The Raven's Assignment

THE COLTONS: COMANCHE BLOOD

Discover a proud, passionate clan of men and women who will risk everything for love, family and honor.

Jesse Colton:

As a special government agent, danger comes with the job. But protecting breathtaking Samantha Cosgrove—and his heart—could prove to be his toughest assignment ever.

Samantha Cosgrove:

The sweet, idealistic campaign staffer has stumbled upon a troubling secret. Only Jesse Colton can help her discover the truth—and unlock the passions hidden inside her.

Gloria Whitebear:

Will the secret past of the Oklahoma Coltons’ matriarch come back to haunt her grandchildren?

Sky Colton:

Jesse’s hardworking younger sister is fast becoming famous for her Native American jewelry. But life has a very different design in store for this independent woman.

Dear Reader,

Summer is over and it’s time to kick back into high gear. Just be sure to treat yourself with a luxuriant read or two (or, hey, all six) from Silhouette Romance. Remember—work hard, play harder!

Although October is officially Breast Cancer Awareness month, we’d like to invite you to start thinking about it now. In a wonderful, uplifting story, a rancher reluctantly agrees to model for a charity calendar to earn money for cancer research. At the back of that book, we’ve also included a guide for self-exams. Don’t miss Cara Colter’s must-read 9 Out of 10 Women Can’t Be Wrong (#1615).

Indulge yourself with megapopular author Karen Rose Smith and her CROWN AND GLORY series installment, Searching for Her Prince (#1612). A missing heir puts love on the line when he hides his identity from the woman assigned to track him down. The royal, brooding hero in Sandra Paul’s stormy Caught by Surprise (#1614), the latest in the A TALE OF THE SEA adventure, also has secrets—and intends to make his beautiful captor pay…by making her his wife!

Jesse Colton is a special agent forced to play pretend boyfriend to uncover dangerous truths in the fourth of THE COLTONS: COMANCHE BLOOD spinoff, The Raven’s Assignment (#1613), by bestselling author Kasey Michaels. And in Cathie Linz’s MEN OF HONOR title, Married to a Marine (#1616), combat-hardened Justice Wilder had shut himself away from the world—until his ex-wife’s younger sister comes knocking…. Finally, in Laurey Bright’s tender and true Life with Riley (#1617), free-spirited Riley Morrisset may not be the perfect society wife, but she’s exactly what her stiff-collared boss needs!

Happy reading—and please keep in touch.

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor

The Raven’s Assignment

Kasey Michaels

To Julie Barrett, who has the patience of a saint.

KASEY MICHAELS

is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than sixty books. She has won the Romance Writers of America RITA® Award and the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for her historical romances set in the Regency era, and also writes contemporary romances for Silhouette and Harlequin Books.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter One

P OTUS is on the move.

“Copy that.”

“Copy what, Sean? It’s a little late for activity from the residence, isn’t it?” Jesse Colton asked, looking up from the page he’d been reading as he walked through the West Wing toward the doors and what was left of his evening.

“Nothing, Jesse,” Sean said, no longer talking into his shirt collar. “POTUS is on the move. It’s nearly midnight, so he’s on the way to the main kitchen, probably. FLOTUS keeps stashing the residence fridge with apples and pears. POTUS wants coconut-cream pie.”

“I wonder what the American Heart Association would have to say about President’s sweet tooth,” Jesse said, perching on a corner of Sean’s desk just inside the main vestibule. As jobs went, Sean’s was pretty cushy—but guarding the West Wing was also pretty boring. “And the loyal opposition would probably start demanding monthly cholesterol checks.”

“Yes, but with us all sworn to fall on our swords rather than play tattletale, I guess POTUS is safe, both from the AHA and FLOTUS.”

Jesse looked at the small, boxy screen on Sean’s desk, a constantly updated listing showing the location of the first family. Sure enough, POTUS, better known as President Jackson Coates, now showed in the main kitchen, with FLOTUS still in the second-floor residence, probably sound asleep. “POTUS. President of the United States. FLOTUS, first lady of the etcetera, etcetera. The acronyms ought to sound more presidential, don’t you think?”

