Beneath The Silk. Wendy Rosnau
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His eyes fastened on Sunni’s cleavage…
then her face. Grinning, Jackson said, “It’s a pleasure seeing you. I look forward to next time.”
Sunni was outraged. And dangerous or not, this man needed to know she wasn’t going to go down easy. He also needed to know there was more beneath her red silk dress than a memorable set of bubbles. She had long legs that could run a six-minute mile. And she was no slouch on the firing range with her .22 automatic.
Chin raised, Sunni corrected, “You mean meeting me, don’t you…Jackson?”
Undaunted by her challenge, his grin opened up. “Yes. That, too.”
Dear Reader,
The warm weather is upon us, and things are heating up to match here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. Candace Camp returns to A LITTLE TOWN IN TEXAS with Smooth-Talking Texan, featuring another of her fabulous Western heroes. Town sheriff Quinn Sutton is one irresistible guy—as attorney Lisa Mendoza is about to learn.
We’re now halfway through ROMANCING THE CROWN, our suspenseful royal continuity. In Valerie Parv’s Royal Spy, a courtship of convenience quickly becomes the real thing—but is either the commoner or the princess what they seem? Marie Ferrarella begins THE BACHELORS OF BLAIR MEMORIAL with In Graywolf’s Hands, featuring a Native American doctor and the FBI agent who ends up falling for him. Linda Winstead Jones is back with In Bed With Boone, a thrillingly romantic kidnapping story—of course with a happy ending. Then go Beneath the Silk with author Wendy Rosnau, whose newest is sensuous and suspenseful, and completely enthralling. Finally, welcome brand-new author Catherine Mann. Wedding at White Sands is her first book, but we’ve already got more—including an exciting trilogy—lined up from this talented newcomer.
Enjoy all six of this month’s offerings, then come back next month for even more excitement as Intimate Moments continues to present some of the best romance reading you’ll find anywhere.
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Beneath the Silk
Wendy Rosnau
WENDY ROSNAU
resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband and their two children. A former hairdresser, she now divides her time between her family-owned bookstore and gift shop, and writing romantic suspense.
Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. Her third book, The Right Side of the Law, was a Romantic Times Top Pick.
Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.wendyrosnau.com. E-mail her at [email protected]. Or write to her at P.O. Box 441, Brainerd, Minnesota 56401.
To Tyler,
Our hearts know the truth, and in that we are made stronger. Walk in truth, surrounded by the light, my son, and know you are never alone. I love you….
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Chapter 1
They called him the NOPD’s loose cannon. His boss, Clide Blais, simply called him a pain in the ass. It was true that Jackson Ward hadn’t bonded well with his police chief—after three years of working together, they were still deadlocked as to the proper conduct befitting a New Orleans homicide detective.
To back up Clide’s argument, Jackson had gone through eight partners in two years before he’d found one that had stuck. But like everything in life, change is the one thing you can count on. After a year with Ry Archard, Jackson was again faced with the task of finding a partner he could work with—or more to the point, who could work with him.
Three partners had come and gone in the past three months, but still Jackson didn’t blame Ry for taking the desk job he’d been offered. If he had a beautiful wife like Margo to come home to, he would have wanted out of the hot seat and better hours himself. But the fact remained that he was still in limbo, sampling partners, hoping to find one who could appreciate his all-or-nothing, you-think-it, you-say-it approach to his job.
And that’s where Jackson found himself on a hot and sticky Friday afternoon in October as he wheeled his issued cruiser into the visitors’ lot at Charity Hospital, his newest recruit riding shotgun.
He parked the puke-green ’96 Ford, then turned to speak to partner number thirteen. Thirteen was a bad number, Jackson mused, staring at the aging has-been who had fallen asleep. Seeing no point in waking him, he climbed out of the car and headed for the hospital.
On entering the lobby, the old memories of how much he hated hospitals hit Jackson square between the eyes. As a kid he’d spent countless hours in hospital waiting rooms with a cereal box between his knees watching cartoons—too young to understand the seriousness of his father’s diabetes.
Harold Ward had been dead for fifteen years, but Jackson still hated hospitals, hated the feelings they evoked. The memories they resurrected. Only today he had no choice—last night his police chief’s peptic ulcer had erupted, landing him in a hospital bed.
Inside the elevator, Jackson hung his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans. He was tall—six foot three—with a case-hardened body and shaggy black hair that had been freshly cut that morning. He and Clide had been butting heads for two weeks, and with his suspension record being what it was, Ry had suggested that a new-and-improved look might raise Jackson’s image a notch with the boss—that is, if he was willing to play suck-up to a man who clearly didn’t like him, or the way he did his job.
He found Clide’s room and knocked. A second later the gravelly voice inside barked, “You’re late.”
Jackson set his jaw, then swung open the door. “I’m not late—” his eyes found his boss slumped on the bed “—visiting hours don’t start till—”
“Screw visiting hours, Ward. I got a crisis on my hands. If I could have found you last night, a black-and-white would have picked you up.”
Now what? Jackson wondered. Other than Clide, he hadn’t pissed anyone off for two or three days—not that he was aware of, anyway. He stepped inside and closed the door. “What’s your crisis, Chief?”
“Milo Tandi. He was murdered night before last.”
The name Tandi was as commonplace in Chicago as the Loop and Wrigley Field. The Tandis were also front-runners in the Chicago-Italian Organization. Jackson had gone to school with Milo and knew from personal experience that his old classmate was about as likable as fungus on a toad.
Clide poked a finger at the electronic device attached to his bed and hoisted the mattress to raise him upward. “Well, give me some background on him. Draw me a picture, Ward. Don’t just stand there irritating the hell out of me.”
Jackson fished in his pocket for a cigarette, then remembered hospital regulations and slid the pack back into his shirt. “Milo’s