Night's Landing. Carla Neggers

      Praise for the novels of

       CARLA NEGGERS

      “No one does romantic suspense better!”

      —New York Times bestselling author Janet Evanovich

      “Neggers’s brisk pacing and colorful characterizations sweep the reader toward a dramatic and ultimately satisfying denouement.”

      —Publishers Weekly on The Cabin

      “These pages don’t just turn; they spin with the best of them.”

      —BookPage on The Waterfall

      “Neggers delivers a colorful, well-spun story that shines with sincere emotion.”

      —Publishers Weekly on The Carriage House

      “Suspense, romance and the rocky Maine coast—what more can a reader ask for? The Harbor has it all. Carla Neggers writes a story so vivid you can smell the salt air and feel the mist on your skin.”

      —New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen

      “Tension-filled story line that grips the audience from start to finish.”

      —Midwest Book Review on The Waterfall

      “Carla Neggers is one of the most distinctive, talented writers of our genre.”

      —New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

      CARLA NEGGERS

      Night’s Landing

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Many thanks to Christine Wenger, Glen Stone, Paul Hudson and Dr. Carla Patton for answering all my questions and thinking up a few I didn’t know to ask.

      A special thank-you to my Southern in-laws, Jimmy and Estelle Jewell, whose Tennessee roots literally go back to Daniel Boone. Writing this book gave me the opportunity to get them to talk about the Cumberland River and some of the changes in it and middle Tennessee over the past century—I love to listen to their stories! Although…no, I never do want to get eyeball-to-eyeball with a water moccasin.

      Thanks also—always—to Meg Ruley and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and to Amy Moore-Benson, Dianne Moggy, Donna Hayes, Katherine Orr, Tania Charzewski and everyone at MIRA Books.

      As I write this, I’ve put away my hiking boots (I’m determined to hike all forty-eight peaks over 4,000 feet in the New Hampshire White Mountains) and I’m deep into my next book. To get in touch with me, visit my Web site, www.carlaneggers.com.

      Take care,

      To Lynn Katz…

       I love your photography and your sense of humor!

      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

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Chapter Twenty-Nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty-One

      Chapter Thirty-Two

      Chapter Thirty-Three

      Chapter Thirty-Four

      Chapter Thirty-Five

      One

      After ninety minutes, the press conference dribbled to a close. As far as Nate Winter was concerned, the whole thing could have been wrapped up in fifteen minutes, tops. Announce the results of the joint fugitive task force. Outline its future. Answer a few questions.

      Done.

      But reporters had an uncanny ability of coming up with another way of asking what they’d just asked and politicians of saying what they’d just said. And the FBI, U.S. Marshals Service and New York Police Department brass wanted their fair share of credit. Deservedly so, maybe, but Nate just wanted to get back to work.

      He cleared out of the airless meeting room on the ground floor of a fancy Central Park South hotel—the choice of the mayor’s office—and made his way out to the street, welcoming the blast of chilly New York air.

      It was midday. Traffic was bad. Some of the pedestrians had unfurled their umbrellas, but it wasn’t really raining. Just misting, not even drizzling. People were craving real spring air—it was the first week in May—but it felt like March again.

      Rob Dunnemore, a fellow deputy U.S. marshal, stood next to Nate and hunched his shoulders against the cold. “My southern blood is protesting.”

      Nate glanced at his younger colleague. They both had on their best dark suits, plus their nine-millimeter semiautomatics, their cuffs, their badges—the hardware wasn’t visible, but Nate doubted they could pass for New York businessmen, either. “Air feels good to me.”

      “It would. I’ll bet the snow hasn’t melted where you come from.”

      Cold Ridge, New Hampshire, in the heart of the White Mountains. Nate hadn’t been home since his sister Carine’s wedding in February. “My uncle tells me there’s still snow on the ridge. It’s melted in the valleys.”

      “The frozen north.” Rob gave an exaggerated shiver. He had the kind of blond good looks and southern charm tinged with danger that had an irresistible effect on the female support staff—and more than one female marshal. “New York’s plenty cold enough for me. Come on. I need a dose of springtime. Let’s check out the tulips in Central Park.”

      “Tulips? Dunnemore, what the hell are you talking about?”

      “I saw about a million tulips when I was in Holland a couple weeks ago visiting my folks.” He gave Nate an unabashed grin. “I’m kind of into them right now.”

      Before Nate could respond, Dunnemore seized on a break in traffic and jaywalked across Central Park South. Nate, who was taller and lankier, followed at a slower pace, still unaccustomed to his fellow deputy’s wide range of interests. He had no idea how or why Rob Dunnemore had ended up in the U.S. Marshals Service, never mind being assigned to its southern New York district. The Dunnemores were a prominent Tennessee family—Rob had been educated at private schools in Nashville and Washington, D.C., and graduated from Georgetown. He’d done a year abroad. Paris. He’d been everywhere and spoke six or seven languages, including Arabic and Farsi. Sooner or later, someone in Washington would reel him in and put him to