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Knight In Blue Jeans
Evelyn Vaughn
When he quit a powerful secret society, Smith Donnell lost his fortune–and walked away from love.Beautiful heiress Arden Leigh deserved a man who could give her everything. Not a high-society outcast with nothing to his name and a bull's-eye on his back. But when Arden's curiosity made her the society's new target, Smith had to protect her–and win back her trust.Convincing Arden to let him back into her life would take a miracle. But Smith would do anything to keep her safe, even though he'd already sacrificed his heart–and this time, the price might be his life.
Before he lost the nerve, he surged forward again.
Slid urgent fingers into her thick black hair.
Bent to her for a too-necessary kiss.
Arden….
With a little sigh she parted her glossy lips to him, warm and receptive and increasingly, gloriously less poised. She was everything female, milk and magnolias and softness and beauty, and she’d once been his. For a long, blissful moment, life felt like it had before. Back when he’d had a prosperous future to offer and a heritage to be proud of, and what he’d foolishly thought was honor….
Dear Reader,
It’s great to be back at Silhouette! One of the more intriguing parts of THE GRAIL KEEPERS books I wrote for the Silhouette Bombshell line was the modern secret society of powerful men. Now in THE BLADE KEEPERS, I get to explore a few of those men.
THE BLADE KEEPERS truly would not be possible without the encouragement and support from several important people. First and foremost, I have to thank the ladies of the Texas Read ’Ems group, who strongly encouraged me to pursue the idea of writing about exiled Comitatus members—and who regularly invite me out of my cave and into the world of book lovers and good food. Then there are my faithful critiquers, including Juliet Burns, Kayli and Toni, and my creative writing students at Tarrant County College, who help remind me every day to write for the love of writing. Finally, to my agent, Paige Wheeler of Folio, and my beloved editor Natashya Wilson, as well as Patience Smith and Mary Theresa Hussey, also of Silhouette Books; you have more faith in me than I sometimes do, and I have no words to convey my gratitude. But I’ll try “thank you.”
Evelyn Vaughn
Knight in Blue Jeans
Evelyn Vaughn
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
EVELYN VAUGHN
believes in many magicks, particularly the magic of storytelling. She has written fiction since she could print words, first publishing a ghost story in a newspaper contest at the age of twelve. Since then, along with her books for Silhouette, she has written four historical romances and a handful of fantasy short stories, some under the name Yvonne Jocks. She loves movies and videos, and is an unapologetic TV addict, still trying to figure out both how to time travel and how to meet up with some of her favorite characters. Even as an English teacher at Tarrant County College SE, in Fort Worth, Texas, Evelyn believes in the magic of stories, movies, books and dreams. Luckily, her imaginary friends and her cats seem to get along.
Evelyn loves to talk about stories and characters, especially her own. Please write her at Yvaughn@aol.com, or at P.O. Box 6, Euless, TX 76039. Or check out her Web site at www.evelynvaughn.homestead.com.
Contents
Prologue
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 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Prologue
One year ago
A voice broke the candlelit hush of the secret society’s underground lair. “Nope. I’m sticking with bite me.”
The six suits across the ebony table from Smith Donnell tensed with outrage. His three friends, behind him, tensed with more familiar dismay.
“Just speaking for myself,” Smith added for their sake.
“And hardly even that,” noted his blond buddy, Mitch. “He’s kidding—Right, Smith? Ha, ha! Ha. Apologize to the nice society elders and we’ll just—”
“But bite me,” Smith continued. “This is beneath the Comitatus.”
“—commit social and financial suicide,” Mitch edited with resignation.
“How dare you?” began Phil Stuart, their overlord. Comitatus leaders were always Stuarts. The Bluetooth headset on one ear made the thirtysomething billionaire look out of place in this stone-lined vault beneath Mount Vernon.
Yeah. That Mount Vernon.
“Dare?” Smith challenged now. “We’re an ancient secret society! We should be as daring as the knights we descended from, not make war on women.”
