Just the sight of her still stirred a desire in him like no woman ever had.
Her hair was still the color of sunshine, and he knew the feel of it between his fingers the same way he knew the feel of her skin beneath his lips.
âIt was good to see you,â he said. Good and painful.
âYou, too, Jaceâ She studied him for a moment, her smile rueful.
As he watched her walk away, he felt all those old feelings rush at him like fighter planes.
He turned toward his rental SUV, and told himself as he had twelve years ago that he would have hurt her worse if heâd married her and stayed in Whitehorse.
As he reached for his keys, he felt it again. That insane sensation that someone was watching him.
He thought for a moment that heâd imagined the feeling of being watched ⦠but across the street was a silver SUV like the one heâd rented. And someone was sitting behind the wheel, watching his every move â¦
BJ DANIELS wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and author of thirty-seven published short stories. That first book, Odd Man Out, received a four-and-a-half star review from RT Book Reviews and went on to be nominated for Best Intrigue for that year. Since then she has won numerous awards, including a career achievement award for romantic suspense and many nominations and awards for best book.
Daniels lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and two springer spaniels, Spot and Jem. When she isnât writing, she snowboards, camps, boats and plays tennis. Daniels is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, Kiss of Death and Romance Writers of America.
To contact her, write to BJ Daniels, PO Box 1173, Malta, MT 59538, USA, or e-mail her at bjdaniels@mtintouch. net. Check out her website at www.bjdaniels.com.
Jace Dennison saw the woman staring at him as he took a seat to wait for his flight to Montana. He immediately opened the book heâd picked up to avoid being forced to talk to anyone.
But as he did, the letter from his mother fell out. Jace felt a wave of guilt along with grief as he bent to pick it up. If only he had read it and been able to return to Montana before it was too late.
Unsteadily, he opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. What surprised him was that it wasnât one of her usual cheerful letters that ended with âI hope you can come homeâ for whatever birthday, holiday or other event.
No, this letter was different. There was an urgency in her words. She must have known she was dying. Jace read the letter again. Over the years, he had managed to make it home for his motherâs birthday and a few other occasions ⦠though not many, he thought with regret.
What bothered him about this letter was what his mother wasnât saying. Apparently, there was something she needed to tell him, something that had weighed heavily on her for years, making him even more convinced that sheâd known she was dying. Why hadnât she let him know before it was too late?
He studied the letter and frowned. His mother almost made it sound as if she had a secret. Jace found that hard to believe. Marie Dennison wasnât the kind of woman who could keep a deep, dark secret, especially not from her only child. Not that cheerful, loving woman whoâd raised him after his father had died. Sheâd already raised her younger brother, Audie.
But what had set off alarms was that his mother had insisted that she needed to tell him in person.
With growing regret, he realized he might never know what that secret was. When heâd landed in Miami, heâd been notified by his superior that there had been another tragedy at home. His uncle Audie Dennison had apparently been killed. The details were sketchy.
All Jace knew was that he was going home to bury the only family he had leftâand he hadnât been there when they had needed him the most.
âExcuse me.â
He looked up and was surprised to see it was the same woman whoâd been staring at him earlier. She appeared to be close to his own age, early thirties, a petite, slight woman with dark hair cut in a chin-length bob. Her wide brown eyes had a haunted look to them in a face that was painfully beautiful.
âExcuse me,â she repeated, her voice soft and apologetic. âI hate to bother you, but you look so much like my late husband. My husbandâs name was Carris. John Carris.â
He smiled sympathetically. âNo, Iâm sorry. Iâm afraid Iâve never heard the name before.â
She nodded, looking disappointed. âI was so sure â¦â Her gaze moved over the contours of his face. âYou look so much like him you could be brothers.â She quickly took a step back. âMy mistake. Iâm sorry to have bothered you.â
âIt was no bother. Iâm sorry to hear about your husband.â It was clear that her loss had been recent.
âThank you.â She turned and walked away.
He stared after her for a moment, sympathizing with her in a way she would never know. Several people sitting nearby had been watching him and the woman, he realized, but they soon went back to what they had been doing.