Reporter Jamie Morrison got the scoop of a lifetime when she snagged a meeting with bestselling author Galen Hawke, but their rendezvous didn’t end with an interview. Their immediate attraction led to a wicked night together and a plan to meet again—until an accident left Galen changed forever…

Now, one year later, Jamie is sent to interview Galen once more. When a snowstorm strands them together in his remote mountain lodge, they are both eager to explore their reawakened passion. But will Jamie stay by Galen’s side when she discovers what he’s become?

Night of the Cougar

Caridad Piñeiro

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Copyright

Chapter One

“What you’re asking is impossible,” Jamie Morrison warned as she dragged her fingers through the fringed layers of her dark hair. She paced back and forth in front of the imposing mahogany desk in her editor’s equally imposing corner office.

“Some would have said it was impossible a year ago, also,” Frank Black said drolly, and arched one hairy gray eyebrow in emphasis.

Jamie whirled away from that challenging look. Arms akimbo, she stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows, which provided a postcard-pretty view of Manhattan and the vastness of Central Park. Early winter dusk was settling over the island of glittering lights and harsh buildings. The architecture was softened by the last rays of light, which bathed heavy snow clouds with cotton-candy hues of pink and blue.

“They’re predicting a blizzard for tomorrow and yet you expect me to drive to Vermont and hike up half the side of a mountain just to have him turn me down,” she said in challenge.

Frank’s indignant huff greeted her comment. “Come now, Jamie. Galen Hawke didn’t turn you down before. Why would he do it now?”

Maybe because she hadn’t seen Galen since he had been in a horrific accident that had nearly killed him? Maybe because she had been waiting for him to phone since their one night together and he hadn’t, despite her repeated calls. But, regardless, she knew her editor well enough to understand that he wouldn’t settle for no as an answer.

Facing him, she jabbed a finger in his direction. “I’m making reservations at the best inn in town, complete with a full spa package on the magazine’s credit card.”

Frank grinned, but there was something cold and calculating in his smile. “I’ve got something you might want in anticipation of the interview.”

He opened his desk drawer and took out a book. She recognized the cover immediately. Galen’s new release. She had a similar copy sitting on her nightstand at home, but hadn’t been able to get past the handwritten note below the book’s dedication. As her editor opened the book and pushed it across the desk toward her, she held up her hand like a cop directing traffic.

“Thanks, but I’ve got my own.”

“Probably his best work yet. Some might even say it’s inspired.” He leveled his gaze on her, obviously aware that she might have been that inspiring muse.

She waved him off with a flip of her hand and headed for the door, but then paused to look back at him. “I hope you have a backup story for the issue just in case.”

He chuckled and wagged his head, chastising her. “Failure isn’t an option, Jamie. Remember that.”

She shouldn’t have raised the specter of that possibility. Last month Frank had fired a veteran reporter for missing a deadline. Granted it was supposed to have been a huge scoop and the cover story for the upcoming holiday issue, but still extreme in the eyes of most at the weekly entertainment magazine. Especially considering that Frank wasn’t known for his generosity when a writer did provide him front-page material.

All things considered, she often wondered why she stuck it out as a journalist when she would much rather be working on her novel. The one she had been inspired to start after her interview with Galen Hawke last year. An interview that had led to a night she still found hard to forget.

Almost running from Frank’s office, she told herself not to return to memories of that night, but it was impossible to stay away.

* * *

One year earlier

Cat’s Claw Mountain, Vermont

Galen Hawke scoped out the people filtering into the hall for his workshop, some of whom were vying for front-row seats. They were the ones who considered him a celebrity, an unwelcome status in his mind. He still preferred to think of himself as an ex-cop who had somehow managed to turn his much more suave and successful alter ego, Jack Fitzgerald, into a household name with his bestselling crime novels.

As an ex-cop, it was hard not to notice people and profile them.

Besides the groupies now settled into the first row tittering at him, a fifty-something woman in a diaphanous floral outfit and beads that dangled at her neck, ears and wrists floated into a seat in the second row. He imagined her in Zen meditation, waiting for writing inspiration to channel itself into her brain.

The seats around and behind her quickly filled up with an assortment of attendees. The workshop had been a hot ticket, especially since he was donating the funds raised to a local environmental group that would secure and preserve a large swath of the mountainside. He had purchased the area next to the preserve, which was where he now had his home. The two areas combined would safeguard most of Cat’s Claw Mountain for future generations.

Almost all of the spaces were filled when she walked in.

She had an athlete’s body, all long, lean lines except for the delicious curves displayed by her faded jeans and the thermal fabric Henley shirt. Despite the tomboy, girl-next-door ensemble, there was something off about her, like she was trying too hard to look like an average hometown girl.

