Unlikely partners bound by circumstanceâ¦or by fate?
Being rescued by a good-looking, bad-boy firefighter isnât how Samantha Bennett expected to start her stay in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. Now she has everyoneâs attentionâespecially that of Justin Sloan, her rescuer, who wants to know why she was camped out in an abandoned old New England cider mill.
Samantha is a treasure hunter who has returned to Knights Bridge to solve a 300-year-old mystery and salvage her good name. Justin remembers her well. Heâs the one who alerted her late mentor to her iffy past and got her fired. But just because he doesnât trust her doesnât mean he can resist her. Samantha is daring, determined, seized by wanderlustâeverything that strong, stoic Justin never knew he wanted. Until nowâ¦
Praise for Carla Neggers and her novels
âNeggers captures readersâ attention with her usual flair and brilliance and gives us a romance, a mystery and a lesson in history.â
âRT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on Secrets of the Lost Summer
âOnly a writer as gifted as Carla Neggers could use so few words to convey so much action and emotional depth.â
âSandra Brown
âWith a great plot and excellent character development, Neggersâ thriller Saintâs Gate, the first in a new series, is a fast-paced, action-packed tale of romantic suspense that will appeal to fans of Lisa Jackson and Lisa Gardner.â
âLibrary Journal
âSaintâs Gate is the best book yet from a writer at the absolute top of her craft.â
âProvidence Journal
âCold Pursuit is the perfect name for this riveting read. Neggersâ passages are so descriptive that one almost finds oneâs teeth chattering from fear and anticipation.â
âBookreporter.com
â[Neggers] forces her characters to confront issues of humanity, integrity and the multifaceted aspects of love without slowing the ever-quickening pace.â
âPublishers Weekly
One
Samantha Bennett slipped her grandfatherâs antique silver flask into an outer pocket of her khaki safari jacket. Heâd claimed the flask was from an old pirate chest, but sheâd discovered in the three years since his death at ninety-six that not everything heâd told her had been factual. Harry Bennett had been a grand spinner of the strategic tall tale. Heâd probably been drinking rum from the flask when heâd spun the pirate-chest story.
No rum for me, Samantha thought, glancing around her grandfatherâs cluttered office on the second floor of the Bennett house in Bostonâs Back Bay. Sheâd filled the flask with the smoky Scotch he had left in one of his crystal decanters. If she was going to hunt pirateâs treasure, she figured she ought to have whiskey with her.
Although what could go wrong in little Knights Bridge, Massachusetts?
Her grandfather smiled at her from a framed black-and-white photograph hanging on the wood-paneled wall behind his massive oak desk. At the time of the photo heâd been forty-seven, roguishly handsome, wearing a jacket much like hers. Heâd just arrived back in Boston after the Antarctic trip that had sealed his reputation as a world-class explorer and adventurer. It had almost killed him, too. Her couple of nightsâ camping in an out-of-the-way New England town hardly compared to an expedition to Antarctica.
She buttoned the flap of her jacket pocket. There were endless pockets inside and out. She was already forgetting where sheâd put thingsâher phone, compass, matches, map, the earth-tone lipstick sheâd grabbed at the last second, in case she went out to dinner one night during her stay in Knights Bridge.
Out to dinner? Where, with whomâand why?
If nothing else, a few days away from her grandfatherâs clutter would do her good. He had been born on a struggling New England farm and had died a wealthy man, if also a hopeless pack rat. Samantha hadnât realized just how much heâd collected in his long, active life until sheâd been hired by his estateâmeaning her father and her uncleâto go through his house and his London apartment. She swore sheâd found gum wrappers from 1952. The man had saved everything.
The morning sun streamed through translucent panels that hung over bowfront windows framed by heavy charcoal velvet drapes. Her grandmother, who had died twenty-five years ago, when Samantha was four, had decorated the entire house herself, decreeing that gray and white were the perfect colors for this room, for when her husband was there, being contemplative and studiousâwhich wasnât often, even in his later years. Heâd spent little time in his office, mostly just long enough to stack up his latest finds.