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Man...Mercenary...Monarch
Dear Reader,
The candles are on the cake and it’s time for all of us to celebrate the 20th Anniversary of Silhouette Books. What an incredible number that is…twenty years!
You, the loyal readers, are the ones who should blow out the candles and be served the first pieces of cake. Without you, the authors who write these books and the editors who are partners with those authors would be only daydreaming about such a momentous event, instead of it being a reality.
I am very proud to be a part of the Silhouette family. Over the years there have been books that, hopefully, made you laugh, made you cry and caused you to sigh in contentment as you read the final page with its promise to you of a happy ending.
I want to personally thank each and every one of you for your continued support and for the lovely letters you’ve written to me to let me know that you enjoy my books. Those letters mean more to me than I can begin to tell you. Each one is answered by me, then tucked away in my treasure album.
As we look toward the next twenty years of Silhouette Books, I wish all of you good health, happiness and the fulfillment of your dreams.
With warmest regards,
Dear Reader,
Happy 20th Anniversary, Silhouette! And Happy Valentine’s Day to all! There are so many ways to celebrate…starting with six spectacular novels this month from Special Edition.
Reader favorite Joan Elliott Pickart concludes Silhouette’s exciting cross-line continuity ROYALLY WED with Man…Mercenary…Monarch, in which a beautiful woman challenges a long-lost prince to give up his loner ways.
In Dr. Mom and the Millionaire, Christine Flynn’s latest contribution to the popular series PRESCRIPTION: MARRIAGE, a marriage-shy tycoon suddenly experiences a sizzling attraction—to his gorgeous doctor! And don’t miss the next SO MANY BABIES—in Who’s That Baby? by Diana Whitney, an infant gir1 is left on a Native American attorney’s doorstep, and he turns to a lovely pediatrician for help.…
Next is Lois Faye Dyer’s riveting Cattleman’s Courtship, in which a brooding, hard-hearted rancher is undeniably drawn to a chaste, sophisticated lady. And in Sharon De Vita’s provocative family saga, THE BLACKWELL BROTHERS, tempers—and passions—flare when a handsome Apache man offers The Marriage Basket to a captivating city gal.
Finally, you’ll be swept up in the drama of Trisha Alexander’s Falling for an Older Man, another tale in the CALLAHANS & KIN series, when an unexpected night of passion leaves Sheila Callahan with a nine-month secret.
So, curl up with a Special Edition novel and celebrate this Valentine’s Day with thoughts of love and happy dreams of forever!
Happy reading,
Karen Taylor Richman,
Senior Editor
Man…Mercenary…Monarch
Joan Elliott Pickart
For Olive Elliott,
because it’s time to pause and say,
“Thanks, Mom!”
Books by Joan Elliott Pickart
Silhouette Special Edition
*Friends, Lovers…and Babies! #1011
*The Father of Her Child #1025
†Texas Dawn #1100
†Texas Baby #1141
‡Wife Most Wanted #1160
The Rancher and the Amnesiac Bride #1204
ΔThe Irresistible Mr. Sinclair #1256
ΔThe Most Eligible M.D #1262
Man…Mercenary…Monarch #1303
Silhouette Desire
*Angels and Elves #961
Apache Dream Bride #999
†Texas Moon #1051
†Texas Glory #1088
Just My Joe #1202
ΔTaming Tall, Dark Brandon #1223
Previously published under the pseudonym Robin Elliott
Silhouette Special Edition
Rancher’s Heaven #909
Mother at Heart #968
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Gauntlet Run #206
Silhouette Desire
Call It Love #213
To Have It All #237
Picture of Love #261
Pennies in the Fountain #275
Dawn’s Gift #303
Brooke’s Chance #323
Betting Man #344
Silver Sands #362
Lost and Found #384
Out of the Cold #440
Sophie’s Attic #725
Not Just Another Perfect Wife #818
Haven’s Call #859
JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART
is the author of over seventy novels. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys watching football, knitting, reading, gardening and attending craft shows on the town square. Joan has three all-grown-up daughters and a fantastic little grandson. In September of 1995, Joan traveled to China to adopt her fourth daughter, Autumn. Joan and Autumn have settled into their cozy cottage in a charming small town in the high pine country of Arizona.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Jake’s Saloon looked like a set from a low-budget Western movie.
