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  Copyright © 2017 by Marie Harte

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Craig White

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  About the Author

  A Sneak Peek at Collision Course

  A Sneak Peek at A Sure Thing

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  On a good day, Sam wouldn’t tolerate this kind of crap. But today? After spending all morning, afternoon, and early evening buried ass to elbows under the hoods of the most dicked-up cars in Seattle? It was like every transmission failure, radiator leak, and seized engine had landed at Webster’s Garage—at his station.

  Finally freed from having to listen to annoying talk about girlfriends and weddings—which didn’t belong in a damn garage—he should have been heading to Ray’s Bar to grab a beer. Instead, he’d just had to answer his cell. His own fault, really, that he now found himself crawling under the metal skeleton of an old Chevy on monster wheels—Willie’s idea of backyard art.

  “You see him yet?” the old woman yelled from three feet away. Jesus.

  “I’m not deaf,” he yelled back. “And no.”

  “What?”

  He gritted his teeth and scooted again, scraping his forearms on the uneven gravel that no doubt hadn’t been repaved since the early sixties, back when Willie had just been old. Not ancient as shit.

  “Come on,” he muttered at the shivering mess starting to growl. “It’s okay, damn it. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He continued to croon in a deep voice, reaching for the spitting furball crammed against a cracked rubber wheel. Willie’s porch light gave him something to see by. A good thing, considering the late evening hour. Though spring had just arrived, the sun still set at a little past six. Over an hour ago.

  He paused, close enough to grab the dirty cat, and held out his hand. It took a moment, but the growling quieted. A sandpapery tongue licked his finger. He sighed. “Come on, Tyrant. Willie wants you inside.”

  The old cat meowed as Sam gently dragged him out from under the truck. He cradled the feline and noticed the gash above the tomcat’s left ear. “He’s hurt.”

  “I know that, Sam Hamilton. Why the hell do you think I asked you to come get him?” The old lady shuffled closer, murmuring sweet nothings to the greasy feline while Sam got nothing but glares for daring to question Her Royal Bitchiness.

  Granted, he liked the crabby quality that clung to Wilhemina Bower, glossing over the sickly sweet perfume and stale whiskey she wore under her hand-crocheted shawls. But he could only take so much of her demands.

  He glanced down at the cat, now purring in his arms, while Willie scratched under its chin. She looked about as frail as a snowflake but had steel in those old bones. Her piercing features weren’t beautiful, but they were memorable. A mishmash of striking meets cute, surprisingly enough. Willie looked exactly like the animals she helped—a mutt. Her tanned and leathered skin could have come from any number of ethnicities. She had one of those faces Hollywood called “ethnic,” meaning she could have been an Italian playing a Mexican playing a light-skinned African American. Or dark Irish. Who the hell knew?

  Sam only cared that she helped the animals, and she made life interesting. Anyone looking at her would see somebody’s grandma, a woman who liked to bake cookies and pinch baby cheeks. Then she’d open her mouth and completely ruin the effect.

  Willie frowned at Tyrant’s ear.

  He sighed. “Want me to call Doc Lee?”

  “What the hell for? I still have some of that goop left from the last time we went in. It’ll do. Bring him in.” She turned and started toward the back entrance of the house, expecting him to follow. Her long, white hair fluttered in the breeze—the actual wind, sure as shit not from her snail’s pace in those orthopedics.

  Knowing it would be another ten minutes before she moved the four feet to her back door, he stomped past her into her musty, palatial home in the established Queen Anne neighborhood. He found the goop in the cabinet where she kept the rest of the medicinal supplies, and applied it and a makeshift bandage over the aptly named, hissing Tyrant.

  “No one appreciates me. Damn it,” he swore, having earned a huge scratch on the inside of his tatted forearm.

  After he set the cat down and watched it tear away around the corner, deeper into the house time forgot, Sam walked into the living room and waited for Willie. She kept a neat if dusty pad. Everything had its place, from the collectible Hummels on doilies over the mantel to the tacky tchotchkes gathered with a rhyme and reason only Willie could understand.

  She finally entered the house and sank into her favorite chair, a plush, hideous green-and-yellow-flowered La-Z-Boy that had probably been fashionable two decades ago. Like Willie, everything in the house had an expiration date that had long since passed.

  The old cats and dogs with nowhere else to go didn’t mind, though. According to Willie, they gave her a reason for living. And she gave them the love and affection they craved.

