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  “What part of ‘just be ready’ sounded like ‘run away’?” Karin yelled.

  “Hey,” Dave said. “If you’d let me in on your plans before you went charging out, I would have told you my gun was in the car.”

  “And there’s a handy two-by-four next to the basement door, so don’t aim those baby blues at me. You didn’t have to leave me hanging!” Okay, maybe she wasn’t being fair. She was the one who’d come out alone, preferring to handle things her way. But he had led the thugs here.

  “You took care of them well enough.”

  She hadn’t wanted to take care of them at all. Not like that. “They’ll be back. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to go think about that.”

  “You’re kidding,” he said with surprise. “You can’t stay here and wait for them.”

  But she had nowhere else to go, not unless she pulled out one of her precious fake IDs.

  Not unless she was willing to abandon what Ellen had died to give her.

  Dear Reader,

  I was one of those good little girls. Really. I thought if I told a lie, my young world would end, and that my existence depended on the Everlasting Goodness of Me. (It made sense at the time.) But the heroine of this book, Karin Sommers? Her growing-up years depended on just how well she could lie, deceive, playact and lead adults around by the nose.

  You get the idea. If there were ever two people with more disparate personal foundations…

  Okay, part of me is hoping that you won’t notice that Karin is so real to me that I just referred to her as an actual person. But the rest of me hopes that in reading this book, you’ll experience the same sense of discovery I did as I wrote it. The “Oh, wow, this is what it would be like…” experience. As well as the profound sense of pride in Karin as she discovers who she really is. And those con game details that I so gleefully worked up? Just don’t tell my mom, okay?

  Doranna

  DORANNA DURGIN

  Survival Instinct

  Books by Doranna Durgin

  Silhouette Bombshell

  *Exception to the Rule #11

  Checkmate #45

  *Beyond the Rules #59

  *Survival Instinct #85

  Silhouette Books

  Femme Fatale

  “Shaken and Stirred”

  DORANNA DURGIN

  spent her childhood filling notebooks first with stories and art, and then with novels. After obtaining a degree in wildlife illustration and environmental education, she spent a number of years deep in the Appalachian Mountains. When she emerged, it was as a writer who found herself irrevocably tied to the natural world and its creatures—and with a new touchstone to the rugged spirit that helped settle the area and which she instills in her characters.

  Doranna’s first fantasy novel received the 1995 Compton Crook/Stephen Tall award for the best first book in the fantasy, science fiction and horror genres; she now has fifteen novels of eclectic genres on the shelves. Most recently she’s leaped gleefully into the world of action romance. When she’s not writing, Doranna builds Web pages, wanders around outside with a camera and works with horses and dogs. There’s a Lipizzan in her backyard, a mountain looming outside her office window, a pack of agility dogs romping in the house and a laptop sitting on her desk—and that’s just the way she likes it. You can find a complete list of titles at www.doranna.net along with scoops about new projects, lots of silly photos and a link to her SFF Net newsgroup.

  I made up some of the tech in this novel, but from the looks of things it’ll be real by the time the book reaches the shelves…. But yes, there is a water tower on North Payne Street!

  Thanks to:

  The Things That Go Bang regulars The Alexandria & Scotch Connection Greg Davis, Associate Chief Medical Examiner, Commonwealth of Kentucky

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 1

  Karin Sommers’s Journal, March 12

  Dear Ellen—

  Happy birthday. I miss you terribly, and I’m sorry you’re dead.

  I wish it weren’t my fault.

  February 17, previous year

  Karin Sommers twisted in the front seat of the Subaru Outback, reaching for the bag of pretzels perched precariously on the clothes crammed behind her. Every nook of the car held the carefully chosen belongings she and her older sister, Ellen, had extracted from Karin’s small California apartment. Extracted, piled on and driven casually away as if it weren’t the biggest breakout since the Birdman of Alcatraz.

  But she wasn’t looking at her things, and she wasn’t really looking for the pretzels. She looked back at the dizzying curve of road disappearing into the darkness behind them. The sign for the Kentucky state line was already hidden behind a jut of construction-cut mountainside. The coal truck riding their bumper quickly lost ground as they hit this latest series of severe asphalt curlicues.

  Have we made it yet?

  “You’ll get carsick if you keep that up.” Ellen plied the wheel expertly, familiar with the abrupt and narrow Appalachian roads. “Besides, we’re two-thirds of the way across the country. If dear old stepdad had a clue where you were, he’d have been breathing down our necks a long time ago.”

  Karin settled back into place, smoothing the seat-belt strap as she reached for the warm pop in the cup holder. Sleet rattled against the windshield, then eased into spattering rain. “We’re not safe yet. If it occurs to him that you and I have been faking estrangement, he’s going to come looking.”

  “He doesn’t care about me,” Ellen said calmly. “He’d never even consider I could have the nerve to help you break away.”

