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A Baxter's Redemption
Patricia Johns


Has she really changed?Former beauty queen Isabel Baxter returns to her hometown, scarred after a near-fatal accident. But in high school, she was the fantasy of every teenage boy in Haggerston, Montana, including James Hunter. Even though James was too far below her social circle to be noticed…Now her father’s attorney, James isn’t ready to forgive Isabel for the part she played in his own family tragedy. Yet she seems eager to make amends and prove herself capable of being more than a pretty face. Has the girl he once worshipped—his boss’s daughter—grown into a woman James can respect … and maybe love?







Has she really changed?

Former beauty queen Isabel Baxter returns to her hometown, scarred after a near-fatal accident. But in high school, she was the fantasy of every teenage boy in Haggerston, Montana, including James Hunter. Even though James was too far below her social circle to be noticed…

Now her father’s attorney, James isn’t ready to forgive Isabel for the part she played in his own family tragedy. Yet she seems eager to make amends and prove herself capable of being more than a pretty face. Has the girl he once worshipped—his boss’s daughter—grown into a woman James can respect…and maybe love?


Isabel grimaced.

“I feel terrible about forgetting you. I was so self-involved back then. I don’t even know what to say.”

“It’s okay,” James said gruffly. “So, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Just working in the store, and—” How was she supposed to ask for a favor now? “I—I was wondering if you might be free to help me move something this morning. Feel free to charge the time to my father.”

He was silent. She wondered if she’d just made an even bigger fool of herself.

“Sure,” he said at last. “And no need to charge your father.” There was a smile in his voice. “See you in a bit.”

Was that forgiveness she heard in his tone? James struck her as a man who didn’t talk about his feelings too often. Call it gut instinct—she knew men, if nothing else. She had a feeling that while James seemed to fight it tooth and nail, he was becoming her friend.

Whether he liked it or not.


Dear Reader (#ulink_aee435fc-c1bf-51e4-b605-8345c9e261b0),

When you’re twenty-two, you have it. Youth has a beauty and allure all its own, and when you look back on photos of your twenty-two-year-old self, you wonder what you were agonizing over back then. Then you get into the business of life, and you get married, have kids, start going gray… Your body changes, your perspective changes, and the other women who are in the same boat start reassuring you—perhaps a little too ardently—that you’ve still got it. You’re a “hot mama.”

Whoever first told us that it’s our job to be “hot”? And why on earth did we accept the position? “The successful candidate will be a visual stimulus for males within her general vicinity.”

There’s nothing wrong with being attractive. I am beautiful—my husband reminds me of it all the time. But I’m a woman—not a trophy. I’m a partner, a cheerleader, a warrior, a defender. Let’s start with the assumption that we’re all beautiful—because you are!—then let’s go forward from there. What else are you? And what are you going to do with the wealth of skill, insight and passion that you bring to the party?

It isn’t my job to be “hot.” My job includes being intelligent, thoughtful and caring. Being well-read is an advantage, and when it comes to protecting the women around me, I’m a force to be reckoned with. When men see me coming, I don’t want appraising glances. My body isn’t their business, and if this brain intimidates them, then they can call me “ma’am.” I prefer it that way, anyway. Ladies, we’re so much more than what society asks of us. I will never call you hot, but I will most certainly call you magnificent!

If you’d like to connect with me, you can find me on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/PatriciaJohnsAuthor/), or at my website, patriciajohnsromance.com (http://www.patriciajohnsromance.com).

Patricia Johns


A Baxter’s Redemption

Patricia Johns






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


PATRICIA JOHNS has her honors BA in English literature. She lives in Alberta, Canada, with her husband and son where she writes full-time. Her first Harlequin novel came out in 2013, and you can find her books in the Love Inspired, Western Romance and Heartwarming lines.


To my mom, the businesswoman.

She’s five-two and tough as they come.

Give her a goal and she sinks her teeth into it, then shakes the stuffing out of it. “Almost” isn’t good enough for her. I love you, Mom.

You taught me well!


Contents

Cover (#u8fe80fae-b794-5d66-a1d9-1c2db5404b32)

Back Cover Text (#u2c898263-4421-5f21-bd1d-00035b13df6d)

Introduction (#ucf756b3b-8a66-514f-82d6-10b77764c6fa)

Dear Reader (#ulink_bf044853-fefb-50b7-9840-fc2e81947006)

Title Page (#u2296120f-6047-58e3-985e-78d396fc3c69)

About the Author (#ue5a7af43-956a-5ce0-9af1-2bfba5a2dca6)

Dedication (#uef03e0eb-ae15-5d75-8e7b-286c1cbd53b9)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f6a6bfcf-6a01-51cb-b0b0-a77c3374a3c9)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_30971f60-093b-55af-90c4-512187335678)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_67babb6f-6632-5d4f-9367-3d5c62054584)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_5047c984-230f-55aa-8345-ba6dea3893d2)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_46299add-09d3-5aa3-ac23-a6dc477a6a89)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e809fa5a-feac-550f-8e35-a325e361c215)

ISABEL BAXTER’S STOMACH curdled as she glanced around the sunny living room of her childhood home—a rambling, three-story house just outside Haggerston, Montana. Coming home wasn’t the same since her father’s second marriage, the thought of which still left her angry. The house itself had stood the test of time, but the interior had not. The portrait of her parents was gone, replaced by a jarring abstract painting over the stone fireplace. The removal of that portrait was to be expected, of course, but it still felt like a betrayal to the family they used to be. The antique rocking chair that had belonged to Isabel’s maternal grandmother had also been removed, replaced by a modern monstrosity that looked like a dried orange peel, a cup waiting to embrace the hindquarters of unsuspecting visitors.

Her father, George Baxter, was balding and portly, and he sat in his same old spot in the leather armchair. The family lawyer loomed behind him—a young man with a steely gaze. She knew he was the lawyer the minute she stepped into the room, although she’d never met him. Lawyers all had the same look: well ironed and expressionless. Isabel eyed him for a moment, taking in his broad shoulders, his suit jacket tugging ever so slightly around a muscled chest. She sighed. This was the kind of family reunion she’d expected—the kind that required a lawyer. Baxters were nothing if not prepared.

“Do we really need a lawyer here?” she asked.

A slight smile flickered around the corners of the lawyer’s lips, and she met his gaze. He was muscular with chiseled features and an easy way of standing that made her suddenly more aware of her own appearance. There had been a time when Isabel would have flirted with him, just to see if she could get his attention, but those days were past. She knew better than to flirt since the accident.

“I’m glad you’re here, Princess,” her father replied, ignoring her tartness. “How are you feeling?” Was it her imagination, or was he trying not to look too closely at her face?

She knew what he was getting at. She wasn’t the same daughter that George Baxter had sent off to New York six years earlier. A year ago, she’d been hit by a car, leaving her severely scarred. After a bad reaction to anesthetic where she nearly died on the operating table, she declined further cosmetic surgery. She’d just have to carry on as she was. It wasn’t a decision her father had ever fully embraced.

“I’m fine, Dad. I assume you asked me here to talk business.”

“Yes.” Her father heaved himself to his feet with a grunt. “It’s about the money.”

“What money, specifically?” she asked.

“Your money.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “The doctor says I’ve got to slow down with my heart acting up this way, and I’ve decided to sign over your trust fund now, instead of when you turn thirty.”

“Why?” She pulled her hair away from her face. “What did the doctor say, exactly?”

“I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re getting at,” her father retorted.

“But what did he say?” she pressed.

“Hardening of the arteries. Some fibrillation. Nothing earth-shattering. Your grandfather lived to be ninety-five eating nothing but bacon and eggs, so I’m sure I’ll be just fine. All the same, I’m slowing down.”

“And you’re finally ready for me to run Baxter Land Holdings?” Isabel guessed, her pulse speeding up at the prospect. She’d been angling for this—preparing for it—since she went to college, not that her father had encouraged it. He’d suggested she take a degree in art history. She’d been the one to choose a degree in business, with a minor in marketing.

“Take over?” George shot her an alarmed look. “Heavens, no. But with your accident, and all that, I thought you could use some cheering up—”

Isabel pressed her lips together. Her father had a stranglehold on the family business, and in his eyes, she’d always be his princess—an endearment that came with as many strings as a spider’s web.

“I love you, too, but you know money won’t fix this, right?” she asked blandly.

George gestured to the younger man. She glanced uneasily toward the lawyer, and he smiled, then crossed the room. He wore a nicely tailored suit, but it wasn’t expensive. She knew suits, and this one was store brand.

“Hi, I’m Isabel Baxter,” she said. “George’s daughter, in case you weren’t up to speed there.”

“James Hunter.” He shook her hand, his grasp strong and warm. “Nice to see you again.”

Again? Isabel squinted at him. Have I met him before?

“So come take a look.” Her father went on, ignoring their personal introductions. He held a folder, which he opened. “I’ve requested that your funds be taken out of the investments. There was some good growth, so you’ll be comfortable.” He came to his daughter’s side and pointed to a dollar amount. “It takes a few days for the funds to be released, but I’ll give you the paperwork as soon as it is.”

“Sure.” She nodded. “That would be fine.”

There was movement in the doorway, and Isabel glanced up to see her young stepmother, Britney Baxter. Britney was two years younger than Isabel, and she wore yoga pants and a midriff-baring top, with a towel tossed around her neck as if she’d just finished a workout. If she had, she hadn’t worked up a sweat. To Isabel, Britney’s outfit spoke volumes about her maturity. Technically, this was Britney’s home and she could wander around it dressed as she pleased, but she still looked more like a high school cheerleader than a married woman. It was that tanned midriff that drew Isabel’s eye—a gently domed belly. Reality took a moment to sink in, then her gaze whipped back to her father in shock.

“You’re—” She cleared her throat. “You two are having a baby?”

When her father had married a woman forty years younger than himself, Isabel had considered the possibility of siblings, but somehow she still wasn’t prepared for this.

“Yes.” Her father shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you, so—”

So they thought they’d announce it with a sports bra and yoga pants? There were better ways to announce these things, and she was uncomfortably aware that this awkward family moment was being played out in front of James Hunter. She glanced in his direction irritably.

“Congratulations,” she said, her throat constricted. “That’s wonderful news.”

