I'll Never Let You Go (Morgans of Nashville) Read Online Free PDF

nothing. He wasn’t a guy who did fun.
    She’d been reaching for a quick no when he’d tossed in a very disarming smile, and for a split second, she’d been charmed. The yes had slipped out through a tiny crack in her carefully constructed barriers.
    “Stupid.” She curled her fingers over her scarred palms as she glanced around the noisy restaurant. He’d offered to drive her to the bar, but she’d insisted on driving herself. Knowing where she worked was one thing. Knowing where she lived, another.
    The energy of the bar, the loud taped music, the buzz of conversation and the clink of glasses swirled. Freezing temperatures had not chased away Rudy’s customers. Wall-to-wall mob. A crush. There were a few cowboy hats and men wearing western garb, but the majority had short-cropped hair, long-sleeved shirts, and well-worn jeans. Most had beers and many glanced toward the windows and doors. The ones who sat had their backs to the walls. Made sense that a cop would invite her to a cop function.
    When she’d moved back to Nashville, her first stop had been Broadway and a cowboy boot store. She’d bought a midcalf-high boot with a pointed tip, tassels, and a heel tipped in silver. Oddly, she’d not worn the boots until tonight, and only impulse had made her put them on. Now the choice bothered her. The boots had a pay-attention-tome vibe, made her stick out just a little too much.
    A long time ago, in another life, the boots wouldn’t have been a concern. A long time ago, she’d been a different person who didn’t worry about boots or cop dates. Now, doubts, like the bright neon signs on the strip, flashed. Too much? Too coy? Trying too hard?
    Twenty-nine-year-old women should know what normal people did on dates. They were comfortable with men and enjoyed their company.
    They. Had. Fun.
    Index fingers absently traced the scars on her palms, still rough to the touch. The plastic surgeon had done his best to minimize the scarring, but palms were a tricky stitch job. The wounds had reopened twice and had to be restitched. Never fully fading, the scars always warned that sometimes smiles, even the best ones, hid evil.
    Clutching her purse close, she glanced out the front window toward Broadway. The door was opened by a couple and the cold air cut like a whip. If this had been July, the streets would have been teeming with people, but on a cold January night, the sidewalks produced only the occasional group of partygoers burrowed in thick coats and wooly scarves. No one lingered or strolled. All hurried in and out of doorways.
    Crowds or near desolation both offered advantages and disadvantages. Crowds offered cover. Empty streets gave her room to run.
    A man caught her gaze, but hers quickly flittered away. Before her ex-husband, a stranger’s passing glance or a man’s seductive smile excited and titillated. Laughter came quickly and easily. Yes wasn’t to be feared. Thoughts didn’t have to be assessed and reassessed.
    Philip had changed all that when he’d entered her life. Now, as she had a thousand times before, she wondered how she could have loved him. Married him. How did a smart woman miss the rising tide of suffocating attention and control? Exactly one year after they spoke their marriage vows, his final attack had left her with twenty-three knife wounds, nightmares, and unpredictable panic attacks.
    The beat of the honky-tonk music pulsed in Leah’s chest, racing alongside her thrumming heart. Twenty feet separated her from the door and a clean getaway.
    So easy , fear whispered. Leave while you can .
    Fear’s warnings had stopped her so many times. Too many nights spent huddled behind a closed, triple-locked door. Too many nightmares.
    Fear had gifted her with it all.
    “You’re not quitting,” she whispered.
    Philip did not have the power to control her. After his attack, he’d vanished. Weeks later, his car had been found in South Carolina at the bottom of a ravine. The car had been badly