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PRAISE FOR MEG TILLY AND HER NOVELS

“Tense plotting. . . . A strong installment that hopefully portends more.”

—Booklist

“This warmhearted romantic comedy delivers a feisty heroine, a sexy hero, and some very chilling suspense—all done with a fresh edge.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

“Solace Island sparkles with the winning combination of mystery and romance sprinkled with humor and a very sexy hero. What’s not to love?”

—New York Times bestselling author Mariah Stewart

“Fast-paced and fun, great reading entertainment.”

—New York Times bestselling author Kat Martin

“With steady pacing and engaging storytelling, Flynn [Tilly] effortlessly blends mystery and romance in a contemporary style that makes this story stand out. This sexy, heartfelt romance is sure to delight readers everywhere.”

—RT Book Reviews

“[A] fetching debut . . . a satisfying romance in a cozy, small-town setting.”

—Library Journal (starred review)

TITLES BY MEG TILLY

The Solace Island Series

Solace Island

Cliff’s Edge

Hidden Cove

The Runaway Heiress

Dedication

To Peggy Feury

June 20, 1924–November 20, 1985

You taught me how to dive into a character’s skin and inhabit their life. The sharing of your knowledge fundamentally changed the way I walked in the world, shifted how I viewed my own actions and words as well as those of others.

Much love and gratitude always.

PROLOGUE

Sarah slipped out the back door of Rookie’s Sports Grill, squinting in the bright sunshine. She rolled her shoulders, more habit than necessity. When she had started the job two weeks ago, by the end of her eight-hour shift, her arms, hands, and shoulders had been shaking with fatigue. It’s remarkable, really, how quickly one can adjust to anything. And on the heels of that thought, her mind flipped to Kevin and the trapped, suffocating feeling that always accompanied thoughts of him, which caused bile to rise in her throat. Her hand reached out, searching for something solid to hold on to. Her other hand, by habit, rose instinctively to cradle her abdomen before she realized what she was doing and forced it to her side. That loss, in particular, the hollow emptiness almost knocked her to her knees. Stay in the now, she ordered herself in an attempt to force back the memories and nightmares that had been visiting her with increasing ferocity. Be in your body. Where are you now? In the alley behind Rookie’s. What do you feel? Sarah exhaled slowly. What did she feel? Scared. Scared shitless.

Not living in the past. Live in the now. Right now. The side of the building under her palm was warm from the sun. Slightly rough, the once white paint, peeling. The front of her jeans were damp and sticky from the mug of root beer a kid in booth three had bowled over. Sarah had managed to snag the thick glass mug on its descent. No easy feat as she’d been taking orders two tables over. Applause had ensued. “I’d say”—Della had called from her post behind the bar—“that you just performed the waitressing equivalent of the triple-Lutz!” Sarah felt her face flush with the memory. Had been doing so well keeping her head down, not drawing attention to herself, and suddenly all eyes had been on her. She had calmed the crying kid with a promise of a free refill, then hurried back to the kitchen, worried about the attention, but grateful, too, that she didn’t have to get the vacuum out in the middle of the lunch rush to deal with broken shards of glass.

The screen door swung open. Della came out into the alley. “Hey there,” Della said. She fished a half-smoked joint out of the pocket of her faded plaid shirt and lit up. “I thought you’d be long gone. You forget something?” Della was planning to work a double shift again. Brutal hours, but she didn’t have a choice. The bank was threatening foreclosure on her house.

“No. I was just daydreaming.” Sarah pushed away from the building.

Della nodded, took a long toke, then tipped the joint toward Sarah. “Want a hit?”

Sarah shook her head. “Thanks for the offer though.” Even though she didn’t smoke, she was touched by the generosity of the gesture. “See you tomorrow,” Sarah called over her shoulder as she headed past the sour-smelling dumpster.

“Yup.” Della leaned her bony hip against the building, took another long toke, shut her eyes, and tipped her face up to capture the late-afternoon sun. As Sarah turned left out of the back alley onto E. Knoxville street, she could see Della, eyes still shut, exhaling a long, slow stream of smoke into the air.

