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      ELANE OSBORN

      is a daydream believer whose active imagination tends to intrude on her life at the most inopportune moments. Her penchant for slipping into “alternative reality” severely hampered her work life, leading to a gamut of jobs that includes, but is not limited to, airline reservation agent, waitress, salesgirl and seamstress in the wardrobe department of a casino showroom. In writing, she has discovered a career that not only does not punish flights of fancy, it demands them. Drawing on her daydreams, she has published three historical romance novels and is now using the experiences she has collected in her many varied jobs in the “real world” to fuel contemporary stories that blend romance and suspense.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 1

      This was it—the place of her dreams. Or her nightmares. She was never sure which.

      Rose Delancey drew in a breath of cool, sea-scented air as she peered through the black wrought-iron gate at the three-story gray stone house. A gust of cold air whooshed past her hair, blowing back her dark wavy bangs.

      She shook off a sudden chill.

      There was no doubt in her mind that this particular house, with its eight-foot brick wall and spear-topped gate, had haunted her dreams for as long as she could remember.

      Another chill, one that had nothing to do with the weather, slithered through Rose. There was no point asking herself why gazing upon this scene in the light of day was so important to her. She’d done enough soul-searching before starting out on her quest. Now that she was in this exclusive neighborhood south of San Francisco, staring at the cobblestone driveway leading to three double garage doors made of oak, the question was how she would manage to gain access to the rear of the house and the place from which she could see the vista of her dreams.

      The wind rose again to rattle the leaves of a large olive tree growing at the left corner of the garage, drawing Rose’s attention to a set of iron steps behind some low-hanging branches. Her heart began to race. Those stairs most likely led to a deck off the second story of the house. All she had to do was walk up them, and she would reach the spot from her dreams.

      Of course, she reminded herself with a wry twist of her lips, that would be after she found some way through or over the black iron gate that barricaded the driveway.

      As she frowned at the unfriendly looking spikes running along the top bar, her moment of elation faded. An impatient sigh bloomed in her chest before escaping past her lips. If this were a dream, the gate would magically open right now, allowing her to glide across the driveway and up the stairs. But this was not a dream. This was a windy, about-to-rain, end-of-January morning in real life, where nothing magical was likely to happen.

      Or was it?

      To Rose’s right, somewhere in the wall, a motor hummed to life. The gate in front of her began to move. Rose barely breathed as the space opened. Then, as calmly as if she were an expected visitor, she stepped onto the driveway and started toward the stairs.

      When the garage door closest to the stairway started to rise, it just seemed part of the unreal atmosphere that had impelled Rose down the driveway. Then it struck her that the garage door and the gate were probably activated by a remote-control device, both of which had undoubtedly been activated to admit an approaching vehicle. A vehicle, her thoughts warned, that very likely contained someone who would stop a trespasser, thus bringing her quest to an immediate halt, just short of her goal.

      Unless, of course, she was up the staircase, hidden by the canopy of leaves, before the vehicle turned into the driveway.

      Rose broke into a half run. Once she started up the steps, her black flats struck a staccato, metallic beat. She slowed her racing feet as she neared the intricate wrought-iron gate at the top of the stairway, a gate that clicked open easily, admitting her to an expansive veranda, tiled in a brown herringbone pattern.

      Tingling with anticipation, Rose gazed past the flowers spilling from the low, brick planter at the edge of the veranda some twenty feet away. She could now see the view from her dreams.

      Almost.

      The angle didn’t quite match the image that had so often appeared to her. She wasn’t standing quite high enough for one thing, and the red-tiled roof she’d gazed over in her dreams was nowhere in sight.

      Turning to her right, Rose spied at the far end of the patio a circular staircase leading to a wooden deck above her. Without a second thought she crossed in front of a wide bank of French doors.

      A slight drizzle moistened the iron stairs as Rose began to climb again, her footsteps

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