Twilight

#1 New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods demonstrates that when faith and love are tested, they often wind up stronger than ever

For former private investigator Dana Miller, there can be no peace of mind until she finds the person who killed her husband. Now a single mother to three boys, Dana wants closure. But it turns out she’ll need to form an alliance with the man she holds responsible for the death. And uncovering answers may mean bringing down the program her husband believed in.

Rick Sanchez has no intention of letting Dana destroy all the good he and Ken Miller worked for. As he and Dana try to learn the truth about what happened, he discovers that he and his old friend have something else in common—an undeniable attraction toward this intrepid, high-spirited woman who fights for the people she loves.

Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author

SHERRYL

WOODS

“Woods really knows what readers have come to expect from her stories, and she always gives them what they want.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Woods is a master heartstring puller.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Sherryl Woods delivers another great read filled with intense emotion and suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews on Twilight

“Sherryl Woods returns with her usual wit and style in this latest tale of romance and suspense. Don’t miss out on the newest winner by Ms. Woods.”

—RT Book Reviews on Temptation

“A reunion story punctuated by family drama, Woods’ first novel in her new Ocean Breeze series is touching, tense and tantalizing.”

—RT Book Reviews on Sand Castle Bay

“Woods’ readers will eagerly anticipate her trademark small-town setting, loyal friendships, and honorable mentors as they meet new characters and reconnect with familiar ones in this heartwarming tale.”

—Booklist on Home in Carolina

Twilight

#1 New York Times Bestselling Author

Sherryl

Woods

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dear friends,

Every now and then a story pops into my head and simply won’t go away. Twilight was like that for me when it was first written a number of years ago. I still feel the powerful emotions of a woman whose faith in God has been tested by tragedy.

Add in an unlikely and very much unwanted attraction to a man she holds responsible for her husband’s death, and there’s plenty of conflict and a healthy dose of mystery in the story.

I hope you’ll feel the same emotional tug that I felt when this book was first written, and that you’ll turn the last page and give a thought to what you’d do if your faith were ever tested.

All best,

Sherryl

Contents

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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Prologue

The brilliant late afternoon sun could only do so much. The orange blaze shimmered on the Gulf of Mexico like a scattering of gemstones. It warmed the wide stretch of sandy beach. But it couldn’t touch the cold place deep inside Dana Miller’s heart.

She had never felt so totally empty, so thoroughly alone. Even with her sons whooping and hollering and splashing a few feet away at the water’s edge, she was gut-deep lonely. Even knowing that her parents were there for her—that they shared her anguish and understood her pain—couldn’t erase the horrible sense that she was facing a bleak and empty future.

Her husband, her sweet, gentle, kind husband, was dead. Murdered by a person, or persons, unknown, according to the cryptic police report that she read over and over, alone in her room at night, trying to make sense of it, trying to find acceptance of the cold, hard truth.

It had been over a month since that terrible January night, and there were still no answers—not for her, not for the Chicago police, who seemed to dread her daily calls almost as much as she hated making them. But she couldn’t stop. She desperately needed answers, and no one had them. Until she did, there could be no tears, no healing.

“Put it out of your head,” her mother had pleaded more than once. “You may never know why it happened. What does it really matter, anyway? Knowing won’t bring Ken back. The boys need you. You have to move on for their sake.”

Dana wished she could do as her mother asked. The boys did need her. If only she had something left to give.

Every night she prayed for some sort of peace, some small measure of the kind of serenity she had always felt in Ken’s arms. He had brought so much into her life. As a private investigator, she had seen a lot of ugliness. She had seen people at their worst, but Ken had changed that. He had shown her how to find the goodness in everyone. He had taught her about joy and laughter and the kind of oneness with God that few mortals ever felt. Ken had felt it, though, and he had known how to communicate it to others—even a doubter such as she had been before they’d met.

Her lips curved into a sad half smile as she remembered how he had loved the church, the rituals and the hymns and the prayers. He had loved ministering to his congregation, loved sharing his strength and his beliefs with those whose faith had been tested by tragedy. Rich or poor, saint or sinner, Ken had been there for them, generous with his time and with his unconditional love.

And now that he was gone, Dana had no one to bolster her shattered faith as her husband would have done. From the moment the police had come to her door, from the moment they had tersely described Ken’s senseless slaying in the middle of Chicago gang turf, her faith had been destroyed. A benevolent God could not have allowed that to happen, not to Ken, not to one of His most ardent believers.

And since Ken was very much dead, Dana bitterly accepted the fact that God had abandoned him and her and their three precious boys. If there was some sort of divine purpose behind such an act of madness, she couldn’t discern it. She doubted she ever would.

