It had been so long since she’d felt safe, even longer since she’d felt desire.

What was she thinking? How could she be doing this? Making love with a stranger!

Gasping, Melanie pulled away, tugged her robe tightly around her and eased away from Gabriel. His eyes were glazed and confused as he looked at her.

“I—I’m sorry. That was my fault.”

Melanie rose from the sofa on wobbly knees. “You have to promise that it won’t happen again. If it does, I’ll leave.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, but she shook her head. “Promise me.”

Eyes narrowed, he pressed his lips tightly together. “Fine.”

She relaxed then, drew a deep breath and turned to leave the room.

“Melanie.”

She hesitated at the base of the stairs and looked over her shoulder.

“I lied.” He stared at her, the light of the fire dancing in his dark eyes. “I’m not sorry about kissing you.”

Dear Reader,

What is there to say besides, “The wait is over!” Yes, it’s true. Chance Mackenzie’s story is here at last. A Game of Chance, by inimitable New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard, is everything you’ve ever dreamed it could be: exciting, suspenseful, and so darn sexy you’re going to need to turn the air-conditioning down a few more notches! In Sunny Miller, Chance meets his match—in every way. Don’t miss a single fabulous page.

The twentieth-anniversary thrills don’t end there, though. A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY continues with Undercover Bride, by Kylie Brant. This book is proof that things aren’t always what they seem, because Rachel’s groom, Caleb Carpenter, has secrets…secrets that could break—or win—her heart. Blade’s Lady, by Fiona Brand, features another of her to-die-for heroes, and a heroine who’s known him—in her dreams—for years. Linda Howard calls this author “a keeper,” and she’s right. Barbara McCauley’s SECRETS! miniseries has been incredibly popular in Silhouette Desire, and now it moves over to Intimate Moments with Gabriel’s Honor, about a heroine on the run with her son and the irresistible man who becomes her protector. Pat Warren is back with The Lawman and the Lady, full of suspense and emotion in just the right proportions. Finally, Leann Harris returns with Shotgun Bride, about a pregnant heroine forced to seek safety—and marriage—with the father of her unborn child.

And as if all that isn’t enough, come back next month for more excitement—including the next installment of A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY and the in-line return of our wonderful continuity, 36 HOURS.

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Gabriel’s Honor
Barbara McCauley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my husband, Frank—I love you.

BARBARA MCCAULEY

was born and raised in California and has spent a good portion of her life exploring the mountains, beaches and deserts so abundant there. The youngest of five children, she grew up in a small house, and her only chance for a moment alone was to sneak into the backyard with a book and quietly hide away.

With two children of her own now and a busy household, she still finds herself slipping away to enjoy a good novel. A daydreamer and incurable romantic, she says writing has fulfilled her most incredible dream of all—breathing life into the people in her mind and making them real. She has one loud and demanding Amazon parrot named Fred and a German shepherd named Max. When she can manage the time, she loves to sink her hands into fresh-turned soil and make things grow.

Contents

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 1

The Victorian farmhouse sat quietly in the darkness at the end of the quarter-mile-long gravel driveway. The house was two-story, Cape Cod blue, though the clapboard siding hadn’t seen the wet end of a paint-brush for at least twenty years. A chill touched the night air like an icy hand; light from a half-moon shone down on the roof, which was missing more shingles than a professional hockey team was missing front teeth. The porch steps were a broken leg waiting to happen, and tall, spiky weeds choked what might have once been daisies in the dried-up front flower bed.

Gabriel Sinclair stood on the porch of the old house and frowned at the locked front door. It had been a long time since he’d broken into a house. Fifteen years, to be exact. He’d been twenty years old at the time, on a clandestine mission with his three younger brothers. Gabe had been appointed lookout while Callan waited in the getaway truck; Reese, the youngest at fifteen, found the open window, and Lucian, the most daring Sinclair—and only seventeen at the time—slipped inside Lucy Greenwood’s bedroom window and snatched a pair of her hot pink satin underwear.

By the end of that night, all eight Bloomfield County High School cheerleaders had found themselves minus one pair of panties. The Sinclair brothers were brought into the sheriff’s station and questioned, but later released due to lack of evidence. There’d been no proof, but everyone in town knew that the Sinclair boys were to blame. Who else would have even attempted—let alone pulled off—such a nefarious plan?

He smiled. Those were the days.

Gabe’s smile slowly faded as he remembered the lecture that his parents had given all four of their sons that night. What he wouldn’t give to hear one of those lectures now, Gabe thought. To see his father grim-faced and stern, dragging his callused carpenter’s hand through his coal-black hair while he paced back and forth in front of his sons, and his mother standing quietly by, shaking her pretty blond head.

Damn, but he missed them. Missed his mother’s soft laugh and her warm chocolate-chip cookies. Missed his father’s quiet nod of approval for a job well-done, hot Sunday afternoons and a family game of horseshoes in the backyard.

With a heavy sigh, Gabe turned his attention back to the problem at hand: finding a way into the house.

He jiggled the tarnished brass front doorknob one more time, but it was definitely locked tight and dead bolted. He let the rusted screen door squeak loudly shut, then moved to the front windows. They were latched, as well.

Damn.

I’ll leave the front door open, his sister, Cara, had told him earlier. If you can work up a rough list of necessary repairs and meet me at the tavern tonight, I’ll make dinner next Sunday, your choice.

Since most of Gabe’s bachelor-pad dinners were takeout, microwaved or sandwiches from his brother Reese’s tavern in town, the idea of a home-cooked meal was entirely too tempting to pass up. His mouth was already watering from the menu he’d picked out: A big, juicy roast, fluffy mashed potatoes smothered in butter and hot gravy, melt-in-your-mouth biscuits like their mom used to make every Sunday. And then Cara’s supreme specialty—apple pie.

Inspired by the image of food, Gabe hurried around to the back of the house, made a mental note to check the overhead door on the detached garage. He didn’t even think that Mildred Witherspoon—the home’s now deceased owner—had a car, so Gabe assumed that the garage door would also be in need of maintenance.

Behind the garage, cornfields leased out and tended by a neighboring farmer rustled in the chilly night breeze, and Gabe paused for a moment to listen to the calming sound. He and his brothers had played in the cornfields by their house when they were kids; hide-and-seek, soldier, cowboys and Indians. When he was twelve, he’d kissed Linda Green in those cornfields. Linda was married with three kids now.

