Perilous Passions

By Teri Thackston

A winter storm strands feisty heiress Reilly Shea and by-the-book Deputy Marshal Hunt Ramsey in her Harmony Falls home. Attraction is instant, fierce and hot enough to melt the New England ice surrounding them. But Hunt is looking for a cop killer and Reilly is not only a sexy distraction, she might have information he needs. Can he get that information without alerting her to his real quarry? His strange questions convince Reilly that she may have a personal stake in his case...or that he’s trying to get his hands on her inheritance.

From experience, Reilly believes that men want her only for her wealth. Hunt’s past convinces him that love is a fairytale concocted by rich young women seeking escape from their boring lives. Neither intends to be used again.
But when the killer stalks the ice-bound community, danger drives them together. Desire keeps them there. Reilly’s giving spirit and artistic lovemaking free Hunt from his jaded past, while his strength and protectiveness inspire Reilly’s confidence in herself. . .and in him. Love eventually overcomes suspicion. . .leaving only the killer to stand in their way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teri Thackston
• Release date: Dec 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463681091

Teri Thackston

Teri Thackston is a native Texan and life-long lover of storytelling. Her award-winning novels cover the spectrum of romance, from suspense to paranormal to historical. Her very first novel—a blatant rip-off of the popular television series Get Smart—was written when she was at the wise old age of eleven years and will never—to the delight of readers everywhere—see the light of publication. Her more original works are seeing that light today and she hopes that fact will delight those same readers.

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Perilous Passions

by

Teri Thackston

Perilous Passions

Copyright 2017

Teri Thackston

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or used in whole or part by any means without the written permission of the author ([e-mail]). That means that anyone who purchases the book—or receives it as a gift—may not then distribute any copies to other people without receiving written permission from the author.

All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, with or without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.00.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons—living or dead—or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Cover Design Copyright 2017 Teri Thackston

Images for cover design purchased from Dreamstime.com

Background credit: © Pklimenko | Dreamstime.com - https://www.dreamstime.com/stock-image-bridge-over-river-image23660761#res3736296>Bridge Over River Photo

Man’s image: © Stokkete | Dreamstime.com - https://www.dreamstime.com/stock-photo-cool-handsome-man-pointing-gun-aggressive-shirt-jacket-image49694714#res3736296>Cool Handsome Man Pointing A Gun Photo

Woman’s image: © Salomehoogendijk | Dreamstime.com - https://www.dreamstime.com/royalty-free-stock-image-beautiful-brunette-woman-red-lips-red-sexy-dress-looking-to-side-image35642306#res3736296>Beautiful Brunette Woman With Red Lips And Red Sexy Dress Looking To The Side Photo

Perilous Passions is a 2nd edition, publication and copyright by Teri Thackston 2017

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Original Electronic Book Publication: March 2007

by Cerridwen Press/Blush (Ellora’s Cave)

Copyright© 2007 Teri Thackston

Original ISBN 9781419907883

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Dedication

To my parents and sisters, who always believed.

To my sons, who cheered me on.

To Hal, my own passion.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Boy Scouts of America Corporation

British Airways: British Airways PLC Corporation United Kingdom.

Rolex Watch USA Inc.

Wal-Mart: Wal-Mart Stores, Inc.

Weight Watchers International Inc.

Chapter One

Deputy Marshal Hunt Ramsey knelt in the shadows behind the low stone wall. Excitement sizzled through him as a light moved through the converted carriage house ahead. The power had gone out moments earlier, but the unexpected outage served him as well as it served the intruder, keeping Hunt and his partner hidden in the night.

You think it’s Van Horn, sir? Deputy Andy Graff crouched on Hunt’s left. Feverish since early afternoon, he shivered inside his dark pullover sweater as the autumn gale swept in.

Maybe. Hunt tightened his jaw to control his own shivering. Lightning flickered. Thunder, muffled by roiling clouds of snow, echoed above the Hudson River valley.

You don’t think it’s Yago, do you?

