Sucking in a breath to quiet her nerves, she stared out into the moonlit night at the towering facade of gray granite that housed the Black's Cove Clinic.

Breaking in to obtain her brother's medical file was the only way she'd ever know if their treatment had helped him, or put him in a wheelchair and erased the knowledge of basic human functions from his brain. Her own personal question was why her parents had brought him to this macabre clinic in the first place?

Reaching for the door handle, she pulled it, let the door swing open and climbed out of her car.

The century-old building looked more like a throwback to Elizabethan England than a medical clinic. It was built in the 30's and served as a mental institution until the Trayborne family purchased it in 1956 and converted it into the Black's Cove Clinic.

The hair on the back of her neck rose. She pulled the collar of her jacket up a little closer and eased the car door shut just enough to extinguish the dome light inside. Looping the tool bag strap over her shoulder, she prepared for her assault.

The place had been closed for years, but the newspaper archives she'd been digging through had revealed an interesting fact. The clinic's medical records were still housed in the basement.

Slipping out of the grove of aspens she'd hidden her car in, she walked the edge of the cobbled drive and turned on her mini-flashlight. The skinny beam shone against the weed-laced stones leading up to the gatehouse.

Her hearing went on alert, every muscle in her body firmed in fight-or-flight standby. Why was she so tense? The place was empty. Abandoned. Standing alone in an isolated corner of southeastern Idaho. Getting answers would be like popping in to Jitter's Espresso shop for a latte. Quick and easy.

Pulling resolve from that fact, she stared at the massive structure, its upper floors visible above the eight-foot-high stone wall surrounding it.

A shudder zig-zagged down her spine. She ducked in behind a tall arborvitae, fighting to regain her nerve. She'd taken risks before; it went with her job as a freelance investigative journalist digging for stories on medical mistakes. Ross's condition certainly fit the description.

She swallowed and stepped out from behind the evergreen.

He knew she would come; had seen her in a precogni-tive vision. And now she was here. Poking around where she didn't belong, searching for answers he'd stop her from finding.

High on the stone wall blended with the tree branches and fall leaves, he watched the faint flicker of her flashlight through the window she'd entered, at the top of the fire escape. Coming to his feet from a squatting position, he willed his physical senses to heighten. Pulling in a deep breath of night air, he dissected its components in his mind, sorting threat from nonthreat in the process. He couldn't sense them, but he knew they were here.

Sharpening his eyesight, he dragged his stare through the darkness, coming up empty. Concern fired along his nerves; he had to stop them before they hurt her.

Glancing back at the window, he turned his head slightly to the left, honing in on the sounds coming from the room. He closed his eyes, hearing her hesitant footsteps against the hardwood, the sound of the ancient knob turning, the swish of the door being pulled open and finally the pin sliding into the kick plate as she closed the door and released the knob.

There wasn't much time.

Olivia leaned against the door and shone her flashlight along a corridor to the right. A dead end with a window view. To the left, a long hallway opened up.

Ahead, fifty feet, the light beam bounced off two balusters at the midway point. The stairs, she guessed, glad when she reached them and stared down at the main-floor entrance below.

Six narrow windows rose above the double doors, allowing shards of moonlight to penetrate the interior. The platinum light cut across the great entry hall and illuminated a sitting area, crowded with furniture draped in white covers. Grains of dust danced in and out of the moonbeams, raising the level of caution in her blood.

Had someone stirred it up? Or was she just being paranoid in a dusty old building that made her want to sneeze? She chose the latter and put one foot in front of the other, descending the wide staircase to the ground floor.

She'd give the tip of her right pinky finger for a map of the place, but she'd have to rely on her sense of direction instead. The place had been built at the turn of the century. The kitchen was probably at the back of the building, and so too the stairwell leading to the basement.

Moving off the landing, she turned right, weaving her way through the cloaked furniture. Under the stairwell and directly behind the entry, she found what had once been a dining hall, probably when the building had housed mental patients. It was empty now, save a couple of tables with their chairs upended, legs to the ceiling.

How many patients had dined here?

She picked up her pace through the cavernous room, heading for a row of shutters that lined an opening in the wall to the right. The wide swinging door next to the serving window should lead into the kitchen if she'd guessed right.

Olivia eased the door open, shining the flashlight beam around first before stepping into the massive commercial kitchen. The strong smell of cooking oil and chlorine bleach overwhelmed her nose, almost making her gag.

