2

THE ODOR OF CHAR EMBEDDED NED’S SKIN, his hair, and he could nearly taste the soot in his teeth. The smoke filled his nostrils, burned his throat, the fire a roar as it closed in around him.

Don’t stop! Run.

The words pulsed inside Ned Marshall in time with his own heartbeat.

They were right—if he quit now, people could die.

He could die.

Heat. It enflamed his skin, his own sweat coating his body, running in rivers down his face, blinding him. But it wasn’t the burn of the forest fire licking at his neck but the agony in his knee that had him nearly roaring in pain.

His twisted, nearly torn ACL threatened to send him into the dry, pine-needled soil.

“Ned! Keep up!” The voice cut through the layer of fog and smoke that haunted the trees and cut off visibility from the rest of the team. The voice of Jed, his jump boss, the one guy Ned had to impress.

He was already crying from the smoke, so he might as well let the pain erupt through him, give in to the wail building inside him. His grunting became audible as he pushed himself, his boots crushing branches, the straps of the ninety-pound pack he carried digging into his shoulders.

It didn’t even help that Jed had chosen a downhill path for their escape, because with every jarring step, Ned’s knee wanted to quit.

Jed came barreling through the smoke. “You’re nearly a half mile behind the rest!” He grabbed Ned’s shoulder strap and hauled him forward.

That did it.

Ned’s knee buckled—might have even gone sideways—and he crashed, skidding face-first into the roughened soil.

Jed nearly came down on top of him, his hand just barely breaking free of the pack.

For a second, Ned simply lay there, writhing, the pain coiling through him.

“What the—are you injured?” Jed knelt beside him, his face grubby, his helmet dirty and banged up, such fury in his expression that Ned nearly lied.

Again.

Except he could hardly deny the way he wanted to curl into the fetal position and howl, clutch his knee like a child and weep with frustration.

“You were injured on the training jump, weren’t you?” Jed said, hauling him up without mercy. He pulled Ned’s arm over his shoulder, tucking his own around Ned’s waist.

Ned didn’t answer.

Jed shook his head, and right about then, Reuben, the big sawyer for the Jude County Smokejumpers, showed up, took one look at the situation, and came in for the assist.

They dragged his sorry carcass out of the burning training fire to bench him.

And not just for this op but for the rest of the season. It had felt like for the rest of his life, frankly.

“Ned. What are you doing?” A kick to his boots and Ned raised his arm off his burning eyes and blinked at the outline of his father standing at the foot of his bench. “Are you sleeping?”

“No. I’m . . .” Well, regrouping might be the right word, but he didn’t want to say that to his father. Because that would mean telling his father the truth.

Including his failures.

Garrett Marshall didn’t know the meaning of failure, or the word quit, not when he took over the family farm and converted it to a very rare yet successful Minnesota winery. He hadn’t quit when the vines froze, year after year, hadn’t quit until he found the right grapes to survive the northern frosts. He’d taught his sons not to quit—starting with his oldest, Fraser, now a navy SEAL, and then the middle, Jonas, who had the propensity to drive right into the middle of a tornado just to watch it spin. He’d even passed the concept down to his adopted son, Creed, who’d survived three days buried underground this summer after a tornado hit their school.

Even their sister, Iris, had no-quit in her. She had to, being the only woman referee in the NFL.

Apparently, the only one who failed was Ned, and even then, he’d gone down with a fight.

But his strained ACL had kicked him in the teeth, sent him home to recuperate and become, well, a farmhand.

He would have rather been left in the sooty soil for the fire to consume him. Everything he’d worked for had gone up in smoke the day Jed disqualified him from the smokejumpers team.

Well, he’d show Jed. He’d show them all.

No more quitting, ever.

He wasn’t going to end up a farmhand, either.

As if he might be reading Ned’s thoughts, his father reached out his hand to help him up. “No quitting now, son. We have three more barrels to finish toasting. I need to rack off this wine and get it into the barrels tomorrow.”

Ned ignored the offer of help but sat up. “Actually, I already finished them.”

Garrett’s eyebrow raised. “All three?”

“Just finished toasting them,” Ned said. “They’re ready for new wine.”

Garrett sat down beside him, glanced over at him. And for a second, he actually looked impressed.

“You took the barrels apart and sanded all the staves?”

Ned nodded.

“Replaced the hoops—”

“And roasted the barrels over the fire. Yes. If it’s one thing I know how to do, Dad, it’s tend a fire.”

That got a sideways smile.

In fact, that was all he’d done for the past two weeks. Unhooping the barrels, taking apart the staves, sanding them back down to the grain, reassembling them, tending the fire that would toast them, then setting the barrels over the flame. Giving them a light roast to re-season the wine, then rinsing them off, rehooping them, and finally restacking them in the barn for refilling.

