What the Heiress Wants

by Kristina Knight

  What the Heiress Wants

  Billionaire Cowboys

  Book 2

  Kristina Knight

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2016 by Kristina Knight.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-9576-3

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9576-9

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-9577-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9577-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © kisslilly/123RF; Siarhei Piatrosau/123RF.

  Many thanks to my editor, Jess, who always sees the things I don’t see ... and knows just how to make a book shine.

  For Kyle, who knows every secret. You are my Connor. xo

  Thank you for purchasing a Crimson Romance novel. Please sign up for our weekly newsletter for information on new releases, contests, discounts and more.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  Connor Reeves looked out over the printing area. It was just after noon, and the presses were mostly silent. A couple of men were working on the spool, and janitors were cleaning up after last night’s print run. In another hour or so, the second shift would come in, and the area would be a flurry of activity.

  But this was how he liked it best. Quiet. As if the machines were anticipating what would come. The workers saw him from the walkway and waved. He waved back.

  He bit into the apple in his hand and turned, thinking about an upcoming meeting with a few of his biggest ad accounts. He needed something new to present to them, something different than the usual space-plus-cost initiatives that would keep them invested in his business.

  When he’d bought the old press, and the nearly defunct Vegas Daily newspaper, with its weekly circular of Strip events and coupons, his plan was simply to make a profit. He’d had a clear plan: focus Daily on all of Las Vegas and turn the circular into a full-fledged publication he called Vegas Nightly. In the years since, he’d taken Nightly from a circular that a few tourists picked up for casino vouchers to the second-most read publication in all of Nevada. Daily was also holding its own, although its revenues paled in comparison. In fact, until six months ago, his plan to make both Reeves Pub brands the most-read publications in the state seemed within reach. Then Clayton Holdings moved into his territory, buying up the top daily newspaper and adding an online news show that covered Strip happenings and gossip. The very additions he’d been planning to add here.

  He punched the elevator button and tapped his foot while he waited. He took the last bite of his apple and tossed the core into a nearby trashcan.

  Advertisers wanted sexy, and sexy was video. He needed to convince his advertisers not to jump ship. He only needed another few weeks, and the Nightly’s rival show would launch, complete with a Hollywood news anchor who would blow the local talent Clayton was using away. Then, his arm of Reeves Brothers Entertainment would be back on solid ground. His business was supposed to be the stable one. Gage, who developed properties, took the big risks. Jase, who developed new casino games, played the odds in a different way. Even so, they both continued to be successful. This was not going to be the year Reeves Pub failed to bring in its share of profits.

  The elevator doors opened, and Gage’s girlfriend, Callie Holliday, stood inside with a portable table in her arms.

  “Hey, Con,” she said, pushing by him as if it were the most normal thing in the world for her to carry a table around his newspaper office.

  “Callie.” He stepped on to the elevator, and then stepped back off, following her back to the walkway that circled the press area. “What are you doing here?”

  “Working,” she said, her voice a happy chirp. She wore her usual outfit of fuzzy boots, skinny jeans, and a floaty top, and her short, blond hair was held out of her face with a colorful band.

  “But you don’t work here.” He caught up with her. She turned into a hall leading to the break rooms the press operators used. Connor followed her into an empty room. She snapped open the table, which he now saw had a hole at one end—it was one of the massage tables she used for her work. She pulled a small speaker from the satchel over her shoulder and plugged her iPod into it. Soft, soothing music flowed into the room.

  “Sure I do,” she said, and the uneasy feeling Connor had in his gut since Clayton made his first Nevada move increased. Callie Holliday had never been on his payroll; she had her own business to run.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do.” She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side. “I’ve worked here for the last three weeks.”

  Connor opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. “Who hired you?”

  “I did.” Miranda, his new vice president, the one he didn’t trust to do more than bring him burned coffee, stood in the doorway with a pink-haired woman holding another table. Miranda had pulled her long, red hair into a high ponytail that made her large brown eyes look even larger and the curve of her neck more kissable. Though there was no reason for him to notice either her eyes or her neck, much less how the silk of her top outlined her breasts or how the fitted pencil skirt she wore outlined her long legs. Connor thrust his hands into his pockets. “We had a couple of extra sign-ups,” she said to Callie, “so I called Mandy to back you up. We’ll divide the appointments between this room and the one next door.” The pink-haired woman, apparently, was Mandy.

  “I’ll go set up,” Mandy said and disappeared down the hall.

  “What, exactly, is going on here?” Connor eyed Miranda, but then turned to Callie. He could read her more easily than he’d been able to read Miranda. “I thought you were renovating the Heck ranch for your spa.”

  “And until it’s up and running, I need income.”

  “Gage already gave you money.”

