Surrender to Sanctuary

By Leah St. James

HOW FAR WOULD YOU GO?
A young woman is brutally murdered, her body dropped into the sea and carried by the tides onto the beach at a federal park at the Jersey Shore. Hometown investigators believe the woman simply partied too hard and fell overboard, but FBI Agents David Owens and Anna Parker know better. David and Anna quickly trace the victim’s path from a local adult BDSM club to a dangerous and shadowed world that caters to those who practice a lifestyle of domination and submission, and not just for fun and games. To find the truth and stop a madman before he can kill again, they will need to break all the rules. They will need to pose as Master, and as slave. And despite their growing attraction and possibly love for each other, they’ll need to give the performances of their lives – because discovery means certain death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leah St. James
• Release date: Jul 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463218341

Leah St. James

Leah writes stories of good and evil, the mysteries of life, and (most of all) the enduring power of love. Although romance is her favorite genre to read, as a writer, she enjoys tackling subjects that make people think, and her stories have covered topics from murder to the question of life after death, from infidelity to infertility.She married her college sweetheart, and together they have two amazing sons, two beautiful, smart and accomplished daughters-in-law, three grand-cats—Hercules, Beep, and Jack—and a grand-dog, Gus, all rescues. They treasure their time with family and friends, traveling when they can, and analyzing the plots of movies and TV shows.She loves chatting with and getting to know readers! Please visit her on her social media pages or send email to [e-mail]. To stay up to date on future releases, you can sign up for her (soon to be launched) quarterly newsletter.

Book preview

Surrender

to

Sanctuary

by

Leah St. James

SURRENDER TO SANCTUARY

COPYRIGHT 2009 by Leah St. James

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art Design by Creative Author Services

Publishing History

3rd-5th Editions (print and electronic)

Leah St. James, 2022, 2020 and 2017

2nd Edition (print and electronic)

Edward Allen Publishing, LLC, 2012

1st Edition (print and electronic)

The Wild Rose Press (Crimson Rose), 2010

Published in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Praise for Surrender to Sanctuary

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

A Word from the Author

Also by Leah St. James

About the Author

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the man who has stood steadfast beside me and supported my dreams, the man whose encouragement and love have lifted me time and again: my friend, my lover, my husband.

Acknowledgments

Many, many thanks to the following family and friends whose support helped make this book possible.

To Dana and Sandy, my first intrepid readers, for giving me the courage to go public with this story.

To Nadine, Amy, Jane and Phil for their constant encouragement.

To John and David for always reminding me that it’s never too late.

Thanks to Alison Henderson of Creative Author Services for the fabulous new cover (2020). She captured the story’s romance and sensuality without being overly explicit.

Thank you also to Ally Robertson, my wonderful editor, for her story suggestions and skilled editing, for holding my hand throughout the process and answering myriad questions, and for making my first publishing experience a joy.

Praise for Surrender to Sanctuary

Leah St. James has crafted a dark, page-turning, suspense, along with a passionate love story. She handles a controversial topic in a poised and tasteful way, creating a riveting novel that will stay with readers long after they’ve read the last page.

Author Alicia Dean

This book takes a realistic look at the brutality of human trafficking and what steps everyone takes to stop it. The depth of Anna and David’s characters come through on each page showing how a well-written story unfolds regardless of the content. There is also a twist that no reader will see coming.

Mary Gramlich, The Reading Reviewer

Leah St. James has created a story that will take your breath away, yet also teach you a lesson. Anna Parker is a woman who works in a career of sexual crimes and knows that there’s more than just vanilla sex. I loved the way she introduced straight-laced David Owens into this world. This guy is definitely hot, but once he learns about BDSM, he is hotter and wicked. These two together were great and Leah did a great job in not making it ugly, but tasteful. Not only did she do it tastefully, but she really showed her readers a world that not many people really know between two lovers. Great job, and definitely one of my authors to read from now on.

Lena, Happily Ever After Reviews

Prologue

Truth against the world.

