Without Warning Read online

  When you don’t know how the story will end . . .

  After years of hard work honing his craft, Blake Edwards is now an international bestselling author. But one thing he never imagined was that his fictional world would become all too real. When a stalker turns Blake’s latest book tour into a treacherous and nearly deadly trap, it’s time for Blake to hire protection. But the body assigned to keep an eye on him is someone he never wants out of his sight . . .

  As a bodyguard for Vigilance, the private security agency in Blake’s hometown of Arrowhead Bay, Samantha Quenel has found the perfect outlet for her military experience. But her latest client is also a former high school flame, which might explain her willingness to protect Blake at all costs—even if that means staying in the same room with him, on the same bed, under the same torrid sheets . . .

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Books by Desiree Holt

  Finding Julia

  Game On

  Forward Pass

  Line of Scrimmage

  Pass Interference

  Fourth Down

  Vigilance

  Hide and Seek

  Without Warning

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Without Warning

  Vigilance

  Desiree Holt

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Copyright

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Desiree Holt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

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  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: March 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0368-3

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0368-8

  First Print Edition: March 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0371-3

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0371-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Joseph Patrick Trainor, who helps me make it all real

  Author’s Foreword

  People ask me all the time if I always wanted to be a writer. I don’t know if “always” is the word but certainly for all the years I can remember. I was a voracious reader, as were my mother and sister, and books held a royal place in our home. The funny thing is I always thought I would write mysteries because that’s what we all read. I didn’t read my first romance until 2004, when I was sitting with the same three chapters of a mystery on my computer that had been there for three months. But then my eyes were opened and they never closed.

  Writing a book is a solitary experience but it never comes to the bookshelves, virtual or other, alone. For me it starts with my treasured friend and beta reader extraordinaire, Margie Hager, who has the best eagle eye in the world. Thank you, Margie my love, for all the hours you put in to help me bring my stories to life. And for your friendship, which is a highlight of my life.

  And to Janet Rodman and Brenna Zinn, whose support has been and continues to be so very valuable and important.

  Thanks to Joseph P. Trainor for letting me pester him with a million questions and for keeping me honest and providing me with invaluable information on all things law enforcement and military elite.

  To my family, who believed in me from the beginning, and are my biggest promoters: my daughters Amy and Suzanne, my son, Steven, and my granddaughter, Kayla.

  Last but very far from least are all of you, my wonderful readers, who send me such great emails and posts and are so faithful, who buy and read my books. My success is due to you. I love you all so much. There are a lot more stories to come. Please stay tuned.

  Prologue

  He sat in the semi-dark, the only light coming from his little desk lamp and his computer. Gently, he pressed his hand to the screen, his fingers stroking her smiling face. He pretended he could actually feel the silky skin, trace the line of the arched eyebrows, caress the delicate bones.

  And the eyes. Lord, he loved looking at those eyes, a bright emerald green that flashed with fire and humor and complemented the rich auburn of her hair. He wanted to sift his fingers through that hair, rub it against his own cheek, smell the flowery shampoo she used.

  And that body. Damn! His palms itched to touch her curves, evident in the soft blouse and shorts she was wearing. He could practically feel the curve of her butt in his hand, the swell of her breasts, the hard points of her nipples. He’d never have the chance now to touch her, kiss her, hold her against him.

  He’d waited so many years for her to realize how he felt about her and turn to him. He had held back his feelings all that time, waiting for the right moment. When it finally happened, he’d barely been able to contain his excitement. At last! He could be her champion, right a wrong, and confess his love for her.

  Then a cruel twist of fate had robbed them of any future together. A rainy night, a slippery highway, and a vibrant life snuffed out. His grief had been overwhelming. For days, he’d walked around in a trance, trying to understand and accept what happened. Just when his dreams were about to be fulfilled, it was all taken away.

  But he could keep her memory alive. He could—

  Yes! He could champion her cause. He could right a terrible wrong and get her the recognition she so deserved. He had all the copies she had sent him. The evidence was very clear. He knew what he had to do. The man who stole what was hers would be destroyed.

  Energized, he clicked the computer keys as he searched for information he needed to put his plan in motion. By this time next week, the first message would be received. He opened a new blank document and typed in one line:

  I know what you did.

  Chapter 1

  I know what you did.

