Deadly Secrets

by Ann Christopher

  Showed no mercy.

  She gave as good as she got, anchoring him with her thighs and meeting him thrust for thrust until they were both sweaty and breathless.

  There was no room for words.

  No need for them.

  She came first, crying out with a sharp, strangled attempt at his name. Delicious waves of rapture washed over her, making the muscles in her belly spasm and her hips buck. He was right on her heels, pressing his face to her neck with a hoarse shout of triumph.

  It took them both a long minute to regulate their lungs and even out their breathing. When most of the storm had passed, he rolled to one side, taking her with him so they were still joined. Then he raised his head to look at her.

  “I wasn’t sure we’d ever be like this again,” he said quietly. “That was my worst fear. Not dying.”

  “I was scared, too. I couldn't breathe with it.”

  A shadow flickered across his face as he propped his head in his hand. “I would have done anything to spare you from that.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  She took a good, long look at his still face. His steady expression. His unblinking eyes.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I know.”

  His eyes crinkling at the corners, he dipped his head and kissed her.

  “What happened to you? How did you get out of it?”

  He tensed. Shook his head. “You don't want to know. And I'm never going to tell you.”

  “But—”

  “You're wasting your breath.”

  The sensation of hitting a brick wall felt unpleasant. Especially when he was still buried to the hilt inside her.

  “Does Brady know everything?”

  “Yep,” he said tightly.

  “And he still thinks you deserve an award. High praise indeed.”

  He snorted.

  “You didn't tell me Brady was your wingman now, by the way. That's a new development, isn't it?”

  He grinned. “With you? I'm not proud. I knew I'd need all the help I can get.”

  She laughed.

  His avid gaze tracked everything, from her eyes down to her lips. “God, I love you,” he said huskily.

  “And I love you.”

  Muscles flexed in his jaw. He nodded. Looked away.

  “Is our long national nightmare really over this time?” she asked, stroking his cheek.

  He stared at her. Thought about it.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It's really over this time.”

  “From your lips to God's ears.”

  “I’m getting a puppy, by the way.”

  “A puppy?”

  Grinning indulgently, he found his phone and showed her a pic of a tiny black and white border collie with a black mask like a bandit and one ear askew.

  “Oh my God! When do we get him?”

  “This weekend. And her name is Elaine.”

  “Elaine?”

  “From Seinfeld,” he said with a wry smile. “Seemed like a good name.”

  “I love her.”

  He took her hand. Kissed her fingertips.

  “So, listen. That reminds me…”

  “Hmm?” she said.

  “Do you remember what I told you I'd do if I made it out of this alive?”

  Jayne felt her heart stop, terrified he meant it and equally terrified that he didn't.

  “Maybe you should remind me. My memory's not that good, and we said a lot that night.”

  Lopsided smile from Kerry.

  “The thing is…I'm a general practitioner who works in a free clinic.”

  “True. Of course, I'm a government employee.”

  “I only have thirty-eight hundred in savings. And an old Jeep.”

  She frowned. “That's not much to recommend you, is it? But…hang on, now that I think about it, I only have around five thousand and a newish Volkswagen. So…”

  “So we're never going to be rich.”

  “Well, you said it yourself. Rich is overrated,” she reminded him.

  He grinned. Kissed her fingertips again.

  Then his smile faded.

  “What, baby?” she said, her heart contracting.

  His rueful smile never quite took hold. “I'm not good enough for you. I'll never be good enough for you—”

  “That's not true, Kerry.”

  “—but…if you let me try?” His nostrils flared. “I want to spend the rest of my life loving you as hard as I can. Treating you like a queen. Could that work?”

  “Yeah,” she said, breathless again. “That could work.”

  “There's a catch,” he said.

  “Oh, darn. What's that?”

  “You'll have to marry me.”

  “Well, I don't know,” she said, pulling an exaggerated frown. “You promised me a ring. I hope it's an opal. I love opals.”

  “I thought your memory was sketchy.”

  “It's all coming back to me now.”

