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MILLS & BOON
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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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Prologue
Haven, West Virginia
Lightning cracked, flaring into the dark vehicle, the heavy June night outside suddenly pressing down on the prison transport van, reaching inside, tightening the air. Still dressed in the suit he’d worn to the sentencing, Dane McGuire forgot that his wrists were bound by handcuffs linked to a metal restraining belt at his waist and tried to reach up, touch his face, feel the strange humming pressure filling his head.
In the matter of the State vs. Dane McGuire in the murder of Calla Jones, the jury finds the defendant, Dane McGuire, guilty.
The prison transport van took a sharp mountain turn in the night, bouncing Dane—the sole occupant in the back—against the side of the vehicle. The chain connecting the shackles at his ankles rattled in the dark of the rear holding cage.
Guilty, guilty, guilty.
If only he hadn’t gone to Calla Jones’s farm. If only he’d arrived a few hours earlier, or later, or—
Lightning shot down again, and the humming turned into a stinging in his skin, all over. The van jerked from side to side and he hit the hard wall of the vehicle as he was thrown, first to one side, then the other. For a split second, he thought he was okay, he was in one piece, maybe just a pothole, then the back end of the van came up, tossing him like a ball, and the vehicle plowed end over end. Time suspended in some awful slow motion, turning, just turning, his body flying out of the seat belt. The last thing he knew was impact and his head striking something hard.
He opened his eyes to darkness, blinking in agonized waves of nausea. Cold. He was so cold. Freezing cold. He battled to move by instinct, to lift himself up, every motion dazed, painful.
The mountain road stretched out before him, empty but for a shimmering wave of some thick vapor that disappeared before his eyes, rushing away in an eerie whoosh that left nothing but silence. Dane’s heartbeat filled the void, heavy, stumbling.
The van, the guards—
There was nothing but eerie stillness. Stillness and…something soft and frozen falling on his face. He looked down, confused, seeing the snowy ditch where he’d fallen, seeing the shackles on his wrists and ankles…gone.
He felt himself fall back, hit the ditch again, and he wondered if he was already dead.
Chapter 1
She’d never touched a dead body before and she didn’t want to start now.
Chuck was practically beside himself, the yellow Lab dancing back and forth, barking madly. Do something, he was telling her. Look what I found for you. She jerked into action, half ran, half slid into the ditch, instinct overcoming shock. Ice blew sideways, stinging her cheeks.
She dropped to her knees where the stranger lay, still, utterly still. He wore dark slacks and a white button-down shirt and tie, no suit jacket or overcoat, ridiculous for this weather, and she forced herself to reach out, turn him over. Oh God. That was blood at the dark hairline of his temple. Frozen blood.
His lips were almost white in the scant light of the early storm-dark. The West Virginia mountains were in for the blizzard of all blizzards if forecasters were right, and she didn’t doubt it, not after the way temps had dropped sharply from noon on. She hoped she wouldn’t have to cancel the “choose-and-cut” for this weekend, the last for this year’s Haven Christmas Tree Farm season. She needed a good season, and the weather wasn’t helping. It hadn’t been a good year altogether, starting with an earthquake last spring that had damaged her house and barn, costing her some serious money in repairs. Now she’d lost both her employees in the peak of her season and if that wasn’t enough, her past was rearing its ugly head again. Now this.
A sick lump filled her throat. She tore off a glove, pushed back her hood, reached for the man’s neck to find an artery, laid her cheek over his face—was he breathing? She couldn’t feel a pulse, but her fingers were almost instantly numb. Wind blew. God, she couldn’t tell.
Chuck barked again, running circles around the man’s body. She lifted her head. Icy pellets pecked her face. No, that was snow now. And it was thickening quickly, a world of white suddenly spinning around her. She shivered even inside her thick parka, turning her gaze back to the man. There was ice on his lips, on his eyebrows, his hair. And that blood, frozen on his brow. What had happened to him? Had he fallen, or been attacked? And how the hell had he ended up here? It was miles down the mountain to town.
