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Dangerous Christmas Memories
Sarah Hamaker
A witness in jeopardy… and a killer on the loose. Hiding in witness protection is the only option for Priscilla Anderson after witnessing a murder. Then Lucas Langsdale shows up claiming to be her husband right when a hit man finds her. With partial amnesia, she has no memory of her marriage or the killer’s identity. Yet she will have to put her faith in Lucas if they both want to live to see another day.
A witness in jeopardy…
and a killer on the loose.
Hiding in witness protection is the only option for Priscilla Anderson after witnessing a murder. Then Lucas Langsdale shows up claiming to be her husband right when a hit man finds her. With partial amnesia, she has no memory of her marriage or the killer’s identity. Yet she will have to put her faith in Luc if they both want to live to see another day.
SARAH HAMAKER has written two nonfiction books, as well as stories for several Chicken Soup for the Soul books. She’s a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and ACFW Virginia, as well as president of Capital Christian Writers Fellowship. She’s also a parent coach with a weekly podcast called You’ve Got This. Sarah lives in Virginia with her husband, four children and three cats. Visit her online at sarahhamakerfiction.com (http://www.sarahhamakerfiction.com).
Also By Sarah Hamaker (#ubdc72665-37f0-5cbb-a570-289a6c87d249)
Dangerous Christmas Memories
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Dangerous Christmas Memories
Sarah Hamaker
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-09895-3
DANGEROUS CHRISTMAS MEMORIES
© 2019 Sarah Hamaker
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Note to Readers (#ubdc72665-37f0-5cbb-a570-289a6c87d249)
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“I’ve been thinking about the night of the shooting. My memory is like one of those old reel-to-reel films that’s being restored. Sometimes the frames are out of order, but sometimes there are several frames intact together.”
“You’d tried hypnotherapy when you first entered the witness protection program, right?” Luc asked.
“Yeah, but the doctor blamed me for not remembering. He said I was intentionally repressing the memories.
I never went back to him.”
“When did Mac mention it again?”
“When we were going over my initial witness statement to prepare for the trial. He asked if I would be willing to undergo hypnosis again. I agreed, as long as it wasn’t with the previous doctor.”
“Who else would know you were considering hypnosis again?”
“You don’t think it’s a coincidence that someone is trying to kill me now that I’ve resumed hypnotherapy?”
“No, I don’t.” Luc kept his voice low, his eyes never leaving her pale face. “I think someone doesn’t want you to recall any more details about what happened that night.”
Dear Reader (#ubdc72665-37f0-5cbb-a570-289a6c87d249),
I’m often asked where I get my story ideas. Most of the time, the answer is simply, “It came to me one day out of the blue.” Not so with Dangerous Christmas Memories. The genesis of this story came from a news article about a celebrity who didn’t realize his Las Vegas marriage was actually legal until years after the fact. Sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction. I knew I had to tell a story about a man and woman who meet and marry quickly in Vegas, then end up separated without dissolving the marriage. But turning that idea into a workable manuscript took numerous starts and rewrites before the story finally came together in Dangerous Christmas Memories. And I’m glad I could give Priscilla and Luc’s story a much happier ending than the celebrity who inspired the book.
Sarah Hamaker
This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope. It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.
—Lamentations 3:21–23
To my husband, Christian, for his unfailing encouragement for my writing.
