Husband and Wife Reunion [NOOK Book]

Julianna Chevalair listened to the distorted digitalized voice, heard a click and then the dial tone droned in her ear.

She swallowed around the tightness in her throat, closed her eyes and waited for the next message. The recorder had indicated there were three.

"If you don't stop, I'm going to stop you."

Her heart raced. She'd ignored the caller's earlier e-mails warning her to stop writing the story, and the second installment was about to run in the magazine's next issue.

A moment later, the next call started. As she listened, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. A chill ran up her spine. Hands shaking, she clicked off in the middle of the message.

How had he gotten her number?

The Achilles' Heel received dozens of crank calls, letters and even more e-mail messages from readers who didn't like some of its stories. But this was new. She'd never received a phone call at home before. And the two e-mails she'd gotten prior to leaving San Francisco had definite threatening undertones.

It creeped her out and she'd jumped at Abe's kind invitation to stay at his ranch outside Santa Fe. Now the decision seemed even more right. No one knew where she was, not even her editor. Her ex-father-in-law's ranch was the last place anyone would expect her to go.

She heaved a sigh, fell into Abe's recliner, its leather soft and cracked with age, and switched on her laptop. When she finished the piece she was working on right now, she'd be done with the series about a little girl's abduction and murder in Southern California.

It was only one of many she'd written about missing children who'd met the same fate. And someone wanted her to stop. She bristled at the thought. If anything, he'd made her even more determined to complete the series. She'd never give in to a coward who made anonymous threats. She'd finish the story even if she had to go somewhere else to do it. But she would finish.

She pulled up Word on her laptop, went to the last page of the story and typed in, "If you recognize anything about the individual profiled in this article — if you know anything about this case, call the LAPD, your local FBI office or 1-800-CRIME TV. Help us take this killer off the streets before he harms anoth — "

A noise outside made her sit up straight as a soldier. She stopped typing. She was used to city sounds, but here in the desert, in the stillness of the night, every small noise seemed magnified.

Listening, she heard nothing more. Okay, she was jumpy because of the messages, but that really was silly; the calls had gone to her condo in San Francisco two thousand miles away.

Abe had complained about a family of javelina disturbing his chickens; maybe that's what she'd heard. He'd had trouble with coyotes, too. It certainly wouldn't be a visitor at two in the morning — Abe didn't have visitors any time.

She smiled, thinking of the old man sleeping in the back wing of the sprawling adobe ranch house. Besides being her ex-father-in-law, he was a friend, a surrogate father who'd taken her in, no questions asked. Abe might be cranky and more stubborn than a donkey, but she loved him dearly.

Except for the soft light of an old faux oil lamp across the room and the glow from the laptop screen, the rest of the house was dark. No lights were on outside either since Abe insisted on conserving energy. He called himself thrifty. Others called him cheap.

A coyote bayed in the distance, its lonely howl a faint echo in the vastness of the high desert, reminding her how far they were from Sante Fe. Yet, here, she felt a peace she never enjoyed at home. The air was so pure that sounds traveled for miles, the sky so clear, she could see the Milky Way, like a road of sparkling light against a velvet black backdrop. She hadn't seen the stars like that since she was a kid and had taken a trip with her mother in their VW bus to Arizona.

Julianna hauled in a deep breath and kept on typing, the keys clicking loudly in the quiet.

Another sound…from the kitchen. Her fingers stilled as the doorknob rattled and her heartbeat quickened. Was someone trying to get in? She heard a crash and the doorknob clattered again.

She pulled her cell phone from her briefcase. They were so far out in the boonies, it would take forever for anyone to get there, but she punched in 911 anyway.

Nothing but static. Then somewhere between the crackles, she heard a voice. She rattled off her name, Abe's address, her cell phone number and that she thought someone was breaking in, hoping whoever was on the other end had heard her.

She should wake Abe. But shouting for him wouldn't do any good because the old man took out his hearing aid at night and he was deaf as a post without it.

Her heart pumped like a piston in her chest. Her gaze went to Abe's rifle in the gun rack against the far wall. She crossed the room, found the key to the case and took out one of the rifles. The wood on the butt felt smooth under her fingers, but she'd never handled a gun in her life. She'd probably shoot herself.

