“The way I see it, you’re a gunshot victim. A criminal is still at large. It’s my duty to protect you.”

“This is ridiculous. Do you think I won’t be missed? You can’t just lock me up and think no one will notice.” Margo circled back to the crux of the matter. “Keeping someone against their will is called kidnapping, Detective Archard, and that’s illegal.”

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. “Right now the best thing for you is plenty of bed rest.”

Margo’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare chain me to this bed like a dog, Ry. You wouldn’t dare!”

“If you don’t think so, then you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

Dear Reader,

Once again, we’ve rounded up six exciting romances to keep you reading all month, starting with the latest installment in Marilyn Pappano’s HEARTBREAK CANYON miniseries. The Sheriff’s Surrender is a reunion romance with lots of suspense, lots of passion—lots of emotion—to keep you turning the pages. Don’t miss it.

And for all of you who’ve gotten hooked on A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY, we’ve got The Way We Wed. Pat Warren does a great job telling this tale of a secret marriage between two SPEAR agents who couldn’t be more different—or more right for each other. Merline Lovelace is back with Twice in a Lifetime, the latest saga in MEN OF THE BAR H. How she keeps coming up with such fabulous books, I’ll never know—but I do know we’re all glad she does. Return to the WIDE OPEN SPACES of Alberta, Canada, with Judith Duncan in If Wishes Were Horses…. This is the kind of book that will have you tied up in emotional knots, so keep the tissues handy. Cheryl Biggs returns with Hart’s Last Stand, a suspenseful romance that will keep you turning the pages at a furious clip. Finally, don’t miss the debut of a fine new voice, Wendy Rosnau. A Younger Woman is one of those irresistible stories, and it’s bound to establish her as a reader favorite right out of the starting gate.

Enjoy them all, then come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around—only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

A Younger Woman
Wendy Rosnau

www.millsandboon.co.uk

WENDY ROSNAU

lives on sixty secluded acres in the northwoods of Minnesota with her husband and their two energetic teenagers. A former hairdresser, she now divides her time between operating the bookstore she and her husband opened in 1998, keeping one step ahead of her two crafty kids and writing romance. In her spare time she enjoys reading, painting and drawing, traveling and, most of all, spending time with those two crafty kids and their dad.

A great believer in the power of love and the words never give up, Wendy says that reaching her goal of becoming a published author is a testimony that dreams can and do come true. You can write to her at P.O. Box 441, Brainerd, Minnesota 56401. For a personal reply send SASE.

To my mom and dad for always being there for me—

awesome job on the bookshelves and my table, Dad—

I love you.

To my father-in-law for his humor, and to my mother-in-law for putting on wings and rescuing me so often in my hour of need.

And always, to Jerry, the rock that keeps me grounded, and to Tyler and Jenni for knowing it all and loving me anyway.

Contents

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 1

Through the lens of her camera Margo zeroed in on the pier and brought into focus her brother, Blu, and the stranger. They were an odd pair, she decided, and wondered who the smart dresser was and what was so important that it required a meeting with the Blu Devil on a lonely pier at night.

They shook hands, ignoring the September rain soaking their clothes. The heavy mist gave the streetlights a distorted, eerie glow, making Margo’s task harder. She was no master photographer, but Blu hadn’t asked for a professional job, just visible proof that the exchange had taken place.

She hadn’t asked what was being exchanged. Frankly, she didn’t want to know. No, this wasn’t about the right or wrong of anything. Her sole purpose for being in Algiers tonight instead of New Orleans behind the piano at the Toucan Lounge had nothing to do with morality and everything to do with sisterly love.

The night air had turned into a sponge, sharpening the odor of rotting fish and river decay. Margo wrinkled up her nose and swiped at her long, black hair. She could hear the constant slapping of the water against the boats tied dockside, feel the tropical air sucking her jeans closer to her slender, boyish hips.

Anxious to get out of the weather, she squinted through the camera lens and focused on Blu pulling something from his back pocket. Deciding this must be it, this was the exchange, she quickly clicked the shutter, then advanced the film. She had just raised the camera to take a second picture when a gunshot exploded out of the darkness. Frozen in motion, Margo watched in horror as the stranger jerked hard to the right, then crumpled at her brother’s feet.

An involuntary scream climbed her throat, and she dropped the camera, vaguely aware that it shattered as it hit the asphalt. Mindless of the impending danger, she bolted from her hiding place and started to run toward the waterfront. As she reached the pier and climbed the steps, the pungent odor of cordite confirmed that she was now very much in the path of the melee. More shots erupted from somewhere behind her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin, crying out at the same time. Sheer panic overwhelmed her, but Margo’s fear for her brother’s safety overrode her fear for herself, and she forced herself to move forward.

As if the gunfire had opened up the sky and made the gods angry, a deluge of rain fed the sudden craziness. For a moment Margo thought the rain would be their salvation, and for one split second it was—she slipped on the wet planking and went down hard. Seconds later, on her knees, a bullet whizzed past her head. She struggled back to her feet, her ears ringing, her knees bruised and throbbing. She searched out the spot where she’d last seen Blu, only to find he was no longer standing but sprawled on his back next to the unmoving stranger.

“No! Please, God, no!”

Margo’s stomach convulsed. Fighting for air, she reached out and gripped the pier railing to keep from going over the side, her legs two disjointed pieces of rubber. She squeezed her eyes shut and began to pray fast and furiously, demanding that God hear her immediate need. When she was finished, over the pounding rain, she heard him. No, it wasn’t God, but the voice was just as powerful, just as wonderful. She imagined the Almighty wouldn’t have approved of her brother’s choice of words, but Blu’s deep voice scalding the air with profanity was sweet music to her ears—so much so that she began to cry.

Through happy tears, Margo watched Blu lift his dark head and lock gazes with her. A second later he was cussing again. “Bon Dieu, Chili! Get the hell off the pier! Are you nuts?”

His pet nickname for her made Margo cry harder—she and Blu had been so close growing up—so close in age and appearance that they had often been thought to be twins, though he was three years older.

A dark stain had spread over his left thigh, and Margo sucked in her breath, afraid of what it meant. She watched Blu roll to his stomach, his lightning-quick movements settling her worst fear—his wound couldn’t be all that serious if he was able to move so effortlessly.

He swore at her again, this time in French, ordering her to dive into the water. Margo ignored the order. Number one, she hated water and had only learned to swim because Blu had dogged her for an entire summer the year she’d turned twelve. Two, her concern for him wouldn’t allow her to abandon him. She wouldn’t want to live if something happened to him.

She shoved away from the railing and started forward. She was almost there, almost able to reach out and touch him. Almost…

Two shots rang out in rapid succession. The first one whistled past Margo’s ear, the one that followed made no noise at all.

She felt the bullet rip its way into her flesh, the force so intense, so staggering, it knocked her to her knees. The sharp pain stole her breath, then her balance. She swayed into the railing, felt the rough wood scrape hard against her cheek. Her knees finally buckled.

She heard Blu roar in protest, then he was beside her, gripping her arm and hauling her over the lifeless stranger. Still roaring in anger, he pushed her facedown into the sodden deck boards and threw himself on top of her.

Again crude language scorched the sultry night air, followed by, “I’ll fry in hell for this if you die, so don’t! You wouldn’t want to send me to hell, would you, Chili? Keep breathing, ma jolie! Keep breathing, you hear?”

When he eased his weight off her to see if she was, in fact, still breathing, Margo muttered, “A few innocent pictures, my butt. What have you gotten us into? Who’s shooting at us, Blu?”

“That’s it, Chili. Get mad at me if it helps.”

His gaze shifted to the waterfront, and Margo followed her brother’s gaze. Two men were climbing onto the pier, both carrying guns. Big guns. The kind seen in the movies. “Blu…”

“How bad are you hit?”

Margo grimaced as his hand passed over her blood-stained arm just below her shoulder. Ignoring her moan, he tore open her shirtsleeve to get a better look at the damage. “The bullet tore you up some, but the good news is you won’t die.” He flashed her one of his rare smiles, then glanced back to the two men who were advancing on them. “We’re out of time. Come on, Chili.”

Margo glanced at her arm covered in blood. Her stomach rolled, and she briefly closed her eyes. “I’m going to be sick, Blu.”

“Not yet you’re not. I’ll hold your head like when we were kids, but later. Right now we’ve gotta go.”

“Go? Go where?” Margo asked, sure she didn’t want to know—Blu never did anything that didn’t involve a certain amount of risk or skill.

“We’re going swimming.”

