Stranger In His Arms Read online

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Dylan asked gently.

  Her hand shook slightly and she seemed to avoid his gaze on purpose. “Should I?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t as big a deal for you as it was for me. You were the first girl I ever kissed.”

  Jennifer retreated to her corner of the sofa. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I was twelve years old and thought you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.”

  “How did you manage to kiss me?”

  He leaned back in his chair, enjoying his recollection. “Tommy Bennett bet me a dollar I was too chicken to try.”

  “You kissed me on a bet?” Laughter tugged at the corners of her luscious mouth, and he experienced an irresistible urge to kiss her again. “I should have pushed you in the lake.”

  “What made you come back to Memphis?” he asked suddenly.

  “I had many happy times here, so naturally I wanted to return.”

  His policeman’s instincts went on alert. But why would anyone lie about something as innocuous as why she chose to live in a certain place?

  Unless she had something to hide.

  Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

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  Passion ignites in Debra Webb’s next COLBY AGENCY case. Ian Michaels and Nicole Reed go head-to-head in Protective Custody—the result is nothing short of explosive. Charlotte Douglas follows up her cross-over Harlequin American Romance-Harlequin Intrigue series, IDENTITY SWAP. Sexy lawman Dylan Blackburn had loved Jennifer Reid from afar, but when he had the chance to love her up close, he’d learned there was a Stranger in His Arms.

  Finally, Sheryl Lynn winds up her two-book McCLINTOCK COUNTRY miniseries with Colorado’s Finest.. Tate Raleigh combines urban street smarts with a rugged physique and stalwart principles that stand the test of time. He’s a devastating opponent to any criminal—and totally irresistible to every woman.

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  Sincerely,

  Denise O’Sullivan

  Associate Senior Editor

  Harlequin Intrigue

  STRANGER IN HIS ARMS

  CHARLOTTE DOUGLAS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Charlotte Douglas has loved a good story since learning to read at the age of three. After years of teaching that love of books to her students, she now enjoys creating stories of her own. Often her books are set in one of her three favorite places: Montana, where she and her husband spent their honeymoon; the mountains of North Carolina, where they’re building a summer home; and Florida, near the Gulf of Mexico on Florida’s West Coast, where she’s lived most of her life.

  Books by Charlotte Douglas

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  380—DREAM MAKER

  434—BEN’S WIFE

  482—FIRST-CLASS FATHER

  515—A WOMAN OF MYSTERY

  536—UNDERCOVER DAD

  611—STRANGER IN HIS ARMS*

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  591—IT’S ABOUT TIME

  623—BRINGING UP BABY

  868—MONTANA MAIL-ORDER WIFE*

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Dylan Blackburn —A dangerously handsome cop with high principles, a long memory and a love of justice.

  Jennifer Reid —A warm and attractive woman with secrets and a killer on her trail.

  Miss Bessie Shuford —Matriarch of Casey’s Cove and Jennifer’s employer.

  Jarrett Blackburn —Dylan’s older brother who raises Christmas trees.

  Johnny Whitaker —Dylan’s best friend and fellow cop who died tragically.

  Raylene —Café owner, town gossip and Jennifer’s best friend.

  Sissy McGinnis —A lonely little girl Jennifer takes under her wing.

  Larry Crutchfield —An Atlanta attorney with a dubious past.

  Michael Johnson —A hired killer who’ll do whatever it takes to fulfill his contract.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Slinging her hastily filled backpack over her shoulder, she raced toward the front door, but skidded to a stop before she reached it. A huge figure on the porch was silhouetted against the etched glass.

  He had come for her.

  Pivoting on her heel, she sprinted to the rear of the house, eased out the back door noiselessly and ran across the yard. Just as she was clambering up the fence to gain access to the alley, the neighbor’s dog howled.

  Running footsteps thundered behind her, and as she hoisted herself over the fence top, a hand snagged her ankle. With a fierce kick that contacted with flesh and bone, eliciting a curse from her pursuer, she freed herself and dropped into the alleyway.

  Without a backward look, she kicked up dust racing toward the main street, clogged with going-to-work traffic. As she reached the curb, a bus approached.

  There is a God, she thought and breathed a prayer of thanks.

  The bus slowed and stopped, and she hopped on. The doors closed behind her, and the bus picked up speed.

  Only then did she dare risk a look behind.

  He stood on the curb for an instant, glowering with rage. Then he turned and sprinted toward his car, parked in front of her house. Her only hope was to exit the bus without him catching her.

  And if she could pull that off, she needed to disappear.

  Permanently.

  Chapter One

  Four months later

  Grinning like a man who’d won the lottery, Officer Dylan Blackburn eased his patrol car down the steep drive from Miss Bessie Shuford’s mountaintop home.

