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www.millsandboon.co.uk
About the Author
A former intellectual property attorney, ANNA DEPALO lives with her husband, son and daughter in New York City. Her books have consistently hit the Waldenbooks bestseller list and Nielsen BookScan’s list of top one hundred bestselling romances. Her books have won an RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best First Series Romance and have been published in over a dozen countries. Readers are invited to surf to www.annadepalo.com, where they can join Anna’s mailing list.
For my aunt Angela Dagostino, and my editors, Melissa Jeglinski and Jessica Alvarez
One
Cooling his heels in a backwater like Hunter’s Landing wasn’t Ryan’s idea of a good time, but then, nothing was these days.
He was so close to victory he could almost taste it, and since revenge was a dish best served cold, he intended to take his time savoring the triumph.
In the meantime, he didn’t intend to let his prey off the hook. Webb Sperling—CEO and chairman of the board of Sperling department stores, and the man he was forced to call his father—would never know what hit him.
Now he walked along one of the main shopping drags around south Lake Tahoe, keeping his eye out for a place where he might pick up a wedding gift. If he was stuck in Hunter’s Landing for the month of June, he might as well figure out what amusements lay nearby.
There were precious few amusements to be had in Hunter’s Landing itself, that was for sure. He figured the locals in such a quiet little place depended on their cable service for access to television, the Internet and the world.
Cable interested him. Cable had made him rich. His company, El Ray Technology, was among the bigger players in California’s fabled Silicon Valley.
A store sign hanging from a metal bar up the street caught his eye. Distressed Success, it announced in flowery type.
His lips curved in sardonic amusement.
The sign summed up his life.
When he drew even with the store, he was able to see it was a tidy little shop devoted to home furnishings. Its facade was white with light blue and yellow trim, like an Easter egg, and both its store windows presented cozy tableaus of domestic bliss.
The window on the left showcased a table set for tea with mismatched cups and saucers. The table had a distressed finish and was covered with a chintz tablecloth and set for four.
The window on the right displayed an old-fashioned settee—something that looked as if it had been salvaged from a garage sale—strewn with an outrageous assortment of silk, beaded and tasseled pillows.
It was domesticity with a hint of sin, he thought, his gut tightening.
The look would have suited a room tinged with Eastern exoticism—or a madam’s boudoir. Here, on the California border with Nevada, where regulated brothels were legal in some localities, the decor would have found a ready market.
Intrigued by the storefront, he decided to have a look inside.
A chime above the door announced his entrance. “These raw-silk photo albums just came in last week—”
The woman’s voice, with just a hint of huskiness, washed over him, along with the faint scent of a flowery blend.
He walked around a display table and came face-to-face with the owner of that voice.
She glanced up, smile in place, and he felt the air leave him as if he’d taken a sucker punch to the stomach.
Hello.
“Good afternoon …”
Her voice trailed off as they stared at each other.
He went tense, the elemental reaction of a male who’s gone too long without a mate.
He looked at her hand, noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring and felt his spirits lift.
Things were looking up for his enforced month-long stay in sleepy Hunter’s Landing, he thought bemusedly.
Tall and curvaceous, she had hair that flowed past her shoulders in loose curls. He had to call it titian colored, for lack of a better word.
She was a latter-day Venus—a model for the goddess of love that would have made even Botticelli proud. She had a pale heart-shaped face and symmetrical features.
She was dressed in a brown velvet top, ruffled skirt and high-heeled sandals. The look was professional but with a hint of the bohemian, and it dovetailed with the image of her shop.
She stood with a well-dressed, middle-aged female customer, the two of them flanking a waist-high white counter upon which were arrayed a number of albums.
She cleared her throat and righted the smile that had wavered. “Please take a look around and let me know if you need anything.”
She hesitated a second, as if she belatedly realized how the words could be interpreted, and he felt his lips twitch.
“I’ll be able to assist you as soon as I’m done,” she said.
He thought about how he’d like her to assist him and smiled with lazy assurance. “No problem. Take your time.”
She looked momentarily uncertain, then turned back to deal with the customer in front of her.
The mood broken, he sauntered around the shop, at the same time taking the opportunity to study her.
Over the years, he’d had plenty of confirmation that women found him attractive. Still, his charm was rusty from lack of use. His last relationship—if a three-month fling could be called that—had ended nearly a year ago.
Her voice reached him from the back of the shop. “These are interleaved with acid-free pages—“
He eyed a floor lamp with a tasseled flower-print shade, then a wrought iron chandelier with beaded glass strands of blue and green.
He felt as if he’d entered a fantasyland, one with a profusion of colors and textures.
Still, her shop couldn’t compare to her. She interested him as no woman had for a long time.
“—we also have some leather-bound albums you might like—“
Her voice caressed his mind like the stroke of a petal.
