I never wanted the spotlight. Five years after my husband died, all I wanted was to write in peace. But Beth insisted—book tour, public appearances, Alan Caprison as my fake romance cover-boy sidekick. I tolerated it. Until Abigail Fairfax kidnapped me.

Now I’m on a volcanic island, drugged and disoriented, staring at ancient carvings only I can read. He thinks I’ll lead him to treasure. I told him no. He didn’t care.

Back home, Alan saw everything. He called someone—Jack, a ghost with a gun. They came for me. Jack got me out. But as we ran, a bullet cracked through the air. Jack dropped. I screamed. Alan pulled me into the jungle.

We’ve been running for hours. Sweat soaks my shirt. My legs burn. Alan stumbles ahead, glancing back like I’m something fragile.

“We’re not stopping,” he says, voice rough. “Not until you’re safe.”

I want to laugh. He’s the guy who thinks ‘metaphor’ is a brand of soap. But he’s here. He came for me.

A helicopter thunders overhead. We dive into the undergrowth.

Alan wraps an arm around me, shielding me from view. Our faces are inches apart. His breath is warm. His heart hammers against my back.

“Stay quiet,” he whispers.

I nod. But I don’t look away.

Do I still believe in love? I don’t know. But right now, with his body pressed to mine, I want to.