Lost, Inc. #3: Torn Loyalties

Coming February 1, 2013

The 3rd book in the Lost, Inc. series of Love Inspired Suspense novels:

Lost-Inc. #2: Christmas Countdown

Lost, Inc. Book 2

 

Harlequin

Love Inspired Suspense

ISBN: 13-978-0-373-44517-2

Dec 2012

 

 

‘TIS THE SEASON FOR MURDER…

A simple trip home for the holidays is all former FBI profiler Maggie Mason wants. But a serial killer has other plans. Trapped in a deadly game of cat and mouse, Maggie finds an ally in Lost, Inc. with private investigator, Dr. Ian Crane. The handsome widower is reluctant to love again, and the last thing Maggie wants is to put Ian in the line of fire. Love could cost them everything . . . unless they can find their way to each other in time for Christmas.

Lost, Inc.

By finding and helping the lost, these broken former military investigators heal

Survive the Night,Book 1

Christmas Countdown,Book 2

Torn Loyalties, Book 3

 

Lost-Inc #1: Survive the Night

Lost, Inc.
Book 1

New Release!

Lost, Inc. Series, Book 1

Mass Market ISBN: 978-0373445097

Large Print ISBN: 978-0373675302

Love Inspired Suspense

THE DARKEST HOURS

After losing everything, Della Jackson tries to begin again as an investigator. But she can’t forget the past . .. and neither can someone else. Someone who won’t let anyone–even Della’s best friend, former special operative Paul Mason–stand in the way. As Della is stalked and those closest to her are targeted, both Della and Paul realize there’s only one way to survive. They each have to face their greatest fears, overcome the scars of the past and dare to love again . . . before it’s too late.

LOST INC.

By finding and helping the lost, these broken investigators heal.

Buy now at:

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Visit the Lost-Inc.com website HERE.

 

 

 

EXCERPT

© Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

“Tired?”Delia Jackson latched her seat belt, then looked over at Paul Mason, driving his SUV. Her day had started just after five. It was now nineteen hours long, but she had to give credit to her boss, Madison McKay, owner of Lost, Inc. Holding an “open house” at the small private investigatingfirm where Della had worked since returning to Florida three years ago was a brilliant idea. Holding it during North Bay’s annual street festival was beyond brilliant and now a proven, resounding success.”I passed tired about nine o’clock. Not that your company hasn’t been great.” On a horse wearing a cowboy hat or in a black tux as he was now, Paul Mason was gorgeous and charming. Black hair, gray eyes and lean and fit with a face chiseled by a loving hand. More importantly to Della, he was a man of character, trusted, and he expected nothing from her. That made him the perfect nondate date for any event but especially for one of Madison’s formal soirees, which Della never attended without a direct command-performance memo.

Paul’s arm draped the steering wheel. “Can I say something without you going postal on me?”

Odd remark. “Sure.” In their three years of being close friends, hadn’t they always spoken freely? From the first time she’d talked to him on the phone from lennessee through his organization, Florida Vet Net, and he’d agreed to help her relocate to Florida, she thought they had done nothing but speak freely.

He braked for a group of about thirty festivalgoers to cross the street. One boy about twelve had the Seminole emblem painted on his cheek: Red is good.

Her dress. So he had noticed that she always wore black. Was he like her landlady’s granddaughter next door? Gracie, a precocious eight-year-old, had taken one look at the red dress her grandmother was rehemming because Della had hemmed the silk with dental floss and asked if Della was done mourning.

What mother ever stopped mourning the death of a child? What woman stopped mourning the resulting breakup of her marriage? “The black dress didn’t fit.”

Disappointment flashed through Paul’s eyes. “Ah, I see.” He turned onto Highway 20, then minutes later, south into her subdivision. “You seemed to have fun tonight.”

“You know I did.” They’d danced, enjoyed a battle of the bands and had a grand time. Fun. She’d had fun.

The thought sank in, and a flood of guilt swarmed in right behind it.

He clicked on his blinker to turn onto her street. “It’s okay for you to have fun, Della. And to wear clothes that aren’t black. It’s been three years.”

“I know.” She’d heard it all from everyone—her former pastor, her landlady, her boss, her boss’s assistant—and now from Paul.

“But knowing it and feeling it are two different things?” he suggested.

He understood. Paul always understood. “Exactly.” Days passing on a calendar didn’t change the grief or loss in a mother’s heart. That was the part the others didn’t seem to understand. The ache and emptiness were still fresh, the wounds still raw. She sighed, glanced out the window. Gracie stood on Della’s front porch. What was that she was holding? “But I am working on—Stop!”

Paul hit the brakes hard, screeched to a stop. “What’s wrong?”

Della didn’t pause to answer but grabbed the door, flung it open and scrambled out. “Gracie!” she screamed, her voice frantic, and ran full out toward her cottage. Oh, please no. Don’t let it happen again. “Put down that package!”

Gracie stood statue-still, her eyes stretched wide, like a terrified deer blinded by headlights.

“Put the box down, Gracie.” Della softened her voice. “Do it now. Right now.”

Gracie set the box on the porch’s floor and then just stood beside it.

Della snatched her off the porch, buried her against her hammering chest and ran across the postage-stamp-sized yard to the sidewalk near the street, putting the most distance possible between the package and the child, using her own body as a shield.

Paul ran up to them. “What’s wrong?”

Della ignored him. “Gracie, didn’t your gran tell you not to get my mail?”

“I—I didn’t, Della,” she said on a stuttered breath. “You’re squishing me.”

Della loosened her hold. “Where did you get the box?”

“It wasn’t in the mailbox, I promise. It was on the porch by the swing.” Her voice cracked. “I was scared you wouldn’t see it and—”

Della’s heart still banged against her ribs, threatened to thump out of her chest. She was shaking. Hard. “I appreciate it, but next time you listen to me. Don’t get my mail anymore or any packages. Got it?”

A fat tear rolled down Gracie’s cheek.

Paul smiled and flicked away Gracie’s tear. “Della knows you were trying to help, and she’s sorry she sounds so angry. She’s not, you know.”

“She sounds plenty mad.” Gracie’s chin quivered.

“No, I’m not mad.” Della felt like a slug. A terrified slug, but still a slug. “I was scared.”

“Why?” Gracie and Paul asked simultaneously.

Oh, boy. She was in for it now, but it was past time for the truth. “Gracie, you know what happened to Danny, right?” Just speaking her son’s name hurt, reopened the gaping wounds in her battered heart.

Gracie nodded. Light from the streetlamp had the glittery face paint from the festival sparkling on her cheeks. “His daddy was holding him and he opened the mailbox and it exploded. His daddy got hurt, but Danny went to heaven. Now he lives with your mom and dad and my grandpa.”

“That’s right.” Della said it, and would give her eyeteeth to still believe it. But her beliefs or lack of them were her problem, not Gracie’s. “This is my fault. I didn’t want to frighten you, but I should have told you I’m worried the man who did that to Danny might do it again. That’s why I don’t want you getting my mail and why I sounded so angry. When I saw you on the porch with that box… I was really scared.”

Gracie curled her arms around Della’s neck and hugged her fiercely. Her breath warmed Della’s neck, melted the icy chill steeped in her bones. “I’m not going to heaven yet. It’ll be a long, long time. Gran said.”

Gran was the ultimate authority on all things. “That’s good to know.” Della blew out a steadying breath, then set Gracie down on the sidewalk. “You run on home now. It’s late and your gran is waiting.” What was Miss Addie thinking, letting Gracie come outside this late at night alone?

“She doesn’t know I’m gone. She’s in the shower.”

That explained that. “What made you come out here?” Della should have asked that before now, and probably would have, if seeing the child holding that package hadn’t scared ten years off her life.

“I saw the man put the box on the porch.”

A chill streaked through Della. “Did you know him?”

She shook her head. “It was too dark. I just saw the box moving. He was carrying it.”

“He was wearing dark clothes, then?” Della asked.

“I dunno. I only saw the box until he left. Then when he got to the sidewalk I saw him.”

Because of the streetlight. “Would you know him again?”

“No. Everything was black.” She tilted her head. “Well, except his shoes.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

Paul spoke softly. “Gracie, are you sure it was a man?”

“I dunno. He was bigger than Della, but not as big as you. I couldn’t see.”

“Okay, honey,” Della said. “You go on home now before your gran can’t find you and gets scared.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And no more leaving the house without her knowing it,” Paul said.

“Yes, sir.” Gracie cut across the grass and headed next door. “Night, Della. Bye, Mr. Mason.”

“Good night, Gracie.”

“I wish she’d seen more,” Paul said. “I hope he didn’t see her.” Della’s gaze collided with Paul’s. “You’re not thinking it was FedEx, are you?”

“At midnight?” She muffled a grunt. “No.”

“Neither am I,” he said, then waited, clearly expecting her to explain her behavior and her concerns.

Della hesitated, staring back at the porch at the box, but Paul let the silence between them stretch, blatantly waiting for her to look at him. Resigned, she did. At least he wasn’t scowling.

“Spill it.”

“Spill what?” The porch light cast streaks of light across the sidewalk, but it wasn’t so dark she didn’t see the stern look in his eyes. She could try to act as if everything was fine now that Gracie was safely tucked into her own cottage, pretend that her being outside was what really terrified Della and hope he’d go home so she could examine the box on her own, but that required deceit. She hated deceit and she’d never practiced it with Paul. The idea of doing so now grated on her. Just considering it made her feel slimy.

“Don’t minimize this.” He frowned. “Your explanation satisfied Gracie, but I know you, Della Jackson. You’re not suddenly scared of another mailbox bomb. Not with Dawson locked away in a mental hospital. So what’s going on?”

He knew her too well. “Dawson isn’t in the mental hospital anymore. He’s out.”

Surprised lit across Paul’s face. “Since when?”

“Apparently, for about six weeks—”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“There’s no need to shout at me. My hearing is just fine.” She frowned up at him. “I just found out two weeks ago.”

“A month after the fact? But they were supposed to give you advance notice.”

“Yes, they were, but they didn’t. I fell through the crack.”

Acts of Honor

Coming September 1st

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2012 Bell Bridge Books

 

“Absolutely riveting.” — Philadelphia Inquirer

 

She risked everything inside the darkest recesses of his mind.

 

 

He survived a mysterious mission more horrible than the mind can imagine; only she can break through the trauma and get him to talk. But if she succeeds, they both may not survive.

 

Dr. Sara West knows only that her high-security military patient goes by the name “Joe,” that he’s in a catatonic state and can only repeat the code words, “I wept,” and that his post-traumatic stress disorder is a result of his last mission as a Shadow Watcher—a spy who spies on other spies. Her brother-in-law was also a Shadow Watcher. He committed suicide in the same sinister military facility where Joe, and other military men like him, are now in treatment. Sara wants to learn what caused her sister’s unshakable husband to kill himself and, in the process, to heal Joe, a compelling man who wins her love. But the secrets inside him reveal a shocking truth. One she isn’t sure they can overcome.

 

Reviews:

“Absolutely riveting.” — Philadelphia Inquirer

“An excellent story of awakening love.” — Miami Herald

“Gripping and adrenaline-charged, Hinze’s plot will appeal to fans who like their suspense razor sharp.” — Publishers Weekly

“A military intelligence/romance/mystery…about a secret military hospital and patients who are diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (or are they?) and the civilian doctor who is part of an undercover mission who’s goal is to figure out what happens to these patients and what dangerous secrets have they or have they not told. The story is very suspense filled and very well written. You never know who is telling the truth and who the good guys vs. the bad guys are. One of the main characters I didn’t have truly figured out until the second to the last page! If you like military–romance–suspense– just a great read–you have to pick up [Hinze’s] books!”
– The Jackson Journal

“Utterly thrilling from beginning to end. So suspenseful you want to put it down. Hinze has proven herself a true master of military romantic suspense tales.”
– Romantic Times

“FIVE STARS. Very few authors do military tales quite as well as Vicki Hinze. This time, Ms. Hinze combines a military espionage thriller, a medical research tale, and romance into a fabulous suspense story…[that] never eases up. Acts of Honor has cross appeal to readers of romance, espionage, and suspense as an entertaining thriller.”
– Painted Rock

“This was a truly amazing book. Ms. Hinze had me turning pages and hoping that the book would never end. This book shows quite a bit of how the secret part of the military works. It proved that Ms. Hinze has a true talent as a military suspense writer.”
– Old Book Barn Gazette

“Meticulous plotting, enough suspense to keep the reader guessing, and fast pacing make Acts of Honor top-notch.”
– The Bookdragon Review

“A nail-biting psychological military romantic mystery. Hinze has captured the mystique of covert military actions in her riveting portrayal. This is one book that won’t let you put it down!”
– Affaire de Coeur

“Vicki Hinze speaks in a voice unique to the genre. Acts of Honor reads like a mystery with touches of Tom Clancy. If you seek a story with characters of depth, a different twist, tingling suspense, and bittersweet love, buy Acts of Honor.”
– Reader to Reader

“Acts of Honor delivers. If you love military romantic suspense, this book is definitely for you.”
– Romance Book Reviews

“The reader develops…a newfound understanding and a deeply rooted respect for the sacrifices of our military personnel, and their families. Hinze wears her patriotism proudly and unabashedly with an enthusiasm we should emulate. As with Duplicity and Shades of Gray, Acts of Honor weaves a military background into a relationship between a man and a woman making their love even more meaningful due to the shared admiration for family, country, and freedom. [Hinze’s] books represent the good things we were brought up on, and while life can be complicated, she clearly demonstrates what should be important to us. A good, solid feel-good read.”
– Word Weaving

“I have never enjoyed a book more or found a book that difficult to put down. Acts of Honor is truly the “best” book I’ve read in a long time. This suspense filled story kept me on the edge of my seat and totally enthralled from the first page to the last. I’d love to see this made into a “movie of the week” or motion picture…it’s really that good! Kudos to Ms. Hinze for her stunning new release!”
– New-Age Bookshelf

“A fast-paced tale filled with enough unexpected twists and turns to give a reader whiplash. A compelling, military thriller that kept this reviewer, who normally is not a fan of military books, clued to her copy long into the early hours of the morning.”
– The Romance Reader

“Intense spine-tingling action. Shattering conclusion. I was exhausted when I finished Acts of Honor, it’s that intense, but it’s well worth every draining emotion that you feel.”
– Romance Communications

“Powerful, tender, passionate. Read Acts of Honor.”
–Stella Cameron, NY Times bestseller

“An electrifying, supercharged thriller.” — Meryl Sawyer, best-selling author

Awards & Honors:

Top Pick Award – Romantic Times

Gold Medal Award – Romantic Times

Silver Star Award – Romantic Communications

Daphne du Maurier, Finalist, Best Mainstream Suspense Novel of the Year

Maggie Award of Excellence, Best Contemporary Novel of the Year

Reviewer’s Choice Award, Finalist, Best Contemporary Romance Novel of the Year

AUTHOR’S NOTE

As a nation, we expect much from our men and women in uniform. Often we have no idea of their trials or sacrifices, and we have no idea how much serving us costs them personally. I hope that in reading this novel, readers will have an opportunity to become aware, to understand, and to appreciate those who dedicate, and sometimes sacrifice, their lives for us.

A writer has a responsibility to weigh the costs of portraying characters and events in their natural forms against the potential impact of those portrayals. Having been a military wife for over twenty years, I consider this impact of paramount importance. For that reason, as in Shades of Gray and Duplicity, I have implemented artistic license in Acts of Honor. IWPT and Braxton exist only within these pages and some of the procedures and disciplines have been altered out of respect and concern for the soldiers who perform sensitive missions and for their families. I feel strongly that their gifts to us warrant our concern and protection, and hope you’ll agree.

Blessings,
Vicki Hinze

Chapter Excerpt:

©Vicki Hinze

Chapter One

“Oh, no.” Sara West looked up from her desk and frowned. “What the hell are you doing here, Foster?”

That frank reaction earned her a rare smile. “Glad to see you, too, Dr. West.” He removed his cap and sat down in her visitor’s chair. “How long has it been?”

How long? How dare he do this? He ignored her inquiries into her brother-in-law Captain David Quade’s death, stonewalled her investigation at every turn, and then just waltzes into her office as if they were close friends? “It’s been seven months, two weeks, and four days–not nearly long enough.”

Sara closed the patient file open on her desk, then slid it aside. “Now, this is a private office–mine–and not your military base, Colonel, but I’m going to be gracious and ask you once more before I kick you out on your pompous ass.” She hiked her chin. “What do you want?”

His smile faded and he scanned the bookshelves spanning a long wall.

Sara grimaced. All of the titles were on post-traumatic stress disorder, and Foster definitely would notice. He never missed anything, or gave anything away. Likely a hazard of his job, though even after five years of discussions with him–mostly discussions aimed at him with her trying to get information from him about David–Sara still wasn’t exactly sure what Foster’s job entailed.

She knew he was military. An Air Force colonel who worked with the AID. But her discreet inquires at the Air Force Intelligence Division had convinced Sara that even regular AID personnel weren’t familiar with specifically what job Colonel Jack Foster performed for the military. He was an enigma to them and, by extension, to her. An enigma currently standing in her Pensacola, Florida office–which was a long way from his office at the Pentagon–staring at her in open challenge.

Being even thinner now than when they’d last met, Sara supposed she still looked fragile to him. God, how that rankled. With her blond hair snagged in a barrette at her nape, and wearing the lab coat and navy power suit she’d worn to give her PTSD lecture to two hundred psychologists and psychiatrists that morning, she felt almost prim. But she was not prim, nor fragile. She was thirty-four, stood five eight in stocking feet, and his unwelcome presence in her office had her and her temper rising to meet his challenge. “Well, are you going to answer me? Or do I get the delayed gratification of kicking you out?”

Foster grunted and tucked his cloth cap under his belt, between the loops on his slacks. “Still ticked-off at me, eh?”

“Forever, plus ten years. Count on it.”

“I did attempt to learn more about Captain Quade’s incident, Dr. West. Unfortunately, I was denied access to his files.”

Who was he trying to kid? Foster had clout. That much everyone in AID knew–even those who had needed a little friendly persuasion to admit they ever had heard of him. “Why?”

“That’s classified information.”

Sara grunted. He was lying to her. She’d heard whispers during her last fact-finding trip to the Pentagon that Foster’s security clearance exceeded Top Secret. He could get file access. He chose not to do it.

He looked her straight in the eye. “Isn’t it enough to know David is dead?”

“No, it isn’t enough.” Vexed that she couldn’t force Foster to be honest, she stabbed the toe of her shoe deep into the teal carpet beneath her desk. “Not when David’s widow–my sister–is collecting husbands like you are a chest full of medals.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. After five years . . .” His voice trailed off, and then he went on. “Well, I’d hoped Brenda, er, Mrs. Quade, would adjust.”

Foster sounded sincere. But Sara had experienced his sincerity before. She knew better than to believe it, and let him know it by arching a skeptical brow.

A faint flush swept up his neck and flooded his face. “No progress on your research, I take it.”

He’d caught the gesture. Foster was a pain, but he was swift on the uptake. “Plenty of progress on PTSD, just not on how patients’ families successfully cope with it.” She let her gaze slide to the window, unwilling to let him see how deeply her failure affected her. “Brenda stood on shaky ground before David committed suicide. Now, in a way, she’s doing her damnedest to join him.”

“Through the marriages?”

Sara nodded. “Five in four years.” Guilt swam through her chest and settled like heavy stones in her stomach. Brenda was thirty-six, the older sister, and yet Sara always had been the big sister. Not by choice, but by necessity. Since grade school, Brenda had gotten herself into more scrapes than a teen with her first training bra. And Sara always had pulled her out. But on this, when it mattered most, Sara couldn’t seem to find a way out.

Foster let his gaze drop to his knees. “And you feel responsible because you’re an expert on PTSD and yet you still can’t seem to help her.”

How typical of him to lay out her feelings like bare bones and then peck at them. Bristling, Sara snapped. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would.”

Surprised by that admission, Sara pursed her lips and opted to be a little more civil, though she had to work at it. She didn’t like Foster any more than he liked her. The only thing that made their interactions possible was that they both knew it and were never hypocritical enough to deny it. “Thanks for holding off on the platitudes and absolutions.” She meant it sincerely.

“You’re welcome.” His smile returned. “Does that mean all is forgiven?”

“Not by a long shot.” She tugged at her lab coat cuff and slid him a glare. “I make it a practice never to forgive men I don’t trust.”

“Unfortunate.” He feigned a sigh that held a breath of truth.

Tired of this mousing around, Sara cut to the chase. “Why are you here?”

Foster’s demeanor changed dramatically, turned somber and serious, deepening the creases to grooves streaking across his forehead. “I’ve got a problem, Sara. A significant one.”

Worry seeped into her. In five years, Jack Foster never once had used her first name, nor had he admitted a weakness. Both unnerved her. She tried her best to bury her reaction under the sarcasm common between them. “Welcome to the human race. We’ve all got problems. That’s why we’ve got shrinks, and we shrinks have shingles on our doors.”

“We don’t all have problems like this one.” He again scanned the row of dog-eared books, clearly avoiding her eyes. “I need your help.”

Surprise rippled through her. Men like Foster didn’t need help, they created a need for help in others. God knew he’d given her more than her fair share of trouble–and nightmares. And his type never asked for favors. Intrigued, she paused to let her tone steady, and then quizzed him. “What? The Air Force doesn’t have its own shrinks anymore?”

“This is different.” He shifted uneasily on his chair. “It’s . . . delicate.”

Delicate? More likely, the matter was classified and he wanted it buried far from other military eyes. “Is this problem personal, or professional?”

“Professional.” He sighed. This time, it was genuine, and tinged with discomfort and impatience. “I don’t need military assistance. I need yours.”

“This, I know. Therapy would work wonders for your disposition. But I can’t treat you, Foster. A doctor should want to cure her patients, not to murder them.” She rolled the end of a pencil over her lower lip, then nipped down on it. “The licensing board discourages murdering patients–though in your case, it might be willing to make an except–”

“Stop it.” Foster stiffened. “We both know you’re about as apt to kill someone as the tooth fairy.” His gaze turned piercing, stone-cold. “This is serious, and only you can help me.”

“Me? Help you? After all the times you’ve refused to help me?” Her temper reared and she guffawed. “Forget it.”

