He’s put family first for years. Now he wants to be wild.

So his best friend’s little sister is off-limits. Right?

Lachlyn Latimore is the long-lost Ballantyne daughter, but she wants no part of her famous family. Too bad the paparazzi missed the memo. Enter Reame Jepsen, the wealthy security expert who’s vowed to keep his best friend’s sister safe. Even if that means moving in, staying close and giving in to the forbidden...

JOSS WOOD loves books and traveling—especially to the wild places of southern Africa. She has the domestic skills of a potted plant and drinks far too much coffee.

Joss has written for Harlequin KISS, Harlequin Presents and, most recently, the Mills & Boon Desire line. After a career in business, she now writes full-time. Joss is a member of the Romance Writers of America and Romance Writers of South Africa.

Also by Joss Wood

Convenient Cinderella BrideHis Ex’s Well-Kept SecretThe Ballantyne BillionairesThe CEO’s Nanny AffairLittle Secrets: Unexpectedly PregnantOne Night to Forever

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

One Night to Forever

Joss Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07644-9

ONE NIGHT TO FOREVER

© 2018 Joss Wood

Published in Great Britain 2018

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.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

One

Lachlyn Latimore walked into the hallway of what was perhaps the most famous brownstone in Manhattan, possibly the world. Known to New Yorkers as The Den, it was five stories of weathered brick, owned and lived in by multiple generations of the Ballantyne family.

The family she was apparently linked to by DNA.

Lachlyn politely thanked Linc Ballantyne when he took her vintage coat and draped it over the back of a chaise longue chair to the right of the wood and stained glass front door. Lachlyn hoped that he didn’t notice the coat’s frayed pocket or missing button.

Lachlyn folded her arms across her plain white long-sleeved top and resisted the urge to wipe her damp hands on her black skinny jeans. As the newly discovered, illegitimate daughter of Connor Ballantyne, who’d been jeweler to the world’s richest and most powerful people and a Manhattan legend, she had a right to feel intimidated. Connor might have passed years ago but his children were as influential and celebrated as their late father.

Lachlyn darted a glance at the portrait of Connor situated on the wall directly opposite the grand staircase. She’d inherited Connor’s blue eyes, bright blond hair, that straight, fine nose. She had her mom’s tiny build and wide, full mouth but the rest of her was, dammit, pure Ballantyne.

“Thanks for coming over, Lachlyn. Let’s go down to the family room,” Linc suggested and gestured her to follow him, but before they could move, the doorbell rang.

Linc sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry, that’s my son’s babysitter.” Retracing his steps, he placed his hand on the carved newel post and called up the stairs. “Shaw? Reame is here.”

Linc flipped open the lock to the front door and Lachlyn watched a very tall man step into the hallway to immediately dominate the space. Now, that was a hell of a babysitter, Lachlyn thought. While Linc and the sexy stranger did that half handshake, half hug men did, Lachlyn made a bullet list of the sexy stranger’s attributes: caramel-colored hair, tanned olive skin, golden scruff on his jaw. Wide shoulders, narrow hips and a fairly spectacular ass...

She wasn’t one to normally notice men’s butts, so this was new. His eyes—a clear, light green—touched her face and she felt like she was all woman, utterly desirable. Lachlyn searched for air, found none and decided breathing didn’t matter if she had him to look at. She felt alive, sexy, in tune and in touch with every spark of femininity she possessed. He oozed confidence and capability and God, he made her feel alive.

So this was that thing they called sexual attraction. Hot, pulsing, making her ache with a need to touch and be touched. He looked like a modern-day Sir Galahad, the original white knight: strong, capable, decisive and sexy enough to turn medieval and modern-day female heads.

He wasn’t her type, though. In order to have a type, you had to be interested in dating, men and relationships.

Hearing a yell from above their heads, Lachlyn dragged her eyes from his muscled thighs—what were her eyes doing down there?—and looked up to watch a young boy dash down the stairs. From five steps up, the child threw himself into the air and Lachlyn released a terrified gasp, convinced that his small body would make contact with the floor. She stumbled forward but before she could make any progress, the tall man caught the child and tucked him under his arm like a football.

Lachlyn placed her hand on her heart and closed her eyes. Holy crap, she’d thought the kid was going to end up splattered all over the wooden floor.

“You’ve got to stop doing that, Shaw,” Linc stated, not looking or sounding worried. In fact, of the three of them, she seemed to be the only one who was remotely concerned about blood, broken bones or stitches.

Linc gestured to Lachlyn. “Reame, meet Lachlyn Latimore. Lachlyn, Reame Jepsen is my oldest friend. And he’s holding my son, Shaw.”

The man dropped Shaw to his feet and their eyes collided. Whoosh—there went the air in the room. Again.

