HOT-BLOODED HERO

by Donna Sterling

  Since when had a man’s stare made her wish she was beautiful?

  Alarms rang in her head. She couldn’t allow herself any vulnerability where a Westcott was concerned. She would treat the matter exactly as she would any other business proposition. “If you’re talking about me, Mr. Westcott,” she finally replied, “I’m afraid I’ll need two million dollars to make it worth my while.”

  He stared at her in clear surprise. “There are other McCrary women, you know.”

  She still wasn’t sure if he had been talking about her. But she did know a bluff when she heard it. If he was so sure he could find another eligible McCrary in time, why had he bothered with Ian McCrary’s daughter? “Yes, of course there are. Unfortunately, cousin Mary Francis’s vows won’t allow her to marry. And if you plan to ask Aunt Sophie, let me give you fair warning. She’ll probably call you a whippersnapper and hit you with her umbrella.”

  Cole pursed his lips, rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms. How in the hell could a woman annoy him so much, yet still make him want to laugh? If he had any sense at all, he’d thank her for turning him down and saving them both five months of abject misery. “My father’s will doesn’t say the woman has to be related to you.”

  “The curse specifies ‘the daughter of your McCrary neighbor.’ Since the curse was written in the early nineteenth century, I believe the court will interpret that to mean a descendant of the original McCrarys of Charleston. You won’t find many of those. With all the nuns, spinsters and childless widows among my ancestors, the family tree has been, shall we say, well pruned?”

  He was beginning to consider that divine intervention. Who knew what fate would befall mankind if too many more women like Tess McCrary populated the earth? He had no trouble believing she was a direct descendant of the McCrary witch who had put the curse on the Westcotts in the first place.

  “Funny,” he replied, hating to let her get the upper hand, “the genealogist I hired drew up quite a list of eligible candidates.” A lie. He wondered if she knew it. “And if all else fails, I know of one or two married McCrary women who wouldn’t mind leaving their husbands for a million dollars … or for five months of my, uh, company.”

  Disapproval flashed in her wide gray eyes. One of her gleaming auburn brows then lifted ever so subtly. “I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor, Mr. Westcott.” She made a graceful little flourish with her hand toward the door. “Godspeed.”

  She really was getting on his nerves. If he left right now, he could probably find “Aunt Sophie” before her nap time and brave the umbrella bashing.

  Damned if he knew why, though … he wasn’t ready to walk away from Tess McCrary. Maybe because she owed him. She had shot him with that BB. She’d also talked his prospective bride out of marrying him. Yes, indeed, she owed him.

  He intended to collect, in one way or another. Squinting at her, he slid his hands into his pockets and sauntered closer. “One million dollars. Not a penny more.”

  Her lips bunched and shifted in eloquent disdain.

  Full, shapely lips, he noticed with surprise. At least she had something physical going for her other than the vibrant color of her auburn hair. Too bad she’d tortured it into that ragged braid. As far as beauty went, she had little else to catch a man’s eye.

  Yet he found himself adding before she’d even replied, “And the deed to McCrary Place

  .”

  Her amazingly lush lips parted at that, and he actually heard the breath catch in her throat. “McCrary Place

  ?”

  He hoped, for her sake, that she didn’t play high-stakes poker. The prospect of reclaiming her family’s historic house illuminated her eyes like stars on a clear southern night. He swore they turned from gray to blue. Or maybe it was the rosiness now glowing in her cheeks that made her face seem so much more colorful. She looked … transformed.

  No way would she turn him down now.

  “Two million,” she countered, “and McCrary Place

  .”

  His gaze shifted to hers in surprised admiration. He had to give her credit for trying. But not that much credit. “Don’t push it, McCrary.”

  Her chin came up, but her eyes still shimmered. She looked so blazingly pleased with what she’d accomplished so far that he almost wanted to take back his offer. Almost. “One million dollars, then,” she acquiesced, “and McCrary Place

  . And … and…” she searched for another demand “…the furniture.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it,” she insisted, her tone ruthless.

  He was very careful not to smile. He held out his hand to close the deal.

