Justine Davis - In His Sights

She noticed that despite the seeming rebelliousness of his hair, there was a stylish cut there.

Noticed that the watch on his left wrist was definitely out of her league.

Noticed that while the jeans and knit shirt he wore weren’t blatantly expensive, the belt around his slim waist was.

Noticed that the athletic shoes he wore were past new, but a top brand.

Why?

Why would a good-looking guy who obviously wasn’t down on his luck rent a room from an elderly couple in a tiny place like Summer Harbor? And be so darned nice to them to boot?

She could only think of one reason.

He was up to something.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

lives on Puget Sound in Washington. She says that years ago, during her career in law enforcement, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was at the time occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods of Washington State, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?”

Once upon a time, there was a genre of books that was sadly misunderstood by many people who didn’t read them. Those who did read them loved them, cherished them, were changed by them. But still, these books got no respect on the outside, in fact were belittled, denigrated, held up as bad examples, while their readers and authors were sneered at and insulted by people who, although they never read the books, had somehow arrived at the idea that it was all right to slap others down for their choices. But those readers and authors kept on in the face of this horrible prejudice. Why? Because they found something in these books that they found nowhere else. Something precious, that spoke to them in a very deep and basic way.

Then one day, this beleaguered genre was given a gift. A fairy godmother if you will, a person with an incredible knowledge of these books and why they worked, and an even more incredible generosity of spirit. A one-person support system who gave so much to the writers of these stories, and was ever unselfish with her time and that amazing knowledge. And her endorsement counted for something; readers took her word and knew they would rarely be disappointed. She was a rock, a pillar on which the genre depended. Her loss has left a gaping hole that can never be filled, and will always be felt by those who love these books—and loved her.

For those reasons and so many more, the Redstone, Incorporated series is dedicated to

MELINDA HELFER

Lost to us August 24, 2000, but if heaven is what it should be she’s in an endless library, with an eternity to revel in the books she loved. Happy reading, my friend….

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

“You’ll just love him. He’s the sweetest man. Absolutely charming.”

Kate Crawford gaped at her grandmother. “You rented out a room? What room? To what man? Why?”

“My goodness, do you think you could string a few more questions together?”

Kate sat down, certain she wasn’t understanding something. Her plans to make a grocery run for her grandparents were obviously going to have to wait.

“Gram,” she said slowly, “what have you and Gramps done?”

“I told you,” Dorothy Crawford said patiently, “we rented out our room.”

“Your bedroom?”

“It’s the only one that made sense, since it has the private bath and sitting area. We’re thinking of using some of the income to add an outside stairway to the upper deck, then it will have its own private entrance as well.”

“But—

“We’re not using it, after all. The stairs are just too much for your grandfather’s knees.”

“I know that,” Kate said.

And she did; she’d been the one to help them move into the one downstairs bedroom in the house. She hadn’t liked the idea—the room was too small and the bathroom was way down the hall—but it had seemed the best temporary solution they could manage until they could afford to do a remodel. Or talk her grandfather into the knee replacement surgery he insisted he didn’t want, a decision Kate suspected was also based on finances.

“If you needed money,” Kate began, but stopped when her grandmother gave her the look she knew too well.

“We won’t keep taking from you, Kate. You’ve done so much, too much, for us already.”

“I could never do too much.”

“And that’s why your grandfather and I have to step in now and then, or you’d spend all your time and money on us, instead of having a life of your own.”

“But—”

“No buts. Besides, it’s done. We have a renter. We can’t back out now.”

And that brought Kate back to one of her initial questions. “Who is this person you’ve rented a room to? There’s no one in town looking for a place that I know of.”

In any place but Summer Harbor that might be a ridiculous statement, but here it was quite reasonable that if someone was looking for a place to live, everybody in town would know it. It was easy to keep track of such things when you only had a couple of thousand people to deal with.

“Oh, he’s not from here.”

That alone was enough for Kate, and her voice was rather sharp when she demanded, “Where is he from, and what’s he doing here?”

“I believe he’s a photographer,” her grandmother said. “And I can do without that tone, young lady.”

Chastened, Kate reached out and put a hand over Dorothy’s. “I’m sorry, Gram. You know I just worry.”

“You worry too much,” Dorothy said, but the stern tone had been replaced by a lovingly gentle one. “This is Summer Harbor, you know. Bad things don’t happen here.”

Tell that to Joshua Redstone, Kate thought.