“Ms. Latimore.”

His voice was deep and held just a hint of gravel, a touch of rasp. Lachlyn wanted to know what his words felt like as they hit her bare skin... He held out a hand and she could easily imagine it gliding over her hip, cupping her breast. Lachlyn felt lava flow into her cheeks and ignored his broad, masculine hand. She didn’t trust herself to touch him. She wasn’t going to risk spontaneously combusting and setting Linc’s hallway alight.

“Hi,” she muttered, looking down at her shoes.

“Hi back.” Yeah, she heard the amusement in his words. Lachlyn forced her eyes up and...yep, she caught his quick smirk. Reame Jepsen liked the effect he had on women and wasn’t even a tiny bit surprised by her ridiculous reaction. Usually that smirk would be a total turn-off but instead of being repulsed, she found his self-confidence attractive. Even alluring.

Oh, man. Not good. In fact, very, very bad.

“Unca Reame!”

Reame’s eyes left her face—thank God, she felt pinned to the floor—to look down at Shaw, who was hanging on to his bulging-with-muscles arm. Oh, stop it, Lachlyn! Shaw monkey-climbed up the side of Reame’s body, eventually settling on Reame’s hip. Lachlyn watched as Shaw lifted his top lip to show Reame a bloody gap in his mouth.

“I losth my tooth,” Shaw lisped.

“I see that,” Reame replied. “You look gross.”

Shaw grinned before scowling. “The tooth fairy forgot to come.”

Standing behind Shaw, Linc grimaced and rolled his eyes. Lachlyn might not know a lot about kids but it was obvious that someone forgot to leave cash under Shaw’s pillow. “Bummer. The tooth fairy who services this area must be a bit of a slacker,” Reame said, managing to keep his face straight.

“Mom said it’s because I didn’t pick up my toys and that the tooth fairy is probably a girl and girl fairies don’t like messy rooms,” Shaw said, looking disgusted.

“Maybe that’s it.”

There was nothing sexier than watching a handsome man interacting with a cute kid, Lachlyn decided. They could easily be part of a TV commercial and would sell the advertised product by the caseload.

“Try again tonight, bud,” Reame suggested and Lachlyn’s lips quirked at the don’t you dare forget look he sent Linc.

“Can we go already?” Shaw whined, tugging on Reame’s arm.

Reame nodded and Lachlyn saw the smile he directed at the young boy. It was open and affectionate and ten times more powerful than his earlier smirk. It was obvious that he enjoyed Linc’s son and Linc seemed fully comfortable in handing Shaw into his care. Since everyone in the city knew that Linc was a devoted and protective father, he had to have complete faith that Reame would keep Shaw safe. That was, Lachlyn realized, a hell of an endorsement. Jepsen might look like a sports model but Linc trusted him with his son so that meant he had to have some skills.

Lachlyn listened as Linc and his friend confirmed arrangements for dropping Shaw off and within thirty seconds, the gorgeous man and the gregarious boy were gone and she was alone with Linc.

She wanted to know who Reame was and how he fit into Linc’s life. So, strangely for her, she asked.

“I’ve known him all my life. We lived in the same neighborhood as young kids,” Linc replied. “My mom got the job as Connor’s housekeeper and we moved into this house but, despite living totally different lives on opposite sides of the city, Reame and I remained friends.”

She shouldn’t ask anything more, but no man had ever affected her the way Reame had and, well, she was curious. “Does he work for you, at Ballantyne International?”

“God, no, we’d kill each other.” Linc shook his head, seemingly at ease with her questions. “Reame owns a security consulting company. He was in the military, in one of those hush-hush units that did hush-hush things. He has a hell of a military record, including some hefty commendations for bravery. For a couple of years, I didn’t see or hear from him for months at a time. That’s the life these Special Forces guys lived. Then...” Linc hesitated and Lachlyn gave him a sharp look. He wasn’t going to stop talking now, was he?

“Then?” Lachlyn prompted, accompanying the question with a mental slap.

“He had a crisis in his family and he needed to come home. His mom and sisters needed him. He left the military and started work as Connor’s bodyguard. He’s a natural entrepreneur, so after picking up more clients, he started employing his military friends as bodyguards and his security business was born. Add in cheating spouse investigations and cyber security for corporations, and Jepsen & Associates is one of the biggest security companies in the city,” Linc said, sounding proud.

Beauty, brawn and brains. It was a good thing that she’d never see him again; the man was trouble.

Big, beautiful trouble.

* * *

Walking away from The Den, Reame slowed his steps so that Shaw didn’t have to jog to keep up with him. “So, want to tell me why you sent me an SOS message? I thought we agreed that you can only use that message for emergencies.”

