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His glass had been refilled for the third time when he saw her.
She looked left, then right. When their eyes locked, Lucky watched her slip through the crowd, her shiny black hair moving around her slender shoulders.
She wasn’t dressed to be noticed, but that didn’t stop the men from taking a second look. She had an angel’s face, with a walk that would make a man follow her to hell and back on his knees. He’d been around plenty of beautiful women over the years, but this woman had everything. Too much of everything, he decided, as his gaze focused on her V-neck sweater and the way it was doing a damn fine job of framing her assets.
It occurred to him as he glanced around the room that every guy in the place was anticipating Elena strutting down the catwalk, that she was assumed to be a dancer looking for a job.
Only they both knew she wasn’t there to work the crowd. She was there to work him.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another month of the most exciting romantic reading around, courtesy of Silhouette Intimate Moments. Starting things off with a bang, we have To Love a Thief by ultrapopular Merline Lovelace. This newest CODE NAME: DANGER title takes you back into the supersecret world of the Omega Agency for a dangerous liaison you won’t soon forget.
For military romance, Catherine Mann’s WINGMEN WARRIORS are the ones to turn to. These uniformed heroes and heroines are irresistible, and once you join Darcy Renshaw and Max Keagan for a few Private Maneuvers, you won’t even be trying to resist, anyway. Wendy Rosnau continues her unflashed miniseries THE BROTHERHOOD in Last Man Standing, while Sharon Mignerey’s couple find themselves In Too Deep. Finally, welcome two authors who are new to the line but not to readers. Kristen Robinette makes an unforgettable entrance with In the Arms of a Stranger, and Ana Leigh offers a matchup between The Law and Lady Justice.
I hope you enjoy all six of these terrific novels, and that you’ll come back next month for more of the most electrifying romantic reading around.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Editor
Last Man Standing
Wendy Rosnau
WENDY ROSNAU
resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband and their two children. She divides her time between her family-owned bookstore 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. She received the Midwest Fiction Writers 2001 Rising Star Award.
Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.wendyrosnau.com.
To my husband, Jerry,
who continues to stand beside me.
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
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Each time Lucky Masado entered the gates of Dante Armanno, he found one more reason not to like Vito Tandi’s estate. Today’s niggle was security.
There were nine state-of-the-art cameras positioned strategically on the grounds, two twelve-foot electronic iron gates, eight hungry-looking Rottweilers on the prowl and four experienced soldatos shouldering AR-70s on the rooftop.
Still, he’d been inside the house twice without anyone knowing, which meant any day of the week he could play gut-and-run on Vito Tandi and walk away. But that’s not what Lucky wanted from the old capo. Vito would die soon enough without anyone cutting his jugular. If he lasted the year, it would be a miracle.
The armed guard at the gate was expecting Lucky and flagged him through. It was late, after nine, and he drove his red Ferrari—the only extravagant toy he owned—up the paved half-mile driveway lined with one-hundred-year-old oak trees dressed in winter white.
Yesterday, two days after Thanksgiving, the Midwest had gotten ten inches of snow. With temperatures tickling twenty degrees, it was logical to assume that winter had arrived in Chicago.
Lucky sped through the second set of open gates—another guard giving him a nod—then rounded the circular inlaid courtyard where the statue of Armanno, Sicily’s legendary hero, stood in a snowdrift.
Accustomed to the routine that had been set a few days ago, he climbed out of the car, tossed his keys to a man named Finch and headed for the keystone archway. He was still required to empty his pockets at the front door. Lucky pulled out his weapons. Three knives—a Hibben, four-inch stiletto and a Haug with a curved blade able to tear a man to shreds in a matter of seconds—were laid out on a marble slab inside the archway. Next came the guns: two skeleton-grip 9-mm Berettas, a Smith & Wesson .22 and the lupara that rode inside the lining of his jacket.
His pockets empty, Lucky entered the house and followed Vito’s bodyguard down a hallway lit by shadow boxes filled with everything from sixteenth-century swords to Civil War rifles. Vito’s bodyguard was a foot taller than Lucky, which put him over seven feet. Dressed in black pants and a black sweater, the only hint that Benito Palone lived for more than protecting the life of a dying mob boss was the diamond earring he wore and the tattoo of a woman’s backside burned into his forearm.
Lucky had noticed the earring days ago. Now as Benito reached to open the study door, he offered Lucky a glimpse of his tattoo, two inches above his wrist.
Because Lucky knew Palone’s intent was to follow him inside, he turned before the big man had a chance to duck his head and negotiate the door’s six-nine opening. Then, in a voice much quieter than one would expect for a man reported to be the most aggressive street soldier in Chicago, he said, “Not this time, Palone. Today, I’m a solo act with your boss.”
The guard’s green eyes narrowed. He looked over Lucky’s head to where the ailing mobster sat behind an eight-foot-long oak desk. “What do you say, Mr. Tandi? He has no weapons, but—”
“It’s all right, Benito,” Vito’s gravelly voice rumbled. “If Frank Masado’s son was going to kill me, I expect I would be dead by now. Isn’t that right, Nine-Lives Lucky?”
Lucky refused to be baited by the use of his childhood nickname. Since he had established himself in the organization years ago, his nickname had been shortened. Of course there were those who still used his given name of Tomas—mostly people outside the famiglia.
“You wanted to see me.” Lucky eyed the bulky body behind the desk. Vito was dressed in a black smoking jacket with red satin lapels. He was sixty-three years old and bald, but for a graying tuft that rimmed the back of his head and tickled his ears. He was average in height, well above average in weight and would be dead within the year of