Retribution

She smiled. “And here I was thinking how different we are.”

“In what way?”

“You’re at home any place in the world. I’m only happy when I’m here in Devil’s Cove. You willingly put yourself in harm’s way for the sake of your job. I’m the biggest coward in the world. I can’t imagine having the courage to face down danger over and over again.”

“But what about the perils of everyday life? There are different degrees of danger. You never know how much courage you have until you’re called upon to face a challenge.”

He took her empty mug from her hand and gathered her into his arms. “Enough talk about how alike or different we are. There’s one thing we can absolutely agree on.”

Whatever she’d been about to say was gone from her mind in an instant as, with one kiss, one touch, she lost herself in the pleasure he offered….

Dear Reader,

The weather’s hot, and so are all six of this month’s Silhouette Intimate Moments books. We have a real focus on miniseries this time around, starting with the last in Ruth Langan’s DEVIL’S COVE quartet, Retribution. Mix a hero looking to heal his battered soul, a heroine who gives him a reason to smile again and a whole lot of danger, and you’ve got a recipe for irresistible reading.

Linda Turner’s back—after way too long—with the first of her new miniseries, TURNING POINTS. A beautiful photographer who caught the wrong person in her lens has no choice but to ask the cops—make that one particular cop—for help, and now both her life and her heart are in danger of being lost. FAMILY SECRETS: THE NEXT GENERATION continues with Marie Ferrarella’s Immovable Objects, featuring a heroine who walks the line between legal, illegal—and love. Dangerous Deception from Kylie Brant continues THE TREMAINE TRADITION of mixing suspense and romance—not to mention sensuality—in doses no reader will want to resist. And don’t miss our standalone titles, either. Cindy Dees introduces you to A Gentleman and A Soldier in a military reunion romance that will have your heart pounding and your fingers turning the pages as fast as they can. Finally, welcome Mary Buckham, whose debut novel, The Makeover Mission, takes a plain Jane and turns her into a princess—literally. Problem is, this princess is in danger, and now so is Jane.

Enjoy them all—and come back next month for the best in romantic excitement, only from Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor

Ruth Langan

Retribution

RUTH LANGAN

is an award-winning and bestselling author of contemporary and historical romance. Her books have been finalists for the Romance Writers of America’s (RWA) RITA® Award. Over the years, she has given dozens of print, radio and TV interviews, including Good Morning America and CNN News, and has been quoted in such diverse publications as the Wall Street Journal, Cosmopolitan and the Detroit Free Press. Married to her childhood sweetheart, she has raised five children and lives in Michigan, the state where she was born and raised. Ruth enjoys hearing from her readers. Letters can be sent via e-mail to ryanlangan@aol.com or via her Web site at www.ryanlangan.com.

To Tom, with love

Contents

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Tuscany—1998

Sidney Brennan worked quickly to catch the last rays of the fading sunlight that fanned over the pale, sun-washed landscape. The distant villa, with its stucco walls and tiled roof, was framed with those long rows of grapevines that grew in such profusion. She mixed the paints on her palette until she had the perfect shade of light that tinted the hills surrounding the village in hues of terra-cotta and burnt umber.

At last she set down her paints and took a moment to assess her work. Though she’d captured the feeling of the place where she was staying, the painting didn’t move her. Instead, it left her feeling empty.

Like her life. Like her heart. Like her future.

The best that could be said about it was that it was merely adequate. There was no passion. No fire. Anyone looking at it would recognize this place. But would they feel the burning desire to live here? Did the painting call to them?

What was calling to her was food. She touched a hand to her middle and realized she’d forgotten to eat. Again. Picking up the canvas and paints, the easel and stool, she lugged them across the field and stowed them just inside the door of the villa before going to the kitchen in search of food. Half an hour later she sat on a little balcony and nibbled cheese and bread, washing it down with wine while she watched the sun set over those glorious, purple-hued hills.

This lovely old villa in Tuscany was to have been her haven while her heart healed and she immersed herself in the great passion of her life. She’d come to this place to follow a dream. Instead, it had become her prison. The solitude she had always enjoyed was now filled with utter loneliness. She was bedeviled with memories. Memories that had begun to affect her work. Though she was perfectly capable of capturing the light, the scenery, the feelings of this place, there was no denying that the work she was turning out was mediocre at best.

Sipping her wine she closed her eyes to the beauty around her and drifted back to the month before graduating college.

Silver mylar balloons floated above the hospital bed, anchored by an ice bucket painted with a happy face. Champagne and tulip glasses were cooling on ice. The groom-to-be, too weak to stand, lay surrounded by pillows. He wore a tuxedo jacket over his hospital gown, with a white rosebud pinned to his lapel. His mother and father stood beside the bed, exchanging anxious, worried looks.

