On His Knees

He’s out to expose her...

But he’s baring it all!

Gorgeous Summer Love is after Tate Carson’s grandfather’s billions. And New York lawyer Tate will stop at nothing to prove she’s a fraud. Not even following her to glamorous St. Moritz. But he never imagined falling under her sexy spell... And now, from his luxury chalet and her penthouse suite to the slopes of the snow-encrusted Swiss Alps, she’s exposing his every carnal desire—and maybe even his heart...

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author CATHRYN FOX is a wife, mom, sister, daughter, aunt and friend. She loves dogs, sunny weather, anything chocolate (she never says no to a brownie), pizza and red wine. Cathryn lives in beautiful Nova Scotia with her husband, who is convinced he can turn her into a mixed martial arts fan. When not writing, Cathryn can be found Skyping with her son, who lives in Seattle (could he have moved any farther away?), shopping with her daughter in the city, watching a big action flick with her husband, or hanging out and laughing with friends.

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On His Knees

Cathryn Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08686-8

ON HIS KNEES

© 2019 Cathryn Fox

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To my husband, a true romantic at heart. Love you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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 FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Tate

“YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS.”

My grandfather curls knotted fingers around his crystal snifter, and holds the glass up in salute. Time-ravaged lines deepen around mossy eyes as he smiles at me. “As serious as a heart attack, son,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he takes a long pull, draining the rich, amber liquid with one easy swallow.

I push from the ebony leather chair, shocked at the real reason my granddad asked me to stop by after a long week setting up my new office. Here I thought we were going to catch up, shoot the shit, reminisce about old times after I moved my law practice from Boston to Manhattan to be closer to him. But instead I find myself alternating between sitting and standing, pacing and pausing as his unexpected request pings around inside my brain.

Change my property title and deed half my billion-dollar Manhattan estate to Summer Love.

“She’s quite the looker, this one,” Granddad says, and picks up the Polaroid picture sitting on the mahogany side table in his study, one of the many nostalgic pieces he salvaged from the bygone gentlemen’s club where he once networked. I glance at the picture in his hand. Christ, he’s been grinning at it like love-struck teenager since I arrived thirty minutes ago.

Could he really be in love—with Summer Love?

And what kind of name is that anyway?

“What do you think, son?”

What I think is she’s a third his age. For Christ’s sake, she’s young enough to be his granddaughter. What the hell is going on inside that brain of his? I shake my head, as arthritic fingers hold the photo up higher for my inspection. I glance at the Polaroid, which showcases the left half of my grandfather’s face, and Summer Love from the chin up. I study her full pouty mouth, makeup-free face, big brown doe eyes and caramel hair piled haphazardly on the top of her head. Yeah, okay, she’s gorgeous in that fresh-faced girl-next-door way—which probably opens many affluent doors for a gold digger like her.

And who the hell takes a selfie with a Polaroid anyway?

I shove my hands into the pockets of my black dress pants, and walk around Granddad’s monument of a desk. Incredulous at what he’s asking me to do, a garbled sound catches in my throat—a half laugh, half snort. I pace to the window and look out. On Sixty-Fourth Street below, dozens of people bustle about. A robust, early December breeze ruffles their clothes and pushes them along the sidewalk.

“Come on, have a celebratory drink with me, already,” Granddad says again, his once syrupy voice now broken and gravelly.

Agitated, I remove my hands from my pockets, and swipe one through hair that desperately needs a barber. I just haven’t had a lot of time lately. After moving back last week, I’ve put all my energy into getting my Manhattan apartment in order as well as the new firm—we’re set to open for business after the holidays. My other hand smooths down my tie, a habit I picked up from my granddad even before I began wearing suits.

“Yeah, okay,” I finally concede. The truth is I need a drink, something to help me swallow and digest this troubling news. But I’ll be damned if I’ll drink to my grandfather losing his mind and signing over half his estate to some con artist. I won’t let that happen. Not in a million fucking years. I walk to the bar, pour a generous amount of brandy into a glass and throw it back in one motion. I welcome the burn as I slam the glass down on the bar harder than necessary and turn around to regard my grinning grandfather.

