A witness in jeopardy…

and a killer on the loose.

Hiding in witness protection is the only option for Priscilla Anderson after witnessing a murder. Then Lucas Langsdale shows up claiming to be her husband right when a hit man finds her. With partial amnesia, she has no memory of her marriage or the killer’s identity. Yet she will have to put her faith in Luc if they both want to live to see another day.

SARAH HAMAKER has written two nonfiction books, as well as stories for several Chicken Soup for the Soul books. She’s a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and ACFW Virginia, as well as president of Capital Christian Writers Fellowship. She’s also a parent coach with a weekly podcast called You’ve Got This. Sarah lives in Virginia with her husband, four children and three cats. Visit her online at sarahhamakerfiction.com.

Also By Sarah Hamaker

Dangerous Christmas Memories

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Dangerous Christmas Memories

Sarah Hamaker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09895-3

DANGEROUS CHRISTMAS MEMORIES

© 2019 Sarah Hamaker

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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“I’ve been thinking about the night of the shooting. My memory is like one of those old reel-to-reel films that’s being restored. Sometimes the frames are out of order, but sometimes there are several frames intact together.”

“You’d tried hypnotherapy when you first entered the witness protection program, right?” Luc asked.

“Yeah, but the doctor blamed me for not remembering. He said I was intentionally repressing the memories.

I never went back to him.”

“When did Mac mention it again?”

“When we were going over my initial witness statement to prepare for the trial. He asked if I would be willing to undergo hypnosis again. I agreed, as long as it wasn’t with the previous doctor.”

“Who else would know you were considering hypnosis again?”

“You don’t think it’s a coincidence that someone is trying to kill me now that I’ve resumed hypnotherapy?”

“No, I don’t.” Luc kept his voice low, his eyes never leaving her pale face. “I think someone doesn’t want you to recall any more details about what happened that night.”

Dear Reader,

I’m often asked where I get my story ideas. Most of the time, the answer is simply, “It came to me one day out of the blue.” Not so with Dangerous Christmas Memories. The genesis of this story came from a news article about a celebrity who didn’t realize his Las Vegas marriage was actually legal until years after the fact. Sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction. I knew I had to tell a story about a man and woman who meet and marry quickly in Vegas, then end up separated without dissolving the marriage. But turning that idea into a workable manuscript took numerous starts and rewrites before the story finally came together in Dangerous Christmas Memories. And I’m glad I could give Priscilla and Luc’s story a much happier ending than the celebrity who inspired the book.

Sarah Hamaker

This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope. It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.

—Lamentations 3:21–23

To my husband, Christian, for his unfailing encouragement for my writing.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

Priscilla Anderson set the blow-dryer on high and aimed the heat at Nancy’s damp hair with one hand, a round brush in her other hand to smooth the slightly curly hair. Thank goodness the noise of the dryer meant Priscilla didn’t have to pay attention to her client’s incessant chatter. Today Nancy gushed about her recent trip to the Bahamas with her third husband over Thanksgiving. As she straightened Nancy’s hair, Priscilla concentrated on keeping her hands steady enough that Nancy wouldn’t notice she wasn’t her usual self.

Priscilla clicked the dryer to a lower setting and began shaping the long bob to curl gently under Nancy’s cheekbone. She sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in an attempt to soothe her jitters as she sent up a silent prayer. Lord, please keep me calm and safe from the man I think has been following me.

Turning off the hair dryer, she was relieved to see Nancy had her attention on her phone. Good, no small talk necessary for a bit longer. After touching the surface of the curling iron quickly to judge its heat, Priscilla put the finishing touches on Nancy’s hair.

“All done.” Priscilla exchanged the curling iron for a handheld mirror, handing the latter to Nancy to view the haircut and style as she swiveled the chair around for her client to view her reflection.

The older woman admired her hair in the mirror. “Perfection like always. I told my yoga class to ask for you if they wanted a world-class haircut at a good price.” Nancy smiled as Priscilla removed the salon cape with a snap. “You should move to one of those upscale places—your talents are hidden here.”

Priscilla shook her head as she walked her client to the front of Snippy’s, a chain of discount haircuts. “I appreciate your kind words, but this suits me just fine.”

Nancy sighed. “You are too modest for your own good. But then again, I’m happy to pay only twenty-five dollars for an eighty-dollar haircut!”

Priscilla ran Nancy’s credit card and handed her the slip to sign, glad that her hands had regained their steadiness. “Last time, you said you looked like a million bucks. I must be slipping.”

The other woman laughed as she gave the receipt back to Priscilla with a generous tip scrawled on the bottom. “See you next month.”

As Nancy exited the salon tucked into a strip mall, Priscilla caught a glimpse of a blond man in his late twenties—near her own age—lounging at one of the outdoor tables in front of the next-door coffee shop. She stepped closer to the floor-to-ceiling window, careful to keep her body partially hidden behind a decorated artificial Christmas tree positioned to the left of the front door. Unease coiled in her stomach like a strand of hair wrapping around a roller, tightening with a jerk as she recalled seeing the tall man behind her in a checkout line at the grocery store last night.

She had also seen him somewhere else before, but where? She closed her eyes briefly to pull up the memory. Ah, yes. Jogging by her apartment building Friday morning when she left for work. Now three days later, here he was again, outside her place of employment. Fairfax, Virginia, wasn’t that big a city that she could attribute the sightings to mere coincidence.

Fishing her phone from her apron pocket, she surreptitiously snapped several photos of the man as he sipped from a cup while gazing down at his smartphone.

Heart pounding, Priscilla moved away from the window and through the salon toward the small break room next to the back door. With her next appointment in fifteen minutes, she had time to call Mac.

“Everything okay?” US Marshal James “Mac” MacIntire’s voice had a sharp edge to it that Priscilla hadn’t heard before. The married marshal had become like an older brother to her since becoming her point of contact three years ago.

“I think someone’s following me.” Priscilla paced the length of the empty room.

“Tell me more.”

She relayed a description of the man. “The first time I noticed him, he was jogging by my apartment building. Last night, he was behind me in the checkout line at the grocery store. Now today he’s outside the salon at the coffee shop next door. Perfectly legitimate actions but something tells me it’s not accidental, that he meant to be in those places because I was there. I managed to take a couple of photos of him, but it was through a window, so it might not be clear. I texted them to you before I called.”

“Let me pull them up.”

Waiting while Mac accessed the photos, Priscilla concentrated on taking deep, controlled breaths to slow her racing heart. No sense in hyperventilating over what might be a coincidence. Her gut screamed that there was no way this guy just happened to show up exactly where she was at least three times in under a week.

“I emailed them to our tech guys to see what they can do to enhance them and trace his identity. He hasn’t tried to approach you?”

“No.” She kneaded the tight muscles in the back of her neck. “He’s been kind of lurking in the background.” She blew out a breath. “You know I don’t see danger behind every bush. He’s following me—that much I’m sure of.”

“Do you think he’s connected with our friend?” Mac voiced the very question that had occurred to Priscilla.

“If he is, I don’t know why I’m still alive.” She blinked back sudden tears at how comfortable she had been in her life here, that for a while, she’d managed to live like a normal person. If you called normal not being able to date or have close friends. If she stayed in witness protection much longer, she was afraid she’d never be comfortable getting close to anyone, given how superficial she had to keep all her relationships. With the very real potential of having to relocate at a moment’s notice, she had grown used to her own company. But with the trial coming up, she’d begun to let herself think of what life could hold beyond witness protection, and that had heightened her sense of loneliness. “I can’t believe I let my guard down enough to not notice someone was following me.”

“Priscilla, don’t beat yourself up. It happens to most people in the witness protection program.” Mac’s gentle tone soothed her. “We see it all the time in those who have been in WITSEC for more than a few years. And you’ve been in for seven.”

She centered her thoughts back on the problem at hand, grateful for his reassurance. “What should I do?”

“For now, nothing. You know the best way to stay alive is to not panic, and any deviation from your normal routine could tip him off that you’re onto him. Until we know what his agenda is, take extra precautions, have your go-bag ready and wait to hear from me. I’m headed into a briefing about our friend in five minutes, but then I’ll come get you.”

