Shadow Woman A Novel

Chapter Thirteen



Three a.m. was prime time for any self-respecting burglar. Houses were dark; all the residents were—or should be—sleeping.

Felice definitely had active surveillance on Lizzy. Even if he hadn’t already been alerted, Xavier would have spotted the car right off. The car itself was as bland as a car could get, but he knew what vehicles belonged in the neighborhood, and this one didn’t. The guy inside was taking care to keep a low profile; he wasn’t smoking, but he was drinking coffee to stay awake, and Xavier didn’t need night-vision goggles to spot the movement of his hand as he lifted the thermos cup to his mouth.

Before actually arriving at her house, Xavier had made a thorough reconnoiter of the surrounding area. Everything was clear. This was exactly what Forge had said it would be: low-level, just one guy.

Knowing how the game was played, he wasn’t surprised they’d put eyes on her. But he hadn’t picked up any prior intel on the move, which meant Felice McGowan was behind the surveillance, not Forge. And it meant she had used people outside the usual network.

That wasn’t good news for any of them. She had taken control from Forge on this; Forge might have balked at the idea and this was nothing more than Felice having her way, but Xavier didn’t like the use of outside people. That signaled a breakdown of trust.

Trust was all they had holding this thing together. It was an armed, guarded, lots-of-safety-nets-in-place kind of trust, but it worked because they all knew each other and the situation was limited to their small group. Outside people … he didn’t know their training, didn’t know how they’d react in a fluid situation, didn’t know how much they knew or what their orders were.

He’d rather deal with a skilled professional any day than an amateur. There was no telling what the f*ck an amateur would do. They were as likely to open fire at a sudden noise as they were to totally screw the job by going to sleep. Hell, he didn’t even know if this guy was armed, or with what. Though knowing Felice, he’d bet on armed.

He sometimes imagined their group as all of them standing in a circle, aiming at each other’s heads. Forge was undoubtedly the most dangerous and capable of the group, outside himself, and then perhaps only because of his younger age and active training. But whenever he pictured this scenario, his weapon wasn’t trained on Forge; it was on Felice, because she had the most to lose, and that made her the most likely to break the status quo. She would want to protect what she had, and she might decide the only way to do that was to eliminate the rest of them.

Like that idea hadn’t occurred to each and every one of them. He had his own safeguards in place, and Al Forge wouldn’t be Al Forge if he didn’t, also.

One day, which might not come around for years but could happen at any time, Felice was going to be a problem. He might or might not survive, but then again, the same odds applied to her.

In the meantime, he had to continue on the course he’d set for himself five years ago—longer, if he went back to when he’d first agreed to live a double life in preparation for the unthinkable, in case it ever came to pass.

Nothing he could do about that. All he could do was handle the present, which meant he had to get into Lizette’s house—while it was under surveillance.

He smiled in the darkness. He liked a challenge.

Sometimes the gods smiled, because a light rain began falling. Perfect. For someone sitting inside a parked car, that had just cut visibility through the side windows down to nothing more than a blur. It wasn’t just the rain, but the inevitable fogging that would occur. In the same situation, Xavier would have lowered the window and let the interior of the car get wet, because surveillance, not staying dry, was the objective, but the human instinct was to shut out the rain.

Xavier reached the rear of her house and took a quick peek around the corner, keeping his body flat against the wall and rolling his head just enough to get a line of sight on the car across the street.

If the gods sometimes smiled, other times they downright laughed. Abruptly a light was turned on inside the house just up from where the guy was parked. A couple of seconds later, the porch light was turned on, the door opened, and the robe-clad homeowner stepped out with a small dog bouncing around his feet. The little dog immediately dashed into the yard to take care of his business.

Human nature being what it was, the guy in the car had probably lain over in the seat so he wouldn’t be seen; if he hadn’t done that, he had at least slid way down in the seat, and all of his attention would currently be on the pet owner, hoping the guy either didn’t notice his car or didn’t recognize it as not belonging.

Xavier figured he couldn’t have been handed a better opportunity. Silently he slipped around the corner of her house and approached the back door.

