Читать книгу: «Covert Cowboy»

Colorado Confidential turns up the heat in the search for the Langworthy baby. There’s a new agent on board to shake up the case and shake down another lead—if he can handle the very cool, very pregnant Marilyn Langworthy…

“I’m pregnant. I’m not going to make a total fool of myself.”

“A fool of yourself? Why would you say that?” Con’s expression was unreadable.

“Because it would be foolish of me to believe the things you say. And I can’t afford to be foolish anymore. I’ll work with you, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“And if I want it to go further, cher?” Emerald eyes narrowed at her. “I’m out of luck is what you’re saying?”

He was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, and to pretend she was immune to his brand of sexy Southern charm would be a lie. “A man like you is never at the end of his luck, Con,” she said softly. “I don’t think I’m going to cause you any sleepless nights.”

“You might be surprised at what keeps me awake nights,” Con drawled. “If you want to keep it business between us I’ll do my best. But I don’t guarantee anything.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Take a very well-deserved break from Thanksgiving preparations and rejuvenate yourself with Harlequin Intrigue’s tempting offerings this month!

To start off the festivities, Harper Allen brings you Covert Cowboy—the next riveting installment of COLORADO CONFIDENTIAL. Watch the sparks fly when a Native American secret agent teams up with the headstrong mother of his unborn child to catch a slippery criminal. Looking to live on the edge? Then enter the dark and somber HEARTSKEEP estate—with caution!—when Dani Sinclair brings you The Second Sister—the next book in her gothic trilogy.

The thrills don’t stop there! His Mysterious Ways pairs a ruthless mercenary with a secretive seductress as they ward off evil forces. Don’t miss this new series in Amanda Stevens’s extraordinary QUANTUM MEN books. Join Mallory Kane for an action-packed story about a heroine who must turn to a tough-hearted FBI operative when she’s targeted by a stalker in Bodyguard/Husband.

A homecoming unveils a deadly conspiracy in Unmarked Man by Darlene Scalera—the latest offering in our new theme promotion BACHELORS AT LARGE. And finally this month, ’tis the season for some spine-tingling suspense in The Christmas Target by Charlotte Douglas when a sexy cowboy cop must ride to the rescue as a twisted Santa sets his sights on a beautiful businesswoman.

So gather your loved ones all around and warm up by the fire with some steamy romantic suspense!

Enjoy,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Covert Cowboy
Harper Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harper Allen lives in the country in the middle of a hundred acres of maple trees with her husband, Wayne, six cats, four dogs—and a very nervous cockatiel at the bottom of the food chain. For excitement she and Wayne drive to the nearest village and buy jumbo bags of pet food. She believes in love at first sight because it happened to her.

The Confidential Code

I will protect my country and its citizens.

I will stand in the line of fire between innocents and criminals.

I will back up my fellow agents without questions.

I will trust my instincts.

And most of all…

I WILL KEEP MY MISSION AND MY IDENTITY STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Marilyn Langworthy—Her nickname’s the Ice Queen, but her detached facade hides the guilt she feels over her tiny nephew’s disappearance.

Conrad Burke—He’s only working with Colorado Confidential because he’s hunting an enemy from the past.

Holly Langworthy—Marilyn’s younger half sister, she may know more about her baby’s kidnapping than she’s revealing.

Tony Corso—Nephew of a mobster, he used his position at a Langworthy-owned pharmaceutical firm to steal dangerous viral stock.

Samuel Langworthy—Marilyn’s father, he’s been estranged from her for too long.

Joshua Langworthy—Marilyn’s politically minded brother intends to be Colorado’s next governor.

Helio DeMarco—The shadowy mobster has a liking for biological weapons, and a hatred of Con Burke.

Wiley Longbottom—He suggested Con for Colorado Confidential. Now he wonders if he picked the right man for the job.

Colleen Wellesley—The head of Colorado Confidential, she doesn’t particularly like Con, and the feeling’s mutual.

To Wayne with Love

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Nineteen days, five hours, and—

Marilyn Langworthy glanced at the diamond watch on her wrist before focusing again on the computer monitor in front of her.

—thirty-odd minutes. Still no ransom note. Still no leads. Dear God, how can anyone hide a four-month-old baby this long without drawing attention to themselves?

