Page 1 of Echo, the Sniper (Men of PSI #2)

I’m Having a Bad Year

––––––––

Rory

I F THIS WAS A NIGHTMARE , I’d like to wake up now.

Numbly I held a Mylar blanket around myself and stared at the bright yellow flames furiously engulfing my home.

It was one of those two-story Tudor McMansions, with a steeply pitched roof, chimneys on either end, gables for every second-story window, an ornate stained glass double front door, and shutter-accented windows.

I always thought those shutters looked stupid and I’d wanted to get rid of them from the moment I’d laid eyes on the place.

However, watching them burn off the facade of the house I’d lived in—or been imprisoned in—for three years seemed a bit extra.

A couple firemen trampled over my carefully tended rosebushes lining the front walkway, and a flare of instinct to protect hit me hard.

My roses, my babies...

For the millionth time I reminded myself that I hated roses, and forced myself to be still.

Those stupid roses didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

I swallowed hard. As a newlywed, I had taken my job as homemaker seriously when I first moved into Denver’s upper-scale neighborhood of Cherrywood Creek.

That was what my ultra-conservative father had drilled into me from the time I could walk— women are the homemakers, men are the world-builders —and that was what my new husband Dane had required of me.

Actually, Dane had required a lot . A smoothly running household, with laundry done on Sundays and all beds made as if for the cover of a magazine before the sun went down.

A power breakfast of whatever Dane ordered the night before, ready and waiting for him when he came downstairs from his morning shower.

His coffee had to be in his favorite mug that said “Tears of My Enemies” on it, doctored with precisely one tablespoon of French vanilla creamer imported from Europe, and two packets of sugar substitute.

The weekly dinner menu had been planned out by me on Saturday and edited by Dane on Sunday, with each meal made exactly to his liking.

Dinner had to be on the dining table at 6:30 sharp, complete with new candles, freshly ironed linen tablecloths and matching linen napkins, with a centerpiece of fresh flowers.

Every. Day.

Every. Week.

Every. Year.

For three years.

That was how Dane’s household ran.

Or else.

That had left no time for me to be anything else but a servant to those exacting expectations, and Dane had made sure I didn’t have any freedom to leave the house whenever I wanted.

But the one and only time he’d allowed me to open exterior doors without breaking my fingers was to schedule times when I could work on my roses.

It wasn’t an escape exactly, but it got me outside, so. ..

Roses became my everything.

I had to join the Denver Rose Society in order to carve out this time for myself, and I’d explained to Dane that tending the roses was a way of supporting his career.

Sadly, that was the only way he’d allowed it.

As long as I strived to stay plugged into the elite families of Denver on his behalf—and appealing to Dane’s avaricious social-climbing needs—it was the only way I could keep a potential escape route open.

Six months ago all of that began to unravel, one thread at a time. Now, with the fire taking away the one last pillar that had held my existence together, I had nothing left. Not even those stupid roses.

What was I supposed to do now?

“Excuse me, Mrs. Grant? Aurora?”

Slowly, as if in a dream—or a nightmare—I turned my head to find a tall, broad-shouldered man standing a few feet away from me.

Of course, in late January at two in the morning, everyone was bundled up so maybe his shoulders weren’t that broad, but the rest of him looked lean and muscular, like an Olympic swimmer.

Or maybe he had the sculpted form of a triathlete beneath his insulated ski jacket.

Or maybe he looked more like a supermodel.

Or maybe I was losing my mind.

“Yes.” I had to clear my throat. Apparently I’d sucked in enough smoke to sound like a frog.

“Yes, I’m Aurora Grant. My friends call me Rory.

” I didn’t know why I said that. Dane had made sure I had no contact with my friends from my single life, and from the first moment my late father had introduced us, my husband had always called me Aurora.

I hadn’t been called Rory in three years.

The man’s black brows quirked, as if I’d somehow surprised him. “I see. First off, I was hoping I could get you to move, since you’re standing in a puddle in bare feet. I’m concerned you’re going to get frostbite.”

“Oh.” Numbly I looked down. Huh. Bare feet.

In public. How mortifying. If Dane had been here, he would have backhanded me for this inexcusable faux pas.

“I-I didn’t mean to come out of the house with bare feet.