Sarah walked on. A gray pickup truck rumbled by, but other than that, it was pretty quiet out. It generally was in the little town of Brimfield, Illinois. That was one of the reasons Sarah had decided to stop there. It was a small, sleepy town off the beaten track, and the last place on Earth Kevin would look for her. She crossed her fingers, knowing the act wouldn’t dissuade him from attempting to track her down, but it offered comfort nevertheless.

She was sticky, with a stain down her front, and she smelled of root beer. However, she wasn’t going to be deterred from her plan. She would slip into the post office on the way to her room at Ma Green’s boardinghouse. Hopefully, the promised separation agreement documents from her mom and dad’s old attorney and family friend, Phillip Clarke, had arrived. Sarah would then take them to the public library, get them signed, notarized, and mailed back before the post office closed for the night. Once the separation agreement was signed and notarized, the clock would start ticking. And in a year from today she would be free. Free. Kevin would no longer have power over her. Legal or otherwise.

So why was she feeling so jumpy? The taste in her mouth, slightly bitter, acidic. Her gut felt queasy. Perhaps the mayonnaise on the chicken sandwich she had eaten at lunch break was off? You’ve got to stop obsessing like this, she told herself sternly, even though her pulse was racing. You’re probably having an anxiety attack. Kevin’s four states away. Most likely he’s at the precinct, steamrolling over some unlucky soul. Sarah turned onto N. Galena Avenue, shaking her arms to try to dispel the tension, and that’s when she saw him.

Kevin. Close-cropped hair. Built like a tank. Brutal sledgehammer fists. He was leaning idly against his car, eyes trained on the post office door. A lit cigarette dangled from his fingers.

Kevin. She scrambled backward, desperate to get out of view. How did he find me? In her haste, she’d forgotten about the brick pharmacy steps and was airborne for a second before hitting the ground hard. Phillip must have told Kevin where I am. Sarah stumbled to her feet, her eyes hot, feeling as if her last tenuous thread to her beloved parents had just been severed. How could he have betrayed their trust like that? Betrayed mine? She turned, sudden hot tears streaming down her face as she ran. Ran as fast as she could, her heart pounding loud in her ears, the copper taste of blood in her mouth.

Della was heading into the diner when Sarah burst into the alley, wild-eyed, desperate, jelly-kneed with fear. “Help me,” Sarah croaked, her voice barely a whisper. “Please. I need a ride.”

1

Three years and ten months later . . .

It was Wednesday, March 10, and the second Sarah exited the bare-bones bathroom of the dilapidated motel off Highway 5, she knew she had screwed up royally. “Jade?” she called, knowing it was useless, because it was clear Jade had split. The front door was ajar, and an early-morning breeze whipped into the room, causing the droplets of water from the shower to chill on her skin. She wrapped the towel tighter around her as she crossed the room and closed and locked the door. Small good it would do now. Sarah’s legs were feeling wobbly, so she went to the bed and sat. Charlie, her ancient calico cat, hopped onto her lap and started purring. The tenderness of his warm, furry comfort made her want to weep. She didn’t. It was a luxury Sarah couldn’t afford. She needed to take stock, regroup, and figure out what to do next.

Thank God she had brought her purse into the bathroom with her. Otherwise, her car out front would probably be gone too. The room had been tossed. The thin mattress of the bed had been pushed off the box spring, and the yellow manila envelope that contained Sarah’s stash of cash was gone. How did Jade know where it was? Sarah had waited until Jade had gone into the bathroom the night before to slip it under her side of the mattress. She figured it would be safer underneath her while she slept than in her purse. The girl must have cracked the bathroom door open and watched, laughing to herself.

Sarah exhaled, shook her head. She should have known better.

Strange how one small random act of kindness could produce such a lousy outcome. As Sarah sat there, her hand on Charlie’s vibrating body, her mind was flooded with “if onlys.” If only she hadn’t gotten off that exit ramp to grab a bite at that coffee shop just outside of Portland, Oregon. If only she had said yes to that extra cup of coffee. If only it hadn’t been raining. If only she had parked on the other side of the parking lot.

But she hadn’t.