Maybe because she carried herself with an aplomb that screamed city girl.

Plus her shoulder-length dark hair was artfully done with streaks of honey that hinted at the work of a high-end salon. Minimal makeup highlighted a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones a model would covet. Full lips broadened into a dazzling smile at something the man beside her said while they took seats at the back of the auditorium. But as she sat, her gaze skipped to the front of the room and collided with his.

Her eyes were a blue as clear and clean as the stream that ran not far from his mountain lodge home.

“Mr. Hawke,” came from beside him. The moderator for the workshop stood there, wringing his hands. “Is it all right to begin?”

Galen nodded and took a spot in a chair by the podium, waiting for the obligatory reading of his bio and the applause that followed.

Listening to his so-called accomplishments made him uneasy basically because he didn’t consider what he’d done to be anything out of the ordinary. He’d just been lucky to turn something he loved into a career of sorts. But he did his best to offer his advice on writing and answer the questions that came at him from various spots around the auditorium. He held back from calling on the quivering and eager hands waving from the front row because he feared their questions would have nothing to do with his books or his craft. Unfortunately, the moderator stepped in to make sure he was aware of the enthusiastic attendees seeking his attention.

Galen motioned to one of the women and she popped up out of her chair with the speed of a jack-in-the-box. “We’d like to know,” she began, and shot a conspiratorial wink at her friends. “Is there someone special in your life?”

He had been expecting the question and so he was prepared. “I have lots of special people in my life. My parents and siblings. My agent and publisher—”

“No, I mean a special lady,” she clarified.

Something made him look to the back row, searching for the woman he had seen earlier. She was still there and this time her gaze met his as he said, “Not yet, but maybe I’ll get lucky someday.”

Before his admirer could press again, the moderator stepped in, raising his hands to quiet the crowd.

“Let’s end on that upbeat note, ladies and gentlemen. Please thank Mr. Hawke for his time and his generous donation to the Cat’s Claw Mountain Preservation Society.”

Galen stepped back out of the spotlight and immediately experienced relief, until the moderator laid a hand on his arm. “We do have a special request, Galen. If you don’t mind, there’s a reporter here for a short interview.”

“I hadn’t really planned on any interviews with the press.”

“But the story might help bring awareness to our attempt to preserve the mountain,” the man advised, once again wringing his hands.

Galen wasn’t good with interviews. The reporters generally tried to push him for personal details that he preferred to keep private. “I’d rather not,” he said, and was about to walk away when he caught sight of her waiting by the steps leading to the stage.

“She’s right there, Galen. Please. It might prompt donations so we could reach our goal.”

Galen examined the woman again and as she smiled, at him this time, desire awakened. Returning her grin, he said to the moderator, “If it will help, I guess a short interview would be fine.”

“We appreciate it, Galen. You can’t imagine how much.”

Galen dipped his head in farewell and took a step toward the reporter. As her gaze raked up and down his body and her eyes widened with appreciation, he got the sense that this interview wasn’t going to be all that bad.

Chapter Two

Jamie shot a half glance at him as she took notes. So far Galen had been solicitous during their discussion, but then again, she had seen the gleam of male interest in his eyes that had replaced his initial annoyance when the moderator introduced them.

She couldn’t deny that being passably pretty helped with the men she was supposed to cover, but a smile and hint of flirtation were as far as she usually took it. She suspected that was not where it was going to stop with this man, maybe because he was all man. Rock solid, her father would have said, and so far nothing in the interview had led her to believe otherwise.

Not to mention that even as she was doing her job, it had been impossible not to engage in that man-woman dance of attraction. She could feel the anticipation rising with each subtle smile or prolonged gaze.

Satisfied that she had enough for her story, she closed her notebook and faced him full on. “I really appreciate you taking the time to sit with me.”

“It’s the least I could do. I appreciate you mentioning the society in your story.” He was sitting across from her at a very small table near the windows of the inn’s coffee shop. Well, maybe the table wasn’t that small, but the size of him made it seem that way.

He had shoulders as broad as a fullback’s and arms thick with roped muscle. She had no doubt the muscles were hard earned and not the result of any gym. An impressive chest tapered to a lean waist hidden from her view by the table, but she remembered the shape of him from when he had been on stage, talking about his writing, pacing back and forth as he spoke, full of marvelous male energy.

She contained a sigh and offered him a smile. Gesturing to the mountain visible through the windows, she said, “It’s a beautiful spot. I hope the story will help you preserve it.”

