The Dare Affair: Summer In Savannah Anth. (Dynasties: The Danforths Book 6.5 Read online

  * * *

  Savannah Spectator Blind Item

  There seems to be a lot of action going on in a certain Savannah nightclub.

  Everyone is talking about the hot spot’s sexy new bartender who has the female clientele lining up and vying for his attention. However, these ladies better act quickly. Seems that the sought-after bachelor has been seen “rendezvousing” with the nightclub’s lovely blond manager.

  Was anyone but the Savannah Spectator wondering why a certain redheaded cocktail waitress at the aforementioned nightspot dumped a tray of drinks in a handsome navy SEAL’s lap? Well, it turns out the hunky guy is her former fiancé. Although the beauty claims she is immune to the navy SEAL’S charms, sources say that the sizzle between these two is steaming up the nightclub. However, the navy SEAL has some serious romancing to do if he’s going to get this feisty woman down the aisle.

  Another enticing tidbit: Which Savannah socialite, whose engagement was recently called off, has been spied in very close company with a certain dashing club owner? Those in the know reveal that these opposites have nothing in common—except a passionate attraction that neither is strong enough to deny.

  The Savannah Spectator plans to keep close tabs on these three couples and keep you updated with further romantic details….

  * * *

  BARBARA MCCAULEY

  who has written more than twenty novels for Silhouette Books, lives in Southern California with her own handsome hero husband, Frank, who makes it easy to believe in and write about the magic of romance. Barbara’s stories have won—and been nominated for—numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America, Best Desire of the Year from Romantic Times and Best Short Contemporary from the National Reader’s Choice Awards.

  MAUREEN CHILD

  is a California native who loves to travel. Every chance they get, she and her husband are taking off on another research trip. The author of more than sixty books, Maureen loves a happy ending and still swears that she has the best job in the world. She lives in Southern California with her husband, two children and a golden retriever with delusions of grandeur.

  Visit her Web site at www.maureenchild.com.

  SHERI WHITEFEATHER

  lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, attending powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. When she isn’t writing, she often reads until the wee hours of the morning.

  Sheri’s husband, a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation, inspires many of her stories. They have a son, a daughter and a trio of cats—domestic and wild. She loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 17146, Anaheim, California 92817. Visit her Web site at www.SheriWhiteFeather.com.

  Dynasties: Summer in Savannah

  Barbara McCauley

  Maureen Child

  Sheri WhiteFeather

  CONTENTS

  UNDER THE COVER OF NIGHT

  Barbara McCauley

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  WITH A TWIST

  Maureen Child

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  THE DARE AFFAIR

  Sheri WhiteFeather

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  UNDER THE COVER OF NIGHT

  Barbara McCauley

  To Kathy Bennett—romance writer and policewoman. You are the ultimate heroine! Thanks for sharing your expertise with me.

  Chapter 1

  He felt naked without a gun.

  Normally, Nick could hide a piece somewhere, the small of his back or the boot holster he often wore when he was undercover. But security at Steam had been tight as a tick and he hadn’t dared draw any attention to himself. An informant had tipped the DEA that one of the bartenders who worked at the newest, trendiest nightclub and restaurant in Savannah was smuggling drugs. The information, though sketchy, had been reliable enough for the department to set up an operation.

  Nick, lucky dog that he was, had drawn the duty.

  Because it was a Saturday night, the club was at maximum capacity. Though Steam wasn’t the kind of place Nick would have ever stepped foot into usually, he supposed he could understand the draw. The live blues bands were top-notch, the food five-star and the ambience in the club oozed sex. Deep verandas, black iron lacework, red velvet draperies, dark mahogany floors. Beautiful people.

  Lots of beautiful people.

  Glancing around the room while he filled an order for one of the cocktail waitresses, Nick took in the tempting, not to mention abundant, display of female skin surrounding him. The women who frequented the club were too chi-chi for his taste, but he’d have to be dead not to appreciate their assets. He had a glove box full of phone numbers slipped to him over the past two weeks, and while he wouldn’t mind a night of uncomplicated sex, he wasn’t interested in being some spoiled princess’s pet.

  While the band in the adjacent room slipped into a ballad as soulful as it was sultry, Nick slid a finger under the collar of the dark-red bartender’s shirt he wore and stretched his neck. All night he’d had a feeling. Nothing he could put a name to. Just a feeling. But so far the evening had been as routine, as boring, as it had been for the past two weeks.

  “Raferty,” the head bartender, Grady, called to Nick from the cash register, “you close with Joyce tonight. Marcos, you’re off in ten.”

