A Hideaway Wedding Wager

Twins Ana and Jason and their cousin Nicholas are successful thirtysomethings who are single—and loving it. They have no idea that their relatives are betting on which one of them will get married first. But by the family’s New Year’s Eve reunion, will all three have learned what it means to be really lucky—in love?

In too deep…

Music is Jason Cole’s first love, and so far, no woman has ever come close. He’s happiest writing and recording at his Oregon mountain retreat. Plus, the gorgeous new waitress at the local restaurant is another reason to enjoy spending time in the small, remote town—especially once he hears her sing.…

Though she’s flattered when Jason offers her a recording contract, Greer Evans says no. She can’t reveal the truth—that she’s there on a dangerous secret assignment. But as their flirty friendship turns intimate, everything is on the line—Greer’s career, their safety and the yearning passion that could put both their lives at risk.…

Secret Vows

Rochelle Alers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Hideaway Wedding Series

Good-natured boasting raises its multimillion-dollar head at the Cole family compound during a New Year’s Eve celebration. Family patriarch Martin Cole proposes each man in attendance place a one-million-dollar wager to the winner’s alma mater as an endowment in their name. The terms: predicting who among Nicholas, Jason and Ana will marry before the next New Year’s Eve.

Twins Jason and Ana Cole have given no indication they are even remotely thinking of tying the knot. Both claim they are too busy signing new talent to their record label. Former naval officer Nicholas Cole-Thomas has also been dragging his feet when it comes to the opposite sex. However, within the next six months Ana, Nicholas and Jason will encounter a very special person who will not only change them, but change their lives forever.

In Summer Vows, when CEO of Serenity Records Ana Cole signs a recording phenom to her label, she ignites a rivalry that targets her for death. Her safety and well-being are then entrusted to family friend U.S. Marshal Jacob Jones, and Ana is forced to step away from the spotlight and her pampered lifestyle. She unwillingly follows Jacob to his vacation home in the Florida Keys until those responsible for the hit on her life are apprehended. Once Ana gets past Jacob’s rigid rules, she finds herself surrendering to the glorious sunsets and the man willing to risk everything, including his heart, to keep her safe and make her his own.

Nicholas Cole-Thomas’s entry into the world of horse breeding has caused quite a stir in Virginia’s horse country. Not only is he quite the eligible bachelor, but there is also a lot of gossip about his prized Arabian breeding stock. In Eternal Vows, Nicholas meets Peyton Blackstone, the neighboring farm’s veterinarian intern. He is instantly drawn to her intelligence, but recognizes the vulnerability she attempts to mask with indifference. Nicholas offers Peyton a position to work on his farm, and when they step in as best man and maid of honor at his sister’s spur-of-the-moment wedding, he tries to imagine how different his life would be with a wife of his own. Just when he opens his heart to love again, someone from Peyton’s past resurfaces to shatter their newfound happiness, and now Nicholas must decide whether their love is worth fighting for.

Record executive Jason Cole will admit to anyone that he has a jealous mistress: music. As the artistic director for Serenity Records Jason is laid-back, easygoing and a musical genius. His brief tenure running the company is over and he’s heading to his recording studio in a small remote Oregon mountain town to indulge in his obsession. But all that changes in Secret Vows, when Jason hears restaurant waitress Greer Evans singing backup with a local band. As they become more than friends, he is unaware of the secret she jealously guards with her life. And when he finds himself falling in love with Greer, Jason is stunned to find she is the only one who stands between him and certain death, at the same time realizing love is the most desperate risk of all.

Don’t forget to read, love and live romance.

Rochelle Alers

Happy the husband of a good wife, twice-lengthened are his days; a worthy wife brings joy to her husband, peaceful and full is his life.

—Sirach 26:1, 2

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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Prologue

West Palm Beach, Florida

Timothy Cole-Thomas felt his cell phone vibrate. Reaching into the pocket of his shirt, he stared at the display, smiled and tapped a button. “Hello, Nicholas.”

“Hello, Dad. I just called to let you know I’m getting married.”

Low-key, soft-spoken Timothy cut a step, spun around and bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Yes!” Everyone standing or lounging around the pool at the West Palm Beach family compound turned to stare at him as if he’d completely lost his mind. “Who is she?” he whispered conspiratorially, walking a short distance away so he wouldn’t be overheard by four generations of Coles who’d gotten together for the Labor Day weekend. He listened as Nicholas told him about the veterinarian with whom he’d fallen in love. “When are we going to meet her?” he asked his youngest son.

“That’s not going to be for a while,” Nicholas said.

Timothy felt a shiver eddy its way up his back when his son explained why Peyton Blackstone wouldn’t be able to travel for at least two months. She’d been stabbed by her ex-husband before the man was shot by a member of her cousin’s horse farm’s security team.

“If the farm has optimum security measures in place, then how did her ex-husband bypass it?”

“We discovered he had paid a member of the catering staff to let him use his uniform to surprise his girlfriend with an engagement ring. The poor man had no way of knowing he was being set up as an accomplice to an attempted murder. This is a reminder that anyone can breach the best protected property.”

Timothy was aware that his son’s horse farm used the most sophisticated electronic equipment available, and he’d also hired highly trained security personnel to protect his investment, but there were those willing to risk life and limb to steal his prized Arabians.

“I want you to be careful, Nicky.”

“I will.”

“Shall I give the rest of the family the good news?” he asked.

“Sure. As soon as Peyton’s up to receiving visitors, I want you and Mom to come and stay for a few weeks. Peyton’s mother is here, and I know she would like to discuss wedding plans with Mom. Peyton wants a simple church wedding at the chapel on Blackstone Farms, and she’s agreed to repeat her vows on New Year’s Eve along with Ana and Jacob in West Palm. I already called Ana and asked if she wouldn’t mind sharing her wedding celebration with us, and she said yes. I’d asked her not to say anything to you or Mom until I told you myself.”

Timothy nodded even though his son couldn’t see him. It was obvious Nicholas was either nervous or excited because he was talking nonstop. “So, that’s why Ana’s been giving me strange looks ever since she got here. I’ll be certain to let her know you told me. If you guys want to take a honeymoon, then renovations to the house in Venice should be ready by the end of the year. Your mother and I are going back next year for Carnival, and you and Peyton are more than welcome to join us. The villa has three apartments, so there’s plenty of space where we won’t have to run into one another.”

“I’ll tell her, and then I’ll let you know. I’m sorry to ring off, Dad, but I have to meet with someone at three.”

“Thanks for calling, and congratulations.”

“Thanks. Love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too, son.”

Timothy ended the call, and then approached his uncles who were engaged in a heated discussion about the upcoming football season. “Mis estimado tíos, I’d like to speak to you in the library.”

Martin Cole rested an arm on his nephew’s shoulder. “Since when did we become esteemed uncles? I’ve always been Martin.”

David Cole flashed a matched set of dimples. The bright Florida sun glinted off his cropped silver hair. “The only one who has ever been uncle anything is Josh.”

Joshua Kirkland smiled behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “That’s because I’ve always struck fear in the heart of this pup.”

Timothy laughed again. “I’m over sixty and much too old to be a pup. Even Diego—who’ll be forty in a couple years—can’t be considered a pup. Now, Martin’s grandson Clayborne is definitely in the pup category.”

Martin nodded. “Let’s go inside so we can find out what Timothy has been sniggling about.”

Timothy waited until everyone was seated in the library, its shelves lined with first edition classic bestsellers, antiques and reproductions. “Nicholas just called me to say he’s getting married.” A couple groans followed his announcement. “Hold up,” he said, when the three men started talking at once. “He’s having a small church wedding at the chapel on the neighboring farm, and then he and his wife plan to repeat their vows here on New Year’s Eve. And before you ask, David, Ana and Jacob have agreed to a double wedding ceremony.”

David ran long brown fingers over his face. “Why didn’t Ana say anything to me about this?”

“She didn’t because Nicholas had asked her not to,” Timothy explained.

Martin laced his fingers together and slumped farther down in his favorite leather chair. “I guess you’re done with the wager, Timothy. And this only leaves David’s Jason. What do you think, Josh?”

It was early in the morning of the past New Year’s Day when the four men had wagered whose single thirty-something children would marry before the end of the year. Each man had put up a million dollars, the winner setting up an endowment in their name to their alma mater. David was the exception when he had to wager two million because his unmarried twin son and daughter were two of the three targets reluctant to change their marital status. That had all changed when Ana had married U.S. Marshal Jacob Jones. Those who’d selected Ana to marry first, and then Nicholas, were certain to win the wager.

David frowned. “Martin, why are you asking him about my boy?”

“Because Joshua is impartial, David,” Martin countered. “None of his kids are involved in this wager.”

Joshua, having removed his sunglasses, massaged the bridge of his nose. His light green eyes shifted from his brothers to his nephew. “I don’t think Jason’s going to remain single much longer.”

“Why would you say that?” Timothy asked.

Looping one leg over the opposite knee, Joshua met David’s eyes. “Jason and Ana are twins who’ve done everything together. They never had to look for a date for red carpet events because they always had each other. Since Ana is married and has hinted she wants a baby, Jason is almost forced to find someone to step in and replace her. Up until now his life has been rather safe. He’ll date a woman for a little while, but then he’ll drop her because he claims she doesn’t measure up. No woman will ever measure up because my nephew doesn’t know what he wants.”

David’s frown deepened. “You guys have a nasty habit of psychoanalyzing my kids.”

“Josh is right,” Martin concurred. “You and Serena have provided safety nets for your children that Josh and Timothy haven’t. You built a house with enough room for your kids to live there for the rest of their lives. Correct me if I’m wrong, brother. Doesn’t Jason still live at home?”

David crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes. But he’s moving out when—”

Martin put up a hand. “No buts, David. I know Jason plans to move into Ana’s condo when she and Jacob buy a house, and that Jason built a place in Oregon, but he’s still living at home. If your thirty-three-year-old son proves me wrong, then I’ll be the first to apologize, but only after Joshua apologizes,” he teased.

Joshua placed both feet on the priceless rug, rising from his seat. “Oh, hell no. I’m not apologizing. We’ll see come New Year’s who’s right and who’s wrong.” He extended his hand, palm down, and individually each man stood, placing his hand on the top one; then they took turns pounding Timothy’s back, while congratulating him on his son’s upcoming nuptials.

Two down and one to go, and then the winner of the wedding wager would be revealed.

Chapter 1

Phoenix, Arizona

The intercom on Greer Evans’s desk buzzed softly. Unconsciously she reached for the receiver, while at the same time her gaze was fixed on the internal report she’d spent the past hour perusing. “Evans,” she said in her usual greeting.

“The director would like you to come to his office.”

Her eyes shifted to the telephone display. She and the others assigned to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives’ Phoenix, Arizona, field office attended biweekly meetings in the director’s office where they were brought up-to-date on regional operations. It wasn’t often she was singularly summoned.

“When, Miss Kelly?” she asked the woman who monitored everyone and everything going on at the site.

“He wants to see you now.”

“I’m on my way.”

Greer hung up, coming to her feet and exiting the cubicle where she had spent countless hours since being reassigned to the southwest region. The adjustment hadn’t been an easy one for her. The first thing she’d had to get used to was living in the desert. The dry heat, smog and occasional monsoon were a far cry from the change of seasons she’d experienced in Chicago and Washington, D.C. During the summer months she went directly from the air-conditioned office to the air-conditioned car and then drove to her artificially cooled one-bedroom furnished apartment with picturesque mountain views.

