Linda Howard - Reckless

Passion mingles with espionage in these two reader-favorite stories

Midnight Rainbow

Grant Sullivan—tough, rugged and handsome—is a retired military expert entrusted with a mission deep in the Costa Rican jungle: to find Jane Hamilton Greer, a wealthy socialite who has been taken hostage by rebels. When Grant rescues the self-possessed Jane by literally throwing her over his shoulder, no love is lost between them. But as the rebels pursue them, they’re forced to work together, and soon the jungle begins to smolder in more ways than one...

Tears of the Renegade

Susan has never known anyone like Cord Blackstone, the sexy black sheep of his family. Cord has a score to settle with the Blackstones—the same genteel clan that sheltered Susan after her husband’s death. Cord will stop at nothing to punish the Blackstones, but what if that means ruining the one woman who can’t stop loving him?

Praise for New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“Howard’s writing is compelling.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Linda Howard writes with power, stunning sensuality and a storytelling ability unmatched in the romance genre. Every book is a treasure for the reader to savor again and again.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Iris Johansen

“You can’t read just one Linda Howard!”

—New York Times bestselling author Catherine Coulter

“[A]...master storyteller.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Ms. Howard can wring so much emotion and tension out of her characters that no matter how satisfied you are when you finish a book, you still want more.”

—Rendezvous on Mackenzie’s Pleasure

“Linda Howard is an extraordinary talent whose unforgettable novels are richly flavored with scintillating sensuality and high-voltage suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Linda Howard knows what readers want, and dares to be different. ”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Linda Howard exemplifies the very best of the romance genre.”

—RT Book Reviews

Reckless

Midnight Rainbow

Linda Howard

Tears of the Renegade

Linda Howard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Midnight Rainbow

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tears of the Renegade

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

Midnight Rainbow

Linda Howard

CHAPTER ONE

HE WAS GETTING too old for this kind of crap, Grant Sullivan thought irritably. What the hell was he doing crouched here, when he’d promised himself he’d never set foot in a jungle again? He was supposed to rescue a bubble-brained society deb, but from what he’d seen in the two days he’d had this jungle fortress under surveillance, he thought she might not want to be rescued. She looked as if she was having the time of her life: laughing, flirting, lying by the pool in the heat of the day. She slept late; she drank champagne on the flagstone patio. Her father was almost out of his mind with worry about her, thinking that she was suffering unspeakable torture at the hands of her captors. Instead, she was lolling around as if she were vacationing on the Riviera. She certainly wasn’t being tortured. If anyone was being tortured, Grant thought with growing ire, it was he himself. Mosquitoes were biting him, flies were stinging him, sweat was running off him in rivers, and his legs were aching from sitting still for so long. He’d been eating field rations again, and he’d forgotten how much he hated field rations. The humidity made all of his old wounds ache, and he had plenty of old wounds to ache. No doubt about it: he was definitely too old.

He was thirty-eight, and he’d spent over half his life involved in some war, somewhere. He was tired, tired enough that he’d opted out the year before, wanting nothing more than to wake up in the same bed every morning. He hadn’t wanted company or advice or anything, except to be left the hell alone. When he had burned out, he’d burned to the core.

He hadn’t quite retreated to the mountains to live in a cave, where he wouldn’t have to see or speak to another human being, but he had definitely considered it. Instead, he’d bought a run-down farm in Tennessee, just in the shadow of the mountains, and let the green mists heal him. He’d dropped out, but apparently he hadn’t dropped far enough: they had still known how to find him. He supposed wearily that his reputation made it necessary for certain people to know his whereabouts at all times. Whenever a job called for jungle experience and expertise, they called for Grant Sullivan.

A movement on the patio caught his attention, and he cautiously moved a broad leaf a fraction of an inch to clear his line of vision. There she was, dressed to the nines in a frothy sundress and heels, with an enormous pair of sunglasses shading her eyes. She carried a book and a tall glass of something that looked deliciously cool; she arranged herself artfully on one of the poolside deck chairs, and prepared to while away the muggy afternoon. She waved to the guards who patrolled the plantation grounds and flashed them her dimpled smile.

Damn her pretty, useless little hide! Why couldn’t she have stayed under Daddy’s wing, instead of sashaying around the world to prove how “independent” she was? All she’d proved was that she had a remarkable talent for landing herself in hot water.

Poor dumb little twit, he thought. She probably didn’t even realize that she was one of the central characters in a nasty little espionage caper that had at least three government and several other factions, all hostile, scrambling to find a missing microfilm. The only thing that had saved her life so far was that no one was sure how much she knew, or whether she knew anything at all. Had she been involved in George Persall’s espionage activities, he wondered, or had she only been his mistress, his high class “secretary”? Did she know where the microfilm was, or did Luis Marcel, who had disappeared, have it? The only thing anyone knew for certain was that George Persall had had the microfilm in his possession. But he’d died of a heart attack—in her bedroom—and the microfilm hadn’t been found. Had Persall already passed it to Luis Marcel? Marcel had dropped out of sight two days before Persall died—if he had the microfilm, he certainly wasn’t talking about it. The Americans wanted it, the Russians wanted it, the Sandinistas wanted it, and every rebel group in Central and South America wanted it. Hell, Sullivan thought, as far as he knew, even the Eskimos wanted it.