Daddy Devastating
Authors: Delores Fossen
Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #American Light Romantic Fiction, #Fiction - Romance, #Romance - General, #Romance - Contemporary, #Romance - Suspense, #American Mystery & Suspense Fiction
“She’s beautiful,” Russ whispered.
He lightly touched Emily’s hand and the baby closed her fingers over his thumb. “Just like a tiny angel.”
There was so much emotion in his voice. Was this the same man who had stared down gunmen in the alley?
Julia had come to this small Texas town to find Emily’s father—and had also found the man of her dreams.
Well, almost.
Russ was rough around the edges and perhaps a little dangerous, but he had a way of making her remember that she was alive. The energy between them was electric…and was even more special because Emily was there.
DELORES FOSSEN
DADDY DEVASTATING
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Imagine a family tree that includes Texas cowboys, Choctaw and Cherokee Indians, a Louisiana pirate and a Scottish rebel who battled side by side with William Wallace. With ancestors like that, it’s easy to understand why Texas author and former air force captain Delores Fossen feels as if she were genetically predisposed to writing romances. Along the way to fulfilling her DNA destiny, Delores married an air force top gun who just happens to be of Viking descent. With all those romantic bases covered, she doesn’t have to look too far for inspiration.
Books by Delores Fossen
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
990—UNDERCOVER DADDY
**
1008—STORK ALERT
**
1026—THE CHRISTMAS CLUE
**
1044—NEWBORN CONSPIRACY
**
1050—THE HORSEMAN’S SON
**
1075—QUESTIONING THE HEIRESS
1091—SECURITY BLANKET
*
1110—BRANDED BY THE SHERIFF
†
1116—EXPECTING TROUBLE
†
1122—SECRET DELIVERY
†
1144—SHE’S POSITIVE
1163—CHRISTMAS GUARDIAN
*
1186—SHOTGUN SHERIFF
1205—THE BABY’S GUARDIAN
††
1211—DADDY DEVASTATING
††
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Special Agent Russ Gentry
—He’s a rough-around-the-edges FBI agent in the middle of bringing down a notorious black-market baby dealer. But his investigation becomes even more dangerous when drop-dead-gorgeous Texas heiress Julia Howell arrives in a seedy border town to tell him he’s the daddy of a newborn baby girl.
Julia Howell
—She made a promise to her dying cousin that she would find her newborn niece’s father, but Julia hadn’t counted on a daddy mix-up. Nor had the guarded heiress even thought she could get past her old wounds and fears and fall for the likes of bad boy Russ Gentry.
Emily
—She’s only two weeks old and too young to understand that she’s surrounded by danger. Luckily she also has Russ and Julia, two people who already love her more than life itself.
Milo Dawson
—The key to bringing down a baby broker and recovering a stolen child, but neither Russ nor the FBI trust him.
Silas Durant
—Russ’s fellow FBI agent and partner. Is he a dirty agent, or is someone setting him up?
Aaron Richardson
—His stolen son is at the heart of Russ’s investigation, but Aaron’s past indiscretions might come back to haunt him.
Tracy Richardson
—Aaron’s wife and the mother of the stolen child. Unlike her cool and reserved husband, her temper and impulsive behavior could get in the way of the investigation.
Sylvia Hartman
—Milo’s assistant who could have her own agenda when it comes to Russ, Julia and the stolen child.
Contents
Chapter One
San Saba, Texas
Russ Gentry cursed under his breath when the brunette stepped through the doors of the Silver Dollar bar.
Hell.
She’d followed him.
He had spotted her about fifteen minutes earlier on the walk from his hotel to the bar. She had trailed along behind him in her car, inching up the street, as if he were too stupid or blind to notice her or her sleek silver Jaguar. He had decided to ignore her for the time being anyway, because he’d hoped she was lost.
Obviously not.
Now, he had two questions—who was she? And was this about to turn even more dangerous than it already was?
He watched her from over the top of the bottle of Lone Star beer that the bartender had just served him. She was tall—five-nine, or better—and she was clutching a key ring that had a small can of pepper spray hooked onto it. There was a thin, gold-colored purse tucked beneath her arm, but it didn’t have any telltale bulges of a weapon, and her snug blue dress skimmed over her curvy body, so that carrying concealed would have been next to impossible.
Heck, in that dress concealing a paper-thin nicotine patch would have been a challenge. It was a garment obviously meant to keep her cool on a scalding-hot Texas day.
It did the opposite of making him cool.
Under different circumstances, Russ might have taken the time to savor the view, and he might have even made an attempt to hit on her.
But this wasn’t different circumstances.
He’d learned the hard way that even a momentary lapse of concentration could have deadly results. As a reminder of that, he rubbed his fingers over the scar just to the left of his heart. The reminder, however, didn’t help when the woman made eye contact.
With Willie Nelson blaring from the jukebox, she wended her way through the customers seated at the mismatched tables scattered around the room. The neon sign on the wall that advertised tequila flashed an assortment of tawdry colors over her.
Without taking her gaze from him, she stopped only a few inches away. Close enough for Russ to catch her scent. She smelled high priced and looked high maintenance.