“I’ll mention it at tomorrow’s meeting of the Proper Presidential Acronym Committee—that would be P-PAC, of course,” Sean said, shaking his head. Sean was the perfect Secret Service agent; his hair was neatly clipped, his suit neatly pressed, and his smile neatly neutral. “What do you have there, Jesse?”

Jesse looked down at the now-closed manila folder. “This? Personal stuff. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to remove state secrets on your watch, and sell them to the tabloids. I mean, how much could they pay for a headline like POTUS Caught in Coconut-Cream Orgy.”

“That’s a relief. So, what do you have there?”

Jesse grinned. “That’s it, Sean, trust nobody.”

“No, seriously. You were frowning. Frowning over personal stuff is never a good thing.”

Jesse opened the folder and looked at the single sheet inside. “My family seems to have inherited a house in Georgetown.”

“And this is bad news? Georgetown? Cushy address. Oh, wait a minute. Does it come with fifty years of back taxes they all want you to pay because you’re getting rich here at the White House, feeding from the public trough?”

“Not quite, no,” Jesse said, knowing that if Sean knew the whole truth, he’d probably fall off his chair. “The place has been rented out for about sixty years now. I’m just trying to figure out a way to explain to the Senate Ethics Committee how I, a lowly public servant, came to be part owner of the Chekagovian embassy.”

“You’re kidding,” Sean said, grabbing for the folder, which Jesse quickly raised beyond his reach. “Is that legal? I mean, for a member of the president’s staff to own part of a foreign consulate?”

“I probably own a third of the garage, Sean. There’s a bunch of us who each own a small chunk of the place. The whole Colton tribe, as we call ourselves when we’re being facetious, inherited it. But I’ll admit, it is dicey. I mean, if we have a slow news week, who knows what could happen if this gets out. So I guess I have to tell…somebody.”

“Chief of staff?”

Jesse blew out a quick breath. “Might as well start at the top.” He slid the folder back into his briefcase and stood up. “Luckily, he went home at a decent hour, so it will have to wait. Besides, I need to do a little more digging into the deed, all that legal stuff, to be sure of my facts. See you tomorrow, Sean.”

“See you, Mr. Moneybags, Mr. I-Own-Part-of-Georgetown,” Sean called after him, then said, “Hey, wait! I forgot something.”

“You never forget anything, Sean,” Jesse said, slowly walking back to the desk. “You just want to pump me for more information.”

“Not me. The more you know the less you want to know, that’s my byword. No, seriously,” he said, rooting through some messages on his desk. “This came in late, after your secretary left. Now where in hell—ah, got it.”

He handed Jesse a “while you were out” memo.

Jesse frowned at the unfamiliar name as he read the memo. “Urgent? You did see that part of the message, right, Sean? The urgent part?”

“Hey, everything’s urgent around here. The message arrived via the main switchboard, after being routed to the OEOB first, and then a couple of other places, which is probably how I ended up with it.”

“The Old Executive Office Building? I haven’t worked there in months.”

“Well, guess not everyone knows you’ve been bumped up to a big-deal office in the West Wing. You should have taken an ad. Most do.”

“Funny, Sean,” Jesse said, heading out once more, this time frowning over the pink memo. “Samantha Cosgrove. Urgent. Now, who the hell is Samantha Cosgrove?”

Samantha Cosgrove, all the long blond hair and petitely formed five feet four inches of her, sat behind her desk, staring daggers at her telephone.

She hadn’t gone on her coffee break with Bettyann. She had turned down lunch with Rita.

She hadn’t left her desk all day. She was starving, and her stomach had begun to growl, she was nervous, and she was beginning to get angry.

Okay, so she’d been angry at one o’clock. It was now quarter to five. Now she was incensed.

Bettyann, the staff secretary, stuck her head inside the small office. “I’m heading out now, Samantha. Dinner at the golden arches? My treat.”

“No thanks, Bettyann,” Samantha said, pretending an interest in a pile of campaign literature that was about as exciting as the Weather Channel on a calm, clear day across America.

