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The Love Child
Catherine Mann


Her job is to turn a reclusive rancher into a charming tycoon…With his family’s company at stake, Trystan reluctantly agrees to a makeover. But the media consultant hired to sort him out has him aching. When passion leads to pregnancy, marriage is on the cards…but Isabeau won’t say yes without his love…







Her job is to turn a reclusive rancher into a charming oil tycoon...

Having his baby isn’t part of the deal!

With his family’s company at stake, Trystan reluctantly agrees to a makeover. But the media consultant hired to smooth out his rough edges has him aching. When passion leads to pregnancy, the only honorable choice is a proposal. But Isabeau won’t say yes without his love...

An Alaskan Oil Barons Novel


USA TODAY bestselling author CATHERINE MANN has won numerous awards for her novels, including both a prestigious RITA® Award and an RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award. After years of moving around the country bringing up four children, Catherine has set-tled in her home state of South Carolina, where she’s active in animal rescue. For more information, visit her website, www.catherinemann.com (http://www.catherinemann.com).


Also by Catherine Mann (#u8ee3e7c0-ec70-5c37-afc7-4e681f1edaf3)

One Good Cowboy

Pursued by the Rich Rancher

Pregnant by the Cowboy CEO The

Boss’s Baby Arrangement His

Secretary’s Little Secret

The Baby Claim

The Double Deal

The Love Child

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


The Love Child

Catherine Mann






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07637-1

THE LOVE CHILD

© 2018 Catherine Mann

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 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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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To the Palmetto Animal Assisted

Life Services (PAALS) and Jennifer Rogers

(executive director and founder)


Contents

Cover (#u292627a9-b05d-56a7-bc5b-30c91214265d)

Back Cover Text (#u3a8c6d6f-73e6-53a7-ae47-a9b760055a36)

About the Author (#ud4d301e4-31a7-5677-8b18-b8accdb9ff08)

Booklist (#ua9c37226-a1c3-5be9-94a1-df27c914f7a7)

Title Page (#u279250e7-5531-5a72-997a-34771ac744bf)

Copyright (#ue53e2b17-8999-53d1-8c55-5c359c85dcc1)

Dedication (#u181487bf-8161-59cc-b946-22346a6b3499)

One (#u47d372ae-0d5e-5584-bf76-3bf0a363830a)

Two (#u354ba742-995d-585b-af6a-d3c04839c104)

Three (#u34d47955-23cd-5ba6-9b11-dd7906a7c3f5)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


One (#u8ee3e7c0-ec70-5c37-afc7-4e681f1edaf3)

“Spread your legs wider, please, Mr. Mikkelson.”

Isabeau Waters rocked back on her heels, staring up the length of the Mikkelson oil magnate looming over her.

She’d spent countless hours in the company of naked and near-naked men in her profession as a media image consultant. But never in her job had she revamped the wardrobe for a man who tempted her quite so much, for so long, as Alaskan mogul and rancher Trystan Mikkelson.

Measuring his inseam? Heaven help her.

Kneeling on the plush carpet in the luxurious office space, Isabeau adjusted her grip on the measuring tape. She worked her way up his long, denim-clad legs until her eyes were level with his...leather belt. So close she could read the inscription on the Iditarod sled dog racing belt buckle.

Exhale.

Think.

Be a professional.

This job was high-paying and high-profile. The merger of the powerful Mikkelson and Steele family businesses into Alaska Oil Barons, Incorporated, had dominated stock exchange news, causing the market to fluctuate. Shares had only just begun to steady when the Steele patriarch suffered a major injury in a horseback-riding accident.

Now the two factions were working overtime to make sure the company presented a cohesive image when it came to leadership. With so many offspring on both sides, Isabeau was still stunned that this man, who preferred running the family’s ranch up in Alaska’s north country, was their pick to be the face of the merged company. Apparently, siblings on both sides of the family were having marriage troubles, health issues or were too shy to speak in public, leaving them with only this rugged Mikkelson cowboy and a teenage Steele kid to choose from. Since the teenager was obviously not an option, that left Trystan Mikkelson.

For now, anyway.

Her mission? To make him over. His wardrobe was easy enough. The tougher part though? To keep him in-line and on-message for the next four weeks until the Wilderness Preservation Initiative Fund-raiser—a wine and dine with celebrities. Then stay on until his mother’s wedding to the Steele oil magnate, Jack.

She’d done this pre-assessment routine time and time again, with many different kinds of people. But as she took note of his measurements, her eyes falling to his angular jaw... Well keeping herself on-message seemed like it would be the true work.

He shifted from one dusty boot to the other. “No disrespect to your profession, ma’am, but I’m not going to be trussed up like some pretty boy.”

“I will keep your wardrobe preferences in mind as I order pieces and talk to the tailor. You will still be you, but a version of you that inspires confidence from less...rugged investors.” Isabeau tucked a stray hair behind her ear, fingers barely grazing the pearl drop earrings her best friend had given her when she’d launched her image consulting company. A gesture of good luck, and Isabeau had made it a ritual to always wear them to the first fitting.

He grunted.

She rolled her eyes. “Use your words, please.”

“Excuse me?” He raised one dark brow. “I’m not a damn toddler.”

She agreed one hundred percent with that.

“Exactly. The stakes are much higher than a time-out. Alaska Oil Barons, Inc., has hired me to do a job.” And that job apparently was going to include polishing his words as well as his wardrobe.

Although she could tell he’d made an attempt at spiffing up today. But based on comparison to photos she’d researched of him online, spiffing for him meant swapping worn, faded flannel with a fresh-out-of-the-package plaid. She appreciated the effort. Not that she’d suffered any illusions that this would be an easy gig.

For more reasons than one.

Keeping her professional distance around this hulking sexy distraction would be a challenge, to say the least.

Eyes upward. A much safer option.

Maybe.

He was grinning, damn him.

His thick hair looked perpetually rumpled by the wind into a dusty brown storm. A part of her grieved over his impending appointment with the barber. But she needed that hair to be a bit more tamed. The man too.

His broad shoulders and chest were sculpted with muscles born of hard work rather than in a gym. She would need to order larger suit jackets and his tuxedo would need to be custom-made.

He was all man, and her mouth watered with desire.

Totally unprofessional and barely controllable.

She reined her thoughts in, focusing on getting her notes in place. Nabbing Alaska Oil Barons, Inc., was a coup. They were a big-time client for her, and the merger of the Mikkelson and Steele companies made the corporation all the more newsworthy right now. The business still operated out of two office buildings where the Steeles and Mikkelsons once had their individual spaces. Today, she was in the Mikkelson space.

