SHE’S HIDING A DEADLY SECRET…

…and someone wants to make sure Amber Talbot never reveals it. When she becomes the target of a car bomb and a home invasion, she gets the message loud and clear. If she tells anyone her secret, she will die. The person charged with protecting her is police detective Patrick Wiley—the fiancé she walked away from but never forgot. The same man she never wanted to tell about the attack that left her for dead. Back then Patrick couldn’t save her. Now he must. Because the attacker has returned to finish what he started. Except this time he’s got them both in his sights.

Someone was watching her, waiting for an opportunity—

Enough. She tamped that thought down, left her office and walked into the lobby. Patrick was there.

“I finished work early. I stopped by to see if you were still here.” He was at her side in two long strides.

A shiver skidded up her spine. “Instead of talking to me, I figured you’d want to get some sleep after staying up all night in your car.”

He grinned. “I caught a few winks. With a lunatic on the loose, I expect a few more nights of surveillance.”

Patrick’s attentiveness wasn’t personal, she told herself. It was his job. Too bad he didn’t realize what doing his job did to her haywire emotions.

She thought about that morning. Her guard had not only slipped but completely unraveled the moment Patrick wrapped his strong arms around her.

“Okay, let’s go.” She spun around and headed for the door.

As he started to follow, three sharp pops split the air, one after another. Amber jerked back around with a shriek.

Gunfire!

“Get down!” Patrick yelled, barreling toward her, but not before another series of bullets whizzed through the plate glass, blowing out half the front window.

ANNSLEE URBAN grew up watching old-time romance movies, which she attributes to her passion for sweet romance, true love and happy endings. Raised in the foothills of Arizona, she survived temperature shock when she moved to western Pennsylvania, before settling in North Carolina with her husband and children. Aside from writing, Annslee enjoys cooking, traveling, playing with grandbabies and all things chocolate! You can reach Annslee at maryannsleeurban@gmail.com.

Broken Silence
Annslee Urban

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you;

He will never leave you nor forsake you.

—Deuteronomy 31:6

This book is lovingly dedicated to my three beautiful daughters: Gina, Andrea and Olivia.

You are among my greatest blessings and my inspiration.

And to my Grandkiddos: Cameron, Isaac, Jayce and Kaylee, who are a constant reminder of God’s wonder and grace.

Also a special thanks to my editor, Shana Asaro, and my agent, Mary Sue Seymour. Thank you for all you do. It is a privilege and blessing to work with you.

And most of all I thank my heavenly Father for making this dream come true.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Praise

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

ONE

The distant toll of the Chatham County, Georgia, clock tower rang twelve noon as Amber Talbot left the Safe Harbor Counseling Center and headed down River Street to her car.

The forecast had called for late-afternoon thunderstorms here in Savannah, but already dark clouds hovered low in the sky. A rising breeze swept the tree-lined streets, rustling spring foliage and delivering a sudden chill to the air. Turning up her collar, Amber eyed the murky waves that boomed against wooden docks. Boats tied to their posts bobbed like corks in the water. Curling whitecaps crashed over their bows.

Amber pulled in a breath of humid air and picked up her pace. Perfect weather to snuggle up with a good book. Exactly what she needed. After weeks of being bogged down at work, she was treating herself to a restful weekend.

With those thoughts echoing in her head, Amber jogged up a short flight of steps to the parking lot. Lengthening her strides, she dug out her key fob and unlocked her car with a click.

“Ma’am, did you drop this?”

Amber spun in the direction of the male voice and found an older gentleman waving a manila envelope with her name sprawled across it.

She glanced at her open messenger bag, crammed full with her purse, client files and notes for her fund-raiser. How careless, she chastised herself, for forgetting to zip it closed.

Tucking the bag under her arm, she started toward the man. “Thank you, sir—”

A deafening blast filled the air.

Amber flew backward, landed hard on the pavement. Black smoke plumed in front of her. The ground shook as glass and metal rained down like a hailstorm. Scrambling to her knees, she hurled her arms over her head to protect it from the shower of stinging objects. A whoosh sounded, then she heard crackling as heat blanketed her. She willed herself to move but couldn’t.

I’m going to die!

“Lady, are you okay?” The man’s distant shriek filled her ears. “You need to get away from the flames!”

Amber’s body pulsed with pain. Smoke raked across her eyes like claws. She squeezed them shut as coughs racked her lungs. She pulled herself forward, crawling in the direction of the man’s voice. Shrapnel bit into her palms and knees, but adrenaline kept her moving until the man grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

“I called 9-1-1. Help’s on the way,” the older man screeched between hacks. “Was that your car?”

Amber’s lungs burned. She worked to breathe. On shaky legs she managed to turn.

The smoke had subsided some, but the car was engulfed in flames. Panic grew; her mind spun with shock.

“Yes,” she said, disbelieving. “That was my car.”

* * *

“Possible car bomb off River Street,” the police radio blared.

Detective Patrick Wiley forgot about the lunch meeting with his boss, swung his SUV around and headed that way.

His years as a navy SEAL had taught him one thing: get to the scene when the evidence was fresh. Facts and data meant a lot when he put his senses to the test.

Pulling a small siren from under his seat, he slapped it on the roof of the vehicle and sped onto the Talmadge Memorial Bridge. Cars swerved out of his way, and in moments he was over the Savannah River and nearing River Street.

He knew about car bombings—shrapnel, flying debris, collateral damage, innocent bloodshed. A coward’s weapon of destruction.

Unlike his days in Afghanistan, this, he surmised, was likely faulty mechanic work resulting in an engine fire.

He came to a stop at the scene and leaped from his car. His positive rationale faded, and a dire feeling settled in his gut. Dark smoke blanketed the sky, the smell of destruction in the air. Rescue vehicles crammed into the small parking lot. Lines of fire hoses snaked every which way from multiple trucks.

Fortunately the parking lot hadn’t been full. The tourist season had yet to take off, due to the looming storm and cooler-than-usual spring temperatures. A blessing in disguise, as it turned out.

Patrick wove his way around rescue and police vehicles, moving closer to the scene. Firefighters battled the last of the flames biting at the charred skeleton of the small sedan. A dozen yards away, paramedics tended to a young woman sitting in the back of an ambulance.

He gave another assessing glance of the area. No other casualties came into view.

Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a clap of thunder. Hopefully the forensics team could collect any evidence before the storm hit.

Officer Bill Robinson hurried toward him, stepping around the tangle of hoses. “That was some explosion. We got calls from folks who felt it ten blocks away.” He jerked his head toward the woman sitting in the back of an EMS vehicle. “Somebody really wanted that girl scared, or dead.”

By the looks of the damage and scattered debris, Patrick didn’t doubt it. “Is she the only victim?”

“As far as we can tell,” Bill said, taking off his hat and shaking his head. “She was fortunate. If she hadn’t dropped something and went back to get it...” He didn’t finish, just wagged his head.

Patrick got the picture. “Did she give you any information about who might be responsible?”

Bill shook his head again. “Shocked and confused is all I got out of her. She’s pretty cut up, too. Probably needs a little time to process everything.”

“I’ll talk to her and see what I can find out.” Patrick patted Bill on the shoulder, then made his way to the ambulance.

* * *

As a paramedic cleaned the wounds on Amber’s hands, she watched firefighters douse the remaining flames from her car until the charred piece of metal smoldered. Nausea rolled through her abdomen. Forty-eight months of payments up in smoke. Literally.

Amber drew a deep breath. What am I thinking? At least she hadn’t been in it.

“You really need to get to the ER,” the paramedic reiterated for the fourth time.

She clenched her fist against the sting of alcohol and settled her gaze back on the man. “Do you think I’ll need stitches?”

“You’ve got some pretty good lacerations on your hands and knees. If nothing else, you’ll need to get a tetanus shot.”

Amber looked at her palms and grimaced. The bloody gouges in her flesh looked as painful as they felt. “I’d really like to just go home. A hot shower and antibiotic cream sounds more appealing than a trip to the ER.”

“Your call, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Of course not. She stretched out one leg and winced. Then glanced at her hands again. He probably was right. “Okay. I suppose I should go.”

“Great. We’ll get packed and be on our way. Since you’re stable, you can buckle up where you are on the bench seat. We won’t need to strap you onto the gurney.”

“I really appreciate that.” More than he could imagine.

Still, the mere thought of the ambulance ride made her uneasy. It was something she’d never wanted to experience again. Let alone a trip to the emergency room. She flexed her fingers and cringed against the pain. She was being ridiculous. Nearly a decade had passed. The nightmares had faded.

But the memories lingered—along with the guilt.

