Dear Reader,

      First let me thank you for all your amazing letters and e-mails about Merri in Silent Weapon. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed each and every one. This book is in large part due to your tremendous response to her story. I hope you will enjoy Merri’s newest exciting adventure as much as I enjoyed writing it.

      Please visit my Web site at www.debrawebb.com and let me hear from you as soon as you’ve finished the book! I can’t wait to see what you think of Merri’s developing relationship with one sexy cop.

      Look for my next Bombshell book coming in June 2006. I promise you many more intriguing adventures with my kick-butt ladies. And who knows, maybe you’ll be seeing more of Merri as she makes her mark as Nashville’s sexy, silent weapon!

      Regards!

      Debra Webb

      Silent Reckoning

      Debra Webb

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      DEBRA WEBB

      was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it bad enough. She began writing at age nine. Eventually she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried some other occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners, working in a factory, a day-care center, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998, her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345 or visit her Web site at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

      This book is dedicated to a very special

      young man, my son-in-law, Mark Jeffrey.

      Thank you for making my daughter happy.

      Contents

      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 1

      I read an article once that championed the legalization of prostitution. After all, the writer insisted, it is the oldest profession known to civilized man. At that juncture in the article I had paused to frown at the use of prostitution and civilized in the same paragraph. No offense to ladies of the night, but there is absolutely nothing civilized about the profession.

      Case in point: I, Merrilee Walters, am standing here on a Nashville street corner way east of 2^nd Avenue and Broadway, not exactly the ritziest section of town. You know the section I mean. Friday-night traffic is heavy. The weather is unseasonably warm for late March, so the convertible tops and windows of cars are down, allowing drivers to enjoy the first previews of summer.

      The hot pink skirt I’m wearing barely covers my rump. The fishnets are making my legs itch and my feet are absolutely killing me in these damned thigh-high stiletto boots. As if that isn’t bad enough, the matching pink tube top keeps creeping down to give a preview of its own.

      I can’t believe I agreed to this. What self-respecting redhead would wear hot pink?

      If the outfit isn’t barbaric enough to make you shudder, I have to put up with all the wolf calls and lewd comments shouted at me from the passing cars. I don’t have to actually hear the words. I see the faces leaning out windows. I can fill in the blanks. And, well, lip-reading is my specialty.

      Don’t let anyone kid you. Prostitution is pure hell. And I haven’t even gotten to the part with the johns yet.

      My mother always told me that bad girls—translation according to the Southern Mothers’ Dictionary: any female who has sex outside marriage—went to hell. Well, I’m here to tell you, she’s right. This is surely hell.

      Actually I’m not a hooker. I’m a detective in Metro’s Homicide Division and this is an undercover operation to nail a scumbag who likes to damage prostitutes, to the point that two have died. As if that isn’t bad enough, he’s suspected of having killed a cop—one of Metro’s finest. I can tell you right now, I wouldn’t want to be him when he’s finally caught.

      With the creep in hiding, there is only one way to lure him out.

      I shifted my weight to the other foot and watched the woman across the street. Tall, smooth dark skin. Very pretty with sleek black hair cascading around her shoulders. Shameka had survived an attack by this low-life. She’d escaped certain death by the skin of her teeth—and plain old street smarts. Once she’d gotten over the initial fear, she’d marched into Metro and demanded to be used as bait to catch him. A gutsy move from a gutsy lady. And exactly the break Metro had been looking for.

      She was scared tonight though. I could tell. But she would die before she’d back down. She wanted to get this guy almost as bad as we did—we being the cops.

      I haven’t always been a cop. Just over three years ago I was an elementary school teacher. Really, I was. The only four-letter words I used on a regular basis were Spot, Dick or Jane. Well, okay, truth is, that hasn’t changed. As much as I try to fit in, foul language just doesn’t work for me. Now my colleagues, well, they go into a bar and five minutes later sailors come running out. But they watch their mouths around me out of respect. I like that.

      And I love being a cop.

      Getting back to how I ended up on this street corner…

      I grew up in a houseful of boys, all cops or firemen—except my dad, he’s a CPA, weird huh? Anyway, three years ago I lost my hearing. I don’t mean it faded so that I needed a hearing aid. I mean, I came away from a merciless infection with profound loss. I hear nothing at all. Not a single sound. Sometimes I think I do, but my doctors