Tears of the Renegade. Linda Howard

      Dear Reader,

      I’m honored that Tears of the Renegade has been chosen to be a part of the Famous Firsts Collection, which celebrates Harlequin’s 60th Anniversary. Writing back then was vastly different from writing now, because this book was pre-computer, at least for me. Back then, an electric typewriter seemed like heaven, and now we look at using one as archaic. I did have a real desk; for the few books I wrote before this one, I balanced the typewriter on top of a two-drawer filing cabinet. I wrote in the unfinished room over the garage, which true to stereotype, was cold in the winter and hot in the summer, but at least it wasn’t an attic.

      Tears of the Renegade was inspired by a vision I had, that of a broad-shouldered man in a great tux, sauntering through the open veranda doors into a formal party, and everyone who saw him falling silent. I saw their heads turning, the cool, dangerous expression in his eyes, and Cord Blackwell took center stage in my imagination. The entire book flowed from that one vision, that one scene, but often that’s how a book forms for me. I’ll write an entire book to get to one scene, one expression, one line of dialogue that was, to me, the heart of the idea.

      He was a renegade and a rascal, someone who delighted in scandal and who thumbed his nose at the people who looked down on him, so of course the perfect woman for him was a perfect lady, and thus Susan came into being. It was a delicious situation then, and all these years later the memory of that opening scene still brings a smile to my face.

      I hope you enjoy the book, because I dearly enjoyed writing it.

      Sincerely,

      Praise for New York Times

      bestselling author

      Linda Howard

      “Howard’s writing is compelling.”

      —Publishers Weekly

      “Ms. Howard can wring so much emotion and tension out of her characters that no matter how satisfied you are when you finish a book, you still want more.”

      —Rendezvous on Mackenzie’s Pleasure

      “Linda Howard is an extraordinary talent whose unforgettable novels are richly flavored with scintillating sensuality and high-voltage suspense.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

      “You can’t read just one Linda Howard!”

      —New York Times bestselling author Catherine Coulter

      “Linda Howard knows what readers want, and dares to be different.”

      —Affaire de Coeur

      “Already a legend in her own time, Linda Howard exemplifies the very best of the romance genre. Her strong characterizations and powerful insight into the human heart have made her an author cherished by readers everywhere.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

      “Linda Howard writes with power, stunning sensuality and a storytelling ability unmatched in the romance genre. Every book is a treasure for the reader to savor again and again.”

      —#1 New York Times bestselling author Iris Johansen

      “[A]…master storyteller.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

      NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

      Linda Howard

      Tears of the Renegade

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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      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

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      It was late, already after eleven o’clock, when the broad-shouldered man appeared in the open French doors. He stood there, perfectly at ease, watching the party with a sort of secret amusement. Susan noticed him immediately, though she seemed to be the only one who did so, and she studied him with faint surprise because she’d never seen him before. She would have remembered if she had; he wasn’t the sort of man that anyone forgot.

      He was tall and muscular, his white dinner jacket hugging his powerful shoulders with just enough precision to proclaim exquisite tailoring, yet what set him apart wasn’t the almost dissolute sophistication that sat so easily on him; it was his face. He had the bold look of a desperado, an impression heightened by the level dark brows that shadowed eyes of a pale, crystalline blue. Lodestone eyes, she thought, feeling their effect even though he wasn’t looking at her. A funny little quiver danced down her spine, and her senses were suddenly heightened—the music was more vibrant, the colors more intense, the heady perfume of the early spring night stronger. Every instinct within her was abruptly awakened as she stared at the stranger with a sort of primitive recognition. Women have always known which men are dangerous, and this man radiated danger.

      It was there in his eyes, the self-assurance of a man who was willing to take risks, and willing to accept the consequences. An almost weary experience had hardened his features, and Susan knew, looking at him, that he would be a man no one would lightly cross. Danger rode those broad shoulders like a visible mantle. He wasn’t quite…civilized. He looked like a modern-day pirate, from those bold eyes to the short, neatly trimmed dark beard and moustache that hid the lines of his jaw and upper lip; but she knew that they would be strong lines. Her eyes traveled to his hair, dark and thick and vibrant, styled in a casual perfection that most men would have paid a fortune to obtain, just long enough to brush his collar in the back with a hint of curl.

      At first no one seemed to notice him, which was surprising, because to Susan he stood out like a tiger in a roomful of tabbies. Then, gradually, people began to look at him, and to her further astonishment a stunned, almost hostile silence began to fall, spreading quickly over the room, a contagious pall that leaped from one person to another. Suddenly uneasy, she looked at her brother-in-law, Preston, who was the host and almost within touching distance of the newly arrived guest. Why didn’t he welcome the man? But instead Preston had gone stiff, his face pale, staring at the stranger with the same sort of frozen horror one would eye a cobra coiled at one’s feet.

      The tidal