Contents
Cover (#uc160fc97-a7a9-5c3b-be19-908fd69a8c17)
Back Cover Text (#uddb2eef3-90c0-58e6-b1a3-6ff5f4960087)
About the Author (#u58307ccd-57b2-5561-84f2-e4cc70571138)
Booklist (#u801e7ece-5ba3-58d8-aeb3-40ca6b4d5854)
Title Page (#u6d705981-699c-5071-9e6c-4b269d1d779a)
Copyright (#uc3ce2614-7a9c-519e-b73d-c77606f1ba9c)
Note to Readers
Introduction (#u2ea186ac-a797-5253-8f8b-38502a774cf6)
Dear Reader (#u149455e6-a224-5d75-ae7b-c20cc5c957c7)
Bible Verse (#u1ad7107a-e314-56f2-99a1-7ef932e295e4)
Dedication (#uf711e6e3-a1a0-5a10-af58-f0015b4e9b8e)
ONE (#ue918a495-5094-5129-ae04-88407f847ff5)
TWO (#ua7fabb47-eeac-5895-8e64-d88f0974937e)
THREE (#u430b8b64-ef5e-53ac-b275-1698394515f3)
FOUR (#u19e1b69d-2b71-5f41-8b3f-681959d299e7)
FIVE (#ucd8689ce-9242-54ea-b329-a2009e6f31c6)
SIX (#u37d63594-b0ad-579d-9d24-257bd15ef912)
SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
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THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
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TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
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Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
ONE (#ubdc72665-37f0-5cbb-a570-289a6c87d249)
Priscilla Anderson set the blow-dryer on high and aimed the heat at Nancy’s damp hair with one hand, a round brush in her other hand to smooth the slightly curly hair. Thank goodness the noise of the dryer meant Priscilla didn’t have to pay attention to her client’s incessant chatter. Today Nancy gushed about her recent trip to the Bahamas with her third husband over Thanksgiving. As she straightened Nancy’s hair, Priscilla concentrated on keeping her hands steady enough that Nancy wouldn’t notice she wasn’t her usual self.
Priscilla clicked the dryer to a lower setting and began shaping the long bob to curl gently under Nancy’s cheekbone. She sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in an attempt to soothe her jitters as she sent up a silent prayer. Lord, please keep me calm and safe from the man I think has been following me.
Turning off the hair dryer, she was relieved to see Nancy had her attention on her phone. Good, no small talk necessary for a bit longer. After touching the surface of the curling iron quickly to judge its heat, Priscilla put the finishing touches on Nancy’s hair.
“All done.” Priscilla exchanged the curling iron for a handheld mirror, handing the latter to Nancy to view the haircut and style as she swiveled the chair around for her client to view her reflection.
The older woman admired her hair in the mirror. “Perfection like always. I told my yoga class to ask for you if they wanted a world-class haircut at a good price.” Nancy smiled as Priscilla removed the salon cape with a snap. “You should move to one of those upscale places—your talents are hidden here.”
Priscilla shook her head as she walked her client to the front of Snippy’s, a chain of discount haircuts. “I appreciate your kind words, but this suits me just fine.”
Nancy sighed. “You are too modest for your own good. But then again, I’m happy to pay only twenty-five dollars for an eighty-dollar haircut!”
Priscilla ran Nancy’s credit card and handed her the slip to sign, glad that her hands had regained their steadiness. “Last time, you said you looked like a million bucks. I must be slipping.”
The other woman laughed as she gave the receipt back to Priscilla with a generous tip scrawled on the bottom. “See you next month.”
As Nancy exited the salon tucked into a strip mall, Priscilla caught a glimpse of a blond man in his late twenties—near her own age—lounging at one of the outdoor tables in front of the next-door coffee shop. She stepped closer to the floor-to-ceiling window, careful to keep her body partially hidden behind a decorated artificial Christmas tree positioned to the left of the front door. Unease coiled in her stomach like a strand of hair wrapping around a roller, tightening with a jerk as she recalled seeing the tall man behind her in a checkout line at the grocery store last night.
She had also seen him somewhere else before, but where? She closed her eyes briefly to pull up the memory. Ah, yes. Jogging by her apartment building Friday morning when she left for work. Now three days later, here he was again, outside her place of employment. Fairfax, Virginia, wasn’t that big a city that she could attribute the sightings to mere coincidence.
Fishing her phone from her apron pocket, she surreptitiously snapped several photos of the man as he sipped from a cup while gazing down at his smartphone.
Heart pounding, Priscilla moved away from the window and through the salon toward the small break room next to the back door. With her next appointment in fifteen minutes, she had time to call Mac.
“Everything okay?” US Marshal James “Mac” MacIntire’s voice had a sharp edge to it that Priscilla hadn’t heard before. The married marshal had become like an older brother to her since becoming her point of contact three years ago.
“I think someone’s following me.” Priscilla paced the length of the empty room.
“Tell me more.”
