Something awful had happened—to her.
Someone had hurt her. And they would pay.
Jack caught her by the arms, holding her still against her struggles.
“Look at me,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft and gentle, although inside he felt like bellowing with rage—not at her, but at whomever had caused her to be so hurt and scared.
Fear clouded her face, her breath coming in little sobs, then she strained against his grip. “Let me go,” she said in a quiet, pleading voice.
It took all the willpower he had not to shake her and yell, “It’s Jack. Please. I didn’t do this!” “Cara, it’s me,” he said softly.
“J-Jack?” she stammered. “Jack? Oh …”
She reached for him, and he pulled her close with a sharp inhalation that he would never admit was a sob. “Cara, Cara, shh,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m here. It’s me. Don’t be afraid.”
Blood Ties in
Chef Voleur
Mallory Kane
MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, and taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.
She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. After twenty-five books published, Mallory is still amazed and thrilled that she actually gets to make up stories for a living.
Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats. She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at [email protected].
For my family. Blood ties and love together are the strongest. Thank you all. I love you.
And for fans of The Delancey Dynasty.
Your loyalty and love for the Delanceys overwhelms me. Thank you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Extract
Jack Bush looked at his wife of one month as she lifted her arms above her head to slip on the exquisite pink dress. It slid down over her breasts, past her waist and hips, draping over her slender curves and porcelain skin, and flowed like a thick gleaming river past her ankles to puddle just slightly on the floor.
He tried to swallow but his throat was dry. He felt himself becoming aroused as her palms smoothed the satin. He stepped behind her and rested his hands on top of hers at the curve of her hips.
“Jack, I have to finish dressing.”
“I know,” he murmured as he kissed the little bump at the curve of her shoulder. He pushed the dainty strap away and slid his lips and tongue across to the curve of her neck, feeling triumphant when she took a long breath and angled her head to give him access.
“Isn’t it fashionable to be late?” he asked.
“Not when the party’s for us and it’s at my mother’s house.”
“Ouch,” he said. “Way to deflate the, um...enthusiasm.”
Cara Lynn Delancey laughed and turned to him. She slid the strap back up onto her shoulder, pushed her fingers through her hair and shook it out, then she pulled her dress up and hooked her thumbs over the elastic band of her silk bikini panties, pushed them down and kicked them off. “I’m ready,” she said.
Jack stared at her open-mouthed. “You’re not really... Really? At your mother’s house?”
Her face was still creased with laughter, but two bright red spots stood out in her cheeks, revealing her embarrassment. “Haven’t you been telling me I need to be less inhibited?”
He did his best to tamp down his desire by picturing her in baggy jeans and a stretched-out T-shirt, bent over her loom in her studio. That didn’t help. She was sexy as hell in an oversize T-shirt, too.
He shook his head. “Okay. Let’s go. But God help you if somebody steps on your dress, because those little straps will never hold up.”
She shot him a worried look, then started toward the panties. Jack grabbed her hand. “We’re late,” he said with a meaningful look.
“Right,” she said, sending a regretful glance back at the panties.
* * *
JACK COULDN’T BELIEVE his plan had worked. He was here, standing in the gigantic front hall of the Delancey family home, as an invited guest. No, he amended. Not as a guest—as family.
He’d done it. He’d married Cara Lynn Delancey, and now he was about to meet the majority of the Delancey family for the first time, all in one place. So far, he’d only met her parents, one of her brothers and a cousin since he’d eloped with Cara Lynn a month before.
Tonight, all the names in his grandfather’s letters were about to be attached to real people, and one of those people held the answers he needed. Someone in this room knew what really happened the night Con Delancey was murdered twenty-eight years ago at his fishing cabin on Lake Pontchartrain.
Jack looked around, trying to appear worldly and unimpressed, while inside he felt like a kid at Christmas. He was here, finally, surrounded by the infamous politician’s children and grandchildren. This was better than his wildest dream.
Cara Lynn appeared beside him, slipping her hand into his and squeezing. Gritting his teeth, he tried to keep his expression pleasant as he did his best to ignore the soft warmth of her fingers tightening around his in nervous anticipation.
That was the hardest part of being