скачать книгу бесплатно
The Willful Wife
Suzanne Simms
THE MAN: Rugged private investigator Mathis Hazard.THE MISSION: Pose as the estranged spouse of beautiful hotel owner Desiree Stratford - for investigative purposes only, of course.POSSIBLE COMPLICATION: Inability to keep his mind - not to mention his hands - off said Desiree.As soon as the once-reluctant detective Mathis Hazard got a look at lovely Desiree Stratford, he suddenly became a lot more eager to get to the bottom of all the weird goings-on at her hotel. And what better way to proceed than to pretend to be Desiree's husband?Yes, he knew what a tough job it would be - t would probably take twenty-four-hour-a-day, one-on-one surveillance. But hey, a man had to do what a man had to do… .
“Wife?” (#u93ba7261-df57-524c-81e8-85329779a454)Letter to Reader (#u587347e7-e6a4-5a41-b0e8-a8c25b4f28d4)Title Page (#u58f62101-ce89-540e-bb0b-df942faf58c8)About the Author (#ue9503cde-dd2e-5c41-8a31-78bf620c3384)Chapter One (#u938b8303-a374-5f60-bdbf-9c4e8077816e)Chapter Two (#u78f0e6ba-2e30-5e06-a865-d45f25b86170)Chapter Three (#u2ca0d1fa-fa45-54b2-b348-a99910b430e3)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)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)A Word About Sapphires (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Wife?”
Desiree choked out, as she speared the man with her eyes.
Mathis Hazard didn’t even have the good grace to appear sheepish or apologetic. “Ex-wife,” he corrected. “Well, almost.”
Her voice rose half an octave. “Almost?”
“We’ve been separated.”
Desiree continued to stare at him. “Have we?”
Mathis was, apparently, a teller of tall tales. “But the divorce hasn’t gone through yet.” He grinned at her. “We’re still hoping to work it out.”
As Desiree looked at him in unrestrained wonder, she heard the voice of Miss Mays, one of her guests.
“We’re all rooting for you, Miss Stratford. Or should I say...Mrs. Hazard?”
Dear Reader,
Why not sit back and relax this summer with Silhouette Desire? As always, our six June Desire books feature strong heroes and spirited heroines who come together in a highly passionate, emotionally powerful and provocative read.
Anne McAllister kicks off June with a wonderful new MAN OF THE MONTH title, The Stardust Cowboy Strong, silent Riley Stratton brings hope and love into the life of a single mother.
The fabulous minisenes FORTUNE’S CHILDREN: THE BRIDES concludes with Undercover Groom by Merline Lovelace, in which a sexy secret agent rescues an amnesiac runaway bride. And Silhouette Books has more Fortunes to come, starting this August with a new twelvebook continuity series, THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS
Meanwhile, Alexandra Sellers continues her exotic SONS OF THE DESERT series with Beloved Sheikh, in which a to-die-for sheikh rescues an American beauty-in-jeopardy. One Small Secret by Meagan McKinney is a reunion romance with a surprise for a former summer flame. Popular Joan Elliott Pickart begins her new miniseries, THE BACHELOR BET, with Taming Tall Dark Brandon. And there’s a pretend marriage between an Alpha male hero and blue-blooded heroine in Suzanne Simms’s The Willful Wife.
So hit the beach this summer with any of these sensuous Silhouette Desire titles...or take all six along!
Enjoy!
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S. 3010 Walden Ave , P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian PO. Box 609, Fort Ene, Ont L2A 5X3
The Willful Wife
Suzanne Simms
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUZANNE SIMMS had her first romance novel published fourteen years ago and is “thrilled” to be writing again for Silhouette Desire. Suzanne has traveled extensively, including a memorable trip to the Philippines, which, she says, “changed my life.” She also writes historical romance as Suzanne Simmons. She currently lives with her husband, her son and her cat, Merlin, in Fort Wayne, Indiana.
One
She was a looker.
Mathis Hazard handed the photograph back to the gentleman on the other side of the desk and told him as much. “She’s a good-looking woman.”
“Desiree is beautiful and we both know it,” George Huxley stated as he leaned back in his executive-style, ergonomically-correct leather chair. He steepled his fingers under his chin and studied the picture that occupied one corner of his desk.
No doubt former Ambassador Huxley saw in the black-and-white studio portrait what Mathis had seen: a young Grace Kelly type, right down to the long, lithe legs, the patrician features, the flawless complexion and the shoulder-length blond hair.
Yup, she was a looker, all right.
Mathis decided to concede the point. “She is beautiful.”
“To tell you the truth the photograph doesn’t do Desiree justice,” the older man claimed, running his hand back and forth along his chiseled jawline. It was some time before he added, almost as an afterthought, “She’s a Brahmin.”
Mathis managed to keep a straight face. “As in bull?”
“As in Bostonian.” George Huxley went on to explain. “Desiree was born and bred in Boston. She has the right pedigree. She attended all the right schools. She traveled in all the right circles. She traveled to all the right destinations—Paris, Florence, Venice, Rome. Naturally she studied all the right subjects.”
“Naturally,” Mathis echoed. He wondered exactly what constituted the “right” subjects for a Boston blue blood.
His companion turned out to be a mind reader. “Art history, classical music, foreign languages.”
Mathis grunted.
George Huxley continued. “Desiree lives at the right address, works at the right place, even wears the right designers. Nothing flashy, of course. Mostly Chanel or Armani.” The distinguished sexagenarian behind the rosewood-inlaid desk paused and drew a breath. Then he shook his head from side to side and admitted, “Damned, if she doesn’t do all the right things.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“According to her parents—and it’s her parents who contacted me—my goddaughter did all the right things.”
Mathis couldn’t help but notice the use of the past tense. “I repeat, what’s the problem?”
