40 Souls to Keep Read online

  40 Souls to Keep

  By Libby Drew

  Seven years ago, Jase awoke with the mystical power to heal people—and no memory of his past. The only clue to his identity is the number forty tattooed on his arm. Driven by a mission he doesn’t understand, Jase follows his visions to those he’s meant to save. He is convinced that the fortieth person he’s drawn to—a little girl named Macy Pearl—is the key to finally learning the truth…

  Social worker Lucas Jacobson has made a promise to protect Macy, orphaned when her parents were brutally murdered. So when Jase shows up in Naples claiming he’s there to heal the child, Lucas is wary, despite his attraction to the enigmatic stranger.

  Then Macy is abducted, and Lucas has no choice but to trust in Jase. Scouring the city from its glitzy resorts to its seedy underbelly only deepens the mystery—and draws the two men closer. But Jase is certain of one thing: if Macy dies, a dark fate awaits them all.

  92,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  Exciting things happen in November. It’s the month we first announced the creation of Carina Press, the month of my Harlequin employment anniversary and it’s the month when we in the U.S. get gorge-yourself-on-bad-carbs-and-turkey day (otherwise known as Thanksgiving). We also get Black Friday (I think they call it that because of the color of your bruises after you’ve been run over by crazy shoppers).

  This November, we’re excited to release our first Carina Press book in trade print format. The Theory of Attraction, an erotic BDSM romance collection featuring novellas from Delphine Dryden, Christine d’Abo and Jodie Griffin, is on shelves and available for order online.

  We also have fourteen new stories in digital for you to enjoy post-turkey coma, in that long, long line outside the mall on Black Friday or, if neither of those is your thing, to enjoy just because you like a good book! Try to avoid the crime and violence of some of those crazy holiday shoppers and enjoy some on-page suspense instead. Marie Force is back with her popular Fatal series and ongoing protagonists Nick and Sam, in her next romantic suspense, Fatal Deception. Also returning is author Shirley Wells with Dying Art, the next Dylan Scott mystery.

  I’m happy to introduce debut author Jax Garren’s new trilogy, which kicks off this month with How Beauty Met the Beast. This novella grabbed my attention when I read it on submission, with off-the-charts sexual tension, a wonderful, character-driven futuristic world, a smart, sassy heroine and a tortured, scarred hero who yearns for nothing more than to keep the woman he’s secretly falling in love with safe.

  Looking for something out-of-this-world to take you away from the pre-holiday madness? J.L. Hilton offers up her next cyberpunk science-fiction romance, Stellarnet Prince, continuing the adventures of futuristic blogger extraordinaire Genny. Meanwhile, Cáit Donnelly’s Now You See It gives a paranormal edge to a thrilling romantic suspense, while erotic fantasy romance Dark Dealings by Kim Knox is guaranteed to give you that “take me away” feeling.

  Joining Kim with erotic romance releases this month are Jodie Griffin with her next Bondage & Breakfast novella, Forbidden Desires, and Lynda Aicher’s first of a BDSM trilogy, Bonds of Trust. All three books in this trilogy are both smokin’ hot, while delivering a wonderful, captivat­ing story.

  We have two authors with male/male releases this month, including L.B. Gregg’s contemporary romance Men of Smithfield: Adam and Holden. Also in the male/male niche, author Libby Drew has her first Carina Press release, para­normal male/male romance 40 Souls to Keep.

  Susanna Fraser’s An Infamous Marriage is our lone historical romance offering this month, but one that won’t disap­point. Anchoring us in the here and now are several contemporary romance titles. Jeanette Murray’s No Mistle­toe Required aims to get you into a holiday mood and December Gephart bursts onto the publishing scene with her debut, the witty, fun and romantic Undercover Professor.

  And don’t miss the upcoming conclusion of Shannon Stacey’s second Kowalski family trilogy, All He Ever Dreamed.

  Wherever your reading pleasure takes you, enjoy this month’s variety of releases as we gear up for the holiday season.

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Dedication

  To my loving husband,

  who always believed I had this inside me.

  And to my parents, for allowing me to

  make memories in Naples and the Gulf Coast.

  You are both in my thoughts daily.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to express my deepest gratitude to all the people who have helped and supported me throughout this project. I would like to specifically thank the Collier County Sherriff’s Office and the Children’s Advocacy Center of Collier County for their time and information.

  Special thanks goes to my agent, Saritza Hernandez, who has supported me as both a colleague and friend for a long time. Your encouragement keeps me going.

  And also to Betsy, a sister of my heart. Thank you for your time, thoughts, feedback and cheerleading. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Healing is a matter of time,

  but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.

  ~Hippocrates

  Chapter One

  October 2005

  He took his first breath and choked on the scent of burning leaves.

  Visions flashed through his head—a clock, a beating heart, green scales, a toothy smile. He recognized none of them. They merged into a flickering golden sphere, unmistakable even in its abstract imagery—the world on fire.

