Tempting The Dragon. Karen Whiddon

Tempting The Dragon - Karen  Whiddon


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       “Are you okay?” Rance asked, holding on for a heartbeat too long before releasing her.

      She decided to be honest. “Not really. I’m confused and a bit unsettled.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “If you really were sorry, you’d leave town.”

      “Ah, you know I can’t do that.”

      Somehow Jade had suspected he’d say that. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

      “Good point.” As they climbed over another rocky patch, he once again took her arm. And once again, she had to pretend her skin didn’t tingle from the contact. Funny thing that. She hadn’t realized she could be capable of such tangled emotions. She both wanted the man gone and to wrap herself around him and never let him go.

      Tempting The Dragon

      Karen Whiddon

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      KAREN WHIDDON started weaving fanciful tales for her younger brothers at eleven. Amid the Catskill Mountains, then the Rocky Mountains, she fueled her imagination with the natural beauty surrounding her. Karen lives in north Texas and shares her life with her hero of a husband and three doting dogs. You can email Karen at [email protected] or write to her at P.O. Box 820807, Fort Worth, TX 76182, USA. Fans can also check out her website, www.karenwhiddon.com.

      To my father, Charles J. Corcoran. He fell ill right before I started this book and sadly passed away when I was about a hundred pages into writing it.

       I will always miss him. Love you, Dad. Always.

      Contents

       Cover

       Introduction

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter 1

      “A lake monster?” The elderly man peered at Rance Sleighter as if he’d shown up drunk at church on Easter Sunday. Never mind that they were standing in front of Rex’s Hardware store on Main Street in the small town of Forestwood, New York. Upstate New York, which Rance understood as anywhere north of New York City.

      “Yes, a lake monster,” Rance repeated patiently, mentally wishing, as he still did several times a day, for a beer. The craving never went away, but at least now he knew he was strong enough to resist it. He hadn’t been once, right after his wife, Violet, had died. His drinking had cost him too much for him to ever go back.

      Meanwhile, he had to think of Eve. As usual, the thought of his tiny stepdaughter made his gut clench. He’d loved her since the moment he’d met her, when he and her mother had started dating. Luckily for all of them, Eve’s human father, Jim, and her mother had remained on civil, almost friendly terms. Rance and Violet had even invited Jim to their wedding.

      Now Violet was dead and Eve lay seriously ill in a hospital bed in Houston, silent except for the steady beeping of the machines. Though Jim had taken custody, he’d allowed Rance full visitation. The two men had remained friends, sharing Eve’s love.

      She couldn’t die. She wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t let her. The thought strengthened his resolve. Eve was why he’d come here. No matter what, he refused to let her down. He’d do anything for his little girl. Even find a lake monster.

      “The story has traveled all over the country. It’s the reason I’m here. You can’t tell me you haven’t heard about it.”

      The old man puffed up at that. “Harrumph. I might have heard nonsense, but you won’t catch me discussing it. You want to talk lake monsters, go talk to the witch’s family.”

      “The what?”

      “You heard me.” Pointing a shaky finger north, the codger grimaced. “Burnett family. Daughter is a witch. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to discuss lake monsters with you.”

      And then, while Rance struggled to formulate a reply, the old-timer stomped off, heading across the street toward a restaurant titled Mother Earth’s Café.

      As small towns went, Forestwood had a picturesque, holiday-postcard-type of appeal. The brilliant reds and orange of the fall leaves helped. In Houston, where Rance was from, they didn’t have much of an autumn. When the trees did shed their leaves, they just sort of turned yellow and fell off.

      He took another glance around him,


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