by Lisa Childs
She arched her hips. “Make love to me,” she said, bossing him again.
And he loved it.
He groaned, his arms shaking as he braced himself on the bed and gently pushed himself inside her. But she tensed and gripped his shoulders.
“Stop!”
Sweat beaded on his upper lip, as he struggled for control. It reminded him of that night they had first made love—when he had discovered that she had never made love to another man before him. She hadn’t told him to stop that night, though. She’d begged him to continue—to make love to her. And then she’d moved beneath him, taking him deep inside her.
“Why do I have to stop now?” he asked, gritting his teeth with the effort to control his desires. “Is the baby all right?”
“The baby is fine,” she assured him. “But you shouldn’t be.”
“I’m damn well not fine,” he said. “I want to make love to my fiancée.”
“I am not your fiancée yet. I didn’t answer your question,” she reminded him. “I asked you why you asked. But I never answered you.”
He tensed. “You told me you loved me, too.” But she had never told him yes.
“But I haven’t accepted.”
“Why not?” Had she changed her mind? Did she think that love wasn’t enough to overcome their different upbringings?
“I didn’t have the chance yet,” she said with a teasing smile.
The woman infuriated him and fascinated and captivated him.
“So what is your answer to my proposal?” he asked. “Will you marry me?”
“Of course I will marry you,” she said, as if he’d been silly to worry. “I can’t wait to be your wife.”
He breathed a ragged sigh of relief. “And I can’t wait to be your husband.”
“Now,” she said, “make love to your fiancée.”
He chuckled. “You are getting really comfortable bossing me around.”
She smiled. “Do you mind?”
He thrust gently inside her. “We want the same things,” he said.
“Each other…” She moaned and arched, taking him deep inside her, as she raked her nails lightly down his back. She met his every thrust, moving in perfect rhythm with him.
She came, her body squeezing him tightly as pleasure rippled through her. And her pleasure begot his. The pressure that had built inside him exploded as he came.
“Gabriella!” His throat burned from shouting her name. He dropped onto his back next to her and wrapped his arm around her, holding her close to his side. “Now that I’ve made love to my fiancée, I can’t wait to make love to my wife. We need to get married as soon as possible.”
Then he needed to find a job and a house—someplace safe enough for him to protect a princess and a royal heir.
“I want to get married here,” she said.
He sighed, hating that he was already unable to give her what she wanted. “I don’t think your father will agree to that.”
“I think he will,” she said, “and I think he’d like you back working for him.”
“I don’t care what he wants,” Whit said. After the way he’d treated his daughter, the man deserved little consideration for his feelings. But then Whit remembered how much the man had emotionally and physically suffered the past six months. “I care what you want. And you don’t want to live here. You didn’t even want to come back here.”
“I didn’t want to come back and marry a strange prince,” she explained. “But I don’t mind living here. No matter how much time I spent in boarding schools growing up, this was still my home.”
“I never had a real home,” he admitted.
“You do,” she said. “With me and our baby.”
“We’re a family,” he said. “But we need a home—one where I can keep you both safe.”
“I think that home should be here,” she said, “with Aaron and Charlotte and even my father…” She looked up at him, as if she held her breath waiting for his decision.
He could keep his wife and child safe here—especially with Aaron and Charlotte’s help. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
She smiled. “Our baby growing up with Aaron and Charlotte’s?”
“They’re staying here?”
“Charlotte wants to get to know the king as her father. He asked her to stay—not as employee but as his daughter. I want to live with my sister. I want my baby to know his aunt and cousin.”
She painted a pretty picture for Whit—not just of a home but of an extended family, as well.
“They say it takes a village to raise a child,” he remarked.
“We have a country.”
He grinned. “We have more than I ever believed I would have…because of you.”
“We have happily-ever-after,” she said. “Like a real fairy tale.”
“And I have my real fairy-tale princess.”
It was a dream—one he never would have dared to dream—but it came true anyway. And his happy present and future made him think of his past and someone who’d had to give up her home and her family or lose her life.
He hoped she’d found a new home. A new family and the happiness he had.
*
CHARLOTTE WAS HAPPY—happier than she’d thought possible as she lay in her fiancé’s arms, listening to his heart beat strong and steady beneath her cheek.
But one thing marred her happiness and kept her from sleeping peacefully…
A man had killed trying to find out where a witness was. Like Zeke Rogers, he’d been paid. They had found out who’d hired Zeke, but she had yet to find out who had hired her former partner to locate Josie Jessup.
No one but she, Aaron, Whit and Gabriella knew where JJ was. But it worried her that someone else out there knew the woman was alive and was determined to find her. And Charlotte didn’t even dare try to contact Josie to warn her. Because whoever wanted to find her knew that Charlotte was the one who’d hidden her. They were undoubtedly waiting for her to lead them right to Josie.
