Edge of Sight

Book 1: The Guardian Angelinos

by Roxanne St. Claire

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Fan-favorite author Roxanne St. Claire launches a daring new series that deftly combines action, mystery, and romance. After bearing witness to a journalist’s brutal murder, law student Samantha Fairchild is stunned when she is denied police protection. For help, Sam approaches her friend Vivi, who in turn puts her in the care of Vivi’s brother Zach—the man who broke Sam’s heart following a torrid three-week affair. Now as their mutual attraction is reignited, the couple must confront a killer determined to keep the truth behind the journalist’s murder a secret.

Release date: November 1, 2010

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

I understand you got into that little law school across the river.”


Samantha Fairchild scooped up the cocktails from the service bar, sending a smile to the man who’d been subtly checking her
out from behind rimless glasses. “Our trusty bartender’s been bragging about me again.”


Behind the bar, Wendy waved a martini shaker like a sparkler, her eyes twinkling. “Just a little, Sam. You’re our only Harvard-bound
server.”


Sam nodded to the light-haired gentleman, not really wanting to start a conversation when Paupiette’s dining room was wall-to-wall
with a Saturday night crowd. Anyway, he wasn’t her type. Too pale, too blond, too… safe.


“Nothing to be ashamed of, a Harvard law degree,” the man said. “I’ve got one myself.”

“Really? What did you do with it?”

The smile widened. “Print money, like you will.”

Spoken like a typical Harvard law grad. “I’m not that interested in the money. I have another plan for the future.” One she
doubted a guy dripping in Armani and Rolex would appreciate. Unless he was a defense attorney. She eyed him just as two hands
landed on her shoulders from behind.


“I seated Joshua Sterling and company in your section.” Keegan Kennedy’s soft voice had a rumble of warning in it, probably
because she was flirting with lawyers in the bar when her tables were full. “I’ll expect a kickback.”


“That sounds fair.” She shrugged out of his grip, balancing the cocktail tray.

“I bet he’s a generous tipper, Sam,” the lawyer said as he placed two twenties on the bar and flicked his wrist for the bartender
to keep the change. “You’ll need it for the Con Law texts alone.”


She gave him a wistful smile, not too encouraging, but not a complete shutdown, either. “Thanks…”

“Larry,” he supplied. “Maybe I’ll stop in before you start classes with some first-year pointers.”

“Great, Larry.” She forced a more encouraging smile. He looked like a nice guy. Dull as dry toast, but then he probably wouldn’t
kick her in the heart with an… army boot. “You do that.”


She turned to peer into the main dining area, catching a glimpse of a party of six being led by the maître d’s second-in-command.

Joshua Sterling’s signature silver hair, prematurely gray and preternaturally attractive, glistened under the halogen droplights,
hung to highlight the haute cuisine but casting a perfect halo over this particular patron.


It wasn’t just his tipping that interested Sam. The last time Boston’s favorite columnist had dined here, they’d gotten into
a lively debate about the Innocence Mission, and he ended up writing a whole article in the Globe about the nonprofit. The Boston office where Sam volunteered had received a huge influx of cash because of that story.


“Good work, Keegan.” Sam offered a grateful smile to the maître d’, who had vacillated between pain in the ass and godsend
since he’d started a few months ago. “Count on ten percent.”


He laid a wine list on her cocktail tray, threatening the delicate balance of the top-heavy martini glasses. “He tips on wine,
so talk him into something from the vault. Make my cut fifteen percent and I promise you we will not run out of the tartare.
It’s Sterling’s favorite.”


She grinned. “Deal, you little Irish weasel.”

After delivering the cocktails to another table, she headed toward the newly seated party, nodding to a patron who signaled
for a check while she paused to top off the Cakebread chardonnay for the lovers in the corner, all the while assessing just
who Joshua Sterling was entertaining tonight.


Next to him was his beautiful wife, a stunning young socialite named Devyn with sharp-edged cheekbones and waves of golden
hair down to trainer-toned shoulders. Two other couples completed a glossy party of six, one of the women finishing an animated
story as they settled into their seats, delivering a punch line with a finger pointed at Joshua and eliciting a hoot of laughter
from the rest. Except for Devyn, who leaned back expressionless while a menu was placed in front of her.


