Beneath The Silk

Beneath The Silk
Wendy Rosnau

HE COULD GO HEAD TO HEAD WITH THE DEVILBut fortunately that wasn't going to be necessary. Because detective Jackson Ward, the New Orleans P.D.'s loose cannon - otherwise known as the chief's biggest pain in the butt this side of the Cabildo - was suddenly reassigned. To his home territory in Chicago. To clear the name of the chief's daughter in a murder mess so many layers deep that only someone connected could be trusted with the job .When Sunni Blais was implicated in a mob-related murder, even she knew she needed some help, pronto. But how could it possibly come from the drop-dead gorgeous hunk who'd been dogging her every move since last week? Clearly, she was his target. The question was what would he do with her once he had her?

His eyes fastened on Sunni’s cleavage…

then her face. Grinning, Jackson said, “It’s a pleasure seeing you. I look forward to next time.”

Sunni was outraged. And dangerous or not, this man needed to know she wasn’t going to go down easy. He also needed to know there was more beneath her red silk dress than a memorable set of bubbles. She had long legs that could run a six-minute mile. And she was no slouch on the firing range with her .22 automatic.

Chin raised, Sunni corrected, “You mean meeting me, don’t you…Jackson?”

Undaunted by her challenge, his grin opened up. “Yes. That, too.”

Dear Reader,

The warm weather is upon us, and things are heating up to match here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. Candace Camp returns to A LITTLE TOWN IN TEXAS with Smooth-Talking Texan, featuring another of her fabulous Western heroes. Town sheriff Quinn Sutton is one irresistible guy—as attorney Lisa Mendoza is about to learn.

We’re now halfway through ROMANCING THE CROWN, our suspenseful royal continuity. In Valerie Parv’s Royal Spy, a courtship of convenience quickly becomes the real thing—but is either the commoner or the princess what they seem? Marie Ferrarella begins THE BACHELORS OF BLAIR MEMORIAL with In Graywolf’s Hands, featuring a Native American doctor and the FBI agent who ends up falling for him. Linda Winstead Jones is back with In Bed With Boone, a thrillingly romantic kidnapping story—of course with a happy ending. Then go Beneath the Silk with author Wendy Rosnau, whose newest is sensuous and suspenseful, and completely enthralling. Finally, welcome brand-new author Catherine Mann. Wedding at White Sands is her first book, but we’ve already got more—including an exciting trilogy—lined up from this talented newcomer.

Enjoy all six of this month’s offerings, then come back next month for even more excitement as Intimate Moments continues to present some of the best romance reading you’ll find anywhere.

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Beneath the Silk

Wendy Rosnau

WENDY ROSNAU

resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband and their two children. A former hairdresser, she now divides her time between her family-owned bookstore and gift shop, and writing romantic suspense.

Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. Her third book, The Right Side of the Law, was a Romantic Times Top Pick.

Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.wendyrosnau.com. E-mail her at cattales@brainerd.net. Or write to her at P.O. Box 441, Brainerd, Minnesota 56401.

To Tyler,

Our hearts know the truth, and in that we are made stronger.

Walk in truth, surrounded by the light, my son, and know you are never alone.

I love you….

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 14

Epilogue

Chapter 1

They called him the NOPD’s loose cannon. His boss, Clide Blais, simply called him a pain in the ass. It was true that Jackson Ward hadn’t bonded well with his police chief—after three years of working together, they were still deadlocked as to the proper conduct befitting a New Orleans homicide detective.

To back up Clide’s argument, Jackson had gone through eight partners in two years before he’d found one that had stuck. But like everything in life, change is the one thing you can count on. After a year with Ry Archard, Jackson was again faced with the task of finding a partner he could work with—or more to the point, who could work with him.

Three partners had come and gone in the past three months, but still Jackson didn’t blame Ry for taking the desk job he’d been offered. If he had a beautiful wife like Margo to come home to, he would have wanted out of the hot seat and better hours himself. But the fact remained that he was still in limbo, sampling partners, hoping to find one who could appreciate his all-or-nothing, you-think-it, you-say-it approach to his job.

And that’s where Jackson found himself on a hot and sticky Friday afternoon in October as he wheeled his issued cruiser into the visitors’ lot at Charity Hospital, his newest recruit riding shotgun.

He parked the puke-green ’96 Ford, then turned to speak to partner number thirteen. Thirteen was a bad number, Jackson mused, staring at the aging has-been who had fallen asleep. Seeing no point in waking him, he climbed out of the car and headed for the hospital.

On entering the lobby, the old memories of how much he hated hospitals hit Jackson square between the eyes. As a kid he’d spent countless hours in hospital waiting rooms with a cereal box between his knees watching cartoons—too young to understand the seriousness of his father’s diabetes.

Harold Ward had been dead for fifteen years, but Jackson still hated hospitals, hated the feelings they evoked. The memories they resurrected. Only today he had no choice—last night his police chief’s peptic ulcer had erupted, landing him in a hospital bed.

Inside the elevator, Jackson hung his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans. He was tall—six foot three—with a case-hardened body and shaggy black hair that had been freshly cut that morning. He and Clide had been butting heads for two weeks, and with his suspension record being what it was, Ry had suggested that a new-and-improved look might raise Jackson’s image a notch with the boss—that is, if he was willing to play suck-up to a man who clearly didn’t like him, or the way he did his job.

He found Clide’s room and knocked. A second later the gravelly voice inside barked, “You’re late.”

Jackson set his jaw, then swung open the door. “I’m not late—” his eyes found his boss slumped on the bed “—visiting hours don’t start till—”