Chapter 1

Juliet’s house had disappeared.

Rafe Montfort scrubbed a hand over his face. A strangling ache invaded his chest, filling the empty space that once held his heart. He shifted the Army duffel he’d shouldered for the past six miles, moving the burn from one arm to the other. Why had he assumed her father’s trailer would still be standing? That she’d be living there? Waiting for him?

Because he wasn’t only a bastard who made assumptions. He was a fool who once believed the Prince’s brutal goals justified Rafe’s ruthless actions.

Or, as Escalus used to say, “a fool whose violent delights have violent ends.”

Summer cicadas hummed in the Isle of Grace’s surrounding woods, their mournful drone filling Rafe’s head with rhythmic disapproval. Sweat soaked his T-shirt, pooling low in his back above his waistband. Where he used to keep his gun.

He wasn’t just a bastard. He wasn’t just a fool. He just wasn’t the man he’d once hoped to become. With a nod to his broken past, he left the overgrown property and headed home.

Keep it moving, Montfort. That’s right. One boot in front of the other.

He kicked an empty beer bottle into a ditch, shattering the brown glass, and marched toward Pops’s trailer tucked between the towering Georgia pines a half mile down the Isle’s dirt road. He’d given up his honor, his wife, his men. Thank God his mother had died before he betrayed everyone he loved. In the years he’d been away, he hadn’t just cut out his heart; he’d sold his soul.

Despite the breeze, questions about Juliet’s departure burned his blood.

Why had she left? He climbed the pine steps to the deck alongside the double-wide.

Where’d she go? He jumped the last two steps to avoid the missing planks.

Did she ever think of him? The Capels had arrived on the Isle long before the American Revolution. It’d never occurred to him that her family would leave. For eight long years, he’d been counting on that.

His duffel landed with a thud next to an outboard motor and buckets of fishing gear. He rubbed the knotted muscles in his shoulder and faced the broken screen door. His vision faded until all he could see was the blurry mesh.

What the hell was he doing? Why had he even come home? Because he’d had no choice. Everything depended on him remembering that. With renewed determination, he raised his fist and hit the metal door.

No answer. He closed his eyes, took another breath, and knocked again.

Juliet’s family was gone. Had his left as well?

He heard a banging around back, pulled out his leather jacket, and covered the tattoos on his arms. He’d rather die of heat stroke than start an argument. Then he jumped over the deck rail. His combat boots made it easier to walk through the tall weeds to the red barn a hundred yards behind the trailer. Three times larger than the home, the barn and surrounding yard held remnants of every American classic car ever made.

Everything stood as if he’d never left, except for the cell boost antenna on the barn’s roof. From the height and distance, it probably provided a cell signal the width and depth of Pops’s property. Pops had joined the twenty-first century? Maybe miracles were possible.

He drew closer and saw his daddy’s gray head bobbing up and down beneath the hood of a black 1958 Chevy Impala. He stopped on the other side of the car and exhaled until his lungs ached. “Pops?”

His dad raised his head, his eyes squinting. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me. Rafe.”

A man, shorter than he remembered, stood. In a stained red T-shirt and overalls with one strap hanging down, his father waited a few moments before nodding. At least he wasn’t holding a beer. Or his shotgun.

Rafe waved at the car. “She’s a real beauty. She yours?”

“No.” Pops wiped his dirty hands on an oily rag, and Rafe focused on the remaining finger on his father’s right hand. He’d given the other four to the Marines. “She belongs to your brother.”

“Good for him.”

Pops tossed the rag onto the engine and gripped the side of the Chevy’s frame. His hard stare took in Rafe’s leather jacket in what had to be triple-digit heat. “What you doin’ here, boy?”

He held out his hand. A hug would only be an invitation to an ass-kicking. “The Army released me from prison.”

“Released?” His father picked up a dirty wrench, his face brown beneath a haircut the Corps would salute. “What the hell for? Good behavior?”

“No, sir.” He dropped his hand. If disapproval were a color, it would be the dark, muddy brown in his father’s grim gaze. “I don’t know why.”

Since he’d spent two years in a Russian jail and then the last nine months locked in isolation in Leavenworth, he wasn’t sure what to think. “I was told to return to Savannah and wait for a call.”

While it went against every one of his hard-earned instincts urging him to run, he’d come home to find out what the hell was going on. Besides, it wasn’t like he had anyplace else to go.

“You still a sergeant?”

A sharp ache hit Rafe’s back molars, and he eased off the teeth grinding. On his left, he noticed a band of magnolia trees surrounding a white glory cross. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and forced himself to meet his father’s reproach. “I don’t know what I am.” Sergeant? Prisoner 061486? The Prince’s warrior? Hell if he knew.