It didn’t feel like wonderful news, but she wasn’t going to confess her true feelings at the moment. Any lawyer would be pleased with that.

Her father smiled widely. He gestured toward his young wife. “Come on in, beautiful. We’re done with the business talk.”

Britney padded into the room on bare feet and slid into her husband’s embrace. She eyed Isabel cautiously.

“Well, I should be off,” Isabel said, sucking in a breath. She’d had enough surprises on her first day back in town.

“No, no. You’ll stay here, of course.” George patted Britney’s hip, then released her.

“No, Dad, that’s not a great idea.”

“Why?” her father demanded, glancing between his young wife and his daughter. “There is plenty of space. This is your home. You grew up in this house.” Britney and Isabel had exchanged heated words after the wedding, and they’d never actually made up afterward. But they were expected to forget about all that and act like one big, happy family. Not likely. Britney looked away, her cheeks pink.

“And I’m fully grown now.” Isabel shot her father a smile. “Thanks all the same, Dad, but I need a bit of privacy, too.”

“Fine, fine,” he muttered gruffly. “Suit yourself. You’re staying for supper at least, aren’t you? I asked James here so he could go over a few of the legalities with you. He’s got papers for you to sign, and we could start all of that now—”

“I have a hundred things to do still, so no. Next time. The legalities can wait until the money is transferred, I’m sure.” She smiled—not from happiness but from habit, an automatic coping mechanism she hadn’t stopped using now that her smile lost its power. “I’d better get going.”

Her father shrugged, then stepped forward and enclosed Isabel in a strong hug. “It’s good to see you, Princess.”

“I missed you, too,” she whispered, squeezing him back.

Turning toward the door, she heaved a sigh of relief. She’d been dreading this first visit home after her move back, and now she could tick that off her list of uncomfortable obligations. All she wanted right now was to get as far from this house as possible.

Dad’s having another child.

She knew things were different, but seeing Britney’s pregnant belly had hammered that fact home. Everything—absolutely everything—had changed.

* * *

JAMES WATCHED AS Isabel left the room, her low-heeled pumps tapping against the hardwood floor. Her long dark hair swung halfway down her back, a few inches above her close-fitting blue jeans. She hadn’t lost her ability to dress for her figure over the last decade, and James was reminded of the Isabel from high school—the girl with whom a hundred teenage boys fell in love from afar. He had, too, but she hadn’t been a terribly compassionate person back then. She’d known how much power she wielded over the male population, and she’d used it regularly. Sweet smiles or scathing criticism—she’d use whatever helped get her way. He’d recognized that smile she’d shot her father—he could still see Haggerston’s exploitive beauty queen beneath the scars.

The front door opened and shut, leaving the room in awkward silence.

“It looks like you won’t be needing me, after all,” James said, glancing toward Mr. Baxter. The older man shrugged.

“Actually, there is something you can do for me,” Mr. Baxter replied. He patted Britney’s shoulder, and the young woman hesitated for a moment.

“I’ll leave you boys to the business chatter,” she quipped, and headed for the door. “I thought I’d go shopping this morning, Georgie...”

“Good girl.” Mr. Baxter smiled fondly in his wife’s direction, but he waited until the door was shut before he spoke again. “I need you to keep an eye on my daughter.”

“Isabel?” James couldn’t hide his surprise. “Why?”

“She’s—” Mr. Baxter stopped, frowned. “How to say this... She takes after her mother more than me. She’s not exactly business minded.”

James swallowed a laugh. “Doesn’t she have a bachelor’s degree in business from Yale?”

That constituted some business sense in James’s mind.

Mr. Baxter batted his hand through the air in dismissal. “A degree and an actual instinct for business are two different things. She tried to start up a line of natural soaps and creams a couple of years ago, and it tanked. I’d told her that the market was saturated, but she wouldn’t listen. Hers would be better, she said. Even if they were, it didn’t matter. There was no more interest in skin-care start-ups by fashionistas. Before that, it was a line of scarves, I think—those wispy things women accessorize with. She insisted that all the girls wanted to be like her, and now they could—for the low, low price of thirty-five bucks. She spent a few weeks in front of a sewing machine until she realized she hated sewing, and apparently no one outside this town wanted to be just like her. I could have told her that much, but would she listen to me? Never. She needs guidance with the money I’m signing over to her, and she might not be willing to accept it from me—directly, that is.”

“So you want me to give her your advice?” James clarified.

“And keep me informed.”

This was very quickly inching beyond the scope of his job description, and James glanced around the room while he gathered his thoughts.

“I won’t follow her,” he said, bringing his attention back to Mr. Baxter. “I’m your lawyer, not a private eye.”

“I thought you’d be willing to be somewhat flexible.”

James smiled grimly. He’d never been described as flexible in anything, least of all matters of conscience. “Not that flexible, sir.”

Anger simmered in Mr. Baxter’s eyes, but he nodded and turned away for a moment. “Fine. But give her advice so that she doesn’t do anything stupid, would you?”

“That I can do,” James agreed.

“She wasn’t raised to survive in this world without that pretty face, James. I spoiled her, and I let her think that she was doing things on her own when she never was. I had friends buy two thousand dollars’ worth of scarves with my money. She needs more help than she realizes.”

James was more familiar with his boss’s daughter than the older man even realized. He’d been in her graduating class, and his cousin had dated her. Everyone knew Isabel Baxter.

“Understood, sir.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, unless you wanted to move into another billable hour, I’d best be on my way.”

Mr. Baxter shot him a grin. “All right then. I’ll be in touch.”

The housekeeper showed James to the door, and as he stepped out onto the spacious veranda, he was mildly surprised to see Isabel sitting in a shiny black sedan, the windows down and her head leaning against the headrest. She glanced toward him as he trotted down the stairs. He grimaced inwardly. While he was curious to see if Isabel had changed at all since her disfiguring accident, she still wasn’t high on his list of favorite people. He couldn’t just walk by, though, so he angled his steps toward her car.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“My car won’t start.” She glanced toward the house. “And I can’t go back in there.”

He nodded. He could understand that, at least. The tension in there had been unmistakable.

“Want me to take a look?” he asked, jutting his chin toward the hood of the car.

She arched a brow—a look she’d perfected years ago, but when she did it now, it tugged at the damaged skin along her temple. “You fix cars, too?” she asked incredulously. “I thought you were the lawyer.”

“I am, but my dad’s a mechanic. I picked up a few tricks.” She really didn’t seem to recognize him, and he wondered why that even surprised him. She’d flirted her way into having him fix her car after a fender bender back in high school, too. But that was when she was “secretly” dating his cousin, Andrew. Of course, she couldn’t tell anyone about their relationship, but she could cash in on James’s skills to hide her bad driving from her father.

She leaned forward from the driver’s seat, stretching to reach something, then the hood clicked and released. She opened the door and got out, meeting him at the front of the car. A waft of vanilla perfume tickled his senses as he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He tossed the jacket over the side mirror and lifted the hood.

“So you’re a Yale grad,” he said.

“Hmm.” She leaned closer, watching as his fingers moved over the engine, looking for the issue. He spotted the loose wires almost immediately.

“How long are you back in town?” he asked.

“For as long as I need to. I don’t have a leaving date yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

James raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as he tightened the connections. So the prodigal daughter had returned—for now. He doubted that many people in this town would be happy to hear that. Isabel had been a beauty, but she’d also left her mark, Andrew being just one of her casualties. Andrew claimed they were dating for months, but there was no outward sign of it. James had thought his cousin was making it all up until he actually spotted them together one evening. Andrew was a math whiz, and Isabel had needed some tutoring. Apparently, it panned out, because she’d gotten into Yale. James had always suspected she got more than just the tutoring out of Andrew, because she’d continued with the relationship for a few months after the SATs. It was when her friends found out she was dating a poor boy from the raggedy side of town that she’d dumped him and told the school that it was nothing more than tutoring—that Andrew had made it all up. Andrew had been heartbroken and left for boot camp before prom. He was sent to Afghanistan and never did make it home.

We’ll take that road trip together before I go, his cousin had promised... It hadn’t happened.

“Your father hired me as the family’s legal counsel,” James said, dropping the hood back down with a bang. “That includes you.”

“I might be better off getting my own lawyer,” she said. “To protect my interests.”

“Against Britney, you mean,” he clarified.

“Yes.” A spot of color appeared in her cheeks. “You have to admit that things are complicated. I’m not entirely sure that my father has my best interests at heart right now.”

“My job is to offer you legal advice,” James said. “I’m not interested in playing sides. I’m a lawyer, and a good one. Your father is footing the bill. I’ll never tell you his private business and I’ll never tell him yours. If you hire another firm, legal fees will cut into that nest egg your father is signing over to you, but it’s up to you.” He straightened and nodded toward the driver’s seat. “Try again.”

Isabel got back into the car and turned the key. The engine coughed to life.

“Thank you,” she said, the old smooth voice again, a cool mixture of sweetness and indifference. She paused, cleared her throat and changed her tone. “What did you do?”

“Reconnected loose wires on the starter. It happens sometimes.”

“Well...” She smiled. “I’m grateful.”

“No problem.”

She eyed him for a moment. “What are they like?”

“Who?”

“My father and... Britney.”

“Happy,” he said with a shrug.

“You have to say that, don’t you?” Bitterness laced her tone.

“I don’t have to say anything,” he replied. “And I can’t say more than that. Like I said, discretion is part of the job.”

“Of course it is.” She smiled tightly. “Well, thanks again.”

She put the car into gear and pulled away, her tires crunching along the drive.

James was no longer a smitten teen. He’d never acted on his crush on Isabel because Andrew was dating her, but her cruelty was what doused his feelings for her. She was heartless and self-centered.

Would it have been different if she’d had the compassion to sit down and talk to Andrew instead of publicly mocking him? People broke up all the time, and it didn’t end their lives. Would Andrew have made different choices, maybe been more careful over there in the war zone, if her cruelty hadn’t pushed him out of town early? She hadn’t remembered him—and it made him wonder if Andrew had slipped from her memory, as well.

