Saturday's Chapter from Gabe Kincaid by Caroline Clemmons #MFRWauthor

GABE KINCAID blurb set up:

Gabe Kincaid has reasons to hate lies and those who tell them. He moved from Austin to Kincaid Springs and joined his great uncle’s law firm. Gabe believes he’s happy and pushes aside those moments of loneliness, of wishing for more. He strongly believes in the law, in justice, and obeying rules. Doing what’s right is fulfilling, isn’t it? Then why is he so fascinated with a circus fortuneteller who spins tales faster than a cowboy whirls his lariat?

Katie Worthington poses as Dorothy Duncan in a small-time circus. If she isn’t behind the scenes mending costumes or in the circus kitchen, she’s disguised as the fortuneteller, Maharani Shimza, Mystic of the East. Even so, she worries about being killed by the men pursuing her. She fears a brawl at her fortune telling tent that sends her into the Kincaid’s protective custody will end with her exposure and death. Then, a death at the circus implicates her. How can she escape when that attorney pops up every time she turns around?   

Will Gabe and Katie let the sparks between them ignite into a passionate romance or will her secrets destroy their chance at a happily ever after?

GABE KINCAID excerpt:

Chapter One

Savannah, Georgia, 1886

Katie Worthington watched Mary Lou Chitwood’s departing carriage. Her best friend’s blond curls danced with the summer breeze and swaying coach as Mary Lou leaned her head and arm out the window to wave farewell. Katie returned the gesture. The new play they had attended had proven boring and the theatre hot and stuffy, so she and Mary Lou had left at intermission. By then the evening had been too advanced for two young ladies to go elsewhere. Except for the fun of seeing Mary Lou, Katie resented that their evening out had been wasted.

Today was the servant’s half day off, so she used her key and crept inside quietly in case GranDa had turned in. Sounds drifted to her and she realized her grandfather had visitors. Should she risk intruding to greet them or slip up to her room? Katie paused outside his study and listened.

“Get these damn papers tidied. Can’t have it looking like there was a struggle.”

Uncle Walt? His voice sounded odd. Cold instead of friendly. Angry instead of jovial. She stepped closer to determine why.

“Old fool never should have challenged us. He had money enough to spare.”

She identified the second man as Douglas Banterman, Uncle Walt’s friend and partner. She had never liked Mr. Banterman. He reminded her of a wolf. The big, bad kind.

Uncle Walt spoke again, “He won’t give us any trouble now. All we have to do is make this look like suicide.”

A terrible suspicion crept up her spine and sent goose bumps along her arms. What struggle? Surely her clever GranDa wasn’t the old fool they mentioned. And make what look like suicide? She tiptoed to the study and peeked inside.

“GranDa?” The words escaped in a horrified rush when she saw the hole in her beloved grandfather’s temple and the gun on his desk. She started toward him but stopped when she saw blood sprayed across the desk and on the nearby wall.

Uncle Walt looked up. His gaze held cold fury. “Kathryn. Your grandfather killed himself. Banterman and I were trying to clean this up and spare you. Go to your room until I call you.” No greeting or soft words of condolence. Instead, his icy tone cut the air like a knife aimed at her heart.

What had happened to her kindly, jovial Uncle Walt? Fear clutched her in its grip and sent frightening thoughts spinning in her mind. Shaking her head, she turned and raced for the front door.

Uncle Walt yelled. “Stop her. Don’t let her leave the house.”

Mr. Banterman caught up with her and grabbed her arm as she reached the door. “You’ll have to come with me now, Miss Worthington.” In his other hand, he held a pistol.

Uncle Walt met them in the foyer. “Lock her in her room upstairs. I’ll decide how to deal with her later.” He hadn’t even bothered to meet her gaze.

Deal with her? Katie hated the man’s ominous tone. “What happened to GranDa?”

Uncle Walt’s glare froze all hope of escape. “I told you he shot himself. If you know what’s good for you, Kathryn Elizabeth Worthington, you’ll go to your room peacefully.”

Only a fool would argue with him now, but she knew he lied. Her heart broke for beloved grandfather’s betrayal by a trusted friend. Pretending a meekness she had never possessed and likely never would, she sobbed and allowed Mr. Banterman to lead her up the stairs.

“My room’s at the end of the hall.” She swiped at her eyes with her free hand. “Poor GranDa. I didn’t know he was sad or worried.”

“Yeah, well, live and learn.” The man’s tone held neither sympathy nor respect. Without another word, he took the key from the door and locked her inside her room.

Sobbing for her grandfather, she sought the comfort of her favorite blue moiré chair. Horror had her pondering the two men downstairs. Uncle Walt wasn’t really related. He’d been her godfather, her own father’s best friend. As such, he frequently visited GranDa’s home and shared many friends in common.

Now he was a powerful Judge. Banterman was a respected attorney. If they said her grandfather committed suicide, no one would question them.

But GranDa would never shoot himself, especially where she would find him. Strong, healthy, and forceful, he had cared for her since the death of her parents ten years ago when she was twelve. He doted on her, protected her, loved her. He would never willingly abandon her.

Suicidal men didn’t make plans for the future, did they? GranDa planned for a trip to the museum’s new exhibit tomorrow. He’d booked a trip for next week on the newly extended Georgia of Central Railroad for Tybee Island and two weeks at their cottage there. 

Puzzling out the death, she recalled that Walt Milligan and Douglas Banterman’s firm handled her grandfather’s estate. And hers from her parents. Math wasn’t her favorite subject, but she could add two and two. And the sum equaled embezzlement and murder.

What if those two said she killed her grandfather? No one would believe otherwise. Is that how they intended to “deal” with her later—to make her their scapegoat? They might even intend to kill her and make it look as if she’d killed GranDa and then herself. Or that they’d both been victims of a burglary. She didn’t intend to give them an opportunity to implement whatever evil plan they concocted.