Plus she had to adjust to sitting at a desk. At first it had been difficult but, as the months passed, Greer had come to look forward to not going undercover; she was content to spend the rest of her professional career office-bound until it came time for her to collect her government pension. Why, she mused, was she thinking about retiring when that wouldn’t become a reality for at least another thirty years? At thirty-two, it should be the last thing on her mind.

Greer didn’t want to become cynical about her chosen career path because, after all, her mother had warned her of the pitfalls of undercover work. Her parents had met when both were recruits at the Quantico training facility. Her mother had joined the FBI, and her father had chosen the DEA. Then there was her twin brother. He’d followed in the family tradition of law enforcement when he also had joined the FBI.

She knew her mother, a retired FBI forensic technician, was uneasy each time Greer was selected for an undercover assignment, but she’d sworn an oath to uphold the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and those dealing in the sale and transportation of illegal explosives and firearms were enemies. She barely glanced at Sheila Kelly sitting in an alcove outside the field director’s office as she pushed open the door and walked in, realizing Roland wasn’t alone.

“You wanted to see me, Roland?”

Roland Peña’s head popped up. “Yes.” Rays of sunlight coming through windows bathed him in a halo of gold. Smiling, he rose to his feet, indicating the chair facing a sofa. “Please sit down.”

Pushing off a worn leather sofa was a tall pale man in an ill-fitting black suit. Her gaze shifted from the stranger to the man whom she’d grown to respect—unlike her former supervisor who wasn’t above using his power to intimidate his subordinates. Roland was soft-spoken, approachable and well liked by everyone in the regional office.

Her supervisor walked over to the sofa and sat down. “I’d like you to meet special agent Bradley Plimpton. He’s the assistant director of the Seattle Field Division.”

Greer nodded. “Special Agent Plimpton,” she said in acknowledgment. Once she was seated, he sat back down on the couch, one ankle propped on the opposing knee.

Bradley’s coal-black eyes narrowed. Greer didn’t know why, but there was something about the man’s emaciated appearance, black suit and straight raven hair brushed off his forehead that reminded her of caricatures of undertakers.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you without warning, Evans. Your supervisor just approved your transfer to my division.”

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath as she mentally repeated his last statement. What was Bradley talking about? She hadn’t spoken to Roland about a transfer. Not once since she’d come to Arizona had Greer mentioned to anyone that she didn’t want to live in the desert, that she preferred to see an actual change of seasons. Yet, if she was going to be transferred to the Seattle Field Division, then that meant she would become part of the ATF’s largest geographic division in the country. This transfer could have her living and working anywhere in Washington, Idaho, Alaska, Hawaii, Guam or Oregon.

“Why?”

“We need you to go undercover in Mission Grove.”

Greer leaned forward, the motion seemingly robotic. “Mission Grove?” she repeated.

“Yes, Agent Evans. Mission Grove,” Bradley said, placing both feet on the floor. Clasping his hands together, he sandwiched them between his knees. “We know you spent your childhood summers there with your aunt and uncle. We also know that you still keep in contact with your uncle even though your mother’s sister passed away three years ago.”

“What does that have to do with me going undercover in Mission Grove, Agent Plimpton?” she asked when he paused and stared at the floor.

A beat passed before Plimpton raised his head. “One of our agents was shot near the Mexico-Arizona border during a confrontation with drug smugglers. He managed to kill one of them, and when we recovered their weapons, we were able to trace them back to a man living in the Hood River Valley.”

“Did you interrogate him?” Greer asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“We couldn’t.”

“And why not?” She’d asked yet another question.

“We couldn’t because he died four years ago. What we did find out was that he’d had a break-in at his home the year before he passed away, yet reported nothing missing. We figured whoever broke into his house wasn’t looking to steal money or valuables but his identity. When I ran his name through the federal firearms database, I discovered hundreds of semiautomatic pistols and assault rifles purchased from gun shops in Vancouver, L.A., and as far east as Texas and Tennessee. We also traced at least a half dozen pistols used by several Seattle gangs back to a gun shop burglary in the Hood River Valley. There have also been a string of similar break-ins ranging from Portland to Mission Grove. Whoever is spearheading this operation has probably amassed an enormous arsenal, selling these illegal firearms to drug dealers. The DEA is dealing with the drug problem, but the sale of illegal firearms falls under our jurisdiction. We’ve selected you to identify the person or persons behind this because you’re familiar with the region.”

“What I don’t understand,” Greer said, “is why break into someone’s home to steal their personal information? Why not do it electronically? Cybercriminals do it every day.”

Plimpton shifted slightly when his right hand twitched noticeably. “The man wasn’t online. Whoever stole his identity must have known the victim personally.”

She knew the states that didn’t require a permit to purchase firearms, although many required licenses needed to carry a concealed firearm. Oregon was one of those states. But if someone was buying guns legally, afterward reselling them to those who couldn’t pass background checks, then that had raised a red flag with the ATF.

Greer listened intently when briefed about her new assignment. She would become a waitress at Stella’s. Her uncle, former Special Forces Robert “Bobby” Henry knew she and her brother were federal officers. “Have you told my uncle that I’ll be working at his restaurant?”

Bradley gave her a subtle nod. “Yes. We had to give him clearance because we’re going to use his place for your base of operation.”

Greer exhaled an audible breath. It made her feel better knowing that she didn’t have to lie to her uncle as to why she’d come back to Mission Grove for an extended stay. “When do I leave?”

Roland crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ll have tonight to pack and clean out your apartment. A team of agents from the bureau are flying up to Portland tomorrow morning to join in the search for the three missing kids from a nearby campground. They’ll pick you up at four in the morning for a six o’clock liftoff. Don’t worry about your vehicle. I’ll have one of the agents retrieve it from your apartment building’s parking lot.”

Pushing to her feet, she nodded like a bobble head doll. “I guess I’d better start packing.”

Roland stood and extended his hand, smiling. “You take care of yourself out there.”

She took his hand. “I will.” Walking out of the director’s office, Greer returned to her cubicle. It took fewer than two minutes to fill a cardboard box with her meager accumulation of personal items: a coffee cup, several paperback novels, a crystal heart-shaped paperweight and a miniature cactus plant.

“Going somewhere, Evans?”

Greer nodded. The auditor peering over her partition had a problem processing the word no when she’d told him she didn’t believing in dating her coworkers. But that hadn’t stopped him from seeking her out whenever she ate in the employee lunchroom. “I’m being transferred.”

Harold Browning approached her, his hazel eyes widening in surprise. “When did you find out?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

Harold’s sandy-brown eyebrows lifted. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

She shifted the box to a more comfortable position as she picked up her handbag. “No, I’m not.”

“Where are you going?”

Greer wanted to tell Harold that she was going far enough away so she wouldn’t have to be annoyed by his persistence. “Portland,” she said instead of Mission Grove. “I have to go.”

Harold looked as if he was going to burst into tears. He ran both hands over his thinning blond hair. “I’m going to miss you, Evans.”

“I’m going to miss you, too, Browning.” She would miss seeing him leaning over the partition to her cubicle to greet her every morning and his puppy-dog expression whenever she chided Harold for asking her out. The CPA was as brilliant as he was annoying. He’d pursued her when he should’ve focused his attention on some of the other single women who’d made it known they were interested in him. Why, she thought, did people always want what they couldn’t have?

Turning on the heels of her rubber-soled shoes, Greer headed for the exit, ignoring curious glances from special agents, investigators, technicians and support staff as they watched her departing figure.

When she stepped outside, the summer heat hit her like opening the door to a blast furnace, making it difficult for her to draw a normal breath. It was mid-August, and the afternoon temperature was over one hundred degrees. She was going to Oregon, a place where she didn’t have to contend with triple-digit summer heat and hardly a drop of precipitation. Oregon—a spot where all she had to deal with were moderating temperatures and the invigorating feel of rain on her face.

Even without asking, her prayer had been answered. Greer didn’t want to think about her next assignment once she identified who’d stolen identities to buy and sell firearms to criminals. It was always easier to think about the present, while concentrating on not blowing her cover. Working at her uncle’s restaurant would be like attending a kiddie birthday party. No pressure, no having to look over her shoulder or worry about her backup. All she had to do was keep her eyes and ears open.

Getting into her compact car, Greer started up the engine. She waited for the vents to blow cooling air over her face before she shifted into gear and maneuvered out of the parking lot. She wasn’t given much time to pack; however, living in a furnished apartment definitely had its advantages. All she had to do was clean out her closets, dresser drawers, put up several loads of laundry and then pack everything in two large rolling duffel bags, one containing her service revolver, bulletproof vest, government-issue laptop, a case with an assault rifle and clips of ammunition. She’d learned to travel light with what she deemed the essentials. If it didn’t fit into the duffel bags, then she could do without it.

* * *

Early the next morning Greer turned off the air-conditioner. She took one last look around the apartment where she’d spent the past five months of her life, then walked into the bathroom. When her former supervisor had initiated her transfer with a recommendation to desk duty, he’d claimed she was close to burnout, and the department couldn’t afford to lose one of their best undercover special agents.

She’d agreed and was grateful for the respite; there were occasions when she had a problem remembering who she actually was because she’d been so deep undercover. Looking at her reflection in the mirror over the vanity, Greer brushed her hair and secured it in a ponytail. The purplish tint had faded completely. She’d been tempted to dye it back to its natural shade, but her hair had undergone so many colors and styles during the years she’d been undercover as a special agent for the ATF, she was surprised it would grow to any appreciable length. There was a time when she’d shaved one side of her head. Then she’d affected twists, braids and extensions.

The sound of the doorbell echoed in the apartment, and Greer left the bathroom to answer the intercom. She punched a button. “Yes?”

“I have a four o’clock pickup for Ms. Evans.”

“Come on up.” They’d sent a woman to meet her.

She punched the button to disengage the lock on the downstairs door. Opening the door to her apartment, Greer stood off to the side. When she saw the man coming up the staircase, she launched herself at him. He wore khakis, a black golf shirt with the FBI logo over the breast pocket and black hiking boots. It was apparent her twin brother had been selected as a member of the team of agents going up to Portland to search for the three boys who’d vanished without a trace.

“Cooper!”

* * *

Cooper Evans caught his sister in midair, holding her against his chest. There was no mistaking they were related. They shared the same golden-brown complexion and slanting light brown eyes; however, Cooper was taller, a more masculine version of his twin sister. He kissed her cheek. Her bare face made her appear much younger than a woman in her early thirties. The desert sun had darkened her complexion to a rich cinnamon-brown.

“You seem to have fared well for a desk jockey.”

Looping her arms around Cooper’s neck, Greer pressed her forehead to her brother’s. “Jealous, bro?”

“Heck, no. I love being in the field.” He tugged playfully on her ponytail. “Let’s go. The others are waiting for us. During the flight, you can catch me up on what’s been going on since we last spoke to each other.”

