“I’m going to find him, Sam. I’m going to stop him, and that’s not a promise, it’s a guarantee.”
His certainty hung in the air. He sounded so relentlessly convinced that she actually believed him.
She tilted her head and saw his determined brown eyes, the firm set of his wide mouth, and as their gazes locked, the air in the kitchen swiftly changed. It hissed and sizzled, crackled like twigs. She wanted to look away, to walk away, to make it stop, but she stood frozen in place.
A tiny gasp tore from her throat but he covered it with his lips and swallowed it with his kiss. A gentle kiss, the soft brush of his lips against hers, the teasing flick of his tongue. The spicy, masculine scent of him infused her senses, making her woozy with desire. And yet it was a controlled kiss, one that told her he was the type of man who’d never fully let down his guard, never succumb to the pleasures of the flesh before clearing it with his head.
Dear Reader,
I’m absolutely thrilled about the release of Silent Watch, my debut book with Silhouette Romantic Suspense. The idea for this story came to me during a conversation with a friend, after we’d watched a news segment about the latest victim of a serial killer being found.
My friend turned to me and, very frustrated, said, “Why is it always a victim and never a survivor?”
And from that one remark, Silent Watch was born. I wanted to write about a heroine who had suffered at the hands of a madman, but lived to tell the tale. Not only that, but I wanted my survivor to have the strength to face the person who’d hurt her. And of course, who else to help her regain that strength but the gorgeous FBI agent assigned to protect her?
I hope you enjoy Samantha and Blake’s story, and that their romance makes you believe in the healing power of love! I’d also love to hear from you. Drop me a line at www.ellekennedy.com or swing over to sizzlingpens.blogspot.com to see what some of my fellow Harlequin authors and I are blogging about.
Happy reading!
Elle Kennedy
Silent Watch
Elle Kennedy
ELLE KENNEDY
grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, Ontario, and holds a B.A. in English from York University. From an early age, she knew she wanted to be a writer, and actively began pursuing that dream when she was only a teenager. When she’s not writing, she’s reading. And when she’s not reading, she’s making music with her drummer boyfriend, oil painting, or indulging her love for board games.
Elle loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site www.ellekennedy.com, or stop by her blog, http://sizzlingpens.blogspot.com, to chat with Elle and fellow Harlequin writers.
I could not have written this book without the support of my family and friends, the eagle eyes of my critique partners Lori Borrill, Jennifer Lewis, Kira Sinclair and Amanda White, and the guidance of my brilliant editor, Diana Ventimiglia.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
Blake Corwin was about to raise a woman from the dead.
He didn’t like it, and God knew if he had any viable choices left he would have left Samantha Dawson in peace and found another way to go about this. But there was no other way, no other hope except this woman who had suffered more in six months than most people suffered in a lifetime.
“She won’t talk to us, you know,” his partner murmured.
Blake furrowed his brows, trying to stop the frustration he felt from seeping into his expression. He adjusted the shoulder holster under his sports coat and directed a questioning look at the other man before continuing up the snowy path to the farmhouse up ahead.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, stepping over a fallen log.
“Look around you, man.” Rick Scott gestured to the isolated area. “There’s a reason why she requested a safe house out of the city. No chance of any human contact.”
He tried not to let their surroundings affect his sense of purpose, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Rick’s assessment was accurate. Aside from the rambling white-and-green house, the land stood barren. Very few trees, grass covered by a thin layer of silver frost, and not another structure in sight. The nearest house was a mile away, and when they’d pulled into the long winding driveway earlier, Blake’s chest had tightened with what he could only describe as a sense of doom.
He hated this place, hated everything it represented. Fear. Despair. Torment. The woman living here was isolated from the world, and it tore him up knowing he was partly responsible for it. A madman had put Samantha Dawson in this desolate farmhouse, but Blake’s inability to catch a killer was keeping her there.
“I feel like I’m walking in a freezer.” Rick shivered and pulled the zipper of his light jacket all the way to the collar. “Are you sure we’re in Illinois? Seems like Antarctica.”
Born and raised in Chicago, which boasted some of the coldest winters in the country, Blake merely chuckled. “Poor kid. Why don’t you go back to L.A. and crawl under a palm tree?”
Rick frowned. “Don’t make me pull out my gun, Agent Corwin.”
“Do it. I’d love to see you explain to Knight why you shot his—and I quote—best agent.”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
Blake offered a grin, knowing just how much it pissed Rick off. Funny, how when Blake caught a serial killer he rarely received a word of praise from Michael Knight. But when he found his supervisor’s lost dog? Well, that was almost worthy of promotion.
“Who brings his dog to work anyway?” Rick grumbled. He kicked a pile of slush as he walked.
“Hey, don’t look all upset. It’s not my fault that Jasper was hiding in the storage room when I walked in.”
Rick frowned again. “You didn’t see Knight licking my boots when I brought in Butcher Betty.”
“As I recall, I was there too, slapping the handcuffs on her,” Blake pointed out.
Their good-natured banter died as they reached the rickety wraparound porch. A lone wicker chair sat in the corner, and hanging above the front door was a set of wind chimes that jingled cheerfully each time the cold late autumn breeze swept by. Yet there was nothing cheerful about this house, with its disheveled exterior and the layer of lime-green paint peeling and cracking on the front door.
Blake glanced around and saw that there wasn’t a doorbell. Reaching out, he rapped his knuckles against the solid wood, then turned to Rick as they waited for an answer. “Think she’s home?”
“She’s home.” Rick crooked his finger to the left. “Her car’s here.”
Blake couldn’t believe he’d missed the pale-beige vehicle parked