by Metsy Hingle
He scrubbed the back of his knuckles absently against the tubble of his jaw and stared broodily into the dark. Damned If he knew why he’d been so ready to let himself get wrapped up in her life again. He only knew that this time it wasn’t by chance. This time there was more at stake than reckless learts and stolen moments. He didn’t have all the details orted out, but he knew that Anna’s sister, Sara, and Sara’s over were dead, the victims of a mysterious car crash. Sara’s nfant twins were in the physical custody of Ivan Striksky, he playboy prince of Asterland, who was holding them the quivalent of political hostages as part of a plot to force Anna o marry him. And Greg, it seemed, had been cast in the role if White Knight.
White Knight, hell, he thought as the hushed whispers of Churchill and Cunningham—men he’d been glad to have guarding his back—drifted from the aft end of the Avenger. This little caper had “international incident” written all over t. It was going to take a damn sight more than his law degree o smooth some very ruffled, very royal European feathers when this thing broke wide open and the king and queen of Obersbourg discovered their golden goose was missing.
He stretched his long legs out in front of him, figuring e’d deal with it when it happened. In the meantime the only art he had left to play in this little scenario was to see Anna afely to the States. She was a resourceful woman; she’d figure out where to go from there. All he needed to do wa get on with his life—and quit thinking about why thi woman, above all women, could mess up his head in mor ways than he could catalog or name.
ISBN : 978-1-4592-5850-1
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