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.”