“Okay. I have clients scheduled through six today. I only hope I won’t mess up their haircuts because of my nerves.”

“I know I don’t have to say this, but please, be careful.” The seriousness of the way Mac delivered the platitude alerted Priscilla to just how shaken her handler was about the danger to her.

“I will.” Priscilla said goodbye just as a bell tone on her phone’s alarm rang to let her know she had a few minutes before her two o’clock appointment. She ducked into the single-stall restroom and locked the door. She needed to calm her inner turmoil or she’d never get through the rest of her shift.

Washing her hands, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. It had been just over seven years since she witnessed the shootings that had thrown her into the US Federal Witness Protection Program. She had worked hard to change her appearance and her mannerisms. No longer did she bite her nails when nervous. Her formerly blond hair lay hidden underneath a rich brown hair coloring that she recently streaked with purple and turquoise. Her hair, which she used to keep short and spiky, now hung past her shoulders. Today she’d twisted it up into two side buns higher on the crown of her head than the typical “Princess Leia” hairstyle.

She looked nothing like the terrified cocktail waitress who’d hidden underneath a skirted serving cart in the kitchen of the Las Vegas Last Chance Hotel and Casino and seen through a slit in the fabric a man with a gun and silencer shoot three people in the head. The events of that night still had a hazy film on them, meaning that she had trouble recalling her exact movements or why she ended up hiding in the kitchen, but the memories of the shooting itself had been seared into her memory. The news that the hit man, Mason Culvert, had escaped custody while in the hospital after an emergency appendectomy had shaken her to the core. With Culvert’s trial scheduled to begin just before Christmas, Priscilla feared the blond man could be connected to Culvert.

Leaving the bathroom, she walked toward the front of the store, passing three other stylists in various stages of cutting or styling their clients’ hair. The blond man stood by the register, talking to the owner, Sandra Yu. Priscilla froze. Her pulse kicked into high gear. Before she could slip out the back door and contact Mac again, Sandra turned and spotted her.

“Priscilla?”

Priscilla considered ignoring the summons and bolting, but the blond man had had numerous opportunities to hurt her if he’d wanted to do so. That lessened her fear enough to allow her curiosity to pique as to why he had been following her—and what he was doing in the salon.

“Yes, Sandra?” Priscilla pasted a smile on her face and joined them.

“This is Mr. Long, your two o’clock.” Sandra smiled at Mr. Long. “Priscilla’s one of our best stylists.”

“I’ve heard.” His voice triggered a hidden awareness. She’d heard him speak before, but before the memory could resurface fully, the impression vanished.

Instead, Priscilla took a deep breath and gestured toward her station. “Right this way, Mr. Long.” Cutting his hair would give her the perfect opportunity to question him under the guise of small talk—and wielding sharp scissors would offer some protection if his intentions weren’t on the up-and-up. With another prayer for God’s protection, she settled her client in the salon chair.

Lucas Benedict Langsdale III ran a hand through his shaggy hair. There had been a flicker of recognition in Priscilla’s eyes when he spoke. Clearly, his voice had jarred a memory from their shared past, but other than that brief pause, she acted as if she didn’t know him.

With effort, he kept his expression impassive. He’d play along with her game for a while, but soon enough he’d get the answers to questions he’d been waiting seven years to ask.

“Wash and cut?” Priscilla tapped the back of his chair.

“Both, please.” At least that would buy Luc more time with her to see if she was pretending not to know him. A bride who skipped out on her husband mere hours after their wedding had a lot of explaining to do. Not that her explanation would make him change his mind about officially dissolving their short union.

She draped a cape around him, her fingers lightly skimming the back of his neck as she fastened the snaps. The large mirror directly in front of him afforded an opportunity to watch as she combed out his thick hair with gentle tugs.

Raising her eyes to meet his in the mirror, she cocked her head to one side. “You want the same style you currently have?”

“That sounds good. I like it a bit shorter around the ears—can’t stand to have hair in my ears.” Luc closed his mouth, willing himself not to bombard her with questions about why she’d skipped out shortly after saying “I do.” When he couldn’t find her, Luc had filed a missing person’s report with the Las Vegas police, which had turned up nothing. It was as if Priscilla had vanished into thin air. That first long year, he’d searched for her off and on, but eventually, he’d resigned himself to her not wanting to be found. Thinking that perhaps their Las Vegas wedding hadn’t been legal after all, Luc had decided to forget the whole thing. But three years ago, an online post about a celebrity who had nearly committed bigamy because he had mistakenly thought his Las Vegas wedding license wasn’t real pushed Luc to reinvestigate Priscilla’s disappearance. After confirming through a Nevada attorney that their marriage was indeed legal, he had finally tracked her down.

“It’s easier to cut your hair shorter first. Then I’ll shampoo and style it.” Priscilla picked up a pair of scissors, and Luc noticed her hand trembled slightly.

Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent to his presence as he thought. Of all the scenarios he had imagined when coming face-to-face with Priscilla again, Luc had never anticipated a total lack of recognition. God, what should I do now—ask my questions or wait to see what she says?

He stayed silent as her fingers in his hair brought forward vivid memories of their time together at the Last Chance Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. He closed his eyes, letting go for a moment all the unanswered questions, and tried to relax as she touched his hair.

The front window shattered and an object zipped by him. His eyes popped open as someone screamed. Then something whizzed by his chest, striking the wall to the right of him with a thump.

“That’s gunfire!” Luc slid out of the chair onto the floor as the pop-pop-pop of three consecutive shots mingled with the sound of more breaking glass. Shards from the mirror at Priscilla’s station rained down on his head. Where was Priscilla?

Luc shook his head to rid it of bits of glass as he frog-walked behind the next station, then saw Priscilla running toward the back of the store. Lord, please keep her safe. Help me to protect her. Another hail of bullets shattered more glass and mirrors, eliciting another round of screams from stylists and clients hiding behind stations and chairs. Sirens wailed in the distance but there wasn’t time to wait for law enforcement to rescue Priscilla.

He used two vanities as cover, but had to take the last few feet in the open. As he bent over and headed down the short hallway where he’d seen Priscilla go, something buzzed past his left upper arm, bringing with it a short burst of pain. Ignoring it, Luc pressed forward just in time to see Priscilla fling open a door marked Private.

Luc reached the opened door seconds after her and hurled himself inside. His heart pounded as he straightened and spotted the back exit door just closing. Catching the door before it closed, he burst through it into a narrow alleyway behind the strip mall with a large stand of trees opposite.

A quick look to the left showed nothing, but to the right, Priscilla had nearly reached the end of the alleyway. The sound of gunfire faded as sirens indicated first responders had reached the shopping center. Behind the strip mall, the stillness belied the chaos that had erupted on the other side of the buildings. Luc shook off the throbbing of his left arm and ran after her, catching up as she veered through the trees on a dirt path he hadn’t seen from the alleyway. Just inside the woods, she paused near a junction where the dirt trail connected with a wider paved one, panting with her hand on her side.

“Are you okay?” He struggled to control his own breathing, which came out in gasps.

She nodded. “Just winded.”

“Thank God.” Luc couldn’t quite process what had happened. “Someone was shooting into the salon.” He gently shook his head to dislodge more pieces of glass. Why would someone fire a gun into a hair salon on a slow Monday afternoon?

Priscilla pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. “Shots fired. At the salon. Person we discussed earlier with me. We’re on the trail behind the shopping center.”

Luc almost didn’t catch her wording. A person she’d discussed earlier with who? He would have to figure out what she meant later, when he wasn’t winded from running from an active shooter. His left arm pulsated with pain as the adrenaline started to ebb.

For now, he kept his attention on Priscilla. Her breath hitched as she held the phone to her ear with a hand that shook.

Then a couple with two puppies straining at their leashes rounded the corner. Luc immediately moved to shield Priscilla from the strangers.

One of the puppies stopped to sniff Luc’s shoe. The man laughed as he tugged on the leash. “Sorry, he’s the overly friendly one.”

From the couple’s calm demeanor, they must not have heard the shots as they approached the shopping center from the rear path. Luc wasn’t about to enlighten them and murmured, “That’s okay,” as the man attempted to move the dog away from Luc.