He’d do his job. He’d give her the advice her father wanted her to have, and he’d provide legal counsel should she require it. But after that, Isabel Baxter was on her own.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_a5e14d89-1ce0-5d21-a4fc-ed96bd7e8601)

HAGGERSTON WAS A TOWN that landed like a splatter in the middle of open prairie, cut through by a highway, and left on its own in the patchwork of Montana’s fields and pastures. It was large enough to have the main amenities—a supermarket, a hardware store, a veterinarian clinic—but small enough that everyone still knew each other.

Isabel had been born here, and when she left home to go to college, she never thought she’d return. Not like this. She’d always imagined her homecoming to be a triumphal entry—a successful, beautiful woman come back for a quick weekend where she showed off her husband and kids. She’d be the topic of local gossip, word of her arrival spreading faster than the flu.

She had the gossip part down, she realized wryly, but not the way she’d hoped. Life had a way of turning full circle and swallowing a person whole.

When she’d graduated from Yale and moved to New York for her first job—a desk job in a marketing company—life had seemed shiny and exciting. And it was. For a young woman with family money, New York had a lot to offer.

One rainy evening after work last year, Isabel had headed out to catch a cab home. As she’d stepped out into the street to hail one, a bike had swerved around her and pushed her into oncoming traffic. She didn’t remember the car hitting her at all, but she did recall waking up in the hospital, in agony from head to toe. Her face had been badly cut, and from that moment on, she knew that her life would never be what she’d imagined.

After that first surgery, she could remember feeling like a heavy weight was on her chest, refusing to let her inhale. It was like being smothered from the inside, and when the doctors told her that she’d nearly died on the table, she knew she wouldn’t have another surgery. Vanity wasn’t worth dying for, but the adjustment to becoming ordinary when she’d been used to being stunningly beautiful was a difficult one. No one jumped to open doors for her anymore. No one checked her out in the street—unless one wanted to count the double takes from passersby when they saw the scars. They weren’t looking with admiration. They stared in pity, then dropped their gazes.

So when her father suggested that she might come back to Haggerston for a while, that old yearning to finally be a part of the family business—maybe even take it over—resurfaced. New York was a big and scary place for a woman who’d lost her beauty, and she’d already been passed over twice for a promotion at her marketing job. She’d gotten her education, had four years of work experience under her belt, and she was no longer the beauty queen who’d left town eight years ago. Perhaps a shot at Baxter Land Holdings wasn’t as out of the question anymore. So she packed up her things to make the move.

It was then that she’d seen the ad for a tiny house for sale. It was beautiful—a miniature home on wheels like a trailer, but built to look exactly like a house, complete with sloped roof and a small porch on the front. Inside, it was arranged with artistic precision. The front door opened onto the wee sitting room, behind which were the kitchen and bathroom. Overhead was a sleeping loft, with long, narrow windows spilling light under the sloping roof. The entire inside was made of natural wood, softened by wax, and was at its most beautiful in the afternoon light.

Everything had to be carefully arranged so that not an inch was wasted, and that was part of what made Isabel fall in love with the tiny house. It forced her to reexamine her life and the items that she’d collected along the way and pare them down to the essentials.

Who was she underneath the makeup, the fashion, the money... What mattered most?

So she’d bought the house, hooked it up behind her SUV and began the long drive from New York to Montana.

Within a week after her visit with her dad, she’d been set up. Finding a place to park her little house had been easier than she’d imagined. Outside Haggerston, a local man had a piece of property with electricity and water all ready to hook up, and he charged her a miniscule rent for the pleasure of living on his land. It had a view of green pasture where horses grazed on one side, and on the other, the foothills sloped lazily toward jagged mountains. Just standing there, breathing in the pristine summer air made everything seem possible again.

Isabel pulled two grocery bags full of fresh produce out of the trunk of her car and was heading back to the house when the sound of an engine rumbled into the drive. She turned back, squinting against the afternoon sun. A black pickup truck pulled in, dusty from the road. It came to a stop next to her white SUV, and her father’s lawyer—James? Was that it?—grinned down at her out the open window.

“Hi,” he said with an easy smile. “This isn’t what I expected.”

She glanced back at the little house. No, she doubted that her living arrangements were what anyone expected from her, but at this point, she didn’t care. Life hadn’t been what she’d expected, either, so she figured they could all be mildly surprised together and then get on with things.

“How did you find me, exactly?” she asked. She hadn’t given him her address—she hadn’t given it to her father, either, for that matter.

“In Haggerston? Nothing’s as secret as you think,” he replied with a shrug. “I asked around a little. Didn’t take much.”

She didn’t doubt that for a minute. Haggerston was nothing if not efficient in its gossip. James opened the truck door and hopped out.

“What can I do for you?” she asked. She turned and climbed the three steps up to the tiny porch and opened the front door. Inside, she had everything arranged already—two wood-framed leather chairs on one side, an oval table between them that doubled as a place to eat and a place to visit. Across from the little table was another compact chair, this one upholstered in gold and burgundy, with a Tiffany lamp perched on a plant stand next to it. Afternoon sunlight slanted through a window, brightening everything into a cheery glow.

James ambled after her, pausing on the porch to peer inside. “Does your father know about this?”

She turned to eye him curiously. “Do I need his permission?”

He smiled wryly. “Sorry, that was just curiosity.” His gaze moved around slowly. “It’s kind of neat.”

“Thanks.” She moved toward the kitchen space. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I take it you don’t remember me.”

“You’re my father’s lawyer,” she said, giving him a funny look.

“I mean from before.”

“No. Should I?” Her parents had always had a hundred business contacts, and she’d never been able to keep them straight. Perhaps James was the son of one of them. Although he didn’t come from money if his suits were anything to go by, so maybe a nephew. She pulled open the small fridge under the counter and began to unpack her groceries into it—peaches, pears, nectarines.

“I’m James Hunter.” He paused. “Jim Hunter. They called me Jim. We went to high school together.”

“Oh—” She stopped herself before she could pretend to remember. She certainly hadn’t been friends with a Jim Hunter, and she’d remember a guy as good-looking as this lawyer was. He was tall, broad and muscular, with green eyes and the faintest hint of freckles across his cheekbones as if he’d stepped off the farm and into a suit. His jaw was strong, and he met her gaze with easy directness. She shut the fridge and rose to her feet.

“It’s okay. We didn’t run in the same circles.” He smiled wanly, and for the life of her she wished she could remember him, put him into context.

“I’m really sorry,” she said with a sigh. “I stayed pretty busy in high school.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat. “I came to bring by those documents your father mentioned. I have a check for you here, and a few pages for you to sign.”

He put a folder onto the tabletop.

“Have a seat,” Isabel said, sinking into the chair opposite him.

“Thanks.” He sat down and opened the folder. He slid a check toward her, and she scanned the amount. It was the contents of her trust fund, enough to invest in a small business of her own. She folded it in half. “I just need you to sign here stating that you’ve received the money, then here and here and initial here.”

Isabel looked over the papers, then signed in the designated spots. She put down the pen with a click and looked at James speculatively. “Why are you really here?”

James didn’t appear surprised at the question, and he met her gaze easily. “What do you mean?”

“You could have called me into your office,” she replied. “You were holding the check. If I wanted the money, I’d have come to you.”

“I’m the family lawyer, remember?” he replied. “This is my job.”

“You’re my father’s lawyer. There is a difference.”

“No, I’m here for you, too. If you need any legal advice, I’m here to help. Everything will be billed to your father.”

Isabel laughed softly. “The one thing my father taught me was that nothing in life is free. There are always strings attached. What are the strings here?”

James shrugged. “He’s your dad. He worries.”

“So you’re the official spy?” she clarified. “He’s just signed over a large chunk of cash, and you’re here to make sure I don’t do anything silly?”

James dropped his gaze. She’d hit the nail on the head, and on her first try, at that. She would have been more impressed with herself if she weren’t so annoyed with the situation.

“I’m not interested in spying on you,” James said after a momentary silence. “I’m a lawyer, and contrary to family opinion, I do have a few limits on what I’ll do. I’ll tell you what I told your father—I’m happy to give you some legal advice. I’ll even pass along any advice your father has for you, if you’re willing to hear it. But after that, my duties are complete, and the rest is none of my business.”

He rose to his feet and collected the papers together once more.

“Look, James—” Had she offended him? “I don’t mean to take this out on you. We’ve got a complicated family dynamic.”

“Tell me about it.” His tone was grim, but he shot her a wry smile. “Don’t worry about me, Ms. Baxter. I’ve got a hide like an elephant.”

“And a memory to match,” she replied with a low laugh.

“It doesn’t take a stellar memory to remember you,” he replied, pausing at the door. “Everyone knew Isabel Baxter.”

Isabel smiled wanly. “Well, as you can see, those days are gone. I’ll have to face life just like everyone else now.”

James regarded her thoughtfully. “You’ll do okay,” he said. Then he pulled the door open and stepped out onto the small porch, then he paused and took a business card out of his pocket. “That’s my contact information. If you need anything, give me a call.”

Isabel watched as James made his way back to his truck and slid into the seat. He raised his hand in a wave, then slammed the door.

James Hunter—Jim, he’d been—had done well for himself. And in a way that no one could dismiss. He’d worked hard, become a lawyer, and if he weren’t one of the best, her father would never have put him on retainer. No one would brush off his success as a by-product of his good looks. Isabel had worked hard for her degree, too, but she still felt like her self-confidence had been pulled out from under her. She knew how to face these challenges as a beautiful woman, but how was she supposed to get over the hurdles without a brilliant smile, a flirtatious laugh or a lingering look that would leave the men weak-kneed? Those had been her tricks, because under that surface confidence, she hadn’t really believed that she could succeed based on her intelligence alone. She’d wanted to, of course—she’d desperately wanted people to take her seriously—but she’d never really believed they would. Somehow, the patronizing smiles and pats on her hand were more believable than the whisper inside her that said, “I could do this...”

“How do women manage?” she asked herself aloud, and her fingers fluttered up to the scars along her left cheek.

She’d never felt more powerless in her life.

* * *

JAMES DROPPED HIS briefcase on his desk and pulled off his suit jacket. Jackson, Hobbs and Hunter was a small law firm, consisting of James, Ted Jackson, who made a habit of doing far too much pro bono work, and a transplanted lawyer from another town west of Haggerston named Eugene Hobbs. Eugene was tall, gangly and looked like a fourteen-year-old, but his thirty-five-year-old brain was a steel trap.

