Dangerous Passions

He nearly choked on the banana he’d been munching. “Did you just say what I think I heard?”

She hadn’t expected to have to say it again. But she’d made up her mind and she wasn’t going to back down. “I want to have sex with you, Michael.”

He shifted away from her—clearly establishing both a physical distance and an emotional withdrawal.

“I’m not asking for a relationship or a commitment,” she told him. “I just want to forget, for a while, that every minute on this island could be my last. I want to forget that we could both end up dead.

“And the only thing I can think of that would possibly drive those thoughts from my mind is sex. With no strings attached.”

Dangerous Passions

Brenda Harlen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRENDA HARLEN

grew up in a small town surrounded by books and imaginary friends. Although she always dreamed of being a writer, she chose to follow a more traditional career path first. After two years of practicing as an attorney (including an appearance in front of the Supreme Court of Canada), she gave up her “real” job to be a mom and to try her hand at writing books. Three years, five manuscripts and another baby later, she sold her first book—an RWA Golden Heart Winner—to Silhouette.

Brenda lives in southern Ontario with her real-life husband/hero, two heroes-in-training and two neurotic dogs. She is still surrounded by books (“too many books,” according to her children) and imaginary friends, but she also enjoys communicating with “real” people. Readers can contact Brenda by e-mail at brendaharlen@yahoo.com or by snail mail c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

To Leslie Wainger—

For making me strive harder and write better.

To Susan Litman—

For continuing to guide me on that journey.

To Anna Perrin—

For everything.

I’ll always be grateful to the fate that crossed our paths, and to you for your incomparable friendship.

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Prologue

Zane Conroy was dead—shot and killed by police in Fairweather, Pennsylvania.

Michael Courtland wasn’t surprised by the news or the method of his demise.

Conroy had been investigated frequently over the years, but no prosecutor had ever had the guts—or the evidence—to make him stand trial until Assistant District Attorney Natalie Vaughn made it her mission to build a case against him. In a desperate effort to avoid imprisonment, Conroy had taken her hostage to bargain for his freedom. It was in that final confrontation that he was killed.

The news caused shock waves to ripple throughout the entire criminal organization he’d controlled. From Pennsylvania to Florida and all points in between, Mike knew that the balance of power was now in flux. Already alliances were being forged and broken, loyalties tested, rivalries resurrected.

There was no way to predict the outcome of this violent struggle or anticipate the victor’s agenda. No way to know what it meant for Shannon Vaughn, Natalie’s sister and Mike’s current assignment.

He zeroed in on her position on the white sand beach, the vague sense of familiarity nagging at him. He was sure they’d never met before, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he recognized her. His gaze skimmed appreciatively over the creamy skin that showed hints of a golden tan, the fiery hair that glinted like copper in the afternoon sun and the long, lean figure clad in a two-piece bathing suit the same emerald color of her eyes.

There was one thing he knew for certain: he was going to enjoy keeping a very close eye on Shannon Vaughn.

Chapter 1

What was she thinking?

It wasn’t really a question so much as a reprimand from her shocked conscience—a reprimand Shannon was finding all too easy to ignore. With Michael’s hands and lips on her, she could barely think, never mind attempt to rationalize her behavior.

Yes, she was acting impulsively. Maybe even recklessly. But she didn’t care. Since the failure of her marriage nine years earlier, she’d focused exclusively on her career. She hadn’t let anything—or anyone—distract her.

Then she’d met Michael Courtland on the beach.

One look in his warm gray eyes, and her knees had gone weak. Then his lips had curved upward in a smile filled with charm and self-confidence, and she’d practically melted like a sno-cone in the Florida sun.

They’d strolled barefoot in the sand, eaten dinner at a little café by the water and lingered over coffee as the sun bled crimson into the ocean. Then they’d kissed under the light of the moon, and she’d invited him back to her room.

She knew his name and very little else about him. Most important, she knew that she’d never need to see him again after this night. That meant she could indulge desires too long forgotten and walk away in the morning, back to her carefully structured life, with no one but herself to ever know about the reckless indiscretion.

She’d always thought of holiday flings as tawdry and clichéd. Casual sex wasn’t something she indulged in—ever. But all her values and beliefs had been thrown into turmoil when her sister was nearly killed.

The close call had reminded Shannon to live for today, because there were no guaranteed tomorrows. So for once, for tonight, she was determined to follow her heart instead of her head.

Of course, what she was feeling right now had more to do with hormones than emotions, but that didn’t make the need any less compelling. She was a scientist. It was her job to accumulate and analyze data, to establish conclusions only after careful and thorough research. But from the first moment she’d set eyes on Michael Courtland, she’d wanted him. Nothing else seemed to matter.