The woman gasped as the puppy’s nose came up from the ground red. “You’re bleeding!”

Luc glanced at his upper arm. Blood he hadn’t noticed until now dripped down his sleeve and splashed onto the ground by his foot. He clamped his right hand over the wound. Sudden light-headedness washed over him, and he concentrated on breathing evenly to avoid passing out.

“Honey, call 911. That’s an awful lot of blood,” the woman said to her companion, who immediately whipped out his phone and punched in the numbers.

Luc started to agree, but one look at Priscilla’s face told him that she was not going to wait for an ambulance. She had already started to edge away to the right from the couple on the path, her voice low as she continued her conversation on the phone.

Although his arm ached and probably needed medical attention, Luc didn’t want to let her out of his sight again. Why hadn’t Priscilla panicked when the bullets started flying?

Now he had more questions that needed answers.

TWO

Priscilla had to tamp down her fear if she was to get out of this situation alive. She paced a few steps away from the couple and Mr. Long to talk quietly with Mac on her phone, her nerves jangling. She concentrated on slowing down her inhalation and exhalation.

“Was anyone hurt?” Mac snapped out the question. He had moved into crisis mode and she wasn’t about to let his briskness hurt her feelings.

“Yes, a bullet hit the upper left arm of Mr. Long. I don’t think it’s bleeding too bad. I don’t know if anyone was hit in the salon because I got out of there as fast as I could.” She sneaked a glance at Mr. Long, who had his right hand clamped on the wound.

“We need to get you out of there pronto. Your safety is top priority.” Mac’s reminder of the danger that still permeated the very air around her didn’t settle her nerves.

“Unfortunately,” Mac continued, “it could take me about thirty minutes to get to Fairfax. You can’t wait where you are. Still too close to the salon for my peace of mind.”

“My car’s in the parking lot near the salon.” Priscilla breathed in and out to the count of ten. Her brain kicked back into gear. “I only have my wallet.” She voiced her thoughts as she took in her surroundings. “And I have my phone. There’s a bus stop farther along this path. Hold on a minute.” She consulted the Next Bus app on her phone, then clicked back to Mac. “The Gold 1 Cue bus is due to arrive in less than ten minutes. Why don’t you text me where to get off once I board at the Daniels Run/Lee Highway stop?”

“Yes, got it.”

“See you soon.” She disconnected the call and eased a look over her shoulder. The woman handed her leash to her companion and drew out a bandanna from her back pocket to wrap around Mr. Long’s arm. It was time for Priscilla to move.

Priscilla stepped away without the group noticing. She didn’t want to abandon the man who had been shot on her account, but she also didn’t want to endanger him further, which she would if she stayed with him. The man who was after her would have no bones about shooting her and whoever she was with—of that she had no doubt. Priscilla took a bigger step and crunched a dry twig with her shoe.

“Hey, don’t leave!” Mr. Long extracted himself amid the woman’s protest that they had called for an ambulance.

“You should stay here, get help for your arm,” Priscilla said, then broke into a run down the path. Too much time had been wasted already. The shooter could be around the back of the building searching for her. He’d find the path easily enough. She had to be on the bus heading to Mac and safety.

A branch snapped behind her. She risked a glance to see Mr. Long, his face pale, jogging along the trail. He should be waiting for medical attention, not following her.

Ignoring him, she slowed slightly to check the Next Bus app. The Gold 1 Cue bus would arrive in seven minutes at the closest stop. The next bus heading in the right direction wouldn’t be coming for another thirty minutes—she definitely couldn’t wait around for that one.

Priscilla increased her pace, pushing through the stitch in her side. If only she liked running, she’d be in better shape. Her lungs burned as she sucked in more air before checking the time on the app again. Four minutes to the bus’s arrival. Right up ahead, Priscilla saw the trail spur to the street on the left and took it, pulling on her reserves to make it up the steeper incline without slowing her speed.

Mr. Long grunted as he tried to keep up. Her conscience chided her for caring only for her own skin and not about whether he would pass out on the trail. But he didn’t have to follow her.

“You should have waited for medical help,” she said over her shoulder.

The man merely shook his head, and she turned her attention back to the path. Somehow, as she cut his hair, she hadn’t been afraid of him. After living for years fearful of her fellow human beings, she had learned to trust her instincts when it came to who she could trust and who she couldn’t. The way he’d thanked God for her safety and stepped between her and the dog walkers had reaffirmed what her gut had told her—that she could trust him. Too bad, she would have to find a way to lose him before his association with her got him killed.

Priscilla reached the edge of the woods and halted to check the bus arrival time once more. Craning her neck to view the street, she saw that everything appeared normal. A woman with a baby in a stroller and a preschooler holding on to the handle waited at the bus stop. That meant Priscilla could hang back at the tree line until the bus approached the stop.

“Why were you running? Shouldn’t we have waited to talk with the police?” Mr. Long braced himself against a tree, his complexion gray.

“You need to see a doctor.” Priscilla feared Mr. Long would collapse right there. If he did, she would miss her bus, because she couldn’t just leave a hurt man to fend for himself, not when he was injured on her account.

“I need to speak with you.”

The simplicity of his request startled her, and an alarm bell rang inside her head. She narrowed her eyes. “You are following me.”

Mr. Long stayed bent over, his forehead resting against his right arm propped on the tree. “You noticed?”

Priscilla ticked off the incidents on her fingers. “The grocery store, jogging by my apartment building, today outside Snippy’s. Here beside me now. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

The man shifted upright with a wince. Then his eyes closed and his body slumped toward the tree.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Priscilla hastened to his side and grabbed his right arm. “Don’t you faint on me.” She slung the arm over her shoulders, nestling underneath to support him. “You need to stay upright.”

“I’ll be okay,” he mumbled against her hair. “Just give me…a minute.”

Priscilla didn’t have a minute. The bus rumbled up to the curb. Taking him with her presented its own set of problems, but she had no time to dither over a decision. Better take him with her—at the very least, she could find out why he had been following her.

“I don’t have a minute. The bus is here, and I need to get on it.” Without another word, she started off toward the bus. To her relief, he stayed upright and leaned on her only a little bit.

“Bus? But my car’s in the parking lot.” His words came out a bit slurred as if pain was dulling his senses.

“No time. Now keep quiet.” Priscilla dug a ten-dollar bill out of her work apron and fed it into the meter. “For both of us,” she told the driver, an older woman wearing a Santa hat with cropped hair and a name tag that read Charlene Grant.

Charlene eyed Mr. Long with an apprehensive expression. “What happened to him?” the driver asked as Priscilla gathered her change from the machine.

“You know how men are.” She gave Charlene a rueful smile. “A teensy cut and he goes all woozy on me.” She jerked her head toward the bandanna. “He’ll be all right.”

Charlene chuckled. “If you say so.”

Priscilla hustled Mr. Long to the back of the bus, plopping him down in the corner, then sitting down beside him as the bus pulled away from the curb.

With deft movements, she untied her work apron with the word Snippy’s and a logo of an animated pair of smiling scissors. At least she had some cash, thanks to the generous tips of her customers. Stuffing the bills into her wallet, she checked to make sure the driver’s attention wasn’t on her and Mr. Long, then shoved the apron underneath her seat. No sense advertising where she worked, especially once the news broke about the shooting.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Priscilla whipped her head to stare into Mr. Long’s deep blue eyes tinged with pain. “Why are you following me?”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You always answer a question with a question?”

“When I haven’t gotten an answer the first time I asked it, yes.” Something about him triggered a feeling that she should know him. Their encounter hadn’t been recent—of that she was sure. Which meant it predated the shooting that thrust her into witness protection and running for her life. But she’d had so few friends back then and none of them had been a hunky, tall blond man.

“Why am I following you?” The man drew in a steadying breath and let it out slowly. A little color returned to his cheeks. “Because I couldn’t believe I’d finally found you after years of searching.”

A frisson of fear sliced into her. “You’ve been looking for me for years?” She stiffened her spine. It was too late to double guess her decision now. She was stuck with the man.

