Entangled

Book 4: Cantwell Quartet Series

by Elizabeth Castle

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Christian Romantic Suspense; Police & Law Enforcement Romance; Romantic Suspense; friends to lovers; contemporary romance; steamy romance; protector romance; wealthy hero; romance set in america

Synopsis

Brothers, though not by blood, must face the dangers of the past to win the women of their dreams.

On the outside, he has it all: good looks, money, charm. On the inside, Nash Camhion has dark secrets. Only those closest to him know what he survived as a child. He lost his grandfather and his innocence twenty-seven years ago. But between text messages and phone calls, one woman helps soothe his battered soul.

Freya Jensen wants to help Nash. Though they have never met in person, she is determined to find the evidence needed to solve his grandfather's murder. But when she finds DNA related to Nash's kidnapper, a kidnapping she knew nothing about, she discovers it's tied to a series of abductions and murders of young boys. Though she knows Nash will not thank her, she turns the evidence over to the FBI, and the cold case heats up.

With Cantwell's game launch only weeks away, Nash wants no distractions. And more than anything, he wants to put the investigation to rest. But when he learns the man who took him murdered twelve boys the same age he had been, he wants justice—not for himself but for the twelve boys and his grandfather. Freya is the key that will unlock the past. Fate brings the past full circle, and only by confronting the terror of his past can he claim his future and the woman who has captured his battered heart.

Note from author: “The Cantwell Quarter comes full circle. This is the final book in the Cantwell Quartet four-book series, approximately 55,000 words. Please note this is an open-door romance. I hope you enjoy.” – Lizzy Castle.

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Release date: June 30, 2024

Publisher: In The Air Publishing

Print pages: 216

Content advisory: Open door romance.

Sample

Chapter One

Nash Camhion could no longer hear the words the federal agent was saying to him.  His gray eyes darkened as his thoughts drifted back to the past.  Twenty-seven years.  It had been almost twenty-seven years, and the memories could still strike at any moment.

He remembered sweating in the confines of the dark room.  In the shadows, every time he closed his eyes, he saw his grandfather being shot.  Cormac Camhion had yelled his grandson’s name as the man had grabbed Nash around the waist and tossed him in the utility van.  All Nash could do was pray his grandfather was alive, that the blood pouring out of the wound wasn’t fatal.  But deep inside, he knew his beloved grandfather was dead.

Two men had grabbed him, but then there was only one.  The one who had shot his grandfather remained.  Thirteen-year-old Nash trembled in fear every time he heard movements outside the door, fearful he’d hear the man jingle his keys.  He’d seen the padlock on the outside of the door that would lock him in.

On his first night, he had desperately tried to escape.  The windowpanes were painted black, and barbed mesh wire kept him from the window lock.  He'd tried punching through the wire to break the glass, but the sharp barbs cut his hands until blood smeared the glass and dripped on the floor.  The glass had not broken.  The man had come in and laughed at his attempt to escape.  When the man grabbed him, Nash had fought as hard as he could.  But after the sting of a needle, he had sagged in the man’s arms.  He’d been dumped on the four-poster bed that had been made up in the center of the room.  He’d tied Nash’s arms so that he couldn’t claw or scratch him, but he’d been too weak, too tired from whatever had been in the needle to do more than whimper.  His tormentor had tied his legs to the bed so tightly that he could barely move them.

The only light in the room came from a peeled paint spot at the top of the glass.  The light glinted off the edge of the knife the man held.  The man came to him the first time that night.  Then a second.  Then a third.

Nash bent over and tried to control his breathing, trying not to throw up the coffee he had drunk right before the federal agent had shown up at his door.  He told himself over and over that the man couldn’t hurt him.  It was over.  He wasn’t a boy anymore.  He knew how to defend himself.  He could fight.

“Mr. Camhion?  I realize this is a shock.  And I know it can’t be easy for you.”  Special Agent Donna Monaco held out her business card.

Nash ignored it as he got himself under control.  He cleared his mind, let the feelings wash over him, through him, until they were no more.  He took the card but tossed it on the coffee table.  He took a good look at her.  Her black hair was cut in a bob, and she looked more like a model than an agent.  “I wish you would let it be.  It’s been twenty-seven years.  MPD hasn’t caught him.  This case is so far buried at the bottom of the cold case files; I can’t imagine why you are here.”

