“Hello, Missy.”

Missy stepped back as if she’d seen a ghost, but then, he imagined, she had. “Jonas,” she whispered, putting a hand to her chest as if a bullet had pierced her heart. Pure shock, nothing more. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Better late than never,” he mumbled as the adrenaline he’d been running on finally fizzled. His legs fell out from under him. He hit the wall, keeled over and collapsed onto the porch floor.

“Jonas? Jonas.” Her hands touched his chest. Nice, soft hands. Hands that spread warmth all the way to his limbs. Hands he’d dreamed of more than he cared to remember.

Dear Reader,

I can’t believe this is already the fourth in the Mirabelle series. It seems like just yesterday I was writing about Sophie and Noah, and Mirabelle’s islanders were still a mystery to me.

When Missy first appeared in Garrett and Erica’s story, I had no clue she’d once been married. But when Natalie came to the island in the third Mirabelle book, Missy’s story started taking shape. Trust me. Jonas was as much a surprise to me as he was to Missy. That timing thing really does make life interesting!

My next book, due out in November, is Kate Dillon’s story. Some of you might remember her as the feisty younger sister in Finding Mr. Right. She and a certain bodyguard have some issues to figure out and it should be fun!

And with any luck you’ll have three more Mirabelle stories to look forward to in 2011. I think Sarah is due for her own story, don’t you?

I love hearing from readers, and I answer all correspondence. So drop me an e-mail at helenbrenna@comcast.net, or send your letter to P.O. Box 24107, Minneapolis, MN 55424.

My best,

Helen Brenna

Along Came a Husband
Helen Brenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Helen Brenna grew up in a small town in central Minnesota, the seventh of eight children. Although she never dreamed of writing books, she’s always been a voracious reader of romances. So after taking a break from her accounting career, she tried her hand at writing the romances she loves to read. Since her first book was published in 2007, she’s won a prestigious Romance Writers of America RITA® Award, an RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice award and a Virginia Romance Writers’ HOLT Medallion. Helen still lives in Minnesota with her husband, two children and far too many pets. She’d love to hear from you. E-mail her at helenbrenna@comcast.net or send mail to P.O. Box 24107, Minneapolis, MN 55424. Visit her Web site at www.helenbrenna.com or chat with Helen and other authors at RidingWithTheTopDown.blogspot.com.

For Mary Kuryla, my big sis, who never lets me forget she changed my diapers.

I love you!

Acknowledgments

As usual, I had no plot when I started writing this story. Thank you, thank you, thank you Chris Lashinski and Roxanne Richardson for your brainstorming ideas, critiques, encouragement and, above all, friendship. I could, possibly, do this without you, but it wouldn’t be half as much fun.

Once again, heartfelt thanks to my neighbor, George Kyrilis, for his expertise in all things FBI. America is a safer place because of people like you.

Thanks for your service, George!

Thanks to Tracy Dickovich, a very special person who showed me firsthand the benefits of healing touch massage. Are you sure you don’t have eight hands?

And I can’t forget my agent, Tina Wexler, on this one. Thank you, dear, for helping make Missy and Jonas’s story better and better!

You guys are the best!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“I’VE ALWAYS LOVED A GOOD thunderstorm,” Missy Charms murmured as lightning crackled outside the front windows of her gift shop and thunder rumbled over the roof of the historic brick building. “There’s nothing like early summer rain to settle the heat and wash away the dust and grime.”

“So says the quintessential earth child.” Sarah Marshik jumped as another bolt of lightning momentarily brightened the early evening sky. “Me? I can’t stand ’em.”

“I think they’re cool.” Brian, Sarah’s young son, went to stand beside Missy near the front of the store.

Together, they peered through the droplet-spattered windows overlooking the center of Mirabelle Island’s old-world quaintness. Other than an odd tourist or two caught unprepared in the sudden downpour and running from under one green-and-white awning to the next, the cobblestone streets were deserted. Slim, the black, short-haired cat Missy had rescued many years ago, rubbed against her leg, and she scooped him up.

Another bright and fiery flash lit the sky, and Brian grinned at Missy. “That was awesome!”

“Totally. It means we’re going to have lots of wind tonight,” she predicted, scratching the cat’s ears. “And a hotter than normal summer.”

“How do you know?” Brian asked, his eyes wide and round and oh, so innocent.

“I just know.” She winked. Where would be the fun in explaining her predictions came straight from Zuni weather lore?

“Missy can predict the future,” Sarah said, grinning.

“Tell my future!” Brian held out his hand. “Read my palm. Please, please, please!”

Missy glared good-naturedly at Sarah. Sarah may have beaten Missy to Mirabelle by a few months, but it seemed the two had been destined to become best friends. Not only were their businesses located side by side on Main Street, but, most important, they’d both seemed lost in the world. That is, before they’d found Mirabelle and each other.

“Bri, hon,” Missy said, shaking her head, “no one can tell the future from someone’s palm.” She’d learned that the hard way.

“You can. I’ve heard you talking about it with Mom. There’s a life line and a line that tells you how rich you’re going to be and—”

“Okay, already.” Missy laughed. Setting Slim back down, she took the little boy’s hand and ran her fingers along his palm, pretending to concentrate. “I see…hmm, that’s interesting.”

“What? What?”

“Oh, she’s pretty.”

“A girl? I don’t want to know about girls.” He cringed. “I wanna know if I’m going to be a pitcher for the Twins.”

“Baseball?” She shook her head. “Trust me. Love’s more important.”

Brian pulled back his hand and rolled his eyes. “Nothing’s more important than baseball.”

“If only that would last.” Sarah shook her head. “Do you want us to stay and visit with you while you eat?”

Given the bad weather, Sarah had only one or two customers shopping for flowers the entire day, so she’d closed up a little early to be with Brian. As the island wedding planner, Sarah was smack-dab in the middle of her busiest time of the year. Even so, knowing Missy was stuck alone in her store until closing, she’d dropped off a tomato mozzarella salad from Duffy’s Pub.

“You and Bri take off,” Missy said. “I don’t want you to be late for your movie.”

“You’ll be okay here?”

“It’ll be quiet.” She smiled. “A good night to get some things done.”

She could make several chakra bracelets or dust a few shelves or simply sit and enjoy the thunderstorm with a cup of herbal tea. It would be lonely, but Missy had grown used to being alone. At least that’s what she told herself every day. She glanced at Brian and the ache that had steadily grown stronger over the past several years pierced her heart like a jagged spear.

As if Sarah had read Missy’s thoughts, she gently touched her son on the shoulder. “Brian, go use Missy’s bathroom before we take off.” After the little boy had dashed toward the rear of the store, Sarah cautiously asked, “Any news on the adoption front?”

More than anything in the world Missy wanted a child, but it seemed the one thing in the world she couldn’t make happen. For now she’d have to settle for Slim. As if sensing her sudden turn of emotion, the cat wove himself around her legs. Slim may have had free rein of Mirabelle, running in and out of his kitty doors at will, but he usually chose to stick by her side.

“Actually.” Missy picked up the cat again. Holding him, petting his soft fur, always calmed her. “Barbara called earlier today to tell me she’s hopeful about a new match.”

“That’s great! Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Because Missy’s representative at the adoption agency had been hopeful about the past five matches and they, too, had gone absolutely nowhere. Years ago, after the agency had explained that a stable, safe, supportive community would be essential, Missy had decided to settle here on the island. How could there be a better place on this earth to raise a child than Mirabelle? But, as it turned out, place hadn’t been enough to tip the adoption scales in favor of a single young woman.

“I was afraid I’d jinx the deal by getting my hopes up,” Missy said softly, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.

“Maybe you should reconsider the alternatives?”

After a great deal of thought, Missy had decided to go the private adoption route. She’d finally found the right agency, filled out all the necessary applications and paperwork, and gone through the grueling home study process. “I’m not switching horses midstream.”

“I’m talking about the old-fashioned route. You know. Man, woman, marriage, child.”

“Not an option.” Missy shook her head. “I met the one true love of my life, and we both know how that turned out.” She believed in Fate changing lives, always had, but over the years she’d come to accept that every once in a while Fate managed to screw up.

“Well, there’s a certain someone on the island who seems darned close to wanting you to reconsider.”

Sean Griffin. Sarah had to be referring to the new doctor. “We’re friends, Sarah. That’s all.”

“Well, if Natalie can do it,” Sarah said, giving Missy a quick hug, “so can you.”

Natalie, their friend who ran a summer camp for disadvantaged kids on the northwest end of the island, had adopted four adolescents this past winter before she’d married Jamis. Although Missy preferring a baby or young child made her chances for adoption more difficult, their friend’s success as a single woman had given Missy the first real hope she’d had in years.

Brian came running through the store. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go.”

Missy grabbed her raincoat from the back of the chair by the cash register and held it out toward Sarah. “Why don’t you take my slicker?”

