The Legend of Smuggler's Cave

by Paula Graves

  She rubbed her face against his shirt. “It makes me wonder who to trust.” She leaned back her head to look at him. “I heard about Janet.”

  “I suppose I should feel a little betrayed by what she did. I guess you must be angry at her.”

  She was, she had to admit. At first. But the more the image of Hunter Bragg’s battered face had dug its claws into her thoughts, the less she could blame Janet Trainor for making the only choice she could bear to make. “I don’t think I could have made a different choice in her position,” she said.

  He nodded toward the cabin, where Nix and the sheriff’s deputies were leading Hunter Bragg from the cabin. The man was hunched and shivering beneath a thick quilt, but he was limping along under his own power, Briar saw with relief. She looked back at Dalton, who was still watching the scene through narrowed eyes. “They’ll call it in to the station if they haven’t already. Someone will let Janet know her brother is okay.”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen to her. She kidnapped your son and turned him over to a criminal. I don’t think we can just make the charges against her go away.” He dragged his gaze back to hers, his grim look softening as he added, “I called Laney a few minutes ago to check on Logan. She said he’s fine. Still asleep on the sofa in Doyle’s office. She says Doyle’s taking his sentry job very seriously.”

  She smiled, latching on to the one unadulterated bit of good news in her life at the moment. “I heard before I left that the county prosecutor was thrilled with getting his hands on that flash drive.”

  “He definitely was.” Dalton smiled back at her, though there was a hint of reticence in his expression, as if there was something he wasn’t looking forward to telling her.

  Her own smile faded, and her stomach began to knot again, nearly as badly as it had before, while she was waiting for her partner to answer the cabin door and crush her last stubborn bit of hope that she was wrong about him. “What’s wrong?”

  He looked surprised by the question. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  She wasn’t convinced. “Did Bevill say something to worry you?”

  His surprise faded into resignation. “No, it’s not my boss I’m worried about.”

  “He’s still going to back you as his replacement, isn’t he?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine the county prosecutor holding all that had happened to Dalton in the past few weeks against him. He was still the same smart, passionate prosecutor he’d been before the truth about his family came out. And he’d certainly proved his courage and determination during the past few tumultuous days while protecting her and Logan. “If he’s giving you trouble, I can talk to him. I can tell him how amazing you’ve been—”

  He smiled, though the worry in his eyes didn’t quite disappear. “He’s thinking about running again.”

  She looked at him in dismay. “He can’t do that!”

  “He can,” Dalton assured her. “In fact, I encouraged him to do so.”

  “Are you crazy? Do you know how hard it’ll be to beat a popular incumbent?”

  “I’m dropping out of the race.”

  Now she knew he was crazy. “Why? You can’t think people are going to hold what your father and grandfather did against you! People are smart enough to know you’re blameless—”

  “I never wanted to be a politician,” he told her, curving his hands over her shoulders. His thumbs brushed lightly over her collarbone through her thin cotton T-shirt, making her shiver. “I just want to help people get a little justice in this world. I’m not cut out for politics.”

  She wanted to tell him he was cut out for anything he wanted, but she could see by the relief in his eyes that he’d already figured out what he wanted, and it didn’t include running for office.

  But did it include her?

  She screwed up her courage and opened her mouth to breach the topic. But before she could speak, he lifted one hand to her cheek, his touch gentle and questing. “What I want,” he murmured in a voice that made her blood spontaneously ignite, “is you. You and Logan. I want to go to my office and do what I can to help people, then come home to you and the little man and do what I can to make you feel happy and secure.” A hint of doubt flickered in his eyes. “Do you think that’s possible? I know the past few days have been nothing but crazy, but there’s something between us, Briar. I feel it so strongly—it’s like you’re in my blood and there’s nothing I could ever do to get you out. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to ever lose the feeling that you’re part of me. That we’re supposed to be like this. Am I crazy?”

  Tears burned her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. She wanted to be clear-eyed and levelheaded. She wanted to talk about the problems and the struggles they’d have if they wanted to blend their lives together long-term.

  But when she opened her mouth, what came out was not what she’d intended. “Yes,” she said, unable to tamp down a bubble of joy that burst into a smile. “Yes, you’re crazy. And apparently I’m crazy, too.”

  He began to laugh, the sound just short of hysterical. His hand flexed convulsively against her face before wrapping around the back of her neck and pulling her into a hard, stake-claiming kiss.

  Several breathless moments later, he drew back to catch his breath, his green eyes glittering with almost feral excitement. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you,” he warned. “And I don’t fall in love. So if you don’t intend for this thing between us to be a long-term thing, better say so now.”

  Relief and a curious sort of triumph burned through her. She smiled up at him, her confidence soaring. “How long is long-term?”