Jeannie Mikkelson’s office to be exact—Trystan’s office for now, since his mother was plastered to her new fiancé’s side while Jack Steele recovered from surgery after a horseback-riding accident. The spacious office was gorgeous and one Isabeau would give her eyeteeth to have, but she had to confess it didn’t fit Trystan Mikkelson. From the cream-colored office chair to the sea foam–colored furniture with teal accents, it was more of a woman’s space.

Trystan’s eyes kept shifting to the windows along the wall and the skylight, as if he was considering an escape route to the great outdoors he was reputed to prefer.

She glanced down to jot additional notes for short-term and long-term goals. First order of business, getting Trystan properly outfitted for his sister Glenna’s wedding to the oldest Steele brother, Broderick, this weekend.

As CFOs, Glenna and Broderick were the obvious ones to take the helm of the company for now, but they were emphatic that their relationship deserved to come first. The other Mikkelson son, Charles, Jr., insisted the same for his troubled marriage. And while Isabeau applauded their devotion to their spouses, and she intended to spin their choices well in the press releases, she also wanted to shake every one of them for not recognizing how tenuous things were with the merger right now.

Stockholders needed reassurance. Panic was a dangerous emotion.

Her thoughts somersaulted away from the task at hand, her mind’s eye turning to Paige, her Labrador retriever, who’d stretched beneath the sofa, only her head and paws sticking out. As if the dog could sense Isabeau’s attention, Paige raised her head, those wide brown eyes sympathetic and reassuring all at once. Paige cocked her head, ears flopping and fur rustling against the red vest that proclaimed her a service dog in huge black capital letters. In a smaller, less sprawling font, was the instructive Do Not Pet. Isabeau needed Paige to alert her to diabetic issues.

And anxiety attacks.

But Isabeau preferred to keep her reasons for having a service dog as private as possible. Panic attacks played a major role in why she chose to be a behind-the-scenes media person rather than working in front of the cameras. Her stalker boyfriend from college was in prison now, but the fear remained close.

Clearing her throat, she held up the tape measure again, standing. “Almost finished.”

“Glad to know.” He stretched his arms wide as she measured across his chest.

She considered herself a professional. She’d never had a problem with desiring a client before, while on the job.

It was going to be a long month completing her contract.

But this gig would cement her reputation, and it carried the potential to land her more clients of this caliber. She had only herself to depend on—no family, no fat inheritance. Her health was stable for now, but her diabetes had sidelined her before. She needed to build a cushion of savings for emergencies.

Never would she be like her mother, flat broke and alone.

“Mr. Mikkelson, you need—”

“Trystan,” he insisted in that gravelly voice of his, a melodic rumble.

“Trystan,” she conceded. “You need to weigh your words carefully. Less is more, which actually, now that I think about it, should be an easier path for you. Just no impulsive outbursts. It’s easier to add to a statement than to walk back a negative impression.”

“It’s just a fund-raiser. I’ve been attending them my whole life.”

“You’re more than attending now. You’re the figurehead of the company, a company with a president that almost died when he broke his spine in the middle of a major merger.” She reminded him of what he should clearly be keeping top-of-mind but still seemed to disregard. “If you really prefer not to do this, I could talk to your family about one of the Steele siblings taking over the public role—heaven knows there are plenty of them...”

“No, I’ve got this.” He pulled a tight smile. “The fact that there are so damn many of them is just the reason I need to do this. To make sure my mother keeps her equal stake in the company and those Steeles don’t edge her out.”

“I hear you, and I understand your point. But you do know that is exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t say in public.”

“United front. Got it.” He tapped his temple. “We’re all supposed to ignore the fact that our families have been at war for longer than I can remember. I’m supposed to forget all the times my father called Jack Steele a ruthless crook.”

She leveled a glare at him. “Mr. Mikkelson—”

“Trystan.” His eyes were robin’s-egg blue, a beautiful, vibrant hue in this otherwise stark man. “And yes, I know that’s another thing I’m not supposed to say.”

Those. Eyes.

This. Man.

Heaven help her.

It was going to be a long month.

* * *

All for family.

That’d been Trystan’s motto his whole life. And it was why he stood, albeit begrudgingly, getting a damn makeover.

His clothes shouldn’t matter. He had a business degree and ran a multimillion-dollar ranching operation. All of which he’d accomplished in jeans and dusty boots rather than suits and polished wing tips. But his family’s livelihood was on the line.

He would do whatever it took to stabilize the newly formed Alaska Oil Barons, Inc.

Even if it meant prancing around like some show horse. Even if he hated every second of the posturing.

Although working with Isabeau Waters certainly made the task bearable.

She was a breath of fresh air. And, yeah, she was very easy on the eyes.

Her red hair shone with hints of gold streaking through. It was gathered on one side so that the rest fell over one shoulder. The natural wave swirled into one big curl that tempted him to tangle his fingers through to test the texture. He was a sensual man, a man of the outdoors who experienced life firsthand rather than sitting behind a desk sifting through the details on a computer screen.

Her eyes were the soft blue of his home state’s sky, sparkling and changeable. A deep breath filled him with the scent of her—like the wild irises that bloomed in summer, beautiful and an ironic mix of delicate petals that somehow managed to survive to bloom every year despite the harsh Alaska winters.

He stopped that thought short.

Damn.

Isabeau Waters was making him turn downright poetic.

His gaze turned to the yellow lab staring up at him with inquisitive, chocolate-brown eyes. Though he wanted to fluff the dog’s ears, he refrained because the dog was at work. Still, his soul longed for the simplicity of a canine companion here in this unfamiliar situation.

Understanding animals was easy for him. People? Not so much.

He wanted to be on the ranch, riding a horse or even reviewing inventory spreadsheets. The public scene wasn’t his forte, not like it was for his older brother Chuck. But Chuck’s marriage was on life support, and that relationship was the only thing his older brother valued more than the family business.

Chuck had learned those priorities from their parents, Charles Sr. and Jeannie, a tightly bonded couple until Charles’s death. They’d all feared for Jeannie when her husband died of a heart attack over two years ago. They’d prayed she would find a reason to live.

They just hadn’t expected her reason would be their family’s corporate enemy, Jack Steele.

Trystan had spent his teenage years hearing his father list Jack’s many flaws. And now he and his siblings were all expected to just forget that.

The movement of Isabeau’s slender body trekking over to the desk, her hair swishing, made him forget all about his family’s drama, at least for the moment. She grabbed some binders, flipping to different sections, writing on pages and adding sticky notes. A covert glance over her shoulder, back to him, had his heart pounding.

Why was the most attractive woman he’d met in ages also the person he had to work with? He wanted to flirt with her and take her to dinner instead.

But he would have to give serious thought to the consequences before mixing business and pleasure.

Family always came first.

He’d been adopted by Jeannie and Charles when his own parents had split. His biological parents had married as teens because he was on the way. Their union had been rocky and volatile from the start. After the split, when Trystan was ten, his mother, Jeannie’s sister, had been ready to turn him over to foster care. His other aunt had offered to share care of him with Jeannie, but Jeannie had insisted Trystan should have a steady home. She and Charles had welcomed him into their brood.

