Dangerous Christmas Memories

A witness in jeopardy…

and a killer on the loose.

Hiding in witness protection is the only option for Priscilla Anderson after witnessing a murder. Then Lucas Langsdale shows up claiming to be her husband right when a hit man finds her. With partial amnesia, she has no memory of her marriage or the killer’s identity. Yet she will have to put her faith in Luc if they both want to live to see another day.

SARAH HAMAKER has written two nonfiction books, as well as stories for several Chicken Soup for the Soul books. She’s a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and ACFW Virginia, as well as president of Capital Christian Writers Fellowship. She’s also a parent coach with a weekly podcast called You’ve Got This. Sarah lives in Virginia with her husband, four children and three cats. Visit her online at sarahhamakerfiction.com.

Also By Sarah Hamaker

Dangerous Christmas Memories

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Dangerous Christmas Memories

Sarah Hamaker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09895-3

DANGEROUS CHRISTMAS MEMORIES

© 2019 Sarah Hamaker

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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“I’ve been thinking about the night of the shooting. My memory is like one of those old reel-to-reel films that’s being restored. Sometimes the frames are out of order, but sometimes there are several frames intact together.”

“You’d tried hypnotherapy when you first entered the witness protection program, right?” Luc asked.

“Yeah, but the doctor blamed me for not remembering. He said I was intentionally repressing the memories.

I never went back to him.”

“When did Mac mention it again?”

“When we were going over my initial witness statement to prepare for the trial. He asked if I would be willing to undergo hypnosis again. I agreed, as long as it wasn’t with the previous doctor.”

“Who else would know you were considering hypnosis again?”

“You don’t think it’s a coincidence that someone is trying to kill me now that I’ve resumed hypnotherapy?”

“No, I don’t.” Luc kept his voice low, his eyes never leaving her pale face. “I think someone doesn’t want you to recall any more details about what happened that night.”

Dear Reader,

I’m often asked where I get my story ideas. Most of the time, the answer is simply, “It came to me one day out of the blue.” Not so with Dangerous Christmas Memories. The genesis of this story came from a news article about a celebrity who didn’t realize his Las Vegas marriage was actually legal until years after the fact. Sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction. I knew I had to tell a story about a man and woman who meet and marry quickly in Vegas, then end up separated without dissolving the marriage. But turning that idea into a workable manuscript took numerous starts and rewrites before the story finally came together in Dangerous Christmas Memories. And I’m glad I could give Priscilla and Luc’s story a much happier ending than the celebrity who inspired the book.

Sarah Hamaker

This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope. It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.

—Lamentations 3:21–23

To my husband, Christian, for his unfailing encouragement for my writing.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

Priscilla Anderson set the blow-dryer on high and aimed the heat at Nancy’s damp hair with one hand, a round brush in her other hand to smooth the slightly curly hair. Thank goodness the noise of the dryer meant Priscilla didn’t have to pay attention to her client’s incessant chatter. Today Nancy gushed about her recent trip to the Bahamas with her third husband over Thanksgiving. As she straightened Nancy’s hair, Priscilla concentrated on keeping her hands steady enough that Nancy wouldn’t notice she wasn’t her usual self.

Priscilla clicked the dryer to a lower setting and began shaping the long bob to curl gently under Nancy’s cheekbone. She sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in an attempt to soothe her jitters as she sent up a silent prayer. Lord, please keep me calm and safe from the man I think has been following me.

Turning off the hair dryer, she was relieved to see Nancy had her attention on her phone. Good, no small talk necessary for a bit longer. After touching the surface of the curling iron quickly to judge its heat, Priscilla put the finishing touches on Nancy’s hair.

“All done.” Priscilla exchanged the curling iron for a handheld mirror, handing the latter to Nancy to view the haircut and style as she swiveled the chair around for her client to view her reflection.

The older woman admired her hair in the mirror. “Perfection like always. I told my yoga class to ask for you if they wanted a world-class haircut at a good price.” Nancy smiled as Priscilla removed the salon cape with a snap. “You should move to one of those upscale places—your talents are hidden here.”

