Cassie Miles - Criminally Handsome

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Cover Page

Title Page Criminally Handsome Cassie Miles www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author Though born in Chicago and raised in LA, CASSIE MILES has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post . After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. A lot of wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Copyright

Though born in Chicago and raised in LA, CASSIE MILEShas lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post .

After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. A lot of wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

Emma Richardson folded her arms on the desktop in her home office and laid down her head. At nine o’clock in the morning, it was too early for a nap. But she was tired, so very tired.

I’ll only rest my eyes. Only for a moment. While the house is quiet…

Reality faded as a psychic vision seeped into her mind. Daylight shimmered and vanished, transformed into night.

She was in a forest.

A cold wind rattled through bare branches, and the shadows shifted beneath her feet. Beside her, to the east, the dark waters of a wide, wild river crashed against rocks and boulders, spewing a deadly froth.

A tall woman appeared. She wore an FBI jacket. Her eyes were hollow. Her lips were white and dead. She spoke only one word. “Run.”

Emma didn’t ask why. She knew. He was coming closer. The danger was coming closer.

She scrambled over the rocks at the river’s edge. This was no good; she needed to seek open ground. Turning to the west, she fought her way through thicket, pine and cottonwood. The trees dissuaded her. West was the wrong direction. On the medicine wheel, west meant death.

She slipped, caught hold of the slender white trunk of an aspen. The bark felt warm, full of life. The branches were green with leaves. This tree had saved her balance, kept her from falling.

With a final effort, she crawled into the open. As she ran, her sneakers dug into the moist earth, still saturated from the recent blizzard. She vaulted over low shrubs and patches of snow, running hard, running for her life.

The muscles in her thighs throbbed. Her blood pumped so fiercely through her veins that her ears were ringing. But she had to keep going. If she stopped, he’d catch her.

Straight ahead, she saw a car, and she heard the cries of an infant. She had to protect him. She veered toward the south—the direction of safety—leading her pursuer away from the precious child.

He was gaining. So close that she felt his hot, fetid breath on the back of her neck. His hands grabbed her jacket. There was no escape. He had her. She fell.

He was on top of her. Shadows hid his face but she saw his necklace. A leather medallion with a black bear claw design. He held a knife. Moonlight gleamed on the silver blade.

Through the ringing in her ears, she heard him say, “Aspen got away. But you will die.”

As the blade descended toward her throat, her eyelids closed…

She woke with a start, jolted back in the swivel chair. April sunlight poured through the window. The screen saver on her computer showed a random lightning bolt pattern. Though Emma knew she was safe at home, the aura of danger lingered. Her heart raced as if she had actually been running.

Finally, she’d had a vision. Finally, her gift as a medium might help her find her cousin.

Before the images faded in her memory, she grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down all that she could remember. Her pen flew across the page, making sketchy notes: Woman in FBI jacket. The river to the east. The green aspen leaves. Running to the west. The car with the baby. Turn to the south. His knife. His leather necklace. She drew the bear claw design.

Lifting her pen, she looked down at the paper and saw that she’d unintentionally drawn a second design. Leafy with vines, it looked like a logo. Three letters twined together. VDG.

Where did that come from? And what did VDG stand for? Very Damn Good? Vines Do Grow? Or the V could stand for Virgin. She winced. Don’t go there. This vision wasn’t about her personal life. These images pertained to the disappearance of her cousin, Aspen Meadows.

Aspen. She circled the word. The aspen tree in her vision was leafy and warm, still flowing with sap. And the pursuer said that Aspen got away. Emma wanted to believe those words, wanted to believe that her cousin had survived the attack. But where was she?

Five weeks ago, just before a spring blizzard blanketed the southeast corner of Colorado with several feet of snow, Aspen’s car had been found in a ditch just outside Kenner City. Her six-week-old son, Jack, was safe in his car seat, but Sheriff Patrick Martinez suspected foul play. When he placed Jack in Emma’s care, he had warned her to be prepared for the worst.

But that couldn’t be. Aspen wasn’t dead. Whenever someone close to Emma passed on, she knew. The dead came to her from the other side, spoke to her, showed her visions or symbols. Ever since she was ten years old and her deceased grandmother warned her about the fire, she’d been a medium—able to communicate with the dead. At age thirty, she trusted her spirit visions almost more than reality.

For five long weeks, she’d been hoping that her psychic senses would give her a clue to Aspen’s whereabouts, but nothing had come into her mind. Until now. The spirit who showed her this vision had to be the tall FBI woman—a dead woman. Who was she? How was she connected to Aspen’s disappearance?

Emma closed her eyes and concentrated. Who are you?

Nothing came. Not a sound. Not a symbol.

Please tell me. Who are you?

Still nothing.