In her grief stricken state she wanted to throw herself across her bed and weep buckets for her wonderful grandfather. Instead she fought for strength. Think. Make a plan.

Images of what might be flashed through her mind. She shook uncontrollably. Her breath burst in and out in gasps. Visions of the worst outcome forced her to make a decision.

Too late to help GranDa, she must save herself. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Time for action.

Katie arose and gathered essentials into a valise, including the little derringer GranDa had given her. From the bedside table she grabbed the allowance she stashed in her room. GranDa was generous, and she never spent all of her funds. She counted quickly. Not enough to get her far, but it would have to do.

Tears still streaming for her dear GranDa, she slipped out of her pink silk crepe dress and hung it in her wardrobe. In its place she donned a blue sprigged muslin day dress. Sturdy kid halfboots replaced her satin party shoes. When she’d included the minimum necessary to her survival, she opened her window and dropped her luggage.

She paused for a last, longing look at the beautiful room she loved. Not simply because of the soothing shades of blue accented by white. Not because it represented a portion of her fortune spent decorating to her tastes. Not because of the freedom she had enjoyed here.

No, it reminded her of life with her beloved GranDa. She stepped onto the large branch she’d used most of her life as a second exit and climbed down the tree. Katie jumped from the lowest limb and picked up the valise.

Crying softly, she strode swiftly across the grounds. Walt Milligan yelled her name. She turned to see him leaning out her window. There was no mistaking the gun in his hand. Breaking into a run, she slipped into the night.

She wanted to seek out Mary Lou, but hers was the first place Uncle Walt would check. Besides, she couldn’t put her best friend and the Chitwood family at risk from those two men. Katie needed to disappear where no one would find her. 

Where could that be? Think, Katie, think. How could she escape a powerful District Judge? He knew her friends, knew where she might run, knew where to look for her.

What seemed like hours later, Katie’s aching feet protested the miles she’d covered. Her eyes were bound to be red and puffy. Having the derringer with her offered a measure of comfort, especially since she’d stopped long enough to slip it from her valise into her pocket.

The seamy part of Savannah she’d reached offered no hope of decent shelter but plenty of danger for a woman alone. Recalling GranDa’s cautions, she knew not to dally or look as lost and bewildered as she was. She dared not stop and rest or even wash her tear-stained face.

An unkempt fellow staggered toward her. “Hey, girlie, want me to help you carry your bag?”

His companion elbowed him and gave a guttural laugh. “I can help you do a lots o’ things.” 

She longed to run, but hadn’t the strength. Her heart pounded in her ears and a vise gripped her chest. Forcing herself to appear calm, she didn’t look their way or pause. Instead, she strode with purpose toward she knew not where. They called after her but didn’t follow, thank heavens.

But what if they had? She didn’t want to shoot anyone, nor even threaten to do so. She couldn’t shoot at those two for being drunk. She was the interloper, the trespasser here. Besides, her little derringer held only two shots. Not much help if a crowd gathered.

Dawn would break in another hour, then what would she do? Surely she’d reach the edge of town or somewhere she could hide soon. Her clothes betrayed her social status, her valise her transient situation. Where would she hide? Suddenly, she spotted the perfect place to vanish.

Smiling with relief at her good fortune, she walked onto darkened circus grounds.  

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About Caroline

Caroline Clemmons is an Amazon bestselling author of historical and contemporary western romances whose books have garnered numerous awards. Her latest release is GABE KINCAID, book four of her popular Kincaid series. A frequent speaker at conferences and seminars, she has taught workshops on characterization, point of view, and layering a novel.

Caroline is a member of Romance Writers of America, Yellow Rose Romance Writers, From The Heart Romance Writers, and Hearts Through History Romance Writers. Her latest publications include the acclaimed historical Men of Stone Mountain series: BRAZOS BRIDE, HIGH STAKES BRIDE, and BLUEBONNET BRIDE and the audio books of BRAZOS BRIDE and HIGH STAKES BRIDE.

Caroline and her husband live in the heart of Texas cowboy country with their menagerie of rescued pets. Prior to writing full time, her jobs included stay-at-home mom (her favorite), secretary, newspaper reporter and featured columnist, assistant to the managing editor of a psychology journal, bookkeeper for the local tax assessor and—for a short and fun time—an  antique dealer. When she’s not indulging her passion for writing, Caroline enjoys reading, travel, antiquing, genealogy, painting, and getting together with family and friends. Find her on her blog, website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, and Pinterest.

Saturday's Chapter from In The Shadow Of Malice by Nancy Weeks

In the Shadow of Malice

Chapter One

Almost midnight, an empty parking lot, no prying eyes.

Adam Blake hit the key fob, locking his sedan as he stepped out of the shadows. His senses picked up a hint of the wild honeysuckle that grew along the chain-linked fence lining the west side of Pete’s Diner. As a warm May breeze washed over him, he rolled the tension from his shoulders and scanned the perimeter. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Quite frankly, the reason he kept coming back surprised the hell out of him. Even through the food was great, Adam craved the company the small diner provided. The regulars were all so damn normal. Adam needed normal.

His life had become a reflection of what he did for a living and he needed a drastic change. Pete’s Diner had become a baby step in that direction. The occasional hour spent with familiar strangers chased away his lonely, harsh existence.

From his position, he could identify the two people who remained in the deserted restaurant. The wizened old trucker was there on his weekly run from Norfolk, Virginia, to New Haven, Connecticut. The young woman sitting alone in one of the booths was the owner’s granddaughter. From what Adam could surmise, Calista Martin had no life outside the diner other than her music studies at the university a few miles down the road.  The ever-present cello case propped on the bench next to her kept her company.

