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By Jude Deveraux

Darci hasn't ever given up looking for her abducted husband, Adam Montgomery. yet her quest has taken her deeper into the realm of psychic phenomena than she ever dreamed -- or dared to head. whilst the FBI enlists her assist in finding the lacking father of secret agent Jack Rose, Darci indicators on for the covert operation, now not understanding that her allure to good-looking, horny Jack is ready to steer her into lethal territory -- and into an period long gone. For Jack has a protector, a mysterious nineteenth-century girl who pulls them right into a time and position the place Darci is stripped of her skills. Can she locate the foremost that hyperlinks to the modern day crimes she's got down to clear up? and should a showdown with a depraved strength from the prior carry her hostage...for all eternity?

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Jack was watching the smoke around him, refusing to glance upward to the space where Darci kept looking. If there was a ghost up there, he didn't want to see him—it. "Let's do it," Jack said. " Darci turned toward the bedroom door and stared at it hard. As Jack watched her, he wondered what the truth was about Darci's husband and sister-in-law. Yesterday, he'd felt as though he knew what the truth was, but now he wondered… He rubbed his hand over his face. It seemed as though he were two people, one who was consumed with hatred, and the other who could think rationally.

Using all his willpower, Jack blocked the voice from his mind and walked toward the bookcase. " Darci asked from the darkness. "- Always Darci(rawscan) asked from the darkness. " "Why don't you ask your girlfriend to show herself? " For an instant, Jack felt like leaping toward Darci's voice, but he controlled the urge. Feeling along the wall, he felt a light switch and flicked it. When the lights came on, he saw Darci staring straight ahead. Jack started to comment on her inability to find a light switch, but then he looked at what she was staring at.

Jack started to comment on her inability to find a light switch, but then he looked at what she was staring at. They were in a small room with no windows, the plastered walls painted a dark red. Three walls were blank, but the fourth had a single shelf at waist level with a painting above it. It was a gruesome painting, old and cracked, of a man being tortured, sightless hands placing branding irons on his body. A saint perhaps. As though she were mesmerized, Darci walked toward the shelf. It was a four-inch-thick piece of wood, pure white and sanded smooth.

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