Unbroken Vows Read online

  He didn’t want to feel anything for her.

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Frances Williams

  About the Author

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  HIRED HUSBAND

  Copyright

  He didn’t want to feel anything for her.

  He’d never been a man to move in on another man’s woman. Certainly not after being on the receiving end of that game.

  Still, Cara Merrill was the kind of woman he’d wanted once upon a time. The kind he thought he’d found until real life made mincemeat of that hope.

  His body was shot to hell, but his head still worked. He knew damn well that this wasn’t a woman a man should become involved with unless he was on for heavy talk about commitment. A subject he wasn’t willing to think about, let alone discuss.

  So why did she turn all his hard-won promises to himself to shifting grains of sand? He’d already made his decision on women. Except in the most impersonal terms, they weren’t to be a part of his life. The price was too high....

  Dear Reader,

  It’s summertime, and the livin’ may or may not be easy—but the reading is great. Just check out Naomi Horton’s Wild Blood, the first in her new WILD HEARTS miniseries. In Jett Kendrick you’ll find a hero to take to heart and never let go, and you’ll understand why memories of their brief, long-ago loving have stayed with Kathy Patterson for sixteen years. Now she’s back in Burnt River, back in Jett’s life—and about to discover a secret that will change three lives forever.

  We feature two more great miniseries this month, too. Cathryn Clare’s ASSIGNMENT: ROMANCE brings you The Baby Assignment, the exciting conclusion to the Cotter brothers’ search for love, while Alicia Scott’s THE GUINESS GANG continues with The One Who Almost Got Away, featuring brother Jake Guiness. And there’s still more great reading you won’t want to miss. Patricia Coughlin’s Borrowed Bride features a bride who’s kidnapped—right out from under the groom’s nose. Of course, it’s her kidnapper who turns out to be Mr. Right. And by the way, both Alicia and Patricia had earlier books that were made into CBS TV movies last year. In Unbroken Vows, Frances Williams sends her hero and heroine on a search for the heroine’s ex-fiancé, a man hero David Reid is increasingly uninterested in finding. Finally, check out Kay David’s Hero in Hiding, featuring aptly named Mercy Hamilton and enigmatic Rio Barrigan, a man who is far more than he seems.

  Then join us again next month and every month, as we bring you more of the best romantic reading around—only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Yours,

  Leslie Wainger,

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  * * *

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  * * *

  UNBROKEN VOWS

  FRANCES WILLIAMS

  Books by Frances Williams

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Easy Target #223

  Night Secrets #287

  The Road to Forever #378

  Shadows on Satin #455

  Unbroken Vows #724

  FRANCES WILLIAMS

  was born in Montreal, Canada. Since her marriage to an American government worker she has lived in the Washington, D.C., area. As a longtime addict of suspense and adventure stories, she found that those she liked best offered the added spice of a love relationship. She discovered all those elements in romance novels. Eventually she decided it would be fun to try writing her own vicarious adventures with strong, romantic heroes. She was thrilled when pursuing that goal led her to winning several writing awards, including the Romantic Times award for New Romantic Suspense Author.

  To my dear friends of many, many years,

  Camilla Laking, Ginger Sexton, Eileena Murphy

  and Sister Theresa Dalla.

  Chapter 1

  The man carving an impossibly direct path through the dark waters of the mountain lake obviously was not swimming for pleasure. He looked as if he were waging war against the water. A war he was determined to win. His arms knifed into the choppy surface with the relentless precision of a metronome. Left. Right. Left. Right.

  Cara couldn’t tell how long he’d been at it, but for the past ten minutes, simply watching him push to the end of the small lake, whip around and charge back again, left her feeling tired. She could guess at the pain such a degree of punishment must be inflicting on straining muscles of shoulders and back.

  She dropped to one knee at the edge of the long wooden dock and dipped a hand into the gunmetal gray of the water. After only a few seconds of fanning her fingers through it, she shivered and yanked them out again.

  The swimmer, she decided, had to be the man she was looking for. A genuine hero, Mr. Elliott. had called him. Either that, she thought wryly, or the guy was just plain nuts. Only one or the other would explain why anyone would brave the bone-jarring cold of the late spring runoff draining from the hills walling in the small lake.

  No one had answered her call up at the house, so she prayed the swimmer was David Chandler Reid. Learning about him had provided her first ray of hope in long, discouraging months.

  The man pursued his exercise with such disciplined regularity that she hesitated to break into his concentration by calling to him.

  She shook the water from her fingers and straightened. Skirting the pair of old scuffed sneakers and small pile of clothing topped by a towel carelessly tossed on the planks, she ambled over to one of the knee-high wooden support posts and sat down to wait until he returned to shore.

  Her movements must have caught the swimmer’s eye. The rhythmic swings of his head froze in her direction. The long, powerful strokes stilled. In a second or two they resumed with even greater fury, angling him away from the line of his laps and driving him toward her.

