The Fiancée Caper

by Maureen Child

  “I know what you’re up to,” she said as they neared the target, “even if Angelica can’t or won’t face the truth. After you’ve used her to gain majority control over Lassiter Media interests, you’ll aim the next arrow at her back. You’ll sell off Lassiter assets like you have with every other company you’ve acquired.”

  “Got it. I wear the black hat.”

  “Simple, isn’t it?”

  “If only.”

  Lord above, how she wanted to shake this man. “Seriously, how much money does one person need? Is this worth betraying your friend’s memory? J.D.’s family?”

  “This is not about money.”

  “With you, it’s always about money.”

  His jaw flexed as he stopped in front of the target and freed the arrow.

  “I understand your desire to help, but Angelica and I have this covered. And make no mistake.” His uncompromising gaze pierced hers. “We intend to win.”

  Becca’s focus shifted from the steely message in his eyes to the arrow’s bright red feathers, the shaft’s long straight line and finally the weapon’s potentially lethal head. Then she thought of this man’s lack of empathy—his obsession with self-enrichment. How could this superb body harbor such a depraved soul? How could Jack Reed live with himself?

  Becca took the arrow from his hand, broke the shaft over a knee and, shaking inside, strode away.

  * * *

  Jack watched Becca Stevens’s spectacular behind as she marched off in a fiery temper and had to smile.

  When Becca had contacted his office hoping to meet, instinct had said to shake her off. If ever Jack set his sights on a target, he committed to that goal two hundred percent. No one and nothing would sway him. In certain circles, the term pathological was used to describe his drive.

  No offense taken.

  The same circles might suggest that his reasons for meeting Becca today had been selfish. That it was probable to very likely he would take advantage of his position in this Lassiter standoff for personal gain. And where Becca was concerned, Jack did mean personal.

  As she disappeared over the rise, he smiled again.

  What a woman.

  His cell phone rang. Jack checked out the caller I.D. and, toeing Ms. Stevens’s broken arrow aside, connected. “Logan. What’ve you got?”

  “Just making sure we’re still on track.”

  Coming from humble beginnings, Logan Whittaker had worked hard to build a successful career. As a partner at Drake, Alcott and Whittaker Attorneys based in downtown Cheyenne, Wyoming, Logan had looked after J. D. Lassiter’s affairs, including the execution of J.D.’s last will and testament. The document had cast some challenges Logan’s way. Some unanticipated rewards, as well. Through work associated with settling the will’s terms, he had found his future wife.

  “I’ve spoken with Angelica Lassiter again this morning,” Jack said. “She’s still going forward.”

  “You’re sure about that? I’ve told Angelica more than once the will is airtight. J.D. was in his right mind when he drafted the terms. With majority voting interest, Evan McCain will remain chairman and CEO of Lassiter Media no matter how many punches she wants to throw. I thought she was finally coming around, listening to reason.”

  Jack headed back toward the shooting line. “Sure, she has reservations. Her father was a huge influence on her life. Even with him gone, it goes against the grain to disappoint him and battle that will. But her heart and soul are in that company, Logan. She has J.D.’s stubborn streak as well as his keen bent for business.”

  “How hard will you push her?”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo.” When the attorney audibly exhaled, Jack wasn’t fazed. “You’re acting under strict instruction here.”

  “I’m aware of my obligations, damn it. This still leaves a god-awful taste in my mouth.”

  That all came with the territory...with being obligated, no matter what.

  “No one said you had to like it,” Jack said.

  Logan huffed. “You’re one hard-nosed son of a bitch, you know that?”

  “That from a corporate lawyer.” Funny.

  As Jack reached back to draw an arrow from his quiver, Logan asked, “How did your meeting with Becca Stevens play out?”

  Logan was aware of Becca’s phone call and today’s arrangements.

  “She might run Lassiter Charity Foundation,” Jack said, “but Becca is no Mother Teresa. She put on her boxing gloves and told me to back the hell away.”

  “Did you toss her off your property?”

  Remembering the fire blazing in those beautiful green eyes, Jack held the phone between his ear and shoulder as he slotted the arrow’s notch against his bow’s string. “I would’ve asked her to stay for lunch if I thought she wouldn’t try to run a butter knife through my heart.”

  “Will she be a problem?”

