by Cynthia Eden
She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I’m not afraid anymore.” His masculine scent teased her nose. Memories, so many of them, were right there between them. Yes, she had cared for Trey once. And he’d always have a place in her heart—as a friend.
But he was her past, and it was time to put that past to rest. It was time to focus on her future.
She looked back at Gabe. Her tough ex-SEAL. Staggering toward her when he should have been on his way to a hospital.
Gabe lifted his hand to her. Eve hurried to him. Their fingers locked together.
And Eve realized that she wasn’t lost, not anymore. She was exactly where she was supposed to be, with the man who stared at her as if she was the most precious thing in the world.
“I love you,” he told her, and Eve knew she’d never get tired of hearing those words.
She rose onto her toes, and her lips pressed lightly to his.
“A hospital!” Wade snapped, sounding distinctly annoyed. “That man needs a hospital—you two save that lovey-dovey crap for later.”
Because there would be a later. A thousand nights of later. A lifetime.
Eve eased away from Gabe. Stared into his eyes. She wanted to be sure he heard this part. “I love you, Gabe Spencer.”
That blue gaze warmed.
“Now get your ass back in that ambulance, because I’m not losing you. Not now . . .” Eve kissed him once more. “Not ever.”
Because she would fight anyone or anything in order to keep Gabe by her side. The man who loved her, darkness and all.
The man who was . . . hers.
Always.
EPILOGUE
HER FEET DUG INTO THE SAND AS THE WAVES OF the ocean pounded the shore. Seagulls were above her, crying out.
And she wasn’t afraid.
Eve stared out at the water. She could see the lighthouse in the distance. Tall and strong, having survived another storm.
And she wasn’t afraid.
Her hand lifted. Touched the scar on her neck. The memories pulsed through her.
And she wasn’t afraid.
He caught her hand in his. Brought her fingers to his lips. Kissed them. One by one.
And she smiled as she turned toward him.
There was no answering smile on Gabe’s hard face. He stared down at her, almost appearing afraid. But that was wrong. Gabe wasn’t afraid of anything.
Except of losing me.
Because she did know his darkest fear. He’d whispered it to her, when he held her tight in that hospital room.
I’d be lost without you.
“The victims have been recovered.”
She nodded. Victoria had told her about them. Almost twenty in all. Twenty. Not the ten they’d first anticipated.
When she first heard, Eve had broken down and cried for them. For so many lives that had been lost.
No, not lost, but taken, by her brother.
“It looks like his first victim was the girl we found in the fort. And after her, he started burying his victims.”
He’d let the sand hide his crimes.
“He wrote their names on the walls of the fort, in different rooms. Hiding them, but always marking his prey.”
“Taking credit for the kill,” Eve said.
Gabe nodded. “Yes.”
She glanced back out at the water. “He was . . . sick. My parents sent him to doctors, so many doctors, but nothing ever seemed to help.”
“He fixated on you,” Gabe said. “Maybe because you were so close to him, because he saw you, day in and day out . . . you became the thing he wanted most.”
She closed her eyes and let the wind slide over her face. “I came here to get away from him, but he followed me.” He’d turned her safe haven into a hell.
No, I won’t let you take anything else from me! I won’t!
Her eyes opened.
She stared at the beauty of the beach. The beauty of the waves. The sand. When she looked down, she didn’t see blood in the water. That was just a memory.
“The Montgomery fortune is mine.” It would be, once she’d jumped through all the legal hoops. “I don’t . . . want it. I’m giving it to the families. To help them—” Eve broke off, shaking her head. “As if money will ever make up for what they lost.” Nothing could make up for what was taken. But she was still sending the money to those families. To Pauley’s sister. To Clay’s father.
She knew that Pierce had been the one to kill Pauley. The one to attack her. He’d been using colored contact lenses the night he came for her . . . they’d found other contacts, some disguises and hair dye, in his house on the island. He’d been such a careful killer.
