Scout's Honor Read online

  Scout’s Honor

  Tara Janzen

  First published by Bantam/Loveswept, 1997

  Copyright Glenna McReynolds, 1997

  EBook Copyright Tara Janzen, 2012

  EBook Published by Tara Janzen at Smashwords, 2012

  Cover Design by Hot Damn Designs, 2012

  EBook Design by A Thirsty Mind, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Reader Letter

  Titles

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Excerpt: Avenging Angel

  Excerpt: Stevie Lee

  Dear Reader ,

  Welcome to the Tara Janzen line of Classic Romances! New York Times Bestselling author, Tara Janzen, is the creator of the lightning-fast paced and super sexy CRAZY HOT and CRAZY COOL Steele Street series of romantic suspense novels. But before she fell in love with the hot cars, bad boys, big guns, and wild women of Steele Street, she wrote steamy romances for the Loveswept line under the name Glenna McReynolds. All thirteen of these much-loved classic romances are now available as eBooks.

  Writing as both Glenna McReynolds and Tara Janzen, this national bestselling author has won numerous awards for her work, including a RITA from Romance Writers of America, and nine 4 ½ TOP PICKS from Romantic Times magazine. Two of her books are on the Romantic Times ALL-TIME FAVORITES list – RIVER OF EDEN, and SHAMELESS. LOOSE AND EASY, a Steele Street novel, is one of Amazon’s TOP TEN ROMANCES for 2008.

  She is also the author of an epic medieval fantasy trilogy, THE CHALICE AND THE BLADE, DREAM STONE, and PRINCE OF TIME.

  Titles

  Classic Romances

  Scout’s Honor

  Thieves In The Night

  Stevie Lee

  Dateline: Kydd and Rios

  Blue Dalton

  Outlaw Carson

  Moonlight and Shadows

  A Piece of Heaven

  Shameless

  The Courting Cowboy

  Avenging Angel

  The Dragon and the Dove

  Dragon’s Eden

  Medieval Fantasy Trilogy

  “A stunning epic of romantic fantasy.” Affaire de Coeur, five-star review

  The Chalice and the Blade

  Dream Stone

  Prince of Time

  River of Eden – “One of THE most breathtaking and phenomenal adventure tales to come along in years! Glenna McReynolds has created an instant adventure classic.” Romantic Times – 2002 BEST ROMANTIC SUSPENSE AWARD WINNER

  Steele Street Series – “Hang on to your seat for the ride of your life . . . thrilling . . . sexy. Tara Janzen has outdone herself.” Fresh Fiction

  “Bad boys are hot, and they don’t come any hotter than the Steele Street gang.” Romantic Times

  Crazy Hot

  Crazy Cool

  Crazy Wild

  Crazy Kisses

  Crazy Love

  Crazy Sweet

  On the Loose

  Cutting Loose

  Loose and Easy

  Breaking Loose

  Loose Ends

  SEAL Of My Dreams Anthology

  All proceeds from the sale of SEAL Of My Dreams are pledged to Veterans Research Corporation, a non-profit foundation supporting veterans medical research.

  Panama Jack, by Tara Janzen

  For more information about Tara Janzen, her writing and her books please visit her on her website http://www.tarajanzen.com/; on Facebook http://on.fb.me/mSstpd; and Twitter @tara_janzen http://twitter.com/#!/tara_janzen.

  One

  Anna Lange sat at the bar and let her gaze roam over the lush interior of Runner’s Cay Casino. She checked the room for familiar faces, but found few, because Nassau’s season didn’t start until December and December was two months away. Her chances of getting together a private poker game for the weekend were looking slim.

  “Your drink, Ms. Lange,” the bartender said, delivering a crystal flute of champagne.

  “Thank you,” Anna said with a smile. She pulled a five-dollar chip out of her beaded clutch bag and laid it on the bar for a tip. “What time is it?”

  “Eight-thirty, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” She was right on time. St. John should be here.

