Deadly Reunion

by Elle Kennedy
Chapter One

Max Hollis was having a very bad day. So bad, in fact, that he was contemplating walking away from the
monstrous case file on his desk, ducking out of the police station and spending a good week on his living
room couch with his dog, Winston. Lord, he needed a vacation.

But as Superintendent Fantana liked to remind the men and women on the force, crime didn’t take a
vacation.

Neither did the sadistic serial killer currently roaming the streets of Chicago and preying on innocent
women.

“So, do you want the good news first, or the bad?”

Max glanced up as his fellow detective and closest friend, Russell Parker, strode into the office they
shared. Most of the other detectives worked out of the bull pen, as Max had done for most of his twelve
years on the force, but last year Fantana had bestowed the two men with an office after they cracked
open a quadruple homicide case that had stumped nearly every cop in the department. The office was
cramped and badly lit, but it gave Max a quiet place to think, and he didn’t mind sharing with Russ.

Max focused on his partner’s question, immediately sensing his day was officially going to sink down to
Much Worse on his How Bad Can My Day Get? list. So far he’d cleaned up his dog’s vomit (poor
Winston had a stomach bug), been spat on by a prostitute he’d brought in for questioning, and then
found a two-inch-thick stack of reports he needed to comb through on his desk.

From the look on Russ’s face, he got the feeling hooker spit and dog puke might be the least of his
problems.

“Good news.” Max sighed, raking his hand through his sandy-blond hair, which had gotten so long and
scruffy he looked like a drug-addicted rock star.

“Fantana called in the Feds,” Russ said as he walked over to his desk and flopped down on the edge.

Max’s head jerked up. “For the Rose Killer case?”

“Yep.”

“Well, thank God. It’s about time he called the FBI for help.” While most cops tended to get twitchy and
antagonistic when the Feds burst into their jurisdiction, Max only felt relief. They’d been getting nowhere
with the Rose Killer case for months now, banging their heads against the wall and being rewarded with
nothing but headaches.

“A task force is being set up,” his partner added. “The chief wants both of us on it.” Russ paused, a frown
creasing his mouth. “But I have a feeling you won’t be.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been living and breathing this case for months.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t heard the bad news yet.”

Wariness climbed up his throat. “All right, hit me.”

“Harold Twain escaped from prison last night.”

The impact of Russ’s words hit Max like a bowling ball to the gut. Just hearing that name—Harold Twain
—brought a rush of memories to his brain. The ugly sneer on Twain’s face when Max had slapped the
cuffs on his wrists. The barely veiled hatred on the killer’s face at the sentencing hearing, the way Twain
had slowly turned his head to focus that hate-filled glare on…

Corey Devereaux. And there it was, another name he’d tried desperately not to think about for seven
long years. Not that he’d succeeded. He’d thought about the beautiful redhead far too often, usually late
at night, when the memory of the forbidden kiss they’d shared woke him from sleep. The dreams were
no longer as frequent, but they still came, often enough that he wondered if someone was torturing him.

Corey had only been eighteen when her parents were killed. Eighteen when Max, a twenty-five-year-old
rookie detective, had broken every rule in the book and fallen for his star witness.

Max swallowed and asked, “How did he escape?”

“It was impressive, actually. Got his hands on some pills, induced a seizure, bad enough that the prison
had him airlifted to Chicago General, where he swiftly killed a doctor, a nurse and two guards. Then he
pulled a Houdini and disappeared.”

Max swore under his breath, then frowned when Russ pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his
sports coat and handed it over. “What’s this?” he said warily.

“The address of Corey Devereaux’s studio. Do you want to tell her, or should I?” Russ asked.

Max’s heart did an involuntary flip at the notion of seeing her again. He should probably tell Russ to go,
let Russ break the news that the killer who’d sworn revenge against her was roaming the streets. Really,
Russell should do it. No reason for Max to unearth long-buried desires and troubling emotions and—

“I’ll tell her.”

Chapter Two

“Um. Okay. So that’s…pretty.”

Corey Devereaux shot her agent a wry look, then pushed a wayward strand of hair from her forehead
with the slender paintbrush in her hand. “No need to lie, Val. I know it’s pretty messed up.”

Valerie Jones was Corey’s art dealer and the owner of Jones Avenue, the gallery where Corey often
showed her work. As a dealer, Val was shrewd, professional and blunt to a fault. As a friend, she was far
too nice. Taking a few steps back, Val examined the 30”x30” canvas resting on Corey’s easel. “I’m going
to be honest, kiddo. I don’t get it.”

Corey stared absently at the slash of color in front of her, sharp red lines and jagged black brushstrokes
that formed together to create…a sword? Knife, maybe? “I don’t get it either,” she admitted. “And don’t
worry, this piece isn’t going to be in the show.” Rising from her stool, she set her brush next to the
palette on the table and turned to the older woman. “I woke up this morning and this image was in my
head. I’m still not sure what it means.”

Val worried her bottom lip with her straight white teeth, the lines around her mouth crinkling. “Did you
dream it?”
“No.” She swallowed. “No. You know I don’t dream anymore.”

And thank God for that. She’d always had vivid dreams as a kid, but after her parents’ murder, those
dreams of rainbows and brilliant landscapes had morphed into dark scenes of violence and gruesome
images. Two years she’d endured the nightmares, until finally they stopped, along with the beautiful
dreams of the past. If she dreamed now, she didn’t remember anything in the morning.

It was a lot easier getting through the day when you weren’t reminded of death on a nightly basis.

“Good,” Val said, then bent down to pick up the briefcase she’d left on the hardwood floor of Corey’s
studio. “Call me when you finish up those last pieces. We’ve already reached capacity for your opening.
Contemporary collectors were lining up to score an invite.”

“That’s nice.” Again, her gaze restlessly drifted back to her painting, her mind trying to make sense of
what it saw.

“All right, so I’ve got to head out. I’m meeting with a buyer this afternoon,” Val said.

“Mmm-hmm.”

The other woman chuckled. “Okay. I see you’ve snapped back into artist mode. Guess I was lucky to pull
you out of it for ten minutes. I’ll talk to you at the end of the week, kiddo.”

Corey barely noticed her dealer’s departure. She stared at the canvas, frowning deeply. What the hell
did it mean? The sharp lines were a huge contrast from her typical work, which usually consisted of
bright abstracts and the occasional portrait, if the subject was interesting enough. So why this? Why
black and red and, really, a sword? Why?

The answers to those questions eluded her, replaced with the need to finish the piece. Maybe the final
product would give her a clue.

She was just sinking back onto the stool when the sound of footsteps filled the large loft. Without turning
around, she reached for her brush and said, “What’d you forget this time, Val?”

There was a beat of silence, followed by the sound of someone clearing their throat. A male clearing his
throat. And then two gruff words: “Hey, Corey.”

The oxygen drained sharply from her lungs, her fingers froze on the paintbrush. Almost immediately, her
heart took off in a sprint. Oh God. Was it actually…

Slowly, she turned, wide eyes taking in the sight of him. The wide doorway framed his tall, lean body,
and his hands were awkwardly stuffed in the pockets of his faded blue jeans. He’d always worn jeans on
the job. Those sexy jeans and a button-down shirt that never hid the ripple of muscles beneath it.

He cleared his throat again and took a step closer. “Hey,” he repeated. “I, uh, I needed to speak to you.”

Feeling like her legs had turned to cement, she managed to get up. Her hands shook wildly, and her
heart…why couldn’t it stop pounding?

Um, maybe because the love of your life is standing five feet away? You know, the man you haven’t
seen in seven years? The one you still ache for every damn night?

Yeah, that was probably why.

Swallowing hard, she moved toward him, pausing when they were only a few feet away. She faltered,
trying to think of something to say, something that sounded sophisticated and professional and didn’t
reveal how badly she missed him despite the seven years they’d spent apart. Something that didn’t
make her sound pathetic, or bitter, or angry.

So she opened her mouth, and what came out was, “Hi, Max. You look tired.”

Chapter Three

Holy hell. That’s all she was capable of coming up with? Hi, Max, you look tired?

Corey’s cheeks grew warm, going even hotter when the corners of Max Hollis’s mouth curved into the
familiar wry grin that had always melted her insides. But she hadn’t been lying. He did look tired. Older,
too. His hair was still the same shade of dirty-blond, his eyes still a piercing green, but his face had lost
the smoothness of youth, replaced with sharper angles and thick stubble dotting his defined jaw.

Still, he was as gorgeous as ever.

“How’ve you been, Corey?” he asked softly.

“I’m good.” Though she’d probably be a lot better if he wasn’t acting like they were strangers. “What
about you?”

“You pretty much called it. I’m tired,” he said, shrugging ruefully.

His husky voice sent a flurry of shivers up her spine. God, she missed that voice. When she was
eighteen years old, that voice was the only thing that helped her survive her parents’ death. Max’s visits
to her college dorm had gotten her through those long, empty days. She’d been orphaned, alone and
about to testify against a killer. Other teenage girls might’ve cracked under the pressure. Thanks to Max,
Corey had lived through it.

She met his gaze, impulsively searching those green eyes for a sign that he was remembering their time
together, too. That he was thinking about the long heart-to-hearts, the comfortable silences…the
explosive kiss they’d shared.

But his eyes were shuttered, the expression on his face all business.

