The Lawman Meets His Bride
“A guy has to wonder about a woman like you.”
Quinn’s lips brushed Constance’s ear as he said this, and he pulled her against him. She was suddenly very aware of his gender—excitedly, dangerously aware.
“A guy has to wonder what?”
“If that deep feeling goes into the bedroom with you, too,” he breathed, each word tickling her ear provocatively.
This was the last stand for her feminine resistance. Deftly she ducked sideways, freeing herself from his embrace.
“In the bedroom?” she repeated, her tone bantering. “Of course it does.”
“I’ll bet with that clear conscience of yours, you sleep like a baby.”
She stared at him for a long moment. He met her gaze and held it. Quietly she answered, “I used to.”
Dear Reader,
The 20
th
anniversary excitement continues as we bring you a 2-in-1 collection containing brand-new novellas by two of your favorite authors: Maggie Shayne and Marilyn Pappano.
Who Do You Love?
It’s an interesting question—made more complicated for these heroes and heroines because they’re not quite what they seem, making the path to happily-ever-after an especially twisty one. Enjoy!
A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY continues with
Her Secret Weapon
by bestselling writer Beverly Barton. This is a great secret-baby story—with a forgotten night of passion thrown in to make things even more exciting. Our inline 36 HOURS spin-off continues with
A Thanksgiving To Remember,
by Margaret Watson. Suspenseful and sensual, this story shows off her talents to their fullest. Applaud the return of Justine Davis with
The Return of Luke McGuire.
There’s something irresistible about a bad boy turned hero, and Justine’s compelling and emotional handling of the theme will win your heart. In
The Lawman Meets His Bride,
Meagan McKinney brings her MATCHED IN MONTANA miniseries over from Desire with an exciting romance featuring a to-die-for hero. Finally, pick up
The Virgin Beauty
by Claire King and discover why this relative newcomer already has people talking about her talent.
Share the excitement—and come back next month for more!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
THE LAWMAN MEETS HIS BRIDE
M
EAGAN
M
C
K
INNEY
Books by Meagan McKinney
Silhouette Intimate Moments
*
The Lawman Meets His Bride #1037
Silhouette Desire
One Small Secret
#1222
*
The Cowboy Meets His Match
#1299
MEAGAN M
C
KINNEY
is the author of over a dozen novels of hardcover and paperback historical and contemporary women’s fiction. In addition to romance, she likes to inject mystery and thriller elements into her work. Currently she lives in the Garden District of New Orleans with her two young sons, two very self-entitled cats and a crazy red mutt. Her favorite hobbies are traveling to the Arctic and, of course, reading!
Contents
Chapter 1
I
’ll let the machine take it,
Constance Adams resolved when the telephone chirred at 5:05 p.m.
After all, the business day was over. And she had been on the go, virtually nonstop, showing homes since eleven this morning. Maybe it was the freakish winter weather, unseasonably warm and sunny, that was deceiving the tourists. For some reason, it seemed as if every upwardly mobile family east of the Mississippi was clamoring for a vacation home in Mystery, Montana.
It had been a long day of smiles and small talk, and she was tired. Ginny had already gone home, and Constance was on the verge of locking up the office when the phone rang. Nonetheless, something oddly insistent about the sound, or perhaps it was only her efficient nature, made her pick up before the answering machine could click on.
“Mystery Valley Real Estate,” she answered. “This is Constance Adams speaking.”
“Yes, Miss Adams, I’m sure glad I caught you.”
Her first impression was confusing. The male voice sounded impatient and curiously…strained, she decided. But he went on talking before she could give it any more thought.
“My name is George Henning,” the voice continued, and she recognized a trace of Northeast accent in the vowels. “I wonder if it would be possible to have a quick look at one of your listings?”
“Of course, Mr. Henning. If you’ll just tell me what time is convenient for—”
“No, I mean may I have a look right now? You see, I’m quite pressed for time. I need to catch a plane later, yet this cabin has just caught my eye. I like it.”
“Cabin?” Constance repeated, somewhat surprised. “You must mean the place at the end of Old Mill Road?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
She hesitated, her surprise tinged by annoyance. The Mill Road cabin was her listing, all right. One of Hazel McCallum’s properties. And while it was a quaint, rustic hideaway in the mountains, it hardly represented a fat commission. It was a little too remote, a little too basic, for most of her clients. Still…she hadn’t exactly been swamped with offers.
