Shoving past him with every ounce of her strength, Liz propelled Rachel forward, placing herself between her friend and the remaining two men.
“Run!” Liz commanded.
Rachel didn’t need to be told twice. She hurtled up the cobblestone street, Liz following close at her heels.
One hundred yards.
White-hot pain erupted in the back of her head—someone had caught hold of her hair and wrenched. The force pulled her off her feet and she hit the street, breath snatched from her lungs and tears of pain burning her eyes. Relief mingled with terror. Rachel hadn’t realized what had happened.
Almost there, almost safe.
Seventy-five yards.
She grasped at the wrist that viciously gripped her hair, pulling her back up to her feet. She didn’t need to see his face to know that the body pressed against hers belonged to the man she had encountered in the bar. “Call her back,” he demanded.
“No,” Liz ground out, proud her voice didn’t waver.
Fifty yards.
“Stop!” The shout startled Rachel enough to glance behind her and slow. “Come back, or I’ll have to hurt your friend.” He shifted his grip, freeing up his right hand. The heavy swish-clink of a butterfly knife opening reached her seconds before the blade bit into her throat. To Liz’s horror, Rachel stopped.
“No!” The tip of the knife nicked her, a bead of blood trickling down to join the sweat running down her neck. Rachel stared at her, eyes wide, mouth open in terror. “Rachel, please, just go.” The pleading tone —so typical of Rachel and so alien to Liz, kept Rachel from moving forward. But she didn’t move back either.
“She won’t go. She won’t leave you.” Amusement laced his voice.
Alek moved forward, taking a few cautious steps toward Rachel. In seconds Rachel would have no chance of escape at all. Liz opened her mouth to yell at her again, but the blade slid up to press tightly to the underside of her chin.
“None of that.” His lips pressed close to her ear, his warm breath sending unwelcome shivers down her spine. “Come here, Rachel,” he ordered.
When Rachel remained frozen, his knife widened the nick in Liz’s neck to a shallow cut. “I will slit your friend’s pretty throat.”
His promise skittered down Liz’s spine.
“It would be such a waste.” Panic clawed through her as his tongue stroked the shell of her ear.
“Lizzy…” Rachel’s torment resounded through Liz’s chest. In that instant, she knew Rachel would never leave her. Liz wanted to be mad. She wanted to scream. But she couldn’t have left Rachel, either.
Time snapped forward. Alek grabbed Rachel roughly by the elbow and propelled her forward. The van pulled up right next to them, the sliding door screaming open on a rusty track. Liz didn’t get the chance to brace herself for the impact as she was shoved to the floor of the vehicle, cheek pressed against the cold metal, her hands yanked behind her back and secured with plastic ties. The last thing she saw was Rachel’s tearstained face as she was forced down next to her. Then the sliding door slammed closed, plunging them into absolute darkness, leaving only Rachel’s terrified sobs to focus on, echoing in her head and slicing through her heart.
Chapter Two
Two Years Later
Tears burned in the corners of Beth’s eyes. Her muscles flinched and jerked, and her pulse hammered in her head. The cold tile of her bathroom floor wasn’t enough to stop the cold and greasy perspiration sliding down her back. Heaving herself to her knees, she managed to brace herself over the toilet as the retching started again.
Minutes passed like hours, until finally, her muscles relaxed their stranglehold on her body and her heart rate began its slow descent toward normal. Her hands continued to shake with fine tremors as she pulled her fingers through her hair. The shaking would plague her through the morning.
Get up. Get going. Put it behind you and get on with the day.
Beth hoisted herself up. The bathroom mirror reflected the alarm clock next to her bed—still early, not even six yet. Enough time for a hot shower to soothe the residual cramping and then a strong cup of tea.
By the time she dried off, her hands were steady enough to hold a mug and the nausea had passed. But the damage was done. She barely recognized her reflection in the mirror. The fluorescent lighting made her slim face appear gaunt. It accented her pale complexion and the dark circles beneath her eyes.
