Cold Case at Carlton’s Canyon


Cold Case at Carlton’s Canyon

Book 4 of the Cold Case Series

Cold Case at Carlton's Canyon

Two officers’ badges—and hearts—are on the line in Rita Herron’s Cold Case at Carlton’s Canyon

Sergeant Justin Thorpe has dedicated his life to justice and won’t stop until he finds the vicious serial killer who has already claimed ten innocent lives. He works solo—until he joins forces with Sheriff Amanda Blair. The Texas Ranger can’t let his desire for his coworker keep him from his mission, especially when Amanda’s life is threatened.

Ten girls have vanished—one for every year since Amanda graduated from Canyon High. And as she tries to fight her attraction to a man as independent as she is, a trap is being laid to make Amanda the final victim in a killer’s terrifying endgame….

Under His Skin


Under His Skin

Nighthawk Island Series

Under His Skin

He’d been a top-notch cop until a fire forced Parker Kilpatrick out of uniform and into the healing hands of nurse Grace Gardener. Grace’s bedside manner and haunting blue eyes pulled at every protective string in Parker’s body — and threatened to soften his famously gruff facade. Then Grace was attacked, trusting them both into the line of fire. As Parker learned more about Grace’s past, new clues inextricably linked a cold case to the recent violence on Nighthawk Island. Now the enemy had left Parker no choice but to put his beloved job on the line…and break every rule to keep an innocent — and irresistible — woman safe.


Up in Flames


Up in Flames

Nighthawk Island Series

Up in Flames

Southern summers were notoriously hot. But when a series of deadly fires blazed through the city, Detective Bradford Walsh really felt the heat. With temperatures rising, he had to catch the arsonists before the city was reduced to a pile of cinders.

On a hunt for a killer, all roads led to one woman: Rosanna Redhill. The fires seemed to target the elusive beauty, and Bradford had to know why. But he couldn’t let Rosanna’s smoldering glances distract him from his investigation. Because then he’d have another fire to extinguish…one that threatened to send them both up in flames.

Twenty-four years later, July 4—Savannah, Georgia

Detective Bradford Walsh was starving. Starved for food.

Starved for a woman.

Starved for a reprieve from the sweltering heat in Savannah, and a break from the recent crime wave terrorizing the citizens.

But as he watched the blazing fire engulfing Cozy’s Café on River Street, the possibility of satisfying any of those hungers that night quickly went up in smoke just like the building had minutes ago.

Dammit. How long had it been since he’d had a good meal? A decent night’s sleep?

A night of hot sex?

A Fourth of July without trouble?

His partner, Parker Kilpatrick, joined him, soot darkening his jeans and shirt, sweat beading on his forehead. He and Parker had arrived first on the scene and had rushed in to make sure everyone escaped the blaze unharmed. In fact, his captain, Adam Black, knew about Bradford’s history and had handpicked him to spearhead investigations into the recent arson crimes in the city.

Bradford was determined to prove that a screwup with his brother hadn’t cost him his job.

Which was the only thing he had left since his family relationships disintegrated with his brother’s arrest.

Dragging his mind back to the current situation, he assessed the scene. A half-dozen patrons milled around the edge of the sidewalk watching the building deconstruct. Thick plumes of gray smoke curled toward the sky, the orange, red and yellow flames shooting into the darkness. The owner, a pudgy Southern woman named Hazel, flapped her hands around, waving smoke away in between bouts of crying in her coffee-stained apron.

Bradford walked over to her and patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry about your business, ma’am. But at least everyone escaped safely, and you can rebuild.”

“We worked so hard to get this place going, to have a clean business. Then my husband died,” she said between sobs. “I don’t think I can start over by myself.”

Compassion for the woman bled through Bradford. “How did the fire get started, ma’am? Was it in the kitchen?”

“No,” she cried. “I was in the back, making my peach pies, when I heard someone shout that smoke was coming from the bathroom.”

“All right, we’ll check it out.” He turned to his partner.

“This is the third fire in three weeks in the Savannah area,” Parker said.

Bradford nodded. “Any signs of an accelerant?”

“No, but the fire chief just arrived. I’ll make sure he checks for arson.”

“Tell him to start in the men’s room. Someone may have lit a match or dropped a cigarette in the trash.” And paper towels would go up in seconds.

“It is a holiday,” Parker said. “Maybe some kids starting their fireworks a little early.”

Bradford once again scanned the crowd. “Yeah, and the night is still young.”