“You’ll need it when you go home.”

“I don’t mind getting wet. Besides, I think it’s supposed to clear up for a while before another band of storms comes through.” As Missy held open the front door to her shop, she took in a deep lungful of air. And frowned.

Something wasn’t right.

She glanced out the windows with a partial view of Lake Superior. Beyond the marina, waves crashed against the breakwater and sprayed into the air. Down the rocky coast, turbulent water hit the shoreline with damaging strength. The clouds in the early evening sky boiled and churned, shifted by an unseen but powerful force.

Sarah shrugged on the rain slicker and glanced at Missy. “You all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” Missy swallowed, trying to compose herself. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, then.” Sarah stepped partway through the door and grabbed Brian’s hand. “See you at lunch tomorrow.” Then she took off down the wet sidewalk.

“Bye, Missy!” Brian called as he followed his mom.

“Bye, Bri!” Missy said absently as she watched the flower baskets hanging from the black lampposts swing and sway in the storm. The wind chimes hanging near her gift shop entrance jangled fiercely in a sudden gust, and an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

Something was in the air out there that had nothing to do with a cleansing rain, or a possible adoption match, or the droves of happy tourists already flocking daily to Mirabelle for long-awaited summer vacations and holidays. This was bitter and acidic. Unexpected. Fierce. And it was blowing Missy’s way.

“YOU TELLING ME I CAN’T GET to Mirabelle Island tonight?” Jonas Abel glared at the clerk on the other side of the locked glass door as lightning flared a short distance down the Lake Superior shoreline.

“That’s not what I said.”

It had been raining most of the day. Jonas’s clothes were damp and cold and clinging to his skin and all he wanted was to be warm and dry. Entirely off the grid was the objective, but at the moment that appeared to be asking for too much.

“It isn’t even eleven yet, and I missed the last ferry?” Jonas grumbled. “What kind of backwoods place is this?” On a few select streets in Chicago, he might’ve gotten away with pointing a gun at the old man’s head, but not in this world.

“See there?” The old man motioned toward the schedule mounted on the outside of the ferry building. “During June, the last ferry to the island leaves Bayfield at 10 p.m. Won’t be another one ’til morning. Now on the weekends, it’s eleven. And during July—”

“I don’t give a damn about July.” He clenched his teeth against the intense pain in his side. “I need to get to Mirabelle tonight.”

“No need to get huffy with me. Can’t wait ’til morning, you can always hire a water taxi.”

A car rolled into the wet parking lot, and Jonas instinctively drew his soggy hood over his head. As the vehicle cruised through a puddle and under the light of a nearby lamppost, he slipped his good hand inside his sweatshirt, gripping his gun, and studied the occupants.

Teenage boy. Girlfriend. In love.

Good luck with that.

He turned back toward the old man. “I need a water taxi.” Leaning against the door frame, he struggled to stay alert. Although it was impossible anyone could’ve followed Jonas here, he’d do best to get out of sight. “Can you help me?”

Half an hour later, a sprinkling of rain stinging his cheeks, he was on a boat speeding across the choppy black waters of Lake Superior and closing in on the shoreline of what he assumed was Mirabelle. Lights twinkled in the darkness outlining a concentration of buildings near the marina, most likely houses dotting the hillside and what looked like a large hotel on the outskirts of town. By the time the boat docked at the dimly lit pier, it was so dark Jonas could barely tell water from shore.

“There you go.” The taxi driver flipped his engine into neutral and glanced at Jonas. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine.” Somehow Jonas made it onto the dock. He dragged his heavy pack over his shoulder.

“Want me to wait to take you back to the mainland?”

“No.” Jonas glanced toward the small village. “If I don’t find who I’m looking for, I’ll get a hotel room.”

“Things close down here pretty early even during the tourist season.”

So he’d heard.

“Even if there is a room at one of the hotels or bed-and-breakfasts, you might not find anything open this late.”

Then he’d be sleeping—more likely passing out—in the woods. Although these wet clothes would make for an interesting night, he’d probably survive.

He took a few steps toward the village before he remembered his manners, something he hadn’t had much use of during the past couple of years. Turning back, he handed the man a tip. “Thanks for the ride and the warning, but I’ll be all right.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jonas walked slowly down the pier to the drone of the boat motor behind him indicating the water taxi was heading out of the marina and back to the mainland. Soon even that sound dimmed. A few, thick drops spattered the ground, and the heavy clouds overhead threatened a nasty storm. Without a moon, the only light came from intermittent lampposts along the dock.

Gusts of wind whipped tree branches into a frenzy as he walked toward what appeared to be the central part of town. His shoes made barely a sound on the wet cobblestone. In the distance, a dog barked. He passed a blue-and-white restaurant, the Bayside Café, now closed and hit Main Street. Light from a place called Duffy’s Pub spilled onto the sidewalk.

As he passed the bar, laughter and music emanated from inside, but he closed out the sound. Sometimes it was easier to forget that the world still housed polite, law-abiding people, going about living normal lives, raising normal families, working at normal jobs. Including him, once upon a long time ago.

That’s when he’d met her. At a different bar with different music and different people. Had she changed? Most assuredly. It’d been years, not months. Years. He hesitated. No choice. The woods were sounding mighty cold and wet right about now.

Turning and crossing the street, he slowly climbed the steep hill several blocks off Main. With old, but well-kept single-family homes, this appeared to be the residential section of the tourist town. Instead of the Victorian mansions he’d halfway expected to see, these were average-size dwellings. He should’ve known she’d try to settle anonymously amidst the salt of the earth.

On hitting Oak Street, he turned and monitored the house numbers. Long ago, he’d memorized the address, wanting absolutely no paper trail for this place, and having studied the island map back at the ferry office, he knew he was close.

A few blocks later, he stopped in front of an ancient stone fence and glanced at the white Cape Cod with black shutters and a porch addition off the side. This modest home wasn’t at all what he’d expected. The house was dark other than a stream of weak light glowing from the back. Her bedroom. She was still awake.

What did she look like? His dreams? His memories? Or had she shaken off the past and embraced change?

Time to find out.

Slowly, he trudged up the sidewalk, climbed the front steps and hesitated on reaching her porch as beads of sweat broke out on his brow. Quiet music sounded from inside, mixing with the damp night air as he leaned against a post and caught his breath.

This was a mistake. If she slammed the door in his face he couldn’t blame her. After what he’d done, he unequivocally derserved it. Before he could turn away, the door burst open. A woman’s figure, small but curvy stood in shadow, backlit by pale light. At first, he couldn’t see her face, but then his eyes adjusted and her features cleared.

Oh, man. The air puffed out of his chest and his limbs went numb. When he’d first met her, she’d been only twenty-three to his thirty-two, going on fifty. Somehow, the years had made her even more beautiful than the day he’d spotted her in that hole-in-the-wall bar. She’d put on a little weight, which to his way of thinking only served to heighten the attractiveness of her curves. Her hair was longer and curlier, although the color was still that creamy blonde, promising the softness of down, the scent of heaven.

She said nothing, only stared at him as something akin to recognition dawned.

“Hello, Missy,” he whispered.

She stepped back as if she’d seen a ghost, but then, he figured, she had. “Jonas,” she whispered, putting a hand to her chest. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Better late than never,” he mumbled as the adrenaline he’d been running on finally fizzled. His legs fell out from under him. He hit the wall, keeled over and collapsed onto the porch floor.

“Jonas? Jonas.” Her hands touched his chest. Nice, soft hands. Hands that spread warmth all the way to his limbs. Hands he’d dreamed of more than he cared to remember. “Oh, my God, you’re bleeding!”

Disoriented, he gazed into her eyes, eyes as startlingly green as a new spring leaf, eyes that had once looked at him as if he were the only spot of clarity in her fuzzy crystal ball. “No doctors, Missy,” he murmured, her face blurring in his vision. He could barely keep his eyes open. “Can’t…no one…can find me.”

Then his world turned black and silent.

CHAPTER TWO

WAS HE REAL OR SOME KIND of spirit?

Missy reached out to see if she could touch the man’s arm and jerked back the instant her senses registered not only cold and wet, but a solid form. How could this be?

Maybe it wasn’t really him.

Quickly, she took in everything about the man lying on her porch. His clothes, damp sweatshirt, faded jeans. Pushing aside the hood shadowing his face, she studied his features. Straight, hawklike nose. Intensely set brows, furrowed even now. Lashes, thick and black and long enough to set any woman’s heart fluttering. So much so familiar, and yet enough that was different to make her wonder.

This man looked like a sleazy drug dealer. He probably hadn’t taken a razor to his cheeks for weeks and his hair was not only long enough to curl it didn’t look very clean. Jonas, always meticulous about his appearance, had kept his midnight-black hair military short and his face shaved as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Then there was the hardness to this man’s jawline that seemed all wrong. A cynical set to the mouth—

His mouth. That was it. The sight of this man’s lips sealed it. How many times had she traced with the tip of her finger that dramatic upper arc? That full lower swell?