  Anna picked up her glass and turned back to the casino, this time ignoring the gamblers and looking for one special face. She didn’t know the stranger’s name, but she had a feeling he knew hers.

  She’d first noticed the man two nights ago in San Francisco. It would have been hard not to notice someone who was watching you with such unconcealed intensity. Especially when that someone stood out like an innocent abroad amidst the international clientele of Mr. Wong’s private gambling club. The stranger had kept his distance, smiling each time he caught her eye but never approaching her. She had assumed he was a shy pursuer of her affections and, surprisingly, had found herself wishing he had more courage.

  When he failed to introduce himself she had dismissed him, until he’d shown up last night on the opposite side of the Runner’s Cay baccarat table, over three thousand miles from where she’d seen him the night before. Within minutes of watching him play she had known he wasn’t a gambler. He seemed more interested in smiling at her than watching his cards. Anna played the odds—that was her life—and she would have taken all bets against his arrival in Nassau being a coincidence.

  Rather than being unnerved by the man following her, she had methodically run down a list of possible reasons of why he would do so. An admirer would have approached her in San Francisco. She didn’t believe her father would have stooped so low as to have her followed by a private detective, although she couldn’t completely discount the idea. That left the most logical conclusion: He was a reporter looking to dig up old gossip.

  Anna sipped her champagne and searched the casino again. A slow smile curved her lips as she spotted her stranger walking toward her. She had wondered how long it would take for him to get his courage up.

  Dusk had stolen over the Bahamian island like a soft rainbow of muted color. It backlighted the lanky masculine figure, but she knew it was the guy who’d been following her. If he was a reporter, he was in for the coldest shoulder he’d ever gotten. All she wanted was his name. St. John would check him out and then she’d get to the bottom of his game.

  “San Francisco get too hot to handle?” she asked as he neared her, acknowledging his approach by taking the advantage of the opening gambit. Her subtle allusion to the illegality of their Chinatown game was another move calculated to put him in his place.

  “It was hot for a while,” he admitted, grinning crookedly, “but there was a noticeable cooling after you left. Do you always clean a place out, Ms. Lange?” His easily placed western drawl confirmed her guess about his nationality—American.

  “Whenever possible, Mr. . . . ?” She caught his gaze and felt a moment’s surprise. She hadn’t known anyone could have eyes that soft, or that richly brown. They weren’t a gambler’s eyes.

  “Summers. Mitch Summers.” He moved in closer and rested his elbow on the bar, then picked up her hand and lifted it to his lips. He softly brushed his mouth across her knuckles and sapphire ring while smili
ng into her eyes.

  The only thing unusual about his action was her response. The fact that she even had one caught her off guard. In the split second it took her to register this new twist, he turned her hand over and kissed her palm. His breath warmed her skin, and the heat seemed to race up her arm, bringing a flush to her cheeks.

  She snatched her hand back, her eyes widening in an unaccustomed loss of composure at his schoolboy ploy. She made no pretense of avoiding his gaze, and actively looked for an escape route away from the suddenly too-cozy corner of the bar. Where was St. John?

  She decided to try the direct approach, hoping he’d step back far enough so that she wouldn’t have to push by him. “Excuse me, Mr. Summers. I have an appointment to keep.” The cool look she lowered at him was completely wasted, though. All his attention was focused on the décolletage of her gown.

  She couldn’t blame him. The dress was designed to distract, its midnight-blue folds of shirred satin molded to her figure like a second skin, the neckline cut to reveal. But most people who traveled in her circle would hardly look twice. Mitch Summers was on his fourth or fifth look by now. She saw the question in his eyes—“What holds it up?”—and she wasn’t about to satisfy his gauche curiosity.

  “Excuse me,” she said with more force, reaching out to push him aside lightly. Her hand encountered a wall of resistance, a rock-hard chest that mere politeness wouldn’t budge. The time for pleasantries had ended.

