Nikki thought about his suggestion. She’d rarely ever made time for a social life. She’d devoted herself to her studies and then to her career. She had a vision of herself in the lab, the hours flying by until it was time to leave the lab and go meet Adam for dinner. Or a movie. Or a baseball game. Or just a leisurely evening here in her garden. For now, it sounded like the best of both worlds. It sounded a little bit like heaven.
She nodded, her head still nuzzled against his shoulder. “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s see how it plays out.”
Look for the thrilling conclusion of Echo Lake
by Amanda Stevens.
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Keep reading for an excerpt from Witness on the Run by Cassie Miles.
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Witness on the Run
by Cassie Miles
Chapter One
The Day of the Dead celebration unleashed a parade of floats, bands, ghosts, skeletons and zombies that wended through the night in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Some people carried tiki torches while others waved neon lights. Alyssa Bailey stood with a crowd on the curb and watched. The thought of dancing in the street made her self-conscious. She had turned in her ledgers and calculator three years ago when she first entered the witness protection program, but she still had the soul of a quiet accountant who liked to have every i dotted and every t crossed.
This year, she vowed, would be different. No more standing on the sidelines. She was twenty-seven and needed to join the parade before life passed her by. During Día de los Muertos on the weekend after Halloween, the veil between the real world and the afterlife thinned. The dead craved laughter, song and revelry. Alyssa was determined to get into the spirit of the thing.
Just before she got off work at half past nine, she’d gotten a phone call from someone anonymous saying they’d see her at the parade. The voice had been so garbled that she couldn’t tell if the caller was male or female, but she intended to keep a lookout for a familiar face.
Gathering her courage, she took a giant step into the street, where she shuffled along to the irresistible beat of drums and death rattles. Her eardrums popped when the trumpets and saxophones wailed. People in crazy costumes bumped and jostled. She told herself that this was fun, fun, fun but didn’t believe it. The wild display of neon, color and confetti made her feel like she was inside a raucous, whirling kaleidoscope.
A masked ghost dressed like an 1800s pirate approached her, whipped off his tricorn hat and swept a bow before he grasped her hands and spun her in a circle. The music shifted gears from a dirge to a more upbeat tempo, and her pirate led her in an energetic dance that was half waltz, half polka and one hundred percent exciting—more thrilling than the handful of dates she’d had in the last three years.
He leaned close and said, “Tell me about your costume. Who are you?”
She’d put together a ragged outfit of pantaloons and an old-fashioned gown with a low bodice, lace trim and a tattered skirt. The clothes were meant to honor her mother. Mom had been born and raised in Savannah. Though they’d lived in Chicago for as long as Alyssa could remember, her mom would always be a southern belle. Five years ago, she’d been killed in a hit-and-run.
Tilting her head, she gazed up at her pirate’s silver half mask. Though she couldn’t see his eyes, his mouth was visible. He had a divot in his chin—very sexy. She swallowed hard and said, “I’m supposed to be a zombie Scarlett O’Hara.”
“Good choice, cher. With your dark hair and green eyes, you make a real pretty Scarlett.”
Her mom had always said the same. “Did you call me?” she asked. “Was I supposed to meet you here at the parade?”
“We didn’t have an appointment.”
“Well, we should have.” Alyssa gestured to his white shirt with full sleeves and his burgundy velvet vest with gold buttons. “Are you a famous pirate? Jean Lafitte?”
Again, he doffed the hat and bowed. “I’m the ghost of Captain Jean-Pierre Fournier, an original pirate of the Caribbean and one of my ancestors. I am Rafael Fournier.”
“I do declare,” she said in a corny southern accent. Unaccustomed to teasing, she wasn’t sure she was doing it right. “I’m ever so pleased to make your acquaintance, Rafael.”
“Enchanté, mademoiselle. Please call me Rafe.”
He twirled her again and then held her close. Their posture felt strangely intimate in the midst of a wild crowd. Her half-exposed breasts crushed against his firm chest. Their thighs touched. He guided her so skillfully that she felt graceful, beautiful and sultry. Before she knew what was happening, they were dancing a tango. A tango? No way! She didn’t know these steps but must have been doing something right. People in the crowd made way for them and applauded as they passed by.
When their dance ended, he dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Merci, ma belle.”
With a flourish, he disappeared into the crowd—an impressive feat for a guy who was over six feet tall with wide shoulders and puffy sleeves. He’d kissed her and called her belle, beautiful. Moi?
Their dance gave her courage. Life was meant to be celebrated. When a laughing