“Ma’am, could I speak to you for a moment?” The rich deep timbre of the man’s voice raised goose bumps along her arms.

She jerked her head up, and her breath caught as a tall figure stepped to the door of the EMS vehicle. Broad and muscular, he had a bewildered look on his face that probably mimicked her own. “Patrick?”

“Amber?” Patrick cocked his head to the side, his dark, velvety eyes and strong, chiseled features as intriguing as ever. Little had changed over the past eleven years. If anything the years had only enhanced his good looks.

“I sure wasn’t expecting to find you here.” The glint in his brown gaze was unexpectedly warm. So unlike the last time she’d seen him.

Ditto. She swallowed. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“Got home about a year ago. I work with the Savannah-Chatham police department violent crimes unit.” He flashed his badge, very detectivelike. “How are you?”

“Happy to be alive.” She tried for a smile, but hated that just the sight of him caused her pulse to rev. He shouldn’t have that effect on her, especially after all she’d put him through. Her guilt alone should have tamped those emotions years ago.

“I’m sure you are happy to be alive. That was a pretty violent explosion.” Patrick gestured to the remains of her car. “Who do you think did this?”

Shaking her head, she shrugged. “No idea. Maybe a random act. I don’t know.”

His head moved in an agreeable nod, but she could just imagine his churning thoughts. He didn’t buy it. He hadn’t changed one iota. Always suspected the worst. Still, she held on to the hope that her car had been a random choice by some wayward lunatic.

Patrick turned his head and stared back at the charred debris. “Did you see anyone in the parking lot or notice anything unusual before the bomb went off?”

“No. The parking lot was nearly empty. With the storm approaching, this area of town has been pretty deserted.”

His gaze met hers again, his eyes narrowing. “What about the man who found the item you dropped?”

“I dropped a file on the sidewalk leading to the parking area. Thankfully, that gentleman was around, otherwise—” Amber choked on the last word, suddenly dizzy. She could have been killed.

“Detective, are you about finished with your questions?” the medic asked as he placed the orange plastic supply box into the back of the emergency vehicle.

“For now.” Patrick gave the medic a nod, then returned his attention to Amber. “I’ll let you get to the hospital and catch up with you later.” He pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Call me if any new revelations come to you.”

Amber took the card, breathing relief when the paramedic closed the doors. A siren roared and the ambulance maneuvered out of the tight parking lot. She lolled her head back against the vinyl seat, ignoring the pain streaking through her extremities. Tears welled in her eyes just before she squeezed them shut.

This was definitely not her day.

* * *

Patrick watched the ambulance ease through the crowded parking lot and then pull away. Catching his breath, he felt his insides reel from the sucker punch that caught him the moment Amber’s crystal-green gaze collided with his.

She hadn’t changed at all. Sill had the same delicate features—straight little nose, high cheekbones, luscious full lips. And a tumble of dark mahogany curls, soft and flowing about her shoulders.

She was still mesmerizing.

Seeing her had unearthed a whole host of emotions he had no business feeling, given their history. Feelings he’d thought he’d buried the night she’d walked out of his life the summer after their freshman year of college. Just weeks after she’d accepted his ring.

Waves of emotion shuddered through Patrick as memories of Amber flooded his mind. Sweet memories still outnumbered the bad, which made seeing her sting that much more. Crazy, he thought. It had been eleven years.

He tilted his head back and deeply inhaled, trying to calm the turbulent pulsing in his veins. Instead, adrenaline kicked him into overdrive as the stench of smoke entered his lungs. He stiffened his posture. Refocused. This was not the time to deal with the irrational emotions knotting his gut. Someone had blown up a car. Amber may have been the target.

He had a crime to solve.

* * *

The next five hours passed in a blur. Amber sat on the edge of a stretcher in the ER and studied her hands wrapped in gauze. She wiggled her fingers. Tender but tolerable. Somehow not seeing the wounds made them smart less.

Not so with her legs. She straightened one. The wounds had been cleaned and left open to air, with several jagged stitches on each knee. The black tights she’d been wearing had offered nothing in the way of protection, as the deep abrasions on her now-bare legs attested. Not pretty and painfully sore.

The events of the day still struck her as surreal, even impossible. Why would someone plant a bomb in a nearly deserted parking lot?

In her car?

Thoughts tumbled around her mind, but no answers emerged. Amber rubbed a knuckle against the pounding in her temple, where a tension headache had taken hold. She’d grown up in Savannah. It was the one place she felt safe.

Until today.

A nurse walked into the room carrying a small syringe. She pulled gloves from a box mounted on the wall. “After I give you this tetanus shot, you’ll be ready for discharge.”

“Thank you.” Amber nodded, happy to be nearing the end of her visit. Although her dreaded time in the emergency room hadn’t been as difficult as she’d imagined in terms of invoking memories.

A near miss with a bomb had taken care of that.

Her blood chilled at the thought.

“Right arm, please.” The nurse pulled off the plastic tip of the syringe.

Amber flinched a little as the nurse gave her the shot.

“It may be sore for a few days, so just use a warm compress for the pain. I’ll be right back with your paperwork.” The nurse left the room.

The pain from a tiny shot was the least of Amber’s concerns.

“How about a ride home?”

At the sound of the deep voice, every fine hair on her neck rose to attention. She glanced up. Detective Patrick Wiley stood there, his commanding presence filling the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and one shoulder leaning against the door frame.

“A ride?” Amber blurted, startled more than she was surprised to see him again. She’d thought he’d wait at least until she got home and settled.

“The hospital called and said you were ready to be released.”

Amber instinctively tucked a stray curl behind her ear. The sooty film on her hair reminded her how terrible she must look, while Patrick stood there looking...well, incredible. “Someone from the hospital called you?” She barely kept her voice from cracking. She sat up straighter, trying to look somewhat together, although after the day she had, she could hardly be expected to look calm and collected. It wasn’t every day a bomb blew up her car, or Patrick Wiley popped back into her life.

He nodded. “I asked them to. I still have a few questions. So if you haven’t called for a ride already, I can give you one.”

Hesitating, Amber scoured her brain for an excuse. Then again, what excuse could she have? She hadn’t called anyone. She blew out a breath. “Okay...if you don’t mind.”

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

Which would be never.

Patrick pulled keys from his pocket and Amber blinked. The man at the door was not just her old boyfriend, he was a law enforcement officer, here to do his job. That truth alone should have calmed her.

Instead, a fresh burst of regret exploded in her chest. Regret for choices she’d made and the results they’d caused.

* * *

Patrick pulled his SUV to the curb in front of Amber’s wood-frame bungalow and killed the engine. Gusty wind whistled and raindrops pelted the windshield, punctuating the awkward silence that had settled in the air between them.

As eager as Patrick was to jump-start the investigation, he could tell Amber was still shell-shocked. Even as he’d updated her on the bomb squad’s initial report for the explosives involved in the blast, she’d stayed rather apathetic, acknowledging his comments with a nod, but not saying much else. He had hoped to engage in a fact-finding conversation, but so far, that was not happening.

And after he spent two solid hours at the station poring over data collected at the crime scene, he realized very quickly that this wasn’t going to be a slam-dunk investigation. And, as with most crimes of this magnitude, time was of the essence, meaning, like it or not, he needed to dig more into Amber’s personal life.

Patrick flicked on the car’s interior lights. He twisted in his seat and rested his arm on the center console. Not an easy feat for his large frame, but he wanted to give Amber his full attention. “I need to ask a few questions about your relationships. Is there anyone, in the past or presently, who might be nursing a grudge of some kind? Ex-boyfriend, spouse or otherwise.”

She took a deep, silent breath. “Well, I’ve never had a spouse, and I can’t think of any looming relationship issues.”

Good. Not that it had any bearing on him personally, but it might make working with her a little less awkward. “How about outstanding debt? Do you owe anybody anything?”

She shook her head. “No, I live pretty frugally. Other than my house, I’m debt-free. Well,” she amended, “I guess I’ll be buying a new car.”

Patrick caught the subtle tremble of her body, but she kept any emotion off her face. He admired the way she was trying to stay strong, but he got a knot in his gut thinking about what she’d been through. A need to comfort her welled up inside of him.

He quickly stifled the impulse to pull her into his arms and offer her support. That wasn’t his place anymore.

“I’m sorry about your car.” His eyes captured hers, hoping to provide some solace, yet feeling ineffective against any stress she was dealing with.

“Thank you.”

He shook his head, thinking back to the destruction the bomb had left. “It was only by God’s grace that you made it out alive.”

As Amber acknowledged his remark with a small nod, her gaze drifted away to the storm raging outside. “Yes, things could have been much worse.”

It wasn’t just her averted eyes, but the fleeting look of remorse tightening her features that made him wonder what kind of storm was raging inside her.

