off as instructed. “Ready?” he asked the group.

Everyone nodded. Alex grumbled.

Pru placed her hands on the table as instructed and shut her eyes. She concentrated on her breathing first to relax. In, out. In, out. In…

She thought of the story of Lovie True, of the photograph in the stairway. Minutes ticked by. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed the hour. Then the quarter hour.

Just as she was about to give up, the images formed from a fog that felt almost like memory.

“The church,” she whispered.

“That’s what I see too,” Nick said and Miranda agreed. Alex stayed silent.

“I think it’s the Catholic church in town. I used to go there with Grandma Mae sometimes. I recognize the stained glass window, but everyone here is dressed in old-fashioned clothes. There’s a woman with dark hair—she has a veil pinned to her hat. She’s sad…missing someone, I think. She keeps looking at a man sitting a couple rows in front of her. He’s turning, looking back at her, but I can’t see his face—”

“Sinner,” Alex said.

Pru’s lids popped open. He sat slumped over in his chair with his hands in his lap, his face slack. His closed eyes twitched. The room seemed darker, the air chilled. Nobody else had opened their eyes so she swallowed hard and shut hers again.

“I see the lighthouse,” Miranda said. “She’s there. Lovie True. I see her on the front porch. It’s dark and cold. She’s wearing the green dress, looking down at the beach, at the man and woman from the church. They’re kissing.”

“Envy,” Alex said.

Pru looked at him again. His face had gone white and sweat beaded on his brow. His eyes moved faster under their heavy lids. She opened her mouth to say they should stop, but Nick spoke over her.

“I see this kitchen. Lovie’s makin’ dinner. A man comes in…the same man. She turns on him with the knife.”

“Murder,” Alex whispered.

Pru sucked in a breath and watched it cloud as she let it out. Pain slashed through her head, a hot stab that blotted out her vision for an instant. “Nick?”

His eyes opened. He studied her, then Alex. “Shit.”

Miranda stirred and blinked. “I saw Lovie jump from the lighthouse tower.”

“Suicide,” Alex said in a hollow tone.

Pru touched a hand to her throbbing temple. “Nick, wake him up.”

“I-I don’t know how.”

“Call Jacob back then!”

As Nick fumbled with his cell phone, Alex’s eyes rolled open. He stared at them without seeing, then his gaze found hers. The smile that spread across his face was so tender it melted her heart.

“Hi, baby,” he said softly.

The pain intensified and nausea swelled. She doubled over. “Nick, do something.”

Alex’s smile faded into sneer. “You bitch. Get away!”

He lunged out of the chair and, lightning quick, Nick jumped between them and took the blow like a mountain.

“Miranda, get her out of here.” He turned, using his body to block Alex’s view as Miranda ushered her from the room.

Alex fought with terrifying ferocity. He was fast, arms and legs a blur of motion as he engaged Nick in hand to hand battle. Nick held his own, moving just as quickly, but he was hindered in that he wasn’t fighting to kill and Alex obviously was. One blow just barely missed Nick’s Adam’s apple and another glanced off his temple and caused him to stumble.

Pru had no doubt that if the two hadn’t trained together for years, Alex would’ve overpowered him in a heartbeat and come after her.

“C’mon, let’s go outside. Get some air, huh?” Miranda cupped her arm and led her out.

On the porch, the punch of cold air eased the pain in her head a little, but not the fear. She remembered the look in Alex’s eyes. Hot, accusing hatred.

How could he hate her?

She pulled Miranda to a stop and gazed over at the tower. Its beam flashed through the yard, bright and steady as ever.

“Hey.” Miranda touched her arm. “How about a walk, huh? We can go down to the beach, listen to the waves. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks, but I want to stay here. In case he needs me.”

They both looked at the lighthouse tower for a long time.

Miranda’s teeth sank into her lower lip. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think that was Alex in there just now.”

Pru drew a breath and turned toward the house. “Me either.”

***

Nick waited in the foyer when Pru stepped inside. “Where is he?”

“He snapped out of it and ran out the back door. I think he scared himself.” Nick dabbed his split lip and grimaced. “Damn, I forgot how fast the bastard is.”

She stood on her toes to cup his cheek in her palm and study the assortment of cuts and bruises. She pressed a kiss to one cheek then the other. “You’re going to be sore for a couple days, but I think you’ll live. Thank you for not hurting him. I saw you restraining yourself.”

He flushed an endearing shade of red. “Uh, yeah, well…it wasn’t really him. I don’t know what the hell it was, but I was just gonna call Jacob about it.”

“Take care of those cuts first. There’s antiseptic in the upstairs bathroom. I’m going after him.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

She smiled and patted his cheek. “He won’t hurt me now that he’s back.”

CHAPTER 21

Pru stopped inside the house to pick up a blanket before looking for Alex. Wherever he went, he wasn’t dressed for the chilly night.

She found him on the beach, skipping rocks into the choppy surf. Familiarity tugged at the back of her mind and she stopped short. She’d seen this before, but as far as she knew he hadn’t once ventured onto the beach since he arrived. She shook off the sense of déjà vu and started walking again.

“Alex?”

He froze for an instant before sending another rock into a wave. “Are you sure you want to be out here with me?”

“I’m sure. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I just pummeled my best friend.”

“That wasn’t you.”

He scoffed and threw another rock, then turned toward her, his face a solemn mask. Nick had gotten in at least one good blow. The side of his jaw was starting to bruise. “What, you think I was possessed?”

“Something like that. It wasn’t you,” she insisted and draped the blanket over his shoulders. “I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t you. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

She reached for him, but he shrugged off the embrace and faced the cliff. His eyes scanned the rocky crag, the dark tree line overhead, the strip of narrow beach.

“It all looks so familiar,” he said.

Familiar.

Goosebumps prickled along her spine. “Of course it does. You’ve been here for a while now. You can see the beach out your window.”

“No, it’s—never mind.” He stared up at the lighthouse and watched its beam twist around as it had for over a hundred and sixty years. “I keep picturing a woman standing on this beach, waiting for me. She’s like a mirage. Every time I try to recall her image, all I can see is the outline of her hair and dress.”

So much uncertainty in his voice. Confusion, pain, sorrow. Pru wanted to make it all fade for him, chase his demons off the same way he did hers. She stepped forward and circled her arms around his waist.

He opened his eyes and met her gaze. “I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t you, Alex.”

He gathered her up in his arms, cocooning them inside the blanket, and brushed his lips over hers. The thrill shot straight through her core. She opened her mouth in acceptance, but this time wasn’t like the intense, plundering kisses she’d experienced before with him. The sweet, slow, drugging kiss melted her resistance and sparked a burn low in her belly.

Alex rested his forehead against hers. “I…need you tonight, Pru.”

She bit down on her lower lip and tasted his kiss again. Alex was a man who didn’t need anyone. She knew it, had known it from the first time she laid eyes on him. And yet his gaze, those solemn gray eyes, verged on desperation. He did need her, even if it was only for one night.

She nodded and pressed her body to his, breasts to chest, hips to hips. “All right.”

***

Alex had expected her to turn him down and braced for it, steeled his heart against the hurt of rejection. It took a long moment before he realized she hadn’t.

The flood of relief was as potent as a shot of hundred-proof liquor, only sweeter. He banded his arms around her, crushing her against his chest, feeling her heart thundering just as hard as his own.

“Pru.” Her name came out somewhere between a moan and a prayer.

She lifted her head and a lovely pink blush colored her cheeks. “We can’t go up to the house. Miranda and Nick …”

“We’ll go to our spot.” He wanted to scoop her up into his arms and whisk her away, but thought better of trying to carry her over the slippery rocks. Falling on his ass would kill the moment. He draped the blanket over her, gave her a quick kiss, and entwined their fingers.

Pru laughed and let him drag her further up the beach, out of sight of the lighthouse. “We have a spot?”

Did they? He knew right where he wanted to take her, pictured it in his mind. Maybe he’d seen it from his window. Or his dreams. “We will.”

The rocks got larger and flattened out. He climbed atop one outcropping and reached down to help her up. Her body scraped along the length of his as he lifted her.

“I want you,” she whispered, lips inches from his mouth. “But we can’t do this out here. We’ll freeze to death.”

Alex drew the blanket tighter around her, gave her nose a light peck. “I’ll build a fire. It’s not much farther.” He felt it, almost like a tether yanking him toward the spot where the rocks formed into a natural lean-to. “Here we are.”

Pru gasped as he helped her under the overhang. “How’d you know this was here?”

“I just … did. Watch your head.”

She sat down and watched him root around for some dry pieces of driftwood.

Alex wanted to say something witty to ease the tension. Nothing came to mind, so he set up a teepee, stuffing dry leaves and smaller branches underneath for kindling, and struck a flame with the magnesium fire starter he always carried on a keychain next to his multi-tool. He sat down beside her and waited, suddenly unsure of himself. He’d never waited for a woman before in his life. Never had to. Never wanted to.

Until now. He wanted to do this right.

The fire blasted his face and arms and the rock wall behind them acted like a mirror, reflecting the heat. Soon the crevasse was warm, even cozy, and Pru let the blanket drop off her shoulders. She looped her arms around his waist and gave him a squeeze.

“This is nicer than I expected.”

“Not really what I had in mind for the first time,” he admitted and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But we won’t be interrupted out here.”

She scooted closer and lifted her face up in invitation. He took it, giving her lower lip a little nibble before indulging in a soft, slow kiss.

Threading his fingers through her hair, he angled her head, deepening the kiss, breaking contact only to pull her shirt off over her head. Her nipples peaked in the chill of the air, poking through the simple cotton of her bra. He broke the kiss again to free her breasts and taste one of those peaks, circling the pale peach bud with his tongue. Her chest rose and fell with a soft moan, her hands tugging his shirt up his back. He ducked to kiss her belly and let her pull it off over his head. Whether the beading of his own nipples was from the cold or from her lips caressing his bare skin, he didn’t know. Heat coalesced along his spine, settling into his lower back, his erection straining to break free of his jeans. When her fingers fluttered over the bulge and pressed, it was all he could do not to come in his boxers.

Pru let out a soft giggle and kissed his ear as he scooped her up, splayed the blanket on the ground underneath them as best he could one-handed, then laid her back and worked her pants down. Cotton panties as plain as her bra came next, and he pushed her knees apart, exposing her flower, the puffy pink petals dewy from her desire.

“Gorgeous.” He dragged a finger along her slit and loved the shudder that jiggled her breasts and made her mouth open in a small O. “Ah, babe. Every last inch of you, gorgeous.”

He met her wide eyes, lifted his finger to his mouth to sample her taste, and watched a flush dapple the skin of her breasts and neck. Was it embarrassment or arousal? He wanted to taste more of her sweetness, all but craved it, but didn’t want to push her into something she found uncomfortable. He so looked forward to learning her likes and dislikes, to finding all her sweet spots, to discovering all sorts of sensual experiences together. Plenty of time for that later. Tonight, he’d take it easy, take her slow.

Alex dropped a kiss to the silky hair of her mound then worked his way up her stomach, loving the softness, the give of her tender flesh under his lips. No hard planes, sharp angles, or ropes of muscle. So feminine, the antithesis of his own body, and he worshiped the differences with his mouth and hands. As he moved over her navel, dipping his tongue inside before continuing north, her body bowed upward. She caught the ridge of his erection between her thighs and squeezed. Air exploded out of his lungs.

“Babe—”

“What? You’re the only one who’s allowed to play?” She squeezed him again, then worked her hand down between their bodies to unsnap his fly. Using her feet, she pushed the jeans down his legs, each wiggle rubbing her hot sex against his stomach.

When she stroked a finger over the creamy tear seeping from the head of his dick, then raised that finger to her mouth, her tongue snaking out to lick the bead away, he groaned. The move reminded him of their first encounter in the diner, when she licked the tip of her pen. No doubt about it now—she’d done it on purpose to make him hard. Whodda thunk it? The friendly waitress was actually a closet sex kitten.

Pru wiggled down his body, brushing her parted lips over his tip, then taking him into her mouth, enveloping his shaft all the way to his balls. He gripped her shoulder, had to brace his other hand flat on the rock underneath them to keep from collapsing in pure bliss. His hips surged into her mouth, so tight and soft he imagined it was her body and a spasm worked through his muscles.

With long, hard pulls of her sweet, hot mouth, she drove him almost to the edge of madness. Just when he thought he couldn’t take another second, she shimmied underneath him, kissing her way up his body to his mouth.

“I need you inside me, Alex. Now. Please.”

Like he was going to say no. He was so hard his dick wept in exquisite pain, and the only way to ease the ache was to cocoon himself in her softness. He kicked his jeans off his ankles, and stretched out over top her. Soft thighs parted and cushioned his hips. His head prodded her opening, found her soaked in honey, and slid inside. She lifted her hips to hurry his slow advance, taking every last inch of him with a hard thrust and a moan of pure female satisfaction.

Alex let out a groan at the feeling and dropped his weight to his elbows as his arms quivered. Oh God, she was even better than he imagined. She fit him like a tight, hot, silk glove and his first impulse was to plow into her, hard, fast, deep, and come so hard he saw stars. Fill the empty space inside her with his seed. Brand her as his. But, no, he had to be gentle. This was Pru, not another slam, bam, thank you ma’am. So much more emotion bubbled behind the sex, feelings he couldn’t begin to articulate into words. Feelings he’d show her with his body.

Gently, he slid an arm around her waist and sat up so that she straddled his lap. She made a humming sound in her throat and clenched his shoulders as gravity did its work and impaled her on his full length.

And, like that, she shattered. He felt every rolling wave of the orgasm as her muscles tightened and relaxed, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from coming while the spasms of her body milked his. Nose to nose, he watched her every facial expression. Her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth sunk deep into her trembling lower lip. Yeah, he liked that expression.

As she shuddered with the aftermath, Alex moved just a little, pressing up into her. So hot, she made sweat pop out on his skin. So wet, her lube dripped onto his thighs. Oh, yeah, he really liked that.

Alex pumped his hips, surging deeper, bringing about another round of shudders. Her lips parted and her head dropped back to show the smooth, white curve of her neck. Leaning over, he tasted the indent at her collar and felt her throat vibrate with every sound she made. Her hands linked around his head and guided his mouth to her breasts as she took over his slow, seductive rhythm. He obliged her happily, sucking each nipple to a point before blowing his hot breath over them.

“Alex.”

Breath ragged, he looked up into searing blue eyes. Her body clenched around his shaft every time she came down and his hands tingled as they massaged her breasts. Close to the point of no return, he knew, but didn’t want it to end yet. Not yet. It was too good. Too … damn … good.

“Wait.” He clamped his hands around her hips to still her movements. Drew a breath, then another, and tried to think of anything but her for a moment to calm down. Hard to do when she laughed and sent pulses straight down his cock into his balls.

“Alex, let go.” Her body clasped around him, dragging a strangled sound from his throat. He again stilled her hips.

“God, you’re killing me, baby. You gotta give me a minute or I’m gonna lose control.”

“I want you to lose control. Gentle is nice, but it isn’t your style. I want you.” Her hands cupped his face and she leaned down to feather her lips over his. The movement pressed him deeper into her core. “All that bottled up pain and anger I saw in your eyes after the séance—that’s you. I want you to let it go.”

A lump rose up out of nowhere and lodged in his throat. His heart felt like it was breaking and tears burned behind his eyes. He blinked them back, buried his face against her shoulder.

Oh, baby, I’ve missed you.

Wait. That was stupid. How could he miss her? This was their first time together. He shook off the irrational thought and inhaled her vanilla and strawberry scent.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Let it go, Alex.”

He needed no more encouragement. Without leaving her, he shifted so that she lay on her back on the blanket. She giggled, but the sound soon morphed into gasps then choked off shrieks as he surged and retreated, building up a hard, fast rhythm. Higher thought shut down, giving way to the animalistic instinct to mate, but the small part of his brain still functioning appreciated the sounds and craved more. Her legs curled up around his ribs and he hooked them over his shoulders, scooped his hands under her hips and raised her to meet his every thrust.

The fire cracked and snapped, accompanied by the carnal beat of slick flesh against flesh. He pushed her higher and higher, took her to the precipice, but wouldn’t let her go over. Not yet. He wanted—needed more of her. He’d missed her so much, all these years … he thought he’d lost her, only to find her again like this, in this place.

I love you.

She gasped his name, her fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders. A second before he exploded, he felt her shatter too.

CHAPTER 22

Alex collapsed and buried his face in the silk of her hair, brain still a little hazy, working on processing the primitive need to fill the empty space within Pru back into civilized, coherent thought. Difficult transition. Coated in sweat, every inch of his skin felt on fire and every nerve ending tingled. His bad knee ached but, basking in the afterglow of not just one, but two rounds of mind-bending sex, he hardly noticed.

His primal brain considered a round three and he took a second to visualize all the positions they had yet to try. She was a wonderfully flexible woman.

Hah. Nice fantasy, but when he shifted to lift his weight off her, his muscles protested the movement. His bones had melted to the consistency of gelatin.

“Ah, God,” he muttered. “I don’t think I’ll be able to move again for days.”

“Well, I hope so.” Tugging on his ear, she grinned and pulled his mouth over to hers. “You don’t think I’m through with you yet, do you?”

Flexible and insatiable. He’d hit paydirt.

Alex caught her lower lip between his teeth. “I hope not. But I do think I’m gonna need an intermission.”

“That’s too bad. I have plans for you.” With amazing agility, she had him on his back and was straddling his stomach, her nipples puckered against the cold air. Eyes closed, she dragged her hands up and down his chest, tracing the lines of his body as if savoring the feel.

He shivered. “Jesus, your hands are freezing. Let’s get under the blanket.”

“It’s okay.” She pushed him back as he tried to sit up, and rubbed herself against his stomach. Wet, ready, and willing. Her hand drifted down to cup his balls and he sucked a surprised breath through his teeth. He didn’t know how it was possible so soon after the second time, but he was already hard again, wanting her even worse than before.

Relaxing, he let his own eyes drift shut and enjoyed the massaging caress of her body against his. “God, baby, you feel so good.”

“Mm, so do you.” Her fingers walked up his chest, traced his collarbone. “So why did you leave me?”

“Leave you?” He clamped his hands around her hips to still her. Her skin was ice and the first fissure of reality cracked his lusty daze, the first inkling that something was not quite right. He stared up in bewilderment, but she kept her eyes shut tight.

Not right! his inner cynic shouted. Not Pru!

Alex glanced around as panic bubbled. The ragged, sea swept landscape looked the same and yet … somehow … it twisted grotesquely out of focus.

“Wait. Pru, stop. Look at me. Wh—” Her hand curled around his neck, squeezed hard, and cut off his breath. “Pru—”

He tore at her fingers but they cut into his flesh. Choking him. Crushing him.

Her lids opened and if he had any air in his burning lungs, he would have screamed. Empty sockets gaped at him, nothing but dark, soulless pits where she should have eyes. She grinned and the skin around her soft mouth split, peeled back, and disintegrated, leaving glossy white bone.

“Do I look like Pru?”

Laughter echoed. Alex bucked and twisted, tried to wiggle away from the demonic thing straddling him. It let go of his throat and he scrambled backward crab-like, gasping in giant gulps of air.

“Alex!”

A pale hand touched his face. The scream that had lodged in his throat during the dream came out a dry croak.

“Alex.” Pru framed his face in her hands and held him still. “Breathe! You’re okay. You had a nightmare.”

In the back of his mind, he knew she was telling the truth, but God, it didn’t feel like a dream, not like the others. It was different. For a moment, it had been real.

“It was a nightmare,” she whispered, stroking his face.

“Yeah. A nightmare. Hell.” He pulled her into his arms and held her close, touching her all over to make sure she was the real Pru and not another grotesque figure of his imagination. Warm and supple, she melted in his arms and returned his affections with enthusiasm that was not in any way strange. He felt everything from the flutter of her lips against his skin to the power of the climax he drove her to with his hand, and contented himself that he was indeed awake again.

What was wrong with him? He’d always had disturbing dreams, as far back as he could remember, but never anything like the ones he’d been having lately.

“Alex?”

He jerked in surprise at the sound of her voice—he’d thought she was asleep—and then cursed himself for it. He had never been a man to jump at boo, but his nerves felt raw. Though he’d accept a bullet in the brain before admitting it, everything about this damn town freaked him out.

He smiled at Pru, trying to smooth over his reaction with nonchalance. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“Do you want to talk about your nightmare? Sometimes it helps.”

For a moment, he considered it. Then remembered the twisted, sexual nature of the dream and the empty eye sockets and shook his head. She’d probably draw the same conclusion he had. He was going nuts.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

The disappointment in the one word was almost imperceptible, as was the slight shift of her body away from his, but he noticed both and grimaced. He tightened his hold, unwilling to let her put distance between them. “It’s not because I don’t trust you enough to confide in you.”

“Yes, it is. You don’t trust anyone.” She laughed, surprising him by the ring of bitterness to it. “I hoped tonight changed that for you. That you could come to trust me.”

“I do.”

She made a noncommittal sound and rolled over in his embrace, giving him her back.

He really did trust her, he told himself. Absolutely, without a doubt. He struggled for the words to tell her that, to fill the heavy silence, but came up blank.

“No. You know what?” She sat up and faced him, a determined set to her chin. “This conversation isn’t over yet. If we’re going to continue this thing between us, you’re going to talk to me. Why are you so sad all the time?”

If she had hauled off and punched him, he’d have been less surprised. “Sad?”

She nodded. Her blue eyes clouded as they searched his face. “Except for right now. You don’t have that darkness in your eyes. You really are happy right now, aren’t you?”

He threaded his fingers through her hair. Tried to smile, but she’d touched on a raw topic and the smile felt forced. “Why wouldn’t I be happy? Having you here with me, Pru, it’s—” He couldn’t find the right word. Beautiful. Amazing. Everything he came up with sounded inadequate.

“But you are usually sad,” she insisted. “Even when you’re laughing, I can tell you’re crying deep down. Even when you’re with other people, you’re so alone. I don’t want you to be alone anymore, Alex. Please, talk to me.”

Talk. Yeah, he could do that. She just might not like what he said. But he trusted her, dammit. He did.

“I’ve seen a lot of bad things.” Okay, so saying the words didn’t hurt too bad after all. He could do this. “I’ve done a lot of bad things. I was with the good guys but…Still. It’s stuff I guess I can’t really reconcile with.”

“While in the military?” she asked, stroking a hand down his chest.

Alex thought of the restaurant on Tremont, the fuck-up that had led him to Three Churches. “And after.”

She picked up the bullet he wore next to his crucifix, and rubbed the smooth copper between her fingers. “I’ve seen this before. A friend I had at the culinary institute wore a bullet too. He was a sniper.”

Alex lifted his head and studied the bullet as she rubbed it between her fingers. Like his crucifix, he didn’t know why he still wore the damn thing. “So was I.”

She turned the bullet over and dragged her thumb across the inscription etched into its side: D.I.E. “But you weren’t just a sniper, were you?”

“No. I was recruited to a special ops team straight out of sniper school. We, uh, had a very specific skill set. Detection, infiltration, and eradication.”

“Ah. I get it. Die. D.I.E.”

He nodded. “Our unofficial nickname became D.I.E. Squadron. It was kind of a morbid joke among the men, that we were sent behind enemy lines to die. That’s where I met Nick and Jacob. We did a lot of good together as a team, but honestly? Blowing out my knee and getting sent home early was the best thing that ever happened to me. If I pick up another rifle in this lifetime, it’ll be too soon.”

The fire cast deep, dancing shadows over Pru’s face. He saw nothing but gentleness and understanding in her gaze and before he realized it, the words he’d been unable to tell anyone else tumbled out. “I’m afraid.”

Goddamn, why did you say that? She doesn’t want a guy who’s afraid. Alex steeled himself against a rebuff but she simply touched his cheek, a feather-light caress of skin on skin.

“Of what?” Pru asked.

