THE CREAKS AND RASPS of the rambling old ranch house set Eve’s nerves on edge. Surprisingly, the same had not been true for Joey. He’d fallen asleep mere minutes after she’d tucked him into a twin bed at the end of the long hallway.
Once she was sure he was sleeping soundly, Eve left him to brush her teeth and wash and cream her face in the nearby bathroom.
Thoughts of Orson continued to plague Eve’s mind as she slipped into her cotton pajamas. Of all the inmates she’d counseled, he’d been the only one she dreaded having to talk to—even before the night he’d left no doubt that he could kill her without a second’s remorse.
Joey was still sleeping soundly when she returned to the bedroom, but anxiety was buzzing inside Eve like a horde of angry bumblebees. Knowing sleep wouldn’t come quickly, she went back to the family room and turned on the TV.
The local news was coming up next. Great. If they’d just announce that Orson Bastion had been recaptured, her nightmare could end and she could not only get a good night’s sleep, but actually look forward to seeing Troy in the morning.
She shed her slippers and stretched out on the brown leather sofa while a string of commercials aired. Finally the screen switched to the newsroom of a local channel.
“Stay tuned for breaking news concerning escaped convict Orson Bastion.”.
Eve tensed and waited. When a sophisticated blond anchor appeared, the grim expression on her meticulously made-up face guaranteed the news would be disturbing.
“A young woman was fatally strangled after being kidnapped from a Dallas shopping center this afternoon. Her car was found deserted a few hours later. Police suspect that escaped prisoner Orson Bastion may have been involved in the death.”.
Eve clutched a throw pillow to her chest and fought off a bout of nausea. Orson had killed again, which was exactly what she’d testified he’d do if he was released from prison.
He’d exhibited so many behaviors consistent with that of a psychopath, especially the lack of emotional involvement with others. The only thing that was missing was the fact that he didn’t have a real history of criminal behavior; or, if he did, she hadn’t been made aware of it.
He was in jail for killing his stepbrother in an act of rage. He’d only received a charge of second-degree murder. Orson had been twenty-eight years old at the time. He was forty now.
Eve flicked off the TV. She didn’t need to hear more. Gordon had said Orson would never look for her at the Ledger ranch, but what if Gordon was wrong? Still, this was likely the safest place on the planet, at least for the time being.
If Troy were here, she’d likely feel totally safe, but she was alone in this rambling old house, without so much as a weapon to protect her son.
She walked to the kitchen, checked the drawers and took out a carving knife. Just in case. Not that she’d need it. Still, knife in hand, she wandered back into the den just as streams of light flicked across the window. The low hum of an engine purred and then stopped.
Someone was here, parked in the driveway.
Surely not Orson. He couldn’t have found her this quickly. Yet adrenaline pumped through her leaving her shaking so violently she had to hold the knife with both hands.
Heavy footsteps clumped across the wooden porch. Eve fought the rising panic. She had to stay calm. She could do this. She had to do this. If the man outside the door was Orson, a lock would never deter him.
She stood so that she’d be behind the door if it opened, poised to bury the blade of the knife in Orson’s back the minute he stepped inside—if it was Orson.
She heard the flick of a key in the lock. If the person at the door had a key, surely it wasn’t Orson. The knob turned, the door opened and the intruder stepped across the threshold.
His breathing was deep and sharp. His voice echoed though the room.
“The day of reckoning has finally come.”
Chapter Four
The voice proclaiming the fatalistic message was masculine, husky. Unfamiliar.
The intruder reached for the door and slammed it shut, leaving her and the knife in full view.
Her knees buckled and her breath rushed out in a whoosh. This wasn’t Orson. Instead, it was hunk of a cowboy who reeked of strength and power.
Before she could say anything, he grabbed the arm holding the knife, yanked it over her head and shoved her against the wall. She struggled to push him away, but she might as well have been flailing against a brick wall. A brick wall with broad shoulders that smelled of musk and forest glens.
“Take your hands off me,” she sputtered.
“After you tell me what the hell is going on here.”.
“I thought you were someone else.” Her relief drowned in a rush of confusing awareness, as the man’s breath heated a spot just below her right earlobe. His masculinity was staggering. She gasped and gulped for air.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m a friend of Troy’s. Now back off before I—”.
“Before you what, come at me with a knife?”.
She writhed and tried again to break free, but he strengthened his hold on her wrists and kept his body pressed against hers.
Finally, she shifted so that she was staring straight into the depths of his dark eyes at extremely close range. Something jumped inside her, an eruption of emotions that under the circumstances made no sense at all.
His hold loosened, as if whatever had left her quaking had affected him as well. “I’ll take that knife,” he said. “And then you can tell me who you are and why you’re defending my father’s house like it was the Holy Grail.”.
Anxiety swelled again. This didn’t add up. “You’re lying,” she said. “I met Troy’s son earlier tonight.”.
“You may have met Dylan. I’m Sean, the mild-mannered offspring with a cool head. Lucky for you.”.
She saw the resemblance now. He looked even more like Troy than Dylan did. The same slightly squared jawline. The same classic nose. Only, Sean was years younger than Troy, and so ruggedly handsome that he could have been a soap opera star. And he was still so close that he could probably feel her heart beating.
Collette had said that Troy’s other sons were estranged from their father. But then Dylan must have called them when he left for the hospital. Maybe his having a heart attack had gotten through to at least one of Troy’s other sons.
“If you talked to Dylan, he must have told you I was here,” she said, still trying to make sense of this.
“He mentioned a friend had found Dad. He didn’t say you were staying here. In fact, he made a point of telling me the house would be empty and the spare key was under the flowerpot next to the door. So what are you doing here?”.
“If
