by JoAnn Ross
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF JOANN ROSS
On Lavender Lane
“Cooking, romance, and a warm, inviting setting work their delectable magic in this tender charmer.”
—Library Journal
“This third in Ross’s Shelter Bay series spotlights her talent for blending vibrant characters, congenial small-town settings, and pressing social issues in a heartwarming contemporary romance.”
—Booklist
“A small coastal town where everyone is privy to everyone’s business, sometimes to the angst of its residents, illustrates how a close-knit community bands together to protect their own. A charming love story with several subplots. An enthralling read!”
—Reader to Reader Reviews
One Summer
“Ms. Ross knows how to tell a story that pulls her readers in and takes them on an emotional journey as they turn the pages. If you’re looking for a fulfilling story that you can’t help but fall in love with, then this, along with her other novel in the series, The Homecoming, are two books you shouldn’t pass up!”
—Night Owl Romance
“One Summer has romance, a light splash of intrigue, two wonderful protagonists, endearing supporting characters, and an enchanting, fast-paced rhythm, making it the perfect summer read.”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“Ross has a wonderful knack for creating a story so lovely that readers want to stay immersed in it forever. One Summer pulls readers into the wonderful world of Shelter Bay and holds them close, like family. Rich with passion, compassion, and a touch of suspense, it’s the perfect book for a relaxing long weekend or getaway.”
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
The Homecoming
“Quintessential Ross, with a terrific romance [and] mystery. Not to be missed.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“Ross has again hit a homer…an outstanding job.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“One of the best books I’ve read this summer.…Ms. Ross penned such emotion into her story line and created characters that you easily fall in love with.”
—Night Owl Romance
Breakpoint
“This hot novel has everything a reader might want in romantic suspense, from sexy, complex characters, to a fascinating setting and intense intimacy.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“An action-packed thriller that never decelerates until the finish…one of the better high-octane sagas on the market today.”
—Midwest Book Review
Crossfire
“The plot is riveting, the characters sizzle, and the ending will blow you away. Trust me, you do not want to miss Crossfire. But keep in mind, once you pick it up, it’s impossible to put down.”
—Fresh Fiction
“[A] can’t-put-down-forget-the-housework-cereal-for-dinner book. The chemistry between Quinn and Cait screams off the page and practically singes your fingers.”
—Romance Junkies
Freefall
“A page-turning mix of danger, suspense, and passion.”
—New York Times bestselling author Iris Johansen
“A romantic thriller that sizzles with passion and danger…a page-turner leading up to an ending you must read to believe. What an incredible story!”
—Fresh Fiction
“An intense thriller…the perfect edge-of-your-seat mystery. JoAnn Ross is one author who delivers and will most definitely blow you away.”
—Romance Reviews Today
No Safe Place
“Sizzles with the sensuality and danger fans of her romantic thrillers have come to expect.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A page-turner.…Hop on the Ross Express for a lightning ride.”
—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard
“A spellbinding read…I was blown away. An amazing author and this latest story proves it once again.”
—Fresh Fiction
Impulse
“Spine-chilling…a good mix of suspense and romance.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Richly drawn characters, a powerful story, and a heart-stopping ending.”
—Fresh Fiction
Blaze
“Seamlessly plotted.…Ross keeps the heat on right to the last page.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Dynamic…fast-paced, utterly engrossing.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Out of the Storm
“Out of the Storm sizzles! A captivating and entertaining blend of romance, mystery, and suspense.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Out of the Blue
“[An] adventurous, exhilarating story. Danger and intrigue are a constant presence. Highly passionate…outstanding.”
—Romance Junkies
“The best kind of romantic suspense: heart-stopping terror and a heart-tugging romance.”
—Romance Reviews Today
River Road
“Skillful and satisfying.…With its emotional depth, Ross’s tale will appeal to Nora Roberts fans.”
—Booklist
“The romance…crackles and the verbal sparring keeps the narrative moving along at an energetic clip…delightful.”
—Publishers Weekly
Confessions
“[A] hot, steamy…page-turner.”
—A Little Romance
“Touches of humor nicely relieve the suspenseful nature of the intriguing and intricately plotted tale. Bravo!”
—The Paperback Forum
Also by JoAnn Ross
Shelter Bay Novels
On Lavender Lane
One Summer
The Homecoming
High Risk Novels
Freefall
Crossfire
Shattered
Breakpoint
MOONSHELL
BEACH
A SHELTER BAY NOVEL
JoAnn Ross
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, July 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN: 978-1-101-58691-4
Copyright © The Ross Family Trust, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author�
�s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
Again, to all the men and women of the U.S. military—and their families—for their service and sacrifice.
To all those wonderful readers who’ve written to me over the years, asking for a story about Mary, from A Woman’s Heart, the first of my Irish trilogy, this book is for you.
And, as always and forever, to Jay.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
T. S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
Table of Contents
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Sea Glass Winter
1
Belying the song lyrics about it never raining in California, a dark gray sky was weeping onto the black Suburban’s windshield as Marine captain J. T. Douchett drove through rain-slicked streets to carry out his mission. A mission he’d been catapulted into a year ago. A mission without weapons, which, given that every Marine was a rifleman, was not one he’d prepared for at Officer Candidates School, at the War College, or even during years of combat.
The rain was appropriate, he thought wearily as he pulled into the parking lot of a Denny’s restaurant. As tough as this assignment was, it always seemed a lot worse when a benevolent sun was shining and birds were singing.
The drizzle reminded him of home. Back in Shelter Bay, his father and his brother Cole would’ve already gone out on their fishing boat. Maybe his grandfather, who often missed his days at sea, would have gone with them. The small coastal town would be coming to life—shopkeepers down on Harborview Drive would be opening their doors and lowering their bright awnings; beachcombers would be walking at the edge of the surf, gathering shells and agates; locals would be sitting around tables at the Grateful Bread, enjoying French toast and gossip while tourists lined up at the pier to go whale watching.
