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Detective Melody Zachary halted abruptly at the sight of her office door cracked open. Unease slithered down her spine. She'd locked the door last night when she left the Sagebrush Youth Center. She always did.

Pushing back her suit jacket, she unlatched her weapon from the holster at her hip and withdrew the Sig Sauer. She pushed the door wide with the toe of her heeled boot. Stepping inside the darkened room, she reached with her free hand for the overhead light switch and froze.

A shadow moved.

Not a shadow. A man.

Dressed from head to toe in black. Black gloves, black ski mask… Black eyes.

Not just the irises, but the white part of his eyes, as well.

Her heart stalled.

Palming her piece in both hands, she aimed her weapon. "Halt! Police!"

The intruder dove straight at her. She didn't have time to react, to pull the trigger, before he slammed into her chest, knocking her backward against the wall. Her head smacked hard, sending pain slicing through her brain. The air rushed out of her lungs.

The man bolted through the open doorway and disappeared, leaving only the echo of his black, rubber-soled tennis shoes squishing against the linoleum and bouncing off the walls of the hallway.

Ignoring the pain pounding in her head, Melody pushed away from the wall. For a moment, her off-balance equilibrium sent the world spinning.

The exit door at the end of the hall banged shut. She grimaced. He was escaping.

Forcing herself to move, Melody chased after the intruder. As founder and co-director of the youth center, she'd come in this morning expecting to get a little work done before heading to the police station to start her shift. She hadn't been prepared for a smackdown and footrace.

The blood surging through her brought the world into a sharp focus she didn't experience anywhere else in her life except on the job. It had been a while since she'd had to chase a perp. And never from the youth center.

This place was supposed to be safe, for the kids who sought help and for the volunteers who ran the center.

Out on the sidewalk, she searched for the trespasser. Sagebrush Boulevard was empty. There was no sign of a person dressed in black. At seven in the morning on a Tuesday, Sagebrush, Texas, was barely coming to life.

At the end of town, the spire of the white community church gleamed in the early morning May sunlight, like a beacon of hope. A stark contrast to the dark figure who'd assaulted her. She sent up a silent prayer of protection, for herself, for the youth center and for the citizens of Sagebrush.

A cynical voice in her head taunted, Would God listen?

As much as she hated to admit it, she didn't know. He certainly hadn't listened to her pleas when her marriage fell apart and her ex-husband abandoned her to go "find himself."

Holstering her weapon and pulling her tailored jacket closed, she retraced her steps and entered Sagebrush Youth Center's single-story brick building.

She stopped in her office doorway surveying the scene. Irritation raced through her. The place had been ransacked. The filing cabinet had been emptied, the files strewn all over. The pictures of her family had been knocked off the desk.

Her heart squeezed tight at the sight of her sister's face smiling up at her from one of the images. Her arm was slung over her then twelve-year-old son's shoulders. A time when they'd been happy. Alive.

Forcing back the sadness, she continued her perusal. Books ranging from popular fiction to nonfiction teenage psychology had been pulled down from the shelves and lay haphazardly on the floor. The open desk drawers appeared to have been rifled through.

A cardboard box lay toppled upside down, the contents spilling out. Her nephew's name was written across the side in big bold letters. She didn't need a paper inventory of the box. She had the contents memorized. The files full of witness testimonies, and Daniel's effects at the time of his death had been in that box. All that was left of a life cut too short.

A sense of violation cramped her chest. She was used to investigating this sort of vandalism, not being the victim herself.

She was no one's victim. Her fist clenched.

She would find the person who broke in, and discover what they'd wanted. She tapped her foot, impatient to get in there and see what had been taken.

But protocol had to be followed.

Yanking her cell phone out of the backpack-style purse she always carried, she dialed the Sagebrush police dispatch non-emergency number.

"Sagebrush Police Department." Cathy Rodriquez, the day dispatch operator answered in her no-nonsense tone.

"Cathy, it's Detective Zachary. I need a crime-scene unit at the youth center. My office has been broken into."

"Were you hurt, Melody?"

"I'm fine." She wouldn't mention the throbbing headache. The last thing she needed was to be coddled. She'd find some pain reliever in the nurse's station once things settled down. "I surprised the intruder, but he got away."

"I'll let the higher ups know what's going on."

"Thanks, I appreciate it." Melody hung up and leaned against the doorjamb. Despite the doubts that at times tried to rob her of faith, she sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that the intruder hadn't been armed. This scene could have gone down very differently.

The sound of footsteps sent a fresh wave of adrenaline pumping through her veins. She whipped around, her hand going to her weapon.

"Melody?"

At the sight of her volunteer co-director and fellow Sagebrush police officer coming toward her, she let out a tense breath. Jim Wheaton always wore the navy blue Sagebrush Police Department uniform, claiming the visual reminder of authority helped keep the kids in line.

Nearing fifty and single, Jim spent more time at the center, whether he was on duty or off, than any other volunteer. He claimed it was because he didn't trust the teens not to cause trouble, but Melody suspected he liked the company even if he wouldn't admit it.

"You're here early again today," he said, coming to a halt a few paces away.

She usually stopped by Arianna's Diner for a pastry and cup of coffee before heading to the station, but ever since her nephew's grave had been desecrated last month, she hadn't had much of an appetite. Keeping herself occupied gave her less time to think.

Besides, the diner was closed now that the owner, Arianna Munson, had been killed after being linked to the crime lord, known only by the police as The Boss.

For the past several years, a crime wave had terrorized the citizens of Sagebrush. The mastermind behind the crime syndicate was a faceless, nameless entity that even the thugs who worked for The Boss feared.

This man was at the top of the police department's most-wanted list. Especially after the crime syndicate kidnapped Rio, the three-year-old German shepherd partner of the K-9 unit's captain. The whole department was on high alert looking for the canine.

She could have used a dog like Rio today. Maybe she should look into getting a K-9 partner for the center. A nice big dog with sharp teeth. "Hey, Jim. I interrupted someone breaking into my office. They made a mess of things."

His gray eyes clouded with concern. "You okay?"

"Just a bruised ego." And a knock to the noggin. Nothing she couldn't handle.

"Let me see." He tried to push past her.

Her arm shot out and blocked him from entering. "I'm waiting for the CSU team."

He scowled. "It was probably a kid looking for some loose change."

Melody shook her head. "Guy was too big, too strong to be a teen."