Patrick hesitated, giving her a moment. “Amber, are you okay?”

She returned her gaze to him, shapely brows drawn together. “Sorry. It’s been a crazy day.” She pushed hair from her face. “Are you finished with your questions?”

“No, I have a few more.” Patrick shifted in the seat and switched modes, turning his focus once again on solving this case. “You talked about recently opening a counseling center. What kind of clients do you cater to?”

At the mention of her place of business, she brightened some. “Well, I work with two other counselors and we offer a variety of services, geared mostly toward women in crisis situations. We deal with everything from marital and family discord to substance abuse and mental health issues.”

Patrick nodded to himself. “Okay, how about a family member or significant other of one of your clients—anyone seeking revenge for your intervention?”

Amber hesitated, brushing another stray lock of hair from her cheek. “It’s possible, I guess. But most of my referrals come from the women’s shelter or hospital social workers. It’s a very confidential climate. I stay pretty much under the radar.”

“I understand,” Patrick said, although he did not completely dismiss the theory. “Have you received any unusual phone calls or messages lately?”

She shook her head. “No. Not that I can think of.”

“How about someone threatening harm or making you feel unsafe?”

There was a short pause as she folded her hands in her lap. “No.”

Patrick lifted a brow. “No one?”

She shook her head again.

Patrick gestured toward her house. “Do you feel safe staying here alone?”

Amber cast him a cool look, her eyes glinting amid the dim glow of the car’s interior lights. “Why wouldn’t I feel safe? You said yourself the bomb was crudely made. The work of an amateur.”

“Amateur or not, someone planted it. In your car.”

“In an almost empty lot.” Her tone took on a bit of a defensive tenor. “I understand, Patrick, that it’s your job to consider every angle. But I can’t imagine anyone targeting me.”

He nodded, hoping she was right.

A moment passed between them. Amber fiddled with her bag, and he was close enough to feel her discomfort.

She’d had a rough day and probably enough questions. “I think you’ve answered everything for tonight. Let me get an umbrella and walk you to your door.” As Patrick reached into the backseat, his arm brushed hers. Something in the way she pulled away made a shiver run down his back.

“Thank you, Patrick. I really appreciate the ride, but I can see myself in.”

Before he could remind her of the pouring rain, she jumped out of the vehicle and scampered down the sidewalk, her jacket pulled over her head.

He stared after her, waiting until she disappeared inside the house, the front door closing behind her.

She was hiding something.

A couple of fragmented thoughts pushed through the fog in his head. None of which had anything to do with a car bomb.

He had to stop himself. If he gave in to the urge to march to her door and ask a few questions, he’d be treading on unprofessional territory.

Patrick took a deep, bracing breath and started the engine. Personal issues would have to wait.

* * *

Soaking wet, Amber slumped against the door, her ears still ringing from the explosion, her knees throbbing. Not the best start to her weekend.

Seeing Patrick again definitely didn’t help.

Taking a shaky breath, she turned around and engaged the dead bolt. She heard Patrick’s SUV start up. The loud engine noise melded with the steady downpour. She waited a moment more until only the remnants of the storm filled her ears. Patrick was gone.

The one man in the world she never wanted to see again. And here he was, the investigator for a crime that she, unfortunately, had gotten pulled into. Professionally polite, professionally impersonal, giving her no indication if he’d grown to forgive her or despise her for what she’d done.

Her mind wanted to go numb with the memories of the last time she’d seen him. The wounded look in his eyes when she’d told him she wasn’t ready to commit. She’d needed time. She’d needed space. He hadn’t responded well. Not that she’d expected him to.

That day she’d held him for the last time. Walked away. Grieved every step.

She’d made a sacrifice, penance for a mistake he couldn’t understand.

Painful memories stabbed her, sending an icy shiver up her spine. Skin pebbling, she squeezed her eyes shut to block them, but instead more memories flooded in, and with them came the grief.

Indescribable grief that clung to her spirit was as fresh now as the night an unknown assailant had brutally attacked, drugged and attempted to rape her.

Although another student’s intervention had halted her attacker’s plans, her honor and dignity would remain tarnished. Forever.

Amber expelled a sharp sigh.

She had no one to blame but herself.

Patrick had warned her about the campus parties. But with him attending college on the other side of the state, she’d assumed he was being protective. And as her freshman year had neared the end, curiosity and boredom had outweighed good sense and she’d accepted a roommate’s invitation to attend an end-of-the-year bash at a local fraternity.

The repercussions of that choice had changed the course of her dreams and sent her life spiraling into a sea of shame and regret.

No! Not tonight! Amber’s jaw tightened as she willed the memories to cease.

Just thinking about the past, about Patrick, made her crazy. Especially since the path she’d paved for herself could never be erased.

Amber blinked back tears. She wouldn’t cry. She refused to wallow in self-pity.

Lifting her chin, she hung her coat on a hook by the door and then trudged to the bedroom and dropped her bag on the floor. Her chest heaved with exhaustion. A shower might relax her and then maybe she could sleep. What she needed was a new day. Fresh thoughts.

Twenty minutes later, she crawled into bed, closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable while listening to the gentle howl of the wind and the last remnants of the rain patter on the window. Even as every fiber of her being cried for rest, insomnia settled in.

Time crawled, ticking unhurriedly in the darkness. The storm outside abated, leaving the shadows, the room, the air around her draped in a cold and eerie silence. Peace and quiet used to be a commodity she yearned for. But tonight it seemed more of a paradox than a possibility as thoughts of car bombs and explosions, of the upcoming charity fund-raiser and even Patrick Wiley wrestled in her mind.

Amber sat up, pumped her pillow, curled it into a ball and stuffed it back under her head. Okay, especially Patrick Wiley.

Emitting a groan, she wrenched up the blankets and pushed the disturbing thoughts aside, allowing pleasant ones to fill her mind.

Moments trickled by and finally her body and mind started to unwind. Her eyelids grew heavy and at last sleep pulled her in.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. She jerked her head. Eyes flickered back at her from the shadows.

“Amber.” His voice was low, distorted.

Goose bumps pebbled her skin. “Who’s there?”

“The man of your dreams.” His low, chilling laughter echoed in the small space.

Dark. Claustrophobic. Panic stole her next breath. She needed to run. Needed to get out of there.

“Where’s Boy Wonder now?” The man gave another laugh, his booted footsteps moving closer. “Who’s going to save you now, Amber?”

Dread building, a scream rose in her throat. She tried to run, to get away...

Amber shot up with a gasp, her breathing short and rapid as her heart pounded like a sledgehammer in her chest.

Where am I?

Trembling, she sat there, chilled and clammy with sweat, her mind spinning. For long seconds she worked to steady her breathing, control the adrenaline pumping through her.

Her pulse slowed as reality trickled in.

It was just a dream. She sagged against the headboard and shakily daubed the moisture from her brow. Of course it was. Just a dream.

For over a year, she’d been free of the nightmares. The haunting dreams, reeling like slow-motion pictures in her head. Terrifying and so real—pulling her back into that small, dingy frat room.

She crunched her eyelids against the memories and yanked up the comforter to her chin. It was only a bad dream. No one can hurt me. I’m safe. Amber mentally chanted those thoughts over and over again.

A streak of lightning flashed outside the window, and distant thunder boomed, rattling the glass.

She sat straight up as all of her senses shot to full alert. She held her breath, listened. A creak. A pop. Another rattle.

What if she was wrong? What if she wasn’t safe?

Throwing back the bedspread and sheets, she clambered out of the bed and fumbled for the light switch on the wall. She flipped up the switch and the lamp flickered on, chasing away the darkness and sending twisting shadows dancing on the pale walls and textured ceiling.

Icy chills rippled across her skin. Her gaze darted frantically around the room. What if someone was trying to get in? Even as she reminded herself that every door and window was bolted shut, she had to check again. It was a ritual she remembered well. Her voice of reason was lost in the memories. She groped the flashlight from the nightstand, ignoring the sting of cuts on her palm, and passed quickly from one room to another turning on lights and making sure everything was locked tight.

After a thorough search, she breathed relief when nothing looked out of the ordinary. As she turned out the lights, her gaze snagged on the laundry room window. The old wooden frame hung askew. Night air eerily whistled through the small gap.

She took a step closer. One of the two latches on the window was unlocked.

Someone had tampered with that window. Heart galloping, Amber tugged on the wood frame and engaged the lock, then spun on her heel, her mind reeling, grappling for a plan. Instinct told her to call the police, but what if they took too long to arrive? Maybe call a neighbor first, seek refuge—

Amber came to a screeching halt as she suddenly remembered her handyman, Charlie, had been by and cleaned her windows. He mentioned there were a couple warped window casings. He must have forgotten to latch that one.