“Yes, for a very long time.” He held her gaze, his eyes both demanding and pleading with her for what, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t look away.

Her phone pinged, indicating an incoming text. She tore her gaze away to check, glad for an excuse to break eye contact. Mac’s text was brief: Traffic better than expected. Get off at the stop by Chick-fil-A. Waiting there.

The bus eased into Fairfax Circle from Old Lee Highway, then swung onto Fairfax Boulevard. The stop Mac indicated would be the next one. She pulled the signal string. “This is our stop.” She would let Mac finish questioning why Mr. Long had been searching for her.

Luc gritted his teeth against the discomfort in his arm. The bullet had gone straight through the upper flesh of his arm, which still seeped some blood through the bandanna. So much for behaving like a man in front of Priscilla. She’d had to practically carry him onto the bus. At least she hadn’t left him in the woods, where he had almost passed out. Why she took him with her he didn’t know, especially as it had become obvious to him that she had no clue who he was. No one could fake that look of unrecognition. The pain of her not recognizing him cut deeper than the bullet.

The bus ground to a halt, and Priscilla rose. “Do you need any help?”

He shook his head as he struggled to stand while a wave of dizziness crashed over him. By sheer willpower, he managed to exit the bus without falling flat on his face. Thank You, Lord.

Once off the bus, Priscilla paused as the driver reentered traffic after picking up passengers. She pointed to a black SUV idling by the curb. “That’s our ride.”

Luc nodded and followed behind her at a slower pace. He placed his hand on the side of the car to steady himself, pleased he hadn’t stumbled and fallen to the ground during the short walk. Priscilla reached the vehicle first and spoke to the driver through the open window.

Priscilla opened the back door. “Get in.”

Probably not a good idea to climb into a car driven by a stranger, but the truth was, he didn’t think he could stand on his own two feet much longer. Besides, he didn’t want to lose sight of Priscilla again. In he climbed, with Priscilla right behind him. The dark interior warmed his body, the back windows heavily tinted. A man in the front had short-cropped hair and wore dark shades and a Bluetooth headset in his ear.

“Did anyone else follow you?” the man asked Priscilla in clipped tones, smoothly merging the SUV into the late-afternoon traffic on Fairfax Boulevard.

“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”

“Right.” The man threw a glance at Luc in the mirror. “How’s your arm?”

Luc glanced down at the bandanna covering the wound. The gray bandanna with pink Yorkshire dogs had only a bit of red smudged along one edge. “Okay. I think it’s stopped bleeding.”

“We’ll get it checked out when we arrive.” The man turned his attention back to the road, his eyes moving from the rearview mirror, to the side mirrors, to the windshield.

“Where are we going?” Luc should have asked that question before getting into the SUV, but where Priscilla was going, he was along for the ride.

“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” the man stated calmly. “Priscilla, you’ll find a first-aid kit under the front passenger seat.”

Luc closed his eyes as the SUV continued north on Fairfax Boulevard. He wanted to ask who the driver was, question why he couldn’t be told their destination, why Priscilla had called this man after the shooting, and a million more questions. But a wet blanket of tiredness and pain settled over him, dulling his senses.

“Mr. Long?” Priscilla’s voice brought him back to reality.

He opened his eyes, focusing on her warm brown ones. Wait a minute. Priscilla had had blue eyes—not a bright vivid blue like his own, but a softer shade like the sky after a gentle summer rain. No, he was sure this was the woman he had married. He wanted to ask her why she acted like she didn’t know him, but with his brain fuzzy from the pain, he should wait until his head was clear to tackle such questions.

“Here’s some ibuprofen for your pain. I’m sorry we don’t have something to wash them down with.” Priscilla ripped open a single-dose pill packet.

When he extended his right hand, she shook the pills into it.

Luc tossed the ibuprofen in his mouth and dry swallowed. “Thanks.” He closed his eyes again, but couldn’t help asking one of his many questions. “You were going to leave me in the woods. Why didn’t you?”

She sighed. “Because I’m responsible for your getting shot.”

THREE

Luc’s eyes popped open. “How could you have known someone would start shooting into the hair salon?”

Priscilla didn’t answer, but exchanged a look with the driver. Something wasn’t right here. Even his pain-dulled brain picked up on the undercurrent of concern—no, fear—that hummed around Priscilla. Why would she still be afraid when they’d escaped the shooter?

He hadn’t realized he’d voiced that last question aloud until the driver responded. “I’m asking the questions. Who are you? Why were you following Priscilla?”

Luc frowned. Priscilla had asked the same thing, but he hadn’t had time to answer her fully. He wasn’t sure he wanted to blurt out the entire story in front of a man with whom Priscilla was acquainted but of whom he knew nothing. “I could ask you the same question—who are you?”

The man executed a sharp right turn onto a business street that ran parallel with the main road. “I’m US Marshal James MacIntire.”

A US marshal? Luc blinked. He might have guessed law enforcement from the way MacIntire carried himself, but he wouldn’t have pegged him as a marshal. “I thought marshals hunted fugitives.”

“They do.” MacIntire cut his eyes to the rearview mirror, then the two side mirrors. He punched something on the middle console that Luc couldn’t see from his vantage point behind the passenger’s seat. “We’ve got company. A silver Ford Explorer with North Carolina plates Charlie, zebra, delta, one, three, five.” He repeated the plate number, listened for a moment, then disconnected the call.

“I was followed?” Priscilla sounded scared and angry at the same time. “I’m sorry, Mac.”

Mac. The person she’d been talking to on the trail. Then he remembered the other job marshals had—witness protection.

As Mac whipped the car into the parking lot of an apartment complex and exited on the back end into a residential neighborhood, Luc turned to Priscilla, who gripped the grab bar with one hand while the other remained fisted on her lap. Her fear, the certainty with which she knew the shooting at the salon had been because of her, Priscilla’s reluctance to share anything with him, and her observation of his presence on the fringes of her life instantly made perfect sense to him. She was in the US Federal Witness Protection Program.

That knowledge didn’t alleviate his concern that she didn’t recognize him. Luc would puzzle that out later, but he could clarify what was happening right now. That knowledge brought a fierce need to protect her from whatever danger she was in, despite the fact that she had deserted him directly after marrying him. As Mac executed an illegal rolling stop at a deserted intersection, Luc quietly said to Priscilla, “You’re in witness protection, aren’t you?”

Priscilla gaped at Luc. “What did you say?”

Luc patiently repeated the question, relieved that the ibuprofen had indeed dulled the pain and given him back some of his mind.

Her expression shuttered, giving him no clue as to her thoughts. “Who are you, Mr. Long?”

Luc gave her a pass on not answering his question. Maybe hearing his name would jingle a bell in her memory. “For starters, my name isn’t Mr. Long. It’s Lucas Benedict Langsdale the third.” Saying his full name always sounded pompous to his ears. Blast his father for naming him after his paternal grandfather, who had been named for an ancestor who had died in the mid-1800s.

She raised her eyebrows, a slight smile playing across her lips. “The third, hmm? The second must be your father, then?”

“The second is my grandfather, still alive and kicking at the ripe old age of eighty-five. I go by Luc, while my grandfather’s Lucas.” He neatly steered the conversation back to Priscilla. “But my name is not important. Why are you hiding out in witness protection?”

Mac turned right onto Annandale Road as a newscaster on the radio read the top-of-the-hour news at 3:00 p.m. “Priscilla isn’t at liberty to discuss the matter.”

“Let me guess—that information is on a need-to-know basis, and I don’t need to know.” Luc would have to be content with having his suspicions nearly one hundred percent confirmed.

Mac frowned, his head swiveling to look over his left shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” Priscilla craned her neck to look in the same direction.

Luc started to look as well, but the movement jostled his arm, so he stayed put.

“I thought a truck was getting too close, but it eased back.” Mac shifted in his seat and directed his attention to the traffic in front of him.

Priscilla resettled in her seat, but kept her hand braced against the door. “Is it the Explorer again?”

“No, a beat-up Toyota pickup without a front license plate.” Mac made a right turn onto Arlington Boulevard, then accelerated into the left lane of the divided four-lane highway.

