As a member of the elite Hostile Operations Team, Jake “Harley” Ryan expected that deadly assignments were a part of the deal. What he didn’t expect was to be sent on a suicide mission.

There were three men in the room besides him. Colonel John Mendez, the bad ass HOT Commander; Lieutenant Colonel Alex Bishop, the quieter but no less lethal Deputy Commander; and Declan MacKenzie, the legendary founder and leader of MacKenzie Security, a firm with government contracts and operatives around the world. That a private contractor was here in the HOT command center didn’t surprise him. That a private contractor was here to request his help did.

“You want me to go back to Georgia and pretend the last seven years didn’t happen? Just waltz up to the clubhouse and act like nothing’s changed?” He cocked his head as he stared at the three men. “What makes you think the Brothers will take me back? It’s more likely they’ll kill me on sight.”

Declan MacKenzie exchanged a look with Mendez. Then he shoved himself off the table he’d been leaning against and reached for a folder. He took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Jake.

“They might kill you, sure,” Declan said. “But I think you’re smart enough not to let that happen. And the colonel here is smart enough to make sure you get sent home under less than honorable circumstances so everything looks legit. Play your cards right and they’ll take you back.”

Jake glanced at the paper in his hand—and his gut twisted. Judge Harold Mason, aged sixty-four, widely believed to be on the short list for a Supreme Court seat, lay in a coma in an Atlanta hospital after a single car crash. His wife had died. There was a picture of the accident scene. It wasn’t pretty.

“That’s the judge who offered you a choice, right?” Declan asked. “Prison or the military?”

“Yeah.” It was more complicated than that, though. Judge Mason was responsible for who Jake had become—and who he hadn’t become. Jake had been young and angry when he’d faced the judge. Hell, he’d even been stupid—but his court-appointed attorney had not. Jake had barely been eighteen, and he’d figured going down with the Brothers of Sin was simply a rite of passage. He was still a recruit at that point, but he’d have done anything to belong to that group of badasses and earn the right to be a full-fledged Brother.

His attorney, along with the judge, had convinced him otherwise—Jake still didn’t quite know how—and here he was. An elite soldier. The best of the best. A man who could face overwhelming odds and win every time. Who stared death in the face and fucking laughed at it.

“He’s still in danger,” Declan said. “Unless we can get Brandon Cox and the Brothers on murder charges for Mrs. Mason and attempted charges for the judge.”

Jake set the paper down. “Look, I’d do anything for Judge Mason. He saved my life—but I wasn’t a witness to the crime. How can I possibly do anything to prove the Brothers had a hand in it?”

“You can’t. But there’s a woman who can.”

Another piece of paper was thrust into Jake’s hand. A woman’s face stared back at him. She wasn’t smiling. She had a faraway look that spoke of sadness and determination. She was climbing from a car, her long legs bared as her skirt rode up. She had long dark hair and blue eyes. She also had a wealth of tattoos, all in shades of black and gray—on her arms and legs, across her collarbone, over her belly where the cropped top she wore exposed the skin. There were words on her thighs.

It wasn’t ugly, though. On her, it was beautiful. As if she were made to wear ink.

He shook himself. “Then why aren’t you talking to her? Why ask me to get involved?”

It wasn’t that he wouldn’t throw himself on a grenade for the judge, but he wasn’t quite seeing how this worked yet. Why they needed him.

“We’d love to talk to her—but she won’t talk to us. Her name is Eva Gray. She’s twenty-four, a tattoo artist. She does work for the Brothers. Hell, she may even be involved with one of them, though we don’t know that for sure. But I can’t get any of my guys close enough without putting her in danger. You, however, could walk in as a Brother and get what we need.” Declan paused, his gray eyes growing troubled. “She’s in danger too, Jake. If my FBI sources are right, she’s the only witness willing to finger them. We have to get in there and get her out—and we have to convince her to talk or she’ll never be safe again.”

Jake glanced down at the photo. “She doesn’t look worried. She’s probably someone’s old lady. Maybe even Brandon’s. How do you know she’ll talk at all?”

“She called in an anonymous tip to the FBI. She’s willing but she needs some persuasion. Time is running out.”

Jake stood and handed the photo back to Declan. This woman had dared to break the code and call in a tip. It might have been anonymous, but clearly the FBI knew who’d done it. And the Brothers had ways of finding out things they shouldn’t know. When they did, they’d eliminate her.

“When do I go in?”

