Jan Bowles's Blog, page 19

New cover art LOVE SLAVE TO THE SICILIAN BILLIONAIRE

I just had to share my new cover by Les Byerley. He's created an awesome, sensual depiction, of the 4th installment of my Guilty Pleasures Series.
LOVE SLAVE TO THE SICILIAN BILLIONAIRE
Coming 4th November 2011to Bookstrand

Read the 1st Chapter of BOUGHT FOR THE BILLIONAIRE'S BED here

BOUGHT FOR THE BILLIONAIRE'S BEDGuilty Pleasures 2
JAN BOWLESCopyright © 2011




Chapter One
The hot, stale air forced its way along the platform as the train drew into the subway station. It did little to cool Mia Johansson down and messed up her hair in the process.

The heat felt oppressive.

The automatic doors opened, and she stepped into the carriage. Already it seemed filled to bursting point with passengers. As they piled in, they pressed against her back, fighting for their own personal space. Not a spare inch remained as the doors finally closed shut with a loud swish. The train lurched into life as it began moving from the station.

Holding onto the handrail above her head, Mia concluded that rush hour was not the best time to travel on the New York subway, but she had to get to work the same as everyone else.

Mia reflected on the serious student debts she had amassed during her three-year degree course at the Institute of Fine Arts. At the age of twenty-five, now was the time to see her hard work start to bear fruit. It was time to reap the rewards of her education, and find a job that paid considerably more than her current position at a bespoke dry cleaner. She'd worked at Madame Monique's for the last four years. Unfortunately for her, finding other employment had proved far more difficult than she'd imagined.

Her parents had encouraged her to leave Sweden in order to achieve her ambitions. Her father had called her min lilla sparv, "my little sparrow," and had wanted her to spread her wings and soar as high as a bird. They had never stood in her way.

For the past few years, she had sweated blood to achieve her ambitions. During her studies she had worked at the dry cleaners in order to keep a roof over her head. The work was oppressive, smelly, and on occasions, downright dangerous. How she longed to leave that stuffy, soul-destroying atmosphere far behind her.

As she glanced around the carriage at the other passengers, they seemed intent on avoiding eye contact. Their faces wore blank expressions, and they looked devoid of any happiness. Surely they hadn't always been this way? They must have had hopes and dreams just like she did. When had they given up? Why had they given up?

Mia had hope, ambition, and a passion for life. She'd set her sights high. Obviously, to achieve her goals, she needed money. A moot point at the moment because sadly, money was the one thing she had very little of. Once she became financially secure, the world would open up for her.

There was so much she wanted to see. The Sphinx at Giza. The Bridge of Sighs in Venice. The Grand Canyon in Arizona. She wanted to hear a great soprano sing Madame Butterfly. She wanted to mix with the great and the good. Rub shoulders with movie stars. Discover great works of art. Have mind-blowing sex.

She breathed in. The list was endless. Shaking her head, she looked around the carriage once more. She wondered if she were being naïve. Perhaps the hundred or so people crammed into this small carriage like sardines had had dreams just like hers. Maybe the harsh reality of everyday living had crushed their desire for life altogether.

Mia comforted herself with the knowledge that she had plenty of hope for the future. She refused to be ground down. Something good would turn up soon. She was sure of it.

* * * *
Trent Mavers folded his newspaper and placed it on the breakfast table. He stared blankly at the New York skyline. He had a bird's-eye view from the restaurant window on the twenty-first floor. He drummed his fingers on the table as he idly looked around.

Excitement, that's what he needed. He was bored of the same old social gatherings. The same old faces with the same old conversation. Since Melissa and he had parted some four months ago, he'd been itching to leave New York altogether. He just had one final engagement to see to, then he could leave the New York social scene far behind him.

It had been Melissa who had introduced him to the great and the good of New York society. At first it had been entertaining, but as time had gone on, his enthusiasm had dwindled. Melissa had noticed his sudden withdrawal. At first she had put it down to overwork, but eventually she'd figured out the truth. She just didn't excite him anymore. She didn't turn him on.

Their last conversation had been full of vitriol and accusations. You don't see me as a person, Trent. You don't see me at all. Maybe he hadn't been fair to Melissa. She was good-looking but not, it seemed, his type.

Trent rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the stubble rasp beneath his fingertips. He thought of all the places that he'd like to visit. Perhaps he'd return to his villa on St. Lucia. Spend a few weeks there and then explore the delights of the Caribbean on his yacht. A vacation would restore the blood to his veins. Then he could return to the city a little more fortified for the cut and thrust of the markets. He dealt directly in securities, whether they be art, stocks and shares, or commodities. As a trader, it was his job to second-guess how the market would react in a day, a month, a year from now, and he'd amassed a fortune by doing just that. He could afford to take time off. He shook his head and laughed to himself. With the modern world of today, he wouldn't even be that far away. So long as he had Internet connection, he could still deal and keep an eye on the markets from anywhere in the world.

* * * *
Mia had worked at Madame Monique's for four years. The dry cleaner offered a bespoke and very expensive service. They cleaned all the top haute couture dresses and suits worn by the elite of New York society.

Monica Weston, her boss and owner, showed her displeasure as Mia entered the surprisingly opulent dry cleaners at just two minutes past nine.

"You're late," she snarled, her mouth firming into a thin line of disapproval.

Monica was in one of her moods. Something had obviously upset her and not just her lateness. Mia knew from experience that it was best to keep quiet and refrain from answering back. In the past it had only made matters worse. Instead she put her purse behind the counter and began sifting through the many garments that were ready for collection.

Monica had larger-than-life coifed hair to go with her larger-than-life personality. Great cascades of dark black hair vied for attention on top of her head, along with one bright swathe of gray from temple to ear on the left side. It reminded Mia of the stripes on a zebra or, dare she think, a skunk. In the time she'd worked here, Mia had never quite plucked up the courage to ask if it was natural or dyed.

At the age of fifty-two, Monica obviously looked after herself with all the latest cosmetics and manicures, but she never got it quite right. The colors she wore just seemed a little too bright, and her clothes all seemed one size too small. Perhaps she was trying to kid herself that she hadn't put on any weight in the last few years. Only Mia knew different. Take the bright pink two-piece suit she was wearing. The buttons barely held the jacket in place, and the skirt was all rucked up around the waist.

Monica cleared her throat. "I'm sorry I snapped, Mia, but I've had some rather bad news."

Mia looked at her more closely. It was unusual for her boss to apologize. "I hope the news is not too bad, Monica."

"I'm afraid so, Mia. I can't go to the 3G charity ball on Friday."

"Oh, why ever not? You were so looking forward to it." For the past two months, Monica had spoken of little else. What she was going to wear, and which celebrity she was going to rub shoulders with.

"I know, but Karenna has broken her leg in a car accident. I'm flying out to Chicago this afternoon to look after my grandchildren."

If there was one thing that Monica talked about more than the charity ball, it was her grandchildren.
"I'm really sorry to hear that, Monica. Will you be gone long?"

"A few days, at least, until her husband can arrange some leave. I'm sorry to dump it on you, but I'm afraid you'll have to run the shop on your own for a while. I know you're more than capable."

"Yes, of course, Monica."

She then dug into her shoulder bag and pulled out a small envelope. She waved it around. "My tickets to the 3G ball. Cost me over a thousand dollars, but you know what they say, money talks. That's the only thing people respect these days." She shook her head. "What a waste. Maybe next year I'll be able to go. It would have been nice representing Madame Monique's at such an illustrious event."

Mia had longed to go, too. She had become increasingly interested in the art that would be displayed. An idea began to form. "Maybe I could go to the event in your place. I'd be more than happy to represent you." Mia surprised herself by speaking her thoughts out loud.

When Monica looked at her, disbelief showed in her eyes, and she shook her head in disdain. "I'm astonished, Mia. I thought you had more sense than that. You'd only make a fool of yourself."

Mia felt as though Monica had dealt her a low-body blow, and the air rushed from her lungs in a loud gasp.

Monica continued, "What could you possibly know about a social gathering of such magnitude?" Abruptly, she tore the tickets in two, and then dropped them straight into a wastebasket.

"That's rather unfair, Monica."

"Perhaps, but it's for the best. Your clothes, your hair all say student, Mia. It would never do. Now, I think I've thought of everything. You have my telephone number in case of emergency should anything go wrong. Only use it if absolutely necessary though."

"Of course, Monica. I'm more than capable. I won't bother you."

"You are, Mia, and if I was a little harsh over the gala tickets then I'm sorry, but it's always best to stick with what you know. One needs style and panache to pull off such a social gathering."

Mia smiled, a fake smile, to stop the bile that threatened to spill from her mouth. She comforted herself with the knowledge that Monica wouldn't know style if it sat up and bit her ass.

Once Monica had finally gone, she stared into the wastepaper basket. She could just make out the edge of one of the tickets under all the scrapped tags. She leaned down and removed the torn fragments from the bin. She knew from the billboards around the city that the distinguished gala would be auctioning off significant pieces of art. It had been billed as the event of the year. How she dreamed of being there, too.
The huge advertisements seemed to be everywhere. They showed two people, a man and a woman, admiring works of art. A glass of champagne held in their hands. The caption underneath read,

The Greatest Gift of all is to Give.The 3G gala event. Taking poverty off the streets.
Some great works of art from both living and dead artists had been donated and were to be auctioned off to raise money for homeless people. Mia knew Monica had absolutely no interest whatsoever in the plight of the homeless. She just wanted to rub shoulders with rich and famous people. The words social climber could have been coined just for her. All the great and the good of New York were going, along with celebrities and movie stars.

One of the paintings illustrated in the advert was simply fascinating. She knew it was by an up-and-coming artist called Hans Vergen from Cologne in Germany. What she would give to be able to study it more closely. She placed the ripped tickets on the counter and stared at them. Surely now she had the means to go? But what about her shabby student clothes? Monica had been right, she'd certainly stick out like a sore thumb. Her student attire just wasn't fit to be seen at such a high-class social gathering, and without any spare money, she couldn't afford to buy something more sophisticated, either. She sighed resignedly. The event was just two days away. Perhaps, it just wasn't meant to be.

Looking around her work environment, Mia's gaze was drawn to a set of clothes that had been left for dry cleaning the previous day. The bespoke five-star service had been requested for all three items. All the garments were of the highest quality and in her size, too.

On autopilot, she pulled each dress from the rack and held it up. A red Bellini dress in particular caught her eye. With a sweetheart neckline, it tapered in at the waist and flowed out into a beautiful swirl. An idea began to form in her mind, and then she shook her head. No, it was too risky and outlandish. She'd never get away with it.

Would she?

If you'd like to read more click HERE

Read the 1st Chapter of ROPED: THE COWBOY MAVERICKS here

ROPEDThe Cowboy Mavericks
JAN BOWLESCopyright © 2011




Chapter One
As the sun grew ever lower in the sky, Brett Donovan could just make out a lone rider approaching on horseback, a dog running alongside. The slant of his hat, silhouetted against the darkening umber sky. He'd recognize a Maverick anywhere.

The dog bounded up the steps and headed straight for him, nearly knocking him over. "Max, my old buddy." He roughly patted the old hound's head, glad for a familiar friendly face. The dog held up his paw as if to say hi.

He turned to the rider. "Cody."

The man nodded a greeting as he pulled his horse up close by the verandah.

"Brett."

An uneasy silence ensued as they both stared at one another. Cody, the eldest of the Maverick brothers, had filled out quite a bit. He guessed he must be thirty-one by now, the same age as himself.

"News travels fast 'round here, Cody."

"We heard you were coming back."

"Well, you heard right."

"Sorry about your Pa. It comes to us all in the end." He then motioned to the dog. "Been looking after the hound since your Pa passed on."

"Then I thank you. Didn't rightly know if he was still alive."

"Planning on staying long?"

Brett knew the conversation was being turned toward what he'd really come to say. It looked like nothing had changed at the Maverick ranch. The four brothers had always taken a keen dislike to him. He guessed it was to be expected. There had been a running feud between the Maverick ranch and the Donovan ranch for the best part of a century. It had all started with a dispute over access to water.

"I don't know how long I plan on staying. It all depends."

"On what?"

"On the reception I get around here. You know what folks are like."

"Well, I guess you might as well know me and my brothers don't want you sniffing around Fay. She's happy, and we want her to stay that way."

Just the sound of her name keened his senses. The Maverick brothers had never liked the idea that Fay had a crush on him.

"If she's happy, then you've got nothing to fear from me."

Cody stared at him for a long time before continuing, "Guess not. Just so long as we understand one another."

"Loud and clear, Cody."

"Be seeing you." With a flick of the reins, he turned the horse around. Dust billowed from its thunderous hooves as he rode away.

