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WINE COUNTRY COURIER
Community Buzz
The Ashton saga comes to a close!
Mystery finally solved. At long last, the murderer of Spencer Ashton has been named and arrested. Who would have imagined it was his own daughter, Grace Ashton? Thankfully she and her no-good husband are behind bars and the Ashton family can finally breathe a sigh of relief. Yet the battle for the Ashton fortune rages on. Half brothers Eli and Trace are still going head to head to determine who are the rightful heirs. Will this billion-dollar dynasty ever be sorted out? Trace is as hard-hearted as his father, but he might be lightening up if the rumors are true that
Becca Marshall has returned to Napa Valley. Wasn’t the Ashton golden boy once engaged to this girl from the wrong side of the tracks? And wasn’t there a rumor floating about that Spencer Ashton had bought off his son’s unsuitable bride-to-be? With Spencer long buried, will Trace and Becca also be able to lay the past to rest?
I can’t wait to find out how it all ends!
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BARBARA MCCAULEY
Name Your Price
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Barbara McCauley for her contribution to the DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS series.
To Terry and Marla Sutherland who made this book
a joy to write! You guys are the best!
Books by Barbara McCauley
Silhouette Desire
Woman Tamer #621 Man from Cougar Pass #698
Her Kind of Man #771
Whitehorn’s Woman #803
A Man like Cade #832
Nightfire #875
* Texas Heat #917
* Texas Temptation #948
* Texas Pride #971
Midnight Bride #1028
The Nanny and the Reluctant Rancher #1066
Courtship in Granite Ridge #1128
Seduction of the Reluctant Bride #1144
† Blackhawk’s Sweet Revenge #1230
† Secret Baby Santos #1236
† Killian’s Passion #1242
† Callan’s Proposition #1290
† Reese’s Wild Wager #1360
Fortune’s Secret Daughter #1390
† Sinclair’s Surprise Baby #1402
† Taming Blackhawk #1437
† In Blackhawk’s Bed #1447
Royally Pregnant #1480
† That Blackhawk Bride #1491
Where There’s Smoke…#1507
The Cinderella Scandal #1555
† Miss Pruitt’s Private Life #1593
Name Your Price #1693
Silhouette Intimate Moments
† Gabriel’s Honor #1024
Silhouette Books
Summer Gold
Wolf River Summer Summer in Savannah
“Under Cover of the Night”
† Blackhawk Legacy
BARBARA M C CAULEY,
who has written more than thirty novels for Silhouette Books, lives in Southern California with her own handsome hero husband, Frank, who makes it easy to believe in and write about the magic of romance. Barbara’s stories have won and been nominated for numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America, Best Desire of the Year from Romantic Times BOOKclub and Best Short Contemporary from the National Reader’s Choice Awards.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Prologue
S pencer Ashton knew he was going to die.
Before this moment, he had never considered his own death. Arrogance and pride had refused to allow him the possibility of his own demise. After all, at sixty-two years young, he was a man still in his prime. A virile, handsome man, wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. He had everything he’d ever wanted and more. Fast cars, elegant homes, any woman he desired. The son of a lowly farmer and mousy wife from Podunk, Nebraska, he had done damn well for himself. If he’d happened to step on a few insignificant people along the way, what did that matter to him? It hadn’t, until he felt the bullet explode through his chest.
Astonished, Spencer looked up at the lowlife, greasy-haired slime who’d pulled the trigger, Wayne Cunningham, then he turned his gaze to the woman beside him.
His own flesh and blood.
Her eyes glinted green ice as she stared back.
Spencer glanced down at the hand he’d clutched to his heart and saw the blood seeping through his fingers. Warm, deep red, it trickled down his three-hundred-dollar silk Armani tie.
He tried to speak, but the only thing he managed was a strangled whisper.
“What’s that you say, Daddy, dear?” Hatred dripped like acid from every word. She moved closer to the leather desk chair where Spencer sat dying, a sneer on her bright red lips as she leaned in close. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Grace—” He managed the single word, then started to choke on the blood filling his lungs.
“All I ever wanted was a fair share of what was mine. I had a right,” she snarled, hitting her chest with her fist before she whirled away. “I earned the right, dammit! Grant and me were barely out of the womb when you left us. We had nothing, nothing.”
She dragged her hands through the sides of her brown hair and continued to rant. “Our mother died of a broken heart because of you, and not once did you ever think of her, or the babies you abandoned. While we lived off church charity and wore secondhand rags, you were living in a mansion, eating gourmet meals in expensive restaurants with your fancy new wife and the four brats she gave you.”
Spencer stared at his daughter through the haze of pain clouding his eyes. He’d paid the stupid bitch and her husband off for years so they’d keep quiet about his first marriage to her mother in Nebraska. But now that everyone knew he’d been married to Sally and never divorced her, Spencer had seen no reason to pay one more penny of blackmail money. For all it mattered now, Grace and her lame excuse for a husband could hire a band and parade it through town with a banner that said Spencer Ashton was a bigamist.
