Carrie Alexander - Nobody's Hero

“Am I still a stranger?” asked Sean.

Moonlight illuminated Connie’s face as she tilted it up toward his. Her eyes were the dark green of a woodsy pond beneath lashes that drew spiked shadows across the curves of her cheeks. “No, I suppose not.”

Sean brushed his fingers over her narrow back, feeling the warmth of her beneath the thin layer of fabric.

“You’ve been very nice about us intruding on your vacation,” Connie said, “but I know Pippa may become an annoyance, especially now that she knows your profession.”

He looked at Connie’s solemn face, with traces of sorrow she couldn’t hide, and nodded. What else could he do, when what filled his mind wasn’t the tragedy of losing her husband—or even the recent upset of his own ordered existence—but that he had an overwhelming desire to kiss her?

“I’ll watch out for your girl,” he said. Then silently added and you.

Dear Reader,

Would you participate in a vacation house switch?

The idea intrigues me. Aside from traveling to an exotic destination, there’s the aspect of moving into another person’s house. How do they decorate, what books do they read, which soap do they use, what’s programmed on their DVR? On the other hand, would I want a stranger in my house, learning the same about me? Maybe if I was happily ensconced in a sun-baked hacienda or a vineyard villa, I wouldn’t care.

Sean Rafferty of Nobody’s Hero takes the plunge and lands in a picturesque cottage on a small island off the coast of Maine. Lucky guy!

Enjoy,

Carrie Alexander

P.S. Visit me at www.CarrieAlexander.com and sign up for my e-newsletter Get Carried Away.

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

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Not only has Carrie Alexander given up on keeping her mountainous to-be-read stacks under control, she’s lost count of how many books she’s written. If she were ever to participate in a vacation house switch, she’d have to specify that only bookworms need apply. Carrie and her books live in a riverside cottage in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

To the Deadline Hellions bloggers and our readers,

for coming along on my strange writing adventures—

from rainbow manuscripts to deadline bats at 3:00 a.m.

PROLOGUE

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

SWAP YOUR VACATION HOUSE AT

HOLIDAYS AWAY!

Available July 21–Aug. 3, Osprey Island, Maine:

Quaint island cottage with splendid ocean view. Two bedrooms, full bath, eat-in kitchen, fireplace, BBQ. Enjoy kayaking, hiking, birding, boating and much more in isolated splendor, sixteen miles off the ruggedly picturesque Maine coast. Motivated owner particularly willing to swap with Sunbelt location.

Pippa Bradford’s Book of Curious Observations

JULY 21, OSPREY ISLAND, Maine. Latest subjects arrived at 9:17 a.m. on Jonesport ferry.

1. Bald man in trench coat, carrying briefcase, went straight to Whitecap Inn. Does not look like vacationer? (Check guest book for name.)

2. Couple met by Mrs. Sheffield of Peregrine House. Husband short and fat with gray hair and sunglasses, wife (or girlfreind?) tall with blond hair and high voice. Nice dressed, loads of luggage. Departed in silver Mercedes convertible, Mrs. S driving. Graves loaded luggage in pickup truck. Houseguests? High probabillity.

3. Pretty woman in purple shorts. Backpack. Got bike at Dockside Cycle. Overheard: one-day rental. Tourist—no more observation necessary.

4. Tall man with short dark hair. One bag. Jeans and baseball cap (Bruins). Sunglasses, suspicious limp. Walked to Pine Cone Cottage on Shore Road, took house keys from mailbox. Name on box is Potter. Resident? Future observation required.

SEAN RAFFERTY’S NAPE prickled. He brushed a hand inside his collar. There was no mosquito, nor stray hair from his grown-out law-enforcement buzz cut, but then he’d known that.

Someone was watching him.

He continued his limping circuit of Pine Cone Cottage’s backyard. Behind a pair of tinted aviator sunglasses, his eyes were alert.

The sheltering wood was densely evergreen with a few spears of silver birch, bordered by ferns and underbrush. He took his time traversing the bumpy square of crabgrass and dandelions, waiting for the spy to give herself away. She wasn’t nearly as sneaky as she believed.

Sunshine glinted off glass. He narrowed his eyes and searched the forest beyond the weathered picket fence of the vegetable garden. Hidden deep inside the pinecone-laden branches of a blue spruce were twin lenses.

Pocket-size binoculars. They disappeared at his scrutiny. Branches bobbed as the lurker shifted position.

Sean stretched out the morning kinks, tilting his face toward the hot gold disk of the sun that had appeared over the treetops. He might have called out that there was nothing to see, nothing but a broken-down trooper with a bullet hole in his thigh and thirteen more days of emptiness to fill.

But he preferred the silence.

He’d found Maine’s Osprey Island at a vacation house swap site on the Web. Desperate measures—his parents had been urging him to take their time-share condo at an Arizona desert resort. From previous visits there, he’d known that this time around he was in no mood to abide the other retirees’ constant goodwill and inquisitiveness. They would want to commiserate about the shooting and his ongoing recovery. They would refuse to leave him alone, for his “own good.” They’d probably even phone Patrick and Moira Rafferty with updates on their son’s progress.

No, thanks. Peace and quiet was what Sean needed while he licked his wounds, not a resort filled with boisterous seniors in madras shorts and families of squealing, sunburned children.

One furtive child he could deal with. Even one with a penchant for sleuthing.

Sean settled into the lawn chair he’d moved to the backyard from the front, where there was an ocean view just beyond the road that bypassed the house. Two rustic thoroughfares, Shore and Cliff Roads, bordered the tiny island, following the coastline for the most part.

There weren’t many cars but in his first day on Osprey he’d quickly learned that Shore Road was well traveled by both day-trippers and the seasonal locals, many of them creative types with two occupations—art and socializing. Two neighboring cottagers had already shown up at his door offering invitations, which he’d declined. Even in top form, he wasn’t the cocktail-party type.