  She pulled off her sunglasses, jabbed them into her hair and walked to the end of the dock, ready to greet the man whose help she sought.

  A large hand slapped onto the planks at her feet bringing his rapid slice through the lake to an abrupt halt. His head pushed from the water in a hurl of white foam, followed by a pair of shoulders whose corded muscles certainly looked powerful enough to take the kind of punishment their owner had been inflicting on them.

  “What are you doing here?” The scowling bark in the deep male voice backed her up a step.

  A quick flail of his unfashionably long dark hair flung a halo of droplets into the air around him. He dashed back his hair and mopped a hand across his face to clear the water from his eyes. Eyes the same flat gray color of the lake, she noticed, and holding the same lethal chill.

  “In case you didn’t see the sign at the turnoff, it read, Private Property, Keep Off, This Means You.”

  The man’s rudeness wiped from her mind the polite greeting she’d intended. She nodded briskly. “I saw it.”

  “Evidently you don’t think that warning applies to you. It does. Go away.”

  After she’d looked forward to their meeting with such anticipation, the curt dismissal rankled. She bit back her immediate instinct to tell the man she now fervently hoped was not Reid that it wouldn’t hurt him to be a little more polite.
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  But then, from his point of view her presence could be seen as trespassing, although she’d come with a purpose. And that purpose didn’t include leaping into an argument with anyone. Especially not the person whose expertise she so desperately needed.

  “My name is Cara Merrill. I came to see Commander Reid.”

  “I’m David Reid.” She groaned inwardly. It had to be. “And I don’t recall inviting you or anybody else here.”

  The reality of the man bobbing in the water below her sure didn’t match the paragon of virtue Mr. Elliott had prepared her for. Tough, brave, keenly intelligent, those were only a few of the words Elliott had used in describing him. He’d said nothing about a complete lack of common courtesy.

  She might not have come if she’d known her reception was to be so uncordial. She simply would have continued on with her own plans as best she could. And she’d turn and walk away right now if that darned hike up the long dirt road—sidestepping deep ruts and mud puddles her car could never negotiate—hadn’ t been so bothersome she hated to waste the effort.

  “I assure you, Commander Reid—” She tried to keep any hint of the same tartness he’d used on her from leaking into her voice. “I do have a reason for coming. Roger Elliott suggested that I contact you. He told me where to find you.”

  “Elliott! ” Reid let out a snort of disdain. “Forget it. Tell him I’m not interested in coming back. You’ve delivered your message. Now go away.”

  Not only was this guy about as civil as a cornered skunk, but he was also confusing. “I don’t know what you mean. Mr. Elliott gave me no message for you. I’m here for reasons of my own.”

  “Which are?”

  “Please, Commander, I can’t talk to you like this.” A hero David Reid might be, but a hero with an attitude. The fact that she was standing above him, as he tread water several inches below the level of her feet, should have afforded her some sense of control in their exchange. It didn’t. “Would you mind coming out of the water so that we can talk in a more civilized manner?”

  “I make no claims to being civilized, Ms. Merrill.”

  He’d get no argument from her on that. But the glint of self-deprecating humor brought a soft chuckle to her throat.

  “Nevertheless, it’s important that I speak to you, so I’d appreciate it if you’d climb up here on the dock.”

  “All right, lady. But be warned. I’m wearing nothing but water down here. You’d better turn around so that the sight of a naked man doesn’t bring on an attack of the vapors.”

  “I’ve never had an attack of the vapors in my life. And you can’t show me anything I haven’t seen many times before.”

  “Well, even with your evidently wide experience at ogling naked men, I’d prefer that you turn around.”

  That a person so lacking in manners should demonstrate any personal sense of modesty whatever was surprising. But then, David Chandler Reid was turning out to be not at all what she’d expected.

  Funny, though, how difficult it was to obediently force her gaze away from him.

  Showing him her back, she strolled to the bottom of the long zigzag set of stone steps she’d walked down. Looking up, she fixed her attention on the elegantly designed house poised like a huge wing of silvery weathered cedar and glass on top of the hill.

  She heard the loud splash and thump behind her as Reid heaved himself onto the dock. She wasn’t quite as immune to the sight of a beautiful male body as she’d made herself out to be. The tantalizing view of the little of him that she’d already enjoyed tempted her to turn around and sneak a peek at the rest. She virtuously resisted the temptation.

  “Didn’t you find that water cold, Commander?” she called back to him, without turning around.

  “Damn cold. That’s the point.” It was a point she didn’t get. “And make that David. I’m no longer on active duty.”

  In a few minutes, the sound of his footsteps—strangely uneven and interspersed with a curious thudding—came closer.

  “All right, Ms. Merrill, it’s safe to turn around now.” The top-to-toe view of him startled her.

  She’d noticed one end of the thick wooden staff fashioned from a tree branch sticking out from under the heap of shucked-off clothing, and hadn’t thought anything of it. The rustic staff was a good six feet long. Reid topped it by several inches. But the pole was no mere walking stick for use in hiking through the woods surrounding the lake. Quite obviously, it served as a much-needed crutch. Leaning heavily on it for support, David Reid limped toward her.

