Blackmailed Bride

He wanted her

He needed her.

He couldn’t have her.

Not now.

Not ever.

A faint whimper escaped her in her sleep. Cathlynn’s eyelids fluttered with the mad movements of a dreamer dreaming. Dark shadows of distress slipped across her innocent face. Fear spread her breaths raggedly through her parted lips.

Fear. Yes, she had a right to fear him, Jonas thought, watching her sleep. He’d do her no good. Having Cathlynn pretend to be his wife so he could acquire the trust fund was the most important thing in his life now. He needed the money to continue his work, to save his life and his brother’s. He would sacrifice anything to find the cure.

His dreams were grounded in reality, in his vision for a brighter future for all, not in fantasy. He had to remember that. In two weeks, Cathlynn would be gone, and everything could go back as it was.

Anger rose. A disturbing anger that shook him to the core. Damn Cathlynn and her irresistible appeal!

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Sunscreen, a poolside lounge—and Harlequin Intrigue: the perfect recipe for great summer escapes!

This month’s sizzling selection begins with The Stranger Next Door (#573) by Joanna Wayne, the second in her RANDOLPH FAMILY TIES miniseries. Langley Randolph is the kind of Texan who can’t resist a woman in trouble. Can he help unlock a beautiful stranger’s memories…before a killer catches up with her first?

Little Penny Drake is an Innocent Witness (#574) to a murder in this suspenseful yet tender story by Leona Karr. The child’s desperate mother, Deanna, seeks the help of Dr. Steve Sherman. Can Steve unlock her daughter’s secrets…and Deanna’s heart?

Dr. Jonas Shades needs a woman to play his wife. Cathlynn O’Connell is the perfect candidate, but with time running out, he has no choice but to blackmail his bride. Each minute in Jonas’s presence brings Cathlynn closer to understanding her enigmatic “husband” and closer to danger! Don’t miss Blackmailed Bride (#575) by Sylvie Kurtz.

Bestselling Harlequin American Romance author Tina Leonard joins Harlequin Intrigue with a story of spine-tingling suspense and dramatic romance. She’s created the small town of Crookseye Canyon, Texas, as the backdrop for A Man of Honor (#576). Cord Greer must marry his brother’s woman to keep her and her unborn baby safe. But is it fear that drives Tessa Draper into Cord’s arms, or is it something more than Cord had hoped for?

Indulge yourself and find out this summer—and all year long!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Blackmailed Bride

Sylvie Kurtz

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Flying an eight-hour solo cross-country in a Piper Arrow with only the airplane’s crackling radio and a large bag of M&M’s for company, Sylvie Kurtz realized a pilot’s life wasn’t for her. The stories zooming in and out of her mind proved more entertaining than the flight itself. Not a quitter, she finished her pilot’s course and earned her commercial license and instrument rating.

Since then, she has traded in her wings for a computer keyboard, where she lets her imagination soar to create fictional adventures that explore the power of love and the thrill of suspense. When not writing, she enjoys the outdoors with her husband and two children, in addition to quilt making, photography and reading whatever catches her interest.

You can write to Sylvie at P.O. Box 702, Milford, NH 03055.

Books by Sylvie Kurtz

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

527—ONE TEXAS NIGHT

575—BLACKMAILED BRIDE

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Dr. Jonas Shades—With time running out, he had to convince a beautiful stranger to play his wife for two weeks. Yet how far would his “marriage” go once she was by his side…?

Cathlynn O’Connell—She was playing the role of a lifetime. What price was she willing to pay to get what she wanted?

Alana Chandler Shades—The faithless socialite was missing. Was it by choice? Or was it murder?

Sterling Ryder—Did the family lawyer and trust fund’s trustee have a motive of his own to see Alana dead?

Geoffrey Chandler—Alana’s cousin. Greed was always a good motive for murder.

David Forester—Jonas’s trusted assistant knew everything that went on between the thick monastery walls.

Meara O’Connell—Would Cathlynn’s grandmother appreciate the sacrifice her granddaughter made for her sake?

