by Stacy Gail
Where There’s a Will
By Stacy Gail
Miranda Brookhaven returned to Bitterthorn, Texas to fix the past. Years ago, her father used her teenage romance with Coe Rodas to steal the prototype for a groundbreaking new automotive invention. Now her father’s dead, and thanks to the convoluted will he left behind, she’s stuck in town until she rights the wrong that lost her the man she loved.
Coe learned early on that life never goes according to plan. His dreams of hitting it big vanished when Miranda all but invited her father to take the only thing of value he ever had. But now the once-pampered princess is holed up in a condemned trailer on the edge of town...and everything he thought he knew about her—and about what happened between them back then—seems completely wrong.
Miranda’s determined to give back to Coe all that he lost. If she can do that, maybe she can move on from the past. But Coe seems to be more interested in their rekindled passion than claiming what she thinks he deserves. She’s got sixty days to convince him to cough up evidence that he’s the original inventor—after that, the only way to transfer the patent rights over to him would be to make him part of the family, and she’s not sure her heart can take another hit.
84,000 words
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the November 2014 edition of the Dear Reader letter. This month, Carina Press and I share an anniversary: five years since we joined Harlequin! Harlequin has been an amazing home for both of us, showing support, enthusiasm and offering a team environment for both the business and for authors. I’m thrilled to have seen Carina Press and our authors grow to great success in sales, reviews, careers and awards in the five years since we opened our doors, and we believe things can only get better from here.
In honor of the holiday season, two authors bring us holiday novellas. First, in Shannon Stacey’s contemporary romance, Her Holiday Man, two people, both wounded by love in the past, are brought together by a widow, a child’s joy, and the spirit of Christmas. Later in the month, star-crossed lovers Gabe and Cat meet again at Christmas after five years apart—just a week before she’s set to marry another man, in the historical romance A Christmas Reunion by Susanna Fraser.
Lauren Dane is back with the third installment in her urban fantasy series, and this one is more romantic than ever! Don’t miss Rowan and Clive in Blade on the Hunt.
As a follow-up to his incredibly popular romantic suspense Fair Game, male/male romance author Josh Lanyon brings us Fair Play, in which ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills must figure out who is willing to kill to keep his former ’60s radical father’s memoirs from being published.
In Tempting the Player by Kat Latham, a rugby player’s extreme fear of flying keeps his career from taking off—until a sexy pilot tempts him into her cockpit to help him overcome his phobia...of planes and commitment. Joining Kat in returning with a contemporary romance is Stacy Gail with Where There’s a Will, the much-anticipated story of Coe, who won reader’s hearts in Starting from Scratch. This is one hero who will steal your heart, all because of the milk!
Designed for Love by Kelsey Browning is also in our contemporary romance lineup in November. A former Houston socialite is out to prove she’s more than a blonde bobblehead by managing a huge construction project. When an environmentalist mucks up Ashton’s plans, she must rely on the blue-collar contractor who can either help her build her dreams or crush them.
Last, but not least, of the fantastic contemporary romances is male/male romance In the Fire, the second part of the In the Kitchen duology by Nikka Michaels and Eileen Griffin. After spending the last eight years apart, chefs Ethan Martin and Jamie Lassiter have to decide whether to face the fire to get what they want or live a lifetime apart. Don’t miss the chemistry and emotional angst between Ethan and Jamie in this explosive duology.
Two murders in two mansions in two weeks—what’s going on in Naples’ most glamorous neighborhood? For cozy mystery fans, Jean Harrington’s Murders by Design series should not be missed. Pick up her newest release, The Design Is Murder, or catch up with Designed for Death, The Monet Murders, Killer Kitchens and Rooms to Die For.
This month we’re thrilled to welcome Edie Harris to our publishing team with Blood Money, her romantic suspense series that follows the lives and loves of a family of spies. In Blamed, A Blood Money Novel, we meet the first of the siblings. Beth Faraday, a former assassin who wants nothing more than to stay retired, finds her new life turning anything but normal when sexy British spy and ghost from her past Raleigh Vick shows up in Chicago, determined to protect her from the bounty that’s been placed on her head.
Coming in December: Leah Braemel caps off her sexy cowboy romance trilogy, new author Caroline Kimberly is back with her sophomore historical romance, Michele Mannon concludes her knock-out MMA trilogy, and so much more!
Here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Editorial Director, Carina Press (Five years and counting!!)
Dedication
For Ben and Sue
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Excerpt
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Miranda Brookhaven’s icy hands tightened on the wheel as the building came into view. Without fanfare she pulled her sturdy compact car up to the curb, all the while willing the knots in her stomach to loosen enough for her to move.
After so many years, it was hard to believe she was back in Bitterthorn.
