BLURB:

Lynsi thought the biggest challenge in her life was convincing Jax that it was time for their relationship to move forward.

Then Jax takes on the wrong case.

As a defense attorney, he’s determined to prove a man’s innocence in a cold-case retrial—but someone powerful wants the truth buried. When threats turn deadly, Jax and Lynsi suddenly find themselves hunted by an enemy willing to eliminate anyone who gets too close.

Forced into hiding and running out of time, Lynsi refuses to stand on the sidelines. Together, they begin unraveling secrets that were meant to stay buried forever.

But the deeper they dig, the more dangerous the game becomes.

With their lives—and their future together—on the line, Jax and Lynsi must expose the truth before the people behind the conspiracy silence them for good.

Capture His Heart is a gripping romantic suspense filled with danger, loyalty, and a love strong enough to survive the deadliest secrets.

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Prologue

——

March 19, 2006

Peter Scobie stepped into the bathroom.

“Hurry and finish with your bath, baby girl. You should’ve been in bed thirty minutes ago. Your brother’s already asleep, or he should be,” he added.

He walked two doors down and peeked through the crack of the bedroom door. His son sat on the floor, pushing the yellow dump truck he’d gotten a few days ago for his fifth birthday. Tapping lightly on the doorframe, he asked, “Petey, are you asleep yet?”

At the sound of his father’s voice, Petey scrambled to his feet, grabbed the truck, dove onto the bed, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Prepared to be stern, he found himself chuckling instead. “Good. Good night then.”

He leaned over and kissed his son’s forehead.

Giggles and running footsteps sounded behind him. He turned just in time to catch eight-year-old Luanne as she launched herself into his arms, dressed in her nightgown and ready for bed. A good little helper to her mother, she loved caring for her baby brother. Amie would need that help—especially in the coming days and weeks.

He carried Luanne to the far side of the room near the window. He moved the comforter, sat her on the sheet, and tucked her in.

“You better get to sleep now. Don’t do anything to wake your brother,” he whispered, giving her a knowing wink before kissing her forehead. “Good night, baby girl.”

“Night, Daddy.”

Luanne turned toward the wall, tucked the blanket under her chin, and snuggled deeper into her pillow.

Missing his children would be the worst part of leaving.

But he had messed up.

He’d gotten tangled in things he never should have touched—easy money, fast money, money that made him feel bigger than he was. He knew too much now. Enough to make walking away the only way to protect them.

Dangerous people would come looking.

He wouldn’t wait for them to strike. It could be any moment.

Telling Amie would be the hardest part. He’d do it tonight—after she returned home.

His bags were already packed. Shauna would pick him up at one.

Amie would think he was leaving for another woman.

Yeah, sure, he’d gotten caught up in Shauna’s world.

But this wasn’t about love. It was about survival.

Amie was attending a retirement party for a co-worker—a deserved night out, and likely her last for a while. Why had he risked everything? Pride. Greed. The rush of it.

Everyone said the same thing: you don’t miss what you have until it’s gone.

He missed them already.

At the bedroom door, he turned for one last look at his children. He memorized every detail—the curl of Luanne’s hair, the way Petey’s hand rested on the dump truck. His eyes misted as he eased the door shut behind him.

A knock at the front door shattered the quiet.

It had to be Shauna. Amie had her own keys.

Why was she here already? He’d told her not to come until one. It wasn’t even midnight yet.

He stepped to the front window and parted the curtain. Shauna’s car sat at the curb beneath the streetlight.

He hurried downstairs and pulled open the door.

“What—”

Light flashed across steel.

He saw the blade an instant before it struck.

He threw up his arms, a beat too late. The knife sliced deep into his chest muscle. The pounding in his ears told him it hadn’t reached his heart—hadn’t hit anything vital.

Not yet.

When the attacker yanked it free, the butcher’s knife glinted under the porch light—long, heavy, built to cut through bone.

It drove into him again.

He caught a glimpse of a hand. An arm. Then blood splashed into his eyes, blurring everything red. The warm, sticky flood soaked through his white T-shirt, spreading fast.

A hard shove sent him stumbling backward into the living room. His shoes slipped on the slick floor. He crashed into the coffee table, then slammed against the hardwood.