He could hear the neighbor saying something to the dog, his tone more querying than angry. Xavier imagined it was something along the lines of Are you finished yet? He didn’t care what was said, because as long as the neighbor stayed on the porch, the guy in the car wasn’t going to be watching anything else.

Xavier spared a quick glance to see that the dog was now happily prancing toward the owner, wagging its tail. He had just a few seconds left before that perfect distraction ended.

The keys, one for the doorknob and one for the deadbolt, were in his hand. He kept them separate, so they wouldn’t clink against each other. Swiftly he unlocked both locks, each one clicking smoothly and almost silently; he put one key in his left pocket, one in his right, then gently turned the knob. He eased inside, closed the door, then stood very still and listened.

He was in the kitchen, with light coming in through the window; there were lights from the oven, the coffeemaker, and the microwave as well, small but effective. He heard the hum of the refrigerator but nothing else, no creaking of the floors or fabric brushing against walls, nothing to indicate that she’d been awakened by his almost completely silent entry. Faintly, from outside, he heard the air-conditioning compressor kick on, and a moment later cool air began blowing from the vents.

That was good. Air conditioning covered a multitude of small sounds.

Beyond the kitchen, the house was dark. That was the way she liked it when she slept—dark, like being in a cave. There were no night-lights for her, no bathroom light left on to illuminate the hallway. The dark worked in his favor.

He made his way through the kitchen, noting that the clocks all displayed the same time: three thirty-two. Lizzy kept her clocks synchronized. He wondered if she realized why, if somewhere in the back of her mind she knew how crucial a minute could be. He himself had an instinctive sense of time, one that he’d learned to adjust according to what time zone he was in, and he could usually nail it to the minute without seeing a clock. For operations he always synchronized with team members, but that was more for their benefit than his. He’d always appreciated Lizzy’s punctuality. She’d been dependable down to the second.

He didn’t have to fumble around, figure out where he was or where she kept things. He was familiar with the layout of the exterior and the interior because he’d seen pictures. Lots of them. Even though he’d never been here, this wasn’t entirely unfamiliar territory.

She was asleep just down the hall. He could almost feel her there, her presence pulling at him, and he had to make a conscious effort to focus on the task at hand.



Lizette knew she was dreaming, because she recognized the dream. It was the all-white house again, except for that one three-dimensional room that held all the colors, as if the colors from the rest of the house had been bled away and put in that one room. But she wasn’t in the colored room, she was in the biggest white one, everything muted and quiet.

He was here, her Mr. X. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him, but she knew he was close by. She could sense him as strongly as if he were in the same room, watching her. She spun around, checking every corner, every white wall, every window, but the room was empty except for herself.

Wait a minute, she thought. What was going on? Was this a dream, or reality? It felt real. She’d been here before. But—oh, yeah, that had been a dream too. Her heart began beating faster, because X had been in that other dream, and he was waiting for her in this one.

He’d be in that bedroom where all the color was, the one room in this massive house that seemed more real, more tangible, than all the others. Her body responded, knowing he was near, instantly craving what she’d gotten in the last dream: not just sex, even though it had been powerful and earth-shattering and almost—almost—nothing-else-matters sex. Because something else did matter, something stronger that pulled her to him.

But where the hell was he?

She walked from one room to the next, searching for the one room with color, but it wasn’t where it had been the last time. Damn it, why wouldn’t the rooms stay in one place? She grew more and more frustrated as she got more and more turned around. She was completely lost now. Hallways twisted and turned, grew longer as she tried to reach the end. She was so frustrated she felt like kicking a wall. He was here—somewhere. She felt him on a cellular level, down deep where instincts ruled alone and logic went out the window. But if she didn’t find him soon, it would be too late; he’d go away, find something else to do. He was always going away.

And then she smelled him. He had a faint, masculine odor that was his and his alone. His skin, his clothes, the soap he used … it all added up to X. Perhaps no one else would note the scent, it was so light, but she did. She’d inhaled his scent on more than one occasion, had closed her eyes and breathed deep and been soothed and excited and inflamed by the way he smelled.