  “Sure thing.” Nick smiled amiably and Marcos, who’d already started cleaning his station, waved a hand of acknowledgment.

  The bartenders at Steam were an odd mix. Grady, a burly Boston Irishman who ran the bar with the stern arm of a militia man. Bronx, aptly named since his transplant from a popular New York club. Marcos, a Savannah native and son of an affluent plastic surgeon. Grady was the only one of the group who’d ever been arrested, once for assault and once for destruction of private property, but both charges had been dropped.

  On the surface, none of the men fit the profile of a drug smuggler, but Nick knew better than to trust what was on the surface. If in fact one of these men were in the drug business, sooner or later they’d give themselves away. Nick just hoped it would be sooner.

  Knowing that Grady would be busy with Bronx while they balanced the night’s till, Nick considered ducking out for a few minutes to search the head bartender’s private office. He’d tried once before, but the club’s manager, Sophia Alexander, had nearly caught him. Though the blonde rarely spoke to him, Nick had felt the icy chill of her green gaze more than once. He knew that she was watching him, that she was suspicious. One wrong move on his part and she could blow his cover and the operation. She frustrated the hell out of him.

  In more ways than one.

  Nick had seen beautiful women before, but Sophia had the kind of looks that turned men into drooling fools. Skin as smooth as cream, exotic, jade-green eyes fringed with dark lashes, golden blond hair that
always looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed. She had a body that matched her face, with legs that never seemed to end. He’d allowed himself a fantasy or two. He was human, after all.

  But Nick was no fool, and he never drooled over any woman.

  Because it was his job to know everything going on around him, Nick had listened to the rumors about Sophia. Heard that she was hands-off to employees and customers alike. The owner’s personal property, one cocktail waitress had said with a wink. He’d heard another waitress say that the blonde was just an ornament for Clay Crawford, that she was shallow and conceited and self-centered. Though Nick had never seen any evidence that the gossip was true, it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. Whatever Sophia Alexander was, and whoever, had no impact on Nick’s world at all. He simply wanted her out of his way.

  “Hey, pal, how ’bout a Bud?”

  Nick looked up at the familiar voice. His partner, Kurt Matthews, who’d been assigned to mingle with the club regulars and the staff, grinned at him from the other side of the bar.

  “Lite?” Nick asked casually.

  “Regular.”

  Nick nodded. Kurt’s response was the code they’d set up between them. Regular meant nothing was going down, but lite meant something was suspicious.

  While Nick filled a mug, Kurt turned to flirt with a pretty redhead standing behind him. The ladies were drawn to Kurt’s Tom Cruise smile and clever pickup lines, Nick had learned in the two weeks they’d been working together, and though it was against policy, Nick knew that Kurt had gone home with more than one of the women from the club, including a couple of the waitresses.

  Not that Nick gave a damn about policy or who Kurt went home with. He just wanted this job over. He worked better alone. Blending in with the homeless near the riverfront was more his style or stakeouts at cash motels that rented rooms by the hour. Fancy nightclubs and wealthy jet-setters simply weren’t his glass of whiskey.

  At the sound of roaring applause following the band’s final song, Nick grabbed a towel and wiped down the now-closed bar. The club was starting to empty, yet still, Nick couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that something wasn’t right. He scanned the stream of people leaving the bar area, noticed that Kurt and the redhead were already gone.

  Apparently, Kurt had managed to score again, Nick thought with a sigh. But tonight the only score Nick really cared about was the Braves game that he’d missed. He had ten bucks on the Atlanta team and hadn’t heard the outcome yet.

  He was dreaming about watching that game, a cold beer in one hand, a sandwich in the other, when he caught a flash of red shirt disappearing behind a set of velvet drapes in the far corner of the bar. The exit sign was clearly lit over the drapes, but it was an emergency exit that led to an alley used only for deliveries.

  There were no deliveries at two in the morning.

  Nick quickly glanced around. Grady and Bronx were at the cash register going over receipts, but Marcos was nowhere to be seen. It was probably nothing, Nick thought, but what the hell, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out.

  Tossing his rag under the bar, Nick made his way through the lingering crowd, then quietly slipped out the back exit into the darkness.

  The record-breaking heat of the day had stretched into the night. Water dripped from an overhead air conditioner, and the stench of ripe garbage filled the air. At the sound of muffled voices, Nick ducked behind a trio of metal trash cans. Two men stood no more than fifteen feet away; their figures outlined by moonlight. Nick recognized Marcos, but the second man had his back turned to him.