His hands slid up her back, his touch burning even through the cotton barrier of her T-shirt. She wanted those hands on her bare skin; she wanted her hands on him. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, the slide of naked flesh against naked flesh as their bodies moved together in the primitive rhythm of mating.

The need pulsing through her veins was foreign to her, this kind of behavior completely out of character. She knew that regrets and recriminations would follow, but hopefully not until much, much later.

When the elevator dinged to announce their arrival on the eighth floor, Shannon was trembling with a desire unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. She led the way down the hall, her fingers shaking as she removed the keycard from her purse. She turned to the door, fumbled when Michael’s teeth closed gently over her earlobe.

Somehow she managed to jam the card into the slot and push the door open. She didn’t bother with the lights but drew him into the dark room, not stopping until the backs of her legs came into contact with the mattress, then pulled him down onto the bed with her.

His hands slid under her shirt, deftly finding and unfastening the clasp at the front of her bra. He pushed the satin aside and cupped her breasts in his palms, a low groan of satisfaction rumbling deep in his throat. His thumbs stroked over the aching tips, shooting spears of fiery heat from the peaks to the very center of her being. A soft whimper sounded from somewhere deep inside.

He dragged his lips from hers to rain kisses along her jaw, down her throat. His teeth nipped, his tongue soothed, and all the while his hands continued their delicious torment. Then he pushed the shirt up and found one throbbing nipple with his mouth. He suckled, hotly, hungrily, until she nearly screamed out with pleasure in response to his ardent caress.

She wanted him inside her. She wanted to feel him pressing into her, filling her, fulfilling her. This was desire in its most primitive form—raw, powerful, inescapable. But she didn’t want to escape. She only wanted.

She was hot, burning with hunger for him, and grateful for the air-conditioning that offered respite from the sultry heat flowing into the room. The warm breeze wafted across her skin again and a chill skittered down her spine, raising goose bumps on her flesh and turning the heat that coursed through her blood to ice.

Sensing her abrupt withdrawal, Michael raised his head. “What’s the matter?”

Shannon pushed herself into sitting position, crossed her arms over her naked breasts, her gaze fixed on the patio door.

The open patio door.

“Someone’s been in my room.”

Those few words, spoken with quiet conviction and an edge of panic, effectively shattered the moment.

Mike slid off the bed, away from Shannon, and took a deep breath—as if distance and oxygen might somehow manage to control the hormones raging in his blood. Not likely, when just looking at her made him hot, when he’d been subconsciously dreaming of this night since he’d first set eyes on her. But he disregarded the unfulfilled needs of his body to focus on the implications of her statement. “Did you say that someone’s been in your room?”

She nodded, refastening her bra and tugging her shirt back into position before leaning over to switch on the bedside lamp.

He frowned as he glanced around at the tidy space that was almost a carbon-copy of his own. “How do you know?”

“The door’s open.” She raised a hand, gestured to the curtain that fluttered gently in the summer breeze.

“Housekeeping probably just forgot to close it when they made up your room.”

“No.” She slid farther back on the bed to lean against the headboard, crossing her arms over her chest. “Someone else was here.”

“How do you know?”

“My room was already made up when I came in to change before dinner. I pulled the curtains myself.”

“Maybe the maid brought fresh towels or something.”

“Maybe.” But she sounded doubtful.

“Why don’t you call the manager?” he suggested. “He might know if housekeeping or maintenance had any reason to be in here.”

“Oh. Okay.” She exhaled a shaky breath and reached for the phone.

As she dialed, he crossed the room to examine the door and its frame. He inspected both the inside and out, relieved to find no proof of tampering.

Outside on the balcony there was a plastic table flanked by two loungers. A beach towel was draped over one of the chairs, an empty Dr Pepper can on the ground beside it.

He glanced over the railing, down to the swimming pool eight floors below. He considered the distance, shook his head. It was unlikely—if not impossible—for someone to gain entry by climbing up to the balcony.

Remembering some of the tasks he’d been required to perform in Ranger training, he revised his opinion. But while scaling the building might be possible, it couldn’t be done without someone noticing. Even at this time of night, there were dozens of guests in and around the water.

He turned back to the open door and glanced up.

It would be much easier to access the eighth floor of a ten-story building by climbing down. But the absence of any evidence of forced entry convinced Mike that scenario was equally unlikely.

Shannon was ending her call when he stepped back inside. He closed the door tight and flipped the lock into place.