That had to be it. She took a deep breath, rubbing her hand against the tension in her neck and scolding herself for overreacting. She’d call Charlie next week and set up a time for him to replace them.

Stalking back into her bedroom, she collapsed in the overstuffed chair by the bed, willing away the irrational fear that ripped through her like barbed wire. It was pure insanity, she knew, to be so unnerved by a dream.

Still her heart pounded to a rib-cracking beat. Over the years, she had worked hard to push past the memories. She’d done well. The nightmares had faded.

Until tonight.

Lord, if You are still near, please help me.

Amber took a steadying breath. God could protect her, she reminded herself, but at the same time she struggled to believe. Blind faith didn’t seem possible anymore.

Hadn’t for eleven years.

The exhaustion she’d felt earlier was gone, replaced with a restless energy, fueled by unwanted images and thoughts bouncing around in her head. She tried to tamp them down, but they wouldn’t let go.

Great. Now she’d never get back to sleep. Scrubbing her hands through the thickness of her curls, she tugged her hair. She wanted to fault the chaos of the day for bringing back the nightmares and stirring the past to life, but the answer was far more complicated than that.

Patrick.

TWO

Early the next morning, Patrick arrived at his office at the police station. Plunking down in his desk chair, he slipped the elastic band from around an overstuffed file he’d picked up from the audio and video forensic unit on his way into work. With so few clues in the car-bombing case, he hoped something lurking in one of the photos might aid in his investigation.

He extracted a fistful of black-and-white crime prints. After separating them into sequence, he studied each one, starting with the blazing fire taken by first responders to the final shots of the vehicle’s gray smoldering frame.

Dread settled in his gut.

As awful as bearing witness to the destruction had been, seeing the explosion and charred debris captured on film chilled him to the bone. Amateur or not, this bomb had been meant to kill. Even if forensics ruled out a terrorist link, this perpetrator definitely wanted to make a statement.

Tossing the photos on the desk, Patrick sat back and rubbed his eyes.

What kind of trouble could Amber have gotten involved in that someone would be out to kill her?

“Good morning, Wiley.”

The booming voice of his supervisor ended his thoughts.

Patrick glanced up as his old friend, Department Captain Vance Peterson, walked into the room with his mouth half-full of a chicken biscuit. He was also holding a white Gus’s Diner bag in his hand. “Good morning.” Patrick rocked forward in his chair.

Swallowing, Vance tossed him the bag. “Here, I brought you some breakfast.”

“Thanks. My growling stomach appreciates it.” Patrick caught the bag, tore it open and grabbed a biscuit.

“I figured you’d be in early. I thought you might be hungry.”

“You figured right.” Patrick chomped right into it. All he’d consumed since he’d dropped off Amber last night was a cup of coffee, half of which was still on his desk, cold.

“So fill me in on this car-bombing case.” Vance wiped his hands on a napkin.

Patrick swallowed then shrugged. “I don’t have much at the moment.”

“Not much?” Vance crossed his arms, his dark brows pulling tight over his eyes. “What’d the bomb squad come up with?”

“Reports are preliminary, but it looks like a homemade pressure-cooker bomb, probably propped under the car’s fuel tank.”

Shaking his head, Vance gave a slow whistle. “Explosives, shrapnel and gasoline. Pretty lethal combo.”

Patrick jutted his chin toward the pile of photos on the desktop. “Take a look. It’s amazing someone didn’t get killed.” He took another bite of the biscuit.

Vance moved closer and picked up the stack. He nodded slowly as he examined them, a grimace etched on his suntanned face. “And you have no clues as to who might have done this?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the car owner? Or witnesses?”

Patrick finished chewing. “There was one eyewitness and he gave us a statement. He said he’d heard the blast, saw the explosion, but denies seeing anything suspicious. And interestedly enough, the owner of the vehicle was Amber Talbot. She walked away with a few bruises and lacerations but has no idea why someone would want to harm her, nor does she believe anyone was trying to.”

Vance stopped, looked at him and raised his eyebrows. “Not the Amber Talbot from high school? Your old flame?”

Patrick nodded, hardly believing it himself. “Yeah. Definitely a surprise.” Truth be told, he’d half expected to run in to her at some point now that he was back in town. However, not as part of a case he was investigating, especially one of this nature.

“I’m sure you were surprised.” Vance wagged his head. “What do you think? Was this bomb meant for Amber?” He shuffled through the pictures again, studying them closer. “Or do you think this is the work of some criminal prankster?”

The question pricked the hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck. He’d been up most of the night asking the same question. “I’d like to say it’s random. However, my gut doesn’t buy it.”

Vance’s eyes settled and met Patrick’s. “Then Amber mustn’t be fessing up to something.”

Patrick paused, wondering what—if anything—Amber would be hiding. She’d always been a by-the-book kind of girl, not one who got involved in things on the wrong side of the law. Then again...

His pitched the biscuit wrapper into the trash, aware that he really didn’t know Amber Talbot anymore. And he’d be foolish to believe otherwise. She’d surprised him once by walking out of his life. No telling what Amber was really like. He turned sharply in his chair and stood up. “I’ll dig around and see what I can come up with.”

Vance tossed the photos back on the desk. “If there’s dirt, Wiley, I’m confident you’ll find it.”

A shudder racked between Patrick’s shoulder blades. That was what he was afraid of.

* * *

Patrick gave a sharp triple knock on the crime-lab door. When a buzz sounded, he twisted the knob and let himself in. Liza Jenson, police criminologist, rose from her desk.

“Patrick Wiley.” She smiled, pushing a hand through her short blond bob. “I was beginning to give up on you. I can’t remember the last time you answered one of my texts with anything other than ‘Sorry, working late,’ or ‘Too busy.’”

That was because his “I’m not interested” statement seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Patrick let her comment ride. After a couple casual dates, Liza had started dropping hints about diamond rings and dream honeymoon destinations. He’d put the brakes on that budding relationship real fast. He’d determined a long time ago he wasn’t the marrying kind. Eleven years ago, to be exact. And he had a princess-cut solitaire sitting in a bank deposit box to remind him of that.

He was better off alone. And life was easier. More predictable.

“Sorry, Liza, this isn’t a social call. I heard you were on this weekend and I’d like to enlist your help on a case I’m working on.”

Sauntering across the tile floor, Liza worked her way toward him. “Let me guess, yesterday’s car bombing on River Street.”

Perceptive. He grinned. “That’s the one. See what you can find out about the car owner’s past. What she’s been up to the past few years. Friends, hobbies, enemies. I’ll do the same.”

Beaming a bright smile, Liza leaned a hip against the worktable and crossed her arms. “Amber Talbot. Twenty-nine. She graduated from Trinity University, majored in psychology. She earned a graduate degree in counseling from the same school. I don’t have her complete work history yet, but she recently opened Safe Harbor Counseling Center on River Street.”

Impressive. Although nothing Patrick didn’t already know, except for the part about Trinity University. So that was where she’d ended up after leaving College of Coastal Georgia in Brunswick. She’d traded a small state school for a private one. Patrick scratched the side of his jaw, mulling that over. “How about a husband or boyfriend, ex or otherwise?”

He held his breath, hoping his name wouldn’t pop up.

Liza shook her head. “I haven’t done all the checking yet, but from what I can see, she’s never been married. And, right now, I’ve got nothing on a boyfriend.”

Good. “Concentrate on the past few years and look into her financial information. Relationship issues. Consumer complaints. If something jumps out at you, let me know. I’ll dig in to college and before.”

“All right.” Liza ran a fingernail down his arm. “Maybe we can discuss my findings over coffee or dinner.”

Patrick pulled away and gave a cautious smile. “Sorry, I don’t have time. Why don’t you give me a call when you have something. And sooner is better.” He made his way out the door.

* * *

On Monday morning, the black SUV parked several spots down was the first thing Amber noticed when she stepped out of her rental car at work. It was a rather common vehicle. Plenty roamed the streets of Savannah, but instinct told her Patrick Wiley was in the vicinity.

Patrick. She took a deep breath, ignoring the chill seeping through her, and started down River Street toward the Safe Harbor Counseling Center. Could he possibly have more questions?

Before the thought fully penetrated, the answer came. Detectives always had questions. And that was what Patrick was—the detective on the case. Nothing more.

Buoyed by that thought, Amber shouldered her messenger bag and pushed through the narrow double doors of the center. The cozy ambience wrapped around her like a warm blanket. The place was small—only had a quaint waiting area and hallway that led to three offices. And the simple decor of overstuffed seating and antique tables, framed pictures of Savannah’s old harbor and a comfortable array of potted plants warmed her further.