Parker strode toward the fire chief, and Bradford mentally ticked over the facts they had so far on all three fires. The first one was set at a cottage on Tybee Island not far from the one he was renting, and appeared to be accidental, a fluke with old wiring. The second, an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town had aroused questions, but there had been no evidence of accelerant present. The firemen had speculated that a homeless person staying inside might have dropped a cigarette butt, and with old paint thinner stored inside, the building had caught fire.

This one—smoke in the bathroom, not the kitchen—could have been accidental, but on the heels of the others, it definitely struck a chord of suspicion.

Could there be a connection?

He scanned the spectators who’d gathered to gawk. An elderly couple walking their Yorkie had stopped to console a young mother. Three teenage girls wearing short shorts huddled next to a couple of gangly boys taking pictures with their cell phones. A teenage prank? No, they looked curious, but not like arsonists or vandals.

Two men in suits stood chatting quietly. A gaggle of tourists with cameras and souvenirs from the gift shops on River Street hovered around, enraptured by the blaze, but no one stuck out as suspicious looking.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.An older black woman in voodoo priestess garb watched, her colorful clothing highlighted by the firelight. Beside her stood a nondescript blond man in his early twenties.

A movement to the left caught Bradford’s attention, and he spotted a woman with flaming-red curly hair. She was slender, wore a long, flowing skirt, peasant blouse and beads around her neck. A short brunette leaned near her and said something, but they were out of earshot.

Although the redhead looked like some kind of throwback to the seventies, his gaze met hers, and something hot and instant flared inside him. She was so natural, so earthy and untamed-looking, that his baser primal side reacted immediately. Her eyes were the palest green he’d ever seen, and looked almost translucent. For a moment, he felt as if she’d cast some kind of spell on him.

Then she darted away, through the maze of onlookers as if she’d sensed the connection and couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

He started to follow her. But heat scalded his neck, wood crackled and the sound of walls crashing shattered the hushed silence. The owner of the café cried out, other onlookers shrieked and he halted. He couldn’t go chasing some woman during an investigation, not unless he thought she was a suspect. And he had no reason to think that.

After all, ninety percent of firestarters were men, not women. Bradford had studied the profiles. A large percentage were out to collect insurance money or exact revenge. But there was another percent that had a fixation. To them fire was a living, breathing monster. The obsessive compulsion to watch something burn escalated with each fire set.

He knew because his little brother had been one of them.

Shaking off the troubling memories of his past, he squared his shoulders. If an arsonist was playing havoc in Savannah, Bradford damn well wouldn’t rest until he found the son of a bitch and put him behind bars.

Fingers of tension crawled along Rosanna Redhill’s nerve endings as she passed the graveyard with its tombs and granite markers standing at attention, honoring those who’d passed to the other side. Death surrounded her, as did the stories of witches, voodoo and sin in the city.

Smoke painted the sky in a hazy gray, floating across the tops of the graves like ghosts whispering to the heavens. The pungent smell of the blazing building followed her, chasing away the lingering scent of the therapeutic herbs and candles in her gift shop, Mystique.

At least no one had died in the fire.

Still, the blaze left her with the oddest feeling that something supernatural was happening in Savannah. That something dangerous and evil was lurking nearby. That someone in the crowd was not quite normal.

Like her.

But it was that cop who had her rattled so badly that she was trembling as she rushed toward the apartment she’d rented in one of the Victorian row houses. Her friend Natalie, a girl she’d met at the Coastal Island Research Park, CIRP, three months ago, hurried along beside her.

“Why did you run, Rosanna?” Natalie asked. She darted up the sidewalk and onto the porch, then jammed her key toward the keyhole in her apartment door. Her fingers shook, though, and she dropped the key, then had to bend to retrieve it and start all over.

How could she explain without revealing the truth about her childhood? Without divulging her secrets? Secrets she’d guarded over for the past twenty-four years.

“Rosanna?” Natalie said softly. “Come on, tell me what’s wrong? You looked spooked back there.”

Rosanna pivoted, wondering if her new friend had a sixth sense. The experiment she’d joined at the Coastal Island Research Park involved testing for special abilities. Some of the participants were control subjects; others claimed to have various gifts ranging from telekinesis to psychic powers to those who communed with the dead. They were beginning a support group session this week, but so far no one had been forced to share his or her reason for being involved in the study.

“I don’t like cops,” Rosanna said, admitting the partial truth. “They make me nervous.”

Natalie arched a dark brow. “Hmm. I thought those two at the scene of the fire were kind of cute.”

