Southampton

New York

Stanley Finch caught one of Samantha Gilchrist’s wide-eyed, you-need-to-come-here-right-now looks as he topped off his boss’s drink. Chuckling, he rolled his eyes. By that point, Stan was used to Sam’s patented expressions and could read them almost instantly. Over the course of the past year of working for Sam’s best friend, Amanda Montgomery—a year that had simultaneously gone by in a flash and felt like ten—Stan had often been on the receiving end of what he affectionately called the Samantha Gilchrist Stare.

“Stan,” Sam whispered from just outside the living room, though it was more of a stage whisper than anything truly covert. “Psst, Stan!”

Stan glanced over to his boss, Alex Montgomery, who relieved him of his impromptu bartending duties with a nod. Stan headed for the hallway, noting that Alex’s brother, Stephen, fell in line behind him, his eyes narrowed in concern. Stan—and everyone else who lived with or worked for the Montgomerys—knew that Stephen and Sam had a “thing” brewing between them; they merely hadn’t acted on it yet. Stan would put good money on there being something close to a nuclear meltdown when it finally happened.

That night, the Montgomery compound—and he wasn’t exaggerating, it was a compound—bristled with activity. Thankfully, this time it was the celebratory kind. Hell, Alex and Amanda had only exchanged their wedding vows a couple of hours ago, followed by an incredible dinner and an over-the-top live band featuring a few sets from the bride herself and her good friend Jason Wild. With just thirty guests, though, the evening hadn’t been much different from their normal group dinners.

Still, it was a celebration that had been a long time coming.

The party had just moved from the terrace to inside and everyone was gathered around the large bar in the living room, taking a much-needed break before dessert. A break Stan feared might be over, at least for him, as he let Sam, who was acting all cloak and dagger, drag him along the long hallway. It was a bit ridiculous, he thought. Most of the night’s guests were from Calder Defense—Alex and Stephen’s private security company—and were, in any given scenario, notoriously the good guys.

He tried to ask Sam where they were going, but she put a finger to her lips and kept walking until she finally stopped in front of the library. After giving him another Samantha Gilchrist Stare, Sam motioned Stan inside, shutting the French doors behind them.

“Well?” Stan asked when she turned to face him.

“I just got a call,” she said, keeping up with the cryptic act.

“That’s nice, Sam. I was just having a drink and celebrating Alex and Amanda’s nuptials.”

Behind them, the doors opened, and Stephen entered, clearly not caring that he was barging in on them. Stan wasn’t surprised. If Samantha was on the move, the other brother Montgomery wasn’t far behind. Not bothering to shut the doors behind him, Stephen said nothing, just stood against the wall. Sam glanced his way and gave him an exasperated look, motioning toward the open doors. Stephen leveled a serious look back at her but closed the doors, anyway. The entire silent exchange—Sam’s clandestine act, Stephen’s seriousness—was rather amusing. Stephen had been in an accident last month, and the gravity of it seemed to have moved the needle where his feelings for Sam were concerned. Apparently satisfied, Sam turned back to Stan with a straight-on stare.

If you’d never met Samantha Gilchrist, you would be forgiven for not knowing she was the Arctic Circle come to life. However, once you got to actually know her, you knew if you could just crack her ice in the tiniest way possible, she oozed warmth from the inside. But back to her stare. Scary straight. Then a deadpan: “It’s about Jen.”

At this, Stan went cold. Suddenly he was the Arctic Circle, without the inner warmth.

Jenny.

Unable to think of what else to do, Stan turned to leave. He didn’t want to hear any more. Couldn’t. But, in an act that could have been choreographed, Stephen moved to block the doors at the exact moment Sam grabbed Stan’s shirt.

“She’s in trouble, Stan.”

Eyes narrowed, he took out his frustration on the woman in front of him. “What’s wrong with you and your friends that someone’s always in trouble? We’ve only just sorted out Amanda’s problem and now there’s another one?” Tactfully, Stan chose not to mention Sam’s own troubles back in law school.

“Good news,” Sam quipped. “After this, I’m out of friends.”

Stan had to give her that. He and Sam had lost touch after law school, only to reconnect years later at a funeral. A few months after that, Stan had taken on the role of Amanda’s twenty-four-seven bodyguard. Since then, they’d been around one another day in and day out, so he knew Sam was speaking the truth. But still, couldn’t it have been anyone but Jenny?

He sighed. “Look, I have nothing left to say to Jenny and I would bet my life she feels the same way about me.”

The look on Sam’s face said she disagreed, but Stan refused to consider it. He did not want to go there. No. No. No. Jenifer D’Angelo had almost been the death of him—twice—and he wasn’t looking for an encore. It had taken months for him to shut it—them—down. In his heart and in his head. Over the past year, he had learned how to live again. How to trust people, how to enjoy their company. Amanda; her daughter, Callie; and Samantha had had a lot to do with that.

