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Blackhawkâs Betrayal
Barbara McCauley
This book is dedicated to Jennifer Stockton,
Chef Extraordinaire! Thanks for all your help
and expertise, sweetheart. Your secret for
chocolate mousse is safe with me.
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
Coming Next Month
One
She should be in Paris.
Sighing, Kiera glanced at the yellow-lit dial on her rental car dashboard. Nine thirty-two, Texas time. If she had got on her plane this morning, she would have landed at the Charles de Gaulle Airport two hours ago. At this very moment, she would be checking into her room at the hotel Château Frontenac. Ordering room service. Sipping espresso while she nibbled on a navettes. Sinking her exhausted body into a Louis XVI four-poster bed.
Instead, she sat in the cracked asphalt parking lot of Sadieâs Shangri-La Motel and Motor Lodge.
Welcome. Park Your Cars Out Front, Your Horses Out Back, flashed the pink neon vacancy sign.
She didnât know whether to laugh or cry, so she dropped her head into her hands and did both.
âDamn you, Trey,â she said through clenched teeth. âDamn you, damn you, damn you.â
She let herself rant for a full ten seconds, then wiped her tears and flipped the visor down to study her face in the lit mirror. Scary, was her first thoughtâdeal with it, her second. Mumbling curses again, she dug through her purse and pulled out a compact of cover-up, then carefully blotted the fading bruise beside her left eye. Not perfect, but the best she could do unless she put on her sunglasses, which, considering the fact that it was pitch black outside, just might draw attention to herself.
And that she certainly didnât want to do.
Adjusting her bangs and the sides of her hair to hide the fading bruise, she stepped out of the car and stretched her stiff muscles. She was too tired to care that her skirt, a pristine white ten hours ago, now looked like tissue paper pulled out of a gift bag. Nor did she care that her sleeveless blouse, a clean, crisp green when sheâd left the ranch this morning, currently had the appearance of wilted lettuce.
It is what it is.
A double-trailer big rig rumbled past the motel, jarring her out of her thoughts. She slung her purse strap over her shoulder, sucked in a breath, then made her way to the motelâs front office. Heat from the sweltering day lingered, and the humidity clung to her like wet plastic wrap. Shower, she thought, drawing the heavy, damp air into her lungs. She needed one desperately. A long one to wash off the grime and sweat of the dayâs travel.
When she opened the glass door, a buzzer sounded overhead and the scent of coffee hung heavy in the air. The desk clerk, a well-endowed petite blonde with Texas-size hair, stood behind the counter, hands on her voluptuous hips and her gaze locked on the screen of a small corner television.
âBe right with yâall,â the woman said without even glancing up.
Kiera held back the threatening whimper. Born and raised Texan, she knew what âbe right with yâall,â really meant: sometime between the near future and next Christmas.
Living in New York the past three years had made her impatient, she realized. Sheâd become accustomed to the frantic rush of people, the swell of city traffic, skyscrapers and closed-in spaces. A delicatessen on every corner.
The thought of food reminded her she hadnât eaten today. Sheâd kill for one of those deli sandwiches right now. A ten-pound ham and cheese, with lettuce and tomatoes andâ
âNo!â
The shout made Kiera jump back and clutch her purse. The desk clerk threw up her hands in disgust, which set the strands of silver circles on her earlobes swirling.
âI knew I couldnât trust those two,â she exclaimed, gesturing angrily at the TV. âFor eight weeks she carries Brett and Randyâs scrawny, lazy asses and what did it get the poor girl? What?â
Kiera wasnât certain if the womanâMattie, according to the plastic badge on her white polo shirtâreally wanted an answer, but she doubted it.
âA boot in her butt, thatâs what. Lower than manure, thatâs what those two jerks are.â Shaking her head, Mattie grabbed the remote and lowered the volume, then turned and stretched her bright red lips into a smile. âYou checking in, honey?â
Kiera hesitated, briefly considered taking her chances that she might find a room at a hotel in town. Someplace not quite so far off the beaten path. Someplaceâ¦safer. Then she remembered how much cash she had and shook off her apprehension. âThe sign said you had a vacancy.â
âSure do.â Mattie moved to a computer monitor behind the counter. âSingle or double?â
âSingle.â
Mattieâs long, glossy red nails clicked over the keys. âKitchenette?â
Kiera didnât really plan on cooking, but, then, she hadnât planned on being here, either. âSure.â
âHow long yâall staying?â Mattie asked.
âIâIâm not sure.â God, this was a bad idea, she thought. A really bad idea. âMaybe a week or so.â
âName?â
Kiera shifted uneasily. She didnât dare use her real name. At least, not her last name. âKiera Daniels.â
The desk clerk entered the name into her computer, then printed out a form and slid it across the counter. âCredit card?â
She thought about the name on her credit card, the fact that she could easily be traced back here if she used