So Fay was still there, and by the sound of it, single, or at least not married yet. If only to make the Maverick brothers pissed, maybe he'd stay around just a little bit longer than originally planned.

"Come on, Max. I think you and I deserve a nice, juicy steak each. Things are starting to look up around here."

He pushed open the door and stared into the gloom of the old ranch house. Almost, just almost, he could swear it hadn't changed in the seven years he'd been away. The grandfather clock still stood at the foot of the stairs. The leather chesterfield couch, worn and old, sagged just as it always had in front of the fireplace. Even the pictures remained in position. Time had indeed stood still.

He let the door swing shut behind him and walked further inside. When his father had disowned him some seven years ago, he'd never thought that he would leave him the ranch. He'd been shocked to find that blood was in fact thicker than water.

He removed his hat and tossed it onto the couch then picked up the framed portrait of his father from the mantelpiece.

"You old coot. Like Momma said, you were as stubborn as your father and his father before him." He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin then kneaded his fingers into the back of his neck. The journey back to Kansas had taken a whole day, what with pulling the horse trailer and the stops he'd had to make. He was exhausted.

"Well, I guess you'll never give me an apology now."

He placed the photograph back on the mantelpiece and turned away from his father's image. Maybe the old man had left him the ranch to make amends. His way of trying to put things right. It was a start, he supposed. Though he wasn't about to feel sorry for him. He felt a sadness that his father had died alone, but he'd brought it all on himself.

Perhaps, coming back should be a short-lived experience. He'd be better to just sell the ranch and move on. Black Creek held far too many bad memories. The ghosts from the past came crowding in. His plan of action now would be to move fast and make a quick exit.

* * * *
Fay breathed in. That tight knot of tension had been there ever since she'd learned that Brett Donovan had come back to Black Creek. The closer she got to his ranch, the tighter the coil grew in her stomach.

She urged the gray appaloosa faster. "Come, Cinders, just a little farther. I'm the one feeling nervous, not you." It was funny how animals picked up one's mood.

When Brett had left Black Creek some seven years before, it had felt like the bottom had dropped out of her world. Now that he was back, she didn't know how she felt. She guessed that was the reason why she was visiting today. See if any feelings were left between them.

The ranch grew closer until she finally drew up outside and dismounted.

"Anyone home?" she called. Surely, he would have heard her approach? Maybe he was out back. Fay took the still-warm apple pie from her saddlebag and walked around the side of the ranch house. "Brett," she called again.

The fly screen swung open, and he stepped out onto the decking. It shut behind him, and he leaned against it.
Brett had been twenty-four when she'd last seen him. He'd been a man then, but he was even more of a man now. Standing about six-three and weighing some two hundred pounds, he was dressed in tight jeans and black denim shirt. He appeared broader than she remembered. Her gaze drifted over him. His fair hair was kissed by the sun and fell about his manly features in streaks of gold. The channels on either side of his face were even deeper. She'd always loved the way they would spread into a dimple when he smiled at her. Though he wasn't smiling now. Instead his deep blue eyes connected with hers. They seemed to consume her body from her head to her toes.

A deep satisfaction flowed through her veins. The sexual attraction was still there between them. Only now it seemed magnified. No man had ever looked at her in that primal way, no man apart from Brett.

"Good to see you again, Fay." His deep voice lifted the hairs on the back of her neck.

"You, too, Brett." She held out the bag she'd brought with her. "It's an apple pie."

"Did your mother bake it?"

"No, Ma's been dead some five years now."

"Sorry, I didn't know."

"Me, too, about your Pa, I mean."

He let out a long, slow breath. "Your brothers know you're here?"

She shook her head. "They don't need to know everything I do."

"Well, perhaps you ought to tell them that."

"Why?"

"Cody came calling last night. Said I should keep away from you."

"Oh? They're just over possessive, what with Ma dying and all."

He stared at her, assessing her, making her knees go weak. "You look…" He shrugged.

"What?"

"All grown up. You're not the girl I remember."

At eighteen, she had worn all her emotions on her sleeve. Seven years ago she had carried a huge torch for Brett Donovan. She guessed he'd always known that. Taking on the role that her mother had left when she died made her grow up in a hurry.

"I'm a woman now, Brett. I'm not that girl you once knew."

"So I see." He stared at her long and hard then said, "I've got some hot coffee on the stove. Would you like some?"

* * * *
As Brett poured them both a mug of coffee, he wondered what to say. He wasn't usually at a loss for words around women, but seeing Fay again had been a revelation.

The young woman he remembered from seven years ago had matured into a beautiful, stunning creature. Her raven-black hair shone as it cascaded around her perfect oval face. Piercing gray eyes lit up her tanned features. Her sultry, full lips smiled at him as he handed her the coffee.

He knew then that he still wanted her. Only this time he couldn't lead her on. Not when he would be leaving so soon.

"I'll not be staying 'round here long, Fay."

Her brows knitted together as confusion showed on her face. "Oh? Why not? You've only just come back."

He sat opposite her and rested his elbows on the table. "I don't think the folks in Black Creek are ready to welcome me with open arms just yet, do you?"

"Well, you and I both know you didn't hold up that gas station. I don't even know why Patty said it."

"Because she knew I was with you. She wanted me to get into trouble either way. Besides I think she took the money herself. She just wanted someone to blame."

"Well she sure as hell made you suffer. I thought once she retracted her accusation, things would die down."

"Mud sticks."

"Then your father threw you out." She reached across and touched his hand. The coolness of her skin lit a fire deep inside him. "I would have told your father the truth. You don't know how many times I wanted to."

He patted her hand then pulled away, trying to put some distance between them. Getting involved with Fay was not an option. "It wouldn't have made any difference. I shouldn't have been with you. Your brothers would have strung me up if they'd found out."

Fay laughed. "I don't know why our families had to have this feud. It never made any sense to me. Why not let the past be. I'm sure as hell not going to take any notice of my brothers now."

It was his turn to laugh. "Don't be so sure. Cody wasn't keen on me seeing you again even though you're now a full-grown woman. In fact, he warned me off."

She leaned back in her chair and smiled at him. "Since when have you ever done what Cody wanted?"

A grin broke on his face as he stared at her. Fay brought out the very worst in him. She always had. "Still the same old Fay. Always trying to get me into trouble."

"There was a time when you liked it."

He'd always thought of Fay as a tomboy right up until that one fateful day long ago when he'd suddenly seen her in a different light. She'd played him then, turning on her feminine charm until he couldn't deny the attraction between them any longer. At twenty-four, he should have known better. After all, she was a Maverick and, as such, strictly off limits, but he'd taken her virginity, anyway. That one night was branded forever into his mind. Even the ensuing chaos afterward did not detract from how special it had been. When the alleged hold up had been committed, he'd been with her. He just couldn't use Fay as his alibi, neither to his father nor the police. He would have been in even more trouble then. Her brothers would have lynched him without a second thought, and because of the bad blood between their families, his father would have disowned him anyway. What they'd shared had been amazing, besides, he didn't want the whole world knowing their business.

He breathed in. "I'm not staying 'round here, Fay. It wouldn't be fair to lead you on."

"Do you have someone special back in Texas?"

He shook his head. Of course there'd been women. He had to satisfy his sexual needs, same as any man, but he hadn't wanted to take things further with any of them. Up until now, he'd been contented with his life. However, just a few minutes in Fay's company told him a different story. He wanted her now more than ever, but this time he would do the right thing. He wasn't going to use her for a second time running.

"Like I said, once I've sorted out the ranch, I'm putting it up for sale."

Abruptly she rose from the table, a sad look on her face. Her chair scraped on the tiled floor as she did so. Fay had always twisted him around her little finger, but not this time. He gripped his chair tightly, determined not to reach out and comfort her. It would only make things worse should he become involved with her again.

"Enjoy the pie," she mumbled as she began walking from the room. She turned as she reached the door. "And, Brett?"

"Yes?"

"Don't forget to bring the plate back." He just caught the mischievous slant to her lips before she stepped outside.

He watched her mount the gray mare and tear off down the track, a huge cloud of dust spread out in her wake. Her jet-black hair flowing behind her. Still the same old Fay, wild and untamed, only now she had a rare womanly beauty, too. Keeping away from her was going to prove difficult, and now she'd given him the perfect excuse to see her again. Well, he'd take that fucking plate back, if only to annoy the Maverick brothers.

If you'd like to read more click HERE

Read the 1st Chapter of BOUND BY THE MONTANA MOUNTAIN MAN here

BOUND BY THE MONTANA MOUNTAIN MANCowboy Bad Boys 3
JAN BOWLESCopyright © 2010




Chapter One
Cassie Philips checked the U-Haul trailer attached to the back of her Jeep and then eased into the driver's seat. Minneapolis lay three days behind her, and this was the final stretch of the journey to her new home in Whitewaters, Montana.

When her Uncle Seth had bequeathed her his ranch, it had been totally unexpected. As the only living relative left, the news had come at a rather dark time in her life.

A bitter divorce battle with Aaron had left her homeless and virtually penniless. Even now, she still couldn't believe he'd tossed aside their five-year marriage so easily. Up until then, she'd considered the marriage to be a happy one. She should have more rights. It had been Aaron, after all, who had committed adultery. Her lawyer had suggested that had there been children, then things might have been very different. The irony of that was not lost on her.

Her hand shook as she gently brushed the tears from her eyes. Just over a year ago she'd been blissfully happy. Pregnant, and with a husband whom she thought loved her, things couldn't get any better. Then she'd miscarried, and her happiness had suddenly come to an abrupt end.

Well, Minneapolis held far too many bad memories. Maybe Montana would help clear her mind. At just twenty-seven, she'd made up her mind, she would never, ever, trust a man again.

As she turned out of the motel parking lot onto Interstate 90 for the last time, she breathed in a sigh of relief. Tonight she would be in her very own home. Tomorrow would be the start of her new life.

* * * *
Brad Dawson closed the stable doors and looked once more at the old Philips' place. Already dark, that was the second time he'd seen flashes of light in the last ten minutes. It certainly looked odd. The place had been empty for a few months now.

He rubbed his hand into his hair. One part of him couldn't care less. He'd had a running feud with Seth Philips for the past ten years. Now the old coot was dead. So who cared if the place got ransacked?

The other side to him. The more neighborly side thought he ought to investigate. If there was someone stripping its contents, then surely he should report it to the local County Sheriff.

Well, it was no good thinking about it. He'd drive over there, park down the track, and see if he could catch the culprits red-handed.

* * * *
Cassie shone the beam of light once more inside the Jeep. At least she had a flashlight. She took the last of the groceries from the backseat. Arriving in the dark had not been the plan, but circumstances beyond her control, like that flat tire just outside Billings, left her little choice.

Tomorrow she'd deal with the utility company. Right now she just wanted to make up the bed and prepare something to eat.

Just as she closed the passenger door behind her, the bag was ripped from her hand, and she found herself unceremoniously pressed against the side of the Jeep. The breath literally rushed from her lungs. With the wind knocked from her, she became aware of two hundred pounds of male flesh pinning her fast.

Her instinct was to scream, but he held her so tight, her mouth lay crushed against the cool metal.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" A deep, masculine voice cut through the night air.

Tired, hungry, and more than a little pissed by the way the day had turned out, Cassie used all her previous experience of self-defense training and jabbed her assailant with an elbow. She managed to create just enough leverage to wrench her mouth free.

"Take your hands off me, dick brain. I live here. Just who the hell are you?"

"Fuck." Immediately, he stepped away from her. "I'm your neighbor, Brad Dawson. I live just across the way from you. I thought you were ransacking the place."

When Cassie shone the beam of light toward the voice, she caught a glimpse of a very tall man. At least six-foot-four. He blinked several times as the flashlight picked out his features. A strong jaw with those delicious masculine lines she always liked creased around his mouth. He looked about mid-thirties with dark brown wavy hair and gray eyes. The irises were so pale they almost looked silver in the harsh light.

He was broad too, filling out his tan leather jacket and jeans.

"I suppose you felt safe tackling a woman on her own."

"Well, you didn't look much like a woman in the dark. What with wearing a baseball cap an' all. It all looked mighty strange to me."

"That's just great. I'll wear a label next time." Cassie felt her hackles rise. This Neanderthal knuckle dragger thought she looked like a guy?

Probably feeling embarrassed, he ignored her curt remark. "Why not switch on the lights instead of scrabbling around in the dark with a flashlight?"

"Pardon me, Mr. Dawson. If that's all I had to do was flick a switch, don't you think I'd already have done it? The simple fact is the electric's not connected. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get on with moving in."

"Have you tried your generator?"

"I don't think I've got one."