Cute was not a word Rosanna would have attached to the hulking male cop who’d stared at her through the crowd. He was tall, broad-shouldered like a linebacker, with a square jaw, strong nose, cleft chin and thick hair as black as the soot from the embers of the charred wood. Even his eyebrows were thick and powerful looking, framing his eyes in a way that emphasized his coldness.

He had a dark side. Whether it was anger, his job, or the criminals he’d dealt with, something had hardened him.

Still, for a minute when he’d looked at her, she’d felt some cosmic force draw her to him.

The reason she’d run. The last person she’d ever get involved with was a cop.

Rosanna pushed open the door and hurried into the foyer, trying to shake the cobwebs of lust from her brain.

After her father had died, she’d been sent to live with her grandmother, a descendant of a witchdoctor. Rosanna had grown up a recluse with Granny Redhill, shunned by some, yet welcomed by the underground population of Savannah’s believers in the supernatural.

She had never had a boyfriend. Had never wanted a man before. And it had never bothered her that she was alone. She liked being alone.

So why had she been drawn to that detective? “Earth to Rosanna?” Natalie said with a laugh. “What are you thinking?”

“About that fire,” Rosanna said. “There were two others in the past few weeks.”

“But they weren’t related,” Natalie said. “Besides, it’s been so dry with this heat wave that fires have been breaking out all across the South.”

True. So why was she nervous? “Come on, Rosanna, let’s go to the Pink Martini. They have live music on Saturday nights. Maybe we’ll meet some guys.”

Rosanna sighed and dropped her purse onto the ottoman in the den. She’d read her own tarot cards, and a lovelife was not in her future. “You go ahead, Nat. I’ll just curl up with a good book tonight and go to bed early.”

“No,” Natalie protested. “It’s the Fourth of July celebration. Don’t you want to see the fireworks?”

“We just saw enough fireworks for me,” Rosanna said.

Natalie pushed her toward her bedroom. “Not for me. I’ve been begging you for weeks to party with me, and I’m not taking no for an answer. Now go put on something sexy.”

Rosanna glanced down at her colorful skirt and sandals. She liked her gypsy look. “I don’t exactly have good luck in the relationship department.” Because she could never be her true self. Her own parents had thought she was a devil child and hadn’t been able to love her. And she’d proven her father right that fatal day…

“Please,” Natalie said, giving her another push.

“It’s not safe to go barhopping alone. I need a buddy.”

Her last words convinced Rosanna. With the recent crime wave in town, Natalie was right. Rosanna didn’t have very many friends. She didn’t want to lose this one.

In her bedroom, she slipped on a black sundress, strappy silver sandals and silver hoop earrings. Nothing she could do with her mop of hair, so she left it loose, then added some lip gloss. Seconds later, she and Natalie headed back outside into the hot, sultry summer air.

But once again, a chill of foreboding tiptoed up her spine as they strolled toward River Street.

She spun around twice to see if someone was following her, but saw nothing. Still, tension charged the air, and she sensed something dark and sinister in the shadows.

He still felt the heat of the flames from the café burning his hands, singeing his hair, the smoke filling his lungs. And he tasted the fear.

Laughter bubbled in his chest. The terrified screams of the onlookers was music to his ears. Food for his hungry heart.

While the firefighter raced to extinguish his handiwork, he had stood in the shadows of the live oaks, letting the spidery web of Spanish moss shroud him. His heart raced, his blood hot from the excitement of watching the flames light up the inky sky and the knowledge that he had exerted control over all of them.

They would never catch him because he had left no evidence behind. Laughter bubbled in his throat. Detective Bradford Walsh would spin in circles.

Perfect. He hated Bradford Walsh.

Now the woman was a different story. He’d felt her presence, sensed that she was like him. Different.

What her talents were he didn’t know. But he would find out.

And he would use her if needed.

He followed her now. Had seen her before, but couldn’t place where.

She was dressed to kill and heading toward the party end of town. Probably on the prowl for a man to fulfill her fantasies.

He had fantasies of his own.

His thirst for another fire already burned inside him, stronger and more intense than before. The city would host a fireworks show in the park tonight, but those would be pitiful compared to his work.

The café fire was only the beginning of the festivities he had planned.

But he had cut short his fun in watching the flames die down at the café because of this woman. He wanted that lost time back, those lost moments of joy, of seeing the final embers dwindle to ashes. That part usually satisfied and fed him for hours. Sometimes days. But not tonight.