Priscilla gulped beside him as the vehicle wove in and out of traffic. “What’s happening?”

As they approached the Wilson Boulevard intersection, Mac whipped the SUV into the right-hand lane as the traffic light at the intersection flicked from green to yellow. Luc leaned slightly to see the view in the driver’s-side mirror. A dirt-caked truck mimicked their SUV’s every move, staying right on their bumper.

Luc shifted to see out the windshield as the traffic light turned red, sending up a prayer for safety as Mac hit the gas. Then the truck slammed into the rear of the car, sending it spinning into oncoming traffic.

Priscilla screamed as Mac wrenched the wheel to miss a collision with a minivan hurtling toward them from the right. Their SUV skidded as Mac fought to bring the vehicle under control.

“Watch out! He’s coming again!” Mac maneuvered the car onto Wilson Boulevard, a one-way thoroughfare, just as the SUV shook with another hit from behind. Metal screeched as the other vehicle seemed to push the SUV along. Mac struggled to keep the SUV moving forward in the left lane. A shopping center parking lot entrance loomed on the left, and Mac swerved into it.

Hands shaking, Priscilla looked behind her in time to take a mental snapshot of the battered pickup zooming away, its license plate smeared with mud. Mac eased the SUV into the parking lot of an Asian supermarket, picking a spot away from other cars.

“Everyone okay?” Mac put the SUV into Park.

“I’m all right.” Priscilla looked at Luc, who offered a tiny shrug. “Mr. Langsdale’s hanging in as well.”

“Good. We’d better get moving again.” Mac put his hand on the ignition as sirens wailed closer. “Looks like someone called the cops.”

Priscilla twisted around to see two police cruisers pull into the parking lot and head toward their SUV. Her stomach flip-flopped. Mac had told her that local law enforcement wasn’t always cooperative with marshals and their witnesses. She didn’t want to wait for the officers to question them and fill out paperwork—she wanted to get as far away from Fairfax, Virginia, as she could to a safer location.

The cruisers parked behind them. Mac disconnected his phone from the console and dialed a number, telling whoever answered, “We’re in a spot of trouble.” He detailed the incident, describing the truck and their location with precision.

Luc nudged her shoulder.

Priscilla jerked her head toward him, her hands wrapped tightly together.

“Are you okay?” He nodded toward her jiggling knee. “You seem very agitated. Surely that truck driver is long gone, and we have two police cruisers parked right behind us.”

How could she explain that none of that mattered, not if the person who was after her decided today was the day he would finally end her life? She stilled her leg. “You don’t understand. We need to get out of here, not stay like sitting ducks.”

Mac put down his phone. “The officer is coming up to the car. Let me do the talking.” Without waiting for confirmation from Luc or Priscilla, he powered down the driver’s-side window, then kept his hands visible on the steering wheel as a tall black policeman paused a foot from the car. Mac pasted a smile on his lips. “Officer, I’m a US marshal and I’m carrying a weapon. May I reach into my left breast pocket to show you my ID?”

“Please keep your hands where I can see them.” The officer peered over Mac’s shoulder into the interior, his eyes spotting Priscilla and Luc. With his hand on his gun at his right hip, the cop spoke something into his shoulder mic. Then the officer addressed Mac. “Who else is in this vehicle?”

Mac pushed his sunglasses up on the top of his head with his left hand, then placed it on the top of the door in full view of the cop. “Officer, there are two passengers in the back seat.”

The policeman moved a step back from the SUV. “Sir, I’m going to need you and your passengers to exit the vehicle.”

Another police officer had left his cruiser to stand a few feet from the passenger’s side of the SUV hood. As the air filled with tension, Priscilla’s heart began to pound. The taut stance of the cops radiated suspicion, but she couldn’t get out of the SUV without exposing herself to a potential assassin who might be lurking nearby. She didn’t want to find out if the shooter had improved his or her aim.

She focused her attention on Mac, who appeared unruffled, relaxed even, by the officer’s request.

Mac smiled. “I would be delighted to get out, but I’m afraid my passengers will have to stay put.” He kept his voice pleasant yet firm. “As I mentioned, I’m a US marshal. Someone with professional driving skills deliberately rammed into our vehicle, pushing us into oncoming traffic.”

The officer considered his words for a long moment. “Let me see your credentials.”

“Of course, Officer. I’m going to reach into my left breast pocket with my right hand.” Mac put actions to his words, moving slowly to extract his badge folder.

The cop accepted the leather folder and flipped it open, his eyes moving from the creds to Mac’s face and back again. “I’ll be right back.”

The second officer stayed in position, his hand on the gun butt, while the other cop walked back to his cruiser.

“What happens now?” Priscilla didn’t want to sit here a moment longer than absolutely necessary.

“We wait while he calls it in.” Mac’s phone rang, and he tapped the screen to activate the hands-free app. “Mac here.” A short pause, then Mac succinctly brought the caller up to speed on their present situation.

Priscilla fidgeted in her seat, wanting to be doing something, anything, other than hanging tight. Eavesdropping on Mac’s call distracted her from her fear that the person after her might suddenly appear and start shooting again.

“As soon as we’re finished here, we’ll go to location five, zero, alpha, Charlie, eight,” Mac told the caller.

She twisted in her seat to see what the police officers were doing. The cop who had approached their vehicle got out of the police cruiser and headed back toward the SUV.

“Okay, will do.” Mac ended the call. “How are you doing, Mr. Langsdale?”

“Hanging in there.” Luc, with his eyes closed and his head leaning against the seat back, spoke in a voice that sounded thready. “That last maneuver slammed my hurt arm against the door.”

“Hopefully, we’ll be on our way soon and get that wound looked at.” Mac tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “But it would delay us if Fairfax County’s finest saw a wounded man in my back seat.”

“I understand.” Luc winced.

“He’s coming back to the car. Stay quiet.” Mac replaced his hands on the steering wheel, his posture laid-back.

Priscilla held her breath as she saw in the driver’s-side mirror the approach of the officer, Mac’s badge folder in his hand.

“Here you go, Marshal.” The officer handed Mac his ID through the open window.

Fear gripped Priscilla hard as her stomach clenched. Please, let us go.

“It’ll be okay,” Luc reassured her in a quiet voice. “Remember, God is the one in control.”

She looked at Luc, whose steady gaze held a calmness she didn’t feel. He didn’t know it would be okay, but the reminder of God’s sovereignty and Luc’s composed expression relaxed her agitation.

The second officer suddenly moved back to his cruiser. Then he straightened to call to the officer still by Mac’s open window. “We’ve got a 401 in progress at the convenience store on Patrick Henry Drive.”

“Right behind you.” The cop turned back to Mac. “We’re finished here.” The officer walked back to his police cruiser and climbed in before turning on the siren and roaring away down Wilson Boulevard.

Mac started the SUV, then pulled onto the street. “We’re going to go to a safe house. It’s too dangerous to go back to your apartment. Someone will pack up your things later. Anything you can’t live without at the apartment?”

Priscilla thought about the sparsely furnished one-bedroom she’d called home for the past five years. While she had accumulated the usual detritus of life—books, DVDs, a few keepsakes from day-trip excursions around the area—there was nothing personal about those things, nothing that couldn’t be easily replaced. “No.”

Mac must have heard the sadness in that one syllable. “This will be over soon. We will catch the person responsible for this and you will get your life back.”

“I know.” Priscilla didn’t know what else to say. Mac was doing his job to keep her safe, and in turn she would do hers by obeying his instructions to the letter. The best way to stay alive was to do what the marshals said—she had had that drilled into her during the transition period. With Culvert on the loose again, she wasn’t about to jeopardize her own safety by doing something stupid like branching out on her own.

Priscilla closed her eyes as the last bit of adrenaline seeped out of her body and in its place a blanket of tiredness took up residence. As the SUV sped toward safety, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had been living an illusion of security that had come crashing down.

FOUR

Luc jolted awake when the SUV stopped. He couldn’t believe he had fallen asleep. The combination of the shooting, car accident and ibuprofen must have lulled him into catching a few winks. Stretching his back sent a stabbing pain in his arm, which receded to throbbing. Careful not to move his injured limb, he pulled out his phone to check the time. 6:38 p.m. They had been driving for around three hours.