Memories of his hometown not only comforted; they reminded him of family, which, in turn, drove home the significance of this mission for which he definitely never, in a million years, would have volunteered.
But the first thing J.T. had learned at OCS was that every Marine was part of a larger picture. And the tradition of “Leave no Marine behind” was a sacred promise that went beyond the battlefield.
He and his passenger, a staff sergeant who, despite years of marching cadences, still had the slightly bowed legs of a man who’d grown up riding horses in Abilene, retrieved their garment bags from the backseat. They entered the restaurant, walking past the tables to the men’s room, where they changed from their civilian clothes into high-necked, dark blue jackets, dark blue pants with a bloodred stripe down the outside of each leg, and shoes spit-polished to a mirror gloss.
Although he could feel that every eye in the place was on them, J.T. put on a focused but distant stare and glanced neither left nor right as he walked straight back to the Suburban. Neither man spoke. There was no need. They’d been through this before. And it never got any easier, so why talk about it?
After he was waved through Camp Pendleton’s main gate, passing a golf course, a McDonald’s, a Taco Bell, and a veterinary clinic on the way to his destination, it occurred to J.T. how appearances could be deceiving.
The treelined streets he drove through, set on hillsides behind a lake shadowed by fog, with their manicured lawns and children’s play park, portrayed a sense of tranquillity. It could, he thought, as he turned onto Marine Drive, be any one of a million suburban neighborhoods scattered across the country.
What made his destination different from most was that these tile-roofed beige stucco houses were home to warriors. Another reason he was grateful for the rain. On a sunny day, more people would be outside and the sight of the black SUV with two Marines inside wearing dress blues would set off alarms that would spread like wildfire.
J.T. leaned forward, trying to read the house numbers through the slanting rain. He could have used the GPS, but found the computerized female voice a distraction in situations like these.
The house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac. A white Ford Escape with a child’s car seat in back was parked in the driveway. A bumper sticker on the small SUV read My Heart Belongs to a U.S. Marine.
Exchanging a look with the sergeant, J.T. pulled on his white cotton gloves and climbed out of the Suburban. The heels of his shiny shoes clicked on the concrete sidewalk.
A pot of red geraniums on the small covered porch added a bright spot to the gray day. A blue star flag, signifying a deployed family member, hung in the side window.
J.T. took a deep breath. He knew the sergeant standing beside him would be saying a prayer. Wishing he still possessed such faith, J.T. found his own peace by envisioning himself back home. The remembered tang of Douglas fir trees and brisk salt-tinged sea air cleared his head.
Although he’d rather have been back in Afghanistan, facing a horde of Taliban, than standing at this front door on this rainy California day, J.T. squared his shoulders and braced himself as he reached out a gloved hand to ring the bell and shatter yet another woman’s heart.
2
He came to Mary Joyce, as he had for each of the past five nights, in her dreams. His hair was as dark as a moonless night over the Burren, his eyes the color of rain. He was striding determinedly toward her on long legs that ate up the ground. Flames blazed across the battle-scarred landscape behind him.
His jaw was wide and square, his rawboned face as chiseled as the stone cliffs of her native Ireland. He was every bit a warrior, in rough clothing, carrying a huge and dangerous sword in his large hands.
Having grown up in a country that had suffered centuries of hostilities from battling factions, Mary hated war. And, although she understood intellectually that occasionally such things were necessary for the greater good, she’d never experienced a moment’s attraction to men who’d conduct them.
Which didn’t explain why, as he stopped in front of her, his granite gray eyes intense as they glared down into hers, she felt her body melting like a candle left out too long in a warm summer sun.
There was no seduction.
No romance.
There never was.
The dangerously menacing stranger did not even bother to ask; he took, as if it were his pe
rfect right. As if she were merely a battle prize granted without question to the victor. Dropping his weapon, his fist crumpled the front of the emerald green nightgown that had cost an obscene amount of money for such a scrap of silk and lace—and ripped it down the front.
When she gasped, as she always did, his head swooped down and his mouth—hard and demanding—devoured hers in a deep, forceful kiss, as broad, rough hands claimed her body.
Her head was swimming. As she felt her legs weaken, Mary struggled to keep from fainting. Such savage, primal passion made her tremble. Not from fear, nor outrage at being taken by this stranger without a single pretty word or bit of clever foreplay, but from a burning need for fulfillment.
Seeming oblivious to the death and destruction behind him, he dragged her to the ground beside a mountain lake, where, in direct contrast to the battle that was still waging, a pair of swans—one white, the other black—drifted on glassy blue water.
His body was all rock-hard muscle and sinew. They came together like thunder. Like lightning. Every coherent thought Mary possessed was swept away by the hot winds swirling around them.
When a soft, shimmering lavender dawn light began to filter into the bedroom, Mary woke, emerging from the storm shaken, as she had for the past five mornings.
And alone.
* * *
The house was quiet. Her guests must still be sleeping. Turning on the coffee, so it’d be brewed when they got up, Mary quickly braided her long black hair, pulled on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes, and went out her back door and down the wooden steps onto the beach.
It was early enough that the fog had yet to burn off, and as she ran down the packed sand at the edge of the surf, she could almost imagine that she was back running on the beach in Castlelough.
She’d always loved the ocean. Granted, this glistening strip of sand on Malibu beach was not the kelp-draped shores of home, and the houses crowded together like crows on a line were a poor substitute for the soaring, vertical west Irish cliffs, but the salt air still managed to clear her head, even as it failed to blow away those last lingering fragments of the erotic dream that had been bedeviling her.