The entire Brennan family was there. Judge Frank Brennan, who would perform the ceremony, stood beside his wife Alberta, whom everybody called Bert. Their daughter-in-law Charlotte, nicknamed Charley, stood with her daughters Emily, Hannah and Courtney, dressed in pale pink confections that made them look like prom queens. “The Wedding March” drifted over the intercom, and patients and their families stood in the doorways of their rooms to watch as the young bride, dressed in a traditional white-lace gown, walked slowly along the hallway on the arm of her father, Dr. Christopher Brennan. As they progressed to the groom’s bed, those on the cardiac floor who were mobile followed, until the room and the hallway outside were filled to over-flowing with curious onlookers.

The bride settled herself on the edge of the bed beside her husband-to-be, and handed her bouquet to her sister, Emily. When the music ended, the young couple joined hands.

The judge cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved.” He swallowed the lump that threatened, and forced himself to continue in a strong clear voice. “We are gathered together for the most joyous of occasions. The union of this man to this woman in holy matrimony.” He closed his book and glanced around. “Sidney and Curt have written their own ceremony, and ask only that we share this moment and offer our blessings.”

He nodded at the young couple, who were staring into each other’s eyes with matching looks of love and wonderment.

The groom-to-be spoke first in halting tones, pausing often for a wheezing breath. Beside him, a machine gave off blips that matched his erratic heartbeats.

“Sidney, the first time I saw you, with that red hair flowing down your back and those eyes as green as shamrocks, I was determined to get to know you. I figured I didn’t stand a chance, since you were the most popular student on campus. But after one meeting, I knew that I wanted more than friendship. I sensed that you were fated to be my wife.”

Sidney smiled. “I can top that. I fell in love with you before I even saw you. I remember seeing a bronze sculpture of three little ducklings. One had just fallen off a curb, and the other two were poised, as though to follow. I was so enchanted by the work, I stood there for an hour or more, marveling at the fact that I could almost feel their downy feathers and hear their little quacks of distress. And then a week later I met the artist, and I knew I’d met my soul mate.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. “This isn’t exactly the way I’d planned our wedding. And certainly not what I’d hoped for our future. But I’m grateful for the time we’ve had.” He closed his eyes, as though even that small effort cost too much. “You’ve given my life meaning, Sidney. Just knowing you, loving you and knowing you love me, is enough for a lifetime.”

His hand released its grip on hers and fell limply at his side. Sidney leaned over to brush a kiss on his lips and felt the lack of response. At the same instant a machine beside the bed began emitting one long continuous beep. It was, to Sidney’s ears, the most chilling sound she’d ever heard.

Dr. Christopher Brennan shoved his way toward the bed, touching a hand to his patient’s chest. When he looked up, his eyes met his wife’s.

She put her arms around their daughter, gathering her close as Christopher gave a shake of his head. “I’m sorry. We thought there might be enough time. But it’s…too late.”

Curt’s mother was weeping while his father stood beside her, looking lost and helpless.

A nurse began hustling the others from the room.

Before the family could make their exit, Sidney caught her grandfather’s arm. “Wait, Poppie. Say the words. I need…I need to hear the words that would have made us husband and wife.”

The old man arched an eyebrow and glanced at his wife. At her little nod he cleared his throat. The book in his hand was forgotten. Now he would simply improvise, and hope he could find something to say that might ease the pain of the moment for all of them, but especially for this sweet, beloved granddaughter who had always seemed more delicate, more fragile than her sisters. The depth of her pain and grief tore at his heart.

“We have all witnessed the two of you pledge your love to one another. It matters not whether you had the opportunity to be joined as husband and wife, but rather that your intentions were true. It matters not that one heart stopped, for the other heart is strong enough for two. And so I declare, by the power vested in me, that the pledge made this day will be remembered by all assembled here, as it will be recorded, I’m sure, in both your hearts for all time.”

Sidney opened her eyes. The Tuscany landscape was now steeped in shadow. The air had grown cooler, forcing her to draw a shawl around her shoulders.

She’d come here because it had been Curt’s dream. It was all he’d talked about. Her graduation, their marriage and the year they would spend in this lush, lovely place, living in an ancient villa that belonged to a friend of the family, while studying the masters.

Poppie was fond of saying that plans were what people made while real life was happening around them.

The realization came slowly, like the light fading behind the craggy mountain peaks in the distance. She couldn’t go on living Curt’s dreams. She had to live her own. In the real world.

She needed to go home to her family. Back to Devil’s Cove. To paint the things she’d always loved. Nature. Wildlife. Especially waterfowl. Wasn’t that what had first attracted her to Curt? The fact that they shared a love of art, a love of waterfowl, and their delightful antics had been a special bond between them.

For the first time in a year she felt a stirring of hope. Of life. Curt was gone, and the pain of that loss would never leave her. But the dream lived on. Only now, it must be her dream. Her choice. Her future.