* * *

Although she and Cooper exchanged texts a couple times each week, it was a rare occasion when they were able to talk on the phone, but never about their jobs. Greer again glanced around the living/dining area, then grasped the handle to one of her bags, but Cooper usurped her when he lifted both effortlessly. She left the keys to the apartment on the table in the dining area and walked out, closing the self-locking door behind her. A black Suburban with heavily tinted windows sat idling in the parking lot. Cooper opened the hatch, placing her bags in the cargo area.

She opened the rear door, slipping onto the third row of seats beside a young attractive brunette who wore a windbreaker stamped with the letters identifying her as a special agent with the FBI. Other than the driver and their lone female agent, two other agents were fast asleep, soft snores echoing in the vehicle’s interior.

The woman flashed a friendly smile. “Allison Singer.”

Greer returned her smile. “Jane Evans,” she whispered, introducing herself, while not wishing to wake the other sleeping passengers. Legally she was Jane Greer Evans, but her father insisted on calling her Greer.

Cooper got in beside Allison and settled back against the leather seat. The driver maneuvered out of the parking lot, accelerating and following the signs to the Sky Harbor International Airport.

* * *

The Learjet had lifted off at six, and Greer was rendered speechless when her brother revealed that in another three months he’d become a permanent member of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. This meant he would have to deploy on short notice to any location in the United States or internationally. Although she didn’t see Cooper as often as she would’ve liked, the thought of him leaving the country to confront the most complex threats was chilling.

“Have you told Mom and Dad about this?” she asked him. Their parents had relocated from D.C. to a retirement community in Ashburn, Virginia.

Cooper nodded. “I discussed it with Dad before submitting my application. He wasn’t overjoyed, but he did give me his blessing. What’s up with your transfer?”

She told him about the illegal gun sales. Her voice rose in excitement when talking about working at Stella’s. The year they had celebrated their eighth birthday, their parents had sent them to Mission Grove to spend the summer months. They had learned to fly-fish, swim in the ice-cold lake, pick berries for the pies their aunt Stella made for the restaurant and, when they were older, how to hunt and survive in the woods. Greer and Cooper waited anxiously for the end of the school year to board a plane for the cross-country flight. They would always return counting down the months when they would again enjoy a short summer where they existed like wood sprites.

Pressing his head to the back of his seat, Cooper closed his eyes. “You be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you where you can’t marry or make me an uncle.”

Greer landed a soft punch on her brother’s rock-hard shoulder. “I didn’t know you were a comedian. And you of all people should know I don’t want another husband. Been there, done that. Now it’s your turn.”

“What about making me an uncle?”

“There’s no way I’d bring a child into this world given my career. What about that nice artist you were dating?” she asked, steering the attention away from her.

“We still see each other every once in a while.”

“And?”

“And nothing. We’ve decided not to be exclusive because I can’t commit when I don’t know where I’m going to be next year.”

“She wants marriage?”

Cooper stared out the window of the sleek aircraft. “She wants marriage and kids. She claims her biological clock is ticking, and she doesn’t want to wait too much longer before starting a family.”

“Do you love her?” Greer asked.

His head came around and he stared at his sister. “Not enough to propose marriage.”

“Then let her go, so she can find someone else willing to commit to a future with her.”

“You’re probably right.”

Greer’s eyes met Cooper’s. “I know I’m right. No woman wants to be strung along wishing and praying her man will step up and do the right thing.”

Cooper and Greer continued their whispered conversation until the jet touched down on a private Portland airstrip. He kissed her goodbye, then followed the other agents to a Suburban, while Greer was escorted to a Ford SUV.

The last time she’d seen her uncle was before her final undercover assignment. It was as if the light had gone out behind his bright blue eyes. It had been her aunt Stella who had helped Bobby adjust to civilian life, had encouraged him to open the restaurant and had taught him to cook the dishes that made Stella’s a favorite restaurant among locals and tourists.

Waiting until the driver stored her luggage in the cargo area of the SUV, Greer slipped onto the rear seat. Opening her handbag, she took out her cell phone, scrolled through her contacts and punched the number to Stella’s. It rang twice before she heard a familiar gravelly voice.

“Stella’s.”

“Uncle Bobby, this is Greer.”

“Where are you?”

“We touched down few minutes ago. I should be there in an hour.” It was about fifty-five miles between Portland and the Hood River Valley.

“Did you eat?”

“I had a little breakfast.” Her little breakfast was a cellophane-wrapped sweet bun and a cup of coffee.

“I’ll fix something special to welcome you back.”

Greer smiled. “I’d like that, Uncle Bobby.”

Ending the call and slumping lower in her seat, she closed her eyes and did what she should’ve done during the flight: sleep.

Chapter 2

Mission Grove, Oregon

The flight attendant leaned over her lone sleeping passenger. “Wake up, Jason. We’ll be descending soon.”

Jason opened his eyes, sat up and peered out the oval window. “Thank you, Carrie-Ann.”

He’d asked the attendant to wake him a half hour before they landed so he could shower and change clothes. He’d flown over three thousand miles and not once had he looked out the window. When the Gulfstream G550 became airborne and the seat belt light extinguished, he’d reclined the seat into a queen-size bed. It’d become customary for him to sleep during the flight from Florida to Oregon. The three-hour time difference played havoc with his body’s circadian rhythm for several days, but sleeping around the clock the first day was the trick in keeping the effects of jet lag at bay.

Coming to his feet, he walked into the bathroom, stripped bare and stepped into the shower stall. Turning on the faucets and adjusting the water temperature, he soaped his body with a shower gel anchored on a built-in shelf. Jason had surprised his parents when he’d announced that he’d bought property in Oregon near the Cascades on which he’d built a sprawling house he dubbed Serenity West. It was where he spent four to six months each year writing and recording new music. This year was different because he’d delayed traveling to the Pacific Northwest for two months.

Once his father had relinquished the day-to-day operation of Serenity Records, an independent recording label, to Jason and his twin sister, he and Ana had continued the trend of discovering new and innovative musical talent. Ana handled contracts and all legal negotiations, while he worked behind the scenes as the artistic musical director writing, recording and editing music.

Usually he left Florida the beginning of June, but when Ana had gone into hiding, it had become Jason’s responsibility to run the company. Once they had discovered there was a mole at Serenity passing information to a rival record company, he’d closed the office, relocating it from a high-rise office building to a freestanding structure outfitted with the latest high-tech surveillance equipment. He’d contracted with a security company to install cameras inside and around the perimeter of the building to monitor everyone coming and/or leaving. All employees were vetted, given electronic badges to swipe in and out, even if they went to their cars in the parking lot for any reason. The tight security was necessary to ensure the safety of everyone associated with the company.

Jason wanted to believe the threat against Ana and Serenity Records ended with Basil Irvine’s untimely death from a massive heart attack, but something wouldn’t permit him to relax completely. The public was led to believe the CEO of Slow Wyne Records was only thirty-nine, but his death certificate indicated he was forty-three. If he’d hidden his age, then what else had the deceased concealed?

Jason raised his head, allowing the water to flow over his face and body. The gurgling sound coming from his belly reminded him that it had been more than twelve hours since his last meal. As soon as the jet landed, he planned to eat, then go directly to sleep. Turning off the shower, he opened the shower door and reached for a thick towel from a supply on a nearby table. By the time he’d changed into a pair of laundered jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, matching thick cotton socks and Timberland boots, the Fasten Seat Belt light chimed throughout the aircraft.

Jason made his way back to the main cabin. The flight attendant had repositioned the bed into a seat. He sat, fastened his seat belt and shared a smile with Carrie-Ann who’d taken her seat outside the cockpit door. She was one of two permanent flight attendants on the ColeDiz International Ltd. payroll, along with three full-time pilots. There was an unwritten rule that anyone claiming Cole blood was forbidden to fly commercial carriers. The edict was instituted more than forty years ago when, as a child, Regina Cole Spencer had been kidnapped and held for ransom, before she was rescued and found unharmed by her uncle and a close family friend.

Flying in the corporate jet suited Jason’s laid-back persona. He abhorred crowds or being jostled as passengers crowded around the gate once their flight was announced. He also liked the fact that he could travel light and didn’t have to go through airport screening. All he needed was a carry-on with toiletries and a change of clothes. The closets in his Serenity West home were filled with everything he would need to dress casually, attend a formal affair or a sporting event.

Whenever he settled into a routine at Serenity West, Jason loathed returning to Florida. He was more than content to live in Oregon writing and recording music, while someone else assumed the role as musical director for Serenity Records. He’d spoken to one of his cousins about coming to work for the record company, but Graham had yet to make a decision whether he would leave ColeDiz International Ltd., the privately-held, family-owned conglomerate. Graham had complained to Jason that Diego, CEO of ColeDiz, was a hard taskmaster and he preferred a more relaxing workplace atmosphere.

The sound that the landing gear was activated echoed throughout the cabin as the jet began its landing. Jason smiled when he caught a glimpse of Mount Hood’s snow-covered peaks, and he chided himself for not learning to ski. However, growing up in the Sunshine State didn’t lend itself to cold-weather sports. Within minutes the plane touched down smoothly on a private runway, coming to a stop several hundred feet from a gated area with parked vehicles. Waiting until Carrie-Ann opened the hatch and pressed a button for the stairs to descend, Jason unbuckled his seat belt, reached for his carry-on and prepared to disembark. He thanked the flight crew, took the stairs and walked across the tarmac to where the rental company had parked the Range Rover he’d requested.

He didn’t own a car outright, preferring instead to rent whether in Florida or Oregon. His family teased him constantly about his unpretentious lifestyle. He had his own apartment in the expansive Boca Raton mansion where he’d grown up; preferred jeans, T-shirts and running shoes for his work attire; and spent most of his free time either in the recording studio at the record company or in his parents’ home-based recording studio. He dated occasionally, but hadn’t had a serious relationship in more than two years. Jason was comfortable with his lifestyle because he was in complete control of his own destiny; he was independently wealthy and that was something the majority of those in their early thirties weren’t able to claim. He made his way over to a booth where a man sat watching his approach. Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he handed the stoic-looking armed guard his driver’s license. After typing his name and license number into a computer, the man handed him a set of keys to the Range Rover.

Jason’s belly made rumbling noises again as he maneuvered out of the parking area, following the signs indicating the airport exit. Glancing at the dashboard, he noted the time. It was 3:55 p.m. Pacific Time, while his body was still in the Eastern Time Zone. Accelerating into the flow of traffic along the interstate, Jason realized he would make it to Mission Grove in time for the start of Stella’s dinner hour.

Touching a button on the steering wheel, he turned on the satellite radio, tuning it to a station featuring blues. His fingertips kept tempo on the leather-wrapped steering wheel as the gravelly voiced vocalist belted out a rousing rendition of “Sweet Home Chicago.” Driving along the Columbia River highway, Jason lost himself in the music as the landscape changed from skyscrapers to scenic towns nestled in valleys with dense forests making a continuous curtain of green. There were magnificent gorges and breathtaking views of mountain lakes. The sight of Mount Hood never failed to make him catch his breath.

There was something about the natural untamed beauty of this part of the country that made Jason feel as if he’d been reborn, a blank slate where he could selectively choose what he wanted to do, remember or avoid.

The road sign for Mission Grove came into view and within minutes he drove over the single lane road and into the town with a population of 3,956. There had been a time when the population boasted nearly six thousand inhabitants when logging camps sprang up at the height of the logging boom. Now it had become a haven for fishermen, hikers, skiers and retirees and those whose European ancestors came to the Pacific Northwest as traders and settlers in the late-eighteenth century.

