Wild Ways

Meg insisted.

Rafe just looked at her for a long while. “You confuse the hell out of me, Specialist Mary Margaret Kavanagh, I’ll tell you that much for nothing.”

“You know,” she said quietly, “I swear I won’t tell anyone if you lose that chip on your shoulder for a few hours. As far as anyone else is concerned, your reputation as a five-star bastard will be unsullied.”

“I could still shoot you and stuff your body in a hole, Kavanagh.”

She smiled up at him and linked her arm with his. “But you won’t, ex-Super Agent Blackhorse. You’ll make me something to eat, and then you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’re starting to like me.”

Dear Reader,

It’s time to go wild with Intimate Moments. First, welcome historical star Ruth Langan back to contemporary times as she begins her new family-oriented trilogy. The Wildes of Wyoming—Chance is a slam-bang beginning that will leave you eager for the rest of the books in the miniseries. Then look for Wild Ways, the latest in Naomi Horton’s WILD HEARTS miniseries. The first book, Wild Blood, won a Romance Writers of America RITA Award for this talented author, and this book is every bit as terrific.

Stick around for the rest of our fabulous lineup, too. Merline Lovelace continues MEN OF THE BAR H with Mistaken Identity, full of suspense mixed with passion in that special recipe only Merline seems to know. Margaret Watson returns with Family on the Run, the story of a sham marriage that awakens surprisingly real emotions. Maggie Price’s On Dangerous Ground is a MEN IN BLUE title, and this book has a twist that will leave you breathless. Finally, welcome new author Nina Bruhns, whose dream of becoming a writer comes true this month with the publication of her first book, Catch Me If You Can.

You won’t want to miss a single page of excitement as only Intimate Moments can create it. And, of course, be sure to come back next month, when the passion and adventure continue in Silhouette Intimate Moments, where excitement and romance go hand in hand.

Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Wild Ways

Naomi Horton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

NAOMI HORTON

was born in northern Alberta, where the winters are long and the libraries far apart. “When I’d run out of books,” she says, “I’d simply create my own—entire worlds filled with people, adventure and romance. I guess it’s not surprising that I’m still at it!” This RITA Award-winning author is an engineering technologist who presently lives in Nanaimo, British Columbia, with her collection of assorted pets.

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 14

Epilogue

Chapter 1

It was the kind of place he’d spent his entire life trying to avoid.

Small town bar, set back from the dusty street on a cracked surface of tarry asphalt tufted with weeds and dry grass and confetti sprinkles of broken glass. The windows were blank behind their jailhouse grillwork, as shuttered and private as a drug dealer’s eyes behind reflective designer shades.

Great. Rafe eyed the place unhappily from the car, feeling the sweat trickle between his shoulder blades and soak into the stained upholstery of the seat. He was going to kill Dawes, he decided thoughtfully as he cut the engine. Silence fell around him, broken only by the chainsaw buzz of some insect in the tall, dust-grayed grass by the curb.

That wasn’t the plan, of course. The plan had been to take Dawes and his blond girlfriend into custody and drive their sorry behinds back to Las Vegas and Tony Ruffio.

He’d known it had sounded too easy. Dawes had led him through three states and seven counties, in and out of towns no one had ever heard of, up hill and down hot, sunbaked dale, and he was by God going to pay for it. Okay, killing him was out. Tony had said he’d only pay for the recovery if the man were delivered into his hands alive and squirming. But there was nothing in the contract about dents and bruises.

Rafe flexed the fingers of his left hand, the network of scars webbing his knuckles bone-white in the harsh sunlight. Then he sighed. Hell, even that wasn’t an option. He didn’t have a lot of scruples left, but even he drew the line at punching out a little guy like Dawes.

Rafe looked at the bar again. Sighed again. And pushed open the car door and eased himself out into the heat-stunned afternoon. It was time.

The bar’s neon sign buzzed, its glow feeble under a layering of dust. The parking lot surface was soft and it seemed to suck at Rafe’s boots as he walked across it, the stink of hot asphalt hanging in the still air. The thought struck him that it was like walking across the foyer of hell, and he smiled at the irony. Even more ironic was the fact that he’d been born somewhere around here.