  He shrugged, his gaze mirroring her own growing boldness. His lips curved with satisfaction and just a hint of cocky masculinity. “I don’t know. I was thinking this might lead to...forever? Think you can handle that?”

  “I’m a mountain girl,” she said, rising on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. “I can handle anything.”

  * * * * *

  Look for award-winning author Paula Graves’s

  brand-new miniseries, THE GATES, later in 2014. You’ll find it wherever

  Harlequin Intrigue books are sold!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE BRIDGE by Carol Ericson.

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  Chapter One

  He wanted to kill her.

  “Elise.”

  The whispered name floated along the fog, mingled with it, surrounded her.

  Her eyes ached with the effort of trying to peer through the milky white wisps that blanketed the San Francisco Bay shoreline, but if she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her.

  And she planned to keep it that way.

  A foghorn bellowed in the night, and she took advantage of the sound to make another move toward the waves lapping against the rocky shore. If she had to, she’d wriggle right into the frigid waters of the bay.

  She flattened herself against the sand, and the grains stuck to her lip gloss. It now seemed ages ago when she’d leaned over the brightly lit vanity at the club applying it.

  “Elise, come out, come out wherever you are.”

  His voice caused a new layer of goose bumps to form over the ones she already had
from the cold, damp air. Her fingers curled around the scrubby plant to her right as if she could yank it out of the sand and use it as a weapon.

  If he caught her, she wouldn’t allow him to drag her back to his car. She’d fight and die here if she had to.

  The water splashed and her tormenter cursed. He must’ve stepped into the bay. And he didn’t like it.

  She drove her chin into the sand to prop up her head and peered into the wall of fog. The lights on the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge winked at her. The occasional humming of a car crossing the bridge joined with the lapping of the water as the only sounds she could hear over the drumbeat of her heart.

  And his voice when he chose to speak, a harsh whisper, all traces of the refined English accent he’d affected outside the club gone.

  What a fool she’d been to trust him.

  Another footfall, too close for comfort. She held her breath. If he tripped over her, she’d have to run, find another place to hide in plain sight. Or at least it would be plain sight if the fog lifted.

  The damp cover made her feel as if they were the only two people in this hazy world where you couldn’t see your hand two inches in front of your face.

  Who would break first? The fog? Her? Or the maniac trying to kill her? Because she knew he wanted to kill her. She could hear the promise in his voice.

  “Elise?”

  She wanted to scream at him to stop using her name in those familiar tones—as if they were old friends. Instead of predator and prey.

  She didn’t scream. She pressed her lips together, and the sand worked its way into her mouth. She ground it between her teeth, anger shoving the fear aside for a moment.

  If this guy thought she’d give up, he’d picked the wrong target. The Durans of Montana were nobody’s victims.

  A breeze skittered across the bay, and debris tickled her face. White strands of fog swirled past her, and for the first time since she’d hurled herself from the trunk of her captor’s car, she could see the shapes of scrubby plants emerge from the mist.

  She swallowed a sob. When she’d least expected or wanted it, the cursed San Francisco fog was rolling out to sea.

  A low chuckle seemed to come at her from all directions. He knew it, too.

  Time to make a move.

  Elise pinned her arms to her sides and propelled herself into a roll. Once she had the momentum, the rest was easy as she hit a slight decline to the water.

  Arm. Back. Arm. Chest. Around and around she rolled. She squeezed her eyes shut and scooped in a breath of air. Her preparations didn’t make the impact any easier.

  When she hit the icy bay, she gasped, pulling in a breath and a mouthful of salty water with it. She choked it out and ducked her head beneath the small waves.

  The bay accepted her in a chilly embrace, and she clawed her way along the rocky floor. Fearing the swift current, she didn’t want to swim away from the shoreline, but the water might just be enough to hide her from the lunatic trying to kill her.

  She popped up her head and dragged in another breath. The wind whipped around her, blowing her wet hair against her cheeks.

  The fog dissipated even more, and she could make out the form of a man loping back and forth, swinging something at the ground.

  She took a deep breath and went under again. The current tugged at her dress, inviting her into the bay. She resisted, scrabbling against the rocks. The current snatched her shoes anyway.

  She scraped her knees on the bay floor and lifted her face to the surface, taking a sip of air. The figure on land seemed farther away. Would he be able to see her head in the water? Would he come after her?

  She submerged her head again and managed a breaststroke and a scissor kick to propel herself farther from the man combing the shore.

  She’d have to get out of the water soon or she’d die from hypothermia. As if to drive this truth home, her teeth began to chatter and she lost the tips of her fingers to numbness.

  Once more she poked her head up from the water. The steel buttress of the bridge was visible in front of her. Maybe she could clamber on top of it to escape the cold fingers of the bay.

  She twisted her head around. The man had disappeared from view. A seagull shrieked above, cutting through the rumbling of a car engine.