Just being at the center made her feel better. After a long weekend of nursing her wounds and musing over Friday’s bombing and Patrick Wiley, her nerves were about shot. But common sense reminded her to stop being ridiculous. Even if Patrick did show up, she would be fine.

Shedding her jacket, Amber hung it on a hook on the wall. Then she picked up a bundle of mail from a wicker basket by the front door and headed to her office, determined to have a good day as she chastised herself for her paranoia.

Two steps from her office, Amber paused when a masculine and very familiar voice sounded from behind her colleague’s closed door. She bit back a gasp as her stomach did a crazy flip she couldn’t explain.

Patrick.

Wrong. She wasn’t fine.

The urge to put on a good face and properly welcome him to her center quickly abated, switching instead to a desire to turn around and make a run for it.

The door to her left opened. Too late.

Tony Hill, a fellow counselor, stood next to Patrick, shaking his hand. “I appreciate your persistence in getting to the bottom of this, Detective Wiley. We sure don’t need a lunatic running around blowing things up.”

“I agree.” Patrick turned and stepped into the hallway. “Amber.” His eyes narrowed and his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin, sending a little fluttery sensation through her midsection and making her wish he’d stick to the stoic cop face she’d seen the other night.

“Good morning.” She tried for a smile, too.

“How are you? How are your injur—”

“Healing.” She cut him off, holding up a bandage-free hand, aware that his gaze was washing over her.

“Glad to hear you’re doing better.” He smiled more broadly.

“Amber, I wasn’t sure you’d be coming in today,” Tony interjected, hovering in the archway. “You know Pam and I could hold down the center for a couple days.”

“Thanks, Tony. I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine. Really.” Amber couldn’t bear to be cooped up in her house for another couple of days.

“Okay.” Tony tugged on his sparse goatee. He eyed her a moment longer. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Tony shut his door and Patrick moved closer. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to an office door with her name engraved in bold lettering. “I have a few questions. Shall we talk in there?”

“No,” Amber answered, immediately regretting the way her tone sharpened. She quickly added, “The waiting room is more comfortable.” She started walking as fast as her high heels and sore knees would allow, not waiting for his reply. In the lobby, she motioned for Patrick to have a seat on the couch. Then she slipped into one of the upholstered chairs, folded her hands in her lap and tried to relax. “I’m not sure what kind of help I’ll be. I don’t know any more than I did on Friday.”

“Actually, I have a hunch about something.” Patrick ignored the sofa, pulled a chair from the wall and sat down, facing her. A little too close. She took a deep breath. “I came across something this weekend that I think may tie in to your case. And although Mr. Hill answered most of my questions, I’d like to run a couple scenarios by you.”

Her stomach dropped further, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Patrick was convinced the bomb was meant for her. Why wouldn’t he buy into the random-crime theory like everyone else she knew? There was nothing to suggest it was anything other than that.

Patrick flipped open the folder and started shifting through the contents. Crime scene photos, detailed crime reports and other paperwork involving her case.

Amber swallowed. Maybe this was more serious than she’d thought. No. She tamped down the thought, reserving any speculation until there was evidence to support it.

Finally Patrick pulled a single sheet from the stack and pointed to the title with a blunt finger. “I believe this is a brochure that your center put out.”

“Yes.” Amber glanced at the flyer that featured the charity fund-raising dinner her counseling center was hosting. “I sent those to local businesses in the area advertising the event and requesting support.” She met his gaze. “I don’t understand what this has to do with the car bombing.”

Patrick set the open folder on the coffee table. “Silence No More. That’s the name of your fund-raiser?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well,” Amber said with a shrug, “the fund-raiser is intended to raise money for the local women’s shelter as well as promote awareness for violent assaults against women. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but one in three women suffer from some sort of abuse during their lifetime. Many suffer in silence, feeling shame and guilt for something they weren’t responsible for. And the challenges they live with are innumerable, like low self-esteem, depression and trust issues.”

Patrick nodded. “Sounds like a worthy cause.”

“Yes. It is.” More than he could imagine.

Patrick scooted to the edge of his seat, arms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. “However, it brings me back to one of my earlier concerns—that the car bomb may have been planted by a revengeful abuser of one of your clients.”

Drawing in a slow breath, Amber tried to detach herself from the equation and objectively consider Patrick’s hypothesis. As much as it probably made sense to him, it still didn’t feel right to her. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Actually, the women I work with spend more time with social workers or staff at the women’s shelter. Why target me?”

“Well, we have to start somewhere.”

Amber fought not to shrink under Patrick’s speculative stare. “Yes. That’s true, but—” she held up a hand “—I was home alone all weekend. If someone wanted to hurt me—”

“It’s not that simple, Amber.” The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened into a frown. “This perpetrator may be lying low until the news dies down. And if he turns out to be someone from one of your clients’ past, that client may very well be the next victim.”

Amber’s stomach lurched at the thought. She hadn’t considered that. “That would be terrible.”

Patrick leaned closer. So close that she caught a whiff of his cologne. Still so familiar and clean. She slid back in her seat. “Yes, it would,” he concurred. “I’d like to talk to any of your clients who feel particularly threatened by someone.”

Rubbing her nose, Amber sat up straighter, determined to not let him blow this incident out of proportion. “The majority of my clients feel threatened by someone. However, I have client confidentiality to consider. I can’t just hand information over to you.”

As a cop, Patrick should understand that.

Patrick frowned at her. Guess he didn’t. “I need your help on this, Amber. I’m sure you work with a lot of vulnerable women. If any of them feel in danger, they should welcome an investigation.”

Amber took a moment and considered his request, still not buying the idea, but also remembering how persistent Patrick could be. She didn’t have time to argue his theory. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to run the scenario by a couple of my clients. However, I don’t want to start a chain of panic.”

Patrick’s already grim expression darkened further. “Some lunatic just blew up your car. The chain of panic has already started.” He flipped the file closed and got to his feet. “Do you still have my card?”

“Yes,” Amber said, standing.

“Good. Keep it with you and call me if you come up with anything.”

Surely he didn’t think she was being uncooperative. She simply didn’t see the situation the way he did. There was no motive. No prior threats. It didn’t make sense that someone was after her. Random crimes happened all the time. But apparently until Patrick exhausted his hunch, he wasn’t going to consider anything else.

“All right.” She nodded and offered her hand. “Thank you.”

Patrick hesitated, then accepted her outstretched hand, giving it a firm shake that sent an unexpected tingle spiraling through her.

Reclaiming her hand, Amber crossed her arms tightly against her thumping chest.

“Even if you get a gut feeling, call me.” Patrick turned to leave and Amber nodded, discreetly wiping her clammy palm on her skirt. Next time she’d settle for a quick wave.

She drew in a shaky breath and watched as Patrick headed out the door. He moved with the same assertive gait and athletic agility of the young man she remembered. But now he was even more fit, stronger, a capable and skilled soldier and detective.

There was a part of her that was happy he was willing to stay on her case. He could have easily passed it off to another detective. But there was also a part of her that wished he had. If the car bombing turned out to something other than a random act, the investigation would be prolonged and Patrick would be around a lot.

Both scenarios sent her heart jumping to double time.

“You okay?”

Caught up in her musings, Amber hadn’t heard anyone walk in the room. She spun around and found Tony framed by the doorway, his thick eyebrows furrowed. She wondered how long he’d been there. Not that it mattered. Tony knew her story—one of the few people who did. After years of holding on to the dreadful memories, she’d recently had the courage to tell someone. It was a healing move, something she encouraged her clients to do. Talk about the hurt and pain with someone they trusted. And she trusted no one more than Tony. He had been her preceptor for her internship during her last year of college. He was a little older, nonjudgmental and wise beyond his years. With his burly physique, he looked more like a defensive lineman than a counselor, but he was good at his job. She knew that from experience.

“I’m fine.” She smiled.

“You’ve had a rough couple of days. Remember, I’m here if you ever want to talk.”

She nodded. He was so compassionate.

“By the way, this Detective Wiley, is he the same Patrick Wiley you told me about?”

And perceptive.

“Yes.” She nodded.

Tony scratched his bearded chin and his left eyebrow arched. “Are you going to be okay with that?”

“I think it will be fine.” She smiled, projecting a confident composure she didn’t quite feel and at the same time hoping for a speedy resolution to the car-bombing case.

Her heart couldn’t take too much time with Patrick Wiley.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Patrick ducked into his office and dropped into his leather swivel chair behind his desk. Grabbing the phone, he punched in the crime-lab extension. Hope for finding clues for a possible motive had fizzled about two minutes into his conversation with Amber. He couldn’t figure out if she was in denial about her safety or just wasn’t opening up because he was on the case.