  She shook it, her grip firm and dry, her gaze direct.

  A heady sense of victory washed through him. He had her. His McCrary bride. The thought infused him with an unexpected rush. Something surprisingly primal and male stirred within him. Something that made him glance one more time at that soft, lush mouth and wild auburn hair.

  She owed him.

  “My assistant will fax you a copy of the contract this afternoon,” he told her. “I’ll apply for the license tomorrow. Blood tests aren’t required, but you’ll have to stop by the marriage bureau with your driver’s license. I’d like to schedule the ceremony for Friday.” He turned and headed for the door.

  “If you will, Mr. Westcott,” she called, remaining where she stood, “fax a copy of your father’s will along with the contract. And have your accountant send me a certified financial statement. I’ll need to know that you have the means to honor our agreement.” He glanced back at her to see a prim smile. “And I’ll be sure to check my calendar to let you know when I’ll be available for the ceremony. If, of course, my attorney gives me the go-ahead.”

  Pausing near the door, he fixed her firmly in his gaze. “Pack your bags, Ms. McCrary,” he drawled with deliberate softness, “for a five-month stay.”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing a subtle wash of color in her face.

  And his resolve hardened. If he had to marry a damn McCrary, it would be this one.

  *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  “We can’t tell your father, Tess! His daughter, marrying Harlan Westcott’s son. It would either kill him, or he’d kill someone else. That Westcott boy, probably.”

  Hearing her mother refer to Cole as “that Westcott boy” made Tess choke on her morning coffee. Her mother obviously hadn’t seen him in a very long time, if ever. “I think we’d be making a big mistake not to tell Daddy. I’ll be living in Westcott Hall for five months. He’s bound to find out.” At the apprehension in her mother’s gaze, she added, “I’ll tell him about the million dollars and the deed to McCrary Place

  before I explain the details of the deal.”

  “Money won’t make him any happier about you marrying a Westcott.”

  “Please don’t worry, Mama. I’ll break the news to him gently—and not until it’s absolutely necessary.” Setting her coffee on the counter beside the cash register, Tess returned to her task of dressing a mannequin in a wedding gown. She’d arranged for Kristen to stay with her father while Tess brought her mother to the shop and broke the news of her possible nuptials. Buttoning a row of pearls on a lace-pointed sleeve, she said, “No sense in getting Daddy all riled up when I might not go through with it.”

  “Maybe you should call the whole thing off, honey. I’d be worried sick about you, living in Westcott Hall. As for your father’s reaction…” Margaret McCrary shook her head in grim foreboding “…it won’t be good. His temper has been so volatile lately. All this ‘bed rest’ wears on his nerves.”

  “He’s been a bear,” Tess sympathized. “I’m glad you’re getting a break this morning.”

  “Oh, he hasn’t been that bad. But I guess I am grateful to Kristen for staying with him for a couple hours.” A huge admission for her mother to make. She’d always been the very model of wifely loyalty, never uttering a single complaint against her husban
d. “It’ll be a pleasure to watch the store,” Margaret said. “I miss working here.”

  Tess glanced affectionately at her mother. With her mild-mannered ways, her graying auburn hair and her wide blue eyes so much like Kristen’s, she brought out the protective instincts in Tess. Hiding her own anxiety at the idea of marrying Cole Westcott, Tess looped an arm around her mother’s thin, rounded shoulders. “If all goes well, Mama, you’ll have the choice of keeping the shop open or retiring with Daddy to someplace nice. Like … McCrary Place

  .”

  “That would be wonderful, honey.” For an instant, wistfulness settled over her gently lined face. “But I don’t want you to get into any kind of trouble because of that Westcott boy. I’m not sure if he can be trusted.”

  “Of course he can’t be trusted! That’s why I’m checking out every possible angle of this deal before I say ‘I do.’ In fact, I intend to meet with Cole this morning and go over a few, um, details.”

  Such as the forty million dollars he’d failed to mention. From her visit to the courthouse, she’d learned that he stood to lose not only Westcott Hall, but also his entire inheritance. No wonder he hadn’t faxed her a copy of the will. He hadn’t wanted her to realize how strong her bargaining position actually was.

