Cynthia Cooke - Shiver

Suddenly Riley was backing her against the wall. The heat from his body scorched Devra’s skin right through the stiff cotton fabric of her dress. His dark eyes filled her vision and clouded her mind.

“What are you hiding?” he said softly, the rich timbre of his voice stroking sensitive nerve endings.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you hiding?” he whispered, and speared his fingers through her hair, lifting, and letting it tumble across her shoulders.

Devra couldn’t get enough air. Her skin burned and a yearning deep in the pit of her stomach made her want to scream.

“Leave me alone,” she pleaded, knowing full well she wanted him to pull her up against him and smother her lips with a kiss so passionate it could rip the fabric of her being.

I can’t afford to let anyone get too close. Especially this man….

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Spring is in the air and we have a month of fabulous books for you to curl up with as the March winds howl outside:

• Familiar is back on the prowl, in Caroline Burnes’s Familiar Texas. And Rocky Mountain Maneuvers marks the conclusion of Cassie Miles’s COLORADO CRIME CONSULTANTS trilogy.

• Jessica Andersen brings us an exciting medical thriller, Covert M.D.

• Don’t miss the next ECLIPSE title, Lisa Childs’s The Substitute Sister.

• Definitely check out our April lineup. Debra Webb is starting THE ENFORCERS, an exciting new miniseries you won’t want to miss. Also look for a special 3-in-1 story from Rebecca York, Ann Voss Peterson and Patricia Rosemoor called Desert Sons.

Each month, Harlequin Intrigue brings you a variety of heart-stopping romantic suspense and chilling mystery. Don’t miss a single book!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my editor, Kim Nadelson, for seeing the gem buried

within the rock. To my critique partners, you’re the best!

And, as always, to my family—I love you!!

Ten years ago, Cynthia Cooke lived a quiet, idyllic life caring for her beautiful eighteen-month-old daughter. Then peace gave way to chaos with the birth of her boy/girl twins. Hip-deep in diapers and baby food and living in a world of sleep deprivation, she kept her sanity by reading romance novels and dreaming of someday writing one. She counts her blessings every day as she fulfills her dreams with the love and support of good friends, her very own hunky hero and three boisterous children who constantly keep her laughing and her world spinning. Cynthia loves to hear from her readers. Visit her online at www.cynthiacooke.com.

Riley MacIntyre—A detective determined to discover who murdered his sister-in-law, even if that means getting really close to his number one suspect, Devra Morgan. As the case deepens and the mystery evolves, he will have to decide if she belongs in prison or in his arms.

Devra Morgan—She watched her childhood friend, Tommy Marshall, die in a horrible act of violence. Wherever she goes, death follows her as women who look like her fall prey to a killer. And she sees it all—in her dreams.

Michelle MacIntyre—A cop working undercover to flush out the night stalker runs into a new monster and loses her life.

Tommy Marshall—Devra’s first crush, first kiss—then he was dead.

Mac MacIntyre—Is he a grieving husband or a man bent on an elaborate plot to kill his wife?

Mr. MacIntyre—The head of the MacIntyre clan—whose strings does he pull?

Chief Marshall—A small-town police chief whose only child was murdered fifteen years earlier by Devra—or so he believes. He will stop at nothing to bring her to justice.

William and Lydia Miller—Best-kept secrets can be fatal. What exactly do they know? And why are they so anxious for Devra to leave her childhood home?

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

Thunder boomed overhead and electricity crackled through the air, prickling the hair on the nape of Detective Riley MacIntyre’s neck. The large drops of rain wetting his shoulders didn’t relieve the stickiness of the hot August night as he approached the crime scene. Someone yelled for a cover and umbrellas were quickly opened above the body. Then a tarp was stretched over the area.

Sweat, partly from the heat and partly in expectation of what he’d find, ran down Riley’s back, further dampening his shirt as pulsing red and blue lights flashed on and off centuries-old brick in a strange melodic symphony. He stepped over the yellow caution tape encircling the crime scene and made his way toward the group of people congregating in front of the Village Carré Hotel.

Mike Parker, a young officer from the Eighth District, approached him, his footsteps matching beat for beat the music echoing down Bourbon Street. “We have everything under control, Detective MacIntyre.” A hint of wariness creased his eyes. “We can handle this. You don’t need to be here.”

Riley cocked a smile but couldn’t quite soften the edge of annoyance in his voice. “The last time I checked, this was my case.”

“We haven’t established if this is part of the night stalker case. This one is, uh…different.” Parker looked down, fidgeting.

Riley frowned. “You obviously need some time off, ’cause you’re not making any sense. All homicides are handled downtown. You know that. It doesn’t matter if it’s related to the night stalker case or not.” He patted Parker’s shoulder, then strode off, annoyed that his routine crime-scene approach had been thwarted. He liked to walk a scene to get a sense of the perimeter—the sounds, sights, smells—before approaching the victim. Sometimes the brutality of murder deadened his perceptions. Then all was lost, his case compromised.

He tried once again to recapture the scene, absorbing the music, the scent of onions and garlic and simmering jambalaya, a constant yet comforting smell in the French Quarter. As he approached the building, a roach popped out of a broken stone tile in the sidewalk, then scurried into a cracked grate.

In the crevice between the structure’s brick wall and the steep cement steps leading into a doorway, a body leaned haphazardly, the face hidden beneath a thick mass of blond curls. Blue-jean-clad long legs stretched out on the sidewalk. His gaze lingered over turquoise spiked heels adorning perfectly shaped feet. His gut twisted; sweat dampened his palms.

He took a step closer, though for the first time in his career something urged him to turn away—some gut instinct that was his strongest, most prized possession as a detective in the New Orleans Police Department. He looked back at Parker, who was still watching him, shifting from one foot to the other.

Something wasn’t right.

He took another step. Tony Tortorici, his friend and partner, stood from his examination of the victim. Suddenly, Riley could see her clearly—her deep purple shirt, loops of bright beads hanging from her neck. Pulse racing, he saw how two strands of gold-and-green plastic dice were entwined tightly around her neck, pushing into her delicate skin.