It was him. It was Jonas.

Missy snapped off the porch light and glanced around outside. Other than raindrops splattering her porch roof, all was quiet. There were no footsteps. No rustling of bushes. No shadows slinking near the trees. As far as she could tell no one had followed him.

Grabbing his wrist, she felt for a pulse. His skin was cold and clammy, but she located a thready pulse. He’d only lost consciousness. Glancing at his prone form, she barely held herself back from hauling off and kicking him good and hard. “I should let you bleed to death, you bastard.”

The sight of his profile, haggard and worn, gave her pause. His skin was ashy and pale. “I’m going to hate myself for this.” She grabbed his hands, dragged his dead-weight into her living room, snatched up his pack and shut the door. Then she put his knapsack off into the corner and bent over his still form.

His outer jacket had fallen open, displaying a patch of blood seeping through his sweatshirt. She pulled the fabric aside. A large padded bandage taped to his skin was soaked through with more blood. She eased off the bandage.

Oh, God. A bullet wound. Who would want to kill a man already dead to the world?

Although the shot appeared to have gone clear through Jonas’s side, the wound was still bleeding. Grabbing a clean towel, Missy pressed it against the gaping holes, both front and back, but blood continued to flow. No doctors. What had he gotten himself into this time? Didn’t matter. She couldn’t do this on her own. The only problem was that gossip traveled on a little island the size of Mirabelle like rain down a gutter, but if she didn’t act quickly—

Sarah? Too complicated.

Ron and Jan? Her neighbors, the Setterbergs, had become more like a mother and father since she’d moved to Mirabelle. They’d drop everything to help, but how could she explain Jonas? No. She couldn’t handle disillusioning them. Not them.

Sean. He’d keep this quiet.

Grabbing the phone, she dialed his number only to hear a recorded message. “You’ve reached Dr. Griffin…”

At the end of the familiar greeting, she said, “Sean, it’s Missy—”

The phone line crackled. “Missy?” He was obviously screening his calls. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, but I need your help. For someone at my house. Can you come right away?”

Sean lived only a few blocks down the street in a home very similar to Missy’s. “What’s the condition? I need to know what supplies to bring.”

She hesitated. “A gunshot wound.”

There was a long pause on the line. “What—”

“Please. He needs you right away.”

“He? Missy—”

“I’ll explain when you get here. Hurry.”

She hung up, knelt back down and applied pressure to Jonas’s wound. As she stared at his face, memories enveloped her. The helicopter wreckage, the charred black remains of a body, the wake, the funeral. It hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. She’d relived every god-awful minute of it for years afterward. Jonas was supposed to be dead. Yet here he was on the floor, hurt but very much alive. It didn’t make sense.

“How could you do this to me?” she whispered, emotion clogging her throat.

A brisk knock sounded on her front door. She peered through the curtain to find Sean standing on her steps, yanked open her door and ushered him inside.

Sean took one look at Jonas and, biting back the questions, flung off his raincoat and tossed it over a nearby chair. “Let’s get him up somewhere, so I can work.” A few moments later, after half carrying, half dragging Jonas’s heavy body toward the back of her house, they had him lying atop her bed. “Let’s get these wet clothes off him.”

While Sean held up Jonas’s limp frame, she tugged off his sweatshirt and shirt. “Get his pants off, too,” Sean ordered as he went about cleaning the wound. “We need to get him warm.”

Missy went to the waistband of Jonas’s jeans and hesitated as her fingers touched the line of black hair trailing down his bare abdomen. Heat spread through her as she glanced at Jonas’s toned upper body. He’d been lifting again, heavily, and his skin seemed darker than normal, as if he’d been in the sun.

“Missy!” Sean said, snapping her out of her appraisal. “We don’t have any time to waste. This man’s in shock. Get him warm. Quick.”

She grabbed the waistband of Jonas’s jeans and worked to undo the button, draw down the zipper and drag the damp fabric off his too-cool skin. Thank heavens his boxers remained relatively in place.

“Get every bit of wet fabric off him,” Sean said. “Or it’ll drain his heat.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.” Sean was pulling supplies out of his bag. “Now.”

Missy did her best to avert her gaze as she tugged at Jonas’s boxers. The moment she cleared his ankles, she drew a heavy quilt over his lower body, but the image of his nakedness was already branded in her mind. No wonder no man had been able to measure up, in more ways than one, all these years.

Dammit. Stop it. He ruined your life once. Do not let him ruin it again.

Resolutely, she glanced at Sean. “What else can I do to help?”

A half hour later, Missy having assisted where needed, Sean had cleaned and stitched the entrance and exit wounds as well as two other cuts and had finally stopped the bleeding. While he’d been busy, they’d barely spoken other than requests for this and that.

He was wrapping Jonas’s chest, when he said, “This guy’s lucky the bullet went straight through his side, but he’s got a broken rib. Various other cuts and contusions.” He pointed at the slices on the side of his face, as if Jonas had been punched by a man wearing a ring, and the bruising on his arms and abdomen. “Someone really worked him over, but from the old scars it looks like he’s used to it.”

Missy well remembered the other bullet wound on Jonas’s shoulder, but the three-inch scar on his right arm was something new.

“He’ll need to be on antibiotics,” Sean went on. “And he’ll need this bandage changed at least—”

Jonas’s hand shot out and grabbed Sean’s wrist. His eyes fluttered open and he glared at Sean. “Who are you?”

“Jonas!” Missy hissed. “Let him go!”

Sean stared back at Jonas. “That’s a damned strong grip for a half-dead man.”

“Answer my question or lose a hand.”

Sean’s only sign of emotion was the slight flaring of his nostrils. Missy had never seen the calm, unflappable doctor this angry. She placed her hand on Jonas’s. “Let him go right now, Jonas, or so help me God I will kick you out of my house!”

Without glancing at her, Jonas loosened his hold on Sean’s wrist.

Sean slowly pulled away. “My name’s Sean Griffin. I’m Mirabelle’s only doctor.”

Jonas threw an accusatory glance in her direction.

“I considered letting you bleed to death.” She glared back at him. “But I wasn’t sure how to dispose of the body.”

Jonas turned back to Sean. “Tell anyone I’m here, and if I get the chance…I’ll kill you.”

“You hurt her—” Sean tilted his head toward Missy “—and I’ll kill you.”

Jonas’s gaze flashed at Missy as he was assessing the connection between her and Sean. His eyes held the barest hint of betrayal before he quickly looked away. “Understood.” Clearly in a lot of pain, he lowered his eyelids and seemed to focus on his breathing.

“Here.” Sean poured a couple pills out of a bottle, reading Jonas better than most. “This’ll help with the pain. Let you sleep.”

“Don’t need it,” Jonas growled.

Sean sighed. “Fine.” He set the medication on the bedside table.

Missy crossed her arms and frowned at Jonas. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“It’ll have to wait until morning.”

“I want answers now.”

He cocked his head toward Sean. “Then he needs to leave.”

Sean shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere until I know Missy’s safe. How do I know whoever shot you won’t be showing up on her doorstep in the middle of the night?”

“Because I know how to cover my tracks. I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re idiot enough to almost get yourself killed.”

Jonas made a quick move toward Sean, but clearly the pain knocked him flat on his back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Doc.” Jonas gritted his teeth. “So why don’t you just get the hell out of here?”

Glaring at Jonas, Missy quickly gathered the medical supplies and led Sean out of the bedroom and down the hall. “I’m sorry about all of this.”

“It’s not your fault.” He stuffed everything she held back into his bag and glanced uncertainly into her eyes. “Maybe I should stay. I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone with that man.”

That man. She almost laughed. “It’s all right. He won’t hurt me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Who is he, Missy?”

“An FBI agent. At least he used to be.” That didn’t answer the real gist of his question, but Missy didn’t know where to begin.

Sean stared at her, as if trying to make sense out of the situation. From the moment he’d moved to the island last fall, Missy had felt a connection with him. Though he was guarded, rarely sharing anything of his past, she understood. She had secrets, too.

Most of the islanders speculated about a romantic relationship between her and Sean, but she’d never considered the two of them closing down Duffy’s on more than one occasion as anything more than a good time, especially since he’d never officially asked her out or made any attempt to kiss her.

They were friends. Good friends, but still only friends. She could trust him, and she owed him the truth. At least part of it. “It’s a long story,” she whispered. “I need you to keep this between us.”

“Missy?” He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Who is he?”

She swallowed and looked into his eyes. “He’s my husband.”

