A New York Times bestselling masterpiece of romantic suspense from the author of Promise Not to Tell ...   When Grace Elland finds her boss, motivational speaker Sprague Witherspoon, murdered, a vodka bottle on his nightstand is a terrifying reminder of the horrors of her past—one that can be no coincidence.   To regroup, Grace retreats to her childhood home, Cloud Lake, where she meets venture capitalist Julius Arkwright, a man who lives to make money, by any means necessary. But the intense former Marine has skills that Grace can use—to figure out her future. And he’s the perfect man to help Grace when it becomes clear she is being stalked.   As Witherspoon’s financial empire continues to crumble around them, taking a deadly toll, Julius will walk Grace step by step into her past to uncover a devious plan to destroy not only Grace, but everyone around her as well... Praise for Trust No One “Trust me when I say you’ll like this novel...You can count on Krentz to deliver a good story with twists and turns and memorable characters.”— The News-Gazette   “The final twists and turns of the plot are among Krentz’s best.”— The Seattle Times   “Clever plotting, complex pacing and a compelling cast of characters propel Trust No One to its dynamite finish.”— Booklist (starred review) Jayne Ann Krentz is the author of more than fifty New York Times bestsellers. She has written contemporary romantic suspense novels under that name, as well as futuristic and historical romance novels under the pseudonyms Jayne Castle and Amanda Quick, respectively. There are more than 35 million copies of her books in print. One The note pinned to the front of the dead man’s silk pajamas was a one-sentence email printed out from a computer: Make Today a Great Day the Witherspoon Way. Grace Elland leaned over the blood-soaked sheets and forced herself to touch the cold skin of Sprague Witherspoon’s throat. His blue eyes, once so brilliant and compelling, were open. He stared sightlessly at the bedroom ceiling. A robust, square-jawed man with a mane of silver hair, he had always seemed larger-than-life. But death had shrunk him. All of the charm and electrifying charisma that had captivated the Witherspoon Way seminar audiences across the country had been drained away. She was certain that he had been gone for several hours but she thought she detected a faint, accusing question in his unseeing eyes. Shattering memories splintered through her. At the age of sixteen she had seen the same question in the eyes of a dead woman. Why didn’t you get here in time to save me? She looked away from the dead eyes—and saw the unopened bottle of vodka on the nightstand. For a terrible moment past and present merged there in the bedroom. She heard the echo of heavy footsteps on old floorboards. Panic threatened to choke her. This could not be happening, not again. It’s the old dream, she thought. You’re in the middle of a nightmare but you’re awake. Breathe. Focus, damn it, and breathe. Breathe. The mantra broke the panic-induced trance. The echoing footsteps faded into the past. Ice-cold adrenaline splashed through her veins, bringing with it an intense clarity. This was not a dream. She was in a room with a dead man and, although she was almost certain that the footsteps had been summoned up from her nightmare, there was still the very real possibility that the killer was still around. She grabbed the nearest available weapon—the vodka bottle—and moved to the doorway. There she paused to listen intently. The big house felt empty. Perhaps the footsteps had been an auditory illusion generated by the panicky memories. Or not. Either way, the smart thing to do was get out of the mansion and call 911. She moved into the hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible. A fog of shadows darkened the big house. There were elegant potted plants everywhere—vibrant green bamboo, palms and ferns. Sprague had firmly believed that the abundant foliage not only improved indoor air quality, but enhanced the positive energy in the atmosphere. The curtains that covered the windows had been closed for the night. No one had been alive to draw them back that morning. Not that it would have done much good. The Seattle winter dawn had arrived with a low, overcast sky and now rain was tapping at the windows. On days like this, most people turned on a few lights. No one rushed out of a doorway to confront her. Gripping the neck of the vodka bottle very tightly, she went down the broad staircase. When she reached the bottom, she flew across the grand living room. She knew her way around the first floor of the house because Sprague Witherspoon had entertained lavishly and often. He always invited Grace and the other members of the Witherspoon Way staff to his catered affairs. The vast great room had been furnished and decorated with those events in mind. The chairs, cushioned benches and tables were arranged in what designers called conversational