“What the bell kind of man do you think I am?”
Letter to Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Copyright
“What the bell kind of man do you think I am?”
Ross demanded harshly. “Do you really think I’d use you as a pawn in this game?”
“I wondered,” Lilah murmured. “But you’re not as ruthless as you make yourself out to be.”
His eyes caught and held hers, and her heart skipped a beat at the intensity of his gaze. Suddenly she was locked against the lean strength of his hard body, feeling weak as the heat of him surrounded her. The room faded away, and Lilah caught her breath, her lips parting as she stared up at him.
She wanted Ross Bradford. God, how she wanted him. It was reckless and crazy, but in the heat of the moment, she didn’t care. If he kissed her, she knew she would melt into his arms and forget about everything else in the world.
Even the reason she was here...
Dear Reader,
This is it, the final month of our wonderful three-month celebration of Intimate Moments’ fifteenth anniversary. It’s been quite a ride, but it’s not over yet. For one thing, look who’s leading off the month: Rachel Lee, with Cowboy Comes Home, the latest fabulous title in her irresistible CONARD COUNTY miniseries. This one has everything you could possibly want in a book, including all the deep emotion Rachel is known for. Don’t miss it.
And the rest of the month lives up to that wonderful beginning, with books from both old favorites and new names sure to become favorites. Merline Lovelace’s Return to Sender will have you longing to work at the post office (I’m not kidding!), while Marilyn Tracy returns to the wonderful (but fictional, dam it!) town of Almost, Texas, with Almost Remembered. Look for our TRY TO REMEMBER flash to guide you to Leann Harris’s Trusting a Texan, a terrific amnesia book, and the EXPECTANTLY YOURS flash marking Raina Lynn’s second book, Partners in Parenthood. And finally, don’t miss A Hard-Hearted Man, by brand-new author Melanie Craft. Your heart will melt—guaranteed.
And that’s not all. Because we’re not stopping with the fifteen years behind us. There are that many—and more!—in our future, and I know you’ll want to be here for every one. So come back next month, when the excitement and the passion continue, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Yours,
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
* * *
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
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* * *
A HARD-HEARTED MAN
MELANIE CRAFT
MELANIE CRAFT
is a freelance writer living in San Francisco. She read Gone With the Wind at age twelve, spent some time moping that she had missed the hoopskirt era, then discovered contemporary romance novels and never looked back again. She studied archaeology and English at Oberlin College, graduated in 1991 and set off to find some great stories to tell. In the past several years she has led safaris and taught Swahili in East Africa, excavated in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings, traveled solo across the Sinai and devoured as many books as she could find. She has been a pastry chef, a bartender, a house cleaner and a copywriter. A Hard-Hearted Man is her first published novel.
Chapter 1
By ten o’clock, the African heat had settled in for the day. It hung in a shimmering haze, caught between the morning sun and the burning white concrete of Kenyatta International Airport.
If there was a breeze, Dr. Lilah Evans didn’t feel it. The crowd pushed past, crushing her against the pay phone with the mass of several hundred yelling, shoving, sweating bodies all trying to clear paths in different directions. Taxi horns blared from the roundabout, and a muffled announcement crackled over the PA system. Lilah clamped one hand over her ear and hunched toward the phone, her fingers tight on the receiver as she strained to hear the voice on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry,” she said unsteadily. “What did you just say? Hugh Bradford what?”
“Passed away,” the man said, raising his voice, and in spite of the heat around her, Lilah felt icy fingers grip her stomach. She hadn’t misheard then. The stranger’s voice seemed thin and unreal in the buzz of noise surrounding her, and she took a deep breath, trying to think clearly.
“He died, for God’s sake,” said the man irritably, mistaking her silence for incomprehension. “Heart attack. Last week. Are you a friend?”
“It...was a business relationship. We were going to meet for the first time today. I’m Dr. Evans.”
“Sorry, I don’t know the name. What business did you have with Hugh?”
This man worked in the Bradford office and he didn’t know her name? Lilah frowned at the phone. “I’m the archaeologist from Wisconsin,” she said. “The one in charge of the excavation at Hugh’s ranch. And you are...?”
“This is Ross Bradford, Hugh’s son.”
“His son?” Lilah’s voice rose in surprise. In the year she’d been discussing her excavation with Hugh, he’d never once mentioned a son. She’d been under the distinct impression that he was childless. “I don’t remember hearing that he...”
She cut herself off, realizing that she was being rude. “Mr. Bradford, I’m so sorry about your father. I had no idea—”
“Obviously,” Ross Bradford said dryly. “But thank you. Did you just arrive from the States?”
“Yes, I’m at the airport now. The excavation is scheduled to start in a few days, and I came early to do the preliminary setup with Hugh.”
“I see. If I’d known about your plans, I’d have notified you about the changes before you left home. I’ve spent the past week trying to get my father’s papers in order, but he had his own unique idea of a filing system, and I’m running behind.”