Maybe it was fever that lit the young man’s dark irises, but Hunt knew that Andy— like himself—would risk his health to catch Enrique Yago. Losing a fellow officer had that effect on a man.

Hunt studied the mysterious sedan parked on the drive behind them. Was it possible their ultimate quarry had come to Harmony Falls hoping to catch Cliff Van Horn himself?

Hunt nodded toward the sedan. You check out the car. I’m going in.

Andy caught Hunt’s arm. You might need help.

If it’s Yago, I’ll—

Shoot first and ask questions later? Andy’s fevered eyes gave his cherubic face a feral expression. Not your style, sir.

It isn’t my style to coddle killers, either. To save my hide, I would definitely shoot first. Hunt touched Andy’s shoulder. But don’t worry. I want to savor my revenge.

Andy nodded and slipped away. Drawing his gun, Hunt faced the dark carriage house. Another flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the building and revealed someone garbed in a heavy, hooded coat moving around inside.

Slipping over the stone wall, Hunt crossed the dark patio. Silently, he unlocked the French doors and crept inside.

The stone building was cold and stale with the scent of old paint and canvas. Something heavy hit the floor in the bedroom. Fabric rustled and then booted footsteps moved from floor to rug and back again. The intruder made no attempt at silence.

Hunt inched toward the open bedroom door, paused there and listened. His quarry had moved into the adjoining bathroom. Easing through the doorway, Hunt crossed the oak floor and took a position against the wall just outside the bathroom.

The beam from a flashlight bobbed across the floor and struck the edge of a rug at the foot of the bed. A body moved through the darkness behind the light. Hunt reached out. He meant to move in fast, jab his gun into the man’s ribs and identify himself. Instead, his fingers tangled in the loose weave of a sweater. A high-pitched squeal erupted as the intruder whirled, flashlight swinging at Hunt’s head.

Ducking, Hunt swung his right foot out to trip the intruder. But sweater yarn caught his fingers and he fell, too. Flying from his other hand, the gun clattered across the floor. Something cold and wet hit his face and neck as he and the prowler sprawled across the rug.

Lying on top of his captive, Hunt realized immediately that the intruder was neither of the men he’d expected.

He swore under his breath. This intruder had breasts.

As the stranger crushed her body into the hard floor, fear swept through Reilly Shea. But it wasn’t a paralyzing fear. It was the kind that made a woman react instinctively.

Tensing, she snapped her right knee up. A guttural cry erupted from her attacker. Tumbling off her, he rolled across the floor.

Reilly scrambled to her feet but immediately tripped over the suitcase she’d dropped at the foot of the bed. Her right ankle popped. Pain shot up the outside of her leg. Twisting, she went down again.

Lightning flashed. In its brief flare, she saw the silhouette of her assailant as he rose to stand over her. But he didn’t attack again. Instead, leaning forward, he rested both hands on his thighs and sucked in several deep, loud breaths. He turned his head from side to side as if searching for something on the floor.

Something personally—and physically—precious to him, she hoped. Something my knee knocked right out of his pants!

Ignoring the pain in her ankle, she crab-walked backward into the studio area of the carriage house. Heart pounding, she vowed not to be another rape or murder victim appearing on tomorrow’s news. If she could make it to the front door before he recovered, she might have a chance to escape to the Van Horn house across the road.

She whipped over onto her knees but in spite of the damage she’d done to his groin area, he moved faster. Grabbing her, he tossed her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing and then carried her to the sofa in the main room.

Don’t move. His voice sounded tight as he dumped her on the slick leather cushions.

But Reilly wasn’t stupid. Naïve, maybe. Easily fooled, definitely. A pushover for a sexy male smile…ooh, brother. But she wasn’t stupid.

Despite the man’s size and strength and her own burning ankle, she tensed to leap off the sofa and deliver another jab of her knee where it could do the most damage. But before she could move, power returned to the building and the overhead light flared on. Reilly blinked and then stared at her attacker’s right hand. The man had apparently found what he was looking for and it hadn’t fallen out of his pants.

