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  When their lips connected, that same sensation of time screeching to a stop overcame her. The kiss was tender. It was hot. It was erotic.

  She swore he could kiss her through ten thousand lifetimes and she’d never get enough.

  He withdrew and regarded her with hooded eyes and ragged breathing. Without a word, he stood and tugged off his soft Henley, revealing a drool-worthy abdomen and miles of muscles. Then, he pivoted.

  Her eyes met a brilliant wash of color and ink. The orange and gold Phoenix covered his entire back, rising from flames that disappeared beneath his jeans. Whoever had created that masterpiece was a true artist. And the man who wore the piece appeared to have earned the right to wear the artistry. That was when she knew she wanted to spend a lifetime discovering all the facet of Jackson O’Halloran.

  But how can he stay with me when I’m like…like, this? Paranoid. Jumpy. Looking over my shoulder at every turn. Smoking, for God’s sake. I despise smoking. Even I don’t recognize myself.

  There had been no more texts from Karlos, no more flowers, but still…Karlos was out there, stalking her like a tarantula, creeping around the edges of her life.

  She took another drag on the cigarette, hating the taste, hating the smell, hating herself for doing it. Each inhalation of the toxic smoke reminded her of what a loser she was to have been fooled by Karlos. She loathed Karlos Rivera—hated him with a vehemence that surprised her. What she thought to be a long-dead memory had returned like an apparition to haunt her, annihilating the goodness she’d been creating since escaping his clutches.

  Goddamn you, Rivera. Goddamn you to hell and beyond.

  She extinguished the smoke in the sand and pushed to her feet, feeling like she’d aged twenty years in the last two weeks.

  As she tromped across the sand toward the road, she spied an unfamiliar car parked between her and Jackson’s home and the neighbors.

  She froze. Then, a hoodie-wearing figure appeared from the side of her house.

  Shit. It’s Karlos. It’s got to be Karlos. I can’t let him see me.

  Since there were no trees around, nothing but an endless vista of sandy beach, she crouched, pretending to tie her shoe.

  The figure slunk toward the front window of her home, place his hands over the glass, and peered inside

  Shit, shit, shit! Blaire’s heart banged out a rhythm of terror. She glanced right and left, but short of simply sprinting down the street, away from here, there was no place she could hide. If she sprinted, he’d spy her, and the chase would be on.

  The figure shambled back around the side of the house from which he’d come. The only things on that part of the house were garbage and recycle bins, and a tool shed.

  The tool shed’s locked, right? I didn’t see bolt cutters in his hands. Is he going to break in? What’s he doing over there? He might climb the fence and already be in the backyard. No. If he were, the dogs would be barking their heads off.

  Adrenaline jacked through her system. She thought about calling the police, then, negated that idea. They won’t do jack shit until I’ve been knifed. Then, an idea sprang into her head. Get the dogs. Let them out. They’re not exactly watchdogs, but they’ve got a good bark.

  Wanting stealth on her side, she kicked off her trainers and then took off across the street toward the opposite side of the house from the intruder. Rocks dug into her skin, but she ignored the pain. Her life was more important than damaged feet. She prayed the intruder wouldn’t come out from where he was and see her.

  Don’t see me, you can’t see me, don’t come around the house. She tiptoed toward the back gate. Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.

  As quietly as she could, she lifted the latch.

  The dogs began to whine and bark. She slipped into the yard and beelined toward their kennels. She unlatched the kennel doors, and the dogs lunged toward her, tails wagging, licking her hands, her legs, whatever they could get their tongues on.

  “Hey, girls,” she whispered.

  A loud crash sounded from the side of the house where the intruder had gone.

  Midget lifted her head and cocked her ears.

  Maxine did the same.

  Midget took off, racing toward the sound, with Maxine on her heels. They zipped toward the fence and began lunging and barking.

  Blaire caught up to them. Dumb dogs. You were supposed to race out the open gate like you keep trying to do when you’re not supposed to.

