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  HIS TRUE IDENTITY WAS A SECRET. HOW HE FELT ABOUT HER WAS ANYTHING BUT.

  Security specialist John Dawson thought his latest investigation into a building’s collapse would be an open-and-shut case…until he met Juliana Caprese. Juliana’s suspicions about what really happened that fateful day forced John to take a closer look at all the suspects. Starting with his notorious family. But before he could dig too deep, John found himself dodging bullets to protect the incredibly determined—and strikingly beautiful—Juliana. Obviously they were on the right path, but the idea of losing his rookie “partner” proved their relationship was becoming more personal than professional. Now, this unknown enemy didn’t scare him half as much as how Juliana would react when she found out who he really was….

  Placing a hand on either side of her head, he drew back and gazed down at her.

  He ran his thumb lightly along the fading bruise on her cheek, and she blinked and stared up at him. Her eyes were so dark. They absorbed the light like black velvet. He kissed the corners of her eyelids where tears still clung and he tasted salt.

  “We should—” he started, but a loud metallic screech drowned out his words. Without stopping to think, he grabbed Juliana and dove through the open closet door.

  He twisted in midair, trying to take the brunt of the impact. His shoulder slammed against the floor.

  A deafening crash shook the walls and sent splinters, debris and dust flying. Dawson hunched his shoulders and rolled, putting his back to the destruction. He wrapped his arms around her head and ducked his.

  One slight move and she could have been killed. And he still hadn’t told her who he really was.

  Mallory Kane

  Private Security

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mallory has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who 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 romance 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] or via Harlequin Books.

  Books by Mallory Kane

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  620—THE LAWMAN WHO LOVED HER

  698—HEIR TO SECRET MEMORIES

  738—BODYGUARD/HUSBAND*

  789—BULLETPROOF BILLIONAIRE

  809—A PROTECTED WITNESS*

  863—SEEKING ASYLUM*

  899—LULLABIES AND LIES*

  927—COVERT MAKEOVER

  965—SIX-GUN INVESTIGATION

  992—JUROR NO. 7

  1021—A FATHER’S SACRIFICE

  1037—SILENT GUARDIAN

  1069—THE HEART OF BRODY McQUADE

  1086—SOLVING THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

  1103—HIGH SCHOOL REUNION

  1158—HIS BEST FRIEND’S BABY**

  1162—THE SHARPSHOOTER’S SECRET SON**

  1168—THE COLONEL’S WIDOW?**

  1180—CLASSIFIED COWBOY

  1203—HER BODYGUARD

  1237—DOUBLE-EDGED DETECTIVE‡‡

  1243—THE PEDIATRICIAN’S PERSONAL PROTECTOR‡‡

  1275—BABY BOOTCAMP

  1300—DETECTIVE DADDY

  1351—PRIVATE SECURITY‡‡

  *Ultimate Agents

  **Black Hills Brotherhood

  ‡‡The Delancey Dynasty

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  John Dawson—The security and investigations specialist who no longer goes by the name Dawson Delancey, swears to prove who’s responsible for six deaths in a casino’s structural failure, even if it’s his own dad. But how will he keep the brave, beautiful daughter of the casino manager who died that day from leaving his heart in ruins?

  Juliana Caprese—This would-be private eye won’t give up until the person responsible for her father’s death is brought to justice. She believes in John Dawson, the sexy investigator who says he wants the same thing she does, until she finds out who he really is.

  Michael Delancey—Dawson’s father swears he didn’t cause the collapse that killed six people at the Golden Galaxy Casino. But how far will he go to stay out of prison? As far as putting his own son’s life in danger?

  Brian Hardy—The police detective put Michael Delancey in prison once, when he worked in Vice. Now he’s investigating the man again—this time for murder.

  Randall Knoblock—This contractor who worked on the Golden Galaxy Casino is a hired gun who goes where the money is. But suddenly he’s nowhere to be found. His testimony could free John’s father, or convict him, if only John could track him down.

  Vittorio (Tito) Vega—A prominent real-estate developer and patron of the arts, Vega has his hands in every profitable venture on the Gulf Coast. Is he the generous entrepreneur he appears to be, or does he harbor a vengeful secret?

  For Michael, with all my love

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  By the time the woman struggled out of the taxi, Dawson knew the color of her panties. They were pink.

  He swallowed hard and lifted the binoculars to the blue sling that cradled her left arm and hindered her movements. What had happened to her? Three days ago on Monday, when he’d finally spotted her checking the post office box, she’d been fine.

  She awkwardly tugged her skirt down, and he lowered the glasses. He hadn’t had time to stare at her on Monday. Now he checked out the whole package.

  Tall, lithe, knockout legs and finger-tangling black hair. When she bent to pull out three plastic grocery bags, he raised the glasses again. He adjusted the focus for an excellent view of her excellent backside.

  Then he noticed something at her waist. Something that glinted in the afternoon sunlight. He adjusted the focus. Under the trim jacket she wore, tucked into her skirt, was a handgun. She was carrying.