Smiling, Gabe shook his head at the memory, then jumped up the steps of the back porch and tried the door. It was locked, as well. And dead bolted.

So were all the windows on the bottom floor.

Strange.

Gabe frowned. Mildred Witherspoon certainly had believed in sturdy locks. Which was odd, because very few people in Bloomfield County ever locked their doors. Crime was practically nonexistent in the quiet town, unless you counted jaywalking or an occasional speeding ticket on the open highway crime.

Or panty-raids, Gabe thought with a smile.

But Mildred would definitely have been safe from that infraction of the law. She’d been ninety-two when she quietly passed away in her sleep two weeks ago. A stoic, straitlaced woman whose manner was as Victorian as her house. When Mildred’s lawyer had read her will, it had been a surprise to everyone when they learned that the elderly woman had left her farmhouse and all of its contents to the Killian Shawnessy Foundation, an organization to help women in need. Cara was vice president of the foundation, her husband, Killian Shawnessy, was president.

The funds from the sale of the house and its contents would be well-used by the organization. Gabe had already promised a donation of labor from Sinclair Construction, the now five-year-old construction company that he and Callan and Lucian were partners in, but Cara needed some figures ASAP on the cost of materials for repairs.

So here he was, standing in the dark, hands in his pockets, locked out.

He looked up at the second-story windows.

The Sinclairs never gave up without a fight. They thrived on challenges, laughed in the face of adversity. And we’re talking apple pie here, folks, Gabe thought with a fresh burst of determination. Cara’s apple pie was definitely worth a few scrapes and bruises.

Muttering curses, Gabe climbed the front porch railing, held his breath at the crack of wood, then grabbed hold of the edge of the porch roof. With a grunt, he pulled himself up and crawled carefully to a second-story window where he yanked on the weathered screen. It held tight. He yanked harder. When it came loose, it slammed into his face and sliced across his cheek. He swore hotly and tossed the screen aside, then reached for the window.

It was open.

With a shout of male victory, he climbed through the open window into what appeared to be a large bedroom. In the darkness, he could almost make out a four-poster bed and a nightstand with a lamp on it. The room was musty, but Gabe also caught the faint scent of something feminine and floral. Probably sachet or potpourri, he thought, though this scent was much more pleasant than the frilly lace balls that Sheila Harper, his last girlfriend, had tucked into every drawer and closet of her house. When she’d asked him to move in with her, all he could think about was his shirts and socks smelling like a damn perfume counter. Knowing that Sheila was looking for much more than a roommate, Gabe had cooled that relationship faster than she could say “wedding ring.”

Not that he was against marriage. As long as it was someone else who did the marrying. His brother Callan had recently succumbed to the institution of matrimony, and his sister, Cara, had also gotten married a few months before Callan. The family was steadily growing, and he had no doubt that soon they’d be hearing the patter of little feet.

But Gabe was perfectly content with his life just as it was: single, no complications. Free as a bird. Socks and T-shirts that smelled like detergent, not flowers, thank you very much. And he was also content for the patter of little feet to be nieces and nephews. In fact, he looked forward to it.

He was reaching for the lamp’s switch when he heard the squeak of floorboards in the hallway outside the bedroom. He froze, then slowly turned toward the door and listened.

Footsteps?

The house was quiet around him; the only sound was the hoot of an owl from the trees outside. He waited, but there was only silence. Shaking his head, he turned back to the lamp.

And stopped.

There it was again. Not as loud as before, but he heard it clearly—the unmistakable creak of a wood floor. Then another.

The house was supposed to be empty. Mildred Witherspoon had lived alone, she’d had no children and had never been married. Her lawyer had searched for family members following the reading of the will, just in case some long-lost nephew or cousin had suddenly turned up, crying their eyes out over poor old Aunt Mildred, who they were certain wanted to leave them all her earthly possessions.

But the search had turned up nothing, and it seemed that Miss Witherspoon had indeed been completely alone. Which meant that if someone was in the house, they most certainly didn’t belong here.

He moved soundlessly toward the closed bedroom door, opened it carefully.

Squeak. Quiet. Squeak. Quiet.

They moved slowly down the stairs.

“Whoever you are,” Gabe said firmly, and his voice echoed in the house, “stop right where you are.”

The house went absolutely still, as if it had stopped breathing. Then the footsteps resumed, only this time at a run.

Dammit.

Gabe dashed into the dark hallway, made out the dim outline of the stairs to the left and ran toward them. He reached the top of the landing at the same instant his quarry hit the bottom. Gabe barely caught a glimpse of the intruder before he disappeared around the corner.

“Dammit, stop!”

Stumbling and cursing, he took the stairs three at a time, hit the bottom and rounded the corner into the dining room.

And stopped short when a fist slammed into his gut.

The punch lacked power, but the surprise took his breath away. His assailant had already turned and was running away when Gabe leaped after him and caught his legs in a flying tackle. They both went facedown on the hardwood floor in a tangle of arms and legs. A dining-room chair turned over and landed with a crash in the dark room, then a small table went on its side and the clatter of metal on wood rang out.

When an elbow smashed into Gabe’s nose, he swore fiercely, then wrestled his attacker’s arms behind his back and pinned them there. There was plenty of fight, but no bulk to the guy, no muscle, and he was considerably shorter than Gabe’s own six-four frame. A teenager? he wondered and shifted his weight so he wouldn’t hurt the kid.

“Let go of me!”

Gabe went still at the sound of the furious, but distinctly feminine voice.

A woman?

She squirmed underneath him, and with him lying on top of her, her rounded bottom wiggled against his lower regions.

Oh, yes, definitely a woman.

Her legs were long, he realized, her body and arms slender, but firm. And though it was subtle, she smelled like a spring bouquet. The same scent he’d caught a whiff of upstairs.

“I said, let go of me.” She spit each word out with such venom, Gabe was surprised he didn’t see sparks fly with every syllable.

She started to struggle again, but he held her arms tightly, as much to protect himself against another elbow in his face as to give them both a moment to calm down.

“As soon as you relax,” he said, and she countered with a quick thrust of her body that almost knocked him sideways. When he tightened the pressure on her wrists—small, delicate wrists, he noted—she sucked in a sharp, deep breath, then went still, her breathing heavy and strained.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, easing his hold on her. “Okay, I’m going to let you up now, slowly. I don’t want to hurt you, but—”

“Please don’t hurt my mommy.”