John Colton stood just inside the door of the noisy, smoke-filled building and swept his gaze over the milling crowd.
Strange, he thought. Nothing had changed during the years since he’d been in this place. It was Friday night in Hope, Arizona, and the randy cowboys from the ranches in the area were out in force. They had payday money in their pockets, and women on their minds.
It even smelled the same, a mixture of smoke, beer, cheap aftershave and the pungent aroma of male sweat, cattle and horses.
He’d catch a whiff now and then of too much perfume worn by the multitude of women in tight jeans, or short skirts, or whatever they hoped might entice the cowboys on the prowl.
It was all very tacky, but it was real earthy and honest, exactly what it appeared to be, and it suited his needs at the moment just fine.
John unbuttoned his suede, fleece-lined jacket, revealing a dark blue Western shirt with pearly snaps, then tugged his black Stetson low on his forehead.
He made his way forward, inching past the tangle of bodies at the bar to reach the area with cracked-leather booths and scarred wooden tables that edged a worn dance floor.
Garth Brooks was wailing from a brightly colored jukebox about having friends in low places, and a raised platform against a far wall stood ready for the band that would play loud, country-western music later that night.
John slid into a booth that was closer to the congested bar area than he would have preferred, but it was the last available free space he could find.
He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it across the table to land on the other seat, a clear indication, he hoped, that he wasn’t open to having company. Like the majority of men in the nightclub, he left his Stetson firmly settled on his head.
He leaned back against the stiff leather and sighed deeply.
This was a crazy place to be, he supposed, considering he had some very serious thinking to do. But the walls of his room in the shabby-but-clean motel had been closing in on him, resulting in him pacing like a caged animal.
His jet lag, combined with the shocking, nearly unbelievable news he’d received, had sent his brain into overload, his thoughts chasing in an endless circle in his mind.
Man, oh, man, what was he going to do?
That question was hammering at him unmercifully. He had to have a plan, an answer, by tomorrow, for Pete’s sake.
“Ah, hell,” he said aloud, dragging both hands down his face.
“Rough goin’, cowboy?” a female voice said.
John snapped his head around to see a waitress standing next to the booth, a pad of paper in one hand, a pencil in the other. She was wearing a very short red skirt with white fringe, a matching bolero top that exposed her midriff, and white cowboy boots. A white Stetson was cocked at a jaunty angle on her head.
“Yeah,” John said, “you could say that.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” she said. “Some drinkin’ and dancin’ will take your mind off your troubles. What can I get ya?”
“Beer,” John said.
“What kind?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t care. Bring me whatever is handy.”
“Whew. You are bummed, big time. Hey, a good-lookin’ guy like you can have your pick of any gal in the place. Get yourself a pretty woman and go for it. Be right back with your beer. You runnin’ a tab?”
“Yeah.”
The waitress hurried away, managing to wiggle her hips despite her fast pace.
Get myself a pretty woman? John thought dryly. Not a chance. That mind-set had gotten him nothing but trouble, was the cause of the mess he was now in.
What in the hell was he going to do?
The waitress returned with a brown bottle and a tall glass. She set them on the table, gave John a coy smile and a wink, then disappeared again into the crowd. John pushed the glass to one side, then took a deep swallow from the bottle.
Nasty, he thought, shuddering slightly. He really didn’t like beer, but he wasn’t about to start drinking hard liquor. He’d never be able to sort through the tangled maze in his mind if his brain was fuzzy from alcohol.
Maybe what he should do was quit thinking for a while, just zone out and observe the foolishness taking place around him. Yeah, that was the ticket. He would take a mental break, then square off against his dilemma again later. It was worth a try, might enable him to come up with a workable solution.