"You get a look at his face?"

"I didn't."

The center's front door opened. A small dog with his black nose pressed to the ground entered. Melody recognized the beagle as Sherlock, part of the K-9 unit. He wore a vest with the Sagebrush Police Department emblem over his light brown and white coat. A harness attached to a leash led to the handsome man at the other end. Melody blinked.

What were Narcotics Detective Parker Adams and his K-9 partner doing here?

The dog was adorable with his floppy ears and big round eyes.

Much like his handler.

She didn't know the narcotics detective well. She worked for the homicide division, mostly cold cases, while he was part of the Sagebrush's elite K-9 unit. Their paths hadn't crossed much, though she'd noticed him at the police station.

Hard not to take notice when he filled out his uniform nicely with broad shoulders and trim waist. She liked the way he wore his dark hair swept back from his forehead and his warm brown eyes appeared kind whenever he glanced her way.

He wasn't much taller than she, but he had a commanding presence that she found disconcerting. Though why, she wasn't sure. Growing up the daughter of a cop, there were few people who intimidated her. But something about the handsome officer made her pay attention.

Two crime-scene-unit techs filed in behind Parker carrying in their equipment. Considering the police station was at the other end of the block, Melody wasn't surprised how quickly they'd arrived. She just didn't understand why Parker had responded to her call.

The CSU team approached, each member wearing a dark blue Sagebrush Police Department windbreaker. Parker hung back, letting his dog sniff the floor, the thresholds of the closed classroom doors, the lockers.

"Hey, Melody," said Rose Bigsby, a stocky woman with short blond curls and wire-rimmed glasses perched on her short nose. "Report came in that you had a breakin."

Melody gestured to the open door of her office. "In there."

Clay Gregson nodded to Jim and then smiled shyly at Melody as he moved past her to enter her office. The tall and lean CSU technician wasn't much on small talk, something the officers of SPD were used to. Rose, on the other hand, made up for her partner's lack of conversation just fine. Rose followed him in and started the process of looking for anything that would lead them to ID the intruder.

"Any idea who broke in?" Parker asked as he and his dog approached. "What was he looking for?"

Melody frowned. "I have no idea who the guy was or what he was after."

"What are you doing here, Adams?" Jim asked.

"Captain McNeal thought it'd be a good idea for Sherlock here to check out the center," Parker replied evenly. "Considering."

Her defenses stirred. "Considering what?"

He met her gaze. His dark eyes intense, probing. "The rumors of drugs being dealt out of here."

Her hackles rose like the feathers of a peacock on high alert. She'd been battling that particular thread of gossip since the center opened. She routinely searched the building and kept a close eye on the kids. She was certain there were no drugs on the premises. "We have a strict no-drugs policy. Any offenders will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law."

Parker shrugged. "Then there's nothing to worry about. Sherlock shouldn't find anything. He's got the best nose in the state, and it's never wrong."

"I've got to go to the station," Jim said abruptly and headed for the exit.

Watching him hustle out the door, Melody frowned. He'd just arrived. She shrugged off her coworker's strange behavior. Even though she was fond of Jim, she'd long ago decided she would never figure out the male species.

Or teenagers. Starting the youth center had been her attempt to help the kids of Sagebrush so they wouldn't end up like her nephew. At sixteen, Daniel had gotten mixed up with drugs, dealing and using, by all accounts. He'd ended up dead because of it. During a standoff with the police, he'd been wounded in the leg by Captain Slade McNeal and then shot in the heart by an unknown sniper. The assassin was never caught.

Saving other teens from Daniel's fate had become her mission in life.

However, that didn't mean she understood the teens or their thought processes. Thankfully, there were tons of books on the subject. If she could prevent even one teen from ending up addicted to drugs like Daniel, she'd feel she succeeded.

Her gaze strayed back to the mess in her office. Rose knelt beside the lamp and dusted black powder over the surface. The flash of a camera momentarily brightened the room as Clay photographed the crime scene.

What had the intruder been looking for?

"Did you get a look at the perp?" Parker asked, drawing her attention.

"No, he wore a ski mask."

"With blacked-out eyes?"

Surprise washed through her. "Yes. Very freaky. How did you know?"

"We've had a run-in with a guy wearing a ski mask and some kind of eyewear that blacks out the whites of his eyes. Did he take anything?"

Absorbing that information, she turned her gaze once again to the box labeled with her nephew's name. Would she find something missing? Did the vandalism to her office have anything to do with last month's desecration of Daniel's grave? A lump of anxiety lodged in her chest.

It had been five years since Daniel's death. Five years of searching for answers and coming up empty. What had recently changed to make someone dig into the past? And Daniel's grave?

The questions intensified the headache pounding at her temples. She didn't believe in coincidence. Daniel's grave, now her office. Were the two events connected? Maybe it was time to re-question some of Daniel's old buddies. Someone had to know something useful.

Her heart squeezed. Five years wasn't nearly long enough to have healed some wounds, though.

Realizing Parker was waiting for her to respond, she said, "I only did a cursory look, but I didn't see anything obvious missing. Perp rifled through all my files, drawers and books. Seemed to be searching for something."

"Interesting." He seemed to be thinking about something. "I wonder if this was the same guy who searched the station last night."

"What?" She hadn't heard about that.

"Someone searched the station house, concentrating mostly on the K-9 unit and Captain McNeal's office."

"Do you have any idea why? What were they looking for?"

His expression turned cagey. "We think it has something to do with the crime syndicate plaguing Sagebrush. But the station house wasn't broken into per se. The culprit came from within."

Surprised, she widened her eyes. "You think a fellow officer is working for the crime syndicate?"

"That's one theory. Though I can't help but wonder if the two incidents somehow connect to Captain Mc-Neal's missing dog, Rio."

"Last month, K-9 Officer Jackson Worth spotted a masked man clad in black who was walking a dog matching Rio's description. We also have a witness who saw someone dressed like you've described kill a man in cold blood."

A shiver of dread worked its way over Melody's flesh. She was thankful the intruder had decided to just knock her down rather than kill her.

What was he searching for? And would he be back? Maybe this break-in had nothing to do with her nephew's grave. Or maybe it had everything to do with it.

She intended to find out, regardless of the danger.

    

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Personal assistant Nicole Harris dropped her messenger bag on the floor next to Mr. Lange's desk and answered her cell phone. "This is Nicole."

