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Dear Reader,

Even though I’ve lived the life of an east-coast city girl for almost half of my life, I was born and raised in a small Midwestern town. You know the saying: you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. Or something like that. Personally, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I cherish my small-town roots.

Some of my fondest memories are connected to a town much like Eden—the fictional setting of this book. Although as a teenager I recall I couldn’t wait to get out. I had big dreams! It’s been a wild ride to be sure, but sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if circumstances had kept me tied to that small, old-fashioned town. What of my adventurous spirit? What of my romantic nature?

Join me as I step into Kylie McGraw’s funky shoes and shake things up in a bid to have it all!

Cheers!

Beth

Praise for
Beth Ciotta’s
Chameleon Chronicles series

EVIE EVER AFTER

“Ciotta pulls out all the stops as she follows All About Evie and Everybody Loves Evie with another winner.”

—Booklist

“Ciotta deserves major kudos for creating such an array of memorable characters and such a fun-filled series.”

—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars)

EVERYBODY LOVES EVIE

“Ciotta’s wry humor; sexy, multifaceted characters; and layered plotlines make this a fun spy romp.”

—Booklist

“Everybody loves a skillfully characterized, humorously narrated and undeniably well-plotted novel.”

—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars, Top Pick)

ALL ABOUT EVIE

“All About Evie is an amazing charmer…I look forward to more works, sure to dazzle and entertain, by this wonderfully talented author.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Everything about Ciotta’s latest novel is fabulous: the lovable heroine, the sexy hero, the consistently humorous internal monologue, the smooth narration and the delightfully original plot.”

—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars, Top Pick)

Out of Eden
Beth Ciotta

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my brother, Bob Miller—a courageous and inspiring spirit. Ride that bull!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This is where I get to thank the awesome people who helped give this story life.

Two very special ladies brainstormed and critiqued this tale from beginning to end. Barb Hisle and Cynthia Valero—if I baked, I’d whip you up a lifetime of mouthwatering brownies!

Two other very special ladies provided me with never-ending cyber hugs and support. Mary Stella and Julia Templeton—clinking my cyber champagne glass to yours!

One very special husband put up with my cranky moods and crappy housekeeping when in the throes of deadline hell. Steve Ciotta—are you feeling the love?

One special agent who “gets me” and “champions me.” Amy Moore-Benson—I’m saving a dance, any dance, for you.

One special editor who handled this story and the creator with tender loving care. Keyren Gerlach—you’re one of a kind.

One special soul who bid on a mention in this tale via a donation to an extremely worthy cause. Kerri Waldo—your generous spirit gave a character life. Enjoy!

Countless special individuals at HQN who worked together to create a fantastic package (love my cover!) and to market this story far and wide—my heartfelt gratitude.

Last, but most importantly, a mega-huge, very enthusiastic nod to booksellers, librarians and YOU, the reader. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to share the stories of my heart.

Thank you all!

Out of Eden

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“YOU ARE A HEEL. A chunky heel. A chunky, boring heel. Please don’t take this personally, but I’m over you.”

“I knew it was a mistake to let you drink cosmopolitans.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“You’re talking to your shoe.”

“I was talking to my shoe. Now I’m talking to you.” Sensible slip-on in one hand, toxic cocktail in the other, Kylie McGraw leaned back against the red vinyl seat of one of the four booths in Boone’s Bar and Grill and frowned across the table at Faye Tyler, two of her—strike that—one of her splendiferous best friends. They’d grown up together in Eden, Indiana—Paradise in the Heartland according to the slogan emblazoned on the green water tower planted on the outskirts of town. Someone had even painted red apples on the elevated tank so that the tower resembled a, you got it, apple tree. This was, after all, Eden, a place where most residents lived out their years because who would want to leave paradise? Except for the occasional thrill-seeker and random oddball. Although sometimes fate intervened and even they stuck around. Kylie and Faye were prime examples.

Kylie sipped her drink and studied her friend, reflecting on how they’d come to this moment.

Faye, who’d wanted to be a rock star, was married with two kids and owned the local bed-and-breakfast.

Kylie, who’d wanted a husband and kids, was single and running a business she should have inherited. Nothing was going according to plan. Even her dream of touring Asia, a dream she’d nurtured since the age of thirteen, seemed doomed. It’s not that her life was horrible—just horribly boring.

This morning she’d woken up another year older, thinking about another year of the same. Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of ordinary. She’d barely made it through the long, uneventful, dull-as-the-mayor’s-speeches day. Then Faye had picked her up for her birthday celebration and it was official. Kylie had reached the end of her extraordinarily vast and famous patience.

Faye and her slightly blurry twin snapped their fingers two inches from Kylie’s face. “Earth to McGraw. Are you zoning or comatose?”

Kylie adjusted her black oval glasses and blinked away the double image, conceding cosmopolitans packed a mighty punch. Either that or Boone had screwed up the ingredients. Possible, since he’d referred to a mix recipe and his reading glasses were forever perched on top of his balding head. “Okay. Maybe I am a teensy bit tipsy, but I am not, absolutely not drunk. And even if I was—” she grappled for a righteous excuse “—it is my birthday.”

