by Rebecca York
“Rebecca York’s writing is fast-paced, suspenseful, and loaded with tension.”
~Jayne Ann Krentz
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A New York Times and USA Today Best-Selling Author, Rebecca York is a 2011 recipient of the Romance Writers of America Centennial Award. Her career has focused on romantic suspense, often with paranormal elements.
Her 16 Berkley books and novellas include her nine-book werewolf “Moon” series. KILLING MOON was a launch book for the Berkley Sensation imprint. She has written for Harlequin, Berkley, Dell, Tor, Carina Press, Silhouette, Kensington, Running Press, Tudor, Pageant Books, and Scholastic.
Her many awards include two Rita finalist books. She has two Career Achievement awards from Romantic Times: for Series Romantic Suspense and for Series Romantic Mystery. And her Peregrine Connection series won a Lifetime Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense Series.
Many of her novels have been nominated for or won RT Reviewers Choice awards. In addition, she has won a Prism Award, several New Jersey Romance Writers Golden Leaf awards and numerous other awards, and she is on the Romance Writers of America Honor Roll.
Contacts
Rebecca York loves to hear from readers!
Web site: http://www.rebeccayork.com
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: @rebeccayork43
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ruthglick
Blog: http://www.rebeccayork.blogspot.com
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COPYRIGHT
Published by Light Street Press
Copyright © 2020 by Ruth Glick
Cover design by Michele Hauf
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
An earlier version of CURSED was published by Harlequin Intrigue as SPELLBOUND.
Excerpt of HUNTER, by Rebecca York
Prologue
Kathryn Kelley reached the doorway of the darkened room and stopped short.
Damn. She’d been looking forward to a relaxing swim to wash away the tensions of testifying at today’s child custody trial. But no way was she going into the silent, eerie pool room.
What had happened to the lights, she wondered, her gaze probing the watery darkness. She could see almost nothing but felt thick, chemical-tinged mist wafting toward her from the blackness. It sent shivers over her skin as it collided with the cooler air of the hallway. Trying to dispel the sudden chill, she rubbed her hands along the thick sleeves of her robe.
It was Friday evening, and since the moment she’d opened her eyes on Monday, she’d sensed that something was wrong. She’d tried to ignore the oppressive sensation, but it was like a storm gathering around her. The feeling of apprehension made her glance quickly over her shoulder to confirm that the corridor behind her was empty.
She’d half expected James Harrison to be standing there. He had a charming smile and an easy manner, unless you looked below the surface to the rotten core carefully hidden inside.
She hadn’t wanted to believe he was back. Yet deep in her subconscious she must have known. He’d been confined to the Illinois Institution for the Criminally Insane for the past three years, and he’d sworn to get even with Dr. Kelley for helping put him there.
But of course, he wasn’t there. She made a wry face, annoyed at the tricks her mind was playing.
She turned to go back to her apartment, when the door behind her crashed open and strong hands grabbed her. She tried to struggle, but whoever had captured her tore off her robe, dragged her across the cement deck, and tossed her into the water.
Shocked by the sudden violence and the cold water, she clawed her way to the surface and gasped in a breath.
“Got ya!” a familiar, low voice echoed off the hard surfaces in the room as the beam from a flashlight blinded her.
She had been hoping against hope it wasn’t true. Now she pictured a slender man with blond hair and blue eyes standing between her and the only door, the only escape route.
She’d moved away from Chicago, started over again in a new place with a new job and new friends. And she’d picked an apartment building with a locked door and a security desk. Time had dulled the memory of the curses he’d hurled at her. Until this week, she’d felt safe.
He tossed the light aside, pitching the room into darkness again. A small splash told her he had eased into the water, was stroking toward her. She dragged in a lungful of air and dove deep, praying she had a chance to escape. Surfacing at the edge of the pool near the door, she felt along the side, found the metal ladder and began to scramble up. But he must have been planning this carefully, must have studied the layout of the pool. Strong hands closed around her thighs, dragging her back down.
She had time for only a quick gasp of air before he pulled her under, pushing her below with the weight of his body. Trapped, she flailed in panic. But the thick, watery world muted the impact of her blows. All she could do was rake her nails across his ribs. The attack didn’t have any apparent effect.
Frantically, she tried to struggle upward. Cruel hands held her under. Then for a moment he let her up, long enough for her to get a blessed gasp of oxygen before he pulled her down into the dark water again, molding his hands around her breasts.
She knew then that he was toying with her, prolonging her agony for his own sick satisfaction. With all her strength, she tried to pull free. She tried to hit him. He only shifted her in his grasp, his fingers like tentacles on her water-slick flesh. Someone had told her once that drowning wasn’t such a bad death. She took no comfort in the snatch of memory.
Her chest was bursting, and bright dots danced before her eyes. Soon it would be impossible to hold her breath, and the water would fill her lungs. James Harrison would finally get his wish—her death. Yet she kept fighting him.
