Cassie Miles - Hook, Line and Shotgun Bride

Though born and raised in L.A., CASSIE MILEShas lived in colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Posy.

After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

Hook, Line and

Shotgun Bride

Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Cover

About the Author About the Author Though born and raised in L.A., CASSIE MILES has lived in colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Posy. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

Title Page Hook, Line and Shotgun Bride Cassie Miles www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Copyright

A flat tire.

Tom Hawthorne slammed the door to his Toyota SUV, slammed it hard. Why the hell had he decided to take a shortcut instead of staying on the highway? It was the middle of the night, and he was stuck on this winding gravel road in a mountain valley. No other cars. Not a cabin in sight. Only the stars bore witness to his rage. “Son of a bitch.”

Lately, things had been going wrong more often than right. He would have felt cursed if it wasn’t for Angela.

The thought of her cooled his temper. He carried her image with him always, through the hell of the battlefield and the horror of working triage as a Marine Corps medic. Angela’s sweet love made everything bearable.

As he opened the rear of the SUV, he took out his cell phone. Surprise, surprise, he actually got a signal.

She answered right away, as though she’d been waiting for his name to pop up on her caller ID. “Good evening, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Hello, Mrs. Hawthorne.” Though they’d been married eight months, he still enjoyed claiming her as his wife. “I’m going to be later than I thought. I got a flat.”

“Bummer. How was your night out with the boys?”

Boring as hell. “I’d rather be with you.”

“But it’s traditional for a Marine to blow off steam while he’s home on leave.”

One-handed, he hauled out the spare tire and the jack. If he’d still been a drinker, he might have had more fun on his night out with old buddies at a bar. The only alcohol Tom had consumed in the past year was a glass of champagne at their wedding. “The hour-and-a-half drive to the mountains was too long. And I lost twenty-seven bucks at pool. But you could make me feel a whole lot better, baby. What are you wearing?”

“Flannel pajamas.” She laughed. “Are you fixing that tire or what?”

“Give me some incentive,” he murmured. “Tell me about your sexy nightgown.”

This was a game they’d played for years, and she was good at it. Her voice lowered to a purr. “I’m standing in front of the fireplace, and I’m warm all over. I have on a black, see-through nightie. It’s short—so short that it doesn’t even cover my bum if I bend over.”

He closed his eyes, relishing a mental picture of Angela’s slender waist and round butt. “Your hair?”

“Loose and tangled all the way down my back. Oh, and I have those highlights I’ve been wanting to get to perk up the brown.”

“What kind of shoes?”

“High heels, of course. And silky black stockings. And a lacy garter belt.”

“Baby, I can’t wait to get home.”

“Can’t wait for you to be here.” Her voice returned to a normal tone. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“It’s after ten now. I’d say eleven-thirty.” He set down the jack beside the flat.

“How’s your buddy Max doing?” she asked. “Does he like being a daddy? “

“Looking at pictures of his baby was the best part of the night. I’m ready to start a family of our own.” He looked up and saw headlights approaching. “Hey, there’s somebody else on this godforsaken road.”

“Maybe they can help you,” she said.

“It’s just a flat tire. I don’t need help.”

The other vehicle—a truck—jostled around a curve at an unsafe speed. He was an accident waiting to happen. Luckily, Tom had managed to pull onto the shoulder and had left his lights on. The other driver should be able to see him.

“When you get home,” Angela said, “I’ll make you some hot chocolate with whipped cream.”

“Sounds nice.” Damn, that truck was moving fast.

“I love you, honey.”

The headlights blinded him. The truck was headed directly at him. What the hell?

The impact crushed him against the side of his SUV. His legs collapsed and he hit the gravel. The truck backed up. The engine revved. He was coming again. This was no accident.

Tom was a dead man. He knew it. He spoke his last words, “Love you, too.”

ANGELA HAWTHORNE lay on her comforter, fully dressed, staring at the digital bedside clock as it clicked to that fateful time: 10:23.

A little over five years ago, her husband had been killed by a hit-and-run driver at exactly that moment. She’d heard the crash, heard his last words and then her phone went dead.

One-zero-two-three.

Her world stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. Oh, Tom. I miss you so much. She was poised at the edge of an abyss, wishing she could leap into ultimate forgetfulness and knowing that she never would lose her memories.

The moment passed.

A gust of wind splashed rain against the windowpanes. This was one of those summer electrical storms that started in the mountains and swept down to attack Denver with a fury. The distant thunder even sounded like artillery.

When she rose from the bed, she felt light-headed. She shook herself. Her eyes took a moment to focus as though she’d had too much to drink.

She slipped her feet into a pair of well-worn loafers and shuffled down the hall to her son’s room. Benjamin Thomas Hawthorne, almost four years old, was her miracle baby.