Tedious, tiring, and sooty work, although those exact words could describe his summers as a smokejumper.

Somehow, however, it felt different. Smokejumping included jumping out of a plane, camaraderie, and not a little adrenaline.

He couldn’t bear the thought of being a farmer for the rest of his life. Still, it was a job, for now. “They’re back together, rehooped and ready to go.”

Silence, then, “I had always hoped that one of my sons would go into the family business.” He gave Ned’s leg a pat. “Apparently, it’s you.”

Aw, wait. “Dad—”

Garrett held up his hand. “Just think about it, Ned. It’s not like you have anything else on your radar, right?”

Right now. He could run a defensive play right now and tell his father.

I’m going to be a SEAL.

But somehow unfolding that hope from where he’d tucked it inside his chest . . . no.

Because he might not quit, but he could fail. So many hoops to jump through to get from sitting in the barn with his father to that trident being pounded into his chest on some sandy beach. Each hoop, from qualification to boot camp, to pre-BUD/S to Hell Week to SQT, meant more strain on his knee, which was still achy from today’s five-mile conditioning run. He should probably ease up on his training.

It was simply embarrassing to fail in a family of overachievers.

So he just nodded, and it was a spear to his chest when his father grinned, his expression so full of hope Ned just had to look away.

“Tomorrow we start racking off the wine.” Garrett clamped his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “First day of vintner apprenticeship.”

Oh brother. Never mind that he’d helped his father rack off wine into barrels for the past fifteen years, since he was eight years old. But he nodded, a sigh building inside.

Even though he couldn’t tell his father, or any of his family, not yet, he still ached with the news, needing to tell someone. I joined the navy. I’m trying to become a SEAL. Someone who wouldn’t look at him like he was crazy for wanting to dream so big. Someone who wouldn’t compare him to Fraser, his superstar brother, or probe around his reasons why.

He didn’t have a why. He just had a want.

And right now, that want included telling someone who might be, well, impressed.

Someone like Shae Johnson.

His father had left for the house, and Ned followed slowly, flicking off the lights in the barn. With the stars spilling into the velvety darkness overhead, he tucked his gloves into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cell phone. Opened his text app.

Read Shae’s last message.

I really miss you. There’s a wedding reception this weekend for Ben King, and I’ve decided to go. But I could use a date . . . No pressure, but if you decided to show up and take me dancing, I’ll let you show me those two-step moves you keep bragging about. Did I mention I miss you?

I miss you too, Shae.

He hadn’t expected to fall in love—and he wasn’t sure he was in love, really. Just knew that meeting Shae this summer had changed everything, for a while. Maybe he’d put too much into their two-week whirlwind romance, but a tornado and the stress of searching for Creed added an intensity to a relationship that threw down roots, rich with emotion and promises that usually took years to bloom.

He blamed her beautiful, misty, pale sky-blue eyes. They were the first thing he’d noticed about her. Crazy, since they’d been hiding in a building that had been threatening to come down around them, a tornado blowing over them that shattered windows and overturned cars. She was bravely trying to staunch the flow of blood on country music singer Benjamin King’s arm, a tear he’d received from breaking a window. Ned hadn’t stopped to think, simply pulled off his shirt and pressed it to the wound. Mumbled something about being an EMT and a smokejumper, but really . . .

He’d been caught by those eyes that looked at him as if he could stop the chaos, save the world—and heaven help him, he wanted to believe her.

Over the next few days, during the desperate search for his brother, he’d told her things in the wee hours. Things that he hadn’t even known about himself until she flushed them into the open. Things that she hadn’t laughed at.

Like the fact that his training injury had wrecked him more than he’d expected. Or the truth that—and he hadn’t admitted this to anyone until somehow, lying under the stars, Shae’s hand in his, he’d let his dreams spool out—he even thought about joining the navy, becoming a SEAL, being a bona fide hero.

She hadn’t laughed. And he’d rolled over, propped his head on his hand, and traced her beautiful face with a curious finger. With her cute nose, silky blonde hair, and the Milky Way shining in her eyes, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her. The summer wind played a melody in the apple trees nearby, the sweet smell of cut grass and ripening grapes stirring the sense of freedom and youth, and it didn’t take long before he’d had to roll away, breathing hard, grasping at a few vows to himself.

So yeah, him joining the navy wasn’t world-altering news, but he’d wanted to tell Shae first.

In person.

And preferably on a dance floor with her arms hooked around his neck, those sky-blue, believing eyes in his.

He headed into the house, upstairs to his room. Took a shower. Packed a bag.

Left a note for his father.

Then, in the wee hours of the morning, he got into his truck, pulled out, and set his GPS on Mercy Falls, Montana.

“One more.” Pete shoved his empty glass toward the bartender. And while he wanted to fill it to the brim with something stronger than the tonic water from the bar tap, he knew himself.