But that sure as hell wasn’t anything he wanted to think about.

He shook it off and forced his suddenly drifting mind back to the business at hand.

A brace of Harley-Davidsons sat to one side of the doorway, parked all in a row, as tidy and pristine and perfectly aligned as nuns in a choir.

That could mean trouble. He paused and did a quick check: Taurus PT 99 in the holster tucked under his left arm; Smith & Wesson in its leather, tucked discreetly into the small of his back; Walther double-action semiautomatic in his boot. The Taurus and the Smith & Wesson were licensed and legal as hell, the Walther a little thing he’d picked up while on a job in Oklahoma City a year back. It had fallen into his hands so tidily it had seemed ordained that he have it, so he hadn’t bothered turning it in. He’d had the boot holster specially designed and was so used to it now he rarely thought about it. Except for times like this.

He flexed his shoulders once to loosen them, then pulled open the door and stepped inside.

From caution borne of habit, he stepped quickly to one side until his eyes adapted to the dimness, scanning the shadows for threat or motion even before he could fully see what—or who—they contained. The cold air dried the sweat on his forehead and across his back almost instantly, and he shook his left arm out, feeling the muscles start to tighten.

Heads turned, as they do in a place like that. Incurious eyes met his, then drifted away, dismissing him as unimportant. It brought the usual rush of automatic anger, but he ignored it. To everyone in here, as in most places, he was just another Indian, the next best thing to invisible. Which was handy for a man in his line of work.

Two farmers sat at a table to his left, peaked caps set on the backs of their heads, faces lined and grizzled from decades of staring at the sky. A salesman of some kind sat at another round table, tie loosened and hanging askew, a pile of papers scattered across the table. Two lanky Native kids were playing pool at a table in back, jostling and showing off, and an old man sat at the bar, staring morosely into the half-empty glass in his hand.

Only the bikers seemed to take any notice of him. They sat around a table to his hard right, all of them big and watchful, their leathers cluttered with studs and chains and coded patches. They eyed him warily, but he gave his head an almost imperceptible shake and they relaxed again.

But no Dawes.

Which was just the way he’d planned it.

This time, this close to his prey, he wasn’t going to take a chance on losing them again. He’d almost caught them in Denver, and then again in Rapid City, but both times they’d taken off like startled hares before he’d gotten close enough to nab them. It was as though they had some kind of sixth sense, and he was tired of it. Tired of the hunt, the heat, all of it. So no more messing around. This time, he was going to set the trap and simply wait for them to walk into it, and in another two days he would be back on Bear Mountain, thirty grand richer, Reggie Dawes nothing more than an irritating memory.

Rafe chose a table not far from the door, far enough in shadow not to stand out, but not so far back it would look as though he was hiding. He eased himself into the gunfighter’s seat, back to the wall, and gave the room another swift, calculating look. Everything seemed normal enough. But in this line of work, you just never knew.

The bartender was drying glasses and stacking them on a tray. He looked across at Rafe and lifted an inquiring eyebrow, and Rafe gestured toward the half-empty pitcher of pale draft in front of the salesman. The bartender came across with a pitcher of beer and set it on the table, then dropped a glass in front of Rafe. He was built like a small building, all shoulders and broad, beefy chest and no neck to speak of. A toothpick poked from one corner of his mouth. “This all?”

Rivulets of sweat ran off the pitcher and formed a pool around it, and Rafe swallowed, throat suddenly parched. “Get me another one of those full of ice water,” he said tightly. “And another glass.”

“Ice water.” The bartender shifted the toothpick. “And another glass.”

“That’s right.”

“You expecting company?”

“Could be.” Rafe tossed a wrinkled five onto the wet tray. “And how about some peanuts or pretzels to go with that?”

The toothpick moved to the other side of the bartender’s mouth and he gave the table a swipe with the dirty wet rag, then moved off, as light as a dancer on small, tidy feet.

