Robin Perini - Finding Her Son

“I heard a suspicious click right before the explosion. Someone wants you dead—with no evidence left behind.”

“If you hadn’t been here—”

She gripped his shirt and buried her head against him. He’d seen the reaction before. He held her tight.

“We’ll find out who’s doing this. I promise.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He couldn’t say no to her trembling frame. Each shudder evoked every protective instinct throbbing in his veins. He cradled her against him and stroked her hair softly, brushing a few stray snowflakes out of her hair. “You’re okay. It’ll be okay.”

He was lying. Again. This assassin wanted a kill. Mitch could stop him only so long—unless he discovered who was behind the attempts on her life.

Award-winning author ROBIN PERINI’s love of heartstopping suspense and poignant romance, coupled with her adoration of high-tech weaponry and covert ops, encouraged her secret inner commando to take on the challenge of writing romantic suspense novels. Her mission’s motto: “When danger and romance collide, no heart is safe.”

Devoted to giving her readers fast-paced, high-stakes adventures with a love story sure to melt their hearts, Robin won the prestigious Romance Writers of America ®Golden Heart ®Award in 2011. By day, she works for an advanced technology corporation, and in her spare time, you might find her giving one of her many nationally acclaimed writing workshops or training in competitive small-bore rifle silhouette shooting. Robin loves to interact with readers. You can catch her on her website, www.robinperini.com, several major social-networking sites or write to her at PO Box 50472, Albuquerque, NM 87181-0472, USA.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my mom—the most ferocious mama bear I know.

Your love and unbending faith in me have given me the strength to persevere. I am truly blessed.

I love you, Mom. Always.

Acknowledgements

I’m living my dream. But no one gets to this wonderful place alone.

To my amazing editor, Allison Lyons, who saw something in my writing and took a chance.

You made my dreams come true.

To the most vicious critique group ever—

Tammy Baumann, Louise Bergin and Sherri Buerkle.

I love you all. You, my dear friends, sacrificed for this one more than anyone will know. I am humbled and grateful. Let’s not do it again!

To Angi Platt and Jenn Stark for their keen insight and willingness to help. Thanks are not enough, and I expect payback.

To my best friend and the sister of my heart,

Claire Cavanaugh, the wind beneath my wings.

This book wouldn’t be here without you.

You know why.

Icy wind howled through the SUV’s shattered windshield, spraying glass and freezing sleet across Eric Wentworth’s face. He struggled in and out of consciousness. Flashes of memory struck. Oncoming headlights on the wrong side of the road. Skidding tires on black ice. The baby’s cries. Emily’s screams.

Oh, God.

Why couldn’t he focus? Above the wind, he heard only silence, then an ominous gurgling sound from his lungs. He shifted his head slightly to check on his wife, and a knife-like pain seared his neck. He stopped, staring in horror at the shaft of metal guardrail penetrating his chest. Blood pulsed from the wound, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.

Eric was dying. And it was no accident. He hadn’t taken the threats seriously, hadn’t told Emily what he’d done. Why they were all in danger.

“E-Eric?” Her voice was weak, barely audible over the storm gusts.

Thank the Lord she was still alive. In the darkness, he could just make out her small frame pinned by the dashboard. He had to warn her.

Emily. Escape. Before he comes back .

No sound came from his lips, and at the effort, his vision blurred.

“Eric, are you all right?”

Fear tinged her voice, but he could do nothing to comfort or reassure her.

A soft cry came from the backseat. The baby. Only a month old.

“Mommy’s here.” Emily pushed at the dash. “Eric, I’m stuck. I can’t get to Joshua.”

Headlights swept across the crumpled interior. A vehicle pulled up behind them.

“A car! Help!” Emily called out. “We’re trapped! There’s a baby in here!”

No! Emily. Get out. Now. Please. Take Joshua. Run .

A door slammed, but from the stealth of the approaching footsteps, Eric knew this was no rescue. Tears of impotent rage scalded his cheeks. They’re innocent. Don’t kill them . They’ve done nothing .

The back door ripped open, revealing a dark, hooded figure. The baby whimpered. After a moment’s hesitation, the person unclicked the car seat and yanked it free.

The baby’s cries filled the air.

A sob escaped Emily’s throat. “Joshua? Is he all right?”

Without responding, the man shined the flashlight through the broken passenger window, scanned Emily, then focused the blinding light directly in Eric’s face, illuminating his fatal wounds.

Emily gasped. “Eric! No! Please. Please, help my husband.”

Struggling to remain conscious, Eric stared toward the beam of light, willing the man not to carry out the contract, silently begging for mercy for his family.

As if in answer, the man reached into the car, grabbed Emily and slammed her head on the door frame. With quick movements, he wrapped her hand around a jagged piece of windshield and forced it to slash across her neck.

No. Not Emily! Eric’s silent scream echoed her agonized one. The man slammed her head again. She fell silent. Blood trickled down her throat.

With one last mocking salute, the bastard lifted the baby’s car seat and turned away, smearing blood across the small, blue blanket. Utter grief overcame Eric as his son’s cries disappeared into the night.

Spots danced in front of Eric’s eyes. He stared at Emily’s still body. His life flickered painfully within him.

Please, let her live. Give her strength. She has to find him .

Emily took a shallow breath as Eric Wentworth’s world faded to black for the final time. I’m sorry, my love. So sorry .

One Year Later

Cursing under his breath, Mitch Bradford yanked his collar up against the bitter Colorado wind. Where was Emily Went-worth going? He stalked across Colfax, on a stretch of the street known as a candy store for illicit drugs and prostitution. He could’ve been home alone in front of the fireplace, his bum leg propped up, nursing a stiff drink and a double dose of ibuprofen. The irony didn’t amuse him. He’d been tapped for the Wentworth case because of his injury. One more reason to kill the guy who’d shot up his leg during his last SWAT operation.

Mitch ducked his head and plunged forward into the night, ignoring the exchange of money on the corner. He would’ve busted the dealer any other time, but he refused to let his suspect out of sight. When she approached a group of gangbangers, he tensed and reached for his weapon.

They circled her.

Two murders last night in the neighborhood. No time to be subtle.

He broke into a run, disregarding the twinge in his leg. He’d pay for it later, but they could shoot or stab her in seconds. Before he reached her, she tilted her head at the assailants like she was flirting and skirted through the wall of thugs. They let her go.

Mitch pulled back. Crazy woman. He tucked his Glock into the shoulder holster. He’d had enough of these cat-and-mouse games. He sped up and followed her across an alley. The scent of vomit and urine, and God knew what else, soured the night.