The Magnate's Takeover: The Magnate's Takeover

The Magnate’s Takeover by Mary McBride

“Here’s to you, Libby, darlin’. Now that you know who I really am, what do you intend to do about it?”

He didn’t have a clue how she’d found out, but it had been bound to happen from the second he’d introduced himself to her as an architect. What kind of fool was he, thinking he’d find “regular love” wearing a disguise?

He really couldn’t blame Libby one bit for being so angry, as would he if it had happened in reverse. But it wasn’t the worst lie that had ever been told. Hell. What if he’d actually been an architect who tried to pass himself off as David Halstrom? Surely that would have been a larger crime and would have angered her even more.

He drained his glass, refilled it, then sat on a leather couch, staring south, wondering what to do next. For the first time in his life, David didn’t have a clue.

The Tycoon’s Secret by Kasey Michaels

“It’s all about that money, isn’t it? You’re just used to getting your own way.”

“Wealth has its perks, I won’t deny that. So, how am I doing? Convinced yet?”

She didn’t say anything else for a few tense moments, moments during which they both, he was sure, readjusted the conversation to where all of this verbal foreplay was really heading.

When she finally spoke again, he knew they were both on the same page.

“I don’t have a price, Sam,” she warned him tightly.

“We all have a price, Ms Halliday. It just isn’t always money.”

Available in September 2009 from Mills & Boon® Desire™

The Magnate’s Takeover by Mary McBride

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The Tycoon’s Secret by Kasey Michaels

Dante’s Wedding Deception by Day Leclaire

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Mistaken Mistress by Tessa Radley

The Desert King by Olivia Gates

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An Affair with the Princess by Michelle Celmer

When it comes to writing romance, historical or contemporary, Mary McBride is a natural. What else would anyone expect from someone whose parents met on a blind date on Valentine’s Day, and who met her own husband—whose middle name happens to be Valentine!—on 14th February as well?

She lives in Saint Louis, Missouri, with her husband and two sons. Mary loves to hear from readers. You can write to her c/o PO Box 411202, Saint Louis, MO 63141, USA, or contact her online at McBride101@aol.com.

Dear Reader,

What fun it was to work on this series with three great pals who are also terrific writers—Joan Hohl, Leslie LaFoy and Kasey Michaels. In the planning stage, we really kept the internet buzzing with our back-and-forth e-mails.

Here’s hoping we’ve managed to bring you four terrific stories about people who all deserve to win a million dollars.

Happy reading!

Best wishes,

Mary McBride

Prologue

Well, my darlings, it’s almost Halloween and I have oodles of treats and goodies for you. Shall we talk about the RB again? That oh-so-generous and oh-so-mysterious Reclusive Billionaire is believed to have struck again, anointing a candidate somewhere in the Midwest—that would be Fly-Over Country for most of you, my dear readers—with his largesse.

Alas, our information does not extend beyond mere geography at this date. Surely someone out there in the vast Heartland has a clue that he or she would be more than delighted to share. Call me, darling. I am, as they say, all ears.

Sam Balfour slapped the newspaper on the desktop as if he were swatting a fly. “This woman is worse than a rabid bloodhound,” he said.

S. Edward Balfour IV, otherwise known as Uncle Ned, glanced up from his own newspaper. “She’s persistent, I’ll grant you that. We could use a few more like her on our team.”

“Our team, as you so casually put it, Uncle Ned, is about to be exposed by this harpy. Doesn’t that worry you in the least?”

“No,” his uncle said. “Actually, I have other things to worry about. Here.” He handed a large book across the desk. “Take a look at this. Tell me what you think.”

Sam, still grinding his teeth, flipped through the pages, mostly photographs of old derelict motels in the Midwest. “They’re nice pictures,” he said, “if you like things like that.”

“I do,” his uncle said as he reached into his desk drawer to produce a green folder which he passed to Sam. “Take care of this for me, will you?”