“I’m not saying you aren’t entitled to cut loose,” Faye said, nursing a frosty mug of Budweiser. “It’s just that you always drink beer.”

“Exactly!” Kylie jabbed her shoe in the air to emphasize her point. “I always drink beer.”

Faye sighed. “I have no idea what that means.”

“It means I can’t take it anymore.”

“Define it?”

“The predictability. The routine. The mundane. The run-of-the-mill, unremarkable, habitual sameness—”

“I get the picture.”

“Today is my birthday.”

“September 15. Same day every year.”

“And every year we spend my birthday together.”

“Since you turned twelve, yes. We’ve yet to miss a celebration, which goes to show how much I love you. I could be home watching MTV.”

“You see my point.”

“Not really.”

“Same ol’, same ol’.”

Faye shrugged, smiled. “Not following.”

“Every year we celebrate my birthday the same way. Pizza King. Movie. And since we turned twenty-one, Boone’s Bar and Grill.”

“Except we skipped the movie this time and came straight to Boone’s,” she said with a frown. “It’s 7:00 p.m. We’re the only ones here aside from a few guys throwing back happy hour brewskies and you’re already half tanked.”

Kylie scrunched her nose. “I heard that mobster flick’s more violent than The Godfather and The Departed combined. Did you really want to see it?”

“Not really. But since the Bixley only runs one feature, it’s not like we had a choice. We could have closed our eyes during the gory parts.”

“We would’ve missed three-quarters of the movie!”

“That’s not the point! We always celebrate your birthday the same way. Pizza. Movie. Boone’s. It’s tradition.”

“It’s boring.” Maybe it was the alcohol, but Kylie could swear the curls of Faye’s bleached hair drooped along with her smile. “Not you,” she clarified, “tradition.”

She glanced at her friend’s manicured fingernails. Tonight they were metallic blue. Tomorrow they could be vivid orange or neon pink. Sometimes she even adorned them with decals and rhinestones. She was nearly as creative with her hairstyles, although she changed the shade every other month rather than every other day. Her thrift shop wardrobe ranged from 1960s Annette Funicello to 1990s Madonna. “You,” Kylie said with sincere admiration, “are the Gwen Stefani of Eden.”

Faye tucked her shoulder-length platinum curls behind her ears and quirked a thinly tweezed, meticulously penciled brow. “I take back the scathing remark I mentally slung your way.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Kylie was not so adventurous with her appearance. Her wardrobe was casual. Loose-fitting clothes in muted, earthy tones. Minimal makeup and accessories. She came from the less-is-more camp. She wasn’t sexy or funky or feminine. She was…sensible.

She was also miserable.

She set aside her right shoe—the left was still on her foot—and wrangled her natural blah-boring brown, overly thick, overly long hair into a loosely knotted ponytail. “It’s hot in here.”

“Blame it on the cosmos or your heated rant,” Faye said. “It’s the same as always—comfortable. Boone keeps the thermostat set at sixty-eight year round. You know that.”

Kylie wanted to scream at yet another example of predictability. Instead, she propped her elbow on the table, footwear in hand. “My life is like this shoe. Sensible. This town is like this shoe. Practical.”

“Hello? Your family’s motto? Practical shoes for practical people. It’s written on the plaque hanging behind the cashier counter.”

Kylie narrowed her eyes. “That plaque is so gone. In fact, I’m going to redecorate the entire store,” she said on a whim. “Bright colors. Maybe even pink. Pepto-Bismol pink with banana-yellow trim. Acrylic racks. Leopard seat cushions. Art posters splashed with funky period high heels. I saw this Andy Warhol print on the Internet. Diamond Dust Shoes. Weird, but fun.”

“You know me,” Faye said. “I’m all for kitschy. But that’s radical. If your mom and grandma were here—”

“One would applaud my vision. The other would nix it.” She didn’t know which woman would take what stance. She just knew they’d take opposing views. They bickered constantly and Kylie was forever playing mediator. She’d been given a short reprieve since they were currently enjoying (or not) the Alaskan cruise Grandma McGraw had won at the church’s silent auction, but they’d be back. “I’m bypassing the debate and making an executive decision as the store’s manager.”

“Without consulting Spenser?”

Kylie bristled. When her treasure hunting brother had been presented with an opportunity to host a cable series on the Explorer Channel, she hadn’t thought twice about taking full responsibility and running McGraw’s Shoe Store.

A: Because she loved Spenser to pieces.

B: Unlike her brother, she had an actual interest in shoes and the business as a whole.

It’s just that she hadn’t expected to be in charge for so long without an extended break.

Closing the store for a month was not an option, and she was too territorial to trust the business to a nonfamily member. Leaving the store in the hands of her mom and grandma was unthinkable. They’d kill each other. Or the business. Or both.

Last month when she’d talked to Spenser, he’d said he’d be coming home after he finished a shoot in Egypt, which meant any day now. She’d intended to discuss her dream trip then. In person. Except this morning, when he’d called to wish her happy birthday, he’d explained that he and his cameraman had finally obtained permission to visit Pitcairn—the secluded island inhabited by the ancestors of Fletcher Christian and the other mutineers of the Bounty.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Kitten,” he’d said.