The man’s eyes opened and she screamed. Screamed and fell back, on her ass, hard. Chuck went nuts, barking and jumping.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” She scrambled back to the man’s side. “You’re alive.” He was alive. Her heart slammed into her throat and it was all she could think for a full second, then—“Are you okay?” No, dammit, stupid question. He was so not okay, that was obvious. Who the hell was he and how had he gotten here were better questions, and suddenly she was scared of him. He was a stranger, a bloody stranger in a ditch on the side of the road in front of her property.
No. His mouth formed the word but he couldn’t get it out, or she couldn’t hear it over the hammering of her own pulse. No, he wasn’t okay, he was telling her, and God, he was gray, frozen. She couldn’t leave him here. She’d never turned her back on anything or anyone hurt, but—
“Can you get up? Can you walk?”
His eyes held her, glassy, bright in his ashen face. Blue, she thought, but she couldn’t be sure and the light was going fast. He just kept staring at her, and she couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried. He didn’t try to say anything else. He had to be hypothermic, and he was hurt—And there was no place to take him but the house, where she lived alone, except for Chuck. Alone, just how she liked it.
And now—She’d call for help. Maybe someone could still get up the mountain.
Maybe.
She was lying to herself. She’d be lucky if the phones even worked now, and she knew damn well the roads from Haven would be impassable at this point. In the rural mountains outside Haven, cell phone coverage was nonexistent.
“Come on,” she shouted, the wind whipping at her words. She wasn’t sure he could hear her, or understand her. She reached for his shoulders, pulling him to a sitting position. He felt heavy, muscular, but utterly helpless, and that should have made her feel better. He was weak—what could he do to her? Nothing. But his condition just scared her more.
He could still die.
She grabbed his arm now. “Help me, dammit!” she yelled at him. Something inside him seemed to snap to understanding. He made it to his feet then instantly buckled at the knees. If he lost consciousness again—She grabbed him around the waist, holding him up. “You’ve got to walk. Please! I can’t do this alone!”
If he was an inch, he was six feet tall. She was five-seven herself, but not near his weight, and just getting him out of the ditch almost did her in. He slipped, twice, and it was all she could do to keep them moving forward then up the winding driveway, Chuck barking and bouncing alongside.
The lights from the front windows of her house came into view as they rounded the curve, and she could have collapsed with relief. Nearly there. She’d left her other glove behind in the ditch and her hand was nearly frozen from the exposure. She couldn’t even imagine how much colder he must be. He felt like a block of ice in her arms, a very solid, very tall block of ice.
One foot in front of the other. The front porch looked like a mountain all by itself. She could feel him struggling as he made the first step, and she was scared to death he was going to tumble backward and take her with him.
When they reached the door she let go of him with one hand to grab the knob, push it open. He weaved on his feet as if he was going to fall over right there and she threw her arm back around him.
“No! Not here!” She had to get him warmed up, and there was no time to lose.
In the light of the small front room, the man’s gaze connected, glassy and lost, but he kept his feet as if by sheer force of will. She kicked the door shut behind Chuck, who made a beeline for the kitchen and his food bowl. The first bedroom was hers and she didn’t think twice. She’d pretty much turned the second bedroom into an office, the bed in there piled with boxes of soaping supplies for her side business. He was far too tall for the short couch in her front room.
She maneuvered him around a small table, between an overstuffed chair and the couch, into the small hallway. Her room was dark, but there was enough light from the front room to see the bed.
A groan escaped him as he literally fell onto the bed. She reached for the lamp on the night table, then the phone.
Please, please, please—
“Dammit.” She slammed the phone down, useless as she’d known it would be, and looked back at the stranger in her house. The enormity of it all hit her.
There was a stranger in her bed, and if she didn’t do something, the right something, he could die. In her bed. Her knees were shaking, and not from the cold.
