by Alicia Scott
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Books by Alicia Scott
ALICIA SCOTT
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Copyright
“Who’s there?”
came the voice that had haunted Garret over fifteen years and hundreds of thousands of miles.
He tried to find his own voice, but no words would come. Then the door cracked open, and he saw the long brown tangle of her hair. He tried to grin, but it was hard to grin from down on one’s knees, especially when the fever sent another racking chill through his body.
“Oh, my God,” Suzanne Montgomery said quite clearly in the night. The door flew open.
“I told you,” he managed to whisper. “I told you I’d be back someday.”
Dear Reader,
Wow! What a month we’ve got for you. Take Maddy Lawrence’s Big Adventure, Linda Turner’s newest. Like most of us, Maddy’s lived a pretty calm life, maybe even too calm. But all that’s about to change, because now Ace Mackenzie is on the job. Don’t miss this wonderful book.
We’ve got some great miniseries this month, too. The One Worth Waiting For is the latest of Alicia Scott’s THE GUINESS GANG, while Cathryn Clare continues ASSIGNMENT: ROMANCE with The Honeymoon Assignment. Plus Sandy Steen is back with the suspenseful—and sexy—Hunting Houston. Then there’s Beverly Bird’s Undercover Cowboy, which successfully mixes romance and danger for a powerhouse read. Finally, try Lee Karr’s Child of the Night if you enjoy a book where things are never quite what they seem.
Then come back again next month, because you won’t want to miss some of the best romantic reading around—only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Enjoy!
Leslie Wainger
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The One Worth
Waiting For
Alicia Scott
Books by Alicia Scott
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Walking After Midnight #466
Shadow’s Flame #546
Waking Nightmare #586
*At the Midnight Hour #658
*Hiding Jessica #668
*The Quiet One #701
*The One Worth Waiting For #713
*The Guiness Gang
ALICIA SCOTT
recently escaped the corporate world to pursue her writing full-time. According to the former consultant, “I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. For me, it’s the perfect job, and you can’t beat the dress code.” Born in Hawaii, she grew up in Oregon before moving to Massachusetts. Now an avid traveler, she spends her time chasing after two feisty felines, watching Val Kilmer movies and eating chocolate when she’s not running around the globe.
She is currently at work on her latest project in Boston, where she awaits the discovery of true love or ownership of a chocolate shop—whichever comes first.
To my editor, Gail Chasan, for not only
believing in this series, but for improving it.
I can’t wait to see what we do next.
Prologue
In the D.C. Dulles Airport, a man who’d seen better days finally boarded the plane. He was the last person on and people looked up with mild impatience at his boarding. One glance at the man’s face, however, and all eyes quickly turned away.
His midnight black hair fell past his shoulders, the strands tousled and streaked with what might have been mud. A large lump swelled out from his forehead while a long, angry red welt slashed down the side of his face, neatly slicing through several days’ worth of dark stubble on his cheeks.
He wore a button-down dress shirt that was now wrinkled and stained. The gray wool sports coat thrown over it was clearly too warm for the eighty-five-degree night, but there was no sign of sweat on the man’s face. In fact, he seemed to hunch inside the coat as if fighting off a chill. Or perhaps he was just trying to conceal the full muscular bulk of his physique, his broad shoulders and massive arms already straining the boundaries of the old coat and adding to his dangerous, disreputable air.
Garret Cagney had developed into quite a man in the years since he’d left Maddensfield.
He weaved a bit as he made his way to the back of the plane, and the people in the aisles instinctively leaned away, trying to put even more distance between themselves and what appeared to be a drunken bum. Even the flight attendants seemed concerned, but none quite had the courage to ask for his ticket stub.
When he finally reached the last aisle seat, Garret sat down abruptly, his face paling with the impact. For one moment, he swayed where he sat, a giant tree about to fall. Then his massive hands clenched the arms of the seat so tightly that his bruised and battered knuckles turned white. He steadied, and the grim expression on his face made his two aisle mates quickly turn away.
With the low hiss of someone releasing a pent-up breath, the huge man finally eased down into the seat. He pushed the seat back in spite of the explicit instructions not to do so, and in minutes, he appeared to fall into a deep sleep.
A flight attendant who had been approaching to ask him to straighten his seat back did a little double take and let the matter go. Somehow, it appeared wiser just to let this one sleep. Around her, people began breathing a little easier.
He slept through the takeoff, muttering every now and then in a language no one recognized. The two suited men next to him exchanged glances, then both shrugged. The man didn’t belong on a flight of mostly business travelers, but it was a short enough distance to Charlotte, and they could sustain their discomfort for that long.
Presently, the flight attendants began to move up the aisle with the cart of beverages and peanuts. The two men both ordered beers, looked at the passed-out man next to them and switched their orders to Coke. The attendant smiled as she handed them their beverages, then her gaze fell on the remaining man, as well.
