Page 2 of The Maverick

She eased through the living room, every instinct telling her to stop, go back, call someone. But pride was a stubborn thing, and so was her temper. This was her house. Her space. She wouldn’t be driven out by paranoia.

Except for her books… she stopped in front of the massive built-in bookshelf that dominated the east wall of her main room. She organized her author copies with a precision bordering on obsessive-compulsive. She organized them byseries with perfectly aligned spines. But now, someone had pulled three spines forward in the bottom row. Just enough to notice. Just enough to say, ‘I was here.’

She felt a chill run down her spine. There were no signs of forced entry. No broken windows. Nobody had tampered with the locks. But someone had been here. Someone who knew enough to leave a breadcrumb and not a mess.

Slipping over to the massive kitchen island, she grabbed a butcher knife. She knew the line about not bringing a knife to a gunfight, despite that, it was all she had. Holding the knife steady in front of her, she checked every room. The kitchen. The office. The upstairs bedrooms and her own. Everything looked untouched. Her laptop was still on the desk, the screen dark. When she opened it, her files were intact. Nothing stolen. Nothing changed. Except everything.

She stood in the doorway of her bedroom, clutching the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles ached. Even so, the worst part wasn’t that someone had broken in. It wasn’t even the note.

It was the fact that whoever did this had quoted her own work back to her.

That was intimate… calculated… personal.

After ensuring there was no one in her main bedroom and attached bath, she closed and locked herself in, moving toward her bed. Before crawling onto it, she retrieved the antique vanity chair and wedged it under the door.

Vanessa stayed awake the rest of the night, curled on her bed with a blanket and her phone in her hand. The lights stayed on. So did the cameras, which she cycled through again and again—pausing on each feed, scanning shadows for a shape that didn’t belong.

Nothing.

She made it to sunrise before she admitted the truth to herself… she was out of her depth. There was only one personshe could call. Well, actually there were five, but she knew herself well enough to know that there was only one she would call.

She stared at the contact name on her phone for a long time. Hawke Turner. She hadn’t spoken to him in two years. Not since everything between them had imploded.

Not since he’d offered her everything, and she’d walked away.

Because she hadn’t trusted him.

Because she’d been afraid to need him.

Now she was dialing his number without thinking. The phone rang once. Then twice.

Then… “Vanessa.”

Her breath caught. He hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t asked who it was.

Just her name. Low. Commanding. Steady. Of course, he still had her number.

“I need you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Silence stretched, thick and full of too many memories.

“I’m on my way.”

“You don’t know where I am.”

“I do.”

“You what?”

Click. The call ended. He hung up.

Vanessa stared at the phone for a long second before setting it down and whispering, “Of course you do.”

She should be furious. Offended. Alarmed. Any rational woman would be. But she wasn’t rational. Not when it came to Hawke.

The moment she’d heard his voice, she knew one thing with absolute certainty. Whatever was coming—whatever danger she’d just stepped into—he wouldn’t let it reach her, and that was the part that scared her most.

The sound of his boots on the porch made her breathe easier, but her heart beat faster.

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