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Invincible
Diana Palmer
He's everything she fears…and everything she wantsMercenary by name and by nature, Carson is a Lakota Sioux who stays to himself and never keeps women around long enough for anything emotional to develop. But working with his friend Cash Grier on a complex murder investigation provides Carson with another kind of fun–shocking Cash's sweet-but-traditional secretary, Carlie Blair, with tales of his latest conquests.Then Carlie lands in deep trouble. She saw something she shouldn't have, and now the face of a criminal is stored permanently in her photographic memory…and Carlie is the key piece of evidence that could implicate a popular politician in the murder case.Her only protection is Carson–the man she once despised. But when she learns that Carson is more than just a tough guy, Carlie realizes she's endangered herself further. Because now her only chance to live means losing her heart to the most dangerous kind of man….
Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author (#u011b2b5b-d269-5b00-832f-441e1850574c)
DIANA PALMER
‘Nobody does it better.’
—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard
‘The popular Palmer has penned another winning novel, a perfect blend of romance and suspense.’
—Booklist on Lawman
‘Palmer knows how to make the sparks fly … heartwarming.’
—Publishers Weekly on Renegade
‘Diana Palmer is a mesmerising storyteller who captures the essence of what a romance should be.’
—Affaire de Coeur
‘Sensual and suspenseful’
—Booklist on Lawless
The prolific author of over a hundred books, DIANA PALMER got her start as a newspaper reporter. One of the top ten romance writers in America with over forty-two million books in print, she has a gift for telling the most sensual tales with charm and humour. Diana lives with her family in Georgia.
Invincible
Diana Palmer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Cover (#uc57bade3-d0e8-53c8-8b03-e077a1023bd1)
Praise
About the Author (#ucf8696cf-b3c0-59ac-b42f-9aa4c4eb05b4)
Title Page (#u5db45896-5659-59d4-95b0-a111566f38db)
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Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#u011b2b5b-d269-5b00-832f-441e1850574c)
IT WAS A rainy Friday morning.
Carlie Blair, who was running late for her job as secretary to Jacobsville, Texas police chief Cash Grier, only had time for a piece of toast and a sip of coffee before she rushed out the door to persuade her ten-year-old red pickup truck to start. It had gone on grinding seemingly forever before it finally caught up and started.
Her father, a Methodist minister, was out of town on business for the day. So there was nobody to help her get it running. Luck was with her. It did, at least, start.
She envied her friend Michelle Godfrey, whose guardian and his sister had given her a Jaguar for Christmas. Michelle was away at college now, and she and Carlie still spoke on the phone, but they no longer shared rides to town and the cost of gas on a daily basis.
The old clunker ate gas like candy and Carlie’s salary only stretched so far. She wished she had more than a couple pairs of jeans, a few T-shirts, a coat and one good pair of shoes. It must be nice, she thought, not to have to count pennies. But her father was always optimistic about their status. God loved the poor, because they gave away so much, he was fond of saying. He was probably right.
Right now, though, her rain-wet jeans were uncomfortable, and she’d stepped in a mud puddle with her only pair of good shoes while she was knocking corrosion off the battery terminals with the hammer she kept under the front seat for that purpose. All this in January weather, which was wet and cold and miserable, even in South Texas.
Consequently, when she parked her car in the small lot next to the chief’s office, she looked like a bedraggled rat. Her dark, short, wavy hair was curling like crazy, as it always did in a rainstorm. Her coat was soaked. Her green eyes, full of silent resignation, didn’t smile as she opened the office door.
Her worst nightmare was standing just inside.
Carson.
He glared at her. He was so much taller than she that she had to look up at him. There was a lot to look at, although she tried not to show her interest.
He was all muscle, but it wasn’t overly obvious. He had a rodeo rider’s physique, lean and powerful. Like her, he wore jeans, but his were obviously designer ones, like those hand-tooled leather boots on his big feet and the elaborately scrolled leather holster in which he kept his .45 automatic. He was wearing a jacket that partially concealed the gun, but he was intimidating enough without it.
He was Lakota Sioux. He had jet-black hair that fell to his waist in back, although he wore it in a ponytail usually. He had large black eyes that seemed to see everything with one sweep of his head. He had high cheekbones and a light olive complexion. There were faint scars on the knuckles of his big hands. She noticed because he was holding a file in one of them.
Her file.