Mac shifted in the driver’s seat to face the back and spotted Luc’s phone. “You’ll need to give me your phone, Mr. Langsdale.”

“My phone?” Luc wasn’t about to hand over his smartphone without an explanation. “Why do you need it?”

“Because you’re now in witness protection along with Priscilla. For security, you can’t contact anyone until we apprehend the man who’s after her. I’d have asked for it earlier, but you were sleeping.”

Luc shook the last of the cobwebs from his brain, his hand clutching the phone in a tighter grip. “What if I don’t want to go into witness protection? I have a choice, right?”

Mac exchanged a look with Priscilla, who stayed silent. “To enter the program permanently, you would have to agree to do so. However, this would be temporary. My top priority is keeping Priscilla safe, and right now, you’re along for the ride.”

“What does that mean?” Luc still kept his phone, not willing to hand over the device so easily.

“That you’ll need to stay in the safe house with Priscilla for a day or two while we get this sorted out,” Mac replied. “We’ll have marshals on guard around the clock while we figure out where to permanently relocate her. With your being a witness to the salon shooting, you might have noticed something that can help us catch whoever’s behind this.”

Luc had a hard time digesting that information. But the idea that he’d be able to talk more with Priscilla appealed to him. “Will I be able to at least let my family and employer know I’ll be gone for a couple of days?”

Mac shook his head. “Tell me who to text or email and what to say, and I’ll send it for you.”

Luc studied the marshal’s granite jawline. The other man wasn’t going to budge. Luc reluctantly reached over the seat to give Mac the phone. “I’m glad you take keeping Priscilla safe seriously, but I have to ask—do you trust anyone?”

“I wish I could trust people, but unfortunately, most of them think precautions like not using their smartphone for anything don’t apply to them.” Mac’s face settled into grim lines. “Witnesses can die because someone didn’t follow these rules. Now, who needs to know you’ll be taking a few days off?”

Luc gave Mac the name of his boss and a message about a family emergency that necessitated his immediate absence from his job with CS Enterprises, a cybersecurity company with government contracts. He also gave Mac a message to give his sister, with whom he was expected for dinner the next evening. He used a sudden trip to work for a client who insisted on no outside phones while working on the company’s highly sensitive computer network.

Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “Wow, those are really good excuses. Sounds like you’ve had practice in covering your real whereabouts.”

“Not at all. Just read too many spy thrillers, I guess.” He shrugged. “I just hope those excuses work. I’d hate for anyone to be worried about me or think I’m missing.”

Mac powered off Luc’s phone and pocketed it. “I’ll make sure you get it back.”

“Are we waiting for backup?” Priscilla’s left leg started jiggling again. She looked up to see Luc watching her leg and stopped the movement.

“Yes, should be here soon.” Mac continued to survey their surroundings.

Luc gazed at the small house tucked into a side street of what appeared to be a quiet neighborhood. Many of the houses had Christmas lights, the bright displays a welcome sight after their harrowing trip. The mild early-December day hadn’t brought anyone outside, although most driveways had cars parked in them.

Another vehicle pulled parallel with theirs in the gravel driveway and four clean-shaven men in nearly identical suits stepped out. Reinforcements had arrived. Two of the men fanned out to check the house perimeter, while the other pair disappeared inside. After a few minutes, one of the men who had entered the house gave a hand signal to Mac from the front stoop.

“Mac? Can we get out of the car?” Priscilla sounded tired and scared.

“Yes, let’s go into the house.” Mac exited the SUV, giving the area a sweep before opening Priscilla’s door. As she got out, Luc opened his own door and eased to a standing position. His whole body ached even though it was his upper arm that had been creased by a bullet.

He followed the pair into the small Cape Cod–style house with two dormer windows. The avocado-green shag carpet in the living room affirmed the home hadn’t been updated since it was built in the early seventies. A small kitchen with the same color appliances sat to the right and a short hallway led to what Mac said was a bedroom and adjoining bathroom.

One of the two men who had cleared the house stood in the kitchen doorway. “Mr. Langsdale? If you’ll come through to the kitchen, I’d like to take a closer look at your arm.”

Luc wasn’t surprised they knew his identity. Mac had likely relayed that information soon after Luc had told Priscilla his real name. What he didn’t know was how deep into his background the marshals would look at first glance. Luc needed to talk with Priscilla first about their wedding, but that would have to wait until he’d had something to eat and some rest. His brain in its current state was too muddled to think straight.

He followed the man into the kitchen, where the second marshal had laid out first-aid supplies—gauze, bandages and a syringe.

“What’s that?” Luc pointed to the syringe.

“Antibiotics.” The man grinned. “Don’t worry—I’m a trained paramedic as well as a US marshal.” He held out his hand to Luc. “By the way, I’m Nick Grayson. Have a seat and let me see that arm.”

Luc shook his hand, then joined Grayson at the table. From the open doorway, he could see Priscilla and Mac conferring in the living room, standing close together. Mac, with his wavy brown hair and muscular form, appeared like a TV version of a US marshal. Luc didn’t spot a wedding ring on Mac’s hand. Maybe Priscilla was in love with her handler, which would make asking her for an annulment that much easier.

“Stay still while I remove the bandage.” Grayson nodded toward the other room. “Don’t worry. Mac’s married.”

Embarrassment crept over Luc like an old man shoving on a baseball cap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” Grayson swiped the area around the wound with an alcohol swab, then used a saline rinse to cleanse the wound itself. “Not that I blame you. She’s definitely striking, but you don’t have anything to worry about with Mac.”

Luc gritted his teeth but couldn’t stop a groan from escaping as the paramedic-marshal worked on his arm. To distract himself from the stinging pain, he contemplated Priscilla. Her formerly blond hair was now brown with purple and turquoise streaks. Today she wore it in two buns on either side of her head, which meant it was longer than the short haircut she sported the night they’d met. He jerked his thoughts away from wondering how long her hair was. He was here to end their nonexistent marriage, not rekindle a failed romance. A broken engagement right after college and a missing bride had undermined Luc’s confidence in sustaining a relationship. His busy work schedule made meeting women difficult, and over the years it became easier to not even try than to have his heart broken again. Both sets of grandparents and his own parents had fairy-tale marriages—the love between each couple had been nauseating to him and his siblings as children, but now it served to highlight his own inability to find someone with whom he could settle down.

Luc bit back a yelp as Grayson used tweezers to extract something from the wound.

“Sorry, got some of the bandanna in the wound.”

“That’s okay. I’m not usually so sensitive, but today has been anything but normal.”

Grayson affixed a fresh bandage on the wound, then wrapped it in gauze. “There, that will keep it covered. Now, time for your shot of antibiotics.”

Luc grunted as the man gave the shot.

After adhering a bandage to the injection site, Grayson stripped off his gloves. “You’ll be as good as new in no time.”

Luc stood. “Are we done here?”

Grayson nodded as he cleaned up the supplies.

“Thanks. I’m going to check on Priscilla.” Luc pushed open the kitchen door and hurried into the living room.

Priscilla and Mac stopped talking at his entrance. “How’s the arm?” Priscilla gestured toward the fresh bandage.

“Sore.” Luc looked from one to the other. “What happens next?”

Mac’s eyes hardened.

Luc braced himself for what the marshal would say.

The other man didn’t disappoint. “You tell us why you’ve been following Priscilla.”

FIVE

Priscilla frowned as Luc’s face paled. His wound looked fine from the outside, but he had lost some blood. Being shot wasn’t something one recovered from quickly. Even she was still edgy not knowing for certain the danger had passed. Furthermore, she disagreed with Mac about pressing Luc for answers, but her handler had been firm.

Luc and Mac stood nearly toe to toe, sizing each other up like prizefighters about to start round one. Not good at all. There had been enough blood spilled today.

“Why don’t we sit down?” She promptly put action to her words by choosing one end of the sagging brown couch. Luc took the chair to her right while Mac sank onto the love seat perpendicular to the sofa.

Mac immediately addressed Luc. “Mr. Langsdale, why don’t we start with some background on who you are?”