The figures on the monitor wavered. She squeezed her eyes shut against the cold wave of fear washing over her, but the logical part of her brain refused to shut off.

That was why there hadn’t been a demand for money. That was why no one had phoned the police to report a crying baby in a house where there hadn’t been a baby a few weeks ago, why no curious store clerk had gossiped about someone who looked like a thug or a crazy suddenly coming in on a regular basis to buy diapers and formula. Maybe her nephew’s kidnappers had panicked, maybe they’d realized too late that snatching a baby boy was one thing but keeping him concealed while they negotiated a ransom was another.

Maybe Sky was already—

“Ms. Langworthy?”

She opened her eyes. Her expression eased as she saw the older woman standing in the open doorway.

“Don’t tell me, Elva,” she said, apology tingeing her tone. “Everyone else left hours ago, right?”

Briskly her secretary entered with the same efficient energy she’d displayed hours earlier when her working day had commenced. Elva Hare had started in the typing pool at Mills & Grommett Pharmaceuticals thirty-two years ago and had worked her way up to the position of Samuel Langworthy’s personal assistant. Why she volunteered to become my secretary when I arrived from Boston to become Father’s vice president of sales I’ll never know, Marilyn thought. But I couldn’t have handled this job without her.

“I’m no shrinking violet waiting for you to tell me when it’s quitting time, so don’t worry about it,” Elva replied, laying some papers on the desk. “I wanted to pull these sales figures together for you before your meeting tomorrow.”

“God, the meeting.” Marilyn sank back in her chair. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Under the circumstances that’s understandable.” Beneath an iron-gray perm, Elva’s gaze was concerned. “I don’t hold with this business-as-usual policy your father’s keeping to, especially since as the sole family member involved in his company you’re the only one affected. Your brother’s canceled all but his most important speaking engagements, and Holly—”

She shook her head. “Now isn’t the time to air my opinion of your half sister’s life of leisure,” she said quietly. “No woman should have to go through what she’s had to endure these past three weeks. The police haven’t…?”

“They haven’t come up with a thing, Elva.”

Marilyn heard the hopelessness in her voice as she answered the older woman—heard it, and hated herself for it. She pulled the sheaf of papers toward her, but instead of looking at them she glanced up at her secretary.

“I went to church on Sunday,” she said softly. “I can’t remember the last time I attended. Oh, Christmas and Easter, of course, and whenever I go back to Boston to pay Mother a visit. But just an ordinary Sunday? It’s been a while.”

“I don’t need to ask what you prayed for.” Elva sighed. “I haven’t mentioned anything to the rest of the staff, since the family wants to keep a lid on the publicity, but if you hear anything, Ms. Langworthy…”

“If I hear anything I’ll let you know right away,” Marilyn promised. “Although sometimes I think you’re more in the Langworthy loop than I am.” She’d meant it as a small joke. It hadn’t come out that way, she realized in embarrassment.

Elva didn’t pretend not to understand. “Your father’s a fine man in many ways,” she said evenly. “But he doesn’t like admitting he’s capable of failure, and rightly or wrongly, he sees the breakdown of his first marriage as a failure. When your mother got custody of you and went back home to Beacon Hill, the only way he could handle it was to close off that part of his life. It helped that he was so crazy about your stepmother,” she added dryly. “And to an empire-builder like Samuel a firstborn son like Joshua is a godsend.”

“Oh, Josh was always meant to fulfill Father’s political hopes, even when he went through his rebellious phase,” Marilyn said crisply. “Running for governor is just the start, and if I was ever jealous of my golden-boy brother I got over it long ago.”

“But coming back here to Colorado reminded you of how your younger half sister took your place?” Elva probed with characteristic bluntness. Marilyn grimaced.

“I was born on a Thursday. Holly is Sunday’s child.” She shrugged. “You ever hear the old rhyme?”

“I seem to remember the child born on the Sabbath gets the whole shebang, so to speak.” The older woman’s normally businesslike tones softened. “What about Thursday’s?”

“Thursday’s child has far to go.” Marilyn’s smile was one-sided. “That’s me all over, Elva. Sometimes I feel like I just have so darn far to go before I get to where I want to be. Or to who I want to be,” she added huskily. “I’m not sure I like the person I’ve become since I moved back here, so I can’t complain when the rest of the family make it clear they’d rather I’d stayed in Boston.”

