Chapter 1
I should have known Liz was full of shit. There was no way this could be the right place.
Irritated and sweaty, I leaned my bike against a tree and examined the pretty two-storey cottage. The place looked like a children’s book of fairytales come to life—warm gray stone and happy blue shutters. A flagstone path led from the driveway to the front of the house. The grass was cut. Pink peonies bloomed in planters to either side of the door.
It was a punch in the gut.
There was no way Vandal Stokes owned this place.
Letting myself hope it was true had been my first mistake, but how could I not have investigated? There was no way my favorite author—my idol—was holed up in a secret writing retreat on the outskirts of my shitty little town.
No matter how farfetched it had been, though, I’d gotten my hopes up.
Stupid.
I stared at the cottage, taking in how homey and delightful it was. Nothing about it screamed horror writer to me.
The one possible bright spot in my lonely yawn of a life…gone.
The sun throbbed on my skull, and I fished a bottle of water out of the side pocket of my backpack. I took a sip but saved the rest. It was going to be a long, thirsty trip home, and I might need to dump one of my bottles over my head.
Disappointment wasn’t a new experience for me. I’d get over it. After such a long, sweaty trip up here, though, there was no chance in hell I was leaving without making sure.
Resigned, I took the flagstone walkway to the front door and rapped on it using the cast iron owl knocker, ready to apologize for inconveniencing the poor elderly Wiccan lady who probably lived here.
I felt like a nimrod.
I peeled off my backpack, grimacing at the sweat running in oh-so-sexy rivulets down my back—particularly the groove of my spine.
Why was it already so hot? It was only May.
If no one was home, I was going to take a quick dip in the lake before I headed back to my place. There was no point in not taking advantage of the cool blue I’d spotted behind the house as I was coming up the path, and the property was wide enough that I could stick to the edge of the trees and not look like I was trespassing too badly.
Sighing, I shifted my weight to the other foot then knocked again. For the millionth time since I’d left my apartment, I unzipped my bag and peeked inside, glad to see my leather-bound copy of Winter’s Thrall seemed none the worse for wear despite how far I’d biked with it strapped to my sweaty back.
I’d bought it for myself for my birthday after a year of scrimping, so discovering the author was staying close by had felt like fate. All I needed now was to get it signed, then I could put it into its glass case so it could be the one perfect thing in my life.
Liz’s boyfriend had come out here to deliver food a couple of times and swore it was him. It was un-fucking-likely, but why would he lie?
Did I dare walk around the back of the house to see if someone was home? Heck, why not? In for a dime…
“Hello?” I made sure to scuff my feet on the flagstone path that led around the side of the house, hoping if I was interrupting anything important, they’d hear me coming.
Between the manicured lawn, the flowers, and the decorative shrubbery, the place was like a fairyland. The owner must have a serious green thumb.
No one was sitting on the back patio when I reached it, and no one was in sight despite my unimpeded view of the rolling lawn all the way down to the private beach. Even the damned dock looked like it belonged on the cover of a ‘thinking of you’ card.
The breeze coming off the water was blessedly cool, and I lifted my sweat-damp hair off my neck, piling it on top of my head for a moment so I could enjoy not feeling like a steam engine for a minute or two.
“Who the fuck are you?”
I screamed, and whirled to confront the owner of the deep voice.
For a moment I stood there, dumbstruck.
God, it was…him.
The hair was a dead giveaway—I wasn’t sure what he did to it, but it always looked like he’d spent hours achieving the sexy bedhead look. Lucifer-inspired scruff, dark eyes.
That much was familiar. It was the rest that was shocking.
He was much taller and more imposing than I’d expected. Droplets cascaded down his torso, following his muscular chest and great abs, to the muscled vee below that, not stopping until they reached the towel wrapped around his hips.
I felt a bit woozy, but that might have been the heat.
No. It was just me.
The man was like the bronze sculpture in a Satanic water fountain. For an embarrassingly long moment I was too mesmerized to force my gaze back up to his face. When I managed it, his dark brows were drawn, and his posture had turned menacing.
“Mr. Stokes,” I said, proud that I managed not to stutter his name. “I know this is really forward of me—but I was wondering if you might sign my book?” I smiled apologetically, reached into my backpack, then drew my treasured possession out and showed it to him.
He glanced around as though he suspected I wasn’t alone.
“How did you find me here?” he asked, as though he’d need to burn the place to the ground as soon as I left.
Of course he wasn’t pleased about the invasion of his privacy. I couldn’t blame him. Even on my way over, I’d tried talking myself out of coming, but the prospect of finally getting my book autographed had made me take the chance of looking like a total stalker.
“I’m so sorry for intruding. My friend knows how much I love you and gave me directions to your cottage. I know this is weird, and I promise never to come back, but I was wondering if you could sign my book, and I promise I’ll leave immediately and forget how I got here.”
His expression darkened. He advanced, and I backed up a step, tucking my book against my body to protect it.
“I’m really sorry about this. I don’t know what got into me.” I backed up a few more steps and turned to go. Before I even reached the side of the house, he’d grabbed my arm and spun me around. I gasped, shocked he’d laid a hand on me.
“Who do you work for?” he snarled in my face. The features that were usually so smiling and genial in photos were set in a terrifying mask of rage.
“I—I used to work for Perry’s Auto Shop and Gas Bar, but I got laid off,” I blurted, not sure what he wanted to hear. “I’m between jobs right now.”
The suspicion on his face didn’t change. Grimly, he yanked the backpack out of my hand and dumped the contents to the flagstones. The two bottles of water fell out of the side pockets, followed by the interior’s three granola bars, a tube of lip balm, and my pay-as-you-go phone which landed screen down, of course. Thank God I hadn’t brought any just-in-case tampons with me or I’d be forced to die on the spot.
He picked up the phone and held it up like a trophy. It was hard to tell if he’d cracked the screen dumping it onto the ground like that.
“I fucking knew it.”
“Knew what?” Damn it. How was I going to find the money to get a new phone?
“I’m calling the police.”
My first instinct was to beg him not to, but having the cops there might stop him from doing…whatever his expression was hinting at.
Creative murder?
Then again, it was hard to get work with a criminal record, and he had the money to hire a lawyer to convince a judge to throw the book at me.