  She’d also discovered that Cole Westcott himself had ordered the foreclosing of her father’s loans. The thought made her blood boil.

  His underhandedness made her question the marriage scheme itself. His father had named his former wives as his benefactors in the event that Cole didn’t satisfy the conditions in the will. Were those women more deserving of inheriting the estate than Cole? It couldn’t have been easy, being married to a Westcott. Had Harlan Westcott provided adequately for his cast-off wives when he’d grown tired of the marriages?

  Determined to confront Cole with her questions, Tess took her mother up on her offer to watch the shop while she paid him a visit. His assistant had told her he was too busy to accept calls or visitors, but Tess had a hunch Cole would see her anyway.

  She’d bet forty million on it.

  After assuring her mother once again that she would use extreme caution while dealing with those wily Westcotts, Tess left the shop and drove to the Concord Inn, a historic building that now housed an exclusive restaurant owned by the Westcotts as well as Cole’s office. She’d dressed in a tailored “power suit” of gunmetal gray and the highest heels she owned—high enough, she hoped, to allow her to glare at him eye-to-eye.

  Her heels clicked against the stone walkway like the ticking of a time bomb as she strode toward the stately old harbor-side inn. When she drew near the entrance of the restaurant, however, her pace slowed. A crowd had gathered—a surprisingly large crowd for ten-thirty on a Wednesday morning. Wending her way through the throng, she pushed open the ornately carved doors into the plush reception area and noticed many individuals carrying cameras. And microphones. She recognized a local news anchor … and another. Why were news crews here?

  “I don’t care if he’s busy. I’m not a reporter,” insisted a tall, leggy brunette in a short black dress near the hostess stand. “I’m here on a personal matter. You tell Cole that Lacey LaBonne wants to see him.”

  A stern-faced woman behind the hostess stand flatly stated that Mr. Westcott was taking no calls or visits from anyone.

  Lacey cursed and hissed. A stocky, double-chinned man nearly knocked Tess over to reach the curvaceous brunette. “Excuse me, Ms. LaBonne,” he wheezed. “I’m Sam Stephanovich of the Global Gazette. Are you a friend of Cole Westcott’s?”

  “No, we’re much closer than friends,” she said with an angry sniff. “He promised to take me to St. Lucia next week. Then last night, he leaves me a message. He’s postponing the trip. Not a word about his wedding. Men can be such pigs.”

  A cameraman aimed a lens in Lacey’s direction and the reporter jotted down notes as he spoke. “So would you say his engagement was sudden?”

  “I’d say it was. I’d never heard of this ‘Tess McCrary’ until I turned on my television this morning.”

  Tess shrank back into a shadowy alcove. These reporters were here because of Cole’s marriage plans—and her name had been mentioned on television. Good Lord … had her father been watching?

  Anxiously Tess headed for the telephone near the restrooms and called Kristen. Keeping her voice as low, she asked, “Kris, have you had the television on?”

  “No. Daddy and I have been playing cards.”

  “Good. Don’t let him near a television or a radio. Or a newspaper.” After a brief explanation, she hung up and started for the exit. She had to get home and tell her father about her plans before he heard the news elsewhere.

  Lacey LaBonne’s voice carried beyond the reporters now surrounding her. “If Cole had dumped me for somebody better, I’d understand. But did you see the woman? She looked like a schoolmarm.”

  Tess winced. They’d apparently shown her photo on television. Probably the one from the university yearbook. Not the most flattering photo, but … a schoolmarm? Hah. Didn’t Lacey LaFluff recognize a Financial Aid Director when she saw one?

  As Lacey repeated her earlier sentiment, “Men can be such pigs,” a bright-eyed young Jimmy Olson-type shifted into Tess’s path. “Hey,” he said, his gaze narrowing. “Aren’t you Tess McCrary?”

  “Me?”

  “She is Tess McCrary,” confirmed an exuberant voice from her other side. With “ahs” and “ohs,” the crowd converged. Lights glared in her face. Cameras flashed. Microphones jabbed toward her mouth.

