Amy Lillard's Blog, page 2

A Miilion to One Chapter Seven

This could very well be the most impetuous thing she had ever done. Claire ran one finger under the leg of her bathing suit and pulled it down. It had seemed sensible enough in the store, but somehow tonight it seemed…less.

A splash sounded in the pool in front of her as Tristan executed a perfect dive, his trim form slicing through the water with undeniable grace.

He surfaced halfway across the pool, turning back to her with a quick smile. Darn it all, but he was handsome when he smiled.

“You coming in?”

“Of course.” She tugged on the top band of her once-modest one piece. Had it shown this much cleavage when she bought it?

She let the mesh cover-up slip from her shoulders, delaying what, she wasn’t sure. She had literally jumped at the chance to swim with Tristan. She had said she wanted to be friends and what a fun companion he was turning out to be.

Resisting the urge to pull on the leg openings in the back of the suit she started around the pool.

“Where are you going?”

She pointed to the large steps that led down into the crystal blue water.

“Chicken.”

Claire stopped. “I’m not chicken, I just don’t know how cold the water is.”

“The water’s fine.” He swam toward the edge of the pool where she stood and extended one hand. “Feel.”

She hesitated only a heartbeat before reaching down and taking his hand into hers. Then she was flying through the air, but only briefly as she splashed down into the warm water. She came up sputtering, pushing her heavy hair out of her eyes. “You!”

His answer was a mischievous chuckle.

She wiped her eyes with one hand and used the other to splash him. Judging by the sound of his voice she missed him by several feet.

Knowing she could spend the entire night trying to get him back, she turned on her back and started a lazy swim across the pool. She had just performed a quick turn around on the shallow end when she heard the thump of the diving board and the smooth splash of water.

She did her best not to stare as Tristan started a perfect crawl through the water. Honest, she did. Lucky rivets ran down his limbs. Blessed moonlight bathed his shoulders and water soaked his hair to near black. No one should look that good wet, she decided with a sigh. Not one person.

Only one way to keep her mind off her too handsome husband and that was to hold fast to their deal. They had agreed to be friends, and friends could swim together without ogling each other.

Claire continued her swim, pushing her arms and legs in her quest to remain neutral. Hopefully she would tire herself out enough not to be so aware of the fact that she shared a bed with this good looking hunk. Maybe tonight she would get some good sleep.

But a girl could only take so much. After five laps she started to tire and somewhere around eight she gave up entirely. She’d have to come down and swim more; she was horribly out of shape.

Claire’s arms wobbled as she pushed herself up onto the side of the pool, her legs still submerged. She brushed her hair out of her face and debated on whether or not she could make it to the chaise lounge where she’d left her towel. Surely she wasn’t that worn out, but the night was warm and the breeze humid in only the way Dallas can be. There was no hurry.

“You quitting?”

She had been debating so intently on her towel dilemma that she hadn’t noticed that Tristan had stopped swimming and now stood just in front of her, close enough she could stretch out her foot and touch him. She gave a sassy nod that hid the internal jump in her temperature at having him so close. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to show you up.”

His response was a quick flash of his teeth. Was it necessary for him to be that alluring? What was it about the man that drew her to him like magic? “Oh yeah?”

She flipped her wet hair over her shoulder and acted like she had played the coy wife since kindergarten. “Uh-huh.” She tried to make her voice sound offhand, but instead it came out a tad breathy and soft.

Was he even closer now?

“Does that mean you want to race?” He was closer. Much closer.

Claire swallowed hard, then shook her head.

The teasing light in Tristan’s eyes disappeared.

There was only a breath between them, a heartbeat of anticipation. Claire wondered if perhaps he gave her that moment to change her mind. But how could she, with his mesmerizing stare locked into hers?

He clamped his hands on the sides of her waist and hauled her back into the water. She slid into his arms with a disconcerting ease. Her hands fluttered for only a moment before settling themselves on his shoulders. His greater height gave him the advantage of standing in the water while her legs floated, brushing against him and sending goose bumps racing down her limbs.

She tilted her chin back, the only invitation he needed and his mouth took possession of hers.

This was where she belonged. Here. In his arms. His lips continued, demanding response. And she gave it to him, abandoning herself in his kiss.

His mouth left hers, trailing little nips down the column of her neck, across the ridge of her collarbone.

She was out of her league, hopelessly unrefined, and oh-so willing to fall into his kiss without hesitation.

A soft sigh escaped her, and in that instant, everything changed.

The sound seemed to break the nighttime spell.

Tristan stilled, raised his gaze to hers, searching and questioning.

“Tristan?”

He seemed reluctant but resigned as he unwound her arms from his neck.

Had she done something wrong?

He shook his head. “We both know this is a bad idea.”

Actually it seemed like a fabulous idea; the consequences of the morning after? Those would turn on them. But right now…

He waded them back into the shallow end of the pool. As soon as Claire could touch bottom, he let her go.

Shaking legs could only take a girl so far. She stopped dead in the water and watched him as he climbed the stairs, dripping and glorious.

What would he do if she called him back? Would he return to the water? Would he keep going?

She’d never know. She kept quiet, simply watched as he dried off. He barely gave a look in her direction as he wrapped the towel around his neck and sauntered away into the night…away from the mansion…away from her.

Claire watched him go with a mixture of relief and sadness. It was for the best, she knew. Getting any further involved with Tristan would only break her heart. And that was something even a million dollars couldn’t repair.

There was a fine line between chicken and prudent. He’d like to think that he was the latter, but after sitting in the pool house for two hours, Tristan wasn’t so sure. He’d had to wait long enough that when he finally made his way up to his room his wife was fully asleep. Maybe then he wouldn’t be quite so tempted to kiss her again. Or more.

“Good morning.” Claire said as she rounded the corner and stepped out onto the east verandah. Or rather, she chirped. She looked bright eyed and way too happy for his miserable mood.

All Tristan could manage was a grunt. Then he stuck his head behind the paper and tried to ignore the fact that his wife was once again seated directly across from him. Like that was going to work. How could he be so aware of a mousey secretary? Or maybe the question was why.

“Oh, look. The gang’s all here.” Devin dropped down into the seat next to Tristan. He resisted the urge to smash his brother’s face in for looking so rested and tan.

What was wrong with him?

He buried his face behind the paper as Esperanza daintily sat down in her chair. And he kept hidden until Devin had finished his breakfast.

“Time to go.” Devin stood and flashed Tristan a quick, knowing smile. Had he been watching them last night?

Devin rounded the table to kiss his wife goodbye, wiping a bit of strawberry juice from the edge of her lip with his thumb. He licked the digit, his gaze still locked with his wife’s, the look full of promise.

Tristan might not be as practiced as Devin, but he could hold his own. And last night…well, he had no business messing with his wife. She was practically an employee. A sweet, innocent, alluring employee.

Tristan folded the paper to rights as Devin’s footsteps echoed down the hallway. Carefully avoiding his wife’s sea-colored gaze, he stood and tossed his napkin on the table.

“Tristan,” she started, her voice sending his heart stuttering, “is there a car I can drive?”

“Marcus can take you anywhere you want to go,” he replied to the air somewhere around her left shoulder.

“Don’t you have another car? A regular, normal car that I can take whenever I need to go somewhere? A limo looks a tad conspicuous waiting in the Wal-Mart parking lot.”

“You don’t have a car?”

She shook her head. “I sold it when I moved to the city.” She gave a small shrug. “Every now and then a girl just needs to get out and…well, I didn’t think taking a bus would be the best option.”

It wouldn’t be. The press would have a field day if his wife was seen on public transport. But there was something more in her tone.

“Some freedom would be nice.”

“You’re not a prisoner, Claire,” he quietly intoned.

She didn’t reply.

“Take the white Mercedes,” he said, taking a couple of steps back and allowing her to slip past him. “Marcus will give you the keys.”

Tristan squinted up at the bright spring sun. It had been a full week since the night he and Claire had watched movies and went for their swim. Somehow he’d managed to avoid her every morning and every night and every minute in between. And it was starting to take its toll on his mental health. Maybe Claire was right. Maybe he needed a vacation. Maybe the trip to France was just what the doctor ordered.

He shook his head at his own thoughts. He hadn’t had a vacation in ten years. He wasn’t about to start now. Besides, he’d have to take his wife with him, and she was the one person he needed to avoid the most.

His phone rang, and he automatically answered it unable to see the screen in the bright morning light.

“Tristan, are you sitting down?” Ian’s voice crackled over the line.

“No. What is it?”

“Are you sitting down?” Ian repeated.

“Ian.”

“You’d better get off your feet before I tell you this.”

With a sigh, Tristan perched on the stone edge of the fountain. Marcus should be around any second with the car, but until then… “I’m sitting. Now tell me.”

“Cherry Holiday has planned a wedding celebration for you, Devin, and your brides.”

Tristan bounded to his feet. “What? We have to stop her before she does something stupid like send out invitations.”

“Too late, my friend. I received mine this morning.”

Tristan ran agitated fingers through his hair. “This is not happening. I was never contacted about this. She can’t throw a party if the guest of honor isn’t aware.”

“Tristan, calm down. You know Cherry. She’s always been a little unorthodox. She probably got the go-ahead from someone else.”

“Who?”

“Devin or Claire.”

Or Esperanza. Tristan bit back a curse. “I suppose there’s no backing out of this now.”

“Not a chance.”

He did not want Claire subjected to the hounds of Dallas high society. She might be able to handle her own with the media, but that was nothing compared to what the finest ladies in Dallas could dish out. Could things get any worse?

“Tristan, are you still there?”

“Yeah.” As he said the word Marcus pulled around the circular drive.

“I’ll call you back when I get to the office.”

Two hours later, Tristan picked up the creamy white envelope addressed in flowing purple ink. Only Cherry Holiday would address anything in purple.

Up until the time he had actually touched the invite, he had held onto the small hope that the party was just Ian’s idea of a practical joke, and it didn’t really exist at all. Now that he had seen it with his own eyes, it was obvious that the celebration was real, and he wasn’t laughing.

What in heaven’s name was he going to do? Flashes of Claire with the press flitted through his mind. She had stood there proudly, that blasted dog tucked under one arm and valiantly faced the media hounds. Tomorrow night, she would have to face worse than a few reporters, she would face women who chewed up little girls like her and ate them for breakfast. She wouldn’t have the dog there for moral support, and she certainly couldn’t go in a pair of shorts and a sleeveless button down.

Despite Claire’s brilliant answer to her wedding ring question, everyone already thought that he had somehow neglected his obligation to make her look like the wife of a multi-millionaire. He couldn’t let her go like that again. She might not know how to act, but heaven help them all, she was going to look the part.

He pressed the intercom button that connected him to his front office. “Gladys, get in here. I have an extra special assignment for you.”

Esperanza Victoria Delaga Carones McFarland was bored. Happy, but bored. She had known that coming to America wouldn’t be easy, but she had no idea learning English would be so hard. She hadn’t picked up any of the new language in the week and a half that she had been in the States. When she had left Brazil she had been hopeful, now she wasn’t so sure. But deep down, she knew that marrying Devin was the right thing. It was not every day that a girl met her soulmate. And that was what they were. She and Devin were soulmates. She knew this without a doubt because Avó Maria had told her so, and Avó Maria was never wrong about this sort of thing.

Devin. She smiled at the mere thought of his name. How she loved him. And how lucky she was that she had seen him that day. She had been the chief chambermaid at the hotel where he was staying. It had taken her a long time, but she had worked her way up into this small management role. Normally, she orchestrated the other housekeepers and made sure that everything was done correctly and on time. But as fate would have it, someone had called in sick and she had been responsible for cleaning Devin’s room.

She would never forget that day. She’d knocked before entering and found the most gorgeous man she had ever seen talking on the phone. She couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying, but she could tell from his tone that he was near frantic.

He’d turned when she entered and a sudden calm had come over him. Slowly, he’d looked her over from head to toe, a gleam lighting those green, green eyes. It had been only a matter of hours before they were married. Espie thought it a bit ironic that while she was supposed to be sweeping his floor, he had been sweeping her off her feet.

Ah, destiny. What a sweet thing. She paused, her dust rag in mid-swipe on the top of the cherry wood desk as the front doorbell rang. With effort, she resisted the urge to answer it herself. But the compulsion to dust was too much to bear. If only she had more to do here. She could tell from the sheer size of the house that Devin had money, and he didn’t need his wife to clean—he had servants for that. But it made her feel better to at least try and pull some of her own weight.

She was certain, though, that the household staff thought she was a bit louco. But she couldn’t help it. She had been working since she was ten years old. The habit was so ingrained that she couldn’t stop it now. And if she was destined not to learn English, then the very least she could do was keep the furniture polished.

She heard voices coming from outside the office, the housekeeper and another woman’s she didn’t recognize. Despite the language barrier, Espie strained to hear what they were saying. Not paying close attention to her dust rag, she knocked a file onto the floor, scattering sketches all around on the expensive rug.

She bent to retrieve them, wondering who had drawn the faceless women with moderately fashionable clothing. She herself had never been able to afford fine garments. She had been making her own clothes and dresses for special occasions for her friends for as long as she could remember. She had worked in a five star hotel and casino long enough that she had seen fashion at its grandest. She was no expert, but these sketches and the clothing that they illustrated were a bit on the drab side.

Not pausing to think about what she was doing, she picked up a pencil from the cup on the desk and added her own special touch to the designs. She lengthened a skirt here, added a scarf there and before she knew she had gone through the entire stack.

“Esperanza.”

She whirled around guiltily at the sound of her name, shoving the drawings behind her and dropping them back onto the desk.

Claire, Tristan’s wife, stood in the doorway to the office, an older woman in a severe navy suit behind her. The young woman’s turquoise colored eyes had grown dark and stormy, and her mouth was drawn in a tight line.

She spoke in that rapid English that made Espie’s head spin, gesturing and pointing as if she wanted something from her.

Espie shrugged and shook her head, not understanding the words at all. However, her tone was perfectly clear. Claire was not happy.

Finally, the blonde stalked across the room and grabbed Espie by the arm and hauled her out of the office.

Espie filed away a few of the words Claire uttered to try and discover their meaning later. “Not good enough,” “hairdresser,” “party” were all she could make out as Claire dragged her out the front door and into the waiting limo.

 

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.    

  

A MILLION TO ONE

Copyright 2023 by Amy Lillard 

  

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.    

 

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.  

 

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

previously published as All You Need Is Love copyright 2013 by Amy Lillard

significant changes have been made to the original manuscript resulting in new copyright status

A Million to One Chapter Six

At least tonight she didn’t have to eat dinner alone, Claire thought. But the tension in the dining room was so thick it could have been served as the main course.

She took a bite of her veal cutlet and surreptitiously studied her new brother-in-law as she chewed. It was strange, beyond strange to think of Devin McFarland as a member of her family. Nanie was probably rolling over in her grave that the infamous playboy was now her kin by marriage.

Still, Claire was curious about Devin in a morbid sort of way, the way most people watch true crime shows and prison documentaries. She didn’t think it fair to compare hard-working, still-keeping-thefamily-business-going-and-enjoying-his-private-life-at-the-same-time Tristan with Devin, International Playboy Extraordinaire, but she couldn’t help herself.

Tristan was handsome in a traditional, GQ sort of way that reeked of success and self-confidence, whereas Devin was wickedly handsome, one long dimple slashing his right cheek and a diamond stud flashing in his left ear. Devin was tan. Not the golden brown of Tristan’s coloring, but a deeply ingrained hue that suggested years of lounging on the beaches of the French Riviera and the Cayman Islands. And Devin was charming. My, oh my, that Devin could be charming.

But the brothers had their differences as well. Devin’s eyes were more green than hazel. Their color, Claire was certain, was enhanced by tinted contacts. From the moment she had set eyes on Devin until this very second he had been smiling. Tristan had worn a scowl of one sort or another since the day she met him.

