They’ll have to forgive the past
To save their son in the present.
Fiona Stirling’s latest romantic thriller ends on a happy note when the heroine’s husband comes home after a dangerous mission. Fiona herself wasn’t so lucky. Her husband, Jason, died in Colombia, hunting a drug lord. Or so she thought…until Jason returns five years later. Knowing that Jason went into hiding to protect his family does nothing to dispel her sense of betrayal. But Fiona has secrets, too, and she and Jason are going to have to learn to trust each other again if they want to save their son.
From Harlequin Romantic Suspense: Danger. Passion. Drama.
Chapter 1
Fiona Stirling’s first blind date in the five years since becoming a widow would be the death of her. Death by boredom. The elegant restaurant overlooked Boston Harbor with its seagulls and sailboats and a steady stream of aircraft landing across the water. While the intoxicating aromas from the kitchen encouraged diners to try some of the best seafood in the city, her companion, George, preferred roasted chicken and a beer, and had berated the waiter for not allowing him to order from the lunch menu. Fiona asked for the roasted sea bream and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from South Africa. Based on the first few minutes, she might need an entire bottle. For an appetizer, they agreed on an order of artichoke dip. She was starving when it arrived. The scent of melted cheese with a touch of white wine filled her with a dozen memories of meals with friends and family. Before she had a chance to taste it, George bit into the French bread, toasted to a perfect warm tan, and spit the bite into his napkin. He waved down the waiter and sent the whole dish back to the kitchen before Fiona could say a word.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her patience evaporating each minute she sat across this man who would never measure up to her dead husband.
He gestured with his hand while he found his voice. “I expect a certain level of quality while dining. This isn’t it. The bread is stale.”
Fiona bit back the remark burning on her tongue. The Oceanside Grill was her favorite restaurant. She ate there at least once a month with friends or her son or her literary agent, Janet, when she was in town. The bread was never stale. “Was the bread stale or toasted?” she asked.
His expression froze, then he straightened his back and resumed his focus on all the other patrons of the restaurant. “Toast can be stale.”
Fiona had a very low tolerance for rudeness. If George acted like a recalcitrant toddler with a piece of bread, how would he deal with more serious issues in life?
Her phone vibrated. She glanced at the text from her son Matt.
I’m home. Found the lasagna. Thanks.
Although thirteen years old, Matt conducted himself like a seventy-year-old man. He was the kid most mothers wanted their own children to hang out with. Solid grades, a skilled athlete, mild-mannered, preferring an at-home movie or game night to wild parties. Despite all that, Fiona worried about him every second of every day. After already losing one man in her life, she would do everything in her power to keep her son safe.
The waiter brought over a bread basket and placed it on her side of the table. He returned with another glass of wine only moments later. She owed him a very large tip for reading her mind.
As the dinner dragged on, two other guests came over to the table to ask for an autograph. She smiled, signed a napkin and posed for a selfie. George nodded toward the other guests as though he were harassed by fans all the time. Perhaps he was. A college professor in molecular genetics, he had an impressive résumé and bragged about his soon-to-be promotion to department chair. Fiona asked him about his work, but he dismissed her as though she would never understand such complex issues. Her platinum blond hair and 34D chest precluded intelligence for many people who had imbibed the stereotypes thrown at them for decades. Fiona’s deceased husband Jason had been the exception. He’d been her biggest champion and a perfect husband in looks and everything else that mattered. To be fair, George was attractive, in a lawyerly sort of way, with his blond hair swooping over his blue eyes like a Wall Street Ken doll. Quite the opposite from her type. Jason had sported a permanent three-day beard on his chiseled jawline. His dark hair, dark eyes and intensity had sent Fiona into a sexual meltdown every time he looked into her eyes. In the sixteen years she’d been with him, he’d never said a mean word to her or to anyone around him. He’d been her anchor. Even five years after his death while on a military assignment in Colombia, the grief bowled through her, sending her mind into a glum and restless place.
“…sex on a train?” George was talking about something Fiona wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.
To avoid being rude, she snapped out of her memories. “What?”
“The sex scenes you write. Where do you get your ideas?” George lifted his second beer and winked at her.
“Oh.” She forced a smile. Her thriller novels often had one or two sex scenes in them. It spoke volumes that those scenes would be George’s focus. She now saw how the rest of the evening would go if she didn’t separate him from his assumptions. She leaned forward on her elbows, her arms pressing her breasts together and causing George’s attention to drop in anticipation of the rest of the night. “I make up the sex scenes from things I read in books or watched in movies,” she said in a low purr. “The murder scenes, however, are carefully orchestrated and practiced. I can slit a throat without breaking a nail.” She was a bit rusty, but she was sure she could still handle the task with a three-and-a-half-inch Benchmade blade.
He choked on his beer. It was the first time she laughed all evening.