"Everyone's got one 'round these parts. When winter comes, the power's often down."

She sighed. "Then I'll have to sort that out in the morning, too."

"Look, Miss, er, I'm afraid I don't know your name."

"Cassie Philips."

"Miss Philips, we seem to have got off on the wrong foot. As a neighborly gesture, and in place of an apology, I could look at that generator for you."

When Cassie lifted the bag of groceries off the floor, she knew straight away that the eggs inside had broken. Her retort couldn't have been more acerbic. "Best not, I think you've already done more than enough damage, don't you?" With that she turned and entered her home. Cassie knew her tiredness made her behave far ruder than normal, but she just couldn't help herself.

Within a few minutes, the lights suddenly came on. As she looked properly around her home for the first time, tears sprang into her eyes. What sort of a legacy was this? Paint peeled from the walls. A collection of old tins and bottles lay scattered around in every available space. Stacks of newspapers rose from the floor in various sized piles, taking up one corner of the room. Old dishes of moldy food still sat on the pine dresser and table where they had been left. Something scurried along the wooden shelving, and as she looked closer, several cockroaches were intent on evading the light. A small scream left her lips, and she shivered involuntarily. Had her uncle really lived like this? She shook her head. If this was the living room, she dreaded to think what the other rooms would be like.

* * * *
At least he'd gotten the generator working. Now he had something with which to salvage the evening. That was a lesson learned if anything. What was he thinking? Never get involved. Especially when you had neighbors named Philips. They both had impressive tongues.

As he stepped into her hallway he called out, "Miss Philips, I've fixed the generator. There's—" He stopped speaking as he came into the living room. What he saw simply took his breath away.

Cassie Philips had removed her baseball cap, and her long blonde hair flowed down past her waist. A perfect heart-shaped face with gorgeous, pouting lips looked at him through sultry baby blue eyes. How could he have mistaken her for a man?

"I know," she whispered. "Kinda makes you stand and stare, but I had no idea that Uncle Seth was a compulsive hoarder."

He cleared his throat and dragged his eyes from her, noticing for the first time the state the room was in. The place looked like a trash can.

He blew a whistle of surprise. "Old Seth was a real recluse. People 'round these parts always knew he wasn't the full measure. Guess he didn't like to throw anything away."

He could clearly see she was upset, and she wiped the tears from her eyes. "Is that the generator?" she asked, pointing to the electric light overhead.

He nodded. "You've got enough gas to last a month, so I suggest you get it topped off before winter comes."
"Well thanks, Mr. Dawson. Guess you came in handy after all. You'll have to excuse me. I've a lot of cleaning up to do."

For a moment, her vulnerability surfaced, and then it was gone. The cool mask was drawn neatly down to hide her feelings from him. He wondered what the hell she was doing here. Her perfect hair, perfect manicure, and perfect skin all said city girl. Montana in the winter was no place for a woman like her. He'd give her six months, tops. Then she'd sell and go back to wherever she came from.

Maybe then he'd be able to buy that piece of land that had eluded him these past ten years. Seth Philips had been adamant he couldn't have it, yet it stopped his business dead in its tracks. He just couldn't develop the ranch the way he wanted.

"If there's anything you need, Miss Philips, just ask. I live in the ranch a couple miles down the valley. You can't miss it."

* * * *
The very next morning, she looked around the property. The house was as she'd suspected last night, in total need of a makeover. Outside she could see her land stretching from the river, down to the road. In total she now owned about a hundred acres. Not an enormous lot, but large enough for what she wanted. Next to the house stood a large wooden barn filled to the rafters with bailed hay.

When her uncle had become ill, all the animals had been sold off. The barn would make a good place for rearing chickens. Maybe she'd get a goat, too. Her intention was to become self-sufficient. The less she had to rely on the outside world, the better.

Cassie spent the next three days raking out the rubbish. She had a fire going in the yard, and after sifting through the contents, most of it went up in flames.

She felt quite sad, destroying someone's life so quickly and easily, but she reasoned that her uncle hadn't always been so bizarre. As age had crept up on him, he had become increasingly mentally unstable. Her mother had told her great stories of when they had grown up together. It was just the later part of his life that he'd begun to hoard things.

Some noteworthy items she kept. A beautiful framed photograph of her uncle and her mother when they were children. There appeared to be several documents with her neighbor's details on them. It looked as though he was buying a piece of land from her uncle and the deal had fallen through.

Maybe she'd pay Brad Dawson a visit and see what he'd been proposing to do. At the moment, she was very low on cash. If she could make some money while still keeping a roof over her head, then all would be well and good.

Indeed, the house had been in such a state she'd immediately ordered a new bed and mattress and some paint. That had cut deep into her savings.

As she watched the flames consuming everything, she marveled at how little she'd thought about Aaron.
Aaron and his new wife were just a distant memory. She looked up at the surrounding mountains and breathed in the fresh rarefied air. This was simply beautiful beyond words. Coming to Montana had been the best thing she'd ever done.

As Cassie threw the last of the rubbish on the fire, she caught a glimpse of a horse and rider fast approaching. Brad Dawson slowed down as he brought the horse to a controlled halt and dismounted right in front of her.
Having lived in the city most of her life, this new mode of transport made her heart somersault. He looked like he'd just stepped off a movie set, with his jeans, denim shirt, and black cowboy hat. His eyes twinkled in the sunlight as he looked at her.

"Just thought I'd stop by and see how my new neighbor's doing."

"I'm fine. Finally cleared the house out, as you can see. Broke one or two nails in the process, but they'll grow again."

He nodded, his eyes flicking from her face to her hands and back again. "That's too bad." Just why had she shown him her hands? She really couldn't care less about her nails breaking. Maybe deep down, she wanted him to know just how hard she'd worked. But why the need to impress him? Then he said, "I should warn you that the winters get pretty harsh here."

"Meaning?"

"Nothing. Just that you should get stocked up real early."

"I intend to." She felt he had something more on his mind. "Is there anything else you wish to say, Mr. Dawson?"

"Maybe you should think of selling, that's all. Save you a lot of heartache in the long run. It gets real cold up here as the nights close in. It's not a place for a woman like you."

Cassie felt indignant. Whenever she was in his presence, she just bristled. "And what sort of woman would that be?"

"City girl." His eyes pierced into her.

"You sure have some audacity, Mr. Dawson. Maybe you should just mind your own business. I don't think men are the only ones who can cope in a harsh environment. I came from Minneapolis, and we had pretty severe winters there, too."

He laughed out loud. He removed his hat and thwacked it against his leg. "Hell, sweetheart. Winters in Minneapolis ain't nothin' compared to what we get here. You get four inches of snow in a day. We get four feet."

Folding her arms across her chest, she fixed him in her gaze. "If I were to sell, I suppose you know someone who'd most likely buy it."

"Maybe." A half smile formed, deepening the creases around his mouth. What was it with dimples, anyway?
"Like you, perhaps?" When he didn't answer, she continued, "I found those documents you drafted up. Maybe that's why you want me to sell. Perhaps you're not really interested in my welfare, after all, but in that piece of land you want to get your hands on."

He placed his hat back on his head. "Whoa now, lady, slow down. I assure you that was the last thing on my mind."

"Mr. Dawson, I was going to come and see you in a day or two and discuss that parcel of land. But I think my Uncle Seth was a good judge of character. He could tell at a glance that you were up to no good. I've no doubt you only offered him a fraction of what the land is worth, thinking he was too old and crazy to understand." She pointed the one manicured finger she had left at him. "So no, Mr. Dawson. I won't be moving, and I won't be selling, either."

He smiled as he studied her. "You'll learn." He mounted his horse and then turned to looked at her as he gathered the reins in his hand. "Don't say I didn't warn you." Then he rode away as calmly as anything, leaving Cassie wondering if she'd imagined the whole episode.

She stormed into the house. If there was one thing she hated about a man, it was pig-headed chauvinism. Well, she had news for him. Cassie Phillips would show him she could handle anything Mother Nature could throw at her, and then some.

* * * *
As Brad rode away, he couldn't help but smile. The woman had spunk, that was for sure. She was a little firebrand. Okay, so he may have been thinking about that piece of land, but he wanted to warn her about the harsh winters, too. Make her think a little about planning ahead.

Her face had been smudged with soot, and she looked kind of cute with her hair in braids. There was something very earthy about her, which was unusual considering she was a city girl. Though she wasn't his usual type, but then he didn't really have a type. At thirty-five, he'd had more than his fair share of women. He just hadn't found one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Cassie intrigued him. He wondered just what a woman like her was doing in a place like this, all on her own.

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Read the 1st Chapter of BRANDED BY THE TEXAS RANCHER here

BRANDED BY THE TEXAS RANCHER
JAN BOWLESCopyright © 2010




Chapter One
With a final flourish of the paintbrush, Rebecca Wade stood back on the landing and admired her handiwork. It looked good, even if she said so herself. The pale lemon walls had added light and space to an otherwise dark and dingy walkway. A woman's touch was all that had been needed to bring the run-down house up to her exacting standards. The roof might still be leaking, but that could all be resolved with a little time and money.

As she walked along the landing proudly surveying her work, she noticed an unpainted patch of wall. She leaned over the banister, securing her hand to the rail. Just as she reached forward with the paintbrush, she heard the sound of splintering timber. Her heart somersaulted in her chest as she saw the rail detach from the wall.

Rebecca's whole life flashed before her as she lost her footing. The banister gave way and crashed to the ground floor some ten feet below. With barely any time to think, she just managed to grab hold of the newel post. She let out a long slow breath as she stared down into the hallway.

She brushed a trembling hand across her eyes, to wipe away tears of frustration. Just why had she put herself through all this? As a woman on her own, in a foreign country, she'd been trying for weeks to make something of this wreck of a house. Surely it was madness?

To become the new teacher at the local school in Avery Grove, Central Texas, she'd had to jump through hoops. Now, she'd nearly fallen and broken her neck within just three weeks of arriving. She could so easily have stayed in England in her safe, little world. So, just why hadn't she?

She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water onto her face. When she looked at her reflection in the mirror, blue eyes stared back. An accusation surfaced in her memory and slammed into the harsh light of day. You're cold and frigid. The last words that Jason had spoken to her when he'd broken off their engagement, one month before their wedding. She wasn't a virgin, Jason had seen to that, but she hadn't responded to him at all sexually. Maybe that was why he'd dumped her.

Rejection was the real reason she'd traveled halfway around the world. The humiliation had eaten away at her until she'd wanted to start completely afresh.

In her mind's eye, she could see the knowing looks from the doubters who had delighted in trying to crush her hopes for the future. Friends and family had all predicted her return to England within three months. She could still hear their sneering comments. You'll never make it on your own. You'll be back before Christmas.

Well, she had news for them, she wouldn't be returning any time soon. She would not let anything stand in her way. Not even a run-down house like this one. Maybe if she'd had more time she would have seen the house for what it was and steered clear of it. But with the new school term looming, and the deadline to begin work, she'd picked it up cheap at an auction. Now that she'd bought it, she had no choice but to make the best of it.

Perhaps the reason for all this madness was perfectly simple. In a different country she could become the woman she'd always wanted to be. At the age of twenty-eight, she felt her chances of that happening in England were practically zero. Her father had taught her to hold everything in check. To show one's true feelings would be considered immoral. That upbringing pervaded everything she did.

No, she had definitely done the right thing by coming to America. A clean break was the only way to move forward. Maybe now she'd be able to show her true potential.

The feelings that coursed through her veins whenever she slept had never really surfaced in Jason's arms, but she knew they were there all the same. They lay dormant, and hidden, just waiting for the right man to release them.

In her dreams, passion existed between a man and a woman. Now that she'd left the past behind, she just hoped she'd have the courage to find her true self.

* * * *
After arriving at Avery Groves' annual county fair, Jed Monroe parked his black SUV and then turned to his daughter. "Now don't you go gettin' in any scrapes, Annie, do you hear me?"

He shook his head. How many times had he warned her before? Yet, she still managed to fall into whole heaps of trouble.

"Okay, Pappy."

He smiled as he stared at her. Her brown eyes and blonde hair were so like her mother's, it still hurt every time he looked at her. "Here." He dipped into his jeans and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. "Now don't you go losing this."

Her eyes widened. "Thanks, Pappy." She leaned forward, kissed his cheek, and then slid from the car.
"Don't you go spendin' it on any nonsense, either," he called after her. He watched her running off, her hair flowing behind her, as she raced to meet her friends.

Truth was, since Marlene had died giving birth to her, he'd tried to bring Annie up the best he could. Just over eight years he'd managed on his own, but he knew that as she grew older, she would need the guidance of a woman. Someone she could look up to and confide in.