JONAS STRUGGLED TO MAINTAIN consciousness, strained to hear the conversation taking place down the hall. Whispers. Quiet and intimate. Missy with another man. He didn’t know why it should surprise him. As far as she knew, he was dead, and his death would’ve only given her a ticket to ride anything and anyone her freestyle heart desired.

Old familiar stirrings of jealousy reared up inside him and, at the sound of the front door closing and steps coming down the hall, he quickly tamped back the feelings. He couldn’t spare the energy for jealousy. Not now. Not ever.

Slowly, Jonas retrieved his gun from the bedside table. He slipped it under the covers only seconds before Missy came back into the room, looking confused and unsettled. “Why—”

“Will your doctor tell anyone about me?” he interrupted, not at all up for the interrogation she was sure to be formulating.

“No.”

“Who is he to you?” he murmured in spite of himself.

“None of your business.”

“I need to—”

“You’re dead, remember. You have no needs or rights when it comes to me!”

“Well, unless that divorce you were planning went through before my death, you’re still my wife. And I’m still your husband.”

“Husband? I haven’t had a husband for more than four years. As a matter of fact, as absent as you were for most of our marriage, I’m not sure the term husband ever applied to you.”

He closed his eyes and took several breaths in and out. “I just need to make sure your doctor can be trust—”

“He can be.” She paced beside the bed. “Unlike some men I know Sean keeps his promises.”

“Good for him,” he murmured.

Suddenly tired to the bone, Jonas wrapped his fingers around the cold but oddly comforting grip of his gun. As he closed his eyes, the remembered sound of gunshots echoed through his mind. One. Two. Then, as if in slow motion, he once again saw Matthews taking a direct double hit to the chest and flying through the air.

Jonas remembered turning, his weapon drawn, and that’s when he’d gotten hit in his side. He’d managed to fire off several shots. Before spinning out of the alley, he’d hazarded a quick glance at Matthews. His partner had been lying in a puddle on the ground, his head bent backward at an unnatural angle. Dead. This time for real.

Fatigue settled swiftly over Jonas. He was tired of the lie he’d been living these past years. Tired of trying to be someone he wasn’t. Tired of…just plain-ass tired.

“Jonas?” Missy said.

Feigning sleep, although the reality wasn’t far off, Jonas didn’t answer. More so than hearing her, he sensed her stepping back, maintaining her distance.

“Jonas?” she said impatiently. “I want some answers.”

He imagined her standing there with her arms crossed protectively in front of her, her chin tucked defensively. He let his breathing turn heavy and she hesitated. She wouldn’t touch him. He knew it, was counting on it.

“Are you awake?” She waited a minute, maybe two, then he heard her rummaging through a dresser drawer. Suddenly, she spun around and flicked off the light. “Asshole,” she muttered on her way out of the bedroom.

Yeah? Tell me something I don’t already know.

“THE BIGGEST DEAL OF MY LIFE is coming together!” Delgado yelled. “You assured me nothing—nothing—would get in my way!”

“Don’t worry.” Pretending a calmness he sure as hell wasn’t feeling, Mason Stein spoke into his cell phone while searching the frame of the couch. “You’re still on.”

“What about your renegade agent?”

The man who may have foiled Mason’s plans to be on a tropical beach in about three weeks with a couple million in an offshore account? “We’ll find him.” He pulled out his switchblade. “Before he does any damage. You have my word.”

“Your word doesn’t mean shit to me,” Delgado bit out. “You don’t get your money until my deal goes through.”

“That goes without saying, but it might not be a bad idea to move up your timetable.”

“Impossible. This deal is done. It’s going down in three weeks, regardless. I want this taken care of before I get back to the States next week.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I get busted, my men get busted, or my inventory is confiscated and you’re a dead man.”

Click.

“Son of a bitch!” Mason shoved his phone in the holder at his waist and then slashed open a cushion with his knife. He gutted the couch. Nothing. The chair. More nothing.

Frustrated, he flung his knife across the room, and it stuck with a satisfying thud in a kitchen cabinet. He’d torn this damned apartment to pieces and had come up with zilch. No addresses or phone numbers. No laptop or memory devices. Not even a single cell phone record. The man took the concept of anonymity to an entirely new level. How were they going to find him when they had absolutely nothing to go on?

As Mason stood there his cell phone rang. He glanced at the display and answered. “Tell me you found him.”

“Not a trace.”

“Dammit!” he bit out. “I want—”

“Relax, Mason. With all that blood in the alley, he’s dead or dying.”

“Not good enough.” Mason paced around the mess he’d created of furniture stuffing, hunks of broken dishes and fractured picture frames. An end table was the only piece of furniture still standing. “This is your fault. You told me he’d turn. You told me—”

“So I was wrong. Shoot me.”

“I want the body.” Mason struggled to keep his voice down. “Then I want it never found.”

“What do you think I am, stupid? If he’s identified, people are going to start asking questions. Did you tell Delgado?”

“I didn’t have to tell him. His people did.” Mason closed his eyes. “If I go down, I won’t be going alone. Understand?”

“Oh, I understand. Do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re working outside the lines right now, remember? This is no-man’s-land. So don’t give me any more orders. Understand that?”

“Yeah,” Mason muttered. And when all this is over and done with, you’re dead, no matter what.

“Good. ’Cause we got bigger problems on our hands than you think.”

“How could this get any worse?”

“He kept files.”

“Of what?”

“All the evidence he turned over to you over the course of the last four years. He backed up everything on a memory stick.”

Mason broke out in a cold sweat. “You gotta be shitting me.”

“If we don’t find him soon, he could turn everything over and we’re dead anyway.”

“Why didn’t you grab his files while you had the chance?”

“Why didn’t you kill him in the alley? If you had this wouldn’t be a problem. Did you find anything at his apartment?”

“What do you think?” Mason barely held his temper in check. He hadn’t really expected anything to be here, but every base had to be covered. “I have meetings tomorrow in D.C.”

“I can handle things on this end.”

“I’m telling you he’s hiding with someone he knows. Someone he trusts. His father. His wife.”

A loud laugh sounded over the line. “There is no one. Why do you think I suggested him for this assignment in the first place? No one in the world gives a rat’s ass whether Jonas Abel lives or dies.”

CHAPTER THREE

JONAS WOKE TO THE SOUND of a robin warbling loudly and quite happily outside the bedroom window. He glanced through the filmy pale green curtains and located the noisy little bastard perched on the branch of a massive elm tree. Lacking the energy to blow the damned thing to kingdom come, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the sound.

What do you think you’re doing?

Get up. Get it done. Do your job.

Sighing, he tried to sit and pain sizzled through him, knocking him back down. Damn, it felt as though his body had been first tenderized and then run through a man-size meat grinder. Apparently, that’s what first getting jumped by four men, then shot, and then losing half the blood in his body did to a guy. He was in no shape to do anyone any damage.

Rolling over in the hopes of falling back asleep, he buried his head under a pillow. On his next breath the scent of something hauntingly familiar came to him. Something sultry and lush. Something that oddly enough had him feeling at once content and restless.

Screw sleep.

He cracked open his eyes to find a set of pale gold orbs staring back at him. Cat eyes. Short-haired and black, but for a slit of white on its chest and a white sock on one rear paw, the cat sat serenely at the edge of the bed and studied him with curious disinterest. The animal had the muscular build of an outdoor cat and one of its ears was notched, most likely from a fight, ramping up the tough guy look.

“How did you get here?” he murmured.

From what he remembered, Missy had been frightened of cats since as a youngster she’d tried breaking up a couple of toms going at it. A nice long scar on the back of her left hand was all she had to show for her good-natured efforts. He, on the other hand, had absolutely no good reason for his dislike of cats.

The cat, taking his life in his own paws, crouched down and rubbed the side of his black head against Jonas’s hand. Jonas’s instinctive reaction was to flick the thing off the bed, but then the silkiness of the animal’s fur against his calloused hands registered. It’d been a long time since anything that soft had touched his skin.

Unable to resist, Jonas turned his hand and scratched the underside of the cat’s chin. The animal purred and pushed harder against Jonas’s hand. The more he scratched the louder the purr. Before he knew it the damned thing was inching onto Jonas’s chest looking for more.

“Oh, no you don’t.” He lifted the covers, unseating the animal and forcing it to the ground. Instead of being upset, the cat stretched languorously as if it’d been his plan all along to jump to the floor before walking slowly out of the room. “Cocky little shit.”

Jonas chuckled, and another wave of pain moved through him. Considering taking something to make it through the day, he glanced at the bedside table. Clustered together were several small sample containers of prescription medicine and a large cup with a bendy straw that appeared to hold water. Apparently, the good doctor had left some halfway decent painkillers as well as an antibiotic and a sleep aid.

Awfully nice of Missy’s boyfriend. And he was her boyfriend. Jonas was sure of that. The man had looked at her last night with a distinctly protective and proprietary air. How long had they been seeing one another? How much had she told the doctor about Jonas and their past?

