Lovers In Hiding. Susan Kearney

      Chapter One

      Time to play.

      Melinda Murphy loaded her long board and new Aerotech sail and mast onto her car’s rack and headed for Ponce Inlet, a peninsula just south of Daytona Beach that permitted cars on the beach. Once she parked on Florida’s fabulous white sand, she wouldn’t have far to carry her gear to the surf.

      She sniffed the tangy salt air and appreciated the May sunshine as the wind whipped her hair through her open car window. She might just sail in her shorty, a wet suit that left her arms and legs bare to the water, since the air was warm enough to keep her comfortable. Although she knew the water temperatures would still be cool this time of year, she longed for the wetness against her skin. Besides, she’d warm up quickly as she beat into the wind, sailing through the large rolling waves that swelled, then gathered force as they crested and crashed onto the beach.

      Even allowing time to drive back for a shower and a change of clothes, Melinda figured she had several good hours of sailing time. She had four hours until her next appointment, with a demanding lady, but one who’d recommended her to some very influential potential clients. Clients who could afford to pay a hundred bucks for a two-hour massage. Clients who had stressful jobs. Clients who would be happy to shell out more cash for additional pampering when Melinda opened her full-service salon, which would include facials and manicures, in the fall.

      Melinda almost had enough money saved. The financing had been arranged to allow her to make a down payment and renovate the cute little house with a prime commercial location that she wanted to buy. Soon, all she’d worked and planned for would become reality, and she’d have the stability of her own business.

      But for the next few hours, Melinda intended to put work out of her mind and enjoy the sunshine kissing her skin, the breeze dancing in her hair, the hot sand slipping between her toes. The beach wouldn’t be crowded on a Thursday afternoon. She wouldn’t have to watch out for the surfers catching their next wave or kids swimming or body surfing or tossing Frisbees.

      She expected only dolphins, sand crabs and seagulls for company. Sure enough, as she turned onto the beach, it was relatively empty. A lone fisherman cast his line at the end of the pier. Several boats headed into the harbor around the point, and a sea-plane flew northward up the coast.

      Melinda sighed happily in expectation, turning her face up to the sun shining through her windshield, looking forward to a strenuous afternoon. A cottony cumulus cloud scudded over the sun, casting long shadows across the beach, and the shimmering waters darkened to a menacing gray. For a moment, Melinda shivered, memories of the disturbing package she’d received yesterday morning swimming through her thoughts like a shark circling prey.

      She’d always known she had been adopted. But she’d been too busy struggling to survive to give her past much thought. After her adopted parents’ divorce, there’d been barely enough money to put food on the table, never mind send her to college. So she’d earned her massage therapy license at age eighteen and had been responsible for her own bills ever since. Now, at twenty-five, she rarely thought of the past, and focused only on her future and the business she would soon open.

      But the package she’d received yesterday from her biological brother had changed her world and her place in it. Melinda had a brother and a sister. Two siblings. She didn’t find the facts particularly comforting. Large families meant more mouths to feed. More fights. More responsibilities.

      As she turned her attention back to the present, she noticed a shiny blue sedan with two men in business suits following her vehicle down the beach. Wanting her privacy, she kept going, hoping they’d park far enough away that she wouldn’t have to hear their conversation. She’d come to relax.

      But the old letters, diaries and pictures that once belonged to her biological mother kept worming their way into her mind. Would her brother, Jake Cochran, come calling soon? What did he want from her?

      And what about the sister, older by two years, that she’d never met? Would they look alike? Would her sister have Melinda’s olive skin, tawny eyes and black hair? Her brother’s letter had told her almost nothing about himself, but after she’d read his note, she’d picked up the phone and called him.

      Jake hadn’t answered, and she hadn’t left a message on his voice mail, although she wasn’t sure why. She’d told herself that with her hectic schedule, he wouldn’t be likely to catch her in. And if he’d called back during an appointment with a client, she couldn’t speak for long on her cell phone. It would simply be more convenient for her to call him back again later.

      A glance in her rearview mirror revealed that the two men in the blue sedan hadn’t yet parked, but were still trailing her down the beach. While the traffic was often bumper to bumper, there was lots of room now, and she felt a minor edge of alarm when their car followed hers so closely.

      They had the entire beach to themselves. Why tail-gate?

      When they honked at her, she kept driving along the beach, obeying the ten-mile-per-hour speed limit, and ignored the men, hoping they just wanted to pick up a beach babe and would go away if she paid them no attention. Before, she’d welcomed the isolation. Now, she wished for the weekend crowd. But besides the fisherman who stood on the pier with his back to her, the only other person on the beach appeared to be a man on a motorcycle, maybe a half mile back, his silhouette black and razor sharp against the blowing sand.

      At least she hadn’t stopped and turned off her engine. She could simply keep driving, circle to the main road and report the creeps to the cops. She might lose a half hour of sailing time, but she knew trouble when she saw it.

      However, when she tried to head back toward the road, the sedan blocked her. Quickly, more annoyed than frightened, she whipped the steering wheel the other way and made a skidding U-turn, her wheels sinking into wet sand and lapping waves. She easily made the turn and glanced over her shoulder, figuring she’d lost the men in suits.

      Then she again spied the blue sedan on her tail, speeding toward her. It looked ready to ram her, smash her to a bloody pulp. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal.

      Her car skidded like oil on a hot skillet. Failed to accelerate quickly enough.

      The sedan rocketed into her car’s trunk. Her car veered into the ocean and water rolled up to her tires, up to her bumper, onto the floorboards.

      Soon it would be up to her neck, making her keep her head above water to avoid drowning. A huge wave lumbered over the hood like a runaway mule, kicked into her windows, tossed the car up and smashed it into another taller wall of dark water. She banged her head and fireworks shot off in a sea of darkness. Her airbag inflated.

      And then her world turned black.

      CLAY GUNNED HIS Harley down the beach, blasting a spray of sand behind him, skidding to a stop short of where Melinda Murphy’s car had just been forced into the water by the blue sedan. At the first sign of trouble, he’d kicked his bike into gear, wishing he’d had more power. She wasn’t going to die on his watch.

      Running toward her, he flung his jacket behind him, stopping for only a few seconds to kick off his boots. His heart was hammering so hard he barely heard the roar of the waves pounding the rocks by the pier like a hammer. Barely noticed the cold water that numbed his extremities. Barely noticed how suddenly the sunshine was disappearing as thunder-clouds thronged dark and dangerous overhead.

      He refused to lose her. Not after he’d stayed awake, driving all night to reach her.

      Yesterday, after learning he couldn’t catch a commercial flight to Daytona’s tiny airport, he’d chosen to ride his bike from Virginia to Florida. Maybe he should have chartered a special flight. Or flown into Orlando or Jacksonville. Or hired protection for her until he’d arrived to take over himself.

      Wishing he