  She peered through a slit between fence boards.

  The hoodie-clad intruder paused and then sprinted across the front yard.

  “Midget. Maxine. Let’s go.” Not sure what she would do if she actually caught the guy, she took off in the opposite direction, toward the gate.

  The dogs bolted past her.

  She raced around the corner toward the front of the house, but the intruder had made it to his battered black four-door sedan.

  He yanked it open and scrambled into the front seat.

  The dogs took off after him. Blaire suspected they were going to try to herd him, as was their nature. Border Collies did not a guard dog make.

  The guy’s car screeched away from the curb and tore down the street, not giving them a chance to do their thing.

  Blaire tried to make out the license plate. All she got was a K and a Q.

  “Maxine! Midget! Come,” she called.

  They turned and loped toward her, tails wagging.

  She whipped her cell phone out of her pocket and tapped Jackson’s number. It went to voicemail. She left a quick message, hoping she didn’t sound too blubbery and freaked out. He’s probably been toned out.

  She called 911, hoping this qualified as a “real threat.”

  “911, for what city?” a pleasant-sounding woman said.

  “Singer Springs,” Blaire said.

  “And do you require the police or the fire department?” the woman said.

  “Police. Definitely police.”

  “Okay, what’s the address of the emergency?”

  Blaire repeated their address in a rushed voice. She strode toward the front door, the dogs trotting by her side. When prompted, she repeated the address and gave her phone number.

  “And, what’s the nature of your emergency?” the woman said, calmly.

  Blaire felt anything but calm. In a shaky voice, she told the story, fingering the pack of smokes in her pocket with her free hand.

  After she disconnected the call, without thinking, she fished the pack free and pulled out another cigarette, as well as her lighter, just as she did every day of her life while in Venezuela. Once the smoke was in her mouth, her self-loathing resumed. She didn’t care. She lit the cigarette and paced.

  The dogs followed, happy to be by her side.

  She strode into the back yard. She stormed to the front yard.

  The dogs kept up the companionship.

  Finally, a police vehicle pulled to the curb.

  A sense of relief flooded her bloodstream. Finally, maybe, she would get some help. Maybe this whole Karlos Rivera reign of terror could come to an end.

  Then again, Karlos was a larger fish than the Singer Springs police department could deal with. Why on earth would it be that easy?

  Chapter 24

  Blaire stared at the police vehicle as it pulled into her driveway. She lit another cigarette off the butt of the one in her mouth. Her hands, her knees, her lips—everything trembled.

  The dogs stared at the vehicle, too, looking far more alert than her.

  A portly gentleman stepped from the white SUV and strode toward her. Short white hair covered his head like a mowed, washed-out field. His eyes looked far too kind for a policeman.

  “Miss Edwards?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” she said through a plume of smoke. She flicked the butt of her cigarette into the gravel and ground it out with her boot.

  Maxine and Midget darted toward him, their eyes bright, their tongues lolling.

  He reached down and patted
the dogs’ heads before turning his attention back to Blaire.

  “I’m Police Chief Kitroeff,” he said, extending his hand and a warm smile. “I made it a point to take this call when I heard the address. You’re Jackson O’Halloran’s girl, right?”

  “I’m a woman, not a girl, but yes, Jackson and I are still together.” At least for now… She shook Kitroeff’s hand.

  He seemed unfazed by her correction. “Yes, he called me a couple of weeks ago, telling me you received texts from a fellow you used to know—a member of a South American cartel. I posted a sticky note on my computer with your address, should something arise, but my hands were tied to follow up.” He shrugged apologetically. “I hope you understand.”

  She spread her booted feet, assuming a stance that was far more solid than she felt.

  “Do you have any reason to believe the fellow you saw today was Karlos Rivera?”

  “Yes!” she blurted. Then, doubt seeped into her brain. Would Karlos have fled like that? That’s not his style. “No.” Maybe it was too risky to get caught here in the States. “I don’t know.”

