Chapter 2

Noah knocked and strolled in, closing the door quickly behind him. He chucked his coat and shivered. In his hand was a mountain bouquet of wildflowers, his customary birthday present. Where he got them in January in Alaska was a mystery, but with as much money as he'd acquired, he could afford the luxury.

A thick grey Henley stretched across the muscles of his shoulders and chest. His jeans were faded in all the right areas and low on his hips. He kicked off his boots and offered a grin, sexy as all get out with the light stubble on his jaw.

It really was a crying shame they never slept together when they first met. Just to test the waters. After all this time, though, it would be awkward. He never seemed interested in her that way, and her curiosity had been fleeting back then. Noah was the only man in existence she trusted. It would be unwise to focus on anything other than what they had. Soul mates in best friend form. She wondered what made her think of old memories now. Perhaps the manifestation of another letter. It always threw her off-kilter.

Shoving his sandy blond hair off his forehead, he walked deeper into her apartment, blue eyes scanning her kitchen.

"Happy birthday. Whatcha cooking?"

She accepted the flowers and buried her face in them, inhaling the bit of spring she missed. "These are perfect."

He shook his head. "Most women want roses and diamonds. You want wildflowers and pajamas. You're easy to please."

She wasn't easy to please, and that was part of her problem, why she'd been stuck in this rut the past few months. Or years. Nothing ever felt-satisfying. "We're not dating. If we were, you could buy me roses and diamonds. I'm happy with these. You can drain your bank account on the revolving door of women you sleep with." Grinning for effect, she reached for a vase and filled it with water, setting the flowers inside. "Seriously, I love them."

Ignoring her jab at his dating life, he peeked at the stove. "And I love your food. I repeat, what are we having?" The last part of his sentence was spoken in a whisper as his gaze landed on the letter she'd set on the counter. "You got another one." His jaw tensed.

She leaned against the counter. "I know who's sending them, too. Remember me talking about that photographer, Hoan Dwell? I have one of his earlier prints."

His gaze didn't meet hers. "Yeah. A bigwig who snaps pictures of women rolling in grass or fondling a tree stump. They're from him?"

His lack of surprise was interesting. From the moment the first letter arrived, Noah had been as interested in her response to them as the mystery of the notes themselves. He knew her well. They'd go to hell and back for each other. She'd told him things she wouldn't dare repeat to anyone. So he knew she needed control in most things, especially her private life and who she dated. But he didn't know how dark, how deep that control brought her at times.

The conversation she wanted to have with him about the matter would need to be treaded lightly. As much as she loved Noah, no way was she going in the metaphorical bedroom with him. She wanted, needed his advice, though.

"He wants to meet."

Slowly, his gaze lifted to hers. Saying nothing, he picked up the letter and skimmed it before tossing it down. "What do you want to do?"

"I'm curious, I'll admit, but-"

"But what?"

She shrugged. "He could be a mass murderer."

Noah crossed his arms. "He's taken six years to initiate a meeting. Odd serial killer behavior if he was one." He took a step forward as if to touch her, but retreated quickly and braced his hands behind him on the counter.

For whatever reason, they didn't touch. They hadn't hugged or kissed on the cheek or even patted each other on the arm in all the years they'd been friends. If it was strange, she appreciated the oddity in it. Raven had the distinct impression they had this unspoken rule for her benefit, though it was never anything they'd discussed.

"What should I do?"

He studied her in that intent way she'd grown to be comfortable with. For all his banter, he'd had a serious side since his parents died shortly after sophomore year. "Are you going to do it? Meet him?"

She turned and pulled the roasted potatoes from the oven. "I said I would. I told his agent so when he came to the office today."

"Doesn't mean you won't back out."

"My word is golden, Noah. You know that." She lifted the steamer from the pan and placed the crab legs on a serving platter. When he didn't respond, she looked at him.

His jaw muscles were getting a workout. "I also know that anything that puts attention on you scares you to death. Whoever this guy is, whatever he ultimately wants, you should at least think about it." He paused a beat. "You can't keep the world at arm's length forever. Your depression is under control. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."

