Maggie Price - Jackson's Woman

Beneath the shop’s bright lights, the gash that slashed his left eyebrow looked even rawer.

Claire didn’t let herself try to imagine how he’d got injured. She’d spent too many hours alone in various foreign countries, fearing he was lying dead someplace.

“Are you saying you flew all those hours to get here because you suspected someone wanted to kill my handyman?”

“Yes, I travelled today with the sole intention of getting here, to you, as soon as I could. But it wasn’t because I thought someone planned to slit your handyman’s throat.”

“Then why? Jackson, why are you here?”

“Because someone wants to kill you .”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Before embarking on a writing career, Maggie Price took a walk on the wild side and started associating with people who carry guns. Fortunately they were cops, and Maggie’s career as a crime analyst with the Oklahoma City Police Department has given her the background needed to write true-to-life police procedural romances, which have won numerous accolades, including a nomination for the coveted RITA® Award.

Maggie is a recipient of a Golden Heart Award, a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times BOOKreviews , a National Reader’s Choice Award and a Bookseller’s Best Award, all in series romantic suspense. Readers are invited to contact Maggie at 416 NW 8th St, Oklahoma City, OK 73102-2604, USA. Or on the web at www.MaggiePrice.net.

MAGGIE PRICE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To “old” friends Mary Nichols Denson and Karen Westfall Perez, with thanks for the warm memories, the great sleepovers, the triple dates and all the dreams we used to weave.

The dark-haired geologist who swung open the door to his favorite Barcelona restaurant was tall, lean and lanky, in the prime of his life.

In five minutes, he’d be dead.

At the tree-shaded park a safe distance away, a man fueled by cold revenge stabbed a button on his cell phone.

“Target’s in.” Without waiting for a reply, he ended the call.

Through powerful binoculars the man scanned the lunchtime crowd jamming the sunny sidewalk in front of the restaurant. When he spotted the two blond women who’d paused to check the menu posted outside the restaurant, his throat closed. Each dressed in a bright sundress, their skin tanned, they looked so much like his wife and teenage daughter he felt a wave of nausea. Sweat beaded his forehead, his palms.

Don’t go inside . The warning flashed in his brain while fresh grief that was beyond name, beyond reason, ripped at his gut.

The older of the two women pointed at something on the menu and shook her head; the younger one shrugged. They continued down the sidewalk, skirts swishing against tanned legs, neither knowing that the decision to bypass the restaurant had saved their lives.

Layer by layer, he rebuilt control so that his hands were rock-steady when the teenager with friendly brown eyes appeared around the corner. The kid was solidly built, wearing jeans and a red T-shirt.

No reason for anyone watching him to suspect that the blue backpack hanging over one shoulder held a deadly device.

The teen tugged open the restaurant’s door and stepped inside. Minutes later he strolled out, sans backpack.

The man turned and headed for the far side of the park, the soles of his scuffed boots silent on the thick grass. He was three blocks away when the deafening blast rocked the air. Even from a distance, he could hear agonized screams.

His stomach clenched as the memory of other screams razored through him. He’d arrived at the safe house too late, had no choice but to stay hidden while listening to his wife and daughter scream before they died.

They’d been gone two weeks. Two weeks of despair, confusion and agony.

Now, a feral tangle of rage and hate and revenge drove him to make the bastard responsible for their deaths pay.

Today he had accomplished the first step toward that goal.

Jackson Castle’s twin brother was dead.

His woman would die next.

Eye for an eye.

Chapter 1

Good to be home, Claire Munroe thought while juggling her purse, overnight bag, keys and one of the cardboard boxes containing the finds she couldn’t wait to display in her antique shop. It was late—all the businesses in Oklahoma City’s Reunion Square had closed hours ago—so she’d parked at the curb, a few feet from Home Treasures’ entrance. Smart move, she decided, since the temperature hovered in the eighties and the box weighed a ton.

In the hushed darkness there was only the click of her sandals on concrete as she lugged everything across the sidewalk.

Thankful for the carriage lamps that cast puddles of light on the shop’s entryway, she managed to slide her key into the lock on the first try. The dead bolt snicked open; when the door swung inward she was greeted by cool air and the scent of the apple and pine potpourri she’d placed all around. A wash of weak light glowed from the pair of timer-operated globe lamps that went on each evening at dusk.

She had been away for only one night, but to a woman who’d sacrificed so much to own the building that housed her shop and the cozy apartment over it, even that short time away had been too long.

Balancing the box against one hip, she turned, intending to punch her code into the alarm panel, but hesitated when she saw the glowing green light indicating the system wasn’t armed. Glancing across her shoulder, her gaze swept the dim shop with its lofty ceiling. Curio cabinets loaded with salt cellars, fragile teacups and enameled boxes sat exactly where she’d left them. Nearby, the mahogany table topped by a small antique chest and a collection of pewter ale mugs appeared just as it had when she’d locked up the previous evening and set the alarm.

Claire sighed. This was the third time she’d come home and found her alarm unarmed after arranging for her handyman to do repairs while the shop was closed. Silas Smith was in his late seventies and getting forgetful. At least the sweet old man had remembered to lock the dead bolt.

Using the tip of one sandal, Claire shoved the door closed. She slid her keys into a back pocket of her jeans, relocked the door and headed toward the rear of the shop. She had one more box to retrieve from her SUV, then she would set the alarm and head upstairs. Topping her agenda was a hot soak in the tub accompanied by a glass of chilled wine.

All thought of that agenda flew out of her head when her foot rammed into something solid, sending her lurching forward. The weight of the box added to her body’s momentum and she went down hard, her right side slamming against the box’s top edge.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. Everything went dim for a moment, like a blown fuse snapping off all the lights.

Claire remained motionless until her vision cleared. Her breath shuddered out. Then in. Slowly, she eased into a sitting position, wincing against the pain in her ribs.

Whatever she’d tripped over hadn’t been there when she’d locked up her shop the previous evening . Shoving her hair out of her face, she looked over her shoulder.