Joshua put a light hand on his wife’s back, waving casually to someone across the dining room. He whispered to her; then he
beamed at Sam as she approached the table.


“Hello, Samantha.” Of course he remembered her. That was his gift, his charm. “All ready to tackle Hahvahd?” He drew out the word, giving it an exaggerated Boston accent.


“Classes start in two months,” she said, handing over the wine list, open to the priciest selection. “So, I’m ready, but nervous.”

“From what you told me about that volunteer work of yours, I think you’ve got more legal background and experience than half
that first-year class. You’ll kick butt over there.” He added a smile to his laser-blue gaze, one that had been getting more
and more television airtime as a talking head for liberal issues on the cable news shows.


No one doubted that Joshua Sterling could hit the big time down in New York.

“I hope you’re right,” she said, stepping aside for the junior maître d’ to snap a black napkin on Devyn Sterling’s dark trousers.
“Otherwise I’m going to give it all up and go back into advertising.”


“Don’t doubt yourself,” Joshua warned with a sharp look. “You’ve got too much upstairs to push computers and burgers. You
need to save innocent victims of the screwed-up system.”


She gave him a tight smile of gratitude, wishing she were that certain of her talents. Of course, doling out bullshit was
another gift of his. “What’s the occasion?” she asked, wanting to get the conversation off her and onto a nice big drink order.


Joshua waved toward the brunette who’d been telling the story. “We’re celebrating Meredith’s birthday.”


“Happy birthday.” Sam nodded to her. “We have two bottles of the ’94 Tattinger left.”

“Nice call for champagne,” he said, “but I think this is a wine crowd. You like Bordeaux, right, Meredith?”

The woman leaned forward on one elbow, a slow smile forming as she looked at him. “Something complex and elegant.”

Sam waited a beat, as the woman’s gaze stayed fixed on her host. Devyn shifted in her seat, and Sam could practically taste
the tension crackling in the air.


“Let me get the sommelier,” Sam suggested quickly. “I bet he has the perfect Bordeaux.”

“I know he does.” Joshua handed Sam the wine list back without even looking at it. “Tell Rene we’d like two bottles of the
1982 Chateau Haut-Brion.”


“Excellent selection.” Was it ever. “While I get that, can we offer you sparkling water or bottled?”

They made their choices, which Sam whispered to a busboy before darting down the narrow passage from the dining area to the
kitchen, her shoes bouncing on the rubber floor as she left the gentle conversation and music of the dining room for the clatter
and sizzle of the kitchen.


“Where’s Rene?” she asked, a smell of buttery garlic and seared meat rolling over her.

“I’m right here.” The door to the cellars flipped open as the beefy sommelier hustled toward her, carrying far too many bottles.
Two more servers came in right behind him with similar armloads.


“Rene, I need two bottles of ’82 Haut-Brion, stat.”

“After I help with the upstairs party,” he shot back.

“Then give me the key and a general idea where I can find the ’82s.”


“You’re not getting the ’82s, sister.” The faux French accent he used with customers was absent as he deftly set bottles on
the prep deck. “One slip of the hand and you just cost us both a month’s pay.”


“Come on, Rene. I can get two bottles of wine, for crying out loud.”

“You can wait like everyone else, Sam.” He started handing bottles to one of the other servers, who gave her a smug look of
victory.


The doors from the dining area swung open, and Sam squinted down the hallway, just in time to get a glimpse of Joshua strolling
across the room, reaching out to greet a gorgeous former model and her date sitting at the deuce near the bar. So he wasn’t
in a huge rush for his wine. She glanced at the plates on the stainless steel pass, calculating exactly how much time she
had to get this wine poured before her four orders for the old Brahmins on ten came up.


Not much. She wanted the Haut-Brion delivered first or she’d lose her whole rhythm.

One more of the waitstaff came up from the cellar, several bottles in hand. “This is the last of it, Rene. I just have to
go back down and lock up.”


“I’ll lock it,” Sam said, snatching the keys.

