That Blackhawk Bride Read online

  “So The Life Of A Pampered Princess Isn’t All It’s Cracked Up To Be, Is It?”

  Jacob asked, cocking his head.

  “I won’t make excuses for who I am, or how I was raised,” Clair said defensively. “Or who I thought I was, anyway.”

  He’d been around spoiled, wealthy women…but there was something different about Clair, an innocence that unnerved him. He swore softly and scooped her up in his arms. She gasped, then stiffened at his unexpected maneuver.

  “Since you don’t want to miss out on anything, I suggest we get you into bed.”

  Her eyes widened. “I never said, I mean, I certainly wasn’t implying that I wanted to, I mean, that we should—”

  He carried her to the bed. “Relax, Clair. I meant to sleep. We’ve got a long couple of days ahead of us.” He dropped her on the squeaky mattress. “But thanks for thinking of me.”

  Her cheeks turned scarlet against her pale skin. She looked so lost lying on the bed, so…disappointed, that Jacob considered joining her.

  This, he thought miserably, was going to be one long trip….

  Dear Reader,

  Revel in the month with a special day devoted to L-O-V-E by enjoying six passionate, powerful and provocative romances from Silhouette Desire.

  Learn the secret of the Barone family’s Valentine’s Day curse, in Sleeping Beauty’s Billionaire (#1489) by Caroline Cross, the second of twelve titles in the continuity series DYNASTIES: THE BARONES—the saga of an elite clan, caught in a web of danger, deceit…and desire.

  In Kiss Me, Cowboy! (#1490) by Maureen Child, a delicious baker feeds the desire of a marriage-wary rancher. And passion flares when a detective and a socialite undertake a cross–country quest, in That Blackhawk Bride (#1491), the most recent installment of Barbara McCauley’s popular SECRETS! miniseries.

  A no-nonsense vet captures the attention of a royal bent on seduction, in Charming the Prince (#1492), the newest “fiery tale” by Laura Wright. In Meagan McKinney’s latest MATCHED IN MONTANA title, Plain Jane & the Hotshot (#1493), a shy music teacher and a daredevil fireman make perfect harmony. And a California businessman finds himself longing for his girl Friday every day of the week, in At the Tycoon’s Command (#1494) by Shawna Delacorte.

  Celebrate Valentine’s Day by reading all six of the steamy new love stories from Silhouette Desire this month.

  Enjoy!

  Joan Marlow Golan

  Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

  That Blackhawk Bride

  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

  †Blackhawk’s Sweet Revenge #1230

  †Secret Baby Santos #1236

  †Killian’s Passion #1242

  †Callan’s Proposition #1290

  †Reese’s Wild Wager #1360

  Fortune’s Secret Daughter #1390

  †Sinclair’s Surprise Baby #1402

  †Taming Blackhawk #1437

  †In Blackhawk’s Bed #1447

  Royally Pregnant #1480

  †The Blackhawk Bride #1491

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  †Gabriel’s Honor #1024

  BARBARA MCCAULEY,

  who has written more than twenty novels for Silhouette Books, lives in Southern California with her own handsome hero husband, Frank, who makes it easy to believe in and write about the magic of romance. Barbara’s stories have won and been nominated for numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America, Best Desire of the Year from Romantic Times and Best Short Contemporary from the National Readers’ Choice Awards.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  One

  “Clair, for heaven’s sake! How will Evelyn ever get this done if you don’t stop fidgeting?” Josephine Dupre-Beauchamp glanced at the gold Rolex watch on her slender wrist, sighed, then frowned impatiently at her daughter. “Now stand up straight, dear, and goodness, keep your chin up. The wedding is only three days away and this has to be perfect.”

  Josephine, with her willowy figure and stunning dark looks, was herself a picture of perfection. Some said that her daughter looked just like her, though Clair was three inches taller and her eyes were blue instead of Josephine’s brown. “From our French ancestors,” Josephine had always proclaimed when anyone commented on her daughter’s striking eye color.

  While Josephine circled, Clair sucked in her stomach, gritted her teeth against the pins sticking in her bust and waist, then rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, and an annoying, persistent itch stabbed the center of her back.

  Three days.

  As if Clair needed her mother, or anyone else for that matter, telling her that her own wedding was only three days away.

  To be precise: seventy-eight hours, forty-two minutes and—she looked up at the wall clock in the exclusive bridal shop fitting room—thirty-seven seconds.

  Clair swallowed the lump in her throat. From the triple mirrors in front of her, three identical young women dressed in white satin and Italian lace stared back. It was odd, Clair thought, that the reflecting images didn’t really look like her at all.

  Didn’t feel like her.

  “She’s lost weight.” Evelyn Goodmyer, the hottest and most sought after couturier in all of South Carolina, pinched the seam under Clair’s arm and frowned. “She was a perfect size six when we measured four weeks ago and her bust was a 34B. How can I possibly—”

  “Ohmigod, Jo-Jo!” Victoria Hollingsworth burst into the fitting room, waving a newspaper. “Wait until you see this!”

