Grace stood before him, wearing only a slip of silk
“It’s called a bra-slip,” Grace explained. Logan tried to listen, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the movement of her hands. She cupped the sides of her breasts and pushed them forward, nearly spilling out of the filmy undergarment. “The top doesn’t give me much support though,” Grace continued blithely.
Logan stood, fatigue and frustration and a sudden rigid strain in his jeans overriding his patience and good intentions. Grace needed to have that piece of lingerie. She very definitely needed to have it.
But Harris Mitchell, the city’s worst crime lord, didn’t need to see it. And no man who accidentally wandered past the dressing room’s waiting area needed to see it, either.
Logan snatched Grace’s arm and turned her back to the dressing room. “Don’t you have any instinct for survival, Agent Lockhart?” he asked, pushing her into the closet-sized area and pulling the door shut behind him. “You can’t go parading around half-dressed.”
Because he couldn’t take it. Logan clenched his fists to his sides, trying to remember that this woman was his partner, not his bedmate. He was supposed to teach her, not take her.
But God help him, he desperately wanted to do both….
Dear Reader,
They say it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. And I guess I’ve just proven that to be true. I’ve entertained myself for years, writing stories in my head—paranormal, action adventure, mystery, intrigue and, of course, romance. But I never dreamed that one day I’d be writing for Harlequin’s sexiest series!
I started out writing for Harlequin Intrigue, and it will always be my first love. But when one of the Harlequin editors approached me about the new Blaze line, how could I refuse the chance to explore my naughty side? A planner by nature, I frantically started making a list. What did I consider sexy? How could I mix the thrill of danger, an irresistible hero, a laugh or two, and all of those titillating situations that kept overheating my imagination?
As my list grew, Intimate Knowledge was born. Like me, my heroine, Grace Lockhart, needs to think things through—and then she flies by the seat of her pants. Pairing up with a hero as hot as Logan Pierce, she doesn’t have any other choice.
I’d love to know what you think of Grace’s “education.” You can contact me at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.
Enjoy,
Julie Miller
P.S. Don’t forget to check out tryblaze.com!
Intimate Knowledge
Julie Miller
MILLS & BOON
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For my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins.
Thank you for sharing your business savvy, your wisdom about planning a writing career around real life, and your enthusiastic support.
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
1
“I WANT YOU to teach Miss Lockhart about working undercover. I’m reassigning you to the organized crime division to work as her partner. We intend to take down Harris Mitchell.”
“What?” Logan Pierce glared at the silver-haired FBI chief, Commander Sam Carmody. “Harris Mitchell?”
Thief. Money launderer. Murderer.
Logan had never worked a case against Mitchell, but when the crimes you committed were big enough and bad enough, every agent knew your name.
Stunned disbelief carried his gaze across the room to the stone-faced young woman sitting on the couch writing down in her stenographer’s notebook every word being said. She’d dressed herself to appear older than she was, pulling her hair back into a tight bun, donning an unflattering pair of seriously thick glasses and wearing no makeup.
Grace Lockhart looked all of twenty-three—twenty-five, tops. She needed to work a few kiddie assignments before tackling something as dangerous and unpredictable as a major undercover case.
Logan shook his head and turned back to Carmody. “I work solo—you know that.”
He hadn’t had a partner for two years, two months and eleven days. Roy Silverton had been fresh out of the academy on that first mission, too. Quick to learn, eager to please.
Too young to die.
Logan could watch his own back. He’d learned to do that long before the FBI had recruited him. It had been a matter of survival back in downtown Chicago with no mother and a father steeped in terminal grief.
Larry Pierce had been devastated when his wife had been held hostage and then murdered during a botched robbery at the bank where she’d worked. He’d found his solace in a bottle. But six-year-old Logan had been devastated, too. And without a