“He said he has no record of the hotel staff accessing my room during the time I was out,” she told him. “But he thinks that’s probably what happened.”

Mike could tell by her tone that she remained unconvinced.

She wandered through the room looking around, into the bathroom and back again.

“Something isn’t right,” she insisted.

He wasn’t prepared to ignore her instincts. Not when her safety was the reason he’d come down to Florida in the first place. But he needed facts to back up those instincts. “Is anything missing?”

“Not that I can tell. But…”

“But what?”

She looked away, her cheeks flushing with color. “My sister likes to joke about my organization,” she admitted. “I have a specific way of doing things, a structure to my life that I never deviate from.”

Her blush deepened, and he knew she was thinking about her behavior with him tonight—which was something he was trying not to think about.

“Almost never,” she amended. “And that’s how I know someone’s been here. Someone moved my book—it was on the other side of the table when I left. And I always align the cap of the toothpaste with the bristles of the toothbrush, but the toothpaste is upside down now.”

She shook her head. “You probably think I’m a nutcase.”

On the contrary, he was starting to believe she was right. Someone had been in her room, looking around, searching for something.

But what?

And why was the patio door left open?

Unless whoever was in her room wanted her to know he’d been there. That was a far more sinister possibility than a random burglary attempt.

“I thought I heard you ask the manager about moving to another room.”

“I did, but there aren’t any vacancies in the hotel.”

“You could stay with me.”

She eyed him warily.

He smiled, trying to put her at ease. “As much as I’d like to pick up where we left off, it’s not an offer with any strings attached. There are two beds in my room, too.”

But she shook her head, rejecting the offer. “I’m sorry for the way things ended. I didn’t mean to mislead you, but I really just want to be alone right now.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She sounded as if she believed it, but she didn’t know the truth about who he was and why he was in Florida. She didn’t know that she might be in real danger.

Would she believe him if he told her now? Would she be willing to accept his help and his protection? Or would she feel betrayed by his deception?

Not that he’d intended to deceive her. He’d never intended to make contact with her at all. His instructions had been simply to watch out for her, but from a distance. Lieutenant Dylan Creighton—now Shannon’s sister’s fiancé—had instructed Mike to be discreet in his surveillance so as not to alarm Shannon unnecessarily.

Mike believed the break-in justified sounding the alarm. But as much as he wanted to share his suspicions with her, to make sure she understood how serious the situation could be, he had to talk to his client first.

“Please,” she said. “I’d like you to go.”

“Okay.” He relented to her request only because he had no intention of going any farther than the hall and he wanted to call Dylan without Shannon overhearing the conversation.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

He wanted to reach out to her, to offer her comfort and reassurance. But her spine was rigid, her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive and distinctively hands-off posture. He turned away. “Lock up behind me.”

He stood outside the door, waited to hear the lock click into place, then reached for his cell phone. He powered it up, only to have it beep once and shut down again.

Damn.

The battery was dead and the spare was in his room upstairs. He tucked the useless phone back into his pocket and leaned back against the wall. The door directly across the hall was clearly marked Stairs. He could run up to his room to retrieve the extra battery and be back within five minutes.

But still he hesitated, his instincts warning him not to leave her, not even for five minutes. Was it worry about Shannon’s safety that made him so reluctant to step away from her? Or were his instincts off-kilter because of the desire still pulsing in his veins?

He mentally cursed again.

This was exactly the reason he’d tried so hard to keep his distance from her. Because personal involvement interfered with objectivity, and emotional responses led to mistakes. It was a lesson he’d learned in Righaria, when his mistake had cost his best friend’s life, and when his guilt over Brent’s death cost him the woman he loved.

He pushed aside the past to concentrate on the present. He was here now to protect Shannon—everything else was secondary.

But he’d be better able to protect her if he could tell her the truth, and he couldn’t do that until he’d spoken to Dylan Creighton. And he couldn’t talk to Dylan without returning to his room for the spare battery.

He glanced back at her door, hesitated.

He’d checked the locks on the windows himself, heard her flip the security bar into place. She was safe inside, probably already in bed—

He shoved that thought aside and headed for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time.

Only five minutes.

Shannon stared at the back of the door for a long moment after Michael had gone, wishing she’d let him stay. She already missed his comforting presence, his reassuring strength, but she wasn’t used to relying on anyone else or asking for help. Despite his offer, she was determined to stand on her own.

But somehow that conviction was harder to find when she was alone.

She made a quick tour of the room again, confirmed there was nothing missing. That fact bothered her more than if she’d come back to her room and found all her personal items gone. Not that she had much, and certainly nothing of significant value, but she couldn’t believe a thief wouldn’t have at least scooped up the loose change on the dresser.