She fell silent for a moment. Then she nudged her computer’s mouse so that the floral screen-saver disappeared.

“An absolutely perfect example of what I mean.” She forced a laugh. “I’m sitting here feeling sorry for my inner child when there’s a real baby missing. You’re right, Elva—Holly must be going through hell, wondering when the authorities will get a break in this case. Somehow her situation puts my little problems into perspective, doesn’t it?”

She sighed. “But meanwhile life at Mills & Grommett goes on, complete with the Wednesday morning meetings I got too used to leaving for Tony to handle when he was here.”

“I’ll inform security you’re working late.” Easily Elva slipped back into the persona of efficient secretary. She nodded pleasantly. “Good night, Ms. Langworthy.”

“’Night, Elva.” Feeling foolishly lonely all of a sudden, Marilyn flipped open the sheaf of papers, but even as she did she realized Elva had paused in the doorway. She looked up.

“Happy birthday, Ms. Langworthy.” The older woman’s tone was tentative. “At M & G we normally order in a cake for these kinds of occasions. I knew you wouldn’t feel like celebrating today, but I didn’t want you to think no one had remembered.”

A cake. As she heard Elva’s footsteps tapping through the outer offices and listened for the thunk of the dead bolt being turned in the reception area door leading to the fortieth floor hallway, a vision of what she’d been spared flitted through Marilyn’s mind. She gave a mental shudder. It was bad enough turning thirty-one. Turning thirty-one in a staff lunchroom had root canals and bikini waxing beat hands down in the excruciatingly painful category. And as Elva had surmised, this was one July twenty-second she had no desire to celebrate.

Coming to Denver was the biggest mistake of your life.

The thought dropped into her mind with the suddenness of unwelcome certainty. Unable to continue feigning an interest in the information in front of her, she got up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that took up one wall of her office. On the same unsettled impulse, she flicked off the overhead fluorescents so that only her desk lamp remained on. Below her the lights of the city spread out like diamonds on velvet.

Maybe coming here hadn’t been the biggest mistake, she told herself stonily. Maybe accepting her father’s far-from-enthusiastic invitation to take this position at his company had been. Or maybe breaking her own unwritten rule of not dating a co-worker took the prize—yet another reason cake in the staffroom wouldn’t have been a fun idea. Since that disastrously eye-opening final evening with Tony Corso and his abrupt resignation the next morning, she’d suspected she hadn’t been the first female at M & G he’d shown his true colors to. She had no desire to exchange girlfriend horror stories with Angie, the receptionist, or Leeza, the records clerk.

And none of that mattered a damn, Marilyn thought. Because everything else faded into insignificance beside baby Sky’s disappearance.

She’d had the chance to hold him. She’d turned Holly down. Regret, more corrosive than acid, spilled through her. As it had done a hundred times in the days since Sky’s kidnapping, the memory of the one and only occasion she’d allowed herself to visit her half sister and her newborn nephew came flooding back.

“Sweetie, it’s a Karan blouse and a Jacobs suit,” she’d said coolly. “Baby sick-up isn’t my idea of the perfect accessory. Here’s a little welcome-to-the-world gift for him, by the way. When I told the store clerk what I wanted engraved on it I’m sure he thought we were holdouts from the hippie era or something. Why would you pick Schyler as a name, when you must have known he’d be saddled with such an odd nickname?”

Holly’s only reply had been the annoyingly beatific smile Marilyn had privately told herself her half sister must have received along with the rest of the trappings of motherhood. That smile had been infuriating on more than one level, but at the very least it had been a clear indication that the status quo between them had changed, in Holly’s mind, anyway.

It had always been so easy to prick Holly’s perfect little bubble, she’d thought with a flash of irritation—easy and satisfying and…and justified. Except now it seemed her half sister’s lifelong lack of self-confidence where their father’s first daughter was concerned was gone. Incredibly, that smile seemed to indicate that Holly felt sorry for her.

“It’s beautiful, Marilee. Thank you.”

The use of the foolish pet name that had been the closest a baby Holly had been able to get to pronouncing “Marilyn” had set her teeth on edge. Her half sister had enclosed the solid-silver baby rattle in its nest of tissue paper and ribbon.

