âWeâre not those people any moreâthose people we once were.â
âBut we are,â Trent said. âWe have their memories, their souls.â
But not their hearts. At least not hers.
Alaina reached for Trent. This time he came to her, desire catching fire between them.
She was overwhelmed. âI can feel you ⦠what you feel.â
âI can feel you, too.â
âYou want me,â she said. âSo take me. I want to know what it was like between us.â
Trent shuddered now. She knew him so well. And still she wanted him?
He took her in his arms. âThis is your last chance,â he warned her. âYour last chance to leave.â
She shook her head. âYou donât scare me.â
âThen that makes one of us.â
Dear Reader,
Have you ever had a sense of déjà vu? I have. Maybe itâs just because Iâm quite forgetful and donât remember the first experience. But the fanciful part of me would rather believe I really have experienced it beforeâin another life.
FBI agent Alaina Paulsen has that sense of déjà vu when she meets infamous horror author Trent Baines. But she doesnât know if the man was her lover in a previous life or her killer. She remembers her past death, a murder so gruesome that she still has a scar. The killer has also carried over into this life, and heâs determined to kill her again. I hope you enjoy reading about Alaina and Trentâs thrilling Déjà Vu!
Lisa Childs
LISA CHILDS has been writing since she could first form sentences. At eleven, she won her first writing award and was interviewed by the local newspaper. That storyâs plot revolved around a kidnapping, probably something she wished on any of her six siblings. A Halloween birthday predestined a life of writing paranormal and intrigue. Readers can write to Lisa at PO Box 139, Marne, MI 49435, USA, or visit her at her website www.lisachilds.com.
With great appreciation to Tara Gavin and Shawna Rice. Thank you for everything!
Light glinted off metal as a clenched fist lifted a knife high in the air. The blade flashed again as it descended, slicing through flesh until the point plunged deep into her heart. The fist withdrew the knife and blood gurgled out of the wound as her last breath gasped from her lungs.
âYouâll stop loving him now,â the man murmured as he wiped her blood from his knife.
She stared up at him, her eyes still wide with fear even as she died and her spirit left this bodyâ¦.
With the image so vivid in her mind, Alaina struggled to focus on the one in the mirror on the bathroom door. Her image. The steam blurred her features, so that she saw only blond hair and pale skin. She wiped a hand over the fogged-up glass, then dropped her towel.
Her heart pounded hard beneath her breast. She lifted her hand to it and traced the puckered flesh of the scar. While it was on her body, the scar was not hers. Sheâd had no injury that had inflicted it. Sheâd been born with it. Alaina had brought the scar with her from a former life. A life, and a death, she remembered only in flashes.
She hadnât seen enough yet to identify her killer. But somehow she knew that he was still out thereâwaiting to kill her. Again.
âDo you want me to call your lawyer?â
Trent Baines spun his chair away from the window that looked out over the thickly wooded hillside, the trees the fresh green of new life, of spring. His hands shaking slightly, he planted his palms on the shiny mahogany surface of his desk and said, âThatâs not necessary. I donât need a lawyer to talk to her.â
âBut sheâs with the FBI,â Dietrich said, the big manâs deep voice pitched low as if he worried she would overhear him, although he stood close to Trentâs desk and she was on the other side of the doors, at least. Probably down the hall in the living room or foyer. Dietrich was paid well to protect Trentâs privacy.
A grin tugged at Trentâs mouth. âDo you think Iâve done something that puts me in need of a lawyer?â
âI didnât mean to imply â¦â
âDo you think the FBI has a valid reason for questioning me?â
âSirââ
Trent lifted a hand to wave off his employeeâs contrition. âIâm just messing with you, Dietrich.â
Anything to get a reaction out of the usually expressionless manâand to distract himself from what awaited him outside the pocket doors of his mahogany-paneled den. Fate.
He drew in a deep, bracing breath and directed his assistant. âShow her in.â
âSheâs not alone,â the other man reminded him.
Trent shrugged. âI donât care whoâs with her. Iâll only see her.â
He had already felt her, drawing nearer as she drove up to the estate. Even if he hadnât had the call to warn him, he would have known she was coming. With a connection this strong, she had to be the one.
He had to be the one. Everything had led her hereâto him. Trent Baines had to be the killer.
âHe will see you.â
Startled, Alaina whirled away from the window and its fog-enshrouded view of the treetops. How had such a big man moved so quietly back into the living room where heâd left her and Agent Vonner? Then the young man, wearing a suit as dark as Vonnerâs, turned to leave again.