“Oh, no! No! Not me.”

“Those guys, ma petite,” he motioned to the duo closing in on them, then shoved something into the back pocket of her jeans, “they aren’t headed this way to ask you for a date.”

“What did you put in my pocket?”

“The key to a treasure map. If I don’t show up in a couple of days, give it to Brodie.”

“What are you saying?”

He leaned over and kissed her. “Just think of this as an adventure you can tell your children about some day.”

There wasn’t time to explore his ridiculous reply; he was already pulling her to her feet. Margo locked her knees like a stubborn donkey. “Blu, I don’t like swimming, and you know how much I hate the river at night. I get my directions turned around and—”

“When we hit the water, swim for the Nightwing.”

“You want me to swim all the way to River Bay?” Margo’s eyes were huge, contemplating the half-mile-long swim to where Blu docked the fastest, most-talked-about cruiser on the river.

“Brodie’s on board,” he explained. “He’s already heard the shots, so he’ll know things have gone to hell. Have him take you somewhere where you can hide out for a few days.”

“I can’t go home?”

“No.” He glanced down at her injured arm. “You need medical attention. I’ve got it,” he said suddenly, “how about hiding out at the old man’s place? No one would think to look for you there. Oui, it’s perfect. He’ll be able to take care of your arm, too. And I’ve changed my mind about the key. If I don’t show up in a couple of days, give the key to him. He’ll take it from there.”

“You’re crazy. I’d never go to him for help. Never! Not if I was penniless, or—”

A shot rang out.

Suddenly Margo was lifted half off her feet as Blu dragged her to the end of the pier. Then, they were jumping—jumping into the murky depths of the Mississippi River while gunshots exploded around them.

“If you’re there, God, get your scrawny backside out here.” Ry craned his neck and scanned the dark alley in the French Quarter. In an attempt to escape the late-night rain, homeless bodies were huddled together on both sides of Pirate’s Alley, their damp, unclean clothes giving off a ripe stench.

No one made an attempt to move or speak when Ry called out once more. Disappointed, he turned to leave, deciding that his snitch, Goddard Reese, had bedded down elsewhere for the night. Two steps into his departure a familiar voice brought him up short. “Just ’cause I ain’t got no address don’t mean I sleep denned up like a pack of rats.”

God stepped from an alcove and into the rain. The minute he vacated the sheltered doorway, two ragged bodies leaped to their feet to crowd into the dry space.

Their intent clear, Goddard pulled his precious piece of cardboard from the doorway and tucked it beneath his arm. “Doan like sharin’, neither,” he grumbled, guarding his dry bed like a selfish child would his favorite toy. “You just get back from Algiers?”

Ry motioned to the dry alcove. “That’s a prime spot. Choice accommodations like that usually require an early stakeout. If that’s the case, and you’ve been here half the day waiting for sour weather, how do you know I’ve been across the river?”

Goddard grinned. “If I tell you all my secrets, Superman, you wouldn’t need me anymore. I’ve grown partial to eatin’ regularly.”

Ry assessed Goddard’s emaciated body. The man wasn’t fifty years old, but his hunched shoulders and white hair easily added twenty years to his appearance. His cheeks were paper thin, his storm-cloud-gray eyes too small for his oversize, sunken sockets. It was true he ate at least once a day—thanks to Ry—still, the best snitch in New Orleans didn’t weigh a hundred pounds.

“Talk is, one of yours ain’t gonna get up with the sun tomorrow, Superman. Anybody I know?”

“You tell me. You’re the one with ears in every corner of the city.” Ry ignored the rain and settled his shoulder against the brick building. He was already soaked to the bone, his jeans hugging his lean hips, his shirt outlining his broad shoulders.

He’d spent the past three hours on DuBay Pier investigating the death of a fellow officer along with a crime lab technician, the coroner, plus a pile of uniformed patrolmen who had no reason to be there beyond curiosity. In the end, what he had was a dead cop with a hellish surprise burned into his eyes on a riddled pier; that and blood in three separate locations which suggested multiple victims. Only, there had been only one body: Mickey Burelly, a rookie cop who had come to the NOPD less than a year ago.

“I heard it was the suit they scraped off the pier,” God said. “That yammerin’ fool who liked to hear himself talk.” The older man scratched at his chest, then dug deep into an armpit. “Guess he won’t be worryin’ about what color tie to wear tomorrow. Bet he wishes he’d’ve been movin’ instead jawin’, too.”

How God knew what he knew always amazed Ry. But the point was, Goddard Reese, one of the many homeless in the French Quarter, had connections in places most people didn’t even know existed. And he was right about Mickey Burelly; the kid did have a fetish for expensive suits, and he did like to jaw, as God put it. Maybe that’s why everyone had ignored him when the kid had started crowing in the locker room yesterday about some big case he was about to crack wide open. Talk, as they say, was cheap. Every cop fantasized about the case, the one that would land him a notable raise, along with a front-page spread in the New Orleans Times-Picayune. The officers at the Eighth District were no different.

Goddard pulled up the collar on his ragged jacket and curled into the brick wall to avoid the rain. “If you ask me, that ain’t the suit’s style—holding a meeting in nasty weather. Hard on those expensive duds.”

“Was that what he was doing, meeting a snitch?” Ry’s ears perked up. As far as he knew, Mickey didn’t have any solid connections on the street. Because he liked to talk too much no one trusted him.

“Don’t know. Nobody I know worked for him. He was too stingy. He wore his money. Guess that didn’t leave him any extra to work with.”

Ry was always interested in Goddard’s gut reaction. Like cops, the homeless who survived the gritty streets of New Orleans did so by their wit and intuition. God had lived in and around the Quarter longer than Ry had been a cop. At age thirty-three, Ry was about to celebrate his tenth year with the NOPD—the last two had been spent in homicide. Valuing God’s street experience, he asked, “So what’s your take on it?”

“Could be turncoat.” God peeled his stocking cap off his narrow head and scratched at the thin strands on top. “Plenty of them around. More likely, some gutless wantin’ a piece of somebody else’s action. Fools everywhere these days. They find out, too late, they don’t have big enough balls, and then you go to work scrapin’ ’um off a lonely pier in the middle of the night.”

Goddard spoke the truth. There was always someone willing to risk it all on a get-rich-quick scheme. But Mickey Burelly? Was there a chance he’d become an unwanted liability? Was he a dirty cop or had he been telling the truth yesterday when he’d been boasting about cracking open the case?

“I need a pair of eyes and ears for a few days.” Ry pointed to the sign overhead. “Feel like sealing the deal with a plate of shrimp and a few beers? The Toucan serves all night.”

“Now you’re talkin’, Superman.” God offered Ry a toothless grin, then ducked back into the alley. Sidestepping the homeless vagrants snoring in each another’s faces, he led the way to the Toucan’s back door.

The hardy aroma of bisque and spicy crawfish teased their palates as the two men stepped inside the lounge. While large fans moved the rich scent into the dark corners of the dining room, the dim lighting and exotic decor set the mood for an evening of some of the best food and entertainment in the French Quarter.

As Goddard scanned the booths along the south wall, he asked in a hushed tone, “We gonna meet tomorrow?”

“You already planning your noon meal?” Ry teased.

The older man looked at Ry and grinned. “Tony’s Thursday special is gumbo. All-you-can-eat gumbo. I like gumbo.”

“All right,” Ry agreed. “See what you can come up with between now and then, and I’ll see you around noon.”

Goddard spotted an empty booth half-hidden by a potted palm, and without any further conversation, shuffled his bird-like legs across the red brick floor.

Ry watched his snitch wedge the cardboard bed into the foot space beneath the table, then sit down on the purple-and-green leather seat. Seconds later, he reached for the menu.

The smell of steamed shrimp stirred his own hunger, but instead of finding his usual table, Ry took stock of his surroundings—more specifically, the small stage where Margo duFray sang five nights out of seven. The stage was dark, and that both surprised and disappointed him.

“Hey, mon ami, it’s Wednesday. You got your days mixed up, no?”

The voice calling to him from behind the bar drew Ry’s attention, and he turned to face the Toucan’s owner. “I know what day it is, Tony.”

“Then you’re workin’, oui?”

“That’s right.”

“Nasty night for it.”

“Is the grill still on?” Ry asked.

“Yeah, sure.” The big black man motioned to Ry’s wet shirt. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you’ve looked better. You oughtta go home and dry out with a bottle of cha-cha. Maybe curl up with somethin’ soft.”

