A Stetson On Her Pillow

“Two can play at that game,” Laura whispered provocatively

“What are you doing?” Clint murmured, aware that their suspects were watching them on the dance floor.

“Why, playing the part of the loving wife,” Laura purred. She raised herself up on her toes to brush a kiss along the side of Clint’s mouth, pleased to feel his arms tighten around her, to see his dark eyes filled with raw need.

Unaware that the music had stopped, she pulled his head to her and pressed her lips ravenously over his. Clint’s hands curved over her hips in primal exploration, squeezing gently and sending liquid heat through her body. Her heart pounded in her ears until she realized it wasn’t rushing blood she was hearing.

Applause from the restaurant patrons jolted them back to reality like a bucket of cold water. Laura quickly turned her shocked expression into a smile. She couldn’t let Clint know that her kisses had been anything more than part of their assignment.

“I think we’ve made our point,” she said, turning on her heel. “Although I must admit, if I’d known that cowboys kissed so well, I’d have visited Texas long ago.”

Dear Reader,

I’m convinced I adore cowboys because watching them on television taught me how to speak English. Although I was born in Toronto, Canada, my parents were from Estonia and I grew up speaking Estonian.

I learned English by playing with all my friends who spoke Greek, Italian and an assortment of other languages (Toronto is very multicultural) and by watching TV with my dad—hence my second passion for television.

My father preferred Westerns, and I spent many an hour watching these shows, falling in love with the rugged, do-the-right-thing, let-nothing-stand-in-his-way cowboy. Whether he’s the strong silent type or a silver-tongued charmer, the cowboy is my perfect romantic hero.

Which made writing about Clint Marshall and Two Mule Junction such fun. Pairing him with his complete opposite, a Boston blue blood with a silly dog, only made the possibilities entertainingly unending. I hope you enjoy A Stetson on Her Pillow as much as I did.

Happy trails!

Molly Liholm

Books by Molly Liholm

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

552—TEMPTING JAKE

643—BOARDROOM BABY

672—THE GETAWAY GROOM

706—THE ADVENTUROUS BRIDE

745—BABY.COM

A Stetson on Her Pillow

Molly Liholm

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Nancy Hill, superachiever, who is always looking for new challenges and adventures.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

1

“YOU WANT ME to marry the cowboy?” Laura asked. “You expect me,” she punctuated the word with a tone of disbelief, “to marry him?”

Even as she spoke in her low, cultured voice and brushed a strand of blond hair off her face, securing it back into the neat French braid she favored, Clint Marshall knew their boss had already made up his mind. They had been called into his office to receive their marching orders—not to debate whether or not they wanted the assignment.

Still, he found it downright amusing to watch patrician Laura Carter try to wiggle her skinny behind out of the assignment. Her cold-blue eyes, a color that reminded Clint of the silver blue of a Texas sky just before a storm, swept over him, quickly dismissed him and returned to Captain Clark.

Clint slouched farther down on the hard wooden chair and crossed one well-worn cowboy boot over the other. He felt Laura’s gaze fall on the scuffed leather. He swung the foot back and forth as if he were relaxing on a rocking chair on his mother’s porch and wished he had a cowboy hat he could tilt forward and drive little Miss Prim and Proper plum crazy. Not that she showed it, but he knew his good old boy routine had gotten to her as she sat even straighter in her chair. Not for the first time he wondered what a Boston blue blood was doing on the Chicago police force.

Or why in the world their captain would be assigning the two of them to work together.

Undoubtedly the skinny, pale man standing in the corner of the office had something to do with this. From the stranger’s expensive, but ill-fitting, suit and polished shoes Clint knew he wasn’t a regular cop. He didn’t look like a guy who knew what the inside of a patrol car looked like much less smelled like. He reminded Clint of an accountant.

In fact he reminded Clint of Jason Fairmount, a nervous tweedy fellow who arrived in Two Horse Junction twice a year to offer his accountancy services. Clint’s mother always had Jason over for dinner whenever he was in town, saying she admired him, and that she wished one of her sons could be as responsible and reliable as Jason.

