Loving Evangeline Read online

  Selected praise for

  LINDA HOWARD

  “Intimate Moments dishes up one of the best Christmas gifts ever in the form of Linda Howard’s latest…. Not only does Ms. Howard spark the sensual ambience to explosive intensity, this master storyteller takes our breath away with a stunning depth and texture of characterization no reader will ever forget.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Loving Evangeline

  “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

  Loving Evangeline

  LINDA HOWARD

  says that whether she’s reading them or writing them, books have long played a profound role in her life. She cut her teeth on Margaret Mitchell, and from then on continued to read widely and eagerly. Her interest has settled on romantic fiction, because she’s “easily bored by murder, mayhem and politics.” After twenty-one years of penning stories for her own enjoyment, Ms. Howard finally worked up the courage to submit a novel for publication—and met with success. This Alabama native is now a multi-New York Times bestselling author.

  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 Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Davis Priesen didn’t think of himself as a coward, but he would rather have had surgery without anesthesia than face Robert Cannon and tell him what he had to tell him. It wasn’t that the majority stockholder, CEO and president of Cannon Group would hold him responsible for the bad news; Cannon had never been known to shoot the messenger. But those icy green eyes would become even colder, even more remote, and Davis knew from experience that he would feel the frigid touch of fear along his spine. Cannon had a reputation for scrupulous fairness, but also for unmatched ruthlessness when someone tried to screw him. Davis couldn’t think of anyone he respected more than Robert Cannon, but that didn’t relieve his dread.

  Other men in Cannon’s position, with his power, insulated themselves behind layers of assistants. It was a measure of his own control and personal remoteness that only Cannon’s personal assistant guarded the gates to his inner sanctum. Felice Koury had been Cannon’s PA for eight years and ran his office with the precision of a Swiss watch. She was a tall, lean, ageless woman with iron-gray hair and the smooth complexion of a twenty-year-old. Davis knew that her youngest child was in his mid-twenties, putting Felice at least in her mid-forties, but it was impossible to guess her age from her appearance. She was cool under fire, frighteningly efficient and had never shown a hint of nervousness around her boss. Davis wished he had a little of that last ability.

  He had called beforehand to make certain Cannon could see him, so Felice wasn’t surprised when he entered her office. “Good morning, Mr. Priesen.” She reached immediately for the phone and punched a button. “Mr. Priesen is here, sir.” She replaced the receiver and stood. “He’ll see you now.” With the smooth efficiency that always intimidated him, she was at the door of the inner office before he could reach it, opening it for him, then firmly closing it when he was inside. There was nothing subservient in Felice’s attention; rather, he felt as if she controlled even his entrance into Cannon’s office. Which, of course, she did.

  Cannon’s office was huge, luxurious and exquisitely decorated. It was a tribute to his taste that the effect was relaxing, rather than overwhelming, even though original oil paintings hung on the walls and a two-hundred-year-old Persian rug was underfoot. To the right was a large sitting area, complete with entertainment center, though Davis doubted that Cannon ever used the large-screen television or VCR for anything other than business. Six Palladian windows marched along the wall, framing the matchless views of New York City as if they were six paintings. The windows were works of art in themselves, beautifully fashioned panes of cut glass that took the light streaming through them and splintered it into diamonds.

  Cannon’s massive desk was another antique, a masterpiece of carved black wood that supposedly had belonged to the eighteenth-century Romanovs. He looked very at home behind it.

  He was a tall, lean man, with the elegant grace and power of a panther. There was something pantherish about his coloring, too, with his sleek black hair and pale green eyes. One might even think of Robert Cannon as indolent. One would be dangerously mistaken.

  He rose to his feet to shake hands, his long, well-shaped fingers gripping Davis’s with surprising strength. Davis was always taken aback by the steeliness of that grip.

  On some occasions Cannon had invited him to the sitting area and asked if he would like coffee. This was not one of those occasions. Cannon hadn’t reached his position by misreading people, and his eyes narrowed as he examined the tension in Davis’s face. “I would say it’s good to see you, Davis,” he remarked, “but I don’t think you’re here to tell me something I’m going to like.”

  His voice had been easy, almost casual, but Davis felt his tension go up another ten notches. “No, sir.”

  “Is it your fault?”

  “No, sir.” Then, scrupulously honest, he admitted, “Though I probably should have caught it sooner.”

  “Then relax and sit down,” Robert said gently as he reseated himself. “If it isn’t your fault, you’re safe. Now, tell me what the problem is.”

  Davis nervously took a seat, but relaxing was out of the question. He perched on the edge of a soft leather chair. “Someone in Huntsville is selling our software for the space station,” he blurted.

  Cannon was never a restless man, but now he became even more still, and those green eyes took on the glacial look that Davis dreaded. “Do you have proof?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Fill me in.” With those abrupt words, Cannon leaned back, his gaze focused on Davis like a pale green laser.

  Davis did, stumbling several times as he tried to explain how he had become suspicious and done a bit of investigating on his own to verify his suspicions before he accused anyone. Cannon listened in silence, and Davis wiped the sweat from his brow as he described the results of his sleuthing. The Cannon Group company, PowerNet, located in Huntsville, Alabama, was currently working on highly classified software developed for NASA. That software was definitely showing up in the hands of a company affiliated with another country. This wasn’t just industrial espionage, which would have been enough; this was treason.

  His suspicions had centered on Landon Mercer, the company manager. Mercer had divorced the year before, and his style of living had gone noticeably upward. His salary was very good, but not good enough to support a family and live the way he had been living. Davis had discreetly hired an investigation service that had discovered large deposits into Mercer’s bank account. After following him for several weeks, they had reported that he regularly visited a marina in Guntersville, a small town nearby, situated on Guntersville Lake, an impoundment of the Tennessee river.

  The owner/operator