He really did look like someone who’d run into serious trouble. But then she saw the rising color on his cheeks, the beads of sweat forming on his brow. And despite his disheveled, dangerous appearance, she felt the first touch of concern.
“Sir?” she asked politely, the two businessmen watching her with something bordering disbelief. “Sir? Are you all right?”
She reached out to touch his shoulder and instantaneously his huge hand snapped around her wrist. She gasped audibly, and the middle business traveler nearly dropped his drink.
The man’s eyes opened, and the feral gleam she saw in their dark depths made her heart leap and explode in her chest.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she squeaked. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Abruptly, he frowned as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes cleared, and he shook his head slightly as if clearing away some hovering mist. The movement made him wince, and the pain brought back the last of his consciousness. For the first time, he looked at his viselike grip on her wrist. He released her hand immediately.
“My apologies, ma’am,” he said, the words hoarse and rusty from disuse. “I didn’t me
an any harm.”
She nodded and saw him wince again from the pain of speaking. She drew her hand back, clutching it protectively against her chest, but didn’t stop staring at him. Under all the bruises and scrapes, he retained the faint resemblance of a remarkably handsome man. Even now, rumpled and unshaven, he possessed a certain magnetism. Or maybe it was simply the aura of near-tangible danger.
“Can I get you something, sir?” she heard herself asking.
“Just rest,” he whispered, his eyes already fluttering closed.
She nodded again, then licked her lips. He really didn’t look in very good shape. “Maybe a glass of juice?” she found herself suggesting. “Orange juice would be good.”
His eyes opened again, and he looked at her with fresh assessment and new appreciation. He grinned, a slow cracking of his lips that had once made women practically swoon at his feet. Even now, the effect was noticeable. The flight attendant suddenly blushed a little, and she smiled back at him.
“Yes,” he managed to croak. “Juice would be perfect, ma’am. And water, too, if it isn’t any problem.”
In one corner of his mind, he was aware of how strange and foreign the words seemed on his tongue. He hadn’t spoken English for a long time, but what he’d spoken instead refused to come to mind. The mist remained, hovering in the back of his brain, blocking out all that had been and leaving him with only a sense of urgency about what was to come. He had to get to Maddensfield.
No matter what, no matter how, he had to get to Maddensfield.
And then, another woman’s face came to mind, soft and young with hazel eyes. She was standing at the bus stop, watching him go. And through the rain, he could see the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Suzanne. He had to get to Suzanne.
The attendant set down the two cups in front of him, and before he lost his strength, he picked them up one by one and tossed them down quickly, tasting nothing. He needed the liquid. He needed something to sustain him for the journey still to come. He managed one last smile at the kind woman in the aisle, then allowed the blackness to settle in yet again.
He roused himself again when the wheels of the plane hit the ground with a bucking roll. He felt the jar in his back and had to grit his teeth to keep from gasping out loud with the pain. The good thing was that the pain brought consciousness once more. He was in Charlotte. He forced himself to look at his watch. Nine p.m. He needed to get a car, or maybe a bus, perhaps a taxi.
His mind felt groggy, and he couldn’t quite focus on which mode of transportation was best to use. He rose slowly when he could finally disembark, feeling the pain hit him again, and knew he was running out of time.
Sooner or later, the blackness would not be denied.
He managed to grip the seats and used them to help him walk out of the plane.
His mind still wasn’t working well by the time he made it downstairs to the car-rental area. Car, taxi, bus. Car, taxi, bus. Think, man, think.
He was supposed to get a car, he thought dimly. He had the license, the cash. But what if he passed out again? He should take a taxi. He had the cash. He could give a fake name. But the destination would be known, and once they saw Maddensfield, they wouldn’t need to see his real name to know it was him. Same with the bus.
Car then. It had to be a car. He thought he might black out any minute. He turned, and without preamble, slammed his fist against the brick wall. The pain was brilliant, flashing through his head like an entire Fourth of July fireworks display. Oh, he hurt. He truly hurt.
Hunched and shivering, muttering words he didn’t even understand, he rented a car in the name of Robert Fulchino from the shocked-looking desk clerk.
He had to think hard when he got into the car. The mechanics of driving felt slow and rusty, actions he hadn’t performed in a long time. At least he could recall them, despite the fact so many other things remained behind the thick mist in his mind.
He turned the car onto the interstate and headed home.
He had to pull over twice, the fog grew so thick. He could feel the tremors begin to overtake him and knew a fever must be setting in. He’d lost too much blood, not to mention the nice lump on his head from the time he’d pitched forward onto the sidewalk. The arriving medics had been a little shocked to see the corpse suddenly stand and walk away. They’d been even more shocked when he’d pulled a gun and told them that if they followed him, he’d shoot them both.
Of course, he’d had to ditch the gun to board the plane. He had a feeling he would regret that later.
