Her Fifth Husband?

Placing baby, cradle and all on the coffee table, he turned to where she stood surrounded by an assortment of baby gear, plus her usual clutter.

Sasha forgot to breathe. Was it only her imagination that made her feel as if every cell in her body turned his way, like a sunflower following the sun?

All it took was the slightest encouragement and she was off on another fantasy, inventing a happy ending that wasn’t going to happen.

Jake placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her into his arms. With her face against his hard, warm chest, she inhaled the scent that was pure Jake Smith.

“Fair warning. I’m about to kiss you,” he said calmly.

“Go ahead,” she said in a voice only an octave or so higher than normal. “I dare you.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to another scintillating month of passionate reads. Silhouette Desire has a fabulous lineup of books, beginning with Society-Page Seduction by Maureen Child, the newest title in DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS. You’ll love the surprises this dynamic family has in store for you…and each other. And welcome back New York Times bestselling author Joan Hohl, who returns to Desire with the long-awaited A Man Apart, the story of Mitch Grainger—a man we guarantee won’t be alone for long!

The wonderful Dixie Browning concludes her DIVAS WHO DISH series with the highly provocative Her Fifth Husband? (Don’t you want to know what happened to grooms one through four?) Cait London is back with another title in her HEARTBREAKERS series, with Total Package. The wonderful Anna DePalo gives us an alpha male to die for, in Under the Tycoon’s Protection. And finally, we’re proud to introduce author Juliet Burns as she makes her publishing debut with High-Stakes Passion.

Here’s hoping you enjoy all that Silhouette Desire has to offer you…this month and all the months to come!

Best,

Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor

Silhouette Desire

Her Fifth Husband?

Dixie Browning

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DIXIE BROWNING

has won numerous awards for both her paintings and her romances. A former newspaper columnist, she has written more than one hundred category romances. Browning is a native of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, an area that continues to provide endless inspiration.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

One

Stealing a few moments from the job, Sasha lay back on the chaise longue, closed her eyes against the late-afternoon sun and savored the warm sea breeze that fluttered her georgette camisole. She might not have a regular salary, much less benefits, but this beat a desk in a cramped, windowless cubicle all to pieces.

The sound of distant traffic merged with the nearby sound of the surf to become a soothing lullaby. “Five minutes,” she murmured.

Five minutes and then she would jump up, finish checking off her list, think of anything she might have forgotten and then stop by another client’s new office complex to see how long before she could get started there.

As an interior designer, her bread and butter consisted of professional suites—usually law, real estate or medical. Occasionally she did between-season patch jobs for rentals in the various beach communities along the northern Outer Banks, but her real love was having a brand new McMansion to do from scratch. Any budgetary limits only stimulated her creativity.

She sighed in contentment. When the soft southeast breeze blew her hair across her face, she smoothed it back, still without opening her eyes. If she had the energy she would take off her shoes, but that would require sitting up and bending over to unfasten the ankle straps. She should have worn mules.

“Vanity, thy name is Sasha,” she murmured. The trouble with pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled shoes was that they were so darned flattering she couldn’t not wear them, even knowing she’d be climbing up and down all these wretched stairs.

She actually owned a few pairs of flats, though she seldom wore them. At home she went barefoot and wore shapeless tents, but anytime she went out in public she took pains to look her best in case she ran into a potential client. Her friends, knowing her background, called it the Cinderella syndrome.

Sasha had never denied it. Underneath the careful makeup, the streaky cinnamon-tea hair and the fashionable outfits bought at end-of-the-year sales—not to mention the jewelry she adored—Sasha Combs Cassidy Boone Lasiter was still plain old Sally June Parrish, oldest daughter of a dirt-poor tobacco farmer turned preacher.

At times like this, she almost wished she didn’t give a damn. She wondered if Cinderella’s feet had hurt in those miserable-looking glass slippers.

“Relax, feet,” she murmured drowsily. “Once we get home you can let it all hang out, I promise.”