Reame hadn’t been worried when he received the “help me” picture-message sent from Tate’s phone two hours earlier since he’d been on a call with Linc at the time and knew that everything was fine at The Den.

“It was an emergency. Spike wanted you to take me to the batting cages.”

Yeah, right. “An emergency is when someone is hurt, or there’s a fire or there’s blood. Not a message about baseball from a bearded dragon, Shaw,” Reame told his godson. “Does Tate know that you used her phone?”

Tate was Linc’s fiancée and the reason his best mate now walked around with a dopey, having-great-sex look on his face. Actually, all the Ballantyne men had lucked out with their women. It was strange to see his childhood friends settled down. It wasn’t that long ago that they were all running around Manhattan, enjoying their status as the island’s most eligible bachelors. But recently, each of them had fallen and fallen hard. Reame, a die-hard bachelor and commitment-phobe, had laughed his ass off.

He liked Piper, Cady and Tate and respected his friends’ choices. But settling down wasn’t something he was interested in. The thought of placing himself in that situation caused his throat to close and his stomach to cramp.

Marriage, the emotional equivalent of antifreeze...

Pulling his attention back to Shaw, Reame realized that he had yet to answer his question. “Well?”

“Kind of.”

That meant no. Before Reame could chastise him, Shaw turned those big blue eyes on him. “It was a ’mergency, Uncle Ree. I would’ve had to go to Auntie Piper’s house ’cause dad wanted to talk to that lady. And I’d have to play with the babies,” Shaw complained. “Since you were only working, I thought we could hang out.”

Only working... If that’s what he could call running a multimillion-dollar international security business. “I needed you to save me from playing with the babies,” Shaw stated dramatically.

Master manipulator, Reame thought, but, damn, he was cute. Reame sighed and shook his head. He’d survived brutal training, fought in intense battles both in war and in the boardroom, but he was putty in Shaw’s hands. The reality was that if Shaw—or any of the Ballantynes—called he’d drop everything. They were family. It was what they did.

“That lady was pretty,” Shaw said, cleverly changing the subject.

Pretty? No. She was heart-stoppingly, spine-tinglingly beautiful and he hadn’t had such a primitive reaction to a woman in, well, years. Possibly not ever.

Reame looked down into the mischievous face of his godson and lifted his eyebrows. “Aren’t you a little young to be noticing pretty girls?” he asked.

Shaw wrinkled his nose, bunching his freckles together. God, he loved this kid. “She’s my Grandpa Connor’s real daughter. But she wasn’t ’dopted by him, like Dad was.”

“So I heard, bud.”

When the Ballantynes first heard of Lachlyn’s possible connection to their family—thanks to her brother, Tyce Latimore—Reame had immediately ordered his best investigator to dig into her life. On paper, she seemed like nothing special. She lived alone, worked at the New York Public Library, seemed to keep to herself. Nothing about her raised any flags but looking at the photo in the file, his stomach had flipped. Back then, for some reason, and although he’d yet to meet her, she’d bothered him. Despite not knowing anything about her except that she was Connor’s daughter, she’d made him feel queasy, unsettled.

The same instinct that had saved his ass on many hot situations as a Special Forces operative had screamed that Lachlyn Latimore would have some impact on his life.

Meeting her hadn’t done anything to quiet the raging bats-on-speed in his stomach, Reame thought, keeping a light hand on Shaw’s shoulder as they walked to a baseball center a few blocks away from The Den. The photos in Lachlyn’s file hadn’t done her justice. Her eyes and face were Connor’s but her eyes were a deeper blue, almost violet, her face finer, her cheekbones more pronounced, and her mouth looked like it was made to be kissed. She was tiny, she barely reached his shoulder, but curvy and strung tighter than a steel guitar.

It had taken every ounce of his willpower to wrench his eyes off her exquisite face in order to catch Shaw’s midair flight. Reame shuddered, thinking that if he’d taken a second longer to react, Shaw would have hit the deck at lightning speed. The kid really had to stop thinking he was a superhero. Or Reame had to keep his concentration around pretty women.

Not something he generally had a problem with.

Women liked him and he liked women, when he had time for them. He usually didn’t; running and growing a business took all his energy and what little free time he did have that wasn’t spent at work or with his friends—particularly the Ballantynes—was taken up by his demanding sisters and slightly neurotic mother.

But his me-time was finally here. His business was established enough and his staff competent enough for him to step back a fraction, freeing up some precious spare time. His family was also, for all intents and purposes, off his hands. For ten years, since his father had decided to go AWOL after twenty-five years of marriage, he wasn’t his mother’s and sisters’ sounding board, their bank manager, the payer of bills. His youngest sister was starting a new job next week and that meant, thank God, he was free of being responsible for her.

