by Wendy Rosnau
Pierce ran his hands slowly over her hips and cupped her ass. Pulling her against him, he kissed her back.
The moment was powerful and heartfelt. It melted the bitch, turned on the woman, and Casmir kicked off her shoes.
Coming in summer 2006
to Silhouette Intimate Moments,
don’t miss Wendy Rosnau’s next book
in her SPY GAMES miniseries,
UNDERCOVER NIGHTINGALE.
Super chills and sexy thrills abound at Silhouette Bombshell!
We’re your destination for the best in women’s romantic action-adventure stories.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at one of next month’s releases,
DAUGHTER OF THE FLAMES
by Nancy Holder
Available June 2006 wherever Silhouette Books are sold.
“Isabelle!”
Izzy’s eyes flew open at the sound of a male voice in her room.
She knew that voice. It was one of the men who had appeared in her dream—the second one, in the monastery, with the wild hair tumbling over his shoulders and smoke rising up behind him. The one whom she had answered, in French.
She started fumbling for the light, but she was in a strange room, and she didn’t know where it was.
“C’est moi, Jean-Marc de Devereaux des Ombres.”
His voice was insistent, urgent. But it was inside her head. In her mind.
Oh, my God. What’s going on?
Was she dreaming?
“You’re in danger,” he said.
Experimentally, she touched her head, feeling for headphones. Patting the pillow. “Who are you?” she demanded again, squinting into the darkness. “Where are you?”
“A friend. Trust me. They’re looking for you.”
I’ve gone crazy, she thought. But as she looked around again, she said hopefully, “Ma?”
“No, I’m not Marianne. But I speak for her. I speak for the House of the Flames. They’re searching for you. I’ll do all I can to protect you.”
Suddenly a violent pain blossomed behind her eyes. With a gasp, she pressed her fingertips against the bridge of her nose. It was so bad that she doubled over, losing her balance, and tumbled on her knees to the floor.
“Did you do that?” she yelled.
“Shh. Lower your voice. They know where you are. But they’re closing in.”
Holding on to her bed, she got to her feet. The pain disappeared. Rubbing her forehead, she saw a rectangle of light around Venetian blinds. She stood to the side of it, then lifted the corner of the dark-blue curtain and spied out onto the street below.
Her heart turned to ice.
The first man from her dream, the one in the long black coat, stood across the street. He was smoking; she saw the glow of his cigarette against the dark outline of his head. He was not looking at her window; his gaze was focused a floor or two above it. But he was searching, scanning. She felt the familiar, irrational dread at the sight of him.
She murmured, “Is that you or a friend of yours?”
“Is someone outside?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Get out! Get out immediately. Don’t let him see you or you are dead.”
“Okay, wait. Time out,” she said. “What the hell is going on?”
“Maintenant! Vite!”
“I have to get dressed—”
“Non! Get out! Get out now! Move!”
Something inside her made her listen—she had saved her father’s life this way—and she whipped into action, bounding across the room to the chair where she had piled her clothes.
“Get out now!”
She gathered up her sweater and pants, stepped into her boots, and pulled on her own long black coat over the Marc Anthony T-shirt. Her purse…she couldn’t remember where it was. In the darkened bedroom? In the bathroom?
She couldn’t leave without it. Her cell phone was in it. Her money, her house key—
And then she felt the wet velvet sensation wash over her, the same as in her bathroom—was it four nights ago? She stood stock-still, feeling like a prisoner eluding the searchlight of a prison guard tower. Her heart was thudding so hard she felt dizzy again.
The sensation passed.
“Where are you?” the voice demanded. “Are you leaving?”
“Oui,” she replied, shocking herself. She was speaking in French again.
“Ah, c’est bon,” he replied, and rattled off a barrage of French.
She shook her head, not understanding anything more, mincing backward out of the bedroom.
There, in the living room, her purse lay on the sofa turned upside down.
She grabbed it up, scooping the contents in as best she could, and hurried to the front door. She opened the door and went out into the hall, shutting it behind herself.
“Move! Or others will die!”
The words chilled her. They were straight from her nightmare.
“Where? Where should I go?” she whispered, since it didn’t seem to matter how softly or how loudly she spoke. “How can you hear me? What’s going on?”
“Just go!”
As soundlessly as she could, she crept down the hall, which was dark except for a light flickering dimly in front of the elevator. Bad move to take it, she decided.
It began to whir. It was coming up.
She looked frantically for a stairwell. Thought about what she might find there—junkies, bored gangbangers, eager thieves.
She made out the shape of a door and tiptoed toward it, felt for a latch, found it and opened the door. She took a deep breath as she stepped across the threshold. It was pitch-dark.
Closing the door soundlessly behind herself, she had a moment of vertigo. It was so dark. She was so scared. She fumbled in her purse for her cell phone to call 911.
“Isabelle?” It was the voice inside her head. She didn’t dare answer.
The elevator dinged. Though she knew she had no way of knowing who was in the elevator, she started down, hand in her purse. Her heart caught as she came up empty on her cell phone. She began to wonder if she had left it on the couch.
How many flights of stairs? She was wobbly. Her head hurt. Her hands were trembling and she was afraid her knees were going to buckle. She gripped the banister, which was metal…and sticky. She recoiled, rubbing her hand on the clothes cradled in her arm.
She heard the door above her open.
“Isabelle?” The voice inside her head was frantic. “Répondez-moi! Answer me!”
There were footsteps on the stairs.
She held on to the banister again, moving as quietly as she could, wondering if speed was more important. Her heart rammed against her ribs; she was holding her breath and she couldn’t make herself let it go. Her body went numb; she had no idea where her hand ended and the banister began.
Down she raced, each movement a cannonball to her ears—she had no idea if the other person on the stairs could hear her. Part of her wanted to burst into hysterical laughter; the other part remembered that her father had almost died today and either she—or her mother’s angelic spirit—had saved him.
Now someone was trying to save her.
Or was he trying to flush her out so someone else could catch her?
She turned a corner, raced down more stairs.
The footsteps above her picked up speed.
She went around another corner. Another.
The footsteps above her rang out, obviously not caring if she heard them.
As she turned another corner, she saw a horizontal sliver of light at an angle below her. It was light from beneath a door. It had to be coming in from somewhere—a service tunnel? A stoop?
Someone’s flashlight?
She looked up and over her shoulder. Saw no one.
Looked back down at the strip of light.
The voice inside her head starting yelling her name.
“Isabelle! Isabelle! Isabelle!”
She pushed open the door and just as quickly shut
it behind herself, feeling along the latch for a way to lock it. There was none.
She wheeled around on a square of cement and stared out on a strip of snow bounded by two privacy fences. There was a six-foot-high fence at the other end.
She stepped into the snow. It went up to her calf, and the cold was a shock. She rethought her plan. She was practically naked, and every movement she made would be a roadmap to her location.
She had no other choice.
She put her other foot into the snow.
ISBN 1-55254-465-6
THE SPY WITH THE SILVER LINING
Copyright © 2006 by Wendy Rosnau
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 editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.
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.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
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Coming Next Month
If you enjoyed the e-book you just read, then you’ll love what we have for you next month!
ON SALE IN JUNE 2006
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AVAILABLE NOW
THE SPY WITH THE SILVER LINING by Wendy Rosnau, Silhouette Bombshell
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FLAWLESS by Michele Hauf, Silhouette Bombshell The It Girls miniseries
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MS. LONGSHOT by Sylvie Kurtz, Silhouette Bombshell The It Girls miniseries
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BULLETPROOF PRINCESS by Vicki Hinze, Silhouette Bombshell, The It Girls miniseries