Old Welsh Proverb

30 Years Ago

Maxwell Davies was lost.

He squinted toward the countryside behind him, down the tattered two-lane roadway he’d just traveled, empty but for the smattering of cows and sheep grazing on the hillsides and an occasional farmer’s cottage. Ahead lay the intersection of a triplet of lanes bordered by a series of hedgerows and flowering bushes that threatened to overrun the dirt-packed lanes.

A road sign, worn and gray, stood in the morning shadows at the closest juncture. Its text was centered on the white background of a chunky, arrow-shaped box that was bordered in black, and beneath the lettering were numbers, indicating the distance in kilometers to the various destinations. The English words had been obliterated by strokes of thick, black paint, leaving only the Welsh names visible. Obviously a local’s statement of rebellion against the long-ago imposition of the Imperial language. To Maxwell Davies, it was completely unintelligible.

Well, hell. He reached through the window of the aging Riley Elf he’d rented for the day, grabbed the map lying on the passenger seat and spread it open on the boxy, white hood of the little black car.

Are you lost then?

Max straightened and turned. A man hobbled toward him, leaning his weight on the brawny handlebars of a bicycle, its wheels creaking with each rotation. A sturdy tweed blazer draped across the man’s shoulders, and a black woolen cap topped a head of dense, steel-gray hair. As he neared, Max could see shallow lines criss-crossing the parchment of his cheeks, and pale blue eyes that now watched him with some amusement. The man grinned, exposing teeth that were straight by nature but yellowed by time.

I said, are you lost then? Most Americans are in these parts.

And how do you know I’m American? Max asked, unable to stop his own answering smile.

You’re lost, aren’t you?

The man laughed, cackled actually, delighted at his own wit, and Max could only admit the truth.

Okay, you got me. I’m American, and I am very lost. Can you help?

Depends on what you’re looking for.

A woman named Anna Pryce-Jones. I’m to meet her in a castle somewhere here in Monmouthshire. Max gestured to the road sign. I thought I was close until I came to this crossroad. Those places don’t appear anywhere on my map. That I can tell anyway.

Searching for your ancestors? That’s what brings most of you here.

No, nothing like that.

Oh?

Max paused, uncertain how much he wanted to divulge. I need to find her. Can you help me?

Dr. Jones is an archeologist, you know.

No, I didn’t know.

Oh yes, famous throughout the world.

Max shrugged as the man braced a foot on one of the bicycle pedals then balanced himself on the seat.

You can find her just up the road a ways, the fork to the right, about a kilometer down. As the sign says. He pushed off and tipped his fingers to his cap. Enjoy your stay.

Thanks. Appreciate it.

The engine cranked on the third attempt, and Max dipped his head out the window to watch for any unlikely travelers as he pulled into the lane, reminding himself to keep to the wrong side of the road, and wondering if he had enough gas—petrol they called it here—to reach civilization. But the man had been true to his word, and within moments the lane opened to a clearing on his right, acres of emerald grass sloping toward a shallow valley on one side and cresting a hillside on the other. Max eased his foot off the gas, allowing the little car to idle while he allowed himself to drink in the scene before him.

At the top of the crest stood a structure. A castle it was, solid stone with an octagonal drum tower that Max estimated to be fifty feet across and two hundred feet high. Saw-toothed battlements, one hundred feet high, stretched from the tower on either side. Moss, its tint soft and muted in the morning light, weaved up and across the far battlement. Immediately adjacent to the drum tower was a smaller turret, most likely used in its day as a lookout. Flying from a pole at the top was the Welsh flag, The Red Dragon.

Maxwell drew in a deep breath and wondered at his decision to travel to Wales, a land of pubs and farms, writers and poets, people who purported to use the English alphabet but in configurations that no one else in the modern world could decipher. Its countryside was dotted with medieval castles that conjured up images of barons mired in battle, loyal knights swinging bloody broadswords at their sides, eager wenches warming their beds at home.

