The Millionaire's Club: Jacob, Logan and Marc: Black-Tie Seduction / Less-than-Innocent Invitation / Strictly Confidential Attraction

The Millionaire’s

Club: Jacob,

Logan & Marc

Cindy Gerard

Shirley Rogers

Brenda Jackson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cindy Gerard has repeatedly made appearances on several bestseller lists, including USA TODAY.

With numerous industry awards to her credit – among them the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award and the National Reader’s Choice Award – this former Golden Heart finalist and repeat Romantic Times nominee is the real deal. As one book reviewer put it, “Cindy Gerard provides everything romance readers want in a love story, passion, gut-wrenching emotion, intriguing characters and a captivating plot. This storyteller extraordinaire delivers all of this and more!”

Cindy and her husband, Tom, live in the Midwest on a mini-farm with quarter horses, cats and two very spoiled dogs. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, travelling and spending time at their cabin in northern Minnesota unwinding with family and friends.

Cindy loves to hear from her readers and invites you to visit her website at www.cindygerard.com.

This book is dedicated to the fabulous women who worked so hard to make this new segment of THE MILLIONAIRE’S CLUB saga the best yet!

Shirley Rogers, Brenda Jackson, Michelle Celmer, Sara Orwig and Kristi Gold.

Ladies, it’s been my great pleasure!

Prologue

From the diary of Jessamine GoldenJuly 4, 1905

Dear Diary,

Today my life changed. It came out of the blue. Like a lightning strike in the midst of a sunset storm or the fireworks lighting up the sky during tonight’s celebration of our country’s independence. I’m not sure how else to describe what happened to me when I first set eyes on Brad Webster—or how to describe the clash of wills when he drew me aside and told me how things were going to be.

“I run a clean town,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble from you.”

He looked stern and angry and so very serious when he talked to me. And yet he didn’t arrest me, this man who walks on the opposite path that fate has set for me.

Sheriff Brad Webster. Just writing his name makes my heart kick around inside my chest like a string of wild ponies. Saying it out loud makes my fingers tremble and my face flush hot and sends strange warm flames licking through my belly. You’d think I’d been smoking locoweed. And it is loco for me to be so obsessed by him.

But despite his anger at me, he is the most beautiful man…if a man can be called beautiful. I remember some years ago Daddy and I were riding strays and we came upon this herd of wild mustangs. The stallion was big and ink-black and, oh, he was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. Sleek and muscled, tall and strong. One look in that big guy’s eyes and you knew he was proud and brave.

That’s what I thought when I saw the sheriff. Like that wild stallion, he is proud and brave. His hair is ink-black. His eyes are the most fascinating Texas-sky-blue. And tall. Lordy, is that man tall. But he’s no beanpole. Oh, no. He’s got the build of a working man. And he’s a man who believes in duty.

Duty. His duty is why I must stop carrying on about him so. Brad Webster wears a badge that says he’s the law. And everything about the way he carries himself says he is as loyal to the law as I am loyal to the cause that has taken me on the wrong side of it.

Dear, dear diary. Is there anything in life that is fair? Why does everything have to be so hard? I have met a man who makes me want to forget what drove me to a life of crime. But I can’t forget. I can’t. Just as I can’t forget that this amazing, beautiful man may be forced, by duty, to end my very life. Even worse, I may be forced to end his.

Chapter One

One man’s trash. Another man’s treasure.

The old cliché wound around inside Christine Travers’s head like a coil of barbwire as she stared, disbelieving, at the treasure she’d just discovered.

The good folks of Royal, Texas, had dug deep into their basements and attics to come up with items to donate to tonight’s auction. There were antique crystal pieces. Complete china sets. Magazines that dated back to the early nineteenth century. Furniture and painstakingly hand-stitched quilts. And then there was this box.

Her breath stalled. Her heart beat so fast and so hard, she was afraid she might pass out. Right here. Right smack in the middle of this crowd of upper-crust residents, including a large contingent of Texas Cattleman’s Club members—the infamous and elite philanthropic organization that had staged tonight’s fund-raising auction to benefit Royal’s upcoming one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary celebration.

So, no. Passing out would not be good form any way you sliced it. And the last thing she would ever want to do was bring attention to herself—for any reason.

Okay, Christine. Settle down. Take a deep breath. Another.

Steadier now, with her fingers only marginally tingling, she glanced around the auction house to see if anyone was watching her with an odd expression—a sure sign she’d either screamed out loud, jumped up and down or done something equally ridiculous and brought unwanted attention to herself. And to her amazing find.

A relieved sigh eddied out when no one seemed to notice her excitement. Almost everyone who had turned out was busy browsing. Well, almost everyone.