  Her shoulders slumped.

  The dogs flopped onto the gravel driveway, panting.

  “I need to get the dogs in the yard where there are grass and shade. This spring promises to be a hot one,” she said. After glancing toward the cloudless sky, she headed toward the back gate.

  “It does indeed,” the chief said, following her.

  Maxine and Midget made their way into the kennel where their water dish sat. They lapped at the water, and then trotted toward Blaire.

  “Are you refreshed?” She ruffled their heads before turning toward the patio furniture. “Want to have a seat?” she said to Kitroeff.

  “Sure. So, tell me what happened,” he said, easing into one of the black metal chairs. His wide rump spilled over the edges.

  Blaire relayed the entire story.

  Kitroeff stroked his clean-shaven chin. “We’ll do a full investigation, rest assured. I’ve got a team on their way.” He drummed his fat fingers on the table. “I did a little research on hair cutting gangs in Venezuela. One, in particular, caught my attention—Los Tiburones.”

  Blaire shivered. “That’s it. The Sharks. Karlos was the leader.”

  Kitroeff nodded. “Jackson told me Karlos met you in Colorado. Did you live there?”

  She shook her head. “At the time, I lived in Seattle.”

  He frowned. “Well, then, my fact-finding didn’t do much good.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Apparently, Los Tiburones employed a unique method. They had contacts in the States. Their contacts would scope out women who seemed…” He glanced at her and pursed his lips. “I don’t mean to say this, but…”

  “Say whatever it is you wanted to say,” Blaire said, waving her hand.

  “Well, they targeted women who seemed weak…well, more like gullible…yes, gullible’s the better word,” he said.

  Better for whom? Either word paints me as a loser.

  Blaire jutted her jaw. “I see.”

  “Rivera would swoop in for the, um…for the kill. You weren’t his first.” Kitroeff licked his lips, as if uncomfortable with what he said.

  “I see,” she said. She placed an elbow on the black metal table and rested her chin in her palm.

  “Who did you travel to Colorado with?” he said, looking on her kindly, the way her father might regard her.

  “A friend,” she said.

  “Was your friend a close friend?”

  “At the time, yes. We parted ways after I escaped Venezuela.” Her head hung heavy in her hand.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “So, this friend…what did you say her name was?”

  “I didn’t. It’s Rayna.” She placed her other arm on the table and supported her chin with both palms.

  “We might need to contact Rayna.”

  “You could try,” Blaire said, listlessly. “I don’t have a way to contact her anymore.”

  “Did anyone know where you were going for your trip to Colorado?”

  “Oh, sure. My family knew, some of my co-workers, but your suggestion seems like a stretch. I think it was a random encounter. Karlos is a snake. He can scope a victim out with his own eyes, I’m sure. He did it on the regular down in Venezuela.”

  “Where did you work?” he said.

  “At a clinic downtown. I doubt if anyone there had contacts with Los Tiburones or they wouldn’t be working at the clinic. They’d be rich. Karlos knew how to pay off the people he counted on.” She smiled weakly.

  “You’re probably right. It’s a long shot. Wrong place, wrong time.” He leaned forward and heaved his body from the chair. The radio on his belt crackled with a guy’s voice, saying something about arriving at Blaire’s address. “There’s the team. I’d best assist them in the investigation.” He plucked a business card from his pocket. “If you think of anything else, or if something else happens—a text, a phone call, let us know. Now we can proceed with a case.” His expression turned intense, like a Bloodhound with the scent in his nose. He extended his hand to her. “Miss Edwards, don’t worry. We’ll keep you safe.”

  She shook his hand, unconvinced that anyone could protect her—not Jackson and definitely not the Singer Springs Police. Karlos could outfox them in his sleep.

  Chapter 25

  Several days after someone had tried to break into their home, Jackson sat across the table from Jake at the Mountain Grub Diner, already fatigued at eight in the morning. He and Blaire hadn’t been getting much sleep lately.

