HER NAME WAS CARLY WATSON. The final hours of her life were brutal. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know how long she’d been there. By that point, she was so wracked with pain, so desperate for escape, she barely remembered who she was. She was twenty-three. She was going to medical school. She was bright, eager, and before she’d fallen into this hell, she had loved life. Now she just prayed for it to end. She had been stuck in that hellish darkness for hours, days, possibly weeks. And she knew she would die there. She knew he was coming back—the door creaked. It was like a death knell, heralding his arrival. As the door swung open, the ancient hinges protested. A sob bubbled up in her throat as he laid a hand on her calf and stroked up. She cringed away as much as she could, but the restraints at her wrists, waist, knees, and ankles didn’t allow for much movement. When he cupped his hand over her sex, her scream, long and desperate, split the air. Her kidnapper, rapist, and soon-to-be killer watched, amused … pleased with her terror. “Go ahead and scream, sweetheart. Nobody can hear you.” “Please …” her throat was so dry and raw from how she had cried. How she had begged. How she had pleaded. She almost hated herself, for begging. For giving him that pleasure. Some part of her just wasn’t ready to accept the truth, wasn’t ready to give up. Even though, in her heart, she knew it was useless. “Just let me go. Please let me go … I won’t tell anybody, I swear.” He sighed. It was a sigh of long-suffering patience, the one a parent might give a child. He even patted her shoulder as he murmured, “Yes, I’m sure you won’t.” A loud sound rasped through the air and she whimpered as she recognized it. A zipper. He was getting undressed—no, no, no … Hysterical panic tore through her and she started to scream. He raped her again. Her voice gave out long before she was able to escape inside herself. This time, though, her escape was final. She had retreated somewhere deep inside herself—somewhere where pain didn’t exist, where terror didn’t exist. When he ended her life, she never even knew—she was already gone. Her name was Carly Watson. It was a lovely day, the kind of day you just didn’t get too often. The air was warm and mild, with clear sunshine beaming down. A soft breeze drifted by. Under the trees, it was just a bit cooler. The perfect sort of day for a walk. At least, Lena Riddle would’ve thought so. But halfway through, her dog started getting anxious. Puck didn’t do anxious. Not in the four years she’d had him. But there he was, pulling against his leash, like he was determined not to let her take their normal route through the woods. “Come on, Puck. You wanted to go for a walk, remember?” She tried to take another step, but the big yellow retriever sat down. He wasn’t going to move an inch. Just then, faintly, oh so very faintly, she heard … something. Puck growled. “Hush,” she murmured, reaching down and resting a hand on his head. He had his hackles up, his entire body braced and tensed. “Easy, boy. Just take it easy.” Standing in the middle of the trail, with her head cocked, she listened. The faint breeze that had been blowing all day abruptly died and all those faint sounds of life she could always hear in the woods faded down to nothingness. A heartbeat passed, then another. It was utterly silent. Then it came again. Something … muffled. Faint. An animal? Trapped? She scowled absently, concentrating. There it was again. Her brow puckered as she focused, trying to lock in on the sound better. Puck whined in his throat and tugged on his leash, demandingly. Lena turned her head, trying to follow that sound. It was gone, though. The breeze returned and all she could hear now were the leaves rustling in the breeze, the sound of a bird call, and somewhere off in the distance, a car’s motor. Still, the faint memory of that sound, whatever it was, sent a shiver down her spine. “You know what, Puck?” she murmured. “I think you’re right. Let’s get the hell out of here.” She only had a few hours left before she had to go to work anyway. “… there.…” He stood over her, studied her hair. The gleaming blond strands were shorn now to chin length, perfectly straight, even as could be. Her eyes, sightless and fixed, stared overhead. That blank look on her face irritated him, but he wasn’t surprised. He had seen this coming, after all. Something about the way she had reacted, the way she’d screamed. The life had gone out of his girl and once that fight was gone … Well. That was just how it was. Carefully gathering up the hair, he selected what he wanted and then bagged up the rest, adding it to the pack he’d carry out of here. Later. Few things still that he had to handle. He studied her body, the long slim lines of it, her.
Chapter 1 She was a looker
SUMMER SUN BEAT DOWN ON HIS BACK AS EZRA King hauled a two-by-four up onto the deck.
Hot as a bitch outside, miserable hot, edging close to ninety degrees, but he
didn’t let it slow him down.