  “Mr. Summers.” She paused and took a deep breath, inadvertently increasing his fascination with her breasts. “You have a choice. You can either step aside and let me pass . . . or I can break your face.” She spoke very quietly, one winged brow arched above her eye.

  A slow, impish grin spread across his face as he considered her words and let his gaze roam from her cleavage up to her face.

  “That’s a tough one, Miss Lange. Exactly how badly are you going to hurt me?”

  “Badly enough,” she replied. He was teasing her, and she had to fight back a smile at his audacity. Suave and debonair he was not.

  “Could we talk about it over dinner?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  There was no reason to continue the conversation now that she knew his name, but still she was becoming mildly intrigued. He was out of his class, whether he realized it or not. She’d noticed that at the baccarat table. He’d kept to the minimum bet and played like a novice. Baccarat wasn’t a game of judgment or skill, but most people played it with a finesse he had lacked.

  But he was cute.

  Cute? A puzzled frown flashed across her face as she took another look at him. She hadn’t described anyone as cute since she was sixteen. Must be his eyes, she thought. They looked so guileless, so warm and inviting. Definitely not the blank coldness she was used to encountering in the casinos. Or maybe it was his face. He had a face that hid the years, lean and outdoorsy, with a grin that went one way while his nose tried not to go the other. His nose had been broken, and she couldn’t help but wonder how. He didn’t look like a fighter. He also didn’t look like a private detective. He lacked the worn-out, world-weary countenance of a man who had seen too much of the seedy side of life.

  Still, there was something special in his face and the way he held his body, something Anna instinctively recognized: confidence, easy and masculine. She had faced false confidence many times across a poker table, and she knew the real thing when she saw it. This man knew who he was, knew he didn’t belong here, and couldn’t have cared less.

  Another smile flirted with her mouth. Mitch Summers was intriguing, but she had all the information she needed. She geared herself up for another, firmer brush-off, but before the words were out of her mouth she felt a clammy hand slide up the the bare skin of her back. In an instant she checked Mitch—one hand around a highball glass, the other shoved in a pocket—and her head snapped around.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Larry Walters, pit boss of Runner’s Cay, drawled in her ear. “Glad to see you haven’t forgotten us.” Her skin crawled where he touched her, and she flinched, ever so slightly. Larry Walters made a habit of overstepping his bounds, professionally and socially, and Anna found him disgusting. He was so crude. She tried to back away, but between Mitch and the bar she didn’t have anywhere to go.

  “You staying long?” Larry continued. “Maybe we can get together one of these nights . . . one of these hot nights, when—”

  “The lady’s nights are already spoken for.” Mitch’s voice cut through the syrupy come-on. His grin was still in place and he hadn’t moved a muscle, but Anna felt a definite change in him. As a rescue his words weren’t much, but they definitely had the desired effect on Larry Walters. His hand tensed on her back, then he slowly withdrew it.

  “Who’s this guy?” he asked, jerking his head in Mitch’s direction.

  The opportunity to put Larry in his place was too good to pass up. She pretended to look surprised as she turned to him. “This guy?” Her voice rose and one silky brow arched. “You mean Mr. Mitchell Summers? Didn’t St. John inform you of his arrival?” The first signs of doubt crossed Larry’s face, and Anna knew exactly what he was thinking—his job wasn’t so secure that he could afford to offend one of St. John’s special guests. “Mr. Summers owns Summers Oil. The Summers Oil out of—”

  “Denver,” Mitch interrupted, extending his hand and grinning broadly.

  This man catches on fast, Anna thought, throwing Mitch a shrewd glance. Larry shook Mitch’s hand, and Anna had to struggle to keep from laughing out loud at the miraculous transformation in his attitude.

  “We run the best tables in Nassau, Mr. Summers. If you need anything, just ask for Larry Walters.” He kept pumping Mitch’s hand, relief evident in every word. “None of my dealers will give you any trouble, mind you, but if you’re looking for something you don’t see, well, just find me. I can set you up,” he added with a wink.

