The Colonel's Widow?. Mallory Kane

      Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

      Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers. She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at [email protected]

      For Daddy, a hero by any definition.

       Chapter One

      Moonlight sprinkled pale silver across Rook Castle’s bare back, buttocks and thighs. His muscles tensed and rippled as he thrust once, twice, again and again, filling her with familiar, exquisite heat.

      Irina’s fingers slid through her husband’s softly waving hair. She arched upward, pressing her breasts against his hot chest, demanding more.

      He lifted himself, his biceps straining, glistening with sweat and moondust. He gave her more—gave her everything she craved. His deep, green stare mesmerized her.

      “Rook,” she whispered. “Why did you marry me?”

      He went still. The moonlight no longer shimmered along his flanks and shoulders.

      When would she learn to keep her mouth shut?

      His arms quivered with effort as he held himself suspended above her. His arousal pulsed inside her.

      “Rina—” he muttered, something between a warning and an endearment. Dipping his head, he sought her mouth.

      She longed to kiss him, to surround herself with his powerful body, to feel him in her and around her as she had so many times before.

      But her hands acted against her will and pushed at his chest. Resisting. She struggled to maintain eye contact. “Why?” she repeated.

      “You know why,” he whispered, his breath tickling her eyelashes.

      “Tell me.”

      He kissed her eyelids, her cheek, the sweet spot below her earlobe. Then he moved, rocking her with a slow rhythm born of trust and familiarity. His chest rumbled with languid laughter when she gasped.

      “Shh,” he whispered. “Come with me.”

      She tasted sweat on his neck—salty, delicious. “Rook, please?”

      With a frustrated sigh, he lifted his head. A jagged shadow defined his rigid jaw.

      “I had to marry you,” he said. “It was the only way I could protect you.”

      “But what about love?” Dear God, she was pathetic.

      “Love? Rina, don’t—” His voice rasped.

      Then blood blossomed on his chest.

      “No!” She reached for him, but her fingers slipped in the hot, sticky liquid.

      “Rook!” she shrieked. “No! Help! Somebody help!”

      He clutched at his chest.

      She screamed.

      His eyes met hers and he whispered something—she couldn’t tell what.

      She grabbed his arm, but he was too heavy. She couldn’t hold on to him.

      The last thing she saw was his beautiful face distorted by the bloodstained waters of the Mediterranean as he sank beneath its waves.

      Irina Castle bolted upright, gasping for breath.

      “No!” The word rasped past her constricted throat, pulling her out of the dream.

      She wasn’t on their yacht. She was at Castle Ranch, alone. She kicked the covers away and gulped in air. The taste of his sweat stung her tongue.

      No. Not his sweat. Her tears.

      Harsh moonlight glinted like a knife blade on every surface. She covered her face with her hands, trying to block it out.

      She hated moonlight. Hated night. Darkness brought the fear, and moonlight brought the dream.

      Every night she promised herself that next time she wouldn’t ask him. Next time, she’d take all the dream would give and hold out for more. After all, her memories were all she had left.

      But every night she asked.

      Sliding out of bed, she reached to close the drapes and shut out the moon’s light. But her skin burned and perspiration prickled the nape of her neck, so instead she flung open the French doors.

      Cold air sent shivers crawling down her spine. She took another deep breath, hoping the sharp April chill would chase away the tattered remnants of her nightmare.

      No such luck. Her body still quivered with unquenched desire. The empty place inside her still ached with grief.

      In the distance, the Black Hills of Wyoming loomed in magnificent desolation. Rook had loved the mountains. He’d drawn strength and purpose from them. And like the Black Hills fed him, his strength, his dedication, his larger-than-life presence had fed her.

      Then he’d been shot. His body was never recovered. So for the past two years, she’d poured money into looking for him.

      Two weeks ago, her accountant had issued an ultimatum—stop her unending search for Rook, or dissolve Black Hills Search and Rescue, the legacy he’d devoted his life to.

      She stopped the search. How could she have known that her decision would set events in motion that would nearly destroy his two closest friends?

      HE COULDN’T SLEEP. Hadn’t been able to since he’d been released from the hospital. The idea that he’d