by Diana Palmer
“Ten.” Jackie looked at her with sad eyes. “My uncle is nice. I just don’t want to be here,” she said harshly. “I want to be with my mother, and I can’t. She said she loves me, but she didn’t believe me, and I was telling the truth!” She bit her lower lip and tears welled up in her eyes.
Gaby got out of her chair, pulled Jackie up and hugged her, rocked her, while she cried.
“We all have storms,” she said to the weeping girl. “They pass. Life can be sweet. You have to learn to sip it. Not gulp it down. You live one day at a time and live it as if it was the last day you had. I find that it works very well, as a philosophy.”
“I guess it’s not such a bad way,” Jackie said after a minute. She pulled away and looked embarrassed. “Thanks,” she added huskily.
Gaby just smiled. “Sometimes all you need to get a new perspective is a hug,” she teased.
Jackie laughed. She wiped her eyes, smearing her makeup down her cheeks. “Mom isn’t the sort to hug people. Neither is my uncle. When my daddy died, Mom went off with a new boyfriend. I felt lost. I still do.”
“Your uncle loves you,” Gaby said. “Even if he doesn’t go around hugging you. But you have to meet him halfway.”
Jackie made a face. “I guess so.”
Gaby cocked her head and looked at the young girl. “You know, you really do have a unique look. It’s not at all bad.”
Jackie flushed. “You really think so? I mean, most boys think I’m weird.”
“I’m weird, too. I don’t care what people think.”
Jackie laughed for the first time since Gaby had arrived on the scene. “I noticed. Bagpipes?” she asked, eyes very wide.
“My forebears on my mother’s side were Highland Scots who migrated to America. You might say that bagpipes are my ethnic music.”
Jackie replied, “Well, to each his own.” She looked up. “I really hate bagpipes.”
“I really hate rap. So we’re even,” she teased.
Jackie smiled. “I suppose so.” She turned away and then turned back. “Thanks. For listening. Nobody else ever did.”
She went down the hall to her room before Gaby could say another word.
* * *
NICHOLAS CHANDLER CAME home late and in a temper. Jackie had long since gone to her room, and Gaby was in hers. She heard the boss muttering curses in the living room.
She put on a robe, her long hair trailing down her back over it, and padded barefoot into the living room.
“Good heavens, what bit you?” she asked.
He turned. “What the hell are you doing up?” he shot at her, and he looked fierce, with his dark eyes blazing.
“It’s hard to sleep with people turning the air blue. The walls aren’t that thick.”
He glared at her.
She held up both hands. “I didn’t do whatever it is that you’re raging about.”
He put down his briefcase, hard. “My firm is representing a millionaire whose wife attempted to kill for his inheritance.” His lips made a thin line. “So tonight she came to his front door all in tears, begging for forgiveness, and he let her in.”
She let out a breath. “So which hospital did they take him to?”
He glared at her.
She lifted her hands and let them fall. “Simple deduction. Was he raised by morons?”
“No. By a saintly woman who taught him that anything can be forgiven.”
“And most everything can, but some things shouldn’t,” she replied. “I guess she didn’t tell him that.”
“He’s on life support,” he said thinly. “There were no witnesses, and she says he had a horrible fall, all by himself, from the second-story balcony.”
“Did they look for fingerprints on his back?”
“This is not funny!” he bit off.
She lifted both eyebrows. “No, but it’s predictable. Will he live, do they think?”
“He was doing well until someone disconnected his oxygen.”
“Let me guess. She was the only person in the room.”
“Her and three hospital personnel. Just not all at the same time.” He ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I should have been a vacuum cleaner salesman.”
She burst out laughing.
Her twinkling eyes drained some of the fury out of him. He shook his head. “You think reasonable people will act reasonably,” he said. “They never do.”
“You should hire him a bodyguard.”
“I just did,” he replied. “She’s going to spend every night and day in his room until he dies or gets released.”
“You hired a female bodyguard?”
“Men are too easy to get around,” he pointed out.
She laughed. “I’m so glad you said that instead of me.”
“It’s sadly true.” He went to the bar and poured himself a scotch, with one cube of ice from the small fridge that flanked it. “It’s been a hell of a night.”
“Who called you?” she asked. “Not the ex-wife, I assume?”
“No. The police detective assigned to the case. He’s a distant cousin. We keep in touch.”
“Probably saved his life,” she guessed.
“No doubt.” He sat down, one big hand going to loosen his tie and the top buttons of his spotless white shirt.
“I don’t suppose they could arrest the ex-wife on suspicion?”
“She’s not an ex,” he pointed out. “And not without probable cause. It’s a he-said, she-said situation.”
“I’m truly happy that nobody has tried to kill me yet,” she murmured, hands in the pockets of her thick, very concealing bathrobe.
“Why would they want to?” he asked and seemed really curious. “You’re obviously not rich or you wouldn’t be working for me.”