That’s what the latest slogan was all about: a calm, clear-minded, new day across America. Vote for Senator Mark Phillips for President. Bor-ring. Surely somebody, somewhere, could come up with something better than that?

“You sure, Sam? You haven’t eaten anything all day, except for that cupcake you stole from Rita. Her only satisfaction is that it had been sitting on her desk for two days, and had to be very, very stale.”

“It was,” Samantha said, sighing. “Okay, I’m going home. The world will keep on turning without me if I go home. But no thanks to the golden arches, Bettyann. I can hear leftover stuffed peppers calling my name.”

“Right. See you here tomorrow.”

“See me here, will she?” Samantha grumbled about a half hour later, grimacing as she shoved work into her briefcase. “Why not. Where else would I be?”

She grabbed her light, full-length burgundy raincoat and followed a few other stragglers into the elevator once she’d looked through the outgoing mail, first checking to be sure nobody saw her.

Once outside, Samantha turned right and headed toward the White House on foot.

She had seen photographs of Jesse Colton, so she knew what he looked like: about six feet tall, short black hair, dark eyes. Sort of mysterious-looking, even primal.

“Okay, so he’s a hunk,” Samantha muttered to herself as she pulled up her hood, because it had begun to drizzle. Even in the rain, she loved living in Washington, D.C.

She’d been back in town for two years, because it took at least two years for a presidential candidate like Senator Mark Phillips to float test balloons to see if anyone would vote for him, pretend for months that he wasn’t interested in running, announce the setting up of an informal Phillips for President Committee, talk to the money people, promise everybody everything, and then finally announce his formal candidacy.

Now, with the primaries beginning soon in New Hampshire, the Committee to Elect Mark Phillips had gone into full swing, had gone public, and Samantha was working hard.

She just needed to know if she was working hard for the right man.

Jesse Colton might work in the West Wing now, as she’d been informed, but she already knew he still had to walk to his old parking space, in a parking garage some distance away. It was easier to get into the West Wing than it was to get a better parking place near the White House.

He drove a black sedan, nondescript, yet somehow classy. He arrived at the parking garage by seven o’clock in the morning, six days a week, and could leave again anywhere between five o’clock and midnight.

She knew, because she’d watched him for five long, worrisome days before making the call yesterday. The call that hadn’t been returned today.

“Not stalking, Samantha, watching,” she assured herself tightly as she quickly joined some other people as if she belonged with them, and then stepped into the parking garage, out of the drizzle that was rapidly turning into a downpour. “There’s a difference.”

The difference, she decided two hours later, was that stalkers probably planned better. Maybe even brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a thermos of piping-hot coffee with them.

She’d finally given in and jogged to a small local restaurant to grab a take-out hot dog and a soda, along with a bag of potato chips, then jogged all the way back to breathe a sigh of relief when she saw the black sedan still in its assigned parking spot.

It was nine o’clock and she had begun fantasizing about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again, when she finally saw him.

She thought it was him. She could be delirious from lack of food, but she was ninety-nine percent sure the man walking toward her was Jesse Colton.

When he clicked something on his key chain and the black sedan’s lights went on, she was sure.

Stepping out from behind her second home—the concrete pillar—she said, “Jesse Colton? If I could have a minute of your time, please?”

He kept walking. “Call my office.”

“I did.”

“Did you leave a message?”

“I did. For you to call me. You didn’t.”

“Now there’s a clue,” he said, opening the rear door of the sedan and throwing his briefcase inside. “It’s late. If you want an interview, go through the press secretary’s office.”

“I don’t want an interview,” she said, walking toward him. “I’m not a reporter.”

“Darn. And I’ll bet you’re not this generation’s Deep Throat, either, ready to tell me deep dark secrets, or Mr. White, who was going to let me know that Mr. Green did it, in the library, with the rope. I don’t get any luck.”

He had opened his car door and slid inside, but before he could close the door again, Samantha was there, her body between the door and the car.