“I’ve been working on the Rose Killer case,” he added, weariness filling his features. “To no avail, of
course.”

Corey sensed his frustration, and knew where it came from. For months, women in Chicago had been
taking extra precautions, determined not to become the next victim of the killer who apparently liked to
carve roses into their skins. Having had some firsthand experience with a vicious killer, Corey
understood the urgency Max felt to catch the monster.

He was good at that. He’d fought her monster, after all.

“Still no new leads in the case?” she asked, hoping he didn’t hear the wobble to her voice.

“None.” He sighed. “But we brought in the FBI, so hopefully that will change soon.”
She awkwardly played with the hem of her paint-spattered work shirt. “Is that why you came, to tell me
about the Rose Killer case?”

Max shook his head.

Then why are you here? she wanted to shout. And how could he be so calm, standing in front of her like
the six months they’d had together hadn’t existed. Like she hadn’t told him she loved him.

Like he hadn’t whipped her heart right back in her face and walked away from her.

Funny thing was, she didn’t even hate him for it. She’d understood his reasons for leaving, even back
then. She’d been his star witness. His star teenage witness. It had been his first case working as the
lead detective; her age and involvement in the case could have cost him his job. His only choice had
been to end it before it even began.

What she didn’t understand, however, was why he’d never come back. A year, two years later. They
could have reconnected then. She’d been older. Twain was behind bars.

So why hadn’t he come back for her? And why was he here now?

Probably not questions that needed to be asked now, mere minutes into this strange reunion. And
fortunately, Max spoke again before she could blurt out the inappropriate question anyway.

“I’m here about Twain,” he said roughly.

Her head snapped to attention. “He’s not up for parole, is he? Because that’s ridiculous! He got two life
sentences, there’s no way they would parole him after seven ye—”

“He escaped from prison last night.”

Corey released a gasp. “What?”

“He escaped. And we know he’s in the city.” Max’s green eyes darkened. “And, Corey, it’s safe to say
he’s going to be coming straight for you so he can—”

“Finish the job,” she whispered.

Chapter Four

Goddamn, but she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. Max wasn’t one to wax poetic, but when
he looked at Corey, all he could think was that her naturally red lips looked as sweet as ripe cherries,
and her long silky hair resembled red satin, and her petite curvy body could make a centerfold weep with
jealousy. She was Helen of Troy and Aphrodite and—

And he needed to get away from her. As soon as possible.

“That’s what he wants, right?” Corey said, her sapphire blue eyes filling with panic. “To kill me, the way
he believes my dad killed his daughter.”

“Unless his need for vengeance disappeared sometime in the last seven years,” Max said, his flat tone
revealing his thoughts on the matter.
Harold Twain had not lost his thirst for revenge, Max would bet his life on that. The man’s hatred for Sam
Devereaux had run too deep. Corey’s father had been the surgeon who’d operated on Twain’s daughter
Nicole after she’d been badly injured in a car accident. Devereaux had given Twain hope before the
surgery, but not until they’d opened Nicole up had they seen the extent of the damage. Nearly every
organ in Nicole Twain’s body had been crushed. She died on the table.

The death of one’s thirteen-year-old daughter would tear up any man, but for Twain, the heartache
hadn’t ended there. His wife committed suicide two months later, and the man simply snapped.
Apparently he’d always had a history of mental illness, but the deaths of his wife and daughter had
promptly driven him over the edge, and so he’d turned his grief-turned-hatred onto the man who’d
promised to save his daughter and failed.

“He killed my parents,” Corey murmured. “An eye for an eye, that’s what he said in court, remember?
But they weren’t his only target. He wanted me dead.”

And the only reason she was still alive was because of last-minute dinner plans with her girlfriends. Even
years after the fact, Max still thanked God that Corey hadn’t been killed that night. But she had arrived
home in time to see Twain fleeing through the front door, a gun in his hand. She’d been in a car full of
friends, which was probably the only reason Twain had jumped into his own car and sped off without
taking a shot at her.

“Well, he’s not going to finish the job,” Max said gruffly. He shoved his hands back in his pockets, mainly
because his arms tingled with the urge to hold the woman in front of him. Hold her, and comfort her, and
kiss her senseless.

Control yourself, Hollis. Nothing’s changed.

Yep, that was true, wasn’t it? Nothing had changed. Sure, Corey was twenty-five now, no longer a
grieving daughter. But those weren’t the only reasons he’d walked away from her all those years ago.

Truth was, even then she’d been too good for him.

“We’re going to keep you safe,” he said.

Corey shook her head. “If you’re talking protective custody, a safe house somewhere, I can’t do it. I’ve
got two weeks to finish three paintings for my upcoming show.”

For the first time since walking into the studio, Max allowed himself to look around and what he saw stole
his breath. Man, she was talented. Canvases filled the large loft, hanging on the walls, stacked up, sitting
on easels. Each painting displayed bursts of color, fascinating abstract landscapes, random splashes of
paint, some portraits that showed she was skilled in more than just abstraction. Her work was beautiful.

She was beautiful.

And, as usual, stubborn as hell.

“Is a show more important than your own safety?” he said, hearing the testiness in his voice.

“Of course not, but I’m not going to hide away like a scared rabbit.” Her delicate chin lifted in resolve. “I
lived in fear of this man once already. I won’t do it again.”

Despite himself, he wanted to smile. This was the Corey he remembered. Strong. Fearless. Charging
into battle instead of running away. Her strength had awed him when he’d first met her. Not many other
teenagers would have possessed the courage to sit in the same courtroom as a killer and finger him as
the man who’d murdered her parents. Any of the other girls in the car that night could have identified
Twain in court, but Corey had insisted she needed to testify.

The day she’d stepped into the courtroom, he’d been so proud of her his chest had almost burst.

“I figured you’d say that,” he said wryly. “Which is why I’ve arranged for a bodyguard and put two patrols
outside your house. Until Twain is caught, the guard is going to be your shadow. Wherever you go, he
goes.”

Corey looked as though she was about to nod in agreement, then glanced at him sharply, an indefinable
flicker in her blue eyes. She studied him for a moment, as if weighing something in her mind, like a
potential buyer appraising a new car.

Finally, she said, “No.”

Max didn’t bother hiding his surprise. “No to what?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, an action that drew her dark green shirt tighter over her delectable
breasts. He swallowed and averted his eyes.

“No to the bodyguard,” she elaborated.

A sigh lodged in his chest. “Are you serious? There’s a good chance Twain will come after you. You
can’t be left unprotected.”

“Who said I’ll be unprotected?” she answered with a faint smile.

Wariness climbed up his throat. Oh, boy. Why did he have a feeling he knew exactly where this was
going?

“Corey—” he started.

“You,” she cut in. “I want you to protect me, Max. And I won’t settle for anyone else.”

Chapter Five

Evidently, she was a huge masochist. Maybe pathetic, too, because she was willing to beg if that’s what
it came down to. This man had broken her heart, and yet…yet, she would hand it right back to him if he
asked. Truth was, there was no one she wanted more than Max Hollis. God knows she’d tried exorcising
him from her heart, she really had. In the past seven years she’d gone out on dates, even had a year-
long relationship with an artist she’d met at one of her openings.

But none of those men had compared to Max, not even Jesse, her artist. Her entire life she’d longed for
a relationship like her parents had—a combination of love and passion, a best friend and a lover.
Comfortable warmth and searing heat.

She’d had that with Max. In the six months he’d been in her life, she’d had a glimpse of what true love
actually was.

She’d always wondered, if she saw him again, would she still feel the same? Well, she had her answer
now. She still loved him. And maybe if she convinced him to spend just a little bit of time with her, she
could make him see that loving her back wouldn’t be so bad.
Masochistic and pathetic…that was her, all right.

“I can’t be your bodyguard,” Max finally said, his voice coming out gruff.

Corey raised one eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I’m working on another case.”

“I thought you said the FBI was called. With all the manpower those guys bring with them, Chief Fantana
isn’t going to need every detective on the force to work the case.”

His mouth creased in a frown. God, she’d always loved that mouth, the sensual curve of his bottom lip,
the lopsided tilt of his grin. She could’ve stared at that mouth for hours, and she had, during all those
long talks they’d had when she was eighteen.

“Why me?” Max said with a sigh. “The guard I arranged for can do the job as well as I can.”

She met his gaze. “I want someone I can trust.”

“You can trust Jeff—”

“But you know Twain,” she cut in. “And I know you want to see him caught as much as I do. Which
means you’ll work harder to keep me safe. You once told me that the only thing that matters to you is
keeping me safe.”

Something in his green eyes softened. “And I meant it. That’s all I ever wanted for you, Corey. To make
sure nobody could ever hurt you.” To her shock, his voice suddenly cracked as he added, “Including
myself.”

Her breath caught in her throat. For the first time since he’d shown up here at the studio, there was
genuine emotion in his tone. A chord of sorrow. A note of tenderness. And she couldn’t be certain, but
had that been a flicker of longing in his eyes?

Swallowing, she murmured, “You could never hurt me, Max.”

“But I did. I hurt you when I left,” he said flatly. Rather than averting his eyes, he stared at her pointedly,
as if daring her to contradict him.

“Yes, it hurt,” she admitted, instinctively squaring her shoulders, a combative gesture she always made
when she was forced to admit vulnerability.

He flinched. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. So now make it up to me. Protect me from my monster, Max.”

