It may be summer, but schoolteacher Anna Silver’s trip to the coastal town of Bamfield is anything but a vacation. She’s on the run, desperate to stay one step ahead of her father’s
murderer and determined to track down the one man she’s been told to trust: her father’s old cell mate, Brent Carver. But when she finds him, she discovers not a kind, elderly artist but a dangerously hot alpha male with blood on his hands.
Loyal to the core, Brent would never turn away his friend’s daughter when she comes seeking help. He can’t deny Anna his protection…just as he can’t deny the instantaneous attraction he struggles to keep in check. But as their passion blazes out of control, a sadistic killer is on the hunt to stop Anna from uncovering his dark secrets.
Excerpt
Brent
Carver lay in bed listening to the surf outside his open window. The rhythmic
pounding pulse helped calm the ragged unsettled feeling that clawed inside
him. Sometimes it even let him sleep. Not tonight.
He
shifted restlessly, sweat damp on his skin. The west coast was getting a
blistering-hot summer that had him thanking God he wasn’t stuck in that
shithole prison, sweating it out with a few hundred of his least best friends.
He sat up in bed and swiped irritably at his too long hair.
Gina
had liked it long.
Damn.
He’d
spent the past year trying not to think about Gina, or her murder, and yet
memories snuck past his guard all the time. Her smile, her giving nature, her
unwavering dedication to his undeserving ass. When he’d broken things off with
her, he’d hoped she’d finally move on. Find herself a man she could marry and
have babies she could spoil. But things hadn’t worked out that way, and no one
regretted it more than he did.
He
whipped back the covers and padded naked to the open window that faced the
Pacific. It took a moment for his heartbeat to stop hammering. A moment for the
burn in his chest to ease. At nearly forty years old, he’d spent half his life
in prison and would never get enough of breathing in the fresh clean air of
freedom.
The
dark water before him stretched like a smooth satin sheet all the way to the
horizon. But the calm tranquility was an illusion that disguised deceptive
currents and gigantic swells, cold depths and wicked storm surges.
That
ocean called to him—it always had. This sliver of coast was what he’d missed
locked up in his cell for so many years. Not peace. Not serenity. Not pissing
in a private bathroom. Huge rollers crashing home. Elements clashing like
titans in his backyard. The abandon. The wildness. The energy. Prison had
squeezed the need for that energy into a tiny corner of his mind and tortured
him with it in his dreams. When he’d gotten out, he’d spent two days just
staring at the ocean. This was where he belonged. This was where
he needed to be. And no one was ever going to take it from him again. Being
caged, being imprisoned, had almost wiped him out of existence, and the worst
thing was—it was his own damn fault. He’d taken a life and gotten what he
deserved.
He’d
been out four years now, but the smells, the memories, the sense of watching
his back, was ingrained, tattooed on his brain like most cons wore ink. He’d
found his salvation in a talent for painting, enough of a talent that he could
afford a kick-ass mansion anywhere in the world. But he’d returned here, to the
small remote strip of land on the western edge of Vancouver
Island. The scene of the crime and the only home he’d ever known.
Maybe
he should buy a yacht, learn to sail. But that sort of aimless wandering didn’t
appeal and his parole officer probably wouldn’t approve either. He rubbed his
aching neck muscles and headed downstairs for a drink. He’d finish that last
piece for the exhibition.
Exhibition.
He
shook his head in disbelief. Some fancy-schmancy museum in New York was giving him an
exhibition. He opened the fridge and pulled out a beer and popped the top. His
agent had worked some serious magic, wrangling that mother. Only trouble was
the gallery wanted the elusive and mysterious B.C. Wilkinson to turn up
in person to the opening. His agent had even taken care of a passport and
special visa requirements.
Yeah, right. He
snorted. No fucking way. Still, Brent had learned years ago that it was easier
to do what he wanted and beg forgiveness later. Not that he dealt much in
forgiveness. Gina’s image smiled sweetly inside his head, but she was
dead—stabbed to death by a homicidal maniac last year—and thinking about her
wouldn’t bring her back.
His
fist tightened around the neck of the bottle and he resisted the urge to hurl
it at the wall. Prison had taught him iron control—he just hadn’t realized how
much he’d need it on the outside. He headed onto his back porch, buck naked and
glad of the fresh ocean breeze that cooled his overheated body. His nearest
neighbor lived a quarter of a mile away, out of sight, over the bluff. This
region was too remote for passersby and anyone with a boat would moor it in a
sheltered cove, not at the mercy of Barkley Sound’s treacherous grasp. The moon
was cloaked behind restless clouds that billowed like smoke across the sky. He
was just about to sit his ass down when he saw a shadow flitter near the woods.
He
had visitors?
No
fucking way.
In
prison he’d received enough death threats to take serious precautions with his
safety. When some of the local thugs had been arrested last year, he’d let down
his guard and thought the danger was over. He’d obviously thought wrong. What
if it was his brother, Finn? Or the cops? He pressed his lips together. Finn
knew better than to spook him and the cops had no reason to be sniffing around.
Something
was going on.
No
one made social calls on Brent Carver—no one without a death wish. He lived on
a peninsula that, due to the rugged terrain, was only accessible by boat. There
were about thirty locals living on this side of the inlet, but they were more
likely to hand-feed rabid wolves than drop in for a beer.