A tricky bastard who’d been too good at hiding his true self from the people around him.
“What happens now?” Eve asked as she stared at the waves now rising to brush against her toes.
“You live your life.” Gabe’s voice was gruff. “You start being happy again. You love—”
Her gaze returned to him. “I already do.” Her feelings for him were getting her through the darkness.
He smiled at her, and the sight nearly broke her heart.
“I will love you, Eve, Jessica—whatever name you want to use—I will love you for the rest of my life.” His voice was low, heavy with intensity. “And I will do everything within my power to give you only good memories from here on out.”
But Eve shook her head, and she saw fear flash on his face. She told him, “Life isn’t always good. Sometimes, it’s ugly and it’s dark and it tries to wreck you.” That was the way fate worked. “You don’t have to promise me perfect times. Just promise me . . . that I’ll always have you. That you’ll be with me. Because if I have you . . .” And she smiled for him. The first real smile that she could remember in months. “Then I have everything.”
He pulled her into his arms. Held her tight, so tight. “You’ll have me forever.”
When he kissed her, Eve knew that the past was truly dead.
The future—it was what waited.
Gabe waited.
Don’t miss the next sexy and suspenseful novel
featuring the LOST team
from New York Times best-selling author
CYNTHIA EDEN!
Read on for a sneak peek at
TWISTED
Available in print and e-book April 28, 2015!
PROLOGUE
WHAT DO YOU SEE FOR MY FUTURE?”
Emma Castille slowly glanced up from the cards that were spread on the table before her. The young girl who sat across from Emma appeared to be barely sixteen. Her blond hair was secured in a haphazard knot at the nape of her neck, her clothes were faded, and her blue eyes were wide with a fear that couldn’t be controlled.
Emma didn’t reach for the cards that were on her table. She just stared at the girl and said, “I see a family that’s waiting for you. You need to go home to them.”
The girl’s chin jerked. “Wh-What if they won’t have me?”
“You’d be surprised at what they’d have.” Darkness was coming. The night slowly creeping to take over the day. Emma knew that she would have to leave Jackson Square soon. Her time was almost up.
The others around her were already packing up their booths for the day. Psychics. Artists. Musicians. They were a mixed group that assembled every day as they came out to capture the attention of the tourists in New Orleans.
Emma wasn’t psychic. She wasn’t gifted when it came to music or art. But she did have one talent that she used to keep her alive and well fed—she had a talent for reading people.
For noticing what others would too easily miss. Too easily ignore.
“You’re running from someone.” Emma said this flatly. The girl had already glanced over her left shoulder at least four times while they’d been talking. Fear was a living, breathing thing, clinging to the girl like a shroud.
Emma knew what it was like to run. Sometimes it seemed as if she’d always been running from someone or something.<
br />
“Will he find me?” the girl asked as she leaned forward.
Emma almost reached for her hand because she wanted to comfort her. Almost. “Go back to your family.” The girl was a runaway. She’d bet her life on it.
The blond girl blanched. “What if it’s the family you fear?”
At those words, Emma stiffened.
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that everything will be all right?” the girl asked. She stood then, and her voice rose, breaking with fear. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that I’ll go to college, marry my dream man, and live happily ever after?”
Others turned their way because the girl was nearly shouting.
“Aren’t you?” the girl demanded.
Emma shook her head. She didn’t believe in happily ever after. “Go to the police.” This she said softly, her words a direct contrast to the girl’s angry tone. “You’re in danger.” There were bruises on the girl’s wrists, bruises peeking out from beneath the long sleeves of her shirt. A long-sleeved shirt in August, in New Orleans? Oh, no, that wasn’t right. What other bruises are you trying to hide?
The girl stumbled back. “Help me.” Now her voice was a desperate whisper.
Emma stood as well. “I’ll go with you—” she began.