A heavy silence fell over the studio. Max dropped his hands from his pockets, forehead wrinkled with
reluctance and unease. He glanced around the studio for a moment, as if the canvases strewn across
the room would help him make up his mind. And then his gaze landed on her current piece, the black-
and-red sword/knife in the middle of the canvas. The crease in his forehead deepened.

Finally he looked back at her and said, “All right.”

A balloon of hope rose in her chest. “You’ll do it?”

He let out a ragged breath. “Do I really have any other choice?”

Chapter Six

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Russ remarked the next day, leaning against the door frame as he
watched Max collect a stack of files from his desk. “I knew you’d be off the Rose Killer case the second I
heard about Twain’s escape.”

“I’m that predictable?” Max said drily.

“When it comes to her, yeah.”

The note of disapproval in his partner’s voice made him glance up from the papers he was shuffling
through. “What, you going to get on my case again?” Max grumbled. “Because you did a good job of that
seven years ago.”

Russ crossed his arms tightly over his stocky chest. “She was just a kid. You had no business getting
romantically involved with her.”

“She was eighteen, and we didn’t get romantically involved,” he answered through clenched teeth.

Was emotionally involved the same as romantically involved? he wondered.

Yes, the voice in his head said with certainty.

Fine, so he’d harbored romantic feelings toward Corey back then, feelings that had culminated into one
mind-blowing kiss. But he hadn’t allowed it to go any further. After Twain’s sentencing he’d ended it, and
he didn’t regret the decision to walk away. She’d just lost her parents, for Pete’s sake—the last thing
Corey had needed in her life was a man with enough baggage to fill an airport.

“You fell in love with her,” Russ countered.

He ignored the remark, tucked his case files under his arm and strode toward the door. “Fantana gave
me a few weeks’ leave,” he called over his shoulder. “See you when I get back.”

Without waiting for a response, he stepped into the fluorescent-lit corridor and left the station. Winston
was waiting in the narrow front hall when Max unlocked the door to his small downtown apartment. He
dropped the files on the credenza and bent down to pet the golden Lab whining with excitement at his
feet.

“Hey, buddy,” he greeted the wiggling dog. He rubbed behind Winston’s ears, and was rewarded by a
slobbery lick to the face. “You’re going to have to calm down when we get to Corey’s. Can’t have you
driving your new roommate crazy with that unbridled enthusiasm.”

Winston yipped, then rolled onto his back, legs sticking up in the air as he waited for a belly rub.

Max obliged, all the while wondering why it was so damn easy to please an animal when he couldn’t
seem to do anything right for the humans in his life. The officers on the force loved him, patted him on
the back and called him a hero each time he put a murderer behind bars, but the women he’d dated? His
own family? Those relationships were nonexistent.
He wasn’t one for self-pity, but he was well aware of his flaws. He was a workaholic. He had
commitment issues. Oh, and the kicker—he had wife-abuser blood running through his veins. A total
head case, that’s what he was.

He didn’t deserve a woman like Corey Devereaux. Hadn’t deserved her then, and didn’t deserve her
now.

With a sigh, he rose to his feet. “Come on, Win, let’s go pack up your stuff. We need to report for
bodyguard duty.”

***

Harold Twain yanked on the brim of his Blackhawks cap as he approached the FedEx counter, holding
the short-but-sweet letter he’d penned in his left hand. The woman behind the counter greeted him with
a smile and asked, “Hello, sir, what can I do for you today?”

Using a Southern drawl, which he’d perfected after listening to his Georgia-born cellmate drone on for
hours upon hours, he said, “I need to send this by courier, ma’am, with a guarantee that it will arrive by
the end of the day.”

Another big, fake smile. “I can take care of that.”

The clerk barely glanced at him as she got an envelope and told him which boxes he needed to fill out.
He scribbled away, making sure his handwriting was near unintelligible, paid for the delivery in cash and
hightailed it out of there.

Outside, he breathed in the late-spring air, glancing at the pedestrians bustling past him on the street. A
woman smiled at him as she walked by, and he wondered if that smile would still be on her face if she
knew who he was. What he was. An escaped convict.

Bitterness coiled in his gut, wrapping around his intestines like an angry cobra. Prison. Even now, seven
years after the sentencing, he couldn’t believe he’d been sent to prison—and why? For killing his
daughter’s murderer?

That bastard Devereaux had deserved to die. After what he’d done to Nikki, death was even too good a
punishment. But Twain had taken care of that.

But you forgot one, the raspy voice in his head murmured.

“Oh, I didn’t forget,” he muttered back.

A passing businessman shot him a funny look, and, realizing he really ought to remain inconspicuous,
Twain quit talking to himself and headed toward the car he’d hot-wired the night he’d escaped from the
hospital. Another handy skill he’d learned from his cellmate.

Driving out of the city, Twain glanced at the clock on the dash. Ten-thirty in the morning. The clerk from
FedEx had assured him the letter would arrive before 6:00 p.m. He would have liked to be there when
the girl opened the letter, when she realized her destiny as she read those two short sentences.

An eye for an eye, the voice said gleefully.

Twain nodded. “She deserves to die.”

The child needs to pay for the father’s sins. Don’t screw it up this time.
“I didn’t screw up before,” he said angrily, slamming on the brakes as he reached a red light. “I couldn’t
get to her before. She was with friends.”

You chickened out. You let Nicole down.

Twain rubbed his temples, which were beginning to pound with pain and irritation. “Shut up,” he ordered.
“Shut the hell up and let me do my job.”

The voice said nothing, but he could hear the faint echo of mocking laughter in his head.

“She’ll die,” he mumbled to himself. “Just like her murdering father and her weak, pathetic mother.”

That’s right, the voice agreed, making a reappearance. Corey Devereaux will die.

Chapter Seven

Max showed up in the afternoon, finally putting an end to the anticipation Corey had been experiencing
since the moment he’d left her studio the day before. Last night she’d kept busy, working on one of the
paintings for her upcoming show. She’d also attempted to keep herself occupied this morning, even
inviting the officer Max had stationed outside her house in for a cup of coffee. But no amount of activity
could distract her from the notion that Max was officially back in her life.

And now here he was, in her kitchen, after she’d given him a quick tour of the house. She’d felt a spark
of pleasure when he complimented her home. She’d bought the small Victorian a year ago, determined
to fix it up on her own. The price had been a steal, thanks to the renovations that needed to be done. But
Corey didn’t mind the grunt work. Having lived in the bustle of Chicago’s downtown area all her life,
Corey had been excited to move to the sleepy suburbs, and she especially liked the gorgeous ravine
that stretched out behind the backyards of the houses on her street.

Her body warmed as Max glanced around the huge, country-style kitchen, admiring the bright yellow
walls. “Did you paint it yourself?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m planning on doing a mural in here, but I haven’t decided what to paint yet.”

A furry body brushed against her leg, and she bent down to pet Max’s golden-haired Lab. Max had a
dog. She still found that little tidbit surprising. He’d always been so reserved. Definitely not the kind of
man she pictured lavishing attention on an overexcited pet like Winston.

“He likes you,” Max remarked, an odd note in his voice.

She glanced up. “Is that a bad thing?”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “Of course not. It’s good, seeing as we’ll be staying with you for a
while.”

And didn’t he just look thrilled about it. A spark of irritation lit up inside her. Ever since he got here, Max
had been treating her like a random stranger he’d been hired to protect. Like the six months they’d had
together had meant nothing to him. Like the kiss they’d shared hadn’t happened. Like—

“Did you even miss me?” she found herself blurting out.

Instantly, her cheeks heated up, making her wish she could take back the spontaneous question.
But to her surprise, her words elicited the first glimmer of emotion she’d seen in his eyes since he’d
knocked on her door. Max’s green eyes softened, flickering with unmistakable sadness.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely.

Corey slowly got to her feet, her steps hesitant as she eliminated the distance between them. She
paused when they were only a foot away, searching those gorgeous eyes of his, wanting so badly to
throw her arms around him. This was the only man she’d ever opened herself up to. The only man who’d
ever made her feel…happy. And shockingly, he’d done it at a time when happiness had been in very
short supply.

“Yes?” she echoed, pressing her shaky hands to her sides.

He swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his strong, corded throat. “I missed you.”

Corey’s heart did a little somersault. “You could have called.”

He shook his head. “That would have been the worst thing I could’ve done, Corey.”

She had no idea what to say to that, so instead she pushed away the pang of pain and said, “I missed
you, too. I missed talking with you, and…being with you. I miss it now.” Her throat tightened. “I’m glad
you’re here, Max.”

Regret filled his gaze. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“I’m only here to protect you. I don’t want you to read anything more into it.”

Corey bristled, but before she could respond, the doorbell chimed. Max’s shoulders instantly stiffened,
his right hand reaching for the gun holstered at his hip. As Winston began to bark and scurried for the
front door, Corey shot her protector a wry look. “I hardly think Twain would ring the doorbell.”

She moved for the doorway, but Max intercepted her. His hand circled her bare arm, sending waves of
heat shooting through her body. “I go first,” he said gruffly.

Following him to the front hall, Corey waited by the coat closet and watched as Max opened the door,
holding his gun loosely behind his back. She craned her neck to sneak a peek, and spotted a skinny guy
with a FedEx envelope standing on her porch.

“Corey Devereaux?” the courier asked.

