Excerpt of Dangerous Attraction by Susan Vaughan

She sat opposite him in a twin of his chair.
Her slender body curved in all the right places. She wore
little or no make-up, no adornments of any kind. He wouldn’t
mind tasting the natural red of her lips. In the warmth of
the lamplight, her dewy skin, like that of a young girl,
belied the thirty odd years he knew as her age. Hands
itching to touch her creamy skin, Michael clasped his
fingers on his knees.
He didn’t want to be here, didn’t like the feel of this
case, didn’t like coming into it less prepared than usual.
From the onset, something about it had sent cold tingles to
the base of his skull. He sure as hell didn’t want a case
about a woman whose mere presence stirred everything male in
him. But he had no choice.
The woman consulted a manila folder she slid from an
adjacent small table. Her direct gaze heated his blood as if
she’d stoked a fire in him instead of in the wood stove.
“Fitz tells me that until eight months ago, you were an
agent for the Drug Enforcement Administration, based in
Boston. One of their best investigators. Why did you quit?”
He shrugged. “I’d had enough.” Enough damned drug dealers,
enough wallowing in greed and slime, enough misplaced
emotional involvement. Enough failure.
This time he didn’t have to care or feel responsible or
protective. Didn’t have to feel, didn’t want to feel,
period. His only stake in this case would be completing it
and moving on.
She probably expected him to say more. Tough. “Why did you
hire me?”
She clapped shut the folder. “I want you to clear me.”
“Clear you.” The tingling again. He rubbed his nape. He
hoped to God she didn’t need protection. Given his track
record, no one should trust him to protect a snow cone.
“But I understood you’ve never been charged with anything.”
In a graceful feminine gesture, she tossed her hair back.
Damn, but she was beautiful. If she ever let herself smile,
if she ever smiled at him, he’d erupt into a fireball. He
was already having a hell of a time keeping cool.
“Officially, no. But by every other means--in the press and
in everyone’s eyes--I’ve been charged, convicted, and
sentenced.”
“You’re innocent, of course.” He couldn’t prevent an
accusatory tone.
Shoulders straight, she glared at him with fierce fervor.
“You can think whatever you want, Mr. Quinn. Few believe in
my innocence. Though Fitz has been my financial advisor for
years, sometimes I think even he doubts me. The police are
chasing a cat with five paws trying to prove I killed those
men. I’ve hired you to find the truth of how each died, so I
can live in peace.”
Her gaze held pride and strength, underlain with a sadness
that didn’t jibe with what little he’d read about her.
Innocent? Or acting?
The last death had occurred eleven months ago. A long time
to wait before seeking help. Did she aim to make herself
look good by hiring a PI?
He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Seems to me
you’ve held up okay under media and police pressure. What
makes now any different?”
Abruptly, she shot to her feet and strode to the side
window. Her dark hair fell in thick waves to the middle of
her back. He waited while she searched for words.
Claire struggled against the burning in her eyes. This man
challenged her control. The flinty cynicism and the brooding
eyes, gray and implacable as the granite he resembled,
sliced through her protective shield. His own obvious
resentment agitated and annoyed her. That he might dislike
or even fear her shouldn’t bother her. Usually she
cultivated that reaction. It shouldn’t matter how shabby her
treatment of poor old Elisha appeared, but for some reason,
it did.
Aloofness and a prickly attitude served her well as a
barrier to more tragedy. It did double duty in protecting
the old man’s pride and his back at the same time.
Confronted by this scowling PI, she drew from the
self-reliance and strength of character instilled in her by
the tantes. A self-reliance they said she’d need: The curse
of your beauty is to be alone.
Gazing anywhere but at him, she spoke with forced calm. “In
their desperation to pin something--anything--on me, the
police are questioning my aunts in Fort Kent, in northern
Maine. I grew up there, in the St. John Valley, where the
culture is Acadian French and Catholic. From birth, I spoke
French and English interchangeably. Almost as a litany, my
aunts have always told me the tragedies in my life have been
sent by le bon Dieu, by the good Lord, as a curse or a sort
of trial by fire. I don’t want them burned by the flames.”