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asking yourself what’s going on with Nic and Griff, what’s going to happen between Maleah and Derek and will Lorie ever get a second chance with Mike? I asked myself these questions and knew immediately that they had to be answered. So I’m now at work on a new romantic suspense, DEAD BY MIDNIGHT (coming in February 2010), that will tie up a few of those loose ends.

Maleah Perdue will stay on in Dunmore, Alabama, her hometown, after her brother’s wedding, to housesit and to keep a close eye on her nephew while Cathy and Jack are away on their honeymoon. During her mini-vacation from the Powell Agency, Maleah is inadvertently drawn into a new murder mystery when Lorie Hammonds comes to her with a secret she’s kept to herself for months—a secret that threatens her life. Lorie’s past as a Playboy centerfold and costar in a porn movie puts her on a crazed killer’s To-Die list. Despite Maleah’s intense dislike for Derek Lawrence, the former FBI profiler who is now on retainer for the Powell Agency, she has no choice but to work with him when it becomes obvious they are dealing with a serial killer. And Sheriff Mike Birkett, Lorie’s high school sweetheart and first love, is torn between his need to keep Lorie at arm’s length and his desire to save her from the clutches of a madman.

Lorie isn’t the only one whose past has come back to haunt her. When Griffin Powell reveals more information about his mysterious past to his wife Nicole, one startling truth will threaten to destroy their marriage.

I always enjoy hearing from readers. You may contact me through my Web site at www.beverlybarton.com or by writing to me in care of Kensington Publishing. While visiting my Web site, you can enter my contests, sign up for my e-mail newsletter, and check out a list of all my books and my upcoming appearances at book signings, speaking engagements and conferences.

Warmest regards,

Beverly Barton

Prologue

There it was again, that odd sound. It must be the wind. What else could it be? Possibly a wild animal, a raccoon or possum or even a stray dog. Bears are in hibernation this time of year.

Get hold of yourself. You’re imagining things. Nobody’s out there. Nobody is going to show up here in the middle of the woods in the dead of winter just to frighten you.

Dean’s bone thin hands trembled as he pulled back the gingham curtain from the dirty window and peered out into the darkness. The quarter moon winked mockingly at him through a thin veil of clouds, as if it knew something he didn’t. The cold wind whispered menacingly. Was it issuing him a warning?

Releasing the curtain, he rubbed his hands together, as much to warm them as to control the quivering. He sure as hell could use a drink about now. Or something stronger, quicker. But he had learned to settle for strong coffee. A caffeine fix was better than no fix at all. He had been clean and sober for three years and he had no intention of allowing a few stupid letters to destroy his hard won freedom from drugs and alcohol.

Forget the damn letters. They’re just somebody’s idea of a sick joke.

There were things he should be doing—stoking the fire he’d built in the fireplace, checking supplies, preparing the coffeemaker for morning coffee, bringing in more firewood, putting fresh linens on the twin beds. Dean wanted everything to be in order before his brother got here. Jared, who was driving in from Knoxville where he taught biology at the University of Tennessee, would arrive sometime in the morning and if all went as planned, they’d spend the weekend here. This was the first time they’d been together at their family’s cabin in the Smoky Mountains since they were teenagers.

God, that had been a lifetime ago. Jared was forty-eight now, widowed, the father to two adult sons. His brother was successful in a way he would never be. Jared lived a normal life, always had and always would. Dean was a failure. Always had been and probably always would be. He’d been married and divorced four times. But he’d done one thing right—to his knowledge he had never fathered a child.

As he lifted the poker from where it was propped against the rock wall surrounding the fireplace, he glanced at the old mantel clock that had belonged to his grandparents. Eleven forty-seven. He should be sleepy, but he wasn’t. He had flown in