Ex-fighter, Rafe found himself thinking. Not someone you want on the other guy’s side in a brawl. There’d be heavy iron behind the bar, more than likely. Probably a sawed-off shotgun—something with minimal range but plenty of hitting power. And a baseball bat or ax handle. He looked like the kind of guy who would favor seasoned ash over raw firepower any day.

The pitcher of ice water arrived a minute or two later, frosted with condensation. The bartender set a glass beside the first one, then dropped a basket of pretzels in front of Rafe. “Knock yourself out, sport.”

Dawes came in about thirty minutes later. He and the woman stood just inside the door for a moment or two and darted uneasy glances around the dim room, as frightened as mice. Rafe propped himself up on his elbows and unsteadily poured beer into the glass in front of him, managing to spill as much onto the table as he got into the glass. His feigned drunkenness had the effect he wanted. Dawes’s gaze lingered for a scant few seconds before moving on, and Rafe felt the muscles across his shoulders relax.

It was Dawes, no doubt about that. Rafe had stared at the man’s picture every night for two weeks, burning it into his memory, and now that he actually had the man almost within his grasp, he had to fight from walking across and grabbing him by the scruff of his scrawny neck and shaking him until his teeth rattled.

And the woman had to be Honey Divine.

Which was kind of an understatement, Rafe decided with awe.

He realized he was staring and hastily looked away. But then he also realized there wasn’t a man in the place who wasn’t staring at her. Even the drunk at the bar was paying attention, rheumy old eyes aglitter.

She was gorgeous, in a white-trash kind of way. Not the type of woman Rafe normally paid much attention to, but you would have to be a dead man not to notice her. She’d piled her hair onto the top of her head in a butter-blond haystack, probably in an attempt to get cool, and it teetered there precariously, trailing tendrils and wisps she kept brushing back from her cheeks. Her skin was that pale porcelain that seems to glow from some kind of inner light, although she’d managed to dim most of that glow with a thick layer of makeup she had no earthly use for.

Impressive little body, too, clad in electric-blue spandex tights and a long, loose-knit white pullover that kept slipping off first one creamy shoulder, then the other. Although the nightclub poster advertising her as Honey Divine, club singer extraordinaire, had hinted at considerably more than God had given her, without the glittering rhinestone-spangled evening gown, she looked small and tidy and compact, the awe-inspiring cleavage undoubtedly still back in Las Vegas with the costume that had created it.

Rafe had to smile. He’d kind of looked forward to seeing the real thing. Too bad they weren’t.

He felt a little pang of disappointment and nearly smiled again, trying not to stare as she followed Dawes toward a table halfway down the room. Every head in the place swiveled as she clattered past on four-inch heels, and he could have sworn he heard a faint, collective sigh as she sat down and the sweater slipped off her shoulder again. She seemed used to it and simply tugged it up again, apparently oblivious to the hormonal havoc she’d left in her wake.

He’d give them five minutes, Rafe decided. Time to order a drink and relax and shake off any last nervousness. Then, as soon as they were off guard and unlikely to bolt for the nearest door, he would make his move.

This was a really bad idea.

Meg gave the dim interior of the bar another uneasy look, trying not to panic completely. The whole idea had been crazy to start with, she would admit that, but it had been going fairly well until now. And now…well, now things had completely gotten away from her, and she had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Problem was, she’d done such a good job of convincing Reggie that she knew what she was doing that she’d managed to convince herself, as well. She’d forgotten she was a complete fraud. That she had no training, no backup, no idea of how to pull this off.

“Reggie.” Meg took a deep breath. “This is crazy. Tony’s man is out there somewhere looking for us. For all we know he could be pulling into the parking lot right now. We should quit while we’re ahead and get on a plane and back to Washington before—”

“Not without the disk.” Reggie darted an uneasy look around the bar. He looked like a scared gerbil, hair slicked down, Adam’s apple bobbing with nervousness, shoulders hunched. “The information on that computer disk is the best bargaining chip I have, Meg. You told me that yourself.”

He had her there, Meg thought unhappily. Of course, she’d told him a lot of things. “And if your friend can’t make it? If Tony’s men found him first?”