Lorraine Forester—The local seamstress was happy to oblige Jonas’s every request.

Bertha Lane—There was no love lost between David’s grandmother and the mistress of the monastery.

Scott MacPhearson—The private eye was a bulldog when it came to tracking down a clue. Jonas had paid his salary, but no man could buy the truth from him.

To my grandmothers—for the fond memories.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

A paper-thin moon hung in the ink-blue sky, mutating grotesque shadows behind the three crosses in the courtyard of the Ste-Croix monastery in rural New Hampshire. But Alana Chandler Shades didn’t care. The creepy place with its eerie shadows and haunting chantlike winds had ceased to frighten her a long time ago.

Now, it merely bored her.

At thirty, she’d wasted almost half her life in this godforsaken place. As she hurried over the courtyard’s cobblestones, she smiled, ignoring the ominous whispers of fall leaves from the nearby woods. Soon she’d be free. She threw her head back and laughed, defying the morbid sounds of night. She’d waited a long time for this freedom—a freedom she’d earned with her filial duty; a freedom which would now be greatly enhanced by her coming inheritance. She’d have plenty of time to make up for all the deprivation she’d endured over the last thirteen years.

As she opened the garage door, it creaked. For now, she’d settle for the simple pleasures of the flesh. Her latest conquest was strong and virile, and Alana licked her lips in anticipation of the feral passion they’d share. She hopped into her red Miata and roared into the bleak night.

Too bad that husband of hers had found the papers and ruined his Christmas surprise. He’d been amiable enough about the whole situation, with her conditions. But with him, who knew?

Their love had died a long time ago, hadn’t it? Had they ever truly been in love? She’d been too young. Her dreams hadn’t had a chance to gel yet. She’d realized too late the price she’d paid for her father’s approval. And he’d made sure with his manipulations of her trust fund that she couldn’t undo the damage until too late. All this sacrifice and for what? A miracle cure that would never happen; a marriage that was doomed to fail before it began.

And the differences in their backgrounds, the five-year difference in their ages so exciting at first, had soon grown into rifts, then chasms. The fool, he’d turned such a brilliant future into nothing with his misguided vision and his righteous anger. An anger that had grown over the years, and sometimes managed to frighten even her.

But not tonight. Tonight was her weekly escape from tyranny, and she was determined to make the most of it. The car rattled over the loose boards of the old covered bridge, echoing like thunder into the oppressive night. Alana hid the Miata in the thicket of pines and slipped into the small one-room cottage.

She sensed movement from the bed. “You’re here already. Why didn’t you light the lamp?”

She lit the hurricane lamp, blew out the match and turned to her new friend. A black-robed monk stepped forward from the shadows, his face hidden by his cowled hood, his hands buried in opposite sleeves. She smiled when she saw the way the robe strained over broad shoulders, the way the thick cord at his waist defined his trim hips.

“Ah, so you like to play little games, do you?” Alana laughed. She unbuttoned her coat and flung it on the bed. She started toward him, shedding her scarf, then her sweater. “Shall I play your sacrificial virgin?”

The monk’s hood fell back. Malevolence burned in his eyes. Laughter froze in her throat. Her fingers went rigid against the zipper of her tailored pants. His hands came into the light. A rope snapped between them. Fear paralyzed her limbs, her voice, her breath.

The rush of adrenaline came too late.

Chapter One

Cathlynn O’Connell glanced around the living room of the monastery turned mansion, looking for her treasure with, she hoped, what passed for cool composure. Her heart fluttered with excitement, but she forced herself to present her usual calm professional appearance. People expected that from her; she’d built her reputation as a top-notch antiques dealer with her fairness and levelheadedness.

Where was the sculpture? What if—But no, she wouldn’t even entertain such a thought. The auction brochure had clearly printed the description, and the picture had left no doubt.

The Aidan Heart was here—somewhere.