Why should he care? He set the bottles down and knocked back a couple of ibuprofen. Movement sounded upstairs, followed closely by the running of a shower. Missy was not only awake, she was also most likely naked and wet. Now there was an image he didn’t need running through his mind. Come to think of it, he was buck naked himself under the covers. How had that happened?

Missy. He had a vague recollection of her hands brushing his skin, her fingers on his stomach as she worked the zipper on his jeans. Think of something else, you idiot. The last thing he needed in his sorry state was a hard-on.

After prepping himself with a slow, measured breath he threw back the green leaf-printed comforter—knowing Missy, it was probably organic cotton—then gingerly rolled onto his good side and slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. Damn, he felt weak. As he waited for the rush of light-headedness to pass, he located his pack on the floor by the door, looking as though it’d been left unopened. Good. That was good.

Still waiting for equilibrium, he glanced around the room. The woodwork was enameled white, but the rich, milk chocolate-brown on the walls seemed to curiously vary in shade from one side to the next. Knowing Missy, and her tendency toward impulsiveness, she’d changed her mind while in the middle of painting.

The furniture was a mishmash of wicker, metal and some kind of natural hardwood. A big, leafy plant hung from the ceiling near the window, and a couple smaller pots sat on the dresser and bedside tables. A collage of different shaped and sized photos covered the wall above the headboard of the bed.

He might’ve thought it a guest bedroom but for the jewelry lying atop the long dresser. Beads, crystals, metal pendants or Chinese coins. It was exactly the kind of stuff Missy would wear—

He’d slept in Missy’s room. In her bed. No wonder the scent on the pillow had felt so familiar. That’s when he noticed something hanging over the arm of the nearby wicker chair next to his jeans. He picked up the pale yellow scrap of fabric and held it out. A nightgown. Flimsy. Lacy. Sexy as hell, especially if he imagined Missy in it with her long curls, her beautiful shoulders, her breasts—

Full-blown hard-on. He swallowed and hung his head. What a loser. After all these years, after the way she’d turned on him and broken his heart, how could he still want her?

The gown felt soft and slippery in his hand. Had she ever worn it for the doctor? Was she sleeping with him?

That’s none of your damned business. She doesn’t want your sorry old ass. She made that more than clear, remember? Besides, you’ve got work to do, so get to it so you can get off this hunk of rock floating in the middle of nowhere.

He grabbed his jeans, dug out the memory stick attached to a lanyard he’d hidden in a secret pocket in the thick waistband and hung it around his neck. After releasing a deep breath, he stood, tested his balance, then rummaged through his pack, verifying that his laptop had not been compromised.

After pulling on some clothes and tucking his gun inside the waistband of his sweats, he made his way slowly down the hall and into the main living area of the house. The space felt airy and open without any barriers between the kitchen and living room, living room and all-season porch.

Footsteps sounded behind him and, instantly on alert, he spun around. Pain shot up his side at the sudden twisting and he cringed.

Missy was coming down the stairs. “We have to talk.” She barely glanced at him as she moved past to put a teakettle on the stove.

The pain, mostly, subsided. “I’m not sure we have anything to say to one another.”

“Well, I have plenty to say to you, but first I want some answers.” She scooped some loose tea leaves into a metal mesh container and then focused on him. “Why aren’t you dead?”

Oh, yeah, that.

Jonas carefully eased himself onto one of the bar stools at her kitchen counter and studied her. Apparently having grabbed what she’d needed for today before she’d left him last night, she’d dressed simply, in a pair of straight-legged jeans and a long, loose, short-sleeved brown sweater. With naturally clear skin, she’d never needed much makeup. Her hair hung in damp curls. The only jewelry she wore was a necklace, a couple of hefty faceted quartz crystals strung on a strip of woven leather.

But it was the way she carried herself that set her apart. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it the first time he’d met her, the way she held herself, so straight and confidently. The regal set of her chin, angled slightly downward as if she were looking down upon the masses. Her hands. Long, royal-looking fingers and bones so fine she looked as if he could break her in half.

There were changes, too. Not a lot, not enough that most people would notice, but noticing things was part of his job. Her easy way of smiling seemed to have been replaced by a touch of seriousness about her mouth. There was more depth to her eyes, a more sober line to her brow. Was it possible she’d matured inside as well as out? He wasn’t holding his breath.

“I’m not dead because there was no helicopter crash,” he finally answered. “It was staged.”

“Brent Matthews? The other agent in the helicopter with you?”

“No one died, Missy.”

“There were two bodies,” she said as if she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around this twist in the past. “I saw them. I saw…your body.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d have said a shadow of something damned close to sadness momentarily passed over her features. “John Does from the morgue.” He shook his head. “They put the bodies in the shell of the chopper before they blew it up.”

“Why?”

“Because they didn’t expect me to live through the undercover assignment I’d accepted.” He almost hadn’t. “On top of that, they knew it would be long-term and they wanted absolutely no contact with family or friends. I received a totally new identity, and I’ve been on that same case ever since.”

“So you’re still with the FBI. How long were you undercover?”

“It took us a couple years to infiltrate the group. Since then, it’s been another two years.” He sighed. “Plus.”

“You’ve been living someone else’s life for four years?”

“It’s my job.”

“Your job.” Clearly disgusted, she shook her head. “You’re the same as you’ve always been, aren’t you? The job is still the only thing that matters in your life.”

How often had she thrown that accusation in his face? Well, it may not have been as true all those years ago, but it sure as hell was true now. After all that time undercover, living as he had surrounded by lawless, disrespectful thugs, getting hardened to seeing things he hadn’t wanted to see, there were days even he didn’t recognize the man he’d become.

“Why’d you agree to do it?”

“I think the more appropriate question is why not?” After watching his father stand ineffectively by while his mother slowly died, Jonas had wanted nothing to do with the dead-beat. He’d never had any siblings, no relatives at all, really. At the time Stein had come to him with the risky undercover opportunity, Missy had been his only family. When she turned her back on him, he had nothing left in the world.

“Why not?” She glared at him. “Because you had a wife and a father. A life.”

“Did I?” he bit out. If he hadn’t felt so weak, he would’ve stood and paced the floor of her kitchen. As it was, all he could do was sit there. “You filed for a divorce, Missy. Remember that part of the equation?”

The morning she told him she’d seen an attorney, he’d felt as if he’d been hit dead on by a train. Bam! Life gone. Rejected. Start over. That’s exactly what he’d deserved for letting himself get carried ass-over-teakettle away by an immature young woman. He’d thought himself in love, and he’d found out the hard way there was no such thing.

Love. Right.

If Jonas had known the truth about her age, about who Missy really was when he’d first met her, he never would’ve married her, let alone had sex with her in the back of his SUV the first night they’d met. Hell, there had to be any number of women in the world who shared her name. Who would’ve ever guessed she was the Melissa Camden? He was still pissed she hadn’t told him the truth about her background until a few days before their wedding.

He’d tried, he really had, to look beyond it, to see Missy for who she was and not what her family had made her, but his pride had been hurt too much to recover. He’d soon had to face the fact that he could never have supported her in a lifestyle in any way, shape or form close to what she’d been used to. From the beginning, the deck had been stacked against them.

“The way I see it,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, “my death just made things easier for you.” Not to mention that a small, stupid part of him had inexplicably reasoned that she’d still be his wife.

“Easier?” She laughed, but the sound was laced with what sounded a lot like desperation. “How was that supposed to make it easier? For me?”

“Bang. I was out of your life. No attorneys. No messy division of assets. One little funeral and it was over.” He shrugged. “I’ll bet you didn’t even cry.”

She fell silent. Then that damned cat jumped onto the counter and rubbed against her. She snuggled the animal to her chest, scratched its neck and glanced back at him. “No, you’re right. I never cried. Not one single tear. Satisfied?”

No, he wasn’t even close to being satisfied with what had happened between him and Missy, but he’d accepted the fact long ago that he’d made a rash decision in marrying her. Everyone knew a man didn’t need to care deeply about a woman to be elementally and viscerally attracted to her. What a lot of people didn’t realize was that some women—women like Missy—could be the same way.

Apparently, if the quick rise and fall of her chest were any indication, she hadn’t changed. As if she remembered the heat that had unfailingly risen between them, the long hours spent simply pleasing each other, her gaze caught with his and held.

He’d never known a more passionate, uninhibited woman than Missy. All he’d ever had to do was touch her face and she’d melted in his hand. Caress her breast and she’d arch to meet him. Touch his tongue to hers and she’d do anything he’d ask. What he wouldn’t give to find out if he still held that kind of power over her. All it would take was one touch to find out. Just one.

The teakettle whistled in the heavy silence and she spun around. Damn. After putting down the cat, she flipped off the burner and poured steaming hot water into a metal travel mug. “Your dad was at your funeral,” she said softly, dipping the mesh tea holder into the hot water.