All this running around and climbing trees, it wasn't very ladylike. In fact, Annie had turned into a real tomboy. It was his fault, he knew, but he hadn't quite enough time to devote to her.

He stepped out of the car and locked it with a click from the remote. Maybe he'd take a look around himself. He might even enter the rodeo. He'd already put his name down on the off chance. Last year, he had promised himself that it would be the final time, but, hell, what was the point of living if you couldn't enjoy life?

* * * *
Rebecca smiled politely as she was introduced to yet more parents of her pupils. She wondered when it wouldn't seem rude to slip away and return home. Never one for mixing in crowds, she longed for the solitude of her own company. Since she'd arrived in Avery Grove, she had deliberately kept herself to herself. Now, two months on, her neighbor had asked her to accompany her to the local county fair. "No arguing, darlin'," Kate had insisted, "everyone here is curious to meet the new schoolteacher. You've really fired up our imagination, what with coming from England an' all."

"Miss Wade. Miss Wade," a small voice called, and her hand was tugged repeatedly.

She looked down to see a familiar face. "Why, little Annie Monroe. Hello."

Annie Monroe was a sweet-natured girl but needed a lot of praise to bring out her full potential. Unfortunately, Annie lagged behind in class, and although she'd tried to help her as much as possible, she feared the humiliation of always coming last would lead to frustration. Eventually, Annie would give up altogether.

"What are you doing all alone, Annie?"

"I'm not alone, Miss Wade. My Pappy's here, too. He's riding in the rodeo."

"Isn't that dangerous, Annie?

Annie chuckled. "Why, sure, Miss Wade, but everyone rides rodeo 'round these parts."

"Oh?" As an outsider, all Rebecca could think of were the consequences. If Annie's father had an accident, what would happen to his daughter? If she were ever to fit in, she guessed she had a lot to learn.

"Come on, Miss Wade. He's going next." Annie pulled at her hand, pointing to the corral. It was futile to resist. The little girl was obviously proud of her father, and it would seem churlish to douse her enthusiasm.
By all accounts, Annie had been a disruptive influence in class. Her previous teacher had left more than enough information on the child's antics over the last year. Annie's mother had been dead for some years, so perhaps that was the reason for her unruly behavior. Though, since Rebecca had started teaching at the school, her conduct had been exemplary.

Glad for the distraction, she excused herself from her neighbor and headed over to the corral. Maybe this way she could leave early, and no one would know.

Annie slid into some wooden benches on a raised platform, just as a cowboy on a bucking bronco was thrown high into the air. He landed on his butt, to the immense amusement of the crowd around them. For a few seconds he looked winded, then he stood, dusted himself down, and walked away to a round of applause.

"Pappy's next," Annie said, nudging her with her elbow. Rebecca almost chastised her, but the little girl continued, "I'm so proud of him, Miss Wade. I know he's gonna win because I serve him a great big dinner every day."

"How old are you, Annie?"

"Eight, Miss Wade."

"Don't you think you're a little too young to serve your father a cooked dinner every day?"

"Miss Wade, I've been doing it ever since I can remember. My pappy says you're never too young to start learning."

Rebecca nodded. "Does he indeed." Her blood began to boil. Annie was far too young to take on adult responsibilities. Girls of her age should be enjoying their childhood, not acting as a surrogate wife for a lazy rancher.

"There he is, Miss Wade."

Rebecca stared over at the man slipping confidently onto the agitated horse in the enclosed pen. Dressed in a black shirt and jeans, with a typical black hat, he looked every inch the cowboy rancher. His face, craggy and lined from the sun, showed intense concentration as he took up the reins.

So that was Mr. Monroe. Already he'd intrigued her with his fine physique and strong, powerful legs.
The horse looked wild as hell, its eyes wide. It snorted and shifted repeatedly in the pen. Then the gate was opened to the cheer of the crowd. The horse bucked and reared, twisting around to unseat the weight from its back. Annie's father hung on, following the horse's moves to stabilize his position. He had natural balance and poise, adjusting to everything the horse could throw at him, his one hand held high in the air.

Eventually, when he reached the required eight-second duration, another rider helped him dismount from the horse. The crowd erupted in applause. With a huge grin on his face, he bowed to the crowd.

Annie squealed in delight. "He scored ninety-three. I knew he could do it, Miss Wade. He does it every year. Pappy always wins."

Rebecca didn't know if ninety-three was a good score, but by the cheers from the crowd, she presumed it was.

* * * *
A sense of satisfaction coursed through his veins as he walked across the corral. Jed Monroe was still king of the rodeo.

Todd and Jake thwacked his back as he started to climb over the railings to get out of the arena.

"Yeah, Jed, that's what we like to see. An old-timer showing these young whippersnappers how to do it."

He chuckled. "Fuck you, Todd, less of the old-timer." He'd known Todd and Jake since they'd all been knee-high, and there'd always been camaraderie between them, and of course a sense of competitiveness.
Already he knew he'd pulled a few muscles in the process. Tomorrow he'd be sore as hell, but he wasn't about to tell them that. He just smiled, enjoying the moment.

Sitting next to a rather elegant-looking woman, his daughter waved frantically from the raised platform. He walked over to her. When he was close enough, she launched herself into his arms, and he spun her around. It sure felt good to see her smile. "What do you think of your old Pappy now?"

"I know you're gonna win."

"We'll see, Pumpkin. There's still a few more to go yet."

"Well, I told Miss Wade you would."

He recognized the familiar name. His gaze scanned the soft features and flawless complexion of the stranger. So that was Miss Wade. Not an ounce of extra fat covered her body. Ever since the new schoolteacher had arrived, his daughter had spoken incessantly of her. Miss Wade this, and Miss Wade that. According to his daughter, Miss Wade was the best thing ever.

The woman sat ramrod straight, her hands clasped together on her lap. With her hair restricted by a tight bun, her heart-shaped face stared back from pale baby-blue eyes.

"Howdy," he said, holding out his spare hand. "I believe you're Miss Wade. My daughter has told me a lot about you."

A smile briefly showed on her full lips before fading completely. He had the distinct feeling that Miss Wade somehow disapproved of him.

"Mr. Monroe," she said, politely taking his hand in hers for the briefest of moments. Even on this hot sunny day, her hand felt cool to the touch.

Annie had spoken incessantly about her, as had the townsfolk, too. He'd heard all about the new schoolteacher coming over from England. In a small town, a newcomer was the topic of conversation for months. Everyone knew of her single status, and there had been wild speculation on that front. Some said she'd been jilted at the altar, while others said she'd escaped the evil clutches of an abusive fiancé.

Either way could be true, as his gaze scanned her from head to foot. Dressed in a plaid skirt that fell just below the knee and wearing a pale blue blouse buttoned extra high around the neckline, she looked like she'd stepped out of a Dickensian novel. He felt sure there was more to this woman than met the eye. Somehow she exuded a highly sensual persona. Yet, looking at her, he didn't really know why.

After he set his daughter down, she ran off to a waiting group of friends, leaving him alone with the schoolteacher.

"Annie speaks very highly of you, Miss Wade."

"I'm so glad, Mr. Monroe." She looked at him for a moment. "May I be direct, Mr. Monroe?"

"Go right ahead. Folks 'round these parts ain't nothing if not direct."

"I was going to telephone you for a private meeting, but as you're here, I'd like to broach the subject now. If that's all right with you?" He nodded, and she continued, "Annie, I'm afraid, is lagging a long way behind the rest of the class. She's a bright girl, it's just her attention span is very short."

He sat down on the bench next to her. A distinctive perfume assailed his senses. He recognized the smell but just couldn't quite place it. Then he knew, gardenias, she smelled of gardenias. The exotic tones were sexy and out of sync with the way she dressed. For Christ's sake, they were talking about his daughter, and all he could focus on was the perfume she wore. "Your predecessor said exactly the same thing. Then what can I do about it?"

"I propose some extra lessons, Mr. Monroe."

He shook his head. "Now I want what's best for my little girl, Miss Wade, but I ain't sure if I can rightly afford extra lessons."

Just then his name was called back to the arena. "I'm sorry, Miss Wade. I gotta go."

"Mr. Monroe, if you'd like to discuss this further, please come by the schoolhouse. I'm there most evenings until seven. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement."

* * * *
Rebecca watched him return to the arena to accept his prize of a silver belt buckle. When he had sat next to her, she had been overwhelmed by his presence.

He had a raw, masculine scent of wild horses and honest sweat. In truth, she had noticed everything about him, from the work-roughened hands to the sun-bleached hair that fell about his face. The strong jaw and smooth lips had all been branded in her mind. Yet, it was his eyes, so startlingly blue, standing out from his weather-tanned skin, which had caused the most impact. It was almost as if he could read her thoughts.

Rebecca took a deep breath. She wasn't used to this hard, masculine world where men where men. It probably came from the pioneering days when the men needed to take control and carve out a living on the land. All those centuries of hard graft had filtered down to make them incredibly masculine. The type of environment she had frequented only contained men in suits.

Jason was a suit. In fact, Jason had never even broken into a sweat. Only on a couple of occasions, when she had allowed him to make love to her, had his pulse rate raised at all, and hers had simply stayed the same. Surely that proved she was devoid of any emotion?

Yet, she knew that wasn't entirely true. Just now when Mr. Monroe had looked at her, she had felt her heart race away.

As she watched Annie's father collect his prize, she realized she had moved into a completely different world. The fact that his daughter cooked his meals at such an early age only underlined the fact. The men here saw their women in an entirely different way. Back home in England the men she'd known had seen her as weak. They'd undermined her to a point that she had little confidence in her own abilities. Here the men expected the woman to take on duties and responsibilities.

She only hoped that Jed Monroe would take his daughter's education as seriously as he seemed to take the rodeo.

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Read the 1st Chapter of SHACKLED BY THE COWBOY DRIFTER here

SHACKLED BY THE COWBOY DRIFTERCowboy Bad Boys
JAN BOWLESCopyright © 2010




Chapter One
Zack tensed his muscles. Something didn't feel right. Those footsteps had been following him down this dark street for a few minutes now, and they were getting too close. Just as he was about to turn around and confront whomever it was, he felt a rush of air. A heavy blow smashed across his temple. He crashed to the ground, the left side of his face making painful contact with the pavement.

With barely a moment to think, a crushing pain slammed into his ribs and he doubled up. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the Smith and Wesson. In some discomfort he hissed through clenched teeth. "You can stop right there, amigo." Luckily his breath began to fill his lungs once more. He edged to a nearby wall and braced his back against it.

He eyed the dark, swarthy man warily. Caught in the process of stealing his bag, his assailant stood frozen to the spot, like some cartoon character with one arm reaching forward.

When Zack wiped his free hand across his mouth, blood stained his fingers. Yep, this asshole had damn near caved the one side of his face in.

Waving the gun at his attacker, he spoke again, "Now, we can either do this the hard way, or the easy way. Just back off and get the fuck out of here before I change my mind."

His swarthy nemesis appeared to contemplate the situation. Beads of sweat dripped down his face as he looked first at Zack and then the bag.

"Like I said, I don't care if I have to blow your fucking brains out. You're not the first, and you won't be the last." Zack eased himself into a standing position. Thankfully, his ribs didn't feel broken. "What's it to be?" He'd reached the end of the line. It would all be over if he let him get away with it.

The man smiled. "Adios, amigo." Slowly he retreated, holding his hands in full view. Eventually, when he'd reached far enough away, he turned and disappeared quickly down a side alley.

Zack stuffed the Smith and Wesson back into the waistband of his jeans. He'd been right to bring it with him. Tijuana was full of bandits.  Reaching down, he scooped up his hat, dusted it down, and picked up his bag.
He caught his reflection in the shop window. Blood oozed down his cheek, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He hardly recognized himself anymore. Just when had he become such a mercenary bastard? Deep down he knew the exact moment he'd changed. His life had simply been blown away. Now all that remained was a hardened, empty shell.

Even Renee wouldn't know him now. He remembered the last words he'd spoken to her. "Don't worry, baby, everything will be fine. Just trust me." Unfortunately, life didn't always work out so perfectly. As bitterness consumed him once more, he turned away in disgust at his reflection.

* * * *
Ash watched the tall cowboy enter the diner where she worked. Dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and a tan leather waistcoat, he found a seat and looked around for a waitress to take his order. He was too far away to see clearly, but she could already tell he had a great physique. The man could move mountains with those muscles. He removed his hat and placed it on the seat next to him then pulled a menu from the stand. As he was on one of her tables, she looked forward to getting a closer view.

Finally, she finished taking the order from a particularly obnoxious family. Their two children just wouldn't sit still. They'd made faces at her from the moment they'd walked in.