She shivered as the sun ducked behind a cloud and the sensation of emptiness returned. Where once there had been hope and happiness, now there was only this huge, gaping wound where her soul had been.

Time promised to heal eventually, but Dana had never been a patient woman. She’d always been decisive and quick and instinctively curious. She’d had daring to spare. Those traits had made her one of the best private investigators in the Midwest, but she’d given it all up when her first son was born. The same danger that brought a satisfying rush of adrenaline also came with a warning: do not mix with parenting.

She had made the sacrifice willingly and never looked back. Ken and the boys—first Bobby, then Kevin and finally Jonathan—had fulfilled her in a way she’d never imagined possible. The challenges had been vastly different, but just as rewarding. After a surprisingly brief period of adjustment, she had been thoroughly content with her decision, as fiercely protective of their safety as she had once been lax with her own.

Until now. Now those old urges to pursue truth taunted her late at night, when the loneliness was at its worst. She needed answers, and the police weren’t getting them. She had the same investigative skills they had, but more important, she had the passion for this particular hunt. She wouldn’t relegate it to some cold case file drawer, content to let it remain unsolved until, years from now, some street thug confessed or some witness uttered a tip from his deathbed.

With the boys already settled in a new school for the rest of the year to give them time away from Chicago to heal, with her plans half made to move to Florida permanently, as her parents wanted, there was only one thing keeping her from making the decision final. She had unfinished business back home.

More and more, she saw going back to Chicago, taking charge of her life and the search for the killer, as the only way she would ever be at peace again. Staying in Florida now without knowing was as good as quitting, and she had never been a quitter.

She dreaded telling her parents, though. They were already worried sick about her. She was too quiet, too lifeless, even for a woman in mourning. She’d caught the troubled glances, the whispered exchanges, the helpless sighs. They would be terrified that in her state of mind she would take dangerous, unnecessary risks. She doubted she could make her reassurances convincing enough to soothe their fears.

Yet she knew, if she asked, that they would keep the boys with them, give them a sense of stability that she couldn’t with her heart in turmoil. They would protect them and love them while she went home to do the only thing she could. The only thing.

She would find the cold-blooded, violent person who had ripped her heart and her life to shreds. She would find answers for the unceasing questions asked by her sons, answers they all needed, if they were ever to move on.

And though the police claimed to have followed up on, then dismissed, her repeated suggestions, she thought she knew exactly where to start.

1

The blasted sofa must have belonged to the Marquis de Sade in another life, Rick Sanchez thought as he shifted his body in a futile attempt to find a more comfortable position. Between the oddly solidified lumps and protruding springs, he was lucky he hadn’t gouged out a vital organ. He was very careful to avoid lying on his stomach.

This was the fourth night he’d gone through this same torture, and he was beginning to wonder if he was wasting his time. Whoever had been breaking into the Yo, Amigo headquarters either knew he’d moved in to guard the place or had simply decided that there was more fertile turf for theft elsewhere.

Lord knew, that was true enough, he thought as he cautiously rearranged his body once more on the worn-out, too-short sofa. The program he’d founded two years earlier was perpetually short of funds and equipment. The sole, ancient computer he’d hoodwinked a friend into donating had been an early victim of daring neighborhood thieves. Now about the only things of value lying around were the TV and DVD player in the lounge. They were bolted down, though not so securely that anyone intent on nabbing them couldn’t manage it with a little time and diligence.

They were also in pathetic condition, but at least they’d been obtained legally, unlike the collection of state-of-the-art electronic equipment a few of the boys had offered him the week before. He’d really hated turning them down, but Yo, Amigo was all about taking a moral stance and teaching values. Accepting stolen property would pretty much defeat the very message he was trying to send out.

Exhausted but wide awake, he closed his eyes and tried counting confiscated weapons instead of sheep. He’d turned over a dozen to the police two days earlier, another seven the week before. It was a drop in the bucket, but each gun or knife he managed to get out of gang hands and off the streets was a small victory.

Rather than putting him to sleep, though, the mental game left him more alert than ever. Images of boys killing boys, of babies being shot by accident in a violent turf war crowded into his head. He wondered despondently if the program he’d founded would ever be more than a tiny, ineffective bandage on the huge problem.

Such thoughts led inevitably to memories of Ken Miller, the decent, caring man who had been his friend and, some said, had lost his life because of it. Rick knew he would never have a moment’s peace again if he allowed himself to share that conviction. His conscience, which already carried a heavy enough burden of guilt from the sins of his youth, would destroy him, if even indirect responsibility for Ken’s death were added to the list.