The office building was on the corner of Preston Street and Main, a three-story building that overlooked Saint Mary’s Catholic Church’s parking lot on one side and a string of little shops along Main Street on the other. James enjoyed the view of the parking lot, as strange as that seemed to his law partners. He watched kids learn how to ride their bikes in that parking lot, people come and go from the church, teenagers get their first driving lessons with white-knuckled parents. Looking over that parking lot helped him to think and put his mind onto different paths. This afternoon, the church parking lot was empty, except for one small hatchback car that belonged to the priest. It wasn’t helpful.

James turned on his computer and checked his email. A smile twitched at the corners of his lips when he saw a forward from his younger sister, Jenny. She was always sending him little jokes—this one about driving in England. He was about to reply when Eugene stuck his head around the door.

“Hey, you’re back,” the gangly man said. “Did you get Ted’s email about billable hours?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Eugene came into the office and looked out the wide window at the parking lot. “So how’ve you been? I haven’t seen much of you the last few days.”

“I’ve been busy with the Baxters,” James replied.

“They keep you hopping.”

“It’s called a retainer,” James quipped.

“I heard that Mr. Baxter’s daughter is back in town.”

James shrugged, unwilling to say too much. “Yeah, she’s back.”

“I’ve seen the pictures of her during her beauty queen days, but I haven’t seen her in person yet. Are the scars as bad as they say?”

James considered for a moment, thinking back to Isabel and the white lines that tugged at the left side of her face. But it wasn’t just the scars that had altered Isabel—there was something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but she’d changed. “Yes,” he admitted. “She looks a lot different.”

“The gossip has been fierce,” Eugene said. “It doesn’t seem like people around town liked her much.”

James shrugged noncommittally. He had his own grudge with the Baxter beauty, not that it mattered. Life went on, and people who held on to their anger only punished themselves. According to Gandhi, at least.

“So what was the deal with her?” Eugene pressed.

“Oh, just that she was gorgeous and wealthy, and relied on her looks a lot.”

“I know the feeling. I rely on mine, too.”

“It’s because you look like Opie,” James said with a laugh. “Everyone opens up to you.”

“That’s what I mean.” Eugene’s face broke open into a wolfish grin. “It works for me.”

James laughed. Eugene wasn’t as young, or as simple, as he looked. At thirty-five, he still looked like a teen, a cowlick making the hair at the back of his head stand up straight, no matter how much product he applied to flatten it. The tiny lines forming around his eyes were incongruous.

“But you liked her?” Eugene asked.

James barked out a bitter laugh. “I can’t say that any of us liked her much. She used people—men, mostly. She knew how to get her way. But I’m not willing to carry a grudge from high school. If you saw her—what the accident did to her—you’d see what I mean. That’s punishment enough.”

Eugene’s phone blipped, and he pulled it out of his pocket, raised a finger and picked up the call. “Eugene Hobbs here.” He listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece and said to James, “Talk later, okay?”

James gave a thumbs-up, and Eugene headed back out into the hallway, leaving James in quiet. Isabel had left her mark all over this town—from being Miss Haggers ton three years running to breaking hearts. And though she hadn’t done much to James himself, she’d broken his cousin’s spirit, just before he left for war.

His office phone rang, and James answered on the second ring.

“James Hunter,” he intoned.

“Mr. Hunter? This is Bob over at Family Cheese.”

James closed his eyes and suppressed a sigh. What was wrong now?

“What can I do for you, Bob?”

“I’m afraid we have to let Jenny go.”

“You’re firing her?” James clarified, his stomach sinking. This wasn’t exactly a surprise—he’d dealt with this before. “What happened?”

“I’m sorry. We did our best, but she just lost it on a customer. Screaming, yelling. It isn’t working out. Can you come pick her up?”

Jenny had Down syndrome, and he’d become her legal guardian after their mother’s death in a car crash three years earlier. It had been hard enough to find a job again after the last time she’d “lost it on a customer” at a local diner. There was more to the story, of course. There always was, but no one wanted to hear it.

“Why did she get upset?” James asked.

“No reason that I could see,” Bob replied. “Look, I’ve got customers, so I’ve got to go. But you’ll need to come pick her up. She’s waiting outside on the bench.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he replied. “Thanks, Bob.”

Hanging up the phone, he pushed himself to his feet. Jenny was his only sibling, and he’d always been protective of her. In school, she’d never been picked on because everyone knew that if they messed with Jenny, they were taking on Jim Hunter, too. With Jenny’s big blue eyes and wide, laughing mouth, it was hard to imagine her getting angry, but she’d been having trouble keeping a job for the past year. He clicked his computer into sleep mode and rose to his feet. His jaw was tense, his gaze drilling into the wall ahead of him.

“Oh, James—” Eugene poked his head back into James’s office, then froze. “Okay. Sorry. Not a good time.”

James didn’t even bother reassuring his colleague. Right now, he had something else to do, and that old protective instinct was kicking in. No matter how many years slipped by, his role remained the same—Jenny’s big brother. He’d be the brick wall between her and an unkind world.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_21a5ce03-cd0b-50aa-a54e-14b59ef04bea)

ISABEL TURNED IN a circle, taking in the large kitchen. It was more than she needed, but a full, professional bakery was hard to resist. For the last couple of years, she’d been mulling over a new idea for a small business—a chocolate shop. She’d call it Baxter’s Chocolates, and her father would be enraged at her use of the family name for another one of her business schemes, but it was her name, too. He wasn’t the only one with claim to it.

Gleaming ovens, a ceramic stove top with a huge stainless steel hood hovering above it, vast counter space and everything tiled in brilliant white. A double refrigerator loomed next to the owner, Roger Varga, who stood near the door, arms crossed over his chest as she poked through cupboards and into corners.

“What happened to the business that used to be here?” Isabel asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Roger stroked his fingers over a graying mustache. “Times are tough. They weren’t able to make the money they thought they could.”

She nodded, hiding the worry that built up inside her. That was her fear, too, that her chocolate business wouldn’t take off and she’d be left with another failed business on her hands. Of course, her father could always bail her out—he always had in the past—but this time, it was a matter of pride. This time, she wanted to make it on her own.

“I think the lease is a little high,” she said, angling her steps back over to where he stood. “It doesn’t do you any good to lease the place out for three months, then have it stand empty for another eight if I go under, does it?”

He paused, seemed to be considering her words. “What did you have in mind?”

“Half of the asking price.”

“I can’t do that.” He shook his head. “I’d rather have it stand empty. But I could go down to this—” He jotted a number on the corner of the lease papers.

Isabel considered for a moment. The number was fair, but she had a feeling she could get him lower. She shot him a smile, and only after she pulled the smile-brilliantly-at-your-rival routine, did she remember that she no longer had that card in her deck. She wasn’t going to dazzle him, and she sucked in a deep breath, covering her momentary discomfort by looking down. Could she even negotiate without her go-to feminine wiles?

Do I have a choice?

“How about this—” She jotted another number below his. “And I’ll make you something amazing for your next anniversary with your wife.”

“How amazing?” A smile twitched at the corners of his lips.

“Trust me. I know what impresses a woman. It will be chocolate, and it will melt her heart. Just be sure to tell everyone who made it.”

He laughed and shook his head and scratched the new number into the lease. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Baxter, but you have yourself a deal. Care to sign now?”

“Not yet,” she said with a shake of her head. “I just need to have my lawyer look over the fine print, and then I’ll drop it by your office.”

“Fair enough.” He shook her hand, and they walked together through the echoing shop and out the front door. The bell tinkled overhead, and Isabel glanced up at it. This was it—she could feel it in her bones—her shop. She’d mentioned this chocolate shop idea to her father before the accident and he’d liked the idea—in New York, at least. He’d suggested that it might keep her entertained until she got married and started having babies. That had been insulting, but he’d paid for her trips to France for chocolate-making classes. It had been a victory, of sorts. His one repeated warning had been, “But you don’t seem to have the sixth sense, Izzy. Entrepreneurs need to have that tingle that tells them where the money is, and you haven’t really got that...”

Was he right? Was this a dumb idea, or was her instinct better than either of them imagined? Well, this wasn’t his business. He bought and sold land with Baxter Land Holdings, but she wanted something different—Baxter’s Chocolates. Truffles, bars, nuggets and cream-centered confections. She’d perfected the art in her own kitchen—polishing up her skills on those vacations to Paris. Her friends thought she’d gone to France to shop, and she had done a fair bit of that, too, but her main reason had been for the private chocolatier classes she took from the best in the world. And after all that personal research and now her trust fund money, the time was ripe.

“Thanks so much,” Isabel said, shaking Roger’s hand firmly. “I’ll be in touch.”

This side street was quiet this time of day. A block away, Main Street was bedecked with hanging planters of fragrant hydrangeas, but Nicholson Avenue was bare. It ran from Main with some businesses on either side of the street—a little bistro across from the closed bakery—and then melted into a residential area of tiny houses from the fifties. Isabel sucked in a breath of fresh air and smiled to herself. This felt right. It was coming together, and after all the changes to her family, after her accident, she needed this.

“Is that you, Isabel?”

Isabel blinked and turned to see Britney teetering across the street toward her, one hand on her belly, the other outstretched to stop a pickup truck as she made a great show of pretending to run across the road, taking tiny steps and laughing at herself. Isabel smiled wanly. Had she ever acted like that? She wasn’t sure she’d like the honest answer.

Roger gave a final wave and headed off in the other direction, leaving Isabel alone on the sidewalk, waiting for Britney to make it across. When Britney stepped up onto the curb, she laughed and shook her head.

“I just can’t run like I used to! My goodness. Babies are heavier than you think.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and looked around, wide-eyed. “Oh, my...are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“That depends,” Isabel replied drily. “What do you think I’m up to?”

“Something...” She waved her hands in the air as if she were drying a manicure. “I don’t know—something expensive.”

Isabel shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” she replied. “That’s why we have Jimmy.”

Isabel raised a brow. “You mean James Hunter?”

“I call him Jimmy. It just suits him. He’s such a teddy bear.”

Isabel knew that Britney’s gushing shouldn’t bother her, but on some level it did. “Jimmy” wasn’t a teddy bear, he was a lawyer, and she had the feeling that he’d rather have respect than diminutive nicknames. Or was that just her right now?