Adrenaline roared through him, pumping what was left of his lifeblood. He ignored the pain. He swung his weak, desperate arms, missing whatever shadow moved above him.

Two more stabs tore at his torso.

Peter rolled onto his stomach, fingers clawing for anything—furniture, carpet, air. He tried to crawl, to drag himself toward the stairs.

A large hand seized his jean-clad thigh.

The knife plunged into his back.

Again.

Again.

Again.

He lost count.

Pain consumed him, then thinned into something distant and unreal. His mind flickered, struggling to stay clear long enough to form one thought.

Please don’t let the kids come downstairs.

They always wanted that last glass of water.

Please God, don’t let them hear.

And Amie—please don’t let her come home early.

Oh God, I love them.

Please save my family.

He knew it was too late for him.

Chapter One

——

Seventeen Years Later

Wind snapped at the hem of Lynsi Patterson’s coat as she fought the aluminum-framed glass door. The building seemed determined to keep her out, but she shoved hard, slipped inside, and let it slam shut behind her.

Whoosh. Clang.

The sound made her pause. The oil-filled hydraulic damper wheezed like it had given up weeks ago.

Her father would’ve had that fixed in ten minutes.

The thought hit fast and sharp. He’d worked maintenance after he retired—kept their own building running with stubborn pride and a toolbox that always smelled faintly of grease and lemon polish. Lynsi blinked, swallowed, and brushed at the corner of one eye before the tears could fall.

Not now.

She straightened her shoulders and moved on, the way she always did.

Still, she made a mental note to mention the door to Jax’s secretary. Jax—Jaxon Montgomery—was her domestic partner and one of the firm’s named partners. His assistant had called earlier, asking Lynsi to stop by his office for their usual Friday night date.

The elevator gate stood open like an invitation. It happened rarely—someone leaving at just the right moment—but it still made her smile. Little wins.

She stepped in and turned… her smile died.

A man crowded the doorway behind her; all leather and grime. Motorcycle jacket. Faded jeans. A scruffy beard that had clearly never met soap. His gray T-shirt hung loose, and his long hair shone with oil beneath a red bandana. Tattoos wrapped his fingers.

The elevator started to close. His hand shot out and stopped it.

Lynsi’s stomach tightened. The smell made her cough.

He nodded like he belonged there, like she was the one intruding. Cheap cologne rolled off him, layered over stale sweat.

She lifted a curved finger to her nose without thinking and pressed the third-floor button with her other hand.

“Four,” he said, his voice rough as gravel.

Lynsi forced her hand to move again and hit the fourth-floor button.

He leaned against the back panel and planted his shoe sole against it, scuffing the metal. Then he began to whistle—tuneless, wandering, wrong.

She stared straight ahead, but she could feel him watching her. The back of her neck prickled. She shifted just enough to catch him in her peripheral vision, ready to move if he did.

Was she just… something to stare at?

The elevator climbed. The seconds stretched.

When the doors finally opened, Lynsi rushed out, refusing to look back. She kept moving until she’d cleared the immediate line of sight, then let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Relief washed through her—followed immediately by guilt.

Great. Stereotyping a stranger because he appeared rough.

Except… it wasn’t just his clothes, was it? Not after last year. Not after what happened to her friends. She learned the hard way that instincts weren’t always paranoia. Sometimes they were protection.

Jax’s office suite sat at the corner of the beige third-floor space, not far from the elevators. The firm had divided the floor into zones—each cordoned off and named for its color scheme. Carpet, walls, ceiling tiles: all the same shade, all coordinated, all painfully practical.

Blue corridor. Green corridor. White corridor.

Efficient. Not creative.

Lynsi worked in fashion publishing. At Style & Profile, art lived on the walls and in every layout mock-up. Here, it felt like the building had been designed by someone who’d never once walked into a gallery.

Jax, at least, didn’t fit the mold. He actually noticed paintings. Bought them, too. He had a good eye—one of the reasons she’d fallen for him in the first place.

Marilyn Parker, his administrative assistant, stood at her desk with a phone tucked to her ear. One hand idly rubbed the curve of her baby bump. When she spotted Lynsi, she covered the receiver.

“He’s expecting you,” Marilyn whispered. “Go on in.”