He shifted into a more comfortable position in the booth, then tapped his fingers against the cold bottle in an edgy, restless rhythm. He blanked his mind and watched the age-old mating games being played in an endless series of scenarios.
Half an hour later, the five-piece band appeared on the platform, tuned up, then exploded into loud music with a peppy number that caused a crush of humanity to flow onto the dance floor.
Several women approached John, but he refused each invitation to dance with a barely discernible shake of his head and a nondescript expression on his face.
He ordered another beer that he had no intention of drinking, figuring he’d better spend more money to justify occupying the booth.
Each time the reality of the situation that was plaguing him began to creep into the edges of his mind, he pushed it away, refusing to dwell on it during the mental hiatus he was allowing himself to take.
He simply sat there, as still as a statue, listening to the music, and people-watching.
Laura Bishop stood outside of Jake’s Saloon, telling herself for the third time to open the door and enter the nightclub. She could hear the music and the muted sounds of voices and laughter that were beckoning to her.
A chill wind whipped across the parking lot, causing her to shiver and hunch into her jacket.
This was ridiculous, she told herself. She was standing there like an idiot, freezing to death, because she couldn’t gather the courage to enter the dumb building.
She was acting like a silly child instead of a twenty-nine-year-old woman. Granted, it was totally out of character for her to be out on the town by herself, let alone contemplating going into a bar, for heaven’s sake.
Maybe she should just forget the whole thing, return to the ranch and curl up in front of the fire with the novel she’d been attempting to concentrate on.
Laura frowned as an image of the large, empty living room at the ranch flashed before her mental vision.
No, not tonight. She couldn’t face the long, lonely hours in that house tonight. As the minutes on the clock had ticked slowly by, she’d become more and more depressed.
Her inner voice had been taunting her with a list of what she didn’t have, would probably never have, causing an ache of loneliness to consume her, to grip her with icy tentacles.
Once she’d been accustomed to a busy schedule as social secretary to the four Royal Princesses of Wynborough. Now she had too many idle hours to fill each day.
Laura sighed.
The princesses. Each had found true love, her soul mate, and were all so blissfully happy. She was sincerely pleased that the four women, who were her friends as well as her employers, were floating on cloud nine as they began their new lives as the wives of the men they had chosen to be their life’s partner.
But, oh, dear, how it all accentuated the stark reality that she was so very alone. Her few relationships over the years had resulted in the frogs she’d kissed remaining frogs, not one of them turning into her Prince Charming.
Laura shivered as another gust of wind whipped around her.
The air certainly held no promise of spring warmth, that was for sure. She either had to hightail it back to the ranch, or open the dumb door to the nightclub and have an evening away from her solitude as she’d intended to do.
“Enough of this,” she muttered. “My toes are probably going to fall off if I stand here any longer. Move, Laura. Right now.”
She took a steadying breath, let it out slowly, then yanked open the door and entered the building.
Despite the noise, smoky haze and the crush of people, John’s razor-sharp senses alerted him every time the door to the club was opened and someone new needed to be checked out. His appraisal was done by rote, born of years of always being prepared for potential danger.
He glanced at the door yet again, then did a double take as an attractive woman came into view. He watched her hesitate, as though she was about to bolt right back out of the crummy place. She swept her gaze over the huge expanse in a jerky motion, her eyes widening slightly at what she saw.
She was a fish out of water, John thought rather absently. It didn’t take a genius to realize that she wasn’t a regular on the barhopping scene. She looked as if she was about to climb into a dentist’s chair.
His ability to size people up quickly had saved his life on more than one occasion in the past, and there was no doubt in his mind that this woman was way out of her element in coming here on her own.
Well, she wouldn’t be alone for long. She was pretty, in a fresh, wholesome sort of way. She had short blond hair that curled around her face, delicate features and very kissable lips. From this distance he couldn’t discern the color of her eyes, though. Brown? Blue? Ah, hell, who cared? Forget it.
