The Shop on Hidden Lane by Jayne Ann Krentz

The Harper and the Wells families have regarded each other with deep suspicion for four generations. The Harpers have been known to offer their psychic talents for less-than-legal purposes, and the powerful Wells clan has a reputation for playing both sides of the street. But for all the years of history and distrust between them, there is a mysterious pact binding the two. They share the responsibility for protecting a long-buried and very dangerous secret.

Sophy Harper and Luke Wells are shocked to learn that her aunt and his uncle have been sleeping together—and now they are both missing. Not only that, but the last traces of them are at the scene of a murder soaked in negative paranormal energy. Clearly, someone is willing to kill to obtain the secret their families have been charged with protecting. Despite their mutual distrust, which, as far as Sophy is concerned extends to Luke’s hellhound of a dog, they both know that the terms of the pact must be honored.

Their investigation uncovers a psychic trail leading to a bizarre desert art colony where nothing is as it seems. But Luke and Sophy are concealing a few secrets, too. By a strange twist of fate, a Harper and a Wells have no choice but to trust each other and the fierce attraction that is binding them as surely as the pact between the families.

Excerpt

“I can’t believe my aunt is having an affair with your uncle.” Sophy Harper stared at the rumpled bed, shocked to the core. “He’s a Wells.”

“So am I,” Luke Wells said. “We can discuss the feud between our families some other time. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got a situation here. There is every reason to think your aunt and my uncle are in serious trouble. Someone died out there in the front room of this cabin.”

He was right. She pulled herself together.

“It wasn’t Bea or your uncle,” she said. “I’m sure of that. The energy of the stain is quite different from the energy in this room.” She shuddered and tried to ignore the evidence in front of her eyes. What on earth were you thinking, Aunt Bea? Seriously? You’ve been sleeping with a Wells?

The offending couple had disappeared, but the evidence of their intimate relationship was unmistakable. Sophy recognized the fluffy pink robe dangling from a wall hook as the one she had given Bea on her last birthday. The book on the nightstand was the novel Bea had raved about in a recent email. And the toothpaste tube next to the second toothbrush on the vanity in the small bathroom was neatly rolled up from the bottom-the way Bea always rolled toothpaste tubes. Sophy refused to open any drawers for fear of finding a vibrator or sex toys.

She pushed her black-and-crystal cat-eye glasses higher on her nose and gestured toward the tumbled sheets. “How long has this been going on?”

“I have no idea,” Luke said. An ominous impatience infused his dark voice. “Furthermore, I don’t give a damn. I thought I made it clear we need to move fast. I hired you to read and clean the murder scene in the front room, not take to your fainting couch because you’ve been scandalized by your aunt’s behavior.”

She turned away from the bed. “Don’t try to tell me you’re not more than a little stunned yourself. Aunt Bea is a Harper. I can’t believe she would allow herself to be seduced by a Wells.”

“Maybe you’ve got it backward. Maybe your aunt seduced my uncle.”

Sophy stared at him, momentarily too flabbergasted to respond.

“You said your aunt texted you that she had been called away on a psychic consultation?” Luke said.

She was sure she heard a sarcastic edge on the words psychic consultation, but under the circumstances she told herself she would rise above it.

“That’s right.” She composed herself. “It’s not the first time she’s traveled on short notice. She asked me if I would come up here to Mirror Lake to look after the shop while she was out of town.”

“So, you packed a suitcase, left San Francisco, and drove two hours into the northern California mountains to look after a shop that does very little business at this time of year?”

“If you’re implying that I know more about what happened here than I’m telling you, you can go jump in the lake. Yes, I agreed to keep an eye on the shop. As it happens, it was good timing. I needed a break.”

“From your library work?” he asked a little too smoothly.

“No, from the crime scene reading.” She winced. “I enjoy the library work, but the readings get to you after a while.”

And so did the failed experiments. She was still recovering from the succubus incident. A woman could only take so much.

“I understand,” Luke said quietly.

Startled because he sounded as if he did understand, she shot him a wary look. But his expression gave nothing away.

“Never mind,” Luke said. “You can wring your hands later.” He went through the doorway into the small front room. “We need to figure out what happened here. You confirmed we’ve got a murder scene. The Boss says you’re a housekeeper. You can read ’em and clean ’em. Time to go to work.”

She disliked the nickname. Not only was it an insult to real housekeepers everywhere, it did not begin to describe her psychic talent. But once again she reminded herself that she had to focus.

The Boss, she knew, was Harry Wells, Luke’s paternal grandfather. Harry was currently CEO of Wells, Inc., a sophisticated technology firm that specialized in cutting-edge security devices.

The alarming evidence in the bedroom aside, the Harpers and the Wellses hadn’t been known to socialize for four generations. They did, however, keep an eye on each other from a distance. Given the pact that bound the families and the decades of distrust between them, they did not have any choice. As a result, she was aware that the Wells family had settled on Luke as the heir to his grandfather’s position at the company. Evidently no one else in the clan wanted the job, including Luke’s father and his uncle, Deke.

She had first met Luke Wells about twenty minutes ago when he had arrived on the doorstep of the Shop on Hidden Lane. But in addition to his future role as the head of Wells, Inc., she knew a couple of other things about him. According to the rumor mill in the psychic community, insiders called him No-Talent Wells. It was said that every generation or so the family produced a member with no measurable psychic abilities. Evidently that individual got stuck with the job of running the highly profitable company.

No-Talent Wells. Talk about unpleasant nicknames. She could almost feel sorry for Luke. Almost.

Focus, woman. Like it or not, Wells is right. Bea might be in real trouble.

She followed Luke back out into the other room, where his hellhound companion, Bruce, was busy exploring various scents. Man and dog went together, she thought. They both looked dangerous.

Dark-haired, with a lean, sleekly muscled build, an austere profile, and amber eyes that gave new meaning to the term old soul, Luke had the vibe of a CIA assassin-cold-blooded, stern, and judgy.

Admittedly, she had never met an assassin. She had stumbled over the tracks of a few serial killers in her crime scene reading work, but no actual assassins, at least not that she was aware of. She didn’t know if the CIA employed professional assassins, but she had a good imagination, and she was pretty sure that if they did, Luke would fit the profile. The fact that he was wearing a lot of black-black leather bomber jacket, black pullover, black trousers, and black boots-enhanced the impression.

Bruce suited the part of an assassin’s dog. He was a dark-furred, lean, sleekly muscled beast of indeterminant breed. His amber-gold eyes were disturbingly similar to Luke’s-sharp, smart, and a little feral. He should have been named Anubis or Cerberus. Who called a dog like this one Bruce?

Yep, Luke and Bruce made a good pair. A couple of hellhounds. Luckily, she was good with dogs. Unfortunately she could not say the same about men.

Excerpted from The Shop on Hidden Lane by Jayne Ann Krentz Copyright © 2026 by Jayne Ann Krentz. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.