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Gabriel's Honor
Barbara McCauley
PROTECTION AT ANY PRICETo Melanie Hart, escape looked as futile as the dark night once Gabriel Sinclair discovered her and her son hiding in an abandoned farmhouse. The beauty's barely hidden fear told Gabriel she was desperate. And when she leveled her unwavering gaze at him, he felt …consumed.Melanie didn't want to divulge her deepest secrets to her strong, attractive, would-be protector. Yet she could sense Gabriel was a man of honor. And in his embrace she finally felt safe. Could she surrender her carefully guarded heart–or would temptation cause her to pay a precious price?Hidden passions, hidden promises–revel in the unfolding of the Sinclair brothers' deepest most desirable…SECRETS!
It had been so long since she’d felt safe, even longer since she’d felt desire.
What was she thinking? How could she be doing this? Making love with a stranger!
Gasping, Melanie pulled away, tugged her robe tightly around her and eased away from Gabriel. His eyes were glazed and confused as he looked at her.
“I—I’m sorry. That was my fault.”
Melanie rose from the sofa on wobbly knees. “You have to promise that it won’t happen again. If it does, I’ll leave.”
Gabriel opened his mouth, but she shook her head. “Promise me.”
Eyes narrowed, he pressed his lips tightly together. “Fine.”
She relaxed then, drew a deep breath and turned to leave the room.
“Melanie.”
She hesitated at the base of the stairs and looked over her shoulder.
“I lied.” He stared at her, the light of the fire dancing in his dark eyes. “I’m not sorry about kissing you.”
Dear Reader,
What is there to say besides, “The wait is over!” Yes, it’s true. Chance Mackenzie’s story is here at last. A Game of Chance, by inimitable New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard, is everything you’ve ever dreamed it could be: exciting, suspenseful, and so darn sexy you’re going to need to turn the air-conditioning down a few more notches! In Sunny Miller, Chance meets his match—in every way. Don’t miss a single fabulous page.
The twentieth-anniversary thrills don’t end there, though. A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY continues with Undercover Bride, by Kylie Brant. This book is proof that things aren’t always what they seem, because Rachel’s groom, Caleb Carpenter, has secrets…secrets that could break—or win—her heart. Blade’s Lady, by Fiona Brand, features another of her to-die-for heroes, and a heroine who’s known him—in her dreams—for years. Linda Howard calls this author “a keeper,” and she’s right. Barbara McCauley’s SECRETS! miniseries has been incredibly popular in Silhouette Desire, and now it moves over to Intimate Moments with Gabriel’s Honor, about a heroine on the run with her son and the irresistible man who becomes her protector. Pat Warren is back with The Lawman and the Lady, full of suspense and emotion in just the right proportions. Finally, Leann Harris returns with Shotgun Bride, about a pregnant heroine forced to seek safety—and marriage—with the father of her unborn child.
And as if all that isn’t enough, come back next month for more excitement—including the next installment of A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY and the in-line return of our wonderful continuity, 36 HOURS.
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Gabriel’s Honor
Barbara McCauley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my husband, Frank—I love you.
BARBARA MCCAULEY
was born and raised in California and has spent a good portion of her life exploring the mountains, beaches and deserts so abundant there. The youngest of five children, she grew up in a small house, and her only chance for a moment alone was to sneak into the backyard with a book and quietly hide away.
With two children of her own now and a busy household, she still finds herself slipping away to enjoy a good novel. A daydreamer and incurable romantic, she says writing has fulfilled her most incredible dream of all—breathing life into the people in her mind and making them real. She has one loud and demanding Amazon parrot named Fred and a German shepherd named Max. When she can manage the time, she loves to sink her hands into fresh-turned soil and make things grow.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 1
The Victorian farmhouse sat quietly in the darkness at the end of the quarter-mile-long gravel driveway. The house was two-story, Cape Cod blue, though the clapboard siding hadn’t seen the wet end of a paint-brush for at least twenty years. A chill touched the night air like an icy hand; light from a half-moon shone down on the roof, which was missing more shingles than a professional hockey team was missing front teeth. The porch steps were a broken leg waiting to happen, and tall, spiky weeds choked what might have once been daisies in the dried-up front flower bed.
Gabriel Sinclair stood on the porch of the old house and frowned at the locked front door. It had been a long time since he’d broken into a house. Fifteen years, to be exact. He’d been twenty years old at the time, on a clandestine mission with his three younger brothers. Gabe had been appointed lookout while Callan waited in the getaway truck; Reese, the youngest at fifteen, found the open window, and Lucian, the most daring Sinclair—and only seventeen at the time—slipped inside Lucy Greenwood’s bedroom window and snatched a pair of her hot pink satin underwear.