“I know what you are,” Pops said. “Damn traitor. Not to mention adulterer, liar, thief.”

Rafe’s exhale sounded more like a hiss. While he wasn’t all of those things, he’d done other things—worse things. “I was also dishonorably discharged.”

His father snorted and rocked back on his heels, watching, waiting. Probably for an apology. So like Pops.

Without a word, Pops ducked back under the hood and collected his tools. A torque wrench, the old spark plugs, another rag. “What reason would the U.S. Army have for letting a dishonorably discharged ex-Green Beret out of prison?”

Rafe gripped the frame with both hands. “They dropped the case against me.”

“That makes no sense. You ditched your men. Then got caught working as a mercenary or somethin’. Ain’t no way to walk that back, Son. Ain’t no chance.”

“I know.” There’d been extenuating circumstances, the kind of circumstances beyond any soldier’s control. Five thousand one hundred and eleven reasons, to be exact.

Pops straightened and they shut the hood of the car together. The click-bang echoed around the yard littered with wounded vehicles, followed by the hollow clatter of tools being tossed into a metal toolbox.

Pops wiped the sweat off his brow with his arm. “You want to stay here until you get that call?”

“Until I figure out what’s going on. But I need something from you. Information.”

His father’s eyes thinned, looking like slits in a wrinkled potato. “Juliet est partie.”

Pops spoke in French—the language of Rafe’s momma—and that meant no more questions unless you wanted to see the buckle end of his belt. Except Rafe was taller and stronger than his father. Had been for a long time.

“Où est-elle?” Rafe kept his tone casual, but when Pops didn’t answer, he tried again. “Where’d she go?”

Pops headed for the trailer. “You can’t undo what you did, Son. And what you did to Juliet was bad. Real bad.”

Rafe followed, inhaling the humid air until his chest burned. “I need to know she’s okay.” Although there weren’t enough sorries to make up for what he’d done, protecting Juliet was his priority. Always had been. He was done with war and its ever-changing rules. Once assured of her safety, he’d ditch Savannah and start his life over again. Alone.

Only problem was he had to disappear before the Prince found out about his release. And it had to be forever.

“What about your brother?” Pops said. “You worried about him, too?”

“No.”

“Still damn stubborn.” Pops shook his head. “You two have things to work out. Bad history. But family’s important.”

“Which is why I need to check on Juliet.”

Pops faced him. “Do you know what St. Peter uses to polish his heavenly gates?”

Rafe crossed his arms. Some things never changed. “Not a clue, sir.”

“Humility.” Pops poked Rafe in the chest with the only finger on his right hand. “Considering the shit you’re standing in, you’d do well to shut down your pride and hold your temper.”

Rafe wasn’t the only man in the family with anger issues, but he answered, “Yes, sir.”

Pops pulled a humming cell phone out of his back pocket. He tossed it to Rafe. “Is this what you’re waitin’ for?”

He caught the phone and read the text from a blocked ID.

Welcome home, Romeo. Tis Escalus.

Rafe went for the weapon in his back waistband, except it wasn’t there. He scanned the tree line of the surrounding pine forest. If Escalus was near, so was his sniper rifle. “Maybe.”

Pops harrumphed and left Rafe standing in the weeds.

Once Pops went inside, Rafe pounded the phone’s keyboard.

Did the Prince buy my freedom?

No. And the Prince will doom thee to death if thou speak.

Considering the Prince had thrown Rafe’s ass into a Russian prison, his former boss wouldn’t be high-fiving the change in status. But what would the Prince and his warriors—including Escalus—do about it?

How did you find me?

We’ve never lost a kinsman. You belong to us, Romeo. Remember thy vow, such as lovers used to swear?

Rafe stretched out his right arm covered in leather, ruined from wrist to shoulder. He more than remembered his vow to the Prince. His damn tithe. The life he’d given up to save those he loved. Nothing less than everything.

What do you want?

Come back to us. Unless you no longer love Lady Juliet?

Rafe typed, You hurt my wife and I’ll kill you but deleted the message before hitting send. Starting a war with Escalus would only make things worse. Rafe had only been out for three days, and already his past was fucking with his present. Fantastic.

Thunder rolled in the distance, storm clouds approached, and the air hummed with static. He studied the dense veil of kudzu a half mile from the trailer. The border between Capel land and Montfort property. Close enough for a well-trained sniper. A Fianna sniper.

“Rafe?” Pops called from the back deck. “You coming, Son?”