It was baldly apparent that Tristan was none too happy to see his wayward brother. Claire knew that Tristan had been caring for the family business since he left the university, but he had never received any assistance from Devin. From his over-long hair tied back at the nape of his neck to the what-the-heck grin, it was oh-so obvious that Devin preferred to play. Well, that and the fact his picture popped up in the tabloids on an alarmingly regular basis.

Claire took a bite of the buttery potatoes and switched her gaze to the newest edition to the McFarland family. Esperanza, Devin’s Brazilian bride.

Shortly after Devin had arrived that afternoon, Dan Masters, Patricia McFarland’s attorney, had been summoned. The three men had ensconced themselves into the library and had not come out until almost time for supper. Claire couldn’t help but wonder if that meeting was called because of Devin’s new marital status.

She glanced back to her husband, his scowl deepening. His anger was something that Claire just couldn’t understand. All her life she had wanted more family than what she had. Not that Nanie wasn’t important to her, but she had missed her mother and father after they died. She missed not having any brothers or sisters to play with. One would think that Tristan would be thrilled that his brother had finally chosen a wife and decided to settle down, to have him back in the bosom of his family. He should be thrilled that Devin was back to help shoulder part of the burden of running McFarland Manufacturing.

But he wasn’t. He seemed more…angry than anything.

“Claire?”

Guiltily, she swung her head around to face her husband. “Yes?”

“Would you pass the salt, please?”

She stared at him for a moment, then he nodded pointedly in her direction, at least to a point straight in front of her.

The crystal shaker sat inches from her hand.

She grimaced at her own obtuseness. “Sorry.”

“You know, you really shouldn’t eat that stuff. It’ll kill you.” Devin flashed his trademark grin that Claire had seen plastered on the cover of dozens of magazines.

Tristan snorted. “This from the man who drinks martinis for breakfast.”

“Only on days that end in Y.” Devin laughed, then dropped his fork beside his plate. He leaned back in his chair and eyed his brother. “Do you remember that time that you smuggled that fifth of Jack into the school cafeteria and—”

“That was you.”

Devin paused, a faraway expression on his face. “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it? But what about the time you put sugar in the principal’s gas tank and—”

“That was you, too.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But it was you who had Cindy Lou Farrell in your bedroom and Monica Edwards in the pool house on the same night. And Aunt Pat—”

“That’s enough Devin,” Tristan snapped, an uncharacteristic flush creeping into his features.

“What’s the matter? Are you afraid that your bride will learn some of your lecherous past?”

Tristan eyed his brother with a look that bordered on sheer contempt. “That was over twenty years ago.”

“But it seems like yesterday.”

“If you want to tell stories to my wife, why not tell Claire about the one where you left home and didn’t come back for fifteen years.”

Devin’s eyes flashed, as cold and hard as emeralds. “You know, you really need to lighten up, big brother. Learn to play a little.”

“I’ve been running the company that supports your habits. I lighten up, your allowance goes down.”

“Not anymore.” Devin reached out a hand and squeezed the back of Esperanza’s neck. He pulled her closer to him, their mouths meeting a soul searching kiss that curled Claire’s toes and she was seated three chairs away. After what seemed like hours, Devin finally lifted his head. “Right, my little money bags?”

Claire swallowed back a gasp.

Devin just kept on grinning. “It’s all right. Espie doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“And you don’t speak any Portuguese,” Tristan drawled.

“Not a word. But we seem to manage just fine.”

If their kiss was any indication, Claire figured they did better than fine. She had enough trouble communicating with Tristan, and they both spoke the same language. “You must love her very much,” she said.

Devin threw back his head and laughed. “Where did you find her, big brother?”

“Never mind,” Tristan scowled.

Devin turned his attention to Claire. “Love has nothing to do with it, sweetheart. It’s solely about the all American dollar.” He shrugged “The sex isn’t bad either.”

Claire’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s just say that I love her about as much as Tristan loves you.”

Claire was under no illusion that Tristan loved her, but she didn’t like hearing the words spoken aloud. Especially not from Devin McFarland.

And she had just started to feel better about herself and her life, especially since this afternoon and her run in with the press. There had been a split second when Claire had thought that Tristan was actually proud of her, but now…

Claire stopped those thoughts right in their tracks. That path only led to self-pity and she wasn’t going in that direction any longer. Instead, she turned her attention back to the argum—er, conversation going on around her.

“But a maid?” Tristan scoffed. “Surely you could have done better than that.”

“Leave it to you to lecture me. I heard you married Ian’s secretary.”

“Temp secretary,” she corrected.

“I beg your pardon?” Devin asked.

“I was Mr. Anderson’s temporary secretary.”

“You don’t say?”

Tristan winced as Devin sat back in his seat, a rather victorious smile spreading its way across his face.

“So it all comes down to this. The lengths the old bat would come to in order to make us marry and everything that we’d do for her money.” He lifted his wine glass in a mock salute. “Well, brother. Now it begins. May the best man win.”

Tristan glared at his brother from across the breakfast table and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt as if he’d been hit by a bus. After much debate he’d convinced his wife that two people could share the double king bed in his room without touching. But knowing that she was in the bed just a few feet away had wreaked havoc on his peace of mind. He hadn’t slept at all.

Any other night and he might have taken his chances with the staff and crawled into one of the spare rooms the mansion boasted, but with Devin just down the hall…Well he couldn’t let his brother discover that he and Claire had less than a …normal relationship. Especially after last night’s demonstration.

“May the best man win,” he inwardly grumbled. He shouldn’t have to be in a contest. The money should be—no, it was rightfully his. He was the one who stayed in Dallas to keep the family business going. He was the one who managed all of their affairs. He was the one who doled out Devin’s allowance. This wasn’t fair.

He scowled at Claire first, then turned his gaze to the mutt happily seated in her lap. It wasn’t enough that he had to take care of the dog and find a bride, now he literally had to compete with his brother to see who could stay married the longest.

Tristan had been hoping against hope that by some miracle Devin wouldn’t be found, or would refuse the terms of the will. No such luck. Now his aunt’s demands were like a cold bucket of reality right in the face. The best that Tristan could hope for was to share his inheritance with Devin. Not fair at all.

Then there was the matter of France. Ah, the best laid plans…he couldn’t send Claire away now. He couldn’t run the risk of her finding some French baker or painter and falling in love and divorcing him before their contracted year was over. Nor did he relish telling her the trip was off. She had seemed so excited when he’d mentioned it yesterday.

“You know,” Devin said, leaning back in his seat and breaking the almost tangible silence. “I think I’ll join you at the office today.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Tristan replied.

“No, I’m serious. I think it would be sort of fun.”

Tristan didn’t comment. He just raised one eyebrow to let Devin see his displeasure. It was one thing to have to put up with his prodigal brother at home. He sure didn’t want to have to trip over him at the office every day. But knowing Devin, this fascination with work would last only a few days at the most, and he would be back at the mansion lounging by the pool.

“Fine. Get your things and meet me at the car in fifteen minutes.”

Devin jumped to his feet and pulled Esperanza up next to him. “I’m going to work,” he said slowly and in an over loud voice as if that would make her understand.

She just nodded and smiled, then Devin kissed her like he did last night.

Tristan couldn’t help it, but he felt a small—very small—twinge of jealousy that he didn’t understand. He didn’t want to be married, and he surely didn’t want to be tied to a non-English speaking maid for the next year. He must be working too hard.

He waited for his brother’s affectionate display to end, then with a shake of his head, he walked around the table to his wife’s side.

Two could play this game, he thought to himself. He pulled her to her feet, and despite Bruno’s growl, slanted his mouth across Claire’s unsuspecting lips. This kiss was very much like the one at their wedding, full of surprises and electricity. She tasted of honey and coffee and all things sweet, and Tristan didn’t want to stop kissing her. That just proved it without a doubt. He had been working too hard. He pulled away from her, his gaze flitting everywhere but those remarkable eyes.

How did his fingers get entwined in her hair? And when had she pushed her hands inside his jacket to rest so near his rapidly beating heart?

He shook his head and tried to wipe the taste of her off him with a napkin. She staggered back a step and eased down into her seat.

“I’ll send Marcus back with the car. I want my wife to have lunch with me today.”

Claire mutely nodded.

With a shake of his head to clear his thoughts, Tristan walked away.

Claire tried to squelch her excitement as she gazed across the table at Tristan. She couldn’t believe that she, Claire Campbell, was eating lunch here, with Tristan McFarland. Claire Campbell McFarland, she corrected herself.

This was what she had imagined her marriage would be like. So far, this impromptu lunch had been a relaxing event. Except for the fact that Tristan had been on his cellphone from the time the endive salad was served clear through to the dessert. The food had been wonderful even if the conversation had been a bit…lonely.

Claire shuffled a bite of her crème brûlée around on her plate, stirred her gourmet coffee, and sighed. It wasn’t a contented sigh, but more of a resigned one. Still, all in all, this lunch was sort of what she had expected when she’d married Tristan.

Maybe when they went to France things would be different.

Just because he kissed you this morning and set your world on fire doesn’t mean that when you get to Paris that he’ll feel any differently about you. It doesn’t mean anything at all.

She hated that voice even as she knew it spoke the truth. Yet another downside of being a hopeless romantic. But she had at least hoped that they would be friends. That wasn’t too much to ask was it?

“Claire?”

She glanced up at the summons, hoping that her emotions weren’t written in her eyes for him to see.

She had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed that he’d hung up his cellphone and finally put the blasted thing away.

“Sorry.” He grimaced. “But things are busy right now.”

“I understand,” she said. “I think it’ll do you a lot of good to get away.”

“Get away?”

“Paris,” she said with a smile. “You just need to slow down and relax.”

A deep frown creased the sides of Tristan’s mouth. “About Paris…” he trailed off reaching into his suit coat and retrieving his wallet. “You’re not…I mean, we’re not going.”

“We’re not?”

He shook his head. “Now that Devin is here…well, it changes everything.”

Claire watched, her emotions caught somewhere between disappointment and reluctant understanding.

Tristan flipped open his wallet and pulled out his American Express. He offered the card to her.

“What’s this for?”

He flicked a vague hand in her direction. “Since we’re not going on Monday, I thought…well, go buy yourself something nice instead.”

Claire glanced at the sleek black card then looked back to him. She paused,  letting his words have a moment to sink in. Maybe she heard him wrong…but he still held out the credit card as if it were the best gift in the world. “Are you serious?”

A small frown knit his brow. “Of course I am. This is the least I can do.”

She shook her head and rose from her seat, tamping down her annoyance as she stood. “The least you could have done was have the courtesy to stay off the phone while we ate lunch together.” She pulled her purse across her shoulder and started out of the restaurant.

Did he think he could just buy her forgiveness? That she was shallow and greedy enough that a trip to a department store could put a bandage over the wound of disappointment that the canceled trip to France had left?

She had married Tristan for money, had unwittingly upped her price, not once, but twice. What else was he supposed to think about her?

In all honesty, what was she supposed to think about herself?

She hurried past the maître d’ and out into the bright Texas sunshine, the gloom of the afternoon stretching out in front of her.

“Claire.” Tristan clasped her arm, spinning her to face him. Marcus pulled to the curb, but Tristan refused to let her get into the car. “What’s wrong with you?”

She shook her head, a little contrite over her rush from the table. “This week has just been a lot to get used to.”

He released her arm, taking away the tingles of awareness he sparked to life inside her. “Yeah. It has.”

The wind caught the strands of his coppery hair and Claire had to twist her fingers together to keep from smoothing them down.

“I—” She stopped, losing her courage.

“You what?”

“I just thought that we could be…friends, you know?”

Somewhere from the direction of the street, a car horn sounded. Tristan looked over her shoulder, then down, but didn’t meet her gaze. “Friends?”

She had outstayed her embarrassment. “It’s silly, I know. Forget I said anything.” She adjusted her purse strap and reached for the car door.

Before she could get it open, his hand covered hers. “Friends,” he said close to her ear. “That seems reasonable.”

He still wasn’t sure exactly where he’d gone wrong. He was no Casanova like Devin, but why was he forever sticking his foot in it where Claire was concerned?

One thing was glaringly apparent: his wife was not like any of the women he had known before. And that left him at a loss.

Friends. She really wanted to be friends? He supposed that wasn’t out of the question, simply something he’d never considered. This whole marriage wasn’t about a relationship, but of what it would give him: McFarland Manufacturing. That’s all he had been concerned with from the start. But he’d never considered how she viewed it.

With a shake of his head he turned away and walked across the foyer toward the bank of elevators, his wing tips clicking on the marble floors.

Lunch had been unexpected to say the least. He hadn’t thought of anything more than trumping Devin’s kiss to Esperanza with his own invitation to spend lunch with Claire.

But he hadn’t thought about having lunch with Claire, only winning this power play of sorts between him and his brother.

Instead she had called him to the carpet for being on the phone, snapped at him for offering her his credit card and shot him a sad but understanding look for the canceled trip to Paris.

“Mr. McFarland.”

Tristan looked up as Carter, the young man in charge of the McFarland design team approached, thankful to have something else to occupy his thoughts other than his enigmatic wife.

He had to spend the next few months trying to make her happy, or at the very least not look at him as if he were something disgusting she scraped off the bottom of her shoe. She wanted to be friends? Then by God they would be friends. A happy wife was one who stuck around for a year, and that’s just what he needed.

“I wanted to discuss these designs with you.” Carter held up a portfolio file as if he had the winners of this year’s Oscars. If only it were true.

“No problem. Meet me in my office in twenty. That should give me time to look these over.” Tristan took the file from Carter, hoping that this batch of designs was better than the last. One could only hope.

Dinner, it seemed, was to be even more entertaining than breakfast. Devin looked from his wife to his brother. Almost as entertaining as following Tristan around every day and pretending to work. Oh, Devin had made a decision or two here and there, but for the most part he did his best to hide in his office and ignore his calls. It had been years since he’d had to work for a living and he wasn’t about to start now. He only went into the office to get under Tristan’s skin.

“Claire, would you like more peas?” Tristan held the bowl toward her as if he was presenting her with gold treasure. What was going on with the two of them?

All evening long Tristan had been extra attentive to his bride, and Devin could only speculate as to why. The race was on and the one who kept his wife the longest was the winner. He would have no trouble keeping his wife happy and by his side. But Tristan didn’t know as much about charming the ladies as he did. Well, he may have once upon a time, but his skills had surely been dulled in his years behind a desk. It seemed tonight that he was making up for lost time.

Claire set her napkin beside her plate and pushed back from the table. Before she could even get her bottom out of the chair, Tristan was at her side, offering her a hand up.

“Oh.” She scooped Bruno into the crook of one arm and accepted his help, only sparing a brief glance at her brother-in-law.

Devin had pulled Esperanza into his lap. One hand was fisted in her hair and the other was nowhere to be seen. It was time to make herself scarce.

Hers was not the most romantic life, but she had a fabulous roof over her head and incredible food to eat, even if the company left something to be desired.

She scratched Bruno under his chin and started for the stairs.

“At least I have you. Right, big boy?”

“Absolutely.”

Claire jumped, startled by the words spoken from behind her. She whirled around. “Tristan.” She clapped her free hand over her heart. With any luck it wouldn’t jump straight out of her chest. “What are you doing here?”

He flashed her that easy grin that had starred in more of her dreams than she cared to admit. “I live here.”

She turned and started back up the curved staircase. “Don’t you have work to do?” She stopped again, biting her lip. “That didn’t come out right.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I thought I’d take the night off.” He nodded toward the staircase landing, prompting her to continue her climb. Thankfully he didn’t seem angry, more…amused.

“Yes. Of course.” She started up the last few steps and headed for her suite. Only at the door did she acknowledge that he was right behind her the whole way. “Did you mean with me?”

There was that smile again. “I had thought so yes. After all, you said you wanted to be friends.”