Appearances could be deceiving, she almost said, but then she smiled instead. “Right on,” she told him. “I guess money brings its own issues.”
“It does. I avoid parties like the plague unless I’m required to go to one. I’m on several spinster most-wanted lists around town.”
“Obviously because of your intensely seductive and pleasant manner,” she murmured.
He glared at her. “You’re not my type,” he said at once.
Her eyes opened wide. “I’m not? Thank you! I was really worried!”
The glare got worse.
“Well, if you’re quite through turning the air blue, I’m going back to bed.”
“You might as well,” he returned with a surly glance. “Unless you think Prince Charming might ring the doorbell looking for you.”
“Princes are a figment,” she pointed out. “Besides that, they live this regimented, routine life that shackles them to public appearances and charity causes. I’d never be able to adjust to that sort of imprisonment.”
He wondered how she knew about the lives of princes, but then he realized that the internet was a great source of information and he dismissed it from his mind.
“You don’t want to be a princess and have servants and a Ferrari and your very own couture house of design to dress you?”
“I’m quite happy in old blue jeans, taking care of myself,” she pointed out. “People who marry for money, earn it.”
“Wise, and so young,” he chuckled.
“I’m not that young,” she returned. “I hope your bodyguard sleeps light. The victim’s wife sounds like a determined assassin.”
“The room is wired like dynamite,” he said with a faintly smug glance. “If she tries anything, she’ll be doing some very hard time, whether he lives or not. And I got a warrant, to make sure it would hold up in court.”
“Good for you. People who kill for money are even worse than people who marry for it,” she said solemnly, and she knew more about that than he might realize. She’d been sold for money by
her own grandfather, who would do anything for money, like the cousin who was after her inherited stocks and bonds. “Money is of so little consequence in the scheme of things,” she said absently. “I never understood the obsession some people have with it.”
“You’d have fit right in with those beatniks you were telling Jackie about,” he pointed out.
She laughed. “I actually prefer coffeehouses to restaurants. There is the matter of radical politicism that the beatniks were famous for. I don’t want to blow up things.”
“I wish the world at large shared that sentiment. We’ve had far too many people who think violence is the answer to any problem.”
“Too much television,” she said, standing erect. “Fie on video games and wrestling matches and other provokers of radicalism!”
“Go the hell to bed,” he muttered.
“Just quoting the pundits,” she said defensively, and with a grin.
“Like they know anything,” he scoffed. “Opinions are like—”
“Yes, I know,” she interrupted, “and everybody’s got one.” She chuckled.
“Aren’t your feet cold?” he asked, frowning at her bare feet under the long concealing gown and robe.
She wiggled her toes. “A little, but I love shag carpet,” she said. “It feels so good to walk on.”
He laughed. “I’ll bet you stand outside in thunderstorms.”
“How did you know?”
“It takes one to know one,” he said simply. “I was driving from Jax to St. Augustine, my mind on a case, and I didn’t realize that the only vehicles I was meeting were cable and phone trucks and emergency personnel. It wasn’t until I parked at the courthouse in St. Augustine that I realized why. There were gale-force winds.”
She laughed. “I’ve done that, too,” she said. “Stood on the beach and felt the wind whipping through my hair while the waves slammed against the shore, whitecaps foaming. I loved it.”
He cocked his head, studying her. “What beach?”
She had to think fast. It had actually been on the Riviera. “Biloxi,” she fished up.
“That’s not how you pronounce it,” he pointed out, and now he looked suspicious. “It’s pronounced ‘bi-lux-ie’ by the natives.”
“Well, I’m not a native and I can pronounce it how I like,” she said with a grin.
“I guess.”
“Anyway, I liked the beach at Panama City best. Such a shame how much those cities on the Gulf of Mexico have changed after all the devastating hurricanes.”
“Everything changes,” he pointed out. “It’s the only real constant in life.”
“I like change.”
His dark eyebrows rose.
“Quarters best, but I’m partial to dimes also.”
He glared at her.
She held up both hands. “Right. Bed. Please, no more nonstop cursing. And I hope your client survives, if for no other reason than to see his wife being shredded by the prosecuting attorney.”
He chuckled. “Our DA would have her for lunch, without ketchup.”
“I expect he’s a friend of yours,” she said. “You know, sharks congregating together...? Going away now!” she added quickly, turned and made a beeline back into her room.
He waited until the door closed before he started laughing.
Don’t miss Notorious by Diana Palmer, available now wherever Harlequin books and ebooks are sold.
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It’s Christmas and rancher Creed Cooper must work with his rival, Wren Maxfield—and tempers flare! But animosity becomes passion and, now, Wren is pregnant. Creed wants a marriage in name only. But as desire takes over, this may be a vow neither can keep...
Read on for a sneak peek at Claiming the Rancher’s Heir by New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates!
Copyright © 2020 by Diana Palmer
New York Times bestselling author
DIANA PALMER
welcomes you to read the fiery Wyoming Men series!