  “Lord, I hope so.”

  Logan groaned. “For God’s sakes, Jack. Tell me you plan to keep your pants on here.”

  “After the way you mixed Lassiter business up with pleasure, you’re in no position to lecture.”

  When J.D. had bequeathed five million big ones to a mystery woman who didn’t want to be found, Logan had not only tracked her down, damned if he hadn’t taken her to bed, and more than once. Talk about calling the kettle black.

  “I won’t deny certain lines got blurred,” Logan admitted. “But I fell in love with Hannah Armstrong and married her. I’ll hand my resignation in to the bar the day anything approaching marriage enters your head.”

  Jack laughed. What an idea.

  After the men disconnected, Jack resumed his stand behind the shooting line. He drew back the arrow and, enjoying the tension of the bowstring as he took aim, thought of Becca Stevens—the undisguised malice in her eyes, the sweeping conviction of her words. Then he imagined how darn good she would feel folded in his arms...how sweet her smooth, scented skin would taste beneath his lips. In his mind, Jack heard her whimper his name and then cry out as he sank into her again and again.

  Jack released his shot and then shaded his brow to measure the result. When was the last time he’d missed a target’s center gold ring? This arrow had sailed clean over the top.

  * * *

  Felicity Sinclair’s blue eyes sparkled as she shifted her chair closer to the café table and lowered her voice. “Becca, I have something I need to ask.”

  “About Lassiter Media?”

  As Lassiter Media’s recently promoted vice president of public relations, Fee was always brimming with ideas. Since Becca’s appointment with the Lassiter Charity Foundation two years ago, the women had worked closely. More than that—they’d become good friends, the kind who shared everything, during good times as well as bad.

  Winding golden-blond hair behind a dainty ear, Fee explained, “My question has to do with Chance Lassiter.”

  “That would be your fiancé Chance Lassiter,” Becca teased.

  As Fee reached over to grip her friend’s hand, the magnificent diamond on her third finger threw back light slanting in through the window.

  “You were there when I needed to vent about that mess last month,” she said. “I have to say, it feels a little strange calling Cheyenne home. I love L.A....”

  “Well, you’re here now. You’ll simply have to visit often.” Becca squeezed her hand. “Promise?”

  “And you promise to drop in on us at the Big Blue.”

  “I’ll bring my Stetson.”

  Chance Lassiter was J.D.’s nephew, the son of the billionaire’s deceased younger brother, Charles. Chance had managed his uncle’s world-famous cattle ranch—the Big Blue—and while he’d been rocked by J.D.’s unexpected death, he’d gladly accepted, via his uncle’s will, controlling interest in the ranch he loved more
than anything...although now, of course, his vivacious wife-to-be had taken pride of place in the charming cowboy’s heart.

  Fee sat back. “I can hardly wait for the wedding. Which brings me back to that question. Becca, would you be a bridesmaid?”

  Emotion prickled behind Becca’s eyes. Fee would make a stunning bride and, given her talent for organizing grand occasions, the ceremony was bound to be nothing short of amazing. Becca was even a little envious.

  Marriage and starting a family were nowhere near a priority, but one day Becca hoped to find Mr. Right—a kindred spirit who got off on giving back and paying forward. This minute, however, all her energies were centered on helping the foundation survive the storm J.D.’s unexpected death and will had left behind.

  Of course, there was always room for the wonderful women in her life and their very special requests.

  Becca hugged her friend. “Fee, I would be honored to be a bridesmaid at your wedding.”

  The women discussed styles for dresses as well as flowers for bouquets before the conversation turned to a far less pleasant topic.

  As coffees arrived, Fee asked, “Have you spoken with Jack Reed yet?”

  Suddenly feeling queasy, Becca nodded. Fee knew that she had hoped to get in Jack’s ear.

  “The backyard of his Beverly Hills mansion houses an Olympic-standard archery field.”

  Fee’s lip curled. “Your regular Robin Hood.”

  “The joke of the decade, right?” Becca pulled her decaf closer. “I let him know how his association with Angelica is weighing on Lassiter Media, not least of all the foundation. A lot of the funding comes from Lassiter accounts, but other benefactors are shutting doors in our face. While the notorious Jack Reed has a chance of pulling off a takeover bid and then tearing everything apart, we might as well have leprosy.”

