LITMIR.BIZ

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agreed to keep quiet and Eloise finally talked Meredith into escaping. They formed a solid plan, talked about it quietly and secretly for weeks. Everything was in place. And Meredith was finally ready to leave.

      But apparently, Meredith’s husband had figured things out.

      And for that reason, her friend was now dead.

      And she was paralyzed with a fear she’d been running from for over twenty years. Paralyzed because Meredith’s husband had still been there at Meredith’s house last night when she arrived. He stood over the still body, crying quietly as he stared down at his dead wife. A killer crying in regret over the woman he’d murdered.

      And that killer might have seen Eloise.

      It was just a glimpse in the dark, she reminded herself. He couldn’t have caught a good look at her. And since she’d disguised herself with a big hat and a scarf, she prayed he couldn’t identify her. But he’d heard her intake of breath, heard the shocked gasp as she stood on the landing above, her silhouette hidden in the shadows.

      But he hadn’t come after her. Yet.

      No one had come after her. Yet.

      But the roses…the roses meant that Randall Parker might not be the only person who wanted her dead and gone.

      Had the Mob found her after all these years?

      “I have to get to work,” she said, forcing herself out of the chair, her knuckles white from clutching her now-cold coffee. “I have to pretend everything is all right.”

      Putting her cup in the sink, Eloise glanced at the clock. She was late and she was never late. Verdie had already called once, concerned. Verdie would send Frank to look for her.

      Meredith won’t be there this morning, either.

      Meredith would never be at work again.

      Her limbs stiff and fatigued from tension and lack of sleep, Eloise managed to get dressed and pull herself together, doing her usual routine of downplaying her looks by pulling her hair away from her face and putting on brown contacts and dowdy clothes. No makeup, but then she rarely wore any—except for a bit of concealer over her scar. She tried to make herself plain and unremarkable and she prayed that ploy would work today. She had to act normal, as if nothing had happened. She had to go through the motions. She knew how to go through the motions; she’d been doing that for so long now it was like second nature.

      She’d made it to the hallway, Duff right by her side, when a knock at the front door caused her to drop her purse. It thumped against the tile floor, making her flinch with fear and causing Duff to go wild, barking angrily as he sensed her tension and fear. Picking the purse up again, Eloise slipped her hand into the hidden side compartment where she kept her pistol.

      “Duff, sit,” she said, trying to sound firm. The big dog whimpered, barked once more, then did as she commanded. But his snarl and his quivering body indicated he would attack if she gave him the word.

      Shaking, Eloise adjusted the small gun in her hand, its familiar steel giving her a sense of reassurance. But her mind whirled between running out the back door and remembering the gun-training courses she’d taken.

      Lord, help me, she prayed. I’m so very tired of running. I’m so very tired of being afraid.

      Eloise took a deep breath, gave Duff another command to stay, then walked toward the front door. “Who is it?” she called, her voice weak underneath the heavy, throbbing pulse pumping through her ears.

      No reply. She swallowed, once, twice, pulling the gun out of her bag. Then she forced herself to look through the peephole. A man she didn’t recognize stood at her door. “I said who’s there?” But something about this man—

      “It’s me,” came the terse answer. “It’s me…Jackson McGraw. Eloise, open the door and let me in, please.”

      Jackson stood back, gun at the ready, as the door creaked open about an inch. He turned, doing a quick scan of the surrounding area. Roark jogged by, looking laid-back and casual in spite of the intensity of the situation. Satisfied that his team was still in place, Jackson slowly turned back to the door and put his gun away. Flashing his badge and ID, he said, “It’s Jackson. I have to talk to you.”

      He heard an intake of breath then the door swung back.

      And he took in the sight of her, standing there, her eyes wide with shock and fear, her skin pale as she tried to find air. Jackson heard the dog’s snarl but ignored it.

      “Eloise,” he said, reaching for the door.

      She swayed, her eyes fluttering, her head dropping.

      Jackson stepped inside and caught her before she passed out. The dog went into a frenzied stance, barking and dancing in circles. Jackson issued a sharp command. The animal kept snarling but he stayed away.

      “Eloise, it’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”

      She felt tiny in his arms, fragile. She looked almost the same, older but still beautiful in spite of the jagged white scar bursting through the pale skin near her lips and the deep circles of fatigue underneath her eyes. And she was still afraid. Her whole body began to quiver with a gentle shaking as she held on to him, her head moving in denial against his shoulder.

      “Subject safe,” he said. “Stand down.” He clicked off his wire with a touch to his wrist, shutting down any further communications for the sake of privacy.

      Slamming the door with a booted kick, he helped her to the floral couch then carefully sat her down against the cushions, grabbing a blue chenille blanket off the back. After making sure she was coherent and her dog wasn’t going to eat him alive, he sat down beside her. And looked into her eyes again. They were brown instead of the vivid green he remembered, but the colored contacts matched the rich brown of her long, straight hair. Contacts might change the color of her eyes but he didn’t care. That look of fear mixed with disbelief and a bit of wonder broke Jackson’s heart and made him even more determined to protect her.

      “Are you okay?” he asked. “Want some water?”

      She shook her head, focusing on him. “What are you doing here?”

      The whispered question hung in the air between them. He tried to formulate an answer. But before he could, she sat straight up, asking the same question again, this time with more strength and a defiant demand, realization clearing her eyes. “Why are you here, Jackson?”

      Jackson took her hand then inhaled a deep breath. He’d always been straight with her before. He had to tell her the truth now. “Salvatore Martino has died and his son Vincent is here in Montana. And he’s looking for you. He’s put out a hit on you as a final tribute to the old don.”

      She pulled away, her mind filling with a dark dread. Wrapping her arms across her midsection, she started rocking back and forth, a low moan escaping between her tightly clenched lips. “No, no, that can’t be. Tell me this isn’t happening! Not now, not now.” She waved a hand in the air, pointing toward the kitchen. “The roses. I got roses yesterday, Jackson. White roses. In the trash.”

      Jackson glanced toward the kitchen then fell on one knee in front of her, his hands stilling her movements as he held her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. “It’s the truth and that’s why I’m here. I’m going to protect you, Eloise. We’ll find him before he finds you, I promise.” Needing her to listen, he asked, “Who sent you roses? What are you talking about?”

      She looked up at him, her eyes widening, her body going still. Jackson was afraid she was going into shock. “Eloise?”

      And then she did something that scared him even more than the fear and shock in her eyes.

      She burst out laughing.

      TWO

      Eloise pushed away the glass Jackson offered her, slapping at his hand. Water sloshed out and fell in a bright pool onto the wooden

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