They were all once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.

“Just a few more weeks,” he’d said.

Which in Spenser-speak meant a few more months, maybe years.

Okay. That was overdramatic. But as sure as Kylie opened the store every day, Tuesday through Saturday at 9:00 a.m., he’d be broadening his horizons while hers flat-lined. “I know the store’s in Spenser’s name,” she grumbled, “but he saddled me with the responsibility.”

“Temporarily,” Faye said. “Although I admit his idea of ‘temporary’ differs from most folks. Still, if I recall, you’re supposed to run things status quo. Knowing your brother, I don’t think he’d be keen on pink walls and weird posters.”

“Spenser can kiss my—”

“Ashe sent this over.” Wanda, Boone’s wife, who usually manned the kitchen whipping up her locally famous kick-butt chicken wings, seasoned mozzarella sticks and other assorted yummies, was currently working the floor due to a server shortage. She set another cosmo on the table. “Be warned, the silver-tongued dog paid Boone for a double shot of vodka.”

“Happy birthday, Kylie,” Ashe called from his bar stool.

He probably thought that winking thing was sexy. Smarmy was more like it. “Thanks.” She saluted the cocky car dealer with a dismissive smile. Ashe Davis had been trying to score with her since her almost-fiancé, make that ex-almost-fiancé, fled paradise last year. At no point in time had she suggested he had a snowball’s chance in hell, but the man was persistent. Handsome and successful, thirty-six and never married, he was considered by some the perfect catch. Only thus far he’d proved too slippery for any of the eligible women in Eden and even a few of the not-so-eligible. With Ashe it was all about the hunt. Once he bagged his prey, he lost interest. If Kylie wanted a brief, hot fling, he’d be the perfect choice. That is, if she could stomach sleeping with a self-absorbed womanizer.

“He’s thinking tonight’s his lucky night,” Faye said with a roll of her blue-shadowed eyes.

“I’d have to be blitzed out of my gourd to sleep with Ashe.”

“Drink that third cosmo and consider yourself boinked,” said Faye.

Kylie pushed her glasses up her nose and focused, sort of, on Wanda. “Do I appear inebriated to you?”

“I did see you talking to your shoe, dear.”

“That’s because this shoe represents the crux of my discontent.”

“Don’t ask,” Faye said, then sipped her beer.

“Giving you blisters?”

Faye slapped a palm to her forehead, metallic-blue nails glittering.

Ironically, or maybe not, someone punched A12 on the jukebox—Kylie knew that jukebox by heart—flooding the bar with the retro hit: “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” Probably someone was making fun of her current shoe fixation, but she was more inspired than insulted. The music provided the perfect background for her on-the-spot promo.

“These,” she said, displaying the slip-on for Wanda’s keener inspection, “are Aerosoles. Padded insoles. Lightweight and flexible. They do not cause blisters. A smart buy for someone who spends a lot of time on their feet. Someone like you.”

“You introduced me to that brand the last time I was in your shop,” Wanda said while snapping her gum. “Felt like I was walking on clouds, but Boone would have a cow if I paid that kind of money for one pair of shoes.”

“Yes, but they’d last longer than the bargain canvas sneakers you’re wearing, plus they’d offer proper arch support. Given your occupation, don’t your feet deserve better?”

“Stop trying to sell my wife fancy shoes!” Boone shouted over the music while sliding a beer down to Ashe.

“They’re not fancy!” Kylie shouted back. “They’re practical!”

“I’m thinking it’s a birthday crisis,” Faye said to Wanda. “Did you wig out when you turned thirty-two?”

“No.” Gaze fixed on the far wall, she shifted and tapped the empty tray against her thigh in time with the music. She blew a pink bubble and when the bubble burst, spoke her mind. “Although I did go through a funk when I turned thirty-nine. All I could think was, I’m one year from forty. Then of course, I panicked when I turned the big five-oh. Who doesn’t?”

“You’re a size seven, right?” Kylie asked, bulldozing over their talk of a birthday crisis. This wasn’t about age, although it was about another passing year.

“Yes, but—”

“Take them.” Desperate to take action, any action to shake up her life, she shoved her right shoe in Wanda’s free hand, toed off the left and handed that over, as well. “They’re yours.”

“They look brand-new.” The redheaded, gum-cracking woman flipped them over, inspected the soles and heels. “No scuffs, no wear.”

“I’ve worn them three times max.”

“Are you sure you want to give them up?”

“Trust me. I’ve got loads of sensible shoes.”

“Shoes, schmooze!” someone complained. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some chicken wings around here?”

They turned their attention to the grumpy complainant, Max Grogan, the town’s retired fire chief, seventy-two and prickly as a porcupine. Armed with two bottles of beer each, he and his cronies—Jay Jarvis (of J.J.’s Pharmacy and Sundry), Ray Keystone (Keystone Barbershop) and Dick Wilson (the town mayor)—were engrossed in their biweekly game of cards.

“Keep your pants on, Max!” Wanda shouted.

“An image I can do without.” Faye shuddered. “Max’s dingy.”