“So what are you up to?” Isabel asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, just out for some brunch. Eating for two!” She hunched her shoulders and gave a girlish giggle, rubbing a hand over her belly. “I’m just starving these days. Do you want to go find something to nibble?”

“No thanks.” She attempted to infuse some warmth into her tone, but she had a feeling she failed when she saw Britney’s face. “I’m not hungry.”

“So...” Britney leaned to the side to look around Isabel. “What are you doing here? Didn’t this used to be Gordie’s Bakery? I don’t think it lasted long.”

Gordie. Georgie. Jimmy. Did any man who Britney came across have a full name?

She doubted it would even matter if she told Britney about her plans. The money was hers, after all. It was snuggly stashed away in her very own bank account, and nothing Britney or her father said would change anything.

“I’m looking into leasing a storefront,” she replied.

“What for?” Britney’s eyes widened again, but Isabel caught the slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. Britney wasn’t as childish as she put on.

“I’m opening my own business. A chocolate shop.”

“Oh...” Britney squinted. “Where do you buy the chocolate?”

“I make it.”

“Oh!” She pulled her hand through her hair and pursed her lips—Isabel was willing to bet that she’d just caught sight of her own reflection somewhere. “Well, Georgie says—” She blushed and shrugged apologetically. “Your dad says that you’re better off talking this stuff over with Jimmy. He’s good with these things, and we girls don’t even know where to start, you know?”

Isabel cocked her head to one side, regarding her young stepmother. There had been a time when Isabel had used the same tactics. Pretty girls got their way, but pretty and intelligent girls were too intimidating and put men off. She’d learned quickly how to “dumb it down” in order to make people do what she needed, but seeing this same manipulation in Britney was mildly annoying.

“I have a degree in business,” she replied coolly. “I’m pretty sure I know where to begin.”

“Just saying.” Britney shrugged. She pulled a necklace out from under her blouse and ran it idly through her fingers. Isabel’s gaze locked onto the pendant—a princess-cut yellow diamond, surrounded by white diamonds nestled in white gold. Isabel knew this necklace well—it had been her mother’s.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded.

“This?” Britney shrugged. “Your dad gave it to me. Isn’t it pretty? I love it.”

Isabel shot Britney a tight smile. “I see.”

It looked like a lot of things were changing around here, and Isabel didn’t have to like it.

“Well, anyway, I’m meeting up with Carmella, so I’d better go.” The younger woman beamed at Isabel once more. “Baby’s hungry!”

With a flutter of her fingers, Britney pranced away in her two-inch heels, leaving Isabel on the curb with a white-hot feeling searing through her middle. She didn’t use the word hate lightly, but right now, she truly hated Britney Baxter.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she fired off a text to James Hunter: I need your advice on a lease contract. Can we meet?

She dropped the phone back into her purse. If there was one thing her father had taught her, it was that feelings might get hurt, but business wasn’t about feelings. It was about money, and it was about building something bigger than yourself.

And right now, she’d stick to business. Feelings were a little too volatile to be trusted.

Britney met a woman on the opposite side of the street who paused, shaded her eyes and peered in Isabel’s direction. Isabel knew her well—Carmella, a high school friend. She’d been running into old acquaintances a lot the last few days, and their first reactions had never been very warm. There had been some sympathy over her scars that barely concealed their satisfaction at seeing her brought down a peg or two. Some didn’t bother saying anything—just stared. And a couple of old classmates had crossed the street to avoid her, which made their feelings about her pretty clear. So far, she hadn’t come across people from the wealthier circles she’d used to move in, and they were the ones who intimidated her the most right now.

“Isabel Baxter, is that you?” Carmella hooted across the street. “Get over here, girl!”

Isabel pasted a smile on her face, hoping it didn’t look like a grimace. “Carmella Biggins?” she called back, and headed across the road.

Sometimes, there was no way around it, and all a woman could do was face it head-on. Like a firing squad.

* * *

JAMES PULLED UP to the curb next to Family Cheese and turned off the engine. Jenny sat on a wooden bench, squinting in the morning sun. Her shoulders were hunched, her plump legs dangling, not quite reaching the ground. A slanted triangle of shade from the building behind her just missed her shoulders, and her blond hair shone like gold in the sunlight. Her eyes, small in her round face, followed the truck as he parked, but she didn’t move.

Every time this happened, Jenny was crushed.

Pushing open his door, James got out and headed over to where she sat. Another car drove past, tooting a horn in hello. James raised his hand in a distracted wave, not even bothering to check to see who it was. He stopped in front of his sister and looked down at her. She looked girlish from a distance, but up close she looked like the adult she was.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?”

“Nope.” She heaved a sigh. “No one wants me, Jimmy.” She had a slight lisp, and it still reminded him of when she was a little girl. His heart welled with love.

“I do,” he said.

“You don’t count.” She looked away.

“Ouch,” he said, sinking down to the seat next to her. “I like to think I count a little bit.”

“Sorry,” she retorted.

“So what happened?” he asked. Jenny didn’t answer right away, tears misting her eyes, then she turned toward him, her lips quivering with anger.

“He called me retarded.”

James blinked. “Bob did?”

“No, not Bob.” She shook her head, eyes flashing in exasperation. She put her fingers up to make air quotes. “The customer.” She still wasn’t clear about how to use air quotes, and she tended to use them when she was upset.

“And Bob didn’t stand up for you?” Images of lawsuits danced through his head, but he sucked in a breath to try to calm his anger. “So tell me what happened. Exactly.”

“This little boy was pointing at me and laughing,” Jenny said. “So the boy’s dad said, ‘Don’t do that. It’s not nice. It’s not her fault she’s retarded.’ So I threw cheese at him.”

An image of his sister launching Gouda at a customer’s head struck him as funny, and James stifled a laugh. “You had to know that wasn’t a good idea,” he said.

She shrugged, not looking the least bit apologetic.

James attempted to control the smile that tickled the corners of his lips, but he had a burning question. “How was your aim?”

“I have great aim. I hit him in the face. With a nice, old, gooey brie.”

James laughed out loud and shook his head. “Jenny, you’re a nut.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a nut with good aim!” she shot back, but a smile toyed at the corners of her lips. “It was expensive, too.”

“I don’t think we have a leg to stand on to argue this one, Jenny,” he said apologetically. “You can’t throw cheese at people.”

“I know.”

“We’ll find you a different job.” The words came easily enough because he wanted them to be true, but Jenny already had a reputation around this town. She stood up for herself, but she had her own method that didn’t always suit customer service. And what other jobs were there for her?

“Really, Jimmy?” she asked hopefully.

James paused. “I actually don’t know. But we’ll sort something out.”

“I’m not retarded,” she said, her voice low. “I’m a person.”

“I know, Jenny. And you’re a good person, too.”

The problem was that people didn’t understand Jenny the way he did. He’d gotten her a job in his office stuffing envelopes and doing some photocopies, but the pace was too quick for her and he’d felt terrible when he saw how frustrated she was. It would have been perfect to have her close, but what could he do?

His phone blipped and he glanced down at the text message. It was from Isabel. She wanted to meet up.

“Who’s that?” Jenny asked.

“A client,” he replied.

“Do you have to go back to work now?”

He sighed. “No, it’s okay. I’ll take you home first.”

He paused to text Isabel back, his thumbs hopping over the keys: I can meet you around 2, if that works. Let me know where.

Jenny scooted forward until her running shoes hit the ground and glanced up at James. “I wasn’t ladylike.”

James shot her grin. “So? I’m not ladylike, either.”

It was a long-standing joke between them. Jenny grinned and rose to her feet.

“Do you want to stop for a milk shake on the way home?” James asked.

Jenny cocked her head to one side coyly. “I wouldn’t object.”

He chuckled and opened the truck door for her to get in. As he shut the door after her, he wondered what he could do to find a place for Jenny to belong. She’d always be his sister, and this would always be her town, but she needed more than that—she needed the equivalent of what his legal practice was to him. It seemed so simple, but it wasn’t. She needed more than a job. She needed someone who would understand her, and that was one tall order.

His phone blipped again, and he glanced down at the text. It was from Isabel again.

Ruby’s Diner. 2 pm is perfect. Thank you, James.

There was something about the words that struck him as sweet, and he pushed any softening feelings firmly away. For the moment, he had an important appointment with his sister and the ice-cream parlor.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_dcb3ad20-63c5-5b67-b9b3-26a6e13c2f40)

“HOW LONG HAS it been, Izzy?” Carmella asked, hitching her apple-green Coach bag higher up onto her shoulder. She looked away from Isabel’s face uncomfortably and shot a smile at a passing waiter instead. They stood inside the foyer of the little bistro with Britney, the tinkle of cutlery and the clink of glasses melting into the murmur of chatting customers.

“Only a couple of years,” Isabel said with a chuckle. “Remember, I was here when you got married.”

“Feels like longer, doesn’t it?” Carmella cast Isabel a tired smile, then lowered her voice. “Are you and Britney okay being in the same room together?”

“Perfectly,” Isabel replied. It was mostly true. She could be polite. Carmella and Isabel had been friends in high school, and with Isabel gone, Britney and Carmella had gotten chummy. Girlfriend loyalty went only so far in a town this size, where there weren’t many people to choose from.

Isabel glanced around the little restaurant. She remembered this place well. This was where her father used to take her to celebrate her birthday every year. It hadn’t changed since she’d been gone. The same watercolor art hung on the walls, and even the smell of the place was the same. A server approached them—a young man with a mane of dark hair and dark, smoldering eyes. His smolder didn’t seem to be very discerning, however, since he gave each of them the same sultry look, including a woman in her seventies behind them. He knew how to get tips, that much was obvious.

“Hi, Carlo,” Carmella said. “Just us girls. Are you going to be serving us?”

“Of course,” Carlo replied with a smile. “Women as lovely as yourselves need the best service.”

Isabel winced. Carlo was probably barely out of high school, and if she’d been the babysitting type as a teenager, she probably would have babysat him. Britney pursed her lips into an oval mirror in her hand and dabbed at her lipstick, looking up only when Carlo led them into the dining room and over to a table by a window.

“I hate to intrude on your brunch,” Isabel said as they sat down.