What the hell. It was protection. She opened the drawer and scooped out some rifle shells. All she had to do was put them in and pull the trigger. She'd seen Abe do it before.

She pocketed two shells, then, gun against her chest, edged down the hallway toward Abe's room to wake him. He knew how to shoot. Besides, what was she going to do? Force a burglar to leave at gunpoint? Tie him up for the police? How long would it be before they arrived? If they arrived?

With each step, she tightened her grip on the weapon. She couldn't imagine who would break into an old man's house in the middle of the night when he had nothing worth stealing. It could still be an animal searching for food. In California she'd heard of bears and bobcats wandering into homesteads. She was going to feel pretty silly if that's what it was.

But animals didn't rattle doorknobs. She heard a dull thud and before she could react, the door to the hallway creaked open. A large male form appeared, shadowed in the opening.

Oh, God! Adrenaline coursed through her. She raised the gun, butt end up, and mustering all her strength, smashed the man on the head.

He grunted…but he didn't keel over.

Oh my God! She dropped the gun and turned to run. Fingers dug into her shoulder and in one quick movement, he shoved her face against the wall and pulled both her hands behind her.

"Move and you're history," the intruder said, his voice low and raspy.

That voice. She knew that voice.

Swiftly, big deft hands patted her down, moving under her arms, sliding around to her breasts, then down between her legs, at which she felt a familiar pull low in her stomach. He clicked on the light and yanked her around.

His eyes went wide. "Jules?"

Words stuck in her throat. Abe had assured her there wasn't a chance in hell she'd run into her ex. Frowning, she flung off his hands and rubbed her arms where he'd manhandled her. Then she saw him reach for his head. He was bleeding. Scowling and bleeding.

"You coulda killed me."

She stiffened. "That was the intent. I thought you were a burglar. Most normal people don't come in through a window, y'know."

Blood trickled down his forehead and she realized how hard she'd hit him. "Geez, I'm sorry, Luke. Here, let me get something for that."

As she turned to go, he grabbed her by the arm. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? I think I should be the one asking you that question."

"This is my father's house."

"Well, I'm here by invitation. Abe told me you hadn't been here for a year."

A puzzled look crossed his face. "It couldn't be that long."

She shrugged. "That's what he said." She could tell Luke felt guilty about it. Luke was never good at hiding his reactions. If he was irritated you knew it. If he was happy, you knew that, too. Angry, you really knew it. But he kept his thoughts, his reasons behind the emotions locked inside.

"Yeah, well, if it's been that long, then he'll be pleased to see me."

"Not with you dripping blood all over his floor." He seemed to have forgotten about his head and was staring at her instead. She gave him a shove, urging him down the hall to the bathroom. "Let's do something about that cut." Once inside the tiny room, she pulled a wash-cloth from the linen closet and moistened it under the faucet. "Here, this will help."

He took the cloth and, looking in the small mirror above the old cast-iron sink, applied it to his forehead.

Five years and he still looked the same. Same cobalt eyes that crinkled around the corners whether he was smiling or not, the same lean, hard features that said he was a man's man — a man with a purpose — and always in control. Qualities she'd once thought sexy and desirable.

"Your hair is different," he said, still looking in the mirror, but gazing at her.

"Different than what?"

"Than before. No ponytail." His eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Is that important?"

"Still good at answering questions with a question, aren't you?"

"And you're still good at thinking everything is your business when it's not."

A tight smile lifted his lips. "Touché."

With that one small concession, an uncomfortable silence fell between them, a silence laden with recriminations and guilt. Their divorce had been inevitable, filled with heartache and pain. The hurt was so great, she couldn't be around him and vice-versa. She'd even moved from L.A. to San Francisco to lessen the chances of running into him.

In the confines of the small bathroom, he shifted his stance and lifted one foot to the edge of the tub, effectively imprisoning her between his leg and the sink.

He was so close she felt his heat. His familiar scent made her blood rush. And if the look in his eyes was any indication, he felt the same. But then, lack of desire had never been their problem.

In the end, desire hadn't helped the marriage either. She hated what they'd done to each other in the year before the divorce. Things that would stay with them forever.

"Okay, here's a question you can answer. How's my father?"

She shrugged. "You know Abe, he wouldn't admit to anything even if he were inches from death's door. Personally, I think he'd be a lot healthier if he stopped smoking.