“You’re crazy, you know, to continue with this little game,” Sam cautioned him.

His uncle merely smiled. “I suspect we’re all a bit crazy, one way or another. Read through the folder, Sam. Then see that the usual check reaches Miss Libby Jost no later than Friday.”

Sam could only sigh. Here we go again…

One

“Here’s to you, you magnificent building.”

Libby Jost stared out the window and raised her wine glass once again to toast the nearly completed 20-story convention hotel on the other side of the highway just west of St. Louis. Now that it was autumn and the trees were nearly bare, and even across six lanes of traffic, the bright lights of the Halstrom Marquis flickered like rubies in what was left of her red Chianti.

“And here’s to you, Mr. Halstrom, whoever you are and if you really do exist. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She swallowed the last of the wine, and then a silly, not-too-sober smile played at the edges of her mouth. “What took you so long?”

She put down her empty glass, stood up and then immediately realized she had celebrated a bit too much. Way too much, in fact, for a person who rarely drank at all. Her last drink, incidentally, had been an obligatory glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve. She was definitely out of practice, she decided, and figured it was time for a very sobering slap of cold October air, so she flipped the main switch for the outside lights and wobbled out the door.

Once outside, Libby glanced up at the ancient neon No Vacancy sign flickering above the office door. How sad was that? she thought. After all these years, all these decades, it was probably some sort of miracle that the V, two c’s and half of the y still managed to faintly sputter. The mere sight of the sign might have completely depressed her a few months ago, but it didn’t tonight. It didn’t bother her at all because she knew there would be a brand-new, far better sign very soon, and instead of perpetual vacancies, the old Haven View Motor Court would once more be full of guests and good times.

Again, as she’d done a thousand times these past few weeks, she gave silent thanks to the anonymous Santa Claus who’d sent her a check for fifty thousand dollars in appreciation of her recent book of photographs of old, downtrodden motels in the Midwest. Libby Jost was, first and foremost, a serious photographer who had worked for the St. Louis newspaper for nearly a decade. She’d garnered numerous awards in the past, but most of them came in the form of plaques or framed certificates usually accompanied by long, boring speeches and polite applause. She’d gotten a check for two hundred bucks once for a photo of the Gateway Arch in morning mist, but never anything close to fifty thousand dollars.

The huge, unexpected check not only sustained her pride in her work, but it also provided her the wherewithal to help her aunt Elizabeth, the woman who had raised her here at this run-down motel after the death of her parents in a car accident when Libby was just a toddler.

Aunt Elizabeth hadn’t asked for her help, but then she didn’t have to. As soon as Libby realized that the fifty-thousand-dollar gift wasn’t a joke or a stunt of some kind, but was indeed good as gold according to her bank, she arranged for a leave of absence from the newspaper and began making plans to revive the derelict motel. It was her aunt’s dream, after all, and Libby felt she owed it to her to keep that dream alive as long as she possibly could.

And while she was giving thanks, she directed a few of them to the Halstrom Marquis, which soon would be sending its overflow customers across the highway to the newly remodeled, all spiffed-up, ready-to-go Haven View.

Libby was determined to make it happen. The anonymous Santa had given her the money to set it all in motion. She had taken her time to nail down her plans and to budget the money properly. Now she was ready to begin.

Stepping out onto the pebbled drive that wound through the dilapidated little tourist court, she noticed that one of the lampposts was dark. Damn. If it wasn’t one irritation, it was another. Exterior bulbs had gotten so expensive, even at the discount stores, and they seemed to burn out way too frequently these days.

Maybe she could let one light go dark for awhile. Maybe no one would even notice. There weren’t any guests here, for heaven’s sake. But, after another glance at the magnificently illuminated hotel across the highway, Libby sighed. Got to keep up with the Joneses now, she thought, or with the Halstroms as is in this case. She went back into the office in search of a ladder and a light bulb.