Some of the Cattleman’s Club members, including Jacob Thorne, she’d noticed with dismay, were laughing and joking by the bar across the room.

Why did he have to be here?

Christine made it a point to avoid Jacob Thorne. If he spotted her tonight, she had no doubt that, true to form, he’d make it his personal mission to give her ten different kinds of grief. What she’d ever done to deserve his teasing and goading—other than help save his miserable life—was beyond her.

Well, she wasn’t going to think about him tonight. She had another meatier, much more exciting matter to attend to. Rows and rows of tables were filled with items that would soon be up for bid. Among those items Christine had found buried treasure—or the next best thing to it. The contents of this box, according to the notation, came from the late Jonathan Devlin’s attic.

Oh. My. God.

“Is it hot in here?” Christine asked her friend, Alison Lind, as she fussed with her plain white blouse that she’d buttoned all the way up to her neck.

“It’s Texas. It’s July,” Alison said, deadpan. Her dark eyes sparkled in her pretty chocolate-brown face. While Christine was usually cautious about opening herself up to someone, she’d sensed a kindred spirit in Alison. They’d met at a self-defense class a few months ago and had been fast friends since.

“Okay. Rhetorical question,” Christine conceded. “It just seemed extra warm there for a minute.”

Alison gave her friend a look and an “Uh-huh,” then walked on ahead of Christine toward a bolt of red satin.

“All right,” Christine whispered to herself and wiped damp palms on her tailored navy slacks. “Get a grip.”

Act cool. Don’t let on that you may have just discovered what must have appeared to be nothing more than an old, musty-smelling saddlebag to the late Jonathan Devlin’s family. Nothing more than a novelty item someone might want to bid on to decorate a bar or a tack room—instead of a major historical find.

Well, they could bid, she thought fiercely, but she was going to leave here with the contents of this box. That’s because she knew something no one else did. She was ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain that she knew who the saddlebag had once belonged to.

“What’s got you so fidgety?” Alison asked, wandering back to Christine’s side. She tried to peek into the box.

Christine quickly flipped the lid shut.

“Can you keep a secret?” Christine whispered, cutting a covert glance around her.

Alison frowned. “If the secret is that you’re having a minor manic episode, no, I don’t think so. The paramedics who treat you will need details.”

Ignoring her friend’s sarcasm, Christine gripped Alison’s arm and pulled her close. She lifted the lid on the box. The smell of old leather and dust seeped into the air. “See this saddlebag?”

“Oh—I get to look inside now?”

Christine pulled a face. “Yes, you get to look inside.”

Still acting wary, Alison did.

“Notice the rose tooled on the cover flap?”

From Alison she got a slow, skeptical nod.

“The rose is what drew my attention. So I checked inside the bag,” Christine confided in a low voice, “and found a pair of six-shooters. Old six-shooters, with roses carved into the ivory handles.”

“And…” Alison said in a leading tone as Christine cast more worried looks around them.

“And there’s also a delicate little purse. Again—old. Rose-colored—with what appear to be rose petals inside. Plus—” she huddled up with Alison and whispered “—there’s a map.”

She snatched Alison’s hand back with an apologetic look when Alison started to reach inside the saddlebag. “A map with hearts and roses twining around the edge.”

“Okay. I’ll play along,” Alison said, still frowning as though she thought Christine had blown a circuit. “I’m guessing there’s some major significance to all these roses?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Christine said. “I’m positive these things once belonged to Jessamine Golden.”

When Alison made a “who?” face, Christine closed the box, then tugged Alison away from the table and hustled her into the line of people waiting to acquire bidding numbers.

“Jessamine Golden is a legend in Royal,” she explained in a low voice so no one would overhear. “She was an outlaw a hundred years ago who not only stole the heart of the town sheriff, Brad Webster, but legend has it that she also stole a huge gold shipment and hid the treasure somewhere in the Royal area. And she loved roses.

“Thanks,” she said absently when the clerk gave her a paddle with a number on it. She walked Alison to the row of seats lined up in front of the podium where the bidding was already under way.

“Anyway, the rest of the story is that the mayor of Royal back then was Edgar Halifax—”

“Halifax?” Alison interrupted. “Any relation to Gretchen Halifax, our illustrious city councilwoman?”

Gretchen Halifax wasn’t an illustrious anything except in her own mind, and both women knew it, but Christine didn’t want to get sidetracked with talk about Gretchen. She’d had to deal with Gretchen on the new Edgar Halifax display at the museum and that had been more than enough exposure to the woman. Christine always was willing to give people the benefit of the doubt, but in this case the stories about Gretchen appeared to be true. The councilwoman was pompous and self-important and on more than one occasion had been very condescending toward Christine.