Tony’s suggestion sounded good, at least the drying-out part, but Ry didn’t need or want the distraction of booze or an easy woman. Booze had never been able to do the job it promised where he was concerned, and he had no interest in an easy woman whose name he wouldn’t remember in the morning.

“What’s that partner of yours doing these days?” Tony’s grin fed the mischief in his heavy-lidded chocolate eyes.

“You know damn well what he’s doing,” Ry grumbled. “Not a damn thing.”

“I guess I heard somethin’ about that. Words between him and Chief Blais, somebody said. Suspended for two weeks, right?” Tony’s grin opened up.

Ry shook his head. “You’d think by now Jackson would know to keep his opinions to himself. He’s been suspended three times in the past year.”

“You ain’t turned your back on him, though. The two before you quit the first time Jackson said somethin’ they didn’t like.”

That was understandable. Jackson had a knack for irritating the hell out of people, saying what he damn well pleased any old time he felt like it. But on the other side of that coin was the fact that Jackson was the best damn cop Ry had ever worked with. He was the fastest thinker, the sharpest marksman, and downright ugly mean when it was called for. No, contrary to rumor, Jackson Ward was the man every cop wanted watching his back, whether they knew it or not.

“You hear about the suit? Got himself kilt tonight.”

Ry nodded without answering.

Tony leaned close and whispered. “That’s why you’re here, right? You’re on the case, ain’tcha?”

“Looks like it.” Ry ran a tired hand through his cropped sandy-brown hair, scattering rain drops, then hitched his jeans-clad backside on a barstool. “What’s hot and ready, Tony? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Catfish in ten. Shrimp in five.” Tony nodded toward a booth in the far corner. “Charmaine in two, if’n that look she’s givin’ the back of your head means what I think it do. She could dry you out real fast, mon ami.”

Ry curled his long legs around the metal rungs on the stool and glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was Char running her pink tongue around the rim of her wineglass and watching him with those electric-green eyes that promised trouble. In no mood to baby-sit the judge’s daughter, Ry turned back to Tony. “I’ll take the safe bet, give me the shrimp and a cold beer.”

Tony chuckled, his sharp eyes shifting to where Goddard sat clutching the menu. “You payin’ for God?”

“That’s right. Whatever he wants. As much as he wants,” Ry added.

Tony flagged one of his waitresses to wait on Goddard, then turned to his grill and the shrimp Ry had ordered.

In a matter of minutes the familiar scent of gardenias drifted across the bar. Ry turned his head in time to watch Charmaine Stewart hoist her curvy hip onto the high barstool next to him. She looked as good as always, dressed fit to kill, out spending her daddy’s money on trouble and anything else she could find. “I heard there was a shooting in Algiers tonight,” she purred. “Need an ear? I’m a real good listener.”

Ry dug into his pocket looking for a cigarette, then remembered he was out. Swearing, he said, “Why do shrinks and women always assume talking about your problems solves anything?”

“If you’re not interested in talking, we don’t have to. I’m good at other things, too.”

Ry knew what she was good at—causing grief for her daddy. “I came here to eat, Char. That’s all.”

“Ouch. Aren’t we in a nasty mood tonight?” She smiled, not at all daunted. “Come on, Ry, I’m a sure thing, and I know I could improve your mood. Say yes—” she paused, her frosty lips parting “—say yes, then take me home with you.”

She had one of those refined Southern accents, the kind that easily attracted men. And Char had attracted plenty—the primary reason the judge was taking ulcer medication and seeing a shrink twice a week, Ry determined. “Shouldn’t you be home? Your daddy—”

“Thinks you’re wonderful.” She reached out and ran a manicured finger over the back of his hand where it rested on the bar. “For the first time in just ever, Daddy and I agree on something.” She giggled and leaned close. “You’re our favorite detective, Detective Archard.”

What she said about the judge approving of him was true enough. But Ry also knew there was a simple explanation behind that approval—if Char was seeing a big bad cop, the rest of the men making a nuisance of themselves might think twice. Judge Stewart was a shrewd old Creole. Ry didn’t blame him for scheming to keep his wild, scandal-seeking daughter out of the newspaper. Only, he had no intentions of being her baby-sitter or anything else. They had already settled that months ago.

Char ran her finger further up Ry’s arm. “You look like you’ve lost your dog and best friend all in one night. I can be anything you want, Ry. A lap dog suits me fine. You can stroke me or I’ll stroke you. You name the game and I’m willing to play.”

“You’re wrong, as usual, Char. Tonight all I need is a hot meal and a few extra hours of sleep.”

At Ry’s mention of food, Tony came to the rescue with a plate of shrimp and a tall beer. “There you go, mon ami. Seconds are on the house. Jus’ holler.”

Ry shed Char’s warm touch and picked up the fork next to his plate. He stabbed a plump shrimp, shoved it into his mouth and chewed vigorously. Unwilling to be ignored, she inched closer. “Remember the night I slipped through that hole in your hedge and found you asleep in that big hammock on your veranda? Remember how I woke you? The day’s heat was nothing like what we sparked, and nothing has compared since, I’m not ashamed to say.”

“Remembering that night doesn’t do either of us any good,” Ry drawled, reminded that when she’d arrived that night he’d been deep into one of his favorite dreams, a dream so potent and real that he’d almost made love to Charmaine Stewart thinking she was someone else.

She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “If you’re tired I’ll do all the work. Promise and—” slowly she traced an invisible X across her chest with a hot-pink manicured nail “—cross my heart.”

Ry didn’t doubt Char would be good at her word, she’d had enough practice. His gaze drifted to her full breasts, then lower to the rounded curve of her hips beneath her pink silk T-shirt dress. A man would have to be crazy not to take what she was offering.

He stood, dug two twenties out of his back pocket and laid them on the bar beside his half-eaten food. Out of habit, he glanced toward the stage where the piano sat idle. He still thought it odd Margo wasn’t there. A creature of habit, she was as dependable as she was loyal. The only thing that would make her take a night off was if she was sick.

Ry’s gaze went back to Char. “Want me to call you a cab?”

“I take it that means you’re turning me down again.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re a stubborn man, Detective Archard. But, lucky for you, so am I.”

It was still raining when Ry left the Toucan and turned his green Blazer toward the Garden District, and his thoughts back to the Burelly case. It went without saying he was committed to finding Mickey’s killer. Even though there wasn’t much to go on at the moment, the crime hadn’t been perfect. Along with Mickey’s body, he’d found evidence that someone else, possibly two other people, had been with Mickey at the time of the shooting. A blood trail leading to the end of the pier suggested that they had attempted to escape by jumping into the river.

Would the Harbor Patrol find their bodies in the next few days? Or had their escape been successful? The odds were slim that, wounded and fighting the river’s current at night, a person could survive. That is, unless their wounds weren’t serious and they were good swimmers who knew the area. Ry had learned that a slim chance was better than none. Until he explored every possibility, he would assume there were witnesses out there who could shed some light on his case.

He punched in the cigarette lighter, again recalling Mickey boasting about getting his picture on the front page of the newspaper. Well, he was going to make the front page, all right. Cursing the waste, then reminded that he was out of cigarettes once the lighter popped, Ry gunned the engine and sped past the Lafayette Cemetery. As he turned onto Chestnut Street, the red brick two-story came into view, and he hit the remote and watched the lacy iron gate open.

The rain had diminished to a fine sheeting mist, Ry noted as he killed the engine and climbed out of his Blazer. As he walked toward the rear entrance of the house, he could smell the night-blooming jasmine that grew tight to the veranda. He walked past a towering oak dripping with Spanish moss and strolled up the concrete steps. The iron railing felt warm to the touch—the day’s incessant heat still evident after midnight.

On the veranda Ry passed by the rope hammock, gave it a push, then opened the back door that he never bothered to lock.

Back in Texas the ranch house had always been left open to friends and neighbors, the coffeepot full and hot, along with a radio playing as a form of welcome. When Ry had moved to New Orleans, he had promised himself that once he’d gotten his own home he would keep the same tradition alive. And though no one ever came around much except for Jackson, he’d kept his promise.

Inside, he switched on the light, then pulled his sodden blue shirt from his jeans and tossed it over a chair at the kitchen table. The tape playing softly in the boom box was a blend of flute and guitar, a Native American arrangement that fit his somber mood as well as his Texas roots. He left it on and turned off the automatic coffeemaker and emptied the two inches in the bottom. Efficiently he prepared tomorrow’s brew, reset the timer, then turned the light off and left the kitchen.

