Rocky Mountain Rescue

Rocky Mountain Rescue
Cindi Myers

The lines are blurred between duty and desire in ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE by Cindi Myers Federal marshal Patrick Thompson almost lost one woman in his care. He won’t lose another. As an officer for the Witness Security Program, it’s his job to protect Stacy Giardino, the former daughter-in-law of an infamous crime boss. At first, Stacy is reluctant to trust the brawny cop - or to act on their intense mutual attraction. But when her toddler son is kidnapped, Patrick is the only person who can help her find him. As they work their way through the Rocky Mountains, trailed by killers, Patrick and Stacy grow closer, and the heat simmering between them ignites. But in an explosive showdown, Patrick will have only one chance to save the woman he can no longer live without.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t felt this heat between us,” she said.

Stacy held her breath, waiting for Patrick to lie.

“I’ve felt it,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

She leaned back to look up at him. She wanted to see his face, to read all the emotion there.

“I am attracted to you. But duty doesn’t always allow me to do the things I want.”

Heaven save her from logical, steadfast men. “You’ll be right here with me. You said yourself we can’t do anything else until the morning.” She took his hand and kissed his palm. “I need you tonight. And I think you need me.”

Patrick’s eyes met hers, the intensity of his gaze pinning her back against the pillows and stealing her breath. “If you’re sure this is what you want,” he said. “Because once this starts between us, I don’t know if I can stop …”

Rocky Mountain

Rescue

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CINDI MYERS is the author of more than fifty novels. When she’s not crafting new romance plots, she enjoys skiing, gardening, cooking, crafting and daydreaming. A lover of small-town life, she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in the Colorado mountains.

To Delores Fossen — my friend, cheerleader and best roommate ever.

Contents

Chapter One (#u680df4ce-9b16-5e68-af12-ce6e4dcce756)

Chapter Two (#u411e9c28-2f3d-5952-a7ac-d3630c565f33)

Chapter Three (#ue6d16bfb-29df-5a63-8fa5-dc2de9a36693)

Chapter Four (#u7cb3e7a1-e75b-5b82-b99b-5942c82a68fe)

Chapter Five (#u2996d8bb-c82e-54a1-a2b8-ded40ecfad17)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

When the first gunshots sounded, Stacy Giardino ran toward them. Not because she was eager to face gunfire, but because her three-year-old son, Carlo, had been playing in the front of the house, where the shots seemed to be coming from. “Carlo!” she screamed, and tore down the hallway toward the massive great room, where the boy liked to run his toy cars over the hills and valleys of the leather furniture and pretend he was racing in the mountains.

Men’s voices shouted over one another between bursts of gunfire. One of the family’s bodyguards ran past her, automatic weapon at the ready. Stacy barely registered his presence; she had to reach Carlo.

The living room of the luxurious Colorado vacation home was a wreck of overturned furniture. Stuffing poured from the cushions of one of the massive leather armchairs and a heavy crystal old-fashioned glass lay on its side in the middle of the rug, ice cubes scattered around it like glittering dice. But whatever had happened here, the combatants had moved on; the room was deserted, and the tattoo of automatic weapons fire sounded from deeper within the interior of the mansion.

“Carlo?” Stacy called, fighting panic. If any of those stupid men had hurt her son, she would tear them apart with her bare hands.

“Mama?”

The frightened little voice almost buckled her knees. “Carlo? Where are you, honey?”

“Mama, I’m scared.”

Stacy followed his voice to a dim corner under a built-in desk. She knelt and peered into the kneehole space—into the frightened brown eyes of her little boy.

She held out her arms and he came to her, his arms encircling her neck and his face buried against her shoulder. She patted his back and breathed in the little-boy smells of baby shampoo and peanut butter. “Who were those men, Mama?” he whispered. “They came running in, and they had guns.”

“I don’t know who they were, darling. And it doesn’t matter.” The attackers could have been law enforcement agents, members of a rival crime family or different factions of the Giardino family turned against one another. Stacy didn’t care. They were all part of the cruel, violent world of men that she had to navigate through every day. That was what life was like when you married into the mob—always running and hiding, never knowing who you could trust.

The family had come to Colorado on vacation, but there was no getting away from the reality of their life, from the danger. Her father-in-law, Sam Giardino, had been at the top of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list ever since his escape from prison the year before. Which was why they were staying here, on this remote mountain estate outside of Telluride, instead of in a condo near the resort like normal tourists.

And even while relaxing, Sam was directing the family “business,” cutting deals, making threats and building up his evil empire. Putting everyone around him in more danger.

They could all do away with each other, for all she cared. The only other person who meant anything to her was Carlo.

She stood, straining to lift the boy, who was getting almost too big for her to carry. “I’m going to take you some place safe,” she told him. “Just hang on to Mommy, okay?”

He nodded his agreement and she headed back down the hall, toward the stairs to the basement, where the safe room was located. The man who’d built this house—some billionaire who was a friend of Sam’s, or who owed him a favor, since men like her father-in-law never had real friends—had built the concrete bunker and stocked it like those preppers she’d read about, people who were waiting for the end of the world.