“She’s lovely, James. Don’t you think so?” he asks, using my middle name. He always preferred James to Tate. Probably because James is his first name, too. He loved the idea of his grandson carrying his name into the next generation. My mom, however, insisted on Tate as my first name, after her late father. But thinking of my mom ties my stomach into knots. She left when I was a child, accepting a big payout from Dad to leave me behind. Acid burns in my throat to think she chose money over her son. I guess she knew how to get around the prenuptial, and in the end I’d rather be with a parent who wants me.

Pushing those ugly thoughts to the recesses of my mind, I pace for a moment, then perch on the arm of the chair opposite Granddad. With my hands braced on my thighs, I take a deep fueling breath and let it out slowly. “Granddad,” I begin, then clamp my teeth together with an audible click. How the hell can I tell him this woman is a con, out to bleed millions from his bank account, without hurting him in the process? This is a man who worked hard his whole life, dragged himself up from the gutters and turned thousands into billions on Wall Street. He’s a man of morals, one who led by example and taught me and my father—not to mention my aunts, uncles and cousins—the value of hard work. Nothing was ever handed to any member of the Carson family. Sure, I was given a top-notch education at the finest schools, but Granddad always made me hold down part-time jobs. At Harvard, I worked the dish pit at the campus pub, eventually climbing my way up to bartender. I owe this man so much, and the last thing I want is to slap him with reality when he thinks he’s in love with some...fraud.

The picture falls from his rickety hand, and his frailty hits me like a punch to the gut when he bends to retrieve it. His big, gray cardigan hangs a little looser on his shoulders as he sits back up. He adjusts it, but there is nothing he can do to hide his ill health. Goddammit, I should have come home sooner, should have been here to prevent this woman from ever digging her claws into a dying man.

“How did you two meet?” I ask, choking back the emotions crawling up my throat.

Chuckling, he gives me a wink. “At the clinic.”

“The clinic?” Restless, I stand, drawing myself up to my full six feet. “What was she doing there?”

“She held the door open for me.”

“That’s it?” I really don’t like the sounds of this. I put my hand on the back of my head, apply pressure to the dull ache beginning at the base of my neck as every muscle in my body tightens, goes on alert. “That’s how you met?”

“Yes.”

I angle my throbbing head, my gaze raking over my grandfather’s face as I take in his body language. There’s something he’s not telling me. The grandson in me senses it, the lawyer in me knows it. “What was she doing at the clinic?”

Granddad hesitates and I pinch the bridge of my nose, envisioning Summer Love hanging out at the geriatrics clinic, scoping out her next target. If it’s money she’s after, and obviously it has to be, she definitely scored big-time with Granddad. But Jesus, what kind of a woman would do something so reprehensible?

A conniving one.

“Does she work there?” I ask.

Gnarled fingers swat the air, like I’m an annoying fly, buzzing with too many questions. “What’s with the interrogation? You’re going to love her, James. I’m sure you two will hit it off as soon as you meet,” he says, pivoting the conversation.

Doubtful.

Anger prowls through my blood, a hot burn that nudges my temper. In the past Granddad always had an ironclad prenuptial drawn up. Why doesn’t he want one this time? Christ, he’s not even married to the woman, yet he wants to sign half his estate over. He has to be losing his mind. What other explanation could there be?

“How long have you known her?”

“Long enough to know I want her to be part of the family.” He averts his eyes for a moment, glancing over my shoulder to gaze at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind me. Why the hell is he being so cagey?

I stand, walk to the bookshelf and run my hand along the aged bindings. The musty scent of old paper, combined with its vanilla undertones, takes me back to my days spent in the Harvard library.

“What does Dad think of this?” I ask, turning back around to square off against my grandfather. No way can I let this go.

His bony collarbone jumps as he gives a shrug. “He thinks it’s a brilliant idea.”

My head rears back in disbelief. No way would my father give consent to this, unless he’s losing his mind, too. Not that I can call him and have a chat to gauge his mental capacity. He’s out of reach, off to Bali on his fourth honeymoon with a girl half his age. Both Dad and Granddad have a history of marrying younger women—although this time Granddad is really widening the age bracket, horrendously so. At least Dad still had enough wits about him to draw up a prenuptial before he said I do.