The skinny, pale man wiped his brow and waited for Captain Clark to speak. Clint kept his mouth shut. There was no point in asking why he and the ice princess had been chosen for this confidential assignment. Captain Clark would tell them when he was ready. If there was one thing Clint knew how to do, it was how to wait.

Instead he smiled at Laura and settled back in his chair, still pretending that it was a comfortable rocker and not a bare-boned, hard-assed flimsy excuse for a chair. Why, such a chair wouldn’t even last through one fight at the Two Horse Watering Hole back home.

Laura glanced at the stranger who was standing silently behind them, opened her mouth, but then closed it again without a word of protest. Clint knew she was annoyed at being assigned to work a case with him. For some reason, Laura Carter had taken one look at him six months ago and decided she didn’t like him.

Of course, he didn’t like her much better.

But if successfully completing this assignment meant that he had a chance to move up to the vacant detective position in Homicide he would work with anyone—including Laura Carter.

He wondered if the rumors about her were true. She had transferred into their unit six months ago after an alleged affair with her boss. Her new boss, Sam Clark, hated having the brass chose his officers for him. Anytime the captain had joined the team for drinks Clint had heard him say that the reason his unit had such a good arrest record was because he chose his detectives without political interference.

Until Laura Carter.

Clark had given her all the crappy assignments, like looking for bond jumpers and investigating small-scale burglaries and purse snatchings. When she’d caught a burglar who’d been stealing from local businesses for over a year, Clark had grudgingly commended her on a job well done.

Laura took a deep breath, looking like a particularly ornery mule about to set out on its own path, ignoring the fact that it would never find its way back home. Clint decided to rescue her before she made another mistake and complained about the assignment further—especially the part about being married to him.

“Darlin’, most of the single women on Chicago’s finest would jump at the chance to be Mrs. Clint Marshall. If there’s one thing us Texas men are known for, it’s for treating a woman right.”

She stiffened even more. He wondered if any man ever got her to loosen up enough to uncross her gorgeous legs and… Well, he wouldn’t let his thoughts continue on their ungentlemanly path. No matter what Ms. Laura Carter thought about his manners, his mother had raised him right.

He let his lips quirk in a half smile as Laura studied him coldly. Her porcelain skin turned even whiter as a slash of pink burned along her high cheekbones. “First, no matter how foolishly some of the other women in this department behave, I’m not part of your female fan club,” she said. “Second, I wouldn’t identify myself by my husband’s name even if he was a Nobel Prize winner for establishing world peace and finding a safe, nonpolluting, inexpensive form of energy.” She tightened her lips in a thin line as she contemplated the unappealing prospect of being married to him. “Mrs. Clint Marshall. That is so outdated and macho! Finally, the last thing I would ever want from you would be to be treated just right.”

She thrust out her chin and glared at him, sparks sizzling from those blue eyes. For the first time Clint saw that there was a tiny ember of fire in her. What could be more fun than to make it burn higher—to make the rigid, frigid Laura Carter burn with anger—and then maybe something else? He wondered what she would be like in bed, with those long, slim legs wrapped around a man, her hair loose and wild about her face. Startled out of his unexpected fantasy about Laura, he winked at her. “Trust me darlin’, if you don’t want it, then you’ve never been treated just right.” He drawled the last two words in his best Texas twang.

“Stop calling me darling,” she said between gritted teeth.

Her angry gaze locked on to his amused eyes, and Clint felt a jolt jump between them. Hot damn, he sat up a little straighter. There might be more to this filly than he’d imagined.

Laura, however, had not felt any similar connection as she turned to appeal to their captain. “Sir, pretending to be Detective Marshall’s wife seems unnecessary for this case, why we could—”

“It is completely necessary.” Clark was only in his late forties, but the lines in his face and the ever-increasing amount of white in his salt-and-pepper hair proved to Clint that he was right in his own plan to return to his hometown before the constant unrelenting pressures of big-city policing had him looking the same. The captain shoved aside the salad he was having for lunch and poured two Advil capsules into his palm from his always open bottle.