“No.” Rene sliced her with a glare. “I’ll get them, Sam. Five minutes is all.”

“Come on, Rene.”

The door from the dining room flung open and Keegan marched through. “Sterling wants his wine,” he announced, his gaze hard
on Rene.


“Then you get it,” Rene said. “Not Sam.”

But Sam was already on her way. “Thanks, Keegan,” she said quietly as she passed. “You know I’ll slather you with payola tonight.”
As she opened the door, she called back to Rene, “The Bordeaux are in the back nests, the Haut-Brion on the lower half, right?”


“Sam, if you fuck this up—”

“I will dust the bottles! You can watch the video tomorrow,” she added with a laugh. As if that prehistoric camera was ever
used.


“I will!” Rene shouted. “I just put a new tape in.”

She hustled down the poorly lit stairs, brushing by one of the sous-chefs carrying a sack of flour from the dry storage pantry.
Farther underground, the temperature dropped, a chill emanating from the stone walls as she reached the heavy door of the
wine vault.


A breeze blew the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail, making her pause and look down the dark hallway. Was the
alley exit open again? The busboys were always out there smoking, but they sure as shit better not be taking lung therapy
when Paupiette’s was this packed.


Tarragon and rosemary wafted from dry storage, but the tangy scents disappeared the moment she cranked the brass handle of
the wine vault, the hinges snapping and squeaking as she entered. In this dim and dusty room, it just smelled of earth and
musk.


She flipped on the overhead, but the single bare bulb did little to illuminate the long, narrow vault or the racks that jutted
out to form a five-foot-high maze. She navigated her way to the back, her rubber soles soundless on the stone floor. Dust
tickled her sinuses and the fifty-eight-degree air finished the job. She didn’t even fight the urge to sneeze, managing to pull out a tissue in time to catch the noisy release.


Behind the back row, she tucked into the corner where the most expensive wines were kept and started blowing and brushing
the bottles, almost instantly finding the distinctive gold and white label of Haut-Brion.


Sliding the bottle out, she dusted it clean, and read the year 2000. In racks stocked chronologically, that made her a good
eighteen years from where she wanted to be. She coughed softly, more dust catching in her throat. Crouching lower, she eased
out another, 1985.


Getting closer. On her haunches, her fingers closed over a bottle just as the door opened, the sound of the brass knob echoing
through the vault. She started to stand but a man’s hushed voice stopped her.


“I’m in.”

Freezing, she worked to place the voice, but couldn’t. It was low, gruff, masculine.

“Now.”

There was something urgent in the tone. Something that stilled her.

She waited for a footstep; if he was another server, he’d walk to a stack to find his bottle of wine. If it was Rene, he’d
call her name, knowing she was down there, and anyone else…


No one else should be down here.

Her pulse kicked a little as she waited for the next sound, unease prickling up her spine.

Nothing moved. No one breathed.

Praying her knees wouldn’t creak and give her away, she rose an inch, wanting to get high enough to see over the stack. As
she did, the knob cracked again, and this time the squeak of the hinges dragged out as though the door were being opened very slowly. She rose a little higher to peek
over the top rack of bottles.


A man stood flattened against the wall, his hand to his chest, inside a jacket, his head turned to face the door. In the shadows,
she could hardly make out his profile, taking in his black shirt, the way his dark hair blended into the wall behind him.
Not a server. No one she’d ever seen before.


He stood perfectly still as the door opened wider, and Sam tore her gaze from the stranger to the new arrival. The overhead
bulb caught a glimmer of silver hair, instantly recognizable. What the hell was Josh—


The move was so fast, Sam barely saw the man’s hand flip from the jacket. She might have gasped at the sight of a freakishly
long pistol, but the whoomf of sound covered her breath, the blast muffled like a fist into a pillow.


Joshua’s face contorted, then froze in shock. He folded to the floor, disappearing from her sight.

The instinct for self-preservation pushed Sam down behind the rack, her head suddenly light, her thoughts so electrified that
she couldn’t pull a coherent one to the forefront. Only that image of Joshua Sterling getting a bullet in his head.


She closed her eyes but the mental snapshot didn’t disappear. It seared her lids, branded her brain.