“Yes.” Rafe wanted to pray that his deal with the devil hadn’t followed him home. Except he no longer believed in prayers, and the churning in his gut told him the devil hadn’t just hitched a ride. The devil was driving. “I’m coming.”

* * *

Juliet stopped in the middle of her store, pressed the phone against her ear, and stared at the marble archangel’s smug face. Gabriel stood in the corner, over six feet tall, with his wings folded behind his back. He held a sword against his muscled thigh, and he was naked. “Are you sure, Detective?”

“I am,” Detective Garza said with an accent she guessed was from New York or Connecticut or someplace else up north. “I reviewed the security footage. Yesterday’s vandalism attack on your shop—”

“The sixth in nine months.”

“Wasn’t captured on your cameras.”

“How’s that possible?” Her shop’s doorbell jingled, and her friend Philip came in with a sympathetic smile and two takeaway cups. She nodded as he handed her a coffee, hot and sweet, just as she liked it.

“We’re looking into that,” Detective Garza said. “According to the security company, your cameras have been turned off before each event and turned back on after.”

“The security company has no idea how their system was breached, and then fixed, six times?”

Philip raised an eyebrow, and she shook her head in exasperation. She had little faith in the SPD and less in Detective Garza, the new detective who wasn’t even from Savannah.

“No, ma’am. But I’ll call back when I have more information.”

“Thank you.” Once she hung up, she sipped her coffee, listening to the sounds of her foreman, Bob, and the men who worked with him outside fixing her broken windows.

“I got your message,” Philip said. “Why are they changing the terms of your business loan?”

Once the warmth hit her stomach, she sighed. Time to move on to her next problem. “My lawyer says my bank—including my loan—was sold to a bigger bank that wants more collateral and a higher interest rate.”

“And they can do that?”

She shrugged. “Apparently.”

Philip took her free hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry.” The morning sun backlit the impeccable tailoring of his gray wool suit and white silk shirt, which matched his perfectly cut blond hair and Italian leather loafers. He reminded her of a Ken doll. With her own pink linen sleeveless shift and long hair twisted into a complicated knot, she had to admit to a vintage Barbie vibe. So different from the children they’d been on the Isle.

She dropped his hand and inhaled. Lavender was the signature scent of the store, but today the smell made her queasy. “I own a landscape architecture firm with a storefront catering to high-end clients, and I always pay on time.” Something about this didn’t make any sense.

“You can still design without a store.”

“My clients—from people renovating mansions, to family members planning elaborate funerals, to brides getting married in the city’s squares—like to come for consultations where they can peruse my design books in a beautiful, air-conditioned space, look at the statuary I keep outside in the courtyard, and even have a glass of champagne while I sketch their ideas. My store sets me apart from the other design firms in the city that just drive around in a van dropping off reference sheets and photocopies of previous projects.”

She moved behind the gothic altar she used as her counter and shut the cash drawer of her antique register. After everything she’d worked for, the years struggling alone, she was about to lose her dream because of a bank decision?

No. Which meant she needed a plan. Now.

Philip steadied a silver bowl that threatened to fall off a stack of horticulture books on the counter. “Could this have anything to do with Senator Wilkins’s death on Capel land?”

“I doubt it. That happened months ago.”

A loud dirrrg, dirrrg, dirrrg made her switch problems, and her foreman came in the front door. “What’s wrong, Bob?”

“Sorry about the racket, ma’am.” Bob took off his Georgia Tech baseball cap and scratched his head. “The vandals broke the window frame this time. I need to use a masonry bit. Damn kids.”

Philip moved behind her and held her shoulders. “Have the police caught them yet?”

“Not yet,” Bob said. “That’s why we’re installing bulletproof glass and hand-painting Miss Juliet’s gold lily logo.”

“It’s all outrageously expensive.” She pulled away from Philip as thunder rolled. Another storm, for the fifth day in a row, during the hottest summer in years.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Bob said. “We’ll have your shop tight and dry before it rains.” With a nod, he headed outside to his white tool van and extension ladders.

She grabbed the loan folder and opened it on the altar.

“How much do you need?” Philip asked.

“At least twenty thousand.” The numbers and legalese blurred. She reached for her mechanical pencil and her glasses. Tears were not an option. Lord knew she’d cried enough for all the women in Savannah. “I’m barely staying open now.”

“How about your antiques? Can you sell them?”