A stairway just before the living room led to the second story. Tired, anxious to get some sleep, Ry climbed the steps, loosening his belt to remove his .38 Special from the compact holster tucked into the small of his back. At the top of the stairs, he turned left once more and stepped into the bathroom, his hand finding the wall switch a second later.

“What the hell!”

Ry quickly flipped off the safety of his .38 as he surveyed the room. There was blood in the sink and bloody fingerprints on the mirror. The closet door stood open. A small trail of blood led to the shower.

He eased into the room, checked behind the door, then warily crept to the shower and shoved open the slider. The white marble shower stood empty except for a white towel stained red that lay next to the drain.

Back in the hall, aided by the glow from the bathroom light, Ry took inventory of his surroundings. His closed bedroom door drew his attention and he arched a knowing brow—he never bothered to close doors in his house. Why should he? He lived alone.

The floorboards beneath his boots barely creaked as he took his position outside his bedroom. Then, silently counting to three, going in low and fast, Ry burst into the room.

The door hit the wall with a resounding boom, and in one fluid motion he flicked on the overhead light switch, then did a fast spin-around on his boot heels—his gun-hand outstretched, ready for whatever moved.

The force of the door smacking the wall brought the sleeping beauty lying on his bed awake. She jerked upright, at the same time her eyes went wide—familiar velvet-brown eyes that complemented sleek black hair and a pair of overripe, full lips. Ry’s heart slammed against his chest as he remembered what it felt like to kiss those lips, how he had loved running his fingers through all that thick silky hair. Not wanting to go there, he quickly drove the memory out of his head and focused on the blood-stained towel wrapped around Margo duFray’s arm.

Before he could speak, she said, “This isn’t the usual way to ask a favor, I’m aware of that, Ry, but under the circumstances…” Her words stalled. She rested her back against his mahogany headboard. “I know what you’re thinking. I know I swore I’d never ask anything of you ever again. They say you should never say never, and now I know why.”

She looked beautiful as ever. Her voice a bit shaky, but her chin was up, which meant whatever had happened to her hadn’t gotten the best of her.

“Say something, Ry. You know I was never any good at reading your thoughts. You’ve always been more complicated than yeast. I’m a simple girl, remember? And right now, simple is all I can handle. So answer me, dammit. Have I humbled myself for nothing? You wouldn’t turn me away. Or would you?”

Chapter 2

“What the hell happened, Margo? There’s blood everywhere in the bathroom.”

She had been waiting for him to speak. Now that he had, Margo hardly recognized the man behind the volatile voice. Louder than normal, with a biting edge to it, this was in no way the cool, collected detective she’d known a few years ago.

“Does that black look mean you’re going to turn me out into the street, Detective Archard?”

“Cut the detective crap.” He disengaged his gun, and in four long strides stood next to the bed, his jaw set as hard as granite.

Margo ignored the intimidation and braced herself against the headboard. She didn’t want to reveal the degree of pain she was in—her pride stung enough, having given in to Blu’s suggestion to show up on Ry’s doorstep had taken every ounce of courage she owned.

Somehow she’d made it to the Nightwing after she and Blu had jumped off the pier, but what had happened after that was pretty much a blur. All she remembered was Brodie hauling her into the boat, then swearing crudely the minute he laid eyes on her arm. Seconds later they were on the move, the Nightwing flying across the river to New Orleans as if it had grown wings.

Margo’s gaze drifted over Ry’s handsome face. She had always loved looking at him—appreciated the mix of both hard and soft features sculpted over leather-tough Texas skin. He had the bluest eyes of anyone she knew, and the intensity of those magnetic eyes and his rich smoky drawl were a deadly combination. Never mind that his drawl wasn’t as smoky just now, or his eyes as gentle as they could be.

She flinched as he sat down beside her. “The blood in the bathroom suggests this is more than a scratch, Margo. I need to see what we’re dealing with.”

“Sorry about the mess in your bathroom. I thought I could doctor myself. When I almost passed out, I gave up and went looking for a bed.”

“You were never any good at dealing with blood, especially your own. How did you get here?”

Margo hesitated, not sure what to say.

He looked up. “Margo? Who brought you here?”

“No one,” she lied. “I…I took a cab.” She broke eye contact, feeling uncomfortable under his intense gaze. Absently she studied the generous bedroom decorated in navy and yellow. She’d heard he had moved into a house of his own, but it hadn’t registered just how nice a place until Brodie had delivered her to the two-story Creole cottage in the Garden District. The rumor she’d heard of him selling his share of the family ranch back in Texas must have been true. It would certainly explain the influx of money that would allow him such a beautiful home.

“I’m going to remove the towel now,” he told her.

His tone had softened, reminding Margo of the old days. His touch, too, brought back memories she had worked hard to forget. To someone who knew the history she and Ry shared, it would seem unlikely that she would seek refuge in his home. But Blu’s idea had been ingenious. Well, she hadn’t thought so at first, but later, when she’d had time to consider the few options left open to her, she’d had to agree with her brother. Who would ever think to look for her in the home of one of the most respected homicide detectives in the city of New Orleans?

And they were looking for her. Brodie had pointed to several spotlights combing the river as they fled Algiers.

It had been more than four hours since she’d slipped into Ry’s house like a thief, squeezing through a hole in the hedge Brodie had stumbled on. Once she was standing at the door, supported against the iron railing that wrapped a wide veranda on all sides of his home, she’d urged Brodie to go back to the Nightwing and search for Blu. Of course he hadn’t wanted to leave her, but they both knew Blu needed him at that moment more than she did.

Left alone Margo had taken a deep breath and knocked on Ry’s back door. When he didn’t answer, desperation had forced her to try the door. Relief had rushed through her veins on finding it unlocked, and she’d crept inside like Goldilocks, all wide-eyed and cautious. And then surprised and impressed shortly thereafter—Ry’s home was any woman’s dream come true.

“Why the hell didn’t you say you’d been shot?”

Margo expected a reaction of some kind. She hadn’t been so foolish as to think she could pass a gunshot wound off for anything else but what it was. “That’s very good detective work, Ry. You certainly know your job.”

Her sarcasm wasn’t appreciated. He swore, offered her a black look, then turned his attention back to her arm. She felt him probe the wound, and she sucked in her breath and held it. She wouldn’t moan, she promised herself, and she wouldn’t cry out, either.

“You’re lucky,” he sighed a moment later. “The bullet missed the bone. The excessive bleeding is caused by a flap of skin that needs to be stitched.”

Margo had already gotten a damage report from Brodie. She would have let him patch her up before she got to Ry’s, only, for a big, tough fisherman, Brodie had as weak a stomach as she did when it came to blood.

Ry leaned closer, eyeing the scratch on her cheek. To Margo’s surprise she realized he still used the same unpretentious cologne she had associated with him years ago. Everything was familiar. He still wore his hair short and carefree for ease’s sake. Even his day-old scruffy jaw was typical. She remembered how he used to complain about how much time it took to scrape off his healthy growth of whiskers.

She should hate him, and most days that’s what kept her going—the outrage and the humiliation and the determination to rise above it. Ry had not only crushed her spirit and scarred her heart, but he’d done it in such a manner that she had looked like a naive little fool. Of course he hadn’t wanted a permanent relationship. What had she expected two years ago, marriage? He was older than her by twelve years. What man at age thirty-one would want to marry a nineteen-year-old, starry-eyed girl?

Oh, she hadn’t wanted to believe that she’d been used, or that she’d been that much of a fool. But it was the truth—Ryland Archard had enjoyed the chase and the victory prize in the end, but he had had no intentions of sticking around for anything more—least of all a permanent relationship. She should have recognized the type—after all he was now thirty-three and still single.

Margo wanted to tell him he looked old and haggard. She would like to make a snide comment in reference to a soft belly or a sudden receding hair-line. Only there were no visible signs that he had aged. In fact, Ry Archard, much to Margo’s annoyance, had improved over the past two years much like a superior bottle of Chardonnay.

Then, too, she supposed needling him right now wouldn’t be very smart. She was in his home, asking for his help. If she’d learned anything in her twenty-one years it was when to run, when to stand and fight, and, most important, when to keep her private thoughts private and her mouth shut. Tonight, the third applied without question.

“Come on, I’ll help you up.”

“Up? Why would I want to get up?”

“Because I’m taking you to Charity Hospital.”

Margo’s eyes widened. She had no intention of going to the hospital. Gunshot wounds had to be reported. There would be a dozen questions to answer; a report would be filed. And what if the men chasing Blu were checking out the hospitals?

“No doctor. I won’t go!”