Her phone rang. Matt. He never called. Ever. “Sorry. I need to take this. It’s my son.” She pressed Answer. “Hey, honey, what’s up?”
“Someone is sneaking around the back of the house.” Matt whispered the words. “I saw him by the back hedge after the motion light turned on.”
Everything inside her went still. “Where are you?”
“In my room.” His nerves traveled to her phone like a high-voltage surge. She always told him to always trust his instincts and she would too.
A wave of panic crashed over her. Nothing mattered to her more than Matt.
She checked the cameras she’d installed around the house. In the backyard by the hydrangeas, a shadowy figure tried to hide, but his solid dark pants and shirt didn’t blend into the nuances in the background. “If you hear a window or a door break, run to Meaghan’s house. Otherwise, don’t come out until I get home. I’m on my way. Call the police and stay on the phone with them.” She stood up and grabbed her purse. “I need to get home. My son needs me.”
George finished eating a bite of chicken, then stood too. “Rushing off every time your son has a problem won’t prepare him for the real world.”
“Fuck off, George.” She threw down three twenties to pay for her half of the bill. Her best friend, Meaghan, would be hearing from her about her insistence that George was her perfect match.
Once in the parking garage, she scanned the parking lot full of Mercedes, BMWs and Teslas for her ten-year-old Jetta. It may have been smaller and not as luxurious as the cars surrounding her, but it was cheaper to run and could move surprisingly fast. The tires squealed as she circled down three stories of concrete and exited onto the street. As usual, the Saturday-night traffic shuffled along State Street. Fiona couldn’t wait. She swerved around several cars and managed to slip through a light as it flickered orange, keeping everyone behind her stalled at red.
Matt’s voice pushed her to maneuver like a Formula One driver. He tended to remain calm in most situations, like his father. Tonight she heard apprehension.
She used Alexa to call Meaghan so she wouldn’t have to slow down.
Meaghan answered on the second ring. “You better be calling to tell me you just had the best sex of your life.”
“Not even close. George is an ass.”
“He can be, but he’s gorgeous. Couldn’t you just ignore everything he said and enjoy the ride?” Meaghan said with a chuckle.
“No. My mind has to be as seduced as my body for me to enjoy sex.”
“That must lead to some pretty lonely nights.”
“George is not why I’m calling.” Fiona wasn’t in the mood to discuss her sex life when her son was in danger.
“What’s wrong?”
Meaghan was a no-nonsense kind of friend, the only kind of friend Fiona could tolerate, so she just burst right out with it. “Someone is trying to break into my house, right now.”
“Oh. My. God. Are you okay? Is Matt okay?” Meaghan, a person who never showed a wide range of emotion, sounded stressed.
“Can you get over there?”
“I wish I could. I’m with a client in Rockport, but I’ll tell them I have to go.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll be there before you find your car.”
Fifteen minutes later—after a lot of near misses and some angry exchanges with annoyed drivers—Fiona arrived home without a speeding ticket. Their simple one-story ranch house had no lights on, not one. Her neighbors had power and the streetlights still cast a bright ring on the road every hundred yards or so. Fiona rushed to the side door, her eyes scanning her surroundings as she unlocked it. The kitchen was dark with only the external lights casting enough of a glow to make out objects on the counters. The large glass casserole of lasagna she’d made for his dinner sat uncovered on the stove, half-eaten.
“Matt?” She stepped inside, her only defense the keys in her hand and her small leather purse. She’d never been so unprepared for something in her life.
Before she could call out again, a large arm wrapped around her and covered her mouth. She fought to get free, but another arm locked her body tight against a brick wall of a chest. Her assailant had the physique of a bodybuilder. A burglar? Where were the police? Where was Matt?
The man pushed her forward toward the family room. Fiona twisted and tried to slam the back of her head into his face. No such luck.
They passed the edge of the counter. The darkness hid the colors and details of the interior, but this was her space. She reached behind her and took the ballpoint pen she’d left by her grocery list. One stab to the neck and he’d not only loosen his hold on her, he’d be headed to the morgue, but she’d promised herself she wouldn’t kill unless absolutely necessary. So she hesitated, and his grip on her tightened. Before the bastard could crush her ribs, she smashed the pen into his thigh. He stepped back, and she slipped through his arms. Clasping both hands together, she rammed a double fist straight up into the man’s groin. He fell forward in pain, but recovered faster than she expected. He grabbed a stool from the table and swung it into her. The hit launched her against the oven, and she dropped to the floor.
Headlights outside the house brought some light into room. The man, his large form coming into focus, wavered. Fiona scrambled back from him. Without a better weapon she stood no chance. But he surprised her. Instead of rushing toward her, he sprinted out the house into the backyard. Fiona pulled herself up, swallowed her nerves and raced down the hall.
