To be blunt, this cowboy turned her on.
Hard bodied. Unruly brown hair that crawled into the collar of his shirt. And then there was that rugged jawline and those whiskey-colored eyes that seemed to see right through her. His voice had grown husky. She swallowed hard, suddenly all too aware of how close he was standing. The air between them crackled with tension and sparks of desire. He leaned nearer and his lips brushed hers: a feathered touch that was over all too quickly, but resonated through her whole body.
Her pulse skyrocketed as she slipped inside the door and closed it behind her. The touching of their lips could hardly count as a kiss at all, but it left her feeling as if she were floating two feet above the floor.
She’d witnessed an attempted murder and trusted a stranger with the most closely held secret of her life. Yet here she was awed by the mere touch of his lips on hers. That might well be the strangest and most frightening event of the day.
Cowboy to the Core
by
Joanna Wayne
JOANNA WAYNE was born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana, and received her undergraduate and graduate degrees from LSU-Shreveport. She moved to New Orleans in 1984, and it was there that she attended her first writing class and joined her first professional writing organization. Her first novel was published in 1994.
Now, dozens of published books later, Joanna has made a name for herself as being on the cutting edge of romantic suspense in both series and single-title novels. She has been on the Waldenbooks bestseller list for romance and has won many industry awards. She is a popular speaker at writing organizations and local community functions and has taught creative writing at the University of New Orleans Metropolitan College.
She currently resides in a small community forty miles north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. Though she still has many family and emotional ties to Louisiana, she loves living in the Lone Star state. You may write Joanna at P.O. Box 265, Montgomery, Texas 77356.
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To my good friend and golfing buddy, Sharon, who spent a marvelous day with me at the Renaissance Festival and took dozens of pictures to help capture the sights and spirit of the exciting event. We had a blast! And an apology to the handsome, skilled and no doubt noble jousters who entertained us so magnificently. Their performance was the high point of the day.
Dear Reader,
I joined the great Intrigue team just in time for the tenth anniversary with the publication of my very first novel. Now, fifteen years and more than forty books later, I’m as excited about writing Intrigue books as ever. So, thanks, readers, and may we all stick around for another twenty-five years of great Intrigues and making memories.
You can write to me at Joanna Wayne, PO Box 852, Montgomery, Texas 77356, or e-mail me from my website at www.joannawayne.com.
Happy reading!
Joanna Wayne
Prologue
The woman’s voluminous skirt and layers of petticoats swished about her ankles. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head, loose curls dancing about her cheeks and wispy tendrils escaping down the back of her neck.
A queen, dressed for a coronation ball, her jade velvet bodice trimmed in exquisite white lace that edged her cleavage. Or perhaps not royalty, but a courtesan with seductive wiles to please and excite the king’s men.
A knight stepped into view. The air became electric as the two turned to face each other. The woman’s eyes were blazing but shadowed with fear. The man’s expression was hidden beneath the metallic armor that shielded his head and face, yet an aura of evil surrounded him. He moved toward her.
She tried to back away, but there was no time. In one quick movement, he pulled an ivory-handled dagger from the sheath at his side and aimed the point of the long, slender blade at the woman’s heart.
The woman’s scream penetrated the night as a rush of crimson spilled onto the white lace and pooled in the rich green fabric of her blouson.
Choking, Dani forced herself to the woman’s aid. Their gazes locked, and Dani’s blood ran cold.
The cinnamon-brown eyes staring back at her were her own.
Dani Baxter jerked to sitting position, her breathing sharp, painful gasps and her pulse racing. She was fully awake now, but the images remained seared into her brain. Everything had seemed so real.
Her psychic experiences appeared as a dream at times, but this couldn’t have been one. Not only did she not know the people but they weren’t even from this century. The telepathic connection would be pointless since she could do nothing to change the situation. Her infrequent visions never worked that way.
It was just a nightmare, no doubt brought on by fatigue and the countless hours she’d spent looking at spring formal wear lines in New York last week. Work-related stress. It happened to everyone. It didn’t mean a thing, yet her breath continued to sting as if she were outside on a frigid morning.
She was overreacting. She hadn’t had one of the dreaded visions in more than a year. And she‘d never had one as violent as this.
She checked the clock. 2:00 a.m. She needed sleep and water. Her throat felt parched.
Tossing back the sheet, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and ground her bare feet against the chilly slats of the polished hardwood floors. She tiptoed past her daughter’s door so as not to wake her and padded down the stairs to the second-floor kitchen of the town house.
The dream continued to haunt her. It was the eyes, she decided. They’d thrown her, but the woman hadn’t been her. The face had never registered, and the hair was definitely different. The nightmare woman’s was a deep auburn, long enough to pile on top
