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      To my fellow Texas Cattleman’s Club authors, Sara Orwig, Cindy Gerard, Kristi Gold, Sheri WhiteFeather— you were all so wonderful to work with! I hope we have another chance to commit murder, mayhem and jewel thefts together.

      JENNIFER GREENE

      lives near Lake Michigan with her husband and two children. Before writing full-time, she worked as a teacher and a personnel manager. Michigan State University honored her as an “outstanding woman graduate” for her work with women on campus.

      Ms. Greene has written more than fifty category romances, for which she has won numerous awards, including three RITAs from the Romance Writers of America in the Best Short Contemporary Books category, and a Career Achievement award from Romantic Times Magazine.

      “What’s Happening in Royal?”

      NEWS FLASH, January—Royal, Texas, is in a state of shock! The plane that made an emergency crash landing in the nearby West Texas desert was carrying both a European contingent and some of Royal’s own….

      Just a few nights ago, all were reveling in the “Party of the Year” at the Texas Cattleman’s Club to honor peace brought forth between archenemy European countries Obersbourg and Asterland…a feat our Texas Cattleman’s Club members may have had a hand in. And to go from celebration to misery so quickly…can our boys come to the rescue once more?

      Also, there’s been a sighting of Winona Raye doing her cop thing—with a baby in tow! Sources tell us the tiny tot appeared on Winona’s doorstep. Hmmm…perhaps dashing Dr. Justin Webb—card-carrying Texas Cattleman’s Club member—will help out his childhood friend!

      Stay tuned….

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Epilogue

      One

      Ask Dr. Justin Webb, and “The Tennessee Waltz” was a downright ridiculous—if not insulting—song to play at a Texas bash, but what the hey. He didn’t care what it took to get his arms around Winona. Never had. Never would. He didn’t even mind having to wear a tux and be on his best starched behavior for an exhaustingly long evening, as long as he could catch some private moments with her now and then. Like this one.

      “I swear, honey, you look good enough to marry.”

      “Why, thank you, doc.” Wearing spindly tall dress pumps, Winona almost reached his cheek in height, but she still had to tilt her face to make eye contact. He marveled. Those eyes of hers were the same soft, wistful, breathtaking blue of a dawn sky—but her smile, so typically, was full of the devil. And that was when she was being reasonably nice to him. “You haven’t proposed marriage to me in, what, two weeks now?”

      Twelve days and six hours, but who was counting. “Give or take a few days.”

      She nodded demurely. “And how many times do I have to tell you? If I’m ever in the mood to marry a hard-core womanizing bachelor with way too much money, I’ll let you know.”

      Justin grinned, since there was no point in taking the insult to heart. In the past, she’d dished out far, far worse.

      Come to think of it, so had he.

      Tightening his grip, he whirled her past the banquet table, the fiddlers, the receiving line of dignitaries and Asterland royalty. He wanted to waltz her past and out the tall balcony doors and into the star-studded night—where he’d have Win to himself—but the idea just wouldn’t fly. Unfortunately, the January night was typical of west Texas, the temperature colder than a witch’s heart, and the wind twice as bitter. “Well, shoot, darlin’. If I can’t talk you into marriage tonight, how about a nice, immoral, amoral, down-and-dirty affair?”

      “I’d love to, doc—with anyone else. But you’ve already done that with so many women in town that I’d just be one in a long line. Thanks, but no thanks.”

      He winced—not from her comment, but because she’d just stepped on his foot. God knew, Winona was adorable, but she did have the grace of a coyote on a dance floor. A hand at the small of her back coaxed her physically closer to him. Close enough for him to feel the tips of her nipples beneath the monk-black dress that zipped straight and plain, right to her throat. Close enough so that he could see her light blue eyes dilate when her tummy rubbed against his satin tux cummerbund. Close enough to see the spare, soft gloss on her small mouth.

      Close enough to see her scowl.

      “Behave yourself, you dog.”

      His eyebrows

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