When the cat walked toward Jonas, clearly looking for more affection, he quickly stood and searched through her kitchen cabinets for something to eat. All those years ago, he’d been sorely tempted to go to his own funeral, but life as he’d known it was over. A clean break had been for the best.

“He was pretty broken up,” she whispered, turning.

“Yeah. Whatever.” Jonas couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

He’d been only twelve when he’d lost all respect for his father. The man had lost one job after another and finally their home. He hadn’t even been able to cover the medical bills that had accumulated as doctors treated Jonas’s mother’s heart condition. Eventually, they’d lost her, too. How could a man call himself a man if he couldn’t provide for his family?

Jonas pulled a cereal box out of the cupboard and glanced at it. Organic sticks and twigs. “You got any coffee?”

“What do you think?”

“Still on that health kick, huh?”

“Jonas?” She put her hands on the counter and stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

That was the toughest question of all. He turned away, opened the refrigerator and held out a carton of soymilk, unflavored to boot. “This all you have?”

“Why here?”

The damned cat sat in the middle of the kitchen floor staring at him as if he, too, waited for an answer.

“I’ve always wanted an island vacation.” He shrugged, taking out a bowl. “Figured—”

“Don’t mess with me.” She grabbed his arm and, as he turned toward her, just as quickly let go.

She was so close he could smell the scent of something spicy coming off her hair, see the dark green flecks in her pupils, and nearly feel the suppleness of her pink lips. If he kissed her, would he be able to remind her how much she’d once wanted him and no other man?

Lot of good it would do.

“Why Mirabelle?” she asked. “Why now?”

The cat proceeded to weave itself between his legs. Damned thing didn’t have an ounce of sense. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Missy how she’d ended up with the animal, but the question would imply an interest in her life and he couldn’t afford to open that door. He was here to heal and think. That was all. He backed away and the cat, as if it’d had enough of him, crossed the room and hopped outside through a kitty door. Jonas might as well do the same thing and get this over with.

“I’ve been in Chicago undercover for the last four years,” he said. “We were only a couple of weeks from making a huge bust when something went wrong. I haven’t figured it out yet, but somehow my cover was blown and all hell broke loose. They jumped me in an alley. It all happened so fast I’m not even sure who they were. One thing led to another and somehow I got shot. I need time to put the pieces together.”

“Why here? Why me?”

“I needed a place to hide. Somewhere I wouldn’t be found. And no one knows where you are. You did a damned good job of getting lost.”

Shortly after he’d died, she’d changed her name several times and her attorneys had made the paper trail extremely difficult to follow. She didn’t want her family to find her, and Jonas understood. While they’d been together, Missy had shared in great depth her family issues, mostly her problems with her overly controlling father. His own father might be a loser, but Missy’s was an outright asshole.

Jonas would never forget the shot to his pride when her dad took him aside on their wedding day. “She met you in a bar, Abel,” he’d said. “You might as well give it up right now. If your father’s track record is any indication, you will never be able to provide the lifestyle my daughter deserves.”

While it’d pissed Jonas off to no end that Missy’s father had run a background check on Jonas, the man had called it all right. Jonas had worked his ass off. No matter what he did or didn’t do, it was never enough. He would never earn her father’s respect. In the end, he’d only ended up regretting putting a bigger wedge between Missy and her family. It was another reason why his death had seemed like the right thing to do. With him out of the way, he’d hoped she might reconcile with her family. So much for that.

“Obviously, I didn’t get lost enough,” Missy said, bringing his thoughts back to the present. “You found me.”

Only because he’d kept track of her since day one, following her name changes and moves from town to town for the first couple of years. She’d done a helluva job covering her tracks, and just when her trail had finally gone cold to the rest of the world, she’d upped and moved once more for good measure, settling on Mirabelle. What had surprised him more than anything was that she’d settled on using Missy, the nickname he’d given her within the first few weeks of meeting.

“How?” she asked. “How did you find me?”

He shrugged again.

“You’ve been following me all this time.”

“Following? Don’t flatter yourself.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“Morbid curiosity?” Or the need to make sure she was at least at peace, if not happy, that he hadn’t completely ruined her life.

“I don’t buy it,” she said. “You could hide anywhere.”

Time to suck it up. “Okay. The truth.” As hard as it was, he held her gaze. “I know it’s going to sound crazy, but you’re the only person I can trust.” He might not be able to trust her with his heart, but with his life? She could no sooner turn him in than gnaw on a T-bone. “You’re all I got, Missy.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE ONLY PERSON HE COULD TRUST?

To anyone who didn’t know Jonas that might’ve sounded like quite the stretch, but he’d always been a loner. And she’d always been a sucker for lost causes, especially where Jonas was concerned.

Oh, for God’s sake, the man broke your heart. Twice. First by proving over and over again he’d preferred his job to her and then again when he’d faked his death.

Her memories tracked to the deep despair and loneliness that had set in not long after they’d returned from their honeymoon. One day Missy and Jonas were lying together in each other’s arms making plans for the future, and the next she was lying alone, night after night, weekend after weekend while some invisible demon pushed Jonas in his job. Trying to talk about it had only seemed to push him farther away.

Then, just when she’d begun contemplating divorce, she’d gotten pregnant. Hope had bloomed inside her. A child is what they’d needed to bind them more closely together, but she’d held off telling Jonas. What if things didn’t change? What if he remained lost in his job?

Maybe somewhere deep inside she’d known something was wrong with the pregnancy. She’d miscarried at ten weeks. In the blink of an eye, it was all over. She’d curled up in that hospital bed alone, unable to reach Jonas, cramping, bleeding, losing not only their baby, but all hope for their marriage. She’d been completely unprepared for the pain that had set in after she’d thought Jonas had died.

“Missy,” he said, pulling her back to her kitchen, to this reality that seemed so unreal. “I need—”

“No,” she said. “You can’t stay here. I can’t—”

“Missy—”

“There must be another agent. What about Brent Matthews?”

“Dead. This time for real.” Jonas paused, swallowed. “They nailed him in the alley. He took two bullets directly in the chest before the shooter turned on me.”

She felt herself wavering. Brent had seemed like a good man. Years ago, just after she’d married Jonas, she’d met him once or twice at various Bureau functions along with a few other agents and their wives and girlfriends. She’d always wondered whether or not getting a chance to connect with those other women would have helped her weather the—mostly—downs of Jonas’s job.

She gave a brisk shake of her head. “You must have someone else—”

“Some things aren’t adding up. Someone at the Bureau might be involved, and I don’t know who I can trust.”

“What kind of assignment were you on?”

“Undercover in a Colombian drug-trafficking ring.”

Drugs. Something about that raised the fine hair on the back of her neck. Oh, God. “Does my father know you’re alive?”

Missy’s father, Arthur Camden, had been a United States senator, ultraconservative and extremely powerful, for as long as anyone could remember. Although he was the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, which had FBI oversight, he had a reputation for putting his fingers in any governmental pie that struck his fancy. He’d been as controlling and manipulative at home with his family as he was on Capitol Hill.

“No,” Jonas answered. “The Judiciary Committee wasn’t getting briefed on the status of our mission.”

“Are you sure? The war against drugs was one of his pet projects for years.”

“This was a covert op,” Jonas said. “These days Congress is concerning itself more with national security. You know damned well your father is at the front of that line.”

He was probably right, but Missy had a bad feeling about this whole deal. “You have to leave.”

“Why?” He studied her with a gaze that left no stone unturned, promised to ferret out every secret.

Damned FBI agents. “Because I said so.”

He shook his head. “It’s good to know some things never change. You’re still as irrational as ever.”

She spun toward him. “I’m irrational? Just because I follow my instincts rather than analyze every decision?”

“Call it whatever you want. Impulsive. Hasty. Spontaneous. All the same to me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being spontaneous, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” The man wouldn’t know how to relax and have fun if he was sitting on a sandy beach and someone shoved an umbrella drink in his hand.

“And some people use spontaneity as an excuse.” He narrowed his eyes. “Covers up a helluva lot of irresponsibility.”

“I am not now, never have been, irresponsible. No matter what you think.” Immature once upon a time, yes. Never, ever irresponsible.

“Well it certainly helps having some money in a trust fund backing your play, doesn’t it?”

She straightened her shoulders. “For your information, I support myself from the proceeds from my own gift shop. For years, the only substantial money going out of my trust fund has been for donations.”

Oddly enough the biggest drain on her resources had been Mirabelle itself. The island had been sucking air a couple years back and a lot of businesses had been about to go under. Marty Rousseau had proposed building a golf course and pool and had promised to pay for part of it himself. When no other investors could be found, Missy had stepped in and directed her trust fund advisors to secretly buy the rest of the municipal bonds necessary to fund the projects. But she sure wasn’t going to explain that to Jonas.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You support yourself entirely off income from your gift store?”