After placing the order with Ron on the grill, she turned to Maisy, a waitress on another station. "I swear it, if they don't start treating me with a little respect soon, I'll drop the ice cream they've ordered straight into their laps."

Her friend chuckled. "Now don't let them get to you, darlin'. You need to concentrate on the dish that just settled into table five. I'd drop ice cream into his lap anytime, and I'd lick it off him for free."

Ash giggled. "Me, too. Only I'd pay to do it."

Maisy raised her eyebrows. "You've been single for far too long, girl."

Ron leaned across the counter. "Are you girls gonna stop gossiping and do some work?"

"Don't make out like you're hard done by, Ron. I know you just love all the juicy gossip."

"You bet. It brightens my day listening to you two." He slapped four burgers on the grill, and they sizzled loudly.

Taking no notice of Ron, Maisy motioned to Ash with her hand. "Shoo. What are you waiting for? Go take his order. I'll serve the The Munster Family for you."

With pad and pencil ready, Ash walked up to table five. He was still studying the menu, so she let her gaze wander from the tip of his cowboy boots, past the tight fitting Wranglers, to his strong muscular chest.

This guy did some serious workouts. She could clearly see the six-pack abs under his tight-fitting clothes.
Girl, you need to get a grip and stop salivating.

Maisy was right. She'd been without a man for far too long. Nine months seemed an awful long time to be single, but then hadn't she been burned badly by Rob? She hadn't looked at another man since they'd split.

Well, not until now.

Ash noted his black, wavy collar-length hair that fell about his temples, the strong jaw line, the way his large hands held on firmly to the menu. His skin the color of warm teak appeared rugged and weather-beaten.  He looked to be in his mid-thirties. When his eyes finally locked with hers, she swallowed hard. Bright blue and striking against his well-tanned skin, they simply took her breath away.

"What can I get you, cowboy?" Her voice sounded shaky even to her own ears, and she hoped he didn't notice.

"I'll have ham, with eggs over easy." She assumed from his drawl he was from the South. So he wasn't a local. Too bad, the guy was just probably passing through.

"Say, do you have any grits?"

She shook her head, pointing with her pencil. "Only what's on the menu."

"Hmm, then I'll have hash browns and coffee."

He nodded as she repeated his order back to him. He seemed to notice her for the first time, his gaze slowly travelling from her hands to her face. She had a sudden feeling that he'd ripped the clothes right off her.

"Is that an English accent?"

"Yes," she answered. Now that he'd turned toward her, she noticed the cuts on the one side of his face. The man looked dangerous, and just a little exciting.

"Don't tell me. You came to seek your fame and fortune in Hollywood but ended up waiting tables instead." With an amused expression on his face, he leaned back in his seat and waited for her to answer.

If she hadn't been so annoyed by his glib observation, her jaw would have dropped open. He had her life story to a T in just five minutes flat. She gave him a tight smile. "Yes, we're a sad bunch. Like the song said, 'All the stars that never were, are pumping gas and parking cars.' Guess you now know why I work in this sleazy diner, serving dumbass customers."

Before he could say anything, she lifted up her notepad and continued, "I'd better place your order, cowboy." With that, she turned and walked away.

* * * *
Zack chuckled to himself as the waitress went to take an order from another table. She sure had bristled at his personal remarks. He could tell them a mile off. The perfect white smile. A toned body to die for. With her chestnut-highlighted hair all cascading onto her shoulders and her perfect manicure, it hadn't taken him long to work it out.

She'd certainly piqued his curiosity with her refined English accent. The little pocket rocket couldn't be more than five-foot-three. Very attractive and petite, her large, green eyes had stared him down.

He shook his head and focused back on more pressing needs. Business had demanded that he leave Mexico in a hurry, so he hadn't slept for two days. He'd rest this afternoon and then write up his report tomorrow. He checked his watch just as Little Miss Perfect brought his coffee to the table.

"Is it so obvious that I look like an out-of-work actress?" she asked.

He shrugged as his gaze wandered over her. Typically, she wore far too much makeup. "Aspiring actresses have this fake look about them."

Her eyes narrowed on him, and her mouth firmed into a thin line. "Perhaps you should revise that comment, cowboy," she stated sarcastically.

"What I mean is, they look manufactured and over-the-top." Hell, now he'd gone and said something far worse. See where losing sleep had got him? Thank God she wasn't out to kill him. "I'll rephrase that—"
"Mister, perhaps you should just quit while you're ahead."

He nodded, his gaze coming to rest on the name badge pinned to her chest. "I think you should just forget that I said anything—Ashley."

Without looking at him, she answered, "Don't worry, cowboy, I already have." Spinning quickly on her heels, she walked away. Now that didn't happen very often. A haughty English woman had really put him in his place.

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Read the 1st Chapter of DARK SECRETS here

DARK SECRETSJAN BOWLESCopyright © 2010




Chapter One
Sam Marshall looked down at the patchwork quilt that was Oxfordshire. This wasn't a trip that he'd wanted to make, but sometimes life altered over night.

Duty.

He brought the helicopter skilfully in to land at the small airfield, grabbed his bag, and walked over to the gleaming black Bentley Continental. He tossed the bag in the back, removed his jacket, and then fired the car into life.

Duty, the only thought that drove him along the narrow country roads to Oxley, in Oxfordshire. Oxley a village he had vowed never to return to ten years earlier, when he'd been just twenty-two.

He had a duty to his best friend, Major Tom Lawrence. To see him laid to rest with full military honours, since his untimely death on deployment in Afghanistan.

Duty. What else?

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, as he began to approach the village. Ten years was a long time. He had changed. He wondered if Tom's sister, Megan, had changed. Megan had been the one who had caused a whole sorry chain of events, with her false accusation.

He rounded a bend, and swept into the large gravel drive, that brought him right up to the front of the Elizabethan mansion house. Barton Court looked exactly the same as he remembered, with the leaded bay windows, sweeping steps, and stone balustrade leading to the large oak front door.

He parked the car, and stilled the engine. He would pay his respects and then book into the nearest hotel.

Duty above all.

* * * *
Megan Lawrence stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long time. There were times when she didn't like herself, and this was one of them.

She knew Sam Marshall was downstairs talking with her mother, but the thought of meeting him face to face after all these years had kept her firmly locked in her room.

She didn't want to face the man she'd hurt, when she had been just barely fifteen. She closed her eyes. She didn't want to even look at herself.

Shame. That was all she felt now.

Eventually, out of respect for her brother, she finally plucked up the courage, and left her room.

* * * *
"Megan, is that you?" Mrs. Lawrence called as she sat next to Sam on the sofa in the elegant drawing room. Almost the same as he remembered it. A large Adams fireplace with ornate mirror was at one end of the room. Whilst a grand piano took up nearly the entire bay window, save for a gold chaise longue. Green and cream wall panels complemented the soft brocade sofa and armchairs, to give a very calming atmosphere. Although, he didn't feel calm, he just felt anger as he heard the faint footsteps descend the stairs, and walk across the white and black marble tiled hallway.

He knew it would be her, though he wasn't quite prepared for the elegant creature that finally walked through the door.

Dressed all in black, Megan had changed.

Her hair a shimmering blonde was swept up into a neat French pleat. She'd had a slight puppy fat to her figure when he had last seen her. Now she looked slim, her height accentuated her sylph-like body. She had been a girl. Now she was a woman, with her large, azure-blue eyes and delicate bone structure to her face.
Her cool gaze connected with his, and he wondered if anything could thaw the ice running through her veins. In that respect, she hadn't changed at all. She looked at him now. The same way she had looked at him then, with complete and utter detachment.

He stood and held out his hand. For the sake of her mother, he would make this one concession.

"Megan."

"Sam."

Their hands touched briefly. Hers was cool, and soft. He smiled inwardly. What else would it be? Megan was a spoilt little rich girl. Manual labour to Megan was like a disease, to be avoided at all costs.

An awkward silence ensued as they both contemplated one another.

Mrs. Lawrence spoke first, "I'm so glad we're all friends now." Clearly distressed, her hands fluttered to her throat.

Sam returned to his seat, and watched as Megan sat ramrod straight in the chaise longue. Her elegant neck leant to one side, as she began to read a glossy magazine.

He couldn't help but notice her graceful profile, her eyes downcast, and the pale skin of her bare arm in stark contrast to the black dress that she wore. Her legs crossed at the ankles, so elegantly beneath the chair.

She looked very graceful, but then she'd had the very best of everything. Including an excellent schooling. He couldn't take his eyes from her as the conversation continued.

Mrs. Lawrence spoke, "We understand your company is one of the most sought after architectural design companies in the World, Sam."

"Yes, it has become very successful, Mrs. Lawrence. Most of my work has been in the U.S. and Dubai. But I have several projects awaiting final approval in China." It was general chit-chat, he knew, but safe ground now Megan had entered the room.

Megan turned the pages of her magazine noisily. She seemed distracted, and he knew she wasn't really reading it at all.

"Tom told us you were one of the best architects around."

"Tom would say that, Mrs. Lawrence. He was a very good friend."

He could clearly see Megan struggling to compose herself, as she surreptitiously looked at her mother. Wishing, no doubt, that she would wind up the conversation, and get rid of him.

Mrs. Lawrence smiled. "I'm so glad you remained friends with Tom after everything that happened. You have to remember that Megan was very young at the time."

Without warning, the magazine snapped shut. His head jerked up to see Megan slam it down on the table next to her. "Mother, are you ever going to let me forget the past?"

An uneasy silence resulted as the two women sat and scowled at each other.

"Megan, see that our guest has a drink." Mrs. Lawrence's demeanour warned against further outbursts. "I'll go and arrange dinner with cook." With that, she left the room.

* * * *
Megan fought for composure. She hadn't meant to show herself up, but ever since she'd stepped into the room, she had felt literally on a knife-edge.

Her heart had been hammering in her chest. All those years wondering, thinking, wishing, and there he was finally in the flesh.

Yes, she'd seen his face in the society magazines. Had read all about his company, Marshall's Architectural Design Corporation, in the newspapers. Even watching his animated, charismatic speeches on T.V., but to actually come face to face with him, had literally made her speechless.

He was even more handsome in the flesh, she would have to agree. The chiselled jaw, the clean line of his nose. His black hair cut short to neatly taper into the nape of his neck, just showed the early signs of grey.
The once soft tones of his face now swept away by time, to be replaced by a rugged ruthlessness. Even the small scar on his temple could not detract from his good looks.

When his grey-blue eyes had met with hers, she knew he had not forgiven her. She had felt his anger as they swept over her face. It was all she could do to take his offered hand in hers. The smile she would have given remained firmly concealed within her.

While she composed herself, he moved over to the bay window. With his back to her, he looked out onto the darkening garden scene. She let her gaze drift over him. The tailored Saville Row suit fit to perfection across his broad shoulders, as his six-foot four-inch frame towered over her. He liked expensive things, she could tell. The Omega watch, the Bentley on the drive. The after-shave he wore.

She cleared her throat. "You must forgive my outburst, but Mother rarely lets me forget my past indiscretions."

He rounded on her then, his mouth open to say something she clearly deserved, but he seemed to take pity on her as he looked down on her seated in the chaise longue.

"Megan." He began in a tight-clipped voice. "My deepest condolences on the death of your brother."

Tom.

She felt a teardrop caught on her lashes. Any moment now and it would run down her face. She didn't want him to see her cry. She turned and wiped it jerkily away. "Thank you. You're saying it to me means a lot."

Her hands came restlessly to her lap, as he continued to stare at her. "I must get you a drink."

She made to move, but he held up a hand. "No, Megan, you must make my excuses."

"Didn't Mother, invite you to dinner?"

"Yes, but under the circumstances-"

"-What circumstances?"

"Being civil to each other will be a strain. Perhaps, it would be best if I left."

He couldn't even stand to be in the same room as her, but what had she expected. She had hurt him very deeply, but hadn't she been hurt, too? She lifted her chin in defiance as she spoke to him, "I agree. Neither of us wants to spend time in each other's company." She felt the sheer satisfaction as his eyes darkened once more with pure anger. Yes, let him be angry with her. It was better that way. At least he noticed her.

She continued, "But since Father died last year, Mother has become very fragile. I'm afraid she will become very distressed if you go."

His lips drew together. "Very well. Then get me a scotch and soda."

"Please." She would have his respect if nothing else.

He looked at her for a long time. His gaze narrowed on hers. "Please."

"See, Sam, we can be civil to each other."

His gaze scanned her from head to foot. "Indeed. The Swiss finishing school they sent you to was worth every penny. I see it finally taught you the benefit of manners."

