Killian's Passion Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Barbara McCauley

  About The Author

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Copyright

  “Mr. Shawnessy, Would You Please

  Remove Yourself From This

  Room?” Cara Asked Tightly.

  Killian leaned close, and she felt his warm breath fan over her cheek. “Call me sweetheart, and I’ll leave.”

  He was playing a game with her, Cara knew that. And as much as she wanted to kill him for it, she also found it exciting, like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She stood naked, with only a towel separating her from this stranger, a man she’d never laid eyes on until a few hours ago. Her heart pounded furiously; she could barely catch her breath.

  “Sweetheart,” she whispered, still refusing to break contact with his eyes.

  Immediately she wanted to snatch the single word back. The amusement she’d seen in his eyes only moments ago darkened to something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something primitive.

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to Silhouette Desire—where you’re guaranteed powerful, passionate and provocative love stories that feature rugged heroes and spirited heroines who experience the full emotional intensity of falling in love!

  Wonderful and ever-popular Annette Broadrick brings us September’s MAN OF THE MONTH with Lean, Mean & Lonesome. Watch as a tough loner returns home to face the woman he walked away from but never forgot.

  Our exciting continuity series TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB continues with Cinderella’s Tycoon by Caroline Cross. Charismatic CEO Sterling Churchill marries a shy librarian pregnant with his sperm-bank baby—and finds love.

  Proposition: Marriage is what rising star Eileen Wilks offers when the girl-next-door comes alive in the arms of an alpha hero. Beloved romance author Fayrene Preston makes her Desire debut with The Barons of Texas: Tess, featuring a beautiful heiress who falls in love with a sexy stranger. The popular theme BACHELORS & BABIES returns to Desire with Metsy Hingle’s Dad in Demand. And Barbara McCauley’s miniseries SECRETS! continues with the dramatic story of a mysterious millionaire in Killian’s Passion.

  So make a commitment to sensual love—treat yourself to all six September love stories from Silhouette Desire!

  Enjoy!

  Joan Marlow Golan

  Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

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  Killian’s Passion

  Barbara McCauley

  Books by Barbara McCauley

  Silhouette Desire

  Woman Tamer #621

  Man from Cougar Pass #698

  Her Kind of Man #771

  Whitehorn’s Woman #803

  A Man Like Cade #832

  Nightfire #875

  *Texas Heat #917

  *Texas Temptation #948

  *Texas Pride #971

  Midnight Bride #1028

  The Nanny and the Reluctant Rancher #1066

  Courtship in Granite Ridge #1128

  Seduction of the Reluctant Bride #1144

  ŸBlackhawk’s Sweet Revenge #1230

  ŸSecret Baby Santos #1236

  ŸKillian’s Passion #1242

  *Hearts of Stone

  ŸSecrets!

  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.

  To my daughter, Teri, who always reminds me to keep

  my priorities straight. I love you, sweetheart.

  One

  Damn woman.

  Killian Shawnessy’s patience ran out at exactly 5:52 p.m. He’d already given up the idea of fishing today. The lake had turned choppy, and storm clouds were swelling on the horizon. It was also so blasted hot and humid he thought he was in a steam bath instead of a Texas mountain cabin.

  Leaning against the cabin porch rail, he tossed back the last of a cold beer, wiped at the sweat on his brow, then frowned darkly at a clump of tall cattails on the other side of the lake where the fool woman was hiding.

  He had no idea who the Peeping Thomasina was, or why she’d been watching him with binoculars for the past three hours. It was possible that Jordan had sent someone; Ian wouldn’t put it past the woman, even though she’d sworn not to bother him for two weeks if he took the Cairo assignment.

  But a promise didn’t mean a rat’s behind to his boss, Ian knew. In the first two days alone, she’d already called four times. Yesterday Ian had simply unplugged the phone.

  Which might explain the woman watching him, he thought with a scowl.

  He’d only caught a glimpse of her when he’d checked her out with his own binoculars from inside the house. Slender, blond, on the tall side, maybe around five foot eight or nine. Dressed in boots and khakis and definitely inexperienced in the art of surveillance.

  She wouldn’t last long out there. Between the heat and the humidity and the approaching storm, she’d be gone within the hour. If she wasn’t, the mosquitoes would be coming out for supper and they’d simply carry her off.

  He didn’t much give a damn. He still had eleven blissful days that he didn’t have to report or answer to anyone. He’d come back to his hometown of Wolf River to see Nick Santos get married, and that was what he intended to do.

  That was all he intended to do, other than fish, consume beer and watch spiders build webs.

  A slight movement in the cattails caught his attention. Maybe Jordan needed a message sent back to her, Ian thought with a frown. And maybe this woman was the one to carry it.

  At the first low rumble of thunder, Cara Sinclair knew she was in trouble. It wasn’t bad enough that it was so hot and humid her eyeballs were melting. Now it had to go and rain, too. And based on the size of the black clouds crowding the once-blue sky, and the smell of the storm in the air, it was going to be a whopper.