The double doors behind the counter opened and a big man in a navy blue double-breasted chef’s coat and sculled cap set a large silverware caddy on the counter. Pete Bradshaw was built like a guerrilla on steroids. Strands of blond-gray hair escaped the edges of his cap and gray stubble covered his chin. But what stood out most was the enormous fried egg skull tattoo on his left arm, the yellow yolk resting right in the center of the left eye socket.

Calista approached Pete as he poured coffee into a travel mug. The hard angles of his face softened when he glanced at her.  He replaced the carafe back on the heating unit and a grin spread across his face. A bellowed cheer loud enough to rattle the windows followed as he lifted her into his arms and swung her around like she was a little girl. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave him a quick hug before turning to the trucker and hugging him as well.

The celebratory moment could only mean one thing: Calista Martin posted her final assignment for her master’s degree in music performance and secondary education. The bright smile on her face sent an unusual feeling of warmth into the pit of Adam’s stomach. For reasons he was too tired to define, a sense of pride for her accomplishments raced through him. He recognized the strength and dedication it took for Calista to follow her dream. Adam had no dreams other than to protect those he loved and to stay alive one more day.

Her beaming smile pulled at Adam like a magnet, forcing his feet to step closer to the entrance. Removing her arms from around the older man’s shoulder, she paused and turned toward the window. Their eyes held before she raised her hand and motioned for him to come inside. She moved toward the door and held it open for him.

“Am I too late for a quick burger?” Adam asked, closing the door behind him.

“The kitchen is still open. Pete will make you something.”

Calista lowered her eyes and eased away from him. A hint of pink came into her cheeks. She acted the same jitterish way every time he got too close. Most people gave him a wide berth and that was usually fine with him.  But Calista was so open and friendly to everyone who came through the door. For some reason, it pissed him off that she treated him with the same wariness like everyone else did. He wanted that normal symbol of kindness she gave to others too, at least here.

The trucker set his ticket and a twenty down by the register. “Calista. Heading out.”

She stepped out of the path of the doorway.  “Thanks, Nate. Be careful on the road tonight.”

“Always. And you get out of this grease-hole. Celebrate.” He placed a Nationals baseball cap on his head. “Yo, Pete. Where’s my jitter juice?”

“Watch your mouth, or the owner of this grease-hole may just spit in your next meatloaf.”

Pete’s voice was low, menacing, but his jovial expression gave away his true nature. He took the travel cup, waited a second for the last drip of fresh brewed coffee to drop into the carafe, and filled the oversized mug.

The scent of fresh, hot coffee wafted across the room, masking the overpowering odor of greasy fries. Adam inhaled, hoping the scent of caffeine would revive him. Pete took a cup from beneath the counter, filled it to the brim, and set it at Adam’s regular table.

“Same-old-same-old tonight, Adam?”

Adam took a deep sip of the hot brew. “That would be great, but make it to go. If I sit here for too long, I’ll be out for the night.”

“No problem. It will be right out,” he said before facing his granddaughter. Calista busied herself with wrapping silverware into napkins and then placing them in the caddy next to the menus. Pete took out another cup, filled it half full, and set it next to her.

“I can’t drink coffee this time of night,” she murmured at her grandfather like he should know better than to tempt her.

“Half a cup isn’t going to kill you.” A smirky grin appeared on his face. “Neither would a good roll … ”

“Pete! God, the things that come out of your mouth.” Calista picked up the mug and brought it to her nose, taking in the scent of the strong, rich brew. “And you can’t joke about spitting in people’s food.” She took a sip, closed her eyes and swallowed. A groan of pure pleasure rumbled in her throat.

Adam coughed out his coffee and almost swallowed his tongue. Calista Martin was a walking, talking sensual magnet if ever there was one. From her shoulder-length strawberry blond curls that bounced when she moved to those warm cocoa, almond eyes that made a man feel noticed, Calista was a natural beauty with a body that would give a blind man wet dreams. Her groan sent blood rushing to dormant places better left alone.

To hide the growl that slipped through his lips, he chortled. Calista gave him a hard glare but again quickly lowered her eyes. Pete let out another window-rattling laugh, which sent Calista’s cheeks and neck into a deep crimson glow. Before he returned through the swinging doors to the kitchen, he nudged her and said, “Tell Adam your news.”

 “What news, Calista?”

“It’s nothing really. I just turned in my last assignment for my master’s degree.”

Adam rose, and lifting his coffee mug, tapped her mug lightly on the rim. “Congratulations. That’s fantastic.” He eased back into the booth. “So, what’s next for you?”

“After six years and 166 college credits, the only thing in my near future is uninterrupted sleep.”

Adam let out a chuckle. “Will you teach or perform?”

“Both. I have sent several audition tapes to orchestras and applied to just as many teaching positions. Now I have to see who bites. The best scenario is I’m hired to perform where I can also teach.”

When she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, her mouth opened to say something, but all she produced was a noisy breath. She darted off her stool and pointed to the corner of his right eye. “You’re bleeding.”

Adam yanked a couple napkins from the dispenser and blotted the area around the small Band-Aid. A couple drops of blood must have pooled at the corner of the bandage and dripped down the side of his face. He gave the area a quick wipe, crumbled the napkin, and placed it in his pocket. 

 “What happened?”

“It’s nothing. Work accident. A protester didn’t like the guy I was protecting. Threw a bottle at him but hit me instead. I should have grabbed a larger Band-Aid.”

“I don’t think it’s nothing.” She lifted his hair away from the area. “Have you seen it? The skin is turning a nasty shade of black and blue.”

Calista moved behind the counter and pulled out a first-aid kit. She approached the table, cupped his jaw in her hand, and gently peeled off the Band-Aid. The feel of her hand on his face sent an unexpected jolt through him. He shifted his face out of her reach. “It’s nothing.”