He put the Riley into gear and coaxed it up the road, fighting the strange urge to turn tail and run. Somehow he didn’t think there was an eager wench waiting for him at the top of the hill.

****

The old woman pulled the drapery aside so she could see the stretch of macadam running up to the castle. There, in the distance, an automobile navigated the curves of the roadway that cut through the meadows of her beloved homeland. With a sigh she let the folds of the material fall from her hand and turned to make her way down the spiraling stairs that led from the main tower to the great center hall. Thick carpeting had been installed years earlier, and it absorbed whatever noises her steps would have made. Her man Dylan stood in the entranceway, waiting for her cue.

She nodded and paused halfway down the stairs as the huge, wooden door swung wide. From there she had a splendid view of the vehicle that was pulling to a stop at the top of the drive, and of the man easing himself from its confines. She nodded with satisfaction. Yes, he would do, the American. Tall and broad-shouldered, yet moving with a comfortable ease, he exuded strength. Not a brute strength, but one tempered with a masculine gentility.

He looked up and spotted them as he began the long climb up the steps, and he smiled, a flash of white teeth in a tan face. A gust of wind whipped his navy blazer around his torso and plastered his pants against his legs. Again the woman nodded to herself, satisfied. So much had been made of the laziness of Americans, yet this one obviously took care of his body, knew it as the vehicle that it was, knew instinctively its purpose in life.

Hello, my name is Maxwell Davies, he said, extending his hand to Dylan in greeting. I’m looking for Dr. Jones. Dr. Anna Pryce Jones.

Anna pursed her lips to keep from smiling at her poor old servant’s discomfort. He never had become accustomed to the Americans’ habit of treating everyone as an equal.

I’m Anna Jones, she said from her perch, her eyes meeting his as she descended the balance of the stairs. She met him at the doorway, resting her palm on the carving that covered the bulk of the door’s surface. Its ancient meaning gave her strength. Do come in. You’re right on time.

She offered her hand and looked into the depth of his eyes, so blue. An honest man, one who didn’t flinch at a direct gaze, didn’t fuss or grow impatient, he stood quietly under her inspection. Only the miniscule incline of his right eyebrow gave the slightest hint that he wondered what she was about.

Come. We’ll use the Hall.

Thank you. He stepped forward and offered his arm for support. She allowed herself to take it, wrapping her hand around his forearm to the extent that she could, and led him forward into the Great Hall. She had brought him here, to the Twelfth Century castle—the main gathering place for the lord in medieval times, the main gathering place for the family today—to impress him. She could see that her instincts had been right.

He helped her settle on one of the plush sofas scattered throughout the Hall but then stood and gawked, was the word that came to her mind, as he absorbed the full height and breadth of the chamber and the priceless tapestries that covered walls running thirty meters from front to back. As he turned in a complete circle, his eyes wide, she studied him. Inside, away from the bright sunshine, his hair was more of a chestnut brown than the burnished gold it had appeared at first. More like her own William’s hair.

His lips rounded and a low whistle passed through them. Catching his obvious breach of manners, he sat and shook his head. My apologies, ma’am, but I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s magnificent.

Yes, isn’t it? Have a seat. Dylan will bring us tea. She waited a heartbeat. Unless you’d prefer something stronger?

No, thank you. He smiled and shook his head once more as if to clear cobwebs away. Tea is fine. He sat, his eyes questioning her. He was being terribly quiet for an attorney, a man who was accustomed to steering his own destiny.

You’re wondering why I’ve asked you to come.

Yes, ma’am.

I’ll get right to it, as you Americans seem to prefer. She stilled her fingers as they started to pluck at the fringe of a pillow at her side, and folded them in her lap. We had the devil of a time finding you, you know. Until I saw you coming up the steps, I wasn’t sure I had made the right decision bringing you here. Relation or no relation, some things just don’t fit.

I’m sorry, ma’am? Relation?

Yes. Were you aware of your Welsh ancestry?