Nope, he was going to get this damn deck built before fall. He wanted it done
so he could spend the cool—assuming it cooled off—fall nights out on the deck,
staring into nothingness while he contemplated the best way to waste the rest of his life.
“Anything other than carpentry,” he muttered. “Anything.”
Once he got through the damned, do-it-yourself hell that was this house, he
was done with hammers. At least that was what he told himself. Part of him
enjoyed it, though. It was kind of cool, watching something unfold in front of you, something that started with just a bare wisp of an idea. Hard work, money, and sweat was all it took to make that idea into reality.
Ezra had been raised to appreciate the value of hard work—he’d hated it at the time, but now it served him well. Nothing worth having came for free. A guy wants something, he works for it or pays for it. Otherwise, he doesn’t get it—
doesn’t deserve it. That was life.
Like this deck. Ezra wanted it, he wanted it done his way, and he didn’t want
to pay somebody else to do it for him—he might have some money tucked away, but if he wanted it to last, he had to be careful. So here he was, doing it himself.
But damn, he’d be glad when it was done.
Around lunchtime, he stopped, but only because his stomach was growling so
loud he could hear it over the hammer. After a messy BLT and half a pitcher of iced tea, he headed back outside and once more fell into a rhythm, hammering nails into the wood, fetching another, and another.
He lost track of time, his mind blanking out on him.
Stripped down to a pair of low-slung khaki shorts and tennis shoes, he worked. A red bandanna held his sweat-dampened brown hair back from his face and sunglasses hid green eyes.
He had a pretty face, a fact he’d been told more than once in his life. Back in
school, he’d gotten into more than a few fights because of it. It was just a face, his dad’s face, with his mom’s green eyes.
Having that face was both a curse and blessing, as far as he saw it. Girls had
been flirting with him for as long as he could remember, even before he was old
enough to really understand what flirting was. As he got older and started
school, all the pretty little girls who flirted with him ended up catching the attention of the boys in his grade and more than once, that had gotten him into trouble.
Eventually, he got to the point where he enjoyed all the flirting enough to
ignore the teasing that was directed his way. At least, most of the time.
In his junior year of high school, he got into a fight with one of the other
players on the basketball team. His nose was broken in that fight and he was also
forced to quit the team after his folks got the call from school. It had seemed harsh at the time, but looking back, he was glad he had parents who loved him enough to be strict, who loved him enough to enforce their rules, even when it hurt.
To his mother’s dismay and his own delight, his nose hadn’t healed perfectly
straight. That slight crook to his nose made his face just a little less pretty.
Over the years, Ezra hadn’t changed much. The dimples in his cheeks had deepened to slashes. He shaved in the morning, but come late afternoon, that five o’clock shadow made its appearance. He was still long and lean, although he’d finally put some weight on in college, thanks to lifting weights.
Now, those muscles were warm and loose. Even the screwed-up muscles in
his right thigh. He’d taken a bullet in that leg six months earlier, which was why he was living out here in Ash, Kentucky. He’d walked away from his job, from his badge, and he didn’t think he wanted to go back.
He knew his leg would hurt like a bitch later once the muscles tightened up on
him. It would be hell come nightfall. But he’d deal with it then.
The deck was shaping up pretty damn good, he had to admit.
He took another short break around three when he heard the familiar rumble
of a jeep. The rural mail carrier had bills for him and a box. As the jeep headed
off, Ezra jammed the bills in his back pocket and tore into the box—
books … and hot damn, one of them was a book he’d spent the past few months
trying to track down.
Ezra didn’t open it, though. He was tempted, but he made himself tuck the
book back into the box. For now. If he started reading now, he wasn’t going to finish anything else but the book today and damn it, he wanted to get more done on the deck.
After stowing the mail in the kitchen and refilling his thermos with iced tea,
he headed back outside, going through the side door.
He heard the purr of an engine and glanced up toward the highway in front of
his house. The sight of the long, black stretch limo made him pause.
Scowling, he unscrewed his thermos and drinking, watched the limo until the
gleaming black car disappeared around a curve.
He knew where it was going—Running Brook Inn. When he had visited Ash
as a kid, the big old house had been run-down and just this side of ugly. After the
owner had died, one of the heirs had the brilliant idea to turn it into a bed-and-
breakfast, and the idea took off.
But now it wasn’t just a B&B. It had a small restaurant and they also did
“boutique” weddings—whatever in the hell that was.