Agent Monaco pursed her lips and continued.  “As I was saying, there is new evidence.  DNA from your crime scene was connected to a series of kidnappings and murders across the country.  One of them was as recent as last year, right here in D.C.”

Nash dropped down into the brown leather recliner.  “But you don’t know who the DNA belongs to?  You said you have no suspects.  So, forgive me, but who cares if my attacker’s DNA is linked to other cases?  You’re no closer to finding this man than you were twenty-seven years ago.”

The agent straightened her jacket and continued.  “I’m going over each case, one by one.  Trying to find what connects them other than DNA and MO.  Your grandfather’s murder is unique.  No other family members were killed during the other abductions.”

Nash cursed.  “Two men, Agent Monaco.  There were two.  The one who shot my grandfather was the one who wanted me.  The other man grabbed me while my grandfather was shot and then drove us to a building on the outskirts of the city.  The man who killed my grandfather tortured me for three days.  He got off on it, literally and figuratively.”

The agent nodded.  “The DNA from his semen.  There was little in the case file outside of the investigation of the murder.  My understanding is that your parents were adamant that your kidnapping remain hidden.  It wasn’t until quite recently that the DNA evidence came to light.  Twenty-seven years ago, it wasn’t processed.”

Nash rose, his hands balled into fists as he began to pace.  “My parents were trying to protect their traumatized thirteen-year-old son.  But they didn’t hide the evidence.  If there was unprocessed DNA, then that is on the MPD.”

The woman rose, her hand near her hip.  “I’m not saying your parents covered anything up.  I’m saying it’s possible someone went to extra lengths to hide the kidnapping, including the evidence.  What else do you remember?”

Nash put his hands where the agent could see them and forced his fists to unclench.  “There is nothing else to tell.  They wore masks.  I was drugged.  Then I was drugged again and again.  My memories of the abduction are hazy.  During my captivity, the man kept the room in the dark.  I can say he was white.  He had brown hair, was almost twice my height, and his breath smelled like peppermint and tobacco.  There is nothing else.  You have Gideon Eginhard’s account from when he found me.  His description was better than mine.”

The agent opened her notepad.  “Yes.  It seems he’s been investigating this case since he first became a police officer.  The cold case detective gave me all the notes.  My next stop will be to talk to him.  You said your parents are out of town?”

Nash swallowed the bile in his throat.  “Paris.  It’s their forty-fifth wedding anniversary.  Paris was where they honeymooned.  I don’t want you to contact them.  They weren’t there.  They didn’t see anything.  You already know who my grandfather was and who my parents are.  Money seemed the logical motive.  He got the money.  He got away with murder.  And he almost got away with killing me.  Leave them be.  There’s nothing they can tell you that I can’t.”

She nodded.  “For now.  I know almost everything I need to know about your family, Mr. Camhion.  But as I said, your grandfather’s murder is the unique piece.  And I believe you were the first victim.  If you think of anything else, please call.  I’ll keep you apprised if I find anything.”

Nash had no faith that the agent would find anything.  For one, she looked like she had just graduated from the academy.  Second, DNA matches meant nothing without suspects.  “I’ll walk you out.”

Nash opened the door and watched as the agent headed back to her nondescript car.  The woman lifted a hand to someone in a car parked behind her.  Angry, Nash stepped out onto the porch.  Dusk was falling, the sun was setting, and he tried to let the cool air calm him.

A blonde woman climbed out of an old red Toyota Camry.  Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail; she wore cheap department store slacks and an MPD windbreaker.  “Hello, Ignatius.”

That voice.  The soft, smoky sound of his name on her lips stopped him in his tracks.  The voice that helped him sleep at night.  The voice he often dreamed about.  “Freya.”

She gave him a hint of a smile, but her hazel eyes were wary.  “I’m sorry for showing up like this.  I was hoping to beat Agent Monaco, but I got caught up in the lab.”