Laura frowned. “You shouldn’t take so many—”

She snapped her mouth shut when Clark glared at her.

He chewed the tablets and swallowed. “Trust me, if it was up to me, the last officers I would team up would be you two—not because I care what either of you thinks of the other, but because you are both new to my department and I don’t particularly like either of you. Now, however, you’re coming in useful. So you’re going to do exactly what I say.” He glared at them.

Clint kept on his good old boy face and Laura never twitched a muscle in hers. She was tough, he had to give her that.

Clark picked up a glass of murky greenish brown liquid and, holding his breath, swigged it. A newlywed, he’d taken to drinking the green bile as part of a health kick. He put down the glass and grimaced. “Damn, this stuff tastes so terrible it has to be good for you. Now, listen good while I go over the facts of the case—the faster I have you out of my office the better. Peter Monroe is target of the Special Financial Investigation’s case,” he nodded at the slim, blond-haired man.

“Peter Monroe of Monroe Investments?” Laura asked, a note of admiration in her voice. “He started out with nothing and has a multibillion dollar empire today.”

“That’s him,” the skinny man said. “Special Agent Vincent Garrow, SFI. I’ve been on the Monroe case for twenty months.”

So he was right, Clint thought. Garrow was an accountant or some kind of financial expert. SFI were police officers with briefcases and business degrees working on insider trading, embezzlement, scams and other financial shenanigans. It was not a department Clint wanted to be part of. He preferred people to numbers. “He must be very good to have avoided being caught doing anything guilty in that time,” Clint said. “In almost two years he must have at least cheated on his expenses.”

Garrow ignored Clint and tossed a folder on Clark’s desk. “This is everything on Monroe, including lists of his investments and businesses he’s bought and sold.”

Laura opened the file and scanned a few pages. As Clint suspected, she fit in with the pencil pushers. “Monroe’s wealth is even greater than Fortune magazine said it was, but why do you think he’s doing anything worth investigating?”

Garrow wiped his palms with his handkerchief. “We received a tip almost two years ago about Monroe laundering Russian mob money through his investment divisions.”

“If the information was solid enough for SFI to begin a full-scale investigation,” Clint asked, “why haven’t you brought charges against him?”

Garrow leaned over Laura’s shoulder and picked a piece of paper out of the file. Clint noticed Garrow linger, a little too long, close to Laura. Garrow saw Clint watching him and dropped his gaze. “Russian Mafia money definitely went through Monroe’s companies, but we can’t connect it directly to him. In fact, every piece of dirty money we’ve followed into Monroe Investments has been tied to a different division. We haven’t been able to connect anything directly and specifically to Peter Monroe—only to five of his senior executives.”

“So he’s very smart—and you can’t pin anything on him. I’m surprised you still have a full investigation on him,” Clint said. “Why don’t you arrest the suits and sweat them until one talks.”

Garrow smiled sourly. “Our case isn’t strong enough—the clues add up but broken down it’s just circumstantial evidence. High-priced lawyers will poke enough holes in our case to keep each of our suspects out of jail. We want the brains behind the money.” He stroked his upper lip and Clint wondered if he’d been on assignment recently where he’d worn a mustache. “We don’t have a complete team on Monroe anymore. In fact, for the past six weeks, I’ve been the only investigator. I’m being reassigned in one week.”

“So you came up with one last-ditch effort to find the incriminating evidence you need,” Clint concluded.

“Last ditch is perhaps a little desperate sounding.” Garrow straightened his tie.

“He’s desperate,” Clark interrupted. “The only solid piece of information the numbers guys have on Monroe is his psychological profile. Two years of investigation and they have absolutely nothing on him.” Clark guffawed, a loud burst of noise, and then grinned in pleasure at another department’s failure. Clint knew that like most cops, Clark resented the SFI’s impressive budget and habit of stealing news headlines. “Two years and nothing. Nada. Zilch.” He made a zero with his fingers. “That’s why they’ve come crawling to us. Us ordinary cops with no special titles or secret budgets. The guys who are out there on the streets, taking it every day for the safety of the city of Chicago. Specifically for you two. The cowboy and the heiress.”