The sun felt marvelous now that it had lost most of its midday heat. A natural redhead—sort of—Sasha freckled whether or not she wore foundation with a serious SPF.

One more minute, she promised herself. After that she would go back inside and finish her check-off list. The cleaning crew had come and gone last week, but the place still reeked of cigarette smoke. Not only that but one of the bedspreads was rumpled, as if whoever had made it up had been interrupted before they could finish the job. King-size beds probably required a team to do the job right.

Housekeeping, however, was not her responsibility. She had listed the items that needed replacing. Chair cushions, flatware and a few dishes that had probably been taken out on the beach and lost, one chair with a broken leg, a stained lampshade and two leather-topped bar stools that looked as if they’d been used as targets in a game of darts. Normally the owners would have handled it, but according to Katie McIver, who managed several cottages in the area, the owner of Driftwinds had called at the last minute and asked her to find someone else to bring the cottage up to standard for the upcoming season.

Sasha had worked with Katie before. This was a peanuts job, but small jobs lead to larger ones and she was in no position to turn down any commission, no matter how small. In the case of the Jamison cottage, if the owners wanted their investment to pay off, Katie or someone needed to screen their clientele, if that was legally possible. The last tenants had waxed surfboards in one of the showers, leaving an unholy mess for the poor cleaning crew.

Sasha massaged her temples, taking care not to involve her long, acrylic nails. The headache that had been threatening all day was getting closer to a reality. She’d counted on a few minutes of complete relaxation to take care of it, but so far it wasn’t working.

One more minute, she promised herself. After that she would go back inside and finish making the rounds. She’d already noticed what looked like a red-wine stain on one of the bedspreads that the cleaners had missed. People who had everything—people who could afford to rent one of these million-dollar-plus rentals—too often valued nothing.

Think peaceful thoughts, she willed silently. Think of bittersweet chocolate melting on your tongue. Alan Jackson singing softly in your ear. Nordstrom’s and a no-limit charge card.

Here she was in a beachfront cottage—if a six-bedroom, seven-bath house complete with two hot tubs and a swimming pool could be called a cottage—and her blasted sinuses refused to allow her to enjoy it.

She was still attempting to talk herself into relaxing before her headache got any worse when a shadow passed over her. Without opening her eyes, she frowned. A shadow of what? According to Katie, this entire row of cottages was empty until Memorial Day weekend.

Opening her eyes, she blinked against the late-afternoon sun. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, not even a vapor trail. Yet even with her eyes closed, she could’ve sworn a shadow had just passed over her.

Probably a pelican, she thought, and relaxed again. Sasha hadn’t grown up in this part of the state, but she did know that long before the developers had taken possession, these dunes had belonged to sea birds, sand fiddlers, a few hardy fishing families and a herd of wild ponies.

Sighing, she let her eyes drift shut again, conscious now of the reddish-brown color of sunlight seen through mauve-shadowed eyelids. She was almost asleep when it happened again. Reddish-brown briefly turned dull black and then back again. Warily, she opened her eyes, lifted her head and looked around.

Nothing moved. Not even a mosquito.

More curious than afraid, she tried an experiment, closing her eyes, she passed a hand over her face, just to be sure.

There it was again—that momentary darkening. Something had definitely blocked the sun for one split second. A fast-moving airplane? Flight-seeing tours were common in the area, but usually not until the season got underway. Besides, unless it was a glider, she would have heard it.

She struggled to sit up, because whatever it was, it wasn’t her imagination. There was simply nothing up there to cast a shadow. No birds, no planes—not even a flying superhero. Whatever it was that had passed between her and the sun was gone.

And dammit, so was any chance of relaxing.

She was still struggling to get up off the low chaise longue when she heard a soft thump and what sounded like a muffled exclamation. Pulses pounding, she glanced over her shoulder. Sunlight reflected off the sliding-glass doors behind her, blocking her view of the interior. Logic told her that no one inside could have cast a shadow over the outer deck, but logic was the first victim when a woman was truly spooked.