“Matt?” she called out, pushing open his bedroom door. Turning the flashlight on her phone on, she scanned the room. No sign of him. He could have escaped through the window and been safe at her neighbor’s, but she paused and waited.
A muffled sound came from under the bed. She dropped to her knees and looked underneath. Behind two flat sweater bins, her son’s beautiful brown eyes peeked out.
He pushed his way out of his barricade and stood—he was already a few inches taller than Fiona. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight as her heartbeat slowed. Having someone invade her space in such a violent manner while her only living relative was home alone shattered the sense of security she’d built around them.
“Are you okay?” She examined his face, his arms, until he pulled away, annoyed enough at her actions to decrease some of her tension. She never should have left him alone. There were too many things that could have gone wrong.
“I’m fine,” he replied, “but your nose is bleeding.”
She turned away from him and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “Let’s get out of here before the beast returns.”
“He’s still in the house?”
“He escaped out the back door, but I have no idea why he was here so I have no idea if he’s coming back.” She pointed to the door. “We’ll wait out front until the police arrive.”
He remained silent as he followed her to the front yard. They stood next to the streetlight, but remained partially hidden by an oak tree on the Murphy’s front lawn. Just in case.
It took over ten minutes to hear the sirens. Matt waited with his hands in his pockets, slouched against the tree trunk. He’d always been a calm, levelheaded kid. He had to be deeply processing everything that had happened. In the dark, he looked like a thinner version of his father. If only Jason was still with them. She shook her head. This wasn’t the time to be drawn into what-ifs. The what-is was too pressing. Someone had broken into their house while her son was there alone. Fiona had never for a moment felt unsafe in this neighborhood, but now, the house where she’d lived these past five years had a shadow over it, one that wouldn’t lift. The police arrived, and two officers came out of their car, hands on their revolvers. She announced herself before moving around the large tree in case she surprised them. Matt followed behind her.
The police officers looked past her to Matt, and the older one, about forty-five years old, spoke first. “I’m Officer Dunlop. Did you call 9-1-1?”
He nodded and turned to his mother. Fiona squeezed his arm and stepped forward. “Someone broke into the house and attacked me.”
“Where is he?” Dunlop glanced over her shoulder toward the house.
“I don’t know. He ran away after I stabbed him with a pen. His blood should be on the floor.”
He sent his partner, about ten or so years younger, toward the house. Fiona gave the officer as complete a description of what happened as she could. Matt offered little help as he’d hidden immediately and remained hidden while the man rummaged through several rooms. She was proud of him. Had he tried to stop the man, he would have been seriously injured or worse. The man who had attacked her was not playing around.
A second police car arrived. The additional blue lights swirling through the neighborhood brought out several neighbors.
The lights flickered on inside the house, which meant her tormentor had only flicked a switch. She’d been so concerned about Matt that she hadn’t checked the circuit breaker. Several minutes later, the younger officer returned alone. He strode over to Dunlop and Fiona. “The scene is clear. The circuit breaker was switched off.”
Several officers present spread out and searched the neighborhood for “A male suspect, approximately twenty-five years of age, over six feet, black T-shirt, Caucasian, dark hair,” as Dunlop had reiterated what Fiona told him.
She looked around. A maze of streets created an easy escape for someone who had left a car one or two blocks over. “You should be able to get his DNA off the blood on the floor.”
Dunlop’s partner shook his head. “There’s no sign of any forced entry and nothing in your house looks disturbed.”
“I stabbed him in the leg. There had to be blood on the floor or on the pen. I dropped it after he hit me with the stool.”
“Can you show me inside?” Dunlop asked.
Fiona hesitated. She didn’t want to be ambushed again, and despite the police officer’s presence, something felt off. She told Matt to remain outside with the other officers as she reentered the premises with an armed guard.
The entire scene appeared quite mundane under the five cool-toned track lights illuminating every surface in the kitchen. After her eyes adjusted from the dark, she scanned the room. Not a drop of blood anywhere. It was as though her brain had malfunctioned and now everything was back in order. Even the stool had been placed back next to the island. Officer Dunlop remained beside her, watching over her shoulder, glancing in every direction she looked.
The kitchen floor was cleaner than it had been when she’d left for her dinner date. The man who had assaulted her didn’t do this. It would have been too much detail work for someone with an injury. The first officer didn’t have time to turn the room over in the five minutes he was in the kitchen before coming outside. Someone else?
“Where’s the lasagna?” she asked.
“Lasagna?” Officer Dunlop shook his head as though he were being baited.
“There was a half pan of lasagna on the stove. Right there.” She pointed to where she’d seen it when she walked into the room. It wasn’t in the sink or the refrigerator. Her stomach twisted as she opened the trash can. Not there either. Even more than having a stranger in her house trying to harm her and her son, the loss of the lasagna scared the hell out of her.