“I’M WATCHING YOU.”
With a relentless stalker after her, Melissa Langston flees Georgia for her small Florida hometown. Despite changing her name, she soon finds anonymous notes on her doorstep and a menacing figure lurking in the shadows. She’s sure her stalker has tracked her down, but the police think she’s overreacting. The only one who believes she’s in danger is the former cop who broke her heart years ago. Melissa is afraid to get too close to ex-fiancé Chris Jamison, who is back in town to settle family business. Because the more she turns to the handsome man she’s never forgotten, the more her stalker wants Chris gone—permanently.
“The stalker you’re running from is here in Florida, Melissa,” Chris said.
The color leached from her face, and she sagged against the side of the car, clutching her stomach and shaking her head in denial. “No, he couldn’t have found me. I was so careful.”
The fear in those wide blue eyes snagged his heart, and at that moment he would have done anything to make it go away. But he didn’t want to give her false security. “It could be nothing. I didn’t want to worry you, but I had to let you know.”
She didn’t respond.
“Melissa,” he whispered. He rested his hand lightly on her forearm and took the box from her. “I’m here for you, Missy. Let me help.”
She turned slowly to face him. Tears threatened to pool on her lower lashes, but she blinked them away. She was trying so hard to be strong.
“Nobody expects you to do this alone. Please let me help.”
She gave two brief nods.
CAROL J. POST
From medical secretary to court reporter to property manager to owner of a special events decorating company, Carol’s resumé reads like someone who doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up. But one thing that has remained constant through the years is her love for writing. She started as a child writing poetry for family and friends, then graduated to articles which actually made it into some religious and children’s publications. Several years ago (more than she’s willing to admit), she penned her first novel. In 2010, she decided to get serious about writing fiction for publication and joined Romance Writers of America, Tampa Area Romance Authors and Faith, Hope & Love, RWA’s online inspirational chapter. She has placed in numerous writing contests, including RWA’s 2012 Golden Heart®.
Carol lives in sunshiny central Florida with her husband (who is her own real-life hero) and writes her stories under the shade of the oaks in her yard. She holds a bachelor’s degree in business and professional leadership, which doesn’t contribute much to writing fiction but helps a whole lot in the business end of things. Besides writing, she works alongside her music minister husband singing and playing the piano. She also enjoys sailing, hiking, camping—almost anything outdoors. Her two grown daughters and grandson live too far away for her liking, so she now pours all that nurturing into taking care of three fat and sassy cats and one highly spoiled dog.
Carol J. Post
Midnight Shadows
Not a single sparrow can fall to the ground
without your Father knowing it. And the very
hairs on your head are all numbered.
—Matthew 10:29b–30
This book is dedicated to my husband, Chris,
the inspiration for every hero I create.
I’m so glad you never stopped believing in me.
Thank you to my family, Kristi, Andrea, Kim, Jerry, Mom Roberts and Mom Post. All these years you’ve encouraged me to keep the dream alive.
Many thanks to all my writing buddies—
my awesome critique partners, Karen Fleming and Dixie Taylor, whose input has been invaluable, and my fellow TARANs (Tampa Area Romance Authors), without whose support I couldn’t have done it. And thank you to my friends Jeri Del Ross, Renate Malcolm and Kristen Harris,
who never get tired of reading my stories.
And a huge thank you to my lovely editor,
Rachel Burkot, who saw potential in me
and gave me this opportunity to do what I love.
You are beyond awesome!
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dear Reader
Questions for Discussion
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
Jagged streaks danced across the night sky, bathing the landscape in harsh white light.
Crouched behind the old sedan, Melissa Langston cringed. Each burst of virtual daylight shredded her already frayed nerves. She needed the cover of darkness.
A clap resonated through the air and gave way to a deep, persistent rumble. In the silence that followed, she tuned her ear to the dull thump of muffled footsteps, straining to pinpoint their source. Why couldn’t he wear boots? The hard soles would at least warn her if he veered from the sidewalk.
But Eugene always wore tennis shoes.
She held her breath, every muscle a tangled knot of apprehension. He was suspicious. But he hadn’t seen her. She was sure of it. Otherwise, he would have come after her.
His sudden appearance had almost sent her into cardiac arrest. She had slipped from her apartment for the final time and just reached the parking lot when movement at the end of the building caught her eye. A split second later, she dove behind the nearest car. That was almost an hour ago, when the approaching spring storm was nothing more than distant heat lightning and a vague threat of rain.
Another series of flashes illuminated the sky, and she counted. One thousand one, one thousand two... The ground trembled beneath her. Almost eight seconds. A mile and a half away. The rain was even closer, its musty, organic scent heavy in the air.
But it wasn’t the rain that worried her. It was the lightning.
And Eugene.