But the girl had glanced over her shoulder once more. The blonde’s too-thin body stiffened, and she gasped. Then she was turning and running away. Shoving through the tourists that crowded that busy square. Running as if her very life depended on it.
Because maybe, just maybe, that life did.
Emma called out after her, but the girl didn’t stop.
Let her go, let her go.
But Emma found herself rushing after the girl, going as fast as she could. But New Orleans, oh, New Orleans, it could be such a tricky bitch with its narrow streets and secret paths. She couldn’t find the blonde. She turned to the left and to the right and she just saw men and women laughing, celebrating. Voices were all around her. So many people.
And there was no sign of the terrified blond girl.
Emma paused and her right hand pressed to the brick wall on her right as she fought to catch her breath.
But that wall was . . . wet. Her hand lifted, and in the faint light she could see the red that covered her palm. A red that was—
Blood.
“OH, JULIA, SWEET Julia, why did you try to run?”
He ran the tip of his knife down Julia’s cheek. She was already bleeding, and, before he was done, there would be even more blood.
So much blood.
Behind his left hand, Julia whimpered.
He let the knife slice even deeper into her cheek. “Now I’m just going to have to punish you more. You know that?” His voice was whisper soft because that other woman—the one with the dark hair and too bright eyes—had followed his Julia. The woman was just steps away, less than five feet. She hadn’t realized that they’d ducked into the abandoned bar.
She didn’t know that he had Julia in his arms right then.
The woman was looking at her hand.
Ah, did you see Julia’s blood?
Because he’d slammed Julia’s head into that wall. Stopped her from running.
“You’re not going to get away from me,” he told Julia as the other woman crept closer to the bar. The place’s windows and doors were boarded up, but he’d found a way inside. A way that gave him perfect access to Julia. “I always keep what’s mine.”
The dark-haired woman was almost upon them. Through the thin cracks in those boarded-up windows, he could see the slender shape of her body. The long, flowing dress.
He smiled as the thrill of the hunt filled him once more. “Always . . .”
New Orleans was fucking hot. No other way to describe it. Fucking. Hot. On a late September day the heat was like a damn blanket wrapping around Dean Bannon. He’d rolled up his sleeves, ditched his tie, but those feeble efforts sure hadn’t done any good.
New Orleans was hell, he was convinced of that, and the place was also the site of his latest assignment.
Sixteen-year-old Julia Finney had last been seen in the Big Easy. Her mother was desperate to find the girl, but the local cops weren’t giving any of their time to finding the runaway, and he—well, he was one of the agents from LOST who’d been sent down from Atlanta to find her.
He made his way slowly down Bourbon Street. The sun hadn’t even set yet, and the place was already hopping. Drunk frat boys and drunk sixty-year-old men staggered down the street in near perfect rhythm. And girls—girls that looked far too young—stood in darkened doorways and waved the men inside.
Ann Finney was worried that her daughter Julia was going to become one of those girls. On the streets, with no money, no connections . . . what else could happen to her?
A fucking lot.
Dean lifted the picture he carried of Julia. Showed it to the girls. But their glassy-eyed stares just passed right over the image. No one recognized Julia. No one knew her.
It seemed that no one had ever bothered to look at the girl.
Now he was looking for her, but the clench in Dean’s gut told him that he might already be too late. Still, he kept trudging along, kept turning down the streets until he found himself in Jackson Square.
Street performers were out, some kids playing jazz, others dancing fast and frantic rhythm on cardboard boxes that they’d brought out as they worked for tips.
The crowd there was huge. So many people. Too many.
No wonder a sixteen-year-old girl had vanished without a trace.
“Who are you looking for?”
The voice was feminine, low, husky—and very close. He turned his head and saw her. A woman with a long cascade of black hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. She was sitting beneath the shelter of a big blue umbrella. A small table sat in front of her, and a sign by her said that a “reading” would be twenty dollars.
His eyes narrowed as he studied her.
