Prologue

The sun was still struggling to crest the horizon when Angel Conway entered the small park next to Lake Michigan. Shivering, she hunched herself deeper in her heavy coat. Shit. Was there anywhere in the world colder than Chicago in the winter? She doubted even the North Pole felt as frigid. Especially this morning, with the wind whipping the icy droplets from the nearby lake. They stung her face like tiny darts.

Unfortunately, she had no choice but to drag herself out of her bed at such a god-awful hour to brave the cold. It was the same reason she snuck out every Friday morning.

When she came to Chicago, she’d intended to have a clean start. No drugs. No men. Nothing that would screw up her one opportunity to climb out of the sewer she’d made of her life. But after the operation, she’d been given painkillers, and the hunger had been stroked back to life. Within three weeks of her arrival in the city, she was back to the same old habits.

Stomping her feet in an attempt to keep blood flowing to her toes, she scanned the shadowed lot. Where was her john? Usually she was the one running late. She did it deliberately to avoid being turned into a human Popsicle. She wanted to arrive at the park, climb into the man’s expensive Jag, do her business, and get her pills. No fuss, no muss.

And no frostbite.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered, rubbing her hands together.

Maybe she should bail. She could sneak out this weekend and find a street dealer. Of course, what little money she had . . .

Her thoughts were shattered by the sharp snap of a branch. She frowned, glancing over her shoulder at the trees directly behind her. She’d chosen this spot because it offered her an open view of the lot, but at the same time gave her cover in case a cop decided to drive through the park. Now she felt a weird sense of dread crawl over her skin.

She was from the country. She knew the difference between a critter scrambling through the underbrush and a human footstep.

There was someone moving in the darkness. The only question was whether it was an early morning jogger. Or a pervert who was spying on her.

She never considered there might have been a third possibility.

Not until she felt the cold blade press against her throat . . .