Shiver
“You know more than you’re telling.”
Suddenly Riley was backing her against the wall. The heat from his body scorched Devra’s skin right through the stiff cotton fabric of her dress. His dark eyes filled her vision and clouded her mind.
“What are you hiding?” he said softly, the rich timbre of his voice stroking sensitive nerve endings.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you hiding?” he whispered, and speared his fingers through her hair, lifting, and letting it tumble across her shoulders.
Devra couldn’t get enough air. Her skin burned and a yearning deep in the pit of her stomach made her want to scream.
“Leave me alone,” she pleaded, knowing full well she wanted him to pull her up against him and smother her lips with a kiss so passionate it could rip the fabric of her being.
I can’t afford to let anyone get too close. Especially
this
man….
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Spring is in the air and we have a month of fabulous books for you to curl up with as the March winds howl outside:
• Familiar is back on the prowl, in Caroline Burnes’s
Familiar Texas.
And
Rocky Mountain Maneuvers
marks the conclusion of Cassie Miles’s COLORADO CRIME CONSULTANTS trilogy.
• Jessica Andersen brings us an exciting medical thriller,
Covert M.D.
• Don’t miss the next ECLIPSE title, Lisa Childs’s
The Substitute Sister.
• Definitely check out our April lineup. Debra Webb is starting THE ENFORCERS, an exciting new miniseries you won’t want to miss. Also look for a special 3-in-1 story from Rebecca York, Ann Voss Peterson and Patricia Rosemoor called
Desert Sons.
Each month, Harlequin Intrigue brings you a variety of heart-stopping romantic suspense and chilling mystery. Don’t miss a single book!
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
SHIVER
CYNTHIA COOKE
To my editor, Kim Nadelson, for seeing the gem buried
within the rock. To my critique partners, you’re the best!
And, as always, to my family—I love you!!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ten years ago, Cynthia Cooke lived a quiet, idyllic life caring for her beautiful eighteen-month-old daughter. Then peace gave way to chaos with the birth of her boy/girl twins. Hip-deep in diapers and baby food and living in a world of sleep deprivation, she kept her sanity by reading romance novels and dreaming of someday writing one. She counts her blessings every day as she fulfills her dreams with the love and support of good friends, her very own hunky hero and three boisterous children who constantly keep her laughing and her world spinning. Cynthia loves to hear from her readers. Visit her online at www.cynthiacooke.com.
Books by Cynthia Cooke
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
836—SHIVER
LOVE INSPIRED
238—LUCK AND A PRAYER
275—PETER’S RETURN
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Riley MacIntyre
—A detective determined to discover who murdered his sister-in-law, even if that means getting really close to his number one suspect, Devra Morgan. As the case deepens and the mystery evolves, he will have to decide if she belongs in prison or in his arms.
Devra Morgan
—She watched her childhood friend, Tommy Marshall, die in a horrible act of violence. Wherever she goes, death follows her as women who look like her fall prey to a killer. And she sees it all—in her dreams.
Michelle MacIntyre
—A cop working undercover to flush out the night stalker runs into a new monster and loses her life.
Tommy Marshall
—Devra’s first crush, first kiss—then he was dead.
Mac MacIntyre
—Is he a grieving husband or a man bent on an elaborate plot to kill his wife?
Mr. MacIntyre
—The head of the MacIntyre clan—whose strings does he pull?
Chief Marshall
—A small-town police chief whose only child was murdered fifteen years earlier by Devra—or so he believes. He will stop at nothing to bring her to justice.
William and Lydia Miller
—Best-kept secrets can be fatal. What exactly do they know? And why are they so anxious for Devra to leave her childhood home?
Contents
Chapter One
Thunder boomed overhead and electricity crackled through the air, prickling the hair on the nape of Detective Riley MacIntyre’s neck. The large drops of rain wetting his shoulders didn’t relieve the stickiness of the hot August night as he approached the crime scene. Someone yelled for a cover and umbrellas were quickly opened above the body. Then a tarp was stretched over the area.