Or at least the man he’d been.

Still, there was something about nearly drowning that made a man thirsty. Parched right to his marrow with the emptiness of needing more, so much more. Every time he closed his eyes, the caravan pulled him down, turning his breath to fire in his lungs. Trapping him. Drowning him.

Shoot, his stomach just might erupt, and it wasn’t from the bar fries and his half-eaten burger.

He buried his head in his arms on the bar.

On stage, a couple had queued up a karaoke machine and were belting out, of all things, one of country music duo Montgomery King’s covers. Oh swell, now Ben was haunting him.

Golden tan, a laugh for the band

I see you in the crowd, waving your Coke can

I like your smile, stay for a while

Huddle up around the fire

It’s all right, stay for the night

Let’s chase away the cold and do it right

C’mon, baby, let’s start a fire

Yeah, that was hardly fair. Too easily he conjured up the sweet image—a longing more than a memory—of swaying with Jess on the dance floor at the Gray Pony Saloon back in Mercy Falls. Could nearly feel her body against him, curves and heat and the sense that she belonged to him. Her fingers twined through his formerly long hair, and he could lose himself in her blue eyes, the way she looked at him like he might be her hero.

Wow, he was in trouble. His fatigue and near miss had clearly turned him into a brokenhearted Hallmark movie character.

He should get it through his head that Jess wasn’t going to walk back into his life and fling herself into his arms, beg him to take her back, declare that she’d chosen the wrong man.

Really, she wasn’t. Because he’d read the article Ty had forwarded him last month on his phone. A gossip column, yes, but he couldn’t deny a picture of Selene Taggert on the arm of, yep, the Frenchman. Selene Jess Taggert—although he barely recognized the former EMT whom he’d taught to climb and rappel and even survive in the wilderness on pine sap and berries. He hated to admit it, but of course she looked like she belonged with the European, with her dressed in a body-hugging black gown, her blonde hair up in couture tangles.

Pete leaned up, feeling woozy. Turning in was probably the right idea. The teams worked on tight, round-the-clock shifts right now and he needed some z’s before the 5:00 a.m. wake-up to search for more of the stranded and lost.

A hand clamped him on the shoulder just as he was about to rise, and he looked over to see the man who’d helped rescue the family from the river. He wore a black T-shirt with a team emblem of some sort, and was the same size and build as Pete, with maybe a little more military in his demeanor.

“That was some crazy out there today. You okay?” He held out his hand to Pete, who took it. “Hamilton Jones, people call me Ham.”

Pete nodded. “Pete Brooks. We met once before, I think. In New York City?”

The eyes narrowed slightly, then a nod. “Right. That was you.”

Pete made a noise of assent but had gone far enough down memory lane, especially if he wanted to keep Jess’s memory at bay. “Thanks for the assist.” He let a sigh escape. “I’m sorry about the wife.”

“She was struggling and making it hard to hook her in. I should have taken the baby from her before I tried to hook her in, but she wouldn’t let me.” Ham shook his head. “They found her body past the bridge, in a tangle of roots and downed trees. I stopped in to check on the husband. He’s . . . well, I’m not sure why he blames you, but he had a few choice words to say about you. I’d keep my distance in case you were entertaining ideas of swinging by the hospital.”

Yeah, well, he’d borne the brunt of misplaced anger before. Years of it, actually, from his brother over the death of their father. Still, it didn’t stop his grief over the man’s loss.

“I already saw him,” Pete said. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “I should have waited for help.”

“They would have all died. At least the man has his child.” Ham motioned to the bartender, who came over. “You got chocolate milk?”

The bartender nodded.

Ham offered no explanation but turned back to Pete. “The fries any good?”

“Soggy now, but yeah.”

Ham caught the barkeeper’s attention and pointed to the fries, adding them to his order.

“You been doing this long?” Ham asked, reaching for some bar nuts and a napkin.

“About two years. Before that I was with a private rescue team in Montana, called PEAK—”

“Oh sure. I’ve heard of them. One of my guys’ family was in a tornado a few months ago. The PEAK team helped find his kid brother and a bunch of other missing kids.”

Small world. “Yeah, I was there. Little town in Minnesota. Who’s your friend?”

“Fraser Marshall. I used to work with him on the teams.”

Teams. “You were a SEAL?”

A bare nod, and Pete figured that was all he was going to get on that topic. He’d met a few former navy frogmen over the years, and they kept their pasts tucked tight to their chests.

The bartender delivered the milk and set the glass on a napkin. Ham thanked him, then took a drink. Grinned. “Yeah, that’s what I needed.”

Okay. Pete liked him. And the fact he hadn’t trailed back around to their previous meeting in New York City. A fancy shindig for the Red Cross. By that time in the evening, Pete had been trying to find a way to escape. He didn’t remember a word of that conversation at the dinner table with Ham. Might have even left before dessert.

