I wrote torrid historical romances for a living.I'd be the first to admit writing was my love. Through the pages of a novel, I could live in a realm clouded by daydreams and fantasy. I preferred to exist in a world filled with imagination---where life ended with that eternal Happily Ever After.Reality didn't prepare me for the horror I witnessed on a cold September night.He had died in my arms, the victim of a vicious and brutal crime. I would never forget his gasping words or the molten gold of his eyes. He held my hand in his icy tough as that final gasp of breath escaped his lips.Haunted, I left the city soon afterward, tormented by his handsome image. I had been with him when he died. Then, why, was he on my doorstep?