“No, but I can sign for it,” Max said. A moment later, he closed the door and turned to face her, holding
out the envelope. “Expecting something?”

She slowly shook her head and accepted the envelope. As she tore it open, the image of her latest
painting suddenly filled her brain, and an ominous rush of dread washed over her. The hairs at the back
of her neck stood up, tingling, as she removed a single sheet of paper from the envelope.

Corey stared at the words scrawled on the page. She felt all the color seep out of her face, and then the
paper fell out of her hands. As it fluttered down to the hardwood floor, she closed her eyes and
whispered, “Oh, God.”
 Chapter Eight

Dread seizing his throat, Max bent down to retrieve the slip of paper Corey had dropped. He held the
sheet by one corner, trying to preserve the evidence. Not that it mattered. Corey’s fingerprints were all
over the damn thing.

He read the two sentences written there, as anger slowly coiled in his gut.

A daughter for a daughter. See you soon, Corey.

Well. Looked like Twain had made his first move. The bastard clearly intended to terrify Corey with this
note. Before he killed her.

Max’s throat tightened as he glanced at Corey’s pale face. Her hands were still shaking, her straight
white teeth worrying her lush bottom lip. His anger escalated. She’d already been through enough, damn
it. Losing her parents. Facing their murderer. She didn’t deserve any more pain or fear in her life.

Before he could stop himself, he stepped toward her and pulled her into his arms.

Corey gave a small gasp, then sank into the embrace, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Max’s
pulse quickened, his groin hardening at the feel of that petite warm body pressed against his.

“I won’t let him hurt you,” he murmured, holding her so tight he feared he’d break her in half.

The intoxicating aroma of her drifted up to his nose. Her strawberry-scented shampoo. Her sweet
feminine scent, honey and flowers and pure heaven.

God, he’d missed holding her like this.

Corey tilted her head to meet his eyes, her lips inches from his, and Max nearly keeled over with desire.
He’d never wanted a woman the way he yearned for Corey Devereaux.

“Max…” Her soft voice trailed off, but the uncertainty in her blue eyes was obvious. So was the longing.

With a strangled groan, he lowered his head and captured her mouth with his. Twain’s message, now
crumpled up in a ball in Max’s hand, fell to the floor again, but he barely gave it a second’s thought. As
usual, when it came to Corey, his job flew right out of his mind.

Her lips were so soft against his, so warm and sweet. And her tongue…Lord, her tongue was in his
mouth, flicking against his own, sending a streak of white-hot pleasure right to his groin. His arousal
thickened, straining against his zipper, eagerly pressing into Corey’s flat belly.

She sighed with pleasure, one hand stroking the nape of his neck, the other running through his hair as
she kissed him back with enough passion to make him forget his own name.

It wasn’t until one of those small, warm hands drifted down between them, stroking his erection, that Max
pulled back. The erotic touch snapped the sense back into him.

What the hell was he doing?

He stumbled back, his breath coming out ragged, his pulse still drumming wildly in his ears.
Corey looked startled by his abrupt movement, and then a spark of disappointment lit her eyes. “Max…”
Yet again her voice drifted.

Max sucked in some much-needed oxygen, waiting until his heartbeat went back to normal. Then he
raked his fingers through his hair and released his breath. “Damn it,” he finally muttered. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes flashed. “Why is it that you always apologize after kissing me?”

“I’ve only kissed you once before,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah, and you apologized then, too.”

“Because it was a mistake then.” He avoided her irritated gaze. “And—”

“Let me guess,” she said bitterly. “And it was a mistake now?”

“Yes.”

Chapter Nine

Corey didn’t know whether to slap Max right on his stubble-covered cheek, or beg him to kiss her again.
In the end, she decided to do neither.

Instead, she simply gave up.

Yep, gave up. Definitely not two words she’d ever expected to find in her vocabulary, but damn it, what
else was she supposed to do? She couldn’t fight him anymore. Couldn’t keep opening her heart up only
to have him tell her what a mistake the two of them were.

“I think…” She swallowed the lump of agony in the back of her throat before attempting to speak again. “I
think you’re right.”

Surprise flickered in Max’s green eyes. “I am?”

Corey blinked back the tears threatening to spill over. “This is a mistake. Not just the kiss, but…” Her
gaze landed on the crumpled piece of paper lying on the floor by their feet, the sadistic message from
the man who’d killed her parents. “I shouldn’t have asked you to guard me. I…I can’t be around you,
Max.”

The second she said the words, a crash of thunder echoed from outside the house, followed by the
sound of rain slapping against the front porch. It was almost as if the weather was protesting her
decision, voicing its disapproval. But to hell with it. She was done chasing after this man.

A note of sorrow entered his voice. “Corey—”

“No, don’t bother with another apology.” Bitterness climbed up her spine, weighing down on her
shoulders. God, she was so pathetic. Back then, at least she’d had her age as an excuse. Eighteen-
year-old girl all starry-eyed over her older, attractive savior. But now? She was twenty-five. Old enough
to know better than to throw herself at a man who obviously wasn’t interested.
Her chest aching, she turned away from him, discreetly wiping at the lone tear that had slid down her
cheek.

“Make the call,” she murmured, keeping her back to him.

“What call?” he said warily.

“The bodyguard you hired. Call him, get him to come back.”

It hurt like hell, saying the words, officially letting Max go, but she had no other choice. Maybe it was a
good thing he’d come back into her life, even for such a brief time. At least now she could put the past to
rest, and finally accept that she and Max Hollis would never be together. Say goodbye to silly girlhood
fantasies and look for a man who actually wanted to be in her life.

The tears suddenly fell in earnest, making her feel ashamed. Damn it, she would not cry over this man
again. Swiping at her cheeks, she abruptly moved to the front door, mumbling, “I need to be alone for a
minute.”

“It’s raining,” Max protested as she reached for the door handle.

“I like the rain,” she murmured back, then hurried out the door.

***

Max stood frozen in the front hall, shocked by what had just happened. The mind-blowing kiss. Corey’s
sudden turnaround, telling him to call another bodyguard. He could hardly wrap his mind around it, and
the ache in his chest didn’t help. He wished things could be different, that he was different. But he’d
never been good at relationships. He always managed to hurt the women in his life and, damn it, he
didn’t want to hurt Corey. That was the reason he’d kept his distance from her, then and now.

And yet he’d hurt her. Then and now.

He lingered in the hall for a long moment, until he heard another loud roll of thunder.

What the hell was he thinking, letting her go out there alone when there was a killer on the loose?! Some
freaking bodyguard he was.

He’d barely taken two steps toward the door when he heard a faint scream slice through the rain.

Blood draining from his face, he threw open the door and ran outside.

Chapter Ten

Fear pummeled into him like angry fists as he spotted Corey lying at the foot of the porch steps. Max ran
toward her, instantly sinking to the wet grass and cupping her face with his hands. “Where are you hurt?”
he said frantically.

A streak of gold flashed in his peripheral vision, and suddenly Winston was beside him, shoving his wet
nose against Corey’s shoulder. Max pushed the dog away and repeated his question. “Where are you
hurt?”
“It’s my—”

Not letting her finish, he ran his hands up and down her body, searching for the wound. “Were you shot?
Was it Twain?” he choked out. “Damn it, Corey, where are you hurt?”

Her hand curled over his wrist, nails digging into his skin. “For Pete’s sake, Max, calm down!” she
snapped. “It’s my ankle. I slipped on the last step and fell.”

Relief smashed into him. “You fell,” he echoed dully.

“Yes. Now can we go inside before this rain washes both of us away?”

For the first time since he’d come outside in a panic, he noticed the downpour rushing from the sky.
Corey was soaked, her red hair matted against her forehead as raindrops rolled down her cheeks.

“Let me help you up,” he sighed, reaching for her arm.

She pushed away his hand. “I’m fine. I can get up on my own.”

He wanted to lift her into his arms and carry her into the house, but the determined set of her jaw told
him she’d hit him before letting him touch her. With another sigh, he stood up and crossed his arms,
letting the cold rain wash over him.

“All right, get up.”

He saw her features crease with pain as she slowly got to her feet. Mud streaked across her faded blue
jeans, and he almost smiled at the sight of her disheveled appearance. The smile never came, though,
as he watched her take one step forward before crumpling like a rag doll.

He caught her before she fell, and held her steady. “Now can I help you up?”

Her eyes darkened before taking on a resigned light. “Yes.”

Without another word, he placed a hand on her back, grasped her round bottom with the other and
scooped her into his arms.

To her credit, she didn’t protest the entire time as he carried her into the house, kicked off his muddy
shoes and took her into the living room.

He gently put her down on the plump beige sofa, then sat next to her and stared at the wet redhead,
wanting so badly to kiss her again.

“Which ankle?” he asked quietly.

She sighed. “The left one. But it doesn’t hurt that much.”

Irked by her continued insistence to pretend she was okay, he rolled up the hem of her pant leg and
examined her ankle. It didn’t seem bad at first, not until he glanced at her other leg and saw the
enormous difference. Her left ankle had swollen up to twice the size of her right one, and a nasty blue
bruise already began to dot her skin.

He stifled a groan. “Let me see if it’s broken.”

“It’s not—”

He didn’t let her finish as he lowered his hand to her leg. He gently ran his fingers over her tender skin,
applying pressure against the bone. She winced, but didn’t make a sound. That was Corey all right,
strong as hell.