  Have we made it yet? Am I almost there?

  But Karin had to grin at her sister—so alike in looks and close in age that they were often taken for twins, so dissimilar in temperament. They were still sisters at the core. They watched out for each other as they could, right up until the point Ellen had declared herself outta there and their stepfather Gregg Rumsey had declared himself glad to see her go.

  And Karin had stayed behind with Rumsey, trapped by years of control and entanglement in scams and petty schemes and thievery—starting in her childhood, taking advantage of her steady nerve, cultivating and training her natural ability to lie, cry on cue and play her mark. She’d had no way to understand the unusual nature of her life. By the time she had understood the true consequences of her actions, by the time she’d realized she hadn’t merely been playing games and skirting legalities at no real cost to anyone else, she had been irreparably tangled in her stepfather’s activities. And when she’d wanted to quit anyway, he’d had plenty to hold over her head. Quit, he’d told her, and you go straight to jail.

  And I can return the favor, she’d retorted—but had pretended to settle back into their routine. Unlike Rumsey, she hadn’t been gathering incriminating evidence. She had no doubt he’d play the legal system as easily as he played his marks, and that she’d end up in jail while he went free.

  Still, she’d always intended to leave. She’d contacted Ellen on the sly, made plans, skimmed Rumsey’s takes and bided her time. She’d limited her involvement to the Robin Hood scams—steal from the rich, pay the bills, squirrel away some of the take. And that had been enough. It had worked. Un
til now, when Rumsey had finally crossed her admittedly flexible line by killing an elderly couple who’d caught on to his latest investment scam. Until she’d suddenly wondered if this was the first time.

  Until she had wondered if she might one day be just as disposable.

  And then she and shy, nervous Ellen had finally colluded on her departure. Her breakout.

  The car swooped around another curve. On the other side of the guardrail, Pine Mountain plunged down to the Russell Fork in a drop steep enough to earn the area its nickname—the Grand Canyon of the South. Under any other circumstances, it would be a place at which to stop and marvel and snap endless touristy photos.

  But there’d be no stopping just now. She and Ellen wouldn’t slow down until they reached the Blue Ridge area just west of Roanoke. Ellen’s new home after years in Alexandria.

  Almost there.

  Actually, another six or seven hours of driving to go. And then she’d hide at Ellen’s little farmhouse until she could make her new life, using the money she’d taken from Rumsey. Money she’d earned. She’d leave Karin Sommers behind and become someone else. But still…she was so close. Seven hours. Compared to the years it had taken to make the break, compared to these past few weeks of heart-thumping stress…

  Yeah. Almost there.

  Karin laughed out loud, drawing Ellen’s bemused gaze—just for an instant, because in the darkness on these roads, no one could dare more. “Just thinking about the look on his face if he knew you’d helped me.”

  “Probably similar to the look he had when he first plugged me into a scam and I threw up all over him,” Ellen said drily.

  Karin crunched into a pretzel bow. “I only wish I’d thought of that. But no, I had to make it fun. A great big game.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Ellen said, unexpected fierceness in her voice. “You’re the one who got us through those years, by playing his games.” She slowed the car, flicking off the brights as the sleet came down heavy in a sudden gust.

  “Hey,” Karin said, deliberately light in tone. “We should thank the old bastard. If he hadn’t taught me so well, I wouldn’t have been able to play him these past weeks.”

  Ellen snorted. “Don’t give him any credit. If he hadn’t been jerking us around, you’d not only have finished high school, you’d have been grabbing all the drama club’s juiciest parts. You’re a natural.”

  “Tsk.” Karin waved a pretzel in false admonition. “He ‘saved my ass from jail’ too many times to count. He told me so, after all, so it must be true—look out!”

  Ellen spit a panicked expletive as a deer exploded into motion from the darkness. She hit the brakes, cranking the steering wheel as they spun over the narrow, slushy asphalt. The car slid sideways, its four-wheel drive futilely hunting a grip—and then gently bumped to a stop against the guardrail.

  Karin glanced warily out her side window. A pitch black night couldn’t stop her imagination from filling in the details of the steep drop to the river below. Damn good thing she was already sitting down; her knees were weak as water. She found Ellen sitting frozen, her hands clenched around the steering wheel so tightly they trembled. The windshield wipers slid across glass in a precise dance; the deer was long gone.

  But we’re okay.

  When Ellen’s shaky gaze connected with Karin’s, a multihued gray so like her own, Karin deliberately looked over the side again and drawled most dramatically, “Cree-ap.”

  Ellen snorted, shaking herself free of her frozen fear. “That would so have sucked.”

  Karin looked down on the mess of pretzels and warm soda in her lap and lifted her hands away in disgust. “Cree—”

  Neither of them had time to scream as the coal truck came rumbling around the curve and slammed into the back of the car.