“You can tell you’ve got a five-year-old at home,” Wanda said with a grin. “Dingy. That’s cute, hon. Thanks for the shoes, Kylie, and Happy Birthday,” she added before leaving.

“I wish.” Kylie downed Ashe’s alcoholic gift in two swallows, then slid aside the empty glass with a snort. “Didn’t taste stronger than the first two.”

“Probably because your taste buds are numb.” Faye pursed her cherry-red lips. “Good thing I’m driving.”

“Wash those hands before you handle my wings!” Max yelled when Wanda disappeared into the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing dingy’s Max,” Kylie said, tripping over her words. She pinched the end of her tongue. Also numb. Dang. “I mean Max’s dingy.”

Her friend groaned, then leaned forward. “You have got to be kidding. I know you’ve been sexually deprived since the asshole split town, but you cannot be that desperate for a thrill.”

“Actually, I am.” Although, it was spurred by lack of zest, not sex. She’d felt melancholy and hollow since Spenser’s phone call this morning. She wasn’t a stranger to disappointment, and usually she sucked it up and moved on, doing what she had to do, doing what was best for all involved even if it didn’t feel best for her. But today she hadn’t been able to wrangle the disappointment, and as the day crawled by, depression had given way to desperation and uncharacteristic behavior. She mentally kissed her nurturing, passive self goodbye. Time to take action. Time to shake up the life she was stuck with.

“At least it would cause a sensation,” Kylie said, shocked at the vehemence in her tone. “Can you imagine the headlines?” She mimicked a newspaper barker, shouting her concocted news just as the song ended and the noise level dipped. “Max Grogan drops his pants in protest of tardy service!”

“I ain’t flashing my willy just because you’re bored, Kylie McGraw.” Max grunted as he dealt a new hand. “Kids.”

“Kids who don’t know when they’ve had enough,” said the mayor. “Even worse.”

“Maybe you should switch to soda,” called Mr. Keystone.

“Maybe you should mind your own beeswax,” said Kylie.

J.J. tsked. “She’s usually so nice.”

“Yeah, but tonight she’s fun.” Ashe approached Kylie with another cosmo and a smarmy grin. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”

Kylie dropped her head in her hands with a groan.

“Go away,” Faye said. “And take that evil drink with you.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to please the birthday girl. She said she wants a sensation.”

Kylie banged her fists to the table and frowned up at the man. “I’m talking about something extraordinary, you thick-skulled bozo. People expect you to seduce me and they expect me to fall under your spell. Boone knows Max and gang will show up twice a week to play pinochle and they know they’ll get two-fer beers, kick-butt chicken wings and a comfortable room temperature of sixty-eight. Faye expects me to drink beer because I always drink beer. I expect Faye to whine about her summer guests because she always whines about her summer guests. The majority of Eden will watch Into the Wild Saturday night and gossip about Spenser’s adventures most of Sunday. The Bixley will never expand to a multiplex theater and storefronts on Main Street will always look as they did in 1955, because progress moves at a snail’s pace in Eden! Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens!” Kylie vented, voice slurred and shrill. “You can set your watch by this town. We are boring people!”

“Ooo-kay.” Ashe backed away with the drink, his free hand raised in surrender.

But Kylie wasn’t done. “I bet I know what you’ve been talking about,” she said to Max and friends. “Omertà. That’s all you ever talk about because you’re obsessed. Never mind the mob series is off the air and you’re just now catching up compliments of DVD. That’s typical. Out of step with fashion and the arts. Yup. That’s us! Behind the times. Boring and passé.”

“I came in here for cards and beer,” shouted Max. “Not to be insulted!”

“That does it,” Boone called from behind the bar. “You’re cut off, Kylie.”

She jabbed a finger in his direction. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Predictable,” Faye grumbled.

“Exactly.”

“But wise.” Looking harried, the normally unflappable woman rooted in her oversize purse and pulled out her Orchard House souvenir key chain, available at the front desk for the bargain price of $3.99. “I’m taking you home,” Faye snapped. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

Fueled by years of frustration and three cosmopolitans, Kylie pushed out of the booth, her compact body trembling with Godzilla-like rage. “Well, get used to it. All of you! Because starting tomorrow there’s a new Kylie McGraw in town. I’m going to shake up paradise. Just you wait and see!” She made it halfway across the hardwood floor before her nylon footies slid out from under her and Kylie tumbled butt over heels.

J.J. whistled low. “Wasn’t much of a wait.”

Dazed, she squinted at the sea of faces spinning above her. “Stand still, you guys.”

“We aren’t moving.” Faye stooped and inspected Kylie’s noggin. “How hard did you hit your head? Are you seeing double?”

“Of course she’s seeing double,” Boone said. “She’s shit-faced.”

Swearing, Faye tried to pull her friend to her feet, but Kylie’s arms and legs went all noodly. “I could use some help getting her in my van,” she said to the men.

Ashe, the smug, blurry dog, rubbed his paws together and smiled. “I’ll do it.”

“Touch her, Davis, and I’ll kick your ass.”

It was a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time, but one she’d know anywhere and in any state of mind.