The quicksilver change in his eyes told Margo her hasty words had triggered his suspicion. “Why no doctor, Margo?”

She didn’t answer.

“Come on, baby. Why no doctor?”

Margo cleared her throat, and this time she was careful with her tone, as well as her choice of words. “I hate men in white coats, that’s why. They smell too clean and smile too much when there’s nothing to smile about. I don’t feel like playing twenty questions, either. The man who shot me is long gone by now.”

“Tell me about him.” It wasn’t a request, but a solid demand.

Margo raised her chin. “I didn’t get a good look at him. He wore an oversize hat that hid his face. I shouldn’t have fought with him. I know that now, but when I saw the gun I just reacted. I’ve been walking home every night since I started working at the Toucan. I guess a year without a confrontation made me careless.”

“So you were attacked? Mugged?”

“Yes.” Margo slipped into the lie easily. As often as Blu had schooled her in the art of swimming and fishing, he had lectured her on the value of a failsafe lie. That didn’t mean she enjoyed lying, or that she did it on a regular basis. But she was confident that, in the right situation, she could keep her eyes from blinking and her voice rock steady while she attempted to cheat the truth. “He wanted my purse. Ah…my money.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Near my apartment.”

“One block? Two?”

“Does it matter?”

He raised his thick brows. “You worked tonight, right?”

Margo hesitated. Ry hung out at the Toucan on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. This was Wednesday. Feeling confident, she said, “Yes, I just said so, didn’t I?”

He stared at her a long minute. “So this happened walking home from work around ten?”

“Are you losing your hearing? I just told you that.”

He ignored her smart remark. “So it was ten o’clock when you left work?”

Margo glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Quickly calculating the hours, she said, “I guess so.”

“And you were shot within fifteen minutes of leaving the Toucan? Or was it more like twenty-five? Could it have been forty minutes? Fifty?”

Annoyed by his relentless questions, Margo said, “I didn’t get up, look at my watch and say, oh my, I’ve been mugged at 10:20.”

“Was it 10:20?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “No, I think it was 10:23.”

“Dammit, Margo, this is important!”

“I don’t know the time, all right!” Margo’s voice wasn’t as loud as his, but just as angry.

“Well, then, what the hell do you know?”

“That I’m going to have a headache if you keep badgering me like I’m the criminal here.”

He stood and buried his hands deep in the hip pockets of his jeans. He appeared almost telepathic, Margo thought, as he stared down at her. Did he know something she didn’t? As quickly as she asked herself the question, she reminded herself to stick with her story. Ry couldn’t disprove a word she’d said, not unless he knew for a fact that she’d asked for the night off. And he wouldn’t know that unless he’d questioned Tony, which she was pretty certain he wouldn’t do—Ry was no gentleman, but he had kept their brief affair quiet. The only people who knew about it were her own family members and a few close friends.

“Why didn’t you call Blu? Or Hewitt?”

“Brodie?”

“Come on, Margo. I know you’ve been seeing him.”

Margo didn’t disagree. Let him think whatever he wanted to. She said, “I couldn’t get a hold of either of them.”

“But you tried?”

“Yes, I tried.”

“You really need to move out of that damn neighborhood. It makes no sense you living in that dump and surrounding yourself with those kind of people.”

It made perfect sense to Margo, and because it did, she felt like arguing. “It’s close to work, and ‘those kind’ of people are my kind of people.”

“That’s crap. You have a job, take a bath regularly and don’t sleep with a bottle. I hardly think they’re your kind of people. What you mean is, they’re Blu’s kind of people.”

“The rent’s cheap.” Margo refused to let him win a single round. He had won far too much from her already.

“So the rumors are true, then. You’re giving half of every dime you make to Blu so he can throw it away on that worthless fishing fleet your father left him.”

“The fleet isn’t worthless. How dare you call it that!” Furious, Margo fisted the bed with her good hand, then gritted her teeth as a sharp pain shot into her injured arm. Gasping for air, she said, “The fleet was my daddy’s whole life. And Blu wants it to be his. One day it’ll be back to being the best fleet on the Gulf. It was once, it can be again.”

“Take it easy. You’re going to start bleeding again.”

Margo leaned back and rested her head on the headboard and closed her eyes.

“You should be more concerned with your own life. Your own future, not Blu’s.”

“My life’s perfect.”

“This is perfect?”

Margo opened her eyes. “This could have happened to anyone, anywhere in this city. Where have you been? The crime rate here is double to anywhere else, maybe triple. Now, are you going to sew me up or not?”

He made a rude snort, then crossed his arms over his bare chest. “That’s the favor? Stitch you up?”

“I haven’t asked anything of you. Nothing since…” The words lodged in Margo’s throat. She tried again. “This isn’t a whole lot worse than the time I got that fishhook in my leg. You cut the hook out and sewed me up, remember? Good as new, is what Mama said when she inspected the job you’d done. Don’t pretend you can’t sew me back together because I know different.”

A long minute ticked by.

Margo jerked her chin up a notch higher. “Fix my arm good as new, old man. You owe me that much. And by most standards, I’d say you’re getting off cheap.”

He flinched at her none-too-subtle reference to the past, then promptly got mad. “This isn’t some damn fishhook accident. Hell, you’ve been shot! Damn lucky to be alive by the looks of it! Another inch or two and—”

“When did you take up shouting?”

“What?”

“I thought you hated irrational behavior. Doesn’t shouting and ranting fall into that category?”

“I never rant!”

“Never say never,” Margo taunted. “Tonight I had to eat that word.”

“You could have died!”

“If that’s true, and you care even a smidgen, I’d think you would be willing to help me out.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“No,” Margo argued, “the point is, you owe me and I’m here to collect. Now are you going to be a bastard and deny me, or sew me up so I don’t bleed all over this expensive comforter?”

He didn’t move.

Loath to be reduced to pleading, Margo forced herself. “Ry, please. I don’t have anywhere else to go. If I go to Mama’s, she’ll fly into a panic and start crying and praying both at the same time. She has high blood pressure now, and…” She could see he was weakening. “I suppose I could pay to have it stitched up on the street. I never thought about that, and I know this guy on the waterfront who—”

“The hell you will!” He raked both hands through his hair.

Margo curiously watched him start to pace back and forth at the foot of the massive bed. She had always admired Ry’s ability to remain calm even in a crisis. Now she wondered what could have happened in the past two years to have changed that. This was not the same overconfident, almost cocky cop she’d known two years ago. No, this new up-tight version appeared to be more human, even a bit vulnerable. And damn him, more likeable than the old version—that is, if she didn’t hate him so much.

She held her breath, watched him wear out the thick rug. Suddenly he stopped pacing and faced her. “It’s going to hurt like a son of a—”

“Forewarned is—”

“Not worth a damn if it doesn’t change the fact. In this case, it won’t. You need a local anesthetic.”

“I won’t whine and call you names, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Margo promised.

“If I do this, I’m going to expect a detailed account of what really happened.” His eyes drilled her. “What really happened, Margo? Not some damn story about a mugger in a hat bigger than his head.”

“It’s the truth,” she insisted.

He strode to the door, then turned back. “Do I look stupid?”

No, he didn’t look stupid. He looked big and strong, and dammit, as handsome as ever. Margo hated to admit that one very disturbing fact, but he was Texas tough and remarkably well built, and…

Margo’s gaze slid down his impressive bare chest. Further. Never one to mince words, she said, “No, Ry, you don’t look stupid. You look painfully uncomfortable. Do I still affect you, then?”

Her blunt assessment of his aroused condition was met with a frustrated, crude one-liner. Then he was gone.

Feeling a little better, now that she’d definitely won round one, Margo slumped against the headboard. Moments later she heard cupboard doors banging across the hall, followed by several colorful adjectives. He was angry, there was no question about that, but not so much so that he wouldn’t help her, and that’s all that mattered at the moment.

As his tirade faded, Margo sighed then closed her eyes. The soft patter of rain outside the second-story window became too obvious to ignore, and she soon began to listen to its hypnotic rhythm. Unlike her neighborhood, Ry’s was incredibly quiet. The tall hedge outside reminded her of a live castle wall with the power to shield and protect. There was no street noise, no glaring lights. Only an enormous amount of peace and quite.

Margo opened her eyes and glanced around the room. The dark navy color complemented the lemon-yellow in a way she hadn’t expected. Blending a feminine elegance with a masculine touch was perfect for a master bedroom.

It was nothing like what she’d grown up with. Her life had been all about secondhand clothes and cramped space. Glancing at the door, making sure there was no one to witness her weakness, Margo ran her hand slowly over the richness of the expensive, fat navy-blue comforter.

