скачать книгу бесплатно
Little Girl Found
Jo Leigh
Strong, silent typeWhen a child was dropped on ex-detective Jac McCabe's doorstep, he voxed to guard her with his life. She had no one to claim her–except sexy caregiver Hailey Bishop. And both vulnerable ladies needed his protection from killers tying up loose ends–killers who might be dirty cops…In need of healing…Jack worried he wasn't the right man for this job–not since the accident that had stripped him of his badge, his life. But together they formed a fugitive family, working to keep one another safe…and Jack felt whole for the first time in years. Maybe he was the one who'd been found and rescued after all.
Watching Jack and the child stirred something deep inside Hailey.
Of course her maternal instincts were in high gear around Megan, but it was watching Jack that gave her the lump in her throat. He was so big he could pick Megan up with one hand, like a football. And yet he was so tender with her. Maybe out of fear, or maybe because of his good heart. Probably a combination of both.
He didn’t know it, but he’d make a wonderful father. For a boy or a girl. Hailey could see the signs, and it made her wish for a crazy second that Jack could live with them permanently. Megan needed him.
And so did she.
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
The thrills never stop at Harlequin Intrigue. This month, get geared up for danger and desire in double helpings!
There’s something about a mysterious man that makes him all the more appealing. In The Silent Witness (#565), Alex Coughlin is just such a man on assignment and undercover. But can he conceal his true feelings for Nicki Michaels long enough to catch a killer? Join Dani Sinclair and find out as she returns to FOOLS POINT.
The search for the truth is Clay Jackson’s only focus—until he learns the woman he never stopped loving was keeping the biggest secret of all…a baby. See why Intimate Secrets (#566) are the deepest with author B.J. Daniels.
Patricia Rosemoor winds up her SONS OF SILVER SPRINGS miniseries this month. Reed is the last Quarrels brother to go the way of the altar as he enters a marriage of convenience with the one woman he thought he’d never have, in A Rancher’s Vow (#567).
Finally, welcome multitalented author Jo Leigh as she contributes her first Harlequin Intrigue title, Little Girl Found (#568). She also begins a three-month bonanza of books! Look for her titles from Harlequin American Romance (June) and Harlequin Temptation (July). You won’t be sorry.
Gripping tales of mystery, suspense that never lets up and sizzling romance to boot. Pick up all four titles for the total Harlequin Intrigue experience.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
Little Girl Found
Jo Leigh
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jo Leigh currently lives just outside Las Vegas, Nevada, where she still can’t get used to the slot machines in the grocery stores. Storytelling has always been a part of her life, whether as a producer in Hollywood, a screenwriter or a novelist. It probably began when she told her third-grade teacher that elephants ate her homework.
Books by Jo Leigh
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
568—LITTLE GIRL FOUND
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
695—QUICK, FIND A RING!
731—HUSBAND 101
736—DADDY 101
749—IF WISHES WERE…DADDIES
768—CAN’T RESIST A COWBOY
832—DOCTOR, DARLING
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
674—ONE WICKED NIGHT
699—SINGLE SHERIFF SEEKS…
727—TANGLED SHEETS
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jack McCabe—The injured detective withdrew from the world—until a woman and child needed his protection.
Hailey Bishop—Her sexy neighbor had always seemed unapproachable. Then he showed up with a little girl in his arms and panic on his face.
Megan Chandler—The four-year-old had a secret.
Roy Chandler—Megan’s father left her with the only man he knew he could trust.
Bob Dorran—Jack had to take a chance and ask for this officer’s help.
Craig Faraday—The businessman knew Roy by another name. What did Roy know about him?
Crystal McCabe—Jack’s dramatic ex-wife would still help him in a pinch.
Brett Nichols—Is he a cop, or a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
Frank O’Neill—Would Jack’s former partner turn on him?
For Paulie Rose—I love you, sweetie!