After he’d examined her ankle, he met her gaze. “I think it’s just a sprain.”

Triumph lit her eyes. “See, I told you. I’m fine. Now go call the other bodyguard.”

His heart squeezed. He hated that she was so determined to see him leave. But he knew she was right.
Staying was not a good idea. They’d only been together a couple of hours and he’d ended up kissing
her. Who knew what would happen if he stayed even longer?

But what would happen if he left? If that bastard Twain managed to get his hands on her?

Max couldn’t bring himself to get up, the notion of calling someone else to protect Corey sending a knot
of pain to his gut. He swept his gaze over her, studying the two smudges of mud on her cheeks, her
soaked clothing, disheveled hair—and he decided he’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

He also decided that for the moment, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’ll call Jeff in the morning,” Max said, squaring his shoulders in resolve.

Corey glanced at him in surprise. “You’re going to spend the night?”

“Yes, and don’t bother arguing. Until Twain is caught, you’re in danger, which means no arguments
about your safety.” He rose from the couch, his jaw tight, and lifted her back into his arms.

“Where are you taking me?” she squeaked.

“Upstairs.”

“Why?”

“You’re covered in mud,” he said roughly. “I’m going to run a bath for you.”

Chapter Eleven

Max stepped into the upstairs bathroom, releasing a long breath. Damn it, he was crazy for not walking
away. But he couldn’t leave Corey. Not now, when her parents’ murderer was roaming the streets. And
besides, she was injured.

Yeah, her sprained ankle is the reason you’re sticking around, his conscience taunted.

He ignored the voice, and focused on drawing a bath for Corey. His breath hitched as he pictured Corey
lying in the hot water, her soft, naked body slick from the water, her wet hair curling at the ends. When
he found a bottle of bubble bath in the cupboard under the sink, all he could think about was how those
white, sparkling bubbles would look against Corey’s firm breasts. When he smelled the fruity aroma of
those bubbles, all he could imagine was nuzzling his head in the crook of her neck and breathing in her
sweet scent.
By the time he finished preparing the bath, he was harder than he’d ever been in his entire life.

“It’s ready.” He entered the bedroom, where he’d deposited Corey on the queen-size mahogany bed,
and hoped she wouldn’t notice how his jeans had tightened over his groin.

He helped her up and led her to the bathroom. Corey hesitated in the doorway. “I think I’ll fall over if I try
taking these clothes off myself.” Her voice sounded small and embarrassed to his ears.

Cotton lined every inch of his throat. She wanted him to undress her? He wasn’t sure he’d be able to
resist touching her if he started taking off her clothes. But when he saw how she struggled to balance
herself on one leg, he realized he had no other choice.

Max took a deep breath and then, with surprisingly steady hands, he reached for the button of her jeans.
Fighting every urge telling him to devour her body, he focused on removing the jeans, which only
deepened his hunger. Her soft hand held his shoulder as she wiggled one leg out of the wet denim, then
the other. The lacy white panties she wore were so damn appealing, he nearly came apart just looking at
her.

“Max.”

“Yes?” he said thickly.

“I’m sorry if this is making you uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable? Oh, he was uncomfortable, all right. More than she’d ever know.

“It’s fine.” He cleared his throat. “Turn around.”

He gripped the hem of her shirt and tugged it upward, all the while knowing Corey was perfectly capable
of doing this part herself. She’d hurt her ankle, not her arms, yet Max couldn’t stop himself from taking
off the rest of her clothes. She didn’t protest, or try to take over, and the soft hitch of her breath told him
she enjoyed this slow undressing as much as he did.

Max couldn’t tear his gaze off her, as his brain swam in a pool of satin and lace. The bra she wore held
her high breasts lovingly, and creamy-white skin swelled over each cup. The cotton in his mouth
thickened until he could barely get out a breath.

He reached for the clasp of her bra and slowly unhooked it, willing his body to relax. Dropping the lacy
bra on the tiled floor, he reached for the waistband of her panties, took a deep breath and pushed the
garment down her legs.

His heart slammed against his ribs, bruising each and every one, as he encountered the most delicious
feminine behind. Her firm, rosy bottom made his groin ache, made his blood buzz in his ears and his
pulse race.

“Get in the tub,” he barked, hoping that once she disappeared into that mound of bubbles, so would his
need for her.

He held on to her arm as she raised a foot into the tub, then forced himself to turn away as she sank into
the warm water. When he looked back, she was hidden in the bubbles, but his need was still there. Like
a forest fire refusing to burn out.

“Call me when you’re ready to get out,” he muttered, making for the door.
Her husky voice stopped him from leaving. “No. I want you to stay.”

Chapter Twelve

It was extremely hard to breathe. And not because her ankle hurt like hell. In fact, Corey barely noticed
the pain. She was far more focused on the gorgeous man standing in her bathroom. She’d had plenty of
fantasies about Max over the years, a few of them involving this very same bathtub, yet those fantasies
didn’t compare to the real thing.

As she sank lower into the water, she thought about the decision she’d made before walking out into the
rain. The decision to give up on him. It had seemed like such a good idea…

Then again, she hadn’t been naked at the time.

Now, with her clothes strewn on the bathroom floor and Max’s big, sexy body lingering in the doorway,
giving up was the last thing she felt like doing.

“Please,” she added softly, when Max still hadn’t responded to her request that he stay. She shifted in
the water, causing a wave of bubbles to wet her neck. “I’d really like the company.”

He took a step toward the door. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“If I stay in here a second longer, I’m going to kiss you again.”

Her breath hitched. “Then kiss me.”

Her quiet statement made him freeze. Corey stared at his back, the stiff set of his shoulders. She wished
she could see his eyes, even though she was pretty sure what she’d find there. Regret. Reluctance.

“Max.” She spoke firmly. “Can you turn around so we can talk about this once and for all?”

Slowly, he did as she asked, his green eyes flickering with…yep, regret and reluctance. Shocker.
Releasing a breath, he crossed the tiled floor and leaned against the wall next to the tub. His gaze fixed
on her face, not once lowering to her bubble-covered body.

“There isn’t anything to talk about,” he finally said.

“Really? Because I’d like to know why you kissed me earlier.”

She saw him gulp. “It was a—”

“Mistake,” she supplied. “Yeah, I know that already. Why did you do it then?”

He was quiet for so long she feared he wouldn’t answer. But then he spoke. “Because I wanted to,” he
said roughly.

Corey couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow. Such an uncomplicated answer from a very complicated man.”
A wry flicker filled his eyes. “I’m not that complicated.”

The laugh turned into a snort. “Yeah, right. You’re a walking complication, Max Hollis.” She reached up
to brush a wet tendril off her forehead. “When you left… What you said after the sentencing hearing. It
was more than my age, wasn’t it? You had other reasons for not wanting me.”

“Not wanting a relationship,” he corrected. His eyes softened. “It was never about not wanting you,
sweetheart. Never.”

Her heart skipped at the endearment. He’d never called her sweetheart before. She liked it…no, damn it,
she loved it.

“And you still feel that way now?” Corey swallowed. “You still don’t want a relationship?”

Pain creased his features, and he ran one hand through his scruffy dark-blond hair. “I’m no good at
relationships,” he admitted softly. “I…shut down whenever things get serious. I always have, probably
because of my dad.”

“Your dad?” she echoed quietly.

He nodded. “The man pretty much screwed me up from ever having a normal relationship. He…” Max
swallowed. “He used to hit my mother, did I ever tell you that?”

Her chest squeezed with sympathy. “No, you never did.”

“Well, he did. Eventually killed her, too.”

She swallowed, wishing she could wrap her arms around him and ease his pain.

And I…” He made an exasperated sound. “I… Hell, I don’t have anything to give a woman, Corey.”

“That’s not true,” she murmured. “You gave me so much, all those years ago.”

“I gave you comfort.” Max sighed. “We couldn’t have had anything more. You always deserved better
than me, Corey. You deserved a man who could open himself up to you, give you his entire heart.
That’s…that’s not me.”

Corey opened her mouth to protest—why was it that men always thought they knew what you needed?
—but it was too late. Max had already walked out of the room.

Chapter Thirteen

Lying in the twin bed in Corey’s guest room, Max was wide awake when he heard the soft footsteps in
the hallway. He knew she’d come, even hoped she would, yet as the creak of the bedroom door opening
echoed in the dark, silent room, his chest tightened with despair.

“Max, are you awake?”

He closed his eyes, not because he was pretending to sleep, but because he knew the second his gaze
landed on her, it would be all over.
“Max?”

He managed to find his voice. “Go back to bed, Corey.”

Opening his eyes, he saw that rather than turning and walking out the door, she was hobbling forward on
her injured ankle. She paused at the foot of the bed, gripping the edge to balance herself. A thin gray T-
shirt covered her body, outlining her curves and brushing over her thighs. Her red hair slid over her
shoulders and rested just above her breasts, each strand begging for his fingers, pleading to be touched,
stroked. She looked like an angel. A beautiful, red-haired angel, innocent and dangerously seductive at
the same time.

“You shouldn’t be walking around on that ankle,” he muttered.

“It doesn’t hurt as much anymore.” There was a small pause. “Do you really want me to go?” she finally
murmured, her voice soft and melodic, as enticing as the sweet voices of the sirens who’d once lured
sailors to their deaths.