“Yes, I think Gretchen is some distant relative, but the point is Edgar Halifax and his men were supposedly killed by Jessamine Golden over the stolen gold. There’s also speculation that Jessamine killed the sheriff, too, because when she disappeared, neither one of them was ever heard from again. And the gold was never found.”

Christine tugged Alison down on the chair beside her, facing the auctioneer. “I think the map in those saddlebags is a map to where Jess hid the gold!” she whispered fiercely.

Alison searched her friend’s face. “All right. Did you eat an entire bag of chocolate before you came here?”

The look on Alison’s face coupled with her silly question finally made Christine laugh. “No,” she assured her friend, “I did not eat any chocolate, and will you quit looking at me like I’m an alien? I’m serious. You know that I volunteer time at the Royal Historical Society when I’m not pulling double shifts at the hospital. I do a lot of research there, and Jess Golden’s story caught my attention. And, Alison, I swear those have to be Jess’s things in that box that came out of Jonathan Devlin’s attic.”

“Out of Jonathan Devlin’s attic?” Alison shook her head. “Boy, the Devlins didn’t waste any time clearing out old Jonathan’s house. He only died a few days ago—they haven’t even buried him yet, have they?”

“Not yet, no. But you know his sister Opal? A month ago, when Jonathan went into a coma, it was expected that he’d never recover. I guess from the start there was no brain activity. Anyway, Opal had been going through his house for weeks in anticipation of his death, setting aside things to put up for auction.”

“Gives me warm fuzzies all over thinking about her sorrow over the loss of her brother.”

Christine smiled. “Tell me about it. Opal’s a sentimental and sympathetic soul all right,” she said, matching Alison’s sarcasm. “But back to the topic at hand. One of the reasons I’m so convinced these are Jess Golden’s things is that for a very brief time—around 1910 or so—she lived in Jonathan Devlin’s house.”

“Okay,” Alison said carefully but looking as if she was a little more on board, “let’s say you’re right. Let’s say those are Jess Golden’s things because she left them in the house when she skedaddled out of town after she did her dastardly deed. What then?”

“Then I’m going to buy them,” Christine stated emphatically. “For the Historical Society to put on display in the museum. That box contains priceless historical artifacts—not to mention, it might lead to the gold. What a find it would be for the town.”

“Well, you’d better get your paddle ready, Miss Supersleuth. They just brought the box to the podium. It’s the next item up for bid.”

Jake Thorne wasn’t sure what it was about Chrissie Travers that lit his fire, but every time he showed up someplace and she was there, it was as though some kinetic energy source set all his senses on supercharge and he homed in on her like a bear scenting honey.

He propped an elbow on the bar where he stood at the side of the room and got comfortable. Then he just enjoyed the hell out of watching her in typical Prissy Chrissie mode, all stiff and proper and tense, while his mind—already shifting into autopilot—started hatching plots to irritate her. Just a little. Because, man, she was some fun when she was riled.

And he ought to know. He’d spent a month in the Royal hospital five years ago after an oil-well fire had knocked him on his ass. The burns hadn’t been the worst of his injuries. The smoke and fire inhalation and the resulting damage to his lungs had been. Chrissie had been his respiratory therapist, and once he’d felt human again, he’d found a hundred hot buttons to push on the uptight, serious and tolerate-no-nonsense Chrissie Travers. He was pleased to say that he’d personally pushed at least ninety-nine of them at some time or another.

Her bidding paddle shot up in the air. Whoa. What have we here? he wondered when she lifted it above her head. Straight up. No hesitation. As high as she could raise her arm.

Seemed the lady aimed to buy something. Judging by her body language, she meant to have it at any cost.

He watched both Chrissie and the bidding with interest. She cast a flurry of darting looks around her, those big hazel eyes warning off anyone who even looked as if they wanted to raise their paddle. Interesting. The bidding was slow and it looked as though she was going to get the box of, hell, box of rocks for all he knew, for a song.

Or is she? he asked himself and felt the beginnings of an ornery grin. Just as the auctioneer was about to start a “Going, going, gone,” with Chrissie as the high bidder, Jake’s paddle seemed to sort of pop up in the air, all of its own accord.

Hmm. Looked as though he was in the bidding now, too.

Chrissie’s head whipped around, her fine blond hair flying around her face, her big hazel eyes snapping with smoke and hellfire as she searched the room for the culprit who dared to enter the bidding at this late hour.

When her gaze finally landed on him and he acknowledged with a grin and a friendly wave of his paddle that, yeah, he was the one who’d jumped in and spoiled her party, he swore to God lightning zapped out of her ears and shot twin puffs of smoke in its wake.