“I can’t do that.” His terse tone proved he’d like nothing better.

She slid forward in her chair, laced her hands atop her desk blotter. “Look, I don’t like the military and I don’t work for it, aside from cleaning up the messes you guys make of some people’s minds. I work with five patients at a time–no more, and no less–in a private practice. I work only with PTSD patients and/or their families, and I damn sure don’t help arrogant military bastards who needlessly let others suffer–especially when those suffering others are members of my family.”

“I’m well aware of what you do and do not do. I’m also aware that many of your professional peers consider your methods extremely unorthodox.”

There’s a good reason for that.” She lifted a hand. “By traditional standards, my methods are extremely unorthodox.”

“Some consider you out in left field.”

“And some think I’m a brick short of a full stack. So what? I don’t need their approval, or care if I have it. Intensive one-on-one therapy–treating the mind, body, and spirit–works.”

Foster lifted his chin, annoyingly calm and typically arrogant. “Frankly, the professional acceptance of your methods means nothing to me. You have an eighty- percent success rate on the PTSD patients you treat–far higher than the standard–and that means everything.”

“Success is hard to dispute.”

“Yes, it is.” He stood up. His knees cracked, and he walked across the office to the bookshelf and then let his fingertip drift across the spines of the books, obviously mulling over what to tell her and what to withhold. “I can’t disclose certain things without physician/patient privilege. You don’t have security clearance.” He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at her. “You understand?”

David. This was about David. Her heart thudded deep in her chest. Low and hard. A little breathless, she nodded. She didn’t trust Foster–after five years, she had hundreds of valid reasons not to trust him–but could she afford to brush off a potential opportunity? They were so rare. “Okay.” She conceded with as much grace as she could muster. “I’ll make an exception–short-term.”

Foster turned toward her. Bars of light slashed through the vertical blinds at the window, streaked across his pale-blue uniform shirt, and glinted on the metal eagle rank pinned to his collar. “So, you’re my doctor now?”

“Give me twenty dollars.” He fished a bill from his wallet. She took it. “I’m your doctor.” After scribbling out a receipt, she thrust it at him. “Now, what do you know about David?”

Foster leaned a shoulder against the bookshelf and crossed his chest with his arms. “I know if you do what I ask, you’ll find your answers about what happened to him.”

Sara’s skin crawled. Foster’s tone and the look in his eyes swore she’d find more. Far more. “Exactly what answers will I find?”

“The ones to all the unanswered questions that made you become an expert on PTSD so you could help others like David, Brenda, and Lisa.” Foster rubbed at his chin, spoke slowly. Distinctly. “You and the Quades’ daughter are very close.”

He’d been monitoring them. All of them. Sara, Brenda, and Lisa. An uneasy shiver slithered up Sara’s spine, and her gaze slid to a photo of the three of them on the corner of her desk. For some reason, Foster must feel threatened. “Of course we’re close. Lisa is my only niece. But what does that have to do with this?”

“It’s irrelevant,” Foster said. “What is relevant is that I won’t tell you anything more about David’s situation because I’d have to breach national security to do it. But I will put you in a position where you’ll have the opportunity to discover your answers for yourself.” Pacing a short path before her desk, Foster stopped and fisted a hand at his side. “I know you don’t forgive and you never forget, but let me be clear about something, Sara. Playing games with me is not honorable, nor is it in your best interests.”

“Now why does that remark strike me as a threat?” Tight-lipped, she glared at him. “You know, in five years, I have never–not once–given you a reason to question my honor.” She cocked her head. “Can you say the same to me?”

“Our topic isn’t my honor, it’s your family’s best interests.”

Chilling her tone even more, Sara looked up at him from under her lashes. “Obviously, you don’t know me as well as you think, or you’d know warning me against game-playing isn’t necessary. Not when it comes to my family.”

“Oh, I know you, Sara.” Foster leaned forward and bracketed her desk blotter with his hands. The muscles in his forearms twitched. “I know you’re weak when it comes to defending yourself, but tougher than nails at defending others. And you’d like to be even tougher on me.”

She would. She didn’t like this conversation, or him. Yet Foster’s palms were glistening with sweat and he looked as if he wanted to heave. He clearly needed something from her–why else would he be here? But whatever it was, he didn’t feel certain of getting it, which meant he had failed to stack the odds in his favor. The master manipulator felt vulnerable, and that worried her.

“I also know you avoid relationships because you feel guilty,” he went on. “It wouldn’t be right for you to have all your sister has lost, would it? You have to fix things for her and Lisa first–and for your brother, Steve. It really got you that his wife had him committed for psychiatric evaluation, didn’t it? Isn’t that incident what drove you to become a psychiatrist?”

Sara stiffened. Foster had been thorough, and he’d investigated Steve, too. “Considering my brother is one of the most well-balanced human beings walking the earth, and his wife pulled that stunt and had him committed for thirty days because they’d had a disagreement about moving out of the state of Mississippi, yes. You’re damn right, it got to me. That there are laws on the books allowing that type of injustice should get to you, too.”

“We all deal with injustice in our own way.” He let his gaze drift to the door. “You’ve taken blanket responsibility for every injustice to everyone and everything in your sphere of influence since the cradle.” He grunted. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’re a victim of your genes. Maternal genes, or influence.”

He’d be right. Sara’s throat went dry. Foster made her feel invaded, as if she had no privacy, not even in her thoughts. She fought the sensation, determined not to let him get the upper hand. Once he did, she was screwed, and they both knew it. “Goodness. Amazing that I warrant all of this attention from you merely because I’m a responsible adult. I suppose I should be flattered.” She rubbed at her temple with a long fingertip. “Instead, I’m asking myself why you fascinate so easily.”

A tight smile threatened the corner of his lip, and he narrowed his eyes. “Actually, I bore easily. But you are your work, Sara. And that intrigues me.”

Amused him, more likely, and that grated at her.

“You’ve pushed me hard, from all sides–as thorough as a crack operative with a dozen years’ experience under your belt. At times, you’ve been persuasive, tenacious, and charming enough to have the devil caving in to you.”

No way was she falling for this. Foster used praise just as he used people. “So the devil would cave, but you were immune. Now, what am I to make of that?”

“Perhaps the devil enjoys luxuries I can’t afford.” He stared at her. “Perhaps the same is true for you.”

He knew her as well as she knew herself. The realization spilled over her, burned and branded into her mind. She hated it, too. And she hated even more that he was right about her work and her personal relationships. She’d never verbalized it, or dared to focus her thoughts on it, but she did want a family of her own and someone to share her life with, yet she couldn’t have everything Brenda had lost. She just . . . couldn’t.

Gruesome thought, but maybe Foster knew Sara better than she knew herself. Fighting not to wince, she shifted topics, heading for safer ground. “So what’s your problem?” Did she dare to hope, a guilty conscience? “Why do you need my services?”

“First, some ground rules.” He straightened and stepped back from her desk. “Everything I tell you falls under patient/physician privilege. I have not, and will not, grant you authorization to release any information I share with you. None whatsoever, under any circumstances, at any time, to anyone.”

“I gathered that.” Sara met his gaze, and saw the tension of an emotion she’d never expected to see in Jack Foster’s face. Fear. It tugged hard at the healer in her. “So what’s the problem?”

“I’ve got an officer with scrambled brains and I have no idea why or who scrambled him.” Foster stiffened, as if relieved and uneasy with revealing that. “He was on a mission–classified, of course–and went missing. Seven days later, he showed up at a secluded facility, and we have no idea how he got there.”

“Could you clarify his condition? Scrambled, how? Is he a vegetable, psychotic, or what?”

“He’s been diagnosed PTSD.” Foster grimaced. “I need to know what happened to him, why, who did it, how, and if he’s salvageable.”

If he’s salvageable? Flabbergasted, Sara leaned back in her chair. “And you want me to make this determination?”

“Yes, I do. Quickly.” Foster didn’t miss a beat. “This man has been on a lot of high-risk missions. He has Top Secret security clearance and he’s having moments of lucidity. Frankly put, he’s a critical security risk.”

Foster’s voice turned gritty, as if forced to speak, and the words burned his throat. “You have the highest success rate in the business, Sara. I need success. Until we determine the specifics I mentioned, every AID mission and operative working worldwide is vulnerable. I can’t afford to lose this operative without discovering the facts of his case.”

“The patient is an AID operative?”

Foster hesitated. “He is, but don’t bother checking on him. You won’t find any more on him than you found on me.”

Not surprised Foster knew she’d checked him out, Sara didn’t flinch. “Why is that?”

“Because he’s one of my men.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. Her white lab coat bunched at her ribs. “Your men. Who are . . .?”

Foster paused. “I head an elite group of specialized operatives called Shadow Watchers.” He gave her a chilly smile. “You won’t see that organization listed on any official documents. Actually, most military personnel don’t realize our group exists, and those who do realize it would never admit it to other service members much less to anyone outside of the military.”

“I see.” An empty hole stretched and yawned in her stomach. She’d gotten into something deeper than expected. “What exactly do Shadow Watchers do?”

“We perform a vital service in a system that requires checks and balances.”

“Could you be a little less philosophical and more specific?”

Foster answered without embellishment. “We spy on spies.”

David had worked for Foster–as a Shadow Watcher. Suddenly, so much made sense. Except for the suicide. That would never make sense. David had been happy with Brenda, had adored her and Lisa. From all signs, he had been content.

Had David’s death been suicide? An eerie feeling crept through Sara. She stared into the cool, detached depths of Foster’s eyes. Or had David been declared “unsalvageable”?

The question begged to be asked, but Sara resisted. Foster wouldn’t answer, and it could be advantageous not to let him realize the question had occurred to her just yet. She pursed her lips, tilted her head. “Serious problem.” National security implications, integrity of ongoing missions, safety of all Shadow Watchers and regular AID operatives–those were but a few of the considerations and hazards.

No wonder Foster always seemed wired too tight. Carrying around responsibilities this weighty would do that to any man. “What you’re telling me is that I cure your operative or he’s deemed unsalvageable–without your finding out what happened to him.”

“That’s correct. Certainly not our preference, due to the potential complications I mentioned, but our resources have been exhausted.”

His resources hadn’t yet been tapped. Foster couldn’t risk alerting non-AID personnel or his superior officers that his missions weren’t secure. In his world of red tape, the man had to answer to someone, and his credibility would be shot. But she’d give him the lie. “So if I don’t do this, or if I fail, then that means you terminate this operative, right?” What else could unsalvageable mean to spies?

Foster’s gaze slid away.

Sara girded her loins and persisted. No way was she getting involved in this without knowing the full scale, scope, and consequences. “Am I right, Foster?”

The blinds streaked slatted shadows across his face. “We prefer canceled.”

“Damn it, just once would you call a spade a spade? Forget your military jargon and sidestepping semantics and just tell me the truth.” Sara glared at him. “I fail, and the man is murdered. Yes, or no?”

“Yes.”

The breath left her lungs. She’d expected it. But expecting it and hearing him admit it were totally different things. She studied Foster’s expression, his posture, his eyes. No remorse, regret, or apology. He would kill the operative. Reeling, she struggled to pull together a cohesive thought, settled for a mumbled, “I see,” and felt damn grateful for it.

“I’m glad you grasp the gravity of the situation.”

“It’s hard to miss.” Sara put the pencil down on her desk. Her instincts warned her to back off; she was in over her head. But if she did, then the operative would die. She had no doubts about that, nor any illusions. And then some other family would be in the position Brenda and Lisa were in, suffering the same hell they were suffering, wondering what they had done to make their loved one prefer being dead to living with them.

David hadn’t committed suicide. He’d been canceled. Sara knew it as well as she knew she couldn’t condemn a man to death, or a family to hell. “So who is the patient?”

Foster didn’t falter. “I can’t tell you that.”

Typical. Just . . . typical. She squeezed her chair’s arms until her palms and fingers stung. “Then how am I supposed to treat him?”

“Actually, you’ll treat five patients. He’ll be one of them.”

“Five?” The man was arrogant and absurd. “I can’t take on five new patients at once.”

“Of course you can.”

Sara bit down on her temper, resisted an urge to shout at him. “Look, let me explain something to you. In therapy, I operate from a base of trust, and that takes time to develop. Without it, I have no foundation–and no hope for success. That aside, I already have a full caseload and a healthy waiting list, so what you’re asking me to do is utterly impossible.”

“It’s possible,” he countered. “And your current patients won’t be adversely affected. You have my word on that.”

Won’t be adversely affected? Was she supposed to feel grateful he wouldn’t cancel them to get them out of his way? “Not to antagonize you, Foster, but your record with me on trust-inspiring issues leaves a lot to be desired. What’s your word worth on this?”

He didn’t so much as blink. “Finding out the truth about David Quade.”

Her throat went tight. Those were the ones. The magic words. The irresistible offer.

And both she and Foster knew it.

There was no way she could take her deductions on David to Brenda and Lisa without proof. Sara straightened in her seat. “It appears you already have a plan. Why don’t you just lay it out and let me see if I consider it acceptable?”

“Fine.” He laced his hands behind his back, strode a brisk path between the bookcase and the door. “You’ll enter a facility under the auspices of performing a short-term research project on PTSD as a psychiatrist, Major Sara West.”

“Major?” Sara grunted. “Forget it. Impersonating an officer would cost me my license, and you know how I feel about your military protocol and red-tape nightmare of a system. If I do this–and I’m not saying I will–then I want civilian status, total control, and full latitude–personally, and with my patients.”

“Which is exactly why you’re heading the PTSD research project. The only person you’ll have to answer to at the facility is the director, and, of course, to me– though, obviously I won’t be inside the facility. You’ll have total control over the patients and therapy, but not over the facility. I can’t give you that, or civilian status. Not without exposing your cover.”

“You honestly expect me to go in undercover?” She rolled her gaze heavenward, dragged her hands over her head. “For God’s sake, Foster. I’m not one of your spies, I’m a doctor. What do I know about covert operations? And what about my current patients, and my license?”

“The cover is essential.” He sat down, leaned forward, and then linked his fingers, bracing his forearms on his knees. “I don’t know who is responsible for this, Sara. I can’t take unnecessary chances with my operative, with the other Shadow Watchers and AID personnel, or with you.” Foster lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Look, you wanted me to call a spade a spade. Well, here it is. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. You dislike the military and you resent its dedication to discipline, rules, and order. Yet every day of your life, you enjoy the personal freedom the military provides you.”

“Excuse me, but it’s the Constitution that guarantees my personal freedom.”

Foster’s eyes blazed. “Try exercising it without us.”

Valid point. She didn’t like it, but historically speaking, she couldn’t deny it.

“We’ve served you, Doctor. Now, we need your service. That military operative is one of many who provide you your freedom. If you won’t assist for David or for the sake of your country or under your oath to heal, then do it for him. Make it personal. Hell, it is personal. Every day of his life, this operative sacrifices for you in ways you can’t begin to fathom. Simply put, Sara, you owe him.”

Foster orchestrated this deliberately, to make her feel responsible for the operative. Even knowing it, the tactic worked. That infuriated her. “I do not owe him, or you. I haven’t asked anyone in uniform to do anything for me.”

“No, but you certainly haven’t objected to all we have done.” He thrust out his chin. “You’ve benefited from our sacrifices, Doctor. That’s a fact.”

“Sorry, this mind-set doesn’t wash with me.” Her palms were damp. She pressed them flat on her desk blotter. “The draft has been abolished for a long time. Everyone in the military freely chose their career, just as I chose mine.”

Foster lifted and then set back down her nameplate. It thudded against her desk. “Think, Sara. Whoever did this to him is dangerous. Human life means nothing to him. Do you think for a second a person capable of deliberately destroying a man’s mind would hesitate to kill you or thousands of others like you?”

“Him.” Sara picked up on the pronoun. “You said him. So you do have an idea of who is behind this.”

“Him, or her, or they,” Foster replied. “Likely they. And if I had any idea who was behind this, would I be here?”

He wouldn’t. And her deduction proved true. This was a serious problem. For the country, the operatives, and now, for her. If overt, she’d be an assassin’s target. If covert, and discovered and exposed, she would be canceled. Some choices. Either way, if she got caught, she was dead.

But what if you don’t get caught? You find out about David, get Brenda and Lisa straightened out, save an operative’s life, and you live.

And Foster owes you.

Sara rocked back and forth in her chair, absorbing, reading between the lines. “What you’re telling me–underneath all the God-and-country-and-duty talk–is that once I’m in, I’m on my own.”

“Totally. No support and, if you blow it, no knowledge.”

If exposed, definitely canceled. She looked up at Foster. For the first time, she saw complete, unvarnished truth in his eyes. And she hated it most of all. It scared her in ways she’d never been scared. Her throat muscles quivered, and she swallowed hard. “I don’t have a choice about this, do I?”

“No.” Foster softened his voice. “I wish I could give one, but I can’t. If you refuse, I’ll manufacture whatever evidence it takes to have your license revoked. You’ll lose everything, Sara. I know you won’t believe it, but I regret having to issue this ultimatum. I oppose force and do all I can to preserve freedom.”

“You stand here and say that, knowing your ultimatum will cost me everything?”

“Yes. For the greater good of a nation, I’ll sacrifice you.” He looked straight into her eyes. “You, or many, many others, Sara. In my position, which would you choose?”

She’d choose the lesser of the two evils. She’d choose to sacrifice herself. What else could she choose and still live with herself? “I’d look for another option.”

“There are no other options.”

True, or he wouldn’t be here. She didn’t want to ask, but she had to know. Her mouth dust-dry, she lashed at her lips with her tongue. “Will I be canceled?”

“The moment you become a risk. Yes, you will.”

At least he was honest about it. Still, the concept was difficult to grasp. This had been just another normal day. Now, there was nothing normal about it. “And if I don’t become a risk?”

“Then no good would be served by canceling you.”

Sara studied him. Foster was worried; his forehead was sweat-sheened. If he’d had any other way of resolving this, he never would have come to her. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but if there was a snowball’s chance in hell she could help Brenda and Lisa, then Sara had to try it. God knew, helping them her way, she’d failed again and again. Foster’s insight about David could give her what she needed to succeed. She didn’t relish the idea of losing everything she had worked for, either. Especially her life or that of the unknown operative, and she had made an oath to heal. A damn shame they hadn’t added, “when it’s convenient.”

Obviously, whoever had written the oath hadn’t crossed paths with Foster.

Okay. Okay, she’d do it. Something flashed in Jack Foster’s eyes. Something dark and evil. “No,” she said before she could change her mind. When it came to a battle between logic and instinct, she went with instinct every time. “I’m sorry. I understand your dilemma, but I can’t help you. Find yourself another doctor.”

“I can pull you in, Sara.” Foster stood up. “I’d prefer not to have to do it, but when it regards a matter of national security, I have the authority.”

Yet another threat. Enough was enough. “Look, you do what you have to do. My gut’s telling me you’re not playing straight with me, and until it tells me differently, I’m refusing. You want to make my life miserable? Pull my license? Fine. Go ahead. I’ll deal with it. But I won’t have you jeopardize my reputation and my life when you’re bent on playing the very games with me that you warned me against playing with you.”

“What games?” Foster elevated his voice. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

“You’ve told me everything you want me to know. There’s a difference. Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t held out on me.”

He looked away.

“Good grief, Foster. Your body language has been screaming at me since you walked through my door. It’s still screaming at me now.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “What exactly is it screaming, Doctor?”

Sara stood up. Though a good six inches shorter than his six two, she glared up at him. “It’s screaming that you’ve got a hidden agenda.”

Foster stared at her for a long moment, as if torn between choking her and laughing at her. “Of course I’ve got a hidden agenda. I’m AID, for Christ’s sake.”

He had a point. Still . . . “You know what I mean. Don’t you dare make this sound trivial. Not when you’re talking about lives.”

“There’s nothing trivial about any of this.” Foster pecked a piece of lint from his dark blue slacks. “But my agendas are of no consequence to you.”

Was he joking or suffering from delusions? “Let me get this straight. I do what you want or I lose everything–including my license, right?”

“Simplified, but, yes, that’s correct.”

She crossed her chest with her arms. “Well, for something that is of no consequence to me, this proposition stands to have a huge impact on my life.”

He ignored that remark and dropped a business card on her desk. “You have twenty-four hours. Phone me at the handwritten number on the back.”

Sara glared across the desk at him. “I won’t call.”

“Yes, Sara, you will.” Foster spoke softly, just above a whisper, and his eyes reflected pity and regret. “Because if you don’t call, Brenda is going to marry and divorce again, Lisa is going to run away from home, and an innocent man, who has devoted his life to his country and to keeping people like you safe, is going to die.”

 

————————————————————————

ACTS OF HONOR TO BECOME A FEATURE FILM!

Don Jordan, CEO of Resurrection Road Media will collaborate on an upcoming feature film based on Vicki’s novel, “Acts of Honor.” The movie version of “Acts of Honor” will be produced in association with G-Star Studios, Palm Beach, Florida and film/video professionals Shane Reynolds (www.ColorEarth.tv), Earl Newton (www.StrangerThings.tv), Scott Clements (www.BrownDogSound.com) and Paul Sinor (www.ValhallaMilitary.com). “Acts of Honor” is expected to go into production in late 2013.

————————————————————————–

First published in December 1999 by St. Martin’s Press under ISBN: 0-312-97273-3.