Ripping open the gauze package, she folded it in half, and laid it on the wound, applying pressure. Something sharp slid over the cut, making him cringe.

“Damn, that’s not helping, Calista.”

She removed the gauze.  A small, brownish piece of glass was mixed in with the blood. “Pete said you run a security firm. Maybe you need to ask for combat pay.”

 “Can’t ask for more pay if it’s your own company. I practically work for free so I can give my employees combat pay.” He then eased her hand away from his head, holding down the bandage himself. “Don’t fuss. It’s no big deal.”

“You could have a concussion, Adam.”

“I don’t.” He grabbed another swatch of gauze from the kit and ripped it open. He added a squeeze of antibiotic ointment, and attached it with tape to his forehead. “See, all better.”

Calista gave him a hard stare before she closed the first-aid kit and replaced it behind the counter. She picked up a spray bottle of cleaner and began to spray down the counter. “It’s your noggin.”

Pete came back through the kitchen door and set a to-go container down next to Adam before he addressed his granddaughter. “Put that rag down, Calista. You’re not closing tonight. Pack up and get out of here.”

“You let the other waitress go home.  I’m all you’ve got. Besides, we shared a ride.”

“Believe it or not, I can manage without you. And the night my granddaughter earns her master’s degree, she doesn’t close down this grease trap. Take the car. I’ll catch a bus or walk home.”

Calista placed her hands on her hips. “I’m not leaving you to close by yourself and walk home. How are you going to go by and visit Mimi if you don’t have a car? I’ll take the bus.”

Adam stood. “I can give Calista a ride home.” He reached into his coat pocket for his wallet. Placing a twenty down next to the register like the last customer, he grabbed his to-go bag and leaned his shoulder against the door. “Calista, “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Calista busied herself by stuffing her laptop into her canvas bag, her fingers fidgeting with the zipper. As Adam waited for some sort of acknowledgment, he pushed down the irritation forming in the pit of his stomach. Even when he was trying to be a good guy, do a normal guy kind of thing, he was still treated like an asshole.

“It’s just a ride home, Calista. I’m too scared of your grandfather to try anything.”

“You don’t have to do that. The bus stop is right there,” she said, pointing toward the parking lot.

“I know where the bus stop is.” Adam reached for her large case and paused by the door.

She stood still, studying him until he almost fidgeted. “I don’t accept rides from anyone unless I know their last name.”

“Blake. Adam Blake.”

Calista first glanced at her grandfather. He gave her a nod.  The room grew quiet while she made up her mind. She finally shrugged and said, “I would love a ride home. Lead the way.” She reached up and gave Pete a kiss on his cheek. “Give Mimi my love.”

“Your grandmother will be so proud of you. I can’t wait to tell her …”

He stopped as if his words clogged his throat.

“It’s okay, Pete. Mimi’s heart knows, her soul knows, and you’re right. She’s very proud of me.” Calista wiped away the tear that threatened to spill down her grandfather’s cheek. With another quick hug, she walked out to the parking lot.

Adam moved ahead of her, positioning his body so it shielded her between him and the building. A soft crunch near the dumpster sounded behind him. He froze. With his arms tight against his body, the familiar rush of adrenaline filled his veins. He shifted his position toward the dark shadows. A large calico cat bounced off the structure and disappeared into the bushes.

“That’s Max. He and Pete have an understanding.”

“It’s a cat. How do you have an understanding with a cat?”

“He brings Pete dead mice and Pete makes sure Max eats like a king.”

Adam chuckled. Something he seemed to do a lot around Calista. With one final visual sweep, he relaxed his stance and opened the passenger door of his Acura. After Calista was settled in the deep leather seat, he ambled around and unlocked the trunk, placing her cello in the bay. He slammed the trunk and got behind the wheel.

Before he could stop himself, he asked the question that had been bugging him. “I thought I heard your grandmother passed away a while back. Did I misunderstand?”

“No, you heard right.”

“But you just told Pete to …”

“He drives to the cemetery every night after he closes the diner, sits next to her gravestone, and tells her about his day. They were married fifty years. That isn’t a loss you ever get over.”

“And your parents? They are gone too?”

“Yes, it’s just Pete and me. Mom and Dad died in a car accident when I was eleven. Mimi and Pete raised me.” Calista twisted so she would face him. “What about you?”

“The same. Both parents gone.”

Adam hadn’t a clue why he brought the subject up. He had no business spending time with Calista outside the diner. That wasn’t a baby step into a normal existence, but a giant leap off a high cliff. His life made him hell on relationships.

But there was just something about Calista he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was time to see if there was anything between them. If not, he could just walk away before he hurt her, too.

 “I’m sorry about your parents.” She placed a hand over his arm. Their gazes held before she broke away and scanned the interior of his car. “I figured you would drive some sporty number or one of those black, mysterious SUVs.”

 “What’s a black, mysterious SUV?”

“You know. One of those cool bulletproof numbers with blacked out windows.”

“Calista, just what do you think I do?”

“You’re like Batman.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and she squirmed in her seat, her gaze on a spot in her lap. “When you leave the diner, you return to your bat cave unless you’re out fighting bad guys.”

He grimaced. Now what, smartass? Lie to her, or tell her who you really are and what you do?

“Who knew music teachers had such active imaginations? I’m no superhero.”

He could never tell her what he did for a living. His path may have been chosen for him, but he hadn’t walked away when he had the chance.

“And I’m not a music teacher―yet.”

“You’re going to be hired so fast, your head will spin.” He placed the key in the ignition and started the car. Backing out of the space, he pulled onto the side street.

“Where are you going?” Her voice sounded normal.

 Adam slowed and stopped at the light. “I’m taking you home.”