Lefty’s Garage looked just as it had when Coe had worked there part-time as a young adult—a two-story industrial red brick building that had once been the town’s fire station. Its twin service-bay doors had always been open during business hours, and it was the same now that Coe owned it. As she forced her wobbling legs to carry her into the garage, she noted subtle changes that had occurred in the seven years that she’d been way. A rotating sidewalk sign that had the word OPEN in neon letters oscillated in the chilly November breeze, while a sandwich-board-style sign next to the office offered a special on a lube and oil. Through the open bay doors a minivan was up on a hydraulic lift that hadn’t been there seven years ago. A fully stocked tire rack sat in front of a wall of tools, and in the other service bay a sporty ragtop was up on a heavy metal car ramp.
The sharp scent of oil stung the air as she closed in on a pair of long legs sheathed in grease-stained navy blue coveralls. The legs stuck out from underneath the ragtop’s passenger side, ending in jumbo-sized steel-toed work boots. A stream of vivid profanity came from underneath, and despite the acid burning a hole in her stomach, Miranda smiled. He’d been cussing at a car engine at her father’s small racetrack outside of San Antonio when she’d first crossed his path. Until that moment, she had forgotten this was his ritu
al.
When something’s broken, I cuss at it with everything I’ve got. It’s my own personal brand of persuasion.
Stopping well away from his feet, she listened to the profane muttering that went in time with an ominous sound of metal hammering on metal. She waited until he paused for breath to clear her throat, her fingers clutching the edge of her slouchy hobo bag in near panic. This had to be done, she reminded herself grimly, forcing ice into her heart to still its frantic rhythm. If she could just keep a tight lid on the volatile emotions this man could so easily ignite, she could get through this without picking up any more scars.
Another, louder clearing of her throat made the cursing pause.
“Be right with you. If you’re cold, you can wait in the office.”
That voice. For a fraction of a second she closed her eyes as the sound stabbed a knife into a heart that she’d assumed had died seven years ago. His voice was deeper now, a true man’s voice. She’d once lived to hear that resonating tone with its faint Texas twang. Now it filled her with the instinctive need to run.
Unfortunately running wasn’t an option.
After waiting so many years for this moment, it was finally time to break free of the past.
“I’m fine with waiting, Roscoe, but I doubt you’ll want me around that long.”
The hammering ceased. In fact, if there hadn’t been ambient noise from the street outside the open bay doors, she would have thought time had stopped along with her heart. For agonizing moments the legs sticking out from under the car were statue still before he slid out on the cushioned red mechanic’s creeper.
For the first time in seven years, she regarded the man of her nightmares, Coe Rodas.
The raw power of his dark eyes punched through her like a wrecking ball, but she refused to let it hurt. Nor did she smile at being the focus of those fathomless eyes as she once had, or itch to loosen the tie that held back his unruly shoulder-length black hair. Even when they’d been little more than kids, he’d always looked like he needed a shave. It was just the same now, his perpetual five o’clock shadow underscoring high, sculpted cheekbones he’d inherited from a long-ago Comanche ancestor. Silver hoops hung from both ears and there was a new silver barbell at the edge of his left eyebrow. A hint of what looked to be a black tribal tattoo peeked out of his collar on the right side, and on his left wrist was another, smaller tribal design.
Without even trying, her brain conjured up the image of her name in scrolling cursive on his arm just below the deltoid muscle, an image of her true signature claiming him as hers. At the time they’d gotten their tattoos, he had complained that it hadn’t been fair, as her name had more letters. Like an idiot, she had given in to his wish that his name, written in his own handwriting, cover the small of her back between the twin dimples just above her butt. For years she’d made herself forget the tattoo was there, always promising herself that she’d get it removed someday. But here she was, seven years later, suddenly feeling its presence as keenly as the day she’d dreamily marked her body as his.
Eighteen-year-olds were such idiots.
“Well, well. The true face of evil.” His usually golden-hued face looked pale as he pushed to his feet and towered over her. She balled her fists, resisting the urge to step back. “You’ve got a lot of balls showing up here, Miranda.”
He didn’t know the half of it. “How are you, Roscoe?”
His teeth snapped together. Never before had she been so certain that another human being wanted to bite her. “Don’t call me that. I hate that name.”
“I remember.”
“Do you?” It was nothing more than an ominous snarl. His black brows slanted fiercely in a sinister scowl while his eyes burned with a viciousness that was nothing short of heart-stopping. “Do you also remember that I threatened to throw your ass out the nearest door if I ever saw you again?”
“I’ll never forget a single word you said.” And that, more than her father’s betrayal, had broken her heart so irrevocably it had never managed to beat right again. The rage and gut-wrenching hatred that had gushed out of him was burned into her brain like a brand. It had been the rudest awakening of her life, but she’d needed it. He wasn’t her knight in shining armor, she was no princess, and happily ever after was a cruel fantasy. “Luckily for both of us, you won’t have to deal with me directly ever again after today, if that’s what you wish.”