Shades of Gray (Reissue)

 

 

 

July 1998
ISBN: 0-312-97273-3
Bell Bridge Books

 

 

 

 

Reviews:

“Complications here go beyond the usual hurdles and make the romance more touching for being hard won. And if the main action–Laura and Jake must combat terrorists amassing anthrax in the Florida Everglades–seems far-fetched, just read The New York Times. 500,000 first printing. (July)”–Publishers Weekly

“With her impressively realistic portrayal of the jeopardy faced by Special Ops members, dynamic author Vicki Hinze guarantees her readers an edge-of-their-seat thrill ride. You want intrigue, danger, and romance? Ms. Hinze proves she can supply them!” — Romantic Times

“Hinze slides into the major leagues with this novel. Shades of Gray has it all: adventure, romance, intrigue, and danger. Impossible to put down.”
– Under the Covers

“Readers will have no doubts about Shades of Gray being a first class military romance leaded with non-stop action, plenty of intrigue, and a great romance. Hinze demonstrates that she is the Chief of Staff of the military romance sub-genre.”
– Painted Rock

“Vicki Hinze’s new book, Shades of Gray, is a wonderful combination of romance, family drama, and out-and-out thriller. Her characters are wonderful and vivid, the plot engrossing, and the setting is utterly fascinating. A terrific read.”
– Anne Stuart, best-selling author

“A great story line that easily could sell as a romance or an action-thriller. Hinze is clearly one of the leaders of military romances that emphasizes action, suspense, and romance. A winner for fans of romantic suspense.”
– Affaire de Coeur

“Hinze does an exemplary job of weaving a terrorist tale full of romantic suspense and compassion. Many twists and turns with the storyline coming full circle after some interesting surprises. A great book from a terrific author.” — Reviewer, Sunny Adcock

“A roller coaster ride of suspense and terror. Hinze may just have initiated a new genre. A page turner from beginning to end.” — Site101

“A high-tech, romantic thriller. Suspense at its best! This book accurately delves into the world of Special Ops and the men and women who lay their lives on the line for our country anytime, anywhere. If you like Tom Clancy, Nelson DeMille, or Tami Hoag, you’ll love Hinze’s Shades of Gray.” — Lorna Tedder, author of Access

“Hinze takes the reader on a very exciting, suspenseful ride. Splendid!”
– Bell, Book and Candle

“Shades of Gray is an exciting, suspenseful drama that will keep readers on the edge of their seats. Hinze has created an adventure filled with twists, turns, betrayal and romance leaving readers clamoring for more. Do not miss this brilliantly crafted story.”
– CompuServe Reviews

“Shades is very fast-paced, filled with the kind of intrigue and plot twists that make for a great action movie…a great read if you’re a fan of Clancy-type novels and movies. A perfect combination of the two [intrigue and romance].” — The Middlesex News (MA)

“A first class military romance… The crisp story line is driven forward at a frenzy pace by a brilliantly developed set of secondary characters.” — BookBrowser Review

“High tension, riveting action, and characters of extraordinary integrity and self-control make Shades of Gray informative and entertaining.” — Amazon.com Review

“An edge-of-your-seat thrill ride.” — BarnesandNoble.com
“…suspense is paramount, the stakes high, the bad guys truly bad, and the main characters inseparable from their work for the American military. Hinze writes with convincing authenticity about the complex military world of exact rules, rigid discipline, constant preparedness, and covert missions, a world in which men and women and their families, make tremendous sacrifices to protect their country. In Jake and Laura, Hinze creates two people of exceptional honor and self-control whose struggle to resist the pull of love goes down in glorious defeat.”
– Ellen Edwards, Amazon.com Article Excerpt

“…takes us behind the scenes on missions of danger and national prominence. Creating two unforgettable characters of strength, integrity and honor, Ms. Hinze quickly captures our attention and our hearts. Keeps the pages turning and the pulse pounding. Shades of Gray has it all.” — New and Previously Owned Books, Reviewer

“Skillfully combines an action thriller with an engaging family story. Hinze is a gifted writer with an engaging style reminiscent of Karen Robards.” — Gothic Journal

“An exhilarating, fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat story filled with love, honor, and betrayal. Smooth as silk. This book will keep you reading long into the morning. Definitely a keeper!” — Romance Communications

“Hinze explodes onto the scene as an author of top-notch military romantic fiction. Fans of Anne Stuart, Tami Hoag, and Iris Johansen will be thrilled to discover the talent of Vicki Hinze. Fasten your seatbelt for a wild and wonderful ride.”
– Romance and Women’s Fiction Exchange

“Twists and turns abound. A crazy ex-wife, a terrorist group, and the rigid discipline off the military all come together to make this book a real page-turner.”
– WCRG on America Online

“Hinze leaves the reader hanging with each word. This book is impossible to put down…” — Word Museum

“A Roller Coaster Reader! Shades of Gray has it all–breathtaking suspense, heartstopping romance, and fabulous characters. Hinze is a master at crafting a book you simply cannot put down! Watch for this book to hit the NYT Bestseller List and for Hinze to join the superstars.” — Delia Parr, Author of Sunrise

“Hinze moves from the cozy surroundings of the Seascape romances she writes as Victoria Barrett to a setting where love takes especially hard work. Members of the Special Operations unit of the U.S. Air Force certainly have a tough life. Dads and moms aren’t always around for their kids, not if they’re out on “”TDY””–active duty fighting bad guys in swampy parts of the world. Hinze’s hero, Jake (the ubiquitous name for macho heroes), has a 2% survival rate on most of the assignments he gets, so he’s never really tried to put down roots, although he longs to. In order to keep his son Timmy out of the custody of his alcoholic ex-wife, Jake accepts his friend Laura Taylor’s offer of a marriage of convenience. Laura is a former Special Ops officer who designs complicated communications equipment. Given their lives, love isn’t an option, but after two years together, resisting it isn’t either. The complications here go beyond the usual hurdles faced by romantic protagonists and make the romance more touching for being hard won. And if the main action–Laura and Jake must combat terrorists amassing anthrax in the Florida Everglades–seems far-fetched, just read The New York Times. 500,000 first printing. (July)”–Publishers Weekly

Awards & Honors:

Top Pick Award, Romantic Times
Reviewer’s Choice Award Nominee,
Best Contemporary Suspense Novel of the Year, Romantic Times

Chapter Excerpt:

© 2006 Vicki Hinze
Chapter One

The banging on the apartment door threatened to knock it off its hinges.

Laura Taylor sat straight up in bed, her heart in her throat. She tossed back the covers, bumping the novel she’d fallen asleep reading to the floor. Fear clawed at her stomach.

Bury it, Taylor. She recalled the drill by rote. Bury it. Intruders seldom knock.

But that didn’t mean whoever was pounding on her door in the dead of night was friendly and, in her position, assuming that it did could be lethal. Amateur intruders seldom knock but, at times, professionals do. It could be a diversionary tactic.

Someone could already be inside.

Slinging on a robe, she grabbed the canister of pepper gas she kept in the drawer beside her bed, resenting that break-ins happened even in military communities like Fairhope, California. But they did happen. One had happened, to her.

She crossed her bedroom, her every nerve on alert. The hammering at the door mirrored the jackhammering of her heart, and her throat turned ash-dry. Hugging her back to the wall, she slid against its gritty surface, inched down the narrow hallway, broadening her focus, scanning for any shift or movement in the darkness, seeking sensations of any cool August night air drafting in through broken glass, an open window or door.

he stumbled over her shoes. Banged her hip against the edge of the kitchen bar. Pain shot through her side, and she swallowed a curse because she always left her damn shoes there, and she knew it. Allowing herself to get careless, her skills to get rusty, was a good way to wake up dead.

Steadying herself, she moved on through, skirted around the wicker-and-glass dinette into the adjoining living room, then on to the front door.

It was at times like this one, and during the break-in, when she felt most grateful she’d had survival school training during her active duty days as Captain Laura Taylor, Air Force Intelligence Officer and Communications Research Specialist. Despite the sweat trickling down between her breasts and the fine hairs on her nape standing on end, whoever tried coming in on her wouldn’t find a docile woman waiting to become a victim. She had the Air Force to thank for that, even as she acknowledged her covert work for it could have prompted this midnight visit.

“Laura?” A man called out, rapped against the wood again. “Laura, it’s me–Jake.”

“Jake.” Relief washed through Laura, and then evaporated.

She and Jake Logan had been friends for a decade, but the only time he ever had come over in the middle of the night had been when his ex-wife, Madeline, had done something god-awful–usually to their son, Timmy.

One kind of fear replaced another, and squeezed at her chest. Laura twisted the cold dead-bolt, heard it click, and then opened the door. “What’s wrong?”

Bitterness seeping from his every pore, Jake slumped against the frame, looking like six foot-two of defeated thirty-four-year-old man, his jet-black hair wind-tossed, his strong face, all angles and planes, outraged and ravaged. “She’s suing me for custody of Timmy.”

Madeline. Again. Laura nearly cried. Jake had tried everything to make his marriage to Madeline work, but she’d opted to continue downing Scotch. He’d spent years trying to get her sober but, finally, she’d committed the unpardonable sin: endangering their son, Timmy. And after that, the craziest in a long string of her crazy stunts, he’d issued her an ultimatum: dry out in a rehab center, or he’d sue for divorce. She’d opted to drink. Now she’d dried out–for the moment; unfortunately, her dry spells never lasted long–and she was suing him for custody of Timmy.

The injustice stung. Deeply. It wasn’t fair or right. Madeline had dragged Timmy through enough hell. More than enough. And, God knew, Jake had been tried by her fire twice as often as his son. When would their aggravation with this woman end ?

Laura opened the door wider, and motioned him inside. “Have you talked to your lawyer?” Gregory Radon was a great attorney. Surely he could put a quick stop to this insanity.

“I’ve talked to him. And then I tried to find Madeline.” Jake came in and, as tense as strung wire, he paced between the sofa and wicker dinette table, dragging his hand through his black hair at his temple. “No luck. She’s pulled a disappearing act.”

It was probably a good thing for them both that she had, and he hadn’t found her. Laura clicked on a lamp, set the canister of pepper gas on the coffee table, then relaxed back in a chair beside the sofa and waited for him to vent enough so that they could talk this through. She hated seeing him upset. Not only because she literally owed him her life and they’d been best friends for years, but because she loved Timmy as much as Jake loved his son.

“The upshot is that Lady Justice isn’t just blind,” he said, stopping at the edge of the light, pooling on the mint-green carpet. “She’s needs a reality check.”

A prickle of irritation at that remark slithered up Laura’s back. But she knew this wasn’t Jake talking so much as his anger and frustration, and so she let the comments slide, and straightened a sprawled stack of magazines on the coffee table. Modern Family looked comfortable there, beside Popular Science.

“Because my job is risky and I’m away a lot, I provide a ‘less than stable growth-environment’ for my son. In other words, it’s a toss up,” he muttered, a warranted amount of anger riddling his tone. “My odds of retaining custody of Timmy are about equal to Madeline’s odds of getting custody of him.”

Shock, stark and deep, surged through Laura. “But she’s a drunk,” she said, too surprised to pause and state that bald truth diplomatically.

“Sad commentary, isn’t it?” Jake looked down at her, letting her see his weariness of fighting Madeline in his eyes. “I’m a Special Operations officer in the United States Air Force and, because I risk my neck so often for my country, I’ve got the same odds as an alcoholic of keeping custody of my son.”

It was a sad commentary. An infuriating one, too. “So what did Radon say you can do about it?” If Jake said “nothing,” she swore she’d spit nails.

He rapped the back of a chair in his pacing, then stopped in front of her. “According to the good attorney, I could ‘greatly enhance’ my odds of winning a custody battle by getting married.”

“Oh, God.” Anything, but that. Anything, but that.

“My feelings exactly.” Jake nodded. “He says a wife would be there when I can’t be, giving Timmy ‘a higher probability’ of having a more stable home life with me.” Jake let out a grunt that clearly depicted his thoughts on that recommendation.

After the hellish years he had spent married to Madeline, that suggestion and comment had to sting. Sting? Hell, it had to scorch. They’d had any and everything but peace and stability.

Agitated, she shifted on her chair, swept her auburn hair back from her face. Her thoughts raced. Jake married again? And Madeline gaining custody of Timmy? Just the thought of either soured Laura’s stomach.

She couldn’t let this happen. Not to Jake or to Timmy. She knew how much pain it would cause them, especially Timmy. How could she not know? She had grown up as an only child in New Orleans without much of a family. Her parents had loved each other to distraction; so much so, they’d had little love left over for their daughter. Laura had never belonged. She had been alone, an outsider, and she had never forgotten how much that had hurt. She’d sworn to herself that one day, she would have children of her own and things would be different. But, thanks to a ruptured ovarian cyst, and a non-functioning ovary, she’d had to watch that dream die.

And then Timmy had been born and, from the moment she had first seen him, just minutes after his birth, she had considered him her surrogate son.

No, she couldn’t let this happen. Not to him. The anger and guilt of not preventing it from happening would eat her alive. Resolve hardened in her chest. She’d be damned before she would risk Timmy being raised by a neglectful alcoholic who loved Scotch more than her son. He would not feel like an outsider.

As a resolution occurred to Laura, she said it aloud, having no idea what kind of reaction to expect. “You could marry me.”

Jake stared at her for a long moment, his soft gray eyes shining with gratitude, then hardening with determination. He plopped down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. A minute elapsed, then two. Finally, he leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “You’ve been the best friend a man could ask for, but you’ve done so much for us already. I can’t ask you to marry me, too.”

“You didn’t ask.” Laura shifted over to sit across from him in her favorite chair. The beige velour snagged her silk robe, exposing her thigh. She tugged it closed, then smoothed it over her kneecap. “I offered.”

Thinking it over, he vacillated between the pros and cons, his expression shifting half a dozen times. “No.” He sighed, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, rolled the copy of Popular Science into a tube, and then smacked it against his open palm. “No, you can’t.”

The more Laura considered it, the more sense it made. And the more reasonable it seemed. “Why not?”

“Why not?” His tone turned incredulous.

“Yes. Why not?” Laura narrowed her gaze in warning. “We know what kind of antics Madeline’s capable of, Jake. We’ve got to do whatever it takes to protect him from her.”

“I have to do whatever it takes,” he corrected, dropping the magazine back onto the coffee table. It landed with a firm thunk. “Look, I’m grateful for everything you do for Timmy and me. Trying to figure out how to deal with him most of the time . . . well, I’d always be floundering without you, and I know it.”

“Then doesn’t it make sense that we do this?”

“No, it doesn’t,” he insisted, forking both hands through his hair. “It’s exactly why we shouldn’t.” Jake leaned back, put on his most serious I-mean-it look. “When Madeline got pregnant and her father insisted she abort, you helped me to accept what I had to do for Timmy’s sake. You helped me through that nightmare of a marriage, and the even worse divorce.”

“Of course. Friends do that kind of thing for friends, Jake.”

“You’ve done more, and we both know it. You’ve always helped me with Timmy. Hell, you’ve been more of a mother to him than Madeline ever thought about being. But I can’t have you marrying me for him, Laura. I won’t. Even for a best friend, that’s just . . . too much.”

“Do I have any choice in the matter?” It was her life. And it should damn well be her decision. The man would protect her to death, if she let him.

“Don’t get your hackles up.” Jake let his gaze roll toward the ceiling, then focused back on her. “I just think that you deserve a life with a man you know is going to be there for you when you need him. I work missions with survival odds between two and ten percent. That’s not going to change.”

She resisted a compelling urge to sigh and just announce that they were going to do this, and to tack-on an “and that’s final.” But it was too soon. Jake had to vent and to discuss this some more to see the big picture and to draw the same conclusion she had seen and drawn. “I was in Special Ops. I know what goes on there.”

“Then I shouldn’t have to remind you that when one mission is over, there’s another one waiting in the wings.”

Did he think she had forgotten? How could anyone forget a job that determines their whole lifestyle? One drilled into them until they live, breathe, and eat it? No one forgets it. Ever. “Listen, all of this is just smoke. And smoke doesn’t change facts. You need a wife.”

“The last thing I need is a wife.” He grunted, slicing his hand down the thigh of his black slacks. “Even a damn divorce hasn’t given me peace from the one I had.”

How could Laura dispute that truth? “You need a mother for Timmy,” she rephrased. “I can be that, if I’m your wife.”

“And what do you get?” he asked, then answered himself. “Nothing.”

“I get a son.” Only she knew how much that would mean to her.

Jake’s broad shoulders slumped, telling her he had more than an inkling of the importance of that to her, and his voice softened. “I can’t be a husband again, Laura. I won’t.” He rubbed at his forehead, clearly irritated and unsure what to do with all his frustration. “Don’t you understand? We’d have no future.”

“Of course, I understand.” She stiffened, and persisted. “But to keep Timmy, you need a wife. I know there isn’t anyone special in your life, so that leaves me.”

“Why in hell would you marry a man with a son and no future? You, of all people, should have better sense.” He laced his fingers atop his head and closed his eyes, as if silently cursing, or praying.

When he reopened them, he glared at her. “It’s highly likely I’ll never live to see thirty-five, and we both know it. Think about that. And think about yourself, not just Timmy. Are you forgetting who you are?”

“No. But I think you might be.”

Agitated and obviously bent on reminding her anyway, from his perspective, Jake began pacing again, hanging in the shadows just beyond the lamplight. “Look, you went into the military to do high-tech, communications research and you became an expert–a captain in Intel who could pick her pet projects and her terms, and you did it. Yet all of that still wasn’t enough for you.”

She’d loved her work in the Special Ops intelligence community, and she still loved her research. But it hadn’t been enough, which was exactly why marrying him made sense. “I haven’t forgotten, Jake.” Nor had she forgotten Madeline’s part in why she was no longer in the military. That, however, Laura had sworn to herself she’d never tell Jake.

He’d said the last thing he needed was a wife, but it wasn’t. It was more guilt, which is exactly what he’d feel if she told him about Madeline’s antics affecting her and her career.

He stopped near the table, and glared over the slope of his shoulder back at her. “Damn it, you know you hated the constant danger of working Intel. You hated not knowing where you’d be tomorrow or next week, never mind next year.”

“Yes, I did. Enough to get out of the Air Force to get away from it.”

“You hated having no idea what mission you’d be on, or where you’d be performing it, and you walked out–as much as anyone can walk out of Intel–to get yourself a personal life.”

Was he going to laundry list her whole life here? “All of that is true, but–”

“Then why are you telling me you’re willing to give up a personal life and put yourself right in the middle of all of the things you hated again?”

“Because I am willing.” Laura looked him right in the eye. “And that’s exactly what I’m telling you.” She lifted a hand, palm upward. “I’m willing.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, spiking it. “You’re forgetting about Madeline. As much as I wish she would, she isn’t going to go away.” A grimace flattened his generous mouth to a tight slash. “If I’ve accepted nothing else in the two years since the divorce, I’ve accepted that she’ll be a thorn in my side until the day I die. You can’t be willing to accept that, too.”

“Yes, I can,” Laura said without hesitating, then leaned forward in her chair, a little amused by the disbelief in his tone. “Listen, you’re right about all of this. But you’re forgetting the one reason that makes all of it insignificant.”

He lifted his hands, and the button on his left shirt-cuff winked in the lamplight. “What the hell could make all of this insignificant?”

“Timmy.” Her throat sandpaper dry, Laura dredged up her courage and then spoke from the heart, something she had rarely let herself do with anyone, including Jake. “I’d do it for Timmy,” she said. “I love him, Jake.”

The skepticism in his expression wilted, and the hard lines in his face softened. “I know you love him, but we’re talking marriage here. This isn’t a day at the park in San Francisco, or a week in the Sierras playing in the snow. You’d be sacrificing your shot at a happy, normal life with a real marriage.”

She bristled, and her tone went flat. “I’m aware of the difference.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you.” His exasperation escaped on a sigh. “Ah, hell, Laura, you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. I got out of the Air Force because I wanted to put down roots in a quiet and peaceful life. But, in case you haven’t noticed, my friend, it’s been four years since I took off my captain’s bars, and my roots and the rest of me are still single.”

Unable to sit and speak this frankly, she stood up and moved behind the stuffed chair, then grasped the back of it in a knuckle-tingling grip, wondering why in heaven she smelled lemons. Despising them, she knew for a fact there was nothing in her apartment that even resembled the scent. “You know how much I wanted children. You also know my biological clock didn’t get a shot at ticking before it shut down. I’ll never have children myself, but I have had Timmy. In my heart, he’s my son, Jake, and he always has been. And right now, my son needs me.”

Jake stared at her, a little surprised but even more awed. Laura had let him glimpse inside her on occasion, but never like this. And in her expression, determined and yet vulnerable, he realized the truth. Her suggestion to marry him truly had nothing to do with him. It had to do with what was best for Timmy.

Relieved by that, Jake moved out from the shadows on the floor into the lamplight and plucked at the nubby fabric on the back of the sofa. He considered her proposal from that perspective and, in the end, he decided she made a lot of sense. But they had to be perfectly clear on the terms of this agreement. He didn’t dare to not be crystal clear.

“You’re right,” he said. “I do need a mother for Timmy. But I don’t need a wife.” His gray eyes turned steely. “If we should do this, as egotistical as it sounds, I would have to know you’d never make the mistake of falling in love with me. Not ever.” The skin between his brows furrowed. “My mortality rating is bad at best. We have no future. You can never forget that, and you can never take the chance of loving me.”

They had been friends for over a decade. Did he think this was a newsflash? “I know.”

His frown deepened, and his voice grew even more stern. “I won’t love you. And I won’t forget it–not for a second. I can’t forget it, and I can’t handle any guilt or regret or the worry of wondering that you might. I won’t worry, and I won’t regret, Laura. And even five or ten years from now, I won’t tolerate recriminations or reprisals being tossed into my face because of the way things are. I’m telling you now exactly how things will always be. I’ve got to know you understand that, and it ‘s okay with you. Otherwise, I can’t do what I have to do.”

The job. Duty first. How well she remembered the drill. And as warnings went, this one wasn’t so bad. She’d heard worse from him, and those had worked out amicably. “Quit ranting and listen to me, okay?” When he stopped at the other side of the coffee table and stuffed his fist into his pocket, she went on. “I don’t love you, Jake. I’m not in love with you, and I can’t fathom, even in my wildest imagination, ever being in love with you. So none of that is a problem.”

That blunt disclosure had the logical man fighting the male ego in Jake, and he suspected Laura knew it. What looked suspiciously like a smile tugged at her lips. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“You’ll have your home and your life, and I’ll have mine,” she said in a tone so calm and reasonable it set his teeth on edge. “We’ll just do what we’ve always done: work together for whatever is in Timmy’s best interest. The only difference is we’ll be married.”

“So you accept that’s all our relationship can ever be?” Jake asked, still unconvinced. How could she be satisfied, settling for so little for herself? He had to be missing something she hadn’t considered. “I’m serious about all this. We’ll never be emotionally close. We’ll never be a real couple, or anymore of a family than we are now.”

“We certainly won’t,” she firmly insisted. “But we will be married, and that’ll ‘greatly enhance’ your odds of keeping custody of Timmy. That’s what matters most to me.”

