She’d tossed and turned all night, alternately worrying about the family’s reputation and Joan’s physical safety. If fans were willing to break into her house for her computer, what else were they willing to do? Was her sister going to end up like Elvis, a recluse hiding out from the world for the rest of her life?

And what would this mean for their parents? Heather hadn’t been brave enough to call them yet. She definitely didn’t have any good news to report.

Her sister had written more than a dozen mystery books. She showed no signs of heading for Europe. And she had fallen under the power of an evil publicity hound of an agent.

That wasn’t even touching the bondage scene. Heather shuddered at the very thought.

By 6 a.m., Heather had to get out of the B and B. She needed some air. She needed to clear her head.

She started walking and found herself on Joan’s street. She stopped in front of Joan’s cottage, staring at that ominous, wide-open front door.

She’d kidnap Joan if need be, she vowed. But they were heading back to Boston today, and they were hiring the best security firm money could buy. Anthony might not be bragging when he said he could take care of himself, but Heather wasn’t trusting him with Joan’s life.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang from inside the cottage.

Heather froze, a chill of fear working its way up her spine. She remembered Alain Boudreaux had secured the front door last night. Would the police have come back this early?

She glanced up and down the street. But there were no cruisers to be seen, no help of any kind, for that matter. The lane was empty as far as she could see.

She took a shaky step backward. Whoever was in there, she wasn’t about to confront them alone. But then a dark figure appeared in the doorway, and she lost the feeling in her legs.

“Heather?”

It was Samuel.

Samuel.

Her breath rushed out of her along with her strength. She was safe.

He started down the stairs.

Wait a minute.

What was Samuel doing here? Could he have been the one who broke into the cottage yesterday? He had cause to be angry with Joan. Did that give him a reason to take her computer? Had his plan all along been to go to the press?

“Heather?” he repeated when she didn’t answer. He reached the bottom of the stairs and started down the walkway.

She swallowed her suspicions, not afraid of him. Not really. “Hello, Samuel.”

He closed the distance between them. “What are you doing here?” He stopped in front of her, a six-foot-four wall of muscle.

“I’m out walking.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He stared at her in silence, while she tried to decipher his expression. Was he angry? Nervous? Did he mean her harm?

Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. “And what are you doing…here?”

“Returning to the scene of the crime.”

She took a step back. “Oh.”

His mouth crooked into a half smile, his teeth white and straight against his dark complexion. “Relax, Heather. It wasn’t my crime.”

“Never thought it was.

“You are such an easy mark.”

“I am not.”

“You presumed I was guilty. Again.”

She shook her head in denial, even though it was true. There was something about Samuel that made it easy to believe he could be on the wrong side of the law.

“Alain called me because somebody broke into my house, too.”

That surprised her. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Disappointed that I’m not a thief?”

“Of course not.”

“You look a little disappointed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “You’ve got a bad-boy fetish.”

She glared up at him. “You wish.”

“No, I know.”

“I don’t have a fetish of any kind.”

“Everybody’s got a fetish.”

She shook her head emphatically. “Not me.”

“Let me guess,” he drawled. “The missionary position.”

She squared her shoulders. “That is none of your business.” She couldn’t believe he’d even asked.

“In the dark.”

“I am not answering that question.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I don’t care what you take it as.” Quite frankly, there was nothing wrong with the missionary position. And there was nothing wrong with having sex in the dark. The dark was soft and romantic, it camouflaged flaws and allowed a person to focus on sensation.

“You really need to get out more,” he drawled.

“I live in Boston.” How dare a backwoods Indigo carpenter insinuate she wasn’t worldly.

He shrugged. “Too bad they don’t have good sex in Boston.”

Heather flattened her lips and warmed up for a scathing diatribe. But then she saw the laughter lurking behind his eyes. Oh no, he wasn’t going to win this one.

“Why don’t we talk about your sex life for a while?” she suggested smoothly.

“I don’t talk about my sex life.” His dark eyes glowed with raw sensuality, while his voice dropped to a throbbing bass. “But I’d be happy to give you a free demonstration.”

A hot rush flared from the pit of her stomach. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“And I can’t believe you blushed.”