“He’ll make it,” Reggie said stubbornly.

“Presuming you can trust him. Presuming he hasn’t—”

“Charlie Oakes is a brother to me,” Reggie reminded her, as he had about twelve times in the past hour. “I’d trust him with my life.”

“You are trusting him with your life.” Meg gave the bar another uneasy look. “Worse, you’re trusting him with mine.”

“This was your idea.” Reggie gave her a baleful look.

“No,” Meg said very reasonably, “this is not my idea. My idea was to fly to Washington and turn you over to the Feds and let them get the disk from Charlie Oakes. This—” she waved her hand to take in the entire bar “—is your idea.”

Reggie just hunched his shoulders a little closer to his ears. “He’ll be here. I told him to meet us here at two-thirty, and it’s only ten after. We have plenty of time.”

Plenty of time to get ourselves killed, Meg thought gloomily. How in God’s name had she ever talked herself into this crazy plan in the first place? Maybe O’Dell was right. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. Maybe she should just—

“I just wish I knew if Honey was okay,” he fretted. “Maybe I should call her just to—”

“No!” Meg winced and lowered her voice. “Reggie, just one phone call could be enough to jeopardize her life. She’s safe with my brother—the guy’s a cop, for crying out loud. One of Chicago’s finest. No one will get close to her, I promise you that.” The promise sounded thin to Meg’s ears, and she prayed she wasn’t lying.

When she’d thought up this lunatic scheme, she’d never given Reggie’s pretty young wife much thought. Hadn’t given Reggie much thought, for that matter. But now, after two weeks, he was more than just a name on a computer screen. He was flesh and blood, and he was scared. And he trusted her. That was the hardest part.

“You said if I gave O’Dell enough information to bring down not just Tony and the Vegas setup, but Gus Stepino’s entire Atlantic City operation, he’d give me whatever I wanted. That he’d put Honey and me into witness protection and get us new lives. Maybe even hire me. You said—”

“I said maybe on the job,” Meg muttered, squirming a little. What had she been thinking, telling him something like that? She’d been frantic to get him to go with her, to believe her, to trust her…and she’d told him whatever he’d wanted to hear. “Reggie, I just said maybe on the job, remember. I’m not sure, with your record and all, that…well, that my boss can hire you.”

Another lie. Spence O’Dell could hire anyone he damn well pleased, running his mysterious agency seemingly unencumbered by rules or other government meddling. The fact that Reggie had a history of—and a record for—fraud and embezzlement and an assortment of other vagaries didn’t come into it at all. Heaven knows, O’Dell had worse working for him.

Her, for instance.

Just the thought nearly made her laugh out loud.

“Twelve more minutes,” she said firmly. “If he’s not here by two-thirty-two on the dot, we’re leaving.” To her surprise, he nodded glumly, seemingly impressed by the take-charge authority in her voice.

She looked around the bar again, wondering if the man Tony had sent after them was already here, watching them like a fox watching chickens. The bikers in the far corner had worried her at first, but they seemed oblivious to everyone around them, and she decided finally that they wouldn’t be Tony’s style. The harried-looking salesman didn’t look like much of a threat. He was trying to eat a roast beef sandwich and drink beer and work a calculator and fill in a bunch of forms at the same time, dripping mustard on whatever he was working on. She gave the two farmers a long, hard look, but they didn’t look like hired assassins. Nor did the two Native kids playing pool amid much hooting and laughter and good-natured jostling. That left the bartender—who didn’t look like someone she’d want to tangle with at the best of times—and the man asleep at the table in the back.

Her heart had nearly stopped when she’d spotted him back there in the shadows. He was tall and wide-shouldered and looked like someone who knew trouble on a first name basis, unmistakably Native with strong, clean-cut features and black hair cut almost severely short. It was his worn leather jacket that had worried her. It was all wrong in this heat and she’d eyed it suspiciously, wondering what kind of weaponry it hid.

But he’d paid no attention to them, and after a couple of minutes she realized he was too drunk to be a threat to anyone except himself. He was lying across the table, head in a puddle of spilled beer, arms thrown out as though to keep the table from spinning off into space. And for half an instant she almost envied him his complete lack of concern about present, past or future. Especially the future.