He knew Jeannie loved him, that she’d accepted him, but he also knew she hadn’t had a choice. His other aunt hadn’t really been an option as a single mom herself. Taking him in had been the honorable thing for Jeannie and Charles to do.

He owed the Mikkelsons more than he could repay. They’d saved him from an overburdened system where he likely would have ended up in a group home. They’d given him a place in their family. They’d treated him every bit as equally as their three biological children. Now, most people didn’t even know or remember he was adopted. Some days he could almost believe he was really one of them rather than a cast-off cousin.

Other times, like now, he was reminded of that debt.

As if she could feel his gaze, Isabeau glanced over her shoulder at him. “If you couldn’t be a rancher, what would you do with your life?”

“Why does that matter?” A shrug. No other future mattered, only the present he lived in. That was his life. Walking to the wet bar, Trystan grabbed a beer and twisted the top off. He tipped the bottle’s neck to her, inquiring.

A faint smile dusted her lips, but she shook her head, holding up a hand. “No, thank you. And as for the question, I’m just trying to get to know you better, beyond our brief meetings in the past and an internet search on the history of your family. The more I understand you, the more authentic I can be in the choices I make for your image makeover. I truly do want you to be pleased with the decisions. If it’s fake, that will show in your demeanor. People will sense it’s a facade.”

“Then we’re screwed because I’m never going to be a smooth-talking, tuxedo-wearing dude.” He took a sip of the beer—his favorite summer ale from his family-owned brewery, Icecap Brews. The crisp, medium-bodied flavor settled him, the aftertaste of wheat drawing out memories of late nights working on the ranch. His sanctuary.

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” She gestured toward the binders—toward the organized checklists, charts and measures that ought to transform him from rugged recluse to the face of Alaska Oil Barons, Inc.

“Well, then, how would you feel if you couldn’t do your job? If someone thrust you into a role you weren’t comfortable with?” He took another swig as he leaned against the wall, noticing her confident posture, the way her brows lifted in answer to the challenge he threw at her.

A sassy smile set the corners of her mouth up, reaching those bright blue eyes. “This isn’t about me.”

“That’s a cop-out answer.”

“Fine, then. I would search for help. Like how I have my dog here to help me adapt to the curveballs life has thrown my way.”

He walked toward where she leaned against the desk, his fingers tracing the corners of the beer bottle’s label. Each movement, every step, sparked more static crackling in the air between them. Stopping beside her, he leaned against the desk to her left, aware of the lilac perfume on her skin. “Then what would you do if this profession hadn’t worked out for you?”

“I’ll answer if you will.” Her hand gravitated to his Stetson on the desk, touching the felt lightly. Was she subconsciously drawn to it?

Awareness tumbled through him as he drank in her slender features—the tipped nose, the confidence.

“Fine.” He nodded. “You first.”

She clicked her tongue. “Testing the trust issue. Okay, I would go back to school and study clothing design. Now your turn.”

“Archeology. I can see myself sifting through the earth at an excavation site.” He brought the bottle to his lips, imagining what it’d be like to be immersed in an excavation pit in some remote location. No press. Few people. Yeah, he could live like that.

“So you’re a patient man with an attention to detail.”

His brow raised and he tilted the bottle, which caused the ale to slosh slightly. A contained wave. “I guess you could say that.”

“Nice to know. The ideas are churning in my mind already.”

She was sure learning a lot about him, and he wasn’t finding out a damn thing of importance about her.

He set aside his beer and strode toward the yellow Lab. “Tell me about your dog.”

Isabeau’s spine went straight and she closed her notebook slowly, her eyes averted. “She’s a Labrador retriever, she’s three and a half years old, and her name is Paige.”

Obvious. But if she didn’t want to talk about the fact that Paige wore a service dog vest with patches and lettering, then he wasn’t going to be rude. He’d just been trying to make conversation.

Not his strength.

Turning, she flashed an overbright, tense smile. “You can ask. I was just messing with you by giving those obvious answers. Take it as a tip on how to avoid questions you don’t want to answer.”

“Touché. I apologize if I shouldn’t have asked about your working dog. I was just trying to fill the awkward silence. I should have asked about your favorite vacation spot or what made you pick this job or something.”

“Those would have been good conversation starters. But I’m comfortable discussing Paige with you. It’s more the strangers approaching me with questions that are bothersome. I’ve even had people accuse her of being a fake working dog since I don’t ‘appear’ disabled.” She shook her head, that spiral of red hair sliding along her shoulder. “Paige alerts to my diabetes.”

“How did I not know that about you?”

She stacked her binders. “It’s not like you and I are besties.”

He took another step closer, setting the beer on the desk, the tempting scent of her perfume swirling around him again. “But I know you. Or rather, I’ve noticed you and for some reason I didn’t notice your dog.”

“That’s a good thing. If she’s drawing attention to herself, she’s not doing her job. Well, unless I were to be in some kind of health crisis, then she would get help or bring my medication. But she’s very good at what she does. Since I’ve added her to my life, she’s kept me from getting so distracted I miss drops or spikes in my glucose level.”

“So I shouldn’t pet her.”

“Not while she’s wearing her cape.” That tight-lipped, tense smile returned as her head gave a curt, dismissive shake.

“Cape?”

“Vest. She understands that when she’s wearing it, she’s working. When it’s off, she can play like any other dog.”

“Ah, okay. Does it bother you that I’m asking about this?” An intrusion into his own life would’ve been met with some resistance if the roles were reversed. And the last thing he wanted to do was make Isabeau feel isolated.

“Actually, no. It’s good to have something to talk about while I work.”

“How does she detect your blood sugar?”

“She senses it by smell.”

“Like a drug dog?”

“Or hunting dog, or search-and-rescue dog. Same premise, but fine-tuned. Not all service dogs can do it. Some do tasks like get help if there’s a problem or bring medicines or steady the person if they’re feeling faint. But she’s got that something extra.” With a stretch, Isabeau’s spine arched back, drawing his eye as she settled against the desk again. “There. I have all I need to order your new wardrobe. Some of it has to be special-ordered, but I can pick up what you’ll need for your sister’s wedding.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. But I hope you know that clothes aren’t going to change the core of who I am or what I say.”

There. He’d thrown down the gauntlet.

He’d enjoyed this fitting session a helluva lot more than he ever would have expected. And he knew without question that the woman in front of him had made all the difference in the day. Already he looked forward to their next sparring match.

So why not make the most of this month of jumping through social hoops?

His hand whispered against her impossibly soft skin, tension mounting as their eyes locked. “The best way to keep my rogue mouth in line is to stay right by my side. Be more than a media consultant. Be my date for my sister’s wedding.”