She must face it alone.

Chapter 1

Devil’s Cove—Present Day

“I know, Picasso. You’re always in a hurry.” Sidney looked over at the scrawny mutt with gray, wiry hair that made him look like a cross between a steel-wool scrubbing pad and a wire brush. She’d found him cowering in the woods the previous winter, and was delighted when her ad in the local newspaper had produced no one interested in claiming him, for the truth was that this poor, bedraggled little dog had stolen her heart. “Why can’t you be serene like Toulouse?”

The object of her praise, a black-and-white tabby that had wandered in several months ago and had made himself at home, was busy weaving figure eights between the dog’s legs. Odd, Sidney thought, that these two different animals had formed an instant bond. As though each recognized in the other a kindred spirit. The lost and lonely, seeking love and the comfort of home, someone to tend to their needs.

But while she was tending them, she realized they were filling a need in her, as well. They might be just two little animals, but they were someone to talk to in the silence of the day. Warm bodies in the darkness of the night. Boon companions to whom she could confide her most intimate secrets, without fear of ever having them revealed to others. Their companionship eased the enforced loneliness that had become a necessary part of her life.

“All right. I know it’s time to go.” With a sigh, Sidney drained the last of her coffee and set the cup in the dishwasher before picking up her easel and canvas, a wooden case that held her paints and brushes and a small folding stool. All of these were placed in an old wooden wagon.

The minute she opened the door, the dog and cat ran ahead, ready for another day of adventure.

“Oh, sure. Once we’re outside, you never wait for me.” With a laugh she closed the door to the little cabin that she now called home.

When she’d first returned to Devil’s Cove, she’d lived at the Willows, the lovely old mansion over-looking Lake Michigan that had been her family’s home for more than fifty years. That was where her grandparents lived, and where her mother had first come as a bride, with her father. It was where they had raised their four daughters, and where each of Sidney’s sisters had lived until finding a home of their own.

For the first few months Sidney had welcomed the tender ministrations of her family. The serene walks along the shore with Bert. The long, late-night talks with Poppie in his study. And the determination of Trudy, their lifelong housekeeper, to, as she had said in that wonderful old rusty-gate voice, “ply her with food and put some weight on her bones.” But before long Sidney had recognized the worried looks, the questioning glances that passed between her family members. Their constant hovering had begun to make her feel helpless and more than a little smothered. Despite the fact that she was still grieving, and feeling confused about how to get on with her life, she recognized that it would be far too easy to become dependent upon her family for the strengths she needed to find within herself.

“Not yet, dear,” Bert had said gently when Sidney first mentioned finding a place of her own. “It’s too soon. Your emotions are still too raw. Let us indulge you a while longer.”

“Besides,” Poppie had said a bit more vehemently. “Who would stay up late with me and argue the latest murder cases being aired on the news?”

“If you go,” Trudy said in that raspy voice roughened by years of smoking, “your grandfather will be forced to eat an entire batch of chocolate-chip cookies by himself. And then his cholesterol will go up, and his blood pressure, and who knows what else?”

Sidney had remained adamant. “I won’t be bribed or made to feel guilty about going. It’s time.”

Once she’d begun seriously shopping for a place to call her own, her mother, Charley, a real-estate agent, had discovered this little cabin in the woods. From the moment Sidney set foot inside, she’d known it was meant to be.

She still felt a thrill each time she returned home. She loved everything about it. The way it sat, snug and perfect amid the towering pines that surrounded it. The way the waters of Lake Michigan, shimmering just a stone’s throw away, beckoned. The cozy feeling of the cedar logs that formed the walls, and the high, natural wood beams framing skylights that allowed light to stream in even on the grayest of days. Though it was small, with just a single bedroom, a great room and galley kitchen, it was more than enough space for her. She’d turned the upper loft into her studio where she could happily lose herself in her work, when the weather wouldn’t permit her to paint outside. Despite the unreliable Michigan weather and its often turbulent storms, Sidney much preferred to paint in the open air, by the water’s edge, rather than paint her subjects from memory. There was just something about the antics of the waterfowl that were her specialty that could always be counted on to make her smile. The ducks, the geese, the herons that fished these waters were natural clowns, causing no end of amusement. Best of all, they seemed undisturbed by her presence. Because they’d become accustomed to her sitting at her easel along the shore, they went about their business without distraction.

With the dog and cat sniffing a hundred scents in the forest, Sidney pulled the loaded wagon along the trail through the woods until she emerged in bright sunlight at the water’s edge. This was one of her favorite spots. It took only minutes to set up her equipment. Then, after watching a family of ducks splashing near shore, beside a half-submerged wooden rowboat that had stood along the shore for years, she picked up her brush and began to bring them to life on her canvas.

