Books By Diana Palmer

by Palmer, Diana

  They excused themselves and went down to the basement.

  Curt was watching Mary quietly, and without smil­ing. She sat stiffly in a big armchair, trying not to look as uncomfortable as she felt.

  "Well, it's all over now except the trial," she said. "I guess I won't have a part in that, because it will be a federal case. But I'd really like to be in the au­dience..."

  "Mary," he said softly.

  She stopped in midspate and lifted both eyebrows.

  "Come here."

  Six

  Mary just sat and stared at him. She was a modern woman. She didn't answer to commands. She didn't do what she was told.

  He smiled slowly, his dark eyes twinkling. "Come on.”

  She got up without understanding why, and went to him.

  He drew her down gently against him, wincing as he moved to position her cheek against the shoulder that didn't have a bullet wound.

  "It will take a little work," he murmured as he bent, "but we'll get the hang of it..."

  His mouth covered hers. She touched his cheek while he kissed her. She smiled under the warm, hard crush of his lips. It was like coming home. She'd been worried about him during his hospital stay, although she'd tried not to let it show. Now that she knew he would recover, the relief made her reckless.

  He eased her down on the sofa, overcome by her response and his hunger. It had been a long, long time since he'd wanted a woman so much.

  But the pain of the wounds was inhibiting. He groaned and his mouth found its way to her soft breast through the fabric covering them. He rested there with a husky laugh.

  "I can't," he whispered. "I want to, you don't know how much! But it hurts too much."

  She sighed and stretched and relaxed under the warm, hard press of his body. "I'm not in a hurry. Are you?" she teased.

  He looked down at her with real emotion. He touched her soft mouth and studied her intently. "I don't do affairs. My mother raised me very strictly."

  "My father raised me very strictly, too," she re­plied with a smile. "I guess that means we can't have sex on your mother's sofa."

  He nodded.

  "I have a sofa."

  He grinned. "As you said, we're not in a hurry." He bent again and kissed her gently. "And I'm now officially on sick leave."

  "Are you saying something?"

  "Yes. We can get to know each other."

  "That might be fun."

  "Indeed it might." He bent again. He kissed her hungrily, only barely noticing the pressure against his side until it got wet.

  "Am I bleeding?" he murmured against her mouth.

  He lifted up and she looked over. There he sat. The dog. Drooling on Curt's hip.

  "We have got to do something about that dog," Curt muttered as the dog grinned at him.

  "I have an idea," Mary replied, but she wouldn't say what it was. Not then, at least.

  ***

  Three months later, during a hiatus from Curt's new duties working out of the Atlanta FBI office at the Richard Russell Federal Building, he and Mary Ryan were married at a small but simple ceremony in Lulaville. The police and the SWAT team turned out, along with the Lanier County courthouse staff and the local FBI office. In fact, Hardy Vicks sat with the family, very close to Matilda Russell, who looked younger and happier than her son had seen her in years.

  The dog, decked out in flowers, sat in front of the church with one of the ushers and was hustled into Agent Vicks’s sports utility vehicle, along with Ma­tilda Russell, after the service.

  "They wanted us to go to a reception," Curt told Mary with a husky chuckle. "But I told them we had to rush to catch a plane."

  "Do we?" she asked, close beside him in the front seat of his dark sedan.

  "In a manner of speaking," he replied, driving faster.

  Barely forty-five minutes later, Curt checked them into one of the fanciest hotels in the northeastern metro of Atlanta. Uniformed porters met them at the door to take their luggage while a valet parked the car.

  "We have reservations," he told the clerk with a sly grin at Mary, who gave him a wide-eyed stare. "Mr. and Mrs. Curtis Russell," he added.

  "Yes, sir," the clerk replied with a pleasant smile and a meaningful glance. "Uh, congratulations, by the way."

  "Thanks," Curt replied, glancing at his beaming bride.

