A Stranger's Kiss: Psychic Heat, #2

By Roxy Boroughs

Sam Hutchinson, a successful lawyer, is devastated by the murder of his son. Hoping to gain closure by learning more about the suspected killer, Sam traces the murderer's roots to a small town in Montana.

There, against a serene mountain backdrop, he finds Amy Tesher. Despite Sam's attraction to her, he soon learns that lies are Amy's camouflage, all fabricated to escape the secrets of her dark past. And to protect her eleven-year-old daughter, Renee, who is able to communicate with Sam's ghostly son.

Unaware of Sam's real mission, Amy takes him into the boarding house she's inherited from her grandmother. Just as the serial killer, James Ryan Morley, returns to claim Amy … and her daughter.

Adult language and themes, some violence, sexual situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roxy Boroughs
• Release date: Oct 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780987856548

Roxy Boroughs

Before launching her writing career, best-selling author Roxy Boroughs was an accomplished stage and film actor who appeared in the TV series DEGRASSI JUNIOR HIGH; and top-rated movies such as IT MUST BE LOVE, starring Ted Danson and Mary Steenburgen. Look for her romantic comedy CRAZY FOR COWBOY; her suspense series PSYCHIC HEAT, featuring the award-winning novel A STRANGER'S TOUCH; and the popular FROST FAMILY CHRISTMAS series, marrying sweet romance with cozy mystery. November 2021 marks the release of two original heartwarming holiday stories. Watch for THE SPRITE BEFORE CHRISTMAS, published in the sweet romance anthology HUGS, KISSES AND MISTLETOE WISHES; and A CHRISTMAS CAROLE, featured in CHRISTMAS ROMANCE DIGEST 2021: HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS, edited by Tracy Cooper-Posey. Roxy is married to her first love, so she not only writes romance, she lives it! If she’s not typing away at her desk, she’s reading, quilting, whipping up a fabulous new recipe, or hiking around the Rocky Mountain village she calls home, where mule deer and bighorn sheep roam the streets.

Book preview

A STRANGER’S KISS

Psychic Heat Series, Book 2

By

ROXY BOROUGHS

Originally published as part of the

Bandit Creek Books series

All rights reserved

Copyright 2012 Donna Ann Tunney

This ebook is licensed for your personal reading enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Publisher: Baucis & Philemon

Editor: Carla Roma and Ted Williams

Cover Design: April Martinez at http://graphicfantastic.com/

Formatting: Anessa Books at http://www.anessabooks.com

ISBN: 978-0-9878565-4-8

Chapter One

RENEE’S NEW PLAYMATE was strange.

The first time she saw him, her heart skipped. A kid her age in the neighborhood? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a friend.

She would have preferred a girl. Like, duh. They could’ve drawn butterflies on their jeans, or messed around with nail polish and painted flowers on their big toes.

But a boy was better than nothing.

She’d met him in the gardening shed, which looked like a mini version of the house. In the olden days, before people had cars, it stored a horse and buggy. Renee fancied she could still smell hay. She’d climb on the rusted-out riding lawn mower and imagine it was her carriage, her make-believe gown trailing after her as she cracked a whip.

Renee always made sure to lock the door of the shed behind her, so she wouldn’t get caught. Because her mother had a thing about the place.

But a locked door didn’t stop Tommy, and that was weird. One day, while she was feeding her imaginary horse, he just appeared, and told her his name when she asked. It was only later she realized his lips never moved, that she’d somehow heard his thoughts without ever having heard his voice.

That was the second strange thing.

The third came right after Renee’s mother called her in to help with the painting. Tommy pointed in the direction of the house and smiled, showing off the coolest set of braces. Then, without waiting for an invitation to join her, he headed to the door. But he didn’t bother to unlock it. Just walked right through it.

That’s when Renee realized her new playmate was a ghost.

