LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      In memory of my father, Aleck Fine

       1916-1995

      KATE STEVENSON

      After more then twenty years in Colorado, author Kate Stevenson considers herself a “near native.” Drawing on her knowledge of people and the Rocky Mountain Front Range, she writes stories about strong, risk-taking heroes and heroines who struggle to build lasting relationships in today’s challenging world.

      Now that her children are grown, Kate spends her time writing and teaching. She shares her home, at the base of the Rocky Mountains, with her husband and their cat, Spike.

      Kate always enjoys hearing from her readers, who can write her at P.O. Box 20271, Boulder, CO 80308-3271.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Prologue

      Cassie Bowers hated being late, even a little. Even when it wasn’t her fault.

      With an impatient gesture, she shoved back the hood of her khaki raincoat and hurried away from the security checkpoint at the Boulder Justice Center. Water dripped from the hem of her coat, leaving a trail of moisture in her wake, and her shoes made a squishing sound against the marble floor. Without slowing, she nudged aside her wet sleeve and checked the time—6:05. She quickened her pace and angled left into a dimly lit hall.

      From behind the closed door of one of the offices she passed, a phone rang unanswered. Except for Cassie and the guard who’d let her through security, the Justice Center seemed empty.

      Of course, she knew that wasn’t true. Besides the night cleaning crew, at least one other person was here late—Judge Thomas Wainright, the man who’d left the message on her home answering machine. The only man capable of pulling her away from her snug house on a soggy evening after a day of running down leads.

      A gust of wind rattled windows high on the wall across from Wainright’s office, and as Cassie rapped on the door the lights flickered.

      When no one responded to her knock, she tried the knob. The door swung open to reveal a small, shadowed anteroom. In the feeble light cast by the only window, the room’s furnishings appeared indistinct and vaguely threatening. Along one wall, file cabinets stood sentry duty, while a secretary’s desk in the center of the room guarded the entrance to the judge’s chambers.

      “Judge Wainright?” Cassie stepped forward, her soggy shoes sinking deep into plush carpet.

      “Judge Wainright?”

      Behind her the latch clicked softly into place.

      “Judge Wainright, it’s Cassie Bowers.”

      Rain splattered against the window like the echo of distant enemy fire. A shiver ran up Cassie’s back.

      Where is he?

      Crossing to the desk, she switched on the brass lamp and examined the appointment book that lay in the pool of light at its base. Strange. Her name wasn’t there. Flipping the page, she checked on the next day’s calendar. Not there, either.

      Puzzled, she glanced toward the judge’s chambers. The door stood slightly ajar, but no light showed.

      Mentally she reviewed bits of the message she’d heard on her answering machine when she’d returned from Denver. …something odd… Meet me at six. I’ll explain then.

      If it weren’t for the note of urgency underlying the words, she’d have postponed their meeting till morning in spite of her curiosity. Instead, she’d thrown her coat back on and raced across town—to find him gone.

      Unless he’d just stepped out for a bit.

      She hesitated an instant, then shrugged out of her coat, depositing it across the top of a wing-backed chair. Since she was already here, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. Plopping onto the chair, she crossed one leg over the other and ran her fingers through her damp curls in a hopeless attempt to make herself look presentable. Water trickled down her neck.

      A sigh of exasperation escaped from her lips. She hated delays. When she’d taken the job on the Denver Tattler a year ago, she’d thought her days of hurry-up-and-wait were at an end. With a weekly publication, she’d believed she could pick and choose her times. Yet, here she was—cold, wet…and waiting. Only one step removed from her years on the local daily newspaper.

      Impatience wriggled inside her, betrayed by the soundless tapping of her fingers against the upholstered armrest. Shifting her weight, she tried to calm her irritation by envisioning the public’s reaction to the articles taking shape on her computer. Local drug traffic. Money laundering. White-collar crime. The series was certain to stir up a furor, establishing her once and for all as a top-notch investigative reporter. A reporter even Pop would approve of.

      Her meetings with Judge Thomas Wainright were

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