  “Interesting.” He raised his hand and wiggled his fingers so she could see the beautiful sky blue opal ring on his pinky. “And how do you feel about this one?”

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “I love it.”

  ALSO BY ANN CHRISTOPHER

  JOURNEY’S END Small-Town Contemporary Romance Series

  “Book” 1: A JOURNEY’S END Novella

  Book 2: LET’S DO IT

  Book 3: ON FIRE

  “Book” 4: LET’S STAY TOGETHER Novella

  Book 5: UNFORGETTABLE

  DEADLY Romantic Suspense Series

  Book 1: DEADLY PURSUIT

  Book 2: DEADLY DESIRES

  Book 3: DEADLY SECRETS

  IT’S COMPLICATED Series

  RISK

  TROUBLE

  JUST ABOUT SEX

  SWEETER THAN REVENGE

  The Davies Legacy: TWINS OF SIN Series

  Book 1: SINFUL SEDUCTION

  Book 2: SINFUL TEMPTATION

  Book 3: SINFUL ATTRACTION

  Book 4: SINFUL PARADISE

  WARNER FAMILY SECRETS & LIES Series

  Book 1: TENDER SECRETS

  Book 2: ROAD TO SEDUCTION

  Book 3: CAMPAIGN FOR SEDUCTION

  Book 4: REDEMPTION’S KISS

  Book 5: REDEMPTION’S TOUCH

  Single Titles

  CASE FOR SEDUCTION

  THE SURGEON’S SECRET BABY

  SEDUCED ON THE RED CARPET

  Novellas

  TAILS OF LOVE

  GIFT OF LOVE

  BELLA MONSTRUM Young Adult Horror Series

  Book 1: MONSTRUM

  To Richard

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to:

  My friend Assistant U.S. Attorney Ken Parker, who patiently answered two-point-five billion questions from me and never blocked my email, despite clear provocation, my editors, Bev Katz Rosenbaum and Arran McNicol, for helping me whip this baby into shape, which was no mean feat considering it’s been a decade since I started writing this series, and to the team at Damonza for the gorgeous cover design.

  Stay tuned for a sneak peek at the first full-length book in Ann’s Journey’s End small-town contemporary romance series, Let’s Do It, which is now available!

  Reeve Banks savored a fleeting life is good early July moment.

  With the windows open, she drove north on a winding highway along the Hudson River, where the views were spectacular in every direction. Glittering blue water. Rolling mountains in vibrant green. The occasional pop of color from wildflowers growing along the road.

  She sighed with contentment.

  Sarah Vaughan, who’d been keeping her company, was halfway through wondering when her lover man would show up, and Reeve sang along with gusto, remembering every lyric but massacring the melody with her faulty pitch. A kitty carrier full of an irritable and flinty-eyed fifteen-pound orange tabby cat named Muffin sat facing Reeve in the passenger seat. Every now and then, when Reeve hit a particularly high and admittedly painful note, Muffin, whos
e disapproving face was visible through the wire door, would yowl his dismay.

  Naturally, she ignored these rude interruptions with dignity.

  Meanwhile, her perpetual mental to-do list scrolled through her mind with one big thing crossed off, courtesy of last month’s graduation ceremony:

  Med school at Emory? Check! Yay!

  Pediatric residency at Journey’s End Medical Center, her hometown hospital? Not so fast on that one. She’d landed the gig already, true, but she still had three years of training to put in, starting bright and early Monday morning. Hence, the move back to Journey’s End, her destination today.

  Find an apartment? That was priority number one on her list, especially since she’d be staying with Sofia, her BFF since high school, in the interim. She and Sofia got along great, but Sofia was now living with her boyfriend, Toby, in the McMansion they’d recently bought together, and Reeve didn’t want to be a third wheel for any longer than she needed to. So she’d scheduled several apartment viewings and fervently hoped she’d be settling into her new digs no later than—what the hell?