The thievery at Redstone Northwest had already come to the attention of the multibillionaire entrepreneur who owned the business, and while she doubted there was another boss of his stature who would care, she knew Josh Redstone was different. Very different. It was one of the many reasons she loved her job there.

“Ah, good,” her grandmother said at the sound of a tap on the door, “here he is now, so you’ll get to meet him. Then you’ll see there’s no problem.”

Kate turned, expecting the man to walk right in. But he politely waited for her grandmother to call out to him.

“Come on in, Rand.”

Since Dorothy Crawford was hardly one to call a man by his last name unless it was preceded by a Mister, Kate had to assume Rand was his first name. She turned to look at the door as it swung open.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. The man who came in was, in a word, beautiful. Young, but beautiful. Six feet or better, with hair a shade of platinum blond she’d only seen on children until now. It was thick and a bit unruly, falling forward over his forehead in the same way a child’s silky hair did.

But while young, he was anything but a child. He moved with a very male kind of grace that told her he was probably an athlete of some kind, or at least in good shape.

Very good shape, she amended wryly as she got a better look.

“No point in you knocking if you’re going to be living here,” her grandmother was saying. “Just come on in.”

The man glanced at Kate before he answered her grandmother, and Kate felt an odd little jolt at the sight of vivid, cobalt-blue eyes.

Oh, now that really wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.

Then he smiled, not at her but at her grandmother, and Kate instantly went on guard.

“I stopped at the market for some things,” he said, “so I picked up the sugar you said you’d forgotten.”

“Well, wasn’t that sweet of you?” Dorothy cooed.

Her grandmother actually cooed, Kate thought, barely managing to resist shaking her head in shock. That sort of reaction was usually limited to babies and puppies. Certainly not grown men. And for all his boyish looks, there was no mistaking this Rand was just that. He looked to only be in his twenties, but he was still all man.

“Gram,” she began, unable to stop the urge to caution that rose in her.

“Ah. You must be Kate,” the man said. “I should have guessed.”

Instantly provoked, and not quite sure why, Kate went on the offensive. “And why is that, Mr….?”

“Singleton,” he supplied politely. “Rand Singleton, Miss Crawford.”

He made her feel like a schoolteacher, with that very proper “miss.” An old schoolteacher. But if he thought that would distract her, he was mistaken.

“Why would you assume I’m Kate?” she persisted.

“Because,” he said with a smile at her grandmother, “beauty seems to run in the family.”

Oh, good grief, Kate thought. He can’t think anybody’s buying this!

Then she caught a glimpse of her grandmother’s face and, astonishingly, the spots of color rising in her cheeks. Her jaw dropped. Her grandmother, it seemed, was buying it by the bagful.

Her eyes narrowed as she turned them on the newcomer. He met her gaze steadily, with one brow lifted as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

I don’t care if you do, she muttered inwardly.

“If you doubt that,” he said softly, clearly aimed at her, “you need a new mirror.”

“And you need a new line,” she said as her grandmother smiled with obvious pleasure.

She had a mirror, and she knew perfectly well what she looked like. Average. Nice eyes, although of late they were tired and bloodshot more often than not. Hair was okay, kind of a nondescript dark brown, but healthy and shiny even if simply clipping back the shoulder-length strands was her only effort at a hairstyle.

No, nothing striking or eye-catching about her, not these days. There had been a time, in the big corporate world and with the help of polished makeup, chic haircuts and stylish clothes, that she had drawn that kind of attention, but no longer. She didn’t look bad for a woman of forty-one, but she was still average.

And still old enough to be this guy’s…aunt.

She nearly laughed aloud at her own absurdity. The man must have seen the change in her expression, for his own changed to one of puzzlement.

No, I haven’t changed my mind about you, she said to herself in answer to his look. I’m just realizing I’m as touchy as any woman of a certain age confronted with an attractive man too young for her. Especially when he seems to be flirting.

Which was, of course, her imagination. Whatever he was doing, it likely had very little to do with her. And everything to do with charming her grandmother, who was chatting away as if this man had grown up next door.

She studied the intruder more carefully, going beyond his startling good looks this time. She noticed that despite the seeming rebelliousness of his hair, there was a stylish cut there. Noticed that the watch on his left wrist was, while not a Rolex, definitely out of her league. Noticed that while the jeans and knit shirt he wore weren’t blatantly expensive, the belt around his slim waist was. Noticed that the athletic shoes he wore were past new, but a top brand.