You look like a zombie movie extra.
Resigned, she reached for her makeup bag, dreading the battle with concealer. She didn’t have a magic hand with makeup—that had always been Rachel’s department. Beth frowned, ruthlessly cutting off that train of thought.
Forward not backward. Right.
She pulled open the medicine cabinet and chased a couple of ibuprofen with the last of her tea, carefully ignoring the neat row of sleeping pills, antidepressants and antianxiety meds. They only made things worse. She could do without the heavy limbs and groggy head the sleeping pills always left behind. A few hours at the gym after work and she’d be so exhausted she probably wouldn’t miss them. She’d stopped taking the other medications months ago. They hadn’t helped.
Beth slammed the cabinet shut and flipped off the light. Grabbing her gym bag from the floor, she tossed her purse and cell phone inside and snatched her keys off the counter. She double-checked that the door was locked and then stepped into the murky Portland morning.
Cool spring air, moist from the night, fogged her windshield as she maneuvered her Jeep onto the road. She’d been in Portland nearly five months, the longest she’d remained anywhere in more than a year and a half. She was toying with the idea of staying longer. She was tired of moving, starting over, learning new names, new streets, finding new jobs. And she liked it here, liked the forests that surrounded and threaded through the city. She felt less antsy, less restless. Maybe she’d stay long enough to purchase some furniture, hang a few pictures, make her tiny apartment a home.
Fifteen minutes later, Beth pulled into the downtown lot a few blocks from the café where she worked. Purple, pink and fiery orange streaked the horizon, slicing through the gray, heralding the sun’s return. Maybe she’d dig her camera out sometime soon, catch the sunrise through her photographer’s eye. A warm thrill flooded her—it had been too long since she’d held the comforting weight of a camera in her hands.
The Morning Grind sat on the northern edge of downtown, within walking distance of the Pearl District. Because of the location, the small coffee shop and café saw a variety of customers. Most this early would be office workers, but as the morning progressed, the suits and secretaries would give way to the bustle of students, artists, friends and regulars.
Beth entered through the service entrance off the back alley. The smell of freshly ground espresso beans and the owner’s voice screaming into the phone greeted her.
“Morning, Angie.”
Angie slammed the phone down and glanced at her tiny wristwatch, face pinched in agitation. “You’re late.”
“I’m on time,” Beth corrected with a grin.
“Same thing.” Just under five foot four and slender, with hips she liked to toss when the moment suited her, Angie was a force of nature. Her face showcased sharp cheekbones and even sharper green eyes that glared over black-rimmed glasses with little rhinestones extending down the frames. Her nails were always neatly polished and she had a mass of curly red hair straight from a bottle.
She had the look and disposition of a firecracker.
Disapproval flared across her face. “You look terrible. Is it too much to hope you were out late painting the town red with some mysterious man whose name you can’t remember?”
Despite herself, Beth laughed. “Rough morning already, Angie?” she asked, tying an apron around her waist.
“Just the usual trouble with Joe. I order blueberries, he sends cranberries. Late, I might add. I don’t know why I put up with him. I’d never have these problems if I went through one of
those fancy wholesale suppliers.” The lines near Angie’s mouth and eyes became more pronounced as her temper simmered.
“You keep him around because he supplies the best produce from the local markets, which pulls people into the café. Besides, I think you like yelling at him.”
Angie shot a glare over the top of her glasses. “I can’t imagine where you’d get such an idea.”
“Marianne thinks you’re having a torrid love affair with him. She insists all that pent up tension is fueling wild sexual debauchery in the storage room.”
Angie’s neutral expression surged to stormy in a heartbeat. “Marianne is a ridiculous busybody who wouldn’t recognize wild sexual debauchery if it bit her on the ass.” She was also Angie’s older cousin who hadn’t had the stomach for retirement and instead spent her days gossiping at the café and driving Angie nuts.