Walloped by an unfamiliar jolt of emotion, his throat closed up and he had to swallow to relax it. “So many things. I’m afraid for you with all the shit that’s been happening around here. For my friends, because our part in the war’s over and somehow, we’re still fighting. And for my brother spending his life cooped up in an insane asylum.”

“What’s his name? Your brother.”

“Theo. He’s schizophrenic and getting worse. They have him on so many meds he’s a zombie most of the time. When he’s not, he rips legs off tables or chairs and threatens the hospital staff until they let him talk to me.” He gave a weak, self-depreciating laugh. “Pru, the things I’ve seen here…I’m afraid I’m going nuts and I’ll end up like him, like everyone else in my family.”

“You’re not crazy.” She propped herself on her elbow beside him, tracing her fingertips over his features in a soothing caress. The firelight played on her alabaster skin and her hair, tangled from their lovemaking, fell in wild disarray over her shoulders. “Everyone sees things here, Alex.”

“Ghosts—”

“—don’t exist. Yes, I know you want to believe that. But have you ever wondered if maybe Theo can see something beyond our plane of existence? And that maybe you can too.”

Every damn day.

He scrubbed at his burning eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I like logic and truth. I like knowing what’s real. You.” He spread his palm over her heart, felt the steady beat kick up as his fingers strayed over her rosebud of a nipple. “And me. What we have is real. I can feel it.”

Her lips parted with a soft exhale and then spread into a grin. “You must have been a poet in another life. Sometimes you say the most beautiful things.”

She leaned over, black hair spilling down, swathing them in their own cocoon as she kissed him. She straddled his stomach and he felt himself drift back into a lusty haze, all ready to have her for the third time until he realized she was shivering. He touched her arm and found the soft skin rough with goosebumps.

“Are you cold?”

“A little,” she admitted.

“We should go into the house.”

“But I don’t want to. I don’t want you to leave me yet.”

“Then I won’t.” He propped himself up on his elbows to kiss her. “Nick and Miranda should be asleep by now.”

She cupped his face in her hands and returned his kiss. “I wish I hadn’t invited them to stay. Is that horrible of me? I wish we didn’t have to sneak around.”

Always in the dark. He regretted he could never love her in the light ….

He shook off the nagging sense of déjà vu. “For the time being, we’ll make it work.”

“Miranda will want to go home today. She just needed a friend after John Jr.—”

“I understand.” Alex grinned and traced the curve of her breast. “And Nick’ll be easy enough to get rid of. I’ll tell him how much I want to flip you over the back of the couch and he’ll take off.” Even in the dark, he could see color rush to her cheeks. She was so damn cute when she blushed.

“Oh, God. Would you really say that?”

“Probably.” Alex patted her rear. “Let’s get dressed and go inside.”

They dressed as the fire sputtered, Alex pulling her over to nuzzle the dimpled dip of her lower back before she pulled her shirt down over it. “I love this spot. So sexy.”

“Mmm.” She started to melt—he felt the resistance seep out as he traced one dimple with his tongue—but she caught herself and swatted his head away. “Stop that. It’s too cold to get naked again.”

“I’ll warm you up.”

She let out a huff of exasperation and twisted from his embrace. “Horndog. If you had it your way, we’d both catch our deaths out here. How do you plan to put the fire out?”

Grinning, he stood, pulled on his own shirt and considered the problem of the fire.

Planned this out well, bozo.

No dirt or sand on the rocky outcroppings to smoother the flames. Plenty of water, but no way to carry it. He rubbed the back of his neck, then bent to scoop up the rumpled blanket still spread out on the rock at his feet.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any special fondness for this blanket?” He did—it smelled of sex, each of their essences combining in a tantalizing perfume on the fabric—but he consoled himself that there would be other blankets carrying the scent. Soon. “We could wet it down, use it to smother the fire.”

“Good idea.” Pru stood on her toes, kissed his lips, and took the blanket from him. “Let me.”

“Pru—”

“No, don’t start the macho shit. It’s more practical that I do it. Some of these rocks aren’t stable and I know this area better. I’ll be faster.”

It went against his grain, but she had a point. He let her go. Blanket in hand, she walked a ways down the beach, carefully choosing her footing over the rocks toward the water’s edge. She hopped off a flat outcropping and disappeared from view.

Alex waited. One long second. Two. Three. Forty. Fifty. A minute. She didn’t reappear.

“Babe?”

No answer. His heart plummeted. He raced to the spot she had disappeared fifty yards away. “Pru!”

She stood on the thin strip of pebble beach below, a hand raised to her mouth.

“Pru, what is it? What’s wrong?”

She gazed up at him. Her face was a pale heart in the moonlight. “There’s…a body down here. A dead girl.”

Alex braced a hand on the rock to jump down to the beach. The corpse lay on her side, curled around a jutting rock as if she’d snagged there when the tide rolled out, her arms flung over her head, legs crossed at an odd angle.

“Stay back.” He nudged Pru behind him, using his body as a barricade even as he inched closer. Scraps of a red tank top and jeans hung from the girl’s withered body. Empty eye sockets stared at them through twisted hanks of black-tipped blonde hair. Her nose had rotted off and the grayish-brown, papery skin around her mouth had peeled back to reveal a gruesome smile. A red gem glinted from her navel.

“God.” Pru gripped his shirt with trembling hands and buried her face in the hollow between his shoulder blades. “Is that…?”

Alex swallowed a surge of bile as the old missing poster flashed before his eyes, crumpled, grease-stained, and forgotten between the pages of the menu at Mae’s Diner. Navel ring. Red tank top. Blonde hair. If he turned the corpse over, he had no doubt he’d find a bird tattoo.

“Yeah, it is. We need to call the sheriff.”

CHAPTER 23

The VanBurans lived in a sugary-sweet house the color of a robin’s egg on School Street in Bar Harbor. Halloween decorations—the G-rated kind—hung from a wrap-around porch while four jack-o-lanterns grinned on the front steps. Each had a name neatly painted around its top: Bruce on the biggest, Denise on the next, Lila on the third, and Brayden on the smallest.

A clean-cut, all-American family.

Riiight.

Alex had to look away. The pumpkins’ empty eyes and maniacal grins reminded him of Lila’s rotting face.

Damn, he didn’t wanted to do this, to see this family grieve. When Denise VanBuran called with an invitation to come over, Pru insisted it was only right they put in an appearance. They had, after all, found the VanBuran’s daughter.

Maybe it was right, but that didn’t make him want to run for the hills any less.

Coward, his inner cynic said.

Hell yeah. And he wasn’t the least bit ashamed about it either.

His gaze landed on the dinged up 1970 Pontiac GTO that sat in the driveway, jarring the homey vibe of the place. Theo, he thought with a small smile, would have a stroke to see such a beautiful car gone to shit.

The vehicle was completely incongruent in front of this house, in this neighborhood, like a mangy mutt in a dog show. Either Mr. VanBuran was a gearhead like Theo with an interest in restoring classic cars—and the dull Ford minivan parked next to the GTO made Alex doubt that—or someone else was here.

Hired muscle? He wouldn’t be surprised since he spotted several reporters at the end of the street, looking pressed and polished and appropriately sad as they spoke into their respective network’s cameras. Years of ingrained habit had him turning his face away as he and Pru headed toward the house. The last thing an undercover agent wanted was to have his face splashed across every television in New England, especially since Nolan O’Shaughnessy was probably searching good and hard for his disappeared number one money launderer, Alex Locke.

Pru stopped short before reaching the porch steps, and he almost bumped into her. He put his hands on her waist and drew her back against him, steadying her, enjoying the feel of her body next to his. He pressed a kiss to her temple and inhaled the scent of strawberries. “You okay?”

The casserole dish in her hands wobbled, and he took it from her, afraid she’d dump it and waste the two hours she’d spent in the kitchen this morning.

After a second, Pru firmed her lips, lifted her chin, and took the casserole back. “I just had a momentary flashback.”

“The pumpkins?” He rubbed her back as she let out a breath and nodded. “Yeah, me too, babe. I’ll never look at them the same.”

The front door opened just a hair, and hard, blue-gray eyes peered out from a harder face that hadn’t seen a razor in a good week.

“Mr. and Mrs. VanBuran are not doing interviews,” the man said in a voice that had repeated the same line many times. He started to shut the door in their faces, but Alex palmed the frosted glass window.

“We were invited.”

He eyed them again with open suspicion, his gaze flitting over Alex to linger on Pru. Interest sparked in his eyes and Alex resisted the urge to wrap his arm possessively around her as she stepped forward and introduced them.

“We’re not here to cause the family any more pain.” She offered the casserole. “I made this for them. It’s not much, but I know how hard it is to think about everyday things like cooking at a time like this.”

The man looked at her like she had three heads. Her smile never wavered although Alex knew with the way she fussed over the food this morning that rejection would all but crush her.

Pru nudged the dish in the hired muscle’s direction again. “They really did call us, but if they decided they’re not ready for visitors yet, I’ll just leave this with you and we can come back.”

“Let me see it.” Carefully, he opened the door wider, took the dish from Pru, and lifted the edge of the tinfoil cover to sniff.

Suspicious bastard. Alex gritted his teeth at the blatant insult to Pru’s honesty. Did the guy really think they would hide a microphone or camera in a casserole dish?

Well, duh. Alex would have thought the same thing in his shoes.

“Wait here,” he said and shut the door, taking the casserole with him.

“He’s charming,” Alex muttered.

Pru elbowed him in the side. “Stop. He’s just doing his job.”

“His job doesn’t include oogling you.”

“It wasn’t me, you Neanderthal. It was the food.” She rolled her eyes, but smiled and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips that sent a shot of lust straight to his dick. He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her hair. The scent of Pru, strawberry from her shampoo and spice from the kitchen, didn’t help his half-mast erection, but he needed to hold her like he needed his next breath.

For a selfish moment, he wished they’d never found Lila VanBuran. Instead of dealing with cops—first the local yokels, then the state detectives, then the feds—all night long, they would have walked back to the lighthouse, cozied up in her bed, and made love until neither one of them could move. They would have woken up this morning, warm and loose, and had lazy morning sex before breakfast. Probably after breakfast too. Hell, they would’ve skipped breakfast altogether if he’d had any say in the matter.

Pru sighed and nuzzled into his chest. “Last night was so horrible.”

Not the words a guy wanted to hear after making love to a woman. He knew what she meant, but it was still a kick in the balls. “Yeah.”

She raised her head to meet his gaze. Tears magnified the blue of her irises. “I wouldn’t take it back, though. Even knowing how it turned out. Does that make me selfish?”

“Aw, babe.” He cupped her cheeks and leaned down for another kiss as the door popped open.

The hired muscle arched a brow. “When you lovebirds are done, the VanBurans want to meet you.”

Pru flushed pink and pulled away from him, stepping into the house as the bodyguard moved aside and motioned them in like a foot servant.

The living room was a long rectangular space done in soft, earthy tones, a little too cluttered by oversized suede furniture, a giant-screen TV, and the handful of toys scattered over the beige rug. Denise VanBuran sat on the couch with her feet tucked underneath her butt, a mug clenched in both hands, her eyes puffy from crying. An older version of Lila, without the funky hair and face jewelry. Her husband, Bruce, sat in the recliner kitty-corner to her, his head cradled in his hands, looking like he’d just stumbled in from a hard night on the town. The ice between them was palpable.

As they entered, Denise rose and mustered a tremulous smile. She held her hands out to Pru, who went into her arms like they were old friends.

“Thank you for finding my baby,” Denise said.

Pru hugged the smaller woman tight. “I wish it had been a better outcome.”

“No. This is the best we could have asked for now.” She stepped back and wiped her eyes. “I’d lost hope that she was alive a long time ago—”

Behind her, Bruce snorted.

She continued, pretending not to notice. “And I almost resigned myself to the fact she’d never be found. So thank you for bringing her home to us.”

Bruce shoved to his feet and disappeared into the back of the house. Denise watched him leave with tears rolling down her cheeks.

The waterworks show made Alex edgy and when Pru started leaking too, he inched out of the room after Mr. VanBuran. It wasn’t heartless, he told himself, to leave them to comfort each other. Okay, maybe it was, but he’d rather go back to the sandbox and face down a hundred insurgents than sit with two sobbing women.

In the narrow kitchen at the back of the house, he found the bodyguard helping himself to a plate of Pru’s casserole.

Well, whaddaya know. The guy actually had been oogling the food.

“’Sup,” the bodyguard said. He balanced a heaping plate in one hand, dug a fork in with the other, and propped himself against the kitchen counter, crossing his ankles. The boots he wore cost more than a month’s rent in a Boston high rise. Nice kicks for a scruffy hired muscle who drives a forty-year-old, beat up GTO.

“I’m looking for Mr. VanBuran.”

The bodyguard gave Alex an assessing once-over, then tilted his head toward the back door and shoveled another bite into his mouth. “Bruce took a fifth of Jack and headed out. By now, he’s well on his way to getting faced.”

“Taking it hard?”

“His daughter was murdered.” Something moved behind the guy’s blue-gray eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Guess so. That what the cops are saying? She was murdered.”

“Hah. They don’t have a fucking clue, which is why Bruce hired me to look for her in the first place.” He stabbed his fork into the glob of casserole and crossed himself, then wiped his hand on a very expensive pair of jeans and held it out for a handshake. “Name’s Mikhail Harkov. Mischa for short.”

“Alex.” He accepted the shake, purposely leaving off his last name. He wasn’t going to lie anymore if he didn’t have to. Besides, if Mischa was half as good at his job as Alex suspected, and felt so inclined to dig around, he’d find a way to suss out the truth. “So you’re a private investigator?”

“Yup. Specialize in finding the missing. Hate finding them like this, though,” he said, but it didn’t seem to affect his appetite and he returned to the casserole with relish. “Mm, dude, your woman’s a goddess in the kitchen. I’ll worship the ground she spits on if she’ll make me something for the road. A man just can’t live on fast food and gas station fare.”

Pride swelled in Alex’s chest. His woman. He liked the sound of that, probably more than he had a right to. “No doubt she’d agree with you.” He considered the back door and decided chasing Bruce VanBuran was a waste of time. He’d get more info out of the P.I. Info about what, he didn’t have a clue, but a sensation niggled the back of his mind about this whole deal, demanding he take notice.

Coincidence. That’s what it was. Too many, and his inner cynic balked at the idea of coincidences. When a girl turns up dead on Pru’s property in the midst of all the so-called accidents, they had to be linked somehow.

“So,” he said to the P.I. “What do you think happened to her?”

“Lila?” Mischa shrugged. “Met the wrong guy, got into a situation she couldn’t handle, met a bad end. Isn’t that how it always goes?”

“I heard the family never believed she ran away.”

“Neither did I. Yeah, the girl was a pistol and she and Denise fought over whether it was night or day, but she loved her brother. She’d never have up and left the little guy. And then there’s the fact that her cell phone last pinged off a tower in Three Churches two hours after she was last seen, when she told her best friend she was going to meet some people up there. ‘A crew the ‘rents wouldn’t approve of’—her friend’s words, not mine.” Mischa finished his food, set the plate aside on the counter, and licked the remaining sauce off the fork. “So I hear the body was mummified.”

Lila’s withered face and blank eyes flashed in Alex’s mind. He nodded. “Calcified is a better word. She’s been dead for a long time, but her body was exposed to the elements for only a couple days.”

Mischa scratched the side his scruffy jaw. “Lotsa caves up and down the coast. Disposal in one might do that to a corpse.”

“Read my mind.”

He flashed a grin that was all teeth. “I have a talent for it. You’re in law enforcement.” It wasn’t a question.

Alex opened his mouth to deny it, but Mischa held up a hand. “Nah, don’t bother. Your secrets are safe with me. Don’t blame you for them either. Lotsa weird stuff happening up there in Three Churches.”

He should deny it anyway, but—hell, what was the point? It was all unraveling faster than he could weave it. He wasn’t very good at this undercover stuff anymore. Burned out. Even if the DEA decided not to fire him, he wouldn’t be able to go back to working UC. That realization should put a hole in his gut, he thought. Instead, he felt like he’d dropped fifty pounds of weight off his back.

“Think I could see Lila’s room?” Remembering the pumpkin with Lila’s name painted on it, he assumed the VanBurans hadn’t touched her room since she disappeared. If there was a connection between Lila and Pru’s streak of misfortune, it might be in there somewhere.

Mischa lifted a shoulder. “Not much there. Typical teenage girl room, but knock yourself out.”

He was right, Alex realized after a few minutes in the black-and-white, art deco room. Framed prints of Paris and London decorated the walls. The canopied bed overflowed with girly pillows featuring gemstone words like diva and princess. And…slut?

“Wow, that’s classy.”

Mischa grunted in agreement.

God, she was so young. Standing in her room, the truth of it smacked him in the face. Barely out of childhood. She’d had a desk that appeared used only as a laptop stand and dust catcher, a dresser cluttered with jewelry and other female accessories, and a vanity covered with enough perfume and make-up to doll up an army. Photographs of friends and a little blond boy lined the frame of the vanity’s mirror.

“Her brother?” Alex asked.

Mischa, lounging in the doorway, nodded. “Brayden. He’s six. Nice kid. Doesn’t really understand what’s going on.”

Alex thought of the icy distance he’d noticed between the VanBurans and felt a twinge for the little boy. Marriage rarely survived the death of a child and Brayden was in for one hell of a mess when his parents divorced. “Poor kid.”

“It’s gonna be hard for him. He loved his sister,” Mischa said, his tone distant as if he was mentally somewhere else. Then he shook his head. “So, anything interesting?”

“No. You’re right. There’s no—” Alex started to turn, but caught sight of a photo tucked behind another and plucked it free of the vanity. Lila sat in the bow of a boat, legs outstretched on the V-shaped seat, head back as she soaked in the sun in a bathing suit that barely covered the essentials.

The boat…

“What?” Mischa asked and stepped into the room.

“I don’t know. It’s—” He laughed at himself and returned the photo to its spot. Like he could trust his haywire instincts right now. Since arriving in Maine, everything had looked or felt vaguely familiar. “It’s nothing. Déjà vu.”

The black and white walls suddenly closed in and Alex had to get out before the sadness he felt for the little girl that used to sleep here, dream here, live here, choked him. Once in the hallway, he drew a ragged breath and ignored Mischa’s arched brow.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” And if not, he was so not going there with the guy. “So when do you plan on going back to—wherever you’re from?”

“Minneapolis,” Mischa said. “Dunno yet.”

“You’re far from home.”

“Gotta go where the jobs are.” Mischa flicked off the bedroom light and shut the door.

The man was basically a glorified ambulance chaser, making money—a lot of it, judging by his pricey clothes—off other people’s pain.

Despicable.

Alex’s expression must have given away his distaste because the corner of Mischa’s mouth lifted in a sardonic half-smile.

“You’re not the first to think that of me,” he said. “Luckily, I don’t give a flying fuck what other people think.”

CHAPTER 24

What a day. Pru sighed as she sat down on the edge of her bed and unlaced her shoes. A headache pounded on the back of her brain and she wanted to crawl into bed and forget about the heartbreaking visit to the VanBurans house, but she had too much to do. Pumpkinfest was tomorrow and with everything that had been happening, she was behind on her preparations. Helen Mallory would have a cow if Mae’s Diner, the staple of dining in Three Churches, didn’t have a booth set up this year.

As it was, Pru planned to spend the night in the kitchen. She groaned at the thought.

Alex relaxed in the doorway with his arms crossed. “What’s wrong?”

She scowled at him. “I could kick you for leaving me alone with Denise for so long.”

“Aw, babe.” He crossed to the bed and sat down beside her, his big hands closing over her shoulders. “You handled it way better than I could’ve.”

“She tried giving me the reward money. How ridiculous is that? Paying us for finding her daughter’s body. It broke my heart. She’s going through so much and Bruce just isn’t there to help her.”

The knots of tension eased under his kneading fingers and her head fell forward, a little moan escaping. Alex leaned over, his lips tracing the curve of her spine, ending with a little nip at the base of her neck. Arousal fluttered in her belly. She hadn’t really had time to think about what happened between them last night, but now the memories rushed back. Until they’d found Lila, it all had been so perfect it gave her goosebumps. Something powerful writhed within her heart as he massaged her shoulders, too close to love for comfort.

Dammit, no. She wasn’t one of those silly women who fall in love after one night of sex.

Unnerved, she popped to her feet, careful to keep her back to him as she took off her sweater and reached for her favorite flannel robe. It was so ratty and unsexy, any rational woman would cringe to be seen in it by her lover.

Rational, hah, Pru thought as she knotted the tie. What with her infamous panic attacks, nobody had ever considered her a rational woman.

“Denise and Bruce should be leaning on each other,” she said, mostly to guide her thoughts away from last night. “Not pushing each other away.”

Alex sat silently for so long, she had to peek over her shoulder to be sure he was still in the room. He watched her with storm-gray eyes so intense he might as well have been caressing her every secret spot. She trembled and took another step away from him.

“You’re right,” he said. “They should.”

The way he said it made it sound like, we should. Oh, did the man know how to embed double meanings in his words or what? She whirled around. “Hey, that wasn’t—this conversation has nothing to do with us.”

“I’m making it about us. You’ve avoided the topic all day.” Alex hadn’t moved from the bed. In fact, he leaned back on his elbow, stretching out his long body like he hadn’t a care in the world. His jeans pulled tight over the ridge of an erection. Big surprise. He was a walking hard-on.

“Well, excuse me for having other things besides sex on my mind. Finding a dead sixteen year old girl tends to put a damper on my libido.” Or at least it should, but her wildcat apparently hadn’t gotten the memo and was now strangling itself on the end of its chain, trying to jump Alex’s bones.

Frustrated, Pru glared at his crotch. He shrugged, unapologetic, and his gaze heated as it traced over her plain cotton bra. She yanked on the slipping lapels of her robe. “You’re a pig.”

Alex moved so fast, she didn’t see him until his weight pinned her in place against the wall as his mouth consumed hers in a hot kiss that burned away every lingering ounce of fatigue.

He broke the kiss a second later to nuzzle her ear. “Does insulting me make you feel better, babe?”

No, not really. She tried to squirm away even as his teeth nipped her earlobe and sent a shock of arousal straight to her belly. “Get off me, you Neanderthal. I have things to do.”

“That’s for sure.” He guided her hand to the bulge in his jeans and her mouth went dry. Her robe slipped open and he pushed it off her shoulders, his eyes hooded as he leaned back to study her. “This robe should be illegal.”

Pru gave a snorting laugh. “I know it’s ugly. That’s why I like it.”

“It’s hot,” he corrected. Those clever hands of his sneaked inside and roamed her bare body with something akin to reverence, like it had taken every ounce of his willpower to keep from touching her all day. “Reminds me of unwrapping a Christmas present.” His fingers slipped under the edge of her bra and tweaked her nipple. “And look what Santa brought me. I must’ve been a very good boy this year.”

“Pluh-ease,” she groaned, still semi-protesting even as her blood caught fire. “Alex, stop. I really do have—” He bent his head, caught her nipple in his teeth and she nearly shot through the ceiling like a rocket. “Oh…”

He scooped her into his arms and crossed the room, placed her on the bed. The curtains over the window billowed with an unfelt breeze and the room’s temperature dropped. She shuddered as his lips traced the side of her breast and moved up her throat, leaving a trail of lava on her skin. His body weight settled comfortably on top of her, all the warm, strong, ropey male muscle like a security blanket.

Alex shed his shirt, but didn’t bother struggling with his shoes and jeans and undid his fly so his erection had room to grow. The sound of the zipper echoed and for a second she wondered if Nick, staying in a room upstairs now, would be able to hear every squeak of her bed, every moan. Then Alex’s hands returned to her and she didn’t care.

His jeans rubbed against her thighs, rough and almost as erotic as his bare flesh. He smelled of autumn wind and of his own spicy musk, a scent that drove her wildcat libido insane with need, and she arched against his hip. A smile touched his lips as he obliged her impatient demands. Two fingers slid inside to do the job while he freed himself from his jeans. She bucked under his caress, but he stayed her, locking her down with his palm flat against her stomach.