Her flailing hand brushed the edge of his swimsuit. She followed the fabric downward until she encountered sensitive male flesh, then dug her nails into his testicles, squeezing with all her remaining strength. Through the muffling water, she heard him scream. As his grasp loosened, she wrenched away, put distance between them. Breaking the surface, she dragged in life-giving air.
“You bitch!” He made a grab for her, his fingers grazing her shoulder. Hardly able to think, she maneuvered into open water, heading for the opposite ladder. When his hand grazed her foot, she screamed and kicked harder.
Before he could catch up again, the lights flashed on. Blinded, Kathryn kept flailing toward the far side of the pool.
Seconds later, a voice boomed over the water. “What the hell’s going on in here?”
Reaching the ladder, Kathryn gave a heartfelt cry of thanks and scrambled up. But she didn’t get any farther. As the air hit her body, she crumpled and lay panting on the cold cement. In the glow from the overhead lights, all her eyes could make out was an indistinct figure standing in the doorway.
“Listen up. You’d better have a good explanation, or I’m going to call the police.”
Even with the echo bouncing off the walls, she recognized the voice. It was Mr. Clemson, the building superintendent. “God, yes, call the police,” she croaked.
A flash of movement on the other side of the pool made her cringe toward the wall. She saw James vault out of the water, hurtle toward Clemson, and pause to give him a mighty shove before charging through the door and disappearing.
The building superintendent went
sprawling and landed hard on his bottom.
Barely finding her legs, Kathryn wobbled toward the wall phone near the door and dialed 911.
Chapter One
She was in a prison.
No, she had chosen to come to this place called Stratford Creek on a deserted stretch of Western Maryland road, where the mountain scenery took your breath away and the security was tight as a federal penitentiary. But she wasn’t a prisoner. She could leave any time she wanted, Kathryn Kelley reminded herself as the door to the cell-like gatehouse slammed closed behind her.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Emerson,” she said, addressing a man in gray slacks and a blue shirt who stood behind a low counter. He was muscular, with a square jaw, square shoulders, and a crew cut. His unobtrusive plastic tag said his name was McCourt, and he kept his steely gaze fixed on her.
“Please hand me your purse and step through the metal detector.” He waved toward the security entrance that had become a fact of life in today’s security-conscious world.
Kathryn complied, then watched him paw through the contents of her pocketbook as if he thought her lipstick was a miniaturized bomb. Satisfied, he handed back the purse and gestured toward a small wooden table. “You’re on the schedule. Have a seat. May I see two forms of identification?”
“Of course,” she answered, trying to match the coolness of his voice. But she felt a little tremor in her hand as she pulled out the chair behind the table and sat down.
He’s just using standard intimidation techniques, she told herself. But she wasn’t in good enough shape to keep from reacting. At least he hadn’t searched her for hidden weapons.
When she thumbed her driver’s license out of her wallet, he made her wait with it in her outstretched hand while he reached to get a clipboard from the wall behind him. As he turned, she saw the bulge of a gun riding discreetly at his waist.
Feeling like she’d caught him with his fly open, she looked quickly away and unfolded the e-mail she’d received yesterday evening. “This is my authorization letter from Mr. Emerson,” she said, handing it across the desk.
In fact, it was one of the strangest job offers she’d ever received—and accepted. While she’d be temporarily working for the Defense Department, the orders didn’t specify exactly what her duties would be, although she’d been assured during several phone interviews that her background and experience were perfect for the assignment.
As McCourt perused the printout of the e-mail, she tried to gather her composure. Any other time, she would have been better prepared for his subtle little power game. But she was still trying to cope with the aftermath of the attack in the swimming pool, the police interviews, and the dawning realization that Baltimore’s finest couldn’t guarantee her safety. Her attacker, James Harrison, was still at large, probably in the area. The Illinois authorities hadn’t warned her he was coming because they’d thought he was dead. Apparently, he’d set fire to the maximum-security unit at the hospital where he was being held and escaped in the confusion, making sure there was a body in his bunk burned beyond recognition.
After almost killing her in the Cecil Arms pool, Harrison had disappeared into the night, and she had gone downstairs to her apartment only long enough to pack some clothes. For the past two weeks, she’d been staying with various friends and shutting down her private practice—since the cops had no idea where to find her lunatic stalker. He’d already proved himself frighteningly resourceful, and she wasn’t willing to sit around like a tethered goat waiting for him to pounce on her again.
Finished with the fax, McCourt compared her to the blue-eyed redheaded woman in the photograph on her driver’s license and pulled a folder from a drawer behind the counter. “Your temporary clearance is in order.”
“It shouldn’t be temporary. I had it updated when I did some work at Randolph Electronics.”
“Yes, but we have additional requirements here.”
Before she could make any further objections, he handed her a form and said, “Sign here.”