“The Hotel Stratford.”
His brow crinkled into a studied frown. “The Hotel Stratford here in Chicago?”
“The very one.”
Mathis had .only been in town a week but he’d heard of the Stratford. “It’s a landmark.”
“More like an albatross,” his client confessed. “The founder was Desiree’s great-grandfather, Colonel Jules Stratford, late of His Majesty’s Bengal Lancers. Colonel Stratford served King and country in India well over half a century ago. Apparently the gentleman felt if he could command a regiment, he could run a hotel. He retired from the military, emigrated to this country, bought an old hotel, which he refurbished, and named it the Stratford.”
“After himself?”
“Yes. Anyway, the Stratford was once the premier small hotel in Chicago. Then the Colonel got older and began to fade, as we all do, and the hotel did likewise. The gentleman passed away some twenty years ago. His widow—she was his second wife, his first preceded him in death—tried to keep up with the business, but it became more difficult with each passing year.” George Huxley paused for perhaps a quarter of a minute. “Anyway, Charlotte died a few months ago and Desiree inherited the Hotel Stratford, lock, stock and dilapidated barrel.”
Mathis waited. He was good at waiting.
“Desiree is an adult. She can spend her time and money any way she wishes to,” Ambassador Huxley declared. “That is her prerogative.”
Mathis agreed.
“However, her parents are concerned that she is allowing sentiment to override her usual practical nature. I’ve reminded them that their daughter is not only beautiful, but amply endowed with brams.” In an aside, the man said, “She graduated magna cum laude from my own alma mater, Harvard.”
Mathis was suitably impressed.
George Huxley picked up the thread of his conversation. “I have also pointed out to her mother and father that Desiree’s whole life has been spent preserving the past.” The one-time ambassador stroked his chin as if he were tugging on an invisible beard. “It’s no doubt the reason Desiree is so good at what she does.”
“Which is?”
“She’s a curator for the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Her specialty is document preservation.”
Mathis stared at the black-and-white photograph again. Strange, the woman didn’t look boring.
“Anyway, my goddaughter has taken a leave of absence from the museum and is now here in Chicago, trying to find a way to restore the Stratford to its former glory. Frankly, none of us believes Desiree realizes what she’s let herself in for. That’s why I called on Jonathan and Hazards, Inc. for help.” It was another minute or two before the former diplomat said, “Your cousin once did me a great favor.”
“Jonathan was the special agent who smuggled you out of Beirut,” Mathis stated matter-of-factly.
That brought a raised eyebrow from the man behind the desk. “Yes.” It was no more than ten seconds before George August Huxley’s curiosity obviously got the better of him. “Although it was a long time ago, I can’t imagine Jonathan telling anyone, not even his own family, about the mission.”
“He didn’t.”
“Then how did you know?”
Mathis shrugged his shoulders. “I used to know a lot of things back in the old days.”
His companion thumped his knee and laughed out loud. “Back in the old days?” Robust laughter filled the office. “How old are you? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
Mathis gave a semblance of a nod. The renowned emissary to several of the world’s trouble spots had hit the nail neatly on the head. Mathis had turned thirty-six on his last birthday.
“You Hazards are all alike.” Despite his many years of diplomatic experience, and nearly as many as the driving force behind the Kemet Museum in Chicago, George Huxley evidently couldn’t make heads or tails of the Hazard clan.
The ambassador wouldn’t be the first person who had found his family, with its assortment of brothers, half brothers, cousins and nephews confusing, Mathis acknowledged. Confusing and intimidating, if the truth be known.
“I assume that’s a compliment,” he said.
The white-haired gentleman came forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the edge of the desk. “Of course it is. There isn’t a man I admire, or trust, more than Jonathan Hazard. Hell, if push comes to shove, I want Jonathan on my side.”
“He was.” Mathis absently brushed at the brim of the hat he was holding in his left hand. “He still is. But I’m sure he considers the debt long repaid, especially since the ‘situation’ involving the Egyptologist and the Egyptian antiquities.”
“Marryng Samantha Wainwright was an added benefit of that assignment,” the older man offered up with a delighted smile. “I understand that Jonathan is on paternity leave.”
Mathis returned the smile. “He’s taken several months off to spend with Samantha and their new baby.”
“Where’s Nick?”
“On his honeymoon with Melina.”
“And Simon?”
“Simon was never really part of the agency. Besides, he just got back from Thailand.”
“With a wife, I hear.”
“He married Sunday Harrington.”
George Huxley leaned back again, raised his eyes toward the ceiling and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, keeping tempo with his own words. “Sunday Harrington? Sunday Harrington? The name sounds familiar.”
“Sunday was a model. Sports Illustrated. Now she’s a successful fashion designer.”
“So while the others are out of the office, you’ve been left in charge of Hazards, Inc.?”
“Let’s just say I agreed to come to Chicago for a couple of months and keep an eye on things,” Mathis said, crossing one leg over the other and plucking a nonexistent speck of lint off his jeans. His jacket was weathered brown leather. His shirt was starched and white. His tie was a southwestern bolo with a gold nugget the size of a thumbnail. His cowboy boots were polished to a mirror sheen.
All dressed up and no place to go.
“I hear you’re pretty good.”
Mathis shrugged his shoulders and made a noncommittal sound. Since his reputation always seemed to precede him, he rarely found it necessary to mention his credentials..
The former ambassador sought confirmation of his facts. “Army Rangers.”
Mathis nodded.
“Border patrol.”
He nodded a second time.
“A few covert operations for the government.”
Mathis lifted his shoulders and then lowered them again. Appropriately, it was neither a confirmation nor a denial of the gentleman’s statement.
“Then private surveillance and security for some of the leading heads of state.”
Another movement of his head.
“You get around.”
“I get around.”