She had robbed him of that pleasure.

And she would suffer.

Don’t Say a Word


Don’t Say a Word


Special Agent Dubois is no hero… Groomed by a covert operative of elite killers, Damon left the secret society to join the FBI after a mission went brutally wrong and an innocent woman died.

When his brother is arrested for murder, Damon investigates and finds a “Jane Doe” who holds the key to the case, along with a darker terror – one that threatens to expose Damon’s deadly secrets and destroy them all.

Despite the danger, he’s drawn to the nameless beauty, igniting a passion that burns hot between them. But with a madman out to silence her forever, Damon knows he must deny their love. And to stop the man responsible, he must return to the one place he had desperately tried to leave behind – the dark shadows of a killer’s mind.


May, New Orleans

The woman had no name. No voice. No face.

Dr. Reginald Pace studied her near lifeless form as she lay on the shiny surgical table. The harsh fluorescent lights glowed off of her charred skin and raw flesh, painting an almost inhuman picture.

Her silent, pain-filled, vacant eyes begged for mercy. For death.

But the voice inside his head whispered that he could not fulfill her wish. That her body craved the transformation that only his gifted hands could offer.

As a plastic surgeon, he had seen the ruins of people’s faces and bodies on a daily basis. But never had he beheld a sight like the one before him. She looked almost inhuman.

Mangled, charred skin had peeled away from the severed tendons and crushed bone. Lips that might have once held a feminine smile now gaped with blisters and raw flesh. Eyes blinded by pain had flickered with a plea for death to end the agony before he had swept her under with the bliss of drugs.

His healing hands would piece her back together.

His healing hands and time…

Layer by layer he would rebuild her. Repair severed nerve endings, damaged cartilage. Replace tissue. Mold the monster into a beauty.

Without a face, a name, a picture, he could shape her into whatever he chose.

The woman of his dreams, God willing.

He gently brushed the remnants of her singed hair from her hairline. She would be in agony for a while, but he would be there with her every step of the way to offer her comfort.

And she would recover; he wouldn’t rest until she did.

A smile curled his mouth as he picked up the scalpel to get started. Yes, she would thank him in the end.

And then, she would be his creation.

His to keep forever…

Chapter One

A year later, New Orleans

Damon Dubois was a dead man.

At least he felt dead inside. As dead as the soldiers who’d fallen and given their lives for the country. As dead as the ones who’d lost their lives during the terrible hurricane that had nearly destroyed New Orleans.

As dead as the woman he had caused to die.

He could still see the flames licking at her skin, see the smoke swirling above her face, hear the crackle of the house as wood splintered and crumbled down on her body.

Ironically though, his heart still beat and blood still flowed through his veins, forcing him to go through the motions of life.

A punishment issued by the gods, he was certain.

For although his head hadn’t touched the pillow yet on this dreary evening, nightmares haunted him with the cries of that anguished woman screaming in pain.

And then there was the bebe’s ghostlike cry…

’Tite ange,” he whispered. “Little angel, you did not deserve to die.”

Perspiration beaded on his neck and trickled down into the collar of his shirt as he opened the French doors to the hundred-year-old house he’d bought on the bayou and breathed in the sultry summer air. The end of May was nearing and already the summer heat was oppressive. Sticky. The air hung thick with the scent of blood and swamp water. A Luis Armstrong blues tune floated from the stereo, the soul wrenching words echoing his mood.

Still, eerie sounds cut through the endless night. The muddy Mississippi slapping at the embankment. A faint breeze stirring the tupelo trees. The gators’ shrill attack cry in the night. Insects buzzing for their next feed.

Though a thick fog of blessed darkness clouded the waning daylight, morbid images bombarded him. A hand outstretched, begging for help. The fingers curled around the tiny bebe’ rattle. The accusing horror-stricken eyes.

He blinked to stop the damning images, but they flickered in his mind’s eyes like flashes of lightning splintering the sky.

The scream tore through the air again, and he swallowed back bile. Its shrill sound refused to stop, pounding against his conscious with a will that he couldn’t defy. Reminding him of his past. His sins. His vow of silence.

So many secrets…tell and you die.

Inside his pocket, his cell phone vibrated, jarring him back to the present. Hauling him away from the pain and self-recriminations clawing at his mind.

He gripped the mobile unit with sweaty fingers and connected the call.

“Special Agent Damon Dubois.”

“Damon, thank God you answered.”