Gabe froze at the sound of the tiny, frightened voice that came from a dark corner of the dining room. He felt the breath shudder out from the woman underneath him, heard her small choked-back sob.

A woman and a child? Hiding in the darkness in an empty house? What the hell was going on?

“I’m not going to hurt your mommy,” Gabe said softly to the child as he released the woman. “She just surprised me, that’s all.”

He stood, then reached down and took hold of her arm to help her up, but she shook off his touch and moved quickly into the shadowed corner of the room to join the small figure huddled there.

“It’s all right, baby,” Gabe heard her say. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

They stood there, all three of them, without speaking, letting the darkness smooth a quiet hand over the tension. Gabe drew in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I’m going to turn on a light now. Are you going to run again?”

A long pause. “No.”

He didn’t believe her for an instant. He kept his gaze on the shadows as he ran his hand along the wall by the doorway, found the switch and flipped it on.

Light from a crystal chandelier poured into the room, but it still seemed dark. Dark wood paneling, dark green drapes, cherry wood dining-room table and buffet. The room had all the cheerfulness of a cave.

Wearing a long-sleeved, black turtleneck sweater and black jeans, and with hair the deep brown color of sable, the woman would have completely blended into the shadows of the room if not for her pale face and wide, thickly lashed eyes. For one brief moment, his gaze rested on her lips: wide, curved, slightly parted.

Damn, he thought, then quickly shook off the twist in his gut.

She stood in the corner, her shoulders stiff and straight, with her child behind her. He guessed her age to be somewhere in her mid-to-late-twenties. Her wary gaze lifted to his and held, and he could see that she indeed wanted to run, was merely waiting for the opportunity.

He moved between the two doorways in the room, effectively blocking her, but carefully keeping his distance.

“Who are you?” she demanded suddenly, catching him off guard. “What are you doing here?”

Gabe lifted one dark brow. “Funny, that’s what I was just going to ask you.”

“I’m a friend of Miss Witherspoon’s.” Her chin went up. “She was expecting my son and me.”

Gabe glanced down and watched a sandy-blond head peek out from behind the woman’s legs. Short, stubby fingers clutched tightly onto her slender thighs. Four or five, Gabe guessed the kid’s age.

Gabe looked back at the woman. “I didn’t see a car out front.”

“I parked it in the garage out back,” she said, placing a hand on the side of her son’s head. “I needed the overhead light to unload.”

Maybe, Gabe thought. Maybe not. He looked back up at the woman. “When?”

Her brow furrowed. “When what?”

“When was Miss Witherspoon expecting you?”

“Oh.” She blinked quickly. “Well, actually, we weren’t due to arrive until Friday, but I didn’t think she’d mind if we were a couple of days early. It seems, however, that she’s away at the moment.”

That was an understatement, Gabe thought.

“I didn’t think she’d mind if we waited for her,” she added. “The last time we spoke, she was looking forward to our arrival.”

The woman’s voice was smooth, Gabe noted, with rich, deep tones, still a little breathless from their scuffling. “When did you speak with Miss Witherspoon last?” he asked.

“When did I speak with her?” she repeated hesitantly. “I’m not sure. Several days ago. Maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday. But I really don’t see what business that is of yours.”

“And that was last week, you say?”

“Give or take a day or two.” Her eyes flashed as she shook her thick, dark hair away from her face. “Look, I don’t appreciate your attitude. My son and I are invited guests here, and you’re the one who broke in and frightened us half to death.”

There was some truth in the woman’s words, Gabe believed. But there were lies, as well. Especially the part about speaking with Miss Witherspoon the previous week. That would have been quite a conversation, considering she’d died two weeks ago.

But anyone who knew Mildred Witherspoon, also knew that the woman had never, in the ninety-two years she’d lived in the town, ever, invited anyone into her home. Other than the monthly meetings and Sunday services she attended, Mildred had tucked herself away as tightly as the bun on top of her head.

Which most certainly meant that the woman standing ten feet away from him was lying through her pretty white teeth.

“Look, mister, it’s been a long day.” The strain was apparent in the woman’s thin voice and the tight press of her lips. “My son and I are tired. If Miss Witherspoon is out of town, then I’ll just leave her a note and we’ll be on our way in the morning.”

He supposed he could just let it go, let her stay here with her child without questioning her. He seriously doubted that she’d come here to steal anything, or that Mildred Witherspoon even had anything worth stealing. What did he care if this woman stayed here and was on her way in the morning? Who was he to begrudge her a night’s stay in an empty house?

But there was something in her eyes, something beyond the wary defiance. Something as quiet as it was fierce. Something desperate. And whatever that something was, it closed around him like a fist and squeezed.

Dammit, Gabe, just walk away.

Lord knew he didn’t need or want any complications in his life. He should just do what he came here to do, then turn around, walk out the front door and go to Reese’s tavern where he could toss back a beer or two. Not think about the frightened look in this woman’s eyes. She’d be gone in the morning, and they could both forget they’d ever seen each other.

That’s what he should do.

But he couldn’t, dammit. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t.

“Miss Witherspoon died two weeks ago,” he said evenly. “Now do you want to try it again and tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”

Her breathing seemed to stop, and her eyes closed with what appeared to be genuine concern. She drew in a slow, shaky breath, then opened her eyes again.

“How?” she asked quietly.

“She just went to sleep and didn’t wake up,” Gabe replied. “We should all be so lucky at ninety-two.”

“She seemed so much younger on the phone,” the woman said thoughtfully. “So full of life.”

“That’s one way to describe her,” Gabe replied. He could think of several other descriptions he’d keep to himself.

“I’m sorry about Miss Witherspoon,” the woman said abruptly, then straightened her shoulders. “And since it now appears that we’re imposing, my son and I will be on our way.”

She reached behind her, took her son’s small hand in her own and started for the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Come on, sweetie, we’re going to leave now.”

Gabe blocked her way. “You haven’t told me who you are.”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” she said coolly and tried to step around him.

He stepped in front of her again.

Her eyes narrowed with anger. Gabe stood close enough to the woman now to see that her eyes were gray. Dove-gray, with a dark charcoal ring around the iris.