“I work for CS Enterprises, a government contractor. My area of expertise is in cybersecurity. Currently, I’m assigned to the US Department of Homeland Security to develop a new protocol for accessing the internet over Wi-Fi that doesn’t compromise the security of the data being sent or received.”

Priscilla knew little about the ins and outs of cybersecurity, but Luc sounded like someone who could find things out. Like her location. Although why he would want to do so had yet to be answered.

Mac casually pushed his suit coat aside to reveal his holstered weapon, his gaze never leaving Luc’s face, which had regained its color. “You know your way around computers.”

Luc nodded. “Since I was a kid, I’ve been fascinated with them.” A sheepish grin crossed his face. “I hacked into my dad’s email when I was nine just to see if I could do it. It was so easy that I got a little carried away and hacked into my teacher’s email, then the principal’s. I sent some ‘joke’ emails that would only be funny to a fourth grader.” He rubbed his chin. “But I wasn’t as savvy as I thought because I signed the emails with my initials.”

Priscilla grinned as a smile surfaced on Mac’s face too.

Luc’s story broke the tension in the room like water cresting a dam. Her shoulders relaxed for the first time since the shooting. “What happened?”

“I was grounded for a month. Then my dad enrolled me in a code-writing class at the local community college to, as he put it, ‘better channel my interest in computers.’” Luc leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee. “My dad had spoken with the teacher, who agreed to let me attend on a trial basis. I think the teacher thought I would drop out after the first class because it would be too hard for me. But I loved it, and the teacher soon realized I had a knack for writing—and finding flaws in—code.”

“In other words, you had hacking skills.” Mac let his smile drop.

Luc acknowledged Mac’s statement with a nod. “I’ve been working on helping companies discern flaws in their supposedly secure platforms since I was a teenager.” He tapped his crossed leg with his fingers.

“I see. And now you’re working for a Homeland Security contractor. What’s your security clearance?” Mac asked in a casual voice that Priscilla knew was anything but casual.

The implication of Luc’s ability hit home for Priscilla. If he was that good at hacking, then he probably put those skills to use to find her.

“Top secret.”

“Hmm.” Mac leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “That type of security clearance would give you access to sensitive government systems and documents.”

Luc uncrossed his leg and straightened, his frame tensing. “If you’re implying that I used my security clearance to read things I wasn’t supposed to, you’re wrong.”

“I’m not implying.” Mac narrowed his eyes. “Did you use your access to find Priscilla?”

“Not exactly.”

Mac’s eyebrows rose.

Luc held up a hand. “Wait a minute. I didn’t do anything illegal. My job was to double-check security measures certain government agencies used to safeguard data. And I also had to see that anyone seeking data on one or two individuals had the same level of security.”

Priscilla reflexively reached up to check on the stability of her side hair buns, then jabbed a bobby pin back into one as she listened. She had a feeling she knew what Luc would reveal next.

“I used the name Priscilla Makin to check the security levels at a number of government databases.” Luc paused.

“But that still doesn’t explain why you decided to search for that particular name.”

Priscilla stiffened at Mac’s tone. She was beginning to think there was more to Luc’s search of her than he had revealed, and she wasn’t sure she was going to like his answers.

“The thing is, I had been looking for Priscilla for a while and getting nowhere.” Luc clasped his hands together as he rested his elbows on his knees.

Priscilla frowned. “Why would you be looking for me?”

“Because we know—well, knew—each other.” Luc’s eyes bored into hers. “And we have unfinished business.”

Priscilla searched his face, noting the strong jawline with its slight stubble, the thick golden hair, the vivid blue eyes, the broad shoulders. All of which were very pleasing to look at but brought no spark of remembrance to mind. Surely if she knew him, she would have some memory of him. Only the hours prior to the murders had been blanked from her memory. Doctors called it “selective amnesia” brought on by the traumatic event of Culvert executing three people practically right in front of her. “We did? When? Where?”

Luc’s gaze intensified, almost as if he was willing her to recall their acquaintance. “Las Vegas.”

“Vegas?” She blinked. “Where?” She tried to puzzle out how she might have known him, sifting through her acquaintances, but coming up short.

“The most recent time was at the Last Chance Casino.”

She sucked in a breath. “I worked there once, as a cocktail waitress.” That she remembered quite clearly. She’d spent long hours working as a cocktail waitress at the busy Last Chance Casino on the Vegas Strip, trying to save enough to finish her bachelor’s degree. Unfortunately, she’d had to leave that part of her life unfinished when she’d entered WITSEC. Since she’d always been interested in hairstyling, the witness protection program had paid for her beautician’s license under her new name.

“We met when I went there for a bachelor party for someone I’d known in college. My fiancée had broken up with me over Christmas—we had talked about getting married that summer—so I thought it would help take my mind off my failed engagement.” A faint blush stole over his cheeks. “Vegas wouldn’t have been my choice, but Brian, the groom, wanted to gamble, drink and flirt with pretty girls—not necessarily in that order—before he got hitched. His words, not mine.”

Priscilla shook her head. “I still don’t remember you.” She frowned in an effort to recall Luc. “There were a lot of bachelor parties.”

“Popular place.” Luc looked down at his shoes, then up at her. “But you might remember our group because one of our party was the reason you were fired.”

Her stomach clenched. She had lost her job the night of the shooting.

“When was this trip of yours?” Mac interjected.

Priscilla had nearly forgotten Mac was listening, her attention laser focused on Luc.

Luc leaned forward. “Seven years ago.”

She struggled not to panic. “What day?”

Luc didn’t waver his gaze from her face. “June 20.”

She closed her eyes and mentally did a free fall into time spent working at the casino. An image of a killer calmly shooting two men and a woman at point-blank range as they pleaded for their lives assailed her. She opened her eyes, blinking back tears.

“I didn’t see you.” She turned to Mac, her eyes wide. “He wasn’t there.” Priscilla pointed a trembling finger at Luc. “You weren’t in the kitchen, not when that man shot those people!”

“That’s enough, Priscilla.” Mac touched her arm. “Don’t say anything more.”

Priscilla swallowed the words on the tip of her tongue, recognizing Mac’s warning glare. She had come close to blurting out details that would make it clear that she knew a lot more than anyone outside of a small group of federal marshals and one US attorney had reason to suspect. Her identity had been a close-kept secret, and she had nearly blown her cover in her shock at Luc’s words. But how did he recall with such clarity one day over seven years ago?

“I didn’t see anyone shoot anyone.” Luc’s voice held bewilderment. “Who was shot?”

“That’s not important right now.” Mac snapped out the statement. “Right now, you’re telling us how you know Priscilla.”

The tension in the room rose along with the hackles on Priscilla’s neck. Mac was on edge, maybe because of Luc and his sudden appearance into her life. She had a feeling that Luc could fill in some of the gaps in her memory of that night. Priscilla refocused on ferreting out that information. “You’re telling me I served you and your bachelor friends drinks, right?”

Luc kept his attention squarely on Priscilla. The pleading in his eyes tugged at her to remember him.

“Why would that make you search for Priscilla all these years later?” Mac voiced the very question swimming in her own mind.

“Because there’s more to the story than my interest in a pretty waitress.” Luc drew in a deep breath, and Priscilla braced herself for what was to come. It couldn’t be good news, not with this big buildup. What would make a man search for a woman he’d met seven years ago? Then again, she’d known of another cocktail waitress who received a huge tip days after a gambler won the jackpot. The gambler had explained the waitress brought him good luck. But seven years was an awfully long time to hunt someone down to tip.

“I found you crying after your manager fired you.” Luc spoke rapidly, as if he had to get everything out at once. “You told me everything—about your needing money to finish school and how your boss threatened to blackball you from all the casinos on the Strip. By the end of your story, I wanted to help you any way I could.”