Two (#u8ee3e7c0-ec70-5c37-afc7-4e681f1edaf3)

When she’d been a kid, Isabeau, like other little girls, had dreamed of a fairy-tale wedding of her own. Her mother had even spun those fantasies with her. Except her mom’s prince charming had walked out, and even though her mother kept telling the stories, Isabeau stopped believing. She wasn’t sure she even knew what a healthy dating relationship was, between her mother’s experiences and her own.

So how had she let herself get talked into being Trystan’s date at a family wedding? She’d said yes before she could think, her mind somehow losing its edge around this man.

A dozen times over the past two days she’d planned to tell him it was a silly idea.

And every time, she’d found a reason to delay until here they were, together, at a Mikkelson-Steele wedding.

Sure it was a small ceremony at the Steele family compound by the water, but still. Simple to these people still involved big money and security guards.

She wasn’t his date, not in the romantic sense. Although Trystan was playing it to the hilt, his arm draped over her shoulders as the bride and groom exchanged vows.

Trystan leaned closer, whispering against her ear, “Do you feel okay?”

“I’m fine, just fine,” Isabeau insisted quickly, then caught herself up short. “Why would you ask that?”

“Your face is all scrunched.”

“That’s rude.” The mutter eked out between her lips, which were lifted in a tight smile. Though to be completely honest, she could feel the vise grip of tension in her teeth and furrowed brow.

“My apologies.” His voice was low, but the lilt to his tone was light. Teasing. “Your gorgeous face is all scrunched?”

“Better, slightly.”

“We’re at a wedding. Pretend you aren’t checking your watch wondering how much longer until the reception, like the rest of us are.”

“That’s not true. I’m enjoying the view. The sun just made me squint for a second,” she lied through her teeth.

“Uh-huh, right.” He laughed softly.

She had to confess, a summer shoreline wedding in Alaska with a mountain range backdrop was nothing less than stunning. She would have enjoyed herself if it weren’t for the nerves in her stomach generated by the man beside her.

Distracting her.

The Steele estate loomed in the background, sprawling, like a cedar wood cabin on the scale of a manor house—these clients were beyond the caliber of any she’d had before. The home was nestled into the skinny pines and rugged landscape, the wildness of it all giving Isabeau a small sense of peace even with the mansion housing multiple suites for the Steele family when they were in town. The quarters for each sibling were much like luxurious condominiums. Glenna Mikkelson had even been living in her suite with Broderick for months.

Having their wedding here also made it an easier location for Jack Steele. The patriarch had only recently been given the okay to stop wearing his neck brace. He was a walking miracle, given he’d fractured two vertebrae in his neck. He’d survived the fall and the surgery that followed.

He was still an imposing figure, but pale, and she suspected he would be sitting for the duration of the reception. Likely only pride and grit kept him on his feet now. Actually, Jeannie Mikkelson appeared more stressed, worried and frazzled than he was, even with her mother-of-the-bride smile.

Isabeau glanced up at Trystan to see if he’d noticed his mother’s strain. But no. His gaze slammed right into hers with a spark of awareness that made her all the more conscious of his arm along her shoulders.

Lord, he smelled good, like spices and musk and man.

He smiled, which distracted her to the point she almost missed Trystan’s hand sliding down her spine to rest just above her butt. Her skin was on fire in a way she hadn’t felt in a long—a very long—time.

Why was he doing this? To rebel against the makeover or because he genuinely wanted her? His behavior felt like more than playacting through a simple date. She would need to tread warily to resist getting too involved with him.

She cleared her throat and hissed, “Pay attention to your sister’s wedding.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Trystan’s hand eased upward to her shoulder again.

It had to be the wedding ceremony making her go all gooey inside, aching to grasp some of that magic in the air.

The wedding. Right. She should just pay attention to the proceedings, take in the staging and beauty for ideas for future clients who wanted a down-to-earth, simple ceremony.

The bride wore a fitted lace dress with long, sheer sleeves and a sculpted bodice, her blond hair swept up in a twist that exposed her regal neck. She held a bouquet of flowing Queen Anne’s lace, white roses and greenery. Simple and elegant, like the bride herself.

The groom’s tuxedo was a Ralph Lauren design with clean lines, and no Stetson today.

Unlike the other men, who all wore suits and hats.

The family resemblance on both sides was easy to spot. The Mikkelsons were blond or had hair a lighter shade of brown. The Steeles were dark haired like their father with a flash of Inuit heritage from their mother.

Isabeau had done her research on both families. The Mikkelson matriarch and Steele patriarch had both been devastated when their spouses died. She’d sifted through countless press releases to identify possible publicity pitfalls. But there were no hints of scandal in either of their marriages. It was impossible not to root for them now that they were planning their own wedding.

Glenna Mikkelson and Broderick Steele’s relationship was a bit more...complicated. Rumors indicated they’d had a brief fling in college, but Glenna had gone on to marry someone else. Her husband had cheated and fathered a baby daughter with another woman—who had then abandoned her child.

The precious little girl was in Broderick’s arms now, her chubby hands wrapped around his neck. Isabeau’s heart squeezed at the beauty of a real fairy-tale wedding. And with unerring timing, Trystan slid his hand down to palm her waist with a warm, subtle strength that sent tingles up her spine.

God, she needed some space from this sexy “date” of hers.

The chords of an upbeat song called her back, grounding her in the moment. Head tilting, she watched as the couple walked down the aisle together. Glenna glowed as she passed them, her smile as wide as the horizon and as brilliant as the midsummer sun. She lifted the baby up as Broderick led them all the way down the velvet aisle.

A family. Complete and ready to face the future together.

A chord in Isabeau’s heart snapped as the wedding concluded.

Suddenly, the world seemed to close in on her. The small crowd felt oppressive.

Space. The desire to bolt surged into her rapidly beating heart. “You know, you’re right after all about the reception. I’m starving.” She gestured to the caterer’s tent on the lawn. “I’m going to check out the spread while you chat with your family. Bye now.”

She smoothed her silky yellow dress, the hem teasing her knees, and slipped out from beneath Trystan’s arm. Her skin tingled with the lingering feel of his simple touch. Her heels sunk into the grass as she made her way up the hill toward the outdoor party tent. Tables of food were strategically available everywhere she looked, even up to the balcony and sunroom. Waiters walked the grounds with trays of canapés and drinks.

She didn’t have her dog with her, opting to let Paige play with the other family dogs in a large fenced area. Isabeau had decided that if she changed her mind, she could retrieve Paige quickly. Even now, she could see her yellow Lab loping with a husky, each dog holding the end of a stick not even sparing a glance at the large antlered moose ambling just beyond the fence line.

Best smile forward, Isabeau dashed away from the amassing family, from Trystan’s heat, her eyes trained on reaching the balcony.

Don’t look back at him.