When he pulled out the slim cell phone tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, he watched that soft gray harden to the color of steel.

“Get out of my way,” she said tightly.

“I’m afraid not.” He punched the buttons on his phone. “And since you won’t talk to me, then we’ll just have to call someone you will talk to.” He pushed the Send button.

“No.” She stared at the phone, her eyes suddenly wide with fear. “Please don’t call the police. Please.”

“I’m out at the Witherspoon house,” Gabe said into the phone a moment later. “Get over here as soon as you can. Bring two of Reese’s best.” He paused, then said, “Yeah, I’ll explain when you get here.”

Gabe hung up the phone, watched the fear on the woman’s face turn to panic as she gauged the distance to the opposite doorway. Even without a small child, she never would have made it. When her gaze swung back to his, the look of defeat in her eyes stabbed sharply into his gut.

She didn’t want his help, that was for certain, Gabe thought with a sigh, but she sure as hell was going to get it.

Trapped.

Her heart pounding, Melanie Hart stared at her captor and fought back the dread welling up in her stomach. He was much too tall for her to outrun; those long legs of his could easily overtake her. And she’d already experienced firsthand the power and strength of his well-honed body, a body she would have greatly admired under different circumstances. He was solid muscle under his faded blue jeans and chambray shirt.

But she couldn’t let herself be caught. Couldn’t let the police find her and Kevin.

She took a step toward the doorway again, but the man moved with her, slowly shaking his head.

How could she fight him? Especially with Kevin clutching so tightly to her legs. Determination glinted in the man’s dark green gaze, and the stubborn set of his strong jaw gave her no hope. The sight of blood on his angled cheek startled her. Had she done that in their scuffle? Guilt tugged at her, but she quickly shrugged it off. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but if necessary, she would. What choice did she have?

Lifting her chin, she drew in a slow breath to steady her nerves. “This is kidnapping,” she said with a calm that amazed herself. “You have no reason, and certainly no right, to keep me and my son here. I want you to know I intend to press charges.”

“Fair enough.” He lifted a dark brow, then gestured toward the doorway leading to the living room. “In the meantime, why don’t we go sit down? Filling out all those forms will be tiring.”

Once again she thought about running, but the futility of escape loomed as dark as the night. She’d have to find some way to distract this man, or perhaps reason with him, though that possibility appeared to lie somewhere between slim and none.

He stayed close behind as she moved out of the dining room with her son, effectively squelching any ideas she might have had about dashing out the front door as they passed through the entry at the bottom of the stairs. When they stepped into the living room, he flipped on a small brass table lamp.

The room was spacious, high beveled ceilings, tall windows, hardwood floors. A fireplace big enough to drive a Volkswagen into. Oil paintings, mostly landscapes, hung on off-white walls. Two Queen Anne chairs and a long sofa were slip-covered, tables and desks and chairs of various styles and woods completed the room. Like the rest of the house, the scent was musty and stale.

Her captor gestured for her to sit. She glared at him, then took her son’s hand and moved to the sofa.

How could she have known that Miss Witherspoon had died? She had spoken with the woman, though it had been four weeks ago, not last week. Melanie had known that the woman was elderly, but she’d sounded so fit, with too much grit and pluck to die. When she’d driven up a little while ago and discovered the house empty, Melanie had simply thought that the woman was away.

She knew that she’d made a mistake lying about Miss Witherspoon inviting her here, a big mistake. Dammit. She blinked back the threatening tears. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

But she was tired. So incredibly tired. And so was Kevin. After leaving California, she’d taken her time zigzagging across the country. But the trip was taking its toll on both her and Kevin, not only the traveling and moving around, but the constant worry, the fear, was mentally exhausting.

But she couldn’t stay here, especially now, with the police coming. She had no criminal record, but if she was charged with breaking and entering, then she would have one. And that might leave a trail she couldn’t afford to leave. “Look, mister—”

“Gabe.” He sat down on the arm of a Queen Anne chair. “Gabe Sinclair.”

Melanie pulled her son onto her lap. His arms came around her neck as he attempted to burrow his cheek into her chest. She brushed her lips over his mop of soft hair and rocked him. “Mr. Sinclair, you’re making a terrible mistake. My husband is an important man in Washington. He’ll be furious that you kept me here without any cause or—”

“Call him.” Gabe pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. “I’d like to speak with him.”

“It’s impossible to reach him right now.” She knew that she was digging her well of lies deeper and deeper. At this point, it hardly seemed to matter.

“You know,” Gabe said, dragging a hand through his thick, dark hair, “you should at least wear a wedding ring if you’re going to lie about being married, especially to a so-called important man. Why don’t you just relax? It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

Melanie sank back into the firm cushions of the sofa. She heard her son’s stomach rumble and though he hadn’t complained, she knew he was hungry. She’d been looking for something in the kitchen cupboards when she’d heard the truck pull into the gravel driveway, then seen a man approach the house. She’d barely had enough time to lock the front and back doors, hoping that he’d go away.

But after six weeks of sleeping in thin-walled, rundown motels, eating fast food and avoiding contact with people, it seemed as though her luck, along with most of her money, had finally run out.

And she had Mr. Gabe Sinclair to thank for that.

If not for him, she would have found food for her son and herself, gotten a good night’s sleep here, and been fresh enough in the morning to drive to Raina’s tomorrow. She’d be safe in Boston, at least for a few days.

Melanie glanced at the man sitting no more than eight feet from her. Arms folded across his wide chest, long legs stretched out, he watched her. She met his intense gaze, did not look away. She refused to be intimidated by him, even if he did have the upper hand.

Damn you, Gabe Sinclair, whoever the hell you are.

As if he’d read her thought, the man’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

When Kevin stirred in her arms, Melanie turned her attention to her son and laid him on the sofa beside her. He curled up like a pill bug, tucking his small hands under his cheek and closing his eyes. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and in spite of the odds, she resolved that she would get them safely out of this situation.

The only question that remained was, how?

When the light from an approaching car flashed brightly through the front windows and swept the room, her heart slammed against her ribs. The man glanced up, then rose.

It had to be now.

She scanned the room, and her gaze fell on a statue sitting on a table beside the sofa, a lovely, foot-tall bronze of an angel praying. Under normal conditions, Melanie would never have considered what she was considering. But this situation was as far from normal as one could get.

With his attention on the front door, the man moved past her and started across the room.