“How’d you end up down here, in Missouri?”

Ham set down the glass. “My team volunteered. We saw the mess, decided to take a drive down, pitch in.”

“Your team?”

“Jones, Inc, out of Minneapolis. We’re private international medical relief and SAR contractors. We also do danger assessments and occasionally help with emergency evacs. We go to the places nobody wants to talk about, although we occasionally are hired to track down college students who’ve taken off to Cancun with Daddy’s money. That’s real fun.”

Pete couldn’t tell if he was kidding. “Well, thanks for pulling me out of the drink today.”

“It got a little dicey there when you went down, but you were doing everything right. You probably would have found shore downriver.”

“If I hadn’t been skewered by a tree first.”

One side of Ham’s mouth lifted. “What-ifs. You can’t let them roll around in your head or you’ll never get any sleep.”

Pete looked at his refilled glass of tonic water. Yeah, the what-ifs.

The bartender delivered Ham’s basket of fries. He took it and eased off his stool, the basket in one hand, his milk in the other. “Join us if you want.” He nodded toward a group of men now walking into the bar and commandeering a table. They all wore the same black shirts.

“Thanks,” Pete said. “I’m heading up to bed.”

Ham nodded. “Stay alive.”

Pete lifted his glass in agreement, then set it down on the bar.

The what-ifs. Like what if he hadn’t just stood by and watched another man steal the woman he loved?

And with that thought, Pete was standing at the edge of the Hall of Ocean Life in the American Museum of Natural History in NYC, stuffed into a tuxedo, a glass of champagne sweating in his hand, watching Selene Jessica Taggert glide in on the arm of the man Pete most wanted to strangle.

Pete knew he’d lost his mind a little when he’d agreed to attend the Red Cross gala event last fall. But that was what happened when you gave someone your heart and they walked away with it, all the way to NYC. You eventually had to go chasing after it.

And oh, Jess looked good. Especially under the glow of the blue lights that illuminated the dome of the glass ceiling, made to resemble the ocean and highlight the giant blue whale that arched over the expanse. A band played in the center square, and around it, round tables were set with golden centerpieces and placards that detailed the highlights of the activities for the year. The crowds gathered in the cocktail area.

He’d gone in with a set of social instructions from Alena, his director, but all thought flushed away when Jess floated into the room.

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

She wore her blonde hair down, a golden waterfall that he could nearly feel between his fingers. Diamonds glittered at her neck and ears, and a creamy white lace dress hugged her, from low-cut bodice down to the floor.

He knew she had curves, but she usually wore them under layers—a T-shirt, sweatshirt, jeans, a PEAK jacket. Now, his mouth turned a little parched, and he downed the glass of champagne while watching her.

She smiled as she greeted someone, offering an air kiss with those lips that could set his entire body on fire.

He set his drink on a tray and barely refrained from grabbing another.

Then he took a breath and headed across the room, weaving around tables and chairs, moving past conversation groups, smiling at his boss, a woman who believed in him more than he believed in himself sometimes. She chatted with Aimee Boomer, who glanced at Pete with a look in her eyes that he probably wore himself.

Hungry. Desperate. Aching.

And right now, he just didn’t care what kind of raw expression he wore. Yes, Jess had a lot on her plate with her return home, from her father’s recovery from open heart surgery, to helping her mother sell her apartment. He was trying to be patient, but his patience was starting to turn into panic. A month of communicating through texts, a couple short phone calls that were cut off too soon, and even a desperate email that he regretted sending from Ty’s Gmail account told him that something wasn’t right.

He was losing her.

Jess had practically vanished when he’d kissed her good-bye in Florida and gotten on a plane. He hadn’t expected that he would need to chase her down. Not with the words “I choose you, Pete” embedded in his head.

And now his expression probably reflected a hint of the anger, the frustration churning up inside him. The fear that despite her words, she’d somehow ended up right back in her former fiancé’s embrace.

Pete shouldn’t have downed that champagne quite so quickly, on an empty, roiling stomach.

He was close enough to hear her laughter, to spot the way the Frenchman—Felipe St. Augustine—secured his hand on the small of her back. Possessive. Familiar.

Pete deliberately flexed his hands. No fists here.

He took a breath, searching for the right—the calm, not-reeking-with-hurt—words.

That was when she turned.

When she spotted him.

When her blue eyes widened, her mouth parted, the expression on her face flushed to horror. Panic.

Pete’s jaw tightened as he broke into the conversation circle, which had dropped to silence, despite the hum around them.

She swallowed, her hand pressing to her chest, perhaps over her heart to see if it was still beating. He was wondering that himself.

“Pete?”