The last time she checked, he still paced back and forth in front of her apartment. The restraining order she filed several weeks ago was little consolation. So was the thought that help was minutes away. Her phone was in her purse, waiting in the console of her car. But if Eugene saw her run for it, she wouldn’t have the opportunity to dial nine-one-one. He had warned her. She could never leave, or she would regret it. If the ice-cold fury in his eyes didn’t convince her, the steel blade against her throat did.
Anger surged up from within, nudging aside a sliver of the fear. She didn’t ask for this. How could friendly conversation on laundry night and the occasional visit to the ice cream shop across the street morph into this sick obsession that left her fleeing for her life?
A liquid trail of silver fire zigzagged downward, followed by an answering clap. Then a deathly silence settled in. The footsteps had stopped. Where was Eugene? Awareness zinged up her spine, and she tensed, every sense on full alert. He was close. She could feel it.
She dropped to all fours and crawled along the length of the
back bumper, the roughness of the asphalt against her hands and knees an annoying undertone to the alarms going off in her head. Her heart beat a staccato rhythm in her chest, and she paused to draw in a steadying breath. The instant she peered around the side of the car, another flash pierced the darkness, and a wave of panic cascaded over her. Eugene stood at the front quarter panel, not twelve feet away.
She drew back and pivoted on one leg, grinding the skin from her bare knee, and then scurried to the other side of the car.
An earsplitting boom accompanied the next flash, and she bit off a startled shriek. Had he seen her? Even if he hadn’t, he could step around the old sedan at any moment and stumble upon her carelessly chosen hiding place. Then he would know she was leaving.
And she would pay with her life.
Dread settled over her, seeping into her pores and filling her limbs with lead. But she had no choice. Talking to him had accomplished nothing. Threatening him with a restraining order only made him mad. And getting the restraining order triggered a fit of rage that left her pinned against the laundry room wall with a knife at her throat. Even the police had been no help. By the time they arrived, Eugene was always gone. No, running was her only hope.
She sat back on her heels, again in a deep squat. Molten lava coursed through her knee with every beat of her heart. She reached to brush away the embedded grains of sand and gravel, wet and sticky with her own blood, and dropped her hand. She would doctor herself later. Ignoring the fire raging in her knee, she raised herself to peer through the windows of the old sedan. Where was he?
With the next brilliant flash, she knew. He stood at her Honda two spaces over, bent at the waist, peering inside.
Thankfully, the last of her things had fit in the trunk. A backseat filled with boxes would have sealed her fate. This was her fourth—and final—midnight trip. Her cat waited at a friend’s house. Everything else was packed into a rented box truck in her friend’s driveway. Freedom was so close, she could almost taste it.
A whispered “shhhh” sounded in the distance and moved steadily closer, building to a rumble then a roar as thousands of advancing minisoldiers pounded across the parking lot. The next instant, she was drenched. Rain tainted with hair spray, moisturizer and makeup trailed down her forehead and into her eyes. The sting competed with the pain in her knee.
She wiped her face with her soaked shirt and searched for Eugene’s stocky frame. Several seconds passed before she spotted him. He had moved away from her car and strolled down the sidewalk, seemingly unperturbed by the hammering rain. Even after his retreating figure disappeared from view, she remained in her semicrouch, unable to shake the feeling that just when she reached her car, meaty fingers would clamp around her throat.
She finally summoned the courage to emerge from her hiding place and closed the final yards at a sprint, prodded by urgency with an edge of panic. The panic grew, pounded up her spine and pressed on her chest. With shaking fingers, she jammed the key into the lock.
Light flooded the interior of the car, and she shot a glance back at the building, half expecting Eugene to materialize there. When he didn’t, she slipped into the seat and slammed the door, eyes still glued to the point where the shadows had swallowed him earlier. She reached for her phone, navigating the three numbers with her thumb. She had placed dozens of these calls. And each time it was pointless. Eugene had a knack for disappearing into thin air. Maybe it was his military training. Maybe he had given her a false name right from the start, and that was why there was no record of him, military or otherwise. It was as if he didn’t exist.
Much later, she sped through the darkness down Interstate 75, the Honda attached securely to the back of the truck and Smudge in a carrier beside her. Layer by layer, her tension peeled away, falling off with every mile that rolled by, and relief settled in, mixed with a sort of wry humor. She had done it. She had escaped. She was starting over—a new home, a new job, a new name and a new life.
But she was doing the one thing she swore she would never do.
Going home.
ONE
It was the kind of day that made her wish she had kept hitting the snooze button.
One of the worst since returning to Harmony Grove four months ago. Nothing catastrophic—no earthquakes or hurricanes or even small house fires. Her escape-artist cat was recaptured and locked safely inside, she had plenty of bread to replace the two burnt slices, and her clothes had finally dried after her sprint into her office through pouring rain. Just lots of minor annoyances that had a way of ruining a person’s day.
But it was almost over. One more deposition and she could go home, provided the roof didn’t fall in.