When Wayne had pulled out the gun, Spencer had never dreamed the sniveling idiot would actually have the guts to use it.
It was an error in calculation he would pay for with his life.
Wayne shifted nervously. “Gracie, baby, we should go before someone comes.”
“The office has been closed for an hour and everyone’s gone home.” A smile lifted one corner of her mouth as she swiveled a look back at Spencer. “No one’s coming.”
“Baby, I know, but still—”
“We’ll go when I’m through, dammit, and not before,” Grace snapped, her smile gone. She leaned across her father’s desk and stared into his eyes. Eyes the same color as her own. “And all that wasn’t even enough for you, you greedy, coldhearted bastard. You had to have it all, so you stole everything from her, too, then tossed them all out like yesterday’s garbage and married yet again.”
Lilah. His third wife, probably the only woman who had truly understood him, Spencer thought. The only woman who had been as ambitious as he. She’d been a decent wife, a handsome woman in her younger years. She’d given him a son and two daughters, had even tolerated his affairs—until the last one, which had resulted in a child.
Little Jack. A son that Spencer knew he’d never see grow up.
“Now you’ll pay, you son of a bitch,” Spencer heard Grace say, though her voice seemed to come from somewhere far away.
Cold slithered through his veins. Time seemed to slow
as the darkness crept along the edges of his vision. And with that darkness came an awareness, an understanding that Grace was right, and he must now make restitution for the things he’d done in his life. All at once, every sin he’d committed flashed through his mind, a fast-forward motion picture of faces and images…
So many…he thought.
And with his last breath, as the icy darkness closed over him, Spencer Ashton knew he would rot in hell forever.
One
H e should have seen it coming.
Trace had known, of course, that she was in town. He’d heard her name whispered behind his back on more than one occasion in the past few days, had heard the murmurs and seen the fleeting glances flashed in his direction. Becca Marshall returning to Napa Valley was like rich compost to the gossipmongers, and the grapevine was sending out runners and suckers as if it were April instead of December. Trace pursed his lips, knew that the fruit of that vine would most certainly be sour.
He still wasn’t sure what had snagged his attention to the linen-draped table inside the little main street café. Maybe the tumble of thick, coffee-dark hair against the white turtleneck she wore, or maybe the familiar slash of high cheekbones and straight nose. Maybe even the graceful gesture of her long fingers as she spoke to another person who was just out of his line of sight.
No, it was none of those things, he thought as he stared at Becca. Because before he’d stopped on the sidewalk, before he’d glanced across the street, before he’d spotted her through the restaurant window, he’d simply known she was there. As surely as the scent of cinnamon and spices drifting from Katie’s Country Bakery, as surely as the persistent ring of the handheld bell from the Santa Claus around the corner, as surely as the promise of rain on the cool evening air, he’d felt her presence.
The realization brought with it a flash of dark anger, but he quickly tamped down the emotion. It didn’t matter one damn bit if she’d come back. The past was the past. Ancient history. Hell, they’d both been kids back then. He’d just turned twenty-one, she’d been twenty. He’d teased her she couldn’t even legally drink. She’d teased him that he was an old man.
With all that had happened in the past few months, his father’s murder, his half-sister’s arrest and confession, the family altercations and feuds—God knew on more than one occasion he’d certainly felt like an old man.
And now Becca.
He stepped under the black-cloth awning of a closed antique store and stared through the café window, noted that the five years that had passed since he’d last seen Becca had been good to her. The soft shine of colored Christmas lights decorating the restaurant window gave her skin an ethereal glow and lit her wide, thickly lashed eyes. Eyes the color of rich, golden-brown velvet, he remembered. Just one of the many memories associated with Becca. The throaty sound of her laugh, the heat of her long, smooth body sliding over his, the honey taste of her lips.
A taste now bitter with betrayal.
An icy breeze slid under the leather jacket he wore, but it did nothing to cool the heat simmering in his gut. He’d come to town to have dinner with his sister, for God’s sake, not take a trip down memory lane.
He watched Becca’s lips curve into a smile, saw the flash of dimple in her cheek. Grinding his teeth, he stepped back onto the sidewalk and crossed the street.
The sound of sleigh bells and the clomp of hooves on asphalt greeted Becca when she walked out of the restaurant into the cool night air. She watched a horse-drawn carriage pass by on the street, smiled at the driver when he lifted his top hat to her. Bundled in coats and hats, the man and woman in the rear seat waved and shouted a holiday greeting. Christmas in Napa Valley had always been a magical time of year. Twinkling lights on every storefront, the animated reindeer and Santa on the roof of McIntye Hardware, the giant decorated tree in the center of Old Town. She breathed in the scent of pine and woodsmoke and crisp night air.
It felt good to be home.
