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Lindsay swallowed hard as the walls she’d built around her heart to keep him out began to crumble.
Dammit, she didn’t want to feel anything for him! But the well-deep emotions Ike could always evoke refused to stay buried.
A heavy feeling of dread settled over her as she tried not to notice how well his shirt fit his broad shoulders. Tried not to admit that no man had ever looked better in jeans and boots, or that the faint shadow on his jaw and longer length of his dark brown hair only added to his blatant masculinity.
Tried to forget how deeply and pathetically she’d loved him during the six months they’d been together.
She failed. If anything, their nearly two years apart only added maturity to his rugged, sexy good looks and made him even more attractive.
Deadly Reunion
Lauren Nichols
LAUREN NICHOLS
started writing by accident, so it seems fitting that the word accidental appears in her first three titles for Silhouette. Once eager to illustrate children’s books, she tried to get her foot in that door, only to learn that most publishing houses used their own artists. Then one publisher offered to look at her sketches if she also wrote the tale. During the penning of that story, Lauren fell head over heels in love with writing fiction.
In addition to her novels, Lauren’s romance and mystery short stories have appeared in several leading magazines. She counts her family and friends as her greatest treasures, and strongly believes in the Beatles’ philosophy—“All You Need Is Love.” When this Pennsylvania author isn’t writing or trying unsuccessfully to give up French vanilla cappuccino, she’s traveling or hanging out with her very best friend/husband, Mike.
Lauren loves to hear from her readers. You can contact her at www.laurennichols.com.
For Mike with all my love.
You’re always there for me.
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 1
He’d rather be touring hell.
Gunning his black Explorer up the narrow lane and away from the quaint little harbor, Michael “Ike” Walker bit back two years of resentment and continued to scour the street for a rambling, white nineteenth-century Victorian that needed work. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again because he knew what kind of reception he’d get. But in his mind he had no choice. With a sudden jolt, he spotted the house, sitting on a double lot—a fair amount of space for homes so close to the water.
Slowing his SUV, he pulled into his ex-wife’s driveway, parked and stepped into the dusky June evening.
He gave the place a cursory inspection as he crossed the yard and ascended the steps to her wraparound porch, determined to keep moving so he didn’t change his mind and trade face-to-face for a phone call.
It was a lot of house for one person, he decided, scowling as he rang the bell. Then again, maybe that “one person” status had changed.
Not that he gave a damn. She was welcome to see and do whatever she pleased now—just as he was. Ike rang the bell a second time, impatient to get this over with.
From deep inside, Lindsay’s lilting “Just a minute” carried through the screens on the jutting windows fronting the house. Then seconds later, she opened the inside door, her eyes widened in shock, and her welcoming smile fell apart.
Time stretched out on tenterhooks.
In the gathering dusk, the low, melancholy horn of a tugboat sounded as their past played out in her pretty, sea-green eyes, all the hurt, all the sadness, all the blame, trembling like heat lightning over dark, rolling waters. And beneath it all, Ike felt that old twitch, that old familiar need, and he hated himself for it. They were over—had been over for eighteen months now.
Finally, she drew a stabilizing breath. “Hello, Ike.”
“Lindsay,” he returned. As usual when he looked at Lindsay, his hormone levels rose in direct relation to everything his gaze touched. Her thick blond hair was sun-streaked and tied back with a ribbon, and she was trim and lightly tanned in fringed, cutoff jeans and a soft green T-shirt that nearly matched her eyes.
It bothered him that she looked so good. Because suddenly he was back in their old, sheet-tangled bed, losing himself in her, feeling her warm breath and soft laughter against his neck. Glorying in the way her body fit so perfectly with his.
But she was waiting for a reason for his visit.
“We need to talk,” he said in a clipped voice, then nodded through the screen door. “Can we do it in there?”
“That depends,” she replied stiffly. “Can we do it without entertaining the neighbors?”
“I can, if you can.”
Her reluctant expression said she doubted it, but she stepped back and allowed him to enter anyway. One boot hit dark, polished hardwood; the second came to rest on the Oriental rug covering most of the elevated landing.
Ike caught a whiff of varnish and potpourri as his gaze quickly slid up the dark oak stairs leading to the second level, then darted into her dramatic cream, rose and burgundy living room, two steps below. The room was a startling contrast to the house’s slightly run-down exterior, full of beautifully appointed nooks and crannies. Assorted sizes and shapes of framed prints, flowered swags and hanging plants nearly covered the creamy walls, and rose-colored drapes topped the lace curtains on the triple-windowed bay. Most of her furniture looked new, except for the tables he knew she’d refinished…and that deep rose-colored chair they’d picked out together.
Apparently, she was finally spending the money she’d been awarded years ago in her dad’s wrongful-death suit.
“Nice,” he remarked grudgingly as he followed her down into the living room, a far cry from his sterile efficiency apartment in Portland.
“Thanks.”