By the end of that night, all eight Bloomfield County High School cheerleaders had found themselves minus one pair of panties. The Sinclair brothers were brought into the sheriff’s station and questioned, but later released due to lack of evidence. There’d been no proof, but everyone in town knew that the Sinclair boys were to blame. Who else would have even attempted—let alone pulled off—such a nefarious plan?
He smiled. Those were the days.
Gabe’s smile slowly faded as he remembered the lecture that his parents had given all four of their sons that night. What he wouldn’t give to hear one of those lectures now, Gabe thought. To see his father grim-faced and stern, dragging his callused carpenter’s hand through his coal-black hair while he paced back and forth in front of his sons, and his mother standing quietly by, shaking her pretty blond head.
Damn, but he missed them. Missed his mother’s soft laugh and her warm chocolate-chip cookies. Missed his father’s quiet nod of approval for a job well-done, hot Sunday afternoons and a family game of horseshoes in the backyard.
With a heavy sigh, Gabe turned his attention back to the problem at hand: finding a way into the house.
He jiggled the tarnished brass front doorknob one more time, but it was definitely locked tight and dead bolted. He let the rusted screen door squeak loudly shut, then moved to the front windows. They were latched, as well.
Damn.
I’ll leave the front door open, his sister, Cara, had told him earlier. If you can work up a rough list of necessary repairs and meet me at the tavern tonight, I’ll make dinner next Sunday, your choice.
Since most of Gabe’s bachelor-pad dinners were takeout, microwaved or sandwiches from his brother Reese’s tavern in town, the idea of a home-cooked meal was entirely too tempting to pass up. His mouth was already watering from the menu he’d picked out: A big, juicy roast, fluffy mashed potatoes smothered in butter and hot gravy, melt-in-your-mouth biscuits like their mom used to make every Sunday. And then Cara’s supreme specialty—apple pie.
Inspired by the image of food, Gabe hurried around to the back of the house, made a mental note to check the overhead door on the detached garage. He didn’t even think that Mildred Witherspoon—the home’s now deceased owner—had a car, so Gabe assumed that the garage door would also be in need of maintenance.
Behind the garage, cornfields leased out and tended by a neighboring farmer rustled in the chilly night breeze, and Gabe paused for a moment to listen to the calming sound. He and his brothers had played in the cornfields by their house when they were kids; hide-and-seek, soldier, cowboys and Indians. When he was twelve, he’d kissed Linda Green in those cornfields. Linda was married with three kids now.
Smiling, Gabe shook his head at the memory, then jumped up the steps of the back porch and tried the door. It was locked, as well. And dead bolted.
So were all the windows on the bottom floor.
Strange.
Gabe frowned. Mildred Witherspoon certainly had believed in sturdy locks. Which was odd, because very few people in Bloomfield County ever locked their doors. Crime was practically nonexistent in the quiet town, unless you counted jaywalking or an occasional speeding ticket on the open highway crime.
Or panty-raids, Gabe thought with a smile.
But Mildred would definitely have been safe from that infraction of the law. She’d been ninety-two when she quietly passed away in her sleep two weeks ago. A stoic, straitlaced woman whose manner was as Victorian as her house. When Mildred’s lawyer had read her will, it had been a surprise to everyone when they learned that the elderly woman had left her farmhouse and all of its contents to the Killian Shawnessy Foundation, an organization to help women in need. Cara was vice president of the foundation, her husband, Killian Shawnessy, was president.
The funds from the sale of the house and its contents would be well-used by the organization. Gabe had already promised a donation of labor from Sinclair Construction, the now five-year-old construction company that he and Callan and Lucian were partners in, but Cara needed some figures ASAP on the cost of materials for repairs.
So here he was, standing in the dark, hands in his pockets, locked out.
He looked up at the second-story windows.
The Sinclairs never gave up without a fight. They thrived on challenges, laughed in the face of adversity. And we’re talking apple pie here, folks, Gabe thought with a fresh burst of determination. Cara’s apple pie was definitely worth a few scrapes and bruises.
Muttering curses, Gabe climbed the front porch railing, held his breath at the crack of wood, then grabbed hold of the edge of the porch roof. With a grunt, he pulled himself up and crawled carefully to a second-story window where he yanked on the weathered screen. It held tight. He yanked harder. When it came loose, it slammed into his face and sliced across his cheek. He swore hotly and tossed the screen aside, then reached for the window.
It was open.