He nodded and peeked out the window for only a second before returning his attention to her. His big hands cupped the mug before him. Capable hands. A man’s hands, strong, with a few nicks and scars as a testament to the fact that he used them for things other than writing.

That little tingle of desire grew to a solid buzz as she imagined those hands on her. Touching her.

“I sense you still have something else you want to ask,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he considered her. A cop’s eyes still, she realized, and in reality, her question was about that.

“Why did you leave the NYPD and come up here?”

A slight tremble worked across those competent hands and the smile on his lips died, replaced by a tight, uncompromising slash. His eyes, a green flecked with bits of golden brown, dulled to the color of a sunburned lawn. He jerked a finger in the direction of the tape recorder she had laid on the table.

“Off the record?” His deep voice had a bit of a quaver from the emotion he was containing. Anger in part, she recognized.

Jamie reached over and shut off the recorder. “Off the record,” she confirmed.

After a slow assessment, as if to convince himself that she could be trusted, he nodded and began. “If you did your homework—you know I was shot and my partner killed during a routine investigation.”

“I know.”

He sighed deeply, broadening that amazing chest with the depth of the breath before he looked away, toward the mountain. “We always spent the summers here. My grandparents owned the cheese shop in town. It seemed natural to come here to heal, and not just physically.”

The emotion in his voice made Jamie reach out and lay her hands on his. They were trembling, but not just with remembered pain. She sensed his anger and tried to quiet him with a gentling touch.

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened.”

He wagged his head and the longish strands of his strawberry-blond hair shifted with the motion. “He had kids and a wife. I should have been the first one through the door instead of him, but we always took turns.”

She tried to soothe him with another sweep of her hands along his, which were now wrapped so firmly around the mug that she worried the thick ceramic might shatter. “It wasn’t meant to be your time.”

He whipped his head around then, nailing her with the intensity of his gaze. “Funny thing, time. Do you know how much time the shooter got?”

She racked her brain, trying to remember if any of the newspaper accounts she’d read had mentioned the sentence, but failed to recall. At the shake of her head, he plowed on, possibly even angrier.

“He didn’t. The Feds wanted him to flip on someone. Gave him immunity and a new life in the Witness Protection Program.”

Which explained the birth of Galen’s detective hero Jack Fitzgerald. In Jack’s world, justice was always served, in one way or another, and the assorted criminals always got their asses kicked for good measure.

“I’m sorry for your friend and for what happened, but not for where it led you. I suspect you like this life a lot better.”

Better? Galen considered her statement as he released his death grip on the mug. She slipped her hands into his. They were smooth and slightly cool against his rough palms. Surprisingly, even just that simple touch produced a tangle of emotions within him. Comfort was something he hadn’t experienced in some time, maybe because he hadn’t allowed himself that sentiment. Desire again wove through him and brought a tightening to his groin.

It had been a long time. Too long. After coming up here to heal, he’d shut himself off emotionally, and even physically at first. What few relationships he’d had in the five years since retiring from the NYPD had been mostly situations of friends with benefits and, even then, it had been some time since his last benefit.

As Jamie moved her hand along his, it stirred his imagination. Brought images of those capable hands caressing him, of every curve and valley of her long, lean body plastered against his.

“It’s getting late,” he said, twining his fingers with hers. “Had you planned on staying in the inn tonight?”

She peered out the window at the growing darkness of the winter afternoon and then toward the desk in the lobby. “I guess I should. It’s too late to drive back to New York tonight.”

“I’ve got spare rooms in my lodge. You’re welcome to spend the night.”

A wicked gleam entered those crystal blue eyes, making them sparkle like sun-kissed frost. “I think we both know that if I go with you, I won’t be staying in a spare room.”

He grinned, liking her directness. He had never cared for women who played games, and he wanted to be just as straightforward.

“I don’t normally do this kind of thing, and I suspect you don’t either.”

She nodded and tenderly squeezed his fingers. “I don’t, but instead of worrying about what happens next—”

“Let’s savor the now.”

* * *

The “now” was to happen in an imposing multilevel lodge that seemed as if it had been built into the side of the mountain. It had taken nearly half an hour to reach it from town. They’d driven a paved logging road that arrived at a large stone and iron gate declaring the boundaries of Galen’s property.

“This is beautiful,” Jamie said as he led her through the solid hand-carved wooden doors and into a large room that was clearly a renovation of something quite old. The open living space was filled with comfortable couches and chairs situated around a massive stone fireplace.

“Definitely beautiful,” he murmured, and tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “Let me get the fire going.”

She wanted to tell him the fire was already going, just from that one guileless touch, but she held back.

