Morgan Hayes - See No Evil

Cover Page

Excerpt “He ran after me along the catwalk—Gary’s killer.” Stevie went on, in spite of Allister’s efforts to stop her. “I remember thinking that if I could beat him outside and get into my car, I’d be safe. But then he was right behind me.” “Stevie, you don’t have to—” “Allister! Allister, wait! I remember…when I fell, just before I blacked out, I saw him again. He was leaning over me.-The catwalk…it was dark, and his face was in shadow. But I remember him coming closer…And then I saw a scar.” “A scar?” Allister couldn’t breathe. He pulled away from Stevie, needing space. This couldn’t be happening. A kind of excitement lit up her expression now—excitement at her newfound memory. “On the man’s face.” She drew a finger along her left temple, and as he watched her, it felt as though an invisible icy finger touched his own temple where the ragged scar indelibly marked him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR ABOUT THE AUTHOR Although Morgan Hayes has never suffered temporary blindness, she suspects that blindness, whether temporary or not, is a condition that many people have pondered at least once in their lives. And she thought it would be a fascinating challenge to experience it through one of her characters, especially a photographer whose livelihood is dependent on sight. Morgan loves to hear from readers, and invites you to write her c/o: Harlequin Superromance Harlequin Enterprises 225 Duncan Mill Road Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9 Canada

Title Page See No Evil Morgan Hayes www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication For Dennis and Sandi Jones—the truest partners in crime a gal could ask for And for Pat Skinner, who is always there between all the chapters…taking breaths Heartfelt thanks go out to Dr. Jeff and Brenda Freeman, who gave graciously of their time and medical advice

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

Copyright

Stevie went on, in spite of Allister’s efforts to stop her. “I remember thinking that if I could beat him outside and get into my car, I’d be safe. But then he was right behind me.”

“Stevie, you don’t have to—”

“Allister! Allister, wait! I remember…when I fell, just before I blacked out, I saw him again. He was leaning over me.-The catwalk…it was dark, and his face was in shadow. But I remember him coming closer…And then I saw a scar.”

“A scar?” Allister couldn’t breathe. He pulled away from Stevie, needing space. This couldn’t be happening. A kind of excitement lit up her expression now—excitement at her newfound memory.

“On the man’s face.” She drew a finger along her left temple, and as he watched her, it felt as though an invisible icy finger touched his own temple where the ragged scar indelibly marked him.

Although Morgan Hayes has never suffered temporary blindness, she suspects that blindness, whether temporary or not, is a condition that many people have pondered at least once in their lives. And she thought it would be a fascinating challenge to experience it through one of her characters, especially a photographer whose livelihood is dependent on sight. Morgan loves to hear from readers, and invites you to write her c/o:

Harlequin Superromance

Harlequin Enterprises

225 Duncan Mill Road

Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9

Canada

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Dennis and Sandi Jones—the truest partners in crime a gal could ask for And for Pat Skinner, who is always there between all the chapters…taking breaths

Heartfelt thanks go out to Dr. Jeff and Brenda Freeman, who gave graciously of their time and medical advice

THE DARK CLOUD that had been hanging over Vince Fenton’s head all day had just gotten darker. From the moment he’d awoken this morning to a godawful hangover and a phone call from Edward Bainbridge, he should have known that things could only get worse. In retrospect, he never should have answered the phone. He should have figured it was Bainbridge calling about Gary Palmer and the shipment.

Then again, Vince thought as he followed the catwalk above the loading area of Palmer Storage and Shipping, if he played his cards right and this deal went through, he stood to gain more than the measly pittance Bainbridge had been paying him. Bainbridge was so uneasy about his package that he’d now offered Vince a handsome bonus if he could get it back from Palmer.

Vince wasn’t surprised that Palmer had called Bainbridge the night before requesting a meeting. The shipper had seemed suspicious from the moment his services were requested. The fact that the overseas shipment should have left days ago without a hitch was proof that Palmer was on to Bainbridge. It was clear he’d discovered the package’s contents and now hoped to cash in on what promised to be Bainbridge’s most lucrative venture yet.

With a collection of rare Spanish coins at stake, Bainbridge should have been more discriminating when selecting a shipper. He should have anticipated that someone like Palmer might see the opportunity for blackmail. If he had, this entire mess wouldn’t be happening. And Vince would not have had to come out here to Palmer Shipping this afternoon.

Well, he’d tried his best. He’d talked to Palmer like Bainbridge had asked him to. In the closed confines of the man’s office, Vince had pressed Palmer as far as he’d dared. He’d reined himself in when he’d been more than ready to take a piece out of Palmer just for wasting his time. And still the shipper refused to hand over the coins. As far as Vince was concerned it was time to take care of Gary Palmer once and for all. In fact, he’d call Bainbridge and offer to do it himself tonight. It had been a while since he’d had the pleasure.

But first, he needed to get out of here. He needed a drink.

A sudden resounding crash, followed by the shatter of glass brought Vince to an abrupt halt. Voices cursed in unison.

Only twenty minutes ago, when he’d come in the side entrance, he’d assumed the place was empty. It was Friday. Palmer’s crew had kicked off early for the weekend. Palmer was supposed to have been alone.

Vince looked down from the catwalk. Immediately he squinted against a brilliant glare of lights.

“Dammit, Ralph!” a woman’s voice echoed through the building.

Vince’s quick gaze caught sight of her. Wearing faded jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, the woman stood in the middle of the loading area. She shook her head and turned on the heel of her boot, swiping one hand through cropped black hair as she gripped a camera in the other.

A photo session?

Vince’s fingers tightened on the handrail as he assessed the situation.

Around the photographer, a half-dozen crew members snapped to attention. They scrambled to arrange lamps and panels as several long-legged models strutted casually in stiletto heels and scanty outfits that mocked the frigid January temperatures. No doubt this was some sort of fashion shoot.

“Sorry, Stevie,” one of the men called out.