Table Of Content“Ms. Shalvis draws the reader into her stories immediately and creates a
devastatingly tender love story with plenty of action and intrigue.
She knows how to deliver.”
—Rendezvous
“Rachel, I can’t talk to you when you’re wearing that stupid hat.” Before she
could react, Ben whisked it off her head.
And froze.
Her soft, flowing hair was…gone, leaving a short, choppy cut of maybe an inch
or so. The extent of everything she’d been through—the accident, the pain, the
slow, ongoing recovery—suddenly hit him. He hated himself for reminding her,
for reducing her to tears.
But he’d forgotten—Rachel would never allow anyone to see such a thing.
Crying in public would be unacceptable. Crying in front of him would be
tantamount to disaster.
Instead, as regal as ever, she remained calm, her head high. “Ben, go away.”
Gently he put the cap back on her head, his fingers brushing over her warm,
smooth skin. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t even look at me.”
He realized they were not on the same plane, that she apparently thought the
sight of her had sickened him. “No, wait. Rachel—” He dragged in a deep,
ragged breath. “You look…alive. Isn’t that all that matters?”
JILL SHALVIS
has been making up stories since she could hold a pencil. Now, thankfully, she
gets to do it for a living, and doesn’t plan to ever stop. She is the bestselling,
award-winning author of over two dozen novels, including series romance for
both Harlequin and Silhouette. She’s hit the Waldenbooks bestsellers list, is a
2000 RITA® Award nominee and is a two-time National Reader’s Choice
Award winner. She has been nominated for a Romantic Times Career
Achievement Award in Romantic Comedy, Best Duets and Best Temptation. Jill
lives in California with her family.
Jill Shalvis
The Street Where She Lives
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER ONE
HE’D ONCE BEEN CALLED a selfish bastard, and Ben Asher figured that to be a
fairly accurate assessment. He lived his life on his own terms and kept his
emotional entanglements pared down to, well, him. Thanks to his freelancing job
as a photojournalist for National Geographic and Outside, among others, he
could pack up and leave at the drop of a hat, without looking back. Even now,
after only a few months of being in the Amazon, he’d be moving on to his next
assignment soon.
Good old Africa, here he came.
He moved through the strangling, thick, wet, green growth so
unique to the Brazilian jungle, finally breaking free into a small clearing
containing a couple of temporary structures. He crossed the clearing and stepped
over the threshold of the reserve’s office, which, due to the proverbial lack of
funds, was the size of a postage stamp. They’d been without electricity and
phones for nearly a month, only just today getting the phones turned on. Warily,
he met Maria’s glare. Apparently the calls were coming in too fast and furious
for her liking.
Maria, his temp, had been forced to walk approximately
twenty-five big, whopping yards from the office to the radio hut to radio him
about this call. Noting it was hotter than hell outside, he figured he understood.
“Gracias.”
She didn’t respond, but then again, she rarely did. She’d come
to him from his previous assignment near Rio, where Ben had uncovered a so-
called American ministry. The “minister,” Manuel Asada, had run an
international charity scam, which through the years had earned him untold
wealth. Targeting churchgoing, generous souls in the name of humanity, Asada
had solicited funds and promised to build villages and feed the poor.
Instead, he’d pocketed everything, killing anyone who defied
him or got in his way. He also had a nasty habit of abusing the local women.
Maria had been one of them. Together with her testimony and Ben’s
photographs evidencing some of the crimes, Asada was now languishing in a
Brazilian prison, but would soon be extradited to the States. There he’d face
some of his swindled victims in court, not to mention murder charges on no less
than three counts.
Secretly, Ben hoped Asada remained in Brazil, where he had a
better chance of actually staying in a jail cell. He’d sworn vengeance on
everyone who’d taken him and his profitable business down, including family
members and loved ones. Luckily, in Ben’s case, that meant fewer people than
the fingers on one hand.
He picked up the phone. “Asher.”
“D-daddy?”
At the sound of his daughter’s quavering, frightened voice, his
heart stopped. “Emmie? What’s the matter?”
Loud, crackling static filled the line, reminding him that
thousands of miles separated him and his twelve-going-on-thirty-year-old
daughter. “Emily?”
Nothing, just more static, and Ben damned the poor phone
lines, the pathetic equipment, the shack he’d called home for two months.
“Emily!” Panic had a bitter taste, he discovered. Sweat trickled down his back as
he sank to a rickety chair. The humid air made his shirt cling to him like a
second skin. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, and banged the phone on the
scratched, beat-up desk, swearing uselessly before whipping the phone back up
to his ear.
“Daddy?”
Sagging in relief, Ben relaxed his folded-up, taut legs, and
promptly smashed his knees into the wood. He took in a breath of the closed-in
air around him. “I’m here! Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
Thank God. “Where are you?”
Not a good father question, he noted with disgust. Any father,
any good father, would know where his daughter was at all times. Not that his
father had ever taught him such things, but he knew how parenthood was
supposed to work.
“I’m home,” she said.
She meant her home, of course, which she made with her
mother in South Village, California.
“You’ve got to come.” Across the too many miles and years,