He’d definitely been too long without sex, he thought. Too long without anything except work.
And now, thanks to his old college buddy Hunter—who’d gone to his grave too young—he had too much time to think about it.
At Harvard, he and Hunter and five other guys had formed a small band—a fraternity unto themselves. One night, across a table strewn with beer bottles, they’d vowed to make their own marks on the world, though they’d come from families of distinction and wealth. They’d vowed to come together again in ten years to celebrate their friendship and success.
But shortly before graduation, Hunter’s sudden and shocking death from melanoma had ripped the group apart, and they’d eventually lost touch.
That is, until a few months ago, when he and the remaining Seven Samurai had gotten letters from a Los Angeles law firm representing the Hunter Palmer Foundation.
Before his death, Hunter had apparently made arrangements for a lodge to be built near Lake Tahoe, and now, reaching from beyond the grave, he expected his friends, as they reached their milestone decade past graduation, to honor the vow they’d made to one another.
By the terms of Hunter’s will, if each guy spent a month at the lodge, at the end of six months, twenty million dollars would go to charity and the lodge itself would be bequeathed to the town of Hunter’s Landing so it could be used as a restorative place by cancer survivors and patients.
Twenty million was a lot of moola, and not even Ryan, hard-hearted millionaire that he was, could say no.
So that was how he found himself in this predicament. He was trapped in Hunter’s Landing at the precise moment he was closing in on the goal he’d worked years to achieve—making Webb Sperling pay and then pay some more.
His mouth twisted. Of course, leave it to Hunter to find a place called Hunter’s Landing for his old college buddies to serve their time. Hunter had always had a peculiar sense of humor.
Three guys had gone before him to the lodge, Ryan thought, so they were already halfway through this ordeal.
Of course, all three of his old buddies had somehow managed to get themselves engaged or married, including Devlin, whose month at the lodge had just ended.
In fact, Ryan had shown up in Tahoe early—and had stayed at a casino last night while the caretaker was having the lodge cleaned in anticipation of his arrival—because Dev was getting married tomorrow and had asked Ryan to be his best man.
Ryan grimaced. Devlin had even referred to the lodge as the Love Shack.
Right.
He eyed Venus again. He’d settle for a good lay, since that alone would be a vast improvement over his recent love life.
“I hope you enjoy your purchase.”
Venus’s voice broke into his thoughts.
He glanced around to see her walking her customer to the door.
A jangle of bells marked the customer’s departure and Venus paused to organize a display of books. Silence heralded the fact that they were alone.
He watched her line up the spines of some books and then adjust the angle of a photo frame.
Finally, after what felt to him like aeons, but what was certainly no more than a few moments, she looked up and fixed him with a smile.
“May I help you?” she asked, walking toward him.
“Looking for a wedding gift,” he said. “I was passing by and the name of your shop made me curious.”
“A lot of people have had the same reaction,” she admitted. “The name’s served as a good advertisement for the shop.”
“You’re a savvy marketer.”
This close, he could see her eyes were hazel beneath perfectly arched brows. Her lips were full and glossy pink, her complexion creamy and unblemished. It was hard not too be knocked over by so much perfection.
“Thank you.” She seemed to consider him. “Our style aims for shabby elegance so—“
“Shabby elegance?” The name wanted to make every male cell in him snort in derision. “That’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”
“Yes,” she responded, “but it’s also part of a hip trend—one of its hallmarks being furniture with a distressed finish.”
“And here I thought the name of your store was a description of my life.” She laughed.
He liked her laugh. It had a musical quality to it and he wondered if he could get it to a huskier timbre in bed.
He lifted a clock from a nearby shelf, checked the price and raised his eyebrows. “People are willing to spend a lot of money to look poor.”
She nodded. “Celebrities included.” She added with a light laugh, “This is Tahoe, after all.”
“There’s a market for expensive mismatched china?”
“Yes,” she confirmed, refusing to look the least bit insulted. “It’s an art form to bring together disparate pieces to create a harmonious look. I’ll hunt for something a client is looking for if one of my regular suppliers doesn’t have it.”
He supposed more than one customer had been seduced by Venus’s sales pitch. “Any suggestion for a wedding gift for a couple that already has everything?”
His question brought a smile to her lips. “Young couple or old?”
“Young,” he said. “He’s a millionaire and she’s about to become the wife of one.”
“Lucky girl,” she said, then looked around her shop thoughtfully.
He glanced around, too. Everything in her store seemed designed to appeal to feminine tastes—to women, with perhaps the occasional husband in tow. He was lost.
Her eyes alighted on something and she took a few steps forward. He followed.
“What about crystal candlestick holders?” she suggested.
The candlestick holders on a nearby shelf were about a foot high and had deep, crisscrossing cuts.