Again she closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of the supersoft fabric. Guilt followed quickly, and, feeling a bit ridiculous for enjoying the finer things in life, especially at a time like this, she quickly turned her thoughts to Blu. Eyes still closed, she whispered, “Where are you? Did Brodie find you? Will you come for me tonight or in the morning?”

The dark pier flashed in her mind’s eye. Margo heard the gunfire, and suddenly she could no longer hold back the tears. A man had died tonight. Blu was wounded and missing. She worried that his thigh injury was more serious than he’d led her to believe, that the gunfire that had followed them into the water had hit its mark once more. Blu had abandoned her so quickly once they’d plunged into the water that she hadn’t had a chance to say anything to him. She’d heard a huge splash after he’d pointed her in the direction of the Nightwing, then more rapid gunfire.

It was almost as if he had purposely attracted the gunman’s attention to give her time to get away. God, if that was true, what had it cost him?

Margo had just finished wiping the evidence of her tears from her cheeks when Ry stepped back into the room carrying a bowl of steaming water, with a towel tossed over his bare shoulder. A threaded needle rode between his straight, white teeth. She glanced at the bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm and promptly asked, “Are you going to get me drunk?”

He placed the bowl of water next to the amber lamp on the nightstand, then set the bottle of whiskey and threaded needle next to it. “You drunk and my fingers oiled.” He eased his weight down on the bed beside her. “We’re going to have to get your shirt off. How do you want to do it?”

Their intimate past made a mockery of his question. Yet the thought of losing her shirt, exposing herself to a man who had made a fool out of her two years ago, made Margo feel insecure in both her body and her intelligence.

“Margo? Did you hear me?”

“I heard you, Ry, and I imagine one arm at a time makes the best sense. That is, unless you want to show me some new trick you’ve learned with your boot knife.”

“That smart mouth of yours is wearing thin, baby. It wouldn’t take much to change my mind and make a phone call to Charity Hospital. Don’t push me.”

The hospital threat was sobering. Margo realized Ry was wearing his mood about as close to the cuff as she was. She clamped her mouth shut and reached for the first button on her ruined denim shirt. The movement cost her. A sharp pain shot down her injured arm, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She forced the first button through its hole, but the second one, much to her disgust, turned stubborn. After the third try, Ry brushed her hand aside. “I’ll do it.”

He unbuttoned the last three buttons quickly, his blunt-tipped fingers grazing her bare skin only briefly as he eased the fabric off her shoulder and down her injured arm. With gentle care he slid his free arm around her waist and drew her away from the headboard. As she rested against his solid chest, he whispered, “Easy, now. Let’s take this real slow.”

His warm breath teased Margo’s ear, and suddenly all the pain and humiliation from the past came rushing back, along with an overwhelming amount of longing. She sucked in her breath at the same time a surge of poignant heat spread swiftly throughout her body. She knew it was normal to have some kind of reaction. After all, Ry had made her a woman, he’d been her teacher, her mentor—the man she had let strip her bare in body and soul.

But she’d also expected her anger would sustain her, that her pride would protect her. Now she realized it was too soon. Coming here, being this close to him, was the worst thing she could have done. It had been the mother of all dreadful mistakes, she realized, because as much as she wanted to deny it, the sudden desire she felt for this man was clearly branding her twice the fool. The feelings she’d desperately prayed would die were very much alive—a little tarnished and bruised, but still alive.

The rotten, disgusting truth was she was still vulnerable—vulnerable to his good looks, his voice, the musky scent of his skin. Every damn thing she had tried so hard to hate.

It was such a shock—like the resurrection of an old ghost—that Margo tried to pull free, refusing to be tortured and humiliated a minute longer.

“Margo?” Ry’s arms loosened, but he didn’t release her.

“I’m right here, Ry.” Margo returned from her walk down memory lane, the sour taste in her mouth burning her throat and making her voice sound raw and husky. “I felt a little dizzy for a moment, is all. You can let go now.”

“Not if you’re dizzy. I can hold you a little longer, if that’s what you need.”

What she needed was for Blu and Brodie to suddenly appear and tell her this entire night was all a mistake. That the stranger on the pier was alive and that none of tonight was real.

He eased her back against the headboard, then tossed her ruined shirt to the floor. When she saw his eyes stray to her chest and the bloodstains covering her white satin bra, she said, “The least you could do is be subtle, Detective Archard. Ogling a woman when she’s in need of help borders on disgusting.”

He shrugged off her words and reached out to trace her bruised rib cage, then locked eyes with her again. “How did that happen?”

The injury to her ribs could be easily explained, but detailing how Blu had slammed her to the pier in order to keep her alive was out of the question. Margo brushed his hand away. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t bruise easy, Margo. I know that for a fact.”

“I must have fallen.”

“Must have?” When she didn’t answer him further, he stood and strolled to the closet where he retrieved a clean shirt. As he came back to her, he said, “Do you want your jeans off before I get you drunk? I think it might be more comfortable sleeping in one of my shirts once you pass out.” Without hesitation, he ripped the sleeves out of his shirt to accommodate her injured arm, not to mention the heat outside.

“Pass out?” Margo lifted one dramatic black eyebrow. “From the whiskey or the pain you’re going to inflict on me with that needle?” She gave the needle a wary glance. “It looks awfully big Couldn’t you have found something a little smaller?” She looked back and saw him smiling. It was the first time since he’d burst into the room wielding his gun that he’d allowed himself to relax.

“Second thoughts, baby?”

He was waiting for her to turn chicken, she decided. Feeling the need to win another round, she popped the snap on her jeans and slid the zipper down. She could feel his eyes hot on her, feel her own body feed off those damn unrelenting memories.

Determined to get through tonight no matter what, she asked, “You haven’t acquired any kinky fixations I should know about before I pass out, have you, Detective Archard?”

Chapter 3

She had deliberately lied to him.

Oh, she hadn’t lied about everything, Ry reasoned. She’d been shot, all right. But how and where still had to be determined. It certainly hadn’t happened on her way home from the Toucan.

And the story she’d concocted about a mugger was no doubt a lie, as well. He’d seen plenty of gunshot wounds, and the bullet that had grazed Margo’s arm hadn’t come from a handgun a mugger would have pulled quickly and fired at point-blank range. No, Margo’s wound had come from a larger caliber weapon, fired from a distance; he’d say at least thirty yards, give or take a foot or two.

That ruled out a face-off near her apartment. And to confirm that, no one had reported a disturbance—he’d called and checked after she’d fallen asleep. Then there was the lie about work. She hadn’t been at the Toucan; he knew that to be true because he’d been there.

Ry’s gaze slowly drifted over Margo asleep in his bed, her pale face pillowed in navy-blue satin. Where had she been tonight? It had been fairly quiet in the city, as quiet as it could be for New Orleans. But it hadn’t been nearly as quiet across the river in Algiers.

The minute the thought entered his mind, Ry shook it off. No, Margo couldn’t be mixed up in the shooting on DuBay Pier. But even as he dismissed the idea, he remembered how he’d found the crime scene—the way DuBay Pier had been riddled into sawdust by a high-powered gun, and his gut twisted a little tighter. Was it a coincidence that the pier wasn’t far from the duFray Fish Market, owned and operated by Margo’s mother? Or that Blu’s fishing fleet was docked less then a mile away at River Bay?

Ry mulled over a dozen possibilities, then cursed out loud. So what if Mickey Burelly had stumbled onto the case of the century? And what if that case had involved Blu duFray?

Goddard had mentioned a turncoat, or someone possibly looking to make a fast buck. Everyone who knew Blu knew his financial situation. It wasn’t news that the duFray Devils were struggling, doomed to go under at any moment. The repair bills alone on the aging boats were staggering. Knowing the way Margo felt about her brother, all Blu needed to do was give her a sad song and dance and her damn duFray loyalty would rise to the occasion.

Ry honestly believed Margo would risk her life for her brother if she found it necessary.

Had it been necessary tonight?

“Dammit!” Ry focused on Margo’s proud, beautiful face. She had been a curious teenager when he’d first laid eyes on her, and so beautiful it had hurt just to look at her. They had met by accident. He’d come upon her and an overeager boyfriend one night behind her parents’ fish market—the boy testing his right to more than simply her company at the movies.

Ry had played the big bad cop that night. He’d chased the kid off, and promptly been swept away by the faultless beauty left standing in front of him all wide-eyed and obviously impressed by his white-knight antics. It had fed his ego—her admiration—and so it had begun, an older man’s obsession with a teenager twelve years his junior.

