LITMIR.BIZ

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Hard to imagine a more glamorous life than being an accountant, isn’t it? Still, C.J. Carmichael gave up the thrills of income tax forms and double entry bookkeeping when she sold her first book in 1998. She has now written more than twenty-eight novels for Harlequin and invites you to learn more about her books, see photos of her hiking exploits and enter her surprise contests at www.cjcarmichael.com.

      With love to my dad, who is dealing with an unexpected turn in the road with strength and courage.

      Thanks to Barry Yzereef for entering a contest and allowing me to use his name in this story.

      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 ONE

      Monday morning

      THROUGH THE SEMI-TRANSLUCENT glass door, Nathan Fisher could make out the silhouette of the woman who had been his partner at the Twentieth Precinct of the NYPD two years ago. Lindsay Fox had her back to him, her hands assertively posed on her hips as she spoke to someone he couldn’t quite see.

      When she’d packed up her desk at the precinct and cleared out her locker, he’d assumed he’d never see her again. She’d made it rather obvious that that would be best. Part of him had agreed. They were just too opposite to work well together—to do anything well together. But a lot of crap had happened since then. His life was in free fall and he no longer presumed to have all the answers.

      Lindsay was smart, a woman of action, intuitive, with a keen sense of justice. These things had made her a good policewoman.

      She was also impatient, thought rules applied to other people rather than her and had trouble accepting orders from her superiors.

      These qualities had not made her a good policewoman, and Nathan supposed it wasn’t much of a surprise that she’d only lasted on the job for just over a year.

      But there was one thing about Lindsay that defined her above all, in his mind. That quality was integrity—something he’d seen precious little of the last while.

      It was why he was standing here, less than a week after his own career with the NYPD had been terminated.

      Voices on the other side of the door grew louder. Nathan realized Lindsay was turning the handle, about to exit, so he slipped out of sight, down the corridor and around a corner. He didn’t want her to see him until he’d scored a proper interview first. That would make it difficult for her to not at least listen to what he had to say.

      He’d spent his weekend researching her business, her new career, and he was impressed. She had more clients than she could handle, and most of them were very satisfied with her services.

      Fox Investigations, as far as he could tell, was a successful going concern. This location—on the second floor of an historic brownstone on West Seventy-ninth Street—was central and convenient to the subway. After one call to the rental agency, he’d learned that Lindsay was locked into a favorable five-year lease that included expansion possibilities.

      From down the hallway, he heard the door open and Lindsay call out to her receptionist, “You can reach me on my cell if it’s an emergency.” The door closed and the sound of her footsteps on the wooden floor receded.

      Nathan waited until she was gone before retracing his steps to her office. Carefully he reached into his jacket pocket to pull out the ad he’d seen in the Saturday paper.

      Help Wanted: Professional investigator. Experience necessary, references required, no attitude.

      He had to smile, reading it again. Especially at the no attitude part. Lindsay had her nerve making that request.

      He pushed open the door to Fox Investigations and took stock of the professional, almost austere furnishings. The walls were pale gray, the furniture modern, functional…and cold. The only spot of color came from the receptionist, who was wearing an expensive-looking pink blouse. She was in her twenties—a petite, dark-haired woman who was quick to smile.

      “I’m sorry, but do you have an appointment? I’m afraid you just missed Lindsay.”

      Quite deliberately, I assure you, he thought. “That’s okay. I should have called first,

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