He was holding a gun.

Hunt sucked in another breath as his inner thigh throbbed. Whoever she was, the young lady sure knew how to use her knee. Lucky for him, she’d missed her target by a few inches.

Not wanting to give her a second chance to incapacitate him, he backed off another two steps. Who are you?

She stared up at him, eyes almost obscured by the fall of hair over her face. Auburn on one side, sloppily streaked with black on the other, her hair formed a tangled, bicolored curtain over her features.

Strange dye-job, he thought and then focused on the wet mass dripping down the middle of his chest. Whatever she’d spilled on him was sticky and cold where it had soaked through his sweater.

Hunt grimaced as the smell of heavily sweetened coffee filled his head. Damn! That’s gonna stain.

Through the mass of her unusual hair, her gaze shifted toward the gun and then back to his face. Slowly, she raised a hand. Three wide wooden bracelets clattered down her arm as she brushed back her hair.

Hunt just stopped himself from sucking in another breath that had nothing to do with pain. In spite of her wild hair and obviously violent nature, she was the best-looking woman he’d ever seen. And Hunt had seen a lot of good-looking women in his life.

But this one…damn! The valentine-heart shape of her face framed the features of an angel. Her eyes were green, brown, blue, gold…what color didn’t he see peering back at him? Below her sassy little nose, her full, naked lips pouted in a way that begged to be kissed. And nibbled. And parted with his tongue and plundered…

Heat shot through him. His gaze slid down her body, confirming that her figure matched her face. Sassy and stacked and mind-numbingly attractive, she had an immediate effect on his sex-deprived body.

Give me your name, he said, fixing his gaze on her forehead as he tried to focus on why he was here instead of on a sudden jolt of need. And give it to me fast.

She blinked rapidly. Reilly Shea.

Hunt’s stomach tightened and a rush of blood that made the bruise on his thigh throb. What?

My name is Reilly Shea. Who…who are you?

Hunt stared at her. That couldn’t be true. He needed it not to be true. Anger, worry and arousal combined to tighten his jaw so that he had to grind out his next words. Reilly Shea is in Europe. Try again.

Surprise brightened the green in her eyes. How did—

ID. He gave his gun a twitch. Where is it?

In…in my purse. In there…on the bed.

Hunt started after the purse but then stopped. This woman might be a decoy sent to distract him and Andy while Cliff Van Horn approached his own nearby home. And what a distraction she was. But that made no sense. No one outside the Marshals Service knew they were in Harmony Falls.

Why don’t you get it for me? he suggested.

I can’t walk. She gestured toward her right foot. I hurt my ankle when you attacked me. Speaking of which—

Be quiet, Hunt ordered and when she obeyed with a start, he looked down her body again. Clad in a snug pair of jeans and leather boots, both her legs looked fine to him. More than fine.

Focus, Ramsey, focus!

Those fine legs proved she wasn’t Reilly Shea. So did the rest of her sinfully delicious body. Although he hadn’t seen any recent photos of her, her Marshals Service profile said that Reilly Shea weighed more than two hundred pounds. At five-feet-four in height, Paul Shea’s niece couldn’t possibly have a figure like this woman had. Although she definitely curved in all the right places, she couldn’t weigh more than one-thirty.

Take off your boot and pull up your jeans, he ordered.

Why? Her eyes were wet with fear now, shimmering like washed jade. What are you going to do?

He realized immediately what she was thinking. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see your ankle.

Her eyes grew even brighter. That’s all?

Hunt debated putting away his gun. With nervous types, a lesser show of force often got better results than a greater one and she definitely appeared to be the nervous type. Or she was a damned good actress.

Remember Zach. Don’t let her distract you.

He tucked his gun into its holster under his arm. That’s all. Take off your boot.

Leaning forward, she quickly obeyed. Beyond her, Hunt spied movement. Looking through the French doors behind the sofa, he saw Andy climb over the stone wall outside. Catching his partner’s eye, Hunt gave a slight shake of his head. He didn’t want to reveal Andy’s presence until he knew just what kind of trouble this young lady might turn out to be.