  Once they were registered, the bellhop followed right along with their luggage on a tall cart. As they went down the hall to the bank of elevators, the sound of loud singing came from the balcony above.

  "The marines landed last night," the bellhop told them. "They, uh, like to sing the song. Anybody who gets in the elevator with them gets to sing it, too."

  Mary burst out laughing. "You're kidding!"

  The elevator door opened and two marines, one male and one female, both sergeants, turned to look over the new arrivals.

  Curt held Mary's hand reassuringly as the doors closed.

  "We like to sing," the male marine said.

  "Very much," the female sergeant agreed, moving closer. She was easily six feet tall.

  "Now, isn't that a coincidence?" Mary asked, nod­ding. "I like to sing, too!" And she immediately launched into "Over hill, over dale, over trusty moun­tain trail..!"

  "No," the male marine said at once, shaking his head. "No, no, no, that's the army song. You have to sing our song."

  She stared up at him. "I just got married. Can we sing the 'Wedding March' instead?"

  Before the words were out, the elevator paused on the next floor, the door opened, and four more marines crowded onto it, making barely enough to breathe for all the occupants and the luggage carrier and the bellboy.

  "She just got married," the female sergeant said loudly. "She says she wants to sing the 'Wedding Song'!"

  The new arrivals blinked. They were both holding thick short glasses with barely an inch of liquid left. They grinned.

  "Okay!" one of them agreed. "Let's go, marines! Da da da DUM, DA da da DUM..." He stopped and blinked at the others. "What are the words?"

  "Never mind," Curt said, shaking his head. "It's better your way. Come on, sweetheart, let's sing the marine song." He raised his voice. "From the halls of MontezuuuuuUHma...!"

  Hands went over ears. Buttons were pressed. The elevator stopped and disgorged almost an entire com­pany of marines.

  "Please," the female sergeant pleaded. "Don't ever sing our song again...!"

  The elevator doors closed on the plea.

  Curt burst out laughing. After a minute, so did Mary and the bellhop.

  The bellhop opened the curtains, pointed out the wet bar, whirlpool bath and the closets and left with a nice tip.

  Curt locked the door behind him, turned around, and pursed his lips as he studied his pretty new wife in her nice oyster-white suit.

  "Reservations in the nicest hotel in the metro area," she murmured with a beaming smile. "You sweetheart, you!"

  "Nothing's too good for my best girl," he said gently, walking toward her. "You were the prettiest bride in Georgia, and I love you to distraction."

  "I love you, too," she admitted, linking her arms around his neck. She sighed. "Thank God you didn't go out in a hail of bullets. I'm so glad you've recov­ered with no residual damage. It was a wonderful wedding ceremony. And now, here we are, all alone together with no pending court cases and no fugitives to pursue." She sighed again, although her expression was mischievous. "What shall we do with the rest of the day...?"

  His hard lips cut her off. He kissed her hungrily. Their courtship had been, largely, an old-fashioned one. It had been, as the saying went, a long, dry spell.

  Her lips parted eagerly. She reached up to hold him, feeling his body tauten with desire as she an­swered his long, slow kisses.

  The teasing stopped suddenly as he lifted her and carried her to the big, king-size bed. In between warm, lingering kisses, he got rid of the obstacles, including the ankle gun he was never without.

  "You wore a gun on our
honeymoon?" she ex­claimed, sitting up.

  He pushed her back down again. "It's a precau­tion."

  "Against what, for God's sake?"

  "Intruders singing the marine hymn...come back here!"

  He turned her, and his mouth found all the warm, soft, secret places, making her body sing with delight. He liked the husky little sounds she made when his mouth covered her breasts and suckled them. He liked the way her long, elegant legs wrapped around the back of his, the way her body lifted to tempt him into intimacy.

  He wanted to take forever, but he was too hungry. His hands moved into more delicate persuasion, and she moved quickly to accommodate him. His mouth ground into hers as he possessed her, feeling her body ripple, feeling the faint hesitation as she accepted him.