Ashe knew it, too. “Just trying to help.”

Knowing the dog’s true intention, the circle of faces that had been staring at Kylie snorted, then turned their attention to the don’t-challenge-me stranger. Only he wasn’t a stranger. He was one of Eden’s own. Or at least he used to be.

Jack Reynolds. Kylie’s first major crush. Although crush was putting it mildly. Best high school bud of her infuriating brother, this man had made tofu of her teen hormones and ruined her for other men well into her twenties. He’d also broken her heart. Three times, to be exact. Not that he knew it, but that wasn’t the point.

She adjusted her crooked glasses and blinked up at the obsession of her youth. Dark cropped hair. River-blue eyes. A buff body and a warrior’s heart. Hands on denim-clad hips, the most handsome man in the universe ever towered above her. Then again, she was flat out on the floor. She hadn’t seen him in years, and usually her stomach fluttered when she did. Either she was completely over him or the mass quantities of vodka had paralyzed her vital organs along with her limbs. “Heard you were back in town.”

“No secrets in Eden.”

No kidding. That’s why Kylie generally guarded her words. Jack’s sister, on the other hand, vented to anyone who would listen. Jessica Lynn shared Jack’s good looks, but none of his good sense. A self-centered former beauty queen, it was always: Enough about you, let’s talk about me. Hence, most everyone knew about the feud between the estranged siblings, plus some of the particulars. Kylie noted the particular of most interest to her. “So, did you accept the job as Eden’s chief of police?”

“I did.”

She quirked a hopeful grin. “You been in here long, Chief Reynolds?”

“Long enough.”

“Going to arrest me for drunk and disorderly behavior?”

“No.”

“Shoot,” she complained as he hauled her off the floor. That would have brought Spenser running.

Dizzy, she rested her head against Jack’s shoulder, her face nuzzled against his neck.

God, he smelled good.

He tightened his hold and suddenly she was hyperaware of where she was.

In Jack Reynolds’s arms!

That’s when she felt it. Her traitorous stomach fluttered. Or maybe she’d overindulged in pepperoni pizza and cosmopolitans. Yeah, that was it. Crushing on Jack was hazardous to her heart. Better to battle an upset stomach than a doomed attraction. At least she could cure the former with Alka-Seltzer.

CHAPTER TWO

JACK REYNOLDS HAD BEEN in town for four days. Settling into his new home. Meeting with the mayor. Being courted by the town council and snubbed by his sister. Mostly he’d been reacclimating. Even though he’d grown up in Eden, he’d spent a lifetime in New York City, working for the NYPD. Big difference between the Big Apple and Eden. His friend’s little sister didn’t know how good she had it. Unless that was the alcohol talking. Either way, she’d just provided Eden with a week’s worth of gossip.

Jack had never seen the squeaky-clean McGraw sauced. Then again, he’d been avoiding Eden for years. Ever since he’d clocked his sister’s husband on their wedding day. He’d refused to tell Jessie why—effectively severing their dysfunctional relationship. Instead of going to hell, as she’d demanded, he’d returned to NYC. Over the next ten years, he made homicide detective, got married, got divorced, and tempted the devil as he took accelerated risks on the streets.

His wake-up call had come last month in the form of a young woman. A victim of a mob hit. He’d seen a lot of death. He knew how to manage his emotions. How to temper the revulsion and outrage. But how the fuck did you manage numb? Maybe he’d gone to hell after all. Jack Reynolds. Zombie cop. He’d sworn long ago that if he ever stopped feeling, he’d get out.

Easier said than done.

He’d resorted to drowning his misery and indecision in whiskey.

His sister’s crisis had kicked his drunken ass into action. When he’d learned through the grapevine that Jessie’s bastard husband had deserted her and her daughter, he’d sworn off the hard stuff and given his notice. Time to look after his own. The job opening for chief of police had been coincidental. Or maybe it was fate. In the end it had been too convenient to pass up.

Jack made eye contact with every man and woman in Boone’s as he carried Kylie out of the bar. These people, this town, would be his salvation. At least that was the plan. Reconnect with your roots, reconnect with your soul.

As for Kylie…he couldn’t get over how much she’d changed. He’d seen her briefly at her dad’s funeral eleven years ago, but they’d both been preoccupied. Mostly, he remembered her as the gawky, skinny kid who’d shadowed her big brother. Spenser used to run her off with a smile and teasing words. Spense loved his sister, but he was a daredevil and she was an angel. Spunky, but sweet. Kitten, he called her.

Jack tempered a smile, flashing on the episode that made it impossible for him to think of her as Kitten. An episode he’d sworn to a then fourteen-year-old Kylie he would never reveal to her brother. A promise he’d kept.

He glanced down at the woman in his arms, recognizing the big chocolate eyes and thick wild hair and little else. He was keenly aware of her compact curves and her quirky, pretty features. No wonder Ashe was sniffing. Kylie was an interesting package.

She pushed at his shoulder. “I can walk.”

“Whatever you say, Tiger.” He set her on her stocking feet but kept his arm around her waist in case she faltered. She did.

“I don’t get it,” she lamented as he escorted her outside and onto the sidewalk. “I can usually hold my liquor.”