Cathlynn removed her wool hat and gloves and dropped them on one of the folding chairs. A storm brewed outside. Strong winds pummeled the ancient stone structure—one of three buildings on the grounds. The promised inclement weather hadn’t kept people away from the auction. Cathlynn didn’t blame them. Nothing could have kept her away today.

She’d raced the dark, billowy clouds all the way from Nashua to the small village of Ste-Croix on the western edge of the White Mountains, and the old Ste-Croix Monastery. Slate skies had met white snow with nothing in between to give the illusion of depth except somber evergreens and the gray branches of winter-bared maples and beeches. Taking a wrong turn along the twisty country road, she’d almost ended up in the treacherous depths of the Ste-Croix River which fed eventually into Lake Winnipesaukee. But she’d made it.

And ten years of searching for the Aidan Heart would end today.

Inside the gray stone main house, people milled about, creating a soft buzz with their chatter. Curiosity seekers or competition? The cordial fire glowing in the hearth mellowed the wind’s strong bite, but couldn’t quite keep the chill out of the air. Cathlynn scanned the room once more. The fact the walls’ only adornment was a series of paintings portraying the austere monks of the Order of the Holy Cross in black-hooded habits didn’t help. It almost seemed as if the monks followed her every move, especially the one over the fireplace whose eyes glowed red in the firelight’s trail.

What kind of person would choose to live in such a bleak environment? An involuntary shiver slid down her spine.

As she crossed the room, she recognized several rival dealers and nodded a greeting. Noticing a side room from which people emerged, and guessing the auction goods’ location, she headed in its direction.

On a series of tables a collection of high-quality antiques crowded the small adjoining room. Cathlynn looked at the rich offerings, feigning interest while her heart beat strong with anticipation of finding the Aidan Heart. She spotted a lamp and several glass bowls she could easily place with her clients, but knew she wouldn’t bid on them.

She’d come to Ste-Croix for one thing and one thing only—the glass sculpture her great-great-grandfather had fashioned for his bride almost a hundred years ago. A gift of love tragically lost when Aidan and Deirdre O’Connell had left Ireland for the United States.

Now she held the precious gift in her sight.

As she approached the twelve-inch sculpture, Cathlynn held her breath. Though shaped like the pylon paperweights popular in the late 1800s, the similarity ended there. Rather than tool the glass into shape, the artist had handblown it so the glass folded over itself, forming hanging layers of translucence from light pink to dark purple to pure transparent, with a three-dimensional heart suspended, as if by magic, in its center. The whole rested on a flat square base.

It was perfect. More beautiful than she’d imagined. The glass spoke to her, flooding her with sensations of the past, of love, acceptance, happiness. She breathed deeply to tamp down the tears of joy threatening to fragment her careful composure.

With discreet awe and a trembling finger, Cathlynn reached out to touch the object of her intense search. The glass felt warm beneath her finger. She picked it up, feeling its solid weight in her hands for the first time. Turning it over carefully, she inspected every facet. Not a chip, not a scratch in sight. The room grew unbearably warm around her, making the glass pulsate with heat, coating her hands with sweat. Even the walls seemed to shimmer in a feverlike hallucination.

Her lips trembled. She clamped them down. She had to get hold of herself. She couldn’t let herself be drawn in by emotions. Staying cool, calm and collected—that would get her the prize, not foolish emotions.

With a deep reluctance, she set the sculpture down on the table once more and turned back to the main room. Maybe the imminent storm would keep most of her competition away. Few people realized the value of the piece, but perhaps some would be drawn into the bidding by its simple yet elegant charm.

No use worrying. She’d get the Aidan Heart even if she had to sell her soul for it.

By bringing the sculpture back to its rightful owner, she hoped to give a final glimpse of magic to her dying grandmother. Gram had done so much for her. Her summers at Gram’s house had brought a measure of peace to her chaotic childhood, the stories of Aidan and Deirdre’s love, the magic of belonging. And with the sculpture she’d brighten her grandmother’s last days, see the light of recognition shine one more time in her eyes. She owed her at least that much.

Two elderly ladies shuffling through the door blocked her exit from the room. Cathlynn stepped aside to let them pass.