"Ick," she whispered as she probed the darkness, settling the beam of light on a narrow doorway at the far end of the galley, with a ladder leaned up against it.

"Yes." She moved toward it, a sense of relief stirring in her veins. The sooner she found her brother's file and got the heck out, the better she'd feel. This place gave her the creeps and then some.

She pulled the ladder out of the way, opened the door and stared down the stairwell, pointing the flashlight into the black hole below.

Pulling in a breath, she staved off the desire to turn and run. Down there was the truth and she'd be damned if she was going to stop hunting for it now.

Somewhere in the belly of the structure, a low mechanical groan hummed. About to jump out of her skin, she paused long enough to feel air rush from an overhead vent in the kitchen. The heat had kicked on. Shaking off her jitters, she started down the narrow wooden stairs, her senses on hyperalert.

Every creak of the ancient steps under her feet made her hesitate. At least she'd hear if anyone came down after her. Not that it was even a possibility. She was utterly alone in this place. She hoped.

Olivia reached the bottom of the steps and waved her flashlight around the basement. It had been divided into a series of rooms along the back wall. On her right was a bank of washers and dryers. The clinic's laundry room.

One of the rooms against the wall on the left had to contain the file storage.

Stepping off the landing, she hurried to the first door and pulled it open. Inside was a food pantry, stocked with a smattering of canned goods.

She closed the door and went to the next one. It was locked. This had to be it. Snagging her tool bag off her shoulder, she fished out her lock picking set and knelt in front of the knob. With her light in between her teeth, she inserted the tension bar into the keyhole. Pushing the rake into the lock, above the tension tool, she coaxed the lock pins, feeling them give. The knob turned and she pushed open the door.

Grasping her flashlight, she shone it into the interior of the large room where rows of metal shelves stood as a testament to the number of patients who'd passed through the clinic. Thousands, she guessed. Olivia shoved her tools into the bag, stepped into the room, closed the door behind her and locked it.

She made a quick assessment moving her light around the perimeter. There were no windows.

Turning back toward the door, she focused on the light switch and flipped it on.

Overhead, a couple of incandescent bulbs dangling from shaded pendants came on, casting light down through the tall shelving units arranged in ten rows.

She could only hope each box had been marked with a month and year. It would make finding Ross's medical records a piece of cake, but why her parents had signed a nondisclosure order in the first place, she'd never know. They'd both passed away without giving her the information.

Excitement pulsed in her veins. She turned off the flashlight and slipped it inside her tool bag. In less than ten minutes she'd have the answers she'd guessed at for years.

Staring up at the file boxes, she worked her way up and down the rows, until she spotted a box with the month and year she needed. It was on the top shelf. Frustrated, she moved out of the row, looking for something to climb on. In the corner she spotted a stepladder.

Olivia walked over to it, picked it up and carried it back into the row. She opened the ladder and put her foot on the first rung.

The stairs creaked under someone's weight.

Olivia froze in place, her heartbeat escalating in her own eardrums.

Someone was coming.

A silent curse repeated in her mind as she stepped down off the rung. Whoever was outside the door must know she was in here? If not, the light under the door would be their first clue.

Maybe it was a maintenance man or a…security guard.

She swallowed hard, straining to hear.

There it was again, the groan of the wooden stairs.

Panic ignited in her veins. She went on the defensive. On the right bottom shelf in front of her was an opening between two boxes. She crawled into the void, listening as the doorknob was twisted back and forth a couple of times.

Closing her eyes, she worked to stay calm, pulling air into her lungs in even rhythm.

Overhead, the lights started to buzz, a low-pitched sound, like a bee circling.

A charge of fear racing through her, she opened her eyes and stared up, watching t...

From the book: THE PHANTOM OF BLACK'S COVE
By: Jan Hambright
Imprint and Series: Harlequin Intrigue
Publication Date: JUNE 2009
ISBN: 978-0-373-69408-2
Copyright © 2009 By: M. Jan Hambright
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.
The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For more romance information surf to: http://www.eharlequin.com












From the book: THE HIGH COUNTRY RANCHER
by: Jan Hambright
Harlequin Intrigue February 2009



Baylor McCullough flipped the collar of his oilskin duster up around his neck, and spurred his horse into the wind raging from the north in icy waves.