Surely he wasn’t saying he’d fallen in love with her. Priscilla had no time for love, not when her every fiber concentrated on staying alive. Shoving that aside to examine when she wasn’t running for her life, she instead concentrated on trying to recall the events he talked about, but the shootings had blasted the previous day’s memories out of her mind entirely. She didn’t remember why she’d been fired. Only a handful of people knew she actually didn’t remember the shooting with great detail—just an impression of shots and the shooter’s gray eyes devoid of any emotion at all. If he’d seen her in her hiding place underneath a room-service cart, she would have been dead. She had been able to describe his height because of where he stood as he shot the three people, and she would never forget his voice, low, calm, deadly. But she couldn’t admit that nearly the entire twenty-four hours preceding the murders were very hazy. “I don’t remember much about that night.”

Luc frowned. “You’re saying that you don’t remember anything prior to the shooting?”

“Everything’s murky. I have impressions of serving drinks, talking to people, but it’s as if it happened behind a gauzy curtain.”

Luc sighed. “That explains a lot, and makes this much more difficult than I imagined.”

“What’s more difficult?”

“I don’t know how to say this, so straight out seems the best way.” Luc straightened. “I’m your husband.”

Priscilla jerked back, shock radiating throughout her body. She surged to her feet. “You’re my what?”

Luc stood as well. “Your husband. We’re married.”

“No, no, no.” She shook her head vigorously. “That can’t possibly be true.” She turned to Mac, who had risen as well. “Mac, how can he say such things?”

“I can assure you that it’s true.” Luc intervened before Mac could answer her. “I’m sure Mac will find out easily enough that I’m telling the truth.”

SIX

The Chinese takeout for dinner earlier had been tasty, but Luc now wished he hadn’t overindulged on the Szechuan chicken. He rolled over on the lumpy twin bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms and a mattress spring gouged his back. He couldn’t help but wonder if Mac assigned the room knowingly. The marshal had to be aware of Luc’s marriage to Priscilla—the other man came across as a by-the-book law-enforcement officer, who would do a thorough background check on anyone getting too close to his witness. Luc had been about to press the matter with the marshal, but the other agent announced dinner had arrived, and Mac suggested the discussion be tabled until later.

Priscilla had only picked at her food, then excused herself to go lie down. Why Mac hadn’t confirmed the marriage remained a puzzle, but ferreting his motivation to remain silent would have to be dealt with in the morning.

Of all the scenarios that Luc had thought of when finally face-to-face with Priscilla, he never factored in her utter lack of recognition. It was beyond his comprehension that she would have no memory of their meeting and hasty marriage. If she couldn’t recall him, it might make it easier to convince her to sign the annulment papers he’d had a lawyer draw up. All that was needed was both of their signatures on the document to delete their hasty union.

Luc blew out a breath and glanced at the bedside clock, which blinked 12:49 a.m. Maybe something hot to drink would settle his stomach and his mind enough to sleep. He tossed the blanket back and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing with the movement. The chilly air made him shiver and he reached for the clean dress shirt that one of the other agents had given him to wear. After donning the shirt, Luc gingerly slipped into his jeans and shoes, then descended to the first floor. He entered the kitchen through the open swing door.

Grayson looked up, a cup of steaming coffee by his elbow and a John Grisham novel in his hand. “Hi, Luc. Need some pain meds?”

At the mention of medication, Luc decided it would be a good idea to get ahead of the pain, even though his arm ached only a little at the moment. “Some ibuprofen would be great.” Spotting a Keurig on the counter, he asked, “Got any decaf?”

“In the cupboard above the machine. Mugs too.”

Luc selected a pod and popped it in the machine. He then grabbed an I “heart” Coffee mug from the cabinet and spooned sugar into the mug before hitting Start. “Any chance there’s real cream?”

“Yeah, in the fridge.”

After the coffee dripped in, Luc added the cream, stirred and carried the mug to the table to sit opposite Grayson. “How about that ibuprofen?”

The agent reached into the first-aid kit still sitting on the table and slid a two-pack of pills across to Luc, who broke the seal and downed the contents. “Thanks.”

“You were fortunate the bullet only winged your arm.”

“I know.” Luc stared into the mug as if the creamy liquid held the secret to getting his life back on track. Now that he’d found Priscilla, he had more questions, and the only answer he’d found was why she’d disappeared all those years ago.

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Mac and Priscilla earlier.” Grayson regarded Luc over the rim of his mug before taking a sip and setting the mug on the table. “Mac’s top priority is keeping her safe, but he’s going to want details on how, exactly, you found her.”

Luc sighed. “You mean how I managed to track her down if she’s in witness protection?”

“Exactly.” Grayson tapped his fingers on the table. “So, how did you?”

“Are you playing good cop?” Luc scrubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble underneath his fingers.

Grayson laughed. “Maybe, but you’ll have to tell us sooner or later.”

“And you’re saying it might as well be sooner.”

Grayson shrugged.

Luc considered, then shrugged himself. “Given you overheard my conversation with Mac and Priscilla, then you know my background in computer security.”

Grayson nodded. “You’re a hacker for the good guys, finding flaws in their computer security systems.”

Luc laughed. “That’s one way to put it. Along the way, I’ve made a lot of contacts with those who are not as concerned with who exactly are the good guys, as you put it. For some, it’s the challenge of the job that’s interesting, not the goal of the client or what the client will do with the information once the job’s completed.”

“In other words, you know some unethical people.”

“I like to think of it as keeping potential enemies on my good side.” Luc took another sip of coffee.

“Is there room for one more?” Priscilla spoke from behind him.

Luc twisted to see her standing in the doorway, fully dressed in clothes as wrinkled as his own. With her face scrubbed free of makeup and her long hair in a messy ponytail, she looked beautiful to Luc. Even her eyes were back to the blue he recalled—she must have removed her colored contact lenses. He didn’t care that he was staring—he had forgotten just how lovely she was.

“Sure.” Grayson answered her question. “If you want something hot, there are pods in the cabinet above the Keurig.”

Priscilla smiled her thanks. Luc admired her easy grace as she walked to the machine. She quickly made a cup and carried it to the kitchen table, easing into the chair to his left.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Luc wrapped his hands around his mug.

She smothered a yawn behind her hand. “After the day I’ve had, it’s not too surprising. I did manage to catch a few hours’ rest after dinner, but now I can’t get back to sleep.”

“What’s not surprising?” Mac entered the kitchen and headed straight to the Keurig.

“That we couldn’t sleep,” Luc supplied.

Glass shattered, accompanied by a whooshing sound. “Get down, now!” Mac shouted.

Luc dived out of his chair, his hand shooting out to grab Priscilla’s arm to tug her down after him. Luc pushed Priscilla under the table, his hand sliding down her arm to grasp her hand, just as an acrid scent permeated the house.

“The couch is on fire!” Mac yelled into his earpiece to alert the other marshals, then swung shut the kitchen door leading to the dining room before moving to the sink and turning on the faucet. He opened a drawer and yanked out a stack of kitchen towels.

Another crash indicated a second projectile had likely been thrown into the house.

“Put this under the door to buy us some time.” Mac tossed Luc a soaked kitchen towel.

Luc let go of Priscilla’s hand to catch the towel, then wedged the wet fabric into the crack at the bottom of the door. Once it dried, the smoke would seep into the room again.

“We have to get out of here! I’m going to check the back,” Grayson said, crawling to the back door.

“Be careful, Grayson!” Mac called as he handed Priscilla another soaked towel. “Tie this over your nose and mouth.”

Grayson slowly pulled open the door. Gunshots erupted and a torrent of bullets shredded the wooden door. Grayson crumpled to the floor in a pool of blood.

Mac shoved a wet towel into Luc’s hands, then dropped to his knees beside the downed marshal and placed his fingers on the man’s neck. His eyes met Luc’s. “He’s gone.” Mac swallowed hard, then tied his own wet towel over his mouth and nose.

A man was dead, and they would soon follow from smoke inhalation or fire. A little smoke filled the room already. Luc pressed the cold wetness against his nose and mouth as he tied the towel behind his head. Immediately, he breathed a little bit easier, but he could hear the fire roaring behind the kitchen. Priscilla huddled beside him. “Is there another way out?”

Mac’s face settled into grim lines. “We could try a back bedroom window.”

“There’s some kind of hatch underneath the rug in the hallway.” Priscilla’s eyes watered above her towel. “I tripped on the rug earlier tonight and saw it. Maybe it leads to a crawl space?”

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