  His luck that morning had been twofold. First, on his visit with Miss Bessie, the matriarch of Casey’s Cove, he had escaped without having to consume one of her infamous cinnamon buns. Not that he didn’t love good food, but Miss Bessie’s favorite creations had all the grace and flavor of a shot put and sat just about as heavy on the stomach. If he hadn’t been unwilling to offend the sweet old woman, he’d have shellacked one for use as a doorstop at the station years ago.

  The second source of his good humor was the latest news Miss Bessie had shared. The ninety-five-year-old spinster had just hired a new assistant, a former summer visitor to Casey’s Cove whom Dylan remembered well. The newcomer was setting up housekeeping in Miss Bessie’s guest house, located a few hundred yards down the mountain from the Shuford mansion, and he was on his way to renew an old acquaintance.

  Dylan parked his cruiser in the guest-house drive, checked in with the station’s dispatcher and climbed out of the car. Miss Bessie’s property, which included the entire mountainside, had the best view of the valley, and he paused to take in the glorious fall day with its cloudless blue sky reflected on Lake Casey, spread out below the autumn-leaved mountains. The tiny town of Casey’s Cove edged its western shore.

  The mountain air was cool and exhilarating with a hint of the pungent tang of woodsmoke. He inhaled dee
ply, thinking, as he did several times a day, that he lived and worked in the finest place in the world. Casey’s Cove was a great place to be a cop. Especially if you hated crime. The serene little hamlet deep in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina had the lowest crime rate in the state.

  With one fatal exception.

  Reluctant to spoil a perfect day, he pushed the bloody memory from his mind, but he knew it would return. It always did. Especially in his unwanted dreams.

  He turned his attention to the guest house, a miniature version of Miss Bessie’s grandiose Victorian mansion, nestled beneath two ancient hickories shimmering in golden autumnal splendor. The wide, welcoming front porch with gingerbread fretwork was surrounded by foundation plantings of burning bush, glowing with all the colors of their fiery namesake. With eager anticipation, Dylan climbed the stairs and knocked on the screen door.

  Nobody answered.

  The front door with its stained-glass panels stood open, and he could see into the sunny front room. With her back to him, a young woman knelt on her hands and knees before the sofa, pushing the attachment of a vintage Hoover beneath the furniture with all the determination of a crusader battling evil.

  Dylan knocked again and shouted his presence, but the high-pitched roar of the outmoded vacuum cleaner drowned all other sounds.

  He watched for a moment, intrigued by the sight of the small, rounded derriere, nicely shaped and smoothly covered by tightly-stretched denim, bobbing in mesmerizing rhythm with the woman’s sweeping movements as she cleaned.

  Then, feeling shamefully like a voyeur, he remembered his business, dragged his gaze from the enticing spectacle, and stepped inside.

  “Hello,” he bellowed, but he couldn’t raise his voice above the noise. The woman remained unaware of his presence. Resigned, he strode across the room and tapped her on the shoulder.

  With a piercing shriek that overpowered the Hoover’s mechanical growl, she leapt upright and straightened in panic. He reacted quickly, but not fast enough. The crown of her head slammed into his nose. The room dimmed, and he stumbled backwards.

  “Careful!” he heard her warn after shutting off the raucous vacuum, her voice honeyed and soft, even when startled.

  His vision still clouded, he felt her grab him by the biceps and guide him toward a chair. Sinking gratefully into its depths, he shook his head, attempting to restore his sight and quell his dizziness.

  “Stop,” she commanded sharply. “Sit still!”

  Too dazed to argue, he complied. Her footsteps retreated. By the time she returned, his vertigo remained, but his sight was restored.

  He focused on the woman in front of him, and her enchanting appearance hit him like a kick to the gut. The pretty twelve-year-old of that long ago summer had grown up. And how. Slender with curves in all the right places, she had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, the color of spring leaves on the mountainside. They matched the green of the long-sleeved shirt she wore, untucked and knotted at her narrow waist, its snug fit accentuating small, firm breasts. Her golden hair was pulled back and tied by a scarf, but rebellious curls fell over her forehead and around her ears. Her pixie-shaped face would have been beautiful under different circumstances, but it now wore a look of absolute horror.

  “You’re bleeding all over yourself and my living room.” She thrust a cold damp towel into his hands.

  A downward glance revealed she was right. Her head-butt to his nose had created a gusher that had spattered his white uniform shirt with blood.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled into the towel he pressed to his nose.

  “A bloody nose is no more than you deserve.” She sounded winded as well as angry, as if she hadn’t recovered from the fright he’d given her. “Even if you are a cop, you have no right barging in and scaring a body to death in her own home.”

  “I knocked. Several times.”

  As if unsatisfied with the job he was doing, she took the towel from him and dabbed at his nose. Even over the coppery smell of blood, he could detect the delectable scent of honeysuckle and sunshine. She smelled as good as she looked.

  She stopped wiping his face and stepped back, evidently confident his bleeding had ceased. “Take off your shirt,” she ordered.

  “What?”

  “Bloodstains. If I don’t rinse them in cold water now, they’ll never come out.”

