She rubbed her throbbing temple. Life could be so horribly unfair. She thought of her mom and brother, and prayed that they were okay. She thought of her best friend Saskia. She thought of them, missed them, every day.
Maybe she’d head down to LA one day, find a Dark Web hacker, and send her mom an encrypted email.
No. They were safer not knowing where she was.
Anger, grief, and rage welled inside her.
She was the victim of a psychopath, and yet she paid the price over and over again.
Snatching up her palette knife, emotions welled through her. She wanted to turn the music back on, but she didn’t need Detective Morgan back at her door. Smelling good—like sandalwood and man—and looking good, tempting her with things she couldn’t have.
She ripped open her paints and dipped the knife in. Violent red. Excellent.
She attacked a new canvas.
Soon, she was lost in it. Every part of her was engrossed, letting the emotions inside her pour out. She worked hard, desperate to capture the beautiful moment that formed in her head, borne of wants, needs, and desires she had to deny.
She had no idea how long she worked. When she finally stepped back, she was exhausted. Her lower back ached, and she set the palette knife down and stretched.
Then her gaze fell on the canvas and she sucked in a breath.
It was a couple. They were surrounded by flames. It was done in her old, signature style, with blotches of paint giving an impressionist feel. It burst with emotion, passion, and sensuality.
She couldn’t do her art like this anymore, because it was too recognizable.
In the painting, the man was dressed, with a hint of a business shirt, tie, and short brown hair. The woman was naked. She was arched back, surrendering to her lover. He held her thigh pressed tight to his hip and his mouth was at her breast. Her blonde hair fell down like a rain of pale gold.
Savannah shifted, feeling desire simmer in her belly. She hadn’t been with a man in so long and she’d forgotten what it felt like to have a hard cock slide inside her, filling her up.
She bit her lip and stared at the painting.
Clearly the detective had made an impression.
She opened the door to the small balcony and stepped into the cool night air. Pressing her hands to the railing, she let the air wash over her.
She had to stay away from Hunter Morgan. She had four more months of housesitting. There was no rental agreement, or bills with her name on them. The name she was very aware Morgan suspected was fake.
It was, but it was a good fake. She’d paid a fortune for it.
Susannah Hart was dead. She couldn’t go back and paint a target on the people she loved.
She’d protect them the only way she knew how.
That meant running, and being Savannah Cole.
And she’d protect herself, as well. She didn’t want to die. She may not get to live the life she’d once dreamed about: a successful art career, a hot, sexy man, and a home with a light-filled studio for her to work in.
But she could steal little moments of life here and there. Then she’d move. Staying on the run was the only way to avoid the very sick man who was obsessed with her.
She lifted her head, and spotted a lone figure at the end of the street. She stiffened. The man was wearing a hoodie, and mostly hidden in the shadows.
Her mouth went dry, and her heart started pounding. For a second, she worried a panic attack was going to hit. She hadn’t had one in over a year.
Then the figure turned and walked away, swallowed up by the night.
Savannah released a shaky breath, and squeezed the railing with her fingers. Just someone out for a late-night walk.
When she’d first gone on the run, she’d seen her stalker everywhere. In fact, he’d almost caught her three times.
She released another breath. She’d gotten better at laying low and running. He’d never touch her, or her family, again.
Savannah slipped back inside and closed the sliding door.
This was just another reminder that there would be no sexy detectives for her.
Chapter Two
Hunt slipped on his shoulder holster, then checked his SIG Sauer and slid the handgun in.
Bright-morning sunshine filled his stylish and well-equipped kitchen. His mom had delighted in helping him pick all the fixtures for his place. He filled a travel mug with coffee—strong and black. He took a sip, his mind running through all the cases he needed to follow up on today.
Out his window, he noticed a bicycle coming down the street. Sunlight glinted off blonde hair.
He stepped closer to the glass.
Savannah slowed, then got off her bike. There was a bunch of fresh flowers in the basket. Today, she was wearing formfitting, black yoga pants, and a slouchy tank top in a pinky-gray color. A shot of male appreciation filled him.
She disappeared from view, and still he stayed there, staring. The last thing he had time for was getting mixed up with his sexy, mysterious artist neighbor.
His cell phone rang. Shit. He hoped no one had gotten murdered. His brother’s name appeared on the display, and he smiled. “Hi, Cam.”
“Hey, Hunt.”
Hunt had two brothers. All three of them had joined the military, and Hunt had loved it. He’d found a calling there, and had worked with some of the best, most honorable men and women he’d ever met. Delta Force had pushed him, and he’d gotten to serve his country and make a difference.
Then, a bad parachute landing had blown out his knee. He’d still gotten the mission done, but he’d been told that he couldn’t go back to special forces.
It had hurt. Losing something he loved, the chance to make a difference, and failing his team… His hand clenched on his mug. He’d been bitter for a while, before he’d accepted it.
Then, he’d learned that his team had a mission go bad. Even now, his gut tied up in knots. Three men, brothers in arms, hadn’t made it back. Two of them had been married with kids, the third had a pregnant fiancée.
He hadn’t been there for them.
“Hunt?” Cam’s gritty voice came through the line.
His brother had recently gotten out of Ghost Ops. A special, covert team made up of the best of the best across special forces. They did the hardest, toughest missions. Their middle brother, Ryder, had been out a few years. He’d been a combat medic in the Air Force.
Ryder was now a part-time paramedic, and worked at a free clinic in the Tenderloin. Camden had taken a job in private security. He now worked for Hunt’s friend, Vander Norcross, at Norcross Security.
“Sorry,” Hunt said. “How’s it going, Cam?”
“Fine.”
There was something buried deep in Cam’s voice. He wasn’t fine. Not yet.
“Settling in at Norcross?” Hunt asked.
“It’s only my second day. Vander runs a tight ship.”
Hunt really wanted to know how Cam was doing. He’d had a bomb explode on his team. His physical scars were healing, but he’d lost people.
A person never really got over that. Hunt was pretty sure that Camden wasn’t ready to talk, but Hunt would be there for him, any way he needed him.
“I was calling to see if you wanted to catch up tonight?” Cam said. “Grab some dinner.”
“Sure. Beer and burger at Harry’s?” The sports bar was one of their favorites.