She laughed.
“You are?”
Maggie swiveled to face him. She noted the twinkle in his eyes, one third apprehension, the rest pure excitement. A good sign for the future. “I’m laughing because you are so wrong, Mr. Psychic.”
“What’s going to make me run then?”
She paused, wetting her lips. It was now or never. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
He was silent. Had she gone too far? Revealed too much?
A soft kiss grazed her neck. Moisture trickled down her cheek. A drop of sweat? A tear? His voice was husky when he answered. “Tell me when you know for sure.”
“At this rate, I’m going to know very soon.”
He kissed her and snuggled closer. “I think I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you on the station’s steps.”
“Before you collapsed and turned into sleeping beauty?”
“I never actually lost con–”
“Yeah, yeah. I know, I know.” She scrambled to get up but the big arm across her hip kept her in place.
“Where are you going?”
“I have a son to meet, remember?”
He released her and helped her sit. “Off to the school then?”
“Off home. Davie took the bus this morning. Insisted on it. And he wanted his own key for the house. He says he’s a big boy and can take care of himself.” Her voice faltered, remembering the bitter-sweet moment. Her little guy was growing up fast.
She moved to the edge of the bed. A strong hand pulled her back. “Maggie, it might happen again. You might be late. You can’t live with that hanging over your head. It wasn’t your fault.”
Maggie drew Stafford close. “I know. And I’m not going to beat myself up about it. Not anymore. You see, all my life, I’ve been trying to live up to someone else’s expectations. To please everybody else. That’s over.”
“What? You’re not going to try to please me?” he asked in mock indignation.
She gave him a playful slap. “I became a cop to impress my dad, and he isn’t even here to see it. And I messed up my marriage to do it too. I guess it wasn’t as important to me as it should have been.” She eased out a breath. “Worst of all ... I messed up with Davie.”
“You’ve done great. He obviously adores you.” Stafford found the sensitive spot on her collarbone and nibbled at it. “Just so you know ... he’s not alone.”
She closed her eyes and leaned into him, moaning with pleasure. “You make it very hard to concentrate.”
“Just concentrate on being Maggie. Everything else will follow.”
She kissed him, breaking it off as her blood started to heat. She replaced her lips with her index finger. “Later,” she whispered.
“I’m counting on it.” He moved off the bed and tucked his shirt into his pants. “Let’s go.”
“You’re coming, too?”
“I figure Davie and I should get to know one another better. Unless you think it’s too soon.”
“I think it’s great. But I’ll warn you, he’s expecting McDonald’s tonight.”
Stafford chuckled. “I suppose I’ll have to adjust my taste buds if I’m going to be part of...”
A frown appeared on his face. Maggie kissed him again to brush it away. “A family?”
He smiled then broke the mood by moving toward the phone. “Have I got time for a quick call?”
Maggie glanced at her watch. “Of course. Who are you phoning?”
“Owens. I’m going to let him know I’ll be late. Very.”
ABOUT ROXY BOROUGHS
Before turning her attention to fiction, Roxy appeared in numerous TV commercials and movies. In addition to her novels, she writes interactive murder-mysteries for Pegasus Performances. Visit Roxy on Twitter, Facebook, and her Website. For other titles, check her Amazon Author Pages. Or contact her at [email protected]
* * *
If you enjoyed A Stranger’s Touch, please help other readers find it by recommending it to friends or writing a review. And turn the page for an excerpt of A Stranger’s Kiss.
Praise for A Stranger’s Kiss
“Roxy Boroughs has it all – humor, suspense, and the kind of raw emotion that makes romantic suspense worth reading. This genre has a bright new star.”
– Lecia Cornwall author of Secrets of A Proper Countess, an RT Reviewers Choice nominee.
“Packed with romance, suspense, and a happily-ever-after guaranteed to leave you laughing and crying, A Stranger’s Kiss had me riveted from the opening page!”
– Julie Rowe author of IceBound.
Sam Hutchinson, a successful lawyer, is devastated by the murder of his son. Hoping to gain closure by learning more about the suspected killer, Sam traces the murderer’s roots to Bandit Creek, Montana.