A hand on his shoulder broke him from the memory, and he came back to the seedy hotel bar just as Aimee slid onto the empty stool next to him. Someone was singing another country song, something twangy and sad from an up-and-coming singer.

Looks like it’s just me and the whiskey

’Cause you ain’t here to kiss me . . .

“You okay?” Aimee asked. She wore an off-the-shoulder black sweatshirt, faded jeans, and flip-flops. Her short blonde hair, freshly washed, lay in tousled layers, and she smelled good—fresh and clean with a hint of something floral.

But it was the soft look in her eyes that had him answering, “Rough day.”

“I’m sorry about the wife.” Her hand went to his arm and squeezed. “We tried to get her.”

“If I hadn’t fallen in, maybe—”

“Stop. You saved the father. And you nearly died in the process.”

He lifted a shoulder.

“Pete, no really. You scared me.” Her smile had fallen, and with it any veil hiding how she felt about him.

In truth, they’d been dancing around this moment for the better part of two years. They’d gone out for dinner a few times, and once he found himself on the doorstep of her long-term hotel room late at night, lingering. But they’d simply ended up hanging out on the balcony overlooking Lake Michigan.

Because between them always hovered the ghost of Jess Tagg. And that was even before he’d returned to PEAK, given away his heart to Jess, asked her to marry him.

Oh, that had been a great idea.

And even months later—okay, even now—he couldn’t seem to shake her out of his system. Break free of the crazy idea that they belonged together. That he was a changed man, a marrying kind of man.

A man worth coming home for.

“Sorry,” he said to Aimee. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She touched his face, drew her thumb through the rough scrub of his whiskers, something tender in her eyes. “You’re too brave for your own good.”

He swallowed.

Her hand dropped to his arm, trailed down to his hand, and squeezed.

What-ifs. He saw them play out before him.

What if his hand closed around hers, and he tugged her close? Pressed a kiss onto those lips that parted just a little as his gaze roamed her face.

What if she kissed him back, maybe emitted an enticing sound of desire?

And what if he followed the loneliness and hurt right down into the past where the old Pete lingered, dormant, forbidden.

The old Pete who took all the anger, all the longings, all the hopes of who he wanted to be and shoved them behind a veneer of charm, husky flirtation, and short-term promises.

That Pete knew how to live with the hurt, the ache, the wounds. That Pete knew how to survive. That Pete just might be able to shake free, just for a while, from the grief that held him captive.

And, Aimee smelled freshly showered, something floral on her skin.

Pete tightened his jaw, seeing the promises—perhaps also short-term—in her eyes and took a breath.

“I need a shower,” he said quietly. Which wasn’t an answer at all, but rather a weird sort of reply to the question on her face.

“Mmmhmm,” she said, her eyes—pretty, hazel with hints of blue—in his.

What if.

He finished his tonic water. Set it on the counter, his hand tight around the glass. Picked up his phone, the text message still on the screen: Bring a friend.

Bring a friend.

He glanced at Aimee. Heard Jess’s voice replay in his head from that night in New York City.

“Pete! What are you doing here?”

No “I’m so glad to see you.” No “I should have called you.” No “I miss you desperately.”

Right.

Pete gave Aimee a smile. “I . . . uh. I don’t suppose that you’re free this weekend. To go to . . . well, a wedding reception for my buddy Ben King?”

Her eyes widened. “The country music singer Ben King?”

He nodded.

“Are you kidding? Yeah. I’d love to go with you.”

He liked the smile he lit in her eyes.

Maybe it was time to stop drowning and breathe again.

“Great.”

She hadn’t moved. Her gaze hung on to him, and he heard her words pulsing inside. “I’d love to go with you.”

Right.

Oh boy.

“It’s been a long day. I guess I’d better turn in,” he said quietly. Slid off the stool. Considered her a long moment.

Then he held out his hand.

Joy to the world, she’d made the front page.

Jess folded the paper with a shake of her head and tossed it on the sofa table.

“At least it’s below the fold,” she mumbled, more to herself than to Felipe. She sank down on the arm of the leather Chesterfield and ran a hand across her brow. “Did you have to use the word fiancée?”

“What else would I call you?” Felipe stood with his back to her, one hand braced on the sash of the window, his fingers whitened. And she didn’t have to stand close to him to see the tremble still vibrating through him.

Through her, too, honestly. “Do you really think anyone would rush to save you?” She shook her head to dislodge Ryan’s voice, the way it raised gooseflesh on her skin.

Ryan’s blood stained the front of Felipe’s tuxedo shirt, a two-thousand dollar Stefano Ricci with French cuffs and crystal-trimmed silk. The fact that she even knew that made her a little disgusted.

Not that Felipe couldn’t afford it or shouldn’t be allowed to wear whatever he wanted, but she knew he’d probably throw the shirt away without a thought. And maybe that gave credence to the accusations that people like her family hadn’t a clue how her father’s crimes had decimated the working class. Something the Times loved to point out on a regular basis.