Sarah had stopped at that particular coffee shop. She had refused the coffee. It had been raining when she had exited the coffee shop, her head tucked into her jacket collar in a feeble attempt to ward off the torrents of rain thundering down. And as she turned left toward her car, she saw in the shadows, out of the corner of her eye, a desperate young woman tugging on the arm of a burly trucker. “Please, Mister, wanna give me a ride?” The man was leering down at her, and Sarah could tell he had nothing but smut on his mind. Sarah had told herself, Keep walking; not your problem, but as Sarah passed, she noticed how young the girl was. Too young to be at a truck stop by herself, in the pouring rain, talking to strange men. Couldn’t be more than fifteen, sixteen max. Why was she on the road? What was she running from?

That was her misstep. She had seen the ghost of herself rather than the young woman for who she was. Sarah’s first instinct was correct. Jade was trouble. Sarah should have kept walking, but instead, the girl ended up riding shotgun, filling the interior of Sarah’s car with the smell of unwashed body, malodourous BO, and Wrigley’s spearmint gum. And Sarah found herself headed to Santa Monica, California, because Jade had said her folks lived there.

“No good deed . . .” Sarah murmured to herself. “You’re such a patsy.” She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering herself. Then she opened her purse, took out her wallet, and rifled through the contents. Great . . . She had to shut her eyes again, exhaling slowly. Once she’d dropped Jade off, Sarah had planned to head back toward Northern California to find another sleepy town off the beaten track that she could disappear into. That was no longer an option. She was in LA, and that’s where she would have to stay, with only half a tank of gas, a cat, and $136 to her name.

2

Mick Talford sat at the back of the theater feeling slightly numb as the final credits for Retribution rolled. The usually stuffy and sedate crowd at the Directors Academy were on their feet, stamping and cheering, whistles piercing the air. Holy shit. Another hit. He felt a light tap on his shoulder. Turned. A young woman from the studio’s publicity department whispered discreetly in his ear, “If you’d follow me, sir.” He staggered to his feet, feeling slightly dazed. How the hell did he keep churning out these hits? And the next thought was, how long before it all crashes down? Because it would. This was Hollywood after all. Nothing they liked better than kingmaking, raising some poor schmuck up, and then, once he felt invincible, the bloodletting and public disemboweling would begin.

Mick followed the publicist in her gray suit, who murmured into her mouthpiece, “I’ve got Talford. Heading your way.” They ducked through the thick velvet curtain at the back. A male publicist was waiting by a door with a big grin on his face. “Fantastic movie, sir. Great job!” He saluted Mick as he opened the door, then stood at attention, his skinny chest puffed out as if Mick were a five-star general. Mick nodded his thanks as they hurried by, his mouth dry. He hated the aftermath of movie screenings, having to go on a stage, try to sound intelligent, answer idiotic questions. The door closed behind them, and for a split second he was tempted to stay there, in that dark corridor that would lead to the backstage of the theater. Better yet, he glanced at the red glowing emergency exit sign. He could sneak out now, go to Musso and Frank Grill, sit in a booth in the back, have a glass of wine, slather their delicious sourdough bread with butter, and dig into a chicken pot pie.

Mick trailed his fingertips along the metal push bar on the door as they passed the exit, longing to run.

“Watch your step here, Mr. Talford,” the fresh-faced publicist said helpfully. As if he were a doddering old man. He didn’t blame her. Lately, the weight of his thirty-eight years seemed to lie heavier than usual around his shoulders. Mick ascended the stairs and stepped into the wings, where his producer, Paul Peterson, was waiting for him. “Heeeeeey, my man,” Peterson drawled. He did a weird sort of shimmy, jutting out his lower jaw as if he’d grown up rough, was a guy-from-the-hood. Nothing could be further from the truth. He was a middle-aged man who had grown up in a goddamned mansion in Bel Air. Peterson yanked Mick into a bear hug, thumped him on the back. “You did it again! Knocked it out of the park! What did I tell you? We got a hit! A monsterfucking hit! Listen to them out there. They love us! They’re gonna come back to see this movie again and again and tell all their friends. And we’re gonna get even richer!” Peterson chortled gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “Best thing I ever did was hooking my wagon to you. You’re a fucking genius. A money-making machine, and I love it. Love being rich, rich, rich!” Peterson was right. The two of them had made money by the truckload, with more rolling in every day. “Listen to that,” Peterson said, cupping a hand around his ear. “Music to my ears.” The audience hadn’t quieted down as they usually did once the lights went up. If anything, the noise level had grown since Mick had exited his seat. Had gotten louder and louder as the crowd continued to roar their approval. It should have exhilarated him, but no. All Mick felt was slightly depressed as he watched Peterson dance around backstage like a gleeful, bald-headed elf high-fiving anyone within arm’s distance.