Priscilla shook her head as she walked her client to the front of Snippy’s, a chain of discount haircuts. “I appreciate your kind words, but this suits me just fine.”

Nancy sighed. “You are too modest for your own good. But then again, I’m happy to pay only twenty-five dollars for an eighty-dollar haircut!”

Priscilla ran Nancy’s credit card and handed her the slip to sign, glad that her hands had regained their steadiness. “Last time, you said you looked like a million bucks. I must be slipping.”

The other woman laughed as she gave the receipt back to Priscilla with a generous tip scrawled on the bottom. “See you next month.”

As Nancy exited the salon tucked into a strip mall, Priscilla caught a glimpse of a blond man in his late twenties—near her own age—lounging at one of the outdoor tables in front of the next-door coffee shop. She stepped closer to the floor-to-ceiling window, careful to keep her body partially hidden behind a decorated artificial Christmas tree positioned to the left of the front door. Unease coiled in her stomach like a strand of hair wrapping around a roller, tightening with a jerk as she recalled seeing the tall man behind her in a checkout line at the grocery store last night.

She had also seen him somewhere else before, but where? She closed her eyes briefly to pull up the memory. Ah, yes. Jogging by her apartment building Friday morning when she left for work. Now three days later, here he was again, outside her place of employment. Fairfax, Virginia, wasn’t that big a city that she could attribute the sightings to mere coincidence.

Fishing her phone from her apron pocket, she surreptitiously snapped several photos of the man as he sipped from a cup while gazing down at his smartphone.

Heart pounding, Priscilla moved away from the window and through the salon toward the small break room next to the back door. With her next appointment in fifteen minutes, she had time to call Mac.

“Everything okay?” US Marshal James “Mac” MacIntire’s voice had a sharp edge to it that Priscilla hadn’t heard before. The married marshal had become like an older brother to her since becoming her point of contact three years ago.

“I think someone’s following me.” Priscilla paced the length of the empty room.

“Tell me more.”

She relayed a description of the man. “The first time I noticed him, he was jogging by my apartment building. Last night, he was behind me in the checkout line at the grocery store. Now today he’s outside the salon at the coffee shop next door. Perfectly legitimate actions but something tells me it’s not accidental, that he meant to be in those places because I was there. I managed to take a couple of photos of him, but it was through a window, so it might not be clear. I texted them to you before I called.”

“Let me pull them up.”

Waiting while Mac accessed the photos, Priscilla concentrated on taking deep, controlled breaths to slow her racing heart. No sense in hyperventilating over what might be a coincidence. Her gut screamed that there was no way this guy just happened to show up exactly where she was at least three times in under a week.

“I emailed them to our tech guys to see what they can do to enhance them and trace his identity. He hasn’t tried to approach you?”

“No.” She kneaded the tight muscles in the back of her neck. “He’s been kind of lurking in the background.” She blew out a breath. “You know I don’t see danger behind every bush. He’s following me—that much I’m sure of.”

“Do you think he’s connected with our friend?” Mac voiced the very question that had occurred to Priscilla.

“If he is, I don’t know why I’m still alive.” She blinked back sudden tears at how comfortable she had been in her life here, that for a while, she’d managed to live like a normal person. If you called normal not being able to date or have close friends. If she stayed in witness protection much longer, she was afraid she’d never be comfortable getting close to anyone, given how superficial she had to keep all her relationships. With the very real potential of having to relocate at a moment’s notice, she had grown used to her own company. But with the trial coming up, she’d begun to let herself think of what life could hold beyond witness protection, and that had heightened her sense of loneliness. “I can’t believe I let my guard down enough to not notice someone was following me.”

“Priscilla, don’t beat yourself up. It happens to most people in the witness protection program.” Mac’s gentle tone soothed her. “We see it all the time in those who have been in WITSEC for more than a few years. And you’ve been in for seven.”

She centered her thoughts back on the problem at hand, grateful for his reassurance. “What should I do?”

“For now, nothing. You know the best way to stay alive is to not panic, and any deviation from your normal routine could tip him off that you’re onto him. Until we know what his agenda is, take extra precautions, have your go-bag ready and wait to hear from me. I’m headed into a briefing about our friend in five minutes, but then I’ll come get you.”