He shifted positions and felt the sharp jab of a metal spring in the middle of his back. He muttered a harsh expletive under his breath and sat up.

Just as he did, he thought he heard a faint whisper of sound, an almost imperceptible scratching from the back of the old brick firetrap that had been condemned until he took it over and began restoring it room by room with the help of the boys in his program. He went perfectly still and listened intently.

The second subtle scrape of metal against metal had him on his feet in an instant. He grabbed the baseball bat he’d kept by the door and eased from the office.

Slipping quietly through the shadowy rooms toward the increasingly persistent sound, he wished for a moment that he hadn’t sworn off guns. He also wished the budget had been large enough to pay for a cell phone, rather than the lone, ancient phone that suddenly seemed very far away on his desk. He might as well have wished for a fleet of shiny new vans to transport the teens to the job assignments that were a part of the program. All were out of reach on the shoestring Yo, Amigo budget.

Just as he closed in on the back door, he heard the heavy-duty lock give. Whoever had conquered it was skilled with lock-picking tools, he concluded with grudging admiration. It hardly narrowed the field, since most of the kids he knew had been breaking and entering since they could reach a door handle or heave a rock through a window. Most, however, didn’t have the finesse or patience to work at a lock with the tedious determination that this person had.

The heavy steel door inched open silently on its well-oiled hinges. Pressed against a wall, Rick waited in the shadows. There was no point in risking his neck until he knew exactly what he was up against. One thief. Two. Or a whole gang, in which case his goose was cooked and he could kiss the TV and DVD player goodbye.

To his relief, the lone person who slipped inside was slightly built and dressed in black from head to toe. Black baseball cap, long-sleeved black T-shirt, trim black pants, even black sneakers. Vaguely taken aback, he concluded it was the working gear of a pro, not some daring kid intent on mischief. The kids he knew wore the baggy clothes and colors of their gangs. Solid, formfitting black like this would have appalled them.

More on edge than ever, and itching for action, he studied the person creeping slowly and unwittingly toward him in the narrow hallway. Rick figured he easily had a fifty-pound advantage over the intruder, plus several inches in height. Even so, he forced himself to wait patiently and watch for accomplices.

When none appeared, he bit back a sigh of relief and considered his options. The bat seemed unnecessary. He propped it cautiously against the wall. Then he slipped up behind the increasingly confident and fast-moving thief and, without uttering a word, slammed the jerk onto the hardwood floor in a full-body tackle that knocked the breath out of both of them.

Rick recovered from the fall first, latched on to a pair of skinny wrists and brutally wrenched the would-be thief’s arms behind him.

He received a blistering earful of curses for his trouble. The words didn’t shock him. He’d heard far worse. Used far worse, for that matter.

What flat-out stunned him, though, was the fact that the voice uttering such foulmouthed language was so evidently and self-righteously outraged. More startling yet, it was also very clearly feminine.

“If you don’t let me up right this instant, I will slap you with a lawsuit that will take away this building and every dime you have to your name,” the woman vowed furiously.

Rick was intrigued despite himself. Not intrigued enough to let her go, but fascinated enough to pursue the conversational direction for a bit.

“Is that so?” he asked, unexpectedly amused by her gambit. “And how do you figure you’re the injured party here?”

“Because I’ve been attacked by an idiot with more muscle than sense. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if half my ribs were cracked.”

“You did break into private property,” he reminded her.

“A technicality,” she insisted.

“Some technicality. You a lawyer?”

“Sweet heavens, no,” she said with such heartfelt distaste that Rick grinned.

“I’m not overly fond of them myself. I guess that gives us something in common, doll face.”

“Doll face?” she repeated with more of that misplaced indignant outrage. “No one calls me doll face or honey or sweetheart.”

“Too bad,” Rick said sympathetically. He decided he could really enjoy deliberately aggravating this woman. “Mind telling me why you dropped by, doll face? Since you chose not to use the front door or to come during business hours, I have to assume your mission is less than legal.”

“That’s not true,” she said.

“The facts say otherwise.”

“To hell with your so-called facts. Are you going to let me up or not?”

“Not just yet,” he said, wondering abruptly if the decision was the security precaution he wanted to believe or merely an attempt to prolong the distinctly provocative contact. Worry over his motives kept him silent for so long that his captive jumped back in with her two cents.

“If you’re figuring on copping a feel, you’d better think again,” she said in that imperious way that amused him so. “I’ll slap you with sexual battery charges while I’m at it.”

Rick chuckled. “Doll face, I do not need to get my kicks from accosting total strangers. In case you’ve missed the point, I am subduing a thief who broke into this building. I’m within my rights, believe me.”