“If there’s tension between us it’s because that man is constantly undermining my business. I’ve got to change my morning specials from blueberry to cranberry-orange. The entire flow of my day has been compromised!” Angie yanked open the drawer by the sink and started slamming wooden spoons and spatulas on the counter.
Beth carefully edged past her toward the door. “Okay. I’ll just go take the chairs down.”
“After which you’ll sit your bony butt in one and have something to eat! You still look like shit!”
***
Braden Edwards shifted the bouquet of flowers as far away from his nose as possible. He sneezed. Again. The pollen was wreaking havoc with his senses but he couldn’t afford to toss them. He was counting on them to take the edge off Angie’s aggravation at his having been out of Portland for more than a month.
Glancing both ways, Braden stepped off the curb, crossing the street with long strides, a sentimental smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he made his way toward the café. He loved this area of town, had grown up here in a way, and Angie’s place held special significance for him.
His family had been in Oregon for over a hundred years and in Portland for nearly fifty. His grandfather had moved to Portland with little money, no friends and a relentless work ethic. He’d gone from construction hand to business owner. Thanks to him, the Edwards name was known throughout Portland as the best in commercial and residential restoration and renovation. Angie’s café had been the first project Braden had worked on during the summer he turned sixteen.
Braden stepped into the café, sending the little bell above the door jingling. No matter how many times he walked in The Morning Grind, he was always momentarily thrust back into one of the best summers of his youth.
Sofas were reupholstered, new curtains hung on fancy rods and, at some point, Angie had repainted the bookshelves that were now bursting with everything from old copies of National Geographic to abandoned textbooks. Tables changed, dishes were broken and replaced. The little changes never bothered him; he always focused on what remained the same.
He remembered hanging the blue door with its stained glass inlay. As he inhaled, he swore he could still smell the varnish and seal he had used on the hardwood flooring which he worked so hard to save. To his left, where a couple of college kids sat side by side in the bay window seat ignoring their textbooks and lattes, Braden saw a sixteen-year-old kid measuring and jotting down notes for his first carpentry project. As he walked, he ran his hand along the bar, passing chocolate covered espresso beans and fancy cookies that always tasted like crunchy cardboard to him. The remembered sensation of countertop adhesive sticking to his skin made him flex his fingers as he entered the kitchen.
“Man, I was hoping for blueberry.” Amused, Braden watched Angie’s head snap up, her eyes narrowing in automatic response to his voice.
“Customers don’t belong in the kitchen.” She dismissed him, turning back to her mixing bowl.
“Come on, Ange. I brought you flowers.” Braden waved them in Angie’s direction, desperate to be rid of them.
“Don’t know what I’d want with a bunch of weeds.”
Braden knew better. Lilies were Angie’s favorite and Braden hadn’t missed a birthday, Mother’s Day or special occasion in more than a decade. He figured it was only fair considering he’d terrorized Portland with her twin boys in his late teens.
Caught off guard, Braden sneezed twice, managing to catch most of the second with his sleeve.
“Disgusting. This is a kitchen, not a hospital.” Angie pointed the business end of her wooden spoon in Braden’s direction. “And give me those. You’re crushing them.”
“Missed you, too, Ange.” As she snatched the flowers away, Braden took the opportunity to brush a quick kiss across her cheek.
“Mmm-hmm. Go wash the snot off your hands. I won’t have you infecting my kitchen. Did you have a good trip?” Angie pulled a large glass pitcher from a cabinet and took her time arranging the flowers.
“It was fine. Mostly business. I did get a chance to see my parents for about a week.” Braden aborted his attempt to sneak a scone as Angie pulled her spoon from her apron. Not worth the risk. “How are Mike and Tim?”
“Get a plate and a napkin.” Angie said, sliding the spoon back into her apron pocket. “And you probably see more of Michael than I do. But Timothy is fine. Nancy is expecting again, sometime in November.”
Braden let out a low whistle. “How many does that make? Three? Four?”
“Four. Would it be too much to ask for you or Michael to settle down?”