And with every mention, they included her supposed upcoming nuptials to millionaire Felipe St. Augustine.

Oh, the mess she’d made.

“I’m tired. I’m going to bed,” Jess said.

“He could have killed you.” Felipe’s voice pitched so low she had to force herself to hear him over her still-thundering heartbeat. “You do realize that.”

They’d spent half the night at New York Presbyterian Hospital—Felipe’s crazy insistence that she be examined, not to mention her own need to know that Ryan would be okay.

She’d finished her gala evening by giving her statement to the NYPD.

She’d also changed out of her soiled dress and into a pair of hospital scrubs.

“He was just . . . angry, Felipe.”

“He attacked you!” Felipe rounded on her, his dark eyes red-rimmed. He’d ripped his tie off and tucked it into his pocket, opened his collar at the neck, and spent a good portion of the night running a shaky hand through his now unkempt dark hair. He hadn’t shaved, either, of course, which only added to his ruffled exterior.

Oh, if he could only see himself. Clearly he didn’t care. “Did you not hear the police? He has a record of assault. If it weren’t for Kais, you would be—”

“Kais could have killed him.” She pushed up from the chair, the memory of her driver’s attack now unraveling her own slim hold on her composure. “Wicked ninja skills for a driver, don’t you think?”

Felipe stared at her. “He’s former French Green Beret.”

“Of course he is. He’s not a driver, is he? Be honest—he’s my bodyguard.”

Felipe’s mouth tightened as he stripped off his jacket and began to unbutton his soiled shirt. “It’s about time.”

“This is why I enrolled in those self-defense classes. I can take care of myself.”

“Right. You against a two-hundred-pound man? That’s laughable.” He stripped off the shirt to the white undershirt beneath.

She just stared at him. “So now I get to lose my freedom along with my reputation.”

He sighed. “Do you expect me to just let my future wife walk around unprotected?” Felipe threw his bloodied shirt onto the sofa and advanced on her. “Every day outside this window, there’s at least one protester. You get mail constantly from someone asking—no demanding—you pay them back what your father stole. We’ve been ousted from at least three private restaurants because they can’t handle the security needs of our visits. And don’t tell me that you’re sleeping because I see the hours you’re putting into studying for your boards. And it’s not because you’re worried about passing them. It’s because you have to do something to fill the nights, don’t you?”

She drew in a breath. “If I don’t pass my Step 1 boards, I can’t apply for residency. I can’t finish my medical degree.”

“Finish it in France. After we get married.”

Twice. She drew in a breath. Twice in the last minute he’d alluded to their supposed marriage. “Felipe, I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but we’re not actually . . . I’m not really marrying you.”

She said it low, in case the words carried out into the marble hallway and bounced down to the bedroom where her mother convalesced. Or rather, deteriorated, because no one actually recovered from her condition. But she’d had good days recently. Good enough to make Jess believe that the lies were worth the cost.

Worth breaking Pete Brooks’s heart.

I’m sorry, Pete.

He’d blocked her calls long ago. She’d have to track him down somewhere in the US and get on a plane if she wanted to explain.

It might not matter anymore, even if she did.

Felipe drew in a breath at her words, his jaw tight. “Unless you find the courage to tell your mother differently, we are getting married, Selene.”

He glanced out into the hallway, where the sun had begun to gild the parquet floor through the tall windows overlooking Central Park and the Manhattan skyline. Jess had finally convinced her mother to sell the eleven-room penthouse and had spent the past six months packing boxes and trying to downsize.

Mostly, she hoped to hide the fact that despite her father’s crimes, her mother still had her blue-blood income and assets. That’s what happened when you came into a marriage with money and when your husband moved his resources into your name.

Jess hadn’t touched her own trust fund principal and had donated the interest proceeds since she’d escaped the limelight. Frankly, it felt like blood money. But she’d need it now to finish medical school. Maybe do something to pay back humanity for her family’s crimes.

Although, even Jess had to agree that the collective sins of her family might simply be too great. The Taggert name was now synonymous with the destruction of other people’s lives.

Which was precisely why she’d changed it. Moved to Montana.

Fallen in love with a man who didn’t know anything about her life in New York City. Who loved the woman he knew as an EMT, a rescuer, a home remodeler. A simple girl without a past who just wanted a clean slate.

Felipe took a step toward her. “Darling. Selene—”

“Jess.”

“Selene.” His eyes darkened. “You are Selene Jessica Taggert, and it’s time to stop running. Yes, I was the one who suggested the arrangement, but you agreed. Because you knew in your heart who you really are, and it’s why, ten months after our agreement, you still haven’t told your mother the truth. Because you know your old life is over. Because you belong with me, and you’ve always known that. Embrace it. Let this romantic fantasy about Peter Brooks go. There is nothing left for you in Montana. It was . . .” He touched her cheek. “It was an adventure, ma chérie, one you needed. But you’ve found yourself now, and it’s time to return to me. To our future.”