  The flames winked out.

  Alone in the dark, he sucked in his second breath.

  A breeze kissed his skin, chilling him through. In the distance, children laughed. A woman screamed, “Get down from there!” and a man’s deep voice called, “Hotdogs! Fresh hotdogs!”

  He had no idea where he was. He had no idea who he was. That terrifying truth had him curling more tightly into a fetal position.

  Bits of knowledge bloomed. Stray thoughts. Funny he could remember the way leaves smelled when they were set on fire. How the musk of decay filled the air until woodsy smoke overpowered it. He remembered that in parts of the world where t
he trees went dormant in winter, some people burned leaves and some people bagged them. He knew fall was the season after summer, and that winter came next, bringing snow and a filthy coating of gravel on the sidewalks. He recalled that road salt was hell on your car’s paint and rotted the undercarriage if you didn’t clean it regularly.

  But he couldn’t remember his name. He had no idea where he was or what day it was. Newborn and helpless, he couldn’t even cry. The tears wouldn’t come.

  Open your eyes. Instead, he squeezed them shut. What would happen if nothing looked familiar?

  A hard surface cradled him, and the wind reached up and under it, snaking through his clothes, making him shiver. A bench? Hard, narrow, slatted, and cold as hell. So open your eyes and look at it, coward.

  No. He couldn’t.

  “Hey, mister.”

  He flinched at the closeness of the voice and at its innocent loudness.

  “You okay, mister?”

  Open your eyes and talk to the kid. You are not okay. But the dark felt safe, and some base instinct told him to ignore the voice. Then he could curl up on his bench until he remembered his name and everything else that went with it.

  I don’t hide from my problems.

  It was the first clue to who he was. The hell if he’d let anyone call him a coward. Even the demons in his own head.

  Mindful of the light that wanted to spear through his cornea and into his brain, he cracked one eye open, widening it when the shape in front of him sidestepped to block the blinding sun.

  As senses went, vision was the real bitch. There was no denying the reality of his situation now. To his best guess, he was in a park, sprawled across a listing wood bench. Overhead, tall oak trees, still stubbornly holding on to their curled brown leaves, failed to block the worst of the late-afternoon sun, which was slanting low over a duck pond thirty yards away. A boy stood in front of him, holding a sandy pail filled with acorns. Brown curls framed his round face and wide green eyes. “Are you okay?” he repeated.

  He ignored the question and ducked his head, squinting at himself, then wished he hadn’t. He didn’t recognize the lanky frame curled up on the bench. Or the khaki pants, ripped out on the left knee. Or the green T-shirt and lightweight brown jacket. He commanded the legs to move, to stretch out and dangle over the end of the slats and onto the grass. They obeyed. That settled it, then. This body belonged to him, even if he didn’t remember it.

  His calf muscles ached, and his left shoulder throbbed when he tried to sit up. Had he been in a fight? Mugged? A blow to the head could account for the temporary amnesia, wasn’t that right? He had no idea. Which only proved his medical knowledge extended no further than cable TV hospital dramas.

  His clothes were rumpled, but not torn or dirty; that did a lot to bury the mugging theory. The confusion circled, never settling, never leaving, spinning alongside the other physical sensations. His dry, scratchy throat. A gnawing in his gut that could be hunger or anxiety. And a headache to end all others, pounding through his temples before zigzagging over the crown of his head and down his neck. Hungover? That idea didn’t sit well, but at least it was some sort of explanation.

  He pushed into a sitting position, listing like the bench, and waited for the details to come. The hell if he was going anywhere until they did. His stomach lurched, then settled, but he still ached as if he’d been run over. Possibility number three? He made another cursory check of his clothes and wiggled his fingers and toes. Took a deep breath. No blood and no pain across his chest or ribs. Just a deep allover ache.

  The boy took a step back when he sat up, but didn’t flee. He swiped a dirty hand under his nose, snuffling. “Do you need a doctor?”

  “Jesus, enough with the questions, kid.” He could speak. Hallelujah. One more mystery solved. Or not. If he hadn’t felt the words spill out, he wouldn’t have known the deep, raspy voice was his. His answer startled the child, and he blinked, backing up one more step.

  “I was just asking. You look hurt.” He set the acorns down. “I’m Christian.”

  “Christian,” he said, garbling the name. His jaw didn’t want to work. What were people teaching their kids these days that they talked to drunken bums in the park? No, he wasn’t going to accept the “drunk” part unless he got some proof.

  He scratched at his chin, mentally calculating the days of stubble he found there. Three, maybe? “Christian,” he said again, doing better with the name the second time. “What’s your mom’s rule about talking to strangers?”

  “My mom’s dead.”

  Said so matter-of-factly, and with so little emotion, there was no accounting for why the words made his heart pound. “Sorry,” he said, dropping his eyes.