Determined to find a moment of solitude, Isabeau headed straight for the mansion, climbing the lengthy stairway up to the balcony. What a breathtaking view of the festivities. And yes, she could find peace here as well, away from the temptation of leaning into Trystan’s touch.

An elegant, understated spread of high tables drenched in pale lace and lit candles filled the balcony. The candles flickered, contrasting with the deep blue depths of the water lapping against the shore below.

Navigating her way from the balcony to the sunroom, she paused to lean against one of the sunroom’s many open doors. Pausing to drink in the scene. To collect herself and assuage the mounting anxiety that rumbled in her chest, squeezing around her heart.

Golden sunlight drenched the room, pouring through the array of windows. An ice carving of a doe and buck glimmered, drawing her toward the spread of food. Casting a glance at the lawn again, she saw the other guests beginning to help themselves to the alfresco meal, with the option of retreating to the sunroom. Thank goodness for the spread out space for mingling or quiet. Because she felt jittery and she knew it had nothing to do with her blood sugar levels.

Salmon, ahi tuna, crab legs, asparagus, Caprese skewers...all of it made her mouth water. She built a plate of salmon and a plain roll just as a jazz band inside the house launched into their first set.

Yep. Fairy tale. And yes, a part of her still wanted a moment of magic like this. Not the angst of forever. Just the magic.

With a sigh, some of the restlessness she’d felt only five minutes ago seemed to dissolve. Making her way outside, she sat on one of the deck chairs, scanning the surreal beauty in front of her.

Isabeau tipped her face toward the brief warmth of summer, four weeks in late June and early July. Temperatures in the fifties felt balmy after her first winter in the state.

And while the thought of such cool weather feeling balmy never ceased to amaze her, the wild scenery of this state made her feel humble and small. In her college literature class, she’d been forced to read Thoreau and Emerson. At the time, their musings on nature had washed over her in a blur of words. But here, as she studied the purple of dwarf fireweed peeking through exposed granite along the shoreline, the perceptiveness of those dusty American thinkers resonated. Even with the helicopter parked in the distance.

Serenity and peace.

Well, at least it had been for a few brief shining moments. Isabeau sat up straighter as Naomi Steele approached, her belly round with her second trimester pregnancy, her dark hair gathered into an elegant bun, teardrop emerald earrings nearly brushing her shoulders. Those Steele eyes sharp, but tired. Isabeau couldn’t tell how far along Naomi was—guessing months or ages had never been her strong suit.

“Do you mind if I hide out here with you?” She rested a hand on her pregnant belly. “Royce is driving me crazy about how long I’ve been on my feet and if I don’t sit and eat soon he’s going to start hand-feeding me, which would be embarrassing.”

“He sounds adorable.” Isabeau had spent considerable time with all the family members this past week, but somehow Royce Miller had a way of making himself scarce if there were more than two other people in the room.

“Hmm... Adorable isn’t a word I would choose. He’s sexy and brooding and a great guy. But he’s also a worrier and I want to relax for a moment for some girl talk with my artichoke heart pizza—yes, I know pizza isn’t normally at a reception but I have been craving it.”

“I think it’s delightful and actually have seen it showing up on a number of event menus.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder at one of the Steele brothers as the room began to fill up.

Where was Trystan?

“And you won’t rat me out about the three fruit tarts?”

Isabeau pretended to zip her mouth shut, a theatrical wink following. She leaned in to whisper, “My lips are sealed.”

Naomi lifted one of the fruit tarts toward her lips, clearly excited to indulge. She popped the tart into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Moments passed before Naomi broke the silence, her eyes trained on the horizon. “We appreciate your help with Trystan. This merger means everything to us.”

“You both have beautiful families.”

“And we understand blending everyone into a congenial unit is about more than blending the businesses. But if meshing the companies doesn’t go smoothly, we don’t stand a chance.”

“Trystan is being cooperative, which is more than I can say for some of my clients.” She liked this family, both sides. Which made her feel all the more disloyal for her attraction to Trystan. She owed everyone her best effort.

“Probably because he thinks it’s for only a month.” Naomi folded her pizza slice in half and ate with an expression of bliss on her face.

“Pardon me?” Setting the plate down on her lap, Isabeau turned to face Naomi.

“The fund-raiser is in just less than a month, but I think everyone is hoping that some of your influence will last beyond that time and he’ll be more involved. We would like all the siblings to be more involved, but I’m not sure that’s going to happen, not with Trystan or some of the others, as well.”

Isabeau looked over at the dance floor, at the other family members in question. Delaney, the quietest of the Steele siblings, fluffed her hair. She seemed to shrink into the background, her body language tense. Her younger teenage brother, Aiden, came up to her, dancing circles around her. A true goofball in the way only a teenager seemed to be able to get away with. The reception hall was filling up, only a few left in the sunroom.

Naomi cleared her throat, dropping her voice low as people began to pour through the sunroom into the reception area. “But really, you’ve done a great job with Trystan. It was evident today.”

“Thank you. He’s been very cooperative.”

She glanced at Isabeau, grinning. “I bet he has.”

Isabeau chose to ignore the insinuation. “This was a nice chance to watch how he interacts and make notes of what to work on over the next few weeks.”

“We’re lucky to have you. Takes a lot of pressure off us.” Naomi skimmed another touch across her pregnant stomach. Her long, slender face gazing downward, possibilities seemingly dancing before her dark brown eyes. A long sigh rippled through Naomi. “I had no idea when I decided to get pregnant through in vitro fertilization how upside down my family was about to be with the merger, my brother’s wedding, my dad’s engagement.”

“Congratulations on the baby.”

“I’m pregnant with two babies actually. I should have considered the possibility.” A small silence echoed after those words. In a less aggressive, less confident voice, Naomi added, “I’m a twin.”

Pain twisted in the woman’s beautiful face, pulling at Isabeau’s heart.

Isabeau touched the pregnant woman’s arm, offering a small—hopefully welcome—sign of comfort. “Your sister who...?”

“Yes, my sister who died in the plane crash along with our mother.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I wish I could say it gets easier to handle with time, but it only gets easier to hide the pain. I can’t help but think of them today.”

Isabeau nodded in agreement. “Of course, that’s only natural.”

“You’re a very good listener. I never expected to talk about this tonight.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

“I should get back to my fiancé. He’ll be chomping at the bit for me to sit down, put my feet up, eat something from every food group.”

“That’s sweet that he’s so attentive.” Jitters pelted her, along with memories of her college boyfriend. His attentiveness had turned into something ugly—controlling obsession. She didn’t see that in Royce, but she understood too well the sensation of feeling smothered.

Naomi rolled her eyes. “A little too attentive. But I do love him.” She pushed herself up from the chair. “I enjoyed chatting. Let’s do this again.”