Jake stared at her in disbelief. “Why?”

Laura accepted it. He wasn’t going to relent. Not until he felt satisfied, and to give him satisfaction, she had to bare even more truths. Ones she preferred not to think about much less to discuss. Still, this was for Timmy. She would do it, but she’d be damned if she could look Jake in the eye when she did. She focused on the placket of his gray corduroy shirt. “I was a vulnerable child.” Saying that out loud, even after all these years, still rattled her. “I didn’t like it. And I won’t have a child I consider my son vulnerable. Not if I can stop it.”

He dipped his chin, stayed silent a long moment. Obviously her disclosure about being vulnerable had taken him by surprise. Or maybe it hadn’t, and he didn’t want her to know that he had surmised that truth a long time ago.

He lifted his chin to look at her. “We’d be taking a shot, but it could be for nothing. Madeline could win the custody suit, anyway.”

“Highly doubtful,” Laura countered. “I’m clean, with strong credentials and no history that could hurt him. Dr. Laura Taylor, formerly Captain Laura Taylor, will round out your superiority nicely, I would say.” Lord, how she wished she felt as confident about that as she had sounded.

Surprise flickered through his eyes. “You’re even willing to flaunt your titles on this?”

Hating pretentious titles, she blanched. But for Timmy? Anything. Even that. “Yes.”

Jake’s lip curled, hinting at a crooked smile. “You really are sure about this.”

Finally, he was coming around. How could she not be sure? “To keep Timmy away from Madeline, I’d marry the devil himself. You can be ruthless, friend, but you’re far less daunting than the devil.”

Laura had thought this through. And Jake supposed he could understand why she would find settling for him acceptable. Even without a future, she wanted to feel connected to someone outside herself, to Timmy. And from living through Jake’s marriage to Madeline along with him, Laura knew the hell a traditional marriage involved. Not loving him and being Timmy’s step-mother, when she already considered herself his mother, was emotionally safe. “Can you tell me straight out you know and accept that the only reason I’m marrying you is to keep Madeline away from Timmy?”

“I know and accept it,” Laura said without reservation, then issued a warning of her own. “And I want to know you accept that Timmy is the only reason I would marry you.”

“Of course.” He shrugged. “Why else?”

The man had no idea of his appeal. Which is probably why they been able to be friends and keep their relationship purely platonic.

It took a lot more discussion–actually, until dawn was breaking outside–but finally, Laura settled his fears and the worry cleared from Jake’s face.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing his lower lip between his forefinger and thumb. “Okay, let’s do it.”

“Okay.” Laura stood up, feeling buoyant. It wasn’t the traditional proposal or acceptance, and theirs wouldn’t be anything like a traditional marriage. But it would serve the purpose and hopefully put a damper on Madeline’s plan to bring more turmoil into Timmy’s life. A sacrifice for both Laura and Jake, but one that–please, God!–would spare Timmy.

That possibility alone made any sacrifice worth the price they had to pay.

Two weeks later, in a Lake Tahoe chapel, Laura Taylor put on an antique-white lace dress, held a bouquet of pale yellow roses and baby’s breath, and became Jake Logan’s wife.

It never occurred to her or Jake to exchange wedding rings, and the justice of the peace had to remind Jake to kiss his bride.

Two weeks and three days after the wedding, Madeline went on another drinking binge, and dropped the custody suit.

That news came to Laura via Jake, who met her for lunch at The Golden Dragon, a tiny Chinese restaurant they frequented, to tell her, and to suggest they have their marriage annulled.

Awash in relief over the dropping of the suit, Laura considered the annulment for nearly two minutes before deciding against it. “No,” she said, watching a brunette waitress who was as thin as a rail scurry from table to table, refilling glasses from a frosty pitcher of iced-tea. “No annulment.”

About to take a bite of spicy-smelling lo mein, Jake paused, his fork mid-air. “No?”

“No,” Laura insisted, removing a smelly lemon wedge from the saucer of her hot tea and dumping it into an ashtray. “What if something should happen to you? Considering the job, we know it’s a strong possibility.”

He put his fork down. “Custody of Timmy would automatically revert to Madeline.”

“Exactly.” Laura leaned closer, across the red-clothed table, then dropped her voice to a whisper to avoid being overheard by the two women lunching at the next table. “I know that’s eaten at you inside for a long time–worrying about that happening. It’s worried me, too. And now we have the opportunity to do something about it. I think, rather than get an annulment, we need to pursue a step-parent adoption.”

Jake opposed. Strongly. “No, you’ve sacrificed enough for us already.”

While other diners came, ate, and departed, he went on to reiterate every logical reason in the book why she shouldn’t want to do this, informed her that Madeline would never give her consent, and then reiterated some more, in case Laura had missed anything the first time he’d said it.

When he paused for breath, Laura interjected, “But she’s an alcoholic, Jake.”

“True, but she’s one with substantial credentials. She spent years in the Intelligence community as an assistant to Colonel James, and that will strengthen her custody odds.”

“Even if she was only there because of her father?” Of course, Colonel James had hired her. Her father, Sean Drake, was a well-respected CIA legend and offending him was paramount to offending God. James was far too slick to offend God.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jake insisted. “She was there. That’s what shows up on paper.”

Laura groused, fidgeted on her red-vinyl seat. “But everyone knows she was an airhead and a drunk, Jake. Even her boss knew it.”

“She got Excellent ratings on every employee review.”

“Okay,” Laura conceded. “So to stay in Sean Drake’s good graces, Colonel James covered for her. But, over the years, she’s pulled a respectable succession of crazy stunts. They can be verified and testified to, and that would have to strengthen our case.”

Jake mulled that over and, after Laura swallowed her last bite of sesame chicken, she interrupted his ponderings to remind him of the bottom line. “We have to do everything possible to never leave Timmy vulnerable to her,” Laura insisted. “We have to, Jake, because otherwise only God knows the damage she could do.”

Timmy could not be an outsider.

 

Cast of Characters: INVIDIA

Cast of Characters is a collection of short stories by bestselling author members of Novelists, Inc. Edited by Lou Aronica, proceeds are being donated to the organization for the benefit of writers.

 

Release date: April 3, 2012

Format: Trade Paperback, eBook

 

 

 

TWENTY-EIGHT LEADING VOICES IN FICTION – INCLUDING ELEVEN NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHORS – JOIN TOGETHER IN A CELEBRATION OF GREAT STORYTELLING

 

We love fiction. It’s in our blood and it’s in our souls. Great stories thrill us and inspire us in a way that nothing else can. If you’re like us, then we invite you to revel in this anthology of all-original stories we’ve created for you.

In CAST OF CHARACTERS, you’ll meet a collection of unforgettable personalities. The devoted wife who discovers her husband’s devastating secret. The Black Death survivor who reinvents herself. The woman who finds love in the arms of a dark, dangerous artist. The devoted scientist faced with a daunting ethical dilemma. The woman who hears ghosts. The gorgeous but fated young man. The small-town beauty queen with a world-class mean streak. The inventor who fears his invention. The man seeking a reunion decades later with his first love. The stalker who understands too late who he is stalking. The dreadful athlete who gets one opportunity to win. The man who loves a woman society will not allow him to love. These are only a few of the figures who will leap from the page and take residence in your heart.

In addition, CAST OF CHARACTERS is highlighted by several “events” you won’t want to miss:

• #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander delivers her first short story with a contemporary setting – as does New York Times bestselling author Tanya Anne Crosby.

• New York Times bestselling author Jo Beverley brings back the hero of her novel Forbidden Magic.

• New York Times bestselling author Angie Fox creates a new Biker Witches story.

• New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham writes her first story with her son Jason.

• New York Times bestselling author Katie MacAlister tells the story of one of her most beloved teen characters as an adult.

• National bestselling author Julie Ortolon tells the beloved Pearl Island story her fans have been clamoring for.

• National bestselling author Diana Peterfreund offers the origin story for one of the most important magical items in her “killer unicorn” series.

A huge volume of twenty-eight stories ranging from romance to suspense to fantasy to comedy to poignant character pieces, CAST OF CHARACTERS is a must-have book for everyone who loves fiction.

Contributors include: CATHERINE ANDERSON, VICTORIA ALEXANDER, JO BEVERLEY, BARBARA BRETTON, JULIE COMPTON, TANYA ANNE CROSBY, CAROLE NELSON DOUGLAS, ROSEMARY EDGHILL, ANGIE FOX, HEATHER GRAHAM AND JASON POZZESSERE, GREG HERREN, VICKI HINZE, MARIANNA JAMESON, WAYNE JORDAN, KATE KINGSBURY, CJ LYONS, KATIE MACALISTER, ASHLEY MCCONNELL, JODY LYNN NYE, JULIE ORTOLON, DIANA PETERFREUND, LAURA RESNICK, PATRICIA RICE, DEB STOVER, VICTORIA STRAUSS, KAREN TINTORI, DIANE WHITESIDE and STEVEN WOMACK.

 

Vicki Hinze’s story in CAST OF CHARACTERS is Invidia (Envy). When asked why she wrote the story, this was her response:

 

A short excerpt…

 

 

Love Is Murder: Wed to Death

USA Today Bestseller

Publishers Weekly Starred Review

“Hinze has penned a heart-stopping story about true commitment. You may need a hanky.”– Sandra Brown

Prepare for heart-racing suspense in this original collection by thirty of the hottest bestselling authors and new voices writing romance suspense today.

Love Is Murder is the third Thriller anthology written exclusively by members of International Thriller Writers, Inc. Barely seven years old, ITW has a roster that reads like a who’s who of thriller writing, with 1,635 members representing 28 countries worldwide and over three billion books in print.

Hardcover: 608 pages Publisher: Mira (May 29, 2012)
ISBN-10: 0778313441 ISBN-13: 978-0778313441

 

Praise for Love is Murder: Thriller 3

 

Thriller 3: Love Is Murder–Starred Review

If a person is known by the company she keeps, then the company of the 30 romance and suspense writers in this stellar all-original anthology speaks volumes about bestseller Brown. From Lori Armstrong’s sexy “Holding Mercy” to Vicki Hinze’s sweet “Wed to Death,” there’s romance aplenty. But there’s also loads of suspense, including Lee Child’s “I Heard a Romantic Story” and Cindy Gerard’s “Dying to Score.” Hankering for a flight of romantic fantasy? Take a trip to a bizarre Savannah neighborhood in Dianna Love’s “Deadly Fixation” or to the Chicago of Patricia Rosemoor’s “Hot Note.” The action spans the globe, imparting a real feel for locales as diverse as the Mexican jungle; Halifax, Nova Scotia; London, England; and south Texas. There are familiar characters such as Allison Brennan’s Lucy Kincaid (“Vacation Interrupted”) and new ones readers are sure to want to see more of, like William Simon’s Nicholas White (“Spider’s Tango”). Chockablock with nifty plot twists, these stories aren’t to be missed. “--Publisher’s Weekly

 

“Hinze has penned a heart-stopping story about true commitment. You may need a hanky.”– Sandra Brown

“A slam-dunk collection of the best in the business.” Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author

“For romantic suspense lovers, this is magical mayhem loaded with bark and bite. Downright beguiling.” Jeffery Deaver, International #1 bestselling author

“It’s like a box of chocolates–each one is different, but they’re all great.” Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author

“An absolute must-buy for thriller readers everywhere.” Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“I love this book and you will, too.” Tess Gerritsen, International bestselling author

“Absolutely superb.” Doug Preston, New York Times bestselling author

“Gripping, exciting, engaging–every story will leave you breathless.” Karin Slaughter, #1 Internationally bestselling author

Seascape #3: Beside a Dreamswept Sea

BESIDE A DREAMSWEPT SEA
Seascape Trilogy
Book 3
Bell Bridge Books
ISBN: nya

December 24, 2011
Trade Paperback

eBook December 20, 2011

AUDIO coming in 2012

————————

 

 

 

Seascape Trilogy

Beyond the Misty Shore, Book 1

Upon a Mystic Tide, Book 2

Beside a Dreamswept Sea, Book 3

 

 

Reviews:

“Readers seeking a little romantic magic in their lives need to book a room at the Seascape Inn series. All of these [Seascape] novels are incredible reading experiences. Beside a Dreamswept Sea enhances the deserved reputation of the series. This reviewer recommends the entire collection, which may turn into a collector’s item in the years to come.”
– Painted Rock

“Funny and touching. If this is your first Seascape, you’ll want to go back and read them all.
– Romance Forever

“One of the most gifted writers of contemporary romance (with a touch of otherworldly intervention) today. Like this book, all the author’s contributions to the brilliant Seascape series (the other two novels being Upon A Mystic Tide and Beyond the Misty Shore) enhance the entire sub-genre with its clever writing, interesting story lines, and great characters. This reviewer strongly recommends all…Seascape novels. The pentad makes up one of the best on-going series on the present market.”
– Affaire de Coeur

“Rich in characterization and description. It s easy to lose one’s self in the details and lush scenery. [The] author brings [her] own special flavor to these novels; layering and enriching the ancient [Seascape] inn until the patina shines deep and lustrous…”
– Under the Covers

“Magical! This one is a must…” — Bell, Book, and Candle

“Do not miss this touching and emotional story of loss and insecurity of a man and woman doing the best they can in dealing with the blows they have each sustained in life. Original beliefs in their past lives are not what they thought. My heart went out to Suzie and her horrific nightmares. The friendly ghost sacrifices when he enters Suzie’s dreams to keep her safe.

“BESIDE A DREAMSWEPT SEA renews faith in love. The characters are all fascinating and the story line couldn’t be more interesting. BESIDE A DREAMSWEPT SEA will squeeze your heart and stay with you long after you finish the book.”– Fresh Fiction

“A tender poignancy makes this chapter in the saga of the mystical Seascape Inn all the more special. Fans will be especially touched.” — Romantic Times

“Funny and touching. If this is your first Seascape, you’ll want to go back and read them all. This author’s writing is simply exquisite. For fans of Rosamunde Pilcher and Maeve Binchy.” — Susan Wiggs, best-selling author

Reader Reviews

“Gorgeous, lyrical writing makes this book extra special. I’ve been reading all of this series, and I think this is my most favorite of all. This author’s writing is simply exquisite. For fans of Rosamunde Pilcher and Maeve Binchy.” –Amazon Reader

 

“Hands down, Beside a Dreamswept Sea is the finest book in the Seascape Series, one of the most innovative on the market today. Each story is a unique healing journey for the characters and indeed for the reader too. With captivating main characters, this story will sweep you off your feet! And for all those who find Miss Hattie and Tony irresistible, order this book NOW! A real keeper, Beside a Dreamswept Sea deserves a place of honor on your “keeper” shelf.” –Amazon Reader

 

“Beside a Dreamswept Sea’, the last book in this series, spoke to me more than the others. I really felt that the author had a deep understanding of mental abuse and the effects it can have. Although this book has similar miscommunication between the main characters as in the previous books, I didn’t feel that it was detrimental to the story. There was enough of a plot to make this book really interesting and I had trouble putting it down. It has a perfect mix of drama, romance, humour, mystery and paranormal. I loved reading about the children’s antics! I enjoyed the trilogy and wish it was an ongoing series.” –Amazon Reader, Jo

 

Awards & Honors:

Excellent – Romantic Times
Outstanding – Affaire de Coeur

Chapter Excerpt:

© 1995-2011 Vicki Hinze

The child was going to drown.
The truth slammed into Tony Freeport with the force of a sledge. A stunning truth, considering she lay tucked safely in bed in the Shell Room of Seascape Inn and, in his fifty years as a ghost working with his beloved Hattie in assisting others here to heal, he’d never before seen anyone come to harm under the inn’s roof. But in Suzie Richards’s dream, all the signs of real-life drowning were evident: panic, an inability to breathe, and fear. So much fear. . .
Dream or reality, if Tony didn’t do something quickly, the nine-year-old daughter of Bryce Richards and the deceased photojournalist, Meriam, was going to drown.
What could Tony do? What should he do? Suzie taking on the burdens of family no child should ever have to carry had been the catalyst insisting he intercede this far. But to intercede into her dreams? Did he dare?
This had to be a near-miss warning. Had to be.
He looked through the closed bedroom door, out into the upstairs hallway. The paneled walls deepened the night’s shadows and the only light was that seeping through the bank of mullioned windows centered inside a small vaulted alcove at the far end of the hall. Tall hand-carved mahogany bookshelves flanked those windows. Tony couldn’t clearly see the books in them, but he didn’t have to see them to know each book’s title, to know each spine stood straight. Nor did he need to see the pillows on the thick-cushions of the window seat nestled between those shelves to know they’d been fluffed. Hattie Stillman nurtured everything in her care, which included all of Seascape Inn, most of Sea Haven Village, and, at one time, him.
He scanned the polished plank-wood floor from the far end of the hallway back toward the end where he stood. On the left, facing the Atlantic Ocean, was the master bedroom, dubbed the Great White Room years ago, and the bath. On the right, the L-shaped staircase leading down to the first floor, and the Cove Room where Bryce Richards should have been sleeping but wasn’t. Instead, the man dozed slumped on the hallway floor, his head lolled back against the paneled wall, his slippered foot rumpling the edge of the white Berber rug that stretched from the stairway’s landing nearly all the way down to the Shell Room, about a yard from Tony’s feet.
Bryce was a man on a mission. Two sets of his friends from New Orleans, T.J. and Maggie MacGregor and John and Bess Mystic, had found “magic” at Seascape Inn, and Bryce had come here with doubts but hopes that enough magic remained to grant his daughter peace from the emotional demons haunting her sleep since her mother’s death two years ago. But even in sleep, Bryce was despairing; Tony sensed it. Despairing that, though armed with its angelic innkeeper, Miss Hattie, the charming old inn couldn’t hold that much magic and, without it–God knew Bryce had tried everything else–Suzie’s nightmares would be an endless source of her suffering.
And Bryce despaired that she’d dream and, asleep in the Cove Room across the hallway, he’d not hear her cries, not know to come and comfort her. For reasons of his own, he had forsaken sleeping in the comfortable, stuffed chair in her room or in the luxury of a soft, king-size bed and had chosen to stand guard on the hallway’s oak floor outside her door, listening, waiting, and praying he wouldn’t be needed.
The agony of the situation had broken Tony’s heart, and he’d aided the quiet of the house in lulling the reluctant Bryce to sleep, agreeing with his darling Hattie’s assessment that Bryce was worn to a frazzle. But who wouldn’t be? Worried sick about his three children overall, Suzie and her nightmares in particular; fighting a constant battle of wills with that dour-faced Mrs. Wiggins, whom Bryce’s wife had hired to care for the children when Jeremy had been born four years ago; and then–right on the heels of the narrow-miss divorce between John and Bess Mystic–that blasted Tate divorce case. It was a wonder Bryce Richards was still upright!
In the days since their arrival at Seascape Inn, Hattie had mumbled repeatedly that no more a devoted father than Bryce ever had graced the earth, and Tony wholeheartedly agreed with his beloved on that appraisal, too. Bryce was a fine father, a fine man, and a fine attorney.
Yet that hadn’t spared him from challenges.
As if he hadn’t had enough on his plate already, he’d been tossed a moral dilemma on the Tate divorce case that would have brought even the most avid believer, the most confident man in the world, to his knees. A shame he had represented Gregory Tate. Not only disagreeable, the man had proven himself unscrupulous and coldly calculating.

 

Though the divorce had been granted and the case was behind Bryce now, it had left him weary, his opinion even more jaded about the odds for successful, happy marriages–and it’d left him admittedly curious about the mysterious Mrs. Tate.
So was Tony. He leaned against the doorjamb, propped the toe of his shoe against the floor, then rubbed at his neck. Why had the woman never once appeared in court? Never once attended the attorney/client meetings with Bryce, Gregory, and her own attorney? Her behavior was curious.
Tony grimaced. Now, because he had given Bryce this brief but much-needed respite of sleep, Suzie fought the fiendish nightmare alone. Tony shouldn’t intercede further–dream intervention was expressly forbidden–but she was suffering uncomforted, and that was his fault. He couldn’t deny responsibility and condemn her to this. Hattie would never forgive him. Worse, he’d never forgive himself.
Protocol be damned. Tony shoved away from the wall. Rules and regulations, too. What more could be done to him? Already he lived in the house with his beloved Hattie and yet he couldn’t talk directly with her, couldn’t hold her, couldn’t love her as a man should love a woman–as he would have loved her had he been given the chance. What could be more challenging? And a child’s life hung in the balance. Likely her father’s, too–if anything should happen to her.
Theoretically, people didn’t actually die just because they died in their dreams. But what if Suzie did? In Tony’s experience, dreamers always had awakened prior to actual dream-state death. So why wasn’t Suzie awakening?