She nodded. Yep. That was what she’d said. The rational side of her wanted to complain about his presence even though she knew she had no cause. She had said that she wanted to be friends. And she had been lonely with only Bruno to keep her company.

She couldn’t have it both ways.

Without a word, she pushed into the sitting area and placed Bruno on the couch. The tiny pooch lay on his belly, his big brown eyes looking from her to Tristan and back again. He seemed confused as to why his owner had joined them.

I know, little buddy. I feel the same way.

“Is there anything special you’d like to do on your night off?”

Tristan settled down into the armchair, looking comfortable yet stifled in his suit and tie. “Just whatever is fine.”

She gave a quick nod. “I usually come up and change, then watch a movie.”

“Change?”

“Into my pajamas.” She had slept in the same bed with this man for danged near a week. Why was she getting embarrassed about sitting around in her pjs with him?

“Perfect.”

She wiped her hands down her khaki cargo pants, then pointed toward the bedroom. “I’ll go first. You want to pick out the movie?”

His gaze swung to the entertainment center. “We can see what’s on when you get back out here.”

She opened the door off to one side of the bleached oak cabinet. “I’ve been working my way through these.”

“I never knew there were movies up here.” He spoke from directly behind her.

Claire did her best not to jump. The man was like a ninja. She wondered if she could get him to wear a bell…“I found them my first night.”

“Huh.”

She left him reading the titles and let herself into the other room to change.

Fifteen minutes later, she had her face washed and her pajamas on, but hadn’t managed to return to the sitting room. She was being downright silly, but she couldn’t help it. As long as Tristan had kept his distance she had been able to pretend that the intimacy in their situation was a figment of her imagination. But now…

She shook her head. She just had to ask him to be friends.

“Way to go, Claire,” she muttered under her breath. But there was no backing out now. “Oh, just get out there.”

“Claire?” Tristan rapped lightly on the door that separated them. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure.” She winced as her voice squeaked. “Be right there.”

“Good. I found a terrific movie to watch.”

“Super.” She winced again. Now she sounded like a crazed teenager.

She took one last look in the mirror. She was adequately covered. Modestly even in her Hello Kitty pjs which were comprised of long cotton pants, and a short sleeved T-shirt. She had worn less when she had been swarmed by the press. And she was making way too big of a deal out of this. One last calming breath and she opened the door.

Tristan tried not to let his surprise show as his wife emerged wearing pajamas printed with cartoon characters. She had been a constant source of amazement since he’d met her. There was no cause for her to stop now.

She edged into the room, apologetically, nervously, as if she was unsure of what to expect from this evening.  There was nothing to expect. Just two people—who just so happened to be married but platonic—watching a movie together.

He patted the sofa next to him. “Come on. It’s ready to go.”

She inched across the carpet toward him, then curled up on the end of the couch, all scrunched up against the armrest in some insane attempt to put unnecessary distance between them. Bruno jumped up next to her, settling down in the crook behind her knees.

With a small shake of his head, Tristan punched play and set the movie in motion.

She gave a sigh. “Mr. Deeds,” she breathed. “I love this movie.”

She seemed to relax right before his eyes as the men in the film searched for Longfellow Deeds, the tuba player, part-time greeting card poet from Mandrake Falls, Vermont.

But when the child-like yet shrewd Deeds slid down the banister in his huge New York mansion, Claire turned to Tristan. “Have you ever done that?”

“What?” He had been so interested in watching the joy flicker across her face that he hadn’t been paying near enough attention to the movie.

“Slide down the banister.”

He shook his head. “Not in a long, long time.” Years and years. So long ago that he couldn’t remember the last time. Junior high maybe.

“Pity.” She turned back to the screen.

“Devin probably has.” As if that would make up for the fact that he was the serious one. Someone had to stay and make sure everything ran right, that there would be money for tomorrow. As the oldest, that job had fallen to him. But truth be known, Devin had ducked out on his responsibilities long before Uncle Richard’s replacement had been named.

But that didn’t mean Tristan had lost all of his spontaneity, his ability for the whimsical. Sliding down bannisters and such. He’d merely grown up.

His wife on the other hand. He could see her sliding down that big bannister that led to the first floor. If no one was watching.

“What did you mean when you said you had one more night in your apartment?”

“Huh?” She turned those aqua-colored eyes from the movie to him.

“That day in Ian’s office. You said you had one more night in your apartment.”

“Oh.” She dropped her gaze to study the pattern on her pajama pants. “When I moved here, I didn’t know anyone. Then I found a roommate that I could share costs with…” She paused, sucking in a deep breath. “But it didn’t work out. My last night to stay in that apartment was the night before we…before I married you.”

So his wife had been almost as desperate as he had been. He’d never considered it before. “Was it a man?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Well, not really. I guess. I mean, sort of.”

Sort of? He hadn’t meant for his question to throw her into a tailspin. “I apologize. That was too personal.”

She pleated her fingers in the soft cotton of her pants. “I just couldn’t… you know, stay there with the two of them.” She shook her head. “You know what I mean?”

He had no idea.

“It was her apartment first. Who was I to say that she couldn’t move her boyfriend in? And three’s a crowd, right?”

That he understood. “Right.”

“The only choice I had was to find a new place to live.”

And her only choice was to marry him. That was something that he didn’t want to think about. “Claire,” he started, hitting the pause button on the movie. “Do you want to go swimming?”

“Now?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment and he wondered if she was really about to answer him.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he continued.

She nodded. “Okay.” She sprang to her feet and practically skipped into the bedroom, leaving him to wonder where the invitation had come from.

 

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.    

  

A MILLION TO ONE

Copyright 2023 by Amy Lillard 

  

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.    

 

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.  

 

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

previously published as All You Need Is Love copyright 2013 by Amy Lillard

significant changes have been made to the original manuscript resulting in new copyright status

A Miilion to One Chapter Five

Claire stretched and yawned, slowly coming awake the next morning. It felt so good, she stretched again. For the first time since moving to Dallas, she awoke refreshed, rested and ready for the day.

This was a brand new day. The first day of her brand new life—okay, brand new phase of her life— and she planned to enjoy it.

Not wanting to get up and break the spell of contentment that cloaked her, she rolled onto her side, her legs brushing against something…fuzzy. Or maybe it was hairy. Without opening her eyes, she stretched out her foot and with tentative strokes felt this foreign object. Though she couldn’t remember ever actually running her toes down the muscle bound calf of a man, that was exactly what this particular object felt like—a man’s leg. And where there was a man’s leg, there was a man—

Her eyes snapped open even as she yelped, scrambling to the far side of the bed and taking the sheet with her. She held the thin piece of chambray cotton in front of her as if it had the protective powers of a force field. Panting, she stared wide-eyed at the figure now standing casually on the other side of the bed.

Tristan McFarland!

He rubbed his eyes as if he had just awakened from a deep slumber. But Claire had no remorse for disturbing her husband. Not after he disturbed the bejeezus out of her.

“What are you doing here?” Claire pulled the sheet a little higher.

“I live here.”

She shook her head. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, this is my room.”

Claire could only stare, captured in the surreal moment. She had slept with Tristan. Not in a carnal sense, mind you, but slept with him just the same. He had, in all his tanned-skin-and-navy blue-silk-boxer-shorts glory, invaded her safe haven, her sanctuary. Or what she had thought had been hers.

Heart still pounding from her earlier shock, she pushed her bangs from her face and lifted her chin. “Ian said our relationship would be…platonic.” Claire watched the mesmerizing play of muscle as her husband cocked his hands on his slim hips.

“I believe it still is.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but shut it again. She had nothing to say.

“He also said that we had to keep our marriage out of the papers.”

“What does this have to do with the media?” If she hadn’t been so intent on keeping the sheet pulled up as high as possible across her, she might have made a grand sweeping gesture with her arm.

Tristan crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles in his biceps bunching and flexing with the movement. “I pay my staff well, but not enough to compete with a determined tabloid reporter with a hefty purse.”

“But…” she sputtered. You can’t sleep here was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. “What should we do? I mean…I can’t…you—” Claire stopped, feeling she was only making the situation worse. She was acting like a ninny, but she hadn’t expected this—to say the least.

“What we do is share this room.”

“For the entire year?”

He shook his head. “How about we talk about this over breakfast?”

She dipped her chin in as much of a positive response as she could muster.

He growled out a curse, his voice sounding as if he were at the end of his patience. “Stop standing there like a Victorian virgin and get dressed.”

Claire merely nodded. Then gathering up a few clothes from the closet, she regally swept into the bathroom to do as Tristan had demanded.

Less than an hour later, Claire descended the sweeping staircase back into the opulent foyer. She looked around her, unsure of where to go next. Holmes had told her that breakfast was to be on the east verandah, but…well, she wished she had a compass. Otherwise, she might just starve to death right there in the entry hall.

Slowly Claire spun around, looking at the room from all angles. It was a large room. Large enough that P.T. Barnum could have set up a circus tent if he was so inclined. Claire figured that even if he had been, the snobbish butler would have put his regal foot down concerning elephants in the mansion.

The thought cheered her up a bit. A little more at ease, she took a hesitant step—to where, she didn’t know. The single footfall echoed around her. If the rest of the house was anything like this…

“Ma’am?”

Claire looked up just as a small woman in the plain gray uniform of the McFarland staff approached. Sarah. Claire was proud that she remembered the woman’s name from the marathon introduction yesterday. The young maid’s light brown hair was pulled into a short ponytail and a friendly smile lit her face. A black toy poodle padded along behind her.

“Isn’t he just the cutest thing.” Claire knelt down to pet the tiny dog. He seemed shy at first, sniffing her hand to gauge her intentions. Then he licked her fingers with a wet pink tongue, making Claire smile for the first time in days. “What’s your name, sweet baby?”

“Bruno,” Sarah answered.

Claire sat back on her heels. At least someone in the household had a sense of humor. “Is he yours?”

The woman shook her head. “He’s Mr. McFarland’s.”

Claire swallowed back her surprise. She had never thought of Tristan as anything more than a handsome businessman/playboy. She certainly would have never pegged him an affectionate dog owner. And if she were asked to pick Tristan’s dog out of a line-up, she certainly wouldn’t have chosen a frou-frou, mini poodle. She would have thought of him with a German Shepherd or a Labrador Retriever. A man’s dog—

“I mean, now he belongs to Mr. McFarland,” the maid continued. “Before he belonged to his aunt.” The maid looked around to see if anyone was listening. She dropped her voice several decibels before continuing. “It’s even rumored that the dog was part of his inheritance.”

“Tristan’s?” Claire asked surprised. Sure it was unusual, but a lot of caring pet owners included their animals in their wills.

She scooped the tiny animal into her arms and cradled him protectively to her. She never realized that she could have so much in common with a minuscule black canine. But they were both orphans, both abandoned by life at Tristan McFarland’s doorstep.

The maid mutely nodded as Claire scratched Bruno behind his ears. “I guess I should get back to work now.” She reached out as if to take Bruno from Claire’s embrace.

The tiny pooch growled low in his throat, but made no move to bite her. Still the maid looked shocked.

“I think he likes you.” She pointed toward his wagging pom-pom of a tail. “He hasn’t done that since the missus died.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” Claire smiled and fluffed the dog’s beribboned ears. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take care of him today.”

“No, ma’am. Go right ahead. He’s cute and all, but I’m a maid not a zoo keeper. I only care for him because he won’t let anyone else near.” She hesitated for a moment more, then turned toward one of the many hallways.

“Sarah?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Can you show me where the east verandah is?”

Sarah smiled once again. “It’d be my pleasure, ma’am.”

With Bruno still clutched in her arms, Claire followed the uniformed maid down one of the many corridors. After what seemed like a quarter of a mile of Persian runners, antique side tables, and priceless artwork, the hallway finally ended in a charming sun-filled porch complete with a wrought iron and glass breakfast table.

Her husband was already seated there, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, his face hidden by today’s edition of the Wall Street Journal.

Claire nodded her thanks to Sarah and took the seat opposite Tristan. It seemed he was full of surprises today. The bed, the dog, and now an actual paper newspaper.

She arranged Bruno on her lap and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

“We’re on our own for breakfast,” Tristan said from behind his paper, turning the page, but never once even glancing at her.

“Great,” Claire said, not knowing what he meant. She filled her plate with fresh fruit and homemade muffins and settled down to breakfast. In between her own bites, she fed the dog, certain that she had a friend for life.

But halfway through her first muffin, she could take the silence no longer. “Tristan,” she started, addressing the front page of the Journal. “About the room…”

A heavy sigh erupted from behind the black and white shield. He snapped the paper and meticulously folded it back to rights before eyeing her with that Are-you-still-here? look. Then his gaze fell on the dog.

Claire was certain that he was about to say something concerning animals at the breakfast table when Bruno growled. Claire hugged him protectively to her chest.

“Surely we can survive until Monday.”

“What happens Monday?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“Paris.” He looked as if he were about to say more when his cellphone rang. “McFarland.”

“Paris?” Claire repeated, excitement racing through her. “We’re going to Paris? Like a honeymoon?” He was on the phone, but she couldn’t help herself. Paris!

While she raved, Tristan finished his call and stood. “We’ll discuss it at length later.” He frowned as he checked his watch. “I’ve got to get to the office.”

She was barely aware of him leaving. She was going to get to travel after all. Paris. She would have a stamp on her passport, and a good one. She was going to see firsthand some of the many places she had studied. How wonderful. How incredibly wonderful.

But she was so excited, she had forgotten to ask Tristan what she was supposed to do with the rest of her day.

“McFarland,” Tristan snapped into the receiver, wondering just what it could be now, how long this day could last, and what else could happen.

“Just wanted to call and find out how married life is treating you.”

“Very funny, Ian.”

“That good, huh?” His friend chuckled. “Then you’re really going to love this. Your wedding made the Morning News.”

“What?” Surely Tristan had heard him wrong. It sounded like Ian had said that Tristan and Claire had made the Dallas paper Thursday edition.

“It’s just the standard legal announcement in Classifieds, but it’s there nonetheless.”

Tristan bit back the blasphemous curse that rose to his lips. Why hadn’t he thought about this earlier? How could he have let such a disastrous detail slip through his fingertips unaddressed? Of course, notification of his marriage would be in the papers, all of the county’s legal transactions were printed there.

And if Ian had seen the announcement, and there was no press beating down Tristan’s office doors, then…

He had to get home. Now.

“I’ll call you later,” he said, slamming down the phone and rising from the desk in one smooth movement.

He snatched his suit coat from the back of his leather chair and hustled to the door. Straightening his tie on the way through his outer-office, he barked for his secretary to get him a cab downstairs as he whizzed past on his way to the elevators. He didn’t have time to phone Marcus at the mansion and have the driver pick him up. He needed to be there now. Twenty minutes ago. With any luck, he would beat the press to his house before they got their talons in Claire.

Forty-five minutes later, the yellow cab pulled into the winding drive of the mansion. Nothing like Dallas traffic.

He tipped the poor cabbie and rushed into the house, calling for his wife.

“Claire,” he yelled, creating enough commotion to raise the dead. “Claire!” His summons echoed around him. He knew the servants could hear him, but no one dared speak up. His tone alone was enough to send them scurrying for cover.

“Claire,” he called again. “Where are you?”

“She-she’s out by the pool.”

Tristan whirled around to face Sarah, the maid. She was a timid sort of girl who very much reminded him of the woman he’d married. “Alone?”

It was only logical that the press would come here. They knew better than to mess with him and that left Claire an easy target. Any time they came around, he had a staunch, “No comment” rule that they couldn’t break, but his wife was a different story.

“Is she alone?” he asked again, his voice loud enough to make the maid wince.

“She has Bruno.”

“The wonder dog,” Tristan muttered, as relief washed over him. Perhaps he had saved her from the press after all. Saved them both.

The maid started to tremble. “Is that all, sir?”

