The Black Sheep And the Princess. Donna KauffmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
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IS—IS THAT WHY YOU CAME BACK, THEN?
“You had some wild reaction to a picture of me, so…you came back as some sort of personal test?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and it was all she could do not to wet her lips.
“Maybe that’s part of it. I don’t know. I do know one thing, though.” He pressed his fingers beneath her chin, tilted her head slightly. And she did absolutely nothing to stop him. “I no longer seem to have any restraint around you. Or maybe it’s just I see no reason to any longer. I’m not the insecure teenager I was back then, desperate for approval, terrified of rejection.”
“You were hardly that,” she murmured, surprised she could form words at all.
“I was exactly that, with those who mattered. It was a very short list. But you were on it.”
He leaned closer. She swallowed hard.
“Donovan—”
“Kick me out of the truck now, Kate.”
“I—”
“On second thought, don’t. Not yet.” He tipped her chin up farther and leaned closer. “At least not until I give you a better reason to.”
Also by Donna Kauffman
Catch Me If You Can
Bad Boys in Kilts
The Great Scot
The Black Sheep and the Hidden Beauty
The Black Sheep and the English Rose
Let Me In
A Great Kisser
Donna is also featured in these anthologies:
I Love Bad Boys
Bad Boys Next Exit
Bad Boys on Board
Jingle Bell Rock
Merry Christmas, Baby
To All a Good Night
Kissing Santa Claus
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Black Sheep and the Princess
Donna Kauffman
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Mom, you were the key.
I couldn’t have done this without you.
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 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Donovan MacLeod ducked as the compressed-air tank shot like a cannonball over his head and slammed into the shelves lining the cinderblock wall behind him. The impact reverberated through the cavernous warehouse.
Mac scooted over next to his partner, pressing his back against the overturned desk as he pulled his gun from his ankle holster. “Could be worse.”
“Oh?”
“He could have a grenade launcher.”
Rafe glared at him. “You said the place was secure, Mr. Motion Detectors Don’t Lie.”
“Shh. They don’t.”
There was a humming noise; then something began plinking into the cinderblock, spraying clumps of gray debris everywhere.
Rafe hunched down farther. “So, those are what, pretend bullets? And all those crates of antiques, including the urn with Mr. Fortenberry’s ashes, must have just gotten up and walked out on their own. Because if the sensors didn’t go off, no one could possibly have gotten in here to steal them, right? All ten of them. Which means Frank couldn’t possibly be in here shooting at us.”
“So cranky.” Mac propped his semiautomatic on his knee as he shifted closer to one end of the heavy oak desk. Thank God for old office furniture. They didn’t make stuff out of real wood anymore. It was all compressed crap these days. Compressed crap wasn’t worth shit for stopping bullets. “He has to get through us to get out of here. I say we make that a bit more difficult for him.”
There was a pause in the shooting. Reloading.
“On three,” Mac said, not needing to glance over his shoulder to know that Rafe had shifted down to the other end.
“One…two—”
“Three” was interrupted by a tremendous explosion that rocked both Mac and Rafe back a good five feet and would have sent them farther still if the metal shelving hadn’t abruptly stopped their trajectory. A thick haze of dust and grit instantly filled the air, forcing them to shield their eyes and yank the fronts of their shirts over their mouths to keep from gagging.
As the dust began to filter through the air and sift to the floor, Mac motioned to Rafe and pointed across the empty space. There was now a very large hole in the opposite wall of the previously secure riverfront warehouse. A hole easily big enough to drive a tank through. Frank DiMateo was a big guy, but he wasn’t Humvee big.
“Damn,” Mac murmured. “I didn’t think he had that in him.”
“Son of a bitchin’ bitch.” Rafe was already on his feet, brushing the cinderblock debris and dust from his tailored black leather jacket, alternately coughing and swearing. “Asshole actually tried to blow me up.”
“Us,” Mac corrected, standing up now, too, albeit a bit more slowly. Cop knees. Unlike his partner, Mac was completely unconcerned about his appearance and did little more than rub his hand over his face to keep the grit from getting in his eyes. “Asshole tried to blow us up. I believe there are two of us here trying not to get ourselves killed.”
“Yeah, but only one of us thought the place was secure.”
“Hey, I checked the place last night and everything was functioning properly. I don’t know how the sensors were tampered with, but I can easily find out. Frank is too damn stupid to override the system, which means he had help.”
“You think Shanahan would risk getting personally involved?”
“An art collector? No. But he sure as hell has the funds to send someone who would. I just can’t figure out how they even knew we were here. We should have been in and out with the urn before they had a clue anything was up.”
“Gee, maybe their sensors worked,” Rafe deadpanned.
“Very funny. But even if they suspected they were being cased and moved the stuff early, why hang around? Seems like a stupid risk to take. Why