Her Stolen Past. Lynette Eason

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      His jaw tightened. Then relaxed as Sonya came to mind. She seemed so likable and genuine. He hoped that was the case, but would keep his guard up. His ex-fiancée had seemed quite likable and genuine—until she’d met someone who didn’t come with as much baggage attached to him.

      Brandon knew he had issues that stemmed from his family situation—and he was working on them. It had hurt when Krystal had decided she didn’t want to work on them with him.

      Brandon turned to head back inside. The lamp in his den went out. He stopped. Looked at his kitchen window. The light over the sink was off, too.

      For a moment, he stood silent, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The town house to his left had power. So did the one to his right.

      A blown fuse?

      Maybe. But in his line of work, he wasn’t going with that assumption.

      Brandon set his drink on the small table next to the chair and reached for his weapon. The one that wasn’t there because he’d left it on his kitchen counter. Next to his cell phone.

      Wary, Brandon slipped to the edge of the deck and waited. Watching through the French doors. Even though it was dark inside, the moon offered a bit of light, coming through the open blinds and into the den.

      His patience paid off when a thin shadow moved into his line of sight. The person paused, then moved to his desk. A thin beam of light came from a small penlight. Who was it?

      Itching to confront the intruder, Brandon held still, waiting and watching. A weapon appeared for a brief moment, and the large barrel on the end said this was no random break-in.

      His gut twisted as he mentally moved into battle mode. His right hand twitched, wanting the comforting feel of his Glock against his palm.

      The town house had two levels. Right now, they were on the bottom level. Upstairs he had three bedrooms. One for him, one for Jordan and one he used as an office. The antique desk in the living area simply served as decoration.

      But his intruder didn’t know that.

      Did the person not realize he was home?

      The weapon said yes. The leisurely search of the desk said no. Or he wasn’t worried about it.

      Brandon waited for a lull in the traffic, then slid the glass door open and slipped inside. He closed the door with a quiet hiss.

      The figure at the other end of the town house paused. Lifted his head as though listening. Brandon stayed still, his only thought to get to his weapon. The person moved toward him, his weapon held expertly in front of him.

      Brandon took note. Weapons training. Breaking-and-entering training. What else? Not wanting to be caught unprepared and while the element of surprise was still on his side, he moved on silent feet through the darkness to the kitchen.

      The intruder’s gun popped, flashed. The bullet slammed into the wall next to Brandon’s head.

      So much for being quiet.

      He dived for the kitchen and rolled as another bullet burned a hole in his newly laid tile floor. Anger fizzled. His back hit the cabinets. He lifted his hand and snagged his Glock from the counter, keeping his head low.

      He’d been shot before. He had no intention of letting it happen again. With his other hand, he reached up and grabbed his phone.

      “Come around the corner and you get shot. Tell me what you want and you might keep breathing.” He kept his voice steady. Controlled. He didn’t want to shoot anyone. Not even this person intent on killing him. He did, however, want to know who it was. But he wasn’t going hunting blind.

      Brandon listened as he punched in 911 and pressed the phone to his ear.

      Silence from the den. The 911 operator’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded incredibly loud. He lowered the phone.

      A whisper of movement from the living area reached him. Brandon stilled. Moving closer or moving away?

      Brandon tried again. “Get out while the getting’s good.” He pressed the phone back to his ear and whispered his address.

      “Yes, sir. I got it. What’s the emergency?”

      He didn’t answer, just listened.

      Still the intruder said nothing and made almost no sound. Brandon waited, nerves bunched, muscles quivering with his tension. A low voice finally came to him. “Stop looking for Heather Bradley.”

      And then the quiet snick of the door shutting.

      Brandon stayed still, ignoring the adrenaline rush racing at fever pitch through his veins. Was it a trick to get him to show himself? He moved and peered around the kitchen cabinet, into the den area. No movement, but it was so dark, someone could be hunched down and he’d never see him.

      Brandon flattened himself on his belly and kept his weapon in front of him. Army crawling, he moved toward the den, eyes probing the darkness.

      He could see nothing. He heard nothing. He turned the volume down on the 911 operator frantically trying to get him to answer.

      The sirens in the distance caught his attention and he figured they were headed for him. If the intruder was still in his house, he was going to be trapped.

      No one spoke. No more shots came his way.

      Brandon’s adrenaline ebbed as he finally decided he was alone. He stood, still cautious, watchful. He flicked on the small light above his sink, not wanting to turn on the bright kitchen light after being in the darkness for so long. He needed to let his eyes adjust slowly.

      Still keeping himself protected from anything that might come from the den area, he waited to make sure.

      Then slowly, methodically, he swept each and every room, weapon ready.

      The place was empty.

      Only now he knew someone didn’t want him looking for Heather Bradley. The question was: Why?

      That someone had just made a very bad mistake because now Brandon was more determined than ever to get answers to all of his questions. All of them.

THREE

      Somehow Sonya made it through her twelve-hour shift without collapsing. She didn’t like working on Sundays, but it was part of the job. She was fortunate she had to take only one Sunday a month.

      Now she had one more thing to do before she went home to collapse.

      She knocked on the door to room 412.

      “Come in.”

      Sonya stepped into the room and saw the woman in the bed. “Hi, Dineen, my name’s Sonya Daniels. I was in the park when you were shot.”

      “You’re the one who saved me,” she whispered and held up a hand.

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