Soaring heart rate. Gasping something fierce. She might not drown, but she could have a heart attack. Drowning or a massive coronary, dead was dead.
He tried several tactics to nudge her into awakening.
Nothing worked.
Now what?
Having no idea, Tony scowled, feeling inept and agitated. The bottom line was Bryce Richards had little more left to lose. Tony had to intercede.
He stepped into Suzie’s nightmare, into a raging storm.
The wind stung, bitingly cold, whistling through crisp brown leaves that had fallen from the poplars and oaks near the shore. Familiar poplars and oaks. Familiar low stone wall running along the rocky ground to the pond. And familiar white wrought-iron bench, north of a familiar, freshly painted gazebo.
Criminey, Suzie was in the pond behind Seascape Inn!
Did she realize this yet? That her recurring dream actually took place here?
Odd. Before three days ago, Suzie never had seen Seascape Inn or its pond, and yet she’d suffered this same nightmare for the past two years.
Agitated by the blustery wind, Tony squinted against the darkness and glimpsed the shadow of a little rowboat–the very boat he himself with his lifelong friends, Hatch and Vic, had fished from as boys. Rocking on turbulent waves, the boat dipped low, took on water. And–sweet heaven, it was empty.
“Suzie?” Where was she? “Suzie?” The wind tossed Tony’s words back to him. Nearing the water’s edge, he called out again and stumbled over a giant oak’s gnarled roots. His foot stung.
Startled, he winced. Physical pain? How peculiar. It’d been half a century since he’d felt physical pain. . . .
He frantically scanned the dark water. Later, he’d think about the pain. He had to find Suzie now–before it was too late.
Midway across the pond, something flashed white. Her nightgown? No. No, it wasn’t. Just froth from a wave. Fear seeped deeper, into his soul. Where was she?
Straining harder, skimming, probing, he spotted her. Near the bow of the boat, floundering in the water, arms flailing, head bobbing between the waves.
Oh God, she really was going to drown. Unlike her other dreams, this one wasn’t a near-miss warning!
He cupped his hands at his mouth. “Suzie! Hold on to the boat. I’m coming. Just hold on to the boat!”
“I can’t!” she shouted back. Swallowing in a great gulp of water, she choked.
The sound grated at his ears, tore at his heart. Why in the name of everything holy did she feel it vital to hold on to the oars? Though wooden, they wouldn’t offer enough stability in the turbulent water to keep her afloat. Still, she held them in a death grip.
He had to find out why. Though dangerous–fear of him, in addition to the fear and panic she was suffering already, could worsen her situation dramatically–to help her, he needed to understand her rationale.
She screamed. A shattering scream that pierced his ears and reverberated in his mind. A chiseled hollow in his chest ached. Whatever the risks, damn it, he had to take them.
Focusing, he tapped into the child’s thoughts.
You have to get both oars in the water and keep them there, Suzie.
Not her voice. A memory. Something she’d been told by a woman. Someone older–twenties or thirties maybe. And that accent–definitely not anyone from Sea Haven Village, or from Maine. Southern. Distinctly southern.
The child took a wave full in the face, sputtered, then coughed.
He hurried toward her, resenting that in her dreams he obviously lacked his special gifts, his abilities and talents with the physical that would allow him to fish her out without getting so much as a toe wet. In dreams, it appeared he was as weak or as strong as a normal man. And while at times he’d love to again be a normal man, when Suzie was clinging to life by an oar wasn’t one of them.
What did it all mean?
He returned his cupped hands to his mouth. “Suzie, let go of that oar right now and grab hold of the boat. Do it! Do you hear me? Do it!”
Her wet hair swept over her face and clung to her tiny cheek in a clump, her eyes wild with fear. “I’ve got to keep both oars in the water! I’ve got to, or I’m not gonna get better.”
This was new ground, and Tony waffled on what to do. His heart told him to go get her. His logic warned if he touched her, with her body temperature as low as it surely was already from the frigid water, the cold could result in pneumonia and she’d die. But if he didn’t physically get her out of the pond quickly, she’d die, too. Simply put, he was in a lose/lose situation here. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.
He had years of experience. He just had to not panic. Had to think about this. He cleared his mind, then weighed the pros and cons, mentally searching for alternatives less risky to Suzie.
There were none.
He hated any but win/win situations, yet the core in this one rested right where it had before he’d begun his search: She had a fighting chance with pneumonia. She didn’t with drowning.
Tony dove in. Hit the frigid water that sucked out his breath, then stroked furiously toward her.
The lack of true physical exercise for too many years had him winded and tiring quickly. Soon, his arms and legs felt like lead and he couldn’t seem to get enough air to feed his starving lungs. They throbbed and ached, and the physical sensations of weight and gravity and oxygen deprivation had him sluggish, tired, moving about as quickly as a hyperthyroid snail. Without his special gifts, could he get to her in time?
“Please, don’t let her die. Please, help me help her.” She was so close. So close. . . . “Please!”
He dug deep, scraped the remnants of his reserves and pulled a mighty stroke.
His fingers snagged the collar of her nightgown.
He tugged, grabbed her more securely with his left hand, the boat with his right, then curled her tiny body to his and hugged her to him. She latched her arms around his neck, squeezed so hard he sensed she was trying to crawl into him. And then she began to cry. Deep, heart wrenching sobs that jerked viciously at his heartstrings. “Shhh, it’s okay, little one. I’ve got you now. I’ve got you now.”
She breathed against his neck, her voice a rattled whimper of sound. “Promise?”
This crisis, she’d weathered. This time, she’d survived. Awash in gratitude and relief, he swallowed hard. “I promise.”
Water swirled, tugging at his clothes. Awareness stole into him and he recalled stubbing his toe on the gnarled oak’s root. His foot actually had stung. And now, more awareness of the physical dragged at him. Her moist, warm breath at his shoulder. Cold as she was from the frigid water, the warmth of her tiny body. The feel of her fingers digging into his neck. His own need for oxygen, for rest. The weight of his uniform. Sensations.
Lifelike . . . sensations.
His hands began to shake. Awed, humbled, he shook all over. He’d not felt any physical sensations since he’d returned home from the battlefield for burial back in World War II and, because he hadn’t, now he couldn’t be sure which of them, he or Suzie, groped with greater emotional turmoil.
She was alive.
And, for the first time in half a century, he was feeling the actual touch of another human being.
His eyes stung and a tear–a tear–slid onto his cheek.
An uneasy niggle nagged at him. He’d been in many situations in the past fifty years and had felt nothing physical. So why now? True, he’d never before entered anyone’s dreams–and he fully expected to pay a steep penalty for trespassing into Suzie’s now–but there had to be some deeper reason for this. His sixth sense screamed it. And it screamed that something about these particular “special guests” made this intercession, and their situation, different from the hundreds of other special guests he and Hattie had assisted at Seascape Inn.

Suzie wheezed. Feeling the rattle against his chest, he prayed Seascape would protect her from almost certain pneumonia. Over the years, many had called the inn “The Healing House,” and how fervently he hoped its reputation proved prophetic for Suzie.
These special guests are different. A woman’s voice echoed through his mind. This situation is different.
She sounded urgent, yet calm and dispassionate. Who was she?
Who I am doesn’t matter. My message is what is important, Tony.
Why?
You’ll have to find the answer to that yourself, I’m afraid.
I see.
No, you don’t. That’s part of the problem. But you will, Tony. I’m rather, er, persistent.
Just what he needed. Another stubborn woman to contend with. Well, I’ll have to figure it out later. Right now, I need to get Suzie out of this water and wind before she freezes to death.
Ah, I’m encouraged. The woman sighed.
Excuse me? Kicking his feet, he steered toward the shore, holding on to Suzie and the boat for fear his strength would fizzle.
You’re mired in a quandary yet still putting Suzie’s needs first. I’m encouraged by that. And, yes, I expect you will figure it out–eventually.
Terrific. Stubborn and snooty. A barrel of sunshine. I’m encouraged that you’re encouraged.
Save your sarcasm, Tony. The woman laughed, soft and melodious. You’re going to need your energy.
He wanted to kick something. Actually, he wanted to kick “Sunshine.” Wicked of him, but did she have to be right about the energy bit, too? His muscles were in distress; he didn’t have the energy for this verbal sparring–or the time for it. Not right now. Suzie had stopped crying, but she still clung to him as if she feared he’d forget and let go of her. He’d promised, but promises didn’t hold much value to Suzie Richards; that much was evident. At least not those aside from her father’s. In the chaos of what had been their family life, Bryce somehow had retained his children’s trust. That in itself, considering the circumstances, was a miracle.
To reassure her, Tony smoothed her frail back until her shudders eased. When they subsided, though vain, a sense of satisfaction joined those of relief and gratitude inside him. He’d catch hell for breaking protocol, but feeling Suzie inhaling and exhaling breath made whatever price he had to pay worth it. The last thing she needed was more tragedy in her life. It wouldn’t do Bryce any good, either. The man had suffered his share of challenges and then some.
Unfortunately, from all appearances, he was fated to suffer a few more, but at least those challenges wouldn’t include the death of his oldest daughter.
They might, Sunshine commented.
Tony’s skin crawled. Not if there’s any way in the world for me to stop it.
You might want to recant that statement, Anthony Freeport.
No way.
We’ll see.
A shiver rippled up his backbone. Images raced through his mind. Images of Suzie again in the little boat, trying to do something with the paddles and falling into the pond. Images of her in the water during a storm, gasping. Drowning. And images of Tony standing alone on the shore, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, his shoulders slumped, watching and yet powerless to help her.
Powerless? Shock streaked through him. But he’d never before been powerless here. Never . . .
Until now.
Sunshine’s softly spoken warning thundered through his mind. His knees collapsed. He locked them, stumbling and shuddering hard. God help them all.
This wasn’t an ordinary dream.

 

 

 

 

 

Seascape #2: Upon a Mystic Tide

 

UPON A MYSTIC TIDE
Seascape Trilogy
Book 2
Bell Bridge Books
ISBN:

November 20, 2011
Trade Paperback

eBook November 30, 2011

AUDIO coming in 2012

 

 

 

Seascape Trilogy

Beyond the Misty Shore, Book 1

Upon a Mystic Tide, Book 2

Beside a Dreamswept Sea, Book 3

 

SUMMARY:

“Beautifully written.” – Publishers Weekly
“After reading the Seascape Romance Series, you’ll be ready for a vacation at the Seascape Inn.” – Literary Times

With their painful divorce looming on the horizon, radio psychologist Bess Cameron and her soon-to-be-ex-husband, John Mystic, meet at Maine’s Seascape Inn to finalize the terms of a property settlement. Bess believes John is in love with someone else, and she’s determined to move on without him. Their marriage appears doomed until the Inn’s matchmaking ghost, Tony, and its irrepressible owner, Miss Hattie, take matters in hand. Sometimes you have to leap upon a mystic tide and have faith the sand will shift and an island will appear . . .

The second book of bestselling author Vicki Hinze’s Seascape Trilogy brings readers back to the gentle magic of a place where love is always stronger than the fragile boundaries of life.

 

REVIEWS:

“Some authors are very good writers, Victoria Barrett is an artiste, a brilliant storyteller who takes creativity and the emotional intensity inherent to a story line and character evolution to new heights. Upon a Mystic Tide is romance at its finest.”
– Affaire de Coeur

 

“Delightful. Bravo.” — Rendezvous

 

“Charming! Romantic and quaint! Victoria Barrett delights us again with a compelling romance and warm realistic characters!” — The Literary Times

 

“A master storyteller who peoples her intricate plots with characters destined to become classics. An adventure such as you can’t imagine.”
– Genie’s Women’s Fiction Exchange

 

“…beautifully written…” — Publishers Weekly

 

“Richly talented author Victoria Barrett’s newest addition to the Seascape romances is her most irresistible to date. Great reading!” — Romantic Times

 

“This third novel in the Seascape Romance series will have readers wishing for the address of the Seascape Inn. A very compelling story.” — Bell, Book, and Candle

 

“An extremely good read! A page-turner till the very end. Don’t miss this one or you’ll be sorry.” — Romance Forever

 

“Hope springs eternal.” — Heartland Critiques

 

“Offers healing power not only to its characters, but also to readers seeking reassurance of the power of love and friendship in this crazy world.” — Gothic Journal

 

“John and Bess are memorable as a couple dealing with all the misunderstandings and hurt of their damaged marriage. After reading the Seascape Romance series, you’ll be ready for a vacation at the Seascape Inn–to find new love or rediscover an old one!”
– The Literary Times

 

 

Awards & Honors:

FIVE AND A HALF STARS – Affaire de Coeur
Finalist, Best Science Fiction Romance of the Year, Affaire de Coeur

 

 

CHAPTER EXCERPT

Chapter 1

Body language rarely lies.

That Bess Cameron’s boss, Sal Ragusa, stood about as stiff as a totem pole set her ragged nerves on an even sharper edge. While divorce never bares its pointed teeth without pain and suffering to everyone involved, in her case, it appeared those teeth would be mortally wounding far more than her marriage.

Resigned to yet another lecture, she held up a give-me-a-second finger, punched the tape labeled “Commercials” into the deck, pressed the play button, then rocked back in her squeaky chair. “All right, Sal. Go on.”

“I’m really worried about you.” He slumped against the recording booth’s doorjamb, deliberately trying to look less concerned. Harsh light from the hall spilled across the WLUV 107.3 emblem on his T-shirt and swiped a slash across his clenched jaw. “This is the only way I know to protect you, and you refuse. When Millicent hears about your divorce . . . ”

Bess would feel the bite of the teeth. She sighed. Why did formally ending a marriage that had died and been mourned long ago conjure intense hurt that felt so . . . fresh?

Seeing little productive coming from exploring that question and certain she’d miss nothing that hadn’t been covered on countless other occasions, she let her attention drift from Sal’s lengthy monologue.

The eerie green, red, and white light emitting from the booth’s controls typically seemed familiar and comforting. Tonight, it made her uneasy, though she was enough of a pro to admit that the root of her discomfort really wasn’t the light. It was her, inside—and for a good, logical reason.

It was late, nearly midnight, and she’d had so much on her mind lately that she hadn’t been sleeping well. Big understatement there. And even though she considered self-analysis the fodder of fools for professional psychologists, Bess risked speculating on her unprofessional opinion of her current status. Diagnosis? She was physically tired, emotionally wrung out, spiritually drained, and about as sick as spit—a term she’d picked up from her friend, Maggie MacGregor—of worrying. Prognosis? Grim. From all indications, things were doomed to get worse before they got better. And exactly how much worse remained totally out of Bess’s control.

The first commercial started playing. She tapped the mute button so it’d be transmitted but not heard in the booth, then checked her watch. They had three minutes to wrap up this conversation before she had to get back on the air.

Swiveling in her chair to face her boss, who unfortunately showed no signs of being winded or of winding down and ending his lecture, she again thought he’d be ahead of the game if he’d give in gracefully to his age instead of trying to keep up with the twenty-year-olds running around the station. To her own thirty-three, Bess figured Sal at fifty—maybe fifty-five—and fighting each year showing as if it were a thieving demon. He jogged to fight a tiny paunch, lifted weights three times a week at his posh French Quarter club to avoid unavoidable muscle sag, and tinted his hair a god-awful brown to hide persistent gray. His obsession with his appearance, like his tendency to talk first and think later, was at times saddening, at times maddening, but always tolerable because the man was fair, he had a good heart, and he was loyal.

With him, Bess never ranked second.

And now she had to oppose him. She suffered a flash of regret but, needing to wrap up this session of their “Great Debate,” she interrupted. “I know you’re trying to help, but I can’t accept this kind of help. It’s . . . wrong.”

“And I knew you were going to say that. You always do.” He propped a sneakered foot against the lime green wall. “But these are the only possibilities I see of saving your job. I’ve put out some feelers on this and, as soon as she catches wind of your divorce, Millicent will fire you, Bess.”

A divorce and losing her job? Surely she couldn’t be expected to endure both simultaneously—at least not with grace. And staring financial ruin in the face didn’t do much to assist on the personal philosophy aspiration front. Bess chewed on her inner, lower lip. Why had she made aspiring to grace part of her annual, personal motto this year anyway? Foolish. Especially with her knowing the divorce was coming—John certainly wouldn’t lift a finger to stop it—and with patience still lingering on the list from last year. She’d finally given in and accepted that patience—or, more accurately, her lack of it—was destined to be a perpetual aspiration: a part of every year’s motto. But she was still working on accepting the divorce and John’s reaction to it. Now she had unwisely put herself in the position of having to strive to meet both and the threat of being fired and financially ruined too. All with grace. And all simultaneously.

Fat chance.

The fear of failure had the recording booth seeming small and stuffy and stifling hot. It smelled musty too, and the temptation to spout off at Sal to release some tension spread like a wildfire up her throat. She swallowed it back down, where it churned in her stomach.

Well, no one had promised life would be fair. Good thing, because these days her supporters cantered in few and far between. Sal was one of her most staunch. Alienating him would be just plain foolish, and Bess Cameron was not a foolish woman, at least not in most things—aside from in choosing her spouse and in saddling herself with overly ambitious annual mottoes she regretted January second and doggedly pursued until December thirty-first.

Having heard enough of this particular lecture, she squeezed the padded arms of her chair. Air swooshed out, hissing between her fingers. “I’ve been counseling callers at this radio station for more than six years, Sal. I’m a psychologist. I’m not superhuman or ‘Wonder Woman,’ and I certainly never claimed to be perfect. And I’m not committing felonious acts in my private life, I’m just getting a divorce.”

“Just getting a divorce?” Sal lifted an arm. “A divorce is more than pertinent to your professional life, Bess.”

Her temper again flared. And again, she tamped it, chilled her voice to cool. “Can you, or our esteemed owner, Millicent Fairgate, make a marriage work alone?”

Sal lowered his gaze to the tile floor. “No. No one can. But—”

“I see.” Bess crossed her chest with her arms. “Why then am I expected to be able to do it?”

“Because you earn your living counseling people on marriage and relationships. We don’t.” He muttered a grunt. “You know Millicent is going to take the position that if you can’t make your own marriage work, then—”

“I know how I earn my living.” Bitterness burned in her stomach. Given half a chance, she could have made her marriage work. But John hadn’t cooperated. She’d loved him enough to go the distance, to fight to keep their marriage strong. But he hadn’t loved her enough to work at it with her. And he’d caused her more grief . . .

Bess put the skids on those thoughts. Counterproductive. A waste of time and of good energy. “I’m sorry, Sal, but neither of your options work for me. I can’t live in this unmarried married state of suspended animation anymore. Going ahead with the divorce is a positive step. It’s an outward reflection of inner acceptance. A commitment to growth and, regardless of how uncomfortable or painful it is, personal growth is always positive.” Let him take that rationale along as ammunition to fight Millicent Fairgate. Even she couldn’t deny Bess deserved a life as much as anyone else. “And I can’t lie—not even to save my job.”

She forced a strength into her voice she just didn’t feel. “If the truth isn’t good enough for Millicent, then fine. Let her fire me. But I will not lie to these callers by pretending to be happily married when I’m divorced.”

“You omit lots of personal details. Hell, you’ve avoided talking about your personal life for six years. Why does it have to be an issue now?”

He couldn’t be serious. She studied his expression and held off a sigh. He was. “I haven’t avoided talking about my personal life. Callers haven’t been interested. They’ve wanted to discuss their troubles, not mine. But, as you so aptly put it, I’ll soon be a divorcée counseling others on love and relationships. The press will be all over me, making my status an issue. And when they are and they do, I will not lie about it.”

Sal slid her a look ripe with warning. “Think this through. If you’re fired, you can’t help anyone. You’ll have no forum. If you omit publicly disclosing and discussing the divorce, you’ve got a shot at staying in a position to help others. What’s the difference—”

As if the press wouldn’t disclose it for her. As if she had a choice. Rationalizing, indulging in selective recall, talking without first thinking—as usual. Get a grip, Sal. Bess interrupted. “Even if the press gave me a choice—which they won’t—the difference, damn it, is that these callers trust me.”

Sal’s jaw fell slack.

Bess pushed her palms against the chair arms, then squeezed her eyes shut. Had she really just sworn at her boss? Good grief, she had!

She was losing it. After years of diligent effort at restraining herself and venting only when alone, she was losing it. So much for patience. And she could kiss off grace on this discussion too. What had gotten into her? She just didn’t do this sort of thing.

Worrying about the divorce; the disputed property settlement still hanging over her head and keeping her off-balance; her lawyer, Francine, throwing fits with monotonous regularity because Bess refused to take anything from John—as if she could and not die of humiliation—and now threats of being fired by WLUV 107.3’s prude of a shortsighted and narrow-minded matriarch owner, Millicent Fairgate. What else could go wrong?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. All bases stood covered.

Hardly a comforting thought but, on the upside, Bess was still sane. And when things couldn’t get worse then, damn it, they had to get better.

The solace in that universal truth enabled her to level her voice. “I’m sorry, Sal.”

“It’s, um, no problem.” He wasn’t trying to hide his concern anymore and, if his grim expression proved a reliable indicator, that concern had doubled.

“Listen, I understand your logic, and your intent is good. But, to me, that omission would be lying, and I won’t do it.” She raked a thumbnail over her coffee mug handle. The grating friction felt good. “I can’t.”

His silence demanded an explanation. Though she’d rather not discuss her feelings further, she supposed he deserved to hear her reasons. He would oppose Millicent firing Bess, and Millicent wouldn’t take his opposition kindly. If history proved telling, she’d retaliate. For his loyalty and heartburn in defending Bess, Sal would pay dearly, and be made darn miserable. Yes, she owed him an explanation.

Trembling, she set down her mug then grabbed a pen from the desk to have something less risky to do with her hands. “The people who call here believe in me. They feel comfortable talking with me because they know I’ll be honest with them. If I lie to them, then what have I got left?”

He groaned. “Bess, you’re taking this much too person—”

“I’d have nothing, Sal.” That pitiful truth had the back of her nose tingling, her eyes stinging. Her heart aching. “Nothing.”

Statue-still, his hands fisted in his jeans pockets, he stared at her a long minute, then blew out a sigh that reeked of frustration. “Okay.” The lines etching his face shadowed in the dim control lights, tinting his skin with a ghoulish green glow. “Okay. There’s a ninety-nine percent chance you’ll end up canned and out on your keister, but I admire your principles. I always have.” He sighed again, deeper. It lifted his chest and shoulders. “I’ll do what I can to tame the shrew and to keep her hand off the ax.”

“I appreciate it.” Bess tried but couldn’t muster a smile. Afraid her relief would show in her eyes, and she’d insult Sal by doubting his loyalty, she glanced down at her watch and checked the time. Less than a minute before she had to be back on the air.

He rolled away from the doorjamb. “How long until the divorce is final?”

“July tenth.” Her heart slid up into her throat. Never would she have dreamed this really could happen to her and John. To anyone else, yes. But not to them. She dropped her gaze. Her wedding band winked in the control’s lights, mocking her. She’d been so . . . sure.

“Three weeks.” Sal rubbed his jaw. “More or less.”

“More or less.” She knew the exact number of weeks, of days, of hours. The minutes ticked away in her mind like a bomb set to explode. But admitting that to herself, much less to Sal, proved far too revealing for her comfort and, suffering plenty enough discomfort without heaping on more, she shoved those thoughts away.

He raked a hand through his close-cropped hair. The gray-root spikes with tinted brown tips sprang out from his head. “I have to be honest here.”

Bracing herself, she hiked her chin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“A divorced shrink counseling callers on love and relationships isn’t apt to sit any better with listeners than with Millicent. New Orleans is predominantly Catholic, and that’s worth remembering.”

A muscle spasmed, knotting in her neck. She kneaded at it. “I could lose some listeners, true. But if I lie, I lose a lot more.”