* * *

Eva Gray shook her hair from her face and bent back to the arm of the biker she was currently tattooing. It was a colorful tattoo, one with skulls and roses and twining vines. The dude gritted his teeth as she set her needle to his skin again. The inside of the arm was one of the worst possible places to get a tattoo. The skin was thin, the nerve endings were abundant, and it hurt like a motherfucker.

“You gonna make it, Duke?”

The old bastard snorted. “Yeah, little girl, I’ll make it.”

Eva laughed as she continued her line work. “I think you will. Tough man.”

She kind of liked Duke, as much as it was possible to like any of the Brothers. Which, for her, wasn’t much. But he was nice enough and never tried to cop a feel the way the others did.

The door to the studio opened and a chill breeze rolled in. It was October, so the days were getting cooler, but that wasn’t the source of the coolness in the room. At least not for her. Without looking up, she knew that Brandon Cox had walked in.

Easy, Eva.

Yeah, she had to take it easy. Because she’d gone through a lot to get this close to the Brothers—to Brandon—and it wasn’t over yet. Years of work. No sense rushing when she was on the verge of victory. Patience was a virtue. It had served her well for seven long years of preparation, and it would continue to serve her well until she achieved her goal.

“Hey, baby, how you doing today?”

Eva glanced up at Brandon and gave him a sugary sweet smile even though he made her stomach turn. “Just great, Brandon. How about you?”

He swaggered over and leered at her. He wouldn’t touch her. Not yet, though she suspected his patience was beginning to wear thin on that score.

“I’m great, baby. Be even greater if you’d let me taste those sweet lips of yours.”

Revulsion slid down her spine like rancid grease. But she smiled anyway. “Can’t do that, man. You know I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

When she’d started tattooing the Brothers six months ago, she’d made it clear that if they wanted her art, they had to respect her rules—which had become doubly important when she moved to the compound a little over two months ago. Since she was damn good at what she did, they went along with it—other than the various attempts at copping a feel, which she always stamped down hard.

“Honey, there are other tattoo artists.”

“But none as good as me.”

Duke snorted. “She’s got you there, boss.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right. Shame to waste that body though.”

“Is there something you wanted, Brandon?” she asked. “I’ve got another hour on Duke before I can get to you.”

“Not me, baby.” He turned and made a motion and another man walked inside. “Need you to do something for my man Jake.”

Eva’s heart skipped as her eyes met cool amber ones. Her jaw felt as if it had dropped to the floor. She swallowed.

Jake Ryan. Dear God. He’d been a Brother all those years ago when Heather was still alive. She knew it because, before he’d joined a motorcycle gang, he’d been in her high school. She’d spent hours staring at Jake from behind her glasses. Hours imagining pressing her mouth to his and tasting him. He’d been a bad boy, moody and just this side of delinquent, and she’d been oh so fascinated. Her and every other girl.

He hadn’t made it through their senior year, however. At a certain point, he’d left school. She’d seen him around town in his cut, the jacket that proclaimed him a Brother. How he’d gotten a motorcycle she’d never known, but just seeing him rumble through town on his Harley had been enough to set her heart racing.

Her heart was hammering now, and not because he was gorgeous. She told herself that he wasn’t going to recognize her. No one had. No one. Not the people she’d known in school, not her aunt who still lived in town, not a single person. She’d changed that much. Deliberately.

Who she’d been before was dead, and there was only Eva Gray in her place. It had to be that way.

But she still dropped her gaze from Jake’s and focused on Duke’s arm. She’d bobbled the line she was working, but she could fix it.

“All right, sure. What’s he want?” she asked.

Brandon clapped Jake on the back. “He’s going to need the Brothers of Sin freshened up. It’s faded a bit since he left us for the military.”

Military? She’d wondered where he was when she’d returned to town and he hadn’t been in the club anymore. Thought maybe he’d gone to prison or something. So many of the Brothers rotated through the system like it was a revolving door that she didn’t think he’d be any different.

And she certainly hadn’t cared that she’d be taking him down along with the rest of them when the time came.

“Sure thing. Just have to finish Duke first.”

“Take your time,” Jake said. His voice was so unexpected that it hit her like a splash in an icy pool. Deep, resonant, filled with all that sexy promise she’d worshipped back in the day.

After Heather had gone inside the club, she was only allowed out with an escort. She’d visited Eva and their mother as often as she could, and sometimes Jake was the one tasked with accompanying her when she did. He wouldn’t come inside the house, but when Eva took him a drink on the porch, he was nice to her.