She followed her nose and her instincts. She quit thinking and just walked forward, drawn onward. And finally there it was, the room she’d been searching for. She knew it was the right room before she even opened the door, but she watched her hand turn the knob and push the door open, watched all that vivid color bloom at the threshold. And there he was, waiting for her, always waiting. All this time, if only she’d known where to look.

“Lizzy.” That was all he said, one word, her name, but it was enough.



Xavier knew the details of this house he’d never been in before tonight almost as well as he knew his own. Even though it was an older home, it had been renovated at some time, opening up the interior to a more modern floor plan. The living room and dining area were open to each other, one to the left of the front door and the other to the right; the kitchen was separated from the dining area by a half-wall.

Moving into the living room, he looked around; again, the room wasn’t completely dark. Light seeped in past the edges of the heavy curtains over the windows, plus there were the electronic lights: a small blue one on the cordless phone charger, a bright amber light from the cable box, a red dot on the DVD player. The soft, multicolored glow allowed him to see all the furniture in the living room, and a sweeping glance told him what he was looking for wasn’t there. Damn it, he hoped she hadn’t carried everything into her bedroom, because that could get dicey. He stood in one spot and did a slow three-sixty, carefully examining every chair, the floor, every flat surface—

Aha. There they were, on the round table in the dining area—the shopping bags from this afternoon’s jaunt into Virginia.

This very-early-morning visit—he wouldn’t call it breaking and entering since he did, after all, have a key—wasn’t the safest course of action, but he had to know. Where had she gone, and why? What would take her into Virginia when everything she might possibly need could be found within ten miles of her house? She had been put in this location for that very reason, to make her world small. Routine was their friend. Routine kept Lizzy alive. Her days were usually predictable down to the minute, allowing for traffic variables.

But not today—rather, yesterday afternoon, when she’d left work. She’d gone in the opposite direction. She’d driven too fast. She’d gone way the hell into Virginia, then turned around and come back, and on the return trip she’d gotten off at an exit that she’d burned past on the first half of her trip. She hadn’t gone just one exit down, as if she’d missed that one; she’d gone several exits down. It was as if she’d been trying to shake a tail.

Except Lizette wouldn’t have known how to even spot a tail, much less how to shake it. Lizzy, however, would.

Lizette was a neat freak. Lizette would have unpacked the bags and put everything away. These out-of-character things were little, but they told him a lot.

There wasn’t enough light for him to see the bags as well as he needed to, and he didn’t dare move them. The rustle of plastic might be enough to wake her, especially if she was recovering some memory and was more wary. Not only that, she might have memorized the exact position of these bags and their contents. He did things like that, automatically, so he’d know if anyone had been in his space.

He pulled a small penlight from his pocket. He’d placed black electrician’s tape over the end so only a thin sliver of light shone through. He glanced at the window behind him, the window that faced the street. She had blinds in here, bracketed on each side by curtains. The blinds were closed, but even the faintest light would seep through the slats, noticeable even in the rain. Shit.

He had to take the chance. He moved so his body was between the window and the shopping bags, bent close, and turned the little light on directly over the bags. Just for a split second, long enough only to identify the store name on the bags; then he switched off the light and stood there with his heartbeat galloping in his chest. He, who was legendary for his cool under fire, was about to break a sweat as the meaning hit him square between the eyes.

Shit, shit, and double shit. A sporting goods store might seem innocent enough, but they were great places to stock up on certain equipment, whether you were into sports or not.

Two bags and a shoe box lay empty on the table. What the hell else had she bought?

One of the unopened bags had the receipt stapled to it.

He wouldn’t have to open the bags if he could get a good look at that receipt. The bags held some bulky stuff, and he wanted to know exactly what it was. But to read the receipt, he’d have to turn on the light for at least ten, fifteen seconds. That was just begging to get caught.

His options were to pick up the bags and take them into the kitchen, away from the window, which would make some noise no matter how careful he was; or to tear the receipt off the bag and take it into the kitchen where he could read it, alerting Lizzy for certain that someone had been there. His last option was to take the chance of turning on the penlight and reading the receipt right there.