Melissa took a seat at the end of the table and began to set up her steno machine. Then her gaze dropped to the deposition notice, and she froze, one hand on the tripod and the other sprawled across the top of the machine.
Christopher Jamison.
The roof could have fallen in at that moment. She probably wouldn’t have noticed.
She stared at the name and wrestled in a breath through constricted airways. The vise that gripped her heart was painfully familiar. So was the bitterness gnawing a hole in her gut. But that was ancient history. She had conquered any stray feelings for Chris Jamison, beating them into submission until they retreated, cowering, to some dark, untouched corner of her heart. When that hadn’t worked, she had shoved them aside with frenzied activity.
Her eyes swept over the name again. It couldn’t be the same Chris Jamison. Hers had left Florida five years ago, with no intention of coming back. Of course, so had she. Life had a way of disrupting the best of plans.
Two attorneys entered, and when the buzzer on the conference room phone sounded, Attorney Daniels held the receiver to his ear. “Great. I’ll meet him at the top of the stairs.”
Her heart jumped to double time, and a sudden sheet of moisture coated her palms. There weren’t many names on her People-I-Hope-to-Never-See-Again list, but Chris Jamison’s was right near the top. She wiped her hands on her skirt, then brushed imaginary specks from the lacquered mahogany conference table. Moments later, voices drifted into the room.
“Mr. Jamison? I’m Jonathan Daniels.”
“Chris Jamison. Sorry I’m late. The Friday afternoon traffic was worse than I expected.”
Oh, no, it’s him! That smooth, rich baritone was unmistakable. A bolt of panic shot through her, and she glanced wildly around the room, looking for a way of escape. There was the open door, with Mr. Daniels and his witness just outside, and the window directly behind her. An image sprang to mind—a heel-clad reporter climbing through the opening and plopping unceremoniously into the bushes below—and the panic threatened to give way to hysterical laughter. She struggled to compose herself. Any second he would walk through the door.
Her hands flew to her hair, which wasn’t likely to go anywhere. It was pulled into a French braid and secured with a silver clip, an emergency purchase after her rain fiasco. And her skirt and jacket were fine. She resisted the urge to straighten them and willed her body to relax. If she couldn’t feel confident, she could at least look it.
No amount of willpower, however, could prepare her for the moment he stepped inside. Five long years slipped away in an instant, and every sweet moment they had ever shared crashed back on her in one massive wave.
Little had changed. He had obviously kept up his gym membership—the pale blue sports shirt and dark dress jeans couldn’t camouflage the rock-hard body beneath. And his sandy-blond hair was as thick as ever, an irresistible mix of styled good taste and windswept charm. He stood with one thumb hooked into his jeans pocket, the epitome of confidence, making her loss of composure feel that much more complete.
“And,” Mr. Daniels continued, “this is Melissa Morris, our court reporter.”
Chris started to nod, then froze m
idgreeting. His dark eyes registered recognition, then denial, realization and finally shock. His lower jaw went slack, and he stared at her in wide-eyed silence. Seeing him so befuddled boosted her own sagging confidence, and she was again struck with an irrational urge to laugh. She squelched the urge, but couldn’t conquer the grin quivering at the corners of her mouth.
He recovered all too quickly. Hardness crept into his gaze, and he acknowledged her with a curt nod. “Pleased to meet you.”
The lie rolled easily off his tongue. But a muscle twitched in his lower jaw, calling him out. He was anything but pleased.
Mr. Daniels indicated the chair next to her. “Have a seat, and we’ll get this over with.”
She jerked her gaze away from Chris to the attorney. His words seemed oddly out of place. How could life continue uninterrupted when her whole world had been turned upside down?
She nodded and gathered her scattered thoughts. Those eyes once again settled on her, dark and brooding. What was his problem? After all, he was the one who had withheld his trust and made ridiculous accusations. But she was the one who had walked in on every woman’s worst nightmare. And the one left with the distasteful job of “uninviting” 175 guests to a wedding that would never take place.
“Raise your right hand, please.” As soon as she began to administer the oath, she got tongue-tied. Her mouth didn’t want to cooperate. The pleasant aroma of her after-lunch breath mint was long gone, replaced by a distinct flavor of metal, as if she had chewed and swallowed a box of nails. She shot a prayer heavenward and tried again, this time successful.
Mr. Daniels began his questioning. “State your name for the record, please.”
“Christopher Wayne Jamison.”
“What is your residence address?”
She stopped, fingers suspended over the keys. Lakeland! What was he doing in central Florida?
The deposition continued—question, answer, question, answer—and she skillfully recorded every word. He was in Florida temporarily running his father’s marine store, on leave from the Memphis Police Department, which meant he wasn’t going to stay. He had visited a year earlier and witnessed the defendant run a red light and slam into the plaintiff. And he remembered the defendant appeared intoxicated, an observation that drew an objection from Mr. Edwards, attorney for the defense.
Midnight Shadows (Love Inspired Suspense) Page 1