"Thank you so much for covering for me this weekend," her boss, Ruby said. "I owe you."

"Big time." Nicole smiled, logged into Outlook and sorted piles of papers on the computer magnate's desk. Edward Lange may be a tech genius but he had the organizational skills of a five-year-old on a sugar high.

"I just can't do weekends, not with the boys' soccer and baseball and—"

"Hey, no problem." Nicole didn't have a husband or family so she didn't mind working on the weekend, especially if it meant helping out her boss, who'd also become a good friend.

"What can I do to repay you?" Ruby asked.

"It's my job, remember?"

"And you're seriously good at it or Edward wouldn't have requested you. Did you get the passcodes I texted you earlier?"

"Yes, ma'am. Committed them to memory and ate my phone."

"Very funny."

The front door slammed.

"He's back from his run. Gotta go." Nic pocketed her phone and checked Mr. Lange's Outlook calendar to make sure he wasn't missing anything crucial by escaping the city on a whim. Nic was a natural at her job as a personal assistant, but then she'd spent her childhood keeping her younger sister and brother organized.

Voices echoed down the front hallway. Odd, considering she was told they weren't expecting guests this weekend. She blocked out the voices and focused on checking messages on Mr. Lange's smartphone.

"It's borderline criminal!" Mr. Lange shouted.

Shouted? He was usually such a soft-spoken man. Nic felt guilty eavesdropping, so she refocused on his voice mails. "Mr. Lange, this is Audrey Ross from Tech Worldwide. I'm on a deadline and I need a statement about the Tech-Link software failure—"

"I said no!"

Her shoulders jerked.

"It's okay, it's not him," she coached herself, as post-traumatic panic skittered across her nerve endings.

Something slammed against the wall, rattling the books in the mahogany case next to the door. She slowly backed up toward the closet.

"Get out of my house!" Mr. Lange bellowed.

Her pulse raced as buried memories of her abusive father rushed to the surface.

"I said out!"

She darted into the closet and shut the door with a soft click. Scrambling to the far corner, she hid behind a stack of boxes.

Some part of her brain realized how ridiculous it would look when Mr. Lange found his personal assistant huddled in the closet, but her reaction was automatic. She couldn't make another choice if her life depended on it.

"You need to reconsider," a second man said, his voice higher pitched and more clear.

They'd entered the office.

"Nothing is going to change my mind," Mr. Lange said. Something slammed against the closet door. She bit back a squeak and hugged her knees to her chest. "Why are you still here?" Mr. Lange accused. "Because you haven't called the cops."

"The only reason I haven't called the cops is because of my—"

A soft pop made her gasp. Then another. A gunshot? No, it couldn't be.

Silence rang in her ears. She focused on breathing so she wouldn't pass out.

The sound of breaking glass echoed through the door, then swearing, and more crashing. She hugged her knees tighter, fisted her hands.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Waited.

It was just a matter of time before he opened the closet door.

Flashes of her childhood paralyzed her, rendering her unable to think clearly.

Hide in the corner. Be quiet and still, she'd coach Beau and Addy.

She had to do something, call the police, a friend, someone. Instead, she huddled in tighter, losing all sense of time and place as the memories closed in.

Then the door opened…

Detective Alex Donovan knew something was off the minute he entered Edward Lange's study. Instinct twisted his gut as he scanned the room.

"Chief Roth and the coroner are on the way," officer Mark Adams said, standing in the doorway.

Alex crouched to look at the room from another angle, wrestling with the frustration building in his chest.

Edward Lange. Dead.

The entrepreneur-philanthropist often came to Waverly Harbor to get away from the intensity of the city, demands of his work and the relentless media. When he bought the lake house three years ago, he'd asked for a meeting with Chief Roth and his staff to discuss his residing in their small town. Although community members knew about the purchase of the lake house, they'd agreed to give Lange his privacy and help him avoid the spotlight. In return he'd generously donated money to build a new community center and library. He didn't have to make those donations. Folks of Waverly Harbor were nothing if not protective, and they had embraced Lange as one of their own without expecting anything in return.

"His driver is outside," Mark Adams said.

"He called it in?"

"No. He claims he was outside in the car and didn't hear anything. The call came from Lange's cell."

Alex went to the body, careful not to disturb the crime scene. Not easy with the clutter of papers littering the floor. Someone was looking for something.

Alex crouched again, eyed the area around Edward's face, and down to his hands. "There's no phone near the body."

"Maybe the intruder took it?"

Alex studied Edward Lange's face. "Where's your security?" he whispered.

No bodyguards and the alarm wasn't set? Which meant what? That Edward knew his attacker. Was the killer a personal friend or staff member?

Alex scanned the immediate area and spotted a gold chain-link bracelet, a man's wallet and pair of sunglasses on the floor near the body.

"You want to talk to—"

Alex put up two fingers to silence the cop. He thought he heard something, a faint whimper, but he couldn't be sure.

He closed his eyes, blocked out his surroundings, and listened.

A muffled cough-gasp echoed from across the room. The closet.

Alex withdrew his firearm, slowly crossed the room and motioned for Mark to open the door on the count of three. One, two, three.

Mark whipped the door open and Alex heard a squeak. Aiming his firearm into the dark closet, he reached up and pulled the light chain. He spotted a female, Caucasian with flaming red hair, cowering behind a stack of boxes. He holstered his gun and stepped closer for a better look. Her face was buried in arms folded across her knees. She was a trembling mass of red from her hair to her red blouse, down to her red tennis shoes.

"Miss?" He crouched in front of her. "It's okay, I'm Detective Alex Donovan."

She didn't look up.

"Can you tell us what happened?" he tried. She shook her head no. "Can you tell me your name?" She shook her head no again.

Alex glanced at Mark. "Look for a purse or briefcase with ID."

Mark disappeared from the doorway.

Alex spotted a cell phone clenched in her hand. She must have made the 911 call.

"Are you a friend of—" He was about to say the deceased and caught himself. "Edward Lange?"

Another negative head shake.

"Do you work for him?"

She nodded affirmative.

"Were you here when he was attacked?"

She nodded yes, her body trembling slightly. He wanted to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, tell her it was going to be okay, but he wasn't one to make promises he couldn't keep. If she was hiding in here that meant she might have seen or heard something that could help them find the killer—and consequently put her life in danger.