There, against a serene mountain backdrop, he finds Amy Tesher. Lies are Amy’s camouflage, all fabricated to escape the secrets of her past. And to protect her eleven-year-old daughter, Renee, who is able to communicate with Sam’s ghostly son.
Unaware of Sam’s real mission, Amy takes him into the boarding house she’s inherited from her grandmother. Just as the serial killer, James Ryan Morley, returns to claim Amy … and her daughter.
Everything happens in Bandit Creek. http://banditcreekbooks.com/
* * *
When Amy opened the front door, a chill wrapped around her, as if a blast of arctic wind had swooped in over the mountains instead of a late September breeze. There, right outside her house, stood a man, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against a parked car.
Watching her.
Amy took a breath, willing her heart to pound a steady beat. Finding anyone on her doorstep, would have been a shock. She was a stranger here, hadn’t been back to the secluded house in years. She had no friends in these parts, and now, no relatives. But this man was as out of place as any could be. Starting with the vehicle on which he was perched.
If the car was his, it was much too expensive for the neighborhood, and too posh for a mountain trek. Amy wasn’t an expert on makes and models but the jaguar on the hood of the black sedan told her all she needed to know. And the flashy ride didn’t match the man’s attire. A nice enough charcoal suit, but the rumpled fabric shied away from his slim frame, as if he’d slept in a larger man’s clothes.
A tangle of brown hair shadowed his eyes, dark stubble inked his jaw. He didn’t look familiar, but over the years she’d learned to be cautious. Her mother had once cultivated dangerous friends in this town. And Amy’s own past wasn’t exactly gleaming.
She locked the door behind her, keys in her fist, the longest one poking out between her index and middle fingers, just how her aunt in Detroit had taught her. Ready for anything.
Amy marched down the front walk, her runners chomping at the fallen leaves in her path. As she approached, the man straightened and used his fingers to comb the hair from his eyes.
“Something I can do for you, sir?”
Now that she was closer, Amy took a good look at her visitor, opening the mental filing cabinet of her memories and pouring over the images she kept of her mother’s Bandit Creek associates.
Jag Man was six feet or so, and on the older side of thirty. Other than his cheekbones, made prominent by the thinness of his face, his most noticeable feature was a pair of hazel eyes, more green than brown. One was highlighted by a fine scar that sliced through his brow. That and the five-o’clock shadow gave him an outdoorsy ruggedness. In spite of the unkempt packaging, he was a good-looking man. One she knew she hadn’t met before.
But good looks didn’t mean a good soul. Amy kept her keys ready in her fist.
“I need a place to stay.” The voice came out in a low baritone – clear, melodic, and with complete confidence. The tone of a man used to getting his way.
Amy wondered who’d pointed him in her direction. No one local. Her grandmother had retired from the bed and breakfast business a few years before she died. Amy may not have visited, but she�
��d exchanged emails almost daily with her Nan to keep up with life at the old house – her grandmother’s socializing, gardening, even what she had for lunch. If only Nan had mentioned she was ailing, Amy would have been on the next plane. But her grandmother was feisty and independent to the end. She died obliged to no one, in her own bed, surrounded by her collection of photographs and antiques, just the way she wanted it.
“Mrs. Turnbull runs a nice Bed and Breakfast further down the road.”
“Isn’t this a B&B?” Now he was smiling, pouring on the charm like a salesman. Maybe he was one. At a car lot. That would explain the Jag.
“It used to be.” Amy turned to view the wooden sign on the lawn, proclaiming as much, though the lettering had seen better days. Something else to fix. “We’re closed for renovations.”
The man drew a wallet from his back pocket. “I’m looking for solitude, quiet, and I’m willing to pay for it. Cash, if you like,” he told her, opening it. “Three hundred a night.”
Amy shook her head, wondering what her grandmother would say about turning down good money. She knew what Nan had charged for a room, even one with a private bath, and it sure as hell wasn’t that much.
The man thumbed through the bills. “Four hundred.”
Did he expect caviar on his morning bagel? Strike the salesman angle. This guy definitely wasn’t one. No haggling.
“Look, I’ll give you three grand, up front, for the week. Whether I stay for the duration or not.”
