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Washed ashore a South Carolina beach, Lois Steinberg learns her shelter, an old plantation house, was scheduled to host a 'Catch Me' game convention. When the cook is found murdered, questions mount as quickly as bodies. Who is the villain? None of the guests know each other except for their love of the game - right? But it's not a game Lois seeks to solve. It's the saving of her life.
They were only inches apart. Victor watched her with eyes so dark the pupils disappeared. She tried to move, she wanted to look away, but she couldn’t drop her gaze. She saw him flick his eyes toward her mouth.
“I—it…” Blood rushing to beat against her eardrums, she couldn’t hear her own words.
Searching gaze scorching her flesh, he tilted her chin up with the tip of an index finger. “Who are you, Lois Steinberg?”
“What?” The breath hitched in her throat.
“Tell me about you.” His husky whisper stirred the hair at her temple. “I want to learn everything there is.”
Finally able to lower her lids, she pulled away. “Believe me, you don’t. I’m as boring as mud.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“We really should follow B.J.” She tugged her hand from his warm grasp, but his followed. Victor glanced down and chuckled.
“Wait a minute. You’re caught in my watchband.” He raised their attached wrists, his fingers tickling where they fumbled at her shirt cuff. To get a closer look, he leaned toward her and bent his head. Lois drank in the allure of how the ceiling light extracted a purple sheen from the depths of his thick raven hair.
“Spiced apple,” she murmured, not realizing she voiced her thoughts.
“Huh?” He jerked his head up. Their noses almost bumped.
“Nothing.” Heart thudding out of rhythm, Lois drew back as far as she dared without falling off balance.
“You mean Jenna’s complimentary shampoo?” He grinned. “Not what I would’ve chosen.”
The humor in his deep voice, the tenderness of his concern, and the magnetism of his very presence combined in one overwhelming punch. Senses threatening a mutiny, Lois struggled to retain a semblance of self-control. Averting her eyes, she reminded him, “I’m wearing Tia’s blouse. So, be careful.”
“Yeah.” He gave a slight frown and returned his attention to working the fabric loose. “Your clothes were made by a fancy New York designer.”
“I bought them second hand,” she said a bit too defensively.
“Hmm.” Not sounding convinced, Victor stated, “Your accent is definitely not southern. So,” he regarded her with open curiosity, “where are you from?”
“No one particular area. I—I travel a lot.”
“With your job?”
“Not necessarily. Look, can’t you hurry?”
“You want me to tear your borrowed shirt?”
“No.” She gave a resigned sigh. “But do you have to make me feel like you’re giving me the third degree?”
“If you don’t wanna chat,” he drawled, once again giving a deliberate perusal of her mouth, “we can do something else.”