“Aren’t you going to let him play with it?” Her usual tone when speaking to Holly was a bored drawl. It had been disconcerting to hear a touch of sharpness in her voice, and she’d modulated it with a laugh. “It’s never too early to develop good taste, and hallmarked silver beats a chewed-up terry cloth toy any day. Take that disgusting rabbit thing away from him and give him the rattle.”

“That disgusting rabbit thing is Bun-Bun, I’ll have you know,” Holly had replied with a smile. “Sky frets when he can’t find him. And besides, Marilee—” Her smile had faltered. “—he’s just a baby. The rattle’s exquisite, but it’s far too heavy for him to lift.”

She’d dropped a quick kiss on the top of her son’s downy head. “I never imagined I’d feel like this,” she’d said softly. “I could just sit here all day and inhale him. Are you sure you don’t want to hold him for a minute?”

“I think I’ll pass on that thrill, sweetie.” She’d barely been able to get the words out. “I’d rather inhale something a little more fragrant, like a dry white wine, and I’m late for my lunch at Zenith with Tony.” As she’d kissed the air near Holly’s cheek the sight of her discarded gift had prompted her to add, “Next time I come a-callin’ on Mama and baby I’ll ask him along, shall I? A little boy should have at least one male figure in his life besides his uncle and grandfather, don’t you think?”

As soon as she’d launched the barb some part of her had wished she could recall it…and some part of her, she remembered now with shame, had felt a surge of satisfaction as Holly’s complacent smile had given way to a stricken look. Her half sister’s back had curved slightly, as if to protect the baby in her arms from the words that had just been uttered.

“You were jealous.” Marilyn stared sightlessly at the glittering panorama that was Denver at night. Her voice rang out too loudly in the shadowed office.

“You wished he was yours. Never mind that either his father didn’t want to stick around or Holly decided she and Sky were better off without him. You only used that because you wanted to hurt her, and you wanted to hurt her because you envied her. You were terrified of holding that baby—terrified of showing how you really felt, terrified Holly would somehow guess that you’d give anything in the world to have one of your own.”

Her reflection wavered darkly in the window in front of her, and she stared at the woman she saw standing there as if she were looking at a stranger. Pale blond hair brushed the woman’s shoulders. An expensively plain blouse tapered in at the waist and then slightly out again to skim a pencil-slim black skirt. Longish legs ended in narrow, elegant feet shod in narrow, elegant heels. She looked pulled-together, businesslike, attractive.

Marilyn flinched. The illusion shattered. The woman in the glass was a fraud and a bitch. The woman in the glass didn’t exist at all, except as a collection of possessions and poses.

The only real thing about her was the dread in her eyes.

“Holly’s out of her mind with fear,” her brother Joshua had told her curtly when he’d called to notify her of their nephew’s abduction a few hours after it had occurred. “She’s sitting by the phone clutching that damned stuffed rabbit of his, waiting for the kidnappers to call.”

“Sky frets when he can’t find him…” More than anything, that had haunted her over the past weeks, Marilyn thought—a tiny baby snatched away from everything and everyone familiar, not even allowed the comfort of a beloved toy. Trivial as it was, that knowledge had brought home to her the ruthlessness of the people who had taken Sky.

The people who had taken him, and who perhaps by now had panicked and—

The pain that had been building in her burst forth in a terrible, keening cry that felt like it was splitting her asunder. A nightmarish jumble of images flashed through her mind and her hands flew up reflexively, as if by pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes she could turn off her imagination. Still the pictures, each one more horrible than the last, seared their way into her soul.

There was only one way to blot them out. Marilyn stopped fighting the blackness and let it overtake her. Her knees buckled. The floor rushed up to meet her.

And the man who had been standing in the shadows the whole time strode forward to catch her as she fell.

HE WAS GOING to have to lie to her, U.S. Marshall Conrad Burke told himself as he carried Marilyn to the couch in the corner of her office. Against the creamy pallor of her cheeks her lashes stirred, and his self-disgust intensified. Merde. The lying was going to have to start now.

Me, I was born to hang, sure. Despite the situation he found himself in, a corner of Con’s mouth twitched upward as he remembered his great-uncle Eustache’s oft-repeated boast. But you were born to lie, boy, so make sure you do it like a Creole gentleman. Steady eye contact, and with the ladies, a small smile, no?