  Nick froze at a sudden movement in the shadows two feet away, but he realized it was an alley cat that had been sniffing around the trash. Slowly Nick released his breath, then turned his attention back to the two men.

  Dammit, he wished he had a gun.

  “I tell you I can’t do this anymore,” Nick heard Marcos say. “I want out.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you want,” the second man snarled. “Everything’s set to go. One more drop and you can disappear with your share.”

  “I can’t take the pressure,” Marcos whined. “Two million dollars won’t do me any good if I’m in jail. He was looking at me today like he knows something.”

  Turn around, Nick silently begged the second man. Let me see your face.

  As if the man heard Nick’s thoughts, he did turn.

  Nick’s eyes widened, then narrowed in anger. His hand clenched into a fist.

  Kurt.

  Sonofabitch.

  Sophia Alexander didn’t care that outside her office walls the city of Savannah was sweltering in the worst June heat wave they’d seen in twenty years. She didn’t even care that the humidity nearly equaled the soaring temperatures, though her thick mass of hair would certainly complain quite loudly the minute she stepped outside into the muggy night air. But on the happiest night of her life, what did a few unruly curls matter? Tonight was a night for champagne. A night for toasts and celebration.

  A night for making love.

  She ran her fingertips over the ruffled front of her black silk blouse and sighed. She’d been too busy for the past six months to even date, let alone have a boyfriend. Men required more attention than she’d had time for lately, and while she hadn’t especially missed being in a relationship—even if she was twenty-eight and practically a spinster, so her mother thought—there were times like now that Sophia wished she had that special person she could share a moment like this with. Times when she craved the strong arms of a man and the comfort of knowing that someone was waiting at home for her.

  But she had her parents and her sisters, and though they all drove her crazy at times, Sophia loved them desperately. Tomorrow night everyone—her mother and father, her sisters and their new husbands—would all be gathered for the mandatory Sunday dinner at the Alexander house. It was killing her, but she’d wait until then to break her good news to the people who mattered most in the world to her.

  She couldn’t wait.

  Forcing her attention back to the computer screen in front of her, Sophia entered the last figure for the accounts receivables she’d been working on. Even without the champagne, she felt light-headed and giddy and couldn’t stop smiling.

  “For God’s sake, Sophia, it’s almost two in the morning. Didn’t I tell you to go home an hour ago?”

  Clay Crawford closed the office door behind him, but not before the soulful sound of the music playing in the nightclub below drifted up the stairs. The band Sophia had hired for the month had been extremely popular with the clientele at Steam and reservations were booked solid for the next month.

  Sophia leaned back in her chair, refusing to let the scowl on Clay’s handsome face darken her mood. She thought about telling him her good news, then decided against it. He’d been a great friend and mentor these past few months, but it was important to her that her family be the first ones to know.

  “Two in the morning is just getting started around here, Clay,” she said, stretching her arms. “Since you own the place, you ought to know that.”

  “And since I own the place—” Clay took hold of Sophia’s shoulders, lifted her out of her chair, then handed her the pair of black high heels from under her desk “—I’m telling you to go home. You’ve worked until three every night for the past four weeks straight, and I happen to know you’re working extra hours at your parents’ bakery, as well.”

  “We have a lot of weddings and parties this month.” Sophia slipped her heels on, then smoothed her skirt into place. “Don’t tell me my mother called you.”

  “She’s worried about you.”

  Sophia sighed. “She’s worried that her oldest daughter is never going to get married. You know she’s got her eye on you to fill the position.”

  “Me?” Clay lifted a brow. “Why me?”

  “You’re handsome, charming and rich.” Sophia cocked her head and smiled. “Maybe I should marry you.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should.”
He grinned back at her. “You busy Tuesday at three?”

  “I’ll check my schedule and get back to you,” she said, but they both knew they were just kidding around. Despite all the rumors constantly circulating among the employees and clientele that she and Clay were an item, the “spark” had simply never been there between them. They were both single and liked it that way.

  “You do that.” Clay turned her around and pushed her toward the door. “Now, get the hell out of here. And I better not see you tomorrow or the day after that, either. You got that?”

  “I have to go over the bar order with Grady for the private party on Wednesday,” she argued.

  “I can handle it.” He grabbed her purse and shoved it at her. “Believe it or not, I really can run this place without you.”

  Sophia yanked the strap of her purse over her shoulder and sniffed. “You’ll be calling me by four tomorrow and begging me to come down here.”

  Clay opened the door. “I never beg.”