“You aren’t intruding, right, Brit?” Carmella rolled on without waiting for a response. “Carlo, let’s start with some mimosas. What do you say, girls?”

“Make mine virgin,” Britney sighed. “You want one, too, Izzy?”

“Sure.”

Carlo winked, mostly for Carmella’s benefit, it seemed, and disappeared once more, leaving them in quiet.

“Britney said you were back in town,” Carmella said, “but you didn’t call.”

“I’m sorry,” Isabel replied. “I meant to. I’ve been busy getting things set up.”

“Set up for what?” Carmella’s brows rose.

“I’m moving back. For good.”

This didn’t seem to be news to Carmella, and she and Britney exchanged a look. Then Carmella leaned closer. “I see there’s no ring on your finger, but is there a guy in your life at all...?” She let the question hang there.

They didn’t have much else to talk about. That was the problem with leaving town for several years—you were no longer part of the same rumor mill. Carmella was trying to make conversation, but the question still grated.

“No. Not at the moment,” Isabel replied.

“Well, Britney and I could take care of that,” Carmella suggested. Her gaze went to Isabel’s scars once more and she cleared her throat. It was a friendly offer that Carmella couldn’t make good on. Not anymore, at least. Besides, the implication that the kind thing was to “get her a man,” chafed.

“Let’s just get this out into the open,” Isabel said. “I’m badly scarred. Things are different now. And I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

Just as the words came out of her mouth, Carlo returned with three champagne glasses filled with mimosas—just orange juice for Britney—and set them in front of each woman at the table. They all smiled weakly up at him, and when he’d left, stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.

“What about plastic surgery?” Carmella asked at last.

“I’m not doing any more of that. I had one reconstructive surgery done after the accident and I had a bad reaction to the anesthetic. I just about died. So this is me. I’ll just have to get used to it.”

The table went silent, and Isabel glanced at the tables around them. Most people were engrossed in their own conversation, but an older woman across the dining room was looking at Isabel, an expression of pity on her face. She dropped her gaze when she was spotted.

“Maybe some good makeup?” Britney asked weakly.

Isabel wasn’t pleasantly disposed toward Britney on a good day, and she held back her desire to snap in response.

“It would take a pound of foundation to cover this up,” she replied with a wry smile. “And the men that we’re talking about wouldn’t be interested anyway.”

“That’s not true,” Carmella protested, but her tone said even she didn’t believe it.

“Sure it is,” Isabel replied. “These guys can get any woman they want, and they want a beautiful wife. That boat has sailed.”

Britney’s cheeks blushed pink, but Carmella shrugged coolly.

“They aren’t all that shallow,” Carmella replied. “Besides, you’re still a Baxter. Don’t lower your standards now. If you want a comfortable life, you’d better marry a man who knows how to provide it.”

Isabel understood Carmella’s sentiments perfectly. She’d been the same up until the accident, expecting to “marry well” so that her lifestyle wouldn’t change. That meant marrying money that could match her own. She used to look down on plain girls, pitying them because she knew that she had something they could only dream of. Well, now she’d joined their ranks, and she was intimidated.

“You both still have your looks, and you’re married to wealthy men,” Isabel replied evenly. “I’m playing in a different game now.”

“I didn’t marry for money.” Britney’s voice was low, and she was clearly offended.

Isabel regarded her young stepmother evenly.

“I didn’t!”

“My dad is old enough to be your father,” Isabel retorted. “There was a teeny, tiny incentive there.”

“I love him.”

“Would you have married him if he had no money at all?” Isabel asked.

The atmosphere around the table got uncomfortably silent again. This had been a bad idea. If she couldn’t make nice, she shouldn’t be sitting around drinking mimosas.

“What about Greg Cranken?” Carmella asked. “He comes from a good family.”

Greg Cranken was short, balding and narrow-shouldered. He was the pariah of dinner parties since none of the women wanted to be stuck sitting next to him. His father was in the beef business, but even all that family money hadn’t been enough to entice a woman to marry him. Isabel shook her head.

“I’m not looking.”

“So what are you doing,” Carmella asked, lifting her drink to her lips, “if you aren’t looking?”

“Starting a business.”

Carmella choked on her mimosa and coughed delicately into her napkin. “You’re what?”

Carmella had been privy to a couple of her past business schemes, and Isabel felt a wave of mild embarrassment rising. Friends from her youth weren’t going to see her any differently now than they’d seen her then. But then again, she hadn’t exactly done anything to change their view, either.

“Starting my own business,” Isabel repeated. “A chocolate shop.”

“And having someone else run it, of course...”

“No, running it myself.” Isabel chuckled. “Is it so shocking?”

“That’s just wrong.” Carmella leaned back and shook her head. “I mean, if you really like running a business, do it. But don’t let it take over your life. That’s what men do, and they drop dead from the stress. Look at it this way—” Carmella put her glass down onto the tablecloth and leaned forward again. “You could work your fingers to the bone, or you could marry a nice but boring guy like Greg Cranken, and live a comfortable life. I mean, starting a business might be fun at first, but before you know it, it turns into actual work. Do you remember those scarves? Actual work. Trust me. I tried making purses and selling them online. I don’t like to speak of it. You’d think I’d have learned from your scarf debacle.” She shuddered. “I made, like, three purses before I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“I’m not husband hunting,” Isabel replied with a shrug.

Britney cleared her throat. “She knows what she wants to do, Carmella. Let her be.”

“Thanks, Britney.” It wasn’t often that they were on the same side.

“Fine, fine.” Carmella heaved a sigh.

“So how are you and Brad?” Isabel asked, changing the subject.

“We’re good. He’s in New York for a couple of weeks on business, and when he gets back, I’m going to London for a bit of shopping. You should totally come.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be busy,” Isabel replied.

“With the business. See?” Carmella shot her an annoyed glance. “Your sudden interest in making money instead of spending it is already getting in the way of a perfectly good shopping trip.”

Isabel laughed. “I love how you just say what you’re thinking.”

“Someone has to,” Carmella muttered.

Carlo came by their table once more, a pad of paper in hand and a smile on his lips. “What can I get you ladies today?”

Carmella sucked in a deep breath and half closed her eyes in thought. “I’ll take a green salad with goat cheese and olives, quiche and a side of quinoa.”

“And for you?” He turned to Isabel. His smile flickered, his adoring attention slightly more difficult to maintain when it came to her. This was the way it would be from now on. While she’d been used to the fawning attention of every man within a mile’s radius, she was now no more than a plain woman with pretty friends.

“Actually, I’ve got to get going, girls,” she said, hoping she sounded more apologetic than she felt. “I have another appointment.”

It wasn’t entirely true. She wasn’t meeting James for another two hours, but she felt stifled, and she desperately needed to get out into the fresh air. Britney pulled out a mirror and checked her eyeliner, batting her lashes as she inspected herself yet again.

“What appointment?” Carmella demanded. “Don’t tell me this has to do with business, because I’ll scream.”

Isabel laughed. “You’ll survive. I’ll call you, okay?”

“You’d better.”

“I will,” Isabel insisted. “And I’ll see you later, I’m sure, Britney.”

Britney fluttered her fingers in farewell, snapping her compact mirror shut. Isabel slid from her spot and dodged around the waiter. She beelined out of the bistro and into the welcoming air. Then she directed her steps toward her SUV across the street.

She wasn’t the same woman she used to be—her beauty queen crown had been hung up for good. Beneath her irritation with her scarred appearance and her annoyance that she was no longer the prettiest one at the table was a certainty that she wanted more than the life she’d taken for granted.

Much more.

She wanted the people who knew her to look at her with respect. Not jealousy. Not attraction. Not even admiration. She wanted someone to respect her for her mind.

* * *

JAMES GLANCED AT his watch, then took a sip of coffee. Ruby’s Diner was a low-key place, located just outside town along the highway. It was an old-fashioned diner with a striped awning over the front door and red, plastic-covered stools along the counter. It catered to travelers and truckers, but the Haggerston locals also took advantage of the down-home cooking. Ruby had died several years ago from a stroke, but her niece took the place over and kept the name. Ruby was still part of this place, in name and in spirit.

This wasn’t a Baxter sort of establishment, and maybe that was why Isabel had chosen it.

It was two o’clock, and Isabel was due anytime now. He sat at a table near the back, assuming that Isabel might appreciate some privacy when it came to her business concerns. He’d been surprised that she texted him to begin with. He had a feeling that she didn’t trust him—whether that stemmed from her relationship with her father, or some “first” impression, he had no idea.

After a milk shake at the local ice-cream shop—heavy on the cream—he’d taken Jenny back home and dropped her off. She seemed to be in relatively good spirits, but he always worried. Life wasn’t easy for Jenny. People didn’t always understand Down syndrome, and they oftentimes expected things from Jenny that she couldn’t deliver. She lived in a world that didn’t “get” her, and she was always trying to prove that she wasn’t any different. Except that she was.

The front door opened and James turned to see Isabel step inside. She wore a white, breezy summer dress that scooped down in the front—not enough to sacrifice modesty—and flowed over her figure in the most flattering way. A broad, pink belt cinched her narrow waist, and she pressed a matching pink purse between her side and her elbow. She glanced around the diner, and a few truckers looked up from their meals admiringly. She still had it—the ability to draw all the attention when she walked into a room. She just didn’t seem to realize it.

James stood and she smiled and headed in his direction. James sat when she did, and he gestured for the waitress.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing.” She shook her head. “I’ve already eaten.”

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Sure. Thanks.”

The waitress came by and poured another cup for Isabel.

“Anything else?” the waitress drawled. “We have some specials today—”

“No, thank you.” Isabel smiled up at the waitress easily. “Coffee is fine for me.”

The waitress retreated, leaving the two of them in relative privacy, and Isabel heaved a sigh. “Thanks for meeting up with me. I have a lease for you to look over.”

“Oh?” James accepted the papers that she slid across the table, his trained eye moving down the page, identifying the typical clauses and subclauses of a commercial lease. He raised his eyebrows in interest and looked at her from over the pages.

“You’re leasing the old bakery?”

“Yes.”

He turned back to the lease and perused the last of it. It looked like she’d negotiated a surprisingly low price for the place, too.

“This looks pretty straightforward,” James said. “It’s a month-to-month lease—open-ended so that you can get out if your business fails or you want to take down your shingle, for whatever reason.”

