Chapter One

      “You must be Mr. Holden. And—happily—you’re not a serial killer.”

      Sloan Holden expected beautiful women to come on to him, but as pickup lines went, that one needed tweaking. He stared at the woman, who’d just opened the door to him. “Okay. And you know this how?”

      “I had you investigated.” Standing in the doorway of her log cabin home turned bed-and-breakfast, Maggie Potter held up her hand in a time-out gesture. “Wait. I’m a little new at this hospitality thing. Delete what I just said and insert welcome to Potter House. Please come in.”

      “Thanks.” He walked past her and heard the door close. Turning, he asked, “So, FBI? CIA? DEA? NSA? Or Homeland Security?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Which alphabet-soup agency did you get to check me out?”

      “Actually, it was Hank Fletcher, the sheriff here in Blackwater Lake. I apologize for blurting that out. Guess I’m a little nervous. The thing is, I live here with my two-year-old daughter and another, older, woman who rents a room. It’s my responsibility to check out anyone who will be living here.”

      Sloan studied the woman—Maggie Potter—dressed in jeans and a T-shirt covered by a pink-and-gray-plaid flannel shirt. Her shiny dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her big brown eyes snapped with intelligence and self-deprecating humor. She was pretty in a wholesome, down-to-earth way, and for some reason that surprised him. He’d assumed the widow renting out a room would be frumpy, silver haired and old enough to be his grandmother. It was possible when his secretary had said widow, he’d mentally inserted all the stereotypes.

      “Still,” he said, sliding his hands into his jeans’ pockets, “a serial killer by definition gets away with murder and is clever enough to hide it. Maybe I’m hiding something.”

      “Everyone does. That just makes you human.” The wisdom in that statement seemed profound for someone so young. “But you, Mr. Sloan Holden, can’t even spit on the sidewalk without someone taking a picture. I doubt you could ditch photographers long enough to pull off a homicide, let alone hide the incriminating evidence.”

      “You’re right about that.”

      “Even so, Hank assured me you are who you say you are and an upstanding businessman who won’t stiff me for the rent. Again I say welcome.” She smiled, and the effect was stunning. “I’ll do everything possible to make your stay here as pleasant as possible, Mr. Holden.”

      “Please call me Sloan.”

      “Of course.” When she turned away, he got a pretty good look at her work-of-art backside and shapely legs. They weren’t as long as he usually liked, but that didn’t stop all kinds of ideas on how to make his stay pleasant from popping into his mind. That was proof, as if he needed more, that he was going to hell. After all, she was a mother.

      “I just need you to sign the standard guest agreement.” She walked over to the desk in the far corner of the great room.

      Sloan followed and managed to tear his gaze away from her butt long enough to get a look at her home. A multicolored braided rug was the centerpiece for a conversation area facing the fireplace. It consisted of a brown leather sofa and a fabric-covered chair and ottoman. On the table beside it was a brass lamp and a photo of Maggie snuggled up to a smiling man. Must be the