He guessed the latter.

Maybe there was an old boyfriend she didn’t want to mention or... No. He derailed that train of thought. Surmising never got him anywhere.

He tapped a pen against the desk as he waited for the lab to answer.

“Busy?”

At the female voice, Patrick’s gaze went to the doorway. He hung up the phone. “Liza. I was just calling you.”

Liza walked in the room, waving a large manila envelope. “I thought I’d drop this by and see if you were free for lunch.”

“Lunch?” Patrick checked his watch, his brain racing for a good excuse. “Actually I was going to grab something quick. I’ve got a ton of paperwork—”

“Then how about dinner tonight?”

He gave a quick shrug. “Racquetball with the captain.”

She arched a fine brow and handed him the envelope. “Coffee after?”

More than once he had explained that he wasn’t interested in a pursuing a relationship. She didn’t seem to get it. He took the envelope from her. “Hey, remember, I just want to be friends.”

Liza turned her head and tilted it, and one eyebrow rose even higher. “Is it a crime for friends to get together for coffee?”

She had a point. And although he wasn’t crazy about the idea, he conceded, “I could meet you around seven for a quick cup.”

“Perfect.” She smiled. “How about Jake’s Café?”

“That will work.”

“Now, take a look at what I dug up on your victim, Ms. Talbot.” Liza stood beside his desk and crossed her arms.

Patrick sat forward and peeled open the envelope, pulling out several pages. If nothing else, Liza was good at her job. A detailed outline stretched from Amber’s college graduation to the present. Places she worked, volunteer jobs and organizations she’d interned with. Even coworkers and old roommates were mentioned. Patrick skimmed through the list. He couldn’t help looking for a current or ex-boyfriend. None were listed.

“Amber Talbot has a pretty clean past,” Liza said, making him refocus.

“It appears so.” Patrick continued to peruse the outline.

“Currently, she’s heading up a charity fund-raiser for the women’s shelter.”

Patrick glanced up and gave a simple nod. “Yes. She’s trying to raise awareness for violent crimes against women.”

“I see you’ve done your homework, as well.” Liza gave him a lazy smile. “The fund-raiser is in a couple weeks at the Port City Community Center in Savannah. A big crowd is expected. Amber is the keynote speaker.”

“Keynote speaker?” Patrick lifted his eyes again, this time meeting hers. “She didn’t mention that.”

Liza shrugged. “She’s one of several speakers. Maybe she didn’t think it was big deal.”

Patrick shoved the pages back in the envelope and clasped it shut, his brain churning through the new information. Rocking back in his chair, he crimped his lower lip between his forefinger and thumb, wondering if and why someone wouldn’t want Amber to speak at the fund-raiser.

“Do you think you’re on to something?” Liza asked.

“Not sure.” He nodded slowly. “But I feel as though we’re moving in the right direction.”

In fact, his gut was reeling and he had a niggling suspicion that someone was after Amber. And whoever that was would have him to contend with him first.

* * *

At Southern Heights Gym later that day, Patrick ran around the racquetball court, breathing hard, blood pumping. He thwacked the ball coming at him, sending it screaming against the high concrete court wall.

“Dude. You don’t have to kill it.” Vance jerked backward, missing the shot.

When the ball arched toward him again, Patrick took another wild swing, slamming it one more time. “I’ll try to ease up some,” he said between breaths.

“Yeah, sure.” Vance snorted, breathing heavily. He swung his racquet, sending the ball whizzing past Patrick and into the front wall. “Take that.” A triumphant grin spread over his flushed face.

Maintaining his grip, Patrick turned sideways and smashed the ball again, sending it echoing around the hollow space.

“Okay. Game!” Vance jumped out of the way once more.

“What? Already?” Patrick tried to catch his breath.

“Yeah. I’m going to be nice and let you win before you bring the walls down.”

“Well, thank you.” Patrick peeled off his goggles and stepped off the court. He grabbed a towel from a bin. “Not often do I get three games on you.”

“Don’t get used to it.” With his towel Vance dabbed at the sweat running down his face. “Once this case is over, we’ll get back on track. Until then, I’m just going to have to make excuses not to play with you.”

Taking a swig of water, Patrick almost choked on a laugh. “Maybe I’m just getting better.”

“Let’s hope not,” Vance teased. “But seriously, Patrick, you seem pretty keyed up lately. My guess is, this car-bombing case is really getting to you. Or maybe it’s seeing Amber again?”

Right on both counts. “No comment, Captain.”

Vance snorted, his face redder than usual with the exertion of an hour of hard play. “You just answered my question. But like we discussed before you accepted the position, I don’t want you taking the job home with you.”

“Yeah, right.” Patrick laughed. “Seven years as a navy SEAL. Trained to be ready. On call 24/7. Even sleep was an option.”

Vance unzipped his bag and dropped his racquet in. “Patrick, I recruited you because I thought you’d be the best man for the job. I can’t risk you getting burned out.”

“No worries. I actually relax while I’m in the problem-solving mode.”

Vance swung his towel around his neck. “Killing the racquetball and nearly your opponent doesn’t exactly indicate relaxation.”

Patrick only smiled. Vance chuckled, shaking his head while he grabbed his water bottle. “Well, if that’s the case, you should be pretty chilled out.”

Patrick couldn’t recall the last time he’d chilled out. Maybe never.

“But seriously—” the humor in Vance’s voice morphed into a professional tone “—not every detective is a good fit for every case. Sometimes it’s prudent to back away, let someone else have it.” He paused, and Patrick fixed him with a challenging stare. “What I’m trying to say, Patrick, is that if you’re not comfortable investigating Amber’s case, I don’t mind putting another detective on it.”

“I hope you’re kidding.” Patrick threw his towel in a bin. “I can do my job. A lack of clues and trying to find a runaway car bomber is the stress I’m dealing with.” He picked up his racquetball bag, ready to change the subject. “I need a shower.”

“I’m not questioning your ability to do your job.” Vance grabbed his bag and matched Patrick’s steps on the way to the locker room.

“Good.”

“I just remember that you and Amber didn’t exactly part on the best terms.”

“That’s water under the bridge.”

“Well, sometimes the water under the bridge is still turbulent.”

Patrick didn’t respond to that as they entered the locker room.

A moment passed. On a sigh, Vance added, “Patrick, if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

“You’re as obstinate as ever.”

“Which is why you wanted me for this job.” Patrick clapped a hand on Vance’s shoulder before walking toward the showers.

“True, but...”

Patrick cranked on a shower faucet and pulled the curtain, drowning the rest of Vance’s speech. He appreciated his friend, even if he did hover a bit much at times. Nonetheless, Vance’s lecture held one valid point: Patrick shouldn’t take his job home with him. He needed to leave work at work and learn to relax. That was one thing he promised himself that he would do when he traded military life for civilian.

Patrick scrubbed shampoo into his hair, determined to do just that. Not let his job interfere with his personal life.

Even as he firmed up those plans in his head, a dozen questions roared to life about the car bombing case. About Amber.

Then again, learning to chill out may have to wait.

THREE

Amber sat at a small iron table outside the Riverfront Bistro, and her best friend, Kim Livingston, sat across from her. Amber settled back in her chair, cradling her cup between her palms as a gentle, warm breeze rustled her hair. Street-side dining was a favorite of hers, especially on such a nice evening. A reprieve from the prolonged chilly temperatures.

If only she could shake the uneasy chill she’d been experiencing since the bombing incident and seeing Patrick again.

“You okay?”

Amber glanced up, eyeing Kim across the pastries on the table between them. “Yes. Fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.” Kim set down her cup with a clink. “What’s up? You’re usually chatting like a magpie, but you’ve barely said two words since we sat down.”

“Sorry, I’ve just been enjoying my pastry and coffee.” Amber lifted her cup and took a sip. “Delicious. Hazelnut latte. My favorite.”

Kim’s light brows arched over her wide, inquisitive stare. “I thought you ordered caramel?”

That might explain the richer flavor. Amber took another sip. Kim was right. “Yep, definitely caramel.”

Kim leaned in, brow creased. “This must be your way of dodging my question—talking about coffee flavors.”

Giving a slight shrug, Amber cracked a small smile. Kim had the uncanny ability to see right through her.

“If it’s the car bombing that’s got you down, don’t worry. It was probably just some crazy prank by an overzealous troublemaker. In another week or two this whole thing will blow over.” Hope shone in her blue eyes and her smile went wide.