  Great, just great. She lowered her binoculars and wiped at the sheet of moisture on her forehead, then blinked to clear her eyes. So much for the glamorous job of a private investigator.

  Not that she was into glamour; she would hardly be lying in a thicket of cattails wearing camouflage overalls if elegance and high fashion were her style. Big diamonds and fancy clothes were for the uptown debutantes of Philadelphia society, not for a girl from a small town like Bloomfield County. She’d take a baseball game over the ballet anyday, Cara thought, lifting the binoculars once again.

  Now where had Mr. Killian Shawnessy disappeared to?

  Focusing the binoculars, she scanned the porch he’d been sitting on for most of the
afternoon. He must have gone back into the cabin, probably for another beer, Cara decided. It was certainly hot enough, and though she’d never acquired the taste herself, on a day like today, anything cold and bubbly would be welcome. She stared at the lake, fantasized about jumping into the cool water, then sighed and concentrated on the job at hand.

  At least if she had to lie in these rough, itchy weeds in this miserable gray heat and watch someone, she had a good subject. Killian Shawnessy definitely fit into the category of superhunk. Tall, thick black hair, strong square jaw. A face that was a combination of construction-workerrugged and magazine-cover handsome. Those long legs of his filled out a pair of jeans like nobody’s business; that broad chest and muscular arms under the chambray shirt he wore were enough to make a girl’s heart skip a beat or two in appreciation. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but she’d bet her brand-new-not-even-paid-for-yet 500 mm zoom lens that they were brown. Dark brown.

  Not that she intended to get close enough to find out. Not yet, anyway. For now she simply needed to take a few pictures and watch him for a couple of days, then report back to Margaret.

  And based on how friendly and talkative the people of Wolf River were, she’d have plenty to report.

  Tracy Simpson, a fence-post-thin brunette working the cash register at the Stop N Shop in town, had turned into a regular Chatty Cathy this morning when Cara casually mentioned the name Killian Shawnessy.

  “You know Ian?” Surprise lifted Tracy’s heavily lined eyebrows.

  Cara shrugged and started to browse through a display of paperbacks beside the counter. “A friend of a friend. Said if I was passing through here to say hi.”

  “Must be your lucky day,” Tracy said with amazement. “Ian’s been gone nearly fourteen years, but showed up three days ago. Is that a coincidence or what?”

  “Incredible.” Cara could hardly tell the woman she’d followed Ian here from Washington, D.C. “Back to visit his folks?”

  “Ian’s got no folks, unless you count Esther Matthews. She was his foster ma for a spell, but she passed on a couple years back. Ian’s here for Nick Santos and Maggie Smith’s wedding next week.”

  “Nick Santos?” Cara glanced up from the mystery novel she’d been eyeing. “That wouldn’t be the Nick Santos, would it, as in Three-Time National Champion Motorcycle Racer?”

  “One and the same,” Tracy chirped brightly. “Don’t that beat all, a celebrity like Nick Santos living right here in Wolf River?”

  It sure did, Cara thought, and added the mystery novel to the bottled water and chocolate bar she’d already set on the counter. She’d been a Nick Santos fan ever since her brother Gabe had taken her to her first race when she was seventeen. More than one woman’s heart had been broken when Santos retired from racing.

  Miniature silver cowboy boots dangled at Tracy’s ears as she rang up the order. “Nick and Lucas Blackhawk were the closest thing to a family that Ian ever got, him being abandoned as a baby and all. Those three boys were tight as Old Lady Appleby’s hair bun. Hey, you want some dried apricots? We got them on special today. Two packages for a dollar.”

  “Sure, I’ll take four.” Anything to keep the woman talking. Especially about Ian. “You say Ian was abandoned?”

  “Right on the church steps, was the story I heard growing up. But then, there were lots of stories about Ian Shawnessy, especially when he got old enough to buckle his own belt.” Tracy gave a wicked wink. “If you know what I mean.”

  Cara had a pretty good idea, but she’d rather not go there. “So he’s staying with Nick until the wedding?” she asked nonchalantly, sliding a box of cheese crackers across the counter.

  “Shoot, no. He’s got himself holed up in one of Harper Whitman’s rental cabins up at Silver Tree Lake. He came in here three days ago and bought enough food to feed a small country, so I reckon he’s staying a spell.”

  Using one long red nail, the brunette punched in the cracker price on the cash register. “Thought I might be neighborly and check up on him in a day or two, see if he has everything he needs up there. That’ll be twelve-ohfive.”

  Cara’s next trip to the real estate and recreational rental office across the street proved to be another warehouse of information, as well. Beverly Patterson, the apple-cheeked, gray-haired office manager, pleasantly informed Cara that there were indeed rentals still available by Silver Tree Lake.