His little brother Antwaun’s strained voice rattled unevenly over the line. Something was wrong. What kind of mess had his youngest sibling gotten into this time?

Hell, not that he had a right to judge anyone.

But the family knew nothing of his secrets. Or his lies…

“You have to come out to the bayou. We found a woman…at least part of one.” Holy Christ. “I’ll be right there. Where are you?”

Antwaun relayed the address, and Damon snapped the phone closed, grabbed his badge, then his weapon and strapped it onto his shoulder holster. Fifteen minutes later, he parked and headed through the densely packed stretch of the swamp. The scent of murk floated from the marshy water as the mud sucked at his feet. The voices and faint beam of flashlights ahead served as his guide through the knot of trees, and when he reached the crime scene tape the police had already strung up, he identified himself to the officer in charge.

Through the shadows, he spotted Antwaun and strode toward him. His brother’s forehead was furrowed with worry, the intense anger in his dark eyes warning Damon that this was not an everyday crime scene. It was personal.

“What’s going on, Antwaun?” he asked quietly. “Is this a federal case? A serial killer?”

Two uniforms frowned and muttered curses at his arrival, already the thread of territorial rights adding tension to an anxiety-ridden situation.

Antwaun leaned close to him, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Hell, Damon, I think I know the victim.”

Damon’s gaze shot to his brother’s, his pulse racing. “How do you know her?”

“I can’t be sure, but …” his gruff voice cracked with emotion, “but if it is who I think it is, we dated.”

The oppressive heat thickened, causing a cold clamminess to bead on his skin. “You recognize her or what?”

Antwaun scrubbed a hand over the back of his scraggly hair, his face as pale as buttermilk. “Like I said, we only found part of her.”

Damon sucked in a sharp breath, then followed Antwaun over to the edge of the swamp. The murky, wet slush chewed at Damon’s shoes, the stench of blood and a decaying animal hitting him. Somewhere nearby the hiss of gators warned him that the hungry creatures lurked at the edges of the river. Yellow eyes pierced the inky darkness, the scaly predators hiding beneath the water’s surface, taking stock of their prey. Biding their time. Waiting to strike.

Then he saw her. At least the part that was visible.

Her hand.

Just a single hand sticking up through the sludgy quicksand of the bayou.

Brittle, yellowed bones poked through skin that had been gnawed away. The fingertips were half gone. Blood dotted the remnants of mangled flesh, revealing exposed veins that had been sawed away by the jagged teeth of the animals that now watched in silent reverie.

“How…” he had to clear his throat, push away the mounting fury and choking bile. No woman deserved to end up like this. Had she been dead or alive when the gators got her? “If this is all they found, what makes you think you know her?”

Antwaun’s hand shook as he pointed to her third finger. At least what was left of it. “That ring…”

“Yeah?” Damon squinted, moved closer, knelt and spotted the thin thread of silver glinting thought the mud and debris. Amazingly the simple silver band still clung to the bone.

“I gave it to her,” Antwaun said in a low tortured voice as if his heart had been ripped out. “Right before she went missing.”

She lived in the darkness. Had known nothing but pain for months.

And all that time, she had been missing, but no one had come looking for her. Why?

Clutching the sheets of her hospital bed between bandaged fingers, she begged for relief from the agony and the mental ache of her own tormenting thoughts. Time bled and flowed together, sometimes non-existent. Sometimes slipping through the hourglass in torturous slow motion. Sometimes chunks and days, even weeks gone by without notice.

Isolated, starved for human contact, she lay waiting for his visit.

The bleep bleep of hospital machinery became her music. His voice, her salvation.

Gruff. Soothing. Coaxing her to sit up. Eat. Fight for her life. Heal.

His touch offered comfort, compassion. Murmured promises that she might recover one day. Be human. Even beautiful.

His miracle.

Yet as much as his manner evoked concern and care for her, even growing feelings, the scent of medicine and the hospital permeated his clothing, reminding her that he was her doctor, she his patient. And she had yet to see her reflection because he had stripped the hospital rehab facility of mirrors.

She was only one of many he had helped. But she’d heard the rumors. The hushed voices.

She was the woman without a face. A human monster.

He had repaired what he could. Endless, countless surgeries over the past few months. Bandages and medication, and hours on end of mind control techniques to keep from going crazy.

Sometimes she feared she walked a tightrope to insanity.

Then he disappeared.

But another came. A monster like her who whispered in the shadows. The man with the scale-like skin.

Her one and only friend here. Lex Van Wormer.

