Cavanaugh Pride. Marie Ferrarella

      Cavanaugh Pride

      Marie Ferrarella

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       About the Author

      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

       Copyright

      Marie Ferrarella has written more than one hundred and fifty books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website at www.marieferrarella.com.

      To Jacinta, who lights up Nik’s life and made him smile again.

       Chapter 1

      Detective Julianne White Bear didn’t want to be here. And she was sure the four detectives looking her way in the homicide squad room didn’t want her here. They weren’t openly hostile, but she knew resistance when she saw it.

      She couldn’t blame them. She knew all about being territorial and, if the tables were turned, she would have felt exactly the same way.

      But Captain Randolph had sent her here and she wasn’t about to argue with the man. Years before she joined the force, she had learned to pick her battles judiciously. When she did decide to dig in and fight, the very act carried an impact.

      Besides, who knew? Maybe it was fate that brought her here. Maybe this was the place where she would finally find Mary. This was where her leads had brought her.

      For a moment, Julianne silently scanned the small, crammed room, assessing its inhabitants. The lone woman looked to be about her age, maybe a couple of years older. She’d been talking to two men, both of whom had a number of years on her. The man off to the other side was younger.

      He was also studying her.

      She wondered which one of the detectives was in charge of the newly assembled task force and how long it would be before she butted heads with him—or her.

      “Can I help you?” Detective Francis McIntyre, Frank to anyone who wanted to live to see another sunrise, asked the slender, dark-haired woman standing just inside the doorway.

      His first thought was that a relative of one of the dead girls had finally shown up, but something about her had him dismissing the thought in the next moment. He couldn’t deny that he’d be relieved if she wasn’t. Though he’d been working homicide for a while now, breaking the dreaded news to people that their child, spouse, loved one was forever lost was something Frank knew he would never get used to.

      Mentally taking a breath, Julianne crossed to the good-looking detective. A pretty boy, she thought. Probably used to making women weak in the knees. She didn’t get weak in the knees. Ever. She knew better.

      “Actually, I’m here to help you.” Saying that, Julianne held out the folder she’d brought with her from Mission Ridge’s small, single-story precinct. She was acutely aware she was being weighed and measured by the tall, muscular dark-haired man with the intensely blue eyes. A glance toward the bulletin board indicated the others were following suit.

      “You have some information about the killer?” Frank asked, looking at her curiously as he took the folder from her.

      Was the woman a witness who’d finally decided to come forward? God knew they needed a break. Something didn’t quite gel for him. Most people who came forward, whether over the phone or in person, usually sounded a little uncomfortable and always agitated. This witness—if she was a witness—seemed very cool, very calm. And she’d obviously organized her thoughts enough to place them into a folder.

      “No, those are my temporary transfer papers—plus all the information we have about our homicide.”

      “‘Our’?” Frank repeated, flipping open the manila folder. He merely skimmed the pages without really reading anything. Three were official-looking papers from the human resources department from Mission Ridge, the rest had to do with a dead woman, complete with photographs. As if they didn’t have enough of their own.

      “I’m from Mission Ridge,” she told him, pointing to the heading on the page he’d opened to. “Detective White Bear, Julianne.”

      He frowned.

      “I don’t know if we have any openings in the department,” he began. “And besides, I’m not the person to see about that—”

      Julianne’s belief in the economy of words extended to the people who took up her time, talking. She cut him off. “It’s already been arranged. My captain talked to your chief of detectives,” she told him. “A Brian—”

      “Cavanaugh, yes, I’m familiar with the name.”

      Frank was more than familiar with the name and the man, seeing as how Brian Cavanaugh had been part of his life for a very long time, starting out as his mother’s squad car partner. Just recently the man had married Frank’s mother and made no secret of the fact that he was absorbing Frank, his brother, Zack, and two sisters, Taylor and Riley, detectives all, into what was by now the legendary Cavanaugh clan.

      He would have expected a heads-up from Brian about this turn of events, not because he was his stepfather, but because Brian was his boss.

      “And just why are you being transferred here?” he asked.

      “Temporarily transferred.” Julianne emphasized the keyword, then pointed to the folder. “It’s all in there.”

      Frank deliberately closed the folder and fixed this unusually reticent woman with a thoughtful look. “Give me the audio version.”

      She smiled ever so slightly. “Don’t like to read?” she guessed.

      “Don’t like curves being thrown at me.” And this one, he couldn’t help notice despite the fact that she was wearing a pantsuit, had some wicked curves as well as the straightest, blackest hair he’d ever seen and probably the most exotic face he’d come across in a long time. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” he suggested.

      “I’m here because my captain and your chief of detectives seem to think that the body we found in Mission Ridge the other night is the work of your serial killer.”

      Frank didn’t particularly like the woman’s inference that the killer was Aurora’s exclusive property. That placed the responsibility for