Now or never.

In one fluid movement, Melanie grabbed the statue and rushed the man, swinging the heavy bronze at his head. With an oath, he ducked, then reached out and plucked the statue from her as he grabbed her firmly around the waist. He dragged her to the door with him. She struggled wildly, but other than a wince when the heel of her boot connected with his shin and a rather explicit swearword, he ignored her.

When he let go of her with one hand while he unlocked the front door, she wiggled free and took off at a run. He had his long, muscled arms around her waist again in less than a heartbeat and easily lifted her off the ground.

“Gabriel Sinclair!” A woman’s voice boomed. “Get your hands off that woman this instant!”

Chapter 2

Gabe turned sharply at the sound of his sister’s voice. The wildcat woman in his arms went still.

Cara stood in the doorway, a hand on one hip, a large brown paper bag balanced on the other. The heavenly scent of grilled hamburgers and hot, crispy fries filled the room.

“For God’s sake, Gabe, let her go,” Cara repeated sharply.

Gabe set the woman down and released her. She stepped quickly away, dragging one shaky hand through her tousled hair, glancing from him to his sister.

The confusion on Cara’s face turned quickly to an astute understanding that he had called her here for help. If anyone could help this renegade woman, Gabe absolutely knew his sister could.

“I apologize for Gabe’s lack of manners,” Cara said smoothly in a soft, calming voice. She snapped her gaze back to his and narrowed piercing blue eyes at him. “Shame on you.”

Shame on him? Gabe ground his teeth and swore silently. He’d been kicked and scratched, and his left shin hurt like a son of a bitch. Females, he thought bitterly. Who would ever understand them?

With a toss of her blond head, Cara turned her attention back to the other woman and smiled. “I’m Cara Shawnessy,” she said evenly. “This ape here is my brother.”

Ape? He pressed his lips into a thin line. Gee, thanks, sis.

At the sound of a small whimper from the living room, the woman turned, then hurried back to her son. Cara glanced at Gabe, her gaze questioning, but he simply shrugged and shook his head.

Gabe held back when Cara moved into the living room and stood beside the sofa. “Would it be all right if we sat down and talked while we ate? I hope you like cheeseburgers and fries.”

The woman gathered her son in her arms, and the glimmer of tears Gabe saw in her eyes caught like sawdust in his throat. He knew she wanted to refuse, he could see it in her hesitation, but when she looked at the bag of food in Cara’s hand, then back at her son, she let out a long, surrendering breath and nodded. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s the least I can do, especially after the way my brother manhandled you.” Cara ignored the rude sound that Gabe made and smiled at the woman’s young son, who was wide-awake now and watching all the adults around him. “Do you like pickles?” she asked the child.

The boy stuck a stubby finger into his mouth and nodded shyly. Cara unwrapped a thick quarter slice and offered it to him. He hesitated, then looked at his mother. Smiling, she smoothed one slender hand over his rumpled blond hair. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You can have it.”

Eyes bright, he took the crisp pickle and bit in, chewing around a mumbled “thank you.”

When a drop of juice fell onto the boy’s pale blue T-shirt, Cara handed his mother some napkins. “It’s optional,” Cara said gently, “but it would be easier if you told me your names.”

Gabe watched the woman’s hand tighten around the napkins, saw the instinctive stiffening of her slender shoulders.

“You’re safe here,” Cara assured her. “You and your son.”

Gabe saw the distrust in the woman’s face when she glanced over at him. He frowned, unreasonably irritated that she obviously thought him a threat. She stared at him, her soft gray eyes uncertain and a little bit afraid. Damn if those eyes of hers didn’t cut right through to his gut.

“Melanie,” she whispered, still looking at him. “My son is Kevin.”

Kevin sunk his teeth into another bite of pickle. “I’m four years old,” he offered.

It drove Gabe nuts, but Cara didn’t ask any questions, just chattered on about the weather as she unwrapped food and set everything out on the coffee table, including two sodas. She’d known to bring the hamburgers and fries when he’d asked for two of Reese’s best, but she’d thrown the drinks in on her own.

“Gabe, I’m going to need that report for my board meeting in the morning.” She pulled a thick paper cup of steaming black coffee out of her bag of tricks and brought it to him. “Will you be able to work up something rough for me in the next hour?”

His sister was kicking him out of here, he realized with a start. She didn’t want him around while she talked to the woman. He ground his back teeth. Damn you, Cara. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. Felt that he had some small right to at least a little information.

But Cara’s expression was firm and definitely told him to get the hell out.

He frowned at her. “Sure. I’ll, ah, just start in the kitchen. Check out the pipes and electricity.”

“Thanks.”

The single word was a dismissal. He glanced back at the woman—Melanie—felt her gaze follow him until he left the room.

He threw himself completely into his inspection, forced himself to think about wiring and water pressure instead of the woman with the sad, haunted look in her pale gray eyes.

Forty-five minutes later, Gabe leaned against the peeling white paint of a front porch column of the old house, gnawing impatiently on the end of an “It’s a Boy” cigar. Six months ago, Wayne Thompson, the proud papa, had handed them out to every male over eighteen in Bloomfield County. Gabe had put the cigar in the glove box of his truck and nearly forgotten about it, but needing something to occupy his mind and hands for the past few minutes, he’d rooted around inside his truck until he’d found the stogie, then lit it up.

He decided that smoking a handful of stinkweed would hold more appeal than Wayne’s six-month-old cigar.

Spitting a piece of stale, harsh tobacco from the tip of his tongue, he stared at the front door. Cara had been in there with the woman and her son for almost an hour now, and though he’d heard their soft murmurs as he’d passed through the house, they’d all but forgotten his existence.

Hey, sis, remember me? The one who called you? I’m waitin’ out here.

Frowning, he flicked an ash over the porch railing and watched it float silently into the darkness and disappear. It hadn’t taken him long to do a preliminary inspection and work up a rough estimate. The house had been built to last, but had been neglected for several years. From what he could see on the surface alone, the repairs were going to be extensive, and there was no telling what he’d find once he started opening things up. With a crew of three men and himself, Gabe expected to be working here several weeks to bring the house to code and make it salable.

He glanced back at the front door. What the hell were they doing in there?

Soft, yellow light spilled from the living room window, and he edged his way across the porch. Just a peek, he told himself, to make sure Cara was handling the situation all right.