***

AMY TESHER APPLIED the first brushstroke and shrieked. Yes, she’d purchased cheap paint but hadn’t expected it to be quite so ugly—a yellowy-brown that reminded her of splotches left on the bathroom floor after one of her mother’s binges.

Maybe it would look better when it dried.

From the top of her ladder, she scrutinized the large, front room of her late grandmother’s bed and breakfast with the eye of a realist. The idea of sprucing it up on a shoestring budget for a quick sale didn’t seem as easy as she’d thought five days ago, when she’d inherited the home in Bandit Creek.

Nowhere, Montana, as her grandmother used to joke. The closest neighbor was an abandoned trailer. But the natural beauty of the land more than made up for that eyesore. Cradled in the Bitterroot Mountains, Bandit Creek boasted peaks that kissed the sky. And, after a few days of renos, Amy felt as if she was carrying the weight of those mountains on her back. Her shoulders ached too, and she’d never shied away from hard labor. Still, in the end, the effort would be worth it. She loved the ol’ Dewdrop Inn, her childhood sanctuary. Even though it looked neglected and sad. Just as she’d once been.

But that was in the past, now. All because of Renee.

She watched her daughter from across the room, heart kicking against her breast, battling for more space. The child who’d entered the world unwanted had turned into a savior.

The eleven-year-old sat cross-legged on the floor, giggling to herself, while meticulously applying a strip of green painter’s tape to the trim. Then she sang along with the music wailing from their portable disc player, Beyoncé telling her man to put a ring on it.

Advice like that could have saved Amy years of heartache.

She sighed, releasing the bad thoughts as she exhaled, and climbed down from her perch to inspect the paint on the wall. She lowered the volume on the player.

What do you think, hon?

Her daughter turned, auburn pigtails doing a half-pirouette around her head, gray eyes huge. Amy had a couple of photos of herself as a girl. If she shuffled them in with the stack of pictures she had of Renee, a trained observer wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. Only the dated clothes would give Amy away.

Nowadays, there were more clues. Amy was taller, her hair shorter. And, of course, she looked older. Though not by much. When pressed, she credited her youthful appearance to good breeding. One of her many white lies.

Renee tapped her pointed chin with her index finger as she studied the color, looking more like a pixie than a tween. It’s different, she announced with a grin.

Amy laughed. Very diplomatic. You’ll make a fine politician one day. She checked her watch, clicking her tongue. If I hurry, I can get to the hardware store before they close. I’ll buy a lighter color to mix in with this. A couple of cans of cream or white. If nothing else, it’ll stretch the paint we already have. Don’t open the—

Door while you’re gone, her daughter finished. I know, I know.

Poor kid. Maybe she was overprotective, escorting Renee almost everywhere and schooling her at home, but Amy knew firsthand the dangers that could befall a little girl out in the world.

As she opened the front door, a chill wrapped around her, as if a blast of arctic wind had swooped in over the mountains instead of a late September breeze. There, right outside her house, stood a man, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against a parked car.

Watching her.

Amy took a breath, willing her heart to pound a steady beat. Finding anyone on her doorstep would have been a shock. She was a stranger here, hadn’t been back to the secluded house in years. She had no friends in these parts, and now, no relatives. But this man was as out of place as any could be. Starting with the vehicle on which he was perched.

If the car was his, it was much too expensive for the neighborhood, and too posh for a mountain trek. Amy wasn’t an expert on makes and models but the jaguar on the hood of the black sedan told her all she needed to know. And the flashy ride didn’t match the man’s attire. A nice enough charcoal suit, but the rumpled fabric shied away from his slim frame, as if he’d slept in a larger man’s clothes.

A tangle of brown hair shadowed his eyes; dark stubble inked his jaw. He didn’t look familiar, but over the years she’d learned to be cautious. Her mother had once cultivated dangerous friends in this town. And Amy’s own past wasn’t exactly gleaming.

She locked the door behind her, keys in her fist, the longest one poking out between her index and middle fingers, just how her aunt in Detroit had taught her. Ready for anything.