Stella’s, an enormous log-hewed building, was erected in a clearing with parking for at least sixty vehicles and overlooked a lake bordered by towering pine trees. Picnic tables and benches were set on a grassy area for those wishing to eat outdoors. There were a number of signs warning diners not to leave food on the tables or on the ground because it would attract bears and other woodland creatures.

Jason pulled into a space between two pickup trucks and cut off the engine. It was a few minutes after five and the lot was half-filled. He walked into Stella’s and was met with a plethora of mouthwatering aromas. He hadn’t taken more than three steps when he stopped short, staring at a young woman in jeans, running shoes, white shirt and matching apron tied around her waist as she leaned over a man seated at a table, her face pressed close to his. At first Jason thought she was going to kiss the diner until he noticed the color of his face. It had gone from bright red to purple. The three other men sharing the table stared mutely, their eyes widening in shock.

It ended when she stood up straight, glaring at him. “Touch me again and I’ll castrate you.” Her voice carried easily in the expansive space. She turned on her heel and walked away with a sensual sway of slender hips. Guffaws of laughter followed her retreat, while the seemingly hapless victim’s chest rose and fell as he struggled to regain what was left of his dignity.

Jason couldn’t stop the smile stealing its way over his features when he realized what had just occurred. Some men had to learn the hard way that women didn’t like to be touched without permission. His gaze swept around the restaurant for an empty table, then spied one with a lone diner. He was fewer than five feet away when the deeply tanned man with shaggy gray-flecked brown hair stood up, hoary-gray eyes widening in surprise.

“I see you haven’t lost your edge,” Jason said quietly.

Chase Bromleigh pulled Jason into a bear hug that threatened to bruise his ribs. “How the hell are you? You told me you were coming two months ago. What did you do? Walk from Florida?”

Attractive lines fanned out around Jason’s gold-flecked eyes as he smiled. “I had a family situation.”

Chase dropped his arms. “And we’re about to have another situation. Bobby doesn’t look too happy.”

A deafening silence descended over Stella’s as six-foot-four, two-hundred-fifty-pound Bobby Henry made a beeline to the table where the customer had harassed his waitress. First the man was sitting, then he was up and running, heading for the door before Bobby could reach him.

The ex-Green Beret folded huge arms over his chest, blue eyes flashing dangerously as lights from hanging fixtures reflected off his shaved pate. “I’ve said it once and I’ll just say it one more time.” His baritone voice carried easily in the hushed silence. “Anyone harassing my niece will have to deal with me. And I promise to tune you up where you wish you’d never taken your first breath.” Reaching behind his back, he pulled out an expandable baton, tapping it against the palm of his large hand. “Do I make myself understood?” There were nods and a few whispered yeses. “Good. Now enjoy your dinner.”

Jason sat down across from Chase. “It looks as if Bobby’s niece can take care of herself.”

Chase nodded. “I’m certain she can if she threatened to castrate the poor man.”

Jason’s gaze shifted to the woman in question when she returned with a tray hoisted on her right shoulder. He didn’t know why, but there was something about her that reminded him of his mother. Perhaps it was the color of her hair or the shape of her eyes. That’s where the similarities ended because she was at least four or five inches taller than Serena Cole.

“When did she start working here?” he asked Chase.

“I assume you’re talking about Greer.”

“If that’s her name, then of course I’m talking about her.”

Chase leaned closer, studying the expression of the talented musician and record producer. “Her name is Greer Evans and she’s just getting over a rather nasty divorce, so if I were you, I’d keep my distance.”

Jason met Chase’s eyes. “I came here to write music not get involved with a woman.”

“Isn’t it time you get involved with a woman?”

“I’ll get involved with one when you do the same, friend.”

Slumping back in his chair, Chase held his head at an angle. “I’m not the marrying kind. Women have accused me of being too moody, and I happen to like coming and going without having to check in with someone.”

Jason stared at the man who owned a home in the same gated community where he’d built Serenity West. Charles, or Chase as he preferred to distinguish himself from his father, was the first to welcome him to the exclusive neighborhood in the Hood River Valley. Like Jason, Chase was born into wealth, but kept a low profile when he’d disappear for months and then reappear as if time had stood still. Although two years his senior, it was difficult to pinpoint Chase’s actual age by looking at him. Tall, rawboned with a network of fine lines around his gray eyes and with finely honed reflexes, he projected an air of danger that kept most people at a distance.

Jason nodded in agreement. “I hear you. Speaking hypothetically. Suppose I had a girlfriend in Florida. Do you think she would go along with me living three thousand miles away for months at a time?”

“She would if she loved you enough.”

“Yeah, right,” Jason quipped, smiling. “Maybe it would work a couple times, but after a while she’d probably accuse me of having another woman to keep me company when I’m not with her.”

Chase picked up a glass of beer, draining it. “Women. We can’t live with them, and we can’t live without them.”

Jason wanted to tell his friend to speak for himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women because he did. He didn’t have a steady girlfriend, but what he did have was a very jealous mistress: music and the two were like oil and water. They did not mix.

Chapter 3

Greer spooned a generous portion of fluffy mashed potatoes onto a heavy cafeteria-style dinner plate. She added two thick slices of meat loaf, along with peas and carrots, and then ladled au jus gravy over the meat and potatoes. Reaching for a pair of tongs, she placed a generous serving of corn bread on a separate dish. It had been exactly two weeks since she’d come to Mission Grove to work in her uncle’s restaurant. During that time, she’d learned to ignore the gawking, and occasional crude overtures from some of the men, but what she refused to ignore was being groped. She gave her uncle a sidelong glance as he carved a golden-brown turkey.

“You’ve posted signs warning your customers about carrying concealed handguns, bringing in open bottles of beer and liquor, and not serving alcohol to anyone under the age of twenty-three. What you also need is a sign prohibiting customers from groping the help.”

“It’s not going to happen again.” Bobby’s voice had taken on a hard edge. “The next man who puts his hands on you will be barred from coming here, but that’s only after I kick his ass.”

Greer rested the warmed plate on the towel looped over her forearm. “I don’t need you getting arrested for assault.”

Bobby snorted loudly. “The sheriff and I were in Nam together, so I doubt if I’ll get arrested.”

“So it’s like that, Uncle Bobby?”

He winked at her. “You’ve got that right. Folks around here have asked me to run for mayor, but I have no patience for politics—or should I say poli-tricks.”

She returned the wink. “I’ll be back for the turkey.”

Greer shouldered her way through the swinging door, heading for the table with Chase Bromleigh’s order. She had come to know many of the regulars and Chase was one. He came to Stella’s Tuesday and Wednesday for dinner, always ordering the day’s special.

Chase was one of two men she’d placed on her mental watch list; the night before when she’d stepped out to get some air, Greer had observed Chase exchanging a package with a biker in the parking lot. It had been too dark to see what he’d given the other person. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions and say either he or the man were dealing guns or drugs. Even if she couldn’t recognize the biker’s face, she was more than familiar with the make and model of his bike. Unfortunately she hadn’t seen it again parked in the lot. At no time could she forget that she was on the job. The only difference was, this time, it would be as an observer. Becoming an observer was akin to a civilian informant. She would observe, while eavesdropping and gathering information, which data she would eventually pass along to the Seattle office.

She was relieved not to have to go undercover in Mission Grove. After her involvement with a group purchasing guns in Virginia and transporting them along I-95 to gangs and drug dealers in Philadelphia, New Jersey and New York, Greer didn’t want to repeat that scene less than a year later. Then, she’d been Jaylee Roseboro, supposed stepdaughter of undercover DEA drug trafficker Malcolm Kelly. She had made the drive once a week, each time in a different car, the stash of weapons hidden in a compartment under the trunk. If she’d been stopped by turnpike police, she would’ve given them her boss’s name and number, but that wasn’t possible because at no time had she ever been in the vehicle by herself. The man supplying the guns always had one of his men accompany her as insurance so she wouldn’t be tempted to take off with his merchandise. She delivered the guns, while her tagalong partner picked up the money. It was the supplier’s way of having them watch one another. His mantra was “Deliver the goods and come back with my money or else I’ll hunt you down and kill you, but not before I kill someone in your family.”

It had taken Greer nearly two years to gather enough information for the U.S. Attorney to issue warrants for the gun smuggling ring that netted six men and two women. She was rounded up with the others, processed and held without bond in protective custody for several days. The day before she and the others were scheduled for arraignment, jail officials announced she’d hung herself in her cell. Greer was whisked away under the cover of darkness to a safe house; she removed the contact lenses, false teeth, braided extensions and began a strict diet to lose the twenty pounds she’d gained while undercover. Indulging in a spree of eating fast food had wrecked her regimen of healthy eating. She was reassigned to a desk in a field office in Phoenix, becoming a glorified clerk.

Relocating to the Pacific Northwest was as different as night was from day when she compared the geography of the Southwest to the rugged untamed forests and the majestic splendor of Mount Hood. Waking up in the bedroom she’d occupied during her childhood summer vacations was like stepping back in time when she’d slept with the windows open because there was hardly ever a need for air-conditioning.

She had the entire two-story house to herself. Bobby claimed he could no longer stay there since losing his wife of nearly forty years. He now lived in one of the two apartments above Stella’s. The other apartment was occupied by an Iraq War veteran recovering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Bobby had hired Danny Poe to clean the restaurant and stock the bar and kitchen pantry. Danny, who was undergoing counseling, usually kept to himself, spoke when spoken to and accomplished his chores in record time.

Stella’s had begun as a family restaurant, but over the years it was also a sports bar and a favorite hangout for locals, college students and tourists. It opened six days a week from noon to three for lunch and five to nine for dinner; buffet-style dining was available only on Thursday, Friday and Saturday, with the kitchen closing at midnight. Sundays from ten to three featured a country-style buffet and table-service dinner until eight.

Thursday nights were set aside for karaoke when the number of customers increased appreciably with those wanting to showcase their vocal talent, while a live band provided entertainment on Friday and Saturday nights. If Greer had grown bored sitting at a desk, the same couldn’t be said when she found herself on her feet waitressing.

Maggie Shepherd, a single mother with two school-age children, worked the lunch shift, while Greer assumed the responsibility for serving dinner along with two college students who came in Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

Greer set the plates down in front of Chase, her eyes meeting those of the man seated opposite him. A slight frown creased her smooth forehead before she caught herself staring. She’d recognized Chase’s dining partner. What is Jason Cole doing in Stella’s? she mused.

She’d seen enough photographs and television footage of the recording executive to recognize him immediately. Although he’d been identified as a music industry celebrity, he’d managed to maintain a low profile without hordes of paparazzi shadowing his every move. Questions swirled inside Greer’s head as she wondered what was his connection to the man she had on her mental radar?

Forcing a smile, she angled her head. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Chase?” she asked the taciturn man who usually dined alone.

Chase stared at the plate of food, then glanced up at Greer. “Nothing for me, but I’d like you to get my friend a beer.”

Reaching into the pocket of her apron, she took out a pen and a pad. “Good evening, sir. Would you like to order something to go with the beer?”