For the next three years Ry had kept his distance, though he did see Margo from time to time at the duFray Fish Market helping out her mother. It had all started out so innocently, so he had wanted to believe. Only he knew it had never been innocent—from day one, he’d wanted her.

The night her father died, Ry found her weeping in the alley behind the fish market. He’d wanted to console her. He didn’t even remember what he’d said, but suddenly she was in his arms, clinging to him as if he were her lifeline. And like a hungry old fox, he’d reveled in the fact that he had a legitimate reason to touch her and feel her body against his. She was jailbait; she’d just lost her father, dammit. What kind of bastard did that make him?

The guilt had driven him crazy, then it had driven him into the arms of another woman. He’d wanted Margo out of his head and out of his dreams; any woman would do as long as she made him forget his fantasy.

A year later he’d pulled over a carload of young people—the driver obviously intoxicated. He had motioned to the young man to get out of the car. When he did, Ry caught a glimpse of a shiny black head in the back seat. When he saw it was Margo something inside him snapped. He’d hauled her out of the car and into the squad so fast, the group of young people had fallen dead quiet.

On the way home she’d pleaded with him to let her out of the car. She hadn’t been drinking, she promised, not at all—she wasn’t going to go to jail, was she? He knew she hadn’t been drinking, and he told her he was just taking her home. Relieved that he believed her, that she wasn’t going to end up in jail, she’d leaned over and kissed his cheek. It had happened so fast, but just as fast he had pulled to the side of the rode and dragged her across the seat and kissed her the way he had always dreamed of kissing her. The next thing he knew, she was in his lap wrapping her arms around his neck offering him her hungry little mouth.

He’d done the math quickly. She was nineteen, no longer jailbait—no longer off-limits. And she was kissing him like she knew what she was doing.

He’d lost control after that, and before he had taken her home, they had stopped off at his apartment.

It had been the beginning of the end for them. A short month of heaven, and then hell had arrived in town and ripped their lives to shreds.

Ry’s gaze locked on Margo’s jeans where he’d tossed them to the foot of the bed. Immediately his body reacted to the memory of undressing her, stripping her long legs bare, exposing her slender thighs. If he was a man who believed in fate and happy-ever-after, he’d say Margo’s sudden appearance in his bed after two long years meant something.

Swearing softly, Ry walked to the window that overlooked the backyard. It had stopped raining, the night air as heavy as a flannel blanket and twice as warm. He closed his eyes, tried to chase the sight of Margo’s lithe body out of his head, but it was no use. Content to simply suffer, he relived each agonizing minute of easing her jeans down her narrow hips, then moved on to his fingertips brushing her satin panties, grazing her tanned, flat belly. And like he’d been doing for the past two years, he relived his own body going through its tortured ritual each and every time he allowed himself the pleasure of remembering how unbelievable that one incredible month with her had been.

The sound of her mumbling the word cold jerked Ry back to the present. Feeling the effects of the weather as well as his own physical frustration, he couldn’t imagine how Margo could be cold. Nonetheless, a sheen of perspiration covering his bare chest, he left the room and found a blanket in the hall closet. On his return, he spread the covering gently over her, then left the room again.

While he paced the hall, he went over everything she’d told him. He played back phrases she’d used, dallied with the what-if game and ten minutes later he was back inside, shedding his boots and socks, prepared to spend a sleepless night in the stuffed chair he’d pulled close to the bed.

Halfway through the night she started to babble incoherent phrases. Ry reached out and felt her forehead, expecting to find her burning up with a fever. To his surprise and relief, she was cool. When the babbling continued, he pulled the nightstand drawer open and flipped the switch on a sophisticated three-inch recorder. When she began to thrash and fight the visions haunting her mind’s eye, he leaned forward and placed his hand on her cheek. “Easy, baby. You’re safe with me.”

Still caught up in whatever it was, torturing the dark recesses of her mind, she cried out Blu’s name. And there it was. Ry’s greatest fear had just been realized—whatever dirty business Margo had fallen into tonight had been prompted by her brother—and he figured that could involve damn near anything, knowing Blu the way he did.

Ry dozed off an hour later, something he had fought hard against. How long he was out, he didn’t know. The sound of water running in the bathroom jarred him awake, and he slammed himself upright, his gaze locking immediately on the bed. When he found it empty, he jumped to his feet and headed for the open door.

The sight of Margo weaving slowly back into the room hauled him up short. “You should have kicked me awake if you needed something,” he growled, then hurried toward her.

She didn’t say anything, just stood there with her right arm drawn close to her side, her face ghostly pale. Afraid she would fall, he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to bed. As he carefully laid her down on the soft mattress, he scolded, “No more getting up without my help. You could have fallen, dammit. If you break open those stitches, I’m taking you to the hospital whether you like it or not.”

“You can try,” she muttered, her voice half-strength.

He pulled the covers to her chin. “You still cold?”

“Cold?”

“You’ve been talking in your sleep.” Ry noticed his words gave her pause. “What’s the matter, Margo, you afraid you said something you shouldn’t have?”

“No,” she insisted.

Ry didn’t press the issue, though he damn well wanted to. He would get the truth out of her. That was his job, and he was damn good at it. “Go back to sleep, baby. You need to rest.”

She nodded, tried to get comfortable and winced in the process.

“I almost forgot, I’ve got some pills. I’ll get you a couple.” He started for the door, surprised that he had forgotten about the sleeping pill in the medicine cabinet.

“No pills.”

Her objection stopped him and he turned around. “They won’t hurt you. They’ll just take the edge off,” he promised, knowing that the prescription was potent as hell. A life saver when you needed to forget for a time and let sleep rescue you from your pain—pain of any kind; the pill didn’t discriminate.

“I don’t take pills.”

“More whiskey, then?”

“So I can do more talking in my sleep?” There was accusation in her tone, in her beautiful brown eyes.

He strolled back to the bed. “Afraid you’ll share your darkest secret with me? Afraid you’ll confess you still love me?” The comment was ridiculous of course, but Ry had always hoped she still cared for him, that even after he’d played the bad guy, he hadn’t destroyed everything they’d shared.

“I never loved you,” she insisted. “I only thought I did. I guess that’s what you get for robbing the cradle, Detective Archard—a girl too young to know her own mind.”

“Did a shrink convince you of that?”

“A shrink?” She frowned. “Why would I need to go to a shrink?”

Ry passed off her question with a shrug, then sat on the chair. “I thought it was the thing to do these days. Everyone has a shrink, right?”

“For what it’s worth, I think there are far too many shrinks out there advocating whining these days. They always say something stupid like, talk it out and you’ll feel better. What they should be saying is, you’re not the only one in misery’s boat, so shut up and paddle through it.”

Ry grinned, reminded of how refreshing he had always found Margo’s honest assessment about anything she had an opinion on. “Go back to sleep, and next time you need to use the bathroom, wake me up so I can help you.”

“So you can watch?”

Enjoying her sudden spunk, he teased, “A perk for rescuing you? I like the way you think, baby.”

She eyed him without saying a word.

“Come on, Margo, backing down so soon?”

“We both know the truth about you, Detective Archard.”

“And just what truth do you think we know?”

She hesitated only a few seconds before saying, “You taught me how to kiss dirty, old man? I was barely eighteen that first time.”

She knew she’d been legal. But Ry had to agree she’d still been too young for a jaded cop who kept a .38 Special in the bread saver in the kitchen. But just for the record, he said, “You know you were nineteen plus.”

She closed her eyes and muttered, “How long?”

“How long, what?”

“I met you when I was fifteen. How long had you wanted me?”

The question was unexpected. But she was right to imply it had been an on-going problem for years. He’d been crazy to have her, so crazy that when he had finally gotten her into his apartment that first time, he’d been a man on a single-minded mission. He wasn’t proud of the fact that he had ached to have her, that he’d made love to her virgin body three times the first night before he’d come up for air. Back then his ego had been the size of his libido, full-blown and hungry to be stroked. And when she had met him more than halfway, nothing could have stopped him from climbing inside her except her objection. But that hadn’t happened because she had confessed that night she had wanted him with the same crazy intensity.

But it hadn’t been just her body that had held him prisoner, though he knew that’s how it had looked at the time. Honestly, he’d fallen in love with the entire package; from her sexy smile to the way she combed her hair. He’d loved it all—her voice, her walk, the way she brushed her teeth.

And he had known from the beginning, and at the end, that his life had been made better by knowing her. That’s why walking away had damn near killed him.