Option C. If he had to make the guy outside disappear, so be it.

He didn’t want to kill the guy, though; the poor sap was just doing a job, and taking a decent stab at it by staying awake. Couldn’t fault that.

The kitchen towel.

He remembered it, a red-and-white check, hanging on a ring beside the sink. It wasn’t folded any particular way, it was simply hanging there. Going into the kitchen, Xavier studied the towel for a moment and concluded that the only thing she had done out of the ordinary was make certain the towel hung exactly the same length on both sides. And that wasn’t even Lizette; he’d seen Lizzy do the same thing, way back when.

He pulled the towel from the ring and went back to the dining area. Draping the towel over the penlight so virtually none of the thin beam of light would be visible from outside, he thumbed the button and in the dim light read the list of her purchases:

A backpack. A knife. A rope. Three canisters of pepper spray. And she’d paid cash for them, so the purchases wouldn’t show up on her credit card.

He turned off the penlight and closed his eyes, standing there for a moment as adrenaline flooded through him. No doubt about it now, not that he’d doubted his instincts anyway. But this was proof. She was back, or on the way back.

Lizzy was either getting ready to run or she was getting ready to fight. Would she recall everything, or just bits and pieces? How much did she remember now? Not much. If she’d remembered specifics, she wouldn’t be asleep in her own bed right now; she’d be gone, her backpack filled with these purchases and who knows what else. Would she have filled out the paperwork to begin the process of buying a weapon? No, not in a place like that. If she was looking for a weapon, she’d go deeper into Virginia for an off-the-books weapon, either find a county flea market or make a black-market buy on a street corner. If she started making unusual trips on a regular basis, they were in trouble.

No, she was in trouble.

Piggybacking on the surveillance in place on her car, phone, and electronics wasn’t enough, not now. He had to know where she was at all times; he couldn’t take the chance that she’d shake her tail, ditch the car, leave behind this house and everything she’d known for the past three years. Even if she only partially recovered her memory, she was capable of doing just that; she’d be frightened, and not understand exactly what was going on.

If she ran, she’d take the backpack; why else would she buy it? It wasn’t as if she were going to school or taking up hiking. Shit, he was going to have to make some noise if he took the backpack out of the plastic bag. He could tell which bag it was in, just as he could tell, now that he knew what she’d bought, that the receipt was stapled to the bag that held the pepper spray.

He needed to get to that backpack. He had other options, but he wanted to cover as many possibilities as he could.

Maybe he could work his hand inside the bag without making more than a rustle. Having full access to the backpack would be the best option, but circumstances weren’t in his favor.

Reaching into a pocket, he removed a small pouch that contained three small, almost undetectable trackers. There were smaller ones; some were microdots, but they were more difficult to place, and he wanted to keep his time in here to a minimum. He removed one of the trackers. He’d put each of them into an individual resealable plastic bag, and marked each bag with a different number so he’d know which tracker he was putting on what. Removing one, he turned the plastic bag toward the dim light coming through the closed blinds, and could just make out the number 2. Okay, 2 was going on the backpack.

Working carefully in the darkness, because he didn’t want to drop the little f*cker, he eased his hand into the bag. The plastic rustled, but he moved in slow increments and the sound was faint, nothing more than a scratch. He felt straps. Not good enough. Easing his hand deeper, he brushed against a flap, which would probably cover a zippered pocket. Good enough, even though he couldn’t see what he was doing. Carefully turning his hand, he attached the tracker to the underside of the flap.

Then he just as slowly pulled his hand out of the bag.

One down, two to go.

He took the towel back to the kitchen and looped it back over the ring, carefully adjusting it so both ends hung evenly.

Now things got tricky.

* * *

She didn’t hesitate, simply walked forward, undressing as she approached him. There were no second thoughts, no thoughts at all, just instinct and need. Skin to skin; she needed it. Him inside her; she needed it. She wanted to feel her climax building and building until she screamed when she came, and she would. In this room she could scream if she wanted to. She could take what she wanted, live with abandon. Here she could live.