Clint saw Laura move ever so slightly and almost leaned forward to stop her, but checked himself. Let her make her own bed. He’d always reckoned it was better to go along until he could figure out how to suit the circumstance to his own needs.

Laura smiled winningly at her boss. “Captain Clark, if I could interrupt here for a moment, I’ve studied financial—”

“No, you may not,” Clark shouted.

The smile dropped from Laura’s face, in fact Clint would have sworn she shut herself off. Clint didn’t know any other way to describe how she was looking at their boss. She had just thrown off a switch in herself. She was still listening, but he could tell part of her wasn’t there anymore.

“You may not say another word,” Sam Clark continued. Clint could have told her there wasn’t any point in trying to change their senior officer’s mind, but she would never listen to his advice. As far as he could tell, Laura never listened to anyone’s advice.

More importantly he wanted to hear more details of the case. This could very well be the opportunity he’d needed to get him back home. He’d spent the past year in Chicago and while he genuinely liked the windy city, he heard Texas calling to him more and more often.

If he and Laura were successful on this case, he might be promoted to Homicide, which was the best of the best. If he solved the case quickly, Captain Clark would have to recommend him for the spot. With his record in Dallas and his work in Chicago, he figured he was the prime candidate. Once he’d plugged in a year or two in Homicide, no one back home could ever claim that there was anyone more qualified than himself to be sheriff of Two Horse Junction. In fact the only downside to this whole situation was being forced to spend a lot of time with Laura Carter.

Mind, if she had to wear a couple of pretty dresses, hang off his arm and admire him, he didn’t think the assignment would turn out all that bad. “Perhaps you could share with us exactly how the cowboy and the heiress fit into your investigation?”

Garrow nodded. “You’re going to attend a society wedding and make contact with Peter Monroe.”

“Who’s getting married?” Laura asked.

“Penelope York and Kyle Chandler.”

“Penelope York of York Construction?”

Garrow nodded. “Do you know the family personally?”

“No,” Laura said. “I’ve never met them, but my uncle owns stock. He likes to talk about his investments. Have we been invited to the wedding?”

“Yes. I’ve made arrangements for your invitation. Since it’s a big society event, your family connection,” he looked at Laura, “was the entry we needed. The bride’s father was more than happy to cooperate with the SFI, especially after we found a few irregularities with one of his deals. He’s the only one who will know the two of you aren’t married.”

“So York gets his case closed and a cop from a good family on the guest list,” Clint said. “Won’t other guests know that Laura is a cop?”

“No,” Laura said quickly. “People from my family’s social set don’t know I’m a cop.”

“What do they think you do?”

“Nothing.”

“They think you’re just a party girl?” he asked disbelievingly. While he didn’t much care for Laura, no one could deny she was a hard worker.

“Something like that.” Laura pushed that errant strand of hair back into her braid. “What exactly are Clint and I supposed to do at the wedding?”

“With all the parties celebrating the nuptials it’s a week-long affair. Donald York has gone full-out with the celebrations and the Chandler family has thrown in what money they have as well.” Garrow waved the Monroe file at them accusingly. “Let me state the assignment more clearly. You’re going to do more than make contact, you’re going to become Mr. and Mrs. Monroe’s new best friends.” Garrow stared at the file he held in his hands. “We’ve had agents in his company studying every move Peter Monroe makes. Another operative became a social friend at his country club, but nothing. Hell, one of our best agents has spent hours shopping with Mrs. Monroe, but she doesn’t know anything.”

“Or she’s too smart for your operative,” Laura said, but the men ignored her.

