Her Forever Man. Leanne Banks
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The one that, without fail, annually listed the fifty wealthiest women in America. As long as she was on the stupid list, she might as well be wearing a bull’s-eye for every opportunistic male acquainted with the knowledge of her wealth.
Although she hadn’t excelled at anything else in life, surely this couldn’t be that difficult. Somehow, however, she’d bungled this, too.
Her attorneys had recommended she go somewhere quiet until some of the scandal died down and they made progress with the legal proceedings. When Felicity thought of quiet, she pictured a nice little château in the south of France. Her attorneys preferred something in the south, but more domestic should she need to testify. Texas.
It might as well have been a foreign country to her. Accustomed to a Manhattan skyline, she found the endless flat plain and swollen gray skies desolate and too quiet. Even the cab driver was quiet. The quiet made her want to run.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and leaned back in her seat. Maybe all her running had gotten her into trouble. After her parents had died, she’d run from one charity event to the next. Stay busy, avoid the pain, don’t look in the mirror, dodge the loss, shake the emptiness and the rootless feeling in her life. Running was easier. She’d run into the open arms of her financial advisor Douglas. She’d trusted Douglas, believed him, and he had left the country with a tidy portion of her money and an exotic dancer named Chi Chi. All of this caused quite a scandal, and although she was far from broke, she felt very close to broken.
She swallowed the bitter taste of shame on her tongue. She was more disappointed in herself than in Doug. All her running had led her nowhere. Opening her eyes, she glanced at the endless flat plain. Now, she was in Nowhere, Texas.
Maybe it was time to stop running.
Maybe it was time to face Felicity.
The prospect filled her with apprehension. Most of her life she’d felt alone. Doug wasn’t the only man who’d taught her that no man would ever love her for herself, so she might as well give up the idea of getting married. That was fine, but she still wanted off that infernal list. After that, what would be left?
Felicity would be stuck with Felicity.
Her stomach twisted in fear. What if she didn’t like what she saw in the mirror? What if she didn’t like what she learned about herself? What if she came up lacking? Felicity took a careful, determined breath and narrowed her eyes. If she didn’t like what she learned, then perhaps somehow, she’d find a way to change.
The monotony of the setting might be good, she mused. There would obviously be no distractions.
One
He was big.
With the rain falling in sheets and her cab driver honking his horn, Felicity stood on the Logans’ front porch and met the unwelcome laser-blue gaze of a tall, muscular man. It was more than height; everything about him looked overwhelmingly strong—starting with his jaw. His shoulders were broad, his large hands rested on narrow denim-clad hips that emphasized his powerful thighs and long legs. He looked like a no-nonsense, hard-nosed man who wouldn’t put up with any foolishness, let alone a down-on-her-luck woman from New York.
Thunder cracked through the air, and Felicity flinched. She’d never liked thunderstorms. She took a careful breath and tried to smile. “Hello, I’m Felicity Chambeau.” She didn’t offer her hand. He might crush it. Ridiculous thought, but it was dark, she was tired, and he was just so big.
“You’re early,” he said, his gaze falling over her.
In her damp state, Felicity felt certain she came up short in his assessment. “I—I—” She clamped her mouth shut. She might have her share of shortcomings, but stuttering because a big man was giving her a hard glance wasn’t one of them. “My attorneys contacted your attorney several times during the last few weeks. It’s such a dreary evening. I don’t want to impose. If you could just direct me to my quarters…”
“My foreman, his wife, their two kids and one-week-old baby are in your quarters.”
Felicity blinked. “Oh.”
“I could ask them to move somewhere else,” he said.
“Oh, no,” Felicity said, at a loss. “You can’t do that.”
He nodded. “You’ll stay here.”
With him? Felicity swallowed. He appeared as pleased about the prospect as she felt. “And you are Mr. Logan?”
“Brock Logan,” he said, turning his head slightly.
She saw the scar on his cheek, a bold jagged stroke about an inch long that might upset an artist, but made Felicity curious. He whistled at the cab driver and firmly pointed toward the porch. Her driver swiftly unloaded her three suitcases, hanging bag and carryon bag.
Felicity paid the driver and glanced up to catch Brock Logan staring at her luggage in dismay, then rubbing his hand over his forehead.
He took a step forward, and she instinctively stepped backward. He took another step forward which she matched in the opposite direction. He narrowed his eyes, and she took one more step. But there was no ground beneath her foot.
“Oh, no!” She fell, silently cursing the clumsiness that had dogged her every year she’d been on this earth, but strong hands stopped her from hitting her knees. Her face mere inches from the apex of his thighs, she swallowed at the nearness of his masculinity encased in worn denim. He smelled of clean musk and leather. He was unabashedly male, and Felicity was accustomed to men who cloaked their gender in gentler, more ambiguous, contemporary ways. She closed her eyes to get her bearings. Heaven help her, this was not a good start.
His hands lifted her, pulling her up, almost skimming the length of his frame. Felicity’s heart pounded with apprehension and something else she couldn’t name. His hands were firm yet gentle. There would be no bruises from his touch.
For one sliver of a second, she felt the rare impact of controlled strength in his fingers and glimpsed something even more rare in his eyes. Honor. Felicity hadn’t thought that quality existed anymore. Her stomach took another dip.
“Thank you,” she managed in a whisper.
He shrugged and released her, then, grabbing the three suitcases, he swept through the door. “This way,” he said.
She forced her feet to move, climbing a curved wooden staircase with a brass banister. She moved quickly, catching blurred impressions of the house; space, soft light, polished wood, warmth. Photographs and portraits lined the walls of the stairway, and Felicity immediately absorbed the strong sense of family tradition.
“Breakfast at 6:00 a.m.,” Brock said, “dinner at 6:00 p.m., lunch on your own. If you make a meal in the kitchen, clean up after yourself. My housekeeper’s touchy about messes she doesn’t make.”
In other words, don’t expect chocolates on the pillow, she thought, following him into a small bedroom with an antique double bed, dresser, bureau and nightstand. He flicked on the bedside lamp. “The bathroom’s down the hall.”
“Your home is lovely.” She stroked the cherry wood of the dresser. “The furniture isn’t western.”
“My ancestors were from Virginia.”
Felicity nodded. “Your wife or decorator did a marvelous job with—”
“I don’t have a wife,” he said bluntly, his eyes turning hard. “I do have two kids, though. Bree and Jacob aren’t known for being quiet, but I’ll tell them to stay out of your way. My brother Tyler is a doctor, but he’s here as often as he is in town. My sister Martina is in Chicago working for a computer company, but she can stop in at any moment. Our housekeeper’s name is Addie. She keeps things running smoothly, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t upset her.”
Felicity digested the information and nodded. “I’ll try not to get in the way,” she said.
His