The Strongest Steel Read online

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  To Tim—Thank you for encouraging me to be a better person every day. I love you.

  To Finley & Lola—There aren’t enough letters in the alphabet, or words in the dictionary, to describe what you mean to me. You are my greatest creation.

  Author’s Note:

  Writing this book has been an incredible experience. So many wonderful people have helped me with encouragement and support along the way.

  There is an incredible team of ladies who are responsible for this book getting published. I have a great editor in Lizzie Poteet at St. Martin’s Press who believed in the characters and the story I wanted to tell. My super-agent, Beth Phelan at The Bent Agency, is as lovely as she is tenacious. The two of them are a writer’s dream-team. Add on Erin Cox, Amy Goppert, and Angela Craft at SMP and I couldn’t be in better hands.

  Tanya Egan Gibson taught me how to write. Her wisdom and counsel brought Harper, Trent, and Miami to life in a way I never would have figured out on my own.

  I’m fortunate to have had the support of some amazing writers who have generously shared their experiences and expertise with me. I’m grateful to Violetta Rand, Kathryn Le Veque, Nicole Helm & Megan Frampton.

  Having strong critique partners is such a blessing. Thank you to Whitney Rakich, Laura Steven, and Kelly Johnson. Your honesty, humor, and talent kept me going on a daily basis.

  Alison McCarthy (my super-supportive sister) and my fabulous friends Tina Murrin, Tanishah Nathoo, Janice Rankin Goodman, and Gina Mulligan graciously read through early drafts.

  Huge thanks to the experts. To Jennifer Innocent for helping me turn Harper into a teacher. To Jenny Caratin, and the staff of Black Line Studio in Toronto, for letting me spend the day in your studio to learn the correct tattooing terminology. Any errors in the book are a reflection of my understanding, not your teaching.

  I’ve been overwhelmed by the volume of family and friends who have cheered from the sidelines, your voices were heard and appreciated.

  To Mum and Dad. Thank you for raising me with the confidence, tenacity, and work ethic to tackle anything I want to achieve in life.

  To Lola and Finley. Thank you for putting up with me when I am the last mom to pick up from school because I just had one more page to complete, for not complaining when I said dinner would be ready in ten minutes over an hour ago, and for cheering every time I mentioned the words “book deal.” You are my first and last. Without you this would be nothing. I love you.

  To Tim. There is so much to say. Without you, I wouldn’t have attempted this. Thank you for giving me the push I needed and for helping me find the time to write. It seems appropriate to end with Dante. You are l’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle (it means I love you a lot—trust me!)

  Chapter One

  The blue envelope from the United States Penitentiary in Marion, Illinois, still sealed, weighed heavily on Harper Connelly’s mind. It sat in her purse, where it had been since she’d collected her mail the day before. Out of sight, but not out of mind. Until she opened the envelope, she could continue to pretend that she was safe. Once her finger slid under the seal, she’d no longer be able to ignore the decisions she’d have to make.

  Standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the lights on Collins Avenue to change, she shoved the letter deeper into her purse and watched as the young couple standing across the street from her kissed each other deeply, his hand gently cupping her face as his thumb ran softly across her cheekbone. Harper looked away, trying hard to ignore the empty feeling in her chest. Could she even remember that feeling of first love? It had been so long since she’d experienced those heady moments of wanting to be with another person all the time. Of being unable to stop touching each other, like magnets drawn together.

  Finally the light changed, and Harper almost sighed with relief before hiking her bag farther onto her shoulder and crossing the street, not sparing the young couple a second glance. She just had to get through work today without turning into a nervous wreck. Then she could fall apart with the envelope in her bag.

  Lost in her own thoughts, she felt someone push into her on the sidewalk. Harper jumped in her own skin. A loud buzzing filled her head, and a cold trickle of fear snaked its way down her spine. Her heart tried to pound its way out of her chest while her shaking hands struggled to hold her purse.

  She reeled around. A white-haired gentleman with the tiniest dog that looked like a rat on a leash murmured a distracted apology for nudging her. Willing her heart to slow down, Harper tried to reply in kind, but her mouth was so dry that she couldn’t respond. She prayed the weak smile she gave him sufficed as forgiveness.

  It was just an old man and a little dog, she told herself, leaning against the nearest light post and counting each breath in for five, then out for five, trying to slow her racing pulse. Nothing to do with the letter burning a hole through her purse and thoughts. Or a prisoner a thousand miles away. Harper watched his stooped frame continue down the palm tree–lined street until he reached the sandy side road that would take him to the boardwalk that ran the length of Miami Beach.

  A cold chill gripped her despite the hazy heat. She still wasn’t used to the weather—somehow she couldn’t believe it after all this time. It would be a good twenty degrees cooler back home. She shivered harder and looked down at her hand, watching her own fingers flare in and out in panic without her permission.

  The couple she’d been watching earlier walked by, reaching for each other, entwining their hands.