"Alex?" Mark said, stepping into the closet. "Found this by the desk." He placed a messenger bag next to Alex and handed him a purple leather wallet. Alex pulled out a driver's license that read Nicole Desiree Harris.

Voices echoed through the house. The coroner must have arrived, and then some. Alex had a feeling everyone would want to be involved in this investigation, including state and county law enforcement. Edward was an influential man, a celebrity of sorts.

"Can you keep them out of here for a few minutes?" Alex asked Mark.

"I'll do my best."

Alex put the wallet in the messenger bag and redirected his attention to Miss Harris, pushing back the temptation to pick her up and carry her to a safe, quiet place.

"Miss Harris, it's going to get awfully loud in here as more police personnel show up. How about I take you to another room where it's quiet?"

She slowly raised her head and pinned him with brilliant amber-colored eyes. He stopped breathing for a second, so affected by the devastation he read there.

"Nice to meet you," he recovered, and extended his hand, figuring he had to try.

She studied it for a second, then reached out and accepted his gesture. Her trembling fingers were cold and fragile as she clasped his hand. And he prayed to God that he could do right by this one.

She searched his eyes as if wanting to say something but couldn't get the words out.

Male voices boomed from the outlying office and her fingers squeezed his hand.

"Let's get you out of here." He stood and helped her up. She was petite, probably five-three, and a floral scent drifted from her hair.

"It's okay. No one's going to hurt you." He positioned her on his left side so when they walked out of the closet she wouldn't be assaulted by the bloody image of Edward Lange.

She hugged her midsection with her free arm, but wouldn't let go of his right hand. He put his left arm around her shoulder to shield her from the frenetic crime scene.

"Is this okay?" he said.

She nodded that it was, grabbed her messenger bag and flung it over her shoulder.

Someone barked an order from the office and her shoulders jerked.

"See what I mean? Loud," he said.

As he led her out of the closet, the half dozen men froze at the sight of Alex and Miss Harris deliberately crossing the room.

"Detective Donovan, I think—"

"Don't," Alex snapped.

He didn't know who'd spoken and didn't care. Alex needed to get the witness out of this room and away from the violent scene as quickly as possible. As they passed, all eyes were on the red-haired, traumatized beauty. She kept her head down, eyes focused on the carpet a few feet in front of her.

They crossed the threshold into the hallway and he spotted pocket doors. Hopefully he could find another room with pocket doors so he could close her off from the chaos.

He escorted her down the hall to a TV room in the back of the house and slid the pocket doors shut.

"How's this?" He led her to a thick-cushioned sofa.

She sat down, still clinging to his hand, so he sat next to her.

He wanted to be out there assisting with the crime scene, but he wouldn't leave her alone. Maybe they could call a female sheriff's deputy to keep her company. Surely a woman would be better at comforting a terrified female witness.

Clutching his hand, she sighed and leaned against his shoulder. For a brief second it reminded him of Jessica, how she'd leaned against him when they'd watched movies. Despair ripped through Alex's chest, followed by guilt.

Get your head in the game, Alex.

This woman's life could be in danger, which meant the sooner they found the killer the sooner she'd be safe.

"Is he…dead?"

Her voice was throaty, deeper than he'd imagined. "Yes," he answered.

She shook her head and a tear trailed down her cheek. He nearly reached out to wipe it away, but caught himself.

"Was there anyone else in the house besides you, Mr. Lange and the intruder?"

"Not that I know of."

"No bodyguards?"

"No."

Which puzzled Alex because he thought bodyguards followed Lange everywhere.

"Can you talk about what happened, Miss Harris?" he asked.

She shook her head. A few minutes passed in companionable silence. It had been a long time since Alex held a woman like this. He didn't have much interest in romance after Jessica's death.

"Nicole," she said, breaking the silence. "Please call me Nicole." She clung to her messenger bag in her lap. "I wasn't supposed to be here."

"Then why were you here?"

"I'm a personal assistant. I was filling in for a friend."

"Had you worked with Mr. Lange before?"

"Yes."

"But you're not his regular assistant?"

She shook her head no.

"Did you hear what happened?"

She squeezed his hand, but didn't answer. He should have known it was too soon to ask, but the killer was out there, maybe still on the property if he hadn't found what he was looking for in Edward's office.

Alex wouldn't push Nicole. Most of the time if you pushed a witness they either pushed back or shut down completely. He felt lucky she was talking to him after what she'd just experienced.

They gazed out the back window at the lake, the setting sun peeking through the evergreens in the distance.

The pocket door slid open, breaking the peaceful moment. A man in a dark suit, white shirt and maroon tie marched across the room, blocking their view. The guy looked like a Fed.

"This the witness?" the suit demanded.

"And you are?" Alex countered.

"Special Agent Richard Banks with the FBI," he said, flashing his ID. The stern-faced, broad-shouldered agent was in his mid-forties, and definitely all business.

"What's the FBI's interest in this case?" Alex asked.

"We'll discuss that later. So, this is Nicole Harris?"

"Yes." Alex wished Banks would lower the volume a few notches.

Instead, he directed his attention to Nicole. "Ma'am, can you tell me what happened tonight?"

She shook her head and stared out the window with a detached expression. Banks studied her as if trying to determine if her shock was real or an act.

"You found her in the closet?" he asked Alex.

"Yes."

"Did she hear anything?"

"She hasn't been able to talk about it."

Banks clenched his jaw and glared at Nicole.

"Did the driver see anything?" Alex redirected.

"One of my agents is interviewing him."

"What about the bodyguards? Where were they?" Alex said.

"Don't know. The house is empty except for the witness and the victim. It's imperative that I interview her ASAP."

"She's obviously not ready to talk about it."

"When will she be able to talk about it?"

The guy was being a class A jerk. Alex glanced at Nicole. She still stared blindly out the window, her cheeks even more pale than they were a minute ago.

"I don't have time for this," Banks said. "Ma'am, you'll need to come with me, if nothing else, for your own protection."

The guy seriously needed a crash course in sensitivity.

She snapped her attention to Agent Banks. "My protection? Do you think he'll come after me? But I didn't…see anything."

"The murderer doesn't know that and he won't stop until—"

"Enough," Alex interrupted. "Agent Banks, can we talk in the hallway?"

Banks marched out of the room and Alex turned to Nicole. "I'll just be a minute, okay?"

