The Secret Night. Rebecca York
Читать онлайн книгу.
on>
There was no mistaking who she was….
Small and delicate and very beautiful, she was the woman from his dreams.
Her blue gaze was focused on him, full of astonishment and confusion. “It was you,” she whispered. “In my dreams. But how…?”
How indeed? How had they connected in such an intimate way without ever having met? Nick couldn’t focus on that now, not with her in his arms, the feminine scent of her body drawing him to her, as it had in his dreams.
She skittered her fingers across his chest, her touch raising a shiver that raced across his skin. He knew he should put her down, break the contact, yank himself out from under her spell.
That thought confused him. He was the one who wove spells, who bent mortals to his will. But with her in his arms he only reacted.
He wanted more of her. He felt the fang slits at the sides of his mouth throb with need, and he clenched his fists and teeth to keep from doing something he’d regret. But there was another powerful aroma about this woman now—the undeniable, irresistible scent of her blood.
Dear Reader,
I’m delighted to be writing another ECLIPSE book for Harlequin Intrigue. If you know my writing, you know I love the dark and spooky. Nicholas Vickers, the hero of The Secret Night, storms out of the night to hook up with Emma Birmingham, a woman in deep trouble. She’s just escaped from a commune on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Her sister, Margaret, is still there, and her life depends on Emma’s rescuing her.
Emma and Nick are attracted to each other from the first. But can Nick trust her? Or has she been sent by the cult’s sinister leader to trap him? Nick is one of my classic wounded heroes—with an edge that makes him more dangerous than most.
I’ve also brought in some of my favorite characters from previous Light Street books. Chief among them is Alex Shane, who runs the Eastern Shore office of the Light Street Detective Agency.
Next up for me is another paranormal story in an exciting Harlequin Intrigue miniseries called SECURITY BREACH. (Books two and three are by Ann Voss Peterson and Patricia Rosemoor, respectively.) Reality twists and turns, then twists again, in this exciting three-book series. The action begins after an accident in a chemical weapons plant where four men end up with paranormal powers.
Enjoy,
Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York
The Secret Night
Rebecca York
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning, bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as Rebecca York, is the author of close to eighty books, including her popular 43 Light Street series for Harlequin Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories, she’s also the author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Nicholas Vickers—He had secrets to hide.
Emma Birmingham—She was desperate to save her sister’s life.
Damien Caldwell—He used people for his own ends.
Henry Briggs—Damien Caldwell trusted him, but only so far.
Trailblazer—Why was he following Nicholas Vickers?
Margaret Birmingham—She’d gotten into a bad situation, and she couldn’t get herself out.
Butch McCard—He made no secret of his hatred for Nicholas Vickers.
Alex Shane—Could Emma and Nick count on the Light Street detective?
Contents
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
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
Nicholas Vickers, private investigator, was as comfortable in a graveyard as he was in his own game room. That the graveyard hadn’t seen a new grave dug in a very long time only enhanced his sense of belonging.
Wrapping the night’s shadows around himself like a cloak, he stood beneath a large maple tree and watched a biker gang enjoying the ambiance of Ten Oaks Cemetery. Their idea of fun did not include showing respect for the dead.
Eight of them had roared up on bikes half an hour ago. The two who’d brought girls with them had made use of the scant privacy afforded by a pair of chipped and listing headstones to satisfy their sexual needs. They were now relaxing with their friends, lounging among the tall grass and weeds.
A scruffy blonde in a leather jacket finished off his beer, tossed the can over his shoulder and opened another. He took a swig just as one of his cohorts leaned over to deliver the punch line of a joke. The blonde laughed uproariously, spraying beer all over the headstone next to the fallen one on which his butt was perched. Another partygoer clambered to his feet and wandered off into the shadows only to return a minute later, zipping his fly.
Nick watched the goings-on with disgust. These animals had no respect for sacred ground. Or any other ground, as far as he could tell.
Over the past several weeks, he’d learned that the repulsive crew had ridden down from Baltimore, about twenty miles north, to enjoy the rural atmosphere of Howard County. School playgrounds, local parks, old cow pastures—they’d put their unique stamp on a number of spots. But Ten Oaks Cemetery seemed to be their favorite. Unfortunately for them.
The small burial ground was a stark contrast to Dayton Acres, a new development of two-story colonials that stood only a cornfield away. Not surprisingly, the owners weren’t eager to share their costly locale with a bunch of crude invaders. They’d complained to the cops, who had come out a few times but, failing to catch the bikers in any illegal acts, had more or less washed their hands of the problem.
Frustrated but determined, the homeowners’ association had taken matters into its own hands and hired Nick.
As Nick watched, two of the big lugs pushed over a gravestone. It fell to the ground with a thud and cracked in half.
“Oops!”
The witticism drew a burst of laughter from the leather-clad crowd.
“Okay, gentlemen, it’s time,” Nick muttered. He was going to enjoy scaring the spit out of these worthless jerks.
He was wearing one of his favorite outfits, a reproduction of an eighteenth-century highwayman’s costume—black shirt, black britches and high black boots. In his machine shop, he’d made two flintlock replicas, except instead of holding a single shot, they each held a sixteen-shot clip filled with blanks. He stuck the weapons into his belt, then donned the other props he’d brought—a hood and vest, both black. The hood was painted like a skull, while the vest was adorned with ribs and vertebrae, all in white fluorescent