In two weeks his mom would take a three-month cruise with his aunt and he would be free of what his mom called her “little problems.” Since Reame was the only one of her children close by, she tended to call him. A lot. She also wasn’t averse to guilting him into visiting, and when that didn’t work, she made up little stories about her health or problems with her house to bring him running.

Those two weeks and freedom couldn’t come soon enough. He was going to party hard and date wild women, women who knew the score, who wanted nothing more than a good time. He was going to sow all the wild oats he’d been storing up over the past ten years and he was going to sow them hard and sow them well.

The thought that he might be wanting wild because he was avoiding love and commitment jumped into his head. He was self-aware enough to realize that his quest for me-time went deeper than a simple desire to walk on the wild side. He prided himself on being responsible and part of that responsibility was not subjecting any woman to the chance that he might, like his dad, fail at a relationship, at being what a woman wanted, or needed. He’d never failed in his life and he didn’t intend to start now.

Deeper reasons or not, he damn well deserved to live life hard and fast, responsible only for himself. His motivations could wait until he worked this restlessness out of his system.

Approaching the baseball center, Reame decided that he could start tonight, if he was so inclined. After he dropped Shaw off with Tate, he could go out, do something. Reame shook his head, thinking that he didn’t feel like hitting a bar and spinning a line. He’d joined a dating app a few months back and maybe it was time he actually put it to its full use. New York was a big city and, in the little free time he had, he trawled through the photos, swiping right when he found someone he found attractive. He’d had a couple of quick conversations with a few women but hadn’t made any firm plans with anyone to meet in real life.

That brown-eyed blonde was hot and there was that psychologist who intrigued him more than most. He tried to remember what she looked like but Lachlyn Latimore’s face jumped onto the big screen of his mind.

Dating Linc’s new sister wasn’t an option for a hundred and ten reasons. Not constructive thinking, dude, not constructive at all. Frustrated with himself, Reame decided to work and, as per usual, he promised himself that in the morning he’d make it a priority to find himself a date.

Reame pulled open the door to the baseball center and looked down when Shaw tugged his coat. “You really aren’t listening to me, Unca Reame.”

Reame winced. He hadn’t heard a word Shaw had said. “Sorry, bud, what’s up?”

Shaw reached inside his jacket and Reame saw a scaly tail, tiny feet and the pissed-off face of Spike, Shaw’s bearded dragon. “Spike’s going to want pizza when we’re done. Batting makes him hungry.”

Yeah, food wasn’t what he was hungry for. But if Lachlyn Ballantyne offered to eat pizza with him, preferably naked, he was sure he could force down a slice or two.

Two

Back at The Den, which was situated a block or so from Central Park, Lachlyn was being guided by Linc down the hall to a set of stairs leading to a great room on the ground floor. A small picture on the wall to her left caught her eye and she sucked in a quick gasp. That couldn’t possibly be a Picasso, could it? They walked past a nineteenth-century drop-leaf table, every inch of its highly polished surface covered with heavy silver frames containing photos of the current members of the Ballantyne family. Lachlyn hauled in a breath, trying to get some air to her too-tight lungs.

Up until her fifteenth birthday, being a normal girl—being part of a normal American family—had been her deepest desire, the one thing she wished for above all else. Living with an emotionally checked-out mother and an older brother who’d been forced to work to help supplement their mom’s meager income, she’d grown up mostly alone. Lachlyn had comforted herself by imagining another life, cutting out pictures of wholesome, happy families from magazines and carefully pasting them into scrapbooks. She’d covered the walls of her shoebox bedroom, naming her pretend brothers and sisters and weaving fantasies about midnight snack parties, days at the beach, family arguments and Sunday lunches.

She’d made scrapbooks filled with smart and witty friends, fantasy boyfriends and carefully cut out pictures of men who looked like they’d gallop into her life and rescue her.

Then, one summer’s night, her illusions about family, about the bonds that tied people together, had been shattered. Lachlyn’s crash with reality had been brutal—she’d ripped the pictures from her wall, shredded her scrapbooks. What was the point, she’d decided, of living in a dream world? Lachlyn had finally accepted that she was alone, that she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, expect anyone—not family, not a friend, not a lover—to run to her rescue, to be there to support her when her world fell apart. She was the only person she could rely on, would rely on. She’d decided, then and there, not to ask, or expect, anything from anyone ever again.

She’d been young but she’d made the right choice and she still lived her life around that decision. Few friends, no boyfriends, some contact with her brother. But damn, those photos made her feel just the teeniest bit envious.

“Are you okay, Lachlyn?” Linc asked. “You look a little pale.”

She wasn’t used to fancy houses containing amazing artwork, she’d just met the first man who’d ever managed to set her skin on fire and she had no idea of the agenda of this upcoming meeting with the Ballantynes. Was it any surprise that she felt a little, well, stressed?

