Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver
“Don’t you ever get lonely, Dana?” Remy murmured, curling a lock of her hair around his index finger and bringing it to his lips.
She didn’t like where the conversation was heading. How much honesty did she want to allow herself? Yes, she got lonely. Damn right she got lonely. Why else would she be lying here beside a convicted killer, wishing she could believe this whole crazy charade they were playing?
“Dana?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
“I think the nights are the worst,” he said. “Don’t you wish you had someone beside you then, to talk to?” He stroked her cheek with the ends of her hair. “Or just to hold in the dark?”
She moistened her lips. “Sometimes.”
He leaned closer.
Was he going to kiss her? What would she do if he did? How could she stand it if he didn’t…?
Dear Reader,
There’s so much great reading in store for you this month that it’s hard to know where to begin, but I’ll start with bestselling author and reader favorite Fiona Brand. She’s back with another of her irresistible Alpha heroes in Marrying McCabe. There’s something about those Aussie men that a reader just can’t resist—and heroine Roma Lombard is in the same boat when she meets Ben McCabe. He’s got trouble—and passion—written all over him.
Our FIRSTBORN SONS continuity continues with Born To Protect, by Virginia Kantra. Follow ex-Navy SEAL Jack Dalton to Montana, where his princess (and I mean that literally) awaits. A new book by Ingrid Weaver is always a treat, so save some reading time for Fugitive Hearts, a perfect mix of suspense and romance. Round out the month with new novels by Linda Castillo, who offers A Hero To Hold (and trust me, you’ll definitely want to hold this guy!); Barbara Ankrum, who proves the truth of her title, This Perfect Stranger; and Vickie Taylor, with The Renegade Steals a Lady (and also, I promise, your heart).
And if that weren’t enough excitement for one month, don’t forget to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest. Details are in every book.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Fugitive Hearts
Ingrid Weaver
To Katie O’Toole,
Realtor Extraordinaire, Forty-seven acres of thanks!
INGRID WEAVER
admits to being a compulsive reader who loves a book that can make her cry. A former teacher, now a homemaker and mother, she delights in creating stories that reflect the wonder and adventure of falling in love. When she isn’t writing or reading, she enjoys old Star Trek reruns, going on sweater-knitting binges, taking long walks with her husband and waking up early to canoe after camera-shy loons.
Ingrid is the recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award for Best Romantic Suspense Novel for her book, On the Way to a Wedding…
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Chapter 1
At first Dana didn’t realize the lump on her doorstep was human.
She assumed the snow that had been piling up on the roof of the caretaker’s cabin all day must have slid off, a mini avalanche triggered by the wind. Or else the storm had swirled the snow into a freak drift. If the wood box beside the fireplace hadn’t been getting empty, she would have waited until the morning to dig herself out, but she didn’t want to risk having Morty catch another chill at his age. So instead of going back inside when she saw her way was blocked by the lump, Dana plunged ahead.
The snow wasn’t the powdery mass she had expected. Her left boot came down on something firm and rounded. And the snowdrift groaned.
Dana shrieked and jumped backward, windmilling her arms to keep her balance. Her elbow smacked into the door frame. Her flashlight flew from her grasp and hit the underside of the eaves. With a tinkle of breaking glass, the beam winked out.
“Oh, my God!” She fell to her knees and reached in front of her. “Who’s there? Are you hurt?”
Nothing. No more groans, no sound at all apart from the hiss of the wind and the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. In the dim glow from the window there was no trace of movement.
Dana inched forward, thrusting her arms into the tracks she had made. Immediately her hand connected with the form she had stepped on. She pulled her hand back and removed her mitten with her teeth, then extended her fingers. She touched fabric and pressed harder, running her fingertips along what it took her only a split second to realize was…an arm.
She put her mitten back on and started to dig, scooping the snow away as quickly as she could. “Hang on,” she said. “Hang on, I’ll help you.”
It seemed to take forever, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute later that Dana uncovered a figure that was definitely human. And, judging by the size, undoubtedly male. Wrapped in an overcoat, curled into a fetal position, the stranger remained silent and ominously motionless, except for the shivering that shook his large frame.
Stories her grandfather had told her in her childhood, tales of unwary trappers who had frozen to death mere yards from shelter in storms like this, popped unbidden into her head. Half Moon Bay Resort was only three hours north of Toronto, but it was like a different world up here—just last year there had been those snowmobilers who had gotten lost in a blizzard and hadn’t been found until the spring thaw….
“Oh, God,” she muttered. “Don’t die, mister. You can’t die.”
Scrambling to her feet, she reached behind her to open the door. The wind shoved it inward, smacking it against the wall in a vicious gust. Snow streamed giddily over the threshold as Dana turned back to grasp the stranger under the arms.
Her boots slipped on the ice that coated the doorstep, sending her back to her knees. Her hands rapidly grew too numb to maintain a grip on the limp form. In desperation, she hooked her arm around the stranger’s neck and dragged the dead weight backward like a swimmer, crawling and sliding until his body cleared the threshold. Unable to do more, she shoved his long, denim-clad legs to the side so that she could swing the door closed.
In the sudden stillness after the storm was shut out, Dana’s rasping breaths seemed unnaturally loud. The fire on the hearth crackled, the clock on the mantel ticked and the snow hissed distantly against the windows. Everything was just as she’d left it mere minutes ago. Cozy and quiet, exactly as she wanted it.
Except for the body on her floor.
No, not a dead body kind of body. He had groaned, and he was still shivering enough to knock puffs of snow onto the floor around him, so he couldn’t be dead.
Yet.