Something scraped the floor and her whole being tensed. She squeezed the bottle in her right hand, finding balance on the
balls of her feet, ready to pounce on whoever came around the corner.


She could blind him with the bottle. Crash it on his head. Buy time and help.

But no one came around the rack. Instead, she heard the sound of metal on metal, a click, and a low grunt from the front of
the vault. What the hell?


Still primed to fight for her life, she stood again, just high enough to see the man up on a crate, deftly removing the video
camera.


The security camera that was aimed directly at the back stacks.


She ducked again, but it was too late. She heard him working the screws in the wall, trying to memorize his profile. A bump
in a patrician nose. A high forehead. Pockmarks in a grouping low on his cheek.


Dust danced under and up her nose, tickling, tormenting, teasing a sneeze. Oh, please, no.


She held her breath as the camera cracked off the wall, and the man’s feet hit the floor. In one more second, the door squeaked,
slammed shut, and he was gone.


Could Joshua still be alive? She had to help him. She waited exactly five strangling heartbeats before sliding around the
stacks and running up the middle aisle.


Lifeless blue eyes stared back at her, his face colorless as a stream of deep red blood oozed from a single hole in his temple.
The bottle slipped out of her hands, the explosion of glass barely registering as she stared at the dead man.


God, no. God, no. Not again.


She dropped to her hands and knees with a whimper of disbelief, fighting the urge to reach out and touch the man who just
minutes ago laughed with friends, explained a joke to his wife, ordered rare, expensive Bordeaux.


This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be.


The blood pooled by his cheek, mixing with the wine. The smell roiled her stomach, gagging her as bile rose in her throat and broken glass sliced her knees and palms.


For the second time in her life, she’d seen one man take another’s life. Only this time, her face was caught on tape.

Sam hatched her entire escape plan from the floor of her bedroom closet. There, with her laptop and phone, she figured out
how to fashion a disguise, sneak out of her apartment in the middle of the night, and maybe not get caught and killed in the
act. Maybe.


Until that very moment, though, she didn’t know where she would go once she got out. She needed a friend, obviously, but more
than that, she needed someone who could help her find out just how close the police were to catching Joshua Sterling’s killer.
’Cause they sure as hell weren’t telling her anything.


And then, surfing through news stories on her computer, hidden in her closet with her apartment door barricaded, she saw the
name and instantly had her answer.


Vivi Angelino. Normally, she would not be high on Sam’s list of friends—former friends, in this case, since they’d grown so
far apart in the last three years—who could help in this particular jam. But seeing her byline as the author of the lead story on the Boston Bullet crime investigative website catapulted Vivi to the top her list.


Vivi, a relentless reporter with a nose for news and an inquisitive streak that didn’t know the meaning of the words “no comment,”
was the perfect person to help. She would know what was going on inside the Boston PD, she would know if they had any suspects
in custody or under investigation, and she would understand exactly why the police weren’t offering any protection to the
eyewitness.


She knew Sam’s history with the local cops. She also knew… no, they’d just keep him out of it. The man had done enough damage to Vivi and Sam’s friendship. She wasn’t about to let the hurt of hearing his name
keep her from getting the help she needed.


She opened her phone and scrolled down the recent calls. Now she understood why Vivi had called her twice this past week after
several months without even a hello. Sam hadn’t considered returning the call—she hadn’t really talked to anyone but the police
this past week. But Vivi probably wanted to interview Paupiette’s employees if she was covering the crime. Well, Sam would
give Vivi the scoop of a lifetime… if she could give Sam some inside information.


She tapped the keypad of her phone and sent the text.

Hey. Saw your story on Boston Bullet. R u home?

That was innocuous enough in case anyone was tracking her calls or texts.

She hit Send and let her gaze linger on the headline.

Police Hit Brick Wall in Sterling Case.


The headache that had started in the wine cellar a week ago clobbered Sam’s temples with every word Vivi had written.


No break in the case.

No clues to the killing.

No evidence, no motive, no suspect… no witnesses. Police suspect professional assassin at work.

