The Honourable Maverick

The Honourable Maverick
Alison Roberts

The Honourable Maverick

Alison Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#u20e70ed4-3226-542d-a0c5-ce37b0464484)

Title Page (#ua3aec991-c34f-51eb-853a-644cc7439c8b)

Dear Reader (#u3c904fb8-6a43-564e-90c8-87b1741fefd5)

Chapter One (#ud4daa840-9242-55c0-8d41-9cb1b11bdb13)

Chapter Two (#u913c097d-6c86-55ea-be01-7f22d84ed677)

Chapter Three (#ubac3ce17-0fbe-5331-8cb4-4608bd750f79)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader

OK. Personal confession time, here :-)

I’m one of those women who find certain tough, leather-clad men who ride powerful motorbikes irresistibly sexy.

Can this image be improved on?

I thought so. What if these men are also fabulously good-looking, highly intelligent, and capable of putting their lives on the line for the people they love?

For each other.

For children.

For their women.

These are my ‘bad boys’. Max, Rick and Jet. Bonded by a shared tragedy in the past, but not barred from a future filled with love.

Enjoy.

I certainly did :-)

With love

Alison

CHAPTER ONE

THE three men stood in close proximity.

Tall. Dark. Silent.

Clad in uniform black leather, motorbike helmets dangled from one hand. They each held an icy, uncapped bottle of lager in the other hand.

Moving as one, they raised the bottles and touched them together, the dull clink of glass a sombre note.

Speaking as one, their voices were equally sombre.

‘To Matt,’ was all they said.

They drank. A long swallow of amber liquid. Long and slow enough for each of them to reflect on the member of their group no longer with them. Cherished memories strengthened by this annual ritual but there was an added poignancy this year.

A whole decade had passed.

Two decades since the small band of gifted but under-challenged boys boarding at Greystones Grammar school had been labelled as ‘bad’.

The label had stuck even as the four of them had blitzed their way to achieving the top four places in the graduation year of their medical schooling.

But now there were only three ‘bad boys’ and the link between them had been tempered by the fires of hell.

Minimally depleted bottles were lowered but the silence continued. A tribute as reverent as could be offered to anything that earned the respect of these men.

The sharp knock at the door was inexcusably intrusive and more than one of the men muttered a low oath. They ignored the interruption but it came again, more urgently this time, and it was accompanied by a voice.

A female voice. A frightened one.

‘Sarah? Are you home? Oh, God…you have to be home. Open the door…Please…’