With a shout of male victory, he climbed through the open window into what appeared to be a large bedroom. In the darkness, he could almost make out a four-poster bed and a nightstand with a lamp on it. The room was musty, but Gabe also caught the faint scent of something feminine and floral. Probably sachet or potpourri, he thought, though this scent was much more pleasant than the frilly lace balls that Sheila Harper, his last girlfriend, had tucked into every drawer and closet of her house. When she’d asked him to move in with her, all he could think about was his shirts and socks smelling like a damn perfume counter. Knowing that Sheila was looking for much more than a roommate, Gabe had cooled that relationship faster than she could say “wedding ring.”
Not that he was against marriage. As long as it was someone else who did the marrying. His brother Callan had recently succumbed to the institution of matrimony, and his sister, Cara, had also gotten married a few months before Callan. The family was steadily growing, and he had no doubt that soon they’d be hearing the patter of little feet.
But Gabe was perfectly content with his life just as it was: single, no complications. Free as a bird. Socks and T-shirts that smelled like detergent, not flowers, thank you very much. And he was also content for the patter of little feet to be nieces and nephews. In fact, he looked forward to it.
He was reaching for the lamp’s switch when he heard the squeak of floorboards in the hallway outside the bedroom. He froze, then slowly turned toward the door and listened.
Footsteps?
The house was quiet around him; the only sound was the hoot of an owl from the trees outside. He waited, but there was only silence. Shaking his head, he turned back to the lamp.
And stopped.
There it was again. Not as loud as before, but he heard it clearly—the unmistakable creak of a wood floor. Then another.
The house was supposed to be empty. Mildred Witherspoon had lived alone, she’d had no children and had never been married. Her lawyer had searched for family members following the reading of the will, just in case some long-lost nephew or cousin had suddenly turned up, crying their eyes out over poor old Aunt Mildred, who they were certain wanted to leave them all her earthly possessions.
But the search had turned up nothing, and it seemed that Miss Witherspoon had indeed been completely alone. Which meant that if someone was in the house, they most certainly didn’t belong here.
He moved soundlessly toward the closed bedroom door, opened it carefully.
Squeak. Quiet. Squeak. Quiet.
They moved slowly down the stairs.
“Whoever you are,” Gabe said firmly, and his voice echoed in the house, “stop right where you are.”
The house went absolutely still, as if it had stopped breathing. Then the footsteps resumed, only this time at a run.
Dammit.
Gabe dashed into the dark hallway, made out the dim outline of the stairs to the left and ran toward them. He reached the top of the landing at the same instant his quarry hit the bottom. Gabe barely caught a glimpse of the intruder before he disappeared around the corner.
“Dammit, stop!”
Stumbling and cursing, he took the stairs three at a time, hit the bottom and rounded the corner into the dining room.
And stopped short when a fist slammed into his gut.
The punch lacked power, but the surprise took his breath away. His assailant had already turned and was running away when Gabe leaped after him and caught his legs in a flying tackle. They both went facedown on the hardwood floor in a tangle of arms and legs. A dining-room chair turned over and landed with a crash in the dark room, then a small table went on its side and the clatter of metal on wood rang out.
When an elbow smashed into Gabe’s nose, he swore fiercely, then wrestled his attacker’s arms behind his back and pinned them there. There was plenty of fight, but no bulk to the guy, no muscle, and he was considerably shorter than Gabe’s own six-four frame. A teenager? he wondered and shifted his weight so he wouldn’t hurt the kid.
“Let go of me!”
Gabe went still at the sound of the furious, but distinctly feminine voice.
A woman?
She squirmed underneath him, and with him lying on top of her, her rounded bottom wiggled against his lower regions.
Oh, yes, definitely a woman.
Her legs were long, he realized, her body and arms slender, but firm. And though it was subtle, she smelled like a spring bouquet. The same scent he’d caught a whiff of upstairs.
“I said, let go of me.” She spit each word out with such venom, Gabe was surprised he didn’t see sparks fly with every syllable.
She started to struggle again, but he held her arms tightly, as much to protect himself against another elbow in his face as to give them both a moment to calm down.
“As soon as you relax,” he said, and she countered with a quick thrust of her body that almost knocked him sideways. When he tightened the pressure on her wrists—small, delicate wrists, he noted—she sucked in a sharp, deep breath, then went still, her breathing heavy and strained.
“That’s a good girl,” he said, easing his hold on her. “Okay, I’m going to let you up now, slowly. I don’t want to hurt you, but—”
“Please don’t hurt my mommy.”
Gabe froze at the sound of the tiny, frightened voice that came from a dark corner of the dining room. He felt the breath shudder out from the woman underneath him, heard her small choked-back sob.
A woman and a child? Hiding in the darkness in an empty house? What the hell was going on?