He pushed off ahead of her, powerful strides carrying him to the fireplace where he tossed in kindling and wood. By the time she walked over, the tinder had caught and the first fiery crackle shot into the room’s slight chill.

He had ripped off his shearling jacket and tossed it on a chair. While he tinkered with the fire, she walked over and grabbed the jacket, intending to place it on the pegs in a hallway where another coat hung. The jacket held his warmth and his smell. Something piney, reminding her of the forest around them, and totally masculine.

Like the kindling, desire burst into life within her.

She hung his coat and placed hers beside it, rubbing her arms with her hands to ward off the chill, although the fire had really caught and was beginning to throw off some heat.

Galen was on one knee before the fire, tending it. She walked to where he knelt and raked her fingers through the tousled strands of his hair.

“The fire feels good already.”

He grunted a response and rose, once again stirring her with his sheer size. She dropped her hand to his nape, and he shivered.

“Your hand is cold.”

He reached up and grasped it gently, then joined it with her other hand between his palms. “Let me warm you up.” He rubbed her hands briskly, but that was far from how she had envisioned him chasing away the chill.

Still, she liked that he wasn’t rushing to jump her bones. It spoke volumes about the kind of man he was.

That only made her want to jump his bones, right then and there.

Easing her hands from his, she said, “I have a better idea for how you can warm me up.”

Before he could protest, she quickly slipped her hands beneath his black knit sweater. “Way cold,” he murmured again, but chuckled as she worked her hands up his body to cup the thick swell of muscle on his chest.

“But getting warmer,” Jamie teased, and leaned closer. The very obvious ridge of his erection beneath his jeans brushed against her.

“Let me check on that,” Galen replied, easing his hands beneath the thermal fabric of her shirt. She jumped at the chill of his fingers and the sexy roughness of his palms. She liked men who worked with their hands. As he dragged them upward to cup her breasts, they left a trail of heat along her body.

In one smooth move, he undid her bra and yanked her shirt over her head, baring her to his gaze. “So very gorgeous.” He covered her with his hands, stroking the tight nubs of her nipples with his thumbs.

“No fair. I’d like to see also,” she kidded. He bent a bit so she could pull his shirt over his head and then explore the broad plains of his shoulders and chest while he continued to caress her with his hands.

So big, she thought to herself and wondered if his cock would be as impressive, but as he shifted one hand to the small of her back and pressed her close, she had her answer.

She nearly moaned at the size of him against her belly, and between her legs, dampness wet her panties at the thought of all that driving into her. The thought yanked a moan from her and he stilled.

“Did I hurt you?” Concern rang in every word.

“Only if you stop touching me.”

He groaned, and the sound reverberated through that powerful chest and into her, making her clit swell with need and her vagina clench in anticipation. Dropping one hand down, she cupped him through his jeans, stroking him, urging him to do the same to her. As he opened her jeans and slipped his hand to her center, he sucked in a shaky breath.

“So hot and wet. I want to feel that, Jamie. I want to taste you.”

She nearly came right then and there from his words and the first tentative sweep of his long, thick fingers across her cleft. As it was, her knees nearly buckled, and he steadied her before backing her toward the large leather sofa in front of the fireplace.

Galen eased her onto the surface of the couch and then knelt before her. Not an easy thing to do in his condition. His cock was so hard that not even his normally comfortable jeans were helping. And the sight of her, golden from the flames of the fire, those gorgeous breasts right there…

He undid her jeans. Helped her skim them off so she was lying before him, gloriously naked.

Easing his big body between her legs, he leaned forward and cradled her breasts in his hands, taking his time with her. Wanting to build her pleasure before he took his.

Bending his head, he licked his tongue across the hard tip of one breast while kneading the other. She urged him on with a soft sigh and her hand tangled in his hair. Over and over he bit and sucked and savored her marvelous tits until she was writhing beneath him, clearly needing more.

He needed more also.

Rising, he kept his gaze locked on hers as he yanked down his zipper, freeing the painful pressure against his dick.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him and she shuddered in anticipation, but he wasn’t quite ready to end their foreplay.

Shucking off his jeans, he knelt before her again and ran his palms up the inside of her thighs to open her to his gaze. With his thumbs, he parted her soft nest of honey-brown curls, revealing the swollen pink nub at her core. Letting his thumbs stroke down her glistening nether lips, he shifted and kissed that nub, yanking a shaky breath from her.

“Galen,” was all she could manage to say, but she parted her thighs further and laid her hands on his shoulders, inviting him to play.

He licked and sucked her clit, loving the taste of her and her ragged cries of pleasure. The bite of her nails into his skin kept him close. She was wet from his mouth and from her arousal as he pushed first one finger and then another into her, preparing her for his penetration. He stroked and spread her until she was shaking beneath him and begging for more with the upward thrust of her hips.