“No surprises in there?” Isabel asked.

“Not one.” James handed the paperwork back and regarded her curiously. “Do you mind me asking what you’re planning?”

She arched a brow. “So that you can report back to my father?”

James leaned back in his chair. “If you were afraid of that, why did you ask to meet me?”

She shook her head. “You said before that you were willing to keep my business private. Does that still stand?”

“Of course.”

She nodded. “Do you know how difficult it is to be watched all the time?”

“No,” he admitted.

“It’s hard. People think that money brings freedom, but my father taught me early on that nothing comes without strings, and that money he signed over to me comes with so many strings attached.”

“Only if you let it,” he said. “It’s in your name. You can do what you want with it.”

Not exactly the advice Mr. Baxter wants me to give.

“I’m willing to bet that my father wants you to keep an eye on me,” she said.

James didn’t flinch, but he didn’t answer, either. They sat in silence, and he wondered if Isabel would say more. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders, and for a moment, her reserve slipped and he saw conflicted emotions in those big, dark eyes. Men had always fallen for Isabel, and it wasn’t only her beauty that drew them to her. She was gentler than she liked to let on, and he felt himself softening toward her despite his best intentions. She was like Helen of Troy—men would go to war for her. Andrew had gone to war early because of her...not quite the same thing, but a woman like Isabel could stir a man’s heart and shove him into battle. The end result for Andrew had been the same.

“I’ve decided to open a chocolate shop,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “That’s why I’m renting the old bakery.”

James pulled his mind back to the job at hand. George had given him a brief description of Isabel’s business ventures so far. Did she have what it took to start up a new business like this?

“I didn’t know you made chocolate,” James said.

“I imagine there is a lot you don’t know about me,” she said, a smile flickering across her lips. For a moment, he thought she might be flirting, but just as quickly, the playfulness evaporated. “And I have no idea what my father will say about it.”

“You should ask him,” he said. He’d much rather that father and daughter hashed this one out alone.

“I will.” She nodded. “Eventually. I don’t really want to listen to his depressing lectures right now.”

George’s lectures could be a bit tedious—James knew this firsthand—but the man did have a great deal of business experience that his daughter could benefit from.

“So you don’t think he’ll approve...” he guessed.

Isabel sucked in a slow breath and held it. “He liked my chocolatier classes because he saw it as a hobby. I let him believe that. It was easier. He was more supportive that way.”

“What did he want you to do instead?” James asked. “You’re his only child, right? The logical one to take over the business eventually.”

He was fishing here—he knew his boss’s opinions about his daughter’s business abilities, but maybe she didn’t.

“I’ll pry the reins out of his cold, dead fingers. He’s never been one to actually think about his own mortality. As far as my dad’s concerned, he’ll live forever.”

James smiled at her imagery, then took a sip of his coffee. “So in the meantime, you open your own business.”

“You make it sound like I’m killing time until my dad dies,” she retorted. “First of all, he’ll live to be ninety-five, and probably have another wife after Britney. And secondly, this isn’t a hobby. I intend to prove to him that I can start a business, build it and make it flourish. I’m going to come out of this with a profit. He did it with Baxter Land Holdings, and so can I.”

“Fair enough.” He eyed her with grudging respect.

“So I have one more question,” she said. “Is there any legal reason why I couldn’t use the Baxter name for my business?”

“No legal reason,” he said. “As long as the company name is different from your father’s.”

“I’m calling it Baxter’s Chocolates,” she said. “And my father is going to hate that.”

James was inclined to agree. “So why not call it something else?”

“Because I don’t want to. My father is a Baxter and so am I. I’m no less a Baxter because I’m a woman, and I have every right to use my own name.”

James laughed softly. “Miss Baxter, you are a force to be reckoned with.”

For the first time, a smile lit Isabel’s eyes. “I certainly hope so.”

“So here is the issue.” James pushed his coffee cup aside. “Your father would like me to give you legal advice about using your money. Do you want it?”

She was silent for a moment, then she shrugged. “James, I’d be an idiot to turn down legal advice when I’m starting up a business. As long as you don’t try to talk me out of my dream, I’m grateful for all the advice I can get.”

“Great.” He smiled. “You have my number. Contact me anytime.”

She gathered her purse and folded the lease. Then she held out her hand and shook his firmly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Isabel walked briskly out of the café, every eye following her. She either didn’t notice, or was accustomed to ignoring the attention.

Her father hadn’t given her enough credit, but neither had James, for that matter. He knew it went against his better instincts, but he was curious to see what Isabel did with herself now that she was back in town. Would she stay? Would she prove her father wrong and actually make some money off this venture?

He wasn’t the type of man who wished anybody ill, but he didn’t trust her, either. While beauty was a great factor in her ability to manipulate men, so was pity. The minute she discovered that she had a whole new kind of power, she’d be back to her old tricks. She just hadn’t figured that out yet. His bet wasn’t on Isabel having changed.


CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_df7b6add-c06b-5340-910d-8328cb95dca1)

FAMILY SUNDAY DINNERS had been of paramount importance when Isabel’s mother was alive. Her fight with breast cancer had been fierce, but after she passed away, George Baxter had insisted on continuing the tradition, claiming she would have wanted it that way. After Isabel left for college and George married the young second Mrs. Baxter, family dinners evaporated along with half the furniture and the painted portrait of his first wife. So when her father called on Sunday morning, asking if she’d come for a family dinner, Isabel felt torn between nostalgia and misgiving.

Isabel stood in her miniscule kitchen, eating a bowl of strawberry yogurt with chopped banana. It was a favorite snack.

“Family dinner?” she asked incredulously, her cell phone pinched between her shoulder and cheek. “Do we still do that?”

“Yes, we still do that,” he retorted. “Be here at six. On the dot.”

“And Britney is okay with it?” she asked, entertaining some images of her young stepmother pouting through the whole thing. She licked off her spoon and gave her yogurt another stir.

“She’s fine. She likes the idea now that she’s pregnant.”

Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Okay. I’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Jell-O salad?” she asked teasingly. They had an aunt who used to bring Jell-O salad to every family gathering—wedding, funeral, picnic. It was a standing joke between father and daughter.

“Change that to wine, and you have yourself a deal.”

“Britney drinks while she’s pregnant?” Isabel asked.

“No. Shoot.” She could almost see her father’s discomfiture. He was as smooth as ice in anything business related, but when it came to family affairs, he fell apart. “Whatever. You and I will drink it. Just come.”

Isabel laughed aloud. “See you at six, Dad.”

Hanging up, she stood still for a full minute, staring down at her cell phone. A family dinner with Britney. She’d endured a mimosa at lunch, and that was about as far as she cared to push things, but her father seemed to want something more... And what could he really expect? If he’d at least married someone older than Isabel, she’d have a better idea of what to do.

It might not be as bad as it seemed, she thought wryly. She’d always liked family dinners—before Britney, at least. They were a good start to repairing her damaged relationship with her father. She turned back to her yogurt, determined to simply let the evening unfold without too much worry...if that was possible.

* * *

AT SIX O’CLOCK SHARP, Isabel stood on her father’s doorstep, a bottle of sparkling apple juice in hand. She’d had a moment of generosity in the grocery store and had decided to get something they could all share, something she was seriously regretting now that she was faced with a wine-free evening with her stepmother. Isabel wore a pink summer dress with a full skirt and a cinched waist. She wore her dark waves up in a messy bun at the back of her head, and she tucked up a stray tendril as she rang the doorbell. There had been a time when she would have just opened the door and gone in, but that was back when this old house had been her home. Perhaps it was her new, tiny accommodations, but the house seemed ominously large these days. Too big. Too sprawling. Too empty.

The door swung open to reveal her father, a surprise, since she’d expected to see the housekeeper. He ushered her in. He wore a pair of khaki pants paired with a dress shirt, open at the neck. His hair rose up in tufts on top of his head, and she smiled fondly.

“It’s good to have you home, Princess,” he said, leading the way into the sitting room.

“It feels different now,” she admitted quietly. “Where is Britney?”

“Upstairs. On the phone with her mother.”

Isabel attempted to hide her relief. It wasn’t often that she had time alone with her dad anymore. They sank into their old seats—her father in his leather armchair, and she took the end of the couch closest to him as she always had. They stared together at the mantel and the abstract print hanging above it, discordant colors splashed together.

“Is that awkward?” Isabel asked after a moment.

“What?” He glanced over, bushy eyebrows raised.

“Britney’s parents are your age. Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. But it doesn’t matter how they see me. Only how Britney sees me.”

The comment was quietly honest, and Isabel felt her face heat. Did she really want to discuss this part of her father’s life? But they’d started, and she’d been wondering ever since the wedding...

“Does she make you feel young?” Isabel asked.

“She makes me feel loved.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“In a much different way.” He shot her a pointed look. “Can’t argue with that one, can you?”

Isabel chuckled. “No, I can’t.”

“So.” Her father pushed himself forward and leaned his forearms on his knees. “I heard that you’re thinking of starting a business with that money.”

So this was the reason for the visit. Maybe the nostalgia she’d been nursing was wasted, after all.

“Yes, I am,” she admitted. “I’ve just signed the papers for a lease.”

He winced. “I’m sure James can find you a loophole to get out of that.”

“Why?” she demanded. She’d known that he might disapprove, but it didn’t take the sting out of the unfairness.

“It’s not a good idea, Princess. Trust me.”

“You don’t even know what the idea is,” she retorted.

“The chocolate shop. Britney told me.”

A twist of distaste settled into her stomach. Of course Britney told him. She hadn’t expected her stepmother to keep a secret exactly, but she could only imagine the tattling kind of tone that would have dominated the conversation.

“Dad, you signed the money over to me. Would you rather I used it to travel for a few months?”

“I would rather you used it for plastic surgery.”

His words were sharp, and she froze. She’d momentarily forgotten about the scars. His words were crueler than he probably intended, but she wouldn’t be put off that easily.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad, but I told you before—I’m not going under the knife again.”

“Okay, okay.” He heaved a sigh. “But still, it isn’t a good investment, Sweet Pea.”

Isabel sighed. He did this when he wanted to cajole her into doing things his way. She became Princess and Sweet Pea, and he expected her to bow to his superior wisdom.