Dark lashes fluttered open. Eyes as blue as heaven gazed blankly up at him, and for a moment Con forgot everything Eustache Ducharme had ever taught him. He recovered smoothly.

“Not the way I meant to introduce myself, sugar,” he said with a quick, and he hoped, reassuring, smile, his gaze steady on her suddenly widened one, “but it seems I walked in just as you fainted. You feeling all right now, cher’?”

He hadn’t planned on introducing himself at all and he certainly hadn’t walked in only minutes ago, so even if you didn’t count the fact that he needed no introduction to Marilyn Langworthy, those were lies number one and two right there, Con thought, guilt rippling unfamiliarly through him. And the lady wasn’t buying them, he realized as he saw that heaven-blue gaze focus and begin to harden.

She was going to ask him how he’d gotten past security and into her locked office. He needed to plant other questions in her mind, and fast.

“New Orleans P.D.” He slipped two fingers into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and extracted a leather identification case, complete with gold badge. Deftly he flipped it open in front of her. “Detective Connor Ducharme. I’m investigating—”

“Is he safe?”

Under his open jacket he was wearing a waistcoat—what those unfortunate enough to be born north of the Mason-Dixon line and west of the Missouri River called a vest, he supposed. Before he’d known what she intended she’d grabbed its lapels. Slim fingers gave a surprisingly strong tug and she repeated her query, those perfect features of hers etched with strain.

“Is he safe? Have you found him? Dear God—New Orleans? Why in heaven’s name did they take him there?”

He’d needed her to ask questions. He wished now she’d asked the one he’d been trying to steer her away from.

“Cher’, I’m not here about the little one,” he said, as gently as he could. “The case I’m working involves a certain Tony Corso, wanted on fraud charges in Louisiana. I wish I had news of your nephew for you, but I don’t.”

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again he saw the urgently hopeful light in them had disappeared. Her fingers slid from his lapels.

“I—I thought maybe it was all over. The nightmare, I mean. I thought Sky might be on his way home right now.”

She took a deep breath. Letting it out, she sat up on the couch. Her head bowed, she swung her legs to the floor. Looking up, she met his look with a suddenly flinty one of her own.

“How did you know my nephew had been kidnapped? Since it’s not common knowledge in Denver, I can’t believe every last man-jack on the New Orleans force has been alerted.”

“Probably not.” He shrugged easily, more sure of his ground now. “But when I discovered Corso’s trail led here the local law brought me up to speed.”

He flicked a glance at her still-white face. Something prompted him to add, “From what I hear, the rest of your family’s sticking pretty close together these days. Why aren’t you with them?”

He’d gone too far, he realized immediately. She stiffened, and when her gaze locked on his he could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

“My personal life can’t be part of your investigation, Detective, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that question.”

She smoothed her skirt down her thighs and stood, and despite the perceptible chill emanating from her Con felt sudden heat slam into him. Not everything he’d told her had been a lie, he thought, trying to school his features into impassivity. He had asked questions before coming here, and the answers he’d gotten had all been the same. Marilyn Langworthy was a bitch. She was an ice queen. Nothing touched her—not the kidnapping of her tiny nephew, and certainly not the breakup of her relationship with Tony Corso.

Maybe some of what he’d heard was true, but he’d already seen enough of the woman to put the lie to at least two of the labels that had been pinned on her. She cared about the child—cared enough that she was being torn apart by Sky’s abduction, judging from what he’d witnessed moments ago. And if she was an ice queen, it was only because the right man hadn’t come along to melt her yet.

You gon’ be the one who does that, Cap?

The jeering voice inside his head held the same skepticism he’d heard from the late-night denizens of the Canal Street clubs he’d trolled when he’d been young enough that even hardened gamblers had felt a momentary pang of conscience before dealing a tough Creole urchin in on a game of five-card stud. He’d taken them and their consciences to the cleaners, Con recalled without regret. But back then all he’d been risking was money.

The stakes were higher here. And the odds were more overwhelmingly against him than they’d ever been in his life.

F’sure. One of these days I’m gonna come back here and give it my best shot, he answered the jeering voice with a determination that disconcerted even himself. But whether she knows it or not, tonight the lady just needs someone to be with her. And maybe if that someone gets her good and angry it’ll ease her pain for a few hours. Before I leave I can do that for her, at least.