“Alex.” She didn’t know what was worse, that he was using sex to manipulate her again or that she didn’t mind. She threaded her fingers through his short hair and dragged his mouth to hers. “You’re a jerk, but dammit, I want you inside me.”

He drew back a millimeter and his eyes burned like charcoal as he studied her face. His fingers moved inside her, stoking the blaze that was beginning in her belly, but she fought it.

“Let go, babe.” His thumb circled her clitoris and that was all it took. A tremble started under the pressure of his thumb and radiated outward in delicious waves. Not a hard and fast climax, but a long, rolling one that shook her world. She swore she even saw the bottles of perfume on her dresser across the room tremble.

“Alex.” His name was a whimper on her lips.

Levering open her legs with his knee, he positioned himself at her entrance and surged in hard. Her body, soft and slick from the orgasm, stretched and molded to fit him, drawing a soft, rumbling groan from his throat. He moved deeper, deeper, deeper, his breath coming hot and fast in her ear.

She was there, right there on the edge again. She curled her hands into the back pockets of his jeans, felt the muscles of his ass flex as she clamped her legs around his ribs and urged him to move. The bed creaked and groaned, the headboard thudded against the wall in a carnal beat. Each thrust sent another shock wave pounding along her over-sensitized nerve endings. He rose over her and braced a hand against the headboard, fierce and handsome in the red light of the evening pouring through the window, shadowing the hard contours of his face, highlighting the plains of his chest and stomach as his muscles clenched. His head fell back, jaw tight, skin glistening with sweat. A conquering warrior. Her warrior.

With a primal growl, he buried himself to the hilt and trembled. She surged up, clamping them together with her legs, wanting him deeper as his body emptied and hers exploded again.

Somewhere, distantly, Pru heard screaming. She didn’t know whether it was her own voice or the sound of her orgasm ripping through her mind.

Alex collapsed, his heavy weight pinning her to the bed, but she didn’t mind as he sweetly nuzzled the side of her breast.

“Just gimme a sec,” he breathed.

In the next second, his body went limp and his breathing slowed with sleep. Typical man. Get off and go to sleep. She smiled and rubbed a hand over his head, down his back. His skin was sticky with sweat, his heart thudding against her chest in concert with her own, and she felt little spasms still working through his muscles. He slept with his mouth open, snoring softly, and she had to stifle a giggle.

Oh boy. She was falling head over heels for Alex—no doubt about it now. She could almost hear Miranda’s voice in her head: When you think a guy’s snoring is cute, you have it bad.

Alex gave a loud snort and startled himself awake. Blinking, he lifted his head and looked around as if disorientated.

“Sorry, babe.” He shifted, dislodging their bodies with a delicious slide of sensitized flesh that had them both gasping. Rolling to his side, he gathered her up in his arms and gave her a light squeeze. “That was real fucking sweet of me.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or sob over how crazy she was about him, so she just buried her face in the curve of his neck and enjoyed the scent of Alex mixed with sweat and sex.

“You mean falling asleep and snoring wasn’t part of your master seduction plan?” She wasn’t about to tell him that, intentional or not, it had worked like a charm.

“Aw, man. I was snoring?” He banged his head against the pillow. “Any way to turn back the clock and pretend that didn’t happen? That I actually said something sensitive and sexy and did the whole after-sex cuddlefest with minimal fuss?”

She laughed and it felt good, as if it had broken some chain and lifted a load off her heart. “Why, you sweet-talker, you.” She fluttered a hand to her forehead and did her best fragile southern belle routine. “I feel faint from your poetic prose.”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss, but stopped and frowned at her fingers.

“You’re bleeding.” He snatched her other hand, but it was clean. He went back to her blood-covered fingers, searching for wounds. “Baby. What did you do?”

“I didn’t—” A thought struck: It wasn’t her blood. This was the same hand she’d petted him with when he was asleep. She sat up on her knees and peeked over his shoulder. Long, thin gouges criss-crossed his back, dripping blood.

“Oh my God. Alex.” Gripping his arm, she hauled him off the bed and turned his backside toward the antique full-length mirror propped in the corner of the room. She had to remove a couple articles of tossed-aside clothing to find the reflection. “Look.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Jesus, babe. You gotta clip your claws.”

She held up her hands, showing him her nails, white crescents that extended only to the tips of her fingers. “I keep them short.”

“What the hell?” Brows drawn, he squinted at the reflection of his ravaged back. “I didn’t even feel it.”

“How could you not—” Her fingers brushed over an old, puckered scar on his shoulder and she bit her lower lip. He’d told her he had a freakishly high tolerance to pain, but she didn’t believe it until now. “My God. When did this happen?”

“Looks fresh,” he said. He sounded clinical, like it wasn’t his own back that had been ripped to shreds. “Still bleeding.”

Then she must have done it in the heat of passion, even with short nails. Except she didn’t remember touching his back until she ran her hand down it while he slept. His butt and arms and shoulders, yes. His back, no. “Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” He turned away from the mirror and gathered her in his arms, kissing her forehead, her temple, her nose, her cheek, brushing away a surge of tears with his lips. “Pru, don’t cry. It’s noth—”

Crack!

The mirror splintered, sending reflective shrapnel boomeranging through the air.

***

“Get down!” Alex shoved Pru to the floor, shielding her body with his own as glass exploded. The mirror, the window—even the little figurines and perfume bottles on her dresser.

Then, silence.

He lifted his head, scanned the room and the night-darkened grounds outside the window as the air grew thick with the scents of the spilled perfumes. No sniper, no deadly bullet burrowed into the wall behind the shattered mirror. At least not that he could see.

Nick, his timing impeccable as always, burst through the door, primed for a fight. He took a quick assessment of the scene and relaxed a little. “I heard a scream—and not the good kind.”

“Call the cops,” Alex said and grabbed Pru’s robe from the floor. He swathed it around her shoulders to hide her body from Nick and rubbed her arms to stop her shivering.

“Alex,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face, voice shaking as badly as her body. “I want this to stop.”

“Me too, baby.” Ignoring his own semi-nakedness, he led her to the bed and sat her down, then finally tucked himself in and zipped his jeans before turning to Nick.

“You’re bleeding,” Nick said with an odd note of control in his voice.

His back. Shit. He grabbed a shirt and yanked it on, felt the cotton immediately cling to the fresh wounds. “Doesn’t matter. Someone’s taking shots at Pru.”

Nick’s golden eyes flashed. A predator with the scent of his prey’s blood. “Want me to track the bastard down?”

“Hell yeah.”

“What do you want me to do when I find him?”

Alex glanced over his shoulder. Pru had her ash-white face buried in her hands as her shoulders heaved with soft sobs. His back teeth ground together at the thought of someone wanting her hurt.

“Be creative,” he said.

“Roger that.”

CHAPTER 25

Of all people, Sheriff Forbes had to respond to the 9-1-1 call. Alex figured he should count his blessings that Rhett Swithin was not on duty, but the silver lining in the current situation eluded him. He felt impotent, pacing the bedroom in anxious circles, answering the same questions he’d answered the night of that damn mystery fire. Didn’t these podunk cops know how to do anything but ask redundant questions?

He wanted to be outside with Nick, tracking down the bastard who had the chutzpah to take a shot at Pru not once, but twice by his calculations. And when—not if; “if” was not in a D.I.E. Squadron soldier’s vocabulary. When they found the son of a bitch, he’d let Nick have his Indian fun then dole out some good old-fashioned Irish punishment of his own.

“So you didn’t see anyone?” Forbes asked, drawing Alex back from his dark musings. Scowling faintly, the sheriff took their statements and walked around the bedroom that still smelled of sex, paying far too much attention to the disheveled bed and not enough to the broken mirror and window.

“No,” Alex said feeling like a broken record. He sent a glance toward Pru, still sitting on the edge of her bed. Her housecoat gapped open, revealing magnificent cleavage and a hickey darkening the inside swell of her left breast. Oops. He curbed the urge to go to her and tie the robe shut. At least he’d had the presence of mind to pull on his shirt before the cavalry, as pitiful as it was, arrived. The scratches on his back would have sparked rumors far more risqué than the ones already circulating town. No doubt the hickey will add fodder to their mill, but he couldn’t do much about that now.

Forbes caught the glance and swung around to face her as well. His eyes dropped to her chest. “What about you, Prudence?”

She clasped the robe shut. “Hey, up here.”

Alex suppressed a smile and the sheriff had the grace to blush as he raised his eyes to her face. “Did you see anything, hear anything out of the ordinary?”

The moment of spunk was gone in an instant, the spark in her blue eyes fading to weariness. She shook her head and wouldn’t meet the sheriff’s gaze. “No, it all happened so fast. I mean, I didn’t see—we were—” She left the sentence unfinished. Forbes’s eyebrow quirked as he looked at the rumpled bed.

Alex cut in. “The shooter had to be hiding out in those trees.”

Frowning, Forbes crossed to the broken window. He scanned the copse of trees five-hundred yards away at the edge of the lawn. “That would be quite the shot,” he said. “With most of the leaves gone, there’s not much cover. There’d be major mathematics involved, shooting through a window at a small, moving target from five-hundred-plus yards at night. It’s damn near impossible.”

Hard, but not impossible, Alex thought and a list of people that could make that shot scrolled through his mind, himself and Nick included. Sully and Jacob could probably both do it without much effort. Kai and Malcolm could both do it blindfolded. All were very dangerous men, former D.I.E. But none had any reason to want Pru—or him—dead. Even if one of them did, he couldn’t list their names for Forbes or else he’d also have to supply an explanation he was not ready to give.

“Well,” Forbes said after examining the window and remains of the mirror again. He snapped his notebook shut. “I’ll take a walk around the perimeter, but honestly, there’s no evidence of a crime here. I’ll write up a report and tell the others to be on the lookout. Maybe have an extra patrol swing out this way at night. But there’s not much else I can do.”

“We’d really appreciate it,” Pru said and stood to show him out, but he waved her away.

“I know where the door is.” In the doorway, he stopped and his scowl returned. He waggled a finger in the air between the two of them. “This little tryst is only going to lead to trouble, Pru. He’s an outsider and shouldn’t be trusted worth a damn.”

Her chin hitched up at a stubborn angle. “My personal life is my business, Sheriff.”

Alex didn’t know what he wanted to do more, throttle Forbes for being a jackass or saunter over, loop an arm around Pru, and kiss her breath away for standing up for herself. Maybe he could do both.

As the door closed, Pru let out a breath. “He’s right, you know.”

All thoughts of kissing her vanished. “What do you mean?”

“About us.” She waved a hand at the bed and his heart nose-dived into the pit of his stomach. Sure, he had wanted her to view the world with a little more suspicion, but not like this. Not him.

“Pru, it’s me. You trusted me enough to share your bed the last two nights.”

“Yes.” She dragged her teeth over her lower lip. “But that’s not like me at all. You’re only the second man I’ve ever—I don’t know why I—” She shook her head, blew out a huff of air. “None of this was happening until you showed up.”

“I thought you said this has all happened before.” The woman was so indecisive sometimes it was maddening. “You said your ghost has a history of setting fires and some such nonsense.”

“She does, but maybe once every ten years. Despite the rumors, she’s never hurt anyone. Besides, you think a sniper’s trying to kill me. Or maybe he’s trying to kill you. That would make more sense.”

Sully thinks someone’s after us, his inner cynic reminded, sounding a lot like Kai’s voice. Government, military, Interpol, Taliban, little green pygmies. We’re not popular guys.

Alex shoved the thought away. Maybe it was true, and he and his friends were on a hit list—wouldn’t be the first time—but the little green pygmies were not the threat to Pru. He knew it like he knew his own first name. The danger was much closer to home.

Pru raised a shaking hand to her temple, massaging in small circles. Her other arm wrapped around her middle and the robe gapped open again, showing off the hickey he’d given her by accident.

Flashes of memory invaded his brain. Her body bowing off the mattress when his thumb teased her clit. Her throaty moans as he lavished kisses on her breasts. The way she clasped his hands in hers and watched their bodies join until her eyes rolled back from the pleasure. Before he fell asleep, he’d listened to the soft sounds of her breath rustling over his hair and wondered if he could handle being alone, without her, ever again.

Nope, was the answer that had popped to mind right before sleep took him under. And now she was pushing him away.

“Pru.” He hated the desperate tone in his voice. Last night, she’d heard his sins and didn’t once judge him for any of it. He could confess anything, and she’d simply soothe away his demons.

Oh God, he couldn’t lose her.

She shook her head. “I think you’d better go.”

“Pru—” he tried again.

“Please. Just—” Her voice broke. “Leave. I can’t do this, okay?”

“What do you mean ‘can’t do this’? You can’t do what?”

She turned away, clenching her robe shut in a white-knuckled grip. “I loved my ex-husband very much, but when I needed him most, he tossed me away like I meant nothing to him. I can’t risk falling that much in love again. It’ll destroy me.” She faced him as fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “Don’t you get it, Alex? It will destroy me, but it’s happening anyway. You’re going to break my heart and I won’t be able to pull myself back together this time.”

The room became an airless vacuum. He opened his mouth, trying to draw in oxygen.

“Uh,” was his brilliant response. He shook his head once, then again. For some reason, he couldn’t form a coherent thought. “Are you saying you’re falling in love with me?”

“God.” She strode over to the bedroom doors, opening one side. “Get out.”

Good going, Al. You’re a regular Cassa-fucking-nova.

Ignoring his inner cynic, he crossed to her and gripped her shoulders, gave them a soothing rub. “Pru, wait. I messed that up.”

“No shit.”

“I just—what did you want me to say to that?”

“Nothing. I don’t want you to say a damn thing. Just leave.”

“I don’t want to.” With the arc of his finger, he guided her chin up, forcing her to look at him. Those earnest blue eyes, spilling over with tears, would haunt him forever if he didn’t make this right. He wanted to kiss her, soothe away every awkward word between them with his lips and body, but knew she wouldn’t accept that kind of comfort. She’d just accuse him of using sex to manipulate her.

“Baby, I’m sorry. You caught me off guard, that’s all. Love—it’s not something I’m very good at. Cut me some slack, okay? You gotta give me time to get used to the idea.” He watched the words melt the icy wall she was trying to build between them and some of the tension seeped out of him. She could throw up all the barriers she wanted. He’d just rip them down again.

“How can you be so cold one minute and so damn sweet the next?” She sighed and rubbed her forehead like she had a headache. Well, who could blame her? It had been a hell of a week. “It’s like you have a split personality. What you said to Nick earlier ….”

Fuck. He scrambled to remember, went over the conversation word-for-word. It had been a rather mild exchange compared to some of the conversations he’d had with Nick in the past. Nothing nasty or cruel. Certainly nothing that would make her balk like this.

“I’m sorry, Pru, I don’t remember. What did I say?”

She stepped out of reach and hugged herself, leaving his arms cold and a lead weight sitting in his gut. “When he asked what you wanted him to do when he found the guy, you said ‘be creative’.”

Oh. That. He mentally called himself a thousand kinds of fool. “I was angry.”

“I know. You’re a dangerous man and you—” Her voice caught. “You really scare me sometimes, Alex. I think I’ll be safer without you here.”

“Stop.” He snagged her in a hard embrace, feeling her body go stiff as he held her tight. She was shivering again. He rubbed his hands over her arms, wishing he could make her feel warm. “Okay. So maybe you’re regretting what’s happened between us, I don’t know. You’re confusing the hell out of me. But pushing me away will not make you feel any better about it, nor will it make you any safer.”

“But I was safe until you showed up in town,” she protested.

“No, you weren’t, and Grandma Mae believes me enough to entrust you to my care. She wants me to keep you safe and I don’t expect to let her down.”

At her puzzled expression, he drew a breath. Time to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. She was going to be so pissed off, and he dreaded the conversation, but he couldn’t keep lying to her. Not when she was falling in love with him and he … well, he didn’t have the time or inclination right now to sort through the clusterfuck of emotions bouncing around inside him.

He let her go, linked his hands behind his neck and drew another fortifying breath. “Lookit, Pru. There’s something you need to know about me. But before I tell you, I—”

Nick strode through the door, saw or maybe felt the tension in the room and slammed to a halt. “Uh, am I interrupting?”

“No,” Alex said with a rush of guilty relief and Pru said overtop him, “Yes!”

Nick whistled. “Well. When you’re done in here, Al, I need to speak with you.”

“Be right out.” As the door shut, he turned to Pru. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have time. Tomorrow is Pumpkinfest and the diner’s supposed to have a booth set up. I have about fifty billion things to do to get ready and then I have to be there first thing in the morning.”

“All right. I’ll go with you—” He shushed her as she opened her mouth to protest. “I’m going with you. Then, tomorrow night, when everyone’s gone to bed, we’ll talk. Just me and you. No interruptions.”

“And you’ll tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“I’ll explain everything.” He leaned forward a millimeter to dust a kiss across her forehead, but thought better of it and backed up a step. She did not want kisses or comforts from him now. She wanted answers.

***

“So what’s up?” After leaving the bedroom, he found Nick standing on the porch, wearing a deep frown.

“Nothin’ that couldn’t wait.” Nick’s thick, shoulder-length hair hung loose, the salty wind playing through the dark strands. “Sorry to interrupt. Living by myself for so long, I reckon I’ve forgotten manners.”

“You don’t have to live alone, you know,” Alex said. “It’s not a requirement to stay sober.”

“But it’s easier.” His lips flattened into a grim line. “Besides, I’m not like you. Women aren’t exactly clamberin’ to jump into bed with me. Most take the long way around me on the street.”

He was underestimating himself, a bad habit Alex had been trying to break him of for years, but Alex wasn’t going to nag about it now. He had other things to worry about.

Like Pru.

“So I take it you didn’t find the piece of shit who took a shot at Pru.” He leaned his forearms on the porch railing and yawned, gazing out over the Atlantic. The ocean churned under a clear, navy sky and bright half-moon.

“There was no trail,” Nick said and mimicked his position.

“What?”

He lifted one shoulder. “Exactly what I said. Whoever did it left absolutely no trail behind.”

“Impossible. Even the best sniper would leave something. A spent shell casing he couldn’t find, a broken branch, a footprint, trampled grass. Something.”

“I walked the property three times, Al, and the only human life I saw was that sad excuse of a sheriff standin’ at the edge of the woods, squintin’ into the trees, and takin’ a leak.”

It didn’t surprise Alex that the Forbes’s promised walk around the perimeter was anything but.

“But after the malodorous deputy left,” Nick continued, “I didn’t even smell anythin’ out of the ordinary.”

“That’s not possible,” Alex said. “You could find the proverbial needle.”

“Not when there’s no needle to find. Either this man is really, really good…or he doesn’t exist. Are you sure it was a sniper? Did you find the slug?”

“No.” And he’d looked for it. Hard. “But the mirror didn’t spontaneously explode.”

“Pru did say—”

“Stop right there, pal. I don’t want to hear one word about The Green Lady.”

Nick’s jaw tightened as he watched roiling green waves whitecap against the beach below. “Yeah, well, somethin’ weird’s happenin’ around here. You’d do best to acknowledge that.”

“It’s not a ghost.” He refused to believe it was a ghost. “What about the so-called Sierra Group Sully thinks are after us?”

“Oh, they’re real enough and right mean S.O.B.’s to boot.” Nick shrugged. “But they don’t go after innocents. Why would they attack Pru?”

“Maybe they were aiming for me,” Alex said. He didn’t believe it, though, and the uncertainty came through in his voice.

“I’m tellin’ ya, pal. There was nobody in those woods with a rifle. I would’ve known.” Nick paused. “It’s not unheard of, you know. The Lakota and just about every other tribe out there have stories about spirits bound to this world.”

“The key word there is stories and that’s all this nonsense is, a silly ghost story. The Green Lady does not exist, okay? Ghosts do not exist, okay? Whoever’s trying to hurt Pru is a flesh and blood human and we are going to find him.”

“Think what you want,” Nick said, then added deliberately as Alex turned away, “But it’s wise in situations like this to look into every aspect, no matter how irrational it may seem. Nothin’s impossible.”

Inside on the stairway landing, Alex stopped to glare at the photograph of Lovie True.

“Nothing’s impossible,” he muttered as she smiled brazenly back, daring him to believe. “My ass.”

CHAPTER 26

Wow, was the only word Alex’s sleepy brain came up with as he watched chaos unfold on Main Street. Helen Mallory had been right. Pumpkinfest was a “to-do” around here. Despite the ridiculously early hour, hundreds of people rushed around, preparing booths along the sidewalk offering everything from arts-n-crafts to food.

“People come from all over for this,” Pru told him as she set up her booth at the intersection where the stubborn red light had first led him to the diner. It seemed like ages ago, but it had only been—what? Twelve days.

“Do you always have it on Halloween?” he asked and took another sip of the coffee she’d shoved into his hand as he trudged from the house this morning still half asleep.

“No. It just happened to fall that way this year. It’s always the last weekend of October. It’s a pretty big deal, brings a lot of money to town. There’s a costume contest, a haunted house, a jack-o-lantern contest, a boat parade down at the harbor, a cooking contest—I usually enter, but I didn’t get a chance this year.” She paused in unloading loaves of pumpkin bread from a box to wipe her forehead with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, then smiled over at him. “There’s a karaoke contest later tonight. You should enter that. You have a nice voice.”

Alex grinned like an idiot. When she’d slid into the shower behind him this morning, she’d caught him jamming out to his own version of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Simple Man. “Sorry, babe. I’m only available for private performances.”

Her cheeks flushed pink and she started to turn away, but he caught her in the circle of his arms and nuzzled the back of her neck. Her shudder sent a jolt right to his cock and he tugged her closer, letting her feel it. A quick taste of her neck, a nip to her earlobe and she was putty in his hands. He loved that moment, when the stiffness melted out of her and left her humming with sexual energy. He’d spent the better part of the night in the kitchen with her, soothing over all her fears with stolen moments like this. They were almost back to normal now, the fissure the mirror incident had caused mostly repaired—though that wasn’t going to last long. He still planned to tell her the truth tonight.

The thought of that lovely conversation settled a ball of molten lead in his stomach.

With a soft sound of assent, Pru tipped her head to the side, giving him free access to all the creamy skin along her neck. Beautiful. She smelled of the kitchen and the delicious strawberry shampoo he’d washed her in this morning while kissing his way down her body.

“Seriously,” a voice said, “you two need to can the PDAs.”

And she went statue-stiff again.

Alex managed to suppress a groan as he lifted his head to scowl at Mischa Harkov. “Your timing sucks.”

“Got a couple questions for you,” Mischa said, completely unapologetic.

Pru squirmed and he let her go. The moment was lost anyway. He crossed his arms over his chest. “About?”

The P.I. shot a shuddered look at Pru. “Mind if I borrow him for a quick walk?”

Alex opened his mouth to protest but she spoke over it with a bright smile. “Go ahead. He isn’t much help here anyway.”

“Hey, I am so. I hung the banner.”

“You keep distracting me.” She gave him a little push and made an irritated sound when it didn’t move him. She added in a softer tone, “Stop being so protective. We’re in the middle of public. What can happen to me?”

Public setting or not—it didn’t matter to a good sniper. Who knew that better than he did? He started to tell her so, but at the last second thought better of it. No point in upsetting her. He was on edge enough for the both of them.

“It’ll only be a minute,” Mischa said.

Alex checked his watch. He could spare a minute. Nick was due to arrive shortly anyway. “All right.” He reached out, cupped Pru’s cheeks in his palms and kissed her gently. “Stay here until I get back, okay? Please, just to make me feel better.”

She gave a faint smile, ticked his lower lip with her short fingernail. “I will. Promise.”

Mischa smirked as Alex joined him on the road in front of the booth. “You got it bad, don’cha?”

“You had questions for me?”

“Okay, no shit-chat. I do like that about you, Alex.” He produced a stack of photographs from the ratty backpack slung over his shoulder and handed them to Alex. At the top of the stack sat the photo of Lila VanBuran sunning herself on a boat. “Recognize it?”

“It’s the one I saw on her vanity. So what?”