He knew he’d be sending a more expensive gift to Dev and his bride in the future, but he liked the thought of bringing something with him tomorrow, to add to the significance of the day.
Venus looked from him to the candlesticks and back. “Crystal is always appropriate, always timeless, always—“
“Sold,” he said. “I’ll take them.”
She looked surprised but pleased.
He took one of the candlestick holders off the shelf and turned it over. The price was hefty, but he could well afford the cost, especially since the purchase would be worth every penny if it won him points with Venus.
After she took the other holder off the shelf, he handed the one he was holding to her.
As she took it from him, their hands brushed, sending a little electric charge through him—and, if he wasn’t mistaken, judging by her sudden tension, through her, as well.
The moment was over in the span of a few seconds, however, and she quickly turned away toward the back of the store.
He followed her as she walked to the checkout counter.
“Is there anything else I can show you?” she asked over her shoulder.
Yes, you. He admired the view of her from the back. Spectacular. He thought about how she’d fit in his arms.
Aloud, he forced himself to say, “That’s it for this time.”
There’d be plenty of other occasions over the course of the coming month, if he had anything to say about it.
She went around the counter and he stopped in front of it.
He watched as she pulled the price tag off his purchase and then wrapped both candlestick holders in tissue paper.
The sight of her slim, manicured hands readying his purchase was arousing.
He needed to get a grip, he thought. Or better yet, get laid.
“Are you staying in Tahoe or just passing through?” she asked, interrupting his reverie.
“I’m staying in Hunter’s Landing for a few weeks,” he responded. Referring to his stay in terms of mere weeks somehow made the upcoming month more palatable.
“Oh, really?” She glanced up. “I live near there.”
“Hunter’s Landing is small and quiet,” he said with a grimace.
He figured she probably assumed he was here for a vacation. He was dressed in khakis and a polo shirt for a change. His usual uniform consisted of custom-made suits and power ties.
“I like small and quiet,” she responded.
Small. Quiet. She didn’t sounded like a party animal, he thought. Maybe she was in a relationship and felt little need for the local bar scene.
She wore no ring, but there could be a boyfriend in the picture. Or, more likely, boyfriends, he amended, figuring men panted after Venus.
“Since I’m not familiar with Hunter’s Landing,” he said, “maybe you can tell me where I can find a good meal.”
He was stretching the truth, since he’d grown up literally next door, on his family’s estate in Clayburn, and he’d been to Tahoe on many occasions.
But not in recent memory. Lately he’d been bent on revenge, and Tahoe was too much of a local playground for Webb Sperling and his ilk.
On top of it all, the caretaker of the lodge had left the refrigerator there stocked with gourmet food, but Venus didn’t have to know that.
She seemed to consider him, as if wondering whether he was putting the moves on her.
Desire washed over him in a wave.
Her top was a typical V-neck but, since her breasts were at least a C cup, almost anything on her would have looked sexy.
He could also see now, with more intimate inspection, that her eyes were amber shot through with green and gold.
Eventually, she said, “There’s not much going on in Hunter’s Landing.”
Now there was an understatement.
“There’s the Lakeside Diner,” she went on, “and, of course, Clearwater’s, which has a deck overlooking the lake.”
Oh, yeah. He could picture a little romantic dinner, moonlight glinting off the water, followed by a retreat to the lodge. They’d sip some red wine and maybe take a dip in the hot tub, all the while listening to some mellow jazz. Then he’d peel off her clothes and they’d make love in the oversized master suite.
He tried to unfog his brain as she deposited his purchase in a ridiculous yellow bag displaying the Distressed Success name.
“Clearwater’s sounds great …” He paused. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Kelly.”
“Kelly.” He held out his hand. “Ryan.”
She shook his hand and he felt long, elegant fingers, her delicate palm tapering to a slim wrist.
The moment seemed to draw itself out, until she finally withdrew her hand.
“How would you like to pay for your purchase?” she asked.
As he pulled out his wallet, he wondered whether he’d only imagined that her voice had sounded husky. “AmEx okay?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
Anything to make the customer happy, he thought. She was the consummate saleswoman and, having grown up as an heir to the Sperling department stores fortune, he knew something about the art form.
He handed her the credit card. “I’d enjoy having some company at Clearwater’s.” He’d eaten alone way too often lately. “Are you available for dinner tomorrow night, Kelly—? I didn’t get your last name.”
Tomorrow was Saturday. Smooth, smooth.
“It’s Hartley,” she said easily.
As she glanced down at the credit card he’d handed her, a weird feeling washed over him.
One of Webb Sperling’s many mistresses had been named Hartley, and the woman had had a daughter with the name Kelly.
Kelly’s smile died at the same time as the one on his lips froze. He watched as her eyes widened and her lips parted.
Damn it.
Recognition seemed to slam into her at the same time it did into him.