“I’ve wanted to do this for years now,” she said.

“It doesn’t make it commercially viable,” he shot back. “Wanting something and making money off of it are two different things. You’re so much like your mother...”

“I’m actually a lot like you,” she snapped. “I only look like Mom.”

Her mother had been a beauty queen, too. She’d been gorgeous, bright, cheerful and the envy of her father’s friends. Her mother had been the Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s when her parents married, and she’d aged with equal grace and ease.

“Sweet Pea, you don’t understand these things. A chocolate shop is very romantic, and it sounds like a pleasant place to spend your days, but—”

“Dad, I’m not an idiot,” she snapped. “And stop calling me Sweet Pea.”

He looked ready to say something, then clamped his mouth shut. He leaned back into his chair.

“And quit putting up that offended act,” she added. “I’ve watched you negotiate business deals for as long as I can remember, so I know your tricks.”

“Money is a tool, Izzy,” he said. “It’s a tool to make more money. Without money—well, you don’t know what it’s like to be without money.” He smiled sadly. “Trust me when I tell you that this is a bad idea. I’ve been at this game longer than you’ve been alive, and a bachelor’s degree at Yale doesn’t make up for that.”

He’d successfully swiped her one argument off the table with that last comment. She was proud of her degree at Yale. She’d wanted to get into a top school so badly that she’d even found her own tutor to get her math grades up in high school. It had gotten messy—she’d fallen for her tutor, and she wasn’t exactly proud of how she’d handled it—but she wasn’t the idiot everyone seemed to take her for. She’d had plans, goals, and she’d worked hard to achieve them. She’d earned that degree, gotten top grades and studied hard. Her father had paid for it, of course, but she’d worked for every A she got.

Britney came into the room just then, and she slid onto the arm of the chair, Isabel’s father slipping his arm around her hips.

“Dinner’s ready,” Britney announced, rubbing her belly. She glanced around. “Is Jimmy here yet?”

Isabel shot her father an incredulous look. “Why did you invite the lawyer, Dad?”

“The lawyer.” He eyed her with exaggerated disappointment. “He’s got a name, you know.”

Was he really going to lecture her about recognizing the household workers as people with names and lives? She was no longer a self-centered teenager, and if James was coming to dinner, then that meant that he had some business planned.

“His name is James.” She emphasized his first name, irritated with Britney’s insistence on calling him Jimmy. “I’m well aware. The question is, why invite him to a family dinner?”

She had a suspicion of why her father would want James Hunter here this evening. She already knew that this dinner was about her chocolate shop, and her father was bringing in some reinforcements. He wasn’t about to let her spend her money without his input, that much was obvious. Had James been part of the ploy all along? Was he stringing her along, reporting back to her father?

“I didn’t invite him, but he’d be welcome to stay,” her father retorted. “He’s dropping off some papers for me, not that it’s any of your business.”

She didn’t believe that for a second. The doorbell rang and Britney smiled brilliantly.

“Well, speak of the devil. I’m sure that’s him.”

* * *

GEORGE BAXTER WAS the patriarch of a very wealthy family. He was a self-made man, and George had volleyed between making money and losing money for a decade before he finally started making more than he lost. Word around town was that George Baxter was hungry to prove himself to the old money of the county. He was now one of the ten most influential men in Montana, and he’d raised his daughter with the expectation that she’d marry well and never experience the hardship that he had. He was giving her a better life on a silver platter.

The big house had the look of old wealth, even though the Baxter dynasty was young, indeed. Mr. Baxter’s first wife had been the decorating master, and she’d had a delicate touch. The house was big, but not overly ostentatious. The furnishings were high quality and expensive, but homey, too. The grounds around the house were natural and reminded James of the perfect place for a tire swing and a red-checkered picnic blanket. The original Mrs. Baxter’s touch was the foundation of the place, and it couldn’t be erased. As James stepped inside, he smiled at the housekeeper who ushered him in. He’d always liked Mrs. Franklin. She was a constant, a regular rock, and under that stony facade, he always suspected there was a sense of humor, although he couldn’t quite prove it.

“Here are those documents, sir,” James said, passing an envelope to his employer. “It looks like I’m interrupting. Have a good evening, everyone.”

“Oh, stay for dinner,” Mr. Baxter said. “We have more than enough.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got work—”

“Come on through,” Britney called, beckoning him toward the dining room. “You’re just on time. I’ll be so disappointed if you don’t.”

“It smells amazing, Mrs. Baxter,” he replied with a smile. “Thanks for the invitation.”

His gaze landed on Isabel, and he found himself relieved to see her here. She interested him. Professionally, of course. That’s what he’d been telling himself all day. Her hair was up, pulled away from her face so that her large, dark eyes were dominant, meeting his with an expression of mild surprise. It was enough to make her scars melt away in the moment, and instead of facing a scarred former beauty, he was facing the beauty herself. She looked less than pleased with his arrival, however, and before he could say a word, she turned and walked into the dining room without a word.

“Never mind her,” Mr. Baxter said with a chuckle. “She’s just moody. She’ll get over it.”

Mr. Baxter sounded like a man making excuses for a teenager’s petulance, but Isabel was no teen, and he couldn’t help but wonder what family drama was about to unfold. Mr. Baxter never invited him to dinner just for the pleasure of his company, and this whole friendly scene wasn’t how things normally went. He was willing to bet that this whole display was for Isabel’s benefit.

“Not a problem, sir,” he replied with an uneasy smile, following the older man into the dining room.

The Baxters dined in relaxed style. A long, farmhouse-style table dominated the room, early evening sunlight streaming in through tall windows. The table was set without a cloth or place mats, gold-edged china placed directly onto the polished wood. Gleaming silverware sparkled on top of napkins. An extra place had already been set, and he got the distinct impression that this was more planned than he thought. Flowers spilled from vases, placed around the table in a way that looked almost meticulously casual—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A bowl of steaming potatoes sat in the center next to a large, clear jug of lemonade. Another dish of string beans reminded him that he was indeed hungry.

“Oh, you know us,” Britney said with a wave of her hand. “Sit wherever you like. We’re family, after all.”

Family, huh? James didn’t actually know them that well, at all, and he had that awkward feeling like anywhere he chose to sit would be wrong. James sat down at the nearest place setting, while Isabel and Britney both moved toward the same chair.

“Except for this one.” Britney laughed lightly. “I always sit here, don’t I, Georgie?”

“She always does,” Mr. Baxter agreed absently. “Never would sit at the foot of the table like a proper wife.” He laughed at his own little joke, then kissed Britney’s fingertips.

“Of course,” Isabel said, moving to the seat next to James. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.”

Here. Not home. James noted her wording.

“Oh, here comes the ham,” Mr. Baxter said.

The dining room doors swung open and Mrs. Franklin wheeled in a cart with a covered serving tray. The savory aroma of ham filled the room, and all eyes turned to Mrs. Franklin, who stood in her gray uniform, sweat on her brow.

After everyone was served, the meal began, and for several minutes, the only sound was silver against china. The food was amazing, and James had to admit that he didn’t often eat like this in Haggerston. He was used to the regular diners that the town had to offer, and his own cooking, of course. He wasn’t a bad cook, but he wasn’t too proud to admit that Mrs. Franklin’s cooking was a treat.

“You’ll have to bring us some of your chocolates, Isabel.” Britney broke the silence. “I’ve never tried them, and I’ve been craving chocolate something fierce with this pregnancy.”

“They’re good,” Mr. Baxter said, around a bite of food. “A nice hobby for her.”

Isabel smiled tightly.

“Speaking of business—” Mr. Baxter began.

“We weren’t speaking of business,” Isabel replied, her tone even, but a look of warning sparkling in her eyes.

“We’re always speaking of business,” the older man replied. “It’s like breathing. But have you done the research, Princess?”

“We’ve already discussed this,” she said, putting down her fork with a clink. “Not now.”

“Why not now?” Mr. Baxter looked around the table. “It’s family. What’s the problem?”

“James isn’t family,” she replied tersely.

She had a point. James sat back in his seat, watching the strained expressions around the table. He’d been in courtrooms that were more relaxed.

His employer shrugged. “He’s a lawyer. His job is to be discreet. I don’t know what you’re worried about.”

“Fine. Since in this family, all we talk about is business,” she replied icily, “what were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask if you know how many small businesses fail after starting up.” Mr. Baxter swirled a speared potato through a puddle of gravy and popped it into his mouth.

“You didn’t fail,” Isabel replied. “You’re a raving success, I’d say.”

“James?” Mr. Baxter turned his attention toward him, and James heaved a sigh. They were quickly coming to the reason for his invitation. Like Britney’s cooking, Mr. Baxter’s research was never done personally.

“Forty-seven percent,” James replied.

“And in the food industry?”

“More than that.” He was doing Isabel a favor by not mentioning the number.

“Chocolate is a niche market,” Mr. Baxter said, wiping his lips on a napkin. “It’s high cost, low margin. The real estate market has the highest rates of success.”

“I’m aware of that, Dad,” Isabel replied stiffly.

“Now, James, if you were to advise my little girl about starting up a business, what would you tell her?” Mr. Baxter asked.

Isabel turned her glittering eyes to him, daring him to speak. He could feel the repressed rage radiating from her, and he had to swallow twice before he spoke.

“I’d tell her to ask her father’s advice,” he replied cautiously.

“Aha! Smart man.” Mr. Baxter chuckled. “Pass the green beans, please, Britney.”

Britney passed the dish, and he helped himself to another serving.

“And you would tell her to ask my advice because I’ve made money, right? Because it takes a success to know how to be successful.”

“You’ve also lost money,” Isabel countered. “You went bankrupt when you and Mom first got married.”

Mr. Baxter’s eyes darkened, and he dropped the spoon back into the bowl with a clatter. Red crept up his neck and into his cheeks. James had never seen Mr. Baxter openly challenged before, and he found himself mildly concerned that the older man might pop a blood vessel.

“I paid for this home, for every stitch of clothing you ever wore, for all of your beauty contest coaching, for your vacations, your hobbies, your shiny Yale education...and you dare throw my failures in my face?” He sucked in a breath through his nose. “I’m your father, and you don’t have a penny except by what I’ve earned! Show some respect, young lady!”




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