Snow pelted his face, stinging like tiny BBs, but he focused instead on the lay of the land, trying to define it in the blizzard swirling around him.

The warming pen in the barn brimmed with early spring calves, too young to survive the freak storm hammering the Salmon River high country.

Only one was missing. A bald-faced calf he'd seen with its mother yesterday afternoon before the sky clouded to murky white and the air temperature dipped below freezing.

Reining in his horse, Texas, he paused, spotting an outline in the snow just below the border of ancient ponderosa pines that lined the driveway leading into the ranch. The shape disappeared as the wind shifted, smearing his vision.

"Get up." He tapped his heels against the horse's flanks and rocked forward in the saddle, aiming for the trees less than twenty yards away.

Night would fall soon; the storm was intensifying. Nothing would survive after dark. He was running out of time.

Texas's hooves thudded against the frozen earth as he searched for traction in the blowing snow and plowed through the drifts accumulating and dissipating like sand dunes on the Sahara.

Baylor forced his hat down hard on his head and steered the horse around a tangle of branches that had been ripped from one of the ponderosa. He'd be lucky if the storm didn't take out the power before it spent its fury on the Bellwether Ranch.

"Whoa." He eased back on the reins, stopped the horse and climbed down out of the saddle. Kneeling in the snow, he brushed hard, exposing the hide of the bald-faced calf he'd seen only yesterday, but he was too late.

He straightened. It was only one calf, only one in his herd of hundreds, but it was a loss. A knot clinched in the pit of his stomach. He mounted up, and turned Texas for the ranch a quarter of a mile away, fighting for every breath he dragged into his lungs from the blasting wind.

The pine branches he'd passed earlier whipped and jerked in the gale, like sheets on a clothesline.

Texas spooked and skittered sideways.

Baylor kept his seat in the saddle, bringing the scared horse under control.

For an instant the snow cleared, giving him a view he hadn't expected.

Concern slid through his veins, driving him forward. He bailed off his horse and went to the ground, digging into the snowdrift piled up against the limb, looking for the thing he believed he'd seen for a brief second, and praying he was wrong.

Brushing away the last of the snow, he stared down at a human hand.

He jerked off his leather glove and pressed his fingers to the wrist, feeling for a pulse. It drummed beneath his fingertips, faint and thready.

Still alive. But not for long if he didn't do something.

Baylor pushed to his feet and rushed to his horse.

Texas's eyes went wide. He took a couple of steps back.

"Easy boy." Hand out, Baylor touched the horse's neck, calming him, before he fumbled with the laces and untied his lariat from the saddle.

He trudged back through the snow and looped the noose of the rope around the thick base of the limb.

Striding back to his horse, he mounted up, wrapped the rope around the saddle horn and urged Texas back.

"Easy…easy." He coaxed, hoping to keep the spooked animal from an all-out bolt.

Three feet. Five feet. Ten feet. Clear.

Baylor dismounted, unwrapped the rope from the saddle horn and coiled it up as he lunged back to the spot where the limb had fallen, trapping someone.

Dropping the rope, he went to his knees and started digging. Panic drove him, until he found the hand again. Reaching down, he judged where the body was and locked his arms around it. In one pull it came free, sending him backward onto his backside with his arms wrapped around a body, and a face full of snow, but it was the sight of a slender body, and a wisp of long blond hair sticking out from under a stocking cap that fisted worry in his gut.

A woman? A hypothermic woman, a dead woman, if he didn't get her back to the house. How long had she been lying there in the freezing cold? He mentally tried to establish a timeline as he stood up, and pulled her into his arms. She hadn't been there at 3:00 p.m. when he'd gone out to round up his cows and calves just before the storm broke.

Putting one foot in front of the other, he maneuvered through the snow until he reached Texas, who'd calmed and stood with his head low, hindquarters turned into the gale.

Gently, he draped her over the front of the saddle. Foot in stirrup, he mounted up and pulled her back into his arms, settling her against him.

Staring down, he saw her face for the first time. High cheekbones, a strong chin, full lips, refined, but much too still and void of color. The only thing marring her features was a bloody scrape on her right temple, probably caused by the limb when it hit her, knocked her down and trapped her.

Who was she? And what was she doing on the Bellwether?

Concern rattled through him. He might already be too late. He wasn't a doctor, but head injuries and hypothermia were serious business.