“Let’s get back to the matter you say brings you here, Detective.”

Her voice was like everything else about her, he noted—crisp and unemotional on the surface, but shadowed with a hint of vulnerability that the casual observer wouldn’t catch. He wasn’t a casual observer, Con thought. Not when it came to Marilyn Langworthy. With no enthusiasm he took advantage of that vulnerability.

“Tony Corso,” he agreed. “Word is he was your—how did I hear it?—your good right-hand man, cher’,” he drawled insinuatingly. “That true?”

If she’d stiffened before, now her posture was rigid. Two warning flags of color flew high on her cheekbones, and when she answered him, five generations of Beacon Hill aristocracy on her mother’s side came through in every clipped word.

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you’re just referring to his position at Mills & Grommett, Detective—” She made a show of frowning in forgetfulness. “I’m sorry. Your name again?”

“Ducharme.” He deliberately took a step onto thinner ice. “But call me Con, sugar. The other’s a mouthful.”

Even if he hadn’t been trying to goad her he wouldn’t have been able to resist letting his gaze linger on the mouth in question, he admitted. Those lips weren’t Beacon Hill at all. They didn’t go with the prim white blouse and the straight skirt she wore, and they didn’t go with the smoothly brushed hairstyle. Those lush lips went with black fishnet stockings, half-undone bustiers, bed-messy tangles of hair obscuring a gleam of blue eye. They were lightly and invisibly glossed—another Beacon Hill legacy, Con guessed. He wondered what that mouth would look like slightly smudged from his kisses.

You’re wondering way too much here, Cap, for a man who doesn’t intend to do anything about it, the voice inside his head warned. Maybe you better back off a little and—

“What is it about me, Detective?” The lips he’d been fantasizing about thinned. “Why do I seem to present a challenge to men of a certain kind, like you and Tony Corso?”

He blinked, feeling obscurely outraged. “Me and Corso, cher’, we’re not two of a kind. I’ll let you take a look at his file sometime and you’ll see just what—”

“His references were solid and when he left he certainly didn’t abscond with the company’s payroll. Whatever you’re trying to charge him with, you’ve obviously made a mistake,” she interrupted him. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I wasn’t Tony’s type, I know now. But just the fact that I wasn’t particularly interested in him when we met made him determined to get some response from me, whatever it took. Even so, his approach was nowhere near as fast and crude as yours, Detective,” she added coldly.

She tipped her head to one side. “The innuendoes, the barely veiled insults. Tell me, do you ever get results with them?”

He’d given in to a reckless impulse by coming here in the first place, Con told himself tightly. He’d compounded that recklessness when he’d revealed himself to her. About the only admirable urge he’d acted upon was his hasty decision to take her mind off her nephew’s disappearance by rousing her ire, and that mission, it was all too obvious, had been accomplished.

He’d always known enough to fold his cards and get up from the table when logic and reason told him his run of luck was about to expire. Right now logic and reason were telling him it was time to walk away from Marilyn Langworthy.

Fast and crude? he thought, a tiny spark flaring inside him. Hell, I could have left you thinking anything else of me, sugar, but not that.

“You bet I do,” he said easily. “And if you were honest, you’d admit that sometimes you wish you could slip out of that ice-water manner of yours and into a little Big Easy fast and crude yourself. If you ever feel a lapse in good taste coming on, look me up, cher’.”

“And you’ll what?” Her tone was edged. “Be my—how did you put it?—my right-hand man? I don’t see my taste lapsing that badly.”

Her gaze lasered him. “But I guess I can understand how you work it, Detective. Some women probably just see a big man with dark eyes and black hair when they look at you. Some women might go for that drawl and the riverboat gambler air you put on.”

“I was born in St. Tammany Parish, honey. We all talk like this where I come from,” Con interjected. “And I put myself through college relieving high rollers of their cash on the riverboats, so that’s legit, too. I’m not the one pretending to be something I’m not.”

He smiled into her furious eyes. “Those shoes. Killer heels, sugar, and barely-there straps. They’re your secret sexy vice, aren’t they? They’re the real Marilyn. And deep down I think the real Marilyn could go for a big man with black hair and gambler’s hands if she wasn’t so damn scared of letting loose.”