He shifted his attention back to the band, then seconds later found himself looking at the woman again.
She hadn’t moved.
John chuckled and took a swig of beer.
Well, Pretty Lady, he thought, how long are you going to stand there? Ah, there she goes. She was unzipping her puffy blue jacket, apparently having decided to stay awhile.
Pink sweater. Nice. No, it wasn’t exactly pink, it was that fancy color with the weird name. Mauve. Yeah, that was it. Okay, she had on a mauve sweater and jeans that were so new, they probably crackled when she walked.
So, Pretty Lady wasn’t a true-blue Westerner. It was evident she hadn’t washed those stiff, spanking new jeans a dozen times or more to soften them up and fade them a bit before she wore them.
She was, oh, maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight, but not single-scene savvy. She was definitely in foreign territory, and it showed like a brightly lit neon sign.
Pretty Lady had spunk, though. He’d give her that. She’d lifted her chin and started forward, making her way through the crowd at the bar. She’d probably faint dead out on her lovely face when she got over here and discovered there was nowhere to sit.
Man, John thought, shaking his head in self-disgust, he was really scrambling to keep his troubled thoughts at bay. He was actually wasting mental energy by concentrating on a city gal who had no business being in a Western bar where she didn’t know the rules of the game.
“Hey, sweet thing,” John heard a cowboy say as the man stepped in front of the woman. “I’m Pete. How about I buy you a drink?”
“Oh,” she said. “No. No, thank you very much. If you’ll excuse me, please, I’d like to go sit down and listen to the music.”
“Fine with me,” Pete said, placing one hand on her shoulder. “We’ll sit together, dance some, have a couple of drinks.”
“No,” she said, removing his hand from her shoulder. “Thank you, but no.”
Pete, John thought, what part of “no” don’t you understand? That worn-out cliché had been custom-made for jerks like Pete.
“Now, darlin’,” Pete said, shifting to slide his arm across the woman’s shoulders, “you don’t have to play hard to get with me. You’re alone. I’m alone. We’re a match made in heaven. Come on. Let’s find us a table.”
“No,” she said, attempting and failing to wiggle out of Pete’s hold.
Pete leaned closer. “Mmm. You smell real nice. Oh, yeah, you and I are going to get along just fine.”
“Let me go,” she said, an echo of panic evident in her voice.
Don’t you move, John told himself. He had his own troubles to contend with. Pretty Lady was getting her just deserts by walking into Jake’s, and she’d have to handle it herself. It was none of his damn business.
“Lighten up, sugar,” Pete said, kissing the woman on the temple.
“Stop it,” she said, nearly shrieking.
Ah, hell, John thought. He should have stayed at the motel. He didn’t need this hassle. But…ah, hell.
John slid out of the booth and pushed his way through the crowd in his path. He stopped in front of Pete and the woman.
“Pete,” he said, his voice very low and very menacing, “you have three seconds to take your arm off my woman. Are you hearing me, cowboy?”
“She’s not your…” Pete started, then met John’s gaze. The color drained from Pete’s face as he saw the ice in John’s blue eyes and the tight set to his jaw. “You bet.” The cowboy dropped his arm from the woman’s shoulders and took a step backward. “Hey, man, my mistake.”
“You’ve got that straight,” John said, then looked at the woman. “You’re late. Car acting up again?”
“Car,” she said, nodding. “Acting up. Again.”
“Right,” John said. “Come on, let’s go, before someone takes the booth I have for us.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“No joke,” John said gruffly. “That’s very obvious.”
He placed one large hand in the middle of her back and propelled her forward until they reached the booth. He shoved his jacket into the corner and glowered at her.
“Sit,” he said.
Laura sank onto the leather bench and scooted into the middle, acutely aware that her legs were trembling so badly, they had been about to give way beneath her. She drew a shuddering breath, then looked directly at the man who was now sitting opposite her.
He pushed his Stetson up with one thumb and met her gaze.