“Okay. I have clients scheduled through six today. I only hope I won’t mess up their haircuts because of my nerves.”

“I know I don’t have to say this, but please, be careful.” The seriousness of the way Mac delivered the platitude alerted Priscilla to just how shaken her handler was about the danger to her.

“I will.” Priscilla said goodbye just as a bell tone on her phone’s alarm rang to let her know she had a few minutes before her two o’clock appointment. She ducked into the single-stall restroom and locked the door. She needed to calm her inner turmoil or she’d never get through the rest of her shift.

Washing her hands, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. It had been just over seven years since she witnessed the shootings that had thrown her into the US Federal Witness Protection Program. She had worked hard to change her appearance and her mannerisms. No longer did she bite her nails when nervous. Her formerly blond hair lay hidden underneath a rich brown hair coloring that she recently streaked with purple and turquoise. Her hair, which she used to keep short and spiky, now hung past her shoulders. Today she’d twisted it up into two side buns higher on the crown of her head than the typical “Princess Leia” hairstyle.

She looked nothing like the terrified cocktail waitress who’d hidden underneath a skirted serving cart in the kitchen of the Las Vegas Last Chance Hotel and Casino and seen through a slit in the fabric a man with a gun and silencer shoot three people in the head. The events of that night still had a hazy film on them, meaning that she had trouble recalling her exact movements or why she ended up hiding in the kitchen, but the memories of the shooting itself had been seared into her memory. The news that the hit man, Mason Culvert, had escaped custody while in the hospital after an emergency appendectomy had shaken her to the core. With Culvert’s trial scheduled to begin just before Christmas, Priscilla feared the blond man could be connected to Culvert.

Leaving the bathroom, she walked toward the front of the store, passing three other stylists in various stages of cutting or styling their clients’ hair. The blond man stood by the register, talking to the owner, Sandra Yu. Priscilla froze. Her pulse kicked into high gear. Before she could slip out the back door and contact Mac again, Sandra turned and spotted her.

“Priscilla?”

Priscilla considered ignoring the summons and bolting, but the blond man had had numerous opportunities to hurt her if he’d wanted to do so. That lessened her fear enough to allow her curiosity to pique as to why he had been following her—and what he was doing in the salon.

“Yes, Sandra?” Priscilla pasted a smile on her face and joined them.

“This is Mr. Long, your two o’clock.” Sandra smiled at Mr. Long. “Priscilla’s one of our best stylists.”

“I’ve heard.” His voice triggered a hidden awareness. She’d heard him speak before, but before the memory could resurface fully, the impression vanished.

Instead, Priscilla took a deep breath and gestured toward her station. “Right this way, Mr. Long.” Cutting his hair would give her the perfect opportunity to question him under the guise of small talk—and wielding sharp scissors would offer some protection if his intentions weren’t on the up-and-up. With another prayer for God’s protection, she settled her client in the salon chair.

Lucas Benedict Langsdale III ran a hand through his shaggy hair. There had been a flicker of recognition in Priscilla’s eyes when he spoke. Clearly, his voice had jarred a memory from their shared past, but other than that brief pause, she acted as if she didn’t know him.

With effort, he kept his expression impassive. He’d play along with her game for a while, but soon enough he’d get the answers to questions he’d been waiting seven years to ask.

“Wash and cut?” Priscilla tapped the back of his chair.

“Both, please.” At least that would buy Luc more time with her to see if she was pretending not to know him. A bride who skipped out on her husband mere hours after their wedding had a lot of explaining to do. Not that her explanation would make him change his mind about officially dissolving their short union.

She draped a cape around him, her fingers lightly skimming the back of his neck as she fastened the snaps. The large mirror directly in front of him afforded an opportunity to watch as she combed out his thick hair with gentle tugs.

Raising her eyes to meet his in the mirror, she cocked her head to one side. “You want the same style you currently have?”

