He smelled her before he saw her, that sweet pear scent that instantly aroused him.
She stood in the doorway of his room. “Maggie?” he said softly.
“I’m looking for a nice Southern gentleman named Jackson,” she said, her voice slightly husky.
“That would be me,” he replied, his chest suddenly tight with anticipation.
“I thought you might be interested in a night with a woman who isn’t looking for anything more than this night and this night only.”
“Maggie …” He said her name with hesitation. Man, he wanted her. He thought he might even need her. But he knew things she didn’t know, things that would forever stand between them and make any future impossible.
Scene of the
Crime: Return to Mystic Lake
Carla Cassidy
New York Times bestselling author CARLA CASSIDY is an award-winning author who has written more than fifty novels for Mills & Boon. In 1995, she won Best Silhouette Romance from RT Book Reviews for Anything for Danny. In 1998, she also won a Career Achievement Award for Best Innovative Series from RT Book Reviews.
Carla believes the only thing better than curling up with a good book to read is sitting down at the computer with a good story to write. She’s looking forward to writing many more books and bringing hours of pleasure to readers.
Contents
Chapter One
Jackson Revannaugh knew he was in the land of Oz when the jet touched down in the middle of a patchwork of farmers’ fields. Nowhere near the Kansas City International Airport did he see any signs of a city.
It was already after 7:00 p.m. and he was eager to get off the plane. The flight from Baton Rouge had been over three hours long, and not only had a baby cried the entire trip, but the kid behind him had seemed to find great amusement in kicking the back of Jackson’s seat at regular intervals.
Jackson was working up to a stellar foul mood. Too little sleep in the past couple weeks, a long ride in cramped quarters and a bag of pretzels as his only food for the past eight hours or so had made Jackson a cranky man.
Thankfully, it took him only minutes to deplane. From the overhead bin he grabbed the large duffel bag that held everything he would need for the duration of his stay in Kansas City, Missouri. He then headed down the walkway toward the terminal entrance.
Just ahead of him were double doors that led outside the building. As he exited, Jackson realized that the humid mid-July heat of the Midwest had nothing on Bachelor Moon, Louisiana, where he’d spent the past several weeks of his life working on the case of a missing man, his wife and his seven-year-old stepdaughter.
He’d been yanked from that case before they’d had any answers and sent directly here to work on something similar. He stepped to the edge of the curb and fought the exhaustion that, over the past month, had settled on his shoulders like a heavy weight.
He’d been told a car would pick him up to take him to the small town of Mystic Lake, a thirty-minute drive from Kansas City. But he hadn’t been told specifically what kind of a car to look for.
What he’d like right about now was a big, juicy steak, a tall glass of bourbon, a ride to the nearest posh hotel for fluffy bath towels, a king-size bed and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Instead he stepped to the curb with a frown and the knowledge that it was probably going to be a long night and he wasn’t at the top of his game.
He had been given no details about whatever crime had taken place here; he knew only that he was to work with a partner from the Kansas City FBI field office.
Now if he could just find his ride, he could, sooner rather than later, solve the crime and be on his way back out of town and home to his luxury apartment in Baton Rouge.
He stepped back from the curb as a large blue bus pulled to the curb and belched a whoosh of hot exhaust. The doors swung open and for a brief moment Jackson wondered if he was supposed to get on the bus, but that didn’t make any sense.
When he’d spoken briefly on the phone earlier to Director Daniel Forbes of the Kansas City field office, he’d told Jackson to stand on the curb outside the luggage area of Terminal A and a car would be waiting.
He remained standing, tamping down an edge of new irritation. Where was the car? His plane had been right on time.
When the bus finally pulled away, a black sedan slid next to the curb. A petite woman with shoulder-length strawberry-blond curls and eyes the green of a Louisiana swamp opened the driver door and stood.
If
