Naomi Horton - Wild Ways

Meg insisted.

Rafe just looked at her for a long while. “You confuse the hell out of me, Specialist Mary Margaret Kavanagh, I’ll tell you that much for nothing.”

“You know,” she said quietly, “I swear I won’t tell anyone if you lose that chip on your shoulder for a few hours. As far as anyone else is concerned, your reputation as a five-star bastard will be unsullied.”

“I could still shoot you and stuff your body in a hole, Kavanagh.”

She smiled up at him and linked her arm with his. “But you won’t, ex-Super Agent Blackhorse. You’ll make me something to eat, and then you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’re starting to like me.”

Dear Reader,

It’s time to go wild with Intimate Moments. First, welcome historical star Ruth Langan back to contemporary times as she begins her new family-oriented trilogy. The Wildes of Wyoming—Chance is a slam-bang beginning that will leave you eager for the rest of the books in the miniseries. Then look for Wild Ways, the latest in Naomi Horton’s WILD HEARTS miniseries. The first book, Wild Blood, won a Romance Writers of America RITA Award for this talented author, and this book is every bit as terrific.

Stick around for the rest of our fabulous lineup, too. Merline Lovelace continues MEN OF THE BAR H with Mistaken Identity, full of suspense mixed with passion in that special recipe only Merline seems to know. Margaret Watson returns with Family on the Run, the story of a sham marriage that awakens surprisingly real emotions. Maggie Price’s On Dangerous Ground is a MEN IN BLUE title, and this book has a twist that will leave you breathless. Finally, welcome new author Nina Bruhns, whose dream of becoming a writer comes true this month with the publication of her first book, Catch Me If You Can.

You won’t want to miss a single page of excitement as only Intimate Moments can create it. And, of course, be sure to come back next month, when the passion and adventure continue in Silhouette Intimate Moments, where excitement and romance go hand in hand.

Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

was born in northern Alberta, where the winters are long and the libraries far apart. “When I’d run out of books,” she says, “I’d simply create my own—entire worlds filled with people, adventure and romance. I guess it’s not surprising that I’m still at it!” This RITA Award-winning author is an engineering technologist who presently lives in Nanaimo, British Columbia, with her collection of assorted pets.

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

It was the kind of place he’d spent his entire life trying to avoid.

Small town bar, set back from the dusty street on a cracked surface of tarry asphalt tufted with weeds and dry grass and confetti sprinkles of broken glass. The windows were blank behind their jailhouse grillwork, as shuttered and private as a drug dealer’s eyes behind reflective designer shades.

Great. Rafe eyed the place unhappily from the car, feeling the sweat trickle between his shoulder blades and soak into the stained upholstery of the seat. He was going to kill Dawes, he decided thoughtfully as he cut the engine. Silence fell around him, broken only by the chainsaw buzz of some insect in the tall, dust-grayed grass by the curb.

That wasn’t the plan, of course. The plan had been to take Dawes and his blond girlfriend into custody and drive their sorry behinds back to Las Vegas and Tony Ruffio.

He’d known it had sounded too easy. Dawes had led him through three states and seven counties, in and out of towns no one had ever heard of, up hill and down hot, sunbaked dale, and he was by God going to pay for it. Okay, killing him was out. Tony had said he’d only pay for the recovery if the man were delivered into his hands alive and squirming. But there was nothing in the contract about dents and bruises.

Rafe flexed the fingers of his left hand, the network of scars webbing his knuckles bone-white in the harsh sunlight. Then he sighed. Hell, even that wasn’t an option. He didn’t have a lot of scruples left, but even he drew the line at punching out a little guy like Dawes.

Rafe looked at the bar again. Sighed again. And pushed open the car door and eased himself out into the heat-stunned afternoon. It was time.

The bar’s neon sign buzzed, its glow feeble under a layering of dust. The parking lot surface was soft and it seemed to suck at Rafe’s boots as he walked across it, the stink of hot asphalt hanging in the still air. The thought struck him that it was like walking across the foyer of hell, and he smiled at the irony. Even more ironic was the fact that he’d been born somewhere around here.

But that sure as hell wasn’t anything he wanted to think about.

He shook it off and forced his suddenly drifting mind back to the business at hand.

A brace of Harley-Davidsons sat to one side of the doorway, parked all in a row, as tidy and pristine and perfectly aligned as nuns in a choir.

That could mean trouble. He paused and did a quick check: Taurus PT 99 in the holster tucked under his left arm; Smith & Wesson in its leather, tucked discreetly into the small of his back; Walther double-action semiautomatic in his boot. The Taurus and the Smith & Wesson were licensed and legal as hell, the Walther a little thing he’d picked up while on a job in Oklahoma City a year back. It had fallen into his hands so tidily it had seemed ordained that he have it, so he hadn’t bothered turning it in. He’d had the boot holster specially designed and was so used to it now he rarely thought about it. Except for times like this.

He flexed his shoulders once to loosen them, then pulled open the door and stepped inside.

From caution borne of habit, he stepped quickly to one side until his eyes adapted to the dimness, scanning the shadows for threat or motion even before he could fully see what—or who—they contained. The cold air dried the sweat on his forehead and across his back almost instantly, and he shook his left arm out, feeling the muscles start to tighten.

Heads turned, as they do in a place like that. Incurious eyes met his, then drifted away, dismissing him as unimportant. It brought the usual rush of automatic anger, but he ignored it. To everyone in here, as in most places, he was just another Indian, the next best thing to invisible. Which was handy for a man in his line of work.

Two farmers sat at a table to his left, peaked caps set on the backs of their heads, faces lined and grizzled from decades of staring at the sky. A salesman of some kind sat at another round table, tie loosened and hanging askew, a pile of papers scattered across the table. Two lanky Native kids were playing pool at a table in back, jostling and showing off, and an old man sat at the bar, staring morosely into the half-empty glass in his hand.

Only the bikers seemed to take any notice of him. They sat around a table to his hard right, all of them big and watchful, their leathers cluttered with studs and chains and coded patches. They eyed him warily, but he gave his head an almost imperceptible shake and they relaxed again.