My slippers are up in my bedroom. I had to jump from the window.

..” No excuses, Aurora, you moron , I heard Dane telling me in the cold tones of what I often thought of as his punisher’s voice.

No fucking excuses . “I’m sorry. I should have taken the time to put shoes on, but there was a fire.

.. No. No excuses. I’ll stop talking. I’m sorry. ”

“Don’t apologize, Rory. You’re right, the house was on fire and you did what you had to do to survive.

Let’s get you moved up onto the curb, all right?

” He moved to take my arm and I flinched back.

Dane didn’t like it when other men touched me.

I couldn’t allow that. It was always my fault if another man touched me, even in passing.

I didn’t want to be punished.

Carefully the man held up his hands, palms out. “Easy now. I’m here to help you, okay?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” What was I supposed to be doing?

Oh. Moving out of a puddle. Right. Wrapped up in that numbing blanket of surrealism, I turned and forced myself in the direction the man indicated and didn’t stop until I’d made it up onto the sidewalk.

The cement beneath my feet was like ice and I feared the wet bottoms of my feet might stick to it.

Gross . “I think I might need some shoes.”

“No doubt about that. One of the firefighters came up with these.” He held up a pair of sheepskin Uggs.

Instantly my benumbed feet and legs began to scream with need, and tears of pain made my vision shimmer.

“I’m going to put these in front of you so you can step into them, all right? Lean on me to balance yourself.”

Despite the now-insane pain of my feet and lower legs, I still hesitated a fraction before resting my hand on his shoulder.

Wow .

It was like the quilted jacket he wore had been placed on a stone statue.

There was simply no squishy give to this man’s shoulder.

Was he even real? I couldn’t figure out why he felt so completely different from my husband, but he did.

It was almost as if Dane hadn’t been there at all, whereas this man was as solid and real as the Rock of Gibraltar.

Wow, indeed.

When the boots were on—how embarrassing to have boots on in public with no socks—I glanced up at the man as I let his shoulder go.

He had the most unusual eyes I had ever seen, though that could have been due to the fact that it was two in the morning and the only light came from my home burning down to the ground.

His eyes seemed to be a light gray, clear, almost like mirrors.

I didn’t know eyes came in that color.

A knit beanie covered his head so I had no idea what his hair was like, but his brows were black, and his features were an interesting mix of European, Hispanic, and maybe Native American, with the most squared-off jaw I’d ever seen and a surprisingly sensual mouth with an upper lip that was almost as full as the lower.

Dane’s mouth had been a mere slit with no discernable upper lip at all.

For no apparent reason, my brain swatted away the memory of my husband’s mouth in favor of looking at this man’s lips instead. Seriously, I could look at this man’s mouth forever.

Shock sure did bizarre things to a person’s brain.

“There now.” The man’s voice was careful, like he was talking to a wild animal. Which was ridiculous. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a wild urge, much less acted out on it. “That has to feel better, yeah?”

I nodded, because it seemed like the answer he was looking for. “Thank you.”

A faint frown crossed the man’s exotic features, as if something bothered him as he regarded me. “My name is Ethan Echols, though feel free to call me Echo, everyone does. I work for a security company, Private Security International—PSI for short. Are you all right enough to talk to me?”

Holy cats. What was he trying to do, sell me a security system for a house that was currently burning all the way down to the foundation? In the middle of the night? I stared at him for a moment before I began to laugh. This had to be the funniest moment of my life.

“Right,” he said as if to himself. “You’re definitely not okay to talk right now.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Echols.” The manners my finishing-school mother taught me from the time I understood what manners were swooped in to save the day, though I still had to cough a bit, thanks to the damage done by the smoke I’d inhaled.

“Now is not a good time to discuss security systems. My house is on fire. Perhaps you could come back another day? Maybe when the rubble of my house is no longer an intense inferno?”

“I’m not here to sell you a security system. I’m here because your husband hired my firm to protect you should you be in need of protection.” The man, Ethan Echols, nodded to the fire. “According to my employer, this is more than enough to bring you in under PSI’s umbrella of protection.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to say, “kidding!” When he didn’t, I could only shake my head. “Mr. Echols—”

“Echo.”