Before Sunrise. Diana Palmer

      Praise for Diana Palmer

      “Nobody does it better.”

      —Award-winning author Linda Howard

      “Palmer knows how to make the sparks fly…heartwarming.”

      —Publishers Weekly on Renegade

      “A compelling tale…[that packs] an emotional wallop.”

      —Booklist on Renegade

      “Sensual and suspenseful.…”

      —Booklist on Lawless

      “Diana Palmer is a mesmerizing storyteller who captures the essence of what a romance should be.”

      —Affaire de Coeur

      “Nobody tops Diana Palmer when it comes to delivering pure, undiluted romance. I love her stories.”

      —New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

      “The dialogue is charming, the characters likable and the sex sizzling.”

      —Publishers Weekly on Once in Paris

      “This story is a thrill a minute—one of Ms. Palmer’s best.”

      —Rendezvous on Lord of the Desert

      “Diana Palmer does a masterful job of stirring the reader’s emotions.”

      —Lezlie Patterson, Reading Eagle, on Lawless

      Diana Palmer

      Before Sunrise

      For Doris Hunter Samson

       June 14, 1941–June 13, 2004 My friend

BEFORE SUNRISE

      CONTENTS

      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

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      Knoxville, Tennessee, May 1994

      THE CROWD WAS DENSE, but he stood out. He was taller than most of the other spectators and looked elegant in his expensive, tailored gray-vested suit. He had a lean, dark face, faintly scarred, with large, almond-shaped black eyes and short eyelashes. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped, his chin stubbornly jutted. His thick, jet-black hair was gathered into a neat ponytail that fell almost to his waist in back. Several other men in the stands wore their hair that way. But they were white. Cortez was Comanche. He had the background to wear the unconventional hairstyle. On him, it looked sensual and wild and even a little dangerous.

      Another ponytailed man, a redhead with a receding hairline and thick glasses, grinned and gave him the victory sign. Cortez shrugged, unimpressed, and turned his attention toward the graduation ceremonies. He was here against his will and the last thing he felt like was being friendly. If he’d followed his instincts, he’d still be in Washington going over a backlog of federal cases he was due to prosecute in court.

      The dean of the university was announcing the names of the graduates. He’d reached the Ks, and on the program, Phoebe Margaret Keller was the second name under that heading.

      It was a beautiful spring day at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, so the commencement ceremony was being held outside. Phoebe was recognizable by the long platinum blond braid trailing the back of her dark gown as she accepted her diploma with one hand and shook hands with the dean with the other. She moved past the podium and switched her tassel to the other side of her cap. Cortez could see the grin from where he was standing.

      He’d met Phoebe a year earlier, while he was investigating some environmental sabotage in Charleston, South Carolina. Phoebe, an anthropology major, had helped him track down a toxic waste site. He’d found her more than attractive, despite her tomboyish appearance, but time and work pressure had been against them. He’d promised to come and see her graduate, and here he was. But the age difference was still pretty formidable, because he was thirty-six and she was twenty-three. He did know Phoebe’s aunt Derrie, from having worked with her during the Kane Lombard pollution case. If he needed a reason for showing up at the graduation, Phoebe was Derrie’s late brother’s child and he was almost a friend of the family.

      The dean’s voice droned on, and graduate after graduate accepted a diploma. In no time at all, the exercises were over and whoops of joy and congratulations rang in the clear Tennessee air.

      No longer drawing attention as the exuberant crowd moved toward the graduates, Cortez hung back, watching. His black eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. Phoebe wasn’t one for crowds. Like himself, she was a loner. If she was going to work her way around the people to find her aunt Derrie, she’d do it away from the crowd. So he started looking for alternate routes from the stadium to the parking lot. Minutes later, he found her, easing around the side of the building, almost losing her balance as she struggled with the too-long gown, muttering to herself about people who couldn’t measure people properly for gowns.

      “Still talking to yourself, I see,” he mused, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

      She looked up and saw him. With no time to prepare, her delight swept over her even features with a radiance that took his breath. Her pale blue eyes sparkled and her mouth, devoid of lipstick, opened on a sharply indrawn breath.

      “Cortez!” she exclaimed.

      She looked as if she’d run straight into his arms with the least invitation, and he smiled indulgently as he gave it to her. He levered away from the wall and opened his arms.

      She went into them without any hesitation whatsoever, nestling close as he enfolded her tightly.

      “You came,” she murmured happily into his shoulder.

      “I said I would,” he reminded her. He chuckled at her unbridled enthusiasm. One lean hand tilted up her chin so that he could search her eyes. “Four years of hard work paid off, I see.”

      “So it did. I’m a graduate,” she said, grinning.

      “Certifiable,” he agreed. His gaze fell to her soft pink mouth and darkened. He wanted to bend those few inches and kiss her, but there were too many reasons why he shouldn’t. His hand was on her upper arm and, because he was fighting his instincts so hard, his grip began to tighten.

      She tugged against his hold. “You’re crushing me,” she protested gently.

      “Sorry.” He let her go with an apologetic smile. “That training at Quantico dies hard,” he added on a light note, alluding to his service with the FBI.

      “No kiss, huh?” she chided with a loud sigh, searching his dark eyes.

      One eye narrowed amusedly. “You’re an anthropology major. Tell me why I won’t kiss you,” he challenged.

      “Native Americans,” she began smugly, “especially Native American men, rarely show their feelings in public. Kissing me in a crowd would be as distasteful to you as undressing in front of it.”

      His eyes softened as they searched her face. “Whoever taught you anthropology did a very good