Zoya Hart has been eluding her gold-digging stepmother for the last few years. Knowing that this woman will do anything to gain control of her and her late father's company, Zoya finds herself hiding out on a farm. Now, with a PI on her trail, Zoya'...
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Roman didn't sleep for all the thoughts flooding his brain. When she'd helped with his tie, the way her small hands moved and how they'd felt on his chest made his heart race.
He'd been overcome with rage when he'd seen the boy cornering her. But the fear in her eyes had been just as powerful. Roman had gone overboard, but that skinny bastard had no right to lay his hands on her or any other woman.
Then calm overtook him when she'd told him her real name. "Dove," he whispered it aloud. He loved the way it felt on his lips, but he was partial to Zoya. He was lusting for her and it had to stop.
He didn't know how long he'd been lying there, one emotion after the other washing over him, but now sunlight beat against the sheets he had tacked over his windows. He should go to Breaux Bridge and get blinds.
Last night, he'd dragged the mattress off his old bed into the new room and that might have played a part in his sleepless night. It was still a hell of a lot more comfortable than the prison bunk he'd slept on for six years.
He'd told himself it was to enjoy the new master suite but honestly, it put him closer to her room. She was a contradiction. Stubborn and strong to a fault, but vulnerable at the same time. He wanted to protect her, not only from the smart mouth co-worker, but everything she was running from.
He lifted his laptop from the floor and rested it on his thighs. Now he knew enough to find something online about her. In the search bar he typed, fatal car accidents Baton Rouge, 1999.
He clicked third one on the list. State of Louisiana archives, then scrolled to the right place. One hundred thirty-six fatalities. Next, he searched for a victim matching descriptors she'd unknowingly provided him. Within minutes, he'd found what he was looking for. Brenda St. Clair. Survived by husband, David and daughter Dove.
He opened another tab and entered Dove's name. The first entry got his attention. Heir to St. Clair Steel Goes Missing. Holy Shit. After reading the article twice, he clicked on the connecting website to post sightings. Hundreds listed, the last posted three weeks ago from New York City.
He wondered how many were bogus. Probably most since there was a twenty-five thousand dollar reward offered for information leading to her whereabouts. He closed the site and his laptop. At least the cash was legit. She was worth millions.
But why was she hiding? A question he wanted answered, and he'd get it out of her. Someone had to have helped her leave; she couldn't have done it on her own. But how, and why?
Thirty minutes later, dressed for the day, he strolled into the kitchen. Fresh blueberry muffins sat on a platter, and in front of the coffeemaker, a note instructing him to turn it on. While the coffee brewed, he looked out at the garden where again she walked the length of a row poking holes in the soil with the hoe handle. He smiled. She'd learned the technique from Charamel just as he had when he was a boy.