Yes, but no knowledge of any living relatives.

We are distant; my great, great grandfather’s brother migrated to your country.

Very distant.

You’ll be interested, I’m sure, in what I’ve discovered during my many years of research. But here’s Dylan with our tea.

As she poured, passing him the fragile cup, Dylan scurried from the room but quickly returned, carrying a large box in his arms. At her nod, he approached and placed the box between them on the sofa. Anna removed the lid and lifted another box from within, this one of rose-tinted glass. Inside was a manuscript, its wooden cover engraved with gold-scripted characters and a symbol matching the carving on the door.

She saw his hand instinctively reach, then hold back.

Do you recognize this language?

I don’t think so, he said, shaking his head. Welsh?

A forerunner, yes. Indulge me, would you, as I give you some background?

He leaned forward, his eyes on the manuscript. Please.

"My people, our people, settled this land centuries ago, before it was Great Britain, before it was Wales. Before it was named even. As time passed, there were those inhabitants who came to embrace the British culture, while others stayed true to their heritage. The line from which you descend has stayed true to its heritage, a heritage that is chronicled in this manuscript. Penned more than a thousand years before the Hebrew Bible, it describes a culture, a lifestyle which, in our language, is called The Way. It is a manual, some might call it, for day-to-day living which ensures the natural balance in one’s life, which in turn brings world order. You have never known The Way, yet it is now in your hands to preserve the heritage, honor it, make it your own so that it will flourish for many centuries to come."

Maxwell sat up at those words, disturbed. Maybe you should stop there. I traveled a great distance, at great personal expense, to satisfy a curiosity, but ancient cultures, or cults, are not my interest. I’m sorry.

She held his arm when he moved to stand, her hand clutching with as much strength as she could bring to bear. Hear me out. I can’t help but be cryptic, but this is no cult; it is an ancient way of life that must be protected. Europe is the old guard, entrenched for many years in the politics of placating its enemies. America is the future, the only country that will allow our heritage to take root. I searched for you, specifically for you. And once I found you, I watched you for several months before contacting you. I know things about you that you would probably wish I didn’t.

Look, Dr. Jones, Max withdrew his arm from her grasp and stood, with all due respect for your expertise in this field, whatever it is, I’m no savior. I wish you luck, but good-bye.

I know about the games you indulge in, with your wife. The special games.

He watched her, his jaw tight, his hands fisted at his sides. And this is tantamount to harassment.

Yet you’re intrigued, aren’t you, Maxwell?

He scowled, as if she were his mother, scolding him, but he didn’t deny the truth of what she said.

"The Way is no game, she continued. It is a way of life, given to us by God. A way of life that is in your blood, your genes. As it is in mine, even to this day."

Max looked back to her, his eyes narrowed in thought.

She saw his hesitation and pressed her point. What you see in this glass box is the result of a lifetime of work. My work. I found the text quite accidentally when I had accompanied my father on an archeological dig, here in Wales. It was buried with one poor soul in a cave I stumbled upon. I was but thirteen years old and have devoted my life to the text, searching for and finding supporting documentation, bits and pieces at a time.

Still he didn’t speak, didn’t turn away, and she smiled.

Take the manuscript. The English translation is in the bottom. She stood, strained to lift the box, and pushed it into his hands. Read it. Study it. As you Americans say, what have you got to lose?

Maxwell tucked the box under his arm. I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking, but I’ll take the manuscript, and if I decide it’s a pile of garbage, you’re getting it back, along with a bill for my expenses and my time.

Anna held the smile from her lips. You won’t regret this, Maxwell.

He snorted and turned to the door. That’s where you’re wrong. I already do.

Chapter 1

Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful.

It’s the transition that’s troublesome.

Isaac Asimov

Present Day

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Mid-August

Death shots were never pretty, and this one even less so. The blonde was young and once beautiful. But that was before she fell into the sea, and before the salted waters filled her lungs and bloated her flesh. Before she was caught in the tide and dragged along the bottom near the shore, dumped at the edge of the sand where she was discovered earlier that morning by some poor S.O.B. whose only wish had been to go for a morning run on a deserted beach.

