LITMIR.BIZ

      A man stood beside the door.

      Tall and lean, he was thoroughly soaked from the rain.

      As she watched, he paced to the porch steps. He turned back, and she saw his face more clearly. A bruise marred his jaw.

      Who was he? If she’d met him before, she’d have remembered. In spite of his bruises, he had the kind of face a woman would notice. Eyes as gray as the stormy skies, a firm, sensuous mouth above a square jaw, and the hint of a cleft in his chin.

      “I’ve had an accident.” He drew in a sharp breath, put a hand against the house as if he needed support.

      What should she do? Send the stranger back into the storm?

      Something was telling her not to. Instead Christy opened the door.

      Stranger in Her Arms

      Lorna Michaels

      LORNA MICHAELS

      When she was four years old, Lorna Michaels decided she would become a writer. But it wasn’t until she read her first romance that she found her niche. Since then she’s been a winner of numerous writing contests, a double Romance Writer’s of America Golden Heart finalist and a nominee for Romantic Times magazine’s Love and Laughter Award. A self-confessed romantic, she loves to spend her evenings writing happily-ever-after stories. During the day she’s a speech pathologist with a busy private practice. Though she leads a double life, both her careers focus on communication. As a speech pathologist, she works with children who have communication disorders. In her writing, she deals with men and women who overcome barriers to communication as they forge lasting relationships.

      Besides working and writing, Lorna enjoys reading everything from cereal boxes to Greek tragedy, interacting with the two cats who own her, watching basketball games and traveling with her husband. In 2002 she realized her dream of visiting Antarctica. Nothing thrills her more than hearing from readers. You can e-mail her at [email protected].

      To Barbara Sher,

      who taught me to dream. And in memory of Rita Gallagher, who taught me how to make my dreams come true.

      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 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 1

      Christy Matthews loved storms—the noise, the roiling sky, the hint of danger. And what better place to enjoy one than on San Sebastian Island in her parents’ vacation cottage, with a rerun of Raiders of the Lost Ark on the tube? She’d left the back blinds open so she could see the oleanders tossing wildly in the yard, the lightning zigzagging overhead.

      The weather report said the rain was likely to continue all night and into tomorrow. Christy smiled and inhaled the aroma of warm popcorn. It was a buttered-popcorn kind of evening, with weather that encouraged her to put the fat content of butter out of her mind.

      She grabbed a handful of popcorn as Indiana Jones battled furiously with a pit full of hissing snakes. This was her favorite part.

      The telephone rang. “Nuts,” she muttered as she picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

      “Hi, Toad.”

      “Steve.” Her older brother had become overprotective since Christy’s divorce. And when Steve used the nickname he’d bestowed on her when she was five, Christy knew she was in for a long and heavy dose of brotherly concern. Too bad she’d settled for the classic movie channel instead of renting a video. With a last longing look at Indy, she pressed the mute button on the remote.

      “How’s the weather?”

      “Wet but not too bad.” An earsplitting crash of thunder, surely loud enough for her brother to hear, belied her words. “Um, thunder always sounds louder at the beach.”

      “Maybe you should leave.”

      “No way. This isn’t a hurricane, for heaven’s sake. It’s a tropical depression.”

      Never the greatest listener, her brother said, “Karen and I will drive down and pick you up. You can spend your vacation with us.”

      “No, Steve. I appreciate the offer, but I need some time alone.”

      “Christy—”

      “No, listen. In the year since Keith left, I haven’t had a minute to sit down and think about the future. Now that I have the time, I need to make some decisions. Do I stay in Houston, or leave, sell the house, put it up for lease—all that stuff.”

      “You can make decisions here,” he insisted.

      “I have to do this on my own. I am on my own now.” For sure. Her husband—ex-husband, she reminded herself—was on his honeymoon with Christy’s replacement even as she spoke.

      “Besides,” she continued, “I want to relax. I’m going to spend two weeks reading steamy novels, roaming the beach and watching old movies.” Her eyes strayed to the TV. Indy galloped through the desert on a white horse, then swung into the cab of a truck as it careened along at breakneck speed.

      “I worry about you staying in the house alone.”

      Christy rolled her eyes. One trait she was working hard to cultivate was independence. She wouldn’t let anyone, including her well-intentioned brother, make decisions for her ever again.

      “Are the Bakers next door?”

      She was tempted to lie, but if she said they were in residence, Steve would probably call to ask them to keep an eye on her. Then he’d find out the truth. “They left this morning.”

      “Anyone else around?”

      “Warner and Ellie Thompson.”

      “They’re way at the other end of the road. And you think you’re fine? In an isolated house with your nearest neighbor a mile away? You’re being naive.”

      A bubble of anger formed in her chest. “It’s half a mile, and I’m not naive. Not about anything. Not after Keith.”

      “I heard on the news there’s a serial killer loose in Houston.”

      So the news about the Night Stalker had gone statewide. If he wasn’t caught soon, there’d be national coverage, as well, she supposed. “Houston’s over an hour away. I’m safer here than in the Medical Center,” Christy said. Every one of the Night Stalker’s victims had worked somewhere in the huge complex of hospitals where she was employed. “Besides,” she added, “I have protection.”

      “What?” he said in that scornful big-brother tone she’d hated when she was a kid. “Did you bring a hypodermic syringe from the hospital?”

      “Nope, my own 38 special.”

      “You…you have

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