He turned Texas for home, hoping he had better luck saving the beautiful woman in his arms than he had had with the early spring calf who lay frozen to death in the snow.

Detective Mariah Ellis became aware of her body one tingling appendage at a time, starting with her toes. She was cold. As cold as she'd ever been, but the air against her bare skin was warm.

Her bare skin? A hazy image accompanied her return to consciousness: a man lying next to her, his body pressed to hers, his warmth soaking into her frozen veins.

In a burst of horror and disoriented thought, her eyelids shot open and she jerked upright in the bed. A bed she didn't recognize, in a room that didn't belong to her.

Covered with only a sheet, she grabbed the bulky rust-colored comforter folded at the foot of the massive four-poster, and yanked it up around her neck.

Quieting, she listened for any sound of movement.

Her head throbbed, her stomach rebelling against the sudden jolt of excitement. Flopping back against the fluffy pillows, she waited for the nausea to pass.

The mournful howl of the wind blowing against the house was the only sound in the candlelit room, besides the crackle coming from a blazing fire burning in a massive stone fireplace, positioned against the wall opposite the bed.

Tension squeezed every muscle in her body as one-by-one she recovered her memories of the day's events.

She'd come to the Bellwether Ranch to question its owner, rancher Baylor McCullough, about a missing prosecutor, James Endicott.

Was this McCullough's home?

His bed?

Panic frayed her nerves and left her agitated.

She'd been advised to use caution where Baylor McCullough was concerned. He had been, after all, a suspect in his wife's death a year ago.

Scanning the room, she spotted the object of her search. Throwing back the comforter, she climbed out of bed. A chill raked over her bare skin and her gaze settled on a silky robe draped over the footboard.

Mariah swallowed, took two steps forward and snatched the garment. She pulled it on, securing the belt with a tight tug.

The room spun.

Grabbing for the footboard, she steadied herself.

Head pounding, she reached up and felt the gauze bandage taped in place on her right temple.

The branch. She'd been clipped by it while she'd walked along the road into the ranch after her car slid into the ditch half a mile back. Things were beginning to make sense. All but the faint memory of not being in the four-poster alone.

Had she dreamt that?

Taking several deep breaths, she focused on her service revolver and faltered forward until she reached the mirrored wooden dresser where it lay.

Wrapping her left hand around the holster, she pulled out the shiny .38 with her right, and instantly felt a surge of relief coat her nerves. A girl could always rely on her weapon.

She didn't know what Baylor McCullough was capable of, and she didn't want to find out. The .38 was the only deterrent between the two options, and she intended to use it if she had to.

Her feet stung as she turned around and stared at the open door that led out of the large bedroom. The flicker of candles in the adjacent darkness put her on edge.

Fighting the pain in her feet that resembled a zillion tiny needle pricks, she took a step forward, then another, shuffling until she reached the entry.

Stopping, she leaned against the doorjamb for support and scoped out what appeared to be the living room.

A fire blazed in a river-rock fireplace centered against one wall. Light from the flames ebbed and flowed, touching the articles in the room with its glow.

Somewhere in the unfamiliar house Baylor McCullough waited.

Was he armed?

Raising her service revolver, she inched forward, getting a sense of the room's layout and analyzing it for cover.

The sound of someone's deep, even breathing sliced into her senses.

She turned toward the sound and stopped her advance.

She spotted the room's only occupant sprawled in a deep leather chair and focused on his denim-clad thighs, long, lean, well muscled and stretched out in front of him. His boot-encased feet were casually crossed at the ankles and rested on an ottoman.

By the time her tenuous gaze moved up his shirtless six-packed torso and settled on his face, she realized he was looking back.

"Detective Ellis." The surety in his voice rattled her nerves worse than any high-speed chase ever had.

With a force that took her breath away, she snapped back into the reality that belonged to her. She was a cop and he was her number one suspect, if she could find her badge, and her… clothes.

"And you'd be Baylor McCullough?"

He rocked forward in the chair, pushing the ottoman aside before he stood up, tall, broad-shouldered and silhouetted against the firelight.

Panic zipped along her nerve endings and her mouth went bone-dry.

"I believe you already know the answer, considering you found your way into my ranch."

Irritation warmed her insides as she lowered the pistol, her vulnerability exposed under his intense stare like a Norwegian tourist's winter skin on Maui in December.

