pamela burford

"Pamela Burford is one of the best writers of romantic suspense, and her latest thriller, A Hard-hearted Hero, is a brilliant novel."



"I couldn't tear myself away until I'd read the last page. The writing is fast-paced and provocative as this highly talented author once again provides a stunning story."



"Gifted author Pamela Burford delivers a sexy, tension-packed sizzler with a tough, strong hero guaranteed to make our hearts throb!"



"A great romance and a terrific thriller!"

Chapter One

Elizabeth never had time to scream. One moment she was mopping the last toilet stall, looking forward to collapsing on her cot. The next instant strong hands seized her and slammed her back against a wide chest—a wall of hot, breathing steel. A huge gloved hand smothered half her face before she could catch her breath, much less get to her weapon.

She jabbed the mop handle at her unseen assailant, only to have it wrenched from her rubber-gloved hands and plopped into the commode she’d just scrubbed.

She’d known the risks from the moment she joined the Avalon Collective, but she never thought it would happen this soon. Or quite this way.

Now she was going to end up like David.

A strip of duct tape replaced the hand over her mouth. Elizabeth struggled wildly, but the arms pinning her were pure sinew beneath the black sweater sleeves, unyielding as iron bands.

He jerked her arms behind her and tore off her rubber gloves. She felt the shock of cold steel on her wrists, heard the distinctive ratchety sound of handcuffs tightening.

She twisted violently, kicking him with her bare feet, hoping to throw him off balance, make him lose his footing on the wet floor. No good. He was as immovable as granite.

The tiled room spun crazily as he hoisted her over his massive shoulder. Her forehead collided with the small of his back—and a hard lump she had no trouble identifying as a concealed, holstered firearm.

He placed a hand on the back of her thigh to steady her . . . and froze. She groaned under her gag, knowing her last hope had just evaporated. She felt him yank off a leather glove. Warm, callused fingers swept under her long, Indian-print skirt and over her bare legs . . . and between them, despite her efforts to squeeze them together. She felt a chuckle rumble deep in his massive torso as those fingers closed over her holster, strapped to her inner thigh.

“Well, I’ll be damned. . . .” It was a baritone whisper, half amazed, half amused.

He flipped her skirt up. All the way up. She felt cool air on her bottom, hatefully displayed in her little pink bikini panties. He drew her slim semiautomatic out of the thigh holster. In the process his knuckles fleetingly brushed between her legs, creating a charge of electric heat that made her breath snag. She sensed him checking the safety and examining the gun briefly before pocketing it.

The doorknob to the outer hallway jiggled and Elizabeth whipped her head up, her screams muffled by the duct tape, her long brown hair falling around her face, obscuring her view.

Knocks and irate voices sounded at the closed door. “Who locked this door? Beth, are you still in there?”

He’d locked the door! How had it been possible for a man this size to skulk around a mirrored, tiled room invisibly . . . soundlessly . . . while she’d swabbed out the toilets?

Who was this guy? She couldn’t recall anyone this big and muscular at Avalon—he had to be at least six four—but then perhaps Lugh hired outsiders for nasty little jobs like this.

Shouts came from the other side of the door, more frantic now. “Someone get the key! Where’s the key?”

The big guy didn’t seem overly concerned. He must have jammed the lock somehow. She heard the grating sound of more duct tape peeling off a roll. He wound it around her ankles—several layers, good and tight. More around her legs, just above her knees, stealing any last remnant of mobility.

Only then did her skirt come back down. After a proprietary pat to her rump.

Ironically, that mild little pat only magnified her horror. She choked back a sob as she realized for the first time that this man might have more in store for her than simple murder.

Now he was on the move, replacing his glove and heading for the window, which must have been how he got in. Past the heavy-duty locks and a state-of-the-art electronic security system. But then she recalled that this was almost certainly an inside job. He eased through the window and leaped several feet to the ground, never once losing his balance, despite his burden.

The damp chill of the October night swallowed them up as he sprinted across the grounds of the Avalon Collective, a sixties-style commune in upstate New York, heading for the tree line. He was as swift and graceful as a big cat, but Elizabeth still jounced painfully, her breath coming in harsh little grunts.

He charged into the cover of the woods, dodging and ducking unseen obstacles like some feral beast of the night. Thin tree branches snagged her skirt and scratched her lower legs. Draped over him as she was, Elizabeth could clearly feel his deep, controlled breaths, his steady, powerful heartbeat. The guy wasn’t even winded!

At last they squeezed through a fresh gash in the tall chain-link fence--his handiwork, no doubt—and emerged onto a gravel road. The world tilted once more as he righted her and propped her against a vehicle—some big, four-wheel-drive thing. She was shaking so hard she could barely stay upright. Her toes curled into the sharp gravel as she struggled to keep her balance.

It was about one a.m., and the gibbous moon had not yet set. The fact that he hadn’t blindfolded her only reinforced her certainty that she wouldn’t live out the night. Clearly he wasn’t worried about being identified.

For the first time, she faced her captor, a darker shadow among a landscape of shadows. Cool moonlight hinted at a face of strong planes and angles. What her eyes failed to register, her other senses made up for. The waves of body heat radiating from him carried his masculine scent—one part healthy, vigorous male, two parts arrogance.

The shadow form loomed larger . . . closer. She heard him remove his gloves; they sailed past her to land on the roof of the vehicle. Her bound legs wobbled, threatening to spill her into the gravel. His low voice broke the silence.

“You have any more surprises for me, Lizzie?”

Suddenly his hands were on her. Sliding over her hips and under the waistband of her skirt. Around her midriff and up her sides to her armpits. All the places a gun might be concealed, in a hidden pocket or holster. As brisk and impersonal as this search was, there was a shocking intimacy to it that Elizabeth couldn’t ignore. She felt violated. How would she be able to stand . . . whatever else he had in mind?

Finally he yanked her tie-dyed blouse out of her skirt and reached under it. She held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut for the few seconds it took him to ascertain there was no small firearm tucked into her cleavage, no holster attached to her bra—convenient hiding places for an ample-breasted woman like Elizabeth Lancaster.

A sob tore through her chest as she tried to compose herself. Hysteria wouldn’t solve anything, but dammit, she didn’t want to die! Damn David for doing this to her. And damn her for not being able to ignore his final, terrified plea for help.

She opened her eyes and sensed her captor watching her. He was close, but not touching her. Tears streamed down her face as she wept convulsively. His dim, moonlit visage seemed to shift subtly. She almost missed his quiet words.

“Don’t do that.”

Her confusion must have registered. Slowly he lifted a hand to her face. The rough pad of his thumb swiped at her tears as he said, “Don’t cry. You have to breathe through your nose. The tape’s not coming off.” His tone was subdued, matter-of-fact.

The hand left her face and came back with a tissue, which he held to her nose. “Blow.”

The shock of this command was enough to stop her tears cold. That and the need to breathe. “Blow,” he repeated, and she did. He wiped her nose as if she were a toddler and dropped the tissue.

She supposed it wasn’t hard to make the leap from kidnapper, rapist and murderer to full-fledged litterbug.