Contents
Chapter One (#u3752e597-c108-5b80-8633-b3a8cd0c3748)
Chapter Two (#uea0aee0e-b344-5c29-a909-39f9ee59d938)
Chapter Three (#u14ae4215-68b8-5d77-ab03-fa23aabe6150)
Chapter Four (#u3614ae53-f0fa-5ef4-8691-4e8fc5629308)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
If the SOB said the Bulls “was robbed” one more time, Jack was going to get his gun and shoot the damn television. He should probably do it, anyway. Before, he’d never really watched it that much. A ball game here, a documentary there. But never sitcoms, and never daytime shows. He was convinced daytime television was a plot to destroy the minds of wastrels who weren’t working days like good soldiers. The only show worth a damn was Jeopardy, but lately he could never seem to get the final question right. Probably a sign of his diminishing mental capacity. His brain was turning to mush, just like his body.
Jack grabbed his long-necked Corona and took a swig of the warm brew. It was late, and he should go to bed. Maybe tonight he’d sleep. Maybe he wouldn’t lie there in the dark, listening to the low vibrations of his downstairs neighbor’s rap music, or the happy couple in 3F who liked to serenade each other with the most vile curses he’d ever heard. And that was saying something for a twelve-year veteran of the Houston PD.
And maybe tonight he wouldn’t think about the way things were now. Or the way things used to be.
He got the remote from the side pocket of the recliner that had become his home and started flipping channels. Once he was away from the sports channel, it was one “infomercial” after another, each selling some contraption he didn’t want or couldn’t use. A potato peeler. An ab cruncher. Richard Simmons weeping in the embrace of one of his acolytes.
He kept pushing the button until he found a show in black and white. He didn’t have to go further. It didn’t matter what the movie was. Sighing, he tried to get comfortable again, which wasn’t so easy. His hip ached, a throb that had become his constant companion. His bum leg lay unnaturally stiff, as if it was made of plastic, instead of flesh and bone.
But then he saw Richard Widmark in a wide-lapeled suit, his hat at a rakish angle and his smile as wicked as the devil’s pet cat. It occurred to Jack that a fresh beer would hit the spot, and maybe a salami sandwich. But that would mean getting up. He wasn’t that thirsty.
THE POUNDING ON HIS DOOR sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body and jump-started his heart. The first thing he noticed was that the television show was in color. He looked at his watch. Four-eighteen. Who the hell would bang on his door at four-eighteen in the morning?
The pounding quickened into the sound of desperation. Jack grabbed his cane, resting all his weight on the sturdy wood as he struggled to stand. The pain in his hip made him grimace, but he did it, taking a second to adjust his balance. “Hold on, dammit,” he said, but not loud enough to be heard over the fist on wood.
He lurched to the table and picked up his weapon, his thumb resting on the safety. Then he made his way to the door. He looked through the peephole and saw the distorted face of a man, someone familiar, but he couldn’t place him. He leaned on his good leg, resting the cane against his bad leg, and then opened the door.
“McCabe,” the man said, his voice so high with tension he sounded like a woman. “Thank God!”
Jack’s gaze moved down to the two bundles in the man’s arms. One of them was a child, wrapped up in a quilt. The other was a stuffed pillowcase. He looked once more at his visitor and remembered where he’d seen him before. “Roy.”
“Yeah, Roy. Roy Chandler. From downstairs. Listen, man,” he said, edging his way inside, “I need your help.”
“I’m on medical leave. You’ll have to call the department.”
“No, not that. I…it’s my wife. She’s hurt. Real bad. I need to get to the hospital.”
“You want my car?” Jack asked, confused.
Roy held the kid out, pushing the bundle against Jack’s chest. Jack grabbed hold with his free arm, instinctively, surprised at the weight. His cane fell, bouncing off the door frame. “What the hell?” he said, trying not to bounce off the door frame himself.