“Well, Mr. Henning, it
is
rather late. I mean, it would take me some time to drive up into the mountains from here. May I ask—where are you right now?”
“In front of the cabin, actually. Saw your name on the sign. I called on my cell phone.”
“Oh, I see.”
A cell phone, she thought. Yes, maybe that explained the curious flattened sound to his voice. At any rate, she should have simply said no, not today. But something about his urgency compelled her to hesitate, and he allowed her no time to harden her resolve.
“I know it’s late, Miss Adams, and I do apologize for the inconvenience. But I really am pressed for time. This place looks fine from outside. A quick peek at the interior, and maybe we could reach terms today?”
She frowned slightly, and a skeptical dimple appeared at one corner of her thin, expressive lips. The caller sounded intelligent and well-spoken.
Yet, the urgency in his tone puzzled her—perhaps even worried her a bit.
Inexplicably, however, she found herself giving in.
“All right, Mr. Henning. Since you’re in a hurry. I’ll leave right now. I should be there in about forty minutes.”
The moment she hung up, however, Constance realized what a stupid thing she had just agreed to do: meet a stranger, as night came on, way up on a god-forsaken slope of the Rocky Mountains.
She almost called him back to cancel. But if he was catching a plane later, she reasoned, then maybe she was tossing a sale right down a rat hole. This cabin was no hot-ticket item, she reminded herself. The woman in her was nervous, but the business-woman in her won the brief debate.
She settled on a commonsense compromise. She quickly dialled her parents’ number. At twenty-eight, she was the oldest of eight brothers and sisters, five
of whom still lived at home in the summer. So there was usually no problem catching someone.
“’Lo?” answered sixteen-year-old Beth Ann’s voice.
“Hi, it’s just me,” Constance told her kid sister. “How’s the home front?”
“Thanks to Pattie it’s a major suckout, that’s how it is,” Beth retorted, anger spiking her voice. “I’d rather just stay at school until bedtime. Least I’d be with my friends. I swear to God, Connie, if Mom ’n’ Dad don’t give me or her your old room, I am going to move into the basement. I am so sick of her spazoid mouth.”
“Look, don’t drag me into your feud. You two are a circus act. Is Mom home?”
“Uh-huh. She’s upstairs hanging curtains with Aunt Janet. Want me to get her?”
“Don’t bother,” Constance said.
In the background she heard an angry glissando of piano notes from the music room. Thirteen-year-old Pattie practicing—and no doubt in a pettish mood about it, if Constance remembered her own violin lessons accurately.
“Listen,” she told her sister. “I’m on my way to show someone that cabin on Old Mill Road. It’s kind of remote up there, so I’m just playing it safe. If you guys don’t hear from me in, mmm, two hours or so, give me a buzz. If there’s no answer at my place, try my cell phone, okay?”
“’Kay,” replied Beth Ann, who seemed to resent first syllables lately.
“Hey,” she added, her voice suddenly merciless in its teasing. “That’s the Eighth House, ’member?”
At first Constance only wrinkled her brow in puzzlement. Then, catching on, she felt her pulse leap.
“You still remember that silliness?” she asked her sister. “I almost forgot it.”
That was true, but Constance had to wonder why recalling such “silliness” made her pulse quicken. Last summer she had driven Beth Ann to Billings for a statewide cheerleading competition. Beth had talked her into visiting one of the many astrologers who set up stands in Freedom Park.
“Beware the Eighth House,” the psychic had repeated several times, frowning over her chart. Meaning, Constance had assumed then, the Eighth House of the Zodiac—Death.
It was Beth Ann who first suggested that, in her case, the Eighth House also pertained to the real-estate business. She insisted that Constance check the dates of her listings. Sure enough, Hazel’s cabin was indeed number eight on the list.
“Thank you for the cheery reminder,” Constance said drily. “Gotta get now. You remember—if you guys don’t hear from me in a couple hours, somebody call me.”
“Beware,” Beth Ann repeated in a ghoulish voice just before she hung up. “Beware the Eighth House!”
Only hours before he called Constance Adams, lying through his teeth, Assistant U.S. Attorney Quinn Loudon had not yet become a desperate fugitive from the very law he was sworn to uphold.
“Just take a few deep breaths and relax,” Lance Pollard advised his client as the two men ascended the marble steps of the old courthouse in Kalispell, Montana. “You’re a lawyer. You know the drill by
now. This is just routine pretrial procedure today, I was promised. You’re still a free man.”