  Momentarily distracted by the triple reflection of herself in the mirrors, Victoria tucked a short red curl behind her ear, then smoothed a hand over her ecru raw silk trousers.

  “Vickie.” Josephine crossed her arms and arched an impatient brow.

  Victoria dragged her gaze from the mirror, then snapped open the newspaper and thrust it under Josephine’s nose. “This morning’s Charleston Times,” she said, smiling brightly. “Society section, center page.”

  Victoria had not only been Josephine’s college roommate at Vassar University, she was also Clair’s godmother. And—Clair felt her heart skip as she glanced at the clock again—in seventy-eight hours, thirty-nine minutes and twenty-six seconds, Victoria would become her mother-in-law, as well.

  Clair craned her head slightly to get a view of the paper, but could only see the picture of a charging bull running amuck in a china shop on the back page.

  Victoria quickly snatched the newspaper back and started to read, “‘Oliver Hollingsworth and his fiancée, Clair Beauchamp, photographed while attending a charity ball last week in support of the new children’s wing at St. Evastine’s Memorial Hospital, will wed this Saturday at Chilton Cathedral.’”

  Josephine brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her beige linen jacket. “That’s i
t?”

  “Of course not, silly.” Victoria cleared her throat. “‘Ms. Beauchamp, twenty-five, daughter of shipping magnate, Charles Beauchamp III and Josephine Dupre-Beauchamp, longtime residents of Rolling Estates in Hillgrove, is a summa cum laude graduate from Radcliffe University. Oliver, twenty-six, son of Nevin and Victoria Hollingsworth, also residents of Rolling Estates, recently received his M.B.A. from Harvard after graduating Phi Beta Kappa from Princeton. He is currently manager of accounts at Hollingsworth and Associates accounting firm in nearby Blossomville.’”

  Victoria’s eyes filled with tears and her voice wavered. “My little boy’s all grown up, Jo-Jo. And Clair, our beautiful, precious Clair—”

  Both Victoria and Josephine looked at Clair and sighed.

  Stop! she wanted to yell at them. Stop, stop, stop! Between her mother and godmother these past few weeks, Clair had seen more female tears than a boy band concert.

  When Evelyn jammed another pin into the pearled bodice of the wedding dress and hit skin, Clair felt her own eyes tear.

  “Shame on you, Vickie, you’re making her cry, too.” Sniffing, Josephine took the newspaper from Victoria and folded it. “You can read this later, Clair. We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to make our eleven thirty lunch reservations at Season’s.”

  Clair opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Evelyn cut her off.

  “I can’t possibly finish that quickly,” the couturier insisted. “And she still needs to try on the shoes you’ve ordered. She can meet you there when we’re done here.”

  “I suppose that will be all right.” Josephine stepped close to her daughter and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll send Thomas back to pick you up, dear. Call me when you’re on your way and I’ll order for you.”

  While Evelyn walked Josephine and Victoria to the front of the shop, Clair turned back to the mirrors and stared.

  This time, the tears that burned her eyes had nothing at all to do with sharp pins. She looked at the clock again.

  Seventy-eight hours, twenty-nine minutes and twelve seconds….

  Jacob Carver was in a hell of a bad mood. He supposed the ninety-degree heat and one hundred percent humidity inside his car might be the reason. Or perhaps it was because he’d driven twelve hours straight through from New Jersey last night and hadn’t seen a bed in twenty-four hours. Or quite possibly his foul disposition had something to do with the fact he’d been sitting across the street from this fancy bridal store for two hours, sweating his butt off, without so much as a glimpse of the woman.

  What the hell could she possibly be doing in there for two hours?

  Not that he really wanted to know, Jacob thought as he reached for another bottle of water from the foam ice chest on the front seat of his car. There were areas where he preferred to maintain his ignorance. Anything connected to weddings was at the top of the list and a female shopping was a close second. The less he knew about those things, the better.

  He guzzled half the bottle of water, then tossed it back in the cooler. The upside was that the mother had left a half hour ago with another woman. Since he’d had explicit instructions from Lucas Blackhawk that he was to approach Clair Beauchamp only if she were alone, Jacob figured his window of opportunity would be opening any minute now. Based on the tight leash the Beauchamps kept on their only daughter, Jacob also figured he might not get another opportunity.

  And Lord knew, if Mommy and Daddy Beauchamp caught sight of a long-haired private investigator speaking to their precious little girl, they’d probably call the cops and have him locked up faster than he could say Jack Daniels. It wouldn’t matter that he hadn’t broken any laws, either. The rich had their own set of rules, their own laws.

  And he had his.

  But he had no intention of going to jail. Not for anyone, or any amount of money. He’d do what he’d been paid to do, then he’d hit the road again. Because he specialized in the most difficult, or most touchy, location of missing persons, his referral work took him all over the country. It kept him on the road more than at his apartment in New Jersey, but that was fine with him. Jacob liked to keep moving, and he liked to move fast.