Nash swallowed hard.  They chatted almost every night, either by text or a call, but they had never met.  The last two nights she’d opted to text, and they were brief.  She had known the Feds were coming.  He felt his temper flare.  “I suppose I have you to blame for Agent Monaco showing up at my door.  Dammit, I told Gideon to leave it alone.”

Freya Jensen took a tentative step toward the porch.  “Can I come in?  I think we should talk privately.”

Nash glared at her, but then shrugged.  “Fine.  Sure.  Come on in.  Just the way I imagined meeting you.  Over the case of my dead grandfather.”

Freya softly closed the front door as Nash left her to go to the kitchen.  He heard her rubber-soled shoes following him.  He started slamming cabinets, looking for where he had stashed the bottle of bourbon.  He rarely drank, but it was that or punch a hole in his wall.  He swore he could feel the man’s breath on his skin.  Could feel the knife as it sliced into his flesh.

Freya came and stood in the doorway.  “Gideon did ask me to look into the files.  But that was ages ago, and it was only about your grandfather’s murder.  I looked through all his records and evidence, and there wasn’t anything else to find.  I set it aside.  There were active cases that needed me.  But over the past few months that we’ve been talking, I’ve felt I needed to look again.  I went rummaging through old evidence boxes.  That’s when I stumbled upon your name.”

Nash filled the glass with the bottle of scotch he found.  Bourbon or scotch; it hardly mattered.  “So you stumbled onto the file of my kidnapping and assault.”

Freya came to stand behind him.  “Nash, I’m so sorry.  I never thought I’d come across a file on you.  But once I had…”

He took a large swallow.  “Once you had, you just had to look.”

Freya came around the counter so she could see his face.  “I’m sorry.”

He stopped and looked at her.  Her brows, the same color as her hair, were furrowed.  Her rosy pink lips, bare of lipstick or gloss, were pinched.  Her cheeks were flushed, as was the exposed skin of her neck.  Strictly speaking, she was average: average height, average weight, average looking.  He would pass her on the street without taking a second look.  But her voice, that smoky voice, brought his anger down a notch, and it was replaced with something else.

Nash finished the glass.  “What’s there to be sorry for?  It’s old news.  Happened years ago.  I’ll tell you what I told Gideon.  Leave it alone.  My family has suffered enough.  There is nothing you or anyone else can do to bring my grandfather back.  You can’t erase my memories.  And bringing it back up over and over won’t change it.  DNA is not going to change it.  If what Agent Monaco said is true, this guy has been all over the country for almost three decades, and the police and the Feds can’t find him.  Now get out of my house.”

Freya unzipped her jacket.  “I can help.  Let me help.”

Nash’s eyes went to the white polo shirt with an MPD logo on the chest.  Her waist was trim under the bulky jacket, and her shirt molded to her body as she took off her jacket.  Lust was a sucker punch in the gut.  Were she any other woman, he knew what would come next.  But this was Freya, not one of the many women over the years whom he let catch him after they had chased him; one of the many women he’d used to erase the shame and humiliation his attacker left behind.

Nash set the glass down.  “I don’t want your help.  I want you to leave.”

Freya stood her ground, laying a hand on his bare arm.  “Please, Nash.  We’re friends.  You can trust me.  I want to help.”

Nash growled and grabbed her hips.  He pulled her hard against his body.  “You want to help me?”

Freya’s eyes held his.  They widened, but she didn’t pull away.  “Yes.”

Nash’s mouth crashed down on hers.  He lifted her hips against his erection as his tongue invaded her mouth.  She didn’t fight him; she didn’t push at him.  Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck.  He lifted her thighs so they were wrapped around his waist, and he carried her to the back of the house.  He broke off the intense kiss and dropped her on his bed.  He fought for control.

“Nash?”  Freya stayed where he had tossed her.

“One last time, Freya.  You need to leave.”

She lay on his bed, her lips swollen, her eyes darkened.  She slowly shook her head.

Cursing himself and her, he stripped off all of his clothes.  Naked, he yanked her to her feet and did the same to her.  He pulled the polo off and barely gave a second glance at the sports bra she wore.  He grabbed the fabric and yanked it over her head.  Her bare breasts were tipped with tight pink nipples, and unable to resist, he bent his head and took the tip into his mouth.  He sucked hard at her, and she whimpered in his arms.  His hands went to the hook of her slacks, and he stripped both the pants and her underwear to her feet.  More gently than the last time, he laid her back down so he could strip off her shoes and socks and get the pants off.