Isabeau couldn’t miss the way Naomi’s face lit up when she spotted her fiancé. The way he returned her smile. There was so much love in the air here. Did these families understand how lucky they were?

Although she wasn’t sure she could trust all this happiness if it landed on her doorstep with a bow.

* * *

Striding past a harpist playing on the lawn at the reception, Trystan scanned the wedding guests in search of Isabeau. Had she gone inside to the sunroom or great room? Even for a gathering of just family and friends went beyond what most would call an intimate affair.

His plan to bring Isabeau as his date had been the perfect distraction from the way his family was meshing with the Steeles. His sister was marrying a Steele now. His mother would be marrying the Steele patriarch in a month.

The fact that his sister’s wedding was at the Steele family compound rather than the Mikkelson home made him edgy and, yeah, angry too. As if the Steeles were working to erase all traces of the Mikkelsons.

All the more reason for him to make a success of this month as the face of their merged company.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy his time with Isabeau. No question, sparks were flying.

He had a sense that up until now, particularly in his interactions with women, he’d been sleepwalking, stumbling through the motions. But Isabeau jolted him, electrified his core.

Surprising him each time he saw her—like now.

He strode faster up the stairs to the deck leading to an enclosed sunroom. And damn, did she look hot today, sunlight catching the flames of red in her hair as she sat by herself in the sunroom, her legs delicately crossed. Manicured fingers gripped a now empty plate, traces of crumbs decorating the china.

A vision.

That’s what she was. A vision he very much wanted to touch, hold and more, so much more. With the signature bravado that enabled him to approach even the flightiest and most aggressive horses, he drew in a breath and walked toward her with the Mikkelson swagger that had turned the onetime small business into an oil empire.

She sipped a glass of champagne, her bright eyes focusing on him as he drew closer.

“Come with me.” Extending a hand, he noticed as her lips parted, brows raising in subdued—but visible—interest.

“Okay. You’re the boss.” She stared awkwardly at her plate, seeming unsure what to do with it.

Taking it from her, he set it down on a nearby table. She set her now empty champagne flute down too, rising to take his outstretched hand. “Where are we going?”

“Dancing,” he said simply as they moved to the center of the great room. The small jazz band was tucked in the corner amidst the woodland themed decorations and a small space was cleared for dancing. So far the tunes had all been of the slower variety, and he hoped they stayed that way, eager for the feel of Isabeau against him.

“Dancing?” She laughed lightly, but still kept her soft hand tucked in his. “Now you’ve surprised me.”

The band segued into a Sinatra classic and Trystan didn’t miss a beat. He pulled her into his arms. He slipped his hand to her waist, letting it rest in the curve of her slender body. She seemed to lean into him, ever so slightly. Enough to send his blood pumping through his veins.

“I do know how. Mother insisted on lessons for all of us, everything from the basic ballroom styles to a session on square dancing.”

“Good for Jeannie. Did you protest?” Her steps synched with his from the first move.

“Hell no, I was worried my family would get rid of me—” He stopped short. He didn’t want to bust the mood here with talk about his insecurities during the early days when he’d been adopted. “Bad joke. I tend to blurt out what I’m thinking.”

“Honesty is an admirable trait. It’s just...” She bit her bottom lip.

A low laugh burst free. “Not always the most tactful for the business world.”

A major part of why he was better cut out for his role managing the family ranch.

“That makes tact sound dishonest somehow.”

Wanting to lighten the mood and chase away the shadows in her eyes, he twirled her away, the silky yellow dress fanning around her lithe legs. Radiant and sexy. She spun back to him, her hands finding his.

“I only meant that I get that there are nuances and things that are better left unsaid. I’m just not a nuance kind of man.” Keeping her close, he guided their steps away from the other half-dozen couples dancing, steering her toward the stone fireplace. Massive moose antlers stared down at him. Tall ceilings provided an airy balance to the thick leather sofas that were now strategically staged against the walls rather than in their normal places.

“Let’s talk about the dancing more. You’re a natural. I think we should capitalize on that this month in your image building. This has a great sophisticated look to it. With the right press coverage—”

“Isabeau, seriously, the image again?” He needed a night off from all of that. The past week had been intense and outside his comfort zone. Particularly the past two days when all he could think about was having her here tonight. In his arms for a dance.

Yes, he wanted a night he could enjoy. With her.

“Could you stop with the business talk and let’s just enjoy this dance?”

“Oh, um, sure. This must be an emotional day for you, with your sister getting married and your mom engaged—”

“Emotional?” He stifled a laugh, drawing her closer to his chest. He whispered against her ear, as they swayed in time to the music, “It’s just a wedding. That’s it. I’m focused on you.”

“Wait, our being here together is supposed to be about business, working on your image.”

He smiled, his blue eyes glinting.

She swatted his arm. “Stop that or I’m going to line up a dozen more press conferences for you.”

“I didn’t say a word so I couldn’t have shoved my boot in my mouth.”

“Your smile speaks volumes.”

His grin widened.

“Trystan, that’s not professional—or fair.”

And perhaps that proclamation would have been followed by a moment—the kind he’d been thinking about nonstop since the day of the fitting—but a cacophony of voices disrupted the intensity of their eye contact, the closeness of their bodies.

Isabeau pivoted toward the noise first. Chuck and his wife, Shana, stood at the edge of the dance floor. Heat seemed to rise around them, calling a tempest into the room as their voices escalated, beginning to drown out the jazz tune.

His cousin, Sage Hammond, moved between them, her voice low and calming. While Trystan couldn’t make out what the argument was about this time, it was clear that Sage was playing peacemaker. A role he’d seen his fierce butterfly of a cousin play on behalf of her aunt and boss, Jeannie Steele.

He felt Isabeau tense, clearly uncomfortable with a family altercation. Squeezing her hand, Trystan tilted his head and mouthed, “Follow me.”

A quick nod of agreement was all the encouragement she needed to leave the tense scene unfolding nearby. He maneuvered them outside, taking the path to the boathouse on the bay, near the seaplane.

Toward a small section of the compound all their own.


Three (#u8ee3e7c0-ec70-5c37-afc7-4e681f1edaf3)

As the sounds of the spat faded, replaced by the light wind rustling through the low-hanging tree branches that gathered, sentry-like, at the left corner of the boathouse, Isabeau felt her heartbeat intensify.

Trystan’s slightly calloused hand wrapped around hers. His skin, rough from ranch work—hands clearly used to the brush of leather reins—sending her own skin humming with awareness. She was drawn to the dichotomy of him, a tycoon in boots.

She hated to admit it, but part of her eagerness to escape his family’s chaos had a lot to do with the draw of this man. In her line of work, she’d found herself frequently at the epicenter of familial disputes. It came with the territory of image curation.

But this felt different from her experience with any other client. Isabeau knew why too.

It had everything to do with the man with the charismatic, gruff demeanor.