  Without warning, her ten-year-old Saab, which was crammed full of the belongings she could bring with her (the rest were in storage until she got settled), started acting crazy, juddering as though it had been dropped inside an earthquake simulator. She hung on to the steering wheel and ignored this bizarre behavior for as long as she could, telling herself that it'd go away in a minute and wasn't that bad. But then it got that bad and didn't go away, escalating until her teeth clacked.

  Cursing, she turned off the stereo, edged her limping Saab to the side of the road and killed the engine. Then she got out and did a quick walk around to assess her situation, taking care to keep her front pressed tight to the car so she didn't lose her buttocks to any of the speeding passersby, none of whom stopped to help her, the bastards.

  It didn’t take long to find the problem: a giant nail head, about the size of a railroad spike, embedded in the left front tire.

  “Well, that’s just great,” she muttered, peering into the open window at Muffin. “We’ve got a flat tire.”

  Muffin’s pale green eyes narrowed into a glare. Apparently he’d never received—or, more likely, had ripped to shreds with his sharp front claws—the memo informing him that orange cats had uniformly sweet dispositions.

  “Oh, sure,” she snapped as Muffin turned his back on her and stared out the window at the back of his carrier, probably plotting how best to escape and kill the sparrows twittering in the nearest tree. “Blame the victim.”

  Fishing her cell phone out of her shorts pocket, she shoved her sunglasses to the top of her head, eyed the forbidding mass of gray clouds as they inched overhead, and thought about her options. Well, option. Singular:

  Change the tire.

  Sighing, she dialed. Sofia’s voice came over the line after half a ring.

  “Reeve?” Her tone had the usual undercurrent of low-grade worry, as though she expected and was prepared for Reeve to bear news of anything from a nasty case of the flu to incarceration in a Turkish prison. “Are you here yet?”

  “No, I'm not there yet — hey! Watch where you're going, you maniac!” Jumping quickly out of the way and deeper into the berm, Reeve used her free hand to give the finger to a disappearing minivan that had sped by a little too close for comfort. The driver responded with an angry honk. “I'm on the side of the road with a flat tire,” she told Sofia, swiping her blowing hair back out of her face. “Just wanted you to know before I started changing the tire in case I get killed by someone who's texting and driving at the same time. Which seems like a real possibility.”

  “That’s not safe. I’ll come get you.”

  “It’s okay.” Reeve said. “I’ll just change the tire.”

  “Don't you dare! I'll call Triple A. They can change the tire. I’ll come get you. You stay on the berm.”

  “That's crazy,” Reeve said, trying to exude more confidence than she felt. But how hard could it be? She'd watch a tire-changing tutorial on her smart phone, get it done herself, and hit the road again. “I can deliver babies and take out appendixes—”

  “No, you can’t. Just because you’ve watched those procedures doesn’t mean you can do them.”

  “Details,” Reeve said, waving a hand. “I can totally change a tire. No worries.”

  “I'm on my way,” Sofia said firmly. “Where exactly are you?”

  Reeve told her and hung up, secretly glad the cavalry was riding to her rescue. Especially since the sky was getting moodier by the second. Then she pursed her lips at the offending tire, wondering how long it’d take for Sofia to get there.

  Forty-five minutes or so, probably.

  Reeve leaned against the car, crossed her arms and ankles and told herself to be patient.

  Two seconds later, she’d run through her day’s supply of patience.

  The thing was, forty-five minutes seemed like a ridiculously long time, especially when she could change that tire herself.

  She wavered, wondering if she could really do it.

  At that exact moment, a gust of wind whipped through the overgrown grasses framing the road, making them ripple with menace and announcing the storm’s imminent arrival.

  Yeah, okay. Decision made. Worst case? She’d have the tire halfway changed by the time Sofia and/or Triple A turned up.

  Adam would help you.

  Adam would know how to change a tire.

  The thoughts, distant and unwelcome whispers that seemed to originate in her heart rather than her head, had the usual effect. A chill trickled over her skin despite the day’s heat. The echoing emptiness inside her pulsed and expanded, taking up a bit more space than it had yesterday. The world dimmed independently of the looming rain. Her shoulders got heavier and heavier until the extra weight threatened to put a bend in her spine.