The second time he pulled over, he knew he’d been out longer. His watch now said it was 3:00 a.m., and it should only have taken him two hours to get to Maddensfield. He wasn’t doing very well.
For the first time, he wondered if he would make it.
And then he calmly slammed his mangled fist into the dashboard and allowed the pain to work its magic once more.
He pulled back onto the highway and drove through the North Carolina night. Maddensfield. Suzanne. Maddensfield. Suzanne.
Forty-five minutes later, haggard and half-delirious, he pulled into the town. He had enough sense left to remember to ditch the car in the forest on the edge of town. His brother, Cagney, was the sheriff now and could retrieve the car in the morning.
Two more miles to Suzanne’s house.
Garret slammed his fist into a tree, then started walking. The lucid moments were farther apart. The sky seemed to move with him, and his shirt and jacket were soaked to his skin. He wanted to take off his coat, but knew he mustn’t. He needed the warmth. Even if he was hot, he needed the warmth.
But then suddenly, he was chilled again, so it didn’t matter. It was cold, and the moon was chasing him, and he could no longer get away. Dimly, he knew he was muttering under his breath, mentioning names though the faces remained lost to him.
Zenaisa. Zlatko. Zenaisa.
The porch loomed ahead, and the relief staggered him. He didn’t knock on the door so much as fall against it. His two-hundred-pound frame made a loud, heavy thud, enough to wake her. He had a final intriguing thought of Suzanne appearing with a shotgun and shooting him, then collapsed to his knees on the porch.
“Who’s there?” came the voice that had haunted him over fifteen years and hundreds of thousands of miles.
He tried to find his voice, but no words would come out. Zenaisa. He felt a horrible, wrenching pain down deep in his gut, and this time, he nearly welcomed the blackness.
The porch light flickered on, blinding him with its fierceness. He waited, clinging to the last strands of consciousness. The door cracked open, and he saw the long brown tangle of her hair.
He tried to grin, but it was hard to grin from one’s knees, especially when the fever sent another racking chill through his body.
“Oh, my God,” Suzanne Montgomery said quite clearly in the night. The door flew open.
“I told you,” he managed to whisper. “I told you someday.”
Then, his mission at long last accomplished, he plunged forward unconscious at her feet.
Chapter 1
His head pounded, the images swirling in his mind like a looping roller coaster suddenly gone berserk. He thought once he stood in a broiling world of flames. He could feel the fire lap at his skin like a lover, hot and greedy and voluptuous, and he smelled the scent of searing skin and burning hair. He saw the fire grip his arm and knew he’d truly died and gone to hell.
Sometimes, though, the fire disappeared, running away until he had only the ache in his arm as a reminder. And then he was a lost soul, walking through lands he didn’t recognize, talking a tongue that held no meaning. He saw the bodies, scattered across the ground, and this time he smelled a death so putrid not even fire could cleanse it away. The weight of an ax rested strange and heavy in his hand. Slowly, he turned his head to see the buzzards circling in the sky overhead.
He knew without feeling that tears washed through the soot on his cheeks.
Then came
the rain, cleansing and fresh and pure, smelling faintly of mountains and honeysuckle. He should have loved the rain, but with rain always came the woman. He saw her standing with her hair plastered down her back, her dark eyes somber and accepting in the night while tears flowed quietly down her cheeks. He looked at her, and his chest burned as if he’d been sprinting for a good fifty yards and still had ten to go.
He always turned away from the woman, and it seemed that inevitably, in this sick carnival ride of his mind, the fire found him once more and lured him into its burning grasp.
He bolted up, gasped out, “Mitch,” and then the flames claimed him again. Licking, searing, tasting, grasping.
He fought and wrestled and burned. He died and sprang to life. He cried for people he did not know and turned away from the woman he knew too well. He lived, he lost and he warred, bearing out the sickening twists of his mind, seeking again the brief moments of startling clarity. The ride had to end. The roller coaster had to straighten out. He fought for it. He raged.
But mostly, he burned.
The eighth trip through the whirlwind, his eyes opened, and he managed to glimpse the present. He could see the swimming images of a man and woman, heads bent together in serious consultation.
“We have to send for Dr. Jacobs, Cagney.”
“I don’t know, damn it. He came here shot and alone, obviously running from something. We have to consider that.”
“Consider what? Do you know how to fight a 104 degree fever?”
The man shifted on his feet uncomfortably, and Garret struggled for his voice. No one. No one must know.
“No, damn it,” the dark-haired man swore. Cage, Garret thought, and tried to reach out for his younger brother.
“Besides,” the woman continued, “Dr. Jacobs has been the doctor here forever. You’re the sheriff, Cagney. He’ll keep quiet if you tell him to. Everyone around here knows Garret’s a Navy SEAL and half of his life is so darn classified not even Mitch knows about it.”
