J. Kenner - Wanted

Special thanks to Elle, Christie, and Dana. I so appreciate you taking the time to read and comment, especially when the turn-around was so dang fast! Hugs, kisses, and buckets of emojis to you!

A big shout-out to my former boss, Steve, for letting me have the use of his Chicago condo so I could get the feel of the city, and to Jim at In Chicago Sedan and Limousine for being such an incredible and informative tour guide.

To my daughter Catherine (even though itll be years before she can read this book!), for being a great travel companion, and for not complaining when Mom insisted on walking everywhere in order to enjoy the citys vibe!

To my awesome agent, Kim, and to Shauna and Gina and all the wonderful folks at Bantam whose support and enthusiasm thrills me to my toes and beyond.

Most of all, to all the incredible readers whove reached out to me through my website, social media, snail mail, conferences, and book signings. Yall are truly amazing.

XXOO,

J.K.

I know exactly when my life shifted. That precise instant when his eyes met mine and I no longer saw the bland look of familiarity, but danger and fire, lust and hunger.

Perhaps I should have turned away. Perhaps I should have run.

I didnt. I wanted him. More, I needed him. The man, and the fire that he ignited inside of me.

And in his eyes, I saw that he needed me, too.

That was the moment that everything changed. Me, most of all.

But whether it changed for good or for ill well, that remains to be seen.

Even dead, my Uncle Jahn knew how to throw one hell of a party.

His Chicago lakeside penthouse was bursting at the seams with an eclectic collection of mourners, most of whom had imbibed so much wine from the famous Howard Jahn cellar that whatever melancholy theyd brought with them had been sweetly erased, and now this wake or reception or whatever the hell you wanted to call it wasnt the least bit somber. Politicians mingled with financiers mingled with artists and academics, and everyone was smiling and laughing and toasting the deceased.

At his request, thered been no formal funeral. Just this gathering of friends and family, food and drink, music and mirth. Jahnhe hated the name Howardhad lived a vibrant life, and that was never more obvious than now in his death.

I missed him so damn much, but I hadnt cried. Hadnt screamed and ranted. Hadnt done anything, really, except move through the days and nights lost in a haze of emotions, my mind numb. My body anesthetized.

I sighed and fingered the charm on my silver bracelet. Hed presented me with the tiny motorcycle just over a month ago, and the gift had made me smile. I hadnt talked about wanting to ride a motorcycle since before I turned sixteen. And it had been years since Id ridden behind a boy, my arms tight around his waist and my hair blowing in the wind.

But Uncle Jahn knew me better than anyone. He saw past the princess to the girl hidden inside. A girl whod built up walls out of necessity, but still desperately wanted to break free. Who longed to slip on a pair of well-worn jeans, grab a battered leather jacket, and go a little wild.

Sometimes, she even did. And sometimes it didnt end right at all.

I tightened my grip on the charm as the memory of Jahn holding my handof him promising to keep my secretsswept over me, finally bringing tears to my eyes. He should be beside me, dammit, and the swell of laughter and conversation that filled the room was making me a little sick.

Despite the fact that I knew Jahn wanted it that way, it was all I could do not to smack all the people whod hugged me and murmured softly that he was in a better place and wasnt it wonderful that hed lived such a full life. That was such bullshithe hadnt even turned sixty yet. Vibrant men in their fifties shouldnt drop dead from aneurysms, and there werent enough pithy Hallmark quotes in the universe to make me think otherwise.

Antsy, I shifted my weight from foot to foot. There was a bar set up on the other side of the room, and Id positioned myself as far away as physically possible because right then I wanted the burn of tequila. Wanted to let go, to explode through the numbness that clung to me like a cocoon. To run. To feel.

But that wasnt going to happen. No alcohol was passing these lips tonight. I was Jahns niece, after all, and that made me some kind of hostess-by-default, which meant I was stuck in the penthouse. Four thousand square feet, but I swear I could feel the art-covered walls pressing in around me.

I wanted to race up the spiral staircase to the rooftop patio, then leap over the balcony into the darkening sky. I wanted to take flight over Lake Michigan and the whole world. I wanted to break things and scream and rant and curse this damned universe that took away a good man.

Shit. I sucked in a breath and looked down at the exquisite ancient-looking notebook inside the glass and chrome display case Id been leaning against. The leather-bound book was an exceptionally well-done copy of a recently discovered Da Vinci notebook. Dubbed the Creature Notebook, it had sixteen pages of animal studies and was open to the center, revealing a stunning sketch the young master had drawnhis study for the famous, but never located, dragon shield. Jahn had attempted to acquire the notebook, and I remember just how angry hed been when hed lost out to Victor Neely, another Chicago businessman with a private collection that rivaled my uncles.

At the time, Id just started at Northwestern with a major in poli sci and a minor in art history. Im not particularly talented, but Ive sketched my whole life, and Ive been fascinated with artand in particular with Leonardo da Vincisince my parents took me to my first museum at the age of three.

I thought the Creature Notebook was beyond cool, and Id been irritated on Jahns behalf when he not only lost out on it, but when the press had poured salt in the wound by prattling on about Neelys amazing new acquisition.

About a year later, Jahn showed me the facsimile, bright and shiny in the custom-made display case. As a general rule, my uncle never owned a copy. If he couldnt have the originalbe it a Rembrandt or a Rauschenberg or a Da Vincihe simply moved on. When Id asked why hed made an exception for the Creature Notebook, hed simply shrugged and told me that the images were at least as interesting as the provenance. Besides, anyone who can successfully copy a Da Vinci has created a masterpiece himself.

Despite the fact that it wasnt authentic, the notebook was my favorite of Jahns many manuscripts and artifacts, and now, standing with my hands pressed to the glass, I felt as if he was, in some small way, beside me.

I drew in a breath, knowing I had to get my act together, if for no other reason than the more wrecked I looked, the more guests would try to cheer me. Not that I looked particularly wrecked. When you grow up as Angelina Hayden Raine, with a United States senator for a father and a mother who served on the board of over a dozen international nonprofit organizations, you learn the difference between a public and a private face very early on. Especially when you have your own secrets to keep.

This is so goddamn fucked up it makes me want to scream.

I felt a whisper of a smile touch my lips and turned around to find myself looking into Kats bloodshot eyes.

Oh, hell, Angie, she said. He shouldnt be dead.

Hed be pissed if he knew youd been crying, I said, blinking away the last of my own tears.

Fuck that.

I almost laughed. Katrina Laron had a talent for cutting straight through the bullshit.

Im not sure which one of us leaned in first, but we caught each other in a bone-crushing hug. With a sniffle, I finally pulled away. Perverse, maybe, but just knowing that someone else was acknowledging the utter horror of the situation made me feel infinitesimally better.