And only the devil knew what they intended to do when they found her. Kill her?
*
Keep reading for an excerpt of Cowboy Cop by Rita Herron!
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Chapter One
Three months later
“Dugan is out.”
Miles’s fingers tightened around his cell phone as he wheeled his SUV around and headed toward the station. “What?”
His superior, Lieutenant Hammond, didn’t sound happy. “Based on the Kelly woman’s murder and some technicality with the chain of evidence when they’d searched the man’s place, Dugan’s lawyer got his conviction overturned.”
The past few weeks of tracking down clues and false leads day and night taunted him. He released a string of expletives.
Hammond cleared his throat. “If we’d found evidence connecting Dugan to a partner, maybe things would have gone differently, but…”
Hammond let the sentence trail off, but Miles silently finished for him. If he and Mason had found such evidence, Dugan would still be in a cell. And the world would be a safer place.
But they’d failed.
The day Dugan’s verdict was read flashed back. Dugan’s threat resounded in his head—you’ll pay.
“Now that he’s back on the streets—”
“
I know. He’s going to kill again,” Miles said. And he’s probably coming after me.
His cell phone chirped, and he glanced at the caller ID. Marie’s number.
Damn, she was probably on his case for working again last night and missing dinner with Timmy. He’d thought he might have found a lead on the copycat, but instead he’d only chased his own tail.
The phone chirped again.
You’ll pay.
Panic suddenly seized him, cutting off his breath. Dammit…what if payback meant coming after his family?
“I have to go, Hammond.” Sweat beaded on his neck as he connected the call. “Hello?”
Husky breathing filled the line, then a scream pierced the receiver.
He clenched the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. He had to clear his throat to speak. “Marie?” God, tell me you’re there….
But the sudden silence sent a chill up his spine.
“Marie, Timmy?”
More breathing, this time followed by a husky laugh that sounded sinister, threatening…evil.
Dear God, no…
Dugan was at Marie’s house.
He pressed the accelerator, his heart hammering as he sped around traffic and called for backup. The dispatch officer agreed to send a patrol car right away.
A convertible nearly cut him off, and Miles slammed on his horn, nearly skimming a truck as he roared around it. Brush and shrubs sailed past, the wheels grinding on gravel as he hugged the side of the country road.
Images of the dead women from Dugan’s crime scenes flashed in his head, and his stomach churned. No, please, no…Dugan could not be at Marie’s house. He couldn’t kill Marie…not like the other women.
And Timmy…his son was home today with her.
The bright Texas sun nearly blinded him as he swerved into the small neighborhood where Marie had bought a house. Christmas decorations glittered, lights twinkled from the neighboring houses, the entryways screaming with festive holiday spirit.
Somehow they seemed macabre in the early-morning light.
He shifted gears, brakes squealing as he rounded a curve and sped down the street. He scanned the neighboring yards, the road, the trees beyond the house, searching for Dugan.
But everything seemed still. Quiet. A homey little neighborhood to raise a family in.
Except he had heard that scream.
His chest squeezed for air, and he slammed on the brakes and skidded up the drive. He threw the Jeep into Park, and held his weapon at the ready as he raced up to the front door.
Cop instincts kicked in, and he scanned the outside of the house and yard again, but nothing looked amiss. He glanced through the front window, but the den looked normal…toys on the floor, magazines on the table, TV running with cartoons.
Only the Christmas tree had been tipped over, ornaments scattered across the floor.
He reached for the doorknob, and the door swung open. His breath lodged in his throat, panic knotting his insides. No sounds of holiday music or Timmy chattering.
Gripping his weapon tighter, he inched inside, senses honed for signs of an intruder.
Slowly, he made his way through the den to the kitchen. The Advent calendar glared at him, mocking him with a reminder that Christmas was only a few days away.
There was a half-empty coffee cup on the counter and an overturned cereal bowl on the table. Milk dripped onto the floor.
Timmy…God…
Terror seized him.
A creaking sound suddenly splintered the air, and he swung around, braced to shoot but he saw nothing. Then another sound came from above, water running…the shower? No, the tub…overflowing…
He clenched his jaw, then inched toward the staircase, slowly climbing it and listening for an intruder, for Marie, for his son.
Any sign of life.
A quick glance into Timmy’s room and it appeared empty. Bed unmade. Toy airplane on the floor. Legos scattered. Stuffed dinosaur on his pillow.
Where was his son?
His hand trembled as he bypassed the room and edged toward the bedroom where Marie slept. One look inside, and his heart stopped.
The lamp was broken on the floor. Pillows tossed on the carpet. The corner chair overturned. Glass shards from the mirror were scattered on the vanity.
A sea of red flashed in front of him. Blood…it soaked the sheets and led a trail into the bathroom.