Special Agent David Owens dropped the grisly photo back onto the desk and sucked a breath in between his clenched teeth. Hell of a way to start a Monday morning. Especially one that was supposed to be the first of five days off.

He turned to his superior and quirked an eyebrow. Larkin was on the phone, and he held up a palm, then two fingers, signaling that he'd be another couple of minutes.

David took the opportunity to wander to the wall of plaques and photos Larkin had gathered over his years at the Bureau. There were diplomas and certificates of membership in one association or another, commendations from former directors, photos with several attorneys general and a big one with Ronald Reagan when the former president had visited the headquarters building back in the mid eighties. A wide bookshelf on the adjacent wall held an eclectic collection of essays and biographies, some crime fiction, a series on the book of Revelation and an autographed, glass-encased Redskins football from the 1992 Super Bowl Championship.

John Larkin had seen and done more than most men in his climb toward the top of the Bureau's hierarchy, that much was evident, but he was still a man who spoke the plain truth, and he wouldn't have summoned David at this point in time without reason.

Larkin's call ended and David took a seat front and center of the giant, mahogany desk. It too was covered with the evidence of the everyday busy ness of the Bureau's Assistant Director in Charge of Counterterrorism. Folders tagged with various levels of security clearance were layered among printed emails and memoranda. A take out cup of coffee that had probably gone cold an hour earlier sat within arm's reach, and David could nearly taste the Egg McMuffin that his nose told him had been tossed, probably half eaten, in the trash.

Slinging an ankle over the opposite knee, David relaxed into the cushioned chair and said, Tell me again why the Bureau is investigating a drowning, why our team gives a damn—aside from the tragic loss of human life, that is—and more importantly, why you called me specifically in? Sir?

The older man lifted the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a smile, but it wasn't a grimace either. I know you've had a tough time of it, David. And I know this week off wasn't anything like a vacation. His pale blue eyes, normally sharp and focused, softened in sympathy.

No. I started cleaning out the cabin this weekend. You know, packing up Mom's and Dad's things.

Maybe you should give it some more time. There's no reason you have to get rid of their belongings right away, is there?

No, I don't want to wait. He shook his head. It's time. It's been a month since the crash. He still couldn't force himself to say the words parents and death in the same sentence, so he generally avoided them altogether. It was a crash. A plane crash that had taken his parents, like that, in the blink of an eye.

Clearing his throat, he tried again. In all seriousness, Mr. Larkin, isn't there someone else who can handle this case? I'd like to get things over with.

Larkin sighed. Patience. I'll explain as soon as your partner gets here.

I don't have a partner. And we don't work in twos. We work in teams.

You are a team, a team of two. He glanced up. And here's your teammate now.

The woman had knocked on the frame of the door and now, after a hitch of hesitation, she crossed its threshold, nodding once to David before presenting herself to Larkin.

I appreciate your coming in on short notice, Larkin was saying for some reason—like any of them had an option—and he walked around his desk to make introductions. David didn't need it; he knew who she was.

Coaching himself to keep his mouth shut, he rose and offered his hand. It's Parker, right? I'm David Owens.

That's right, Anna Parker, she said, her hand smooth and cool in his. It's nice to meet you.

Her eyes—the color of a Hersey bar—narrowed as she looked him over, although he had to admit she was subtle in her appraisal, and her hand slipped away and into the pocket of her double breasted suit jacket. As she stepped back her scent lingered. Something light and citrusy. Almost sweet. How absurd.

Yeah, he knew who she was, but again he kept his mouth shut. Larkin was a fair man, but not a patient one. He rarely tolerated complaints and never insubordination, especially from those on his hand picked special investigations unit. So David made himself comfortable at the conference table in Larkin's corner office overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, and he listened while Special Agent Anna Parker made small talk with the assistant director in that husky, semi-southern cadence of hers.