  Anna barely suppressed an irritated sigh. Pimping on company time wasn’t written into any of the employee contracts that she knew of. “I’m sure Mr. Summers will be adequately entertained, Mr. Walters,” she said coolly.

  “Yeah,” Mitch said as he draped his arm around Anna’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Old St. John is taking real good care of me.”

  She shot him a glare. He not only caught on fast; he moved fast.

  Larry’s eyes widened as he took in the proprietary action. “My, my, my . . . You and St. John must be very good friends. Yes, indeed. You just remember Larry Walters, Mr. Summers. Anything you need, just call me.” He backed off, a sleazy smile curling his full lips.

  The instant Larry’s attention was elsewhere, Anna extricated herself from under Mitch’s arm. It didn’t take any effort. He released her easily and stepped back a bit to give her more room.

  “A friend of yours?” he asked, nodding at the retreating form of Larry Walters.

  “Mr. Walters works here. Sometimes he forgets that,” Anna said, dismissing the pit boss, and took a sip of champagne. “Thank you for helping me remind him.”

  “My pleasure.” A boyish grin replaced the put-on one he had given Larry.

  Despite her efforts to the contrary, Anna found herself responding in kind. What was it about him? she wondered. “Yes, I’m sure it was, but now I really must be going. Good—”

  “Don’t say good-bye.”

  “—night, Mr. Summers,”

  “Just as bad.” He shrugged. “You sure I can’t buy you dinner?”

  She met his eyes directly, forcing herself not to be taken in by their openness or the inappropriate attraction she felt toward him. Larry Walters was a minor irritation compared to the trouble this man might bring. She didn’t know yet what that trouble might be, and she wouldn’t until St. John checked him out.

  Slipping off her chair, she graced him with a cool smile, one designed to put them back on stranger’s ground. “Good night, Mr. Summers, and good luck. Try not to take advantage of Larry Walters’s apparent generosity. He doesn’t o
wn the club.” She set her champagne glass on the bar and cocked her head. “One more word of advice. I’ve seen you play, and I suggest you stick with the slot machines. Unfortunately, they don’t have a keno lounge in this casino.” She knew he’d been around enough to catch the obvious insult in her recommendation, as keno was a game similar to bingo. She also knew that if he liked the front of her dress, the back was going to make his tongue hang out.

  Turning on her heels, she strode gracefully away from the bar. Then some sly thought from deep in her mind made her stop and throw him a smile over her shoulder. Yes. Blatant, unadulterated appreciation was written all over his face. He shook his head in wonderment. A crooked grin lifted one side of his mouth and made her want to reassure him that the laws of gravity still ruled the earth. She shrugged off the feeling and laughed, and tossed her mane of jet-black hair as she made her way to the baccarat table.

  Poker was Anna’s game when she played for herself. She had two reasons for tonight’s game: St. John had asked her, and she enjoyed the change of pace in playing with someone else’s money. St. John would stake her, and she would keep a percentage of the take.

  Thinking of St. John, she glanced around the chandelier-lit room, looking past the glitz and glamour for the man who made it all happen in Runner’s Cay Casino. It only took her a moment to spot the tall, dark-haired man also headed toward the gilded cage of the baccarat table. When St. John walked into a room there was no doubt about who was in charge. He carried the banner of control and responsibility like an invisible crown. Elegance marked his every move, arrogance subdued to calm confidence. In an impeccably tailored white dinner jacket, he was the focal point of every female eye in the private room.

  They noticed each other at the same moment, and St. John held out his hand toward Anna, an inquisitive light shining in his cool gray eyes. He pulled her close and bent his head to whisper in her ear.

  “We need to talk before you take your place. Let’s go into my office.”

  Anna wasn’t surprised by his request. He often had special instructions before he let her loose with several thousand dollars of his money.