“Not entirely.” She backtracked. “I could if I focused purely on sales, but my gift shop is about something other than profit.”

“So you do tap the trust fund for yourself?”

“Only small amounts for monthly living expenses.”

“Figures.”

As if they hadn’t spent more than a few days separated, the old arguments that had torn them apart resurfaced. They stood, glaring at each other. Neither of them admitting any wrongdoing. Both of them stubborn in their righteousness. How could she have ever believed this man was the one true love of her life?

But she had. Jonas had steadied her world after she’d dropped out of college and spent years running from the only life she’d known as the privileged daughter of wealthy, connected, and ultraconservative parents. He’d treated her like a normal, everyday person.

He’d helped her grow, mature, and reaffirmed for her what she’d always known in her heart. That there was so much more to life than the one her father had wanted her to live. She’d been happy for the first time. She’d been ashamed to tell him her background, afraid it would change things between them. Maybe it had. It wasn’t long after he’d found out the truth about her family that his work had taken hold of him and she couldn’t seem to shake him loose.

“Still sending thousands of dollars off to rescue turtles or baby seals or dalmatians?” he asked with disdain.

She straightened her shoulders, preparing to argue, but he was right. While they’d been married, she’d liberally tapped into her account for any and every cause. If someone asked, she cut a check. “I’m more careful with donations these days.”

“Buy any houses lately?”

That was a low blow. “Maybe if you’d been around more,” she ground out, “I wouldn’t have had to buy a house on my own.” She’d thought making a cozier home for them would make him want to be there more often. Instead, she’d been left behind getting bored in their house rather than in their apartment.

No, not bored. Lonely. She’d missed him terribly. Missed his energy, his dark sense of humor, his deep, hearty laugh. She’d missed the way her body felt when he was near, the way he’d listened to her as if she was the only person that mattered in his world. Before Jonas, she’d lived such a sheltered life in so many ways. He’d always encouraged her to find herself, to find things she enjoyed doing and creating. He’d helped her begin to see that Melissa Camden had a Missy Charms locked inside.

Then he died. That’s when the real loneliness set in. Her family, the people she should’ve been able to lean on, had only made things worse.

She glanced away from Jonas, the memories almost overwhelming. Her anger lost its fire. “My family came to your funeral. Even Charlie.”

Charlie Steele was the man Missy’s parents had tried to steer her toward most of her life. He was sweet and pleasant enough, but cut from the same cloth as his parents, her parents and her siblings. “The dirt had barely settled on your grave before my father turned to me and said…” She paused, unable to force out the words.

Jonas’s glare softened ever so slightly.

She’d never forget the superior look in her father’s eyes that day, or the way the words had felt branded into her brain. “‘You’ve had your fun, Melissa,’ he said. ‘Now come home. Consider yourself fortunate you’re through with the man without losing a penny. Charles has already agreed to take you back. All will be as it should be.’”

Jonas clenched his jaw.

“I’m not ready for him to find me, Jonas. Not now. Probably not ever.”

Knowing she could never go back with her family, she’d packed her bags and floundered on her own for months, desperately trying to break free from her family, her name. Her father had hired detectives who always seemed to find her. The media would track down his men tracking her down. Very quickly, she’d gotten good at hiding her trail.

She’d transferred her trust fund to a management firm that had no dealings with the rest of the Camden clan. The company was given strict instructions to never disclose any information on her whereabouts to anyone. When the decision to start her own family and adopt had settled in her heart, she’d gotten serious about getting lost and finding a place to raise children. She’d found exactly what she was looking for on Mirabelle—a home, people she cared about and who cared about her.

Another blink of an eye and all that could change, too.

“I understand, Missy. I do.” Jonas ran a hand through his long hair. “Dammit, all I’m asking for is a few days. At most a couple weeks.”

“Weeks? Living here? Are you out of your mind?”

“Missy—”

“I’ll give you one day and one day only to rest up from that gunshot wound.”

“Mighty gracious of you.”

“The first ferry leaves Mirabelle at seven in the morning.” She wrapped her arms around herself, hoping to contain her emotions. “Tomorrow. I want you on that boat.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Miss, but I’m not going anywhere.” He sat at the counter with a carton of soymilk and a box of cereal. “Not yet, anyway.”

“You can’t stay here. I mean it, Jonas.”

“I can. I will.”

“This is a small island. I know everyone and everyone knows me—”

“Lot of friends here, then?”

“Yes—”

“They’d do anything to protect you? Like your doctor?”

“One call and our police chief, Garrett—”

“What, Missy? He’ll arrest me? Throw me in jail? Kick me off the island? For what? I show him my badge and explain that I’m your husband. It’s only a matter of time before the fact that you’re a Camden comes out, and everyone on this island knows you for the liar you are.”

She stepped back, feeling as shocked as if he’d slapped her face. It wasn’t just that her father was a well-known senator. The name Camden fell right in line with several other historically famous, not to mention extremely wealthy, American last names. Missy’s great-great-grandfather had not only been an inventor and engineer, he’d also been one of America’s early entrepreneurs, making millions while this country’s economy boomed.

“I’ve never lied to anyone on Mirabelle,” she said. “Or to you. Never.”

“A lie of omission is still a lie. I’ll bet my last dollar you’ve omitted telling everyone on this island who you are and where you come from. Right, Missy Charms? What will all the simple folk of Mirabelle think of you after they find out your real last name is Camden?”

In truth, she hadn’t purposefully lied to anyone. She’d stopped using her father’s name back in college. Sick of year after year of having people act differently around her as soon as they found out who she was, she’d decided to be someone else.

She never told anyone her real last name. Not anymore. These days people saw Missy the way she wanted to be seen. She hadn’t even told Jonas until a few days before their wedding. He’d told her it didn’t matter, but a part of her had always wondered if he’d ever truly forgiven her. He didn’t understand. Not really.

“When all your friends here find out you grew up in a mansion out east,” he went on. “Spent your summers flitting between your family compounds on Long Island and Los Angeles and the villa in the south of France. How many folks here on Mirabelle do you think have skied the Swiss Alps? Gone to an Ivy League university? Got driven around by chauffeurs most of their childhood?”

Embarrassed, Missy looked away. She’d never felt a part of the Camden clan. It wasn’t just about her father, either. As a vegetarian, tree-hugging hippie she’d never fit with any of them. While her sister and two brothers had excelled in competitive sports, Missy had preferred yoga. They consumed, she recycled. They voted right-wing, she left. They spent on designers, she donated to nonprofits.

“What would Mirabelle folks think, Missy, of your hundred million dollar trust fund?”

There was no telling for sure. A few would think nothing of it. Others would want—expect—things from her. Still others would act strangely, awkwardly around her. All she wanted was anonymity. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Just for some time to figure out what went wrong with your stupid assignment?”

“You got it.”

“There it is. Still alive and kicking,” she said bitterly. “That blind and unwavering commitment to the job.” In the end, she’d been bested by the Bureau.

“You’ve never been more right.” He cocked his head at her. “Nothing’s changed. I was the job. I still am the job. So until I figure out what went wrong on my job, I’m not leaving here.”

As they faced each other off, his gaze momentarily landed on her necklace. Last night, after he’d first fallen asleep in her bed, she’d flashed on the image of him naked and her skin had flushed with heat. Feeling the need for a shield, she’d snatched up the crystals along with a change of clothing.

“Those look suspiciously like Arabic letters.” He reached out and examined the pendant. “The Ayat al-Kursi,” he whispered. “Verse of the throne.” Jonas could not only read Arabic, he could speak a couple different dialects, along with German and Spanish. “What do you need protection from?” he murmured.

“Not what,” she said softly. “Who.”

Looking surprisingly offended, he dropped the crystals as if they’d singed his skin. “Still have those divorce papers?”

“Oddly enough,” she said, “I kept them.” She’d needed a reminder that a divorce is what she’d intended even before he died.

“Give me two, three weeks tops to heal and figure out who tried to kill me and why.” Looking entirely spent, he started back toward her bedroom. “Then I’ll sign your damned divorce papers and get the hell out of your life. This time for good.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“ARE THE T-SHIRTS ON THIS RACK discounted, too?”

A couple of hours after Missy’s confrontation with Jonas, she stood in the middle of her gift shop, looking steadily into a tourist’s sunburned face. For the life of her, she couldn’t seem to focus on the words coming out of that lipsticked mouth. All she’d been able to think about was the fact that her husband was alive.

Four years, five months, one week and three days.

That’s how long it had been since Jonas had—supposedly—died. If necessary, she could calculate the passage of time down to the minute. The FBI had come to her house to tell her the helicopter had crashed at exactly 1:58 in the afternoon. He’d died on impact, they’d said. There was nothing anyone could’ve done. Still, she’d insisted on seeing his body and had fallen apart at the sight of what she’d believed were his charred remains.