“Not all women,” clarified some guy with a French accent. “Only those who prove…problematic.”
Smith’s friend Trace said, “Oh. That makes it okay, then.”
Smith couldn’t tell if that was sarcasm or not. Trace was big, not witty.
“Since when do we worry about feminine empowerment?” Smith liked his women saucy—one special woman in particular. But he was understandably biased. “It doesn’t hurt us. To start acting like bullies, hiding cowardice behind—”
“Enough!” Stuart slammed his fist on the table, his face flushing to match his red hair. An unnamed society elder behind him—they didn’t wear name tags—growled.
“It won’t be enough, will it?” whispered Mitch mournfully.
“It never is,” Quinn, their fourth, whispered back. The men of Donnell Security had known each other since college. They understood Smith’s temper.
Smith folded his arms, scowling. “Didn’t the Comitatus once defend the weak and the righteous? You act like we’re just another old boys’ network protecting our exclusivity. Our racial, financial and sexual…I mean…”
He shifted his weight, annoyed. “Our…” Way to ruin a good tirade.
“Chauvinistic?” suggested Quinn quietly, behind him. None of them were stupid—with the possible exception of Trace. But Quinn was the most intelligent.
“Yeah,” agreed Smith with a finger jab. “Chauvinistic exclusivity.”
“You pledged loyalty to your overlord,” warned Stuart. “I, not you, decide the proper course for the Comitatus. Your job is to obey me.”
Obey? Smith could hear Mitch whispering, “Let it go, let it go, for the love of all things precious…”
“My job is to defend the society that brought honor into my life. I won’t watch fearmongers destroy the greatness we once had. Allegedly had.”
“You pledged your life to me,” insisted Stuart, leaning across the table into Smith’s space. “Your fortune, your sacred honor.” Like their fathers before them, and their fathers’ fathers, blah blah blah.
“Nope.” Smith didn’t flinch. “I pledged myself to your uncle. He made a much better leader than you have. You? Kind of suck.”
The moment stretched, pregnant with oh-no-you-didn’t. By challenging the succession, Smith had just finished himself with the society. That imagined rumbling noise was probably his fathers’ fathers spinning in their graves.
Was heresy really a killing offense in the Comitatus? Smith tensed, just in case. But he ran a booming business judging threats, and sure enough—
“Get out,” commanded Phil Stuart through his teeth.
“Gladly.” Smith turned and walked, trusting his friends to watch his back.
“Don’t take your knife,” warned their overlord as Smith approached the rack where all Comitatus members left their traditional weapons—showy, long-bladed knives—upon entering any ritual meeting place. The two men guarding it squared their shoulders in preparation for a fight. It might be fun, but…
“We used to use swords, you know,” Smith called over his shoulder as he passed, just to be contrary. “Back when our honor meant something!”
Assuming it ever really had.
The last thing he heard before the heavy doors shut behind him was a deep growl—and Phil Stuart asking his partners, “And where do you stand?”
Hell. No matter what Mitch, Trace and Quinn chose, this had the makings of an awkward ride home. Smith jogged angrily up worn stone steps once trod by George Washington, freemasons and other Comitatus. High-tech security—a system Smith had updated himself—presented a stark contrast to the ancient setting, like the society itself. The modern Comitatus had infiltrated all levels of business and politics. It was a powerful and long-lived organization. Legend held that it had once been great.
Smith had believed in that greatness. But now…
He had barely reached the hidden garden exit behind the ornate tomb before Mitch caught up to him. Trace followed like an oversized shadow. Neither friend carried a ceremonial knife. They’d abdicated their positions, too.
Smith hated like hell to apologize, but…“I’m sorry.”
“About our fortunes?” demanded Trace as they walked, putting distance between themselves and any guards. They’d all just made some deadly enemies, after all, which explained Trace’s sneer. “Or just our lives and sacred honors?”
Smith looked from one friend to the other—and realized Quinn wouldn’t be following them. Hell. “Your honor’s alive and kicking. You didn’t have to fall on your swords to prove it.”
