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Beneath the shop’s bright lights, the gash that slashed his left eyebrow looked even rawer.
Claire didn’t let herself try to imagine how he’d got injured. She’d spent too many hours alone in various foreign countries, fearing he was lying dead someplace.
“Are you saying you flew all those hours to get here because you suspected someone wanted to kill my handyman?”
“Yes, I travelled today with the sole intention of getting here, to you, as soon as I could. But it wasn’t because I thought someone planned to slit your handyman’s throat.”
“Then why? Jackson, why are you here?”
“Because someone wants to kill you.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Before embarking on a writing career, Maggie Price took a walk on the wild side and started associating with people who carry guns. Fortunately they were cops, and Maggie’s career as a crime analyst with the Oklahoma City Police Department has given her the background needed to write true-to-life police procedural romances, which have won numerous accolades, including a nomination for the coveted RITA® Award.
Maggie is a recipient of a Golden Heart Award, a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times BOOKreviews, a National Reader’s Choice Award and a Bookseller’s Best Award, all in series romantic suspense. Readers are invited to contact Maggie at 416 NW 8th St, Oklahoma City, OK 73102-2604, USA. Or on the web at www.MaggiePrice.net.
MAGGIE PRICE
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To “old” friends Mary Nichols Denson and Karen Westfall Perez, with thanks for the warm memories, the great sleepovers, the triple dates and all the dreams we used to weave.
Prologue
The dark-haired geologist who swung open the door to his favorite Barcelona restaurant was tall, lean and lanky, in the prime of his life.
In five minutes, he’d be dead.
At the tree-shaded park a safe distance away, a man fueled by cold revenge stabbed a button on his cell phone.
“Target’s in.” Without waiting for a reply, he ended the call.
Through powerful binoculars the man scanned the lunchtime crowd jamming the sunny sidewalk in front of the restaurant. When he spotted the two blond women who’d paused to check the menu posted outside the restaurant, his throat closed. Each dressed in a bright sundress, their skin tanned, they looked so much like his wife and teenage daughter he felt a wave of nausea. Sweat beaded his forehead, his palms.
Don’t go inside. The warning flashed in his brain while fresh grief that was beyond name, beyond reason, ripped at his gut.
The older of the two women pointed at something on the menu and shook her head; the younger one shrugged. They continued down the sidewalk, skirts swishing against tanned legs, neither knowing that the decision to bypass the restaurant had saved their lives.
Layer by layer, he rebuilt control so that his hands were rock-steady when the teenager with friendly brown eyes appeared around the corner. The kid was solidly built, wearing jeans and a red T-shirt.
No reason for anyone watching him to suspect that the blue backpack hanging over one shoulder held a deadly device.
The teen tugged open the restaurant’s door and stepped inside. Minutes later he strolled out, sans backpack.
The man turned and headed for the far side of the park, the soles of his scuffed boots silent on the thick grass. He was three blocks away when the deafening blast rocked the air. Even from a distance, he could hear agonized screams.
His stomach clenched as the memory of other screams razored through him. He’d arrived at the safe house too late, had no choice but to stay hidden while listening to his wife and daughter scream before they died.
They’d been gone two weeks. Two weeks of despair, confusion and agony.
Now, a feral tangle of rage and hate and revenge drove him to make the bastard responsible for their deaths pay.
Today he had accomplished the first step toward that goal.
Jackson Castle’s twin brother was dead.
His woman would die next.
Eye for an eye.
Chapter 1
Good to be home, Claire Munroe thought while juggling her purse, overnight bag, keys and one of the cardboard boxes containing the finds she couldn’t wait to display in her antique shop. It was late—all the businesses in Oklahoma City’s Reunion Square had closed hours ago—so she’d parked at the curb, a few feet from Home Treasures’ entrance. Smart move, she decided, since the temperature hovered in the eighties and the box weighed a ton.
In the hushed darkness there was only the click of her sandals on concrete as she lugged everything across the sidewalk.
Thankful for the carriage lamps that cast puddles of light on the shop’s entryway, she managed to slide her key into the lock on the first try. The dead bolt snicked open; when the door swung inward she was greeted by cool air and the scent of the apple and pine potpourri she’d placed all around. A wash of weak light glowed from the pair of timer-operated globe lamps that went on each evening at dusk.
She had been away for only one night, but to a woman who’d sacrificed so much to own the building that housed her shop and the cozy apartment over it, even that short time away had been too long.
Balancing the box against one hip, she turned, intending to punch her code into the alarm panel, but hesitated when she saw the glowing green light indicating the system wasn’t armed. Glancing across her shoulder, her gaze swept the dim shop with its lofty ceiling. Curio cabinets loaded with salt cellars, fragile teacups and enameled boxes sat exactly where she’d left them. Nearby, the mahogany table topped by a small antique chest and a collection of pewter ale mugs appeared just as it had when she’d locked up the previous evening and set the alarm.