My gaze rakes over my grandfather. I take in his winter-white hair, the thinning of his face. Heavy lines bracket milky blue eyes that have dulled with age as he turns his gaze back to the Polaroid. Christ, I don’t want to burst his bubble, but no way can I let him sign over his life’s work. I’m not just his grandson, I’m his power of attorney, in charge of his affairs and sworn to keep his best interests at heart.

“When can I meet her?” I ask.

His head lifts, and for a brief second I catch a sparkle of something in his eyes—a reminder of the youthful man who was as sly as he was strong. He briefly shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, the sparkle is gone. His face pulls into a sad grimace when he says, “She’s on vacation, in St. Moritz. Won’t be back for a week.”

Of course she’s on vacation in St. Moritz. Why wouldn’t she be, considering Granddad owns numerous hotels and chalets in the Alpine resort town? I spent a lot of days on the slopes during my school breaks and holidays, and a lot of nights working the bar. Like I said, Granddad wanted me to understand the value of hard work.

“Is she staying in one of your hotels?” I ask, holding no punches.

“Enough with the questions, son.” He climbs to his feet to refill his glass, but his nonanswer says it all. She’s staying in one of his hotels, and he likely footed the bill for the whole trip.

I dig my phone from my front pocket and do a quick search for Summer Love. I scan all the social media sites and come up with nothing. How can a woman in her late twenties have zero online presence? I’m on Instagram and Twitter, even though I rarely post, but I at least have an account. She has nothing. I guess she’s smart enough not to leave a trail behind after she cons people out of their money.

Agitated, I push from the bookshelf and pace. This. This is the reason I don’t get emotionally involved with women. Between my father, and my grandfather, I’ve seen enough “aunts” come and go over the years to realize it’s not the men themselves these women want. It’s what they have in their bank account. My own mother was no different.

Christ, is there not one decent woman left in the world, one who cares about love, life and people over money? If she’s out there, she’s certainly not traveling in any of my social circles. Not that I’m looking to settle down. I prefer a revolving door, sex for sex and no commitment. Those are the rules I live by, rules that protect me. But right now I have much more important things on my plate. Things like worrying about my grandfather’s state of mental health and exposing Summer Love for the fraud she really is. I will not stand back and let her cheat my family out of millions.

“How long will it take for you to draw the papers up?” Granddad asks, settling himself back into his leather chair, that hint of a spark back in his eyes. “I want to surprise her when she returns.”

I scrub my chin, a stall tactic as my mind races, a plan forming in the depths of my brain. I lift my eyes to his as the idea takes shape, becomes lucid. It might be ludicrous, but extreme situations call for extreme measure. “It will take about a week,” I inform him. Just enough time for me to go to St. Moritz, seduce Summer Love and take her to her knees.

CHAPTER TWO

Summer

“HERE GOES NOTHING,” I say, unable to hide the nervous edge in my voice as I look at the towering ski hill and wonder how I’ll get down it without breaking my damn neck.

“It’s just the bunny hill,” Amber says, as she tugs at her glove with her teeth, adjusting it around the cuff of her coat. “You’ll be fine. You did great during the lessons.” She nudges me to set me into motion, and I nearly tip over in my sturdy ski boots. Oh yeah, hurtling down the mountain on two waxed-up sheets of plastic is going to be so much fun, especially when I can’t even stand in my damn boots. Amber points to the ground. “Now get those skis on so we can catch up to Cara.”

I glance up to see Cara skiing toward the gondola, and resist the urge to throw my pole at her as she effortlessly glides across the snow. I love my girlfriends, I really do. They both grew up in the Hamptons and were best friends when I met them at Harvard. They brought me into their small circle when I arrived alone and nervous my freshman year—my first time being away from my father, and our Brooklyn apartment—and we’ve all been tight ever since. I’d do anything for them, which is why I’m currently standing at the foot of a very big ski hill in St. Moritz, one tumble away from concussion...or worse.

I glance around at all the other mountains. “Can we go tobogganing instead?”

“No,” Amber says, then slips her booted feet into her skis and snaps them in place.

“Why did I let you two talk me into this when I could be relaxing on a Caribbean beach?” I mumble as my breath turns to fog in front of my face.