  “Gage invested in my business. He didn’t just throw a few twenties on the dresser this morning.” Callie’s pretty, green eyes narrowed, and she frowned. “So until the dude ranch is officially converted into a destination spa, I’ve picked up a few corporate clients that I service a couple of times each week.”

  “And I’m a corporate client?”

  She nodded. “Yep.”

  “And Miranda hired you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  Callie nodded, but her eyes narrowed as she focused her attention on him. Connor didn’t have to wonder what she saw, he saw the same thing each morning in the mirror. A worried gaze, frowning mouth, and stiff shoulders. “You look tense,” she said finally.

  Of course he looked tense. He was tense. For the third straight quarter, his revenue line was down, his readership was dow
n, and now his VP had hired a corporate massage therapist, something Connor was certain was not covered by their health plan. Callie was a smart businesswoman; she wouldn’t low-ball her services.

  “I’m fine,” he lied, and willed his shoulders to relax.

  “I have fifteen minutes if you want to get on the table.”

  “I’m not getting naked with my brother’s girlfriend.”

  Callie’s full lips thinned. “Your brother’s girlfriend isn’t offering you a quickie. She’s fitting you into her schedule for a neck and upper back massage before your head pops right off your shoulders.”

  “I don’t need a massage.”

  “You need something,” she mumbled.

  “We should talk about this outside,” Miranda interrupted, angling her pretty, red head toward the hallway.

  “I didn’t authorize this,” Connor said, once they were clear of Callie and Mandy.

  “You said we needed better preventive care for the press workers. Massage therapy isn’t exactly a gym membership, but they didn’t have time to go to a gym, anyway. While we’re on the subject, though, the space above Gage’s office could easily be converted into an onsite workout facility.” They arrived at the elevator, and Miranda tapped the up arrow. “And you authorized it when you told me to look at new health plans.”

  “There isn’t enough headroom in that space for anything. It’s why that space remains empty.” The car arrived, and they stepped inside. “And I expected my assistant to present the plan options so I could make the final decision.”

  He watched the muscles in her jaw clench, and then she said stiffly, “You seem to be forgetting that I’m not your assistant. I thought when you hired me as vice president of marketing that would entail more than fetching your coffee or printing up new ad rate sheets.”

  So had he. Until he’d done a little late night web surfing and found a picture of Miranda Walker on the arm of William Clayton—his primary competitor—at a big event in Denver and realized Miranda Walker was really Miranda Walker Clayton, William’s daughter and apparent heir to his publishing empire. He could have fired her then and there, along with his head of human resources, because she had to be in on whatever Miranda was up to. He hadn’t, though. He’d heard his father’s voice in his head.

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, boys,” Caleb constantly told the three of them. It was his go-to explanation for everything from a competing ranch buying the bull Caleb wanted for the ranch to befriending a few of the pit bosses on Las Vegas Boulevard. The pit bosses didn’t stop Connor’s mother from gambling, but they did call Caleb when her actions got out of hand.

  The elevator arrived on the second floor, and Connor started for his office. He’d kept Miranda around hoping to figure out William Clayton’s interest in Reeves Pub, and so far he’d come up blank. There was the obvious: take over the paper or shut it down. Connor refused to allow either to take place.

  Miranda followed him into his office and shut the door. “If you’re not going to let me do any kind of job here, just why did you hire me?” She folded her arms over her chest but didn’t sit. Fine by him.

  “It isn’t the job of the VP of marketing to come up with health plans. That falls under human resources.”

  “Neither is fetching coffee or making copies. To be clear, though, Lila in HR worked with me to find the right plan.”

  “How much is this costing my employees?”

  “Nothing.”

  Connor snorted. “Health plans always cost, and adding massage therapy as an option can’t be cheap.”

  “It’s a one percent increase, and the company is paying the difference, which we’ve already recouped. Before Callie was hired, several employees missed work each week. Since the addition, we’ve had three call-outs, and all of them were for sick children rather than sore bodies.” Her voice pitched a bit lower even though they were in his office, behind a closed door. No one could overhear the conversation. “Your employees are happier. The press workers don’t hurt after a long day in the basement. Your reporters and bloggers are more relaxed, and so are the office workers. It’s a good addition.”

  Connor turned from the window. He watched Miranda for a long moment. Nothing in her countenance said this health plan change was part of a bigger plot to take over his company. Hell, from what he could tell, she had zero contact with her father or anyone else at Clayton Holdings. At least, not from her work computer.

  That didn’t answer why she was in Las Vegas when her father’s empire was in Denver or why she’d pretended that her middle name was her last name to get this job.

  Caleb’s voice echoed in his mind again. Miranda didn’t appear to be his enemy, and while he was figuring out just what she was up to, keeping her in the building might shed more light on Clayton’s overall plans.