True love is in store for these cowboys.
“Palmer proves that love and passion can be found even in the most dangerous situations.”
—Publishers Weekly on Untamed
Order your copies today!
www.HQNBooks.com
Claiming the Rancher’s Heir
by Maisey Yates
One
Creed Cooper was a cowboy. A rich, successful cowboy from one of the most well-regarded families in Logan County. He also happened to be tall, muscular and in possession of the kind of good looks a lot of women liked.
As a result, nearly nothing—or no one—was off-limits to him.
No one except Wren Maxfield.
Maybe that was why every time he looked at her his hands itched.
To unwind that tight bun from her hair. To make that mouth, which was always flattened in disapproval—at least around him—get soft and sexy and get all over his body.
And he had that itch a lot, considering he and Wren were the representatives for their respective families’ vineyards. Rivals, in fact.
And she hated him.
She hated him so much that when she saw him her eyes flared with a particular kind of fire.
Fair enough, since he couldn’t really stand her either.
But somehow, years ago, a piece of that dislike inside him had twisted and caught hard in his gut and turned into an intensity of another kind entirely.
He was obsessed.
Obsessed with the idea he might be able to use that fire in her eyes to burn up the sheets between them.
Instead, he had to listen to her heels clicking on the floor as she paced around the showroom of Cowboy Wines, looking like a smug cat, making him wait to hear whatever plan it was she’d come to tell him about.
“Are you listening to me?” she asked suddenly, her green cat eyes getting sharp.
She was dressed in a tight-fitting red dress that fell to the top of her knees. It had a high, wide neck, and while it didn’t show a lot of skin, it hugged her full breasts so tight it didn’t leave a lot to the imagination.
Even if it had, his imagination was damn good. And it was willing to work for Wren. Overtime.
She had on those ridiculous spiked heels, too. Red, like the dress. He wanted to see her in only those heels.
He wasn’t into prissy women. Not generally. He liked a more practical girl. A cowgirl who would be at home on his ranch.
Wren looked like she never left her family showroom, all glass walls and wrought iron furniture. Maxfield Vineyards was the premier wine brand for people who were up their own asses.
And still, he wanted her.
That might be her greatest sin.
That she tested control he’d had firmly leashed for the last eighteen years and made him want to send it right to hell as he burned in her body.
Of all the reasons to hate Wren Maxfield, wanting her and not being able to do a damn thing to make himself stop was number one on the list.
He looked around the Cowboy Wines showroom, the barrels with glass tabletops on them, the heavy, distressed beams that ran the length of the room.
And then there was him: battered jeans and cowboy boots, a hat for good measure.
Everything a woman like Wren would hate.
A testament to just why there was no reason to carry a burning torch for her fine little body.
Too bad his own body was a dumbass.
“I wasn’t listening at all,” he said, making sure to drawl it. As slow as possible. He was rewarded with a subtle flare of heat in those eyes. “Make it more interesting next time, Wren. Maybe do a dance.”
“The only dancing I’ll ever do is on your grave, Creed.”
The sparring sent a kick of lust through him. They did this every time they were in a r
oom together. Every damn time. No matter that he knew he shouldn’t indulge it.
But hell, he was afraid the alternative was stripping her naked and screwing her against the nearest wall, and that wasn’t a real option.
So verbal sparring it was.
“What did I die of?” he asked. “Boredom?”
Those eyes shot sparks at him. “It was tragic. You were found with a high heel protruding out of your chest.” Her magic lips curved upward and he felt it like she’d pressed them against his neck.
“Any suspects so far?”
“Your own smart mouth. Are you going to listen to me or not?”
“You’re already here. So am I. Might as well.”
He leaned back in his chair and, for effect, put his boots up on the table.
Her top lip curled up into a sneer, and that thrilled him just us much as if she’d crossed the room to straddle his lap. Okay, maybe not just as much, but he loved that he got to her.
“Fantastic. As you know, things at Maxfield Vineyards are changing. My father is no longer the owner. Instead, my sister Emerson, her husband, Holden, and our sister Cricket and I now have ownership.
“This plan is Emerson’s idea. To be clear. As she is the person who oversees our broader brand.” She waved a hand in the air as if to distance herself yet further from whatever she was about to say. “I had to defer to her on the subject. She doesn’t think a rivalry is beneficial for any of us. She thinks we should join forces. A large-scale event where both of our wines are represented. As you know, wine tours and the whole wine trail in general have become increasingly popular.”
“A rising tide lifts all boats and gets more people drunk?”
“Basically,” she said.
“I’m not really sure I see the benefit to me,” he said. “Seeing as everything is going well here.”
“Everyone wants to expand,” she said, looking at him as if he had grown a second head.
“Do they?”
“Yes,” she responded. “Everyone.”
“Well, the way I see it, our business is running well. We have just the right amount of staff, every family member has a position in the company, and it supports us very well. At a certain point, Wren, more is more. And that’s it.”
