Sins of the Storm by Jenna Mills

Author:Jenna Mills [Mills, Jenna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Suspense
ISBN: 9780263859843
Google: vV7o4m3RBNIC
Publisher: Mills & Boon
Published: 2006-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

She knew the second he left. She knelt with her shirt caught on a thorn and tried to breathe, told herself not to turn. Not to look. But she glanced over her shoulder anyway, and found the porch deserted. The way she’d known it would be.

Frowning, she looked up as Beauregard dashed back with the Frisbee. “Such a good boy,” she told him, taking the well-chewed toy and tossing it toward the trees.

The temptation to follow was strong. She could lose herself in the woods, work her way back to the highway. There she could hitch a ride to her rental. Jack would notice her gone, and he would follow. But she’d not said a word about the pictures she’d taken of the map. She could start looking without him.

She stood and pulled off the gloves. She could. She could slip into the woods. She could follow her father’s map. No one would know.

Beauregard barked excitedly and came galloping back.

“Come on, boy,” she said, turning to the house. Because it was the smart thing to do, she told herself. Jack was a cop. Lambert was getting desperate. If by some chance he followed, tried to stop her—

That’s why she went back into the house. She knew what happened when people took unnecessary risks—she’d written about the outcomes too many times: the serial rapist who coerced women into opening their doors by claiming to be looking for a lost puppy named Sam. And the woman in San Jose, the one who’d agreed to help a crippled man into his van. She’d been brutally assaulted, used as a sex toy for five days until her body had given out.

That’s why Camille gave Beauregard a smooch, then walked into the stillness. Because it was the smart thing to do. The safe thing.

Not because she couldn’t stop thinking about the gleam in Jack’s eyes when he’d stood in the shadows of his living room.

We’d be in my bed…naked.

The quiet drew her to the kitchen, where she found him at the sink. In his left hand he held an old mug with a hand-painted crawfish on it. His right hand was in a fist. His athletic shorts were gray and baggy, his tank top white.

Even standing that way, all alone and isolated, he made her blood hum.

“It was hers, wasn’t it?” she asked.

He stiffened.

“The rose garden.” The one neglected to the point of abuse. “It was your wife’s.”

He put the mug on the counter, but did not turn. His shoulders, so much wider and wearier than all those years ago, rose with his breath. “Yes.”

The weeds had been everywhere, their roots deep and tangled. The bushes themselves had been spindly, the leaves covered by black spots and aphids, the stalks depleted by dead wood.

“Is that why it bothered you to see me out there?” The question was quiet, even though there was nothing quiet inside her. If not for what Saura had told her, Camille would have had no idea about Jack’s wife. There was no trace of her—not in the house in which she’d once lived, the garden she’d once tended.

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