And it all added up to a fairly steady amount of traffic going by his place on a regular basis. He’d come out here seeking the peace and quiet he’d remembered from his youth, not a steady string of cars and limos and traffic.
“Hell. It’s not like they’re driving through the front yard,” he muttered,
brushing his irritation aside. Pushing the limo out of his mind, he got back to
work. He didn’t stop until he began to lose the light.
By that time, the muscles in his injured thigh were screaming, and his head was pounding along, too.
A hot shower, a sandwich, then he’d crash, and he’d be as good as new.
But after the shower, Ezra realized he wasn’t in the mood for a sandwich or a microwave pizza, or any of the other fast, cheap crap that currently filled his freezer or fridge.
Not that he had a lot of choices in Ash, but he wanted real food. Since he
couldn’t cook worth shit, that meant leaving the house.
Since it was Friday, the café on Main Street would still be open. Plus, there was the Turnkey Bar and Grill.
But instead of heading into town, Ezra found himself turning right, heading toward the bed-and-breakfast.
Of course, it was nearly ten by the time he got there.
And as he settled down at the long, sleek sprawl of mahogany wood, he noticed something.
He was kind of underdressed. His jeans and T-shirt did not fit in with the
khakis and Dockers and polo shirts.
He couldn’t care less. As long as he had some food.
He could smell something mouthwatering. Garlic. Spice. Lasagna, maybe …
“Hey, can I get a menu?”
The bartender gave him a friendly, apologetic smile. “Sorry, but the kitchen
closed at nine-thirty. We’ve got bar food, if you’re interested. We serve that until
eleven.”
“Closed,” he repeated. His stomach growled demandingly and he wouldn’t
have been surprised if he’d been drooling … whatever had been on the menu?
That was what he wanted. Not bar food.
“Yeah, afraid so. Sorry.” He glanced at his watch and grimaced.
Blowing out a sigh, Ezra asked, “So what kind of bar food?”
One good thing—the beer was cold. Five minutes later, he was watching the
TV mounted over the bar when he caught a glimpse of somebody from the
corner of his eye. He also heard the oddly familiar clack of nails on hardwood.
Frowning, he turned his head.
The clacking wasn’t coming from her, that was certain.
She was a looker.
For the first fifteen seconds, Ezra didn’t notice the dog at her side or anything
else, because he was too busy staring at her.
Damn—
She wore a pair of sunglasses, despite the low lights used in the bar. Her hair,
dark red and gleaming under soft lights, was short. The ends curled under,
framing a narrow, feline face and a wide mobile mouth that just about screamed
S-E-X.
Her skin was pale and creamy, the kind of skin that either got slathered with
sunscreen religiously or just never saw the sun. Tall—he pegged her at 5′9″ and
most of it was probably leg.
Damn. She was definitely something worth looking at, too. Actually, she was
probably the best thing he’d looked at in quite a while. Did she live here? He
didn’t remember ever seeing her during his infrequent visits in the years before
Grandma died, but granted, he hadn’t left the house that much except to go
fishing or take her to church.
He heard that weird clacking again and glanced down. That was when he saw
the dog. A big, beautiful yellow retriever—wearing a rather distinctive vest. The
dog walked alongside the woman, keeping pace with her perfectly, and with each
step, his nails clacked on the hardwood floor. The redhead walked as she stood
—looking neither left, nor right, shoulders back, chin up.
Blind.
Ezra frowned, watching her every step as she neared the bar.
“Hi, Paul. How’s it going?”
“Going just fine, Lena. You want a drink while you wait for Carter?”
She reached out a hand, brushed it against the back of one chair at the bar.
“Yeah. Rum and Diet Coke, I guess.” With a slow, easy grace, she settled in the
chair.
Ezra found himself staring at her mouth.
Staring … and wondering how she’d taste.
Her head turned toward him, cocked to the side. “Hello?”
“Ahhh … hey.”
The bartender glanced at him, grinned. “She’s got ears like a bloodhound.”
The woman made a face at the bartender. “I do not. I just felt somebody
looking at me.” A faint smile curled her lips. “Apparently he’s never seen a blind
woman.”
“It’s not that,” Ezra said, scowling, a little disgusted at the way she talked
about him like he wasn’t there.
She shifted in her seat, turning to face him. She rested an arm against the
gleaming wood of the bar and cocked a brow. “Okay, so if it’s not me, perhaps
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