Ignoring his barb, she went over to the drinks cabinet, and poured scotch into a glass. She flicked him a cool look. "Pity you never went to a finishing school yourself. You might have learnt how to keep your anger under control." She poured soda over the whisky, and added two cubes of ice, with a pair of tongs.

"I'm not an angry person, Megan." He looked surprised that she'd even suggested it.

"I beg to differ. You've mostly been angry around me." She could remember every conversation they'd had in great detail.

"Maybe, you've always given me reason to be angry."

"No, not always." She walked up to him, and handed him his glass. Looking up into his classic features, she felt only the wave of contempt, as his lips compressed together. "When you first started to stay with us during the summer recess from university, and I was just eleven, we used to get along fine. It was only later when you began to resent me."

He sipped from his glass his eyes watching her intently. "Really? So who changed first, me or you?"

She thought for a moment. "Sam, I think I just grew up."

He nodded. "I remember, and when you couldn't get your own way, you lashed out, didn't you. What you did." He grimaced. "It was unforgivable."

Though she found it hard to break eye contact, she looked away. She felt the shame all over again, but hadn't she suffered, too? She turned back to him. "I realise that now, but at the time, I just wanted to hurt you."

"You did." He sipped from his glass again, as a sense of outrage formed on his face.

"I know." Megan let her hands skim along the grand piano as she went to sit back down on the chaise longue.
"So, do you regret what happened, Megan?"

For a moment, she just looked at him. She had regrets about a lot of things, but mostly that she had made him suffer. "Obviously, I regret what happened, Sam. I hadn't meant to accuse you of anything, but you'd rejected me. It all just got out of hand."

He raised his brows, like he didn't believe her. "But no apology, Megan. Only the rather meek offering from your father."

She felt the smug satisfaction that he still hurt after all these years. Well, so did she. "That wasn't good enough for, Sam Marshall, the great architect was it. I suppose you feel you have a right to your pound of flesh."

"Yes, every last ounce of it." He turned abruptly, and gazed out the window.

"Then ask for it. Take it. It will be given in any form you wish." He looked at her then, hearing the marked anger in her voice. If he wanted her apology, then let him ask for it. She wasn't going to make it easy for him.
She raised her head, her eyes connected with his, daring him. "I was fifteen Sam, just a kid, that is my only defence."

He breathed in, and raised a brow. "Ask, and it will be given?"

"Yes."

"You're hardly contrite." He finished his drink. He placed the empty glass on the table, and folded his arms across his chest as he looked at her. She could feel every single fibre with which he hated her. "Then I ask why?"

"Because I could. Because it was easy."

"Because it was easy?" He sounded surprised. "If I recall it wasn't easy, even for you."

"It was easy. I just said the words, and all hell broke loose."

He shook his head. "That still doesn't tell me why."

If he wanted the answer then she'd give it to him. "Sam, you were always trying to please Tom. Just like a grateful puppy, so attentive. He never once asked for your opinion on anything, and you didn't even seem to notice. I asked all the time, and you didn't even acknowledge me. Not once. I wanted you to notice me."

"Was that why you did it?"

"Yes."

"Just so I'd notice you."

"Yes."

"Well it worked."

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Read the 1st Chapter of LOVE LESSONS WITH THE TEXAS BILLIONAIRE here

LOVE LESSONS WITH THE TEXAS BILLIONAIRE
JAN BOWLESCopyright © 2010




Chapter One
Late again, damn that alarm clock! Eva ran all the way from Marble Arch tube station to Park Lane. With her bag slung over her shoulder, her long, black, wavy hair flew about her face as she quickly made her way to the hotel.

With hardly time to draw breath, she swept through the lobby, checked in, and hurriedly followed the signs to the Albermarle Suite, where the press conference was being held. The Grosvenor House Hotel in London's exclusive Mayfair, was the perfect setting for the prestigious event.

Her boss, editor of New Dawn, the forward-thinking and glossy magazine she wrote for, had sent her to cover The Global Energy Summit. Their readers were interested in all things ecological and environmental as well as the celebrity lifestyle of the people featured. The appetite for large corporate companies and billionaire lifestyles was phenomenal, with readership growing monthly. Because New Dawn's unique selling point was the green agenda, not all companies or celebrities featured well. Those who did had their status enhanced, their company profits boosted, and their share prices raised.

Outside the room she composed herself. She smoothed her white silk blouse into place and brushed her fingers through her hair. With one last intake of breath, she pushed open the door and entered the conference room.

At least she had done her research the night before. Matt Collins, CEO of Oil Enterprises, sat to the left, Jack McClaine of McClaine Industries in the centre, and David Archibald-Watts for Energy Pipeline Inc., to the right. There was a heated discussion as a fellow journalist debated an answer he'd just been given.

Eva sensed several pairs of eyes watch as she squeezed, breathless, into a sumptuous red velvet chair at the back of the room. She noticed one of the chairpersons, Jack McClaine, give her a dismissive glance. He obviously didn't like interruptions. His mouth compressed as he reached out and poured water into a glass, his eyes locked on her.

 "Mathew Douglas, CRB TV." The slim, young journalist in front of Eva raised his hand and then asked his question. "What the world needs to know is how you can keep the supply of energy constant. We've already had Russia switch off gas supplies in Europe."

Jack McClaine took a sip of water and answered, "As already stated, Russia turned the gas supply off themselves. A man-made occurrence cannot be anticipated." He looked around. "Any more questions?"
Eva raised her hand, and he nodded for her to speak. "Eva St. John, New Dawn magazine. How safe is the pipeline infrastructure from terrorist attack?"

Jack McClaine spoke in his native Texan drawl. His gaze sought hers. A piercing stare focused on her face. "Well, now, Miss Eva St. John. If you hadn't got tangled in the bed sheets this morning, you would have heard that, for obvious reasons, that topic is strictly off-limits."

A bubble of laughter erupted in the room. A few people turned to look at her, their eyes watching as she squirmed in her seat. She felt about two inches tall. Damn the man, and damn that cheap alarm clock. Surely his remarks about bed sheets were rather impudent?

What did she expect? The man had a reputation. He did everything to excess. Her research last night had shown him to be a ruthless businessman. He had hauled himself from the gutter to achieve great things. His company served as one of the main distributors of crude oil to the U.S. and Canada. He wasn't afraid of his past, unlike herself, so she would give him that at least. She guessed he didn't suffer fools lightly. Well, neither did she. Looking back to the podium, she raised her chin and stared back. Her hands had clenched into tight fists. Maybe she should just drop her bombshell and wipe that egotistical smile from his face.

"My understanding is you have had problems with your supply routes in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. Should we be concerned? Why has the oil stopped flowing south? And will there be any environmental fallout from this event?" She delivered her question without a hint of nervousness. It was a risk, she knew, but by the look on his face, her contact had been right. She had worked into the early hours of the morning talking to several reporters. Frank Duffield had come through for her. She owed him one.

"I don't know where you get your information from, honey. But you need to do a little more research. All pipelines are flowing freely as we speak."

Eva watched the subtle play of emotion on his face. He'd lied at her expense. Already there were a few intakes of breath circulating the conference room at her apparent lack of judgement. She folded her arms and fixed him in her gaze. His dark grey suit did little to conceal his fine physique. Tieless, and with his shirt collar undone, told her he was not one for the established rules. His dark blond hair fell across his forehead, and she watched him brush it away in annoyance. That was when she knew she was right. She had definitely rattled his cage.

Jack McClaine cleared his throat. "I think that concludes all the questions we have time for. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," he declared in his Texas drawl.

Eva sat in her seat and waited as the room slowly emptied. She observed Jack McClaine gathering his notes. He didn't look worried now as he chatted easily to his co-hosts before leaving the room.

She breathed out and shook her head. Her boss would not be pleased. Because she'd been late, she'd only just caught the end of the conference. Foolishly, she'd allowed herself to be goaded into spilling her prize piece of information. Now everyone would be looking into McClaine Industries in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska.

Placing her bag over her shoulder, she went out into the corridor. Jack McClaine leant nonchalantly against the wall. His cool grey gaze skimmed over her. He certainly had a piercing stare. She'd give him that. With his dark blond hair flecked from the sun, he had a rakish quality. He'd become well known for his womanising, and his intimidating stare. Like a laser, it burned into her. Well, it didn't worry her in the least, especially after he'd made her look completely ridiculous in front of her counterparts.

* * * *
Close-up she certainly appeared stunning in a non-English sort of way. Her eyes, were bright blue, with an almost violet hue, and framed by very thick, black, wavy hair that cascaded down her back. If it weren't for the colour of her eyes, and her pale skin, he would even have thought her Mexican. She looked annoyed. Her full lips tightened into a thin line as she stared back. He realised the woman had great poise. Intrigued, he felt he should say something.

"So, who was your source, honey?" he drawled. "Who gave you the misinformation?"

She smiled sweetly. "Mr. McClaine, we both know I spoke the truth." She looked straight at him as he raised his eyebrows. "I expect you had good reason for denying it." She shrugged. "No matter, I must get back to work."

She made to move, but he stood in front of her, barring her way. His broad shoulders filled the corridor, so she could not pass without brushing up against him. "Honey, a remark like that can cost me millions. Will cost me millions. Of course I'll deny it."

Well, now that was unusual. She wasn't afraid to return his gaze. Little Miss Eva St. John was not amused. In fact, it looked like she may say something else, in her very precise English accent, the type that had been made with a silver spoon. The very quintessential Englishness that he hated about this country. Give him an ordinary down-to-earth person any day.
"Well, Mr. McClaine, you keep your millions." She pointed a well-manicured finger at him. "Just remember this, when you undermine someone in public, they might have something to say that you don't want to hear. So thank you, Mr. McClaine, and good day." With that she pushed past him and strode purposefully down the corridor.

She turned briefly and gave him one last withering look. "One final thing, Mr. McClaine, I'm not your honey." Then she continued along the corridor. He noticed her pencil skirt accentuated the sexy sway to her hips as she walked calmly away.

His face broke into a smile at her last remark. "I'm not your honey." He had the darndest feeling that he wanted to shout back, "Not yet, honey."

Jack McClaine was definitely intrigued. It made a change for someone not to be impressed by his status and wealth. He wondered what would impress her. Maybe the blue blood flowing through her veins made her unimpressed. Deep down he knew there was more to it than that. Close-up she didn't strike him as coming from the privileged background he'd first assumed. He thought he recognised something of himself. Now he definitely wanted to know more.

* * * *
Jack McClaine had affected her more than she cared to admit. When she'd moved far enough away from him, she'd at least be able to breathe properly. Just as she emerged outside, he caught up with her.

"Not so fast, darlin'. You haven't yet told me how you got this information." His hand cupped her elbow, and he began to lead her back towards the hotel. "You and I need to find a quiet place to talk."

His large hand clasped round her arm, and she turned to him, her eyes questioning. She gazed up into his rugged features, noticing the deep lines contouring down from his cheekbones. He certainly looked like the man she'd read about. He had the arrogance and, yes, a huge quantity of devilish charm, but Eva saw right through him. He was just a man, nothing more.

"Why, Mr. McClaine, are you always so polite with the ladies?" she remarked sarcastically.

His face creased into a smile as he looked at her, and it was the first time she noticed he had deep-set dimples on either side of his mouth. Her heart seemed to lurch before she drew in a breath to steady herself.

His silver gaze riveted her to the spot. "Hell no, darlin', but perhaps if you'd allow me to offer you a coffee, you could tell me how you found out such a confidential piece of information about my company."

"You have a reputation, Mr. McClaine." She arched her brow. "Just where would coffee be served?" She didn't think him remotely interested in her contact.

He laughed easily. "I admire your directness, Miss Eva St. John. I have the use of the executive lounge. Look, you've probably sent my company stock plummeting by several million. The least you can do is indulge me."

 "Very well, if you insist, Mr. McClaine." She tried to still her quickening heart rate as he began to lead her into the hotel.

"Just call me Jack, darlin'. My friends do," he instructed as he led her into the lobby and escorted her to the lounge, "and I hope you will allow me to call you Eva."

"We'll see, Mr. McClaine, perhaps." She wondered why her heart had suddenly begun to flutter at the very way he'd said her name. His Texas drawl, like a caress, emphasised the E of her name. "Eva" had never sounded like that before. She drew in a breath to calm herself. Under no illusions about the man, she knew he would be returning to the U.S. soon. She should definitely steer well clear of him. Though he did have a certain roguish quality, she had to admit. His deep-set dimples creased as he smiled, and the smell of the delicious bergamot undertones of his expensive aftershave had practically made her light-headed.

* * * *
The executive lounge created a charming atmosphere with its luxurious blend of sofas and chairs of soft brocade and velvet. The feeling of cosseted luxury immediately sprang to mind. Eva sat on one of the armchairs grouped around a low coffee table. Her grey pencil skirt rode up to give him a rather delicious glimpse of her thigh.