A slow smile found its way across Jason’s face, dimples deepening in both cheeks. Greer didn’t know why, but she found the expression to be more of a leer than a smile. Curbing the urge to roll her eyes at him, she wanted to tell him she wasn’t one of his adoring groupies, ready and willing to do anything to get him to spend time with them. What she had to admit was that he was pretty, an adjective she rarely attributed to a man. However, his patrician features, deeply tanned olive complexion and large brown eyes with pinpoints of gold were mesmerizing.

Jason’s smile grew wider as he pointed to Chase’s plate. “I’ll have what he’s having, but I don’t want the peas and carrots. What other vegetables do you have?”

Greer held his steady gaze. “Beets, spinach, smothered cabbage and—”

“I’ll have the spinach,” Jason said, interrupting her.

She slipped the pad and pen back into the apron pocket. “Do want corn bread?”

“Yes.”

Turning on her heel, Greer walked over to the bar to put in the beverage order. There were only eight patrons at the bar, while the bartender stood motionless watching ESPN. Of the five flat-screen televisions in the restaurant, three were always tuned to sports channels, one to an all-news channel and the remaining on the weather channel. They were muted but displayed closed captions.

“Pepper, I need a tap beer and a glass of water.”

Jimmy Pepperdine turned around, reached for a Pilsner glass and filled it with beer from the tap. A self-proclaimed hippie, Jimmy’s arms were covered in colorful peace sign tattoos and the names of the musicians who’d performed at Woodstock. He wore his graying hair in a long ponytail, with small gold hoops in his earlobes.

“It looks as if it’s going to be a slow night at the bar,” Pepper drawled.

“It’s still early. By the time we close, they’ll be standing two deep.”

The bartender nodded. “Yeah, but I get antsy just standing around.”

Pepper was antsy but Greer welcomed the lull. Those who sat at the bar didn’t yet nibble on pretzels and peanuts usually ordered from the kitchen. She picked up the two glasses, returning to the table and placing them on coasters advertising a popular imported beer. She headed for the kitchen, nearly colliding with the college student who was more than an hour late. Her uncle was usually easygoing with his employees; the exception was lateness. She overheard the young man tell Bobby his brother had taken his car without his knowledge and he’d run out of gas. Greer didn’t hear her uncle’s response as she busied herself filling orders.

The grandfather clock near the entrance chimed a half hour past ten as Bobby closed and locked the front door after the last two customers were reminded it was after closing time. Greer flopped down at a table, slipped out of her running shoes and wrapped both hands around the mug filled with hazelnut-flavored cappuccino. She took a sip, and wiggled her sock-covered toes. “This is delicious.”

Bobby sat down opposite Greer. “Pepper is the best when it comes to mixing drinks and brewing coffee.”

Greer peered over the mug, watching Danny as he stacked chairs atop tables before sweeping and mopping the tiled floor. “Did Pepper serve in Vietnam?”

“Why are you asking?”

Her gaze shifted to Bobby. “I figured him for a conscientious objector because of his peace tats.”

Bobby ran a forefinger around the rim of a snifter of Jack Daniels. “He went to Nam like most guys our age, but when he came back, he joined Vietnam Veterans Against the War, got arrested a few times, dropped out of sight for at least twenty years, then one day he showed up here looking for work.”

Greer laughed softly. “What are you running? A halfway house for wounded veterans?”

“Don’t knock the military, kid. It saved my life. I graduated high school, enrolled in college and started cutting classes. I was ready to drop out when my advisor talked me into joining the ROTC, and as they say, the rest is history. What I needed was structure and discipline, and the military was the answer. I probably would’ve become a lifer if I hadn’t met your aunt. Stella wasn’t cut out to be an army wife, so after I finished my last tour, I put in my papers and never looked back. We each worked two jobs for a couple years to save up enough money to buy this restaurant. It was nothing more than a shell, but Stella saw its potential. Every year we put aside half the profits to make renovations, and thankfully she was able to witness what she had envisioned for her namesake before she passed away.”

Greer nodded. The restaurant’s rustic exterior belied its interior. Track lighting over the raised band area and the bar, hanging Tiffany-style fixtures over each table and a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace taking up an entire wall invited patrons to come and stay awhile. A large colorful jukebox blared old-school rock-and-roll, blues, country and Pop. A pool table, dartboard and mechanical bull occupied another section of the expansive restaurant/sports bar with a dining capacity for 130.

“You’ve done well, Uncle Bobby.”

Reaching across the table, Bobby held Greer’s now-free hand. “This place is going to be yours once I decide to hang up my apron and spatula.”

“That’s not going to be for a long, long time,” she countered. Her aunt had promised Greer that the restaurant would be hers once she and Bobby retired. Every summer Greer watched Stella carefully as she prepared the dishes that perpetuated Stella’s reputation of serving the best homemade food in the region. Greer had become a good cook, but it could take years before her skills would come close to matching her uncle and late aunt’s.

“It may not be that long, kid. I’d told myself I would retire at seventy, but my knees are telling me they won’t last that long.” He held up a hand. “I know I need to lose at least fifty pounds but that’s not going to happen as long as I hang out in the kitchen.”

Greer took another sip of coffee. “I’d love to help you cook, but I have to...”

“I know why you’re here, Greer, and it’s not to be my sous-chef because I already have one,” Bobby said when her words trailed off.

“How often does Jason Cole come here?” she asked, deftly changing the topic of conversation.

“He usually hangs out here for several months, then goes back to Florida. Every once in a while he’ll sit in with the band playing piano or guitar.”

“How tight is he with Chase?”

Bobby shrugged broad shoulders as he tossed back the liquid in his glass. “They both live in Bear Ridge Estates, so that would make them neighbors. Why are you asking?”

It was Greer’s turn to shrug her shoulders. “Just asking.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “You had to have a reason, Greer.”

If her uncle had been cleared as to her assignment, then she was somewhat obligated to be forthcoming with him. “There’s something about Chase that disturbs me,” she whispered.

“I don’t think you have to worry about him. He comes from money, so I doubt if he would be involved in anything illegal. Folks say he’s angry because he has no purpose or direction in life except to exist.”

“Boo hoo,” Greer drawled. “We should all have that problem. My heart doesn’t bleed for him, Uncle Bobby,” she added sarcastically.

“What would you do if you suddenly found you were wealthy beyond your wildest imagination?”

She sobered quickly. “That’s not going to happen, and if I did come into a lot of money, I’d put in for a leave of absence, then go to some private tropical island and do absolutely nothing but eat, drink, swim and sleep for at least three months.”

Bobby nodded. “That’s what I intend to do when I retire. What I have to decide is whether I want Hawaii or the Caribbean. Speaking of Chase, he’s an interesting character. And once you get to know Jason, you’ll realize he’s an all-around nice guy.”

“Why did he build a place here in Mission Grove? Wouldn’t L.A. be more his style?”

“Jason’s the antithesis of Tinseltown. He built a nice little house on an eight-acre parcel that sold for more money than some people make in two or three years. It’s not as ostentatious as a few of the others. I overheard someone say it’s somewhere around five thousand square feet.”

“How large are the others?” Greer asked. In her opinion five thousand square feet was definitely not a little house.

“Anywhere from ten to fifteen thousand.”

She scrunched up her nose. “Unless you have a tribe of children, what would you need with fifteen thousand square feet of living space?”

“I wouldn’t know. When Stella and I bought our house, we’d planned to have at least two kids, but I suppose the good Lord knew what He was doing when He didn’t give us any with both of us working around the clock.”

Reaching across the table, Greer patted his forearm. “He did give you kids, even if it was only part-time. You have me and Cooper.”

Bobby grasped her hand, pressing a kiss on her knuckles. “That He did.” A wry grin twisted his mouth. “I loved taking you and your brother camping in the woods, teaching you guys how to fly-fish and shoot. Cooper was always pissed off because you were a better shot.”

“He eventually got over it after he joined the bureau.”

Greer’s thoughts drifted back to Jason. She wanted to ask her uncle, if Jason was really a nice guy, then what was his connection to Chase? She found it odd that Chase never shared his table, and only on a rare occasion did he sit and talk with anyone for any appreciable length of time.

“I’m going to call it a night. After I soak my feet, I’m going straight to bed,” Greer said.

Standing up, she kissed Bobby’s cheek, and then walked on sock-covered feet to the kitchen, leaving the mug in the stainless-steel sink for Danny to put in the dishwasher.

Returning to the table to put her shoes back on with a groan, she exited the building and headed to Bobby’s vehicle, on loan to her for as long as she was here.

All thoughts, of Chase, Jason and why she was working in Stella’s, faded as she started up the ancient truck. The engine to Johnny B. Goode II roared to life, shattering the quiet of the night. The year she had turned fifteen, Bobby had taught her to drive. He’d bought the 1956 Ford F-100 from a farmer and named it after his favorite Chuck Berry song. Greer had stalled out a number of times until learning to ease off the clutch slowly while depressing the gas pedal. The classic truck had a rebuilt engine and was fitted with power disc brakes. It sported a new coat of red paint, and black leather seats had replaced the tattered cloth ones.

She preferred a standard shift car to an automatic because it forced her to concentrate on the narrow road winding around the lake. Several times each year a motorist would speed, fall asleep or miss a sharp turn and end up in the lake. Fortunately there were few that drowned. She passed the sign leading to Bear Ridge Estates, noting the gatehouse and towering massive iron gates protecting the residents living in the exclusive community with multimillion-dollar homes.

She still couldn’t shake her nagging suspicion that Charles “Chase” Bromleigh was more than a ne’er-do-well that didn’t have to concern himself working as a nine-to-fiver. He wouldn’t be the first wealthy psychopath that embarked on a life of crime, and if her instincts were right, then Greer knew—in order to get close to Chase—she would have to befriend Jason. And she had the perfect secret that was certain to get Jason’s attention.

Maneuvering into the driveway of the house that had become her temporary home, Greer punched a button on the visor of the pickup and the automatic door to the two-car garage slid up. She parked beside an outboard motor boat resting on a trailer. The boat, also named Johnny B. Goode, was several years older than the pickup, and she had lost track of the number of times she and Cooper would take the boat across the lake to Stella’s before either of them had driver’s licenses. Bobby had issued a firm mandate that they wear life vests when riding in the boat although they’d become proficient swimmers.

She unlocked the door leading from the garage into a mudroom, disarmed the security system, then activated it again before slipping out of her running shoes and leaving them on a thick straw mat. It was time she traded the running shoes for a pair of shoes that gave her legs the support needed for her to be on her feet for hours at a time.

The moment Greer climbed the staircase to the second floor, she knew why her uncle had decided not to continue to live at the house with awesome views of the lake and valley. It was too quiet. Even now that her aunt was gone, her presence lingered along with the scent of her favorite perfume.

Greer had programmed the lights in the house to come on and go off at different intervals, giving the appearance that it wasn’t unoccupied. The crime rate in Mission Grove wasn’t what it would be in a more densely populated area, but there was enough criminal activity to warrant having a four-man police force. There had been a time when the small town was patrolled by the county sheriff, but that had changed once the residents of Bear Ridge demanded more of a police presence and were willing to underwrite the cost of having around-the-clock police protection beyond what they paid for private security. Anyone, other than residents, entering or leaving was subject to go through a security checkpoint.