The president of the Academy was onstage, introducing them now.

“After this,” Peterson said, puffing his chest proudly, “we, my friend, are going to do some serious partying.” He opened his arms expansively, as if he were riding in the lead car of a ticker-tape parade. “And not to worry, I’ve set up everything! One hundred percent paid for! The entire tab is on me!”

Partying was the last thing Mick was in the mood for, but Peterson was so happy, looked so pleased with himself, that Mick slapped an answering smile on his face. “Sounds great.”

“Great?” Peterson squeaked, eyes bulging. “Are you kidding? What I have planned is going to blow your socks off!” Peterson leaned in with a grin and wiggled his bushy eyebrows. “Literally . . .”

Mick stifled a groan, hoping he had read Peterson’s innuendo incorrectly. A slight headache was taking up residence behind his eyes. He was contemplating the relief of begging off with the weight of guilt he would feel for raining on Peterson’s parade.

“And now, the moment you have been waiting for . . . Mick Talford and his producer, Paul Peterson.” The Academy president gestured to the wings, where they were waiting.

“It’s showtime,” Peterson said, slinging a sweaty arm companionably around Mick’s shoulders. “Let’s go do the old razzle-dazzle, my friend.”

Mick took a breath, as if about to plunge into an ice-cold pond, donned the bad-boy Mick Talford swagger and attitude that felt like an ill-fitting suit, and then strode out into the bright lights and onto the stage.

3

“Rachel . . .” The woman at the employment agency glanced down at the form on her clipboard. “Jones?”

Sarah got to her feet. “Yes,” she said. “That would be me.”

“I’m Ellen Davis. This way, please.”

Sarah followed the woman into her office, mouth dry.

Ms. Davis flipped to the next page on her clipboard. Sarah could see over her shoulder that the woman was now reading the fake CV and reference letters Sarah had typed and printed at the public library that morning.

“Have a seat.” Ms. Davis gestured to a chair in front of her desk as she rounded it and sat down.

As Sarah sat, she surreptitiously slid her palms down along her thighs so the black dress pants could erase the slight dampness before clasping her hands in her lap.

The woman flipped to the last page, scanned it, then placed the clipboard on the desk in front of her. “Everything seems in order,” she said. “Your scores on the technical skills test were quite impressive. I don’t foresee a problem getting you placed. What sort of hours are you interested in working?”

“I’m pretty flexible. And it doesn’t have to be office work. Basically, I’ll take whatever job you have available.”

“Nights? Weekends? Long hours okay?”

“Sure.”

“Huh . . . Interesting. Actually—” Ms. Davis’s fingers rapped a quick staccato on the desk as if she were playing descending scales on the piano.

“But I’m not interested in stripping or escort work or anything like that,” Sarah hastily added. This was Hollywood after all. Best to make sure the woman hadn’t gotten the wrong idea.

Ms. Davis didn’t look up, her fingers flying over her keyboard. “Of course. Not to worry. We don’t handle that kind of ‘work placement.’ ” Then she swiveled slightly in her chair, eyes narrowing as she leaned forward, focused on her computer screen. “Ah! Here we go.” A huff of air that could have been laughter escaped her lips. “Well . . . it’s worth a try,” she murmured. “Lord knows, he’s burned his way through all my other options.” Her birdlike gaze moved away from the screen to settle on Sarah’s face, taking in the dark-rimmed glasses. Luckily, the woman’s perusal didn’t linger on the mousy brown hair Sarah had re-dyed in the bathroom sink of the motel room last night.

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