Amy marched down the front walk, her runners chomping at the fallen leaves in her path. As she approached, the man straightened and used his fingers to comb the hair from his eyes.

Something I can do for you, sir?

Now that she was closer, Amy took a good look at her visitor, opening the mental filing cabinet of her memories and poring over the images she kept of her mother’s Bandit Creek associates.

Jag Man was six feet or so, and on the older side of thirty. Other than his cheekbones, made prominent by the thinness of his face, his most noticeable feature was a pair of hazel eyes, more green than brown. One was highlighted by a fine scar that sliced through his brow. That and the five-o’clock shadow gave him an outdoorsy ruggedness. In spite of the unkempt packaging, he was a good-looking man. One she knew she hadn’t met before.

But good looks didn’t mean a good soul. Amy kept her keys ready in her fist.

I need a place to stay. The voice came out in a low baritone—clear, melodic, and with complete confidence. The tone of a man used to getting his way.

Amy wondered who’d pointed him in her direction. No one local. Her grandmother had retired from the bed and breakfast business a few years before she died. Amy may not have visited, but she’d exchanged emails almost daily with her Nan to keep up with life at the old house – her grandmother’s socializing, gardening, even what she had for lunch. If only Nan had mentioned she was ailing, Amy would have been on the next plane. But her grandmother was feisty and independent to the end. She died obliged to no one, in her own bed, surrounded by her collection of photographs and antiques, just the way she’d wanted it.

Mrs. Turnbull runs a nice bed and breakfast farther down the road.

Isn’t this a B&B? Now he was smiling, pouring on the charm like a salesman. Maybe he was one. At a car lot. That would explain the Jag.

It used to be. Amy turned to view the wooden sign on the lawn, proclaiming as much, though the lettering had seen better days. Something else to fix. We’re closed for renovations.

The man drew a wallet from his back pocket. I’m looking for solitude, quiet, and I’m willing to pay for it. Cash, if you like, he told her. Three hundred a night.

Amy shook her head, wondering what her grandmother would say about turning down good money. She knew what Nan had charged for a room, even one with a private bath, and it sure as hell wasn’t that much.

The man thumbed through the bills in his wallet. Four hundred.

Did he expect caviar on his morning bagel? Strike the salesman angle. This guy definitely wasn’t one. No haggling.

Look, I’ll give you three grand for the week, upfront. Whether I stay for the duration or not.

A giddy squeak welled up in Amy’s throat. That was more money than she’d ever seen at one time. Cash like that could really help fix up the old house, pay off some bills she still owed in Detroit, and buy new books and clothes for Renee. Heck, even a few things for herself. With some left over for a rainy day. But she wasn’t about to shelter a man she didn’t know.

Sorry.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a gold case. Here’s my business card. Call my office. Check me out.

She’d already checked him out. Though he was on the lean side, she sensed a nice build. Maybe he’d been ill. Maybe his tailor had gone on vacation. Maybe she needed to focus on her problems and stop imagining what he looked like without that bulky suit.

Go ahead. Take it.

Amy snapped back to attention, warmth creeping into her cheeks. The man was still offering his card.

She reached for it, her hand so close to his she felt the heat radiating from him, the pent-up energy. Something wasn’t right with this guy. She’d lived by her wits long enough to trust her instincts and they were chattering to her now like a flock of magpies in the presence of a hungry hawk.

She took the card, anyway. Not that it meant much. She could print up a bunch of her own, declaring herself to be Michelle Obama, if she chose. And his office? The number could belong to his Great-aunt Sophie, coached to say whatever he wanted. Still, it was easier to agree. The sooner he was on his way, the sooner she could get back to work. She glanced at her watch. The hardware store, and the call, would have to wait until tomorrow.

I’ll phone in the morning. Have a good evening. She turned toward the house and made her way up the walk, examining the card.

Sam Hutchinson, Barrister.

She read the address. So