Greer turned on the water in the bathroom, added a generous amount of scented bath salts and stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a large wicker hamper. By the time she’d brushed her teeth and washed her face, the water had reached the level she needed for a leisurely soak. Removing the elastic band holding her hair in a ponytail, she combed it out and secured the chemically relaxed strands in a topknot.

All thoughts of why she was in a small Oregon town faded when she stepped into the warm water, sat down and closed her eyes. The water cooled and Greer still did not stir. It was when she found herself falling asleep that she picked up a sponge and a bottle of bath gel and soaped her neck and shoulders.

Her movements were slow, mechanical, when she finished bathing. Wrapping a thick bath sheet around her body, she returned to her bedroom and fell across the bed. Within minutes she’d fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Chapter 4

Jason woke at three the following morning, but forced himself to remain in bed. He fell asleep once more and didn’t wake again until daylight came in through the bedroom skylights. He knew his first day would be spent settling into Serenity West. He had to be up and dressed by nine. He’d contacted a cleaning service before leaving Florida to send a team to dust and air out the entire house.

His to-do list also included shopping for groceries to stock the refrigerator/freezer and pantry. Jason was as deficient when it came to housecleaning as he was proficient in writing music. He’d continued the tradition of Cole men whose mothers had taught them to cook so they wouldn’t have to rely on a woman to feed them. He knew it would take another day before he’d get into the routine of rising and going into the studio.

Going up on an elbow, he glanced around the bedroom. He’d lingered long enough the night before to remove dustcovers from tables, chairs, the armoire, triple dresser and highboy. Jason had worked closely with the architect that his interior decorator aunt had recommended, and it’d taken more than three months before he had finally approved the house’s design.

He wanted a house that would fit into the forest setting. It was to be constructed from a log-timber frame, with a broad sheltering roof and using lots of natural materials. The design brought the upper and lower decks close to a forested area, and the generous overhangs kept rain off the windows while protecting the siding and foundation. The lower level was an open gallery of rooms, the media center separate from the primary family living space and the recording studio accessible by a stairway leading to the basement level.

His cell chimed a familiar ring tone. Reaching across his body, Jason picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mrs. Jones.”

Ana’s giggles came through the earpiece. “Good morning, Jay. How are you?”

Jason smiled. “Wonderful.”

“I’m calling because Mom claims she hasn’t heard from you.”

His smile vanished quickly. “Tell your mother that I’m okay.”

“I’m not going to act as a go-between—”

“But you are, Ana,” Jason accused his twin sister, “when you accuse me of not checking in. I shouldn’t have to tell you how old I am because we share the same birthday, and at thirty-three, I don’t believe I should have to check in with my mother. You never did when you went away.”

There came a beat of silence. “It’s because I didn’t live at home at thirty-three. Within months of graduating law school, I moved out and got my own place, while you’re still living at home. It’s about respect, Jason. Mom didn’t even know you were gone until she spoke to Diego who told her that you’d made arrangements with him to fly to the west coast. You could’ve left a note.”

Jason ran a hand over his cropped hair. He knew Ana was right. And it was because he still lived under his parents’ roof that his mother felt he was obligated to let her know if he planned to be away for a while. All of his siblings had moved out in their twenties, and he’d stayed much too long. Recalling what Chase had said the night before—about not having a wife monitoring his coming and going—brought everything into focus.

“I’ll call her, Ana, and let her know that I’m okay.”

Jason knew his mother’s apprehension came from the alleged feud between Serenity and Slow Wyne Records because Ana had won the bidding war to sign singing phenom Justin Glover. Basil Irvine, humiliated because he’d lost to a woman, had taken a contract out on his rival. The assassin hired to kill Ana had missed his target. Tyler Cole had taken a bullet to the head intended for Ana. Fortunately Tyler recovered, and Ana had gone into hiding where she’d married her protector.

“Thanks, Jay. Mom hasn’t been herself since we discovered one of our employees was spying for Slow Wyne Records.”

Jason nodded although Ana couldn’t see him. “That’s over, Ana.”

“Is it really?”

He heard the apprehension in her voice. “Of course it is. Basil’s six feet under, so he can’t bother anyone again.”

The carefully orchestrated plan to take out the CEO of the L.A.-based record label was reminiscent of a plot from a cold war spy novel. The operative was in and out of Basil’s palatial Beverly Hills mansion in fewer than twenty minutes, having never been seen. Basil’s houseboy discovered his boss’s lifeless body. He called Basil’s brother and then the LAPD. The medical examiner’s report confirmed Basil had died from a massive coronary, attributing it to a combination of alcohol and antianxiety medication. Basil’s younger brother Webb had assumed control of the label and, unlike the deceased CEO, had elected to stay out of the spotlight.

Jason chatted with Ana for another two minutes before ending the call. He touched the cell’s screen for his mother’s number, holding the phone away from his ear when she launched into a tirade about how his disappearing act was hastening her demise.

Waiting for a pause in the ranting on the other end of the line, he said in a calming voice, “Mom. I’ve never known you to be so melodramatic.” His attempt to placate Serena backfired when she switched from English to Spanish, the words tumbling over one another. His mother was born in the States, but raised in Costa Rica after her mother had married a Costa Rican government official. Jason heard his father in the background asking his wife to calm down. Jason was tempted to hang up when David’s voice came through the earpiece.

“What did you say that set your mother off? She’s hysterical.”

“Dad, come on. You know how she is nowadays.”

“No, I don’t know how she is,” David countered defensively. “All I know is my wife and your mother is having an emotional meltdown.”

Jason repeated the conversation he’d had with Ana. “It’s apparent your wife and my mother is under the impression that I’m a child who has to check in as if I were on work release. Would it make her feel better if I wore an ankle monitor?”

There came a beat. “Jason, I want you to try and understand where your mother is coming from. We came very close to losing Tyler, when we all know that bullet was meant for Ana. This is the second time Martin and Parris have found their children’s lives at risk, and that is a situation no parent should have to experience.”

“What does this have to do with me, Dad?”

“I want you to be careful, son. We may have chopped off the head of the snake, but this snake is different because it has the uncanny ability to grow another head. One that belongs to Webb Irvine. One of Simon’s investigators found a witness who claims it was Basil and not Webb who’d stomped a man to death. Meanwhile Webb did a term for his older brother because, as a fifteen-year-old, he knew he would be sent to a juvenile facility rather than jail.”

“But Webb did go to jail,” Jason argued. The man had spent ten years in a California minimum security prison.

“That was only after he’d turned eighteen. There had been bad blood between Basil and Leon Burke because Leon owed him money, but the situation got worse when Webb got Leon’s thirteen-year-old sister pregnant, then denied the baby was his. Leon extracted revenge when he cut up Webb’s face. Basil retaliated by kicking him to death.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jason asked his father. “Basil’s dead and I doubt if Webb is going to follow in his brother’s footsteps.”

“I doubt it, too. But this is not about Slow Wyne Records. It’s about your mother. She’s earned the right to worry about you because she is your mother.”

Jason exhaled an audible breath. “Okay. I’ll give her that, but she can’t expect—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” David interrupted, “and I agree with you. You’re an adult, and you shouldn’t have to check in. Just promise me you’ll be careful, and I’ll make things right on this end.”

“I’ll be careful, Dad.” He’d say anything not to prolong the conversation.

Jason wasn’t argumentative by nature, eschewed confrontation and occasionally stepped in as the mediator during a family conflict. Unlike his older brother Gabriel, Jason never ingratiated himself into his sisters’ romantic relationships. The only love-related advice he’d given his siblings was not to get involved with anyone in the music business. Fortunately they’d heeded his warning. Alexandra had married a man who worked for the CIA, and Ana had recently married a U.S. marshal.

“Thanks, Jason.”

“No problem, Dad.”

He ended the call, shaking his head. Jason could not have imagined his day would begin with family drama. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken off without letting his parents know where he was going. If they’d wanted to know his whereabouts, then they only had to ask Ana. But things had changed because Ana and her husband divided their weekends between Boca Raton and the Keys.

Jason had come to Mission Grove to get away from the chaos, madness and mayhem that had everyone in his family on edge for the past three months. All he wanted to do was go into the studio and write the music that had haunted him for more than a year. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he headed for the bathroom. He planned to be dressed by the time the cleaning service arrived.

Los Angeles, California

Webb Irvine came to his feet when the man he’d waited days to see was ushered into his home office. He hadn’t known what to expect but it wasn’t the pale, slightly built, seemingly emaciated man wearing small oval sunglasses, making it impossible to discern the color of his eyes. His gaze went from the shaved head, narrow face and down to an ill-fitting black suit. It was impossible to pinpoint his age. He could’ve been anywhere between thirty and fifty. Webb smiled and the network of scar tissue along his left cheek was reminiscent of blisters. What had been a shockingly handsome face was now hideously deformed.

He nodded to the woman whom he’d come to depend upon to keep his household running smoothly and to covet his innermost secrets; she was his mother. “Thank you, Donna,” he said softly. “And will you please close the door.”

It wasn’t until after the death of his brother that Webb had asked her to come and live with him. At first she’d balked, then relented. After all there was more than enough room in the Hollywood Hills mansion for them not to run into each other. Webb had fired his former housekeeper because she was a snoop. The woman didn’t know he’d installed cameras throughout the house, and every night before retiring for bed, he’d view the footage. At first he’d believed it was a fluke and that she was just straightening up his desk, but when he saw her attempting to open the wall safe behind a painting, he knew he had to fire her. His mother could care less about his business dealings. She was grateful he’d moved her out of Watts to an upscale community where the price for homes started at seven figures.

Webb took his visitor’s extended hand and then gestured to two facing off-white leather love seats. “Please sit down, Mr. Monk.”

“It’s just Monk, Mr. Irvine.”

Waiting until the man was seated, he walked over to a well-stocked bar. “Would you like something to drink, Monk?”

“No, thank you. I just celebrated my sixteenth year of sobriety.” He lifted a frightfully thin hand. “It won’t bother me if you have something.”

Webb smiled again. “Congratulations on your sobriety.”

He hadn’t outlined what he wanted from Monk, but the fact that the man had agreed to meet with him would warrant a celebratory cocktail after he left. Opening the built-in refrigerator, he took out a bottle of sparkling water and poured it into a crystal glass. Sitting opposite Monk, he raised the glass in a salute. “I want to thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

Monk wanted to tell the man with the scarred face that he’d only agreed to come in person because Webb Irvine had been recommended by a mutual friend. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll let you know whether it can be done.”

“Are you familiar with Serenity Records?”

Monk nodded. “I’ve heard of them.”

Putting the glass to his mouth, Webb took a deep swallow. “They’re my direct competition and...”

“And you want them eliminated,” Monk said, reading Webb’s mind.

Crossing his legs, the president and CEO of Slow Wyne Records stared at the toe of his imported slip-on. “I think I better give you some background information on my dilemma. My late brother hired someone to eliminate Ana Cole. She’s responsible for the day-to-day operation of Serenity.” He paused long enough to take another sip of water. “Basil hired a sniper to take her out, but they missed and shot one of her relatives.”

“That was his first dumb mistake,” Monk drawled. “If you want to eliminate someone, you get up real close and personal and put a bullet in her head.”

Webb gritted his teeth. He wanted to tell the man in black that he shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but he didn’t want to alienate him. Not when he was prepared to pay him an obscene amount of money to give Basil in death what he wasn’t able to obtain in life.