  "It's been...a long time," she groaned.

  "You were married," he whispered gruffly.

  "I was married when I was eighteen."

  "Right."

  "I was also divorced when I was eighteen."

  "So?"

  "Are you really that thick?" she exclaimed, lifting in a sudden high arch when his mouth touched her in an unexpected place.

  The thought suddenly got through to him. He lifted his head fractionally to meet her shy eyes. "You mean, you haven't, since you were eighteen?!"

  "I'm old-fashioned," she replied.

  He let out a ragged breath. "I love old-fashioned women," he murmured, his eyes alive with feeling as they searched hers. His hips moved abruptly, and he smiled at her expression. "How old was he?"

  She swallowed. "Eighteen."

  His body poised. "Eighteen."

  "And I was his first girl."

  He looked as if he'd swallowed the pillow. "Oh."

  She moved experimentally. "Neither of us knew much, and I didn't like it much, so I didn't really miss it when we separated." She moved again, gasping. "But I like it...with you. I love it with you!" Her nails scored gently down his back. "Could you do that again, what you did when I gasped?"

  "You haven't stopped gasping," he pointed out. "Not that I'm complaining!" No kidding. It would take a mortician half a day to get the smile off his face if he died right now. He moved away a little. "Okay. Is this what you want me to do...?"

  She really gasped then, and her hands became fren­zied, holding on to him wherever she could reach while he taught her new ways to experience sensation. Somewhere in the middle of the lesson, it became fierce and urgent. She reached up toward him and felt her body explode into little tiny bits of flame. She sobbed endlessly, clinging, until she slowly became aware of the man straining against her in rough shud­ders, his breath jerking out breathlessly at her ear.

  Minutes later, the ceiling came slowly into focus above her. She felt drained, sensuously exhausted, and very proud of herself. Apparently, she was damned good at this, a natural, because he'd certainly enjoyed it. She could tell, even if she didn't have a lot of experience.

  "I may give up law and do this from now on," she murmured with her eyes closed. "I have definite potential!"

  He chuckled. "You can pin a rose on that!”

  She rubbed one leg slowly against his. "You have definite potential, too," she said sensually. "Maybe we can stretch our honeymoon out by another four or five months?"

  He laughed out loud. "Now, that's what I call in­centive!"

  She rolled onto his chest and kissed him softly. "I want to keep the dog."

  It was the last thing he expected to hear. His eyes almost popped. "You what?"

  "I want to keep Big Red. Your mom doesn't really have room for him, but we could live in my house and fence in the yard and the garden, and he could have lots of space to run."

  "Oh, no. Not the dog. Not that dog...!"

  "Please?" she murmured, kissing his chest. "Pretty please?" She kissed a hard nipple and started sucking on it gently. He was lifting up, and breathing hard, and even gasping by now. "Pretty please with sugar on it...?"

  "Okay, you can have the dog. That, and anything else you want," he choked as he moved over her with intent. "Anything!"

  "The dog," she agreed, reaching up to kiss him as he moved into possession. "And one...more...thing."

  "What?" he panted.

  “Don't ever... sing... the marine song again.''

  "Don't...?"

  But she kissed him passionately and he stopped thinking or talking, in that order.

  Three hours later, they lay sprawled together, to­tally exhausted and almost asleep. "You said we were rushing to catch a plane," she reminded him with a grin. "What a fast plane it was!"

  "Very high-flying, too," he murmured with a weary chuckle. He pulled her close and kissed her with his last ounce of strength. "Next time, we try for the sound barrier."

  "Next time," she agreed, closing her eyes.

  He was almost asleep when the phone rang.

  He picked it up, murmuring into the receiver. "Ummmhmmm," he said. "Ummhmmm. Ummh... what?" He sat straight up in bed. "You're kidding!"