“That’s shock and disbelief.”

“You sure?”

No, she wasn’t sure. Her traitorous body was showing all the signs of arousal. Stupid body. Definitely time to get the heck out of this conversation. “Why don’t you tell me what they took?”

“Who?”

“Whoever broke into your house.”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? Nobody breaks into a house and takes nothing.”

“You accusing me of lying?”

Yes. “No.”

There wasn’t a doubt in Heather’s mind that Samuel would lie. Probably recreationally, certainly if it would gain him something.

The sound of tires and a car engine put off his response. Heather turned to see a black, panel-sided van round the corner. The satellite dish on the roof could mean only one thing, and she groaned out loud.

It rocked to a halt beside them, the door immediately sliding open, while a thirtyish man with slicked hair and an angular face hopped out. He wore khaki slacks and short-sleeved dress shirt. And he carried a microphone.

“Joan Bateman?” he asked, stuffing it in her face.

Heather shook her head, but she knew better than to utter a single word.

Samuel smoothly but firmly positioned his body between them. Then he urged her back with his broad palm. Her stomach contracted under his touch, but she moved the way he guided.

“I’m looking for Joan Bateman,” said the reporter, glancing around in eager expectation.

“She’s not here,” said Samuel.

“And you are?”

Samuel didn’t answer.

“He’s Samuel Kane,” shrieked a woman from the driver’s seat, clattering into the back of the van on high heels. “That old murder-suicide. He’s her muse.”

“You’re Samuel Kane?” asked the reporter.

“What about it?”

The man’s focus snagged on Samuel, and he thrust the microphone forward again. “Do you agree with Joan Bateman’s version of your parents’ murders?”

“I don’t know,” said Samuel in an impressively neutral tone. “I haven’t read the book.”

Oh yeah. Samuel could lie, all right. He could take the witness stand for her any old time.

“But you think your father was innocent?”

“So I’ve said. Many times.” Samuel turned and linked Heather’s arm, pulling her along as he walked away.

“Do you think your father was framed?” the reporter called after them.

Samuel headed for the driveway, and Heather struggled to keep up. She could feel the tension in the muscles of his forearms.

“Where are we going?” she demanded under her breath.

“Mr. Kane?” The reporter caught up with them. “Do you have any comment on the theory that your father was framed?”

Samuel stopped. His jaw hardened. He turned and pasted the man with a menacing glare, holding his ground, leaning slightly forward.

The reporter opened his mouth.

Samuel raised his eyebrow.

“Thank you,” the reporter sputtered as he backed off.

“Wow,” said Heather.

“There should be a law against that.”

She’d been talking about Samuel’s ability to make grown men run for cover, but she didn’t correct him.

“My truck’s around the side,” he said. “You want a lift?”

Heather nodded. “Yes. Please.”

She needed to warn Joan about the reporters. And she needed to warn her about Samuel’s comments. And she’d better get on the phone to her parents, quick. Joan’s interview was one thing, but if they caught her and Samuel on the evening news, there was going to be a whole lot more explaining to do.


THE ONLY GOOD THING about Heather’s story was that it acted as a buffer between Joan and Anthony over breakfast. Bad enough that she’d kissed him last night. Okay, so kiss was probably too mild a word. She’d practically made love to him with her mouth.

But then she’d called him back.

He was almost to the door, and she’d practically begged him to stay. Luckily, he was smart enough for both of them and kept going. Which made the morning after even worse.

“You have to call Mom,” said Heather, taking another drink of her coffee but ignoring the fresh croissant on the plate in front of her.

Joan shook her head. “I’m not calling Mom.”

“It’s your book.”

“You’re the spy. You report in to headquarters.”

Anthony interrupted with a harsh sigh. “You are both grown women. Will you start acting like it?”

Joan looked at him for the first time. “Excuse me?”

He set down his coffee cup. “Call your parents, already.”

“Like you would.”

“Of course I would.”

“With disastrous news.”

“In my family, this wouldn’t be disastrous news.”

“Oh, and they’d be so happy to have you publicly involved in a sordid murder inquest?”