Yet he was hesitant to let go of her hand. What was it about this woman?

Simple. She was in danger and Alex was a natural-born protector. Maybe this time he'd get it right. Maybe this one wouldn't die because of his incompetence.

"I'll be right back." He slipped his hand from hers and stood.

She hugged herself. "You think… Will he…come after me?"

Seeing fear in her eyes, he mustered up the only answer he thought might ease her anxiety. "I doubt he even knew you were there. You found a clever hiding spot."

She nodded, but didn't look convinced.

As he headed toward the hallway to speak to Agent Banks, Alex focused on controlling the frustration burning through his chest. Intimidating Nicole was no way to get answers, not to mention it was incredibly inappropriate behavior for a professional.

Alex went into the hallway. Agent Banks took a step toward him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm trying to make the witness feel safe so she'll talk to us," he answered in a calm voice.

"Well, she's obviously bonded with you."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Was that your plan? To play hero?" the agent accused.

"This isn't about being a hero. It's about finding a killer."

Banks slammed his fist against the wall and leaned close. "I heard about you and your wonder-boy reputation on the Denver force. I won't allow ego to mess up this investigation."

"I guarantee you, my ego won't be a problem."

Alex stood his ground, refusing to back down. He surely wasn't going to let Agent Banks take Nicole in for questioning if he planned to continue these aggressive tactics on her.

With a frustrated expression, Banks turned and paced a few feet away.

"Are you going to tell me why the Feds are involved?" Alex asked.

"Edward Lange was a target of an ongoing investigation. I can't share the details."

"You suspect him of criminal activity?" Alex couldn't believe it.

    

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"When do you go wheels up?" Ashley Sawyer asked as she walked down the street toward the local grocery store several blocks away.

"I'm impressed," her brother teased, the warm amusement in his voice coming clearly through the phone line. "You've been paying attention to the lingo."

"And you're avoiding the question." Tristan had been deploying with his team of U.S. Navy SEALs since she was sixteen. She knew that when he didn't answer a question, it was usually because hecouldn't. Stepping onto the curb, she asked, "Well, you and Matt just take care of each other, okay?"

Silence hung on the line for so long that she checked her phone to make sure she hadn't dropped the call. "Tristan?"

"Matt's not going this time."

Her heart squeezed just a bit. She'd counted on Matt Waterstone, her brother's best friend since their first day in SEAL training, to watch out for Tristan. Matt had a habit of being in the right place at the right time, protecting Tristan from at least one bullet during their deployments. And that was just what he would actually own up to.

She swallowed an unexpected lump in her throat at the thought of harm coming to the man she'd had a crush on once upon a time. "What happened?"

"Nothing major. He'll heal up just fine with a little time. Hey, maybe I'll send him your way for a visit—keep him from getting bored here on his own."

Ashley chuckled as she stepped down from the curb to cross the street. "Right, I'm sure he'd have more fun in tiny little Charity Way, California, than in San Diego. Besides, I wouldn't have much time to entertain him. We just got a new guest at Lil's Place who needs somewhere to stay out of town. My next few days will be pretty full setting that up." Lil's Place had been housing battered women and their children for nearly ten years, and Ashley had served there for the past three. Within the past year she'd taken over as director of operations for the shelter. The new girl was her responsibility—along with all the other women and children at the shelter.

"Oh, Tristan, she's so young—maybe not even quite eighteen, and so petite. This guy must have been a monster, because she's bruised from her wrists all the way up to her elbows."

Her stomach swooped at just the thought of Joy, the young girl who had been dropped off the night before. If she had to guess, she'd say the girl was probably Korean, but Joy hadn't spoken more than a few words since arriving at Lil's, barely offering her name.

That was certainly understandable. It was hard to talk with anyone—let alone a stranger—after suffering at an abuser's hands. After all, Ashley hadn't spoken to anyone about it for months after the first time Paul hit her. Just the memory made her cheek sting, and she rubbed it absently as she entered the grocery store.

"Where'd she come from?" Tristan was always so straightforward. His question brought a wry grin to her lips.

Looking over her shoulder and around the end of the aisle to make sure she wouldn't be overheard in the store, Ashley whispered, "My friend Miranda dropped her off last night. She just said the girl needs to get out of town and asked if I knew of a place where she'd be safe."

A full-body shiver made her wrap her arms around her middle. She didn't like moving abuse victims out of Charity Way—leaving an abuser was traumatic enough without having to adjust to a new town—but in certain high-risk situations, it was necessary. Some abusive men went after their victims. Hadn't Paul come after her every time she broke things off? Every time she changed her phone number?

And Joy deserved to have a safe place to recover until she was ready to face her attacker.

Tristan let out a slow breath. "She's lucky to have you looking out for her. But don't forget to look out for yourself. You know what my rule number two is, right?"

"Don't fall out of the boat?"

He snorted. "Know your enemy. You've got to know who's been hurting this girl if your friend thinks there's a chance he'll come after her."

"And is rule number one as useful in this situation?"

"Don't get shot."

"All right. I won't. You don't either."

Having paid for a box of bandages and a compression wrap, Ashley exited the shop and started heading back home. As she crossed Main Street, she happened to glance to the side, directly into the reflection of the sun off of the windshield of a white sedan.

Suddenly its tires squealed against the pavement as the car barreled toward her, gaining speed with every inch.

Her mind froze, and her instincts took over as she fell backward. Her hip slammed into the sidewalk just as the car flew by and disappeared down another side street.

All her breath gone, she sat on the ground, part of her hoping that someone else had seen the car and maybe gotten a license plate number, the other part of her hoping that no one had witnessed her graceless fall. Gulping in as much air as possible, she lifted a scraped palm and studied it with a strange detachment. It didn't hurt.

Yet.

Her brother's voice rang out clearly, and Ashley snatched the phone that she'd dropped, the motion sending fire through her wrist. She brushed her jacket sleeves out of the way to get a better look at the scraped skin.

"Ash, answer me! Are you okay?" Tristan sounded worried, as if he'd called her name several times.

Ashley closed her eyes against the morning sun and the throbbing at her temples. "I think someone just tried to run me over." The absurdity of the thought brought a laugh bubbling from deep inside. That was ridiculous. The driver must not have noticed her. "What am I saying? Some driver just wasn't paying attention and nearly hit me."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes." She glanced around for the car as she pushed herself to her feet. It was long gone and the whole thing clearly a mistake. Right?