Embarrassment fired in her body and hit its target on her cheeks. She wasn't a rookie; feeling like one bothered her.

"You… rescued me from the storm?"

He gave a tiny nod, confirming her suspicion and solidifying her troubles.

"My car slid into the ditch half a mile from here." She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to salvage whatever thread of dignity she had left. She was bare-butt naked inside the silky robe, and she was sure he'd been the one who'd facilitated that little detail. This was no way to start an interview with a suspect, but it was the only starting point she had.

His chiseled features softened. His steel-blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he moved toward her in relaxed, even strides.

"I've got water on the cookstove. I'll make you some hot tea. You need to drink it."

"And my badge?"

The twinkle disappeared. His jaw, darkened by stubble, set in a hard line. He clamped his teeth together. "Hanging in the closet with your dry clothes."

A tingle raced through her body as she looked up at him, unsure if she should be cautious or apologetic. He had, after all, saved her life.

He must have sensed the quandary she found herself in because he attempted to smile. "This storm has us locked in. It'll be a couple of days before the outside world knows you're missing."

Mariah felt drained. The edges of her caution melted away for a moment only to be resolidified an instant later.

"I'll have to check for myself. Have you got a telephone I can use?"

"Out. Along with the electricity." He turned away from her and she stared at the well-developed muscles cording his back as he moved toward the kitchen.

"I'd stay off your feet for a day or two. You've got some frostbite. Walking around could damage the tissue, and you've got nice feet. Go back to bed if you want to keep your toes." With that warning and compliment he disappeared into the darkened kitchen just beyond the firelight.

Mariah's heart rate shot up. She'd managed to get herself into one heck of a mess. The idea of being trapped on a mountain with no phone, no car and a suspect with a foot fetish was more than she'd bargained for when she'd left the station this afternoon.

From the book: THE HIGH COUNTRY RANCHER
By: Jan Hambright
Imprint and Series: Harlequin Intrigue
Publication Date: FEBRUARY 2009
ISBN: 978-0-373-69385-6
Copyright © 2009 By: M. Jan Hambright
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.
The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For more romance information surf to: http://www.eharlequin.com





From the book: AROUND-THE-CLOCK PROTECTOR
by: Jan Hambright
Harlequin Intrigue January 2008

Excerpt from Chapter Five

THE CONSTANT DRONE of the aircraft engines lulled Carson into complacency. He looked at his watch. One hour until touch down at Andrews.

He glanced over at Ava, sound asleep in her seat. Taking the liberty, he let his gaze slide down her body and found himself staring at her abdomen.

He could just make out the small round bulge below her navel, covered by the taunt flight suit. He resisted the urge to cover the bump with his hand. To feel the hard evidence under his palm.

"Sir."

Carson started, looking up at the young crewman who stood in front of him. "Yeah."

"The captain would like to speak with you."

Warning rose in his gut. He tamped it down, unfastened his harness and stood up, letting the blood flow return to his legs.

He followed the crewman to the three-stair platform up into the cockpit of the aircraft. He climbed the steps, opened the door and went inside.

The captain of the airplane looked up from his seat at the flight controls. "Close the door," he said, before extending his hand.

Carson pulled the door shut and reached out, shaking the pilots hand. "Agent Carson Nash."

"I'm Captain Springer Davis, this is my co captain, Ray White."

"Your crewman said you needed to speak with me."

"We just received a direct transmission from Andrews base command. We've been ordered to remand your prisoner, Agent Ava Ross, upon arrival."

Suspicion battered Carson's senses, but he kept his cool. "Any word on the order's origin?"

"Negative. I just fly the plane."

"Are we on schedule?"

"Affirmative. Down to the minute."

Carson reached for the door handle. "She's all yours once we're on the ground."

The captain nodded.

Carson left the cockpit, taking the stairs at a leisurely pace he didn't feel. Something was wrong. Dead wrong.

He glanced around for the crewman and spotted him in his seat on the other side of the cockpit door. Slipping back into his seat, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest, letting his mind work the details his gut had already deciphered.

Ava’s claims might be true, but without a name to go with the redirect order, he didn't have anything to go on.

He couldn't let her be taken from his custody until he knew she'd be safe and if that meant evasion, then so be it.

Carson opened his eyes and looked at his watch. They were twenty minutes from the drop zone. He gazed at the Hummer setting in the belly of the plane and made his decision.