Claire sighed. This was the third time she’d come home and found her alarm unarmed after arranging for her handyman to do repairs while the shop was closed. Silas Smith was in his late seventies and getting forgetful. At least the sweet old man had remembered to lock the dead bolt.
Using the tip of one sandal, Claire shoved the door closed. She slid her keys into a back pocket of her jeans, relocked the door and headed toward the rear of the shop. She had one more box to retrieve from her SUV, then she would set the alarm and head upstairs. Topping her agenda was a hot soak in the tub accompanied by a glass of chilled wine.
All thought of that agenda flew out of her head when her foot rammed into something solid, sending her lurching forward. The weight of the box added to her body’s momentum and she went down hard, her right side slamming against the box’s top edge.
The impact knocked the breath out of her. Everything went dim for a moment, like a blown fuse snapping off all the lights.
Claire remained motionless until her vision cleared. Her breath shuddered out. Then in. Slowly, she eased into a sitting position, wincing against the pain in her ribs.
Whatever she’d tripped over hadn’t been there when she’d locked up her shop the previous evening. Shoving her hair out of her face, she looked over her shoulder.
Her eyes went wide when she saw the leg that jutted into the aisle. It was khaki-clad and wore a heavy, paint-spattered work boot that she recognized.
“Mr. Smith?” Claire asked, scooting toward her handyman.
He was sprawled on one side, his back to her. The thick gray hair that always gleamed like silver looked dull in the shadowy light.
“Mr. Smith?” Claire repeated, her voice thready.
He had a bad heart, had suffered a heart attack the previous year. Fingers unsteady, she leaned across his body and touched his hand. His flesh was ice-cold.
“Oh, no.” She closed her eyes. He hadn’t turned on the alarm because he’d never left the shop. Had the poor man lain here for hours, suffering, needing help before he died?
Heartsick, Claire pushed to her feet, flinching at the catch in her side. She needed to call the police. Her cell phone was in her purse, which had gone airborne when she fell.
She flicked on a nearby lamp. When she leaned to retrieve her purse, a weak sweep of light illuminated the handyman’s pale face…and the gaping, bloody slit across his throat. Her brain frozen with shock, Claire stared at the dark crimson that had pooled from the wound.
Then reality hit with a hard jolt and she pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back a scream. All at once the air around her felt too cold. Too quiet. And then she heard a faint creak, the way a floorboard protested weight, that seemed to come from above. From her apartment.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
Hair rising on the back of her neck, the sensation of another presence clamped like fingers around her throat. No way was she staying here to find out if Silas Smith’s killer was upstairs, waiting for her with his bloody knife.
She spun, raced toward the front door. Her heartbeat battled her aching ribs, her temples pounded while her trembling hands fought the dead bolt. Jerking the door open, she darted out into the night that now seemed thick with shadows.
Five feet from the door a dark form stepped into her path so suddenly Claire didn’t have a chance to evade, much less stop. Sandals skidding, she rammed into a solid, unyielding frame.
The collision dragged a shriek from her. The hands that locked onto her shoulders were all that kept her on her feet.
“What the hell?”
The deep voice barely registered past the roar of blood in Claire’s ears. She recoiled against the man’s grip, but she was no match for the iron strength she felt in his hands. All she could see was a face awash in shadows; all she could think was the hands now controlling her were the same ones that had sliced her handyman’s throat.
“Let go!”
Blinding terror and the honed instincts of a child who’d grown up warding off advances from her mother’s numerous boyfriends blasted through Claire. Teeth bared, she bunched her right hand into a fist and swung. Her knuckles connected with his jaw, snapping his head back.
He grunted. In the next instant, he spun her around, jerked her back and trapped her against his hard, rock-solid body.
With her arms locked against her sides, she kicked, her heel ramming into his shin. “Let go!”
“Dammit, Claire, it’s me.”
She went rigid. No, it can’t be. She was so scared, she was hallucinating because there was no way she could be struggling in the thick shadows with the man from whom she’d walked away two years ago.
But the familiar scent of musky aftershave and potent male told her different.
“Let…go.” It was no longer solely fear that had her fighting his hold, but also shock and a desperate need to see if it was really him.
He kept her captured against the hard press of his body a second longer, then released her. She whirled, and in the weak wash from a carriage lamp she stared up into Jackson Castle’s hard blue gaze.
Her lungs heaved. Her throat was locked so tight she couldn’t speak. How could this be real?
“Jackson…” she finally managed.
His eyes swept up and down the street. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked in an almost inaudible whisper. “Who are you running from?”
“I…” She took a step backward, then another. He was dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, making him difficult to see; only his bare arms, hands and face made him visible. She strained to get a better look at his face, but the shadows were too heavy. “What are you doing here?”