  Blake Morgan stared at the piece of paper in his hand, pulse accelerating, a tiny finger of ice slithering down his spine. Again. Someone had left it again. A message with the same words.

  Goddamnit!

  He looked around to see if he could spot whoever this was, the familiar fear gripping him, his stomach knotting. But he knew he’d see nothing. He never did. Whoever this was moved like a ghost, silent and unseen, leaving his taunting messages. If he wanted to keep Blake on edge, he was doing a damn good job of it. In a fit of anger, Blake crumpled the paper and stuck it in the drink holder of the car. He wasn’t going to let some unknown asshole frighten him. He’d faced worse than this.

  He’d found the damn stupid note stuck under his windshield wiper when he went to get his car from the hotel pa
rking garage. Anyone could have done it. Who paid attention to cars in a parking garage, anyway? And why would they? But Jesus. How the hell had someone known which car was his? It was a rental, for crap’s sake.

  Wait! Were those footsteps? Was someone running toward him? Away from him? A car door slammed somewhere and an engine turned over. He looked around, wondering if he’d see someone hiding in the shadows, every nerve on high alert.

  Okay, get your shit together. You aren’t a character in one of your books.

  Anyway, whoever was doing this wouldn’t be quite so obvious. He—or she—would be careful and silent. He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Calm, he told himself. People were waiting for him. His readers. He couldn’t freak out on them.

  Crap. Double crap.

  Who in the fucking hell was doing this? Who could he have pissed off so much they’d do something like this? A reader he’d offended? Reviewer? Blogger? Not anyone he’d been dating, for sure. He was so busy these days that dates weren’t even on the horizon.

  So really. These messages. What the fuck?

  He’d blown off the first note as a prank, a harmless joke, although he didn’t think it was very funny. Or maybe even a case of mistaken identity.

  Just the one sentence on a plain sheet of paper, typed on someone’s computer.

  I know what you did.

  He had no idea who it was from. There was no signature, no return address. The postmark was Boston, but he was pretty sure none of the people he knew in that city would be sending him a message like this. He had a lot of readers from that area, but he never gave out his address or phone number. And nothing had been coming in to his public email.

  So how the fuck did whoever this was know where he was staying?

  Maybe they’d followed him to the hotel, a thought that brought another attack of the creeping chills.

  I know what you did.

  His agent had made light of it. “The price of fame,” Henry had joked. “It brings the weirdos out of the woodwork. This is your third best seller so you’ve got a lot more eyes focused on you. You’ve had nutty stuff like this happen before. Okay, maybe not quite like this. But eventually, when you don’t make a big deal about it in the media, they give up and move on to someone else. Whoever this is will get tired of the game and disappear.”

  But that hadn’t happened. The notes kept coming, showing up in different cities wherever he was signing. Different hotels and venues. Someone was tracking his tour. Not just the cities but also the facilities—bookstores, event centers, wherever.

  The police weren’t much help. They were courteous, but the events all happened in different cities, so nobody really had jurisdiction. And, as one overly polite detective told him, he didn’t think this was a case for the FBI.

  I know what you did.

  Five words that plagued him.

  In the past three weeks, the frequency increased. He found notes left everyplace for him. When he checked in at his hotels there was one waiting for him at the front desk in an envelope. No, no one could remember who left it. In a restaurant, he went to the restroom and when he came back a note sat at his place setting. And of course no one had noticed anyone leaving it. None of the notes were handwritten. They were either printed with marking pen or typed on a computer like this one had been.

  Then came two emails, but when he tried to reply to them they bounced back.

  Twice.

  And phone calls, four of them now, at the hotels where he stayed.

  “I know what you did.”

  Just a whisper, but unnerving in its very anonymity.

  He rubbed his forehead, willing away the headache blooming just beneath the surface.

  Just last week both his agent and publisher told him to toss his existing cell and get two new ones—one for business and one for personal. But then, this week, something new was added—text messages on his cell. His damn personal one. How the hell had anyone gotten that number? When he tried to reply, his message came back undeliverable.

  Today was his last stop before a one-week break. He just needed to get through this afternoon and then he could regroup.

  He pulled out of the garage on to the street, heading for Slater’s Books, where today’s signing was scheduled. He had less than an hour to get there, get set up and make sure to thank the people hosting it. The manager had called an hour earlier to let him know the store was already full and a line was forming. He really wanted to enjoy his success. Bask in it a little, after the hard climb to get to this point, one book at a time. Having some asshole tarnish it and throw him off his game really pissed him off.