Did
his visitor know he was out here?
Leaving
the bottle on the deck, he carefully slipped over the side of the porch and melted
into the night. It was pitch-black in the woods, but he’d grown up here and
knew every tree and hollow. He made his way along the side of the shed and
ducked into the forest. Over the last year, he’d gradually stopped listening to
the scanner for signs of trouble, stopped keeping firearms in the house. He’d
gotten soft, but not stupid. Silently he dropped to his knees beside a massive Sitka spruce that was
technically on his neighbor’s property. If she found out about his little
cache, she’d be pissed. He swept dirt and dead needles off the top of a
waterproof box he’d sunk into the ground, and removed his SIG Sauer. He
replaced the lid and covered it as best he could in the dark. He got his
bearings, and found the tree where he’d hidden his ammo. He grabbed a magazine
and headed up to the road, circling around. He inched down an old trail and
came up behind where the shadow had been.
Darkness cloaked the
clearing where his house sat but his night vision was sharp. And damned if the
woman—put a man in prison long enough and he could spot a female blindfolded at
twenty paces—wasn’t climbing his porch steps shining her flashlight around the
place like a laser show. Maybe she was a thief? Maybe someone had figured out
Brent Carver was B.C. Wilkinson and sitting on a shedload of very expensive
artwork? Then she knocked on his back door.
What the…?
He rubbed his hand over
his brow. He was stark naked except for his gun, and now some woman was
standing on his deck? He hoped to hell she wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness because
she was about to have a come-to-Jesus moment.
But she could still be
armed and dangerous. He’d pissed off enough bad guys in the joint to be wary of
anyone turning up in the middle of the night. Hell, no one visited here,
period.
“Hello?” She pressed her
ear to his door. “Mr. Carver?” she said louder. Her shoulders sagged when no
one answered.
He didn’t recognize her
voice. He moved fast and silent across the clearing, padded up the stairs just
as she reached for the doorknob.
“You’re trespassing.”
She jolted, her hand
going to her heart as she spun to face him. “Oh, my God. You scared me.”
Never admit fear.
“I don’t like visitors,
lady.”
Her flashlight dipped and
then shot back to his face, almost blinding him. She swallowed, taking in his
lack of clothes and keeping her eyes north of the hot spots. “You’re naked.”
“I was in bed.” He didn’t
know why he needed to explain himself.
Her voice came out like
gravel. “I’m looking for Brent Carver.”
“I’m looking for peace and
quiet. Looks like we’re both screwed.”
“You’re Brent?” Her free
hand slipped into her bag and he grabbed her wrist and pinned her against his
door before she could get the drop on him. She went ballistic and tried to
whack him with the flashlight. He jerked it out of her fingers and threw it
behind them. She felt tiny and delicate, crushed between him and that solid
piece of oak, although her lungs were in full working order.
Shit, his ears hurt.
“No one will hear you, so
you might as well stow it.” She jammed one hand against his chin, squirming
like an eel, then went for gold by trying to knee him in the nuts. He deflected
the attack and pressed her tighter against the door, wedging her there with his
body. She barely came up to his chin but fought like a wild thing. “Want to
tell me who you are and why you’re knocking on my door in the middle of the
night?” He concentrated on making sure he didn’t injure her while he tried to
check out what she was going for in her purse.
She scratched sharp
fingernails down his arm, drew in a breath to scream even louder. Her breasts
pushed against his chest, which would have worked for him in a big way if she
wasn’t so goddamn terrified. Sonofa-fucking-bitch.
Why me?
He had nowhere to stick
his gun so he removed the pocketbook from her fingers and stepped back, keeping
a wary eye on her bloodthirsty knee. She stood there stunned, trembling, and
breathing heavily. He didn’t think it had anything to do with his dazzling good
looks.
“You bastard.” Her chin
snapped up. “You aren’t Brent Carver.”
He cocked a brow. “What
makes you say that?” He searched her bag, more by touch than sight in the
darkness. A cell phone, wallet, keys, tampons, tissues. No gun or shank.
“He’s a respectable
painter. He’s not some nutcase who runs about in the middle of the night,
waving around a gun, among other things,” she muttered darkly.
“Attacking innocent, defenseless women.”
The scratches on his arm
stung enough for him to snort out a laugh at that. Her eyes narrowed. He
watched moonlight flow over her features, fine boned and delicate, except for
the tight clench of her jaw.
There was no obvious
threat in her pocketbook, but it didn’t mean he should let his guard down. He
needed clothes. For some crazy reason, he was getting a little turned on by
Miss Prim and Proper telling him who and what he was. It was probably being
naked and within a hundred yards of anything two legged and female, but he
didn’t want to scare her any more than he had already. He wasn’t a hound. Nor
was he under any illusion about what she thought might happen when he grabbed
her. Someone had jumped him in the shower once and lost their eye for the
trouble. Hell, most people thought he was evil incarnate and that was the way
he liked it. He reached past her and opened the door. “Inside. Now.”
“I’m not going anywhere
with you.” She tried to dodge aside.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced
her across his threshold. “You want to meet Brent? I’ll take you to him.” Her
eyes were so huge with fear she looked like she’d been electrocuted. But she’d
come to him, she had to play by his rules.
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