He stood up, making his way over to the crewman's seat. "Hey, I can't sit any longer. Can I help you prepare this beast for launch?"

"Sure." The airman glanced at his watch. "It's about that time anyway." He stood up and moved toward the Hummer. "Pull the tie-downs on the corners. Make sure they're unhooked and clear of the roll-out track."

"You got it." Carson moved down the left side of the Humvee, releasing the tie-down straps one by one. Stepping up, he looked inside the interior of the vehicle. The keys swung from the ignition. Reaching out, he tried the door latch.  It opened in his hand, just as the crewman came around the tail end of the Hummer.

"Better close that tight," he said, pulling the last tie-down strap free.

Carson shut the door.  "What's next?" he asked, his hands on his hips.

"The captain comes over the intercom, tells me we're over the drop zone and lowers the cargo door. I tether off and punch that red extrication button over there."  He indicated a button near the cockpit door.  "And it's bye-bye baby, off into the wild blue."

"Sounds simple enough. Does the captain close the hatch?"

"Yeah. After the cargo launch sensor light goes out."

"Smooth operation. Thanks for the rundown."

"You better buckle up. When the door drops, the wind currants can be rough. Men have been sucked out of the plane." The crewman turned around.

In one swift move Carson put him in a choke hold and pulled off his headphones.

The crewman went limp in his arms.

Carson dragged him over to his seat and buckled him in. Grabbing a tie-down strap, he bound the man's hands together in front of him.

There was no need to gag the crewman, he decided, doubting anything could be heard over the drone of the aircraft engines.

He rushed to the seat where Ava still slept, and pulled off her headphones.

She startled, her eyes flew open and she stared up at him as if he'd lost his mind. He put his hand over her mouth and pointed at the Hummer. "I believe you," he mouthed, watching her absorb the information.  "Let's go."

He undid the seat-belt buckle and pulled her up, feeling her resist. "It's the only way. They want to take custody of you at Andrews."

Her features softened, her shoulders straightened. She nodded.

He pointed at the Hummer.  "Get in!"

Ava couldn't believe what was happening. One moment she'd been lost in sleep, the next she was preparing to climb into a Hummer for a ride out of the sky.

Her legs shook as she wobbled to the driver's side door of the vehicle.

Carson pulled open the door and she climbed inside.

"Roll down the window, put on the emergency brake and pop it out of gear."

She obeyed, cranking the handle until the window disappeared. She yanked on the emergency brake and pulled the Hummer out of gear.

"Get in the passenger seat and buckle up! It's going to be a rough ride."

An instant of terror struck her, but she forced it back. She slid into the passenger seat and buckled up.

Carson grabbed his pack and pushed it through the drivers side window just as the captain's voice came over the loudspeaker.

"We're over the drop zone. Door down."

A hazard warning buzzed three times. The massive cargo door mechanically unlatched and began to drop.

Ava put her hands over her ears. The noise level inside the belly of the plane intensified. Why wasn't Carson in the Hummer with her?

Panic streamed over her, turning into a torrent as she watched him approach the cockpit door.

Was he crazy? He should be strapping in right now, but he was just standing there staring at her.

"You're clear to launch," the captain said over the roar of the wind.

She watched Carson punch a red button and felt the Hummer jolt backwards on the launch tracks.

Terror sliced through her as he lunged toward the moving vehicle, fighting the air currants swirling around him.

He rounded the front bumper and dragged himself along the side of the vehicle.

"Hurry!" Ava yelled, glancing in the side mirror at the clear blue sky five feet behind the rolling Humvee.

If he didn't get inside before the rear wheels left the platform, he'd be sucked out of the aircraft.

Ava’s heart hammered in her chest.

Carson jumped onto the step rail.

Thump.  The rear wheels dropped off the back of the cargo gate.

She closed her eyes and waited for the nightmare to end. Carson Nash was as good as dead.

From the book: AROUND-THE-CLOCK PROTECTOR
By: Jan Hambright
Imprint and Series: Harlequin Intrigue
Publication Date: JANUARY 2008
ISBN: 978-0-373-88814-6
Copyright © 2008 By: M. Jan Hambright
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.
The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For more romance information surf to: http://www.eharlequin.com






From the book: SHOWDOWN WITH THE SHERIFF
by: Jan Hambright
Harlequin Intrigue June 2007



Chapter Twelve