  “Damn,” he muttered. Juliana Caprese was a dealer at the Black Jack Casino in Biloxi. What the hell was she doing with a gun? His gaze lit on the blue sling again. Maybe it had something to do with how she’d injured her arm.

  He shrugged and laid the binoculars on the passenger seat beside him. Only one way to find out. He got out of the car and sauntered down the sidewalk, timing his approach so that he’d be in her way when she headed for the stairs to her apartment building.

  She hooked all three grocery bags over her right wrist and dug into her jacket pocket. The bags swung back and forth, and even from his distance, Dawson could see the way the plastic handles bit into the skin of her forearm. She wasn’t going to make it without dropping something. He sped up slightly.

  Juliana Caprese grimaced as the plastic bags dug into her flesh. She fumbled for the bills she’d stuck in her pocket to give the taxi driver. With her left arm out of commission, even the smallest task was a pain. She finally snagged the bills with two fingers and tugged. As she did
, she felt one of the plastic straps tear. Her arm jerked as the strap broke and a bag hit the sidewalk. She heard the unmistakable crunch of eggshells breaking.

  “Damn it!” she snapped, glaring at the taxi driver, but her effort was wasted. He lounged complacently behind the wheel talking on his microphone in a language she couldn’t place.

  Before she could lift her right arm to hand the lazy thug his fare, a man stepped right in front of her.

  Startled, her instinctive reaction was to run. The last time someone had taken her by surprise she’d ended up with a bruised face, a banged-up knee and a dislocated shoulder.

  But there was nowhere for her to go. She was blocked in by the taxi, the man and the spilled groceries.

  Then she saw what the man was doing. He thrust two twenties into the driver’s face. “I’ve got your cab number,” he said mildly. “Your boss will hear about your lazy butt.”

  The driver muttered something in a foreign language and sped away.

  Juliana crouched to pick up her bag of broken eggs. The man crouched at the same time.

  “I got it,” he said.

  She held out the crumpled bills. “Here.”

  But he snagged the bag and stood, leaving her at eye level with the front of his jeans.

  Oh, boy, she thought, her mouth going dry. The sight of leanly muscled thighs straining against worn denim took her breath away. For an instant, she just stared.

  “Need help?” he asked, a definite hint of amusement in his voice. He held out his hand.

  She ignored it and rose, wincing when her knee threatened to buckle. “Take this,” she snapped, thrusting the money toward him again.

  But he didn’t even look at it. “Let me help you with those,” he said, deftly hooking a finger around the straining plastic straps on her wrist.

  “No,” she said immediately. “I’m fine.”

  But he already had them. Apprehension took hold of her again. “Please give me back my groceries.”

  “I don’t think this bag qualifies as groceries any longer,” he responded in that same amused voice. “I think your eggs have graduated from groceries to garbage.”

  Juliana bit her cheek to stop herself from chuckling. She raised her gaze to his and frowned at the look in his very bright blue eyes. He was watching her with a disturbing intensity. “I’ll check them when I get upstairs,” she said shortly, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

  She glanced around. Where had he come from? When the taxi had stopped, there was no one on the street. She knew, because ever since she’d been attacked two days ago, she’d been hypervigilant. And she’d started carrying her gun. She was not about to be caught with no means of self-defense again. Ever.

  The man’s eyes narrowed and his brows lowered dangerously. “What happened to you?” he asked gruffly.

  “What?”

  “Your face. Your arm.”

  “Accident,” she tossed out. “May I have my bags now?”

  “You live here?”

  He was starting to scare her. She backed away toward the steps to her building. She glared at him again, avoiding those laser eyes, looking at his mouth instead. But that turned out to be a mistake. His mouth was wide and straight, with a lower lip that she was sure would— Stop it, the little voice inside her head said. You don’t know where that mouth has been.

  She glanced over her shoulder and took another step backward. She was nearly at the steps to her building.

  “Whoa, hang on,” the man said quickly. “You’re Juliana Caprese, right?”

  Her heart lurched. He knew her name. She half turned, ready to run up the steps. She didn’t need those groceries that badly.

  “Wait, please. My name’s Dawson,” he offered. “I guess I’m not handling this well. I don’t mean to frighten you. I just want to ask you a question or two. Did you get the business card I left at Kaplan Wright?”

  That surprised her. So this was the John Dawson who’d left the card at the architect’s office. She paused, but she moved her hand to her side, ready to grab her weapon.

  “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you. Like I said, I just want to ask you some questions.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Ask me some questions? Well, you’re right. You aren’t handling it well. Accosting me in the street is not a good way to start.” She let her hand drift backward again, wondering how long it would take her to grab her gun.

  Too long, the little voice answered.

  “Ms. Caprese,” he said quickly, “there’s no reason for you to be afraid of me. I’m on your side.”

  “My side?” That shocked her. She clamped her jaw and lifted her chin. She didn’t relax her hand. “My side of what?” she asked harshly.