X folded his arms across his chest and stood there waiting, not undressing himself, just waiting for her. Always waiting. She pushed her underwear down her legs, stepped out of them without hesitation, without embarrassment or fear. She reached him, smiled up into his dark eyes, and began to undress him. When she removed his shirt, she took a moment to bury her face against the warmth of his bare chest and deeply inhale. He smelled so good, so real, and she could feel the heat of his skin against her cheek, the way the hair on his chest tickled her nose.

Even though she knew this was a dream, it was the best dream ever.

But as great as this was, she wanted more than just the smell of him—much more.

Tugging at his belt, she unbuckled it, then unzipped his jeans and slipped her hand inside, wrapping her fingers around him and feeling him harden, push against her fingers. He made a deep sound in his throat, more than a hum, not quite a growl.

She pushed his jeans down and off. In real life they’d have had to deal with his boots, but this was her dream, and she didn’t want boots slowing her down. She was already wet, ready, empty without him. She wanted to push him down and straddle him, taking him hard and deep, but then she’d come and it would be over. She’d wake up, trembling and gasping for air. Not yet! She didn’t want to wake up just yet. It was too soon. She wanted to feel him, smell him, savor every inch.

His hands wound in her hair, holding her close, making sure she didn’t slip away. She loved his hands. They were big hands, powerful hands that could kill or pleasure, hurt or heal. Some people were afraid of those hands, but not her.

X lifted her off her feet and walked toward the bed. This was how she liked him best: naked, hard, impatient. When X was impatient, when she was rocking his world the way he rocked hers, he could make her feel … ravaged, and treasured, and loved.

Lizette’s feet dangled inches from the floor. She soared. She wanted him so much, and he was right there, he was with her, she could wrap her arms around his neck and hold on even as she flew, really flew. And because this was a dream, maybe she could fly. She laughed a little, dangling there in his arms as he moved to the bed … and then she looked to the side and saw her face in the mirror. Her laughter died away as she stared at herself. That was her old face, the one that had been taken from her. She closed her eyes, tight, and when she opened them again her face was the new one, the one that she knew wasn’t her.

Or was it?

Which one was the real her? Which one did X want?

Which face did he love?

A bigger question: Did he love her at all? After what she’d done?

Then he laid her on the bed and she couldn’t see her face in the mirror any longer, and that was just as well. She didn’t want to look; she wanted to feel. She didn’t want to wonder; she just wanted to hold X and follow her body’s lead.

For a moment they just lay there on the big bed, chest to chest, legs intertwined, hearts pounding. They were eye to eye, and for a moment Lizette felt her breath catch. Good God, he was beautiful! Not pretty, there was nothing pretty about him, but seen with her heart he was … beautiful.

And whatever face she wore, he didn’t care. Behind this face she was still her, and that was all that mattered to him. Yes, he loved her. He still loved her.

He kissed her throat as if they had all the time in the world, but Lizette was suddenly certain that they didn’t. They had no time at all, not together. She would live in her world and he would live in his and there would be no more this. Maybe there would be the occasional dream, if she was lucky. No more dreams of him at all, if she was not lucky.

“Now,” she whispered.

He half laughed, half growled. “Not yet.”

Lizette opened her mouth, started to say please, but she didn’t. Begging would only make him more determined to take his time.

They didn’t have time.

Lizette shuddered, head to toe. She didn’t want this dream to end, yet she couldn’t wait to have him inside her. She could stay here all night, just holding him. Her body throbbed, and she knew she’d be doing good to wait another full minute.

More than anything, more even than the urge that pulled her forward faster and faster … she didn’t want to let X go, not ever again.



Xavier went down the hall toward her bedroom, his movements fluid and ghostly, his footsteps as silent as if he were drifting above the floor. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up. It was dark. Not being able to see him, she’d automatically think he was a rapist or murderer; any woman would. Hell, even if she did see him, she’d still think that. She hadn’t recognized him in the pharmacy, after all. If she woke up and turned on the lamp, saw him in her home dressed as he was in dark clothing and armed, would her memory come rushing back or would she simply panic and start screaming? He’d bet on the panic and screaming.