“You usually drink beer,” Faye said.

“I wouldn’t reference the usual just now,” Jack told Kylie’s eccentric friend, though the harm was already done. He shook his head as the youngest McGraw launched into another gripe about routine.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Faye told Jack. “Except the obvious, of course.” The bleached-blonde unlocked the passenger side of a cherry-red minivan.

He’d never imagined the girl who dressed like a retro pop star would drive a minivan. He’d never imagined her as a mother, either, but the toys and books scattered in the backseat along with the Spider-Man sun shield confirmed what he’d heard. Faye Tyler, formally Powell, was married with children. Children she’d named after nineties musical icons.

Jack helped Kylie, who continued to vent, into the van while Faye answered her ringing cell. “What do you mean Sting threw up? Does he have a fever? He what? Where were you when… Yes, I know you can’t stomach vomit, Stan. For crying out loud. Okay. Yes. Yes. Be right there.” She tossed her phone in her purse, looked at her friend, then Jack. “There’s a bit of a crisis at home.”

“Is Sting okay?” Kylie asked, struggling to fasten her seat belt.

“He got into the freezer—don’t ask how—and ate an entire tub of double-fudge ice cream. He’ll be fine, which is more than I can say for my husband when I get hold of him.”

Jack remembered Stan Tyler. A short but solid man, former captain of the high school wrestling team. He didn’t figure Faye could take him, but it would be fun to watch her try, especially since he knew Stan would cut off his hand before raising it to a lady. “You live in the converted carriage house next to the B and B, right?”

“Right,” she said. “And Kylie lives in the opposite direction in the boonies. Do you think—”

“Sure.” He unbuckled the seat belt Kylie had just managed to fasten. “Come on, Tiger.”

“Stop calling me that.” She batted away his hands and glared at him through her oval, plastic-rimmed glasses. No-nonsense glasses, black, like her no-nonsense clothes—cropped, wide-legged pants and a loose-fitting blouse. He thought about the no-nonsense shoes she’d given away and decided she must’ve gone out on the town straight from work. “And I don’t need a ride home. From you, I mean. Max lives out my way.”

“Max plays cards from six until eight,” Faye said as she scurried to the driver’s side. “He’s got another forty-five minutes to go. He’s not going to break away early for anything other than a four-alarm fire.”

“I’ll wait.” Shoeless, Kylie strode unsteadily toward Boone’s Bar and Grill.

“Stop where you are. Hello? Splinters! Broken glass!” Faye snapped, clearly in mother mode. “Jack?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stepped in and hauled Kylie over his shoulder. “Drive safe, Faye. Best to Stan.”

She saluted and pulled away from the curb.

Kylie kicked like a swimmer on speed. “Put me down, darn you!”

He pressed the lock release on his key fob as he reached his Chrysler Aspen. The new SUV would serve as his personal and professional wheels. Though he didn’t have a weak stomach like Stan, he hoped Kylie didn’t hurl on his new leather seats.

“I’m serious, Jack. Don’t make me hurt you.”

He quirked an amused brow. “You wouldn’t assault an officer of the law, would you, Miss McGraw?”

“Would you throw me in jail?”

“No.”

“Dang. What’s a girl gotta do to get tossed in the clink?” she asked as he poured her into the passenger seat.

“Why are you determined to spend the night in jail?”

“Because it would set this birthday apart from all the others.”

“I can think of more pleasurable distinctions,” he said while buckling her in.

She nabbed his shirt collar and got in his face. Her hair tumbled free of the ponytail, overwhelming her delicate face and ramping her sexuality ten points. “You offering up a distinctive pleasure, Jack?”

Kylie, flirting? The kid who got tongue-tied when Spense teased her about boys?

Only she isn’t a kid anymore.

Jack held her sultry gaze, breathed in her flowery scent and cursed an unexpected boner.

“Touch her,” he could hear Spenser saying, “and I’ll kick your ass.”

He wouldn’t blame his friend for trying. He’d threatened to do the same to Ashe Davis, a serial womanizer. This was Kylie, for Christ’s sake. Sweet. Naive. Drunk.

She licked her lush lower lip. “Well?”

“Let’s not go there, Tiger.”

“Too bad for you. I’m a yoga geek.” She raised one brow. “You know what that means.”

“Flexible?”

“Like Gumby.”

The retro green guy that could bend every which way and back.

Christ.

He shut her door, rounded the Aspen and claimed the driver’s seat. “Where am I headed?”

“Route 50, a half a mile past Max’s place. Do you remember where Max lives?”

Flicking on his headlights, he eased onto Adams Street and headed north. “The boonies.” A twenty-minute drive from town, midway between Eden and Kokomo. Corn and soybean fields. Patches of woods. Pig farms. Pastures of grazing cows and horses. Sporadic century-old farmhouses and the occasional contemporary modular home. A wide-open area where the nearest neighbor lived a mile or a half mile away. He shot her a look. “You live alone out there?”

She smirked. “I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking if you live alone. No roommate?”

“I like my privacy.”

“You could live alone here in town.”

