Blackhawk Desires
BLACKHAWK’S BETRAYAL
BLACKHAWK’S BOND
BLACKHAWK’S AFFAIR
Barbara McCauley
MILLS & BOON
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About the Author
BARBARA McCAULEY, who has written more than twenty novels for Silhouette Books, lives in Southern California with her own handsome hero husband, Frank, who makes it easy to believe in and write about the magic of romance. Barbara’s stories have won and been nominated for numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA®Award from the Romance Writers of America, Best Desire of the Year from Romantic Times BOOKclub and Best Short Contemporary from the National Reader’s Choice Awards.
BLACKHAWK’S BETRAYAL
Barbara McCauley
This book is dedicated to Jennifer Stockton,
Chef Extraordinaire! Thanks for all your help and
expertise, sweetheart. Your secret for chocolate
mousse is safe with me.
One
She should be in Paris.
Sighing, Kiera glanced at the yellow-lit dial on her rental car dashboard. Nine thirty-two, Texas time. If she had got on her plane this morning, she would have landed at the Charles de Gaulle Airport two hours ago. At this very moment, she would be checking into her room at the hotel Château Frontenac. Ordering room service. Sipping espresso while she nibbled on a navettes. Sinking her exhausted body into a Louis XVI four-poster bed.
Instead, she sat in the cracked asphalt parking lot of Sadie’s Shangri-La Motel and Motor Lodge.
Welcome. Park Your Cars Out Front, Your Horses Out Back, flashed the pink neon vacancy sign.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so she dropped her head into her hands and did both.
“Damn you, Trey,” she said through clenched teeth. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”
She let herself rant for a full ten seconds, then wiped her tears and flipped the visor down to study her face in the lit mirror. Scary, was her first thought—deal with it, her second. Mumbling curses again, she dug through her purse and pulled out a compact of cover-up, then carefully blotted the fading bruise beside her left eye. Not perfect, but the best she could do unless she put on her sunglasses, which, considering the fact that it was pitch black outside, just might draw attention to herself.
And that she certainly didn’t want to do.
Adjusting her bangs and the sides of her hair to hide the fading bruise, she stepped out of the car and stretched her stiff muscles. She was too tired to care that her skirt, a pristine white ten hours ago, now looked like tissue paper pulled out of a gift bag. Nor did she care that her sleeveless blouse, a clean, crisp green when she’d left the ranch this morning, currently had the appearance of wilted lettuce.
It is what it is.
A double-trailer big rig rumbled past the motel, jarring her out of her thoughts. She slung her purse strap over her shoulder, sucked in a breath, then made her way to the motel’s front office. Heat from the sweltering day lingered, and the humidity clung to her like wet plastic wrap. Shower, she thought, drawing the heavy, damp air into her lungs. She needed one desperately. A long one to wash off the grime and sweat of the day’s travel.
When she opened the glass door, a buzzer sounded overhead and the scent of coffee hung heavy in the air. The desk clerk, a well-endowed petite blonde with Texas-size hair, stood behind the counter, hands on her voluptuous hips and her gaze locked on the screen of a small corner television.
“Be right with y’all,” the woman said without even glancing up.
Kiera held back the threatening whimper. Born and raised Texan, she knew what “be right with y’all,” really meant: sometime between the near future and next Christmas.
Living in New York the past three years had made her impatient, she realized. She’d become accustomed to the frantic rush of people, the swell of city traffic, skyscrapers and closed-in spaces. A delicatessen on every corner.
The thought of food reminded her she hadn’t eaten today. She’d kill for one of those deli sandwiches right now. A ten-pound ham and cheese, with lettuce and tomatoes and—
“No!”
The shout made Kiera jump back and clutch her purse. The desk clerk threw up her hands in disgust, which set the strands of silver circles on her earlobes swirling.
“I knew I couldn’t trust those two,” she exclaimed, gesturing angrily at the TV. “For eight weeks she carries Brett and Randy’s scrawny, lazy asses and what did it get the poor girl? What?”
Kiera wasn’t certain if the woman—Mattie, according to the plastic badge on her white polo shirt—really wanted an answer, but she doubted it.
“A boot in her butt, that’s what. Lower than manure, that’s what those two jerks are.” Shaking her head, Mattie grabbed the remote and lowered the volume, then turned and stretched her bright red lips into a smile. “You checking in, honey?”
Kiera hesitated, briefly considered taking her chances that she might find a room at a hotel in town. Someplace not quite so far off the beaten path. Someplace … safer. Then she remembered how much cash she had and shook off her apprehension. “The sign said you had a vacancy.”
“Sure do.” Mattie moved to a computer monitor behind the counter. “Single or double?”
“Single.”
Mattie’s long, glossy red nails clicked over the keys. “Kitchenette?”
Kiera didn’t really plan on cooking, but, then, she hadn’t planned on being here, either. “Sure.”
“How long y’all staying?” Mattie asked.
“I—I’m not sure.” God, this was a bad idea, she thought. A really bad idea. “Maybe a week or so.”
“Name?”
Kiera shifted uneasily. She didn’t dare use her real name. At least, not her last name. “Kiera Daniels.”
The desk clerk entered the name into her computer, then printed out a form and slid it across the counter. “Credit card?”
She thought about the name on her credit card, the fact that she could easily be traced back here if she used it, not to mention the fact that the name might raise questions. “I’d, ah, like to pay