He cursed under his breath. To think, he’d almost got taken in by a bimbo, just like his father. Almost, though. Fortunately, he didn’t have Webb Sperling’s susceptibility to trashy women.
He’d worked hard his whole life to avoid comparisons to his father. Luckily, his looks came from his mother—a debutante from a rich family—who’d been a dark-haired beauty, right up until cancer had claimed her, just as it had his friend Hunter.
Beautiful, of course, was just the way Webb Sperling liked them, he thought cynically, staring now at Kelly.
Beautiful and money hungry. No wonder she’d thought Dev’s bride was lucky to have landed a millionaire.
She’d chosen well for the location of her store. Tahoe catered to people with money to burn. Just like her mother, she seemed to have an unerring sense of where to find easy money.
If he had a say, though, Venus would be ruined.
“You’re Webb Sperling’s son,” she said.
“And you’re Brenda Hartley’s daughter,” he responded grimly.
How could she not have recognized him?
Easily, Kelly answered herself. She hadn’t seen him in more than a decade, since before she’d left Clayburn, and he’d become something of a press-dodging millionaire. From time to time, she’d read newspaper articles about his business dealings, but that was about it.
Of course, the intervening years had wrought a transformation in him.
Any hint of teenage lankiness was gone, replaced by lean muscle and the good looks of a movie star. Though she was tall and wearing heels, he easily topped her. And unlike Webb Sperling—who was blue-eyed and fair, though his hair had been turning white for years—Ryan was dark. With chocolate-brown eyes and dark hair, he had a face that was all Roman god.
She’d felt her breath leave her body when he’d walked in the door. When she’d been a teenager, she’d also found him overwhelming, though then she’d merely stolen glances of him from a distance.
Back then, she’d have been tongue-tied and dumbstruck if Ryan Sperling had deigned to speak to her. He was only two years older, but his wealth and rebellious bad-boy attitude had made him seem far removed from her in worldliness and sophistication.
She’d never had an actual crush on him—she’d been far too practical for that—but she’d been able to appreciate his seductive appeal.
Rumor around town had been that Ryan was aware of his father’s affairs and resented him for it. Ryan’s mother had fallen ill and died around the time that Webb Sperling had been involved with Brenda Hartley, and, soon after, Ryan had departed for college, not to be seen around Clayburn again.
She watched now as Ryan’s lips curled. “Well, if this isn’t a strange coincidence.”
The look on his face hardened. Clearly, he was aware of the history their parents shared.
“Or maybe not so strange,” he drawled.
She tensed. “How so?”
He rubbed his jaw. “I’m finding it hard to believe you didn’t recognize who I was the minute I came into your store.”
Her eyebrows knitted. “And why would I pretend not to know you?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps you were trying to impress me without seeming to, hoping I’d run back to tell the Sperlings what a tremendous little entrepreneur you are.”
Her eyes widened. So he knew about her negotiations with Webb Sperling to get her designs into Sperling department stores.
She felt herself flush and an uncomfortable feeling swept over her. She was still uneasy about accepting a favor from her mother’s loathsome former lover, even if she was desperate to realize her dreams for Distressed Success.
His lips curved without humor. “Sort of like a chef pretending not to know when a food critic is in the restaurant.” He looked around her shop, his expression disdainful. “Except you calculated wrong, because I’m not in Webb Sperling’s orbit these days.”
So, she thought, Ryan’s relationship with his father hadn’t improved over the years. The rebellious teenager had transformed into an estranged son.
Aloud, she countered, “If that’s the case, then how could you know about any discussions I might have had with Sperling, Inc.?”
Her negotiations with Sperling were still in their early stages. She had yet to see a contract, in fact.
“I have my sources.”
She raised an eyebrow. The idea of Ryan engaged in corporate espionage struck her as funny, even under the circumstances. “A spy?”
“It’s not spying when it’s all in the family,” he asserted.
“And you all get along so well,” she shot back.
She knew the company that owned Sperling department stores was completely family owned, its shares divided among various Sperling extended family members.
“I’m not like my sordid parent,” he said bitingly, looking her up and down. “That’s more than I can say for you.”
She bristled.
“On second thought, I should have recognized you. The similarity to your mother can’t be missed.” She felt heat rise to her face again as her temper ignited. She’s spent years making sure she didn’t become her mother. She’d worked hard to get where she was—and, unlike some people, she hadn’t had the benefit of family money to back her up.
She couldn’t do anything about the curvaceous figure and dark coppery red hair that she had in common with the loose-living, fun-loving Brenda Hartley. But these days, people around Tahoe knew her as the owner of a successful small business and as a respectable member of the community. And that’s just how she liked it.
“Let me show you the door,” she managed, gritting her teeth.
He tossed some bills on the counter, much more than the crystal candlestick holders were worth. “Consider this my contribution to the cause.”