Well, this wasn’t one of the best ideas she’d ever had, Libby thought ten minutes later as she wobbled and swayed high up on the ladder while trying to juggle a large glass globe, a dead light bulb, a fresh light bulb and the four screws from the lamp. If anything, it was a terrible idea. She could see the paper’s headline already: Woman, inebriated, expires under lamp.

And if it wasn’t a disaster already, it surely became one when a car engine growled behind her, headlights flooding the parking lot and tires biting into the loose gravel of the driveway just behind her. A customer at this time of night? That wasn’t at all likely. The motel hadn’t had a single customer in three or four weeks.

She tried to look over her shoulder to see who or what it was, but the fierce headlights blinded her. When she heard the car door whip open and then slam shut, her heart leaped into her throat and made it impossible to shout or scream.

This was not good. Not good at all. It was terrible. A strangled little moan broke from her lips.

Then Libby lost her grip and the globe and the light bulbs crashed onto the ground below her, and she was about to crash down, too, on top of all that broken glass when a deep voice said, “Hold still.”

Two hands clamped around her waist.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re okay. Just relax and let go of the ladder.”

Libby, in her total panic, tried to jerk away from his grasp and she held on to the lamppost even tighter than before.

“Dammit,” he growled, tightening his grip on her waist. “I said let go. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He did, indeed, have her.

What else could she do? Libby dragged in a breath, held it and then let go of the lamppost, wondering vaguely if her life was going to flash before her eyes now that it was about to end.

It felt like falling into a giant bear hug. The arms that caught her were warm and encompassing. Then glass crunched under the bear’s feet as he turned, took several strides and finally and oh-so-gently set her down.

She was safe, but only for a second. The bear turned on her, his eyes flashing. “What the hell were you doing up there?” he growled. “You could have broken your damn neck.”

Libby’s heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Her legs felt like jelly, and she was still not exactly sober. Far from it, in fact. But now, instead of feeling tipsy and scared to death, she felt tipsy and mad as hell so she yelled back at the bear, “Well, it’s my damn neck.”

He merely stared at her then, stared hard, as if he were memorizing every feature and angle, every crook and cranny of her body, or else perhaps he was merely calculating the calories there just in case he decided to take a bite out of her.

Belligerently, Libby stared right back, into a face that struck her as more rugged than handsome. Even in the semidarkness of the driveway, she could tell that his eyes were a deep hazel and the line of his chin like granite. He was fairly good-looking, for a bear. She wobbled again, struggling to keep her balance and wound up standing even closer to him. He smelled divine, even though she was too tipsy to identify the scent. Then he smiled. It was a sudden, wonderful surprise of a smile that carved out sexy lines on both sides of his mouth.

“It’s a lovely neck,” he said, reaching out to touch the hammering pulse in her throat.

Libby blinked. “Thank you,” she said. “I think.”

Whatever hostility that had flared up so suddenly between them seemed to vanish into the cool night air. She glanced at his car—a dark, sleek Jaguar—and was fairly well convinced that this guy wasn’t a thug or a rapist or, for that matter, a paying customer. People who stayed at the Haven View these days tended to drive dirty pickups and dented sedans.

But before she could ask the Jaguar guy just who or what he truly was, he asked her, “Is the boss around?”

Libby almost laughed. Her whole life she’d looked far younger than she actually was. Now, even at age thirty, she could still easily pass for nineteen or twenty. And obviously she didn’t look like a “boss,” either, in her current panicky and slightly inebriated state.

Well, in reality she wasn’t the actual boss here. The Haven View Motor Court belonged to her aunt Elizabeth, after all, as it had for the past fifty years, but while her elderly aunt was in a nursing home recovering from a broken hip, Libby was most definitely in charge.

“The boss,” she said, “is currently under the weather, which means I’m temporarily in charge around here.” She attempted to stand a bit taller, a bit more steadily, even as her vision seemed to be blurring. Hoping to appear professional in spite of her condition, Libby stuck out her hand. “I’m Libby Jost. What, may I ask, can I do for you?”