  Stop it, Reeve, she told herself sternly.

  The Black wasn’t going to take over her mood again.

  Not today.

  Tipping her face up to the sky, she took a deep breath that forced her belly to expand and push out any lingering wisps of darkness. And another. And another. Then she gave her bare arms a brisk rub and warmed up enough to focus on the task at hand.

  Change the damn tire.

  Peeking inside the car—Muffin, apparently now disgusted by the sight of her, didn’t deign to look in her direction—Reeve made sure the parking brake and hazard lights were on and rolled up the windows in case the threatened storm became an actual storm. Then she opened the trunk and got an unpleasant wake-up call: spare tire and accessories were buried beneath layers of luggage and boxes full of medical texts and a lot of the other stuff that comprised the last four years of her life.

  Grumbling, she unloaded some of the junk, making a neat stack on the berm, and was just dragging out the spare tire when she heard the approaching purr of a sleek engine. Straightening, she glanced over her shoulder in time to see a slowing blaze of headlights roll past and park in front of the Saab.

  Black BMW SUV with some sort of a sports rack on top, she saw at a glance. Propping the spare tire against the car, she make a quick reach for the tire iron, just in case, and stared at the BMW, which was pretty sweet. A few years old, but still pricey enough to finance a couple years of tuition at her former med school. Must be nice, she thought, shooting the Saab a sidelong glare.

  She watched as the driver's door opened, feeling forty percent hopeful and sixty percent uneasy. If the local serial killer was on the prowl for an abduction, rape and murder, this was a pretty good scenario, wasn’t it? Other cars continued to race past, so there’d be plenty of witnesses to the crime, but still. She’d prefer not to make tonight’s local news.

  She waited.

  A guy wearing a black T-shirt, faded jeans and hiking boots climbed out of the Beemer, but he might as well have been climbing out of the pages of Men’s Health. He was a few years older than Reeve, she guessed, putting him in the early-thirties-ish ran
ge, and looked athletic. Brown-skinned, he was on the tall and lean side, which made him the basketball type rather than the football type, and his sable hair was an unruly mass of curls. He had thick brows to match the hair, straight lines of attitude over hooded black eyes, and his cheeks and nose were sharp, but his full lips softened his edges a little. He sported the kind of five o’clock shadow that was the Central Casting requirement of hot guys everywhere—a walking cliché—and it worked for him. Probably because he was also working the kind of gleaming-eyed intensity that proved his facial hair was not an affectation. He seemed like a guy who rolled out of bed in the morning, decided whether he felt like shaving or not, then told people to go screw themselves if they didn’t like his choice.

  All the air left Reeve’s lungs in a single breathless whoosh.

  The guy was the anti-Adam, darkly imposing compared to Adam’s olive skin, amber eyes and brown hair, and so unreasonably hot that she could almost see waves of steam rippling over his body as he strode toward her. Dumbstruck, she stared at him, tracking his easy stride and the way he now seemed to own the road and the situation. Commanding. That was the word she was looking for. This was the sort of man who’d instruct pirates on pillaging, generals on leading and Don Juan on seduction. He was—

  Hang on. Suddenly becoming aware of her tightening skin and shallow breath, Reeve mentally backhanded herself across the face and snapped out of it. He was good-looking, true, but so what? Ted Bundy had been handsome, too, and it hadn’t stopped him from raping and murdering all those women in the 1970s, had it?

  Lightning flashed just then, emphasizing the glint in the guy's dark eyes.

  Widening her stance a little, she gripped the tire iron and waited.

  “Hey,” he said, eyeballing Reeve and the metal with a healthy respect. He had a drawling voice, husky and deep, and it wasn’t hard to imagine him singing in a blues band. When he wasn’t bludgeoning helpless young women to death by the side of the road, that is. “You're not going to hit me with that thing, are you?”