Dani Sinclair - D.b. Hayes, Detective

He reached in his hip pocket and produced a leather wallet. Taking some bills from inside, he laid them on the desk and stared at me with a questioning lift of his brows.

“You don’t have enough money. Get out of here.”

He reached into his wallet once more. This time he handed me a small white business card.

“You’re Brandon Kirkpatrick?”

“You weren’t what I expected, either,” he admitted. “I assumed D.B. Hayes was a man. What does the D.B. stand for anyhow?”

“Dangerous when bothered.” I was still angry.

He grinned. The man was gorgeous even when he was angry, but when he smiled he was downright lethal.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

It might be warm outside, but our June lineup will thrill and chill you!

* This month, we have a couple of great miniseries. Man of Her Dreams is the spine-tingling conclusion to Debra Webb’s trilogy THE ENFORCERS. And there are just two installments left in B.J. Daniels’s McCALLS’ MONTANA series—High-Caliber Cowboy is out now, and Shotgun Surrender will be available next month.

* We also have two fantastic special promotions. First, is our Gothic ECLIPSE title, Mystique, by Charlotte Douglas. And Dani Sinclair brings you D.B. Hayes, Detective, the second installment in our LIPSTICK LTD. promotion featuring sexy sleuths.

* Last, but definitely not least, is Jessica Andersen’s The Sheriff’s Daughter. Sparks fly between a medical investigator and a vet in this exciting medical thriller.

* Also, keep your eyes peeled for Joanna Wayne’s THE GENTLEMAN’S CLUB, available from Signature Spotlight.

This month, and every month, we promise to deliver six of the best romantic suspense titles around. Don’t miss a single one!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For all the caring volunteers who work with strays

and abandoned and abused animals every day.

You understand that the world is a richer place

when we open our hearts and our lives to

these intelligent beings covered in fur.

And to Roger, Chip, Dan and Barb, as always.

An avid reader, Dani Sinclair didn’t discover romance novels until her mother lent her one when she’d come for a visit. Dani’s been hooked on the genre ever since. But she didn’t take up writing seriously until her two sons were grown. With the premiere of Mystery Baby for Harlequin Intrigue in 1996, Dani’s kept her computer busy ever since. Her third novel, Better Watch Out, was a RITA ®Award finalist in 1998. Dani lives outside Washington, D.C., a place she’s found to be a great source for both intrigue and humor!

D.B. Hayes—At age twenty-four, Diana Barbara “Dee” Hayes has a lot to prove as a woman and as a private investigator. She hopes not to get killed in the process….

Brandon Kirkpatrick—The former-cop-turned-investigator has a knack for getting into Dee’s business…and under her skin.

Hogan Delvecchi—He looks like a boulder and is known to do all Albert Russo’s dirty work. How dirty is he willing to get?

Lacy Dunning and Trudy Hoffsteader—Dee’s aunt and her business partner have owned and operated Flower World ever since Dee can remember. Luckily they’re willing to share their space with Dee’s detective agency.

Brenda Keene—Dee’s father’s next-door neighbor insists that Dee find her mysterious stalker.

Mickey—The desperate ten-year-old comes in to hire D.B. Hayes—to find Mr. Sam, a geriatric cat….

Mr. Sam—The cat eludes D. B., but his look-alikes are taking over her apartment!

Albert Russo—The business entrepreneur and possible mobster is willing to give Dee her first big case, but does he have ulterior motives?

Elaine Russo—Is she simply tired of being a trophy wife, or is she playing a far more deadly game?

Nicole Wickley—The actress bears a striking resemblance to Elaine Russo—so striking there’s some question as to whether they’re really the same person.

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

Okay, so maybe my father was right. Being a private investigator can be a little dangerous.

I stared up at the mountain of flesh in front of me—six feet four, three hundred seventy pounds of masculine flab, and all of it quivering in a drunken rage. Another time I might have been fascinated by that rippling effect, but at the moment I was mesmerized by the enormous knife he was waving in one meaty hand. The only thing standing between the two of us was a rusting old porch swing, and that was one wicked-looking knife.

Lyle Arrensky was his name, and he wasn’t dressed unless you count a pair of grungy boxer shorts with—so help me God—blue and green rabbits against an angry orange background. I did not want to count those shorts. Heck, I didn’t even want to think about those shorts.

“I tole that bitch once,” he slurred, his glazed piggy eyes unblinking, “I tole that bitch twice. She ain’t gonna get that bowl back unless she comes here and asks me nice. You got that?”

Oh, yeah. I got that. I couldn’t miss that. The words came accompanied by beer fumes mixed with the sour odor of unwashed flesh. And to reinforce the smell, Lake Erie sent a tepid puff of wind blowing in my direction.

It wasn’t a real breeze but enough to stir the stench of traffic fumes, stale food and a whole host of other smells best not specifically identified. I began breathing through my mouth while urging the contents of my stomach to stay with me a little longer. This was not the time for a rebellion.

Keeping the porch swing between him and me, I edged closer to the steps and freedom.

“I promise. I’ll pass on your message, Mr. Arrensky.”

My tennis shoe found the top step, and I backed down as quickly as humanly possible without taking my eyes off the hand waving the knife. It was broad daylight. Where were all the nosy neighbors? People around here called the cops over dogs pooping on their browned-out lawns.

Not that I was anxious to deal with the police right now, but I did want out of here without bloodshed—especially mine. Susan Arrensky had hired me to obtain proof that her soon-to-be-ex-husband had physical possession of a hideously large silver-plated loving cup that had once belonged to her late grandmother. I’d managed to snap several photographs of said loving cup through the open living room window before Mr. Arrensky realized I was standing on his porch. If I hadn’t gotten greedy and tried for that final photo, he’d have never noticed my hand sticking in through his window.

Someone else had put that large hole in his screen, not me. Given the way it was ripped and the knife he was holding, I’d hazard a guess that Mr. Arrensky himself had something to do with the torn screen. He seemed to like the idea of putting holes in things—or people.

“You do that,” he yelled, menacing me with the long, hairy arm clutching the knife. “You tell that worthless little bitch she can crawl back here on her hands and knees if she wants the damn thing. You tell her that.”

He swayed dangerously in my direction.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be sure and tell her that.”

I felt the cracked and broken sidewalk under my foot. Turning, I sprinted across the yellowed grass with more speed than I would have thought possible in this heat. The August sun was blistering more than just the city streets around Cleveland, Ohio, this afternoon.