LITMIR.BIZ

      The Lord is my stronghold, my fortress and my champion, my God, my rock where I find safety, my shield, my mountain refuge, my strong tower.

      —Psalms 18:2

      This story is dedicated to Christine Teisher,

       with much love. And, as always, to Brian.

      CONTENTS

      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

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      ONE

      Years ago there had been no bridge to the island, and it had slept in haunted isolation. Now two lanes of concrete spanned the sound, carrying Sarah Wainwright quickly from the Georgia coast to St. James Island. Too quickly. She wasn’t ready.

      Perspiration slickened her hands against the steering wheel. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull off, couldn’t turn around. The bridge funneled her inexorably to the one place in the world she didn’t want to be. The entire past year hadn’t been enough time to prepare herself for what awaited her on St. James.

      The island appeared, a green, insubstantial smudge against a clear May sky, and Sarah’s stomach lurched. St. James—home to an uneasy, volatile mixture of local Gullah fishermen and the rich incomers who’d turned one end of the island into a private enclave for the wealthy and powerful.

      St. James had been Sarah’s home, too, for six short months. Then betrayal and tragedy sent her fleeing back to her native Boston.

      Fleeing unsuccessfully. She’d discovered, since the anniversary of Miles’s death in April, that she couldn’t outrun grief. It hung, persistent, on her heels, hampering her every step, demanding her constant attention. Demanding that she face it here, on St. James. Her stomach gave another protesting spasm as the car wheels rolled off the bridge and onto the island.

      Live oaks, shrouded with Spanish moss, canopied the road. Sarah shivered in spite of the heat. Haunted.

      I don’t believe in ghosts, Heavenly Father, but no other word fits.

      St. James was haunted by its own past, and now haunted by her past, too, and that of the husband who’d died here—died in an apparent lovers’ tryst with his employer’s wife.

      The lobby of the St. James Inn was shuttered and cool, its only inhabitant the manager, leaning on his desk. Sarah caught the expression of shock mingled with avid curiosity that crossed his face at the sight of her, quickly replaced by his professional welcoming smile.

      “Dr. Wainwright. This is a pleasant surprise. We weren’t expecting you.” He glanced nervously at the desk computer and patted his thinning hair. “Were we?”

      “No, you weren’t.” She’d known instinctively it would be a mistake to announce her coming.

      She smiled, wishing she remembered the man’s name. It would give her a fraction more leverage. Obviously he remembered hers. The island had probably talked of little else for months.

      “I’m sure you can find a room for me.” The inn mainly housed overflow guests from the big houses, and they both knew May wasn’t the high season.

      “Why…um…” He punched a few keys on his computer, clearly hoping for inspiration. Sarah knew exactly what he was thinking. What would Trent Donner want him to do? “Does—does Mr. Donner know you’re coming?”

      Nobody on St. James, conceivably nobody in Georgia, crossed Trent Donner with impunity. Sarah’s stomach lurched again. Sooner or later she’d have to face him. Was she a coward for hoping it would be later?

      She managed a cool smile. “I thought I’d surprise him. I’ll go out to Land’s End tomorrow.”

      Maybe it was the casual mention of the Donner estate. Something eased in the manager’s face. “Why don’t we give you the suite you had the last time you were here?”

      A lady never shows her feelings in public.

      Her grandmother’s maxim, drilled into Sarah from birth, stiffened her spine and kept a smile frozen on her face. Knowing what he must, how could the man assume she’d want the suite she’d shared with Miles when they’d first arrived on the island?

      “That will be fine.”

      She tried to put herself on autopilot to get through the next few minutes. Fill out the registration card, exchange comments about the weather. Follow the bellman, tip him, don’t think about staying here with Miles when they’d first arrived on the island.

      Finally the door closed behind him, and she was alone in the quiet room with its cool white shutters, bamboo furniture and four-poster bed. Staying here was no worse than staying in any other room. No place on the island would be free of memories.

      That was why she’d fled, wasn’t it? And that was why she’d come back.

      Her parents hadn’t seemed surprised at Sarah’s

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