He was ashen, but even so, she realized with a shock that he was handsome, his jaw square, his cheeks planed, his nose straight, his hair dark, clipped short. He was maybe in his mid-thirties. He looked half-dead now, but he appeared to be fit and athletic in general, broad-shouldered and lean. Blood matted his temple and her pulse stumbled as she realized she wasn’t the only one shaking.
Get his core temperature up then she’d clean his wound, figure out what to do next. And she was going to have to get his clothes off. They were icy, and when they thawed, they’d be wet.
He looked so disoriented, she didn’t think he was going to be a lot of help.
Her head reeled just a little. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched a man, let alone a naked man, and that he was helpless as a kitten didn’t make her feel better. Panic didn’t have to be rational, and neither did marrow-deep fears.
She tore off her parka, dropped it on the floor and approached the bed, sitting down gingerly on the edge of it. He looked huge, filling up her bed. She reached for his hand. God, it was so cold. She pressed it between both of hers, rubbing in what warmth she could. “Hey.” To whatever extent he could help, cooperate, she’d need it.
His eyes opened, blinked. Blue. They really were blue. Searing blue. Her stomach jumped.
She let go of his hand, the awkwardness and strange intimacy rearing that ugly, irrational panic again. She spoke quickly.
“I can’t get help right now. The phone’s out. I need you to stay awake if you can. I need to get you out of these wet clothes.” She reached for his tie, unknotted it. It was a safe place to start. “Maybe tomorrow morning the phones will be working, or I can drive you down the mountain.” In truth, either possibility was slim, but she kept talking, hoping it would give him something to focus on, keep him awake. “I hope there isn’t someone worrying about you tonight.”
She received nothing other than a blank look in response.
Surely he had a family, maybe even a wife. He was clean-cut, good-looking, nice clothes. Without thinking, her gaze fell to his hands. No ring.
“Are you from Haven?” she asked. She pulled and the tie slid out from around his neck without him having to move.
“Haven?”
His voice was slurred, a little raspy. Familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place.
“Haven. You know where you are, right? You’re in Haven, West Virginia. Actually we’re a little outside Haven here. This is Haven Christmas Tree Farm.”
He was watching her with that startlingly lost look again. She reached for the buttons on his shirt and suddenly, sharply, he moved one hand and gripped hers. Stared, just stared at her with such intensity she felt her pulse bang.
She swallowed hard. “Come on. You’ve got to get out of these clothes,” she said, trying to pull her hand away. In an effort to distract him, she asked him another question. “How did you get here?”
“Accident. I—” He squeezed his eyes shut as if he were in pain.
“Accident where? I didn’t see a car.”
He still hadn’t let go of her hand and his cold grip was shockingly strong.
“Come on,” she said again.
His blue gaze blinked and she finally extricated her hand. She moved off the bed, needing that bit of distance. She yanked at the electric blanket cord that was tangled underneath it, hit the highest setting then got back to the bed, to him. She took the buttons of his shirt from the top down, quickly.
Outside, wind howled and the windows were completely dark now. The phones were already out—how much longer before she lost electricity? She had a generator, but it was dicey at best, old and in need of replacement.
She was midway down his shirt when he reached for the buttons as if trying to help, but she could see right away that his frozen fingers weren’t going to cooperate on such a detailed task. She finished the job for him then slipped her arm around him.
He felt hard, solid and so heavy. He managed to lean up for a second, just long enough for her to pull the shirt off one arm then he sank back with a groan, closing his eyes again.
She gently tugged the shirt out from under his back. His chest and shoulders, naked in the spill of golden lamplight, were broad and muscular and she realized she was staring at him. She pulled the sleeve down and off the other arm and saw the marks on his wrists.
Sometime, very recently, he’d been bound.
“Oh, my God,” the woman cried softly. “What happened to you?”