Catching Hunt’s signal, Andy stopped. His gaze shifted toward the woman on the sofa. From where the younger deputy stood, Hunt knew that Andy couldn’t see more than the back of her head. He couldn’t see those frightened hazel eyes or those trembling lips or…

Refocusing, Hunt jerked his head toward the main house. Obviously puzzled, Andy nodded and drifted away from the wall.

The woman dropped her boot and sock on the floor, then sat back and stared at Hunt with those gorgeous, wet eyes. The tip of her pink tongue eased out to wet her luscious lower lip. Need hit him again low in his gut and he knew that this young lady could be trouble on more than one level.

Forcing his attention toward her ankle, he noted the purpling, swollen flesh. She wouldn’t be making a hasty escape with that injury. If she tried to run while he retrieved her purse, he’d have no trouble catching her.

You sit still, he said, watching her as he backed into the bedroom and grabbed the purse off the bed. Holding its strap, he carried it back to the living room and dropped it on the coffee table. When she reached for it, he raised a hand.

On second thought, I’ll get the ID, myself, he said. I wouldn’t want you to reach in there and pull out a gun.

She frowned. I just got off a plane a little while ago. A gun would be the last thing I’d carry in my purse. And speaking of guns—

What airline? Hunt interrupted her again as he unzipped her purse. What airport? Where were you coming from?

London and Paris. She answered his last question first. I changed planes a couple of times. And I…I landed at JFK. British Airways.

What time did you land?

Too many hours ago. She took a deep breath. Now it’s my turn to ask questions.

You can have a turn later. Finding her wallet near the top of her purse, he lifted it out and then tossed it to her. Let’s see that license.

Whoever she was, as she opened the wallet, Hunt knew that he had to do something with her. Shipping her off to jail would be the practical solution. Unfortunately, calling the local cops would require him to explain what he and Andy were doing at the Shea house. Hunt wasn’t ready for the local cops to start asking questions and, in this weather it might take hours for his own people to reach Harmony Falls from New York.

Her hands shook as she took her license out of her wallet and handed it to him. Hunt looked down at a two-year-old photo of a heavyset young woman with short auburn hair and hazel eyes. His file on Reilly Shea contained the same photograph.

Doubt nibbled at him. I see a resemblance, he conceded. But you’re missing something—the famous Shea birthmark.

It isn’t missing. It just doesn’t show as much since I lost weight. She tilted her head back to reveal a small mole under her chin. Heart-shaped. Like her face.

Damn, Hunt said. Disappointment settled like sludge in his gut. You are Reilly Shea.

Reilly eased back against the sofa. Her ankle throbbed but her fear had begun to lose its edge. This strange man apparently was not going to do terrible things to her after all.

Not that she trusted him. He’d broken into her home and attacked her. He’d hurt her.

Damn, the stranger said again after staring at her license for several seconds. He handed it back to her.

As she slid it inside her wallet, she watched him. In spite of her fear, her artist’s eye took in his golden-brown hair, cut clean and sharp. His soft gray eyes made her think of a Kansas dusk in high summer. Assessing his body, she remembered his hard weight on top of her. For the first time in her life—inconveniently so—she’d actually felt small and delicate beneath a man.

Yeah, Weight Watchers. Now if only they could temporarily return my eighty lost pounds, I’d teach this jerk a few lessons!

What are you doing here? he demanded, pacing on the far side of the coffee table. To her disappointment, he wasn’t even limping from her kick. Either her knee had missed or the man had balls of steel. You’re supposed to be in Europe.

How do you know that? Uncle Paul— Grief stirred and her eyes burned. But after holding them off for almost thirty hours, she would not give in to tears now. Not when the stranger still carried that gun under his arm. Not when she had no idea what was going on. Not when she was so tired she could hardly think straight and one tear would likely lead to a flood.

