Jean Barrett - The Hunt For Hawke's Daughter

She reached for her purse. “I have a photo of Livie,” Karen explained quickly.

He glanced down at the photograph while she watched his face, waiting for some sign of awareness. There was none. Not yet.

“Her hair wasn’t curled for the picture,” she said. “It’s naturally wavy, and even darker than it looks here. And her eyes—you can’t tell in this—but her eyes are a dark blue.”

Devlin looked up, catching her gaze. “How old is your daughter?”

“Livie just turned three.”

When she thought she couldn’t endure another second of his silent scrutiny, he glanced at the picture again. “It isn’t possible. We took precautions.”

“Yes, and sometimes even the most careful precautions fail.”

“And just when,” he growled, “were you planning to tell me about her? Or, if I hadn’t turned you down just now, would you ever have told me at all?”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

We have another outstanding title selection this month chock-full of great romantic suspense, starting with the next installment in our TOP SECRET BABIES promotion. In The Hunt for Hawke’s Daughter (#605) by Jean Barrett, Devlin Hawke had never expected to see Karen Ramey once she’d left his bed—let alone have her tell him his secret child had been kidnapped by a madman. Whether a blessing or a curse, Devlin was dead set on reclaiming his child—and his woman.…

To further turn up the heat, three of your favorite authors take you down to the steamy bayou with three of the sexiest bad boys you’ll ever meet: Tyler, Nick and Jules—in one value-packed volume! A bond of blood tied them to each other since youth, but as men, their boyhood vow is tested. Find out all about Bayou Blood Brothers (#606) with Ruth Glick—writing as Rebecca York—Metsy Hingle and Joanna Wayne.

Amanda Stevens concludes our ON THE EDGE promotion with Nighttime Guardian (#607), a chilling tale of mystery and monsters set in the simmering South. To round out the month, Sheryl Lynn launches a new series with To Protect Their Child (#608).Welcome to MCCLINTOCK COUNTRY, a Rocky Mountain town where everyone has a secret and love is for keeps.

More action and excitement you’ll be hard-pressed to find. So pick up all four books and keep the midnight oil burning.…

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

The Hunt for Hawke’s Daughter

Jean Barrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

If setting has anything to do with it, Jean Barrett claims she has no reason not to be inspired. She and her husband live on Wisconsin’s scenic Door Peninsula in an antique-filled country cottage overlooking Lake Michigan. A teacher for many years, she left the classroom to write full-time. She is the author of a number of romance novels. You can write to Jean at P.O. Box 623, Sister Bay, WI 54234.

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

308—THE SHELTER OF HER ARMS

351—WHITE WEDDING

384—MAN OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN

475—FUGITIVE FATHER

528—MY LOVER’S SECRET

605—THE HUNT FOR HAWKE’S DAUGHTER

Karen Ramey—She faced a mother’s worst nightmare and a temptation she struggled to resist.

Devlin Hawke—The private investigator couldn’t refuse the woman from his past, but he feared her effect on him.

Livie—The little girl was a helpless pawn in a game of terror.

Michael Ramey—He guarded a horrifying secret.

Maud Dietrich—She was Karen’s friend and business partner, but could she be trusted?

Bonnie Wodeski—Michael’s assistant knew the truth, but would she live long enough to tell it?

Scott Wodeski—He was a frightened and unwilling player in his sister’s scheme.

Sheriff Neil Holland—He was overwhelmed by the situation.

Veronica Delgado—Her story was a credible one, but was she as innocent as she claimed?

Cassius Bennett—He was a frail old man who didn’t seem to know what was happening.

The Hawke family—Would Devlin ever let them matter to him again?

To the Grutzmachers of Passtimes Books

and to Roxanne of Book World.

Bless you for your years of support.

You’re the best.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

San Francisco—several years ago

“Oh, what a goddess you are!” he whispered eagerly. “Everything a man dreams of, and more!”

Her name was Antonia, and she had the sleek, classic lines of a creation so perfect, so thoroughly devoted to pleasure, that she could almost be defined as obscene. He didn’t care. She was worth every penny of what it had cost him to possess her.

“You’re mine now,” he gloated. “Every precious inch of you.”

Fletcher Stowe’s eyes glowed as they devoured her exquisite, gleaming surfaces. His aging, veiny hand trembled when he leaned forward from his motorized wheelchair to stroke the white leather that sheathed this portion of her elegant body.

Fletcher had told Dennis, his caretaker and bodyguard, to go away. He wanted to be alone with Antonia, to savor her at leisure and in private while she was still as fresh and untouched as a virgin. Tomorrow he would share her with the others, introduce her to his young bride, but tonight he wanted Antonia to be exclusively his.