He honestly couldn’t say where he might be if it hadn’t been for Sam’s call last spring. He almost had to laugh, thinking back on it, realizing Sam had used almost the same words then: Stan, I just got a call. My friend Amanda. She’s in trouble.

Precisely then, the doors opened, and Alex walked in. “I’m not sure what’s going on in here,” he said, all business, nuptial bliss clearly on pause. “But I just hung up with Gianni D’Angelo. He wants his daughter extracted. Now. Helicopters are on the way. Stan, you’re point on this one.”

Stan shook his head. “Boss.” The man had no idea what he was asking.

As if reading his mind, Alex said, “I don’t really care what you think or feel right now, Stan. I assured him she’d be in our hands within four hours. Trust me on this, there’s a lot you don’t know.”

When Alex got like this, Stan knew there was no point in arguing. As if on cue, the chopper sounded in the distance, rendering any debate useless.

“Trevor has her coordinates,” Alex continued, unflappable. “He and Michael are going with you. The team will be waiting in Palm Beach for your orders.”

Alex did something then, something he never had before. Not once in all the time Stan had known him, not even that first night they’d met at the hospital where Amanda was being held. He embraced Stan, clutching his shoulder. Startled, it took Stan a moment to return the hug, clapping the other man on the back. Alex’s words, There’s a lot you don’t know, ran briefly through his head, before the sounds of the helicopter and clipped footsteps rushing through the hall took his attention back to the moment.

“You’ve kept my family safe, Stan,” Alex said. “I don’t understand the timing of many things, but in this, I believe yours has come.”

Palm Beach

Florida

Jenifer D’Angelo startled awake with a gasp, bolting upright. Eyes on the baby, then darting across her room, she sat for a moment and let her breath slow—until she realized it was something besides her normal anxiety that had awoken her. She stiffened; lights in the driveway.

She tapped her phone and saw ten missed calls from her dad, and a few—strangely—from Samantha Gilchrist. Wow, she thought. Sam. This must be serious. Jenny hadn’t spoken with Sam since, well, since before she’d run into Stan in Palm Beach the spring before last. Her dad must have reached out to her old friend, which meant that something big was up.

With no time to go there, Jenny focused on the emergency at hand, jumping quickly from her bed and going first for the baby. She’d never known how much she could love something, or someone, until she found out she was pregnant. Little Hayden was the best thing that had ever happened to her; she loved how warm he always felt, and his small, but comforting weight against her chest.

Now, she settled him into the crook of her neck and brushed her lips across his soft little head as she waved her free hand in front of the artwork that hung between his crib and her bed. Silently, the secret compartment behind it opened, and Jenny grabbed her gun. Best purchase she’d ever made. The artwork, that is. She’d had a hidden box recessed into the wall, and the painting lay flush in front of it, working like a charm to hide the weapon she wasn’t thrilled about the need to keep, anyway.

She’d spent days at the shooting range trying out every pistol available until she got comfortable enough with one of them to make the purchase. It was only a slight consolation that it was the safest of the lot, even with a chambered bullet.

Jenny hated to admit it, but she’d gotten the gun to quell her nagging fear that her ex-husband, John, was looking for payback. And she knew from her instructor’s drilling that the seconds it took to insert the magazine, and chamber the first round, could mean the difference between life and death. Jenny hated the gun, but she was determined to be prepared, and it made her feel like she had a fighting chance. At the very least, he’d never be able to force her into another vehicle again.

Cradling Hayden in one arm, she used the muzzle of the gun to pull back the drapes. Jenny’s TV cop impersonation surprised even her, but when she saw two SUVs idling on the street, she was grateful she was ready. In an instant, she decided that whatever was going on, she wasn’t waiting upstairs.

Stand and fight, or cave.

She would not cave.

She crossed the foyer, glancing at the lights on the alarm pad, which still blinked “Armed,” meaning no one had tried to enter. Hmm. Maybe she was overreacting. The SUVs could easily be waiting to pick up a client, be a car service called for an early-morning flight, or be dropping someone off after a late night out. Still, suspicion prickled Jenny’s neck. A feeling that was validated when she peered out the glass of her front doors to get a better look and saw two more SUVs pull into her drive and circle the fountain. It was go time.

“Alexa—dial nine-one-one,” she commanded, keeping her voice low. Unable to see through the tinted windows of the SUVs in her drive, Jenny started backing away from her door, just as she heard the dispatcher greet her through her Alexa speaker.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“My name is Jenifer D’Angelo, I’m alone with my six-month-old son. I think my ex-husband found me. I’m armed. I have a baby.”

“Dispatching officers now, Ms. D’Angelo.”

Come and get me, you dirtbag. Your days of messing with me are over.