Always thinking on the bright side. That was what Amber loved about Kim. “A crazy troublemaker is definitely what I’m hoping for. But, actually, I’ve had a lot of other things on my mind, including the upcoming fund-raiser.” And Patrick Wiley. She spared Kim that tidbit.

She hated the way thoughts of Patrick stayed lodged in her mind. His sturdy physique, easy movements, the way his deep-set gaze swirled with questions. Which made her wonder—was the bombing incident the only thing on his mind, or were questions from eleven years ago rumbling around in his head?

Uneasiness settled heavier in her chest, followed by an immediate prick of conscience. She probably owed him some answers.

“I finally rounded up enough sponsors for the fund-raiser’s silent auction.” Kim’s optimistic tone jerked her back to the present.

Amber blinked. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much for taking that on.”

“Anything for my best friend. Besides, as an ER nurse I’ve seen too many abuse victims. Your efforts to bring awareness and support to those women are a blessing to me.” Kim forked a cream-cheese tartlet and popped it in her mouth.

Where had Kim been during Amber’s emergency room visit eleven years ago? Cold and alone. Battered and bruised after being drugged and assaulted. No one believed her story—

Stop it! Amber pushed away the dreadful memories. Buried them. She wasn’t going there again.

She took another sip of coffee, trying to calm her now thumping heart.

“So what else needs to be done for the fund-raiser?”

Amber lowered her cup. “Not much...except maybe round up some volunteers to set up the reception hall and tear it down. So if you have any able-bodied friends who would like to help, let me know.”

Kim paused between bites. “I’m sure I can convince a few of my coworkers to help.”

“That would be wonderful. “ Amber added more cream and gave her coffee a stir. “I almost forgot. I have my speech to write, too.” Something she wasn’t looking forward to. The topic was so close to her heart, yet it was a story she remained reluctant to share. What would be gained by her unearthing the painful memories? Her audience knew pain and guilt; what they needed was encouragement.

She picked up her cup and leaned back in the iron chair, eyeing the horse-drawn carriage trotting down the street carrying tourists on a tour of Savannah’s historic district. “Isn’t it nice to see spring tourists trickling in?”

At that, Kim chuckled. “As much as I’m happy to have the winter weather behind us, warmer days and tourists make for a busy ER and, if you haven’t noticed, more traffic.”

Amber noticed, but didn’t care. She enjoyed this time of year. She sipped her coffee, watching the beautiful shires clip-clop past them, and as the carriage moved out of sight what came into view made her heart stop.

Patrick and his date seated at an outside table across the street. Amber sucked in a mouthful of air to hold in a sigh and twisted in her chair, hoping he hadn’t seen her.

Kim eyed her with raised eyebrows. “You look as though you just saw a ghost.”

Worse. She set her cup on the table. “It’s just someone I don’t want to talk to right now.”

Kim craned her neck to see around her.

“Don’t look,” Amber snapped, and then softened. “Sorry, I’m a little on edge.”

“No kidding. So who is it that you don’t want to see? The blonde or the gorgeous hunk she’s with?”

Actually, Patrick with anyone was what she didn’t want to see. Crazy. It had been years. Unfortunately, at the moment emotion overrode logic.

Amber picked up the laminated dessert menu on the table and used it as a fan. “The hunk is the detective who is investigating the car bombing.”

“He’s a cute one. Too bad. It looks as though he’s already taken.”

Amber fanned faster.

“Oh, dear.”

Amber slanted a glance at Kim. “Oh, dear, what?”

Kim’s eyes grew wide. “Detective Hunk and his friend got up from their table and are heading this way.”

“Both of them?”

Kim nodded.

Amber’s glance flickered to the two people across the street waiting for the light at the crosswalk. Patrick was dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt and stood next to a beautiful young blonde wearing slacks and a black sequined sweater. Everything about her exuded elegance and grace.

Amber had expected no less.

Still, her heart slipped.

She yanked her gaze away, hoping they were heading on a walk by the river and not coming her way. Yes, a nice evening stroll sounded like a fun couple’s activity. She chastised herself for being paranoid. Of course that was what they were doing.

Concern fell away but memories swam to the surface. Of long walks along the riverfront, she and Patrick, hand in hand, talking and laughing as they glanced out across the water and admired the wave runners and colorful sailboats bobbing in the shifting seas while a light breeze rippled around them.

A simple pleasure that now Patrick probably enjoyed with someone else.

Casting an inward sigh, Amber picked up her cup and shot a forged smile at Kim, who was nibbling on a cookie and eyeing her warily.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Amber nodded with more hope than conviction.

But within the next heartbeat she made a conscious decision to forget about Patrick Wiley and his personal life. No doubt a lot had changed in his life since she’d handed him back his ring.

People move on, so why shouldn’t he?

Amber perked up in her seat and blew out a breath as common sense reasserted itself. Actually, she was happy for him, even if her own prospects of finding love again looked rather bleak.

“Amber.”

Her heart clenched when Patrick called her name.

Shifting in her seat, she looked up as he walked over to her, his friend at his side.

“I thought that was you.” He grinned widely.

Too bad he was right. “Hi, Patrick.” Amber pasted on a smile and then gestured across the table. “This is a friend of mine, Kim Livingston. Kim, Patrick Wiley.”

“Nice to meet you.” Patrick’s gaze shifted from Kim to the woman next to him. “This is Liza Jenson. She’s a police criminologist who will be helping on the case. I thought you’d like to meet her.”

Even up close, Liza was lovely. Great smile, even teeth. She and Patrick made a nice couple. Amber’s heart slipped further, yet she sat up straighter and held her smile, pretending that seeing him with Liza—or any woman—didn’t rattle her in the least. “Nice to meet you, Liza.”

Liza nodded. “Patrick and I were just talking about you.”

Her smile fled. “Oh?”

“Actually we were discussing your case and trying to decide what direction to pursue next,” Patrick said, curbing any speculation that his conversation with Liza involved anything about their past relationship.

The breeze intensified, blowing strands of hair against Amber’s cheeks. Reaching up, she tucked them behind her ear and attempted to remain calm and put on a good face. But one look at Patrick’s strong, chiseled features and her stomach did an irrational juvenile tumble. “Well, I appreciate both of your efforts to solve the case.” She glanced at her watch. This little tête-à-tête was going nowhere. “Look at the time. I should get going.”

“You haven’t even finished your dessert.” Kim shot her a questioning glance.

“Sorry. I still have things to do tonight and I’m not very hungry.” At least not anymore. Amber abandoned her coffee on the table, and as she launched to her feet, her knee banged into the table leg, sending her cup crashing onto the brick pavers. Curious glances shot her way.

Amber sucked in a gasp and stumbled forward as searing pain shot through her knee and it buckled. Her ability to stand was further compromised as she tripped over her messenger bag that had slid from her shoulder.

“Amber!” Patrick called out as his strong arms wrapped around her, catching her before she hit the ground.

Patrick’s solid arms kept her steady but sent her heart into palpitations. She stiffened against him, working to catch her breath as the familiar scent of his aftershave wrapped around her senses. Calm never seemed possible again.

“Are you okay?” Patrick slanted her a wary look, probably wondering why she was gasping for air like a beached trout.

She gazed into his dark eyes and nodded, her cheeks hot. “Yes, just clumsy.”

Kim jumped up, grabbed a chair and scooted it forward. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No, that’s okay.” Amber waved off any help as her sense of equilibrium returned. She pulled out of Patrick’s hold and willed her heart to slow.

She took a step; glass crunched. She glanced down and noticed the broken china at her feet. “Oh, dear, I better clean that up.” She reached for some napkins, but Patrick grabbed a handful first.

“I can get it.”

Amber’s pulse kicked higher as she watched Patrick, who was down on one knee, pick up shattered glass and wipe up the puddle of coffee. “Thank you for doing that.”

“No problem.” He easily grinned.

Her chest went tight at his sense of chivalry. So attentive and helpful. When was the last time she’d met a guy like Patrick Wiley?

Never.

Suppressing a sigh, she picked up her large tote, clutched it to her side and pulled her focus back on her plans to get going.

As Patrick got to his feet, he sent her a nod. “How’s your knee?”

“Better.” She smiled and said, “Thank you again for taking care of the mess.”

Before he could comment, she whirled around. “Good night, everyone.” She left with a little parting wave, sending Kim a reassuring smile. “We’ll talk soon.”

Amber hiked the strap of her bag on her shoulder and headed down the sidewalk in the direction of her car, wincing at the sharp pain in her knee and doing her best to avoid limping while hoping her sutures stayed intact.

As she made a turn onto Mulberry Street, she heard someone behind her. She hated feeling paranoid, but the sound of heavy boots clapping against the pavement made her pulse race. She quickened her gait, her eyes pointed forward.

