Marah stood in the foyer of her family’s home, appraising the black stretch limousine that sat in wait in the driveway. Behind her, Eden shook her head, her gaze evaluating her baby sister’s wardrobe choice. Reaching into the foyer closet she dug through the coats and jackets until she found a lightweight silk shawl that she passed to Marah.

      “Here, put this on,” Eden commanded. “Daddy is already in a mood about what you did. We don’t need him starting in about you and that tattoo.”

      Marah rolled her eyes skyward, but took the garment from her sister’s hands and wrapped it around her shoulders to cover her back. She met Eden’s gaze, her mother’s eyes scolding her from her sister’s face. Her tattoos had always been a bone of contention between her and her family, her parents vehemently disapproving of her body art. She took a deep breath and then a second, blowing warm breath out slowly.

      “Wish me luck,” she intoned, reaching out to hug the two women who had been her best friends since the day she’d been born. Their father’s booming voice sounded from the top of the stairwell.

      “What’s luck got to do with anything?” he asked as he made his way down the stairs. “You’re playing in the big leagues now, Marah Jean. Them Stallion boys wheel and deal every day. They’re making multimillion dollar decisions for breakfast and spitting out the small players for lunch. They’re at the top of their game because they’re supersmart. You’re going to need your brain, munchkin. Not luck.”

      His daughters stared at him, all three standing with their mouths wide open. Before either of them could say anything, his eyes narrowed into thin slits.

      “Where’s the rest of your dress, young lady?” he asked, his stare racing the length of Marah’s body.

      The young woman stammered, her mouth opening and closing as she sucked in air. She looked toward her sisters for help, heaving a sigh of relief when Marla came to her rescue.

      “That’s the style now, Daddy. That dress is too cute on her!” she exclaimed, Eden nodding her agreement.

      “Humph,” Edward grunted, not at all convinced.

      Marah quickly changed the subject. “Where are you going?” she asked, admiring the black tuxedo he sported.

      Eden reached to adjust the patriarch’s bow tie and collar. “You look quite dashing, Daddy,” she said.

      Edward grinned. “Why thank you very much! And, I’m joining you for dinner,” he said to Marah as he extended his elbow in her direction, his palm pressed flat against his abdomen. “Shall we?”

      Marah smiled back, her eyes wide with surprise as she pressed her arm through her father’s. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Briscoe,” she answered as she allowed him to guide her out the front door to the waiting vehicle. “Simply delighted!”

      Chapter 4

      The drive to the magnificent Preston Hollow estate on Audubon Avenue would have taken Marah’s breath away had she been breathing. But Marah felt as if she’d been holding her breath since she and her father stepped into the vehicle, the patriarch chatting away as if this was something that they did every day. Edward didn’t seem to notice that Marah was twisting her fingers together nervously, anxiety flushing her face with color. She was nervous and excited about seeing John Stallion again and she couldn’t ever remember being nervous or excited about any man.

      The driver stopped at the entrance to the grand home. Constructed of Austin stone with copper accents and a tile roof, the European-style residence easily encompassed some fifteen thousand square feet of living space. It sat on some sizeable acreage as well, and Marah took in the expanse of landscaping that boasted a putting green, an Olympic-size swimming pool and tennis courts. It didn’t, however, begin to compare to the ranch.

      Edward barely blinked as they made their way to the iron-and-glass entrance, moving as if this was all an everyday occurrence. At the door he depressed the button for the doorbell, tossing Marah a quick wink as they waited for someone to answer.

      Their wait was brief as the receptionist Marah had encountered that morning at the entrance to the Stallion conference room opened the front door. The woman smiled warmly as she greeted them both by name and then leaned to kiss Edward’s lips.

      The gesture took Marah by complete surprise, and the expression across her face showed her displeasure. In all her life she had only seen her mother kiss her father like that and so the moment did not sit well with Marah at all. She could feel herself bristle, tension adding to the stress she had already been feeling.

      The other woman’s voice intruded on Marah’s thoughts.

      “It’s very nice to finally meet you, dear. I’ve heard a lot about you and your sisters.”

      Imagine that, Marah thought to herself. We’ve never heard anything about you. Marah forced a smile onto her face. “Thank you,” she said. “How do you know my father?”

      His eyes avoiding hers, Edward answered the question, clearing his throat before he spoke. “Juanita and I are old friends.”

      It was on the tip of Marah’s tongue to ask how old “old” was, but the moment passed as Juanita Hilton escorted them into the formal living space of the home, her arm now looped through Marah’s father’s arm.

      Conversation stopped as Marah and her father stepped from the foyer into a handsome study that was complemented by Brazilian cherrywood floors, wall-to-wall built-in bookcases and a beamed ceiling. The four Stallion men had stood in deep discussion, debating the merits of a mutual fund portfolio when their attention was diverted in her direction. Those four pairs of eyes were appraising her for the second time that day. And Marah stared back, meeting each gaze one by one, noting the expensive tuxedos each wore to perfection. Black suits adorning picture-perfect, rock-hard physiques. She suddenly felt like a kid with a sweet tooth in a candy shop.

      Matthew Stallion greeted them first, extending his hand toward her father before formally introducing himself to Marah.

      “We’re glad you and your father could join us this evening, Marah.”

      “Thank you,” she responded politely.

      Edward shook hands with each of them in turn, an easy camaraderie obvious between them all. Marah suddenly had a long list of questions she intended to ask the old man before the evening was over.

      John Stallion was the last brother to step forward to greet them.

      “Let me take your wrap for you,” he said as he stepped behind her, his fingers grazing hers as she allowed the garment to slip from her shoulders.

      The man was awestruck. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Marah. He was held hostage by bare skin, her attire screaming for attention. Her entire back was exposed. She wore just the hint of a forest-green silk dress, a triangle of fabric that draped into a valley of deep cleavage and stopped mere inches past her southern quadrant to wrap around the shelf of her buttocks. The halter-style dress was