She heard the distant bark of her dog and glanced over her shoulder to be sure Paige wasn’t fretting about being away from her. A quick check assured her that her yellow Lab was still enjoying playtime with her new pals—a husky named Kota and a Saint Bernard named Tessie.

Isabeau turned her attention back to Trystan, surprised at the ease in her steps. She didn’t feel the urgent need to have her dog close. A relaxed and mellow sensation flowed through her veins.

Along with a total awareness of this big, sexy man. An outdoorsman who danced with a confidence and smoothness that made her body burn.

And she couldn’t help but glory in the feeling. So many of her panic attacks stemmed from negative encounters with men.

Some of the males who had flocked to her beautiful, weary mother had crowded Isabeau.

And then came her college boyfriend, who’d never laid a hand on her but stole her privacy by stalking her every move until she’d been forced to take out a restraining order.

People could leave a scar on a person’s soul in so many ways.

Yet, something about Trystan put her at ease.

His total honesty.

He might be rough around the edges, but he was authentic and that kept her moving forward along with him. She would worry about the impropriety issue later. Right now, she could only think about how hot she’d found him since the first time she’d laid eyes on him.

Leading her inside, he flipped on the lights, the switch igniting the darkness in front of her with the warm glow of yellow-hued lamplight. Golden illumination revealed the luxury of even this aspect of the property.

Plush couches and well-appointed wooden furniture. A row of yellow two-person kayaks lined the wall farthest from them, complementing the neatly arranged fishing poles and nets. A powerboat docked in the water nearby, bobbing up and down, adjacent to a sitting area with Sedona-orange-colored cushions decorating a couch and two chairs. Waterproof, she realized, though they still seemed overstuffed...

Trystan turned a slow circle. “It’s definitely quieter here.”

She drew in a breath of the salt-laden air. “You did well at the wedding with the photo shoots.”

There hadn’t been media present, but still, he’d put on his game face for the shots to be released to the press.

“So I’ve earned my respite from the masses?”

“Is that what this is? An escape, a break?” She smoothed her silky dress, her fingers—her senses—hyperaware of every texture down to the timbre of his whiskey-smooth voice.

His blue eyes lit with a smile. “Actually, this was about getting time alone to talk to you about something other than work. I think we’ve both earned that. Do you agree? Or is it back to business for us?”

“I do agree,” she answered, wanting to linger in the mellowness between them a while longer.

“Good, good.” He strode toward the refrigerator and opened it, surveying the contents. “Ahh... What have we here?”

He pulled out a bottle of beer bearing the Mikkelson family brewery label—Icecap. He glanced at Isabeau. “There’s wine and water, as well.”

Inclining his head, he suggested they make their way over to the sitting area.

“The beer sounds good, but the water is probably safer for me, with my diabetes, after everything I enjoyed at the reception.” She eyed the deck of cards on the table suspiciously. “Why the cards?”

He dropped onto the sofa, his body relaxed. Open. Inviting, as he handed her the water bottle. Their hands brushed, a crackle passing between them.

A blush heated her face, warmth spreading further until her body tingled with awareness. She sipped the water, suddenly so very thirsty, then set it on the table alongside the two decks of cards.

“I’m not luring you here to play strip poker. Scout’s honor. I’m still learning my way around the Steeles’ home but Broderick invited me out here for one of their card games—and a drink. I guess this is a man cave of sorts.” He tipped back a swig of his beer. “I got the impression you’d had enough of the crowds too.”

“It has been a full day.” She offered up the minimal concession.

She played down her anxiety. Always. Very few people knew how she suffered. For a painstaking moment, she wondered if there’d been a hint of her discomfort today—the very thing she labored to hide. A small well of anxiety bubbled in her stomach at the thought, the reality of her condition threatening to break loose. She found herself reaching for her dog only to remember she’d left Paige out playing with the husky and Saint Bernard.

One steadying breath settled her nerves and she decided to stay put rather than bolt.

“So, Isabeau, what made you choose this line of work?” His sky blue eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his knee just bumping hers.

Her heart hammered, the musky scent of him teasing her every breath. She spoke, even as she found her gaze locked with his, unable to look away. “I have a degree in marketing and public relations. I did some work in the media world, even reporting for a while, but found I’m more comfortable behind the scenes.”

“I bet the cameras loved you.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” She reached for her water bottle, the condensation seeming to cool her down, to give her a sense of stability even though another part of her wondered what his lips tasted like. She avoided his eyes, hesitant to bring up the real reason she hid from cameras while encouraging others to overcome their own anxieties.

“You’re welcome. What do you mean by ‘more comfortable’ behind the scenes?”

“I feel more in control.” And Isabeau did everything possible to give herself the trappings of control. Well-organized lists, binders, schedules. Anything that gave structure to an otherwise chaotic world. She’d needed those tools after her father left and her mother struggled to keep a roof over their heads. Then her anxiety had ramped up all the more when her college boyfriend decided breaking up wasn’t an option.

“Nerves?”

“You could say that.” She pushed aside thoughts of the past, unwilling to have that time in her life steal anything more from her. “I believe in some ways my anxiety makes me more empathetic to the people I’m hired to help as they search for an approach to fame that fits them.”

“Interesting viewpoint.”

She scratched a fingernail along the bottle. “I’m happy to help you, but you seem to have nearly a perfect life, and a good amount of family support around you.”

His normally assured smile fell, replaced by pain that crinkled in the edges of his eyes, the corners of his mouth. In a tight voice, his gaze too focused on the label of the bottle, he said, “No life is perfect. We all have plans, regrets, hopes.”

A strain in her heart answered. She had to touch his hand. “What are your plans and hopes for the future?”

“You mean like a bucket list?”

“Sure.”

“How about you start?”

“Okay.” She drummed her fingers along the bottle, thinking. “I want to learn a new language. It will help me with my business.”

“Pick up an instrument. My siblings play, but by the time I joined the family I was past those early years when kids usually start music lessons.”

“It’s not too late.” She found herself warming to this topic, to sharing hopes with him, the world narrowing to just the two of them. “What about the guitar?”

“Maybe. But it’s your turn...” He draped an arm along the back of the sofa, his skin brushing her shoulder, crackling the static in the air all over again.

Except she knew full well it wasn’t static snapping through her veins. Not that she could bring herself to pull away. “I want to learn archery.”

“Archery?” He picked up a lock of her hair.

She shrugged, thinking back to her love affair with the golden age of Hollywood, scenes of Robin Hood and Ivanhoe flooding her imagination. “It seems romantic.”

“What about a crossbow?”

She scrunched her nose, then relaxed. “Not for me, but it could be hot if it’s a guy using it.”

He chuckled, low and husky. “Well, that’s a distracting notion.” He tugged the lock of her hair gently. “What about your bucket list?”

