Secretive Stranger

he whispered thickly against her throat, “but I know where it’s going if you don’t say stop damned quick.”

“I don’t want to stop. I want you.”

Sophie knew she hadn’t said that. Another woman in the room had. A stranger, a completely immoral, amoral stranger.

The same stranger pushed at his sweater, took his mouth as avidly, as hungrily, as he took hers. Beneath the wool was hair-roughened skin, the ripple of muscle and sinew, nothing soft. She demanded bare flesh, needing to touch him. Everywhere. Anywhere. When he started raining kisses down her throat, she nipped at his shoulder. Just little bites.

He tasted damned good.

“Where did all this come from?” he muttered. “I thought you were shy.”

Dear Reader,

Years ago I wrote four romantic-suspense novels and always wanted to write more…just never had a chance. Secretive Stranger is the first in a Silhouette Romantic Suspense trilogy.

This one is Sophie’s story. As she and her sisters know well, sometimes you just can’t recover if your whole life was uprooted at a very young age. Sophie doesn’t willingly trust anyone or anything.

Cord starts out less a hero than a cattle prod. He isn’t who he says he is, and he can’t—or isn’t—telling her the truth. He’s the last man Sophie could possibly trust…. but the one man she must trust, to heal her heart and reach out for love.

I hope you love the story—I loved writing it!

Jennifer Greene

lives near Lake Michigan with her husband and an assorted menagerie of pets. Michigan State University has honored her as an outstanding woman graduate for her work with women on campus.

Jennifer has written more than seventy love stories, for which she has won numerous awards, including four RITA^>® Awards from the Romance Writers of America and both their Hall of Fame and Lifetime Achievement Awards.

You’re welcome to contact Jennifer through her Web site at www.jennifergreene.com.

To the infamous Creative Festers, whose love and support are unique in the universe.

You’re beyond wonderful!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

One more block. That’s all Sophie Campbell had to walk. All right, so maybe it was pouring rain and she was juggling a satchel of heavy books and an overfilled grocery bag. So maybe she never dreamed October nights could be this cold in Virginia, and she was soaked to the bone, and darn it, her feet hurt. Still…she could make it that last block, couldn’t she?

A fat, pretty orange bounced out of the grocery sack and rolled down the sidewalk. When she instinctively shifted to grab it, a head of lettuce followed the orange.

Sophie opened her mouth to let out a scream of frustration—but, of course, she didn’t. As a little girl, she’d been the attention-grabbing drama princess of the family, but at twenty-eight, she’d long conquered those nuisance traits. She could stay steady and calm in a tornado. Everyone said so.

The trick, of course, was simply self-discipline. She ignored the lost orange and lettuce, the same way she ignored the rain dripping from her eyelashes and the squish of water in her shoes. Her arms and shoulders were trying to fall off, groaning from the combined weight of the groceries, her purse, her laptop and her briefcase of references—but she’d carried heavier than this on the trek home from the metro, and she would again. She was mighty. She was strong. Sometimes.

She forged ahead the next half block, reminding herself of all the reasons she’d loved living in Foggy Bottom these last nine months. She loved her current work project. She was crazy about the old brownstone apartment. She loved the urban neighborhood—how easy it had been to find other young professional people and make friends. She loved having access to such a super metro system that she didn’t need a car. She loved…

The soggy grocery sack suddenly split. It didn’t completely crack open, just tore several inches, but that was enough to send more groceries spilling down the street. Again, Sophie was tempted to let out a good, bellowing yell. Instead, she ran.

Six more houses. Then five. The sleazy-cold rain had already soaked her blond head, slivered down her neck. Four houses. She could see hers ahead—the old brown brick with white shutters, the wrought-iron fence circling a yard the size of a closet, the broken steps up to the elegant old front door.

Her foot stumbled on a sidewalk crack. Her armload threatened to tumble completely. She ran faster, praying now. Three houses. Two. She prayed to God. To Buddha. To Mother Nature. To anyone who could help her just move those last few steps, inside to shelter.

One house away, then home. Up the three steps. Belatedly, she realized that the key was buried inside her purse—which she couldn’t possibly get to, not without dropping everything. But then she discovered that just possibly there was a God, because the front door was open.