Lynsi mouthed, How are you?

Her grin widened. “Good,” she whispered back. “Home stretch.” She gave a quick thumbs-up, her short dark hair bouncing around her cheeks.

Lynsi pulled a small notepad from her purse, scribbled: door-hydraulic damper, and set it beside Marilyn’s keyboard.

Then she headed into Jax’s office.

He looked up at once and lifted a hand in greeting, and the phone pressed to his ear with the other. He pointed toward the white leather chairs along the far wall.

“I’ll be done in a moment, and we can go.”

Lynsi checked her watch. They had a few minutes before their reservation at Rossietta’s.

She set her purse on a chair and wandered to the wall of windows. Down on the street, traffic crawled through the late-day rush. Streetlights flickered on, one by one, like reluctant fireflies. Across the way, a vendor served his last customer, stripped off his apron, and began closing. Another shopkeeper lowered the metal gate. Someone else pulled down the window shades.

The city was exhaling.

Behind her, the phone clicked into its cradle. Jax crossed the room with the confident stride that always made her think of tailored suits and courtroom wins. His aftershave drifted ahead of him—clean, expensive, familiar.

“You’re early,” he said and kissed her cheek.

“Not really. You lost track of time again. Another case?”

He sighed like it was both a burden and a thrill. “Indeed, but we’ll talk about it over dinner.”

“We need to hurry, or we’ll be late.”

He took her purse from the chair and handed it to her like it mattered—like she mattered. Then they moved together through the deserted suite, past Marilyn’s desk—now empty—and down the dim corridor toward the garage entrance.

At the reserved spot near the elevators, Jax opened her car door like he always did. It was a small thing, but Lynsi noticed small things.

He drove with the same habit he had in everything else: avoid the obvious route, find the advantage. To bypass one-way traffic on Main Street, he cut through side roads, and by the time they parked near Rossietta’s, the wind was biting hard enough to sting.

They broke into a hurried jog toward the restaurant, shoulders hunched, laughing breathlessly at their own ridiculousness. They reached the concierge desk with two minutes to spare.

A new employee stood behind the polished mahogany—black suit, black tie, crisp posture. He tapped a keyboard and glanced up.

“Name please?”

“Jaxon Montgomery.” Jax checked his watch. “We have standing Friday-night reservations for two—well, for now. It’s six-thirty.”

“Very well.”

The host collected two menus, tucked them under his arm, and led them to their usual table near the kitchen.

Some people complained about sitting that close, but Lynsi loved witnessing the artistic flair Etta Morino infused into each dish that emerged from the kitchen. It lived in motion—servers sweeping past with bowls that steamed, dishes that sizzled, sauces that gleamed. Garlic and butter, basil and wine, honey glaze and roasted herbs—everything braided together into a savory, mouthwatering fog.

Her stomach reminded her she’d barely eaten. An apple in the afternoon didn’t count.

Fridays were supposed to be theirs—leave early, dinner together, maybe a movie, then home to their apartment on South Hampton Street.

Same routine. Every week. Every Friday.

It was comforting… and lately, it felt like a loop.

She wanted a little change. Window shopping. Ice skating. A walk somewhere new. Anything that didn’t feel preplanned down to the minute.

Not that togetherness came easily. Their lives were busy. Work canceled plans more often than they made them. And usually, it was Jax’s work.

She admired his drive—his need to fight for people who didn’t have anyone else.

Still… resentment had teeth.

“How’s your steak?” Jax asked, slicing into his ribeye.

Lynsi blinked out of her thoughts. “Excellent as usual. Yours?”

“Delicious.” He smiled, satisfied in that calm grounded way that made him seem older than he was.

She could see the words formulating. He had something he wanted to say. Something he couldn’t wait to say.

So, she gave him an opening. “What’s this new case you’re starting?”

His brows lifted. “How’d you know?”

“The gleam in your eyes.” She smiled, but her chest constricted anyway. “I know you.”

They’d been together for a little over a year. Long enough for her to recognize the shift of his energy when a case took hold of him.

Long enough for her to have silently hoped for a ring.

That hope had started to feel embarrassing.

Jax set his napkin down and leaned forward, voice lowering as if he were sharing a secret.

“I’m representing Amie Scobie.”

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