Freya’s smoky voice called to him.  “Nash.”

Whatever was left of his control broke.  He climbed over her and spread her thighs.  His blinds were pulled, so he clicked on the lamp so he could see her.  Her eyes held his.  He bent and kissed her again, claiming her mouth again in a rough kiss.  His hands stroked their way down her body, his roughened palms stopping at her breasts for a moment before his hands continued their journey.  Her thighs fell away as his hands found her center.  He stroked her, feeding her arousal until he was sure she could take him.

Knowing he should slow down, knowing he wasn’t showing her an ounce of finesse, he settled between her thighs. Without another thought or hesitation, he plunged inside.  He barely heard her cry out, was only peripherally aware as her nails dug into his back.  His name on her lips was a breathy whisper in his ear.

He mindlessly surged into her, grasping her hips, desperately needing the softness of her flesh against his.  It was only moments before he climaxed, surging one last time before collapsing on top of her.

Nash dropped his head against her hair, inhaling the soft scent of it.  Then reality hit.  He swore and climbed off her.  She looked dazed as she lay there, her eyes not leaving his.  He swore again.  “I can’t.”

Nash went to the bathroom.  The room was dark, but he didn’t turn on the light.  He went to the toilet, tossed the lid back, and vomited up the coffee and alcohol that were all that filled his stomach.  He hung his head for a moment.  What had he done?

A soft knock came a few minutes later.  “Nash.  Come out.  Please.  We don’t have to talk about it.  We can just sleep.”

Self-disgust assailed him.  He’d used Freya like she was a nameless, faceless body.  He would know; there had been many over the years.  But Freya was his friend.  At least she had been.  He fought the unexpected and unaccustomed sting of tears as he got to his feet and brushed his teeth.

When he left the bathroom, Freya was under his sheets, and she had the comforter folded back.  Her hair was still in a ponytail, though it was skewed.  And despite what had happened, she was smiling at him.  He stopped and took her in.  She had the covers over her breasts, but he could see her bare shoulders were slim, as was her neck.  Her cheeks and lips were flushed, and her slim hand lay on the bed.  She patted the empty space beside her.  Unable to resist, and not wanting to break whatever spell it was that she had over him, he slid under the covers.

Freya shifted until she was lying close enough to put her arm around him.  He closed his eyes and drifted off.

 

*  *  *

 

Freya could hear the grandfather clock chiming the midnight hour from the living room.  She had been lying next to Nash for hours.  At some point in the night, he’d rolled until he was on his stomach, and he’d dropped into a deeper sleep.  Knowing he would likely be that way for a while, she had drifted off.

But she was in an unfamiliar bed, and she was not accustomed to sharing, so she didn’t sleep long.  As she lay beside him, she thought back to the last man’s bed she’d been in.  Sadly, she distinctly remembered the last man’s bed she’d been in, and it had been a long time ago.  The interlude had ended in disappointment, physically speaking, much like this one had.  And the next day, the relationship was over.

Freya watched Nash sleep.  It might have ended the same, but she didn’t want this relationship to end.  There had been emotional satisfaction in being with him, holding him.  She had seen the pain inside him and the need his eyes expressed.  He had told her to leave.  But she hadn’t wanted to.  When he’d come toward her, she knew what he wanted from her.

Nash Camhion.  Women sighed and spoke about him in soft whispers.  They all wondered what it would be like to have all that gorgeous masculine attention on them.  Freya knew of his playboy image.  And she wasn’t immune.  She had wondered what it would be like to have all of his attention on her.  Now she knew.  He had a broad, muscular chest and athletic body.  And his, well, masculinity was not overrated.

She’d been in D.C. for over two years, but she knew who he was long before that.  The Camhion family was well known in the city, but Nash had been her teenage crush.  It wasn’t hard to see the teenager he’d once been in the man that was lying beside her.  She knew he had black hair.  But now she knew it had a dark gray tone to it.  She knew he had gray eyes.  And now she knew how they darkened with desire.