  And he had the car to do it in—a ’68 Charger 426 Hemi, stroked and bored to 487 cubic inches. Restored meticulously by his own hands, his baby was all muscle and speed. On the open road, she could do a quarter-mile in 10.6.

  He just might see if he could break that record after this job was done. Maybe he’d head down to Miami for a couple of weeks, find a warm, sandy spot on a beach and share a pitcher of margaritas with…what was that waitress’s name he’d met last year when he’d been staking out a con artist at a resort hotel? Sandy—that was it. Blonde and buxom and happily divorced. He smiled at the memory, realized he’d been working too many hours for way too long. All work and no play had indeed made Jacob a very dull boy.

  But all that was about to change.

  Jacob sat abruptly when the woman came out of the bridal shop. She carried a shopping bag in one hand and a small clutch purse in the other. The sun shimmered off her baby-blue silk tailored pantsuit and picked up the strands of red in her shoulder-length dark hair. He watched as she slipped on a pair of sunglasses, then stood in front of the shop, glancing in the direction of oncoming traffic.

  Damn, but she was a looker. She was tall for a woman, he thought, probably around five foot seven or eight, very slender, with long legs and a delicate bone structure. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and finely arched brows.

  And her mouth, Lord. Wide and lush and curved at the corners.

  He sighed with disappointment. She was business, he reminded himself, not pleasure.

  But hey, he thought, snatching his keys from his ignition. A guy can look, can’t he?

  He slipped out of his car, careful not to make eye contact with her as he casually stepped off the curb. It appeared that she was waiting for a ride and he’d have to move fast or she’d get away. He was halfway across the street when she turned suddenly, then walked quickly in the opposite direction and disappeared around the corner.

  Dammit!

  Had she seen him? he wondered. He didn’t think so, and even if she had, she couldn’t possibly know he was coming for her. He sprinted to the corner, then looked down the street. There were people out walking, business men and women headed for lunch and shoppers coming out and going into stores, but no sign of Clair Beauchamp.

  What the hell? Had she gone into another store? Clenching his jaw, he was about to head for the closest shop, Maiman’s Jewelers, when he spotted the arched brick walkway leading to an inner court. The scent of grilling hamburgers and freshly made pizza drifted from the corridor.

  Letting instinct lead him, Jacob ducked into the walkway and followed it into an inner, open-air courtyard heavy with ferns and fountains. Lunch diners sat at wrought-iron tables and chairs in the center of the shaded court where vendors served everything from sandwiches to hot dogs.

  Gotcha.

  She stood in front of a corner cart where a freckled-faced young man was too busy staring at his pretty customer to pay attention to the money she was counting out. When she looked up at the moon-eyed kid, he turned bright red, then handed her a plump hot dog smothered in ketchup and mustard. Jacob shook his head with amusement, then ducked behind a fern when she glanced over her shoulder in his direction. He watched as she walked a few feet away and stood with her back to him.

  “Show time,” Jacob muttered under his breath.

  He came up behind her, stopped three feet away to give her a little space. “Clair Beauchamp?”

  She jumped, and without turning around, pitched the hot dog into the trash can. Puzzled, Jacob watched as she straightened her shoulders and turned.

  “Yes?”

  Damn. She might be business, but his pulse still leaped when she faced him. He thought she’d looked good from across the street, but close up she was lethal.

  “Miss Beauchamp, I—” He paused, then looked at the t
rash can and frowned. “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  Annoyed, he gestured toward the trash can. “Throw a perfectly good hot dog away.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lifting her pretty chin, she slid her sunglasses down her nose. “Do I know you?”

  Oh, she was good, Jacob thought. Just the right amount of disdain in her soft Southern voice and impatience in her piercing blue gaze to put him in his place without being overly rude. What the hell. What did he care if she’d tossed the damn hot dog? No skin off his nose.

  “My name is Jacob Carver.” He pulled out his P.I. badge and flashed it at her. “I’ve been hired by a lawyer’s firm in Wolf River, Texas, to contact you.”

  She leaned closer and took a look at his badge, then slid her sunglasses back up. “Whatever for?”

  “Can we sit?” He nodded at an empty table a few feet away.

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Carver. I’m already late for a lunch meeting.” She flipped open the catch on her purse, then smoothly retrieved a card and handed it to him. “If you call this number, my mother’s secretary will set up an appointment. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Miss Beauchamp.” He moved and blocked her path, watched her lips press together in annoyance. “My employer insists that I speak to you and only to you.”

  “And I insist that you let me pass.”

  “I only want five minutes.” He smiled and spread his hands. “You don’t need to be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said icily. “I’m in a hurry.”

  But the fact was, Clair thought, she was afraid. And though she was used to people approaching her, usually for a donation to a charity or a request for an endorsement, it wasn’t every day a man sneaked up behind her, caught her completely off guard, then cornered her.