  “The collapse of the Sky Walk.”

  Her heart, already racing, took a header against her chest wall and stole her breath. She sucked in air greedily. Her heel hit the bottom step and she almost stumbled.

  “Look Mr.—Dawson,” she grated. “I’m—” What was she about to tell him? That she was armed? There was no way she could get her hand on her Smith & Wesson 3913 before he stopped her. He was six inches taller and outweighed her by at least seventy pounds. He could disarm her without breaking an egg, if there were any left whole.

  Even so, she was curious. “What do you mean you’re on my side?”

  The man named John Dawson, whose card was sitting on her desk upstairs, gave her a hint of a smile. “I’m looking into the collapse of the Sky Walk, just like you. We could both benefit from working together.”

  “Are you a cop?” she snapped, just as the rest of the printing on the card rose in her mind. It said D&D Services, Inc. By Appointment Only.

  He allowed his mouth to stretch into a smile that revealed an unexpected dimple in his cheek. “Nope. I’m just a private citizen, looking into this on my own, same as you, but I’ve got better equipment.” He stopped and let his gaze drift over her.

  “Well, some of it’s better,” he amended.

  She bristled at the double entendre. She didn’t like him. He was too cocky, too friendly—too good-looking. And she had the feeling he hadn’t shown up here on a whim. He wasn’t the type to act on impulse—his eyes were too sharp, too calculating. She was sure he’d learned everything he could about her before he’d ever decided to approach her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you interested in the Sky Walk?”

  His smile didn’t fade, but those blue eyes took on a smoky hue. He shook his head. “Let’s just say I have a need to know what happened, too. Look, Juliana—may I call you Juliana?”

  “No, you may not. I don’t need any help. I’m doing just fine. Now please, give me my bags.”

  He held them out. One of them was dripping raw, slimy egg. She grabbed on to the straps, touching his hand. She jerked away, but not fast enough to miss that it was warm and large and strong, with long fingers and calluses on his palms. She peered up at his face. He had the looks and the build of an actor or a model, but his hands told her he’d done manual labor. Interesting.

  No. No. No. Not interesting. “I have to go. I’m not interested in working with you—or anyone else,” she said frostily. She started toward the steps to her apartment building, then looked back.

  “Thank you for—” She lifted the hand carrying the bags. As she started to climb the first step, he spoke.

  “Juliana, who attacked you?”

  She whirled. His brows were lowered again in that dangerous expression. She pressed her lips together. For an instant, she felt an overwhelming urge to tell him what had happened. With that fierce glare and those strong, beautiful workman’s hands, he could keep her safe from all harm. She was sure of that.

  But what if he was lying? What if he worked for the people who wanted to stop her from looking into her father’s death? The people who’d attacked her?

  She turned back to the stairs and felt raw egg dripping onto her foot.

  * * *

&
nbsp; DAWSON WAS READY TO GIVE UP—at least for the moment. He stole one more look at her excellent backside and saw her knee give way. She cried out and grabbed for the stair rail. The grocery bags hit the steps and a bag of salad, two cartons of yogurt, a bottle of milk and the last two unbroken eggs went flying.

  He dived and managed to catch her before she hit the steps.

  They tumbled down the two steps to the sidewalk, him doing his best to break her fall. He landed on his elbow and it screamed with very unfunny pain.

  He set her away from him, but not before he got a whiff of fresh, clean, peppermint-scented hair and a demonstration of how fit she was. Her bottom was not just shapely, but it was also firm and toned.

  “Hey, Juliana, you all right?” he asked, setting her off him and rising to a crouch beside her, feeling a slimy wetness seeping through the knee of his pants. Egg. Damn it.

  In answer, she rolled over onto her knees and used one hand to push herself to her feet. Once she was upright, she took her weight off her right knee and a wince crossed her face.

  He stood, too, and looked down at the front of her skirt. It had ridden five inches up her thighs, proving that her legs were knockouts. Pink yogurt had spilled down its front and was sliding down her right leg toward the egg yolk.

  “Argh!” she growled and tugged at the hem, then glared at him as if it all was his fault.

  He spread his hands. “Sorry—” he drawled.

  “Don’t—” She took a deep breath. “Just don’t!” She turned carefully and started up the stairs. She was favoring her right knee and each time she put her weight on it, she smothered a groan.

  “Hey, wait,” he said. “You hurt your knee.”

  She kept going.

  “Jules—” He started to grab her arm and stop her, but then he thought better of it. Instead, he picked up a plastic bag and loaded the few intact groceries into it. The eggs were dead, as was the yogurt. But the bag of salad was fine, the quart of milk seemed okay and the French baguette was still whole. He picked up a bunch of asparagus and a package of gnocchi. Then he vaulted up the stairs and stood on the second-floor landing, trying to remember what her apartment number was.

  He didn’t have to wonder long. A mild curse in a feminine voice came from apartment three.