Her bedroom door was open. She lived alone, after all; there was no need to close an interior door. He eased inside and stood for a moment, looking at the bed, at her.

The alarm clock, and the blue light on another cordless phone, gave off enough light for him to see. She was curled up in the bed, dark hair on an almost-flat pillow, covers pulled up to her neck—and one bare foot sticking out from under those covers. Some things never changed. No matter what they did to her face, her brain … she was still Lizzy, deep inside. He should have known, they all should have known, that one day she’d break free from the prison they’d put her in.

On the bedside table, inches from the bright clock, sat a tall can of something. He grinned. He’d bet his ass it was wasp spray, or something like that. No handgun, at least not yet, but she’d armed herself anyway. Near the base of the can lay her cell phone—and beside the phone was the battery. Until she put the battery in, the phone couldn’t be tracked. Yes, she was waking up, breaking free.

Another thing about her had held true. Lizzy was a purse fanatic. She loved handbags, and would save money to buy one good leather bag, rather than several cheaper ones. Other women he’d trained, and trained with, would forego handbags in favor of pockets or fanny packs, but not Lizzy; she’d held on to her purses. She didn’t just drop the chosen bag anywhere in the house, either; she’d always taken it into the bedroom and put it on a chair. She might move the chair around, but that was where the purse went.

Currently, the bedroom chair was maybe four feet from Lizzy’s head, just on the other side of the bedside table. The bag was white, so he could easily pick it out, and it had a long strap. This was the tricky part. Maybe she didn’t have a gun, but Lizzy had always been a good shot, and if she got him in the eyes with that wasp spray he’d be temporarily blinded. God only knew what she’d do to him then, while he was at such a disadvantage.

He hooked the strap with a finger and noiselessly lifted the purse, got the cell phone from the bedside table, then backed out of the room as silently as he’d entered. The kitchen, where there was more light, was the best place for him to do this.

Once he was there, he put the purse on the counter and got to work. He was just about to place another tracker—this one was marked with a 1—in the inside zipper pocket when he paused. This was Lizzy, the handbag fanatic. She’d have more than one purse. She’d regularly changed handbags, to match her outfit or her mood or whatever she needed for the day. She could easily swap to a different purse tomorrow.

Not the purse, then. He noted the placement of her wallet, then carefully pulled it out and opened it. It was leather, oversized the way women’s usually were, had a place for a checkbook but no checks. What it did hold was cash, a couple of hundred dollars’ worth. There were also a couple of credit cards, her driver’s license and insurance card, and a couple of receipts. He tried to read the date on one of the receipts, but there wasn’t enough light, and he was running out of time.

It was a good bet that no matter what purse she carried, this wallet would be in it. He removed the bills and set them aside, planted the tiny tracker underneath a bit of torn lining and replaced the cash exactly as he’d found it, then slid the wallet back into the purse.

Next up: the cell phone. If she was smart enough to remove the battery, that meant she intended to keep it with her. This new phone, a replacement for the one she’d dropped and broken on Friday, was a simple flip phone. No smart phone for Lizzy, which was a good decision on her part. Normally he’d put the tracker inside the battery compartment, but if she was taking the battery out after she used it each time, that upped the chances she’d either see it or perhaps dislodge it.

For a few seconds, Xavier studied the phone. The light was better here in the kitchen, but it still wasn’t great, so he went as much by feel as he did by sight. There were very few nooks and crannies, and none of them were right. Finally he tested the edge of the keyboard cover. It was rubbery, not a hard plastic. He pushed his fingernail under the edge, lifted it, planted the tracker beneath the cover, and then pressed it down. Not a great placement, but he was limited by not being able to use the battery compartment.

Purse and cell phone in his hands, he retraced his steps to the bedroom and placed both exactly where he’d found them, being careful not to let the phone click against the table as he released it.

He took a deep, silent breath and looked down at her.