“I intend to,” she said. Because she couldn’t afford softness with these men. They were predators. One whiff of weakness and they’d rip her throat out.

He snorted. “I see why you hired her,” he said to Brandon. “Sexy and bitchy. She’d make a great old lady.”

“Don’t go gettin’ any ideas,” Brandon said gruffly. “Eva treats her body like it’s a sacred temple or something. She won’t fuck a Brother. Will you, baby?”

She didn’t glance up. “Nope. I gotta stay true to my art.”

“See? Crazy bitch, but she’s good with the ink.”

“Love you too, Brandon,” she deadpanned.

One of these days she’d go too far, but for now the leader of the Brothers of Sin only laughed. Evil, murdering bastard.

“You let me know when you’re ready for some real lovin’, baby, and I’ll give it to you good and hard.”

Not if she gave it to him good and hard first. And she wasn’t talking about sex.


Saturday Special – An Excerpt

Y'all, I'm hard at work on my military series while I'm in between Presents, and today I decided to share an excerpt with you. I've loved this story for a long time. It's undergone a few revisions, as I learned how better to tell a story, and looks almost nothing like it did when it was a Golden Heart finalist in 2008. It's my hope to make this story available in the next couple of months. There's still work to be done, but I will get it done.

Sharing this extended excerpt with you today is one way to keep me motivated. If I promise you I'm working on it, and you like what you read, how can I break that promise to make it available as soon as possible?

In this story, which has been called HOT PURSUIT for a very, very long time (even before Suz Brockmann published her story by the same title), a sexy Special Forces commander and the hometown girl whose heart he once broke team up to save her sister from a killer.

I've given you the prologue and first chapter today. I hope you enjoy it!


Two months ago…

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t anything obvious, but Captain Matthew Girard felt it in his gut nonetheless. It was an itching sensation across his skin, a buzzing in his belly. Perhaps it was simply the weight of this mission pressing down on him. Though STAG 10 always performed critical missions, this one was even more so. Failure was not an option.

Beside him, Kevin MacDonald lay in the sand, his camo clad form as still as marble until the moment he turned his head and caught Matt’s eye.

Kev’s hand moved. Doesn’t feel right, he signaled.

No, Matt signaled back. Count on Kev to pick up on it too.

“It’s awful quiet in that compound.” Jim Matuzaki’s voice came through the earpiece a few moments later.

“Yeah,” Matt answered into the mic attached to his helmet. Almost as if the tangos inside knew that STAG 10 was coming and had abandoned the compound.

The stone structure thirty meters distant rose two stories high and lacked windows. The roof was flat to enable gunmen to look out on the surrounding territory and defend their position.

But there were no gunmen. Not tonight.

In the surveillance photos, the gunmen were so many they’d stood out against the pale roof like a porcupine’s quills. And now…


Though it was quiet here, gunfire exploded in the distance at regular intervals. A pitched battle between a pocket of enemy forces and a Ranger battalion raged a few miles away. STAG 10’s mission was quieter, but no less deadly.

They were here for Jassar ibn-Rashad, the rumored new mastermind and heir to the now deceased Freedom Force leader Al Ahmad. But this mission was different. Usually, they killed the target. Tonight, they were extracting him. The bastard was wanted higher up the chain, and Matt didn’t question orders from the Pentagon. They wanted him, they were getting him.

Matt and his team had planned the mission to kidnap ibn-Rashad for weeks. Down to the last damn detail. And then they’d gotten word just a few days ago that ibn-Rashad was moving to this location. It was their best chance to get him, so they’d pressed forward with the op.

The intel was good. Damn good. And their contact had been reliable on more than one occasion. Nothing he’d ever told them hadn’t checked out.

But this time?

The bad feeling in Matt’s gut was getting stronger by the second. He’d thought the kid seemed more nervous than usual the last time he’d gone to meet with him. The kid had always been nervous, but he’d seemed to trust Matt’s word. And Matt had trusted him as much as he was able. Trust, but verify.

Which the CIA had done. All the chatter indicated that ibn-Rashad had moved to this location. Nothing indicated that the Freedom Force had any idea they were being targeted. And in spite of the niggling feeling he’d had about the whole thing, Matt had chosen to press forward with the op.

Just then, a light flashed up on the roof and blinked out again. Male voices carried in the night, followed by a bark of laughter.