“No one else is at the pool?”

Sara took a couple of uneasy steps backward. “Just the media, sir.”

“What?” Tristan flew past the maid and down the hallway that led to pool side. Claire was indeed there dressed in a sleeveless pink button down and a pair of khaki colored shorts. She held herself with a posture worthy of a queen, that blessed dog tucked securely under one arm.

Dozens of media personnel surrounded her, and Tristan recognized them all, vultures that they were, feeding off the misfortune of others.

“Our sources tell us that Mr. McFarland was forced to marry in order to receive his inheritance. Is this true?” Joe Sanders from the World asked.

Tristan stopped dead in his tracks as Claire’s lips curved upward into a mega-watt smile. A strange feeling started in the pit of his stomach and worked its way to the ends of his fingers.

“Are you so unromantic as to discount love at first sight?” she asked.

“Well, no,” Joe faltered. “But…”

Tristan didn’t know she had it in her. Despite himself and his feelings for his wife, he was impressed. She had actually made Joe Sanders stutter.

“Patricia McFarland’s will provided for the care and comfort of her heirs. Isn’t that what a will is supposed to do? Next question.”

If Tristan didn’t know better, he’d think that Claire was enjoying herself. But it couldn’t be. Regardless of any enjoyment, he had to stop this. Despite the fact that she was handling the vultures with class and candid double speak didn’t matter, he had to stop this.

Putting his feet back in motion, he tried to act casual as he made his way through the throng of reporters and camera men.

“Mrs. McFarland,” Julie Fraser from the Inquisitor started. “Can we see the wedding ring Mr. McFarland gave you?”

Claire flashed the sleazy reporter a smile, then flashed them all a look at her plain gold wedding band. They were sunk. Why hadn’t he thought to buy her a ten carat diamond worthy of a billionaire’s wife?

“It seems sort of…”

Tristan cringed as Julie stumbled in her word choice. The question wasn’t exactly tactful, but then again Julie had never been known for her tact.

“Ordinary?” Claire supplied, that same smile pasted across her lips. “A wedding ring is only the symbol of the relationship. It doesn’t necessarily predict the outcome or express the true feelings of those involved.”

A low murmur rose from the crowd. Tristan saw several nods. He wanted to walk faster, perhaps even run to his wife’s side to put an end to this interrogation, but he didn’t want for anyone to think that something was amiss.

“It’s solid, true and pure. Just like Tristan.”

He faltered a step. She was good. But she still had to be stopped before she said something neither of them could take back.

“I think you all should know, that Tristan and I have a honeymoon planned. We’ll be leaving for Paris on Monday.”

Tristan almost tripped over his own feet. She thought he was going too? No wonder she had taken the news so well. She thought it was a honeymoon when in fact it was an exile.

“Is it true that you and Mr. McFarland met one another only a few days ago?”

Tristan reached Claire’s side just in time. He threw a pseudo-loving arm around her waist, pulled her close to him, and smiled at the reporters. “No comment. And if you’ll excuse us, I do believe it’s time to end this impromptu press conference. Thank you.”

Amid the groans and mumbles from the throng of reporters, Tristan steered Claire through the crowd. Without releasing her, he led her onto the east verandah and finally into the reporter-free seclusion of the mansion.

With any luck, Frank the groundskeeper and Darrin the head of security would have the bloodsuckers off the property in no less than fifteen minutes. Then Tristan would find out exactly how they had gotten in, though he had suspicions that began and ended with the woman before him.

Tristan dropped his arm from around her and turned to face his blushing bride. “Just what were you doing out there?”

“I was answering their questions.”

All right. He couldn’t argue with that. And she’d answered them beautifully, but still he had a knot of tension in his neck the size of Texas. “Why did you tell them about Paris?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “It sounded good at the time. Besides, I didn’t want to lie to them, and we are going to Paris on Monday.”

Tristan frowned.

“Aren’t we?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn’t sure exactly what. Thankfully his cellphone rang. He answered it without replying. He was taking the coward’s way out, but for some insane reason, he couldn’t look into those incredible dark-lashed eyes and tell her that she was going to Paris alone.

How much worse could one day get? Tristan executed a perfect racing turn and started back toward the other side of the pool.

Normally, the cool water of the outdoor swimming pool revived his senses, cleared his head and got his day off on the right foot. Then again, normally he swam in the mornings, just after the sun came up but before the servants started bustling about their daily activities. But not today. Today was the kind of day when he’d wished he’d stayed in bed—sans the wife, of course.

He just had to hang on until Monday.

Monday, Monday, Monday, he inwardly chanted with each crawling stroke he took toward the crystal blue poolside. He hadn’t known that having a wife could be such a nuisance. But Monday morning bright and early he would hustle her to the airport and pack her off to France. Then—and maybe only then—could his upside down life return to normal.

Unless of course, his brother decided to abide by the will. Tristan wasn’t sure what he would do then. He only knew that Devin had less than thirty hours to be married or Tristan gained all of the inheritance without any competition.

The thought brought a half-smile to his lips. Not a whole smile, for Devin was still out there somewhere, single or hitched, and Tristan really couldn’t breathe easily until he was found—one way or the other.

Tristan ducked under the water to turn again when a movement caught his eye. Unaccustomed to having his exercise interrupted, he surfaced and grabbed the edge of the pool to glare at his butler.

Holmes nodded in apology, his mouth the usual thin line of elegant disdain. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Master Tristan. But you have a…visitor.”

Tristan wiped the chlorinated water from his face and circled his head, feeling some of the tension he’d just worked out returning to his neck.

“A visitor?” he repeated, not liking the sound of the word at all.

“Yes, sir,” Holmes continued. “Master Devin is waiting for you in the library.”

 

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.    

  

A MILLION TO ONE

Copyright 2023 by Amy Lillard 

  

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.    

 

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.  

 

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

previously published as All You Need Is Love copyright 2013 by Amy Lillard

significant changes have been made to the original manuscript resulting in new copyright status

A Million to One Chapter Four

Like the man himself, Claire had seen countless pictures of the McFarland mansion in the tabloids as well as the glossy human interest publications. But no photograph alone could prepare her for that first glimpse of the magnificent brick structure as the limo purred up the meandering, oak-lined drive. It stood like a proud king overlooking the peasants below, never wavering, never blinking, never changing. A royal house for an American prince. Claire shuddered as the house—it felt strange calling such a grand building such an ordinary word—grew closer and closer. She couldn’t imagine living there for the next year. Why the front porch alone was bigger than the entire house she had shared with Nanie.

“Claire?”

Startled, she peeled her nose and forehead from the window and turned to face her husband. Oh, Lord, what had she done?

“Are you ready?”

He was standing, slightly bent at the waist as to see into the limo’s back seat. With a questioning look on his handsome face, he held open the car door for her.

“Y-yes?” Claire stammered, trying for at least a measure of sophistication. She could tell by the look on the driver’s face that she had not succeeded.

“We’re here.”

“Of course,” she replied and resisted the urge to wince at her over-loud statement. “We couldn’t very well be driving down the road with you holding open the door, now could we?” she finished on a breathless wheeze.

Tristan chuckled. “No, I suppose not.”

“Well, then we’re here.” She smacked her hand down on the smooth leather seat.

“Claire?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to get out of the car now? Or should I have Holmes serve your dinner in the limo?”

Claire felt the blush start at her toes and like a flash work its way up to the ends of her hair. “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m coming.” She slid across the seat to the open door, all the while wondering who Holmes was. She was fairly certain that he wasn’t the chauffeur and with a mansion the size that Tristan owned that left only about a dozen or so servants that he could be. What a comfort. “Dinner at the table will be just fine.”

Tristan offered Claire a hand out of the car. She ignored the sizzle where her skin touched his. And the looming structure that seemed as large as a hotel. And the falling sensation in her belly.

“Whoa.” Tristan tucked her arm through hers as she pulled herself to rights. There must be more to that champagne than she realized. Or maybe it was just nerves.

Together they made their way to the large glossy black, side-by-side doors of the mansion.

“Are you ready for this?” Tristan’s voice was low and near her ear, his warm breath stirring the flyaway strands of her hair.

She looked at the massive front doors, then allowed her gaze to swing to the green, green yard and the winding drive that led to the house. All around her birds chirped and sang, flying from one tree branch to the other in the expensive-looking, perfectly manicured lawn. Riotous flowers bloomed, creating a barrage of color all over the McFarland grounds. Everywhere she looked spring was in bloom. She envied the life bustling around her. The birds, the trees, the flowers, they all knew what to do while she felt…lost.

He patted her hand, the simple gesture somehow bringing her back to herself. It was only for a year.

Then he opened the big doors and led her inside.

Immediately, she felt as if she had stepped into a hotel lobby. A very large lobby in a very expensive hotel. Cream colored marble gleamed under the mellow golden light cast down by a chandelier the size of a bus. The room held enough antiques to fill a museum, all of which had been pushed against the oak paneled walls as if they were being punished.

There was a hushed air about the place and Claire was certain that even angels dared not tread there. Despite a welcoming glow and the warm tones of the room’s decor, the temperature seemed to be set on hanging meat. She couldn’t tell if the frigid air came from the faintly humming air-conditioning unit or the stiff-backed staff.

“Master Tristan.” A tall, livered butler greeted his employer but stared down his nose at Claire as if she were yesterday’s trash returning from the dead.

“Claire.” Tristan pulled her even with him and until that moment she hadn’t realized that she had fallen a step behind. “This is Holmes, the butler.” The regal man gave a small nod.

“Sarah, the downstairs maid. JoAnn, the upstairs maid. And Belinda, the cook. Elizabeth is the housekeeper. Frank takes care of the garden. Trent takes care of the pool…”

They walked side by side down the line of uniformed servants. Did he really expect her to remember all their names? She repeated each one in her head three times, but she was certain by the time they all went back to their duties, she wouldn’t remember anyone’s name, including her own.

Each member murmured a welcome, but Claire could tell that they were sizing her up, wondering how she factored into this marriage and the death of their matriarch.

Then the introductions were over and the staff dispersed, all disappearing in a different direction as they headed off to complete their daily duties.

Claire, Holmes, and Tristan stood in the foyer.

Her husband turned to her, his mouth twisting into a grimace of feigned regret. “Claire, I have some work to finish up in my office. Holmes will help you get settled in.”

What could she do but nod in agreement.

“Very good then.” Holmes nodded. “I’ll show you to your suite.”

With one silent look back at her husband, Claire followed Holmes out the circus-tent-sized foyer and up the Gone-With-The-Wind staircase. They passed several closed doors on the second floor before he came to an abrupt halt, Claire almost slamming into his back.

“This is…your suite.”

Claire didn’t miss the hesitation before the word. The man didn’t need to make it any clearer. He didn’t want her here.

Perhaps he thought she had only married Tristan for his fortune, and Holmes didn’t want her to get her hands on the McFarland money.

Perhaps he thought that as a faithful servant to the McFarlands, he would be entitled to a portion of the inheritance.

Perhaps she had been reading too many Agatha Christie novels.

Tristan had a brother and if anyone else was eligible to share the fortune it would undoubtedly be Devin McFarland.

“Dinner will be served in the dining room promptly at six.” Holmes bowed in farewell and disappeared down the hallway.

Hesitantly, Claire stepped from the gleaming hardwood of the corridor to the feet-sucking plush carpet of the suite. It took her a second to find the light switch, then the room was flooded with smooth, recessed lighting. And she had thought the foyer was large!

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that one person could have a room this enormous all to themselves. The room had a not-used feel to it. There was an over-stuffed evergreen couch, a matching loveseat, and a navy blue and green plaid chair and ottoman. The entire set up was complimented by casually placed chambray throw pillows giving the room a dash of country charm. Off in one corner, an over-large bleached oak entertainment center majestically matched the sturdy but elegant coffee table and twin end tables. A large screen TV was mounted above.

Claire tip-toed her way across the room, careful not to disturb the balance of beauty and charm laid out before her. Where was she supposed to sleep?

Maybe the couch made out into a bed. She shook her head. A man as wealthy as Tristan didn’t have to furnish his guest rooms with hide-a-beds like the ordinary people of suburban America.

Perhaps Holmes had a sense of humor after all and this was his idea of a joke. Nah, there was no way the starched butler was born with a funny bone. If he had been, Claire was fairly certain that by now he had had the pesky thing surgically removed.

Hesitating before one of the doors, Claire took a deep breath then reached for the knob. She may be going to live here for the next year, but she still felt as if she were trespassing. Slowly she turned the distressed bronze handle and reached for the light switch.

A bathroom. Matching green rugs, creamy white twin basins and distressed bronze faucet handles. Beautiful.

And a bathroom must mean…

She practically flew across the room and flung open the opposite door. This space was decorated in the same colors of the living area, same sturdy and functional bleached oak furniture. But this time a bigger-than-big bed dominated the decor.

Claire immediately fell in love. The room— suite—was beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and it was all hers. She twirled around, laughing and hugging herself. The next year wouldn’t be so bad. She may be living in a mausoleum with a man who— though married to her—acted as if he didn’t know she existed, with a gaggle of servants who weren’t bashful about their disapproval, but she had sanctuary. She had this room.

Finally feeling as if she belonged, Claire ran to the closet and threw open the doors. The storage space was larger than her bedroom at Nanie’s and filled with her clothes as well as a month’s worth of men’s suits, shirts, and ties. There were even a few extra pieces of women’s wear that, although beautiful, didn’t belong to her. When Ian and Tristan had said that she would have everything she would need here, they really meant everything.

With a squeal of glee, she raced to the bathroom and threw open the medicine cabinet. Rows and rows of top of the line toiletries met her gaze. Both male and female. It seemed as if her husband was prepared for visitors of both genders. Her own things had been added to the menagerie.

So much for settling in. It seemed someone had already done that for her.

She shrugged. Surely not having to unpack her own bags was just another perk of being married to a billionaire. But if this was how things were going to go for the next year, then she was going to be mighty spoiled by the time she and Tristan went their separate ways.

Three hours later, Claire sat alone at one end of a cherry dining room table that easily could have accommodated fourteen. Holmes had informed her in his ultra-starched manner that, “Master Tristan” was still working and would be unable to join her.

She had filled her down time between the wedding ceremony and supper sitting on a concrete bench in the McFarland gardens. The mansion’s grounds were nothing short of spectacular, and Claire found a bit of solace resting among the rose bushes and English ivy nestled in the beautiful gardens. So much solace that she was actually starting to feel more like her old self when she had wandered back to the mansion for dinner. Her inner peace was slowly slipping away once again as she faced her lonely meal.

Oh, the food was grand enough. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was eating. Some sort of fancy chicken smothered in a fancy sauce that she was certain had an even fancier name. The disapproving maid hadn’t informed her what was for dinner, and Claire wasn’t about to shame herself any more today by showing the staff her lack of knowledge of fine dining. Like they didn’t already know.

With a sigh, Claire pushed a bite around with the silver fork, then took a sip of wine out of the crystal goblet. She felt more out of place than a fish out of—

“Coffee?”

Startled, Claire whipped her head around to stare blankly at the elegant housekeeper. Leave it to Tristan McFarland to have a housekeeper with such a regal name as Elizabeth. “I’m sorry?”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.” She turned her attention back to her plate, sorry to say that the elegant meal tasted more like day-old hay than fine cuisine.

“Perhaps you would like to retire for the evening?” This came from Holmes, who suddenly appeared at Elizabeth’s elbow. Both servants had matching expressions: boredom mixed with just the right amount of disdain and topped off with a small helping of contempt that Claire was certain was solely for her.

“Yes,” she replied with strong conviction. She tossed down her napkin. It had been a long day, and she would enjoy nothing more than lying down and watching a little bit of television before bed. “I would very much like to…retire for the evening.”

Feeling happy for the first time that day, Claire climbed the stairs to her beautiful room. She slipped out of her wedding dress and into a night shirt she assumed one of the servants had left out for her.