Had she locked the lower door when she’d let herself in? With her mind on so many things at once, details occasionally escaped her attention. Katie could have seen her car and dropped by to check on her progress. Maybe one of the cleaning crew had left something behind. Or maybe they hadn’t finished, which would explain the stained bedspread and the cigarette smell.

But that still wouldn’t explain a shadow crossing over the upper deck.

Gripping the sides of the low chaise, Sasha called out, “Dammit, who’s there?” Bracing her feet, she readied herself to dash inside and lock the sliding doors. “Listen, whoever you are, I’m tired, my feet hurt and I’ve got a killer headache. You don’t want to mess with me!”

Okay, so she’d been reading a lot of thrillers lately—crime was a sad fact of life, even here in an oceanfront paradise. Like most of the upscale cottages, Driftwinds had a state-of-the art security system.

Which she hadn’t bothered to re-arm….

Well, shoot. She had the instructions written down somewhere—what numbers to punch in and how long to wait and what to do next. But she hadn’t planned on being here long today, so it simply hadn’t seemed worth the effort.

Uneasiness gave way to alarm. Oh, God—what if she had to run for it? She wasn’t exactly one of the kick-ass heroines that were so popular now. As much as she abhorred exercise, she had to admit there were times when physical fitness came in handy.

Crossing to the nearby wooden rail, she peered down at the paved parking below. The only car there was her own red convertible.

So it wasn’t Katie, and it wasn’t one of the cleaning crew. Warily, she glanced over her shoulder toward the outside stairs, half expecting to see someone step out onto the upper deck. The lack of logic didn’t bother her—she’d figure out later how someone downstairs could cast a shadow upstairs.

What was it everyone said? Get real?

Real fact number one: a work crew armed with pneumatic hammers had invaded her skull.

Real fact number two: she’d just finished her period, so her hormones were probably involved, too. Which didn’t help matters.

Real fact number three: she had probably imagined the whole thing.

Sighing heavily—again—she turned to go inside. That’s when she saw the figure silhouetted against the sunset on the upper deck of the cottage next door. The cottage that was supposed to be empty.

They stared at each other across the fifty or so feet of beach sand that separated the two elaborate cottages. He was holding something in his hand—something that was aimed directly at her.

A gun?

She swallowed hard and forgot to breathe. It was impossible to tell what it was from this distance. The only gun she’d ever met up close and personal was the old .410 her father used to use for squirrel-and rabbit-hunting.

The thing she was staring at now was small and squarish. Actually, it looked more like some kind of a camera than a gun, but then, there were all sorts of weird weapons in use these days. Tapers—tasters—something like that.

Common sense—admittedly not her greatest strength—said that if he’d meant her any harm, he would have made his move when she’d been lying there half-asleep and helpless. He was probably just taking pictures for one of the rental agencies. She would never even have noticed him if his shadow hadn’t passed over her.

Against the low-angled sun, she couldn’t make out his features, but his silhouette indicated broad shoulders that tapered to narrow hips before his body disappeared behind the deck railing. Before she could clamp down on it, her imagination supplied a few more details, and she turned away in disgust.

“It has to be these flaming hormones,” she muttered. For all she knew he could be an escaped prisoner who’d spent the winter hiding out in a closed cottage, which was a whole lot more comfortable than hiding out in the mountains like Eric whatsisname, that guy who had eluded the FBI for about a dozen years. Only now that the season was about to get underway, he had to get out and find another hiding place. As for those shoulders, he’d probably developed them busting rocks on a chain gang. Maybe that thing he was holding was one of those gizmos that broke glass or read the combination on a wall safe, or—

She simply had to stop reading so much romantic suspense!

What was that old saying about the better part of valor? In the stress of the moment it escaped her, but right now the better part of valor was slipping inside where she’d left her purse and dialing 911 on her cell phone, just in case. Like any sensible woman, which she devoutly hoped she was, but secretly suspected she wasn’t, Sasha had the emergency number on speed dial.

