She studied the intruder more carefully, going beyond his startling good looks this time.

      She noticed that despite the seeming rebelliousness of his hair, there was a stylish cut there.

      Noticed that the watch on his left wrist was definitely out of her league.

      Noticed that while the jeans and knit shirt he wore weren’t blatantly expensive, the belt around his slim waist was.

      Noticed that the athletic shoes he wore were past new, but a top brand.

      Why?

      Why would a good-looking guy who obviously wasn’t down on his luck rent a room from an elderly couple in a tiny place like Summer Harbor? And be so darned nice to them to boot?

      She could only think of one reason.

      He was up to something.

      In His Sights

      Justine Davis

      JUSTINE DAVIS

      lives on Puget Sound in Washington. She says that years ago, during her career in law enforcement, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was at the time occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods of Washington State, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?”

      Once upon a time, there was a genre of books that was sadly misunderstood by many people who didn’t read them. Those who did read them loved them, cherished them, were changed by them. But still, these books got no respect on the outside, in fact were belittled, denigrated, held up as bad examples, while their readers and authors were sneered at and insulted by people who, although they never read the books, had somehow arrived at the idea that it was all right to slap others down for their choices. But those readers and authors kept on in the face of this horrible prejudice. Why? Because they found something in these books that they found nowhere else. Something precious, that spoke to them in a very deep and basic way.

      Then one day, this beleaguered genre was given a gift. A fairy godmother if you will, a person with an incredible knowledge of these books and why they worked, and an even more incredible generosity of spirit. A one-person support system who gave so much to the writers of these stories, and was ever unselfish with her time and that amazing knowledge. And her endorsement counted for something; readers took her word and knew they would rarely be disappointed. She was a rock, a pillar on which the genre depended. Her loss has left a gaping hole that can never be filled, and will always be felt by those who love these books—and loved her.

      For those reasons and so many more, the Redstone, Incorporated series is dedicated to

      MELINDA HELFER

      Lost to us August 24, 2000, but if heaven is what it should be she’s in an endless library, with an eternity to revel in the books she loved. Happy reading, my friend….

      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 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 1

      “You’ll just love him. He’s the sweetest man. Absolutely charming.”

      Kate Crawford gaped at her grandmother. “You rented out a room? What room? To what man? Why?”

      “My goodness, do you think you could string a few more questions together?”

      Kate sat down, certain she wasn’t understanding something. Her plans to make a grocery run for her grandparents were obviously going to have to wait.

      “Gram,” she said slowly, “what have you and Gramps done?”

      “I told you,” Dorothy Crawford said patiently, “we rented out our room.”

      “Your bedroom?”

      “It’s the only one that made sense, since it has the private bath and sitting area. We’re thinking of using some of the income to add an outside stairway to the upper deck, then it will have its own private entrance as well.”

      “But—

      “We’re not using it, after all. The stairs are just too much for your grandfather’s knees.”

      “I know that,” Kate said.

      And she did; she’d been the one to help them move into the one downstairs bedroom in the house. She hadn’t liked the idea—the room was too small and the bathroom was way down the hall—but it had seemed the best temporary solution they could manage until they could afford to do a remodel. Or talk her grandfather into the knee replacement surgery he insisted he didn’t want, a decision Kate suspected was also based on finances.

      “If you needed money,” Kate began, but stopped when her grandmother gave her the look she knew too well.

      “We won’t keep taking from you, Kate. You’ve done so much, too much, for us already.”

      “I could never do too much.”

      “And that’s why your grandfather and I have to step in now and then, or you’d spend all your time and money on us, instead of having a life of your own.”

      “But—”

      “No buts. Besides, it’s done. We have a renter. We can’t back out now.”

      And that brought Kate back to one of her initial questions. “Who is this person you’ve rented a room to? There’s no one in town looking for a place that I know of.”

      In any place but Summer Harbor that might be a ridiculous statement, but here it was quite reasonable that if someone was looking for a place to live, everybody in town would know it. It was easy to keep track of such things when you only had a couple of thousand people to deal with.

      “Oh, he’s not from here.”

      That alone was enough for Kate, and her voice was rather sharp when she demanded, “Where is he from, and what’s he doing here?”

      “I believe he’s a photographer,” her grandmother said. “And I can do without that tone, young lady.”

      Chastened, Kate reached out and put a hand over Dorothy’s. “I’m sorry, Gram. You know I just worry.”

      “You worry too much,” Dorothy said, but the stern tone had been replaced by a lovingly gentle one. “This is Summer Harbor, you know. Bad things don’t happen here.”

      Tell that to Joshua Redstone, Kate thought.

      The