Play Dead. Meryl Sawyer

      Praise for the work of Meryl Sawyer

      “If you like your suspense intriguing and your sexual tension high, look no further!”

      —RT Book Reviews on Death’s Door (4 ½ stars)

      “Sawyer’s gift for building great and believable characters makes the danger they face all the more intense.

      Outstanding!”

      —RT Book Reviews on Kiss of Death

      (4 ½ stars, Top Pick)

      “Sawyer spins a tale to captivate and entertain …

      Wonderfully crafty and extremely entertaining.”

      —Romance Reader’s Connection on Half Past Dead

      “Nail-biting suspense punctuates this thrilling romantic adventure. The name Meryl Sawyer is synonymous with exceptional romantic suspense.”

      —RT Book Reviews on Better Off Dead

      “A riveting work of romantic suspense … near perfection.”

      —Publishers Weekly on Tempting Fate

      “Meryl Sawyer has become a brand name known for taut, sexy and very intriguing romantic suspense.”

      —RT Book Reviews on Closer Than She Thinks

      “A page-turner … glamour, romance and adventure on a grand scale.”

      —Publishers Weekly on Promise Me Anything

      “Count on Meryl Sawyer to deliver a fast-paced thriller filled with sizzling romance.”

      —New York Times bestselling author Jill Marie Landis

      About the Author

      MERYL SAWYER grew up in Santa Fe, New Mexico, the only child of a single mother. She gives her mother credit for her love of books and encouraging her to write. When Meryl was in the third grade her birthday gift was an ancient Underwood with the E key missing. That didn’t stop Meryl! She wrote stories and went back and put in the E with a pencil. She’s been writing ever since—first on a typewriter, then a word processor, then a computer.

      When Meryl finally decided to get serious about writing—by serious she meant wanting to see her work in print—Meryl attended the Writers Program at UCLA. She had graduated from UCLA years earlier but this time she returned to study writing. There Meryl was fortunate to meet Colleen McCullough, author of The Thornbirds. She was on tour and one of Meryl’s instructors threw a cocktail party to introduce Colleen to some aspiring writers. Colleen was unbelievably warm and charming and helpful. “Write what you like to read,” she told the students. Meryl had always wanted to be a female Sidney Sheldon—so that’s the direction she took.

      Meryl completed a novel, attended seminars, met an agent and had offers from four different publishers within two months of finishing the book. That’s not every author’s experience, but it happened that way for Meryl. She jokingly says, “I thought I would be famous by Friday—Saturday at the very latest. Here I am eighteen years later. Not famous but successful, and more importantly, happy.”

      One thing all Meryl’s books have in common is animals. Her canine buddies have even helped Meryl’s career. They have spent countless hours under her desk while she was writing.

      Meryl loves to hear from readers. She may be reached on the web.

       Play Dead

      Meryl Sawyer

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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       PROLOGUE

      “ANDY,” CALLED HAYLEY before she remembered he was gone. She walked out onto the third-floor balcony and gazed at the water as the breeze off the bay ruffled her hair. It was way too soon to leave, she decided, but her loft seemed so empty.

      She’d been lonely for a long time, she realized with an ache too deep for tears. It was reflected in her paintings, or so she’d been told. Ian never lied. Why would he? Ian Barrington had been the first person to recognize her talent and offer to sell her paintings in his gallery. Hayley’s earlier works had portrayed her happy outlook on life.

      But in the two years since she’d secretly begun selling her art, Hayley’s life had taken an abrupt turn. The familiar sadness, the melancholy seeped through her each day. Betrayal and death changed you radically, she reflected. She thought of her parents and her heart contracted with an overwhelming sense of loss.

      “Don’t feel sorry for yourself,” she said out loud, watching a boat passing by. The guys on the deck were wildly waving to get her attention.

      She knew what they saw: a young woman dressed in a short skirt and sleeveless blouse. Her brown hair was streaked with copper highlights, making her look more like the beach bunny she’d been in her teens than the artist she was today.

      Maybe she should cut her hair short and stop streaking it. What would it feel like to have short hair? For as long as she could recall, Hayley had worn her hair long. The style made the hazel-green eyes that dominated her face appear larger than they actually were.

      The needs, the longings for a past that would never come again nagged at her. Time for a change, Hayley reminded herself. In another few weeks, her life would move in a different direction. This would be a great opportunity for a new hairstyle. The fresh start she’d been planning.

      She checked her watch. It was too early to leave. She’d already packed her purse that doubled as a backpack with the few things she would need. She’d placed her treasured set of paint brushes in their wooden box and wrapped it in the shorts and T-shirts she planned to wear.

      She realized how much she was counting on her life making a dramatic change. How much she was looking forward to the future. Once she altered the course of her life, there would be no going back.

      Bring-bring. From the loft’s studio behind her, Hayley heard the sound of the telephone. She decided not to answer; let the machine pick up. She wasn’t in the mood to talk.

      A shaky voice came through her machine. “H-Hayley, are you … you there?”

      Hayley charged back into the loft, recognizing the anguished tone of her friend Lindsey Fulton. She was stunned Lindsey was phoning. She never called.

      Hayley snatched the receiver from the cradle, saying breathlessly, “I’m here. I’m here. What’s happening?”

      “Hayley,” her friend said, her voice choked with tears. “Oh, Hayley.”

      “What’s wrong?”

      “I—I’m