“Look at the others. I had the photo enhanced and blown up to show the boat and surrounding area. Recognize any of it?”

Alex stopped walking, flipped through the stack again. “These are the cliffs over by the lighthouse.”

“Near where you found her body?”

“No. Around the other side.”

Mischa’s smile was grim satisfaction. “You said Lila’s body was calcified. She had to have been disposed of inside a cave and…” He flicked the original, unenhanced photo. “There are several caves in this spot. I checked.”

Which was right where Alex had seen the mysterious “ghost ship” his first night in town. No beach on that side of the lighthouse and the cliffs were steeper, dropping directly into the ocean, which was why the yacht’s vanishing act had stumped him. But what if it hadn’t vanished, merely disappeared from sight?

“Any big enough to fit a boat?” he asked.

“Oh yeah.”

Alex squinted hard at the photos again, studying every detail. The curve of the bow, the sleek gray color. He did a quick mental calculation, estimating the boat’s size in context to Lila and the surrounding area. Hard to be one-hundred percent sure, but the boat in the pictures looked like the same one he’d seen while camping on the beach that first night.

Déjà vu.

“Holy shit. I think I know when her body was removed from the cave.” And—it struck him like a fist from a prizefighter—he knew who owned the boat. He’d seen it in another picture, one that sat on the chiffonier in Pru’s foyer.

Yeah, not good. Really, really not good. With dread burning in his chest, Alex dug in his pocket for his cell and dialed Grandma Mae’s number.

“Alex,” she said warmly after his greeting. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise for an old lady. Has Pru mentioned you have an excellent voice to wake up to in the morning?”

Heat rushed into his cheeks. God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed—if ever—but his and Pru’s sleeping arrangements was not something he wanted her grandma to know about. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for calling so early, but this can’t wait. You saw Cappy the day he died, right?”

“Yes,” she answered, the smile fading from her voice.

“Do you remember what exactly he said to you?”

“Oh, Lordy. Let me think.” There was a shuffling sound in the background, blankets shifting and settling. “He was afraid of the ghost ship I told you about, but I just brushed it off as paranoia due to his illness.”

“Yes, but you also wondered if maybe he saw a real boat and got confused.”

“Just an old woman’s speculation.”

“What did he say?” Alex prompted. “Word-for-word, if you can remember.”

Silence. Then, slowly, as if she wanted to make sure she had it right: “He said, ‘the crew wants to kill me.’ Over and over and I couldn’t calm him down. ‘The crew wants to kill me, the crew wants to kill me.’”

Alex sucked in a breath. That was what he thought, but he had to hear it again. “Thank you, Mae.”

“Did I help?”

“Yes. You’re an absolutely amazing woman and I wish you’d run off with me.” She giggled like a teenager, which made him smile despite the sinking feeling in his gut. “But since I’m crazy for your granddaughter, I’ll just owe you a kiss. Thanks again.” He ended the call and met Mischa’s curious gaze.

“What’s up?” Mischa asked.

“We need to run up to the lighthouse, then go see Sheriff Forbes.”

***

Pru looked up from an inane conversation with Helen Mallory about vendor policies as Alex strode back to the booth, grim-faced. “Something wrong, hon?”

He studied Helen with a suspicious eye, saw the stack of policy pamphlets in her arms and turned his back dismissively on her. “Maybe. I need to run home and check something real quick. Is Nick here yet?”

Pru didn’t like his tone, but she couldn’t put a finger on why. “He’s at the diner picking up another package of napkins for me.”

“Good.” He leaned down, his lips brushing over hers in a light caress. “Don’t let him out of your sight, okay? Next to me, he’s the only one you should trust right now.”

Her heart thumped. She caught the flaps of his unzipped leather coat as he turned away. “Wait. What’s going on? Alex?”

He looked at Helen again, who was making no effort not to eavesdrop, and lowered his head so that his mouth was next to her ear. “I think I know who killed Lila VanBuran.”

“Oh, God. Who?”

He shook his head. “I have to make sure first. You’re…not going to like it.”

Faces flipped through her mind, all the people she knew, those she loved, those she trusted. Not going to like it. Nausea rolled in her stomach and she pressed a hand there to ease it as she watched Alex and Mischa walk toward Mischa’s car.

***

From the corner of the street, half-hidden behind an empty booth three down from Pru’s, the operator watched Alex Brennan walk away, deep in conversation with that nosy private investigator the VanBurans had hired. It was the first time he’d seen Alex in days, and the thrill of it hummed in his blood. Maybe this was it. The end game. He’d make Eli proud and rid the world of another evil.

He’d be a hero.

His grip tightened on the gun in his pocket. The two men walked toward him, absorbed in a stack of photos. He could jump out in front of them, coldcock the P.I. and order Alex into his van, parked on the crossroad nearby. Risky, yes, but God was on his side. Within the hour, Alex Brennan would be dead and he’d be well on his way to Eli with the spoils of war—the freak’s black heart.

C’mon, keep walking, he urged and withdrew the gun, holding it alongside his leg.

A hundred more feet.

Sixty.

Forty.

So close.

Still twenty feet away, Alex and the P.I. stopped moving. Alex made a quick call, then they turned and headed back.

No! The operator gnashed his teeth. This was not working. Alex kept slipping through his fingers and if he didn’t get the job done, Eli might have him replaced. That couldn’t happen. This was his first and only chance to prove himself.

He watched Alex and the P.I. climb into a rattletrap muscle car. The engine roared as they sped away.

He needed another plan, one where he had the time to take the proper precautions and do the job right. No, what he really needed was to get into the lighthouse. If he could just lure Alex away long enough to set up a trap….

Oh. Duh. The operator slapped his forehead, disgusted with himself for not thinking of the most obvious solution sooner. A surefire way to get Alex out of the way for a day or so. Eli’s ace in the hole.

The brother.

***

Forbes sat back in his chair and stared at Alex Locke—er, Brennan. He shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You’re DEA?”

“Yeah,” Alex said.

“Investigating a murder?”

“No.” He jerked his chin toward the pain-in-the-ass P.I. “Mischa was. I just stumbled into it.”

“And so you decided to give me your UC name instead of coming clean from the get-go.”

“Didn’t know who I could trust.”

Uh-huh, Forbes thought. “Does Pru know?”

At least the asshole had the grace to look away. “No.”

Forbes rubbed both hands over his face, then sat forward and pulled the handful of photos across his desk. “Explain this to me again.”

“It started last August,” Mischa said. “When Lila told her best friend she was going to meet—and I quote— ‘a crew the ’rents wouldn’t approve of’ on the day she disappeared.”

“Then,” Alex said, “a little over a month later, Cappy told Grandma Mae the crew of the ghost ship was trying to kill him. He was sick, so nobody believed him. But his so-called suicide and all the accidents up at the lighthouse—it all comes back to her.” He jabbed his pointer finger down on the photograph of Lila VanBuran sunning herself on the bow of a boat. “And him.” He pointed to another photo, framed, that showed Cappy Putnam, Wade, and John Jr. standing on the bow of a similar boat. His finger landed on John Jr.’s face.

Bile seared Forbes’s throat as his gaze jumped back and forth between the two pictures. “No, I can’t believe that. John Jr.’s a good kid, always has been. He wouldn’t hurt a defenseless girl, not to mention—as you’re insinuating—his own father and brother. He doesn’t have it in him.”

“I agree,” Alex said. “But he hangs out with guys that do.”

“A crew the ’rents wouldn’t approve of,” Mischa said again and produced a yearbook from the local high school, class of 1999. Forbes recognized it and the pieces thunked into place even before Mischa opened the thing to the back page and showed him the spread. John Jr., Rhett, David, and Kevin had been known as The Crew since elementary school by everyone in town. Their senior year, Cappy had dedicated a sailor-themed page of the yearbook to them.

Forbes released a long, slow breath. “The Crew. Goddammit, Cappy wasn’t crazy. He was trying to warn us.”

Alex nodded. “Whatever happened to Lila, happened on John Jr.’s boat. Cappy witnessed it, saw the crew dispose of her body in one of the caves near the lighthouse. Nobody listened to him because he was delusional, but they couldn’t take the chance that someone would eventually listen, so they got rid of him.”

“Cut to a year later,” Mischa said. “The VanBurans hire me to start poking around, making The Crew nervous, and they decided to make sure her body was gone. Unfortunately, it hadn’t decomposed, and they now had a mummified corpse to dispose of.”

Alex continued, “Then I show up and see the missing persons poster at the diner. I asked Pru about it within earshot of Rhett and David. Didn’t notice it at the time, but David left shortly after that and must have told Kevin about me asking questions. Kevin tried to scare me off by dropping one of those pumpkin decorations on me. Later that night, I saw John Jr.’s boat disappear into the side of a cliff.” He snorted. “Thought I was losing my mind.”

“Not yet,” Mischa said with a grim smile. “One of the crew—maybe all of them—took the boat back to the cave to re-dispose of Lila’s body, except whatever they did with it didn’t work and she washed up on shore.”

“It’s true,” David Faraday said from the doorway.

Forbes came half out of his chair. Alex and Mischa both stiffened and watched David with cautious eyes. His shoulders slumped and the guy looked as if he hadn’t slept in years.

“It’s true,” he said again and raised trembling hands to cover his face. “I saw these guys come in here and I knew—God, I can’t take it anymore. I’m waiving my rights. I want to confess.”

Forbes had always figured Lila was killed by a tourist, someone just passing through town last summer. But to find out some of his own people were responsible—Christ, he needed a whole bottle of antacid. Or, better yet, whisky.

“All right. What happened last summer, Dave?” Forbes motioned him into the visitor chair across the desk. He sank into it like a boneless man.

“I really don’t know. It all happened so fast. We were just hanging out on J.J.’s boat, like we always did. Kevin brought Lila. They were sort of seeing each other.”

“A thirty year old man can’t ‘see’ a sixteen year old girl,” Mischa said through his teeth.

David shriveled in his seat. He lifted a ragged thumbnail to his mouth and chewed.

“Go on,” Forbes prompted.

“Lila had partied with us before,” David said. “I really didn’t know she was only sixteen. I mean, you’ve seen pictures. Did she look sixteen? We had some drinks and—” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “And, uh, other stuff. Lila started coming on to all of us. She, um, liked groups.”

Someone—Mischa or Alex—made a strangled sound. Forbes kept his attention on David even through his own stomach revolted at the idea of an orgy between several grown men and a child. “Who was in the group?”

“All of us. Uh, except J.J. He’s not into that sort of thing. He stayed topside and drove. And Wade, he was there, but—you know. He wasn’t smart enough to understand sex.”

“Go on,” Forbes prompted again when David trailed off.

“She was enjoying herself, but Kevin got rough with her. She liked it rough. He just took it too far and suddenly she wasn’t breathing anymore. J.J. tried to give her CPR, but she was—” His voice cracked. “She was dead and—and Rhett said we’d all go to jail, even J.J. because his DNA was all over her from the CPR. J.J. still wanted us to turn ourselves in, but Kevin threatened him, said we had to dump her body in one of those caves over by the lighthouse and never talk about it again.”

“And Cappy saw you?” Alex asked.

His fingers dug into the arms of the chair as his wide eyes swung from Alex and back to Forbes. “I swear, I had nothing to do with Cappy. Neither did J.J. That was all Rhett and Kevin. We didn’t know about it until afterward. Actually, I don’t think J.J. ever knew about it. He just thought Cappy committed suicide.”

“So the accidents,” Forbes said. “Wade and John Jr. It was to keep them from talking.”

David sucked in a trembling breath. “I think Kev’s gone off the deep end. He disappeared the night Wade died, right? I’m afraid he hurt them and he’s going to come after me or Rhett next.”

Forbes wanted to kick himself for not paying more attention to Helen’s concerns about Kevin’s disappearance. He stared across the desk at David, a kid he’d known from diapers. He should feel good about finally closing the case that had eaten at him for the past year. Instead, acid churned in his stomach. “David, you know I have to arrest you, right?”

He nodded. “I don’t want a lawyer. I just want this to be over. Just…want it over.”

CHAPTER 27

The morning was already busy, the street teeming with early-risers looking for the best deals before out-of-towners overran the festival. The costumes started to come out as well. Pru lost track of the number of super heroes and Disney princesses she saw, and thought about changing into her own costume, a 1950s carhop outfit complete with roller skates. Probably a good idea, before it got too busy.

“Nick?”

Lounging in a camp chair with a book, he looked up when she spoke. The feathers in his hair fell into his face and she reached out to brush them back. A little girl, dressed as Pocahontas, had been so impressed by the fact he was a real Native American, especially after he spoke Lakota to her, that she’d given him the bright red and white feathers from her hair. To Pru’s surprise, he’d weaved them into his braids and wore them proudly. Now all he needed was war paint.

“What’s up?”

“I’m going to run to the bathroom in the diner. Can you handle the booth by yourself for a few minutes?”

He frowned, shot a glance toward the diner. She could almost read his thoughts: Alex said not to let her out of my sight.

“For God’s sake, it’s not even a hundred yards away. Nothing’s going to happen. I just want to change into my costume, but I can’t leave the booth unattended.”

“All right. Five minutes,” he said. “Any more than that, I’m comin’ after you, guns blazin’.”

Pru gathered up her bag and hurried down the sidewalk at a fast clip. She wasn’t going to take any chances of going over the allotted time. Nick was a man of his word.

After unlocking the door, she slipped inside the dark dining room. She’d made an executive decision to close the diner today, since Miranda was at the hospital with J.J., Gail would be manning the booth later this afternoon, and Jones, that lazy good-for-nothing, hadn’t shown up for work in a week and a half. Besides, with all the food offered at the various booths, the diner never broke even during Pumpkinfest.

It didn’t take long to change. As she tied her hair up into a high ponytail with a pink scarf, she heard the bell over the diner’s door ping.

“Oh, come on, Nick. It hasn’t been five minutes yet.” She checked her reflection, tightened the ponytail, then stuffed her clothes in her bag and headed out with her roller skates in hand. Halfway through the bathroom door, she stopped cold. “Mrs. Mallory?”

Tears ran down Helen’s face, smearing her mascara. Her long suede coat, folded neatly over her arms, rattled with her shaking hands, but her spine stayed poker-straight. “I need to talk to that man of yours.”

“He’s not back yet. Why? What’s wrong?”

“My son,” she said through clenched teeth, “is a good boy, but he’s a child still.”

Not really, Pru thought. While in the grand scheme of life, thirty-three wasn’t considered old, it was old enough to know better. Kevin didn’t know better and probably never would.

“Children make mistakes,” Helen said. “He just needs to get the drugs and alcohol and women out of his system, then he’ll come home and straighten up.” Her voice trembled. “Boys will be boys and all that. He didn’t mean to hurt that girl.”

“What girl?” Even as the words left her tongue, she knew the answer. Lila. Her breath came out in a rush. “Helen, if he killed her, you know he has to be punished for it.”

“No! He made a mistake. Just—a mistake. He’s only a child.” She removed one hand from under the coat and slapped a palm over her heart. “My child! It’s my job to protect him. When he told me what happened and that Cappy knew—well, I had to protect him. If you had children, you’d understand.”

Oh God. Cappy.

Pru felt her legs falter and locked her knees to steady herself. “Helen, what did you do?”

“What any mother would do in my situation. I got rid of the threat to my child. But, now, there’s another.” She let loose a frantic, high-pitched laugh and dropped her coat. She held a gun, its black mouth pointed at Pru’s stomach. “A mother’s work is never done.”

Pru stared at the gun, numbed by its appearance. No freak out like the time she’d seen Alex’s gun the night of the fire. Just an odd sense of fatalism.

Guns don’t kill people, she heard Alex’s voice in her head and swallowed hard. People kill people, and if they don’t have a gun, they’ll find another even more vicious way.

He was right. It wasn’t the gun she had to fear, but the woman holding it. “Helen—”

“Don’t speak. We’re going to wait right here for that man to come looking for you. Then I’ll get rid of him and everything will be okay. Kevin will be safe.”

The gun wobbled, but Pru noticed the safety was still on—she remembered the switch Alex had showed her during their shooting lesson.

Holding her breath, she chanced a step toward the diner’s front door. Outside, the festival crowd had already doubled in size. Darth Vader strolled by. It lent to her feeling that she’d fallen down the rabbit hole and—well, there goes the Mad Hatter to prove it. Surreal.

“Stop moving. Sit down.” Helen lurched over to the door and snicked the lock into place, then prodded her toward a booth with the gun. “Sit down!”

Pru’s blood went cold. Images flashed from her memory. The feel of a gun’s cold muzzle pressed to her head. The fear. The blood. The death. Shivers started in her knees and she barely made it to the booth before she collapsed.

Happening again. Dead God, it was happening all over again.

***

“Well, that was easy,” Mischa said and swung his car into an empty spot several blocks away from the diner. He shifted into park, balanced his arms on the steering wheel and watched the costumed crowd with a faint scowl. “At the risk of sounding like a clichéd primetime cop drama, it was too easy.”

Alex massaged his knee and, goddammit, he agreed. The arrest had been easy. As soon as Forbes confronted Rhett Swithin with David’s confession and the facts Alex and Mischa had pieced together, he gave up without a fight. Inside his house, the arrest team found an old Winchester rifle belonging to Cappy Putnam. He insisted Kevin gave it to him to dispose of and that he had no idea where Kevin was.

Alex believed him.

And in the back of his mind, unease prickled.

“It’s not over yet,” he said and opened the GTO’s squeaky door. “Kevin Mallory’s still MIA.”

“Forbes’ll get him.”

Alex wished he had so much faith in the sheriff. “Right. See ya around.”

He shut the door and hunched his shoulders against a blast of icy autumn air. Man, it was getting chilly. Snow wasn’t just a promise anymore, but a threat.

He dodged witches, vampires, and zombies of all sizes on the way to the diner’s booth and found a line of people stretching well out into the street, waiting for a slice of Pru’s pie. Not that he could blame them. Mae’s Diner did have the best pumpkin pie in the county after all. He’d already sneaked two slices this morning and gave serious consideration to a third as he cut to the front of the line.

Nick stood behind the table, nervously chatting while digging out sloppy pieces of pie for each customer. As a shy man who secluded himself on a ranch in the middle of the wild blue yonder, this crush of people had to be a little taste of hell, and his pained expression when he saw Alex said it all. Save me.

Alex couldn’t drum up any sympathy. It was good for Nick to socialize. “Where’s Pru?”

“She’s, uh, over at the diner.” He tried to dish up another slice and it fell apart before he got it to the plate. With a grimace, he handed it to the less-than-pleased customer.

“You let her go alone?”

“She was just goin’ to put on her costume. I told her I’d come after her in five minutes, but we got slammed.”

“How long ago?”

“It’s only been…” Nick turned his wrist to check his watch and dumped a glob of pumpkin down the front of his shirt. “Ah, damn. Twenty minutes. Shit, Al—”

He didn’t wait for the apology. Dread reared its ugly head inside his chest. Kevin. The certainty of it made him sick.

“Call Forbes!” He lurched in the direction of the diner at a dead run. “Tell him we might have a hostage situation.”

***

Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.

Pru repeated the order to herself like a mantra. A panic attack wasn’t going to help. Even so, her breath sawed in and out of her constricted lungs and she had to drop her head between her knees to keep from passing out.

The door handle rattled. Helen jumped and swung the gun in the direction of the sound, but there was nothing to aim at. In a flash of brown leather, the hand that had tested the knob disappeared behind the safety of the concrete wall.

Alex. Pru would recognize that leather coat anywhere. She held her breath, willing him to leave.

Nothing moved. Minutes ticked by. Helen’s arms began to shake and a bead of sweat slid from her hairline into the withered collar of her silk blouse. She’d tossed her navy blazer aside and sweat slicked the shirt to her ample curves. Her skin was the color of paper.

“Was that him?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” Pru lied.

“Call to him.”

“No.”

The gun’s muzzle swung her way. “Call out to him. Tell him you want to talk.”

Pru bit her lip. Shook her head hard. No. She wouldn’t do it. Even though the safety was still on, she wouldn’t risk getting him shot.

Helen surged forward and shoved the gun under her chin. She could make a run for it, but she was afraid Helen would realize the mistake before she made it out the door. The muzzle dug so far into the soft flesh under her chin that swallowing hurt. Memories threatened, dragging her into the black hole she’d already pulled herself out of once. She wondered if she’d be able to do it again.

Outside, a siren whooped. Once. Twice. Then another. Then several car doors slammed shut. Men shouted. People chattered.

Helen leaned over the booth and parted the blinds over the picture window with her thumb and forefinger. “Oh no, oh God.”

Feedback squealed over a loudspeaker, followed by Sheriff Forbes’s voice. “Kevin Mallory. It’s the sheriff. We have you surrounded, son.”

Helen made a sound like a wounded animal. A wounded, trapped animal.

Pru squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to focus on breathing.

Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.

***

“Any contact?” Alex slid into position behind the door of the police cruiser with Forbes.

Please let there have been contact, he thought. Please let Pru be alive still. He hadn’t seen anything during his earlier reconnaissance except a shadow moving about inside the diner with a gun in its hand. As much as his baser protective instincts wanted to bust down the door, the marine in him knew it was plain-and-stupid suicide. No gun or vest or back-up. Had to do this one by the book if he had any hope of getting Pru out of there alive.

“Any visual on Pru?” he asked.

Forbes grunted his disapproval, but didn’t lower the binocs he had trained on the front of the diner. “I told you to stay back behind the barricades with everyone else.”

His hands curled into fists and red seeped into the corners of his vision as his protective instincts roared with outrage. The best way to handle this was with civility. He knew it, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to rip something—or someone—apart with his bare hands.

Chill out. He drew a breath. Let it out. Then another, and another, until he was sure he wouldn’t tear into Forbes.

“Sheriff. I’m not a civilian, and the woman I—” He bit his tongue. When he said the L-word for the first time, it was going to be to Pru, not the fucking sheriff. “Please,” he said instead and didn’t even care that it sounded damn close to begging. “I need to help. I need to do something. Let me help.”

Forbes slid an assessing look his way, then sighed. “All right. You were a sniper, right? Here’s the deal. The state boys are on their way, but we need eyes and a steady hand if this goes to shit before they get here.”

A chill scraped from Alex’s head to his toes and back at the thought of picking up another rifle. Of taking another life. Was his hand steady? The answer used to be a resounding duh. The steadiest. But after his fuck-up back in Boston, he didn’t know anymore. That shot hadn’t been legit, taken by a twitchy finger and rattled nerves. Could he trust Pru’s life to those overstrung nerves?

He realized Forbes was watching him with bloodshot eyes, waiting for an answer.

Well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to trust her life to anyone else’s. He had the training and the ability that none of these townie cops could match. If things went to shit, he was their trump card.

“Yeah.” He gave a sharp nod. “What do you got for me?”

“Nothing you’re used to, I’m sure. Old as dirt, but it has an accurate scope.” Forbes whistled between his teeth and one of his deputies came over in a crouching run with a gun case in hand. The deputy handed it to Alex and seemed relieved that he wouldn’t be the one using the firepower inside.

“You can set up in the window of my office,” Forbes said and motioned to Town Hall across the street with a jerk of his chin. “Good view of the whole street, straight into the front of the diner.”

Alex studied the window, second from the left on the second story, and decided the sheriff was right. It was as good of a hide site as he was going to find. He hefted the gun case and motioned for Nick to follow him.

***

“You should talk to them,” Pru whispered.

Helen shook her head as Forbes’s voice came over the loudspeaker again, urging “Kevin” to come out and talk things through.

“Helen, listen to him. He thinks you’re Kevin. If he thinks that, the police aren’t looking for Kev anymore. Don’t you want them to find him? At least open the blinds and window so you can shout out to them.”

Helen looked at the window, then scooted back against the wall. Pru cursed under her breath. Guess she wasn’t so distraught as to forget about self-preservation. Dammit.

Helen motioned with the gun. “You do it.”

