Intimate Strangers: (Harlequin Intrigue #717) by Rebecca York

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Intimate Strangers

Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.

Chapter One

He was back in the living hell of the past five years. Back in prison, under the control of guards
who considered him a member of a subhuman species. He was a convicted murderer, after all.
And that gave them the right to subject him to any indignity they chose.

They were strip-searching him, making him bend over, probing the recesses of his body, as
though they really thought they were going to find he was hiding a six-pack of beer that he
intended to sell for enormous profits to the other inmates.

"You can go," Big Louie growled. He was one of the real sadists among them. A man who
enjoyed inflicting humiliation - and pain, if he could get away with it.

The prisoner wanted to scream out that he wasn't guilty of anything beyond stupidity. But he
knew that everyone claimed innocence, so he kept his mouth clamped shut, and simply stood
there, breathing in the scent of stale sweat and urine, and the disinfectant that failed to mask
them.

Then an electric gate opened, and someone gave him a push into the exercise yard. He
stumbled forward, struggling to regain hisfooting, because if he fell on his face now, he was a
dead man.

Cunningham was there, waiting for him to make the wrong move. Cunningham, who hated his
guts because he used correct grammar, and was tough enough to defend himself. But today the
guy had a knife he'd made from a piece of PVC pipe. It might not be metal, but it was honed to
a fine point.

The guards were right on the other side of the gate. Though they must have seen the knife, they
did nothing.

When the weapon came slashing toward him, he jumped back, his shoulders slamming against
the wire fence.

Behind him, he heard Big Louie laugh. Maybe he'd set this up. Maybe he'd even placed a bet
on Cunningham to win.

A curse sprang to the prisoner's lips as he tried to raise his hand to ward off another blow. But
he couldn't move. Someone behind him had grabbed his arms. He struggled to twist away, but
the unseen demons held him fast. And the knife came down, aiming for his heart.

He fought with all his strength, trying to wrest himself from the powerful grasp. And finally he
realized that he was tangled in the bedclothes. That only a thin sheet was holding him down.

He flopped back against the mattress, carefully untangling his arms and legs as he dragged in
drafts of the cool, clean night air wafting through the window.

The air-conditioning had been on when he'd first come into the hotel room, but he couldn't stand
the feeling of being confined so he'd turned off the climate control and opened the window.

He swiped an arm across his forehead, feeling cold sweat. With a grimace, he heaved himself
out of bed and made his way toward the bathroom. It was a large room - almost as large as
the cell he'd shared with another inmate for five long years. But while the cell's toilet-sink
combo in the corner had been institutional stainless steel, now he leaned over an expanse of
gleaming marble countertop and turned on the water. When it was cold, he splashed some on
his sweaty face, then cupped his hands under the stream and lifted them to his mouth.

The clean, modern bathroom was a luxury he hadn't quite gotten used to. Like the wide bed
with its firm mattress. Or the television he could turn on anytime he wanted. Or the phone on the
bedside table.

Every morning when he woke up, it was like a miracle. He was free. Thanks to hope, prayers
and the Light Street Foundation.

He gripped the edge of the counter, his fingers digging into the hard surface. Then he slowly
raised his gaze to the mirror. As it had for the past few months, the face staring back at him
jarred his senses. Not his old face. An expensive new one. Acquired so he could come back to
Perry's Cove and find the bastard who had taken away five years of his life.

"So now your life of lies and falsehoods officially begins," Mark Ramsey said aloud into the
closed confines of the car as he pulled into a space near the waterfront.

The parking lot was free. The city council wanted to make it as easy as possible for visitors to
enjoy the many charms of Perry's Cove, North Carolina.

He sat for a minute, taking shallow breaths, his hands gripping the wheel. He could still change
his mind and walk away from this damn little town that had done its best to destroy him. But
caving in had never been in his nature. He'd grown up a fighter and it was too late to change
now.

So he climbed out of his secondhand Ford Taurus, then turned and pressed the remote that
locked the doors.

Once, he might have skipped that safety precaution. Now he knew you couldn't be too careful
in these little shore towns. They might look safe as a nun's virtue, but there were a lot of con
artists walking around the streets.

Like himself, for example. The last time he'd been in Perry's Cove, he'd been Mike Randall.
Now he was back with his new name and his new face.

"You're Mark Ramsey," he murmured, just to hear the sound of the syllables. As he spoke, he
raised his face to the blue sky and the sun. The feel of wind blowing back his dark hair was still
a luxury he couldn't take for granted.

As if he could outrun the past, he strode quickly down the path from the parking lot to the
waterfront. Long ago the main business in the area had been fishing. Now the town lived off the
tourists who came to soak up the quaint atmosphere, shop for souvenirs and hit the beaches.
Once, he had seen the place as charming. To his newly cynical eye, however, the storefronts
looked like pretty little money traps.

The shopping center right on the water was a brand-new, three-story building. But across the
street, most of the shops had been created from old residences. Businesses went in and out. He
saw that the ladies' weaving guild had taken over the ground floor of a small clapboard house.
Next door was a boutique in a converted Victorian. Down a bit, an antique shop he
remembered was now a T-shirt emporium.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Intimate Strangers by Rebecca York
Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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