“But I didn’t tell you where I live.”

“Yeah, I guess I need that, don’t I? This is the way the Metro bus always turns.”

Calista grinned. “It’s not far. Take the second left. My neighborhood is a couple miles on the other side of the beltway. Once you pass over I-495, I’ll direct you.”

Following her directions, Adam headed north on the deserted street. The faded streetlights casted a fluorescent gloom over homes on either side of the street, but the lack of lighting didn’t distract from the well-cared neighborhood. People took pride in their homes much like the suburbs of Los Angeles, where he grew up. There was a time when someone like Calista was exactly the type of woman he dreamed of settling down with and raising a bunch of little Blakes. She had a kindness in her that he sorely missed. But with the twelve jaded, nightmarish years he had on her that he could never erase, that dream was gone. It couldn’t exist in his reality now.

“What’s wrong? You’re so tense.”

“Sorry, my mind was on something else.”

“If you get on the Beltway here, you can get off at the next exit, avoiding all the lights.”

 Adam turned on his blinker and eased over a lane. Just as he entered the entrance ramp, a stabbing pain exploded in the back of his eyes, ricocheting across his frontal lobe. An involuntary, animalistic moan escaped through his clenched teeth and he squeezed his eyes shut against the searing pain. His hands shot up to cover his head as his foot slammed down on the accelerator. The car shot across the road, jumping the curb, and hurled up a slope. Adam hit the brake inches before the front bumper smashed into the trunk of an old oak tree. His forehead smashed into the horn, the blaring sound deafening.

“Adam?”

Calista slammed the gearshift in park and shut off the ignition. She pulled his head away from the steering wheel. “Adam, what’s wrong?” She tried to remove his hands from his head, but he held on tight.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. He swallowed the acidic bile in his throat. The blinding pain increased until he thought his head would burst. Then the sound of a child’s desperate cry filled his head. They’re hurting Mommy! Help her!

What the fuck was that? Every word of the child’s plea seemed to cut through his frontal lobe to the back of his head. A gripping panic slammed into him as he fumbled in his jacket pockets. “My cell. Find my cell.”

Calista searched his pockets. “Here, Adam. I’ll call 911.”

“No. No.”

He dropped his head back against the seat. Everything around him faded in and out of focus—except Calista. The pain pounded between his ears as dark, red spotted dots swam over his vision, allowing only minimal light in. Sweat beaded around his eyes and screamed down his spine. He shook his head to clear his vision and grabbed the phone. It took a couple tries, but a line on the other end began to ring.

Calista gasped, her hands covering her mouth. “God, you’re bleeding again, but not from the wound on your head. It’s coming from your eyes.” She swiped a finger at the corner of his eye and her fingers came away dripping with his blood. “I need to get you to a hospital.”

He began to shake his head, but the pain was so bad, he froze. The phone continued to ring in his ear. Eighth ring, ninth. On the tenth ring, it was picked up.

“Rina.” His best friend’s name came out in a raspy whisper. “Rina.”

“Katrina is a little busy right now, Blake. Why don’t you join the party?”

The man’s voice came out in a thick, rough, eastern European accent. Adam recognized it and a chill spiked through him.

The agony in the scream he heard next pierced Adam’s heart. He shoved down the sharp pain in his head and allowed the years of training to resurfaced.

 “You’re dead, Ludis. You hear me. Your fucking life is over,” he ground out.

“Big words. I’m going to carve her open then hunt down the kid. Your kid, you motherfucker. And when I’m done with her, I’m coming for you.”

Saturday's Chapter is from Kidnapped Hearts by Cait Jarrod

Kidnapped Hearts by Cait Jarrod

Chapter 1

Thunder boomed outside The Memory Café. Pamela pushed her chair from the desk and crossed to the window. Lightning lit the darkened August sky, illuminating the fragile trees bowing in the wind along the historic streets of Fredericksburg in Virginia.

She should have left with her employees. Instead, a half-hour after the café closed, she had watched them climb into their cars and drive away. Her heart had pommeled pounded when she twisted the deadbolts before heading to her office.

Why had she stayed alone? Her father said she needed a backbone, so she stayed, trying to live up to his motto: Be strong. Be brave.

She sucked in a deep breath, settled in the chair behind her desk, and looked at the picture of her grandparents, dad, and herself on her laptop. Though they lived in Florida hundreds of miles away, the three of them were her inspiration.

A loud rumble vibrated the office. Pamela jumped. She should have checked the weather channel before deciding to stay late, but the skies had been clear earlier.

Don’t be scared of what you can’t see. Another one of her father’s sayings reverberated in her head. Those words, along with defense classes her dad had paid for, gave her courage but not in a storm. Thunderstorms reminded her of the evil in people, one in particular.

She clicked the mouse, opened the bookkeeping application, and started entering the night’s figures. Lightning cracked, lights flickered. Her heart pounded to the beat of the rain hitting the windowpanes.

Enough was enough; backbone or not, she needed to get out of there. She switched off the computer, grabbed her purse, and then headed toward the back door, turning off the light on the way. She grasped the doorknob with one hand and unlocked the first deadbolt Panama Jack had installed four months ago. The doorknob moved under her hand. Jerking her hand away, she backed off.

The knob twisted again. Her heart leaped into her throat. Not again.

She relocked the deadbolt, ran into the kitchen, and snatched a knife from a drawer before squatting behind the stainless steel island.

The storm rumbled outside. Minutes passed with no sign of movement. Pamela peered around the island. The window in the back of the kitchen lit up. A face stared in. She screamed. Her purse fell to the floor with a loud thud.

Sam? It couldn’t be—he was in jail.

The window illuminated again. The man grinned, his teeth gleaming. Not Sam.