“Do you suppose he’ll show up?” asked the one leaning on a cane.

“Who?” asked the one whose purple feather on her hat bobbed to a palsied rhythm.

“Jonas Shades. Who else?”

Jonas Shades. Why did the name seem so familiar? Where had she heard it before?

Purple Feather cocked a hand on her hip. “Bertha, you’ve no intentions of buying anything, do you? You dragged me out in this weather just to add fodder to your gossip fuel. I’ve a good mind to drag you right back home.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Bertha pretended indignation, then leaned closer to her companion’s ear. “My David says he’s been impossible to work for since his wife disappeared, that he’s lost his edge. Hasn’t been able to do anything. The research; it’s stopped. David says the man spends most of his days pacing. And you know how it is.… Well, I had to see for myself.”

Purple Feather’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Your grandson is as bad a gossip as you are.”

Bertha picked up a trinket from the nearby table and replaced it with barely a look. “David says that’s why he’s having the auction. David says he desperately needs cash for his research. Think of how it would affect the village if he left.”

“Someone else would come. Someone always does.” Purple Feather tried to pull Bertha along.

“Yes, but at what price to us? Remember what happened when the family lost the monastery after Jeremy Shades died? The village almost disappeared.”

“Come on.” The hat’s purple feather dipped wildly as the woman forcibly pulled her companion along. “The auction’s about to begin. Let’s go take our seats.”

Cathlynn followed the old ladies out the door. Bertha stopped abruptly, and Cathlynn nearly crashed into her.

“There he is,” Bertha whispered to her companion. “Oh my, he doesn’t look good at all, does he? I wonder if he’ll cancel the Christmas fete this year. What a disappointment that would be for everyone. But who could blame him with all this tragedy hanging over his head?”

Despite herself, Cathlynn couldn’t help following the old lady’s gaze to the tall man standing in the corner. He leaned his long, athletic frame against the wall, studying the room with undisguised contempt. His dark brown hair looked as if it had recently been raked by fingers. Deep-set eyes the color of squally clouds hid beneath low eyebrows, giving him an appearance as frosty as the winter storm announcing itself outside. Prominent cheekbones and a square jaw negated the promise of sensuality offered by his full mouth.

Not a man to tangle with, yet Cathlynn found herself drawn to the sheer power of his presence. Even when he tried to melt into the shadows, he filled the room.

Their gazes met and held for longer than was comfortable. The intensity of his gray eyes traveled all the way to her soul, and buffeted her with feelings she didn’t dare name. She put down the exciting sensation thrilling through her to the prospect of owning the Aidan Heart, not to the brooding man who stood in the corner.

Unexpectedly, the protection of her coat felt like candy glass, thin and transparent. She tightened it around her despite the insufferable warmth tingling her body. An echo of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on pinged deep inside.

The illusion of warmth faded from his eyes. When she realized his stare had hardened into hate, she shivered and turned away.

Why? She made her way back to her chair. What did I do? She removed her coat and self-consciously smoothed the skirt of her burgundy wool-blend shirt-dress, then picked up her brochure.

Jonas Shades. Where had she heard the name? She read the brochure’s cover and found the auction sponsored by the Monastery Company. She searched through the catalog of her mind, but came up empty. She’d never met the man—would have remembered if she had. Power that potent wasn’t easily forgotten.

She shrugged. It didn’t matter. She hadn’t driven all this way to solve the mystery behind the pained look in Mr. Jonas Shades’s eyes.

Suddenly, the front door blew open. Wind whipped through the opening. It whistled and snarled down the makeshift aisle, snapping the folding chairs in the back row to the ground with its unexpected ferocity. The audience turned in one movement.

“Do you suppose it’s her?” Bertha whispered to her companion.

“Who? The monks’ virgin sacrifice?” Purple Feather scoffed.

“Her. You know, his wife. The one who disappeared last month. I’ve heard people say they’ve seen her ghost about the place. Some even say he killed her himself in a fit of rage.”

