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      ROSEMARY HEIM

      grew up on a dairy farm, attended a one-room schoolhouse, lived in an English castle and (finally) settled in Minneapolis. She lives in a charming old house (which needs much work) with her romantic husband (who doesn’t need much work at all) and four cats (who work very hard at being cute).

      Rosemary would love to hear from readers. You can visit her Web site at www.rosemaryheim.com or write to her c/o Midwest Fiction Writers, P.O. Box 24107, Minneapolis, MN 55424.

      To Elise Heim and Dorothy Bentler.

       My mother and sister. Special women, both.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      My heartfelt thank-yous to: Shannon Godwin, for believing in Angel’s story and being our champion. Dr. Lou Betty Rood and members of KOD for coming to my medical assistance, pointing me in the right direction and letting me know I was on the right track. The Princesses and my critique group, a phenomenal collection of women. You know why. And Georgie-Peaux. I miss your calls, long talks and friendship. The state fair will never be the same.

      Author’s note to those familiar with downtown Minneapolis—I know. Please forgive my artistic license in relocating an escalator or two and building the library before its time.

      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 18

      Chapter 1

      “There ya go, darlin’,” the thick southern-accented voice coaxed. “Wake up and let me see those baby blues.”

      Frank Cabrini did not want to open his eyes—no matter how gentle and enticing that voice sounded. If he did, the light would just set off another set of drums to join the timpani already pounding a rhythm in his brain.

      A gentle hand smoothed through his hair, sliding down to pat his cheek. The faint scent of vanilla surrounded him. His eyelids flickered against his will.

      “Are you sure he’s going to be okay?” Another woman’s voice registered in his fuzzy brain.

      “Sure. Thanks for your help.” The first voice again, this time without the southern inflections. “Go ahead and take off. I can handle things from here.”

      Frank fought the fog muffling his awareness. Something was wrong. Way wrong. He didn’t recognize either voice. The last thing he could remember was sipping a tonic water at the shabby CC Club bar and being chatted up by a woman who looked better suited to lunch at Chino Latino, the trendy Minneapolis Uptown restaurant.

      That was how long ago?

      Now, he lay stretched out on a bed that wasn’t his. He could tell because it was too short for his six-foot-four frame, and the pillow under his head was flat as Nebraska.

      Somewhere to his left, a door clicked shut. He wanted to ask what was going on, but his mouth felt like the morning after cleaning out the liquor cabinet.

      Vanilla surrounded him again as his head was lifted and something pressed against his lips. Water, cool and unflavored, dribbled into his mouth.

      “Thanks.” His voice cracked on the single word. The bed shifted and the vanilla scent faded. He turned his head and tried opening his eyes. He knew better than to leave himself vulnerable like this. In his line of work, it could get you dead real fast.

      Whatever drug he’d been slipped was wearing off. The water helped clear his head, but his arms and legs still felt weighed down with lead.

      He pried his eyes open a slit, just enough to let in a little light. Not that the heavily curtained windows allowed much to filter into the room. What he could see was mostly shadows.

      The bed dipped again, creaking with the movement. The woman leaned over him to brush the hair away from his face with one hand. Her other hand slid down his arm, pausing a moment to test his biceps before continuing down to his hand. He watched with a detachment he blamed on the drug as she raised his arm above his head.

      Something cool and hard pressed against his wrist, accompanied by the sound of metal sliding through a ratchet. Handcuffs. A surge of adrenaline cleared the last of the drug’s effects from his system, and his eyes snapped open.

      The first thing he saw was the cold gray barrel of a gun. Second were the colder gray eyes of the woman holding him at gunpoint. Instinct had him jerking his shackled arm, trying to get free.

      “Don’t bother.” She spoke with the non-accent of a network newscaster now.

      Holy hell, he was in some sort of trouble. “Your accent slipped.”

      “Well, like, duh,” she said, snapping an imaginary wad of chewing gum as she slid into Valley Girl. “As if I’d give you a clue.”

      The bed squeaked as she stood. Frank followed the lines of her lean body as she straightened, the gun still held steady and pointed right at him.

      She was tall. He flicked a glance downward but couldn’t see if shoes augmented the impressive height. He doubted it. From the way she carried herself, he didn’t see anything artificial or out of balance in her posture.

      Her clothes were nothing special—worn blue jeans and a too-big navy-blue T-shirt. A wide, black leather belt wrapped around her waist, held in place with a wicked-looking flattened spike. Dark hair pulled away from her face. No jewelry, not even a watch, interrupted the clean lines of her hands and arms. If she wore makeup, it was minimal and unnoticeable.

      A memory wavered into being. He recognized her from the bar. She’d been sitting alone at a corner booth. “You were following me?”

      She raised one straight eyebrow, but didn’t answer. Instead, she squatted beside the bed. She worked her free hand beneath him, wriggled her fingers into his left back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

      Relief eased the tension in his muscles.

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