  “Tell me, Tess, how did Cole approach you with his marriage proposal? Were you aware of the terms of his father’s will?”

  “Were you acquainted with him before he proposed?”

  “Did he offer you money to marry him, and if so, how much?”

  “Will the marriage be in name only, or have you agreed to consummate?”

  “Does he have to pay extra for that?”

  Embarrassment warmed Tess’s face. They were making it sound as if Cole were paying her to sleep with him. Clutching her leather handbag to her chest like a shield, she tried to think of a reply that would set them straight.

  Before she’d uttered the first coherent sentence, though, a familiar broad-shouldered figure appeared at the edge of the crowd. Tess fixed her gaze on him in relief—an ally in this madness. At least, she hoped he’d be an ally. Then again, he was a Westcott.

  She watched Cole force a path through the clamoring reporters, his sun-gilded hair glistening in the lights, his ruggedly appealing face exuding calm authority. He seemed even bigger, more muscular, more commanding, than he had yesterday in her living room. And he was headed straight for her.

  Tess waded toward him, her progress hampered by the reporters who now divided their attention between him and her. Cole ignored the microphones thrust in his face, the questions shouted at him, the cameras flashing, and reached for her. She gave him her hand. He pulled her to him and slid a strong, protective arm around her. A cacophony of voices roared for his attention, but he set a steady pace toward a back archway where a burly security guard stood.

  Tucked against Cole’s side, Tess couldn’t help wondering if the glamorous Lacey was watching. A silly thought. Unworthy of her. If Cole had had any choice, he’d have reached for Lacey. And rightfully so. What did Tess want with a lowdown scheming Westcott, anyway?

  “Sorry, folks, but we don’t have time for questions now,” Cole announced in his deep, smooth rumble of a voice. “Give me twenty minutes or so, and I’ll meet you in the back dining room. I’ll even spring for coffee and key-lime pie. Berta, show all card-carrying members of the media to the Magnolia Room.”

  A pleased murmur rippled through the crowd. Cole urged Tess past the security guard and up a carpeted flight of stairs, his arm strong and steadying around her. Her legs trembled slightly as she climbed, whether from the media’s attack or Cole’s overpowering nearness, she wasn’t sure.

  When they rea
ched the upstairs corridor, he swept her into a large but surprisingly plain office, with worn oriental carpets on a scuffed hardwood floor, a paper-cluttered desk, oak filing cabinets, a computer and absolutely nothing to proclaim the room special except for the high, wide sliding-glass doors that led outside to a rooftop view of the harbor.

  Tess immediately broke away from Cole. She leaned against the desk to catch her breath, gather her wits. She’d nearly forgotten the heady feeling of being held against a virile, muscular body; of sensing the strength coiled within a man. Or maybe she’d never known that feeling at all. Dismayed by that traitorous reflection, she assured herself that she was overreacting simply because she’d been without Phillip for so long.

  Cole locked the office door and sauntered toward her with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Hope you didn’t mind my interrupting your moments of glory.”

  “Glory?” She welcomed the bracing rush of indignation. “You can’t honestly believe I enjoyed that mass assault.”

  He shrugged, shifting wide shoulders beneath a soft blue chambray shirt. “Never can tell how a person’s going to react to media attention. Take Ms. LaBonne, for instance. I’d say she was glorying in the spotlight, wouldn’t you?”

  So, he’d heard Lacey. Had he heard her comment about Tess looking like a schoolmarm? Not that it mattered. And what the heck did he expect her to say about his ditzy girlfriend, or their postponed trip to St. Lucia? “Men can be such pigs.”

  Cole crossed his tanned, muscular forearms and settled beside her, the back of his jeans-clad thighs resting against the desk. “So I’ve heard.” The groove beside his mouth deepened in a lazy, appreciative smile.

  Tess felt a purely feminine pull deep within her. No wonder he thought he could snap his fingers and have his enemy’s daughter jump to do his bidding. That smile had probably been enslaving women from the time he’d been old enough to connive. Fortifying herself against his charm, she strolled away from him and asked briskly, “Why on earth did you agree to give that mob downstairs an interview?”