  “That’s okay,” Christian answered.

  Turning his attention from the boy for the moment, he patted down his pockets, first the shallow ones in the front of his pants, then the deeper ones in the sides of his coat. Nothing. No wallet, no papers or receipts...not even a gum wrapper. The panic came knocking again. He shoved it back.

  “Did you hit your head?” Christian had taken a seat on the grass by the bench, cross-legged, with the bucket in his lap. Idly, he dug through his acorn collection.

  Had he? He lifted a pair of large, unfamiliar hands and sifted them through his hair. It was long and thick, just brushing his shoulders. No contusion that he could feel, and no pain. He shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

  Christian sighed, frowning in confusion. “What can I do to help?”

  They blinked at each other for several seconds.

  “Why would you want to?” he asked, shooting a narrowed gaze at the boy.

  “I—I don’t know.” Christian shrugged. “I just want to. I have to.”

  A Boy Scout out to save the world. As imprudent as it would be to refuse—because he obviously did need help—he would. He might not know his name, but he knew enough not to engage a strange child in conversation, especially looking less than respectable. Getting arrested wasn’t going to help matters.

  He sniffed, catching another whiff of wood fire, and reconsidered. If his head didn’t clear soon, the police might be his only choice. “Where are we?”

  “The park.”

  Christ. “Yeah, I see it’s a park.” And a nice one too. Beyond the copse of trees where he and Christian sat, the duck pond stretched away into the distance, clear water rippling in the wind. A line of grassy knolls surrounded it, and people dotted the lawn—walking, picnicking and playing. Above the tall oaks he could just make out a line of high-rise buildings. “What city is this?”

  Christian laughed, the way people did to animals at the zoo. “Philadelphia.”

  He waited for his mind to open, to tell him why he was there. Nothing. His brain dredged up some historical facts, things like the Declaration of Independence and the Liberty Bell, as well as the idea that if this was Philly, Christian was probably used to seeing people like himself crashed out on park benches. Beyond that, his mind was as murky as the bottom of the pond.

  He ground his teeth. Concentrate. Focus. There has to be a clue somewhere. His gaze fell to his lap, and he gulped a breath. There was a band of lighter skin around the base of his left hand’s ring finger. He lifted it, examining the mark, then ran his finger over the indent, noticing how much softer the skin felt. Filing the information away—missing ring, tanned hands—he smiled at Christian. The boy didn’t yelp or run away, so the result mustn’t have been too gruesome. In fact, Christian smiled back, showing a mouth only half full of teeth.

  Adult incisors. Missing canines. A few baby molars, barely visible. About nine years old, his mind supplied...from where, he had no idea. What kind of person knew those things? Maybe he was a dentist or...maybe he had children. He concentrated on that, waiting for a rush of some emotion—a name, or a face—but none came.

&nbs
p; Christian watched him, patient, his eyes glowing with the sort of nonjudgmental openness that only kids possessed.

  He spoke to fill the silence. “I really am sorry about your mom.”

  Christian shrugged. “It was back when I was a baby, so it’s hard to be sad. I live with my gramma.” He turned to point at a figure about twenty yards away, a plump older woman, brown hair streaked through with gray. Her nose was buried in a magazine and her ankles were crossed, tapping some rhythm nobody else could hear. At her feet, a soft-sided cooler sat open, juice box balanced on top. Christian’s toys were scattered at her feet, with a platoon of trucks and army men leading like a trail of breadcrumbs to the sandbox a few yards away.

  Way to be vigilant, lady. Had the woman even noticed her grandson had left the sandbox to talk to the crazy man?

  “I think...” He licked his lips. “I think you better head back to your gramma now.” He shifted on the bench as he spoke, testing the unfamiliar body. It responded sluggishly. Christian didn’t move, a development he couldn’t say bothered him. He wanted the boy to both go and stay. Going would be best, before he found himself accused of something unsavory. But by his calculation, he’d been awake and cognizant for ten minutes, and he knew no more about himself or his circumstances now than he did when he woke to the smell of smoke. Christian was the one familiar element. Childishly, he ached to keep him close.

  Going to the police would be the logical step, but the thought made his subconscious rear up in alarm. His palms grew slick with sweat and his heart took off at a gallop. He had no idea why the police made him uneasy, which trebled the bad feeling building in his chest. Bottom line: he needed help. So why the compulsion not to find it? Was he in some sort of trouble with the law? Cursing under his breath, he pushed to his feet. He could sit and ask himself questions all day, and it wouldn’t help a thing. Time to act.

  By the time he’d steadied himself on the back of the bench and looked up, Christian was gone. Just as well. The park stretched all around him, woods to his back, the pond and open meadows in front. No direction spoke to him more than any other, and even logic wasn’t much of a help. He knew Philadelphia was a large city in eastern Pennsylvania, but that was all. Did he even live here? Who the hell knew?