LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Susan Mallery for her contribution to the MONTANA MAVERICKS series.

      SUSAN MALLERY

      is the bestselling author of over forty-five books for Harlequin Books and Silhouette Books. She makes her home in the Pacific Northwest with her handsome prince of a husband and her two adorable-but-not-bright cats.

      Mark Kincaid had no business being there.

      “Look, Darcy—”

      Mark paused, not sure how to tell her he wouldn’t make it for dinner. He wasn’t very social these days.

      Her blue eyes stared at him, while the corners of her full mouth turned up slightly. She had perfect skin. Clear, pale and nearly luminous. But the worst of it was the complete trust in her eyes. He had a bad feeling that she’d never told a white lie, let alone a really soul-threatening one. He felt like he was about to kick a puppy.

      His shoulders slumped. “Do you want me to bring anything? Like wine?”

      “Wine would be nice,” she said.

      He nodded and left without looking at her. He didn’t want to see her smiling at him like he’d just done something amazing. However much he found Darcy attractive, he wasn’t about to go there. As he’d already learned the hard way, getting involved with a woman could be fatal.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter One

      “Western omelette, side of bacon, coffee,” Mark Kincaid said without looking up from his morning paper. He hadn’t slept the night before and he felt like roadkill. Of course he hadn’t been sleeping since the shooting, so he should stop being surprised by the fact. Maybe one day he would get used to staring up at the ceiling for hours on end, trying not to relive the events that had nearly killed him.

      “I don’t think so.”

      At first he thought he’d imagined the soft voice, that the words were an editorial on his belief he might get used to not sleeping. Then he realized they’d come from the petite blonde standing next to his table.

      He looked up at the waitress smiling at him. He didn’t smile in return. “Excuse me?”

      “I said no. You can’t order that for breakfast. You get the same thing every day and it’s not healthy. Four eggs, ham, cheese and bacon? It’s enough cholesterol to choke a horse.”

      “Fortunately, I’m not a horse.”

      Her smile widened. Humor danced in her eyes. “Good point, Detective. Okay, it’s enough cholesterol to clog the arteries of a living human. How about some oatmeal? Studies have proven that regular consumption of oatmeal can actually lower cholesterol levels, sometimes significantly.”

      Mark folded his paper and gave the waitress his full attention. She wore a white apron over a pale pink dress. Two butterfly clips held her short blond hair away from her face. She was pretty enough, he supposed, assuming a man was interested in that sort of thing. He was not.

      He pushed his coffee cup closer to the edge of the table. She took the hint and filled it. He sipped the black liquid, nearly sighing when he felt it burn its way down his throat. Coffee improved his world view.

      “Western omelette,” he said firmly. “Side of bacon.”

      Her full lips pressed together. “How about a side of fruit, instead? It’s fresh.”

      He stared at her, giving her the same look he’d used on the scum of the earth he’d encountered while he’d been a detective in New York. The waitress—Darcy her name tag read—should have run for cover. Instead she muttered something about some people being too stubborn for their own good and wrote on her pad.

      “I have to tell you, I’m giving in against my better judgment,” she told him.

      “What happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”

      “Being right won’t help you if you’re dead.”

      She sounded too damn cheerful by half.

      “It’s a little early for such a philosophical discussion,” he said. “Why don’t you save it for the lunch crowd?”

      She smiled. “Let me guess—you won’t be in for lunch today, right?”

      He shrugged. He did have plans elsewhere.

      “I’ll put this right in,” she said, waving her pad, then turning on her heel and heading for the kitchen.

      Mark returned his attention to his paper, but the words didn’t make sense. Instead he found himself trying to remember what, if anything, he knew about Darcy the waitress. She was new in town. She’d shown up in the eight years he’d been gone. She was young, early twenties, attractive—not that he cared about that—and a born fusser. She bullied all her customers equally, touting the benefits of orange juice with its vitamin C, warning kids about cavities from sticky desserts and pushing salads instead of burgers. Everyone seemed to love the attention. Everyone but him.

      Mark shook his head to clear it, then studied the paper in front of him. Gradually the room faded as he reviewed the scores from the previous day’s football games.

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