In the second entertainment center in the bedroom, she uncovered the remote control and turned on the television. It seemed the McFarland house streamed all their entertainment. She wasn’t familiar with the process, but she managed to find an old Alfred Hitchcock movie to watch.

With a smile on her lips, she snuggled down into the crisp chambray sheets and hit the play button. Forty minutes later, she drifted off to sleep, wondering how Tristan managed to get the sheets in the guest room to smell like him. Now that was talent.

Tristan closed the office door behind him and expelled a tired sigh. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed in perfect sequence with the hollow sounds of his footsteps against the marble floor. He didn’t need the antique to tell him it was after midnight. The gritty feeling in his eyes and the knot of tension between his shoulder blades were perfect indications of the late hour.

Who knew that getting married could take so much out of a person?

But it wasn’t the wedding that had worn him thin today, but the Skype board meeting.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

As usual, they were unhappy. This time concerning the designs for the upcoming fall season. He had done a bang-up job waylaying their fears. He had made promises of new designs, perhaps even a new designer, then he’d spent the rest of the afternoon trying to obtain said promises with no solution in sight.

He had the best interest of McFarland at heart. Couldn’t they see that? Why else would he get married? Okay, so he’d done it for McFarland and his inheritance, but they knew how much the company meant to him.

He’d never realized until today how much his aunt had helped him. Oh, he could tell a good design from a bad one, but it was Pat who had the eye for color. It was Pat who could tell what was wrong with the design. What Tristan made up for in business savvy, his aunt made up in sheer design know-how. What he needed—as much as he hated to admit it— was an assistant. Someone who could fill his aunt’s shoes and give him a break where the Board was concerned.

Yeah, right. That’s what he needed, someone else to answer to. Like he hadn’t gotten enough in acquiring a wife.

Tristan let out another long sigh as he climbed the stairs to his suite. He was simply under too much pressure right now. His aunt couldn’t have picked a worst time to kick the bucket and force him to get married. He had enough going on trying to convince the Board that he could run the company without his aunt’s guidance. That he could turn out their usual spectacular spring line. That he could acquire the designs for the fall. He had enough on his plate without adding a wife to the list.

Knowing that she was somewhere in his house doing God-only-knew-what, had bugged him all afternoon. He’d close his eyes and try to concentrate and all he could see were those not-so-medium aqua-colored eyes staring at him after he’d kissed her.

Even though she had spoken less than ten words to him, she had somehow turned his world on its ear.

Quietly, Tristan let himself into his room without turning on the light. There was no need; he had taken this walk many times after working late. He knew where all the furniture was. He waited a couple of seconds until his eyes adjusted to the darkened room.

He slipped out of his shoes and padded toward the door that led to his sleeping quarters. All he wanted right now was a few hours of shut eye. A few hours to forget everything this day had brought, including—and especially—his wife.

Letting his clothes lay where they dropped, he shucked down to his boxers and climbed into his bed.

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.    

  

A MILLION TO ONE

Copyright 2023 by Amy Lillard 

  

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.    

 

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.  

 

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

previously published as All You Need Is Love copyright 2013 by Amy Lillard

significant changes have been made to the original manuscript resulting in new copyright status

A Million to One Chapter Three

Everyone deserved a little adventure in their lives, didn’t they?

Claire had only three seconds to revel in the fact that her life-adventure was about to begin, when it did. Or rather, when it erupted around her.

“Cathy,” Ian started.

“Claire,” she corrected.

“Get Dan Masters on the phone. His number should be in the—”

The melodic ring of a cellphone cut through his words. Both men reached into their suit pockets, Tristan coming out with the ringing device. “It’s mine.”

She sank down into the seat next to Tristan and started shaking.

Ian picked up the receiver from the desk and dialed. “This is Ian Anderson. I—”

Dumbfounded, Claire sat in the leather chair and resisted the urge to pinch herself. It was simply unbelievable. She was marrying Tristan McFarland. What was her life going to be like married to a man like him? Even if it was a fake marriage. And what if she were really married to him?

And he came home every night. And—

“Claire?”

She jumped to her feet at the sound of her name, nervously running her hands down the sides of her conservative dark blue skirt. She faced Ian. “Yes, sir?”

“What are you doing just sitting there? Get Dan Masters on the phone. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” As she scurried toward the door that led to the outer office she heard Ian say into the phone, “I need a new secretary right away. No, no, the one you sent this week is just perfect. But it seems she has a…more pressing engagement.”

Fifteen minutes after Claire called the law firm of Masters, Masters, and Landry, she was once again seated in the big leather chair in Ian’s office. Across from her sat Dan Masters, a distinguished man in a perfectly fitted gray suit that perfectly matched his perfectly graying hair.

Even though the leather of the chair beneath her felt warm, and she could feel the cool air from the air-conditioning unit, even though she could smell the rich aroma of the coffee she’d brewed earlier, she still couldn’t help but wonder if this was all a dream. A wonderful, impossible dream.

Claire sank back into the chair and closed her eyes. How many nights had she lain awake in her tiny, tiny room in the clapboard house she’d shared with her grandmother, wondering if anything special would ever happen to her? She knew that as long as she remained in small town Dunham, Texas, nothing good would ever come her way. She’d been in Dallas only three months and …wow!

“This is the pre-nuptial agreement.” Masters’ voice crashed her back to reality. Her eyes popped open as he pushed the document into her hands.

“What?” She looked from the papers to the older attorney.

“It’s a prenuptial agreement. Forgive me,” he said with a regal nod. “But I insisted that this document be drawn up shortly after the reading of the will.” He smiled kindly, but the gesture didn’t reach his cold gray eyes. “I’ve known Tristan his entire life, and I had a feeling that something like this—”

“What Mr. Masters is trying to say, Claire,” Ian interrupted. “Is that the document is straight forward and without specifics. That’s why we’re here right now.”

“It is?” She blinked. She felt as if her whole life was out of focus. Blinking didn’t bring everything in bright and clear again, but she did it once more—just in case.

“We’re here,” Masters stated, “to ensure that the wishes of my client are carried through.”

“Your client?” Claire looked back to the gray headed man. “Tristan…I mean, Mr. McFarland?”

“Mrs. McFarland,” he corrected. “Tristan’s Aunt Patricia. I wrote her will, and I will be the one to make certain the terms are met.”

“Terms?” Heaven help her, she was out of her league. Why hadn’t she taken some law classes at school instead of living vicariously through haphazardly selected geography courses? “I don’t understand.”

“It’s all very simple, my dear.” Masters braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Mrs. McFarland dictated that her nephew must marry within three months of her death. These gentleman—” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand— “have informed me that you are to be the bride. Before you is the financial agreement that must be signed before such a union can take place.”

So that’s why he’s in such a hurry to get married. Claire looked at the papers, then to Ian. “May I read it?”

“By all means,” he replied.

She started scanning the words but lost her way shortly after the party of the first part and the party of the second part. She placed the papers neatly on the desk. “I think I need counsel.” She couldn’t afford counsel, but she needed it. “Can this wait a couple of days?”

“No!” Her prospective bridegroom exclaimed.

Ian shot him a chilling look, then he turned his attention back to her, a smile warming his features. “What Tristan means to say is bringing in outside counsel isn’t a good idea. We don’t have much time, and it’s very important to keep the terms of this marriage away from the press. I will serve as your counsel. What do you need to know?”

“Aren’t you here as Tristan’s counsel?” She turned in her seat to face her future husband. “May I call you Tristan?” What was she saying? Ian told her to call him that. They were to be married. What was she supposed to call him other than his given name?

He shrugged one shoulder. “Everyone else does.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not normally this obtuse. It’s just that…” She trailed off unable to say what really bothered her. It’s just that when you’re near me I can’t seem to think at all. “It’s just that all of this is very new to me.”

“That makes two of us.”

Once again Tristan’s gaze focused on her nose. He picked up the pre-nup and handed it to her. “Look this over and ask when you come to something you don’t understand.”

Claire nodded, then read the paper carefully, trying to make sense of the legal mumbo-jumbo. It seemed pretty standard to her—not that she had any experience with pre-nuptial agreements.

The document stated that after she and Tristan were married, they were to retain all of their current assets separately. After the terms of the will were met, she would be compensated for her time as Tristan’s wife and would be free to file for an uncontested divorce. And he would inherit…

She looked up to the man she had agreed to marry. “You’re going to inherit 6 billion dollars?”

Tristan gave her a solemn nod. “6.3 actually.”

“Most of which is the company,” Masters stated coldly. “His aunt’s company.”

“My family’s company.” Tristian’s voice was edged with a thread of steel.

Somehow Claire got the impression that both men were telling her not to get any ideas about money above the agreed upon amount. She could barely fathom the million dollars that would be hers after a year. 6.3 billion was completely beyond her comprehension.

“Can we get back on task here?” Masters’ words crashed through her thoughts. “We still have a great deal to cover if this wedding is to take place tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She glanced at Mr. Anderson, then turned her gaze on Tristan. He didn’t make eye contact. “We’re supposed to be married tomorrow?”

“Is there a problem?” Tristan lifted one brow to punctuate his question.

“Well, no. I guess not. But…”

Ian pushed his way in front of Tristan and glanced down at Claire. “What Tristan means to ask, Claire, is, do you have someone you need to call to attend the wedding?”

“No.” Now that Nanie was gone, she had no family left. “But…”

“But what?” Ian asked gently.

“What about the three day waiting period?” It was Texas law. Everybody knew that. You got your marriage license and then three days later you could get married.

Ian shot her a smile that made her glad they were on the same side. “There are ways around such things.”

She shook her head. This all seemed to be moving way too fast, but she had dreamed of adventure and that was its nature: fast-moving, hard-going, out-of-control. That was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

“It’s all set then. Claire, sign those papers, and we’ll have the ceremony tomorrow afternoon. Say, one o’clock?”

Tristan pulled out his phone and thumbed open his calendar. “I can’t make it then. How about one-thirty? That should give me plenty of time to finish with my morning appointments, then make it to the courthouse and back before the afternoon board meeting.”

“Fine.” Ian clasped his hands together. “Is one-thirty okay with you, Claire?”

She was about to remind the men that she had to work tomorrow, when she remembered that Ian had already arranged for her replacement. “I suppose that’s okay.”

“Do you have any questions about the pre-nup?” Ian asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then we’ll need you to sign it in triplicate.”

Her fingers trembled as she penned her name. It was only a business deal and for no more than one year. It was her adventure. Her chance of a lifetime to be someone exciting and glamorous. So why did she feel as if she had just signed away her entire being?

Tristan signed his name to the last copy of the pre-nup and resisted the urge to sigh. It was done. Now all he had to do was say “I do” tomorrow and the money was his. Well, almost.

“Everything’s in order,” Masters said, stacking the papers neatly in his briefcase. “I’ll be going now. I expect a notarized copy of your marriage certificate in my office no later than tomorrow afternoon.” He shut his briefcase with a decisive click and left the office.

“Well…” His bride-to-be hesitantly stood. Force of habit brought Tristan to his feet as well. “I guess I should get back to work.” Was she for real?

“That won’t be necessary, Claire,” Ian said.

Tristan was certain Ian was thinking the same thing, but he was a pro at hiding his emotions. Whereas these days Tristan’s seemed to simmer just below the surface.

She nodded, then wiped her palms down the sides of her simple navy skirt. “I guess I’ll just go then…?”

She turned and started toward the door. Tristan watched her go, wondering just how he’d gotten himself into this one.

“Claire.” Ian jumped to his feet and headed around the side of his desk. “Where are you going?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Home, I guess. I mean, I have one more night there.” As Tristan watched, her cheeks turned pink, and she ducked her head. “I need to find something to wear tomorrow. Unless you need me here…”

“As a matter of fact,” Ian said. “We do.”

“We do?” Tristan asked. They had signed the papers and agreed on a time, what did they need her for now?

“We’ve made some…arrangements for you for the evening.”

“Arrangements?” Tristan echoed as his medium bride did the same.

“Arrangements,” Ian reiterated. “Tristan…may I speak to you in private?”

“I think that’s a very good idea. Would you excuse me, Candy?”

“Claire,” she corrected, a tiny frown on that medium brow of hers.

“Claire.” Tristan nodded. “Right,” he said as he stepped to the far side of the office to conference with Ian. “What  are you talking about? And make it quick. I’ve got a meeting in exactly forty-five minutes.”

“I’m talking about not leaving your bride alone until tomorrow. About making sure that the press doesn’t get to her—or she to them. And not giving her any room to change her mind. You can’t let her out of your sight. Too many things could go wrong.”

Tristan nodded and looked back to where his medium bride stood, weight evenly distributed on both feet, hands folded demurely in front of her. “What am I supposed to do with her?” He’d never asked that question of a woman before. Then again, he’d never had a medium bride before.

Ian glanced over to …Claire. “I don’t know. Just don’t leave her alone.”

“I can’t stay with her. I don’t want to stay with her. Who can I…”

“Gladys,” both men said in unison.

“It’ll cost me double time,” Tristan commented.

“But it’ll be worth it.”

“Do you think it’s tax deductible?”

“Don’t push it.” Ian smiled then nudged Tristan back over to where Claire was still standing, weight still evenly distributed between both feet, hands still demurely folded in front of her.

Tristan cleared his throat. “It seems we have some arrangements for you tonight.”

Ian nodded. “This is a very special day in a girl’s life. There are a lot of choices and decisions to be made. Tristan and I feel that you should spend it surrounded by your family and friends.”

She gave him a small little smile. “I don’t have any family.”

“Then surely…”

She shook her head. “There’s no one.”

Tristan was almost shocked at the grin that spread its way across Ian’s face. Tristan had seen that grin only a few times in the past, but it had always spelled trouble for whomever received it. “But that’s where you’re wrong, Claire, my dear,” Ian said. “You are marrying into a wonderful family, full of love and caring.”

Tristan choked.

Ian pounded him on the back with more gusto than was really necessary. “Gladys will be with you tonight.”

“Gladys?”

“Tristan’s…aunt.”

“Aunt?”

“Aunt Gladys.” Tristan solemnly nodded feeling a pang of conscience. What was his problem? He’d lied bigger lies to secure smaller mergers. Why did this one matter? “She’ll help you tonight.”

“And in the morning,” Ian added. “To uh…get ready and make it to the courthouse on time.”

Claire nodded. Then her face broke into the most beautiful, most un-medium smile that Tristan had ever seen. “Thank you,” she said. “That means a lot to me. Thank you both so very much.”

“It’s the least we could do,” Ian said.

“We’ll have Gla— I mean, Aunt Gladys come over and check you into your suite at the Adams Mark.” Right after she books it for you, Tristan silently added. And calls my publicist for media damage control. “Then you’ll have the whole evening for girl talk.”

Guarded, that’s the only way Claire could describe how she felt. She had been so excited when Ian told her that he and Tristan had booked her one of the finest suites at the downtown Adams Mark Hotel. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought she would ever stay in a place as nice as the luxurious hotel. She had been excited at the prospect of a night in a hotel with a friendly female cohort.

Claire stole a quick peek at her companion. Tristan’s Aunt Gladys turned out to be a stern, dour faced woman no taller than five foot including the two-inch-thick crepe soled sensible oxfords she wore. She had pure white hair that might have been as fine as cotton if it hadn’t been so severely pulled back from her wrinkled forehead. Claire hadn’t had a chance to see the woman’s hands. Ever since she had arrived at the hotel, Tristan’s aunt had kept her arms folded over her tiny chest in a military fashion—if there was such a thing.

When Claire had left Ian’s office, she hadn’t known what to expect from the evening. But it certainly hadn’t been sitting on the sofa and staring at his aunt.

She sighed and stood, then made her way over to her bags. Might as well get out her dress and hang it up. Hopefully the wrinkles would fall out before morning. Or rather one-ish tomorrow.