And when after a fierce flurry of bidding action between them ended with a gavel rap and a resounding, “Sold!” and Jake was the lucky owner of a cardboard box containing he had no idea what, the look she sent him could have set a forest ablaze.

He touched his fingertips to the brim of his tan Resistol, smiled sweetly and swore he heard a word come out of her mouth that he figured prissy Miss Chrissie had never even heard before, let alone used.

Oh, boy. We’re gonna have some fun now.

Christine glared at the man sauntering toward her. Jacob Thorne was wearing what he probably thought was an aren’t-I-just-as-sexy-as-sin rogue grin that tugged up one corner of his full, mobile lips and dented his incredible dimples. He thought he was something—looking at her as if he was God’s greatest gift. As if her heart ought to go pit-a-pat and she ought to get hot all over basking in the glow of his company, as half the women in town did every time he sliced one of his poster-boy smiles their way.

Well, she was hot all right. Bonfire hot. And her heart was pounding. Not some loopy, goofy stutter step but a jackhammer, piston-pumping, so-mad-she-could-hear-each-staccato-beat-in-her-ears-and-feel-it-pulse-all-the-way-to-her-toes pounding. And in that moment she understood why it sometimes became part of the human condition to react to anger with physical violence.

Not that she’d ever stoop that low. She’d experienced enough physical violence in her life. But it didn’t hurt to think about exactly how deep she could bury the tip of her boot into Jacob Thorne-in-her-side’s shin. And to imagine his grunt of pain, the swelling and the black-and-blue marks when she did.

“Hey, Chrissie,” he said, all sweet and sugary, with that sexy, sandpapery voice of his. “You’re looking mighty fine tonight. Got a little color in your cheeks for a change. Did you finally take some time for yourself and get out in the sun a bit?”

She tilted her head to the side and glared at him. And he had the nerve to try to be cute. Again.

“Oh. Not sun.” He made a big show of acting surprised. “You’re miffed at me, right? That’s what put that pretty pink in your cheeks.”

For whatever reason, ever since she’d been his respiratory therapist, he seemed to make it his personal mission to tease her unmercifully. Like a big, overgrown bully. He needed to grow up, that’s what he needed to do. In the meantime she’d treat him like the kid he was.

“You are so not funny. And you are so not charming.”

She reached out and grabbed Alison’s arm, holding her still when she sensed that her friend was about to slink away and avoid certain fireworks.

“Now, how much do you want for it?” she asked with a clipped nod toward the box he’d tucked under his arm. The box that contained Jessamine Golden’s saddlebag and its treasure trove of goodies. The box that had almost been hers for fifty-five bucks until he’d chimed in with his big money and stolen it from her.

He glanced from her to the box. “What’s in here that’s got you so excited?”

She blinked. Then, outraged, blinked again. “You didn’t even know what you were bidding on?”

“Well, no,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “I was just trying to make some extra money for the benefit.”

“You know what?” Alison said, squirming uneasily and apparently sensing a major showdown. “I think I’ll just be going now.”

Christine wrapped her fingers tighter around Alison’s upper arm and held her where she was. “So why didn’t you bid against Ralph Schindler when he was bidding on an antique typewriter? Or Mel Grazier when he bid on a boom box? They’ve got buckets of moldy money. Why did you have to bid against me?”

“Well,” he said, then paused and absently scratched his jaw. “Maybe I figured if you wanted it, it must be something worth having.”

She snorted. “Try again.”

“No, really. I’ve always known you to have excellent taste.”

“So…that’s supposed to be an explanation?”

“More like a compliment.”

“More like a crock. You did it just to tick me off.”

“Well—” his dark eyes danced in a tan, handsome face “—there is that.”

The sound that came out of her could only be described as a growl.

“I’ve really got to go,” Alison said, making another break for it.

This time Christine let her go. It wasn’t fair to Alison to make her a party to what could in all probability turn out to be a homicide.

“How much do you want for it?” she repeated only after she was certain she could talk without screeching.

“You want it bad, don’t you, Chrissie?”

Oh, he’d just love to see her rise to that bait. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging the sexual innuendo he’d managed to thread through his seemingly innocent question punctuated with a wicked smile.

“How much?”

“Tell you what,” he said, looking if not smug, at least pleased by whatever idea was brewing in his thick head. “How about we cut us a little deal?”

Cut a deal? She’d trust any deal he made about as far as she could shot-put his beefy carcass after she killed him but before they hauled her off to jail. Justifiable homicide would be the worst possible charge they could level.

“I can just about imagine any deal you’d initiate. You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“Aw, Chrissie. You don’t still hold a grudge after all this time, do you?”

Oh, yeah. She held a grudge all right. He made it easy.