www.millsandboon.co.uk

      About the Author

      BJ DANIELS wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and author of thirty-seven published short stories. That first book, Odd Man Out, received a 41/2 star review from Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine and went on to be nominated for Best Intrigue for that year. Since then she has won numerous awards, including a career achievement award for romantic suspense and numerous nominations and awards for best book.

      Daniels lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and two springer spaniels, Spot and Jem. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards, camps, boats and plays tennis. Daniels is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Thriller Writers, Kiss of Death and Romance Writers of America.

      To contact her, write BJ Daniels, P.O. Box 1173, Malta, MT 59538, USA, or e-mail her at bjdaniels@mtintouch. net. Check out her web page at: www.bjdaniels.com.

      This one is for knitters everywhere,

      especially to the newest to the craft, seven-year-old Miss Teagan Lynn.

      Chapter One

       “Can you keep a secret?”

       Her whisper is husky in the dark.

       He breathes her in, the sweaty air around her naked body fragrant with musk and the aroma of sex. Drunk on her, intoxicated by her body, her voice, her smile, he grins to himself in the dark.

      A fingertip trails down his chest, the nails long and red as blood. “Can you?”

       “Sure,” he whispers back, eyes drooping as if he’s been sedated.

       Her lips brush his neck, her long dark hair tickling his bare flesh, her touch dragging him out of his stupor to semiconscious desire. “Could you keep a secret even if you knew it could get you killed?”

      Dalton Corbett shot up in bed fighting to catch his breath, the nightmare following him. Rationally, he knew his mind was playing tricks on him, but he could still hear the cry of the gulls, the lap of the water against the side of the gently rocking boat, the soft murmur of her whisper next to him.

      Breathing hard, his skin soaked with sweat, he rubbed a hand over his face and dared to look at the other side of the bed.

      Empty.

      His heart thudded against his ribs. For one terrifying moment, he’d thought he’d find her lying next to him, her body limp, hair wet and lank as seaweed.

      Just a nightmare. But so real he swore he could smell her musky perfume and he knew that if he touched her side of the bed, he’d find it still warm. He glanced down at his chest, half expecting to see where her nails had left rivulets of dried blood.

      He looked to the window and saw not rolling ocean swells, but undulating vibrant green grasslands as far as the eye could see.

      Still the nightmare surrounded him with an ominous dread. He’d thought he’d exorcized Nicci from his life, his thoughts, his dreams. He’d thought he was through catching glimpses of her in passersby on street corners or in cars speeding past.

      That was until three months ago when he’d seen her in the back of a taxi in downtown Houston. A week ago it had been on the national television news. Yesterday it had been in Whitehorse, Montana, just miles from the ranch.

      Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Dalton headed for the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Unlike his brothers, he’d been relieved when he’d gotten the call from his father, asking him to come to Montana to discuss some family business.

      Trails West Ranch, hours from the nearest town with a commercial airport, couldn’t have been farther away from his former life. He’d found peace here on the north central Montana working cattle ranch his father had recently bought. The closest town was the small western town of Whitehorse, which some people would argue was still far from civilization.

      Like the outlaws who’d holed up in this area over a hundred years ago, he’d been happy to hide out here. He’d thought there wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d see a soul who resembled Nicci Angeles in this untamed, remote part of the state where the Missouri River carved a deep gorge through the land on its way to the Gulf of Mexico.

      He knew it was crazy even thinking he’d seen her in a taxi in Houston or on a national television news program. But crazier still to think he’d glimpsed her driving past in Whitehorse.

      The woman he’d seen hadn’t even looked like Nicci. Her hair had been blond and chin-length—not the wild dark mane he remembered from his nightmares.

      On the television late-night news she’d been wearing a baseball cap so he hadn’t even gotten a good look at her face. But there had been something about her that caught his eye. It couldn’t have been Nicci being led away by two police officers, so he hadn’t paid attention even where in Tennessee the crime had taken place.

      What made him angry with himself was that after nine years, he’d let these random sightings of some stranger set off the nightmares again.

      Standing in the bathroom over the sink, he splashed more cold water on his face and was reaching for the towel when his gaze went to the mirror. He froze, heart taking off at a gallop. For just a split second he’d seen Nicci behind him.

      His pulse quickened at the memory of her smile—and the knife she held in her hand. He quickly shut off the water, dried his face and hands, and returned to the bedroom to open the window.

      Cool summer air blew in on a gentle breeze. The sun had just crested the horizon, golden and warm, its rays fanning out over the prairie to dazzle the dewdrops on the tall green grass.

      Taking deep breaths, he soaked in the tranquil scene. After a few minutes, he could no longer feel Nicci in the room. No hint of her scent hung on the air. Nor was he ever going to wake up to find her next to him, he reminded himself. Or worse, standing behind him again with a murderous look in her eyes.

      Because Nicci was dead.

      He should know. He was the one who’d killed her.

      GEORGIA MICHAELS moved around the In Stitches yarn shop admiring each of her students’ work. The majority were close to Georgia’s age, in their late twenties. More than half were pregnant. Several