Whispered Heat

By Anna Eberhardt

In this romantic suspense novel from the author of Sweet Amy Jane, an ex-con is back in town to reclaim everything he left behind—including her.

Slader Reems rides into town straddling a powerful motorcycle. The dark visor of his helmet hides a cold smile. After an enforced five-year absence he is back to exact his revenge and to claim everything that was his rightful due.

Lissa Jamison knows she can never allow herself to surrender to Slade’s touch and risk another betrayal. Their childhood friendship had flamed into a passionate desire. Wary and wanting, she must now protect her heart.

Hidden agendas and illicit longings are just beneath the deceptively calm surface of their small town. Revenge, passion, and secrets simmer and build to a climax in the summer of Whispered Heat.

“Sensual…Sexy...A treat to read.”—#1 New York Times–bestselling author Sandra Brown

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jun 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781626810297

Book preview

Chapter 1

The black-helmeted motorcyclist crossed the county line doing eighty. The body straddling the powerful machine was lean, gaunt even, but the hands gripping the handlebars told of the man’s strength and determination.

The dark visor of his helmet hid a cold smile.

In the past five years of remembering, thinking, planning, he’d become very good at hating.

Now, free from prison, having served time for a crime he hadn’t committed, Slader Reems was back in town.

And there were plenty of things he planned to do—most of them unpleasant. First he planned to see about the letter tucked safely inside his jacket pocket. And then he’d see about Beau Sinclair. Beau wouldn’t be hard to find; he’d still be on the Sinclair farm—and then Slader would settle the score with the bastard.

But Lissa … where would Lissa be? Almost twenty-three, she would be free of the Sinclairs. When he was finished with Beau, he’d find Melissa, wherever she’d gone. He had to convince her that Beau and Jack’s dark accusations had been lies … had to convince her that he hadn’t betrayed her that night over five years ago.

Slader slowed his motorcycle when he saw the mortuary on the outskirts of town. He’d always thought it was a macabre way to welcome visitors. Was he a visitor? A returning resident? Whatever, he was assaulted by contradictory feelings of alienation and homecoming. Though this was the place he’d lived the longest, it had never been home.

Gunning the motorcycle, Slader rode into town. The town’s one major street had the self-important name of Main Street. Along one side of it were strung the more prominent businesses like clothes on a wash line. The only additions during the past five years that Slade noticed were a video rental store, a pizza parlor, and a new sign outside the drugstore that now read Prescott. The other side of the street was taken up with the railroad station and McCallister’s Feed Store. He stopped for a red light at the train station.

Reverend Hunter, the Lincolnesque preacher from the Baptist church was taking a head count of a group of kids in neon T-shirts, shorts, and high tops waiting on the platform. A train pulled into the station and braked squeakily, metal grinding on metal. The kids were headed for church camp, Slader knew. Few things changed.

Curious stares were directed at Slader as he waited for the light to change while passengers got off the train and crossed the street. The sight of a souped up Trans Am or a big-tired pickup truck would have caused little notice, but a gleaming black Harley motorcycle ridden by a stranger—now that was news. News that spread like poison ivy. Up and down the street, curtains were pushed aside, doorways filled, and heads turned. He was thankful when the light changed so he could move on to his destination.

Passing McCallister’s Feed Store on his way to the Baptist church, he saw Jack Dillon and his stepfather sitting on a feed store dock. Jack Dillon hadn’t changed much; his dark eyes were still nervous, and Slader was willing to bet his fingernails were still eaten down to the quick. He wondered if Beau had stayed the same.

He turned down the side street and slowed to a stop across from the church. He wasn’t fanatically religious, but he’d always hurt a little less inside a church. As a boy who’d grown up feeling no one loved him because he was bad, the idea that there was a God who loved him even if he were, appealed.

Memories flooded him as he walked down the aisle to the wooden pew he’d shared with Lissa all those Sunday mornings. As he slid into the pew that wore the glowing patina of years of Sunday polishing he’d given it by squirming uncomfortably in suits, he remembered Lissa. She had grown up during all those years of sitting next to him through seemingly endless sermons.

She had changed from year to year, until she finally grew into a young woman who wore the badges of her sex: stockings, lipstick, high heels. Now she was a full-grown woman, and it was hard for him to remember when his feelings toward her had been only protective.

As he sat in the pew he prayed silently. But he didn’t promise to leave vengeance to the Lord. He knew that would be a lie.

He was going to destroy Beau.