“I like the solitude.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He’d rented a home on the outskirts of town, an old two-story brick house on two acres of land. He, too, liked the idea of solitude. Peace and quiet. The exact opposite of what he’d had when he’d lived in the high-rise in Brooklyn. Difference was he was a trained cop, capable of handling a crisis in any form. She was…Kylie. Kylie all grown up, he thought, raking his gaze over her body.

“I didn’t used to live alone. I used to be almost engaged. Are you shocked?”

“That you were almost engaged? Or that you were living in sin?” he teased.

“Either, or.”

“Neither.”

“His name was Bobby Jones. You wouldn’t know him. He was a free spirit.”

You mean a freeloader. “Spenser mentioned him.” Jack kept in touch with his friend via e-mail. Mostly they talked sports and global affairs, but they always touched on family.

“Spenser never liked Bobby.”

That was putting it mildly, but Jack held his tongue.

“I’m not fond of my brother right now.”

“Because he didn’t approve of Bobby?”

“Because he’s an insensitive boob.”

Jack swallowed a laugh. “Did he forget your birthday?”

“No. He forgot I’m human.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I have dreams, too.”

He started to ask specifics, but she’d slumped against the window, eyes closed. She’d either passed out or clammed up. One thing he’d learned on the force, sometimes the easiest way to learn something was not to ask. He’d let it go for now and she’d talk when she was ready.

He tapped the radio media key, scanned his presets and chose a local classic rock station. The same music he’d listened to in his teens while cruising these back country roads. He grinned at the irony when the speakers rattled with the Cars’ “Shake It Up.” What did Kylie plan on doing, anyway? TP-ing every tree in town? Spraying Eden’s sacred water tower with graffiti? Streaking down the center of Main Street?

A vivid image of the woman sitting next to him exploded in his mind. Ivory flesh and toned curves. It was the second time in less than twenty minutes he’d imagined Kylie McGraw naked. Damn. He shifted in his seat, frowning when “Shake It Up” segued into “Keep Your Hands to Yourself.” Seemed the DJ had coordinated a playlist specifically fitted to Jack’s evening. He lowered the volume and concentrated on the road, not Kylie. The scenery, not Kylie.

She’d changed. He’d changed. But aside from a random new home, this rural area had remained the same. Between the music and landscape, he easily slipped back in time. He soaked in the serenity as if it were a restorative drug.

Ten minutes later he zipped by Max Grogan’s place. The antique fire engine parked in the drive had been in the old man’s possession for more than twenty years. He wondered if Red Rover still ran. He relived a few choice memories regarding that red hook-and-ladder truck while keeping an eye out for Kylie’s house. A half mile past Max’s place, she’d said.

He was about to wake her when he spied a lone mailbox and rolled to a stop. Brightly colored shoes were painted up and down the white post and McGraw was scripted on the box alongside #312. He turned his SUV into the crushed-stone drive that led him into the woods and soon after his headlights flashed on a mobile home. Not only did she live alone in the boonies, she lived in a disaster waiting to happen. Eden was smack in the middle of Tornado Alley. If a twister touched down, she’d be gone with the wind. What was she thinking? Why hadn’t Spenser intervened?

She stirred along with his annoyance. “You found it,” she said in a slurred, husky voice. “Great. Thanks for the lift.” Then her lids drifted back shut and Jack smiled in spite of his unease. Damn, she was cute.

Three seconds later he sidestepped potted flowers and carried the dozing woman toward her green mobile home. Moonlight bathed the tended lawn. The warm evening breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding oak and maple trees and the bamboo wind chimes hanging from a wrought-iron pole rooted next to a bird feeder. He smelled earth and flowers and perfume. “Kylie?”

“Hmm?”

“Keys.”

“Purse.”

“Where?”

She furrowed her brow.

“Let me guess. You left it at Boone’s.”

“No problem. Mat.”

“Who’s Matt?”

“Doormat. Hey, it’s like a knock-knock joke. Funny,” she said with a loopy smile, then slipped back into la-la Land.

If he hadn’t been pissed about her obvious hiding place for the spare key, he would’ve laughed. The joke wasn’t funny, but she was. “When you’re sober, you and I are going to have a talk about home protection, Tiger.”

He fished the key from under the mat and unlocked the door, no easy feat while juggling a living rag doll. Once inside he flicked on a wall switch, bathing the compact living and dining area in muted light. “Spotless” was his first thought, quickly followed by “sparse.” Minimal furnishings with an oriental flair. He noted the framed prints on the wall. Japanese temples and landscapes. A movie poster of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Huh.

He located her bedroom, wishing she hadn’t mentioned her agility, compliments of yoga. Oriental images of an erotic nature flashed in his mind as he laid her on her black-and-red comforter.

Time to leave.

He took off her glasses and placed them on the nightstand, noted a book on Zen and travel brochures on China and Japan. Spenser had never mentioned her obsession with the Orient. He wondered if he knew. He thought about what she’d said earlier. “I have dreams, too.” After one peek at her living quarters, any idiot could deduce her dreams involved Asia. He filed away the knowledge, slipped into the bathroom and nabbed a glass of water and two aspirin. He returned and nudged her awake. “Take these and drink this. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Bleary-eyed, she complied, then fell back on the pillow with a groan.