“Tell me who you’re running from,” he demanded.
“I…don’t know.” She fought to think past her shocked disbelief from finding her handyman murdered and plowing into Jackson Castle on her doorstep. Then her thoughts careened in on what he did for a living and she took a stumbling step backward.
“Did…you…have anything to do with that?”
“With what?”
“With…. With…. Oh, God!”
He closed the space between them, his hands locking on her shoulders again, tight, giving her a shake. “Claire, tell me what happened.”
“He’s dead!” she blurted in a voice that even to her own ears sounded far away. “Inside. Someone slit his throat.”
Jackson’s right hand shifted from her shoulder. “Who’s dead?”
“Silas!”
She didn’t see Jackson reach for it, but now he held a pistol pressed against his thigh. Her heart pounded even harder. His job required that he always carry a gun, but she’d never gotten used to that. Had been unable to get used to a lot of things about Jackson Castle’s lifestyle. “Jackson, what the hell are you doing here?”
His fingers tightened on her shoulder. “Who is Silas?”
“Silas Smith. My handyman.”
“Did you see who killed him?”
“No. I…just got home…and found him. I might have heard someone upstairs in my apartment.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure, it could have been the building settling.”
His mouth tightened. “Is the key to the inside staircase in the same place?”
Claire blinked. Of course Jackson remembered the key. He’d been trained to recall every detail of everything he experienced. Things like that came in handy for a man who, in addition to other duties, slipped like smoke in and out of foreign countries to deal with rebels, terrorists and fanatics.
“The key’s still where it was, but there’s no reason for you to go into the building.” Her voice shook. “If you have your cell phone, we can call the police. I have a friend who works homicide. We can call Liz, wait for her to get here.”
“After I check the building,” he said flatly.
No way was Jackson going to let a possible suspect escape. And he had a good idea who that suspect might be. He had no proof Frank Ryker had managed to get into the country, much less make it to Oklahoma City. Nor would someone with his training have to resort to throat-slicing to take out a handyman. But these days his mentor and former partner was operating on icy adrenaline and hot lust for revenge so Jackson wasn’t taking chances. Not when Ryker’s ultimate goal was to kill Claire. In case he was here, Jackson had no intention of giving him a chance to melt into the night before the local law arrived.
He looked back at Claire, his cop’s mind assessing her condition. In the dim light her skin looked ashen, her eyes glassy with shock. She trembled outwardly. He set his jaw, wishing he had time to explain what was going on, but the danger was too great.
He did a quick surveil of the area. All the shops, restaurants and other businesses in the square were closed, so he couldn’t stash Claire in one of them while he checked her building. His rental car was parked behind her shop; he’d kept tabs on her enough to know she owned the SUV sitting at the front curb. He quickly nixed the idea of having her lock herself inside either vehicle and wait for him. If Ryker was around, it would take him only seconds to bypass any lock system. And then he’d have Claire.
And kill her.
Jaw set, Jackson leaned in, keeping his voice low. “I’m going to check your building—”
“You’re not leaving me here on the sidewalk,” she interrupted in a harsh whisper. “You’ve got the gun, I’m sticking with you.”
Even in the shadows he saw the determined glint in her eyes. Too bad she hadn’t been this adamant about “sticking with him” two years ago. Would regret, he wondered, ever fade?
“I’m not leaving you out here,” he agreed. “You’re going in with me. Behind me. Don’t make any noise. At the first loud sound, hit the floor.”
Her eyes widened, flicked to his automatic. “Loud sound, meaning gunfire?”
“Meaning anything. Don’t get too close in case I have to step back fast.” And so you don’t get hit by shots aimed at me, he added to himself. “Once we’re inside, I want you to stay in my line of sight so I’ll know where you are. Keep glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one sneaks up on us from behind.”
“All right.” Claire pressed a palm against the ache in her right side and pulled in a trembling breath. Her nerves were shimmering and her insides had tangled into a dozen frayed knots.
“Jackson, I don’t understand why you’re here,” she said in a shaky whisper. “Why are you even here?”
“To check on you.”
His gaze was unreadable, his tone as offhand as if he’d just driven across the city to get there when chances were he’d woken up that morning on some other continent. Every move the man made, everything he did was deliberate. She knew damn well his checking on her was far from casual.
“Stay close.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze, then stepped past her, holding the automatic against his thigh. Silently, he positioned himself at one side of the shop’s gaping front door.
For Claire, the whole night had turned surreal. Within the past five minutes she’d found her handyman murdered and literally run head-first into the man who’d once embraced her heart as no other had. The man she had never thought she would see again.
Had never wanted to see again. Because she’d known, in her heart, how much it would hurt to be reminded of what she’d sacrificed in order to obtain her one solid goal: A life with permanence, where people stayed in one place and put down roots.
She’d been right.