She slipped the coat hanger over the hook on the wall that she could only assume was there for this very purpose and smoothed her hands down the front of the dress.

She couldn’t say it was truly a wedding dress, but it was her favorite. A delicate pale blue that seemed to suit her complexion and show off her eyes. Though she wished she had brought some of that spray wrinkle removal stuff. Even after just a couple of hours in the suitcase the delicate fabric looked as if it had been wadded in a ball for years.

Her actions finally snagged the attention of the serious aunt. “What are you doing?” The question came without any inflection, and Claire wasn’t sure how to answer.

“I’m trying to get the wrinkles out of my dress for tomorrow.”

“You’re wearing that tomorrow?”

“Yes.” The word had barely left her lips before the tiny general of a woman started shaking her head.

“No-no-no-no-no. That will not do.”

“But—” Claire started.

“No.” Gladys raised one tiny hand like a traffic cop.

“I—”

“No.”

Claire let out a defeated sigh. This day was turning out to be so much more than she had bargained for. She gestured toward her jeans and T-shirt. “I can’t wear this, and I’m not going naked.”

She thought she saw a whisper of a smile pass over her stern companion’s lips, but it had to be a trick of the lighting.

“I should say not.” Gladys folded her arms and seemed to study the situation.

Claire had had enough. She was marrying a billionaire tomorrow. The thought alone was enough to make her knees buckle. She needed something to take the edge off. Maybe a small glass of wine.

With a frustrated growl, she snatched up her handbag and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” The question zinged her just seconds before she could reach the handle and a small taste of freedom.

“To the bar?” Why did her voice rise on the end of the sentence? She had intended it to be an emphatic statement, instead she sounded hesitant and unsure.

“Tristan said you were to remain here with me.”

“Well, I need a drink.”

“Room service,” the tiny tyrant barked. “Sit.”

The woman barely reached Claire’s chin, but in a battle of wills she knew who the victor would be.

She dropped her purse by the door and made her way back to one of the plush sofas. A prisoner. That was what she was.

And there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about the matter.

Claire flopped down on the sofa and immediately regretted the action. It was such a nice piece of furniture. It didn’t deserve mistreatment due to her personal frustrations.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Wine,” she said as if a genie could somehow make it so.

Eyes closed, she only heard Gladys pick up the phone and order room service. Then the receiver was replaced only to be picked up again.

Claire lost count of how many calls the tiny woman made. She heard the words ‘immediately’ and ‘size six’. ‘Whatever you have in stock’ was also a popular phrase, along with ‘Toute de suite.’ Whatever that meant.

Before long, there was a knock on the door. Thankfully it was room service bearing several bottles of wine. And good wine it seemed. Not that Claire had much experience with such things, but if the French labels were indication, this wine was the best. What else should she expect from a man like Tristan McFarland?

Claire resisted the urge to sigh a big, “thank goodness” and instead waited patiently for the waiter to pop out the cork.

She resisted the urge to shift from foot to foot as he let the wine ‘breathe’ and managed not to snatch the glass out of his hands after he finally poured her a glass.

Pathetic really. If she kept this up she would be an alcoholic before the year was half over.

So she tempered herself, taking a small sip and nodding her thanks to the waiter.

Gladys slipped him a tip and once again Claire was alone with her pint-sized protector.

Fighting the urge to down the sweet red wine in one long swallow, she made her way back over to the sofa. She sighed as she kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her. The sooner this wedding business was over, the sooner her life would fall into its new pattern. Whatever that might be.

Not finding the thought all that comforting, she pushed it away. This was the choice she had made, and she would see it through.

Moments later, a quick knock sounded at the door. Claire’s companion released her akimbo pose just long enough to check her watch. “That must be your trousseau.”

“But…” Claire started, stumbling over the words she wanted to say.

Gladys the Stern pinned her with those clear blue eyes. Considering the warmth of Tristan’s hazel gaze, Claire couldn’t help but wonder for a split second if the two people were really related.

“I’m wearing my blue dress.”

The formidable woman raised one perfectly plucked, snow-white brow in a really? sort of way. Then she opened the door of their suite. Three men bustled in carrying a multitude of packages.

“Set them down in the living area,” Gladys said, with an efficient wave of one hand.

Claire watched, her mouth open wide enough to catch flies as the men followed their orders. Enough packages had been delivered to clothe her for the whole year!

The older woman generously tipped them, then saw them to the door.

“All this is for me? For tomorrow?” she whispered, once again feeling as if she were a down-on-her-luck princess who was about to be rescued.

“You’ll need to try these on and see which one suits you best.”

“But it’s just one day.”

“Should I remind you that you are marrying Tristan McFarland? You have to look your best.” She opened the largest of the packages and pulled out a beautiful dress made of the finest silk and lace.

“What if it doesn’t fit?”

Gladys gave her another of those looks over the tiny silver rims of her glasses. “There are five others. As soon as we pin down which one, I’ll have the seamstress come in and make any adjustments.”

“Oh,” she replied more than a little shocked.

Gladys wasted no time in opening a box containing a beautiful pair of beaded, satin dress sandals. Next came a pair of pale pearl-colored, kid leather pumps. A pair of matte-silver, low-heeled, peep-toes, as well as a pair of round-toe, patent leather sling backs. “Size seven and a half.”

“How did you—” Claire shook her head. “What about—”

“Slip, undergarments, and veil.” Gladys pointed to each box in turn. “The flowers will be delivered tomorrow morning before the ceremony.”

“I guess you thought of everything.”

“Tristan pays me to be thorough,” Gladys added, the note of pride strong in her voice.

“You work for Tristan?”

“Of course,” she snapped in that para-military fashion. “Now I suggest you stop dallying and get to trying on these dresses. Otherwise you’ll have to wear that tomorrow.” She nodded toward Claire’s favorite blue dress. And that will never do was left off this time, but it was still hanging around.

Claire rose from the couch and tipped back the contents of her wine glass, fortification to get through the next couple of hours with her own personal bossy bodyguard.

She had no ill feelings toward the woman, just the situation. Gladys was only doing what she had to. As much as Claire liked her blue dress, she knew that it didn’t look like anything the bride of a billionaire would wear.

First a stop at the room service cart for a little more liquid courage and she would be ready to begin. Except drinking alone seemed sad somehow. She had no family left of her own to toast in this new era of her life. Not that this was a traditional marriage, but it would be nice to celebrate a little. She filled her glass then poured another goblet full and handed it to Gladys.

The unsuspecting woman accepted it without protest then looked as if she were holding a poisonous serpent.

“What’s this for?”

“You drink it,” Claire said without malice.

Gladys sniffed it as if it could jump out of the glass and attack.

“Please join me. It’s no fun to drink alone.”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, my gosh! You’re not recovering are you?”

“Recovering?”

“You know.” Claire dropped her voice. “Re-cover-ing.” The last thing she needed to do was pressure an alcoholic into drinking with her.

“No.” Gladys shook her head with a stern frown.

“I’m sorry. I meant no offense. I just—well, it’s been quite a day.” She shot Gladys what she hoped was an apologetic smile, but there was no way to gauge how the gesture was taken. The older woman’s expression hadn’t moved one iota since the entire exchange began.

Then Gladys lifted the glass to her lips and took a hesitant sip.

Claire’s smile turned to one of relief. She tipped back her own glass and rolled the tension from her shoulders.

“Try on the long one first.” Gladys pointed to the full length dress.

“Wow.” Claire fingered the beautiful raw silk. The dress was the palest yellow as if the color was an afterthought. Long and flowing it looked more suited to a ballroom than anywhere Claire would go. “It’s beautiful. But isn’t it a little dressy for the courthouse?”

“Are you saying that you don’t want to try it on?” Gladys took another swig of wine.

“No. I just—”

“Try it on,” Gladys said. “If you don’t like the length we’ll have it shortened.”

Claire felt as if she had been handed Christmas on a platter.

“Go on.” Gladys took another sip of wine and pointed to the bathroom. “Let’s see what it looks like.”

Two hours and a bottle of wine later, Claire slipped back into the sheath dress made of beautiful pale pink charmuese. It made her feel like a modern day princess. Off the shoulder cap sleeves and side ruching made for a flattering, figure hugging fit.

Claire took another sip of wine, careful to keep the dress stain-free. She felt like she was on one of those makeover shows where the woman stands and stares in the mirror in awe of the reflection staring back.

“The suede platforms would be a nice touch. You could use the height.”

“The gray ones?”

Gladys nodded.

Claire slipped on the shoes in question careful to not leave any marks on them. She recognized the designer label and the red bottoms. Not as one she could afford, but one of those “lottery shoes” as in “if I ever win the lottery the first thing I’m going to do is buy a pair of Christian Louboutin’s.”

“Now look.” Gladys used her half empty wine glass to point toward the mirror.

Claire turned to study herself in the mirror and looking back was the bride of a billionaire. Or maybe that was the wine playing tricks on her.

Gladys pulled one of the chairs over and climbed up on the seat. “You can wear your hair up like this.” She scooped Claire’s dishwater blond hair up on her head in a loose knot. Wayward strands curled around her face and tickled the back of her neck.

“You think?”

Gladys nodded, then released Claire’s hair and hopped down from the chair. “It’s your wedding day. You should look your very best.”

Claire bit her lip wondering just how much Tristan’s aunt knew about his upcoming wedding.

“It’s okay, dear. I know your secret. But just because it’s a marriage of convenience doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t look beautiful.”

Claire hugged the tiny woman, fighting tears as she returned the embrace. “Thank you, Gladys.”

“Don’t mention it, my dear. Now let’s get some rest. We have a nine a.m. appointment at the spa.”

The following afternoon, Claire stood just inside the judge’s office in the Dallas County Courthouse. It wasn’t the most romantic place to begin her adventure, but at least she felt romantic.

Or rather she might…if she had a groom.

Gladys about had a coronary that morning when Claire had started to strap on her serviceable leather-banded wristwatch, so she decided against it. She glanced to the utilitarian, black-rimmed wall clock. One forty-five. He was late—only fifteen minutes late, but it felt like a week. This was their wedding day after all, not a date for coffee.

She looked to Ian who had arrived at the courthouse shortly after she had that afternoon. Catching her gaze with his own, he lifted the corners of his mouth in what she was certain was meant to be a reassuring smile, but didn’t look like one.

The official cleared his throat. “Mr. Anderson—”

“Ten more minutes,” he interrupted. “Tristan will be here.”

To Claire, the words sounded like a threat, like if he had to, Ian would bodily drag Tristan down the aisle.

What was she doing here? Why had she agreed to marry a man she didn’t really know? She ought to leave right now, before this farce went any further. Tristan’s tardiness was a sign, and she should thank her lucky stars that she had received a reprieve from this year-long sentence of being married to him.

She turned to leave and instead found herself face to bullet-proof vest with the tall, ebony-skinned female deputy who had been summoned from the headquarters down the hall to witness the event. Claire smiled up at her in what she hoped looked like a friendly gesture and returned to her mark in front of the judge’s desk. Had the Amazon been invited merely to stand up for Claire or was she really there to make sure that Claire didn’t change her mind?

Suddenly, she felt so very alone in the world. Her Nanie was gone, and the closest thing she had to a friend had pushed her aside like yesterday’s news. She was broke and for the most part unskilled. She needed the next year to get her life back in order, decide where she wanted to be, what she wanted to do.

Tristan’s tardiness wasn’t a reprieve, but this marriage was. No matter how pitiful it really seemed on the outside, she had to go through with it.

If loneliness and homelessness weren’t enough, her Nanie had raised her to keep her promises. Yesterday, she had promised to marry Tristan McFarland. She had even signed a contract. There was no backing out now.

She caught Gladys’s gaze. The woman’s lips twitched at the corners. Claire considered that about the closest she would get to a smile from the woman, and the gesture calmed her.

She stiffened her resolve and her backbone, trying to regain some of her earlier confidence. But it, like her wedding bouquet, was rapidly wilting as the delay continued.

Claire let her gaze casually trail around the tiny office. Framed diplomas, bookcases filled to overflowing with leather-bound legal tomes, oak framed pictures of majestic white and tan hunting dogs.

She resisted the urge to run her hands down her sides and took a deep breath instead. The faint scent of pipe tobacco hung in the air and strangely acted as a balm to her frayed nerves. It was all going to be okay. Deep down she knew that.

But where was he?

“Right here.” She heard his voice before she saw him and felt as if he’d read her mind. Then he came into view, striding into the judge’s office looking more handsome than yesterday and twice as tempting. He wore a navy blue sport coat and khaki slacks, his pristine white dress shirt open at the neck. His cellphone was pressed to his ear as he conversed with someone on the line.

“In Dallas,” he continued. “It’s the logical place.” He paused. “I don’t care what Phil says. I say we do it in Dallas. If he has a problem, have him call me. I’ve got to go now. I have another appointment.” He ended the call and nodded at everyone in the room as if arriving late and on the phone was the proper entry for one’s wedding.

Despite their odd arrangement, Claire couldn’t help the feeling of relief that washed over her. Tristan was here—finally.

Without a word, Ian passed him a tie.

Tristan nodded once, pocketed his cell, and perfectly tied the paisley silk around his neck even without the aid of a mirror.

“Shall we begin?” The official looked at each of them in turn.

Claire swallowed the lump of nervousness in her throat and nodded. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Tristan did the same. Or at least he nodded. There was no nervous swallow on his behalf, not even a hint that today had touched him in any way other than a notation on his calendar.

“Dearly beloved,” the judge started, but Claire found it hard to concentrate on the words he was saying. It was a traditional ceremony, and she had heard the vows countless times during the weddings of her high school friends and the nuptials exchanged on the soap operas that Nanie watched religiously. But it was different hearing them spoken about her. Her and Tristan McFarland.

“Claire, will you take this man to be your lawfully wedded hus—”

A melodic chime cut through the official’s words.

Like outlaws reaching for their six shooters at high noon, Tristan, Ian, the judge, and the deputy all went for their phones.

“It’s mine.” Tristan took his cellphone from the inside pocket of his blazer and checked the screen. He muttered something under his breath. “I’ve got to take this. McFarland,” he said, bending his head so he could better hear the caller.

Claire stared at him in disbelief, conscious of the fact that everyone else in the room was staring at him as well.

He looked up as if sensing that all eyes were fixed on him. “Go ahead,” he said, flicking a hand at the judge to restart the ceremony. “No, not you, Phil.”

The judge blinked once, frowned, then shook his head.

It was the look of pity on everyone’s face that spurred her to motion. Claire placed her hand on Tristan’s arm, ignoring the tingle where she touched him.

He stopped mid-sentence, glancing down at her hand, then up to her eyes. For the first time since yesterday in Ian Anderson’s office, he met her gaze. He swallowed hard.

“I gotta go, Phil.” He tapped the phone off and tore his gaze from hers.

Ian plucked the device from his fingers, then nodded toward the justice of the peace.

“Where were we?” The official cleared his throat. “Right. To be your lawfully wedded husband?”

If she were going to back out, now would be the time. In for a penny in for a pound, Nanie always used to say. Claire never realized what that meant until today.

“I will,” she said in her strongest, most-self-assured voice, but it came out squeaky.

“Will you, Tristan, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I will,” he said with a nod.

“Does any man here know any reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony?” There was a heartbeat of silence before he continued. “Then by the power vested in me by the state of Texas, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Tristan looked at the official, obviously startled. His expression did nothing for Claire’s confidence.

“What?”

“You have to kiss her,” the judge prompted.

Tristan turned to Claire, his expression clearly stating that he hadn’t considered kissing to be a part of their bargain. “You want me to kiss you?” he asked.

“I—” she started.

“Of course she does,” Ian interjected.

She did? Of course she did. It was all for show. This touch would be a nonexistent peck. Nothing more than she would receive from her brother—if she had a brother. She and Tristan had a business arrangement, nothing more. That’s what the kiss would be like—impersonal, well-suited to both sides, and emotionless—like a business arrangement. Just for show.