His finger traced her jaw, and he stepped up to her, tipped her chin to face him. “I love you. I want to marry you.”

She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to lay her head against his shoulder. “And what about Gabrielle?” She kept her voice soft so as not to sting.

He swallowed hard. She opened her eyes in time to see the answer linger in his gaze. He shook his head sharply. “She has . . . a different life.”

Oh Felipe. She knew how it felt to wait for the one you loved to return that love. To hope, pray . . .

Poor Pete. She’d pined for him for three years, watching him self-destruct under the weight of his own past. And just when he opened his heart, found peace, and got a glimpse of a happy ending, she’d run off to New York City.

Done to him what he’d done to her. Made him wait. Made him watch her self-destruct.

But she wasn’t the only one. “Felipe. You know you love Gabrielle. You always have, and you always will.”

“I love you.”

“You love her more.”

He drew in a breath. “I love you enough.” He rested his hand on her cheek. “And you love me enough also.”

She considered him. He wasn’t being unkind. He did love her, and she saw the memories in his expression. He’d been her first love. Her only love.

Until Pete.

“I may not be a cowboy, but I will protect you.” Felipe drew her close, and his lips whispered across her cheek.

Pete was hardly a cowboy, but of course that’s what Felipe saw in Pete’s swagger, his Western drawl. Pete had Montana embedded in his cells, a rugged, get-’er-done aura that had spilled out of him and engulfed her. Somehow, with Pete she was brave.

She was Jess Tagg, rescuer.

Without him . . .

“Your mother longs for us to set a date and see us married. Before . . .” Felipe leaned back. “It is time to admit the truth, Selene. You belong with me.”

He kissed her. His touch was so achingly familiar. Soft, but still a jolt went through her. The taste of the cigarette he’d smoked while waiting for her to finish with the cops. The lingering cologne, something exotic mixed with the scent of the street. The cotton of his undershirt beneath her hand, the hard planes of his gym-honed chest. His arms curled around her, tugging her in, and for a moment, she surrendered. She softened her mouth to him, let him linger. Call it fatigue or simply loneliness, but she could admit that being with Felipe felt like she’d unearthed a piece of herself that she’d buried so many years ago.

The Selene Taggert who lived in an insulated world of happy endings and nothing-ever-goes-wrongs.

She knew better now.

No. She was shaking her head even before she broke the kiss and pushed away, out of his arms. “No, Felipe—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can!” He stepped back, his hands raised in surrender. “Make a decision. For all our sakes, Selene. We’ve waited long enough.” His square jaw ground tight. “Marry me. This weekend, this month, I don’t care, but marry me and let us get on with our lives. No more charades.”

“What charades?”

The voice tumbled out on a hint of strength borne from years of scrutiny and scandal.

Jess caught Felipe’s bowed head, the tiny shake of resignation even as she turned to face her mother.

Just because her illness confined her to a wheelchair didn’t mean that Caroline Taggert had surrendered to disarray. Her personal assistant Helene had already coiffed her mother’s graying hair, dressed her in a pantsuit, and applied enough makeup for her to appear, if not well, then far from ghastly.

Indeed, the disease had crept through her mind more than her body, although her mother had lost weight over the past year.

Not stature, however. Or the ability to make Jess choose her words.

Now, as her mother’s assistant pushed her into the room, Caroline repeated, “What charade?” She pronounced the word like Felipe had, as if she might be British.

“It’s nothing, Mother.”

“Is that blood on your shirt, Felipe?” Her mother’s glance had evidently fallen to the bundle on the sofa. “And what on earth are you wearing, Selene?”

“We had an incident,” Felipe said, crouching by her chair. “But it is over, and everyone is all right.”

Not entirely true, but . . .

Her mother’s blue eyes cast over Jess, then back to Felipe. “I wish you two would move to Paris. It’s so much safer.”

“Your doctor is here.” Jess sat on the arm of the Chesterfield.

“I am aware of my medical situation, Selene. I can find another doctor in France. But more importantly, what charade?”

Jess glanced at Felipe, who met her eyes.

Perhaps she’d been a fool to suggest—

“Wait. It’s the wedding, isn’t it? You’re planning to elope, aren’t you?” Her mother raised a groomed eyebrow. “This is why you’ve put off the date—because you’re trying to circumvent the fanfare of a St. Augustine-Taggert wedding and scurry off to some Caribbean island for your nuptials.”

Oh.

Jess closed her eyes, the lie too easy to perpetuate.

“Of course, I can’t blame you, but . . . we still have friends in this town, you know.”