Two words stood out at her. No witnesses. That meant the police still hadn’t released the fact that there was an eyewitness; at least they’d kept their word on that.


What other information were they withholding? Sam had to know if they had anyone in custody or on a suspicious persons list.
And, despite the man who’d come between them, Vivi was definitely the person to help her find out.


But she couldn’t risk having this conversation on the phone. This would have to be in person.

Requiring her escape plan to work.

In her hands, the BlackBerry vibrated, flashing Vivi’s name like a lifeline.

Wow. Long time no hear from. How are you?

Yeah, really long time.

How to respond… how was she? Scared to death, in hiding, desperate? She went for direct. Can I come over?

She squeezed the phone, willing Vivi to understand that she meant now, and not ask why.


Sure. Come on over.


She stared at the response, affection and appreciation swelling her heart. Now that was a true friend. No questions asked—a
minor miracle considering this was Vivi Angelino, and every sentence started with who, what, when, where, and why.


Thanks, she wrote back, then turned the phone off before a barrage of questions lit the screen. Sam would answer in person. If she had the answers.


Staying low so she didn’t make a shadow, she crawled across her bedroom floor for the wig and sneakers. She’d found the black
wig in the back of the closet, a leftover from some college Halloween party costume when she’d gone as Cleopatra.


Well, Cleo was about to buy Sam some air and information and, she hoped, a disguise that would get her right past anyone watching
for her. Right past him.


Assuming he was out there. She had to make that assumption; it was the only way to stay alive.

She stuffed her hair under the wig, itchy where the cheap netting clawed her scalp. Still low enough not to be seen through
the windows, she shoved her feet into a pair of Nikes, tied the laces, and duckwalked to the bedroom door. She moved stealthily
through the windowless hallway, then crawled through the living room and made her way across the linoleum floor to the kitchen
door.


Now came the tough part. Leaving through the back door from the second floor of a house… with no back stairs.

As quietly as possible, she stepped out to a small wooden deck overlooking the Brodys’ fenced-in backyard. In all the time
she’d rented the place, Mr. B. had promised that he was going to build a little stairway so Sam could have access to their
yard. He hadn’t gotten around to it, but Sam knew her landlord would move heaven and earth for her, after what the Innocence
Mission had done for his cousin in Arizona. When he’d learned Sam volunteered at the organization, he’d actually lowered the
rent.


But he still hadn’t built the stairs. Even though he knew damn well that the place didn’t meet fire code. But that turned
out to be a good thing. Anyone who’d staked out her place would focus on the front, the only exit from the upstairs apartment.


No one would watch the fenced-in backyard, or the dilapidated second-floor porch that was home to her plants and a place to
catch some rays. No one would suspect that she would put on a wig and dark clothes, jump off a second-story deck fifteen feet
off the ground, then slide through a secret opening in the fence, follow the alley to the corner of Prospect and Somerville
Ave, where cabs were always parked outside to take drunks home on a Saturday night.


No one—especially not the man with the bump on his nose, the pockmarked cheeks, and the deadly pistol, who, right this minute,
could be parked in a car across the street—was waiting for her to leave.


She crawled to the railing, glancing at the houses on either side, both dark for the night. In fact, the entire Somerville
neighborhood was pretty quiet, but it was summer and most student renters were gone now. Leaning over, she gauged the drop.
Maybe not fifteen feet. Maybe twelve, and if she hung from the side, only about seven to the soft grass below. A little risky,
but not exactly skydiving without a chute.


The other option was using the drainpipe and windowsill, which looked really easy in the movies, but probably didn’t execute
so well in real life. Plus, Mrs. Brody was a light sleeper and that was their bathroom window. Close enough to the bedroom
to be heard. Lights would come on; questions would be asked. Anyone staking her house would be on red alert.


She opted to hang and drop, climbing over the railing, then shimmying into position, a splinter of wood stabbing her finger.
Ignoring the sting, she peeked down to the ground, her breath caught in her throat.


She could break a leg.

Damn it, Sam, stop second-guessing and move.


A car drove up Loring, ambient light falling over the yard and the side of the house, moving slowly. Way too slowly. Slowly
enough to take pictures of her house, maybe? To plan how to break in and shoot the witness in the head?