“I am not a thief,” she retorted.

“Maybe not technically, since you never got a chance to lay your hands on anything of value,” he agreed. “But you seem to be in deep denial of the seriousness of your position. Now, how about giving me some answers?”

She hesitated for a very long time, probably evaluating her alternatives, before asking, “Such as?”

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Who are you?” she countered. “For all I know, you’re just a thief who got here first.”

She had audacity. Rick had to give her that. She was the kind of smart-mouthed handful who’d drive a man crazy. He wished he could get a better look at her to see if she’d be worth the trouble, but the lighting in the hallway was virtually nonexistent. The only thing he knew for sure was that she wasn’t local. She had no accent. All of the girls in this neighborhood—and some of them were indeed tough as nails—were Latinas.

Based on her shape, though, this one definitely had promise. His own body had picked up on that without his brain even having to kick in. Another couple of minutes of close contact and he’d be dangerously aroused. Hell, he was already aroused. For a man who’d vehemently sworn to remain celibate through all eternity after his very brief and ill-advised marriage had gone sour, it was a troubling turn of events. He’d better settle this nonsense in a hurry and extricate himself from a dangerous situation.

“Let me assure you, doll face, I belong here,” he said. “I run the place.”

The announcement had an odd effect on her. Though she’d remained relatively still since he’d taken her captive, it now seemed that the remaining breath whooshed right out of her. She was utterly and absolutely motionless. That didn’t strike Rick as a good sign.

“Doll face?”

“You’re Rick Sanchez?” she asked in a broken whisper.

Rick couldn’t tell if her voice was choked by tears or was shaking with some inexplicable anger, but he definitely got the feeling she knew a whole lot more about Yo, Amigo than he’d assumed. He also realized that he was the very last person she’d expected to encounter here tonight.

“That’s me,” he told her. “Which leaves us with you. Who are you, doll face?”

Several seconds ticked by before she answered.

“I’m Dana Miller.”

She said it in a tone so stiff and cold that it sent goose bumps chasing over Rick’s body. Dismay slammed through him as the name registered. Ken’s wife? Dear God in heaven, he’d tackled Ken’s wife as though she were a common criminal. Which, of course, at the moment she appeared to be, but that was beside the point.

He released her wrists at once and leaped to his feet, holding out his hand to help her up. She ignored it and rose with a grace and dignity that belied the situation.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to convey a month’s worth of emotions in those two simple words. “For everything. For Ken. For just now.”

“Save it,” she said harshly. “Save it for someone who’ll buy your phony sympathy.”

Anger radiated from her in almost palpable waves. Rick had known she blamed him for Ken’s death. A half-dozen people had told him exactly how bitter she was toward him and Yo, Amigo. In fact, he had stayed away from the funeral for that very reason, out of consideration for her feelings, justified or not. He’d figured Ken’s graveside was no place to force a confrontation. Later he’d tried to see her, but she’d been gone, off in Florida to recover from the tragedy, her best friend had told him.

Now he realized that he should have seen her sooner, should have gone at once to offer his condolences, to explain how deeply he, too, was grieving over the death of her husband. He doubted she would have believed him any more then than she did now, but he knew how wounds could fester unless they were cleansed right away. This soul-deep wound was no different than one to the flesh. It had had more than a month to worsen dangerously.

Ironically, he had anticipated that sooner or later, she might come after him. He just hadn’t expected it to be in the middle of the night.

Gazing into her bleak expression, he tried to tell her now what he would have said weeks ago, if he’d had the opportunity.

“Your husband was the best friend—”

He never got to finish the sentence. Her open hand connected with his face in a stinging slap that rocked him on his heels.

“Don’t you dare say that,” she said. “Don’t you dare.”

Rick fell silent, uncertain how to cope with such anguish and outrage. Used to coping with broken teenaged dreams with words and hugs and timeworn platitudes, he could think of nothing that would touch Dana Miller’s hurt, or calm her fury. Obviously, she needed to lash out at someone and she’d picked him.

Since the topics of Ken Miller and his death were clearly off-limits, despite their obvious connection to tonight’s break-in, he decided to focus on why Dana Miller was at Yo, Amigo headquarters in the middle of the night. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out.

“You expected to find answers here, didn’t you?” he asked softly.

The direct question seemed to surprise her. Her gaze clashed with his. “It’s the obvious place to start.”

“The police thought so, too,” he reminded her. “They’ve searched through every file, talked with every one of the kids who comes here regularly, questioned every potential eyewitness. They’ve almost destroyed the program in the process.” He regarded her defiantly. “I won’t let you start the whole thing all over again.”