Sweat, partly from the heat and partly in expectation of what he’d find, ran down Riley’s back, further dampening his shirt as pulsing red and blue lights flashed on and off centuries-old brick in a strange melodic symphony. He stepped over the yellow caution tape encircling the crime scene and made his way toward the group of people congregating in front of the Village Carré Hotel.
Mike Parker, a young officer from the Eighth District, approached him, his footsteps matching beat for beat the music echoing down Bourbon Street. “We have everything under control, Detective MacIntyre.” A hint
of wariness creased his eyes. “We can handle this. You don’t need to be here.”
Riley cocked a smile but couldn’t quite soften the edge of annoyance in his voice. “The last time I checked, this was my case.”
“We haven’t established if this is part of the night stalker case. This one is, uh…different.” Parker looked down, fidgeting.
Riley frowned. “You obviously need some time off, ’cause you’re not making any sense. All homicides are handled downtown. You know that. It doesn’t matter if it’s related to the night stalker case or not.” He patted Parker’s shoulder, then strode off, annoyed that his routine crime-scene approach had been thwarted. He liked to walk a scene to get a sense of the perimeter—the sounds, sights, smells—before approaching the victim. Sometimes the brutality of murder deadened his perceptions. Then all was lost, his case compromised.
He tried once again to recapture the scene, absorbing the music, the scent of onions and garlic and simmering jambalaya, a constant yet comforting smell in the French Quarter. As he approached the building, a roach popped out of a broken stone tile in the sidewalk, then scurried into a cracked grate.
In the crevice between the structure’s brick wall and the steep cement steps leading into a doorway, a body leaned haphazardly, the face hidden beneath a thick mass of blond curls. Blue-jean-clad long legs stretched out on the sidewalk. His gaze lingered over turquoise spiked heels adorning perfectly shaped feet. His gut twisted; sweat dampened his palms.
He took a step closer, though for the first time in his career something urged him to turn away—some gut instinct that was his strongest, most prized possession as a detective in the New Orleans Police Department. He looked back at Parker, who was still watching him, shifting from one foot to the other.
Something wasn’t right.
He took another step. Tony Tortorici, his friend and partner, stood from his examination of the victim. Suddenly, Riley could see her clearly—her deep purple shirt, loops of bright beads hanging from her neck. Pulse racing, he saw how two strands of gold-and-green plastic dice were entwined tightly around her neck, pushing into her delicate skin.
His breathing went shallow as he took in the ugly purple-red bruises beneath the beads and the gold locket lying snug between her breasts. Tony walked toward him, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his eyes filled with sympathy. Riley couldn’t move, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t draw enough of the thick, foul air into his lungs.
He focused on the thick mass of blond hair, hair that he remembered could look like silk billowing in the wind. A sharp twinge shot through him. In her lap, her hands, crossed one over the other, rested against the light blue fabric of her shirt, her pinkies interlaced. The position was strange, but before he could think on it further, his eyes locked on the contrasting colors between the top and the bottom of her shirt.
Pain surged through him, slicing his heart as surely as the killer had sliced her throat, turning the blue fab
ric dark purple with her blood. Blood that had pumped from a heart he’d known since childhood.
“I’m so sorry, man,” Tony said as he reached him.
The compassion on Tony’s face hit Riley like a blow to the stomach. Anguish loosened his neck muscles and his head rolled back. He stared into the night sky. Drops of rain pelted his face as agony welled up inside him and broke free in a heart-wrenching roar.
Michelle.
DEVRA MORGAN dreamed of death again—another blue-eyed blonde. She sat up with a start, her heart beating against her chest, her breath coming fast and hard. She brought two shaking fingers to the soft skin of her throat almost expecting to feel a deep gash and the sticky warmth of blood.
Her cat, Felix, meowed in protest as she threw the covers over him and stumbled to the bathroom. Cold sweat chilled her. The distinct scent of the Quarter, with its heavy air and heady taste of the Mississippi, still lingered in her mind. She stood under the hot spray of the shower, scrubbing until her skin ached.
Why now?
Pulling on a plush white robe, she trudged to the kitchen, put the teakettle on to boil and closed her eyes as an onslaught of chills shook her. She couldn’t go through this again. Not now. Not after she’d actually convinced herself they were over—the horrible dreams that had destroyed so much of her life.