A giddy squeak welled up in Amy’s throat. That was more money than she’d ever seen at one time. Cash like that could really help fix up the old house, pay off some bills she still owed in Detroit, and buy new books and clothes for Renee. Heck, even a few things for herself. With some left over for a rainy day. But she wasn’t about to shelter a man she didn’t know.
“Sorry.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a gold case. “Here’s my business card. Call my office. Check me out.”
She’d already checked him out. Though on the lean side, she sensed a nice build. Maybe he’d been ill. Maybe his tailor had gone on vacation. Maybe she needed to focus on her problems and stop imagining what he looked like without that bulky suit.
“Go ahead. Take it.”
Amy snapped back to attention, warmth creeping into her cheeks. The man was still offering his card.
She reached for it, her hand so close to his she felt the heat radiating from him, the pent-up energy. Something wasn’t right with this guy. She’d lived by her wits long enough to trust her instincts and they were chattering to her now like a flock of magpies in the presence of a hungry hawk.
She took the card, anyway. Not that it meant much. She could print up a bunch of her own, declaring herself to be Michelle Obama, if she chose. And his office? The number could belong to his great aunt Sophie, coached to say whatever he wanted. Still, it was easier to agree. The sooner he was on his way, the sooner she could get back to work. She glanced at her watch. The hardware store, and the call, would have to wait until tomorrow.
“I’ll phone in the morning. Have a good evening.” She turned toward the house and made her way up the walk, examining the card.
Sam Hutchinson. Barrister.
She read the address. So Jag Man was a Calgary lawyer. At least now she knew how he got the car. But what was the guy doing here this time of year? It wasn’t exactly the height of tourist season. Many of the family-run businesses were shut down for the coming winter.
“Excuse me, Miss.”
She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Hutchinson?”
The man’s smile was designed to thaw the coldest jury during a January ice storm. “I didn’t get your name.”
Because she hadn’t given it. But what would it hurt? It wasn’t her real one. “Tesher. Amy Tesher.”
“Thanks, Ms. Tesher.” The car lights flashed as he made his way around to the driver’s side. “See you tomorrow.”
* * *
Sam knew he’d outstayed his welcome. When the woman turned back to him, she’d stepped forward, looking like she might refuse another visit. So he’d jumped in the car and sped off.
No wasn’t an option.
He parked down another dirt road under a dead tree, hoping police didn’t patrol the area. His presence would be difficult to explain, impossible to justify.
He reached over to the passenger seat, snapped opened the locks on his briefcase, and shuffled through the newspaper clippings. The first dated back fifteen years, articles from the old Cincinnati Post, the Atlanta Constitution, the Toronto Star and Saskatoon’s Star Phoenix.
All involved children. All of them dead. Boys, mostly, but with a few girls sprinkled in here and there. Fresh faces looked out at him, sadness behind their eyes, as if they’d known their fate before it happened.
He came to the most recent clippings last, Calgary newspapers documenting the latest victim.
Tommy.
Sam caressed the boy’s picture, as if he could tousle the brown locks one more time. Of course, the black and white photo didn’t show the color of Tommy’s hair. It didn’t reveal the freckles on his nose, or the multi-colored braces he wore to straighten a crooked incisor.
It didn’t capture Tommy’s screams, either. Or show how he’d suffered before his death.
Sam rested his head against the high seatback and closed his eyes, waiting for the queasiness to pass. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten. And couldn’t. Not that it mattered. He had more important things to do.
He pulled the lapels of his suit jacket around his neck and grabbed the scotch he’d purchased that afternoon. He ripped off the cap, keeping the bottle in its brown paper bag. No sense drawing more attention to himself.
The heady scent of scotch filled his car, oaky and rich. He took a swig, gritting his teeth as the amber liquid burned its way down his gullet. Sam hated the taste. But after a few more gulps, he wouldn’t notice. The scotch would have done its job.
He shivered. The nights were getting cooler. At least the alcohol would keep him warm. Until he could convince Amy Tesher to open her house to him.
The first step in his plan.
Click here to keep reading.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author Roxy Boroughs
Excerpt from A Stranger’s Kiss
A Stranger's Touch Page 22