He stirred and she laid a hand on his back.  He settled at her touch.  His hair was longer these days.  During a press conference a few months ago, she had noticed.  Now it was long enough to pull back in a ponytail.  His skin was bronzed, and in the light from the lamp he’d left on, she could see some scars.  Dozens of them in various lengths.  She frowned as she touched one.  Her stomach clenched.  She knew a knife wound when she saw one, even one as old as these were.

She shifted out from under the covers.  She knew he wouldn’t appreciate her staring at him and speculating about them.  When she’d followed him to the kitchen, she could see the demons inside taking hold.  She had thought she could help him.  She thought she could stop them from taking over.  And she supposed she had.  The moment his lips had taken hers, she’d been his.

She’d had plenty of fantasies, no doubt.  She’d imagined a dozen ways Nash might make love to her.  Tonight was something she couldn’t imagine.  His emotions were raw.  His pain was on the surface.  And every female bone in her body, every soft emotion she had inside, wanted to help ease the pain she saw.  And because this was Nash, the man to whom she had spent many nights talking to and confiding in, she had given herself over to him.

She knew his best friend Gideon Eginhard because Gideon was a police detective where she worked as a forensic analyst.  She’d helped Gideon on a case that involved his fiancée right after she joined the MPD.  She’d later learned Penny was Nash’s sister.  A few months later, Gideon had sought out her help involving another friend of his, Trenton Armstrong.  She’d hunted down a crazy cult member and her serial killer son.  She’d texted Nash a few times, but they were strictly work texts.

Then last year, Gideon had asked her to look into a woman who was trying to kill his friend Isaac Brandt.  She’d been happy to help.  She’d reached out to some old friends and had gotten her hands on a classified file of the woman Gideon was looking for.  Nash had sent her dinner that night to thank her for helping.  She’d texted him to say thank you, and they had messaged back and forth a few times.

She’d learned about Nash’s grandfather when Gideon had asked her to look into the cold file on Cormac Camhion’s murder.  Gideon had given her only minimal details, but the files filled in the gaps.  When Isaac’s father was shot at Isaac’s wedding, she had an urge to call Nash.  Nash had been a witness to the shooting, and she imagined it triggered awful memories of his grandfather.  She had sent him a friendly text, and for the past few months, they’d been texting and talking almost every night.

She teased him and called him Ignatius.  She could lie in bed and think about him and think of him as not the playboy prince Nash, but Ignatius, her friend.  She felt like she got to know a side of him he showed few others.  He’d tease her, ask her what she was wearing as a joke, and they’d bid each other good night.

Fantasies were funny things, she mused.  Nash was hers.  She’d been falling in love over the phone, imagining what it might be like if they met.  They would start off as friends, and then progress to something more.

It had only been a fantasy, of course.  She didn’t think Nash Camhion would date someone like her.  He dated debutantes and models.  During his modeling days, there had been any number of beauties on his arm.  As far as she could tell, that hadn’t changed much over the years.  He admitted he wasn’t seeing anyone; that Cantwell took up all his time.  She could understand that.  Her job took up all of hers.  Of course, she wasn’t a beauty, and men weren’t falling all over her the way women did with him.

Freya slowly got dressed and was at a loss as to what to do.  When she’d followed him into the kitchen, there had been so much pain in his eyes.  And she was so sorry she had a hand in putting it there.  She wanted to help.  Sex wasn’t what she had in mind when she’d shown up at his doorstep, but no part of her had wanted to say no.  And she couldn’t seem to strum up the regret she knew she should be feeling right now.  Sex wasn’t easy for her.  She found it hard to get close to people.  But some part of her felt like she knew Nash emotionally, as much as she now knew him physically.

She glanced as Nash’s phone vibrated on his dresser.  She saw Gideon’s name.  He wanted to talk about the FBI agent that had called him.  She pretended to be Nash and sent a quick note saying he was exhausted and could they chat tomorrow.  That seemed to satisfy Gideon, and he bade his friend good night.

Freya pulled on her black loafers and gave Nash one last look.  No.  She didn’t want this to end.