“Harp on your own kid. I get it enough from my mother. Besides, you never like any of my girlfriends, Ange.”
“That’s because they’re all frivolous idiots. The right woman would do you wonders, Braden Edwards.”
Awareness slipped across the back of his mind. His muscles tightened, shifting his frame from restless to predatory before he fully processed the sensations. Danger? No. He didn’t feel threatened, only unsettled.
“Hey Angie, are the scones ready to go out?”
A voice, warm and calm, flooded through him, driving away the unease. A cool, fresh scent like a summer morning on the water quickly followed, invading his senses and eclipsing the familiar aroma of Angie’s baking.
Braden swung around, eyes tracking the young woman walking through the kitchen door. She paused when she spotted him, eyes darting to Angie.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.” She glanced back toward him, shifting from foot to foot.
Angie spoke up. “Nonsense, ignore him. Scones are cooling on the counter.”
“Thanks, Angie.”
Braden’s eyes never left the woman as she passed him. His frenzied senses focused exclusively on her, leaving such a complete impression he doubted he could ever forget it.
Temptation to step up behind her burned through him.
Was her skin as soft as it looked?
He imagined the feel of it beneath his fingers as he trailed them across her neck, skimming along the alluring curve of her spine. Would she arch into him, offering that full bottom lip for him to savor to his satisfaction? The intimate details of how she’d move beneath him as he fastened his mouth to the juncture of her neck and shoulder seared his mind.
It took all of his willpower to pull back from the fantasy playing out in his thoughts. Restless and uncomfortable, he poured the rest of his coffee into a to go cup, topping it off from the pot by Angie’s elbow. As his senses began to settle, he caught little snippets of conversation, deft answers for Angie’s rapid inquiries. Ease and efficiency passed between them, speaking to a strong working relationship and mutual respect. She wasn’t a new employee. How was it possible he’d never met her before?
He tracked her as she lifted the tray of scones and moved toward the door, carefully ignoring him as she did. The lack of acknowledgment made him hope that the awareness he felt around her was returned. He’d been a teenager the last time a woman had so thoroughly unsettled him without a single word. He didn’t appreciate the sensation.
Angie’s wooden spoon
connected with his elbow.
“Ow! Dammit, Angie, that hurt!”
“Don’t even think about it.” Angie had one hand fisted on her hip, the other brandishing her weapon of choice. Disapproval pinched her face.
“Jesus, Angie. I didn’t say anything…” The spoon connected with his knee before he could move.
“You’ll watch your mouth in this kitchen, Braden Edwards.”
“Sorry. I’m going.” He grabbed his coffee and stood.
“Nice try, slick.” Angie hooked her arm through his and spun him toward the back door. “You leave Beth alone.”
Braden stopped just inside the kitchen. “What happened to a good woman would do you wonders?”
“Not that one.” Her tone sliced through his amusement. “She’s complicated. Not quick to socialize.” Angie’s tone went soft. “There’s a past there. She’s not suited to casual romances.”
Braden stared over Angie’s head, willing Beth to walk back into the kitchen. “Do you think she’s in trouble?” The question left his lips before he’d fully thought it through. The surge of concern he felt for a woman he didn’t know should have bothered him. It worried him that it didn’t.
“That’s not our business.” Angie shoved him toward the door, ending the conversation.
“Sure.” He wouldn’t press the issue. For now. “Later, Ange.” He let the promise hang between them as he stepped outside.
Chapter Three
Braden stepped out of the elevator into the seventh floor lobby of Edwards Construction.
“Good morning, Mr. Edwards.” Shirley Marks strode toward him, her practical heels clicking against the wood floor like a metronome.
“Morning, Shirley. My brother in yet?”
“He’s been and gone.” Braden heard the frown in Shirley’s voice as she followed him down the hall to his office. “You were supposed to be in over an hour ago. If you had called I could have rescheduled him.”
Shirley had been Braden’s executive assistant for almost five years. Neat, organized and professional, she managed the office with military precision. Deviation from schedule was never tolerated.