“I have to get to the hospital,” Roy said, dropping the pillowcase by Jack’s feet. “Now. I can’t wait and I can’t take her with me. I’ll be back. An hour. Two at the most.” Roy stepped back quickly, moving neatly out of range. He looked behind him, down toward the parking lot. Then he turned again to face Jack, the desperation that had made his voice so high now in his eyes. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Take care of her. She’s all…” He didn’t finish, just turned and darted toward the staircase.
“Hey!” Jack started forward, but realized instantly it was a mistake. The pain in his hip almost doubled him over, and it was all he could do not to drop the child. When he was finally able to stand again, Roy was halfway down to the parking lot.
Jack hobbled to the couch and used his free arm to balance himself. He swept last Thursday’s Chronicle to the floor, then put the kid down, moving the quilt aside to make sure the small bundle was in fact a living, breathing child. It was. A girl. Maybe four or five. Blond hair a mess of curls, pale skin with pink lips. Amazingly enough, she was sound asleep. He wondered how she could do that.
He’d think about that later. For now, he had to try to catch Roy Chandler. He turned, and even that small motion had to be timed, weighed carefully, planned and executed with a deliberation that made Jack sure he’d found hell and moved in. A trickle of sweat itched at the back of his neck, but he couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time, let alone pick up his cane, hold his gun and rub his neck. His focus remained on the cane and he forced himself forward. Step by bloody step until he reached the door.
He put his gun in the waistband of his pants so he could grab hold of the door while he bent for his cane. He felt as if he were using someone else’s body—an old man’s, weak and brittle. The joke was, inside he still felt like the basketball player he’d been in college. The cop who’d aced the obstacle course at the academy. The man he’d been only four short months ago.
He straightened and shifted his weight to the cane. He looked back, but the kid hadn’t moved. Then he went outside, the cold wet of the Houston night a jarring contrast to the cozy heat in his apartment.
Looking down over the balcony, he saw that Roy hadn’t gotten into his car yet. He stood under the light from the pole behind him, staring at a car pulling into the lot. As Jack hobbled toward the stairs, he kept checking on Roy and then shifted his attention to the car. A Ford Taurus, dark, two men in the front. He relaxed, recognizing the unmarked police car. HPD had half a dozen just like it for the vice boys.
Knowing they’d check out Roy and hold him for a while, Jack slowed his pace, but didn’t stop. As he reached the staircase, he realized he hadn’t asked what hospital Roy’s wife was in or what had happened to her. Why in hell he’d have to leave his kid behind, especially with him. Jack didn’t know spit about kids, except that they were noisy and they usually smelled bad.
The steps weren’t easy for him, and he had to lean on the railing just the right way. As he lowered his bad leg, he heard two short pops, and he froze, except for his thumb which released the safety on his gun almost of its own accord. The sound was unmistakable. Gunshots through a silencer.
He looked down to see Roy on the ground, a dark stain spreading on his chest. The cop in the passenger seat jumped out of the car and bent over to evaluate his work.
Jack’s every instinct urged him to hurry. To find out what the hell was going on. This was bad. It was bad in a way he could feel all the way to his bones. Cops didn’t shoot like that. Not an unarmed man.
But he couldn’t hurry. The best he could do was take the steps one at a time, forcing the pain to the back of his mind to be remembered in vivid detail later. He watched the cop stand and head back for the car. “Hey! Wait!”
But either the cop didn’t hear him or he didn’t care, because he just kept on going. Even though Jack tried like hell, he couldn’t make out the guy’s features. The way he stood, he was more of a shadow than a man, and then he was back in the car. The driver hit the gas so hard the car lurched forward, tires squealing.
A light went on in the apartment on Jack’s left, and then a woman’s head poked out the door. She looked at him with terror in her eyes.
“Call 911,” he said. “Now.”
Her head snapped back and the door slammed shut, and he could hear the dead bolt click as he finally reached the parking lot. He hoped the woman would do as he asked, but from the way Roy looked, she didn’t have to rush. Jack could see the unnatural attitude of the body, the crooked way Roy’s head lay.