“Oh, I understand,” Lilah began. “I can—”
“Fine,” Ross Bradford said briskly. “I’m sorry that your trip to Kenya had to turn out this way. You might want to ask a local travel agent about a safari while you’re here. It’s a good time of year to tour, and that would keep your visit from being a total loss.”
Lilah was suddenly too alarmed to be offended that he’d cut her off. What did he mean, “a total loss?”
“Mr. Bradford,” she said quickly. “It would be easy to fill you in on my arrangements with your father. My team is arriving tomorrow, and that way we can get started and not have to bother you again.”
“You don’t understand, Dr. Evans. It isn’t possible to have any kind of excavation on the land now. I’m selling it to the Kenyan government to be added to the Nairobi Wildlife Reserve.”
“You’re what?” Lilah grabbed the edge of the phone.
“I’m selling it.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“But you can’t do that!”
“No?” Ross Bradford’s voice was cool. “I have to disagree, since I am doing it. The initial papers were signed last week.”
“But your father and I have been discussing this excavation for months! This is a major project—”
“I’m sorry, but it’s no
t going to happen. You’ll have to find another project.”
“Mr. Bradford, you don’t understand. This is a critical site in African prehistory, not some dime-a-dozen thing! I have supplies and labor arriving to work there for a year!”
“Take them somewhere else. There’s a lot of land in Africa. I’m sure you’ll find another patch to dig up.”
“But you—”
“Look, I’ll be very clear. I couldn’t change the situation if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”
This can’t be happening. The call had taken on a nightmarish feel, except that even Lilah’s most anxious dreams about the project hadn’t gone this far. Ross Bradford had barely waited days after Hugh’s death to rid himself of the ranch.
“This project was important to your father,” she appealed. “I have letters I could show you. I can’t believe he never mentioned it.”
“Given my relationship with my father,” Ross Bradford said flatly, “I’m not at all surprised that we never discussed it. Now, if there isn’t anything else, I have a lot of work to do.”
“Wait, please, just let me explain how important—”
“I don’t have time,” he said. “Goodbye.”
He hung up, leaving Lilah staring dumbly at the receiver in her hand, her pulse pounding so loudly that she could feel it thudding in her temples.
She took a shaky breath and closed her eyes, trying not to panic. What was happening here? Who was this man? Not once had Hugh said a word about having a son, yet suddenly one had appeared from nowhere and informed her that he was selling her site. In a few curt sentences he had snatched away the most important thing in her life, the work of three long years, with a glib “sorry”—and then hung up on her!
With awkward fingers, Lilah fumbled in her pocket for another Kenyan coin and pushed it into the telephone slot. She’d come this far, and she was damned if she was going to let this cold bastard turn her away now.
He picked up the phone on the first ring. “Yes?”
“This is Lilah Evans.”
“I thought it might be. Look, Dr. Evans, we have nothing more to discuss. Believe that.”
“I don’t,” Lilah said stubbornly. “Your father and I had a deal, and I think you owe me a chance to make my case.”
“You’re wasting your time. I’m selling the ranch, and that’s the end of it.”
“But your father told me that the land has been in your family for eighty years! He was so proud of that. You can’t just sell it!”
“Lady, you know nothing about my family,” he said, his words suddenly sharpened with the first hint of genuine emotion she’d heard from him. “And I’m not interested in discussing my father or my decisions with you. If you want to excavate the ranch, talk to the government and get a federal research permit.”
“There’s a four-year waiting list for federal permits!” Lilah was having trouble breathing, and she wondered if he could hear the horror in her voice. Four years was more than enough time for someone else, with the connections and experience she lacked, to work out a deal with the government and move in on her site. Hugh had promised it to her, but if the ranch became government property, the excavation would be up for grabs.
“Then I recommend getting your application in soon,” he said, and the line clicked in Lilah’s ear.
At least she hadn’t cried in the middle of the airport, Lilah thought bleakly, as she sat on the edge of her double bed in Nairobi’s New Stanley Hotel, a damp tissue wadded in her hand. She had saved it for the privacy of her own room. She could, at least, be proud of that.
The Bradford ranch excavation had always seemed a little too good to be true, from the day three years ago when it had literally been dropped onto her desk like a gift from fate. Two city detectives had knocked on the door of her university lab one quiet spring afternoon, carrying an assortment of stone tools just confiscated in the arrest of a major black-market antiquities dealer. The tools were piled in a shoe box like a child’s rock collection, and before Lilah could protest, they were unceremoniously dumped into a dusty heap on top of her half-graded Anthropology 101 essays.
“Looks like a buncha rocks to me,” one of the men remarked as she switched on her desk lamp. “Funny what some people pay big money for.”