  Mary opened her eyes and watched him react to what was obviously shocking news. He spoke in monosyllables, finally laughing and wishing the other person luck and promising to speak to them later.

  He hung up the phone and lay back down, looking astonished.

  "What's wrong?" Mary asked gently, leaning over him to trace patterns in the hair on his chest.

  "They didn't want to waste the minister and the decorations in the church," he said, dazed. "There was an audience, too. So they went ahead."

  "They who?"

  "My mother and Agent Vicks," he said on a sigh. "They got married!"

  "They did!" she exclaimed, wide-eyed.

  "I guess there are worse things than having two FBI agents in the same family," he said, glancing up at her.

  She looked uneasy.

  “Yes?" he prompted.

  "You know Dad couldn't come for the wedding, even though he sent us that nice tape of congratula­tions," she offered.

  "Yes."

  She cleared her throat. "He's in Virginia."

  "In Virginia."

  She nodded.

  He frowned. "Where in Virginia?"

  "I think they call it Quantico?"

  "No. Oh, no. No!"

  She grimaced. "He's been in law enforcement his whole life. Now he has a son-in-law in the FBI. He just wants to keep it in the family."

  "He's joined the FBI!" he exclaimed.

  She bent closer. "Well, yes. So now it's really an agency family, isn't it?" She wiggled her toes and smiled as she put her mouth gently over hers. "And just yesterday, I got an application form...!"

  He rolled her over and moved closer with intent. "I don't want to hear it," he told her. "Not another word."

  "But, Curt," she teased, big brown eyes twinkling with humor.

  "We'll catch 'em, you prosecute 'em. Deal?" he teased back.

  She chuckled. "I was only kidding," she con­fessed. "But you have to admit, it would be the story of the century."

  "We'll have a bigger one, you wait and see."

  And they did. Twenty-five years later, their two sons and their daughter were all three inducted into the FBI as special agents on the same day, with their proud parents, and grandparents, for witnesses.

  Lawless (07-2003)

  ISBN 1-55166-708-8

  LAWLESS

  Copyright © 2003 by Diana Palmer.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known
or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

  Visit us at www.mirabooks.com

  Printed in U.S.A.

  First Printing: July 2003

  10 987654321

  7:

  To the men and women of the Texas Rangers

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a blistering hot day in south Texas, even for early Sep­tember. Christabel Gaines was wearing a low-cut white top with faded blue jeans, a book bag slung casually over one shoulder. The top outlined her small, firm breasts and the jeans clung lov­ingly to every softly rounded line of her young body. The faint breeze caught her long blond hair in her pretty bow-shaped mouth, against her wide forehead and high cheekbones. She moved the strands away, her big, warm brown eyes amused at something one of the students with her was saying about a class­mate. It was a long, dull Monday morning.

  Debbie, a girl in her computer class, was suddenly staring past Christabel toward the parking lot. She whistled softly. "Well! I know what I want for Christmas," she said in a loud whisper.

  Teresa, another classmate, was also staring. "Hubba, hubba," she said with a wicked grin, wiggling her eyebrows. "Anybody know who he is?"

  Curious, Christabel turned around to see a tall, darkly hand­some man walk gracefully across the lawn toward them. He was wearing a cream-colored Stetson, jerked down over his eyes. His neat long-sleeved white cotton shirt was fastened with a turquoise bola tie. His long, powerful legs were encased in gray slacks, his feet in gray hand-tooled boots. On his shirt pocket, a silver star in a circle glittered in the sunlight. Across his lean hips, a brown leather holster and gunbelt were fastened. In the gunbelt was a .45 caliber Ruger Vaquero pistol. He usually car­ried an automatic pistol, a .45 Colt ACP, but it was having a new custom handle and the Texas Ranger star added. Today also happened to be match day at the Jacobsville Gun Club's Single Action Shooting Society, which he belonged to. The quick-draw-and-shoot group wore Western garb to meets. So it was convenient for him to wear the wheel gun to work just this once.