“What more? We’re a radio station. Listeners are everything.”

“I lose them,” she lowered her gaze to his chest, “and me.”

Sal stared at the ceiling, mumbled something she couldn’t make out, then glanced back at her. “I hate to say it, Bess, but one of us has to be less idealistic and more realistic here, and it doesn’t appear it’s going to be you.”

Considering her position realistic and reasonable, she opened her mouth to object.

He held up a hand to stay her. “Look, I admire your principles—really, I do. And far be it from me to say self-respect doesn’t hold value. But it doesn’t pay the rent. The public isn’t exactly known for being forgiving. It won’t let this divorce slide by unnoticed. You’re right. You will take heat in the press—and worse.”

Sympathy shone in his eyes. As if knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it, he let his gaze slip away, back to the ceiling. “It kills me to have to say it, but now might be a good time for you to look into setting up a private practice.”

Bess held off a frown. From the start, she’d resisted private practice, and the financial security it could bring, because the people who most needed her were those least likely to seek out counseling. She’d found her niche, her forum—the radio—and she intended to keep it. “You firing me?”

“Not yet.” His expression turned grim. “Just preparing you.”

Underneath all the bluster, he was a good man. A really good man. “Thanks.” She nodded to let him know she meant it. “Now it’s only fair that I prepare you.” She leaned forward, squared her shoulders, and looked him right in the eye. “We both know John Mystic and I have been separated six years. The piece of paper coming July tenth doesn’t change anything. Not my job performance, my credentials, or even my name. Only my legal status changes.” Risky, but she had to be totally frank. “I’ve lost all I intend to lose willingly, Sal. If Millicent wants me out of 107.3, then she’s going to have to fire me, and she’s going to have to make it stick.” Bess dipped her chin and looked up at him, forced her voice and her gaze firm and steady. “I’ll fight it every step of the way.”

Sal rubbed his stomach, as if his ulcer were acting up again. “Maybe if you fought that hard for John—”

Bess spun on him. “Don’t you dare!” Thoughtless comments were just Sal’s way. He didn’t mean them. But this time he’d hit too close to home, pegging some of her own unreasonable, irrational fears. Ones she couldn’t afford to give any value to if she expected to come out of this divorce with a fair sense of self-worth.

Sal stopped midsentence, then slid her a repentant look. “Look, I’m sorry. That was out of line.” He swallowed hard, bobbing his Adam’s apple. “I just don’t want to lose you. If you stayed married to the bastard, then I wouldn’t.”

Those kinds of remarks were expected to entice her? Bess swallowed a response so searing it set her temples to pounding. “I don’t want to be lost either, but don’t say things like that about John and me. You don’t know how things were with us, and it’s unfair of you to judge him or me.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Sal shrugged and his face turned red. “I guess I just want this whole sordid mess to . . . to go away.”

So did she. “That isn’t going to happen.” Once she’d thought it might, that John would ask her to come home, but she’d accepted the truth a long time ago. He had no intention of trying to save their marriage. He didn’t love her, and that was the sorry truth.

A painful ache shimmied through her chest. She clenched her muscles against it. Some dreams die so darn hard.

She checked her watch—ten seconds—grabbed the mike, then put a manicured fingertip on the tape player’s eject button. “I’m out of time and I’ve got four lines lit up. If you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”

Looking pensive, dejected, and truly sorry, Sal lumbered out of the booth.

When he closed the door behind him, Bess started shaking, rattled from the bone out. Would she ever stop shaking again? Would her life ever be right again?

Never let ’em see you sweat, kid. Her father’s voice sounded in her head.

A hornets’ nest of guilt stirred in her stomach. I’m trying, Dad. I’m really trying. But it hurts and it’s hard. I loved him so much. She pulled in a deep breath, counted to three, then answered the first caller.

The next four calls were tame; normal problems she’d faced before, countless times. Taking a sip of coffee so strong and bitter it had to have been steeping since dusk, she grimaced, then answered the fifth. “Love 107.3. This is Bess.”

“Dr. Mystic?”

Her married name? Bess frowned. She’d never used her married name on the air. “Dr. Cameron,” she told the caller. “But I prefer Bess.”

“My name is Tony.”

Something in his voice unnerved her. Not the tone—nothing so mundane as that, though it was gravelly and odd. It was something . . . inexplicable. And it created the strangest sensations in her. As if he could see inside her, and he knew all her secrets . . . and more.

The little hairs on her neck stood on edge. She put her cup down on the desk. Shaking even harder, she laced her fingers, rested her hands in her lap, then chided herself for being ridiculous. No one could literally see inside anyone else. They could perceive, interpret, intuit, but not see. “What can I do for you, Tony?”

“I’ve heard a rumor.”

Warning flags flashed before her eyes. Warning flags gained by developing strong instincts that came with phone-counseling for over half a decade. Warnings she’d come to respect. Sight and physical observation, two very important tools to every psychologist, radio-counseling denied her. She’d had to compensate and her instincts, bless them, had done so for her, honing with experience to acutely perceptive. And, right now, those acutely perceptive instincts screamed that this wasn’t a harmless, or a typical, call. That it carried serious repercussions and consequences—to Bess. And, worse, that no matter how depleted she felt right now, she couldn’t retreat and regroup or run from them.

Her mouth drier than dust, she mustered her most professional voice. “Rumors are dangerous. Usually destructive.” She paused to let that sink in. “Are you destructive, Tony, or does this rumor personally affect you?”

“No, I’m not destructive, and this affects me only in the broadest sense.” He sounded uncomfortable. “But it is extremely important—enough to warrant this call.”

“I see.” Dread dragged at her belly. “Well, if the rumor is ‘extremely important to you,’ then you should attempt to verify it. Try to be open-minded. Strive equally hard to prove, and to disprove, the rumor. To come out of something like this with a clean conscience, it’s imperative you be fair—and, if possible, you find out the truth without inflicting harm on anyone else.” She automatically lifted her cup, but shook too badly to hold it. Hot coffee sloshed over the rim and scalded her hand. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, and ordered herself to get her nerves under control.

“I don’t want anyone hurt. That’s why I’m calling you.”

This time, his tone was a dead giveaway. He wasn’t being honest, and yet she innately knew he wasn’t lying. The truth rested at some obscure place in between. “I see.” She rubbed at her temple, not seeing at all. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe he just needed a place to vent. She definitely needed to calm down. “I suppose then we’d better talk about this.”

“Only if you’re sure. This rumor affects you, Dr. Mystic.”

A sense of doom blanketed the dread, and Bess dragged in a deep breath. How could a rumor about her be extremely important to him? She didn’t even know him. Should she disconnect him?

Though sorely tempted, her instincts warned her against it. Warned her that this call was inevitable.

The pounding at her temples grew to a sickening throb. No, as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t play ostrich and bury her head in the sand. Whatever was coming had to be faced. Hadn’t she advised that very action to caller after caller? “If it’s important, then go ahead, Tony.”

“You’re getting a divorce.”

Bess swallowed a gasp, then a groan. Good grief. Not a question, a statement.

Sal shoved open the booth door. Wild-eyed, he swiped his hand back and forth across his neck, mouthing, “Don’t answer! Cut him off! Cut him off!”

Blinking hard and fast, Bess broke into a cold sweat. It had been just a matter of time until word got out, but she should have had three more weeks and now, because of this Tony, she’d been cheated out of them. She resented that. Boy, did she resent it. Wasn’t the divorce itself hard enough?

Sal grabbed her shoulder. “Cut him off!”

Bess reached over to the phone and touched a fingertip to the button. She tried, but she couldn’t press it down. She just couldn’t do it. Sliding Sal an apologetic look, she spoke into the mike. “This rumor is true, Tony. I am getting a divorce.”

Sal muttered a curse, stomped out into the hallway, then slammed the door shut.

Oh God.

“I’m sensing your resentment and a little hostility, Dr. Mystic. There’s no need for it, or for fear. I didn’t call to give you a hard time.”

He sensed it? Mystic. Not Cameron. Again. He hadn’t forgotten, but deliberately had used John’s name. Why? Bess frowned. Was John behind this? That would be atypical, true. She’d left him for neglect. It seemed highly unlikely he’d remember he had a wife now. And besides, this Tony seemed . . . sincere. Oddly pervasive, extremely perceptive, unwelcomely intrusive, but sincere.

Still, her instincts were good, not perfect. Was he sincere? Or was he setting her up for a fall? “If not to give me a hard time, why then are you calling?”

“To dispel the rumor.”

A setup. “Well, now you have.” Bess lifted a finger to disconnect the line.

“Wait! Don’t hang up!”

Bess jerked back, stared at the phone as if it were possessed. How had he known she’d been about to disconnect him? Could he sense and see her? She darted a glance around the booth, uneasy. No one around. Nothing amiss. So why didn’t the impression subside? Why did she feel watched, observed—almost invaded? Absurd. If this hadn’t happened so soon after the confrontation with Sal, if she’d had a few minutes to recoup and regain her balance, it wouldn’t be happening.

“I called to tell you something too, Dr. Mystic.”

Totally unraveled and fighting it, Bess chastised herself for letting her imagination run crazy. There was nothing unusual at work here, or about this call. There couldn’t be. Tony likely worked at the courthouse and saw her divorce proceedings on the docket schedule, or something equally mundane and ordinary. There had to be a simple, logical reason prompting his call. Had to be. “I’m listening.”

“My situation is hopeless. But yours isn’t. Just don’t lose hope, Doc. As long as there’s life, there’s hope.”

As sincere as a summer sky. Concern. Empathy. Approval. All those feelings flooded through the phone from Tony to her. The back of her nose stung and tears burned her eyes. She swallowed a knot of raw emotion. “I appreciate your concern, Tony, but my purpose here is to give help, not to rec—”

“You’re hearing, but you’re not listening. You’ve used your training and skills to help a lot of people. Now, you have to help you.” He paused, then went on. “I know you sense what I’m telling you is more than just words, Doc, but sensing alone isn’t enough. You’ve got to really feel it. To do something.”

Bess did sense it, just as she sensed there was something unique about his voice, and that frightened her into denying she felt anything at all. Seeing Sal standing outside the booth’s window in the hallway, she shrugged, feigning ignorance. His frown deepened.

She looked down at the mike, puzzled. What did Tony mean? Really feel it. Do something? About what? Exactly what was he up to—and why was he up to anything regarding her? Who was he? And what convinced her he wasn’t a nut case? She’d had her fair share of them around here. Yet she’d bet her life Tony wasn’t one of them.

As well as she knew she sat in the New Orleans booth, she knew he could feel all she felt, could hear all she heard. He knew all she knew—and she knew he still approved of her.

Bizarre. Intimidating. And violating. He had no right to invade her this way. Again she considered disconnecting him and ending the call.

Don’t do it, Doc. Please. I want to help you.

Bess sat straight up. Tony’s voice. Tony’s “Doc.” But not over the phone—mentally! What in the world was happening here?

Trust me.

She stared at the phone, stunned.

Please.

She darted a look back over her shoulder at Sal. His frown hadn’t altered a bit; he clearly hadn’t heard anything. Tony had conversed with Bess telepathically? But they were strangers. They couldn’t be that closely linked mentally. Telepathy cases—

The sensation of something mystical happening sluiced through her. Bess’s stomach flip-flopped. Pressing a hand against it, she denied the possibility, and fought the urge to protect herself by ducking into a dark corner. Her instincts had gone haywire. Besides, she couldn’t run or hide. When something occurs inside your mind, where can you go?

She took a deep breath and then answered him. “Okay, Tony. I’m trying to really feel what you’re telling me.” She meant it and, if her voice lacked an ounce of courage, at least it carried the weight of her conviction.

Thank you.

You’re welcome. She thought by rote, then gasped, surprised. They were communicating telepathically!

“Sometimes hope alone isn’t enough.” He dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “Sometimes you have to leap upon a mystic tide and have faith the sand will shift and an island will appear.”

His words slammed into Bess. An odd tingle started at the base of her spine then slithered up her back. A mystic tide. Shifting sands, an island . . .

A metallic taste filled her mouth and a surge of anticipation she hadn’t felt since before she and John had separated suffused her.

Mental communications, verbal puzzles. What was this man, some kind of psychic? “Tony?” Her voice cracked. She swallowed then tried again. “What do you mean?”

“Think about my message, Doc. Just think about it.”

The line went dead.

Bess stared at the unlit button, wishing she could bring Tony back, wishing she could force him to explain. She tried silently asking him to return. But if he heard her, he chose not to respond. Instead, his message echoed through her mind, again and again, always ending with think about it.

For the remainder of her shift, Bess thought about it. During commercials, she studied on it, intrigued by Tony, and more by the message itself. But by the end of her program, Bess wasn’t intrigued anymore. She couldn’t not think about Tony’s message. And it no longer intrigued. Now, it haunted.

And, for some reason that escaped her entirely, she had the strongest urge to—of all things—call John.

Ridiculous. Since she had filed for the legal separation two years ago, they’d only talked through their respective attorneys. John would believe her, but that was beside the point. The point was that Tony’s call and message were driving her nuts. Fuel on the turmoil fire in what had become her complicated life.

How had this happened to her? She’d been so careful. So darn careful.

Too much was happening too quickly that couldn’t be rationally or logically explained. And, as hard as it was for her to admit it, to get through it, she needed someone.

Oh, she could come up with her own solutions, but it sure would be nice to have a friendly sounding board. She obviously couldn’t talk with John, or with her Yorkie, Silk. Her friend, Miguel, was out. He’d react to her telling him about the telepathy experience with Tony about as if she’d announced aliens were invading the White House. Who could she trust? Who wouldn’t think she’d lost her mind?

A friend.

Or friends.

Of course.

Knowing the perfect listeners, Bess snatched up her purse from the bottom desk drawer, then headed down 107.3’s long hallway, toward the exit sign and outside door. She’d talk to T. J. and Maggie MacGregor.

* * *

“Shut up, darling.”

Sassy, sparkling, very pregnant, dressed in forest green, and clutching a box of saltine crackers, Maggie MacGregor sidled up to her giant of a world-class artist husband, T. J., then pecked a chaste kiss to his chin.

“Maggie.” His warning tone echoed through the cavernous riverfront art gallery they’d bought right after they’d married.

She wrinkled her nose at him, then turned toward Bess. “Ignore him. The man loves earning redemption points to stay in my good graces.” Maggie shrugged, but her eyes danced with mischief, then went serious. “Okay, I agree. The job being threatened makes the divorce pill even more bitter to swallow.”

“Darn right it does.” Bess grunted and snatched a cracker. The cellophane wrapper crackled.

Maggie shifted the box of saltines then squeezed Bess’s arm. “I know this doesn’t make a bit of sense, but will you please just humor me and look at the painting?”

Standing toward the rear of the remodeled warehouse, Bess barely resisted an urge to roll her gaze up Lakeview Gallery’s long, white columns to its equally white high ceiling. “Maggie, you know I adore you, but I’ve just humored you twice before today by staring at that seascape, and all I’ve gotten for my trouble is crossed eyes.” Bess slid an apologetic glance toward T. J., who’d painted it. “Nothing personal.”

He nodded, looking a little amused.

She scanned the sculptures, the paintings lining the walls, then looked back at Maggie. “I’m a little worried about all this stuff I’ve been telling you—seriously, you have to agree that my life’s a cesspool right now—and, frankly, I’m not in much of a humoring mood.”

“I’m sympathetic, Bess. Honest. But would you just trust me and do it?”

Bess lifted a hand toward the painting on the wall—T. J.’s masterpiece, according to Maggie—but held her gaze on her friend. “Frankly, I don’t see why you’re so enamored with it.” Bess inwardly groaned at that less than diplomatic remark, then cast T. J. another apologetic look. “No offense, T. J., but in my opinion some of your other works are much more powerful.”

“None taken.” He looped a strong arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “But you might as well give in, or my darling wife will resort to blackmail next.”

“Maggie?” Bess guffawed. “She wouldn’t.”

“She would.” Digging into the box, Maggie pulled out a cracker, lifted her chin, then crunched down on it. “I’ve already lost five dollars on this ordeal of yours. We heard Tony’s call and I bet MacGregor here,” she lifted her elbow to brush against T. J.’s ribs, “you’d come over to talk about this right away. He bet you’d fight it alone and come after work.”

“So you lost a bet. That’s not my fault.” Bess smoothed her rumpled beige crepe skirt, then flicked at a cracker crumb on her lemon silk sleeve.

“The heck it isn’t. If you were a tad less stubborn, friend, he’d owe me the five.” Grunting, Maggie swiped her hands together, ridding them of cracker crumbs. “No options can be ignored in a bet with MacGregor—not even a little friendly blackmail.” She pointed to the painting. “Now quit stalling—remember my delicate condition—and just look at it.”

“All right, all right.” Bess frowned. “But I have to say that you using this pregnancy as an excuse for being contrary is wearing thin.”

“Amen to that.” T. J. crossed his arms over his chest, rumpling his red-plaid shirt.

Maggie slid him a killer glare, then grunted. “You adore me, MacGregor, and if you don’t start helping me out here, I’m going to have to get drastic. Maybe even cry.

“Oh, hell.” He turned to Bess. “If our friendship ever meant anything to you, please, look at the painting. When Madam Prego gets wound up—”

“Would you two quit teasing here?” Bess propped her hands on her hips. “I’m telling you that this Tony guy was weird. What he said was weird. And what he knew went beyond weird and launched straight into spooky. It wasn’t normal.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, cursed the tremor in her voice, then looked back at her friends. “Ordinarily, I love your banter, but I’m dying here. Between the divorce, Millicent threatening to fire me, and this weird stuff with Tony haunting me every waking minute, I’ve maxed out.” The words she’d been trained from the cradle never to utter, never to admit even to herself, poured out of her mouth. “I need . . . help.”

The teasing light faded from Maggie’s eyes, left them riddled with worry and with something else . . . hope? Yes. But hope for what? And, why was Bess’s looking at the Seascape Inn painting so important to Maggie? It was important—Bess’s intuition hummed it.

“Just look at it, Bess,” Maggie said. “Please. Just do it.”

Bess gave in and looked at the canvas. It was just a house. A huge gray Victorian with stark white shutters, sitting atop an oceanside cliff. A common turret and widow’s walk, a typical front porch that stretched end to end across the bottom floor. Pretty, but just a house.

“There.” Bess looked back at Maggie. “I did it. Satisfied?”

“No,” Maggie said sharply. “Really look at it.”

Really feel it, Tony had said. Now, really look at it from a desperate-sounding Maggie. Apprehensive with the similarity, Bess wheeled her gaze to T. J. Stone-faced, he nodded and, no less apprehensive but certain now that something weird was occurring, Bess stifled a shudder and forced her focus back to the painting.

Sometimes hope alone isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to leap upon a mystic tide and have faith the sand will shift and an island will appear.

Her heart hammered, thudding against her ribs, and she whispered on a brush of breath, “Tony?”

The painting seemed to come to life. The scent of its pines wafted over her and the cool sea spray crashing against its cliffs gathered on her heated skin. The gull flying through the fog in its misty sky cawed in sync with its ocean’s rhythmic roar. Bess scanned the horizon. Her stomach rocking with the white-capped waves, she cruised with them to the shore, then up the steep and craggy granite cliffs. She let her gaze linger on the house itself, on its graceful turret, and on the narrow widow’s walk that aroused such intense emotion in her, tears stung her eyes. She then looked on, to the attic room just under the eaves, and the cryptic sensation grew stronger.

The temperature plummeted.

An icy veil of a chill shivered up her spine.

And all the tension and pressure and strain she’d been feeling inside shattered.

Warm heat, energy as pure and tranquilizing as summer sun, seeped-into her pores, and liquid, flowing sensations of peace and comfort and contentment spread through her, limb to limb, until she felt calm and at ease.

“How . . . odd,” she mumbled. Absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible.

Wonderful.

Awed, Bess sucked in a wisp of a gasp. She’d never felt so empowered, so satisfied, such sheer joy in just being alive.

T. J. gave Maggie’s arm a gentle squeeze. “That was it, honey. She had to admit she needed help.”

Maggie pressed a fingertip over her lips. “Shh!”

He lowered his voice to a barely discernible whisper and eased toward the back room. “I’ll call the airline and Miss Hattie.”

Why did T. J. need to phone their friend from Maine and the airline now? How could he bear to miss experiencing this? Bess wanted to ask him, but the lure of the painting . . . She couldn’t look away. Why hadn’t she noted before its raw power, its soothing majesty? How could she ever have looked at this and felt it anything but magnificent?

Gingerly, as if being careful not to obstruct her view, Maggie stepped to Bess’s side. “You don’t want this divorce, do you, Bess?”

Captivated, she mumbled the truth. “It’s inevitable.”

“But is it what you want?”

“Does it matter? It’s going to happen. Acceptance is positive growth.” Bess’s focus remained fixed on the canvas. “You know, Maggie, I look at this, and all my problems, even the divorce, seem insignificant. It’s almost as if it’s touched by . . . magic.”

“You feel healed.”

Bess smiled, spared Maggie a glance. “That’s it exactly.”

A look of empathy, of understanding, and—unless Bess mistook it—of relief flashed through Maggie’s eyes. Relief seemed rather peculiar.

“You need a vacation,” Maggie murmured. “Time away to just let go and to get things into perspective.”

That sounded like heaven. And, looking at this house, possible. “Yes.” The magnetism proved stronger than her will and Bess again mentally drifted into T. J.’s masterpiece. When her gaze lit on the turret room, certainty rippled through her heart. “More than anything else, I want to go there.” It had been so long since she’d felt at peace. Six long years . . .

“Marvelous.” Maggie sighed contentedly, stepped between Bess and the painting, then rested her arms on her distended belly.

Bess blinked, feeling almost as if she’d been under a spell and it’d been broken. That healed feeling disappeared, and she wanted it back. Desperately. “It is a real place, isn’t it?” An anxious fear that it might not be gripped her.

“Oh, yes.” Maggie nodded. “It’s real. It’s the bed-and-breakfast T. J. and I visit in Sea Haven Village, Maine. Seascape Inn.”

“Your friend, Miss Hattie?”

Maggie nodded. “She’s the innkeeper.”