“We know,” Felipe said softly. “And in Paris. And perhaps it’s simply too much. The mayhem a society wedding would cause.” He slipped his hand over her mother’s, squeezing. “An elopement is easier, don’t you agree?”

Oh, he had a way with her mother that smoothed her rough edges, turned her mother into someone Jess once knew, before the scandal, the bracing headlines, before the accusations, the anger. Felipe had healed them all, in a way, with his grace.

Maybe she should marry him.

“You’re probably right, Felipe. I just . . . I wanted more.” Her mother offered a tight smile, so much unspoken in it. Indeed, they’d been cast into the no-man’s-land of her father’s betrayal, his sins, and no one had emerged unscathed.

Felipe pressed a kiss to her mother’s forehead. “I must get out of these filthy clothes.” He rose, then came over to Jess, pitching his voice low. “We will talk later, non?”

She nodded. He kissed her, softly, just a caress, then crossed the room and picked up his jacket and shirt. “Don’t go anywhere. Not without Kais. Or me.” He held her eyes until she acquiesced.

“Who is Kais?” her mother asked as Felipe left.

“You met him, Mother. He’s our driver.”

Caroline Taggert nodded, her gaze caught on the view out the window, or perhaps further, in a time, or a place. A muscle spasmed in her arm, another in her shoulder. She rarely went out anymore; her lack of coordination and occasional overactive reflexes were too hard to explain.

Besides, no one really understood Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, the terminal illness that resembled Huntington’s disease.

Jess had a few adjectives, however.

Cruel.

Insidious.

Heart-wrenching.

Her mother had progressed slower than most—but still, the insomnia, the muscle spasms, and most of all, the memory loss, inched her toward death each day. Worse was the anxiety and the depression that, despite her society upbringing, she struggled to hide.

So yeah, Jess had agreed to get engaged.

But she’d never meant for it to get this far, for the news to find its way to Page 6, for pictures to land on the internet.

Never meant for Felipe to put a ring on her finger.

“Perhaps you would consider wearing my dress,” her mother said quietly, clearly coming back to herself. “I could get it refitted for you.”

“Of course, Mother.”

Helene came into the room. “Ma’am, your breakfast is ready.” She wheeled her out, and Jess was going to pick up the hospital bag holding her soiled red dress when her cell phone rang.

She paused only a moment at the caller ID before she answered. “Hey, Ty.”

Ty Remington, who had gone to college, even roomed with Felipe, who knew her friends in New York City and the life she’d left behind.

Ty Remington, who had become her ally, her confidant, and even her cohort in crime as he helped her build a new life in Montana, hiding her secret for years.

Ty Remington, teammate of Pete Brooks, and the guy who had accidentally outed her secret to Pete while trying to protect Jess from his zealous reporter girlfriend, Brette Arnold.

And most importantly, Ty Remington, who knew that she still loved Pete to the marrow of her bones.

“Hey.” The deep timbre of Ty’s voice rolled through her, tugging her back to Montana, to the rugged beauty of the Rocky Mountains and the two-story Victorian she’d remodeled. A simpler life, with simpler goals. Rescue people. Fall in love. Live happily ever after. “Are you okay?”

His question stilled her. “Um . . .”

“Brette is subscribed to about a bazillion Google alerts, and one is for you. Were you attacked last night?”

Oh. Jess sighed and sank down on the sofa, her head in her hand. “I’m fine. It’s just . . .”

“You sure you’re fine? You sound tired.”

“I was up all night. But . . . yeah. That about sums it up.”

“We miss you out here. I’m not sure if you got Kacey’s invite, but Ben and Kacey’s wedding reception is this weekend. Come back to Montana.”

His words made her ache. “Come back to Montana.”

“I got the invite, but . . . I don’t know. My mother—”

“This isn’t about your mother, and we both know it. But don’t worry, he’s not coming.”

He. As in Pete. Jess didn’t know how to describe the darkness that crept through her at Ty’s words. Relief—no. Disappointment, perhaps, but maybe just dread. Except . . . “Are you sure? Because . . .” Well, frankly, a desperate part of her hoped that he might be there. “Sierra said he’d RSVPed this summer, when Ben announced the event.”

“Oh. Maybe. Ben said his invitation came back Return to Sender. Ben mentioned that he was going to text him, but Pete’s working search and rescue in Missouri, at the flooding there.”

She’d seen the flood on the news. Half the state was under water, the result of one of the many hurricanes tracking inland.

“It doesn’t matter what Pete does,” Ty said. “Come to the reception. Everyone misses you.”

“Everyone misses you.” She got up and walked to the window. Stared down at the hustle of 62nd Street. Yeah, she missed herself too.

“Okay. Just for the weekend.” And if Pete didn’t show up, she’d take it as a sign.

Or an answer. Whatever. Because it was time to make a decision.