“Two men,” Marco San Ramos said over the headset. “Smoking.”

Marco and Jim were closer and had a better view through the glasses.

“Richie?” Jim’s voice came through the headset again, calling Matt by his team name.

He knew what the other man was asking. What they were all waiting for. In another location close by, Billy Blake and Jack Hazelton also waited for the signal to go or to retreat. The timeline was tight, and if they didn’t go in now, they’d have to scrub the mission to make it to the extraction point on time. They had precisely twenty minutes to infiltrate the compound, kill the tangos, and extract ibn-Rashad.

If they were going in.

“Mission is a go,” he said, making the split-second decision in spite of the acid roiling in his belly. What if they didn’t get a second chance at this? Lives hung in the balance with ibn-Rashad remaining free. This mission had always been risky, but what did they ever do that wasn’t? “Repeat, mission is a go.”

“Hoo-ah,” Jim replied, giving the standard Army acknowledgement. The rest of the men chimed in. Seconds later, two cracks rang into the night. And then Billy’s voice came over the headset. “Targets on roof neutralized.”

Jack “Hawk” Hazelton could always be counted on to make the difficult shots. The dude was probably the best sharpshooter Matt had ever seen.

Everything went like clockwork from that point on. They converged on the compound from their separate locations. Kev set a charge on the door and then it exploded inward. Billy Blake tossed a flash-bang into the opening. It went off with a loud crack, the light flaring as bright as a nuclear flash for a split second. Whoever was in that room would be blind and disoriented after that baby went off.

The team rushed through the door, going right and left in succession, guns drawn as pandemonium reigned among the unsuspecting terrorists. STAG 10 worked like a well-oiled machine. Each man knew where to shoot instinctively, could have done so blindfolded if necessary.

Within seconds, the terrorists lay dead and gunpowder hung heavy in the air, along with the odors of smoke and stale sweat.

Sweat also trickled down the inside of Matt’s assault suit. He didn’t have time to be uncomfortable. Instead, he and Kev raced up the steps along with Marco and Jim, searching for ibn-Rashad, while Billy and Jack secured the perimeter.

A methodical sweep of the rooms proved futile.

“He’s not here,” Marco spat. “There’s no one else.”

“Goddamn,” Matt swore. The skin-crawling sensation he’d had from the beginning of this op was now a full-blown assault on his senses.

Kev looked at him, his face bleak behind the greasepaint, his eyes saying everything Matt was thinking.

Jassar ibn-Rashad was supposed to be here. He’d been reported here as of this afternoon, in fact. There was a price on the man’s head, and no reason to move from this location…unless he’d been tipped off they were coming.


“Do another sweep for information. West side. Three minutes, and we’re out,” Matt ordered.

“Hoo-ah,” Marco said. He and Jim headed for the west side of the house while Matt and Kev split up to cover the rooms on the east end. Matt swept into each room, weapon drawn, helmet light blazing. There was nothing. No papers, no computers, no media of any kind. Nothing they could use to determine what ibn-Rashad was planning next.

He hit the hall again, met up with Kev, who shook his head.

Jim and Marco arrived next, empty handed. The four of them pounded down the stairs. Another quick sweep of the rooms on the ground floor, and they were back into the night with Billy and Jack, running for the extraction point five miles away.

They hadn’t gone a mile when bullets blasted into the air beside them. A hot, stinging sensation bloomed in Matt’s side. He kept running anyway. Until they crested the dune they’d been traveling up and came face to face with a series of rocket-propelled grenade launchers pointed right in their faces.

Fuck. The mission was definitely a bust, and in the worst way possible.


Rochambeau, Louisiana

“Mm-mm, look at that Girard boy, all grown up and better looking than a man ought to be,” said one of the ladies under the row of hairdryers.

Evie Baker’s heart did a somersault. Matt Girard. Dear God. “Careful,” Stella Dupre yelped as warm water sprayed against the side of the sink and hit her in the face.

“Sorry,” Evie replied, shifting the hose. She was a chef not a shampoo girl, but she didn’t suppose that distinction mattered anymore since the bank now owned her restaurant. Shampoo girl in her mama’s beauty salon was just about the only job she could get right now.

Mama glanced over at her, frowning even as the snip-snip of scissors continued unabated. The ladies in the salon swung to look out the picture window as Matt strode along, and the chatter ratcheted up a notch. The odor of perming solution and floral shampoo surrounded Evie like a wet blanket, squeezing her lungs. Her breath stuttered in her chest.