Lachlyn stopped and half turned to look at him. She wanted to say something smart or charming but she saw sympathy in his eyes. She wanted to tell him that she was feeling overwhelmed, by who the Ballantynes were and the fact that there were so many of them. But it had been a long time since Lachlyn had confided in anyone about how she was feeling. “I’m fine.”

Linc’s gentle smile suggested that he didn’t believe her and Lachlyn realized how very good-looking he was. Actually, all the siblings looked like they could grace magazine covers and, if she wasn’t mistaken, they all had at one time or the other. Sexy, educated, talented and successful, the Ballantynes were the American dream personified. Yet Lachlyn, the only person who carried Connor Ballantyne’s direct DNA, was anything but.

“I understand that this is a lot to deal with, Lachlyn,” Linc said, his deep voice reassuring. “For that reason, it’s just us tonight, the siblings. You, me, Jaeger, Beck and Sage.”

Four against one...

One meeting, a discussion, and she would be done with them, Lachlyn thought, walking into a great room that rolled from a gourmet kitchen into a dining area and then a messy, lived-in space filled with comfortable furniture, books and toys.

Jaeger and Beck stood up and both shook her hand. Sage sent her a hesitant smile from the corner of the huge couch, her feet tucked under her bottom. Her face looked drawn and she had purple stripes under her eyes. Man trouble, Lachlyn decided. And the man causing the trouble was her brother Tyce.

Cue another awkward moment, but she couldn’t ignore Sage’s pain so she stopped next to Sage, bent down and touched her arm with the very tips of her fingers. “Is everything okay? The baby?”

Sage nodded and Lachlyn noticed that Sage’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. “The baby is fine but your brother is driving me mad,” Sage told her, trying to sound jaunty but failing miserably.

Lachlyn wanted to tell Sage that Tyce was a product of their past, of a family that had no idea how to do family. Or relationships.

“I’m sorry, Sage,” Lachlyn murmured, feeling obligated to apologize. Latimores sucked at relationships in general; she needed her solitude and Tyce had his own hang-ups. She and Tyce were masters of the art of self-protection.

Jaeger waited for her to sit before handing her a glass of red wine and then resumed his seat between Sage and Beck on the big sofa. Linc sat down on the ottoman between her and Sage and took a long pull from the bottle of beer Jaeger had offered him. “So, let’s get to the heart of the matter of why you’re here,” Linc said.

Lachlyn placed her wine on the coffee table and clasped her hands together. Linc was going to offer her a payoff, a lump sum of money to go away, to fade into anonymity. They would buy back the Ballantyne International shares Tyce had bought for her and they would squash the reports surfacing in the press about her parentage and connection to the family.

All would go back to being normal. She couldn’t wait. People exhausted her.

“We had a discussion about you, about your arrival in our life and what that meant to us,” Linc said, his eyes not leaving her face. “The past year has been one of phenomenal change...six months ago we were all single. Now we have life partners.”

Jaeger flashed his pirate’s grin. “A hell of a lot of babies on the way. Piper, Cady, Sage...”

“Some by blood, all by love,” Beck murmured. He raised an inquiring eyebrow at Linc, who instantly shook his head.

“We have a five-year-old bandit and an eighteen-month-old bandit-in-training,” Linc retorted, answering the unspoken question. “We’ve got all we can handle at the moment.”

Lachlyn shook her head, trying to keep up with their banter. She hoped pregnancy wasn’t contagious. Oh, wait, you had to have sex to get pregnant. Just then the image of a pair of grape-green eyes in a tanned face appeared in her mind. Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen...ever.

“It would be a manageable three but Jaeger had to be his usual obnoxious self and one up the rest of us by impregnating Piper with twin boys,” Beck muttered, hooking his thick arm around Jaeger’s neck and pulling it tight.

While Lachlyn enjoyed Jaeger and Beck’s banter, she just wished Linc would get on with his little speech. There was more to come and Lachlyn preferred quick and nasty to kind and drawn out.

“Let’s get back to why we are here,” Sage suggested and Lachlyn smiled her appreciation. She’d listen, finish her wine, refuse their payoff and leave...

Linc pushed his hand through his hair. “When Tyce told us that you were Connor’s daughter we were shocked, Lachlyn. Connor, as you know, died a few years ago but he suffered from Alzheimer’s so even if he was alive, we couldn’t ask him. But DNA doesn’t lie and you are part of this family.”

Wait, that didn’t sound like a brush-off...

Linc continued. “If Connor knew about you, you would’ve been raised by him, of that we have no doubt. Connor was anti-marriage and commitment but he was not anti-responsibility and he adored us, kids who weren’t his kids. He would’ve loved you.”