  He sure couldn’t let all that show. He needed to get his shit together before he faced everyone.

  Other authors had told him horror stories about fans who stalked them, or people who were jealous of them and tried to make trouble. He considered himself both blessed and lucky. After slogging in the trenches with his first three books, at thirty-five years old he’d finally hit the best-seller lists with number four and number five. His current release, Deep Cover, had been in the top ten for five straight weeks.

  Now it seemed in his celebrity he’d acquired a stalker. Apparently someone was determined not to let him enjoy his success.

  He wasn’t a man easily frightened, but so many incidents in such a short time could sure make a person uneasy. If he could just figure out who the hell was doing this to him and why.

  And then, of course, he had to deal with Annemarie leaving, with almost no notice. She would have known what to do about this. She knew what to do about everything. She’d been the personal assistant from heaven for four years, efficient, not rattled about anything, able to juggle multiple chores and situations and relieve him of any stress. All he had to do was write, go over research with her, and show up wherever she told him to. She’d handled his social media, kept his schedule, assisted him with his research, kept his notes organized. And on the weeks he didn’t need her, he’d arranged for her to have paid time off. In all that time, they’d hardly had a disagreement.

  He still hadn’t figured out why she’d had to leave. And those were the exact words she’d used.

  “I have to leave,” was all she said. “I’m sorry, Blake. I have some personal things I really have to deal with.”

  He had no idea what those things were, because she never discussed her personal life with him. He’d asked her if it was family and she said no, she had no family, a situation he found sad in and of itself. She’d never mentioned any socializing she did on her days off, and he wondered now if he should have queried her more. He just hated to invade her space. Everything with her was always about him and the writing and the books. She was as excited about each success as if it was her own. And, in a way it was. He never could have done this without her, and he made sure she knew that.

  He had noticed a slight edginess to her in the days leading up to her departure, as if something was bothering her. They were hip deep into the research for his next two books and going crazy. He didn’t think the stress had been any greater than usual. But every time he asked her about it she just pressed her lips together, shook her head, and repeated she just had to leave.

  So what the hell had upset her life so much that she had to leave? He really needed to take some time and hunt her down. Find out what was going on. He’d do it just as soon as he got past today’s book signing and could take advantage of the upcoming break in the tour.

  A horn blared, startling him, and he realized he was still sitting at a light that had turned green. Oh, great. If his stalker wanted to find him, all he had to do was look for the stupid driver at the green light.

  Finally he pulled into the parking area behind the bookstore. As he climbed out of his car and locked the door, he couldn’t help looking all around, searching for…what? Did he really think whoever this was would be lying in
wait here, to strike without warning?

  Maybe.

  Holy shit, Blake. He wrote mysteries for a living. He knew so much of this stuff was made up. Things were different in real life.

  Except this wasn’t fiction and someone kept doing things and leaving him these notes.

  I know what you did.

  Sticking his professional smile on his face and hefting his messenger bag, he pulled open the back door to the bookstore and was immediately assaulted by a raucous din of voices. A tall brunette with a big smile spotted him and came forward to greet him.

  “Welcome, Mr. Morgan. I’m Jocelyn Ayres. We’re so glad to have you with us today.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the noise. “We’re packed to the walls here and I wanted to make sure I got you safely to your table.”

  He shook hands with her, thinking, holy cow! With the huge success of Deep Cover, his agent had told him to be prepared for an overwhelming response. He guessed his spot on one of the local television shows that morning had also contributed in part to this.

  “Thanks for having me.”

  “Are you kidding?” She flashed her grin again. “Everyone’s so excited about this. I hope the store employees don’t mug you in their eagerness to meet you. Come on.”

  She led him down the short hallway into the main portion of the bookstore and Blake had to blink his eyes. The entire store was wall-to-wall people. They were jammed into the open areas and between the shelved displays of books. Off to his right against a wall a table had been set up with a stack of his books, water, and pens. Ropes and stanchions partitioned it off from the crowd so he’d have a little breathing space.

  As he reached his station another woman came forward, hand extended.

  “Margaret Breakstone. I’m the manager and have to tell you how delighted we are to have you. I hope you don’t get writer’s cramp, because when you’re done we have a ton of presolds for you to sign.”