“That long, huh.”

“Margo—” Ry paused “—maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“You’re probably right. I’m with Brodie now and you’re with…some blonde, I imagine. I read in Cosmopolitan that 75 percent of today’s men have a blonde in their bed, one at the office and keep a spare in the trunk of their car.”

“Margo—”

“Go away and let me sleep,” she insisted, turning her head away from him and closing her eyes.

The next time Margo opened her eyes, the sun was shining through the long narrow windows draped in sheer panels of pale yellow. She blinked out of her sound sleep, her gaze going straight to the occupied chair, a big, round, tufted half-circle in a yellow paisley on navy-blue.

“Good morning.”

Margo moaned and slowly pulled herself upward to lean against the headboard. Her head spun, her arm throbbed. She screwed up her face. “It feels like a dozen marbles are rolling around in my head.”

“And your arm?”

“Like you cut it off with a razor blade.”

“That’s what happens when you get yourself shot, then drink whiskey like a fish in a drought.”

“And this is something I volunteered for, right?” Margo leaned her head against the headboard and closed her eyes.

“I’m not going to apologize for the booze. It got you through the night.”

Margo opened her eyes, then her mouth, to offer a witty comeback. Thinking better of it, she fell silent and averted her eyes. She had already taken a quick inventory, noting that Ry was no longer bare above the waist. He looked refreshed and put together—no doubt he’d showered while she slept. He’d shaved, too. His clothes were a simple gray T-shirt and scruffy jeans. The rugged look suited him right down to his brown, street-scuffed Texas boots.

“I drank too much, too,” he admitted. “I need some head pills. You, too, by the sounds of it.”

Margo turned in time to see him grip the back of his neck and vigorously massage it. “I don’t want any of your pills, thank you.”

He stopped rubbing his neck and looked at her. “I’ve been shot before. The day after is the worst. Trust me, you need—”

“Trust you?” Margo sniffed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I wouldn’t trust you with my library card.”

“What was that last night, then? I seem to remember you trusting me with a needle and thread. Drunk, no less.”

“You were the only cop that owed me a favor,” Margo reasoned. “I didn’t want to worry Mama. I told you that.”

He relaxed back in the chair and crossed his leg over his knee. “Still as stubborn as ever. Your mama always—”

“Complained about that flaw. Yes, I know. But where does she think I got it? She’s twice as stubborn as my father ever was. And Blu… Well, he isn’t exactly a docile kitten, now, is he?”

It had been a slip of the tongue to mention Blu. Margo saw Ry’s jaw jerk, and she decided that his opinion of her brother hadn’t changed. Ry still thought Blu was irresponsible and selfish. What he didn’t know was that Blu thought much the same thing about him.

“Speaking of the Blu Devil, have you seen him lately?”

Margo shook her head. “No, not for a few days.”

“He still docked at River Bay, living on the Nightwing?”

“You know he is, Ry. You were there a few weeks ago harassing him about some nonsense.”

“I was just doing my job, Margo.”

“I might be young, but I’m not stupid. You’re a homicide detective, remember? You don’t investigate assault charges.”

“Okay, so I volunteered for that one. Blu’s temper being what it is, most of the guys down at the precinct would prefer tangling with a copperbelly.”

Margo brushed the covers aside and slid her long, bare legs over the side of the bed. “I would really like to stay and chat about my brother’s faults with you, but I don’t have time. Would you mind getting my clothes for me?”

“You think you’re leaving?”

“I don’t think I’m leaving, I know I’m leaving.”

Last night Margo had made a decision to head back to the Nightwing if Blu hadn’t rescued her from Ry’s home first thing in the morning. Yes, this was the perfect place to hide—that is, if she could keep her mind off the past. But she’d been trying and it wasn’t working. Staying here would be emotional suicide.

She saw Ry’s stubborn jaw lock. “Well, you didn’t think I was going to stay, did you?”

“Actually, I did. Most people take a few days to recuperate after being shot.”

“And I will.”

He stood. “You’ve got nine stitches in your arm. You live alone. Who’s going to look out for you?”

“Brodie.”

“But you can’t reach him.”

“I haven’t tried yet today,” Margo argued. “Now, I’m grateful for your doctoring skills, Ry. If I forgot to mention that, it was an oversight. But now I have to go. I’ll call a cab, and—”

“Forget it. You’re not leaving.”

Margo inched her backside to the edge of the bed and stood. She didn’t feel the best, but well enough to make it out the door. She hoped. “You can’t keep me here against my will, Ry.”

“Can’t I? Look at you, you can hardly stand up straight. And since no one knows you’re here I control the situation. The way I see it, you’re a gunshot victim. A criminal is still at large. It’s my duty to protect you.”

“This is ridiculous. Do you think I won’t be missed? If I don’t show up for work tonight, or at least call, Tony will send someone out to look for me. I have friends and family who really care about me, you know. You can’t just lock me up and think no one will notice.” Margo circled back to the crux of the matter. “Keeping someone against their will is called kidnapping, Detective Archard, and that’s illegal.”

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. “Right now the best thing for you is plenty of bedrest.”

Margo’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare chain me to this bed like a dog, Ry. You wouldn’t dare!”

“If you don’t think so, then you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

Margo eyed the portable phone on the nightstand. “I have a job. If I don’t show up for work, Tony will fire me. He’s already…” She snapped her mouth shut, aware she was about to mention how unhappy he had been when she’d called and asked him for last night off.

“Tony’s already what?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re Tony’s meal ticket. He’s not going to fire you, not after the increase in business you’ve given him over the past year. You’re the best thing that’s happened to the Toucan, and everyone knows it. I’ll have someone call and explain you’re sick.”

Margo wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “There is no reason I can’t work tonight.”

“I’ve seen you perform, baby. Your act includes playing the piano. Damn hard one-handed. Not impossible but…” He rattled the cuffs. “Back in bed, or be prepared for what happens next.”

He couldn’t do this to her. Furious, Margo shook her head. “No!”

“The cuffs or a promise to stay inside my house until I get back. That’s the deal, Margo. Choose.”

Again Margo eyed the phone, considering her options. Fine, she’d do as he said, and then once he left she would be on her way one way or another. She eased down on the bed and swung her legs back on the mattress. “I hate you.”

“Say it. Swear to me you won’t leave.”

“You’re a jerk, a creep and a sadistic—”

“Swear on your father’s grave.” He rattled the cuffs.

“I swear, okay!”

Satisfied, he stuffed the cuffs back in his pocket. “Hungry?”

“For a piece of your liver,” Margo spat.

“Seriously, you need to eat something. What can I fix you?”

“You’re going to cook for me? You can’t cook, remember?”

“I’ve learned. At least I can get by until you can cook for me,” he taunted. “How does that sound?”

Margo didn’t bother to remind him she wasn’t going to be around long enough for that. She simply sneered back with a honey-coated grin and said, “Do you have arsenic in the house?”

He chuckled. “No, but I have eggs and shrimp. Still like shrimp for breakfast?”

The question and the memory it manifested had Margo biting the inside of her cheek. The pain reminded her of how dangerous it was to reminisce, as well as how vulnerable it made her feel.

“With shallots and chives?” He added, twisting the knife a little deeper.

“Cook what you want,” she snapped. “Start the kitchen on fire for all I care. Better yet, how about yourself?” Margo squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to tune him out. Suddenly she caught the scent of him, felt his hand on her forehead. Her eyes popped open. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t have a fever.”

When his hand left her forehead, he shoved it into his back pocket and pulled out a key. A twinge of panic knotted Margo’s stomach. My God, she’d forgotten all about Blu’s key.

“Recognize this?”

Margo clamped her mouth shut.

“Of course you do, it came from your pocket.” He was no longer grinning, his blue eyes razor sharp as he held Blu’s key up so she could see it clearly. “After breakfast we’ll discuss what it unlocks.”

He slipped the key back into his pocket, then reached for the portable phone on the nightstand and pocketed that, too. On his way out the door, he said, “I almost forgot. There’s a tape recorder in the drawer next to you. While you’re waiting for breakfast why don’t you listen to it?”

“I don’t feel much like listening to music,” Margo sniffed.

“It’s not music, but it’s just as entertaining. You don’t sound like yourself, but you were in a lot of pain last night. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much the pain as the whiskey talking, you think?”

He walked out of the room then, leaving Margo to wonder if the liquor he’d poured down her throat, had, in fact, done the dirty deed and loosened her tongue. And if that was the case, just what had she told Detective Archard that she shouldn’t have?

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