Lachlyn wanted to ask Linc to back up, to repeat what she thought she’d heard. They considered her to be a part of this family, a Ballantyne? They wanted her to stay in the fold? What? She wasn’t part of this family, she didn’t want to be!

“And, as Connor’s child, we believe it’s only fair that you receive a portion of his estate.”

They weren’t offering to pay her off but were offering her more. Lachlyn pushed the words up her tight throat and through her bloodless lips. “A portion?”

Linc leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs and his beer bottle dangling from his fingers. “As siblings, we own many joint assets and we want to share ownership of those assets with you.”

“Assets?”

Linc nodded to a file on the coffee table. “Shares, art, property, gemstones. They are all listed in there. We’ve also agreed to each pay you a fixed amount from our personal bank accounts to reduce the cash disparity between us.”

“Uh...how much?” Lachlyn asked, her thoughts reeling.

Linc’s eyes cooled and Lachlyn knew that he was disappointed by her response. It did sound grasping and gold-digger-ish but she needed to know the amount of money they were talking about, how serious they were. Ten, twenty thousand?

“We thought we’d start with ten million each but that could be negotiated.”

Ten? Million? Forty million in total? Whoa...!

Lachlyn placed her head between her knees as the air in the room disappeared. She’d been expecting a brush-off, a couple of thousand to go away, and they were offering her tens of millions. Most frightening of all, they were asking her to stay. They wanted her to be a Ballantyne...

No, that wasn’t possible. She didn’t do people, relationships, family...

Lachlyn felt Sage perch on the arm of her chair, a small hand landing on her curved back. “Honey, are you okay?”

Lachlyn shook her head. “No,” she muttered.

“You’ll get used to the idea,” Sage said, her hand rubbing the length of her spine. “After a while you realize that it’s just money, just another tool.”

Lachlyn’s eyes widened and she held herself still. Oh, God, they thought that she was freaking about the money? Yeah, it was king’s ransom but...so what? No, they had it all wrong. It wasn’t the financial side that scared her, it was their offer to include her as a part of a family, their family. She was a loner, someone who was comfortable on her own, who liked living her life solo. She didn’t do family...hell, she barely did friends!

But God, forty million dollars. How did one just dismiss that much money? Lachlyn looked inside herself and realized that she could, easily. She didn’t need wealth, she needed emotional security, and keeping her distance from people, family and men, gave her what she needed.

It was a hell of a generous offer and she couldn’t just toss it back in their faces. Lachlyn started to speak but Beck held up his hand.

“As you might be aware, the press has cottoned on to your connection to us and we’re predicting a lot of media attention,” Beck said, looking grave. “And when I say a lot, I mean a firestorm.”

Damn, just what she needed. Four sets of eyes rested on her face and Lachlyn knew that they were waiting for a reply to their offer, some sort of indication of what she was thinking. All she knew for sure was that it was all a little too much and far too soon. She didn’t know them and they sure as hell didn’t know her. They all needed time before some massive decisions were made that could, and would, have huge ramifications.

Lachlyn lifted her head and sat up straight. She looked each of the Ballantyne men in the eye before sending Sage the same determined look. She took a sip of her wine and stood up, begging her knees to lock. “I very much appreciate the offer but I’d like to suggest that we not make any major decisions, especially financial ones, yet.”

Linc exchanged a long look with his siblings and Lachlyn sensed that she’d somehow passed a test, that their approval of her was climbing.

“I came here,” Lachlyn said, sounding hesitant, “thinking that I would have a drink and then go back to my life, my very normal, solitary life. However, hearing about the impending press attention changes that. I can’t ignore the impact this will have and I can’t just walk away. Nor can I accept your very generous offer.”

“Do you think that there’s a chance that you might be able to one day?” Sage asked.

“I don’t know,” Lachlyn said, standing up. “I need to think. And I need to go.”

Too much information, too many people. She had to leave, get out, find a quiet spot where she could make sense of this crazy turn her life had taken. Lachlyn, needing air and needing to get away, snatched up her bag and ran.

* * *

The news that Lachlyn Latimore was Connor Ballantyne’s daughter had not generated the firestorm of attention Beck had predicted. It was far worse than that, Lachlyn decided. She could only describe the constant media presence as the love child of a swarm of locusts and the apocalypse. Because every word she uttered was dissected and every step she took was monitored, Lachlyn agreed to take a two-week vacation from her job as an archivist at the New York Public Library, hoping that the furor would soon subside. She also, reluctantly, agreed to move into The Den because journalists and photographers blocked both entrances to her apartment in Woodside.

To a woman who craved solitude and privacy, Lachlyn felt like she was under siege and that there was no end in sight. She was, mentally and physically, about to jump out of her skin.