Everything hurt, especially opening his eyes. Dane McGuire’s vision swam, but slowly, in increments, he tried once again to focus on the woman leaning over him. She lifted his hand, touching his wrist. There were bruised marks circling it.
“What happened to you?” she repeated.
Her hair was thick, like a dark cloud, falling around her slender face. Light from the lamp behind her framed her like a halo of fire.
He could hear wind moaning, the creaking of the house in the storm.
That’s why he was so cold. He’d been out there, in the storm. She’d brought him up to the house, gotten him inside. She’d saved his life.
He’d been in an accident. He remembered slashing pain, the force as his body made impact, then—Her. He remembered her…
“Who…?” he whispered roughly. His tongue felt thick, unfamiliar even as his still-swimming vision registered recognition. He remembered her.
“Calla,” she said.
Jones. Calla Jones.
“Jones,” she finished
His mind reeled. It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t be Calla Jones.
“Can you tell me yours?” she asked.
He stared at her for a beat that seemed to last forever. Pain streaked through his temples and he drew a sharp breath. The pain from his bruised ribs almost had him blacking out.
“Don’t try to talk anymore,” she said sharply. He felt her fingers brush the skin at his waistband. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to ask you anything, not now.”
He struggled to stay conscious, to focus on her, this woman who couldn’t be real, couldn’t be who she said she was. She was a dream, a fantasy. Her eyes were brown, the softest shade of brown he’d ever seen. And she was pretty. So pretty.
She was pretty and she was taking his pants off.
His clothes were wet. That was it. She was just trying to make him warm. He tried to help again, reached for the button of the pants. His stiff fingers shook and wouldn’t bend right. He felt her warm fingers brushing his away. Her long cloud-hair swished across his cold, bare stomach as she leaned over him, then slid away as she moved down the bed, pulled on his shoes.
He felt like a baby. He forced himself up and black spots popped across his vision.
“Just let me do it,” she entreated. He heard her soft voice from far away, but he could feel her right there, her soothing touch as she pulled off his clothes. Then she was back. “Come on, you have to get under the covers.” She reached for him, rolled him to the side, then back as she moved the covers, tucked them around him now.
He’d never been so cold in his life—bone-deep cold even as he could feel the heat of the electric blanket against his skin. For a dream, this one was awfully painful. Inside, deep inside, he was freezing. He drifted, his eyes too heavy…She came and went and he was barely aware of her, then he felt her hands, gently, at his temples and something stinging—
Pure pain ricocheted through his head and his eyes burst open. He moved and more agony seared his chest.
“God, don’t move. I think your ribs are bruised or broken. I don’t know. I’m trying to be careful, but this is a bad cut.”
He fell back, sucking painful air into his lungs. His limbs felt like jelly. He didn’t think he could move again if his life depended on it. It hurt too much.
“Just be still,” she said sternly and he focused on the seductive sound of her voice. He heard something tear, felt her fingers taping something to his head. Felt himself floating, and he went willingly.
This dream might hurt, but reality wasn’t any better. In reality, Calla Jones was dead.
Chapter 2
He woke, disoriented. He couldn’t see anything. He was blind. Then the lamp beside the bed popped on. He blinked, light hurting his eyes.
The windows were dark. Everything was still, silent.
His vision cleared slowly. Faded wallpaper covered the upper half of the room, white wainscoting at the bottom. A quilt in a ringed pattern hung on the opposite wall between an antique dresser and a chair.
A wave of panic washed over him. He pushed up from the bed, hissing in agony as he swung his legs to the floor. Gripping the corner of the headboard, he straightened on wavering knees.
He was naked. The woman—There had been a woman. He’d thought she’d said her name was Calla Jones, even thought she’d looked like Calla Jones. But that wasn’t possible. He’d heard her wrong, imagined the resemblance.
She’d taken his clothes off, everything but his briefs, warmed him in her bed. And he was sure it was her bed. Everything surrounding him in the room—the pretty perfume and cream bottles marching across the old dresser, the flowered wreath on the wall, the lacy coverlet on the bed—screamed feminine occupation.