  Harper looked on longingly. That simple intimacy was unthinkable for her. She didn’t need a brush with a stranger to prove it. The sender of the letter had made sure of it. Even after all these years, she couldn’t stand the touch of another human being, not even for a second.

  Still shaking, she took a light hoodie from her bag and put it on, desperate for some warmth.

  Turning the street corner that led away from the ocean, she pulled her hands inside her sleeves and walked slowly, trying to bring her heart rate down. She tried to focus on the graceful art deco buildings Miami was famous for. Tried to believe that she wouldn’t have to run and leave this beautiful place behind. The stunning façades and interiors were among her favorite things about the ocean-facing city. Paint colors with names like fresh mint, buttercream yellow, and coral pink adorned the stylistic symmetry of the buildings that truly came to life at night when neon lights served as a beacon to revelers. Harper imagined looking out of the classic porthole windows, waiting to see the giant steam ocean liners arrive from far-off places. The extravagant ornamentation and fanciful panels echoed back to a time when the wealthy would sip champagne and dance the Charleston on the rooftop patios.

  The light ocean breeze blew her long, dark brown hair across her face. She plunged her hand into her purse, carefully avoiding touching the envelope, and retrieved one of the many elastic bands swimming around at the bottom. Quickly, she swept her mass o
f thick layers up into a messy bun at the base of her neck as she approached the small shop where she worked.

  José, her boss, had already rolled out the brown awning over the patio area of the coffee shop that bore his name. The early morning rush was about to begin.

  Drea, the assistant manager, sat on one of the tables, the sun reflecting off natural gold highlights that graced her layered brown hair. They were both twenty-seven, but with her tanned skin and petite frame, a contrast to Harper’s own athletic figure, she looked younger.

  Relief flooded through her, the very sight of her best friend helping her panic subside.

  “Morning, honey,” she said, hoping Drea wouldn’t notice how breathless she sounded.

  Hazel eyes squinted in her direction. “Morning, Harp.” She tilted her head curiously. “You okay?” Since the day they’d met, this girl had just gotten her. Private as Harper was, Drea still had managed to gently bulldoze her way into Harper’s life and had made it clear that only an eviction notice would get her out.

  “Fine, fine.” She brushed the question away. “You’re here before me?” Harper asked, trying to distract her. “Did I get the shifts wrong?”

  “No, it’s me. I’m early. My aunt gave me a ride over this morning, since my car doesn’t get out of the shop until this afternoon.”

  “Ready for another day in espresso heaven?” Harper nodded her chin in the direction of the main door.

  Drea sighed. “Quit and go spend the day in the Keys?” she whispered.

  “I heard that, Drea,” José bellowed from inside as he turned the lock to let them in. “You,” he shouted, pointing at Drea, “can quit. Her … not so much!”

  Both girls laughed as they walked in and headed toward the break room to put away their purses.

  “I’m feeling the love, José,” Drea muttered.

  “I heard that too.” José laughed, his voice softening.

  José’s had been a fixture in South Beach for nearly fifty years. The original José still came to the store religiously for his coffee every day, though he’d long turned the reins over to his son, José Junior.

  The long, thin store was more than just a coffee shop. It was comfort food wrapped up in soft cream walls and light woodwork. José was busy loading the long counter with the freshly made pastries. Traditional Cuban pastelitos were lined up next to classic croissants and cinnamon rolls. A black apron tied tightly around her waist, Drea started stacking the healthy salads and sandwiches into the coolers.

  Harper leaned over the counter to turn on the espresso machines, blenders, and coffeemakers that flanked the left wall. She pulled out the tray of empty metal jugs for steaming milk and set them up next to the coffee station.

  Hours later, once the lunchtime crowd had started to thin out, she began the process of cleaning up the tables before the afternoon business would again pick up.

  “But doesn’t it just mean that she had blood on her hands?” she heard someone say. Wiping a tabletop on autopilot, Harper glanced at the teenage girls sitting at the next table.

  “She says, ‘Out, damned spot,’ but I don’t think she actually had blood on her hands. I don’t think she actually killed someone.”

  Harper paused. Macbeth. Act 5, if she wasn’t mistaken. The hallucinations of the manipulative Lady Macbeth, it was one of her favorites. She wanted to help the girls, but schoolbooks and notes were another reminder of things she swore she’d left in the past long ago. That life was gone. Harper thought about the blue envelope sitting in her employee locker in the back of the shop. She could no longer ignore the letter, regardless of how much easier life would be if she never opened the damn thing. For the second time that day, her chest tightened. It was better to know. After a quick glance around to make sure no one else needed her, she slipped into the back room and ripped the envelope open, wishing that the past could really stay buried.

  * * *

  “What the hell did you make me drink last night, Cuj?”

  The coffee scalded Trent’s tongue as he took a sip and leaned back against the front window of Second Circle. Straight-up black as he liked it and strong enough to stand a spoon in, but nowhere near enough to take the edge off the five-alarm bell ringing in his head.