She met his grim gaze while her heart tattooed in her ears. “Jackson, be careful.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “That’s my plan.”
Gun clenched in both hands, he flattened his back against the door frame, then stepped inside.
Claire couldn’t stop pacing.
Left hand pressed against her aching ribs, she roamed the living room of her spacious, high-ceilinged apartment. There was too much tension racing through her blood for her to sit still. The horrific image of Silas Smith with his throat a bloody gash. Her grief over the dear, sweet man’s violent death. Her shock at running full-throttle into Jackson Castle.
Immediately after the surreptitious—and uneventful—search she and Jackson had conducted of her shop, her upstairs apartment and the storage room across the hall, he’d pulled out his cell phone and called 9-1-1. A patrol car had arrived minutes later. Claire’s friend, Oklahoma City Police Department homicide detective Elizabeth Scott, her partner and the crime scene investigators soon followed, and the medical examiner showed up shortly afterward.
With so much going on and so many people swarming her building, Claire had yet to find an opportune moment to talk to Jackson one on one.
Diverting around her couch that bloomed with small pink roses, she glanced across the room. He stood just inside the apartment’s open front door, talking in muted tones to Liz, who had already questioned Claire at length. And since her partner had sat in, Liz had held back from asking certain girlfriend-type questions, the most pressing being: why had the lover Claire walked away from two years ago suddenly shown up tonight?
Claire wished to hell she knew.
Sidestepping the pedestal table that held china cups on a silver tray, she continued pacing. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Liz jot on a notepad, then return a small leather case to Jackson. Claire knew the case held the badge and credentials that identified him as a Special Agent with the Diplomatic Security Service—the U.S. State Department’s law-enforcement division.
Had he shown Liz his ID because his presence here was official? Claire wondered. If so, what sort of business had prompted a DSS agent who mostly operated under a veil of secrecy in foreign countries to suddenly show up on the shadowy sidewalk in front of her building?
The building Claire had worked tooth and nail to own, along with the contents of the antique shop and the cozy apartment she and her aunt had once rented.
The apartment that was the only real home Claire had ever known.
Over the past two years, she had morphed Home Treasures to reflect her own personal stamp and was making a tidy profit. She’d met a man for whom she cared deeply, a man who loved her, who wanted a future with her. Brice Harrison had been ready—was ready—to give her the type of life craved by a woman who’d survived a rootless childhood that hovered one frightening step from physical abuse. Claire had nearly convinced herself to grab onto that life. To write off her growing uncertainties and her frustrating inability to totally forget the past.
And the man who’d played such a large role in it.
Dammit, why was he here?
Claire reached the fireplace—filled for summer with lavender hydrangea blooms—reversed and headed back the way she’d come. It was a wonder her sandals hadn’t worn a trail across the Multan rug that spread its muted colors over the hardwood floor.
She could understand Jackson’s being in Oklahoma City—they’d first met while he was on loan to a multi-agency anti-terrorism task force working out of the National Memorial Institute. So it was possible a similar assignment had brought him back.
But that didn’t explain why he’d shown up tonight. Especially since they’d agreed to sever all ties. So, why was he here?
And why did it have to be now, when she’d spent the past months feeling so unsettled? So unsure. So off-balance.
Slowing her pace, she shifted her gaze back to Jackson and for the first time allowed herself to study him. He seemed leaner and a little more rugged now. The dark stubble that covered his firm, square jaw enhanced the look, as did the black T-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders and the black jeans that clung to his narrow hips and long legs. Though worn in the same sleek style, his dark hair was shaggier, the thick ends lapping just above his collar.
His incendiary blue eyes had undergone the greatest change. They stared out from a face baked copper by the sun of who-knew-what countries, their unfamiliar hardness lending their owner a rougher and even more dangerous look than Claire remembered. A paper-thin gash, still in the process of healing, sliced through his left eyebrow.
She pictured him as he’d looked earlier, searching the shop with measured care, moving like a ghost up the stairs, his gun unwavering in his grip, his gaze skimming, shifting. Even though the shop was brimming with stock, she would wager he could describe everything he had seen as skillfully as he would faces in a lineup. Even minor details didn’t get past him.
As if sensing her thoughts, Jackson shifted his stance, met her gaze. His eyes held hers for a long moment, then dropped to the hand she held pressed against her ribs. A frown line formed between his dark brows.
A tightness settled in Claire’s chest. Was he measuring her the way she had him? Searching for physical changes in the woman who’d called it quits and left him after a passionate affair that had lasted only a handful of months?
“Claire?”
Halting beside the pedestal table, she shifted her gaze to her friend. “Yes?”
“We’re wrapping things up downstairs,” Liz said as she stepped farther into the apartment. Tall and leggy, she wore black slacks and a turquoise blazer that nipped her thin waist. As usual, her ginger-gold hair was plaited in a tight French braid.