Maybe Michael was right. Maybe no one had been in her room except a member of the hotel staff. She wanted to believe this explanation, but she still couldn’t shake the unease as she moved into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Looking into the mirror, she was startled by the reflection that stared back. Her hair was tousled from Michael’s fingers running through it, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, hard, trying to erase the feel of his mouth against hers. She looked like a wanton woman—hardly surprising considering the fact that she’d acted like one. And although she knew she should be embarrassed by her behavior, she only regretted the way the evening had ended.

But despite her resolution to live for the moment and regardless of how much she wanted him, she knew that having sex with Michael would have been a mistake.

The knowledge was little comfort when she continued to ache with wanting, when something inside her cried out against the injustice of a promise unfulfilled. Shannon shook off the feeling and moved back into the bedroom. Hopefully everything would be back to normal in the morning.

She opened the drawer to retrieve her nightshirt, her heart rising in her throat as her fingers tightened around the silk garment.

It was inside out.

Again, it was a small thing, but she knew without a doubt that when she’d put it away, it had been right-side out. Someone had definitely been here, gone through the dresser, pawed through her things.

Another shiver snaked up her spine.

Why?

She shoved the silk back into the drawer, trying not to think about the possible answers to that question. She would sleep in her clothes tonight. If she slept at all.

The knock at her door made her jump.

She pressed a hand to her heart as she glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost midnight.

The knock sounded again.

Michael?

An unexpected and comforting warmth spread through her as she considered the possibility that he’d come back. This time she promised herself as she walked on unsteady legs to the door, she would swallow her pride and ask him to stay. Not to have sex, but just to keep her company—just so she wouldn’t need to be alone.

Disappointment replaced anticipation when she looked through the peephole.

It wasn’t Michael.

In fact, she was sure this man wasn’t anyone she’d ever seen before. She hesitated, reluctant to respond to the summons of a stranger at this time of night.

He knocked again, impatience evident in the rap of his knuckles against the wood.

She swallowed. “Yes?”

“Ms. Vaughn?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“My name is Michael Courtland,” he told her. “I’m a private investigator from Fairweather, Pennsylvania. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Michael Courtland? A private investigator?

She shook her head to clear away the questions that came at her from all directions.

“It’s late,” she said.

“I apologize for that,” he said easily. “But this really can’t wait.”

She hesitated again. “Can I see some identification?”

“Of course.” He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and withdrew something the size and shape of a credit card. “I’ll slide this under the door so you can take a look at it.”

She bent down to retrieve the laminated rectangle. It was a private investigator’s license bearing the name Michael Andrew Courtland.

She’d never seen this kind of identification before and wondered if it was legitimate. Or was she being paranoid to even suspect it might be fake? Since her unfortunate experience with her ex-husband, she found it difficult to trust anyone.

“I also have a driver’s license and several credit cards if you need further proof,” he said.

His offer, and a glance at the photo, reassured her that he was who he claimed to be. The picture bore a distinct likeness to the man standing outside her door and none at all to the man who’d been in her room with her earlier. A man who’d also claimed to be Michael Courtland.

Nausea rolled in her stomach. If this man was really Michael Courtland, who was the man she’d met on the beach?

It was possible, of course, that two different men had the same name. In fact, it was possible there were several Michael Courtlands in the world. But what were the odds that she would meet two such men on the same day and in the same city?

Someone had lied to her, and as this man hadn’t hesitated to prove his identity, she had to believe it was the other Michael Courtland. The one who’d kissed her until her head was spinning, who’d touched her boldly, intimately, stoking the flames of her desire until she’d been sure they would consume her. The man with whom she’d almost had wild, passionate sex.

Her stomach churned again. Why had he lied?

What reason could he have had to pretend to be someone else? And why hadn’t she thought to ask him to prove his identity?

The answer to the last question was obvious—because she didn’t want to know. Because she’d wanted only mind-numbing, bone-melting sex without any complications.

“Ms. Vaughn?”

The question from outside the door broke through her self-recrimination. She felt the heat of shame flood her cheeks and pushed aside all thoughts of the other man as she opened the door—but only a few inches.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, handing back his identification through the narrow opening.

“There’s no need to apologize for being cautious.”

He smiled at her, and she realized he was more attractive when viewed directly. Close to six feet tall, she guessed, with sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, and a square jaw with just the hint of a dimple in the middle.

“Mr. Courtland—”

“Call me Drew.”

She frowned. “I thought your name was Michael.”