“You mean, fall on our knives.” Mitch’s grin was even brighter than his hair. “Oh, well. Belonging to a secret cabal of ultimate power just isn’t what it used to be. I mean, even Trace would have drawn the line at hunting down women.”
Trace nodded in big, sullen agreement. Then he frowned. “Hey!”
And there they stood, waiting for Smith, suddenly their leader, to say what happened next. As if he had any idea, beyond…bad. Bad, bad things. They’d been born into this society. They’d taken oaths at the age of fifteen. And now…
“What say we get drunk?” he suggested, to their certain approval.
Drunk was the only way he would manage what he had to do next.
It was the only way to say goodbye to Arden Leigh.
Chapter 1
“Beauty is power; a smile is its sword.” —John Ray, English naturalist
Arden was so busy with her hostess duties that she didn’t notice the small exodus until her guest of honor pointed it out.
“I can always tell I’m back in the South,” drawled gubernatorial candidate Molly Johannes, “when certain menfolk head off to talk on their own.”
Then Arden saw it and silently cursed herself. True, she’d had to monitor the needs of her guests, the caterers and the string quartet. That was why she hadn’t bothered with an escort tonight. Her late stepmother had done such an excellent job with such functions, Arden didn’t want to disappoint her memory. And true, men often drifted away to private conversation in their social circle—a common holdover from the days of brandy and cigars. But Arden expected better than “common,” especially from her father.
Her first thought was, Well, sugar. Sugar meaning something nastier.
But she simply smiled her Miss Dallas smile, complete with dimples, and covered for the men. “As long as they’re talking about how to make you governor, Comptroller Johannes, I wouldn’t hold their little rituals against them.”
“Call me Molly, please! State Comptroller is a mouthful even for the state comptroller.” The stocky, middle-aged woman shook her head with amusement. “I’m still not sure why an old boys’ club like your daddy’s is willing to support me, though I suspect you had something to do with it. But as long as they believe in my message, I’m willing to grant them as much time in their clubhouse as they want.”
Arden laughed with her. But as soon as she got Molly talking to another guest, she took a moment to slip out back, into the shadowy August heat of her father’s gardens. The clink of wineglasses and murmur of conversation faded like the brightly lit rooms as she let the French door swing shut behind her—and glimpsed, just for a moment, a twinkling of light across the darkness.
She blinked. It had been years since Dallas County had seen many fireflies outside the botanical gardens. Highland Park—a small, exclusive city surrounded by the larger sprawl of Dallas—had plenty of landscaping and parks, and yet…
The air-conditioned chill of indoors faded off her bare arms as Arden scanned the stone paths, the swimming pool, the magnolia and live-oak trees, all the way back to the estate’s old well. The light didn’t repeat.
She noted the steady glow from what had once been a guest-house but now was her father’s detached study. Shadows moved behind the shades—the usual deserters from her soiree, no doubt. So she headed toward the detached den to sweetly bully her father and his friends back into their public responsibilities.
Which is when a dark-haired, dark-suited young man emerged from behind the trunk of the nearest oak. That alone startled her, even before she registered the huge hunting knife in his hands.
Really. A hunting knife paired with a Ralph Lauren suit.
Only the unreality of it explained how easily she folded her bare arms, cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “So much for Daddy’s top-notch security,” she drawled in accusation. “Whatever do you think you’re doing?”
The extra long serrated blade made her stomach go all knotty and sick. But breeding, and her former experience in pageants, gave her skill at hiding her feelings, especially around a man younger than her twenty-five years.
Also? Fear had nothing on her annoyance.
“You need to go back inside the house now,” ordered the young man. He wore a small goatee and a had Yankee accent. Massachusetts, she recognized with an even greater flare of surprise. Unless she was mistaken, and roving bands of Bostonians had migrated down to the Lone Star State for a surprisingly well-dressed crime spree, this was one of her guests! But how had she not caught his name?