“You can’t go after her again,” Monk continued.

“I know. That’s why we’ve shifted our attention to her brother. His name is Jason Cole.”

“Where does he live?”

“Boca Raton, Florida. We had someone on the inside at Serenity that told us he still lives in his parents’ home, but mentioned he may have a place in either Washington or Oregon.”

“Did this person tell you which city?”

Webb shook his head. “No. She’s no longer working there.”

Monk rested his hands on his knees. “Tell me about this Jason. Is he married? Does he have a girlfriend or children?”

“I believe he’s single. I’m not certain whether he has a girlfriend, and I doubt if he has children.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s easy enough to find out about his kids.”

“If he has kids, then I don’t want them touched.” Webb didn’t know how, but he could feel the heat of Monk’s gaze behind the dark lenses.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, Mr. Irvine, but I don’t kill children. If Jason has children, then it would make him more visible. After all, children have to go to school. I will eliminate your Mr. Cole using my own methods. You’ve been told that my fee is half down and the other half when the job is completed. Once I pick up my final payment, you will never see me again.”

The sweep hand on Webb’s gold timepiece made a full revolution before he asked, “What if you don’t complete the job?”

Bloodless thin lips parted in a feral grin. “I’ve never started something I didn’t finish. But if I don’t, barring divine intervention, then you’ll be out a half million dollars.” Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Monk took out a cell phone, placing it on the love seat cushion. “This phone will be our only contact until the job is done. I’ll call to give you updates. If you don’t pick up, then I’ll call again because I don’t believe in leaving voice mails or texting.”

“If I miss the call, then I’ll just call you back,” Webb said.

Monk shook his head. “You won’t be able to call me because I’ve blocked all outgoing calls. Once we conclude our business arrangement, the phone will be deactivated. You’re in security, so I know you’re familiar with burn phones.” Monk flicked his wrist, glancing at his watch. “I don’t want to be rude but I must leave. My taxi is waiting and the meter is running.”

Webb stood and walked over to his desk. He picked up a large expandable pleated envelope, handing it to Monk. Earlier that afternoon he’d opened the safe and counted out five hundred thousand dollars in hundreds and fifties. He normally wouldn’t have had more than ten thousand dollars in the safe, but that was before Basil passed away.

When Basil’s houseboy had called to say he’d discovered the lifeless body of his boss sitting in a chair in his home office, Webb had rushed to the Beverly Hills’ mansion and emptied the safe. He didn’t own a counting machine, so it’d taken him almost three days to tally more than six million dollars in cash. Basil had drawn up a will, leaving Webb everything: house, cars, jewelry, money in several personal bank accounts and Slow Wyne Records. He now was the head of two companies. Slow Wyne and a security company selling high-tech surveillance equipment.

Webb had contacted his former cellmate to ask if he knew someone to help him with a personal problem. Ian Scott had spoken to his father, a shadowy man with ties to organized crime. Mr. Scott had quoted a figure and Webb had agreed. He would’ve paid any amount of money in order to bring down Serenity Records.

Monk gave him a warm smile for the first time. “Thank you. There’s no need for your mother to see me out. I know the way.”

“How did you—”

“How do I know that your housekeeper is your mother?” Monk asked, reading Webb’s mind.

He nodded numbly. “Yes.”

“Do you actually believe I’d meet with you in person if I didn’t check you out, Mr. Irvine? I know everything about you, and I do mean everything. You have a good evening.”

Webb waited a full five minutes and then returned to the refrigerator for a split of champagne. The pop of the cork echoed softly in the meticulously furnished home office. He’d spared no expense when it came to decorating his home. For Webb the house, personal tailor and on-call driver were surrogates for what he reviled most. He hated the opposite sex. It was because of a girl’s lie and his denial that her brother had disfigured his face. It was Basil who’d exacted revenge for the mutilation, and Webb had repaid him by Webb confessing that he’d killed his assailant, pleading self-defense when Basil would’ve been charged with second-degree murder.

He heard movement and turned to find his mother staring at him. Donna Gibson hadn’t passed her surname or any of her physical characteristics along to her sons. Both looked like the men who’d gotten her pregnant.

“How did it go?” Donna asked.

Webb filled two flutes with the bubbly liquid. “Good.” He handed her a flute, smiling when their eyes met. “Now we wait.”

Chapter 5

Mission Grove

Jason knew he’d remained cloistered much too long when he opened the refrigerator to discover he’d run out of milk. It was apparent he’d drunk more café con leche than usual. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. Where had the day gone? It was after seven.

Scratching his bearded cheeks, he decided he was ready to leave the house. He didn’t want to believe he’d been in Mission Grove for ten days, and in all that time, he’d ventured out once. He’d driven into town to shop for enough groceries to stock the freezer and pantry for at least a month, and it was time he replenish the perishables.

Time had stood still for him once he descended the staircase to the studio. He’d spent hours writing music, stopping only to take power naps, eat, drink copious cups of coffee liberally laced with milk and sugar, return emails, shower and change his clothes. He’d been in the zone composing pieces that were different from what he’d written before. They weren’t for the artists signed to Serenity Records or any other producer wishing to pick them up for their label. It was for himself. The instrumental reflected his present state of mind. It was moody, atmospheric, otherworldly. His bare feet were silent as he walked across the kitchen to the staircase at the rear of the house. It was time to shave off the beard and end his self-isolation.

* * *

Jason found enough space in the parking lot to park the Range Rover next to a Volkswagen Beetle. It was Thursday and Stella’s would probably be filled to capacity. An unlimited buffet and karaoke drew regulars and wannabe singers like bees to flowers.

He preferred eating at Stella’s rather than many of the upscale Portland restaurants. He liked the home-style dishes and the laid-back atmosphere that beckoned customers to come in and stay for leisurely casual dining. Tuesday and Wednesdays catered to family dining with table service and the rest of the week offered a buffet with choices of main dishes, soups, salads and desserts.

He was always a curious spectator on Karaoke Night. Some of the performers could barely carry a tune, and those who could occasionally flubbed the lyrics. There had been a young teenage boy with an amazing vocal range, but when Jason had approached him asking him to make a demo tape for Serenity, the kid had claimed his parents were totally against him singing secular music. He’d been one of the rare finds whose talent would thrive in the Christian music market.

Jason waited in line to pay the fixed price for the all-you-can-eat buffet first. Drinks from the bar were not included in the price. Thereafter he wended his way through the throng, while searching the crowd for Chase. Smiling, he spied his friend at a table with several members of the house band. The drummer waved him over. Jason shook hands with each of the men at the table. They were a motley-looking group, having unkempt beards and eschewed haircuts, and favored multiple piercings and tattoos. However, their appearance did little to belie their talent.

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Doug, the lead vocalist and guitarist.

Jason’s dimples deepened in his clean-shaven face when he flashed a broad smile. “Sorry about that, but I got caught up writing.”

Doug waved to a waiter, pointing to the empty pitcher on the table, then putting up two fingers. “Can you pull yourself away for a few hours on Fridays and Saturdays?” he asked Jason. “The band needs you because we just lost our keyboard player and female vocalist. They ran off to Vegas and got married because she got tired of being his baby mama.”

“It’s about time he did something noble,” Chase mumbled under his breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to begin Karaoke Night,” boomed the MC’s voice through the speakers set up around the restaurant. All conversations halted. Dressed in a red top hat, matching silk shirt with checkerboard suspenders, black knickers, argyle knee socks and a pair of oversize bright yellow shoes, he strutted across the stage like an inebriated clown. He stopped, reached into the pocket of his knickers and put on a large red clown nose. The restaurant exploded in laughter. “For those of you who are here for the first time, let me to introduce myself. I’m MC Oakie. If I look different tonight, it is because I’m going to change it up a bit. We’ll have singing, and maybe we’ll be able to get in a little dancing. Right now I’m going to ask the waitstaff to stop what they’re doing and come up on the stage.” He beckoned to Greer. “Come on up, Greer. Your uncle will not fire you if you take a five-minute break.”

Jason couldn’t pull his gaze off Greer as she walked up the steps to the stage, the other waiters following. She looked different tonight. Her hair was a mass of tiny curls that bounced around her shoulders and framed her incredibly beautiful brown face. He was sitting close enough to notice the light cover of makeup that accentuated her eyes and lush mouth. Chase had mentioned she’d gone through a contentious divorce yet, looking at her, she radiated poise and confidence. Jason smiled. She’d changed her running shoes for a pair of red clogs.

MC Oakie took off his hat, cradling it against his chest. “Every week I watch you guys lip-synching with your customers. Tonight I’m going to flip the script because it’s your turn to entertain everyone and no lip-synching.” Hooting and whistling followed the announcement. He bowed low. “Ladies, you’ll be first. Think about what you’d like to sing because you’re not going to know when I’m going to call your name. You may leave the stage now.”

* * *

The increasing heat in Greer’s face had nothing to do with the overhead spotlights. She wanted to pull off MC Oakie’s red nose for putting her and the others on the spot. He was right about lip-synching because she was guilty as charged. She enjoyed singing in the shower and also when cooking and cleaning the house. She’d been one of those little girls that used a hairbrush as her microphone. She’d also sung in the school choir from grade school through college. Her mother had accused her of choosing the wrong career path but Greer knew she didn’t have the temperament to go into the music business.

Walking off the stage, she returned to the bar to fill beverage orders. Immediately after her aunt had passed away, business at the restaurant had decreased appreciably because there were days when Bobby refused to get out of bed. Greer had taken time off to fly to the West Coast and have an in-depth conversation with Bobby, pleading with him not to let Stella’s dream die with her. His comeback was that there was no Stella’s without his wife. It took a while, but Greer had convinced her uncle to restructure, incorporating family-style dining with activities that would attract a more diverse crowd. The result was two days for table service and four days for buffet dining.

Also her uncle had resisted raising his prices when everything was going up. Thankfully he owned the building outright so, instead of mortgage payments, he only had to pay property taxes. Karaoke night always brought in new customers who would eventually become regulars, and hiring the live band had reestablished Stella’s popularity. Greer picked up two pitchers of beer, mulling over which song she would sing.

* * *

Jason really didn’t want to commit to sitting in with the band because it meant rehearsals and playing four-hour sets on Fridays and Saturdays, but the band had willingly performed as session players whenever he had needed driving, funky baseline tracks.

“I...” His words trailed off when he saw Bobby’s niece approach their table with a pitcher of beer in each hand. Their eyes met when she set them on the table. Reaching into the pocket of his slacks, he withdrew a money clip and handed her a large bill.

“Put your money away, Jason,” Chase ordered. “I’ve got this round.”

Grasping Greer’s hand, Jason gently squeezed her fingers. “Take it and keep the change.” Pushing back his chair, he stood. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to get something to eat. And, Doug, you’ve got yourself a keyboard player.” Agreeing to sit in with the band was a no-brainer, but getting to see Bobby’s niece two nights a week was an added bonus. He wasn’t certain what it was about her that drew him, but he wasn’t going to dwell on that.

There hadn’t been so many women in his life that he hadn’t been able to recall their names or faces. However, none of them were willing to take a backseat to his music. His last relationship had ended when a woman he really liked had complained that she didn’t see him enough. Writing and editing music and working long hours with temperamental singers didn’t lend itself to a nine-to-five workday.