To the untrained eye, the pear-shaped stones were just oddly tapered rocks, flattish, gray and generally uninteresting, but as Lilah turned them over and over under the light, studying the pattern of stone flakes hewn from the edges and the odd mottling of the material, her initial curiosity gave way to astonishment and then to breathless excitement. Various tests over the next few days confirmed what she had barely dared to let herself hope: that the age and unique style of the tools strongly suggested that they had been looted from an unexcavated East African site.
It was hers for the taking—a junior professor’s wildest dream.... All she had to do was find it. The chance of successfully tracing the tools back to their origin was slim enough to seem ridiculous, but the arrested dealer had plea-bargained by naming his sources, and from that first step, the trail back to Africa had slowly come together.
Two years later, Lilah had her site, a shallow canyon on the twenty-thousand-acre Bradford ranch, one hour’s drive southwest of Nairobi.
Hugh Bradford, a crusty old rancher of British descent, whose family had been in Kenya since the early colonial days, had finally agreed to the excavation, but it took Lilah another exhausting year and a half of grant proposal writing, endowment hunting and shameless begging to pull together enough money to finance the excavation. By that point the dream had become a powerful thing. Somewhere along the line it had risen up and swallowed her, and she had eagerly dazzled herself with images of tenure and fame. Twenty-eight years old and head of a major excavation; cited in all the textbooks; in hot demand on the lecture circuit—it would be the ultimate “I told you so,” spectacular enough to justify every hard choice she’d made along the way. See what I’ve done? she could say to her parents, who understood glossy photos in national magazines, but only nodded politely at her collection of dry academic papers. See what I’ve done? she could finally say to Jeff. The stress, the work... the late hours in the lab...it was all worth it in the end! You gave up because you never really loved me.
The dream, strong and swift as a river current, had carried her through the breakup, through all the ugly scenes of betrayal and blame. It had numbed her when Jeff announced that he was moving out; that he was in love with a twenty-year-old art major who loved to cook and was never too tired for sex. It had stiffened her spine, dried her eyes and sharpened her aim as she pulled the engagement ring from her finger and flung it at his head.
And the dream had been there to fill the void Jeff left behind. The Bradford ranch excavation had become everything to Lilah—her vision, her salvation, her reason for getting out of bed in the morning. It had promised her the world and never threatened to leave her.
Until now. Was this how it ended?
No! No, damn it. Never. Not while she could stand and fight. She swiped fiercely at her nose, and rose to pace the small rectangle of her room, kicking a discarded towel out of her way.
To save her excavation, she had to convince Ross Bradford to postpone closing the sale. But how? How could she make him hear what he was determined to ignore? He didn’t care about her project, wasn’t interested in her arguments. What would it take to capture his attention and buy herself enough time to sneak around the edges of his resistance and force him to understand the scientific gold mine buried on his ranch?
What kind of man was Ross Bradford? His voice echoed in her memory, the tone impatient as he fended off her horrified reaction to the news about Hugh and the ranch. Curt, no-nonsense. Not a man to try to sway with passionate declarations. His phone manner suggested a man who wanted facts, results. What if she dropped the emotional angle and presented him with cold, hard evidence? She could show him some of the actual tools from the site. If he could see and feel the evidenc
e of what lay hidden on his property, he’d have to understand that it was worth exploring. And even Ross Bradford couldn’t be completely immune to the almost mystical awe of holding stones worked by ancient human hands.
It was a long shot, but it was likely to be her only shot. And the first of many problems was that the original stone tools weren’t with her. They were neatly labeled and stored in a lab drawer back in Wisconsin, and she had nothing in her luggage older than her favorite college sweatshirt.
She stopped in front of the window, tension tightening her shoulders as she stared out over the traffic-jammed streets of urban Nairobi. She needed stone tools, she needed them fast, and an hour’s drive beyond the concrete Melanie Craft and the skyscrapers would take her to the one place on earth where she could find them.
A plan began to take shape in her mind. It was crazy, dangerous and illegal, but what was the alternative? To sit here and watch her life crumble around her? She’d been gambling on this project for three years, and Ross Bradford had just turned it into an all-or-nothing game. This was no time to worry about propriety. After all, at this point, what did she have left to lose?
The main road of the Bradford ranch stretched for miles, rising and falling over the rolling savanna until it disappeared into darkness. Silver moonlight glazed the grassy African plains, and umbrella-shaped acacia trees stood in shadow, silhouetted against the sky. The air was spicy, slightly musky and the whisper of the grass mingled with faint animal sounds carried on the wind.
Lilah gripped the straps of her backpack, glancing around nervously as she walked. In the time she’d spent dreaming of her first visit to the ranch, never once had she imagined that she would come at midnight, creeping up the road like a criminal.
The wind gusted, making the long grass rustle as if an animal were slinking through it. The shadows beside the road were long and dark, and it was easy to imagine yellow eyes hidden there, peering out, watching her....
A Hard-Hearted Man Page 1