Another voice echoed behind Tristan's, and the phone crackled a few times as if he'd covered the receiver with his hand. "Listen, I have to go in a minute, but I love you. And I don't tell you this enough, but I'm really proud of you, kid. Be careful, okay?"

"I will."

Ashley ended the call and slipped the phone into her pocket. With the bag in her hand swinging at her side, Ashley hurried back to Lil's Place, so intent on finalizing the arrangements to move Joy to a long-term house several counties away that she nearly forgot to check the mailbox as she strolled up the driveway.

Leaning back, she slipped her hand into the mailbox, pulling out only one envelope. After flipping it over, she frowned. Both sides were blank. But the generic card inside contained more than enough to send her stomach through the cement and make her wonder if the near hit-and-run earlier had been more than an accident.

Just because I missed you today, doesn't mean you can keep my property.

Matt Waterstone lowered himself from his truck, landing on his good leg and resting the injured one without a wince as he glanced up and down Main Street of Charity Way. As nice as the town looked, it wasn't where he wanted to be. The rest of his team had gone wheels up on an op that he hadn't even been briefed about. Tristan, Will and Zach had laughed about the fun they'd have without the senior chief, like he was a stick-in-the-mud.

Man, he wished he was going with them.

But at least he might be useful here, despite his doctor's orders to stay in San Diego, his leg propped up on a pillow. Tristan had a gut feeling that Ashley was in trouble, and after that gut feeling had saved them both from a sniper a year before, who was Matt to argue? After almost ten years with SEAL Team FIFTEEN, he'd learned to rely on his training and instinct. And he trusted Tristan's gut more than his own.

The details were still a bit slim at this point—a near hit-and-run and a note from some deranged creep. Apparently Tristan had been on the phone with Ashley during the hit-and-run, and Mrs. Sawyer had called Tristan after Ashley told her about the note. It was enough to get Matt headed north.

"Just make sure that she's okay." Tristan had said, "Ash gets all kinds of calls and letters and snide remarks thanks to her work at the shelter. But no one's ever tried to run her over before. Just watch her back until they find this creep. Will you?"

Of course the answer was yes. His best friend's family was the closest thing Matt had to a family of his own.

"Excuse me." He approached a white-haired man writing the specials on a sidewalk chalkboard. "Could you point me in the direction of Lil's Place?" The man eyed him, as though questioning what business he could have there. "I'm a friend of Ashley Sawyer's."

Suddenly a small black coupe zipped down Main Street, screeching to a halt twenty yards to his right. Two women burst from within as if fireworks had been set off inside the car. They left the doors open; the petite blonde behind the wheel flew around the front of the car and hugged the other, a taller woman with dark hair.

"You'll be great, Carmen!" the blonde said, clutching the other's shoulders. "Now, go knock it out of the park."

"Thank you. Thank you for everything." Long curly hair flew behind her as Carmen ran to the door of the closest shop, offering the briefest of waves before disappearing inside.

Matt's gaze jumped back to the blonde. He caught the end of her wide smile, which sent his pulse skittering as if he'd just run five miles in the sand. The wind picked up a strand of her hair and the hem of her green skirt, but she wrestled them both back into place, never taking her eyes off the closed door.

She blinked long lashes, her smile settling from pure joy into pride as he drew even with her and caught a glimpse of stunning blue eyes. Familiar blue eyes. It couldn't be. There was no way this woman was Tristan's little sister.

Her eyebrows rose suddenly. "Matt?"

He stopped in midstride, his smile growing slowly.

"Ashley?"

All of a sudden she threw her arms around his shoulders, hugging him as though she'd never quit. She must have been nearly on her toes to reach that high. He awkwardly patted her back. Ashley was the closest thing he'd ever had to a little sister, but he was out of practice. He hadn't seen her in more than four years. In fact, the last time he'd seen her, she was more teenager than woman. And SEAL training didn't include continuing courses in relating to your best friend's kid sister.

She rocked back on her heels, her eyes glowing. "I thought you were injured. Tristan called and said… Are you all right?" Her nose wrinkled as she squinted her eyes to narrow their focus on his.

Could she see straight through him with that gaze? His stomach twisted, and he bit his tongue to keep from laughing at the way she looked at once very childlike—freckles still paraded over her nose—and all grown-up. Finally he replied, "I'll live."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Have it your way." She glanced down the sidewalk and then back to the door behind him. "I'm in town to run some errands. Can you join me?"

"Sure. I'd love to."

She nodded to the pharmacy behind her. "I have to pick up a prescription." As she led him down an aisle toward the back counter, she shot him a dazzling smile. "I'm so happy to see you, but what on earth are you doing here? Tristan made some joke about sending you here to recuperate, but I thought he was just kidding."

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and prayed she wouldn't be upset. He remembered a fight she'd had with Tristan during Matt's first visit to their home. Tristan had tried to get her to break up with her boyfriend. Sixteen-year-old Ashley hadn't appreciated Tristan sticking his nose in her business. But maybe that had changed in eight years.

"Your brother did send me…but not to recuperate."

Her eyebrows pinched together as she turned to accept a bottle of pink syrup from the white-coated pharmacist. "Thank you." She tipped a smile to the man on the other side of the counter, but when she turned back to Matt, her face was filled with questions, although she asked only one. "Why did he send you, then?"

"He was worried. Said your mom called him, too."

She looked up into the fluorescent lights and crossed her arms before picking up a wire basket at the end of one of the aisles and tossing a bag of Christmas ribbons into it. "It's really not a big deal. I wish you'd just called instead of wasting a trip up here."

"What happened?" His knee buckled as he took a step to follow her, and he silently chastised it, hating every moment that his body didn't perform at its peak.

"You first." She picked up two tubes of antibacterial ointment but glanced pointedly at his leg.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

He chuckled as she put her basket down on the counter and the cashier began ringing up her items. "Fine. I ran into a guy with a knife. Ended up with a few stitches."

The cashier shot him a curious stare, but Ashley only handed her the cash to pay for her purchases before leading him toward the door.

"You make it sound like nothing, but I know it's not."

She clearly had all sorts of questions, but he didn't have any answers for them. That mission was classified, and even if it wasn't, he wasn't going to tell her he'd saved her brother from a guy with an eight-inch blade. She had enough on her plate without adding on more fears for her brother. He'd protected his best friend—that was what mattered. And now he was going to protect his friend's sister.