  “Are there other cabins rented?” Cara gave Beverly what she hoped was a timid look. “I don’t mean to be nosy, it’s just that being a woman up there alone and all, well, I thought I might feel safer knowing who else was around.”

  “A woman can’t be too careful.” Beverly nodded in understanding. “But don’t you worry, dear. There’s a couple on their honeymoon just checked into cabin six at the farthest end of the lake, and Ian Shawnessy’s in cabin three. I’ll put you in cabin four right next to him.”

  “Ian?” Cara’s insides did a tap dance, but she kept her voice tiny and her expression worried. “Is he someone you know?”

  “Land sakes,” Beverly said with a flip of her hand, “everyone in Wolf River knows Ian. But don’t you go listening to any stories about him. Just kicked up a little dust before he went off to join the Army, that’s all, and that trouble twenty years ago with Hank Thompson was never deserved. Some folks just don’t have the good sense to let go of an old bone. Ian Shawnessy is a fine boy. You have any problems up there, you just give him a holler.”

  Cara was about to ask what the trouble with Hank Thompson had been when the bell over the office door jangled. Two men dressed in fishing gear—one stocky, with silver hair, and one slender, younger, with a blond crew cut—came through the door.

  “I’ll be right with you gentlemen.” Beverly smiled at the men, then turned back to Cara and slid a key across the counter. “All the cabins have phones, dear. If you need anything, just give a call.”

  She made a quick trip to the market, then found the road off the main highway that led to Silver Tree Lake. The twolane road was narrow and wound upward through thick dogwood and pines. Twenty minutes later she’d unloaded her groceries and gear from her Jeep into her cabin, zipped on her overalls and grabbed her backpack.

  Piece of cake, she’d thought when she’d settled herself into the tall weeds across the lake and found her man lazing on the front porch of his cabin. She snapped a roll of pictures, munched on dried apricots and crackers and replayed Casablanca in her mind to pass the time.

  But as the heat settled in and the humidity rose steadily over the next three hours, that piece of cake began to quickly crumble.

  When the first big drop of rain hit her on the cheek, the cake all but dissolved. The next drop splashed on her nose at the same time thunder rumbled the ground and lightning zigzagged across the dark sky. Cara might be the first one to admit she’d done a lot of foolish things, but never stupid. She at least knew enough to get out of a lightning storm. Tomorrow was always another day, as the saying went.

  Tossing her binoculars into her backpack, she rose on her hands and knees and started to crawl backward out of the thick cattails.

  And froze when she hit something very solid.

  And very human.

  Slowly she glanced over her shoulder, then swallowed hard at the sight of one Killian Shawnessy towering over her.

  “Hi, there.” He stared down at her; the tight smile on his mouth did not reach his narrowed eyes.

  She opened her mouth to respond, but the only sound that came out was a whoosh of air when he lunged, then neatly flipped her onto her back and pinned her down. Even in this suddenly embarrassing and demeaning situation, Cara had to admit that he was good.

  Damn good.

  Nonetheless, he was also a man. And with him lying on top of her like he was, he was almost in perfect alignment for her best and most effective move, a move that would have him singing soprano for days.

  Adrenaline pumped wildly through her blood, but despite her finely honed ins
tinct to slam her knee upward, she clenched her teeth together and resisted. She didn’t come here to hurt him, after all.

  “You wanna tell me why you’ve been spying on me all afternoon?” he asked smoothly.

  She forced her heartbeat to slow down and struggled to concentrate on his face rather than the press of his hard body against hers. His expression was calm, but his jaw was set tight, his eyes as sharp and focused as a cat with a mouse under its paw. What a strange time to notice that his eyes were brown, as she’d guessed. Deep, dark brown, with a black ring around the iris.

  Eyes like Margaret Muldoon’s.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” She feigned indignation and made a pitiful attempt to pull away from his grip. She’d always found it to her advantage to pretend weakness until her opponent was off guard and the time was right. “Get off me.”

  To her annoyance, his large hands tightened their hold on her wrists. He leaned closer, his broad chest pressing her down into the cattails. Sweat dripped down his throat and disappeared into the open collar of his shirt. The scent of hot skin and pure masculinity clung to him.

  “I asked you a question, Blondie. I want an answer. Now.”

  Blast it, if the man wasn’t solid muscle and outweighed her by at least seventy pounds. But what she lacked in strength she always made up for in endurance and timing, both of which were on her side at the moment. She didn’t want to hurt him, but if he didn’t let go of her soon, her pride would insist on taking over. Especially after the Blondie crack. Lord, how she hated those obnoxious little names men gave women.

  What had been a heavy sprinkle of rain gradually increased, and Cara blinked the drops out of her eyes. “Look, buster—” she chose her own annoying little name for him “—this isn’t private property and I’m not trespassing. I’m renting the next cabin down, and I was just taking in a little scenery while I’m on vacation, not that it’s any of your business.”