He tossed the cigar into the paper cup he’d brought out on the porch with him, heard the sizzle of the burning tip as it hit the remnants of his coffee.

Backing against the wall by the front door, he casually turned his head—

When the front door opened he jumped, then straightened quickly. One brow arched, Cara stood in the doorway, staring at him through the screen door. The woman, Melanie, stood beside her.

He leaned casually against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he glanced over at them with what he hoped was a bored expression.

“Melanie and Kevin will be spending the night here.” The screen door screeched when Cara pushed it open and stepped out. “They’re going to need some heat.”

And? Gabe looked at his sister, waited for the tiniest morsel of information about Melanie and her son. Based on the expression on Cara’s face, he obviously wasn’t going to even get a tidbit.

He sighed, reached for the flashlight he’d set on the porch steps. “The pilot was shut off on the basement furnace. I’ll go fire it up.”

“That’s not necessary.” Melanie followed Cara out onto the porch. “We’ll be fine. I have a blanket in my car.”

Gabe’s hand tightened around the flashlight. Had she and her son been sleeping in her car? And if so, why? Dammit, why wouldn’t anyone tell him anything?

“It’s no trouble,” he said more tightly than he’d intended.

Cara placed her hand on Melanie’s arm. “You’ll be fine with Gabe,” she said quietly. “I’d stay, but I have to be at the airport in an hour to pick up my husband, Ian, from a ten o’clock flight due in from New Jersey. We’ll be coming back over here tomorrow morning after the board meeting. I’d like you to meet him.”

Melanie shook her head. “I’ll be leaving early.”

Cara sighed. “You have my card. Call me anytime. And my offer still stands. You and Kevin can stay here as long as you need to.”

Melanie smiled weakly. “Thank you, but my friend is expecting us tomorrow. We’ll be fine there.”

Cara squeezed the woman’s arm. “You promise to call and let me know you’re both all right?”

“I will,” Melanie said softly. “You’ve been so kind. Thank you again.”

Cara hesitated, then slipped an arm around Melanie’s slender shoulders and hugged her. The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, then closed tightly as she hugged her back.

Gabe shifted uncomfortably, praying that neither woman would start with the waterworks. Damn, but he hated that. He’d rather walk barefoot through broken glass than deal with crying women.

He let out the breath he’d been holding when Cara and Melanie parted with dry eyes. Cara turned to him. “You have that report for me?”

“It’s on your front seat.” He gestured toward her silver van. “Do you want me to wait until after the board meeting, or get started right away?”

“Right away.” She glanced up at the old house. “The meeting is just a formality. We have to do whatever needs to be done for resale.”

He nodded, and she leaned toward him and gave him a hug. “Go easy with her,” Cara whispered, and brushed his cheek with her lips. “And stop frowning.”

What did his sister think he was going to do? he thought in annoyance as he watched her walk to her van. Lock the woman in the basement? Yell at her?

And just because he wasn’t walking around with a stupid grin on his face didn’t mean he was frowning, either.

Waving, Cara pulled away with a crunch of tires on the gravel. He watched until the van’s taillights disappeared and then he turned to Melanie, waited for her to speak. Folding her arms tightly in front of her, her gaze dropped to the worn wooden planks under her boots.

“Your sister is a wonderful person,” she said quietly.

“She’s a little bossy, but my brothers and I like her well enough.”

Her gaze lifted to his. “Thank you for calling her.”

Who are you, dammit? What kind of trouble are you in? All this politeness was killing him.

He nodded, but said nothing. The cold night air closed around them. Close by, in a grove of maples, a mockingbird began to sing.

Furrowing her brow, she took a step closer to him, her gaze leveled at his face. “Your cheek,” she said, her eyes narrowed with concern. “I’m so sorry.”

He touched the ragged scratch under his left eye. It stung a little, but wasn’t all that deep. “You didn’t do that. I caught the edge of a screen upstairs when I was climbing into the window.”

She shook her head, frowned. “You wouldn’t have had to climb in a window if I hadn’t locked the doors. I—I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.”

I don’t want an apology. Just tell me why you’re hiding in an empty house. What it is, or who, that you’re afraid of.

He shrugged. “No trouble. It’s just a scratch. Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

“I…I didn’t know if—” she paused, and her voice dropped to a whisper “—if I could trust you.”

She still didn’t trust him, he thought with more than a touch of annoyance. He felt the tension radiate from her, and could all but see the wall she’d erected around herself.

Why, dammit, why?

Oh, hell. What did it matter to him? They’d crossed paths, but she’d be gone in the morning, she and her son. Whatever her problem was, it was no concern of his. She didn’t want his help, so why should he give it more than a passing thought? After tonight, he’d never see her again.

But did she have money? Gas in her car?

Hell.

Forget about it, Sinclair. Not your problem.

With her dark clothes and hair, she nearly blended in with the night. He watched her shiver, saw her breaths come out in little puffs of white and realized she was cold.

“I’ll fire up the furnace now.” He kept his voice even, controlled. “The house should warm up quickly. Is there anything else you need?”

As he’d known she would, she shook her head, but then surprised him by extending her hand. “Thank you for everything.”

He hesitated, then took her hand.

And wished he hadn’t.

Her hand was smooth against his, her fingers long and slender. Soft. In spite of the cold, her skin was warm, and the heat radiated up his arm, spread through his chest, then his body. She looked up at him, a mixture of confusion and amazement, then pulled her hand away and once again folded her arms tightly to her.

“I’ve got to go check on Kevin,” she said, her voice a bit breathless. “Thank you again.”

She turned and hurried back into the house. His eyes narrowed, then his fingers tightened around the flashlight in his hand until he heard the crack of plastic. He stood there for a long moment, waited until the overwhelming urge to follow her subsided.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

He didn’t even know her last name.

Cold fingers of pale dawn reached through the towering oak tree beside Mildred Witherspoon’s weather-beaten detached garage. Frost covered the ankle-deep, weed-infested back lawn, sparkling like a crystal blanket in the early-morning light. Behind the garage, row after neat row of ceiling-high corn stretched acre after acre to a neighboring farm, where the steep black roof of a red barn peeked out from the tips of the silky stalks. Somewhere in the distance, Melanie heard the mournful moo of a cow.

