Outlaw Derek

BLOOD TIES

BLOOD SINS

BLOOD DREAMS

SLEEPING WITH FEAR

CHILL OF FEAR

HUNTING FEAR

SENSE OF EVIL

STEALING SHADOWS

HAUNTING RACHEL

FINDING LAURA

AFTER CAROLINE

D
EREK
R
OSS STRUGGLED
up through the heavy layers of jet-lag exhaustion with an awful buzzing in his ears. Rolling over in a tangle of bedclothes, he started to reach for the phone on the nightstand, but then recognized the sound he heard. Sitting up instead, he raked his fingers through his hair.

The door. In the middle of the night. No. He looked blearily at the clock on his nightstand. At four
A.M.
A visitor? Even in exhaustion, his mind automatically considered and rejected
possibilities of felonious intent. It wasn’t likely. In general, the guys in the black hats didn’t lean on door buzzers to announce their arrival, especially at four in the morning, when stealth tended to be a prime consideration.

He kicked the blankets away and got up, finding his jeans in the darkness and struggling into them to the accompaniment of a few sleepy curses. He turned on lights as he made his way through the apartment to the front door, and, when he reached it, said in a voice little more than a growl, “Yeah, what?”

“Mr. Ross? I need to talk to you.”

Standing well to one side of the still-closed door, Derek frowned. A woman whose voice he didn’t recognize. In his business, that tended to be a bad sign. He realized that he had tensed. “It’s four o’clock in the morning,” he said shortly. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Mr. Ross, please, I—I have to see you. It’s very important.”

Derek hesitated, then leaned forward cautiously
so that he could look through the security peephole. He was taking a chance, because the door was composed of only a few flimsy layers of plywood, which wouldn’t stop a bullet or even withstand a well-placed kick. His view through the tiny hole was distorted, but he saw enough to make him relax—if only a bit. “Hold your hands where I can see them,” he said curtly.

Outside in the well-lit hallway, the woman held both hands up at shoulder height, palms out toward him. She didn’t seem surprised by his extreme caution, but then, she was obviously too distraught to be surprised by anything.

“Keep them up,” he said, and drew back away from the door as he unlocked and opened it. Instantly, the woman came into the apartment, her hands still held at shoulder height. Derek closed and relocked the door.

“I’m not armed,” she said softly.

He was reasonably sure of that; it was why he had relaxed. The silk dress she wore clung like a second skin and left little to the imagination. She
couldn’t have hidden a bullet under the garment, much less a gun. But he hadn’t lived to be thirty-five by being reckless or taking unnecessary chances, so he kept his distance while watching her intently. “All right. Into the den, straight ahead.”

Following her, Derek observed thoughtfully that her walk didn’t fit the dress. She had the carriage of an athlete or dancer, fluid and graceful in spite of an obvious limp. The dress, on the other hand, was designed to emphasize curves and wiggles, in fact to make it nearly impossible for a woman to walk in it
without
wiggling. She managed, however, despite the limp; the slight sway of her hips was utterly feminine, but in no way exaggerated.

Still seductive as hell, though.

She stopped by the couch, continuing to hold her hands as he’d instructed. “Can—can I sit down?”

Derek circled slowly until they faced each other. “I don’t know,” he said dryly. “Can you?”

She blinked, then glanced down at the bright-red skintight sheath. A flush lightly colored her pale face. “Oh. I haven’t sat down since—well.”

“Try,” he invited her.

She did, gingerly. And managed the feat, although the strapless bodice might have slipped downward half an inch or so. An unconscious relief filled her expression as the weight was removed from her legs. Slowly, she lowered her hands until they twined together in her lap.

For a long moment, they studied each other in silence. She saw a big man, barefooted and beard-stubbled, his wheat-gold hair tousled and a thick mat of golden hair covering his powerful chest. He had very dark and lazy eyes and a way of standing that was seemingly relaxed and negligent, but gave an impression of latent strength casually under control. And he had a face that would fascinate women and artists, because it was starkly male, diamond-hard, and utterly beautiful, even though he was obviously very tired.

He saw a young woman somewhere in her twenties, of medium height and slender in a way most women wanted to be and few were; she was full-breasted, her hips curved gently, and there wasn’t an ounce of excess flesh anywhere. Her hair was a rich dark brown with red highlights, falling past her shoulders in a thick mass of loose curls. Her face was heart-shaped and delicate, and she had large eyes so light brown they were almost amber, eyes with haunting shadows of pain. She looked lovely, fragile, gentle … and scared. Scared to death.

“Who are you?” he asked abruptly.

“Shannon.” Her gaze flickered. “Brown.”