www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MARGOT EARLY

      has written stories since she was twelve years old. She has sold 3.6 million books published with Harlequin. Her work has been translated into nine languages and sold in sixteen countries. Ms. Early lives high in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains with two German shepherds and several other pets, including snakes and tarantulas. She enjoys the outdoors, dance and spinning dog hair.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Special thanks to Catherine Cockburn, who read this manuscript for Australian authenticity; also to Catherine and her husband Keith for being lovely hosts to me here in Colorado. All errors in this fictional work are mine.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter One

      It was hot, a March hot where the heat came up from the bitumen in visible waves. Bronwyn and ten-year-old Wesley rode in the front of an ancient Toyota truck— no air-conditioning—and it was broiling. Bronwyn’s straight dark red hair blew dankly around her face, her skin stuck to her khaki slacks and the ripped vinyl upholstery, and Wesley was crying.

      He was crying about Ari of course. Because Ari was dead. The only father Wesley had ever known had been in prison for his involvement with a crime syndicate. He’d been murdered in prison.

      Sweltering, and certain the Vietnamese driver of the Toyota had emigrated too recently to have much English, Bronwyn spoke freely. “Please don’t waste another tear on him, Wesley,” she told him, which wasn’t something she would have said if her once-white blouse hadn’t been pasted to her body with sweat, if they hadn’t spent almost an hour crawling behind another ute on the winding road with no chance to overtake. Instead, she couldn’t restrain the impulse to tell her only son not to mourn Aristotle. “In fact,” she added, “it’s his fault we’re in this fix. It’s his fault you have to move away from your friends and go to a new school.” Once again, nothing she’d have said most days.

      She spared a look at the tearful boy and past him to the driver. Mr. Le at the Asian market in Sydney had found this man for her and imparted the information that his name was Nam and he would drive the three hours to the Hunter Valley, her destination. Wesley sat wedged in the middle of the front seat between Bronwyn and Nam, head down. His hair was lighter than Ari’s and without even a hint of Bronwyn’s auburn. Nor were his eyes like Ari’s dark chocolate ones; they were hazel, not Bronwyn’s green. Just those wild recessive genes, Ari.

      Yes.

      Wesley held his soccer ball in his lap. He wore his shin guards and cleats and a child-size Socceroos jersey. He had others, as well, other teams, other countries. His dream was to be a professional soccer player. Better than a footballer, in Bronwyn’s opinion, even if Ari had owned a football team. Wesley had picked up the soccer thing from Ari, who had bought him a child-size Manchester United uniform. In any case, Bronwyn had never wanted to discourage her son’s dreams and now regretted that he was going to have to experience practicality the hard way. Not as hard as the way she’d learned as a child, though.

      “And,” she continued, forgetting that she’d meant to comfort him, “your last name is Davies.”

      “It’s not.” He spoke under his breath, but Bronwyn heard.

      “Look, Wesley,” she burst out. “I know this isn’t fun, but we’re going to a place full of people who are probably willing to die for their horses, and I’d rather not share the last name of a man who is known to have been involved with doping them.”

      “What does doping mean?”

      “Giving them drugs. So they’ll lose or win or—I don’t know. But I do know that the name Theodoros is not going to be a passport to anyone’s friendship at Fairchild Acres.”

      Wesley bounced his soccer ball on his knee, and Bronwyn put her hand on top of it. “Don’t do that. You’ll cause an accident.”

      “Daddy doesn’t have anything to do with the horses at the racetrack. He told me.”

      “Yes, well, I don’t mean it was him personally, and that’s only one aspect of his business. Ari was a criminal. He stole money, he cheated the government and he was involved in a lot of unpleasant things you don’t need to know about.” Bronwyn sincerely hoped Wesley would give up his hero worship of Ari without further examples of his perfidy. If it had been possible, she would have made a priority of protecting her son’s image of the man he regarded as father.

      However, there had been too many explanations to make. How they had lost their home, cars, planes, bank accounts as law enforcement officials tried to untangle the web of criminal activity in which Ari had been involved. She didn’t hate Ari. She didn’t mourn him, either. Not now. She hadn’t the leisure. Leisure was gone, replaced with indigence.

      And she’d sworn she would never be poor again.

      Well, the joke was on her, but she’d grown up learning to survive on nothing. If she was angry now it was at herself for ever depending on anyone but Bronwyn Davies.

      Now she was back to her maiden name but with complications she’d never had before she was married. Ari was dead, and Bronwyn Davies was glad for the simplification that offered in her own life. She was no longer married, need not obtain a divorce. Which was good. She barely had money to feed herself and her ten-year-old son. She did not have money for attorneys, for messy court battles. When Ari had first been arrested weeks earlier, she’d never considered divorce. In sickness, in health, in deceit and all that. But she’d grown tired of trying to offer Wesley meaningful explanations for things she would never understand: Why is my father a criminal? Why did he do bad things?

      Just the thought of these questions made her tired.

      I can’t think about Ari. I can’t think about some lag sticking him in prison. I can’t think about his face. Too many lies, not all of them his.