“Yes,” he choked out.

He saw her swallow, saw the look of disappointment in her gleaming eyes. “All right.”

She turned, and the way the thin cotton grazed over her firm backside made his throat go dry.

“Corey.”

She stopped. “Yes?”

“Don’t go.”

Oh, Christ, he was a fool. A goddamned fool.

She turned around and approached the bed again, this time walking around the side and sitting at the
edge. So close to him, just a few inches away. He wanted to touch her, to bury his face in her soft hair
and inhale her scent.

He forced himself to lie flat on his back, to keep his hands to either side of him, and his gaze fixed on the
ceiling above. He couldn’t look at her. He knew what would happen if he did.

“I came in here to tell you something,” she said.

He felt her gaze on him, felt her eyes penetrating his skin, setting it on fire. “What did you want to tell
me?” he said in a hoarse voice.

“That you’re wrong.”

She grew silent, and he wondered if she would continue. Hoped that she would. The quiet lull lasted for
so long he feared she might have left the room. But he could feel her weight on the bed, hear her soft
breathing and knew she was still there.

After a moment, he forced himself to turn his head and meet her eyes. “I’m wrong?” he finally echoed.

“You said you had nothing to give to me.”

He took a breath. “I don’t.”

“And I say you’re wrong.” Her hand reached out to touch his chest, and he nearly groaned aloud. “You
do have something to give.”

Ignoring the way her hand swirled over his collarbone, he uttered, “What?”

“Yourself. That’s what you can give me.”

***

Corey searched Max’s face for a reaction, any reaction, but he just lay there, his face expressionless, his
features taut. This was her opportunity to go. To get up, leave the room and forget she’d ever been
there. Yet she couldn’t will her body to move.

She’d been lying in bed for hours before finally coming to him, unable to sleep thanks to the battle raging
in her head, a duel between desire and uncertainty.

Hadn’t she decided she and Max had no future?

But…he’d finally opened up to her. He’d never been so candid with her before, and she was stunned by
the personal details he’d revealed as he’d sat by the bathtub. He’d never told her about his dad before,
and now that she knew, his reluctance to get involved made a lot of sense. Max was scared.

Lowering her gaze, she glanced down at the flower-patterned sheets covering his body. Well, not his
entire body. His chest, that glorious chest, was exposed.

With trembling fingers, she swept her hand across his chest, brushing over his flat nipples, which
hardened at her touch. Seeing that he wasn’t objecting, she dipped her head and pressed her lips to his
smooth skin. Exhilaration swept over her as she planted soft kisses up his chest, stopping only to
sample his collarbone, his neck, until her head loomed over his, her lips hovering inches from his mouth.

Her pulse quickened as she lowered her head. The second her lips brushed his in a featherlight kiss,
she nearly came apart. The five o’clock shadow around his mouth tickled her chin, making her want to
smile and moan at the same time. He exuded raw masculinity, lying there beneath her. She’d kissed
other men since that first kiss with Max, but nothing compared to the warmth of Max’s mouth, to the feel
of his hot lips against hers.

She deepened the kiss, teasing his mouth open with her tongue, nibbling on his lower lip, biting it with
her teeth. She whimpered when his warm tongue thrust out, meeting hers in a swirling duel that left her
breathless.

He answered her whimper with a hoarse groan and in an instant, his hands found her bottom, pushing
her aching core against his now evident arousal.

And then he pulled back, and she saw the fire in his eyes. “You should leave,” he murmured. “Before it’s
too late to stop this.”

“I don’t want to stop it,” she murmured back.

His eyes danced with amusement. “You’re too damn stubborn for your own good.”

“I know.” And then she wiggled her lower body against his, and saw his amusement transform into need.
“If you stay…” His tone was warning.

“If I stay, what? What will happen if I stay?” Her eyes presented a challenge.

“I’ll rip off that T-shirt, cover your body with mine and bury myself deep inside you.”

Raw anticipation consumed her. “Then I choose to stay.”

Chapter Fourteen

Before Corey could even blink, Max rolled her onto her back, his hands and mouth roaming over every
inch of her body. She gasped as he tore the cotton nightshirt from her body, stopping only to gently pull it
over her head, before lowering his head and branding her body with his lips. He trailed hot, wet kisses
over her shoulders and collarbone, dragging his mouth down her fevered skin until it was mere
millimeters from her breasts.

“God, your breasts are…”

His strangled voice made her smile. “My breasts are what?”

“Nice,” he finally choked out. “Very nice.”

Before she could reply, he captured one breast with his mouth, and she immediately forgot to formulate
words. No talking. Talking took too much time, too much energy. Right now she only wanted to
concentrate on Max. And his mouth.

He grazed her nipple with his teeth, and a sigh slipped from her throat. Her eyelids closed as she
allowed the delicious sensations to swarm her body. Pleasure like nothing she’d ever experienced filled
every nerve ending, and when he finally drew her nipple into his mouth, the pleasure heightened to an
excruciating pitch.

Her arms, despite the heaviness weighing them down, found their way around his neck, pulled him
closer. She was naked beneath him, hot and throbbing, and the feel of his cotton boxers against her
stomach tortured her.

“Take. Those. Off,” she groaned between clenched teeth.

A soft chuckle escaped his mouth, and within seconds he’d shucked his boxers. She opened her eyes to
look at his naked, aroused form, and the sight of all those rock-hard muscles, his sleek golden skin and
impressive erection, sent a pulsing wave of heat straight to her core.

She wanted him inside her, but he took his time, kissing her breasts, running his hands over her thighs,
torturing her until she was nothing more than a puddle of heat on the bed.

Swallowing hard, Corey forced herself to concentrate, to provide him with as much pleasure as he gave
her. She ran her hands down his sinewy back, digging her fingernails into his skin, then reached down to
touch his taut behind. When she reached one hand around his body and grasped his shaft in her hands,
he lifted his head from her breast and gently removed her hand.

“If you do that it’ll be over before it begins,” he said with a groan.

“I don’t care,” she said stubbornly. “I need you. Now.”

He looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “How’s your ankle?”

Impatience swarmed her. “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt. But everything else does.”

The small, satisfied grin on his face made her heart jump. Fire burning in his eyes, he slid his hand down
her belly toward the juncture of her thighs. She quivered as he ran a finger over her tender skin, as his
thumb brushed against her slick folds. When he applied pressure on that sensitive spot, a moan flew
from her throat. She’d never felt like this before—needy, hot. Desperate.

Her mind swirled with inexplicable pleasure as he stroked her center, and she almost exploded from his
gentle caress. Each breath was a struggle, a jerky gasp that tore at her lungs until she feared she might
stop breathing altogether.

And then he ran his tip over her opening and she nearly came apart. As one hand clawed at the sheets
beneath her, the other tangled in Max’s unruly hair and pulled his head down. They kissed, a long,
thrilling kiss that sent waves of rapture cascading down her body. He thrust out his tongue, and at the
same time buried himself deep inside her.

Corey cried out.

“Am I hurting you?” he murmured, concern lining his eyes.

He paused over her, searching her eyes, and all she could do was stare up at him. The delicious
stretching of her body, the feel of his arousal inside her, consumed her with sheer bliss, and she couldn’t
form a single word. She’d never felt so complete.

“Don’t stop,” she finally managed to utter, pressing her trembling hands against his powerful back.

With a groan, Max cupped her breast while his other hand snaked into her hair, and then he began to
move. With each thrust she moved closer to the edge, teetering over a cliff that threatened to dissolve
under her feet. When she heard his groan, felt his body shudder and tremble, the release finally came—
only she didn’t fall, she soared, higher and higher, until white-hot pleasure exploded inside her, until she
saw nothing but light. And felt nothing but Max.

Chapter Fifteen

From the cover of the woods, Harold Twain focused his binoculars on Corey Devereaux’s house,
anticipation rising up his spine until he shivered. The house was dark, but he knew Corey and the cop
were inside. He’d seen Hollis show up earlier, both startled and pleased to see that familiar face.

Two birds with one stone, the voice in his head said gleefully.

Oh, yes. What a coup this was. Not only would he punish the daughter of Nikki’s murderer, but he could
get rid of the bastard who’d put him behind bars, too. Earlier, Twain had watched as the detective
walked the perimeter, gun in hand, with that slobbering golden Lab trailing at his feet. Hollis had seemed
satisfied that the area was secure. He’d walked the outskirts of the woods, too, but hadn’t ventured any
deeper, coming nowhere close to where Twain had been hiding.

As midnight rolled around, Twain had changed position, now mere yards from Corey’s backyard. Soon.
Soon he would make his move.

As if someone up above agreed it was time to take action, the back door of the house swung open. The
detective’s silhouette filled the doorway, and that idiotic dog bounded onto the deck. Perfect.
The cop’s chest was bare, and for a moment Twain wondered if Hollis was doing a lot more than
guarding Corey Devereaux. Mixing business with pleasure, perhaps? Shame this would be the last night
he indulged in either, that son of a bitch.

Hollis’s dog was prowling the back lawn, sniffing at the grass. The mutt finally found a patch of grass he
seemed to like, then lifted his hind leg and did his business. The cop called something from the porch,
but before the dog could return to its owner, Twain let out a whistle, so soft only the dog could hear it.