Thirty-five million dollars. That’s what Antonia had cost him. Thirty-five million dollars of pure luxury delivered to him only hours ago. Almost two hundred feet from bow to stern, furnished with every high-tech system imaginable, fitted with exotic woods and precious fixtures, Antonia was already the envy of every yachtsman on the West Coast.

The crew would arrive tomorrow to prepare Antonia for her maiden voyage to Asia, which would also be Fletcher’s honeymoon cruise with his bride. But at this moment he and Dennis were alone on the yacht. Having toured its guest staterooms in his chair, admired the magnificent master suite he would share with Veronica and approved the entertainment room with its mahogany dance floor he would never use, Fletcher had reached the sky lounge.

It was his favorite of the several public rooms with its ceiling, as well as its walls, clad in white leather trimmed in Madagascar ebony and its six-foot-high windows framing views of the majestic San Francisco skyline. He parked his chair in front of one of those windows and gazed out at the winking lights, chuckling to himself.

This night was his triumph. He had fought them and won. They had all been against him, his family, his friends, his employees. They said the car accident had changed him, robbed him of his wits as well as the use of his legs. Said that he was old and foolish, the victim of a conniving young woman interested in nothing but his money.

One of his sons had tried to have him declared incompetent. The other had tried to gain control of his computer software company. They had both failed, along with their army of lawyers. Fletcher Stowe was still in charge of his accumulated millions.

“And I intend to go on spending them,” he chortled to the hills outside the window. “The frugal days are over.”

There was a six carat blue diamond ring locked away in the safe of his mansion. He was going to present it to Ronnie at the end of the week when they were married. They were already discussing plans for an extravagant new house. He would build it for her when they returned from their honeymoon. No expenses spared. She made Fletcher happy, which was more than either of his sons or his late wife had ever done for him.

He had survived the car accident. A near-death experience that had taught him his fortune meant nothing if he didn’t spend it. So now he was going to live. Starting tonight. Ronnie was waiting for him back at her apartment, and he was suddenly restless, anxious to join her.

Fletcher seized the small, two-way radio hanging from the arm of his chair and pressed the call button. “All right, Dennis,” he spoke into the mouthpiece, “I’m ready to leave.”

He waited a few seconds. There was no response. Irritated by the delay, he repeated his summons. “Dennis, I want to leave.”

Silence. Damn the fellow! Where was he? Fletcher had told his caretaker to leave him alone, not leave the yacht. If he had disobeyed and gone ashore….

He wasn’t used to being kept waiting. Angry now, he tried again. “Dennis, you’d better be there.”

Still no answer. There had to be a problem. Maybe it was a malfunction with the two-way, because even if Dennis had gone ashore he would have carried the instrument with him clipped to his belt.

No choice about it. Fletcher would have to go looking for him. Muttering his displeasure, he pivoted and headed for the nearest exit, his chair whirring softly. The Antonia had been fully equipped on every level for the comfort and convenience of his handicapped condition. The door slid open automatically as he approached it.

Once out on the covered deck, he lifted his head and shouted. “Dennis, I need you!”

There was no reply. Fletcher became aware of the lonely stillness. He wasn’t a nervous man, but suddenly he had a case of the jitters. Being bound to a wheelchair like this made him feel vulnerable. And it was late. There was no one down on the dock. He didn’t like it.

Nonsense. He wasn’t helpless. No reason at all to panic. Dennis had to be somewhere on the yacht. The crew quarters were located forward on the lower level. His caretaker-bodyguard would occupy one of those cabins. Probably he had gone down there to inspect that area. That’s where Fletcher would find him.

He rolled along the deck to the nearest of the two elevators. Ah, he was right. The indicator light revealed that the car was rising from the crew deck. Dennis was on his way up.

Fletcher faced the elevator, ready to lecture its occupant. The car arrived, the door whooshed back to reveal the caretaker inside. His brawny figure was sprawled on his back, staring sightlessly at the finely paneled ceiling overhead. Fletcher gazed in horror at the blood that was already caking around the wound in the man’s chest.

There was no sound behind him. But Fletcher knew. He could sense the danger. Alarmed, he whirled around in his chair. He had no time to cry out and only a second to register the image of a powerful revolver in a gloved hand. Then the weapon, equipped with a silencer, spat at him, drilling him cleanly through the forehead.

THE TWO homicide detectives leaned over the rail of the Antonia, watching the morning sun emerging through the mist that cloaked the bay. They were alone now on the yacht. The last of the assorted evidence-gatherers had departed from the crime scene.

“Got a nasty feeling about this one,” the heavier of the two men remarked.

“Yeah, I know. No witnesses, no real evidence, and the night watchman out at the gate said he didn’t see or hear a thing. Whoever pulled it knew just what they were doing.”