    

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Dr. Rachel Grant had walked only a few feet out the back door of her family's Sonoma day spa, Joy Luck Life, when the patter of running footsteps behind her made her turn.

She had only a glimpse of a dark hoodie and a tall, lanky figure before a shove sent her sprawling onto the sidewalk. Thwack! Her left cheekbone collided with the cement, sending pain lancing through her head.

Snow clouded her vision and she struggled to open her eyes. Her heart pounded in her throat, making it hard for her to breathe. Frantic, she opened her mouth wide but no sound came out.

She glanced up. The backsides of dirty sneakers filled her field of view as they trotted away from her. Then a hand scooped up the bag strap of her sister Naomi's laptop computer, which had flown from Rachel's grip to land on the edge of the pool of light from the parking lot streetlamp. The sneakers hustled away.

Breathe! Rachel forced her wooden lungs to fill and tried to scream, but only a harsh croak came out. Where were the security guards? They should have seen the attack thanks to the outside video cameras. How long would it take for them to run out here?

Even worse, Naomi would be devastated to lose that laptop, which she'd bought barely five hours ago.

She heard the creak of the spa's back door, then more footsteps. "Rachel! Rach, are you okay?" Naomi fell to her knees beside her, hands on Rachel's shoulders. "I was talking to Martin, and we saw it all on the security camera." Martin, one of the security guards, raced past them, pursuing the stranger and the laptop.

In the distance, a woman's voice screeched, "What are you doing? Don't leave me!" It sounded as if it had come from the front of the spa.

Who was that? What was going on?

Rachel pushed herself up, her cheekbone throbbing as she rose. She squeezed her eyes shut to the wave of pain and paused on her knees, her head bowed.

Naomi put her arm around her. "Where are you hurt?"

"Just my cheek."

Naomi pulled Rachel's hair away from her face to look at her. Rachel had a hard time opening her eyes again as the pain splashed across her forehead, trickling back inside her skull. "How bad is it?"

"You'll have a black eye, that's for sure. We need to get you to the hospital."

"No, I'll have Monica look at it first. If the family nurse says so, then I'll go to the hospital." Just the thought of all the people in a crowded emergency room made Rachel cringe. She only wanted a quiet place to lie down and recover. "I'm sorry about your laptop."

"Forget the laptop, I'm worried about you."

"I only took a fall, nothing worse. But that laptop was new—"

"I can buy a new one. Besides, I'm almost glad it was new because it didn't have anything on it, so the spa didn't lose any sensitive information. That would have been worse." Especially since Naomi still managed the spa while their father recovered from his stroke. Naomi had bought the computer to help her with the spa's accounting.

"We should call the police and report it stolen."

"We should call Dad and Aunt Becca first." Naomi dug her cell phone out of her pocket.

"Call Aunt Becca. Aren't she and Detective Carter out to dinner tonight?" The two of them were dating again after an argument that had kept them apart for a few months. It was almost 10:00 p.m., but they might still be together at a movie.

As Naomi talked to Aunt Becca—who indeed was with Detective Horatio Carter—Rachel managed to sit up, although the evening sky spun around her. She clutched her hands together, trying to stop their shaking. She'd been attacked in the spa parking lot!

Clicking heels made Rachel look up. Gloria Reynolds, one of Naomi's massage clients, tripped toward them. "Dr. Grant, are you all right? Did that man hurt you?"

"Ms. Reynolds, you're still here?" Not the most tactful thing to say, but her headache was making it hard for her to be polite.

"Ms. Reynolds was my last client for tonight," Naomi told Rachel as she ended her call with Aunt Becca.

Gloria flipped her highlighted hair with a manicured hand. "The security guard was walking me to my car when he saw that person running away. Miss Grant," Gloria said to Naomi, "you really should talk to that guard. He ran after the person and left me by myself. Even when I called to him. And it was obvious the other guard was after the man, too, so there was no need for him to give chase."

Naomi smiled politely and responded with amazing courtesy when Rachel knew she must be rolling her eyes inside.

A flash of car headlights made Rachel wince as a vehicle headed down the spa driveway.

Then alarm jolted through her. The spa was closed, and the security guards, running after the thief toward the drive way, would have stopped the car from entering. Were the guards okay?

The car maneuvered into the staff parking lot, then stopped right next to them. A door opened and slammed shut. "Rachel!"

Edward Villa's voice made her heart leap into her throat, then settle back down in her chest, racing. Edward was here. Suddenly everything seemed okay.

No, she had to stop reacting this way to him. He didn't think of her as anything other than a client.

"Are you all right?"

She smelled him—pine, a hint of the orchids he worked with at his greenhouses and earthy musk—before her eyes registered that he was crouched in front of her, edging out Ms. Reynolds.

"The guards told me what happened when I drove in."

She had been able to keep it together when talking to Naomi, but somehow, his concern for her undermined her control over her emotions, and she steeled her jaw against a sudden onslaught of wild sobbing. Casting herself into his arms would only solidify his cool opinion of her, which he had made abundantly clear a couple months ago.

"Rachel." He reached out for her.

She held up a hand to stop him.

He grasped her hand, engulfing her fingers. His callused fingers rubbed her knuckles. His touch made her head spin.

"I'm fine," she whispered, breathless. She pulled her hand away.

The security guards walked up to them. "I'm sorry, Miss Grant, he got away. He ran up the driveway, and there was a car waiting for him at the end of it. They took off."

"Dr. Grant, are you okay?" the other guard asked, peering at Rachel.

She felt like a bug on display. "I'm fine." She heaved herself to her feet, but it made the blood pound painfully in her head. She swayed.

Edward's arm wrapped around her, making the earth stand still again. It felt good to be held by him. It felt…

Too good. She pulled away from him.

Edward paused a moment, then he bent down and collected her purse, which had dropped and scattered its contents when she fell. As he handed it to her, his eyes were calm, but somehow she could sense a fire burning behind them. As if other emotions ran deeper.

She didn't understand. While they had been working together for the past year on Rachel's new product for the spa, they had gotten closer, and she had felt free to be herself with him. But then, in the past couple months, he had withdrawn from her, become distant and polite.

Maybe he had seen who she really was…and he hadn't liked what he saw.

