A Younger Woman

by Wendy Rosnau

  “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

  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 a
nd 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.”