It was Cady, Beck’s wife and Ballantyne’s PR guru who finally persuaded her that it wasn’t in her interest to hide from the press—the sooner she gave them the access they wanted, the quicker the attention would die down and life would return to normal. Well, a new type of normal. Cady suggested a photo shoot, interviews with Ballantyne-friendly journalists, and a live spot on morning TV watched by—eeek!—millions, along with other magazine and print interviews.

Lachlyn said no to everything and prayed that some celebrity would do something truly shocking to draw attention away from her. Sage provided some distraction by accepting Tyce’s proposal and their engagement was an excellent excuse for a ball. It was also the perfect vehicle, Cady decided, for the Ballantynes to introduce Lachlyn to their friends and business associates. And that was the only reason Lachlyn was standing in the fantastic ballroom of the iconic Forrester Hotel, dressed in an on-loan-from-Sage designer cocktail dress that cost more than she earned a year, making small talk with people who were sometimes sweet, sometimes rude, and always curious.

It was a shark tank, Lachlyn thought, taking a tiny sip of her now flat champagne. And she was the minnow trying not to be a snack.

“Are you okay?”

Lachlyn felt fingers on her elbow and turned around to see Sage. Sage glowed from the inside out, her blue eyes luminous with happiness. Her brother’s declaration of love had done that, Lachlyn thought, proud of her sibling. Tyce had taken a chance on love and looked as happy as Sage did.

Brave Tyce.

Sage’s inquiring eyebrow reminded her that she’d been asked a question. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you thoroughly sick of everyone asking the same questions?” Sage tilted her head to the side, her bright blue eyes frank.

Lachlyn pulled a face and nodded her agreement. Sage took her half-empty glass from her hand, half turned and nodded to a large ornamental lemon tree in the corner. “You look like you need a break.”

“I really do,” Lachlyn agreed. She was thoroughly peopled out.

“Behind that lemon tree is a small spiral staircase. It leads up to a small, secluded balcony with a great view of the ballroom. It’s not big enough for any illicit shenanigans so nobody goes up there, but it’s a great place to hang out for a little while and get your breath back.”

Lachlyn looked up and she could see a tiny Juliet balcony, partially obscured by a wrought-iron trellis. Yes, that was exactly where she needed to be, for an hour or three. For the rest of the night if she got really, really lucky. Then Lachlyn remembered that she was one of the reasons for the ball and frowned. “Are you sure it will be okay?”

“Just go, Lachlyn, because Old Mrs. Preston is heading in your direction and she’s wearing her ‘I’ll harangue the truth out of her’ expression. I’ll head her off while you make your escape.”

Lachlyn flashed her a quick smile. “Thanks, Sage.”

“Sure.” Sage returned the smile and moved to intercept the super-thin, super-Botoxed specimen heading in her direction. Lachlyn skirted two men in tuxedos who looked like they wanted to talk to her, ignored the call for her attention and headed for the waiter standing near the hidden staircase. She picked up a fresh glass of champagne and ducked up the spiral staircase, holding her floor-length chiffon dress off the stairs. She stepped onto the small balcony and rested her back against the wall. A little peace, finally.

Needing to mentally escape, her thoughts drifted to the collection she was in the process of archiving for the New York Public Library. The grandson of a noted French art collector and critic had recently bequeathed his grandfather’s entire collection of diaries, letters, art and mementoes detailing the Parisian art world of the 1920s. It was a fascinating look back into the glamorous era between the two World Wars and the project of a lifetime.

She couldn’t wait for her two weeks’ vacation to be over so that she could get back to work, to her quiet, empty-of-people apartment. Hearing shouts of laughter, Lachlyn looked through the trellis onto the ballroom below. She took in the exquisite gowns and breathtaking jewelry, carefully made-up faces and sophisticated conversation. A jazz band played in the corner and a few couples were on the dance floor, swaying to the 1940s ballad.

Lachlyn’s eyes drifted over faces, easily finding her brother Tyce, his arms wrapped around Sage’s baby bump. Tyce couldn’t understand her need to hold the Ballantynes—and the world—at an arm’s length. However, their agreement that she deal with the Ballantynes on her own terms was holding. Just.

Tyce didn’t realize that Lachlyn was perfectly fine on her own, that he needed this amazing family, a great love affair, more than she did. She hadn’t told him, or anybody, what happened that summer so long ago...

She didn’t need to try hard to remember the sour smell of his breath on her face, the taste of his slimy tongue, the feel of his rough hands inside her shirt, between her legs. She’d yelled and screamed but her mom—thanks to depression, sleeping pills or, most likely, disinterest—hadn’t lifted her head to help her. Before the assault had turned from horrible to devastating, Lachlyn’s elbow had connected with her assailant’s nose. She’d followed that up with a knee to his scrotum and he’d scuttled off. She’d sat on the floor of her bedroom, weeping and alone. As a result, asking for any type of support or help, emotional or physical, transported her back to feeling like a helpless little girl, and that was something she never wanted to be seen as. Yeah, it also stopped her from making friends, from having normal relationships with normal men, but that was a small price to pay.