Sure enough, the Lab tilted his head and turned around, peering at the dark forest with intrigue. The cop
said something else, but the dog was already scurrying across the unfenced backyard, picking up speed
when Twain whistled again.

Twain heard the bushes rustle, smiling at the sound of twigs snapping under the dog’s paws. A moment
later, a golden-brown head popped out of a bush. The dog let out a loud bark at the sight of Twain.

Twain’s smile widened. “Let the games begin,” he said as he slowly drew his knife from the sheath on
his belt.

***

Standing on the patio, Max still couldn’t decide if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. A part of
him couldn’t believe that he’d slept with her. That after seven years, he’d finally given in to the desire he
felt for Corey Devereaux.

Since she’d fallen asleep in his arms, her silky red hair fanned across his chest, he’d been asking
himself what now? Where did they go from here?

The answers continued to elude him, and not even the damp night air could clear his head. The rain had
stopped, but the storm in his head wouldn’t dim. He rubbed his temples, wondering if he should wake up
Corey so they could talk about what just happened, but then he heard Winston bark and his guard shot
up twenty feet.

Instantly, his hand lowered to the gun he’d tucked in the small of his back after he’d slipped on his jeans
and left Corey sleeping in the guest room. Winston’s bark could only mean two things—either the dog
had gotten stuck in a bush (which Max wouldn’t put past him) or there was something out there in the
woods.

Something…or someone.

Gripping his weapon with both hands, Max crossed the lawn, the wet grass tickling his bare feet. When
he reached the edge of the forest he stopped, listening. A beat of silence, and then a canine cry of pain
rang out, echoing in the dark night. Dread seized his gut, causing him to slowly move forward through
the brush.

He didn’t call out for Winston, not wanting to reveal his location in case the dog wasn’t out there alone.
When he stepped into a small clearing surrounded with thick pines, his heart nearly stopped. The golden
Lab lay on the dirt, curled on his side and whimpering in pain. Even in the darkness, Max made out the
streak of blood on Winston’s hind leg. Other than Winston, the clearing was empty, but Max couldn’t fight
the wariness climbing up his chest like a vine.

“Hey, boy,” he murmured, slowing approaching the wounded animal. “Let me look at that leg, Win.”

He knelt down, still holding the gun in his right hand, while his left reached down to inspect Winston’s
injury. Winston stared at him with wide eyes. Was that pain or fear? Max’s instincts were humming,
pulse pounding out a beat that screamed danger, but there was no evidence of another human being in
the clearing.
Until he studied the cut on Winston’s leg.

Adrenaline pumped through his blood. The cut…it was one clean slash. Not the kind of cut you got from
a branch, or a fall. It had come from a knife.

Max shot to his feet at the exact instant he heard the footsteps from behind. He raised his gun, but a
fraction of a second too late.

Before he could blink, something heavy smashed into his head, and as stars danced in front of his eyes,
he felt the knife slicing into his side. Agony smashed into him, making him keel over. And then
everything went black.

Chapter Sixteen

Corey awoke at the sound of the guest room door creaking open. Yawning, she rolled over to her side.
“Where’d you go?” she murmured, reaching up to wipe the sleep from her eyes.

Max was nothing more than a dark silhouette in the doorway, and she smiled in the darkness, thinking of
the incredible lovemaking that had lulled her into peaceful slumber. So much for giving up on him. Totally
impossible, she realized now. She loved Max Hollis too much to ever give up. She’d always loved him.

He didn’t say a word as he stepped toward the bed. She experienced a flicker of panic. Oh God, was he
going to tell her this was a mistake again? Leave her the way he’d left seven years ago?

She sat up slowly, pulling the sheet with her to cover her breasts, then said, “Max. Come back to bed.
Please.”

Still he stood there, silent, nothing but a shadow in the darkness.

And then he stepped into a sliver of moonlight that sliced through the crack in the curtains, and his face
was illuminated for one brief moment.

Corey gasped.

Harold Twain. The man who’d murdered her parents was standing at the foot of her bed, holding a…
knife. Oh God, it was the same knife in her painting. Same curved blade, same horrifyingly sharp tip.
Fear streaked through her like a bolt of lightning, followed by a jolt of adrenaline that had her jumping out
of the bed. Pain shot through her ankle, but she ignored it, knowing the pain Twain wanted to cause her
was a thousand times worse.

“Don’t bother,” Twain rasped, smiling at her. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Like hell I’m not,” she shot back.

She eyed the door. Could she get to it? She was no athlete, but she was strong. Lifting heavy canvases
did great things to a girl’s arms, and the self-defense classes she’d taken seven years ago still resonated
with her.

Careless of her nudity and ignoring the throb in her ankle, she charged forward. Twain was prepared for
the attack, but like most men he assumed she’d go for the groin, which caused him to lower his hands
and gave her the opportunity to unleash a right hook into his jaw. He grunted at the impact, and that
second of surprise was all she needed to make it to the doorway.
Heart crashing against her ribs, she tore down the stairs, aware of Twain’s footsteps on her tail. Where
the hell was Max? What had Twain done to him? How had he—

Pain shot into her scalp as her hair was tugged from behind, nearly yanking her head from her body. Her
ankle twisted beneath her, making her cry out in agony and sending her stumbling back against Twain’s
chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Twain whispered, pressing his lips close to her ear. “I’m not finished
with you, Corey.”

She pounded him with her fists, biting, trying to get out of his iron-solid grip. And when that didn’t work,
she let out a scream that he quickly silenced by slapping his palm over her mouth.

Twain sounded annoyed. “Really, Corey, stop struggling and accept your fate.”

“Never,” she hissed out, sinking her teeth into the hand he’d clamped over her mouth.

Twain swore loudly, then slapped her across the face, so hard her head jerked back. “I’m really going to
enjoy punishing you,” he spat out. “You and your family…nothing but goddamn trouble. Murdering
bastards, the lot of you.”

“My dad didn’t kill your daughter,” she choked out.

Another backhand to her face. This one split her lip and brought the salty taste of blood into her mouth.
“He butchered her on that operating table!”

Yanking her by the hair again, Twain dragged her into the kitchen, the steel blade of his knife pressed
against her throat.

“A daughter for a daughter,” he muttered, and though he was behind her and she couldn’t see his face,
she could hear the smirk in his voice.

“You’re crazy,” she whispered. “Certifiably cra—”

Twain lifted his arm and slammed the back of her skull with the handle of his knife. Right before she lost
consciousness, she heard him say, “This is for you, Nikki.”

Chapter Seventeen

Max came to with a ragged groan, his vision so blurry he couldn’t make out a damn thing. But he sure as
hell felt the wet tongue lapping at his face. “Winston?” he mumbled, blinking wildly. “What the hell are
you—”

In a flash, his memory returned. Twain. Twain had hit him over the head and sliced him in the side. Max
lowered his hand to the wound, grimacing when he found his skin sticky with blood. Twain had gone for
the kidney, probably hoping to damage the organ so Max would bleed out. Too bad Max didn’t have a
kidney there. Damn thing had been removed five years ago after a perp put a bullet in it.

Wincing from the pain, he managed to move to a sitting position. Wet dirt stuck to his back, and he
noticed it had started raining again. Next to him Winston whimpered, attempting to move his injured leg,
but Max quickly reached out to still the hurt animal. “Don’t move, boy. I’m going to get you some help,
okay?”
Winston let out a whine, then lowered his head to the ground.

Fighting the waves of pain and nausea, Max stumbled to his feet. He glanced around him, looking for his
gun, and found no sign of it. Twain had taken it. Surprise, surprise.

His throat tightened with fury. Corey. He had to get to Corey.

“Stay,” he ordered Winston, who tried getting up as Max took a few steps forward.

The walk back to the house was difficult, what with the concussion he was certain he had and the blood
pouring out of his side. Cold raindrops hit his bare chest, and his feet were covered with mud by the time
he reached the porch.

Max hesitated by the door, suddenly terrified to go inside. What if he was too late? He had no idea how
long he’d been unconscious. What if Twain had killed Corey?

Pure anguish tore through him at the thought. No. No. Corey was not dead. He would not lose her to that
sadistic psycho.

Fingers trembling, he slowly opened the front door and stepped into the dark hallway. The light in the
kitchen was on, and the yellow glow made his temple aches. Lord, he could barely see straight. Could
barely walk, too. He was in no shape to fight off a killer.

Humming. He suddenly heard low male humming drifting out of the kitchen. Twain was still here. Hope
soared inside him like a helium balloon. Oh Christ, please let her still be alive.

Max’s bare feet didn’t make a sound as he slowly walked down the hall, leaving streaks of mud on the
hardwood floor. He pressed his body against the wall next to the kitchen doorway, took a silent breath
then peeked inside.

Twain was hovering over the kitchen table, back to Max.

And Corey…Max’s heart stopped beating. Corey was lying on the table, red hair spilling over the edge,
eyes closed. Relief poured into him when he noticed the soft rise and fall of her chest, but the sight of
her breasts, exposed to the madman looming over her, sent rage pumping through his blood.

Twain, meanwhile, continued to hum as he…oh Jesus, he was dragging the knife up and down Corey’s
naked body.

Max immediately knew the killer’s intentions. Twain was going to do to Corey what he believed Corey’s
father had done to his daughter.

He was going to cut her open.

Max fought a wave of nausea, swallowing the urge to throw up.

No.

