Dangerous Desire

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Portland Harbor, Oregon

As usual, it was the fireworks that triggered her. The sound of the pop-pop-pop-pop-pop in the night sky above the harbor was endless, and although Winter tried all the techniques the counselor had taught her, she still ended up trembling underneath the bunk in her bedroom.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to visualize her happy place, playing with her childhood dog, Crunchy, in the wheat fields of her youth in Kokomo, Indiana. Those few years when her father was stationed at that military base were the happiest of Winter’s life.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. It’s just fireworks, that is all it is…

Blood. Screaming. Terror. An ordinary Saturday afternoon shopping with her sister at the mall…

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

She hears a strange keening sound, like a wounded animal, except the sound is coming from her, and she stuffs her hands into her own mouth to stop herself. Anyone close by would wonder why she was screaming, and out here on her tiny houseboat in Portland Harbor, a million miles away from where it had happened, they might come to help her.

The last thing she needed now were strangers on her boat, in her home. Her skin itched at the thought of it.

Finally, just after one a.m. the fireworks ended, and Winter crawled out panting from under the bunk. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and took several deep breaths. Her chest felt fluttery, her psyche fragile, and she let a few hot tears fall down her cheeks before she rebuked herself.

You’re twenty-seven years old, Winter Mai. You’re an adult. Fireworks are just that. Fireworks.

She scrambled to her feet—too quickly—and grabbed the edge of the bunk as she swayed, dizzy. Her back was aching from being scrunched up beneath the bunk, and she stretched it out with a couple of yoga moves, pretending to herself that she was relaxing.

In reality, her ears were tuned, ready for more. Fear was turning into anger. Who the hell was letting off fireworks? It was early November; Thanksgiving still three weeks away. It wasn’t an election year nor had any other big event occurred.

Just some assholes celebrating a goddamned birthday or something, and f**k everyone else’s peace, Winter thought angrily now. That irritation propelled her out onto her deck to seek out the perpetrator despite her frazzled nerves.

The culprit wasn’t difficult to spot. The vast yacht that was moored in the harbor had arrived two days ago and was now jam-packed with people. A party. A thick pall of smoke hung about it, and Winter could still see small fireworks being set off from it. Assholes.

To make herself feel better, she gave it the finger with both hands and stomped back inside.

Winter shut her door and sunk down into her ancient but comfortable sofa, glancing at the clock. She had a nine o’clock appointment in the morning to give a piano lesson to one of her students, so sleep was definitely the best idea now… except she knew it wouldn’t come. Truthfully, her constant nightmares prevented her from getting any solid sleep nowadays, and it was only when she took a sleeping pill that she got any rest at all.

But they made her feel so crappy the next day… no. She got up and went to take a shower. Even in the cold of an Oregon winter, she was sweating and clammy from the terror of the fireworks. She stripped off and studied herself in the floor-length mirror. She could do with gaining a couple of pounds; her slight frame the result from a lack of appetite and not being able to afford much food. All her money, all the awarded compensation from the… ‘thing’… had gone into buying this houseboat; now she had to live paycheck-to-paycheck from the small amount of money she earned as a freelance piano tutor.

That didn’t matter, she thought now. I don’t need money. I just want peace… and for most of the time, that’s what this little haven in Portland gave her. She didn’t see many people—didn’t want to see anyone—except for the few students she had, and she was very lucky to have them.

Winding her long dark hair up into a bun, Winter stepped into the shower. The daughter of a Chinese-American father and a Dutch mother, she was the youngest of three sisters. Her two older siblings, Summer and Autumn, were older by two and four years respectively, the latter a famed celebrity chef now back in New York. Summer had been with Winter when the shooting happened.

Winter survived, although badly injured. Summer…

Summer didn’t make it.

Winter stood under the water until it turned cold, but she still felt like her skin was on fire. She pressed her hands to the scars across her chest and stomach. The bullets had missed her major organs and arteries, unbelievably so, considering she had been shot six times, but Summer hadn’t been so lucky.

Stop it. Winter shook herself, cranking off the shower faucet and stepping, shivering now, out of the shower. She dried herself quickly and dressed in jeans and a sweater, tugging on thick socks and her sneakers.

After busying herself with making a cup of tea, Winter stepped out onto her houseboat deck. It was bitingly cold, but that’s what she wanted—the cool air on her skin. She sat down on the small love seat and sipped her fragrant tea. While watching the fete slowly break up and partygoers boisterously leaving the yacht, she could see them thanking a tall man, dark and exquisitely dressed in a dark grey suit and a blue shirt. She guessed him to be in his forties, carrying an athletic build with strong legs and broad shoulders. His hair was cut short, and his face was handsome, as chiseled as a Roman God. He was clearly the owner of the yacht, and Winter wondered who he was.

Wondering the name of the man I should hate for putting me through this night. She knew she was scowling, but she didn’t care; she even hoped he would see her and realize he had upset her. Winter hoped some of the other people who lived here would be out of their homes as well, giving him hell for keeping them awake.

But she guessed that none of them likely react to fireworks the way she does. She sighed. She hated this time of year; so many noisy holidays that could provoke more nights like this: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year. Along with July 4th, they were her least favorite days of the year, but at least she could expect them—prepare. Noise cancelling headphones and Pearl Jam at full blast. When she could afford it, she would drive to a motel out in the middle of nowhere on July 4th just to avoid all the fireworks and celebrations.

But when they were unexpected, like tonight, she had no time to prepare. f**k… Winter knew she would be upset for days now, her equilibrium rocked. She sighed and closed her eyes. Another sleepless night was on its way unless she gave in to that little bottle of pills on her bathroom sink.

Raziel Ganz said goodbye to the last of his guests and made his way back up to the now-darkened party deck. For the last hour or so, he’d been waiting to be alone, so he could study the young woman sitting out on the deck of the small houseboat moored next to his yacht. He had seen her storm out and make the crude gesture towards his yacht just after the fireworks had finished, and it had amused him greatly.

Not only that, but the girl was achingly beautiful: bi-racial, he guessed; Asian; her almond eyes; the olive skin; the dark hair tumbling around her shoulders—an exquisite face even in anger.

It had been a while since Raziel Ganz had been surprised by a woman. The ladies that he attracted knew of his wealth and tried to land him as a partner, a future husband, but he wasn’t interested in commitment—not with those women. Where was the challenge, the fire, the excitement?

No. He’d much rather spar with the young woman who owned that damn ramshackle houseboat. She was clearly unimpressed by wealth, and that was thrilling to him.

At forty-four, Raziel Ganz presented an aura of corporate wealth, ruthless business acumen, and dazzling good looks to the world, and he enjoyed everything that brought him. He slept around, yes, but rarely called any of the woman back—no, scratch that—he never called any woman back.

This woman, though, might prove interesting. She would certainly look good on his arm when he met Satchel Rose, his mark for this visit to Portland. Rose was notoriously private—elusive and reclusive—and the fact he’d agreed to a meeting with Raziel was a major victory. If Raziel wanted to move some of his shipping corporation to Portland, he would have to have Rose on side to secure the city’s welcome.

And Rose would give him the air of authenticity that he needed to cover his real business…

For now though, Raziel lit a cigarette and watched the beauty on the houseboat. She seemed to sense his scrutiny and glared up in his direction. As he watched, amused, she again threw a middle finger up, got up, and stalked back into her home, slamming the door behind her.

Raz smiled. Yes. She would be his kind of challenge.