“Are you always an ass?” she asked him, shaking her head so that her hood slipped off. She reached beneath her collar and freed her long blond hair, let some of the thick curls spill onto her shoulders.

She wasn’t dumb. She was blond, fairly pretty, and had fabulous legs. She had yet to meet a single man in D.C. who had found her unattractive.

“Am I being propositioned?” Jesse asked, and his smile was a little too amused for Samantha’s comfort.

“No!” she said, backing up a pace. Which was a bad move, but she realized that too late.

“Pity,” he said, then reached out and closed the door. But then he rolled down the window. “You’re Samantha Cosgrove, right?”

She bent down, looked in the window. “You knew that?”

“Oh yeah, I knew that. Blond, pretty and tenacious as a bulldog. I had you checked out.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to talk to me. Do you have any idea how many people want to talk to me, Samantha Cosgrove, now that I’m in the West Wing?”

“Oh, aren’t we popular. I’m so impressed.”

“I’ll bet you are. I know I am,” he said, flashing her that whiter-than-white smile again.

She wanted to bang him over the head with her briefcase. Instead, she turned her back and began walking away.

“Hungry?” he asked, backing up the sedan so that he was beside her once more.

“Only if I could find a way to make your entrails appetizing,” she said, and kept walking.

He kept backing up. “Ah, don’t go away mad, Samantha. I was going to call you.”

“When? Christmas?”

“No, I go home to Oklahoma for Christmas. Tomorrow. I was going to call you tomorrow. First I had to check you out.”

“Did I pass?” she asked, interested, but she kept walking. The man set her teeth on edge.

“Well, let’s see what I’ve got. Daughter of megarich parents residing in Connecticut after living here for decades. One brother, younger, still in college. Freshman, I believe. One sister, older, a literary agent. Juliet, right? Mommy does charity work and belongs to all the right social groups. Daddy’s a lawyer, and personal friends with and a large contributor to the presidential primary campaign for Senator Mark Phillips, who is personally endorsed by my boss, the current president. Graduated with honors, double major, in both journalism and political science. Very nice, Samantha. Cum laude. Even nicer. Senior staffer on Phillips’s committee. Hardworking, clean-living, good cook, lousy dancer—”

“I am not a lousy dancer! I’m a very good dancer,” Samantha protested hotly, stopping so that she could turn, glare at him.

“And here I thought you weren’t listening. Okay, good dancer, although that wasn’t in my report. So, you want to go get something to eat, and then prove to me that you’re really a good dancer?”

“I wouldn’t dance with you for all the tea in—”

“You did say urgent,” he interrupted.

“Are you always this arrogant?”

“No, it comes with the White House credentials. Honest. You can look at the job description. It’s right there—once cleared to work in the West Wing and given a blue badge, arrogance is mandatory. Red badge? Orange badge? I spit on red and orange badges.”

“You’re insane,” Samantha said, but then she laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Really. Insane.”

“But I’m buying. How about a New York strip, since you look ready to bite something. Baked potato dripping in sour cream. A good bottle of white zinfandel? You look like a white-zinfandel drinker to me.”

“I like merlot.”

“So much for my source. I’ll have to order her head chopped off in the morning. So, are you getting in, or are you just going to take the Metro home and eat those leftover filled peppers?”

“How did you—oh my God. It’s true. You people know everything. You had someone in my house? Going through my refrigerator?”

“Nothing that illegal. But Brenda—she’s my secretary—did happen to stop in at Senator Phillips’s election headquarters late this afternoon. She told me someone named Bettyann would have given out your shoe size if anyone asked. Brenda also told me that you’re blond and a looker. She was right. Now, come on. Get in.”

Samantha threw up her hands. “Why not. I deserve a free steak after you invaded my privacy that way. You are buying, you know.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said once she was in the passenger seat, her briefcase on the floor.

“Neither would I,” she said, arranging her oversize raincoat across her legs. He didn’t deserve to see her legs. “And then we’ll talk?”

“And then we’ll talk. Promise,” he said, slipping the car into Drive and heading out of the parking deck. “But first we eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“I can relate,” Samantha said, hoping her stomach wouldn’t growl before she could feed it.