There were so many things. So many things she wanted for her life. So many things she felt were out of her grasp because of her anxiety.

She released a deep exhale with the words as they took on the power of a flash flood. “Whale watching. Stomping grapes in Italy. Speaking in front of people. Riding a camel.”

“Whoa, back up.” He lifted a hand.

“Grapes. I know. Unexpected.” She clinked her bottle to his.

“I was focused more on the part about talking in front of a group. That’s surprising, given your job.” He stroked the side of her face, his hand then gravitating back to that loose lock of hair.

“I know what should be said and done. I just choke if I’m the one having to say it. So I teach others.”

He simply nodded, leaving her words there, giving her space—which somehow managed to draw her closer because he understood her. No judgment in his eyes.

She’d never known that peace and fire could coexist, but here, now, the two twined into an intoxicating blend. That, along with the whole fairy-tale day, sent her swaying toward him.

The thin sliver of space between them heated with their breaths. He lifted one hand, sketching the backs of his knuckles along her cheekbone. Her pulse quickened, her body tingling, and she tipped her head into his caress.

She swallowed, holding his gaze. Feeling the air become heavy with awareness until—yes—her lips found his. That spark exploded as she tasted him.

His hands felt like magic gliding down her back, the silk of her dress caressing her skin along with each stroke of his fingers.

With a whispery moan, she angled closer to him, the warm wall of his body a perfect fit against her. He deepened the kiss, his hold both strong and careful, the taste of him delicious. Her thoughts scrambled as Trystan’s touch drove her need higher, made her want more.

Want everything.

There was something about weddings that just made people do crazy, impulsive things. All that emotion running high with the promise of lifelong happiness.

Apparently she wasn’t immune.

She’d noted the effect of weddings on others more times than she could count during her early days as a wedding planner. Bridesmaids and groomsmen hooked up after their walk down the aisle, as if that moment had somehow made them yearn for marriage. Those feelings usually faded for at least one of the people, once endorphins from the orgasm waned.

Married couples who arrived at the event bickering and plucking at their formal wear soon got that nostalgic look in their eyes.

Others just got drunk and stupid.

Isabeau wasn’t sure what category she fell into.

None of them seemed to quite fit. But here she was, in the boathouse with Trystan Mikkelson, desire firing through her veins, both of them ditching their essential clothing. Her panties. His pants unzipped and inched down. Their legs tangled as they backed toward a wall-long bench covered in a blue canvas cushion with cute white anchors woven into the pattern. What a strange detail to notice, but all her senses were in hyperdrive.

Slim stripes of light slanted through the vents along the ceiling. The window was sealed tight and shuttered. The door closed. The dim lighting added to the anonymity of the impulsive moment.

She knew better.

And right now couldn’t find the will to care.

She just wanted this man. Here. Now. And yes, maybe part of that wanting was a mourning for the future she couldn’t bring herself to hope for—home, family, kids.

Her trust had been too damaged when she was too young.

Perhaps that’s why this sexy cowboy oil mogul appealed to her. He was a lone wolf. A man more at ease away from people. He didn’t need her and made his lack of concern about getting married very clear. He was content to leave propagating to all his other siblings.

So she could indulge in some of that wedding event magic for tonight.

* * *

Her soft skin made him ache to touch more of her, but the chill in the air meant it was unwise to ditch all their clothes—not to mention there were dozens of people outside partying beyond the locked door.

He hadn’t expected things to go so far between them, but damn if he could bring himself to stop. She’d lit a fire in him since she’d touched him during that simple clothes fitting.

Simple?

Nothing with this woman was simple. She was a complex blend of bold and reserved, poised but with a wildness to the intense grip of her fingers sliding under his shirt, her nails scoring along his back.

Her passion seared him.

She shook her shoes free and they thudded to the floor. She sketched her foot along his calf, her legs gliding higher.

No question, this was escalating fast. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Trust me. I want. Oh so much.” She pushed aside his suit coat.

“We can find somewhere less rustic.” He slid his hand up her dress to her low-cut panties, simple strings along each hip holding the satin together.

“That would mean waiting and I am one hundred percent against waiting.” She loosened and freed his tie.

Her voice was husky but sure. A very, very good thing. Persuading her to be his date to a wedding had been a good idea after all, a plan that was going to lead to a much more pleasurable month than he’d originally expected.

“My wallet.”

“What?” Her hands paused along his suit pants.

“Get my wallet from inside my jacket. Condom.”

“Oh. Right.” With a speed and deftness he applauded, she fished out his wallet, found a condom and tossed his billfold on the floor.

Sheathed and very much ready, he stroked up her thigh and settled between her legs. Her soft arms looped around his neck and rational thought fled, replaced with a frenetic chemistry. Pleasure. Perfection. A coupling he hadn’t even known was on his bucket list.

But now he knew he couldn’t imagine having missed this moment with Isabeau.

And damn, but she was eager and more confident than he’d expected. She guided him and then... His mind was a blur of sensation and movement and this woman. This fluid goddess of a woman in his arms. So elegant and yet totally at ease in this earthly boathouse.

His heart pounded in his ears in time with their bodies moving against each other like the lap of the water against the dock, the roll of the waves. Her breathing hitched faster with little gasps as she urged him on, close already and sounding so earnest and honest. Her hands slid into his pants, her nails digging into his hips.

And just when he thought he couldn’t hold back any longer, her back arched upward, her soft breasts pressing against his chest and reminding him he had so much more of her to explore when they made love again.

And there would be more, damn it.

The thought sent his release slamming through him like a wave crashing free from under an iceberg. His arms clenched around her tighter as they rolled to their side, aftershocks rippling through them both.

The end of their lovemaking came in the form of ragged breaths growing steady. Quietness descended in the boathouse, despite the roaring elements of the wedding band filtering through the air. He gathered her close, noting the light scent of her perfume as he stroked her hair, fingers trailing down her shoulder.

Trystan could feel her heartbeat rattling in her chest as she leaned against him. Half-dressed, he wanted to keep this moment going. The taste of the chemistry leaving him intrigued—determined.

Isabeau moved slightly, and in the din of half-formed melodies...she winced against him. “Ouch!” she exclaimed softly.

He shifted up on one elbow, looking down at her pained face. “Ah hell, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you? The last thing I wanted to—”

“Charley horse.” The throw blanket clasped to her, she sat up, curled over and rubbed her leg. “In my calf. Ouch, ouch, ouch—it’s so fierce.”

He reached for her, and she pulled back, but he insisted, cupping her calf and massaging along the tensed muscle. “I want to help.”

Blanket clutched to her chest, she flopped back, surrendering her leg. “I’m embarrassed enough already. Just let me deal with this on my own. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

He soaked up the feel of her and searched for some of his newfound verbal skills. He needed to convince her to give them a second chance to be together like this. “Really, let me. It’s no different than rubbing a real horse.”




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