As Pru climbed across the booth and jerked open the blinds, she felt more than Helen’s gun aimed at her. The police scrambled to find cover behind open car doors and concrete planters. The street had been barricaded off with sawhorses and festival goers gawked from a distance. She scanned for Alex, but didn’t—

There. She saw a glint in one of the windows of Town Hall across the street. Alex’s head popped up over the barrel of a rifle in surprise, then disappeared again.

Pru remembered the pain in his voice as he recounted his days behind a sniper’s scope and a surge of anger flashed through her. Damn Helen for making him pick up a rifle again.

For his sake as well as her own, she prayed he wouldn’t have to pull the trigger.

***

Alex jerked as the blinds over the picture window at the front of the diner snapped open. Pru’s pale face showed in the glass for an instant, then Helen Mallory yanked her away and pressed a gun to her temple.

“Helen? What the fuck?”

“Easy,” Nick said. He stood to Alex’s right, binoculars raised to his eyes. “Get a bead on her. Get her in the scope.”

Alex wiped at his eyes with his arm then dropped behind the scope. It felt strange to be at this again with Nick. A little nostalgic, a lot surreal. For a second, he flashed back to the sandbox. Burned out buildings. Hajji everywhere. Nick’s persistent commentary running in his head: White building, two O’clock, second window to the left. Got him. BFR at your one, right side. Too high. Readjust. Two meters left, one down. Got him. Kills confirmed.

Lying in wait for hours, even days. Staring through a scope for so long he had crosshairs burned into his eyelids when he finally shut them.

Nick’s hand settled on his shoulder like a weight anchoring him to the here-and-now. “You with me, pal?”

Relax. Three breaths in, one long out. “Yeah.” He adjusted his scope and aimed for center mass. Helen was using Pru as a block as she shouted at the sheriff and his deputies, and he couldn’t get a clear shot. Fuck. He adjusted again and aimed—more risk of missing with a headshot, but it was his only option.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. He couldn’t hear what was going on, but the negotiation seemed to be getting nowhere. His eyelid twitched and he rested his forehead on his arm for a moment, closing his lids to relax. Then he fitted his eye back to the scope and waited.

“She’s coming unhinged,” Nick whispered.

He could see that. Helen’s movements had gone jerky, like a frightened bird fluttering around its cage. Keeping her in the crosshair took a lot of adjusting and readjusting. “This whole thing’s fubar.”

Nick took down the binocs, rubbed his eyes, replaced them. “No shit.”

More waiting. Helen dragged Pru back and forth with an arm clamped around her throat, waving the gun like a flag. Pru stayed amazingly calm, keeping her gaze locked on him when she was able. Sometimes she spoke and it felt like she was speaking to him. He wished he could read lips.

The gun’s muzzle settled at Pru’s temple and his heartbeat kicked as she squeezed her eyes shut and tears leaked out of the corners.

Stay calm. Three breaths in, one long out. Three breaths in—

In a flash of movement, Pru slammed her elbow into Helen’s stomach and dove for the front door.

“Goddammit,” Nick said.

Alex was tempted to track her, but forced himself to keep the rifle on Helen, his finger taking up slack on the trigger. The older woman doubled over in surprise, then straightened and aimed the gun at Pru’s back.

The explosion shook the window sill and took out his hearing with a sharp ring. A split-second later, blood blossomed on the wall behind Helen as the bullet made a canoe of her head. She dropped right where she stood, a bag of lifeless bones and flesh.

Nick lowered his binoculars, tilted his face toward the ceiling as if praying, and released a pent-up breath. “Kill confirmed.”

Pru lurched from the diner, collapsed on her hands and knees, and vomited onto the pavement as the cops rushed toward her.

Alex dropped his head to his arm, his hand falling away from the trigger, and talked his stomach out of doing the same.

CHAPTER 28

It was hours before Alex was allowed to leave the scene and his skin itched with the need to get to Pru. She’d been checked by paramedics and deemed unharmed, so Grandma Mae came to take her home. He’d wanted to follow, but there were questions to be answered and statements to be made. A nightmare to be relived.

He got a bunch of back-slaps and way-to-go’s for the shot, even from the state troopers when they finally deemed to arrive, but it felt like hollow congrats. They were all really thinking, better you than me.

Another kill. What was he at now? More than he wanted to count.

Helen hadn’t known how to use the gun she was brandishing. If she’d had a chance to pull the trigger, the bullet never would have fired. Safety lock was still engaged. Even so, it looked like there would be no repercussions for him, since he was working in official capacity under Forbes’s orders. Which was just fucking wrong. He’d killed a woman who turned out to be no threat at all. He should be punished.

After questions, and more questions, and more questions, Nick drove him home. He was grateful for it. No way he’d be able to handle a task more complex than breathing at the moment.

Alex dragged his ass through the front door and Grandma Mae hopped up from her seat on the living room couch. She went right to him and wrapped her arms around his middle. She was so short, her head rested on his stomach. He returned the hug, bending to lay his cheek on top of her head, taking strength from her wiry body.

When he mustered the energy to speak, his voice didn’t sound like his own. “How is she?”

“I think the question is how are you?” Mae leaned back to meet his gaze and cupped his cheeks in her palms. “How are you, Alex?”

Tired. Sick to death of killing. Jittery from the aftereffects of adrenaline. Tired. Heartsick for what Pru went through in Portland and for the replay of her worst nightmare. Oh, and did he mention really fucking tired?

But he didn’t say any of it. He considered lying, then chucked the idea. Mae’s blue irises, so like her granddaughter’s, could see through him as if all his tough-guy shields were made of glass.

For the first time, he let his shoulders sag under the heavy weight of the morning. “I’ve been better.”

“Go to her,” Mae said and stood on her toes to press a grandmotherly kiss to each side of his jaw. “She’s in her bedroom. You two need each other right now.”

Sounded like a damn good idea, though he wasn’t sure about the whole Pru-needing-him part. After seeing him in action today, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if she turned him away. A woman with her past—who would blame her for not wanting a killer in her life? But, dammit, he needed her right now.

He found her sitting on her bed, still dressed in the silly poodle skirt and pink blouse of her costume, twisting her loose hair over one shoulder as she stared off into space. He wasn’t sure she even realized he’d entered the room.

“Pru.”

She didn’t jolt, but glanced up with red, mascara-streaked eyes. “I can’t believe Helen… she killed Cappy and she wanted to kill you—” She hiccupped and blinked hard to stem the flow of tears. “I didn’t mean for her to die. I tried to get away so you wouldn’t have to pull the trigger. The safety was on. I tried to tell you. I didn’t want you to…” She trailed off, stared at him like she’d never seen him before.

He hesitated in the doorway. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” Lurching across the bed, she caught his wrist. “I need you to stay, Alex. I need you to make this all go away!”

As her voice cracked, his heart broke right along with it. “I can’t, baby.”

“Yes, you can.” She wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands. “If you hold me, I won’t fall apart. I need you to love me.”

I do, he thought, though he knew that was not what she was asking of him. Slowly, he crossed the room. He knelt so that his lips were millimeters from hers and rubbed his palms up her thighs. “I will do or be whatever you need. Always.”

She lifted shaking hands to his cheeks and leaned forward until their lips touched in the briefest of kisses. “Then be my lover. Hold me and make me forget. Just for a while.”

They undressed each other one article of clothing at a time, Alex savoring every ounce of ivory flesh he uncovered with his hands and lips as the buttons of her blouse came undone. He’d make her forget, make them both forget. She opened like a flower to the springtime sun, and he pleasured her with his mouth until she went lax with sleepy satisfaction. He prowled up her body, kissing his way back to her mouth as her thighs opened to cradle his hips. In one smooth move, her pelvis lifted to meet his and he sank into her plush heat.

Pru sighed like a woman fulfilled, running her hands over his head, down his shoulders and back. “I love you, Alex.”

Hot moisture pricked his eyes and he buried his face in the curve of her neck. He wanted to say it back, but those three simple words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his tongue. He wanted to cry, to curl into her embrace and bawl his eyes out—but God, how embarrassing would that be? Not acceptable.

So he channeled every drop of emotion he felt into making love to her. Propping his weight on his forearms, tangling his hands in her hair, he sipped her mouth and moved in long, slow lunges.

Across the room, the dresser shook. Pictures swung and dropped off the wall. The new window he’d installed last night while she worked in the kitchen rattled as if the day was blustery rather than calm. The already damaged full-length mirror in the corner, reflecting shards of their lovemaking, cracked down the middle.

Alex paid no attention to any of it, too entranced by the woman underneath him and the leisurely, sexy glide of their bodies joining. It felt incredible. He never wanted it to end, but when her climax turned her body into a silken vice, he couldn’t stop the inevitable.

Pru slept for hours afterward, until the light blue sky of morning faded to a cloudy afternoon and the shadows of the room deepened. Her head rested on Alex’s shoulder, her smooth bare legs tangled around his under the cover. One of her hands splayed over his heart as if she wanted to make sure it was still beating and the other curled around the back of his neck, fingers deep in his hair. With her twined around him like a vine, he should have strangled on the intimacy of it. Any other woman, he would have extracted himself and bolted for the nearest exit. Instead, for the first time in his life, he felt cherished and possessed and—surprise!—he liked it. A lot.

Pru twitched and whimpered in her sleep, and he dropped a kiss to her forehead to remind her he was still there. If he could, he’d crawl inside her mind and fend off all the bad dreams with his bare hands. Of all people, he knew just how bad bad dreams could be.

It was a knock on the door late in the afternoon that finally woke her. By then, his shoulder had gone numb, but he had no inclination to move. He smiled when she lifted her head and she returned the smile, all soft and sleepy, a well-satisfied woman—until she noticed the line of drool dripping from her mouth onto his skin.

“Oh God!” Revolted, she sat and wiped it away. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey. Stop.” He caught her wrists in his hands. “It’s fine. A little spit won’t kill me.”

Whoever was on the other side of the door knocked again, impatient.

“Jesus,” he growled. “What?”

“Someone’s callin’ your cell,” Nick said through the wood. “I wouldn’t bother you except I think it’s Theo.”

Theo. Punched by guilt, his gut did a quick bungee routine. He hadn’t heard from his brother in well over a week now, which was beyond abnormal. He flashed back to the last conversation he’d had with Dr. Romano.

Theo’s condition is deteriorating.

He never called the doctor back to find out more.

Pru rubbed a hand in small circles along his spine. “Your brother?”

With dread rising in his chest, he rolled off the bed and yanked on his jeans commando. Part of him, the little kid with a bad case of hero worship buried deep in his subconscious, needed to hear his big brother’s voice. The other part of him, his inner cynic, wondered what Theo was going to go manic about this time.

“Yeah,” he said. “My brother.”

Pru stood and slipped into her robe. Tying the sash closed, she went to the door and smiled at Nick, who took one look at her puffy lips and tousled hair and flushed as red as a Redman could. “Uh, sorry for interruptin’.”

“You’re not,” she assured.

Fortunately for him.

Bare-chested, Alex strode over and held out his hand for the ringing phone. Might as well get it over with, his inner cynic muttered as he raised the phone to his ear. He started to answer with his last name, as was habit, but caught himself. “Hello.”

“Alex Brennan?” The male voice was unknown and he stilled at the sound of his real name.

“Who is this?”

The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat. “I’m calling on behalf of Our Lady of the Incarnation Hospital. Your name’s listed in your brother’s file as an emergency contact.”

“Jesus.” Alex gripped the phone to his ear and turned away from Pru and Nick, who were both watching him with worried expressions. “Is Theo okay? What happened?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss a patient’s records over the phone. Is there any way you can come here?”

“I’m in Maine right now on business. I’ll be there as soon as I can, but it’ll be …” Fighting back panic, Alex checked his watch. If he broke land-speed records, he could be there in five hours. “At least six o’clock.”

“All right. We’ll see you then.”

The man hung up and Alex stared at the phone, his mind blanking out on what the contraption was used for, his throat clogging with a hard ball of emotion that made drawing breath hurt. “I have to go back to Boston,” he said, voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. “I have to—Theo—”

Oh God.

Pru touched his bicep. “Go, Alex.”

He opened his mouth to ask her to come with him, but closed it without uttering a sound. He still hadn’t told her his real last name, and Our Lady was not the place for her to find out about it. Damn that stupid lie. He really needed her with him when he faced whatever news awaited him at the hospital.

She must’ve seen him struggling because she rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. “I’ll be fine. You need to go to your brother. Family comes first, before anything else.”

“Yeah, Al, go,” Nick said. “Theo needs you.”

Alex motioned him into the living room, out of Pru’s hearing. “Do not let anything happen to her.”

“The danger’s been neutralized,” he said but then grimaced. “But you have my word there will not be a repeat of this mornin’.”

“Better not. I will be back tonight, no matter what goes down with Theo. If she so much as gets a hangnail while I’m gone, I will be so far up your ass—”

“Alex.” Nick grasped his shoulders firmly and gave him a little shake. “Go take care of your brother. Pru will be fine. Trust me.”

CHAPTER 29

The typical smells of a hospital, urine and cleaning products, blasted Alex as he stepped into the main foyer of Our Lady. Despite the cheerful attempts of potted ferns and the ever-smiling staff, the gothic place always reminded him of Dracula’s castle.

“Mr. Brennan,” the receptionist said when he approached the desk with his heart beating in his throat. “It’s been a while. Theo’s been asking about you.”

“Is he okay?”

The redhead cocked her head to one side, brows drawn together. “Why, yes. Of course he is.”

It was Alex’s turn to be confused. “He’s not…hurt…or anything?”

“I can assure you, he’s fine. In fact, he’s doing better today than he has for the past week. He’s been in bed for several hours now. If something had happened, we would’ve called you right away.”

Alex released a ragged breath and slumped against the desk. He took a moment to enjoy the flash of relief, but then reality set in again. If Theo was okay, then who the hell called him? “I received a call from here about five hours ago from a man who said Theo…”

Was what? Come to think of it, the man hadn’t really said anything about Theo being hurt or hurting someone else. He had just mentioned the hospital’s name and Theo’s, and then let Alex’s terrified mind fill in the blanks.

Someone had wanted him distracted.

And Kevin Mallory was still out there somewhere.

Shit.

“Lookit, can I go up and check on him real quick?” he asked the receptionist, the first tendrils of real panic creeping into his mind. He had to see Theo with his own two eyes before returning like a bat out of hell to Maine. Refused to leave without making sure his brother really was okay.

The receptionist frowned. “Mr. Brennan, you know visiting hours are over at—”

He slammed a fist on the desk. A framed prayer jumped and fell to the carpet. “I pay this place enough money that I should be able to come see my brother whenever I damn well feel like it.”

“Okay, okay. Shh.” She waved her hands in a pressing motion to lower his voice. Her gaze flashed up and down the hallway. “You can go up and check on him, but please, do not disturb him. Sleep is an important part of his recovery.”

Alex didn’t bother arguing with her that schizophrenics, as a rule, did not recover. With drugs, their disease was manageable, but they were never truly free.

Rather than wait for the elevator, he raced up the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The hall was dim and quiet, save for the soft strumming of a radio and the voices of two male aides at the desk by the elevator discussing the curvy assets of one of the nurses. They never noticed Alex slip into Theo’s room.

The austere room wasn’t much bigger than the walk-in closet in Alex’s condo, with space enough for the metal frame bed where Theo lay in a tangled knot of blankets, sound asleep. A wood dresser and small writing desk took up the rest of the space and the hospital’s maintenance staff had bolted every stick of furniture to the floor.

Although Our Lady was not a prison, iron bars covered the fortified window, which offered a dreary view of the hospital’s gardens, a moss-covered fountain that hadn’t worked in decades, and a handful of crumbling angel statues in the backyard. Charcoal sketches framed the window and Alex scanned each—all grotesque, demonic figures. A complete waste of Theo’s exceptional artistic talents.

One sketch on the desk caught Alex’s attention and his breath hitched as he picked it up. In it, a lighthouse guarded a ragged cliff and the silhouette of a woman stood atop the tower with her arms spread wide, loose hair whipping in the wind.

The lighthouse looked like Danger Ledge.

The woman eerily resembled Pru.

“Alex,” Theo said from the darkness, voice thick with sleep. “That you?”

He strode to the bed and shoved the sketch in his brother’s face. “What the hell is this?”

“The Guides told me you were coming,” Theo said, ignoring the sketch.

Again with the fucking paranormal bullshit. Was he the only sane person in the world? Alex felt like screaming and gnashed his teeth to keep from doing it. “Who told you about the lighthouse? Who told you about Pru?”

Sitting up, Theo released a frustrated breath. “I told you—”

“The Guides do not exist!”

Theo shot to his feet and pointed a finger at Alex’s nose. He was several inches taller, but a good twenty-five pounds lighter. Besides, Alex never backed down from him. Not when they were kids, and certainly not now.

“You need to back up, bro.”

“I’m getting so fucking sick of being told what does and does not exist.” Theo’s voice shook. “I know what I hear. I know what I see. You can keep me locked away with these wackos and shrinks, you can let them pump me full of all the drugs you want, but I am not going to ignore the fact my little brother is in danger. I saw a demon who wants to kill us both. He had eyes like a wolf—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m not hallucinating.” He snatched the lighthouse drawing from Alex’s hand and shoved it in his face. “And the Guides told me about this place. They told me if I ever wanted to see you alive again after tonight, I should keep you away from here.”

Alex waved the drawing away as the same old sadness he felt every time he visited his brother took root deep in his heart. “Theo, man. You’re so sure there’s nothing wrong with you—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up! All of you! Goddammit.” He backed away and tunneled his hands through his hair, yanking on the limp strands, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain. His entire body shook. “Let me think. I need to think.”

Alex swallowed a surge of emotion. It was always hard to see Theo in this condition, but tonight hurt worse for some reason. “T, listen to yourself. This is not how a sane person talks. You need those shrinks and those drugs.”

The episode passed as quickly as it began. Tears streaked Theo’s face and he turned away, toward the window. He leaned an arm against the frame, propped his forehead on his arm, and gazed out at the garden below. Yellow streetlights cast shadows over his features that, even though they were only half-brothers, were so much like Alex’s it was like looking at a mirror whose reflection was a little bit off.

“You have no idea what it’s like living here,” he finally said. “I even have to piss on a schedule.”

“Then take your meds and go to therapy. Stop causing problems for the staff. Your disease is manageable if you put in a little effort. In time, you can get outta here and live a perfectly normal life.”

“I’ll never be normal.” His lips pressed together in a grim line and he glanced over his shoulder. He stared, but not at Alex. Through him. “And neither will you. You have a little demon in you too.”

You got the devil in you, boyo.

A chill rattled Alex’s spine. “Don’t talk like that. You sound like Granddad.”

“Forget it.” Theo sighed and resumed staring out the window. “Is there any way I can convince you not to go back to that lighthouse?”

“No, Theo. There’s not.”

CHAPTER 30

Every old photo told a story, and Nick lingered over the spread before him on the cheap metal table in the basement of Three Churches’ Town Hall, thrilled to have tangible objects to study. Since Pru had excused herself to bed with a headache, he made sure the lighthouse was secure then decided to spend a little time indulging his curiosity about the place.

History was something he loved studying almost as much as the paranormal.

The cute, perky secretary that led him to the archives had said the town was digitizing everything, but had only gotten as far back as 1950. Newspapers went back a little further in microfiche, to the twenties. Everything before that, he’d have to look through by hand.

Perfect.

Nothing against computers—they had a great many uses—but the digitization process destroyed something precious. The smell of old paper, the feel of a fragile document, faded and thin as silk, in his hands—beautiful, and just as much a part of history as the information the documents contained. Couldn’t get that on a damn computer screen.

Sighing in appreciation, he picked up what looked to be the oldest photo of the group, a scratched daguerreotype in a protective glass case that showed the lighthouse during construction. A group of men stood in front of the half-erect tower, grim-faced, as if they knew of the pain the place would eventually cause. They hadn’t, of course. The construction workers didn’t smile because exposure time was close to ten minutes for a daguerreotype. Nick had never tried holding a smile for ten minutes straight, but he was sure it hurt after a while.

He picked up another photo, newer than the daguerreotype but still well over a hundred years old. The lighthouse stood tall and complete in the background. In the foreground, a small family posed. The woman sat on a chair, her skirt a waterfall of ruffles, a wide hat covering her head, a parasol in one dainty hand. The man stood slightly behind her in a stiff-collared shirt and sport coat, his mustache neatly trimmed, his hat square on his head, one hand on her shoulder and one on the boy’s. The boy, maybe eleven, was a smaller version of his father and stood beside his mother’s chair. His mouth quirked in a familiar half-smile.

Very familiar.

Excitement surged. Hot damn, he was onto something. He’d seen that kid before. But…where? Another photograph? He sifted through his memories, trying to bring the niggling sensation to the forefront of his mind. It eluded him. He turned the photo over. Someone with flowing penmanship had inscribed the back, but time had faded the ink.

The family…Mr. Wal…Clara …

Too washed out to read the rest. He scanned the documents and photos on the table and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. While Alex lived to hunt down criminals, and Sully thrived on the thrill of outsmarting an opponent, and Kai enjoyed seducing women out from under other men, there was nothing Nick loved more than delving into the past.

So. Judging by the clothing style, the family lived in the late 1890s or early 1900s. He reached for the yellowed newsprint he’d stacked in the corner of the table and started leafing through the pages. Back then, and especially in a small town like Three Churches, the newspapers were more like an extended gossip column and this family looked prominent enough to warrant some attention from the local media. He hoped.

A lot of the print had faded, but remained legible enough to read. The paper felt thin and crinkled under his fingers as he scoured the headlines from 1900 and found nothing of interest. Five years later, ten years—nothing. Then in 1914, an announcement among all the who-did-what-on-Sunday personals caught his eye.

Mr. and Mrs. Walter True, of 1515 Windfall Road, announce the engagement of their only son, Silas Bartholomew True, to Miss Adeline Barnett of Portland, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Barnett.

Jackpot. 1515 Windfall Road was the lighthouse’s address. Lovie’s real name: Adeline Barnett True.

Grinning, Nick picked up the family portrait again. “Well, now. Hello, young Silas. Your wife has sure caused a helluva of fuss ‘round here lately.”

He went back to the newspapers, but for the next several years, the headlines revolved around World War I. Then he found an obituary for Clara True in 1919, which claimed her death resulted from an extended illness. Her husband followed less than a year later, in early 1920, and the obit writer surmised Walter died of a broken heart at the ripe old age of 54. After the funeral, Silas moved his young wife from Portland to Three Churches and took over his father’s duties as lighthouse keeper.

Nick had to switch to microfiche and scan through several more years before he found any more mention of the True family. November 1, 1925. A headline in bold block letters screamed across the top of the page: LIGHTHOUSE FIRE! KEEPER AND WIFE DEAD!

He read it, rubbed his eyes with two fingers, and read it a second time. “Holy shit.”

Pru mentioned Alex had once specifically asked her about a fire. He’d known about it even though none of the locals remembered it. And the guy claimed he wasn’t psychic. Yeah, right.

The article continued in intimate, gory detail. Two bodies, Silas’s burned beyond recognition in the kitchen and Lovie’s broken at the base of the lighthouse tower.

The phantom scent at the lighthouse. Pru thought it was a pork roast, like Lovie had cooked dinner, but it always struck him as disgusting and vaguely familiar. Now, he knew why. Human flesh. He had smelled it several times overseas, sickening in how close it resembled pork, with only a slight rancid undertone. The phantom scent was Silas True’s body burning.

Nick rubbed a hand over his chin as he read. The fire proved excellent fodder for gossip and speculation thrived until the police made their judgment a week later. MURDER! SUICIDE! the following day’s headline shouted in bold letters.

“Christ almighty,” he whispered and recalled the séance, the procession of images they’d all seen. Sinner, envy, murder. Had Alex been possessed by Silas True that night? Possibly. Hell, the more he read about the man, pretty damn likely. Silas wouldn’t have taken his murder easily. He was a war hero, a true-and-blue warrior, much like Alex. His spirit would want justice.