  Probably why Sam couldn’t make a clean break from the woman either. With his best friend “in love” and the woman who’d practically raised him borderline psychotic while planning her own wedding, he was at odds for companionship. Sure, he could have hung out with the other guys at the garage, but he didn’t want to seem like a charity case. Just because Foley had hooked up with someone didn’t mean Sam had nothing to do.

 
He didn’t, but they didn’t need to know that.

  Willie leaned back and kicked up her feet with a sigh. Her elderly shepherd, Pygar, clambered by her side and sat on his haunches while she stroked his head. “Did you find Scruffy?”

  Barbarella, a fluffy, white Persian that always looked dirty, and Mathmos, a long-haired Chihuahua, walked in together and sat on Willie’s other side, in their shared dog bed.

  They stared at him with flat gazes, as if he were nothing but giant prey.

  He still thought it more than odd Willie had named her animals after characters in a sixties’ science-fiction movie many considered soft porn, but whatever.

  “Scruffy? He’s safe.”

  “Where?”

  “Some shop on Queen Anne took him in.” At the remembrance of Scruffy’s rescuer, his heart started thundering. “Some chick picked him up a few days ago. I would have stepped in, but it was dark and she threatened to call the cops.”

  Willie cackled. “Got a good look at you, eh?”

  He scowled, knowing he looked like the ex-con he in fact was. But hey, better tats and muscles to scare away a threat than get his ass handed to him. He’d had enough of that growing up. And he didn’t want to remember what prison had been like.

  Tyrant appeared and twined his big, orange body around Sam’s ankles. The purring sounded like a freight train, but the bandage remained around the cat’s head.

  “As a matter of fact, she didn’t see me. I was in the shadows. But there have been a bunch of robberies on Queen Anne. I didn’t want to get busted for something I didn’t do just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Good point.” She nodded to the side table against the wall. “Grab me my sticks, would you?”

  He stepped over the cat and grabbed her bag of yarn and knitting needles. After handing it to her, he watched her gnarled hands move like lightning. “What are you making this time?”

  “A scarf.”

  “You know it’s almost April, right?”

  She gaped and feigned shock. “You’re shittin’ me. April? Here I was thinkin’ I’d better get a turkey for Thanksgiving.” She snorted. “It don’t need to be cold for me to make a scarf. I make what my fingers want to make.”

  “Sure. Okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, needing to leave but unsure of where to go. Ray’s? Home? Foley might be there. Then again, he spent most of his nights with Cyn anymore. Not that Sam could blame him. His best friend had somehow convinced the sexy redhead to date him.

  Tyrant returned, doing figure eights around Sam’s feet.

  “Well? Shit or get off the pot, boy. You stayin’ or going? What’s up your craw?”

  Woman had a real way with words. “You and the rescue gang. You get a home for Scruffy yet?” Casually, because he didn’t want to seem too eager, he added, “Because I could check and see if that woman who took him plans on keeping him.” He’d decided to do just that five days ago when he’d spied the pup in her arms.

  But shell-shocked by the knockout blond and not wanting to deal with more estrogen when every woman around him lately was either getting married or landing a relationship, he’d kept his distance. He glanced at Willie. Suspicion overwhelmed good sense. “You’re not shagging Old Rupert, are you?” Her horndog of a neighbor had a steady supply of funky, blue man pills. And yeah, Sam knew because Rupert liked to talk…too much.

  She gave a sly grin. “What’s it to you?”

  “God.” That was it. No more women for him. Except that blond, because she had Scruffy… He worried about the puppy.

  Willie considered him. “Hmm. Probably wouldn’t hurt to make sure the dog’s in a good place. Lord knows we have plenty more to worry about. Be good to see one of ’em in a happy home.” Willie and her small group of elderly friends had become unofficial fosters for animals needing permanence. They took in strays and cleaned up and cared for the animals while local vets and shelters put out calls for adoption.

  All in all, the program helped more than it hurt. Animals no one wanted got a second chance, and Willie and her cranky friends found purpose in helping others.

  Sam had stumbled onto the operation by accident, saving a pit bull from a dogfight going on outside an illegal underground boxing match he’d won a few months ago. The vet had sent him to Willie. Ever since, he and Willie had been working together to help strays in the city.

  “Well?” Willie said.

  “Well what?”

  “Get your ass gone. And try not to scare this woman you’re pretending doesn’t matter. Plain as the nose on your handsome face you want some of that.”

  He flushed, still not used to such talk from an old lady, though he should have been.

  She laughed. The shepherd gave a weird chuff that sounded like laughter. Willie laughed even harder. The Chihuahua yipped. The cat just stared.