The thought was like a punch to her gut, every time she thought it. Which had been often in the past two months.

No, maybe he had never been interested in her, and he'd suddenly become aware that he was leading her on. Regardless, recently he had been clear in showing that he had no interest in her beyond a good business relationship.

She was just imagining the emotion in his eyes was deeper than natural concern. "Thank you." She took her purse from him, avoiding touching his hand again.

The silence was thicker than cold cream.

"Rachel—" he began.

"Here you go, Miss Rachel." Martin, a security guard who had been with them for years, handed her an ice pack he must have gotten from inside the spa. "That'll keep the swelling down from that shiner."

His light words made her smile, made the situation not seem so horribly violating. "Thanks, Martin." She pressed the cold pack to her eye, and found that it enabled her to avoid looking at Edward.

"Ms. Reynolds," Naomi said, "let me escort you back inside. We can wait for the police in one of the lounge rooms."

Rachel stayed outside and watched them reenter the spa. She tried not to remember what had happened, but it came to her in flashes. She shivered. She'd been bullied in grade school because she'd been a geek and a bit odd, but no one had ever assaulted her. Even bickering with her sisters Naomi and Monica had never gone beyond a little hair-pulling.

But tonight, someone had deliberately hurt her. It made her feel weak and vulnerable. Not in control.

And she didn't like it.

She especially didn't like that it had happened here, at the spa.

She suddenly realized that Edward had no reason to visit her here. They usually talked on the phone about the basil plants he was growing for production of her new spa product and met at his greenhouses. Why was he at the spa this late at night? "Edward, what are you doing here?"

His eyes were deep obsidian pools as they studied her, then he surprised her by looking away.

"Edward?"

He sighed. "I called your home and your sister Monica said you were still here."

"Did you try calling my cell phone? Did I not hear it ringing?" She fumbled in her purse and grasped the rubbery edge of her rugged waterproof cell phone—a necessity since she'd ruined two phones by using them while working in the lab with chemicals.

"No, I didn't call."

Avoidance wasn't Edward's style—neither was this vague evasiveness. "Then what…?"

He didn't answer immediately, and his face was grave. "I came to the spa to tell you something you're not going to like."

Her heart beat hard, once. But really, how could her day get any worse? "Lay it on me. I'm ready."

"Earlier tonight, someone broke into greenhouse four."

"Greenhouse four? My greenhouse?" Technically, it was his greenhouse, but the only things in it were her Malaysian basil plants. "Were you there? Are you okay?"

He paused, and his searching gaze made her stomach flip. But she lifted her head and tightened her muscles to keep her molten insides in place.

"I'm fine. I wasn't there when it happened."

"Oh. Good." She tried to slow her racing heart. "Did you call the police?"

"Yes. I left my brother, Alex, to meet with them while I came to talk to you. On the way, I called Horatio Carter, who said he was also headed here with your aunt, so that was fortunate. I'm hoping he'll come back to the greenhouse with me tonight."

"How did you find out about the break-in?"

"I left my cell phone in greenhouse six, so I went to get it. I noticed movement in the yard, and when I went to check the greenhouses, I found yours unlocked."

Her headache became a jackhammer against her skull. "Was everything okay?"

The lines deepened around his mouth. "No. Someone trashed it—all your plants."

She gasped.

"Don't panic too much. Alex is moving the plants to greenhouse seven right now, and I can salvage most of it."

"Most of it?" She needed Edward to cultivate a certain number of plants so she could make the extract for her scar-reduction cream, scheduled to launch in only five months. She couldn't be late. The spa depended on her new product launch. "Will you be able to grow more? I need…" She faltered at the shadow that crossed his eyes.

He replied evenly, "Your research will be fine, Rachel."

His distant tone confused her. What had she said? She switched tactics. "You left your cell phone in a greenhouse? You never do that. If you hadn't forgotten it…"

A half smile twitched at his mouth. "God was watching over your plants, I think."

The familiar way he said it made something squirm inside her. Edward had always had such a different relationship with God than she did, and it seemed to widen the gap between them. "Why didn't the alarm go off? I thought the greenhouses all had security alarms in place."

"They do—to monitor temperature and humidity, and also to alert when a window or door is opened. But the system in greenhouse four didn't go off. I checked it, and it looks like the thief tampered with it."

"Aren't those security alarms top-of-the-line? High-tech?"

He nodded. "Whoever did this was a professional, not your average thief."

The mild California fall breeze was suddenly frosty against her skin. "How about the other greenhouses?"

"I checked them all. Only yours was broken into."

"Only mine?" This was a blow she didn't know if she could bear, not on top of everything that had happened tonight. She bit her lip.

It almost looked as if he didn't know what to do with his hands, finally resting them on his slim hips. "I don't understand it. Some of the plants in my other greenhouses are extremely rare and valuable, but whoever came by didn't even touch them."

She'd seen those plants—exotic orchids and rare rain-forest species, mostly commissioned by wealthy clients because of Edward's reputation for cultivating delicate tropical plants. "None of them were taken?"

If the burglar could have dismantled the security alarm for one greenhouse, surely he could have dismantled the security alarms for the others. Or maybe he hadn't had time to because Edward had discovered the thief's activities. But why bother with destroying her plants when he could have more quickly gotten into the other greenhouses and stolen the rarer species?

Edward's eyes pinned her with concern and gravity. "The thief entered only greenhouse four, Rach—the thief was only after your plants."

Chapter Two

Edward hated chaos, and it surrounded him in greenhouse four—broken pots, torn leaves and potting soil dusting everything. He stood in the midst of the destruction and sighed.

It wasn't actually that bad. He'd discovered the open door before the temperature had dropped too much, and now Rachel's plants were all in greenhouse seven. He was also planning on paying for an evening guard to walk the greenhouses—at least until the person responsible for this was caught.

Detective Carter glanced up from where he surveyed some toppled tables. "It would have been better for me if you'd left the scene as is, Edward."

"Sorry, Detective, but Malaysian basil is extremely sensitive to temperature and humidity. The plants could have died within the hour."

Detective Carter shrugged and went back to taking notes.

"Thanks for convincing Rachel not to come out here tonight, Horatio," Edward said.

The detective shook his head, his thinning red-gold hair glinting dully in the fluorescent light. "She didn't need to see this. She's had a bad night already. How many plants survived?"

"Almost all of them, actually."

    

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