“Sleep tight, kid.” I’m outta here.

Warm toes skimmed up his T-shirt and across his lower back. “Jack?”

Wary, he turned back and nabbed Kylie’s adventurous foot. The wide pant leg slid toward her body, revealing a toned thigh and a glimpse of red panties. Damn.

“I’m not getting any younger,” she said.

Hit the road, Jack. “Meaning?”

“Meaning if I wait for what I want, I’ll never get it. At least that’s the way it’s worked so far.” She shoved her hair out of her eyes, then wagged a finger in his direction to emphasize another thought. “Although, I did grab the bull by the horns once, if you catch my drift, and I know you do, and I didn’t get what I wanted that time, either. I gotta tell ya, life has been one big-butt disappointment.”

She sounded pitiful and angry at the same time, and he cursed himself a pig for imagining the pleasure zone beneath those satin panties. He released her sexy foot and tugged her pant leg back past her knee. Against his better judgment, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Today in particular stunk.”

“Want to tell me what Spenser said or did to ruin your birthday?”

“It’s what he didn’t say or do.”

“You’re losing me.”

“It’s not about my birthday, but my life.”

“Definitely lost.”

“But it is what it is so I need to make the most of what I have, which isn’t much. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

He pressed a finger to his temple, rubbed.

“Creative visualization is a beautiful thing. I will have my adventure, just you wait and see.”

“Back to shaking up things in Eden, huh?”

“I was planning to start tomorrow, but you know what they say…” She quirked a brow, waited.

“No time like the present?”

Her full lips curved into another of those loopy grins. “For the past year, I’ve spent every night in this bed alone. It would certainly break my blah, boring routine if you—”

“No.”

“—kissed me.”

Shit.

“It’s the least you could do.”

“For?”

“Refusing to be my first.”

He scratched his forehead, reflecting on the episode he’d sworn to take to his grave. “You were fourteen.”

She scrunched her brow. “So? How old were you when you first—”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because you’re a guy? That’s a stupid argument,” she slurred, “but I’ll let it slide and point out that I am now thirty-two.”

“You’re also blitzed.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What if I was sober?”

“You’d still be Spenser’s little sister.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh. Then she stretched like a languid cat, teasing him with thoughts of Gumby flexibility.

“I know,” he said, only half kidding. “My loss.”

“My stinky birthday.” She stuck out her lower lip in a contrived but alluring pout.

He knew when he was being played. His ex had been a master manipulator. Not that Kylie was in Amanda’s league. Kylie was drunk. He scrambled for a graceful exit without hurting her feelings.

She mistook his hesitation as an invitation. “A pleasurable distinction,” she whispered, then pressed those pouty lips to his.

Soft. Sweet. Hot.

Holy shit.

He froze.

She sighed. “Thanks for the birthday kiss, Jack.”

He grappled for a casual response.

“Too bad I didn’t feel anything.”

CHAPTER THREE

ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE.

Hell would have been preferable.

As was his routine for the past seven years, Travis Martin rose at 6:00 a.m. He showered—using bargain-brand soap, shampoo and shaving cream. He dressed in Lee Dungarees Carpenter Jeans, a plaid shirt and beige work boots. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal, white toast and a cup of Folgers. He scanned the local newspaper while he ate. The only upset in this routine was the absence of his wife. She’d died three months earlier. Life had been difficult before. Now it was painful.

Still, Travis stayed the course.

At 7:00 a.m. he pinned on his name tag and tugged on a cap embroidered with his employer’s logo: Hank’s Hardware.

At 7:05 he was out the door of his run-down farmhouse and behind the wheel of his 1995 Chevy pickup. The truck, like his clothes, was nondescript. He blended with the male population of Eden. He was just another hardworking, blue collar stiff who occasionally attended church on Sunday mornings—not that he got anything out of the preacher’s sermons. Now and then he dropped by Kerri’s Confections where he indulged in doughnuts and coffee. What he really wanted was a cannoli and espresso, not that he ever asked. Once in a while, like most of the men in these parts, he made an appearance at Boone’s Bar and Grill, where he tossed back a couple of beers. Last night he’d been sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a bottle of Pabst and craving a glass of Chianti, when Kylie McGraw, who was typically as unassuming as himself, went a little oobatz. Unlike anyone else in Boone’s, Travis had empathized.

Like Kylie, he despised the tedium of this Midwestern mom-and-pop town.

Unlike Kylie, he had no intention of shaking things up. He’d flirted with danger a month earlier, a moment of weakness. A mistake he’d quickly rectified. Drawing attention to himself was not an option.

Or was it?

At 7:40, Travis parked his pickup in the alley behind the hardware store. He entered through the back door, traded greetings with his boss and two coworkers. He tidied his work station and skimmed new orders. He did everything exactly as he always did, only this morning, like that one unfortunate night, he couldn’t calm his inner self. His true self.

At 8:00 a.m., his boss opened for business and Travis struggled to maintain his composure, his wife’s last request ringing in his ears. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Unfortunately, as his loneliness and frustration escalated, the warning packed less punch.