Matt Girard.

She hadn’t seen him in ten years. Not since that night when he’d taken her virginity and broken her heart all at once. She’d known he was back in town—hell, the whole town had talked of nothing else since his arrival yesterday. She’d even known this moment was probably inevitable, except that she’d been planning to do her best to avoid all the places he might be for as long as possible.

“Heard he got shot out there in Iraq,” Mrs. Martin said as Evie’s mama rolled a lock of grey hair around a fat pink curler.

“Yes indeed, got a Purple Heart,” Mama said. “The senator was right proud, according to Lucy Greene.”

“That’s not what I heard!” Joely Hinch crowed. “Miss Mildred told me he’s being kicked out of the Army because he didn’t obey orders.”

“Fiddlesticks,” Mrs. Martin said. “That boy bleeds red, white, and blue. Same as his daddy and every last Girard that ever was born up in that big house.”

Joely crossed her arms, looking slightly irritated to be contradicted. “You just wait and see,” she said smugly.

“Shush up, y’all,” Mama said. “I think he’s coming in.”

Evie’s heart sank to her toes. She finished Stella’s shampoo and wrapped her hair in a towel. “I’m not tipping you, Evangeline,” Stella said with a sniff. “You have to be more careful than that.”

“I know,” Evie replied. “And I don’t blame you at all.” Except, of course, she desperately needed every penny she could get if she hoped to escape this town ever again. It wasn’t that Rochambeau was bad—it’s that it was bad for her. She glanced out the window.

Matt was definitely coming this way.

Magazines snapped open in a flurry as the ladies tried to appear casually disinterested in the six-foot-two hunk of muscle about to open the glass door. More than one pair of eyes peeked over the top of the glossy pages as he stepped up to the sidewalk from the street.

No way in hell was she sticking around for this. It wouldn’t take these ladies more than a few moments to remember the scandalous rumors about her and Matt, and she didn’t want to be here when they did.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get some things out of the back,” she said. Without waiting for a reply, she strode toward the stockroom. Rachel Mayhew, Mama’s regular shampoo girl, looked up and smiled as she passed. Rachel was only twenty, so she probably didn’t know about Evie’s disastrous night with Matt. Or maybe she did considering the way this town talked.

Evie wasn’t sticking around to find out. As if life hadn’t beaten her up enough already.

A month ago, she’d said goodbye to her dream. It still hurt. Her lovely little bistro in Florida was now in the bank’s hands, and all because she’d trusted a man. A man who’d shared her bed, robbed her blind, and ran off with another woman. The authorities thought that David had ties to organized crime and that he’d been skimming money along with other, more nefarious schemes. She hated to think about it. Evangeline’s had been everything she’d ever wanted when she’d shaken off the dust of this one-horse town and gone to cooking school a few years ago.

But here she was again, back in Rochambeau and washing hair in her mama’s salon, just like when she’d been in high school. Loser. All she wanted was to get out again at the first opportunity. Before that loser feeling wrapped around her throat and squeezed the rest of her dreams away.

Matt reached for the door, and Evie darted behind the stockroom curtain. Her heart slammed against her ribs as the tinkling bell announced his arrival. She turned to lean against the doorjamb, pushed the rose-print polyester aside with one finger. She was being silly. He wasn’t here because of her. He was here because his sister had sent him on some errand or other for her wedding.

Hell, he probably wouldn’t even recognize Evie if he ran smack into her.

Evie frowned. She damn sure recognized him. Her eyes slid down his body, back up again. He was still something to look at.

Something easy on the eyes and hard on the senses.

He’d changed in ten years, but some things were the same. That cocky swagger as he’d approached the shop. He’d always walked like his daddy owned all the oil in the Gulf of Mexico. Which he damn near did. The Girards had been Rochambeau’s wealthiest family for as long as anyone could remember.

Matt’s dark hair was cut very short, and his shoulders were much broader than when he’d been seventeen. The fabric of his white cotton T-shirt stretched across a wide chest packed with muscle. His bare arms made her throat go dry.

Something quivered deep inside her. Something hot and dark and secret. Evie squashed the feeling ruthlessly.

He pushed a hand through his hair, every muscle of his torso seeming to bunch and flex with the movement. She would have sworn she heard a collective sigh from the ladies in the salon. Rachel absently ran water in her sink, cleaning out the soap bubbles from the last shampoo. When she got too close to the edge, the water sprayed up into her face.