Nick drew a breath, returned to the microfiche and flipped ahead, but the fire soon faded from the public’s spotlight. The paper went back to covering everyone’s day-to-day life.

Mrs. Mary Howard visited her cousins, Misses Grace and Cora Mills, Sunday…

J.C. Ingram, who has been confined to his bed, severely ill for several months, can now receive visitors…

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Nick started to turn off the machine when a small announcement, tucked away between ads as if in embarrassment, caught his eye.

In the midst of much scandal, Miss Olivia Mae French gives birth to a daughter named Fiona Mae, 17 July 1926. Miss French refuses to name the child’s father.

Grandma Mae?

Nick sat back in his seat. A sinking sensation, a sick feeling of dread, turned his stomach to lead. Alex reckoned Lila VanBuran’s killers were responsible for all the so-called accidents around the lighthouse, but Rhett and David had refused to take responsibility, even after they freely admitted to killing Lila and concealing Cappy Putnam’s murder. That hadn’t set right with Nick from the get-go. Why admit to those deaths but not another?

He could think of only one reason. They were telling the truth.

Silas was like Alex. He’d want justice, but if Lovie had died the same night of his death, justice had been served. No, if he was still kicking around this plain of existence, it was to protect someone.

Someone like his daughter. And great-granddaughter.

***

The pounding noise started in Pru’s dream, but didn’t immediately wake her, very slowly bringing her back to consciousness. She blinked and rolled over, searching for her alarm clock.

Darkness.

Electricity must be out, she decided when she couldn’t find the pale blue numbers. Then she remembered she was upstairs in the bed Alex had used. She had crawled into his bed for a moment to wrap herself in his calming scent that still clung to the sheets. Sappy, yes, but she refused to be ashamed.

The pounding downstairs continued and she realized no barking accompanied the sound.

Where was Triton? She hadn’t seen the dog since he disappeared upstairs during the thunderstorm earlier in the evening. He should be going bonkers right now.

Groaning, she sat up and groped around for her watch, which she had set aside before laying down. The screen lit up with a blue glow when she hit the button. She groaned again. She’d been sleeping for several hours already, but still felt as mentally and physically exhausted as she had before. The headache she’d been battling since Alex left surged back with a vengeance.

Who the hell was pounding on her door at ten-forty-five at night?

Alex.

It must be Alex back from Boston. Her irritation faded. She smiled, swung her feet to the floor, and raced barefoot down the creaky, narrow staircase.

But why was he being so impatient? She paused for a split-second with her hand on the knob of the front door. She peaked through the side window, but couldn’t see anything more than the shadowed outline of a man. Gulping down a sudden surge of fear, she tried the switch for the porch light. It clicked. No light came on. Shoot.

It’s all over, she reminded herself. Rhett and David were in jail, Kevin was either on the lam or dead, and Helen was dead. J.J. was still in the hospital, serious but stable, but even if he wasn’t, she’d never fear him. Yes, she had to accept that he’d known about Lila’s death and hid it, and he’d probably face some type of legal punishment for that, but she couldn’t believe that he had anything to do with the rest of it. Luckily, neither did the police.

So there was nobody left to terrorize her anymore. Nick was sure enough about her safety to leave her by herself and he had good instincts. He wouldn’t do that if she was still in danger.

Still, uncertainty stayed her hand on the knob. Since moving here, she’d never worried about who was on the other side of her door.

“Who is it?” she called, part of her despairing over the fact she’d never again be able to open her door and warmly greet visitors.

“Pru, open up. I need to talk with you. It’s important.”

“Jones?” She unlatched the deadbolt and peeked out. The cook stood on her porch dressed in a black turtle neck and jeans, his greasy hair combed into a tail, and she had to do a double-take to be sure it really was him. She’d never once seen him clean-shaven. “Where the hell have you been?”

His big body hunched. “Uh, just around.”

She opened the door a little wider. “You’ve really screwed us over at the diner, you know that? Poor Jenny’s been working almost full-time around school to make up your shifts.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Pru. Let me explain—”

“I should fire you right now.”

He took a step forward, crowding her. “If you’ll let me come inside, I’ll explain everything. Please? It’s cold out here and we really need to talk.”

Pru hesitated. The cook was lazy, a little odd, and not all that bright, but he wasn’t dangerous. She’d seen dangerous last year in the masked gunman who robbed her restaurant, and this morning in Helen’s desperate attempt to save her son.

Jones was not dangerous.

She stepped back and rubbed her temple as he came inside, not feeling up to dealing with him tonight. Her headache was approaching terror alert level red.

Jones peered around the foyer and into the living room like he expected a cobra to be curled up on her couch. “That city guy…is he here?”

“Alex had some family business to tend to.”

“Oh. Good.” Jones’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled. Without all the facial hair he looked younger, almost boyish. He might even be considered handsome if he wasn’t such an odd duck.

“All right, I’m listening.” With a sigh, Pru headed toward the kitchen with him trailing on her heels. She needed coffee, and not the decaf stuff she’d drank with Nick earlier. “So explain to me why you thought it was okay to ditch work over the past couple weeks.”

She paused with the coffee pot under the tap and leaned against the counter as a wave of nausea swept through her. Her head throbbed, a constant knocking pressure, as if someone wanted to get inside.

Migraine? It’d been a long time since she’d last had one, but with the stress of the day, it wasn’t much of a surprise. Damn. She’d let her Imitrex prescription lapse months ago.

Pru braced her palms on the edge of the sink, sure everything in her stomach was about to come up.

Breathe. She focused on the task of inhaling and exhaling. Just breathe through it.

“Pru?”

When she trusted herself not to hurl all over, she looked up. For a second, she’d forgotten Jones was there. “We’ll have to save this conversation for another time. I’m not feeling well.”

“This can’t wait.” His tone was urgent, verging on panicked. “I need help. I haven’t been to work because I’m on a very important mission.”

“A mission?”

“From God.”

“From…God,” she echoed. Of all the ridiculous things! She started to roll her eyes, but it made her dizzy and she closed them instead. She’d always had a feeling Jones was one stick short of a teepee. Harmless, but slightly out of touch with reality. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am! Pru, you don’t know it, but we’re at war and that…thing…staying with you? He’s extremely dangerous.”

What thing? She cast around, trying to figure out what he was talking about, and saw Triton peek into the kitchen. He avoided Jones, skittered around the edge of the room toward her, but stopped a good two feet away and stared at her with a wide, startled gaze. Whimpering, he tucked tail and took off. What on earth had gotten into him?

Wait. Did Jones mean… “Triton?”

Jones frowned. “I have no problem with your dog. I was talking about that insult to God masquerading as a human being.”

She blinked. He can’t mean … “Alex?”

“He’s not human.”

Forget the coffee. Sitting down was a better idea. She sank into a chair at the table and cradled her head in her hands. “I’m really not in the mood for this tonight.” And Jones obviously needed more help than she could give him.

“He’s dangerous,” Jones insisted. “You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

All right, this whole thing was well beyond ridiculous now, edging into insane territory. Pru stood, ignoring a surge of lightheadedness. She herded Jones toward the door. “You need to leave now.”

He stood his ground. “Alex has been lying to you about everything, even his name. Probably lying about whatever feelings he claims to have for you. Things like him can’t fall in love.”

That put a hitch in her step, but she quickly recovered. Alex wouldn’t lie to her. With every fiber of her being, she knew he wouldn’t lie. “You need to leave my house and get some help. And, you know what? Don’t bother coming back to work. You’ll get your final check in the mail.”

“His name’s Alex Brennan.”

“No, it’s not. Now I want you to leave.”

He didn’t move. Picking the landline from its cradle on the wall, he held it out. “Call and ask him.”

He was telling her to call and verify his lie? Definitely nuts. She had to get him out of her house and maybe call Sheriff Forbes about the encounter. Then she’d call Alex and he’d laugh and tell her he was on his way home and everything would be fine.

Doubt whispered through her mind.

No! She didn’t want to doubt Alex, but the idea took root and bloomed. All those times she felt like he was holding back…and the times he acted as if he had a split personality…

What if he wasn’t who he said he was?

It would kill her. Plain and simple. She’d told Alex she wouldn’t survive another broken heart and meant it. Would he really be so callous as to soothe away those fears knowing with every word, every caress, that he was lying? Could someone fake the kind of emotion she saw in him as they made love?

She pressed a hand to her chest, already feeling the first fissures of pain, and stared at the phone as if it was a gun. God. She didn’t want to touch it. Really did not want to.

“Call him,” Jones said.

To buy time, she returned to the sink, filled a glass from the dish drainer, and took a long swallow to ease the sudden tightness in her throat.

“Call him. When you find out the truth, you’ll see him for what he is. He’s dangerous and I need you to lure him back so I can take him out.”

Crazy. It was all crazy talk. “No.”

“We’re at war, Pru,” Jones said with so much conviction she almost believed him for half a second. “The Unnaturals need to be eliminated before they eliminate us.”

“Stop it.” Trembling, she set the glass down on the counter, not trusting herself to keep hold of it. “You’re crazy. I’m not playing this game.”

“Call him!”

She flinched at his sharp tone and reached for the offered phone. “Fine. But only to prove you’re wrong.”

Jones grinned. She turned her back on him and dialed out Alex’s cell phone number. It rang and rang until a mechanical voice told her to leave a message. She didn’t bother and hung up, spinning back to face Jones. “No answer.”

“Try again.”

“He’s not answering.”

Jones grabbed the phone from her hand and shoved it in her face. “Try again, dammit! I need him back here.”

Gulping, she took the receiver and again dialed the number.

CHAPTER 31

Half past eleven, Alex’s phone rang. By that time, he’d caught a flight to Bangor and was well on his way back to Three Churches in a rental car. Still a little less than an hour away, eyes gritty with fatigue, his dread mounted with each passing mile.

Bad. This was all bad.

His inner cynic screamed to turn the car around and go the other way, but that ugly protective instinct of his was snapping at the end of its leash, desperate to get to Pru, and propelled him onward as fog rolled over the road and rain spattered his windshield in erratic fits. All of his concentration went into keeping the car on the wildly twisting road and he couldn’t be bothered with a phone call.

But then it started ringing again. And again. And again.

Fuck.

He snatched the cell phone out of the cup holder and answered without looking at the ID. “Brennan.”

A sharp gasp replied. “Oh God. He’s right.”

Shit. “Pru, hold on. Let me explain—”

“Who are you?” Her voice cracked.

“It’s still me. Alex.”

“Alex what?”

He could barely form the words. “Brennan. Alex Brennan.”

A long silence stretched on the other end, punctured only by soft sobs. Christ, he’d give anything to be there soothing her tears away. He had planned to do this tonight—had wanted to do it long before now—but not over the phone when he couldn’t be there to remind her that he was still the man she thought he was, just with a different name.

“Pru, you have to understand, I didn’t—”

“Are you a security specialist?” she demanded.

“No, not really.”

“Were you a marine? Do you really have an ill brother? Or are they all make-believe stories too?”

“They’re all true.”

“That’s something,” she spat.

“I only lied about my name and my job.” He tried to keep the desperate edge from his tone and miserably failed. Please, don’t push me away.

“But you lied! I let you into my house, into my bed, into my heart and you were lying the whole time.”

He drew a breath. A knife to the heart would have hurt less than the pain in her voice. “Lookit, Pru, it was a mistake. I’m messed up. Half the time I don’t even know who I am—”

“You know what? Forget it,” she said in a hollow tone. “Stay away from me, okay? Stay in Boston. I’ll send Nick along with your things. I don’t want to see you again.”

Too bad ’cause Armageddon wasn’t going to stop him from getting to her.

Bad. This is all very bad.

Alex heard a man’s voice in the background and stiffened, fear flash-freezing his chest. “Who’s there with you?”

“That’s not your business anymore.” The man’s voice sounded again, urging her to do or say something. “Go fuck yourself,” she told him, then came back to the phone. “You can too. I’m done with men.”

Bile burned in his throat. Her voice had changed subtly, picked up a hard edge he’d never heard from her before. In fact, he’d never heard her drop the f-bomb before.

Christ, he really fucked up, should have trusted her with the truth from the get-go. He was done pretending to be someone else. He’d never lie to her again as long as he drew breath—he just hoped he’d have the chance to prove it.

You won’t. Turn the car around and go back to Boston, asshole. She doesn’t want you anymore.

He ignored his inner cynic and tried again, softening his voice. “Pru, please, get out of there. This whole thing doesn’t feel right. I’ll explain everything, but you need to get the hell away from whoever that is. I’ll pick you up in town, okay?”

“Oh, right. One of your so-called feelings. Why the hell should I trust your feelings, Mr. Brennan?”

“Because—” He bit off the automatic reply. No more lies. Even the ones he told himself. Starting now. “Because, dammit,” he said through his teeth, each word ripped from his throat, “I’m clairvoyant and I’m never wrong.”

Pru snorted. “Hah. This from the man who doesn’t believe in such things?”

He grimaced. The acidic tone was nothing less than he deserved. “Please, just do this for me. You can hate me for the rest of your life afterward, but the rest of your life won’t be very long if you don’t leave that place now.”

“Are you threatening me?” she asked in mock horror. “So what? You can’t have me so now nobody will, is that it, fella?”

“Goddammit, Pru. I’m trying to help. You may hate me, but I’d never be able to live with myself if something happened to you.”

“Psh. You shouldn’t be able to live with yourself now.” Disgust dripped from her words. “Goodbye, Silas.”

The dial tone blasted in his ear.

***

This was not going according to plan. Eli would not be pleased.

Jones watched as Pru disconnected the call with the jab of her thumb. She was a Normal, an innocent, and they didn’t hurt innocents. But his hands itched to wrap around her pretty throat for not following his instructions. “What was that?”

She turned and smiled at him, a seductive twist of lips. His pulse jumped and he said a mental prayer against the surge of lust. Pru had always had that effect on him, tempting him with her luscious curves and sly, womanly wiles, pretending not to notice how hard she made him while he worked that crap job in the diner. If Eli didn’t demand celibacy from his operators and the bible didn’t warn against lust, he’d have turned her over the center island in the diner’s kitchen a long time ago and punished her for her Jezebel ways. The idea of it made his dick twitch and he instantly felt soiled.

“Jones, my darling.” She reached out to fix the collar of his turtleneck then patted his chest. “Thank you for giving me the goods on that fella. To think I would ever fall for a Mick.” With a wink, she strolled across the kitchen, hips twitching with each step.

“You were supposed to lure him here,” Jones said and followed slowly, trying not to watch the sway of her hips. “I told you how dangerous he is. You have no idea—” He frowned as she dug through a drawer by the sink for a pack of matches and a half-empty carton of cigarettes. Since when had she started smoking? “Uh, Pru?”

“Oh, I know, I know. I’m a sap. But he just had me all balled up, ya know?” She struck a match and lit the filter tip, waving it through the air negligently before taking a pull. She sighed. “Jeez, sorry. I’m beating my gums here.”

“Uh…” Jones slid a step closer to her. “What are you doing?”

She looked at him like he was an idiot. “I’m having a ciggy, what’s it look like?” She drew on the cigarette again and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Men.”

“Are you okay?”

Her gaze dropped to the kitchen floor and stayed there for a long moment. Then she smiled again, a nasty little smirk that gave him chills. “Oh, yes. Everything’s copasetic.” She waved her cigarette in a dismissive gesture. “Now level with me, Jonesy. You’re not one to take the icy mitt, huh?”

“The—uh, what?”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, moving toward him in slow, hip-swaying steps. “I mean, who is, right? Not me.”

He staggered backward a step, but found the wall right behind him, blocking his path. “What are you talking about?”

“Rejection,” she said, stressing the word with a little bounce. “She’s been rejecting you for a long time, hasn’t she? Never even noticed you behind the scenes, lusting after her. Years and years…”

“W-who?”

“But I’ve been watching you and I can see why. Honestly, you’re off your nuts. You bumped off that rube Kevin and then let the others take the fall.”

She knew? Jones bumped the telephone, knocking the landline from the wall. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. His heart jackhammered against his ribs and sweat gathered along his spine. Something wasn’t right about this whole conversation.

About her.

The phone toned, demanding its cradle, jolting him out of the fear paralysis. Dang it, he was a Sierra Group operator, a warrior of God. He couldn’t let a little lady frighten him away from his mission. But what was he supposed to do with this new, not-so-improved Pru? He had to get a hold of Eli before he made any more moves. “Now, you know I would never do anything like that. I’m a good, Christian man.”

“Oh yeah!” Sarcasm dripped from the words as she turned her back on him. “Not you, the quiet church-going cook.” She snorted. “Bushwa. You’re nothing but a two-timin’ killer.”

“I am not a killer. I’m a soldier.” Even as he spoke, he edged for the door. If he kept her turned away and distracted, he’d have time to get to his car and cell phone. Hopefully, Eli wouldn’t say she had to die. Sometimes, in war, innocents were lost. It was the way of things and Jones accepted that, but she was so beautiful and it seemed a shame to send that beauty back to heaven already. His gaze dropped down her backside and his mouth went dry. She wasn’t wearing panties under those form-fitting jogging pants.

“Come now,” she said, wiggling her bottom as if she knew he was looking. His dick tightened. She giggled. “You can’t lie to me. I told you, I’ve been watchin’ you—all of you—for a very long time. And, you know, I don’t like you.”

Pressing her cigarette out on the countertop with one hand, she picked a heavy iron frying pan off the wall with her other. She turned it over, studying it, and shot him an assessing look. “Yes, this should do fine. That big head of yours needs to be flattened out.”

Good Lord. People had whispered that she was crazy, unstable and prone to breakdowns, but he’d never have guessed she was this crazy. Something must have snapped inside her when she found out her lover was a liar and worse. “Okay, okay. You’re right. I punished Kevin for what he did to that girl, but—For God’s sake, put that down and let me explain—”

“I’ve heard enough explanations, I think.” As she glided across the floor on soundless bare feet, her blue eyes flashed. “See, thing is, all you fellas are the same. You’re all liars and cheaters…and poor ole me, I’m left holding the bag-ski. I’m sick of it.”

She rose up before him and her feet left the floor. An unnatural glow sparked behind her eyes. Hellfire.

Holy Mary, she wasn’t a Normal.

Jones choked on a scream, his breath condensing in the blast of cold air that rolled off her, icing everything in its wake. He fumbled for the gun stuffed in the waistband of his pants, but even as he pointed it at her heart, it flipped out of his hands, knocked away by an unseen blow. He scrambled after it, but Pru flicked a hand and it skittered away, just out of reach.

Oh God. Was she a telekinetic?

Time to get out. Jones darted toward the kitchen door and white-hot pain singed the nerves in his right shoulder, numbing his arm, dropping him to his knees. The heavy flying pan came down again between his shoulders and he toppled forward, his nose cracking against the pine floor. The world flared white. He scrambled to his hands and knees. If he could get to his feet, he’d have a chance to get away and call Eli and find out what he should do.

Laughing, Pru tapped the pan against his rear hard enough that he went down again. He rolled over, panting, blood pouring into his mouth from his nose. “Please, please. Stop. I’m begging you. I don’t want to die.”

“Oh, poor bunny doesn’t want to die. Guess what?” She straddled him, black hair tumbling in wild hanks over her face, her smile pure wickedness as she raised the pan. “Neither did I.”

Jones heard a loud crunch, but felt no pain as the world around him went black except for a pair of dark blue eyes staring down.

***

Lovie True watched the light go out in the cook’s eyes. One had to appreciate the irony of his death. Or in this case, the iron. She tossed the frying pan and it landed with a loud, rolling clang on the wood floor as she stood.

You killed him! The voice screeched inside her mind. She grimaced, touching her temple. Not something she had counted on, this dueling of consciousness. It took more energy than she’d realized to keep her vessel’s voice quiet and still. Pru’s heartbreak had helped the process, but now the woman had returned with a screaming vengeance.

“Aw, for crying out loud. Don’t be such a killjoy.” She nudged Jones’s twitching leg with the tip of her toe and noticed the dog cowering in the corner of the room. It alternated between a growl and whimper as it watched her.

Bending, she held out a hand. “Come here, dog.”

It inched forward, ears pressed to its head, but stopped just short of her and showed its teeth. She hauled back a foot, kicked it in the side, and felt Pru wince.

Stop it!

Such an odd sensation, this mix of Pru’s pain and her own pleasure. Not altogether bad. She kicked the dog again. It let out a yelp, scampering away on big, clumsy paws. Stupid animal had been the bane of her ethereal exist for the past several months, always barking and growling at her. About time it got what was coming to it.

Dammit, let me go, you nasty bitch!

She laughed as fists pounded on her conscience, begging to regain control over this lovely body. “Psh, go chase yourself, Prudence. I’m not done yet. I have a date.”

No! Pru struggled harder, and pain shot through Lovie’s head. She squeezed her eyes shut and squelched the struggles with an act of will, but Pru’s voice continued to shout. Leave him alone! Leave him alone! Leave him alone!

Headlights flashed through the dining room and Pru went silent. Lovie grinned, enjoying the sense of heartbreak and dread mixing with her own delight. A car door slammed shut.

“Uh-oh, we’d better go change, Prudence. Silas is home.”

CHAPTER 32

Alex tried the lighthouse’s landline, but again got an angry busy signal. His hand tightened around the cell phone as he guided his rental up the bumpy driveway. The beacon flashed over the lawn, piercing the first fingers of fog that clawed inland from the ocean. Alex killed the engine. No movement inside, but Pru’s Jeep sat in the drive along with another car he didn’t recognize.

The quiet rap of a knuckle on his window made him jump. A figure peeled away from the shadows of the night to stand beside the door.

“Holy shit, Nick.” Telling his pounding heart to calm the fuck down, he levered himself out of the driver’s seat. “You gotta stop sneaking up on me like that, buddy. I thought you were off researching ghosts or some shit.”

“I was.” He slid a glance toward the silent house. “But I knew you’d come back and you can’t go in there tonight.”

“Why not?” Alex looked at the unrecognized car. “Who’s she with?” Silence. “Goddammit, answer me. Who is in there with her?”

“A man went in a while ago. I don’t know who or why.” But his voice insinuated a shitload of images Alex didn’t want in his mind. Another man’s hands on Pru, mouth on her skin, body filling her.

Jealous anger spilled through him, so hot it burned. He drew a breath to squelch it. “No.” He wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t for his own sanity. “She’s not like that. C’mon, Nick, you know she’s not like that. I gotta talk to her. I fucked up but—”

Nick caught his arm. “Trust me, you can’t go in there.”

“Why the fuck not?”

Nick slapped an eight-by-ten photo into his palm. “It’s the anniversary.”

“What?” Alex turned the photo over and blinked at the man in old-fashioned military dress staring up with intense, dark eyes and a half-smile.

His eyes. His smile. A man with his face.

The spit dried in his mouth. “Who is—”

Silas.

It hit him like a blow to the gut and he took a step backward.

“That’s Lovie’s husband,” Nick said. “He had an extramarital relationship with a woman named—”

“Olivia.” The woman from his dreams. He could see it so clearly: Olivia telling Silas she was pregnant that warm, fall night on the beach under the lighthouse. Not a dream any longer, but a far-away memory. “He never saw his baby. He died before she was born.”

“Yeah, he did.” Nick narrowed his eyes. “He died tonight, eighty-nine years ago, and Lovie’s been gettin’ revenge on his illegitimate family ever since. Grandma Mae is his daughter.”

The accidents.

God help him, it all made a sick sort of sense. Pru’s uncle’s car accident. Her father’s fall while painting the lighthouse tower last year. Wade’s fall into that hole in the backyard. John Jr.’s fall down the stairs in the carriage house.

Alex tried to wrap his mind around the idea and came up against a wall. No. It was ridiculous. He shook his head and started for the house. “Ghosts don’t exist. This is all bull—”

“You stubborn jackass.” Nick grabbed his shoulders and slammed him against the car with enough force to rattle his teeth. He tensed in automatic reaction, adrenaline spilling into his blood, readying for a fight, but Nick expelled a breath and stepped back.