Sometimes, in the early, honest hours of the morning, she suspected that she still might be that girl who didn’t want to do it on her own, who might want a man, a family...that she might want to, sometimes, lean. What stopped her from exploring that terrifying scenario was remembering the past, the experience of looking for support—asking for help—and finding no one there.

No, she was better off alone.

Lachlyn felt the change in atmosphere and she stepped up to the trellis, trying to find the source of the disturbance. Yep, and there he was, the alpha-est of alphas. Lachlyn took a sip of her cool champagne, enjoying the way it replaced the moisture in her mouth. She’d only met Reame Jepsen twice, the first time at The Den and she’d had another brief encounter with him at the art gallery when Tyce proposed to Sage. But despite not spending more than ten minutes in total with the blasted man, she was irritated that he was the star of some of her very sexy dreams.

Like most alpha males, Reame was big, six foot three, six four? Lachlyn’s fingers curled around the trellis as she watched him move across the ballroom. Greeting someone she knew was important, Reame gripped the other man’s hand, flashing a practiced smile. Mr. Important dipped his head, a clear indication that he was submitting to the alpha male. Reame stepped into the group Mr. Important was standing with, and all four men, two CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, an investment banker and a world renowned economist, took a tiny step back. Reame Jepsen dominated the space, claiming it as his own. He was the super-alpha in a room of men who were accustomed to calling the shots and taking charge.

Lachlyn released a long sigh. Reame Jepsen bothered her.

No, he bothered the hell out of her.

And here came the moths to the flame, Lachlyn thought, amused. A tall, thin blonde spun around from the next group, squealed and all but threw herself into Reame’s arms. Cheeks were kissed before the blonde was elbowed out of the way by a redhead, then a brunette. She supposed it was business as usual for Reame. With his caramel-colored hair, olive skin, masculine face and light eyes, he made female eyes water, ovaries quiver and brains start to churn. Linc’s best friend, or so she’d heard, was the most eligible bachelor since Connor Ballantyne, and that list had included, up until very recently, her very hot and rich brothers.

He was a catch, a prize, a goal.

Lachlyn wasn’t a game-playing girl.

She was about to turn away, about to pull her eyes off his angles-and-planes face when his head shot up and their eyes clashed and held. He lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips, his light eyes not leaving her face, ignoring the woman hanging off his arm. Lachlyn stared down at him as the air between them fizzled and crackled.

She wanted him.

She was pulsing with lust, attraction, desire, need. Hot, spiky lust. Her womb was as tight as a drum and her lungs had lost their ability to breathe. Lachlyn felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle, goose bumps lifting the skin on her arms. The thought of that sexy mouth on hers, what it would feel like, how he would taste—whiskey, mint, man—drowned out rational thought. The fantasy of her dress up to her waist, his hands on the back of her thighs, her back against the wall as he slid into her was as strong as a memory from yesterday, as powerful as reality.

She understood why. He was the biggest, most powerful, highest-ranking man in the room and millions of years of biology had programmed her, and every other woman there, to want to mate with all that strength and power. Mating with him would ensure her offspring would be given the strongest chance of survival, the best genes. Her attraction to him was pure animal instinct and nothing to cause her any concern.

But Lachlyn didn’t date alpha males. Hell, she didn’t date at all. It would be easy to chalk it up to what happened to her so long ago, but Lachlyn refused to give that rapist-in-training that much control over her sex life.

Sex wasn’t the problem, that much she knew. No, thanks to her mom’s disinterest, her lack of response, her fears had taken on a different form. Lachlyn refused to ask for anything, to give up even a small measure of her independence, to make space in her life for a man, to allow herself to ask for anything, even his company.

Men liked to feel needed and Lachlyn refused to need anyone ever again. Stalemate.

Lachlyn shook her dark thoughts away, refocusing on The Alpha Male’s face. She could appreciate him for what he was, a fine specimen, and her response to him was normal, natural even. Looking at him was like looking at a Botticelli painting or a Rodin sculpture...she could admire him, appreciate his masculine beauty, but unlike art, there was a personality behind it, quite a forceful one if she read him right. He was tough and strong—someone people relied on. He would expect his woman, his mate, to allow him to protect her, to shelter her, to slay her dragons.

Lachlyn had expected the person who should love her the most to help her slay a dragon once and she’d been left to do it herself. Luckily, she’d won the battle, but she’d never put herself in the position of allowing anyone to disappoint her again.

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