Bucolic was the word that came to her mind as she stood at the back door and scanned the land. Like something she’d seen on a postcard or coffee table book of Midwest farms. She was a city girl, born and raised in Los Angeles, and what little traveling she had done, had never been to rural America. Phillip had always insisted on the exotic, the most elegant: Monte Carlo, New York, London, Washington D.C. Five-star hotels and expensive restaurants. Cows and cornstalks had not fit into her husband’s fast-paced, sophisticated life-style.

And after that first, exciting year of their marriage, Melanie thought wistfully, she hadn’t fit very well, either.

She stepped out onto the back porch, sucked in a lungful of cold, crisp air, felt the rush of blood through her veins as her heart pounded awake. Shivering under the blue sweater she wore, she hurried down the porch steps and across a path of broken concrete that led to the garage, heard the crunch of early fall leaves under her boots. How she wished that she could linger, soak up every sight and sound of this peaceful place before she moved on.

But there was no time. She wanted to make Boston before dark, was certain that she would finally feel safe there with Raina. Raina was the only person Melanie could trust, the only real friend she’d ever had. They’d been best friends in high school, and after Melanie’s father had died, and her mother remarried, Melanie had been at Raina’s house more than she’d been at her own.

But so much had changed since then. They’d both gone in different directions after high school. Raina had gone to Greece and modeled for a short time before marrying, then she’d divorced and started working as a clothing designer for a company in Italy. Melanie had married Phillip and had a baby. Raina had never even seen Kevin.

Melanie smiled as she thought of her son. She’d left him bundled up and sleeping on the sofa in the living room. He hadn’t even stirred when she’d carried him down from one of the upstairs bedrooms where they’d slept last night. Well, where he’d slept, anyway. Even though she’d locked all the doors and windows, checked them twice, she’d still tossed and turned most of the night, listening to every creak and groan of the drafty old house.

Listening for doors opening…footsteps.

The icy chill slithering up her spine had nothing to do with the cold, she knew.

Rubbing her arms, she pulled her car keys out of her front jeans’ pocket and opened the small entry door on the side of the garage. The overhead door was closed, and it was dark and cold inside. She scanned the shadows, holding her breath, then quickly releasing it when she was satisfied no one was hiding there.

When will I have to stop looking over my shoulder? she wondered.

Maybe never, she thought with a weary sigh. Or at least not until Louise was dead, and even though the woman was seventy-four, she was in the best of health. Physically, at least. Melanie knew that her mother-in-law would never stop looking for her and Kevin. She had the tenacity of a bulldog and, when threatened, the same vicious bite.

She was also crazy, a slow deterioration of her mind since the loss of her husband to cancer three years earlier, then her only son two years later. But crazy people with as much money and connections as Louise Van Camp had were usually considered eccentric. Everyone looked the other way, especially when it benefited their pocketbooks.

Shivering again, Melanie slid into the front seat of her car. It was a sturdy little Honda Accord, silver-blue, and had run like a dream across the country. She’d bought it from a private party in the classifieds, and she’d paid cash. She had the pink slip, but she hadn’t registered it yet. Which meant the only name on the car was still the previous owner. There would be no DMV record until she did register the car—which she had no intention of doing for a long time. And when she did, it wouldn’t be under the name of Melissa Van Camp.

The only problem with the car had been that it wasn’t big enough to bring much more than the barest essentials. She’d left most of hers and Kevin’s belongings at Louise’s estate in Beverly Hills. But what had it mattered? Most of those things had been given to her by Louise or Phillip and meant nothing to her. They would start fresh in Boston, where Raina was temporarily working for an exclusive shop that specialized in custom evening wear. In three months, Raina would go back to Italy, and she’d been pleading with Melanie for her and Kevin to go with her.

A new beginning, Melanie thought. It frightened her, but she could do it. For Kevin, she could do anything.

The only thing that mattered, the only thing important to her, was her son. Kevin was her love, her life, and no one, no one, was going to take him away from her.

Her teeth were chattering as she slid the key into the ignition and turned it to start the engine.

It made a low, grinding sound, then nothing.

Her heart pounding, she turned the key again, heard nothing but the sound of a click.

“No!” she said aloud, pumping the gas pedal. “No, no, no!”

Nothing.

On a half-sob, she laid her head down on the steering wheel and gulped in deep breaths of cold air. She was torn between laughing hysterically and crying, then settled for anger. Jumping out of the car, she balled her hands into fists and slammed them down on the roof.

“You miserable son of a bitch!”

The expletive bounced off the garage walls like a pinball, then shot out the open side door.

Gabe had parked his truck behind the garage and was climbing out of the cab, a cup of coffee in his hand, when Melanie’s castigation had his head turning. What in the world…?

Another salvo of insults broke the still of the morning, and he headed for the garage.

“You can’t do this to me.” He heard her voice rise with fury. “You can’t. Not now. I won’t let you.”

Was she with someone? he wondered. Or arguing with someone on a cell phone? He walked to the open door, saw her fingers rake through that glorious, thick sable hair of hers while she paced beside a blue compact. California license plates, he noted.

“I need you,” she said, her voice rough with desperation. “Please, I need you.”

His fingers tightened on the mug in his hand. So there was a man involved in whatever trouble she was in, he thought, and wondered what kind of man would abandon a woman and child. Not a man, he decided. A snake, maybe, or something lower, something that lived under a rock and left a trail of slime. Anger narrowed his eyes and stiffened his jaw. He didn’t know the guy, but he’d like five minutes alone with the jerk.

It twisted his gut to hear this woman plead, but it also surprised him. Of all the things he’d seen in Melanie last night, it certainly hadn’t been defeat or acquiescence. Even when he’d had her cornered, she’d come out swinging. She hadn’t begged or pleaded. She’d stood up to him.

Damn if he hadn’t admired that.

“Now you listen to me,” she said, the anger back in her voice. “You will start, and you will run smooth as a top. Do you hear me?”

Her hands settled on her narrow hips as she faced the Honda and Gabe realized that she was talking to the car, not a man.

I’ll be damned, he thought, and struggled to keep his lips from twitching.

“The next farm over hears you,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee as he leaned against the doorjamb. “How ’bout I go get some boxing gloves and you two duke it out?”

On a gasp, she whirled, eyes wide and faced him. Her hand flew to her chest, and the breath she’d sucked in came shuddering out. “You scared me,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Sorry.” He grinned at her. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to have to pull you off someone or referee.”