His stomach revolted, but he forced himself to scan the corners of the room before slowly entering the bathroom. Blood streaked the floor and led toward the claw-foot tub.
A groan settled deep in his gut.
Marie. Her eyes stood wide-open in death. Blood dripped down her neck and bare chest. Her arms dangled lifelessly over the tub edge, one leg askew.
For a moment, he choked. Couldn’t make himself move. He’d seen dozens of dead bodies before but none so personal…none that he cared about.
Emotions crowded his throat and chest, and he gripped the wall to steady himself. He had to. Had to get control. Slide that wall back into place so he could do his job.
Every second counted.
Fighting nausea, he slowly walked toward her and felt for a pulse. Although he knew before he touched her that it was too late.
Dugan had done this. Had gotten his payback by killing his son’s mother.
That creaking sound suddenly echoed again. He froze, hand clenching his gun, then spun around.
Nothing. Except the evidence of Dugan’s brutal crime.
Where was Timmy?
For a fraction of a second he closed his eyes on a prayer. The sound echoed again…
The attic.
Heart hammering double-time, he headed toward Timmy’s room. The door to the space had been built inside his closet. Timmy had called it his secret room.
Had Dugan found it?
Hope warred with terror as he inched inside the closet and pushed at the door. It was closed, but he had insisted the lock be removed for fear Timmy might lock himself inside and be trapped.
Now he wished he’d left that damn lock on so his son could have locked Dugan out.
Darkness shrouded the cavernous space as he climbed the steps. He tried to move soundlessly, but the wood floor squeaked. As he reached the top step, a sliver of sunlight wormed its way through the small attic window, allowing him to sweep the interior.
It appeared empty, but he had heard something.
“Timmy,” he whispered. “Son, are you here?”
Praying he was safe, Miles examined the room. Timmy’s toy airplanes and horses, his train set…
Another squeak, and he jerked his head around. An antique wardrobe sat in the corner, one Marie had used to store old quilts. He held his breath as he approached it, then eased open the door.
Relief mingled with pain when he saw his little boy hunched inside, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He had buried his head against his legs, silent sobs racking his body.
“Timmy, it’s okay, it’s Dad.” Anguish clogged his throat as he gently lifted his son’s face. Blood dotted Timmy’s T-shirt and hands, and tears streaked his splotched skin, a streak of blood on his left cheek.
But it was the blank look in his eyes that sent a wave of cold terror through Miles.
Timmy might be alive, but he was in shock.
He stooped down to Timmy’s level and dragged him into his arms, but his son felt limp, as if the life had drained from him just as it had his mother.
Three weeks later
JORDAN KEYS WATCHED the busload of new campers arrive at the Bucking Bronc Lodge, her heart in her throat. The troubled kids ranged from ages five to sixteen.<
br />
Her brother had fit in that category. But he was gone now.
Because she hadn’t been able to help him.
She fisted her hands, silently vowing to do better here. She’d read about the BBL and how hard the cowboys and staff worked to turn these kids’ lives around, and she wanted to be a part of it.
If she saved just one kid, it might assuage some of her guilt over her brother’s death.
A chilly January wind swirled dried scrub brush across the dirt and echoed through the trees. She waved to Kim Woodstock, another one of the counselors and Brandon Woodstock’s wife, as she greeted the bus, then Jordan bypassed them and headed straight into the main lodge to meet with Miles McGregor and his five-year-old son, Timmy.
Apparently Miles also volunteered at the BBL, but this time he’d come because he needed solace and time to heal from a recent loss.
So did his little boy, who they believed had witnessed his mother’s murder.
A thread of anxiety knotted her shoulders as she let herself in the lodge. The empty spot where the Christmas tree had stood made the entryway seem dismal, but truth be told, she was glad it was gone. The holidays always resurrected memories of Christmases past, both good and bad memories that tormented her with what-ifs.
Shoving the thoughts to the back of her mind, she grabbed a cup of coffee and made her way back to the wing Brody Bloodworth had recently added to serve as a counseling and teen center.
The moment she stepped into the room, she sensed pain emanating through it. Like a living, breathing entity smothering the air.
Little Timmy, a dark-haired boy who looked scrawny and way too pale, sat in the corner against the wall, his knees drawn up, his arms locked tightly around them as if he might crumble if he released his grip. The poor child didn’t even look up as she entered, simply sat staring through glazed eyes at some spot on the floor as if he was lost.
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. What if she failed this little guy, too? What if he needed more than she could give?
Inhaling to stifle her nerves, she pasted on a smile, then glanced at the cowboy standing by the window watching the horses gallop across the pasture. His back was to her, his wide shoulders rigid, his hands clenching the window edge so tightly she could see the veins bulging in his broad, tanned hands.