The Colonel's Widow?

As soon as she entered the rustic kitchen, she saw dim light coming from the front room. “Is that a fire? Or is the generator running?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Deke, stop acting like a secret agent and tell me what is going on! Who’s here? Is it Brock?”

He set down his black duffel bag. “I’m not playing. Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’m going to hide the car. Irina—” He laid a hand on her arm, as if about to say something else.

She waited, apprehension crawling up her throat.

“Just remember that all this—was for you.” He turned and went out the door, locking it behind him.

Irina stared at the door for a few seconds, as Deke’s words replayed over and over in her head.

All this was for you.

“All of what?” she whispered. Shaking her head, she stepped through the dining room and into the front room. One lamp shone dimly, competing with the fireplace for the privilege of staving off the darkness. The only sound she heard was the crackling of the flames.

But she knew she wasn’t alone.

Her breath hitched. Deke had promised her she was safe, she reminded herself. He’d promised her, ever since Rook’s death, that he’d take care of her, and he had.

“Hello? Brock?” She spoke softly. “Is that you?”

No answer. Yet she felt a presence.

“Who’s here?” she asked sharply.

Did she only imagine she heard breathing? She squinted, trying to see past the shadows. From the corner of her eye she recognized the old bookshelf to her right. It was on the wall opposite the fireplace. It was one of many places in the cabin where Rook had hidden loaded guns.

She’d never liked all the weapons. He’d turned their secret getaway into a secret arsenal. She’d complained a million times that she’d seen all the guns she ever wanted to see during her childhood in Russia. Still, she couldn’t deny that right now she was glad to have a loaded weapon within reach. If she remembered correctly, this one was a Glock. She took a step toward the bookcase.

“Hello, Rina.”

She whirled, startled. Nobody called her Rina—not anymore.

A lone figure stood to one side of the fireplace. All she could see was a silhouette.

“Who—?” Before she could gather breath to say more, the person took a step forward. When the light hit his face, a giant fist grabbed her insides and wrung them tight—so tight she couldn’t breathe.

“What’s going on?” she gasped, gulping in air and casting about, as if an explanation lurked somewhere in the room.

“It’s okay.” A whisper. The figure held up a hand. “Irina…it’s me.”

A sharp ache burned through her chest. An ache of loss, of grief. Of denial.

“No,” she breathed, shaking her head. Whoever was standing there, whatever was going on, she knew one thing for certain. His words were a lie. It wasn’t him.

It couldn’t be. He was dead.

She took a shuddering breath. “I—I don’t understand—”

“I know you don’t.”

The sound of the man’s voice sheared her breath and spasmed her throat. The words were tentative, the voice was hoarse and hesitant, but she knew it. Just like she knew the broad shoulders, the long powerful legs, the rugged profile outlined by the flickering firelight.

Knew them, yes. But believe what she heard and saw? No way.

It was impossible.

She clapped her hands over her mouth as her brain denied what her eyes saw. Was this another, more astounding dream? A dream she’d never—even in sleep—dared to contemplate?

Her hands slid down to cover her pounding heart. “Who are you?” she asked. “Where’s Brock?”

He took another step forward.

She instinctively stepped backward, maintaining the distance between them. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her throat closed up. Her whole body contracted, as if turning inward in an effort to protect her.

For an instant, her panicked brain considered running. Deke was in the barn. But she’d have to go past—

Her breath hitched.

His brows drew down and he took a step closer.

She stiffened, and he stopped.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his face. His cheeks were leaner, his hair was all wrong—long and shaggy and damp, as if he’d just gotten out of a shower—and his eyes were haunted and sad. He was wearing dress pants without a belt, and a dress shirt that hung unbut-toned and untucked over the pants. And he was barefoot.

It was him.

Or a dream of him.

Darkness gathered at the edge of her vision, like a fade to black.

Like a dream. That had to be it. It was the only explanation that made sense.

She hadn’t eaten dinner, and she’d drunk a glass of wine. Maybe she’d never woken up at all. She was still in bed, immersed in dreams. She pinched her arm, feeling silly.

Nothing changed.

The man standing in front of her lowered his gaze to the floor, then raised it again. When he did, a burning log collapsed, sending more light splashing across his face.

His face. The last time she’d seen those lean cheeks, that long straight nose, that wide sexy mouth, they had been horribly distorted by the dark Mediterranean waters.

“Go away,” she cried. “Why are you doing this to me? You can’t be here, Rook. You cannot. You are dead.”

Chapter Two (#ub6fd2869-4c06-5407-b08d-9c06a11c4113)

God in Heaven, it was really her.