  Her physician’s interest drew her gaze down the man’s body. The faded black T-shirt emblazoned with a naval insignia molded a classically sculpted torso to the waist. One side of his damp jeans hugged a muscular thigh in a firm, unbroken line. The left leg, though, looked thinner and oddly stiffened.

  Her surprise must have been written on her face.

  “Evidently you didn’t know I’m a cripple.” He waved away any objection she might have to the word. “Forget the politically correct term. That’s exactly what I am.”

  That he thought of himself as such went far to explain Reid’s sharpness. Did that nasty temper of his mask a self-protective desire to keep people at a distance? Maybe. However, he might have been every bit as mean-tempered before the injury.

  Roger Elliott hadn’t struck her as a person of questionable judgment. Far from it. Yet knowing what the job entailed he’d sent her to Reid, who obviously was in less than top-notch physical condition. There had to be more to this man than what she saw. Still, she was beginning to have her doubts about Elliott’s recommendation.

  “Mr. Elliott evidently didn’t think that your physical disability was worth mentioning.”

  “That astonishes me. He’s usually no more forgiving of weakness in a man than I am. But let’s drop the subject of my disability—” he spat out the word “—shall we? Get on with the point of why you’re here.”

  “Very well. I’m here to ask you to help me find my fiancé.” Reid’s dark eyebrows slashed upward.

  “Well, Ms. Merrill, as opening lines go, that’s sure a new one on me.” An impatient pump of his walking staff ordered her to the steps. “Upstairs to the deck. I’ve got to sit down.”

  She stepped back politely to let him lead the way.

  “No. You first.”

  He was sensitive, she suspected, about having her watch him maneuver the steep steps, just as he’d wanted to keep his damaged body hidden. She took the stones slowly, so she wouldn’t get too far ahead of him. She heard him stumble behind her, but didn’t look back. David Reid didn’t seem the type to take kindly to any offers of help, no matter how well-intentioned. Especially not from a woman. Macho self-reliance was written all over him.

  On the wide deck cantilevered over the hill, he lowered himself carefully into a cushioned, high-back wooden lawn chair.

  His lips were clamped in a thin, tight line and his face was beaded with moisture. Not lingering evidence of his swim. Sweat. Since the day was no more than pleasantly warm, with a fairly stiff breeze, the perspiration was evidence of the effort it took him to climb the steps. Reid might have succumbed to a degree of bitterness about his injury, but unlike some of her patients, he sure wasn’t one to pamper himself. If anything, he was probably pushing himself too hard.

  Not so much as a small pot of geraniums softened the redwood planks running the entire length of the house. Nor, evidently, did the commander engage in a whole lot of entertaining. Only one other chair was set out on the deck. She hooked her shoulder bag over the back of the chair and settled into it.

  A cat waddled by, brushing up against Reid’s legs as it passed. The sight was so unexpected, she had to fight to suppress a giggle. A Doberman snarling by his side? Sure. But a blotchy white-and-brown angora so fat its belly dragged along the ground? She’d never have guessed.

  “What’s your cat’s name, Commander?”

  “I’ve no idea, and it’s not my cat. I loathe the lazy beast.” Maybe s
o, but he’d reached down to stroke its head before it flopped down beneath his chair. And its long fluffy coat was well-groomed. “The thing walked in a few months ago, probably abandoned on the main road. I made the mistake of feeding it.” He shot a baleful glance down at the already snoozing animal. “Now I can’t get rid of it.”

  She was about to decide that David Reid wasn’t quite as uncivilized as he made himself out to be, when she noticed the half-empty bottle of liquor sitting on the low wooden table between them. The liquor was a fine, pricey old scotch. The glass beside it, heavy-leaded crystal whose faceted edges sparkled in the sun.

  Navy pensions must be a lot more generous than she’d thought.

  He poured a shot on top of the amber dregs of a previous drink, downed it in one gulp and poured another.

  The drink in Reid’s hand and the week’s worth of grungy beard shadowing his face put him a long way from the spit and polish she’d expected from a much-decorated former naval officer. According to Elliott, Reid was an ex-SEAL, a member of the navy’s elite Sea-Air-Land marine penetration and counter-intelligence unit. With his straggly black hair, streaked with gray at the temples, brushing his shoulders, he looked more like a denizen of some disreputable waterfront dive.

  Catching her disapproving eyes on his drink, he shrugged.

  “Kills the pain. Want one?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She glanced at her watch. Barely noon, and it looked as if Reid already had gotten a head start on demolishing the bottle’s contents. Apparently there were a number of things about him that Mr. Elliott hadn’t bothered to mention. Obviously this was a man wrestling with problems of his own. The feeling grew that he wasn’t the person she should ask to take on hers.

  His drinking habits were none of her business: he wasn’t a patient: But a professional concern for anyone’s good health made her offer a caution.