“That sounds good. I like it a bit shorter around the ears—can’t stand to have hair in my ears.” Luc closed his mouth, willing himself not to bombard her with questions about why she’d skipped out shortly after saying “I do.” When he couldn’t find her, Luc had filed a missing person’s report with the Las Vegas police, which had turned up nothing. It was as if Priscilla had vanished into thin air. That first long year, he’d searched for her off and on, but eventually, he’d resigned himself to her not wanting to be found. Thinking that perhaps their Las Vegas wedding hadn’t been legal after all, Luc had decided to forget the whole thing. But three years ago, an online post about a celebrity who had nearly committed bigamy because he had mistakenly thought his Las Vegas wedding license wasn’t real pushed Luc to reinvestigate Priscilla’s disappearance. After confirming through a Nevada attorney that their marriage was indeed legal, he had finally tracked her down.

“It’s easier to cut your hair shorter first. Then I’ll shampoo and style it.” Priscilla picked up a pair of scissors, and Luc noticed her hand trembled slightly.

Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent to his presence as he thought. Of all the scenarios he had imagined when coming face-to-face with Priscilla again, Luc had never anticipated a total lack of recognition. God, what should I do now—ask my questions or wait to see what she says?

He stayed silent as her fingers in his hair brought forward vivid memories of their time together at the Last Chance Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. He closed his eyes, letting go for a moment all the unanswered questions, and tried to relax as she touched his hair.

The front window shattered and an object zipped by him. His eyes popped open as someone screamed. Then something whizzed by his chest, striking the wall to the right of him with a thump.

“That’s gunfire!” Luc slid out of the chair onto the floor as the pop-pop-pop of three consecutive shots mingled with the sound of more breaking glass. Shards from the mirror at Priscilla’s station rained down on his head. Where was Priscilla?

Luc shook his head to rid it of bits of glass as he frog-walked behind the next station, then saw Priscilla running toward the back of the store. Lord, please keep her safe. Help me to protect her. Another hail of bullets shattered more glass and mirrors, eliciting another round of screams from stylists and clients hiding behind stations and chairs. Sirens wailed in the distance but there wasn’t time to wait for law enforcement to rescue Priscilla.

He used two vanities as cover, but had to take the last few feet in the open. As he bent over and headed down the short hallway where he’d seen Priscilla go, something buzzed past his left upper arm, bringing with it a short burst of pain. Ignoring it, Luc pressed forward just in time to see Priscilla fling open a door marked Private.

Luc reached the opened door seconds after her and hurled himself inside. His heart pounded as he straightened and spotted the back exit door just closing. Catching the door before it closed, he burst through it into a narrow alleyway behind the strip mall with a large stand of trees opposite.

A quick look to the left showed nothing, but to the right, Priscilla had nearly reached the end of the alleyway. The sound of gunfire faded as sirens indicated first responders had reached the shopping center. Behind the strip mall, the stillness belied the chaos that had erupted on the other side of the buildings. Luc shook off the throbbing of his left arm and ran after her, catching up as she veered through the trees on a dirt path he hadn’t seen from the alleyway. Just inside the woods, she paused near a junction where the dirt trail connected with a wider paved one, panting with her hand on her side.

“Are you okay?” He struggled to control his own breathing, which came out in gasps.

She nodded. “Just winded.”

“Thank God.” Luc couldn’t quite process what had happened. “Someone was shooting into the salon.” He gently shook his head to dislodge more pieces of glass. Why would someone fire a gun into a hair salon on a slow Monday afternoon?

Priscilla pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. “Shots fired. At the salon. Person we discussed earlier with me. We’re on the trail behind the shopping center.”

Luc almost didn’t catch her wording. A person she’d discussed earlier with who? He would have to figure out what she meant later, when he wasn’t winded from running from an active shooter. His left arm pulsated with pain as the adrenaline started to ebb.

For now, he kept his attention on Priscilla. Her breath hitched as she held the phone to her ear with a hand that shook.

Then a couple with two puppies straining at their leashes rounded the corner. Luc immediately moved to shield Priscilla from the strangers.

One of the puppies stopped to sniff Luc’s shoe. The man laughed as he tugged on the leash. “Sorry, he’s the overly friendly one.”