In the meantime, Slader intended to discover if being sent to prison on circumstantial evidence had been pure rotten luck or deliberate malice.

Had someone found out about his little secret?

Found out how, as a boy, Slader had slipped into people’s homes just to have a look around … to see how real people in real families lived. He wanted to see their lives, as if seeing would give him the secret to their happiness. He’d never stolen anything, and he’d never worried about leaving fingerprints … the very fingerprints that had later convicted him of a robbery he hadn’t committed.

The last time he’d slipped into someone’s house to look around, someone else must have observed him and slipped in after he’d left. Whoever had stolen the jewelry in that house must have counted on the robbery being pinned on Slader.

He hadn’t taken the stand in his own defense because he was ashamed to admit the real reason he’d been in the house. Pride had been his only possession then; he couldn’t have afforded shame.

Life wasn’t fair. Even Lissa would have to admit that. He wondered if she still lived in a dreamworld or if what had happened that night had changed her.

He swore as he got up from the pew.

The bright sun shimmered off the street, and he shielded his green eyes from its glare as he left the dim coolness of the Baptist church. He had just slipped his helmet back on and straddled the motorcycle when a white Mustang convertible pulled up to the church entrance.

Lissa … The name Slader whispered was trapped inside his helmet.

He hadn’t considered she might still be living in the same small town after five years. He watched as she parked, grabbed her purse, and slid from behind the wheel.

His heart pounded and his hands trembled as he watched her walk to the church entrance. An irrational hope, long sheltered in the corner of his mind, flooded all other rational thought.

She had waited for him.

Slader smiled. She’d been close enough for him to see she was off in one of her dreamworlds. She seemed to be doing well. The convertible looked spanking new, and she hadn’t gotten that floaty dress she had on at the local store.

What should he do?

Should he approach her when she came back out of the church? No. He wasn’t ready. He needed some time to adjust to the surprise of seeing her. He started the motorcycle, letting it idle.

He wondered what her response to seeing him would be and then decided not to think about it. It would be pain almost beyond bearing if she shrank from his touch. And yet, it was only reasonable to expect her to … and to expect her to hate him.

Slader looked down the side street at the well-kept bungalows. The church door opened; Lissa’s errand hadn’t taken long. His thirsty gaze drank her in. He approved of the gauzy summer dress she wore. Its apricot color was beautiful on her. Her dark curly hair, streaked with the sun’s highlights, was longer than he remembered it having been. As she headed for the convertible a sudden frisky breeze swirled beneath the hem of her dress and lifted it like a daring prankster, revealing sleek thighs that were tanned and bare.

Slader winced.

He’d been hard since he’d seen her arrive at the church—and the vibration of the powerful motorcycle idling between his thighs was only making things worse. It had been so damn long.

He could still hear the men inside the joint, their explicit comments about how they’d gorge themselves on women when they got out.

There hadn’t been another woman for him since that night five years ago. He was still and always would be in love with Lissa. Once he’d felt what it was like to be inside her, it gave the lie to all his denials—his vows that Lissa deserved a better man than he. The thought of her in anyone’s arms but his, tortured him.

Her skirt still billowing softly, Lissa got into her convertible, oblivious of her audience.

Slader followed her as she drove back through town. Her long hair flowed in a dark stream behind her. An image from that night flashed in his mind of his hands buried in her hair. He could smell her fragrance; it engulfed him.

Could he make Lissa understand what had really happened? Would she finally believe him and not Beau and Jack’s vicious lies?

He was following her down the highway, past the drive-in, the bowling alley, the farm equipment dealers. Where was she headed?

As soon as he saw the big yellow-and-white striped canvas tent, its scalloped edges flapping in the wind, he had his answer. The annual book fair was always held on the school parking lot, and books drew Lissa the way whiskey drew the town drunk.

He and Lissa had been victims of the foster care system. Their luckiest day had been when they’d been placed in the same home. When they were young, he’d found her half-finished books everywhere. At every opportunity she sneaked off from her chores on the farm to curl up with a book. He’d always covered for her, as often as not doing the neglected chore himself. He didn’t understand Lissa’s fascination with reading; he’d never picked up a book unless he’d had to for school. But he’d loved the farm as much as Lissa had hated it, and he hadn’t minded the extra work.