Well, really, the chief’s file, that had been lying on her desk, waiting to be typed up. It referenced an attack on her father a few weeks earlier that had resulted in Carlie being stabbed. Involuntarily, her hand went to the scar that ran from her shoulder down to the beginning of her small breasts. She flushed when she saw where he was looking.
“Those are confidential files,” she said shortly.
He looked around. “There was nobody here to tell me that,” he said, his deep voice clear as a bell in the silent room.
She flushed at the implied criticism. “Damned truck wouldn’t start and I got soaked trying to start it,” she muttered. She slid her weather-beaten old purse under her desk, ran a hand through her wet hair, took off her ratty coat and hung it up before she sat down at her desk. “Did you need something?” she asked with crushing politeness. She even managed a smile. Sort of.
“I need to see the chief,” he replied.
She frowned. “There’s this thing called a door. He’s got one,” she said patiently. “You knock on it, and he comes out.”
He gave her a look that could have stopped traffic. “There’s somebody in there with him,” he said with equal patience. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“I see.” She moved things around on her desk, muttering to herself.
“Bad sign.”
She looked up. “Huh?”
“Talking to yourself.”
She glared at him. It had been a bad morning altogether and he wasn’t helping. “Don’t listen, if it bothers you.”
He gave her a long look and laughed hollowly. “Listen, kid, nothing about you bothers me. Or ever will.”
There were the sounds of chairs scraping wood, as if the men in Cash’s office had stood up and pushed back their seats. She figured it was safe to interrupt him.
Well, safer than listening to Mr. Original American here run her down.
She pushed the intercom button. “You have a visitor, sir,” she announced.
There was a murmur. “Who is it?”
She looked at Carson. “The gentleman who starts fires with hand grenades,” she said sweetly.
Carson stared at her with icy black eyes.
Cash’s door opened, and there was Carlie’s father, a man in a very expensive suit and Cash.
That explained why her father had left home so early. He was out of town, as he’d said he would be; out of Comanche Wells, where they lived, anyway. Not that Jacobsville was more than a five-minute drive from home.
“Carson,” Cash said, nodding. “I think you know Reverend Blair and my brother, Garon?”
“Yes.” Carson shook hands with them.
Carlie was doing mental shorthand. Garon Grier was senior special agent in charge of the Jacobsville branch of the FBI. He’d moved to Jacobsville some time ago, but the FBI branch office hadn’t been here quite as long. Garon had been with the bureau for a number of years.
Carlie wondered what was going on that involved both the FBI and her father. But she knew that question would go unanswered. Her father was remarkably silent on issues that concerned law enforcement, although he knew quite a few people in that profession.
She recalled with a chill the telephone conversation she’d had recently with someone who called and said, “Tell your father he’s next.” She couldn’t get anybody to tell her what they thought it meant. It was disturbing, like the news she’d overheard that the man who’d put a knife in her, trying to kill her father, had been poisoned and died.
Something big was going on, linked to that Wyoming murder and involving some politician who had ties to a drug cartel. But nobody told Carlie anything.
* * *
“WELL, I’LL BE OFF. I have a meeting in San Antonio,” Reverend Blair said, taking his leave. He paused at Carlie’s desk. “Don’t do anything fancy for supper, okay?” he asked, smiling. “I may be very late.”
“Okay, Dad.” She grinned up at him.
He ruffled her hair and walked out.
Carson was watching the interplay with cynical eyes.
“Doesn’t your dad ruffle your hair?” she asked sarcastically.
“No. He did lay a chair across it once.” He averted his eyes at once, as if the comment had slipped out against his will and embarrassed him.
Carlie tried not to stare. What in the world sort of background did he come from? The violence struck a chord in her. She had secrets of her own from years past.
“Carson,” Garon Grier said, pausing at the door. “We may need you at some point.”
Carson nodded. “I’ll be around.”
“Thanks.”
Garon waved at his brother, smiled at Carlie and let himself out the door.
“Something perking?” Carson asked Cash.
“Quite a lot, in fact. Carlie, hold my calls until I tell you,” he instructed.
“Sure thing, Boss.”
“Come on in.” Cash went ahead into his office.
Carson paused by Carlie’s desk and glared at her.
She glared back. “If you don’t stop scowling at me, I’m going to ask the chief to frisk you for hand grenades,” she muttered.
“Frisk me yourself,” he dared softly.
The flush deepened, darkened.
