The hot-shot assistant district attorney lay face down on the cold slab of concrete. His hands tied tightly behind him caused his shoulders to bow into an unnatural backward arch, even though his body fell slack with fatigue. Bruised and battered, he lay surprisingly conscious, his starched white shirt now limp and soaked with blood. His blood. Thick bubbles of scarlet gurgled from his nose with each labored breath he took. He looked somewhat like a dying fish gasping for air.

What a horrible way to die.

But he hung on a lot longer than she’d expected. Especially for all he’d been through the past hour.

The horror of it all seized her and wouldn’t let go. If it weren’t for the fact that her own hands were pulled into a vise grip behind her, forcing her into an upright position, she would have bent at the waist and retched all over the floor. The stench of imminent death forced bile into her throat. The shock alone of what was happening—directly in front of her—should have rendered her immobile. She never dreamed Bradford would carry things this far, that he was capable of creating terror of this magnitude.

Without warning, a silver flash arced through the charged atmosphere. She instantly felt, as well as heard, the resounding echo of a single gunshot and simultaneous rip of the bullet. The force sent blood, matter, and tissue flying, spattering her face, clothing.

She was that close. Too close.

An ungodly scream, like the shriek of a wounded animal, rent the air and she realized it came from her own throat. Immediate terror so powerful it nearly rocked her off her feet gripped her and the nausea took over. Her legs went limp and she did what she didn’t want to do, vomit down the front of her shirt. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, her head hung, the hands holding her from behind the only thing keeping her from falling onto the floor.

Her own pain brought her quickly back to her senses as someone snatched and yanked a handful of hair at the back of her head, forcing her to look straight ahead.

Into his face. His eyes.

What now?

His evil stare bit back with a sadistic power she never knew he possessed. How often she had seen those eyes look at her so differently. In adoration. In excitement.

In lust.

His power over her, over most women, was his charm. His charismatic demeanor, his enigmatic ability to turn a woman into putty within thirty seconds, their downfall. And she fell into that trap. Probably more deeply than most.

But she’d never seen the veil of evil cast over those eyes before.

Not like this. Not until now.

She’d known his reputation as a shady dealer, not above an illegal act—an egotistical, self-centered, domineering, power-hungry sonofabitch.

But she never expected he was a murderer.

He jerked her hair again, physically moving closer. He brought the pistol up to her chin, the cold, hard snub jabbing into her tender flesh. So vile, so despicable. She found it difficult to keep her gaze pinned to his face, into his eyes. But she needed to. She prayed if she kept the connection he might remember something, anything, that would endear her to him and he wouldn’t kill her.

“You see that!” he shouted. “Did you see how I fucking killed that bastard?”

She responded with a quick jerk of her head. He yanked her closer.

“If you ever, ever,” he began slowly, his voice menacingly lower, “think about betraying me, you stupid blonde bitch,” he thrust his face closer and she could smell his tobacco-stale breath, “I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in you. Only I won’t be so kind as to put the bullet in your brain. My friend Smith and Wesson here would enjoy having its way with you. I guarantee being ripped apart from the inside out isn’t a pretty way to die.”

He released her with a forceful push and stepped backward. For the first time in hours she was glad his goons held her upright. “No one fucks with me and lives. You understand?”

She nodded in quick jerks, probably more out of reflex rather than a conscious effort.

An uncanny shiver of relief melted over her. For whatever reason, he needed her around a little longer. She wasn’t entirely sure, however, if that was a good thing or bad.

Megan Thomas is running for her life. From Chicago, from the mob, from her controlling husband. She runs to the only place she ever felt at peace, a North Carolina barrier island she remembers from her childhood. Now she only wants to get lost—lost in someone else’s life. A new identity, soothing ocean winds, and a quiet existence are all she needs.

Smyth Parker is running from life. From the business he inherited, from society, from an ex-wife scorned. His only escape is the solitude of uninhabited Portsmouth Island. He doesn’t want anything else. And he sure as hell doesn’t need a complication named Megan Thomas.

When Megan fears she’s been found, she runs again—and straight into Smyth’s arms. His isolated island home might finally be her perfect escape. Or is it?