CHAPTER ONE      

"You crossed the line. You're going to regret it."

Julianna Chevalair listened to the distorted digitalized voice, heard a click and 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, each two days apart.

The second one came on. "If you don't stop, I'm going to stop you."

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

A moment later, the next call came. 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 Achille's Heel received dozens of crank calls, letters and even more e-mail messages from people who didn't like some of the stories. But this was new. She'd never received a phone call at home before. And the two e-mail messages she'd received prior to leaving San Francisco had 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 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 call 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, and that really was silly; the calls had gone to her condo in San Francisco and she was 2000 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 at 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 was so clear, she could see the Milky Way, like a road of sparkling light against a velvet black backdrop. She hadn't seen 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. The door knob rattled. Her heartbeat quickened. Was someone trying to get inside? She heard a crash and the doorknob rattled again.

Her pulse kicked up another notch as 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 slept without his hearing aid 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.

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 before. She was going to feel pretty silly if 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.

Excerpt from Husband and Wife Reunion by Linda Style
Harlequin Superromance (July 2006)
ISBN 0-373-71361-4
Copyright © 2006 by Linda Style
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.
The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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