Pretending nonchalance, she crossed to the sliding doors, slipped inside and looked around frantically for her purse, breathlessly watching over her shoulder for someone to burst through the door.

“Hello? Yes, this is Sasha Lasiter. I’m at Driftwinds cottage in Kitty Hawk.” She gave the milepost and the street number—at least she remembered that much. “Look, there’s a man in the cottage next door that’s supposed to be closed, and either he’s pointing a weapon or taking pictures of me. Yes, I’m sure!” she replied indignantly when asked. “Well, whatever that thing is he’s holding, he was aiming it at me.”

Maybe he was—maybe he wasn’t, but if she wanted help she needed to make out a worst-case scenario. “Look, I know—” She broke off in exasperation. “No, I am not in the hot tub! I am fully dressed, but I happened to be outside on the upper deck, and—” Impatiently, she explained what she was doing in an unoccupied cottage. “I don’t remember if I locked up behind me or not!” She was pretty sure she hadn’t. She listened as the flat voice gave instructions, then broke in and said, “Look, I am not about to take a chance on reaching my car and risk being mugged, so could you please send someone to check him out?”

Feeling discouraged, a little bit frightened and in no mood to finish what she’d started earlier, she refused to stay on the line. Instead, she headed for the kitchen and located a block of kitchen knives. Armed with a filet knife that she would never have the nerve to use, she made her way back upstairs and looked around for the most defensible place to wait. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told the dispatcher she was afraid to go outside. A friend of hers had recently been mugged in a parking lot not two miles from here. Her own car was parked close enough to the house so that she could probably unlock it with a remote, jump in and lock it again before anyone could grab her, only her remote didn’t work anymore—she wasn’t even sure it was still in her purse.

Besides, how safe was a convertible? The top was aluminum, not rag, but even if she got away, who was to say the creep wouldn’t follow her home?

Who would ever have thought that being an interior decorator at a beach resort could be a hazardous occupation?

“Hey, Jake. We just got a call from some lady that says you’re spooking her out.” The lanky deputy stepped onto the upper deck from the outside stairway.

“Hey, Mac. How’d you know it was me?”

“Call came from next door, but I saw your wheels parked outside, figured you’d know what was going down. You working?”

“I was. Sorry if I upset the lady. I yelled at her, but she’d already gone inside.”

“Oh, yeah—like yelling at a woman always sweetens ’em up. So, you want to tell me what you’re doing? She said you were either aiming a gun at her or taking her picture.”

“Pictures. Hell, Mac, you know I can’t tell you who I’m working for.” John Smith, otherwise known as Jake, squinted against the low-angled sun. “Divorce case. Woman thinks her husband’s got a little something going on the side. She wants some backup evidence before she files. I figured I’d check out their cottage first since it was empty. The guy’s pretty well known in the area, so I figured he wouldn’t risk being seen at a motel with another woman.”

“Any luck?”

“Not yet. I just started today.”

The deputy nodded. Mac Scarborough had been three years ahead of Jake’s son, Tim, at Manteo High, but they’d known each other the way people in small towns did. Then, too, being in the security business, Jake knew most of the lawmen in the surrounding area.

“How’s Timmy? He gone over there yet?” the young deputy asked.

“Shipping out any day now.” Jake shook his head. “I don’t mind telling you, I wish he’d joined you guys instead of the army.”

“Yeah, well…wait a few weeks till the season cranks up. You’ll be glad he’s over there working on heavy equipment in a war zone instead of rounding up DUIs and busting up drug deals and trying to untangle pileups at every intersection between Oregon Inlet and the Currituck Bridge.” The deputy shook his head. “Ah, hell, man, I’m sorry.”

Jake ignored both the reminder of his loss and the apology. “You wouldn’t trade your job for one any place else in the world, and you know it.”