Bess’s mouth felt stone dry. She licked at her lips. “I can’t explain this, Maggie. I know it’s going to sound crazy, but I have to go there. Now. Today.”

“You don’t have to explain—not to me.” Maggie smiled. “T. J.’s making arrangements for you right now.”

Bess vaguely remembered T. J. saying something about him calling Miss Hattie. How had he known?

Maggie cocked her head. A frown creased the smooth skin between her brows and she glanced off into space as if she were listening to something only she could hear. Seconds passed, and the strangest expression formed on her face. Worried, Bess clasped Maggie’s arm. “Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

“No, no. We’re fine.” She patted her stomach, a fleeting smile touching her lips.

Despite her assurance, something concerned Maggie; it shone in her eyes. “I’m getting the strongest feeling that you’re protecting me. I don’t need that from you. Now, be honest. Are you two okay?”

“We’re fine. I promise. It’s, um, about Seascape Inn.” Maggie brushed her gleaming red hair back from her face, clearly avoiding Bess’s eyes. “When you get there, you might, um, see a man in an old Army uniform—one with a yellow carnation here in his lapel.” She touched a fingertip to her dress, just above her left breast.

A shudder rippled up Bess’s backbone. Why did this disclosure strike her as significant as Tony’s message? “Okay.”

“Trust him,” Maggie said. “He’s trying to help you.”

“This has something to do with the painting.” Certainty flooded Bess. “That’s why you had me look at it before. You were hoping then—” Bess drew in a sharp breath. “This man—he’s the reason this strange stuff is happening now, isn’t he?”

Maggie nodded.

Her wariness alerted Bess. “Is there something . . . different about him?”

Looking as guilty as sin, Maggie shrugged, stepped back to the tall column behind her, then sat down on the padded bench circling it. “To some. But I—I don’t think I’m supposed to say anything more, Bess. Just trust him, okay?”

“You’re sounding as weird as Tony.”

“I know.” Maggie grimaced, rubbed at her stomach, and rotated her swollen ankles. “Can you just trust me, too?”

For a long minute, Bess stared at her friend, not sure what to make of all this. But considering every aspect of her life lay in shambles already, what did she have to lose? “Why not? I always have.”

Maggie swallowed and stilled, again as if listening. “Bess,” she said, “I know this is stretching the bounds of friendship, but you might . . . ” Her voice trailed.

“Might what?” Lord, but she hated to see Maggie distressed—
especially in her condition. The baby was due in November, just five months away.

She turned away. “You might hear the man without actually seeing him.”

A bolt of fear rocketed through Bess. Tingling head to heel, she stiffened her shoulders and stared hard at Maggie’s narrow back. “Is he telepathic?” Tony was telepathic. Was there a connection?

“Sort of.” Maggie looked back over her shoulder at Bess. “You’ve nothing to fear from him, though. Honest. If I thought for a second you did, I’d tell you.”

Nervous. Evasive. Cryptic. So unlike Maggie MacGregor. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She looked back in front of her, toward the white-carpeted floor. “It’s . . . complicated.”

Complicated. Well, that was comforting. “This man,” Bess gave her instincts free rein. “He’s not like us, is he?” Speaking her feelings aloud had her skin prickling.

Maggie twisted her lips and shifted on her feet, clearly uneasy. “If I say no, will you change your mind about going to Seascape?”

“No,” Bess insisted with absolute certainty. The pull for those good feelings tugged more mightily than anything she could imagine. Nothing would keep her from going to Seascape Inn. “There’s something special there, luring me. I have to see what it is.” She couldn’t explain her feelings fully; she didn’t understand them herself. But the sense of mystery, of urgency, of irresistible allure was there, and so strong. It oddly promised that at Seascape Inn she could do what she hadn’t been able to do here: sort through the remnants of her life and plan her future—a future without John.

“No, then,” Maggie said softly. “He’s not like us.”

Bess had known it. But knowing and hearing it confirmed were two different things. Gooseflesh raised on her arms and she had the hardest time catching her breath. “Does this man have a name?”

“Yes, of course. But—”

T. J. breezed into the show room. “You’re all set, Bess. Miss Hattie’s expecting you.”

“Great.” Bess glanced at Maggie and, seeing the lines of tension creasing her brow, backed off. Mystical events occurring or not, extra stress during pregnancy was bad for Maggie and the baby. If she said that this—whatever this proved to be—was all right, then certainly it would prove exactly that. “You can relax, Prego. No more questions. I said I’d trust you, and I will.”

Maggie slumped against T. J. in obvious relief. “Thanks.”

Bess smiled, kissed Maggie on the cheek, then stretched up to place a peck on T. J.’s jaw. When she drew back, she stared at him, long and hard. “For you, I have one question. How did you know I’d be going to Seascape before I knew I’d be going to Seascape?”

His mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. He gave Maggie an inquisitive glance then, clearly not liking her nonverbal response, he returned a worried gaze to Bess. “Just a guess.”

“Hmmm.” Something told her not to push. And she decided to go with it. T. J. too had earned her respect and trust. “As it turned out, a darn good one.”

“Appears so.” Conspicuously happy to be off the hot seat, he grinned. “Your tickets are at the airport reception desk. American. Three o’clock flight.”

“I’d better hurry, then.” She moved toward the gallery’s entrance door.

“Bess,” Maggie raised her voice to be heard, “Don’t forget to phone Francine. She said you’ve been ducking her calls, and she needs to talk with you. It’s urgent.”

“With Francine, it’s always urgent.” Bess paused at the glass front door. “Thanks,” her gratitude stuck in her throat, “for everything.”

“Be careful, okay?” Maggie had that worried gleam in her eye again.

It warned Bess what she didn’t know could hurt her. Still, on looking at the painting, those good feelings had been so strong. Once she got to Seascape, things would settle out okay; she just knew it. She waved, then left Lakeview Gallery.

The bell on the door still tinkling in the back rooms, Maggie watched Bess disappear beyond the tinted-glass windows at the end of the riverfront walkway.

T. J. joined her. Looking out through the glass onto the busy street, he grimaced. “Think she’ll call Francine?”

“Nope.” Maggie looked up at her husband, her eyes shining. “But finally Tony’s interceding.”

T. J. rubbed their noses. “Did you tell her about him?”

Maggie ran her fingertips up and down the soft placket of his plaid shirt, between the second and third buttons. “Not exactly.”

“Honey, you should have told her. Remember how you reacted to Tony? He scared the bejesus out of you.”

He had. He’d gotten MacGregor’s attention too. Cranky because he failed to mention that fact, she lifted her chin. “I hinted.”

He looked at her with too-seeing eyes. “Okay, ’fess up. Why didn’t you tell her?”

Maggie snuggled against him. “Worrying about Tony drew us together. I figured—”

“Matchmaking.” T. J. grunted and clasped her shoulders. “I should have known. You’re as bad as Miss Hattie.”

“Miss Hattie’s an angel, and you know it.”

“Did I say she wasn’t?”

“No, but you sure implied it. You sounded perfectly snotty, MacGregor, and you know I like snotty about as much as I like nagging.”

“Facts are facts, honey. Have you forgotten those seventeen possibles she tried pairing me up with?”

“Not hardly. But she didn’t know then you were there waiting for me.”

“Point is, she still tried.”

“Shut up, darling.”

“Maggie.” He leveled her with a warning look.

She snorted, not at all intimidated. “All right, MacGregor. So maybe I should have told Bess about Tony.” She rubbed her nose against the side of his neck and whispered close to the shell of his ear. “But you’ve got to admit, we had some—”

“We had lots of,” he agreed, then kissed her hard. When he lifted his head, he looked dreamy-eyed. “But you’re forgetting a couple of minor details.”

Maggie lowered her hands from his broad shoulders to his waist, then looped her arms around him and scooted closer, until they stood belly to thigh. “Like what?”

“For one, John and Bess are divorcing. As in, they don’t want to be married to each other anymore. And, for another, they’re not divorced yet. Bess isn’t going to get involved with another man while she’s still married to John.”

“She’s been involved with that yachter.”

“Miguel Santos?” MacGregor grunted. “Come on, Maggie. Don’t fall for gossip. They’re just friends.”

Maggie shrugged, then shot a worried look at the painting. “Bess is still crazy about John. She doesn’t say it—she never has. But when I asked if she wanted the divorce, she said it was inevitable. Not that she wanted it. They belong together, MacGregor. I feel it down to my bones. Maybe that’s what Tony’s doing—stopping the divorce.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s not supposed to stop. Maybe Tony’s helping them get through the divorce so they can move on with their lives.”

It could be they were supposed to divorce. Not everyone who visited Seascape Inn discovered, or rediscovered, love. “Maybe,” she agreed. “But I sure hope not.”

“Bess has been under a lot of stress. I think you should have warned her about Tony.”

“I couldn’t.” Maggie backed away then turned from the window.

“Why not?”

She sighed her impatience. “Geez, think about it, MacGregor. Bess hasn’t made the connection between Tony and Seascape Inn yet. She believes Tony is telepathic, which doesn’t scare her witless. But she will make the connection. And when she does—aside from trying to convince you I need a long vacation at a quiet sanatorium—how do you figure she’ll react to me advising her to trust a ghost?”

 

 

 

Seascape #1: Beyond the Misty Shore

BEYOND THE MISTY SHORE
Seascape Trilogy
Book 1
Bell Bridge Books
ISBN: 978-1-61194-054-1

October 12, 2011
Trade Paperback

 

eBook October 20, 2011

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AUDIO coming in 2012

UK: via Audiogo has acquired the hard/soft rights for distribution in the UK. More info on that will follow as it becomes available.
————————

 

 

 

Seascape Trilogy

Beyond the Misty Shore, Book 1

Upon a Mystic Tide, Book 2

Beside a Dreamswept Sea, Book 3

 

 

 

“Barrett (Mind Reader) successfully launches the new Seascape series with a debut contemporary that revolves around a mystical bed-and-breakfast of the same name. The whimsy begins when Tyler MacGregor, a world-class artist, returns to Seascape Inn to find peace and healing after the death of his fiance. The peace is short lived when Tyler discovers a mysterious “something” is holding him against his will and he can’t leave. With the arrival of spunky Maggie Wright on the scene, it isn’t long before both are embroiled in the mysterious happenings. Barrett’s vivid imagination is contagious, and her clever fusion of humor, mystery and romance makes the story almost believable.”

–Publishers Weekly

Summary:

All the summer’s guests are gone from Seascape Haven, all except artist Tyler MacGregor who captured it on canvas. But Tyler cannot step off Seascape land without mysteriously blacking out. A mystical force is determined to hold him at the inn. Help arrives in the form of Maggie Wright, whose mission begins as one of revenge and turns to one of love.

Reviews:

“Barrett’s vivid imagination is contagious. Clever fusion of humor, mystery, and romance.”
– Publishers Weekly

“Powerful, moving and uplifting! Victoria Barrett writes pure magic!”
– The Literary Times

“Everything readers desire in a novel. An emotional potent implosion on the senses. A creative force that will leave readers with a feeling of hope and renewal.”
– Affaire de Coeur

“A wonderful, mystical book by the prodigiously talented Victoria Barrett. Original, romantic, and utterly delightful.”
– Anne Stuart, best-selling author

“Suspense, romance, mystery, anger, humor, suspicion, and a ghost make this one of the most fascinating books in a long time. On a day when you need a reaffirmation of the goodness in life, this is the book to read.”
– Romance Forever

“You’ll be enchanted and entertained. A masterful beginning to this unique series.”
– Rendezvous

“Charming and unique. Captivating.”
– Romantic Times

“Delightful. A masterful beginning to this unique series. You’ll be enchanted and entertained.”
– Heartland Critiques

“The perfect antidote for the evening news.”
– Gothic Journal

“A testament to life’s magic and the power of love.”
– Genie’s Women’s Fiction Exchange

Books-n-Kisses Review (courtesy of Amazon)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Awards & Honors:

Recommended Read, Romantic Times
Five Star Rating, Affaire de Coeur
Excellent Rating, Rendezvous

 

Chapter Excerpt:

ⓒ 2006, 2011, Vicki Hinze

 

Chapter One

T.J. MacGregor tried to leave Seascape Inn, but every time he crossed the property’s boundary line, he blacked out.
For nine months now, he had attempted to find out why. Yet, after all this time, he stood alone on the misty shore, his feet wedged into crevices in the jagged rocks, without so much as a weak hypothesis.

Hoping for a miracle, but fearing he’d used his ration of them long ago, he looked to the horizon. A wall of fog headed inland, rolling over the white-capped Atlantic. That the frigid, November wind soon would carry it onto the cliffs and it, too, would enshroud him, had new resentment heaping onto the old, and burning in his stomach. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this. Why couldn’t he find it?

Angry waves crashed against the sea-jutting rocks forming the coastal barrier and the narrow strip of sandy beach below. The smell of salt spray filled his nose. It tingled from the cold, as his nerves did from tension, and he looked down at his hands. They were red and raw and trembling. He rubbed warmth into his numb fingers, setting them to stinging and him to cursing at not having gloves. If he’d expected to winter in Sea Haven Village, Maine, he’d have had gloves. But he’d expected to be at home in New Orleans. He’d expected to be painting.

The resentment burned deeper, welled in his throat. His eyes stung and teared. He blinked then turned away from the ocean, letting his gaze dart past the dead grass, brown and bent and broken under the weight of blade-clinging ice. Feeling equally burdened, he looked on, toward the nest of firs and the hints of rooftops beneath the steely gray clouds in the sleepy village to the south, then up the western path leading back to the house that once had seemed to heal him and now had become his prison.

Seascape Inn.

Across the road and atop a little hill, it looked so . . . ordinary. Just three floors of gray Victorian clapboard with stark, white shutters; a widow’s walk; a wide porch strewn with rockers and a swing; a north tower stretching up into the heavy clouds.

Ordinary.

Yet no one knew better than Tyler James MacGregor that Seascape Inn was anything but ordinary.

During his time here, most guests had attributed Seascape’s “special” assets to its caretaker, Miss Hattie, an angel if ever one walked the earth. But some had claimed Seascape itself the haven: a wonderful old house with seemingly magical, soothing powers where a person could come broken-bodied, or brokenspirited, gaze out upon the star-spangled sea, and heal.

On departing, three guests had appeared . . . disturbed, though they’d refused to disclose their reasons, which could have been entirely unrelated to the inn. But the majority of the guests had said nothing out of the ordinary and had glowed silent contentment. A rare two guests, however, actually had called Seascape The Healing House. With those rare two, T.J. closely identified. Though cynical now, he’d felt that same way years ago, on his first visit here.

Miss Hattie swore that during her lifetime Seascape had seen more than its fair share of miracles, and everyone in the village considered her word bankable. Forced to agree with them, T.J. rubbed at his neck. Pure and simple, the woman could never lie. But she could be a victim of distorted perception.
Living here as a prisoner for the last nine months had opened his eyes in a way only forced, constant exposure can. What he’d known about the seaside inn back then hadn’t been the entire picture, and the entire picture had him wondering. Was Seascape a haven, or hell?

Still uncertain, he squinted up at the thin rays of weak sunlight seeping through cracks in the early morning haze. They slanted against the attic room window, and the glass sparkled gold like a cocky, winking sentry, mocking him. His stomach churned and, seething, he glared at the glass. How had he been so blind? So enraptured with Seascape’s false sense of calm and peace back then that he’d convinced himself the house held the ability to heal? How had he been so arrogant as to truly believe it held magic and he’d captured that magic on canvas?

T.J. grunted. That was the trouble. He had believed. God, had he believed. So much so he’d neglected to remember something very basic in art, and in life: every object casts shadows.

 

He’d once experienced Seascape’s light, its healing magic the object. Now, he experienced its dark side, its curse its shadows. The light sucked a man in and blinded him to his troubles; the shadows lured him, then tortured his mind and smothered him until the man inside threatened to wither and die.
Forgetting that basic truth had been a big mistake.

He kicked at a small stone and watched it skid over the rocks then plunk down into the ocean. Why had he forgotten it? He had no highblown illusions about himself. He was an artist in a sense, an atypical one because he wasn’t atypical, just talented. No overestimation of his worth, by any stretch of the imagination. Ten world class pros stood brush-in-hand right behind him, nipping at his professional heels and, at any time, he could be replaced by an up-and-coming. He was rich and made no bones about it. Why should he? Money was an accident of birth, useful only for the good that could be done with it no less, but certainly no more. Only the way a man lived his life determined him a better or worse person than any other man. He reeked conservative; definitely not flashy in manner or appearance. He hated flash as much as he hated snobs, peach ice cream, government interference, closed minds, and garden variety fanatics who should either commit and focus or go home. And he never, never, used his personal clout to further his professional aims.

No, he shifted on the granite cliff and stiffened against a strong gust of wind, he had no illusions. In the physical sense, he was above average for a guy in his thirties, filling out a good FortyFour Long suit just about right. Big men seemed to attract women and, for that, he felt grateful. He genuinely liked women. The way they walked, thought, sounded, and felt, fascinated him. On the emotional front, well, he had a way to go to get to average. But he loved those he loved, and he never lied to those he didn’t. All things considered, he rubbed his jaw, he was a guy with dreams and the desire to become a better human being who happened to paint for a living just as other men happened to run corporations or to work in mills. He played straight with everyone; personally and professionally. Tried to live right. Hell, he’d never even stinted and squirmed out of jury duty. So what had he done wrong?

Where had he failed?

This imprisonment had to be punishment for something. But what? What had he done to warrant whatever in hell this was?

A lump of bitterness swelled in his throat. He swallowed it. No, even if Seascape were magical, it couldn’t heal him again. Though his friend, Bill Butler, disagreed, T.J. clearly had gone too far for it to help him this time. Bill might be one of the best fishermen, the most sensitive poets, devoted family men and trusted friends a man could have, but about T.J.’s situation, the man was dead wrong.

Or was he?

The wind shivered through the pines down to the tree line and lifted whorls of sand on the rocks below. The tide was coming in, splashing higher and higher on the rocks, and the wind was bouncing off them, gushing up and over T.J.’s skin and whistling in his ears. Okay, there was logic in Bill’s argument. If T.J. believed his art had caused him to become stuck here then it did stand to reason that his art could free him. But could the mystery playing out here be that simple? T.J.’s gut instincts screamed that it couldn’t and, when Bill returned from New Orleans with the painting and T.J. tried, and failed, to cross the boundary line and to escape while holding it, Bill would see that this situation had nothing to do with logic. Like everything else sweet that had soured in T.J.’s life, this had to connect to his gift . . . somehow.

His gift.

T.J. fisted his hands. Some gift. He never wanted to paint again. Why the hell would he want to paint again? It had cost him everything. His parents. His fiancée, Carolyn. His freedom. And now, he feared, his sanity.

His nerves were raw, his muscles clenched into ropey knots. He squeezed his eyes shut. No. No, Bill had to be right. This strange phenomenon had to be psychological. T.J. couldn’t fight insanity, but he could fight psychological. He was not insane. His attempts to leave here were not futile. He could fight.
He stiffened his spine, determined to regain control of his life. Despite the frigid chill in the air, sweat trickled down his temples, between his shoulders, his ribs, and down his back. So many times, he’d attempted this challenge and every time he’d failed.

But this time he would succeed.

This time he would cross the invisible boundary line and step off Seascape land. He would walk down the cliff to the winding road and then on into the village. From there, he’d hitch a ride with Jimmy Goodson, the mechanic, and drive up to Bangor where he’d catch the first flight out and go home to New Orleans. He’d leave Seascape Inn and its mysteries to its caretaker, Miss Hattie, the soft-spoken, ironwilled and goldhearted angel who for some unknown reason chose to spend her declining years as she had spent the rest of her life: residing here among the demons. This time, T.J. would leave. And he’d never look back.
Resolved, he opened his eyes, scuffed the toe of his shoe into the boundary line. While dragging it, lifting tiny stones and forming a ridge in the coarse, damp sand, he issued himself his standard preattempt reminder: The sooner you get away from here, accept your loss, and bury everything that’s happened here, the better off you’ll be.

Feeling an adrenaline rush, a surge of fear chink at his certainty that this time would be different, he lifted his foot and stepped over the line.

The temperature plummeted.

That familiar veil of freezing mist blanketed him.

Those hated, icy fingers of cold applied pressure to the hollow at his shoulder.

Dread punched into his stomach and warning spots flashed before his eyes. Panic seized his mind and, fighting the unseen demon for all he was worth, he swung his fists and screamed, “Nooo!”

Clipping only air, he swung again and again. His head grew lighter and lighter, his vision dimmer and dimmer. His chest throbbed. Oxygenstarved, his lungs burned and ached. He struggled to gasp, but couldn’t find air; fought hard, then harder, but the unseen demon wouldn’t let go.

His strength drained. Helpless and weak, he crumbled onto the rocky ground, and despair settled in. God help him, it was happening again.

And again there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Sensation dulled.

He ceased struggling.

And he sensed . . . nothing.

* * *

After two years in what amounted to a self-imposed prison, Maggie Wright stepped off of the riverfront sidewalk and into Lakeview Gallery. A warm blast of heat welcomed her, and somewhere in the back of the building a bell tinkled softly, announcing her arrival. It wasn’t cold in New Orleans, it was rarely cold in New Orleans, but it was raining, and she’d gotten wet hiking the three blocks from the closest available parking space, which didn’t do wonders for her mood. At best, that mood bordered on grouchy, and it hovered too close for her comfort at downright scared.

Shoving aside the feeling she was forgetting something being mobile and responsible only for herself again would take a little adjusting she gave her shimmering teal raincoat a gentle shake and wiped her matching, drenched heels on the carpet in front of the glass doors. Why would anyone put white carpet in such a high traffic area?

She looked around. The old warehouse had been remodeled by someone with an appreciable taste and talent that helped her recapture her confidence. She’d never been a wimpy woman a flaw her mother had warned her against from the cradle. Maggie, you’ve got to be less sure of yourself, hon. If you’re too independent, you’ll never snatch up the gold ring, much less the man dangling it.