  She’d only parsed out a few details of what had happened—what Chief Kitroeff had said, what she had said, and not much else. She’d been sneaking out to smoke so much he thought about letting her smoke in the house. But, then he’d have to live with the smell lingering in the house, not just on his girlfriend’s clothes or on her lips when they kissed—which hadn’t been much, lately.

  Her eyes were constantly ringed with dark smudges. When he looked in her eyes, a haunted expression gazed back at him.

  It broke his heart.

  He’d made sure deadbolts were on all the doors and locks were on all the windows, but any good thief knew how to break in despite one’s fortifications—especially if the thief was Karlos Rivera.

  Police cruisers constantly patrolled their street, but Jackson didn’t think it calmed Blaire in the least.

  She was always on edge, certain that she’d be killed or abducted by Karlos.

  He’d been jittery, as well, desperate to find a way to connect with her and keep her safe when he wasn’t running around putting out fires or saving lives except for hers. So far, he was failing at both the connection and protecting her. When Jake called last night and asked him to breakfast, he’d jumped at the distraction. Blaire had assured him that she needed to sleep in.

  “So, how is it that you look better than I do?” he said to Jake, wiping his weary face with his palm.

  Jake grinned. He appeared clean for a change. His light brown hair had been combed away from his face and fell to his shoulders like a muddy waterfall. His complexion still held a sallow colorlessness, though.

  “Big change for the O’Halloran brothers, huh?” Jake said. “We’ve switched positions.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jackson said. “I haven’t started sticking needles in my arm or ‘blow’ up my nose.”

  “I know where I can get you some,” his brother said, a look of mirth on his face.

  “No, thanks.” Jackson lifted the white ceramic mug before him and drained his coffee. “So, you’re no longer using?”

  “I’m clean. It’s been about a month now. I had a slip-up or two, but I hear that’s expected.” He forked a bite of his pancakes and shoved them in his mouth.

  “You hear that how? Have you started attending a program?” Jackson picked up the remaining crust of his toast and used it to sop up the egg left on his plate. He popped the toast in his mouth and chewed.

&
nbsp; Jake looked left and right. “I’m managing okay.”

  Jackson’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Why the secrecy, Jake? Shouldn’t you be proud of getting clean? Jeez. I’m interested because I’m your brother. You’re not talking to a grocery store clerk who doesn’t care about you.”

  His lips pursed together. Even though he was supposedly sober, his brother continued to be a pain in the ass.

  “Actually, I wanted to wait and tell you the whole story on our camping trip.” The smile on his face made Jake look like a teenager.

  Inwardly, Jackson groaned. With so much on the line with Blaire, the last thing he wanted to do was go camping with Jake on some brother bonding expedition. His mind was too weighted with the issues around Karlos.

  “We’re still going, aren’t we?” Jake said, frowning.

  “We just had this conversation,” Jackson said.

  “You’re distracted,” Jake said.

  “I’ve got a lot going on.” Jackson pushed away his plate and leaned back in the booth. He glanced out the window at the sunny day.

  “Of course, you do,” Jake said, using the tone that always pushed Jackson’s buttons.

  “What’s that mean?” Jackson said.

  Jake looked away. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Yes, Jake, with you, it always means something.” His jaw tightened.

  “You know what it means.”

  Jackson scanned for the waitress, hoping to get their check. “Enlighten me.”

  “I was looking forward to going camping with you. We haven’t done anything together for a long time. You make time for her, but not for me.”

  Jackson barely tracked his brother’s complaints. His head spun with thoughts of Blaire. Despite his best efforts to be patient, she hadn’t gotten better. The smoking still continued. She tossed and turned all night. Their sex—when they had it—careened toward quick and unfulfilling like they had to sneak pleasure in the dark of a dingy backroom in some club. Forgetting where he was for a moment, he let his head hang.

  “Wow, bro. You look like you could use the vacation.”

  Jake’s words shook him out of his misery.