  His uniforms weren’t cheap, so he didn’t have to be persuaded to do as she asked. With a few swift movements, he unbuttoned his shirt, shucked it off and handed it to her.

  “T-shirt, too.”

  He yanked the bloodstained garment over his head and tossed it to her.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said in her take-charge fashion. “Light the fire, so you don’t get cold. Or I can bring you a blanket.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  After his unusual confrontation with the most attractive and unnerving female he’d ever met, cold was the last thing he felt. However, he obligingly knelt by the fireplace and touched a match to the ready-laid logs and kindling. He could hear water running in the adjacent kitchen and the clink of dishes.

  He returned to his chair, and she re-entered the room with a tray. “Thought you might like some coffee to warm you up. It’s a fresh pot.”

  He took the mug she offered and declined a cookie from the plate she passed.

  “They’re ambrosia cookies. Made them myself. Unless you’d prefer some of Miss Bessie’s cinnamon buns—” Her amazing green eyes twinkled with mischief.

  “Cookies are fine, but I’m really not hungry,” he said hastily.

  She smiled, an expression of such unparalleled beauty it almost took his breath away. “I see you’re acquainted with Miss Bessie’s specialty.”

  He returned her grin. “I keep a large bottle of Maalox in my patrol car for my visits to her house. Only time I ever had a worse bellyache was from eating too many green apples when I was a kid.”

  She took her own mug and curled long, slender legs into the corner of the sofa nearest him, graceful as a feline. “Is this an official visit, Officer—?”

  “Blackburn.” He silently cursed his own thick-headedness. What kind of cop was he that the sight of a pretty woman could make him forget his duty? “Dylan Blackburn.”

  He watched for a sign of recognition at the mention of his name, but none registered on her pretty face. Evidently he hadn’t made the impression on her that she had on him that summer long ago.

  “And you’re Jennifer Thacker.”

  As if he’d startled her again, her head snapped up in alarm, and he was glad this time his battered nose was well out of range.

  “Jennifer Reid. Thacker’s my maiden name. How do you know that?”

  “Miss Bessie gave me a copy of your employment application.”

  “Why?” Her eyes had taken on a hunted look, like those of a wild nocturnal animal caught in a sudden light.

  “Just routine. As Miss Bessie’s assistant, you’ll be helping out occasionally at the day-care center she sponsors. Our department runs background checks on everyone who works with children in this town. Just a precaution.”

  “What kind of background check? I already gave Miss Bessie references.”

  “We run a search of state and national computers to see if you’ve ever served time or have an outstanding warrant.”

  She relaxed at his explanation, but not much, and he wondered if she had something to hide.

  “The stains should be out by now.” She jumped to her feet and rushed back to the kitchen as if happy to end the conversation. Again he heard water running, the slam of a door and the sound of a clothes dryer. She returned with the coffeepot and topped up his mug.

  Gazing at her up close, he had a hard time reconciling the vivacious woman before him with the image of his summer sweetheart from the year he turned twelve. Young Jennifer Thacker had been cool and distant. In retrospect, he suspected her attitude had been the result of extreme shyness. But there was nothing shy about Jennifer
Reid, the widow Miss Bessie had recently hired.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.

  Her hand shook slightly as she filled her own mug, and she seemed to avoid his gaze on purpose. “Should I?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t as big a deal for you as it was for me.”

  “It?”

  “You were the first girl I ever kissed.”

  She retreated to her corner of the sofa. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I was twelve years old and thought you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Especially since you wouldn’t have anything to do with us locals.”

  “Aunt Emily was very strict. I wasn’t allowed much latitude. How did you manage to kiss me?”

  For a fleeting second, he wondered why she hadn’t remembered. Her forgetting what, to him, had been a momentous event, tweaked his ego. He leaned back in the chair, enjoying his recollection. With logs popping and hissing in the fireplace, the aroma of coffee filling the air, the spectacular fall colors visible through the bay window, he couldn’t remember a more perfect day—except the one that long-ago summer when he’d kissed little Jenny Thacker.

  “You used to sunbathe on the dock of the place where you stayed down by the lake,” he said. “Like clockwork. I knew exactly when you’d be there.”

  “And you just ran up and kissed me?” She raised her feathery eyebrows.

  He couldn’t judge whether her expression was astonishment or amusement, but the delectable curve of her lip made him long to kiss her again. A kiss she would remember this time. Realizing he was still on duty, he squashed the urge. “I was only a kid, remember? And besides, Tommy Bennett bet me a dollar I was too chicken to try.”

  “You kissed me on a bet?” Laughter tugged at the corners of her luscious mouth, and again he experienced the irrepressible desire to kiss her. “I should have pushed you in the lake.”

  “You just sat there, stunned. Didn’t say a word.”

  “And you?”

  “I took off. But I bought you candy with my winnings. Left it on your doorstep the next day. Then I learned you’d gone home to Memphis that morning. You never came back to Casey Cove. Until now.”