  “Some weird-shit martini those girls were drinking. They wanted us to toast your birthday one more time. I told you they were trouble.”

  “I didn’t hear any complaining when that blonde had her hand down your pants.”

  Cujo rubbed his hand over his bald head and then fingered the bar in his eyebrow, grinning smugly.

  “Man, she was freaky. How was the redhead?”

  “Curved in all the right places and a yoga teacher,” Trent said. Cujo barked out a laugh. Trent looked down at his scuffed-up boot resting on the window ledge and made a mental note to take care of the sill’s chipped paintwork.

  Second Circle Tattoos was his baby and his pride, the by-product of a misspent youth salvaged by his mentor, Jimmy “Junior” Silver. It had been a long journey to the store’s current location on one of the up-and-coming streets in Miami. Years of apprenticing before going out alone—years he and Cujo had spent in a crappy studio before biting the bullet and investing in this place. The team he’d built had a solid rep, with people coming from out of town to see them, and the craziness of his calendar reminded him daily that people liked his work.

  Knocking back a long draw on the coffee, Trent caught sight of an incredible brunette, classically beautiful, making her way down the sidewalk on the other side of the road.

  Cujo let out a long, quiet whistle. “That is one mighty fine-looking distraction.”

  Trent stared, grateful he’d pulled out his shades to enjoy his coffee break. Shit, what was she wearing? A staid button-down shirt that appeared two sizes too big, paired with saggy khaki shorts that seemed to have lost their will to live. Take away the ugly clothes, though, and you were left with a seriously rocking body. He was such a sucker for the athletic type, toned but still curvy. Likely a foot shorter than his own six foot six, but with legs that went on forever. Her skin was porcelain white, and hell yeah, as a tattoo artist, he would bet from a hundred yards away that she was a tattoo virgin, the very best kind of canvas.

  She wore her thick, dark brown hair in a messy updo, revealing a beautiful neck and that soft spot, just behind a girl’s ear, that he always loved so much.

  As she got closer, he could see she was holding a pastry box from the coffee shop down the street.

  “Those for me, darlin’?” he shouted across the street, breaking out the smile that chicks seemed to go for. He heard Cujo laugh to his left but stayed focused on the woman. She looked confused for a moment before she realized he was calling out to her. Damn. A slow, shy smile—and then there was that simple flush of her skin. Such a turn-on. Holy shit.

  He waited with bated breath for her to say something in return, but she kept walking.

  Disappointed, he could only imagine just how beautiful those pink cheeks would be if he wrapped her in his arms in the soft sheets of his bed, all that delicious warmth curved around him.

  * * *

  Harper inhaled deeply and shook her head. She crossed streets until she hit the boardwalk and the steps to the soft white sand. It was after six and the beach was starting to empty, parents dragging tired and cranky children back to their waterfront hotels. The tall palms swayed rhythmically in the cool early May breeze. The sun was starting to descend over the dark blue water, frosting the rippling surface with sparkles.

  He had spoken to her. Trent Andrews. To her. The tall, shaggy-haired tattoo god had called out to her, and she’d scuttled off like a church mouse. Once upon a time, she’d have had the confidence to come up with something more original than just a smile.

  He probably assumed she knew who he was. Which, of course, she did. Heck, everyone in Miami knew who he was—not only was he one of the most talented tattoo artists out there, but he was a local celebrity of a sort in Miami. She’d seen p
ictures of the work he was able to do covering up scars—and it was beautiful. So beautiful, she’d been dreaming of what her own back would look like. He could fix it for her, she knew it, and if she was going to get past, well, her past, she was going to need a pretty spectacular cover-up artist.

  She did the mental math. Between what she had brought with her when she’d moved to Miami and what she had been able to scrimp and save over the last four years, she hoped she had enough money to cover it. She could always stretch out the appointments if she had to.

  Without thinking, she reached around to touch the base of her back. It was an automatic, self-protective instinct. Not that it could change anything now any more than it could have four years ago when the knife had cut into her.

  With a design in mind and a tattoo artist selected, the question wasn’t whether she wanted to get a tattoo. That part was easy. But could Trent make what was already on her back disappear? And could she force herself to lie there and let him?

  * * *

  Shit, it was still cool at night. Trent pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over the top of his baseball hat. So what if he looked more thug and less upstanding citizen? It would keep people out of his path, getting him to his bed sooner.

  He took one last look around the studio, and turned off the main lights, leaving the design on the huge front window illuminated by a couple of can lights in the ceiling. The alarm panel beeped as he keyed in the code before turning to leave.

  One o’clock in the morning in a city that was still wide awake. A cacophony of sound roared around him. Pulsating beats from the hotels, bars, and nightclubs that peppered the strip reverberated through the air. Drivers revved their engines as they cruised up and down the street, seeking attention.

  The lock was temperamental and he jiggled the key with a finesse born of necessity until it turned.

  “Can you tattoo over extensive scars?”