She smiled at him, flashing dimples in both of her cheeks. “Come now, don’t be afraid of me, handsome, I won’t bite.” Her hand, delicate, tanned, motioned to the chair across from her. “Come closer.”
Why? Did it look like he was some tourist in the mood to be conned? Because that sure as shit wasn’t his style.
But if the woman usually worked the square, if she saw all the people coming and going . . . then maybe, just maybe, she’d seen Julia.
Dean ducked his head and slid under that umbrella. But he didn’t sit. He leaned over her, and the woman tilted her head back as she stared up at him.
Her smile dimmed. Those dimples vanished, and Dean had one thought—
Fucking gorgeous.
The woman’s face was eerily close to perfect. High cheekbones. Straight nose. Wide, amazing eyes. A delicate chin.
Her lips were full, sexy and red. Her face might have made her look like an angel, but those lips and that dark mass of hair . . . oh, it made him think of sin.
Not here, not now.
Dean had a rule about mixing business and pleasure. He damn well never did it.
He was there on a case. For him, the mission always came first. Always.
“Not a cop,” she said as she lifted one eyebrow. “But a government agent . . .” Her lips pursed. “FBI?”
Was he supposed to be impressed? He’d been an FBI agent for ten years, working day and night in the Violent Crimes Division. He’d seen enough shit to give most people never-ending nightmares.
Good thing he didn’t have nightmares. He didn’t have dreams, either. When he slept, there was only darkness.
He pulled out the photo of Julia. He noticed the would-be fortune-teller’s eyes fell to the photo, and she tensed, just for an instant.
“I’m betting you see plenty of people come by this way each day.”
Her gaze lifted back to his. “I don’t work here every day.”
He took a step closer to her. She definitely tensed. Dean put the photo of Julia down on the wo
man’s table. As he leaned in even closer, he could have sworn that he caught the scent of jasmine. He’d grown up on his grandfather’s farm, a lifetime ago, and jasmine had been there.
She wasn’t looking at the photograph.
“Most people disappear for a reason,” she said, staring into his eyes. “They don’t like to be found.”
Too bad. “My job is to find the lost.”
Her head tilted a bit more, and a dark lock of hair slid over her shoulder. She was wearing gold earrings, hoops that moved faintly as she watched him. Those hoops, her hair, her amazing eyes—yeah, they all came together to give her a seductive, mysterious air. He bet the tourists loved her.
But Dean knew there was no mystery about the woman before him. Just another pretty face hiding lies. The woman was a scammer, out there to bilk the people dumb enough to approach her table.
“Look at the girl,” he said softly.
Her blue gaze fell to the table.
For just a moment her eyes widened. “What has she done?”
Interesting question. “Her family wants her home.”
Her hand rose. Her fingers slid over the photograph. “She should go home. I . . . told her that.”
He caught her hand. Grabbed her wrist in a lightning fast move. “You’ve seen her.” He felt the light ridge of raised skin beneath his fingers. A scar?
She was still looking down at the photograph. “It was at least a week ago. She came here right before sunset.” Her full lips curved down as sadness chased over her face. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’ll be finding her.”
The hell he wouldn’t.
She tugged on her wrist. Dean didn’t let her go.
“That girl is sixteen years old,” he said. “She ran away from her home in Atlanta, and her mother is desperate to find her. Her mother needs her back home.”
“I don’t think she wanted to go back.”
She stood then, moving from beneath the shelter of the umbrella, even as he held onto her wrist. She was smaller than he’d thought. He stood at six-foot-three, and the woman was barely five-foot-four. Maybe five-foot-five. When she tried to slip away from him, he tightened his hold.
“Let me go.”
He didn’t. But his hand slid up her forearm a bit, and he felt more of that raised skin. Just small ridges. Curious now, he looked down as he turned her arm over. Those were scars. Faint lines of white that crossed her skin. The marks were at various points on her inner arm, and . . .