His lips curled into another stunning and sexy grin. “I don’t think you can do much of anything for anybody at the moment, little Libby.” His hand reached out to steady her. “What do you think?”

What did she think? She thought she heard a bit of a Texas twang in his voice, and then she thought she was going to be very, very sick right here in the parking lot if she didn’t make it to the office in time.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, then ran as fast as her wobbly legs would allow.

Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d encountered a pretty woman who’d had too much to drink, David Halstrom thought, but it was certainly the first time he’d witnessed a woman four feet off the ground clinging to a lamppost or one who looked like an inebriated fallen angel. She was so damn pretty, even in the dim lamplight, with her strawberry blond hair and her spattering of freckles that he’d almost forgotten why he’d come to this derelict hellhole in the first place.

He sighed and supposed he ought to check on her so he walked in the direction of the buzzing, nearly burned-out vacancy sign. He knocked on the door, waited a moment and when nobody answered, he entered what appeared to be the office of this dump which she claimed to manage. Hell. It was already pretty clear to him that she couldn’t even manage herself much less a run-down tourist court.

The office was as tawdry as he expected, like something right out of the 1950s if not earlier. It didn’t surprise him a bit to see a small black-and-white television with foil-wrapped rabbit ears wedged into a corner of the room, right next to a windowsill lined with half-dead plants. Good God. Did people actually stay here? Did they pay to stay here?

There was a floral couch against one wall. On the table in front of it sat a straw-covered bottle of Chianti and an empty glass. The caretaker’s poison, no doubt.

He knocked softly on a nearby door, then he opened it a few inches and saw a dimly lit bedroom that wasn’t quite as tattered as the lobby. There was a faint odor of lavender in the small room, and in the center of the bed, beneath the covers, he recognized a Libby-sized lump.

Good, he thought. She’d sleep it off and tomorrow she’d have a headache to remind her that cheap wine had its perils.

“Sleep well, angel,” he whispered. “When you lose this job, you can come to work for me.”

He quietly closed the door and returned to the parking lot.

A quick walk around the dismal property only served to confirm all of David’s suspicions. The place was a total wreck in dire need of demolition, which he would be more than happy to arrange. He got back in his car and headed for his hotel on the other side of the highway. As he drove, his thumb punched in his assistant’s number on his cell phone.

Jeff Montgomery was probably in the middle of dinner, he thought, but the call wouldn’t surprise him nor would David’s demand for instant action. The young man had worked for him for five years and seemed to thrive on the stress and the frequent travel as well as the variety of tasks that David tossed his way, from Make sure my tux is ready by six, to Put together a proposal for that acreage in New Mexico.

This evening David told him, “I need to know everything there is to know about the Haven View Motor Court across from the hotel. Who owns it? Is there any debt? What’s the tax situation? Everything. And while you’re at it, see what you can dig up on a woman named Libby Jost. Have it on my desk tomorrow morning, Jeff. Ten at the latest.”

“You got it, boss” came the instant reply. David Halstrom was used to instant replies.

He was used to getting precisely what he wanted, in fact, and he figured he’d own the ramshackle Haven View Motor Court lock, stock and barrel in a few days, or a week at the very most. And if he didn’t exactly own the fallen strawberry-blond angel by then, at least she’d be on his payroll.

Two

At ten o’clock the next morning Libby, in faded jeans and a thick white wool turtleneck, wasn’t at all surprised that she had a splitting headache while she followed the painting contractor around Haven View. She couldn’t even bear to think about the previous night, even as she wondered what had happened to the handsome bear.

As on most days, a camera hung from a leather strap around her neck because a dedicated photographer never knew when a wonderful picture might present itself. This morning, however, the camera strap felt more like a noose while the camera itself seemed to weigh a lot more than it ever had in the past. She was grateful the contractor didn’t walk very fast, which allowed her to sip hot, healing coffee while she tried to interpret his expressions.