Hell yeah, that slow.

She let go, falling for a second in a surreal kind of slow motion, air whooshing past her ears, almost blowing the wig off.
She landed with a soft thud, rolling right, then stayed perfectly still, waiting for the stab of a broken bone.


Everything moved. Stashing some stray hairs back up under the fake wiry ones, she took off to the back corner of the yard,
to the broken boards where she’d watched the neighbor’s kids come in and out playing hide-and-seek a few weeks ago.


Back in the good old days when she could sit on her own balcony and not wait for a sniper’s bullet to hit.

The boards lifted easily, as they had for the kids. On the other side, the alley was nothing more than the back fences of
the houses on the next street, a holding place for garbage and Dumpsters, barely wide enough for a car. She broke into a slow
jog, not fast enough to get someone’s attention, not slow enough to get shot.


Following the route she’d mentally mapped out in advance, she tore through the first intersection, even though there were no cars in sight. The streetlights of the main drag beamed beaconlike, the first glimpse of a yellow cab
earning a satisfied “Yessss” through her teeth.


As she approached, the driver sat straight, probably waking from a nap. When she opened the door and he turned to her, for
one horrific second she half expected to see him. Beak nose. Pockmarks. Silenced pistol.


But only a sleepy black man looked at her, nodding as she threw herself into the back and yanked the door.

“Brookline. Corner of Tappan and Beacon in Washington Square.” She slid deep into the seat, cloaking herself in the darkness.

“You runnin’ away from somebody, miss?”

Somebody. “Just, please, I’m in a hurry.”


He got the message, driving silently down Mass Ave over the Charles, where the thud of her heart matched the clunk of the
wheels on the bridge. By the time they were on the Boston side of the river, her pulse had started to resemble normal.


She put her hand on the phone in her pocket, but she resisted the urge to take it out, turn it on, and read any texts Vivi
might have sent. She’d tell her everything once she got there. Now, she had to remain on high alert.


At every turn, she checked behind them, the lanes next to them, the oncoming traffic.

“No one is following, I promise,” the driver said with a quick smile. “Seriously. You can relax. You are safe.”

Relax? Safe? He had no idea.

She’d never relax or be safe until they caught, convicted, and imprisoned the guy who killed Joshua Sterling. And as long
as she was the only living witness, half the cops in Boston wouldn’t care if the killer made her his next victim. They were laughing their asses off at this one; she just knew it.


Of all people to witness a murder.


The cab rumbled over the train track and brick bumps of Beacon Street, side by side with what had to be the last Green Line
car for the night. It stopped at Tappan, blocking them from making a turn.


Sam leaned forward and squinted up the block to the redbrick apartment complex she’d once called home, a wave of nostalgia
hitting her. She’d had some fun in that building, working at the ad agency, making friends—including Vivi. Going to Vivi’s
parties…


Don’t go there, Sam.


But wasn’t that the reason she hadn’t been back here to see her friend for so long? And that was wrong. She shouldn’t have
let what happened—or didn’t—come between them. And considering that she had, Vivi was an angel for opening up her home at
one in the morning.


All that history was just that… history. Women should never lose a friendship over a man. No matter who he was or what he did.


Just as the trolley car rolled away, a man stumbled out from around the corner waving helplessly at the back of the train,
teetering on the edge of falling over.


“There’s my next fare,” the driver said. “Even if he’s dead broke.”

Sam smiled. There were good people left in the world.

“Just drop me here, then,” she said. “I’m going right up to the first building. That way you can pick him up.” She stabbed
into her pocket and pulled out a little leather case, handing him two twenties, twice the fare. “This’ll cover him, too.”


“Thanks.” He turned to look at her, the sleepy gaze replaced with warmth now. “Hope the son of a bitch doesn’t find you.”


“Me too.”

“Here.” He handed her a card. “Call me if you need a ride somewhere else tonight. I won’t be far.”

She took it and nodded thanks, then slid to the door and threw it open. Waiting for one car to pass, she crossed Beacon, securely
under the streetlight and well within sight of the bright red lights of the Star Market.