“Even with the proof starin’ you in the face, you still won’t believe. You know how the mirrors keep explodin’? Think about it. It only happens when both you and Pru are reflected in one. And every time you two get intimate, somethin’ happens like those scratches on your back. Sorry, but I’m not lettin’ you go in there, pal. You’re a carbon copy of Silas True and Lovie’s goin’ta want you dead.”

Alex also breathed out, struggling to control the instinct to kick Nick’s ass. It’d feel damn good to go a round with the Sioux man and work out all the frustration and aggression burning a hole in his gut, but it wouldn’t help the current situation any. He sucked in another breath. “Pru—”

“Will be fine as long as you stay away from her tonight.”

“No, she won’t. Fuck.” Wound up, his nerves as taut as a tightrope with a full-blown trapeze act balancing on top, Alex jerked away from his best friend. “On the phone, she wasn’t acting normal. She called me Silas before she hung up.”

Nick shut his eyes for a second, sorrow flashing over his features before he got control of himself and hardened his jaw. “Lovie’s possessed her.”

“It happened once before for just a few minutes after the séance, but I brushed it off as a hallucination. She asked me why I left her and tried to strangle me.”

Nick muttered a soft oath. “All right. What do you want to do?”

“I have to go in there.”

“Al—”

“I see no other choice. If Lovie’s reliving the past, she’ll reenact her suicide. In Pru’s body. I won’t let that happen.”

“Aw, man.” Nick looked pained and rubbed a hand over his shadowed jaw. “Don’t do this, pal. My orders are to keep you safe.”

“Fuck orders. We’re not soldiers anymore. We don’t take orders from Sully or anyone else.”

“True. But I’m not goin’ta let you commit suicide, and that’s what this plan is. Suicide.” He gave Alex’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m not sayin’ we abandon Pru. Let’s just be smart about this.”

In theory, it sounded like a good idea, one that Alex would go for if he had the time. He liked plans, liked to calculate and weigh and choose the best option, but there wasn’t time to be smart. And Nick was only going to stand in his way.

“I’m really sorry for this, buddy.”

Nick opened his mouth to respond. Alex pulled back a fist and issued an uppercut calculated to fall even a man of Nick’s size. The impact jarred every bone up to his shoulder.

“Umph.” Nick staggered back three steps, eyes rolling in his head. “You’re…asshole.” Gravity took over as his legs gave out and he collapsed with the force of two-hundred plus pounds of cement.

“Said I was sorry.” Alex shook out his stinging hand, and crouched to check his friend’s pulse. Strong and steady. He’d wake up in a bit with a nasty headache and a bruised jaw, but none the worse for wear.

Alex grabbed his leather coat from the front seat of his car and draped it over Nick’s wide chest, then straightened and looked at the house.

Goddammit, his inner cynic said. Nick’s right. This is suicide.

For once, they were in total agreement.

***

Dark. Quiet. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention and the air temperature dropped ten degrees as Alex inched into the foyer. Triton cowered underneath the chiffonier, chestnut eyes wide and darting.

“Hey, bud,” he said in a voice just above whisper. “It’ll be okay. Out. Go to Nick.” He held the door long enough for the terrified pooch to run outside, then shut it, careful to not let it squeak. His always steady hand trembled as he peaked around the corner and saw a man sprawled on the threshold between the dining room and kitchen.

Who the hell was that?

The man’s body twitched, a dark puddle pooling under his head like oil. The kitchen beyond glowed with light and inside, a knife hit a cutting board in staccato rhythm, keeping time with Alex’s heart.

Tap, tap, tap.

His stomach knotted up tight as he slid toward the wounded man and knelt down on one knee to check his pulse. Weak. The guy made a strange sound, somewhere between a moan and a gurgle. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, showing no hint of recognition as his body continued to twitch.

Tap, tap, tap.

A blow had flattened the top of his head, knotted his blond hair with blood. If he lived, he’d be a vegetable. If Alex had any sympathy, he’d shoot him now and put him out of his misery.

Alex climbed to his feet and kept moving. Whatever the man had been doing here at this time of night, it hadn’t been good.

Tap, tap, tap.

Warm, delicious scents floated from inside the kitchen. Pumpkin, spices, fresh bread and stew. A pot bubbled on the stove. Pru stood at the counter chopping carrots, so at ease and in her element that he felt a spurt of hope. Maybe he was wrong about Lovie possessing her. She looked normal enough as she balanced the carrot slices on her blade and dumped them into the pot in one graceful move. No weird 1920’s costume or haircut. In a simple sweater-dress cinched at the waist with a wide brown belt, she looked like—well, like Pru, with her feet and legs bare to the November chill. Her black hair swung in long, loose waves down her back. She was humming and he recognized the tune as the one he’d sang in the shower his first night here. Bad Company’s Feel Like Making Love.

Lovie couldn’t possibly know that song, right?

Alex relaxed a little and took a step forward before realization slammed into him. Green. She was wearing green dress. He sucked in a sharp breath and she turned at the sound, knife in hand. Long and thick, it was for slicing meat instead of chopping veggies and he suspected the meat she planned on slicing was his. She smiled and the cold, dark hatred in her blue eyes chilled him to his marrow.

Pru’s body stood before him, but it was not Pru.

“Silas, dear, you’re home early,” she said. “Dinner’s not ready yet, I’m afraid. I had a little trouble finding the flour.” She kicked over the burlap bag of flour by her feet, revealing a tattered suitcase propped against the cupboard. She clucked her tongue. “Were you planning a trip, darling?”

His suitcase. He’d hidden it in the back of the pantry, behind an unopened bag of flour so it’d be easy to grab on his way out the back door. He’d planned to leave his wife tonight, leave his lighthouse, for Olivia and their unborn baby.

Lovie wasn’t going to let him live to see his baby now.

Alex pressed a hand over his eye and staggered back a step. No, not real. Visions of the past. Just visions.

Gritting his teeth against the headache, he raised his gun and leveled it on Pru’s head. He wouldn’t shoot it, couldn’t shoot it even if his life depended on it, but he could damn well fake it.

“Cut the shit, Lovie. You know I’m not Silas.”

She glided forward, the knife still in hand. Alex swallowed. Her feet hovered millimeters from the floor.

“Oh, you cut your hair and got yourself a brand new body.” She pressed the knife tip to his chest, dragging it down to his navel and up to his throat. With a flick of the wrist, she nicked his collarbone through his shirt. “But don’t you tell me I don’t know my own husband when I see him.”

“Silas is dead.”

“Not yet. But give me a minute.”

Ignoring the bite of the knife, he leaned forward, his face inches from hers. His gun dug into the soft flesh of her belly and he clicked off the safety. “You’d better get me directly in the heart or I will shoot you. Ready to die again?”

She tossed her hair back and laughed. “You won’t kill your sweetheart.”

“You underestimate my self-preservation, lady.”

Her face crumpled. Eyes wide, she gazed down at the gun in her stomach and then back at the knife she held against his chest. She gasped and dropped the knife.

“Alex…”

“Pru?” With his free hand, he touched her face but still kept the gun aimed. She looked like Pru, but dammit, she had all along. “Is that you, baby?”

Her lips trembled. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Oh, babe, I don’t want to. Is she gone?”

She shut her eyes, brow furrowing in concentration. Then she looked up at him and all he saw there was the fear of Pru, not the hatred of Lovie. “I think so. I fought her every step. She wants to kill you. She thinks you’re Silas.”

“I know.” Alex lowered the gun and drew her into his arms. He soothed her hair and kissed the top of her head, hugging her tight. “That’s my girl. You keep on fighting her. Are you all—” He felt a gun’s muzzle press to his side a millisecond before the bullet ripped into him. Then another. Pain tore the air from his lungs.

Pru—no, it wasn’t Pru. Lovie. She grinned at him and held up his own Ruger, the one K.C. had given him, the inscription glinting on the barrel like a taunt. Always the hero, huh?

Yeah, and his hero complex just got him killed.

Lovie tossed the gun at his feet and was damn lucky the revolver didn’t go off again as it hit the floor. “Did you really think I’d let Prudence come back for good?”

Stunned, he gazed down at the holes in his side bubbling blood and dropped to his knees. He swayed and found himself face-to-face with the pine floor, staring at a petite foot with a small rose tattoo above the ankle. Pru’s foot.

Pru shot him.

No, no, not Pru. Lovie. It was Lovie.

The ankle moved and Pru’s voice sounded from far, far away. Pru’s voice, but not her talking.

Lovie.

Alex struggled to his hands and knees and watched her sashay over to the pot on the stove. With a grin, she dumped the boiling contents on the floor and flicked each burner’s setting to high. Four flames leaped to hungry life. She whipped a dishtowel from the cupboard over the sink and dropped it on the open fire, then walked to the back door. Damp, icy air seeped inside as she yanked the door open.

“Pru—”

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “If you’ll excuse us, Silas, Prudence and I have a date on the tower with the catwalk.”

CHAPTER 33

Nick blinked awake to the feel of a wet tongue lapping ice-cold rain from his face. Triton whimpered, nuzzling his cheek as if to say, Get up!

“Good boy.” His voice came out a croak. He cleared his throat, knotted his hand in Triton’s scruff, and tried to push the dog back and sit up, but his head whirled.

Goddamn Alex.

He looped his arms around Triton, inhaling the scent of wet fur and smoke, and let the dog pull him upright. “Good boy. Good dog.”

Triton stiffened, a low rumble rising in his throat as he peered toward the house. The silhouette of a man jogged down the porch steps, too short by a couple inches to be Alex.

“You’re alive,” he said as he approached, wiping the sleeve of his white button-up across his soot-smeared face. “Good. I could use the help. Let’s go.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere but inside that house.”

The stranger shook his head, his blond ponytail flicking off rainwater. “The kitchen’s on fire. Tried putting it out, but that’s not happening. Alex and Pru are gone. There’s a big puddle of blood on the floor.”

Fire. Shit. Nick’s gaze shot to the lighthouse tower. He didn’t see anything, just the light circling, but his gut told him it was too late to prevent the past from repeating itself. Time to go on the offensive, move to plan B, and hope to hell it worked. He shoved himself to his feet and wobbled, his stomach threatening to heave. Goddamn Alex to hell and back. His jaw flamed with every word he spoke and he was no doubt slightly concussed. Driving in this condition was an unnecessary risk, one he refused to chance, but he had to stop Lovie before she hurt anyone.

Nick considered the stranger. His pricey clothes jarred with his week-old beard stubble and wavy, dark blond hair pulled back in a tail. Whoever he was, friend or foe, he was the only option Nick had at the moment.

“I need you to drive me to the grocery store.”

The stranger’s face scrunched up. “Dude, your friend’s in serious trouble wherever he is. Now’s not the time for a case of the munchies.”

“I need salt.” Nick went to his truck, grabbed his bag from the seat and a shovel from the bed. He eyed the beat-up old muscle car that had blocked him in. “That death trap yours?”

Without waiting for an answer, he opened the GTO’s passenger side door. It squeaked loudly. Inside, the leather seats were faded and ripped and the ash tray overflowed with butts. Stale cigarette smoke clung to the interior like a layer of city smog and rosary beads swung from the rearview mirror. In a clear-front leather case on the dash next to a holstered gun was a private investigator’s license for Mikhail Harkov.

“You’re the P.I. Alex spoke with about the missing girl?” Nick asked.

“Not missing anymore,” Mischa muttered and slid behind the wheel. “Fuck me, I hate finding them like that.” He crossed himself then fired the engine. “Mind telling me what the hell’s going on here?”

“No time right now.” By his reckoning they had fifteen minutes, at most, to get to the cemetery, dig up Lovie True, and salt and burn her bones before history made a repeat performance. If it wasn’t already too late. He looked at the rosary and thought of Alex’s little crucifix. He wasn’t much the praying type, but he sent one up anyway.

Please, please, let him not be too late.

Nick felt an odd probing sensation in his head and touched his temple, squeezing his eyes shut against it. The sensation stopped and three words whispered through his mind: The operator’s dead.

His gaze whipped over to Mischa, who was watching him with hard gray-blue eyes. “You’re one of us?”

No shit, Sherlock, Mischa said inside Nick’s mind.

A telepath. Holy hell. Sully was going to shit a brick. “So you know about the Sierra Group?”

“Know about them? I’ve been chasing down those motherfucking killers for years,” Mischa said out loud and crossed himself again. “But the operator after Alex is dead. Someone flattened his skull.” He scanned the lighthouse grounds. “It’s that ghost, isn’t it? I knew she was up to no good.”

Nick didn’t bother trying to figure out how Mischa knew about Lovie. The man was a mind reader, after all. “She’s tryin’ for an instant replay of her death, starring Alex and Pru.”

“I got the salt.” Mischa slammed the junker into reverse, threw his arm over the seat, and backed out of the drive like the devil was chasing them. “Where’s her body? Let’s burn the bitch.”

***

Each step was a mile. Alex hoisted himself up the twist of cast iron stairs, muscles quivering as he hand-over-handed it up the railing, breath coming in short gasps.

Stupid, inner cynic said, but at least he sounded like he was in just as much pain. You’re making it worse.

“Don’t care,” Alex said through his teeth and kept his eye on the prize: the little square of light at the top of the stairs. The hatch door leading to the catwalk. Pru was headed up there. Lovie too. Her footsteps vibrated through the iron into his arms. She was almost to the top. Too close, and he lagged too far behind.

No. He bared down and commanded himself to keep moving. One step at a time. As long as he was breathing, history would not repeat itself.

Rain spattered through the opening, turning the iron staircase into black ice, and his numb foot slipped out from under him on the next step. He went down hard on his bad knee, the crack like a gun’s report.

Forget it. Keep moving.

Something jarred loose. He tried to yank himself upright, put pressure on that knee and collapsed again with a groan. Blinding pain knifed up his leg, so bad it overshadowed the ache of the gunshot wound. Cold sweat poured into his eyes. Or maybe that was rain. Gasping, he hooked his arms over the railing and hung there, boneless, energy drained.

So this is what pain feels like, he thought semiconsciously as shivers wracked his body and shook the whole staircase. It had been so long since he’d really felt physical pain, not since Granddad scarred up his chest with a butcher knife and put him in ICU when he was twelve.

The knife had hurt. After that, bare-fist beatings and leather belts paled in comparison.

Theo never got knifed for mouthing back. He barely got grounded. How was that fair? He’d sit by Alex’s bed and talk about how wrong Granddad was and yet never did a damn thing to stop it. Even the ICU staff had done nothing. They all looked at him with sad eyes and whispered about his yellowed bruises and healed broken bones, but they took Granddad at his word that he was “clumsy” and did nothing about it. How was that fair? It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t.

Damn, the knife had hurt. About like this pain.

Tears blurred Alex’s vision as his rambling thoughts mashed into unintelligible sludge.

Give it a rest, inner cynic pleaded. Let’s lay down right here. Just for a sec.

Overhead, a shadow crossed the hatch door, blocking the light. Pru.

“Fuck off,” he told his inner cynic. He wouldn’t rest until she was safe.

Alex forced his drooping eyes to open, compelled his shaking muscles to move, his numbed fingers to wrap around the next baluster. If his damn legs didn’t want to hold him, he’d crawl the rest of the way.

One step at a time.

Blood trickled, soaking his shirt, plastering his jeans to his leg.

One step at a time.

His dead leg screamed and his arms shook with each jerky movement.

Almost there.

One. Step. At. A. Time.

Dragging himself onto the landing at the top of the stairs, Alex stared through the opening five feet above his head. She was out there on the catwalk, hiking up her skirt, fitting her bare foot onto the lower railing. She was going to jump.

“Pru…no!” With a surge of adrenaline, he lurched to his feet, grasped the edges of the opening and hauled his body onto the narrow catwalk. Fresh blood spurted from the gunshot wound, gushing between his fingers as he pressed a hand to his side. “Come…down from...there.”

She spun and snarled at him, blue eyes as wild as the frozen ocean wind whipping at her hair. The lighthouse beam twirled around, spotlighting her. “Silas! You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Please, stop. Let’s…talk.”

“I’m all talked out, bub.”

Desperation propelled him to his feet and he limped a step toward her. “Don’t do…this. Please…I love you.”

Her expression changed for a split-second, softened and filled with emotion. “Oh, Alex.”

Then the change was gone. Lovie regained control. She shook her head hard. “Don’t feed me that line, Silas. You love her!”

Lie to her. C’mon, man, you’re good at playing a role.

Straightening as best he could, feeling the heat of his blood gushing out underneath his hand, he met her gaze. “No, I don’t.”

“Oh, yeah! That baby vamp, Prudence. I saw you necking with her, petting her all over. God, first that quiff Olivia Mae and now her?” She spat the pronoun as if it tasted rancid. “I guess that’s what I get for marrying a big six like you.”

God, he hated this, feeling this helpless. If he could just…do something…

He shuffled closer, tried to grab her, but his depth perception was out of whack and his fingers only brushed the soft cotton edge of her dress before she stepped out of his reach.

He groaned. “No. Lovie, please. Come…down.”

“Uh-uh. I’m gonna bump her off. Then you’ll have to come back to me.”

Pru swayed on the railing. The beam swung around again and Alex’s vision wavered. He blinked hard as a cold heaviness settled into his muscles and the pain faded. Going into shock, he thought. Lost too much blood, too fast. He stumbled forward another step and gripped the railing by Pru’s foot with fat, numb fingers. If he could wrap his hand around her ankle, yank her down off that ledge…then he could die and not worry Olivia would topple over, following him into the afterlife.

No—no, not Olivia. Pru. It was Pru standing barefoot on that railing with the rose tattoo on her ankle. It was Pru wearing that ugly-ass green dress. It was Lovie making this all happen again.

He sagged, wrapping his arm around the railing to keep upright. Below, waves cracked in white clouds against the jagged rocks of the beach. He couldn’t let Olivia fall down there. He loved her too much to—no, not Olivia. Pru.

Pru!

The world tilted sideways and he collapsed, whacking his head hard on the railing. No pain. There should be pain.

She stood over him on the thin, wet railing, balancing with a hand braced on the limestone wall of the tower, a smirk on her face. Lovie was still going to jump and kill Pru and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Helpless. Like the boy he’d been, hiding from Granddad’s temper, he was completely helpless again.

Alex shoved himself to his side, watched as his heart, beating clumsily in his chest, pumped his life onto the weather-washed wood of the catwalk. The lighthouse beam swung around again, showing him how much blood he’d lost. Wide, oil-slick streaks of it. Darkness ebbed in the corners of his conscious.

You’re an idiot, inner cynic said faintly. You hear me? A fucking idiot for not believing Pru’s ghost stories.

He couldn’t even tell the cynic to fuck off this time. When you’re right, you’re right.

He looked at Pru as his vision went out of focus, holding her face in his mind as his life faded away.

***

“Which way?”

Nick stopped moving among the old, chipped tombstones, halted Mischa with a lifted hand, and let his senses reach out, searching. He may not have an extra sense like Mischa or Alex, but the five he did have worked pretty damn good. He felt the rain thickening into sleet as it pattered over his head, smelled the promise of snow and the rot of autumn leaves, tasted the metallic zing of his own fear. He focused on the rows of graves. With better than average night vision, he could make out most of the names on the closer tombstones, but the graveyard was big enough that it would take too long to search through them one by one.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You pickin’ up anythin’?”

Mischa snorted. “Dude, I’m a telepath, not a medium. How the fuck should I know?”

Medium.

Well, shit. Nick whipped out his phone and hit speed dial. “Jacob, need some help here, pal.”

“Alex?” Jacob said.

“Ghost with a massive grudge against him possessed Pru. We need to salt and burn her bones, assuming that’ll even work, but we have no clue where she’s buried. Got any tricks to find out? Her name’s Adeline Barnett True.”

“Oh, it’ll definitely work. Hang on.” He muttered away from the phone in a one-sided conversation, then came back. “Case can do it.”

Nick opened his mouth to protest but snapped it closed again without uttering a word. Now was not the time to argue over whether K.C. Archer was still kicking around this plane of existence eight years after a RPG blew him apart in Iraq. Nick was an open-minded guy—had to be considering he hung out with psychics and had a couple of his own special idiosyncrasies—but boy, was it a kick in the gut to hear Jacob refer to Case as if he was still alive.

Still, he trusted that Jacob wouldn’t put Alex in danger with wishful thinking. “All right.”

“Watch for signs from him.”

Nick pressed his lips together and hung up the phone. Waited until his skin started to itch with the urge to do something. No signs.

“Well?” Mischa asked.

“I think we’re on our own.”

Mischa nodded and hoisted a ratty backpack up on his shoulder, jerked his chin to the left. “I’ll start over here. We’ll meet in the middle. Good luck.”

Nick jogged to the right, reading each stone, feeling each precious second as it slipped from present to past. Running out of time. Even if they found Lovie True’s grave in the next few minutes, it was going to take forever to dig her up. Providing she was buried. Above ground tombs were in style when she died. If they were lucky, she’d be in one of them instead of six feet under.

The wind picked up a candy wrapper and flung it across his path. He brushed it aside, and bent down to scrape a pile of leaves away from a gravestone. No go.

“Dammit.”

The candy wrapper floated up again and smacked him on the nose. He peeled it off, looked at it, and his heart bungeed.

Cherry Tootsie Pop.

K.C.’s favorite snack when he’d been alive. Holy hell.

“Case, that you?” Holding his breath with a mix of dread and anticipation, Nick let the wrapper go and followed as it twirled and dipped in the air as if it was dancing. It plastered itself on the backside of a mausoleum and Nick moved around to the front, looked up at the name engraved over the door. TRUE.

“God, K.C.” His voice cracked. “You really are still here.”

A cold breeze brushed by him and for a second he thought he felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder. Then it was gone. He shook his head and whistled through his teeth, signaling Mischa.

***

Pru watched the life seep out of Alex and screamed. And screamed. And screamed. But no sound came from her throat.

“Now it’s your turn,” she heard her own voice say instead. Lovie dug into her mind with long, icy talons, forcing her to let go of the tower’s wall and balance on the railing.

Did Alex know she hadn’t killed him? He had to know she loved him back and would never voluntarily hurt him.

Oh God, please let him know.

Lovie turned her body toward the ocean. Her heart thundered as a gust of cold air whipped rain-sleet into her face. Goosebumps prickled over her skin. The railing was so cold it burned under her bare feet like a hot iron.

How could she feel her body so keenly and not have control over it? She struggled with the other presence inside her head and felt the pain of a headache as Lovie silenced her again. No use. Eighty-nine years of anger and jealousy had made her far too strong.

Her feet moved, slipped on the railing. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but was unable to make them obey.

***

“Great.” Mischa dropped his bag on the ground and circled the tomb. “But how do we get in?”

Nick tried the door, found it sealed shut. Standing on his toes, he peeked through the stained glass window at the top of the door and made out the vague outline of one coffin, though there was space for two. Made sense. Silas’s body burned up in the fire.

Running out of time.

“I don’t—” He turned to see Mischa on his knees, digging though the bag, coming up with a regular supernatural arsenal. Economy sized can of salt, lighter fluid, small ax, hammer, a glass bottle of water….

Ah. Perfect.

Inspired, Nick grabbed the bottle and started to dump it.

“Wait!” Mischa said. “Shit, dude, you know how hard it is to get holy water?”

“Holy water?”

Mischa snatched the bottle back and tucked it safely inside his bag. “You never know.”

“You’ve done this before.”

He snorted. “A couple times. Run into lotsa shit as a P.I.”

“Got another glass bottle in that bag of tricks?” Nick asked.

He shifted things around, came up with an empty forty. “Don’t know, uh, how that got in there. This work for what you have in mind?”

Oh yeah. Perfect size, easily breakable. Nick jerked his chin toward the crypt. “Think tossin’ in some salt and a Molotov cocktail will do the trick?”

Mischa eyed the stained glass window. “Might. But it’ll take longer than salt-barbecuing just the bones.”

Running out of time.

“Unless you got a better plan,” Nick said, “it’s our only option. Hand me that hammer and put a Molotov together.”