Tristan seemed to be waiting on her to do something. What, she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t make the first move, and her feet seemed stuck in blocks of cement. She lifted her chin, steeling her nerves against the shock. It wasn’t like she had never been kissed before. But she hadn’t been kissed often and never by a man like Tristan McFarland. Business arrangement or not, she was about to kiss the most handsome man on the planet and she was fairly certain she would need all the reinforcements she could muster.

Then Tristan wrapped his fingers around her forearms as he pulled her closer to him. His warm lips met hers once, her breath hitched. Twice, her eyes fluttered closed. Then his mouth took possession of her and time stood still.

Her head spun as his mouth continued to move over hers, not in the kiss of a normal arranged marriage—if there was such a thing—but in a real, honest-to-God kiss.

She swayed, then melted into him. His hands cupped her face, his fingers slipping into the sides of her hair and tangling in the fancy up-do Gladys had insisted on for the wedding.

On and on the kiss continued until her knees felt like rubber and her heart beat in rhythm with his.

“Ahem.”

At the sound of the hastily cleared throat, Tristan lifted his head and stared down at her for only a moment. Then, he turned his attention back to the official.

Claire couldn’t be certain, but in the millisecond that his gaze had locked with hers, she thought she’d seen something in those incredible hazel eyes, but she didn’t know what it was.

“Congratulations.” Ian cheerfully pounded Tristan on the back and politely nodded at Claire. She wobbled her head in return, too stunned from Tristan’s kiss to do much more than the small gesture.

She numbly complied as Tristan took her elbow and escorted her from the courthouse. The deputy followed them out and Claire considered throwing her bouquet to what remained of her wedding party. Visions of it being blasted mid-air with a single gunshot flashed through her mind and instead she thrust the flowers toward the unsuspecting deputy and followed Tristan down the concrete steps.

A silver-toned limousine was parked at the curb, as if it awaited royalty. Tristan led her to the shiny car with purposeful strides. Without a word, he bundled her inside and shut the door. It was only then that Claire realized she was in the car alone.

Tristan shut the limo’s door and resisted the urge to slump against it.

It was over.

Or was it just beginning?

He remembered the look in Claire’s big sea-colored eyes as he lifted his head from their kiss. She looked as mystified as he felt.

“What are you doing?”

Tristan jerked back to attention at Ian’s words. “I—” What was he doing? He straightened his tie and pushed all thoughts of his wife’s pliant lips from his thoughts. “I’m going back to work.”

The sentence was barely out of his mouth before Ian started shaking his head. “You can’t send her to your house by herself. If the press gets word that you got married and left your wife alone…” He shook his head.

Tristan sighed. Ian was right. Heaven help them all if the press found out. “Have Gladys cancel all my appointments.”

A bark of laughter escaped his friend. “Tell her yourself, lover boy.” He handed Tristan back his phone and opened the door to the waiting car. He gestured for Tristan to get in.  “Congratulations,” he said with a chuckle, but Tristan didn’t answer. Instead he slid into the car as Ian tapped the top to signal his driver.

And Tristan was left alone with this wife.

The German engine purred to life and the big car smoothly slid away from the curb.

“I thought you had a meeting.”

Tristan turned toward her voice, careful not to meet those sea-colored eyes. Her gaze was a danger to his peace of mind.

He’d been working too hard. That was all. Why else could he get so lost so quickly?

He focused on the largest pearl in her necklace. She looked so different today than she had yesterday. It had to be the dress and the makeup. Or had he just been so wrapped up in his own problems that he hadn’t noticed?

“Tristan?”

Had she asked him something? “Uh, I cancelled it.”

“Oh.”

Of course now he had no idea what he was going to do with the rest of his afternoon. Spend it with his wife? Not hardly. He couldn’t look her in the face without losing his train of thought. Too many distractions. And he had his aunt to thank for that.

“I’ve never been in a limo before.”

Careful not to meet her gaze, he once again focused on her necklace, an old fashioned strand of graduated pearls. Women didn’t wear necklaces like that anymore. At least none that he knew did. More of Gladys’s handiwork?

“Never?” he asked.

Of course she hadn’t. Temp secretaries didn’t have a great number of opportunities to be chauffeured around.

She shook her head.

“Would you like a drink?” He pointed to the bar. “Maybe some champagne to celebrate?”

“There’s really a bar in here? With alcohol?”

He hid his smile at her innocent question. “There really is.” It seemed his wife had led a sheltered life. All at once he realized that he knew nothing about her. Not even her middle name.

He pushed the thought away, then opened the compartment and retrieved a bottle of champagne. He handed her a slim champagne flute, popped the cork, and directed the overflow away from them.

“What are we celebrating?” she asked.

“Well, we did just get married.”

She shrugged. “For a year.”

“I think that’s enough cause to celebrate.”

She held her glass out to him, and he obligingly filled it.

“To us.” He raised his flute toward her. She hesitated for less than a heartbeat, then clinked hers against his before taking a tentative sip.

She immediately sneezed.

Tristan laughed, the sound surprising her almost as much as it did him.

Where had she come from, this innocent girl who had never ridden in a limousine, never had champagne? And what was he going to do with her for the next twelve months?

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.    

  

A MILLION TO ONE

Copyright 2023 by Amy Lillard 

  

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.    

 

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.  

 

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

previously published as All You Need Is Love copyright 2013 by Amy Lillard

significant changes have been made to the original manuscript resulting in new copyright status

A Million to One Chapter Two

Claire sucked in an astonished breath.

Wait.

No.

She must have misunderstood him. She wasn’t sure exactly what he’d said, but it had sounded like a proposal. But that couldn’t be right. “Excuse me?” She paused, hoping Mr. Anderson wouldn’t get mad at her for not paying closer attention.

“He wants you to marry him,” her boss said calmly.

“Just for a year,” McFarland interjected. “No longer.”

Claire looked from one man to the other. Surely she had heard them wrong. Men like Tristan McFarland didn’t ask women like Claire Campbell to marry them. It simply didn’t happen.

“Mr. Anderson,” she started, doing her best to keep her tone level and unaffected, “is this some kind of joke?” She looked at each of them again. They both shook their heads.

“And please, call me Ian.” She nodded. Ian.

This really couldn’t be happening. Impulsive proposals were exclusive to beauty queen types, not plain girls.

Tristan McFarland was a…well, a McFarland, an American prince. Right up there with the Kennedys.

“Let me get this straight. You,” she pointed to Ian “want me” she pointed to herself “to marry Mr. McFarland?” She pointed toward him.

“Call him Tristan.”

Nobody moved for what seemed like hours, or maybe it was only minutes, only seconds.

Then Claire burst out laughing. Seriously? They didn’t honestly expect her to believe this, did they?

Perhaps they did. After all, she was the only one chuckling. She abruptly stopped.

“It’s not a joke, Claire—may I call you Claire?” Ian continued without waiting for her answer. “My client has a business proposition to make.” Ian grabbed her arm, settling her into Tristan’s vacated seat.

“A business proposition?” She sank into the chair, thankful to be off her feet. Her knees had suddenly gone wobbly. The rich brown leather was still warm and the spicy air teased her with the scent of his aftershave.

Ian pressed a tumbler of brandy into her numbed hands. “Tristan needs a wife and quickly. Speaking as his counsel, I can assure you this arrangement will be strictly business and strictly legal. If you consent to be his wife, the terms of the agreement will be signed, witnessed, and notarized. You would be required to remain married to my client for one year and keep the terms of this union to yourself for the said time and beyond. You will be well paid for your services. Say, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

Claire wasn’t sure whose gasp was louder, hers or Tristan’s.

“A quarter of a million for twelve months?” he barked, echoing her thoughts. “I have senior vice presidents who make less than that.”

Ian smiled a little too politely at Claire then grabbed McFarland by the arm. “Will you excuse us a moment?” Without waiting for her answer, he dragged Tristan to the far side of his office where Claire couldn’t hear their muted conversation.

She stared down into the brandy tumbler resting precariously in her trembling hands, then took a sip. The smooth warmth slid down her throat then burned her stomach, the sensations proving this situation was real. Dreams weren’t this vivid, this tangible.

She looked back to the men. Ian spoke, Tristan frowned. Claire took another sip of the brandy, resisting the urge to toss it back like they did in the movies. It would only make her cough and muddle her thinking even more.

Ian spoke again with a stern nod. Tristan’s frown deepened as he shook his head. After many more nods and frowns, both men returned to where Claire sat, still shaking, still dumbfounded by the entire situation.

“Is five hundred thousand more reasonable, Claire?” Ian asked.

Her mouth gaped open as she stared incredulously at the men towering over her. “Are you serious?” This situation was quickly slipping out of her control. Okay, who was she trying to kid? She had lost control the minute she walked in the door.

“That’s more money than you’re likely to see in your lifetime,” Tristan said baldly. “And it’s my final—” He didn’t get to finish his sentence.

Ian pulled him back into their little conference corner again where they spoke in muted, but nevertheless, heated undertones. After a few minutes, Ian approached while Tristan remained in the corner. “My client advises me that his final offer is one million dollars. For that sum he expects complete and utter discretion.”

Claire’s gaze swept from Ian to Tristan, who moodily stared out the expanse of windows at the whole of Dallas spread resplendently before him.

“What do you say, Claire?” Ian pressed.

“Can I have some time to think this over?”

“No!” Both men spoke in unison. Ian shot his client a wilting look, then turned his midnight-blue eyes back to her. “Time is something we have very little of.”

“And you want me to marry Tristan McFarland?” Claire asked, needing to hear it again. Just to make sure she wasn’t delusional.

Ian nodded. “Under the terms I mentioned previously.”

She glanced over at her prospective groom. “What’s wrong with him?”

“What?” Tristan exploded, turning his blazing hazel eyes on her.

She hadn’t meant to say the words aloud. Never in a million years would she want to intentionally insult him. After all, he seemed pretty chummy with her boss and she needed this job with Anderson, Terence, and McKay—for however long she could manage to keep it.

“I’m sorry,” Claire quietly said. “I didn’t mean to be rude…it’s just—”

Ian blinked once, but otherwise his expression remained the same. He held up one hand to silence them both. “I got this.” Then he turned his attention back to Claire. “Nothing is wrong with Tristan. I can assure you, he’s perfectly normal. Disease free.”

Tristan coughed. Or maybe he choked.

Ian frowned. “He just needs a wife—and very quickly.”

Claire stared at him dumbfounded, still trying to make heads or tails of the situation. When she didn’t respond, Ian continued. “It’s a very good opportunity. Countless women would jump at the chance without blinking.”

Claire wanted to ask him why they didn’t go find one of those jumping women instead of bothering with her, but she bit her tongue. One insult a day was enough.

She studied Ian’s expression. Maybe this whole thing was a joke after all. Maybe after Tristan left, her boss would explain that his client was crazy and this sort of thing went on all the time. But Ian looked serious.

“So, Claire?” Ian pressed again. “What would convince you to agree to this proposal?”

Claire glanced over to where Tristan stood, once again staring out the windows. From where she sat, all she could see was his back. It was a nice back. Normal enough. Perhaps even perfectly normal. Strong, broad-shouldered. He was tall and his hair from this view was a dark wavy mass. The view from the front wasn’t so bad either. Better than perfectly normal, it was almost perfect. She’d seen enough pictures of him in magazines to know that he was drop dead gorgeous. Not that a mere photograph could do justice to the real thing. In the magazines he’d always looked suave and debonair, but in person he was irresistible.

“What about the bedroom?” Claire asked. She hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but she needed to know what she was getting herself into before she got herself into it.

“What?” Tristan whirled around. She couldn’t tell if he was offended or shocked that she had even brought it up.

Ian cleared his throat. “What my client means to say, Claire, is that an intimate relationship is not the nature of this agreement. We’ll write it into the contract,” he assured her.

“Of course,” Tristan said as a muscle in his jaw twitched. “We’ll phrase it in such a way that neither of us is obligated to perform our spousal duties unless mutually agreed to by both parties.”

Whether it was her intention or not, it seemed that she had offended him once again. And he didn’t look like the kind who took well to insults fished out by others.

She should tell him no right now before this went any further. The money didn’t matter. It was crazy to marry for money anyway. She should get up, get her things, and go home. To the home she would have for a least one more night. And then what?

You don’t have to leave until you have another place to live. Maddie’s voice resounded inside her head.

Claire would continue her life the way it was. That’s what she would do. She would find a new place to live—somewhere. She would keep on scrimping and scraping. She could keep on being plain-Jane Claire Campbell, eating TV dinners off TV trays and watching re-runs of Wheel of Fortune.

Or, the tiny voice of the dreamer she kept hidden deep inside of her interrupted, she could marry the handsome, exciting man in front of her and embark on what would surely be the greatest adventure of her life. Why, if she married Tristan McFarland, she would almost be royalty herself. She could spend her days drinking pink daiquiris by crystal blue swimming pools while she traveled the world.

She probably wouldn’t have to spend much time with him anyway. Wasn’t that how it was with society wives? Maybe they’d go to a few charity dinners together or something of the like, but that would be it. He’d do his thing … she’d do hers.

“When do you suppose we could have your answer?” Ian asked, but both men waited. Both men hovered over her again.

Tell them no! her inner voice warned again.

Claire looked from Tristan to Ian and back to Tristan again.

You know we can’t all three stay here forever, Maddie’s voice countered. It would be awkward since we’re in a relationship and you’re—

“All right,” Claire said, surprised to hear her own voice. “I’ll marry you.”

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.    

  

A MILLION TO ONE

Copyright 2023 by Amy Lillard 

  

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.    

 

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.  

 

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

previously published as All You Need Is Love copyright 2013 by Amy Lillard

significant changes have been made to the original manuscript resulting in new copyright status

A Million to One Chapter One

“So this is it? You’re telling me there’s no way out? That after all this time you’ve come up with…” Tristan McFarland thrashed a frustrated hand through the air “…with nothing?”

Ian Anderson let the file of papers drop onto the top of his desk with an ominous slap. “Save the theatrics, Tristan. I’ve been telling you this for weeks.” He glanced at the small desk calendar and leaned back in his chair. “Eleven weeks, to be exact.”

“I realize that.” Tristan directed his words toward the carpet beneath his pacing feet. “But you’re my attorney. You’re supposed to get me out of this. It’s what you get paid to do.”

Ian raised his own hand in a defeated, but patronizing gesture. “Yes, I’m your attorney. And no, I’m not free. But I’m telling you that there’s not another estate lawyer in Texas who will say differently—your aunt’s will is rock solid. It ought to be. It was drafted by the best.”

“Masters,” Tristan spat the name. “This whole thing was probably his idea.” He thrust his fingers through his hair. “Forcing me to get married!”

“There are worse things.”

Tristan shot him a scalding look, one that usually sent his subordinates crawling away in shreds. Ian didn’t bat an eye. “Sure,” he agreed. “Being disemboweled, drawn, and quartered.”

Ian shrugged. “As I’ve told you before, you can contest, but it’s a lose/lose situation. On the off chance that you do win, you’ll have a dozen or so fifth cousins twice removed crawling out of the woodwork for their piece of the McFarland pie. You’ll be lucky to come out with enough to pay your legal fees.”

Tristan slumped dejectedly into a leather chair and released a weighted sigh as he brooded. “Risking the money’s one thing, but the press…” He rubbed a hand across his face. “It’s like some bad Lifetime movie.”

“The bright side is no one’s been able to find Devin yet. The way he jet-sets, you’ll be bouncing grandchildren on your very wealthy knee before he discovers he could have had the family fortune.”

“It’s beyond insane.” Tristan jumped to his feet and resumed pacing.

She was even making Devin find a wife, pitting them against each other in a contest to see who would inherit it all.

