LITMIR.BIZ

      “Ms. Shalvis draws the reader into her stories immediately and creates a devastatingly tender love story with plenty of action and intrigue.

      She knows how to deliver.”

      —Rendezvous

      “Rachel, I can’t talk to you when you’re wearing that stupid hat.” Before she could react, Ben whisked it off her head.

      And froze.

      Her soft, flowing hair was…gone, leaving a short, choppy cut of maybe an inch or so. The extent of everything she’d been through—the accident, the pain, the slow, ongoing recovery—suddenly hit him. He hated himself for reminding her, for reducing her to tears.

      But he’d forgotten—Rachel would never allow anyone to see such a thing. Crying in public would be unacceptable. Crying in front of him would be tantamount to disaster.

      Instead, as regal as ever, she remained calm, her head high. “Ben, go away.”

      Gently he put the cap back on her head, his fingers brushing over her warm, smooth skin. “I’m sorry.”

      “Don’t even look at me.”

      He realized they were not on the same plane, that she apparently thought the sight of her had sickened him. “No, wait. Rachel—” He dragged in a deep, ragged breath. “You look…alive. Isn’t that all that matters?”

      JILL SHALVIS

      has been making up stories since she could hold a pencil. Now, thankfully, she gets to do it for a living, and doesn’t plan to ever stop. She is the bestselling, award-winning author of over two dozen novels, including series romance for both Harlequin and Silhouette. She’s hit the Waldenbooks bestsellers list, is a 2000 RITA® Award nominee and is a two-time National Reader’s Choice Award winner. She has been nominated for a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award in Romantic Comedy, Best Duets and Best Temptation. Jill lives in California with her family.

      The Street Where She Lives

      Jill Shalvis

      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

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER ONE

      HE’D ONCE BEEN CALLED a selfish bastard, and Ben Asher figured that to be a fairly accurate assessment. He lived his life on his own terms and kept his emotional entanglements pared down to, well, him. Thanks to his freelancing job as a photojournalist for National Geographic and Outside, among others, he could pack up and leave at the drop of a hat, without looking back. Even now, after only a few months of being in the Amazon, he’d be moving on to his next assignment soon.

      Good old Africa, here he came.

      He moved through the strangling, thick, wet, green growth so unique to the Brazilian jungle, finally breaking free into a small clearing containing a couple of temporary structures. He crossed the clearing and stepped over the threshold of the reserve’s office, which, due to the proverbial lack of funds, was the size of a postage stamp. They’d been without electricity and phones for nearly a month, only just today getting the phones turned on. Warily, he met Maria’s glare. Apparently the calls were coming in too fast and furious for her liking.

      Maria, his temp, had been forced to walk approximately twenty-five big, whopping yards from the office to the radio hut to radio him about this call. Noting it was hotter than hell outside, he figured he understood. “Gracias.”

      She didn’t respond, but then again, she rarely did. She’d come to him from his previous assignment near Rio, where Ben had uncovered a so-called American ministry. The “minister,” Manuel Asada, had run an international charity scam, which through the years had earned him untold wealth. Targeting churchgoing, generous souls in the name of humanity, Asada had solicited funds and promised to build villages and feed the poor.

      Instead, he’d pocketed everything, killing anyone who defied him or got in his way. He also had a nasty habit of abusing the local women. Maria had been one of them. Together with her testimony and Ben’s photographs evidencing some of the crimes, Asada was now languishing in a Brazilian prison, but would soon be extradited to the States. There he’d face some of his swindled victims in court, not to mention murder charges on no less than three counts.

      Secretly, Ben hoped Asada remained in Brazil, where he had a better chance of actually staying in a jail cell. He’d sworn vengeance on everyone who’d taken him and his profitable business down, including family members and loved ones. Luckily, in Ben’s case, that meant fewer people than the fingers on one hand.

      He picked up the phone. “Asher.”

      “D-daddy?”

      At the sound of his daughter’s quavering, frightened voice, his heart stopped. “Emmie? What’s the matter?”

      Loud, crackling static filled the line, reminding him that thousands of miles separated him and his twelve-going-on-thirty-year-old daughter. “Emily?”

      Nothing, just more static, and Ben damned the poor phone lines, the pathetic equipment, the shack he’d called home for two months. “Emily!” Panic had a bitter taste, he discovered. Sweat trickled down his back as he sank to a rickety chair. The humid air made his shirt cling to him like a second skin. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, and banged the phone on the scratched, beat-up desk, swearing uselessly before whipping the phone back up to his ear.

      “Daddy?”

      Sagging in relief, Ben relaxed his folded-up, taut legs, and promptly smashed his knees into the wood. He took in a breath of the closed-in air around him. “I’m here! Are you all right?”

      “Yes.”

      Thank God. “Where are you?”

      Not a good father question, he noted with disgust. Any father, any good father, would know where his daughter was at all times. Not that his father had ever taught him such things, but he knew how parenthood was supposed to work.

      “I’m home,” she said.

      She meant her home, of course, which she made with her mother in South Village, California.

      “You’ve got to come.” Across the too many miles and years, her voice broke, killing him. “Please, don’t say you can’t.”

      Ben spoke to his precious, only child far too seldom. And she was precious. She was also brilliant, which never failed to both amaze and terrify him. In any case, it would be easy to blame his heavy travel schedule as a photojournalist or even the fact that his cell phone rarely worked for the lack of time they’d spent together. But the truth was, it was his own need to roam at will, to never set down roots that caused the problem. The story

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