Fear knotted her stomach. She lost her balance and fell. The knife clattered across the concrete floor, hitting the wall. Afraid, she sucked in gulps of air, trying to calm her nerves enough to move.

After a few minutes passed, she surveyed the window. A flash of light cast the outside in a beam of light, followed by a loud clap of thunder. The face had disappeared. She bit her bottom lip. Where did he go? She scooted to the knife on her bottom, not an easy task in a form fitting skirt. With the knife secured in her hand, she rose and pressed her body against the wall.

Slowly, she inched toward the window where the teeth had gleamed at her. Not wanting to see him, but also not wanting to remain scared that the intruder was still out there, she peeked around the window trim. The parking lot came into view. The lights in the back lot glowed while the spaces bordering the building remained dark. The bulb outside the back door had blown since her employees left.

A hissing sound escaped her. The fear she experienced the night of the attack recurred tenfold, as the familiar scene unfolded, and the pressing question popped into her mind. Why did she think she needed to stay alone? Be strong. Be brave. Her dad’s words replayed in her mind.

Someone pounded on a door.

The knot in her stomach jumped to her throat. Kitchen lights were on, making it easy for whoever was outside to see her. She pulled off her stilettos, ducked under the window, then inched toward the switch. Lightning beat her to it.

The emergency lights blinked on, but not in the kitchen. It remained in darkness. Only the glow from the dining room and the hallway seeped through, giving little light.

The knife clutched at her side, she slid her hand along the kitchen wall to the receiver.

The phone line was dead.

It can’t be. Phone lines were underground in the city. With a trembling hand, she reached for her cell inside her purse, coming up empty. Her purse lay on the other side of the kitchen.

Another thump on the door, and her knees buckled. She slumped to the floor. This can’t be happening. The coldness from the concrete floor penetrated her skin. The night of the attack roared into her mind with the sound of thunder.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the room and bringing the image of Sam’s angry face to mind. Pamela flinched. The memory of Sam’s reaction to her when she refused his unwanted advances still unnerved her.

The rain came down harder, drumming even louder against the roof. She had to leave.

Glass shattered across the kitchen from the window the intruder stood at minutes ago. A loud thud followed.

She screamed.

Be strong. Be brave.

On shaky feet, Pamela stood. She clutched the knife in her hand like the killer in Psycho.

The Memory Café’s security alarm whirled. A shattering sound from the dining room penetrated the volume of the alarm.

This wasn’t good.

On the night Sam busted in the back door and attacked her, the police had arrived quickly. She blew out a puff of air, blowing sweat-dampened, dark hair off her forehead, and prayed they would arrive as fast as last time.

A light seeped into the kitchen through the swinging doors that lead to the dining room. A figured moved. The doors swung closed, and the light from the dining room disappeared, taking the figure with it.

Her heart thumped wildly in her chest.

A hand slid over her mouth, and another grasped her wrist. The knife clanked to the floor. The hand left her wrist and slid across her stomach, holding her firmly against a hard body.

“I’m FBI.” A man’s voice whispered next to her ear. “Is anyone else here?” He lifted his fingers away from her mouth. “Don’t scream.”

She swallowed the scream he warned her against and tried to take control of the fleeing instinct as she wondered how he found her so easily. “How do I know you are who you say?” she whispered back.

“You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.”

Trust, not something she did easily. “Why?”

“Either trust me or don’t, the choice is yours.” She felt his hot breath as he leaned closer. “If I was going to hurt you, don’t you think I would have already?”

She absorbed his words. They made sense. Right now, not having a means to contact anyone, he was her only defense against the man at the window.

“Is anyone else in here?” He asked again.

“I don’t know.”

“Stay here.” His hand slid away from her stomach.

Pamela gauged the darkness in the kitchen, and panic set in. She’d take the odds of staying with him over being left alone. “No way.” She spun, running into his back.

“Keep quiet.”

Tiptoeing behind him, she held the back of his shirt as they walked into the hallway where he covered the emergency light with one of the kitchen towels from the kitchen, the light in the hallway dimmed. “Why did you do that?”

He turned to glare at her. “Stay quiet.”

I need the light. In darkness, bad things happen.

As if he heard her, his words plunged into her internal rant. “You’re safe.”

The strength of them calmed her, or maybe the pat on her leg that followed did. Either way, the man personified safety. Edging toward the storage room, she spotted a gun in his hands, leading the way. Once there, he said, “Stay.” Before she had a chance to argue, he pulled her hand off his shirt and added, “Don’t argue.” He disappeared into the darkened room. Emergency lights should be installed in every room.

Less than a minute later, he reappeared. Her chewed nails thought he’d been gone a lifetime.

He touched her hand. “Let’s go.”

How could he see? They went through the same procedure when they reached her office. Only this time, she nibbled on the nails on her other hand.

He stepped out of the office.

She finally asked, “How can you see?”

“Concentrate.”

She’d been concentrating but still couldn’t see anything. “Did you cover the lights in the dining room, too?”

“No. It must have malfunctioned.”

“Like the ones in the kitchen.” She didn’t believe it. Someone must have tampered with them. But who? Why?

He crossed to the emergency light in the hallway. “No one’s here,” he said, removing the towel.

She skimmed his dark hair and five o’clock shadow.

“What’s your name?”

“Pamela Young, I own this establishment.”

The overhead lights flicked on, shining brightly. His blue gaze stared into hers. “Are you okay?”

Her hand flew to her chest. She could lose herself in those eyes.

“You’re pale. Shock will do that to a person.” He grabbed her hand and tugged. “You need water.”

The kitchen fluorescent lights glowed, permitting Pamela to see the broken window. He released her hand and walked toward the sink.

She walked toward the object that had made the thud. A brick with an envelope tied to it.

Another one?

She stopped.

Water soaked her back.