Purple Feather jabbed Bertha in the ribs with her elbow. “There you go again, gossiping. No one’s sure she’s even dead. You should know by now people love to exaggerate everything because nothing ever happens here. The monks’ legend is just that—a legend.”

“Well, there’s always a grain of truth in every story. The monks do have a bloody history.”

“It’s just a myth!”

A heavy thump boomed and resounded down the corridor as a young man dressed in a suit too formal for the occasion closed the door, straightened the downed chairs, then took a seat in the back row.

The auctioneer banged his hammer and got the sale under way. He proceeded at a fast pace, for which Cathlynn was thankful. Turning her gaze to the corner of the room, she found Jonas Shades’s icy stare on her once more. The faster she got her prize, the sooner she could escape and leave behind the uncomfortable feeling settling in her gut.

“Now we have item number one hundred and thirteen. A piece of experimental Irish glass circa 1900 from the Summers Glasshouse. The artist is unknown, but the piece is often referred to as the Aidan Heart. Who will give me…”

She knew the market value, but she also knew she wanted the piece no matter what it cost. And that put her at a disadvantage. Would puffers, seeking to inflate prices, prey on her vulnerability? Would the auctioneer call phantom bids when he sensed the intensity of her desire? She’d bid tentatively at first to feel out the opposition. If she simulated a lack of interest, she might get the piece for below its market value.

Cathlynn waited patiently, breath held, while someone signaled to cut the opening bid in half.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer continued, “this is the finest example of Irish glass I’ve seen in a long time…”

The bidding went fast and furious. As the price of the piece rose to its market value, Cathlynn tightened her hold on her bidding card and tried to remain calm.

“This is no money for such a fine example of Irish glass…”

Beads of moisture formed along her hairline. Cathlynn put up her card.

“Remember, this is an original, ladies and gentlemen. You would pay more than this for a reproduction. Who will give me…”

The bidding was too high. Cathlynn’s armpits prickled with sweat. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles. As she calculated her options, her mind whirled.

I want it.

I need it.

No amount of cool reasoning could counter the irrational demand of her yearning.

She had to have it.

She put up her card.

“This should be a part of any serious glass collection…”

One card went up. Then another. She’d never dreamed the price would go so high. Oh God, she was going to lose the Aidan Heart after searching for it for ten years. She couldn’t let it go.

Licking her dry lips, she flung up her card, not sure how she’d manage to pay.

Jonas interrupted the auctioneer. A frantic whispered discussion passed between them, and Jonas, nodding once to someone in the back, left through the back door.

What was going on? Why had they stopped? Dreadful premonition swamped through her. No, they couldn’t stop. It wasn’t legal. She was so close. Her rapid pulse hammered her brain. Her hands unconsciously tightened around the bidding card, scrunching the flimsy cardboard.

The auctioneer cleared his throat and resumed his pitch. “Ladies and gentlemen…”

From the back of the room came a bid. A bid so ridiculous it took an instant to register into her brain.

“What!” Cathlynn jumped to her feet amid agitated whispers. She whirled, knocking her chair to the ground. “You can’t do that!”

The polished young man who’d closed the front door smiled at her, tilting his head sideways and lifting his eyebrows and shoulders in mock regret. Not a single black hair fell out of place. Not a single crease marred his expensive suit. Not a wrinkle worried his handsome features.

“David?” Bertha scrunched her eyes and peered at the young man. “Is that you?”

“Any further advances?” the auctioneer asked. He looked around the room. “Going once! Twice! Last time!” He brought his hammer down. The sound of finality exploded in Cathlynn’s mind. “Sold to number one for…”

She’d lost.

Cathlynn couldn’t believe it. After all this time, it couldn’t be true. Her heart banged painfully against her ribs. As her vision narrowed, the whole room swirled into a vortex, twisting everything into rushing black specters speeding toward her. The roar in her ear thundered over her thoughts, dousing them in a quagmire of thick, dark slime. Her limbs shook, ice-cold, numb. She couldn’t find air. She pulled in a harsh gulp. The air vanished before it found her lungs.