Determined to persevere, she’d continued her walks, heart often racing, always alert, looking for proof that the eyes she felt watching her were real. If she saw anything, any tangible evidence to confirm her fears, she’d stop immediately.
Her family would be worried if they knew. Ever since the devastating death of her fiancé, Micha, two years ago, they had a tendency to treat her as if they believed she might break. Plus, with everyone still raw after her father’s and uncle’s murders, she hadn’t wanted to worry them.
Same with the man she’d been dating, though she’d decided to tell him that evening over dinner. Since Harry Cartwright was a police officer, she figured he just might take her seriously. Maybe he’d even offer to help.
Someone had to. Because instead of going away, it was getting worse.
Carly picked up her pace. Once she’d made it around this next corner, she’d be able to see her house. The sight of her tidy little brick bungalow never failed to lift her spirits. Though she wasn’t a runner, if need be she figured she could always sprint for home.
Again, she scanned her surroundings, unease sitting like a lead balloon in the pit of her stomach. She saw nothing out of the ordinary. A man walked his dog on the other side of the street. A woman holding fast to her child’s hand moved at a leisurely pace several houses ahead.
Yet she could not shake the feeling of being watched.
Frustrated, she rounded the corner, still at a brisk walk but on the verge of breaking into a jog. And then she saw him, stepping out into her path from a driveway, his dark sunglasses and longish, wavy brown hair doing nothing to disguise his achingly familiar—and ruggedly beautiful—face.
It couldn’t be. No freaking way.
Shocked, Carly froze. Now she knew she’d officially ventured into the land of needing professional help. Because the man standing less than ten feet in front of her had died two years ago. How could she be looking at a ghost?
He took a step toward her, disturbingly solid. No apparition, but muscle and bone and skin. Real.
“Micha?” she heard herself ask, as if from a distance. Because it couldn’t be and yet... “Micha Harrison, is that really you?”
Of course, this man, whoever he was, with his striking features and stylishly shaggy hair, would now speak and tell her no, she’d made a terrible mistake. Because people just don’t come back from the dead.
“It’s me,” he said instead, his words and the familiar husky voice making her stagger. “Carly, we really need to talk.”
She couldn’t catch her breath. Heart pounding, she stared.
Talk? She wanted to scream, push past him, but she couldn’t seem to make her legs move. How could he be there, this beautiful, rugged, beloved man who’d destroyed her by his absence. Which had all apparently been one huge pack of lies.
“Have you been following me?” she asked, still numb, struggling to make sense of how she was supposed to feel. The man she’d loved, whose ring she just stopped wearing on a chain around her neck, had died. She’d never forget the day she’d opened her front door to find a uniformed soldier standing on her porch with the gut-wrenching news that Micha had been killed.
Had that been fake? Clearly, it must have been. But why? Why would the man who’d promised to love her forever do such a thing to her? How dare they? How dare he?
Suddenly furious, she wrenched herself away from him and broke into a run. Despite her lack of expertise, her anger fueled her and she raced down her street and into her driveway.
To her immense relief, Micha didn’t chase after her.
Once she’d made it safely inside her house, dead bolt locked, she doubled over. Out of breath, in pain, her rage warring with a stunned sense of disbelief. And the grief, oddly enough, resurrected from the dark place she’d shoved it, as surely as the man she’d had to let go.
Micha wasn’t dead. She wasn’t sure how to process this. Dimly aware of the tears streaming down her face, she angrily swiped at them with the back of her hand.
A moment later, the sorry bastard had the nerve to knock on her front door.
She froze, then squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and wiped her eyes once more. On the one hand, she wanted to fling open the door and tell him to get the hell off her porch. On the other, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and hold him tight, as she’d dreamed of doing so many times while aching from his loss.
Alive. The love of her life. He’d ruined her for anyone else. She’d hung on to the memory of him, of their love shining bright and incandescent. She’d mourned him, damn it. He hadn’t died. Alive. And he didn’t bother to show up until two freaking years later.
Pain, fresh and as new as the day she’d learned of his death, slammed into her gut, almost sending her to her knees.
Carly had never been an indecisive person, but she honestly didn’t know what to do.
Micha knocked again. “We need to talk,” he said, the solid wood door muffling his raspy voice. “Please, Carly. Let me in. I promise you I can explain.”
She wanted to. Oh, how much she wanted to. Right now, she warred between a furious need to pummel him with her fists and to haul him up against her and kiss him senseless.
Micha had destroyed her. And now he wanted to tell her how and why.
In the end it was this, curiosity over the explanation, wondering how anyone, anywhere, could possibly rationalize what he’d done, that made her unlock the door and invite him inside.
Stepping back, she said nothing as he moved past her,