He rose up then, positioning the head of his erection at her entrance. His thumb rode her clit, keeping up the pressure that had her on the edge. His gaze connected with hers, which had deepened to an almost sapphire-blue. With his free hand, he reached up and cradled her cheek. She moved her head, nipped at his thumb before sucking it into her mouth.

God, he nearly came from that lick, but reined himself in enough to slowly push forward into the tight canal of her vagina until he was fully sheathed in her. He held still then, allowing her to acclimate to him. Allowing himself to relish the warm, tight wetness of her.

Jamie held her breath at his complete penetration, unprepared for the feel of so much man inside her. Above her. Around her. There was no getting away from the feel, smell and taste of Galen, she thought, and licked his thumb again, sampling the saltiness of his skin and the taste of her from his earlier caresses.

“You feel…amazing,” he said, rotating his thumb against her clit. Her muscles clenched around him in response, dragging his eyes shut with the sensation of it.

She reached up, skipped her hand from his shoulder down to his chest. She saw it then, just beneath one armpit, the star-shaped scar from the bullet that had nearly taken his life. Covering it with her hand, she whispered, “Never be sorry you’re alive, Galen.”

He tensed at her words and slowly opened his eyes. His pupils had gone nearly black with emotion, and she worried she had pushed too far, but then a tremor worked across his body, almost like a physical release of what he had been feeling.

He finally moved then, drawing back with that magnificent cock before driving forward again, his motions controlled and deliberate.

She accepted each thrust, which sent her rising higher and higher toward a release. She urged him on by roaming her hands all across his body, which seemed to give him great pleasure. Almost as if it had been way too long since he’d been touched. That thought hit her more powerfully than the passion he was rousing.

Grabbing hold of his shoulders, she raised herself up and kissed his temple. Then his cheek. The shell of his ear. Her kisses like benediction—until she reached his mouth.

His lips were firmed into a tight line as he strove to please her. She dropped kiss after kiss along the edges of his mouth until he finally opened to her and accepted the slide of her tongue.

She kissed him over and over, dancing her tongue along his. Rolling her hips to embrace his possession, pushing him even deeper. Pressing her breasts into him to tease the hard wall of his chest.

“God, Jamie. You feel incredible,” he said, but she could sense him holding back.

“Come with me, Galen. Come with me,” she pleaded.

With a groan and a last grind of his hips, he came and took her over the edge with him.

Chapter Three

One year later

New York City

Jamie drove away the desire she felt, creating an ache in her chest that she had to quell.

Forget about him, she thought as she gathered her research for another story she was working on for a future issue. Forgetting was hard to do, however, as she called the Cat’s Claw Inn to reserve a room for the next few days. She would head up tomorrow morning and stay at the inn while she tried to get Galen to see her again.

The innkeeper’s perkiness grated against Jamie’s frazzled emotions and she hurried the woman off the phone by rattling off her credit card information and cell phone number. Dropping her phone back into the cradle, she wished she’d made the reservations online.

Stuffing everything into her leather knapsack, she headed home, but even there she couldn’t escape Galen.

As soon as she entered, her gaze settled on her copy of Galen’s book sitting on her desk. She dropped her keys on a foyer table and her knapsack on the floor and slowly, reluctantly, walked over.

The cover and top few pages had a curl at one corner from the many times she had opened the book and tried to read it. She had never gotten past that damning dedication and note.

She once again flipped through the pages until she reached that spot. In the printer’s neat typeface it read, “To J. Thanks for pulling me back into the world.”

But in smudged ink in larger masculine script Galen had written, “I’m sorry.”

She was sorry, too. Sorry she’d had wild animal sex with him. Sorry she had made a fool of herself with all those calls after he’d been hurt.

Sorry that she had ever met him.

Tossing the book back on the desk, she walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. Then she headed to her bedroom, intent on driving him out of her mind with a good read.

But not even the latest romance from her favorite author helped. If anything, every time the sexy hero sauntered onto the pages bare chested in his formfitting jeans, she pictured Galen.

Disgusted, she gulped down the rest of her wine and hunkered down to sleep, hoping Galen would stay out of her dreams.

* * *

The skies were a leaden-gray and a ferocious wind rocked her Jeep Wrangler as she drove from New York City to Cat’s Claw Mountain the next morning. The first flakes of snow had begun in Connecticut and grown heavier with each passing mile, slowing her arrival at the inn. Once she had checked in and dropped off her bags, she had headed up the mountain to Galen’s, hoping to beat out the worst of the storm.

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