Laurey Bright - Dangerous Waters

Camille banged on the door with her fists, yelling Rogan’s name.

A key scraped in the door. When Rogan’s solid figure appeared in the doorway, instinct took over. She launched herself at him. Her fists thudded into his chest, and he staggered. Then he had both her wrists, holding her away with infuriating ease.

“Settle down!” he said sharply.

“The hell I will!”

She wrenched her gaze up to his face, to the accusing eyes and jutting jaw. His mouth was uncompromising. She could scarcely believe that it had wooed hers last night with tenderness and passion. His chest was bare, and she had to block out the memory of what it had felt like under her hands, against her breasts.

“What the hell,” she demanded, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving you.”

Dear Reader,

The year may be coming to a close, but the excitement never flags here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. We’ve got four—yes, four—fabulous miniseries for you this month, starting with Carla Cassidy’s CHEROKEE CORNERS and Trace Evidence, featuring a hero who’s a crime scene investigator and now has to investigate the secrets of his own heart. Kathleen Creighton continues STARRS OF THE WEST with The Top Gun’s Return. Tristan Bauer had been declared dead, but now he was back—and very much alive, as he walked back into true love Jessie Bauer’s life. Maggie Price begins LINE OF DUTY with Sure Bet and a sham marriage between two undercover officers that suddenly starts feeling extremely real. And don’t miss Nowhere To Hide, the first in RaeAnne Thayne’s trilogy THE SEARCHERS. An on-the-run single mom finds love with the FBI agent next door, but there are still secrets to uncover at book’s end.

We’ve also got two terrific stand-alone titles, starting with Laurey Bright’s Dangerous Waters. Treasure hunting and a shared legacy provide the catalyst for the attraction of two opposites in an irresistible South Pacific setting. Finally, Jill Limber reveals Secrets of an Old Flame in a sexy, suspenseful reunion romance.

Enjoy—and look for more excitement next year, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours.

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor

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has held a number of different jobs, but has never wanted to be anything but a writer. She lives in New Zealand, where she creates the stories of contemporary people in love that have won her a following all over the world. Visit her at her Web site, http://www.laureybright.com.

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

The woman knew he was watching her—Rogan Broderick was sure of it.

Rogan, perched on a stool with his forearm resting along the beer-stained counter, a whiskey glass in his hand, had seen her the moment she entered.

Dark-lashed ocean-green eyes clashed briefly with his as she looked about with the air of a cat entering a strange place and inspecting it for possibly hostile elements. Two plain gold clasps secured a sleek fall of shining brown hair, revealing a classically feminine face. An intriguing hint of strength about the jawline belied the tender, kissable curves of a luscious mouth.

Her shoulders were bare but for the narrow straps of a light, simple-seeming dress the same deep, mysterious green as her eyes. The thin fabric hung in symmetrically draped folds over nicely rounded breasts, skimmed her waist and hips, and moved tantalizingly about her thighs. A perfect beauty—and a city girl, he’d guess. She didn’t seem to belong in the public bar of an old hotel on New Zealand’s Northland coast.

A fish out of water. Or a mermaid.

No, not a mermaid. She had legs—the kind of legs other women would have killed for. Long, creamy and smooth, their fabulous shape emphasized by high-heeled sandals almost the exact color of the dress.

Giving her a friendly grin, he saw a slight widening of her eyes before the aloof green gaze roamed past him. She tucked her hand into her escort’s arm as if for protection as they made for a corner table being abandoned by another couple.

He could hardly blame her, Rogan conceded, rubbing a knuckle over the three-day growth on his cheeks. Other men might look interesting and even glamorous unshaven, but he just looked unkempt and probably sinister. His thick, near-black hair was rust-colored on the haphazardly curling ends, overlong after weeks without seeing a barber, and the sea and sun of the Arabian Gulf had made it harsh and difficult to comb into submission.

He raised his glass to gulp a good shot of whiskey, not taking his eyes off the woman as her companion negotiated a passage through knots of tough, tanned fishermen, sunburned visiting yachties, and weathered locals in checked shirts and creased boots.

Sometimes holiday-makers from luxury yachts liked to hobnob with the regulars and soak up local color rather than patronize the classier lounge bar in the newer part of the building. These two didn’t look like hobnobbers.

The man was slim, probably ten years older than Rogan’s thirty-one, with neatly combed midbrown hair and smooth untanned cheeks. He wore precision-pressed sand-colored slacks, and a black blazer over a toothpaste-white, roll-collared shirt.

Rogan’s T-shirt, long since faded from red to an uneven pink, was rumpled, and his jeans, softened with wear and washing, conformed comfortably to his body. When he’d heard about the old man he had packed his kit in a hurry and barely made the first available flight. Clothes had been the last thing on his mind.

After collecting a room key he’d deferred the long hot shower he planned, in favor of a bracing drink. One whiskey, he’d promised himself, then he’d go upstairs and make himself respectable. Or at least as respectable as he was ever likely to look.

Instead he found himself ordering another drink to give him an excuse to ogle a woman, his blood stirring when she leaned forward to speak over the noise of the bar to the man opposite her, revealing the upper slopes of her breasts, the velvet shadow between them. When a waiter approached the table she looked up and smiled. Rogan shifted on his bar stool. That smile would have brought a stone statue to life.

He made the second drink last until after she and her companion had been served with white wine. Her right hand closed around the stem of the glass while her left one rested on the table. Both were bare of rings.

Didn’t mean a thing—she could be in a relationship. Rogan turned his attention to the man, who did sport a gleam of gold on the middle finger of a hand that obviously had scant acquaintance with manual labour. He looked like an accountant or a lawyer. Reminded of his brother and why he was here, Rogan tossed off the remains of his drink, not wanting to think about the reason he’d flown home. Easier to occupy his mind fantasizing about a pretty woman.