Slipping her hands into her coat pockets, she walked down the sidewalk and took it all in. A few of the businesses had changed since she’d left five years ago. Emily’s Bed and Linen was now The Blushing Bride bridal salon, Old Town Vintage Gifts was now Très Chic Fashion and Britwell’s Tea Shop had expanded into a restaurant.
Change was inevitable, of course. You could fight it, you could deny it, you could even walk away from it. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop it.
Change was simply life.
The sound of music and a bell ringing drew Becca to a storefront of a small gift shop, and she paused to watch a two-foot-tall dancing snowman in the window. He wore a burgundy and deep green jeweled jester hat and vest and shook a tiny bell to the tune of “Jingle Bell Rock.” A little redheaded girl standing inside the store laughed and pointed excitedly at the animated snowman.
Thank goodness there were at least a few things that didn’t change, she thought, watching the excitement in the child’s eyes. She’d felt that rush of excitement once, had felt that same joy.
Turning, she bumped into a man, felt his hands reach out and steady her.
“I’m so—”
She froze.
Oh dear God.
Even in the dim light, she knew the man’s eyes were bottle-green, knew his hair was sandy-brown. Knew that he had a one-inch scar over his left eyebrow, the repercussion of a tree-climbing incident when he was eleven years old. Brow furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin, hard line, he stared down at her with narrowed eyes.
“Hello, Becca.”
Trace.
She’d known there was a strong possibility she might run into him while she was in Napa, though she’d certainly never imagined she would literally run into him. She’d spent weeks preparing herself for this moment, visualized herself remaining calm, composed. In control. She’d scripted exactly what she would say, exactly how she would smile. She’d even practiced the tone of her voice.
A tone that sounded nothing like the faint gasp she’d just uttered.
“Trace.” She finally managed to whisper his name.
His hands still held her arms and she fought back the bubble of panic rising in her throat. Even through her coat, she felt the heat radiate from his body and seep into her skin. Her heart jackhammered against her ribs, reverberated in her head. How ridiculous she’d been to think she could have ever prepared herself to face him again.
How stupid.
When he finally dropped his hands away and stepped back, she managed to drag much needed air into her lungs. “I—I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t see you.”
“I heard you were back.”
Afraid he might see how badly her hands were shaking, she thrust them deep into her pockets. “I’m here on a shoot for Ivy Glen Cellars.”
“I heard that, too.”
“Oh.” She really wasn’t surprised. The wine business in Napa was a close-knit community. She couldn’t help but wonder what else he’d heard. And how much of it was true.
“How—how are you?” How trite and ridiculous the question sounded, Becca thought, but it seemed to be the best she could do at the moment.
“Fine. And you?”
“I’m good.”
“It’s been a long time, Becca.”
Five years, she nearly said, but simply nodded instead. She noticed the fine lines around the corners of his eyes, the strong, square cut of his jaw, the hard set of his mouth, and was surprised at how the years had matured his handsome features. He’d once dazzled her with his boyish charm and crooked smile, but there was nothing welcoming in this man’s expression.
A shiver coursed through her as she held his gaze. One thing hadn’t changed, she thought with despair. He still made her knees weak. Still made her pulse flutter. Still made her yearn.
She was aware of the cars driving past, heard the bell still ringing from the gift store window, but her surroundings had a fuzzy, distant quality to them. Only Trace felt in focus, and her senses were sharp
ly aware of every familiar detail. The broad stretch of shoulders, the dark slash of his brow, the slight crook in his nose.
Five years ago she would have jumped into his arms, laughing, then kissed him soundly. Five years ago he would have smiled and kissed her back, whispered something lustful in her ear that would have thrilled her—and made her blush.
The sound of the gift shop door opening shook Becca out of the trance she’d slipped into. A woman loaded down with brightly wrapped packages stepped onto the sidewalk, studying her watch as she hurried past. Becca glanced down, then took in a slow breath and looked back up at Trace.
“I’m sorry about your father,” she said. Seven months ago, every newspaper and TV station in Los Angeles had carried the story of Spencer Ashton’s murder. “I wanted to call you when I heard, but…”
Becca turned at the sound of the sleigh bells again. The carriage was on the other side of the street now, unloading its passengers.
Trace didn’t even seem to notice. “But what?”
I was a coward. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
“I see.”
The sarcasm in his voice cut her to the core. She wanted to reach out to him, tell him that he didn’t see at all, but instead she simply hugged her coat closer. She couldn’t bear to have him pull away from her.
“I really didn’t think my condolences would be appreciated,” she said quietly. “Especially considering what happened between us.”
His mouth pressed into a hard line. “It wasn’t us, Becca. You were the one who left.”
He was right, of course. But standing on the sidewalk, with people and cars passing by in plain sight, it hardly seemed like the place to have this conversation. But then, she realized there wouldn’t be any place she’d want to have this conversation. “Trace, please.”
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