No way in hell was he going to lose her. He loved her, goddamn it! He loved her sass and her laughter
and the way she made him feel anything was possible, that even a screwed-up kid raised by a wife-
beater could have a shot at happiness.

And he was not going to lose her.

Max charged into the kitchen.

Chapter Eighteen

Her stomach hurt. That was the first thing Corey registered as her eyelids fluttered open. Why did her
stomach hurt? Probably because she hadn’t eaten dinner. She and Max had been too busy satisfying
other appetites. She winced with pain as her belly tightened again, and then her eyes focused and she
saw Twain’s face.

His features were lined with intensity, and that pain in her stomach…it was there because he’d just cut
into her skin with a knife. The knife she’d dreamed about two nights ago.

She immediately closed her eyes again, pretending she was still unconscious, trying not to throw up
from the pain.

She needed to catch him off guard. Needed to get the hell out of there before he started to…oh God…to
play knife hockey with her insides.

Corey breathed evenly through her nose, slowly counting to ten. Okay, she could do this. A kick to the
face, a roll to the left and she’d be at the door leading out to the back patio. She could do this. She could
—

“Let her go.”

The sound of Max’s voice brought tears to her eyes. He was here!

Corey shifted her head just in time to see Max stumble into the kitchen. His chest was bare, and the
streaks of blood on his left side sent a rush of concern into her. He was hurt.

Twain spun around at Max’s entrance, releasing an irritated curse, and then he attacked. Max barely
dodged the knife Twain thrust at him, the blade hissing as it connected with nothing but air. A second
later, Max knocked the knife from Twain’s hands, sending it clattering to the tiled kitchen floor.

Help him, a voice in her head ordered as she watched the two men struggling. They were on the floor
now, throwing fists at each other, both attempting to grab the fallen knife.

From the corner of her eye, Corey saw a flash of black steel. A gun. Max’s gun was on the counter.
Cringing, she managed to get up into a sitting position, blood from the cut on her stomach dripping down
her skin and staining the cedar table. She drew in a deep breath, then swung her legs over the side of
the table and hobbled to her feet, ignoring the dull throbbing of her swollen ankle.

She was two feet from the counter when Twain shot up from the floor, evidently thinking along the same
lines as her. The gun would end it all.

As a dose of adrenaline filled her veins, she launched herself at the counter and grabbed the gun a split
second before Twain.

Without hesitation, she pointed it at the bastard and pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot roared in the room, the recoil of the gun making her keel over backward.
“You bitch,” Twain sputtered as he glanced down at his chest in horror. She’d just missed his heart, and
blood poured out of the bullet wound.

And yet he kept coming at her, dark eyes flashing with rage.

She lifted her aim and pulled the trigger again.

This time she hit her mark. Bile rose in her throat as a neat little hole appeared between Harold Twain’s
eyes. With a loud crash he fell over backward, landing on the kitchen floor. His body grew still.

Dead.

Almost instantly, her entire body began to shake, so wildly she could hear her ribs rattling around in her
chest. Her breath came out ragged. Oxygen. She needed oxygen. Oh God, she’d just killed a man.
She’d—

“Give me the gun, sweetheart.”

She nearly jumped three feet in the air when she felt Max’s hand on her bare wrist. Blinking with
confusion, she looked down and saw that her hands were still gripping the gun, aiming it at Twain’s
lifeless body.

“He’s dead, Corey. Give me the gun.”

There was a slur to his voice, and it was that small oddity that snapped her out of her state of shock. She
loosened her grip on the weapon and handed it to Max. As her vision focused, she noticed that his chest
was covered in blood and his eyes had a flat shine to them.

“Are you okay?” he asked gruffly.

She stared into his glazed-looking eyes for a long moment before finally whispering, “No.” And then she
threw herself into his arms.

Chapter Nineteen

It took nearly four hours before Max was finally able to leave the hospital, though if it were up to Corey
he wouldn’t have left at all. Why did men always have to play the tough guy? Max’s concussion worried
her, but apparently to him it was no biggie.

Sitting in the backseat of Detective Russell Parker’s unmarked sedan, Corey’s gaze wandered over
Max’s face. His eyes were closed, but she knew he was awake. She wished he would open his eyes and
look at her, but he’d barely spared her a glance since all the chaos.

Since her house was officially a crime scene, Detective Parker was taking them to Max’s apartment.
Winston was going to spend the night at the vet, and Corey knew the dog would be getting the royal
treatment over there. Back at her house, she’d never seen so many people fawning over an injured
animal. The paramedics had fawned over her, too, as had the doctors who’d stitched her up in the
hospital. But it was Max she worried about. He’d lost a lot of blood, not to mention taken a hard knock to
the head.

But he insisted he was okay. Of course.

“Make sure to wake him up every hour or so,” Detective Parker said when he pulled up in front of Max’s
low-rise building. “If he’s slow to wake, throwing up or seems confused, call me and I’ll bring him back to
the hospital.”

Corey nodded. “I’ll take care of him.”

The detective rounded the vehicle and opened Max’s door, rolling his eyes when his partner began to
complain about not needing help. “I’m helping you upstairs whether you like it or not, macho man,”
Russell said.

In Max’s apartment, after she and Russell had gotten him settled in bed, Corey stood in Max’s living
room frowning at the bare walls and sparse furniture. The room needed color. Life. Max needed it.

Frown deepening, she limped down the narrow hallway. Her ankle still throbbed, now even more after
her struggle with Twain. Slowly she entered Max’s bedroom and, like every other room in the house, this
one was as cozy as a jail cell.

Max’s eyes flickered open at the sound of her footsteps. He tried to sit up, then groaned and touched the
bandage at his side.

“Don’t move,” she said in irritation.

“But—”

“In fact, don’t even talk.” She tightly crossed her arms over chest. “I want you to listen to me, okay?”

“Okay,” he said roughly.

She paused for a moment, searching for the right words, but there was only one way to say it so she
blurted out, “You need me.”

Surprise filled his gorgeous green eyes.

Corey drew in a breath and continued. “You need me, Max. You need me to fix up this boring, empty
apartment, and you need me to make you smile—you really don’t smile enough—and you definitely
need me to love you. There, I said it. I love you. I always have, and I always will, and I’m getting damn
tired of you telling me you don’t have anything to give. Because that’s bull. You give me joy and comfort
and love and—damn it, why are you looking at me like that?”

Chapter Twenty

Max glanced at Corey in amusement, wishing he had a camera so he could capture the outraged look
on her beautiful face. He couldn’t stop a chuckle.

Her outrage grew. “And now you’re laughing at me!”

“Only because you’re saying everything I’d planned to say to you.”

She swallowed. “What?”

“I was going to do it in the morning, when I was a little more coherent, but…” The corner of his mouth
lifted. “You’re right. I do need you. I…” His voice trailed.

“What, Max? You what?”

“I love you, Corey.”

Max had never said those three little words to anyone, but the second they exited his mouth he knew
without a doubt he was doing—and saying—the right thing. He loved Corey Devereaux. Always had,
always would. And it was time to stop being a stubborn jackass and claim what was in front of him.

Almost losing her to Twain tonight had snapped a whole lot of sense into him. Sure, his childhood had
been beyond crappy. His mother’s death and father’s imprisonment had screwed him up. Sure, he was a
workaholic. He had two friends—his partner and his dog. And he would probably always have a hard
time talking about his emotions.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t allow himself to be happy. And this beautiful redhead standing at the
foot of his bed…she made him happy.

“You love me?” Corey echoed softly, a slow smile stretching her lush mouth.

“More than anything.” He sighed. “I fought it for years. I thought…you deserved more.”

She moved to the side of the bed, sinking down on the mattress and reaching out to stroke his stubble-
covered chin. “I deserve you,” she corrected. “I want you.”

His throat tightened with emotion. “Then you have me. You have all of me, sweetheart.”

Hesitation flickered in her gaze. “I’m not too young for you?”

Max chuckled. “I’m not too old for you? Hell, I’m ancient.”

She rolled her eyes. “Seven years isn’t that big of a difference.” Corey smirked. “Especially considering
you act like you’re five half the time. I’ve never met anyone more stubborn than you—I mean, you fought
your feelings for almost a decade. Jerk.”

A laugh rolled out of his chest, bringing a pang of pain to his side. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I’m sorry I
pushed you away for all those years.”

Corey leaned down and brushed her lips over his. “As long as you’re done pushing, you’re forgiven.”

As she gingerly slid up next to him and pressed her head against his shoulder, Max experienced a rush
of pleasure so intense his vision clouded with tears. God, he loved feeling her body against his, loved
the scent of her hair, the sound of her laughter. He loved everything about Corey Devereaux.

“I’m so happy it’s finally over,” she murmured, her warm breath heating his bare skin. “Twain is dead.
You, me, Winston, we’re all fine. I keep thinking how differently tonight could’ve ended, if…”

If he hadn’t regained consciousness in time. If Corey hadn’t snatched the gun before Twain. God, he
could’ve lost her tonight.

He wrapped one arm around her slender shoulder and pulled her closer. “I’m glad it’s over, too,” he
murmured.
She lifted her head, those gorgeous blue eyes searching his face. “But it’s not over for us, is it?”

With a soft smile, he brushed his fingers over her lips and murmured, “Oh, no, sweetheart. For us, it’s
just beginning.”

THE END