He rode on past the school, giving Lissa time to park and head for the tables stacked high with used books of every size and description. A mile up the road he turned around in a gravel drive and headed back. He parked his black motorcycle next to Lissa’s white convertible. To loosen the kinks from his ride of several hours, he stretched; a slow sensuous writhe from his shoulders to his snake hips. When he removed his helmet, he squinted at the blazing sun. As he absently raked his hand through his thick locks of blond hair it occurred to him that no one would recognize him the way he looked now—even supposing they had paid enough attention to learn his name years ago—with his recently grown mustache and beard. The eighteen-year-old youth who’d left for prison would never return, he was gone forever. Nonetheless, he took out his mirrored sunglasses, putting them on to hide his eyes.

They were still recognizable. Their unusual light green was the color of peridot, Lissa’s birthstone. Because of his eye color, she’d always insisted God had made him especially for her. And she had attributed a kind of mystical power to him. It had made his betrayal all the more devastating for both of them. For if the truth were told, Slader had wanted to be special, not just one more abandoned kid nobody wanted. He’d bought into the fantasy.

Gradually he made his way across the parking lot to the folding tables laden with books, segregated by subject matter. There were a scattering of browsers, and he stood out in the mix of flighty young girls, spinster teachers, and old men. If Lissa hadn’t been so lost in her pursuit of treasure, her hands almost reverently fondling the books she picked up, she’d have noticed the young man who made the young girls stare and titter, who made the spinsters primp and preen.

A cute blond girl working the cash register had certainly noticed him; every time he glanced in her direction he caught her staring. He supposed he held a certain rebel allure for a high school girl testing her charms.

As he leafed through a handsome volume filled with pictures of the old West, an idea hit him. The group of young girls at the next table giggled self-consciously when he passed them on his way to the table staked out by the spinster types. Unlike the young girls, they practically bristled with indignation when he intruded on their territory. He quickly located the book he wanted and ambled over to the flirty girl at the register.

The girl looked at the book he set down for her to ring up, then back at him, her pale eyes wide in surprise.

Do you approve? Slader asked, amused by the look on her face.

Approve? she asked, blushing.

The book …

The—the book, the flustered girl repeated. It’s just that its an unusual choice.

You think? Slader smiled teasingly. He’d been lucky to be born with straight white teeth, since no one would have paid for him to wear braces like those that had furnished Beau with a toothpaste-ad smile. Well, it’s for an unusual lady, he said, shrugging.

At the mention of a lady the girl’s attitude changed from flirtatious to couldn’t care less. That will be five ninety-five, she said, suddenly all business.

He took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet to pay her and picked up a pen lying beside the register. Opening the cover, he scrawled on the flyleaf.

Smiling at the young girl, who was trying to read the message upside down, he accepted his change and made an effort to restore her confidence. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t find my choice unusual. You must be dating the wrong kind of boys.

She looked at him uncertainly. The wrong kind of boys were the only kind that interested high school girls. His kind. And then, realizing he’d said she was pretty, she smiled.

Slader walked back to where he’d parked his motorcycle, stopping to put the copy of Gone With the Wind he’d just bought on the backseat of Lissa’s convertible. He knew he wouldn’t have a short wait as he stood bracing his back against the trunk of the big shade tree overhanging the car. From past experience he knew Lissa wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d gone through every single book on every single table. Her taste was eclectic; her artist’s eye might look for illustrated fairy tales, while her curious mind might seek English mysteries.

From his vantage point he could see her smile when she picked up a thick book … that smile … he wanted to rush to the table and capture it with his lips. Easy, he told himself. He lowered his body to the grass beside his bike, keeping his back against the tree. He had to go slow—even though every molecule in his body was clamoring for action. He was shaking with the huge effort it had taken to control his impulse to rush to her and gather her in his arms. He was desperate to hold her … Oh, God, just to hold her.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his unsteady hands over his thighs as he remembered all the nights in prison when he’d wanted to hold her … in the end to the point of hallucination, wrapping his arms around thin air.

Two hours later a passerby might have thought that he, sprawled on the ground with his back against the tree, was asleep. He wasn’t. Slader had gotten very good at watching and waiting in prison, a habit that more than once had saved his skin.

Three girls walked toward him as he pretended sleep. Their loud whispers floated to him as he watched them from behind his mirrored sunglasses.

Isn’t he gorgeous? Who do you suppose he is?

Do you think he belongs to anyone? a second girl asked on a wistful note, as though he were a stray puppy she could take home.

The third girl was more adventurous. Why don’t we find out? she said. Spying the gold chain he wore, a gift from Lissa, she added, He’s shaggy as my daddy’s hound, and he’s wearing a collar.