“Seeing you now is more than enough to make me sick to my guts. Get the fuck off my property.”
“Now, now. No need for profanity.”
“And there’s no need for your prissy, snobby way of talking. Just hearing your voice makes me want to take an ice pick to my ears.”
She remembered how he used to tease her for sounding like a commercial for a posh finishing school. Funny how she’d never realized that he’d been sneering at her. “I can hardly help the way I talk. It’s part of who I am, and I won’t apologize for that.”
“You should apologize for breathing. Now get the fuck out of here before I pick you up and toss you into the street like the no-good piece of whore-trash that you are.”
She hated the thing inside her that flinched as he lashed out at her in that quiet voice that was so much worse than a yell. She shouldn’t still have any feeling left when it came to Coe, damn it. “Watch your mouth. I mean it.”
His eyes almost bugged out of his head in fury. “I’ll talk however the fuck I want in my own fucking garage!”
“Lovely. For what it’s worth, I’ll be more than happy to leave just as soon as I possibly can, so you can continue to talk however you want—”
“Leave now.”
“—but at the moment I have the legal obligation to drop off a copy of my father’s Last Will and Testament, and the phone number of the lawyer handling his estate. Thanks to the parameters outlined in this will, I’m required to stay within the town’s limits until you’ve done all you possibly can to clear this up. I do think, however, that you’d be more comfortable in dealing with the lawyer rather than me from this point on. Not to mention I wouldn’t be a sympathetic audience for you to play to. As of now, you no longer have any reason to cry about being a poor widdle victim.”
“Cry? Cry?” His grease-smudged hands bunched into powerful fists, and at last she did take a step back on an instinctive need to protect herself. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait. Are you saying your old man’s dead?”
“I’m told he died last week, the day before Halloween.”
“Good.”
She didn’t blink at the cruelty dripping in both the word, and his bare-knuckled desire to hurt her. Instead, she brought the papers in their protective binder out of her denim hobo bag, her expression meticulously blank. “The lawyer’s card is clipped to the front of the will. Of course, since I’m being forced to stay in town, you can always talk to me about this. But the lawyer really is the one you should talk to if you have any questions.”
He made no move to accept it. “I don’t want anything to do with your Brookhaven bullshit.”
“Charming alliteration, except that you really do want this, I assure you.” When he still made no move to accept the document, Miranda set it on a scarred worktable lining one side of the garage. “Take your time reading through it, but please don’t wait too long. There’s a sixty-day expiration date from the time of my father’s death. You have fifty-three days remaining to fulfill your end of the deal.”
“What deal? Wait, no. Don’t answer. I don’t want to know. The last time I had anything to do with you, I lost the only thing of value in my life.”
He’d also lost her, but of course he wasn’t talking about that. Of course not. “Fifty-three days,” she reiterated, heading for the door and the relative safety of her car. “The sooner you act, the sooner you’ll be able to forever shut the Brookhaven name out of your life.”
>
* * *
Garden Court. It sounded like an oasis of civility within the small town of Bitterthorn, peopled with monocle-wearing landed gentry who enjoyed aperitifs before dinner.
The name couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Tucked away on the southern edge of town, the ramshackle mobile-home park could only have been made worse if it were hit by a tornado. For years, the outgoing Mayor Weems had promised to spend more funds on improving the roads around and through the park. But the potholes filled with dirt and detritus, and the disintegration of the blacktop at the shoulderless edges spoke of neglect that stretched back into the last decade. Similarly unfulfilled were the promises of curbs and fencing, better storm drainage, more police presence, and public places such as play parks, outdoor basketball courts and greenbelts.
The list of what Garden Court needed was a mile long. But the one thing it now had was something no Bitterthorn resident would be able to believe.
A Brookhaven was moving in.
Miranda pulled up to the last, smallest mobile home in Garden Court, ignoring the pounding behind her eyes as she pocketed the keys of her whining, dyspeptic car. Coe. It was amazing how much he hadn’t changed in appearance or in attitude. For years she’d imagined coming face-to-face with him again, to the point where it had become both her favored fantasy and worst nightmare. She’d once read that the last person one thought of before sleep and the first person to fill one’s head upon waking was the most important person in their world. That might be true of Coe, but there was nothing good or healthy about her fixation. More than anything, she yearned to excise him from her existence like the poison he was. If she could do that...
Oh, if she could do that, what a dream come true that would be. She’d finally be free of all the crap her father had shackled her with.
Seeing Coe again had gone exactly as she’d known it would—an unvarnished hatefest. Her mouth tightened while her head thudded in time with the fury that had had years to seep into every corner of her soul. Unsurprisingly she was still cast as the villain in Coe’s world. That was fine. She had not one single drop of care left to give on that subject. As long as she lived, she’d never again care how that bastard viewed her.