He ordered two coffees, then turned his attention once more to her. "So, Eva, what's with this English accent? Why do you sound like you've come from a whole dynasty of aristocrats when it's quite obvious that you haven't?"

Eva stared at him for a moment, and he knew he'd been right. "I suppose that's how you've made your billions, second-guessing everyone." She laughed. "You're very perceptive, Jack, and very direct. In England, appearing to have a pedigree gets you places that other accents can't. I'm afraid it's the class system. It's very much still alive. Especially in the South of the country."

"Well, you should try America, darlin'. Money is the only thing revered there."

The waiter came and placed their coffees on the table.

"Youthful looks too," she added pointedly. "I hear one can never get old there, especially if one has money."
 "True." He laughed, admiring her sense of humour. He studied her for a while. She had a natural beauty. She hadn't come plastered in makeup. Just a hint of blue eye shadow, was the only thing he could detect. He liked the way her hand drifted to her coffee cup, her fingers curled around the handle. She appeared very tactile, a trait that he admired in all women. Tactile was good. However, he could detect an underlying reticence to be truly herself. She definitely hid who she really was. He wondered why. "You say you work for New Dawn magazine?" he asked eventually.

Eva nodded. "It's an eco-"

"Oh, I know all about New Dawn magazine, honey," he interrupted. "You've no need to explain. They've been trying to do a piece on me for years. 'A day in the life of Jack McClaine,' they wanted to call it.

Unfortunately, I couldn't even begin to show them what I do in a week, let alone a day. I'd need at least a whole month to show the real Jack McClaine."

She drew in a deep breath and responded, "Maybe you should steer clear. Maybe your company wouldn't come across well. It has been known. Perhaps if you have things to hide, they are better not disclosed to the public in general."

"Speaking of which, are you gonna divulge your source, Eva? The one who gave you the costly misinformation about McClaine Industries?"

"No." She looked warily at him. "If I did, I'd never be trusted as a journalist again."

"I thought so." The coffee had been an excuse to see what she was really made of. If she'd revealed her source, she would have gone down in his estimation.

"Was it one of my employees?" he asked as he leant forward and stirred demerara sugar into his coffee.

"Why do you want to know that? So you can sack him?"

"I demand absolute loyalty from my employees. They're either one hundred percent with me, or they're out." He knew she disagreed with him when she raised her brows. He continued, "Surely you can see my point. If it's one of my employees, then they can compromise the safety of the whole pipeline infrastructure. Someone with a big mouth can jeopardise people's lives."

Eva reclined back in her chair and took a sip of her coffee. "If it makes you feel any better, it wasn't one of your employees. I'm not about to tell you where my source got his information from." She held up a hand. "That's all I'm prepared to say on the matter. I don't envy your position, Jack, and it's probably best you don't appear in one of our magazine articles. I don't think your company would come across well."

"Is that so, honey?" He laughed. He stared into her violet blue eyes and wondered if she was as direct in everything that she did. So far she had impressed him, and it took a lot to get even close. "You couldn't begin to know what I do. Having a tight rein is what's required when your company stretches all the way from Texas to Alaska."

She finished her coffee and placed the empty cup back on the table. "Thank you for the coffee, Jack, but I really must be going." She stood and smoothed her skirt back into place and picked up her bag.

"Yes, of course, I'll see you out."

"No bother, it's fine. I'm sure you're busy." She held out her hand. "It's certainly been nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. McClaine."

He took her hand and held it for a little longer than necessary. The warmth from her flesh seeped imperceptibly into his. When they'd looked at each other he'd noticed the subtle play of emotion on her face.

Surprise had been followed quickly by wariness. He smiled as he studied her. Eva St. John was physically attracted to him.

"Well, even though you probably wiped thirty million off my share price today, it's been a real pleasure, Eva."

Looking down into her eyes had given him the answer he'd hoped to find. He couldn't help feeling a little smug. When their eyes connected, he'd noticed her pupils dilate. Eva was definitely receptive to him. "I'll be in touch," he promised as she walked from the room. From their brief conversation, he'd already decided how to get acquainted real soon.

* * * *
"Why, Miss Eva St. John, I feel about as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party." Jack McClaine spoke as mild amusement played around his silver-grey eyes.

Eva eyed him warily. It was only two days since she had first laid eyes on the rugged Texan. Now his lithe, athletic frame perched on the desk, her desk. He looked every inch at home, as if he belonged there. Wearing a light grey suit, he seemed to think his very tall six-foot-three-inch frame had somehow a right to be there.

"Just what is going on, Mr. McClaine?" Eva folded her arms across her chest, her mouth compressed with indignation, as she waited for his answer. Her gaze was drawn inexorably to his, and like a laser it burned into her. Then as a smile spread from his eyes down to the deep dimples at the side of his mouth, she felt the breath escape from her lips in a silent gasp. Why did he have to be so damned attractive? She had to fight the sudden urge to push the stray hair back that had fallen forward across his forehead.

"Mr. McClaine, are you going to answer my question?"

"Hold on now, darlin', I thought we were on first-name terms already." He smiled at her in amusement.

"No, we're not." She slumped into her chair and glared up at him. "Andrew Jameson could shadow you for a month. Why do you want me? I won't be a pushover, you know. I'll certainly write exactly what I think."

He smiled easily and twisted around to meet her frosty gaze. "Now, why would I want Andrew Jameson to shadow me for a whole month? Live in my home. Share my food. Share my life. Why would I want him when I'd be much happier with you?"

Eva picked up a pen and pointed it at him. "You, Mr. McClaine, have a reputation. If you are expecting anything but a working relationship, then you are mistaken."

"Well, that's settled then, honey."

She looked up watching the amusement play around his eyes. The creases channelled down to his mouth. "Don't look so smug, Mr. McClaine. You may regret your decision to invite New Dawn magazine into your home. You may not like what I write. Be careful what you wish for, Mr. McClaine."

"Darlin', I've never regretted anything in my life."

"I told you once before, Mr. McClaine, I'm not your honey, and I'm telling you now, I'm not your darling either."

He laughed. "Eva, it's just a figure of speech. It don't mean anything."

That afternoon a huge row developed with her boss, Simon Jessop, but he wouldn't back down. If she pulled this off, he'd give her a raise. Even more than that, he'd give her a promotion. She wanted to know why he thought Jack McClaine specifically asked for her to do the article. His thoughts exactly mirrored her own. He had lifted his hands in the air, an expression of helplessness on his face, and said, "You're a big girl, Eva. I'm sure you can handle yourself, and Jack McClaine."

Well, thanks!

Eva felt like a dish served up specifically for Jack McClaine's pleasure. What's more, her boss had handed her over on a solid silver platter.

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THE RETURN
JAN BOWLESCopyright © 2009




Chapter One
Standing on the observation deck, Marielle Stevens watched the plane in the distance—just a speck of light, against a backdrop of midnight sky.

Gradually, the speck grew closer until finally she heard the roar of jet engines and saw the red light flashing on its underbelly.

She craned her neck for a better view as the wheels of the plane touched down and screeched to a halt further down the runway.

With her forehead pressed against the cool glass, she breathed in a sigh of relief. Thank God he's back. There would be a lot of explaining to do, but—he's safe now at last.

She watched, as would a curious observer, the commotion caused by the press and media as they jostled for the best vantage point around the perimeter of the airfield.

Flashes of light rippled from their cameras like a giant fireworks display, lighting up the rain soaked buildings of the RAF base all around them.

"We'd better make our way to the room," James said quietly behind her.

Lost in her thoughts, Marielle swung around. "Sorry? Oh, yes. Of course." Her mind still focused on the occupant of the plane.

They made their way towards the private reception room. A sea of journalists covered their path. Attractively dressed in a rust-coloured silk blouse and blue jeans, Marielle at twenty-three would not go unnoticed, and she soon had a mike thrust towards her when a reporter noticed the security pass pinned to her chest.

"How long have you known Robert Tremayne?" the reporter asked officiously.

Marielle wondered how they could be so insensitive. Keeping her face impassive she ignored the question and pressed on through the tight throng of people, which descended quickly upon them. A barrage of questions immediately filled the air around them.

"Are you friends of Robert Tremayne?"

"Did you know he was held captive by the Islamic Jihad?"

"When did you find out he was still alive?"

"Two years ago the British Government gave him up for dead. How do you feel now that he's returning home? Do you resent the British Government for not doing more?"

Dodging the questions, they cut a swathe through the intimidating mass. Thankfully their passes allowed them access to the private room where they would be able to meet Robert.

He had been a celebrity on both sides of the Atlantic before his disappearance. Now a media frenzy had exploded with his miraculous escape from Iraq.

She could only think of the suffering that he'd had to endure. Would he be thin? Would his mental state be affected by the ordeals he had suffered? Could he cope with returning to normal existence? Worse still, would he be angry with her when he found out the truth?

When she turned around, James had gone, and Robert stood watching her intently from the edge of the room. How long he stood there, she didn't know. All she knew was that he was there.

Her first urge was to go to him, but she couldn't move. Her legs felt rooted to the spot. She wanted to fold him in her arms and tell him how much she loved him. How much she missed and needed him. But how could she do that when just the mere sight of him arrested any movements, and constricted her throat to a silent gasp?

Robert had lost weight. His six-foot two-inch frame appeared even taller than she remembered. His face appeared more angular. His hair had grown and curled over onto the collar of his khaki jacket in crisp, dark waves. He looked ruthless and just a little bit dangerous.

Still she couldn't move.

She pressed her back against the wall for support. The coolness permeated her blouse as she watched his jaw tense repeatedly. Did he know anything about her life since he'd gone away?

Unable to look at him directly at first, she now allowed her eyes to slowly travel to his, cutting a path across his smooth lips and slight Roman nose. Her breath caught in her throat as his vivid blue eyes finally locked with hers. She knew then that he had heard nothing from England.

He still loved her, of that she felt sure, but that gave little comfort. She was scared…scared of losing him all over again when he inevitably found out the truth. Hadn't her life changed considerably in the two years since he'd left?

Within two strides, he stood before her. He pulled her into his arms and moulded his body, his lips desperately to hers, almost as though he feared she wasn't real.

She was real, and so was he. His kiss automatically ignited her body to his as she melted so easily into his embrace. Of their own accord, her arms wound around his neck, and she savoured the delicious thrill that only his closeness could impart. She strained to get closer still, all her carefully formed plans to immediately tell him the truth now forgotten. She needed his kiss, needed the familiar taut sinews of his muscles wrapped around her.

"Marielle, thank God," he whispered against her parted lips. "I prayed you would be here. I've dreamed of this moment for a very long time."

He drew back and looked at her intently, making her knees go weak with all the remembered passion they had once shared. "You're the only one that's kept me going these past two years." He brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. "Do you know that?" His voice croaked in a harsh whisper as the memories of his ordeal flashed briefly across his face.

Marielle felt his pain as though she was part of him, and she rested her head on his shoulder in an effort to blot the despair and loneliness out. She took comfort from his hands as they stroked softly through her hair.
"Oh, Robert, I can hardly believe it's you. I'm so glad you're safe." She caressed the side of his face, to gently touch the prominent cheekbones and weather-tanned skin. "I'm so sorry darling I wish I could take your pain away. It must have been sheer hell." She felt afraid of his answer and yet she wanted to know more. Her fingers smoothed a path down to his lips.

Then he smiled, and kissed her fingers to reassure her. "What's two years now we are together again?"

He'd been light-hearted for her benefit, but that didn't stop her realising that her life had moved on. "It turned my life upside down when you disappeared in Iraq. I—I was devastated. Everyone told me you'd died," she sobbed. Knowing that nightmare scenario had brought her own world to an abrupt end. James, Robert's best friend, had saved her from herself. He had picked up the pieces and helped her to rebuild her life without Robert.

"We only learnt what happened to you just two days ago when you stumbled out of the Iraqi desert."
It had been a wonderful shock for her. A wonderful fairy tale come true. If only she had known. What could she do?

She needed to tell him the truth.

Marielle bit her bottom lip and pulled away. She turned from his bewildered gaze and focused on the coffee table in the corner of the room, her eyes tracing the stains left by a cup. She had to tell him. He had to know the truth, however much she hurt him.

Stiffening her back, she fortified herself with the last vestige of her courage. "Robert, there's something you should know."

He sighed. "We've only got a few minutes. There's a press conference and debriefing. I don't know when I'll see you again."

Marielle looked at him, almost melting under the impact of his gaze. She had to tell him. How long could she go on like this? How long before someone else gave up her secret? She felt like a cornered wild animal that had no means of escape.

