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Against the Storm (The Raines of Wind Canyon, Book 4) by Kat Martin

By Kat Martin

Redheads like Maggie O'Connell are not anything yet difficulty. yet hint Rawlins, a former military ranger grew to become inner most investigator, takes the case besides. finally, he is familiar with something or approximately women.

Trace can experience that whatever is wrong—Maggie isn't telling him every thing. If those menacing calls and messages are actual, why won't the police aid her? And in the event that they aren't genuine, what's she hiding?

As hint digs deeper to discover the resource of Maggie's threats, he discovers a mystery that nobody used to be intended to discover. And the one puzzle left to be solved is whether or not the chance comes from an unknown stalker…or from the lady he's making an attempt his toughest to not fall for.

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Additional resources for Against the Storm (The Raines of Wind Canyon, Book 4)

Example text

Some baronial and ducal homes were in debt up to their leaking roofs. One of her few good qualities was that she was not a social snob. She loved money, true. But her adoration was birthed by the misfortune of her being a spendthrift. Her purse was always in need of replenishing. She desired the exactitude of money, not the encumbrance of wealth. Hence, a man of position and wealth who could actually produce currency was, to Lydia, truly a prize. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy (who both had those two exceedingly advantageous attributes in abundance and were happily in the additional circumstance of available cash) were to Lydia as much a matrimonial trophy as had their heads been mounted upon the wall.

In all the good humour of one who has yet to know himself disappointed, Wickham had run his glove reassuringly across the shine of the brass buttons that lined his uniform jacket, tossed his red cape back across one shoulder just so, and made his entrance into the anticipated merriment. But he took no more than a step or two inside the door that had borne the designation of a drinking establishment. For upon his intrusion the patrons stopped all discourse, abandoned their ale, and glared in baleful silence at the fancy soldier in his pretty uniform who had just barged into their refuge.

It occurred to her to tell him that if he kept his hand upon her knee, he was in imminent danger of learning just how well she was, but she quashed the notion. “I am quite well, I thank you,” she said. That assurance evidently did not persuade him of the felicity of her health, for his hand began a small, reassuring caress. This manipulation was unsuccessfully ignored by Elizabeth. For as he gazed impassively out the window at the passing countryside, the seemingly independent action of his hand expanded to an outright stroking of the inside of her thigh.

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