He hung on to the knobbed corner of the headboard again while he took shallow, agonizing breaths and willed himself to stay upright even as black pain threatened to consume him. He tried to focus, assess the damage—his head throbbed, his ribs screamed. But everything worked, if painfully. He wasn’t broken, just bruised.
And he was in trouble. Terrible trouble. He had to get dressed. He had to get out of here.
“Oh, my God.” He heard a rush of footsteps through the agony wrapping his mind. “Get back in bed. What are you doing? If you pass out and fall, you’ll just hurt yourself more!”
Arms slipped around his waist; soft, caring arms, guiding him back down. Relief buckled his knees and he didn’t fight her, let her ease him back onto the bed in one miserable, slow move.
“You have to rest. You can’t do this.” The woman’s voice was clipped, frustrated. Warm brown eyes sparked at him. Warm brown eyes that looked just like Calla Jones’s eyes. The resemblance was startling.
But it was just that, a resemblance. Calla Jones was dead.
She tucked blankets back around him. “I think you’ve got some bruised ribs, but I’m not a doctor. And you are not a very good patient.”
She chewed her lip in the way he remembered, suddenly, she had before. She was looking at him, too, and the very real, very fragile awareness in her gaze almost hurt to see.
“We lost electricity. I had to go outside and get the generator going,” she said.
That explained the pitch-black he’d woken to, and the lamp suddenly popping on. But it didn’t explain her. She started to rise and without thinking, he reached for her hand, stopping her.
“Don’t go.” His mouth was so dry, he could barely get the words out. “Who are you?”
She stared at him. “I’m just going to put your clothes in the laundry.” She tugged her hand from his, impatient, yet there was something more than impatience in her eyes. Something wounded. “My name is Calla. Calla Jones. This is Haven Christmas Tree Farm.”
His head reeled, and for a moment he couldn’t focus or think. Then her face cleared in his vision, Calla Jones’s face, and he saw her eyes gaze to his wrists.
“It looks,” she whispered, “as if you’d been bound. What happened to you?”
Of course his wrists had been bound. His ankles had been shackled, too. And all of that meant that Calla Jones was long dead. He was dreaming, had to be dreaming. What other explanation was there?
“I don’t know what’s happened to me,” he said, his voice hoarse suddenly. He’d lost his mind, maybe. I was being transported, bound, to prison for your murder. Dane supposed he could tell her that.
She was looking at him, confusion in her gaze. She seemed young, he thought suddenly, really young, with slender hollows in her cheeks and those soft, soft brown eyes, even as he could detect the faint lines around her eyes that proved she wasn’t really that young at all. She was thirty-one. The district attorney had said so. The D.A. had passed around all sorts of photographs of her bloodied body to the jury, posted enlarged shots on huge easel boards, shoved them in front of his face while he sat in the witness box.
“You can’t be Calla Jones,” he rasped desperately, almost angrily, suddenly. What game was this? If it wasn’t a dream, then could it be some kind of cruel hoax? Anything was possible. After all, someone had set him up for murder. Now what?
He could hear a huff of exasperation, then she got up from the bed, marched to the dresser, grabbed something—her purse, he realized, and pulled a wallet from inside. She flipped the small leather case open and held it up in front of him.
“Look.”
Calla Jones’s name leaped up at him from the West Virginia driver’s license.
His vision spun to a tiny pinprick of light and blood and her. Slicing pain ripped through his head. No. Calla Jones had died six months ago. No one knew that better than him. He’d been on his way to prison for the crime, a crime he hadn’t committed, but that had stopped mattering a long time ago. His life as he’d known it had been over. He’d almost accepted it. One minute, he’d been an attorney for Ledger Pharmaceuticals. The next, he was a number headed for prison. Almost, but not quite. He’d never accept it, not really.