  “One percent?”

  She nodded, and a small smile tilted her red lips. “Less than one hundred dollars per month.”

  “You should have presented the plan to me before implementation. When you make a presentation about actual advertising, I’ll expect to be in the loop before any campaigns are launched.”

  She blinked. “If you give me twenty minutes, I’ll have two plans on your desk for review.”

  • • •

  “As much sympathy as I have for the Miranda version of Poor Little Rich Girl, you have to tell him.” The company’s HR head, Lila McAnally, paced Miranda’s office, the heels of her strapped sandals echoing against the mahogany hardwoods. She whirled at the wall and strode back to the window. “I know your dad blocked you from every reporter job, editor’s desk, and sales desk in Denver. I know the TV and radio news directors flinched when he made it clear employing you meant a war with Clayton Holdings. But, Randa, you swore you’d come clean within a month. It’s been nearly five.”

  “I just have to prove to him I can do this job.” She was so close. For the first time, Connor Reeves had agreed to look at her plans. This was the first chance she had had to prove she had more to offer than a pretty face at company events and board meetings. She was damned if she would muck that up by also revealing her true last name. “This is the first shot I’ve had to prove my worth.”

  She’d tried, so hard, during her internships at Clayton, but there she was only seen as William’s daughter, and he had made it clear he had no interest in her business ideas. Her father was stuck in Victorian times, and there was nothing she’d been able to do to change his mind in Denver. Maybe turning around a Las Vegas publisher—one he wanted for himself—would convince him she had something to offer. Miranda clutched the two folders she’d grabbed for her meeting with Connor to her chest. “If this goes well, I’ll tell him.” She drew her lower lip between her teeth and bit down lightly. “I brought him around to the health plan. Maybe he’ll like my tweaks to Vegas Nightly and the new video show too.”

  Lila folded her arms across her chest. “I like my job, Randa. I like working for Connor, and let me tell you, when all three of the brothers are in residence at the office, the eye candy is amazing. You have to tell him.”

  “I know, and I can never repay you for helping me get this far.” When Lila invited her to Vegas for a girl’s weekend last summer, Miranda never expected to put her college roommate in this kind of situation. She had needed a break from the mindless fundraising circuit her parents had had her on. Lila made an offhand remark that Miranda should apply for the VP gig at her office, and things spiraled from there. “I’ll tell Connor. I promise.” She just needed one more chance to get his attention.

  “Whether he likes your plans or not.”

  Miranda hesitated.

  “If you don’t tell him, I will.” Lila watched her for a long moment. “It will probably mean my job as well as yours, but I’d rather be fired for insubordination than corporate spying, and right now this is looking more and more spy-ey than insubordinate.”

  Miranda swallowed, hard, and the knot in her stomach tightened. She liked Connor,
too. She liked the way he spoke to his employees. How he kept his hands in all the departments but still allowed his managers to lead. She liked the pinstriped suits he wore, the ones that hinted at firmly muscled arms and chest. She’d always been a sucker for a strong upper body. There was that bit of blond hair that fell over his forehead now and then, making her fingers itch to push it back. He had the iciest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes that should be cold, but instead, made her body overheat.

  No, not thinking about Connor’s looks. So not the time.

  The point was, he was a good boss, a good man, and she didn’t like lying to him. She especially didn’t like putting her friend’s job security on the line. Until today, though, he’d barely allowed her to brew his coffee, a task she’d never mastered. Making this presentation, coupled with the newly approved medical plan, was a step toward professional independence.

  “Okay. I’ll tell him. After he approves the presentation.”

  Lila nodded. She crossed to Miranda’s office door and then turned back. “Now go knock him dead. Your ideas are great.” She left, and the door clicked closed.

  Miranda blew out a breath. They were good ideas. Plans that would complement the strengths of Connor’s employees while playing to the appetites of local readers and viewers.

  “You have a master’s degree in journalism and a bachelor’s in business management,” she told the figure reflected in her window. “You have more to offer than a pretty face or the right last name.” The reflection nodded.

  Twenty minutes later, Miranda wrapped up her main pitch. While she spoke, Connor looked over the graphs and charts she’d brought in to underline the changes to Vegas Nightly. A couple of months before, Connor created the Bachelor of the Month feature, and based on its success, she wanted to add red carpet bloggers to the events on the Strip. Every week, one hotel or another had celebrities throwing parties or hosting events, and their readers clicked those stories like crazy. Making those events the focus of Vegas Nightly Online, their streaming news program, would keep eyes on those stories, which would keep advertisers happy. “We cover the red carpet, we chat with the VIPs there, but the kicker is that we get access to their private party areas. Really take viewers behind the velvet ropes. Not even the Hollywood entertainment news programs have that kind of access.”