“I’ve already sold a few.” Besides the twelfth-century altar that had been transformed into her counter, a fifteenth-century round table sat in the center of the room. She’d pushed her worktable from Provence against one of the broken windows. The rest of the shop was filled with horticulture and gardening books, fresh floral arrangements, photos of her current projects, and the botanical prints she sold on commission. The back room held her workspace and floral refrigerators. Sometimes, to make her rent, she subcontracted large, freestanding arrangements for special events.

It’d taken her five years before she’d saved enough to make a down payment on a business loan to open the store. That didn’t include the school loans she was still paying off.

Philip nodded toward the angel in the corner. “You could sell Gabriel.”

“Gabriel and I have a long history together. He stays.” Not to mention he was the only man who’d never left her. “I’d like to sell Capel land, but it’s tied up in centuries-old real estate trusts.” Unfortunately, old, boring, and complicated legal matters meant one thing: expensive billable hours. “Because my daddy put Rafe’s name on the deeds, I can’t use the property as collateral for the new loan.”

Philip rested a hip against the altar and crossed his arms. “I’d love to know what Gerald was thinking when he added Rafe’s name to the Capel land deeds.”

She would too. Especially since, at the time her daddy had made the changes, Rafe had just been transferred from a prison in St. Petersburg to Leavenworth. She threw her pencil and it bounced off a book and onto the floor. “Hell.”

Philip picked up her pencil and handed it to her. “Where are you going to get the money? And with Senator Prioleau’s birthday event coming up? You have a huge up-front cost for her party.”

“No idea.” Which wasn’t quite true. She could call Deke. She swallowed, the disgusting thought burning her throat. After all, Deke was how she’d managed to survive while in school and save for the original business loan.

Being homeless and without any family left a young woman with few options. Which was why she couldn’t lose her business. She didn’t want to be dependent on anyone ever again. Philip knew that. She’d told him enough times, anyway. The steel-reinforced employee entrance at the back of the hallway opened, and a woman with long, reddish-blond curls came in, letting the door slam shut behind her.

“Rain’s coming.” Samantha’s voice rang out as she appeared in a floral dress, combat boots, and black tulle petticoat. She was all emo all the time. After placing her white bakery bag on the counter, she handed her purse to Juliet.

Juliet locked it in her desk drawer. There’d been too much vandalism to take any chances. Even Juliet’s antique iron doorknocker, wrought into a lily, had been stolen the first night her windows had been broken. There was also the new heroin epidemic to worry about. All this violence in the city she loved made her sad.

Bob came inside and handed her a folded paper. Philip read over her shoulder while she proofed the work order sketch of the store’s logo, Juliet’s Lily, she wanted painted on her new windows. The unusual eight-petaled lily formed the apostrophe between the t and the s.

Philip changed the subject. “What about that new client buying Prideaux House?”

“Mr. Delacroix is hot, hot, hot.” Samantha took a bite of her bagel, using a tissue as a napkin.

“Mr. Delacroix is a potential client, if he can make a deal with the Habersham sisters to sell him the house.” Juliet signed off on the work order. “I’m hoping he’ll hire me for a complete garden redesign.”

Philip headed for the door. “You’ll figure this out, Juliet.”

“You could get a second job.” Samantha threw out her bakery bag and headed for the back room. “I have three.”

Juliet wished she could fix that. She’d met Samantha while dancing for Deke at Rage of Angels nightclub. Samantha still worked there as a waitress, but Juliet left after opening her store. It’d been the happiest day of her life since returning to Savannah. “I’m meeting Mr. Delacroix later. And Calum agreed to install a new alarm system.”

On his way out, Philip said, “How about asking him for a loan? Calum Prioleau isn’t only the richest man in town, he’s your landlord, and he adores you.”

“I’ll think about it.”

The door closed as Samantha brought in a vase of yellow roses and white hydrangeas and placed it on the table in the center of the store. “Juliet, you shouldn’t lead Philip on or lie to him.”

“I’m not.”

“Not intentionally, but it’s clear he’d like more from you.”

“Philip knows how I feel. He’d never ask for more than I’m willing to give.” Juliet went to the pile of paperwork on her desk in the hallway between her shop and the back room. Her head pounded with the promise of another stress headache. She had to figure out this loan mess. And she had to do it quickly.

She found her cell and left a message for Calum. She hoped he’d call soon because her only other choice was Deke.

Her phone hummed with a text from a blocked ID.

Juliet of the lily? Remember me?

She reread the message from the man who texted in odd language. The man who’d been her last link with the ex-husband who’d lied to her, betrayed her, and left her penniless.

What do u want?

Take heed, my lady. Thou art wedded to calamity.

She’d always hated these cryptic messages.

Meaning?

Your husband has returned.