When she’d written her name along with the date and time, he initialed the entry.
“I’m Chip McCourt. Glad to have you with us,” he said, obviously still withholding judgment. “I’ll take you to the headquarters building, Dr. Kelley.”
Kathryn pushed back her chair. “I can find my way if you’ll just give me directions.”
“I am required to escort you,” he said firmly.
Her fingers tightened on the strap of her purse, as she fought the impulse to blurt out that she’d changed her mind. She was only a few hours away from Baltimore. She could turn around and drive back. But then what? She wouldn’t feel safe in her apartment. Or her office. And she couldn’t camp out permanently at her friends’ houses. Instead of resenting the security here, she should be grateful, she told herself.
With a sigh, she stood and let him usher her outside, where he stopped and conferred briefly with another man who had arrived in a Jeep Cherokee.
“All set,” he said, turning back to her.
Manufacturing a smile, she led the way to her burgundy sedan, thankful that McCourt slid into the passenger seat instead of demanding her keys.
Her escort wasn’t much for small talk, simply giving her toneless directions. So she took stock of what had been described as the Stratford Creek campus as he co-piloted her up a winding road lined with white pine trees, then past low, red-brick buildings that might have been constructed as a garden apartment complex in the fifties or sixties. Some campus. The lawns were half dirt, and the wood trim on several of the buildings was flaking. Although she’d been assured by Mr. Emerson that Stratford Creek was well funded, apparently the U.S. government wasn’t putting much money into exterior maintenance.
Many of the windows had a dusty blankness that told her some of the offices were empty. Adding to the ghost-town atmosphere was the lack of traffic. She met no other cars, and as she rounded a corner, she made the mistake of swiveling her head to look at the remains of a flower bed in the center of a weed-choked lawn.
As she turned back to the road, she caught a blur of motion to her left. With a start, she realized that a man had materialized from behind a nearby stand of bushy pines and was on a collision course with the car.
McCourt shouted a warning as Kathryn slammed on the brakes, sending the vehicle to a bouncing halt. But the man must have had lightning reflexes, because he’d already halted.
Time seemed to slow as she stared at him. He stood on the balls of his feet, breathing hard, his body glowing with a fine sheen of perspiration and his hands flexed at his sides as if he were ready for an attack. A myriad of impressions assaulted her at once, the way they often did when she was meeting someone who sparked her interest. She let the perceptions flow, hoping she could sort them out later.
Physically, he was magnificent. His damp tee shirt was stretched across a broad, well-muscled chest, and his running shorts showcased impressive masculine details beneath the skimpy fabric. Below the shorts were long, muscular legs, the legs of an athlete.
He moved his hand to swipe a lock of dark hair away from his forehead, drawing her gaze to his chiseled face. It was all sharp angles and acute planes that were arresting in themselves. But it was his fierce, deep-set eyes that captured her attention as they regarded her with a kind of uncensored curiosity.
They were the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, she thought, as they found hers through the windshield, telegraphing a message that he asked nothing from her or anyone else. He stood alone, which should mean nothing. Yet something about the look on his lean features conveyed a sense of isolation that made her breath catch painfully.
She couldn’t analyze the feeling. For heartbeats, she was held by the currents she sensed flowing below the surface of the dark eyes. He broke the spell by moving large hands to his shoulders, easing a pair of straps, and she realized that he was wearing a heavy-looking backpack.
Her attention was so totally focused on the runner that she f
orgot all about McCourt sitting next to her. Apparently, he had been as transfixed as she—until the man took a step toward the car. Then her passenger reached for the door handle.
“Who is that?” she managed.
Without answering, McCourt climbed out and stepped around the car, his face set in harsh lines. From her vantage point behind the wheel, Kathryn watched the dynamics of the close encounter with fascination.
“What the hell are you doing on this part of the grounds?” McCourt demanded, yet the question came out more wary than authoritative.
The runner shifted his stance. Although he kept his face carefully neutral, there was something about the angle of his firm jaw that sent a shiver up her spine. When he spoke, his voice was low, controlled. “Training exercise,” he answered in measured syllables, using only the precise number of words he needed to convey his meaning. “Six-mile run. Fifty-pound pack.” His voice was rough, rusty, with a kind of unused quality.
Kathryn goggled as she tried to imagine the stamina it would take to run ten miles carrying that much weight.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” McCourt growled.
The man drew himself up taller. “The trails are wet,” he said in his gritty voice, then took a step toward McCourt who backed up the same amount of space.
“Stay away from me,” he warned, a quaver in his voice as his hand inched toward the gun at his waist.
Kathryn could see he was badly rattled by the chance encounter. My God, was he capable of shooting the man for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? What kind of place was this, anyway?
She looked around. The grounds were as deserted as before. She was the only witness.
Her heart started to pound. Before she quite realized what she was doing, she stepped out of the car and moved to join the two men.