Blue ice, Laura thought. His eyes were cold, like chips of blue ice. He wasn’t handsome in a smooth, conventional manner; his features were far too rugged, with high cheekbones, a strong, square jaw and a straight blade of a nose.
His hair was dark brown, thick and shaggy, falling to his collar and badly in need of a trim. Broad shoulders strained against the material of his shirt, and his hands now wrapped around the bottle of beer were large and powerful appearing.
He was, without a doubt, the most earthy, rough-hewn—the most masculine—man she’d ever encountered. There was an aura of danger emanating from him, a sense of tension, of leashed strength that might explode at any moment.
Dear heaven, she thought, she could hardly breathe, and the wild tempo of her racing heart was echoing in her ears. Those eyes. Those incredible eyes of his were pinning her in place, making it impossible to move, to tear her gaze from his.
“I’m not going to gobble you up for dinner,” he said, frowning. “You still look scared to death. I’m not the bad guy here, you know. I rescued you from Pete the Pest, remember?”
Laura folded her hands on the top of the table and managed to shift her eyes to her entwined fingers.
“Yes, I know,” she said quietly, “and I want to thank you for what you did. I wasn’t handling the situation with that man well at all.” She sighed. “I never should have come here alone.”
“Why did you?”
“I…I just couldn’t face another long evening alone.” She shook her head. “Listen to me. I don’t go around baring my soul to perfect strangers.” She met his gaze again. “I’m acting completely out of character tonight.”
“Well, if it will make you feel any better, I’m not perfect, nor am I a stranger. I’m the knight who rode in on my white horse and saved you, the damsel in distress.
“And as far as baring your soul? I’m in this crummy place because I couldn’t handle the four walls that were closing in on me. I needed to escape from my own thoughts. And I can’t quite believe I’m telling you all this.”
Laura smiled. “I guess we’re both behaving out of character. I suppose the least we should do is introduce ourselves.”
“No, wait,” he said, raising one hand. “Since we’re behaving so far from the norm, let’s stick with first names only. That will make this whole thing not quite…well, real. I’m John.”
“Hello, John. I’m Laura.”
“Pretty name,” he said, smiling slightly, “for a pretty lady.”
Laura cocked her head to one side and studied John intently.
“You don’t smile often, do you?” she said. “Your smiles just don’t materialize naturally.”
John lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve never thought about it,” He paused. “No, I guess I don’t have a hell of a lot to smile about.”
The waitress appeared suddenly at the booth, startling both Laura and John.
“I see you took my advice, cowboy,” she said, then looked at Laura. “Drink?”
“Just a cola, please,” Laura said.
“You bet. Well, good-lookin’,” she said to John, “you’ve got yourself a pretty woman, you’re doin’ some drinkin’, so get out on the floor and do the dancin’ part. You’ll forget your troubles in no time at all. Be right back with the cola.”
John shook his head as the waitress hurried away.
“She probably actually believes that problems are that easily solved,” he said.
“Do you have problems?” Laura said.
“Doesn’t everyone?” John said, raising one eyebrow.
The waitress returned and slid a glass in front of Laura, then she disappeared again. Laura took a sip from the straw poking through the ice.
“Well,” she said slowly, “I suppose problems are subjective. One person could be upset because they couldn’t find exactly the right shoes to match a new party dress. While another person could be in turmoil due to a serious illness they’re suffering from. But each would say they had a problem.”
“Ah,” John said, “the lady is a heavy thinker, but what you’re saying makes sense.” He paused. “Since we’ve agreed that tonight is a step away from reality, why don’t you pretend you’ve known me for a long time and tell me your problems?”
As Laura looked at John, a strange warmth suffused her, a sense of peacefulness that was interwoven with a tingling excitement at being in close proximity to such a blatantly masculine man.
Yes, she thought, she could talk to John and he would listen, really hear, what she had to say. But she had a feeling that her woes fell into the category of the new shoes to match the party dress.