Finding an empty table in any half-decent restaurant close to the White House was darn near impossible, anytime day or night, but as they approached one of the best ones, Samantha told him to pull up out front at the valet service area.

“Much as I’d like to tell you I’m even smarter than my personnel file says I am, I didn’t know you were going to be lying in wait for me in the parking lot, or that you’d agree to come to dinner with me. That said, I don’t have reservations.”

“That’s all right. Just pull over.”

He did, and the valet opened the passenger-side door. Samantha accepted the hand she was offered, and said, “Good evening, Anthony. It’s good to see you again.”

“And it’s wonderful to see you again, Ms. Cosgrove,” Anthony the valet said, guiding her under the canopy and out of the rain.

“I guess I’m just supposed to schlep it on my own,” Jesse grumbled to himself as Anthony and his large black golf umbrella didn’t move from the canopy again.

He got out, tossed his keys to Anthony, and found himself following Samantha inside the dimly lit foyer of the restaurant known for its old boys’ club decor and aged steaks.

She was already standing in front of the podium, with an Anthony look-alike holding her raincoat over his arm, and speaking fluent Italian with the maître d’.

A few more Italian phrases, some sharp snapping of the fingers by the maître d’, and they were being escorted past the line of diners waiting to be seated and to a prime table. Jesse was pretty sure he recognized a representative from Pennsylvania in the line, as well as a second assistant undersecretary of state.

“How’d you do that?” he asked once they were seated.

“So much for your thorough research. I was raised in the District, remember, before Dad decided to relocate in Connecticut. I’ve known Anthony and his family for years, since my father and mother first began coming here,” she told him as she spread her napkin in her lap.

Then she leaned forward and said with an unholy grin on her lovely, patrician face, “You see, Mr. Colton? Badges? I don’t need no steenkin’ badges.”

If he were less a man of the world, Jesse would have believed he fell in love with Samantha Cosgrove the moment the words were out of her mouth.

Instead, he threw back his head and laughed, and banished any other thoughts as unprofessional. And definitely personally dangerous.

They were handed oversize menus, leather-clad, and Jesse watched as Samantha frowned over hers.

She was so blond. So sleek. So High Society.

And he was the part Comanche nobody from Black Arrow, Oklahoma.

Man. Who would have thunk it.

“I think I want two of everything,” she said at last, smiling at him overtop the menu. “Is that all right?”

“That depends. How good are you at washing dishes?”

“Ah, the woefully underpaid public servant,” Samantha said, closing the menu and placing it beside her cutlery so that she could fold her hands on the tabletop. “Do you like it?”

“Being a public servant, or being underpaid?” he asked, closing his own menu.

“No, seriously, do you like it? I mean, I get chills, just thinking about the West Wing. The Oval Office. All that power, all in one place.”

“And the doughnuts ain’t bad,” Jesse said, grinning.

She sat back. “All right, so I’m not immune to the idea that you work in the West Wing. It’s heady. How did you get there, anyway?”

“Hard work, determination, knowing the right people—all that good stuff.”

“Will you please be serious. I mean, I know you started in the Secret Service.”

“Not much of a secret, is it?” he commented, trying to look upset. “And then I moved on to the NSA—National Security Agency.”

“Yes, and from there to the West Wing. One of the president’s trusted advisers. I don’t remember reading that you stopped a bullet for him, or anything like that.”

“No, nothing that dramatic. Let’s just say I’m ambitious, and that, yes, I did know the right people, and that I was in the right place at the right time. When the president’s second term is over, and your guy’s in the Oval Office, I’ll head back to the NSA. I’m only on loan, you know. That was the deal.”

“You won’t want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”

“I won’t be asked. Same party, Samantha, but each man comes in with his own people. And, frankly, I think I’ll be glad. The NSA is where I really want to be. I’m not all that political. I’d rather think I’m serving my country, not just the current administration. Since the president agreed, and really wants more of an outsider’s opinion on national security, we’re fine. This was, hell, this was an ego thing as much as anything else. But enough about me. Why do you want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”