“Crap.”

Her eyes were glued to the brick, or rather the note attached to the brick. She didn’t notice the towel he had in his hand until he grumbled, “I’ll do it myself,” and started to blot the back of her shirt.

 A glass of water sat on the counter. She drank it, wishing for something stronger to wash down the burning fear.

“I’ll take care of it.” He plucked a couple of latex gloves from a box she kept on the counter, slipped them on his hands, and untied the envelope. After pulling out the note, the agent glanced up at her.

She shook her head. No way would she read it.

He unfolded the paper and silently scanned it. His grim expression confirmed her fear, another note. Her arms folded across her body.

The first said, Give back the bonds.

Two days later and she still didn’t have a clue about the bonds.

The second read: Leave the bonds in the trashcan by the City Docks, or your mother will suffer the consequences.

If the person who made the threat knew anything about her life, he or she would know Pamela rarely talked to her mother. She hadn’t since Vivian decided to leave for a career in New York City.

The previous notes, Pamela had deemed to be sick pranks by teenagers. One was in her mailbox and the other under the windshield wiper on her car. Both were classic juvenile stunts. Judging by the agent’s expression, this note held more impact. “What does it say?” Her voice shook, making the words barely recognizable.

Instead of answering her question, the agent asked, “Are you involved in criminal activity?”

Her mouth opened. The audacity of the question rendered her speechless.

His eyebrows rose, waiting for an answer.

Dropping her arms, she said, “Of course not.” Her chin jutted upward. “What does the note say?”

He glanced at the paper, studied her for a second, then cleared his throat. “It says: you’ve run out of time. Don’t involve the police.”

She turned away, clutching her stomach as bile rose to her throat. 

A consoling hand touched her back.

She swallowed.

“If you’ve got yourself in a mess, I can help, but you’ll have to be honest with me.”

She straightened and looked over her shoulder. He stood close, too close. “Who are you?”

“Police, is anyone in there?” a voice shouted from the rear of the café.

Thank goodness, the police arrived quickly, Pamela thought.

“In the kitchen,” the FBI guy responded.

An officer wearing a blue uniform appeared. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“I just returned tonight.”

The officer chuckled as he shook the agent’s hand. “Glad to see you, Jake Gibson.”

Finally, she had a name. She looked at the man named Jake. His name seemed familiar, but not his face. Hands on her hips, she glanced around the kitchen. Several uniformed police officers inspected The Memory Café.

“Pamela, you need this.”

Pamela She glanced behind her to see Jake holding a towel. “Wrap this around your waist. Your skirt’s torn.”

It took a few seconds for the words to register. She touched the ripped material, feeling the fabric separated. It had torn from the hem to the waist; no wonder the concrete floor felt cold earlier. At that moment, it dawned on her. Jake He stood behind her when she clutched her stomach, getting a view of her bare butt. Pamela glared at him and accepted the towel. Deciding to wear a thong to avoid unwanted panty lines had seemed like the right decision this morning. Next time, she’d go with the lines.

In response, Jake winked.

“Ma’am,” the officer said.

“Sorry, Pamela Young is the owner of The Memory Café. Ms. Young, this is Sergeant Glenn Harrison.”

Pamela She held the towel tightly around her waist and forced a smile. “Please call me Pamela.”

Sergeant Harrison lifted his chin and flipped open a notepad. “PamelaMa’am, what triggered your alarm?”

Jake moved behind the detective, held up the note and shook his head. The message was clear; he didn’t want her to tell the police. His blue eyes urged her to listen. She did. Looking away from the officer and his shadow, she eyed the broken window. “Someone threw a brick through the window.”

Jake’s hand fisted, but he remained silent. His gloves had vanished.

The officer glimpsed the brick on the table then tilted his head toward the window on the far wall. “That window?”

Pamela She scanned the table for the rope that had tied the note to the brick. It had vanished. She shifted her eyes to the hole in the window. “Yes.”

“So youYou have a Peeping Tom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you give me a description of the person?”

“It was a man. A hood covered his head. The only thing I could see was his teeth and they shined at me.”

The officer wrote in his notepad. “What happened to your front door?”

Pamela believed the agent had caused the commotion in the dining room, but hadn’t asked.

“I broke the glass in the front door when I heard a female screaming and. When no one answered my knock, I broke the glass.”

The officer looked at him. “And you happened to be near the café during a thunderstorm?”

The agent shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yep.”

“I don’t see how you could have heard anything between the thunder and the security alarms, but you’re the agent, not me.” The officer’s phone rang. “Excuse me.”

When the officer walked away, Jake turned to her. “Are you holding up okay?”

“I could be better.”

The officer came back into view. “That was the FBI. They didn’t know you were here, but once I told them, they asked that you stay. Two FBI agents are en route, a forensic artist, and a field agent. Know anything?”

Jake shrugged.

The officer hit his notepad against his thigh. “Typical agent, you guys are never forthcoming.” He turned toward Pamela. “Ms. Young, do you have anything else that you need to tell me?”

She needed to tell him about the notes, but for some reason Jake wanted the information kept quiet. She hoped this vaguely familiar man wasn’t leading her astray. The last thing she needed was to get in trouble with the police for withholding evidence. On second thought, she wasn’t the one keeping information from the officer. It was Agent Gibson. “No.”

Footsteps coming toward them interrupted their conversation. A woman wearing the same blue uniform as the officer in front of her, with the exception of the skirt, stopped beside them. “The light bulb was busted.”

Pamela twisted away from the police. One hand covered her mouth while the other held the towel like a lifeline. She mumbled, “This isn’t good.”

The agent touched her shoulder. The action, although a small gesture, meant a lot.

“If you need anything, give me a call.” The officer handed her his card, then smacked the agent on the back. “See you around.”