Amber laughs. “Because our entire trip here was free.” She winks at me. “Compliments of your boyfriend.”

“James is not my boyfriend,” I say, and plant one hand on my hip, even though I know she’s teasing. It’s just that James is generous, and exceptionally good to me, always trying to lavish me with gifts and trips to show his gratitude for my care. Odd really, considering he’d gone through a slew of doctors, firing them for one reason or another. He took an instant liking to me, but I flatly refused this trip when he suggested it. My God, I still have so much to do to build my practice, and my new website was recently hacked. I cringe to think of the picture on display, that of my face sitting on top of a fake—naked—body. How mortifying. Thankfully Dan, the guy I hired to fix it, was able to wipe all the info from my site until he can get the picture down, so future clients won’t associate me with it. I should be home dealing with all those things. Then again, I can answer Dan’s questions from here as easily as I can from New York. So when James pushed, and pushed—even at ninety, the man is damn stubborn, his mind still sharp as a scalpel—and the girls begged me to say yes to this trip of a lifetime, I finally caved. I’ve been under so much stress lately—trying to build my practice, working part-time at the geriatric clinic and taking on private patient care for the extra money—that getting away was just what the doctor ordered, and since I’m the doctor...

“He’s my patient,” I say and stop to consider his ill health. I hated to leave him, especially after his last bout of pneumonia, but he assured me his grandson James was moving back home and would be there to care for him in my absence. Still, I asked a colleague to check in on him once a day.

“I know, I know, now come on. Let’s go pop your cherry. Like sex, skiing is fun once you get used to it.” Laughing, she takes off toward Cara, who is waving us over from the gondola line. I glance over my shoulder and consider sneaking back to the lounge. It’s only ten in the morning, but hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right? I exhale a defeated sigh, about to join my friends for my death ride, but stop when out of my peripheral vision I catch a movement, the shadow of a man running toward me. Catching me completely off guard, he grabs me from behind, and lifts me clear off the ground.

“Ohmigod,” I cry out as strong arms tighten around my waist, practically squeezing the air from my lungs. “What do you...” My words die an abrupt death when he spins me around, going faster and faster until I’m dizzy and completely disoriented. My brain wobbles inside my head, and I briefly close my eyes as he laughs, his breath warming the side of my face.

“About time you got here,” he says.

What the hell?

When he finally stops twirling me, and my feet are on solid ground again, I slowly turn around, my breath catching in my throat when I come face-to-face with the hottest guy I’ve ever set eyes on.

“I...um...think...”

I struggle to find my words when he steps back, and blinks thick lashes over gorgeous blue eyes that could melt the panties right off my hips, despite the cold temperatures here in the Swiss Alps.

“You’re not—” he begins, his brow furrowing as he gives a hard shake of his head.

Shocked, intrigued...aroused—despite my spinning brain—I work to focus in on the six feet of pure testosterone standing before me. A wide smile splits his lips, showcasing perfect white teeth as he grabs a fistful of hair, and takes another measured step back to give me space. My gaze slides downward, lingering over broad shoulders that fill out his ski jacket nicely, to jeans that cradle his package to perfection. I study the curved outline of an impressive bulge. I’ve not been with many men, but my guess is this guy won the man lottery in more ways than one.

Stop staring at his crotch, already.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. My gaze jerks back to his as he holds his hands up, palms out, a nonverbal gesture that communicates his mistake. “I thought you were someone else.”

Still wobbly from the spin, I widen my feet to brace myself, and reach for something to hold on to before I face plant in the snow—in front of the hottest guy on the planet. I stumble a bit, and once again his arms are around me, invading my personal space and securing me to his firm body. Only this time we’re face-to-face. And oh, what an incredible face he has.

I lift my chin until we’re eye to eye. Damn I wish I was the someone he was looking for. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, surprised I can form a coherent thought as my lust-hazed mind struggles to work.

“Who says I’m disappointed?” he asks, his rich, low baritone curling through my body and arousing all my neglected girly parts. I take him in, my shaky gaze going from unruly dark hair that I want to run my fingers through, to a sculpted jaw covered in a light dusting of stubble—stubble that would leave burn marks on my naked body, if I ever found myself beneath him in bed.

And oh, how I want to.