"What ever is wrong Marielle?" His voice mirrored his concern.

She hesitated, glancing towards the door she had entered. "James is here," she whispered, unable to turn and face him in case he should already guess the truth.

He grinned and instantly relaxed in view of her trivial statement. "Oh, is that what you are worried about, keeping me from James? Surely you must know, no one is as important as you."

He lightened the mood. "I hear the old devil's got married. Must be some woman to capture that male chauvinist." He laughed. "I would never have suspected that James could be dragged to the altar. I certainly look forward to meeting her."

When she looked at Robert she felt the blood drain from her face, and he immediately knew something was drastically wrong. He reached out and smoothed his hand under her chin, as he forced her to meet his gaze.
Her whole life seemed on hold as his eyes sought the truth from her. It felt as though her heart had stopped beating and her lungs had stopped breathing altogether. She could do nothing but stare back.

When she spoke, her breath hissed through her throat, and her heart slammed wildly against her ribs. "You've already met her, Robert. I married James twenty months ago."

She felt him tense beside her. His arm dropped to his side. After what seemed a lifetime he spoke in a broken whisper. "Did I hear correctly?"

While his eyes cruelly watched her every move, Marielle wished that the floor would open up and swallow her whole. "Yes!" she sobbed. She lowered her eyes from his, unable now to stand the despising glare.
"Then what the hell is this welcoming committee for?"

Try as she might, there could be no getting away from the truth. She'd been selfish and cruel. She had wanted to believe that nothing had changed between them. That everything remained the same.

What a fool she'd been.

A single teardrop fell from the corner of her eye and meandered slowly down her cheek. "I didn't want it to turn out this way, Robert. I'm sorry." Through her carelessness, he had suffered even more. It appeared tightly etched across his face.

What could she do or say to make it right?

She felt the teardrop flow down her face to where she wiped it jerkily away with the back of her hand.
Rendered impotent, Robert stood and stared at her. "I can't believe what I've just heard. James, my best friend. What sort of a homecoming is this?"

She could see the anger now rising in his throat as he swallowed hard. He lifted her limp left hand, and looked at the shiny gold band that sat so noticeably on her marriage finger.

He thrust her hand away in disgust. "I thought we meant something to each other," he stated bitterly. "Though it seems you forgot me after only three months."

Marielle lifted her hand to his arm, but he twisted away from the comfort she so dearly wanted to offer. Her fingers stilled mid-air, as he pulled away from her. "That isn't true Robert. Believe me, I do still love you." Her lips trembled. "I—I always will—" Her voice broke as an unbearable pain seeped into her very being as he stared down at her with utter contempt.

Hate had erased any gentleness in his eyes. She wanted him to look at her with love, not this crushing hostility. "Please Robert. Please understand the circumstances. This is not what you think."

"Then what is it?" She flinched at the censure in his voice. "You're wearing his ring." He looked down at her, making her feel small and miserable. "I take it you are living together."

When she couldn't deny anything he had said, he added angrily, "Just what is there to understand?" He clutched a hand to his forehead. "My God. All that time surviving in Iraq, I never dreamt that you would turn to James."

"Listen Robert, you must listen to me," she begged, her plea surfacing from deep inside her. "I had—"
He pressed his hand to her lips, stifling anything she should say. "No." His fingers bit painfully into her cheeks and puckered her mouth.

"You little bitch." His voice rose in anger. "I don't want any more excuses. It's obvious you thought I'd died. After all, what's three months? It must be a lifetime to you. Three months, Marielle." He held up his hands in silent appeal then pressed them hard to his chest. "And now I'm back, do you intend to drop James in the same way? Is that what all this is about? To see if you could still have me?" He shook his head. "Willow Hall is worth a fortune in comparison to what James has to offer. I can see now what a heartless, mercenary little bitch you really are. I'm surprised James stands for you."

 He seemed to look right through her as he spoke. "Perhaps I've had a lucky escape. You're really not the woman I thought you were." He moved to leave, then turned back to her, his eyes cold and unseeing. "One thing that piques my curiosity is how you managed to get James to marry you? As far as I remember James was a party animal, a different woman everyday of the week. Though, maybe I didn't know him after all. I certainly would never have suspected him of this."

He let out a bitter laugh, then held up his hand. "Spare me all the details, I don't want to know about your sordid affair."

Tears flowed unchecked down her face. She hadn't wanted to hurt him. He looked so beaten and tired of life. It broke her heart. He'd been through so much, and now she added to his misery. "If you won't listen to me," she said wearily as she turned towards him. "At least hear what James has to say."

She knew by the look on his face that he'd stopped listening. He had made up his mind about what had happened. He obviously hated her already.

"Why should I talk to James?" he asked, as he stared at a point behind her head.

"Because he is your best friend, Robert. After all, you grew up together."

"I don't think that that would be a good idea, Marielle."

It broke her heart to ask, but she had to anyway. "Why not?"

He looked directly at her. "The way I feel, I might just kill him."

Her heart now finally broke in two. She had mourned for his loss two years ago. Now she mourned that she would never ever see him again just when she had thought him reborn into her life. She watched in sadness as he finally left the room, not looking back or acknowledging her existence.

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TAMED BY THE DOMGuilty Pleasures 3
JAN BOWLESCopyright © 2011




Chapter One

Colt Donahue eased the SUV from his private estate and onto the trunk road. Today he was in a particularly good frame of mind. He'd just taken a call from some potential clients. If they joined, that would make twenty extra this month alone. Business was looking up. Now, at the age of thirty-seven, he finally felt like he was getting somewhere. He'd tapped into a market that had the potential to make him a very wealthy man. That's if the people of Fairfax didn't raise any more objections. The smile on his face faded. He felt pretty sure they'd find something to complain about. They always did.

Up ahead, Colt could see a Jaguar career around the bend. The driver had little or no regard for anyone else on the road. 
"That's right, prick, take my half of the road, too." 
Well, he wasn't going to move, that's for sure. He had right of way. The sleek silver car kept coming, a huge cloud of dust in its wake. 
"What the fuck?" He only just managed to avoid a collision by turning his SUV into the ditch. His car came to an abrupt halt. "Goddamn it, Jesus." 
He looked into his rearview mirror, anger surging through him. A woman wearing dark glasses and long black hair disappeared from sight. He shook his head in disbelief. Some rich bitch had just driven him off the road. Well, there was no way he'd let her get away with it. He turned his car around in pursuit, sounding his horn as he came up behind her. It had no effect. She didn't stop or even slow down. Her stereo was on full blast, and her head swayed to the beat of the music as she made her way along the High Street. His anger grew by the minute, and he slammed his fist down hard on the horn several times. Still no effect. Just wait until she stopped her car. He'd have plenty to say to her. Several people came out of the shops to see what all the commotion was about.
When she pulled into a side street and parked outside a cat sanctuary, he jerked on his handbrake and stormed from the car.
It occurred to him that she probably thought more of animals than people, and his resentment grew. By the time he'd walked over to the gleaming Jaguar, she'd stilled the engine and switched off the loud music. He wondered why she sat staring at the double-fronted Colonial house when a closed sign hung from the door. Everyone knew the owner had recently died.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing, lady? Don't you know you just ran me off the road?"
The woman was small and petite, and he guessed the car was much too large for her to handle. Her hands were on the steering wheel, gripping tightly so the knuckles showed white. Without removing her sunglasses, she looked at him. For a moment he thought she regretted her actions, and then she spoke.
"Don't blame me for your inadequacies."
This was not the answer he'd been hoping for. "You must have a death wish or something, lady."
"Nothing of the kind, I just drove into town. Are you sure you didn't drive off the road by yourself?" 
His blood boiled, and he leaned down to her level. "I've a good mind to report you for dangerous driving."
"Any witnesses?" She opened the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk. He towered over her. He realized she couldn't be more than five foot three. The car was obviously way too powerful for her. 
"No, it would be my word against yours."
"Then I think I would win the argument, don't you?"
"How do you make that out, lady?"
"I've heard all about you and what you get up to at your private club. There's plenty of folks around here would like to see the back of you."
He rubbed a hand though his hair, aware that she'd turned the argument around. Now it seemed he had to defend himself. Was there no justice in the world? "How do you know what I do?"
"You don't remember me, do you, Colt." She removed her sunglasses. Her eyes looked red as though she'd just been crying, and she blinked several times from the harsh sunlight.
He assessed her appearance. Beautiful raven black hair fell about her shoulders and shone from the noonday sun. A small, round face with the most incredible hazel eyes he'd ever seen stared back. Her lips were like cherries, ripe and glossy, and her clothes were of the finest quality. 
For the life of him he'd never laid eyes on her before. He shook his head, wondering if it was a ruse to divert him from her terrible driving. "Are you sure we've met?"
"I was two grades below you. I'm Katrina."
She still didn't register with him. The only Katrina he could remember had been a geeky girl who wore thick glasses.
She continued. "You stepped in once to stop a group of girls from taking my lunch from me."
It all slotted into place. He shook his head. Talk about blossoming. "You're Katrina Masters. I remember now." He pointed to the cat sanctuary. "Your mother just died. She was a good woman. I'm really sorry."
She nodded and turned away for a moment. He could see her bite her bottom lip as she resisted the urge to cry. "Yes, I've come back for her funeral," she whispered. 
All his anger dissipated. "Look, I'll leave you in peace." He began to walk away, but turned to face her again. "Listen, Katrina, a word of advice. Get yourself a smaller car."
"I've a few words of advice for you, too, Colt. Mind your own fucking business."
* * * *
Kat watched Colt Donahue drive away in his BMW. The boy she'd had a crush on more than twenty years ago was even better looking now. He'd filled out, and the dimples she'd admired as a young girl were even more defined. They made him look incredibly sexy. It was ironic that he'd only noticed her the once, when a group of shitty girls had tried to steal her lunch. High school had never been a pleasant experience for her, but Colt made an impact that day, in a big way.
Too bad he was running some private deviants' club up on his ranch. Her mother had been full of it and had spoken of little else on the telephone. The townsfolk were up in arms, determined to put an end to his unsavory enterprise. She guessed he'd move on soon enough. Fairfax wasn't a place to stay around if you didn't fit in, as she knew only too well.
When she'd been much younger, Fairfax, a small town in Central Texas, had been a backwater. The local residents had fought against change, clinging on to yesterday, frightened of tomorrow. It was one of the reasons why she'd left. That and a mother who said she'd never amount to anything. As soon as she turned eighteen, she'd hightailed it out of there, determined to make her fortune and prove her mother wrong. 
Only the fortune had never materialized.
After a succession of failed relationships, pride was the only thing she had left. She was hardly going to admit to being a failure. That's why she'd borrowed a hundred thousand dollars to buy the Jag and some new expensive designer clothes. There was no way she'd return to Fairfax penniless. It would make some people very happy to see her on her knees. So what if she couldn't make the payments on the loan. Her mother had left a house and everything in it. After the funeral, when the dust had settled, she'd be able to pay it all back. That was the plan, because the guy she'd borrowed the money from didn't approve of late payments. She had no doubt he would send a couple of undesirable hoods to pay her a visit, rather than a stiff letter from the bank. 
Dismissing the unpleasant thoughts from her mind, Kat turned and stared at the impressive façade of her mother's house. She couldn't put it off any longer. She had to go inside. 
As she opened the front door and stepped over the threshold, the unmistakable smell of cat urine and stale air filled her nostrils. It had been seventeen years since she'd last seen the interior, and from the look of the hallway and living area, it hadn't changed a bit. The effects of sixty years of her mother's life lay scattered all around. It was an eclectic mixture of antique furniture and hippie memorabilia. Mary Lou Masters had been an eccentric to say the least. Maybe that's why Kat felt she'd never really fitted in. She'd had few friends at school, another reason why she'd left Fairfax at such an early age. When you had a mother who was known as "The Cat Lady" by the locals, it was hardly surprising she felt like an oddball.
A tear rolled down her cheek when she entered her mother's bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a pillow to her face. She breathed in, trying to capture her essence. The familiar comforting smell soothed her frayed nerves, and she squeezed the pillow tight against her body.
Guilt overwhelmed her. "Momma, I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you." All these years she stayed away, afraid to return and own up to being a failure.
Try as she might she could never amass any money of her own. There was always something that would come along and distract her. It usually came in the form of a great-looking guy who'd sweet-talk her into bed. The very same guy who would be gone by the time she'd woken the following morning. Why had she borrowed one hundred thousand dollars? Who was she trying to impress? She guessed that no one in Fairfax really cared what Katrina Masters had done with her life. It was just as well because she'd done jack shit. She'd achieved absolutely nothing. If she couldn't make the payments on her loan, the hoods would come looking for her. That's if they could find her. 
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