Adam Morgan sat straight up in bed, ready to bolt, when he came fully awake and realized he’d been in the throes of the recurring nightmare. Rubbing a hand over his face, it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. The doctors had warned him that these terrifying dreams were part of the healing process. Though the wounds to his body were visible, and therefore easier to tend, the ones in his mind were no less serious. There were too many things about the incident that were still lost to his conscious memory. But they were there, locked away in his mind, and when he relaxed in sleep, they rose to the surface, taunting him with bits and pieces of the terror he’d experienced. There was still so much about the accident that he couldn’t remember. But he’d been assured by his doctors that it would all come back to him in time.

He slid out of bed and moved slowly across the room. Filling a glass with water, he gulped down two capsules, then leaned on the bathroom sink and waited for the dizziness to pass. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced. Eyes bloodshot. Cheeks and chin darkened by several days’ growth of beard. It would take too much energy to shave. Besides, why bother? Who would see him here, in the middle of nowhere?

The doctors had done all they could. Now, they warned him, what he most needed was time. His frown deepened. Time. There would be plenty of that now. He couldn’t return to work until the madman who dogged his trail was captured and put away for good. Twice Adam had managed to elude his stalker, and twice the man had proved just as adept at escaping the authorities, despite their best efforts.

It had been Phil Larken, Adam’s boss and president of WNN, World News Network, who had arranged for Adam to use this lighthouse as his own private retreat. Though the nearby town of Devil’s Cove was small, there was a modern medical clinic and an excellent physical therapist. Since Adam couldn’t return to work until he had a clean bill of health from the doctors, and since they weren’t about to let him off the hook until he’d completed at least six months of therapy for the shoulder that had been shattered in the blast, this place afforded him the perfect refuge until he could take back his life.

Odd, he thought as he returned to the bedroom. He’d been working nonstop since his college days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken time off. As a photojournalist for World News Network, he’d covered every hot spot in the world. Asia, Africa, Europe, the Middle East. How ironic that his injuries had occurred not in some troubled corner of the world, but right here in the United States, in New York City, outside the United Nations Building.

Now, here he was, feeling as though he’d been caught in a time warp. He looked around as though still doubting he was really here. The last time he’d been in Devil’s Cove, he’d been all of twelve, on a fishing trip with his uncle. He’d taken one look at the lighthouse that sat on a finger of land that jutted into Lake Michigan and fell wildly, madly in love. There was just something about the look of it. That tall spire looking out over miles and miles of nothing but dark water, its beacon the only warning the captain and crew of ships plying this lake had of the dangerous shoals and shallows that lurked beneath the waves.

And now it was his home. At least until he healed. And all because, in a moment of dark depression, he’d confided in Phil that if he had to do nothing for six months, he’d surely go crazy. When Phil asked if there was any place he might be able to endure the boredom, Adam had blurted out his boyhood fascination with the lighthouse. The next thing he knew, Phil had used his considerable influence to make it happen. Adam had been invited by the historical society to spend the off-season living in the Devil’s Cove lighthouse, in exchange for photographing the various changes of season for their almanac. Simple work. A simple lifestyle. And because it had all been arranged quickly, and in complete privacy, the authorities were hoping that this time, his stalker would be confounded. Not that Adam believed it was over and he was safe. He’d believe that only when the assassin who’d triggered the car bomb that killed the ambassador and his assistant was behind bars, and not a minute sooner.

Moving like a slug he climbed the dozens of stairs that led to the tower. Though the ships passing through the Great Lakes had long ago switched to the latest in high-tech navigational equipment, and the lighthouse was no longer necessary to the boaters’ safety, the computer-operated light still went on every day at dusk and stayed on until morning. There was something comforting in that. The sameness of it gave him a sense that, in a world gone crazy, some things never changed.

When he reached the top he looked down at the serene waters, reflecting the forest that ringed its banks, alive with fiery autumn foliage. Smoke drifted from an ore carrier moving slowly upriver. In the distance was a ship bearing a foreign flag. Several sailboats danced across the waves, and Adam wondered at the hardy souls willing to risk the wrath of frigid water and fickle winds. Still, if he had the strength, he knew he’d be out there with them. Hadn’t he always enjoyed a challenge? It was one of the reasons he thrived on the dangers of his job.

He walked over to the telescope he’d set up, so that he could keep a close eye on his surroundings. He peered through the lens, thinking there couldn’t be a more beautiful place in the world than Michigan in fall. Especially here on the shore of Lake Michigan. As long as he had to spend his sick leave somewhere private, there wasn’t anywhere he could think of that would suit him more, so long as he could see an end to the idyll. He knew himself well enough to be certain that even paradise would seem like a prison to him if it stretched on endlessly. He was determined to get out of here as soon as the doctor’s projected goal of six months of therapy was over. He shook his head, trying to recall the last time he’d spent six months in one place.