“Clint and Laura Marshall are attending all the festivities of the York-Chandler wedding because the Yorks are important business associates. What’s more, Donald York revealed that Monroe asked for Nicholas Vasili to be invited to the wedding ceremony and reception. Vasili is Russian Mafia. This is the closest we’ve ever been to getting Monroe and Vasili in the same room.” Garrow’s face grew animated as he revealed his case. “You two are going to figure out why Monroe wants Vasili at the wedding and uncover what they’re up to. I suspect Vasili will be handing over another load of money for Monroe to launder through his companies—and you’re going to catch them at it.”

“That sounds about as likely as convincing a goat to keep out of the garbage. Surely you have some kind of a better lead?” Clint asked, wondering what kind of a crazy assignment SFI was running.

Garrow mopped his brow with a white handkerchief. “This is our last chance. After this weekend the budget for this case is gone and I have to move on to a more likely candidate, but I want to get Peter Monroe.”

“Why is he so important to you?” Laura asked.

Garrow looked at her, and for a second Clint thought he was going to tell the truth. But then Garrow said, “Because he’s breaking the law.”

Laura tilted her head to the left and studied the skinny man; clearly she, too, knew there was more to the story. “I don’t understand why Clint and I need to pose as a couple to attend the wedding.”

Sam Clark smiled with genuine pleasure as he studied the two of them. Clint didn’t like the man’s assessment. “Because you two, as a couple, fit Peter Monroe’s fantasies. He’s a boy from Jersey who grew up dreaming about the wild west. And cowboys.”

“That explains him,” Laura nodded toward Clint, “but how do I—”

“I’m from Texas,” Clint interrupted. “That doesn’t necessarily make me a cowboy.”

“You could have fooled me,” Laura muttered and stared at his boots.

Captain Clark took another swig of his green health drink, grimaced and pointed at Clint. “I don’t care whether you can shoot a lasso or brand a haystack, you walk and talk like a cowboy and you’re going to do your best to convince Peter Monroe you’re the genuine article.”

Clint wondered if he should point out his many years of police experience and several commendations, but decided not to give Clark more reason to punish him.

Laura crossed one elegant leg over the other and Clint noticed the other two men watching her. “Fine, Peter Monroe wants to play cowboy. I don’t see—”

“If you’d let me finish a sentence you’d learn how you fit in. Damn, your last captain never said anything about you being such a chatterbox.” Captain Clark ran a tongue over his teeth and grimaced as he tasted the remnants of the health drink. “Peter Monroe has two driving fantasies. He comes from a working-class family. His father was a factory worker and his mother was a waitress who used to make extra money by hiring herself out as service help for large society parties. Peter went with her, helping in the kitchen. Clearly that’s when he became obsessed with high society. The longer a family’s been in America the more impressed he is.”

“But…” Laura started to interrupt again but quickly thought better of it.

“Yes?” The captain smiled at her predicament but Laura wisely decided not to ask how she fit into the scenario. At least the woman acknowledged the silver spoon she was born with.

Clint wondered what it would be like to be accepted because of one’s family name. He was placing extraordinary demands on himself because of how badly his own family was perceived. His father had run off with the life savings of too many people in Two Horse Junction for him to be comfortable accepting the sheriff’s job just because he was a good cop. He needed to show that he was a great cop.

Captain Clark smiled. “Unfortunately the Chicago P.D. isn’t overrun by socialites. Luckily you transferred in. In fact it’s good that the pair of you transferred in. I never dreamed I’d be happy to have a cowboy and an heiress working for me.”

“I’m not…an heiress. My mother—” Another look at Captain Clark’s face and Laura stopped. She didn’t bite her lip or fidget or anything. She just waited. Clint had to admit he liked how calm she was. It was the only thing he liked about Miss Nose-Stuck-Up-In-the-Air Laura Carter. When she’d transferred in from Boston he couldn’t help but admire her beauty. But her ice-maiden attitude didn’t appeal to him. He liked a woman who wasn’t afraid to laugh out loud, who wasn’t afraid to step in a puddle in order to cross the road. He preferred having a warm loving body in his bed, not a prickly cactus. She had about as much personality as a cactus, too.