Evie would have laughed if she too weren’t caught up in Matt’s every move. She’d adored him ten years ago, worshipped him from afar until the night she’d screwed up her courage—thanks to a single shot of liquor—and asked him to be her first.

What a mistake. Not because sex with him had been awful. No, it’d been pretty exciting all things considered. It was what had happened afterward that ruined it for her.

“Afternoon, ladies,” Matt said, tipping his head to them.

“Afternoon,” they murmured in unison, voices sugary and lilting, eyes assessing and cataloging him.

“Miz Breaux,” he said as he took her mother’s hand and kissed it like a courtier.

“Oh, shoot.” She smacked him playfully on the shoulder. “What do you want? Don’t you know this is a beauty parlor? Sid’s Barber Shop is on Main Street.”

“Well, ma’am,” he said, grinning that devil-may-care grin of his Evie remembered so well. “I figured Old Sid can’t see so well anymore and I’m still fond of my ears. I’d much rather have a lady’s touch, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh my,” Mama said. Then she giggled. Giggled.

Evie rolled her eyes. No wonder she couldn’t pick a decent man. She came by the defect naturally. Mama had been divorced three times. She’d gone back to using her maiden name after the second one in order to avoid confusion. Evie had her daddy’s last name, her sixteen-year-old sister had a different name, and Mama had yet another one.

But at least she’d never let a man ruin her business, a mean voice said. Or turn her into the town joke.

Shut up.

“You don’t even look like you need a haircut,” Mama was saying.

He scrubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “My sister thinks I do. And it’s her wedding.”

Mama giggled again. What was it about that man that turned even the smartest woman into an airhead? “Well, we can’t let Christina be disappointed then, can we? But you’ll have to wait until I finish with Mrs. Martin.”

Mama gestured toward the pink vinyl seats in the front of the shop, and Matt gave her that famous Girard smile that used to melt the female hearts of Rochambeau High School. Evie felt a little hitch in her heart, in spite of herself.

Why did he still have to be so damn good-looking? Was it too much to ask for him to be balding, growing a potbelly? Apparently so. Mother Nature was cruel.

“Sure thing, Miz Breaux.”

Before he’d taken three steps toward the waiting area, Mama said, “You remember my daughter, Evangeline, don’t you? She was a year behind you in school.”

Evie’s heart crashed into her ribs. The ladies in the shop grew quiet while they waited for his answer. She knew what they were thinking. What they were waiting for. Why should it bother her what they thought? What any of them thought?

It had been ten years ago, and it didn’t matter anymore. She was grown up. Matt was grown up. Who cared?

Except that’s not how Rochambeau worked, and she knew it. It might have been ten years, but he’d humiliated her. He’d broken her heart and tossed her to the wolves when she wasn’t prepared to deal with the consequences of her actions. Not that anyone knew for sure what had happened, but the rumors were usually enough in Rochambeau.


“Yes ma’am, I sure do. How is she?” He didn’t sound in the least bit remorseful. But why would he? He’d gotten what he wanted out of the deal. She’d been the one left to pick up the pieces of her life once he’d gone.

“Evie’s great,” Mama announced. “Been living in Florida, but she’s home now. Maybe you can talk to her while you wait. Y’all can catch up.”

Evie’s stomach plummeted to her toes. Oh no. No, no, no. What if she went into the bathroom and refused to come out? Or just quietly slipped out the back door and disappeared for a couple of hours? It was time for her lunch break, and—

Coward. Evie stiffened her spine. She wasn’t running away. If it weren’t now, it’d be some other time. She couldn’t avoid him forever. And far better to get this over with in public, while she could maintain her dignity and show the good people of Rochambeau there was nothing whatsoever to talk about.

“That’d be great,” he said in an aw shucks way she didn’t buy for a second. He might talk smooth and act all friendly and gee-whiz ma’am, but she knew better. God, did she know better.

“Good,” her mother said as if it was the best idea in the world, her gaze sweeping the shop. “She was here just a minute ago. Evie? Evie?”

“She went in the back,” Stella offered with what Evie was convinced was an edge of glee. Bitch.

Right. There was nothing Evie could do except face the music. Because there was no way on earth she’d ever let Matt Girard humiliate her again. She’d learned the hard way, but at least she’d learned.

“I’m right here, Mama,” she said, whipping off her smock and pushing back the curtain.