“We need to talk,” she said, and slid onto the barstool next to him, her silky dress whispering against the leather seat.
Oh, man. Keeping her here would hardly encourage his informant to make contact. Hell, the only thing her presence would do was create problems for him.
“I’m not interested, darlin’,” Russ grumbled, hoping that his surly attitude would cause her to leave.
It didn’t.
“Well, I’m interested in you,” she said, her voice much louder than Willie’s.
In fact, she was loud enough to attract the few customers who hadn’t already noticed her when she walked in. Of course, with her sex-against-the-bathroom-wall body, Russ figured she’d likely caught the attention of every one of the male patrons.
He eased his beer down onto the bar and turned slightly, so he could look her in the eyes. “Back off,” he warned, under his breath. “I can’t.”
Okay. He hadn’t expected her to say that or ignore his warning.
Her clothes, the sleek sable-colored hair that tumbled onto her shoulders and even her tone might have screamed that she was confident about what she was doing, or about to do, but just beneath those ice-blue eyes was deeply rooted concern. And fear.
That put Russ on full alert.
“Look,” he whispered. “This is no place for you. Leave.”
She huffed and took the purse from beneath her arm. When she reached inside, Russ caught onto her hand. And got an uneasy thought.
“You can’t be Milo,” he mumbled. Because from what he’d been told about the would-be contact, Milo was a forty-something-year-old male. Of course, his source could have been wrong.
She stiffened slightly, looked more than a little confused, but it lasted just seconds, before she pushed off his grip. “I’m Julia Howell.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t press her for more information. If she was Milo, or Milo’s replacement, Russ would find out soon enough. And then he could get this show started. But he didn’t like the bad feeling that was settling in his gut.
She placed her purse next to his beer, but held on to the pepper-spray keychain. “You didn’t introduce yourself, but I know you’re Russell James Gentry.” Hell.
Russ looked around to make sure no one had heard her use his real name. It was possible. The body-builder bartender seemed to be trying a little too hard not to look their way. Ditto for the middle-aged guy near the door. And the dark haired man in the corner. Unlike the bartender and the one by the door, Russ was positive this dark haired guy had been following him for days, and Russ had let him keep on following him because he had wanted to send Milo a message—that he had nothing to hide.
Which was a lie, of course.
Russ had plenty to hide.
“You’re mistaken,” Russ insisted. “I’m Jimmy Marquez.”
“I’m not mistaken.” She obviously wasn’t picking up on any of his nonverbal cues to stay quiet. “I have proof you’re Russell James Gentry,” she said, and reached for her purse again.
He didn’t have any idea what she had in that gold bag to prove his identity, and he didn’t really care. He had to do something to get her to turn tail and run.
Russ swiveled his bar stool toward her, and in the same motion he slapped his left palm on her thigh. This would get her out of there in record time. He snared her gaze and tried to give her one hell of a nonverbal warning before he ran his hand straight up to her silk panties.
No, make that lace.
But she still didn’t run. She gasped, her eyes narrowed and she drew back her perfectly manicured hand, no doubt ready to slap him into the middle of next week. And she would have, too, if Russ hadn’t snagged her wrist.
When she tried to use her other hand to slug him, he had to give up the panty ploy so he could restrain her.
Russ put his mouth right against her ear. “We’re leaving now. Get up.”
Because her mouth was on his cheek, he felt the word “no” start to form on her peach-tinged lips. Judging from the way the muscles tightened in her arms and legs, she was gearing up for an all-out fight with him. Gutsy.
But stupid.
He was a good six inches taller than she was, and he had her by at least seventy pounds. Still, he preferred not to have to wrestle her out of there, but he would if it meant saving her lace-pantied butt.
“If you know what’s good for you,” Russ whispered to her, “you’ll do as I say. Or else you can die right here. Your choice, lady.”
But he didn’t give her a choice. He couldn’t. Russ shoved the purse back under her arm, grabbed the pepper-spray keychain and used brute force to wrench her off the barstool. He started in the direction of the door.
Their sudden exit drew some attention, especially from the bartender and the bald guy, but no one made a move to interfere. Thankfully, the bar wasn’t the kind of place where people thought about doing their civic duty and assisting a possible damsel in distress.
Julia Howell squirmed and struggled all the way to the door. “I won’t let you hurt me,” she spat out. “I won’t ever let anyone hurt me again.”
That sounded like the voice of old baggage, but Russ wasn’t interested.
He got her outside, finally. It was dusk, still way too hot for early September, and the sidewalks weren’t exactly empty. No cops, but there were two “working girls” making their way past the bar. They stopped and stared, but Russ shot them a
back-off
glare. He was good at glares, too, and he wasn’t surprised when the women scurried away, their stilettos tapping against the concrete.
“How did you know my name?” Russ asked. “What so-called proof do you have?”
He didn’t look directly at Julia Howell. Too risky. He kept watch all around them. And he shoved her into the narrow, dark alley that separated the bar from a transmission repair shop that had already closed for the day. He moved away from the sidewalk, about twenty feet, until he was in the dark of the alley.