She got the impression he had been standing in the doorway for some time studying her.
His dark hair was wet, and water beaded on the dark curls of his chest hair that formed a V, disappearing into the towel wrapped around his slim hips.
âIâm sorry, the door was open,â she said quickly.
He was as big a man as sheâd first thought, a few inches over six feet and broad at the shoulders. Solid looking, she thought. Not like a man who worked out. More like a man who worked.
He settled those dark eyes on her. Everything about him was dark.
âYouâre new here,â Cade Jackson said, as if roping in his irritation. âYou donât know me, so Iâm going to cut you some slack. Get out. I donât know what your game is, Tex, but Iâm not playing.â
Available in November 2009 from Mills & Boon>® Intrigue
Christmas Crime in Colorado by Cassie Miles & Nick of Time by Elle James
Christmas Awakening by Ann Voss Peterson & Beast of Darkness by Lisa Renee Jones
Safety in Numbers by Carla Cassidy & Christmas Confessions by Kathleen Long
Classified Christmas by BJ Daniels
Guardianâs Keep by Lori Devoti
Mission: Christmas by Lindsay McKenna & Susan Grant
BJ Danielsâs life dream was to write books. After a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist, she sold thirty-seven short stories before she finally wrote her first book. Since then she has won numerous awards, including a career achievement award for romantic suspense.
BJ lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, two springer spaniels, Spot and Jem, and an ageing, temperamental tomcat named Jeff. When she isnât writing, she snowboards, camps, boats and plays tennis.
To contact BJ, write to her at PO Box 1173, Malta, MT 59538, USA, e-mail her at bjdanielsmystery@hotmail. com or check out her website at www.bjdaniels.com.
This year was different. Cade Jackson couldnât swear why exactly, just that he wasnât anticipating the anniversary of his wifeâs death with as much dread.
Maybe time did heal. Not that he didnât miss his wife. Or think of her. Especially with the anniversary of Graceâs death only days away. He just didnât hurt as much when he thought of her. Nor after six years did he think of her as often.
There was something sad about that, he thought, as he watched the other ropers from the top rung of the corral. The thunder of hooves raised a cloud of dust that moved slowly across the enclosed arena.
Outside, snow continued to fall, promising a white Christmas. He breathed in the comforting scent of leather and horses, both as natural to him as the lay of the land beyond the arena walls.
Snow-covered open prairie ran to the deep cut of the Missouri River as it wound its way through Montana, the dark outline of the Little Rockies that broke the horizon.
He felt as if heâd come of out of a coma. Everything looked and smelled and felt new and different. Heâd missed a lot of holidays with his family, lost in that dark place that his grief had taken him. But this year he felt as if he might make it through the holidays without having to hide out at his cabin or in his ice-fishing shack until Christmas was over.
Cade felt an odd prickling just under his skin and looked toward the window. Snow fell in huge flakes that floated down blanketing the earth with both cold and silence. He frowned at the sudden sense of apprehension heâd felt just moments before. What had that been about?
He shook it off. He wasnât going to let the old ghosts get to him. He was finally feeling as if he might make it.
ANDI BLAKE discovered a manila envelope on her desk when she got back to the newspaper from lunch. Sheâd spent her first morning at the Milk River Examiner cleaning off her predecessorâs desk, only a little unnerved by the fact that heâd been murdered, thus the opening.
Glen Whitaker hadnât been neat. After boxing up all of his notes, sheâd cleaned the desk, scrubbing away months if not years of grime.
She gave the envelope only a sideways glance as she slipped off her jacket and hung it over the back of her chair.
The envelope was addressed to her and had a Whitehorse postmark. Nothing unusual about that except for the fact that it was addressed to Andi West, the name sheâd gone by as a television newscaster in Fort Worth, Texas.
She felt a shiver of trepidation. No one here knew her as Andi let alone Andi West. Her full name was Miranda West Blake. She had been named after her father, Weston Blake. He was the one whoâd nicknamed her Andi.
To put Fort Worth and the past far behind her when sheâd applied for this job though, sheâd used Miranda Blake and now wrote as M. W. Blake.
Sheâd thought by moving to Whitehorse, Montana, and using her real name that she would be able to escape from the terror that had run her out of Texas. Had it followed her?
Her heart pounded. All her old fears came back in a wave of nausea. Was it possible there was nowhere she could get away from it?