  Chapter 2

  Karin Sommers’s Journal, March 13

  Dear Ellen,

  I love this little dormer. I love the way it feels like a place where only you and I go. I love the way it looks out over the driveway and the yard, letting me watch from high shadows.

  Things are so different here…I can see why you came here to think through your life. To make changes. I guess that’s my job now, but my decisions still seem a long way off.

  It’s easier to think about the work. I just finished tilling a truckload of manure into the garden. Mostly I used the tiller, but you know…there’s something fulfilling about doing it by hand. Almost…meditative. I bet you felt the same. Did you get blisters, too? And here I thought I’d gotten hardened up over the past year. I fit into your clothes, my hair’s as long as yours, and I’ve got your signature down pat. I even let my damned eyebrows fill in. I’m not the woman Rumsey made of me, not anymore.

  I have to say he taught me one thing, though…how to survive. You do what it takes, right? So here I am in the middle of Blue Ridge country, learning to be a country girl. And I’m damned good at it if I say so myself.

  Ah, lookie here. Your dog is barking. I’m not expecting anyone (as if I ever am). And it’s a city car, with a good-looking city guy. You forget to tell me about someone?

  I don’t think he likes dogs. The door’s open…no, I really don’t think he likes dogs. “Cautious” would be kind. I’m not laughing, really!

  Okay, yeah…I am.

  He remembered her as a quiet woman, someone suited to the solitude of these aged, rolling ridges north of Roanoke if not, perhaps, to the hard work of keeping up a little homestead with a small, rolling pasture, freshly turned soil for a garden in the flat area near the house and a chicken coop beyond. He couldn’t see the goats, but he heard them well enough.

  And then there was the dog.

  Dave Hunter spent his days tracking down children, facing predatory human monsters and occasionally lending a hand in his family’s privately funded security business. He’d seen the darkest alleys, the filthiest warehouses, the slimiest side of human nature. He’d built a reputation for success, for his commitment to finding children and for his unyielding values.

  But he didn’t like dogs.

  This was a mutt, a big one. He stood between Dave and the house, head lowered slightly, tail tight and high. He had a long white-and-reddish coat and a broad, handsome head with alert ears, and he looked very much in command. Dave stood beside the car and eyed the wraparound porch with some longing.

  As if you’re going to give up after coming all this way to talk to this woman.

  Dave looked back at the dog. “That’s enough now. Go away.” In spite of the cool day—a perfect day, actually, with a bright sky and the sun just warm enough to offset the mild breeze—he felt sweat prickle between his shoulder blades.

  The dog didn’t appear to be sweating. The dog appeared to know just exactly who was in control. He growled softly.

  Maybe she’s not home.

  And maybe Dave didn’t have all the time in the world. Maybe a little boy’s life hung in the balance.

  Looking the dog directly in the eye, Dave took a step forward.

  The creature dove for his ankle, gave his pants leg a good yank and backed off again before Dave could even react. Dave froze, heart pounding loud and fast. The damned dog probably knew it, too.

  “Standing still is the first smart thing you’ve done.”

  The voice was quiet, a smooth whiskey alto. Dave moved only his eyes to find her—there she was, leaning against the porch post with her arms crossed and no apparent sympathy for his predicament. He looked back at the dog. She made a tsking noise and said, “Stop meeting his eyes. You’re challenging him.”

  He looked away, reluctantly so. The growling quieted. Off balance and not used to it, he should have known to keep his mouth shut. “Will he really bite?”

  “What do you think?” Amusement colored that voice. He didn’t remember it being so low, so completely self-assured. In fact, he remembered a woman who often hesitated before speaking.

  “C’mon,” he said, and his desperation leaked through. “Cut me a brea
k.” And then at her silence, he jerked his gaze over to her and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Remind me,” she said.

  He fought to regain some composure. A little dignity, perhaps. “Dammit, call him off.”

  She might have smiled. Hard to tell from here. Without moving, she said, “Dewey,” and the dog trotted back toward the porch. But he sat in front of the house, with his uncompromising gaze on Dave.

  With effort, Dave looked away. Don’t challenge him.

  He looked at Ellen Sommers instead—and abruptly blinked, confused by the sudden impression that this wasn’t Ellen at all. Except…she had Ellen’s face, a lean face with a wide, expressive mouth. She had Ellen’s hair falling below her shoulders, the same deep brown with honey highlights. And she had Ellen’s dark, expressive brows—not plucked thin to be fashionable. But in the few conversations he’d had with Ellen Sommers, she’d kept her face smooth of expression. Now she looked at him with one eyebrow quirked in question.

  No. In demand.

  Well, country living certainly seemed to suit her, top to bottom. Before, she’d seemed thin. Now her jeans hugged an athletically lean figure, and under a sloppy hooded sweatshirt her baby-doll T-shirt showed a strip of toned belly without quite showing her belly button.