LITMIR.BIZ

      Leslie J. Wainger

      Executive Senior Editor

      Gabriel’s Honor

      Barbara McCauley

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To my husband, Frank—I love you.

      BARBARA MCCAULEY

      was born and raised in California and has spent a good portion of her life exploring the mountains, beaches and deserts so abundant there. The youngest of five children, she grew up in a small house, and her only chance for a moment alone was to sneak into the backyard with a book and quietly hide away.

      With two children of her own now and a busy household, she still finds herself slipping away to enjoy a good novel. A daydreamer and incurable romantic, she says writing has fulfilled her most incredible dream of all—breathing life into the people in her mind and making them real. She has one loud and demanding Amazon parrot named Fred and a German shepherd named Max. When she can manage the time, she loves to sink her hands into fresh-turned soil and make things grow.

      Contents

      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 1

      The Victorian farmhouse sat quietly in the darkness at the end of the quarter-mile-long gravel driveway. The house was two-story, Cape Cod blue, though the clapboard siding hadn’t seen the wet end of a paint-brush for at least twenty years. A chill touched the night air like an icy hand; light from a half-moon shone down on the roof, which was missing more shingles than a professional hockey team was missing front teeth. The porch steps were a broken leg waiting to happen, and tall, spiky weeds choked what might have once been daisies in the dried-up front flower bed.

      Gabriel Sinclair stood on the porch of the old house and frowned at the locked front door. It had been a long time since he’d broken into a house. Fifteen years, to be exact. He’d been twenty years old at the time, on a clandestine mission with his three younger brothers. Gabe had been appointed lookout while Callan waited in the getaway truck; Reese, the youngest at fifteen, found the open window, and Lucian, the most daring Sinclair—and only seventeen at the time—slipped inside Lucy Greenwood’s bedroom window and snatched a pair of her hot pink satin underwear.

      By the end of that night, all eight Bloomfield County High School cheerleaders had found themselves minus one pair of panties. The Sinclair brothers were brought into the sheriff’s station and questioned, but later released due to lack of evidence. There’d been no proof, but everyone in town knew that the Sinclair boys were to blame. Who else would have even attempted—let alone pulled off—such a nefarious plan?

      He smiled. Those were the days.

      Gabe’s smile slowly faded as he remembered the lecture that his parents had given all four of their sons that night. What he wouldn’t give to hear one of those lectures now, Gabe thought. To see his father grim-faced and stern, dragging his callused carpenter’s hand through his coal-black hair while he paced back and forth in front of his sons, and his mother standing quietly by, shaking her pretty blond head.

      Damn, but he missed them. Missed his mother’s soft laugh and her warm chocolate-chip cookies. Missed his father’s quiet nod of approval for a job well-done, hot Sunday afternoons and a family game of horseshoes in the backyard.

      With a heavy sigh, Gabe turned his attention back to the problem at hand: finding a way into the house.

      He jiggled the tarnished brass front doorknob one more time, but it was definitely locked tight and dead bolted. He let the rusted screen door squeak loudly shut, then moved to the front windows. They were latched, as well.

      Damn.

      I’ll leave the front door open, his sister, Cara, had told him earlier. If you can work up a rough list of necessary repairs and meet me at the tavern tonight, I’ll make dinner next Sunday, your choice.

      Since most of Gabe’s bachelor-pad dinners were takeout, microwaved or sandwiches from his brother Reese’s tavern in town, the idea of a home-cooked meal was entirely too tempting to pass up. His mouth was already watering from the menu he’d picked out: A big, juicy roast, fluffy mashed potatoes smothered in butter and hot gravy, melt-in-your-mouth biscuits like their mom used to make every Sunday. And then Cara’s supreme specialty—apple pie.

      Inspired by the image of food, Gabe hurried around to the back of the house, made a mental note to check the overhead door on

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