  “Hell,” he muttered. “If I wanted this kind of abuse, I’d stay at work.” Or call Louise. Something he’d been putting off. He shuddered at the thought.

  “Give her hell, Sam Hamilton. And try to look less serial killer and more solid citizen. Smile, why don’t you?”

  He forced a smile at her.

  Willie blinked. “Eh, maybe not. That facial hair makes you look scruffy—like the dog. Ha. And, well, keep your hands in your pockets and that prison ink covered up. Can’t kill a woman with your hands tucked away.”

  “First of all, it’s not prison ink. I paid money for this shit.” His arms, chest, and neck were a canvas, according to J.T., his tattoo guy; thus, his body, a work of art. “Second, I don’t hurt women,” he growled. “Though if I did, I’d start with you.” He glared at her and turned to leave, forgetting Tyrant under his feet.

  The cat hissed. Sam tripped but managed to stay upright. Mathmos and Barbarella barked and growled respectively. Pygar howled. Willie slapped her knee, laughing so hard she snorted while trying to catch her breath.

  Annoyed, Sam slammed out of her house, but not fast enough to avoid Willie’s last bit of advice.

  “Try not to fuck it up, boy. Prison ain’t kind to a pretty face. And yours is prettier than most.”

  Like she had to tell him that.

  * * *

  Ivy Stephens waved good-bye to her last client of the day and hurried to close up her massage clinic. Technically, she now co-owned it with Shelby, the original owner. The thrill of finally owning a piece of the business stole over her once more, and the job was almost enough to negate her despair at losing Cookie again.

  The adorable stray had come and gone twice in the past two weeks. But this time she’d thought she could hold on to him. She’d bought him a leash and collar. So small, he had to be no more than a few months old. He looked like some kind of ridgeback/shepherd mix, as best she could tell from having compared his features to many dog pictures online.

  In any case, the puppy had big paws, the most beautiful, soul-deep brown eyes, and too many ribs showing. He needed care, and he’d seemed happy enough when with her. Since the local shelter had no reports of a dog matching his description missing, she’d taken him home. Then she’d brought him to work. To her pleased surprise, he’d slept in the doggie bed she’d gotten him while she updated paperwork yesterday. No barking or bad manners. He’d simply waited for her to finish her quarterlies before showing he needed to go outside.

  It was uncanny how well-trained he was for a puppy. But the moment she’d let him out the back, he’d managed to squeeze his way out of his collar and under the back fence of the courtyard to escape. She worried frantically that he’d be hit by a car, but he’d stayed away from Queen Anne Avenue. She’d spotted him once near the park behind the main drag before he’d disappeared into the neighborhood.

  Ivy sighed. Time to go puppy hunting again. She double-checked to make sure she’d locked the front door, then used the restroom. She left through the back h
all and had just opened the back door to leave when a large man appeared from out of nowhere.

  She gasped and jumped back.

  He just stood there, looming like a giant, his hands tucked into his jeans pockets. He had to stand well over six feet tall, and his frame looked massive. He wore a zipped-up, padded, black jacket that only enhanced his size. His short, dark-brown hair could have used a cut, and his eyes remained shadowed despite the overhead patio light. A beard and mustache framed his jaw and mouth, showing full lips. She thought she saw a hint of ink along his neck but couldn’t tell because of the play of darkness over his features.

  “Ah, hello,” he said in a deep voice. A shivery voice.

  When he didn’t make any sudden movements, she started to relax. He backed up a step to give her more space, and she cleared her throat. “Hello. Can I help you with something?”

  “Sorry. I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. So I came around back, like the sign said to.”

  A normal thing any client might do. But this man was no athlete or nine-to-fiver with tight rhomboids. This man screamed dangerous, in more ways than one. For some reason, when the light hit his mouth, she couldn’t look away, thinking how pretty his lips were in a face chiseled from granite.

  “We’re closed. But if you’d like to schedule a massage, I can give you my card.”

  “Um, okay.” He took another step back. “I can wait out here while you get it.”

  She fished in her purse and found it, then took a leap of faith and left the office, locking the door behind her. Leaving her with this stranger, alone, in the confines of the small back patio outside the office. The one fenced in for privacy.

  Ivy got a grip on her runaway imagination, sensing no real danger from the man, just feeling overwhelmed by his presence. She held out her card. “Here you go.”

  He took it, careful not to brush her fingers. But jeez, he had big hands. “Ivy Stephens, LMT.” Licensed Massage Therapist—since she’d put herself through school eight long years ago.

  She nodded. “Bodyworks is closed now, but any of us here can help you. My number’s on the card.”