Maggie grimaced at the memory constant repetition had burned into her brain not that she considered it credible. In her book, feminine or eligible didn’t equate to helpless or dependent and, even if it did equate, she lacked the panache to fake it. Who’d want a man who wanted a woman like that, anyway?
With a calmer eye, she scanned the gallery. Muted white satin benches circled the bases of tall white columns that stretched up to the high ceiling. The walls and ceiling, like the floor, were painted soft white. So was the long linear desk near the far south wall. In fact she scanned the wide room there was nothing present to detract from the purpose here. And that purpose was art. Visitors had to focus on the sculptures, on the paintings lining the walls, because there was nothing else to focus upon. Yet, the place didn’t feel cold or distant. It felt . . . alive.

The marketing expert in her appreciated the clever design and decor. Maybe the white carpet wasn’t so silly after all. The aesthetic gain far outweighed the hassle of dealing with a little dirt.

A black man stood across the cavernous room. His hand shoved into his slacks’ pocket had his suit jacket bunched up and pushed back at his hip. He had a kind, sensitive face, a tall, graceful body clearly a runners and, from his expression, the painting on the wall before him entranced him. He wasn’t a collector. While nice and immaculately pressed, his suit wasn’t expensive, and collectors who acquired art via Lakeview Gallery were notoriously as wealthy as the gallery was prestigious. More likely, he was an employee. Hopefully, one who could give her the answers to questions she’d pondered on, wanted, and waited two long years to hear. Answers, now that the time had come, she half feared.

Before she died, had Carolyn changed? Had she been capable of change? Maggie’s mother insisted Carolyn had but, disappointed once too often, Maggie remained cautious and held her doubts. Still, she’d promised her mother to solve the mysteries surrounding Carolyn’s death and to find out what really had happened to her. After all her mother had been through, Maggie hadn’t the heart to refuse her, and Carolyn, for all her faults, had been family. That alone, without the promise, made uncovering the possibly ugly, surely embarrassing, truth Maggie’s responsibility. It helped that she wasn’t going into this blind to Carolyn’s flaws. Hoping for the better, but prepared for the worst, she would keep the deathbed promise her mother had made to Carolyn’s mother when Maggie had been twelve. And now that her mother had recovered well enough to again be on her own, Maggie would do her family duty.

To Carolyn’s credit, she had been a master manipulator but never a thief. The police had insisted she’d stolen the Seascape painting, but it had to have been that MacGregor man. He was the hotshot, famous artist with the world-class connections. Carolyn had just loved him. She’d been about to marry him. And if not for him, why would she have gone to Maine? From her address book and personal correspondence, she hadn’t known a soul in Maine.

Questions tumbled through Maggie’s mind. She couldn’t answer them any more now than when Carolyn had been killed two years ago. A traffic accident, they’d said. But had it been? Really?

Maggie didn’t know, but she intended to find out. The painting was here. Carolyn had worked here. Tyler James MacGregor’s work was sold here. And Maggie’s answers would come, starting here.
Trembling inside, she steeled herself then walked over to the man who still stared at the painting. “Good morning.”

He turned, looking dazed, and smiled, as if a little embarrassed at having been caught dreaming. “Hello.”

“I’m Maggie Wright.” She hitched her purse strap up on her shoulder and extended her hand. “Carolyn Conners was my cousin.”

He looked surprised, but clasped hands with her. “Bill Butler.”

“I’d like to ask you some questions about her, Mr. Butler. Actually, about her and Tyler James.”

“Tyler James?” Bill Butler cocked his head, looking even more surprised and now a little suspicious. She nodded, and he added, “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the artist, other than information that’s common knowledge.”

“It isn’t the artist I’m particularly interested in,” she confessed. “I’m more concerned with T.J. MacGregor, the man.” It was a calculated response. One meant to let Bill Butler know she knew of the artist, but also of the man who in the art world dropped the use of his surname. Hopefully, that insider tidbit would encourage Bill Butler to open up to her without forcing her to open up the family door and expose skeletons she’d really rather keep hidden.

A flicker of recognition shone in his brown eyes. He lowered his lashes and glanced down at the floor. “I know a little about him.”

“I understand your reluctance to discuss one of your artists, Mr. Butler. Especially one of T.J.’s fame and reputation but, I assure you, my interest is strictly personal. I’m not sure if you know it, but he and Carolyn were engaged.”

“Yes, I was aware of that.”

“Then you know she died two years ago.” A droplet of rain dislodged from Maggie’s hair and trickled down her cheek. She brushed at it. “A few of the circumstances surrounding her death are, well, frankly mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” He arched a brow. “Then why have you waited so long to check them out?”

Valid question. And one, thank goodness, she’d anticipated. Still, something in his stance warned her to be honest. She gave him another once-over. Did she dare to ditch her rehearsed spiel?

“Until now I wasn’t free to investigate.” The truth. Another gut-instinct-based, calculated risk. One she prayed she wouldn’t regret. “My mother suffered an injury right at the time Carolyn died, Mr. Butler. A severe injury that required extensive therapy. If you couldn’t be in two places at once, wouldn’t you give priority to the living?”

Silence.

Had she blown it already? Her palms grew sweaty. She dragged them down her soggy raincoat and let him see the concern in her eyes. “Please, I just want . . . . I need to know what happened to her.”
“I heard it was an auto accident.”

He wasn’t going to help her. Maggie’s stomach muscles constricted, and her determination compressed with them. “I heard that, too. I also heard a painting was in her car.” Squeezing her purse strap, she lifted her chin. “Carolyn burned beyond recognition and the car exploded, but that painting wasn’t damaged in the least. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

He didn’t look at her, but shrugged. “It’s a big world out there, Miss Wright. Strange things happen in it.”

Stepping back, he sat down on the bench and slid her a compassionate glance, then propped his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. “I’m sorry about your cousin, but I get the feeling you think T.J. was somehow involved with her death.”

Too transparent! Fighting the instinct to stare at his shoes to avoid his eyes, she held his gaze, but she couldn’t make herself outright deny his suspicions. She’d never been good at deception, and she’d been worse at half-truths. Had she been crazy, thinking she could pull this off?

He pursed his lips, thoughtful. “For whatever comfort it might be to you, me being here proves T.J. wasn’t involved.”

Her heart pounded a strong, hard beat that thumped in her temples. “I don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t.” He looked away, back at the painting. “But I imagine you soon will.”

Confused, sensing sadness in his tone, Maggie started to ask for an explanation, but her gaze drifted to the painting he’d been studying. Her thoughts dissipated. A sense of calm and serenity and peace she hadn’t known since she was little and became suspicious at the goings on at home, seeped from the painting into her pores. Her insides warmed and a sense of balance, of rightness, flooded her.

The painting was of a house atop a hill near the shore. But not this shore. Nowhere in the South. The painting’s shore was rugged and rockbound. She appreciated art, but never before had she reacted so vividly or intensely to it and, though she couldn’t begin to explain it, she sensed something special about this painting. Something that whispered to her and lured. Something . . . magical.

She glanced down and read the signature: Tyler James.

The discreet brass plate attached to its frame: Seascape Inn.

“Oh God.” Her knees went weak. “That’s it. That’s the painting.” Shaking, she leaned back against the column for support and forced her gaze back to the man. “It’s in Maine, isn’t it?”

Bill Butler sighed. He’d seen her reaction before everyone who lives in Sea Haven Village had seen one like it at some time or another. Still, he didn’t know quite what to make of Maggie Wright.
She was pretty, about thirty, he supposed, with shiny red hair that hugged her shoulders and green eyes that at present pleaded with him. She was about as tall as his wife, Leslie, who topped out at his shoulder and long ago had mastered that tell-me-what-I-want-to-know look Maggie Wright leveled on him. She wanted answers, but should he give them to her? She’d lied to him.

He’d known it the second she’d said she wanted to know about T.J., the man. Her face had flushed red, she hadn’t met Bill’s eyes, and the pulse in her throat had begun pounding against her skin. Leslie’d had that same look thirteen years ago when she’d assured him she wanted to move from California to Sea Haven Village so he could build Fisherman’s CoOp and be close to his Uncle Mike.

Yes, Maggie Wright had lied. And she radiated that hell-hath-no-fury glow he’d learned to respect all those years ago. She suspected T.J. was involved in her cousin’s death, and proving it was her bottom line.

If only she knew the truth.

Bill resisted shaking his head. Ridiculous. If it weren’t, he’d be home fishing, not here doing T.J. a favor. Well, doing him a favor and because T.J. had paid him to come. Bill would’ve made the trip anyway, but with fish prices being down, the extra money certainly would come in handy which, he supposed, was why T.J. insisted on paying for the favor. A man capable of that kind of caring wouldn’t be involved in anything shady. Would he?

He might. T.J. was in trouble. But what world class artist who couldn’t paint wouldn’t be in trouble? Carolyn’s death was tied up with that somehow, though Bill couldn’t peg the connection other than as a side effect of T.J. having lost his fiancée. Loss could do terrible things to a man’s mind. And the way he was living up at Seascape wasn’t helping, either. Keeping himself locked in the Carriage House, sitting on the cliffs and staring at the ocean for hours on end . . . .

Well, the man might be suffering from guilt, but guilt at having something to do with Carolyn’s wreck? Ridiculous. And yet, if T.J. somehow had been involved, even indirectly, that would explain his guilt feelings . . . and his blacking out episodes.

Bill grimaced, feeling like a traitor. How could he even fleetingly doubt T.J.’s innocence? “T.J. didn’t have anything to do with your cousin’s death, Miss Wright.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just . . . know.” How could he not know? He’d watched the man suffer and struggle for nearly a year, trying to come to terms with his losses. Difficult to tell what all went on in T.J.’s mind he held his feelings close to his chest but Bill strongly suspicioned, and Leslie agreed, that Carolyn was but one of the losses that had sent the man into a tailspin. Bill maintained his opinion, too, that it would take a professional to help T.J. untangle his emotions and get him back to flying straight. A professional, or a miracle.

“That house,” Maggie pointed to the painting, “is in Maine, isn’t it?”

From her doubt-riddled expression, the woman didn’t believe him. She’d already tried and convicted T.J. guilty. Bill chewed on his lip and considered his options. Never would he be so foolish as to think he could tell any woman her opinion on anything. There were things a person had to learn firsthand, and trust ranked among them. Living with Leslie had taught him that, too. But he could see to it that Maggie had the opportunity to learn the truth.

He reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out his business card and a pen, then wrote Miss Hattie’s name and phone number down on the back of it. “It’s in Maine.” He passed the card to Maggie Wright. “The innkeeper’s name is on back. You’ll need to call and let her know you’re coming.”

Maggie looked at him, her eyes wide and round. “How did you know I intended to go to Seascape? I only just decided.”

Bill shrugged. Her bewildered look, he’d also seen before. “Just a hunch.”

* * *

Groggy, his head aching like the devil, T.J. groaned and opened his eyes.

Something bright white blinded him. He squinted and saw it was Miss Hattie’s hanky. She stood over him, flapping the scrap of lace as if the cold wind whipping over the granite cliffs weren’t strong enough to revive him without her personal assistance. Bill Butler’s whopper-telling, tall, lanky, eleven-year-old, Aaron, stood next to her, his breath fogging the air. They both looked worried.

“Hey, Mr. James.” Aaron blinked, his eyes bright in his warm cocoa face. “Did ya fall and bust your head on the rocks?”

This was not a dream. He was still here in this godforsaken place.

Frustrated at yet another failure, T.J. looked at Miss Hattie. Her apron showed in the gap of her unbuttoned coat. It whipped around, molding with her dress to her plump calves. A blueberry stain near the pocket looked wet. He’d interrupted her making her morning muffins . . . again.

Miss Hattie stopped flapping her hanky and pressed it into her coat pocket. “Are you all right, dear?”

Her kind green eyes looked worried, and he hated seeing that, but he couldn’t do a thing to ease her concern. He was plenty worried himself.

Reaching beneath his hip, he pulled out a stone that was digging into his side. His head ached like hell. So did his back. He pursed his mouth to tell her he was anything but all right and he would have told her had he not been looking at her.

The wind teased her white wispy curls that had come loose from her bun and sneaked out from under her blue woolen scarf to frame her tender face. Round and soft and lined with wisdom, it was chafed red by the wind and cold. A woman in her seventies had no business being out in this damp breeze. Miss Hattie thought she was invincible and if he’d reminded her that she wasn’t, she’d only scoff, so he didn’t. But he couldn’t bellow at her, either. It’d be like giving hell to Mary Poppins or the good fairy.

“I’m fine.” Unfortunately, he’d live. T. J. frowned and rubbed at the back of his head, pressing against a lump the size of a goose egg. Pain shot through his skull, and he winced. “Just fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look a bit peaked. Doesn’t he look peaked, Aaron?”

Aaron twisted his mouth and studied T.J. “Uh-huh, he surely does. ” He squinted up at Miss Hattie. “He looks just like Mrs. Johnson when Mr. Johnson dozes off in church.”

“That bad?” T.J. muttered. If anything could be worse than dead, being equated to the stuffy, social-climbing Lydia Johnson was it. She’d been bad enough as co-owner of The Store, but when her husband, Horace, got elected mayor the woman became a first-rate snob or tried to. Frankly, she never quite pulled it off. His shoulder stiff, T.J. rolled it to loosen it up.

“Yes sir, you do and that ain’t no lie.”

“I happen to agree with the boy, Tyler. You’re as pale as a ghost.”

Grunting, T.J. hauled himself to his feet, careful that not so much as his big toe crossed over the boundary line, off Seascape land. He’d already pushed fate far enough for one day. “I’m fine, Miss Hattie. Really.” Dusting the sand and dead grass from his jeans, he gave her a reassuring smile. “I just fell on the rocks, like Aaron said.”

Aaron grinned as if pleased he’d been right. “Folks from away don’t know it, but you gotta watch those rocks, Mr. James. They’re slicker than spit.”

“That’s a bit graphic, mmm?” Miss Hattie patted the boy’s coat-padded shoulder. “What are you doing running around up here anyway?”

“Mama sent me. She got a message from Daddy. He said to tell Mr. James that he’s flying home with the painting today. The man at the gallery said okay.”

Miss Hattie gasped. “He’s secured the loan of the painting, Tyler! Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Yeah, wonderful.” The painting wouldn’t work, but it could get Bill and Miss Hattie past believing that this situation was completely psychological. A little reassurance would be welcome to T.J., too. Doubts about his sanity were eating him alive. Still, being of two minds on the matter, he didn’t know what to hope. Half the time, he wanted to believe that the problem rooted in his mind because dealing with that seemed more comfortable than accepting any alternate root cause. But the other half of the time, he wanted an outside source to blame even a bizarre one because he hated that possibility less than the idea that even his psyche had turned against him.

“Aaron, you tell your mama not to risk the drive to Bangor. I’ll phone Jimmy straight away.” Miss Hattie looked at T.J. “Leslie’s from California, you know. She’s only been here thirteen years. Not at all used to driving on snowy roads.”

Carolyn hadn’t been, either. T.J. nodded, solemn. Then what Miss Hattie had said hit him. Thirteen years? Well, this was Maine. Maybe in another generation or two, the Butlers wouldn’t be considered from away.

“There’s something else, too.” Aaron scratched his dark head, as if it’d help him recall exactly what.

The boy’s glove was a little large, frayed at the wrist, and bunched at his fingertips. But at least he had gloves. T.J. grimaced.

Remembrance lit Aaron’s eyes and, clearly pleased with himself, he looked at Miss Hattie. “A lady’s gonna be calling, Daddy said. Maggie White. No, that ain’t right.” He grinned. “Maggie Wright. That’s it. Maggie Wright.”

“Thank you, dear.” Miss Hattie gave the boy a smile. “You’d best get home now and help your mother with your brothers.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Aaron turned and started down the path to the road.

T.J. didn’t watch him. Though he couldn’t put a finger on it, there was something odd about Miss Hattie’s reaction to Aaron’s message. It gave T.J. a flicker of hope that the painting would work, and that he hated. He’d be a fool to believe it for a second. “Don’t get your hopes up, Miss Hattie.” He looked down at her, spoke gently to not upset her. “Bringing the painting here won’t make any difference. I’ll be a Seascape prisoner forever.”

Miss Hattie twisted her lips, clearly disagreeing. “Something unusual is going on here, but I’m sure it’s only temporary.”

“Nine months is stretching the bounds of temporary,” T.J. countered. She’d said before she had no earthly idea why he couldn’t leave, and he believed her. The situation was frustrating for him and clearly perplexing to her. From her jerky movements, she didn’t much care for feeling perplexed.

They started back toward the house. The path was speckled with patches of ice, and he gently clasped her arm to help support her. “I just wish I understood what was happening to me.” A spark of fear threatened him. The wind had died down but the mist still clung to the shore. “I don’t feel crazy.” He shoved his free hand into his coat pocket. “Am I crazy?” Finally, he’d asked the question out loud.
“No, Tyler, of course not.” She patted his forearm, linked with hers. “I wish I could explain this to you, but I’m afraid I don’t understand it myself. Let’s just hope that the painting works, mmm? We both feel it was spared from the fire for a reason. Maybe helping you now was the reason.”

“I always believed that about the painting, Miss Hattie, but my gut’s telling me I’m not the reason it didn’t burn in Carolyn’s wreck. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. Still, I’m desperate. I’ve got to try this. What else is left to try?”

“Once you believed in the magic of healing.”

“I know. And I know that you think the healing magic I felt when painting Seascape will somehow help heal me now, but–”

“It is possible.”

Was it? No. But Miss Hattie believed it, heart-and-soul. It’d been easier to send Bill to get the damn painting and prove her wrong than to argue with her. She was a nurturer down to her bones, pure and simple, but she was also Maine stubborn.

Sidestepping a large stone, T.J. returned to the path, feeling helpless and vulnerable. Both were feelings he’d had and hated before. He still hated them. “As soon as I prove it won’t work, I’m going to burn the damn thing. I’m going to burn everything that has anything to do with my work.”

“Tyler, no!” Miss Hattie gasped and squeezed his arm. “You can’t squander your gift. It isn’t–”

“It isn’t a gift. Painting used to be . . . everything, but not anymore. Now, it’s my curse.”

“Tyler!” A strong, phantom wind gust furled the end her scarf like a flag.

“It’s true. My artistic ability has cost me everything that matters to me. Would a gift cost a man everything that matters?”

“It hasn’t.” They’d arrived at the road, at Main Street. Pausing, Miss Hattie looked up then down it, and, on seeing the way was clear, she crossed and started up the fir-lined drive to the house. “Your gift wasn’t responsible for your losses, and neither were you.”

“Then why can’t I leave here? Why do I land on my backside every single time I try leaving?”

“I don’t know.” Leaves crunched under their feet. “Jimmy really needs to do some raking. Remind me to mention it to him when I phone him about Bill, mmm? I’d be lost without Jimmy helping me out around here, but I do so wish he’d find himself a good woman and settle down.”

The swift subject switch had been intentional. She knew more than she was telling him. “How long has Seascape been an inn?”

“About twenty-six years. Why?”

“Twenty-six years. And I’m supposed to believe that I’m the only guest who ever has run into this kind of trouble.”

“Tyler, you sound like Beaulah Favish. Are you going to start troubling the sheriff with nonsense of weird happenings here, too?”

“I’m not like your nosy neighbor, and you know it. Have I told anyone about this?” People including Batty Beaulah would think he’d slipped over the edge.

“No. I doubt you’d even have told Bill Butler, if he hadn’t come upon you prone during one of your failed attempts.”

T.J. wouldn’t have told Bill. Or anyone else. “Regardless, something weird is happening. You can’t deny it.”

Miss Hattie looked straight ahead, and said not a word.

His heart rate quickened. She had her suspicions on exactly what that something weird was, all right. When Aaron had relayed the message from his father, she’d gotten the strangest, serene expression on her face. That worried T.J., and he prayed it didn’t signal another matchmaking attempt in his immediate future. Though well meaning, he was about sick of her matchmaking attempts. But he wasn’t so sure matchmaking schemes had prompted that expression. “You aren’t going to tell me a thing, are you?”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, dear.” She patted his arm. “Things will work out as they’re meant to. When one has little else, one must believe in fate.”

“Fate.” He sighed. Looked as if another attempt was inevitable, anyway. Irksome, but he’d nix it soon enough.

“You’re listening but not hearing, Tyler. You’ll come to understand. I will say, though, that soon there might well be burning at Seascape. We agree on that. But, unlike you, I’ll wager here and now that not a snippet of ash will be canvas.”

What did she mean by that? T.J. looked up at the attic window. Something flickered and his skin crawled. Surprised at his reaction, he blinked and checked again, but saw nothing. A trick of the light?

“Tyler?” Miss Hattie slid him one of her helping-things-along looks he definitely recognized as a pre-matchmaking signal. “I need for you to move into the main house.”

Here it came. Opening the back door into the mudroom, he paused. “Why?”

“The Carriage House needs a new roof. I intended to get it done this fall, but you so enjoy your privacy in its apartment and I didn’t want to disturb you. Yet I can’t wait any longer now. Winter is here.” She stepped past him, shrugged out of her coat, then hung it on a peg on the wall. “Do you mind?”

“Not really.” He minded a lot. He pegged his coat and toed off his muddy shoes, glad to be out of the biting wind and cold. “If the weather holds, I’ll move this afternoon.”

“I think Maggie Wright will arrive this afternoon and I hate to welcome a new guest while we’re in turmoil. This morning, mmm? After breakfast, which might well be late if my muffins have burned.”
He smiled. “They wouldn’t dare.”

She smiled back, then grew serious. “You know, Tyler, your situation sincerely troubles me. This is the first time in all my years at this house I’ve been uneasy. I sense you have reservations, but I truly have no idea what is happening to you,” she stared up at the ceiling as if miffed and speaking to someone else entirely, “and I don’t much like it.”

He didn’t like it, either. But what could he do about it that he hadn’t already done?
The smell of blueberry muffins drifted on the air. His stomach growled and, without an answer, he followed Miss Hattie into the toasty, warm kitchen.

The phone rang.

She walked over to the wall, pulling her clip earring from her lobe, then lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hello.”

Miss Hattie listened, smiled, then cupped her hand over the receiver and whispered to T.J., “Maggie Wright.”

“Wonderful.” The matchmaking queen was at it again.

“Just a moment, dear.” She looked at T.J. “Go wash up, Tyler. Your help is on the way.”

His help? Did she mean the painting? Or the woman?*

——————————–

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