Now where was that son of a bitch of a dead husband? Hanging out in her home, doing God only knows what. Simply imagining him in her private space, in the house she’d worked so hard to turn into a relaxed and comfortable haven, threw off her balance. She glanced around at the other tourist or two moseying around her shop and took a deep breath, hoping to clear her head.

“T-shirts?” the woman in front of her said, not a little irritated. “On sale?”

“I’m sorry. Just the rack in the corner is thirty percent off.”

The woman shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Then you should be more specific with your signage.”

Normally, Missy would’ve ignored the comment, but this morning was nowhere near normal. “Don’t like it?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “You can leave.”

The unrepentant comment had no sooner left her mouth, than she recognized it as having come from the old Missy. The spoiled, immature, reckless and rash Melissa Camden. The young woman who had unapologetically married Jonas less than three months after meeting him. The woman who had pouted—she had to be honest, at least with herself—when Jonas had had to work late or leave town for an assignment.

“Well, I never!” The woman roughly hung the shirt back on the rack and huffed out of the shop.

Missy glanced around. One down. Two more to go.

Apparently, Jonas barging back into her life had somehow thrown Missy back in time, as if she’d lost the past four plus years of growing and maturing. She’d been only twenty-three when she’d met him and an immature twenty-three at that. But she’d known what she’d wanted back then. Him.

She’d been doing tarot readings, for fun, at the bar she was working at in Quantico, Virginia. To this day, she had no clue what had drawn her to that town, but back then she wasn’t questioning much. She’d broken free of her father and the last thing she’d wanted was structure or rules. She’d been letting her instincts and intuition drive her on the way to discovering this world.

What had driven her on the night she’d met Jonas had been her body. She’d wanted him, and she was going to have him. They’d made love in the back of his SUV, and from that moment on she’d believed she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with him.

How could Fate have been so wrong?

Missy pressed the inside of her left arm against her side, putting close to heart the chakra symbols she’d had tattooed there not long after Jonas had supposedly died. Steady, Missy. Remember who you are. Remember who you’ve become.

Maybe Jonas dying had been the best thing that had ever happened to her. She’d been forced to find herself apart from who she was with him. Being on Mirabelle had helped her become Missy Charms, the responsible, respectful, albeit a bit flighty, woman who ran her own small business.

She paid her bills, mostly by the due dates, and she’d employed the same student for several summers in a row, helping the young woman, Gaia, make her way debt-free through college. Whimsy might not yet be breaking even, but she had the luxury of not having to worry about making a buck.

Not the typical, north woods, painted-fish-mailbox kind of gift shop, Missy inventoried, among other things, candles and incense burners, tarot cards and wind chimes, Buddha statues and water fountains, unique books and greeting cards made from recycled materials, clothing made from organic fabric and handmade jewelry, some of which Missy made herself.

In a place like Los Angeles, her wares would’ve likely flown off the shelves, but the Mirabelle residents had all thought she was crazy. Maybe she was. Maybe her gift shop never would break even. The important part was that all of her inventory came from either small U.S. businesses, more often than not owned by women trying to eke out a living, or foreign fair trade markets. There were more important things on her agenda than turning a profit.

Missy glanced around her shop and tried to shake off all her misgivings. Stretching out her neck to relax, she walked to the main desk, lit a stick of pine-scented incense and stuck it in a holder on the counter. The clean scent might go a long way in clearing her head and helping her dispel the negative energy she seemed to be carrying around with her since confronting Jonas that morning.

Slim sauntered into the store from the back room and Missy picked him up. “You’re even better than incense,” she whispered.

Since rescuing him as a tiny mewling kitten, the silky softness of Slim’s thick coat never ceased to take her to a calm, comfortable place. Of course, Missy spoiled him, but how could she not? He followed her everywhere, often walking with her down to the shop to hang for a few hours. Whenever he got bored, he’d simply climb out into the alley through his little door and find his own way home.

“Psst, Missy.” The quiet voice came from behind her.

She spun around to find Ron Setterberg, her neighbor and surrogate father as well as owner of the equipment rental shop a couple blocks away, peeking out of her back room. The cat had probably followed Ron here.

“Just thought I’d stop by and visit for a sec.” He usually visited once a day, either at her shop, or after work in the early evenings at home. “Jan has the day off, so I’m heading to the house to have lunch with her.”

Ron and his wife, Jan, the manager of the Mirabelle Island Inn, never had any children of their own, so they had pretty much adopted Missy since she’d moved to Mirabelle. Aside from Ron helping with repair work, he and Jan also invited Missy to their home for the occasional Sunday brunch and always for holiday meals.

“You got a sec?” Ron asked.

“Sure. Gaia?” Missy signaled to her helper. “You got things covered?”

“No problem.”

Holding Slim in her arms, Missy followed Ron into the back room, stepping over boxes of inventory piled on the floor. She could never resist ordering more than she needed of almost everything. Putting food on needy tables took precedence over her storage issues. “What’s up?”

He glanced around and his gaze landed on the storage shelves he’d purchased for her months ago still sitting unassembled in their original boxes. “You know it wouldn’t take me long to put those together. I could have this storage room organized in a day.” He’d been offering his assistance off and on ever since Missy had first started renting this retail space from him and Jan.

“Getting organized implies the possibility of staying organized.” Missy grinned. “We both know there’s not much likelihood of that happening.” All she really cared about was making sure the cat door was free and clear so that Slim could get in and out whenever he liked.

“One of these days the bug’s going to bite you,” he said, slipping between a couple tall stands of boxes. “I repaired that display case for you and set it back here by the door.” He showed her how to work the key to open the lock.

“Thanks, this’ll be great for some of the more expensive jewelry,” she said. “How you feeling today?” He looked a little flushed.

“Blood pressure’s still acting up a bit. Sean’s got me on a new medication, so we’ll see.” He studied her face. “What’s your excuse? You don’t look so hot this morning.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Been eating right? Personally, I think you could use a nice juicy Delores burger.”

Ron never could quite accept Missy being a vegetarian. He was always wanting her to try one of Delores Kowalski’s cheeseburgers at the Bayside Café by the marina.

“I’m fine, Ron. Just didn’t sleep well last night.”

How was she going to hide Jonas’s presence from him and Jan? More important, what would the couple say if she told them the truth about herself? What would all the islanders do, say, think if they found out she was a Camden?

If Jonas had never forgiven her for keeping her Camden heritage from him, it was entirely possible Ron and Jan wouldn’t forgive her, either. How could they possibly understand where she’d come from, let alone her reasons for hiding from her past? At the very least, they might start treating her differently.

She recalled too many instances where people changed how they related to her simply because of her last name and the money behind it. On campus, teachers at college either expected too much from her or didn’t expect enough. Students were either jealous or bent over backward wanting to be her friend. Out shopping with her mother and sister, some of the most dreadful experiences of her life, store clerks would see them coming and turn their backs on the other clients just to please the Camdens. As long as Missy had waved the Camden flag, she’d no hope for honesty.

She hugged Slim tighter, nuzzled her nose in his neck. No, she couldn’t tell Ron and Jan. She couldn’t risk losing the relationship she had with them.

“Hey,” she said, putting aside all the negative thoughts as she set Slim down. “I’ve got something for you.” He’d been complaining of various ailments, so Missy had put together a box of homeopathic remedies, teas and vitamin supplements. “Here you go.” She held it out to him.

“What’s this?”

“Stuff to help you feel better.” She smiled. “It can’t hurt, anyway.”

“Well then, you’d better put together a care package for Jan, too.” He patted her cheek. “Neither one of us is getting any younger.” He’d be celebrating his sixty-fifth birthday soon with a backyard barbecue, but Missy refused to think about the possibility of them retiring and moving south.

“Hey, now that I think about it, I repaired your hair dryer,” he said, heading toward the door. “I’ll bring it on by the house sometime tonight.”

“No, that’s okay,” she said, not ready yet to explain Jonas. “I’ll come by and get it.” She’d told Jonas in no uncertain terms that he was not to leave her house, but she wasn’t going to be able to keep him secret for long.

Missy’s cell phone rang. She’d been expecting a call from a supplier with whom she’d been playing telephone tag, so she quickly glanced at the display. The adoption agency. What was going to happen when they found out about Jonas?

Ron noticed the name glowing on her phone. “That Barbara? Aren’t you going to answer it?”

Missy had been sharing her adoption trials and tribulations with Ron and Jan since she’d moved to Mirabelle. She couldn’t close him off now.

“Well, go on,” he said. “She might have good news.”

Missy answered the call. “Hi, Barbara. What’s up?”

“You ready for some exciting news?”

Ron heard the comment coming over the line and perked up.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.