Mischa slapped the hammer handle-first into his hand and he climbed the two shallow steps to the crypt’s door. Shielding his face with one arm, he smashed the business end into the stained glass window. It barely chipped. Reinforced. Damn.

And they were running out of time.

***

“Lovie, don’t do it. Don’t jump off there again.”

Pru felt her body turn. The words came from Alex’s bloodstained lips, but he wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing. It was Alex’s voice, but…not his Boston accent. Not him.

“Silas?” Lovie whispered.

Maybe with Lovie distracted….

Spurred by a fleeting hope, Pru locked onto the spirit’s confusion and held, fighting for control of her own body. Lovie squelched her efforts with one mighty act of will, like a wet blanket tossed on a sputtering flame. She again fell helplessly silent, locked inside her own mind. Aware but not in control. Oh God.

“Don’t condemn yourself to living this horror again and again,” Alex’s unaccented voice said. “I betrayed you. I hurt you and I’m sorry.”

“Silas, is that really you?” Lovie climbed down from the railing and knelt beside the man that looked like Silas True. But it wasn’t…couldn’t be…

“This has to stop.” His words were soft, urgent, compelling. Velvet chocolate. His bedroom voice. “I loved you so much, but I made a mistake. Please don’t jump off there again.”

“You think I jumped? That bitch Olivia Mae shoved me! She killed me.”

“I’m sorry, baby. I made a mistake, but it’s over. It’s been over for a long time. You need to forgive her. Forgive me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t—I don’t know how.”

“Take my hand. I’ll show you.”

Alex’s hand didn’t move, but Lovie compelled Pru to reach out. Cold, deep and elemental, flooded into Pru’s veins as her warm skin touched his cold hand. A force slammed into Pru with so much power she was dizzy with it, then it ripped away, leaving her breathless, weak, and completely in control of her body again.

You tricked me!

The wail sounded like ocean wind. Pru gazed up from where she’d caught herself on her hands and knees. Silas True stood on the railing, his coat whipping about his legs, his hat blown away in the wind. He really did look like Alex, so much that her heart clenched.

Maybe Silas and Alex were one in the same? But that meant if Silas’s spirit was free….

Pru scrambled to his side and felt for a pulse. “No! No, no, no.” Frantic, she fisted her hands and began CPR.

Silas grimaced as the first compression broke a rib in Alex’s chest. Wait. Not yet.

“No! I won’t lose him—you. I can’t.”

Wait. His eyes turned hard and cold as he stared down at his wife squirming in his arms. This has to stop now.

You bastard! You tricked me! Lovie screamed, slamming her hands against his chest. He caught her fists and pinned her body with one thick arm around her waist.

Tough, babe. You’ve killed too many members of my family as it is. I’m sure as hell not letting you kill my great-granddaughter too.

You can’t stop me!

No, but I can stall you.

A flame hissed to life inside Lovie’s vaporous body. Wha—what’s happening? She clawed at it, but he held her tighter, pinning her arms to her sides. Stop it, Silas! What are you doing?

Ending this.

He flashed Pru a disarming smile—Alex’s slightly crooked, disarming smile—then winked, leaned backward, and pitched himself and Lovie off the railing. Lovie’s horrified shriek continued for several gut-wrenching seconds, then faded into the howl of autumn storm winds.

Pru lurched to her feet and peered over. Violent waves white-capped against serrated rocks below. A twist of smoke lingered in the air for a heartbeat before the wind whipped it away.

No, no, no. Where was Silas? She needed him to stay. Without him, Alex—

Gasped for breath.

Pru whirled and her knees gave out as his eyelids fluttered. He stared at her for a long second, his pupils working to focus. That crooked half-smile ticked up the corner of his mouth.

“Pru.” His voice was so soft, she had to read his lips to know he’d said her name.

“I’m here.” She crawled over and gathered up his shivering body, shielding him as best she could from the cold rain that was thickening to a wet snow. He wrapped his arms around her, curling into her like a small animal burrowing for warmth. She pressed a hand over the wound in his side. Blood, the precious little he still had, oozed between her fingers.

God, was he pale. His eyelids and bloodless lips had a blue tint. Tears blurred her vision as bile rose in a horrible, all-too-familiar way, but she blinked and swallowed hard. This wasn’t a repeat of Portland and she wasn’t going to let anyone else die of a gunshot wound in front of her.

Especially not Alex.

She pressed her hand harder to his side, eliciting a half-conscious moan of pain. “Alex, you stay awake, okay?”

“Ghosts…” he whispered.

“Shh. She’s gone. Lovie’s gone.”

His head lolled, his eyes fluttering as he drifted away. Distantly, a siren started its lonely wail. Nearby, Triton barked and feet pounded up the iron steps within the tower. Two men. She could feel the vibration of each footfall.

“Alex! Pru!” Nick’s voice.

“Here,” she shouted and gave Alex’s face a light smack. “Hey, stay with me. Help’s coming.”

He struggled back to consciousness and raised a shaking, bloody hand to her cheek. She clasped it there, held onto him tight. Warned herself not to cry, but tears slipped out anyway.

“Y-you were right.” Through chattering teeth, he smiled again—Silas’s smile. “Ghosts…do exist.”

CHAPTER 34

A luxurious château tucked deep in the snow-frosted mountains of middle-of-nowhere Montana wasn’t what Pru had in mind for a “safe house”. She always figured such establishments were clapboard houses that barely passed as a lean-to on their best day, located in shabby neighborhoods where nobody knew or cared what their neighbors were up to. Never in her wildest dreams in which she went into some sort of witness protection program had she pictured a gorgeous five-story house at the end of a secluded cul-de-sac.

“Alex is here?” she asked as Nick’s truck came to a halt in the paved driveway in front of an underground garage. The stonework making up the face of the garage was breath taking alone, and Pru couldn’t even find words to describe the rest of the house. Ribs of dark, textured wood supported pale, stone walls and decoratively cased each tall, crystal-clear window. Bronze-finished sconces partially hidden under the eaves of the roof gave the mansion a soft yellow blush that beckoned like a seductive finger.

Nick nodded. “Sully, paranoid bastard that he is, built this house as neutral ground. There’s a suite for each of us—and a fully functional medical center in the basement. Nobody but the guys of D.I.E. Squadron know of the house’s existence. It’s the best place for Alex now that he’s stabilized.”

From the backseat, Triton bumped his head into her shoulder. She patted his nose and reassured herself that Nick was right. He’d explained all about the group of fanatics hunting down people like Alex and his friends, which shone a disturbing light on Jones’s crazed ramblings. She understood the need for caution—especially after the news that Theo had disappeared without a trace the day after Sully, Nick, Kai and several of their other friends sneaked Alex out of the hospital’s ICU in Portland. Sully suspected the Sierra Group hoped to get info on Alex’s whereabouts from Theo. They were going to be sorely disappointed when they discovered he didn’t know anything, and that boded badly for Theo’s health.

Better to keep Alex safe and hidden while he recovered. Still, having him out of a hospital, miles away from lifesaving equipment and medical professionals, gave her a serious case of the jitters.

Nick hit a button on the control clipped to his overhead visor and the garage door slid up without a sound, revealing a room big enough for twenty vehicles. There were only three inside: a low-slung sports car, a Hummer, and a subdued but expensive sedan. Nick guided his beat-up Silverado next to the sedan and jabbed the button again. The garage door slid shut behind them.

After parking, he turned to her. “You understand that you won’t have contact with your friends and family from now until this is over.”

Pru thought of Grandma Mae’s dismayed expression when she said she was going away for a while. It had cut straight to her soul. She had no intention of leaving her grandmother, and planned to go head-to-head about it with Sullivan Nathanson as soon as the opportunity presented itself. But now was not the time to argue. She’d had a hard enough time talking him into letting her see Alex. She needed to see Alex.

“I understand,” she said.

“All right. Let’s get you inside.” Nick got out of the truck and hurried around the hood to open her door before she could do it herself.

With a running commentary of the building’s security attributes, he led her to an elevator on the far wall of the garage, up one floor into a white and blue tiled hallway that looked like a hospital corridor. A handful of doors stretched the length of the hall. As they passed, she peeked inside each room. X-ray machine, cat scan, and other state-of-the-art equipment, plus exam rooms and what looked to be a stainless steel surgical suite.

“Wow. You weren’t kidding about the fully functional medical center.”

Nick grinned. “What can I say? We’re an accident prone group obsessed with secrecy.”

Her nerves settled a bit. She’d known Alex’s friends wouldn’t put him in harm’s way by taking him out of the hospital if they weren’t capable of caring for him themselves. Even so, until now, she hadn’t fully believed they were capable.

At the end of the hall, the corridor T-ed. Nick took her left, and she spotted two men deep in conversation. Kai and Malcolm—“D.I.E. Squadron’s medicine men,” Nick had called them since Mal had a medical degree and Kai was apparently a psychic healer. Kai was frowning, which he didn’t do often, Mal was shaking his head, and for a moment she forgot how to breathe.

“Is Alex okay?”

Kai looked her way and his frown morphed back into his usual grin. “Hiya, Pru. He’s fine. Actually, he’s awake and asking for you.”

Her knees wobbled, but she didn’t realize it until Nick’s hand reached out to steady her. “He’s awake?”

“For a couple days now,” Mal said.

“Awake, hungry, and grumpy as a wet cat.” Kai motioned to the closed door he and Mal stood in front of. “Go in and see for yourself. Maybe you can improve his mood.”

That got her legs working again. She shot forward and turned the knob, but Mal caught her arm before she entered.

“Just…don’t mention anything about Theo. We haven’t told him yet. Why torture him with it when he can’t do anything about it right now? It’ll drive him crazy with worry and he doesn’t need that.”

She swallowed and nodded, then pushed open the door. The room looked like it belonged in an upscale hotel. Warm, cream colored walls. Subdued, recessed lighting. A huge flat-screen, mounted on the wall, flipped through channels at lightning speed. Alex lay in the queen-sized bed with the remote, a scowl lining his pale face.

He was awake. After a long three weeks, he was awake.

Her knees threatened to pull their gelatin routine again. She braced herself on the door frame and just stared, drinking him in with her eyes. He looked a billion times better than the last time she’d seen him in the ICU a week and a half ago.

After his brush with death on the lighthouse’s catwalk, he’d flatlined a second time on the way to the hospital. The paramedics restarted his heart with a portable defibrillator, but a respirator had breathed for him ever since and his doctors hadn’t been hopeful.

Now the tube was gone. He’d lost weight and muscle mass, and the angles of his face looked sharper, the flesh hollowed out underneath his bloodshot eyes. A cast encased his left leg and someone—probably Kai, being the goofball that he was—had drawn hearts, flowers, and cartoon stick figures on the white plaster.

Pru suddenly wanted to hear his voice more than anything else in the world. “Alex?”

The channels stopped changing. He looked over at her and his scowl faded. Emotions battled over his features for a moment before he got them under control and gave a little smile. “Hi, baby.”

His accent, the velvet tone raw with feeling as he uttered those two beautiful words—that was all it took. She flew to his bed and snuggled in beside him, hugging him as tightly as she dared, afraid of hurting him.

Oh God, he’d lost so much weight he felt like nothing in her arms. Her tears soaked the blue hospital gown draping his thin body. The smell of sterilizers and antibiotics masked his natural spice and underlined how close he’d been to death. “I thought I lost you.”

“No way.” He squeezed her tight and, burying his face in her hair, let out a shuddering breath. “I love you. I want to be with you and nothing’s gonna keep me away.” His lips dropped hard to hers as if he wanted to devour her taste.

“Why?” she sobbed against the seam of his mouth. “I shot you. Almost killed you!”

“Oh, baby, that wasn’t you. It was Lovie.”

She blinked in surprise. “You believe that?”

“I know it.” His grin was cocky and deliberate and slightly crooked—Silas True’s grin. “Marry me, Pru.”

Oh, how she wanted to say yes. It was on the tip of her tongue, begging her to open her mouth and let it out. But…something stopped her. Something she had to know first.

“I’m not Olivia,” she blurted, then dragged her lower lip through her teeth. “I know I look like her, but—I’m not. You need to realize that.”

Framing her face with his hands, he thumbed away her tears. “And I’m not Silas. I may have been—” He paused. “Ah, hell. We both know I was him at one time. But not now, in this life. I’m Alexander William Brennan now and I want you, Pru, to be Mrs. Brennan.”

She savored the words, the sound of his real name. Alexander William Brennan. Nothing he said would ever sound more beautiful. She nodded. “And I want to be Mrs. Brennan.”

Outside in the hallway, Kai let out a whoop. “Hah. Told you they were gonna get hitched. Mal, you owe me twenty!” He stuck his head in the room, gave them a grin and two thumbs up, then disappeared down the hall, calling, “Hey, guys, break into the liqueur cabinet. We got a bachelor party to plan!”

Pru laughed. “Someone needs to teach your friends eavesdropping is impolite.”

“Oh, babe,” he sighed and squeezed her hand. “You have much to learn about my friends. Teaching Kai manners is telling a zebra to change its stripes. But, as annoying as he is, he’s family. They all are and marrying me is a package deal. I’ll give you one chance to back out.”

“And I won’t take it.” She leaned in to kiss him, but he placed a palm over her mouth, creating a barrier between their lips. She pulled back and frowned. “What?”

“I do have two conditions, though.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re not really in the position to be adding conditions, pal. I could just walk out that door and—”

“You won’t.”

The arrogant jerk. She was half-tempted to walk out, but took one long look into his storm cloud eyes. Still the same shape and the same color, although a little bloodshot, there was something different about them now. Then it dawned on her: there was no darkness left in them, none of that old remoteness. All she saw there as he gazed up at her was love, and knew she’d never be able to walk away from him. Not even to prove him wrong.

She held up two fingers. “Two conditions. That’s it.”

“Okay. Number one,” he said and ticked her nose with the tip of his finger. “We move far, far away from that lighthouse.”

She nodded. “I’ve already put it up for sale. Like you said, sometimes it’s best to let sleeping ghosts lie.”

Alex let out his breath in an explosion. “Thank God. That places gives me the creeps.”

Pru smiled and pressed her lips to his. She meant it only as a quick kiss but it turned into something more as he angled his head, slid a hand into her hair, and rubbed his tongue along her bottom lip. Long, slow, and drugging, the kiss had her nerve endings singing when she pulled away. She felt his erection prod her hip through the thin fabric of his hospital gown, looking for attention, and reached between them to give him a light stroke. He was still too injured for sex, but as soon as he healed up a bit more, she planned to lock him in her room and let her wildcat libido have her way with him—this time, with no ghostly audience to break mirrors or inflict scratches.

“You said two conditions,” she prompted. She watched him blink and try to wrangle his thoughts back to the conversation even as she continued to stroke him.

“Right.” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. “Number two’s the most important.”

“All ears.”

Alex removed her hand from his erection and gripped it in both of his. Stared into her eyes like a man begging forgiveness. “Please, please, please make me something to eat before Kai’s cooking gives me food poisoning.”

Pru laughed. “How about some pie? We’re in Montana, but I bet I still make the best in the county.”

“Hey, I’m not gonna say no. It’s an addiction.” Grinning, he lifted his mouth to hers again. “And so are you.”

EPILOGUE

Cold water splashed over Theo’s head, jolting him awake. The muscles in his arms burned from inactivity and his mouth tasted like day-old vomit. For a long, frightening moment, coherent thought struggled to penetrate the fog in his mind.

Shards of sound pounded into his skull like glass nails. Water dripping off his nose onto the floor by his bare feet. A persistent hum, like a bee in his ear. A train’s keening wail, muffled by distance. Squeaky faucet and the spurt of water into a metal basin. Footsteps walking away then moving closer again….

He heard fragments of incoherent conversation from the low thrum of a male voice to the higher, wispy sounds of the Guides babbling inside his head.

Slivers of images flitted in front of his half-cracked eyelids. A concrete block wall. A bare bulb. Strips of green paint peeled up from a concrete floor.

Definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Impossible. Our Lady was as inescapable as Hell. He had to be in the rubber room, still zonked out on his meds.

Great. That meant he had visual hallucinations to go with the auditory. He’d finally, really, cracked up. Gone over the bend. Lost his mind. The thought sent a hot jolt of panic through his body, jump-starting his sluggish brain.

No, he wasn’t insane. At least no more than he had been before. But he was in a shitload of trouble.

Theo’s body shuddered so hard his teeth clinked together. It wasn’t from the icy water dripping down his nose. A fever, hot as sin, raged under his skin. With a groan, he rolled his head up to lean against the hard-backed chair where he was—tied? No, handcuffed. Steel bracelets cut into his wrists behind his back.

Water, hot this time, splashed his face again. He gagged and gasped, his voice too raw to form a scream. He jerked in the chair and pain lanced through his shoulders, pins and needles pricking his fingers. He’d been in this position for a while. Hours, days, or weeks, he didn’t know.

How much time had this latest blackout cost him?

Theo struggled to come up with the answer. The last thing he remembered was Alex’s visit. He’d warned his brother away from the lighthouse, but the stubborn bastard refused to listen. Was Alex dead?

Theo’s eyes burned with tears as he managed to crack his heavy lids open a little more. The room was concrete with a line of bare light bulbs running the length of the wood beams on the ceiling. A noisy generator, tucked into the corner of the room, supplied power to those bulbs and accounted for that annoying busy-bee hum.

A basement. No hallucinations, thank God. He was in a cellar and it wasn’t the hospital’s. He’d been to the hospital’s basement enough times looking for a way out—a drab, clinical place that constantly stank of the food prepared in the kitchen down there. This basement was more like the one in the trashy apartment building where he’d grown up with Alex and their drug-addled mother. The raw stench of must, mildew, vomit, rot and blood made his nose itch and brought back too many memories he’d rather forget.

The room spun and his stomach heaved. Theo groaned and clamped his eyes shut, willed the tilt-a-whirl feeling to stop.

“That’s the thing about psychotropic drugs, ya know?” a male voice said in amusement. “Going cold turkey really fucks with the body.”

Gulping in a lungful of air, Theo searched for the source of the voice and found a man leaning against the nearest support post. At least it wasn’t in his head this time. “Who are you?”

“Not your concern.” He pushed away from the post and walked forward into the light. His eyes were such a pale, unnatural blue they sent a chill of dread down Theo’s spine.

Wolf eyes.

Oh, fuck.

“Where is your brother?” Wolf Eyes asked casually, as if he was inquiring about the weather.

Don’t answer!

Yeah, thanks. He didn’t need the Guides to figure that one out. He leaned back again and struggled to control the bone-rattling shivers. “Not your concern.”

“Funny. Didn’t expect you to be a funny man.” Wolf Eyes backhanded him, the large ring on his index finger gouging a line across Theo’s cheekbone. “Then again, you’re not really a man, are you? You’re a freak, just like your brother and his friends. A disgusting freak of nature that needs to be exterminated.”

The room tilt-a-whirled again. He just barely managed to swallow back a surge of vomit. “And, lemme guess, you’re the exterminator?”

Wolf Eyes backed up a step, lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “We all have a calling.”

“Hah. You’re crazier than they say I am.”

“Oh, you’re not crazy.”

Theo snorted and tasted the copper twang of blood as it drizzled down the back of his throat from his nose. His own brother didn’t believe he was sane, and this guy, of all people, did. Go figure. “Mind telling Dr. Romano that?”

“Mm, he knows. How do you think you got here?”

“I’m a little fuzzy on those details.” He coughed, choking on the blood. “Care filling me in?”

Wolf Eyes walked over to a table just beyond Theo’s line of sight. “You made a mistake bringing up the doc’s dearly departed wife. He knew then what you were. An Unnatural.”

Theo struggled to see what the maniac was doing over there by the table, but the pain in his immobile arms and shoulders and the spinning in his head made it impossible to turn.

“Romano—” He had to keep the conversation going, had to keep Wolf Eyes talking and distracted, give himself time to think. But, goddammit, thinking through the pain and fog was hard. “Romano killed his wife. The Guides said he made it look like she overdosed on pills because she knew his secrets and wanted a divorce.”

“That he did.” Wolf Eyes didn’t seem all that concerned about it. “And only three people knew about how she died. Me, because I told him how to handle the situation. Him, because he did it. And her. Obviously, she’s not talking—to a Normal.” He sliced a glance toward Theo, cold as an arctic front. “Which is how Romano knew you were one of them. He keeps an eye out for freaks like you and sends them my way for disposal when he can’t do it himself.”

A switch clicked. A saw buzzed. Metal screeched, the sound piercing Theo’s skull like a fire-hot poker. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, biting back the cry of pain he knew the bastard wanted to hear. Wolf Eyes laughed. The sound stopped and he reappeared, blowing the fine shavings off a freshly sharpened knife.

You have to get out! the Guides wailed.

“Thanks for the news flash,” Theo said.

The humor faded from Wolf Eyes’ expression. In one quick move, he surged forward and dug the tip of the blade under Theo’s chin. “Who are you talking to?”

If his mouth wasn’t so dry, he’d spit in the guy’s face. He bared his teeth instead. “The voices in my head. I’m loony tunes, ya know?”

“You’re evil.”

He managed a thin laugh. “That’s why you’re going to kill me? ’Cause I’m evil.”

“You’re not fucking human.” Wolf Eyes sucked in a breath through his nose and let it out, visibly reining in his temper before backing away. He dragged the knife downward and drew a circle on Theo’s bare chest over his pounding heart. “I’m going to cut out your black heart and burn it. It’s the only way to kill things like you and make sure you stay dead.” He leaned on the knife, just enough to draw a drop of blood that slid down Theo’s stomach like a hot tear.

“But that has to wait until I get your brother’s location out of you. He’s the one I really want. I’ve been looking for him for a long, long time. I had him, too, in that little town in Maine where he shacked up with the pretty lighthouse keeper. He killed my worthless idiot of an operator—but at least I knew his location. Then he went and got himself shot.”

Theo choked on a surge of panic.

Wolf Eyes smiled and drew another circle around Theo’s heart with the knife point. “That paranoid jackass Sullivan Nathanson moved him to a safe house and now I can’t find him. So you are going to lead me right to him.”

If Alex’s friends took him somewhere to recover, that meant he was still alive.

And Theo damn well meant to keep his little brother that way. He leaned forward, felt the sting of the blade cutting into his skin between two ribs, but kept pushing. He met Wolf Eyes’ gaze with a challenge in his own. “You plan to kill me, you might as well do it now, you sick fuck. Because I’m not telling you shit.”

“Ah, that’s admirable.” Wolf Eyes grinned. “But very, very stupid.”

<<<<>>>>

To: my readers.

Without your cheers of support, I never would have been brave enough to make this leap.

This one’s all for you, guys.

*hugs*

Other Books by Tonya Burrows

Broken Honor

Honor Reclaimed

SEAL of Honor

Wilde Nights in Paradise

Wilde for Her

About the Author

Tonya Burrows wrote her first romance in 8th grade and hasn't put down her pen since. Originally from a small town in Western New York, she's currently soaking up the sun as a Florida girl. She suffers from a bad case of wanderlust and usually ends up moving someplace new every few years. Luckily, her two dogs and ginormous cat are excellent travel buddies.

When she's not writing about hunky military heroes, Tonya can usually be found at a bookstore or the dog park. She also enjoys painting, watching movies, and her daily barre workouts. A geek at heart, she pledges her TV fandom to Supernatural and Dr. Who.

If you would like to know more about Tonya, visit her website at www.tonyaburrows.com. She's also on Twitter @tonyaburrows and Facebook www.facebook.com/tonyaburrowsauthor.

Copyright © 2014 by Tonya Burrows

Edited by JRT Editing

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Table of Contents

- Vision of Darkness
- PROLOGUE
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- CHAPTER 22
- CHAPTER 23
- CHAPTER 24
- CHAPTER 25
- CHAPTER 26
- CHAPTER 27
- CHAPTER 28
- CHAPTER 29
- CHAPTER 30
- CHAPTER 31
- CHAPTER 32
- CHAPTER 33
- CHAPTER 34
- EPILOGUE