The boot steps accelerated, moving closer, then came up directly behind her. She was suddenly struck with an eleven-year-old memory. Her pursuer’s thudding footsteps the night she was attacked. So quickly he came at her and once he grabbed her—

A hand caught her arm and panic exploded in her chest. As a silent scream ballooned in her throat, she wheeled around, adrenaline surging...and saw Patrick. Catching her breath and willing her heart to slow, she felt equal parts disappointment and relief.

“Amber, what happened back there?”

“Back at the café?” She pulled away and started walking again, trying to regulate her breathing. “Do you mean why I left?”

Patrick kept pace with her. “You didn’t just leave. You took off like a scared jackrabbit.”

So she had been that obvious? Amber didn’t slow down, but cast a sidelong glance his way. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just have a lot on my mind.” Patrick Wiley included.

“I understand that you don’t like to dwell on what happened, but the truth is, a bomb blew up your car and we need to figure out who did it.”

Even on his night off, didn’t this man rest? “I understand your need to investigate the crime, Patrick. I just didn’t expect to see you when you’re off duty.”

Patrick continued walking beside her. “Well, I thought you’d like to meet Liza, since she’s working on the case with me.”

“I don’t want to seem unappreciative. I’m just holding out hope that this whole ordeal will blow over soon.”

“That’s all of our wishes. But in the meantime, we need to work together.”

Obviously an easy feat for him, but for her... Well, not so easy.

Amber stopped at the street corner, waiting for the light to change green. Eyes forward, heart thumping, flustered that Patrick stood so close.

She could feel the intensity of his gaze and the tension sizzling like electricity between them.

“I feel as if we’re missing something,” Patrick said after a moment. “Some vital component to this crime that’s right under our noses. Is there anything you need to tell me?”

Guilt swamped her. She felt blood rush to her cheeks, probably turning them the color of the red glowing traffic light. She had a million things to tell him. But not here. Not now. And not about the bombing incident. She sent him a glance and fought not to squirm under his speculative gaze.

“Patrick, honestly, the whole bombing thing baffles me as much as it does you. If that changes, I promise to call.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded, his brow furrowed. “Okay. Let me walk you to your car.”

“No need. I’m just in the parking garage across the street.” The light changed. “Have a good night.” With a wave, she broke into a jog, refusing to look back.

A half hour later, Amber pulled into her driveway as the night sky twinkled to life. Five steps took her to her covered front porch. As she plunged the key into the lock, her mind was already plotting her evening. Number one on her list: narrow down the fund-raiser’s agenda and finish working on the speech she’d started.

She blew out a breath. Good thing she’d left the café when she did.

Once inside, she flipped on the hall lights and locked the dead bolt.

Creak.

The sound split the silence, sending an icy tendril of fear skipping up her spine. Amber froze. Fisting her ring of keys, she held her breath, cocked her head to listen, hoping it was nothing. Ten...twenty seconds, then a floorboard creaked again.

A footstep!

Nerves sputtering, Amber whirled around as her brain maniacally chanted, Get out of here!

The lights flickered a split second before the power went out, thrusting her in total darkness.

The rush of blood pounding in her ears merged with the thud of approaching footsteps. Frantically, she grabbed for the dead bolt. As she untwisted the lock, a steely, gloved hand grabbed on to her wrist.

“You’re not going anywhere!” the man barked as he whipped her around and jerked her hard against his muscular chest.

The bloodcurdling scream scuttling up her windpipe quickly abated when a gloved hand clamped over her mouth.

“Amber, it has been a long time,” he whispered, his voice gravelly, distorted. He tightened his hold on her.

She desperately clawed at her memory, trying to recognize the gruff voice. Nothing registered.

“Yes, long enough, dear, for you to forget. And if you had been smart, you would have.”

Forget what? Her attempt to make sense of the man’s words was interrupted by his husky growl in her ear. “Eleven years of silence. Now you’re an advocate for assault victims. Do you really think you can make atonement for past regrets?”

Panic seized Amber as clarity seeped into her brain. Her assailant was back. He knew she was speaking at the Silence No More fund-raiser and feared her story would go public. Immediately, she began to fight—she kicked out her legs, and her body bucked against his. She screamed into his hand, but it was cut off, coming out as a squeak.

Muscled arms tightened around her, crushing her lungs, stopping air flow. “Remember, Amber, some secrets are best taken to the grave.” His garbled whisper was hot and fast on her neck.

As her lungs struggled for a breath, she clawed at the man’s hand hard enough that he slackened his grip from her mouth. She then spluttered, “I don’t even know who you are.”

His harsh laugh jarred her eardrums.

He didn’t believe her. A jolt of disbelief morphed into terror, catapulting her back to a dark and cold frat house bedroom. This man was here to kill her.

Fear suddenly dissolved into rage. No way was she going to let him take her life.

From deep inside her, survival instincts kicked into gear. Biting her lip, she kicked the heel of her shoe into his shin, then jerked back her head so it connected with his jaw.

“You little—” His wail pierced the air.

With dreadful memories spurring her on, Amber broke away. She spun around, lifted the pepper spray on her key chain and sprayed the man in the face.

He stumbled back, hitting the wall with a thud.

Gasping and dizzy, Amber burst out the front door and into the street.

* * *

Patrick climbed into his SUV, and before he even started the vehicle a shrill ping on his cell phone announced the arrival of a new text message. He grabbed his handset from the clip on his belt and read the text from Liza.

Enjoyed tonight. Let’s do it again soon.

“Let’s not.” Patrick shook his head. It was impossible to just be friends with the woman. He clicked off the phone and tossed it on the seat beside him.

Another ping.

Really. Ignoring the pesky tone, Patrick plunged the key into the ignition and fired up the powerful V8.

A third ping.

“Relentless woman.” Debating whether to silence it, he grabbed the cell phone and glanced at the message. It wasn’t from Liza. It was Amber.

The police are swarming my house. Someone had broken in and was waiting for me when I got home. Apparently the bomb was meant for me after all.

Frustration exploded in Patrick’s chest. Yanking the gearshift into Reverse, he peeled out of the parking lot and headed in the direction of Amber’s house. This was exactly what he’d been afraid of.

He scrolled through the contacts on his phone, punched on Amber’s name.

“Come on. Come on.” Patrick turned down a side street, taking a shortcut, waiting for her to answer.

Finally, “Hello.”

“Amber?”

“No, this is Kim, a friend—”

“Kim, this is Patrick Wiley. I met you this evening.”

“The detective?”

“Yes. Where’s Amber?”

“She’s talking to some of the officers here. Don’t worry, she’s okay.”

Thank You, God. “I’ll be right there.”

Someone cut in front of him and he leaned on the horn, the thrum of blood pounding in his ears. Ten minutes later he slammed on his brakes and nosed his SUV in between two patrol cars outside Amber’s bungalow.

As soon as his boots hit the pavement, he saw her. Surrounded by a handful of patrol officers, she stood there with her arms locked around her waist, her face expressionless beneath the glow of police flashlights.

Patrick approached the small group. His jaw tightened along with his fist when he thought about someone trying to harm her. Even after eleven years, he felt a need to protect her.

“What do you know, Gil?” Patrick directed his question at one of the officers.

“It seems somebody broke into Miss Talbot’s house. Got in through the laundry room window. He was waiting for her when she got home.” He nodded toward Amber. “Fortunately, she got away without being hurt.”

Patrick’s gaze bounced to Amber. “Did you get a look at him?”

Amber shook her head. “No, the lights were off and it was too dark.”

“So her attacker got away?” Patrick asked the officer.

Gil removed his hat, scratched at his sparse hairline. “Yes, sir. Once Miss Talbot got away from him, the crook didn’t hang around. But we’ve got the forensics team working on fingerprints.”

“Good.” Although Patrick wouldn’t hold his breath. Criminals today were savvy. Too many seasons of CSI. Whoever was after Amber meant business and wouldn’t be careless.

“And Roberts and his team have their dogs out scouring the area,” Gil added.

Patrick nodded. “Have you gotten a complete statement from Miss Talbot?”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“Then I’ll take it from here. Thanks for your work, guys.”

The group started to disperse, leaving Amber standing beside him.

“How are you doing?” He draped his arm around her shoulder, breaking his own rule on getting personal with victims. But he had to admit, for the second time in one day, it felt good having Amber in his hold.

Amber shuddered slightly beneath his touch, but didn’t pull away. “I’ve had better evenings.”

He was experiencing the same feeling. “Do you have a new revelation on why someone would want to hurt you?”

After an endless moment, Amber took a deep, quavering breath and nodded weakly. “Yes.”

Patrick raised a brow. Now they were getting somewhere.

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