Grinning, the younger man removed his hat and raked his fingers through short, sun-bleached hair. “You got that right. I guess nothing goes on here on the Banks that don’t go on a whole lot more in the big cities. Leastwise, here we get to go surfing on our day off.” He replaced his hat, angling the brim just so. “Reckon I’d better go next door and let that poor lady know you’re one of the good guys.”

Knowing that whatever chance he’d had of collecting evidence was shot for the time being, Jake said, “Might as well, now that you’ve scared my red-feathered pigeon off.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t use my lights and siren.” Mac grinned and turned toward the outside stairway. “You take care now, Jake. Tell Timmy I said hey and don’t go upsetting any more ladies, y’ hear?”

Just then they heard a door slam. Mac hesitated, and then both men leaned over the rail in time to see the shapely redhead run that awkward way women did when they were wearing those ridiculous shoes. She unlocked the door to a fancy red convertible and climbed in, her miniskirt-covered hips being the last thing to disappear before she slammed the door, backed out of the driveway and scratched off down the beach road.

“Well, hell,” the deputy muttered.

“Guess that takes care of that,” Jake said.

He’d just have to try again tomorrow. Waste another day, probably. Common sense told him if anything was going on over there, as his client seemed to think, it would be during the day, not at night when lights might arouse curiosity in a supposedly empty cottage. The day wasn’t a total loss, though. The redheaded woman had obviously been waiting for someone.

He packed away his digital camera, shoved his sunglasses back on his face and jogged down the outside stairs, his mind on the comely redhead. Except for the hair, she reminded him of that classic poster of Marilyn Monroe, especially the ankles. A little shorter—maybe a little rounder. Whoever she was, she had what it took to tempt any man between the ages of can-do and can’t-do.

On the other hand, he mused as he climbed into his middle-aged, slightly rusty SUV, since she’d called the law, there was some room for doubt as to her identity. Would she have done that if she’d just stopped by for a little afternoon delight with Jamison?

Either way, pictures of the woman alone weren’t going to do Mrs. J. any good. He must’ve snapped off a dozen shots from different angles before she’d wakened up and caught him at it.

At age forty-one, Jake Smith, owner of a small security business, had allowed his PI license to go largely unused while he was single-handedly raising his son. A few years ago he’d taken a refresher course at Blackwater, one of the world’s best security training outfits, which happened to be just up the road in the next county. But as there was far less demand for private investigators than there was for security engineers, he’d concentrated on the latter. Even so, as a spook, even a slightly rusty one, he knew enough to take down the license number of any potential suspect.

Which he had—and which he should have asked Mac to run for him. They occasionally traded favors, JBS Securities and the sheriff’s department.

She’d cut over to the bypass and headed north. So did Jake, even though it was getting late and he lived in the opposite direction. On the way, he placed a call to his second-in-command. “Hack, I need some information quick. Red Lexus convertible, I make it about an oh-two model, vanity plate S-A-S-H-A.”

“Gimme a minute.” The nineteen-year old electronics whiz snapped his gum and ended the call.

Hack was as good as his word. By the time Jake reached the point of decision—whether to take a right and head toward Southern Shores and points north, or turn west, cross the Wright Memorial Bridge over Currituck Sound and go from there, he had an address.

Muddy Landing. Slapping his hand against the steering wheel, Jake didn’t even try to come up with a logical reason for what he was doing. There was a good barbecue place on the way, and he hadn’t taken time for lunch.

As for what he hoped to accomplish, that was another matter. The sexy little redhead might or might not have been waiting to meet Jamison, who might or might not have been delayed, scared off or otherwise held up. In an area where either of them might have been recognized, it stood to reason they wouldn’t risk meeting in a more public place, not when Jamison owned a big empty cottage with all the comforts of home.

On the other hand, the woman could have had legitimate business there. She might be a rental agent, or even a potential renter. Before he dumped the pictures he needed to find out whether or not she was involved. She was definitely tempting enough, especially compared to Jamison’s wife.