Word at the Bureau was that the accent was just about the only thing Parker had retained from her Southern upbringing. Although professional, and apparently skilled, she had a reputation as a loner, someone more prone to heading home after a tough case than joining friends for a few celebratory drinks. If she even had any friends. She was known as a tight ass, all right. Which, if he thought about it, wasn't entirely unexpected in a woman who worked Sex Crimes.

Giving a mental shrug, he tuned back into the conversation in time to catch Larkin bringing Parker up to speed.

The victim was found at the Gateway National Park this morning, at the northern tip of Sandy Hook on the Jersey Shore. It's federal property, which makes it our jurisdiction. The photo and initial report were emailed to me moments ago from the agents who were dispatched to investigate from the Newark Field Office. Preliminary report from the medical examiner's office is accidental death by drowning.

Parker studied the photo for a long moment, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, before sliding it back onto the table and taking a deep breath, much as he himself had done.

So, what do you need from me? Her eyes flicked to David, and any other time he would have been ashamed at the odd sense of glee he felt when he saw the confusion in their depths.

Didn't Mr. Larkin tell you? We're partners, he announced, then grinned.

Oh? Her perfectly shaped eyebrows jumped halfway up her forehead, and those big, chocolate eyes skimmed him again. And damned if he wasn't sure she liked what she saw this time.

Squaring his shoulders, he leaned forward, braced his hands on the table. Which brings us back to where we were a moment ago, sir. What does this woman's death have to do with me? And why the hell do you think I need a partner? He jerked his thumb to the right, aimed it at Parker.

Larkin drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, and his normally ruddy complexion—courtesy of ancestors hailing from County Kilkenny in Ireland—flushed to the roots of his shocking white buzz cut. David slumped back, realizing he'd gone too far, and he let out a breath of relief when Larkin chose to ignore him.

I received a call this morning, early, from one of our former assets up in that area. The call was routed to me because the asset's handler, Mike Nelson, had given my name as an emergency contact. You remember Nelson, he said to David. He died last year.

I remember. A freak diving accident. Killed him and his wife, orphaned the two daughters.

Right. Larkin hurried on. "Nelson rated this particular asset very high, especially with regard to information he provided during a series of successful drug investigations. When the asset called, I listened. The information he gave me was sketchy but enough for me to believe there's more to this than a simple drowning, more than I want to leave in the hands of the local agents.

Now, as to the question of why you two? It's simple. Your respective and complementary areas of expertise are precisely what I've deemed are needed to fully investigate this incident.

May I ask a question? Parker had lifted a hand and pointed one pink tipped finger in a graceful arc toward the ceiling.

Certainly. Larkin tilted his head, gave her an indulgent semi smile. David had never known him to be a sucker for a hot chick, but there was a first time for everything. And Anna Parker was more than hot.

True, she'd buttoned herself up tight in that stiff suit she was wearing, and rolled her medium brown hair into a bun like thing in the back, but he'd bet the farm if she let it down it would be long and soft to the touch. His fingers twitched involuntarily at the thought, and he balled them into a fist, then stuffed the fist into his pocket. She was probably a lesbian anyway.

She was speaking again. Sir, not to echo, in a sense, what Agent Owens was saying—

David snorted, and when she looked him at with that cool, steady gaze, he held up a hand in apology for the interruption. Lord knew she wouldn't want to echo anything he, or any other man for that matter, might have to say.

She cleared her throat. Why wasn't this case turned over to the Criminal Investigative Division? Is there a tie to terrorism?

No. Larkin shook his head. I'm not turning the asset over to CID; I'm handling him personally. But you're correct that the case would more accurately fall under CID's area of responsibility. Your supervisor says good things about you, and as I said before, I believe your specific expertise will be invaluable. That's why you've been brought in and temporarily assigned to me as part of my unit.

Flattered, she smiled, and a dimple popped into the center of her left cheek.