He seemed to sense when she was teetering on the edge, and reeled her back in, sewing the tethered strands of her mind together with some fanciful story. Silly dreams of a future she had to look forward to.

One he dreamt about as well, but one that eluded them both. Instead they had become prisoners of the darkness.

A gentle knock sounded at the door, and the heavy wooden structure squeaked open. A sliver of light from the hall sliced the black interior causing her to blink. Slowly over the past months of her imprisonment, her vision had adjusted and returned to near normal, although she still preferred the shadows. Whether to shield herself from having to face others and see the disgust or pity in their eyes, or because she’d begun to view the darkness as her best friend she wasn’t certain.

Her breath lodged in a momentary panic in her throat as she listened to the approaching footsteps. One of the nurses with another round of injections? Dr. Pace with his soothing voice and promises that she would get better? Or Lex, somehow sensing that she had suffered another nightmare?

Nightmares or memories – she could no longer distinguish the difference. She only knew that night after endless night, some fathomless sightless, black-hearted devil chased her. That he waited around every corner, watching, stalking, breathing down her neck. That she had to escape. That he wanted her dead and would stop at nothing until he achieved his purpose.

The door closed, blanketing the room once again in the gray fog of twilight, offering her safety.

It was always twilight in her room.


“Lex.” She exhaled a sigh of heartfelt relief. Though he called her the foreign name, she hadn’t recognized it. But the first time he’d seen her, he’d commented that her eyes reminded him of sparkling crystal cut glass, so he’d given her the name and the nurses had latched onto it.

That she’d been blind at first and hadn’t been able to see him hadn’t mattered. She’d relished his company.

Then, finally, on a pain-filled admission to prove to her that she wasn’t alone in her world of shadows, he’d allowed her to touch his hand. She’d felt the scaly dry patches of leather-like skin and had understood his reason for withdrawing from the world.

The condition caused by exposure to an unknown chemical in the war had disfigured him and eaten away at his body like battery acid. For a brief time before the bandages from her eyes had been removed, she’d feared she would react to his impairment and hurt him.

But she had grown accustomed to the sound of his voice as he read her poetry at night, to the cadence of his laugh as he’d fabricated stories of journeys he’d taken, and his looks hadn’t mattered. In fact, she hadn’t even cringed when she’d finally rested her eyes upon him.

Apparently, he had adjusted to seeing her without a face, and covered in bandages as well. Who else would be so accepting?

He dragged the straight chair against the wall near her bed, then reached for her hand. A light squeeze, and her breathing steadied.

“Thank you for coming.” Heavens, she hated the choked, childish quiver of her voice. But she had been so lonely.

“I’ll always be here for you, Crystal. Always.”

She closed her eyes to stem the tears threatening. Theirs was an odd relationship. Two misfits thrown together, two survivors hanging onto life by a severed thread. Yet they weren’t really living either.

“I’ve missed you, Crystal,” he said in a low voice.

She tensed. She’d sensed that his friendship ran deep, that he wanted more from her. She loved him in a platonic way, yet something was missing.

Too many pieces of her past lost. Too many questions unanswered.

Another man…maybe waiting.

The sound of Lex turning his harmonica over in his hands with fingers brittle from his disease, forced her to open her eyes again.

“Our quote for the day,” he began, “is from Ecclesiastes 49:10. Two are better than one, for if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow.”

A sliver of unease tickled her spine as his words washed over her. Lex was her friend, but if she healed as Dr. Pace promised, and she had to hold onto the hope that she would recover, she couldn’t imagine Lex as her lover. And she knew that he wanted more from her.

He lifted his harmonica and began to wail out a blues song that gripped her with sadness. Regret fed the flames of her emotions. She loved Lex, and she didn’t want to hurt him.

But she had to find out who she was. Where she’d come from. How she had ended up here.

If she had a family, a husband, other friends. A lover.

And why in the past nine months, not a single person had cared enough to hunt for her.


Silent Surrender


Silent Surrender

Nighthawk Island Series

Silent Surrender

Tough, jaded Adam Black was the best cop in Savannah. And the loneliest. All work and no play made for empty days and nights until a dark-haired beauty appeared in his office and aroused his passion—and his curiosity—with a bizarre tale that no one would believe….

Sarah Cutter had heard a woman being kidnapped from the mysterious Nighthawk Island research center after she’d been living in silence for years. So when the mysterious kidnappers targeted Sarah next, Adam had to risk it all to protect her from harm as he struggled to contain the desire that might threaten to consume them both….