Hers seemed to be getting shorter by the minute.

Trying not to fidget, she looked at her watch. “Five more minutes, Reggie.”

“He’ll be here,” he said stubbornly. “You said you’d do this my way if I agreed to come back to Washington with you, remember?”

“And I told you if you didn’t come back with me voluntarily, you’d come back in handcuffs.” Meg gave him a look she hoped was hard and unforgiving. “My people gave you five thousand dollars on the understanding that you’d bring us the information. And you disappeared, Reggie. With the money. My boss is not a happy man.”

“I told you I was coming in,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes. “But I had to make sure Honey was safe first. I—”

“You were making a run for it,” Meg said shortly. “You had two tickets for Rome in your pocket, Reggie. Not one. Two. I haven’t told O’Dell that, because if he finds out you tried to run out on him, he’ll kill you himself and save Tony the trouble. I’m giving you the deal of your life, and you know it.” Meg gave him her best government-agent glare, not seeing the need to tell him that she hadn’t told O’Dell about the tickets because O’Dell didn’t know she was here. Didn’t know Reggie was here, either. Didn’t know about any of it, in fact.

O’Dell thought she was on vacation. In England. Sightseeing. O’Dell did not know she was sitting in a smoky bar in the middle of God Knew Where, North Dakota—or maybe it was South Dakota, she was so turned around—with Reggie Dawes more or less in custody, waiting for delivery of a computer disk containing enough information to bring down one of the best-connected mobs on the Eastern Seaboard.

O’Dell was going to kill her.

If one of Tony’s people didn’t get to her first. If Gus Stepino—Tony’s none-too-patient boss in Atlantic City—hadn’t found out what was going on and killed her before that. She was going to have to start handing out numbers, she thought a little wildly.

The thought made her swallow hard. “Okay, Reggie. Time’s up. We—”

“Excuse me, miss, but you wouldn’t happen to have a sister in La Jolla, would you?”

Meg blinked. The salesman had appeared beside the table with no warning at all and was smiling down at her. It was a pleasant, open smile, set in a pleasant, open face, and he had sandy hair and freckles and his eyes were an unremarkable—but pleasant—shade of blue.

“I…what?” She stared up at him, wondering what on earth he was talking about. “La Jolla?”

“Sounds like a bad pickup line, I know,” he said with an ingenuous grin, “but I swear you look just like a girl I used to date when I lived in—”

“Hey, anybody gotta match?”

How the man in the leather jacket had gotten from his table to theirs so quickly and silently when he was so drunk, Meg had no idea, but here he was, grinning benignly and a little vaguely at them all. He took an unsteady side step, as though the floor had moved under his feet, and lurched into the salesman, who stepped away with an exclamation of disgust.

“I don’t smoke,” the salesman said sharply. “Go on back to your table and stop bothering people.”

“Not botherin’ anyone,” the other man said in a soft slur, grinning down at Meg. “I jus’ wanna smoke.” He held out a cigarette. “Wanna cig’rette?”

“No, thank you,” Meg said quietly. “I don’t smoke.”

He looked perplexed. “Y’don’t? How come?”

Meg had to smile. “Can’t afford matches.”

He looked at her for a moment, then gave a snort of laughter.

“Buzz off!” The salesman knocked the man’s hand and the proffered cigarette away from Meg. “She doesn’t want a cigarette, and she doesn’t want to be bothered by some drunk.”

“Not botherin’ her,” the man said with mild indignation.

“Look, you, I’m going to—”

“He’s not bothering me,” Meg said a bit sharply, wishing the drunk would wander off and sit down again before the salesman did something stupid. He was making noises like a hero, trying to protect her from some imagined danger, and she felt the old impatience rise. Fought it down as she tried to see past both men to the door beyond. She was starting to feel trapped, unable to see anything, her view of the door blocked by broad shoulders. Reggie felt it, too, and was shifting uneasily in his chair, as though getting ready to bolt.