The second girl grabbed her arm. You wouldn’t.

She would, the first girl said. Gawd, did you see the way Becky Spencer was flirting with him while she rang up his book? If he’d been an ice cream bar, she’d a ate him.

Slader stifled a chuckle as he heard the snickered chorus of Gawd, you’re awful, Elizabeth, from her friends. They piled into the front seat of a station wagon without a book between them and drove off.

The sun was lowering in the afternoon sky when Lissa reached the cash register to pay for the stack of books she’d accumulated. A stack that barely fit under her dainty chin. Slader watched, amused. He bet she wouldn’t make it to the car without dropping some. He eased himself up. As she drew closer a gust of wind whipped her long hair into her eyes, and she caught an exposed tree root with the toe of her sandal.

As she steadied herself her armload of books went sailing in all directions. But she didn’t fall. She was caught up in a pair of strong arms as she pitched forward.

Slader deposited Lissa on his motorcycle, where she sat like an obedient child while she watched him pick up her scattered books and stack them neatly on the backseat of her convertible.

She had a puzzled look in her brown eyes when he raised his leather-gloved hand to her face, smoothing his thumb over her soft cheek. The gesture was intimate, unnerving.

She slipped from the motorcycle, but his gloved hand slid to her neck, stopping her.

It was shadowy under the leafy branches of the towering oak. He could smell the earthy moss growing at the base of the tree. They were sheltered in a secret place apart from the landscape surrounding them splashed by the afternoon sun. Here under the tree the air was dank and ripe with a labyrinth of suppressed emotions.

Slader slowly pulled her into his arms.

He crushed her against his hard chest possessively, unable to believe he was really holding her … really holding her in his arms at last. It wasn’t a dream. A tremor passed through his body and then his mouth nestled against her ear as he sighed. Lissa …

She stiffened in his arms. "Only one person has ever … Slader? " Her voice was full of accusation as she wrenched free of his embrace.

Time seemed to pause as a bee buzzed by and a shaft of sunlight dappled through an overhead branch teased by a gentle breeze.

You came back … she whispered.

He removed his sunglasses, dispelling doubt.

She moved closer to him, then abruptly backed away as though he were contagious.

Please, Lissa … His voice was pleading. Dammit Lissa, we have to talk about—

Stay away from me, Slader, she warned, her eyes glassy. Just stay the hell away. She was on the edge of tears as she rushed past him.

If Lissa had looked in her rearview mirror as she peeled out of the lot, she would have seen him standing with his forearms braced against the gnarled oak tree, his blond head bent, and staring at the ground.

But she didn’t look back. Didn’t see him look up when her car turned onto the highway. Didn’t see the look of devastation on his face.

Chapter 2

Melissa, Slader’s Lissa, sat at her drawing board working on a line of stylized greeting cards: samples for her portfolio. The illustrations featured a young girl in a white dress with dark eyes and dark hair tied back with pretty ribbons. Melissa was drawing a memory.

She thought back to when she was seven and her real father had been alive. The drawing recalled the pleasure of Saturday mornings, their special time together. While her mother went to her beauty salon appointment, her father would take her out for doughnuts and chocolate milk, and then he would treat her to some little trinket, often the pretty pastel hair ribbons she loved.

When she’d been eight, her mother’s laughter had died with her father. Melissa’s last memory of him was of his returning to their burning home to save some precious pictures she had drawn for him. A commercial artist, he had encouraged her love of drawing. He had been romantic and a dreamer, hoping someday to have his own studio. After his death, she and her mother had been left without insurance or savings to soften the blow of his loss.

Unskilled and afraid, Melissa’s mother had remarried quickly.

Her stepfather was the opposite of her father in every way. He’d been strict, a dour penny-pincher. And he was always criticizing Melissa’s dreaminess, which he’d tried to beat out of her behind her closed bedroom door. It hadn’t worked. Not even when she’d gotten older and his tactics changed—even when he’d taken off her clothes, he hadn’t killed the romantic inside her. Her dreaminess was her only link with the father she’d adored.

Her mother had been too afraid to speak up, too afraid even to live in the end. A social worker had shown up at Lissa’s school one afternoon to tell her of her mother’s death. There hadn’t been a funeral, and without explanation she’d become a twelve-year-old ward of the state, ending up at the Sinclair farm.

The Sinclairs’ cruelty had not been physical; it had been the cruelty of indifference. To them she was functional—like the