  Elise whipped her head around. An orange service truck trundled along the road fronting the shore, its amber light on the roof revolving.

  Elise screamed for the first time since her ordeal began. She clambered from the water, her dress clinging to her legs. She bunched the skirt of the dress around her waist and waded from the bay.

  “Help! Stop!”

  The occupants of the truck couldn’t have heard her, but the truck pulled to the side of the road anyway. A door swung open.

  Her frozen limbs buckled beneath her, but she willed them to support her. She rose to her feet and screamed again, waving her arms above her head. “Help! I’m in the water!”

  The white oval of a face turned toward her.

  Elise pumped her legs, hoping they were obeying her command to run. She tried to scream again, but her jaw locked as a shower of chills cascaded through her body.

  The man in the orange jumpsuit started jogging toward her, and another orange jumpsuit joined him.

  Her bare feet slogged through the sand and she kept tripping over the bushes dotting the shore, but she continued to move forward.

  By the time she and the service workers met, her body was shivering convulsively.

  “Oh, my God, Brock. I think we’ve got a jumper.”

  She shook her head back and forth. Really? Would a jumper be able to swim to shore and run toward help?

  Brock joined his buddy, shrugging out of his orange jacket. “I already called 9-1-1. It’s gonna be okay, lady.”

  He wrapped his jacket around her, and she began to sink to the ground. He caught her under the arms. “Stay with us. The ambulance should be here soon.”

  “How did you do it? How did you survive the jump?”

  She licked the salt from her lips and worked her jaw. “I didn’t jump from the bridge.”

  Brock tugged the coat around her tighter. “Then what the hell were you doing out there?”

  As sirens wailed in the distance, she blew out a breath and closed her eyes. “Escaping a killer.”

  * * *

  HER TOES TINGLED and she took another sip of the hot tea. When the ambulance got her to the emergency room, the nurses had stripped off her soggy dress and wrapped her in warm blankets. They’d tucked her into this bed and piled an electric blanket on top of her as well as wedged some heat packs under her arms and behind her neck.

  When she could sit up, they’d brought her a cup of tea. Now Elise inhaled the lemon-scented steam from the cup and tried to relax her limbs.

  Someone yanked back the curtain that separated her bed from the other beds in the emergency room. A doctor approached her with a small tablet computer clutched under his arm.

  He clicked his tongue. “It’s clear you’re not a jumper since you don’t have any injuries that would indicate you’d just hit the water at seventy-five miles per hour from a height of two hundred and twenty feet.”

  Elise slurped the hot tea and rolled it on her tongue before swallowing. “I told Brock and the other city worker I didn’t jump. Didn’t they believe me?”

  “The first report was of a jumper, but the EMT said you were attacked.”

  She wrapped her hands around the cup as her ordeal knocked her over the head all over again. “I went into the water to avoid him.”

  “Boyfriend? Husband?”

  Elise’s jaw dropped. Everyone sure liked making assumptions. “A killer. A stranger. He abducted me from the street. I escaped.”

  The doctor nodded as if this was his
second guess all along. “Based on the EMT’s report of his conversation with you, the police are on their way.”

  “Here?”

  “They want to question you immediately. Once you’re warmed up, you’re free to go.” He tapped the tablet screen. “The nurse indicated you have a bump on the back of your head, too.”

  “He hit me, maybe with the cast he had on his arm.”

  “Says here you’re not showing any signs of concussion and the skin on your scalp didn’t break. How’s the head feeling?”

  “My head is the least of my worries right now.”

  The doctor snapped the computer shut. “You’re lucky. A few more minutes in that water and you’d be dead. It was a crazy thing to do.”

  “A few more minutes with that maniac and I’d be dead. I figured the water gave me a better chance.”

  The doctor lifted his shoulders in his white coat and stepped beyond the curtain to practice his feeble bedside manner on another emergency-room patient.

  Beneath her warm blankets, Elise shivered at the memory of the man stalking her. Would the police be able to find him based on her description? And how accurate was that description? The man she’d helped outside the club had spoken to her with an English accent. That accent had disappeared when he’d been searching for her on the sand. How much of his appearance was phony, too? The beard? The mustache?

  “Knock, knock. Ms. Duran?”

  A male voice called from outside the curtain.

  “That’s me.”

  The man brushed aside the curtain and pulled it closed behind him. “I’m Detective Brody. How are you feeling, Ms. Duran?”

  “Elise. You can call me Elise. I feel...warm.” And it wasn’t because a fine specimen of manhood had just emerged from curtain number three. At least she didn’t think it was.

  “That’s good after what you’ve been through.” He pointed to the plastic chair by the wall. “May I?”

  “Sure. Of course.” It beat craning her neck to look up at all six feet something of him.