She moved the buttered asparagus to the small kitchenette table, ignoring his words. He cared. She got that. But he had no idea how much every day was a struggle just to get out of bed. And all because of some long ago nightmare she didn't even remember, outside of small flashes in her memory.

With tense movements, she set the table. "As my friend, shouldn't you be scared he's going to chop me up into tiny pieces and feed me to the bears?"

He sighed. "No."

She turned to glance at him.

"My security team will drive you to and from wherever you're going."

His security team. Well, that was new. She'd never actually seen the men herself, other than Max, who'd been Noah's guard since-She scratched her head. Since forever.

Noah was an only child to a former New Jersey state senator who'd hit the wrong end of an ice patch doing eighty with his wife in the passenger seat. The family had left him money, but Noah accumulated more than he knew what to do with after college when his adventure startup took storm. His time and resources were valued. Some people took advantage of that. Plus, that much wealth brought out the crazies. Two years ago, Noah had been shot at over the watch he was wearing. As beautiful and scenic as Anchorage was, the drug abuse rate was near the highest in the country, as was the suicide rate. People were desperate.

He uncorked the wine and poured two glasses, handing one to her. "I'd never encourage you to do something that would put you in danger. I care about you." Before she could respond, he sucked in a breath and drained half his glass. "And as someone who cares, one of these days you need to let me take you out to dinner. It's really crappy you're cooking on your own birthday."

She smiled, moved by him. "Says the man who has his own cook."

"I do not. I have a housekeeper who occasionally cooks for me. And she's not as good as you."

She laughed as he tried to shrug it off. He could do that for her every time. Knock her from freaked out to that's better in three seconds flat. "Seven days a week is hardly occasional."

"Six days a week." He sipped his wine. "Every night but Friday."

"Which reminds me, I'll have to rain check our typical dinner this week. I'm meeting-him that night." She swirled the wine in her glass. "I like cooking, especially for you because you appreciate it." Plus, she was much more comfortable at home with him in her PJs. She started to regret her decision to meet Mr. Dwell. Again. Why venture out of the normal when she had perfection in her best friend right here? "I care about you, too."

Downing the rest of his wine, he quickly refilled the glass. What was up with him tonight? He was broody and, if she didn't know any better, she'd swear he was nervous, too. Perhaps it was just a bad day at work. Being the owner of Gallivanting Adventure, he didn't get out on the trails or boats or up in the planes as much as he wanted. He hated being stuck behind a desk.

She took a sip of wine. "Everything okay?"

He tore his gaze away from the pink envelope on the counter and focused on her. After a beat, he grinned. "You bet. Let's eat."

After they'd cleaned up the kitchen and Noah had gone home, she went into her bedroom and pulled down the shoebox from the top shelf of her closet. Not one to collect memories, she wondered why she kept the items inside. Nonetheless, she set the box on her bed and scrolled through the other letters Hoan Dwell had sent previously. Each of them were short and sultry, teasing her with a craving she'd skillfully banked until it was appropriate and safe to bring it out.

What did he see in her? And what were his expectations?

His letters spoke of desire. Wanting her. Savoring her until they were both spent. She didn't take lovers lightly. Research and observation went into each decision until she made contact. What if she was attracted to him, wanted to go the distance and be with him?

Would he be disappointed when he learned her likes in the bedroom? They weren't exactly traditional and most men didn't take well to what she needed. Sex, any form of intimacy, had to be on her terms. Hoan Dwell didn't seem like the type of man to submit control. Not that she knew him, or anything about him, but someone who obviously knew women as well as he did and was able to capture them on film with stark clarity, as if peeking into their souls, couldn't possibly be willing.

She shook her head. There had to be something really wrong with him if it took him this long to initiate. All this wondering was moot. All that would happen come Friday night was a dinner, a business discussion about a showing for his work, and then she'd head home.

Alone.

Setting the letters back inside the box, her knuckles brushed over something cool. Her fingers closed around the polished stone and removed it. No larger than a thimble, it fit into her palm. It had fit into her hand when she was just a girl, too. The only thing she had from her life before her mother adopted her was this. Just a rock and some vague memories.

She sighed and put the lid back on the box, replacing it on the shelf. Then she took a hot bath until her mind was blank and her body lax. Except when she crawled between the sheets, sleep eluded her.