Even in the dim light of the garage, Gabe could see the color rise on Melanie’s high cheeks. Her skin was porcelain smooth against her dark hair, her gray eyes tinged with blue, the same smoky blue as the sweater she wore. When his gaze drifted to her mouth, he realized that was dangerous territory and he quickly looked away.

“What seems to be the problem?” He pushed away from the doorjamb.

“It…it won’t start.”

“Pop the hood.” He stepped toward the front of the car, waited while she reached inside and pulled the hood release. “Now try to start it again.”

A small grind, then nothing.

She moved beside him, hands shoved into the back pockets of her jeans, obviously unaware that the stance emphasized the rise of full breasts under her sweater and also clearly revealed the fact that she was cold.

He ignored the quick twist in his gut and focused on the engine, checking the battery and cables. “Battery,” he said after a moment. “I could jump it, but this battery is toast, and it wouldn’t hold.”

She’d moved beside him to watch what he’d been doing, and his words made her eyes close on a heavy sigh. Her shoulders sagged as if she carried the weight of the world there. The top of her head lined up with his chin and he looked down at her, caught the faint scent of flowers again, subtle, but sweet. Unwillingly he drew the scent in, held it.

When she opened her eyes again, she turned and looked up at him. Her composure was back, the anger that had sparked her eyes when she’d been yelling was gone now, in its place, a weary acceptance. The faint smudge of circles under her eyes told him she hadn’t slept well. Strangely, and much to his annoyance, he hadn’t slept well, either.

He’d told himself last night, then all the way over here that he didn’t give a damn if she was still at the house when he got here this morning. He had work to do, and a woman and kid would just be in the way. He liked working alone, which was why he’d chosen renovating homes for Sinclair Construction instead of working in the office, which was Callan’s department, or new construction, which Lucian seemed to enjoy.

On a bigger job, like the Witherspoon house, Gabe would work often with a small crew, but usually he worked by himself. Came and went as he pleased, worked at his own pace, and rarely had to watch over anyone or ride herd. He’d done enough of that trying to keep the family together after his parents had died, and with a fifteen-year-old stubborn, independent sister to raise, he’d more than had his hands full.

He liked being alone now. He liked the quiet, the calm. No responsibilities but his own.

“Thank you,” Melanie said, pulling Gabe from his wandering mind. “I’ll handle it from here.”

“I can call the repair shop in town,” he offered. “Have them deliver a battery.”

Shaking her head, she forced a smile, and much to Gabe’s relief, folded her arms over her breasts. “Thanks, but I’d rather take care of this myself.”

She wanted to take care of everything herself, Gabe thought with annoyance. And while that was an admirable trait, it could also be carried just a little too far.

He closed the hood, offered her the cup of coffee in his hands. When she opened her mouth to say no, he shoved it at her. “You’re cold,” he said firmly. “This is hot. Drink it.”

She hesitated, then wrapped her hands around the mug and brought it to her mouth. Gabe felt an unwilling tug of desire when her lips touched the brim, and when she licked those lips a moment later and smiled at him, the tug turned sharp.

And that irritated him more than Melanie’s stubborn independence.

“Is it a husband?” he asked tightly, watched her smile fade.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you running away from a husband?” He had to know, dammit. He had to know.

She handed the cup back to him. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Sinclair. I know you have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my son.”

“Look, Melanie—” He started to reach for her, but when she stiffened, he drew his hand back. “Dammit, I don’t even know your last name.”

She turned, walked to the door, then paused before she turned back. “Hart,” she said quietly. “My name is Melanie Hart.”

She was gone then, though he heard the crunch of her boots on the path leading to the house, then the quiet squeak of the back screen door.

He looked at the coffee cup in his hand, resisted the urge to throw it against something.

She didn’t want his help. Fine. Just fine. Let her figure it out herself.

Dammit.

He tossed back a gulp of coffee, then stared at the spot where her lips had touched.

Dammit, dammit.

Still muttering curses, he walked back to his truck and drove away.

From inside the house, Melanie heard the roar of Gabe’s truck engine, then the spin of wheels as he drove off. She hadn’t wanted to be rude, it wasn’t in her nature at all. If anything, she’d been overly polite her entire life, which had partly created the horrible mess she was in now. She’d said yes too many times, let too many people tell her what to do and how to do it. She knew she was overcompensating by refusing to accept any help now, but she didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t certain she had enough money left for a battery, and she certainly couldn’t expect strangers to loan her money, though that was exactly what Gabe’s sister had offered to do last night.

It was so damn humiliating. So damn frustrating.

She’d told Cara only the barest facts about her situation last night, that she’d left a difficult situation with a dominating mother-in-law behind her in California, that she was trying to make a new life for herself and Kevin as far away from there as she could get. That she wanted, needed, to make it on her own, without any help.

But she hadn’t told Cara what extremes Louise had gone to, or would go to. She hadn’t told her about Vincent Drake, her mother-in-law’s so-called business manager who was no more than a hired thug, a monster that Louise had employed to see that the recalcitrant daughter-in-law and her grandson came back home.

Melanie couldn’t tell Cara any of that, there was no reason to involve any more innocent people. Melanie had already seen what happened to anyone who tried to help her. One friend had already suffered a broken arm and black eye for helping her, another had been threatened. And the fire.

She shuddered thinking what might have happened if the fire department hadn’t arrived at her apartment so quickly after Vincent had lit that match to her drapes. How many people might have lost their homes and belongings, maybe even their lives? She couldn’t let anyone else be hurt because of her.

She just needed to get to Raina’s. Louise didn’t know about her best friend. With the new ID and a fake social security number Melanie had purchased from the back room of a seedy bar in Los Angeles, she and Kevin would start a new life. She was Melanie Hart now. She never wanted to be Melissa Van Camp again. That woman no longer existed.

But if she was ever going to get to Boston, she had to get her car fixed first. And she intended to do that, only she was suddenly so tired, she couldn’t think straight.

She moved into the living room and sat down beside her still sleeping son. She watched him, let her gaze wander over his dimpled cheeks and short freckled nose, felt the peace come over her. She laid her head back and closed her eyes.

She just needed a few minutes of rest, she thought. Then her mind would be clear. She’d gotten Kevin and herself this far.

She had no intention of giving up now.

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