  Fee flinched. “Jack does have a reputation.”

  Huge understatement. “He’s the most ruthless corporate raider this country has given breath to. I hate to think of how quickly he’d chop up the company and sell off the pieces if he had a chance. He doesn’t give a flying fig where or how the foundation ends up.” Becca held her stomach when it churned again. “He’s a scourge on mankind.”

  “You have to admit though...” Fee lifted her cup to her lips. “He is charismatic.”

  “If you can call a snake charismatic.”

  “And incredibly good-looking.”

  Becca huffed—and then gave it up. “Sure. The guy is hot, in a Jay Gatsby kind of way.”

  “Gatsby was gorgeous.”

  “Gatsby was a crook.”

  “Sweetie, let’s face it. Jack Reed is smoking.”

  Becca’s stomach pitched again. “I was taught that power should be used for good. If you have brains and position, for God’s sake, help those less fortunate—even a little bit.”

  “Good luck convincing Jack Reed of that.”

  “Greed.” Becca shuddered. “It’s a disease.” When the waitress delivered their coffees, she pointed to an item on the menu. “Can I have a caramel fudge brownie, please?”

  As the waitress made a note and walked away, Fee studied her friend curiously. “Since when do you have a sweet tooth?”

  “In school I was always the chubby kid who tried to get out of gym. If ever I felt anxious—upset—I’d reach for cake or candy.”

  Then she’d joined the Peace Corps and all that had changed. Her life had taken its sharpest turn yet.

  Fee set her cup down. “Well, you’re the poster girl for svelte now.”

  “That craving for sweet stuff doesn’t win too often anymore. Don’t worry,” Becca said as the waitress delivered the brownie. “I’ll fit into my bridesmaid’s dress.”

  “I wouldn’t care if you were a size two or a twenty.” Fee had an awesome athletic build but she didn’t judge any book by its cover. “I just hate to see you this rattled.”

  Becca bit into the brownie. As chocolate crumbs fell apart on her tongue, she almost sighed. She tried not to indulge; so many in this world did without. But, dear God, this was good.

  “I believe in the foundation,” she said, sucking caramel off a thumb. “I believe in the work it does. Do you know how much we’ve helped with homeless services, with youth camps, with disaster relief?”

  When she slid over the plate to share, Fee broke off a corner of the brownie.

  “Your team does an incredible job,” Fee said and popped it in her mouth.

  “And everyone on my staff wants to keep doing our job—raising funds, making a difference—one person and family at a time.”

  Fee’s mouth twisted. “Unfortunately, it’s not your company.”

  At the moment Lassiter Media was at the center of a tug-of-war primarily between Evan and Angelica, two people who ought to be working, and living, together, not pulling each other apart.

  “J.D. couldn’t have wanted this dissention within the family when he drew up his will.”

  “Given their connection,” Fee added, “how hard she worked in the company the months before her father’s death, I don’t get how he left Angelica so little. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Becca broke off more brownie and mulled as she chewed. “John Douglas Lassiter was a smart man,” she reflected. “A good man with a big heart. The foundation was way more than a tax dodge to J.D. I have to believe he had a good reason for the way his will was arranged.”

  “He must have known Angelica would fight.”

  “Even her brothers are against her now.” At first, Angelica’s siblings had supported her attempts to find ways to challenge the will. No longer. “No one is left on her side.”

  “No one except Jack the Slasher Reed.”

  “For everyone’s sakes, I hope she gives it up soon, before any more damage is done.” To the family as well as the company, including the foundation.

  “With Jack Reed egging her on, don’t hold your breath.”

  An image formed in Becca’s mind...Jack Reed with a quiver slung over his back. He looked so arrogant. So flat-out sexy and self-serving. Becca growled. “It all comes back to Jack.”

  “You’re not finished with him, are you?”

  “I can’t give up.” Becca pushed the plate aside. “I’m not made that way.”

  Fee sighed. “Problem is Jack Reed’s not made that way, either.”

  Copyright © 2014 by Harlequin Books S.A.

  ISBN-13: 9781460336878

  THE FIANCÉE CAPER

  Copyright © 2014 by Maureen Child

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.

  www.Harlequin.com

 

 

  Archive.