Sometimes the man’s sandy eyebrows inched together above the bridge of his nose as if he were thinking, Hmm. This old wood window trim might be a little bit tricky. That won’t be cheap. Other times he narrowed his eyes and bit his lower lip which Libby interpreted as, There’s not enough paint in the state of Missouri to make this crummy place look better. Once he even sighed rather dramatically and then gazed heavenward, which probably meant he wouldn’t take this job no matter how much she offered to pay him.

Finally, the suspense was more than she could stand, not to mention the imagined humiliation when he told her the place wasn’t even good enough to paint, so she told the man to take his time, then excused herself. She headed back to the office, pausing once more to look around the foot of the lamppost to make sure she’d picked up every shard of broken glass from last night’s sorry incident.

She had almost reached the office door when she heard the familiar growl of a certain sleek automobile. As she turned to watch the dark-green vehicle approach along the gravel driveway, Libby swore she could almost feel the sexual throb of its engine deep in the pit of her stomach. Oh, brother. She wasn’t going to drink Chianti again for a long, long time.

Or maybe she was just feeling the deep shame of losing control the way she had the night before. Whoever the guy was and whatever he wanted, his opinion of her must be pretty low. If nothing else, she thought she owed the guy an apology along with a sincere thank-you for rescuing her from all that shattered glass.

She also thought, while staring at his fabulous car, that the vehicle was undoubtedly worth more—way more—than her fifty-thousand-dollar surprise fortune. How depressing was that? Still, it certainly piqued her interest in the man behind the wheel and whatever intentions he might have.

As if by reflex, she put her coffee mug on the ground and lifted her camera, shoving the lens cap in her pocket and glancing to make sure the aperture was set where she wanted it for this relatively bright morning. She snapped him exiting the car.

He seemed taller and more muscular than she remembered from the night before, but that face matched her memory of it perfectly. It was tough. Rugged. Masculine as hell. It was a countenance far better suited to a dusty pickup truck than a shiny luxury sedan.

His face, however, was shielded by his lifted hand as he approached her. Damn. She really wanted to capture those great Marlboro-Man features, especially his wonderful smile lines, but he kept them hidden as he approached.

She lowered the camera. He lowered his hand.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.

Sensing the smirk just beneath his affable grin, Libby quickly forced her lips into a wide, bright smile as she responded, “One hundred percent.”

He cocked his head and narrowed his autumn-colored eyes, scrutinizing her face. “Really?”

“Well…” Libby shrugged. The man knew all too well what her condition had been the night before. She had nearly thrown up on him, after all. There wasn’t much use denying it. “Maybe ninety-five percent. Actually it’s more like eighty-five percent, but definitely trending upward.”

“Yeah,” he said, bending to pick up her coffee, then placing the mug in her hand. “Booze tends to do that more often than not.” Now his gaze strayed from her face, moved down past her turtleneck, paused at her breasts for a second, then focused on her Nikon. “What’s the camera for?”

“I’m a photographer.” She took a sip from her mug.

“I thought you were a motel sitter.”

Libby laughed. “Well, I’m both I guess. I’m Libby Jost.” Locals more often than not recognized her name from the photographs in the paper, but it didn’t seem to ring even a tiny little bell for Mr. Marlboro Man. She extended her hand. “And you are…?”

“David,” he said, reaching out to grip her hand more tightly than she expected. “I’m…” He frowned slightly, then angled his head north in the direction of the hotel across the highway. “I’m the architect of that big shiny box.”

At that particular moment the big, shiny, mirrored façade of the Halstrom Marquis was full of lovely blue autumn sky and a few crisp white clouds. Libby loved it more every time she looked at it, she thought.

“It’s stunning,” she said. “You did a truly spectacular job. And I confess I love taking pictures of it. It’s a completely different building from one day to another, even from one minute to another. Today it’s like a lovely perpendicular piece of sky.”