Not that Tristan was overly worried about Devin’s willingness to tie himself to one woman. His brother was more of a commitment-phobe than Tristan was.

“Your aunt made you work for it all these years, Tristan. What made you think she would hand the money to you now?”

Tristan stopped. Ian was right. Patricia had made him work his way through college. She’d forced him to earn his way to the top of the company. She had never simply given Tristan anything, but now that he had a fortune—well, almost had it—he wasn’t willing to let it go easily.

Tristan turned to face Ian. “You know, I’ve never resented her underhanded tactics until now. She’s always been manipulative and controlling, but she was fair. I never thought she would resort to posthumous blackmail.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call this blackmail.”

“Why not?” Tristan shrugged. “Extortion is extortion.”

“Then don’t do it,” Ian said calmly.

“Don’t do it? Do you know what you’re saying?”

Ian nodded. “Let the inheritance go to charity. You’ve made a few nice investments of your own along the way. Let someone else worry about McFarland for a while.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Tristan, it’s Tuesday. You have until Friday to comply with the terms of your aunt’s will. You know your options. Get married or lose it all.”

“The money, the company, the house…they all rightfully belong to me and I want them.”

“Then get married. Get a wife, get the money, and get the dog.”

“Don’t remind me.” Tristian sighed once again. “As if forcing me to get married wasn’t enough, I inherit the dog regardless.”

“How is Bruno?” Ian asked, his expression stoic.

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Small, black, and spoiled. He’s at the groomers’ right now having his weekly doggie massage and manicure. Or is it a pedicure?”

Ian chuckled. “I never thought I’d see the day when you would have custody of a poodle.”

“Tiny toy poodle, if you don’t mind,” Tristan corrected with a derisive quirk of his lips.

Ian chuckled once more, then punched a button on his speaker-phone.

A feminine voice stammered across the intercom. “Yes? Mr. Anderson?”

“Could you bring us a fresh pot of coffee, please?” Ian asked as looked at Tristan. “My friend could use a little refreshment.” Without waiting for her reply, Ian released the intercom. Then he formed a pyramid with his hands and exhaled heavily above them. “In all honesty, Tristan, I don’t consider the amount you stand to inherit unworthy of a few vows, clinging new bride and dependent poodle or not. I could go out on the street and find people who would be willing to do much more than get married to inherit 6.5 billion dollars.”

“Point three,” Tristan corrected. “6.3 billion. And most of that’s not liquid.” Most of it was MacFarland Manufacturing, his family’s clothing company. The company he should rightfully be inheriting.

“Point three, point five? What’s a couple of million between friends? You know I’m right.”

He heaved a deep, resigned sigh. “Fine. I have to get married. Now tell me, just who am I supposed to marry?”

“There’s always Anna.”

Tristan snorted. “Anna? No amount of money would be worth that Besides,” he ran his fingers down the sides of his face, futilely massaging the tension at his temples. “She’s gone to Africa with the Peace Corps and won’t be back for at least another two months.”

“She what?”

“She didn’t actually join, but I still can’t reach her.”

“You mean she didn’t take her sat phone?” Ian laughed. “What business does a bored, temperamental socialite have in some small African country?”

“With the election coming up soon, her father thought it would be a good idea for her to make a mark in the world.”

“I’ll bet you a thousand she took a manicurist and a private chef with her.”

Ignoring Ian’s all-too-accurate description of Anna, Tristan leaned forward and picked up his aunt’s will. “I don’t want to get married.”

“So you’ve said.”

Tristan glared once again.

“There’s got to be someone else you can marry. I’ve seen how women look at you.”

Tristan shook his head. “Find me one who’ll sign the pre-nup, and I’ll marry her tomorrow.”

“Here’s a thought. You make it a business proposition. Be up front about the situation from the beginning. Pay her and in the end, you both walk away richer and neither one hurt from the association. Instead of buying freedom, you buy the bonds of holy matrimony—for a year.”

“Perfect,” Tristan scoffed. But since Neiman Marcus seems to be fresh out of brides, I guess I’ll walk down the street and randomly ask women if they’ll marry me. No, even better. I’ll post it on Instagram. Wife Wanted. No experience necessary. Contact Tristan McFarland.’”

“That’s not a good way to keep the marriage out of the limelight. Besides you don’t have that long. You have to be married by Friday.”

“Then I suppose I’m left with one option,” Tristan said matter-of-factly. “Marry the next woman I see.”

A soft knock sounded and the door opened behind him. He whirled around as the temp secretary he’d blown past earlier inched into the room.

“Here’s the coffee you asked for.” Her voice was smooth and clear, but her hands shook as she set the tray down on the credenza, the china clattering noisily.

Ian walked around his desk, then leaned one hip against it. He folded his arms across his chest as a slow Cheshire-smile spread its way across his face. “Thank you, uh…”

“Claire,” she supplied. “Claire Campbell.”

“Well, thank you, Ms. Campbell. Please stay a moment.”

She seemed hesitant as she slowly nodded, glancing at each of them in turn. She acted almost afraid, almost wary of potential dangers.

“Nonsense,” he muttered to himself, then turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Even if he did buy a wife, where the heck would he find one at this short notice? Weren’t purchased brides usually imported from some third world country? He didn’t have time for all that. He had to be married in three days. Besides, that was more Devin’s speed, not his.

“Let me introduce you to my friend. Tristan, this is Claire Campbell, my temporary secretary. Ms. Campbell, Tristan McFarland.”

At the sound of his name, he jerked to attention, annoyed that Ian was bothering with inconsequential and unnecessary niceties while Tristan’s entire existence was crumbling down around him.

Tristan stood and turned to face the temp, not at all surprised at the flush of pink that stole into her cheeks. She shyly extended her hand in greeting.

He took it into his own. “It’s a pleasure, Claire.”

“Yes,” she murmured a little breathlessly.

Tristan released her fingers and started to return to his seat when Ian cleared his throat. Behind the secretary’s back, he raised his brows and looked pointedly at Tristan. What was Ian up to now?

“I do believe Tristan has something he wants to talk to you about, Ms. Campbell.”

“What?” Tristan frowned Ian.

The attorney inclined his head in the temp’s direction as if to say, Here she is: the next woman you’ve seen.

Was he serious?

He looked serious enough.

But Tristan hadn’t been serious. He’d just been spouting off. And yet…

Was she the answer to his problems?

Tristan had to find a wife.

Today.

Tomorrow at the latest.

It was the only way he’d get his birthright.

Lost in the surreal moment, Tristan turned back to the temp.

The word “mousy” didn’t fit her at all, he decided. He replaced it with medium. She was of medium height and medium weight with medium blond hair of medium length.

She lifted a hand to smooth back her thick, medium bangs, and he noticed that even her fingernails were medium.

Tristan looked up and met her eyes.

He sucked in an involuntary breath and held it. If she were medium, then there were no true words to describe her eyes. Darkly-browed with thick, sooty lashes, the orbs were blue. No, green. Well, somewhere in between, and he didn’t have his wits about him enough to accurately discern their color as he gazed into their depths.

“Tristan. Hello? Tristan?”

At the sound of Ian’s voice, he tore his gaze from hers.

Once again, Ian inclined his head in the secretary’s direction.

Tristan looked at the temp, careful not to meet her gaze. Had it really come down to this? “Uhum, Chloe—”

“Claire,” she corrected.

“Claire. Right. I know this is sudden…Claire. We just met and all, but… do you like dogs?”

“Yes,” she answered. Her expression changed from captivated to puzzled.

“Tristan,” Ian intoned, the word clearly a warning.

Tristan swallowed, trying to ease the sudden dryness in his throat. He had to do this. He had tried every way possible to get out of this arrangement, but deep down he knew, someone from his own social circle would be hard for him to control, but a medium secretary would be different. He could marry her, send her off to a Parisian spa for the summer, then divorce her after the obligatory year. He would pay her and she would surely be grateful for the money. It was a perfect idea.

Okay, so it wasn’t perfect, but it was the best idea he’d had since his aunt died.

He took a deep breath and looked into the medium secretary’s not so medium eyes. “Will you marry me?”

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.    

  

A MILLION TO ONE

Copyright 2023 by Amy Lillard 

  

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.    

 

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.  

 

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

previously published as All You Need Is Love copyright 2013 by Amy Lillard

significant changes have been made to the original manuscript resulting in new copyright status

Just for you!

Lately I’ve been talking about how I’m moved to change my backlist (older books) to reflect my ‘new direction’  in Christian/clean romance. Okay, okay, so if you’ve read my past blogs, you know that it’s been some time since I knew that this was what I needed to do. Yet somehow I kept dragging my feet and not listening to He Who Lives Upstairs. Well, I’ve finally caved–funny how God gets you to do that–and I’ve starting rewriting my older, contemporary books. Two have already been completed. Those are The Trouble With Love Potions and Always Texas. In order, they are a zany rom-com and a heartwarming tale of second chances. Currently I’m working on Maybe It Was Texas which is a mix between the two, a little humorous and definitely heartwarming. You might have known it as Blame It On Texas.

Somehow in all this planning and rewriting and shuffling around, I came up with the idea to give my readers (most of whom love the Amish sub-genre more than any other books) a chance to experience my contemporary work for free. Yes, FREE! So starting next Friday (August 4, 2023) I will be posting the first chapter of  A Million to One for you to read.  This book (once upon a time All You Need Is Love) will be available a chapter at a time, one each week until we reach  the end of the book.

The hopes are of course that everyone loves the new and improved version of it so much that they are on board for reading my other contemporary titles. Might happen. Might not. But it’s a chance I’m willing to take.

I’m actually re-writing as we go–I’ll be a little ahead of you but not by much–and as of right now I would classify A Million to One as “clean.” That means no sex and no language. I will stop here and say that it might become cleaner, but there will be no shift in the language nor will any bedroom scenes on the page be added. (Side note, the characters are all married in this tale so I can’t attest to what they might do behind closed doors.)

So what is clean versus Christian? That is the question for the ages. More and more I’m seeing books that are really, really clean (no sex, no language, no alcohol or drugs) being touted as “Christian” even though there is no Christian worldview in sight. It can make it a little more difficult to find books that do have traditionally Christian characters, but that’s the trend. I’m sure I’ll be talking about this more in the future. For now know this…

I’m committed to making all of my backlist as clean as possible. I’m not opposed to social drinking or sex scenes that are implied. These could crop up in any of my stories–Marrying Jonah and Gabriel’s Bride being two of my Amish romances that have sexual relations off the page. I understand that there are those who are not okay with these aspects and if I offend, I apologize. It’s not my intent. My goal is to give you the best story I can, told in the best way I can tell it and still have a PG rating.

I hope everyone will come along with me in reading A Million to One! All you have to do is click FOLLOW in the upper righthand corner of the page, and you’ll be notified by email when a new chapter is posted. In between chapters, I will be announcing when new books are released as well as cleaned up versions of older titles are re-released. And I might just tackle the question of Christian vs clean. If not I’ll definitely be exploring that in 2024.

Until then, thanks for reading!

A New Book? No, A new look!

I won’t confess to being the best blogger, but my intentions are always good. So why am I blogging you today? Again? After not even a week? Well, I have a book that has a brand new look. But there’s more to it than that. Unfortunately for your inbox it just so happened to be taking place at the same time that A Murder of Aspic Proportions was released. (Sorry if you feel bombarded!)

Let’s go back a bit. I’ve written blogs about following God and the directions He gives and how difficult it is to 1) know that you’re doing what God wants of you, and 2) doing it if it’s not something you really have in your heart. This is that sort of tale. (I’m nothing if not stubborn.)

For years I’ve struggled with having a split in my list of books. I’m not talking mysteries and romances; I’m talking sex and no sex in my romances. See, I started my writing career in two very different directions—the Christian market and the secular market at the same time! Folks, let me tell you this is not a good idea. For years I fought and wrestled with the direction of my writing.  

But…I’ve known that I need to change things for a while now. I even tried once before. That was a failure. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. But now here I am following what God wants from me. For real this time! :)

You may have noticed that Love Potion Me, Baby and The Trouble With Millionaires are no longer for sale. They are two versions of the same story. Love Potion Me, Baby being the more risque of the two. I have taken The Trouble With Millionaires (the sweet version of the tale) and scrubbed it up a bit more and rereleased it with a brand new look.

Here’s the new cover for what once was The Trouble With Millionaires/Love Potion Me, Baby:

 

The Trouble With Love Potions will be enrolled in Kindle Unlimited, for a time at least. A paper version is also be available.

There’s no cursing or sex in the book, and I even scrubbed up the sexual tension to make it more appealing to a conservative reader. I feel so good about this book! I love the cover and I also love following what God wants. My heart is lightened.

Welcome Home, Bethie McGee and Take Me Back to Texas have also been removed from sale. This is the next tale I’m cleaning up for you. I’ll be sure to let you know when it’s ready. 

All my backlist is to be changed–new covers, new titles, and a brand spanking shiny new attitude. :) I’m so excited to be doing this.  I’m taking out all cursing–yes, even mild ones– and of course the sex is being edited out as well. Whenever possible, I’m adding the Christian worldview. This is going to take some time. But I wanted everyone to know. I wanted you to be aware of the changes in case you see one of my books you’ve never seen before and think it’s new. I will include the previous title and publication in the book’s details on each retailer’s site. But of course you are always welcome to reach out to me.

Here’s a list of the books that will be changed. They are not in the order that I plan to change them.

All You Need Is Love

Can’t Buy Me Love

Blame It On Texas

Ten Reasons Not to Date A Cop

Southern Hospitality

Southern Charm

Southern Comfort

Loving a Lawman

Healing a Heart

Brodie’s Bride

My other surprise: I’ll be  cleaning up All You Need is Love a chapter at a time right here on my blog. It’ll be a couple of weeks (or maybe three or four) before I have that ready for you, but it’s definitely in the works. I’m doing this so that those of you who have never read any of my contemporary books can get a taste of what my ‘other’ books are like. It’s going to be fun! I hope you’ll join me!

Yes, I’m still writing books about the Amish, but I’m happy to have a cohesive theme to my work. All my mysteries may not be inspirational, but they are all clean. Soon the same thing can be said about my romances!

This means the rating system is going away, but we don’t need it now! How cool is that? It’ll be available until the last book is rereleased.

Also be on the lookout for my new #.

#AKissAndAPrayer

If anyone has any questions, please let me know! I love hearing from you!

Happy Reading!

A Murder of Aspic Proportions Now Available

It’s Tuesday! And one of the best Tuesdays of the year. Why? Because A Murder of Aspic Proportions is NOW AVAILABLE!

If you haven’t been keeping up, this is Book 2 of The Sunflower Cafe Mystery Series set in (tiny though) scenic Yoder, Kansas.

Here’s a little about the book:

Twenty-something Sissy Yoder never imagined herself running her Aunt Bethel’s café, but her help is needed, so she’s making a go of it. And she must admit that life in tiny Yoder has been anything but dull–she’s already solved one homicide—after being named the prime suspect in the case!

Enjoying a peaceful respite after all that excitement, Sissy just wants to write her advice column, hang out with her loyal Yorkie, Duke, and procure some of local farmer Walt Summers’ scrumptious “To Die For” tomatoes for the Sunshine Café’s menu. But when the unsavory Summers–resented by just about everyone in town–turns up murdered in his garden shed, it’s up to Sissy to roll up her sleeves, dig for some clues, and weed out the culprit . . .

“A promising new sleuth whose lovable dog and incipient love interest combine nicely with Lillard’s trademark Amish lore.”
–Kirkus Reviews

If you didn’t have a chance to pre-order, here are the links so you can get your very own copy!

         

This is a fun series for me to write! Especially since Stacey and I spent so much time in Yoder. Even the dreaded edits bring a smile to my face with all the memories. If you’d like to know more about our  visits to Yoder, Kansas, check out Amy’s Amish Adventures and the pictures we took!

Happy Reading!