If she woke up, he had no place to go. If she opened her eyes she’d see him, in the light of her alarm clock. He should leave, but now that he was this close to her he couldn’t tear himself away, not yet. Seeing her in the drugstore had just made the hunger more intense. To have the luxury of actually seeing her, watching her sleep, he’d risk getting a blast of wasp spray in the eyes.

Lizzy. Thick dark hair, slightly curly, tousled now in sleep. The shape of her face was different now, but the curve of her lips was the same. That bare foot was the same.

The smell of her was the same.

His hands remembered the feel of her.

There had been times when he’d held her under him and f*cked her until she screamed. And then she’d done the same thing to him, though she’d teased him and said that, being a manly man, his scream was more like a long grunt.

His fingers curled as he resisted the urge to reach out and touch her. His dick twitched, wanting more than just that. Shit, he had to get out of here before he did something beyond stupid.

Less than twenty minutes after letting himself into the house, Xavier let himself back out. It was still raining, which was a godsend. The surveillance car was still in the same place, but he couldn’t see any movement inside it. Maybe the rain had lulled the guy to sleep, despite the coffee. Maybe he was concentrating on pissing into a bottle. Xavier had been on surveillance himself, so he knew how it went. He was glad he wasn’t the one having to sit in that car.

He silently locked the kitchen door, both locks, then eased around the back of the house, going from shadow to shadow. When a couple of houses were between him and the surveillance car he picked up speed, wanting to get back to his truck and check the laptop, make sure the trackers were working. Then, assuming everything was working as it should, he’d go home and grab a power nap before Lizzy woke up and got started on her day.

He had to be prepared. Lizzy was waking up in more ways than one, and the shit was about to hit the fan. He knew which way he was going to jump. He’d made his choice years ago, and right or wrong, he’d stand by it.

Lizzy was alive, but she hadn’t been living.

F*ck it all, neither had he.



In her dream, he parted her legs wider with his knee, and then he was there, plunging deep. She gasped, not in pain but in relief and pleasure and a sense of connection she’d never known before. She was part of him; he was part of her.

A mirror she hadn’t noticed before—she was pretty sure it hadn’t been there before—was suddenly over the bed. It was as big as the bed, reflecting the dream back at her. The face … which face did she wear? The old one or the new one? Did it matter?

She could close her eyes to escape the unsettling image, but instead she focused on X, on the broad shoulders and muscled back and hard, round ass. He had the best ass she’d ever seen. Their bodies were entwined on the bed, his tanned skin making hers look so pale, his hard body making hers look so soft, what she could see of herself. He was bigger, wider; he almost engulfed her. But as different as they were, they fit together.

She studied his strong legs; the way he moved … easier now, almost gently. Thrusting in and out in a slow rhythm that gradually, oh so gradually, increased in speed and power.

Lizette closed her eyes as she gave over and let herself come and come and come. She screamed, her back bowing as she clutched X to her, felt him come so deep inside her…

He whispered something, but she couldn’t tell what he said. She frowned at him, opened her mouth to say, “What?” Whatever he’d said was important, he wasn’t someone who chatted just to hear his own voice, but before she could form that one word, before he could answer—

She opened her eyes. Her body lurched, every muscle tensed … and then she relaxed, unwinding one muscle at a time until she was melting into the mattress. Every muscle in her body felt weak and heavy.

She needed to go to that Walgreens more often. If X regularly shopped there, maybe she’d run into him again. Maybe this time she wouldn’t freak and run like a scared rabbit. She could give him her number, ask him out for coffee, and then…

Yeah, right. Lizette Henry, sex-starved stalker. As if real life might possibly come anywhere close to a dream. As if a man like that one didn’t have a wife, or a girlfriend. Or both.

It was raining. She closed her eyes and listened to the raindrops on the window. The rain on the roof and the windows created a soothing sound that might lull her back to sleep, though the dark morning hours were winding down, edging closer to dawn. She wondered if she’d dream about X again or if that part of the night was done. She wondered if she’d forget the details of the dream, come morning.

Right now the dream seemed so real, she was almost positive she could still smell him.