Jason likened his lifestyle to the wind. It could change direction at any time. There was no pressure for him to marry and give his parents grandchildren. His brother, Gabriel, and sister Alexandra had fulfilled that obligation. Ana and Jacob had decided to wait until their six-month anniversary before starting a family. No one was more surprised than Jason once his twin announced she didn’t want to end her marriage of convenience to Jacob Jones. The man who’d appointed himself her protector had become her lover, husband and life partner.

Picking up a plate, Jason moved along the buffet station, selecting baked chicken, dirty rice and collard greens with pieces of smoked turkey. He viewed the dessert section, eying a sweet potato casserole with a pecan crust. He’d never been one to favor dessert, but as a born and bred Southern man, he loved sweet potatoes. Moving over to the beverage section, he filled a glass with sweet tea.

By the time Jason returned to his table, karaoke had begun in earnest. One young woman with waist-length extensions belted out “Proud Mary,” while her two backup dancers gyrated as Ikettes. He enjoyed the dance moves more than the vocals. An elderly man, supporting himself on a cane, had to be lifted onto the stage. He sang an incredible rendition of Louis Armstrong’s version of “Hello Dolly.” Everyone stood and applauded him as he bowed before someone physically lifted him off the stage.

MC Oakie applauded along with the others. “Good people, I’d like to call Stella’s own Greer Evans to the stage.” An eerie hush fell over the assembly as she made her way to the stage. Oakie dropped an arm over her shoulders. “Have you selected your song?”

She nodded. “I’m going to sing ‘And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going’ from Dreamgirls.” She took the microphone and waited for the musical lead-in and lyrics to appear on the screen.

Jason felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up the moment Greer opened her mouth. If he hadn’t been there in person, he would’ve sworn it was Jennifer Hudson singing the heartfelt torch song, along with superb acting that had earned her an Oscar.

Doug whispered a curse under his breath. “I had no idea she could blow like that. I’m going to ask her to sing with the band.”

Doug wanted Greer to sing with a local band of musicians who, although extremely talented, still hadn’t made it big. Their only recording credits were on records produced by Serenity. Jason witnessed in Greer what he and Ana had recognized in Justin Glover. It was untapped raw talent. The song ended to stunned silence. Seconds later Jason found himself on his feet, applauding and whistling through his teeth. She was magnificent!

Greer stepped off the stage, eyes downcast as she walked quickly in the direction of the kitchen. She smiled at Bobby who shook his head in amazement. He extended his arms, and she moved into his strong embrace. “You were great.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest, listening to the slow, steady beats of his heart. “You’re biased.”

Bobby dropped a kiss on her hair. “Damn straight. You sing as well as my Stella. I used to love to listen to the two of you singing whenever you cooked together.”

“Do you know that I still cook and sing?” Greer had stopped trying to understand why her aunt’s quirks and idiosyncrasies had influenced her more than her mother’s. Perhaps it was because her mother was a scientist and only dealt in what could be proven so that Greer had found her aunt’s lifestyle much more offbeat and exciting.

Easing back, Bobby cradled her face. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Going on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “So am I.”

At no time since she’d come to Mission Grove had Greer forgotten why she was working at the restaurant. She wasn’t here to reconnect with her uncle or old-timers who’d watched her grow up. Someone was selling guns to those who couldn’t pass the background check. Every two hours she took a break, lingering in the parking lot to observe those coming and going. Charles Bromleigh was still the only name on her list of suspects. He came to Stella’s a minimum of four of the six days they were open for business. Chase always sat at the same table, ordered the day’s special or took advantage of the buffet Thursdays through Saturday. Tap beer was his drink of choice, with never more than two glasses on any given day. Despite his taciturn demeanor he was generous when it came to tipping. Most of the restaurant patrons avoided him as if he carried a communicable disease. The exception was Jason Cole.

She patted Bobby’s shoulder. “I better check the buffet trays. It looks as if the dim sum, pot sticker dumplings, spring rolls and barbecue spareribs are a big hit tonight.” Greer’s favorite was the steamed dumplings filled with chicken, pork or prawns.

Her uncle had hired an assistant cook whose mother’s ancestry was traced back several generations to Western China. Although they’d intermarried and assimilated, the women in Andrew’s family continued to prepare the dishes that had been passed down from great-grandmother to grandmother to mother to daughter.

Greer walked out of the kitchen as Andrew walked in through the opposite swinging door carrying an empty tray. He winked at her. “Great job.”

She smiled at the slender blond man with sparkling hazel eyes who had legions of young women chasing him. What they hadn’t known was Andrew was in a committed relationship with a much older woman.

“Thank you. What needs replenishing?”

“Nothing right now.”

She returned to the dining floor, picking up discarded plates and flatware, and stacking them in a large plastic bin for the waiters who did double duty as busboys and dishwashers on buffet nights. Greer acknowledged those with a smile and a nod whenever they complimented her singing.

“Yo, miss. Over here!”

She turned and made her way to a table with six young men, some who didn’t look old enough to shave. “Yes.”

One with a five-o’clock shadow held a twenty dollar bill between his fingers. “I’d like to order a pitcher of beer.”

Resting her hands at her waist, Greer gave him a direct stare. “I have to see some ID. You must be twenty-three to be served alcohol.”

“Isn’t the legal drinking age twenty-one?”

“It is.”

“Then what’s the deal?” he asked.

“The deal is I can’t serve you alcohol unless you’re twenty-three.” She smiled when he tucked the bill into his shirt pocket. “There is unlimited soda, tea and fruit punch.” Greer turned around so they wouldn’t see her smile, running headlong into Jason. She almost lost her balance but he managed to steady her, his hands going to her shoulders. Standing so close to him made her aware that he was very tall. She was five-seven but he had to be at least three or four inches over the six-foot mark. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I should be the one apologizing,” Jason countered.

Why, Greer thought, hadn’t she noticed his slow, drawling speech pattern that identified him as someone who’d grown up in the South? His voice was deep and soothing at the same time. He also smelled wonderful. His cologne was a combination of musk, sandalwood and a hint of bergamot. It was as intoxicating as its wearer.

“Is there something I can get you?” she asked quickly, recovering her physical and emotional equilibrium.

Jason handed her a folded napkin. “I’d like you to call me.”

Greer glanced at his name and a number on the paper, recognizing the Florida area code. She continued to stare at the napkin rather than let him see the delight shimmering in her eyes. Jason had made the first overture, which eliminated her need to concoct a ruse to come on to him.

“Why?” she asked, not wanting to appear too eager that the record producer had approached her.

“I’d like to discuss some business with you.”

She looked up at him. “You want to talk business? What happened to your business card, Mr. Cole?”

Jason looked sheepish. “I didn’t think I’d need them tonight. I could always go home and bring some back with me.”

Greer saw people watching them instead of directing their attention to the stage where a quartet harmonized a Boyz II Men classic. “Please follow me.” She led him down a narrow hallway to an Employees Only door, stepping out into the cool late-summer night. Stopping, she turned to face Jason. The light over the door illuminated the area where Dumpsters were labeled Garbage, Paper, Plastic and Glass. Bobby was pedantic when it came to recycling.

Crossing her arms under her breasts, Greer angled her head. “What type of business did you want to discuss?”

Jason didn’t want to believe Greer wanted to carry on a conversation surrounded by Dumpsters. He wrinkled his nose. “Is there someplace else we can talk without smelling garbage?”

Greer shook her head. “I’m sorry, but this is the only place where we can talk without someone eavesdropping.”

“Okay, then I’ll make this quick. I’d like to make a tape of you singing several songs.”

“As in a record?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

Pushing both hands into the pockets of his slacks, Jason gave her an incredible stare. “Has anyone told you that you have a remarkable voice?”

Greer shook her head. “No,” she admitted truthfully. She’d been told she had a good voice, but not a remarkable one.

“Well, you do.”

“Because you say so?” she asked.

“No,” Jason countered. “Because I know so. You have perfect pitch.”

Greer paused, stalling for time because she had to make him believe she was wary that he’d approached her. “How do I know if I can trust you? I’ve heard too many stories about men offering women—”

“Stop it, Greer,” he interrupted. “I’ve never taken advantage of any woman and I happen to have too much respect for Bobby to mess over you.”

She decided on another approach. “Let me think about it, and then I’ll call you.”

Jason smiled. “Thank you.”

She returned his smile, silently admiring the dimples creasing his cheeks. “You’re welcome. Hold on,” Greer urged when Jason reached for the door handle. “I have to unlock it.” She hadn’t yet put the key into the lock when the door opened. Danny stood in the doorway gripping a black plastic bag.

He stared at her. “Sorry. I didn’t know you...”

“It’s all right, Danny. We were just coming in.” Jason’s arm circled her waist as the ex-Marine continued to stare at her.

“Is he your man?”

A beat passed as she replayed the totally unexpected question in her head. Jason wasn’t her man, and if he was, then what was it to Danny? Something about the way he was looking at her was off-putting, and Greer wondered if he was experiencing a flashback.

* * *

Jason didn’t know if Greer and the man she’d called Danny were previously involved with each other, then remembered Chase’s comment about her going through a nasty divorce; he doubted whether she would continue to work with a man to whom she’d once been married.

“Yes, I am her man,” he stated firmly.

The tension-filled moment passed as a half smile lifted a corner of Danny’s mouth. “That’s good. She needs someone to take care of her.”

“Thank you,” Jason drawled. “I’ll make certain to always take care of her.”

Danny extended his free hand. “Danny Poe.”

Jason had to drop his arm to shake hands. “Jason Cole.”

Greer rested her hand on Jason’s back, feeling his body’s warmth through the cotton shirt. “I have to get back before Bobby comes looking for me.” The mention of her uncle’s name galvanized Danny into action as he headed for the Dumpsters.

“Is he all right?” Jason whispered in her ear as they reentered the restaurant.

Going on tiptoe, Greer pressed her mouth to his ear. “Iraq.”

He laced their fingers together. “Is he in therapy?”

She nodded. “I really have to get back. And I promise to call you.”

Jason leaned against the wall, watching the seductive sway of Greer’s hips in a pair of fitted jeans as she walked away. He didn’t know why he’d admitted to Danny he would take care of Greer because that wasn’t even a remote possibility. She didn’t need a protector when she had Bobby Henry.

He followed Greer, losing sight of her in the crowded restaurant. People were up on their feet singing and fist pumping to Flo Rida’s megahit “Wild One.” A woman grabbed his hand, leading him to a space where the tables were pushed back. Jason found himself caught up in the infectious rhythm as he danced with the petite buxom blonde. Dancing had reminded Jason of how long it’d been since he’d been to a club. Earlier that year he’d dated a woman living in Miami. She had professed to be a certified party girl, and after two months of nonstop partying, Jason was forced to break it off. Their weekends began Friday nights and didn’t end until Sunday morning. He’d been so sleep deprived it had taken several months for him to reestablish a normal sleep pattern.

The song ended and he managed to escape the woman’s clutches, making a beeline toward the exit. He left Stella’s, driving to an all-night mini-mart where he bought milk, eggs, butter and bread. As he drove back home, he thought about how his best-laid plans had suddenly changed. He was now a member of a local band, and he hoped Greer would honor her promise and call him.

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