“Have a good one,” Agent Gibson replied to the officer’s back, as he handed over an inside out latex glove to the arriving field agent. The FBI’s forensic artist followed.

The agent separated the material and looked inside the glove then nodded. “I’ll send the note and string to the lab.”

“You put them inside the glove?” Pamela asked, looking up at Jake.

Jake He didn’t respond. “I need the lab work expedited on the note, string, and brick,.” Jake then pointed at the third item.

The agent placed the evidence in a Ziploc bag. “Will do.”

The forensic artist led Pamela to a table in the dining room. She gave the a parcel description of the man in the window while Jake cleaned up the glass by the front door.

Within minutes, the artist packed up the supplies and the two agents left.

Pamela twirled, looking for Jake. She found him by the rear entrance, where the doorknob twisted beneath her hands. He shook hands with the officers as they exited the café. Everyone knew him. She took in his clothing. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, not a drop of water on him.

He smiled at the last officer leaving the café before turning his blue eyes on her.

Pamela She jammed her hands on her hips. “If you were outside during the storm, why aren’t you wet?”

He closed the distance to her and jutted his chin toward the hooks by the front door. A black raincoat hung from a hook, a puddle of water beneath it. “I can’t move well in the coat.”

She glared at him.

He montioned for him to follow her and  unbuttoned a couple of buttons on the back of the jacket. The flap dropped down, and the words FBI appeared. “I am who I said, except I retired a few days ago.”

She looked him over. “Why were you outside my café this time of night during a thunderstorm?”

“We’ll get to that. First, we have a few things we need to take care of, then I’ll escort you home.”

Her eyes widened.

“Your windows first, and then afterwards, we need to find a way to keep you safe. I’m assuming by your reaction earlier you’ve received other notes.”

She remained silent. What was she supposed toshould she say to him? He wanted answers but wouldn’t answer her questions.

“And by the silence, I know I’m right.”

Her mouth gaped open as he walked into the kitchen. She padded behind him. He was looking through the drawers.

“What are you looking for?”

“Duct tape.”

“It’s in the storage room.” She led the way through the hall to the storage room, removed the tape from a box, and turned, running into his chest again. At five-eight, the top of her head reached his nose. Lifting her chin, she met gentle eyes and swallowed. A warm surge of heat rushed through her body. “Umm, I think there’s a roll of vinyl shelf paper in the corner that we could use to cover the holes.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ll have a man come over in the morning to replace the glass for you.”

“No need. I have a repairman, Panama Jack.”

Jake’s eyebrows arched. “Panama Jack? Well, if he isn’t available, let me know.”

She found the roll and headed toward the front entrance.

Jake unrolled the shelf paper and held it over the small hole in the front door while Pamela stretched the duct tape and attached the vinyl paper to the window. He took the roll and finished taping the other three sides, and then they moved through the kitchen doors to the shattered window and repeated the process.

“I’ll need to make a list for the repairman.” She strolled into her office, settled in her chair, and searched for a notepad.

Jake followed. His concern started to touch a place she didn’t want to consider. Giving up on the post-its, her hands went up in the air. He pulled the pad from an organizer and tossed it to her. “You can’t stay alone.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Agent Gibson—”

“Jake,” he interrupted.

She focused on the paper; anywhere was better than being sucked in by those blue eyes. “I have enough men in my life to watch over me, to a fault sometimes. I don’t need any more.” She knew her comment was mean, but she couldn’t take the chance of letting this man inside the wall she erected after Sam.

He crossed to her side of the desk and propped his butt on the corner. Crossing arms and legs, he looked down at her. “I’m trained to protect. Are your friends?”

She was forced to look at him, all of him. One had been. “It doesn’t matter. You’re not watching over me.”

“At least let me drive you home.”

As if to support Jake’s comment, thunder boomed, and the lights flicked off. The emergency lights immediately flickered, brightening the area.

She wrote the kitchen and dining room emergency lights on the list, then the back door light along with the windowpanes. He made a good point. “I’ll drive to a girlfriend’s house.”

“It’s late.”

The clock on the wall chimed two. Her friend would unnecessarily worry receiving a call at this time of night.

“What about tomorrow night?” Jake said, interrupting her deliberations.

Tomorrow hadn’t entered her mind. Late in the afternoon, the Band of Friends, known as the BOFs, would be meeting at the café. She could stay with one of them. “I have a friend I can stay with tomorrow night.”

He straightened and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket then flashed a badge. “Proof, I’m who I say.”

Pamela looked at the badge and the picture beside it. The FBI jacket could have been anyone’s, but the badge was definitely his. Again, the name Jake Gibson caught her attention. “The badge has retired across it.”

“Like I said, I retired a few days ago.” He shoved the wallet back into his back pocket. “I’ll sleep on your couch, and you can lock the bedroom door.”

“Could a locked door stop you?”

He touched both her shoulders. Blue compassionate eyes looked at her. “Look, I’m here to help you, not hurt. I can’t force you to let me stay, but I hope you will reconsider.”

As she gazed into his eyes, she noticed the same unfaltering demeanor she had seen in other men who had been to war. The look that said, I’d do whatever it takes to protect you. But why would he volunteer to help her?

He disappeared and a second later returned with his raincoat in his hands. “Come on, let’s get you home.” He tugged on her hand until she stood, then wrapped his raincoat around her.

The deer in the headlights look had to be what he saw when he eased her into his arms and said, “I’ll take care of this.”

She didn’t understand why this man with the familiar name was being so nice to her and didn’t truly know if she could trust him. Yet, she needed help, and he was offering. Burying her head in his shirt, she did what she refused to do in front of another man. She cried.

Something about his rectitude, his charm, and she knew under his watchful eye, she’d be safe. From what or who she needed protection continued to be a mystery.