Irene Hannon - The Hero Next Door

“Yes, and crime happens everywhere,” J.C. responded.

“The noise we heard is probably feral cats. I caught them rooting through my trash a few days ago.”

J.C. took a quick look around her backyard and confirmed that two cats had indeed stuck their noses in the trash bin.

“Sorry to raise an unnecessary alarm,” he said.

“You must travel in rough circles.”

In Heather Anderson’s world, cats were the biggest predators on the street.

He, on the other hand, had spent his career dealing with lowlifes. And he’d been doing it for so long he didn’t know how to behave around a woman who was untouched by the raw side of life.

“Well, thanks again.” Turning, she disappeared through her back door.

Suddenly, an odd sensation settled in J.C.’s chest. One that had nothing to do with the guilt he’d been carrying for the last month. This was related to a woman with beautiful hazel eyes.

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.

Irene Hannon, who writes both romance and romantic suspense, is an author of more than twenty-five novels. Her books have been honored with both a coveted RITA ®Award from Romance Writers of America (the “Oscar” of romantic fiction) and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from Romantic Times BOOK reviews magazine. More than a million copies of her novels have been sold worldwide.

A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, Irene now writes full-time. In her spare time, she enjoys singing, long walks, cooking, gardening and spending time with family. She and her husband make their home in Missouri.

For more information about her and her books, Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.

Love never fails.

—I Corinthians 13:8

To my husband, Tom—

who is just my cup of tea!

Special thanks to Chief William J. Pittman,

Nantucket Police Department,

for his generous assistance.

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

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Justin Clay had always considered June 1 to be the true beginning of summer. The day that marked the transition from cold and dark to warm and bright.

And on this June 1, as the ferry from Hyannis churned into Nantucket Harbor under cloudless blue skies, he hoped that was as true for his life as it was for the weather.

Forearms resting on the railing, he took in the view as the ferry rounded diminutive Brant Point Light and the Coast Guard station. Boats of every type and size dotted the blue water below the tree-filled town, which perched on a gentle hillside in the background. The gold dome of a clock tower and a tall white steeple soared over the leafy branches, while weathered gray clapboard buildings with white trim predominated along the waterfront.

Lifting his face to the warmth of the sun, Justin took a deep breath. He’d wanted a complete change of scene, and this qualified. The tranquil, pristine vista felt a world removed from the violent, gritty backstreets of Chicago he frequented. Perhaps here, twenty-six miles from the mainland, on this fourteen-by-three-and-a-half-mile speck of land in the Atlantic Ocean, he would find release from the pain and guilt that gnawed at his soul.

As the ferry eased beside the wharf, Justin picked up his oversize duffel bag, slung his backpack over one shoulder and sent a silent prayer heavenward that when he boarded this boat again in three months to head home, he’d be leaving a lot of baggage behind.

Sliding a tray of mini-scones onto the cooling rack on the stainless-steel prep table, Heather Anderson checked the clock. 1:10 p.m. In less than an hour, thirty-four customers would be arriving for a proper British high tea.

Where was Julie?

As she cast a worried glance out the window, the gate by the garage swung open to admit her assistant, and Heather released a relieved breath. The Devon Rose might be a one-woman show for most of the day, but she needed help with the actual serving.

Pushing through the back door, her white blouse and black skirt immaculate even if her French braid was slightly askew, Julie sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry. I had a flat tire.”

“No problem. I’m just glad you’re here.” Heather adjusted the oven temperature, strode over to the commercial-size refrigerator and pulled out a tray of mini-quiches. “Did Todd change it for you?”

“Yes. But I hated to wake him.” Julie began arranging the scones on the second level of the three-tiered silver serving stands lined up on the counter, tucking flowers among them. “There was some kind of drug incident in the wee hours of the morning, and he was beat when he got home. But he didn’t complain about the tire.”

“And you’ve been married how long? Twenty years?” Heather shook her head as she took the lids off fifteen teapots in a variety of styles and arranged them on a long counter. “He’s one in a million, Julie. Count your blessings.”

“I do. Every day. But there are other good guys out there, too, you know.” She sent Heather a meaningful glance.

“Maybe.” Heather slid the quiches into the oven. “But they’re few and far between. And based on past experience, not likely to come calling at my door. I’d have to beat the bushes to find one.” She closed the oven door and turned to Julie. “And as far as I’m concerned, it’s not worth the effort.”

Justin hoisted his backpack into a more comfortable position, pulled the Nantucket town map out of the back pocket of his jeans and perused the maze of streets. In one more block he’d be at Lighthouse Lane—and the cottage he’d be calling home for the next three months.

Refolding the map, he shoved it back into his pocket, hefted his duffel bag and continued down the sidewalk. As he’d already discovered on his trek from the wharf, unlike the dirty, decaying back alleys of Chicago, Nantucket was clean and well kept. The people he’d passed, many on bicycles, had been dressed nicely, and they’d smiled at him. A welcome change of pace from the suspicious looks he was used to, cast by questionable characters as they slunk into dark doorways.

Nantucket wasn’t crime free, Justin knew. But he doubted he’d have to worry about double crosses here—or mistakes that could snuff out lives.

A lump rose in his throat, and he paused at the corner of Lighthouse Lane to blink away the sudden film of moisture that blurred his vision. With memories so fresh and raw, maybe coming to Nantucket hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. Maybe he should have used the last three months of his four-month leave to veg. Rent a cabin in the woods and disappear. Or borrow a boat and hang out on Lake Michigan.