Taking another deep breath, she tried to speak calmly. I think it’s your turn to answer a few questions. Who are you and what are you doing on my property?

He drew a handkerchief from his hip pocket and lifted it to his chest. The front of his sweater was drenched with coffee.

My coffee, she realized, remembering that she’d dropped the cup when he’d surprised her in the bedroom.

Technically, he said, This property belongs to your uncle’s estate. Whether or not it goes to you won’t be decided until Rollo Grant returns from wherever he’s run off to.

How did you… Anger surged over her other emotions. Oh, I get it. You’re one of those legal assistants from Grant and Grimm. Well, let me tell you something, you—

I don’t work for any law firm, he interrupted.

Then how do you know where I’ve been? How do you know anything about my uncle’s estate or his lawyer’s disappearance?

Long eyelashes shielded his eyes as he blotted at the coffee stain. This sweater was handmade on the Isle of Skye. Do you know how hard it is to get stains out of wool like this?

I don’t care about your sweater! If you don’t work for Grant and Grimm, then who the heck are you?

Looking up at last, he focused his gray eyes on her, eyes that she was certain could see inside her head.

Deputy United States Marshal Hunt Ramsey, he said.

What? This was too much. She couldn’t take it. She wanted to stop thinking and give in to her sobs. Prove it, she demanded in a thick voice. Where’s your badge?

Reaching into his other back pocket, he pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. A shiny badge caught the light, as did the plastic that covered his photo ID.

Reilly stared at the badge and ID. Insane. Everything about the past day seemed insane. Her life had turned upside down and she felt like Alice tumbling into Wonderland with no money, half-dyed hair and no one to worry about her back home. For the first time in Reilly’s life, she was completely alone. Outside, the wind moaned, sounding almost human and she feared it merely echoed her emotions.

My uncle’s death, she said. Is that why you’re here?

What are you doing here? he countered.

She stared at him. Her ankle ached viciously now but the pain still ran second to anger and grief. And fear of this man, while it hadn’t vanished, had tempered now that she knew on which side of the law he stood. Not that she trusted him much more than before, but she doubted that he meant her any harm. Not intentional harm, anyway, her throbbing ankle reminded her.

You expect me to answer your questions, she said. But you won’t answer mine? That isn’t fair.

Whoever told you life was fair, princess? He snapped his wallet shut. All you need to know is that the Marshals Service needs this house for official business. You aren’t even supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be in Europe on your honeymoon.

What? Pain in her head began to compete with the pain in her ankle. I’m not married.

According to your uncle, you met a nice young man in Germany and the two of you eloped to France. Supposed to be a very romantic, whirlwind kind of thing.

When did you talk to my uncle? She punched a fist into the back of the couch. I don’t understand any of this!

You don’t have to understand.

Lightning cracked and thunder boomed. The storm was ready to pounce and Reilly almost felt as if the storm inside her was the only thing holding the outer tempest at bay.

Look, Uncle Paul…he…died two weeks ago. Now, in addition to sadness and confusion, Reilly tried to swallow past a knot of guilt. She hadn’t been there for her uncle. The injustice of that fact cut deep, for he had been there for her after her parents had died. He’d held her in his arms and helped her through her grief. But Uncle Paul had died alone and now there was no one to help her through this loss.

I know about your uncle, Deputy Ramsey said and his voice actually softened. He had an accident. My being here has nothing to do with him.

Do you know how he died? No one’s given me any details. Her throat tightened again. And I need to know what happened.

Apparently, he tripped and hit his head on the dining room table. He died instantly.

Reilly clenched her fingers together. Instantly. One moment breathing, the next moment not.

With difficulty, she took another deep breath. How do you know any of this?

It’s my job to know. Why didn’t you come home sooner? He died a couple of weeks ago.

I didn’t hear about it until yesterday.

Why is that?

I’ve been on a European art tour for the past few months.

Didn’t you have an itinerary or some way to keep in touch with your uncle?

"I did, but then I met Michael and he